Dogfight

by Adam Claasen

  The Blenheim crews were mostly restricted to fruitless night-time operations. Notwithstanding the remarkable efforts of Michael Herrick, the greater number of airmen in these circumstances followed a similar path to that of Sergeant Colin Pyne of Nelson, New Zealand, an air-gunner with a Blenheim squadron. The unit’s night patrols did little to deter the enemy and only emphasised the need for advances in airborne radar.[18] Consequently, though he undertook many patrols, Pyne was unable to claim any successes over the course of the campaign. Blenheim pilot Alan Gawith in 23 Squadron had only one brief encounter with a German intruder at night and had waited fourteen months to do so. Some fifty New Zealanders and Australians found themselves in these Defiant and Blenheim-equipped units and for the most part ended the Battle of Britain with similar results.

  Not only was the type of machine important but also where the squadron was based. In other words, being at the controls of a single-engine fighter was no guarantee pilots would find themselves in the thick of the action. A good number of Hurricane and Spitfire pilots were either based outside the main area of operations or arrived too late to play a significant role in the fighting. New Zealander Victor de la Perrelle spent the Battle of Britain with his squadron in the defence of Belfast, Northern Ireland. The unit’s main task was escorting convoys and, though it was scrambled on a handful of occasions, saw no combat due to its distance from the actual fighting.[19] The successful pilots who became household names were usually deployed either at the heart, or close to the heart, of the Luftwaffe’s main objectives in south-east England. The region covered by Park’s 11 Group was target-rich and consequently pilots here, or in the adjacent 10 and 12 Groups, were more frequently asked to engage the enemy directly.

  Therefore, of all the Anzacs that flew in the Battle of Britain, only a much smaller number had the opportunity to clash with incoming German machines. Of the 134 New Zealanders, only a quarter actually put in a claim for hitting an enemy aircraft and of the 37 Australians the number was closer to half. The Australians’ higher claim rate was due to the fact that, proportionally, they had more men stationed within the main area of operations. In addition, they had only two airmen flying the ill-fated Defiants compared with nineteen Kiwis. Overall, the claim rates for the Anzacs makes impressive reading, and, relative to their numbers in Fighter Command, they made a very valuable contribution to the battle.

  The motivation across all pilots varied considerably. In general, although their own countries were not being attacked by the Luftwaffe, many Anzacs saw Britain as the ‘Mother Country’ and had a great deal of sympathy for their British colleagues and, therefore, fought no less determinedly. A few pilots reconciled themselves to their assigned role reluctantly, while many more willingly depressed the firing button, motivated by thoughts of revenge or coldly engaging in a simple ‘them or us’ survival equation.

  Farnborough-based test-pilot Arthur Clouston took to the air and shot down two enemy machines driven by the desire to avenge his brother who had died at the hands of the Germans only months before. Pilots who had seen the results of the Stuka dive-bombing of refugees fleeing the German advance in France were under no illusions: it was clear that the Germans were not engaged in a chivalrous jousting match. The Luftwaffe’s deliberate targeting of fleeing refugees in France prior to the Battle of Britain, and then the assault on London’s civilian population during the early days of the Blitz in September, hardened the resolve of many to the task at hand.

  This was buttressed by sporadic Luftwaffe attacks on defenceless airmen drifting earthward after baling out of their aircraft. Being shot at in this manner was a significant factor in steeling the resolve of Bob Spurdle, who felt that if the Germans had ‘taken the gloves off’ he was under an obligation to do the same. In the end all pilots agreed that the aerial contest was a zero-sum game: either kill or be killed.

  Regardless of their motivation, the more successful of these airmen fitted a fairly standard profile: before the campaign they had completed a long period of flight-time in their respective aircraft types; they had combat experience pre-dating the Battle of Britain; and the squadron to which they belonged had dropped outmoded inter-war fighting tactics and formations. Colin Gray was persuaded that pilots needed at least 100 hours in their respective aircraft types before being thrust into battle. Being handed a Hurricane or Spitfire during the campaign was of little help when a young airman had spent most of the preceding months in an antiquated biplane. Australian John Crossman, with less than twenty hours in a Spitfire, survived just long enough to secure a share in a bomber before he was killed.

