A Summer Bright and Terrible (15 page)

He wanted concrete runways and telephone lines
and steel towers—even if they might interfere with the grouse hunting. He
wanted armour plating and bulletproof glass to protect his pilots: “I can’t
understand why Chicago gangsters can have bulletproof glass in their cars and I
can’t get it in my Spitfires,” he complained. Above all, he wanted a radar
system that worked.

The concept that Wilkins had put forward was
clear in principle, but foggy in details. It was something totally new, and all
the parameters had to be worked out one by one in difficult experiments. The
proper wavelength for maximum efficiency had to be determined, and transmitters
and receivers built to that specification. Spurious echoes from other sources
had to be disentangled, and the bugs in new designs had to be eliminated.
Everything had to be tested, and it seemed that every test would fail: There were
echoes where there were no planes, and planes where there were no echoes. Back
again to the drawing board, and back again and again.

The Air Ministry parted with twenty-five
thousand pounds to buy Bawdsey Hall, the isolated ancestral home of Sir Cuthbert
Quilter overlooking the North Sea, and here a band of electronics engineers and
physicists were gathered from universities and research laboratories all over
England. An eccentric Scotsman named John Logie Baird had just invented a
workable television system, but before he could put it into commercial
operation, his business was shut down and all his technicians taken to work on
this most secret project, leaving him fuming and cursing.

It was a maelstrom of activity, at the centre
of which sat old Stuffy Dowding, rejected by the powers that be, no longer in
line to be the next chief of the RAF, but still relentlessly doing his thing:
cutting red tape, riding roughshod over hurdles, hurting sensitive feelings,
and making enemies at each step of the way—and getting things done. But things
went slowly, so slowly—an inch at a time, and often two inches back—that it
drove him to desperation. He wrote to the Secretary of State for Air: “I can
say without fear of contradiction that since I have held my present post I have
dealt with or am in the process of dealing with a number of vital matters which
generations of Air Staff have neglected for the last 15 years. . . . This work
has had to be carried out against the inertia of the Air Staff—a statement
which I can abundantly prove if necessary. Further I have continually had to
complain that the Air Staff take decisions vitally affecting my command without
the slightest consultation with me or my Staff.”

Then suddenly, at the beginning of September
1939, Hitler invaded Poland.

Fourteen

One year previously, in September 1938,
Europe had come to the brink of war over Czechoslovakia. Hitler had insisted
that part of that country, the Sudetenland, was demographically and culturally
German and should be returned to Germany. It was a reasonable point of view,
difficult to argue against.

Czechoslovakia had been carved out of Germany
and Austria-Hungary by the League of Nations—basically by France and
England—after the First World War, to serve as one of a series of buffer states
hemming in Germany so that it couldn’t cause any more trouble. The Sudetenland
was, as Hitler claimed, in reality German, and he would invade, if necessary,
to rescue the German population there from “oppressive” Czech rule. The basic
contention of the League was that national preferences should be determined by
plebiscite, by the will of the people actually living there, and if this had
been done in the Sudetenland there is no question but that the people would vote
to belong to Germany rather than to Czechoslovakia.

There were two problems. One was that the
Sudetenland contained a mountain range that presented a natural border between
it and Germany. Removing the Sudetenland from Czechoslovakia meant removing the
mountains, which meant leaving the Czech state without a defensible border. The
other problem was Hitler. Although he loudly proclaimed to have “no other
territorial demands in Europe,” how could anyone believe him?

On September 15 Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain
flew to Berchtesgaden to, in his words, reason with the leader of a great
country, or, in Churchill’s words, to appease the madman. It was the first time
in history that a head of state had taken the bold step of flying to another
country, serving to underscore the need for quick action to prevent war.

Acting virtually unilaterally, he ceded to
Hitler the Sudetenland and returned to convince both his Parliament and the
French—and, after much argument, the Czechs—that reneging on promises and ceding
territory was better than war. But when he brought this agreement back to
Hitler the following week, the German dictator told him flatly that it was not
enough! Further negotiations followed, until at Munich on September 29 a
four-power conference of Germany, England, France, and Italy—but not
Czechoslovakia—agreed to all of Hitler’s demands. The Czech republic was left
without allies, and they capitulated.

In return, on the following day, Chamberlain
obtained Hitler’s signature on a paper he had drafted overnight, promising to
settle all future territorial demands by “consultation.” He flew back to
England, triumphantly waving the piece of paper with Hitler’s signature,
proclaiming “peace in our time.”

