Battle of Britain

 

Cover

Title page

 

England, 1941

1939

May 1940

June 1940

July 1940

August 1940

September 1940

October 1940

Epilogue 1941

Historical note

Timeline

Acknowledgements

My Story – a series

Copyright

 

 

Sometimes I can't remember a time when I didn't have the roar of engines or the rattle of machine-guns ringing in my ears. Sometimes it feels as though I've been a fighter pilot all my life – that I had no life before the RAF, before the War, before the Battle of Britain. But I did. Of course I did. Once I was just Harry Woods, a kid like any other kid. And I suppose that's when my story really begins. . .

 

 

I wish I could say I joined the Volunteer Reserve of the RAF because I wanted to serve my country and all that rot, but really, when it comes right down to it, I just wanted to fly. I'd wanted to fly for as long as I could remember.

When I was a kid I used to watch swifts screeching round our house, or see swallows swooping over the summer cornfields and I'd dream of flying too. And then one day, I was up on Hunter's Hill, when a strange noise filled the air.

I looked and an aeroplane appeared over the copse – some sort of biplane, I've no idea what kind. It flew so low, its wheels almost brushed the tops of the beech trees and a dozen crows exploded from the branches in panic.

I chased after it, like a dog after a stick, running through the waist-high grass of the meadow cheering and whooping. The pilot pulled her round to the east and as he flew away he waved down at me and I waved back.
That
was the moment I decided that I had to be a pilot.

I watched him go, the sound of the engine dying away as he headed toward the horizon. I waved and waved, until my arm ached. Then I had the strangest feeling that there was someone behind me and I turned round. The field was empty. A breeze shook the long grass and waves spread out over the meadow like ripples in water. When I turned back, the plane was gone.

 

The RAF Volunteer Reserve gave me the opportunity to fly and I took it. I joined in January 1939. I was eighteen years old. We were all given the rank of sergeant and the RAF paid the fees for our flying lessons as long as we took the evening classes in navigation and signals and so on.

As well as the RAFVR, there was another organisation of part-time pilots: the Auxiliary Air Force. These were spare-time squadrons, a bit like the Territorial Army, except they had a reputation for being filled with toffs who lined their jackets with red silk. They were all officers of course. The VR didn't have much time for the AAF. The regular RAF didn't have much time for either of us.

I learned to fly at weekends in Tiger Moth biplanes, taught by ex-RAF bods who all seemed like something out of
Biggles
. It was fantastic, taking to the air in an open cockpit under clear blue skies. It was a wonderful summer, that summer of '39, the summer before the War.

Mum and Dad never really understood the flying thing, though. My dad's a doctor and I know he wanted me to follow him into medicine. Even so, they both seemed pleased when I told them I'd like to be an architect. Flying was just a hobby to me really.

“They're not teaching you for fun,” my dad would say, and he was right of course. The whole idea of the VR and the AAF was to build up a supply of trained pilots. We all kind of knew there would be a war, and I suppose I wanted to see some action – and not be stuck in some godforsaken trench like they were in the last one.

 

I was in London when war was declared. It was a Sunday morning. I was visiting my sister Edith, who was training to be a nurse. We heard the PM's speech together. Chamberlain sounded tired and sad. The wireless crackled and hissed. It was 3 September 1939.

“
This morning
,”
he said. “
The British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven o'clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us
.”
Edith reached out and grabbed my hand. “
I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently 
. . .
this country is at war with Germany
.”

Almost immediately, air-raid sirens went off and barrage balloons took to the sky, looking like great fat silver fish. We all grabbed our gas masks and waited for the bombers to fill the sky . . . but none came. Not then, anyway. In fact nothing happened for so long that people called it the “Phoney War”. Even so, buildings were sandbagged just in case, and a blackout was brought in, so bombers wouldn't have an easy target at night. Street lights were switched off and car headlights covered.

I was nearly killed by a tram when I was up in London. I only just jumped out of the way in time. Edith said that a doctor told her that road deaths had doubled since the blackout.

She also told me about all the accidents they had to deal with: people falling down flights of steps in the dark and walking into trees and lampposts – and each other. Eventually the powers that be painted white stripes on everything to make it a bit easier to see them.

 

I was called up to active service as soon as war broke out and spent the bitterly cold winter being knocked into shape by the RAF. We went to horribly dull lectures and learnt how to march and salute and all that rot. We learned to navigate. We learned to shoot. And of course we flew.

