It was much the same for the bomber crews. Hajo Herrmann bombed the port at Great Yarmouth on 5 October, then London three nights later, and the night after that, and the night after that. And again two nights later and for another three nights on the trot. By 18 October, he had carried out twenty-one attacks on London alone, and nearly ninety combat missions since the start of the war, a truly astonishing number, and way, way more than his British counterparts would ever have been expected to fly. That night, as he took off with two 1,000 kg bombs beneath him, his left tyre shredded on some bomb splinters that had not been cleared after an earlier attack by Bomber Command, and he crashed, wrecking the aircraft. Fortunately the bombs did not explode, but Hajo was pulled from the wreckage unconscious. He had broken a lumbar vertebra and strained another and suffered some cuts and concussion. When he came to he wept uncontrollably. ‘Why, I don’t know.’ Then he spotted a Knight’s Cross on the bedside lamp. The doctor told him the Reichsmarschall had personally awarded it to him three days earlier. He had forgotten the occasion completely.
Peter Stahl was flying over London almost as often as Hajo, and often three nights running, something that would never have been demanded of Bomber Command crews. His Staffel was also struggling with inexperienced new crews. On 16 October, during yet another night attack on London, four crews failed to return and two crashed on landing, although the men escaped alive. But six aircraft out of nine was a terrible night of losses. In the bus back to their quarters afterwards they discussed what point there was in sending out hundreds of aircrews every night without any hope of reasonable results. ‘And tomorrow,’ noted Peter, ‘the communiqué of the OKW will state that our brave aircrews have flown another major operation and despite bad weather conditions, have inflicted devastating blows on various vital targets. Our own losses were only “minimal”!’
There was no leave for Hans-Ekkehard Bob either, who as a Staffel commander was very much expected to lead the way. On constant frontline duty since the opening of the western campaign, he had now been given even greater responsibilities, for on 2 October Kesselring had visited JG 54 and ordered Trautloft to form one of his Staffeln from each Gruppe into a Jagdbomber – fighter-bomber – unit, and from the third Gruppe had chosen Hans’s 7th Staffel for the task. The Jabo pilots – as they were known – of Erpro 210 had all been carefully trained in such operations, but Hans and his pilots had never ever carried out such a task; many doubted it was really possible. There was only one way to find out, and Hans opted to be the first to try and fly with a 250 kg bomb strapped underneath the plane. It was a nerve-wracking experience, but worked. The key now was to get the men trained as Jabos as quickly as possible. On 4 October, four of Trautloft’s best pilots, Hans included, took off for a practice mission to Dungeness – the ruined lighthouse was becoming a favoured marker for the Luftwaffe pilots. The results were not encouraging, but after more practice it was decided that attacking in a low, shallow dive produced the least inaccurate results. Hans later bombed Tilbury Docks in London, but the Jabos were not really very effective. The Me 109 was simply not designed for such a role and the pilots had not been given enough training. Even experienced Experten like Hans could not suddenly become fighter-bomber marksmen overnight.
*
The fighting continued – the Luftwaffe lost 379 aircraft in October and Fighter Command 185 – but the Germans were further away than ever from achieving air superiority. On 4 October, after all the blistering air battles of September, Fighter Command had, for the first time, more than 700 fighters ready to take to the skies. The Germans could keep coming over all they liked, but they were not going to win. Neither Göring nor Hitler had any idea of the true strength of Fighter Command, but they now began to accept that the great battle against Britain had failed – for 1940, at any rate. On 12 October, Hitler finally postponed SEALION until the following spring. Naval personnel and shipping were to be released, tugs and barges returned to their normal, much-needed roles, although many of the divisions allocated for the invasion were to remain along the coastal areas. All that effort, all that cost; it had come to nothing. Air operations over Britain would continue, especially the night bombing, but Hitler was now ever more set upon his next course of action. If Britain could not be brought to heel now, then she would once the Soviet Union had been absorbed into the Third Reich.
