16 AUGUST
One of the strengths of RAF Fighter Command in the summer of 1940, quite unappreciated by Schmidt, Goering and the Luftflotten staff, was its wide-ranging recruitment. The presence on almost all squadrons of pilots from the Empire and Commonwealth – Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Canada, Southern Rhodesia– or from the European conquered countries, especially Poland, Czechoslovakia, Belgium and France, gave strength to the belief that they were engaged not just in a fight for survival but also a crusade of good against evil. In mess bars and dispersal huts the sight of shoulder flashes denoting Czechoslovakia, Canada, France or Belgium added a united nations spur to the enterprise before that name had been given authority.
None fought in the air with greater single-minded ferocity than the Poles and Czechs, many of whom had lost families as well as homes and had witnessed the depraved barbarism of the German invaders. Sergeant Josef Frantisek, for example, in a period of nineteen months from March 1939, fled his native Czechoslovakia for Poland, fought and gained his first victories in an absurdly obsolete Pulawksi fighter, escaped to Romania on Poland’s collapse, broke out of his internment camp and reached France via Syria, where he fought with the Armée de 1’Air in slightly less speculative aircraft, bringing his total of accredited successes to eleven before France, too, collapsed.
In England this remarkable Czech was happy to fly with the Poles of 303 Squadron (Hurricanes). His ardent spirit, his skill as a pilot, and his total dedication to the craft of killing Germans, impressed even his Polish fellow pilots. When he finally died on 8 October he was Fighter Command’s highest scoring pilot with an accredited total of twenty-eight enemy planes.
Although none of them achieved numerical successes to match the little Czech sergeant, the handful of Americans made an impact far out of proportion to their numbers. As early as mid-July the RAF, anticipating severe pilot shortages, let American newspaper correspondents know ‘the Royal Air Force is in the market for American flyers as well as American airplanes. Experienced airmen, preferably those with at least 250 flying hours to their credit, would be welcomed by the RAF,’ ran a report in the New York Herald Tribune of 14 July. All they had to do was to cross into Canada, pass a physical examination and sign on: no swearing an oath to the British crown, it was emphasised.
Other Americans had anticipated events. Jimmy Davis, for example, was commissioned into the RAF before the outbreak of war and served in 79 Squadron (Hurricanes). The squadron was sent to France in an attempt to stem the advance of the blitzkrieg, and like all the others had a breathtaking time, fighting against grotesque odds and hustled from airfield to airfield.
Davis had a number of successes before the remnants of the squadron got back to England, and Biggin Hill. One afternoon in late June he and three other pilots of 79 were due to be decorated by the King. Davis never made the airfield investiture. When George VI enquired why he had a DFC left over, he was told that Flight Lieutenant James Davis* had just been shot down and killed. ‘He was a first-class pilot and a great chap,’ Pilot Officer Donald Stones commented.
No. 609 Squadron (Spitfires) was blessed with the greatest number of American pilots, a trio who could have formed a music-hail comedy team if the issues had been less serious. They were Pilot Officers E. Q. ‘Red’ Tobin, Andrew ‘Andy’ Mamedoff and V. C. ‘Shorty’ Keogh. Tobin was tall, loose-limbed, a Jimmy Stewart character with an engaging sense of humour who would cry out, when scrambled, ‘Saddle her up, boys – I’m ridin’!’
Mamedoff was the second in height, a tubby fellow with a round face and a ready-grown RAF moustache, liked by all. As for ‘Shorty’ Keogh, he really was a midget, four feet ten only and requiring cushions to build up his cockpit seat, but once settled he proved to be a miracle-pilot, capable of making the Spitfire perform almost more than its full repertoire.
Before the war Keogh had been a barnstormer and professional parachutist, completely lacking in nerves. The three of them had come over to help the Finns fight the Russians in 1939, switched to France when the Finns surrendered and, like so many Poles and Czechs, made their way across the Channel to what they saw as the last island bastion of freedom in Europe.
In London it was not so easy to convince the authorities of the seriousness of their intentions, understandably enough in view of their joint appearance. One of 609’s finest pilots, John Bisdee, later wrote of the trio:
These three were really down and out in England. They went to drown their sorrows in a pub in London, where they met an air commodore. They explained their sad predicament and he said, ‘Get in touch with me tomorrow’…. By noon they had been commissioned in the Royal Air Force and sent off with some money to buy uniforms.1
By 8 August they had been posted to 609 at Middle Wallop. They served heroically and successfully through the busy weeks that followed, and then transferred to the first Eagle Squadron when it was formed in late September. All three were killed later in the war, and of the eight Americans originally in RAF Fighter Command up to August 1940, only one survived – J. K. Haviland DFC – whom no one has traced recently.
