The Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  Tall, good-looking, with a floppy mop of strawberry blond hair that inevitably led to him being nicknamed ‘Ginger’, Tom had first become fascinated by aviation during a trip to London with his parents. His father was on the board of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway, and not infrequently had to go to London, but on this occasion, they had visited Croydon aerodrome and there Tom had watched the Handley Page 42s with awe. Soon after, he had met a young airman and been so taken by the man’s dash and glamour that at that point he had become determined to make it his career, much to the disappointment of his parents, both of whom remembered the Great War only too clearly.

  In the years that followed, Tom had not been swayed from his goal, despite being rebuffed by 611 Auxiliary Squadron. However, having turned eighteen, he then applied to join the Volunteer Reserve and was accepted. For almost a year, however, his flying training had to fit around his daytime job as a clerk for the District Bank in Manchester, which he loathed. Then, on the outbreak of war, Tom was immediately called up. A few weeks later, to his relief, he was sent to an Initial Training Wing at Bexhill-on-Sea.

  Having gained his wings and been marked out as a fighter pilot, Tom had joined 249 Squadron. He was hugely keen and enthusiastic, but otherwise was largely ignorant of what was expected of him. He knew nothing of high-frequency radio, of being moved around the sky by a ground controller, of IFF, or even technical matters, such as what a supercharger did. He had never worn an oxygen mask or a Mae West inflatable jacket, and had had almost no gunnery training. He and the other new boys in the squadron were thus very fortunate to have six weeks in which to learn all these things, and to have some longer-serving pilots on whose experience they could draw. In the first three weeks, Tom managed to add eighty hours on the Spitfire, by which time he was thoroughly at home with the machine. There was gunnery practice too, and formation flying, at which his flight commander, Boozy Kellett, was a stickler. It would not be much use in battle but improved his flying skills all the same. The squadron was also given a sympathetic and understanding medical officer, who stressed the importance of sleep and rest during times of stress. Tom had scoffed at the idea, but nonetheless the advice remained lodged in his mind. There were discussions, too, on how and when to bail out, and when to try to crash-land with the wheels up. The pilots were warned that neither the Hurricane nor the Spitfire would float on water; thus, if an aircraft was struggling out over the sea, it was best to bail out as soon as possible.

  On 11 June, they had been transferred on to Hurricanes. Tom was not overly disappointed. It was true the Hurricane climbed at a slower speed, and Tom disliked the throttle, which he felt was a little flimsy. On the other hand, the controls felt balanced and the aircraft solid and steady. ‘There was no question of converting,’ noted Tom about the transition from Spitfires to Hurricanes. ‘We flew our Hurricanes four times each day from the outset. With ease and comfort and feeling perfectly at home.’

  The squadron became operational on 29 June, and just a few days later, now operating from Leconfield, Tom’s section was scrambled at around 4.30 p.m.; a bandit had been picked up on the radar and they were to go and intercept it. Flying out some twenty miles to sea at around 13,000 feet, Tom felt excited but not the slightest bit apprehensive. Further reports from the ground controller were received and then to Tom’s amazement he spotted the Dornier. He was so thrilled he forgot all about his radio, instead waving his arms and waggling his wings at the section leader, ‘Dobbin’ Young. Eventually, Dobbin realized what these frantic signals were and immediately led them into a No. 1 Attack, just as Boozy Kellett had taught them. However, rather than turning away and exposing himself, the German pilot headed straight between their legs, then making a dash for some cloud. The Hurricanes followed, losing him, then spotting him again, before losing him once more, this time for good. Tom returned exhilarated and disappointed in equal measure.

  By the middle of July, Tom had flown more than 150 hours on Spitfires and Hurricanes. ‘A’ Flight, of which he was a member, was still flying tight wingtip-to-wingtip formations and practising the glaringly outdated Fighter Attacks, and there were other shortcomings too, such as in gunnery. In his first practice attacking towed drogues, for example, Tom reckoned he had fired some 10,000 rounds without scoring a single hit. During a second session, he had been marginally more successful, but his shooting had still not been up to much. However, impatient though he and the other pilots might have been to get into the action, this time in Yorkshire was proving invaluable. By keeping them out of the fray for the time being, Dowding was giving them a chance; a chance to become thoroughly familiar with the defence system and, more importantly, with their aircraft. When the battle began to heat up, as surely it now would, many new pilots would not be so fortunate.

