CHAPTER 7
The dilemma for Dowding was that although the Luftwaffe had yet to bring his force to its knees, it was slowly being ground down by the intensity of enemy operations. His problem lay less with machines than with men. Appointed by Churchill as Minister of Aircraft Production, the business tycoon Lord Beaverbrook had cranked up the factories and workers until they were producing more than an adequate number of machines for Dowding. In the first four months of the year only 600 fighters had been produced, but from May to August Beaverbrook boosted this to over 1800. Overall, British production of new fighters was double that of the Germans over the same period. Therefore, in spite of losses in Hurricanes and Spitfires throughout August, the British-Canadian Baron had 1081 ready for action and about 500 under repair at the month’s end. The real bottleneck for Dowding was pilot numbers.
Within one week of Adlertag, eighty per cent of the initial squadron leaders were gone; a small number had been withdrawn from the battle due to stress, but greater numbers had either been wounded or killed outright in the furious air battles. Moreover, the freshly minted replacement aviators were arriving with an ever-diminishing level of training and experience. In effect the pre-war half-year training regime had been slashed to two weeks and men who should have been learning to fly were now thrust into actual aerial warfare. Making matters worse, nearly all of their pre-posting training was on older machines, including antiquated biplanes. In the pre-24 August lull, Fighter Command made a grim assessment of the battle so far and it was not pretty reading. While it was true that the Luftwaffe had ‘suffered more severely thus far,’ the authors of the RAF Narrative cautioned that, ‘Fighter Command had lost pilots it could ill afford; and the grim prospect of the fighter force slowly withering away through lack of pilots was already apparent...’[1]
Sustaining most of these losses was Park’s 11 Group, of which six squadrons had suffered a 50 per cent loss rate between 13 and 22 August.[2] In response, these units were replaced with squadrons from less heavily engaged Groups. Park worked feverishly to get everything ready for a renewed German assault. At Northolt, wearing a steel helmet and his trademark white overalls, the long-limbed Park strode about his duties purposefully. Under his direction airfields were repaired, defensive measures refined and, in an attempt to cut down on unnecessary losses, he ordered that reconnaissance interceptions were not to be chased out over the Channel, the site of too many pilot losses.[3] He also reiterated his instructions to controllers to avoid sending fighters to intercept marauding Me 109 formations and concentrate all efforts on the bombers. Given the increasing levels of German interest in the airfields he made it clear that 12 Group would need to provide cover for the airfields north of the Thames. Park industriously visited as many squadrons as he could personally, cementing his ‘hands-on’ leadership reputation by flying his Hurricane on visits to the Group’s airfields. The Germans, however, were about to bring their forces to bear directly on the airfields scattered around London.
‘We have reached,’ declared Göring on 19 August, ‘the decisive period of the war against England. The vital task is to turn all means at our disposal to the defeat of the enemy air force. Our first aim is the destruction of the enemy’s fighter force. If they no longer take to the air, we shall attack them on the ground, or force them into battle, by directing bomber attacks against targets within range of our fighters.’[4] To this end the greater weight of attacks was moved inwards. Although the coastal bases would still, as and when required, come under assault, the Luftwaffe now centred its major effort on the vital sector airfields. The Germans were hoping to force Fighter Command to give battle in the air and at the same time destroy its main bases of operation on the ground. As an unintentional by-product, the raids might diminish the effectiveness of Dowding’s elegant defensive network.
The Germans were still unaware of the importance of the sector stations and their all-important operations rooms. As command and control hubs, their role in facilitating the collection and dispersal of information and direction of air units was vital to the meaningful deployment of the Hurricanes and Spitfires. Consequently, the attacks offered the possibility of even greater rewards than they realised. Focusing on a smaller number of specific targets would also enable a concentration of force hitherto unseen in the campaign. Frustrated that Fighter Command was still very much alive and kicking—despite faulty intelligence suggesting that Dowding’s force was on its last legs—Göring transferred all of the fighters to Kesslring’s command in Pas de Calais. This would move the fighters within range of the airfields. Bombers would now receive a much heavier escort, reducing their losses and forcing greater numbers of the British single-engine fighters into direct combat with the Me 109s.
