Helena Schrader's Historical Fiction

For a complete list of my books and awards see: http://helenapschrader.com

For readers tired of clichés and cartoons, award-winning novelist Helena P. Schrader offers nuanced insight into historical events and figures based on sound research and an understanding of human nature. Her complex and engaging characters bring history back to life as a means to better understand ourselves.

Showing posts with label Battle of France. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Battle of France. Show all posts

Friday, June 4, 2021

The RAF in the Battle of France 1939-1940

 While the Battle of Britain represented the first time that the RAF and the Luftwaffe faced one another one-to-one, it was not the first encounter between the adversaries. RAF units had been involved in the Battle of France. While these had no chance of altering the outcome of that campaign, the British units and pilots engaged in the war on the Continent learned valuable lessons that contributed to the successful outcome of the Battle of Britain.


At the outbreak of WWII, the British almost immediately sent a “Expeditionary Force” to France. This included the Advanced Air Striking Force which consisted of ten squadrons of light bombers and four (later six) fighter squadrons. The bombers made up No 1 Group RAF Bomber Command, and this group was equipped entirely with Fairey Battles. Initially, the fighter squadrons deployed to France were Nos 1, 73, 85 and 87 squadrons, all Hurricane squadrons. However, in response to a French request for more fighter support, the RAF sent Nos 607 and 617 squadrons across to France on November 15. These auxiliary squadrons were at the time still equipped with bi-plane Gladiators, although they received their Hurricanes just as the German offensive opened in May 1940.

British strategy throughout this period called for both the bombers and fighters to serve in support of ground forces. Despite the appellation “Advanced Striking Force,” the RAF in France was a tactical air force intended to support the army. Thus, during the period of the so-called “Phony War,” the bombers were deployed primarily for reconnaissance and dropping leaflets in Germany, while the fighters were tasked with destroying German reconnaissance and weather aircraft that regularly crossed into French airspace.

For much of this period, there was little to do. The RAF fighters practiced intercepting their own bombers and they did routine patrols in the tradition of WWI — only rarely seeing, much less intercepting, the enemy. Now and again, however, there were brief, violent encounters with the Luftwaffe. Surprisingly, at this period the Luftwaffe was still sending its reconnaissance bombers over without noticeable escort. In consequence the illusion of doing very well was widespread. For example, on a single day, November 23, Nos 1 and 73 squadrons shot down six enemy bombers, five Dorniers 17 and one Heinkel 111. These were not inflated claims. The wrecks landed on French territory and the pilots went to see them and cut off a cross or swastika from the fuselage for the squadron mess. In one instance the pilot of a downed aircraft was royally entertained in the No 1 squadron’s mess.

Yet despite the apparent calm and the sense of readiness, the RAF learnt several valuable lessons in this pregnant calm before the storm. The commander of No 1 Squadron, “Bull” Halahan, convinced the RAF establishment of the advantage of painting the underside of aircraft sky blue, an innovation inspired by German standard operating procedures. Halahan was also the catalyst for an even more important change. When one pilot of No 1 squadron had a very narrow escape from being shot to death by the forward guns of a Dornier after overshooting following his own attack, Halahan decided that the Hurricanes needed armor plating behind the pilot’s seat. The request for such protection was denied by the Air Ministry on the grounds that the extra weight would alter the center of gravity and impair the aerodynamics of the aircraft. Halahan was not convinced. He took armor plating from a wrecked Battle, fitted it behind the seat of one of his squadron’s Hurricanes and sent one of his pilots back to London to perform aerobatics in the modified Hurricane before the Royal Aircraft Establishment. The performance must have been impressive because the Air Ministry caved in and ordered armor plating not only for No 1 Squadron but also made it standard equipment in all Hurricanes henceforth.

It was not a moment too soon. A notable increase in activity on the part of the Luftwaffe was recorded in March,1940. This led to the RAF’s first encounters with Me109s and Me110s. In the first exchange on 2 March 1940 both the RAF pilot (“Cobber” Kain of 73 Squadron) and Luftwaffe pilot (Werner Moelders) had to abandon their aircraft due to combat damage. On March 29, an engagement between a section of No 1 Squadron and three Me110s resulted in all three Me110s destroyed. The following assessment was entered in the squadron log: “As a result of this combat it may be stated that the Me110, although very fast and manoeuverable for a twin-engined aircraft, can easily be out manoeuvered by a Hurricane.” [Patrick Bishop, Fighter Boys: Saving Britain 1940, Harper Collins, 2003, 138.] The Germans, however, were provocatively sending larger and larger formations of bombers into French airspace — and they were now escorted by as many as forty Me109s.

