It had been a reasonable morning in south-west England, but it was filthy over the Channel. A little after one o’clock, the Me 109s of 8/JG 52 took off from Coquelles airfield for their first operational flight to England. It was drizzling and grey but, despite this, their orders were to climb to 2,000 metres and, with the rest of III/JG 52, join the Stukas of I/St.G 2 over Boulogne at 1.20 p.m., and then escort them to Dover. None of the pilots were happy about their orders. Fully laden with fuel and bombs, a Stuka could manage little more than 160 mph; fully laden, an Me 109 could only just about stay in the air at that horribly low speed. Günther Rall was not alone in strongly believing that the best way to escort Stukas was by securing their air space in a wide arc around them. To carry out the kind of direct support that had been ordered meant sacrificing both speed and manoeuvrability, two of the fighters’ key advantages. ‘But the bomber crews want to see us,’ noted Günther. ‘They cannot be convinced that a fighter escort which is not constantly within sight is their best form of life assurance.’ There had already been bitter debates about this; the fighter boys had even been accused of being more interested in shooting down Spitfires than ensuring a Stuka crew made it safely back to base. It was hard to understand why the bomber crews could not see the validity of the fighters’ arguments, or why the senior commanders kept siding with the bombers.
It was even harder to understand when it ran against tactical instructions given out by Göring himself. At a conference at Carinhall on 21 July, he had been quite specific in insisting fighters operated independently. ‘Putting the majority of fighters and Zerstörer close to the bomber formations,’ he said, ‘will prevent them from being used as effectively as they might. They would be unable to achieve their full fighting capability and would inevitably have high losses.’ He could not have been clearer, and yet, somehow, this order had not filtered down the chain.
The third Gruppe of JG 52 had reached Coquelles only two days before, touching down with the white cliffs of Dover clearly visible. There were now some nineteen airfields in the Pas de Calais area, and while some were old Great War aerodromes with proper facilities, a number, like Coquelles, were just rough fields. Over the previous weeks, the Luftwaffe had clearly done little preparation here; the rye had been cut by a resentful farmer, and the only building, a hay barn, had been turned into the Operations Room, orderly room and quarters all rolled into one, but that was about it. The three Staffeln of III/JG 52 were now to make their home here, their aircraft dispersed at various points around the edge of the field. Nor was their landing ground even flat: the ground rose slightly towards the centre and enough to prevent someone standing on one side seeing the other. This made massed scrambles a nerve-wracking process as pilots were never quite sure whom they might meet as they sped across the field.
Now, after just one orientation flight, it was time to head out over the Channel. As they climbed away from Coquelles, Günther could see the faint shape of Cap Gris Nez through the murk on his right. Already he had a terrible sense of foreboding. The weather and the stupidity of their orders, gave him a feeling of impending doom.
They met up with the Stukas and even at 160 mph they were nearing Dover in no time. Suddenly, without any warning at all, Spitfires of 610 and 54 Squadrons pounced down upon them as the Stukas began bombing Dover and the shipping below. Günther saw Lothar Ehrlich, their Staffel commander, turn in towards the enemy, but then as aircraft and bullets filled the sky, it was all he could do to save his own skin. In seconds, his Schwarm was separated, each man fighting entirely alone in a confused, twisting mêlée. There was no longer any question of protecting the Stukas; it was hard enough trying to defend themselves.
Somehow, Günther managed to extricate himself and make it back to Coquelles. Climbing down on to the ground, he joined some of the others who were already puffing on cigarettes and gesticulating wildly as they discussed the action. ‘The Tommies caught us just as we had feared,’ noted Günther, ‘like proverbial clay pigeons.’ None of them could understand how the Spitfires managed to find their formation in such poor weather and attack from such an advantageous position. Other planes were landing. Two pilots had claimed a Spitfire each, but there were several of their own pilots missing. As the minutes ticked by, hope began to fade. By evening, the 7th Staffel commander, Herbert Fermer, and one of his pilots, Erich Frank, had been declared missing. So too had Wolf-Dietrich von Houwald, the Gruppe commander. Both von Houwald and Frank were washed up near Dunkirk a few days later. For Günther’s 8th Staffel, there was a massive blow: their CO, Lothar Ehrlich, was also missing. Günther’s premonition had been proved right.
