The life of an RAF fighter pilot during the Battle of Britain and the Battle of France, which immediately preceded it, was as varied as the fragments that form a pattern in a kaleidoscope. By examining the diverse range of individual experiences, however, a picture emerges of the dangers and problems faced by hard-pressed aircrew and the thoughts and feelings of a typical RAF pilot.
Who were the Few? A look at some of the Hurricane pilots of 1 Squadron during the Battle for France in May 1940 shows the typical variety of backgrounds from which the RAF recruited aircrew before the war, Squadron Leader P. J. H. ‘Bull’ Halahan had joined via a public school and the RAF College at Cranwell. All the other officers had five-year short service commissions and came mostly from public or grammar schools. Flying Officer Paul Richey had been to Downside – ‘the Catholic Eton’ – and Flight Lieutenants ‘Johnny’ Walker and Prosser Hanks were also public school products. The Canadian ‘Hilly’ Brown had the customary state education of his country. S. J. Soper, similarly educated in England, had joined the RAF as a sergeant. Flying Officer ‘Boy’ Mould had started in the same way but entered the apprentice school at Halton when he was fifteen and showed such outstanding qualities that he was awarded a Cranwell cadetship at eighteen. Flying Officer Leslie Clisby, some of whose exploits are mentioned in other chapters, was an Australian, and ‘Cobber’ Kain, of 73 Sqdn, whose record is also detailed elsewhere, was a New Zealander, each of them imbued with the characteristics of his native country and its schooling. Pilot Officer Albert Gerald Lewis, who was posted to 85 Sqdn while it was in France, and shot down nine enemy aircraft there, came from South Africa. Traditionally in this Service nobody cared from what economic or social level, or from which Allied country, a man came; it didn’t matter who you were; all that counted was what manner of fighting material you showed yourself to be.
This pungent assortment of human types was further enriched when the war began and additional varieties of aircrew were embodied full-time. There was the Auxiliary Air Force, with its complete fighter squadrons, in which all the pilots had commissions and came from a wide range of middle- and upper-class occupations. There was the Volunteer Reserve, which was not organised in squadrons but provided a pool embracing all manner of middle- and working-class employment, from which the Regular and Auxiliary squadrons were supplemented. All its pilots were Sergeants. There were the Reserve, which consisted of officers who had left the RAF after various periods of service, and the Special Reserve, which comprised officers who had trained with the Service but not as Regulars. And there were the three University Air Squadrons at Oxford, Cambridge and London.
In this respect the RAF differed greatly from the stereotyped l’Armée de l’Air and Luftwaffe. In both France and Germany the great majority of pilots had received the same academic education at state schools, whatever their financial or social situation. If he wanted to join the air force, a Frenchman had a choice only between the Regular and the Reserve. For a German there was no choice other than making the Service a full-time career.
Whether RAF pilots were high or low in the victory ratings, there was little disparity of professional opinion about the tools of their trade. The Hurricane was held in affection and respect for its ruggedness and manoeuvrability. The Mk I was not as fast as a Bf 109E but could turn inside it, which was the prime consideration in a dogfight. The Spitfire was greatly loved and a source of immense pride. It fought the Bf 109 on level terms and, in the hands of a good pilot, could also turn inside it. The Hurricane was held to be the better gun platform because its wing was less flexible than the Spitfire’s and the latter’s outer gun on each side was closer to the wingtip than the Hurricane’s. In consequence, the Spitfire’s bullets did not converge on so small an area as the Hurricane’s. Against the Bf 110 both the Hurricane and Spitfire at once established themselves as tactically superior in a fight, despite the 110’s rear-firing armament. The argument about the rival merits of machine guns and cannon did not develop until after the Battle of Britain. Most RAF aircrew respected their opponents as highly trained and determined fighters but none would concede any superiority in skill and motivation. It is a necessary characteristic of fighter pilots everywhere to believe in their own abilities, and deep down, every successful pilot secretly believes he is at least as good as the opposition. The RAF in 1940 were no exception.
In general the radio equipment was deplored. High frequency (HF) sets were obsolescent and slowly being replaced by very high frequency (VHF) equipment. Pilots’ dissatisfaction lay not so much in the range of HF as in the poor quality of reception, for it was susceptible to all manner of distorting interference. A further handicap was that an aircraft transmitter-receiver carried only one channel, so there was no communication between squadrons, whereas with the later VHF equipment there were four channels. Also, the system for fixing the position of an aircraft or formation imposed 14 seconds of radio silence on its HF every minute, which could mean missing vital messages and causing an aborted interception.
The name radar had not been coined and the term radio direction finding (RDF) was used. The equipment was secret but it was common knowledge that the tall ‘radio’ masts on the south and east coasts supplied Operations Rooms that controlled fighter interceptions. The deductive powers of a genius were not necessary to conclude that the positioning of defending fighters in the right place to intercept German raids was not mere chance. The existence of this still mysterious facility was a further boost for the already high confidence and morale of Fighter Command. So much for the men and the equipment. The question remains, however; what was it actually like to fly and fight in the Battle of Britain? The experience of individual pilots can be used to illustrate the problems and pressures of trying to hold back the most powerful aerial onslaught the world had seen.