Perhaps the most memorable of all the American fighter pilots was Billy Fiske, young and immensely popular, from a privileged background,* which had helped him over the obstacles the American Ambassador placed in the way of American volunteers. His flight commander, Sir Archibald Hope Bt, wrote of him:
Unquestionably Billy Fiske was the best pilot I’ve ever known. It was unbelievable how good he was. He picked up so fast it wasn’t true. He’d flown a bit before, but he was a natural as a fighter pilot. He was also terribly nice and extraordinarily modest, and fitted into the squadron very well.2
Billy Fiske was in the thick of the mid-August fighting when his squadron was operating from Tangmere. On 13 August he was in close combat with a great number of Me 110s, one of which succeeded in hitting him. It was 12.15 p.m. over Portland. Fiske managed to get back home unhurt and his Hurricane was not much damaged. He was to be as deeply involved in the raids on the south coast on 16 August, too.
The contribution from the United States’ northern neighbour was, of course, much more substantial. Many Canadians had signed on with the RAF before the war and most of these formed the revived 242 Fighter Squadron, with its moose head badge and ‘Toujours prêt’motto, at Coltishall in October 1939. The squadron became operational on Hurricanes under the command of Squadron Leader F. M. Gobeil in March 1940. After operating flights from Biggin Hill over France when the fighting became desperate in May, 242 Squadron became involved in the last days of Allied resistance from French airfields, suffering grave losses but also shooting down a lot of Luftwaffe aircraft. Pilot Officer Willie McKnight was the top scorer, and he went on to be credited with sixteen-and-a-half victories before the end of the Battle, earning a DFC and Bar.
By the time the remnants of 242 Squadron arrived back in England, the Canadian element had been much diluted. But meanwhile the first Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) fighter squadron was being formed under the command of that great fighter, Squadron Leader E. A. McNab. Even the aircraft of 1 (RCAF) Squadron were home produce, their Hurricanes being among the first to be shipped to Britain.
No. 1 (RCAF) Squadron worked up under the wing of 111 Squadron and finally went into action for the first time from Northolt on 26 August. It was a hectic baptism for the Canadians and there were many losses of aircraft, though pilot loss remained relatively low. The squadron claimed no fewer than seven enemy aircraft in the widespread fighting on 27 September and remained in the heat of the Battle until the end.
Of the critical day of 15 September, Squadron Leader McNab wrote: ‘It was a terrific spectacle. There were so many aircraft in the sky that there was as much danger of colliding with another fellow as there was of being shot down. There were more than a thousand aircraft in the sky just south of London. I counted nine aircraft falling at one time, and there were parachutes everywhere.’
There were more Canadians scattered among other squadrons, the most successful and notable being Johnny Kent. After helping 303 (Polish) Squadron to become operational, Kent was promoted squadron leader and led 92 Squadron. He had already built up a sizeable score and was awarded the DFC and Bar, and later the AFC.
Twenty-one South Africans made a contribution out of all proportion to their numbers, and more than half that number were killed, among them Flying Officer Norman Barry of 3 and 501 Squadrons, and Flying Officer Chris Davis DFC of 601 Squadron, who succumbed to a ferocious attack by Me 109s on 6 September.
Three of the most notable South Africans were Flight Lieutenant G. D. L. Haysom DSO, DFC, of 79 Squadron, Flying Officer P. H. ‘Dutch’ Hugo DSO, DFC and Bar, of 615 Squadron, and certainly the most famous of all, Squadron Leader ‘Sailor’ Malan DSO and Bar, DFC and Bar (and numerous foreign decorations), whose inspiration was as pricelessly valuable as his sublime shooting.
There had been a particularly long and sustained recruiting drive for pilots in New Zealand in the years leading up to the war, which resulted in this relatively modest-sized country contributing a greater number of aircrew than any other Dominion. On a number of squadrons their fighting prowess was a significant inspiration, right from the beginning – from 3 July specifically, when Brian Carbury, a flying officer on 603 Squadron, shared with another ‘Kiwi’, Ken Lawrence, a Ju 88 off Land’s End. Carbury went on to build up a fine score and was awarded a DFC and Bar.