On the first day of the new phase of the battle, 24 August, the sky over England was clear blue—ideal for aerial operations. Park did not have to wait long before the croupiers at Northolt were shuffling markers around the giant maps in the operations room. What he saw was a massive buildup of Kesselring’s machines emanating from Cap Gris Nez. To temper the RAF response, Luftwaffe commanders had choreographed a series of cleverly designed opening pirouettes. An unending cortège of German machines was to fly parallel with the Sussex coastline at a distance of 20 miles out to sea. At various points Luftwaffe machines would break away from the line and head towards the coast in a series of feints. In this manner it was hoped to pull as many RAF fighters as possible into the air and follow up with actual attacks on airfields when fighters were forced to refuel. The first strike of over 100 machines ended in a draw. Few German aircraft were lost, despite twelve squadrons being put up, but RAF targets got off relatively unscathed. When midday arrived, another enemy formation was detected. Remarkably, alongside the Hurricanes a lone squadron of Defiants was scrambled.
Up until this point, the turret-fighters had been deployed in night-flying duties due to the savage mauling of 141 Squadron in July. Its sister Squadron, 264, had been engaged in nocturnal sorties in the interim but now found itself transferred to Hornchurch, and engaged the enemy for the first time in daylight operations. It was the beginning of a four-day period of intensive and costly action. It was felt that the Defiant squadrons had been given enough time to re-group and, with a collection of veteran pilots and gunners, were once again ready for battle. However, the optimism was misplaced, and the danger to the Defiants and their aircrews was compounded by the ill-considered decision to have them operate on a daily basis from the most vulnerable of bases: ‘Hell’s Corner’ at Manston. The base was exposed to lightning raids that offered the aircrew less warning than was afforded any other airfield in the battle. Overweight, and slow in a climb, the Defiants were at a serious disadvantage at such a forward airfield; intruders had often emptied their bomb-bays and were turning for home while the Defiants were still climbing to intercept.
The squadron was heavily populated with Anzacs, most notably the recently arrived New Zealanders Clifford Emeny and Robert Young. Both were air-gunners. Emeny had a knack for breaching protocol and rubbing officers up the wrong way, usually with good reason. Shortly after arriving he discovered that all four New Zealanders, who were all ranked as leading aircraftmen, had been denied entry to the sergeants’ mess, and were being assigned cleaning duties.[5] The New Zealander’s attitude regarding the former was ‘no food, no fight’ and regarding the latter declared that he had not ‘come half way around the world’ to tidy and clean up after other airmen. The commanding officer of the squadron agreed that it was inappropriate for them to play the ‘flunkey’ for the sergeants. Nevertheless, the ‘no food, no fight’ mantra smacked of mutiny to Squadron Leader Philip Hunter.
Emeny’s elegant solution was that Hunter promote them on the spot, an argument Hunter parried by pointing out that the route to the sergeant rank was graduated and in the ordinary course of things took time. ‘Well, I can understand that,’ countered Emeny, ‘but doesn’t wartime change all pre-war regulations and all air crew become sergeants?’ In the face of this onslaught the commanding officer spluttered that such provisions did not apply to New Zealanders, something he could not change. The New Zealander made an audacious and inspired lunge and suggested that Hunter phone the New Zealand High Commissioner, William Jordan, and ‘explain our situation to him’. The commanding officer made the tactical mistake of agreeing to put a call through. A few moments with the Commissioner was the end of the matter and after putting the phone down, Hunter told Emeny, to ‘go and get the other New Zealanders ... and go over to the stores and collect your sergeant’s stripes’. The plucky Kiwi was henceforth never denied entry into the sergeants’ mess. He had won his bureaucratic battle but sterner tests in the air were to follow.
Their very first scramble was nearly the squadron’s complete undoing. A short time after midday the freshly refuelled Defiants had barely made it into the air when the first bombs rained down on Manston. The turret-fighters clawed for altitude and eventually caught up with some of the raiding Ju 88s. Against the bombers the two-man machines were able to score some kills and even managed to knock out an Me 109. Within moments the battle was over. Tragically, three Defiants were lost including Hunter’s. Only the intervention of Hurricanes from 501 Squadron with New Zealander John Gibson at the helm prevented further losses.
Meanwhile, Manston was a mess, forcing the Defiants to land at Hornchurch. In a second raid, German bomber pilots saturated the airfield, kicking up so much chalk and dust that bomb aimers had trouble accurately picking out targets. By the time the raid was over the Manston living quarters had been reduced to matchwood and unexploded munitions planted malevolently among the administrative buildings had forced their evacuation. In all, seventeen people were wounded and the airfield was out of contact with 11 Group thanks to severed communications.
