“I have spoken to your uncle at length about your desire to be a pilot and he has advised me against it. Hundreds of pilots are chasing a handful of jobs. Some of the best and most experienced have applied to join his firm. So what makes you think you’ll be any better than they are and can walk straight into a job?”
Geoffrey Page had always wanted to be a fighter pilot. But those discouraging words from his father when Geoffrey was a very young man had been painful. He tried to explain that what he really wanted in life was a permanent commission in the Royal Air Force and an air force career. His father, though, was adament. “Your uncle [Frederick Handley Page, aviation pioneer and founder of Handley Page Limited] is prepared to find you a place in the Company if you qualify as an engineer. And that is precisely what I would do if I were in your shoes. Of course, if you insist on going to Cranwell, you’ll have to pay for it yourself, as I don’t intend to provide the money for such stupidity.”
So, Geoffrey had to bite the bullet and accede to his father’s wish for him. He reluctantly entered London University to study engineering. It was sometime later that he discovered the real reason for his father and uncle having discouraged his interest in flying. Their younger brother had been a pilot and was killed in a flying accident.
Geoffrey learned many things in London, not least that if he were able to pass the strict medical examination, he could enrol in the University Air Squadron and have the opportunity to learn to fly with free RAF training. He jumped at the chance and took every bit of what spare time he had to take flying lessons at London’s Northolt airfield. The intent of the University Air Squadron concept was to both encourage undergraduates to choose a Royal Air Force career, and to create a reserve of partially-trained officer pilots who could be quickly brought up to operational standards in the event of a war.
Quite soon it was clear that, while he was becoming a competent pilot, his academic progress was less impressive and in the summer of 1939 he received an ultamatum from his parents—either continue his engineering studies without the distraction of flying or leave university to make his own way in the world. Before he was required to make that decision, Hitler came to his rescue. The German invasion of Poland caused Geoffrey and a great many others to be called up for flight training at RAF Cranwell.
Like many people who make a life for themselves in flying, Officer Cadet Page was something of a romantic. He had long since read about and greatly admired the Royal Flying Corps pilot, Captain Albert Ball, of First World War fame. A hero and inspiration to Geoffrey, Ball had been known for hunting alone deep behind enemy lines. He had accounted for forty-seven enemy aircraft shot down and had been awarded the Victoria Cross for his achievements.
Geoffrey was greatly motivated to do well in his air force training. He performed with distinction at Cranwell and did especially well in his advanced flying training—so well that on graduation he was, against his wishes, assigned as a flight instructor. When he expressed his disappointment to the chief flying instructor he was told: “You must remember that to be sent to central flying school to be trained as an instructor for future instructors is about the highest compliment the Air Force can pay a pilot. We didn’t give you an exceptional assessment just to get you shot down! And another thing to remember, you’re not going to like this, but good pilots are often bad fighter pilots. A fighter pilot needs to be very ham-fisted on occasions and you’re just not made that way. Sorry!”
A German aerial reconnaissance targetting photo of central London made in 1939.
Wing Commander Alan Geoffrey Page, of 56 Squadron, endured more than forty plastic surgery operations after being badly burnt in the downing of his Hurricane in August 1940. He was a founding member of the Guinea Pig Club, the Second World War burn patients of the surgeon Sir Archibald McIndoe at the Queen Victoria Cottage Hospital, East Grinstead. Returning to operational flying, he finished the war with seventeen aerial victories.
But once again Mr Hitler came to the rescue. With the fall of France to the Germans in 1940, the Air Ministry posted Geoffrey to 66 Squadron, a Spitfire outfit based at Horsham St Faith, which is now the Norwich airport. At the squadron, when his new commander learned that Geoffrey had thus far flown nothing hotter than a Hawker Hart, he roared: “Christ! What will they be sending us next? For a start, we may as well establish that you’re a damned nuisance. I think it might be wiser if I sent you away for a conversion course.” But he eventually agreed to let Geoffrey have a go in a Spitfire.
