Ulrich continued searching the sky behind, in front, either side, below, but especially above. Suddenly a voice full of static crackled in his ear, ‘Raven calling! Raven calling! Eleven o’clock high! Eleven o’clock high. Condensation trails, same course.’ Ulrich looked up and saw them now, about 3,000 feet above, to their left, the vivid white contrails clear against the deep blue. The fighting had got higher in recent weeks. The Gruppe were already at 32,000 feet, which meant the Spitfires were now at 35,000, an incredible height. It was hard flying at those heights. The 109 did not like it and the pilots had to constantly change the propeller pitch and throttle to improve performance: with a fine pitch, they could increase the RPM and get more pressure from the engine’s supercharger, but by then switching to coarse pitch they could make up some speed, which was essential if they were to keep up with the rest of the formation.
But there was something up with Yellow 2. Ulrich was struggling to change pitch. Most probably condensation had begun to collect in the grease of the pitch-changing gear during the cold nights of the past week, and now, at 32,000 feet, it had frozen, which had affected the pitch control. For a moment, Ulrich thought about turning back but then dismissed the idea, opting instead to keep the pitch fine and run the engine at high revs and rely on the supercharger to help maintain speed. It meant the engine would be running at a level higher than the recommended RPM, but that happened all the time in combat. In any case, having made his decision to fly on, he did not have any other choice.
A pattern had emerged in this latest phase of the air battle. The Luftwaffe’s planes would assemble and set course for London. The Tommies, meanwhile, warned of the approaching raid, would climb up high and wait for them. They would then patrol the sky, and just as the German formations turned for home at their tactically weakest point and at the limit of the fighters’ range, they would pounce, from height with the sun behind them. Now, as the moment to turn for home approached, Ulrich waited for the order with increasing trepidation.
The Jabos began their attack, the radio suddenly full of chatter until there were so many different voices that the noise merged into a jarring whistling. Moments later and the formation was turning, but to the left, rather than the right, as they had been expecting. The eight machines of I/JG 52 quickly manoeuvred into their Rotte position, Ulrich’s wingman, Lothar Schieverhöfer, moving in beside and behind him. Suddenly someone shouted, ‘Out of the sun! Out of the sun!’ and Ulrich swivelled and craned his neck upwards to see a number of Spitfires diving down towards Lothar. Ulrich shouted out a warning and tried to move to protect his tail, only to see him doing the same. Behind, at least four Spitfires were stepped up, each lining up to fire. Ulrich now dived away, his revs way too high, so at 22,000 feet he levelled out, eyeing a safe-looking bank of cloud below. He was wondering whether Lothar had got away when suddenly there was a loud bang as something exploded on the left side of his machine, and as something clattered into his elevator his stick shook in his hands. Frantically looking around, he could see no sign of the enemy so decided it must have been his supercharger that had blown. Glancing at his instrument panel, he saw everything still appeared to be working, but his oil pressure was dropping dramatically. Air speed was around 400 mph in his shallow dive and he was still able to weave from side to side, so he pushed the stick forward, put the nose down, and dived down towards the cloud layer, reaching the milky mass at around 6,000 feet. Moments later he was out into the blindingly bright sun, but at least it enabled him to get a fix. If he was on course for home, the sun should have been ahead and slightly to the right, and so it was, so he slipped back into the protective shroud of the cloud.
He checked his instruments again and everything still seemed to be in order apart from the oil loss, but just as he was beginning to breathe a little more easily, he slid out of the cloud again and was horrified first to see the Thames estuary below – he thought he had made more distance – and then in front and slightly below him a formation of Hurricanes. Deciding attack was his only option, he checked the lights that told him his guns were armed and ready, then seeing four green lights switched on the gunsight. But this was not working – there was too much ice on the windscreen from his long dive. He would have to use the metal emergency sight, but as he removed his oxygen mask, he was suddenly gripped with fear – his engine was beginning to boil and if it came to a tussle he was not sure how long his machine would keep flying. Gently, and very slowly, he climbed back into the cloud.
