One of Goebbels’s most repeated messages was that Britain was the ‘Number One’ enemy. On 10 May, at his daily conference, he told his team that any gain of ground should be presented merely as ‘getting nearer to the “principal enemy”, the British’. Earlier, at the outbreak of war, he had issued very clear press directives to this effect. ‘Britain is the true aggressor in the world,’ he wrote on 1 September. A few weeks later he sent out a directive to all Party leaders making broadcasts with guidelines about tone and emphasis. ‘Make clear that we are engaged in the fateful struggle of the German people which was imposed upon it by the English plutocracy,’ he wrote. ‘The English warmongering aims to destroy the German Reich.’ In his concluding comments he added, ‘Speakers must strictly avoid any polemics against France.’
Nazi leaders, whether it be Hitler, Göring or Goebbels himself, duly made repeated attacks on Britain and the Jewish-led ‘plutocracy’ during their many broadcasts and speeches. In November, for example, in Munich, on the anniversary of the Beer Hall Putsch, Hitler used an hour-long speech to rant against Britain. When, shortly after he had left the Bürgerbräu beerhall, a bomb exploded, it was immediately blamed on the British.
‘All we want is peace,’ announced Göring in another broadcast. ‘Peace with honour, Mr Chamberlain. We do not want to fight the English people. Nor do we want one inch of France. It is the English who are inciting war. Remember, you Frenchmen, what England has said in the past: We will fight to the last Frenchman! Not the last Englishman, mark you!’
And once again, the message seemed to be getting through. On a press visit to see the German fleet in Hamburg, William Shirer was continually asked why the British fought Germany. Earlier, he had made a study of what German people were reading. One of the most popular was Look Up the Subject of England, a propaganda book against the country. At a family lunch, Else Wendel’s undemonstrative mother declared, ‘England hates us. She’s jealous, that’s all. It was just the same in the last war.’
By May 1940, one message that appeared to have got through was that Britain, not France, or even the Soviet Union, was Germany’s most bitter enemy.
8
A Battle Against Time
WHAT WOULD BE AN email sixty years later was, in May 1940, a handwritten note using a favourite fountain pen. Winston Churchill, the new Prime Minister, had scribbled such a letter to the former PM, Neville Chamberlain, soon after returning from the Palace on the evening of 10 May, thanking him sincerely for promising to stand by him ‘at this extremely grievous and formidable moment’. The two had repeatedly clashed during the preceding years, particularly over Chamberlain’s appeasement policies, yet now Churchill was determined to show considerable magnanimity towards him. ‘The example that you have set of self-forgetting dignity and public spirit,’ wrote Churchill, ‘will govern the actions of many and be an inspiration to all.’ As if to underline the sincerity of his feelings, Churchill even offered to remain at Admiralty House, rather than make the Chamberlains move out of No. 10.
And Chamberlain, still bruised and humiliated, was flattered. ‘I must say that Winston has been most handsome in his appreciation of my willingness to help and my ability to do so,’ he wrote to his sisters. ‘I know that he relies on Halifax and me and as he put it in a letter, “My fate depends largely on you.” ’
Churchill was no doubt sincere in his attitude towards Chamberlain, but there was no doubting that he needed two of the biggest names in British politics on his side, not least because large numbers of the House and particularly those within the Conservative Party still believed the new Prime Minister was a dangerous maverick unsuited to the top job at any time, but especially not in the middle of a national crisis of potentially catastrophic proportions. Moreover, Churchill was already making a number of decisions that would give him greater power and control than any previous Prime Minister – changes that would surely be questioned by some.
First, he decided to make himself Defence Minister. This had been an unknown post but it now gave Churchill the freedom to oversee the British war effort as not only Prime Minister but also specifically as the man in charge of defence policy. His right-hand man, as Chief of Staff, was not a politician but Major-General Hastings ‘Pug’ Ismay. A highly experienced intelligence and staff officer at the War Office, Ismay also became Deputy Secretary (Military) to the Cabinet and, crucially for Churchill, a fifth member of the Chiefs of Staff Committee. Headed by the Chief of the Imperial General Staff (CIGS), it also included the three service chiefs and was responsible for assessing and advising on all courses of military action and, once approved by Churchill or the War Cabinet, putting them into action.