“I had been sitting in the cockpit for half an hour memorizing the procedures for take-off, flight and landing. An airman climbed onto the wing behind me to help me with my parachute and harness. Word spread swiftly that an unusual first solo on type was taking place and soon ground and air crews were gathering to watch with morbid interest. As soon as I was properly strapped in, the squadron commander climbed onto the wing for a final word. ‘Don’t forget, taxi out quickly and turn her into the wind. Do a quick check and then get off. If you don’t, the glycol will boil and so will my blood. Good luck!’
“I responded with a nervous smile, closed the tiny door and turned to face the mass of dials, buttons and levers. For a moment panic seized me and the temptation to undo the straps and get out was very great. The enquiring voice of the airman standing by the starter battery reminded me of the engine starting procedure, and my nervous feeling passed with the need for concentrated action. Throttle about half an inch open. Gas on. Nine full strokes in the KI-gas hand priming pump for a cold engine. Propeller in fine pitch. Brakes on. Stick held back. Press the starter button. I raised my thumb, the waiting airman replied with a similar sign, and I pressed the starter button firmly. The propeller began to rotate.
“A trickle of sweat ran down my forehead. Suddenly the powerful engine coughed loudly, blew a short stream of purpley-white smoke into a small cloud and roared into life. Remembering that I had little time to spare before the temperature reached the danger mark of 110 degrees, I waved my hands across my face. The waiting airman quickly ducked under the wing and pulled away the restraining chocks. Glancing down, I was alarmed to see that the glycol temperature had risen from 0 to 70 degrees. Releasing the brake, I eased the throttle open and the surge of power carried the aircraft forward rapidly over the grass.
“Was everything ready for a quick take-off? I figured I’d better call up Flying Control and get permission to take off immediately. Pushing over the switch on the VHF box, I tried to transmit. ‘Idiot!’ I said to myself, switch the damned thing on. Another glance at the temperature showed 95 degrees and still a long way to go before turning into the wind. The radio came to life with a whine. The controller’s voice was soothing and for the first time since strapping into the narrow cockpit, I relaxed slightly.
“The temperature now read 105 degrees and there were still a few yards to go, plus the final check. Softly I prayed for help. Temperature 107 degrees. Now for the drill: R-A-F-T-P-R. The radiator—God alone knows how many times I’d vainly tried to open it beyond its normal point to try to keep the temperature down. Airscrew in fine pitch. Flaps—OK. Temperature—109 degrees. I abandoned the rest of the cockpit drill and, opening the throttle firmly, started the take-off run. Working the rudder hard with both feet to keep the sensitive little machine straight, I was too busy for other thoughts. Easing the stick forward, I was startled by the rapidity with which she responded to the elevator controls. The long nose in front of me obscured the rapidly approaching end of the airport, but by looking out at an angle, I was able to get an idea of how far away it was. If the glycol boiled now at this critical stage … looking back into the cockpit again, I saw the hated instrument leering at me—110 degrees.
top: He 111s en route to London; centre: Identification views of the Hawker Hurricane; above: Squadron Leader Caesar Hull of 43 Squadron, RAF, stationed at Tangmere in West Sussex during the Battle of Britain; below: Group Captain Peter Townsend, right, talking with his rigger and fitter in 1940.
“Accompanying the feeling of fear was a new sound. The wheels had stopped drumming and a whistling note filled the air. The Spitfire soared gracefully into the air, thankful, as I was, to be away from her earthly bonds.
“Inside the cockpit I worked desperately to get the undercarriage raised. The CO had explained to me that because the starboard aircraft leg hung down in front of the radiator when the wheels were lowered, this affects the cooling effect of the airstream.
“The Spitfire was now about twenty feet up, gaining speed rapidly and skimming over the trees and hedges. I selected ‘wheels up’ and gave the handle a first stroke. The engine cut out for an instant and the nose plunged earthwards. Being unused to the technique of keeping my left hand absolutely still while the right one moved forward, I had inadvertently pushed the control column forward simultaneously with the first pumping stroke, thus causing the machine to dip suddenly. The negative G placed on the carburettor had caused a temporary fuel stoppage. Some trees flashed by alongside the aircraft as a frightened pilot hauled back on the stick, and soon I was soaring skyward again, pumping frantically after removing my left hand from the control column. At this stage it was obvious that the Spitfire could handle herself better than I could. After this nightmare, the green light finally shone on the instrument panel, indicating that the wheels were in the locked up position, and the engine temperature gauge showed a healthy fall.
top: Group Captain Douglas Bader flew Hurricanes with 242 Squadron at Duxford near Cambridge in 1940; below: Sergeant John Burgess of 222 Squadron at RAF Hornchurch in the Battle of Britain; below centre: an RAF pilot in the cockpit of his Spitfire; above: A cannon-armed Spitfire taxiing from its station reventment; bottom: Group Captain Brian Kingcome, in Spitfire, was acting commanding officer of No 92 Squadron at Biggin Hill in the Battle of Britain.