Squadron Leader James Leathart’s 54 Squadron was the most richly endowed with New Zealand talent. Among them was Pilot Officer Billy Williams, whose Spitfire was set on fire over the Isle of Wight just after he had sent a bomber down in flames. He managed to force-land successfully and ran clear as his plane blew up. No. 54 Squadron’s two flight commanders, Colin Gray and Alan Deere, became New Zealand legends in their own time, and years later, heavy with decorations, retired as Group Captain and Air Vice-Marshal respectively.
Contemporary photographs show these two friends as strongly contrasting in appearance, Gray’s face being as narrow as Deere’s was square-jawed. Colin Gray had trouble being accepted at first for medical reasons, but succeeded in building up his strength and stamina with farming work, and arrived in England for his training in January 1939. His shooting was almost in the Malan class, and twice in mid-August he shot down two Me 109s in one day, no mean feat.
Al Deere, of Irish stock, made his mark six weeks before the official opening of the Battle. Accompanied by Pilot Officer Johnny Allen, he formed an escort for his flight commander, who had determined to attempt the rescue in a two-seat training plane of the CO of 74 Squadron, stranded between the lines at Calais-Marck airfield. The daring operation was a complete success, Deere shooting down two – and probably a third – of the numerous Me 109s which attempted to interfere. Deere appeared to lead a charmed life but it was his peerless courage and instant reactions (he had been a champion RAF boxer) which brought him through.
As for the wide recruitment, these figures speak for themselves:
Fighter Command aircrew not from the UK who took part in the Battle*
‘Black Thursday’ was the name given by the Germans to the operations of the previous day, 15 August. The losses had indeed been heavy, but not on a scale to lead to any change of strategy. Goering, still adhering to the lessons of Poland, Norway and France, intended to persist with his policy of attrition against what he had been led to believe were vital RAF airfields. He could not bring himself to believe that they could not be put permanently out of action, thus forcing the enemy back farther and farther from the coast, at the same time reducing his numbers until Fighter Command deteriorated into a spent force.
The anti-cyclone continued its tight grip over northern Europe, but with each passing day conditions increasingly tended to bring early morning mist. This suited both combatants. The RAF pilots appreciated an hour or two longer in bed, and the ground crews treasured the bonus of time to service and repair their aircraft. As for the Luftwaffe, the loss of thirty-five bomber crews from KG3, KG26 and LG1 alone required the summoning of replacement aircraft and men, which could not be carried out instantly.
The first bombs of the day fell on West Mailing (uncompleted) airfield again soon after 11 a.m. Underestimating the size of the plots approaching the Kent coast, Park ordered only a nominal response. For this reason a force of Dorniers broke through unopposed and reopened a good many of the craters painstakingly filled in overnight. It was, as Park had suspected, no more than an overture, and sure enough at midday an indisputably big raid showed itself on the radar screens at Dover and Foreness. Estimating a total enemy force of around 300, he scrambled more than eighty fighters.
Soon the most identifiable threat appeared to be a strong force of Dorniers heading for the Thames Estuary and Hornchurch sector station. No. 54 Squadron Spitfires were in the most favourable position to deal with this heavily escorted raid. The CO, James Leathart, led his nine machines into the Dorniers, breaking them up, forcing them to jettison their bombs and scatter for home. All this took less than half a minute, which was as well for the Me 109s were now mixing it seriously, although they too had to head for home almost at once because they were at the limit of their range. Colin Gray, destined to be one of the big scorers – and to survive – picked off two 109s. One of these crashed on an enemy airfield, considered to be an excellent morale depressant for all eyewitnesses.
Combat on a larger scale was by now breaking out all over the southern and western home counties as a great wedge of Dorniers from KG2 advanced like a brigade of flying tanks and then split up, every one heading for an airfield. It was 12.15 p.m., and Park had the veteran 32 and 111 Squadrons (Hurricanes), and three Spitfire squadrons, including 266 led by the thirty-year-old Rodney Wilkinson. Wilkinson had fought hard to get on to ops, even turning down the Duke of Kent’s offer to be his ADC.
His squadron and John Thompson’s 111 went into the bomber formations the way they knew to be most effective and, as far as enemy return fire was concerned, safest: line abreast, head-on. Split-second timing was called for, and unfortunately, early in the proceedings, one of Thompson’s flight commanders, the newly promoted and newly decorated Henry Ferris, held his line fractionally too long. Bomber and fighter exploded, breaking up the formation and scattering wreckage far and wide, along with the bodies of Ferris, Oberleutnant Brandenburg and his crew of three. A minute later Thompson’s persistent attacks on another Dornier sent it crashing into hop fields north of Ashford.
