Spitfire: A Very British Love Story

by John Nichol

Winston Churchill warned of Nazi belligerence. ‘A terrible process is astir,’ he wrote in the Daily Mail. ‘Germany is arming.’ But he was virtually a lone voice. Britain and the rest of the world still chose to avoid confrontation.

On 26 May 1936, Humphrey Edwardes-Jones, commander of A Flight at the RAF testing airfield in Martlesham, became the first air force pilot to fly the Spitfire.

The first Spitfire Mark I was soon ready to take to the sky. Sadly, it would not be witnessed by its creator. R. J. Mitchell finally succumbed to cancer aged forty-two in June 1937. ‘His work,’ wrote one admirer ‘is his memorial.’

Two days later, the squadron was enjoying its postprandial nap when the mess tent received news that a Nazi–Soviet Pact had been signed. ‘Well that’s fucked it,’ one pilot, a former Guards officer, said. ‘That’s the start of the fucking war.’

He and his fellow mechanics learned the intricacies of the Rolls-Royce engine and could soon feed the gun belts all 2,400 rounds and fill the eighty-five-gallon tank in twenty minutes.

But the distinctive lines of the British class system, which had survived relatively unscathed from the Great War, were about to become severely blurred. The divide between mechanic and pilot would quickly close, as neither the Spitfire, nor the war, would be any respecter of class.

Then came the final, career-risking but visionary paragraph. ‘If the Home Defence Force is drained away in desperate attempts to remedy the situation in France, defeat in France will involve the final, complete and irremediable defeat of this country.’ Dowding was listened to.

Deere was resilient. Others were not. Unable to contemplate a duel to the death in the skies, a fellow pilot had broken down in tears as he went to climb into his plane. The medical officer was quickly summoned. He was clearly of the old school. ‘The doc gave him a terrific punch and a few well-chosen words,’ a 616 officer observed. ‘And we had no further trouble.’

Churchill recognised in Beaverbrook a man who got things done, and duly appointed him Minister of Aircraft Production. It did not take his lordship long to see things were greatly amiss at the £7 million factory. Not only was the production line chaotic, the unions seemed unaware of the very real danger Britain faced. There were sit-down strikes over petty pay disputes. Workers came in late and left early. There was fraud.

To reinforce the fact that he meant business after France’s surrender, Churchill ordered the navy to prepare for the destruction of the French fleet in the Algerian port of Oran to prevent it falling into Nazi hands.

The same day, 18 June, he stood up in the Commons and left no doubt as to his intentions. ‘The Battle of France is over. I expect the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilisation. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, “This was their finest hour.” ’25

Hitler was riled. Churchill would feel the wrath of blitzkrieg. War Directive No. 16 was drafted. German High Command was ordered to prepare for invasion. ‘The aim of this operation is to eliminate the English motherland as a base from whic...

America’s support for Britain, vital in terms of materiel, was being openly questioned by Joseph Kennedy, the US Ambassador to London. If it continued, would it not be harmful to Washington’s future relationship with Germany?

Churchill smote aside all dissenters with characteristic determination. ‘If this long island story of ours is to end at last, let it end only when each one of us lies choking in his own blood upon the ground.’

Of the forty-two operational squadrons available to Dowding, twelve were Auxiliary Air Force. The fate of Britain rested largely in the hands of solicitors, landowners, artisans and millionaire playboys.

The Spitfires were often flown by men like Bernard Brown, who had barely spent a dozen hours in a fighter, or novices with ten hours’ training on fighters. Luftwaffe pilots had an average of thirteen months under instruction, and 200 flying hours.

And silk scarves became obligatory. Constant turns of the head quickly brought on a rash when wearing a cotton shirt.

trembling like a thoroughbred at the start of the Derby.’

His grandfather, from Co. Carlow, was also something of a ‘player’. When caught in bed with a maid, his excuse to his wife was: ‘If one is going to appreciate Château Lafite, my dear, one must occasionally have a glass of vin ordinaire.’

The ‘Buckingham Palace Dornier’ was among the fifty-six German aircraft shot down that day. The RAF lost half that number. It was a decisive victory.

