The floor shuddered as another wave of bombers crossed the coast. Joan Fanshawe, nineteen years old, kept her eyes on the map table, sliding the wooden marker that represented an enemy raid further inland. She was one of about fifty RAF personnel on the morning shift inside a secret bunker buried eighteen meters beneath Uxbridge, west of London. It was not an impressive-looking place, but it was the nerve center of the entire Battle of Britain.
From here, Fighter Command could track the battle minute by minute and send squadrons into the sky to meet the Nazi attacks. Joan was one of the first women ever to work on the plotting table. She had joined the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force on the fourth of July, and within two weeks she was sent to Uxbridge. Her official job title was “clerk, special duties,” but in reality she tracked enemy aircraft positions using wooden blocks on a huge map.
A red block meant a German raid. A blue block meant a British squadron. The information she plotted gave the commanders the picture they needed to scramble the right planes. Joan kept a secret diary of her hours in the operations room.
She was careful about what she wrote, but the entries reveal everyday life on the front line. One entry from early July was almost painfully ordinary: “All day I kept thinking about having my hair cut tomorrow. It is very upsetting because I have kept it long all my life and it has been my main attraction. I will feel as though I have lost my identity without it.
” There was no glory in that line, only the quiet worry of a young woman at war. On the morning of August 15, 1940, Joan’s shift began quietly. The weather was bad, too cloudy for attacks. She noted, “We were not very busy until the end of the shift when things began to speed up.
” It did not stay quiet for long. Hundreds of RAF pilots across the country were also waiting that morning, including a twenty-eight-year-old Scottish pilot at Drem airfield in East Lothian. Squadron Leader Archie McKellar had been in the RAF for four years and had only just returned from a night patrol at 4:20 a. m.
He was trying to get some sleep. Archie was not an ordinary pilot. He came from a working-class family in Paisley and had grown up in a tenement building. His parents, John and Margaret, wanted him to join the family plastering business.
But Archie wanted to fly. He saved his wages, went off secretly, and learned to fly without telling his parents. He would fly over the family home and rock his wings to let them know it was him. In 1936, his talent was discovered, and he was invited to join the RAF.
His family only learned the full extent of what he did as they grew older. One relative said, “He became one of my heroes. ” Archie’s impact was almost immediate. Weeks after the war began, he was the first pilot to shoot down a Nazi bomber over Britain.
Later he became an “ace in a day,” destroying five enemy aircraft in twenty-four hours. At 11:10 a. m. , the clouds broke and blue sky appeared over Kent.
Radar signals showed the enemy approaching from above Calais, about twenty miles from the British coast. They could reach their targets in southeast England in less than twenty minutes. It was the first wave of a massive Luftwaffe raid: fifty bombers, each carrying up to one thousand pounds of bombs, protected by dozens of small, fast, deadly fighter planes. Their target was the British airfields.
The RAF had to intercept them before they reached their targets. Every second counted. Among the pilots scrambling was nineteen-year-old William Hopkin from the Fifty-Four Squadron at Hornchurch. He was the son of a vicar from Bedfordshire, and the youngest of three brothers.
His older brother, Alan, had joined the air force in 1938 and had flown his Spitfire over the family vicarage the day he got his wings. William’s son, Simon, later recalled, “That was an inspiration for my father to think, yes, that is probably what I should do. So he joined after that. ” Tragically, Alan was lost on the first day of the Battle of Britain.
A small, sad line in William’s logbook read: “Lost Alan in a Bristol Blenheim over enemy territory while bombing a ship at night. ” William had now lost the older brother he admired so much, and the Battle of Britain was just beginning. William had only been with his operational squadron for three months and had never shot down an enemy aircraft. What was he feeling that morning?
Air Marshal Cliff Spink, a veteran pilot, tried to explain the mindset of those young men. “They knew not only that a lot of pilots would not come back, but there was a certain level of expectation. He does not want to let himself down, and especially his colleagues. ” The Spitfire alone offered little protection.
The aluminum was relatively thin. Usually, if someone wanted to shoot you, they came from behind, so there was an armored plate behind the pilot’s head, but very little else. William, strapped into his harness, knew what was expected of him. He was to fly with his flight commander in a supporting formation.