At the same time, 266’s Spitfires jumped a Staffel of 109s over the Kent coast, and shot down their leader, Hauptmann Ebbighausen. But as happens so often in fighter-to-fighter duels, the Spitfires were jumped in their turn, and no fewer than five of them, including their squadron commander, had been shot down, three of them killed.
Among the dead was Wilkinson. Of him one of his friends, ‘Chips’ Channon, wrote: ‘I shan’t forget his engaging charm, his curious shuffle and infectious gaiety. He had strange Egyptian eyes, long limbs and a natural elegance, but seemed fated to die.… He was typical of the type which is serving and saving England….’3
Another who died in this intense battle was Sub-Lieutenant Henry la Fore Greenshields RN. Hard-pressed for experienced fighter pilots, the RAF had gladly accepted increasing numbers of volunteers from the senior Service. In all the Admiralty ‘lent’ fifty-eight Fleet Air Arm pilots to the RAF during the Battle, and the value of these seasoned men cannot be overestimated.
Less than one hour later an even greater massacre of a single unit was taking place eighty miles to the west. Luftflotte 3 had set up another big raid on southern airfields timed to coincide with the withdrawal of Luftflotte 2’s raids and the expected refuelling and rearming of 11 Group’s fighters. No. 10 Group’s fighters had, however, not so far been disturbed; nor had 11 Group’s Tangmere wing, although mercifully – these were scrambled shortly before a mixed force of heavily escorted bombers turned up with exemplary promptitude off the Isle of Wight’s eastern tip, the Nab.
Ventnor was still out of action, but Poling’s CH aerials were not required by 1 p.m., when all with eyes could pick out the mass of dots assembling as if for some aerial display. A multi-coloured flare shot up from the leader’s machine and, as it descended, the show was on.
The bulk of the dive-bombers made no effort to conceal their intentions, flying fast and straight for Tangmere, tumbling down from 12,000 feet, sirens screaming. This was the Stuka’s most vulnerable moment, and one or two Hurricanes got in amongst them. But the great majority continued their near-vertical dives, picking out the hangars and other buildings, including stores and the officers’ mess. Gunner J. J. Ingle, a QE layer of the 98th Heavy Anti-Aircraft Regiment, recently deployed to help defend the airfield, wrote: ‘Neither us or the ground defences on the airfield could open fire as our fighters were taking off as fast as they could and were mixed up with the Germans.’
The timing of the attack was perfect, therefore, and two of Tangmere’s hangars were totally destroyed and the other three damaged. Inside them six Blenheims and seven Hurricanes were demolished. The airfield was pockmarked with craters like the moon’s surface and sinister earth bulges marked the position of delayed-action bombs.
Everyone who survived that Tangmere raid on the ground has vivid memories of the aftermath. An airframe fitter on 43 Squadron, Peter Jones, recalled: ‘When the raid was over, the place looked a sorry mess. I remember looking at the broken aircraft and saying, “There’s a hell of a lot of work to be done.” Later on we heard a rumour that the group captain had floored a stroppy German prisoner with a good right hook. That cheered us up no end. Then the Women’s Voluntary Service turned up, armed with churns of tea. I had a mug of tea thrust into my hand and a lighted Woodbine stuck into my mouth. That was my first cigarette, and I’ve been an addict ever since.’
It had been a routine, and characteristically accurate, attack by the experienced pilots of I/StG2 Stukageschwader. Equally effective was the Hurricane counter-attack, led by 43 Squadron, which shot down seven of the dive-bombers as they raced for home and damaged three more. The Tangmere anti-aircraft fire had put another into the ground, though quite gently, so that a crowd soon gathered to admire the near-intact plane; while at St Malo and Lannion there were many empty seats at dinner that evening.
In spite of the smoke and craters, the Tangmere aircraft all managed to land back safely – with one exception. Billy Fiske’s flight commander, Archibald Hope, saw one of 601’s Hurricanes lying on its belly, belching smoke, as he came in on his final approach. ‘I taxied up to it and got out. There were two ambulancemen there. They had got Billy Fiske out of the cockpit. They didn’t know how to take off his parachute so I showed them. Billy was burnt about the hands and ankles. I told him, “Don’t worry. You’ll be all right….” Our adjutant went to see him in hospital at Chichester that night. Billy was sitting up in bed, perky as hell. The next thing we heard he was dead. Died of shock.’4*
As the young American was being slipped into the ambulance, other tragedies and triumphs were occurring not far away. The naval stations at Gosport and Lee-on-Solent all suffered some damage, and repairs to Ventnor CH were put back another few days by some more pinpoint Ju 87 dive-bombing.