Hilary Edridge was the 536th pilot to die in the Battle of Britain. Its last but one fatality.

The German losses were considerable and near-irrecoverable. The Luftwaffe had more than 2,500 aircrew killed or missing plus nearly 1,000 taken prisoner. The great cohort of combat experience gained in Spain, Norway and France had been severely diminished. The material losses were also high – nearly 2,000 fighters and bombers destroyed. Fighter Command suffered too, with 544 dead, and the RAF losing 1,744 aircraft.

When Robbie Robertson picked up a newspaper and read about the capitulation of Sudetenland to Hitler he understood conflict was coming. It was September 1938. His mind raced over the possibilities and the desire to escape the tedium of life as a poorly paid London insurance broker.1 He saw the smooth lines of a Spitfire in a recruiting poster. That has to be the most beautiful aircraft in the world, he thought. Robertson’s future was decided. He would become a fighter pilot and get as far as possible from the dreariness of the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Company. He applied for the RAF Volunteer Reserve in April 1939, was accepted then told to await a medical.

The officer chuckled and ran through a list of questions. Could he drive a car, handle a yacht, ride a horse?

It was a man with tin legs who steeled Dundas’ nerves towards the end of the Battle of Britain. Douglas Bader was a man of deep resilience. He had lost both legs in an air crash when training to become an RAF pilot in 1931. First he relearned to walk then got back in a plane and passed all his flying tests. But the RAF administrators decided against having a double amputee in the air force. On the outbreak of war Bader presented himself ready for action. Desperate for pilots, the RAF took him on. They did not regret their decision. From Dunkirk onwards, he bludgeoned his way through melees, scoring victory after victory. His strong nerve, resilience, bitter humour and pure bloody-mindedness set him apart as a leader. ‘Douglas showed the way a man should behave in war,’ Dundas wrote.

Suddenly, Bader’s voice came on the radio, breaking the silence they strictly followed. He radioed base asking them to locate a friend he wanted to play squash with on his return. Dundas grinned at Bader’s terse order. ‘That conversation had a decidedly calming effect on my nerves and the butterflies were somewhat subdued. It was extraordinary enough that a man with tin legs should have been thinking about squash in any circumstances. That he should be doing so while leading three squadrons of Hurricanes and two of Spitfires into battle against the Luftwaffe was even more extraordinary. Here, quite clearly, was a man made in the mould of Francis Drake – a man to be followed, a man who would win.’

He was in a generation where, aged twenty, you confronted the existential questions of love, death and life.

Irvin leather jacket

After slipping on the iced-over port wing, Denchfield got in his Spitfire and switched on the cockpit light for pre-flight checks. ‘Check the reflector gunsight is set for 250-yard range and 60ft span – 60ft was about right for heavy stuff but I made sure that for 109s I’d be a lot closer than 250 yards. Helmet placed over gunsight, with the oxygen tube plugged into the socket. Check mixture lever right back, levers up to “off” and tail and rudder trims set for take-off. Align compass gridlines with needle, ensuring “red on red” so as not to fly in the opposite direction to that desired. Check fuel tanks full, oxygen full and “on”, air and brake pressures at recommended level, radiator control lever at fully open. ‘Place the four harness straps to be instantly available and not snagged on anything and then switch off the light, get out, shut the door and hood and wander back to dispersal to slump into a wicker armchair and catnap gently away with flying boots up on the cast-iron stove along with those of the other hopefuls.’

after they crossed the French coast, Denchfield, weaving at the rear, spotted contrails behind and above but they quickly disappeared. The condensation trails generally formed above 25,000ft, when warm water vapour from the engine exhaust froze in cold air. Pilots frequently checked their rear-view mirrors to ensure they were not emitting a long finger of cloud pinpointing their position.