I flew Harts, Magisters, Harvards and Ansons, learning to fly in formation, learning how to do rolls and loops and spins, learning the stuff I would need in the months to come. At every stage we were tested and I was pleased to see I was pretty good. “Above Average” it said in my Log Book.

Some of the chaps were trained to fly bombers, of course, but me, I was going to be a fighter pilot. I suppose I should have been scared – a couple of chaps were killed just training – but I wasn't. I was just incredibly excited.
I just wanted to fly
.

In the spring they let me loose in a Hurricane, which was a whole different kettle of fish, faster than anything I'd ever flown before. It was fantastic! But it was nothing compared to the aircraft I was going to spend the war flying. It was nothing compared to the Spitfire.

 

 

I arrived home on leave on Wednesday 15 May. When my mum opened the door and saw me in my uniform she burst into tears.

“Pilot Officer Harry Woods reporting for duty,” I said. She hugged me so tightly I thought my lungs would collapse. I don't know whether she was proud or sad. A bit of both maybe. Mothers are a funny lot.

My dad was in the lounge listening to the wireless. He switched it off as I walked in, stood up and shook me firmly by the hand.

“So those are the wings you've worked so hard to get?” he said, looking at the badge on my tunic.

“Yes,” I said with a grin. “Sewed them on myself.”

“I'll go and make us all a nice cup of tea,” said Mum.

Dad and I sat down, neither of us quite knowing what to say. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away. Dad leaned forward, looking serious.

“You know the Germans broke through the French Line this morning?”

“Yes – heard about it at the station. Looks like this is it.”

Dad nodded. “I suppose it is, son.” The kettle began to whistle in the kitchen.

“What do you make of Churchill, Dad?” I said. Churchill had taken over as PM a few days before.

“Well he's got to be better than Chamberlain,” he said. “You need an old bulldog like Churchill if there's going to be a scrap. And there is.”

“Oh please don't let's talk about the War, dear,” called Mum from the kitchen.

“You remember Bob Jenkins?” said Dad.

“Bob Jenkins. Of course I know Bob. I played cricket with him.”

“Well he's with the British Expeditionary Force,” said Dad.

“He's only nineteen,” said Mum as she came in with the tea.

“So am I,” I replied rather foolishly. Mum put the tea tray down, burst into tears and ran upstairs.

“I'm sorry . . . I just. . .” I babbled.

“Come and see what's going on in the garden,” said Dad. I followed him out and through the side gate, round to the back of the house.

“What on earth?” I couldn't believe my eyes. Mum's beautiful flower borders were all dug up and the place looked like a building site. There were sheets of corrugated iron lying around and Dad seemed to be digging the whole place over.

The garden had always been so perfect. Mum spent every spare minute out there. It was her pride and joy. I suddenly remembered how, as a little boy, I used to follow her about with a toy wheelbarrow as she deadheaded the roses, until it was full of faded petals.

“What's all this, Dad?” I said.

“Well, the corrugated iron over there's an Anderson shelter I've bought. We're not likely to be bombed, I know, but you can't be too careful, can you? And we're going to grow our own vegetables. Do our bit. Chickens too, actually.”

“Good for you, Dad. But doesn't Mum mind? About the flowers, I mean? About the roses?”

“Her idea, son.”

“Well good for her, too, then,” I said. “It shouldn't be for too long, anyway, should it?”

“Let's hope not,” he said.

Dad lit his pipe and a robin hopped down from his perch on a spade handle to tug a worm from the earth. Dad looked up at the sky. I followed his gaze, but there was nothing there. Somewhere in the distance a cuckoo sounded off.

“We don't want a hero for a son, Harry,” he said without turning round. “Your mother and I are quite happy with the one we've got.”

“Message received, Dad. I'll be careful.”

“Good lad. Now, how about that cup of tea?”

By the time we'd walked back into the house, Mum was in the lounge smiling as if nothing had happened, handing round the biscuits and asking what I thought about the garden. I heard all the latest gossip about the village – mostly about people I could hardly remember, and then Dad took pity on me and changed the subject.

“So, tell us about the Spitfire, son,” said Dad. “Is it as good as they say?”

“Better,” I said. “For a start it's the most beautiful plane in the world.”

“Does that matter?” said Mum with a smile.

