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Jam-packed account of the moment in 1940 when Britain stood alone against the Nazi menace.
British historian Holland (Italy's Sorrow: A Year of War, 1944–45, 2007, etc.) provides a thorough reconsideration of the Battle of Britain that is both staggeringly technical and dramatically engaging. According to the author, the battle began well before RAF Air Chief Marshal Hugh Dowding's squadrons took on Hermann Göring's mighty Luftwaffe over southeast England in July 1940. It is hard now to imagine how isolated and vulnerable Britain had grown at the increasing demonstrations of German aggression. With its lightning thrust into Belgium, Holland and France in the spring of 1940, the Nazi war machine seemed invincible. The French, despite having greater forces than the Germans, "had fallen for Nazi spin-doctoring." Hemmed in with the British along the Channel coast, the Allied forces were saved from annihilation by a last-minute halt by the Germans, allowing them a miraculous evacuation from Dunkirk. As the French crumbled, the British were largely expected to sue for peace as well, if the prevailing defeatist voices were to be believed. The galvanizing role of the new prime minister, Winston Churchill, has been amply documented elsewhere, and Holland underscores the power of his rhetoric in steeling the nation to its defiant task, aided by the press and media. Thanks to delays caused by bad weather and Nazi dithering, the British were gaining strength and producing new aircraft at startling speed, so that by July they were ready for the Luftwaffe's onslaught. Holland uses numerous interviews with British and German pilots for respective takes on strategy, and he takes a frank look at the strengths and weaknesses of each side. In the end, Hitler could not launch an invasion of Britain until the RAF could be destroyed—and the British did not let that happen.
A painstakingly detailed history of the battle that exposed the myth of Nazi invincibility.
SUNDAY, 5 MAY 1940, a little after two that afternoon. A warm, sunny day over much of Britain, but above Drem aerodrome, a busy grass airfield some twenty miles east of Edinburgh, a deep blue sky was pock-marked with bright white cumulus drifting lazily across the Scottish headland on a gentle breeze. Perfect flying weather, in fact, which was just as well because Pilot Officer David Crook could barely contain his excitement any longer.
Dispersed around one end of the airfield, beside the concrete perimeter track, were the twelve Spitfires of 609 (West Riding) Squadron. Elsewhere, further along around the airfield’s edge, were more Spitfires, as well as various other aircraft, including a number of Harvard and Magister trainers. Clutching his leather flying helmet and parachute, David followed his friend and flight commander, Pip Barran, from the wooden dispersal hut towards the line of Spitfires. Groundcrew were busy around several of them, including L.1083, a Mk IA, and one of four that had been delivered to the squadron at the end of the previous August.
David had missed their arrival, although he had seen the squadron’s first two Spits land at 609’s pre-war base at Yeadon in Yorkshire on 19 August – just a few days after their last peacetime summer camp had ended. Flying ageing Hawker Hind biplanes had been grand enough fun, but the news that the squadron was to convert to Spitfires had been greeted with euphoria by all concerned. Like any man or boy alive, David had wanted to fly one of these beautiful machines ever since he had first heard about them. With its powerful Rolls-Royce Merlin engine and sleek, curving lines, the Spitfire was an ultra-modern machine of barely imaginable power. Moreover, its heritage could not be bettered; Supermarine, its maker, had won the Schneider Trophy – the award given to the fastest aircraft in the world – a decade or so before for the third consecutive time.
Although an Auxiliary Air Force squadron made up of ‘weekend fliers’, 609 had been mobilized shortly before the outbreak of war. Yet while some of the more experienced pilots had headed straight to Catterick in anticipation of the beginning of hostilities, David and five other Auxiliary pupil pilots had been left behind, first to kick their heels for a month at Yeadon, and then to be sent to complete their flying training.
David had finished his training just a fortnight before, and his leave the previous day. Of the six that had been sent to Flying Training School (FTS), only four were now returning to 609. Two of them, Gordon Mitchell and Michael Appleby, had driven up to Scotland with David the day before, having all met up for lunch in Leeds. They had stopped again for dinner in Alnwick, before finally arriving at Drem in time for reunion drinks in the mess.
It had been good to be back amongst his old friends once more, although there were a number of new faces too, including three regular RAF pilots and four members of the Volunteer Reserve. At first glance they had seemed decent enough, however, and David had been pleased to notice that, despite a new CO, the old atmosphere of 609 was little changed. And Drem seemed like a good spot, with enough hangars and activity to whet the enthusiasm of any keen young pilot, and plenty of golf nearby, as well as tennis and squash courts. Furthermore, Edinburgh, with its mass of pubs and entertainments, was just a short drive away.
