The Battle of Britain (30 page)

‘When a Staffel broke and the foursomes and pairs separated in violent twisting and turning, the character, pluck and training of the German fighter pilots was revealed,' Priller writes and later admits: ‘In such confused fighting, the claims for aircraft shot down and the loss ratios on both sides are misleading.

‘It was no easy task over England in August 1940. Sometimes the youngsters were the victims of their inexperience and over-enthusiasm. There were times when we heard a plea from someone who was confused and disoriented, and nothing could be done about it. I remember one occasion when a lad who hadn't, as we used to say, tasted much English air, lost sight of our formation after some frenzied twisting and turning about the sky. But we could see him: he had dived steeply and was over the outskirts of London. He should have stayed with the Staffel instead of chasing off on his own. When he grasped the situation he called for help: “Come quickly! I'm on my own over London.”

‘He hadn't called in vain. By return post, as it were, his Schwarm leader, whom he couldn't see but who could see him clearly and had followed astern and above him, gave the comforting message: “Hang on a second and you'll have a
couple of Spitfires behind, then you won't be alone any longer.” Therewith the Schwarm leader, who had indeed seen the enemy and for that very reason had remained higher, successfully attacked one of the Spitfires. The other half-rolled and dived away.' One has to conclude that the second Spitfire had run out of ammunition.

Priller laments that it was not only the enemy with which the German fighter pilots had to reckon when far from base. ‘It often happened, particularly over the Channel, that the unpredictable weather cooked up some nasty surprise. Fighter aircraft had a relatively short range and sometimes had barely enough fuel left to get them home. In settled weather, one could calculate with reasonable accuracy how much to keep in hand for the return leg, but those conditions seldom prevailed in the operational zone.' Even in neighbouring areas the weather could differ considerably. When it was fine over an airfield near Boulogne, it might have changed by the time the fighter reached Calais, 18 miles (30km) away, and made landing impossible.

‘A Gruppe in our Geschwader experienced an example of this one day when tricky weather during the morning enforced an urgent change in the planned operations. In the afternoon the sun came out and this Gruppe was ordered to take off. It penetrated about 30 or 40 miles (50 or 60km) deep into England, “free hunting”, which meant looking for enemy aircraft, and low-level attack. On the way back they found that suddenly the whole French coast had become covered with cloud and fog. No fewer than 11 machines were reported missing. During the course of the evening 10 others turned up one at a time. They had had to go separately far inland to look for somewhere to put down. Most of them had eventually found an airfield but one had had to make a belly landing.'

Pilots on a fighter Staffel lived on their nerves to the same extent as those on an RAF fighter squadron. Both were subject to the sudden harsh blare of loudspeakers ordering them to scramble, but on a German airfield at the Channel coast these seemed to be even more intrusive than on the British aerodromes. The immediate effect was the same: a racing pulse, fear that had to be stifled instantly, and, for some, an irresistible urge to retch or vomit before sprinting to their aeroplanes.

One German pilot's recollection of the call to arms on a typical summer's day describes the ubiquitous means by which the summons came. ‘They were everywhere, the loudspeakers: in the mess, naturally, in the crew room, in the sleeping quarters, on the trees around the airfield. Even in the lavatories. No one within the precincts of the aerodrome could escape their din. They didn't say anything welcome but they said it loudly and made the buildings shake.'

For the most part, the first sounds were the rasping of the officer on duty in the Operations Room testing his microphone, which brought the ground crews to their feet. In the mess, cards were flung down on the table, spoons were let fall into soup plates, chairs were overturned. But sometimes the message was an anticlimax: ‘Loudspeaker test. Report back if understood.' With customary Teutonic thoroughness this was repeated several times a day, to check that no corner of the establishment failed to hear every broadcast. Mostly the words that echoed about the camp were the equally familiar, ‘Attention! Attention! Action alarm!‘

This anonymous pilot reminisces: ‘One fine summer day in particular remains firmly in my memory; not only because it was one of my first days after joining a Gruppe that lived in waiting for just such a summons, but also because it was in all respects typical. We were having lunch in the Gruppe staff mess when the loudspeakers barked at us. “Damn!” the Gruppe Kommandeur grumbled, dropping the fork that was half way to his mouth. His chair clattered against the wooden wall of the hut and a moment later he was outside and rushing to his aircraft with giant strides.'