Churchill rose in Parliament, thunderously
proclaiming that piece of paper a stain on the honour of His Majesty’s
government. Britain had guaranteed the existence of the state of
Czechoslovakia, and with the Munich Agreement, Chamberlain had ripped it
asunder without even giving the Czech government a word in the negotiations.
Six months later, without provocation and despite his claim of “no further
territorial demands,” Hitler sent his troops across the now-indefensible border
and occupied all of Czechoslovakia.

Thus ended appeasement, and reason, and peace
in our time.

The verdict of history has been harsh, and
in agreement with Churchill’s oratory at the time.
Appeasement
has
become a dirty word, negotiation a sign of weakness. But in truth Chamberlain
was right; Churchill was wrong. If Churchill had had his way, England would
have gone to war, would have retained its honour, and would have been crushed
by Hitler. Chamberlain had grovelled before Hitler, had sold England’s honour,
but had given his nation the opportunity to regain it. In reality, he had no
choice.

His actions were dictated by an overwhelming
desire for peace, which was seen as cowardice, but also by the knowledge that
England was simply not yet ready for war. Earlier that year, Dowding had
written a concise statement setting forth the condition of Fighter Command. He
stated with confidence that he could defend the island against the German
Luftwaffe with fifty-two squadrons of Spitfires and Hurricanes.

At the time of the Munich crisis, he had
twenty-nine squadrons, which included not a single Spitfire and fewer than a
hundred Hurricanes—and the Hurricanes were useless against bombers, being
limited to a ceiling of fifteen thousand feet, more than a mile below the
Luftwaffe bombers’ cruising altitude. Worst of all, radar was not yet working.
The CH chain of transmitters was still being built (the grouse hunting was
suffering terribly), and even those that were completed were not working
properly. On a good day, they were able to “see” incoming bombers and measure
their position with reasonable accuracy, but they couldn’t get the height
correctly—and that made the system just about useless, for the air is a
three-dimensional space. To understand how serious this was, imagine the
analogous problem in two dimensions. If you want to go from Miami to New York
and you’re told the distance is thirteen hundred miles but you don’t know the
direction, you’re never going to get there. (On a bad day—and there were many
of them—the radar system couldn’t even get the position right.) And this was
for the areas where the CH transmitters were built and operating; many areas of
the coast had no radar at all.

Chamberlain knew if he didn’t give in to Hitler’s
demands, England would quickly lie burning, devastated, in ruins. He put a good
face on it, hoping against hope that Hitler might live up to his promises, that
indeed there might be peace in his time, but whatever the outcome, Chamberlain
knew that he had no choice but to buy time at the expense, sadly but
unavoidably, of Czechoslovakia.

He almost succeeded.

It was now clear that Hitler would not stop
until he was stopped, and war preparations began in earnest. The Hurricanes
were modified to increase their altitude, and the first few Spitfires began to
come off the production line. Compared to 1936, when he took over Fighter
Command, Dowding was stronger. Then, he had had eleven squadrons of obsolete
twin-gunned biplanes. By 1938, his strength was more than doubled, but he also
had new responsibilities. He was now expected to provide air cover to protect
shipping through the Channel and along the southern coast. Since attacks might
hit such targets before radar could provide warning, this would mean standing
patrols, which in turn meant a terrible waste of time, fuel, and pilots’
energy. He was given four more squadrons, which looked good on paper, but these
new squadrons were fitted with twin-engine Blenheims—bombers converted to
fighters by the addition of machine guns. Calling them fighters didn’t actually
make them fighters; in the event, they proved useless for the task.

Dowding was also asked to provide air cover for
the navy’s home base at Scapa Flow in the Orkney Islands, north of Scotland. He
was given two more squadrons for this, but these new squadrons were even less
effective than the Blenheims—they had no planes at all, and no pilots to fly
the no-planes; they existed only on paper. Finally, he was given another paper
squadron and told that with this group, he was expected to protect Belfast.

He realized that although the squadrons were
imaginary, the tasks were not. If Scapa Flow, Belfast, or the convoys were
attacked, he would surely be ordered to protect them, which would mean reducing
the already meagre forces he was gathering for the protection of the island
kingdom itself. Even worse was the arrangement he had inherited, that four
squadrons of fighters would be sent with the British Expeditionary Force to
France, if and when that force actually embarked. Far from convincing the Air
Staff that this was impossible, he found himself instead fighting a rearguard
action against constant threats of increasing the allotment. In March 1939, he
was ordered to have an additional six squadrons ready to go at a moment’s
notice.

In July he wrote to the Air Ministry: “If this
policy is implemented and ten regular squadrons are withdrawn from the country,
the air defence of Great Britain will be gravely imperilled. The Air Staff
estimate that fifty squadrons are necessary for its defence. I calculate that
by January 1940 I shall have twenty-five equipped with modern types, plus
fourteen Auxiliary squadrons . . . but only six of these will be even nearly as
efficient as the Regulars. If ten regular squadrons were withdrawn, the
remaining resources would be altogether inadequate for the defence of this
country.”

