The Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  The best submarine commanders had many crucial attributes but a cool head, decisiveness and intuition – a sixth sense – were essential. Günther Prien had them all, as well as a ton of experience: half his life had been spent on the sea, travelling the globe, where he had learned telegraphy, navigation, about weather, and, crucially, the art of leadership.

  Making a periscope attack was not easy, as a number of considerations came into play. For a torpedo to successfully hit a target, a calculation had to be made taking into account the speed, range and course of the enemy ship, the submarine and the torpedo. The Mk VII had two periscopes, a sky periscope as well as an attack and night periscope. The Captain would look through the latter, and, with the help of a graduated ring around the lens, make a number of visual calculations. Range was calculated by reading the angle between the waterline of the target and its bridge or masthead. This was tricky because an estimate had to be made having already assumed the size and class of the ship, not an easy task when simply peering through a periscope. Although an estimate of speed was made visually, sonar helped with this calculation.

  The Captain would call out his estimates, which would then be passed to the navigating officer, so that he could start to plot a course for a suitable interception. The crucial factor was working out the director angle (DA), or, in plain terms, the ‘aim-off’ needed in order to hit a moving target. The torpedo, effectively a mini-submarine itself, was most effective when hitting a target at somewhere close to ninety degrees. As the Captain continually refined his estimates, so the different information would be programmed into a kind of calculator, which would then produce the DA. As soon as the Captain was happy, he would give the order to fire.

  All this needed to happen very quickly, and there is no doubt that the best way to assess range, course and speed was through snap assessments made by the naked eye. And this was where experience, allied to a calm, calculating mind and a dash of decisiveness made all the difference.

  Making these calculations and decisions at two minutes to eight o’clock on the morning of 2 July was Kapitänleutnant Günther Prien of U-47. Still off the south-west coast of Ireland, U-47 had, for the past twenty-four minutes, been tracking a large liner. The U-boat had just one torpedo left – one that had been defective but, Günther hoped, had been successfully repaired by Peter Thewes, the Ober-Mechanikersgefreiter, the Torpedoman’s Mate. Now peering through the attack periscope, Günther had already made a difficult decision. The ship filling the glass was a liner, and at first he had wondered whether it might be neutral, such as an American passenger liner. But then it had started to weave, which suggested it was British or steaming in British interests. Now, as it turned again, Günther gave the order to fire.

  Günther Prien had been born with the sea in his lungs, at the Baltic port of Lübeck, one of three children and the son of a judge. His parents divorced when he was young, however, and they moved to Leipzig, but in the post-war economic crisis his mother fell on hard times, so in 1923, aged just fifteen, Günther left home and joined the merchant marine, having spent his last few marks on a three-month course at the Seaman’s College in Finkenwärder. Beginning his life on the sea as a cabin boy on a sailing ship, he spent the next eight years in the merchant service, rising steadily through the ranks and learning much about seamanship but also how to look after himself. By the time he had his master’s certificate, however, there were few captain’s jobs going and he found himself out of work. Life soon picked up, however, as he learned that the expanding German navy was offering its officer candidate programme to merchant marine officers. He applied, was accepted, and so in January 1933, aged just twenty-five, he joined the German navy. Two years later, having been commissioned, married and had a baby daughter, he volunteered for the U-boat arm. There he prospered, going on to be the third – and youngest – commander of the new Type VII U-boats.

  Although he had demonstrated his promise during war games before the war, it was in October that Günther really made his name. The British Home Fleet was berthed at Scapa Flow, its base in the Orkneys, but Günther managed to creep U-47 in and sink the Royal Oak. It was a huge coup for Germany and particularly Dönitz’s U-boat arm, and Goebbels’s propaganda team wasted no time in making the most of it. By the time U-47 arrived back in Wilhelmshaven on 17 October, Prien’s name and that of his boat were known throughout Germany, and waiting on the quay were Raeder and Dönitz. The crew were then flown to Tempelhof in Berlin, where thousands waited to cheer them. From there they were bundled into a motorcade to the smartest hotel in town, their route lined by more cheering Berliners desperate to see the new naval heroes. There was even lunch with Hitler at the Reich Chancellery, where the Führer presented Günther with the new German award for extreme valour, the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross.

