The Dawn Patrol Page 7
Chapter Six
The Leader And Supreme Commander Of The Armed Forces.
Headquarters, Berlin. 24th May, 1940. 7 copies
Directive No. 13
1. The next object of our operations is to annihilate the French, English, and Belgian forces which are surrounded in Artois and Flanders, by a concentric attack by our northern flank and by the swift seizure of the Channel coast in this area.
The task of the Air Force will be to break all enemy resistance on the part of the surrounded forces, to prevent the escape of the English forces across the Channel, and to protect the southern flank of Army Group A. The enemy air force will be engaged whenever opportunity offers.
2. The Army will then prepare to destroy in the shortest possible time the remaining enemy forces in France.
3. Tasks Of The Air Force: Apart from operations in France, the Air Force is authorised to attack the English homeland in the fullest manner, as soon as sufficient forces are available. The struggle against the English homeland will be continued after the commencement of land operations.
4. Tasks Of The Navy. All restrictions on naval action in English and French waters are hereby cancelled, and Commanders are free to employ their forces to the fullest extent.
5. I request the Commanders In Chief to inform me, in person or in writing, of their intentions based on this directive.
Adolf Hitler
Hermann Goering waited impatiently, fidgeting, while all his commanders, and all the pilots and officers entered the large briefing room and sat down. What a day! He strolled in at the earliest possible moment and took the stage. When they were finally seated, he began, taking the pointer from a startled aide, and stood in front of the map showing the French coast.
“Achtung!” he exclaimed, and pointed at Dunkirk, that last remaining strength of the Allied forces in Continental Europe. Everyone was deadly silent.
“We will attack on all sides with great strength and fierceness, and concentrate upon Dunkirk and the beaches.” and he traced the areas with the pointer. “We will press in upon the narrow exit, both from the east and from the west, firing with cannon on the beaches which is the only way for shipping to approach or depart.”
He pointed to the English Channel. “We have sowed magnetic mines in the channels and seas, and we will send repeated waves of hostile aircraft to attack the single pier that remains, and on the sand dunes where the troops will try to shelter. We will also send U-boats of course.”
He looked up and felt the contained excitement of his commanders, who dared not utter a word. They knew every detail of the plans.
“We must hurl all our armored divisions, infantry and artillery against Dunkirk.”
Ernst Grunen watched from the back of the room, bored, but knowing that to show his boredom now could result in complications, so he kept his eyes open, and pretended to be interested. He felt the dust of his uniform, the heat, and the uneasiness of his stomach, a mixture of weariness and stress, and excitement in combat that had rolled into an unending blur. Sitting on the fixed, solid ground, he felt that speeches and human interaction had a surreal, dreamlike quality, compared to the split second decisions of pulling a trigger or moving the control stick, or pointing out the enemy. He looked over at Rudolf Jodl and felt only revulsion, for his slick backed hair, his avid hatred of the enemy, for his blind faith in the Nazi party.
Am I disloyal? Ernest asked himself this, over and over again. I swore an oath to the Fatherland. But to Hitler, who appears to be a raving maniac? Or Goering, who appears to be on fire all the time, any less a maniac? Does anyone sense my lack of loyalty, do they even care, as long as I keep shooting down British planes?
Ernst tried not to think about the possibility of Rudy entering the war, because that made things more personal. But the more that the Luftwaffe owned the skies over Europe, the less confident he felt in the honor of their mission. Were they defending the Fatherland? Clearly not.
He was used to the life of being a soldier, a pilot, obeying orders and plans as they were handed down. And he kept returning to that familiar stream, plunging back into it to pass each day. But somehow as the number of kills he made increased, it became harder to plunge back into that stream. He wondered to himself, what will it be like when we fight more actively over the Channel, and over England? The pilots will be fighting to the death for their homeland. We are expanding our Empire at this point.
He thought dreamily of the County Fair in America, and the peaceful way that the biplane had glided through the air, free of guns, just giving people rides. I would like to be a pilot like that, he thought, if I survive this war. He realized for the first time that he had doubts about his survival, or his will to survive, and that he felt caught, in a way. And he knew that this kind of doubt could be deadly. And he didn’t care.