What was needed was increased production of
fighter aircraft and increased numbers of well-trained pilots assigned to
Fighter Command. But Bomber Harris was arguing as strongly for more bombers and
pilots, and the Air Ministry was still convinced that a large bomber force
might yet deter Hitler. Day after day, Dowding and Harris fought each other for
the slowly swelling trickle of planes and men.

Just as bad was the state of radar. The CH
chain of transmitters was nearing completion, but the apparatus was beset with
gremlins. Yesterday it worked, today it didn’t, tomorrow . . . ?

The days hurried by, and before preparations
were anywhere near complete, Hitler invaded Poland. England and France ordered
him to leave, and when he refused they declared war. It was September 3, 1939,
and the world would never again be quite the same.

Fifteen

Immediately after the outbreak of war,
Churchill was brought back into the government in his old role as First Lord of
the Admiralty, and Britain’s army, the British Expeditionary Force (BEF), moved
to France. With it went the four Hurricane squadrons that had been promised.
Dowding knew this had long been the plan, but the plan had also included an
increase in Fighter Command to fifty squadrons. He had assumed that the former
would not be taken from him until the latter had been achieved, but in this he
was mistaken. The leader of the BEF insisted on his four squadrons, and off
they went.

Dowding was furious. He stormed off to his old
compatriot, Cyril Newall, the Chief of the Air Staff, and was fobbed off onto
his deputy, who listened quietly, sadly commiserating and shaking his head at
the perversities of fortune, but said his hands were tied. Whereupon Dowding
roared off to the Secretary of State for Air, in whose office the sad shaking
of the head was repeated. Infuriated, he retired to the priory and dashed off
an angry letter to the Air Council. Were the Council members aware, he asked,
of what was happening? Had they not agreed that fifty squadrons were the minimum
necessary for the defence of the homeland? Did they understand that not only
were the fifty not in place, but four had been subtracted and plans were in
place for more diversions?

Yes, yes, he understood that arrangements had
been made for the four squadrons to leave him to accompany the BEF to France,
but he had always been assured “that these squadrons would never be dispatched
until the safety of the Home Bases [England] had been assured.” Yet off they
had been sent with no regard for the safety of England.

Well, they were lost, he knew that. He knew
enough of military life to understand the nine-tenths rule; he would never get
them back. But what of the further six squadrons earmarked for France “if
necessity arose”? It would certainly arise, and what would be done then? He
knew that the Council had assured him that these squadrons would not be
withdrawn from his command until the island’s defences were in place, but, he
wrote bitterly, “I know now how much reliance to place on these assurances.”

And yes, he knew how much the BEF needed air
support, and how pressure from the army must have been exerted on the Air
Council to provide the four squadrons, but “similar pressure is likely to be
applied to dispatch the further six squadrons,” and then another four and then
another six, and so on . . . He saw a future that contained a continual drain
from his command to the exigencies of a continental war. He saw the day-to-day
necessities overwhelming any long-range plans for the defence of the kingdom
against aerial onslaught. He complained strongly that the defences were
inadequate, that with only the thirty-five squadrons he now had, he could not
guarantee the safety of the population against bombing, and that any further
reduction in his forces would be disastrous. He needed more fighters, not
fewer.

He was right, of course. The Air Council
realized this. But they wanted him to understand their position vis-a-vis the
BEF and the contradictory demands of the several armed forces. There simply
weren’t enough fighters to go around. What were they to do? To Dowding’s mind,
the answer was simple: They were to stand up like men and fight for Fighter
Command, for if the defences were inadequate when the bombers came, the war
would certainly be lost. But they didn’t see the future as clearly as he did.
Their answer was that their subordinate commanders—men like Dowding—should see
the bigger picture, the political situation, and should do the best they could
with what they had and should above all shut up.

This Dowding would not do. He wrote letter
after letter, he besieged them with advice and demands, he would not be
satisfied until England was safe. He was, they all agreed, a bloody damned
nuisance. He was piling up enemies, but he made some meagre headway. He
convinced Newall, who thereupon insisted that eighteen more fighter squadrons
must be formed immediately. The problem was, of course, that although it was
easy to list on paper these squadrons, they had no aircraft. And although this
sounds silly, it did have some effect. As slowly more and more Spitfires came
out of the factory, they would be assigned to these new squadrons, and slowly
they took shape. By the time the Battle of Britain began in the following
summer, Dowding had his fifty squadrons, although not all of them were
outfitted with proper airplanes.