Southern England. Late summer 1940. The nation is fighting for its very survival and the Luftwaffe's aerial offensive is unrelenting. All that lies between invasion and salvation for Britain is the 'thin blue line' of RAF Fighter Command and its pilots. This newly illustrated anniversary edition of Life as a Battle of Britain Pilot reveals what it was like to fly a fighter plane in the Battle of Britain. Who were the Spitfire and Hurricane pilots of 1940? How did they spend a typical day? And when pitched together in combat at 30,000 feet, which was the better machine - Spitfire or Me109? Read Life as a Battle of Britain Pilot and then ask yourself: would I have been up to the job?
Southern England. Late summer 1940. The nation is fighting for its very survival and the Luftwaffe's aerial offensive is unrelenting. All that lies between invasion and salvation for Britain is the 'thin blue line' of RAF Fighter Command and its pilots. This newly illustrated anniversary edition of Life as a Battle of Britain Pilot reveals what it was like to fly a fighter plane in the Battle of Britain. Who were the Spitfire and Hurricane pilots of 1940? How did they spend a typical day? And when pitched together in combat at 30,000 feet, which was the better machine - Spitfire or Me109? Read Life as a Battle of Britain Pilot and then ask yourself: would I have been up to the job?
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Overview
Southern England. Late summer 1940. The nation is fighting for its very survival and the Luftwaffe's aerial offensive is unrelenting. All that lies between invasion and salvation for Britain is the 'thin blue line' of RAF Fighter Command and its pilots. This newly illustrated anniversary edition of Life as a Battle of Britain Pilot reveals what it was like to fly a fighter plane in the Battle of Britain. Who were the Spitfire and Hurricane pilots of 1940? How did they spend a typical day? And when pitched together in combat at 30,000 feet, which was the better machine - Spitfire or Me109? Read Life as a Battle of Britain Pilot and then ask yourself: would I have been up to the job?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780752470498 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | The History Press |
| Publication date: | 09/16/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 96 |
| File size: | 173 KB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Life as a Battle of Britain Pilot
By Jonathan Falconer
The History Press
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan FalconerAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7524-7049-8
CHAPTER 1
Squadron Scramble!
A day in the life of an RAF Battle of Britain fighter pilot
You single out an opponent. Jockey for position. All clear behind! The bullets from your eight guns go pumping into his belly. He begins to smoke. But the wicked tracer sparkles and flashes over the top of your own cockpit and you break into a tight turn. Now you have two enemies. The '109 on your tail and your remorseless, ever-present opponent 'g', the force of gravity.
Flying Officer Johnnie Johnson, 19 Squadron, September 1940
Responsibility for the defence of Great Britain from air attack falls upon the men and machines of RAF Fighter Command. Thanks to a chain of long-range radar stations sited at strategic points around the coast, incoming enemy aircraft can be detected up to 100 miles away, and their movements plotted. This means that instead of a handful of RAF fighters having to maintain standing patrols all day long, they can be waiting on the ground at immediate readiness. When a suspect plot is seen on the radar screens, Spitfires and Hurricanes can be scrambled to intercept the incoming raid, with their fuel tanks full and the pilots in good shape for a fight.
The daily routine of a front-line RAF fighter squadron during the Battle of Britain varies very little. For a job that is perceived by many as glamorous, the start of the day for an RAF fighter pilot is anything but. His batman rouses him from sleep at about 4 a.m. as dawn is breaking, and his day will not end until the squadron is stood down again at about 8 p.m. If he is an officer, his batman will thrust a mug of steaming hot tea or cocoa into his hand (a sergeant pilot will have to find it for himself), then he hurriedly washes and dresses before joining the other pilots outside the billet in the half-light of dawn to wait for transport out to the dispersals. These can be up to a couple of miles away.
Out at the dispersals the fitters are busy running up the Rolls-Royce Merlin engines of their charges and completing the scheduled daily inspections. Three ground crew men are allocated to each Spitfire or Hurricane: a fitter who looks after the engine; a rigger who deals with the airframe; and an armourer who is responsible for the eight machine guns. When their tasks are completed the bellowing engines are cut and silence returns. It is then the turn of the refuelling crews in their waiting petrol bowsers to top up the aircraft fuel tanks with 100-octane petrol – 85 gallons per aircraft.