A good example is that of New Zealand’s most successful fighter pilot, Group Captain Colin Falkland Gray, DSO, DFC and two bars, who destroyed 27½ enemy aircraft, 15½ of them between early June and early September 1940. He joined the RAF before the war and was posted to No. 54 Squadron.
About his participation in these air battles he says modestly, ‘The whole thing was quite fortuitous and therefore those of us who happened to be concerned deserve no particular credit. Anyone in a fighter squadron in England at the time was automatically to be involved whether he liked it or not – it wasn’t a matter of choice.’
He had hoped to be posted to fighters and says, ‘I knew that if there was a war I was certainly likely to be in action and I accepted this. It was merely a case of being in the right place at the right time. Even the volunteers who joined after the outbreak didn’t have much choice in the matter either. They had to go where they were sent.’ As for the rights and wrongs of the war: ‘I figured that “the mother country”, as we New Zealanders called it, was not likely to be involved in unjustified hostilities and this was probably the extent of our thoughts on the matter.’
As many other RAF fighter pilots have, he deplored their lack of realistic training in air-to-air fighting and fighter-to-fighter combat. ‘The first time I encountered any enemy aircraft was over France on May 24, 1940. By that time I had been in in the RAF for 16 months, and 6 months in a fighter squadron. I had flown a total of 140 hours on Spitfires so was reasonably experienced. I’d fired my guns a few times against ground targets but had no experience of air-to-air gunnery against high-speed targets and therefore no idea of the amount of deflection (angle off) required. The only experience I’d had against aerial targets was during training when we fired at a drogue towed at not much more than 100 mph, and this wasn’t much help.’
He illustrates some of the problems. ‘The muzzle velocity of a .303 bullet (our armament at that time), was 2,660ft per second (810m/sec). This would take the bullets 0.28 of a second to travel 250 yards (228m), the range at which our guns were harmonised. During that time a target travelling at 300mph (483km/h) would travel 41 yards (37m), which is a hell of a lot of deflection, especially for a 90 degree crossing shot. To add to this difficulty, the target would be lost to sight under the nose of a fighter pulling through in a normal curve of pursuit and one would be left shooting at a spot in space where the target should eventually arrive! Fortunately it seldom came to this as our angles off were not as great as 90 degrees, but the deflection could range from 0 degrees for dead astern of the target to about 20 yards (18m) or more for a 45 degree crossing shot.
‘The whole question of deflection was brought home to me in a very salutary way on July 24. We had been sent down to Rochford the previous day and on the 24th had already been in action against Dorniers attacking a convoy off Deal. Although we chased them back to France and I fired all my rounds at one of them, it didn’t seem to have any effect. We returned to Rochford to refuel and rearm and were scrambled again just after midday. This time we ran into 18 Dorniers, escorted by about 20 Me 109s, attacking a convoy in the Thames Estuary off Margate, and a terrific dogfight developed. In the general mêlée that ensued I had a good crack at a 109 but was unable to observe any positive results. The dogfight seemed to end as suddenly as it started and as I couldn’t see anyone else around I set off for home.
‘I hadn’t been going for long before I heard one of our aircraft calling for a homing and thought I could see him in the distance but heading in the wrong direction, so I set off in hot pursuit to see if I could lead him home. He was going like the clappers and it took some time to catch him up, but when I finally did so I realised it wasn’t a Spitfire at all but an Me 109. He obviously spotted me at the same time and started to turn hard to starboard. As I was close behind I pulled round and gave him a quick squirt, but in my excitement I allowed twice the deflection I had intended. To my astonishment my first burst caught him smack amidships and the pilot immediately baled out into the sea. From then on I always allowed twice the deflection I thought necessary and maybe a bit more for good luck.’
For the front-line squadrons, the daily routine from May to October 1940 varied little. Dowding tried to allow each squadron one day’s rest a week, but this was not always possible. A normal battle day on a day fighter squadron began at about 3.30 am and carried on until stand-down at around 8 pm. Some flights or entire squadrons would be at readiness to take off within five minutes which, in actual practice, meant two or three minutes. Sometimes there would be a section on standby, with the pilots in their cockpits and able to be off the ground in a minute or so. Breakfast and a sandwich lunch would probably be brought to the dispersal points around the airfield.
In the intervals between flights, pilots dozed on beds or chairs in the crew huts – or tents, at a satellite airfield – or on the grass. Some read, some played cards, draughts or chess. Tiredness inhibited conversation. When released, the favourite recreation was a couple of hours in a local pub. Some squadrons stationed close to London had a taste for night-clubbing, which often meant virtually no sleep apart from what could be snatched between sorties. The resilience of youth and the natural high spirits of most aircrew kept them alert in the air, no matter how hard they drove themselves when off duty.