Then on May 10, the German offensive in the West opened with a series of attacks on Allied airfields and other strategic, infrastructure targets. The Luftwaffe Order of Battle included 1,062 bombers, 356 ground attack aircraft (e.g. Stukas) and just short of 1,200 fighters of which roughly 1,000 were Me109 and 200 were Me110s. Facing them were the French Armee de la Air composed of 140 bombers, 518 single-engined fighters and 67 twin-engined fighters supported by 40 RAF Hurricanes and 20 RAF Gladiators. But the French figures are deceptive. In fact, only 36 French fighters were aircraft with an airspeed anywhere near that of their opponents; the rest were hopelessly obsolete. 


 

One of France's 36 Dewoitine Fighters with a max. speed of 336 mph

Even more disastrous was the absence of an early warning system. The French had been shown radar and the British fighter control system, but they disdained to follow the British example. In consequence, from the first day of the offensive to the surrender of France, there was no effective means of directing operations or guiding interceptions. There was also no cooperation or meaningful communication between the British and French air forces. All communications on the ground, whether between the British and the French, and within the British Advanced Striking Force were conducted over the civilian telephone lines. These were subject to German interdiction and not secure.  Communication in the air was even worse, as the aircraft operating in France had very primitive radio telephone equipment with an effective range of just three miles from the airfield.

The Luftwaffe opened the campaign in the West with a text-book attempt to neutralize the air defenses of the enemy and secure air superiority over the battlefield. This meant that on the first day of the offensive, all the airfields from which RAF squadrons were operating were attacked. The RAF response was prompt and fierce. The pilots of No 1, 73, 85 and 87 squadron were in the air by 5 am and the day’s fighting did not finish until nine pm. Because the Germans had sent their bombers without fighter escorts, the RAF was able deliver a sharp rebuke. In 208 sorties, the RAF struck down 33 German aircraft for the loss of just seven Hurricanes destroyed, and eight damaged. More importantly, only one RAF pilot was killed, and three wounded.  

But the Luftwaffe had the reserves to continue at the same pace; the RAF did not. In the following ten days, RAF pilots were asked to fly as many as five sorties a day, each lasting  roughly an hour and a half. They did so while being forced to retreat almost daily to new, usually improvised, airfields, which nevertheless continued to be bombed and strafed regularly. Increasingly, RAF personnel were billeted with civilians, then sleeping in tents, later in abandoned barns and finally under the wings of their aircraft. Meals were erratic and sleep almost non-existent. If they weren’t flying, they were being bombed, strafed or moving to a new airfield.

All the while, the French government cried for more RAF squadrons. Their appeal fell on the sympathetic ears of the newly appointed British PM, Winston Churchill. Initially, squadrons stationed in southeast England were tasked to fly over and “help out.” Without early warning systems or functional command-and-control, however, these were doomed to arriving (often in the wrong place) to face utter chaos without a clue about what to do. Many ended up doing nothing or getting slaughtered without a single victory to show for it. Individual squadron replacements faced the same fate. Sending green pilots up to fight was more likely to result in the loss of a British than a German aircraft. Meanwhile, the RAF Fairey Battles were being systematically shot down as they attempted — usually without fighter escort — to stop the German panzer divisions pouring into France by destroying bridges or bombing them at choke points. 

 One of the RAF's Fairey Battles

 On May 12, 501 Squadron was sent to France. On May 15, despite acknowledging that the Battle of France was lost, the French PM nevertheless requested of Churchill that ten additional fighter squadrons be sent across the channel. Although this request was denied, on the following day the Air Ministry decided that the fatigue both physical and mental sustained by the squadrons in France was not sustainable, and took the decision to send eight flights of fresh pilots over to relieve the exhausted veterans. The problem with that idea was that pilots without combat experience or understanding of the situation were cold meat for the Messerschitts. Meanwhile, on May 17 the RAF squadrons were retreating yet again, destroying any unserviceable aircraft on the ground as they pulled out. In some cases, the German bombers arrived while the last serviceable Hurricane was still struggling to get into the air.

