Tedder: Quietly in Command (Studies in Airpower, 9)

ii TEDDER Frontispiece: Tedder sent this pencil sketch, made in Jerusalem in March 1942, to his wife Rosalinde in En...

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ii

TEDDER

Frontispiece: Tedder sent this pencil sketch, made in Jerusalem in March 1942, to his wife Rosalinde in England. ‘It’s rather your more tired and serious face’, she thought: ‘not your scintillating self – though I’m not sure that it isn’t the best portrait you have had.’ Portrait in pencil by Sir Arthur Robitschek, Jerusalem 1942. [Family]

TEDDER Quietly in Command

VINCENT ORANGE University of Canterbury Christchurch, New Zealand

Foreword by

WILLIAMSON MURRAY

FRANK CASS LONDON • PORTLAND, OR

First published in 2004 in Great Britain by FRANK CASS PUBLISHERS Chase House, 47 Chase Side, Southgate London N14 5BP This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004. and in the United States of America by FRANK CASS PUBLISHERS c/o ISBS, 5824 N.E. Hassalo Street Portland, Oregon, 97213-3644 Website: www.frankcass.com Copyright © 2004 V. Orange British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Orange, Vincent, 1935– Tedder: quietly in command 1. Tedder, Arthur 2. Great Britain. Royal Air Force – Biography 3. Marshals – Great Britain – Biography 4. World War, 1939–1945 – Biography I. Title 358.4'1331'092 ISBN 0-203-50110-1 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-58122-9 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0-7146-4817-5 (cloth) ISBN 0-7146-4367-X (paper) ISSN 1368-5597 (Print Edition) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Orange, Vincent, 1935– Tedder: quietly in command/Vincent Orange; foreword by Williamson Murray. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-7146-4817-5 (cloth) – ISBN 0-7146-4367-X (paper) 1. Tedder, Arthur William Tedder, baron, b. 1890 2. Marshals–Great Britain–Biography. 3. Great Britain. Royal Air Force–Ofﬁcers–Biography. I. Title. UG626.2.T44O73 2003 355'0092–dc21 [B] 2003043889 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher of this book.

Contents List of Illustrations Foreword by Williamson Murray Series Editor’s Preface Acknowledgements

viii xi xiii xvii

PART I: 1890 TO 1914: RISING

1 A Boy of Philosophical Calm, Artistic and Fanciful: From Glenguin to Croydon, July 1890 to July 1909 2 An Amiable Chap, with Many Interests but Few Achievements: Cambridge, October 1909 to June 1912 3 A Sudden Sense of Absolute Intimacy, Harmony and Understanding: From England to Fiji via Germany, June 1912 to December 1914

3 7 13

PART II: 1915 TO 1919: FLYING

4 Learning the Grammar of Command: From Wyke Regis to Calais, January 1915 to January 1916 5 We Are a Pretty Cosmopolitan Lot: From Reading to Auchel, January to December 1916 6 Unimpressive, a Wet Blanket, Not Much of a Leader?: From the Western Front to Shawbury, January 1917 to May 1918 7 A Paper War on the Edge of a Gentleman’s War, in a Vile Place: Egypt and Palestine, May 1918 to March 1919

25 31 42 49

PART III: 1919 TO 1940: CLIMBING

8 Shaping a Squadron in Peacetime at Home, on the Brink of War Abroad: From Bircham Newton to Constantinople, March 1919 to August 1923

59

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Tedder

9 Good Stuff Separated from Scallywags for the Air Force: From 70 Greenwich to Andover, September 1923 to December 1931 10 Fathering Air Armament and Organising an Expansion of 81 Flying Training: From Eastchurch to Egypt, January 1932 to October 1936 11 The Finest Strategical Position in the World under the 90 Command of Our Next CAS but Two: Singapore, October 1936 to July 1938 12 Spotting Winners and Advancing Aircraft Production:From 103 London to Harrogate and Back, July 1938 to November 1940 PART IV: 1940 TO 1943: COMMANDING IN CAIRO

13 A Man of Nuts and Bolts, of Pen and Ink, with Strong Hands, Velvet Gloved: Cairo and the Western Desert, December 1940 to June 1941 14 Ending the Bad Old Days before There Was Mutual Understanding and Faith between the Services: Cairo and the Western Desert, June to September 1941 15 Condemned by Churchill, Saved by Freeman and Auchinleck: Cairo and the Western Desert, October 1941 to January 1942 16 Winnie and Joe See Arthur as a Fighter: Cairo and the Western Desert, February to October 1942 17 Seeking an Exciting New Command, Avoiding a Dismal Desk in Whitehall, Suffering a Grievous Loss: From Cairo to Algiers, October 1942 to January 1943

121

137

154

171 187

PART V: 1943 TO 1944: COMMANDING IN ALGIERS

18 Torch Bearers and Desert Heroes Jointly Countering the Shibboleth of Pershing: Algeria and Tunisia, January to May 1943 19 Honouring a Man of Cold Courage, Jollying a Suspicious Dutchman: From Algeria to Sicily, April to September 1943 20 An Alarming Avalanche, Another Dardanelles, a New Job: From Algeria to Italy, August 1943 to January 1944

205

220 234

PART VI: 1943 TO 1945: COMMANDING UNDER EISENHOWER

21 A Lousy Organisation, Smearing the RAF’s Good Name: Bushy Park and Castle Coombe, December 1943 to May 1944

249

Contents

vii

22 A Great and Noble Undertaking Challenged by a Toy that 262 Would Profoundly Affect both War and Peace: From London to Paris, May to August 1944 23 Aunt Sallies, Red Herrings, and a Patchwork Quilt: From 274 London to Brussels, August to December 1944 24 Painting on a Bicycle and Winning Another Contest with 287 Churchill: From London to Germany via Moscow, December 1944 to April 1945 PART VII: 1945 TO 1949: COMMANDING THE ROYAL AIR FORCE

25 Chief Aunt Sally in the Whirligig of Whitehall: London and Elsewhere, May 1945 to December 1946 26 Avoiding Complete Subservience to Our Essential Ally in Countering the Risk of Atomic War: London and Elsewhere, January 1947 to June 1948 27 Working in a Strange and Secretive Society, Leaving the Whirligig: London and Elsewhere, June 1948 to December 1949

303 317

331

PART VIII: 1950 TO 1967: GIVING AND NOT COUNTING THE COST

28 Providing a Few Drops of Oil and Setting the College Flag Flying: From London to Cambridge via Washington, January 1950 to June 1954 29 A Strange Genius: From London to Pollochar and the End, June 1954 to June 1967

349

Notes Bibliography Index

378 410 429

363

List of Illustrations Frontispiece: Portrait in pencil of Tedder by Sir Arthur Robitschek, Jerusalem 1942. [Family] Between pages 236 and 237 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

Tedder’s parents, and Margaret, August 1925. Tedder in uniform, not yet in the RFC, early in his career. Married in England 1915. FE 2b, ﬂown by Tedder’s 25 Squadron on the Western Front from November 1916. Dick, Mina and John at Eastchurch, 1932. Tedder with the King, 22 July 1940. Wilfrid Freeman. Studio portrait of Ros, c.1940. Sir Charles Portal, Chief of the Air Staff, 1940–45. Coningham and Tedder, November 1941. Tedder seated on sand, surrounded by airmen, 1942. Tedder of North Africa, 9 November 1942 issue of Time. Tedder lighting pipe, surrounded by airmen, Malcolm Club, May 1943. Toppy in Air House, Algiers, September 1943. Tedder and ‘Daisy’, 1943. Tedder on Life cover, 31 January 1944. ‘The Magniﬁcent Seven’: Tedder, Eisenhower, Montgomery, Bradley, Ramsay, Leigh-Mallory, Bedell Smith. Three oil reﬁneries in Hamburg burning after US air raids in June 1944. Caen burning on D-Day after a heavy bombardment. The Port du Graviere railway bridge, destroyed by Allied bombing, June 1944.

List of Illustrations

21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

ix

V-2 site at Siracourt, July 1944. Tedder in Moscow, January 1945. Walking to Zhukov’s HQ, Berlin, 8 May 1945. Tedder and Spaatz in Zhukov’s ofﬁce. Ike and Tedder in carriage, en route to Guildhall, 12 June 1945. CAS is ‘in Conference’: Tedder with Richard. Tedder and Arnold. Meeting of Trustees of foundation of Churchill College, Cambridge, 1958. 29. Toppy, ‘farewell photo’. 30. Tedder cutting cake in Nicosia, Cyprus, April 1966, at celebrations of 50th anniversary of foundation of 70 Squadron. 31. Tedder’s sketches: (a) proﬁle of Smuts; (b) head of Churchill.

Foreword One of the most surprising aspects of the massive literature on the Second World War is the fact that until now there has been no scholarly, readable and intelligent biography of one of the most important British military ﬁgures in the war, Arthur Tedder. In this outstanding biography, Vincent Orange has ﬁlled that need in every respect. Through diligent research, a deep understanding of the history of the war, and a sense of the importance of air power, he has provided the huge reading public interested in that greatest of all conﬂicts with a deﬁnitive biography of a great airman and a great joint commander, who exercised an important part in the winning of the war. Arthur Tedder did not have a particularly outstanding career in the First World War. He was certainly not a great ace, but he learned and grew and absorbed the emerging lessons of that terrible conﬂict. By combining wonderful leadership skills with a thorough understanding of the importance of skillful management, Tedder became one of a truly modern military ﬁgure in the second great war. Far more quickly than the other commanders in the Middle East, Tedder mastered the supply and maintenance aspects of modern war. He also developed capabilities and attitudes in the Royal Air Force that made that service’s efforts in the Mediterranean truly joint, but at the same time fully capable of utilizing air power’s range and combat power to the maximum extent possible, given the resources available. Unfortunately, not until the arrival of Montgomery in the theater was Britain’s Desert Army capable of taking full advantage of what the RAF could contribute to the joint battle. The organization for air–land cooperation that Tedder created in the Middle East the served as the model for how the Anglo-American allies would eventual integrate air and land not only in the Tunisian and Italian campaigns, but the European Theater of Operations. Dwight Eisenhower, the other great combined and joint commander in Europe, would

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eventually pick Tedder as his deputy for Operation Overlord. In that capacity Tedder would prove a true Allied commander, willing to criticize the performance of his own nation’s military forces as well as the Americans, the latter a penchant of all too many British commanders, who had nothing but praise for their own forces. In the end, Tedder was a great military ﬁgure because he was so modern. He understood the technological and scientiﬁc basis of modern war as well as the necessity for a complex support structure to support combat operations. He was in every respect a great man. And now, in this wonderful biography, he has received his due. Vincent Orange has told a story that has long needed to be told. As such, this book represents a major contribution to the historiography of the Second World War. Williamson Murray Professor Emeritus, Ohio State University

Series Editor’s Preface At a time when an Anglo-American-Australian coalition has once again fought a war in the Middle East, and in doing so re-learnt many of the lessons of alliance warfare, it is entirely appropriate that a new study of one of the most practised British proponents of the art should appear. In these pages Vincent Orange provides historians and the general reader alike with a detailed and scholarly account of one of the most inﬂuential British military ﬁgures of the Second World War: one who had the ear of the most powerful soldier in the Western alliance, and who could, if he chose to, unleash on a target the fearsome power of several thousand strategic bombers. Yet, despite his manifest achievements, the name of Arthur Tedder is little known other than to military historians and students of air power. He was an unusual ofﬁcer far outside the normal mould for senior military ﬁgures. He was physically small, modest, of quiet demeanour, and not much given to the sort of boisterous behaviour so beloved of airmen in both ﬁction and reality. He was also something of an intellectual, with a Cambridge degree and a serious historical study of the Royal Navy in the Restoration period to his name. For relaxation he liked to play the piano, sketch, or simply smoke his much-loved pipe. These characteristics were far from typical for a senior ofﬁcer in the Royal Air Force at the time, and some might have been considered positively disadvantageous. Despite this, Tedder rose to the highest rank in the service, became Chief of the Air Staff, and ended his days as a member of the House of Lords. His elevation was the result of a shrewd and analytical mind combined with a courageous and determined character. His leadership was based on professional knowledge and competence, allied to a capacity to talk on the same level to anyone, be they air marshal or corporal, soldier or sailor, American or Scot. This, allied with a willingness to listen, a natural humanity, and a character almost devoid of obvious showmanship, produced an unusual amalgam ideally suited

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to leadership in a coalition era, whether as the senior airmen in a triservice command structure in Egypt, or as Deputy Supreme Commander to the equally determined but diplomatic Dwight Eisenhower during Operation Overlord. Tedder’s quiet approach did not always instantly impress, however, and, as Vincent Orange shows, when linked with his sometimes perverse sense of humour, occasionally led to his making enemies. Some could have been fatal to his career, notably Lord Beaverbrook, whose extrovert style coupled to his own lack of knowledge and unwillingness to listen led to serious disagreements with Tedder. Beaverbrook undoubtedly sought to damage Tedder’s prospects with Churchill, and might well have succeeded had Tedder not enjoyed consistent and determined support from Sir Charles Portal and Sir Wilfrid Freeman, the two most senior airmen in the wartime Air Ministry. Tedder’s survival and subsequent ascent owed much to Freeman, and Churchill was later to admit that he had been wrong in believing what he had been told by others. Had Tedder not been protected and promoted against the whims of politicians by more senior ofﬁcers with the will and position to do so his career might have stalled, with incalculable consequences for the conduct of the war. As the author points out, when Eisenhower (no mean judge of character and ability) still believed that General Marshall and not he would be the supreme commander for Operation Overlord, he nevertheless advised his superior in Washington that Tedder was the only man, British or American, with sufﬁcient stature and understanding of both strategic and tactical air power to act as senior airman for the invasion of Europe. In fact, the rather bizarre air command structure for Overlord reﬂected the fact that an airman with those qualities of tact and leadership was needed to impose the judgements of a Solomon on the forceful strategic commanders, Carl Spaatz and Arthur Harris, and the pompous and narrowly focused Trafford Leigh-Mallory. Tedder did not disappoint in this regard, and he almost certainly was the only Allied airman capable of bringing both the senior strategic commanders into line, and doing so in such a way as to retain their respect. It is worth noting the comment quoted by Harris’s most recent biographer that he believed the brief period when he served under Eisenhower and Tedder was the only time in his three-and-a-half years at Bomber Command that the control of his bomber forces from higher up showed a proper unity of purpose and direction (see H. A. Probert, Bomber Harris: His Life and Times, Greenhill Books, London, 2001, p. 303). As Vincent Orange so shrewdly observes, many of the problems experienced by Tedder and Eisenhower stemmed from the unfortunate

Series Editor’s Preface

xv

attitude to both (displaying arrogance and ignorance in equal measure) shown by the senior echelons of the British Army, notably Sir Alan Brooke and Montgomery. This was not simply a matter of excessive pride or inter-service rivalry souring personal relations, but extended to Montgomery’s deliberately misleading the RAF about his real strategic intentions. It was this attitude, when added to resentment of Montgomery’s earlier unwillingness to share with the RAF the credit for his desert victories, which underlay Tedder’s determined efforts to have Montgomery removed from his command. Yet it was more than simple pique and aggravation which led him to this judgement. As this study reveals, Tedder had a better understanding than either Brooke or Montgomery of the strategic problems facing Eisenhower, and supported his superior against the British generals and Churchill over matters such as the Anvil landings. Tedder’s deep understanding of the alliance strategy, land as well as air, for the north-west Europe campaign also reinforced his concerns over the damage that Montgomery’s more vainglorious preachings could do to the internal cohesion of the coalition. Here, he was sadly very quickly proved right, and there are many lessons and echoes for today, when Western coalitions again face internal and external pressures which can all too easily fracture them. Tedder was in many ways the perfect coalition commander. He was not only acutely aware of the need for sensitivity in all matters when conducting coalition warfare, whether relations with the press or relations with other Allied commanders, but he was also adept at achieving his military objectives within such a framework. He did so in such a way as to ensure he got most of what he wanted without causing dissension, and frequently against the previously expressed preferences of those with whom he had to deal. He accurately assessed the contributions each form of military power could make to the overall war effort, and would resist parochial interests whenever they arose, irrespective of whether they were those of airmen or soldiers. This did not always endear him to others, and his unwavering support of Eisenhower’s strategy certainly upset the senior echelons of the British Army. Yet Tedder, who at the start of the war had been a rather obscure two-star ofﬁcer, was by war’s end capable of holding his own both with senior soldiers and airmen and with statesmen of the stature of Churchill and Stalin. He was not overawed by such powerful personalities, and was perfectly capable of operating in a political milieu when required; a capacity which stood him in good stead not only during the war, but afterwards when he became Chief of the Air Staff and, subsequently, on his appointment to the British Military Mission in Washington at the height of the Cold War. Those who read this book will discover a commander who can be held

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up as a model for a modern senior ofﬁcer. Intelligent, articulate, courageous, tactful and largely free from the parochial single-service concerns which so often cripple commanders once they leave the narrow conﬁnes of their own service, Tedder proved himself able to operate at the highest level in an international coalition. His contribution to the successful use of air power at every level from the tactical to the strategic stands comparison with any of his contemporaries. He and Eisenhower proved themselves the ideal leadership pairing in the most complex and difﬁcult coalition war ever fought, and they epitomise the effectiveness of a school of leadership which eschewed the ﬂamboyance shown by others in favour of a quieter and more thoughtful approach. That Tedder was indeed one of the most thoughtful of airmen is shown by his own writings. In particular his autobiography, typically entitled With Prejudice, and his Lees Knowles lectures on war, delivered at his old alma mater, Cambridge. Yet perhaps his most impressive thinking was produced in the autumn of 1944, when he put forward his proposals for the use of Allied air power, and most especially the awesome power of the strategic bomber forces. His conceptualisation of a campaign which utilised all Allied air power against a variety of ‘common denominator’ targets deserves to be known far more widely than it is. It is in many ways the intellectual precursor of much modern thinking on air power. This intelligent study of Tedder’s methods and achievements may perhaps bring his achievements to a wider audience, and should certainly be required reading for any of today’s commanders, of whichever service, as they strive to understand the complexities of joint and coalition warfare in the modern era. SEBASTIAN COX Series Editor

Acknowledgements Apart from the men and women to whom this book is offered with heartfelt thanks for many years of friendship, advice and comfort, I share with all other historians an unpayable debt to countless archivists and librarians in Britain, the United States, Australia and New Zealand. They are in charge of the many ‘Unpublished Sources and Archives’ listed in the Bibliography, and I am most grateful to them for their guidance, expertise, and – better still – their initiative in uncovering sources I might otherwise have missed. I am equally grateful to those members of the Tedder family who answered my letters, permitted me to visit them, allowed my questions to dominate conversation, wined and dined me, drove me hither and yon, commended me to friends or acquaintances, and loaned me precious letters and photographs without hesitation or any suggestion that I follow a particular line. Not least, they have patiently waited a long time before seeing the result of their generosity. It will quickly become obvious to readers how much I owe to that family. I most warmly thank Lord Tedder’s daughter Mina, who introduced me to the wonderful Fife Peninsula, took me to her father’s birthplace – Glenguin (now Glengoyne) distillery – and shared her memories as well as her papers, photographs and pictures with me. I corresponded with her brother John, who was prevented by long illness and untimely death from completing his own account of Lord Tedder’s life, but Mina introduced me to John’s widow, Peggy, who gave me access to his notes and her memories. She also put me in touch with her son Robin: he has transported the name Glenguin to New South Wales (where he makes wine, not whisky) and was helpful and encouraging. Not least must I thank Richard – Lord Tedder’s son by Toppy, his second wife – for essential contributions to this biography and the opportunity to roam round an ancient Kentish house. The Tedders made it possible for me to tap into the memories and

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papers of Peter and Diana Grover, a couple whose friendly encouragement, quite apart from the information they provided, has been a great help. Without the tireless secretarial and managerial skills of Peter’s mother, Marjorie, Lord Tedder’s autobiography, With Prejudice, might never have been completed. More help, especially in connection with Toppy and the Malcolm Clubs, came from Joyce and Tony SteffLangston, Lord Scarman and Pamela Ritchie. The University of Canterbury and the History Department have been generous supporters of my research, granting me both time and money. I am especially grateful to Rosemary Russo, who skilfully untied several computer knots for me. This book nevertheless owes much to free board and lodgings offered in London by my beloved late brother-inlaw, David Jeffery, by Sandra and Nick Creaton, Alison and Stephen Tabard, Paula and Colin Tanner, Jayne and Guy Morgan, in Hastings by Jenny and Graham Townsend; in Gateshead by John Jeffery, in Alnwick by Doreen and Adrian Ions, and in Washington by Yvonne and Jo Kinkaid. Freddie Percy (of Whitgift School, Croydon) and Leon Russell (who served under Tedder in the Western Desert) read every word of my original draft and offered me numerous helpful criticisms of both style and content. Errol Martyn, Kevin Kelly and Trevor Richards were particularly helpful in regard to Tedder’s Great War service. Air Chief Marshals Sir Kenneth Cross, Sir Victor Goddard, Sir Theodore McEvoy and Sir Frederick Rosier all spoke to me at length, as did Lord Zuckerman and Professor David Dilks. Group Captain John Slessor (son of Marshal of the Royal Air Force Sir John Slessor) made available to me a most valuable document composed by his father, together with his friendly encouragement. Denis Bateman pursued loose ends skilfully and was diligent in photographing places where Tedder had lived. Thanks to savage arm-twisting (disguised as gentle steering) by Henry Probert, my thoughts on Tedder and his contemporaries have often been aired before members of the RAF Historical Society: without these opportunities, the book would never have appeared. Between them, these gentlemen greatly improved it, but they are in no way responsible for its failings. Here in New Zealand, I am indebted to Carolyn Carr, Andrew Conway, John Crawford, David Gunby, Joel Hayward, Brian Hewson, Ann Margaret Orange and the University’s ever-willing photographers, Duncan Shaw-Brown, Barbara Cottrell and Merilyn Hooper. In Britain, I am grateful to Douglas Bagnall, Nigel Blair-Oliphant, Glenn Burgess and Mandy Capern, Mark Cory, Isobel Drummond, Noble Frankland, Antony Furse, Christina Goulter, Anthea Lewis, Richard Luckett, Owen Phillipps, Mandy Purdie, Sebastian Ritchie, Andrew Steward, Michael Simpson and Michael Ulyatt. I value the friendship and advice of Sebastian Cox, the series general editor. Andrew Humphrys, my

Acknowledgements

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editor at Frank Cass, helped improve my original text and reduce it to a more manageable length. In Paris, I thank Gilbert Christie, and across the Atlantic I owe plenty to Tami Davis Biddle, Jim Corum, Carlo D’Este, Phil Meilinger, Geoffrey Perret, Duane Reed and Edwinston Robbins. The memories and photographs of those men and women who repsonded to my press appeals encouraged me to keep going when times were difﬁcult. The last of my debts is due, of course, to my dear wife, Sandra.

PART I 1890 TO 1914: RISING

1 A Boy of Philosophical Calm, Artistic and Fanciful From Glenguin to Croydon, July 1890 to July 1909

Arthur William Tedder was born at Glenguin (now Glengoyne), a distillery about 20 miles north of Glasgow, on 11 July 1890. The name Tedder, he thought, was a corruption of Tudor. ‘Henry Tedder the Eighth’, he told his ﬁrst biographer, ‘is an ancestor we don’t care to mention’.1 Tedder’s known ancestors were sober, hard-working smallholders and shopkeepers from Stanstead in Essex.2 His grandfather, William Henry, married Elizabeth Ferris in 1849, moved to London, became a prosperous grocer in South Kensington, and then moved on to Ripley, east of Woking in Surrey, in 1861. Between 1850 and 1871, they produced 11 children (seven boys, four girls), ten of whom survived infancy, though only four married.3 Their ﬁrst child, Henry Richard, rapidly rose from grocer’s son to gentleman status and would play a signiﬁcant part in his famous nephew’s life. Educated privately in England and later in France, Henry was employed during 1873–74 to organise Lord Acton’s immense collection of books into a library. Acton, general editor of the Cambridge Modern History volumes, then recommended Henry to the Athenaeum, an exclusive London club. He remained there for the rest of his career, as librarian and secretary, although ‘it was never a secret that he preferred his bookshelves to his kitchen accounts’.4 His portrait still hangs in the club’s hall. ‘I had very good personal reasons for being grateful to my uncle’, wrote Tedder in March 1965, ‘for the pressure he brought to bear on my parents to send me up to Magdalene College, Cambridge, to take a History Degree (incidentally, dead against the advice of my Headmaster).’ 5 The second child of William and Elizabeth was Tedder’s father,

4

Tedder

Arthur John. Like Henry, Arthur was educated privately in England and France. He joined the Inland Revenue Department in 1871 and rose high. In 1906, he became Chief Inspector, Excise, and in February 1908 appeared as an expert witness before a Royal Commission set up to determine what materials and processes might lawfully be used to make whisky and other spirits. He strongly supported the grain distillers’ arguments, and in 1950 the Distillers’ Company remembered his ‘helpful and conciliatory’ services by appointing his son a director. Arthur was knighted in July 1909; appointed Chief Inspector, Customs and Excise, a year later, and served as Commissioner from 1911 to 1918. On retirement, he was appointed a Companion of the Order of the Bath.6 Arthur went on holiday to the Channel Islands with brother Henry in 1875 and there met a cousin, Emily Charlotte Bryson, whom he married in August 1877. They had three children: Henry John (known as Harry, born in January 1879), Margaret Elizabeth (January 1882) and – an afterthought – Arthur William in July 1890. A small woman, Emily ‘aimed at a perfection which wasn’t always attainable’, in her daughter Margaret’s careful words. Tedder himself was blunter. ‘She was a martinet in every sense of the word’, he recalled in 1951, ‘and at times ridiculously fussy.’ His father ‘was more human. At least he had a human side to him, though I hear that ofﬁcially in the Civil Service he could be a tough opponent.’ In November 1890, Tedder’s parents moved to Edinburgh; then, in 1894, the excise service sent them to Lerwick in the Shetland Islands. Their home, ‘Braeside’, overlooked the harbour and young Tedder spent many hours gazing down on ﬁshing vessels of every size and type. Late in 1898, the Tedders moved 190 miles south to Elgin, near the Moray coast, where Arthur attended the academy. He returned to Elgin in May 1961 to attend the opening of the Scottish Malt Distillers’ new ofﬁces and gladly accepted an invitation to visit his old school. He impressed everyone with his ‘unassuming disposition’, his old raincoat and his readiness to gossip with all and sundry, though he refused to make a formal speech.7 During 1901, the Tedders made an even longer move south – of some 460 miles – to Croydon, south of London, and in January 1902 Arthur began his career at Whitgift School. One boy remembered his arrival causing ‘a mild stir’, for he had an almost unintelligible Scottish accent and wore a kilt: ‘the ﬁrst we could take in our stride, but the latter, I am afraid, caused much juvenile ribaldry, which Tedder took in perfectly good part and with philosophical calm’.8 Until 1912, when he fell in love, Tedder regularly wrote long letters – often illustrated with tiny, neat sketches – to his parents and to Margaret. After 1912, they were less frequent, but never ceased and were

From Glenguin to Croydon, July 1890 to July 1909

5

rarely perfunctory. In all his letters, he revealed a talent for describing places and people, often with humour or irony, as well as a profound interest in the changing lights and vivid colours of open country: an interest typical of a natural artist and keen photographer. He also told his family more than they may have wished to know about rugby matches, cross-country runs and the numerous ‘war games’ played by the Ofﬁcers’ Training Corps (OTC). Tedder spent more than seven years at Whitgift: until July 1909, when he was 19 and a senior prefect. He had two seasons of ﬁrst-XV rugby, and competed well both in arduous cross-country races and on the track, where he almost broke ﬁve minutes for the mile. He rose from private in the prestigious OTC to the coveted rank of ‘cyclist-sergeant’ – the social equivalent of regular army cavalry – and became an accomplished shot. He was also a competent actor in male and female parts; a prominent member of the literary and debating society; a careful librarian; a diligent editor of the school magazine (the Whitgiftian); a clever cartoonist; and an occasional poet. Taught by his mother and encouraged by his sister, he played the piano moderately well – though never to his own satisfaction. According to one school contemporary, he ‘was the sort of boy one couldn’t tell a dirty story in front of. Not that he was “pi” [pious], mind you – but he was very serious.’ 9 Many public-school boys of Tedder’s generation, ‘unwilling to lose caste by adopting jobs in industry, commerce and trade’, expected to make their fortunes overseas, somewhere in the British Empire. He would be strongly inﬂuenced both by their example and by a post-Boer War enthusiasm for military training.10 Hundreds of Whitgift boys joined the OTC and more than 250 would be killed during the Great War; among them, seven of the 14 boys who left school when Tedder did.11 Tedder acquired a telescope in 1906 and developed a life-long interest in astronomy and its practical offspring, navigation: an interest that would always be valuable (and sometimes vital) during his aviation career. In a letter to Margaret in February 1907 he advised her to ‘look out for Mercury this week immediately after sunset, half way between Venus and the place where the sun sets’. All ﬁve of the major planets would be above the horizon at the same time this week, he enthused, and with a pair of ﬁeld-glasses ‘you should be able to see the disk of Jupiter just now, as it is at opposition and is at its nearest to us’. Tedder loved to be out of doors: cycling, running, walking and, not least, scrambling through bushes and streams, often in darkness, on military exercises with the school cadets that were supposed to be realistic and were certainly ﬁercely competitive. The Times commended

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a good performance at Aldershot in March 1907 and, not surprisingly, the Whitgiftian described it at length.12 Tedder’s ﬁrst published work, an account of camping out, appeared in the Whitgiftian in November 1907. ‘I may say’, he concluded, ‘that the ten days I spent in camp were by far the most enjoyable days I have ever had – I should have liked a week more of it – and I am sure that the rest of the Whitgift detachment will bear me out.’ 13 Fortunately, Tedder could also ﬁnd satisfaction indoors and during November and December 1907 became deeply involved on both sides of the footlights. He played Dangle in Sheridan’s The Critic and Prince Hal in scenes from Henry IV, Part 1 and assisted a professional – Percy Vernon – in the rehearsals, staging and costuming of both productions. Vernon was greatly impressed by Tedder’s management skills – ‘What a capital little man of business you are!’ – and the school’s critic was equally impressed by his playing of two such contrasting roles.14 He also spoke regularly in school debates, most notably to oppose a motion on 10 February 1908 ‘That this House is in favour of the extension of the suffrage to women’; his side won the debate handsomely.15 In December 1908, Tedder went scholarship hunting to Cambridge. ‘As far as I know’, he told his father, ‘I have not come any bad croppers’; sadly, the examiners did not agree and Tedder’s further education depended on his parents and uncle Henry. His school career ended in July 1909, on a day of military exercises amid ‘much applause’, as the Whitgiftian recorded, for ‘the amazing evolutions of the Cyclists, under Cyclist-Sergeant Tedder, who dodged hurdles, brushwood, small boys and one another in a most graceful manner, as though they had been born on wheels’. Later, he took part in the ‘Balaclava Mêlée’, an event showing that ‘sword engagement on cycles would do much to lighten modern warfare’. His side lost: ‘while Sergeant Tedder, their last survivor, was bravely engaging with three opponents, Private Bond deftly removed his plume from the rear and ﬁnished the engagement’.16 Tedder organised the events, which made a proﬁt of nearly £15, and his reward would be a Certiﬁcate A, qualifying him for a highly prized commission in the supplementary reserve of ofﬁcers.

2 An Amiable Chap, with Many Interests but Few Achievements Cambridge, October 1909 to June 1912

Tedder went up to Magdalene College, Cambridge, in October 1909, to read History. One of the poorest and smallest colleges (only 90 undergraduates in 1909), Magdalene nevertheless offered two advantages from which Tedder beneﬁted greatly. One was a tradition, as the Master told freshmen on 12 October, ‘that everyone should know everyone else, and there should be no cliques’; the other was the teaching – and better still, the guidance and affection – he received from A. C. Benson and F. R. Salter throughout his four years there. Benson belonged to a distinguished family that had made a deep impression on British religious, educational, literary and theatrical life.1 He was elected a Fellow in 1904 and during the next 20 years was largely responsible – as Fellow, President and Master – for transforming the college, ﬁnancially and academically.2 As for Salter, he was elected a Fellow in 1910, Tedder’s ﬁrst year. Three years older, he quickly became a friend as well as an academic guide. ‘Salter is a most excellent fellow’, he told Margaret in November 1909: ‘one of his ancestors helped to chop off Charles I’s only head … and, above all, he asked me to lunch last Tuesday. A very good lunch too, which I was all the better able to appreciate since I usually lunch off bread, water and blackberry jam.’ At Salter’s urging, Tedder joined the Liberal Club, but needed no persuading to join the Ofﬁcers’ Training Corps (OTC). An excellent shot, he would get a riﬂe club going during his second year. The Master, already pleased to learn of Tedder’s enthusiasm for the OTC and sport, was equally pleased to learn that he was a nephew of the Athenaeum’s highly regarded secretary, and Uncle Henry, who helped to ﬁnance

8

Tedder

Tedder at Magdalene, always took the keenest interest in such academic progress as his happy life there permitted. Tedder began to attend lectures on 15 October 1909. The ﬁrst, on constitutional history, given by an eminent historian, J. R. Tanner, was ‘very good, a lot in it and very interesting’, he told his parents; he was less impressed by Tanner’s habit of pausing, after reading an allegedly amusing passage from a contemporary document, to invite applause; later, he was even less impressed on perceiving, when Tanner discussed Oliver Cromwell, that he was ‘a hopeless old Tory’. Tedder also attended his ﬁrst debate in the Union, on a major issue of the day: the opposition of many peers to Lloyd George’s ‘People’s Budget’. As a devout Liberal, he thought the result ‘most excellent’: 168–152 against the Lords. Tedder enjoyed cross-country running even more than debates: ‘across plough unlimited, turnip and potato ﬁelds, over huge ditches, through horribly prickly hedges … two or three farmyards and twice through the river … we had over a dozen water jumps of different sizes to do. A number of men went into some of them and howled at the cold.’ Military exercises – even in darkness over the same difﬁcult country – were just as exhilarating. ‘We were attacking a bridge on the Cam’, he told his parents in November 1909, ‘and were intended to rush it and hold it from the other side while the engineers mined it and then re-cross it and retire to let it blow up.’ Even though ‘the enemy’ discovered their intentions, ‘a headlong rush’ brought victory to Tedder’s men and the bridge was duly ‘blown up’. The thought seems never to have crossed Tedder’s mind that the denial of a university education to Margaret – now in her late twenties – had been unjust, although her parents gave her opportunities to travel in France and Germany. A generation later, Tedder’s own sons went to university, but his daughter did not. In 1909, he at once followed the male herd in disparaging, even in letters to Margaret, the ‘damsels of Girton and Newnham’, who ‘all look like out-of-work servant girls’. They were not, he smugly observed, ‘bona ﬁde members of the varsity’, and therefore he felt able to join in the cheering and foot-stamping that greeted any who happened to arrive late for lectures. When at rest from athletic or quasi-military activity, Tedder relished endless conversation (over tea in rooms, rather than over beer in pubs) about Life and its Meaning. He enjoyed mainstream classical music and was in the audience on 30 November 1909 when Vaughan Williams’ now-famous incidental music to accompany a production in Greek of Aristophanes’ play, The Wasps, was ﬁrst heard. Tedder’s other non-athletic interests included college architecture, paintings and especially astronomy. The gradual re-appearance of Halley’s

Cambridge, October 1909 to June 1912

9

Comet between September 1909 and its spectacular departure at the end of May 1910 enthralled him, and he often advised his parents and sister how best to observe it. Pressed by Salter, he agreed in January 1910 to trudge about the Cambridgeshire countryside to get the Liberal vote out in the general election. Their man got in, but the experience purged him of any enthusiasm for political canvassing. Tedder’s most demanding academic tasks were weekly essays for Benson and Salter. These had nothing directly to do with his degree course and were intended merely to exercise his brain and pen. For example, Salter gave him ‘a beast of a subject’: the Domesday Book. ‘He told me I could write anything I liked about it so long as I did not do too much! I have let him off with eight closely-written pages.’ The essays in this and subsequent years are all short on facts and long on elegant expression, with many examples of his liking for irony and gentle mockery. One of these, he confessed to Margaret, contained the word ‘spank’, and of another which impressed Benson he commented: ‘I thought it started with a platitude, ended with one, and had a platitude for its main point.’ On 31 December 1909, Benson wrote to Tedder’s father for the ﬁrst time.3 He had been discussing the progress of ‘your boy’ (then in his 20th year) with Salter. ‘He is cautious in statement’, they agreed, ‘but one ﬁnds that he knows more rather than less of a subject than he allows at ﬁrst to appear.’ Three months later, on 29 March 1910, Benson reported again. ‘What I like about his work’, he wrote, ‘is his independence of judgement and his caution in argument and statement, unless he knows his ground.’ He got on cheerfully with everyone, ‘though I do not think he cares about too large a circle’. Benson’s third report followed on 3 July, at the end of Tedder’s ﬁrst year. ‘He is a thoroughly nice fellow in all ways: modest, pleasant, sensible. He seems to me to be much more thoughtful than many men of his age, anxious to form a real opinion of his own and to do it by carefully weighing the pros and cons.’ During these years, Tedder was strictly teetotal and spent money sparingly – at least, he thought he did – except on such necessities of life as pipe tobacco (an addiction for the rest of his life), and was therefore surprised to discover that his income stretched little further than that of wilder students. He readily joined in student ‘exuberance’ on festive occasions. The celebration of Guy Fawkes Night on 5 November 1910 got sufﬁciently out of hand to be reported in the local press and he described it for Margaret, but not for his parents. It was all ‘harmless and quite good-humoured’, thought Tedder, except when some ‘townee roughs’ got involved and deserved ‘a little more boot on various occasions’.