A publicity photo used on recruiting posters for the RAF in 1940; below: Hawker Hurricane fighters being refuelled in 1940.
“Now I had some breathing space, so I was able to look about and concentrate on the other aspects of flying the aeroplane. Throttling back the engine and placing the propeller in coarse pitch, I allowed myself the luxury of relaxing slightly and looked down on the beauties of the Norfolk Broads. However, the pleasures of the English countryside didn’t last long. Glancing down and behind me, I was horrified to discover that the airport was nowhere in sight. The swiftness of the Spitfire had soon taken me out of sight of the landing ground, and although homing facilities were available over the R/T pride stopped me from calling the Flying Control tower for assistance. Ten minutes later, relief flooded through me when the unmistakable outlines of Norwich Cathedral appeared out of the summer haze, and from there the airport was easy to find. A minute later the graceful plane was banking round the circuit preparatory to landing.
“R-U-P-F—radiator, undercarriage, pitch, and flaps. This time the pumping down of the wheels came quite simply, and the other essential procedures prior to the final touchdown followed. The exhaust crackled delightfully as the engine was throttled back and the plane came in gliding fast over the boundary hedge. I eased the stick back and the long nose rose up and cut out the forward view of the landing run. Looking out to the left, I carefully judged the height as the Spitfire floated a foot or two above the grass. As soon as the machine had come to a halt I raised the flaps and undid the tight-fitting oxygen mask. The pool of sweat that had collected trickled down my neck. With a newly born confidence, I taxied the machine back towards the waving airman near the hangar. The feeling of achievement obliterated the memory of the fear I’d felt during most of the flight, and now I felt justified in taking a place among my fellow fighter pilots.”
above: German gunners over England; below: Severe bomb damage in London during the Blitz of 1940-41; bottom: The balloon barrage over London with Buckingham Palace in the foreground.
Roger Hall was flying as Yellow Two this day There was only a slight wind blowing from the coast to the south and the sky was cloudless and pale. The phone in dispersal jangled and Ops alerted the pilots to stand by for a scramble shortly. The call served to heighten the tension every one of them felt. Ops was watching a plot that showed a large force of aircraft building up near Cherbourg. Each of the pilots felt as if he were in the starting blocks for a race, waiting for the crack of the starter’s pistol. Then, after what seemed an interminable wait, the phone went again and they were off at a run.
They were scrambled towards Southampton and told to climb to angels three-zero. After take-off the two separate flights formed up as a squadron in a wide V formation and as they passed through 10,000 feet the CO ordered them back into Flight formation.
As they reached 20,000 feet, the CO called control for an update. Roger noticed several RAF fighters coming up in the north and east, possibly as many ten squadrons, nearly all Hurricanes, but there was also another Spitfire outfit among them. For once, it seemed to him, the odds would likely be close to even.
The increasing altitude brought the start of vapour trails from their engines. They soon arrived at angels three-zero and the CO so advised control. Now another set of vapour trails had come into view well above the height of the Spitfires. They were Me 109s, at least fifty of them and were almost certainly the advance party for a bomber stream. Looking down and ahead, Hall spotted the first of the enemy bomber formation at about 15,000 feet. Some 2,000 feet below his squadron, he saw some squadrons of Hurricanes ready to jump the German bombers, which appeared to number 100 or more. The bombers were stepped up in ranks front to rear and were packed rather closely together in a mix of Heinkel 111s and Dornier Do 17s.