The Air Ministry again tried sending UK-based squadrons across the channel to assist in the fighting. The idea was that three squadrons would fly over in the morning, do whatever fighting had to be done, and then get replaced by three other squadrons in the afternoon. All six squadrons theoretically remained stationed in the UK, but pilots were making forced landings and bailing out over France and then had to find their own way back. No 242 and 17 were two of the squadrons assigned this unenviable task. Furthermore, the issue of inexperience was the same with these squadrons, and the lack of communications prevented their coordinated and targeted deployment.

Inevitably, RAF losses mounted. While on May 10, only eight Hurricanes were destroyed and one pilot killed, on the 14th it was already 27 Hurricanes and 17 pilots killed. Two days later No 85 Squadron had six Hurricanes shot down in a single day, from which only one pilot walked away, the remaining five being killed or severely injured.

The following day, May 17, the Chief of Air Staff finally saw the light: British fighters were being destroyed at an alarming rate without the slightest hope of altering the military situation. The Germans were winning the war on the ground regardless of how good a fight the RAF put up in the air. The sacrifice of more British fighters and pilots could only weaken Britain’s capacity to defend itself when the time came. He announced in the war cabinet that it would be “criminal” to send more RAF squadrons to France. Two days later, Churchill also conceded defeat and ordered that no more RAF fighter squadrons were to be sent to France.

Slowly a withdrawal of the forces already there began. In many cases, individual pilots had to be left behind because they were in French hospitals. Around them, France was in a state of collapse with refugees clogging the roads, villages burning, panic and defeatism widespread. Many RAF pilots reported French fliers refusing to take to the air and French officers deserting their posts to rescue their families and possessions from the approaching Germans. First-hand accounts are also filled with horror stories of German bombing and strafing of civilians. The fact that German fighter aircraft also engaged in these atrocities did much to harden British attitudes toward the Luftwaffe at this crucial time.

Altogether, the RAF brought down 299 Luftwaffe aircraft in the course of this battle for the price of 208 Hurricanes lost in aerial combat. Not a bad score, although the claims were much higher, namely 599. Furthermore, another 176 Hurricanes were destroyed on the ground, often by the RAF ground crews to prevent them from falling into German hands. As a result, only 66 of the 450  fighters sent to France flew back to England. 

More difficult to replace were the 56 pilots killed, 36 severely wounded and 18 taken prisoner. Many of these men were some of the best the RAF then had. Yet one casualty of the Battle of France has been all too often overlooked: RAF “Fighter Area Attacks”. These infamously inflexible tactics devised in the interwar years and so assiduously practiced right until the onslaught became an early casualty of the clash with reality. It was one casualty that did the RAF more good than harm.

“Where Eagles Never Flew” opens with the Battle of France. It goes on to show the Battle of Britain from both sides of the Channel, following the fate of German characters as well as British ones. The British characters are members of the fictional No. 606 (Hurricane) Squadron based at Tangmere. The German characters are the pilots and women auxiliaries of a Me109 Gruppe based in Northern France.  Find out more about “Where Eagles Never Flew” at:  https://crossseaspress.com/where-eagles-never-flew or watch a video teaser at: Eagles Video Teaser

 

Saturday, September 19, 2020

"Once more onto the breach, dear friends" -- An excerpt from "Where Eagles Never Flew"

 

(Setting: Pilots of an RAF Squadron deployed to France at readiness.)

The squadron commander did a double-take before he recognised Priestman. “I say! What’s happened to you?” 

“What hasn’t happened, sir? – bombed, dive-bombed, strafed, played ambulance to civilian casualties and slept in the open – and I didn’t have a change of clothes or a razor with me.” 

“Right. Well, your batman packed some of your kit for you.” Sharp was looking around, watching the rest of the squadron land, making dispositions in his mind. “Not much here, is there?” 

“No, sir. Who’s missing?” 

“Sergeant Putnam is dead; Ned is still missing. He may be a POW, but we don’t know. At least no one’s found his body yet.” This said, Sharp strode away towards the Lysander, from which the Flight Sergeant was emerging.

...

He sensed it more than anything. Then the sun blinked. “BREAK!” 

They were all over the place. At least 20 of them. They fell out of the sun. One minute they were nothing but a winking of the light, and the next they were blotting it out entirely while their wings lit up with flashes. The smoke of tracer smudged the sky, and then Yellow Three started spewing black smoke. Wasn’t that Roger? Whoever it was, he flipped over on his back and started downwards. More Robin didn’t have a chance to see, because he yanked his own Hurricane instinctively into a tight turn and was temporarily blinded as the blood drained from his head. 

