German battleships raced towards the Straits.
Wing-Cdr. Tom Gleave came swerving up to the hut in an Old Ford V.8. He said that there was still no confirmation from the Admiralty, who remained convinced that the battleships would not dare to attempt to force the Dover Straits in broad daylight. Was the Admiralty right? Or was Constable-Roberts?
Gleave and Esmonde sat beside the telephone waiting for it to ring again.' Neither spoke. They both knew that if Constable-Roberts weis right the Swordfish crews had little chance of survival.
There were seven pilots for only six Swordfish. In the briefing room, the two most junior pilots tossed for the right to fly on the 'Fuller' mission. Sub-Lt. Peter Bligh called 'Tails' and won. Sub-Lt. Bennett lost and was to remain on the ground. He owed his life to that tossed coin.
At 11:40 the phone rang. It was Constable-Roberts again. 'It's our friends all right,' he said. 'Beamish has identified them off Boulogne.'
Esmonde put down the telephone and turned to his aircrews. 'The balloon's gone up,' he said in a clipped, unemotional voice. 'Get ready!'
The RAF was alerted at the same time. The fighter aircrews were much quicker off the mark than the ground staff. They were anxious to get into the air, but they were delayed by staff muddles.
Flt.-Lt. Cowan Douglas-Stephenson—'Stevie' — was on duty in the concrete watch office at Biggin Hill — the most vital fighter station in Southern England. American-born 'Stevie,' who was married to Jeanne de Casalis, the 'Mrs. Feather' of the BBC wartime radio show, remembers the day well. He said 'Between 11:30 and 12:30 a.m. pilots of three squadrons of Spitfires arrived. Some of them were Czechs, Belgians and Poles. It was just like bedlam.
'No one knew anything except there was a 'flap on.' ' All they had was the call sign written in pencil on the back of the pilots' hands where it could easily be rubbed off. Everyone wanted to know what to do.
'I knew that the battle plan for Operation Fuller was in the locked safe. But the Intelligence Officer had gone away on twenty-four hours leave leaving the secret orders locked up. No one could find the key.'
The pilots milled around in the Watch Office until 11 Group got through to the Biggin Hill Controller, Bill Igoe, and gave him the order for the squadrons to take off for Manston and escort the Swordfish.
While this 'flap' was going on at Biggin Hill, Esmonde sat by the phone awaiting further orders. Occasionally he stood up to gaze across the frozen fields as though trying to imprint them upon his mind for ever. When the phone rang again, it was Number 11 Fighter Group saying, 'We intend putting in the Biggin Hill wing of three squadrons as top cover. The Homchurch wing of two squadrons will act as close escort to beat up the flak ships for you.' The voice continued, 'Both wings have been told to rendezvous over Manston. What time should they be there?
Esmonde glanced at his watch, 'Tell them to be here by twelve-twenty-five,' he said. 'Get the fighters to us on time — for the love of God!'
Then Constable-Roberts rang again. At Dover Castle both RAF and Navy felt that even with a heavy fighter escort, few Swordfish crews would return from this mission. No one wanted to give him a direct order to lead his men to their deaths. 'The Admiral wants to know how you feel about going in,' said Constable-Roberts. 'He wants it to be your decision.'
What could Esmonde, a regular officer, say? Although the Dover message was well meant it was worse than receiving a direct order. He made the only possible reply, 'The squadron will go in,' he said stiffly. 'Where is Jerry? What's his speed?'
'Hold on,' replied Constable-Roberts, 'they are about ten miles north-east of the Straits sailing at twenty-one knots. If you are satisfied with the fighter escort the Admiral says it is O.K. to go.' Then, a pilot himself, he added in a gruff voice, 'Best of luck, old boy.'
Esmonde and Gleave compared the reports of the ships' course and speed with their maps. The German ships were travelling so fast that Esmonde had had to make an immediate decision. With a top speed of only 90 m.p.h., his Sword-fish would lose the ships if they did not take off at once.