Group Captain Bobby Oxspring DFC, AFC, describes how the peace and quiet of the dispersal could be transformed into frantic action in a few seconds.
‘The hectic actions filled the long days and we slipped into a routine. An hour before dawn we crawled out of bed, forced down some breakfast and got shaken into wakefulness as we were transported to dispersal in a hard-arsed lorry. We arrived to the cacophony of Merlin engines being warmed up and tested all round the airfield by the reliable fitters. Having chalked up the allocations of pilots to aircraft and formation compositions we donned our Mae West life jackets, collected our parachutes and helmets and trudged out to our aircraft. Detailed walk round inspections such as are the mode today would have been an insult to our conscientious ground crews, many of whom had been up all night rectifying faults and repairing battle damage. A quick kick on the tyres followed by a nervous pee on the rudder was quite sufficient.
‘The next move was to carefully arrange the safety harness and parachute straps, plug in the helmet leads to radio and oxygen so that on a scramble the least possible time would be lost in getting strapped in and away. Quick checks to see that the oxygen was flowing through the mask, that the gunsight was working with spare bulb in place and we were ready to go. As we fidgeted about with these essential tasks we exchanged facetious banter with our faithful ground crews. Very often in those autumn days there was a murky pre-dawn mist soaking the aircraft in heavy condensation which ran off the windscreen and cockpit canopy. We’d grab a rag from the rigger and help him polish the transparent areas as clear as we could get them. We had learned the hard way that unrestricted visibility was vital to fighter pilots whose aggression and indeed survival depended so much on clarity of vision.
‘We lounged around the dispersal talking, playing cards or just sitting. Periodically the telephone rang jerking us all into boggle-eyed alertness. More often than not the telephone orderly would call one of us to some innocuous administrative call and the tension of another anticipated order to combat receded. That telephone played hell with our nerves. I don’t think any of us pilots ever again appreciated the virtues of Mr Bell’s invention. Sooner or later though, the action charged instruction came through. The orderly would pause, listen and then bawl:
‘“Squadron scramble, Maidstone, Angels two zero.”’
‘Before he’d relayed the message we were away sprinting to our Spitfires. As we ran, the fitters fired the starter cartridges and the propellers turned with engines roaring into life. From strapping in to chocks away was a matter of seconds. Taxiing to the take-off point on the broad grass airfield took even less time. Pausing to let the last aircraft get roughly in position, the squadron commander’s upraised hand signal then came down and twelve pilots gunned their throttles speeding away on the take-off in a wide vie formation of flights.
‘As the squadron got airborne canopies snapped shut and wheels sucked into the wells. The leader’s voice crackled in the earphones: “Rastus, Fibus airborne.” The controller’s response was immediate: “OK, Fibus Leader, one hundred plus bandits south of Ashford heading north west angels fifteen. Vector 130, Buster.”
‘Buster meant the fastest speed attainable. The squadron commander held the maximum power setting he could afford to ensure that the rest of the squadron had a slight margin of speed to keep up with him. Cutting the corners on every variation of the leader’s heading the flight gradually slid into the climb formation of sections line astern.
‘Struggling to gain every inch of height in the shortest possible time we gradually emerged out of the filthy brown haze which perpetually hung like a blanket over London. Suddenly, around 12,000 feet we broke through the smog layer and a different world emerged, startling in its sun-drenched clarity.
‘Long, streaming contrails snaked way above us from the Channel coast as the Messerschmitt high-flying fighters weaved protectively over their menacing bomber formations. Our radios became almost unintelligible as pilots in our numerous intercepting squadrons called out sightings, attack orders, warnings and frustrated oaths. Green 2 and 3, our two weavers who crisscrossed above the squadron formation, took up their stations to guard against attacks from the vulnerable blind area behind. Somehow a familiar voice of any one of our pilots would break through the radio chatter with an urgent, “Fibus Leader, bandits eleven o’clock level.”’
‘Interception of the enemy almost always developed this way, but the ensuing action depended on variable circumstances of the time: the position of the bombers, the proximity of enemy fighters, the manoeuvrings of our fellow squadrons, our height advantage or otherwise over our targets and a host of factors which dictated our immediate tactics.
‘The Group Commander’s basic strategy was to direct his more numerous Hurricane squadrons on to the enemy bomber formations at the same time hopefully providing protective cover for them from his faster Spitfire squadrons. Often this plan fell down because for various reasons our interceptors engaged at slightly different times and which, if only a minute apart, could spoil any intended coordination. At the same time the primary objective of the RAF defences was the destruction of enemy bombers. The Messerschmitts were unable to inflict any primary damage except to our defending fighters. Frequently our squadron would plummet into an attack on the bomber formations, but the fast reacting German fighter cover headed in to cut us off. This usually resulted in our leading flight getting in amongst the bombers whilst we in B flight had to turn into the attacking 109s coming at us from the rear.