His engine temperature was now 130 degrees. He could not understand why it was so high; his engine was losing oil, but that would not affect the cooling system. He was sure he had dived before the Spitfires had opened fire, but a bullet in the radiator seemed the only cause of his rapidly rising temperature gauge. ‘This is Owl 2a,’ he called over the radio, ‘have been hit in the radiator, will try to reach the Channel. Taking course from Thames to Manston. Please confirm.’ But there was no reply – just a hiss of static.
At 6,000 feet once more, and still in cloud, he switched off the engine, so that he was now gliding and blind flying. At 4,000 feet he emerged through the cloud once more, but still he continued his glide and decided to try another radio call. This time the ground station in the Pas de Calais replied. ‘Understood Owl 2a. Air-Sea Rescue will be notified. Only go into the water when absolutely necessary.’ He now heard Kühle’s voice too, telling him he would start searching the Channel immediately while the others would return, refuel then continue the search if necessary. Ulrich felt his spirits lift.
Now, at around 1,600 feet, he began to attract some light flak, so he decided it was time to restart the engine. It whirred into life immediately and he began to climb once more, the oil temperature still under control. In the clouds, he transmitted another fix to the ground station, but by now the temperature was beginning to rise alarmingly again so he cut the engine once more, hoping to repeat Hans-Ekkehard Bob’s trick of ‘bobbing’ back across the Channel.
But the engine’s power was fading, and he was soon struggling to gain any height at all. He had to open the throttle further – there was no alternative – but as he did so, the engine seized. There was no bang, no sudden explosion – just silence. With his machine dead, he knew he would have to jump. Having sent a last message, he briefly wondered whether he should perhaps try and crash-land instead but then madly decided he must not let his machine fall into enemy hands. No, bailing out was the only option. He ran through the emergency procedures: oxygen off. Throat microphone off. Remove flying helmet and headset. Reaching for the canopy jettison lever he pulled but it broke off in his hand. Trying desperately not to panic he shot a glance at his altimeter – he was now at only 800 feet. He needed to get out of there quickly – very quickly. He now tried to open the canopy as normal and as he pulled the lever and pushed, it burst open with a sudden rush of wind and cold air that forced the Perspex hood off its hinges so that it clattered noisily down the side of the fuselage. Gasping from the cold, he released his belts and pushed himself up into the incredibly strong 130 mph draught, but as he did so was buffeted backwards, wedging his parachute under the rear part of the canopy and catching his legs under the instrument panel. Frantically, he tried to claw his hands back down on to the control column in an effort to flip the machine over, but he could not reach. And now Yellow 2 was beginning its final dive. There was nothing for it: he would have to risk tearing his parachute or die. Leaning over to the right, with one last effort he pulled his legs free and up towards his body and suddenly he was rolling through the air, somersaulting past the tail of his Messerschmitt.
Still tumbling he pulled the parachute release but for a moment nothing happened, and in panic he began groping helplessly at the pack, only for the silk to burst out. As the main parachute opened, the secondary ’chute managed to get tangled around his left leg causing him intense pain so that he was hanging upside down, his leg feeling as though it was being pulled from his hip. Somehow, he managed to right himself and
was relieved to discover his leg was still intact, although the pain was excruciating. Ahead he now saw Yellow 2 dive into the ground in the middle of a field of cows, which were scattering in all directions. He heard a soft thump as it hit the ground and then the ammunition began exploding.
The ground was now rising up to meet him, but fortunately he landed on his right leg and the ground was soft, and he was able to release the parachute harness with ease. He was lying beside a canal embankment. A short distance away, although out of sight, ammunition was still exploding. Looking around, he could see no-one. He felt desperately alone and helpless, and his throat began to tighten. He thought he might cry.
But then the moment passed as he began to discard his rubber dinghy, flare pistol, and sea water dye container. Suddenly a shot rang out and he quickly lay flat, pressing his head into the damp ground. Carefully raising his head again he saw a man in civilian clothes approaching him, an armband around his left sleeve and clutching a shotgun.
‘Get up!’ he yelled.
‘My leg is hurt!’ Ulrich replied. He tried to get up, but collapsed in pain.
‘I’ll come round to you,’ called out the man.
