Fortress England

by Robert Jackson

  By that time, Admiral Lutjens was also back in Germany. Ahead of him lay the exciting challenge of a new command: he was to head a brand-new battle group spearheaded by the most powerful warship afloat. Displacing 42,500 tons and capable of twenty-eight knots, she was armed with eight 15-inch and twelve 5.9-inch guns. In just a few weeks’ time, together with the heavy cruiser Prinz Eugen and supported by supply ships and tankers, she would sail from the Baltic port of Gdynia.

  The name she bore was that of the statesman who had brought Germany to a pinnacle of greatness in the nineteenth century: Bismarck.

  Chapter Three

  The Avro Anson floated over the threshold of runway one-three, its twin Cheetah engines burbling as the pilot, a young sergeant, throttled back. The main wheels screeched briefly as they touched the tarmac, then the tailwheel settled on the runway and the Anson lost speed. A metallic voice from Flying Control instructed the pilot to taxi for the airfield buildings via runway zero one. He acknowledged and looked around him, taking in the bleak surroundings. His navigator summed up his own thoughts admirably.

  “What a dump! Last place God made, and it looks like he forgot to finish it.”

  The pilot had to admit that there was little appealing about RAF Crosby-on-Eden, tucked away in the wilds of Cumbria a few miles east of Carlisle. He had no idea, nor would he have cared if he had known, that the place was steeped in history; that his approach to land had taken him directly over the vallum of Hadrian’s Wall, which ran along the aerodrome’s northern boundary, and that a few yards off the Anson’s starboard wingtip there was a Roman camp, on the airfield site itself.

  His job did not lend itself to historical speculation. While others were flying fighters or bombers, or hunting German U-boats, he was delivering sacks of mail around the airfields of Flying Training Command; a necessary task, but thoroughly unglamorous.

  Crosby-on-Eden was the home of No. 59 Operational Training Unit. A few of its Hurricanes had arrived, but the station was far from ready to receive its full complement of aircraft. The living quarters were without electricity, there was no permanent water supply, there were no roads between the buildings, drainage was practically non-existent and telephones had only just been installed. The Anson pilot knew via the grapevine that Free French and Canadian pilots were to be trained here; he did not envy them.

  The navigator, who was looking out of the starboard window, suddenly tapped the pilot on the arm, drawing his attention to something on the far side of the airfield, near some blister hangars. The pilot looked, making out some sort of angled ramp. A Hurricane sat on its lower end.

  “What the blazes is that?” the navigator asked wonderingly. The pilot could only shake his head in ignorance.

  A few minutes later, their mail unloaded, they were sitting in the Watch Office drinking tea with a corporal clerk. Through the grimy window, the navigator could still see the contraption on the other side of the field, and asked the corporal what it was. The corporal suddenly became very guarded.

  “We don’t talk about that lot,” he said. “Some sort of trials outfit. Keep themselves to themselves. You might see something in a minute or two, though,” he hinted.

  They were not disappointed. Just as they were finishing their tea, someone in the control tower above the Watch Office fired off a couple of red flares, warning any aircraft in the vicinity to keep clear of the aerodrome. Intrigued, the Anson crew went outside, braving the bitter wind that swept down from the Solway Firth. They were in no hurry; their aircraft had yet to be refuelled, and it would be at least half an hour before they took off on the next leg of their journey — across to Montrose, on the east coast of Scotland.

  The crackling note of a Rolls-Royce Merlin reached their ears; someone had started the Hurricane’s engine. After a few seconds the roar reached a crescendo as whoever was in the Hurricane’s cockpit opened the throttle wide. Then something remarkable happened.

  A great sheet of brilliant orange flame burst out behind the fighter, accompanied by a thunderous noise. An instant later the Hurricane shot along its ramp like a bolt fired from a crossbow, followed by the flame and a boiling horizontal column of smoke. The fighter shot off the end of the ramp, wobbled slightly, then climbed away. It turned, joined the aerodrome circuit and the pilot lowered its undercarriage in preparation for landing. Smoke from the rocket launch drifted slowly across the field.

  “I wouldn’t mind having a go at that,” the Anson pilot said in awed tones. His navigator looked at him askance.