While Churchill deliberately did not define Ismay’s powers too closely, his intention was for his new Chief of Staff to be his eyes and ears, and the person who enabled him to maintain very tight reins on all aspects of British war policy and direction. It was a very different approach from that of Chamberlain, who, like Halifax, was the first to admit that he had little understanding of military matters. Not only did war fascinate Churchill, but he had also spent a lifetime reading and studying it. Yet he recognized that under Chamberlain there had been a lack of central control; that there had been co-ordination between the Chiefs of Staff and the Government but not firm direction. That would now change as he became generalissimo and effectively Commander-in-Chief of Britain’s armed forces. As such, he was acting more like an American president – or even Hitler – than a Prime Minister. And he had made these fundamental changes without the approval of Parliament.
By 13 May, Churchill had filled all the major posts of his new Government, but two of his first appointments were those of Chamberlain and Halifax. The former continued as Leader of the Conservative Party and became Lord President of the Council. The latter agreed to continue as Foreign Secretary. More importantly, both would be part of the War Cabinet – whose number Churchill cut from eight to just five. The other two members were the Labour men Attlee and Greenwood. There were also posts for other supporters and anti-appeasers, such as Anthony Eden, who returned to the wider Cabinet as Minister for War, and Duff Cooper, who took over as Minister of Information. Sir Archibald Sinclair, the Liberal leader, took the important Air Ministry from Sir Samuel Hoare.
That Monday afternoon was Churchill’s first appearance in the House of Commons as Prime Minister. There to witness his performance was Harold Nicolson, a 53-year-old former diplomat and journalist and, since the last election, a National Labour MP. Like Eden and Duff Cooper, he was an anti-appeaser and a supporter of Churchill. Married to the Bloomsbury poet and author Vita Sackville-West, he was also both well-off and well-connected.
The previous Friday, he had gone to bed believing the Germans might invade at any moment; he and his wife had agreed that should the country be overrun by Germany they would both rather die and were preparing lethal pills with which to kill themselves. As one of those trying to force Chamberlain out, he had also been struck by the dignity with which Chamberlain had made his resignation broadcast. ‘All the hatred I have felt for Chamberlain,’ he noted, ‘subsides as if a piece of bread were dropped into a glass of champagne.’
He was not alone in such thoughts. Indeed, many Conservatives were appalled by what had happened – and by what they had done – and on that Monday afternoon, three days into the German offensive, Chamberlain had been cheered, not booed, as he re-entered the House. The applause for Churchill had been muted. The Prime Minister stood up and asked the House to approve the new Government. ‘I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat,’ he told them. ‘We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many months of struggle and suffering.’ What was now their aim, he asked them rhetorically. ‘I can answer in one word. It is victory. Victory at all costs – Victory in spite of all terrors – Victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival.’
The House was hardly swept away by Churchill’s
rhetoric. ‘Winston makes a very short statement,’ noted Harold Nicolson, ‘but to the point.’ The formal backing of the new Government was passed without incident, but there was no doubting the anxiety in the Commons. There were many who now had a horrible sinking feeling that the revolution to oust Chamberlain might have been a terrible mistake, while few doubted that making Churchill leader in this moment of deep crisis was a massive risk and fraught with uncertainty; it was not only the Germans who were gambling at this time. Across the corridor in the House of Lords, Chamberlain’s name was received with cheers and Churchill’s with silence. Gossiping and griping was already rife amongst the corridors of Parliament, with the new appointments being heavily criticized by many. After the vote, Harold Nicolson talked to another Churchill supporter, Harold Macmillan, who had in turn been talking to a member of the new Cabinet, Brendan Bracken. Macmillan had asked Bracken what Churchill’s mood was like. ‘Profound anxiety,’ Bracken had replied. It was nothing less than what Harold and many of his parliamentary colleagues were feeling.