Yet at this moment of great triumph for the RAF, and especially Fighter Command, the release from the stranglehold prompted not celebration but acrimony, jealousy and the worst kind of ugly political jostling. In some ways, Air Chief Marshal Dowding had been on borrowed time. His original three-year tenure at Fighter Command had been up in June 1939, but had then been extended until the following April. By then, with the war about to boil over, Newall asked him to stay on a bit longer, until July. But by July there had been no question of retiring Dowding. He was asked to remain until the end of October, which he accepted. Yet when Churchill heard that Newall was even considering removing the C-in-C Fighter Command, he angrily wrote that Dowding should remain in office as long as the war lasted and could even be promoted to take over as Chief of Air Staff.
Despite this rebuke, however, a month later Sinclair and Newall still had not confirmed Dowding’s future. When he discovered this, Churchill was incensed. ‘It is entirely wrong to keep an officer in the position of Commander-in-Chief, conducting hazardous operations from day to day, when he is dangling at the end of an expiring appointment,’ Churchill wrote angrily to Sinclair. ‘Such a situation is not fair to anyone, least of all to the nation.’ At this, both Newall and Sinclair bowed to their Prime Minister’s wishes and told Dowding he was now to remain in office for the foreseeable future.
This did not make his position impregnable, however. During his long career, Dowding had never been much interested in politicking and had no qualms at all about arguing with those at the Air Ministry whenever he thought it necessary. Quite single-mindedly he had pursued his task of strengthening Fighter Command and Britain’s defences, encountering endless hurdles of opposition as he had done so. This had made him some notable enemies, and while his position had been safe during the frantic scrabble to get Britain ready for war and again when the nation was facing untold peril, it was not so secure the moment that threat diminished.
Park, too, despite his brilliance, was another interested only in winning the war rather than playing any kind of political games. Throughout the summer his mind had been fully occupied with the battle, of how to marshal his forces correctly, and how to evolve tactics; he was not interested one jot in the ambitions and jealousies of his fellow commander in 12 Group, or about walking roughshod over Air Ministry red tape if it meant saving some of his precious fighters.
This attitude was entirely understandable, but even in wartime office politics plays its unattractive part. Slowly but surely, the movement to remove both men was taking hold. Two of its architects were Leigh-Mallory, the commander of 12 Group, and Air Marshal Sholto Douglas.
Brother of the more famous George – lost whilst attempting to climb Everest in 1924 – Trafford Leigh-Mallory was a barrister by training, had repeatedly proved his bravery as a soldier and then a pilot in the Great War, and since then in his post-war career with the RAF had shown himself to be an intelligent, energetic organizer, popular with his men, although less popular with his commanders. He had no experience with fighters, however, and Park, for one, had always thought him incompetent in his role as head of 12 Group. He was also incredibly ambitious. Throughout the summer, Leigh-Mallory had bristled with resentment at the way Park and 11 Group were always given priority and seen as the senior Group in Fighter Command. The concept of the big wing, however, put forward by Douglas Bader, offered a means of getting his 12 Group more directly involved in the battle. Furthermore, it was very obviously a different tactical approach to anything Park had been trying. If it worked, then Leigh-Mallory would be able to get one over his rival.
In Bader he had the perfect accomplice. T
his fearless fighter commander was well known for having overcome horrific injuries, and with two tin legs had still returned to flying. He had incredible energy, determination and drive and his courage was unquestionably an inspiration. But he was also something of a bully with an ego almost as big as Leigh-Mallory’s. Bader was delightful and charming and enormous fun just so long as he was the boss, and people played by his rules and accepted that he was right at all times; in some ways, he was cut from the same cloth as Dolfo Galland.
Bader’s big-wing idea was that as soon as a large raid was seen to be building up, he would form up a wing of three to five squadrons to intercept the enemy as they crossed over the Channel. 11 Group fighters would then harry the departing raiders as they headed back to home. This tactic would have given the big wing the primary role rather than 11 Group’s fighters, which is exactly how Bader wanted it; like Leigh-Mallory he was frustrated at being kept out of the action. Unfortunately, his ego was getting in the way of sound tactical sense.
