The Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  What worried Kennedy was sending American arms and aid to support a country he reckoned was already beaten. As with Dowding’s view of sending more fighters to France, he felt it was pointless throwing in ships and destroyers that could be better used at home; if it ever came to a fight with Germany, Kennedy believed they should do so in their own back yard not somebody else’s. Roosevelt, on the other hand, thought quite the opposite – that it was in America’s interests to fight the battle as far away from their own shores, and as indirectly, as possible. Nor was he convinced that Britain was beaten – not just yet, at any rate.

  *

  It was to get a second opinion on Britain’s chances of survival that Roosevelt and the State Department had decided to send Colonel Raymond Lee back to London as military attaché and Head of Intelligence. A 54-year-old dashing, good-looking bon viveur from Missouri, with a raffish moustache and a reputation for diplomacy and sound judgement, Lee had already spent four years in the post before being sent home at the outbreak of war to help train American soldiers. By the beginning of June, however, he was told he was going back. Aside from his normal attaché’s duties, he was to spend time at the War Office, to which he would have access, and travelling around the country, and then reporting back on whether he thought Britain would prevail.

  Before he went, Lee was thoroughly briefed. Kennedy, he was told, was still being defeatist, although according to Herbert Feis, the State Depertment Advisor, that was only because the war was lowering the stock market and affecting the Ambassador’s securities. Nonetheless, Lee was taken aback by how much defeatist talk there was. He felt there was a pathological assumption that it was all over bar the shouting and that it was too late for the United States to do anything. ‘Well, it boils down to this,’ Lee said in his briefing, ‘that the President and the State Department want to be just as helpful to the Allies as the public opinion of this country will permit, and the latter is changing very rapidly.’ Yes, he was told, in a nutshell that was it.

  He arrived in England on 21 June, having flown via Lisbon. London had changed a great deal in the nine months since he had last been there, and seemed ‘as dark as a pocket’. Many of the familiar streets now had piles of sandbags along them, or barricades of wire. Everyone at the Embassy seemed pleased to see him back, however, even Kennedy, who nevertheless wasted no time in emphatically telling him that Britain was beaten and that he was against American intervention. Lee, however, was not going to allow himself to be swayed by the Ambassador. Rather, he preferred to judge the situation for himself.

  One person who could understand the defeatist talk in America was the photographer Cecil Beaton. He had reluctantly left England shortly after the German offensive had begun, full of remorse for leaving at such a time of peril for his country, but nonetheless conscious that he had a large tax bill in arrears and so was financially unable to turn down the £2,000 from Pond’s Cream to take some advertising pictures for them. Since he had been away, however, the news had grown progressively worse and worse, so that despite the sumptuous amounts of unrationed food and the bright lights of New York, and despite the luxury and comfort of living in a city untouched by war, Cecil was wracked with anguish. ‘Every hour,’ he wrote, ‘the radio bulletins told of further tragedy. Nowhere could one find solace from the prevalent gloom. One’s worst fears were confirmed each hour by friends and news bulletins.’

  By the time war had broken out in September 1939, Cecil was thirty-five and, with recent commissions to photograph the Queen, his reputation had never been higher. He had turned to photography as an amateur after dropping out of Cambridge, but had soon risen to prominence through his daring portraits of the young, rich and fashionable. A certain notoriety from his association with the Bright Young Things – a group of young aristocratic men and women who had scandalized London society with their camp theatrics and extravagance – did him no harm. More work followed; then trips to Hollywood, contracts with Vogue and, finally, commissions from the British Royal Family. For someone who worshipped beauty and glamour as much as Beaton, his was a thrilling lifestyle: friendships with artists, movie stars and the richest in the land; and near-constant travel – to New York, Paris, Hollywood, Rome.