‘I spent the day in a bright blue new suit from the Fifty-Shilling Tailors,’ noted the 25-year-old Jock Colville, ‘cheap and sensational looking, which I felt was appropriate to the new Government.’ Jock was one of several of Chamberlain’s secretaries who had been kept on by Churchill. He was fond of Chamberlain and felt his boss had been unfairly treated, but he was deeply worried about the prospect of Churchill as the new Prime Minister. He rather thought that it had been Churchill’s impetuousness that had led to the debacle in Norway, and had heard plenty of rumours about how difficult a man he could be; as far as he was concerned, the new PM was little more than an adventurer with friends unfit to be trusted with positions of high office and authority at such a time of national crisis. The thought of Churchill running the show sent a chill down his young spine.
The son of well-to-do and well-connected parents, Jock had left Trinity College in Cambridge in 1936, having had three fabulous and hedonistic years. He then travelled to Russia, crossed Asia Minor and travelled back through Europe, teaching himself French and German in the process. Once back in London, he realized it was time to settle down to some work, but a life in the City like his two elder brothers had not appealed. However, it turned out that his combination of intelligence and languages enabled him to sit the exhaustive exams for entrance into the Foreign Office. Much to his surprise, he won a place and was allotted to the Eastern Department, where his specific concern was Turkey and Persia. Then, soon after war had been declared, he was asked if he would like to join No. 10 as one of the Prime Minister’s secretaries. He was promised it would be long hours and often very boring, but Jock accepted all the same; the chance to be ‘in the know’ at a time of war such as this seemed too good to pass over. So it was that on Tuesday, 10 October, Jock started his first day at Downing Street.
Now, seven months on, he had a new boss. Jock might not have thought too much of Churchill but he had to admit the man had drive. Whatever happened, he felt certain the new PM would get things done.
The same day, the US Ambassador, Joe Kennedy, saw Lord Halifax at the Foreign Office, and congratulated him on being in the new Cabinet. ‘Confidentially, I wish I weren’t, Joe,’ Halifax told him. The Foreign Secretary was critical of those who had deserted Chamberlain. Kennedy then interrupted him, pointing out that Britain’s real problem was not politics but a shortage of aircraft, plain and simple. The lack of them, he argued, threw everything else out of balance and made it impossible for her to wage a modern war. Halifax did not disagree. He then asked Kennedy if he thought it would be a short war.
‘Definitely,’ Kennedy told him.
There was another man in Britain who was deeply concerned about the shortage of aircraft, although it was the paucity of single-engine modern fighters that was his prime concern. At the start of the war, production levels were so low that on average just two Spitfires and Hurricanes were being built per day. It was, the Commander-in-Chief of RAF Fighter Command reckoned, probably just about enough to prevent unescorted bombers flying from Germany from causing large-scale havoc over mainland Britain. However, should the Luftwaffe overrun the Low Countries, then they would be able to fly over Britain with an escort of protective fighters, and that was an entirely different proposition. To meet that threat, Britain needed every single modern fighter she could lay her hands on and more, not waste them on the Continent. ‘There could be no illusions,’ wrote Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, ‘concerning the wastage which would occur if we came up against the German fighters in France.’
Already, by 13 May, Dowding’s worst fears were being realized. The previous summer, it had been agreed by the Government and the Air Ministry that Fighter Command should grow to fifty-seven squadrons, of which five would be used for shipping protection and in Northern Ireland, so leaving fifty-two squadrons for the home defence of mainland Britain. Not all these squadrons had been formed, however, and at the outbreak of war Dowding could still only call on thirty-two squadrons, of which just twenty-two were equipped with Spitfires and Hurricanes. The rest were biplanes, Blenheims or other obsolete models. It was simply not enough.