Still reeling from its losses, 264 was directed to intercept a German bomber formation heading towards the Thames Estuary. The formation was part of the day’s biggest offensive, which developed into attacks on Manston and Ramsgate to the south, and Hornchurch and North Weald to the north. Stepping into the leader’s role was Flight Lieutenant George Gavin, hastily elevated from a supernumerary acting squadron leader to the unit’s commanding officer. The fact that prior to his temporary posting with 264 he had never flown a fighter was not an impediment in the pilot-strapped Fighter Command of late August 1940.[6] For once the situation favoured the Defiants.
Single-man fighter squadrons were on the scene first and diverted the Me 109s, embroiling them in a series of dogfights. At 3.50p.m. the Defiants, unhindered by German fighters, waded into the formation of Ju 88s. Young swung the turret around to fire several bursts on a bomber from the port side. In 1939, Young, from Palmerston North, had missed out on a short service commission, so turned his attention to aircrew opportunities and, by March of the following year, had completed training as an air observer and gunner with the RNZAF and was on his way to Britain. The fire from the four Brownings tore open the fuselage of one of Göring’s Junkers. Young’s pilot, Harold Goodall, wrote up the combat report that evening: ‘The enemy aircraft started to dive, issuing forth white to black smoke. I followed him through the cloud and found him underneath. I attacked him from the front and saw bursts enter the cockpit. The enemy aircraft dived away very steeply.’[7] The Ju 88 became one of the nine enemy machines claimed by the Defiants, but at the cost of four more of their own machines.
The Defiants were only one small part of a massive defensive operation desperately fending off the aggressive German attacks. Elsewhere in the blue-draped battlefield, Kiwis Smith and Gray were involved in operations designed to protect North Weald and Manston. The Australian Gordon Olive would intercept intruders flying up the Thames.
Smith, who had been slightly wounded during combat with Me 109s, shot down an He 111 in the late afternoon. Although Gray had dispatched an Me 110 earlier that morning, his afternoon sortie was uncharacteristically fruitless.[8] Olive on the other hand, at 3.35p.m., led nine Spitfires from 65 Squadron in an attack on over 100 enemy aircraft in the Thames Estuary area. As an old hand in battle, Olive led his pilots up to 28,000 feet before delivering an attack on the formation, directly out of the sun. He hit an Me 110 but was unable to follow the descending fighter to its apparent demise due to the weight of enemy machines in the vicinity. He found himself with five Me 109s on his tail and although he managed to get a few rounds off he was only too happy to return to base in one piece.[9]
Thirty minutes later the fighting reached its height and Park, with all his available Squadrons in action, called on 12 Group to provide fighter cover for the exposed bases north of the Thames. Only a single squadron appeared and even these were less than successful. The six Spitfires of 19 Squadron were armed with experimental cannon and due to firing problems only a couple were able to exhaust their full complement of shells. The frugality of 12 Group’s effort was due to its commander Air Vice Marshal Trafford Leigh-Mallory’s attempt to combine a number of squadrons into a single Wing over the Group’s southernmost sector airfield, Duxford. In the end, the squadrons arrived too late to play a role in the fighting but as highflying spectators they saw the grim consequences of their tardiness: palls of smoke spiralling heavenward from the Hornchurch and North Weald airfields. Park was livid. The poor turnout from 12 Group was the catalyst for a war of words that would last a lot longer than the war itself.
Aside from fighting the Luftwaffe, Park was now engaged in a rearguard action within Fighter Command. At issue was his deployment of single squadrons to meet large formations of German intruders. Leigh-Mallory argued that it would be better to combine three to five squadrons together, then attack en masse. In this he was supported by one of the Second World War’s best-known fighter pilots, Acting Squadron Leader Douglas Bader, 242 Squadron. An above-average fighter pilot, Bader had lost his legs showboating in a biplane in the early 1930s. Tenacious and talented, he had incredibly re-entered the RAF’s flying arena. Like his boss, Leigh-Mallory, Bader chafed at the handmaiden role assigned to 12 Group. In response to incoming attacks he wanted to form up some sixty fighters over 12 Group’s Duxford headquarters, and then head south to intercept the German aircraft.
In principle, Park was not against the use of the so-called ‘Big Wings’, especially since he had deployed them in sweeps over Dunkirk a few months earlier, but he felt that the situation over England was of an altogether different nature. The proximity of 11 Group to the enemy precluded the luxury of being able to form up large formations, something even the more distant 12 Group was not immune to, as demonstrated by its 24 August failure. Assembling a Big Wing could take all of 45 minutes, by which time the enemy formation had arrived, bombed the target and was France-bound again. Park also considered radio technology inadequate to the task and that controlling such large numbers of fighters at any one time would prove difficult and increase collisions or incidences of friendly fire.