--
At 10 Downing Street, on Saturday, May 25th, 1940, Winston Churchill sat in a heavy atmosphere of gloom in the Cabinet room, with various aides and attendants and soldiers quietly coming in and out, laying down papers, as the War Cabinet deliberated and discussed the situation at Dunkirk.
An aide was reading a report, and Churchill watched intently, noticing a senior general with his head buried in his hands after a night without sleep, and an RAF commander who looked rather pale. Everyone looked very grim. Winston felt grim, listening.
“The Rifle Brigade, the 60th Rifles, and the Queen Victoria's Rifles, with a battalion of British tanks and 1,000 Frenchmen, in all about four thousand strong, are defending Calais to the last. The British Brigadier was given an hour to surrender. He spurned the offer, and we are seeing days of intense street fighting.”
Winston waved his hand. “That will be enough for the moment on Calais.” He looked around the room. “Are we resolved about Dunkirk?”
A general spoke up. “We must evacuate”. There were nods.
“So be it.” And the order was generated and sent off.
He lit a cigar, swirled a cup of brandy, and hoped that at least some soldiers would survive the full weight of the German Army being thrown at it. He looked out a slit in the blackened windows at the streets of London, wondering how long it would be - weeks, months? - before the city would be the subject of intense bombardment.
--
George Wallace stood up in the wee hours of the Monday morning, before a gathering of grim coastal seamen and boat owners, fathers, sons, brothers, all waiting for him to speak, all knowing what was coming. “Lads, the official request has come through, and they’re calling it Operation Dynamo.” He looked around the room, and saw determination, fear, courage, misgiving, pugnacity, defiance scattered on various weathered faces and some younger ones too – fathers, sons, brothers.
“Now I know some of you same as I have blood kin in the Armed Forces already, and before this war is over, more of us are likely to be involved officially, and this is probably where it starts.” George took his hat off, folded it, held it, squeezing.
“Now me own son Eric is in the RAF, and yours and others like him will be out trying to help us the best they can. The situation is mighty grim in France right now, and at this point, any soldiers that we can manage to get back alive is one more soldier that can defend our homes, and wives, and children, and families.”
A young hand rose up timidly.
“Yes Christopher, what’s your question?” and the young man looked around, swallowed, coughed, and asked, “Well sir, so you’re sure there’s nothing in sticking together so to speak, with strength in numbers, all in a mass? That’d feel so much better” he said, and there were some grunts, voices of approval.
“Why yes, Christopher, by God I’d certainly be glad to have you right near me as any others of you, but we’d just end up making for easier targets, so you just need to think of them soldiers. We get in our boats, we hope or pray for the best, and then we try to get home.”
A representative from Vice-Admiral Bertram Ramsay stood up, who was sitting next to George. G
eorge nodded.
“I want to thank you all on behalf of the Prime Minister, and I want to make a personal suggestion.” The Navy representative looked with roving eyes that somehow contained compassion and steel in equal measure. George looked down at his feet.
“I know that some of you have been in combat in the Great War, two decades ago, and some of you have never been in combat before, and I think it’s best to face the truth in this situation. I want to invite you to have hope, but also to face the worst case scenario. I want to invite you to accept that you’re already dead.” He said, and a there were a few surprised looks, but not from among those who had been in the Great War.
“True enough lads, and I’d second that notion.” George sighed, thinking of Elicia. “Now there’s nothing wrong with hope, but we can’t really pretty up the situation. We’ve all got chances of getting in and out, but we’re also going into a difficult situation. And when the firing and the bombing start – if we already accept death, then it will be easier to face those bloody German bastards.” He looked solemn, still squeezing his hat. His voice wanted to break, but he knew he could help by being strong.
“Now as for me, I plan to go home to my dear Elicia, and make the best of what we have, and to enjoy each minute, and to get some my affairs in order, same as I did before I left for the Western Front.” And he looked up into their searching eyes. “And I’ll say one thing right here – I happened to be in the trenches with Winston Churchill, and I knows that he’s got metal in him, he’s got what it takes to stand up to Hitler, and I will follow that man wherever he leads us.” There were some nods of approval, and a sense of defiance was in the room. George looked right at Christopher.
“Now it would be foolish to think you should not fear. Lord knows I’ve got fear. But courage is the choice to act in spite of that fear. Bravery is the choice to do our bit. And those lads over in France are getting hammered, and we need to help them.” He was silent for a moment. No one seemed to want to break the silence.