  Nevertheless, chalking up extensive hours in a single-engine fighter was often in itself insufficient in the white heat of the campaign. Kiwi Terence Lovell-Gregg was a supremely gifted airman. As a teenager he was one of Australasia’s youngest pilots and had been in the RAF since 1931. With considerable inter-war operational experience in Iraq and then as an instructor in England, his insertion as the commanding officer of a squadron in July 1940 should have been straightforward and relatively risk-free. Lovell-Gregg, however, recognised that in spite of his flying abilities, he was inexperienced in this type of combat and more often than not passed operational command to younger, but battle-hardened, subordinates. This undoubtedly saved the lives of others but could not prevent his own demise on Adlertag.

  On the other hand, Olive’s flying abilities were augmented by considerable experience gleaned over France in the final days of Hitler’s assault on the trapped Allied forces at Dunkirk. Consequently by the time the Queenslander was facing the German raiders in the high summer of 1940 he had already survived some of the worst air fighting the war would offer and was better equipped to face the battle for the skies over southern England than most.

  Fighting Area Attacks and the formation flying of the pre-war years often lingered with squadrons to the disadvantage of many a young airman.[20] The pilots who by good fortune found themselves under the leadership of a forward-thinking commander unafraid to overturn old methods were blessed. Spurdle was one such pilot who entered the fray as part of Sailor Malan’s 74 Squadron at Biggin Hill. The prickly but accomplished South African was one of the first to abandon the parade-ground ‘vics’ drummed into pilots for the German-inspired ‘finger four’ formation. Likewise the stilted and impractical Fighting Area Attacks were discarded by seasoned commanders in favour of looser and more intuitive methods. For all Lawrence’s flying prowess, he realised that much of his own success was due to the leadership provided by fellow-Anzac Pat Hughes, who for ‘his prowess as a pilot and a marksman and his devout squadron spirit ... he must be classed with the other great names who flew in Fighter Command during the Battle of Britain.’[21] Airmen who did well often did so under the leadership of tactically innovative commanders.

  The Aces

  Among the pilots who did get the opportunity to engage directly with the enemy, there were a select few favoured by the gods of war. In general, pilots of all stripes were seen as equals in the air and airmen took a pretty dim view of those who had a tendency to shoot a line. Top-flight pilots were usually modest about their achievements, realising that whatever skill they possessed, their accomplishments were dependent on a whole range of factors—from the dutiful maintenance of their machines by tireless ground crews, to the support they had from their fellow pilots in the swirling dogfights of September and August. Equally undeniable, though, was that a handful of the men were in a class of their own in the battle.

  The seven Kiwi aces of the campaign—Carbury, Gray, Hodgson, Gibson, Smith, Deere and Wilfrid Clouston—accounted for nearly forty per cent of all New Zealand claims. The six Australian aces—Hughes, Millington, Mayers, Curchin, Cock and Hillary—accounted for close to sixty per cent of theirs. What made all these airmen so lethal was their marksmanship; a willingness to engage the enemy at a seemingly reckless close range; a desire to push their machines right up to their operational limits; and a superior sense of their three-dimensional com
bat environment.

  Then and today, analyses of the efforts of pilots from the British Commonwealth point out that colonial airmen had an above-average ability to hit their targets. Deflection shooting and accuracy were synonymous with these pilots. Why this should be the case is hard to establish all these years after the event but, anecdotally at least, some commentators have put it down to their hunting and shooting skills acquired on the farmlands and in the bush of New Zealand and Australia.

  The Anzac aces, like others in Fighter Command, were characterised by an unflinching determination to get as close to the enemy as possible before depressing the firing button. Their combat reports are replete with matter-of-fact descriptions of unleashing a hail of lead from eight Brownings as they closed to within thirty yards of a Luftwaffe machine. Many pilots closed with the enemy, but these airmen finished their assault almost on top of their prey.