Best of all, however, was the prospect of spending many happy hours flying Spitfires. At last! And Pip had been quick to put him out of his misery. A half-hour flight in a Harvard in the morning and then he and the others had been given the all-clear to take the Spitfire up.
The wheels of the petrol bowser had left their impression in the grass and the smell of high-octane aviation fuel was still strong as David and Pip reached L.1083. The two groundcrew – the plane’s fitter and rigger – were still finishing preparing the aircraft for flight as Pip led David around the Spitfire for the external checks, stepping carefully over the lead from the accumulator trolley that fed into the cowling. With his helmet now on, and his parachute strapped and dangling slightly from his backside, David then climbed on to the root of the port wing and, at Pip’s instruction, hoisted himself over the half-door and down into the cockpit. Clambering on to the wing beside him, Pip then talked him through any unfamiliar aspects of the plane, reminded him of the settings, and then, with a cheery smile, jumped down and left him to it.
David kept the rounded canopy pushed back behind his seat as he clipped his radio leads on to his helmet. The cockpit was narrow – just three feet wide – but even for a man of decent height and build like David it did not feel cramped: he could move his arms easily enough, while his feet rested comfortably on the pale green metal pedals. The smell was distinctive – as it was in all aircraft; a mixture of oil, metal, hydraulic fluid, sweat, rubber and fuel. Not unpleasant at all; reassuring, rather.
Elevator set, rudder fully pushed to the right. Flaps up, artificial horizon set. With his left hand, David set the throttle next to his knee to the start-up position, switched on the radio button and then, with his right hand, turned the engine start isolation switch to ‘on’. He unscrewed the priming plunger locknut and began priming the engine. Magneto switches on. Fuel selector on. Glancing out, he saw the groundcrew, then he leaned forward slightly to the bottom centre of the panel and with the index and middle fingers of his right hand simultaneously pressed the engine start and booster coil buttons. As the engine began to turn he vigorously worked the priming pump until, after a few seconds, and with a lick of flame and a belch of smoke from the exhaust stubs, the mighty Merlin roared into life. He carried out his magneto checks, then gave a nod to the groundcrew, who now pulled the chocks clear. A voice from control – he was clear to roll.
The noise was incredible. The airframe was shaking, the engine growling angrily, so that even though the sound was muffled by his tightly fitting flying helmet and earpieces, it was still a throbbing roar. In front of him, blocking his forward view entirely, was the engine cowling, pointing imperiously skywards, the propeller a faint whirr. Glancing out, he saw the groundcrew unplug the lead from the accumulator trolley and pull it clear. Then hearing the static-distorted voice of the ground controller give him the all-clear, he acknowledged, released the brakes and felt the Spitfire roll forward.
Zig-zagging slowly so that he could see what was ahead of him, he successfully manoeuvred the beast to the end of the grass runway and then paused one more time to check that everything was OK. Engine temperature was already 100 degrees – it had risen alarmingly quickly. He glanced again at the dials, tightened the primer locknut, and then opened the throttle.
The effect took his breath away. The engine powered up with a smooth roar and the Spitfire leapt forward like a bullet, the fuselage almost trying to twist from the huge torque from the Merlin. Easing the stick forward slightly as he’d been told to do, he felt the fuselage rise and the cowling lower so that at last he could see ahead of him. Then, before David barely knew what was happening, the Spitfire was hurtling at ninety miles per hour and then the shuddering along the ground stopped and he felt the plane slip seamlessly into the air. He had never known such power; it was like driving a Grand Prix racing car having just stepped out of an ageing Morris and for a moment he felt as though the machine was completely running away with him.
As he continued to climb, he managed to collect his scattered wits, raised the undercarriage, made sure the temperatures and pressure were stabilized, and then turned the propeller to coarse pitch. Glancing backwards, he was astonished to see the airfield already far, far behind him. It was hard not to smile.
After cruising over the Lothians for a few minutes, however, David began to realize that his Spitfire was perhaps not quite as formidable as he had first thought during the first breathless moments, so with his confidence rising he decided to take the plane back for a bumps and circuit. This he managed without too much difficulty, touching back down and then promptly taking off again and feeling altogether more comfortable.
Climbing high into the clouds in this remarkable new toy he swirled and pirouetted through the early-summer sky, performing gentle dives that saw his air speed indicator rise to as much as 400 miles per hour. It was fabulously thrilling, a brief time of unbridled joy. As he was very quickly discovering, it did not take long to become accustomed to the Spitfire’s great power and speed, and once this adjustment had been made, it was an extraordinarily easy machine to fly and a quite superb aircraft for performing aerobatics.