  It was also a lifestyle that came to a crashing halt with the outbreak of war. Hearing the news that Germany had invaded Poland had been ‘like a death knell’, and affected him profoundly. Rather than mourning the passing of a way of life, however, he discovered he no longer had an ‘appetite for the sort of things that had been fun. They were remote.’ Rather, his concern came primarily from his fear for Britain’s future. His reaction was entirely typical of most people of his age, who could no longer rely on the callowness and naivety they had possessed at nineteen or twenty. To the middle-aged man, war spelled doom. To the younger man, still flushed with youth, thoughts of potential death and destruction registered less acutely.

  Cecil Beaton had very quickly begun to feel both frustrated and ashamed. ‘This war, as far as I can see,’ he confided to his diary, ‘is something specifically designed to show up my inadequacy in every possible capacity.’ He offered his services as a driver, then as a camouflage designer, and finally took work as a telephonist at an Air Raid Precaution unit. It did not last long, however, and soon he was back to photography and theatre work.

  His work in New York was now done, however. His friends tried to persuade him to stay. ‘England will probably be invaded any day now,’ they said, ‘and there can’t be much resistance.’ Surely it made more sense to stay where he was? Although tempted, Cecil knew that at this ‘worst moment’ in Britain’s history he had a duty to return home – and there to do something that might actually be of real use to the war effort.

  There had still been one more evacuation for the Royal Navy to perform. Between 19 and 23 June, just under 23,000 British subjects were taken from the Channel Islands. It had been accepted that, because of their proximity to France, the islands could not be held and sure enough, on 30 June, the first German occupiers arrived. It was ironic that for all the anxiety about British interests in the Far and Middle East and over Malta and Gibraltar, the first British territory to be lost should be part of the British Isles itself, but there had been no practical alternative to letting them go.

  A further mounting concern was the Republic of Ireland, independent of Britain since 1922, but still a part of the Commonwealth. Despite this, it was decidedly hostile towards Britain, and following the fall of France the idea that German troops might use Ireland as a springboard for an assault on Britain and as a base for U-boats began to take hold. Raymond Lee had barely arrived back in London before he heard plenty of such talk; it certainly seemed plausible to him. Part of the 1922 treaty had been to allow the Royal Navy to use Irish ports, but Chamberlain had let this right go in 1938. At the beginning of the war, Churchill, as First Lord of the Admiralty, had briefly considered using force against Ireland to get it back. Nothing had come of such plans, but it was now Chamberlain, in something of a volte face, who suggested force might be used to get Ireland to give up its harbours. To complete the seesaw change in approach, it was now Churchill, fearing US opposition, who opposed the idea. He was, however, keen to secure use of these crucial Atlantic-facing ports, partly to prevent the Germans using them and partly so that the navy and RAF would have bases from which to take the attack to the U-boats. As a quid pro quo for their immediate use, he proposed offering de Valera, the Irish president, the post-war unification of Ireland. British Northern Ireland would be sacrificed for this more pressing need. Churchill gave the job of leading the deal to Chamberlain.

  Yet despite being handed Northern Ireland on a plate, and despite the offer of protection against any German invasion, de Valera was having nothing of it. Chamberlain cursed his obstinacy. ‘The moment the Germans land,’ Chamberlain noted, ‘he will ask for help but not a second before; in fact, his people would fight us if we came first.’

  But however hemmed in and threatened Britain
may have felt, she was not entirely alone. Ireland was an exception; the weight of the Dominions was behind the mother country. Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa had all declared war on Germany. Canadian troops were already in Britain – they had even made their aborted trip to Normandy. Pilots were arriving from the far corners, and not just from Commonwealth countries. Some from the United States had volunteered to fly for the RAF. There were others, too, from Poland and Czechoslovakia, for example, who were determined to fight for their broken countries’ honour and to have their chance for revenge.