As the Duxford Wing was finally put into practice, Bader and Leigh-Mallory repeatedly put in monstrous claims, gleefully picked up at the Air Ministry, which did much to curry support for their new ideas. Park, however, found both Leigh-Mallory and Bader irksome in the extreme. The big wing was taking too long to form up, frequently missing the action, and by following this wasteful enterprise they were not properly protecting 11 Group airfields, which was their primary function. The claims, Park said, were absolutely risible. He also knew that there was no way the big wing could meet a large German raid as it crossed the coast, as Leigh-Mallory and Bader were proposing. Duxford was much further away from Canterbury, for example, than Cap Gris Nez. At the very least it would take half an hour from the moment a raid was picked up over the Pas de Calais to reach south-east Kent, and that was not even taking into account forming-up time. The Germans would take just fifteen minutes.
Park’s appreciation of the big-wing theory was spot on. Bader’s men were massively overclaiming. Even Cocky Dundas, who had been quite awed by Bader during 616 Squadron’s brief stint with the wing, had admitted that he had not seen anyone actually shoot anything down during the big air battle on 27 September; and that was the only time they had ever properly engaged the enemy at all while he was involved. So absurd were these inflated notions about big wings, Park had assumed he could dismiss them with a few withering explanatory comments. But he was wrong. Leigh-Mallory had the support of Sholto Douglas and a number of other highly influential players within the RAF and Air Ministry, men like Marshal ‘Boom’ Trenchard, long retired but whose views still counted, and a former Chief of the Air Staff, Sir John Salmond. These were men who had long wished to see the back of Dowding, and they now sensed their moment to strike was coming. A coup was being staged, one that would rid them of both Dowding and Park.
The first bone of contention was Park’s supposed tactical rigidity and his reluctance to embrace the big wing. Few commanders were more tactically astute than Park, but in a meeting on 17 October chaired by Sholto Douglas, and at which Squadron Leader Bader, bizarrely, was present, he was forced to defend himself against a largely united front of Douglas and Leigh-Mallory in which it was quite clear they had no intention of listening to a word he was saying.
The second cause for criticism was over the difficulties of night interception. Dowding was working on a system in which fighters would rely entirely on their instruments to fly and would be guided to the target by radar. This he had reported in a paper, which Churchill had described as ‘masterly’. Many, however, thought this would be impossible, Douglas included, and that, even if it could be achieved one day, it would take too long to develop. Amongst those critical of Dowding’s plans were Sir John Salmond, who had been asked to chair a committee into night defence. It was not the first time Dowding had been on the receiving end of such criticism. He had received a copy of Salmond’s report, but had thought little of it. Certainly, no committee was going to deter him from what he believed to be the right course.
In all but dismissing Salmond’s report, however, Dowding had made a big mistake. The man who had instigated Salmond’s committee in the first place was none other than Lord Beaverbrook, Dowding’s supposed ally. So he had been, but Beaverbrook, displaying the kind of unsentimental ruthlessness that had been a hallmark of his career, had correctly recognized that night-fighters had now dramatically become the key to Britain’s future defence against the Luftwaffe. It did not matter that he had the utmost respect for Dowding and what he had achieved; as far as he was concerned, the C-in-C Fighter Command was not tackling night defence with the kind of urgency he felt was needed. This was not true, but Beaverbrook felt the time had come for a change and a fresh approach. When Dowding saw Salmond’s report, he ticked three of the eighteen points, put question marks by five, and crosses by the other nine. It was precisely the dismissive reaction Beaverbrook had expected, but now gave him the leverage needed to ease Dowding from office. Dowding had thought that after Churchill’s open backing in the summer his position was pretty much impregnable. This was a big miscalculation, because it was not. Dowding might have been able to defy Trenchard, Salmond, Douglas et al., but not Beaverbrook.
