The Miracle of Freedom

by Ted Stewart

  A German 111 came into view and he kicked his rudder hard to push his nose to the right, lining up his guns on the black-and-yellow bomber. His leg began to tremble against the pressure of holding his aircraft canted against the passing airstream. The German aircraft didn’t move, flying steadily toward its target. It must have been on its final bomb run, Manson realized, and he knew he had only a few seconds to take the bomber down. Once it had dropped its bombs, it would dive and flee. Worse, its bombs would be on their way to their targets.

  Around him, the air was already filling with smoke and screaming fighters, diving bombers and falling bombs, contrails and pieces of shattered metal, a couple of parachutes and greasy fireballs. His radio was full of urgent voices: his wingman, “COME AROUND!” His leader, “BLUE FOUR, WATCH MY TAIL.” The female voice of the ground controller, “GROUP SIX, YOUR TARGET IS COMING UP THE THAMES.” Another radio telephone controller, “GROUP ELEVEN, WHAT IS YOUR FUEL STATE?” There were other voices, some smooth and some panicked, far too many to keep track of or understand. Closing on his target, he moved his finger over the fire button and shoved the rudder pedal once again while rolling to his right. It took both hands to push the stick over, but he didn’t need to control the throttle any longer—from here until the fight was over, he would take every ounce of energy that his engine had to give him. The fighter rolled and the German bomber slipped into his gun sight. The bomb bay doors were already open. He had but a second, maybe two. The small red dot lined up on the fuselage and he fired a short burst. The Spitfire shuddered as almost two hundred .303 rounds fired toward the German bomber. The 111 shook and dipped, then rolled abruptly to its side. Pieces of metal peeled back from the left wing and fluttered through the air. The Heinkel righted itself, spat out some bombs—which fell into each other before they even had time to arm—then flew on a wingtip for a moment before the wing snapped off.

  Then he saw the tracers shooting by his cockpit, angry red and yellow bits of light. Instinctively, he jerked back on the stick, pulling the Spitfire’s nose into the air, while glancing into his rearview mirror to see the Messerschmitt only two hundred yards behind. But his engine was at full power, he had previously built up airspeed, and the Spitfire was better than the Messerschmitt in the climb. As the German fighter fell below, the words speed is life! rushed into his head. How many times had his instructor pilot shouted that in training? Now the lesson had saved his life.

  Shifting in his seat, he rolled his fighter over and looked for another German bomber to kill.

  The Chicks

  There is no doubt that Dowding proved to be a tactical genius. Putting his remarkable foresight aside, as well as the fact that he obtained aircraft, radar, and an operations center, and formulated an ingenious strategy, his supreme resource was what he called his “chicks”: the roughly one thousand pilots of Fighter Command.22 These were dashing, brave, resilient young men, everything one thinks of when considering a Hollywood hero.

  But they were also hopelessly outnumbered. And depressingly young. By later summer, the average age of replacement pilots was only seventeen.23

  By the battle’s end, fully one-third of these young men would be dead, severely wounded, or missing in the fight.

  The simple fact is, they had volunteered for a desperate battle. Their enemy had the largest and most advanced air force in the world. More critically, the German pilots were far more experienced. Most of them had been flying for years. Many had spent the last few months in battle, honing their combat flying skills, an advantage that is hard to appreciate when it comes to the split-second, life-and-death decisions that pilots face in combat. By contrast, few of the pilots of the RAF had any combat experience at all. Most had been trained by instructor pilots who were not much older and did not have much more experience than they had themselves. When they reached their new squadrons, if they were fortunate, they would receive a few precious hours of flying time to “polish up” before they were thrust into combat.

  Little surprise, then, that many of these young RAF pilots were killed in their first few skirmishes.

  There would be cases during August and September 1940, when the battle was at its peak, of a young RAF pilot arriving at the squadron to which he had been posted and being rushed straight into a fighter before he had even unpacked his suitcases, and killed before anybody knew his name. Opening the suitcases he had left in the entrance to the mess was the only way for the Adjutant or the Station Warrant Officer to learn who he had been.24

  There are not many battlefield situations in which the odds were so stacked against one side as was the case with these young RAF pilots fighting over England.