  Among those arriving in England during these tumultuous days of late June was Jan Zumbach. Although the 25-year-old was of Swiss origin and nominally a Swiss citizen, his family, birth and upbringing were Polish and he considered himself very much a Pole at heart. Brought up on a large estate in the north of Poland, near Brodnica, Jan had had an idyllic, privileged childhood, paying little attention to his school books and more to the cowherd’s daughter, whom, at seventeen, he managed to get pregnant. Immediately packed off to school, he returned two years later, having dutifully passed his exams and determined to join the Polish air force, an ambition he had held since a child. With his father dead, he had to overcome the opposition of his equally strong-willed mother, who was vehemently opposed to the plan. Eventually, recognizing that she would not budge, he opted for deception instead, forging her authorization for his enlistment. When she discovered what he had done, she was distraught but too much of a patriot to cancel his enlistment, and so he had got his way. ‘All this,’ he noted, ‘for the right to get myself shot down in flames instead of sliced up by sabres!’

  By the time war broke out, Jan had been a pilot for more than three and a half years, and had become a highly experienced one at that. He had been trained well, but a flying accident in the spring of 1939 and a long convalescence meant that he was only just about to return to operational duties when the Germans invaded. Unaware that 80 per cent of the Polish air force had been knocked out on the first day of the war, Jan never did catch up with his squadron. However, he and a number of other pilots were ordered to an airfield on the Romanian border. Initially mystified, he then learned that Russians had invaded from the east. Trapped between Russian and German troops they now had no alternative but to escape; and unlike the tens of thousands of refugees jamming the roads, Jan and his colleagues were fortunate enough to have a means of getting away.

  It was far from plain sailing, however. Trouble with Romanian border guards meant that Jan, along with two other pilots as passengers, hastily took off again, heading south until running out of fuel some twenty-five miles from Bucharest. They eventually reached the city and from there, via Constanza and Beirut, to Marseilles. It was now the end of November 1939, and at Salon-de-Provence Jan and his two Polish friends joined the French Armée de l’Air.

  Their services were hardly required, however. They were told there was a shortage of aircraft, which was nonsense, so spent idle days in the bistros and brothels of Lyons, where they were stationed. Eventually, they were formed into a Polish Squadron, but remained on the Lorraine front, behind the Maginot Line. Jan and three other Polish pilots were then transferred to another squadron in a fighter group made up of a motley assortment of pilots and aircraft and stationed near Tours. He had still barely flown even once the German offensive began. On 6 June, the pilots were in the middle of lunch when reports of German aircraft reached them. Jan and his fellow Poles immediately jumped up. ‘What’s the hurry?’ said their French commander. ‘We haven’t finished eating.’

  Jan’s squadron was eventually given a modern Morane 406 and on 10 June they finally flew their first proper combat sortie over France. They were soon tangling with a mass of Me 109s, and horribly outnumbered. Although Jan managed to shoot one down, he and his three fellow Poles were shot down themselves, and he was the only survivor – and only just. Having safely bailed out he was then surrounded by a bunch of hostile French soldiers who in the nick of time realized he was Polish and thus on their side.

  Jan was eventually given a new plane on 13 June – an American Curtiss P-36 – but by harmonizing and testing his guns at one end of the airfield, he caused panic. Mistaking his gun test for Germans attacking them, the rest of the fighter group began taking off. Such was the prevailing mood of defeatism; it only needed a spark and panic quickly spread.

  As France crumbled, Jan and his colleagues made their way to Bordeaux, where, joining forces with a Polish artillery officer and his battery, they managed to get a ride to Plymouth on a Polish collier. They landed in England on 22 June. About a hundred of the men on board were Czech and Polish airmen – pilots and groundcrew. Their journey was still not over, however. Bundled on to a train, they were taken north to Blackpool and there put into quarantine. Checked and interrogated and medically examined, they discovered there would be no immediate transfer into the RAF.

  They also found themselves constantly at cross-purposes. Jan knew ‘yes’ and ‘no’ but that was the limit of his English. A friend of his was asked whether he had VD. The Pole had no idea what he was being asked, but the doctor looked very solemn. ‘So he took a chance,’ noted Jan, ‘answered yes, and was promptly hauled off for a vigorous massage of the prostate which left him white with rage.’