‘From that moment our squadron cohesion broke up. Flights split into sections, battle with the enemy was joined, and in the following violent manoeuvres the sections broke down into pairs and often single aircraft. Multiple and single combats rippled out across the sky as opposing fighters locked into deadly conflict. Squadrons which had managed to get among the bombers closed in their attack to point blank range. Breaking away they used their superior speed to climb out on the flanks and seek opportunities to set up renewed passes. Again our formations whittled down to sections and these in turn became vulnerable to the greatly superior number of the German fighter Staffels who peeled down from above.
‘Flak shells from our anti-aircraft batteries below winked in and around the enemy armadas. The lingering smoke from the bursts tracked the invaders’ course and made it easy for those pilots breaking off dog fights to pick up the centre of the action again. At all heights the combats milled, the sun glinting on wings over which staccato bursts of grey gunsmoke reamed back into the slipstream as opposing fighter pilots strove to nail each other.
‘Stricken aircraft littered the sky and depleted bomber formations heralded the carnage inflicted by our fighters. Spiralling plumes of dirty smoke marked the death dives of savagely hit Heinkels and Dorniers. Battle-damaged bombers strove to keep up with their formations or struggled to the flanks to be set upon by vengeful Hurries and Spits. Here and there the horizon was dissected by black trails of flaming fighters as victims on both sides fell out of the sky. British and German parachutes floated down in all directions as the battle reached its climax.
‘Ammunition dominated every fighter pilot’s life. With it he was lethal; without it he was useless. Sooner or later he would expend his fifteen seconds’ worth and then was the time to retire from the battle.
‘Back at base the aircraft returned in ones and twos – most of them, that is. Sometimes one or more Spits were missing. Our loyal ground crews kept tally of the planes as they swept into the circuit, ready as always with oxygen, fuel, and ammunition to “turn the kites round quick”. Rarely did they exceed twelve minutes for a whole squadron. Watching “their” pilots touch down, grins spread across faces as they heard the whine of exposed gun ports singing the message that bullets had fired in anger. Those whose pilots did not return hung around their vacant dispersals and gazed dejectedly at an empty sky.
‘The mission completed, pilots ambled back to the crew room, completed the debrief, in some cases stopped a rocket from the CO or flight commanders for some piece of poor airmanship, and then grabbed something to eat. One by one the aircraft were reported back as turned round. Spare Spitfires and pilots, if any, were chalked up on the operations board and the squadron reported back to readiness.
‘The high tension and excitement generated throughout the squadron gradually receded. Pilots’ sweat-ridden shirts dried out, and stomachs returned to normal. If this had been a morning show, we all knew that there could be at least two more formidable raids to contest before the day was through. Occasionally the activity called for five scrambles in the hours of daylight, but some were false alarms and not all resulted in combat. A quick visit to our aircraft for the usual cockpit check and we’d settle down with some apprehension to await the next call to action.’
As Oxspring’s account makes clear, the constant waiting followed by a mad rush into the air and the almost inevitable combat would wear away at the morale and the nerves of the pilots and an almost overwhelming fatigue would eventually set in. Out of all the RAF pilots officially recognised as having taken part in the Battle, 451 served throughout. The average life expectancy of a pilot during those 114 days was 87 flying hours.
Every flyer had to come to terms with his fears and the constant grinding tension in his own way, and force himself to keep going even when constantly outnumbered and often in an inferior tactical position. Another New Zealander, Air Commodore Al Deere, CBE, DSO, DFC, comments: ‘The question “when does a man lack the moral courage for battle” poses a tricky problem and one that has never been satisfactorily solved. There are so many intangibles; if he funks it once, will he the next time? How many men in similar circumstances would react in exactly the same way? And so on. There can be no definite yardstick, each case must be judged on its merits as each set of circumstances will differ.
‘In the case of day fighter pilots, in particular, it presented squadron and flight commanders with a really difficult problem and one with which they were being continually faced. Up till the moment the air battle is joined, each pilot is a member of a team and should he be inclined to cowardice the presence of other aircraft serves as an antidote to his feelings, the more so when he knows that for the initial attack he is under the censorious eyes of the other pilots in the formation. It is immediately subsequent to this first attack that the opportunity occurs for the less courageous to make their get-away without seeming to avoid the issue. Against unescorted bombers, or perhaps small enemy formations, the opportunity doesn’t normally occur, and in such cases there exists a natural feeling of superiority sufficient to convince the waverer that he is in a position to impose his terms. It is against overwhelming odds, as faced in the convoy battles of July, that the urge to run is uppermost in one’s mind, and it is on these occasions that fear normally gets the upper hand. But, under just such circumstances is it most difficult to prove that a particular pilot has not pulled his weight. After the initial attack it is almost impossible to observe the actions of any one pilot, and unless a watch has been set on a suspect – it has been done – there can be no positive proof of cowardice. Lack of proof, however, doesn’t rule out suspicion and, in some cases, a conviction that a suspect member of the team is “yellow”’.