The CO gave instructions for the pilots to adjust their positions. Roger was number two to Chumley, who admonished him now to keep weaving, which Roger was doing with exaggerated enthusiasm as the tail-end Charlie of A Flight. Between the intense glare of the sun and the dazzling high-white of the many vapour trails, he was challenged to keep track of the hostile aircraft in the area. As always, he was wary of the predictable tendency the German pilots had for attacking from out of the glaring sun and was constantly alert to the tactic and straining to see the first sign of it. His ears were being bombarded with the barks and squeaks and erratic chatter of transmissions to and from squadron aircraft and controllers, all of which indicating that air combats were underway somewhere near, but he kept reminding himself not to be distracted. His entire concentration must remain focused on the threatening 109s that he could sense were about to appear.
As usual in such circumstances, he was sweating despite the relative cold of altitude and the sweat poured off his brow and off his oxygen mask as he strained through a series of tight serpentine manoeuvres. He squinted at the sun and was sure he was seeing some of the 109s start their attacking dive. He shouted into the R / T “Look out Maida aircraft—109s coming down Now!”
Roger ceased weaving and closed in tight behind Chumley as Yellow Three now did the same behind him. The three Spitfires entered a tight turning circle which was immediately pierced by eight, possibly nine Messerschmitt fighters flashing down, guns blazing. With considerable relief, Roger realized he had not been hit and he wondered if any of his fellow pilots had. With the passing of the 109s, two sections of the Spitfires rolled over onto their backs, twisting vertically down into a spiral, and twisted into an attacking line astern. Someone yelled “Keep a look out behind, Roger!” and he was aware of the probability that some enemy fighters would be following them, having decoyed the Spitfire pilots with a little ruse meant to tease them into a nice, ripe straight line. Roger had doubts about the tactic his leader had elected, but now they were committed and had to make the best of the situation.
The German fighters and the following Spitfires were heading straight down at maximum indicated airspeed. Roger chanced brief occasional glances in his rear view mirror, not really all that concerned that anyone could haul him in and overtake him at this speed. Wrong. White streaks of gunfire immediate overhauled his Spitfire and he simultaneously hit the transmit button and yelled “109s behind us, A Flight”. He yanked the control column right to instantly pull away from the white streaks. The CO called “Split up into sections, A Flight, and shake ’em off!” as he pulled his own section into a screaming tight turn to port. Chumley was now leading Roger out of their dive and through an extremely tight, slightly climbing turn. In their dive, they had lost considerable height and now found themselves virtually level with the German bombers and in the midst of the main battle. The needle of Roger’s altimeter was on 17,000 feet. Roger checked his six o’clock position to be sure no one was behind them. When he informed Chumley, he was told to keep weaving. Now the main battle was slightly below and to the north of them. As he watched, Roger saw several aircraft that had been hit and were trailing thick black smoke. A number of parachutes were descending, and Chumley said “We’d better get into the bombers, Roger”, pointing them toward the fight ahead.
A WAAF barrage balloon detachment at work in Portsmouth, England, 1940.
“Christ, I’m on fire!” Chumley yelled. There was smoke sweeping past Roger’s plane and he saw the propeller blades of Chumley’s Spitfire begin to slow and knew that his leader was evidently throttling his engine back. Then the propeller stopped. Expecting Chumley’s plane to burst into flames at any second, Roger pulled back a bit, and he could think of nothing to say to his friend. He watched Chumley smoothly pull the crippled Spitfire around in a shallow turn to the right, slowing it down. He expected Chumley to bale out and hoped he would do so quickly. He thought that Chumley’s engine must be cooling some as the smoke had lessened a bit. “I’m going to make for Tangmere, Roger.” And with that, Chumley began descending in the general direction of the Sussex airfield to the east of Southampton Water Roger asked him if he was OK and Chumley said “Oil pipe’s gone for a Burton.” Roger said he would stick around until Chumley got down and Chumley replied “OK. I’ll be all right, I think.”
As they passed through 5,000 feet and approached the field at Tangmere, the smoke from Chumley’s engine had nearly stopped and he was setting up for a landing. Roger remained at 5,000, watching as Chumley managed to bring the Spitfire in for a safe, wheels-down landing and get out of the plane as soon as it came to a stop. Smoke was again pouring from the fighter and crash tenders and fire engines were already at the scene spraying it with foam.
Hurricane pilots are scrambled during the Battle of Britain.