  “Fred,” he said, “your take-offs are bloody awful as it is. Forget it.” He went back into the Watch Office to refill his mug. The pilot followed him slowly, wondering what the performance he had just witnessed was all about.

  The Hurricane came in to land and taxied towards the blister hangars. Its pilot brought it to a stop, shut down its engine and climbed from the cockpit, nodding to the ground crew and making for a small wooden hut that served as an office and crew room. Inside, he stripped off his fleece-lined flying jacket and helmet and hung them on a convenient peg. The uniform he wore was that of a naval lieutenant commander. He poured himself some coffee from a small urn that stood precariously on a window shelf and collapsed into a nearby armchair.

  “That’s it, then,” he said, addressing a Royal Air Force officer who sat at a table, writing furiously on a sheaf of notepaper.

  Ken Armstrong laid aside his pen and stretched. On the sleeves of his blue-grey tunic he wore the three rings of a wing commander; it was a promotion that had only come through a fortnight earlier.

  Armstrong glanced at Jamie Baird and nodded. He had just witnessed ‘Dickie’ Baird’s twelfth rocket launch, and all of them had been without incident.

  “Yes, that’s it. There’s no doubt that it works. We can go ahead and recommend it to the boys at Speke now.”

  Armstrong was well aware of the urgency. In the spring of 1941, the Admiralty, through a chronic shortage of aircraft carriers and a lack of suitable aircraft, had no means of defending its vital Atlantic convoys against the German long-range Kondor reconnaissance aircraft. Not only were they sinking substantial amounts of shipping; they were also acting as the eyes of the U-boats and warships that were loose on the high seas.

  Several schemes to remedy the deficiency had been proposed; the rocket-launch technique was the one that had been chosen, and the task of proving it had been assigned to Armstrong’s Special Trials and Experimental Squadron. The idea was that a number of ships ranging in size from 2,500 to 12,000 tons were to be equipped with rocket-assisted catapults and designated Catapult Aircraft Merchantmen, or CAM-ships. A number of Hurricane fighters were being fitted with catapult launch equipment. The whole operation was to be controlled by the newly-formed Merchant Ship Fighter Unit, based at Speke aerodrome near Liverpool.

  Armstrong himself had made a catapult launch, although Baird had been the test pilot in charge of the project, and had found it an extraordinary experience. The rocket-powered catapult subjected aircraft and pilot to an acceleration of three and a half times the force of gravity, during which the pilot had to keep sufficient wits about him to control the Hurricane as it reached flying speed dangerously close to the stall. The technique was to use one-third starboard rudder to counteract the aircraft’s tendency to swing to port, with one-third flap and the elevator and trimming tabs neutral. A further essential precaution was to jab the right elbow hard into one’s hip to avoid jerking the stick, as the slightest wrong movement could cause the aircraft to fall out of the sky during the critical launch phase.

  The trials were complete now, and operational training at Speke could begin. The call for volunteers had already gone out, and a surprising number of pilots had come forward, both from the RAF and the Fleet Air Arm. Armstrong did not envy their task; their only alternatives, after being launched on a combat mission out of range of land, would be to bale out or to ditch the aircraft as close as possible to the convoy they were protecting, in the hope of being picked
up before the icy Atlantic seas claimed them.

  Proving the rocket-launched fighter concept had been the latest task given to Armstrong’s squadron. Officially, the squadron did not exist: it had no number, no regular base. Since it had been formed in 1940 on the orders of Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, the Commander-in-Chief of RAF Fighter Command, it had accomplished a variety of tasks — including the pioneering of intruder operations over enemy-occupied Europe and the development of night-fighting techniques — and had led a nomadic existence. But it had expanded into something much larger than an ordinary RAF squadron, which explained Armstrong’s rise in rank, and there were parts of it scattered all over the British Isles. The lack of centralisation was essential from the security point of view; if it were concentrated in one place, German Intelligence would be sure to learn of its existence, and once that happened the Germans would soon establish its purpose.

  The task of Armstrong and his ‘secret squadron’ was simple. It was to devise ways and means of taking the war to the enemy, using whatever technology was available. Its responsibility was to the Chiefs of Staff, and through them to the Prime Minister himself. The authority of Winston Churchill was stamped on all its activities, which had enabled Armstrong to cut through a lot of red tape. Inevitably, he had made a few enemies en route, usually among desk-bound officers who viewed with horror any procedure that circumvented the ‘usual channels’.

