The Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  It was on the 16th that Churchill had flown to Paris along with his Chief of Staff, General Ismay, and General John Dill, the Vice-CIGS. After a sobering visit to a lifeless British Embassy, they went to the Quai d’Orsay to see Reynaud, Gamelin and Daladier, the former Prime Minister and current Minister of Defence. They met in a large, beautiful and airy room that overlooked the palace gardens. Outside, bonfires were lit – the state papers were being burned. Gamelin could tell them nothing but bad news. Things were not as dire as they seemed, Churchill suggested. They had been in a mess together before and got out of it all right. ‘Evidently this battle will be known as the Battle of the Bulge,’ he said. ‘Now, my General, when and where are you going to counter-attack?’ Gamelin replied morosely that he had nothing with which to counter-attack. ‘We suffer from inferiority of numbers, equipment, method and morale,’ he said. In fact, he was only right on the last two points.

  Churchill tried to maintain an outward cheerfulness, but he had been deeply shocked. Again and again, the three Frenchmen asked for more fighter squadrons. Fighter planes, above all, were what they needed; perhaps then the battle could yet be turned. Churchill told them he would seek the consent of his Cabinet; in his mind he was convinced Britain should do as requested, but he wanted the approval of his ministerial colleagues.

  ‘Today the news is worse,’ noted a morose Neville Chamberlain in London that same day, ‘the French are giving way without fighting.’ Churchill was in France trying to stiffen Reynaud’s resolve, but in London the mood was almost as bleak as it was in Paris. In the afternoon, Chamberlain saw Joe Kennedy, who told him frankly that he believed French morale was broken and that they had no fight left. He didn’t see how Britain could fight on without them. ‘I told him I did not see how we could either,’ added Chamberlain, who thought the only chance left if France collapsed would be for President Roosevelt to make an appeal for an armistice, though he knew it was unlikely the Germans would respond.

  For his part, Joe Kennedy had been shocked by the appearance of his old friend. ‘He is definitely a heartbroken and physically broken man,’ Kennedy noted. ‘He looks ghastly; and I should judge is in a frightfully nervous condition.’

  It was when Kennedy saw the ashen expressions of men like the former Prime Minister and listened to the increasingly dire news from France that he felt doubly sure his predictions of a short war that would end favourably for Germany were correct. The previous day, he had been summoned to see Churchill.

  Although the PM had yet to set off to France, he had by this time spoken with Reynaud and had realized that Britain might well soon have to face Germany alone. To this end, it was, Churchill believed, essential to bring the United States in on her side, not in terms of troops on the ground, but materially. Only the US had the industrial might to provide the kinds of armaments that he envisaged would be needed. He thus planned to appeal that day directly to President Roosevelt, but felt it worth sounding out Ambassador Kennedy first.

  Kennedy arrived at Admiralty House late on the 15th. The building was already blacked out, and outside stood a guard of soldiers. Ushered through Churchill’s outer office, he was then led into the Prime Minister’s study, where three of his ministers, including Archibald Sinclair, the new Secretary of State for Air, were waiting. Churchill was sitting in a comfortable chair, a large cigar between his fingers and an equally large Scotch at his side.

  The PM immediately asked him whether he had heard any news about Italy. Mussolini’s imminent entry into the war was a growing concern. ‘It could make the difference,’ he told Kennedy. ‘It certainly will decrease our chances.’ However, Churchill said, echoing the words he had told the Chiefs of Staff earlier, come what may, Britain would fight on.

  Churchill then asked whether the United States might be prepared to give Britain some more destroyers. The entry of Italy into the war would badly affect Britain’s situation in both the Mediterranean and the Atlantic; the Italian navy was more developed than the rest of her armed forces. Some American destroyers could make a huge difference as they would fill a shortfall until those currently under construction in Britain had been completed.

