Tumult in the Clouds

by James Goodson

  We know what happened to three of them. It has been stated that only two Luftwaffe planes came up on D-Day, one of which was piloted by ‘Pips’ Priller, then Kommodore of Galland’s old JG26, ‘Schlageter’ Squadron, known to us as the ‘Abbeville Boys’. It’s true that only two got through to the beach-head, but that was because of the intervention of Allied fighters south, east and west of the landings.

  ‘Kid’ Hofer was leading a section of 334 Squadron when they were attacked by fifteen German fighters. Flying with him was someone who shouldn’t have been there: big handsome Captain Bernard McGrattan had his bags packed to go back to the States for a well-deserved rest after a year in combat, and nine victories. He was determined not to miss D-Day but he was due to leave that afternoon. He figured he could sneak in one mission and still catch his afternoon transport.

  He didn’t make it.

  Hal Ross was shot out of the sky by a 109 while he was attacking another German plane which was strafing a Canadian pilot parachuting down. His last combat was watched by the villagers of the town of Bacquepuis, who buried him in their cemetery.

  From that section, only Hofer survived.

  Mike was also flying with 334, so must have been in the same area. I heard him tell his wingman, Ed Heppe, he had flown through some electric cables while attacking a train. When the wingman reported little damage, Mike reported he was going after a second train. Some minutes later we heard Ed say: ‘Watch those behind you, White Leader!’

  That was the last we heard of either of them.

  When the Battle of Normandy was over, through friends in British Intelligence, I arranged to talk with German officer prisoners taken south of the beach-head. When they learned I could speak German, and had been above them on D-Day, they looked at me in wonder. ‘We couldn’t believe the ferocity of the attacks, nor the tenacity of the pilots. They ignored the flak completely, and came in time and time again almost touching the ground.’

  One officer in particular interested me. ‘We know about Japanese Kamikaze and Russian desperate attacks, and German ram fighters, but they were all fighting with their backs to the wall. We never expected you Americans to fly like that, especially when you were winning. Do you know, I saw two Mustangs destroy two trains completely. The leader must have been mad. He flew through walls of flak and small arms fire and even electric cables. I know he was hit many times, but he kept coming back. On his last dive, German fighters were after them, adding their fire to the ground fire. The leader crashed into the train, and it was all over. Now why should an American do that? He must have been mad!’

  ‘He just might have been a Pole!’ I said. A Pole on a beat-up to end all beat-ups.

  Right after the war, all of Europe was partly in ruins, short of food, clothing and housing, and almost everything else; but, at least in the West, there was relief that the war was over, and, even if there wasn’t much optimism, there was something which could be called hope. Even in West Germany and West Berlin, the basic energy and drive of those irrepressible people had not been killed. But the Germans who had just seen the barbed wire and watch towers of the POW and concentration camps destroyed as symbols of an intolerable regime, now saw them surrounding a concentration camps covering most of Europe. And the barrier was no artificial line of demarcation. Those on the other side were already different. The East Berliners had already lost the cheeky exuberance for which Berliners were famous, and which West Berliners had somehow managed to preserve. The joie de vivre of the Hungarians, the subtle humour of the Czechs, the towering strength of the Poles, the open friendliness of the Bulgarians and Rumanians, the liberty of the hardy Latvians, Lithuanians and Estonians, and the greatness of the soulful Russians; all submerged under a vast, dismal, grey blanket of fear and despair.

  It had been difficult obtaining the visas to get through East Germany and into Poland, and even more difficult changing trains in railway stations which were in complete confusion. Millions of Germans were being moved out of what had been Eastern Germany, and had now become part of Poland. Millions of Poles were being moved in. Every vestige of Germanism was being eradicated, by force if necessary. Millions of Poles were being moved out of what had been Eastern Poland to make room for Russians, and the streams of refugees, which should have ended with the war, were as massive and as tragic as ever.