“Well I think in a way it does,” I said. “It looks good because it's so well designed. It has these beautiful thin wings. Elliptical. It's a work of art really. Pilots have a saying, actually: ‘If it looks right, it
is
right.'”

“And it's fast?” said Dad.

“I'll say. There's over a thousand horsepower of Rolls Royce engine inside – the Merlin III. It'll go over 360 miles per hour.”

“But how can you bear to go so fast?” said Mum. My dad just shook his head in disbelief.

“It's fantastic! Taking off, climbing at 2,500 feet a minute, up, up, up to 20,000 feet. It gets jolly cold up there too, so you're glad of the fleecy boots and the gloves – and the oxygen of course. Oh, but when you're up there above the clouds, above the world, soaring like an eagle. . .”

I stopped because I saw them both looking at me, and I laughed self-consciously.

“You really do love it, don't you dear? Flying, I mean,” said Mum with a smile.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do.”

“But it's not just about flying, is it son?” said Dad. “You've got those Messer. . . Mesher. . .”

“Messerschmitts. Yes, that's true. It's the Me109s we really have to look out for, they're the really fast ones. They're the best fighters the Luftwaffe – the German Air Force – have got. But there's also a 110. They have a gunner in the cockpit as well as the pilot. So do all the bombers, actually. The Junkers 87 – you know, the Stuka. . .”

“Yes,” said Dad. “I remember those from newsreels from Poland. Hateful things. They actually have sirens on them don't they?”

“Yes,” I said. “Frightens the living daylights out of people when they swoop down, I shouldn't wonder.” Dad shook his head.

“Then there's a Junkers 88. They have four chaps in them. There's the Dornier – they call that one the ‘Flying Pencil' because it's skinny and looks a bit like . . . well, like a flying pencil, I suppose. They have four chaps too. Oh, and Heinkels. Heinkel 111s. They have four or five chaps and guns sticking out all over the shop.” I was off. “Of course we all want to prove ourselves against the Me109 pilots. Show them who's boss, that kind of thing.”

“And these Me109s, as you call them – they have guns too?”

“'Fraid so. Cannons and machine guns.” Mum looked down at the table and put her hands in front of her face. “Of course, I've got some fire-power of my own. I've got eight .303 Browning machine-guns on my wings.”

“Eight?” said Dad.

“Yes. Four on each wing. Three hundred rounds a piece. . .”

“Oh
please
can't we talk about something else?” shouted Mum. Dad stopped right there and turned to look at her. “Sorry,” she said, smiling again. “All this talk about aircraft is very dull. You know I don't understand about machines.”

“Sorry, Mum,” I said. I held out my hand and she grabbed it tightly.

 

I arrived at base on 24 May, eager to do my bit. The place was pretty swish as they'd been doing a lot of work on it over the winter, getting it into shape for whatever was coming up.

My squadron was in 11 Group of Fighter Command, the group covering southeast England and the group closest to the German bases in France. We were going to be in the front line.

I stood and looked out across the runway, with the dispersal huts dotted around it, hangars full of Hurricanes and Spitfires. I felt myself getting a few inches taller just standing there taking it all in.

Hurricanes had already been sent to France and Norway, so I assumed it wouldn't be long before we'd be seeing some action as well. I was pretty keen, looking back. Horribly keen.

“At least the Phoney War is over,” I said to a chap in the mess. He was sitting opposite me reading a newspaper. He didn't reply.

“I said, at least the Phoney War is over. Now we can get on with it.” He peeped over the top of his paper and gave me a withering look.

“It can't have seemed like much of a Phoney War to the Poles,” he said.

“No . . . I mean . . . that's not what I meant. . .” I said.

“Or to the Czechs, or the Danes or the Norwegians,” he continued. I didn't reply this time.

“And I dare say that if you were a Jew fleeing for your life from the Nazis it must have seemed pretty darned real. . .”

“Look,” I said. “I was only trying to be sociable.” He disappeared back behind his paper.

“Don't mind him,” said another of the chaps. “Lenny's always like that when he's reading the paper. Come on Lenny, be nice to the man, he's new to this madhouse.”

Lenny lowered his paper and thrust out his hand.

“Pilot Officer Mike Leonard,” he said.

“Pilot Officer Harry Woods.” I said.