He followed the Kommandeur towards the sandbagged blast pens where the aeroplanes were kept hidden and from which they could taxi straight out onto the field. By the time a pilot reached his machine the mechanics were already standing by ready to help him to put on his helmet and plug in the radio lead, fasten the safety harness, start the engine and close the cockpit canopy. The order to start up had not been given yet and everybody wondered if it was another false alarm. But the loudspeaker bellowed, ‘Attention! Attention! Targets at 3,000 metres near Dunkirk. No take-off yet.'

This pilot, though not detailed for the mission, was as highly charged with vicarious emotions as the others were with the reality. He knew the feelings of those who were sitting in their cockpits with all their thoughts and expectations concentrated on the imminence of combat. Foremost in their minds was the hope that the take-off would not be cancelled. The moments of uncertainty ended abruptly: ‘Attention! Attention! Numbers One and Three Staffeln led by Hauptmann Pingel take off immediately. Instructions: barrier patrol in the area.' Even before the message ended the starter motors began to whirr.

The first of the Bf 109s rolled out of concealment in the woods and presently from all around the half-circle of pens the rest converged on the down-wind end of the grass runway. They reminded the onlooker of a swarm of angry hornets lusting for the fray. ‘An overpowering impression,' he remembers.

The weather was ideal for an enemy attack. Visibility was clear for 5 to 6 miles (8-10km) and great clumps of cloud, among which the stalking aeroplanes could
hide, were scattered all over the sky. While the Messerschmitts circled their base, making height and getting into formation before setting course, the noise of heavy flak reached the airfield from the nearby coast.

Those who had to stay behind gathered in the Operations Room, where they could not only follow the track of their own two Staffeln but also listen through headphones to the exchange of radio messages. In this way they formed a clear idea of how accurately the Central Operations Room was directing the fighters towards the incoming raid. They enoyed the casual humour in the comments that crackled briefly between aircraft, the cryptic wit of fighter pilots of any nation. The distance between the adversaries narrowed until a warning ‘Red Indians' came as unemotionally as the most prosaic comment; as unemphatically as someone waiting at a bus stop might say, ‘Here's one coming now'; as unhurriedly as at that same moment some RAF fighter pilot must have been reporting, ‘Bandits'. Then followed what one of the listeners in the Gruppe Operations Room described as, ‘a lively brawl punctuated by brief radio flashes that told little except that hectic things were happening'.

Presently the drone of returning 109s reached the airfield. The first one already had its undercarriage down when it came in sight and made a neat landing. Next came Hauptmann Pingel, his bullet-holed machine wobbling with damaged control surfaces. The last to land arrived with a swoop, to soar into a loop and a roll over the centre of the field. A few minutes later the hornets were back in their nests. The petrol bowsers came trundling along, the mechanics gathered around their pilot to hear what he had to say about the way his machine had performed and what in particular needed attention, before they set to work on the engine, the airframe, the electrics and the armament. They hadn't had lunch yet. Food would have to wait until the servicing had been done.

The Kommandeur went out to meet Pingel, who was coming towards the Operations Room, and congratulate him on the two aircraft the 109s had shot down. ‘But Feldwebel Hoffman is missing,' he added.

‘What? That's impossible.' Pingel looked incredulous. ‘How could it have happened that he let himself get shot down? What was I doing?'

He was obviously concerned and blaming himself. He strove always to place his formation in the most advantageous position before engaging the enemy. He listened to his pilots' account of the fight, as always and, reconstructing it in his mind, wondered aloud if he had made some mistake. He had not seen the two British machines go down. He wandered off on his own, his face pale and his brow furrowed, listening for the sound of a Bf 109 coming in to land. Nobody intruded on his thoughts. Then a messenger came running from the Operations
Room, panted up to him, saluted and said ‘Sir . . . Feldwebel Hoffman is all right . . . his fuel supply has packed up . . . blocked feedpipe, he thinks and he had to make a force landing.'

