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Little known fact, the battle of Brittain was won with the hurricane, not the spitfire. The war department was getting concerned about Germany and bought up a bunch of hurricanes early on.
The German pilots felt that the hurricane wasn't as good of a plane as the spitfire, so they all claimed they were shot down by a spitfire.
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Thanks for the video - very much looking forward to seeing it!
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The BoB was fought with confusion on both sides, that showed up most of all in the last days of the extended battle for the control of the air over the UK.
The Luftwaffe thought that a RAF fighter squadron was like its own, with 9 aircraft. It wasn't. An RAF fighter squadron comprised at least 12 and sometimes up to 16 aircraft.
The RAF thought that the Luftwaffe squadron was the same size as the British one.
Both were wrong.
The Luftwaffe never really recovered from the losses of vastly experienced pilots and aircrew, many of whom had learned their skills in the Spanish Civil War, where they were almost totally unopposed. Over Southern England they were meeting pilots who rapidly became as good as they were, but who had the enormous advantage of flying over their own country, as the casualty figures show all too well. A shot-down German pilot stayed in UK or was sent to Canada, or, if he died, he was buried here. Cannock Chase German Military cemetery has over 3500 German war graves, mostly from WW2.
Back in 1998, I got asked to write a few short poems for the Battle of Britain dinner night at our Officers' Mess. It is an 11th centruy priory, and is the oldest Officer's Mess in the world.
Here they are...
Written for the Celebration of Battle of Britain Day – Chicksands Priory Officers' Mess – September 1998
Shot down over Kent – August 1940
I did not feel the blow that cut me down,
That made of me once more a child of earth.
I had not seen the face of he who made me die
[I would have done the same to him, had I the chance].
Just the sudden silence as my craft and I became, once more,
Two separate things in space,
High, over the dear land that gave me birth.
Not for me the meteor's flight,
The star-bright bonding with the earth below.
Not for me the fragmentary fame, that ends in pieces,
Smoking in sad silence on a sunlit shore.
No, just the downward rush, as flailing slowly at the unsupportive air,
The clouds part, softly, and let me fall, fall, fall –
To lie, at last, in my self-made grave,
Near the spot where I was born.
Tac Foley 1998
Dear Mrs Brown
Dear Mrs Brown, your son is dead,
I didn't know him well.
I only saw him once or twice,
Before he fell.
At breakfast, just like all the lads,
He scoffed his jam-smeared bread.
"Just like mum's!" he joked to me,
And now he's dead.
I didn't see him hit at first –
Just a hint of fire.
Then suddenly, without a sound,
The flame became a pyre.
There was nothing we could do,
Two others went the same way too.
A silent crash, that noiseless flash.
Young Brown, went down.
So, Mrs Brown, this dreadful letter,
I really wish I'd known him better
But half a day's no time at all,
A good lad, so sad.
I'll miss him, just like all the others.
I'm going to write to all their mothers,
Until one day, just wait and see,
Some friend will do the same for me.
Tac Foley 1998
Battle of Britain – 1940
Twelve took off, young and bold.
An hour sped.
Six landed, tired and old.
The rest are dead.
Who knows their end?
Their lives expended.
What pain was theirs?
Least said, and soonest mended.
They died. We live in debt.
We owe the price they paid.
That we walk in peace today
Was dearly bought, and dearly paid.
Tac Foley 1998
The Luftwaffe thought that a RAF fighter squadron was like its own, with 9 aircraft. It wasn't. An RAF fighter squadron comprised at least 12 and sometimes up to 16 aircraft.
The RAF thought that the Luftwaffe squadron was the same size as the British one.
Both were wrong.
The Luftwaffe never really recovered from the losses of vastly experienced pilots and aircrew, many of whom had learned their skills in the Spanish Civil War, where they were almost totally unopposed. Over Southern England they were meeting pilots who rapidly became as good as they were, but who had the enormous advantage of flying over their own country, as the casualty figures show all too well. A shot-down German pilot stayed in UK or was sent to Canada, or, if he died, he was buried here. Cannock Chase German Military cemetery has over 3500 German war graves, mostly from WW2.
Back in 1998, I got asked to write a few short poems for the Battle of Britain dinner night at our Officers' Mess. It is an 11th centruy priory, and is the oldest Officer's Mess in the world.
Here they are...
Written for the Celebration of Battle of Britain Day – Chicksands Priory Officers' Mess – September 1998
Shot down over Kent – August 1940
I did not feel the blow that cut me down,
That made of me once more a child of earth.
I had not seen the face of he who made me die
[I would have done the same to him, had I the chance].
Just the sudden silence as my craft and I became, once more,
Two separate things in space,
High, over the dear land that gave me birth.
Not for me the meteor's flight,
The star-bright bonding with the earth below.
Not for me the fragmentary fame, that ends in pieces,
Smoking in sad silence on a sunlit shore.
No, just the downward rush, as flailing slowly at the unsupportive air,
The clouds part, softly, and let me fall, fall, fall –
To lie, at last, in my self-made grave,
Near the spot where I was born.
Tac Foley 1998
Dear Mrs Brown
Dear Mrs Brown, your son is dead,
I didn't know him well.
I only saw him once or twice,
Before he fell.
At breakfast, just like all the lads,
He scoffed his jam-smeared bread.
"Just like mum's!" he joked to me,
And now he's dead.
I didn't see him hit at first –
Just a hint of fire.
Then suddenly, without a sound,
The flame became a pyre.
There was nothing we could do,
Two others went the same way too.
A silent crash, that noiseless flash.
Young Brown, went down.
So, Mrs Brown, this dreadful letter,
I really wish I'd known him better
But half a day's no time at all,
A good lad, so sad.
I'll miss him, just like all the others.
I'm going to write to all their mothers,
Until one day, just wait and see,
Some friend will do the same for me.
Tac Foley 1998
Battle of Britain – 1940
Twelve took off, young and bold.
An hour sped.
Six landed, tired and old.
The rest are dead.
Who knows their end?
Their lives expended.
What pain was theirs?
Least said, and soonest mended.
They died. We live in debt.
We owe the price they paid.
That we walk in peace today
Was dearly bought, and dearly paid.
Tac Foley 1998
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Talking about poems and stuff. A few years back I wrote short story for a magazine here in UK and back over in Canada. It's about a little girl, of sorts, and is a goodnight read for somebody who is, maybe ten or eleven years old. I wrote it in French and translated it into English, but I promise you that it's readable, even by a ten or eleven-year-old . Anybody who thinks they might like it for their kids is welcome to it - just PM me.
TBH, I've written a ton of stuff like this, much of it in English.
TBH, I've written a ton of stuff like this, much of it in English.
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