Ulrich sat there on the wet grass, waiting for his captor. Depression swept over him. He was twenty-two and a prisoner of war. The battle was over.
Postscript
LATER ON THE AFTERNOON of Wednesday, 28 November, Siegfried Bethke was flying over England for the second time that day. Leading the entire Gruppe was the recently promoted Major Helmut Wick, who now had a staggering fifty-five victories to his name and was the youngest Geschwaderkommodore in the Luftwaffe. Flying over the Isle of Wight at about 25,000 feet, they suddenly spotted a formation of Spitfires, yet although they were both travelling at about the same height, Wick decided to lead his Messerschmitts away.
Ten minutes later, however, at around ten past five, having climbed much higher, the German fighters found the Spitfires again and dived down towards them. Spotting the attack, the pilots of 609 Squadron turned to fly directly underneath the German formation, but seeing this Wick detached three aircraft, including himself, and dived out of the sun in close formation. As the three Me 109s sped towards them, the Spitfires began breaking into sections, and then suddenly the Me 109s were flashing by, guns flashing bullets and cannon shells. In the brief tussle, Wick shot down his fifty-sixth victim, Pilot Officer Baillon, but then, just moments later, was attacked in turn by John Dundas.
‘Whoopee!’ shouted John over the R/T. ‘I’ve got a 109.’ It was the last words anyone heard him say, for a moment later Rudi Flanz, one of the Stab pilots, opened fire and John’s Spitfire began plummeting down towards the sea. Like Wick, he made no effort to bail out. In just a few seconds, two of the best aces on each side had been killed. Few saw what had happened, and certainly not Siegfried Bethke – the formation had already broken up and spread out. Both the pilots of 609 Squadron and JG 2 spent long hours of desperate search the following morning. Nothing was found. Nor was there any sign of Pilot Officer Baillon, who had been seen bailing out into the sea. Like Wick, his wife had been expecting a child. His body was eventually washed up in France six weeks later, but of John and Helmut Wick, nothing was ever seen again.
For his beloved younger brother, Cocky, John’s death was a shattering blow. He had just been given some leave and having borrowed a car had reached his home in Cawthorne at teatime on 1 December, shortly after the telegram announcing that John was missing had arrived. ‘So it has happened at last,’ he wrote in his diary. ‘I suppose it had to happen. I suppose that we were inordinately lucky to have survived intact as long as we did.’ Seven weeks later, just before Christmas, he confessed that since then his time in the squadron had been a blur of unhappiness and restlessness. ‘It affected my life deeply,’ he admitted many years later. ‘I think hardly a day has gone by since then when I have not thought of John.’ How many other brothers, sisters, parents, wives, husbands, lovers and friends would have echoed his thoughts after that long summer? Too many, and yet, of course, so much worse was to come: the war would spread into a global conflict, the worst the world had ever seen. Sixty million would be dead by the time it finally came to an end five long years later.
Göring left France in November, having lost interest in the air war against Britain and feeling somewhat humiliated by the Luftwaffe’s failure. None of his senior commanders were sacked, not even Beppo Schmid, unlike the victorious Dowding or Park. The architect of Britain’s defence was finally eased from office on 25 November, having been asked to head a mission to the United States. Park left at the same time. It must have been galling to them that their jobs were taken by Sholto Douglas and Leigh-Mallory respectively; it was this usurpation by their detractors as much as anything that has ever since left something of a sour note in the British view of the battle. It should not, however. By November, Dowding was exhausted. He had rarely had more than a few hours’ sleep a night all summer and since the autumn even less, as almost every night he had been driven to Kenley or Redhill to observe night interception tests and experiments with radar. In fact, his plans were beginning to work. On 19 November, John Cunningham,* a night-fighter pilot, shot down a Ju 88 using airborne radar just as Dowding had claimed would be possible. There were still some refinements and many improvements to be made, but in this, as in many things, Dowding had proved Beaverbrook, Salmond and his other doubters utterly wrong.