Priestman unhooked his oxygen mask and shoved the hood back before he landed, gulping in the fresh air. When he set down on three points, he thought he had never in his life been so glad to have ground under him. He was aware of a pulsing headache and his eyes felt swollen in their sockets. He taxied absently to the side of the field, too tired to notice if someone was signalling him somewhere else. He cut the engine and pulled off his helmet, and ran his hand through his hair – it was wet and sticky. 

He heard someone pant up beside him. “Robin?” He glanced over; it was Roger Ibbotsholm. So he hadn’t been in Yellow Three after all. 

“Aye, aye.” Robin was having trouble unclipping his straps for some reason. 

Roger was on the wing and bent over to help him. “Are we glad to see you! We thought you’d bought it.” 

“They did rather catch us out again. Is everyone else back?” 

“The CO’s gone for six. Flamed out and went straight in from 10,000. Guy had to hit the silk over Seclin. Driver swears he saw a parachute land just beside the field and so he’s almost certainly a POW. Shakespeare says Spotty didn’t make it either – crate flamed before he could get out.” 

Douglas and Sellers reached Priestman. They too were panting, having run over from the far side of the field. “Are you all right, sir?” 

“I’ve got a terrible headache, actually,” Robin admitted rubbing his forehead. 

“There’s a ruddy great hole in the back of your seat, sir!” 

“Oh, that. Yes. Good thing about the armour plating.” 

“You can say that again, sir!”

...

Shakespeare woke him in the dark. “Time to get up, Robin.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Time to get up.” 

“What time is that?” 

“If you insist on the ugly details: 4.25 am. The lorry will be in the square in 5 minutes.” 

“Dawn Patrol.” 

“Isn’t that the name of a flick?” 

“With David Niven, I think.” 

“I don’t think it had a very good ending.” 

“Not for everyone.” 

....

The telephone was ringing in the ops tent. They turned their heads and stared at it, waiting.

“Maybe it is just someone ringing up to see how the weather is over here.”

“Or someone calling to ask if there is anything we lack?”

“Maybe someone has just signed a surrender.”

No, it didn’t look like that. Yardly was standing in the entry, waving furiously at them.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” Shakespeare intoned as he set his mug aside.

“Shut up!” Roger told him irritably – much too irritably. You could tell his nerves were a bit frayed. He’d had an ugly belly landing the other day and hadn’t been the same since, really.

“What’s the matter?” Driver asked innocently.

Yardly was shouting at them to “get cracking,” but they ignored him. After all, he wasn’t flying, and they didn’t presume it would make much difference to the war if they were a minute or two later. It was all a cock-up, anyway.

“It’s the next line,” Priestman explained to Driver, putting his own mug aside carefully.

“What’s that?”

“‘Or close the wall up with our English dead.’”

--------------

Click here to see a video teaser of  Where Eagles Never Flew 


 


Friday, August 15, 2014

"Or close the wall up with our English dead...."



An excerpt from Chasing the Wind (Kindle: Where Eagles Never Flew):

Tea time. Priestman joined the other pilots sitting in the shade of the mess tent. They were drinking tea. No sooner had Priestman sat down than the airman/cook shoved a mug of hot, sweet stuff into his hand. Priestman smiled up at him, "You're a marvel, Thatcher."
"Just doing my job, sir."
"Doing a damned good job, if I may say so, Thatcher."
"Thank you, sir." The airman looked embarrassed, as if he didn't know what to do with appreciation -- and that made Priestman feel guilty; obviously he and his colleagues were a little too sparing with praise and thanks.
The telephone was ringing in the ops tent. They turned their head and stared at the tent, waiting.
"Maybe it is just someone ringing up to see how the weather is over here."
"Or someone calling to ask if there is anything we lack?"
"Maybe someone has just signed a surrender."

No, it didn't look like that.  Yardly was standing in the entry, waving furiously at them.
"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more," Shakespear intoned as he set his mug aside.
"I don't like that damned quote!" Roger told him irritably -- much too irritably. You could tell his nerves were a bit frayed.  He'd had an ugly belly landing the other day and hadn't been the same since, really.
"Why ever not?" Driver asked innocently.
Yardly was shouting at them to "get the finger out," but they ignored him.  After all, he wasn't flying, and they didn't presume it would make much difference to the war if they were a minute or two later. It was all a cock-up anyway.
"It's the next line," Priestman explained to Driver, putting his own mug aside carefully.
"What's that?"
"Or close the wall up with our English dead," Priestman told him.