While Park agreed in theory that it would be good to meet the large German formations with similar-sized defensive units, it was just not possible to do so in a timely manner. In spite of the smoke over Hornchurch and North Weald, the latter having lost its messes, married quarters and some of its stores buildings, both remained open for business, more by good fortune than any effort by 12 Group. More willing to aid Park was the commander to his south-west, where Sperrle was launching an attack.
At the end of the day, 10 Group was called into action to intercept a southbound raid. Unfortunately the newly repaired Ventnor radar station was experiencing teething problems, the size and structure of the enemy intrusion was increasingly unclear, and the plots erratic. In the resulting chaos the pilots from Middle Wallop’s 609 Squadron ‘found themselves 5000 feet below a large formation of bombers and fighters, right in the middle of ... [their] own AA fire.’[10] The controllers had been operating under the mistaken impression that the raiders were low-flying Stukas and had thus vectored the fighters over Portsmouth into a maelstrom of their own anti-aircraft fire and leaving them vulnerable to enemy fighters.[11]
At the fringe of the débâcle was 234 Squadron and New Zealander Keith Lawrence, who spotted seventy enemy aircraft heading out to sea. He overtook the departing twin-engine fighter and fired a lengthy burst.[12] The starboard engine sprouted tar-coloured smoke, but Lawrence was unable to confirm its destruction in his after-action report. In the meantime, 609 had extricated itself from an almost impossible position, and although they did not have a single claim to add to their score sheet, they had survived with the loss of only one pilot. On the ground, however, the German bombers had cut a deep scar across the face of Portsmouth. Over 100 people were killed and a further 300 badly injured. It was the most destructive raid of the entire battle to date.
For the Germans, 24 August demonstrated the worth of dropping the slow and protection-hungry Stukas, and the strategy of running along the Sussex coast and making false jabs inland which had stretched Park’s resources. Luftwaffe commanders were pleased with the day’s effort and their ability to break through to the inner airfields at speed. The first day of the new phase was a stand-off, with Fighter Command losses numbering just over thirty destroyed or damaged aircraft against the Luftwaffe’s forty-eight. The greater losses for the Germans were somewhat made up for by the fires burning at Hornchurch and North Weald.
Although the fighting for the day appeared to have drawn to a close, in fact the Germans were planning a late-night visit. An hour before midnight some 200 bombers breached Channel airspace and raced for their targets in Kent, Sussex and Surrey. In a turn of events that would set in motion a series of reprisals ultimately changing the course of the battle, bombs destined for an aircraft factory in Rochester and the Thames Haven oil storage facilities in fact fell on London. Göring was livid—Hitler had expressly ordered that the city remain off-limits to Luftwaffe bombs. Nevertheless, the die was cast and in less than twenty-four hours Berlin felt the ire of British bombs for the first time.
Two days later, after continuous intense fighting, a large number of Anzacs were once again in the thick of it. Kesselring directed his morning assaults against the southern fields of Biggin Hill and Kenley, and his early afternoon attacks on Hornchurch and Debden. In a replay of 24 August, Sperrle launched a strong foray against Portsmouth before the evening was over. At 11.00a.m., fifty-two bombers escorted by twelve Me 110s and eighty Me 109s made landfall over Dover. Among the seventy-odd machines scrambled to meet this force was Flight Lieutenant John Hewson, 616 Squadron.[13] The Australian had responded to the call for Bomber Command volunteers to make up the falling numbers in Fighter Command. His brief familiarisation with his Spitfire did little to prepare him for 26 August. Vastly outnumbered, the squadron climbed to gain a modicum of advantage over a formation of fifty Me 109s, only to be bounced by another formation of Messerschmitts numbering no fewer than thirty. A deep swath of destruction was cut through the squadron, and of the twelve machines half were lost, with the death of two pilots and three wounded. Given his inexperience, Hewson was fortunate to scrape through the combat unscathed.
As the German bombers pushed further inland, Park was left with no alternative but to thrust the Defiants and their handful of Anzacs into the centre of the battle. The squadron was scrambled from Manston to face an incoming force of He 111s and Do 17s and an ominous escort of eighty Me 109s. It was just after midday when the forces clashed. Young was once again surveying the sky for intruders just after midday when they entered the storm. His pilot described in detail their ensuing engagement.