The old saying was: commit, look, and report. Commit to your leader, look for enemy aircraft, then report what you see. At 11:30, the German raids approached their first target, the airfield at Hawkinge on the Kent coast. Among them were fifty lethal dive bombers.
The Fifty-Four Squadron, including William Hopkin, met them and received the order to engage. William’s personal account of the fight survives. “I followed the Blue Leader in the attack when we engaged some JU 87 dive bombers between Dover and Hawkinge. I managed to catch one and fired a fairly long burst using sixteen hundred rounds, and I saw the enemy aircraft dive sharply away with smoke pouring from it.
” It was his first success against the enemy. Not bad for a young man relatively new to combat. But the raid was not over. Leading the German fighters that engaged William and his comrades that day was a formidable opponent: the Luftwaffe ace Adolf Galland.
At twenty-eight, Galland had been in the Luftwaffe for over six years and was determined to destroy the RAF. He was so successful that Nazi leadership made propaganda films about him. He had already shot down more than seventeen Allied aircraft. Now he was in the sky over Kent with William Hopkin and the Fifty-Four Squadron in his sights.
They had their own hero, though. Al Deere, a twenty-two-year-old pilot who had already received a medal from King George VI for bravery, spotted Galland’s formation and climbed sharply to engage. He closed to three hundred yards and opened fire. His eight wing-mounted machine guns hit their target.
But it was not Galland. Galland dived into the middle of the Fifty-Four Squadron. He swung behind one Spitfire and flooded it with fire. The Spitfire plunged toward the ground.
It was flown by twenty-five-year-old Polish pilot Wojciech Koczyński, who had only been in combat for three days. He managed to bail out, but he would need more than two years to recover from his injuries and would never fly in combat again. Galland then dived on another Spitfire, flown by twenty-three-year-old Norman Lawrence, who was trying to rejoin the squadron. The aircraft caught fire.
Amazingly, Lawrence survived. Galland finished his mission and returned to Calais. William Hopkin and Al Deere survived, but they had watched two friends in the Fifty-Four Squadron fall. The average life expectancy of an RAF pilot in the Battle of Britain was only four weeks.
By mid-morning, the Luftwaffe had damaged two airfields on the Kent coast, Lympne and Hawkinge, but all their Spitfires and Hurricanes had taken off before the bombers arrived. No British fighter was destroyed on the ground. For Hitler’s air force, it was a disappointing morning. Then, at noon, something more terrifying appeared on the radar: a massive raid coming from a base in Nazi-occupied Norway, crossing the North Sea.
Hitler’s planes were heading north, and the Scottish pilot Archie McKellar was in the front line. The Luftwaffe had assumed the RAF would send all its fighter pilots south to protect the southern coast. They hoped the north of England would be exposed. So they planned a surprise attack there on August 15.
At 12:30, more than one hundred German aircraft appeared in the skies over Northumberland. But the RAF had spotted the raids early and scrambled their planes in time. Three RAF squadrons were waiting, including the 605 Squadron. Archie McKellar, twenty-eight, was their formation leader.
At 10:01, enemy aircraft were streaming over Newcastle. Archie spotted the formation and ordered his men to follow him in a diving attack. He caught one German aircraft and, using only a quarter of his ammunition, sent it spinning out of control. But he was too busy to notice the enemy coming from behind.
The German shot at Archie, hitting his wings. Archie kept flying. He dived on the Luftwaffe formation leader and shot him down, then chased down a straggler and sent it into the sea. He later wrote to his mother: “Dear Mother, I am very well and very proud of myself.
On Thursday I saw seventy to eighty of the bad chaps in one big formation. I dived on them with my squadron. I shot down three of them. Everyone scared the life out of the bad chaps.
I was very proud. All my love, Sanny. ”
Archie’s skills were so impressive that the RAF put him in a recruitment brochure. Almost every squadron had a poster face, someone to aspire to be like.
There he was: Squadron Leader Archibald A. McKellar. The brochure read: “Discipline is strict. Strive to emulate the traditions of McKellar.
” He was the man they wanted everyone to be like. He was always immaculate, shaving and grooming himself every morning even during the Battle of Britain, and he insisted his squadron do the same. “If I have to die, I want to die clean,” he told a colleague. His family remained intensely proud of him.
