Part 58.

December, 1940

A CHANNEL CONVOY

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT OF BALLOON COMMAND

Before the war the waters round our shores were full of merchant vessels, carrying what is known as coast-wise traffic. They called, I suppose, at almost every port around our shores, picking up a cargo here, landing a cargo there. The particular coast traffic with which I am concerned is what is known as the Channel Convoy and we help in escorting merchant vessels through the Straits of Dover and down the Channel. Before the collapse of France this was a reasonably easy task, but nowadays you see, there is a certain difference of opinion between Mr. Winston Churchill and Adolf Hitler as to whom this stretch of water actually belongs to.

Now, as you know, the Navy are past-masters at escorting convoys; they know every trick of the trade and should Jerry's fertile imagination create some new situation which had not previously arisen, they would soon adapt themselves to deal with their novelty. One new situation that he has created however, is that of the dive-bomber and whereas this method of attack is in no way confined to this stretch of water, it is certainly much more likely to be met with than in most other parts. Now, a ship at sea, when all said and done, is really a very small target, providing the attacking planes are not allowed to dive too low, and it is here where we of the Balloon Barrage do our bit. Each convoy is accompanied by vessels of the Royal Navy, carrying balloons; these are placed at vantage points amongst the convoy, thus, in a sense, the escorted vessels are placed inside a box, with the Navy acting as the four walls of the box and the balloons acting as a lid. You may wonder how efficacious are these balloons in a dive-bombing attack. Actually I have never spoken to a German pilot so as to know what they think of them, but I have discussed the subject on many occasions with our own pilots and they have invariably told me that they hate them like hell, treat them with the greatest respect and avoid them like the plague. I must say that from my own personal experience, when Jerry has made an attack on us, he seems to concur with our own pilots' views, as invariably he sends Me. 109s over first to attempt to shoot down the balloons, thereby making way for the dive-bombers following very close behind them. We have our own method of competing with those 109s and I must say it seems extremely effective, as on many occasions the bombers have arrived only to find all the balloons still flying, with the result that dive-bombing has to be turned into precision bombing, which considerably reduces their accuracy. To give you some idea of what one of these trips is like I want you to imagine that you are with us on one of these convoys. It is about tea-time and we are heading south towards the Straits; the sun is setting over the English coast and we wallow along at a steady pre-arranged speed. The black-and-red colours of the merchant vessels are flanked by the sleek grey lines of the escort vessels. Overhead the silver of the balloons shines in the fading light. Every man is on the "qui vive", every gun is manned, and it would be idle to deny that we are all keyed up. Suddenly out of the setting sun three planes are spotted, guns are trained on them, but our fire is held—are they hostile or friendly? In a matter of seconds there is a roar, and it is seen that each plane is diving at a different balloon. All our guns open fire and the dusk is lit up with hundreds of tracer bullets. By this time the planes are turning again from the east and preparing for a second attack; once more they come and once more hell is let loose from every ship. It is clear that the barrage from the escort vessels is too much for Jerry and he makes off towards the French coast, having failed to destroy the balloons.

At this stage it is a safe bet that the dive-bombers are lurking not very far away, and sure enough, in a very few minutes there is a roar from a very great height as eight or sixteen or twenty-four planes swoop down on the convoy. But things have not gone according to their plans, for the balloons are still flying and they cannot come low to drop their bombs, and, in fact, their dive-bombing is turned into precision bombing. This sudden upset, coupled with the fact that the pilots must keep a weather eye on the balloons and the cables, upsets their accuracy and their bombs fall harmlessly into the sea. They very often fall extremely near to their object, but direct hits have been turned into near misses and no damage is done, and with a zoom the planes return to their bases, many of them, it is hoped, bearing scars to remind them of where they have been. For a moment the tension is relaxed and it is now nearly dark and we are approaching the Straits. Not a light is to be seen, not a cigarette glows, as we creep on steadily, running according to schedule. At this stage we are more or less convinced that the big guns on the coast ought to have been informed of our approach and as the steward said to me on a recent trip: "Will you have your tea served before the shelling or afterwards, sir?" The sun has completely gone and the moon is throwing far too much light on the sea for our liking. The white cliffs of England can be clearly seen and the searchlights light up the sky of the French coast. Suddenly, large flashes are seen on the coast and streams of flaming onions rise out of the sky. More flashes follow and we know that our Bomber Command are having their private party. Apparently no one is taking any notice of us—we hope. Suddenly there is a loud crash and a great column of water rises into the air some distance ahead on the port bow and we know that the minesweepers are doing their work. By now we are in the narrowest part of the Straits. Flashes of bombs from the French coast, the stream of anti-aircraft tracers and the number of searchlights increase, while on the English coast searchlights leap into action as we hear planes pass overhead. Sometimes it seems that the searchlights from the two coasts almost meet above, while we, silent and unobserved, creep down the archway they form. Being optimists, we still believe nobody knows we are there—but this must be numbered among famous last hopes, for from the French coast four wicked yellow flashes light up the sky, and we know that the guns on the French coast have started. The Commander on the bridge invariably turns round and says: "Starting counting chaps," and some seventy-five seconds later four enormous crumps are heard and four great columns of water shoot up into the air. And so it goes on until the whole convoy has steamed out of range of the guns, and we wait for any other surprises Jerry may have for us until dawn breaks when we eagerly count up the ships and satisfy ourselves that all the flock is safe. Then we continue our stately wallow to our appointed destination, whilst Jerry has another "go" by air or not, as the case may be, and I can tell you that it is a grand feeling when it is all over and one has the privilege of seeing the merchantmen, laden to their eyebrows, safely home and knowing that Mr. Winston Churchill is right and that it is his Channel.


Small barrage balloons, called kite balloons, being ferried to a convoy leaving port; the boats collect the balloons from any inward bound ships using them. RAF personnel, stationed at all the major ports, maintained and repaired the equipment. Kite balloons were introduced after the Battle of Britain to try to prevent some of the attacks on shipping suffered at that time: dive-bombing by Junkers 87 Stuka dive-bombers or low flying swoops on ship’s masts.


This Ju 87 from II./StG 77 made a forced landing at Ham Manor Golf Course, near Angmering. That evening the Home Guard men left the crash site, and by next morning souvenir hunters had stripped the aircraft bare.