The Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  Larry and his crew had been bombing rail and road targets – too late – at Dinant on the night of 15/16 May, but the following day they were told that they would be bombing Germany that night. The day had begun well because their skipper, Flight Lieutenant Richard Bickworth, had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and the news had come through that morning. 10 Squadron was to fly along with 51 and 58 Squadrons to attack the oil storage depot at Bremen near the German north-west coast. Larry and his crew were airborne at 8.55 p.m. and around two and a half hours later were sneaking over the German coastline taking care to avoid the flak defences at the coastal ports of Wilhelmshaven and Bremerhaven. Following the silvery River Weser, they flew on towards Bremen, until over the aircraft’s intercom Larry heard the men at the front of the Whitley report sightings of fires and heavy flak.

  Their CO, Wing Commander Bill Staton, had told them at the mission briefing that they should attack from low level, dropping their bombs from between 2,000 and 6,000 feet. By the time Larry’s crew arrived at the scene, the fires enabled Sergeant ‘Nipper’ Knapper, their observer, to pick out the aiming point and then begin their run-in, gliding in from about 4,000 feet. This was the worst moment for the crew. Flying straight and level in order to give the bomb aimer a steady bombing platform, they had to simply sit tight and hope for the best as they flew through an intense wall of flak. Bursts of anti-aircraft fire erupted all around them, knocking and shaking the Whitley. Tracer fire was also arcing up towards them. Larry, in the rear turret, found himself ducking involuntarily. Then suddenly a close shell burst would really buck the aircraft. Larry could feel himself tense with adrenalin. Finally, Nipper called out ‘Bombs away!’ and Bick, the pilot, took immediate evasive action and tried to get them away from the flak and weaving searchlights.

  Setting a course for home, they safely managed to escape the fray although they soon realized the plane had been damaged. It was flying sluggishly and after a brief inspection they discovered that most of the fabric on the port wing had been shredded. As they flew on out over the North Sea, Larry clambered out of his turret to see the damage for himself. ‘What I saw,’ wrote Larry, ‘wasn’t reassuring, but the old Whitley did us proud and kept flying across the North Sea without losing height.’ It was with great relief that they reached the English coast and even greater relief that they touched back down at Dishforth, nearly seven hours after they had left. As well as the wing damage, there were holes all along the fuselage and Larry found his bravado waning once he saw how close some of them were to his gun turret.

  All fourteen planes from the squadron made it back that night although not a single Whitley had returned unscathed. The mood amongst the crews was buoyant; all believed they had dropped their bombs on target. They had done what the CO had asked of them and the next night were determined to go into Ripon and make the most of being alive.

  In fact, the raid was nothing like as successful as Larry and his fellow squadron members had thought it had been. Six fires had been started, the largest of which was in two warehouses full of furniture confiscated from Jews. Thirteen people were killed and fifty-five injured. But the oil depot remained untouched.

  On the 19th, the American journalist William Shirer was at Aachen, on his way, courtesy of Goebbels’s propaganda department, to a visit to the front. Aachen, lying on the German–Dutch border, was one of the gateways to the Ruhr and Shirer had been expecting to see Germany’s industrial heartland already rocked by RAF bombing. ‘So far as I can see,’ he jotted in his diary, ‘the night bombings of the British have done very little damage.’ He had also expected the attacks to have had an effect on the morale of the German people. ‘But all afternoon,’ he added, ‘driving through the Ruhr, we saw them – especially the womenfolk – standing on the bridges over the main roads cheering the troops setting off for Belgium and France.’ Bomber Command did not realize it yet, but it was far harder to accurately hit a target at night than they had supposed.

  Even so, the strategic bombing war had begun.

  In France, the pilots and aircrew of the RAF Air Component and Advanced Air Striking Force were still battling their way through the mayhem and confusion that had barely let up, except for a few precious hours of darkness each night, from the moment the offensive had begun.