  The ability to hit the target at close range and avoid machine-gun and cannon fire themselves in tightly contested aerial battles was finally determined by their flying abilities and bond to their machines. These exceptional airmen ‘flew by the seat of their pants’. In the decades after the Battle, Gard’ner confessed that he never felt a close affinity with his machine, but he noted other pilots, such as Gray, seemed to feel that ‘their aircraft becomes part of them’.[22]

  Finally, situational awareness enabled the best pilots to avoid being killed while they amassed a large number of successes. In a swirling mass of machines the aces generally knew not only how to hit a target but also how to avoid becoming a target.[23] Pilots like Carbury and Hughes fell into this category, and the latter was only killed by a freakish collision. Although overall the Anzacs made up only approximately five per cent of Fighter Command, they supplied nearly a third of the top ten aces. Between them, this trans-Tasman trio of Hughes, Carbury and Gray accounted for close to fifty enemy machines over four months.

  Losses and Injuries

  If the Anzacs had a high claim rate in proportion to their numbers in Fighter Command, the Australians also suffered from a high loss rate relative to their colleagues. They had only three losses over the months of July and October, but sandwiched between were two months of heavy casualties. Over a particularly nasty six-day period in August the Australians lost six pilots—four killed, one wounded and one captured—though they also destroyed an impressive seventeen German aircraft.[24] In total thirteen, or thirty-five per cent, of the Australians were killed. This was one of the highest loss rates of any nationality in the battle. Comparatively speaking, their New Zealand cousins fared better. The twenty Kiwi losses were spread evenly over the four months. The most notable spike in New Zealand casualties occurred during the 19 July ‘slaughter of the innocents’ when two Defiant Kiwi pilots were killed and one injured while ditching in the Channel. In all, thirteen per cent of the New Zealanders were lost, which was slightly lower than Fighter Command’s overall loss rate of eighteen per cent.[25]

  On the Australian side all losses occurred during operations. This once again reflects the fact that most of these airmen were stationed in close proximity to the German incursions. The Kiwis, who were more widely dispersed across the British Isles, had a full quarter of all losses attributable to accidents. John Bickerdike was the first New Zealander killed in this manner doing aerobatic manoeuvres in a mid-July training flight, while Stanley and Holder died within hours of each during a night-flying exercise in late October.

  Anzac pilots became numb and resigned to the mounting losses among their ranks. Some reacted with bitterness, but as time drew on and weariness mounted, pilots became resigned to the empty places in the mess. The airmen feigned disinterest and sought distractions from mournful thoughts at the local pubs or on jaunts into the hot spots of London. Fighting hard in the air often meant playing hard on the ground. Alcohol was a constant factor in many a ‘knees-up’. Young airmen lubricated their nights on the town with beer or spirits as they let off steam and tried to forget the terrors of the fight. The patrons of English country ale houses welcomed Churchill’s airmen with open arms.

  Women flocked to the blue-uniformed fighter boys. Some liaisons were brief, forgotten as soon as the sun rose the next day, but other airmen cultivated relationships that could last a lifetime. Wartime marriages were not without their trials and perils, however, and Olive spent little more than two weeks with his wife over the entire course of the Battle of Britain, while one of his best friends died mid-battle leaving a grieving wife and two inconsolable daughters. As Clifford Emeny escorted a sobbing, grief-stricken widow to a relative’s home, he forswore a wartime marriage. The heartbroken young woman had lost her husband within two hours of their marriage.

  Not all accidents and fire proved fatal. Good fortune played a part in the fate of some airmen. On one eventful morning Olive stared down an exploding oxygen tank, a disintegrating parachute, high-voltage lines, shotgun wielding farmers and a wayward fire-engine—any of which might have spelt his demise but did not. Deere gained a mythical status in this regard and must be considered one of the luckiest pilots of the campaign. His Nine Lives autobiography is aptly titled, with a catalogue of close calls that beggar belief, including a head-on collision with an Me 109, skidding along the Hornchurch runway in an inverted Spitfire during a bombing raid, and an extremely low-level bale-out cushioned by a plum-tree landing.