‘Well, now, isn't that exactly what I said must have happened?' and Pingel returned to the mess to resume his interrupted lunch. Everything looked better on a full stomach. The Staffel had two more victories to add to its record. The day was turning out quite well.

The hours passed quietly until it was almost time for coffee break, when an attack alarm violated the torpor of the warm afternoon. The pilots and mechanics pelted towards their aircraft while the voice that had roused them chuntered on with instructions on the height to make, where to form up and the course to steer. Once again the hunt was on. The wild rush began. Parachute on . . . snatch helmet from the hand that offered it . . . hoist yourself into the cockpit . . . plug in radio and oxygen . . . the starter whines . . . smoke and a lick of flame belch from the exhausts . . . the aircraft vibrates, the engine roars, the propeller becomes a blur . . .

‘Attention! Attention! Alarm cancelled.'

Men look at their watches and at the sky. Rain clouds are spreading . With a little luck they'll get off early and be able to spend the sort of evening they look forward to but don't often have the chance to enjoy. Coffee cups are refilled. The Kommandeur turns to his adjutant. ‘Go and ask Geschwader Headquarters if they can justify keeping us at readiness with the weather closing in like this.' The adjutant mentally composes a more tactful request. The door has scarcely closed behind him when ‘Attack alarm!' disrupts the pleasant mood of expectation that release for the day is imminent.

‘This time it is a British bomber formation that has crossed the coast somewhere in another sector and looks to be coming our way. At midday that would have been wonderful news. But since the weather had changed meanwhile, it will be sheer luck if we find the raid, which is still a long way off.'

While the fighters were probing around between cloud layers, looking for the enemy, two Blenheim bombers flew over the airfield low enough to identify without field glasses. Sweat formed on the duty officer's brow as he telephoned the information to Geschwader HQ. ‘Where were our own fighters? Were we going to be bombed? Then we heard someone say he'd spotted the bombers at the coast, but the weather was deteriorating there. Before our chaps could attack, the flak opened fire. A Blenheim was hit and crashed near the beach in shallow water.' The fighters were recalled.

The penultimate message that the loudspeakers broadcast was, ‘Staff Flight and Numbers One and Two Staffeln released. Number Three remain at readiness.'

It wasn't long before the next good news came. ‘The whole Gruppe may stand down.'

Now for dinner and then into the nearest town to beat it up a bit.

Anyone on a fighter station in southern England at that period would have felt at home in this atmosphere. For RAF pilots the most evident difference would have been the lack of early warning by radar of the enemy's approach and of an efficient control and reporting system. Luftwaffe fighter pilots were subject to many more false alarms than RAF pilots were and kept in greater suspense from uncertainty during the long periods of waiting between scrambles because of it.

August 18, 1940, is often described as Fighter Command's hardest day in the Battle of Britain. The general impression of such a day's fighting is of the almost ceaseless embroilment throughout the day of every pilot on the Battle Order and a huge number of individual claims of victories. The diary kept by Hauptmann Kramer, Technical Officer of No. III Gruppe of JG26 for six days ending on that date, puts the effort of a typical Gruppe, which corresponded with an RAF wing, in perspective.

‘13th. Two patrols in the Dover area and along the coast. Escort for air-sea rescue aircraft and S-boats (schnell, or fast boats, known to the British, for some reason, as E-boats).

‘14th. One operation over Dover harbour, escorting three Gruppen of Ju 87s. Shot down six enemy aircraft; Major Galland, Oberleutnant Münchberg, Obit Beyer, Obit Schöpfel, Leutnant Bürschgens, Lt Müller-Dühe, one each.

‘15th. Four escort missions for KG 1 and 2. Attacks on Hawkinge and Maidstone. Combat with Spitfires over Boulogne. Gruppe shot down 18. No. 7 Staffel got six: Obit Beyer and Lt Bürschgens two each; one each for Lt Blume and Lt Müller-Dühe.

‘16th. At one hour's readiness. One scramble for Spitfires over Calais. One shot down by Lt Müller-Dühe.

‘17th. At 30 minutes' readiness. Aircraft serviced. III/JG26's total victories to August 15, 119.