Dogfight (6 page)

The final requirement for success was the ability to gauge the angle of attack. Unless the RAF pilot was engaged in a direct front-on or rear-on attack, he would be required to use deflection. The calculation is similar to clay-bird shooting when required to fire slightly in front of the ‘bird' allowing it to pass directly into the spread of lead pellets from the shotgun. Thus RAF pilots had to be able to aim ahead of an aircraft in order for it to fly into the Hurricane or Spitfire's machine-gun fire.[35] The Anzacs seemed well suited to this, perhaps in good part because hunting was a popular and widespread pastime back in the Dominions. The accuracy of Anzac and other RAF pilots was often noted by those who came upon the wreckage of an enemy machine shot down on friendly territory, first in France and later in England.

Early in the war destroyed aircraft were magnets for story-hunting newspaper men. In Kain's first and widely covered kill, a
Los Angeles Times
reporter examined the wrecked bomber, observing that ‘there were 16 bullet holes completely through the propeller of the right engine and the motor itself, mute testimony of a deadly aim'. One elderly former pilot who also explored the burnt-out machine noted, with reference to the famous Great War ace Edward ‘Mick' Mannock, that Kain had the ‘Mannock eye'.[36]

In spite of the successes of New Zealanders like Kain, Deere, Gray and Clouston and the Australians Clisby and Olive, the fight for France in the air was a decidedly uneven affair.

The cost of the RAF undertaking was a significant drain on Fighter
Command. Although the 453 fighters and 435 airmen lost in total was somewhat less than the Luftwaffe tally, the Germans were able to make good some of their losses by liberating nearly 400 aircrew POWs with the surrender of France.[37] The cost to pilots and their squadrons had been immense, particularly for those of the AASF.

In accumulating his sixteen victory credits, the Hastings-born Kain had survived a number of potentially fatal engagements in the face of overwhelming odds. His skill and good fortune meant that by early June he was the only surviving pilot of the original 73 Squadron deployment to France. On 6 June, south-east of Paris, he took off to fly to England on leave when in a slow roll over the airfield his aircraft struck the ground, throwing the airman to his death.[38] The BBC on 10 June relayed the news to its listeners touching lightly on a couple of highlights from Kain's illustrious flying career.

New Zealand's Prime Minister, Peter Fraser spoke of the sorrow felt by those throughout the country but added that Kain's record ‘will inspire his fellow countrymen in the air force and all those waiting to go to the battlefront'.[39] Cobber and Clisby would be sorely missed, but the Anzacs who survived the ferocious battles of France and Dunkirk had gained valuable battle experience for the months ahead.

CHAPTER 3

As Fighter Command licked its wounds and New Zealand and Australian airmen recovered after the final frenetic air battles of June 1940, an ecstatic Führer mulled over his next course of action. Hitler's racial, ideological and economic aims drew him eastward to the steppes of the great Russian plains. However, he was mindful of leaving his back open to assault. The threat of a two-front war was not to be ignored, even by this most unconventional of German military leaders. The British rejection of clandestine and public offers of a negotiated agreement pushed the Führer towards force of arms, and in July he ordered that plans for the invasion of England be drawn up under the codename Operation Sea Lion.[1] Because of the strength of the Royal Navy, it was clear that an attack, if it was to have any hope of success, would require the prior degradation of the RAF ‘to such an extent that it will be incapable of putting up any opposition to a German crossing' of the English Channel.[2] The Luftwaffe's leadership planned to strike British airfields, aircraft factories and auxiliary facilities in south-east England and thereby eventually wear the RAF down until aerial superiority had been attained. Privately, Luftwaffe leaders went as far as hoping that the destruction of the RAF as a fighting force would create a situation where Whitehall was compelled to sue for peace without a single German soldier putting his foot on English soil.

Reich Marshal Hermann Göring, Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe, had two main air fleets at his disposal in the West: Luftflotte 2, commanded by Field Marshal Albert Kesselring, and Luftflotte 3 under the hand of Field Marshal Hugo Sperrle. Formerly an artilleryman in the Kaiser's army, Kesselring was given a Luftwaffe appointment in Hitler's Germany and took up flying at the age of forty-eight. Known to his contemporaries as
‘smiling Albert', he appeared charming and relaxed, but his benign exterior concealed a decisive and surefooted leader who was popular with his men. Sperrle on the other hand was as menacing as Kesselring was affable. Hitler considered Sperrle to be one of his most ‘brutal-looking generals'.[3] His love of food and extravagance led Albert Speer to comment that, ‘The Field Marshal's craving for luxury and public display ran a close second to that of his superior, Göring.'[4] Sperrle's Great War experience as an observer was followed by his command of the secret German air training school in Russia in the 1920s. His subsequent command of the Condor Legion in Spain meant he possessed more operational air power experience than any German officer of commensurate rank. This offset his difficult manner and pompous inclinations.