At the flight dispersal area the pilots, if they are on a permanent station, wait in the readiness hut, in a tent if at a satellite airfield, or simply lying on the grass or lounging in deckchairs, for the inevitable call to action. Their flight commander has already telephoned through to Operations to say they are ready for business. The tedium and tension of waiting now begins. Pilots spend their time reading the popular magazines of the day such as Lilliput or Picture Post, playing card games and darts, or just smoking cigarettes and contemplating what the day will hold. Tiredness and tension are great conversation stoppers.
An officer with the rank of squadron leader commands a fighter squadron, which is made up from two Flights, named A and B, each of which is commanded by a flight lieutenant. Each Flight is divided into three sections, Red, Yellow and Green, each of which has three aircraft, for example Red One, Two and Three.
One section at a time leaves the dispersal for breakfast for no more than 20 minutes, with the same arrangements for lunch and tea, although these meals are invariably alfresco snacks – a mug of soup or a corned beef sandwich hurriedly consumed beside the aircraft or in the shadow of a wing.
Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, the Commander-in-Chief of RAF Fighter Command in 1940, had hoped to allow each of his squadrons one day's rest a week, but as the battle gathered pace and the situation became ever more desperate, this was not always possible for his hard-pressed pilots.
As the sun rises higher in the sky, the air temperature rises with it, and so too does the tension among the waiting pilots. The highly charged atmosphere of nervous expectation at the dispersal is almost palpable. For some, the seemingly interminable waiting plays havoc with their stomachs. The sound of a telephone ringing in the readiness hut is enough to send a man lurching behind an aircraft to throw up the contents of his knotted stomach; such is the high level of anticipation. When the call to action finally comes it's with a metallic click of the microphone switch echoing through the tannoy, or the tinkling of a telephone bell that heralds the frantic call of 'Scramble, scramble!'
The fitters press the starter buttons on their battery carts that provide the power via a cable to start the engines. The propellers turn over and whirl into life, and gouts of yellow flame followed by clouds of sooty smoke issue from the exhaust stubs of the aircraft, as the pilots sprint across the grass to their waiting machines. They grab their parachute packs off the wings or the tailplanes, where they have been placed earlier for convenience, and clip them on. Climbing up on to the wing root, the pilot lowers himself into the close confines of the cockpit, straps in, pulls on his flying helmet and connects his intercom lead and oxygen supply. The ground crew disconnect the battery plug and slam shut the flap on the aircraft's nose. As the ground crew stand clear the pilot gives them the thumbs up, pushes open the throttle and his aircraft begins to roll across the grass.
The little fighter snakes forward. Even with the canopy locked back and the cockpit seat cranked up as high as it will go to enable him to see ahead around the long nose, the pilot still finds it difficult to see where he is going. Rolling faster across the grass now, the fighter bobs and bounces its way forward until the tail rises and soon the plane becomes airborne.
When still only feet above the ground the pilot nips the brake lever on the control column several times to stop the two main wheels turning. On the Spitfire, he manually retracts the undercarriage using the big hydraulic handpump lever inside the cockpit to his right, taking care not to rasp his knuckles on the side of the cockpit. Pumping away with his right hand, his left hand grasps the yoke of the control column and involuntarily 'pumps' as well, rocking the column back and forth; it is not unusual to see a Spitfire 'porpoising' on take-off. The pilot raises the twin legs into their wheel wells beneath the wings, lowers his seat and slides closed the cockpit canopy before his section joins the formation of squadron fighters climbing at full throttle to gain height – the all-important advantage when finally facing the enemy.
Crackling through on the formation leader's R/T headphones come the clipped tones of the ground-based fighter controller in the sector operations room, many miles away and several thousand feet below: 'Lorag leader, vector two three zero, bandits one hundred plus, angels two zero.' This is the shorthand language of the airman which, translated, means: 'leader of 242 Squadron, steer a course of 230 degrees where you will find more than one hundred enemy aircraft at a height of 20,000ft.'
Climbing to altitude with the rest of his squadron to intercept the incoming enemy formation, the pilot repeatedly scans the sky around and behind him for signs of the intruders, while all the time maintaining a running check on the cockpit instruments and engine settings. Nimble fingers constantly adjust the control settings to enable the fighter to keep station with the others in the formation.