I was just about to say something else, when there was a low drone outside and he stood up. All round the mess, the chaps stopped what they were doing and walked outside. I followed them.

Aircraft were descending out of a pale grey sky. A Hurricane squadron coming back from France – or rather what was left of the squadron. As they landed and came to a halt, aircrew ran and helped the pilots out, calling for help for those who were injured.

One of the pilots walked towards me, hollow-eyed, and I held out my hand and said, “Well done. Come on, I'll buy you a drink?” I must have looked such a kid, all neat and clean and grinning like an idiot.

He pushed straight past me as if he hadn't seen me, nearly knocking me off my feet. We watched him walk silently to the quarters he'd vacated weeks before. We followed him in and found him slumped on the bed fully dressed. He slept for two days straight.

 

The British Expeditionary Force was in trouble, as we found out in our briefing from our CO on the 30th. He stood in front of a large map showing the southeast of England, the Channel and the coast of France.

“As you know,” he said, “the Belgian army surrendered at midnight on the 27th. The boys of the BEF have been ordered to make for the coast. . .” He pointed to the map. “Here – at the port of Dunkirk. An operation code-named Operation Dynamo has been instigated to get as many of them as possible away by sea. The Germans will of course do everything in their power to stop it – and that's where we come in. The RAF have been ordered to supply air cover for the evacuation.” An excited murmur went round the room.

“Now I know you Spitfire pilots have been chomping at the bit, eager to get involved – but frankly, the top brass feel that Spitfires are too darned valuable to lose by sending them to France.” There were a few snorts from Hurricane pilots in the room. “In any event, that's all about to change. If we are going to get the better of the Luftwaffe, we shall have to use everything we've got. Thousands of Allied troops are staggering on to that 12-mile stretch of beach, exhausted, with the Germans snapping at their heels. The harbour has been bombed out of action and the beach shelves away so that big ships can't get close to the shore. It's going to be hard work getting them off, and they're going to need our help in trying to keep the Jerry bombers off their backs. Your squadron leaders will give you more details. Good luck, gentlemen.”

 

It was the 31st. I'd flown many times before, but suddenly it dawned on me that this was it. The practice was over. This was the real thing. My guts suddenly felt cold and heavy, like I'd swallowed a rock. I felt dizzy, doubled up and vomited.

“No time for that, old chap,” said a passing pilot cheerily, and I pulled myself together and made for my aircraft. I cringed with embarrassment but the sick feeling wore off as I walked towards my Spitfire. Then I noticed something odd: each of the other pilots in turn patted Lenny on the shoulder as they were passing. It was done almost absent-mindedly and there was no kind of reaction from Lenny at all. He just carried on getting his stuff together and climbing up into his aircraft.

As for me, I stepped up on to the wing, patted my Spit on the flank like I used to do with Blackie, our old horse, and I whispered to it. I can't tell you what I whispered, it was just stuff. It probably sounds like I'm crazy, I know, but it was just something I did. Everybody did something.

I put on my flying helmet and plugged in the R/T – the radio telephone – and my oxygen. I glanced nervously around me and checked my instrument panel over and over again. I signalled to the airman below and he yanked the chocks away from my wheels. We taxied off in formation and then gathered speed.

As we moved off across the grass in the early morning light, the clumsy bumping finally gave way to that great feeling of floating: dull old earth giving way to air and soaring flight. It got me every time, every single time.

Off over the rooftops and steeples, the orchards, the hedgerows in blossom, the hop fields; over the cliffs and the closed-off beaches, out across the sea to the War beyond the slate-grey waters of the Channel.

We flew in tight formation and I tried to concentrate on maintaining my position as we approached the soot-black skies of Dunkirk. A huge wall of black smoke rose in front of us, a filthy cloak that turned day into night. Then a shaft of sunlight cut a slit through the clouds, hitting the sea like a searchlight. In the sea there were boats and big ships and wrecks sticking out of the waves like jawbones. Near the beach the water was flecked with the floating wreckage of ships and men, the beach studded with those who were waiting for escape. It was a Bible scene, if ever I saw one. Like the Israelites at the Red Sea with Pharaoh at their back, waiting for some kind of deliverance.

We patrolled the coast, but though we saw plenty of action going on on the ground, we saw no sign whatsoever of the Luftwaffe, though we could see evidence of their handiwork all around. We were at the limits of our range here and we got the order to return to base before we ran out of fuel.