Denchfield tried to ignore the growing fear that the enemy was close. But a minute later he saw a flash far up behind. He searched the skies. Nothing. He looked ahead. A distance of 800 yards had opened up between him and the rest of the squadron. Damn it. It wasn’t safe to be alone in enemy skies. He did a couple of left and right turns then pushed the throttle open to catch up. ‘I was about halfway back when there was a sudden staccato vibration and sparks seemed to erupt out of my port wingtip. Bloody hell!’ More rounds hit the front. The rudder pedals became useless. ‘As the nose fell away the cockpit filled with a white mist accompanied by the foul smell of glycol and 100-octane fuel.’ The mist cleared and he was able to assess the damage. He was at 9,000ft and still flying. Then the oil and radiator temperature began to rise, followed by a strong smell of petrol. ‘Nearly twenty gallons of fuel were sloshing about in the belly of the fuselage under my feet. I now knew why my lower legs were so cold. Inside my flying boots and my trouser legs were saturated with the damn stuff. ‘Some six minutes after being hit I was down to maybe 6,000ft with the radiator temperature almost in the red. I could see the Channel and the Blenheims pass about 1,000ft above me on their way home, going like the Devil.’ He was never going to make it over the Channel. With petrol sloshing at his feet he undid the Sutton harness straps. Smoke followed by jets of flame came out of the engine. Th...

He was taken to St Omer airfield where twelve Luftwaffe pilots came out of a hut and one by one came to attention and saluted. ‘Of course I had to reciprocate. There wa...

He was then introduced to Major Walter Oesau, the German ace who had shot him down. Denchfield sportingly agreed to sign his cigarette case in pencil for him to have engraved over. On close...

Stung by reports of the Spitfire’s effectiveness over Dunkirk, Willy Messerschmitt had worked hard to find a response. The Spitfire’s agility had to be matched. In late 1940, the Bavaria factories rolled out the Me109 ‘F’, which, with wings and rudder adjustments, was by far the most aerodynamically efficient of the 109 models, potentially out-turning the Spitfire. It was also more fuel-efficient; with light-alloy 300-litre drop tanks, it more than doubled the 109 ‘E’ variant’s range from 410 miles to 1,060 miles. It also came with a bullet-resistant windscreen and light-alloy armour fitted behind the pilot and fuel tanks. Generally, Luftwaffe pilots agreed that the ‘F’ was the best-handling of all 109s.

But to remain operational while playing eighteen holes presented a challenge. Johnson developed a system whereby, if they were to be called to thirty minutes’ readiness, the squadron Miles Magister would go up, find the golfers then fire off a red Very light telling them to return to dispersal.

While Bader’s loss was keenly felt on one level, his job had already been done. Like every effective war leader he left behind a fighting legacy. Although Dundas and many others now felt little enthusiasm for the fight, Bader’s spirit demanded they carry on. ‘To pass onto the new pilots the experience and knowledge I had gained, as well as the spirit of aggression with which Douglas had imbued us,’ wrote Dundas. He needed to hold on to that spirit more than most. He was the last surviving original member from 616 Auxiliary Squadron left flying.

As the Rhubarb, Ramrod and Circus operations over France continued, pilots reported less enemy activity than usual. There was a simple explanation: on 22 June 1941 Hitler used an army of four million, including 2,700 aircraft, to invade Russia, committing men, materiel and reputation to conquering the Bolsheviks.

A year later he found himself behind the controls of a Spitfire. He was full of admiration. ‘To fly a Spitfire you became a part of it. Sitting on the seat, it fitted like a glove, the side walls conforming to your shoulders, the controls at your fingertips and obeying every command at a touch. In combat, with a turn of the head and the eyes, it would follow that direction without deviation; upside down and you were held in your seat, as though glued to it. All these qualities proved to be so valuable in combat, especially in a dogfight when the easy flow of vital manoeuvres meant the difference between life and death.’

Strawn and his fellow pilots adored their new fighter. ‘I really fell in love with the Spitfire. It was the most fascinating aircraft and the easiest I ever flew. These Spitfire Vs are new and really fast planes – faster than our P-39s. I had a great time diving through the clouds and slow rolling, doing about every manoeuvre in the book. It made you feel like a king. It was the most gentle acrobatic thing that I ever had my hands on. It was so forgiving, you could make all kinds of mistakes.’

The biggest problem the Americans had was that the engine rotated in a different direction to the US Allison engines, causing it to swing in the opposite direction on the application of power during take-off. It caused a degree of confusion and led to some accidents.