  Acting in support of the Admiralty and its endeavours to keep Britain’s lifelines open was now the squadron’s priority task, for these were desperate times. The Battle of Britain had been fought and won, but although the immediate danger of invasion had receded Britain stood alone, facing an implacable and ruthless enemy who controlled all of Europe’s coastline from Norway’s North Cape to the Bay of Biscay.

  Only the RAF was in a position to strike at the enemy-held ports, but in the early months of 1941 its resources were still pitifully weak, and results so far had been negligible. The first of Bomber Command’s new heavy bombers, the Short Stirling, had flown its first operational mission on the night of 10 February, three aircraft of No. 7 Squadron from Oakington taking part in an attack on the oil storage tanks at Rotterdam, and on 10 March six Handley Page Halifaxes of No. 35 Squadron had been sent out to bomb Le Havre dockyard. Four bombed the primary target, one attacked Dieppe, and one aborted. It was hardly a successful mission, and to make matters worse one of the Halifaxes was shot down by an RAF night fighter over Surrey while returning to base.

  The third new heavy bomber to enter service, the Avro Manchester, was a bitter disappointment to Bomber Command. It was designed to the same specification as the Halifax, but used two Rolls-Royce Vulture engines instead of four Merlins, with unfortunate consequences. On the night of 24 February 1941, six aircraft of No. 207 Squadron set out to attack Brest harbour, and one crashed through engine failure on its return. The Vulture engines were unreliable; often, they would carry the aircraft on long-distance raids without the slightest hint of trouble, only to burst into flames for no apparent reason towards the end of the sortie. To solve the problem, Avro had been experimenting with a converted Manchester, known as the Mark III, fitted with four Merlins. The aircraft had made its first flight in January 1941, and it had now received a new name. They called it the Lancaster.

  At Crosby-on-Eden, the light was fading fast, and Armstrong decided to call it a day. After making sure that everything was secure and telling the ground staff to go off for their tea, he and Baird headed for the latter’s car. Armstrong and his staff had arrived at Crosby some five weeks before, while the living accommodation on the airfield was still being erected; he had fixed up a billet for the officers in a small hotel in the village of Brampton, about three miles away, and for the other ranks in a comfortable youth hostel that was normally used by the hikers who had trudged along the Roman Wall in happier times. Armstrong liked the arrangement, which did away with the need to use the messes on the aerodrome and preserved a great deal of his unit’s anonymity. The squadron personnel all had the benefit of a good breakfast and dinner, and sandwiches took care of their lunch requirement.

  The little hotel in Brampton was run by a charming middle-aged couple, the MacDonalds, who did not in the least mind being overwhelmed by Service officers. After all, they paid the bills in a time of hardship. Armstrong and Baird made straight for the residents’ lounge where, as they had predicted, a cheerful fire was burning. Beside it, in a high-backed chair, a man sat, and in contrast to the fire he looked anything but cheerful. He wore grey slacks, a thick white pullover and carpet slippers, and as the two officers entered the room he was busily and noisily applying a handkerchief to a nose that was a deep shade of red.

  “Feeling any better, Stan?” Armstrong enquired, sitting down opposite and stretching out his hands towards the blaze. Flight Lieutenant Stanislaw Kalinski peered miserably at him through streaming eyes.

  “No,” the Polish officer said bluntly. “And I think I’ve been poisoned.” He explained that Mrs MacDonald had been dosing him heavily with her own patent cold cure. “A few brandies would fix me,” he added, “but there’s not much chance of that here, is there?”

  Baird, who was sitting astride a dining chair, his arms resting on its back, gave a barely suppressed snort of laughter. Kalinski’s love of strong liquor was well known, and his face when he found out that Armstrong had billeted them in a temperance hotel had been something to behold.