Although only twenty-two, Günther was told he would be taking over command of 8th Staffel with immediate effect. Suddenly, he was responsible for the pilots and eighty groundcrew. As he was discovering, promotions could come quickly during times of war.
Dolfo Galland had learned this already. Now a major, he had led his Gruppe to Caffiers, just a few miles south of Calais, on 21 July, having had the honour of patrolling over the Kroll Opera House as Hitler had made his Reichstag address. Caffiers was another rough field, with basic facilities. Most of the men were tented, although the pilots were billeted in houses nearby. Their Messerschmitts were dispersed under trees and between hedges around the edge of the field, beneath camouflage nets.
Although the Geschwader Stab (headquarters) had still not arrived, Dolfo had declared his third Gruppe ready for action on the 24th. It, too, had been sent over the Channel in the murky drizzle, Dolfo leading the Gruppe’s three Staffeln shortly after III/JG 52, this time, however, escorting eighteen Do 17s. Soon engaged by Spitfires of 54 Squadron, Dolfo had found it hard to shake off the British fighters and seeing the little red light of his fuel gauge light up had decided the only way to get out of the fray was to dive quickly away, the Spitfires seemingly unable to follow, then hurry back low across the sea.
He had not been impressed by his pilots’ discipline, however. In the excitement of action, basic lessons had been forgotten; wingmen had not stuck to their leaders, pilots had fired from too far away, and had missed other firing opportunities. They had shot down one Spitfire from 54 Squadron and damaged another, but had lost two men themselves, including the Gruppe’s technical officer, a former test pilot, Oberleutnant Werner Bartels. Gathering his pilots together, Dolfo gave them a roasting. Their performance, he told them, had not been good enough – not good enough at all. They needed to improve and fast, because as Dolfo knew, from now on they would be in the very thick of the action.
The next day, Thursday, 25 July, was fine for a change, warm with light haze in the Channel; the rain of the previous day had gone – which was bad news for the coastal convoy now forming up at Southend. Cloud at least offered them some protection. The large ocean-going vessels might have gone from the Channel, but there were still twenty-one colliers and trampers in CW8 (Channel Westbound 8), and although the smallest ship was just 351 tons, even the SS Jolly Nights would feel conspicuously large when enemy bombers began diving down upon them.
Inevitably, the convoy had been sighted before it had even left the Thames estuary, the news soon reaching VIII Fliegerkorps, and then the headquarters of Sturzkampfgeschwader 1. By half-past one French time, the whole of St.G 1 was airborne, including I/Stuka 1 based at Dinard, across the mouth of the harbour from St Malo in Brittany. Commanding the 1st Gruppe was 29-year-old Paul-Werner Hozzel, like Dolfo Galland also newly promoted to major. Stuka 1 had already gained something of a legendary status within the Luftwaffe. It had been the spearhead in Poland, then Norway, and although it had only reached France at the end of June, it was now leading the way with the Luftwaffe’s attempt to secure air supremacy across the English Channel. Not only were its crews amongst the most experienced in operating with Ju 87s, but they were also amongst the most decorated – Paul had been one of four pilots from Stuka 1 to win the Knight’s Cross back in May.
Despite being born and raised in Hamburg and having a shipb
roker for a father, Paul’s ambition had always been to join the army. As a concession to his parents he had even completed his shipbroking training when, in 1931, still aged twenty, he had applied and been accepted as an officer candidate in the artillery. He had only just passed his officers’ examinations in January 1934 when he and his sixty fellow officer candidates were given the chance to join the clandestine air force. It had been a hard decision for Paul. He felt loyalty to the regiment and he was not sure he wanted to give up being a soldier. On the other hand, the increased pay plus the adventure of flying were highly tempting. In the end, it was the pay, above all, that lured him towards the Luftwaffe; a 75 per cent pay rise was not to be sniffed at.
He soon discovered he had a natural aptitude for flying and having completed his training was posted for fighter training. However, failure to take his theoretical work seriously enough led to him being transferred to reconnaissance instead and from there to Stukageschwader 162, which was training to dive-bomb, albeit with Heinkel 51s and then Henschel 123 biplanes. Not until the end of 1938 was it given the new Ju 87s, purpose-built as dive-bombers. There was no Stuka school at that time, but a Stuka Training Group had been formed in Pomerania, and it was there that I/Stuka 160, to which Paul now belonged as a Staffel commander, was sent.