  There was another, even more sinister deportation. There were the same freight wagons, with barbed wire over their windows, which I had seen on their way to the concentration camps during the war. Now they were transporting those thousands of Russians and others who had changed allegiance during the war, and fought on the German side. They had been turned over to the Russians by the Western Allies, who naively believed they would be treated humanely. They have not been heard of since. Even Poles were not sure what their fate would be. Certainly the Russians, and the new Polish Government were highly suspicious of Poles who had fought for independence in Poland, or had had contact with the West. Those Poles who had been fighting so valiantly in England for the liberation of Poland had got the message. There was no heroes’ welcome for them to come home to; no joyful reunions with wives, children and loved ones. The best a grateful, victorious nation could offer them was the right to stay in England.

  I thought of what Mike had once said to me when I talked of the success of the Russian army. ‘Poland,’ he said, ‘has always been attacked by Russia to the east or Germany from the west. Both aggressions have been brutal and vicious, but we Poles know that, of the two, the eastern enemy is by far the worst.’

  As I looked around at the confusion, misery and fear pervading post-war Poland, I understood.

  I felt it as I sat in the drab cafe in Cracow. The girl had been hard to trace and harder still to persuade to come to a meeting. When she finally came into the cafe, she was ill at ease. She recognised me easily by my clothes, and came to my table. She shook hands coolly, and didn’t return my warm smile. Her English was poor, so we spoke in German. Almost her only comment was: ‘Don’t speak German so loud.’

  She may have been nervous, but she showed little emotion of any kind. I told her Mike’s story. I explained his desire for her to know about it, and went through his album page by page. Before I had finished, I saw her looking around. She obviously wanted to leave. I closed the book, stood up and handed it to her. She shook her head. ‘Es ist alles vorbei! – It’s all over!’

  ‘Yes, and we won!’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You won your war, we lost ours!’

  She handed the book back to me and turned and left.

  The next day, I crossed the border into West Germany. As soon as the police control, passport control, currency control and customs control were finished, I went to the dining-car. A great load seemed to roll off my back. I realised I had caught the mood of the Iron Curtain and had been worried, depressed and nervous all the time I had been behind it. Now I knew we were back in the West. The dining-car steward was smiling.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Boss

  But no doubts or worries about what would happen after the war bothered Mike, or any of us in those heady days in 1940. We were going to win, and everything was going to be fine.

  Yet when we finally set sail for England, we were in for one let-down after another. It started with the old P&O liner which took us across the Atlantic. The over-crowding was unbelievable. The lower decks, presumably allocated to third class and steerage in pre-war days, and now crammed full of ‘other ranks’, reminded me of descriptions of the Black Hole of Calcutta. All facilities were hopelessly overloaded: the sanitary conditions were indescribable, particularly when the sea-sickness set in; and the catering arrangements were not much better. In the nether regions, it was impossible to move the troops to an eating area, so some sort of slop was delivered to the crowded masses where they squatted or lay on the filthy decks. Some of the pilots immersed themselves in a poker game which started as the convoy assembled in the great harbour of Halifax, Nova Scotia, and continu
ed non-stop until we docked in Southampton. Others drowned their sensitivities in smuggled liquor. Our friend Duffy only came to when we arrived in Southampton. He staggered to the port-hole, peered out at the land, and said: ‘Hell, we haven’t even left yet.’

  We looked down from the deck at the little trains and cars, so much smaller than anything the Canadians and Americans had ever seen. Ray Fuchs said: ‘It’s Toyland!’ In a way he was right.

  Now, we thought, we would soon be leaping into our Spit-fires, and dog-fighting with the Hun. But, if the RAF were desperately in need of new pilots, they didn’t show it. First we went to a reception centre in Bournemouth where we fretted and fumed for weeks until we were sent to Advanced Training on Miles ‘Master’ trainers. They weren’t much more advanced than the AT-6 Harvards we’d been flying in Canada, but we certainly needed the additional flying time.