For the loss of three Defiants, 264 had accounted for six Do 17s and an Me 109. Not a bad effort considering the one Hurricane squadron that did take on the bombers unhindered had failed to bring down a single aircraft but had lost three members. Nevertheless, it was only a matter of time before the Defiants were again tragically exposed.
Two hours later, radar picked up signs of enemy preparations west of Belgium. It looked like it would be the day’s big raid, so Park put up ten squadrons. Then, when it became apparent that Hornchurch, North Weald and possibly London were the targets, he sent the remainder of his force into action and once again called on 12 Group to cover his northern fields, as his fighters went to intercept the raiders. The enemy split into a northern and southern fork. The former hit Debden, scattering buildings, destroying an aircraft and killing three airmen. Once again Leigh-Mallory failed to provide timely cover and 19 Squadron arrived only after the bombers had departed. This was in spite of the fact that Duxford was barely ten miles from Debden. The southern fork felt the weight of Park’s fighters and when the Me 109s were forced to abandon the bombers due to low fuel, the attack was turned aside. Bombers scattered their load over the English countryside to lighten their aircraft for the dash home.
Amongst the fighting of the early afternoon, Olive managed to panic a flock of Me 110s. Patrolling near Manston, Olive’s B Flight of 65 Squadron corralled the machines into a ‘defensive circle’ of about thirty aircraft:
Chastened, the enemy pilots re-circled their wagons and the Queenslander resumed his position above. Each time one of the heavy fighters attempted to disengage, the Australian chased it back into position. The cat-and-mouse game only concluded when the fuel gauge forced him to break off the torment and return to base.
In a repeat of events two days earlier, Sperrle attacked Portsmouth around 4p.m. with a force of some fifty He 111s attended by a fighter escort of over 100 machines. New Zealanders Harold North and Patrick Horton, natives of Dunedin, who had been clerks in, respectively, a law firm and the Mines Department only two years before, were there to meet them. North was flying a Hurricane as part of the Tangmere-based 43 Squadron and Horton a Spitfire in the Anzac-dominated 234 Squadron at Middle Wallop.
North, who sported Douglas Fairbanks-style combed-backed hair and pencil-thin moustache, was the first into action. The Squadron attacked six bombers near Portsmouth. As North passed through the enemy formation, he was nearly struck by hastily jettisoned bombs from panicked He 111s. After damaging one Heinkel, he in turn was badly hit by cannon fire. The shells shattered the Hurricane’s Perspex canopy; shards were embedded in his arm and shoulder and cut his forehead. A curtain of blood threatened to obscure his vision. North stripped off his helmet and attempted to staunch the flow with his free hand.[16] Tenaciously, he attacked another bomber only to be struck himself again, this time from the rear. He baled out east of Portsmouth, breaking his finger on impact. He was duly picked up and dispatched to Royal Sussex Hospital, Chichester. These new injuries, combined with a series of health issues, most notably kidney troubles, aged him prematurely.
The New Zealand writer Hector Bolitho later met North at a 43 Squadron ‘knees-up’ and was struck by the transformation. The lively ‘Knockers North’, who was blessed with a perpetual smile, gossiped agreeably with Bolitho ‘about the beauties of the Southern Alps and the joy of New Zealand fish and butter’, but it was noticeable that the Battle of Britain had taken a toll on his body. In addition to upper and lower false teeth, North’s ‘back and arms were riddled with pieces of shrapnel. He would pinch little points of steel out of his arm, like blackheads.’ Consequently, his ‘body was a perpetual distress to him’. ‘He was only twenty-four,’ recalled Bolitho, ‘but his hair was grey and if his face ever rested from smiling I think he would have looked very old.’[17]
Only minutes after North’s air battle, Horton, flying at 18,000 feet, heard the sound of machine-gun fire and turned steeply to see an Me 109 firing on his tail. In a dogfight that lasted over ten minutes he was pushed to the limit of his flying ability. Both pilots were able to score hits from the stern and deflection. The Luftwaffe airman in desperation made a couple of head-on attacks and at points the tussle took them skimming just above the cold Channel waters. Fortunately for Horton his aim was truer and eventually the wounded Me 109 slowed before ditching in the sea. In the euphoria of victory he circled his victim, who was splashing around in a life jacket, the aircraft having been consumed by the grey waters off the Isle of Wight. 18] Only the fact that he had to land ‘wheels-up,’ thanks to damage to his undercarriage, slightly tarnished his success. In the end, Sperrle’s heavily mauled and chastened aircraft and crews were forced to sprinkle the waters off Portsmouth with bombs as they swung for home.