  For Air Chief Marshal Dowding, in desperate need of pilots, these men were potential gold dust. After all, few now in Britain were more ready and willing to try and shoot down Germans. This, however, was not yet understood or appreciated, and so for the next three weeks Jan and his fellows would remain under guard in Blackpool.

  But their time would come. All too soon Fighter Command would need every fighter pilot it could lay its hands on.

  * There is some debate over who wrote this. Harold Nicolson claimed to have penned it, but then so did the art historian Kenneth Clark, one of his colleagues at the Ministry of Information. The original document, however, seems to have been written by Nicolson, but then refined by Clark.

  26

  Getting Ready

  AS ONE OF THE PRIME Minister’s secretaries, Jock Colville was fortunate enough to meet and get to know most of Britain’s war leadership. For an intelligent and observant young man such as himself, it was fascinating to be allowed to listen to the debates and arguments of the Cabinet and Chiefs of Staff, or to find himself, as he did, quite casually on the evening of 18 June, talking to men such as Professor Frederick Lindemann, a brilliant scientist, trusted friend of Churchill’s and now the PM’s Chief Scientific Adviser. For a brief while they gossiped on the steps of the Foreign Office, discussing Général de Gaulle.

  Later, after dinner, Jock returned to No. 10, where Churchill’s inner circle was gathered. Everyone was in a bad mood, unsurprising in light of the collapse in France. Beaverbrook told Jock that Sinclair was a hopeless Air Minister and that the whole Air Ministry was rotten. General Ismay, meanwhile, was complaining that the Chiefs of Staff were too old and too slow. The last straw for Churchill that day was the non-arrival of the morning newspapers, which he liked to see the night before. In his exasperation he spilled his whisky and soda over some of his papers, which put him in an even worse temper.

  Yet despite these gripes, tensions and personal animosities, and despite the many concerns still facing Britain, the month of June was unquestionably giving her a fighting chance. The clock was ticking but, with every hour and day that passed, so Britain was strengthening her defences, not least with the addition of new fighter aircraft.

  Even after just a fortnight in the job, Lord Beaverbrook’s Ministry for Aircraft Production (MAP) had made startling improvements. In the first week he took over, around 130 new aircraft of all types had been built. By the third week of May, that had risen to 200, and by the last week of May it was around 280. Throughout June, weekly aircraft production remained at somewhere between 250 and 300 aircraft. In the week of 2–8 June, for example, eighty new Hurricanes and twenty-two Spitfires were built; in all, 446 fighter aircraft were produce
d in June. He had achieved this by allowing nothing to get in the way of that single goal: more aircraft. Red tape was dispensed with; so too were niceties. If there was a bottleneck anywhere, a senior member of MAP would be sent to the relevant factory and whatever the problem – such as mismanagement, lack of workers, shortage of parts – it would be assessed and resolved with extreme haste and the bottleneck cleared. He got rid of Lord Nuffield, whom he considered complacent and too full of his own importance, and sent Sir Richard Fairey, the eminent aircraft designer, up to the new specially built shadow factory at Castle Bromwich to assess why it was still not operating effectively nearly two years after building work had begun. Fairey found mismanagement was rife, that the workforce was slack, undisciplined and often poorly trained, and that many of the machine tools were the wrong ones for the job of building Spitfires. Paperwork was non-existent. The place was, frankly, a shambles. Vickers took over the running of the factory from Nuffield and matters soon began to improve. There would be no more slackness, not at Castle Bromwich, nor at any other factory working for MAP: workers were expected to toil seven days a week with a disregard for all labour regulations. That was how Beaverbrook worked himself and he expected everyone else to do the same. It was a wonder what could be achieved when everyone involved was focused entirely on the main task in hand.