  32

  Peace Offerings

  AFTER HITLER’S TRIUMPHANT return through the streets of Berlin, he had attended Goebbels’s reception at the Reich Chancellery. There he was asked by his Propaganda Minister what his plans were for Britain. Hitler told him the British attack on the French Fleet had changed everything. His planned speech to the Reichstag, in which he intended to announce a peace offer, had been nearly finished but now had to be rewritten, because he was no longer sure he could offer peace with Churchill still Prime Minister. Goebbels was furious. He hated the British and Churchill especially, whom he thought was a raving lunatic, and urged Hitler against offering Britain any easy peace. ‘We must not be guided by hatred,’ Hitler told him, ‘but by common sense.’

  Over the next couple of days, surrounding himself with favourites, the Führer daydreamed about future plans. There would be new autobahns, including one from southern Austria all the way to the very northern tip of Norway; he was also going to build a vast naval base at Trondheim. A lengthy lunchtime discussion took place over what to call this giant new port. Himmler favoured Atalantis’, but Goebbels suggested ‘Stella Polaris’. This was the pinnacle of Hitler’s career so far; never had his power been greater. For a precious few weeks, he had Europe in the palm of his hand. Within Germany he had never been more popular; his power was absolute. Adoring millions waved their flags, courtiers reminded him that he was the greatest warlord the world had ever seen. Foreign leaders had fallen at his feet; his vision for the Reich was beginning to be realized. These were heady times indeed.

  He had risked so much for these goals, and they had so nearly been entirely achieved; nearly – but not quite. Britain still remained, shouting defiance, sending aircraft to bomb the Reich, preventing him from finishing the war and then preparing to face the Soviet Union. It was so tantalizing: to have one’s dreams at one’s fingertips and yet not be able to grasp them fully. With every passing day it must have become clearer even to him that Britain would not now roll over. And that meant he had to attack her, swiftly and decisively, once and for all.

  Dreams of future projects had to remain just that for the time being. Hitler still did not know what to do about Britain, so he told Goebbels he was going to leave Berlin and head to his favourite place in the world – the Obersalzburg, above the town of Berchtesgaden in the Bavarian Alps, where he had built his house, the Berghof. There he would see his commanders, hear their views on matters and mull things over. He left Berlin on 10 July.

  Grossadmiral Raeder, C-in-C of the Kriegsmarine, visited him on 11 July, discussing with him the results of their preliminary investigations into an invasion of Britain. Raeder felt it should be attempted only as a last resort. However, he also believed Britain could be forced to sue for peace by a blockade and heavy air attacks, particularly on her ports, which would make a forced invasion unnecessary. High amongst his concerns was whether it would be possible to clear a large enough area of mines, and pointed out that this cleared stretch of the Channel would also need its own flanking minefields. Collecting the necessary transport vessels would also be no easy matter and would take time. Having listened carefully, Hitler agreed that invasion should be the last resort, Raeder sug
gested. He also accepted that air superiority was essential.

  The next day, however, came Jodl’s latest appreciation, which was approved by Keitel and was decidedly more bullish. Yes, the Royal Navy had command of the sea, but that could be locally resolved by command of the air at the necessary crossing point of the Channel. He accepted that most of Britain’s army would be in the south-east of England so suggested treating an invasion as a river crossing in force, with a large number of troops on a broad crossing front. The first wave of landings had to be very strong, which meant making the narrow sea lane in the Dover Straits completely secure. Jodl had called the landing Operation LION.