Park’s defensive fight had been costly, but the Luftwaffe had come off worse, losing forty-one more machines than Fighter Command.[19] In the south the defensive effort, aided by 10 Group, led to Sperrle withdrawing his formations from major raids for three weeks. North of the Thames the only sore point was Debden. What rankled with Park was the repeated absence of 12 Group. Leigh-Mallory had endangered his airfields again. A decade after the battle, questions were still being raised about the Big Wing controversy and Park often answered by comparing the respective responses of the two groups, one on his shoulder and the other at his side:
Fortunately for Park, dawn the next day was marked by inclement weather, restricting the Luftwaffe to a handful of reconnaissance missions.
On 28 August, the Battle of Britain entered its most desperate period. Forty-four Fighter Command aircraft were rushed into the air a little after 8.00a.m. in response to a major build-up at the edge of British radar. A quarter of these defenders were the Defiants of 264 Squadron. In preparation for the day’s operations, Emeny had carried out his unusual ritual of stowing nearly all his personal effects in the rear of the turret-fighter. A spate of thefts during an earlier operation had convinced the young New Zealander that the only way to safeguard his gear was to take it with him. Consequently, in the early hours of any operational day, Emeny could be seen religiously pushing all his uniforms, shirts and other sundry items into three sacks, which he subsequently secured with pieces of wire in the aircraft’s rear fuselage. His pack-rat tendencies would save his life.
Upon crossing the coast, the Germans broke into two formations with one heading for the airfield at Eastchurch and the other for Rochford. With the covering Me 109s engaged by a formation of Hurricanes, the Defiants found themselves flying unmolested amid some 30 Rochford-bound Heinkels. Emeny’s pilot pushed their machine through the formation, picking out a suitable target. Fifty feet separated Emeny from his prey when he noticed one of the German gunners ‘furiously bashing his jammed machine gun’ in frustration. As the Anzac prepared to fire, a large undetected formation of Me 109s fell out of the sun on the turret-fighters. The Luftwaffe pilots immediately cut a swath through the unit.
Within moments they lost four machines and the New Zealander felt the explosion of a cannon shell across his face. Temporarily blinded by the flash and losing blood from shrapnel wounds to his cheek and nose, he heard the pilot yelling, ‘Bale out! Bale out!’[21] Not an easy order to follow, given the pilot was throwing the Defiant around violently and the turret was filling rapidly with smoke and angry licks of fire. Blood pooling in his mike prevented him alerting the pilot to the fact that the turret’s rotating mechanism was mangled beyond repair. Blood-streaked and sweat-soaked, he eventually released the turret’s lower hatch. The airflow extinguished the fire and cleared his steel and shattered Perspex nest of smoke. As he looked down, he saw that the cannon shell’s final resting place was one of the three sacks. ‘I ripped it out and we were safe again,’ a relieved Emeny noted. ‘My personal belongings in those three sacks saved my life.’ Had they not been there he might well have lost his legs. In the end he was not forced to bale out and, back at base, his wounds, though bloody, proved not to be life-threatening, though a piece of shrapnel that had tracked its way behind his eye had failed only by the narrowest of margins to sever the optic nerve. The squadron had been decimated with the loss of four shot down and a further trio of Defiants in need of significant repair. The game was up and the Defiants were finally withdrawn from the daylight campaign.
The Rochford heavy flak broke the back of the German pilots’ resolve, already blunted by Defiants and Hurricanes, and they turned for home after inflicting minimal damage. The Eastchurch raid was more successful, with bombs hitting aircraft and buildings. Nevertheless, Luftwaffe intelligence was still unaware Eastchurch was in fact a Coastal Command base and any raid here had no effect on Fighter Command’s operational abilities. The next raid took place soon after midday and Deere recalled the response:
‘They covered the whole sky ahead,’ recalled the Kiwi, as he spotted a ‘solid mass of aircraft from about 15,000 ft up to 32,000 ft at which height a dozen or so 109s weaved along in the wake of the hundreds of escort fighters below.’ Deere was leading the squadron with the replacement squadron leader in tow. ‘Tallyho,’ ordered Deere over the radio and he pushed the control column forward and launched an attack on the enemy. Three Me 109s were shot down without loss.