  Such was the bravery of “the Few” who saved England and the world.25

  • • •

  At the beginning of the Battle of Britain, Dowding had approximately seven hundred Hurricanes and Spitfires. Across the English Channel, the German aircraft numbered more than three thousand.

  But despite heavy losses, Dowding was able to keep a reasonable number of fighters flying through the summer, mainly because of a system he had worked out with Lord Beaverbrook, a close friend of Winston Churchill who had been appointed Minister of Aircraft Production. Lord Beaverbrook, a millionaire publisher who knew nothing about building airplanes but made up for that fact with ruthless drive, managed to keep airplane production and repair at a level that was needed. In fact, the system became refined to the point that Dowding would call Beaverbrook every night and tell him how many replacement planes he would need the next day. The next morning they would arrive, often flown by young female pilots.26

  Expecting the invasion at any moment, the civilians of England were in a state of constant dread. While they waited, the British organized their local defenses into the famous Home Guard. Expecting a massive bombing of their cities (after all, “the bombers will always get through”), many thousands of young children were evacuated to the countryside.

  Churchill pleaded for help from the United States. It was largely denied. Joseph Kennedy, the U.S. ambassador to London, filed frequent reports full of pessimism. Simply put, he believed the Brits were finished.

  The Battle Begins

  By the time the Luftwaffe had relocated its planes and personnel to forward airfields, it was clear that the original Sea Lion invasion date of August 15 was not going to work. Hitler reset the date for September 15. But he did so extremely reluctantly, for he and his senior staff knew they were taking a great risk. Short days. Bad weather. Those two factors were always on their minds.

  With the September date set, the Luftwaffe had only a few months to remove the RAF as a threat. The pressure on General Göring grew more intense.

  The preliminaries for the main air battle began in July.

  The first thing the Germans had to do was to test the British defenses. To accomplish this, they sent small formations to bomb the coastal towns and shipping assets.

  As the first of these attacks against the British homeland commenced, Dowding fell under intense pressure to scramble large numbers of his fighters and really take it to the Germans. But he remained determined and disciplined, sticking to his strategy of deception. He relied on smaller but constant fighter attacks, even if that meant that more of the bombers did get through.

  In July, he lost 145 fighters but shot down 270 German planes. More important, his tactics succeeded in giving the Germans the impression that the RAF did not have large numbers of Spitfires and Hurricanes. If they had more fighters, they would have used them! the Germans believed. By the end of July, German intelligence told Göring that the Brits were operating with three hundred, maybe four hundred fighters at best. He was assured, and in turn assured Hitler, that once full-scale bombing began, the Luftwaffe would make short work of the undermanned RAF.

  Göring called for the first all-out attack on August 13. In typical Nazi fashion, the event was awarded a fl
ashy name—Eagle Day.

  In an attempt to soften up the RAF prior to the main strike, critical airfields and radar stations were attacked the day before. Upon landing, German pilots reported that they had destroyed three RAF airfields. (Though the airfields had suffered some damage, most were grass runways that could be repaired quickly with shovels and bulldozers. All were back in operation the next day.)

  More important, the German pilots reported they had shot down seventy British fighters. In fact, they had destroyed only twenty-two.27

  But Göring didn’t know this. Again, relying on intelligence estimates that the RAF had only three to four hundred fighters, and with the reported loss of seventy aircraft in the “softening up,” the Germans were elated. Surely, Eagle Day would result in overwhelming losses for the British air force.

  The day proved to be far less dramatic than its name implied. Bad weather prevented the overwhelming blitz that had been planned. Rather, the Luftwaffe engaged in a series of badly coordinated, hit-and-miss attacks that inflicted very little damage. At the end of the day, the Germans had lost thirty-eight aircraft; the RAF, thirteen fighters. Again, the Germans rejoiced, being told by their returning aircrews that they had reduced the RAF fighter force to only two or three hundred aircraft.