  Next in the stream of commanders trooping up to the Berghof were von Brauchitsch and Halder, who were to attend a joint meeting with Jodl, Keitel and Raeder. Leaving Fontainebleau in France at 8 a.m. on the 13th, they landed in Salzburg just over two hours later, then drove to the Berghof, arriving around 11 a.m. An hour later, Halder gave his briefing, outlining what they knew of Britain’s defences, his own plans for organizing an invasion force, and suggesting, as had Jodl, that they treat it as a ‘river crossing’. Separate raids on the Isle of Wight and Cornwall were suggested, as was bringing up all large guns to the Pas de Calais under the unified command of the Kriegsmarine to create artillery cover over the ‘water lanes’. Hitler agreed with these plans in principle but made it clear he also wanted Spain drawn into the fight in order to build up a stronger, longer front against Britain. ‘The Führer is greatly puzzled by Britain’s persisting unwillingness to make peace,’ noted Halder. ‘He sees the answer (as we do) in Britain’s hope in Russia and therefore counts on having to compel her by main force to agree to peace.’ But Hitler was worried that if Britain was defeated then her Empire would disintegrate, which would only benefit Japan, the United States and others.

  Two days later it was the turn of Admiral Canaris, head of the Abwehr. Listening to this latest conversation was Hitler’s army adjutant, Gerhard Engel. ‘Main point of conversation, as always in recent weeks,’ noted Gerhard, ‘Britain.’ Hitler was bemoaning not having whisked the Duke of Windsor from France when he had had the chance. Now it was too late; the former King and Emperor was in Lisbon, in neutral Portugal. ‘My impression,’ noted Gerhard, ‘is that F. is now more irresolute than ever and does not know what to do next.’ After all the differing views over the previous few days, it was hardly surprising Hitler was feeling a little indecisive. Like most of his commanders, Hitler was inherently a Continental. The Wehrmacht had been designed for Continental war; and the Luftwaffe had evolved as an instrument of that Continental war. It could now use the Luftwaffe as the spearhead with the army following behind, but while the principle was the same, operationally it was a very different kettle of fish. The Channel changed everything. Germany was no longer on terra firma, literally and metaphorically.

  How Hitler must have cursed during that week in the Berghof. If only Britain would see sense! Neither he nor Göring really understood the people or what it was like to be an island nation; what that narrow stretch of water that separated her from the Continent meant to the psychology of Britain’s leaders, and indeed the nation as a whole. And nor did Hitler understand that, for all its shortcomings, parliamentary democracy and the basic rights of the common man were something that had been hard fought for and were highly valued both consciously and subconsciously by the vast majority of British people. Yes, there were fascists in Britain and there were communists too, but these were fringe parties; there was little appetite for either of their doctrines. For most, Nazism, with all its associated limitations on human rights, its warped ideologies and secret police, was abhorrent. What Hitler failed to grasp was that most British people felt strongly about this. It had taken just a couple of weeks after the armistice for France, apparently voluntarily, to discard democracy and become a puppet totalitarian state. Britain did not want to go the same way.

  What was gnawing away at Hitler, however, at this moment of deep prevarication, was the possibility – however remote – that swift and decisive victory might not be possible. That was unthinkable, and yet he had to think of it, to prepare, to deal with the catastrophic consequences. How quickly the ecstasy of victory must have begun to fade.

  The next day, 16 July, Hitler issued his War Directive No. 16, ‘On Preparations for a Landing Operation against England’. ‘Since England, in spite of her hopeless military situation, shows no sign of being ready to come to an understanding, I have decided to prepare a landing operation against England, and, if necessary, to carry it out,’ he announced. ‘The aim of this operation will be to eliminate the English homeland as a base for the prosecution of the war against Germany and, if necessary, to occupy it completely.’ It would no longer be called Operation LION but, rather, Operation SEALION.

  Next, he finally announced he would make his speech to the Reichstag at the Kroll Opera House in Berlin on the evening of 19 July. Within this speech would be his final offer of peace to Britain.