At 4.50p.m. during a second raid on Rochford the New Zealander got hits in on two Me 109s but would later claim only one probable. His biggest threat was not the enemy on this occasion but a nasty incident of friendly fire. ‘I was shot down by a Spitfire,’ he typed in his post-action report. The fellow RAF pilot had dropped in behind, fired, and severed the control wires to his rudder. Deere had no choice but to bale out. He was flown back to Hornchurch from a nearby Coastal Command base and by then had cooled down from the incident and did not take it further, realising in the confusion of the dogfight he had been honestly mistaken for the enemy.
Meanwhile, other squadrons were scrambled to face an onslaught of what appeared to be a big bomber and fighter formation. In fact, there were no bombers, only fighters. This was just the sort of fighter-on-fighter action Park assiduously wanted to avoid, but it was too late. Among the pilots was the Anzac Bill Hodgson of 85 Squadron. Flying under the motto Noctu Diuque Venamur (‘we hunt by day and night’), the unit had a proud history to maintain. Although it was not deployed in the Great War until June of 1918, the squadron soon built up a reputation for lethality in the air under the leadership of the famous ‘Mick’ Mannock. By war’s end it had collected ninety-nine victories and a number of the pilots became aces in their own right. Reformed in the run up to the Second World War it saw extensive action in France in 1940 and in a nine-day period had ninety confirmed and many more unconfirmed victories. Nevertheless, while covering the Allied retreat it suffered severe casualties. A former radio technician from Dunedin, Hodgson was posted to the squadron in its post-Dunkirk rebuilding phase.
Flying from Croydon, Hodgson’s unit was vectored to intercept an enemy formation of about 20 Me 109s near Dungeness. The twenty-nine-year-old misjudged his first attack, diving too fast right through the formation, but then spotted a couple of Me 109s making for France. He gave chase, pushing his Hurricane down to near sea level. Closing to within 250 yards, he fired; black and white smoke streamed from the stricken machine and pieces of fuselage torn from the body of the fighter skipped past him. By now they were barely twenty feet above the water and the wounded fighter had only half its rudder intact and had slowed to 120 mph.[23] The chase had taken him to within five miles of Cap Gris Nez and with diminishing stocks of fuel the Kiwi reluctantly turned for home. Hodgson’s one victory was added to four other squadron successes, with the loss of only a single machine.
As the assaults on the airfields closer to London continued, the tactics of the more experienced squadrons and their airmen evolved with constant tinkering and refinement. Although Park was advocating a concentration by his fighters on the enemy’s bombers, a stubborn informal division between Hurricanes and Spitfires remained as both sets of pilots were reluctant to simply wade into the bombers without at least a modicum of security against attacks from escorting Me 109s. All pilots recognised the usefulness of the sturdy Hurricane against the lower flying bombers and the agile high-altitude attributes of the Spitfire in running interference against the fighters. For the Spitfire pilots little had changed, with altitude the most valuable advantage sought in advance of a major fight. For the Hurricanes, however, a newer tactic was beginning to gain popularity, but at a cost.
Hurricane pilots had been seeking ever-better ways to break up bomber formations. Aside from the obvious benefits of a fighter escort, the next best defence for the German raiders was a tight formation that offered a wall of concentrated defensive fire. Recognising that safety lay in numbers, the bomber pilots clung to their comrades for dear life. The RAF pilots’ antidote was direct and brutal: full head-on attacks. The evasive action by the leading German machines scattered the formation and with the pack broken, isolated Junkers, Heinkels and Dorniers were more easily picked off. A successful assault on the formation’s leader was dispiriting to the remaining machines and removed its vital command component. This tactic had the advantage of simplicity and effectiveness.
The defensive weaponry of the bombers was less well placed to handle a frontal assault and the lethality of RAF fire power in a head-on offensive compared with a rear attack was undeniable given the Luftwaffe decision to fit protective rear armour to its aircraft. Unlike the fighter pilots, who in a frontal attack were shielded by a bullet-proof Perspex canopy and a massive chunk of metal in the form of the 12-cylinder Merlin motor, the German bomber pilots could only look on with increasing dread behind their glasshouse-like enclosure. Yet there were risks for the Hurricanes.