  Hitler had already been won round to Dönitz’s persuasive arguments for more U-boats, but there is no doubt that it was the sinking of the battleship the Royal Oak that really caught the Führer’s imagination and convinced him of the potential carnage large numbers of U-boats could cause.

  Since those dizzy days, the U-boat arm had continued to sink plenty of ships – 177 in fact – but there were not yet enough U-boats to really make a difference. But in April the U-boats had been withdrawn from the Atlantic and sent to Norway instead, where U-47’s fortunes – and those of the entire U-boat arm – had waned. Part of the reason was faulty torpedoes. U-boats kept firing only to find their torpedoes never exploded. Most of the torpedoes they used were detonated by a magnetic pistol, so that as they reached a target the magnetic force of the ship would detonate them. On 15 April, U-47 had been inside Vaagsfjörd and had discovered three large transport ships plus three smaller ones and two cruisers – a massive 150,000-ton target that would have eclipsed the Royal Oak by some margin. None of its torpedoes exploded, however. Later that night, Günther fired another four at targets that were sitting ducks. Again, not one exploded. He was outraged at this golden opportunity missed, but then insult was added to injury when U-47 ran aground. It managed to break free but cracked the starboard diesel engine in the process. This left Günther with no choice but to abort the patrol. On the way home, the U-boat came across the battleship HMS Warspite, escorted by two destroyers. Günther fired two torpedoes but neither hit, although one did explode, alerting the destroyers, which then peppered U-47 with depth charges. It was lucky to escape. On its return, Günther told Dönitz the men could not be expected to fight with a ‘dummy rifle’.

  ‘Prien’s opinions were shared by the other U-boats’ crews,’ noted Dönitz. ‘Faith in the torpedo had been completely lost.’ Morale, which was so important for crews who operated in such physically and mentally stressful conditions, slumped. The problem was partly because the magnetic detonation pistols were too sensitive but also because the British had worked out a system of degaussing which reduced a ship’s magnetic field. The other problem was that too many torpedoes were losing depth as they travelled through the water. The first problem was resolved when a British submarine was captured. Examining the detonation pistols on its torpedoes, they found them to be far more effective and so copied them exactly. The depth-keeping defect was also partly resolved. Thus having had six weeks off duty in which U-47 had been repaired and refitted, and armed with much improved torpedoes, Günther and his crew had once more set out for what U-boats were best suited to – hunting and destroying merchant shipping.

  And they had had good hunting too. Since the sinking of Balmoralwood, U-47’s luck had despatched a further six vessels, amounting to nearly 40,000 tonnes of enemy shipping. Now, on this grey July morning, a big 15,000-ton prize awaited it. All the crew were wondering whether the torpedo would blow. On board, there was silence, except for the voice of the Bootsmaat, the coxswain, counting the seconds as the torpedo sped through the water. Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three – then Günther saw an eruption just below the forward funnel and a moment later heard the sound of the explosion dully ri
pple through the submarine. ‘Bull’s eye!’ he called out. The crew cheered. Keeping the boat at periscope depth he watched carefully for the next quarter of an hour. The ship had stopped and was beginning to list.

  Satisfied that the ship was finished, he ordered them to dive out of danger, resurfacing a little over half an hour later. ‘No sight of the enemy,’ he noted in the log. ‘I assume that the vessel has been sunk.’ His assumption was correct. All that remained of the liner, Arandora Star, was a wide patch of oil, bits of debris, and a few over-filled lifeboats and rafts. Günther had been right to assume it was a British vessel and thus fair game, but in fact the majority of the ship’s number had been German and Italian prisoners. The Captain, twelve officers, forty-two crew, ninety-one British soldiers, and 713 POWs went down with the ship. But Günther was not to know.

