The One That Got Away

Kendal Burt, James Leasor

• Publisher: Pen & Sword Military Classics
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781844154371
• eBook ISBN: 9781473816930
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

In World War II James Leasor was commissioned into the Royal Berkshire Regiment and posted to the 1st Lincolns in Burma and India, where he served for three and a half years. His experiences inspired him to write such books as Boarding Party (filmed as The Sea Wolves). He later became a feature writer and foreign correspondent at the Daily Express. Here he wrote The One that Got Away. As well as non-fiction, Leasor has written novels, including Passport to Oblivion, filmed as Where the Spies Are with David Niven

CHAPTER I

A German Fighter Ace is Captured

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The German High Command reckoned that the Luftwaffe would be able to wipe out R.A.F. Fighter Command in the South of England in four days. The task of destroying the R.A.F. entirely, which was regarded as an essential preliminary to the invasion of Britain, was to be fulfilled in four weeks.

On 13 August 1940, known as Adler Tag (Eagle Day), the Luftwaffe launched an all-out offensive against the R.A.F. and the British aircraft industry in Southern England.

Nearly a month later the Luftwaffe was still struggling to accomplish the first part of its task, which had been scheduled for completion in four days.

The great blitz on London’s dockland marked the opening of a new phase in the Battle of Britain: instead of continuing to concentrate on destroying the Royal Air Force, the Luftwaffe switched to mass attacks on London.

But on Thursday, 5 September 1940, two days before the opening of the new phase, inland fighter aerodromes were still being hammered in the last, desperate efforts to smash British air defences.

September 5th was another of the hot, calm and almost cloudless days that provided a backcloth to the drama being staged over the fields of Southern England. At one moment the glorious weather made the life-and-death struggle seem utterly unreal; at the next its very incongruity heightened the dramatic effect. It was impossible to watch the handfuls of Hurricanes and Spitfires climb into the sky to meet the massed formations of enemy aircraft, without feeling a catch at the heart.

It was days like this that gave birth to the expression “real Battle of Britain weather”. The countryside shimmered under an almost liquid haze. Seen from a distance, fields of bleached corn stubble looked like pools of quicksilver.

On the farms of Kent, over which the main engagements of the Battle of Britain were being fought, hop-picking was now well under way, and a start had been made on gathering the main crops of hard fruit.

Despite the battles raging overhead from time to time, families from London’s East End worked with their usual cheerfulness and dexterity at stripping the hop vines. Thousands of spent bullets and cannon shell cases were scattered over the fields, giving rise to stories that hop-pickers were being machine-gunned. The children of the East End families collected these cases to take home as souvenirs. Two days later, while they worked and jested in the fields, the homes of hundreds of them were destroyed in the blitz on dockland.

On the morning of September 5th, the Luftwaffe launched an attack on Biggin Hill aerodrome. This was preceded by a feint against Croydon. Its object was to entice British fighters away from Biggin Hill and to give Fighter Command the impression that the whole weight of the German attack was to fall on Croydon aerodrome.

The ruse failed. The R.A.F. stayed its hand until German intentions became clear. Then No. 79 Squadron set upon the main force of bombers as it was going in to attack Biggin Hill, and on this occasion most of the bombs fell wide of the aerodrome.

The formation of bombers that had raided Croydon was on its way home across Kent. Six thousand feet above them weaved their escort, thirty Messerschmitt 109’s of No. 2 Gruppe, Third Fighter Geschwader.

Flying at the head of the Second Gruppe was its Kommandeur, Hauptmann Erich von Selle. Immediately behind him, to the left and right, flew his two staff officers, Leutnant Heinrich Sanneman, Technical Officer, and Oberleutnant Franz von Werra, Adjutant.

Five minutes after leaving Croydon, the “Tail End Charlie” called urgently over the R/T.

“Achtung! Achtung! Four to six Tommies above and behind, coming in to attack!”

The voice of the Commander broke in:

“Stella Leader to everybody. Keep formation! Wait!”

“Stella” was the radio code call-sign of the Gruppe for this operation.

As von Selle spoke, three Spitfires, diving almost vertically, flashed ahead of the formation, crashing through the top fighter screen to attack the bombers below.

He spoke again.

“Stella Leader to Fifth and Sixth Staffeln. Stay put and watch out! Fourth—attack! Tally-ho.”

