The Battle of Britain (27 page)

‘“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.'