  On 6 July, U-47 returned to Kiel, drawing alongside the quay with ‘66,587 tons’ painted on the conning tower above the snorting bull, and with a pennant depicting every one of the ships sunk on the patrol fluttering in the wind.

  Despite the still comparatively small size of the U-boat arm, the submarines were beginning to cause havoc in the Atlantic. In the narrow confines of the Channel, however, lurked other dangers: mines, dive-bombers and what the British called E-boats. The Germans preferred another name: Schnellboote. Fast boats. And they were. Deadly fast.

  28

  Bringing It All Together

  IN EARLY JUNE, the Tizard Committee had met in Oxford. Amongst those attending was the Deputy Chief of the Air Staff, Air Marshal Sholto Douglas. Also present was a tall young man with lean, rather striking features and named Reginald Jones, although known to all by his initials, ‘RV’. Still only twenty-eight years old, RV had already secured a science Ph.D., and having worked as a Scientific Officer at the Royal Aircraft Establishment in Farnborough and at the Admiralty Research Laboratory was now part of Air Intelligence (AI 1c) within MI6; and therefore his views, despite his young age, were taken seriously.

  The meeting, as ever, was convened to discuss the latest scientific developments and how they could benefit the RAF, but Sholto Douglas was hoping for something more from the assorted collection of Government and ministry boffins. ‘Can anyone tell me,’ he asked, ‘what the Germans are up to?’ He was bemused because for the past few days Manston, down on the tip of Kent, had been packed full of aircraft flown back from France. It had presented an ideal target, and yet no German aircraft had come near it. ‘It confirmed my impression,’ wrote RV, ‘that the Germans had been surprised by their own success, and had no coherent plan for the imminent future.’

  He was not far wrong. Hitler had hoped for a lightning-fast success in the west; so too had Halder and Guderian and everyone involved with the planning of the operation. They had believed it was possible. Few had thought it was likely, however, because of the bald statistics combined with the weight of history, which suggested that defending forces with greater fire- and manpower could not be easily beaten. Even Hitler must have had many moments when he wondered whether his dream would unravel before him. Count Galeazzo Ciano, the Italian Foreign Minister, had been witness to the talks between Hitler and Mussolini in Munich. ‘Hitler is now the gambler who has made a big scoop,’ he noted perceptively, ‘and likes to get up from the table risking nothing more.’ Ciano had probably hit the nail on the head.

  The assault on the west had been a huge gamble that had paid off, but at least then his army and air force – his two strongest arms – had been fighting a Continental war. The Luftwaffe had been designed for precisely that, supporting the army, the spearhead for the land attack. In Poland, Norway and in the west it had repeatedly proved its effectiveness in that task. General Wever had advised having a strategic bomber force, but with his death the four-engine bomber programme had been put to bed. It had been given life again with the He 177 project, but now Udet, with the blessing of Jeschonnek and Göring, had put that on hold. It meant the Luftwaffe was now contemplating an air assault without the army beneath them and without the right tools to effectively do the job; the Luftwaffe did not have a heavy-bomber force, and it had rather fewer aircraft and crews than it had before the start of the offensive in the west.

  Although Hitler was showing little appetite for a cross-Channel invasion, he had, however, instructed the Kriegsmarine to start making feasibility preparations for such an operation. This task had been given to Konteradmiral Kurt Fricke, Chief of the Naval Staff Operations. Fricke’s first ideas had been put forward at the end of May and on their basis preliminary work on an invasion had begun – within the navy, at any rate. As a starting point, Fricke believed that no invasion could be accomplished until the RAF had been knocked out. He also favoured invading along either the south coast or the east coast, but not in the heavily defended narrows of the Channel. First, however, there were a number of tasks for the Kriegsmarine: minesweeping, minelaying, the assembly of suitable shipping, action against the Royal Navy, and the organization of protection for the transport fleet. Strategic surprise – as Admiral Forbes had correctly pointed out – would be hard to achieve.