‘I know only too well the almost overpowering urge to either break off an engagement, or participate in such a way as to ensure one’s safety, when surrounded and outnumbered. On many an occasion in July I had to grit my teeth and overcome fear with determination in just such circumstances or, alternatively, when I became temporarily isolated from the main battle, to talk myself into going back. I refuse to believe that there are those among us who know no fear. Admittedly, there are those who show no fear and again others who are demonstratively more brave than their comrades in arms; but everyone in his innermost heart is afraid at some time.
‘The dangerous state is reached in battle when one is so tired mentally and physically that the ever present urge of self-preservation overrules the more normal urge to do one’s duty.’
The public understood well the threats to the life of a Hurricane, Spitfire or Defiant pilot. The Blenheim night fighter crews, however, received little publicity. Pilot Officer Paul Le Rougetel (now Wing Commander, DFC) of 600 Sqdn was on patrol in a Blenhiem at 15,000ft (4,570m) on the night of August 9, 1940, when he had to bale out. His account of this event is so impassive that, in the RAF tradition, it invests a potentially fatal accident with the appearance of a trivial misadventure. ‘I fell into the middle of Pegwell Bay, off Ramsgate, between half and three-quarters of a mile from the shore. My radar operator, Smith, landed in shallow water, on the beach. His immediate expectation was death by drowning, as he was a non-swimmer. However, he discoverd in his pre-death throes that he was within his depth and was able to walk ashore!’
The radar operator had leaped out at 6,000ft (1,830m). For the pilot, escaping from a Blenheim might have taxed the ingenuity of Houdini; and Paul Le Rougetel wasn’t one of the taller members of the Service. The floor escape hatch, to the right and forward of the pilot’s seat, was rectangular and about 24 inches by 18 inches (60 by 45cm). What he had to do was unlock two fasteners, pull the hatch into the aircraft, then turn and throw it as far towards the tail as possible. It didn’t quite work like that.
‘To extend the powered glide I had trimmed the Blenheim into a gentle turning descent with port power on. I moved to the hatch, leaned forward and groped for the latches. On pulling the hatch into the cockpit an unexpectedly strong rush of air forced my arms, holding the hatch, upwards and sideways. Twisting to get rid of the hatch to the rear, I tripped and fell heavily backwards in a sitting position, ending up with my parachute pack jammed into the opening, while my legs and arms were inside the cabin. Eventually I discovered I could reach halfway up the back of the control column. By leaning forward and pushing on it I was able to reduce speed and overcome the suction effect. I could then wriggle back into the cabin, put my legs through the escape hatch and fall through.
‘I probably could have swum ashore by discarding my Mae West life jacket, but decided not to risk it as my back was a bit painful; so I lined up the direction of land by the Milky Way and swam encumbered towards it. The calm sea became a bit choppy and I must have passed out! I had no idea of time as my watch had stopped. I came to and saw what I thought was a car headlight. I called for help and passed out again.’
The light was from the Ramsgate lifeboat that was searching for him. The crew heard his calls and turned towards him but could not find him and after a considerable time were about to give up, when: ‘The coxswain saw what appeared to be a shoal of small fish, steered towards it and found me.’ It was the luminous dial of his watch that the lifeboatman had mistaken for the phosphorescence of fish.
The mutability of daily life for the sort of pilot who forms the indestructible hard core of any air force is well illustrated in the career and character of Wing Commander E. A. Shipman, AFC, who enlisted in 1930 and joined No. 41 Squadron as a sergeant pilot straight from Service Flying Training School in 1936. Ted Shipman had his first taste of action soon after the squadron had converted from the biplane Hawker Fury to the Spitfire, and long before most of the fighter pilots whose names were blazoned in newspaper headlines during the ensuing six years. On October 17, 1939, operating from Catterick, Yorkshire, he was flying No. 2 in a section when he spotted an He 111. As the section leader could not discern the target, Flight Sergeant Shipman took over from him and was therefore the first to overtake it and attack. The upper gunner returned fire but did not damage the Spitfire. The Heinkel landed on the sea and two survivors of the four crew paddled ashore in a dinghy, Shipman recalls: ‘This first sighting of an enemy aircraft and shooting it down caused mixed feelings. First, one of regret then the immediate realisation of the inevitability of the situation. On the whole I cannot say I was elated.’
On May 25, 1940, the squadron moved to Hornchurch to take part in covering the Dunkirk evacuation. The element of chance in meeting the enemy is clear in what Shipman reports about the ten sorties they flew from there. ‘For me Dunkirk seemed a frustrating period. The weather was difficult and the lack of good communications with other squadrons on patrol made matters worse. The length of the patrols stretched the economical engine handling to the limit, the fuel capacity being only 85 gallons (386 litres)’.
Because there were more pilots than aircraft, he did not fly on all the 10 patrols that the squadron carried out. Of the seven sorties he did fly, only one gave him a glimpse of the enemy, ‘. . . popping in and out of cloud some distance away’. To aggravate his frustration, ‘the other three patrols the squadron made were full of activity’.