  At Méharicourt, Pilot Officer Arthur Hughes had finally flown his first recce, on 14 May. ‘Oddly, I was no longer scared,’ he noted, ‘but relieved that action was at last imminent.’ And he was lucky, first, because he was given a fighter escort of 57 Squadron Hurricanes, and, second, because his recce area was covered by cloud, giving them natural cover from enemy aircraft. He made it back unscathed.

  Two days later, news arrived that the Germans were only thirty miles to the east. The squadron was given fifteen minutes to move, but having loaded all their gear into trucks and seen them drive away, they were then not given the order to actually fly out themselves. Later in the day, Sergeant Thomas was sent on a recce and got a bullet through his neck which passed out through his jaw on the other side, while his observer was hit in the arm. Incredibly, he made it back, but it was yet another of the squadron’s crews that was now out of action.

  By the following morning, the squadron still had not moved – no-one knew why; yet despite no longer having a toothbrush, change of clothes or any kind of washing facilities, Arthur had slept like a log. As he was discovering, war was an exhausting business.

  Among those squadrons now flying daily to France were 32 Squadron, based at Biggin Hill, just south-east of London in Kent. On the 17th, Flying Officer Pete Brothers and the rest of the squadron flew to Manston on the tip of Kent, then across the Channel to Abbeville, flew a patrol of Lille and Valenciennes, then landed at Dieppe, flew back to Abbeville, did another patrol, then flew back to Biggin. The next day, they were over France again, this time in a tussle with Siegfried Bethke’s I/JG 2 over Avesnes. It was the same the next day, 19 May, when they were based this time at Merville. During an offensive patrol over Le Cateau, Pete managed to shoot down his first Me 109. ‘It was quite astonishing,’ he says. ‘I opened fire and half a wing came off and the thing caught fire, and I thought, Good Lord, did I do that?’ He looked around in case it had been someone else, but there was no-one there. That’s going to infuriate all my friends, he thought. Where are they? They’ll be after me.

  But Pete managed to get out of the fray and away in one piece. They were certainly operating at a frenetic pace. ‘We’d go over at first light,’ says Pete. ‘Refuel, operate in France, come back in the dark to Biggin Hill; get a meal; fall into bed and be woken up almost instantly because there wasn’t much darkness and we were off again. Dawn was beginning; there was just about enough daylight to see around.’ When they reached France they had to refuel with tins by hand – there were no fuel bowsers. ‘The French weren’t organized to do anything,’ says Pete. At one French airfield, they landed as a French fighter was practising his aerobatics. A moment later, they spotted a Dornier at 5,000 feet heading straight for them. ‘We said to the colonel, “Tell that bloke there’s a Dornier 17” and he said, “Today he is only authorized to do aerobatics.” ’

  Aged twenty-two, from Prestwich in Lancashire, Pete had joined the RAF in 1936, having already taken his civil pilot’s licence when still only sixteen. His father had wanted him to join the family chemical manufacturing business, but Pete had been set on flying and managed to get his own way. His first instructor had been a First World War Sopwith Camel pilot, who not only taught him a great deal about flying but a few tricks about being a fighter pilot as well. Now, four years on, Pete was a highly experienced pilot having flown almost 800 hours in the RAF on numerous types of different aircraft.

  Flying over France had been an eye-opener in many ways. The squadron had been involved in recent tests on Britain’s new RDF – or radar – defences, so now to find themselves operating across the Channel where there was neither radar nor ground control was something of a step back for them. Furtherm
ore, having reached France, it was clear that no-one had much idea of what was going on. ‘We’d just take off and see what we could see,’ explains Pete. ‘If you were lucky, you bumped into some Germans. Otherwise you just flew about the sky looking at what was going on down on the ground.’

  Still at Lille-Marcq was 87 Squadron, which had now been joined by 504 Squadron from England. Bee Beamont had been passed well enough to fly again on 14 May, but it wasn’t until the following day that he finally got into the air. Awake at dawn as normal, he and his fellow pilots had been shivering in the morning dew down at dispersal, but nothing happened. By eight, they were off duty and back to the mess for a large breakfast and a sleep until midday, when they were back on duty once more.