As the Commander dived to port, the others following, a stream of bullets hit the Adjutant’s machine. Three other Spitfires, covering their comrades diving to attack the bombers, had pounced out of the sun.

Three against thirty.

The bullets were probably intended for the Commander in the leading Messerschmitt, but by chance he put its nose down just in time, and von Werra, turning and following, received the burst. His aircraft shuddered. He rolled to starboard away from his comrades and dived steeply. Then he levelled off, glancing behind. The Spitfire was on his tail. He went into a tight defensive turn, hoping to out-turn the British fighter and get it into his gunsight

His earphones had gone dead. He flicked the transmitting switch. There was no responding click and crackle in his phones. The radio was out of action.

As though gradually, although all this happened in a few seconds, he became aware that the note of his engine had changed. It was no longer “sweet”, but off-key. He glanced at the instrument panel, then, eyeing the Spitfire, gingerly opened the throttle a little. The engine responded sluggishly. It was overheating and beginning to labour.

A moment later it spluttered, picked up, spluttered again. Von Werra lost height rapidly. He was completely cut off from his formation. He spiralled down in defensive turns. The Spitfire “sat” on his tail, now and again firing a short burst.

Shortly after ten o’clock, Mr. Donald A. Fairman, a school-master, was standing near the back door of his cottage at Curtisden Green, in the heart of the orchard and hop country south of Maidstone, smoking a cigarette and contemplating his chrysanthemums. He was far from satisfied with their progress and was giving the matter serious thought.

The real trouble was that one could no longer get the proper plant-foods, nor spend much time in the garden, owing to the war.

“Blast the Germans!”

This thought recalled to him the noise of distant air bathes—a noise to which he had grown accustomed in the past few weeks. He looked up.

Behind the trees to the north, heavy anti-aircraft batteries along the Thames were putting up a terrific barrage. With all the noise in the sky it was frustrating not to be able to make out what was happening. Then his eye caught the silver flash of sunlight on weaving fighters. As he watched, his eyes focused unexpectedly on the ghostly outline of a bomber; the haze and the pale blue background made it appear transparent. Then he saw another bomber close to the first, and then another. Three … six … nine … twelve …

Suddenly, above the pulsating drone of the engines came the rising howl of diving fighters, followed by bursts of cannon and machine-gun fire. Confused dog-fights developed all over Mr. Fairman’s personal patch of sky. As the formation passed overhead he saw two fast machines spiralling down, the leading one clearly in trouble. Its engine spluttered and banged, now and again leaving a puff of black smoke behind. When the following aircraft fired a short burst, the other waggled its wings violently. They came lower and lower and then passed out of view behind the trees. A plane suddenly skimmed over the trees round the garden, the engine making a series of bangs. In the split second it was overhead, Mr. Fairman clearly saw a black and white cross on the fuselage and a swastika on the fin. As it disappeared he heard a long burst of machine-gun fire, which he identified as coming from a searchlight battery just down the road on Mannington’s Farm. A moment later there was a loud bump, followed by a tearing sound, and Mr. Fairman knew that the plane had crashed only a few hundred yards away, probably on one of the big fields on the east side of Winchet Hill. He hurried into the house and changed into his Home Guard uniform.

His car was parked outside the cottage, but petrol was rationed and scarce. He had a nice sense of values. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and set off on a bicycle. However, by the time he arrived at the scene of the crash, the pilot, Oberleutnant Franz von Werra, who was uninjured, had already been taken prisoner by members of the searchlight battery.

The stories von Werra told later of how he was shot down varied widely, and all of them differed from the foregoing account based on official records and the testimony of eye-witnesses. Sometimes he is quoted as claiming to have shot down three British planes that morning (The Times, 27. 1. 41.) before “colliding with another Messerschmitt and being forced down” (New York Herald Tribune, 25. 1. 41.). To the New York correspondent of the Daily Express he claimed to have destroyed only the fighter that attacked him. But he was consistent on some points: he always maintained that his Messerschmitt caught fire when it crashed, and was burned out, he himself being miraculously thrown clear of the wreckage and knocked unconscious.

He also told various tales about the manner of his arrest after crashing, without, apparently, ever remembering the right one. He usually said that members of the Home Guard with old-fashioned shotguns advanced upon him in the field from several directions. Some would creep forward cautiously while others knelt down and drew a bead on him. Then those kneeling down would get up and advance a few paces while the others covered him. Finally, he said, they all rushed at him. The German aviation magazine Der Adler, in an article dealing with von Werra’s exploits illustrated by an “artist’s impressions”, shows him being led away from the burning Messerschmitt by two sour-looking Tommies in full battle order, including steel helmets and fixed bayonets.