One relative said, “I always ask people, have you ever heard of Archie McKellar? ” The answer is usually no. “We have all heard of the Battle of Britain, but they have never heard of Archie McKellar. ”
By 13:45, Archie was back at base.
The Luftwaffe’s attack on the north had been catastrophic. Although outnumbered, the RAF had repelled the raids. The credit belonged to the ingenious intelligence system of Fighter Command, and the Uxbridge bunker was an essential part of that puzzle. The tiny red lines on the map showed the range of the radar, which gave about twenty minutes of early warning.
In 1940, radar was new and highly secret technology using radio waves to detect aircraft over the Channel. But it had one flaw: once aircraft crossed inland and passed the radar towers, they became invisible. The solution was remarkably simple. People sat at fifteen hundred observer posts tracking aircraft as they crossed.
They sent the information to headquarters. Now commanders could see what the radar told them and what the observers relayed. The details of enemy aircraft were telephoned to the bunker and placed on wooden blocks marked with an “H” for the enemy, along with the number of aircraft in the raid. Joan Fanshawe’s job was to plot the positions of these enemy aircraft on the map.
Ten aircraft at fifteen thousand feet. The RAF was eager to involve women, wanting to employ as many as possible for as many jobs as possible. The women who moved the plotting blocks on the map were a vital part of the system. The commanders then had a complete picture and could send the appropriate squadron to meet the enemy.
The Germans had no idea this place or this system existed. Joan’s work was not easy. After her morning shift ended on August 15, her diary shows she was exhausted. “I lay down a little after lunch and felt very tired.
It required intense concentration when the work increased, and it seems very exhausting. They worked four-hour shifts, but I think they were very tired when they finished. ” Yet despite the exhaustion and witnessing some of the worst battles so far, Joan could still find some amusement. “We had drills after the shift and had to do a mock salute to the officers.
We nearly died laughing. ” She had only been in the RAF for about six weeks by then. The salute was not yet automatic. It was all still very funny to them.
By mid-afternoon, Joan’s shift ended, and the early air raids on northern England stopped. But the RAF could not rest. Raid after raid from hundreds of enemy aircraft swamped the southeast. Just after three in the afternoon, William Hopkin climbed again to intercept one of the many enemy attacks.
It was his fourth flight of the day. Pilots were on alert for sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen hours a day, flying three, four, five, or six missions daily. The pressure of fear and exhaustion was extraordinary. Yet they kept flying day after day, week after week.
Look at the pilots relaxing with the Fifty-Four Squadron. Out of the four pilots named in one photo taken on the grass during a lull, three were lost during the battle. Rest in peace. At 16:00, William’s movements were being plotted in the Uxbridge bunker, but not by Joan Fanshawe, who had left the building.
It had been a tiring day, but her diary shows she was somehow able to forget work. “At four o’clock I rushed to the station and took the tube and met Bat Wickens, who was a family friend. We had tea. I enjoyed myself very much.
I met Joslin on my way back on the train. We had a snack, then the air raid sirens went off. We rushed back very fast on my bicycle. Joslin was running.
” By the end of the day, she wrote, “He spent most of his time on duty. We worked about sixteen hours today. ” It was an extraordinary double life: working this intense, amazing job, then going out for tea and laughter with a friend. Life went on, and her diary shows it clearly.
The times ranged from total exhaustion to sometimes boredom. Even during the Battle of Britain, there were lulls between the storms. One pilot who had managed to avoid the storms so far was Peter Comley, stationed at RAF Exeter in the West Country with the Eighty-Seventh Squadron. He had spent his battle on patrols along the southern coast, protecting nearby bases from Luftwaffe attacks.
Because it was outside the main center of tension in southeast England, the fighting was less intense. His Canadian nephew, Richard Comley, was meeting me. “This is my uncle Peter as an RAF pilot. A teenager.
Eighteen years old. This is him in his cap and full uniform. ” Peter was one of five siblings who grew up in rural Gloucestershire. “That is my father.
He is the little boy in the middle. ” They were not wealthy. They moved to Yorkshire after their grandfather lost his farm. Peter spent his happy summer away from boarding school playing cricket and fishing.