  Not until 2.15 p.m. did the field telephone at dispersal ring with orders for Blue and Green sections plus a further section of 504 Squadron to patrol Louvain-Brussels at 10,000 feet. Frantically, Bee put on his parachute, helmet, goggles, and oxygen and R/T leads and sped to his Hurricane, its engine already throbbing. It was a lovely early summer’s day with not a cloud in the sky as they climbed up towards their patrol area.

  Like Günther Rall, Bee had much to learn about combat flying. Unlike Günther, however, he did not experience his first combat sortie of the campaign with the advantage of height. Instead, his flight spotted flak bursts and the tiny specks of aircraft above them over Louvain. Ordered into the line astern attack formation as prescribed by the RAF, they continued to climb towards the fray. But, by now, Bee was beginning to feel decidedly ropey again. ‘I was having quite a difficulty judging my distance,’ he says. ‘I started to think, My God, when we get into action, how on earth am I going to be able to cope, feeling as I do?’ Above them was a group of Dornier 17s, all now frantically moving into a defensive circular formation with the approach of the Hurricanes. Fortunately, Bee and the rest of the flight arrived before they could complete the manoeuvre. Equally fortunately, Bee somehow forgot about feeling ill the moment the action began; adrenalin had kicked in and was proving an instant antidote. Seconds later, he found himself firing his guns in anger for the very first time, but at the same moment another Hurricane cut in front of him, lucky not to be hit by Bee’s bullets. The air was now thick with tracer but then a different twin-engine machine hurtled towards Bee from above and dead ahead. Yanking back the stick and pressing down on the fire button, Bee hammered a quick burst at him, and as the enemy plane zoomed past he recognized it as an Me 110. More were following, diving down on them right and left, and Bee just had time to half-roll out of the way of one that was about to pounce on his tail. Every time he tried to attack one plane, another seemed to be behind him. Rapidly tiring, he pulled his Hurricane into a tight turn, speeding around in a circle himself until finally another Dornier came slanting across his front, very close and looking very big. Rolling his Hurricane back after him, Bee started to attack, but completely forgetting to check what was behind him, he was now conscious of a feathery line of grey fizzing past him between his cockpit and his starboard roundel. ‘It was an Me 110 up my backside busily pumping all he had at me and missing,’ says Bee, ‘and that put me off my stroke with this Dornier.’ Rolling away, Bee dived down well out of the fray but then noticed another Dornier diving, trailing smoke, away to the north-east. Bee still had a few rounds left so decided to chase it.

  He was soon catching up, too, because one of the Dornier’s engines was hit and it was steadily slowing. Filled with excitement and with his adrenalin pumping, Bee opened fire at over 400 yards – ‘too far really’ – and continued firing until he ran out of ammunition. Even so, the Dornier began diving steeply, disappearing into a layer of low cloud. Still swirling around in a very hostile sky, but with no more ammunition, he realized his best option was to dive to the deck and, at just a few hundred feet off the ground, hedge-hop his way back to base.

  He had begun to work himself on a course that would lead back in the direction of Lille when once again feathery lines of smoke began flitting past his cockpit. Sliding his canopy back in order to get a better look, Bee saw a Dornier on his tail. ‘One of these cheeky bastards had decided he was going to chase a Hurricane with his Dornier!’ says Bee. ‘A bomber after a fighter!’ For Bee, it was an indication of the very high morale of the Luftwaffe at that time. He was suddenly even more aware of his inexperience.

  For a moment he couldn’t think of what he should do, then remembered that a Hurricane was supposed to be able to out-turn a Dornier. He immediately yanked his plane into a very tight turn, as tight as he could fly it without blacking out, and pulled the ‘tit’, which increased boost for a short period of time. The Hurricane lurched forward and after only half a turn he began to see the rear quarter of the Dornier. ‘So there were the two of us,’ he explains, ‘a bloody great Dornier in a vertical bank, and me in my Hurricane also in a vertical bank on his tail but with no ammunition.’ Meanwhile the Dornier’s rear-gunner had begun firing at him.