10

Tedder

By December 1910, Tedder’s ‘philosophical calm’ (ﬁrst observed at Whitgift) was recognised at Magdalene when he was elected as chairman and secretary of a committee to consider various kitchen grievances that were sharply dividing the student body. ‘The humour of my position’, he told his parents, ‘lies in the fact that I am really of neither party, being on absolutely excellent terms with even the extremists on both sides.’ By arranging to have the grievances discussed, openly and calmly, Tedder helped to end the rift. Literate essays, physical activity, a pleasant personality and an upright character do not, alas, a degree course make, and by April 191l Salter had raised the spectre of a personal coach to help Tedder through his forthcoming examinations. Disregarding their son’s protests, Tedder’s parents hired one and Tedder admitted in May that he was ‘being a great help, I think’, though ‘rather a nuisance in making me buy books which I have always made a point of getting from the library or borrowing before.’ Academic fears, though growing, did not prevent Tedder from taking part in a display of student ‘exuberance’ that caused all trains out of Cambridge to be delayed for nearly an hour. Not surprisingly, then, Tedder became ‘horribly afraid’ that he would ‘come a bad cropper’ in his examinations. The coach, ‘a very uninspiring person’, was pumping various facts into him twice a week, ‘but they are mere drops from the ocean of things unknown. I shall have to trust to luck and keep my pen at work.’ As it happened, Tedder’s result was moderate: 2nd-class Honours (Division 2) in Part I of the History Tripos. Tedder turned 21 in July 1911 and began to think about a career. In September he decided to go in for the consular service. On 10 October, however, Benson noted in his diary that he was being ‘very tiresome – he wants to leave Cambridge soon – not to go on “pottering” – so he tells Salter one thing and me another and his father another … I sent for him and said we were quite ready to meet his wishes, in a reasonable way, if only he would say what they are.’ 4 His courses for the year were settled on the 14th, after a ﬂurry of letters between Sir Arthur, Benson and Tedder himself, who apologised to his father for ‘thoughtless and ungentlemanly’ conduct: it is ‘my disgusting temper, coupled with the over-keen desire I have to ﬁnish with preparation and start doing something, that has caused an outburst on my part that I shall always from the bottom of my heart regret’. His remorse at what was in fact a mild outburst was all the keener because he already prided himself on his ability to argue calmly and cogently, especially on paper. The upshot – as his father, Benson and Salter all advised – was that he should complete his BA at the end of the current year, by taking the History Tripos Part II, and then spend a

Cambridge, October 1909 to June 1912

11

fourth year in residence, studying German and visiting that country, to prepare himself for the consular examination.5 Tedder’s resolve to study harder in his third year quickly withered, as he confessed to his parents on 7 November 1911: ‘I seem to be incapable of doing any solid work – four hours sitting down in front of books produces about half an hour’s work.’ At a low moment he opened his heart, most untypically, to his mother: ‘I’m afraid I shall never reach what you and Father wish me to be – what Harry [his elder brother, who died in India aged only 27] was – I only wish I could, I’d give anything to be like that; that is and always will be my ideal, but like all ideals, out of reach.’ He sensed ‘a great change, a revolution’ going on in him and urged her not to be so anxious about him: ‘I will not disgrace you and I will do my utmost not to disappoint you.’ During the early months of 1912 it became clear to Benson, to Tedder’s parents and also to a somewhat chastened Tedder that another personal coach must be provided if he hoped to equal even the modest academic performance of 1911. Although Benson reported as positively as ever to Sir Arthur on the various merits of ‘your boy’ in April, he was obliged to admit that ‘he doesn’t always put his back into it – and he is often very much belated with his work’; also, his grasp of economics was ‘not very ﬁrm’. In the event, he completed his BA degree with the award of 2ndclass Honours (Division 2). On 16 June 1912, when thanking his parents for their congratulations, he fairly added: ‘I am afraid they are not well earned, but at any rate I have a decent degree.’ All his Whitgift contemporaries, he added without evident grief, ‘did badly this year, everyone except myself dropping a class. The Head will be rather annoyed, I expect.’ He then celebrated his achievement by climbing up on the college roof and dressing a stone-winged dragon, known as a wyvern, at the end of the main building in full academic robes. In spite of Tedder’s moderate examination performance, Benson considered him capable of academic research at the highest level. He recommended, and both Sir Arthur and Uncle Henry agreed, that Tedder should return to Cambridge for a fourth year in October 1912. He would ﬁnd a suitable subject for research, submit the result for the Prince Consort Prize and (by this means or subsequently – Benson was silent on a vital point) prepare himself for the consular service examination.6 Meanwhile, Tedder deserved some reward for at least obtaining a degree, only the second awarded to a member of his large family. He was glad to escape abroad to a language institute in Berlin and there begin to learn German, which his elders and betters considered would help him through the consular examination. During this working holiday, he met

12

Tedder

a young Australian woman. Their love for each other gradually became so powerful that it drew out of him a capacity for application that his parents and teachers had sought in vain during his school and undergraduate days. The future would show that this amiable chap with many interests but few achievements was in fact among the outstanding men of his generation.

3 A Sudden Sense of Absolute Intimacy, Harmony and Understanding From England to Fiji via Germany, June 1912 to December 1914

Tedder left England for Germany on 22 June 1912 and enrolled at the Institut Tilly in Lichterfelde, a suburb of Berlin.1 He was to study German there for eight weeks, before returning to Cambridge in October. A year later, he remembered ‘sitting outside that café at the back of the Institut in an awkward silence (that lasted for three weeks!)’, listening to other young men talking ‘what even then I knew was the most atrocious German’. As it happened, Tedder never mastered the language either. Instead, he fell in love with an Australian fellow-student, Rosalinde Maclardy. Truly in love: it rapidly became on his part (and later on hers) a love of quite exceptional intensity, which lasted until Rosalinde’s death more than 30 years later. Rosalinde and her sister Una, always devoted to each other, left Sydney for London in May 1910 and arrived in July. They had a host of relatives and friends on both sides of the globe, some wealthy. While Una pursued theatrical ambitions, Rosalinde decided to sample German cultural life and learn something of the language. All instruction at the institute was in German and students undertook not to speak their native tongue while in residence. Consequently, the Englishman and the Australian, neither of them at all comfortable even in their own language while talking to the opposite sex, were obliged to converse in German. The ice began to break on 1 July, when the Tillys took all the students for a day trip to Potsdam. It was on this outing that he and Rosalinde ﬁrst smiled at each other, though they did not, of course, attempt to speak. A few days later, on 11 July, Tedder turned 22 and as usual felt uneasy at being made a centre of

14

Tedder

attention, except that Rosalinde actually spoke to him on this signiﬁcant occasion. By early August, Tedder was accompanying ‘my Australian acquaintance’ to art galleries and theatres, and they parted with carefully masked regret at the end of August when Tedder returned home. Home was about to change. During July, Tedder’s parents decided to buy a house named ‘Windlehurst’ in Hemyock village, Devon. It was from Windlehurst on 1 September 1912 that Tedder wrote the ﬁrst of hundreds of letters, many very long, and several with illustrations, to his gnädiges Fräulein (gracious lady), whom he otherwise still addressed as ‘Miss Maclardy’; she, very properly, addressed him as ‘Mr Tedder’. He asked, in his whimsical vein, how the institute was getting along ‘without its most brilliant member, who was wont to hold the table spellbound by scintillating conversation’; he was already missing ‘perpetual German’ and wondered if she might like to keep in touch. Rosalinde had been impressed by her new friend. As she wrote to Una on 20 September: ‘I thought of how a short time ago I used to hear a laugh and in looking over my balcony I could see a dark head, a pipe, a Cambridge-blue old coat and perhaps a sketching-book … Then I think of perhaps seeing the “old head” in London and instinctively I smile as I think of some of the remarks that will be exchanged.’ They met again a week later in London and from then on wrote regularly to each other whenever they were apart. At 22, Tedder’s physical appearance was set for many years to come. In fact, until he was at least 60, his youthful appearance was often remarked upon, helped by an unlined face and a full head of neatly groomed darkbrown hair. He was a small, slim man (much under-weight, in the opinion of his parents and relatives), given to adopting, at least for photographers, a ‘soulful’ expression, and was rarely seen in public without a pipe. Rosalinde was born on 29 March 1891 and was thus some eight months younger than Tedder. A small, slightly built woman with a ﬁne head of light-brown hair, she had a pale complexion and large eyes that often looked sunken and tired because she sewed relentlessly, regardless of poor light. Her usual expression was serious, and so she looked older than her years. Yet she had a strong sense of fun, most readily brought out by Una. Nearly four years older, more vivacious and robust, Una had taken special care of Rosalinde since their mother died in 1904. Rosalinde’s main base from October 1912 onwards was at 4a Belsize Parade, Hampstead. It was with the ‘dear, sympathetic, understanding peops’ who lived there that she – and later Tedder – were most content: young, theatrical, literary and artistic. They brought out of him, as a Whitgift friend noticed, ‘a marked, almost dilettante streak, a light smile,

From England to Fiji via Germany, June 1912 to December 1914

15

a cynical touch’.2 Una had fallen in love with a fellow-actor, Alexander Austin Elder (known as Mark), who returned her love entirely. Among Mark’s ﬁve sisters were Ann (secretary to George Bernard Shaw) and Elinor, known as ‘Eld’, an actress and director. That ﬂat, as Rosalinde later recalled, was ‘the very centre of all our earthly happiness’. At times, Tedder told Rosalinde in November, he felt ‘a sudden sense of absolute intimacy, harmony and understanding with you’; a sense that he nurtured most diligently for the rest of her life. They quickly abandoned ‘Dear Miss Maclardy’, ‘Yours sincerely, Arthur W. Tedder’ as forms of address. For many months they used ‘Brüder’ and ‘Schwester’. In part, this was Tilly’s inﬂuence, encouraging them to sprinkle their letters with German words and phrases. But in part also it was a consequence of their mutual protestation that a ‘spiritual’ relationship, such as they were creating, should not be sullied by anything ‘physical’. They became ‘Bear’ (derived from Tedder, Teddy Bear) and ‘Bil’ (from Wilhelmina, Rosalinde’s other Christian name), private names that lasted throughout their life together. As people in love should, they devoted a great deal of time and energy to arranging meetings. In mastering the possible permutations of the railway timetables put out by the various companies, including the availability or otherwise of cheap tickets, Tedder revealed powers of application never seen by Benson, Salter, his parents or his sister. Tedder, meanwhile, was elected a member of Magdalene’s prestigious Kingsley Club in October 1912. Founded under Benson’s patronage in honour of Charles Kingsley, it was intended for the college’s intellectual elite and membership was strictly limited. Trafford LeighMallory, two years younger than Tedder and one year behind him at Magdalene, was also elected a member on that day. Both men rose to very high rank in the Royal Air Force, but Tedder never mentions LeighMallory during their varsity days and never speaks of him with respect, much less affection, during their service days. Not until early in November, a month after Tedder’s return to Cambridge, was the subject of his Prince Consort prize essay ﬁnally settled: ‘The History of the English Navy from the Death of the Protector to the Restoration.’ The ﬁnished essay actually covered a longer period, 1658–67, and required ‘real research’ at the Public Record Ofﬁce in London, as well as in the ‘Pepys Palace’ and other archives. On 17 December 1912, Benson reported to Sir Arthur on his son’s progress: satisfactory, except for ‘his apparent inability to get work done by the time named … it seems little more than a habit’.3 In February 1913, Tedder repeated his roof-climbing exploit of the previous June. He and an Irishman named Brophy ‘concocted and

16

Tedder

executed a delicate rag on the college authorities’, for having ruled that only tea and lemonade might be served at a forthcoming concert. ‘Most of this morning,’ he gleefully informed Rosalinde, ‘people have been standing in the court gazing up at the roof and clock tower’, which were decorated with two large teapots and a notice declaring that Magdalene men were allowed nothing stronger. Benson admired such ‘alpine’ exploits: ‘most of the small jokes played, ﬂags on the pinnacles, a surplice on the wyvern, bands on the swans’ necks’, he later recorded in his diary, ‘were played by Tedder, who is a great roof-climber’.4 Rosalinde had at last declared her love for Tedder (though with strong reservations regarding anything public or physical) and his attention was therefore almost totally devoted, in long daily letters from Cambridge to London, to opening his mind to her and encouraging her to do the same for his beneﬁt: ‘I’m afraid I shall never do anything really big in the world’, he declared, ‘either in the worldly or the spiritual senses, but I know that we two can do far more – in the higher sense at least – than I alone could ever touch; you can help me and perhaps I can help you.’ They became fascinated by the possibility, when apart, of transmitting and receiving thoughts, having discovered a book on the subject which they studied with deadly seriousness. They pondered the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius (121–180), ﬁnding the introversion of that great Roman emperor much to their taste: ‘Look within’, wrote Marcus. ‘Within is the fountain of Good, ready always to well forth if you are prepared to dig deep enough for it.’ 5 They also wondered whether they had been close friends, even lovers, in a previous incarnation. Early in March, Tedder escaped from the Pepys Library to Oxford to meet an eminent seventeenth-century historian, C. H. Firth, who directed him to sources in the Bodleian Library; but he was also obliged to work at the British Museum, the London Library, agonise over the forthcoming varsity boat race and discuss careers with his parents and Uncle Henry. India, Rhodesia and Egypt were all possibilities, though ‘Cairo doesn’t attract me somehow’ (a phrase that, if recalled in later years, would have tickled his ironic fancy). The Navy appealed, but not the Army, which is strange, in view of his enthusiasm for military exercises. At the end of June, Tedder returned to Croydon and had a long interview with Uncle Henry at the Athenaeum, who offered yet more titles for his bibliography and arranged access for him to the Admiralty Library in Whitehall. Tedder was now shrewd enough to dip into a couple of German naval histories because ‘I want to have one or two German quotations as well as French and Dutch ones – looks well.’ At the end of June Tedder had learned of an opening for a Lecturer in History and Economics at the University of Queensland in Brisbane.

From England to Fiji via Germany, June 1912 to December 1914

17

Rosalinde agreed that he should apply; it was a respectable, permanent position; she intended to return to Sydney soon (though for how long, she did not know); they would both be in Australia and no more than 450 miles apart. But Queensland rejected him, as he learned in October, preferring an experienced teacher who would fashion an outstanding career in Brisbane.6 ‘They’ll be tragic about it at home, I expect’, he told Rosalinde, ‘which I know will make me simply skittish, which again will probably pain them. What it is not to have a serious outlook on life.’ Tedder returned to Cambridge in October 1913. He was in close touch with Uncle Henry over his manuscript, sending him batches of pages as he completed them. Henry not only paid for the work to be typed and bound, but checked the text, footnotes and bibliography (to which he made valuable additions) and, not least, urged on both typist and author to get the thing done because the deadline for submission, 1 November, was fast approaching. Thanks to Henry’s practical assistance and his own intelligent if spasmodic hard work, the thesis was completed and accepted for submission only one week late by a sympathetic ViceChancellor, M. R. James. It would win for Tedder the Prince Consort Prize, and a revised version would be published by Cambridge University Press in August 1916, with the title The Navy of the Restoration from the Death of Cromwell to the Treaty of Breda: its Work, Growth and Inﬂuence. Tedder’s initial opinion that ‘it’s a shocking piece of work’ is not supported by later scholars. According to Glenn Burgess, for example, ‘Tedder’s book, even in absolute terms and making allowance for its age, is an impressive piece of work. It retains a place, even in the latest (highly selective) bibliography of writings on Stuart history … It really is a very substantial and thorough piece of research by anyone’s standards.’ 7 Recognising his nephew’s capacity for research (and also his apparent incapacity for any other profession), Henry was anxious to help him into an academic career and was well placed to do so. But Tedder ﬁrmly turned his back on what then seemed his best prospect of a secure, respectable position. Instead, he astounded Henry – and the entire Tedder family – by applying in November for a position as a Colonial Ofﬁce cadet in Fiji; his application was accepted in December and he left England in February 1914. It is as difﬁcult today, as it was for Tedder’s family and friends in that winter, to understand why he did this, not least because he himself offered no positive reasons for going to Fiji and was quite prepared, almost until sailing-day, to back off if anything more appealing came up anywhere else in the world. The consular examination, incidentally, had been quietly forgotten about. Early in December, he was invited to accept a commission in the general reserve of ofﬁcers, in view of the

18

Tedder

‘considerable time’ that he had spent in the OTC, but even this hint failed to turn his mind towards considering a career in the Army that would have suited his interests and restlessness. He told Rosalinde that he was fed up with Cambridge and all its works: ‘It’s an unending diet of theory and books – the “academic” atmosphere – it’s like being kept on a diet of “slops” in convalescence long after one is ﬁt for ordinary food.’ But within a week he was telling her that ‘there is something fascinating’ about Cambridge even on a wet November afternoon. ‘For all my wanting to get out of it, I know I shall dream about it when I am right away from it.’ Had he not gone to Fiji, he intended to return to Cambridge in 1914. Rosalinde had spoken of returning to Sydney with Una in 1914, but not permanently. Neither woman would have been content for long in a town so lacking that metropolitan bustle to which they had become accustomed in London. Although keen to see Australian relatives again, they had relatives – also very special friends now – in Britain, and the idea of leaving Sydney for Fiji had no appeal whatsoever for Rosalinde. This only dawned on Tedder when he reached that remote island and began to wonder how long he might have to remain there (the probationary period alone was three years); where he might go if he ever escaped; and whether he could stand the colonial service for the rest of his working life. ‘I should be very glad’, Tedder had written to his mother on 20 November, ‘if Miss Maclardy – and perhaps her sister too – could be asked down to Hemyock for a time next month.’ His parents must not, however, suppose that he was bringing home a girl-friend for inspection; the bond between him and Rosalinde was altogether more elevated than mere courtship and no outsider might presume to inspect its tangled secrets. ‘I mean’, he concluded, ‘if people can’t conceive of anything other than sentimentality between people like us I’d far rather she didn’t come down at all.’ Lady Tedder, ignoring these feverish words, told him to invite them. Una, in fact, remained in London while Rosalinde visited Hemyock for the ﬁrst time shortly after Christmas. A naturally awkward situation, even though the family made her most welcome, was made unpleasantly tense at times by Tedder’s childish pretence that he and Rosalinde were merely friends. She tried to persuade him to tell his parents the simple truth – that they were in love and had agreed to marry, one day – but he only did so when they asked directly; even then he did so petulantly. A month later, on the very eve of his departure for Fiji, Rosalinde had to demand that he reveal their engagement to his aunts. Tedder’s love for Rosalinde had been obsessive from the start and he had a constant fear of losing her. Once the secret was out, her love might die. If that happened, he would collapse mentally

From England to Fiji via Germany, June 1912 to December 1914

19

as well as physically. He needed her, literally; by June 1915, he had spent only one of the last 16 months in her company and so prolonged an absence almost drove him out of his mind. Tedder sailed from Southampton for New York on 4 February 1914 aboard the White Star liner Oceanic. After the worst crossing in her captain’s long experience, the battered, ice-encrusted Oceanic limped into New York, a port ‘covered today in a mantle of snow ten inches deep’. Her dramatic emergence from a furious blizzard attracted frontpage press attention, in both Britain and in the United States.8 Tedder, a natural sailor, enjoyed the storm hugely. Violent weather always exhilarated him, for he thought only of storing its colours in mind, for later recording on paper, and not at all of any danger to himself. Tedder had no time to enjoy his ﬁrst visit to New York, for he saw it only brieﬂy from a taxi window, but his ﬁrst crossing of North America, by rail from New York via Toronto to Vancouver, entranced him. So also did his ﬁrst crossing of the Paciﬁc, via Honolulu to Fiji, aboard the Niagara. Long letters to his family (at Rosalinde’s command) show that he could easily have made a living as a journalist or travel-writer. He had in addition the ability to illustrate his writing with accurate sketch maps, amusing cartoons and ﬁnished pictures, in crayon or water-colours. Even his letters to Rosalinde were, for the moment, exuberantly descriptive and there was little of the usual agitation about thoughts and feelings. ‘I remember in Shetland when I was a kiddie’, he told her on 2 March, ‘a ﬁne red sunset would rather frighten me – I couldn’t help thinking the world might be on ﬁre in spite of what people told me; a sky such as we had today would have terriﬁed me.’ Shedding his Cambridge blues and London smartness, Tedder gossiped cheerfully with all and sundry. After a journey by sea and rail of 32 days, Tedder landed in Suva on Viti Levu on 7 March and found, to his inexpressible joy, the ﬁrst of numerous long letters from Rosalinde waiting for him. In February, her father had sent money to England to pay for the sisters’ passage home and they booked to leave on 4 June. The climate was ofﬁcially regarded as ‘equable and remarkably healthy for Europeans’, except in the hurricane season, and the population when Tedder arrived had recently been ‘estimated’ at just under 150,000: 90,000 native Fijians, 50,000 Indian immigrants, 4,000 Europeans and the rest Polynesians. Suva, by far the largest town, was climbing towards 10,000 residents.9 Richard Rankine, Acting Colonial Secretary, gave Tedder his letter of appointment and told him about his duties: six months in Suva, then up-country; if he passed an examination in Fijian and basic regulations at the end of a year, he would be graded a ‘passed cadet’, entitled to

20

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annual increments in salary. Further examinations would follow in Fijian, Hindustani and Law. He was introduced to the Governor, Sir Ernest Bickham Sweet-Escott: ‘a very decent, kindly sort of man personally’, he decided, ‘though I fancy a perfect demon in the way of fussing ofﬁcially’. The daily routine was not at all strenuous: mornings free, in order to learn Fijian with a tutor, and then light ofﬁce work during most afternoons ‘in one big airy two-storied verandahed building, some little way up from the seashore and beautifully cool’. He took no part in rugby, athletics, rowing, cycling or riﬂe-shooting, although he learned to ride, made sketches, took photographs and, as ever, closely observed the local scenery and the night sky. Early in July 1914, Tedder got his wish to leave Suva. He was sent to Lautoka, on the north-west coast of Viti Levu, 65 miles from the capital, as an acting Assistant District Commissioner. The next three weeks, which included his 24th birthday, were his happiest in Fiji, and every day he thought about Rosalinde and added another page or two to his ongoing letter. The idyll ended abruptly when news arrived on 5 August of the outbreak of war in Europe. Though shocked, Tedder was also relieved: he could now abandon with a clear conscience his alreadyweakening resolve to make the best of Fiji and ﬁnd some means of receiving Rosalinde there. He would go home and seek a regular commission in the Army. For a patriotic gentleman, son of a senior government ofﬁcial, it seemed the proper thing to do. On 5 August he wrote to the Colonial Secretary in Suva, requesting leave to join any troops being raised in Australia or New Zealand for British service because he had ‘a somewhat wide military training’ and ‘local knowledge of certain parts of England and the Continent’, which might prove useful.10 Next day, he wrote to his parents and sister: ‘of all the out-of-the-way specks on the other side of nowhere’. He had joined the Legion of Frontiersmen, an empire-wide cavalry organisation, and the Riﬂe Club was putting on a brave show, but in fact there were no well-trained, fully armed soldiers in the colony capable of resisting a rumoured German invasion from Samoa. His leave application having been rejected on 17 August, Tedder resigned on the 28th. He assured Sweet-Escott that he was neither shirking his duty nor moved by ‘any ﬁt of pseudo-patriotism’, but ‘the special military training I have had at home is useless here and would be of use at home, where I know I can get a regular commission to ﬁll one of the inevitable vacancies in the regular forces at the front.’ 11 The authorities in Suva rejected his arguments: ‘you are under orders’, they reminded him, ‘and at times of stress one should stand by one’s job and have no right to chuck it because one would prefer to take part in the

From England to Fiji via Germany, June 1912 to December 1914

21

central area of disturbance’. His military expertise was elementary; he merely wanted to get away; he must refund his passage money in full and would probably not be re-employed if the war ended soon and he found himself unwilling to remain a regular ofﬁcer in peacetime. Rosalinde had returned to Sydney with her sister on 20 July and wrote to Tedder early in August to say that she would marry him in Fiji. By then, however, the die was cast and Tedder intended to leave Suva for Sydney aboard the Levuka at sunset on 16 September. ‘The evening before, about 6.30, I happened to pass the Bank Manager in the street. He stopped me and said: “I say, if you want to make sure of getting off on the Levuka I advise you to get on board tonight.” I went down to the boat to see what was up and found she was leaving the ﬁrst moment she could get up steam.’ A rumour that German warships were nearby generated such panic in Suva that the Levuka ﬂed without most of her cargo, passengers or crew. ‘When the news, emphasised by the almost continuous shrieking of sirens, became generally known’, reported the Fiji Times, ‘there was an excited rush of people to the wharf … With the utmost haste passengers and luggage were crowded on board, the deck lights were extinguished and in partial darkness the Levuka moved off from the wharf and in a very short space of time disappeared outside the reef.’ 12 Sweet-Escort sent copies of his correspondence with Tedder to the Secretary of State for the Colonies on 8 October, ‘I regard him as a young man of high character, excellent abilities and great promise’; his conduct has been ‘exemplary’ and the service is ‘a loser by his resignation’. When these letters reached the Colonial Ofﬁce in December, one ofﬁcial minuted: ‘If Mr Tedder receives a commission from the War Ofﬁce, I should be inclined as an act of grace not to insist on the repayment of the passage money’, but another replied: ‘I think not. One may appreciate his motives; but it is a pernicious example for a government ofﬁcer to resign his appointment at such a time without permission’; he must therefore be made to pay.13 Tedder had arrived in Sydney on 22 September, suffering from dysentery as a result of travelling steerage to save money. A month of practical care restored his body, while endless talks with Rosalinde calmed his mind. He left for England aboard the Osterley on 24 October, having made enquiries about a possible job at Sydney University after the war. ‘I’ve been thinking about the bush’, he wrote on 1 November. ‘I don’t know if it’s because of the days we had in it or because it is in you or why – but I am wanting it and I know I shall want it much more when I get into English country. I think I must have been in it in some previous incarnation.’ In fact, he and Rosalinde would never again be

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together in Australia. ‘I have been wondering why I didn’t go with you’, she wrote after farewelling him, ‘it seems so silly that we should spend any time apart.’ But neither she nor Una (whose ﬁancé, Mark Elder, was already a soldier and would soon be on the Western Front) had the nerve to ask their father for the fare, having returned home, at his expense, so recently. That problem would be resolved six months later, in April 1915, when Tedder sent Rosalinde an incoherent cable asking her to marry him. She and Una sailed for England, via the United States, a month later.

PART II 1915 TO 1919: FLYING

4 Learning the Grammar of Command From Wyke Regis to Calais, January 1915 to January 1916

Tedder left Sydney for England on 24 October 1914, described on the Osterley’s passenger list as a ‘civil servant’ 1 travelling second class: one steerage voyage had been enough to overcome even his powerful urge to save money. At this time, he had rarely seen an aeroplane, much less considered an aviation career, and yet some instinct already convinced him that the new weapon of air power had devastating potential. The Germans, he wrote to Rosalinde, ‘have barely used their Zeppelins at all’; they might sink battleships and ‘at every port, I am wondering whether we shall hear of London and Woolwich being blown up by Zeps. I think they’re bound to make an attempt.’ Clearly, his was a mind waiting for faith: faith in an aviation doctrine as yet unformed and untaught. As for the world after the war, he liked the reference to a possible United States of Europe in a pamphlet written by Robert Blatchford.2 ‘I hope and believe’, wrote Tedder, ‘that that is the one great possibility of this war.’ A generation later, after an even more terrible war, he would help to bring most of western Europe together in an alliance that may one day lead to such a union. On 17 November 1914, as the Osterley entered the Gulf of Aden, Tedder saw once more the Pole Star with the Great Bear above it. A few days later, he had his ﬁrst sight of Egypt – a land that would play a vital part in his career, a land where Rosalinde’s life would end – and then sailed through the Mediterranean, past Libya, Sicily, Tunisia and Algeria – places of unimaginable signiﬁcance in his future. He reached Plymouth on Friday, 4 December, and after a weekend in Hemyock reported to the Colonial Ofﬁce in London on Monday morning. Next day, the 8th, he went to Cambridge, where the Military

26

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Board of the University recommended him for a commission in the regular army. For the next month, while his application was processed, he felt ‘a sort of silent reproach when one passes people in mourning – and there are many now in some parts’ because he was not yet in uniform. He was appointed a second lieutenant in the Dorsetshire Regiment with seniority to date from 2 September 1913 (in recognition of his OTC service) but not to draw pay or allowances before 10 January 1915.3 On the 14th, he was ordered to join the 3rd (Reserve) Battalion at Wyke Regis, near Weymouth. A week later, he wore regular uniform for the ﬁrst time: ‘Wonder how long it’ll be before I take to mufti again?’ The answer is ‘more than 35 years’, although at the time he doubted if the war would outlast the year. On 4 February 1915 Tedder wrote to Rosalinde to say that he was getting plenty of shooting practice, machine-gun as well as riﬂe, and expected to be sent to France within a month. Meanwhile, he was learning how an ofﬁcer should look after his men: ‘I spent about two hours going round all over the place’, he wrote on the 9th, ‘examining the rations, smelling the meat, tasting the margarine, examining the potatoes and peas, seeing how things were served out, inspecting the camp from top to bottom, everything from feeding to sanitary arrangements, and ﬁnally inspecting the guard.’ Two days later, on 11 February, came one of those apparently petty incidents that in fact are life-shaping. He twisted his right knee. No more than that. Nor could he even recall how he had done it. ‘Noticed it was a bit stiff this afternoon’, he wrote, ‘but thought nothing of it, started to walk to Weymouth and found it couldn’t be done, turned back to ﬁnd I couldn’t walk at all.’ He was collected and put to bed. The ‘offending member’ was tightly bandaged, put in splints, treated with iodine and got steadily worse. On 8 March, after three weeks ‘in bondage’, he was allowed up. ‘The colonel spotted me on my triumphal progress with two sticks en route for the ante-room, dashed out and babbled: “Hello! You back from the front?”’ Later, an old man came up to Tedder as he hobbled through the village, smiled, and murmured with deep sympathy: ‘You’ve been wounded, haven’t you?’ To which our hero replied in his tart way: ‘Not yet.’ His mother had heard of an ofﬁcer in India who became an airman after damaging a knee and Tedder was anxious to do likewise. ‘I’ve got to polish up my French and my Morse’, he told Rosalinde on 29 March, ‘as I mean to put them down among my qualiﬁcations when applying for the ﬂying observer job.’ He was, however, well aware that his prospects were poor. Scores of men with useful backgrounds that he could not match – as horsemen, craftsmen or engineers in civilian life or with years of military or naval experience already to their credit – were available to

From Wyke Regis to Calais, January 1915 to January 1916

27

the aviation authorities. They were not yet looking for men of his relatively advanced years; men with no particular skills and a gammy knee. Such reﬂections drove Tedder into a depression so deep that only Rosalinde’s actual presence, he believed, could rescue him. He knew – but his heart overwhelmed his mind – that her fragile health needed the warmth and family comfort of Sydney and New South Wales, that leaving her beloved sister behind would be a desperate business for both of them, and that a voyage to England in wartime would be exhausting at best, fatal at worst. No matter: on 4 April he sent off a brief, incoherent cable asking her to come to England and marry him: ‘Can you will you come Frisco possible.’ Rosalinde was not impressed. ‘What an indeﬁnite sort of cable to send’, she wrote on the 8th. ‘Thinking it out has almost given me brain fever.’ Next day, having reﬂected overnight, she told him ‘I wasn’t feeling at all like marrying you’, when your cable arrived; however, she had promised to return to England, if he asked her. ‘I am not capable of a great deal in this world’, she wrote, ‘so that if I can really make you happy it is one of my greatest ideas.’ Tedder could not afford to send her even half the passage money, but his father – as usual – offered the whole sum. Rosalinde’s father and her stepmother were equally generous, and found enough money for Una to accompany Rosalinde and marry Mark Elder. ‘Both of us could have done with a heap more of Australia’, Rosalinde told her desperate ﬁancé, ‘but as everything is being arranged for us, there seems nothing to do but take a chance.’ During the next ten weeks, until the sisters arrived, Tedder submitted an application – ‘pretty near perjury, some of it’ – for transfer to the Royal Flying Corps (as an observer, not as a pilot); an application received with total indifference by the authorities. Having no speciﬁc duties, he limped miserably about the camp, leaning on a stick, increasingly perturbed that so simple an injury was taking so long to put right (the reason was an allergy to iodine treatment). Watching ofﬁcers and men heading off to France destroyed entirely the satisfaction of promotion at this time to the rank of full lieutenant. Tedder also castigated himself at tedious length in letters to Rosalinde for allowing a selﬁsh desire to fall into her arms (though only as ‘a pal’, unless or until she was ready for ‘passion’) to overcome a practical concern for her safety, health and likelihood of early widowhood. ‘Oh Ros’, he moaned on 8 May, having just learned of the sinking of the Lusitania, ‘it’s awful to think I have brought you into danger like this.’ Tedder’s agony ended on Friday, 11 June, when the White Star liner Lapland, outward bound from New York, docked untorpedoed at Liverpool.4 Having arranged two weeks’ leave, he met Una and Rosalinde

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there, accompanied them that day to London, where Mark (who had been unable to obtain so long a leave) and his sisters awaited Una. There was a joyous, though brief, reunion. An immediate marriage could only take place in Wyke Regis – Tedder’s current domicile – so he and Rosalinde went there on Sunday, 13 June, and were married by the battalion chaplain in All Saints’ parish church next morning. The ceremony was as small and brief as legally possible: his parents were not there, nor any of his numerous relatives except Margaret, who was a witness, together with the verger. After their honeymoon, however, they did spend a few days at Hemyock and his parents warmly expressed approval of the marriage. On the 20th, Rosalinde wrote to her sister (who had married Mark in London) from ‘Woodcot’, a cottage in Brockweir village near Tintern Abbey, north of Chepstow. She described the wedding night in detail, for it turned out to be quite unlike most such nights. Tedder had booked the cottage, just in case Rosalinde agreed to marry him at once. When she did, he arranged a car (with a soldier as chauffeur) to take them there. ‘Woodcot’ lay 80 miles north of Wyke Regis, via the Severn Tunnel, but they actually crossed the river far to the north, at Gloucester, and Rosalinde later reckoned they covered 180 miles in about 14 hours before reaching their ﬁrst love-nest. They had expected to arrive before dark, wrote Rosalinde, but neither Tedder nor the driver knew the way. ‘We gave up hope of getting in at 11 o’clock and hoped for midnight. At nearly every signpost the man got out and every now and then the Bear had to get out too and they stood in the dark, striking matches and gazing at the sign board.’ They reached Brockweir about 2 a.m. and spent the next three hours looking for the house where the key to the cottage was kept and then for the cottage itself. Rosalinde had a brief glimpse of ‘the ghostly ruins of Tintern Abbey showing in the light of the new young crescent moon’, but for most of the time she sat in the back of the car, well wrapped up against the cold, unable to see anything. The driver chugged along while he and Tedder debated, somewhat tersely, what should be done. They often got out and wandered, calling out, banging on doors and even throwing pebbles at upstairs windows, attracting a good deal of adverse comment and some information, most of it unhelpful. Rosalinde found all this quietly amusing, for her beloved husband was gently put down this night in three capacities of which he was rather proud, capacities that she and the ﬂat people admired, but could rarely match: his excellent sense of direction, his alarming powers of organisation (when sufﬁciently motivated) and his annoyingly equable temper. Not until 5 a.m. on their wedding morn did they at last reach ‘Woodcot’: ‘a heavenly little rambly place, all the sweetest old ﬂowers, lovely little

From Wyke Regis to Calais, January 1915 to January 1916

29

sloping lawn, hammocks to be hung between different trees.’ And there the happy couple spent a blissful week. On 11 July 1915 – his 25th birthday – Tedder left Wyke Regis. He was not selected for observer training in the RFC. Instead, he was despatched to a base camp in Calais where a handful of ofﬁcers and some 300 men, unﬁt for various reasons and gathered together from practically every regiment in the army, had been dumped. He had left one cushy billet for another: ‘one of the softest jobs this side of the water’, as he later described it to his parents; a billet so cushy that he hoped to have Rosalinde join him. But Calais was cushy only in the sense that it lay far from the cannons’ mighty roar. In every other sense, ‘a canvas camp, wallowing in dust and sand’ where ‘everything – even the sand – is grey’ was the sort of place a considerate man would wish his frail bride to avoid, and yet Tedder did his best to drag her over there. Tedder’s service in Calais was the dreariest of his entire career. His duties ‘in this beastly dirty smelly hole’ would be mainly clerical, including censoring the men’s mail – ‘one’s ﬁngers got rather unclean in the process’ – with intervals for service on courts-martial and boards of inquiry. Worse still, such tasks threatened to last for the whole war. ‘So far as I can make out’, he told Rosalinde on 1 August, ‘once one gets on the L of C [Lines of Communication: i.e., anywhere between the sea and the ﬁring line], the chances of getting another job are minute indeed. The IGC [Inspector General of Communication] sticks to any people he gets like a leech. That doesn’t look cheerful for the RFC job.’ Off duty, Tedder could no longer ﬁll up his spare time by writing endless letters, because lights had to be out early (for fear of enemy aircraft or airships). He found most of his fellow ofﬁcers ‘untalkable’, fretted about mess bills, and learned that Rosalinde was even less skilful at managing money than he was: the consequent muddles became (and remained) a regular theme in their correspondence. On the positive side, he came into close contact – for the ﬁrst time in his privileged life – with ‘the troops’: men of the rank and ﬁle, whose welfare would gradually become an absorbing interest. In September, for instance, he arranged for them to get meat pie ‘instead of the interminable stew’, he told Rosalinde: ‘that’s done by drawing ﬂour in place of some bread and by using some of the big lot of suet off their ration meat. I mean to get them some puddings too somehow’. Censoring letters was good for his soul, for he came across ‘heaps of instances of thoughtfulness’. One man, he wrote, ‘was writing to three different people – who had heard somehow that he had been wounded – and telling them on no account to let his mother guess he had been touched’. Like all successful junior ofﬁcers, Tedder began to study the grammar

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of command, to learn how to use it effectively. Where, for example, on the line between slackness and severity lies true discipline? Of equal value to his future career, he learned to identify those NCOs (noncommissioned ofﬁcers) who were able and shrewd, to respect and listen to them. Tedder’s sergeants and corporals were the more willing to help him because he behaved as an ofﬁcer and gentleman should. His temper was reliable, his decisions sensible and his manner properly courteous without condescension or familiarity; he stood no nonsense and kept himself so well informed that only the most cunning old lags could deceive him. The Royal Flying Corps (RFC), Tedder told his parents on 11 September 1915, ‘seem to have forgotten my existence’, even though he kept up a steady bombardment of letters to all and sundry, pleading for a transfer. Therefore, as soon as his October leave was over, he intended to ﬁnd a way back to his regiment: he knew that ﬁt men with ﬁeld experience were sorely needed in the front line and yet he was trapped among food stores and mess accounts. Never having been under ﬁre, he still believed that to fall in battle was ‘the ﬁnest death a man can die’ – although poor consolation, he admitted, to those left behind at home. During Tedder’s October leave – which he managed to extend into November, while seeking a transfer to the ﬂying corps – Rosalinde conceived their ﬁrst child (Dick, born on 26 July 1916): ‘if I lost you’, she had written in September, ‘it would be very wonderful to have a part of you in a new young soul.’ By 10 November, however, Tedder was in Queen Alexandra Military Hospital on the Embankment, suffering from a recurrence of the dysentery contracted while travelling from Fiji to Sydney; he also suffered a severe attack of German measles about this time. When discharged and while awaiting a medical assessment, he began a course in morse code at the Marconi School and learned from the ‘RFC people’, as he told his father on 6 December, ‘that there was nothing for it but for me to make an absolutely fresh application through the Wyke Regis people’. Tedder struggled against ‘the almighty Red Tape’ generated by both military and medical authorities until admitting defeat on 9 January 1916: ‘the RFC business seems to be a complete washout’, he told his mother. The prospect of returning to Calais loomed. Three days later, to his delighted surprise, he received an OHMS (On His Majesty’s Service) letter addressed to ‘Lieutenant Tedder, Royal Flying Corps’, ordering him to report to Reading, Berkshire, for ground instruction. Better still, he had been accepted not as a mere observer but as a prospective pilot.