As a prelude to the main aerial assault and anticipated invasion, the Luftwaffe undertook attacks on British Channel shipping, dubbed the
Kanalkampf
(Channel Battle) by the Germans. It was hoped that the raids would draw out defending fighters. At best, it was believed that it could sufficiently wear down the RAF in preparation for Sea Lion and, at worst, it would close the Channel to Allied shipping. Either way, it was assumed that the Luftwaffe would get a favourable outcome, especially as Kesselring and Sperrle possessed an impressive armada of aircraft, including 656 Me 109 and 168 Me 110 fighters. These were to support 769 twin-engine bombers and 316 single-engine dive-bombers.[5] The latter was the infamous gull-winged Stuka, the Junkers Ju 87. Although it had a formidable reputation as a terrifyingly precise dive-bomber, this had largely been gained in the absence of fighter opposition in Poland and France. Its lack of speed and vulnerability in a dive would be its undoing over Britain. The twin-engine aircraft ranged from medium bombers—the Junkers Ju 88 and Heinkel He 111—to light bombers—the slender Dornier Do 17 and Do 215 ‘flying pencils'. Aside from their relatively modest payloads, all four suffered from inadequate defensive armament and were dependent on the fighters for protection. Nevertheless, backed by massed Me 109s, their sheer numbers meant they had the capacity to rock Fighter Command on its heels.

Fortunately for the RAF, only a small portion of these resources were utilised in the
Kanalkampf,
due in part to Göring's overconfidence, but more importantly the need to hold in reserve the bulk of the aircraft for the assault on Britain proper. In the initial throw of the dice against the convoys, Kesselring and Sperrle put into action a mere seventy-five twin-engine bombers and just over sixty dive-bombers, though supplementary
units could be called upon as required. Two hundred fighters were allocated to defend these.

In Britain, Dowding was currently limited to 504 serviceable Hurricanes and Spitfires. Making matters worse, these machines were spread across Fighter Command's four regionally based Groups—13 Group: North England and Scotland; 12 Group: Central England; 10 Group: South West England and South Wales; and 11 Group: South East England. Situated directly opposite the German air fleets and guarding the capital, 11 Group was the first line of Britain's aerial defence but, of course, had only a portion of the entire single-engine fighter inventory. This was overseen by the most influential Anzac commander of the Second World War, the New Zealander Air Vice Marshal Keith Park.

Park cut his aviation teeth in the Great War, flying two-seater Bristol biplanes over the Western Front, where the New Zealander was credited with eleven victories and damage to some thirteen others by war's end. In 1918, during a nine-month stint as commander of 48 Squadron in France, the Thames-born Park discovered and developed the leadership qualities that stood him in good stead two decades later in the unfolding Battle of Britain. At Bertangles, just north of Amiens, the newly promoted Major Park had under his command 18 aircraft, the 200 officers and ground crew required to keep them in the air and a collection of lorries and sundry motorised vehicles upon which the functioning of the base depended. In addition, the twenty-eight-year-old oversaw the safety and operational duties of personnel attached to the base, including medical staff, construction crews, intelligence officers and the cadre of soldiers who provided for the base's security.[6]

It was among these men that Park demonstrated his considerable organisational abilities and a preference for frontline leadership. Eschewing deskbound command, the New Zealander headed as many patrols as possible himself. He would continue this approach in 1940, frequently flying his personalised Hurricane to 11 Group bases to get an accurate appraisal of the fighting. The tall, lean New Zealander made a habit of sitting in on officers' meals to gauge the course of the battle and glean information about the struggle as it evolved. Park was also only too fully aware that cooks,
aviation-engineers and armourers were as essential as pilots to maintaining a unit's operational readiness.[7] In 1918, he was reported to have got rid of a handful of pilots who were either too conceited or simply too lazy to listen and learn from their ground crew's considerable advice on getting the best out of their machines. During the Battle of Britain he promised to be no less holistic in his approach to 11 Group's support servicemen and women, and was equally as efficient in weeding out problem personnel ill-suited to their tasks.[8]

In addition, Park was a great believer in knowing his enemy. Even as a humble Great War squadron leader, he assiduously observed the strategy and tactics of opponents over the Western Front. Often in the summer of 1918, flying alone above the lattice of muddy trenches, he critiqued the contest between Allied and Central Power pilots. He was honest enough to recognise superior German tactics and attempted to rectify this with his own men. The great struggle that he now faced against Kesselring and Sperrle would call upon all his native aviation intuition and considerable strategic intellect. Finally, he knew what it was like to have his back against the wall and not lose his nerve. A bomber attack on Park's base in 1918 was a particularly hard blow to 48 Squadron, incapacitating fifteen pilots and observers, and writing off nine fighters. With the injection of seventeen new air crew in the weeks that followed, he found himself facing a sea of unfamiliar faces and set about re-establishing
esprit de corps
and operational proficiency. In 1940, at forty-eight years of age and after a series of postings, he was promoted to Air Vice Marshal and handed the most important command of his career; 11 Group's morale and fighting capacity now rested in Park's hands. He was able to muster some 200 Hurricanes and Spitfires in 11 Group.