  This, Bee knew, was not a healthy position to be in, but at least the enemy now knew the Hurricane had a superior turning circle. If he reversed the turn, he realized, the Dornier would never come after him. And nor did it. As Bee looked back, the Dornier was banking away from his own circle and beginning to level out in the direction of the German lines. ‘And as he did so,’ Bee recalls, ‘he waggled his wings. He was saluting.’

  The following day, Bee chased a ‘Hun’ and saw Brussels and Tournai burning fiercely. In the afternoon, the squadron was about to attack some Stukas when they were pounced on by Me 109s. Bee chased after one but found the Messerschmitt was too fast for him to catch. On the 17th, Bee’s flight were about to go on patrol when the ‘Raid approaching – all aircraft off the ground!’ order came through. By now well-practised at this art, the best part of fifty Hurricanes at Lille-Marcq were all airborne inside five minutes. Once airborne, they carried out a mass patrol, but now presented too obvious a target and were soon being dived upon by more 109s. In a trice, two Hurricanes were plunging towards the ground.

  So it continued: raids on the airfield, patrols, scrambles, some enemy knocked out of the sky, some of their number sent earthwards. On Sunday, 19 May, they were visited by Air Vice-Marshal C. H. B. Blount, the commanding officer of the Air Component. ‘Having a good time, chaps?’ he asked them. ‘Which,’ Bee pointed out, ‘sounded rather strange to pilots who had been fighting and standing by to fight from dawn till dusk for eight days with about three hours’ sleep a night and only spasmodic shifts for meals.’

  *

  One person who was certainly taking a pretty dim view of the mayhem the Hurricane squadrons were facing in France was Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding. On 14 May, the Commander of RAF Fighter Command had outlined his views on whether a strategic bombing campaign against Germany should begin. In a letter to the Vice-Chief of the Air Staff, he made it clear that he thought it was the soundest of plans and that any operation that could undermine the Luftwaffe was worth trying. ‘I want the Fighter Command to pull its full weight in this battle,’ he added at the end of the letter, ‘but I want it to do so by shooting down Germans in this country and not by being used as a reservoir for sending reinforcements to France.’ At the time of writing, Dowding did not know that Reynaud, the French Prime Minister, had already asked for a further ten fighter squadrons, but he had got wind of the request before the day was out. Tearing his hair out with frustration, he asked to be allowed to state his case before the War Cabinet. This was granted.

  Thus at the same War Cabinet meeting in which Bomber Command were given the go-ahead to attack the Ruhr, Dowding was able to speak lucidly and rationally, and make a convincing argument for not giving in to Reynaud’s demands. Churchill and the Cabinet agreed: for the present, no more squadrons would go to France.

  A day later, however, when the full scale of the collapse of the Meuse front had become clear, the French once again appealed for ten more fighter squadrons, recognizing that while Britain could offer little more in terms of
ground troops, it still had the bulk of Fighter Command in England, as far as they were concerned, doing nothing. ‘If they do not come,’ warned Gamelin, ‘the battle would be lost.’ Gamelin was talking nonsense. Ten fighter squadrons were not going to make the difference between French collapse and a dramatic Allied recovery. Air Marshal Barratt and Lord Gort, both on the spot in France, also demanded more fighters be sent, and, in the face of logic, Ironside, Ismay and Pound on the Chiefs of Staff Committee supported the request.

  So too did Churchill, whose affection for France and the French ran very deep indeed. He recognized that sending any fighters would be a grave risk but felt it was essential to do something that might chivvy French morale and which would give them a chance to recover their composure in the face of the German onslaught.

  Thus, in an abrupt change of heart, the War Cabinet subsequently agreed to send four squadrons immediately with two more on standby.

  Later in the day, Churchill rang from Paris having had his traumatic meeting with Reynaud and Gamelin, urging that yet six more fighter squadrons should be sent to France immediately. The Chief of the Air Staff, Air Chief Marshal Sir Cyril Newall, was against it but suggested instead that six Hurricane squadrons should be concentrated in southeast England and that three could fly over to France in the morning and then fly back and the other three could do the same in the afternoon. At a special War Cabinet chaired by Chamberlain, this scheme was agreed and put into effect the following day.