  ‘It isn’t fair to ask us to hold the bag for a war the Allies expect to lose,’ Kennedy told them. ‘If we are to fight, under these circumstances it seems to me we would do better fighting in our own backyard. You know our strength. Right now our navy is in the Pacific, our army is not up to requirements, and we haven’t enough airplanes for our own use.’ Kennedy could see no point in involving themselves in a war that was likely to be over in the near future.

  Despite his stance, Churchill insisted that he would be asking the President for forty or fifty destroyers, as many aircraft as the US could spare, more anti-aircraft guns and steel. Although the Allies were still fighting in northern Norway, the situation looked bad there too. ‘We are going to be in a terrible situation on steel with Narvik cut off,’ continued Churchill, ‘trouble in the Mediterranean that will hit the supply of chrome from Turkey and with Mussolini going in, Spain may follow.’ He paused for a moment then added, ‘Regardless of what Germany does to France, England will never give up so long as I am in power, even if England is burned to the ground. The Government will move if it has to and take the Fleet to Canada and fight on.’

  Late that night, Kennedy reported his conversation to Washington and the following morning, 16 May, forwarded on to the President Churchill’s letter requesting help. The Prime Minister and President had begun a correspondence the previous autumn, but this was the first time Churchill had written to him since becoming PM. He did not beat about the bush. How much Churchill himself believed in the threat of parachutists is not clear, but he was certainly prepared to try to use it as leverage. ‘We expect to be attacked here ourselves,’ he wrote, ‘both from the air and by parachute and air-borne troops in the near future, and are getting ready for them.’ The voice and power of the United States, he warned the President, would count for nothing if withheld too long. ‘You may have a completely subjugated Nazified Europe established with astonishing swiftness, and the weight may be more than we can bear.’ He pleaded with Roosevelt to declare non-belligerency against Germany so that she might help Britain in every way short of actually engaging armed forces.

  He then provided a list of requests. In addition to the destroyers, aircraft, AA guns and steel, he also asked that America send a naval squadron to Ireland to try to deter a German invasion there, and offered the US the chance to make use of Singapore in an effort to keep the ‘Japanese dog’ quiet in the Pacific.

  Later on the 16th, some hours after sending Churchill’s letter, Kennedy cabled the President stressing his grave doubt once more that Britain could fight on alone. ‘It is not beyond the realm of reason,’ he wrote, ‘that this crack-up can come like a stroke of lightning. In consequence, any action must be conceived now if it is to be effective.’ Around midnight, the President’s reply arrived. The destroyers could not be made available without an Act of Congress and now was not the moment to ask. As regard to aircraft and steel, Arthur Purvis, the head of the Anglo-French Purchasing Commission in the US, could expect continued co-operation. Sending a naval squadron to Ireland was not impossible but the US navy was firmly ensconced at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii, so making use of Singapore was, for the time being, out of the question.

  Churchill was naturally disappointed, particularly about the destroyers, but Roosevelt was being forced to tread carefully. In America he was seen as a leading interventionist. There was no stomach for war in the US and the anti-interventionist lobby was a powerful one. Isolationist sentiment was also, crucially, strong in both houses of Congress. Nonetheless, despite the negative response to Churchill’s requests, the President still rang Kennedy, anxious to know what the Prime Minister’s reaction had been.

  The following day, Churchill replied to Roosevelt, stressing the mounting gravity of the situation. ‘We must expect in any case to be attacked on the Dutch model before very long,’
he wrote. If American assistance was to play any part at all, he stressed, it would have to be available very soon.

  It would not be the last time Churchill would plead Britain’s case in such stark terms. He would continue chivvying and cajoling the President for as long as it took because he was sure – as certain as he could be about anything – that the United States held the key to Britain’s eventual victory over Nazi Germany.