Brand tried to cope with these widespread raids with a force which, even when complete, was manifestly inadequate. Many raiders got through unscathed, but three aircraft of red section, 249 Squadron, were in the right place at the right time. John Grandy had brought his squadron down from the north only two days earlier, and this section, led by Flight Lieutenant James Nicolson, was patrolling near Southampton when they sighted a strong force of Me 110s.
Nicolson led them straight in, but before they could open fire, like 266 Squadron earlier in the day, they were bounced by 109s. One of his pilots baled out of his burning Hurricane in the nick of time, while Squadron Leader (supernumerary) Eric King managed to escape and get back to Boscombe Down. As for Nicolson, he persisted in his attack on a 110 in spite of the flames licking round him, pressing it home before abandoning his machine, with severe burns to his hands and face.
The two pilots found themselves parachuting down close together. This was interpreted by a nerve-racked Royal Artillery officer as an enemy paratroop assault, and he ordered his men to open fire. It is believed that members of the Local Defence Volunteers joined in. The pilot officer was killed instantly when his shrouds were severed, and Nicolson was wounded as he landed, already in agony from his burns. He was awarded the Victoria Cross, the only fighter pilot of World War II to receive it.
Later in the afternoon both Sperrle and Kesselring launched further attacks south, east and west of London. But after about 4.30 the clear weather gave way to scattered and thickening cloud. This had the double effect of increasing the bomber groups’ navigational problems and decreasing the defending fighters’ ability to intercept. Overland, Park and Brand were almost entirely dependent on Observer Corps reports, and these were hard to come by when scattered raids of from two to fifty bombers were roaming the countryside at 10–15,000 feet, only intermittently visible from the ground.
The result was that for a few hours there were more undetected enemy aircraft over England than at almost any time during the Battle, and more misidentified airfields attacked (including grass landing-strips). One other record was broken, too: the number of aircraft on the ground destroyed in a single raid.
No one will ever know now whether it was luck or amazing navigation which led two Ju 88s to Brize Norton, west of Oxford, a busy training airfield with a maintenance unit attached. The bombers were said to have lowered their undercarriage as if coming in to land and in the hope of being identified as Blenheims, as they often were. They then proceeded to place their bomb-loads exactly where they wanted them to go.
The two Junkers each dropped sixteen bombs, mainly on the hangars, which were packed with Airspeed Oxford trainers, all with full fuel tanks for the next morning’s flying. Forty-six were destroyed, more damaged, and eleven Hurricanes with the maintenance unit were also knocked about. Few people saw the Ju 88s come, none saw them go; in fact, the next people to see them were friendly and on the other side of the Channel.
In spite of this success, it had been another frustrating day for the Luftwaffe. ‘Again the weather was in league with the British,’ wrote Cajus Bekker bleakly. ‘In Luftflotte 2’s operations zone such salient bases as Debden, Duxford, North Weald and Hornchurch escaped the fate of Tangmere just because the attacking forces were unable to find them through the cloud.’
The German intelligence about the function of enemy airfields was further confounded by a grave slip, but a providential one, in British security. Sub-Lieutenant Greenshields of 266 Squadron had taken off with an unposted letter to his parents in his pocket. In it he described how his squadron had been bombed at Eastchurch. In fact, they had made only a brief landing at this Coastal Command station. But when this letter was discovered in the dead pilot’s pocket when he was dragged from the Channel, it provided the confirmation German intelligence needed that it was, in fact, a front-line fighter station. Many more tons of bombs were dropped, and wasted, on this hapless airfield as a result.
While keeping a watching brief on the American press at the same time, that most excellent observer of life in Britain, Mollie Panter-Downes, wrote graphic accounts of the Battle and its effects on everyday life for the New Yorker magazine. Back in July, she had recorded how
it was hoped that the number of German planes destroyed would be duly noted by sections of the American press which appears to people here to act as though mesmerised by the achievements of the Luftwaffe…. Many astonished Britons taking time off from the war to read how American editors think it’s going, have felt like protesting, like Mark Twain, that the reports of their death have been greatly exaggerated.
* Because he was killed before 10 July Davis does not qualify statistically as a Battle pilot.
* His 4½ litre open Bentley, in British racing green, complete with bonnet-strap and projecting supercharger, did his cause no harm at all.
* Participating aircrew of Fighter Command from within the UK numbered 2,316, of whom 403 were killed (figures from RAF Battle of Britain Museum, Hendon).
* On 4 July 1941, Independence Day, the American Ambassador, John Winant, unveiled a memorial tablet to Fiske in the crypt of St Paul’s Cathedral.