him as much as any member of the squadron. He was efficient,
strict and calm; he had a sense of duty . . . and my heart warmed to him.”
The pilot, Duncan Grinnell-Milne, toward the
end of the book gives an ironic
prophecy when he tells an even younger fighter pilot Dowding’s name: “‘Never
heard of him,’ murmured Shutters. And somehow I found his answer full of
meaning: the Starched Shirt was a General now, in charge of training or
something, a successful senior officer, not a bad fellow at heart. . . . Yet
the younger generation of war pilots had never heard of him’; his name would
not be remembered when the far-off days of peace brought airmen together to
talk over old exploits, his name would never figure upon the honours roll of
any squadron.”
Ironic, indeed, or perhaps merely an
illustration of how vaguely we can read the future. Neither Grinnell-Milne nor
the anonymous Shutters is remembered now, but wherever fighter pilots gather
today a toast is raised to the memory of the Starched Shirt, old Stuffy
Dowding.
His fame, however, would come later. In 1916
he was still serving under Trenchard, who was now a major general and in
command of the entire RFC in France. During the battle of the Somme, Dowding’s
squadron was decimated, and after the battle was over, he requested rest leave
for the battered survivors. Trenchard immediately said no.
Dowding renewed his request, although he was by
now well aware of Trenchard’s contumely. The classic film Dawn Patrol and an updated Second World War version, Twelve O’clock High, were based
on what happened next. The story is that of a commanding officer ordered to
send his men to their deaths day after day, of his attempts to give them a
rest, and of the relentless orders from his superiors to keep on going, day
after day after day.
Dowding’s request was denied. Again Dowding
repeated himself, and then again and again. Continually he badgered Trenchard,
protesting against the practice of sending new replacements directly into
battle, and demanding that his squadron be pulled out of the line for a rest. The strain was growing too
much for his men, whose life expectancy was measured in weeks for the veterans
and quite literally in mere minutes for the fledglings, who were sent out from
England with insufficient training and only a few hours in the air. As they
desperately strove to stay in formation while simultaneously keeping their nose
on the horizon, the wings level, and the ball-and-needle balanced, they were
usually shot down in flames by the first wave of attackers, whom they never
even saw.
Dowding saw no sense in such madness. He did
not want to be one of those who, in Siegfried Sassoon’s words of 1918, “speed
glum heroes up the line to death.” Trenchard was not impressed by the poetry. “He
grew very angry,” Dowding said, “though our casualty rate was 100% a month.” As
one of Dowding’s junior officers later wrote, “It was out of his anxiety over
the severity of those losses that there developed in Dowding’s mind the intense
feelings that he came to have about casualties; and that, in part, was the
cause of the rift between him and Trenchard that came to perplex so many of us.”
Angry is not a
strong enough word for Trenchard’s reaction. He stormed about his headquarters
and, as soon as he could, got Dowding promoted out of his hair and sent home in
charge of a training command.
In France the slaughter went on. Dowding no
longer had to give the daily orders to send men to their deaths, but he was
removed from that horror only on the surface. As commander of the Southern
Training Brigade back in England, he was continually ordered by Trenchard to
send more pilots to replace those being lost over the trenches of France.
Dowding replied that it took time to train a pilot properly. Trenchard replied
that he would have to forget the word properly. “There’s a war going on
over here!” he bellowed. “I need more pilots!”
strict and calm; he had a sense of duty . . . and my heart warmed to him.”
The pilot, Duncan Grinnell-Milne, toward the
end of the book gives an ironic
prophecy when he tells an even younger fighter pilot Dowding’s name: “‘Never
heard of him,’ murmured Shutters. And somehow I found his answer full of
meaning: the Starched Shirt was a General now, in charge of training or
something, a successful senior officer, not a bad fellow at heart. . . . Yet
the younger generation of war pilots had never heard of him’; his name would
not be remembered when the far-off days of peace brought airmen together to
talk over old exploits, his name would never figure upon the honours roll of
any squadron.”
Ironic, indeed, or perhaps merely an
illustration of how vaguely we can read the future. Neither Grinnell-Milne nor
the anonymous Shutters is remembered now, but wherever fighter pilots gather
today a toast is raised to the memory of the Starched Shirt, old Stuffy
Dowding.
His fame, however, would come later. In 1916
he was still serving under Trenchard, who was now a major general and in
command of the entire RFC in France. During the battle of the Somme, Dowding’s
squadron was decimated, and after the battle was over, he requested rest leave
for the battered survivors. Trenchard immediately said no.
Dowding renewed his request, although he was by
now well aware of Trenchard’s contumely. The classic film Dawn Patrol and an updated Second World War version, Twelve O’clock High, were based
on what happened next. The story is that of a commanding officer ordered to
send his men to their deaths day after day, of his attempts to give them a
rest, and of the relentless orders from his superiors to keep on going, day
after day after day.
Dowding’s request was denied. Again Dowding
repeated himself, and then again and again. Continually he badgered Trenchard,
protesting against the practice of sending new replacements directly into
battle, and demanding that his squadron be pulled out of the line for a rest. The strain was growing too
much for his men, whose life expectancy was measured in weeks for the veterans
and quite literally in mere minutes for the fledglings, who were sent out from
England with insufficient training and only a few hours in the air. As they
desperately strove to stay in formation while simultaneously keeping their nose
on the horizon, the wings level, and the ball-and-needle balanced, they were
usually shot down in flames by the first wave of attackers, whom they never
even saw.
Dowding saw no sense in such madness. He did
not want to be one of those who, in Siegfried Sassoon’s words of 1918, “speed
glum heroes up the line to death.” Trenchard was not impressed by the poetry. “He
grew very angry,” Dowding said, “though our casualty rate was 100% a month.” As
one of Dowding’s junior officers later wrote, “It was out of his anxiety over
the severity of those losses that there developed in Dowding’s mind the intense
feelings that he came to have about casualties; and that, in part, was the
cause of the rift between him and Trenchard that came to perplex so many of us.”
Angry is not a
strong enough word for Trenchard’s reaction. He stormed about his headquarters
and, as soon as he could, got Dowding promoted out of his hair and sent home in
charge of a training command.
In France the slaughter went on. Dowding no
longer had to give the daily orders to send men to their deaths, but he was
removed from that horror only on the surface. As commander of the Southern
Training Brigade back in England, he was continually ordered by Trenchard to
send more pilots to replace those being lost over the trenches of France.
Dowding replied that it took time to train a pilot properly. Trenchard replied
that he would have to forget the word properly. “There’s a war going on
over here!” he bellowed. “I need more pilots!”
Similar Books
