Life as a Battle of Britain Pilot

In the summer of 1940 the RAF threw everything at its disposal at the Luftwaffe and in a few short months turned defeat into victory through the bravery and sacrifice of the men and women of Fighter Command and others.

The fate of the nation depended on the RAF preventing the Luftwaffe from gaining mastery of the skies above the UK in order to allow Germany to drop paratroops and launch its invasion fleet along the south coast, and become the first foreign power to take over the nation since 1066.

The aerial spectacle was the first air battle brought to the public in real time but who were these soon to be dubbed “Few” who saved the nation in its darkest hour?

As the Battle got under way in the hot summer of 1940, the daily scramble for supremacy in the skies often began benignly as the mist burned off while the dawn chorus of birds filled the air around stations and units. But the birdsong would soon be replaced by the rattle of machine guns, the sound of mighty engines straining, the whining of aircraft in their death throes and the spluttering of damaged Spitfires and Hurricane as they just made it home or crash landed in a field. The paradox of daily life and death struggles of a nation on the brink of defeat set against clear blue skies, as many carried on their normal lives, be it farming or taking the train to London, was not lost on Churchill.

The daily routine of the fighter pilot during the Battle of Britain hardly had a less glamorous start. Officers were roused with a cup of tea by their batman at around 4am as dawn broke. A Sergeant pilot would have to get himself up and make his own tea! Either way their day would not end until nearly sunset. A lorry would collect all the crews and drive them out to the dispersals beside the grass runways. Meanwhile the aircraft fitters, riggers and armourers would be busy running up the engines, checking on the repairs to damage inflicted the day before and loading munitions.

If everything worked and the aircraft signed off for flight, the petrol tanks were filled with 85 gallons of high-octane fuel. Meanwhile the pilots made some breakfast in readiness huts if they were close to dispersal or made do with a tent with a couple of deckchairs outside – anything as long as it was within sprint distance of their aircraft.

The flight commander had by now rung through to Operations and placed his men as “ready for business” – and the waiting begins. Britain’s secret weapon was a highly-developed system of radar which superseded crude listening devices and the “Mark one eyeball” with binoculars: this enabled controllers to order scrambles and intercept the incoming enemy from further away rather and avoid wasteful air patrolling. This targeting of incoming aircraft continually frustrated German pilot and their boss, Reichsmarshal Herman Goering.

And now the wait began. Pilots spent their time reading popular magazines of the day such as Lilliput or Picture Post, playing chess and dominoes, all the while contemplating what the day might hold.

An officer with the rank of Squadron Leader commands a fighter squadron, which is made up of two flights, A and B, each of which is commanded by a Flight Lieutenant. Each Flight is divided into three sections, Red, Green and Yellow, each one of which has three aircraft, for example Red One, Two and Three.

One section at a time left dispersal for breakfast for no more than 20 minutes, with the same arrangements for lunch and dinner, although these meals were invariably alfresco snacks, a mug of soup or corned beef sandwich hurriedly consumed beside the aircraft or in the shadow of a wing.

Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, Commander-in-Chief of RAF Fighter Command in 1940, had hoped to allow each of his squadrons one day’s rest per 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 rose the tension increased with the temperature. Suddenly a telephone rings and the stomachs of pilots knot. The click of the tannoy is all that’s needed for the heart to pound as the words “Scramble, Scramble” are shouted into the receiver. It is the first of many combat missions that day.

The fitter presses the starter button on battery carts connected to the giant 12 cylinder Rolls Royce Merlin engine. The pilots sprint to their waiting machines, barely giving enough time to grab their parachute. They strap in, and await an indication of the enemies’ bearing, height and numbers over the intercom from the senior pilot as the propellers turn and yellow flame followed by clouds of sooty smoke issue from exhaust stubs.

With a thumbs-up the throttle is pushed and the aircraft weaves its way across the grass looking for the take-off strip. As tail-draggers, pilots of Spitfires and Hurricanes are blind forward in an arc of about 70 degrees until the tail wheel lifts off the ground.