His reference to other squadrons on patrol is of particular interest in view of the ‘Big Wing’ controversy that provoked so much disagreement between Air Vice Marshals Park and Leigh-Mallory later that summer. It is not widely known that at this period three or four squadrons were sent, on occasion, from different stations to patrol the same section of the French coast simultaneously. Because they were equipped with the TR9D HF radio, which had only one channel, they each had to use a different frequency and could not intercommunicate: a powerful argument in favour of Park.
No. 41 returned to Catterick, flew a lot of convoy patrols, spent some time at Hornchurch once more, on the same duties, and then went back to Catterick as the Battle of Britain was reaching its height. By this time Shipman had been commissioned. August 15 was a heavy day for the whole of Fighter Command and at 1238 13 Spitfires of 41 Squadron, P/O Shipman’s among them, were scrambled to help meet a big raid on the north-east. ‘We were ordered to attack Me 110 fighters escorting He 111s at 18,000ft (5,485m) in the Durham area. Leading Green Section, I attacked the section of Me 110s on the left of the formation, but before getting into range my target turned about and offered a brief opportunity to fire a two-second burst, without result. I then picked another target and managed to get in a series of deflection shots while the enemy aircraft was evading quite violently. Finally at 200 yards (180m) range I put the starboard engine out of action. The 110 made an erratic turn to port, emitting clouds of smoke, and disappeared into cloud below, apparently out of control. This was the only occasion when my camera gun worked and the film clearly showed all that had happened, confirming my claim.’
P/Os Bennions and Lovell and Sgt Usman each also shot down a Bf 110 in the same action.
Throughout the battle, one of the advantages held by the British was that if a pilot was shot down and survived, he could be in the air with a new aircraft the next day. German aircrew shot down over the British Isles were lost to the Luftwaffe whether they survived or not, although a skilled and courageous rescue service recovered many pilots from the English Channel. Al Deere typifies the RAF pilot who kept fighting after being shot down on numerous occasions; and in fact survived the wreck of his aircraft nine times in his combat career. He tells of one of these battles: ‘Fastening on to the tail of a yellow-nosed Messerschmitt I fought to bring my guns to bear as the range rapidly decreased, and when the wingspan of the enemy aircraft fitted snugly into the range scale bars of my reflector sight, I pressed the firing button. There was an immediate response from my eight Brownings which, to the accompaniment of a slight bucketing from my aircraft, spat a stream of lethal lead targetwards. “Got you,” I muttered to myself as the small flames of exploding “De Wilde” bullets spattered along the Messerschmitt’s fuselage. My exultation was short-lived. Before I could fire another burst two 109s wheeled in behind me. I broke hard into the attack pulling my Spitfire into a climbing, spiralling turn as I did so; a manoeuvre I had discovered in previous combats with 109s to be particularly effective. And it was no less effective now; the Messerschmitts literally “fell out of the sky” as they stalled in an attempt to follow me.
‘I soon found another target. About 3,000 yards directly ahead of me, and at the same level, a Hun was just completing a turn preparatory to re-entering the fray. He saw me almost immediately and rolled out of his turn towards me so that a head-on attack became inevitable. Using both hands on the control column to steady the aircraft and thus keep my aim steady, I peered through the reflector sight at the rapidly closing enemy aircraft. We opened fire together, and immediately a hail of lead thudded into my Spitfire. One moment the Messerschmitt was a clearly defined shape, its wingspan nicely enclosed within the circle of my reflector sight, and the next it was on top of me, a terrifying blur which blotted out the sky ahead. Then we hit.
‘The force of the impact pitched me violently forward on to my cockpit harness, the straps of which bit viciously into my shoulders. At the same moment, the control column was snatched abruptly from my gripping fingers by a momentary, but powerful, reversal of elevator load. In a flash it was over; there was clear sky ahead of me, and I was still alive. But smoke and flame were pouring from the engine which began to vibrate, slowly at first but with increasing momentum causing the now regained control column to jump back and forwards in my hand. Hastily I closed the throttle and reached forward to flick off the ignition switches, but before I could do so the engine seized and the airscrew stopped abruptly. I saw with amazement that the blades had been bent almost double with the impact of the collision; the Messerschmitt must have been just that fraction above me as we hit.
‘With smoke now pouring into the cockpit I reached blindly forward for the hood release toggle and tugged at it violently. There was no welcoming and expected rush of air to denote that the hood had been jettisoned. Again and again I pulled at the toggle but there was no response. In desperation I turned to the normal release catch and exerting my full strength endeavoured to slide back the hood. It refused to budge; I was trapped. There was only one thing to do; try to keep the aircraft under control and head for the nearby coast. The speed had by now dropped off considerably, and with full backward pressure on the stick I was just able to keep a reasonable gliding attitude. If only I could be lucky enough to hit in open country where there was a small chance that I might get away with it.
‘Frantically I peered through the smoke and flame enveloping the engine, seeking with streaming eyes for what lay ahead. There could be no question of turning; I had no idea what damage had been done to the fuselage and tail of my aircraft, although the mainplanes appeared to be undamaged, and I daren’t risk even a small turn at low level, even if I could have seen to turn.