While a stern or beam attack involved overtaking an enemy bomber, this method had both machines hurtling towards each other at a frightening rate of knots. With a closing speed approaching 500 mph it was a dangerous game of ‘chicken’ that only allowed for a very short burst of fire, and it could go terribly wrong. On 16 August, a flying officer of 111 Squadron was killed when he ploughed into a Dornier. The tactic was less desirable against other machines, including the Me 110. Nine days later, when the leader of 17 Squadron tried it against a formation of the twin-engine heavy-fighters his left wing was amputated by German machine-gun fire and the aircraft simply fell out of the sky carrying its pilot to a watery grave.[24] A handful of aggressive pilots had employed head-on assaults as far back as the battle for France, but it had largely been the preserve of the brave or reckless. As the situation deteriorated in August it was increasingly adopted across Fighter Command.
One of its recent Anzac converts was Hodgson in the Hurricane-equipped 85 Squadron. The unit spotted the enemy south of Ramsgate on the morning of 30 August, and Hodgson assailed a huge formation of some 250 machines.
The day had been a busy one for Hodgson, who had undertaken at least four sorties. It was the midway point of five days of brutal aerial combat, during which the squadron’s Anzac claimed four Me 109s destroyed, a probable Me 110, damage to a couple of Do 17s and shares in numerous others.[26] Hodgson’s own efforts were cut short the next day when he was hit by an Me 109’s cannon fire. A major coolant artery was severed, spraying glycol and oil in a thick sheet over the hot Merlin engine. The result was a rapidly spreading fire. Feverishly he unstrapped himself and was halfway out of the dying fighter when he belatedly realised it was making a beeline for a string of Thames’ oil tanks abutting a heavily populated district. Bravely he retook his seat and pushed the control column away from the township. To prevent his immediate incineration, he side-slipped the machine to control the fire, allowing him to make a wheels-up landing. For this and other successful actions that month, he was awarded the DFC.
In the normal course of things it was expected that the Luftwaffe would allow a momentary respite of an hour or two, but not on 30 August. By midday Park had his entire inventory in the air and called on 12 Group once again to bring its best into battle and protect the airfields. Reluctant to be tethered to guard duties, Leigh-Mallory sent the pilots on sweeping operations in search of intruders. Thus when Ju 88s arrived over Biggin Hill they found the airfield unattended and it was only by sheer good fortune for Fighter Command and abject misfortune for the local civilians that, on this occasion, the bombs ended up landing on the nearby villages. The afternoon saw continuous combat as wave after wave battered Britain. It was clear that the Germans were making the final push to secure aerial superiority in the lead-up to the invasion. In all, twenty-two fighter squadrons flew an unprecedented 1054 sorties against Kesselring’s formations.[27] If the earlier attack against Biggin Hill had been unsuccessful, the final assault on the base at 6.00p.m. was an altogether different matter.
Bombers appeared over the base and caught 79 Squadron on the deck. One of the squadron’s pilot officers, Tracey, was in the process of refuelling after having just engaged in battle and tried to take off, but the Hurricane was heavily buffeted by falling bombs and damaged by flying shrapnel.[28] The New Zealander survived the raid but others did not as bombs fell on the base. One direct hit on a shelter trench killed all the occupants. Another bomb exploded next to a trench hiding a dozen WAAFs. The concrete walls collapsed and earth fell in, burying the women.
The long, drawn-out summer had hardened the ground, slowing the work of the men feverishly attempting to reach those trapped. Barely recognisable, with dirt-covered faces and torn attire, all the WAAFs were extracted alive except one. ‘She was the only one, and she would be from New Zealand, bless her heart,’ said Felicity Peake, the WAAFs commanding officer. It was Corporal Lena Button, a medical orderly. Peake did not immediately recognise her, and confessed later that she, ‘like a fool, went around calling out, “Corporal Button where are you? You are needed!”’ Button was in fact an Australian who had lived for a season in New Zealand. She was one of the first Anzac women to die as a war casualty, and one of the thirty-nine killed and twenty-six injured in all at Biggin Hill on that day.[29] Hits were scored against a hangar, barracks and storehouses. The raid severed communications and Hornchurch was given control of the sector until such time as contact with the outside world was restored.
The assault on Biggin Hill was the first day in an increasing crescendo of assaults as the airfield was attacked no fewer than half a dozen times over three days. Damage to Biggin Hill was repeated at Kenley, Luton, Tangmere and Detling. The damage on 30 August was the result of over 1300 sorties and the following day this was exceeded with a further 1400 flown by the Luftwaffe. It looked as though the battle was turning and Hitler proclaimed that, should the Luftwaffe gain complete mastery of the air, the invasion would be launched on 20 September.