  Right now, however, he faced an uphill battle. From London, Ambassador Kennedy was warning the President that Britain would soon be beaten too, and that to support her now would be to back a busted flush. His man in France, Ambassador Bullitt, was equally certain the current crisis was going to end in disaster for Britain. On 16 May, he had put to the President – in an off-the-record cable that was for Roosevelt’s ‘most private ear’ only – a hypothesis that he believed had a likely chance of becoming reality: Britain would throw out the current Government, sue for peace and install Mosley and the British Fascists, who would cooperate fully with Nazi Germany. ‘That would mean the British navy against us,’ he wrote. To this end, he urged the President to speak with Mackenzie King, the Canadian Prime Minister, and the senior commanders of the British Fleet, and make sure that should the worst happen, the navy would sail for Canada.

  Roosevelt wanted to see the world rid of Hitler and the Nazis. Unlike the anti-interventionists, he did not see the Atlantic as the great bulwark that would protect them. War against Germany, he believed, was inevitable. But he was not a dictator; he was a democratically elected head of state. In November there would be a Presidential election and, to be re-elected, he needed the support of the nation – a nation overwhelmingly opposed to war. To overtly help Britain and France further when their futures looked so bleak would be political suicide. For the time being, at any rate, he had to maintain his position as a reluctant, but necessary, neutral. Britain would have to find a way through this current crisis without the United States.

  *

  At around midnight on 16 May, Neville Chamberlain returned to his diary. A deeply troubling day had just got worse. Churchill had returned from France and clearly the situation there was worse than he had thought. ‘Terrible message from Winston,’ he scribbled. ‘Effect is next three or four days decisive unless German advance can be stayed. French army will collapse and BEF will be cut off. Decided to throw in more air forces tomorrow.’

  For Air Chief Marshal Dowding, the Commander of Fighter Command, this was terrible news, for those air forces were fighter aircraft, precious Hurricanes that would all too soon be desperately needed at home. Britain’s air war had completely lost its direction. Urgent priorities needed to be made. Fast.

  11

  Learning the Lessons

  OBERLEUTNANT HAJO HERRMANN had been one of the first Luftwaffe pilots to go to Spain. In fact, he had been sent as a punishment. A headstrong and highly intelligent young man, Hajo had only been in the Luftwaffe a year and had still not fully completed his training when he had incurred the wrath of his bomber group commander. Back in 1936, the vast majority of those in the one-year-old Luftwaffe had lacked much flying experience so it was not altogether surprising that even group commanders made flying mistakes.

  This was the case during an exercise in July of that year when the entire Kampfgeschwader was flying in a diversion exercise. Hajo’s Staffel was the last in the line, so when it came to land again it was with mounting frustration that he watched the commander, Major Maass, overfly the airfield for what was clearly going to be an extremely wide approach. In wartime, Hajo knew, everything depended on carrying out manoeuvres as quickly as possible, but by the time everyone had followed their leader in, he reckoned he might almost be out of fuel. So, instead, Hajo broke formation, performed a tight turn, and landed his Junkers 52 ahead of the rest of the group. He had already taxied to the edge of the field and was out of his aircraft as Major Maass’s aircraft finally touched down.

  Soon after, Hajo was called over and disciplined immediately. ‘Sign here,’ he was told as he was handed a piece of paper. ‘General Franco has approached the Government of the Reich,’ Major Maass said, ‘and asked for assistance.’ At first Hajo did not understand. He had never heard of Franco, but it seemed as though the commander was trying to get rid of him for the insolent flying offence he had just committed. His fears seemed confirmed when Major Maass told him he would have to be discharged from the Luftwaffe in order to go to Spain.

  Soon enough, however, all became clear. His temporary discharge was merely part of the clandestine nature of the mission. He and his crew were one of ten transport crews and the same number again of fighter pilots. A long train and sea journey took them to Cadiz and then on to Seville. From there, Hajo began his flying missions, ferrying Moroccan troops to and fro between North Africa and southern Spain. Republican warships would open fire from the Straits of Gibraltar and, once, Hajo’s plane was hit. From then on, he would load lumps of stone and iron into the hold and would have them dropped on the ships below as they flew over. Later, he was given real bombs.