  Two of the few German commanders to have visited Britain were Generals Milch and Udet. It had been in October 1937, during the time of the Anglo-German Naval Treaty and when showing a conciliatory approach to Germany had been the British policy. Milch had headed a German delegation and they had been shown around shadow aircraft factories that had just been established, had met Dowding, Churchill and the King, amongst others, and had even had a formal luncheon held in their honour at Bentley Priory. Milch had always been against war and particularly with Britain, not least because he was convinced the Luftwaffe was not yet ready in 1939; like many, he expected to have several more years’ preparation. However, with the storm clouds building, he had, in July 1939, helped put together an intelligence appreciation on Britain, called Studie Blau (Study Blue), on which he had drawn on his visit to Britain. There were, however, plenty of gaps in his knowledge of British industry and so, on German Air Ministry notepaper, he had written to a London bookseller asking for copies of books about the subject. The witless bookseller had duly obliged. Heinkel 111s with civilian markings had also flown over taking comprehensive reconnaissance photographs, the British press had been scoured for information, and the German air attaché in London had also been ordered to obtain as much information as possible. The net result was that Study Blue became a fairly comprehensive reference source about British targets, from power plants to aircraft industry factories to airfields. It was still the major point of reference now as the Luftwaffe prepared to assault Britain.

  British intelligence had its faults but at least all three services had their own branches within the intelligence service and at least each of those branches was sensible enough to recruit the best brains for the task in hand, which was why a brilliant young civilian scientist like RV Jones was able to work for Air Intelligence. There was also complete co-operation between different organizations. RV Jones would not have discovered the key to Knickebein without the help of the Admiralty Research Laboratory, the Y Service, the Blind Approach Development Unit, the codebreakers at Bletchley, the RAF Director of Signals and the Government itself. Such a scenario was inconceivable in Nazi Germany.

  There was nothing comparable within the Nazi party or the Wehrmacht – no Joint Intelligence Committee, for example, where Group Captain Tommy Elmhirst met with his other service colleagues, nor an office where intelligence officers from different arms of the forces worked side by side. This was because different intelligence bodies in Germany viewed themselves as rivals. In a state where knowledge was power, it did not pay to surrender that knowledge to those rivals within the system. Thus Göring still had his listening service, the Forschungsamt, which was entirely separate from the Wehrmacht secret service, the Abwehr, and equally so from the Sicherheitsdienst, which included the Gestapo, the Nazi secret police.

  Nor was there any co-ordination between inter-service intelligence departments. The result was that intelligence only really came together at the very top. Since Hitler was not a man who took kindly to
unfavourable intelligence reports, and since giving him good news tended to improve the standing of the person who had given it to him, information was often spruced up to make it more palatable. Göring was of much the same mind as the Führer, as Oberst Josef ‘Beppo’ Schmid, head of 5th Abteilung within Luftwaffe Intelligence, was well aware.

  There were a number of different organizations collecting air intelligence, so the remit of the 5th Abteilung, was limited to obtaining information about foreign air forces. And although 5th Abteilung was directly attached to Luftwaffe Operations, Beppo Schmid held a position far more privileged than his rank suggested because he was at the same time also a member of Göring’s personal staff. Furthermore, as a veteran of the Beer Hall Putsch of 1923, he had both valuable status and protection in the dog-eat-dog world of Nazi politics.

  Shrewd, cunning and charming, he had transferred to the Luftwaffe from the army in 1935, but knew little about aeroplanes or air warfare and had never learned to fly. Nor did he speak any languages, and like many Germans at this time had barely travelled – and certainly not to Britain. Known to be overly fond of drink, he gathered intelligence principally by scouring the foreign press – handed out to him by the SD – and garnering information from air attachés. Dolfo Galland, for one, thought he was useless. ‘Beppo Schmid,’ he said, ‘was a complete washout as an intelligence officer, the most important job of all.’ Milch also recognized that Schmid was a man who ‘trimmed his sails to the wind’ for fear of upsetting his boss. Certainly, Beppo knew which side his bread was buttered. He enjoyed his position, with its access to the highest in Nazi Germany, and the privileges that came with it. He was not prepared to jeopardize that by telling Göring home truths his boss did not want to hear.