He was a very tolerant person who wanted to make others happy. But it was his adventurous nature that made the RAF his natural calling. No one in the family had been in the RAF before him. He simply loved the idea of flying.
His license was dated March 13, 1939, just before his eighteenth birthday. He had a talent for flying and learned quickly. By August 15, he had already shot down four aircraft. At 17:20, the pilots had been fighting the enemy for six hours, but it was not over.
Suddenly, a large raid appeared heading for the Royal Navy base at Portland on the Dorset coast. Peter Comley, nineteen, was called up with the Eighty-Seventh Squadron. He was about to find himself in the center of the action. The National Archives at Kew hold a combat report from Peter’s flight.
Richard and I came to find out exactly what happened that evening. “Let us look at the date, August 15. That was in the afternoon. Around 17:30, the squadron took off in an emergency.
A dogfight then took place that was described as the fiercest up to that time. The results of this attack on Portland were as follows. Pilot Officer Comley destroyed an ME 110. That is your uncle.
Yes. That is the fifth aircraft he has destroyed in the war so far. ” Peter destroyed an enemy aircraft, lifting his squadron’s morale. But the combat report also revealed what happened next.
“Our losses were Squadron Leader Lovell Gregg and Pilot Officer Comley, who were killed. Pilot Officer Comley managed to shoot down an ME 110 into the sea, but unfortunately there was another aircraft behind him, which followed its victim into the water. ” He shot down one, then another, before they got him. “When I read that, I hoped he went quickly.
He did not end up freezing to death in the Channel like some pilots. ” Shortly after August 15, Peter’s friend and commander, Flying Officer Ian Gled, wrote to Peter’s father. “Dear Mr. Comley, thank you for your letter.
One of my pilots saw Peter’s aircraft hit the sea about ten miles from Portland. He did not use his parachute. After the battle, I and two other aircraft searched the area but found nothing. With deep sympathy and sorrow, I must tell you that in my opinion there is not much chance that Peter is still alive.
I cannot describe how much we all miss him. Yours sincerely, Flying Officer D. M. ” They were friends.
He was not exaggerating when he said how much he missed him. By 18:20, the raid over Portland was over. Many enemy aircraft were shot down, but the RAF had also suffered. They could not continue to take these losses.
It had been the most intense day of the Battle of Britain so far. William Hopkin might have been in the pub now, relaxing with his fellow pilots. He had achieved his first kill against the enemy, but the Fifty-Four Squadron had been badly damaged. Two pilots had been shot down.
The man responsible was the Luftwaffe ace Adolf Galland, who had returned to Calais waiting for another day of combat. Elsewhere in Uxbridge, Joan Fanshawe returned to the bunker for her night shift. In Scotland, Archie McKellar celebrated shooting down three Luftwaffe bombers in a single engagement. He had been lucky.
Others were not. In the bunker at Uxbridge, the commanders assessed the situation. The Luftwaffe had flown two thousand sorties, twice the number of the RAF, but they had lost seventy-eight aircraft. Their attack on northern England was especially costly, with eighty-eight aircrew lost or killed.
It would be the last time the Luftwaffe attempted large-scale daylight raids on the north. The RAF had performed better but had suffered losses too: forty-five aircraft destroyed, thirteen damaged, and seventeen pilots killed. But the day’s fighting proved that the squadrons of the Eleven Group, run from this bunker, could hold their own against larger numbers of enemy aircraft. Churchill had been watching the day’s events unfold from his base, twelve miles away at Bentley Priory.
When he left Fighter Command headquarters that evening, he described August 15, 1940, as one of the greatest days in history. For the Luftwaffe, which had failed in its attempt to destroy the RAF, August 15 became known as Black Thursday. The next day, Churchill remarked to a friend that never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few. Four days later, he repeated the phrase in Parliament in what would become his most famous speeches.
But was Winston Churchill too hasty? The battle was far from over. The RAF stood on the brink of defeat. The worst thing was watching the planes approach, not knowing their target until the last moment.
My God, three missing, and you realize others are crying too. Within days, the most ferocious day of fighting would come. The hurricane was literally heading for Winston’s screens.