First, however, the two-man crews needed to be formed. Paul chose his back-seater carefully and was still with him nearly two years later – the two trusted each other implicitly – but those not gelling were quickly separated. Having fully familiarized themselves with flying the Ju 87, they began diving training. There were various instruments and gadgets to help, such as a reflector sight, which enabled the pilot to keep the whole plane centred on the target and allowed for wind and velocity. A continuously adjustable red arrow was also mounted on the altimeter, set to local altitude above sea level, which enabled the bomb-releasing altitude to be set. When passing that altitude, a warning horn signal told the pilot to press the bomb-release button on the control column. The bomb release also automatically activated the hydraulic recovery device, which helped the pilot, already struggling from the effects of negative-g, to pull out of the dive.
Normally, bombs would be released at around 700 metres, but Paul reckoned it was possible to go as low as 500 metres – but no less than that. Too many trainee pilots had died through pulling out of a dive too late. Bombing accuracy had also been practised hard. The Ju 87 had been designed specifically for accurate bombing and pilots were expected to be able to hit a ten-metre circle. ‘This was not achieved every time,’ Paul admits. ‘It is one thing dropping bombs in a training time without fear of being shot, and another doing this in war.’ And it was quite another, as Oskar Dinort had discovered, hitting a moving ship.
By the time war began, Stuka 160 had been bedded into Sturzkampfgeschwader 1, and all of its crews were highly trained, tactically and operationally. But despite all this training on attacking pinpoint targets, they had not once practised bombing moving vessels out at sea; no-one then had thought that Stukas might be operating over open water.
Paul and the rest of Stuka 1 had gained some experience in this during the Norwegian campaign, however, where they had attacked British ships at Namsos and off the coast. The anti-aircraft fire from these naval vessels had been fearsome, but the pilots simply had to brace themselves and fly through it, hoping for the best. Paul discovered that it often took the efforts of a number of aircraft before a hit was scored. ‘Every pilot,’ noted Paul, ‘was guided by the hits scored by the plane in front of him and had to adjust his point of aim accordingly.’ The adrenalin rush – and fear – caused by performing such a potentially lethal operation was intense. Afterwards, as they headed back home, Paul and his men would often sing together over their R/T. It relieved the tension.
Although the Stukas were part of Luftflotte 3, it was Oberst Johannes Fink, commander of KG 2 in Luftflotte 2, who had been given the specially created title of Kanalkampfführer (‘Channel Battle Leader’) and the task of gaining air superiority over the Channel. At forty-five, Fink was one of the older pilots, and a veteran of the last war, too, although he had been an infantryman then, serving on the Western Front. Although not a flippant man, he had gone along with a joke about his new title, ‘Chief Sewage Worker’, a pun on Kanal, which meant drain as well as channel. He recognized the need for humour, and to look after the interests of his men. Devoutly religious, he liked to think of himself as an avuncular figure as well as a bomber commander, using his faith to offer solace to his crews.
Now he was responsible for many more men than those just in KG 2. Under his direct command for operations over the Channel were the Stukas and two Gruppen of Me 110 Zerstörers, plus the Me 109s now in the Pas de Calais.
At around 3 p.m., Paul Hozzel’s entire first Gruppe from Stuka 1, escorted by Dolfo Galland’s Gruppe from JG 26, began to attack the convoy as it passed through the Straits of Dover. In waves of between eighteen and twenty aircraft, Paul’s Stukas peeled off and began their seventy-degree dives, sirens wailing. Over water, Paul found it best to drop bombs as low as possible – from 500 rather than 700 metres. Immediately, the convoy began to scatter, each skipper desperately beginning to weave, the white wakes of their veering vessels clear against the blue-green sea. Several ships were hit, however. One was ripped apart, and capsized before sinking. Others were stopped in the water and riddled with shrapnel. One Stuka was caught as it pulled out from its dive and plunged into the sea. Another ship, one of the smallest, was hit three times.