5 We Are a Pretty Cosmopolitan Lot From Reading to Auchel, January to December 1916

Tedder arrived at Reading for ground instruction on 15 January 1916.1 By dint of much tramping about and haggling, he found the ﬁrst of his many married quarters: ‘Melcombe’ in Elmhurst Road, was among the better ones: the landlady fed him well and, until Rosalinde arrived, popped a hot water bottle into his bed every night. In return, he entertained the landlady and her family by playing whatever tunes they liked on their piano. His chief task at Reading was to learn about aeroengines: not easy, given his ignorance of all things mechanical, but he already knew plenty about map-reading, meteorology and photography, so this was a positive pleasure. His notebooks, full of accurate and neatly drawn diagrams, reveal a growing understanding of how engines work.2 Thanks to the Royal Flying Corps’ muddled paperwork, Tedder had arrived at Reading almost a week late for the start of his course. Frantic attempts to catch up, in unfamiliar subjects that would have fully tested him in ideal circumstances, together with worry over Rosalinde’s health, brought on a recurrence of dysentery and measles. Nevertheless, he passed the examinations early in February and then spent the next six weeks largely at his ease in London with Rosalinde, Una and their friends, enjoying concerts and plays as in pre-war days – except that Una’s husband, unluckier than Tedder, was trenchbound on the Western Front. At the end of March, Tedder was posted for ﬂying training to 9 Reserve Squadron in Norwich. A week later he assured his mother that ﬂying was not at all difﬁcult: ‘a machine in the air is very much easier to manage than a bike’. What struck him most after his ﬁrst ﬂight was ‘the absolute lack of any special sensation. It was much nicer up than on the ground

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and one got a splendid view of the country, but beyond that – well, it was not half as exciting as one’s ﬁrst motor drive.’ Next morning, between about 6.20 and 6.35 a.m. on 10 April 1916, Tedder achieved his ﬁrst solo ﬂight (including two landings) in a Maurice Farman Longhorn: ‘a thing that ﬂew’, according to Oliver Stewart, ‘in spite of, and not because of, aerodynamic theory … it “mothered” these fantastic, ignorant, under-instructed pupils round the aerodrome and mothered them safely onto the ground again’.3 His solo came after only one hour and 40 minutes of instruction and a few days later, having satisﬁed Captain Cox of the Maurice Farman Shorthorn ﬂight,4 he was awarded a week’s leave and then transferred in May to 35 Squadron at Thetford (about 25 miles south-west of Norwich) for ‘higher instruction’ on more powerful machines. He received a postcard from his mother on 8 May congratulating him on his promotion, with effect from 21 March, to the rank of captain; she had seen it reported in the newspapers and this was the ﬁrst he had heard of it. The new captain now learned to ﬂy the Vickers FB 5 – ‘a much nicer “bus” to manage than the Farmans’ – under the eye of his ﬂight commander, Captain Bernard Smythies, and graduated to the FE 2b, a large two-seater bomber-reconnaissance machine with the engine (a 120 hp Beardmore, of famous reliability) placed behind the crew. An FE in prime condition took about 50 minutes to reach 10,000 feet; with a strong following wind, it might thunder along at 90 mph, but against that wind would struggle to reach 30 mph. Tractor machines, with the engine placed in front of the pilot, proved faster both in the climb and in level ﬂight and were much more agile. ‘Still, all those who ﬂew “pushers” of the old days’, recalled Cecil Lewis, ‘will never forget the good feeling they gave of really being able to see where you were going.’ 5 ‘It is such a big heavy bus’, Tedder told his father on 24 May, ‘and absolutely wallows in “bumps”. It is extraordinarily strong-willed, it can ﬂy itself and strongly resents it if one attempts to do any of the ﬂying oneself. It really rather amused me. Once you were any height up, I really believe you could go to sleep in it – it certainly wouldn’t worry the FE if you did!’ During the next three weeks, he ﬂew it regularly, qualiﬁed as an operational pilot and was sent via Folkestone to France to join 25 Squadron on 15 June, the day after his ﬁrst wedding anniversary and six weeks before his eldest son was born. He could at last, 21 months after his hasty departure from Fiji, look forward to making a direct contribution to the war effort. The Tedders’ son, born on 26 July in a nursing home near Regent’s Park in London, would be christened Arthur (to honour Benson), Richard (to honour Uncle Henry through his second name) and Brian (a name which

From Reading to Auchel, January to December 1916

33

Tedder liked), but was always known as Dick. The birth was a difﬁcult one and Rosalinde recovered very slowly. Tedder managed a few days with her shortly after the birth, but she would not see him again until 11 December. She spent a month in the nursing home, then seven uneasy weeks at Hemyock. Though very weak, she tried to look after the baby herself and tension inevitably grew between her and Lady Tedder, a much more capable and energetic woman. In October Rosalinde escaped – with Tedder’s emphatic approval – to another nursing home and stayed there until December. Tedder, meanwhile, was making a favourable impression in 25 Squadron. Based at Auchel (Lozinghem), a small mining village about seven miles west of Béthune, the aerodrome backed onto ‘two pyramids left over from a little-known Egyptian conquest of France’, he surmised, ‘or perhaps they were merely tall slag heaps’. His new home was commanded by Major Robert Cherry and formed part of 10 (Army) Wing in 1 Brigade, assisting the 1st Army with 18 FE 2bs, for whom there were 20 pilots and 18 observer-gunners.6 A cheerful bunch, they made him very welcome and he responded to their friendliness with unusual warmth. ‘We are a pretty cosmopolitan lot’, he informed Rosalinde on 30 June, ‘besides Englishmen from different parts of the world, we have three Canadians, one Yank, one Anzac and three pukka Scotsmen. But it is the spirit of the squadron that’s the best thing about it.’ ‘I’m in for all the horrors of war now’, he had told his ‘dear old girl’ on 16 June, his ﬁrst full day with 25 Squadron. ‘I have just been shaving in my 20 centimes mirror by a window with a jug of scalding hot water; at my side, a fair size iron bedstead with “some” mattress and an array of clean white sheets all made up; behind me, my batman hard at work unpacking my kit. I can see him now, carefully sorting out the conglomeration of socks.’ A few days later he moved to a ‘quaint place’, which he sketched for Rosalinde. It had ‘an old-fashioned high wooden bedstead (very comfortable), a weird collection of pictures in improvised frames – two or three religious ones with halos scattered about them’, and two of Gladys Cooper, a famous actress. He went up with an experienced sergeant observer to get his bearings on the 16th and took part in his ﬁrst patrol next day, ﬂying a machine named ‘Johnny Walker’: an appropriate name for a man born in a distillery. This patrol, untroubled either by ground ﬁre or enemy ﬁghters, lasted about two-and-a-half hours and he found his ﬁngers got pretty cold at 9,000 feet despite two pairs of gloves. A pilot, however cold, was at least sitting down. His unfortunate observer would spend most of a patrol on his feet – unsupported by a harness and without a parachute – guarding the FE’s tail with one of his two Lewis guns; the other,

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supported on a swivel-mounting ﬁxed to the nacelle ﬂoor, had a wide ﬁeld of ﬁre forward.7 During only his second patrol, on 20 June, Tedder came perilously close to an agonising death. Ground ﬁre ‘put a shrapnel bullet through the nacelle’, he wrote to Rosalinde next day, ‘from one side to the other, cutting one of the petrol pipes and passing between my legs. The petrol came pouring out in a continuous stream over my right foot. I tried to bind it up, but couldn’t, so had to come all the way back with this blank petrol pouring over my foot and making it damned cold: my coat and legs got all frosted over with it.’ Amazingly, ﬂames did not appear and so a career that had barely begun did not end in agony. Six days later, his life (and freedom) again hung by a thread when a Fokker put two big holes through his main petrol tank and a bullet into his engine. He thought he would be forced down in ‘Hunland’, but somehow nursed his machine home. Not surprisingly, Tedder loved the FE 2b and recorded several stories about ‘her’ virtues. Second Lieutenant John Armstrong, for example, was wounded and unconscious at 7,000 feet on 22 June, but ‘the good old FE (Johnny Walker) landed him safely, entirely on her own. The only strange thing about it is that she didn’t bring him back over our side of the line!’ 8 And one day, when Tedder took up ‘a funny old mechanic of mine named Brown’ on a test ﬂight, a sudden bump ‘lifted me clear off my feet and seat, although I had the joystick to hang on to. As for Brown, he was bumped almost out of the nacelle. I could see all of him in the air except his feet.’ The FE did not drop either man overboard and both roared with laughter – once the horrifying shock was over. Tedder’s duties in 25 Squadron consisted of regular patrols to prevent enemy aircraft from interfering with artillery spotting and photography by BE 2cs (‘Quercs’, as he called them9), working close to the front line between Lille in the north and Arras in the south. In addition, he carried out many bombing raids – dropping both highexplosive and incendiary bombs – on marshalling yards, junctions, rolling stock, supply dumps and troop assembly areas. The bombs were small (mostly 20-pounders, although a few weighed 112 pounds) and their impact was far from devastating, but he noticed and – remembered – that persistent raids obliged the Germans to divert aircraft and guns from the front line to protect vulnerable targets in the rear. Better still, when such raids were timed to coincide with sweeps over enemy aerodromes (ﬁring machine-guns to encourage everyone to remain under cover, and dropping phosphorous bombs to produce lots of smoke and thereby make take-off a hazardous business), bombers could do their worst elsewhere and depart safely. Even though little serious damage was caused, German movement was certainly delayed, especially when a

From Reading to Auchel, January to December 1916

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locomotive could be derailed and troops ﬁred on as they ﬂed from the carriages. Best of all, such operations were excellent for squadron morale. His ‘ﬁrst scrap’ on 26 June began as just such an ‘egg-laying stunt’. The pilot behind him saw all four of Tedder’s bombs ‘hit the railway embankment we were after (pure luck of course, but still rather satisfying)’. A fortnight later, on his 26th birthday (11 July 1916), he enjoyed some more luck. The infamous Somme Offensive had begun on the lst, and 25 Squadron’s bombing raids from then on were intended to assist the ground forces. His observer ‘saw an open car (staff probably) going along a road towards a level-crossing’ just as Tedder released his load: ‘one bomb burst at the crossing and the car disappeared, so that’s that’. Gwilym Lewis, a pilot in 32 Squadron, greatly admired the conduct of 25 Squadron at this time. ‘The FEs next door’, he wrote on 2 July, ‘are a most gallant bunch. They have been bombing and making reconnaissances the whole day long … They have suffered badly too for their trouble.’ A week later, on the 10th, he added: ‘I don’t think I should be far wrong if I said they were the ﬁnest squadron out here. We in 32 have certainly learned to respect them. They do absolutely anything. During the last week they have been principally concerned with bombing, and as the days have mostly been dud, they usually perform at night. They have suffered rather severely lately, so we escort them regularly now’, in De Havilland 2 single-seat ﬁghters.10 German airmen, Tedder thought, ‘seem to be much less Hunnish than the more earthly variety. They’re not particularly dashing though, although some of their Fokker pilots can ﬂy splendidly.’ This regard for fellow-airmen did not extend to ‘the more earthly variety’ of German. On 18 July, he gleefully described for Rosalinde a recent gas attack, which turned a broad stretch of country ‘absolutely yellow-brown’, killing everything green. ‘It must be some gas’, he exulted, and ‘I hope the Hun likes it.’ Tedder led a patrol for the ﬁrst time on 20 July and was appointed a ﬂight commander on 10 August.11 It was a rapid promotion, but his inexperience as an airman was offset by his exceptional ability as a navigator. He celebrated by having the nacelles of all his aircraft painted Cambridge blue to honour his old university and, perhaps, to remind everyone of his credentials for command. Tedder remained an ardent Cambridge man until the day he died, and equally alert to his own interests. For instance, on learning of this appointment, Uncle Henry advised Rosalinde that Tedder might harm his new ‘career’ if he now sought leave too eagerly. She told Henry not to worry: her husband was ‘always very quick at feeling what was the best thing to be done under varying circumstances’.

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One such ‘best thing’ was to impress Major-General Hugh Trenchard, head of the RFC in France, who would foster many careers during the next 30 years, none more so than Tedder’s. They had ﬁrst met on 17 July, when Trenchard visited 25 Squadron. ‘He spread a lot of butter about’, wrote Tedder to Rosalinde, ‘telling us what a ﬁne squadron we were, what good work we’d done and how much he was pleased with us all.’ Tedder met him again on 12 September, when Cherry happened to be away and Tedder was in charge of the whole squadron. An over-excited Orderly Ofﬁcer dashed up, gasping that Trenchard ‘was at the ofﬁce in a rage, demanding to see the senior Flight Commander’. Tedder remained perfectly calm. He soon learned, as he told Rosalinde, that the great man ‘wasn’t even annoyed, but he has a very direct curt way of saying things. I had to go round with him as he looked at our machines. He asked a lot of questions, but made absolutely no comments except “Yes”. As we started round, he said: “Well you 25 have been doing good work again lately – as before.” Nothing else, but that’s some compliment for a short-spoken man like that.’ Three months later, he received a more speciﬁc compliment, when Trenchard appointed him a squadron commander. Tedder’s prestige within 25 Squadron had been established since 24 August, when his book was published. What other squadron could boast an author able to write about a subject so remote from reality as ‘the Navy of the Restoration’; a book praised, moreover, in the popular Daily Express? That newspaper, read by the other ranks (rather than by ofﬁcers), thought it a ‘very clever monograph’, distinguished by ‘remarkable clarity and brevity’.12 Like many authors, Tedder affected not to care about reviews or readers’ opinions, while eagerly seeking them out. For days he anxiously watched the squadron’s Recording Ofﬁcer reading a copy. Sadly, he never learned what the man thought of it and never summoned sufﬁcient courage to ask. He need not have worried. That august organ the Times Literary Supplement approved so warmly of Tedder’s ‘carefully documented survey’ that it was used, together with an account of the Battle of Jutland, as a peg upon which to hang a long essay about ‘The Tradition of the Navy’, 1666–1916. Two weeks later, a fulsome review of this ‘excellent little monograph … so instructive and so illuminating’ appeared, in which ‘Mr Tedder’ was welcomed as an ‘exceedingly promising recruit’ to the ranks of those modern scholars who regard the Navy as a vital institution, much more than a mere ‘engine for ﬁghting battles’.13 Throughout his career, Tedder listened with close attention to experienced tradesmen, watched their work carefully and made several adjustments to those aircraft that he himself ﬂew. For example, he used pieces

From Reading to Auchel, January to December 1916

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of wood to keep the double rudder-control wires apart, so that one could be shot away without the other necessarily being damaged. He also put the bombsight in a more convenient position. Cherry saw this ‘and has made everyone adopt it throughout the squadron. “Boom” [Trenchard] also saw it when he came round – had a good look at it and then moved on without a word of comment (as is his way). I don’t think much of it personally. It’s nothing like ideal, it’s merely an improvement.’ Tedder practised aerial combat and night landings regularly. As a ﬂight commander, he was able to appropriate for his personal use an excellent FE, ﬁtted with a more powerful Beardmore engine (of 160 hp instead of 120) and managed to nurse it to a height of more than 15,000 feet, some 3,000 feet above the ofﬁcial ceiling. His leadership, as he became a skilled pilot and experienced warrior, reﬂected his personality: neither timid nor dashing, but sensibly bold. He visited several nearby artillery batteries, partly to discuss methods of helping each other more effectively and partly to chat with congenial ofﬁcers. Like everyone else, he relished the occasional ‘dud’ day, but disliked prolonged bad weather: ‘It makes one awfully slack’, he believed, ‘and less inclined than ever to go up on unpleasant jobs.’ Flight commanders were well paid, as Tedder often reminded his wife,14 and in return he spent hours organising the working day of his men, in the air and on the ground, according to three volatile factors: the desires of Wing HQ; Major Cherry’s interpretation thereof; and unreliable weather. Throughout his service with 25 Squadron, however, he was spared a fourth factor: enemy attack. Not a single bullet, let alone a bomb, was aimed at Auchel in 1916. Tedder swiftly delegated certain duties. One ofﬁcer was put in charge of maps, another made responsible for producing and interpreting a mosaic of photographs, a third was put in charge of bombs, and a fourth looked after machine-guns. He explained to crews their particular tasks, suffered ‘wind up’ whenever they were late home, tested new crews and worried about certain individuals. For example, he thought Second Lieutenant Charles Woollven had exceptional potential as a combat pilot. On Tedder’s insistence, Woollven got a few days off in mid-September, for he was only 19 and very tired. ‘It’ll make all the difference’, he told Rosalinde, ‘and the Major had said it was quite impossible to arrange anything of the sort – I suppose he thought the matter over.’ Woollven, who later became a captain and ﬂight commander in 25 Squadron, is credited with ﬁve victories.15 ‘I’m really awfully lucky in the people in my Flight’, he wrote on 28 October, ‘from the social and civilised point of view.’ It was not only a matter of luck. His professional knowledge and willingness to learn were respected, his temper was reliable and his punishments ﬁtted the crime. ‘I’ve often had ﬁerce arguments with [Charles] Dixon on the subject. He

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is a great exponent of hot air and runs his ﬂight by it, new rules and regulations almost every day. I’ve always tried to have as few as possible and to leave the show to run itself, as far as it can.’ In response, his men made him ‘a rather smart’ walking-stick (embellished with aluminium rings) out of a broken propeller: a highly prized badge of ofﬁce, and regard. But one day he announced that the entire ﬂight must parade at an ungodly hour to receive a blast about better care of aircraft and other equipment. Everyone, he told Rosalinde, ‘expected a long sermon’; instead, he spoke for precisely one minute, ‘no threats, just promises’, which he rarely broke. Such shocking brevity became a Tedder trademark. Tedder’s particular friend was Alwyne Travers Loyd, ‘a pukka Etonian, but without the usual disadvantages and conventions … We often have yarns and discussions together about subjects varying from rowing to philosophy.’ Sadly, Loyd did not survive the war.16 Tedder’s circle developed a fancy to identify themselves with various German champions. Tedder was declared to be ‘Tirpitz’ (and retained that nickname among particular intimates for the rest of his life), because he knew all about war at sea; Horace Davey 17 was voted ‘Bismarck’, or ‘Blood and Iron’, because he was a ﬁery character; Wilfrid Rilett became ‘Little Willie’, because he was very tall and liked a drink; and Loyd became ‘Von Moltke’, because he had undoubted class. On appropriate occasions, Tedder discussed Life with Loyd, who shared – or at least indulged – his dogged determination to grasp its meaning, if any. He began to appreciate the pleasures of a moderate intake of wine and, better still, was kept well supplied by his father with pipe tobacco: ‘So much for the horrors of war and its hardships!’ In September, he found a hut near the aerodrome to convert into a ﬂight sitting-room, offering peace and comfort around a friendly ﬁreplace for those, like himself, who lacked a boisterous temperament and preferred not to drive into the nearest town for drinks and women whenever at liberty. He and Loyd decorated it, acquired books, candlesticks and a gramophone. Naturally, the room attracted interest from on high: ‘the Major has just come in’, reported Tedder to Rosalinde on 2 October, ‘and settled down in a corner by the stove – I expect we shall see a good deal of him here – a warm and peaceful spot!’ Though never a hearty type, Tedder was ready enough to add to what he called ‘a healthy noise’ in his own way. For instance, Loyd had an excellent voice for burlesquing operatic arias (male or female) and Tedder provided a po-faced piano accompaniment with suitably dramatic ﬂourishes. Inspired by the example of Tedder’s comfortable ﬂightroom, the squadron Mess was repaired, painted, fully furnished and richly curtained. ‘The whole effect is awfully successful’, he enthused,

From Reading to Auchel, January to December 1916

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‘old English. Especially at night in the long part of the Mess where we dine, with the long white table lit by three lamps and the black beams crossing not so far above. I’ll guarantee that it looks nicer than any other Mess in huts in this part of the country.’ As for his aerial work, Tedder may have helped to destroy a Fokker biplane on 21 August about ﬁve miles east of Lens. His observer, Lieutenant Graham Nelson, ‘a very good Scotch [sic] ofﬁcer’, ﬁred hard at 200 yards’ range and sent the Fokker down, according to the ofﬁcial report, ‘in steep spirals. Captain Tedder lost sight of it close to the ground’.18 He and Nelson had a similarly inconclusive engagement on 17 September over Douai, about 30 miles east of Auchel.19 ‘Nelson did some good shooting’, he told Rosalinde, ‘and the Hun went gliding steeply down with a stream of smoke coming out of his engine. He’ll want a new engine, I’m afraid!’ He reckoned it was the 31st enemy aircraft that the squadron had either crashed or downed in about four-and-a-half months: ‘not a bad record’, he thought, ‘considering we are not a scout squadron’. Nelson became so ﬁrm a friend by November that Tedder invited him to call on Rosalinde when he returned to England to train as a pilot. Like Loyd, alas, Nelson would be killed later in the war.20 Proud as he was of his ‘cosmopolitan lot’, Tedder detested the growing cult of ‘aces’. ‘I think all this aerial advertisement, as brought to a ﬁne art by the Hot Air Service, is very objectionable and it’s a great pity that our beastly press can’t be choked off gushing over our “heroic Zep destroyers.” If they had the vaguest idea of what men are doing out here day and night without a word of praise, recognition or even thanks, perhaps they’d modify their raptures.’ Fair comment, though he himself had been just as guilty of ‘gushing’ after his squadron claimed Max Immelmann, the ﬁrst great German ace, killed on 18 June. He rejoiced in the stir this combat made in the British press and sent Rosalinde and his parents a full account, including its aftermath: the dropping of a wreath (with a message of condolence) over a German aerodrome and the subsequent receipt of a polite acknowledgement. But Immelmann may not have been killed by a 25 Squadron crew. His machine was seen to disintegrate in the air and a German inquiry, perhaps unwilling to accept that so great a hero had been bested in fair combat, concluded that ‘he had shot off his own propeller, and that the Fokker collapsed under the strain of the self-destructing engine and his attempts to save himself’.21 Lieutenant-Colonel Philip Herbert (commanding 10 Wing) took Tedder on ‘a visit to the Push’, a tour of the Somme front, on 14 October, which he described at length in letters both to Rosalinde and to his parents.

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Signs of ‘an enormous and wonderful organisation’ greatly impressed him when they reached Albert. ‘No confusion, no fuss, trafﬁc as continuous and as complicated as that at Piccadilly Circus directed and controlled by a Military Policeman without a hitch – and that over ground that was Hunland only some two months or so ago.’ Later, the total devastation impressed him even more: ‘the only way of telling that a particular stretch of land had been covered by a village was by seeing here and there a big pile of half-powdered brickwork showing above ground, or perhaps a battered stone cross showing where a churchyard had been … You know what a ploughed ﬁeld looks like? Well, imagine some form of giant plough which made the land all pock-marked instead of seamed with furrows.’ Yet it also struck him ‘how soon Nature heals – coming back, we passed alongside a wood absolutely one mass of luxuriant greenery and the air full of the singing and chattering of birds’. For ten days in October, Tedder acted as CO, while Cherry went on leave. A sign of elevation to come, but at the time he regarded it as ‘a beastly job, as I’m not allowed to ﬂy at all.’ Free use of a big ﬁve-seater Crossley motor-car was small consolation for being required to sleep with a telephone receiver on his pillow. Although standing no nonsense whenever duties were poorly performed, he was too self-aware, too whimsical, to play the inspiring leader role with conviction. ‘You should have seen me last night’, he wrote to Rosalinde on 19 October, ‘hot-airing a new draft of men, a dozen of them. It was really rather comic. I had them in one by one, asked them about two questions and told them what sort of a squadron they’d come to and what they’d got to live up to (in about a dozen words). It was rather awful saying the same thing again and again.’ An attendant sergeant major ‘seemed quite bucked about it though – of course, he is a regular hot-air merchant’. By November, 25 Squadron was working (when rain, high wind and low cloud permitted) mostly between Lens and Arras. But there were frequent ‘long shows’, in an arc 50 miles east of Auchel: from Lille in the north through Valenciennes to Cambrai in the south. This was cruelly cold work. Tedder dressed most carefully, wrapping himself in a vast goatskin coat and smearing his face liberally with vaseline, but still he froze. ‘Actually’, he recalled, ‘one felt much worse at the end of a ﬂight, on the ground, when one’s blood began to ﬂow again into those parts that had become painlessly numb.’ He now had a new ‘bus’ (aeroplane), ofﬁcially named ‘Zanzibar X’, one of many paid for by patriotic colonials. But only for another four months: it became Manfred von Richthofen’s 27th victim on 17 March 1917.22 Early on 9 November 1916, Tedder led a patrol of six FEs into a vigorous battle with eight enemy machines over Henin-Lietard, ﬁve

From Reading to Auchel, January to December 1916

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miles east of Lens. His observer, though quick and keen, was inexperienced. ‘He’s a rowdy young gentleman on the ground’, Tedder remarked, ‘the only noisy individual in the ﬂight.’ Together they sent a ‘Roland Scout’ (probably an Albatros D1 or 11) down, ‘apparently out of control’, according to the ofﬁcial report, ‘in a spinning nose-dive – a piece of metal was seen to ﬂy out from the Roland’s engine, followed by a stream of smoke’.23 Tedder told Rosalinde, ‘We thought he’d certainly crash, but one of our other people thinks the Hun got control before he reached the ground and managed to land.’ The squadron’s largest battle followed on 23 November: ‘eleven of us against about 20 Huns’; a battle in which, as Tedder reported to his wife, ‘I had a very lively time at the beginning.’ The FEs bombed a rail centre east of Arras and were harassed all the way home, suffering several casualties, but no machines were lost.24 ‘I’ve never been so energetic in the air in my life. My observer was pas bon; couldn’t make up his mind which Hun to ﬁre at – the air seemed thick with them – and my back gun was out of action, so I had to keep things going by aviating. In other words, I wasn’t ﬂying level for two seconds on end, ﬁrst up on one wing tip and then on the other … I must say that in a way I rather enjoyed it. Why no-one collided with a Hun or FE, I don’t know.’ Prior to Tedder’s arrival, the squadron had suffered only a single death (on operations or in training), but during his six months with it 20 men were killed, 27 wounded or injured (not all seriously), and seven captured: a total of 54 casualties; that is, an average of about two every week.25 Both losses and victories increased towards the end of the year, as the Germans re-organised their air service, introduced better machines, became distinctly more aggressive and less ‘amusing’, as Tedder had so often described them. ‘The old Hun is quite getting his tail up these days’, he informed his parents on 5 December, ‘what with his new machines and engines.’ Within a week, Tedder’s turn for leave at last came round and he joyfully left Auchel and its pyramids. To his surprise, he did not return to 25 Squadron when his leave ended. Without realising it, he had left many men with whom he had shared much hard labour and extreme danger, men whom he would rarely meet again. At the same time, his career as a combat pilot ended, with 323 hours in the FE 2b to his credit,26 although it would be a long time before he accepted that this was so. Instead, his capacity for practical organisation having been observed, he began – with some reluctance – a long and increasingly distinguished career in ‘management’.

6 Unimpressive, a Wet Blanket, Not Much of a Leader? From the Western Front to Shawbury, January 1917 to May 1918

As usual, Tedder managed to stretch his leave beyond the authorised ration. Thanks to Trenchard, ten days became 20 and he did not return to Auchel until 31 December 1916. Twenty days permitted a dutiful visit to his parents and sister in Devon, as well as many blissful hours in London with his wife and a son whom he had barely seen. There was also time to enjoy the company of Una, the Elder family and various friends; time also to rent what turned out to be ‘a frightfully draughty’ house for Rosalinde and Dick in Hampstead. Tedder then returned to Auchel – but not to 25 Squadron. From New Year’s Day 1917, Tedder took command of 70 Squadron and was promised promotion to the lofty rank of major. Typically, it took the RFC nine weeks to get the promotion gazetted.1 Until then, he remained a mere captain. As an undecorated airman of limited experience, unknown to anyone in this squadron and replacing a popular commander, his position would have been difﬁcult enough even as a major, because 70 Squadron was at that time a sadly battered collection of men and machines. At ﬁrst sight, squadron members found him ‘unimpressive, a wet blanket, not much of a leader’, and mocked him as ‘the sort of chap who always wore his hat slap on the middle of his head’.2 Of six wartime COs, only Tedder was undecorated for gallantry.3 And yet very few airmen could match his rise from ﬁrst solo to squadron commander in under eight months. During the next six months Tedder would win over many of his critics and show the energy, professional knowledge, personal resilience

From the Western Front to Shawbury, January 1917 to May 1918

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and obvious interest in everyone’s welfare needed to make 70 Squadron once again an efﬁcient, conﬁdent ﬁghting unit, one in which there were at least some off-duty hours of comfort and fun. He began his reign by answering numerous letters congratulating him on his promotion: a pleasant task that did nothing for the new squadron, but a great deal for the morale of its new commander.4 His squadron, though currently at a low ebb, had earned an outstanding reputation on the Somme front during the second half of 1916. A vivid account of its hard service – which cost the lives of 27 of the original 36 pilots and observers in only nine weeks – was written by an observer, Alan Bott, and appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine in April. Published as a book in August 1917, An Airman’s Outings remains a highly regarded account of aerial combat.5 He was ideally placed, as a result of his own patrols, combats and bombing raids over ‘Hunland’, to realise that Bott had written an accurate as well as lively narrative, and to judge the author’s quality of mind. He took four of Bott’s opinions very much to heart and made them his own, for the rest of his military career. One was that ‘attacks by low-ﬂying aeroplanes on ground personnel and materiel’ would ‘become an important factor in the winning of the war’. Another was that aircraft would ‘soon become predominant’ in all military operations. A third was to wonder what would be the effect on ‘German war-weariness if giant raids on fortiﬁed towns by a hundred or so allied machines were of weekly occurrence’; and the fourth was to imagine the effect on enemy lines of communication if they were bombed every day.6 Tedder’s new squadron had been the ﬁrst equipped with the Sopwith One and a Half Strutter, so called because of an unusual arrangement supporting the upper wings. A robust and efﬁcient two-seater ‘tractor’ type, with a 110hp Clerget rotary engine in the nose and an observergunner seated behind the pilot, it was the RFC’s ﬁrst aircraft which had a machine-gun ﬁring through the propeller arc.7 It was also the ﬁrst to have a rotatable ring mounting for the observer’s gun, enabling him to use it effectively.8 As squadron commander, Tedder was forbidden to lead patrols over enemy territory and obeyed this prohibition – which several other commanders evaded – but he did learn to ﬂy the Sopwith. A machine totally unlike his revered FE, it took some getting used to, for a pilot no longer in daily practice, and two bad landings left him shaken but unhurt. He managed only 55 hours in the Sopwith during six months with 70 Squadron, whereas he had spent 323 hours in the FE 2b during a similar period with 25 Squadron.9 Although he had been an excellent navigator and competent pilot with 25 Squadron, never ﬂinching from combat and carrying out all tasks

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with thoughtful determination, his main strength would be seen on the ground with 70 Squadron, when numerous duties prevented him from ﬂying regularly. Older than most pilots (he was halfway through his 27th year in January 1917), and more thoroughly educated, his diligence and literary skill enabled him to shift paper swiftly and keep the bureaucratic element at higher command paciﬁed. He also had the calm temperament and good humour needed to see men through times of constant patrols and heavy casualties. His efﬁcient administration improved the squadron’s performance, ‘but in such an unobtrusive manner that he gained little immediate credit or reputation’.10 The word ‘unobtrusive’ often comes to mind when contemporaries mention Tedder. As Sholto Douglas, for example, recalled: in 1917 he was already ‘the quietly observant man that he has always been, not an easy man to get to know, with a strong, but sometimes perverse, sense of humour’.11 Douglas, then commanding 43 Squadron (also equipped with Sopwiths), became an important commander in the next war. After eight months of being settled on a single aerodrome, the hassles of moving a squadron caught up with him three times during the next four months. Although hating these upheavals, he saw how they could be turned to advantage by testing everyone’s capacity for efﬁcient planning (his own included) and generating a positive squadron spirit. On the personal front, Tedder fared best at Vert Galand, 30 miles south of Auchel, during March. ‘I have a very comfortable hut to myself’, he told his parents, ‘away in a small orchard with a real bed with a genuine spring mattress in it and also an efﬁcient stove.’ Of the hundreds of letters Tedder wrote to Rosalinde, those written in the ﬁrst half of 1917 seem to be completely lost. Many years later – in August 1941, when another war again separated this devoted couple – Rosalinde and her children explored their garage, ‘and brought down a lot of papers and photos over which most of the afternoon was spent. Among them were letters from Trenchard and Newall congratulating you on a show done on 19 March 1917, also one from Cherry regretting losing you to 70.’ They are gone now, but her letters to him survive, as do a few which he wrote to his parents. Tedder confessed to his parents on 13 January that he had found his new job ‘rather overwhelming at ﬁrst, but I think I can get into it’. Everything was ‘very lax’ on his arrival and ‘in pretty much of a mess’, not helped by the recent move into unprepared quarters. However, Trenchard had visited him the previous day: ‘he had a long talk with me about things. Told me I’d got a big job and that I’d got to do it. Also asked two or three times if I was ﬁt. He was very decent really.’ Colonel