  A hunt for shipping had already started by scouring the coasts and rivers of Holland, Belgium and France for anything that might cross the Channel and even the North Sea. Germany had possessed no landing craft whatsoever at the beginning of the war, and by 14 June the Kriegsmarine had managed to get its hands on just forty-five flat-bottomed barges suitable for landing troops. Ideas were being put forward for ferro-concrete tanks that could ‘swim’ across the Channel and then crawl off the flat beaches, and there were designs for super-fast landing barges. A more practical solution was to start requisitioning Rhine barges and other craft from Germany’s inland waterways. Meanwhile, detailed studies were also made of Britain’s southern coastline and navigational conditions, her defences, ports and the proximity of airfields to these harbours. What was clear from these early investigations, however, was that the difficulties of such an operation were many indeed. And they were still just preliminary preparations, not yet part of any formal planning – because both Hitler and his commanders still hoped Britain would sue for peace.

  As it happened, the chances of Britain doing the ‘reasonable thing’ seemed to have been given a boost at the end of June. On the 19th, von Ribbentrop had told Count Ciano that Germany now wanted peace with Britain and had alluded vaguely to contacts between London and Berlin through Sweden. This referred to comments made by ‘Rab’ Butler, a junior minister in the Foreign Office, to the Swedish envoy in London, Björn Prytz. Butler had told Prytz during an off-the-cuff meeting at the FO, that if reasonable conditions were offered, Britain would be open for talks. Apparently, halfway through the conversation, Butler was called in to see Halifax, who sent the message that ‘Common sense and not bravado would dictate the British Government’s policy.’ This was Halifax still thinking with the same detached logic he had used at the end of May – an argument that had already been defeated and was, for the time being at any rate, a non-starter. However, Prytz sent a cable about his conversation with Butler back to Stockholm, from where it was then forwarded to the Germans by the Swedish Foreign Minister.

  Both Butler and Halifax had their knuckles rapped by Churchill and that was pretty much the end of the matter as far as London was concerned. However, for the Germans, it suggested the British were secretly hoping for a peaceful settlement despite all the outward bluster to the contrary. Then, at the end of June, Pope Pius XII proposed mediating between Britain and Germany. Although Britain did not respond to the offer, it helped build a groundswell of opinion in Germany and on the Continent that Britain was about to seek terms – something that Hitler was all too eager to believe.

  On 2 July, the Führer met with Goebbels to discuss his triumphant return to Berlin and his plans for a speech to the Reichstag in which he would make a peace offer to Britain. He told Goebbels he would return to Berlin on the 6th and make his speech a week after that. In other words, his own peace offer would
be made nearly a month after he had told his secretary the same thing. It was not true to say he had no plan – he did; it was to let Britain stew, and then make her a peace offer which she would be mad not to accept.

  He was still grappling with what to do when Count Ciano visited him in Berlin on 7 July. Ciano found Hitler in a kindly mood, still flushed with success. The Führer told Ciano that he was inclined to continue the struggle and promised to unleash ‘a storm of wrath and steel’ upon the British. ‘But the final decision has not been reached,’ jotted Ciano, ‘and it is for this reason that he is delaying his speech.’

  In the meantime, General Jodl, Chief of Operations at OKW, had issued an appreciation of the situation. Although he regarded Britain’s position as hopeless and assumed she would come to her senses, he proposed a series of options should she stubbornly insist on battling it out. First and foremost was the destruction of the RAF, but combined with this was the strangling of Britain’s war economy, terror bombing raids, and then a landing, which he viewed as being the death blow. He also suggested wider action such as the capture of Gibraltar in co-operation with Spain, and the Suez Canal with the Italians. ‘Discuss basis for warfare against England,’ noted Halder on 1 July. ‘Prerequisite is air superiority.’ Then he added what his superiors were also thinking, ‘which might make landing unnecessary.’ Britain might have been an island, but the strategy of knocking out the enemy’s air force first, then sending in the army, had worked so far in the war, and was now the basis of Jodl’s plans too.