Over the ensuing months, Dowding had repeatedly pleaded his case, demanding more modern fighters and squadrons, but although more squadrons were promised, by 10 May Fighter Command was still ten short of the fifty-seven that had been pledged. What’s more, two of his squadrons were earmarked for Norway and four to join the six already in France. In other words, Dowding actually had twenty fewer squadrons for home defence than had been promised him. Aircraft production had risen to 177 fighters per month by March and to 256 by April, but that was nothing like enough to bring Fighter Command up to the strength that had been agreed would be necessary to keep the Luftwaffe at bay, and make good the losses that would inevitably occur in France.
Three more squadrons had been sent the moment the offensive began. On this fourth day of the battle, he had been told that a further thirty-two pilots and aircraft – the equivalent of two squadrons – were also ordered over to France. Nor were his home squadrons idle. Four a day were leaving England for offensive patrols, landing and refuelling in France, and completing a second patrol before heading home.
For Dowding, who had so single-mindedly and determinedly built up the home defence of Britain, the loss of each aircraft over the Continent made him wince in horror. Yes, he understood the political necessity of the RAF’s contribution in France, but to him the greatest single priority was the survival of Great Britain, and that could only be achieved with adequate home defence. ‘The continued existence of the nation and all its services,’ he had written to the Air Ministry back in October, ‘depends upon the Royal Navy and the Fighter Command.’ The argument that nothing should be allowed to interfere with the creation of a fifty-squadron Fighter Command was a line he had consistently taken since the previous July, when it had first been agreed that fighters should be sent to France in the event of war. It was a message that had cut no ice with the Chiefs of Staff; if anything, the more Dowding repeated this heartfelt opinion, the less impact it had. But Dowding was now beginning to think the worst. Already there was talk of an invasion. If the Luftwaffe struck any time soon, Britain, he feared, would not have a chance.
Hugh Caswall Tremenheere Dowding had been born in Moffat, Scotland, in 1882, although his father had been a Wiltshire man. Educated at Winchester College, he left school and went to the Royal Military College at Woolwich and from there was commissioned at the Royal Garrison Artillery in 1900. His early army career took him to India, Ceylon and Hong Kong, but on his return to Britain he decided to qualify for his private pilot’s certificate. He gained this in 1913 then undertook a further three-month course with the Royal Flying Corps to gain his wings. Returning to the artillery he was nonetheless obliged to transfer permanently to the RFC upon the outbreak of war in 1914. He rose to become commander of 16 Squadron but clashed with General ‘Boom’ Trenchard, then head of the RFC and later the fath
er of the Royal Air Force, as it became in April 1918. The argument was over Dowding’s belief that pilots needed resting from non-stop combat flying. He lost the debate and was sent back to England, his combat flying career over.
Nor was he initially needed in Trenchard’s post-war Royal Air Force, although Dowding’s commanding officer at the war’s end eventually secured him a permanent commission as a Group Captain. By 1930, he was at the Air Ministry as Air Member for Supply and Research, and less than five years later he was given further responsibilities as Air Member for Research and Development. Both jobs had placed Dowding at the heart of development and expansion of Britain’s fighter and bomber forces and also the country’s air defences that began in 1934. During his time as head of research and development, Dowding oversaw the introduction of the Hurricane and Spitfire and of the Stirling four-engine heavy bomber, and the development of radar. Admittedly, under his tenure, hopeless combat aircraft such as the Battle and rear-armed Defiant had also seen the light of day; yet there is no question that he got much more right than he got wrong.
Dowding was a deeply intelligent, quietly spoken, rather stiff individual; this somewhat brusque and outwardly cold demeanour led to his being given the nickname ‘Stuffy’. Yet he was not really stuffy at all because that suggests he was both conventional and narrow-minded, and he was neither. Rather, he was forward-thinking, deeply pragmatic and full of sound common sense. During the First World War, for example, he was one of the first people to advocate the use of radio communication in aircraft. In the early 1930s, Dowding was advised that biplanes were preferable because two pairs of wings provided greater lift and strength than one. Dowding replied by asking why, in that case, a monoplane had won the internationally coveted Schneider Trophy air speed contest. He had recognized, when many others had not, that speed was of the essence for fighter aircraft.
The Battle of Britain Page 13