After an hour he landed back at Drem, rolling the Spitfire across the grass to its dispersal around the perimeter. Having shut down the engine, he pushed back the canopy once more. He felt quite light-headed with exhilaration; his life irrevocably changed. ‘Practically everybody who has flown a Spitfire thinks it is the most marvellous aircraft ever built,’ he noted, ‘and I am no exception to the rule.’
Not for nothing was the RAF known as the best flying club in the world. By the beginning of the war, flying was still a comparatively new phenomenon, and those fortunate enough to get their chance to take to the air found largely empty skies in which the world seemed to be their oyster. For David, a 25-year-old sport-loving Yorkshireman, the Auxiliary Air Force had meant that he could work in the family sports goods manufacturing business in Huddersfield by week and fly at the weekend with lots of like-minded friends. Although being in the air force had, with the onset of war, become a full-time occupation, David was enjoying himself enormously, despite having to leave his young wife at home. At FTS he had made even more friends, was finding flying as rewarding and exhilarating as ever, and now, at the beginning of May, had finally been given the chance of a lifetime: to fly the already fabled Spitfire. The war – and the prospect of one day fighting for his life in a bitter aerial conflict – was barely given a thought.
THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN Copyright © James Holland 2010
List of Maps and Figures ix
Note on the Text xxv
Part I Miracles
1 First Flight 5
2 The Eve of Battle 10
3 The Go-for-Broke Gamble 26
4 Hook, Line and Sinker 39
5 The First Clash in the Air 52
6 Breakthrough 70
7 Inside the Third Reich 85
8 A Battle Against Time 96
9 The Battle is Lost 110
10 Emergency Measures 122
11 Learning the Lessons 133
12 What to Do for the Best 149
13 New Appointments 161
14 Decisions 171
15 Fighter Command Enters the Fray 186
16 Crisis 197
17 Black Monday 210
18 Dunkirk: The Beginning 223
19 Dunkirk: In the Balance 235
20 Dunkirk: The Middle 248
21 Dunkirk: The End 262
Part II Respite
22 What Next? 277
23 The End in France 287
24 Hitler's Dilemma 298
25 All Alone 310
26 Getting Ready 321
27 Trouble at Sea: Part 1 332
28 Bringing It All Together 343
29 Trouble at Sea: Part 2 354
30 Crooked Leg 364
Part III Kanalkampf
31 First Combat 379
32 Peace Offerings 391
33 The Besieged 401
34 Hotting Up 411
35 Bombs on Germany, Bomben auf England 423
Part IV Battle Over Britain
36 The Wall of England 435
37 Adlertag 449
38 The Biggest Air Battle 460
39 The Hardest Day 477
40 Bombs on Berlin 489
41 Tactics and Technicalities 499
42 Breaking Point 512
43 Black Saturday 525
44 Summer Madness 540
45 The Crux 554
46 Wolfpack 570
47 Exhaustion 584
48 Last Flight 595
Picture Acknowledgements 655
Posted May 22, 2011
World War II is probably the most written about war of all time, and you keep saying to your self that no once can write anything new about it. Well, James Holland has done it. He has written an engrossing story on the Battle of Britain in a whole new way. Most scholars who write about the Battle of Britain start their narrative with the bombing of the channel convoys or the battle of the aerodromes. But Mr. Holland starts his book on May 10, 1940, the date the German Army invaded France. We get to see a wonderful description of the fighting done the British Expeditionary Force (BEF), and the fighting retreat to Dunkirk. This scholarship is something we don't see very often in books about WWII. I consider a book is extremely good if it tells me something that I did not know before. This book tells us that men, materials, and planes were sent to France after the Dunkirk withdrawal occurred, in a vain attempt to keep France in the war This necessitated a second withdrawal from France. I would highly recommend this bo0ok to anyone who is looking for a fresh approach to one of the most written about battles of WWII.
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Posted June 6, 2014
Posted April 3, 2014
The Battle of Britain: Five Months That Changed History; May--October 1940 is a gold mine of information on the Battle of Britain and the Battle of France, taking the reader into the cockpit of the BF 109, the Supermarine Spitfire, the Hawker Hurricane, etc. This book also talks about the british intelligence network, radar, connections with America, and the lives of both pilots and citizens. The book does the exact same amount of justice to Germany, giving it the same amount of information as it gives Britain. Although this is a history book, it gives you the feel of a novel. I would give this book 10/10 any day, and James Holland does an amazing job. Please read!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 7, 2012
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