Given Fighter Command's vulnerability in machines and pilots, Park was reluctant to deploy all his forces in the protection of Channel shipping when he judged the main event still lay some days, if not weeks, in the future. His biggest problem was that radar, which was to prove so effective later in the campaign, was less useful in this type of engagement. German bombers assembled in great numbers outside the range of detection, so that by the time the enemy raiders were picked up and their intentions plotted, there was very little time left to scramble Fighter Command machines and direct them to Channel and Straits of Dover targets. In order to make meaningful contact with the enemy, Park's only alternative was to establish
standing patrols over the area—an impossible mission to fulfil given the number of convoys.[9] In the month-long
Kanalkampf,
Park's airmen would be outnumbered and outmanoeuvred.

On 10 July, two large German formations arrived off Margate and Dover. The larger of these included twenty-four bombers with an escorting force of some forty single-and twin-engine Messerschmitts. Scrambled to meet the attack were five squadrons, including Donald Cobden of 74 Squadron, based at Rochford, Essex. In common with a number of South Pacific colonials, Cobden was a fine rugby player—the capstone of his career was donning the All Black jersey in August 1937 to represent New Zealand in a test against South Africa's Springboks. Flying a Spitfire as part of 74 Squadron, he saw considerable action over France in May, securing some probables and at least one confirmed Me 109.[10]

The intruders were spotted at 1.30p.m. and all fighters were soon engaged in a vicious dogfight. The New Zealander was one of the few pilots to penetrate the Me 109 perimeter and strike the bombers, diving on a Dornier and firing his machine-guns in a short but effective burst. The result was a stream of black smoke spiralling from the starboard engine of the Luftwaffe machine. In moments, he himself came under assault from a handful of the enemy fighters. Desperate evasive manoeuvres failed to prevent cannon and machine-gun fire damaging his faltering Spitfire. He managed to shake off his assailants and limp back to a coastal airfield for a wheels-up landing. Seven Luftwaffe machines had been destroyed for the loss of one RAF pilot and a single 400-ton merchant vessel.

Cobden's success followed the first shooting down of a German machine much earlier in the day by the curly-haired Robert Yule of Invercargill. The lone reconnaissance machine had been dispatched by the Anzac and two others in the Hurricane-equipped 145 Squadron at 5.30a.m.[11] Yule seems to have incurred no damage himself but Cobden, some hours later, probably counted himself extremely lucky to have made landfall. Both Allied and Axis pilots feared ending up ‘in the drink'.

Fighting over the waters of the Channel greatly diminished the prospect of survival. Eighty per cent of pilot losses during the month-long skirmishes occurred at sea.[12] Dowding had not anticipated the extensive use of his fighters over the Channel and consequently the RAF was ill-equipped to
rescue its pilots. The Luftwaffe, on the other hand, had an excellent air-sea rescue service—the
Seenotdienst
—furnished with the robust Heinkel He 59 float-planes in white livery and painted with bold Red Cross markings. To enable the
Seenotdienst
to spot downed airmen, all German pilots were furnished with fluorescein sachets that, when broken open by a pilot, turned the surrounding waters into a bright green carpet. Lockers inside the He 59s contained first-aid equipment, heated sleeping bags and artificial respiration equipment. For the Allied pilots of the RAF, the Luftwaffe's air-sea rescue service was to be envied but also viewed with some suspicion as it was felt in some quarters that the machines bearing the Red Cross were also being exploited for reconnaissance duties, particularly when escorted by fighters. Just the day before, Deere found himself confronted by a He 59. The following combat highlighted such fears and was the first of many close calls he endured during the Battle of Britain.

While leading a Spitfire formation out of Hornchurch in his aircraft nicknamed ‘Kiwi 2'—‘Kiwi 1' had been lost over Dunkirk—Deere spotted a German Red Cross float-plane skimming foam-tipped waves under the protective escort of a dozen Me 109s. Deere's section attacked the fighters, leaving the float-plane to others. Firing the new explosive De Wilde ammunition, he soon saw ‘small dancing yellow flames' running along the fuselage of an Me 109, helping Deere gauge his effectiveness. His next target was less obliging.

The controls were ripped from Deere's startled hands as his seat harness cut deeply into his shoulders at the sudden impact and loss of air speed in the glancing collision. Smoke and flames bellowed from the Merlin engine
and the propeller blades bent back like a claw. The Me 109 had viciously ground itself along the top of the Spitfire at high speed and in the process damaged the canopy, trapping the New Zealander inside the increasingly inhospitable cockpit. He had no alternative but to glide towards the distant British coastline. Amazingly he made it and put the wrecked machine down in a paddock near Manston airfield. Deere used his bare hands to smash his way out of the machine as the carcass of ‘Kiwi 2' went up in flames. Sitting well back from the conflagration, he catalogued his injuries: cut and bleeding hands, singed eyebrows, badly bruised knees and a cut lip. ‘But I was alive!' A local farmer's wife offered him a cup of tea, to which he replied he would ‘prefer something stronger'.