“Any questions” George asked. There were none.
The representative from the Navy looked out into the room, humbled and with some hope.
We need all these shallow draught vessels be included for the operation, and here answering the call to aid are fishing boats, fire ships, paddle steamers, private yachts, and Belgian barges. Now the hopes of all the trapped Allied soldiers rest on this ragtag fleet, some of which will come from as far as the Isle of Man and the West Country.
--
Eric lifted into the air from the early morning mist to join his temporary squadron for Channel patrol, and Clive Etheridge was their wing commander. Clive was generally quiet, a bit high-strung and somewhat unpredictable. Today he seemed as cool as a cucumber.
“Remember, above all else, we must stick together as best we can. Today is likely to get very messy, but try to stick with your squadron, and remember to break away straight.”
Eric looked down at the English coast, as they passed above it, feeling highly alert.
“Now it’s been secret, but I’m authorized to tell you that we captured a bf109 this past November, and the Spitfire is the best match at a lower altitude of around 4,000 feet, so we’re pretty sure the Spit will do well in medium altitudes in a turning fight. We’ll be coming in at a fairly high elevation initially, but you’ll always need to watch for the bf109’s trying to come at your from the sun. If you remember one thing, remember not to fly in a straight line, and remember to fire in short bursts.”
Clive Etheridge thought of his collection of green pilots, sensing that the losses would probably be heavy. He decided not to even mention the concept of watching the fuel gauge. Better not add any more worries. The ones that survive will survive, in our first significant contact with the Luftwaffe.
Eric continued to scan the horizon, and gradually the distant light of explosions were visible. A flotilla of boats was streaming across the Channel, the RAF and Luftwaffe were essentially converging on a single point, but there would be patrols everywhere.
Just do one thing at time. Eric told himself. He reached inside his leather jacket and rubbed the small medallion around his neck, which his father had given him the last time they were together, which had a simple engraving of a dragonfly set in pewter.
“2 o’clock high!” Clive exclaimed over the radio, and the melee began, as a swarm of bf 109’s screamed down towards them, as they went through defensive maneuvers. Eric swerved off to the right, and he felt the airframe shudder, and dimly felt it take several bullets. He dived and hotly pursued a bf109, twirling, swimming in the air, trying to calculate its next movement.
“Eric, 9 o’clock dive!” and Eric glanced to his left and dived just in time to miss a fusillade from two bf 109’s working in tandem. He regained site of his prey and continued the chase, and reminded himself to think like a hawk, riding the wind, thinking ahead of the next plane. Instead of following the plane in front of him, he broke away from his chase, circled around, and intercepted it in a swirling arc, waiting for the convergence point, taking a wild guess, and letting off a burst as her neared to within 200 yards.
His arc allowed him to let off another burst before breaking away, and he could see an orange ball of flame engulf the plane. He continued a corkscrew pattern, and saw more activity directly below, as the melee began working itself down towards the surface of the ocean.
Split second passed into second, second passed into minute, and all around was orange and red fire, black smoke, the ferocious roar of machine guns, and explosions of every variety.
A huge ball of fire opened up in front of Eric as he saw two planes collide, and he pulled for all he was worth to try to avoid the expanding ball of fire, and the mid-air wreckage flying in every direction. A piece of metal glanced off the cockpit and something had touched his propellers, but he was able to evade the worst of it, and he kept on scanning.
Looking below in a half second of calm, he noticed the line of boats underneath him, and now that he was close enough to see better, it looked like a methodical group of dive bombers and bf109s were working their away along the flotilla. Of course! Engage the Spitfires up above, and harry the boats below.
“I’m hit! Bailing out!” someone screamed over the coms, and there were various scattered communications. The formations had broken up, and the Luftwaffe and RAF planes were nested in a turning, whirling vortex of fire and steel, like a tornado from the underworld.
“Clive I’m going down to help the boats!” Eric piped in, not thinking of how many planes were down there.
“I’ll join you!” said Clive. “I’ve got you in visual range, approaching on right”
And the two dived in a sweeping arc down towards a concentration of boats that were being preyed upon by dive bombers. Explosions dotted the ocean, but mostly the planes were strafing.