He turned to his aircrews and said briskly, 'We will attack in sub-flights in line astern, height fifty feet. Intention: to hit and slow down any of the big ships. We will have plenty of fighter cover so you won't have to worry too much about enemy fighters. Once over the escorting screens of destroyers and E-boats, attack independently. Pick your target to your most convenient dropping point. But make sure it is
The crews doubled off to their Swordfish parked near the Margate Road. Esmonde, a small figure in dark blue naval uniform, wearing an orange-coloured 'Mae West' and swinging a flying helmet by its strap, was about to run after them when the telephone rang again. It was No. 11 Group reporting that some of the fighter escort might be a few minutes late.
Esmonde replied, 'We are taking off at twelve-twenty-five. I'll orbit out to the coast for two minutes.'
Gleave, whose voice trembled as he wished him luck, said afterwards, 'Although his mouth twitched automatically into the semblance of a grin and his arm lifted in a vague salute, he barely recognized me. He knew what he was going into. But it was his duty. His face was tense and white. It was the face of a man already dead. It shocked me as nothing has ever done since.'
Neither Esmonde nor any of his officers said anything. But battle-veteran Ginger Johnson exclaimed as he climbed into his rear cockpit, 'What flaming hell chance have we got?' No one answered him.
Esmonde's observer, Lt. W. H. Williams, and his gunner, Leading Airman W J. Clinton, also climbed into their cockpits. Esmonde was just about to follow them into the plane when a runner arrived with another message from the control room, 'Dover says the enemy's speed now estimated at twenty-seven knots.'
This was vital information. If the battleships were sailing at a higher speed than the first estimate the Swordfish must take off without delay.
It was 12:25 p.m. when Esmonde waved his arm to tell the planes behind him to take off. As the six biplanes lumbered into the air, Gleave stood alone in the middle of the snow-covered field at rigid salute.
At 1,500 feet off the Kent coast the aircraft circled over the sea waiting for their fighter escorts. Behind Esmonde's plane was Brian Rose with Lee and Johnson. Behind him and slightly above was Charles Kingsmill with Sub-Lt. 'Mac' Samples as his observer and Leading Airman Donald Bunce his gunner.
Then came the second flight led by Lt. Thompson with Sub-Lt. Parkinson as observer and Leading Airman Topping at the guns. Behind them were Sub-Lt. Wood and Sub-Lt. Fuller-Wright and Leading Airman Wheeler. Sub- Lt. Peter Bligh and Sub-Lt. Bill Beynon with Leading Airman Smith were the last in the formation.
Eighteen young men in six slow, old aircraft, only capable of flying at ninety knots because of the weight of their torpedoes, were on their way to attack two battleships, a heavy cruiser, six large destroyers, thirty-four E- boats and a group of flak ships — apart from the massed might of the Luftwaffe.
At 12:29 p.m. — four minutes after the arranged rendezvous time — the Swordfish were still orbiting over the coast near Ramsgate. The weather was thickening up and there was not a fighter in the sky.
What had happened to the five Spitfire squadrons? Four of them did not arrive. Only ten fighters of 72 Squadron commanded by Squadron Leader Brian Kingcombe, a former Cranwell cadet, found the Swordfish.
As it was considered too cloudy for flying from Gravesend — a satellite airfield of Biggin Hill, where they were stationed—72 Squadron had been 'stood down' after breakfast. At 9 a.m., they were suddenly called by Igoe from thirty minutes 'availability' to two minutes 'readiness' which meant sitting in their cockpits. Three times the 'scramble' was called off and they went back to the operations hut — only to be sent back immediately. These contradictory orders made them realize there was a 'flap' on but no one gave them any information.
Then came the final order, 'Scramble! Get to Manston to excort six Swordfish and intervene in a battle between German E-boats and British MTBs.' When Kingcombe, sitting in his cockpit, received the message he thought it odd to be asked to interfere in 'a small naval scuffle.' He was told nothing about the German battleships. The traditional security screen was still functioning. He remained puzzled when he heard similar orders going out to four other squadrons. Why was he being told to go as fast as possible to Manston to escort six Swordfish which were orbiting the airfield? It must be a big show.
Kingcombe and his pilots, by their own account, went 'balls out right through the gate,' taking only ten minutes to reach Manston. When Esmonde saw Kingcombe's Spitfires come streaking out of the clouds towards him it was 12:32 p.m.
The Swordfish and Spitfires circled for two more minutes but no more fighters arrived. Esmonde knew it was now or never. He waved his hand and dived down to fifty feet to lead his Squadron out to sea. Kingcombe, who still