  Help to Spain had initially been given in return for much-needed raw materials, particularly iron and tungsten, yet it also allowed the German pilots and aircrews to gain invaluable experience of flying in a combat situation and for the Luftwaffe to test and develop its aircraft and tactics. Some 15,000 pilots and crews would see service in Spain, and after its highly secret beginnings Luftwaffe involvement in the Spanish Civil War became more open with the creation of the Condor Legion in November 1936, although, to maintain the fiction of legality, all German members of the legion were ‘volunteers’ and arrived in Spain wearing civilian clothes as ‘tourists’. Hajo was still there at that time. He finally returned to Germany in April 1937, having massively increased his flying hours and with it his experience. He had learned many important lessons during that time.

  So too had the fighter pilots, who had begun their time in Spain with Heinkel 51 biplanes but had progressed on to the new Messerschmitt 109B and later Cs. These fighter pilots had soon learned that the best flying formation was not the tight three-plane vic as had been practised in the last war, but a two- or four-aircraft formation, with two Rotten together making a Schwarm. Experience proved that a formation could be most effective when spaced apart with about 600 feet between each aircraft; it ensured the lead aircraft could be protected by his wingman, but also meant that from a distance the formation was harder for the enemy to spot than a group of tight formation fighters. The extra space also gave them greater freedom to manoeuvre. It was Werner Mölders, commander of the fighter unit 3/J88, who did much to refine these fighter tactics, introducing the idea of staggering the two pairs of a Schwarm: the Schwarm leader flew in the position of the tip of the middle finger, his wingman in that of the index finger; the second Rotte leader was represented by the third finger, and his wingman by the little finger – hence it became known as the ‘finger-four’. He also introduced the cross-over turn, a manoeuvre the RAF had developed at the end of the last war. This got around the problem of trying to turn when the frontage of a Schwarm was some 600 yards: to turn through ninety degrees, the fighter on the outside pulled up and turned above the one nearest to him. The others followed in sequence, so that at the end of the manoeuvre the formation was the same but a mirror image of the order of aircraft before the turn had begun.

  When the Spanish Civil War ended in March 1939 and the Condor Legion returned home, the lessons learned were put to immediate effect. Hajo Herrmann was not alone in being given time to prepare a full report of his experiences, which he then presented to the Chief of Staff of the Luftwaffe in Berlin. Training was made more realistic and practices such as the Schwarm and cross-over turn became normal procedure.

  Another of the Spaniards – as the Condor veterans were known – who had written reports on his experience in Spain had been Hauptmann Dolfo Galland. It was largely because of what he had written that he had been pulled out of JG 52 and plunged back into the world of a b
iplane ground support Lehrgeschwader in order to bring the unit up to strength and then to lead it during the Polish campaign.

  Dolfo Galland had been born in Westerholt, Westphalia, in March 1912, the second of four sons, whose father was land manager of the large, sprawling estate of Graf von Westerholt. Brought up as a strict Catholic despite the family’s Huguenot origins, Dolfo had always preferred sport and the outdoor life to academia, although he had considerable practical skills, throwing his energy into making radio sets and model aircraft. At fifteen, he made his first glider with some school friends, and by the time he was nineteen had passed all three levels of his glider pilot’s licence. Having matriculated from school, he joined the commercial flying school, run largely by the national airline, Deutsche Lufthansa, where he qualified as a pilot before being asked to enter the still illegal Luftwaffe. That had been in early 1933, but two years later, after he had joined the fighter unit JG 2, his career was nearly finished when he suffered a horrific accident flying a new Focke-Wulf 44 Stieglitz.

  Recovering too late from a spin, his aircraft sliced into the ground. He was already in a coma when he was pulled out of the wreckage, and with multiple skull fractures it looked like he might never recover.