“Look out!” said Clive, as two bf109’s in escort came in from their rear. Eric looked at Clive’s plane breaking away and before his eyes it exploded as another set of bf 109’s concentrated their fire. Eric continued his corkscrew pattern down as several Spits engaged the escort, and he dimly felt that one Spit followed him down to engage the German formation that was harrying the flotilla directly.
Eric had no idea of the way to take on a dozen planes at once but he figured that a mad corkscrew dash between a portion of them might serve, with a rapid turn to pull away in another direction.
“Engaging raiders of flotilla. Mad corkscrew dash through the lot of them and breaking away after engaging 4!” he said to no one in particular.
“Roger that” said a voice on the intercom. “I’m at your right wing and will do my best to follow and break away. My names Nigel, by the way”
And Eric and Nigel bore in on the planes attacking the flotilla and swerved in on the edge, concentrating their fire on a plane going away from them, bringing it down, and then breaking into separate corkscrew patterns. At this point Eric was letting out short bursts everywhere, dimly remem
bering to try not to fire downward at the boats. He tried to think of himself like a hawk, and firing wildly whenever there was enough concentration of more than one German plane close enough, as they swirled around each other.
“Break!” he said after 10 seconds, and Eric and Nigel broke away, both returning in mad dashes and bounds back to the point where they had begun, feinting, fighting, taking fire, gaining altitude when they had a chance. Nigel’s plane went down in a burst of flames and Eric sighted more Spits joining their patch of ocean.
--
George Wallace watched the carnage unfold before him grimly, and kept his eyes focused on the last remaining Pier in Dunkirk, which seemed to draw the brunt of all the bombardment from artillery and planes. He knew it was hopeless to try and evade a direct attack from a strafing plane, and so far he had been strafed once, but a Spitfire had engaged at the last moment and thrown his attacker off.
Boats had been sunk by every way imaginable, by uBoats, or dive bombers. But the flotilla kept on coming, dispersed, and their sheer numbers and small size were an advantage in some ways. George was glad that his boat was painted dark.
Then George had a slightly sad feeling, and clenched the helm of his boat. He thought in a fleeting instant. It must be that my battle instincts are rearing up again, the same ones that could help me hear artillery on the Western Front, and know whether I’m a goner by the way the shell sounds when its coming in. Well Elicia, Eric, this is it. God be with you.
And a tremendous explosion heaved up the boat George was on, and when he landed, broken, he was conscious on the surface of the water for a few moments. All he felt was pride, as he looked up at the RAF fighting the Germans as best they could, and glanced at his fellow merchant seamen who were still going. I go to a watery grave with pride, my son and countrymen.
--
The next day, Winston Churchill sat in the Cabinet Room, listening to the news at Dunkirk.
“Day One, Sir, Monday, we got out about 7,700 men” the aide reported, and Winston was thinking about the other several hundred thousand stranded there. He sighed.
“And the numbers today?” Winston asked, wearily, looking at the aide.
“About 16,000 sir, and many vessels sunk.” said the aide, as the commanders and leaders around the table absorbed the numbers.
Winston Churchill looked at the RAF commander.
“We lost 177 planes sir, and we think we shot down about 132 Jerries” said the commander.
“Don’t look so dejected.” Said Winston, taking a puff on the cigar. If we’ve been outnumbered 4 to 1, and our green lads are fighting against some who have been in combat since 1938, then I’ll take those numbers as a good sign.” He looked around in the gloomy faces, and sighed.
“But true enough, we should continue to throw everything we’ve got at evacuating those men, but I suppose I should also set a date for the possibility of announcing a military disaster.” He waved at another aide. “Get me a time to make a speech a week from now, and I’ll report to the British people on whatever happens.” He looked around the table.
“What are we hoping for, lads. Out of 400,000 soldiers, can we say, 20 or 30 thousand?” he asked, into the silence. Some grim nodding.
“So be it.” And Winston Churchill puffed on his cigar. The whole root and core and brain of the British Army, on which and around which we were to build, the great British Armies in the later years of this war, seem about to perish upon the field or to be led into an ignominious and starving captivity
He stamped his fist on the table, startling the commanders, and growled.
I hope to God there is a miracle, and if not, then we will die to every last man and child defending these shores.