From the Western Front to Shawbury, January 1917 to May 1918

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Wilfrid Freeman, commanding 10 (Army) Wing, was Tedder’s new boss: ‘seems all right, pretty energetic’. Three months later, while at Vert Galand under the command of Colonel Cyril Newall of 9 HQ Wing, he told his parents how much he regretted leaving Freeman. Newall, he wrote, ‘leaves one much more alone than Freeman did, which is nicer and I think better, but of course I was getting to know Freeman personally, quite apart from ofﬁcial things. He was lending me books to read, Henry James and others, and has promised to send some on to me occasionally.’ Like Trenchard, Freeman would prove a good friend to Tedder in later years, helping him into high command and supporting him there. Under Tedder’s command, 70 Squadron paid a heavy ‘butcher’s bill’ of 53 casualties in six months: 24 men dead (in accidents as well as combat), 26 wounded or injured and three captured.12 ‘There is no doubt in my mind’, wrote Trenchard in January 1917, ‘we shall have enormous numbers of machines brought down by the enemy’, thanks to the appearance of the excellent Albatros D.III (with which all 37 of Germany’s ﬁghter squadrons on the Western Front were equipped by spring that year) and to his policy of constant offensive.13 That policy, vehemently criticised in numerous post-war memoirs and histories, was never challenged by Tedder. When Frank Courtney, an experienced Sopwith pilot arrived from 45 Squadron as a ﬂight commander, Tedder sent him back within a week because he found him too outspoken. Years later, Courtney expressed his opinions in print, bluntly and cogently, about the ‘suicide club’ of which he had been a member: poorly trained crews, ﬂying inadequate machines, were despatched without escorts on unrealistic missions by ignorant staff ofﬁcers. Sholto Douglas believed that ‘Trenchard was wrong in his opposition to ﬁghter escorts for bombers. He believed that the bombers ought to be able to ﬁght their way through on their own, but time and time again we found that the bombers suffered tremendous casualties when they ran into a strong force of enemy ﬁghters.’ 14 Seven of Tedder’s 18 Sopwiths were lost over Cambrai and three damaged on two terrible days, 24 and 25 March 1917; 13 crewmen were killed, two wounded and two captured.15 The squadron had been ordered to carry out a long-range reconnaissance over the Hindenburg Line, in an attempt to discover what work was going on there to fortify new positions and prevent an Allied breakthrough. On his own initiative, he increased the size of formations from six to nine, varied the times of reconnaissance, the directions from which formations approached their targets and got more photographs taken: an initiative which provoked Brigade HQ to complain that too many plates were being sent for development! 16 The March 1917 disasters deeply affected Tedder. Forty years later,

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he recalled that 70 Squadron, ‘in the course of three days, lost all three Flight Commanders and all its most experienced crews while attempting to carry out long-range (by current standards) photographic reconnaissance for GHQ. Not one aircraft of the ﬁnal sortie of six returned.’ 17 Rosalinde shared his grief: ‘so many at once’, she wrote, ‘and when you’ve worked with them and trained them and known them so well’. He was sleeping poorly, working too hard, felt 50 years older than he had last year, and was harassed by the need to make another move, to Fienvillers, on 2 April. But Rosalinde refused to allow him to wallow in grief or disparage the raw replacements he received. ‘You must chirp up, old lad’, she told him on the 7th, ‘and remember that these new people have probably just such ﬁne stuff in them as the others and are the makings of just as splendid a squadron as you had – that is, with your help and encouragement.’ A week later she passed on the opinion of Maurice Baring, expressed to A. C. Benson and transmitted via Uncle Henry, that Tedder was doing very well. Baring was famous throughout the RFC as Trenchard’s conﬁdant and his opinion, reﬂecting that of the great man himself, doubtless encouraged Tedder to keep any misgivings he had about the policy of constant offensive to himself. Nevertheless, intense pressure was wearing Tedder down. The squadron grew ever larger, with as many as 50 ofﬁcers regularly sitting down to dinner, and supervision of their efﬁcient employment – on the ground as well as in the air – became a heavier burden as the days lengthened. ‘I’m so afraid you won’t be able to go on standing this’, wrote Rosalinde on 19 April. ‘I’m sure you always do heaps of things you might leave to other people.’ One task he could not delegate was writing letters of sympathy to the parents of men who had been killed; receiving sadly courteous replies, he recalled, hurt almost as much.18 Rosalinde learned, early in May, that ‘her darling boy’ was to be awarded an Italian ‘Silver Medal for Military Valour’.19 The news embarrassed him – ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen an Italian, much less defended his hearth and home from the outrageous Hun’ – but Rosalinde was overjoyed and immediately sought the medal and ribbon from Spink’s of Piccadilly: ‘it’s a very swanky shop with jewellery and old antiques and things’. On 14 May, 70 Squadron moved north to Boisdinghem, a move that took 12 hours on the road, ‘but it’s rather a jolly place we’re in now’, he told his parents on the 19th, ‘lovely views, pretty country and comfortable quarters’. He had encouraged the formation of ‘a nice little orchestra’: ‘we’re quite good really and play every night before and after dinner’. Perhaps it is true, as the novelist Patrick O’Brian wrote, that ‘a serving ofﬁcer in an active war has an intense rather than a lasting grief’.20

From the Western Front to Shawbury, January 1917 to May 1918

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The disasters of March, if not forgotten, had been put ﬁrmly out of mind in May. Six weeks later, on 24 June, he left the Western Front for a training job in England. After a full year of intense activity, on the ground as well as in the air, it was time for him to pass on hard-won experience to the next generation. If the war lasted another year, he could expect a return to the front. As it happened, however, he would hear no more shots ﬁred in anger during the First World War. By the time Tedder left 70 Squadron, the Sopwith had long been ‘hopelessly outclassed’ and on 25 July, only a month after he left (and greatly to his annoyance), 70 Squadron began to re-equip with a machine that would become one of the Great War’s most destructive single-seat ﬁghters: the justly famous Sopwith Camel.21 After two weeks’ leave – not, for once, extended – Tedder was posted to command 67 Training Squadron at Shawbury, a village about seven miles north-east of Shrewsbury.22 Walter Williams, a young farmhand, was sent there shortly afterwards, to plough any land in the camp area not required for ﬂying purposes: maximising food production was becoming a prime necessity by mid-1917. Irish navvies and German prisoners, he recalled, had cleared hedges, ﬁlled in ditches and laid out landing-strips. At the end of his ﬁrst day, Williams was sent to Tedder’s ofﬁce. ‘There, to my surprise and delight, I found a bicycle had been provided for me … This was one of many acts of kindness I would experience during my stay at Shawbury.’ 23 ‘This is a pretty out-of-the-way spot I am landed in’, Tedder told his mother on 13 July. Two other training squadrons were based there, all in ‘a rather primitive state at present. The hangars and huts are about half up at present and the place is inches deep in dust.’ Not that this troubled either Tedder or his wife: it was high summer, they were together indeﬁnitely for the ﬁrst time in more than a year, and they could jointly share the pleasure of watching their infant son grow. The Tedders lived in a farmhouse near the aerodrome: ‘the great thing about it is the food, quite good in quality and also in quantity – considerably above war ration, I’m afraid, if the truth were known!’ Few of the locals had seen ﬁlms, and Tedder encouraged them to attend screenings, held once a week in a large canvas hanger. They were most impressed, especially when an inexperienced operator started a reel upside-down or back-to-front.24 By the end of July, Tedder was beginning to learn about a world unknown to most members of his class before the war, although he got a glimpse of it during his miserable months in Calais. ‘The ignorance of

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the men is too amazing for words’, he told his father. One of the ﬂight commanders had ‘to spend most of the day in his shirtsleeves showing his mechanics the rudiments of ﬁtting – even how to use their tools!’ Tedder had command of a ‘scarecrow of a squadron’ and, since Shawbury lay nowhere near a ﬁghting front, his NCOs were slack, ‘mostly other people’s castoffs’; he had few aircraft, fewer spares and little equipment of any kind. ‘I suppose in time things will change – but the contrast with France is rather depressing.’ Tedder respected almost everyone with whom he had served in France, but a great many of the men he now commanded were no better, in his opinion, than ‘ill-disciplined “Huns”’. They needed the shock of Borstal and trench life before they could be considered ﬁt even to join the RFC. ‘Malingering is one of their specialities and really they have brought it to a ﬁne art! They are so cute too, it is hard to catch them, especially as our medical ofﬁcer is very much a civilian and knows nothing of discipline or of aviation.’ The difference between ‘the efﬁciency and smooth running of the Corps in France and the Corps over here’ saddened, puzzled and angered Tedder. In mid-March 1918, Tedder was told that one of his old patrons (Brigadier-General Philip Herbert, now head of Middle East Training Brigade in Egypt) had applied for his services. He was to attend a weeklong course on navigation and bomb-dropping techniques at a camp near Stonehenge in Wiltshire and leave for Egypt at the earliest opportunity. After nine months together, he would again be parted from his wife and son; and also from the good friends they had made at Shawbury. He had hoped to get a new squadron to take out to the Western Front and collect some of those friends into it, because, as he told his parents, ‘we had quite become a family party’. When news broke on 21 March of a massive German offensive in the west, he felt sicker than ever at this unwelcome posting. But no strings could be pulled effectively and off to Egypt he had to go. Rosalinde and Dick exchanged the rural peace (and relative plenty) of Shawbury for that of a tiny cottage at Darvill’s Hill, Saunderton, just south of Princes Risborough in Buckinghamshire. Tedder crossed to Boulogne early in May and spent a few days at Nancy with what he called the ‘Reprisal Brigade’. Commanded by Cyril Newall, under whom he had served when last in France, the 8th Brigade (as ofﬁcialdom preferred to call it) was exploring a new form of aerial warfare, strategic bombing – one which greatly concerned Tedder in later years. For the moment, however, he was anxious to learn how long-range bomber raids were organised and what instruments and weapons were in use, with a view to training crews in Egypt who might see service in that brigade.

7 A Paper War on the Edge of a Gentleman’s War, in a Vile Place Egypt and Palestine, May 1918 to March 1919

Tedder sailed from Marseille on 11 May aboard the Omrah, an ex-Orient liner of 8,000 tons, as part of a convoy bound for Alexandria with an escort of ‘neat little Jap destroyers’. At 5 p.m. next day, he found himself sitting on the gun platform of one of those destroyers in warm sunshine, writing to Rosalinde and counting his blessings, in order of priority: ‘I’ve got my money’, he told her, ‘one pipe and baccy, all my papers and I’m dry.’ The Omrah had been torpedoed that morning, about 40 miles off Cape Spartivento, the southern tip of Sardinia. Several seamen were killed or injured, but she went down very slowly in a calm sea in broad daylight and the survivors were able to get away safely in lifeboats. Tedder photographed and described her last moments: ‘she began to slide down, smoke still coming out of her funnel; the bows went down, she heeled right over towards us and then smoothly and almost silently she slid down nose-ﬁrst out of sight’. There was, he thought, ‘something pathetic about the trail of smoke she left, which was still drifting away when there was no sign of her’. A few minutes later, Japanese seamen rescued Tedder from a watery grave. This distinction, as he often remarked during the next war, could not be matched by any other Allied commander. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion’, he informed Rosalinde, ‘that if you’re going to be torpedoed, it’s best to do it at the end, rather than at the beginning of your journey; otherwise, you don’t get the full enjoyment of the rest of it.’ En route to Malta, he had time to think of some ‘old friends’ he had lost: ‘my leather coat, my old ﬁeld boots, my log book, my ﬁrst pair of wings – sentimental sort of things, but they’re just what sticks in one’s throat’.

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From Malta, another liner took Tedder and the rest of the ‘shipwrecked mariners’ on to Alexandria. One morning, an unannounced gun practice sounded sufﬁciently like a striking torpedo to snap many frayed nerves. People dashed hither and yon with lifebelts in one hand and what was left of their worldly goods in the other. ‘Oh, it was a lovely scene’, as Tedder described it for Rosalinde. ‘There were beautiful incidents all over the ship and it kept us laughing for the rest of the day.’ Even so, at journey’s end he never saw passengers – himself included – disembark more rapidly and with fewer regrets. On 18 May, after an overnight rail journey from Alexandria, Tedder reached Cairo and was mightily impressed. ‘Oh, my dearest’, he exclaimed to his wife in words that she would later recall with some bitterness, ‘it would be perfect if you were here! It’s hot, but with a clean, dry heat and there’s a breeze practically always. Driving from the station through the streets of Cairo in the morning sun and breeze was simply glorious.’ The Nile reminded him of the Thames at Kew: ‘wide, slow and muddy’. He reported his arrival at Royal Air Force Headquarters in the Gezira Palace Hotel to Brigadier-General Philip Herbert, who welcomed him with open arms. Herbert had been deeply impressed by Tedder’s shrewd handling of 25 Squadron in 1916, when they served together on the Western Front, and had asked for him to be posted from Shawbury to Cairo. ‘He wanted to give me some leave to rest (!) and re-equip. However, I told him I wanted to get straight on with the job.’ After a week in Cairo, Tedder went by rail to Palestine, to see how best his new training organisation could help the squadrons ﬁghting against Turks and Germans. On reaching Jaffa, he wrote to his wife: ‘Here I am, suffering all the horrors of war. Imagine a perfect cloudless English summer evening just before sunset. Fill the air with the sound of crickets and occasionally a lark. Put me in a deckchair on an olive plantation, just able to get glimpses here and there through the trees to where the setting sun is throwing a crimson glow on the mountains which lie between here and Jerusalem. That’s me, “at the Front”.’ It was, Tedder believed, ‘a gentleman’s war’ in Palestine: just dangerous enough to add zest to life, but not enough to threaten it seriously. He had just come from tea in a YMCA hotel that was still offering menus in German – with higher prices hastily written over the original prices, he was amused to notice. Evidently the owner wished to celebrate the liberation, but Tedder hoped that no alert Australians called in, because ‘there’d surely be an exchange of words and blows!’ At another table a recently captured German pilot and observer were also taking tea – with their British guards – and everyone was relaxed after a refreshing bathe. All rather different from Tedder’s memories of warfare on the Western

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Front. ‘I shall always remember Palestine’, he declared, ‘for three things: ﬂeas, ﬂowers and ﬂies.’ From Jaffa, Tedder went on to Jerusalem, where he found the Holy Places a great disappointment. The one site where his reserved High Anglican temperament sensed ‘any atmosphere of dignity and reverence’ was that sacred to Muslims, the Dome of the Rock. Like many British and Imperial soldiers who went to Palestine during the Great War, Tedder was shocked to ﬁnd that the real Holy Places were not remotely like his schoolboy image of them. The happiest moment of his tour came at the Pool of Bethesda where, according to St John, Jesus told a sick man to arise, take up his bed and walk. These words were inscribed on a wall above the pool in 30 languages. Noticing that Fijian was not among them, Tedder nonchalantly promised to send a version to the surprised but impressed White Friar in charge. Back in Heliopolis, Tedder tried very hard during June and July, although without success, to get his dear friend Captain Dudley Allen sent out to join him as a ﬂying instructor. Educated at Merchant Taylors’ School and St John’s College, Oxford, Allen had served under Tedder as a ﬂight commander in both 70 and 67 Squadron. But Allen too, like Alwyne Loyd and Graham Nelson, would not survive the war.1 At no time in his life did Tedder show such obvious affection for anyone, outside his immediate family, as he did for Allen. He did, however, secure the services of an almost equally close friend made during 1917: Captain Christopher Musgrave, from Christchurch, New Zealand.2 ‘Muzzy’, as Tedder usually called him, arrived at Alexandria on 29 June. ‘I knew I should enjoy seeing him again’, Tedder told Rosalinde, ‘but I was surprised how deeply I felt it.’ Muzzy had visited Hemyock while Rosalinde was staying there and Tedder therefore regarded him as a precious link with home. Like Allen, he said, Muzzy ‘knows you and you know him and he knows about some of the old times.’ Tedder gradually found himself pressed by General Herbert into taking command in Heliopolis of 38 Training Wing. It was one of four wings jointly forming Herbert’s brigade and preparing crews for active service, initially in Palestine but later, it was hoped, for the Western Front. Eventually, Tedder would have under him four schools: one at Heliopolis, for tuition in aerial combat, commanded by Musgrave; another nearby at Almaza for artillery observers; a third for ﬂying instructors at El Khanka (ten miles north of Heliopolis), which he had intended Allen to command; and a fourth at Helwan (20 miles south) to teach navigation and bomb-dropping. This last Tedder always regarded as his ‘own show’ because it dealt with subjects of particular interest to him, but he was never able to spend much time there. At El Khanka, in Allen’s absence,

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he himself introduced the systematic, realistic methods of ﬂying training pioneered in 1917 by Major Robert Smith-Barry at Gosport, Hampshire, methods which had been enthusiastically taken up at Shawbury, but had not yet reached either Egypt or Palestine.3 The work at all four schools was as demanding, but as safe, as he could make it: of 680 would-be pilots, no more than 17 would be killed in ﬂying accidents during the last six months of the war.4 Tedder hated being in charge of the wing, full of ‘hangers-on, brass and otherwise’, and also hated being dragged by Herbert into the brigade mess, where he was obliged to dine among a ‘stodgy lot’ of senior ofﬁcers who were ‘trying to say amusing things for his [Herbert’s] beneﬁt. It always depresses me hopelessly.’ Nine-tenths of the ofﬁcers, he told Rosalinde in August, were ‘DUD, really DUD. And I quite see that after a month or two more of this I shall be DUD too.’ He returned to this theme in another August letter. ‘Oh, if only I could get back to England for a week or two and then to France under Boom [Trenchard] again.’ Tedder found that he had many of the qualities needed to ﬁght what he called a daily ‘paper war’ to get his schools functioning properly. These included intelligence (to see most sides of a problem and possible solutions); diligence and literary skill (to prepare and deliver coherent arguments); energy, wit and sensitivity (to argue forcefully, respond quickly and recognise those moments when silence is golden). In addition, he had a priceless ability to keep his temper, no matter how provoked and no matter how petty the issue. Lastly, he was shrewd enough to represent both victories and defeats as sensible compromises, open to change in the light of experience. These gifts of management, already evident in his schooldays, developed well in Cairo; polished in later years by constant practice, they largely explain Tedder’s steady rise to high command. Away from the ofﬁce, Tedder played tennis badly, rode a pony gingerly, explored Cairo diligently, sailed on the Nile in moonlight, dined at leisurely length in carefully selected company, gossiped about happy times at Shawbury and less happy times on the Western Front, summarised each day’s events for Rosalinde, wrote dutifully (at her bidding) to his parents and sister, made numerous pencil sketches and fought hard against ‘the blues’. What he did not do was ﬂy regularly. Most of his contemporaries, especially when they reached a rank as high as major, got into the cockpit practically every ﬁne day, but Tedder found it difﬁcult to resist the call of ground duties. The bloom of Egypt quickly faded for Tedder. Quite apart from Rosalinde’s absence, he found it impossible to get speedy, efﬁcient action in such critical matters as aerodrome construction, supplies of aeroplanes and ground equipment, qualiﬁed tradesmen, unskilled labour and tuition

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programmes that matched the latest developments in France and England. He also believed that isolation in such a backwater harmed his career prospects. As a regular ofﬁcer hoping for a post-war career, Tedder was undoubtedly in some danger of being overlooked while serving far from a major front, but he wisely decided to make the best of a dull job, as generations of ambitious ofﬁcers in all armies and navies had done before him. On the day after the Armistice (11 November), Rosalinde sent him a joyous letter she had received from Una in London. Una and her husband Mark, home from Salonika, had gone out into the Strand to enjoy that ‘Day of Days’: boats tooting constantly on the river, motor vehicles of every kind racing up and down, packed with people, inside and out, all yelling their heads off and waving enormous ﬂags. For Tedder, far from home, the war ended not with a bang but with a whimper. ‘I do feel so very strongly, and more especially since Allen’s death, that anyone who is responsible for this war going on for one day more than necessary has a terrible thing to answer for.’ There was, he thought, ‘singularly little excitement’ in Cairo when the Armistice was announced. A few people ran about blowing bugles, a number of ‘rather merry’ soldiers broke into Egyptian shops (whose owners had annoyed them) and wrecked their own canteens, thanks to tactless ofﬁcers refusing to allow them to stay open an hour longer than usual. Wild rumours circulated that the RAF had decided to break up Cairo, ‘but all the RAF did was to walk about in ones and twos with their sticks under their arms looking very smart and peaceable. As a matter of fact, I think they put up rather a good show.’ On 20 November, Tedder witnessed General Sir Edmund Allenby’s ‘state entry’ into Cairo to celebrate his victories in Palestine and Syria. The lack of ceremony appalled him: ‘it was such an awful anti-climax that it took people’s breath away, so that there was practically no cheering. Two rather dingy-looking motor-cyclists, Allenby and Lady Allenby in one car, followed by about four other cars ﬁlled with brass hats.’ The simplicity might impress people in England, he admitted, ‘but for a native population – I can’t imagine a worse show. I thought that at least he would ride through, and perhaps have a squadron of cavalry with him – even an open carriage would have been better.’ Musgrave had organised a spectacular air display, the ﬁrst ever seen over Cairo, to entertain the crowds waiting to greet the great man. The highlight of the show was a very close formation of six Avro 504Ks from El Khanka, ﬂying slowly in an inverted pyramid, which thrilled everyone. ‘If I hadn’t seen it done’, Tedder told his parents, ‘I should have said it was absolutely impossible.’ He himself never considered such ‘unpleasantly dangerous’ ﬂying, nor did he have the skill for it, but the

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fact that he chose not even to be airborne on such a special occasion suggests that if he were to have a future in the post-war RAF, it would be on the ground. Tedder’s spirits were very low at the end of the war. ‘I still can’t realise that Allen’s gone’, he told Rosalinde on 23 November. ‘Whenever I let myself think about peacetime, I’m brought up short by the fact that old Allen won’t be there to share it all.’ A long letter from an old friend who had spent most of the war as a prisoner of the Germans deepened his gloom: it was a bitter letter, describing ‘the way our men were murdered, tortured and starved’. Tedder did not think the Germans could be treated too harshly, ‘especially when one hears how our men have been treated since they were turned adrift from the prisons and camps. And it isn’t the ofﬁcial or ofﬁcer Hun only – it’s the average ordinary manin-the-street Hun who has been so incredibly brutal and inhuman.’ Encouraged by Herbert, Tedder sent Rosalinde a cable on 25 November, apparently inviting her to come to Cairo with their son. As usual, his characteristic meanness over petty outlays meant that he did not use enough words to make his meaning clear. She was very keen to visit Egypt, having ﬁrst suggested it to him as early as 28 October, but Tedder quickly changed his mind. ‘I did feel a rotter having sent that ﬁrst cable’, he wrote, adding with rare stupidity: ‘I expect the second [cable] was rather a disappointment to you.’ His opinion of Egypt had declined remarkably since May. ‘It’s a vile place’, he now assured her, ‘full of diseases, evil smells and evil people.’ The cost of decent accommodation was fabulous, his promotion was lost, no permanent commission was likely and he therefore hoped for an early escape to England. Persuasive reasons, but not perhaps the whole story. Despite endless and often incoherent protestations about how difﬁcult it was to live without her by his side, Tedder actually coped perfectly well. His love for her was of an idolising kind that ﬂourished best in her absence. He saw her as a safely isolated focus for daily outpourings that clariﬁed his mind and paciﬁed his spirit. Though never robust, Rosalinde would have been resilient enough to survive a visit to Egypt; other white women did. Writing on a bleak November day in England, she thought a warm Egyptian residence would be ‘very heavenly’. And more than 20 years later Tedder would again ﬁnd good reasons to resist Rosalinde’s urgent desire to join him in Egypt. Early in December, having assured his wife for the umpteenth time that life without her was empty of meaning, Tedder embarked on what he cheerfully described to his parents as ‘one of the best holidays I’ve ever had’. With his good friend Musgrave for company and three other

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ofﬁcers, he sailed up the Nile to Asyut, about 220 miles south of Cairo, aboard a big double-decked paddle-steamer. From Asyut, he took the opportunity to visit magniﬁcent temples at Abydos, Thebes and Luxor, returning to Cairo after 17 fascinating days away from his paper war. During this long holiday, he composed for Rosalinde a vivid account (illustrated with many neat sketches), but she would have much preferred to see Egypt with her own eyes. Tedder returned to Cairo early on 22 December. ‘Colossal preparations’ had been made for a review of the RAF next day by General Allenby. Over 160 machines were to be inspected on the ground and 80 would take part in a ﬂypast. In Tedder’s absence, a display of fancy aerobatics had been incorporated into the ﬂypast: ‘wickedly dangerous’, he thought, ‘in the very bumpy weather’. Unlike so many of his contemporaries, Tedder already hated ‘stunting shows’ and would hate them ‘a hundredfold more’ after this one, because Captain Robert Dobbie, ‘the life and soul of the Fighting School’, spun into the ground and was killed.5 Not surprisingly, a miserable Christmas followed. ‘Allen has been coming into my mind repeatedly today’, Tedder told Rosalinde, ‘perhaps it’s Muzzy being here without Allen or perhaps it’s Dobbie going too and leaving another gap.’ An Air Ministry signal informing him that he would not be promoted and that a lieutenant-colonel would shortly be sent out to take over was the last straw. On Christmas Eve, Tedder learned of a call from the Foreign Ofﬁce and Diplomatic Service for suitable candidates and decided to apply. Herbert agreed, very pleasantly, to forward his application and told him that Trenchard was now on halfpay: ‘which suggests that the RAF is not going to be much of a show to be in anyway’. Tedder soon learned, however, that Herbert was reluctant to release him and thereupon decided to use ‘any underhand method’ to get away, even if this meant going into hospital for an inessential operation. He and ‘Erb’ were now totally estranged: ‘we don’t talk much: I stood and he sat and we glared at each other!’ A crisis erupted on 31 January 1919 that brieﬂy claimed all Tedder’s attention: a ‘mutiny’ at the aerial combat school in Heliopolis. More accurately, a strike: the men had grievances about hours of work and living conditions, now that the urgent demands of wartime were over, but mostly they were exasperated by the absence, nearly 12 weeks after the Armistice, of reliable, ofﬁcial information about their prospects of returning home and getting out of uniform. Tedder visited their huts (14 of them, containing some 400 men), asked each man in turn if he was prepared to work and promised to arrest those who refused. Unlike other senior ofﬁcers, he regarded this apparently alarming situation as ‘a comic show’ and ‘the humour of it nearly gave me away once or twice!’

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Not a single man said no and Tedder then told all the NCOs, assembled in the Sergeants’ Mess, that they were more to blame than the men, ‘who are after all only sheep’. Everyone returned to duty, no one was punished and Tedder arranged for the colonel in charge of demobilisation to address the men and give them ‘some facts and hope’. On 5 February, his day was ‘completely messed up’, he complained to Rosalinde, by the arrival in Cairo of a Japanese prince, Saionji Kimmochi, en route to the Paris peace conference.6 With ill grace, Tedder took the prince and his attaché on a tour of the observers’ school lasting ‘two and a half weary hours’ to admire some realistic target models, with electric ﬂashes and little puffs of smoke, before sending them up in a couple of aeroplanes to watch a practice attack on a large dummy village. ‘They were enormously interested, but one couldn’t help wondering all the time if it was wise to show them all these things. One felt they were taking it all in most carefully and – I don’t trust them an inch somehow.’ Saionji was an elderly retired politician, Frencheducated, and got on comfortably with Europeans, but Tedder did not even mention the Omrah incident to him, much less express any thanks for his rescue by the prince’s countrymen. Tedder at last acquired his own aeroplane, a BE 2e, in February and began to ﬂy regularly for the ﬁrst time since arriving in Egypt, more than eight months ago. ‘I ﬁnd I have quite got out of practice’, he confessed to Rosalinde on the 3rd, ‘with my judgment of approach in landing, though my actual perch is usually alright’, and he was not too proud to seek special tuition from one of his instructors. On 10 February, he helped to search for a lost machine. It was his ﬁrst – and only – ﬂight over the real desert: for some 30 miles, towards the salt lakes of Wadi el Natrun, north-west of Cairo, before returning via the Delta to Heliopolis after a ﬂight of nearly three hours. A week later, on the 17th, he led the last ‘attack’ of his career: on an army camp at Mena, defended by aerial ‘Huns’, and showed that the skills learned with 25 Squadron had not been forgotten. He was entirely happy for once and enjoyed ‘an amusing pow-wow with all the pilots’ after landing. Next day, Tedder was happier still on learning that he had in fact been promoted to lieutenant-colonel, back dated seven months to 23 July 1918. He received a cable from the Colonial Ofﬁce on 22 February asking him if he wished to return to Fiji. Tedder had no intention of doing so, but was eager to use the offer as a lever to get away from Cairo. ‘I believe England is pretty bad’, he told Rosalinde, ‘but it couldn’t be as bad as it is here – I don’t believe any place in the RAF could produce such a wonderful and unique galaxy of incompetents as Middle East HQ, it would be comic if it were not almost tragic.’ Two days later, his replacement arrived and Tedder gratefully escaped from Cairo early in March 1919.

PART III 1919 TO 1940: CLIMBING

8 Shaping a Squadron in Peacetime at Home, on the Brink of War Abroad From Bircham Newton to Constantinople, May 1919 to August 1923

Tedder returned to England on 18 March 1919. He had been away from Rosalinde for more than ten months; their son Dick was then 32 months old and Tedder had seen only 11 of them. Joyous reunions followed with Una and Mark, whose service in Salonika had been far harder than Tedder’s in France or Egypt. Many happy hours were also spent with the Elder clan and (separately) with his parents and Margaret. Their joy was brieﬂy interrupted on 2 April when Tedder learned that he must revert to the rank of major, having proudly worn the distinguished insignia of a lieutenant-colonel for a mere six weeks. He was somewhat consoled (though Rosalinde was not) by the payment into his account of ‘oodles of lovely back pay’ in recognition of the eight months during which he had commanded 38 Training Wing in Egypt. Tedder was posted to a virtually moribund unit at Witney (ten miles west of Oxford) early in April and found plenty of time to take up rowing again. The RAF’s very existence hung by a thread and every day found it smaller: a strength of nearly 300,000 ofﬁcers and men at the Armistice in November 1918 would dwindle to a mere 38,000 within a year.1 Tedder rented a cottage on Naphill Common, some 30 miles east of Witney, for Rosalinde, Dick, a maid and himself at weekends. Tedder anxiously considered his future. On 12 April he had written to the Colonial Ofﬁce and received an encouragingly prompt reply on the 30th, informing him that he would not lose ‘seniority, promotion or emoluments’ if he chose to resume his career in the Fiji Civil Service. With that option in the bag, he called on Trenchard and other senior

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ofﬁcers in London in an attempt to discover whether they thought the government would want an air force in peacetime; and if so, whether there was likely to be a place in it for him. Nothing, he learned, was certain. He visited his old patron Wilfrid Freeman in Oxford: ‘he doesn’t recommend digging in too solidly’, Tedder reported to Rosalinde on the 27th, ‘no-one knows how long one may be in any spot’. Freeman’s advice proved sound, because on 20 May Tedder was sent to command 274 Squadron at Bircham Newton, about 12 miles north of King’s Lynn in Norfolk. ‘We’ve got more or less decent rooms’ in a nearby village, he told his father on 26 June, but this would probably be his last RAF job. Very few permanent commissions were to be offered, ‘and as I haven’t been in the limelight very much for the last two years or so, I don’t stand much chance’; he therefore expected to return to Fiji shortly or possibly to the Dorset Regiment, if they were prepared to overlook his uncertain knee. Meanwhile, Tedder faced the task of combining the remnants of four different units into one, and dealing with a ‘weird menagerie’ of machines: ten ‘Super Handleys’ (Handley Page V/1500s, the ﬁrst British four-engined bomber and the largest aeroplane yet built in Britain), three ‘Baby Handleys’ (0/400 twin-engined bombers, which were in fact very large machines) and an assortment of biplanes of conventional size.2 On 13 July, in a letter to his father, Tedder described a recent visit to Beardmore’s factory at Dalmuir, near Glasgow, to collect a brand-new Super Handley, one of the last taken on charge by the RAF. Having tested it locally, including a ﬂight over his birthplace at Glenguin distillery, ‘which had its interest for me’, he collected 40 bundles of War Loan leaﬂets (a thousand in each) and helped to scatter them widely as they trundled south to Bircham Newton at a steady 80mph. To his delighted surprise, Tedder was offered a permanent commission in the RAF as a ‘squadron leader’ (a new title, equivalent to the Army’s major) with effect from 1 August 1919. He might, he hoped, win promotion to ‘wing commander’ (lieutenant-colonel) within a few years;3 and he would be in at the start of a new service offering exciting prospects that could not be matched either in the Army or in Fiji. Tedder had charge of what he called an ‘appalling rabble’ of about 400 men, who had recently gone on strike, thanks to the ‘hopeless slackness’ allowed since the Armistice. It was a surprisingly shallow judgement, especially given his experience at Heliopolis in January 1919. Many men, like Tedder himself, wished to make a career in the new service. They understood that it took time to dismantle a gigantic war machine and replace it with a small peacetime service, but during almost nine months since the Armistice was signed, they had received hardly any

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ofﬁcial advice about their prospects. Worse still, very poor living and working conditions, acceptable only in wartime, were made worse by tactless, ignorant and lazy ofﬁcers and NCOs – as Tedder privately admitted. On returning from a sports day in Norwich on 1 August, Tedder and Rosalinde (with their child) were met at the camp gates by a group of airmen in belligerent mood who thrust into his hand a piece of paper listing several requests. Petty individually, when considered together they revealed an unhappy camp. Such matters as guard duty, leave passes, transport, meals, recreational facilities, proper and just punishments were all in need of review. On the other hand, as Tedder told his father with rare – and grossly exaggerated – passion, ‘Our pleasant airman of these days’ hates to be smart or clean, and ‘hasn’t got half the self-respect of a Solomon Islander’. By a combination of straight talking and inviting the submission of written grievances, Tedder got everyone back to work without a public fuss. At the men’s request, he gave a series of short lectures on clothing and how to look after it, cleanliness and its advantages, discipline and its purpose, crime and how to avoid it, and leave regulations – readily admitting to his father that he was himself learning a great deal from these lectures. He deeply regretted, yet again, the absence of Dudley Allen and so many other quality ofﬁcers he had known; he regretted also the lack of ‘a bunch of old soldiers among the men to mother the recruits and lead them in the right paths’. By February 1920, 274 Squadron had been disbanded and Tedder now commanded a re-formed 207 Squadron.4 To his relief, the authorities decided in April to abolish the Super Handley, for which no likely employment justiﬁed its difﬁcult and expensive maintenance. Fortunately, Tedder was provided with an efﬁcient machine in March 1921, the two-seater de Havilland DH 9a, which the squadron kept for the next seven years. The ‘Ninak’ was superior in every respect to the machines he had ﬂown during the war, and was the basic reason why he would look back on his later years in command of 207 Squadron with such satisfaction. One of the only aeroplanes to be produced in quantity by Britain, the United States and the Soviet Union, even its replacement – the Westland Wapiti – was based on the same airframe.5 Late in 1919, the Tedders moved into grandly named ‘Eton House’ in Docking village, just north of the aerodrome. It was, in fact, without electricity and quietly falling down, yet ‘our disreputable old scoundrel of a landlord’ had the nerve to seek an increased rent during Docking’s nonexistent ‘summer season’ of 1920. By the end of 1921, Eton House would be ‘absolutely unﬁt to live in’ and Tedder was obliged to send his family off to rooms in Hunstanton, on the coast of The Wash, about seven miles

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north-west of Bircham Newton. Not until 1922 was the Air Ministry able to provide him with an ofﬁcial residence and some basic furniture. Meanwhile, during 1919, he set about improving the quality of life in Norfolk. He did all he could – by planting shrubs and ﬂowers, clearing weeds, laying out a tennis court and liberal use of paint and whitewash – to make the aerodrome and its buildings places where ofﬁcers and men could enjoy their work. To please his parents, he registered as a voter, and pleased them still more by expressing a decided preference for the ‘solidity’ of Asquith to ‘the intangible wizardries’ of Lloyd George. He bought his ﬁrst motor-car (an Allday’s Midget, ‘a quaint little thing’ with just enough room for two small adults and a child) and got his wife pregnant again: this time with a daughter, Mina Una Margaret, born on 9 September 1920 in a London nursing-home. One heavy expense was unavoidable: new uniforms, ‘though there are rumours’, he told his father, ‘of a grant which may help to pay for the buttons.’ Early in May 1920, Rosalinde had suffered a severe shock from which she never wholly recovered. Mark Elder, Una’s husband, obtained a position with the Foreign Ofﬁce – and, it seems, with the Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) – shortly after the Armistice. Given his wartime experience of the Balkans, both he and Una were delighted when he was posted to Soﬁa, capital of Bulgaria, in February 1920. Una accompanied him, but contracted smallpox and died, very suddenly, on 29 April;6 she was 32. Rosalinde rarely referred to her again, most of their letters to each other and also Una’s diary appear to have been destroyed, and years later Rosalinde’s close friend Ann Elder (Mark’s sister) recalled that terrible tragedy: ‘our youth died with dear Una; of course we had good times afterwards, but life was never as much fun, not for any of us’. Tedder attended the RAF’s second annual dinner at the Savoy Hotel in June. Such occasions were not to his taste and hurt his pocket, but Trenchard himself presided as Chief of the Air Staff and Tedder wished to be seen, especially since he had ‘succeeded in getting an invitation’ to the great man’s wedding, at St Margaret’s, Westminster, on 17 July 1920.7 He was keenly aware that Trenchard’s inﬂuence, like his voice, reached a long way. He could easily make or break the careers of middle-ranking ofﬁcers in so new and small an air force. Consequently, Tedder seized every opportunity to make a good impression and was rewarded in May 1921, when Trenchard selected him as an ofﬁcer suitable for presentation to the King at St James’s Palace.8 Although Trenchard chose to ignore his ‘gentle angling’ for an instructor position at the staff college that the RAF proposed to open early in 1922, he did summon him to London (with three other commanding ofﬁcers) in December 1921 to hear their