Meanwhile, both 54 and 64 Squadrons had been sent to protect the convoy from above. Spitfires from 64 Squadron had been vectored to a low height to catch the Stukas as they came out of their dives, while 54 Squadron tackled Dolfo Galland’s Me 109s. Dolfo was soon on the tail of a Spitfire flown by Flying Officer Basil Way, twenty-two years old and an experienced pre-war pilot who had won the Groves Memorial Prize as best all-round pilot at RAF Cranwell. He was also ‘B’ Flight commander and had a number of claims to his name already. It seems likely Dolfo’s burst of fire killed him right away. At any rate, his Spitfire turned away in a lazy arc then burst into flames and plummeted into the Channel.
When the Stukas disengaged, the German fighters followed. Incredibly, despite the mass of swirling fighters, Dolfo’s men had destroyed only two Spitfires, while the RAF pilots had shot down just one Me 109.
Paul Hozzel’s men had done their work for the day, but more Stukas attacked the convoy just after four o’clock. By the time they then turned for home, the losses from the two attacks were mounting. Five ships had been sunk and a further five were so badly damaged, they were now struggling to Dover and would not complete the treacherous journey.
Although the Stukas had finished with CW8 for the day, more dive-bombers were sent to attack two destroyers near Dover later that evening, and this time it was pilots of III/JG 52 who were sent as escorts including Günther Rall and his Staffel. Once again, they were forced to fly so slowly it was all they could do to stop their machines stalling. And, once again, there were Spitfires waiting for them, this time from 610 Squadron. By the time they landed back at Coquelles, just after 8 p.m., four more pilots had been lost, including Oberleutnant Keidel; the 7th Staffel had lost its second commander in just over twenty-four hours. The Gruppe’s adjutant had also been lost, as had one of Günther Rall’s men. All had been good, highly experienced pilots – the more senior men from the Gruppe – and yet they were being mauled. Günther was in no doubt as to why. ‘As a fighter pilot,’ he says, ‘it should be up to you to make a plan how best to protect the bombers. It was stupid to escort Stukas at their slow speed. We should have been higher and had the freedom to manoeuvre.’
Despite the losses suffered by the Luftwaffe – nineteen aircraft compared to Fighter Command’s nine – the German airmen had certainly wreaked havoc upon British shipping. A destroyer – one of only two now remaining in the 1st Destroyer Flotilla – had been badly damaged by the evening attack. Nor was CW8’s or
deal over. At Cherbourg, the 1st S-boat Flotilla had also been tracking the convoy, and with fine weather once more was hoping for a good night’s work. The men had had a frustrating few days. Bobby Fimmen in S26 had sunk just one vessel since 5 July, and that only a 350-ton coaster. On several patrols they had spotted nothing; on another mission they had been forced to turn back because of poor weather, and on another had been beaten off by British destroyers. The previous night, S26 and three other S-boats from the 1st Flotilla had headed towards the Isle of Wight. Splitting into pairs as usual, Bobby and S20 had headed to the east of the island, while S19 and S27 sped further west, where they had spotted and sunk a 6,000-ton vessel. Only that morning, having safely returned to Cherbourg, did they learn that more than a thousand French troops being repatriated to France had gone down with the ship.
As Paul Hozzel’s Stukas were attacking the convoy, the S-boat crews were getting ready. While Bobby was discussing the operation with Kapitän Bütow and the other commanders, and planning where they might try to find the convoy, the rest of his crew were getting the boat ready, loading torpedoes and ammunition, checking oil and filling the boat with fuel. Two hours before they left, the engines were turned on. ‘They have to run perfectly,’ says Bobby, ‘which means that the mechanics have to check every detail.’ It was even more important now; Bütow and his commanders were all getting worried about the strain on their engines caused by almost daily operations since the Norwegian campaign. Despite Bütow’s pleas, new engines had not reached them, however.
His concerns proved justified. Bobby’s engines had developed a problem – one that could not be rectified in time for the evening’s mission. Much to his frustration, the flotilla would have to head out without S26. It was cruel luck, for there were rich pickings to be had that night. Departing at 9.30 p.m., three boats sped off out across the Channel, finding the convoy just south of Brighton. Three more ships were sunk, one was set on fire, and a fifth had to turn for port.
The Battle of Britain Page 51