Joy Lofthouse, along with her sister Yvonne, were among a generation whose friends were not surviving beyond their teenage years. Three years into the war and eight had died. Among them was Yvonne’s childhood love, Peter Comley, nineteen, shot down over the Channel in 1940.

The uncertainty of life intensified relationships. When her pilot boyfriend, Tom Wheatley, proposed in late 1941 after less than a year’s courtship, Yvonne readily agreed. ‘Something told me, as young as I was, that I had to spend as much time as possible with Tom. The war itself made you hurry. Better to make a decision and do something because tomorrow you might be gone. It was a strange time for decision-making. In a way you didn’t really think you’d be spending your life with someone. Not when all around you people you knew were being killed. At one point, I’d gone to see a boy I knew at his base, only to be told he’d had an accident and been killed. The whole thing made you feel as if the ground was constantly shifting under your feet.’

Joy left her job at a bank and entered the rigorous three-month training programme flying numerous aircraft. Six months later she was in a Spitfire. ‘I went to the corner of the airfield and there was my first Spitfire. Oh, it was so powerful. After everything else you’d done before, this was like someone kicking you up the backside. ‘It was so light, compact and incredibly easy to manoeuvre. You almost had to breathe on the controls and they moved.’ Yvonne agreed. ‘Flying the Spitfire was a kind of freedom you never got any other way. More than anything, with the Spit it was as if you had wings sewn on your back. It was so manoeuvrable. ‘Once, on a cloudy rainy day, I ran my right wing through a rain cloud: rain on the right wing, on the left there was sunshine. You could do almost anything with those planes.’

In an age when most women stayed at home, or at the most worked in the factories and fields to aid the war effort, Diana, Joy, Yvonne and the other ATA women were trailblazers of their generation. They were at the forefront of a feminist revolution, years before the term had been coined.

With the Nazis knocking on the door, gender had become an irrelevance; this was war and everyone was in it together. The ATA women went some way to promoting equality. They were initially paid £230 a year, considerably less than the £310 enjoyed by male ATA pilots. The point was firmly made that if both sexes were flying the same planes to the same places, why were the women getting less? The authorities agreed. In 1943 the ATA women became the first in British history to receive equal pay.

Strategically important, Malta was located in the perfect spot in the Mediterranean where Axis shipping crossed from Italy to supply Rommel’s campaign in North Africa. Hitler’s grand strategy of sweeping through Egypt, cutting off the eastern half of the British Empire and seizing Arabian oil fields was being held up by an island of 290,000 people and an assortment of RAF aircraft. By the end of 1941, air and naval attacks from Malta had sunk 64 per cent of ships carrying fuel, tanks and personnel destined for Rommel’s Afrika Korps.2 Malta was a menace and a sore and had to be eliminated. Hitler had originally entrusted the task to Mussolini and his bombers of the Regia Aeronautica. Infuriated by the island’s obduracy and the Italians’ inability to succeed, late in 1941 Hitler ordered Goering to do whatever necessary to take Malta.

Taking Malta should have been straightforward. The early Maltese air defences had pretty much shrunk to three Gloster Gladiator biplanes nicknamed Faith, Hope and Charity. Somehow these obsolete biplanes flown by flying-boat pilots and others managed to shake off the first Italian attacks in 1940.

Only belatedly had Britain’s commanders woken up to Malta’s importance, that it gave the navy a fighting chance of getting convoys through to Egypt, saving freighters 15,000 miles and forty-five days off the journey round South Africa. Malta was also a vital, unsinkable aircraft carrier that could be used as a naval and RAF base to strike against Axis supply lines. If Malta fell, North Africa would most likely follow. Then the Middle East would be threatened and the consequences after that were unimaginable. India? Turkey? Russia’s southern underbelly? It was clear – Malta had to be saved whatever the cost.

The islanders’ allegiance to Britain had endured since Admiral Lord Nelson ousted Napoleon’s haughty French troops and made Malta part of the British Empire.

The bombing was relentless. The tonnage that fell on Malta in March and April 1942 exceeded that of the bombs dropped on London during the whole of the Blitz. One thousand civilians were killed in air raids and 10,000 homes destroyed.