Soon the fighters are airborne and through the crackling headphones they pick up a message “vector two three zero, bandits one hundred plus, angels two zero”, shorthand for “steer course 230 degrees where you will find more than one hundred enemy aircraft at a height of 20,000 ft”.

One of the pilots spots the tell-tale vapour trails of the enemy soaring above. They may be Heinkels or Junkers, usually with a protective screen of Messerschmitts – a match for the attacking Spitfires and Hurricanes.

The fight is joined. The objective is to draw away and pick off the German fighters so you can get to the bombers before they hit your airfields, towns and cities. It was a fight to the death played out to watchers on the ground like macabre theatre.

The gun button is set to “fire” and it’s every man for himself. Survival depended on getting him before he got you, so keeping a cool head and anticipating the tactics of your chosen target and making sure you were not picked off by someone behind, under or coming straight at you, were essential qualities.

Dogfighting exacts a fearsome toll from the frail human body and its senses, aside from the immediate stress of combat. Flying at 30,000 ft in an unpressurized environment with no cockpit heating and little by way of special flying clothing, the din pounds the eardrums and the g-forces lead to blood draining from the brain causing the nightmare of blackouts.

The pilot has to summon every ounce of his physical and mental strength to maintain control against the huge elemental forces acting against his body, mind and aircraft. The environment inside the cockpit was as hostile as the one outside.

An enemy engaged, 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 13 lbs of shot every three seconds. Combat might only last ten minutes, but a pilot has about three seconds to identify his adversary and engage before the opportunity is lost.

And if you lose and your aircraft is hit you count yourself lucky you are uninjured and able to exit the aircraft, though there is no guarantee the parachute won’t snag as you tumble out, or already be unusable due to fire. If you are injured – burned, shot or otherwise incapacitated – the exit and fall from the aircraft decrease your odds of survival. Even under a chute you’re not out of danger as you are floating through an intense aerial fire fight.

When the squadron’s lucky pilots arrive back in ones and twos the headcount begins. Some have landed at other bases, short of fuel, or crash landed in a farmers field and taken to hospital, perhaps with horrific injuries including burns that would take months if not years to heal as one of brilliant plastic surgeon Archibald McIndoe’s “Guinea Pigs”. Others may have baled out after their aircraft were crippled in combat. Once most are back another agonising wait is on – this time for news that some will not return.

The Few have just become fewer – the unlucky ones invariably meeting their fate in fear, pain and, worst of all, alone, their names attracting the epithet “missing in action” back at base.

At the aerodrome the pilot files a combat report with full details of the sortie and any “kills” – when he reaches five confirmed he can join the elite, but unofficial, band of fighter “aces”, then it’s back to dispersal to be ready to fly a further two or three sorties before the last of the Luftwaffe raids head for home against a dying sun. Then and only then, fatigue overtakes fear as the pilots are finally stood down.

Physically and mentally exhausted, they might eat a hurried supper then return to quarters and collapse into bed before sinking into an uneasy sleep. Some have a scrap of energy left for a trip to the local pub to unwind with fellow pilots, making a welcome break from the day’s action.

It’s a strange existence, this double life of a Battle of Britain fighter pilot. Birdsong in the morning over a mug of cocoa, fighting for his life at midday, and drinking ale with the locals in the peace of an English country pub after sunset.

But for month after month the pattern was repeated. The daily battle with the Luftwaffe continued well into autumn. By then the evenings were closing in and Goering’s fighter and much of his bomber forces had been conquered by the Few. Hitler turned his main attention to conquering Russia in the East and night bombing Britain’s cities rather than knocking out the RAF. The Blitz has begun, bringing fresh challenges to the exhausted heroes of the Battle of Britain.

(grateful thanks to “Life as a Battle of Britain Pilot” by Jonathan Falconer, published by History Press, for contributions to this article).