Nonetheless, Beaverbrook had surely been correct in thinking that Dowding should move on. The time had come for a change, for an injection of new energy and blood. He had achieved almost all that could have been achieved and had both Churchill’s and the nation’s gratitude. But if Dowding went, then Park had to go too. He could not have carried on under Douglas and with Leigh-Mallory breathing down his neck. Personality counts for so much in every walk of life, and that includes high command in a time of war. Dowding and Park understood and respected each other greatly. As a team, they worked seamlessly in a way that Douglas and Park could never have done. Awarded a knighthood for his efforts, Park later showed his brilliance again during the RAF’s second-biggest air battle – over Malta in 1942. Then he replaced Air Vice-Marshal Lloyd, a man who knew nothing of fighters or fighter tactics. Ten days after Park’s arrival, the air battle for Malta was over, achieved, in no small part, by using several squadrons operating together and intercepting the enemy forward of the island. It wasn’t that Park was ever against big wings per se; it was just that he did not think they could be effectively used over south-east England in 1940. However painful their departure may have been in November 1940, they both lived long enough to know the respect and admiration history would accord them, which is more than could be said for Leigh-Mallory, who was killed in a flying accident in November 1944. Sholto Douglas is now largely forgotten, having commanded Fighter Command during a period of endless fighter sweeps over France in 1941 and 1942, which achieved very little and cost far too many lives and aircraft. In pursuing this strategy, he ensured that as few Spitfires as possible were sent overseas where they were really needed. On the other hand, Dowding and Park remain deeply – and justifiably – revered. It is Dowding’s and not Douglas’s office that has been preserved at Bentley Priory, while a statue of Park has even stood on the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square.
*
Hans-Ekkehard Bob still insists that the Luftwaffe did not lose the Battle of Britain, and prefers to think of it as more of a draw. After all, he points out, the Luftwaffe was not destroyed. Ulrich Steinhilper disagrees. He thinks the RAF broke both the back and the spirit of the Luftwaffe in the summer of 1940, and that they never again recovered. Certainly, by June the following year, when Hitler invaded the Soviet Union, the Luftwaffe was a smaller force than it had been the previous May, unable to fully recover from the heavy losses it suffered during the summer of 1940, in terms of both aircraft and experience.
Perhaps Hans does have a point, but in earlier days it did not require the utter destruction
of a force to win or lose a battle; after all, the French were not destroyed at Waterloo, but they were still beaten. By the end of October 1940, the Luftwaffe had lost 3,701 aircraft irredeemably destroyed, yet it had begun the summer with 3,578. In other words, it had losses of more than 100 per cent. Certainly, it had had replacements, but because production was not keeping up with losses, its combat strength by the end of October 1940 was somewhere in the region of 75 per cent less than it had been before the western campaign. By then, almost every Gruppe was operating with a fraction of its supposed establishment and many of the men were utterly exhausted, showing clear signs of combat fatigue, and struggling to maintain morale. That would constitute defeat by most people’s standards.
This is not really the point, however. In the summer of 1940, Germany faced Britain and France, and had to defeat both. That was the gamble Hitler took. He beat France, but he did not beat Britain, and at the end of the summer Germany was significantly worse off than she had been in May, and facing a long, attritional war on two fronts, which was precisely what the Führer had so desperately wished to avoid. It has been fashionable in recent years to play down the importance of the Battle of Britain, but to do so is wrong. It was a key – if not the key – turning point in the war because it meant that instead of the conflict being a European war which one day would escalate into a clash between Germany and Russia, it became a global conflict in which the Third Reich was unlikely to ever realistically emerge victorious. Britain’s defiance did save the world from Nazism.
When Göring heard Britain had declared war on 3 September 1939, he had telephoned von Ribbentrop. ‘Now you’ve got your ******* war!’ he shouted down the phone. ‘You alone are to blame!’ Like so many leading Nazis, Göring did not want war in 1939, not because he thought war was wrong but because he knew Germany was not ready and that it would lead to unmitigated disaster – and he had been right. He had not wanted to attack Britain in the summer of 1940, either, recognizing that while Britain’s army might not be up to much, she still had a powerful navy, a half-decent air force, and in America and the Dominions both powerful and very useful friends.
The Battle of Britain Page 74