  The frustrations of being stuck in training while history was being made in the busy skies of southern England, were partially compensated for by the beautiful countryside of Cumberland. The airfield was a few miles west of Carlisle, almost on the Solway Firth, on the other side of which was Dumfrieshire in Scotland. The base took its name from the nearest village: Crosby-on-Eden. And Eden it was. If you’ve never strolled out of The Dog and Gun into a glorious summer evening, hand in hand with a doe-eyed WAAF through the beautiful lush countryside of Crosby-on-Eden, then, my poor friend, you have never really lived!

  But I suppose my memories of Crosby-on-Eden are clouded by nostalgia. At the time, all other thoughts were dominated by the desperate eagerness to get into combat. We could only console ourselves by hoping that ‘they also serve who only stand and wait’.

  Finally the great day came, and we were posted to an operational squadron; but our dreams of daily duels between Spitfires and Me109’s remained unfulfilled. To begin with, we flew Hurricanes, not Spits; but we learned to love the rugged, solid old ‘Hurry’, which was really the mainstay of the Battle of Britain. Also, in the beginning we were not in 11 or 12 Group which were taking the brunt of the Luftwaffe attack. We were further north, and Air Marshal Dowding was reluctant to commit these reserves to the battle. My logbook for those days shows endless convoy patrols, and scrambles after high-level reconnaissance planes, and sneak raiders; but any German attack on coastal convoys was easily chased away; our Hurricanes couldn’t reach the altitudes of most of the recco planes; and the intruders used bad weather and cloud cover so effectively, that, even with radar, which in any case was only really effective over the sea, they were seldom caught.

  I wrote polite but persistent requests for transfer to 11 Group. I would like to think it was due to my eloquence, or the glowing reports from my CO that did it, but I suspect the RAF were thinking more of the public relations angle in the States. In any case, I was posted to a front line squadron in 11 Group.

  True, as an unblooded youngster, I was pretty much ignored, and still consigned to patrols and standing readiness. A typical chore for new pilots was to fly at dawn to forward bases like Hawkinge, Lympne and Manston, which were so easy for Jerry to hit, no planes were based there overnight. One sat in the cockpit waiting to be scrambled and hoping to be able to get off before being clobbered by a hit-and-run 109.

  Of course we flew operations with the squadron too, but always in the tail-end Charlie position under strict orders to stick to your number one, under pain of death, or worse. RAF Fighter Command was on the defensive, trying to keep up its strength for the expected German invasion. It was during that period that we learned the strict RAF discipline: staying in formation, sticking to your leader, only acting on orders, no ‘swanning about’ on your own. They were lessons the RAF had learned the hard way. Their losses had been heavy, not only in combat, but even more through bombing and strafing attacks on the ground, and, above all, accidents in training and as a result of bad weather.

  The Luftwaffe had been switched from attacking fighter bases to bombing cities just when they had almost destroyed RAF Fighter Command. It was a fatal decision, and now the scales were tipping the other way, but the RAF still had to build up its strength.

  The German daylight raids had to be abandoned for night raids. Although we had done night flying training at the cost of many accidents, it was only late in the game, and then very seldom, that we were allowed to take off at night. As the bomber stream droned over our bases on its way to London, we had to leave the defence to the night fighters and anti-aircraft guns. I couldn’t help feeling that launching a massive attack by day fighters against the night bombers would have stopped the blitz much sooner. They were undoubtedly afraid of accidents and collisions, but years later when the tables were turned, Hajo Herrmann’s ‘Wild Boar’ tactics showed that day fighters could shoot down 123 British bombers in three nights for virtually no losses of their own.

  I think the situation was that the Battle of Britain had been won, but it took the RAF some time to realise it. Indeed I’m not sure that we knew there had been a Battle of Britain. I never heard the term used until it was all over.

  But, if there were a few Americans in the Battle of Britain, and the Eagle Squadrons were getting organised, the part they played was a modest one, and they were the first to give all the honours to the glorious Few. It was their show.