‘Through a miasmatic cloud of flame and smoke the ground suddenly appeared ahead of me. The next moment a post flashed by my wingtip and then the aircraft struck the ground and ricocheted into the air again finally returning to earth with a jarring impact and once again I was jerked forward on to my harness. Fortunately the straps held fast and continued to do so as the aircraft ploughed its way through a succession of splintering posts before finally coming to a halt on the edge of a cornfield. Half blinded by smoke and frantic with fear I tore at my harness release pin. And then with my bare hands wielding the strength of desperation, I battered at the perspex hood which entombed me. With a splintering crash it finally cracked open, thus enabling me to scramble from the cockpit to the safety of the surrounding field.’
Two other pilots who have never received national acclaim, but whose dedication and selflessness were also typical of all the RAF pilots, are Wing Commander Roddick Lee Smith, OBE, and Squadron Leader L. A. Thorogood, DFC. Dick Smith joined the RAF with a short service commission in 1935 and, after being assessed ‘Above Average’ on his training course, was posted to No. 19 Squadron. He was later assessed ‘Exceptional’ and was also a brilliant shot. At Malvern College he had been in the shooting eight and in 19 Squadron was in the team of three led by Sqdn Ldr (now Air Chief Marshal) Sir Harry Broadhurst, GCB, KBE, DSO, DFC, AFC, that won the RAF air firing competition. In 1936 he was seconded to the Fleet Air Arm, with which he served for three years, during which he did 68 deck landings, three of them at night. In June 1940 he arrived at North Weald as a flight lieutenant to command B Flight of 151 Squadron, under Sqdn Ldr E. M. Donaldson (now Air Commodore, CB, CBE, DSO, AFC) and fly Hurricanes. As he had no combat experience and the squadron had seen much action over France, he put in many hours practising dogfighting before his first operational sortie.
On June 12 the squadron did two sweeps over France, on which two pilots, both flying No. 3 in their sections, were shot down without any of the others being aware of it. On June 17 he did air-to-ground firing for the first time with eight guns. All his 1,000 flying hours had been in biplanes, ‘I had only 12 hours on Hurricanes and I was a flight commander!’
Early in July Dick Smith noticed a Hurricane in the hangar “with tubes sticking out of each wing” and asked the squadron engineering officer what they were. They were 20mm cannon, which at the time were still secret. ‘As I had always been keen on guns, I asked why it was not being flown and was told that the other pilots considered it was a much less safe aircraft: than the other Hurricanes, which had eight .303 Brownings, because it was much slower, less manoeuvrable and had guns that were highly unreliable, prone to inconvenient misfeeds and stoppages.’
As he was leading B Flight and often the whole squadron, and having a leader with a slow kite helped the rest to keep up, he voluntarily flew this aircraft on all his sorties. He made 133 operational flights with this and another Hurricane that had four cannon and was therefore even heavier and slower. He was surprised that higher authority did not take more interest in the development of this weapon: he can recall no urgency for detailed reports.
On July 12 when he and ‘Buzz’ Allen, a New Zealander, intercepted two Dorniers off the east coast, and he tried to fire his cannon, ‘there was just a hiss – the compressor had broken down’. Allen pressed on and was seen to fly into the sea. Another day, the squadron was bounced by Bf 109s and, ‘I found myself in my heavy and slow four-cannon aircraft when I noticed two 109s about a mile to my right and climbing much faster than I was. My only hope of survival was to attack. I immediately turned into the lower one, which dived away. I followed, firing vertically downwards at extreme range. As I knew the first 109 must be on my tail, I hauled the aircraft into a maximum-rate turn and climb in which I blacked out through positive g. Tracer shot past me and I hauled back again. The aircraft flicked into a spin. When I recovered I was alone in the sky.’
The thought occurred to him that he would not have liked to be below, in Kent, on the receiving end of his cannon volley. Some time later he was introduced at a party to a man with a limp, who complained that a cannon shell had passed through his foot while he was gardening . . . in Kent. Handicapped by his ponderous aircraft, Dick Smith’s score at the end of the Battle was one destroyed, three probables and two damaged.
Laurence ‘Rubber’ Thorogood had joined the RAFVR in December, 1938, and went to 89 Squadron as a sergeant pilot straight from flying school, assessed ‘Above Average’ but without any combat training, an experience common to most novice fighter pilots at that hard-pressed period. On the squadron he was given tactical training but no air firing, and had only 28 hours on Hurricanes before his first combat. His description of the spirit in Fighter Command could be extended to the whole nation in that time of crisis. ‘We never thought we would not win. We were fighting over our home ground and this had a great bearing on our morale. The Luftwaffe certainly had the numbers but this only seemed to spur us on. We certainly got tired but we were fit and young. On 87 Squadron we were a fairly abstemious bunch of chaps. Nobody went round the bend, as far as I know.’ He flew 59 sorties during the Battle, which yielded him one Ju 88 destroyed and one Ju 87 damaged.