  Kalinski’s cold was the result, or so he claimed, of a brief flirtation with one of the RAF’s twin-engined medium bombers, the Handley Page Hampden. One Hampden squadron, based in East Anglia, had been given the task of carrying out torpedo-dropping trials with the aircraft, and Kalinski had been despatched to observe and report back on the success or otherwise of the scheme. The trials had been carried out over a bombing range in The Wash; since the Hampden was designed to be flown by only one pilot, Kalinski had made a number of trips over a period of about a week in the upper gun position to watch results, and had quickly discovered one of the Hampden’s limitations. The bomber was very streamlined, and as the airflow swept past its narrow fuselage sides it curved in behind the gun turret and sent a backwash of icy air through the gap in the cupola through which the machine-guns protruded. After each trip, Kalinski had crawled from the turret frozen stiff, with a layer of ice crackling on his face.

  As soon as his cold had developed after his return, Armstrong had confined him to quarters, despite the Pole’s protests.

  “You know the score, Stan,” he had told him. “You’d only give it to everyone else, and people can’t fly with a cold. Stay in the warm and write up your report instead.” Which is exactly what Kalinski had done, grumbling under his breath about the lack of fortifying drink.

  Their host, a portly man with a tonsure of grey hair and a chubby, florid face, came in and greeted them warmly in a strong Cumbrian accent.

  “Dinner will be ready shortly,” he announced. “Mrs Mac has some nice mutton stew on the go. Just the ticket for a cold night.” He stooped over the hearth, picked up the coal scuttle and threw some of its contents on the fire. “Must listen to the nine o’clock news tonight,” he said, straightening up. “Maybe there’ll be more about that naval victory in the Med.”

  “What victory’s that, Mr Mac?” Armstrong wanted to know. MacDonald turned his ruddy features towards him.

  “There’s been a battle,” he said. “It was mentioned on the six o’clock bulletin. Our lads have given the Eyeties another pasting. Almost as good as Taranto, they reckon.”

  Taranto, Armstrong reflected, following hard on the heels of the RAF’s hard-won victory over southern England last summer, had provided a real tonic for British morale, and a superb effort on the part of the British Mediterranean Fleet. At one stroke, it had knocked out the most dangerous and effective units of the Italian Fleet. Armstrong had made a careful study of the action, for there were many lessons to be learned from it.

  Plans for an attac
k on Taranto by carrier-borne aircraft had been laid as long ago as 1935, when Italian forces invaded Abyssinia. There were actually two main Italian naval bases, one at Naples and the other at Taranto; and it was at the latter, in the autumn of 1940, that the Italians had begun to concentrate their heavy naval units to counter the threat from the British Mediterranean Fleet.

  With only the old carrier Eagle at the disposal of the British naval commander, Admiral Cunningham, an attack on the big Italian base had been regarded as impracticable, but the arrival of the much more modern Illustrious by way of reinforcement had changed the picture completely. The plans were revised, and it was decided to mount a strike from the Illustrious and Eagle on the night of 21 October, the anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar. Before that date, however, a serious fire swept through Illustrious’s hangar; some of her aircraft were totally destroyed and others put temporarily out of action, and the strike had to be postponed by three weeks.

  Air reconnaissance had revealed that five of the six battleships of the Italian battle fleet were at Taranto, as well as a large force of cruisers and destroyers. The battleships and some of the cruisers were moored in the outer harbour, the Mar Grande, a horseshoe-shaped expanse of fairly shallow water, while the other cruisers and destroyers lay in the inner harbour, the Mar Piccolo. The ships in the outer harbour were protected by torpedo nets and lines of barrage balloons. It was the balloons, perhaps even more than the anti-aircraft batteries, that would present the greatest hazard to the low-flying Swordfish.

  The date of the attack — code-named Operation Judgement — was fixed for the night of 11 November. Because of defects caused by the many near-misses she had suffered in earlier air attacks, the Eagle had to be withdrawn from the operation at the last moment; five of her aircraft were transferred to the other carrier. The Illustrious and the fleet sailed from Alexandria on 6 November, and two days later the warships made rendezvous with several military convoys in the Ionian Sea, on their way from Malta to Alexandria and Greece. The concentration of ships was located and attacked by the Regia Aeronautica, the Italian Air Force, during the next two days, but the attacks were broken up by 806 Squadron’s Fulmar fighters, which claimed the destruction of ten enemy aircraft for no loss.