  In reality, Dowding had 647 fighters left.

  August 15 turned out to be momentous. The Germans launched so many aircraft that at times the “beauty chorus” was completely swamped: in the south, a hundred struck in the late morning, more than seventy at noon, more than two hundred in the early afternoon, three hundred and then four hundred in the late afternoon, seventy in the early evening. One hundred fifty additional planes struck in northeast England. The attacks took their toll. Airfield after airfield was bombed and bombed again. Finally realizing how critical radar was to Dowding’s strategy, the Germans focused on the radar stations. They also sent up enough fighter escorts to inflict considerable losses to the RAF defenders. Generally outnumbered three to one, the RAF pilots were forced to fly sortie after sortie—three, four, sometimes five in a day. Upon running out of fuel or ammunition, if their airfield was under attack, the exhausted pilots had to find an alternate place to land. Again and again, bone-weary ground crews scrambled to resupply the pilots and send them up again.

  The resulting destruction by the German attacks? An unknown number of radar stations taken out of commission, considerable damage to many RAF airfields, a bomber factory set ablaze, thirty-four British airplanes destroyed, a long list of miscellaneous targets damaged.

  But the Germans had paid a heavy price. Seventy-five of their aircraft had been shot down.

  Upon landing, the German pilots reported that they had downed 101 RAF fighters. At this point, Göring became seriously concerned. If his pilots were destroying so many British planes, how did the RAF keep materializing in such numbers as to be able to destroy so many of his aircraft? He realized there was much more work to be accomplished before the September 15 deadline that he had promised the Supreme Leader of the Reich.

  Bunker 47 Provisional HQ, Operation Sea Lion Along the Northwestern Coast of France

  The commander-in-chief of the infamous German Luftwaffe had flown in from Berlin earlier that morning. From the moment that his personal transport had touched down, Göring had ranted and raved to everyone he encountered: the driver of his car, the major who had offered to carry his briefcase, the young woman who had brought him coffee—all had tasted of his wrath.

  But most of his rage had been centered on the Jagdfliergerfuhrer, the poor soldier who had the misfortune to brief him on the ongoing battle over England. In Göring’s eyes, the briefing general, commander of Fighter Air Command, was one of many officers who had betrayed the German people by not fulfilling the Führer’s commands. But the men of the fighter and bomber commands were not alone. His intel officers had clearly dropped the ball. They were incompetent fools or outright liars; either way, he would string them up! He was getting enormous pressure from the Führer—the kind of pressure that some men were going to have to die for—and he had no intention of taking all of the heat himself.

  He had promised the Führer!

  It was time to set things right.

  He scanned the list of the previous day’s attrition numbers, the thing that had demanded his presence on the shores of France. Flipping through the sheets of paper, he scowled. It had been one of the single bloodiest days in the campaign so far. Dozens of heavy bombers and an unknown number of fighters killed or missing. No one knew for certain yet, the numbers were still coming in.

  He sat back and shook his head. Too many bombers and fighters going down. Too many experienced pilots killed. He needed this equipment. For that matter, he needed these men. The Führer was already talking about his next conquest, the invasion of Russia, a nation they currently called an ally. It would be an enormous undertaking, for Russia was a massive country, three times the size of Europe, with tens of millions of people Stalin was ready to throw into the fight.

  Yet here he was, with his Luftwaffe still stuck in France, working on an operation that was bleeding him dry.

  He stared at the general who was in command of Jagdgeschwader, the Hunting Wing, the men who were responsible for protecting his bomber forces. So far, he had lost the fight against the RAF fighters. “Where is Churchill getting all of these aircraft?” Göring demanded.