The truth of the matter was that von Werra was captured by the hatless, collarless, shirt-sleeved and unarmed cook of the searchlight battery, who dashed out of the cookhouse as soon as the plane crashed and was first on the scene.

As the illustration of the crashed plane shows, it was untouched by fire.

The actual crash was witnessed by several men loading boxes of fruit on to a lorry in the yard of Love’s Farm. They had been startled out of their workaday unconcern by a long burst of Lewis-gun fire from the nearby searchlight battery. Then a plane just cleared the trees on Winchet Hill and swooped over the farm buildings in a right-hand turn. It disappeared momentarily behind the orchard a little higher up on the other side of the road, and came into view again just as it was about to land, its wheels retracted, in a field a quarter of a mile away. It bounced off the ground a few feet, then ploughed up the stubble for thirty yards or so before coming to rest in a cloud of dust.

For a few tense seconds nothing happened. Then the hinged hood of the cockpit opened and the head and shoulders of the pilot appeared. He pulled off his leather helmet and looked around him slowly, then hoisted himself out of the cockpit and jumped off a wing on to the ground.

He stood looking at the aircraft. Meanwhile soldiers from the searchlight battery were hurrying across the long fields in ones and twos.

As soon as he noticed the soldiers entering the field, the pilot seemed to pull himself together, and looked quickly in every direction, as though he were about to run away. If that was his idea, he thought the better of it. Instead, he took some papers from the breast pockets of his uniform jacket, replaced something or other, then squatted down. The men by the lorry saw a flicker of flame and a wisp of smoke on the ground in front of him. The leading soldier evidently thought the German was trying to set fire to the aircraft, for he shouted and started running. The pilot glanced up and unfolded the papers to make them burn more quickly. They were effectively destroyed.

The first to reach him was the unarmed cook. Hard on his heels came several of his fellow gunners, carrying rifles. Von Werra was thoroughly searched. Everything found in his pockets, together with his identity disc and wrist watch, was placed in his helmet and carried by one of the soldiers. Two men were detailed to guard the aircraft, and the remainder of the party set off across the field in the direction of the searchlight battery. The prisoner walked a few paces ahead, covered by the soldiers’ rifles. He walked slowly, with studied nonchalance, one hand in his trouser pocket. No attempt was made to hurry him.

They passed from the field on to a path through an orchard. At the first low bough he came to the prisoner shot up one hand and grabbed an apple. He took a great bite out of it without a backward glance. The soldiers looked at one another but said nothing. Von Werra was about to reach up at the next low bough, but this time the muzzle of a rifle was jabbed in the small of his back.

“Keep moving!”

He moved slowly, munching thoughtfully.

High above, he could hear the Heinkels, Dorniers and Junkers flying home with their Me. escorts. In little more than half an hour the pilots would be pulling off their helmets, lighting cigarettes, and strolling towards the huts and tents on the advanced airfields in the Pas de Calais.

While he, Franz von Werra, was being led along a cinder track towards the huts of a British searchlight battery. It was absurd.

The searchlight men were very pleased with themselves for they thought that it was their Lewis gun that had shot down the Messerschmitt. They were even more gratified when they saw the thirteen notches painted below the swastika on the fin of the plane, for they obviously represented victories claimed by the pilot.

There were free rounds in the Woolsack Inn at the top of Winchet Hill that night, and the next issues of local papers gave the searchlight men cre...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright
• ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
• CONTENTS
• 1. A German Fighter Ace is Captured
• 2. Interrogation in the London "Cage"
• 3. The Significance of Simba
• 4. "The Greatest Fighter Exploit of the War"
• 5. Walls Have Ears
• 6. Escape in the Lake District
• 7. Mystery on Hesk Fell
• 8. The Tunnel
• 9. Von Werra Gets Out Again
• 10. The C.I.D. Interviews Captain van Lott
• 11. The Duty Officer Turns on the Heat
• 12. Flight Cancelled
• 13. Mr. Spittle and Mr. Winks
• 14. Prisoners in Transit
• 15. Third Time Lucky
• 16. Patrolman Delduchetto Arrests a Tramp
• 17. A Border line Case
• 18. The Last Escape
• 19. Return of a Hero
• Appendix I
• Appendix II