Ted Shipman, Dick Smith and Laurence Thorogood are typical of the pilots who were the backbone of the defence of Britain during the great air battles. From first to last light day after day they were subjected to the stress of waiting to meet the enemy and of being in action, yet personal fame never touched them. They showed the same bravery, determination and mastery of their aircraft as those who emerged from the air fighting that summer with a record of victories in double figures and decorations to go with them.
The most successful pilots were epitomised by the late Sgt J. H. ‘Ginger’ Lacey, DFM and bar, later a squadron leader, and the late Squadron Leader (later Gp Capt) D. R. S. Bader, DSO, DFC and bar. Ginger Lacey had joined the RAFVR when it was formed, in 1936. Within two years he had become an instructor at the Yorkshire Aeroplane Club. By January 1939 he had completed 250 Service flying hours and was spending three weeks with No. 1 Squadron at Tangmere, where he flew a Hurricane for the first time. When war came Sgt Lacey was posted to 501 Squadron at Filton, Bristol and took part in the battles in France. On returning to England he added a Bf 109 to his list of victories on July 20. On August 12 he destroyed two Ju 87s in the same combat. On September 15, the day when the RAF achieved its greatest number of successes and set the seal on the Luftwaffe’s defeat, he brought down three more enemy aircraft and severely damaged a fourth in two combats.
On the squadron’s second sortie of the day, they intercepted the enemy at 2 pm over Heathfield, Sussex. Lacey found himself flying head-on at 12 yellow-nosed 109s. He dipped his nose as though about to dive under them, then pulled back the stick and swept up and over in a loop to attack the last one, which was lagging. Still inverted, he fired and sent it down in flames, then rolled off the top and followed the enemy formation. Closing to 250 yards (230m) he fired on No. 3 in the rear section and it pulled out with a stream of glycol leaking from its radiator. It was about 8 pm when, weary and on his fourth scramble of the day, he shot down a 109 and an He 111, making his score to date 19 destroyed, three probables and four damaged.
Douglas Bader’s best score in one day was two, and he achieved it three times. The first occasion was on August 30 when the squadron he commanded, No. 242, encountered more than 70 bombers approaching six abreast with more than 30 110s above to cover them. Bader led his squadron in a dive at the fighters, which instantly broke formation. One, ahead of him, was too slow and he set it alight with a couple of bursts. Two more bursts sent another down in flames.
On September 7, when the Luftwaffe first attacked London, he destroyed a Bf 110 that went down with smoke pouring from it and another that crashed near a railway line and exploded. In the process, his own Hurricane’s port aileron was torn to shreds and the cockpit was holed. On September 10, leading, for the first time, the Big Wing for which he had been pleading, he took his own and four other squadrons into action. Levelling off at 23,000ft (7,000m), he could see some 40 enemy aeroplanes over the Thames Estuary at 16,000ft (4,875m). He led his formation down and in the ensuing whirligig of twisting, climbing, diving aircraft and a network of tracer bullets and shells, amid the smoke and flames of burning aeroplanes, in a sky dotted with descending parachutes, he took out first a Ju 87 and then a Do 17. These made his score 11½ confirmed.
There is one name to add and one more event, which appropriately happened on the last night of the Battle of Britain, to tell about those who fought in it without finding themselves in the limelight. Perhaps in narrow terms of definition Wg Cdr W. S. Gregory, DSO, DFC, DFM, doesn’t strictly qualify for inclusion in an account of pilots’ battle days, but he belongs by every possible right in any narrative about distinguished fighter aircrew. He is known as ‘Sticks’, because before the war he played the drums in a well-known dance band. He was also flying in his spare time as an air gunner in the VR and was posted to 29 (Blenheim) Squadron when war was declared. In 1941, as a radar navigator, he was crewed up with Wg Cdr J. R. D. Braham, whose prowess as a night fighter pilot won him a DSO with two bars and a DFC with two bars. But on October 31, 1940, he was flying with a P/O Rhodes when the controller told them they were very close to a hostile. They couldn’t see it, but, Sticks Gregory remembers, ‘We came out of cloud and there, following us, was an He 111 with its cockpit lights on, crew map-reading! I don’t know who was the more frightened, the German gunner or me. Anyway, I fired my single Vickers into the cockpit without stopping. The range was no more than 200ft. The Heinkel went into a dive under us and Rhodes finished it off with his four Brownings.’
An agreeable note on which to conclude. But that wasn’t quite the end of it. ‘We were happy, Sector were happy and so was Squadron Leader Widdows, our CO. He was congratulating us when the Flight Sergeant armourer came into the Ops Room and asked who was the gunner on Blenheim L6741. I said, “I was, Chiefy.” “You’re on a charge,” he announced, “for shooting off a full pan of ammunition without a pause.” And he produced a bent and ruined gun barrel!’
Obviously the hazards an RAF pilot or air gunner faced in the course of his battle day – or night – did not all lie in the guns of the enemy. And if life was a compendium of inconsistencies, the unifying factors that were common to all participants were high morale, total determination to win and inexhaustible courage.