  We were happy and proud to idolise them and try to emulate them. It was enough to be in their team, even if unnoticed. To be with the Command that was to produce Johnny Johnson, Sailor Malan, Pierre Clostermann, ‘Paddy’ Finucane, Bob Stanford Tuck, Doug Bader, Al Deere, Bluey Truscott, Cobber Caine. It was enough to be there, even on the fringe, at Tangmere, Biggin Hill, Kenley, West Malling: the names never lose their magic.

  It was also the show of the English people. I remember when we were based at Tangmere with 43 Squadron. We were frustrated and weary; a frame of mind popularly known in the RAF as being ‘browned off’. Probably because I was rated the most expendable, I was sent to pick up a replacement aircraft. The train journey gave me a chance to catch up on some sleep. When I came to, I found myself under the solemn gaze of a distinguished looking elderly gentleman sitting opposite me.

  ‘Excuse me’, he said, ‘I couldn’t help noticing that you’re a pilot.’

  ‘Yes, Hurricanes.’ I said.

  ‘I was in the last show, 14–18. Too old for this one. Gammy legs, too. Somme, you know. Home Guard now.’ He spoke in short sharp phrases, and was obviously forcing himself to overcome a natural reticence.

  I mumbled something about the importance of the Home Guard.

  ‘Wish my chaps could hear you say that. Damned difficult keeping up morale when there’s no action!’

  I sympathised with him, and considered the conversation ended. But I sensed that he was trying desperately to bring himself to say something.

  ‘I live in Goring. Goring-by-Sea. Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I fly over it almost every day. It’s only a few miles down the coast from us.’

  It was the opening he had been looking for.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could drop over to see us. Mean everything to the men. No, of course not. Damned stupid of me. Much too busy of course.’

  I was about to seize the excuse he’d given me to get out of an embarrassing situation, but something stopped me. The craggy face showed no emotion, but the grey eyes which had gazed on the slaughter of the Somme were too earnest – almost pleading. I said I’d go, and immediately regretted it.

  I cursed my foolishness even more on the fine Sunday afternoon I had to give up. Even if there wasn’t much chance of action, I might have been able to get in some flying time. He met me at the railway station, looking quite different in his uniform with two rows of ribbons. He had even organised transport in the form of a diminutive bull-nosed Morris, driven by a middle-aged man in khaki battle dress, who was obviously the owner of the car and had been persuaded to use his precious petrol ration to do me honour. We pulled up next to a stretch of green which in h
appier days had boasted tennis courts, a croquet lawn and a bowling green. Beyond it was the sea-front, now covered in barbed wire.

  The sergeant had the men drawn up on parade. They had battledress and World War I rifles. They were all ages and sizes, but they stood as rigidly to attention as any Guards regiment at the Trooping of the Colours, as the CO and I solemnly passed down the ranks in review. Afterwards, they marched, formed fours, presented arms and generally showed off their paces. They were not good, but were better than I had expected. The old man had obviously drilled them thoroughly, and afterwards, when they were stood at ease, I congratulated them, and their CO, and told them that we in the RAF appreciated their backing, and could fight better in the knowledge that the defence of the country was in such good hands. I didn’t believe a word of it, and neither did they, but the fact that we both knew it bound us together in a mutual conspiracy.

  I also shamelessly committed President Roosevelt and the United States Congress to entering the war, which compounded the conspiracy by putting it on an international level.

  There was no way to avoid having tea with the old man and his wife in a small cottage with a large, beautiful garden. The photographs in the crowded house told the story of an army life, from army forebears through military college, the regiment, the 14–18 war, the investiture at Buckingham Palace. It was all there.

  His wife was very much in his shadow, but, although he seemed to ignore her most of the time, an occasional pat on the hand indicated a deep understanding, forged over the years.

  Tea in the garden was difficult. I was impatient to get away and back to the squadron. We were all painfully aware of the contrast between the very English, ageing lieutenant-colonel and the brash young American fighter pilot.

  I took my leave as politely – and as quickly – as I could. He walked with me to the garden gate. Again I had the feeling that he desperately wanted to say something and didn’t know how.