  The officer paused a moment. Did he dare to tell the truth? “We believe, sir,” he finally started, “that we are beginning to make a difference. We believe that, with a few more—”

  “With a few more what?” Göring shouted while lifting out of his chair. He was a large man, thick in the chest and shoulders, with wavy hair, a handsome face, and very determined eyes. But his features were hard and tight now, his lips pulled back in a snarl. “You believe what, General Udet, that with a few more hundred of our fighters shot down, a few more hundred of our bombers, Churchill will surrender? He is laughing at us now!” Göring jabbed an angry finger toward the Channel. “He is laughing while he destroys the greatest air force in the world. He’s laughing while the Führer suffers. Is that acceptable to you?”

  The general kept his eyes upon the Luftwaffe Supreme Commander, his back straight, his shoulders square. He was one of the finest officers in the world’s finest fighting corps. He had been selected, trained, and challenged, and his pride was true and deep.

  “Is that acceptable to you, General Udet?” Göring repeated with a hiss.

  “No, sir, it is not.”

  “Then what are you going to do about it, Udet?”

  The other man finally broke his eyes away.

  Göring let him suffer a moment, then stood up and walked briskly to the front of the briefing room. “Let me help you, General. Let me tell you what we’re going to do.”

  The Jagdgeschwader stepped away from the briefing table.

  Göring turned to the other aviation officers. “We’ve finished adequate testing on the radio bombing,” he announced.

  The Fight Goes On

  With no choice but to continue the bombing, the Germans kept coming.

  On the sixteenth of August, 250 German aircraft hit in the morning. Another 350 bombers attacked in the afternoon. At one point, every one of the available RAF fighter squadrons within the southeast fighter group was engaged in the terrible struggle.

  On the eighteenth, more than 250 German planes attacked in an early morning raid. Another wave came in the afternoon. Two more raids came after that. By the end of the day, the Germans had lost seventy-one aircraft. Twenty-seven British fighters had been shot down.

  If the RAF had had the luxury of matching the German forces one for one, they would have been ecstatic with the kill-to-loss ratio. But they didn’t. Dowding was running out of pilots. Far too many were being killed.

  To meet the urgent need, he reduced yet
again the time allotted to train a pilot. This meant that the young men showing up to fly the Spitfires and Hurricanes were even less prepared. More and more of the new pilots were lost in their first skirmish. The mortality rate climbed higher, leaving them down more pilots.

  And the conditions for the young pilots were absolutely brutal:

  Combat was physically exhausting for even the strongest of fighter pilots, requiring enormous effort from limbs that were stiff with cold, as well as constant, almost superhuman alertness, split-second reaction to danger, and complete physical indifference to rapidly building g forces and stomach-churning changes of direction . . . with your mouth dry from breathing oxygen; your eyes smarting from the fumes of gasoline, oil, and exhaust seeping into the cockpit and from staring into the sun; and the radio pouring into your ears a constant tumult of static, orders, warnings, and awful cries of pain and despair. All this in the knowledge that you were sitting behind . . . many gallons of high-octane fuel that could turn you into a blazing torch in seconds, not to speak of hundreds of rounds of ammunition, while somewhere from above and behind you another nineteen- to twenty-year-old might already be swooping down on you from out of the sun to . . . end your life in a burst of fire lasting less than a second.28

  But sometimes death did not come in such a merciful second. Sometimes it came in a more horrible way: “Many WAAFs who served in ground control remember to this day hearing through their earphones the screams of young men trapped in a flaming cockpit, unable to slide back the canopy because their hands were too badly burned.”29

  On some days, the skies over southern England were completely filled with contrails. To the citizens below, whose lives were going on in almost normal fashion, the sight must have been surreal:

  Occasionally they looked up from what they were doing at the maze of contrails in the blue sky, or more rarely, saw an orange flash and a puff of black smoke as an aircraft was hit, and from time to time watched a parachute slowly descend, and wondered whether it was one of theirs or one of ours. . . . People grew accustomed to having the war drop in on their lives suddenly and unexpectedly—literally out of the blue—as bombs, pilots, aircrews, empty cartridge cases, flaming fragments of damaged aircraft, and even whole airplanes streaming smoke, flames, or white clouds of glycol, descended on them out of the sky.30