In the short term, however, Dowding and Park agreed to try and bring the big wing into play more often. It did not work, largely because of its fundamental flaw – it simply took too long to assemble. Repeatedly, Bader’s forces arrived too late. Investigations by the Air Ministry confirmed the ill-feeling between Park and Leigh-Mallory, which everyone knew about already. At the end of October, Douglas told Dowding to sort out the problem once and for all and to make better use of the big wing. Dowding replied, rebutting the criticism and suggesting that Bader suffered from ‘an over-development of the critical faculties’, and should be posted where he could be kept under better control. Bader was not posted, work continued with Dowding’s night-fighter plan, and Park continued intercepting the ever-decreasing daytime raids as he saw fit. Thus the situation was left largely unresolved – for the time being at any rate.
The night bombing continued, but there was no break in British morale. Olivia Cockett was no longer so apprehensive about the air war – it was not proving as bad as she had feared. No-one she knew had been killed, although she knew of a couple of homes that had been destroyed. If anything, the Blitz – as it was being called – had given her a new feeling of self-confidence. She realized that if she had the guts to put out an incendiary, then she could stand up to most things. ‘This has resulted in a general boldness of thought and action,’ she scribbled, ‘a kind of sparkle on my usual cheek, which I have been quite surprised (and pleased) about.’
Most people had adjusted amazingly well to finding themselves a nation under siege. There was no prospect of the war ending, but the terrible peril of the summer had passed. ‘Life around here proceeds in its quiet way,’ wrote Daidie Penna. ‘Air-raids and the proximity of bombs are still being taken for granted and even the whacking of a house or two seems to have done nothing to disturb the Tadworth phlegm.’ Daidie could have been speaking for much of Britain that Tuesday in October 1940.
48
Last Flight
ON THE LAST SUNDAY in October, the 27th, Ulrich Steinhilper woke up early. His tent smelled musty, and it was cold; winter was on its way. With some effort, he pulled back the blankets and got up, staggering over to the makeshift washstand. He looked tired, he knew, his eyes dark, his cheeks thin. But he was tired. He had flown over 150 combat missions over England. On one day he had even flown seven sorties, excessive even by Luftwaffe standards.
He was on Early Alarm, which meant being at dispersal by dawn, mercifully later now that the days were rapidly shortening. Having shaved, he dressed, putting his trousers and shirt straight over his pyjamas, then with two others drove over to dispersal. A low mist hung over the greying stubble fields that were their runways. Smells of coffee and food came from the tented camp at one side of the airfield. Groundcrews stamped feet and rubbed
hands to keep warm, while pilots smoked cigarettes.
Helmut Kühle, Ulrich’s Staffelkapitän, suddenly drove up in his car, having been to the morning briefing. ‘Protect the fighter-bombers,’ he told the waiting pilots. ‘Target London. Take off 09.05 hours.’
Ulrich now hurried over to his plane, Yellow 2, with its five stripes on the tail, one stripe for each of his victories. His mechanic, Peter, was already waiting for him on the port wing. Clambering up, Ulrich put on his harness with Peter’s help, then clambered into the tight cockpit. Reaching for the starter lever, he felt the aircraft rock gently as Peter began to wind up the eclipse starter before it could be engaged, so turning over the Daimler-Benz 601 engine. Pulling the starter, Ulrich felt the engine roar into life and then set the throttle lightly forwards so that he could complete his start-up checks. The other eight remaining Me 109s were all running now, then they began to emerge from their camouflaged dispersal pens. This was all that could be mustered from the entire Gruppe.
As he finished his taxi, Ulrich glanced around him, then pushed the throttle on to full power and felt the Messerschmitt surge forward. He lifted the tail as the machine bumped over the rough field, Yellow 2 bounced a little, then suddenly the jolting stopped as the plane became airborne. Retracting the undercarriage, he waited a few moments whilst his speed increased, then eased back the control column and began to climb away. Looking either side of him, he watched the position of the others and then they began to tighten up for the climb.
They met cloud over Kent, but as they approached London the sky cleared, just as the met officer had predicted. Everyone began scanning the sky, but nothing could be seen – yet. The engine in front of him throbbed rhythmically. It was noisy in any fighter, but with his headphones strapped close to his ears it became such a constant background thrum that he might as well have been flying in silence; and the silence in his headset only added to the tension he felt as he waited for the moment the British fighters would be spotted.
The Battle of Britain Page 73