***

Priestman couldn't sleep. He was exhausted beyond measure, but everything seemed to keep him awake -- the dampness of the earth, the roughness of his parachute pack under his head, the snoring or uneasy stirring of his companions, the distant bark of navy guns.  It should have been reassuring that the Navy was there, he supposed, but that quote from Henry V kept going through his head, too: "Dishonor not  your mothers, now attest that those whom you called 'father' did beget you."
Wasn't it odd that Shakespear, 400 years ago, could write something that fit so perfectly? There was hardly one among them whose father hadn't been here in France last time around, and they had fought for four years.  It was barely two weeks sicne the German offensive had begun -- and it was very nearly over. If Calais fell, they were all trapped....

Two hours later they were scrambled to intercept bombers attacking the British in Calais.  Priestman could sense he was in trouble from the start. At take-off, his Hurricane hit a small hole and bounced. He over-reacted pulling back on the stick too soon.  He didn't have enough speed. The Hurricane fell back to earth and he was running out of grass.  
When he did get airborne, he barely cleared the trees. The adrenaline pumping from the near miss, he had to throttle forward to catch up with the others as they swung west toward Calain the sun behind them bright and blinding. It was obvious that they were going to get bounced. But ahead, a gaggle of ugly Stukas was peeling off and going down to drop their loads on the ruins of Calais -- because that was all that was left of the city.  The buildings the Stukas were hammering had long since turned into heaps of rubble.  still, guns were being fired out of that rubble, and with a twinge of pride Robin realised that there were still British troops down there in that wasteland, and they were flinging defiance back at the overwhelming might of Germany.
They were so small, so weak, their arms inadequate for the task facing, and their situation was patently hopeless. In fact, the town had apparently already fallen to the Germans. The ugly swastika flag fluttered over the major buildings, but the Union Jack cracked defiantly from the medieval fortress.
Robin hated Stukas more than any aircraft.  They were ugly, vicious planes without any kind of natural grace. They had bent wings and massive, fixed undercarriages like the extended claws of an attacking eagle.  They had been designed to intimidate without majesty and were even equipped with sirens whose sole purpose was to increase the noise, and so the terror,t hey created as they dived.  They symbolised in his mind all that was most objectionable about the Nazis -- the brutality, the brashness, the bragging. Robin was determined to get one -- and confident too.
Bringing one down was not the problem. The Hurricane could fly circles around a Stuka, and Priestman, Ibbotsholm, Stillwell and Bennett all brought one down on their first pass. Robin's mistake was that he wanted more. His over-wrought nevers, the near crash on take-off, and now these hated planes harassing the shattered remnants of a gallant British defence, resulted in a dangerous fit of hubris -- just as had happened when he was 15, and again in Singapore.  As soon as he'd finished off one Stuka, Priestman started spiralling up the sky to get enough altitude for a new attack. He kept watching the Stukas, afraid they would get away before he could attack again. He was not watching his tail or the sun.
When the cannon hit him from behind, he was taken completely by surprise. He reacted as he had taught himself over the last ten days, with a flick quarter-roll and a tight turn. It worked, the Me109 overshot him, and Robin straightened out and started running inland. He'd made a second mistake: he'd forgotten the wingman.
The minute he straightened out, machineguns and cannon raked along the side of the Hurricane. He felt as if it had been violently wrenched out of his hands as it spun out of control. Still shaken by the suddenness of the dual attack and the terrifying sensation of losing control of the Hurricane, Priestman was close to panic as he tried to pull out of the spin.
Nothing happened.
The pedals and stick were dead.
His brain registered what had happened. His tail and/or the control cables had been shot away. He had no contrl over the aircraft and it was spinning around faster and faster. The Hurricane was past the vertical, and the earth was spinning so fast it was just a whirling blur.
He struggled to get clear of the aircraft, tearing off his helmet to free himself of oxygen and R/T, but the centrifugl force was pinning him to the seat. The hood seemed to jam. He battered hsi hands bloody trying to free it. At the very last minute it broke free, and with the super-human strength of panic he flung himself over the side of the cockpit. But he was took close to the ground. His 'chute didn't have time to open properly.