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grouses, advise them that current defence spending policies would hasten ‘the ultimate supremacy’ of the RAF, and send them away suitably inspired. On returning to Norfolk from Trenchard’s wedding, Tedder had revived a skill last practised on the Western Front in 1917: a squadron move, carefully planned to get everyone safely to the desired destination at almost the same time and no worse than exhausted. They travelled in 14 vehicles (with half a dozen aeroplanes following later) about 140 miles via Grantham to Strensall, north of York, where they set up camp for two weeks. They co-operated with soldiers in exchanging wireless messages to help direct artillery ﬁre accurately and give information about the location of ‘enemy’ forces. As higher authority noticed, everything was sensibly organised, everyone showed a pleasing enthusiasm in spite of wretched weather, and Tedder was therefore invited to repeat the venture in the summer of 1921, which he did with similar success. ‘Tedder’s idea of peacetime service’, recalled Allan Perry-Keene half a century later, ‘included giving every ofﬁcer a job other than just ﬂying.’ Perry-Keene wanted workshops or transport, but was put in charge of ‘entertainment’ and protested, but Tedder told him that an ofﬁcer must be able to turn his hand to anything and keeping up morale was as important a job in peacetime as in wartime. A concert was due shortly (on 8 October 1920) and Perry-Keene was not only to produce it but also to perform.9 Tedder himself hammered the piano at this and other concerts and gallantly accompanied the squadron jazz band whenever asked. Less wisely, he returned to the rugby ﬁeld and in October 1921 succeeded in laming himself for ten days, much to Rosalinde’s amusement. Shooting proved a far safer pursuit, for him at least, because he still had a sharp eye. In October 1921, Group Captain Hugh Dowding, head of 1 Group (at Kenley, south of Croydon) visited Tedder to discuss a proposal to use Bircham Newton as a base for bombing practice. Inﬂuenced perhaps by Trenchard and Freeman (neither of whom regarded Dowding highly) and by what he had himself heard about Dowding’s methods of command on the Western Front in 1916, Tedder allowed an unduly blunt tone to colour his response to the proposal. Nothing, he said, could be done unless he received appropriate equipment and personnel speciﬁcally assigned for this task; he had nowhere to store explosives safely, and all nearby land was currently used for cultivation or grazing and could not be bombed. Tedder’s manner displeased Dowding, and a year later he came near to breaking Tedder’s career. During 1922, there was much talk in both air and naval circles about bombing effectiveness. Could aircraft carry bombs of sufﬁcient weight and drop them with sufﬁcient accuracy to sink capital ships at sea before

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they were themselves destroyed by anti-aircraft ﬁre? Two squadrons (207 and 25) took part in trials, held south of the Isle of Wight, in July and August, and Tedder himself, piloted by Flight Lieutenant Arthur Pryor, acted as one of his squadron’s bomb-aimers. Their target, using dummy bombs dropped by aircraft attacking singly or in formation from various heights, was the Agamemnon, a battleship now retired and radiocontrolled. ‘We carried through the programme without a hitch’, boasted Tedder to his father on 14 July, ‘all the machines functioned well and the formation was really ﬁrst-class.’ Even so, they managed very few hits, thanks in part to bad weather but mostly to deﬁcient equipment (bombs, sights and the aircraft themselves). Trenchard, who thought the results ‘better than he expected but not good enough’, had a long talk with Tedder about the trials. He also conﬁded to him details of a ‘newspaper ramp against the Air Ministry, provoked by the Admiralty’, which wanted to recover control of its own air service (lost when the RAF was created in April 1918) by means of what Tedder called ‘disgusting backdoor wars and intrigues’. More trials followed early in August and both squadrons obtained a few hits and several near misses. To their great embarrassment, engine failure forced Pryor and Tedder to ditch a few miles south-east of the Isle of Wight, but close enough to a destroyer for an easy rescue. Although Pryor suffered nothing worse than a soaking and Tedder only got his feet wet, both men had to endure endure naval smirks. Having escaped from the destroyer, they led six machines in an attempt at formation bombing: the other ﬁve dropped four bombs each when Tedder did so. Twenty years later, Tedder would surprise American colleagues with his personal understanding of the problems they faced in perfecting this technique. Neither the Admiralty nor the Air Ministry were able to take from these trials a convincing answer to a vital military question: can warships at sea be sunk from the air?10 Trials in the following summer were just as perfunctory and came no closer to providing an answer.11 At the end of August 1922, Tedder reported that the DH 9a was unsuitable for precision work, even if it were to be equipped with an accurate bombsight and efﬁcient release gear. Wireless communication was necessary for formation bombing, both to keep machines well closed up and to ensure that they all released immediately on the formation leader’s order. On 17 September 1922, Tedder took his family to Walcott on the northeast coast of Norfolk for a well-earned and long-planned holiday. Two weeks later, he was on a ship off Cape Finisterre (on the north-west coast of Spain) en route for Constantinople. Orders had arrived on the 19th, allowing him nine days to get 150 ofﬁcers and men, plus 12 aircraft (taken

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to pieces and packed into crates with essential spares), moved by rail from Bircham Newton to London and on to Liverpool, a distance of some 280 miles. They went aboard two ships, Eboe and Khartoum, and sailed on the 28th. With Rosalinde’s help, Tedder had successfully shaped a squadron for service at home in peacetime and now had to re-shape it for service abroad, because Britain was suddenly on the brink of war with Turkey. Once he recovered from the shock of such unexpected orders, Tedder was glad that Trenchard had singled him out for this exhilarating challenge. Having spent the last 16 months of the Great War in training, Tedder welcomed a chance to show what he could do in the ﬁeld. Shortly before leaving England, he received a welcome telegram from Trenchard. Your squadron’s ‘great reputation’, he wrote, will be enhanced by ‘the rapidity with which you get your machines into the air and at work on reaching your destination’. Four squadrons12 and a powerful ﬂeet were to support Lieutenant-General Sir Charles Harington, Commander-inChief of all British forces in Turkey. The ‘dramatic and bizarre’ 13 Chanak crisis had erupted early in September 1922, when Mustafa Kemal, hero of Gallipoli in 1915 and now head of a popular rising against both the moribund sultanate and foreign occupation of Turkish territory, advanced to the Dardanelles Straits, having destroyed a large force of Greek invaders in Asia Minor. Kemal threatened a small British garrison in Chanak (Canakkale), a town of strategic signiﬁcance on the Asian coast opposite Kilid Bahr. Lloyd George, the British Prime Minister, Lord Curzon (Foreign Secretary) and Winston Churchill (Colonial Secretary) were all determined to resist him. ‘If the Turks take the Gallipoli peninsula and Constantinople’, asserted Churchill at a Cabinet meeting on 7 September, ‘we shall have lost the whole fruits of our victory and another Balkan war would be inevitable.’14 Ordered on 29 September to deliver an ultimatum requiring Kemal to withdraw from Chanak, General Harington wisely refused; Kemal, equally wise, did not attack British garrisons there or elsewhere. On 11 October an agreement obliged Lloyd George to accept Kemal’s demand for a drastic revision of the humiliating Treaty of Sèvres (August 1920) and Kemal meanwhile agreed to tolerate a British presence in a ‘neutral zone’, enclosing all the coasts of the Sea of Marmara, from Gallipoli to Constantinople.15 In July 1923, after nine months of negotiation in Lausanne, a city in Switzerland with a pleasant climate and many comfortable hotels, a small army of European diplomats concluded an agreement whereby Turkey was freed from foreign occupation. Shortly afterwards, a republic was proclaimed, with Kemal as ﬁrst president. The danger of a major war over Chanak ended, in fact, on the day

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after Tedder arrived in Constantinople. Yet all British forces remained in the region throughout the diplomatic negotiations which followed: far from home, quickly forgotten, quietly decaying, increasingly unﬁt for war and enduring a standard of living some way below that available in Lausanne. In later years, he came to relish the ironies of this long standby, ‘for which we received neither a medal nor the Thanks of Parliament, although the affair did for LG [Lloyd George] and Winston, so it wasn’t all loss’.16 Tedder’s anxieties about getting his aircraft and heavy equipment safely into trains and then aboard ships in England were as nothing compared to the anxieties he suffered while they were unloaded in Constantinople. The ships had anchored off shore and the precious crates had to be hoisted out of the holds, loaded on to lighters, taken off lighters and gently deposited on to the shore – all with very little dockyard assistance, either in equipment or skilled labour. The crates had then to be lifted on to the few small trucks available and transported to a stretch of bleak wasteland near San Stefano, ‘a sort of seaside resort’ outside the city walls, which was his designated aerodrome. Apart from a single-track railway running into the city, there were no facilities whatsoever. Nevertheless, everyone worked with a will, quickly setting up kitchens to produce hot food for those erecting tents, hangars and aircraft or unloading stores in appalling conditions. On one occasion, it took 40 men 20 minutes to move a single aircraft a dozen yards because a torrential downpour had turned the aerodrome into a quagmire. And yet, as Tedder proudly reported to his parents on 14 November, the ﬁrst DH 9a was actually in the air on the evening of the day after it reached the aerodrome in its case, and the 12th and last was ready to ﬂy by the evening of the 13th day ashore. A keen rivalry with 25 Squadron (commanded by Sir Norman Leslie) helped keep everyone on his toes. That squadron, equipped with the Sopwith Snipe single-seat ﬁghter, got a machine airborne ﬁrst, but the Snipe was a much smaller and simpler machine to erect, and Tedder’s men refused to accept defeat on learning that it took off unarmed, unlike their own DH 9a. Thanks largely to Tedder’s initiative, the men’s tents were eventually replaced by wooden huts linked by paths and provided with stoves and distilled water. In his efforts to keep up morale in harsh conditions, with the danger of nasty ‘incidents’ (if not open warfare) constantly in mind, he was helped by the fact that the RAF was still in danger of being carved up between the Army and the Navy. Should that happen, many airmen were likely to lose their jobs, starting with slackers and moaners. More positively, his men were volunteers, sharing his enthusiasm for the new service. That enthusiasm was founded on a belief that air power reduced

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the risk of war by providing early warning of the assembly and movement of armies or warships; threats to bomb these, as well as barracks, harbours, factories and supply dumps, would deter aggressors. The Chanak crisis supported this belief. Aircraft supplied Harington with accurate information about the location of Kemal’s forces, their movements and supply dumps, and in the absence of aerial opposition would have severely damaged those forces, had war begun. Even lightly armed biplanes, given total air superiority, had proven devastatingly effective – as Kemal knew – against Turkish armies in Palestine in September 1918.17 Once his squadron was operational, Tedder never resorted to the easy option of ﬁlling up the men’s spare time with pointless parades and drills. Instead, he was visibly present – supervising improvements to living conditions, organising sports tournaments and concerts, regularly passing on whatever information he could acquire, including newspapers, and ensuring that mail came in and went out promptly. He was proud of his men and never failed to show it. At concerts and dances, he willingly played the piano for hours, even though the music in demand was rarely to his taste. He designed and produced a squadron Christmas card and, without being asked, Rosalinde wrote to the wives of all married ofﬁcers in England and to the single ofﬁcers in Constantinople. Tedder found no more time for ﬂying than he had in Egypt. During nine months of stand-by, he ﬂew on only 12 occasions, totalling some 18 hours, and piloted himself only once.18 And yet he hoped to return to England in time to take part in further bombing trials with the Agamemnon and was therefore eager to co-operate with the Navy in attacking towed targets in the Sea of Marmara. One captain wondered if a towline of 1,000 yards would be long enough; on being informed that 133 yards was ample, he accepted 400. Apart from that episode, relations with naval ofﬁcers throughout these nine months remained merely social. From time to time, they politely admired each other’s hardware and chatted amicably at dinner parties or after rugby matches, but nothing was done to devise regular, realistic joint exercises. Relations with the Army were no closer. No exercises were held either to test the aerodrome’s defences in the event of a Kemalist attack or to test the RAF’s capacity to support ground forces in the event of orders to attack the Kemalists. In later years, when he was required to study both military history and methods of training, Tedder realised more clearly what a rare opportunity had been missed at Constantinople to accustom all three services to the idea of working together – and what losses would probably have followed, had ﬁghting begun, as a direct result of their failure to do so. Here lie the roots of Tedder’s particular strength as a commander in the next war: his constant concern to combine the efforts of all services.

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Group Captain Peregrine Fellowes, head of the RAF detachment, permitted the organisation of one or two bombing exercises on land. Some other squadron commanders, encouraged by Fellowes, achieved spectacular results by ordering their pilots to ﬂy slowly and low over targets. Tedder made the obvious point that real bombing would usually be undertaken against targets provided with defences and that pilots must therefore attack them either at maximum speed or from a realistic altitude. But Fellowes showed little interest in practical training and, like his Army and Navy opposites, even less interest in inter-service training. Having been personally chosen by Trenchard for this mission, Tedder made sure that he kept the great man informed of his actions by writing direct to his secretary, Wing Commander Thomas Marson. This private line to the Chief of the Air Staff (CAS) became of particular importance when Hugh Dowding (now Chief Staff Ofﬁcer at Inland Area, Uxbridge) wrote to the Air Ministry on 5 October, alleging that Tedder ‘deliberately disobeyed orders’ in taking more spares to Constantinople than he ought to have done. He sought ‘disciplinary action’ against him. This bombshell landed on Tedder’s desk, via Fellowes’ adjutant, who invited him to explain. ‘In view of the continual stress laid by the CAS on the vital necessity for rapidity in the erection of the ﬁrst machines’, wrote Tedder on 28 October, ‘I did go against the strict letter of the instructions’ and packed a few engine spares in two small boxes. ‘Had these spares not been brought’, he added, ‘not one DH 9a could have taken the air for at least seven days after our arrival at San Stefano. Most of these spares have already been used up and machines are now hung up for lack of these very items.’ The fact that such a petty incident could be escalated into ‘serious and entirely unsupported charges against my service character’ angered Tedder deeply, especially looking back on those frantic nine days, when he and his men had slaved to show everyone, in and out of the services, how swiftly an RAF squadron could respond to a sudden national crisis; it was ‘the most humiliating and disheartening experience I have undergone’. Tedder received a formal rebuke from the Air Ministry on 8 December, but nothing worse. Fellowes, who knew Dowding well, supported Tedder ‘most aggressively’ and promised to explain the situation to Trenchard personally. He did not know that Tedder had already done so, via Marson, enclosing many photographs: some of machines axledeep in mud or covered in snow, others of ofﬁcers and men smiling cheerfully, despite miserable working and living conditions.19 Marson replied, congratulating Tedder on his endeavours and emphasising that he would certainly be required for the next bombing trials, if his task in Constantinople ended in time; he made no reference to Dowding or to

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the Air Ministry’s rebuke. Dowding’s bombshell, potentially so dangerous, had not exploded, but Tedder never forgave him. In his opinion, Dowding was – and would remain – a petty, vindictive man, without a spark of human sympathy or imagination, quite unﬁt for high command. Nine months in Constantinople left Tedder with no more regard for the ‘dagoes’ of Turkey than for the ‘gyppos’ of Egypt, male or female. The only non-Britons who attracted his sympathy were Russian exiles: he admired their gravity, dignity and, in particular, their singing and dancing. He went shooting regularly (taking the opportunity to discover that certain large barracks observed by his airmen were occupied by fully armed troops) and kept in close touch with Wilfrid Freeman. He visited Gallipoli in March, made many sketches, described the ﬁghting areas and cemeteries, and was deeply moved by the courage of those who fought and died there. Many of his off-duty hours were spent writing his daily letter to Rosalinde (whose absence he felt as passionately as ever) and anxiously looking out for her replies, which were written with an equal passion. In April 1923, after six months apart, she travelled overland to Vienna (without the children, who were safely stowed in Hemyock). He met her there and took her on to Constantinople, where they spent three of the most carefree months of their married lives. News of the Lausanne settlement came late in July and they sailed for England early in August. After three-and-a-half years in command of 207 Squadron, he was succeeded by Vivian Gaskell-Blackburn, who brought it back to England in October. Tedder’s contempt for the Turks and his conﬁdence in British military capacity were absolute, and at this early stage in his career he had a ﬁne disregard for political consequences. ‘One can’t help thinking’, he blithely informed his mother on 26 July, ‘that it would have saved a lot of trouble if we had refused to argue with the Turk months ago and given him a short, sharp lesson. It will probably have to be done within the next two years unless the Turk has changed his character – which seems unlikely.’ Then 37th of 209 squadron leaders, he was clearly in line for promotion to wing commander, and equally clearly in need of political as well as military education. He had, however, successfully disposed of ‘a piece of Turkish delight sufﬁciently sticky to damage several reputations’, and again revealed rare administrative ability, and an even rarer interest in the welfare of men serving under his command.20

9 Good Stuff Separated from Scallywags for the Air Force From Greenwich to Andover, September 1923 to December 1931

As a reward for all his hard and thoughtful work in shaping a squadron for active service, both in Norfolk and in Turkey, Tedder was granted a long rest in London. Trenchard sent him to study at the Royal Naval Staff College, Greenwich, in September 1923.1 The Tedders rented yet another house (modern and well appointed, for once) in Blackheath, within walking distance of the college. Throughout this blessed interlude he was able to wallow in that intensely private family life about which he had so often dreamed during most of the past decade. But, professionally, neither Trenchard nor Tedder got as much out of Greenwich as they had hoped. In addition to producing better staff ofﬁcers, Trenchard also had in mind improving relations with the Royal Navy. On several occasions since the Armistice, the War Ofﬁce and the Admiralty had attempted to abolish the Air Ministry and divide control of air power between themselves.2 The issues, festering for years and hotly debated by senior ofﬁcers in the press, eventually caused the government to make it clear to both sides that ‘goodwill and public spirit’ were expected from all ranks in the Crown’s service.3 Tedder and two ‘gentlemen of distinction’,4 as he described them to Rosalinde, were therefore selected as ofﬁcers capable of displaying such admirable qualities while improving their grasp of paper work. The college ignored inter-service cooperation, although Tedder himself touched on that subject in three lectures to fellow students. He was not invited to talk about his Constantinople experience; nor did anyone mention his book on the

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Royal Navy in the seventeenth century – which was not, he sadly discovered, available in the college library. While at Greenwich he prepared ﬁve lectures, supported by maps, diagrams and lantern slides, which he liked well enough to preserve.5 They gave him a platform from which he could share with a roomful of ofﬁcers (including, he mistakenly presumed, some of the next generation’s naval commanders) the thoughts of an airman who was regarded by Trenchard as one of the next generation’s air commanders. Unfortunately, he later recalled, ‘there was no debate about my lectures; certainly no controversy! It wasn’t a time when Navy and Air talked to each other much, except about rugger. In fact, 15 years passed after Greenwich before I had a real talk with a navy man.’6 His ﬁrst lecture, entitled ‘Considerations Governing the Design of Home Defence Heavy Day Bombers and Day Fighters’, delivered on 5 December, included an analysis of some problems that ﬁghters might face in defending London from bombers in another war. The subject was surprisingly topical: in June 1923, a committee headed by Lord Salisbury had supported the creation of a strong home-defence air force against the supposed danger of French attack.7 Tedder assumed that London itself – not ports, factories, military bases or aerodromes – would be an enemy’s prime target. Bombers of two kinds would be employed: those dropping light bombs ‘for morale effect’ from high altitudes and those dropping heavy bombs ‘for physical effect’ from much lower levels. Lightly armed, long-range single-seat ﬁghters would deal with the former; heavily armed, short-range two-seaters with the latter. Although defending ﬁghters would be handicapped by the absence of early warning, offending bombers would be unescorted, because adequately armed ﬁghters would lack the range to accompany them from continental bases. As a draft for detailed criticism by experienced seamen Tedder’s paper might have led to a useful clariﬁcation of important issues for Air Ministry planners, but it sank without even coming under ﬁre. Early in 1924, Tedder offered a second lecture. This one had an absurd title that he himself, in his Cambridge days, would have ridiculed mercilessly: ‘A Comparison of the Events of the Napoleonic War up to Trafalgar with those of the Seven Years’ War in the Light of their Utility towards Demonstrating the Value of the Study of History and Illustrating the Principles of War.’ Its great merit was to strengthen his belief that victory in war emerged most easily from combined operations in which the respective commanders co-operated honestly with each other, whatever their personal differences; and that a chain of command from ﬁghting front to home government must be clearly set down and accepted by all in authority.

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Tedder’s third lecture, delivered on 15 April 1924, had a more sensible title, ‘The Bomb as a Weapon of Attack against the Surface Ship’, and dealt with an acutely sensitive topic. Based on personal experience, it deserved closer attention than it received. He explained the technical difﬁculties – ‘unsuitable aeroplanes, inaccurate bombs, obsolete bomb racks’ – and frankly admitted that ‘the whole art of bombing is still in a very elementary stage’. The DH 9a, ‘with which almost all our postwar experience of bombing accuracy has been obtained … was not designed to make bombing easy or accurate’. If the pilot ﬂew straight towards his target, Tedder explained, he lost sight of it long before he reached the bomb-release point, and communication with his bomb-aimer was difﬁcult. Moreover, all trials to date – attacking Agamemnon, steaming at 8–12 knots on varying courses – had been carried out ‘without hostile interference’, either from guns or aircraft, although the bombers ‘used sun and cloud for evasion and formation for protection’. No discussion followed any of these lectures, but a month later, in May 1924, Tedder was asked to consider a ‘situation’ set in the near future (October 1925) which was of obvious inter-service signiﬁcance. Supposing a crisis arose between Britain and France, how would he get a ﬂeet stationed in the eastern Mediterranean safely home, given that it must refuel in Malta? He worked out possible French action (by submarines, ships and aircraft operating from North African and French bases), possible British counter-action (from Alexandria, Malta and Gibraltar) and weighed the pros and cons of sailing in daylight or darkness, in concentrated or dispersed formation, assisted by accurate aerial reconnaissance. His clear, sensible solutions no doubt came to mind some 17 years later, when similar situations were matters of life and death. On New Year’s Day 1924, Tedder was promoted to the rank of wing commander (equivalent to captain of under three years’ seniority in the Royal Navy or lieutenant-colonel in the Army). This excellent news, he told his parents, ‘came as a great surprise to me – whatever hopes I had were considerably post-dated’, because in December 1923 the Air Force List showed him no higher than 32nd of 209 squadron leaders in order of seniority. Among numerous letters of congratulation was one from Trenchard himself: he hoped he would ‘continue to do sound and meritorious work for the RAF for many years to come’ and would always follow his career with interest. After Greenwich, Tedder learned, he was to go to Coastal Area, Portsmouth. Suddenly, at the end of July 1924, he was switched to a ﬂying training school at Digby, 12 miles south of Lincoln.8 Although disappointed ‘to lose an exceptionally interesting job in an accessible place’, he told his mother on 30 July that he was glad, on reﬂection, to

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be ‘out of any dealings with the Navy – they are impossible people to deal with at any time and as they are all out to make things difﬁcult now, things will be almost hopeless’. He agreed with a friend’s assessment of naval ofﬁcers as ‘the most ignorant, narrow-minded, self-centred and self-satisﬁed lot of people he had ever met’. So much for ten months of generating ‘goodwill and public spirit’ at Greenwich. Tedder went to Digby in September. As usual, the station offered no accommodation for his family and they rented rooms until the following July, when ‘Digby Lodge’ (by far the Tedders’ grandest residence to date) was ready for occupation. He had charge of 30 ﬂying instructors and technicians, 15 Avro 504N primary trainers,9 six Bristol Fighters, six Sopwith Snipes and 80 pupils, all on short-service engagements (of ﬁve years). ‘A fair proportion of them seem to be good stuff’, he told his father on 10 September, ‘but there is a sprinking of scallywags of the worst description.’ However, he was not allowed to sack them, ‘except under extreme provocation’, such as bounced cheques, unpaid bills or police summonses. During his 27 months at Digby, Tedder got regularly into the cockpit. He piloted a Bristol Fighter on 122 occasions (an average of about once a week) on ﬂights around the aerodrome or on short hops a few miles south to the Central Flying School at Cranwell or further south to 3 Group HQ at Spitalgate, east of Grantham. During 1926, some Vickers Vimys (large twin-engined bombers, appearing just too late for war service) were sent to Digby, and Tedder – who had high hopes, as a Trenchard favourite, of one day commanding a heavy-bomber unit, the RAF’s most prestigious arm – piloted a Vimy on several occasions.10 By December 1925, Tedder’s Digby pupils were mostly ‘good stuff’ with only a few ‘scallywags’ among them. This term, he told his father, we have produced ‘a very much better type of ofﬁcer’, who understood the importance of presenting a sober, disciplined and professional face to a public unconvinced that it needed an independent air force. Tedder worked hard to get that message across to all ranks in kitchens, hangars and ﬂight ofﬁces. He was deeply gratiﬁed at the end of a week-long visit by the Air Ministry Establishments (Economy) Committee when one of its members told him that ‘he’d never seen such a wholehearted unanimous station and everyone they spoke to from CO to AC2 said the same!’ Tedder, of course, had carefully briefed both ofﬁcers and men beforehand and ‘they played up like trumps’. One measure of Tedder’s achievement at Digby is the favourable impression he made on his formidable group commander, Air Commodore Ian Bonham-Carter. If T. E. Lawrence is to be believed, Bonham-Carter was a savage disciplinarian,11 but Tedder thought him

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‘a wonderful man … most charming’, though admittedly ‘an absolute tiger on parade’. Never slow to pick up a cue, Tedder paid more attention to smart dress and snappy saluting than he ever had before (or ever would again),12 and was duly rewarded when Bonham-Carter gave him an excellent annual report in December 1925: ‘the best I have had’, he proudly conﬁded to his father. Another measure was Tedder’s continuing friendship with an equally formidable Wilfrid Freeman, now a group captain and commandant of the Central Flying School, who inspected Digby closely for three days in April 1926. ‘Freeman and I see more or less eye to eye on most of the important questions of ﬂying training’, Tedder was happy to tell his parents, adding that the visitors were ‘rather taken aback by the amount of ﬂying’ going on and ‘very complimentary about the general appearance of the camp’. ‘Having stored up my opinions on the training of short service ofﬁcers until they had matured in a training school for a year or two’, wrote Tedder to his father on 29 June, ‘I decided to let ﬂy at last’ and give the Air Ministry ‘a really “meaty” end-of-term report, which I hope will rouse some people.’13 New entrants into the other services, he wrote, were trained at Dartmouth, Sandhurst and Woolwich ‘in an atmosphere that is permeated with the traditions and spirit of their service. How different it is with us!’ Most short-service candidates were ‘utterly, incredibly ignorant of everything to do with our service’, and yet the RAF’s need for quality was especially acute because junior Navy or Army ofﬁcers were guided by experienced hands in their early years, whereas a young pilot ofﬁcer, ‘from the moment he becomes qualiﬁed to be “Captain of Aircraft” has to make big decisions on his own unaided judgement and his own responsibility and that judgement must be founded not only on technical ﬂying skill, on acquaintance with regulations, but also on morale and esprit de corps’. Without these, the rest was ‘all but valueless’. Tedder interviewed everyone on arrival: ‘to get some idea of the individual’s past history and of his characteristics and also to give him any advice which might seem to be specially appropriate to him as an individual’. He always asked the same questions: Why did you come into the service? What do you intend to do at the end of your engagement? Are you thinking of marriage? Do you know how to manage a bank account? What sports do you play? ‘After the interview, which might last ten minutes or half an hour, I wrote down in a few lines a precis of his history, any remarks which threw a special light on him and ﬁnally, in a few words, my estimate of him.’ He added ‘achievements or crimes’ to these notes as the course proceeded and interviewed the man again on departure. Tedder would then write unofﬁcially to the man’s future squadron commander, offering his opinion and inviting comment on his progress after a few months of routine service. He did this to learn of

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weaknesses in the training system, to learn if his opinion of the man was proving sound, ‘but most important, tactfully to persuade the squadron commander to take a personal interest in his new ofﬁcers … Unfortunately, few squadrons have any arrangement comparable with the senior subaltern in a regiment and one knows cases even of ex-Cranwell cadets, who have been far more thoroughly trained, being allowed to run to seed completely.’ The severe nervous strain imposed on ﬂying instructors deeply concerned him: ‘teaching or trying to teach pupils who are often not too bright … letting them go their own way in the air up to the very last moment and only interfering when a crash would otherwise be inevitable’ meant that during the last weeks of a ﬁve-month course instructors needed ‘very careful and tactful handling’. Their work was obviously vital and yet the RAF failed to ensure that those selected formed a corps d’élite. A bad situation was made far worse, Tedder observed, by the fact that most instructors were in their last few months of service and in the throes of hunting for employment. Such a man ‘is training pupils to ﬁll his own job, for lack of which job he knows that in all probability he is going to be stranded and unemployed’. Even so, he had found an ‘extraordinary’ loyalty to the service among his instructors, but it was ‘a poor consolation to a CO that all he can do by way of recognition in return is to write letters of recommendation to sceptical and unenthusiastic employers’. The Tedders’ third child – a second son, christened John Michael – was born in a London nursing home on 4 July 1926. ‘He is ﬂourishing’, reported a relieved father to his parents that day, ‘and – at present – peaceful. Rosalinde so far seems to be very ﬁt, considering. I took the Brats [i.e., Dick, now nearly 10 and Mina, nearly 6] in for a moment to see the new arrival – great excitement and rather surprising glee.’ On 3 November 1926, Tedder informed his parents that he would be leaving Digby for the Air Ministry in December: ‘Second-in-command to the Director of Training, “Stuffy” Dowding, of whom you may have heard me speak before. I can’t say I relish the prospect.’ On the other hand, ‘training of all sorts in the service will go through me and it is a live subject! Also it is a job which will give one excuses for getting out to visit stations sometimes.’ The family’s latest home (in Brent, north-west London) offered the rare luxuries of both electric and gas power, but Tedder saw too little of it. He was ‘chained to an ofﬁce chair’, he told Margaret on 23 December, ‘smothered in ﬁles and paper in a delectable room in the upper part of a rabbit warren with no view of the sky’ – and no Dowding either, for he had gone to Switzerland for two months. Sadly, no letters survive in which he spoke about the experience of working with a man whom he disliked intensely.

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In July 1927, Tedder learned that the experience would be cut short, for he was chosen to spend the following year studying at the newly founded Imperial Defence College (IDC), near Buckingham Palace. This was the second year of a course run by a commandant, assisted by three instructors (one from each service), and designed to inform both British and Imperial ofﬁcers, plus a few civilian ofﬁcials, about ‘the broadest aspects of Imperial Strategy’. In order to guard against its becoming ‘wholly academic’, the Chiefs of Staff Committee would refer ‘concrete problems of Imperial Defence’ to students for consideration and report. The instruction, pitched at a broader and higher level than a service staff college, supplemented by lectures from government ministers and other worthies, focused on ‘the problems of war as a whole’ and attempted to measure ‘the dangers to which the Empire may be exposed in the future’.14 In short, a year at the IDC was intended to introduce outstanding medium-rank ofﬁcers to those inter-service and national issues that would concern them if they actually reached high rank. This intention was abundantly achieved: those who studied there between 1927 and 1939 included many men who would become eminent wartime commanders. Tedder’s initiation ‘into the mysteries of Grand Strategy, Imperial Finance, Trade and Defence’ began in January 1928. At ﬁrst, he admired the commandant, Vice-Admiral Sir Herbert Richmond: ‘that rare phenomenon,’ he told his father, ‘a sailor who is really well educated’ and a man whose persistent advocacy had helped to bring the college into existence. The students, 26 servicemen and four civilians, were ‘a mixed bag from all over the world and all sorts of jobs, a most interesting little collection’. In October he met Clement Attlee, a rising star of the Labour Party, whose shrewd grasp of the problems of creating a Ministry of Defence impressed Tedder. He was less impressed by Lord Birkenhead, Secretary of State for India, who arrived late, ‘ﬂushed and dazed – I almost said sodden’. As he dried out, his answers to questions became witty enough, but Tedder was appalled by his ‘light-hearted acceptance of certain military possibilities’ if unrest in India continued. Best of all visitors, however, was Leo Amery, Colonial and Dominions Secretary, who spoke on ‘The Higher Direction of War’, justifying the creation of an independent air force and snapping back sharply when Richmond tried to put him down. ‘It completely bafﬂes me’, wrote Tedder to his father, ‘how a man of Richmond’s undoubted brains and knowledge can be so wilfully blind and narrow-minded in this respect. One advantage, however, is that by his obvious bias he has done more to enlighten people than we could have done by any amount of argument.’ Tedder shared Richmond’s conviction that ‘a common doctrine of war’ hammered out by all three services, was needed,15 but detested his cold,

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overbearing manner, his constant carping at the RAF and his refusal to accept that aircraft might one day sink even capital ships at sea.16 Late in October, Tedder was relieved to learn that he would not be returning to the Air Ministry in 1929. Instead, he was to move from one side of the podium to the other: to instruct at the RAF Staff College, Andover, Hampshire, under the command of Air Commodore Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt, an ofﬁcer whom he greatly respected. Better still, he would occupy ‘a house which we have often coveted’, fully furnished with an established garden, at 8 The Avenue. He seized an opportunity in November to chat informally with some students ‘to get a view behind the scenes which one will not be able to get once one is actually on the Directing Staff’. Tedder spent three happy years in Andover, teaching some 30 young ofﬁcers each year, several of whom would serve under his command during and after the war. ‘If bread is the staff of life’, he asked them, ‘what is the life of the staff?’ After a suitable pause, he told them: ‘One long loaf.’ He kept the straightest of faces when cracking such jokes, carefully noting those who dared to laugh and those who simply looked bewildered: ‘Tedder was not kind to those whom he thought dullards’, said Air Marshal Sir Victor Goddard. ‘It paid to stay on your toes when you were with him.’17 Rosalinde thought her husband worked harder at Andover than at any other stage of his career before the war, and his batman (personal servant) agreed. ‘It had been no unusual thing for him to go into the dining-room at 7.30 a.m.’, he recalled, ‘and ﬁnd Tedder checking a paper on the table; not because he had just got up, but because he had never been to bed.’18 Each year the syllabus was fuller, reﬂecting the development of air force policy, organisation, administration, and views on strategy and tactics. But Tedder never minded long hours of hard work and even managed to ﬁt in some 50 ﬂights in a de Havilland DH 60 Moth, usually around Andover.19 While teaching there, Tedder discovered some anonymous verses which he took as a personal guide for the rest of his life and warmly commended to his students: If you’ve got a thought that’s happy – Boil it down. Make it short and crisp and snappy – Boil it down. When your brain its coin has minted, Down the page your pen has sprinted, If you want your effort printed – Boil it down.