  Pilots of the Great War had not been issued with parachutes. Fortunately for their Second World War counterparts, parachutes were standard equipment along with their yellow life-jackets. New Zealand’s Gibson was not only a Caterpillar Club member four times over but also his survival in the waters of the Channel on two occasions was testament to the life-preserving powers of the Mae West. While some men were dried off after a Channel dip or dusted off by a local farmer and then speedily returned to the battle—sometimes within hours of being shot down—other Anzacs spent months recuperating from ghastly injuries.

  Fire was the airmen’s most feared foe. A spark united with pure oxygen could transform the life-giving breathing apparatus into a hellish flesh-consuming blast-furnace. Richard Hillary was grotesquely disfigured by a conflagration in the confines of his Spitfire. As he lay in the tendrils of his parachute in the Channel, the burnt and dispirited Australian attempted to take his own life. Fire had stripped his hands to the bone in places, and his eyelids, ears and forehead had been removed. New Zealander John Fleming learnt first-hand about the dangers pilots faced in their fire-prone Hurricanes. The gravity fuel tank directly abutting the instrument panel spewed burning liquid over his legs. The two men’s sole consolation was they both came under the care of their fellow Anzac, the legendary Archibald McIndoe.

  The Dunedin-born plastic surgeon revolutionised the treatment of severe burns. The saline bath and grafting techniques perfected for his ‘guinea pigs’ were soon adopted worldwide. Hillary and Fleming were not only reconstructed but gained a measure of dignity thanks to the New Zealander’s methods of rehabilitation and reintegration into society. Employing handpicked staff and co-opting local townspeople into his plans meant the ‘Boss’ was able to create an environment that side-stepped medical conventions of the times, but ultimately eased the airmen back into a life beyond their injuries.

  Beyond the Battle

  The Battle of Britain was not the end of the war for most Anzacs. The New Zealanders and Australians were cast to the winds—sitting behind desks; instructing new trainees; or once again donning their flying suits for operations over Europe, the Mediterranean, or the Asia-Pacific theatre. With time, many were promoted and not a few eventually found themselves commanding their own squadrons by the war’s end. A handful of the Battle of Britain veterans joined ‘Bush’ Parker in captivity, but greater numbers were wounded or killed in the intervening years.

  Some losses were operational but a significant number were due to misfortune or accident. Hurricane ace Hodgson accumulated seven kills during a series of Battle of Britain dogfights only to meet his demise
as a passenger on a routine ferry flight. The badly disfigured Richard Hillary pestered his superiors to return to the air. Diminished eyesight and poor hand dexterity—he used a knife and fork with great difficulty—were noted by follow airmen but they were unable to prevent him resuming flying duties. He died along with his radio operator-observer in a night-flying training flight in early 1943. Others died in combat, including the very last Anzac Battle of Britain veteran to lose his life in the Second World War—Ronald Bary. Based in Italy, the Kiwi pilot was killed only 28 days short of the end of the war in Europe in an army support dive-bombing attack on bridges and rail lines.[26] In all, a further forty-one New Zealanders and seven Australians died before the Second World War ended. Of the 171 Anzacs who took part in the Battle of Britain, only about half were still alive when Japan surrendered.[27]

  In the post-war years most of the Anzacs put away their wings and returned to ‘civvy street’ and pre-war occupations. Others turned their wartime flying skills to good effect in commercial aviation, while some remained within the RAF, including Gard’ner. His hasty removal from the campaign after the ‘slaughter of the innocents’ was followed by recuperation, a couple of night-flying tours, contacts with enemy machines and promotions. He covered the Normandy landings from his de Havilland Mosquito and eventually secured a permanent RAF commission. He returned to his southern homeland in 1965, nearly three decades after departing New Zealand.

  Unfortunately, I never got to follow up on my first interview with retired Group Captain John Gard’ner because he died in May 2011. The wide-eyed ten-year-old boy who had been captivated by flying at his first brush with an aircraft on Dunedin’s mudflats in 1928 went on to become one of the ‘little gods’ of the air over the skies of England in the summer of 1940. He was one of Churchill’s Anzac ‘Few’.