One of the squadron's pilots spots the tell-tale vapour trails of the enemy soaring above. He radioes his formation leader to tell him. Closer inspection might reveal Heinkel He111 or Junkers Ju88 bombers with a protective screen of Messerschmitt Me109 or Me110 fighters weaving above them, pulling long white vapour trails against the deep blue sky. Now that the enemy finally has been sighted, the pilot's stomach knots again and his pulse quickens with the sudden adrenalin rush ahead of the fight to come. The leader orders the squadron into the attacking formation practised many times before, but now it is for real. As they climb at full throttle towards the enemy, the pilot runs his final cockpit checks to make sure the oxygen supply is turned 'on', the reflector sight is turned to the 'bright' position, and that the gun button is set to 'fire'.
When battle is joined it is every man for himself. Survival depends on keeping a cool head, anticipating the next move of your opponent (who is as hell bent on his own survival as you are on yours, and who is out to kill you too), keeping a sharp lookout all around and last, but certainly not least, good marksmanship. Luck also plays a vital part in survival because if you are in the wrong part of the sky at the wrong time, all the skill and judgement in the world won't save your skin.
Dogfighting exacts a fearsome toll from the frail human body and its senses. The pilot often flies at heights of 30,000ft, with no cockpit heating or pressurisation, and without the benefit of any special protective flying clothing. With the 12-cylinder Rolls-Royce Merlin engine running at full power a matter of feet in front of him, the din in the cockpit is terrific, pounding the eardrums incessantly. With the enemy in his sights the pilot thumbs the 'fire' button on the control column, and the whole aircraft shakes from the rattle of the eight Browning machine guns in the wings as they pump bullets into their quarry at the rate of 13lb of shot every 3 seconds. Tight turns at high speed, in dives and climbs, can cause the pilot to black out momentarily when the high gravity loadings experienced – sometimes up to 6 'g' (or six times the force of gravity) – drain blood from the brain. And with no power-assisted controls in a Spitfire or Hurricane, throwing a fighter aircraft around the sky is an arm-aching and sweaty business. The pilot has to summon every ounce of his physical strength to maintain control against the huge elemental forces acting on the control surfaces. It is indeed a hostile environment – both inside the cockpit and out.
Combat might last no more than 10 minutes, amid a sky swarming with aircraft, all wheeling and jostling to get a bead on their quarry, or trying to shake off an attacker clinging to their tail. A pilot has about 3 seconds to identify his adversary before bringing his guns to bear at less than 250yd range – and a little longer to abandon his fighter if he is hit. This is all achieved without the benefits of radar and electronic gadgetry that are commonplace in fighter cockpits of the twenty-first century.
Then all of a sudden a pilot might find himself alone in the big blue arena of the sky with no one in sight for miles around. The battle has moved on. Running low on fuel and with his guns out of ammunition, he is a sitting duck if he sticks around any longer, so it is time to return to base.
Back at the aerodrome, the pilot files a combat report with the intelligence officer. It records full details of his sortie: what happened, where and when; if he was involved in a dogfight, whether it resulted in damage to the opponent, or the aircraft was seen to explode in mid-air or to crash. If this is the case, it will be claimed as a 'kill'. A pilot needs to score five confirmed kills before he can join the elite band of fighter aces.
When the squadron's lucky pilots begin to arrive back in ones and twos after combat, the headcount begins. Some have landed away at other aerodromes, or have been forced down in a convenient field, because of fuel shortages or battle damage; others may have successfully baled out after their fighters were crippled in combat. A phone call to the squadron later in the day will eventually set minds at rest that they are safe and not 'missing in action'. Then there are the others who will never come back.
The unlucky ones invariably met their end in fear and pain, and, worst of all, alone. Some may have been shot down in action, crashing into the sea or piling vertically into the ground at high speed. They may still have been alive when the sea closed over them, or when they smashed into the earth. Others were burned alive in their cockpits when the petrol tanks in front of them ignited and exploded. Some pilots who had managed to bail out of their stricken fighters were machine-gunned in mid-air by German pilots as they hung defenceless from their parachutes. Those who cheated death but suffered serious injury might spend many months in hospital recuperating. There were others who sustained injuries of a different kind, their horrific combat experiences scarring their minds so deeply that their lives thereafter became a waking nightmare.
For pilots who suffered serious burns, their hands and faces were skilfully rebuilt by the pioneering plastic surgeon Archibald McIndoe at East Grinstead Hospital. The techniques of this new branch of surgery were in their infancy in 1940, and, as a result, the men who placed their trust in the hands of this brilliant surgeon were known affectionately as 'McIndoe's guinea pigs'.