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When you’re sure ’twould be a sin to Cut another sentence into, Send it on – and we’ll begin to BOIL IT DOWN! 20 Tedder’s Andover lectures were all meticulously prepared, using many maps and charts in different colours to support texts much superior in content and style to those he gave at Greenwich in 1923–24.21 In June 1929, he delivered a revised version of his thoughts on ‘Ab Initio Training’,22 in which he again emphasised the value of morale and quoted Major Robert Smith-Barry (inventor of systematic ﬂying training in 1917): ‘the object has been not to prevent pilots from getting into difﬁculties or dangers, but to show them how to get out of them satisfactorily and, having done so, to make them go and repeat the process alone’. These words, said Tedder, went to the heart of the matter. As for discipline, he wanted neither broken necks nor broken spirits and therefore forbade climbing turns off the ground and aerobatics under 2,000 feet, but allowed ‘initiative’ some licence elsewhere because a pilot must be able to follow or evade an enemy and get down safely with a dud engine or damaged airframe. Tedder was promoted to the rank of group captain (equivalent to full Army colonel or Navy captain of three years’ seniority) on 1 January 1931, after exactly seven years as a wing commander. He became deputy commandant to Ludlow-Hewitt’s successor, Joubert de la Ferté. A splendid residence, named ‘Winterdyne’, was set aside for the commandant, but Joubert did not want it and graciously permitted the Tedders to move there in March. Vice-Admiral W. H. D. Boyle, president of the Royal Naval College, Greenwich, lectured at Andover in January. Tedder, most impressed, obtained and kept a copy of his address. ‘The sailor, soldier or airman who limits himself to a knowledge of his own particular service may be a very efﬁcient ofﬁcer, so far as he goes, but that is not very far’, said Boyle.23 ‘He can do the work, but he cannot conceive it, and it is the ability to do both that we want in high places.’ Study is ﬁne, he continued, but ‘no bookworm unaccustomed to command will be effective’ as a war leader. On the other hand, the so-called practical man, ‘who can only see what is obvious and who, because he will not read, has only his limited experience to draw upon, will equally certainly fail’. Tedder made these sentiments very much his own for the rest of his career, in and out of uniform. Tedder’s father died on 11 August 1931, in his 80th year, and his mother and sister moved to a small cottage in the village of Oakford, Devon, about 15 miles west of Hemyock. Sir Arthur had gradually come to terms

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with a quiet life in the country, far from the busy civil servants of London among whom he had thrived for so many years. He and his wife made a common transition from strict parents to indulgent grandparents, a transition that amused Rosalinde rather more than it did her husband. She relished Sir Arthur’s delight in his son’s successful career, expressed in erudite letters that she read to her children. Sadly, they have all been lost. During October, Tedder learned that he would be leaving Andover in December. Wishing to go out with a bang, he prepared three superb lectures on a subject close to his heart, the Gallipoli campaign of 1915. Someone had convinced him that the Turkish word for ‘almost’ is ‘anzac’. Alas, it is not, but those two words will be forever linked in accounts of this tragedy. Tedder knew the entire region well, from the Aegean to the Black Sea; he had carefully explored the actual peninsula on foot, amazed that so many men could exist, let alone ﬁght each other to the death, in such conﬁned space, and he had read every account available in English. His analysis was thorough, sensible and lucidly composed; not least, he later tried to conduct his own commands in accordance with this analysis. If war came again, he was convinced that combined operations would be needed, and this tragic campaign offered countless examples of what might go wrong in every aspect of planning and execution. Tedder devoted three mornings to Gallipoli. On the ﬁrst, he set the scene, military and political, and then considered the higher direction, summarising the principals’ intentions. He emphasised the point that in 1914–15 no machinery existed to ensure that issues were fully debated before decisions were reached. The Admiralty, as he then knew from personal experience, lacked interest in staff ofﬁcers: there were ‘plenty of captains of ships’, in the words of Winston Churchill, ‘but no captains of war’. As for the War Ofﬁce, its ablest staff ofﬁcers were in France, but Kitchener’s dictatorial methods inhibited debate anyway. Staff ofﬁcers, argued Tedder, should not be intimidated, as were Kitchener’s. They were part of a commander’s brain, not mere clerks; he may reject their advice, but he must receive it, expressed clearly and frankly. Improvisation, he thought, was dangerous at the top level: ‘the urge to cut the cackle and get on with the war too often leads to the indiscriminate cutting of both redundant and essential links in organisation’. In the past, he added, in words that became poignant (if anyone recalled them) during the war and of even greater force after it, ‘we have usually been given time to muddle through. We are not likely to be given such grace in the future.’ On the second morning, he focused on combined operations and urged his students to beware of small-scale maps. As General Hamilton

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lamented, ‘in an ofﬁce, you may make molehills out of mountains’ when poring over such maps and see faint blue lines instead of broad, fastﬂowing rivers. Tedder then turned to the linked problems of gathering ample supplies and systematic loading, on the one hand, and the preservation of secrecy, on the other. The former required massive inter-service co-operation and could not be accomplished without making a noisy stir and generating lots of paper; but the latter was obviously desirable. Strategic surprise, in the sense of denying an enemy knowledge that an attack was planned, could probably not be achieved; but tactical surprise, preventing the enemy from knowing where and when it was to be launched, should be possible. Tedder strongly urged the provision of a command post ashore or ship at sea that was not directly involved in the operation where commanders and their staffs could keep a grasp of the whole battle. Although he failed to argue the case for a single supreme commander, he did say that it was no use – if one wished to perform better in the future than in the past – suppressing information about conﬂicts between the services or glossing over individual mistakes. In conclusion, he pointed out that the Gallipoli campaign was carried out with very little air support, thanks to failures in both the War Ofﬁce and the Admiralty. ‘So perhaps there is something to be said for our existence as a separate service after all.’ His third lecture concentrated on the situation ashore, especially failures in leadership at Suvla Bay in August. Real though these were, the basic problem was shortage of men and material and they resulted from a failure at the top to decide where the main weight of effort should be made: ‘we were still trying to eat our cake at Gallipoli and have it in France’. If it was agreed that Gallipoli offered a realistic prospect of shortening the war, then the full force of the Allies should have been employed. Easier said than done, as Tedder recognised by quoting Hamilton: ‘amphibious operations are ticklish things; allied operations are ticklish things; but the two together are like skating on thin ice armin-arm with two friends who each want to cut a ﬁgure of his own’. The elements of a successful combined operation, he concluded, were: a clear, deﬁnite aim; sufﬁcient resources; careful organisation; wholehearted inter-service co-operation; and tactical surprise. A decade later, Tedder, and many of his Andover pupils, would have several opportunities to discover whether these opinions could be made to work in practice.

10 Fathering Air Armament and Organising an Expansion of Flying Training From Eastchurch to Egypt, January 1932 to October 1936

During October 1931, Tedder learned that in January he was to take command of the Armament and Gunnery School at Eastchurch on the Isle of Sheppey in the Thames estuary. More than 30 years later, he began his memoirs with a brief account of his work there: ‘fathering air armament’, he wrote, was ‘one of the most interesting periods in my service’.1 Air Marshal Joubert de la Ferté had assured him that one of the perks of service as an instructor at the staff college was ‘a free choice (within reason) as to where he would wish to go and what job he would like to undertake’ on leaving Andover. An instructor who had also been deputy commandant would surely be given a plum posting. Tedder replied that he preferred to leave the matter in the hands of the ‘personnel authorities’, except that he asked not to be sent to another training unit – so of course they sent him to another training unit. It is a nice story and may even be true, although it seems unlikely that such an ambitious and thoughtful senior ofﬁcer did not pull strings on his own behalf. A command of bombers (by far the RAF’s most prestigious arm) or any other operational command, preferably overseas, would obviously advance his career. But Tedder always prided himself on avoiding an obvious response in any situation, professional or social. It may therefore be that he saw his own path to the top via a ladder from which most other high ﬂiers instinctively ﬂinched. Tedder became commandant at Eastchurch on 16 January 1932. He then ranked 45th of 56 group captains and in a year of economic gloom, which

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saw ofﬁcers of his rank suffer a pay reduction of 11 per cent, he was somewhat consoled by a remarkably rapid rise to 29th place among 58 group captains, as efforts to clear away dead wood at the top of the RAF tree took effect.2 Three ‘practice camps’ were attached to Eastchurch, all on the east coast of England: Catfoss (near Bridlington in east Yorkshire), North Coates Fitties (near Grimsby in Lincolnshire) and Sutton Bridge (near the south-east corner of The Wash, also in Lincolnshire), where guns could be ﬁred and bombs dropped, but not so many that birds or ﬁsh or Treasury accountants took serious fright. Air Commodore William Mitchell, Director of Training, had sent Tedder ‘an armful of paper’ about Eastchurch in October 1931; he absorbed it swiftly, as was his wont, and replied on 5 November. He understood that a proposed re-organisation was intended to put the school in closer touch with ‘the practical side of bombing and air gunnery’, to encourage it to consider tactical as well as purely technical problems, and thereby win ‘the conﬁdence and support of the service squadrons’ who went to Eastchurch for training. Tedder agreed entirely with these intentions, but the aircraft assigned to him as bombers were the Westland Wapiti (merely an improved version of the venerable DH 9a) and he had only two Bristol Bulldogs, the RAF’s standard day ﬁghter.3 Using the obsolescent Wapiti, Tedder argued, the school would be ‘dealing with past problems’. Moreover, two ﬁghters would prove quite insufﬁcient to teach air gunnery properly. He asked for at least four ﬁghters and replacement of six of the Wapitis by Hawker Harts, an excellent two-seat light bomber of modern design, superior in performance to most single-seat ﬁghters of the day.4 Although four more Bulldogs arrived six months later, he never got any Harts. Aircraft problems were not as infuriating, however, as those concerning armament. The supply of guns, ammunition, bombs and associated equipment, as well as the commissioning, testing and modiﬁcation of new types, were dependent on three inter-service establishments, all under War Ofﬁce control. The only co-ordinating body was an Ordnance Board without executive authority. Its lack of current expertise and its taste for stately deliberation reminded Tedder ‘of nothing so much as the tea-party in Alice in Wonderland – except that there was certainly more than one dormouse’.5 Squadrons would arrive at Eastchurch, recalled Tedder, ‘in a state of nature’ – bringing only their aircraft and crews – for three or four weeks to carry out bombing and gunnery exercises set and supervised by his armament staff. He visited each squadron shortly after arrival and again just before departure, and reported his assessment of its performance to the Air Ministry. A ‘complete change of heart’, he wrote, was needed regarding air armament and those specialising in that vital ﬁeld. Too

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much of the work done hitherto had been on the ground, rather than in the air, using obsolete equipment and methods to carry out simple, undemanding and sometimes quite useless tests. ‘The more I see of Eastchurch’, Tedder told his mother and sister in April 1932, ‘the less I think of it, the place is half asleep and has been for years. Last night, I had all the ofﬁcers together and told them bluntly (very bluntly!) what I thought of them.’ He introduced realistic exercises – in darkness and daylight – for bomber crews, and high-altitude cameragun exercises under something like combat conditions for ﬁghter pilots. Both bombers and ﬁghters were required to attack rafts towed rapidly and unpredictably, but he was obliged to agree that airborne targets must be towed slowly on a steady course, commenting waspishly: ‘if only to put the target in some danger’. He also set examination questions that thoroughly tested practical knowledge of armament. One young ofﬁcer, Kenneth Cross, recalled that Tedder personally monitored aerial exercises from the cockpit of his own DH 60 Moth: ‘he was like a hawk-eyed referee of a rugger match, wouldn’t let you get away with anything, and dished out plenty of penalties!’6 Cross also remembered a later occasion when he was practising formation aerobatics for the annual air display at Hendon, honing a skill that earned tumultuous applause from spectators and glowing praise from newspapers. Tedder came along to watch and when everyone had landed they gathered round the great man, modestly awaiting his praise. After a long silence, Tedder said quietly: ‘Yes, it was very good.’ And then, after an even longer silence: ‘Very good indeed. But what is it for?’ These words burned into Cross’s young soul. Until then, aeroplanes had been for him beautiful machines that were thrilling to master. Only after Tedder’s words did he begin to realise that they were in fact weapons of war that would not ﬂy into combat tied together with pretty ribbons. Operational efﬁciency was Tedder’s goal: ‘elaborate ritualistic training exercises were anathema if the end product were only artiﬁcial, unrealistic skills; complicated and ingenious weapons and armaments were equally unacceptable if they had no chance of proving battleworthy’.7 In October 1932, Tedder told his mother that his ‘two-fold job really is rather more than a joke’. One day last week, for example, he had ﬂown the 100 miles to Sutton Bridge after breakfast and a good following wind got him there in just an hour. ‘A long day out on the bank above the salt marshes, watching the air ﬁring trials. Back 15 miles by road to the aerodrome (pretty cold!) for tea and then a four-hour conference which I had to run.’ Early next morning, he ﬂew 110 miles further north to Catfoss, to meet Air Marshal Sir Edward Ellington, Air Member for Personnel, ﬂying in from York. They inspected the camp together and then drove 20 miles to Bridlington to admire some new motor-boats

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being used to tow targets. Back to Catfoss and off again by air to North Coates. ‘By that time, the north-west wind had brought over clouds of thick brown smoke from the midlands and one could only see about a mile.’ Tiring work, but the opportunity to ﬂy solo regularly and to impress someone as important as Ellington (appointed Chief of the Air Staff in May 1933) made it well worth while. Tedder returned to the Air Ministry in April 1934 as Director of Training, under Air Vice-Marshal Frederick Bowhill, Ellington’s successor as Air Member for Personnel; it was his ﬁrst posting to be noticed by The Times, which digniﬁed it further, to Rosalinde’s delight, with a detailed biography.8 The armament branch came under Tedder’s control, enabling him, as he recorded in his memoirs, ‘to give some support to that devoted little band of armament ofﬁcers in their struggle against complacency and ignorance’.9 But his main tasks were to organise a ‘more than tenfold’ expansion of ﬂying training and obtain the necessary funding. ‘I was always being told how much more efﬁcient and economical civilian organisations were’, because they were run on business (as opposed to service) lines. He therefore declared that he wished to use civilian ﬂying clubs to help the RAF expand as rapidly as the government required, but insisted that the instructors be approved and controlled by professionals of the Central Flying School.10 This decision was Tedder’s ﬁrst of national signiﬁcance. His intention was to leave the RAF’s ﬂying training schools free to focus on more advanced training and so relieve front-line squadrons of these tasks and free, in turn, to employ better-prepared new pilots on operational tasks almost as soon as they joined their squadrons. Unfortunately, courses lasted only six months, instead of the nine Tedder recommended. Consequently, his objectives were ‘far from being achieved. At the same time a wider basis was given to the training establishment which it was hoped would facilitate the necessary expansion of the system when war came.’11 The RAF’s total strength in 1935 was only 2,700 pilots and 29,300 airmen, but during the next two years it added a further 2,500 pilots and 20,000 airmen.12 Existing service schools were expanded, new ones opened, and all were re-organised into two terms, the ﬁrst devoted to intermediate ﬂying training and the second to advanced training. During 1936, in response to the strains of unprecedented expansion, the RAF’s structure was revised and strengthened by replacing the existing ‘areas’ with specialised ‘commands’ – ﬁghter, bomber, coastal and training – each with its own groups, squadrons and units. Training Command, responsible for armament and technical work as well as ﬂying tuition, appeared in May and set up its headquarters at Buntingsdale Hall, Market Drayton, in Shropshire.13 Tedder was deeply and

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continuously involved in all these changes, but his excitement was tempered by realising that shortage of money for up-to-date equipment meant that it was ‘the old game of making bricks without straw’, as he conﬁded to his mother, ‘only played rather more strenuously than ever’. ‘Arthur is most horribly busy’, wrote Rosalinde to Margaret, Tedder’s sister, in June 1934, ‘and of course he does not get a penny extra because although he is holding the directorship he has not got his promotion yet and may not till the end of the year. It really is a scandal the way they work these things.’ A few days later, on 1 July, Rosalinde’s anxiety for her beloved husband’s recognition (and income) were temporarily set at rest when she learned that he had been promoted to the rank of air commodore: equivalent to brigadier-general in the Army or commodore in the Royal Navy. There were 26 air commodores and he ranked 25th. Tedder wrote to tell his mother how pleased he was, not only because it brought him in sight of the highest ranks, but also because ‘three shilling a day increase in pay is not to be despised!’ He received over 70 letters and wires of congratulation (all lost, apparently) and more were drifting in from overseas. Rosalinde asked Bowhill to have a private word with Tedder during a Christmas party at his home in December 1934. As she intended, the Air Member for Personnel decided that his Director of Training was in serious need of a break from intense administrative pressure – and in need of overseas experience if he were ever to command anything other than a desk. He therefore arranged for him a three-month tour of overseas bases, beginning on 15 January 1935, in order to broaden his grasp of training problems.14 Tedder was to lead four brand-new Short Singapore III biplane ﬂying-boats to Singapore and leave them there. Powered by four RollsRoyce Kestrel engines, the Singapore had a large, all-metal enclosed hull accommodating a crew of six and trundled along at a stately 100mph.15 This would be the ﬁrst time new machines had been delivered by air to an overseas squadron. Singapore ‘must have the best of everything’, asserted Flight’s editor and the RAF was beginning to agree.16 Tedder intended to visit Egypt, Palestine, Iraq and India en route to Singapore, and return home in an obsolescent Supermarine Southampton II, a twin-engined biplane ﬂying-boat. Both on the way out and on the way home, he was to spend as long in each command as he thought necessary. Tedder ﬂew with Squadron Leader Albert Lang from Pembroke Dock, in south-west Wales. The ﬁrst leg of their immense journey took them as far as a French Air Force base at Hourtin, about 35 miles northwest of Bordeaux. For the ﬁrst time in 12 years, since he served in

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Constantinople, Tedder wrote long letters to Rosalinde, vividly describing the events of each day. He travelled in a style to which he would later become accustomed (apart from an absence of sound-prooﬁng): sitting at a table for four in the ‘wardroom’ to enjoy a three-course meal prepared by a professional cook, washed down with a bottle of Chianti. His reception at Hourtin and next day at Berre (on a lake about 15 miles north of Marseille) was very friendly. Sadly, engine trouble scuppered the ‘world tour’ within 24 hours of leaving Pembroke Dock. It took more than a week to ﬂy out and ﬁt a replacement engine to one of the Singapores, so Tedder awarded himself a tour of Aix-enProvence, Arles, Nîmes and the magniﬁcent papal city of Avignon. He took lots of photographs (most of which turned out poorly), used coloured crayons to make several excellent sketches (which he carefully preserved), and diligently visited every possible place of interest, bitterly cold winds notwithstanding. On 25 January, the four ﬂying-boats cruised to Nisida, an Italian Air Force base near Naples. En route another engine failed, providing Tedder with a second unexpected holiday while a replacement was ﬂown out. As before, he spent the least possible time in the company of local ofﬁcials (British or Italian) and got out and about on his own. The highlights of this holiday were two evenings at the opera and a day on Capri, but Pompeii disappointed him: the famous wall paintings struck him as no better than those his airmen daubed for a station concert. On learning that the ‘world tour’ would be delayed for at least a couple of weeks, Tedder tried to get a ﬂight to Egypt via Imperial Airways. No seats were available, so he took an unplanned passage aboard a Japanese ship for the second time in his life: this time the Katori Maru, which left Naples for Port Said on 3 February 1935. He reached Cairo on the 7th, 24 days out from Pembroke Dock. The ‘world tour’ had become an acute embarrassment for the RAF – and turned to tragedy on 15 February, when one of the Singapores (not the one aboard which Tedder would have been a passenger) ﬂew into a mountain near Messina in Sicily, killing all nine occupants; the three surviving aircraft reached Singapore on 5 March after a journey lasting 50 days.17 Tedder, meanwhile, had returned to Egypt for the ﬁrst time in 16 years. He held useful talks about training problems on 8 February 1935 with Air Vice-Marshal Cuthbert Maclean, commander of RAF Middle East, and his staff ofﬁcers. Tedder found Helwan virtually unchanged and was met there by the CO of 45 Squadron, Hugh ‘Dingbat’ Saunders, ‘whom you will remember from Andover, a very big man, one of the best’, and one whom Tedder helped to rise to very high rank. Not normally a sentimental man, Tedder asked leave to go on a solitary ‘prowl’ at Helwan and then asked Saunders to get him some postcards,

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which he sent to several men with whom he had served during 1918 and 1919. Back at Heliopolis, Tedder learned that Squadron Leader Philip Mackworth, CO of 216 Squadron, had a most interesting expedition in mind. That squadron was equipped with the Vickers Victoria, a large twin-engined bomber-transport,18 and Mackworth intended to take two of these machines to visit Jebel Uweinat, an uninhabited mountain at a point where the British, Italian and Sudanese borders met, about 640 miles south-west of Cairo and 400 miles due west of Wadi Halfa on the Nile. The RAF had two or three fuel dumps en route to that ‘solitary hill in the middle of desert’ and drinkable water could usually be found there. The Sudan Defence Force occasionally sent men to Uweinat from Khartoum as a training exercise, and it was felt that the RAF should show the ﬂag from time to time, and observe whether the Italians were proposing to do so. ‘It is suggested that I should go with them’, wrote Tedder to his wife. ‘It’s very tempting.’ Very tempting for a man with his passion for remote places and hard living; not at all for most other senior ofﬁcers, who would not have considered for a moment such voluntary discomfort. But the venture was a waste of time for a Director of Training who had already enjoyed two recent unscheduled holidays and was far behind in his programme of visits to bases in the Middle East, Iraq, India and Singapore. On 11 February 1935, Tedder ﬂew with Mackworth, ‘a nice quiet solid fellow – one of the king navigators’, from Heliopolis to Asyut on the Nile, about 200 miles south of Cairo, where they landed to re-fuel. Group Captain Wilfred McClaughry, station master at Heliopolis, ﬂew the other Victoria. ‘The inside of this Vic looks more like a way-back [remote country] store than ever’, wrote Tedder: ‘cases of beer, lime juice, open boxes full of tinned foods of all sorts, one full of eggs, another with bread, rolls of camp kit and blankets and now about a couple of dozen tins of petrol. Not so much room to sit down, though I’m quite comfortable sitting on one of the let-down canvas seats. The ﬁtter, rigger and wireless operator are sitting just behind me, busy reading books.’ At intervals throughout the ﬂight out and home, Tedder went forward to ﬂy the Victoria from the co-pilot’s seat and relieve Mackworth. From Asyut they left the course of the Nile and ﬂew out into the desert, to re-fuel at Kharga oasis, and then further ‘into the blue’, to a landing-ground where they camped overnight. Tedder wrote a detailed, lively account of the ﬂight for Rosalinde and was blissfully happy throughout, but especially when they landed: camping out with congenial companions, far from paper and formality, was what he most enjoyed.

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Next morning, Tedder was ﬁrst up and walked quickly away from the aircraft, relishing the absolute silence, the colours of the sky and earth, seeking out tiny ﬂowers and signs of animal or insect life. Later that day, they reached Uweinat, a great massif some 4,000 feet high: ‘an island in a sea of desert’. The airmen carried out a reconnaissance, to see if anyone had been there recently and to note all possible water sources. A party from the Sudan Defence Force had evidently camped there, but no sign was found of an Italian ‘intrusion’. The Victorias returned to Heliopolis late on 16 February; Tedder was boyishly proud of everyone’s unkempt appearance – ‘a scruffy-looking lot of brigands, not a shave amongst the lot of us since Monday’ – and even more so when they were met by a wing commander in a boiled shirt. Next day, alas, Tedder’s conﬁdent swagger ended when acute abdominal pains overcame him and he was rushed to hospital during the night. ‘The doctors’, wrote John Tedder, ‘were unable to diagnose the cause of his discomﬁture and in the end they operated, making a huge incision and eventually removing his appendix because they could ﬁnd nothing else that was wrong. In the light of a subsequent operation he had some 30 years later, it now seems clear that his discomﬁture was caused by gallstones. However, the incision had been so great and the surgeon had explored so thoroughly that my father’s condition was very serious indeed.’ The surgeon who operated on Tedder in the 1960s ‘was amazed by the internal scars of this operation in 1935 and was frankly surprised that my father had survived’. The local doctors even planned a second operation a few days later because Tedder’s bodily functions had failed, but he managed to dissuade them. Rosalinde had a premonition that something was wrong and phoned Bowhill. He delayed letting her know how serious Tedder’s condition was until he was sure of getting her a ﬂight to Cairo; she actually arrived after the worst was over. They returned by air to England on 26 March, after a month-long convalescence, but it was another month before Tedder could return to duty, frailer than when he set out on the ‘world tour’ that Bowhill had intended as a working holiday to revive him. Tedder went to visit several of the new ‘civilian ﬂying schools’ and in October he sent three experienced people to the United States to examine training methods there. Sir Philip Cunliffe-Lister (Secretary of State for Air since June and Viscount Swinton from January 1936) recalled Tedder’s excited response to news about an ‘ingenious American invention’, the Link Trainer. ‘Sitting in a cabin in a room’, wrote Swinton, ‘for the cost of a few pennyworth of electricity, the pupil pilot can sit at the controls and drive his plane on a long journey under artiﬁcial conditions which reproduce the conditions he would encounter on a

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voyage of a thousand miles.’19 Tedder recommended an initial purchase of 50 Link Trainers. Finding them as useful for advanced as for initial training, he asked for more and licensed manufacture was arranged in Canada. Now back to full health and strength, Tedder was as busy as ever. The training of tradesmen for the expansion was in full ﬂow, but there would be much to do during the coming years, ‘even provided the wild men of Italy, Germany and Japan don’t go quite wild’. In July 1936, before that happened, Tedder learned that he was to command RAF Far East in Singapore from October.20 Thanks to Bowhill’s patronage, and his own merits, he had at last escaped from the Air Ministry and landed an operational command for the ﬁrst time in 13 years.

11 The Finest Strategical Position in the World under the Command of Our Next CAS but Two Singapore, October 1936 to July 1938

Tedder sailed for Singapore aboard the P & O liner Naldera from London on 10 October 1936, accompanied by Rosalinde and two of their children, Mina and John: Dick, the eldest, had just begun his second year at Magdalene College, Cambridge. The long voyage, four blissful weeks at sea, was his second1 – and last – voyage with his dear wife. These weeks at sea mark a high point in Tedder’s personal life. He would enjoy the great comfort of Rosalinde’s daily presence in his new position; he was as yet untroubled by the burdens he knew were awaiting him in ‘the ﬁnest strategical position in the whole world’;2 and the Tedders were travelling in unprecedented luxury, dining at the captain’s table and modestly enjoying deferential attention from other passengers. In June 1921, the British government had decided to build a naval base on Singapore Island to counter a possible threat from Japan to imperial interests in the Far East.3 Actual construction proceeded so slowly that the base was only completed shortly before the Japanese captured it in February 1942, but ﬁerce arguments raged throughout those 20 years among the Admiralty, the War Ofﬁce and the Air Ministry about how best to defend it. Although Tedder was briefed before departure and given every available report to read en route, he made time to discuss the issues privately with men he knew in all three services who had served – as he had not – east of Suez. Thanks to Hitler and Mussolini, he learned, no ﬂeet could be spared from the Channel or the Mediterranean to occupy the base until at least 70 days after an outbreak

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of war with Japan – and even that alarmingly long interval would be extended indeﬁnitely if conﬂict with Germany and/or Italy had begun or seemed likely. The situation posed numerous vital questions that Tedder was anxious to see explored in realistic joint-service exercises, but he feared that any ‘lessons learned’ from those exercises would take years to implement. Britain’s grip on Singapore, he suspected, was less sure than many civilian ofﬁcials, merchants, planters and members of all three armed services believed. In fact, the Imperial Japanese Navy possessed nine battleships in 1935, the British China Fleet none; it outnumbered the British in cruisers four to one and had 102 destroyers to Britain’s ten.4 That imbalance was not being reduced. Tedder had already given serious thought to the part the services should play in meeting imperial obligations and during his time in Singapore seven questions gradually took shape in his mind. First, when and where might the Japanese attack: would they land troops on the east coast of the Malay peninsula and attack Singapore from the north, or would they rely on a direct assault from the south, or seek to crush the defenders in a land–sea pincer? Second, what would be the attitude of the local inhabitants (Chinese, Malay, Indian): would they regard the Japanese as invaders to resist or liberators to assist? Third, what help, if any, could be expected from the French in Indo-China (now Vietnam), the Dutch in the Netherlands East Indies (now Indonesia) or the United States in the Philippines? Fourth, could reconnaissance aircraft give sufﬁcient early warning of the approach of enemy ships to alert the defenders? Fifth, could bombers ﬁnd, sink or even signiﬁcantly damage any of those ships before they came within range of the defenders’ guns? Sixth, could those massive (but ﬁxed) guns serve the defence more effectively than fragile (but mobile) bombers? Lastly, could soldiers and airmen combine well enough to hold out until a ﬂeet arrived, and would that ﬂeet then prove a match for Japanese warships? Sober consideration of this difﬁcult situation was sadly bedevilled, as he well knew, by ‘one of the classic cases of inter-service rivalry’.5 For 15 years before Tedder’s appointment, instead of regular, realistic combined exercises, partisan assertion (by airmen no less vehement than seamen and soldiers) had been the general response to such questions. A single ﬂying-boat squadron had been established at Seletar, an aerodrome on the north coast, three miles east of the proposed naval base, as early as January 1929. But the forces Tedder inherited nearly eight years later, as only the second ‘Air Ofﬁcer Commanding’, were still feeble: two ﬂying-boat squadrons (Short Singapore IIIs, lumbering ducks if they were ever engaged by ﬁghters) and two torpedo-bomber squadrons (Vickers Vildebeest two-seat biplanes, already obsolete and

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completely at the mercy of any current ﬁghter). In addition, he controlled one squadron of ‘the Straits Settlements Volunteer Air Force’, equipped with the Hawker Audax, an army co-operation version of the Hart two-seat light bomber biplane and the nearest to a modern aircraft under his command. All very disturbing, but for the moment Tedder – and many of the island’s inhabitants – were able to enjoy a spectacular air display. A new RAF power-boat carried him across to Collyer Quay, where he was welcomed by Air Commodore Sydney Smith, the ofﬁcer whom he was to relieve. Tedder inspected a guard of honour and was presented to a galaxy of ofﬁcers, naval and army, as well as government ofﬁcials.6 Next morning, he told his mother, he was engaged on ‘the absurd business of exchanging cards’, ﬁrst with the governor, Sir Shenton Thomas, then with the army and naval commanders. Salutes were exchanged, guards inspected, small talk made over soft drinks, and visitors’ books signed. He then went back to Seletar to await the arrival of the same eminent persons and return their compliments in exactly the same way. ‘And so we defend the Empire.’ The programme of ofﬁcial lunches, dinners and social occasions, he continued, ‘is already pretty grim, even for the next ten days, and it hasn’t really begun yet!’ Sadly, his mother would never read this letter, for she died suddenly at her home in Oakford, Devon, on 5 November, aged 82. ‘Grannie was such a vital person’, wrote Rosalinde to Margaret on 1 December, ‘that it is difﬁcult to realise we shall not see her again, but her memory will always be very bright with us all.’ Much less bright with Tedder, as we have seen,7 although the harsh opinion he voiced in 1951 is not borne out in the numerous affectionate letters he wrote to her. ‘We have had a perfectly appalling series of ofﬁcial functions’, he told Margaret on 20 November. ‘Some of it is interesting, but much of it is childish and one feels it is more appropriate to comic opera than to a sensible community.’ Meeting local worthies in strict order of precedence was bad enough, but the arrival of US and Dutch naval squadrons produced ‘a rare pantomime’. Tedder was obliged to go out in his launch to the ﬂagship of each, wearing full dress (including a ridiculous helmet with ﬂowing plumes) and scramble aboard to the sound of tin whistles and trumpets: ‘salutes, handshakes with the Admiral and some of his staff, a glass of lemonade in the Admiral’s cabin, a glance at the clock and off down the ladder again’. When his launch was 50 yards clear, the ﬁrst gun went off; he immediately ordered the engines stopped and stood to attention, carefully counting the shots so as to be sure of saluting on the 11th and last – the going rate for an air commodore. A further round of ofﬁcial engagements almost ﬂattened him, but no sooner had he got

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home and begun to unwind over his letter to Margaret than Rosalinde, ‘who had gone off to go to bed, came back to say there was a small snake coiled up on her dressing-table and what were we going to do about it?’ Among many letters awaiting Tedder when he escaped from his ceremonial duties was one from Wing Commander George Pirie, with whom he had served at Andover. Pirie, now Deputy Director of Operations in the Air Ministry, had written to him on 22 October. ‘When you have completely settled down and have had an opportunity to visit the whole of your command’, the Air Ministry would welcome a general appraisal, in particular of Tedder’s relations with the other services. ‘As you yourself expressed it’, wrote Pirie, ‘our role in the air may perhaps be described as half-way between the naval conception of control of an area and the army conception of the close defence of a particular defended port or fortress.’ Major-General William Dobbie, however, regarded himself as commander of all forces at Singapore: ‘we are taking up this point with the War Ofﬁce’, Pirie concluded, ‘but not in such a way as to cause a storm’. As part of his determination to improve inter-service relations, Tedder intended to move his headquarters from Seletar to Singapore City, on the south coast of the island. ‘Considerable delays and difﬁculties’, reported the Straits Times,8 had resulted from the fact that RAF staff ofﬁcers had their ofﬁces 16 miles from Dobbie’s headquarters at Fort Canning. Squadron Leader Lawrence Darvall, of the Air Ministry’s Directorate of Operations and Intelligence, had arrived in Singapore on 6 November. After ten days of consultation with Tedder and ofﬁcers who had longer experience in Far East Command, he returned to England via Hong Kong and reported to the Chief of the Air Staff in December. Singapore and Hong Kong, Darvall wrote, were the two fortresses upon which our imperial interests in the Far East depended, but they lay 2,000 miles apart; the former was currently being strengthened, something was being done about the latter, but ‘no clear-cut common inter-service defence plan for the whole of the South China Sea quadrilateral’ existed. Tedder understood that the Air Ministry proposed to locate four torpedo-bomber squadrons at Hong Kong. ‘Are they to ﬁght there in war?’ asked Darvall on his behalf. Airﬁelds in Hong Kong lay within easy reach of Japanese territory and Darvall supposed they would be abandoned in the event of a major crisis.9 At Singapore, Darvall continued, there were to be seven squadrons in peacetime, rising to 11 should war break out. ‘Will they all be located in Singapore Island? Will their role be restricted to the close defence of the fortress? What war stations will they occupy in Sarawak, British North Borneo or the east and west coasts of Malaya? Are we eventually

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to have RAF units in Burma and/or the Nicobar Islands and what will their task be?’ Reﬂecting Tedder’s opinions, Darvall urged ‘that during the next two or three years the position of the RAF in Hong Kong and Singapore, in Burma and Ceylon, will have to be most carefully considered in order to avoid important detachments of it being tied down for the purely local defence of fortresses within the area to the detriment of wider and possibly more important defensive interests.’ He was particularly concerned that army commanders in Singapore and Hong Kong should not be able to retain ‘for purely local purposes’ all air forces situated locally. Darvall then reported that civil, military and naval authorities alike were already aware that only the RAF offered a prospect of rapid relief in the event of an emergency. They were therefore ‘most anxious’ to see the reinforcement scheme tried out: ‘the arrival of four squadrons at Singapore for the combined exercises in 1937 will have an excellent effect on the Far East generally’, encouraging the Chinese national government, the Dutch, French and all other opponents of Japanese ‘inﬂuence and penetration’. As our strength increases, added Darvall, Sir Shenton Thomas will realise ‘more clearly than he does at present how much the security of his Colony rests on the RAF and how much on two or three battalions of soldiers and some big guns, the majority of which have not arrived.’ Thomas, Tedder and Darvall had discussed the dangers of crowding squadrons into a small island, ‘making an enemy’s task in neutralising them enormously less difﬁcult and making our task in housing, supplying and maintaining them enormously more expensive and more difﬁcult’. It was certainly easier to protect them from sabotage, Darvall admitted, but in Malaya, Sarawak or North Borneo ‘this local defence problem is nothing like so serious and it would be quite possible to deal with it by the provision of a few extra aircraft hands, who would also man the low-ﬂying attack defence automatics, and possibly some Sikhs or other Indians specially recruited as armed police’. Tedder was soon persuaded to change his mind on this important point. Airﬁelds should be developed at Kluang (about 60 miles north of the island, in the middle of Johore) and Kuantan (on the east coast of the Malay peninsula, a further 120 miles north) with a ﬂying-boat base at Kuching (on the south-west coast of Sarawak, some 440 miles due east of Singapore). Early in January 1937, Tedder visited Kluang to see if a site for an aerodrome could be found there. He wrote to one of his inﬂuential patrons, Air Chief Marshal Sir Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt (then head of the RAF in India) in February to tell him that he had recommended to the Air Ministry a site at Kluang ‘not merely as an operational landing

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ground, but as a permanent station. I feel strongly that if possible we should try and spread our aerodromes more widely and not further increase the congestion of vulnerable targets on the island itself.’ He also thought an aerodrome should be set up at Kuantan. ‘It appears to be the only possible site on the east coast and … I feel it would make an excellent focal centre for the despatch of reconnaissance to cover both the approaches to Singapore and the Gulf of Siam.’10 Kuantan offered Tedder exactly the kind of exhausting challenge in the back of beyond that he most enjoyed. It lay about 180 miles in a direct line from Singapore and it took only an hour and three-quarters to get there by ﬂying-boat, as he told Margaret, but two days by sea, three days by road and the nearest rail link was 100 miles away. The ﬂying-boat landed his party at a river mouth. They then tramped for miles in teeming rain over rocky jungle-covered hills to the house of a district ofﬁcer, where they dined and were also fed terrifying tales about tigers and snakes. All good things come to an end, however, and that afternoon he was obliged to ﬂy back to his ofﬁce in Seletar. Tedder sometimes discussed the siting and defence of aerodromes with Arthur Percival, whose judgement he respected, but he did not invite him – or any other soldier – to accompany him on these expeditions to pick potential sites. He was, however, persuaded that he and Darvall had been quite mistaken in supposing that even those aerodromes not situated in the island could be adequately defended by ‘a few extra aircraft hands’; many soldiers would be needed, and many aircraft, if Singapore were to resist a Japanese attack until a British ﬂeet arrived. But whether either soldiers or aircraft would actually be sent out from Britain was more than either Tedder or Percival could say. Tedder was made a Companion of the Order of the Bath (CB) on 1 February 1937.11 Rosalinde was overjoyed; so too was Margaret, who reported that all the aunts and uncles ‘are beside themselves and only regret that it came after our parents had gone – but perhaps they know all about it!’ He received numerous letters of congratulation and for once a few survive. The award, as Air Commodore Lawrence Pattinson observed, was a recognition of his ‘excellent work as Director of Training’, where the expansion scheme had brought him ‘appalling labours and great responsibility’. Several letters mention the prospect of a ‘K’ in front of the CB and others wonder how he had hitherto escaped decoration. Group Captain John Cordingley, for example, supposed it was because he had got on with the job so quietly that he was easily overlooked. And Squadron Leader Christopher Bilney remarked: ‘no doubt you will be sad to lose your distinction of being the only air ofﬁcer without a “gong”, but even you cannot continue to escape recognition of your services’.

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On the very day that Tedder received this award, the long-anticipated combined exercises began and went on for four days: ‘the largest manoeuvres to be held by British forces east of the Mediterranean’ as the Straits Times proudly announced. Six squadrons ﬂew in from India and Iraq to bolster Tedder’s meagre resources temporarily. ‘Blueland’ (a polite name for Japan) launched a major attack on ‘Redland’ (Singapore), while the French, Dutch and Americans were deemed to be neutral, presumably on the grounds that if combining the efforts of Britain’s three services was an exercise akin to herding cats, co-operation with other Western powers would prove quite impossible until ‘Blueland’ actually attacked them. Redland, fortunately, was ready for the onslaught. Fort Canning, ‘nerve centre of a vast network of radio and land communications’, coordinated the actions of thousands of troops (including Malays and Indians), eager to confront invaders; huge guns with a range of 20 miles, were ready to open ﬁre; destroyers, ﬂying-boats, torpedo-bombers and Audax ‘ﬁghters’ were all alert. The enemy ﬂeet was spotted 180 miles out by Tedder’s ‘giant ﬂying-boats’, though one crashed on take-off; aerial patrols prevented any bombing and a landing force was bloodily repulsed. Late on the second day, announced the Straits Times, ‘the warship’s deadliest enemy, the torpedo-bomber’ would attack the ﬂeet, despite resistance from Blueland’s carrier-borne ﬁghters. Those enemy ships which survived the torpedo attack would be engaged by shore batteries as soon as they came within range. Redland, though moderately damaged, was pronounced safe on 4 February; Blueland’s ﬂeet had suffered heavy casualties and was in full retreat.12 Tedder compiled a typically concise and literate report on the exercise, which he sent to the Air Ministry on 6 March.13 He was anxious that no ‘deﬁnite conclusions’ be drawn from this exercise, which made too many unrealistic assumptions: ‘that one small carrier of 18 knots represented two large carriers of 30 knots, that one depot ship (unescorted) represented a whole convoy, that one attacking bomber represented 14 bombers’. The ﬁrst concern of defending aircraft, Tedder concluded, had been to knock out the enemy aircraft carrier and so achieve air superiority; only then could warships and troop transports be attacked from the air and ﬁnished off by ﬁxed defences and mobile troops as they attempted to get men ashore. Until he had more longrange aircraft and forward airﬁelds, however, he would be unable to prevent ‘a sudden air attack made under cover of darkness’. All squadrons ‘should be organised on a mobile basis, so as to allow of ready transfer or dispersion’; for this purpose he asked for machines long known to the RAF as ‘bomber transports’. In this respect, Tedder was as slow as other senior ofﬁcers to recognise the need for a ﬂeet of British

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equivalents to the German Junkers Ju 52 or the American DC-2 and DC-3. The Bristol Bombay was just such a specialist carrier of troops or cargo, but only a handful were ever built: a fact that he would regret throughout the desert campaigns of 1941–43. In mid-February, shortly after the exercise concluded, Tedder met Jack Slessor for the ﬁrst time. Their professional lives would become closely, and unhappily, entwined a decade later. Not yet 40 (seven years younger than Tedder), Slessor was widely regarded as a man likely to achieve very high rank. He had been serving in India as a wing commander and visited Tedder for a week, on his way home by sea to the Air Ministry, where he would become Deputy Director of Plans in May and enjoy early promotion to the rank of group captain. En route to Hong Kong, Slessor composed what he himself called ‘an uninformed, uninspired and unofﬁcial view!’ of ‘The Problem of Command in the Far East’. While in Hong Kong, he assured Tedder, he would make it clear, as he had in Singapore, ‘that I am merely an unofﬁcial nobody, out to learn, so that you will not ﬁnd yourself committed to any strange views. But the more I see the more I think that every ofﬁcer taking up an Air Staff appointment of any importance in the Air Ministry should be made to come round and see things for himself and get an idea of the atmosphere and point of view of the chaps on the spot.’14 Tedder did not reply to Slessor’s paper. He had not asked for it and as a very senior ofﬁcer (as well as a former staff college instructor) he did not care to be preached at by ‘an unofﬁcial nobody’ – an offensively mock-modest phrase, in his opinion – as if he were a junior student, and nor did he care to be addressed as one of the ‘chaps on the spot’. Slessor had not intended to annoy Tedder, but he had a preachy manner. The fact that his opinions generally accorded with Tedder’s own – including a mistaken belief in the ‘bomber transport’ aircraft – was welcome enough, but throughout his distinguished career Slessor never regarded brevity as the soul of wit. Countless colleagues would be exasperated by his verbosity even when they admired his many virtues. Slessor, for his part, found Tedder’s liking for whimsical humour no less deeply irritating, and would come to regard him as a lightweight, advanced beyond his capacity. On 5 June 1937, the Tedders moved from Seletar to ‘Inverturret’, a grand mansion in Gallop Road, Tyersall, near the RAF’s new headquarters in Singapore City,15 where they were to stay while a still more imposing residence was being built. One week later, on 13 June, Tedder completed 21 years as a service pilot: a milestone solemnly recorded in The Times, to his surprise and Rosalinde’s delight.16

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There were signs by July that the command’s power might one day be substantially increased. Work was going ahead on new aerodromes at Tengah and Sembawang (both on the island), improvements were being made at Seletar, and expansion into the peninsula as far north as Penang on the west coast and Kota Bharu on the east had been approved, as well as in the Nicobar Islands, Mergui (Burma) and Sarawak. Progress was slow, thanks to bureaucratic inertia, a shortage of modern equipment and of personnel trained to use it, poor communications, an enervating climate and a high incidence of disease.17 On the civil front, Governor Thomas opened what a British aviation magazine was pleased to call ‘the world’s most up-to-date ﬂying centre’ at Kallang (east of the city) in June,18 a centre that had obvious military value. Singapore, declared the Straits Times on 2 July, ‘is already recognised as being potentially the most important overseas command in the Empire, with the possible exception of India’, but press boasting could not hide the fact that there were still only four RAF squadrons there, all inadequately equipped and all at vulnerable Seletar. Tedder expressed enthusiastic appreciation of the Air Ministry’s efforts to help him, but then pointed out that he needed new aircraft. The Vildebeests were not only obsolete but worn out; the Singapores must be replaced by more powerful ﬂying-boats, the Audaxes by the next generation of light bombers capable of supporting an army in the ﬁeld, and he still had no ﬁghters, ancient or modern. On 1 July 1937, ten days before his 47th birthday, came the glad tidings of Tedder’s promotion to the rank of air vice-marshal (equivalent to rear-admiral or major-general).19 Tedder was now the 24th most senior ofﬁcer in the service, setting aside a couple of dukes (Gloucester and Windsor) and three retired marshals. More than 150 letters of congratulation descended upon him during the next few weeks and quite a few of them, he told Margaret, required ‘proper’ replies – which he was still writing in October. Mr A. J. R. Moss (superintendent of Kai Tak airport, Hong Kong), noting that the highly regarded Charles Portal had also been promoted to air vice-marshal, asked: ‘which of you, I wonder, will be the next CAS after Newall?’ In other letters, his prospects of becoming ‘our next CAS but two’ were aired. That prophecy proved accurate: after Newall, who succeeded Ellington in September 1937, came Portal in October 1940, and then Tedder on New Year’s Day 1946. Tedder was particularly gratiﬁed to hear from his chief patron, Sir Wilfrid Freeman, head of research and development in the Air Ministry. On this joyful occasion, Freeman addressed him as ‘Tirpitz’, a nickname going back to Auchel on the Western Front. ‘You are badly missed here’, wrote Freeman, ‘and I think it was a mistake to allow you to go’:

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a splendid compliment but also a clear hint that he should expect an early summons if current relations with Germany and Italy worsened. Another especially gratifying letter came from Wing Commander Arthur Pryor, who had served under Tedder in 207 Squadron during the early 1920s. Pryor lived and died a biplane man, unenthused by the new monoplanes: these Bristol Blenheims, he complained, ‘are ﬂying greenhouses, ﬁlled with knobs, levers, handles, klaxon horns and red danger lights’. As a fellow pilot, Tedder sympathised, but as an air commander in increasingly anxious days he needed ‘ﬂying greenhouses’ to replace the old biplanes, if Japan’s potential threat to British interests in the Far East was to be countered. ‘You, Sir’, concluded Pryor, ‘I suppose will go on up the ladder. Years ago I said to everybody: “The CO will be CAS one day, you mark my words.” And I think and hope I was right.’ Hugh Saunders, Strath Evill and Conway Pulford, all friends as well as colleagues, added heart-warming praise to their congratulations. ‘If you hadn’t done something to ginger up Armament when you were at Eastchurch and the Air House’, wrote Pulford, for example, ‘of what use would all this re-armament be?’ And Robert Leckie, Tedder’s successor as Director of Training, having just returned from the United States, forwarded a copy of his report: ‘from which you will see that, thanks to the innovations you introduced some years ago, we have left our American friends substantially behind in training matters at least’. Shenton Thomas’s praise was equally welcome: ‘in the months since you arrived’, wrote the governor, ‘I have – if I may say so – learnt to value your advice and to trust you.’ To cap off a happy month for Tedder, his son Dick completed a successful second year at Magdalene (in history, rowing and ﬂying) and was appointed a pilot ofﬁcer in the Reserve. July 1937 was a less happy month for the Chinese, under heavy Japanese attack. By September, the entire coast was blockaded, bringing a savage conﬂict closer to British territory without reducing in the slightest the ‘comic opera business’ of ceremony which wasted so much of Tedder’s time. In fact, it wasted more now because his promotion required that he be saluted with 13 guns: a mere 11 would no longer serve whenever he arrived at (or departed from) any port where British, French, Dutch or US naval ships were present. Another four-day exercise began on 2 February 1938, when ‘Blueland’ Japan once again attacked ‘Redland’ Singapore, which was evidently so sure of its own strength that it had made no alliance with any of its Western neighbours during the past year. More than 10,000 men, 25 warships and 120 aircraft took part (including a few Blenheims from India: the ﬁrst modern warplanes to come brieﬂy under Tedder’s command). According to ofﬁcial communiqués, faithfully summarised in the

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Straits Times, the enemy carrier was spotted, illuminated by ﬂares and bombed, landings and air raids were beaten off, and the big guns boomed out nobly. In fact, the exercise was a disaster for the defenders. On successive nights, the carrier closed to within 135 miles of Redland and its bombers, guided by numerous shore lights, hit all their targets unopposed. The carrier, spotted only after launching its bombers, then used a screen of ﬁghters to disrupt a Redland attack while the bombers were being recovered. Tedder admitted that he had no means of preventing a surprise air raid by night or at dawn; Dobbie admitted that his antiaircraft defence was inadequate; and both agreed that the Combined HQ performed poorly. Not surprisingly, a trial ‘black out’ proved a total failure because it was purely voluntary and no advice was given to those citizens who wished to co-operate. Singapore’s defences, concluded C. G. Grey (editor of the Aeroplane, quoted in the Straits Times on 26 February 1938), ‘are the laughing stock of any intelligent Asiatic’.20 One week after the embarrassing exercises came a grand ceremony that was hardly less embarrassing to those, such as Tedder, who were concerned with reality rather than appearances. This was the formal opening on 14 February of a dry dock at the naval base: attended, incidentally, by the Japanese consul-general. The airmen put on their usual display over some 40 naval vessels, while British and Indian troops impressed a large crowd ashore. ‘British newspapers featured pictures of the colourful Malay rulers, the Governor’s yacht and illuminated warships, but not the RAF aerial photos which showed the unﬁnished wharves and the absence of cranes.’21 Then came General Dobbie’s turn to organise a ceremony: to mark completion of the ﬁrst 15-inch gun turret. According to Tedder’s own memoirs, written when his opinion of Dobbie had been lowered by events in Malta during the war, Tedder refused Dobbie’s invitation to ﬁre the ﬁrst round because it was an old gun, cast in 1915. Tedder’s uncivil and ignorant response does him no credit: a gun of that date, properly sited and aimed, remained a formidable weapon. ‘I could not resist saying’, he added, ‘that I did not feel that the gun would ever ﬁre in anger, for it covered the main entrance to the Singapore Straits, and one would not expect an enemy to break in the front door.’ Nor did Dobbie. He and Percival were well aware that a Japanese attack from southern Thailand was feasible, that the Malay Peninsula was not impassable to infantry, and they pleaded as vainly with the War Ofﬁce for tanks and anti-tank weapons as Tedder did with the Air Ministry for modern aircraft.22 Tedder had discussed all these matters with Charles Vlieland, an

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experienced, efﬁcient and unusually outspoken civil servant, who was convinced that the key to a successful defence of Singapore lay not in the naval base but in holding the peninsula. Tedder agreed and wrote to Shenton Thomas in June 1938 to suggest that the secretary (in effect, executive ofﬁcer) of the governor’s defence committee should in future be a permanent civil servant – namely, Vlieland – rather than a transient army ofﬁcer. This change, argued Tedder, would offer a most desirable continuity in policy based on sound local knowledge. Vlieland was appointed in December 1938 and, despite personality clashes that worsened after Tedder’s departure, ‘we were on the way to making the best of the slender resources available’, wrote Vlieland. ‘All we lacked was an army commander with orders to defend the peninsula and the requisite tools in the way of air and land forces and modern weapons to do the job.’ But these they never got.23 ‘I can see little justice’, wrote Tedder nearly 30 years after he left that island, ‘in hunting in the Far East for scapegoats. To my mind there is no need to go farther than Whitehall to apportion the blame’ for ‘Britain’s worst disaster since the loss of the American colonies.’ It is a shallow conclusion, in keeping with his brief and inadequate summary of the 20 months he spent in Singapore, and quite at variance with his own conduct during that time. Whatever ‘Whitehall’ did or did not do (as he perfectly understood in the 1930s, let alone the 1960s, when he was composing his memoirs), British resources were insufﬁcient to protect all its overseas interests when threatened by Germany, Italy and Japan; and there was no prospect in peacetime of an alliance with other Western powers jointly to resist Japanese aggression.24 Late in June 1938, Freeman decided that he needed Tedder for a new position in the Air Ministry and had him ﬂown home on 8 July. Rosalinde returned to Sydney for the ﬁrst (and last) time since her abrupt departure with Una in 1915. After three weeks there, she ﬂew back to Singapore, collected Mina and John, and all three sailed for England, arriving in August. Tedder’s departure, like his arrival, was marked by a ﬂypast: the same machines trundled around, even more tired than 20 months earlier. The Vildebeests, in fact, were still there more than three years later, when the Japanese arrived and blew away the imperial façade. But the old faithfuls were accompanied by two brand-new machines: four-engined Short Sunderland ﬂying-boats, the long-awaited monoplane replacement for the Singapore IIIs. These Sunderlands, which would give excellent service in every theatre throughout the war, were the only modern aircraft sent permanently to the Far East during Tedder’s time. Tedder was seen off by more than 50 people, as he climbed aboard Cordelia, an Imperial Airways Short ‘C’ Class ﬂying-boat, of which the

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Sunderland was a military development. That journey home, he reﬂected in the 1960s, was by far the most comfortable of his entire life: ‘The ability to walk from one deck to another or to stand, leaning on the hand-rail, looking down at the passing scene below, gave one an air of luxury not to be experienced in any modern aircraft.’25 He took great care to enjoy every moment of the journey because he knew what Freeman had in mind for him when it ended.

12 Spotting Winners and Advancing Aircraft Production From London to Harrogate and Back, July 1938 to November 1940

In June 1938, when he had already spent more than two years at the Air Ministry in charge of research and development, Freeman was assigned responsibility for production as well. ‘Everything in the way of reequipping the RAF therefore hinged on Freeman. No burden, except that of Prime Minister, could have been greater’, at a time when war against Germany, Italy and perhaps Japan as well seemed likely.1 Freeman, a man notoriously difﬁcult to please, had thought highly of Tedder for more than 20 years, ever since they served together on the Western Front. He now had him summoned home from Singapore to take up a newly-created position: Director-General of Research and Development. In effect, Tedder was to be his service deputy, helping to manage what has been called ‘one of the largest state-sponsored industrial enterprises in British history: the expansion of the military aircraft industry in the rearmament years of the late 1930s and in the early years of the Second World War’.2 ‘I knew and trusted Tedder’, Freeman told Roderic Owen in 1951: ‘I did not feel like taking on the job unless I could have him.’ 3 Yet Tedder may still be thought a surprising choice for such a position. He had no expertise either in aviation research or development, no training as an engineer or designer, no special knowledge of airframes or engines, instruments or materials; no experience whatever of industrial organisation, practices or ﬁnances. He was not even a particularly competent pilot and knew nothing – at ﬁrst hand – about the qualities, actual or potential, of the latest biplanes, let alone the radically different monoplanes now

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beginning to appear. His strengths lay elsewhere: he understood the problems of training, on the ground or in the air; he also understood the problems of armament (guns, bombs, sights and release gear); and, by no means least, he was an effective manager of meetings and of what he always called ‘the paper war’ that they generated. In April 1938, while Tedder was still trying to create a basic structure for a modern air force in the Far East amid the distractions of lateVictorian social rituals, an article had appeared in a widely read aviation magazine that may explain why Freeman became so anxious for his help in Whitehall. This article, written by an anonymous ‘production engineer’,4 made several apparently well-informed criticisms of Air Ministry methods. Expansion was already into its fourth year, he wrote, but Britain remained ‘behindhand with the design and production of military aircraft, most especially in the design and manufacture of airframes rather than engines’. In this engineer’s opinion, most of the blame lay squarely with the Air Ministry. Its insistence on design competition between ﬁrms wasted scarce resources and was such a protracted business that aircraft were obsolete before they reached squadron service. Its production staff lacked practical knowledge of the aviation industry in matters of labour, plant, materials and equipment. They also lacked sufﬁciently close relations with other Air Ministry departments (technical, contracts, inspection) to ensure co-operation and avoid duplication. According to a well-informed MP (Sir Hugh Seely, speaking in May 1938),5 of the 340 Hawker Hurricane single-seat monoplane ﬁghters ordered in June 1936, only 28 were actually in service and only a single example of a more advanced single-seat monoplane ﬁghter, the Supermarine Spitﬁre, was on hand. The RAF was still using the 20-year-old Vickers machine-gun and the standard of operational training was low, accidents were much too frequent and bombing accuracy was poor.6 A number of Flight’s criticisms, in this and other articles, had merit, but the magazine was notoriously a mouthpiece for the aircraft industry, and at that time relations between the industry and the government were sour. Nevertheless, in consequence of what Flight described as ‘the almost universal feeling throughout the country that all is not well with the RAF expansion’, important heads rolled, among them that of the Secretary of State (Lord Swinton).7 Ernest Lemon, formerly chief mechanical engineer of Britain’s biggest railway company (the London, Midland and Southern), was appointed to a new post, Director-General of Production, and made a member of the Air Council. The chairman of the Society of British Aircraft Constructors, Sir Charles Bruce-Gardner, a prominent industrialist, became the senior member of an Air Council

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supply committee.8 ‘No critic will now be able to say’, remarked Flight’s editor, with evident satisfaction, ‘that RAF ofﬁcers have the whole say’ in matters of aviation hardware.9 Some criticism of the Air Ministry was no doubt deserved. Few ofﬁcers serving there were rich in technical qualiﬁcations and all were moved on to new (and usually unrelated) posts every two or three years, thus ensuring that painfully acquired expertise was lost and fruitful contacts broken. On the other hand, transforming a small air force into one capable of using vast numbers of aircraft was a major task. Air and ground crews were being recruited in huge numbers, together with essential training and support staffs. Sites for airﬁelds were being found, bought and equipped with hangars, workshops and ofﬁces as well as power, water and drainage systems. Much more accommodation, including uniforms and bedding, than any old sweat of Tedder’s vintage could imagine, was being provided.10 Britain’s aviation industry suffered similar growing pains. Until the 1930s, it comprised many small, intensely competitive ﬁrms, all underfunded and some ineptly managed. They were wary of sub-contracting and accustomed to making, virtually by hand, small numbers of their own designs. By 1933, however, three ﬁrms – Vickers, A. V. Roe and Hawker – dominated the airframe market and two – Bristol (air-cooled) and Rolls-Royce (liquid-cooled) – that for aero-engines.11 Firms were being pressed to abandon craft production for mass production, with all the attendant problems of taking on growing numbers of semi-skilled or unskilled workers; of ﬁnding adequate ﬂoor space for construction and storage space for parts and ﬁnished work; and of arranging transport (by road or rail) on a huge scale for inward goods and outward aircraft, complete or in parts. Worse still, for many aviation men, was the need to work on designs originating with a once-rival company. The 1930s, moreover, saw a profound aviation revolution: in the design, construction, equipment and production of all-metal stressedskin monoplanes with retractable undercarriages and more powerful engines, their performance enhanced by the invention of the variablepitch propeller and the use of improved fuels. The long day of the biplane, with a fabric-covered wooden or metal frame, was ending. And this revolution was taking place in a context of worsening international relations, threatening an outbreak of war likely to be far more destructive than the one still so vivid in the memories of all adults. Tedder, then, returned in mid-July 1938 to an Air Ministry under intense pressure to improve its management performance, both internally and externally. He was intelligent enough, Freeman hoped, to follow technical arguments, shrewd enough to spot ﬂaws (in projects or persons),

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and possessed of the patient, bureaucratic skill needed to keep good ideas moving forward and encourage urgency without panic. Between 1938 and 1940, Freeman created ‘a team spirit of mutual conﬁdence and understanding’, Tedder recalled in the 1960s, ‘between the Air Ministry and Industry such as we never had before or since’,12 a team in which Tedder was a senior player. He worked closely with the managing directors, chief designers and senior trade union ofﬁcials of numerous aircraft manufacturers and their principal suppliers. He had also to work with his own RAF colleagues in the Air Ministry as well as with politicians, bureaucrats and Treasury ofﬁcials elsewhere in Whitehall. For the ﬁrst time in his career, he was in a position where his judgement had an impact on national life. That being so, it is a great pity that the account of these heroic years in his memoirs is inadequate. At the time of writing, he no longer had the strength to recall many issues in sufﬁcient detail; they were, naturally enough, thoroughly buried by more dramatic events during the next decade, and he had retained few of the papers or letters that would have given him and his assistants a secure framework for a substantial chapter. The RAF, Tedder admitted, ‘had let armament drag a long way behind aircraft development. I have always felt that our great mistake prior to the war was in thinking that it was possible soundly to consider tactics quite apart from armament. To my mind they are two sides of a coin. The aircraft with which we entered the war betrayed the fact that their armament, whether it be bomb gear or guns, was more or less an afterthought.’ 13 Opportunities for the realistic testing of weapons in peacetime against a range of possible targets were naturally severely restricted. The fact remains, however, that it took neither testing nor profound cogitation to conclude that two light-calibre machine-guns – far from deadly weapons even in 1918 – were unlikely to prove adequate 20 years later, and yet until 1938 British ﬁghters were equipped only to engage the Kaiser’s biplanes.14 At a time of rapid technological change, it made sense to be cautious about ordering new types or equipment into quantity production, for they might soon be superseded by better. This applied to every project crossing Tedder’s desk. But at a time of equally rapid escalation in external threats to Britain, it also made sense to produce a great many aircraft as quickly as possible. This dilemma was complicated, as Frederick Handley Page pointed out to Freeman in November 1938, by the fact that quantity construction of heavy (and expensive) bombers depended on orders that were certain and on serious money being made available for new factories.15 Which technical developments mattered most? Without extensive testing, who could say? Testing, however, required skilled personnel and took time that in 1938–39 was evidently

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running out. The RAF’s aircraft might be excellent in all-round performance – but too few either for effective defence or offence against a ﬁrst-class power; or they might be numerous – but inadequate in performance either to defend Britain surely or damage Germany seriously.16 Tedder therefore became a juggler. Although factories could not be allowed to stand idle, precious materials must not be locked away unused; although operational squadrons needed experienced pilots, research establishments could not test urgent projects without them.17 As Freeman’s deputy, Tedder attended several of ‘The Secretary of State’s Progress Meetings’,18 and his presence at the top table while still on the right side of 50 was a clear sign that those friends who spoke of him as a future CAS were not being unrealistic. In November 1938, he reported on the current status of various prototypes: two exciting twinengined ﬁghter prospects, the Westland Whirlwind and the Bristol Beauﬁghter, were coming along, as were two promising twin-engined bombers, the Handley Page Hampden and the Vickers Wellington, but he was anxious to encourage a four-engined project, the Handley Page Halifax, which seemed likely to become the RAF’s ﬁrst truly ‘heavy’ bomber. He also reported on comparisons between the British Miles Master and the imported North American Harvard as advanced trainers, on the latest factory extensions, skilled labour shortages, repair depots and sought protection against the danger of air raids for certain ‘fringe ﬁrms’ engaged on vital modiﬁcations to airframes or equipment. A few weeks later, in January 1939, Tedder began an important series of monthly meetings with Sholto Douglas, Assistant Chief of the Air Staff, even though – as Tedder told Freeman in November 1940 – they had often disagreed strongly.19 Their meetings dovetailed neatly with Air Council meetings and were intended to keep Tedder the ‘supplier’ in close touch with Douglas the ‘user’. They were the kind of meetings that Tedder always thought gave the best value for time expended: small and informal, focused on practical matters and making decisions that were usually put into effect. He had the energy to work very long hours, but more important than that he was able to absorb information quickly and hold numerous threads in his head on every aspect of aircraft, their equipment and the personalities of those who produced them. In discussion, he had the quickness of mind to make points when they mattered; consequently, he rarely lost his temper or got ﬂustered. Afterwards, he composed clear, cogent reports for Freeman.20 In addition to these admirable qualities, Tedder recognised the value of ‘showing the uniform’ to the men and women in front-line assembly lines, machine shops and ofﬁces. During 1939 and 1940, Tedder and Douglas did their best, amicably

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or otherwise, to settle numerous issues: armour plating (for cockpit seats and engines), self-sealing fuel tanks, power-operated gun turrets, machinegun supply, cannon development, more and better engines, navigational instruments, automatic pilots, undercarriage problems, bullet-proof windscreens, portable oxygen units, intercom sets, production of 100octane fuel, inadequate heating of bombers, and how far the number of inspections of aircraft and equipment might be reduced to save time without endangering lives. They agreed to foster jet propulsion, the development of the Beauﬁghter, a high-speed photo-reconnaissance aircraft, a light bomber for close support of a ﬁeld force and the idea of a very fast unarmed bomber. Despite their obvious value, Lord Beaverbrook objected to committees on principle, and in September 1940 he instructed Tedder to ensure that ‘the ﬁndings of these meetings are not read by anyone as authoritative’ and they were ended.21 Meanwhile, as his experience and self-conﬁdence grew, Tedder felt able to express himself bluntly, even at formal Whitehall conferences. On 12 December 1939, for example, when the unarmed bomber was under discussion, he declared that if Bomber Command (whose head, Sir Edgar Ludlow-Hewitt, was present) were listened to, the result would be another ‘indifferent compromise’ like the Bristol Blenheim, with ‘ineffective defence and insufﬁcient speed’.22 By mid-December 1939, Tedder’s job had been immeasurably complicated not merely by the outbreak of war, but far more by a decision taken in the ﬁrst week to shift his entire department – 3,500 men and women – to Harrogate in north Yorkshire.23 After the war, Air Chief Marshal Sir Theodore McEvoy asked Tedder to explain this move. ‘Panic and ignorance’, he replied. ‘The Home Ofﬁce and the Air Ministry (which should have known better) expected an immediate and devastating attack on London. Not possible from where the Luftwaffe was based at that time nor for long after. However, off we went at three days’ notice. Special trains, deadly secrecy, great fun. Mind you, few of us had ever been to Harrogate and none of us had spent a winter there – and what a winter that was!’ 24 To keep in touch with Whitehall, experimental establishments, factories and command headquarters, Tedder became a commuter on a grand scale: sometimes spending as many as ﬁve nights a week in trains taking up to six hours each way. It is no wonder that as early as October 1939 he was ‘sorely tempted’, he told Rosalinde, to ask for a posting elsewhere. Family life was virtually extinct: his wife was in London, his eldest son was a Blenheim pilot based in Norfolk, his daughter was serving with the WAAF (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) in the Wolverhampton area, and his youngest son was at school in Wiltshire.

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Telephone links from Harrogate to the outside world were too few for efﬁcient communication even before Luftwaffe raids interrupted them; accommodation, ofﬁce space and facilities for relaxation (in a bitter northern winter) were all inadequate. Spotting winners was one of Tedder’s prime tasks and he was rightly proud of the encouragement he gave in these years to ‘young [Frank] Whittle’, a brilliant RAF ofﬁcer granted a patent for a turbo-jet engine as long ago as October 1932; he was at length loaned to a small company, Power Jets, to develop his revolutionary project. During 1939 and 1940, Tedder witnessed several tests of Frank Whittle’s gas turbine and was greatly impressed: though ‘futuristic and a gamble’, as he recorded in March 1940, it should be pushed with a view to use in this war. About Whittle’s technical difﬁculties he could offer only sympathy, but there were also personal and commercial rivalries over the engine’s development and production that he grasped perfectly well. He told one meeting in March that the Air Ministry held all the cards – ‘including the joker’, he added, smiling at Whittle – but rivalries became so bitter, despite Tedder’s best efforts, that on one occasion in May he actually had a conversation with the manager of Power Jets recorded in an attempt to avoid subsequent recriminations. ‘You and I speak the same language’, he told Whittle, and helped to ensure that the inventor got sufﬁcient ofﬁcial funding and encouragement to produce one of aviation’s great breakthroughs: the ﬁrst ﬂight, on 15 May 1941, of a small single-seat monoplane, numbered E.28/39 but more memorably named ‘Pioneer’. It took off from Cranwell, where Whittle had ﬁrst conceived of its method of propulsion.25 Another potential winner was the Westland Whirlwind, an attractive and original low-wing monoplane with two Rolls-Royce Peregrine engines and the formidable armament of four nose-mounted 20mm cannon. Designed in 1936, it made its ﬁrst ﬂight in October 1938 and was ordered into production in January 1939. In March, Arthur Clouston (a test pilot with the Royal Aircraft Establishment at Farnborough) met Tedder, ‘who had a natural charm that at once put me at ease’, and was asked to give the Whirlwind a thorough examination. After three weeks on it, he told Tedder that although it was ‘a viceless, pleasant aeroplane to ﬂy’, he preferred the Spitﬁre and Hurricane. Westland, a small ﬁrm, proved unable to produce a complex airframe either quickly or in quantity and the engines never came up to expectations.26 Tedder agreed that the Whirlwind, despite its exciting promise, was in fact a failure, and it only equipped two squadrons. But the twinengined layout, permitting a powerful nose armament and a longer range than either the Hurricane or Spitﬁre, proved to be a most decided winner,

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in the form of the Bristol Beauﬁghter and the de Havilland Mosquito. The Beauﬁghter – brainchild of Leslie Frise (airframe) and Roy Fedden (engines) – made its maiden ﬂight in July 1939 and would serve throughout the war, in daylight and darkness, in every theatre, in every ﬁghter role. Its overall wartime value matched that of the more famous Hurricane and Spitﬁre. More than 5,500 were built and the last one was only withdrawn from RAF service in 1960.27 Geoffrey de Havilland’s Mosquito, designed late in 1938, was intended as a bomber or reconnaissance aircraft that would ﬂy so high and fast that defensive armament would not be needed. Success with his Albatross airliner (which ﬁrst ﬂew in May 1937) had convinced de Havilland that wooden construction was practical as well as saving on expensive metals in short supply. He offered the project to Freeman on 20 September 1939, and Tedder replied to him on 3 October: ‘[you propose] a form of aeroplane which we have had in mind and on which we have already been in touch with certain ﬁrms upon preliminary layouts’.28 Tedder asked for expected performance details in November and approved two prototypes, rather than the 25 de Havilland wished to make. After much agitation over armament, construction, performance and likely employment, 50 examples were ordered in March 1940. Progress was delayed during the summer and the ﬁrst of nearly 8,000 Mosquitoes took to the air only in November 1940. Some Mosquitoes were still buzzing about in RAF service as late as 1961.29 In 1935, Britain’s aircraft industry had built 893 aircraft for the RAF; in 1941, that ﬁgure increased to more than 20,000; fewer than 3,000 aero-engines were delivered in 1936, 36,500 in 1941. Aviation production overtook that of Germany during 1939; it was the highest in the world in 1940, and during the following year Britain outproduced Germany by vast margins in numbers of airframes and engines, despite employing a smaller labour force and using less material.30 During the ﬁrst four months of 1940, no fewer than 3,462 aircraft were delivered to the RAF. Output increased by nearly 50 per cent between March and May. The time cycle between the manufacture of aluminium and the delivery of ﬁnished aircraft was never shorter than during the Battle of Britain. A repair organisation had been created by the Air Ministry as early as 1938 and, thanks to reforms introduced by Freeman in April 1940, it worked so efﬁciently during the coming summer of battle that four out of every ten aircraft reaching squadron service were repaired machines.31 Unfortunately, Winston Churchill – Prime Minister from 10 May 1940 – had long been convinced of Air Ministry incompetence, and within a week of his elevation ordered the creation of an entirely new ministry to

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take over all aspects of aircraft production. Ignoring the King’s written objections, he entrusted it to one of his oldest and closest cronies, Max Aitken (Lord Beaverbrook): a man like himself, capable of overwhelming charm and unforgiving malice, a dangerous friend and a ruthless enemy. Beaverbrook owned widely read newspapers, was immensely wealthy, had intrigued ceaselessly around the backstairs of public life for many years and remained a devout appeaser of Nazi Germany until May 1940.32 As a principal minister with immediate access to other ministers as well as to the Prime Minister himself, Beaverbrook was ideally placed to maximise aircraft production. To these assets he added furious energy, taking a child-like delight in overturning standard procedures and upsetting ofﬁcials, regardless of whether they were in fact being obstructive as opposed to sensible. He perfectly understood Churchill’s desire to galvanise the country out of its ‘phoney war’ lethargy to meet an obvious crisis – as much political as military – during the summer of 1940. Some backsides got unfairly kicked, some imaginary barriers were broken down, but these were small prices to pay – according to uncritical admirers of Churchill and Beaverbrook – for the nationwide beneﬁts of exhilarating, dynamic leadership that swept away the glumly persevering atmosphere of the Chamberlain regime. Freeman and Tedder were among those who paid the price. After May 1940, RAF inﬂuence over the aviation industry rapidly declined. Airframe, engine and material production were supervised by Patrick Hennessy, a manager brought in from the Ford motor company. Armament, equipment and factory construction went to Sir Charles Craven, managing director of Vickers-Armstrong. He had replaced Ernest Lemon in April and now became a member of the Air Council, responsible for development and production. Freeman and Tedder were left with research and development. Freeman’s suggestion on 12 May that production focus on established types was swiftly translated by Beaverbrook into insistence upon an absolute priority for ﬁve types of aircraft; every other project, he decreed, must be cancelled or at least delayed for the foreseeable future. Top of the priority list were two short-range day-ﬁghters (Hurricanes and Spitﬁres). They would oppose the expected ﬂeets of enemy bombers with every prospect of success, given their high quality and the early warning they would receive from the recently installed radar system. Next came a medium-range twin-engined light bomber (the Blenheim), which was presumably intended to harass invaders on the beaches and, at a pinch, serve as a ﬁghter with a pack of four machine-guns hastily ﬁtted under its nose. Bottom of the list were two long-range medium bombers (Wellingtons and Whitleys), designed with a view to under-