Back at the aerodrome the pilot may fly another two or three sorties, which can be standing patrols or interceptions. Once again he is likely to encounter the enemy and engage him in combat. As the day wears on, fatigue steadily overcomes him until he is finally stood down in the early evening. Physically and mentally exhausted, he might eat a hurried supper, then return to his quarters and collapse into bed before sinking into an uneasy sleep. If he has a scrap of energy remaining, a trip to the local pub to unwind with fellow pilots over a few pints and a game of darts is a welcome break from the action of the day.
It's a strange existence, this double life of a fighter pilot. In the early morning he might be sitting on the edge of his bed sipping cocoa and contemplating the day ahead; by lunchtime he could be fighting for his life at 30,000ft over Kent in his Spitfire against a horde of Me109s. By the evening, if he survives, he might well be drinking ale with the locals in an English country pub.
The next day a similar pattern is repeated, beginning at 4 a.m. And so the daily battles with the Luftwaffe continue, day by day, until well into the autumn. By then the pressure on Fighter Command and its pilots is beginning to ease.
CHAPTER 2Who were 'the Few'?
And what did it take to become an RAF fighter pilot?
Let us not forget how a handful of young men – surely the most highly skilled that we have ever known in the profession of the bearing of arms – stood as a bastion, and they rendered to the free world a service for which we should be eternally grateful.
Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, Air Officer Commandingin-Chief, RAF Fighter Command, 1940
In a famous and oft-quoted speech to Parliament on 20 August 1940, Winston Churchill voiced his admiration for the RAF and its fighter pilots in particular when he proclaimed that 'Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.' It was not long before 'the few' was seized on by the press and became the popular – but respectful – collective noun for the RAF's Battle of Britain fighter pilots. It is still used today when people refer to these brave men.
The average member of the British public in 1940 thought of the typical RAF fighter pilot rather as we view the stereotypical rugby club member of today – British, carefree, out for a good time, and able to put the beers away on a Saturday night on the town with the lads. With a few exceptions, nothing could have been further from the truth. Wartime flying, especially in combat piloting a 350mph fighter aircraft like the Spitfire or Hurricane, was a serious business that required a cool head and a steady, calculating nerve. Only a fool would treat it casually because if he did, very soon he would find trouble, jumped by an Me109 – another name recalled on Remembrance Day.
The average age of an RAF fighter pilot in 1940 was about 20 years. Some were as young as 18, and there were others who were aged 30 or more. With the age of majority set at 21, many of the RAF's Battle of Britain pilots were considered too young to vote; but not too young to lay down their lives for king and country.
Not all were British. In fact the RAF's fighter squadrons of 1940 were fairly cosmopolitan in their mix. There were Poles (141), Czechs (87), Belgians (24) and Free French (13) who swelled the ranks, many having escaped across the Channel to England when the Nazis overran their homelands. These men were widely regarded as enthusiastic and fearless fighters with a burning desire to have a crack at the Luftwaffe. However, difficulties with language occasionally caused command problems in the air. From farther afield came pilots from the Dominion and Commonwealth countries of Australia (21), New Zealand (129), Canada (90), South Africa (22) and Rhodesia (2), eager to join their British compatriots in the fight against Nazism. To some extent the influx of men from these countries was thanks to the RAF's reputation for being the 'best flying club in the world'. Before the war there had been a concerted recruitment drive in New Zealand in particular, which resulted in a disproportionately large number of aircrew from this relatively small Dominion coming to England to join the RAF. Canada contributed a substantial number of aircrew, many of whom had signed on with the RAF before the war. There were also men from Palestine (1), Jamaica (1), the United States (7) and Ireland (9), whose belief in freedom and democracy, or simply a desire for adventure, prompted them to travel from afar to join the RAF as fighter pilots in 1940. From closer to home, two Fleet Air Arm squadrons operated under Fighter Command control during the battle, as well as twenty-five naval pilots who were seconded to RAF squadrons.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Life as a Battle of Britain Pilot by Jonathan Falconer. Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Falconer. Excerpted by permission of The History Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Acknowledgements,Glossary and abbreviations,
Introduction,
Prologue,
1 Squadron Scramble!,
2 Who were 'the Few'?,
3 Fighters for 'the Few',
4 Flying a Fighter,
5 What did they Wear?,
Epilogue,
Bibliography,