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mining Germany’s war-making potential by attacks on selected factories, oil and transport targets. In the event of invasion, however, they would be used to bomb shipping at both loading and unloading sides of the Channel. No-one queried the value of concentrating on the production of Hurricanes, Spitﬁres and Wellingtons, but the limitations of the Blenheim and Whitley were already clear by May 1940. Also, as Tedder told Freeman on the 21st, the need for urgent production meant that defects in aircraft design or installation of equipment had to be solved quickly and that could not be done by sacking research and development staff. ‘We have to win the war as well as this battle’, he argued. ‘We must keep on looking to the future. We must keep working on new equipment and if we break up technical teams now it will be difﬁcult to get them together again.’ 33 Tedder wrote to Freeman again on 5 June to emphasise the need for training aircraft: without them, there would eventually be no crews to ﬂy the priority types. ‘Personally’, he added on the 15th, ‘I hate the relative reduction in bombers, especially the longer range ones. We’ll never win a war with ﬁghters and I don’t believe we’ll beat the Hun simply by hitting him in the frontline. We’ve got to hit him where it hurts – and that’s at home.’ Concentrating on the battlefront may be necessary at times, ‘but that is pure defence and won’t win a war’. If the French collapsed, ‘I hope to heaven we immediately, the ﬁrst night, put all we have onto Berlin, ruthlessly and continuously: then ditto Hamburg, ditto Leipzig, etc.’ 34 Freeman agreed entirely, but Beaverbrook did not. Fighters defended Britain, not bombers; ﬁghters could be produced more quickly than bombers, and it seems that output ﬁgures enchanted him. One may applaud the sentiments of Freeman and Tedder, but they should have known better than anyone that Bomber Command lacked the capability to hit German cities ‘ruthlessly and continuously’. Tedder returned to that theme on 28 October 1940. ‘Surely the essence of war is to hit your enemy where it hurts him?’ he asked Freeman. But only concentrated attack ‘on the essential services of a city’ would thoroughly disrupt its life; dispersed attacks, as seen in London since September, were nothing like as effective.35 Freeman left the Ministry of Aircraft Production early in November 1940 to become Vice-Chief to the new Chief of the Air Staff, Sir Charles Portal. On the 19th, Tedder wrote to Beaverbrook, who had twice offered to ask the Air Ministry to give him a command. Tedder replied that he would do nothing to inﬂuence those responsible for appointments. In answer to a question about whether he was happy in the ministry, he

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answered that he had indeed disagreed with Beaverbrook ‘very frankly and bluntly’ on two or three occasions. ‘If you want me out’, he said, ‘I will go.’ Perhaps Tedder had heard about the minister’s conversation with Betty Bower, one of his secretaries. When asked who she thought was the most attractive man in the ministry, Betty replied: ‘Air Vice-Marshal Tedder.’ ‘Good God. Do you mean it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I can’t stand him’, the minister told her.36 That night Tedder wrote to Rosalinde – then living in a cottage near Farnham in Surrey – sending her a copy of his letter to Beaverbrook. He had spoken to the Air Member for Personnel, emphasising his readiness to go wherever he was sent, though he would prefer not to return yet again to a training appointment. Tedder also wrote to Freeman about this time. Douglas, who was appointed head of Fighter Command on 25 November, had asked if he would serve under his command. On reﬂection, Tedder declined. ‘Sholto and I often disagree very deﬁnitely about really important issues’, he wrote; as equals, he had no problem with that, but he could foresee a serious clash otherwise. Freeman asked Tedder where he would like to go. An operational command for preference, he replied, but he could see no opening. The Prime Minister, advised by Beaverbrook, refused Portal’s proposal (advised by Freeman) that Tedder be appointed deputy to Sir Arthur Longmore in the Middle East. Freeman then suggested Flying Training Command, which did not appeal to him. Beaverbrook told Freeman on 3 December that he could not recall objecting to Tedder as a possible Assistant CAS in charge of technical matters, but ‘I have a short memory sometimes’, he confessed.37 On 25 November, the day on which the Mosquito ﬁrst ﬂew, a winner if ever there was one, Tedder submitted a report to Sir Archibald Sinclair, Secretary of State for Air, on relinquishing his appointment as Director-General of Research and Development.38 He told Sinclair that in July he had asked Freeman to release him from the ministry because it had become ‘almost impossible’ to do the job. Freeman advised him not to press his request: ‘despite the introduction of uninformed authorities with undeﬁned responsibilities’, Freeman believed that Tedder ‘could still perform a useful function by keeping the technical team together’. In fact, the situation had steadily worsened, so that with the departure of Freeman and himself, the next most senior ofﬁcer, Roderic Hill, was ‘almost wholly occupied, on the Minister’s instructions, in dealing with certain gun installations’.39 The ministry’s methods, Tedder told Sinclair, were ‘such as gravely to threaten the efﬁciency of the service and consequently the safety of the country’. Many potentially disastrous measures had only been

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prevented after bitter argument ‘and by devious methods to minimise the ill effects of other measures which could not be prevented’. In May and June, all research and development which could not produce results in the front line in a month was to cease, and the personnel concerned were to be employed on production or disposed of. Tedder emphasised that wherever possible ‘these instructions were honoured in the breach rather than the observance and essential work was kept alive, though surreptitiously’. Wholesale withdrawal of development aircraft and pilots from experimental establishments was justiﬁable in May and June, but not continuing opposition to such essential work. ‘I have myself been very forcibly told [by Beaverbrook] that new type aircraft should not be at the A & AEE [Aircraft and Armament Experimental Establishment, Boscombe Down, Wiltshire] for performance tests, etc., but should all be in the ASUs [Aircraft Storage Units].’ In such conditions, the Beauﬁghter, for example, could not be properly cleared of the problems common to any new type before entering squadron service. ‘The present administration of the Ministry of Aircraft Production is based on force and fear’, Tedder declared, and ‘threats are the very essence of its direction’. Therefore, few dared to stand up and tell what they knew. Accordingly, Tedder believed it essential that ‘a drastic change be made with a view to returning to a rational and responsible organisation based on the principles of co-operation, loyalty and honesty without which such a Ministry cannot perform its sole function, which is to meet the requirements of the ﬁghting services’. In this astonishingly frank report, Tedder laid his head ﬁrmly on the block. He was a smooth operator, ﬂexible and shrewd, personally ambitious and careful to impress inﬂuential patrons; but he was also a truebred son of rigidly honest parents, who would, like him, have regarded Beaverbrook and many of his followers with contempt. Beaverbrook, however, with Churchill behind him, was not a man to be lightly crossed; Sinclair was widely supposed to be Churchill’s creature; and Tedder could not yet look to Portal for support (he being so new in his own position). At this critical moment, Fate lent him a helping hand. Word had come the previous day (24 November) that Owen Boyd, en route by air for Cairo, had inadvertently landed in Sicily instead of Malta for a refuelling stop and been captured.40 Tedder was the next most senior ofﬁcer in the Air Force List. Portal renewed his proposal and Churchill, who was beginning to respect Portal’s judgement, relented. No-one referred to Tedder’s report, either publicly or (it seems) in private correspondence, until he printed extracts in his memoirs many years later. Tedder was often asked for his opinion of life under ‘the Beaver’. ‘I think that for the ﬁrst four weeks or more,’ he wrote in the 1960s,

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‘Beaverbrook did a ﬁne job in keying everybody up to a higher pitch of energy. As for the remainder of the Beaverbrook regime, that is a very different story, and it is sad that Beaverbrook’s great qualities of drive and energy could not have been employed for the beneﬁt of the Royal Air Force without descending to the depths disclosed’ in Tedder’s report. ‘Those were my considered opinions nearly twenty-ﬁve years ago’, he concluded. ‘I have since had plenty of opportunity of thinking over my experience with MAP [Ministry of Aircraft Production] and I have seen no reason to modify my views.’ 41 The Beaver was amusing to read about, Tedder told Sir Theodore McEvoy, but not to work for. ‘Like Winston, he was a bully, a ﬂatterer and absolutely unreliable. Both were at their best in crises, but unlike Winston, Beaverbrook was quite incapable of non-crisis routine work, of plodding through dull stuff, hour after hour – and most of what had to be done at MAP was dull, believe you me!’ 42 On 30 April 1941, Churchill accepted his friend’s 14th offer to resign,43 appointed him to a sinecure next day, and then in June made him Minister of Supply. Colonel John Moore-Brabazon, Beaverbrook’s successor at the MAP, told Sir Maurice Hankey (an eminent public servant) in October that he had not yet caught up with his legacy: as many as l,400 aircraft were currently grounded for lack of spare parts, thanks to Beaverbrook’s insistence on front-line production; Hankey, who regarded him as ‘a ﬁrst-rate muddler’, was not surprised.44 Having got a heart-felt report off his chest, Tedder penned a brief message to Frederick Handley Page, thanking him ‘for the tact and forbearance you have shown in dealing with a simple airman’. Handley Page replied on 28 November. ‘I was very sorry to hear that you were leaving the Ministry of Aircraft Production’, he wrote, ‘and that we were no longer to have you there to call on and help us in our troubles. I think it is for me to thank you rather than you to thank me for all the help you have given us, which I can assure you has been very much appreciated.’ 45 Instead of a summons to a bleak interview in Sinclair’s ofﬁce, Tedder received a brief note on 26 November from the secretary of the Air Council telling him that he was to go to Cairo as Deputy to Sir Arthur Longmore ‘at an early date which will be notiﬁed later. You will be granted the acting rank of air marshal’ (equivalent to vice-admiral or lieutenant-general). Within three days, he was on his way. A letter from Barnes Wallis, chief designer of structures at Vickers-Armstrong, followed him. Wallis was ‘greatly distressed’, he wrote on 28 November, to learn of Tedder’s departure from the ministry. He had been very glad of his support and encouragement regarding experiments to test the effect of underwater explosions. We could destroy all the Italian dams,

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Wallis claimed, ‘and if only all concerned had been as ready to accept our original suggestion as you were this scheme could have been very much further ahead than it actually is’. A report received that day showed that a ten-ton bomb would probably destroy the Möhne Dam (in the Ruhr). With Beaverbrook’s agreement, Tedder had backed Wallis’s proposal to develop such a bomb in July 1940, but others resisted. Vickers promised on 1 November to design an aircraft for the bomb and the bomb itself, but when Tedder left the MAP the project ‘lost its most powerful supporter’ and was cancelled soon after. What might have been another winner credited to Tedder in 1940 would not be revived until July 1943, when Freeman (by then back at the MAP) asked Wallis how soon he could produce a ten-ton bomb; that bomb made a spectacular impact in the last year of the war.46 When Tedder left England on 29 November 1940, it was the ﬁrst time that he and Rosalinde had faced the prospect of living entirely apart since the winter of 1922–23, when Tedder was in Constantinople. Even brief separations always upset them, but the pain on this occasion was far greater, because by then it seemed almost certain that their son Dick was dead. Late on 3 August, Tedder had learned that Dick, a ﬂying ofﬁcer with 139 Squadron (equipped with Blenheims), had taken off from Horsham St Faith, Norfolk, shortly after 6 a.m. that morning and not returned. It is a fact, though one difﬁcult to believe, that at that time single unescorted Blenheims were often sent to attack German airﬁelds in France. No news of Dick’s fate was learned during the rest of that year and his parents’ hope that he might be in prison or in hospital gradually dwindled. Rosalinde received a letter in February 1941 to say that his death must now be presumed. Not until January 1946 were the facts discovered. At about 9 a.m. on the morning of 3 August 1940 the caretaker at a château near Nacqueville, four miles west of Cherbourg, saw a Blenheim coming in low and burning, as a result of hits by anti-aircraft ﬁre. It struck a wood on the side of a small steep hill near the château and exploded. The remains of all three crew members were recovered next day and buried in a common grave at Nacqueville. These facts were discovered by the Missing Research and Enquiry Unit (MREU) and conveyed to Jack Slessor, then Air Member for Personnel, who passed them on to Tedder and the families of Dick’s companions on 1 January 1946, but he sensibly withheld details about the state of the bodies after the explosion because they would only distress the families. In November 1947 an ofﬁcer of MREU visited the grave site and found it derelict and sadly overgrown. With the consent

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of all three families, the remains were transferred to the British Military Cemetery at Bayeux, about 16 miles north-west of Caen, in February 1948.47 Before leaving England in November 1940, Tedder had copied out this passage from one of Dick’s school reports: ‘ARBT has been with me for several years. In my experience of boys, few have shown the particular excellence in quality of character that he possesses. Quiet, determined and absolutely dependable, he makes an excellent prefect. (I would add here that very few receive the adjective “excellent” from me.) In work he has good ability and I have the feeling that the University would bring out the latent ability which I am sure he possesses.’ That scrap of paper remained in Tedder’s wallet until long after the war was over.

PART IV 1940 TO 1943: COMMANDING IN CAIRO

13 A Man of Nuts and Bolts, of Pen and Ink, with Strong Hands, Velvet Gloved Cairo and the Western Desert, December 1940 to June 1941

Middle East Air Command was a vast square territory: from Gibraltar south to Takoradi in Ghana is nearly 2,200 miles; from Takoradi east to Aden in Yemen about 3,250; from Aden north to Habbaniya in Iraq 1,400; and from Habbaniya west to Gibraltar another 2,800.1 Churchill, advised by Beaverbrook, rejected Portal’s initial recommendation that Tedder be sent there as Longmore’s deputy, believing him to be a mere technician, ‘a man of nuts and bolts’; useful enough, but unsuitable for operational command and unlikely to provide inspirational leadership in a war currently being lost. ‘It was not true’, Churchill told Tedder in August 1942, ‘and I was not told the truth. I am sorry.’ 2 Yet Tedder’s record up to November 1940 suggests a man of pen and ink, if not of nuts and bolts, and Churchill had good reason to reject him. After Boyd’s disappearance, Sinclair, Portal and Freeman renewed their pleas on Tedder’s behalf and this time Churchill accepted them. He was reluctant to overrule the united opposition of such responsible persons when no other candidate of the necessary seniority sprang to mind. Perhaps Churchill reasoned that the appointment was merely to be deputy: Longmore himself had only been in command for six months (since May 1940) and should he prove inadequate, the matter would be looked at afresh. Tedder would certainly not succeed automatically and could meanwhile make himself useful as Longmore’s ofﬁce manager in so vast a command. Perhaps also Tedder’s advocates took more care, after their ﬁrst failure, to emphasise the tripartite capacity he had shown in Singapore: to command widely spread RAF forces, to co-operate effectively with commanders in other services, and to get on with civilian

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authorities, both British and Malay. He had succeeded in all three roles in Singapore and could be expected to do at least as well in Cairo. Sinclair, Portal and Freeman might also have added that in his several training and teaching appointments, Tedder had met a high proportion of the young men who were now experienced aircrew, ﬂight or squadron commanders in the Middle East and would take every opportunity to talk to them. Moreover, after more than two years as Director-General of Research and Development, no ofﬁcer in the RAF was better qualiﬁed to discuss with them the performance and armament of aircraft, the problems of spares and modiﬁcations, and the prospects for replacement with superior types. And no ofﬁcer had a better network of contacts in the Ministry of Aircraft Production and throughout the aviation industry, which he could use to transmit the results of hard operational experience.3 Opportunity is the mother of greatness and 26 November 1940 (the day on which Tedder was appointed Longmore’s deputy) marks the moment when an outstanding national and allied commander began to emerge from a thicket of nuts, bolts, pens and ink. He left England on the 29th and immediately resumed his old practice of writing a daily letter to Rosalinde. Many of their letters survive and Tedder’s provided him with a fund of information in the 1960s for a detailed account of the desert campaign. More importantly, the discipline of recording each day’s events helped to clarify his mind for the next day. At times, it allowed him to let off steam safely. Most of all, it helped them to keep in touch, although the letters often arrived in bunches, out of order, and were never less than two weeks old before they were read. ‘Oh my dearest’, Tedder wrote on 24 January 1941, ‘I’ve been thinking such a lot about you. Do look after yourself. You are just everything to me – oh damn, I can’t write these things any more than I can say them … I hope you are peacefully asleep now, it’s nearly 11 p.m. even with you. Perhaps I can reach you in your sleep. I’m going to turn in. Can we meet when we’re asleep?’ Wiser than Boyd, Tedder chose to examine a newly established aircraft assembly base at Takoradi en route to Cairo. He ﬂew there at his ease, aboard a British Overseas Airways ﬂying-boat, via Lisbon, Bathurst, Freetown and Lagos. The ﬂow of crated aircraft to Takoradi from Britain, and on under their own power via several staging-posts across equatorial Africa to Khartoum, and then down the Nile to Cairo – a total distance of some 3,800 miles – was already important to operations in the Western Desert. The ﬂow would become vital after Germany entered the Desert War in February 1941 and made it more difﬁcult to send aircraft through the Mediterranean; it increased greatly after Hitler declared war on the United States in December 1941, and

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American ships were permitted to carry aircraft across the Atlantic to Takoradi. ‘Mary’ Coningham4 had pioneered most of the route between the West African coast and Cairo some 15 years earlier. It was still a hazardous journey, even in a modern twin-engined Lockheed 10-A Electra with an experienced pilot: ‘Nearly 700 miles of sheer nothingness’ lay between Fort Lamy and El Fasher, Tedder told Rosalinde, ‘brown bare country streaked with dry watercourses and dotted with bush. Maps hopeless. Nothing shown sometimes for a hundred miles and when it is shown, shown wrong. I would hate to do the trip without wireless!’,5 as Coningham and his companions had done. From Khartoum northward, Tedder exchanged the comfortable Lockheed for a luxurious ﬂying-boat. During the next 30 months the value and hazards of the Takoradi– Khartoum–Cairo route were often in his mind. Tedder reached Cairo on the afternoon of 10 December, to as warm a welcome from Longmore as he had received in May 1918 from Brigadier-General Herbert. ‘Very glad you’ve come’, said Longmore, and invited him to share his residence: ‘Air House’ in Zamalek, on Gezira Island. Longmore’s right-hand man was an exceptional Australian, Air Commodore Peter Drummond, who had served in the Middle East since November 1937. Tedder’s growing eminence during the next two-anda-half years owes a great deal to Drummond’s wise and dedicated support. The two men became good friends until an aircraft accident ended Drummond’s life in March 1945; had he lived, he might well have succeeded Tedder as Chief of the Air Staff. Drummond’s wife was with him in Cairo; a number of other wives of senior ofﬁcers and ofﬁcials were also there, a point casually revealed by Tedder, which Rosalinde noted carefully. On 11 December, he attended his ﬁrst ‘weekly wafﬂe’ at the British Embassy, presided over by the Ambassador, Sir Miles Lampson: ‘a huge friendly bear-like man, very much like the Dean of a Cambridge College’. There he met Sir Archibald Wavell, the Army commander: ‘a rugged-looking, one-eyed, taciturn individual – taciturn, I fancy, because he hasn’t got anything to say’. On the 13th he met Sir Andrew Cunningham, the Naval commander, whom he always referred to as an ‘old man’ even though there were only seven years between them. Longmore, thought Tedder, was ‘undoubtedly the pick’ of the three commanders-in-chief. Tedder reported on his journey to Freeman – still formally addressed as ‘Dear Sir Wilfrid’ – on 19 December 1940.6 In letters to the Air Ministry he had the skill to bury criticisms or complaints within a positive, cheerful context. He knew better than to moan at anxious, overworked ofﬁcials about problems of supply or reinforcement which they

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were trying to solve. There are times to demand, times to make do and mend; a wise commander can tell one from the other. Longmore lacked Tedder’s subtlety, and this is one reason why he would be sacked in May 1941. Tedder told Freeman that Group Captain Henry Thorold and his men were doing an excellent job at Takoradi. ‘The whole show is a ﬁrstclass piece of improvisation: from the devices for off-loading the extremely awkward Blenheim cases to the excellent accommodation ﬁxed up for the troops.’ Tedder had inspected Khartoum and Port Sudan just as carefully. ‘I think it is amazing what the fellows are getting out of the decrepit old aircraft with which they are equipped: Wellesleys, Hardys, Blenheim Is, Gauntlets, Gladiator Is. Self-sealing tanks, armour and many other “necessities” of the European war are practically unknown here, except in the Wellingtons and Hurricanes.’ Since reaching Cairo, Tedder had discussed improvements to the Takoradi route and been round the primitive local air-defence organisation. ‘Provided the Hun doesn’t join in this probably doesn’t matter much – but the effect of a real blitz on Cairo or Alexandria would be most unpleasant.’ Freeman replied at great length on 12 January 1941, even though he was appallingly busy and a reluctant correspondent at the best of times.7 Such letters, he wrote, ‘are more useful in enabling me and others to appreciate the situation out in the Middle East than all the telegrams that come by hundreds on my desk, so I hope you will continue to dictate a line or two whenever you have time or whenever you see a chance of sending it home by someone coming back by air.’ Extracts had been circulated round the Air Ministry. ‘As soon as a reliable ﬂow of aircraft from America begins’, continued Freeman, ‘we will have to turn you over completely to American aircraft.’ They would include a new Curtiss single-seat ﬁghter – named Warhawk by Americans, Tomahawk and then Kittyhawk by the British, P-40 by everyone – which became one of the RAF’s main weapons throughout the Desert War. A large, robust and comfortable machine, the much-improved Kittyhawk version served well as a close-support, low-level ﬁghter-bomber. Freeman then brought Tedder up to date with the latest Whitehall gossip. During 1940, Beaverbrook’s personality and actions had bitten deep into the souls of both Freeman and Tedder, who monitored his erratic course during 1941 with fearful fascination. On 21 January, for example, Tedder told Rosalinde that he had met one Tony Phillpotts, private secretary to General Auchinleck, but a ‘Beaver Boy’ in civilian life. Phillpotts, he wrote, ‘is quite certain that the B has known for months that the job [Minister of Aircraft Production] is beyond him and would have got out of it if he could after the ﬁrst couple of months, but Labour is afraid of his getting any other job, which might be a stage towards the

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premiership and Winston won’t let him go because of his skill as a politician – so there we are.’ Tedder even dreamt about the Beaver from time to time. However, he was hugely amused by Air Marshal Sir John Steel’s quip, relayed by Rosalinde on 18 May: ‘Churchill resigns and Beaverbrook sends for the King.’ On 22 December 1940 Tedder eagerly seized an opportunity to relieve Longmore’s ﬁeld commander for a few days at Maaten Bagush, some 200 miles west of Cairo, on the Egyptian coast. ‘It is an excellent idea’, he told Rosalinde, ‘since it will give me an insight into that part of the job which I could never hope to get in any other way’; perfectly true, of course, but what really enthused him was a rare chance ‘to be really amongst the chaps again for a bit!’ He had always thrived on discomfort and that evening found him in a cold little hut, sleepy after a long day, but happily scribbling to his wife. He revelled in the next few days, responding warmly to everyone he met – soldiers, sailors or airmen – most of the latter ‘needing the tight rein rather than the spur. I had to tell them that when we wanted bravery we’d ask for it, but at the moment all I wanted was cunning.’ On Christmas Eve, naturally, his thoughts turned inward. ‘Dick has been continually in my mind, especially the past few weeks. I wonder if there is a chance? Reason says no – but one can’t help thinking, perhaps … No parcels to tie up, no stockings to ﬁll – oh damn, I’m getting sentimental. Goodnight, my dearest. You’ve got a much worse ﬁeld to plough than I. I’ve at least got a clear-cut job in front of me – especially out in the desert here. So don’t think I’m getting miserable. It’s a grand job. But – it does give rather an ache being away from you.’ A month later, Dick was again brought to mind when Tedder visited Abu Sueir. ‘One nice youth’, he told Rosalinde, ‘a ﬂight commander, was at Dauntsey’s with Dick. Like so many of the Dauntsey’s fellows, he seemed very natural, keen and decent.’ Rosalinde wrote about her son on 26 February 1941. ‘I ought to have sent the [ofﬁcial] letters I have had. The ﬁrst one came at Christmas time, saying they had not been able to trace anything of him and one in January to say they had given up hope and a day or so ago the one from the Air Council. Somehow there would seem more hope if he had been alone, but it seems more difﬁcult for three people to disappear. Still, one can’t really believe it and hopes on yet.’ Rosalinde would never learn what actually happened to Dick and his companions. Tedder returned to Cairo on New Year’s Day 1941: ‘and don’t I hate that prospect!’ The prospect was improved by the arrival of his personal assistant from India, Gerald Bray, who would gradually become a friend. Tedder soon realised that civilian affairs, including ceremonial balls as

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deadly as those of Singapore, would waste precious spare time. Typical was one on 25 January amid ‘all the youth (and fat middle-age) and ?beauty of Egypt with a considerable sprinkling of the brutal and licentious, male and female. Also the Ambassador, like a dinner-jacketed Falstaff, and a feline little Ambassadress.’ Air Commodore Raymond Collishaw, Longmore’s ﬁeld commander, was a Canadian with a splendid record as a ﬁghter pilot in the First World War. In Tedder’s opinion, however, he was ‘a bull-headed unimaginative cuss’ who busied himself too much with routine duties and was unduly optimistic about what could be done with a handful of men and aircraft. Having been contemptuously dismissed in Tedder’s memoirs,8 Collishaw responded six years later in his own memoirs by completely ignoring (save for two passing references) the man under whom he served for eight hectic months.9 Collishaw had some justiﬁcation for resentment. He and his staff had recognised from June 1940 (when Italy declared war) the basic strategy of desert warfare: that it was a struggle for airﬁelds and ports. Tedder’s deputy, Peter Drummond, would echo this truth in October 1943. ‘Whoever held the airﬁelds on the shores of the Mediterranean’, he wrote, ‘could pass his own ships through that sea with reasonable safety and could forbid the route to the ships of the enemy.’ 10 Collishaw had identiﬁed and tried to solve the problems of combining the punch of ﬁghter and bomber forces with each other, and with the efforts of ground forces. He did his best to establish secure, reliable communications, ﬁx realistic bomblines (between friendly and enemy forces), and rank targets in order of priority. Wherever possible, forward landing-grounds were laid out swiftly, kept clear, guarded vigilantly, and amply supplied with water, food and fuel. Attempts had been made to provide squadrons with transport, and they tried to carry adequate workshops with them. They exercised their pilots regularly, knowing that training facilities outside the squadron were negligible. He realised that strength must not be wasted (after the Italian fashion) on standing patrols, wearing out men and machines, consuming precious reserves of fuel and spares. Above all, Collishaw understood that air superiority was to be obtained – and constantly maintained – before any other task, even close support for troops in advance or retreat, could be attempted with any reasonable hope of success. He had no radar, a poor radio network, much less signals intelligence than his successors enjoyed, and he commanded a motley force, made up largely of what have been called ‘assorted antiques’.11 Nevertheless, under Collishaw’s direction, the RAF showed plenty of tactical ingenuity, forged excellent relations with the Army commander

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(Sir Richard O’Connor) and concluded a triumphant campaign, despite depending on equipment that was at best obsolete, against Italians who had an apparently overwhelming numerical superiority. Had it not been for the Greek diversion in March 1941, O’Connor and he might well have captured Tripoli, ending the Desert War there and then. Collishaw was rightly proud of his North African command: ‘when we had to outwit and outﬁght a numerically superior enemy by a combination of deception, superior tactics and ﬁghting spirit’.12 Nevertheless, Tedder was thinking of sacking him as early as January. ‘Collishaw no doubt has his points’, he told Rosalinde on the 4th, ‘but he is an awful bull in a china shop, has no conception whatever of the administration without which operations cannot function and goes off half-cock in an appalling way.’ On 16 January, Tedder ordered him to send some air and ground crews from all his squadrons on leave to Cairo: ‘operations in the Western Desert at the present moment do not call for anything like maximum effort. If and when the German comes, we shall be up against a very different proposition and will require everything we have.’ A week later, Tedder was obliged to make another point that should have been obvious to a senior commander. ‘Get the moves properly planned’, he wrote, ‘so that they do not take place until communications, accommodation, defence and supply are ready to function at the new forward locations.’ Next day, 24 January, he wrote again: ‘Today there have been no less than 14 aircraft movements from the Western Desert to the Delta, not one of which was notiﬁed beforehand … for heaven’s sake, drum it into people that they must give notiﬁcation. Now that we have the Hun with us, we cannot afford to be so lighthearted about warning the Delta.’ Although Collishaw survived for another six months, he was then sent to England and retired in July 1943, not yet 50 years old. Several ofﬁcers who served under him shared Tedder’s low opinion of his capacity for high command.13 Even so, in memoirs written a quarter of a century later, Tedder might have allowed more for his difﬁculties and recognised his achievements more generously. Had he done so, Collishaw might have been encouraged to record his own impressions of Tedder. Favourable or not, they would have been more useful than silence. Tedder conﬁded to Rosalinde on 16 February some thoughts on the purpose for which he was sending men into battle. ‘I think a lot of people are feeling that the only way of meeting this specious and evil propaganda about a “New Order” is somehow to crystallise and put across to the world the real principles for which we are ﬁghting. It is all very well for the government to say our aim is simply “to win the war” – that won’t inspire people. The Nazi regime has literally inspired their younger

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generation with a creed – an incredibly evil one – but it is an inspiration. No-one has succeeded in putting across any similar inspiration against it … I suspect that the trouble is that our noble leaders, our Winstons and our Beavers, are unadulterated materialists. Something has got to be done about it – we need it now and we shall need it much more after the war.’ He found his personal inspiration in Jan Christian Smuts, a man of such overwhelming personality that he could silence even Churchill. Smuts had helped found the Royal Air Force and was now Prime Minister and head of the armed forces of South Africa. Tedder met him on 6 March 1941, and from then until the day he died gave Smuts the same uncritical worship that so many of his British contemporaries lavished on Churchill from 1940 onwards. ‘Smuts is a grand old man’, he recorded for Rosalinde’s beneﬁt on the 7th. ‘Straight and lean and ﬁt as a ﬁddle’ at the age of 70. ‘After he went, I saw a signal he sent to the PM [Prime Minister] today summing up the whole present situation. An absolute masterpiece of clarity, cool judgement and decision. I feel it will prove to be a classic. It stands out like a lighthouse from the ruck of turgid wafﬂe and wobble one sees every day. One feels he is head and shoulders above everyone at home and elsewhere. I wish he was leading the Empire.’ In fact, Smuts’ signal merely supported the opinion of Anthony Eden (Foreign Secretary), Sir John Dill (head of the British Army) and all three Middle East Cs-in-C that an attempt be made to fulﬁl a promise to help Greece if Germany invaded. Churchill’s War Cabinet agreed. ‘I am expediting another bomber squadron from South Africa’, signalled Smuts, ‘and Beaverbrook should surely also disgorge from his hoard.’ These last words stung both Churchill and Portal, who thought them inspired by Longmore. At the time, Tedder agreed with Smuts. Fortunately, he did not say so – at least, not publicly. By 11 March, when Longmore had received a tart signal from Portal, Tedder might easily have taken advantage of Longmore’s discomﬁture. Instead, he assured Freeman that ‘Smuts’s reference to B [Beaverbrook] was quite unprompted; I was not present at the meeting with Smuts, but I gather that B’s name was not mentioned in any way.’ 14 This honourable attempt to help Longmore in fact served only to improve his own credit in Whitehall. Eden had claimed, in a signal to Churchill on 7 March, that if Longmore ‘can hold his own’, then ‘most of the dangers and difﬁculties of this enterprise [in Greece] will disappear.’ But Longmore’s resources were entirely inadequate for this task and no amount of hope in London or Cairo, or courage in Greece, would make them so.15 From a military point of view, the War Cabinet’s decision exchanged one certainty for another: victory in North Africa became defeat in Greece, followed by defeat in North Africa.

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Tripoli had been there for the taking in February, as most historians agree. ‘With Tripoli gone’, wrote Klaus Schmider, ‘an Axis return to the African continent would have required either a major amphibious operation or a détente of a fundamental nature between Germany and Vichy France … both options would have been equally unrealistic.’ The decision to halt the British advance at El Agheila on 12 February, argued Schmider, ‘must therefore rank as the most gratuitous and incomprehensible error of omission of the whole Second World War, especially when one bears in mind that it was not the consequence of sheer thoughtlessness or political in-ﬁghting, but of elaborate, even tortuous decision-making’.16 Wavell was an enthusiastic advocate of the Greek adventure, but his preparations were fatally casual: ‘inadequate measures were taken to establish a ﬁrm base in Crete’, wrote Sir Michael Howard, ‘and worst of all, Wavell assumed, and gave London to understand, that he had established a strong defensive ﬂank in the Western Desert when in fact he had there only a collection of scratch, untrained and underequipped units that fell to pieces at the ﬁrst touch of Rommel’s probing attacks’.17 After the war, Tedder was among those who argued that the political beneﬁts justiﬁed a disastrous military decision, one that lengthened the North African campaign by two years and left the Far East vulnerable to Japanese aggression.18 ‘I knew how important it was’, Tedder wrote, ‘that nothing should endanger the programmes for the supply of munitions, and particularly aircraft, plans which were being very actively drawn up, and which might very well fall through if the United States lost their faith in us.’ 19 Freeman regularly bypassed Longmore in his private correspondence with Tedder, asking him in March, for example, whether Middle East Command was hanging on to aircrew who should be returned to England for service in Bomber Command. He invited Tedder to note the number of aircraft grounded in ‘your Command’ for want of spare parts, ‘because I want to be able to ﬂourish the ﬁgures in front of the Beaver’. He even sneered at Tedder’s boss: ‘it is funny to think that Longmore not long ago was saying that he did not want Hurricanes as the Gladiators were far more efﬁcient.’ 20 Tedder replied on 23 March,21 answering Freeman’s questions cogently. ‘One of our main difﬁculties here’, he continued, ‘is transport aircraft’ – a type which neither he, nor any other senior ofﬁcer, had sufﬁciently appreciated before the war. ‘It makes one’s mouth water to see the daily reports of movements of Ju 52s to and from Italy and Libya by the score’, he now lamented. As for the Bombay, ‘I only wish we had four times the number of them that we have.’ Two months later, on

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26 May, an absurd situation arose that might easily have become tragic when Tedder and several other senior commanders ﬂew from Cairo to Alexandria ‘in an old Bombay which was full of bullet holes … it was all there was available’; on arrival, the Bombay died, and they were obliged to return in two Fairey Swordﬁsh biplanes and a Blackburn Roc twoseat ﬁghter. To offset this complaint about transport, Tedder noted that the ﬁrst Tomahawks had arrived and promised well, but ‘until we can get some sort of cleaner it may not be possible to maintain them under desert conditions’. Thinking ahead, he wondered if there was any prospect of a shuttle service of heavy bombers between England and Greece or Libya to attack targets in southern or central Europe. He also noted a practice that would amuse (and annoy) him for the rest of the war: the practice, particularly in the Navy, of composing signals ‘to be included in the ofﬁcial history of the war, e.g., C-in-C Med’s signals regarding the inadequacy of the air reconnaissance, of the ﬁghter protection, of the air defence of Alexandria and the Suez Canal, etc. There are symptoms of a similar tendency arising in the army as regards close support, air transport, etc. It seems a triﬂe unnecessary since they know the actual position perfectly well.’ In the preface to his memoirs, Tedder drew attention to this practice, with which he was by then even more familiar. ‘I expect that most of us have seen, sometimes with amusement and sometimes almost with anger, reports and orders obviously worded with an eye to the future historian, or, as we used to call them, “for the record”. The wording of signals and orders “for the record” is a very ﬁne art and well calculated to fox the historian.’ 22 At about 10 a.m. on 2 April 1941, Tedder began an unplanned two-day break from the war: a break that nearly lasted for the duration. He had taken off in a small twin-engined Percival Q.6 monoplane (piloted by Flying Ofﬁcer Maurice Holland) from an airﬁeld near Tobruk, bound for Barce, near the north-west coast of Cyrenaica (East Libya), about mid-way between Benghazi and Cyrene. He had with him his personal assistant, Gerald Bray, and a mechanic. The port engine failed and Holland was forced to land in the middle of nowhere. A road lay some 35 miles to the north-west, Mechili oasis some 20 miles to the south-east. They had no radio, and Tedder did not expect to be missed for at least 24 hours, because he was known to have planned visits to several squadrons in western Cyrenaica. But they had sufﬁcient food and water for a few days, and Tedder refused to worry. He made a sketch of the aircraft, wrote to Rosalinde, gossiped with his companions, and enjoyed a couple of nights under the stars. They were rescued on the evening of the 4th and although Tedder

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made light of the episode, he never again wandered off so casually ‘into the blue’. General Erwin Rommel’s ﬁrst North African offensive had begun on 31 March and reached the Mechili region only hours after Tedder was rescued. On 6 April General O’Connor, by far the most dynamic of Britain’s desert commanders, suffered the fate Tedder narrowly avoided. He and another general fell into German hands while driving around in the dark, looking for their headquarters. During April, Rommel drove the British eastward and the loss of O’Connor’s ﬁrm hand was immediately felt. ‘The army direction here makes me shudder’, Tedder conﬁded to Rosalinde on the 11th. ‘We’ve got all our re-organisation to meet the new situation practically complete and working, but they are still dithering as to what their organisation is going to be and whether John So-and-So is not too junior to take command because George So-and-So is in the ofﬁng.’ He knew they were short of tanks and everything else, he added next day, ‘but there is a complete lack of leadership’. Wavell, he thought, was ‘a ﬁne man’, but ‘damn badly served’.23 Tedder reported again to Freeman on 16 April.24 ‘I do not know if and when the truth about the recent débâcle in Libya is ever likely to come out’, he wrote. The fact was that ‘we were beaten not by the enemy but by ourselves’. There was scarcely any real ﬁghting and the whole thing was ‘a most appalling example of lack of leadership and the utter disorganisation which results’. British forces were also being driven out of Greece during April. ‘It was a known risk’, he told Rosalinde on the 22nd, ‘and I think had to be accepted’, but he also thought the coming defeat there was ‘traceable to the “keep it on the island” policy of Beaver and Co., which stopped stuff coming out here months ago.’ The Navy, he added on 1 May, ‘put up a grand show’ in evacuating troops. He had reported to Freeman on 25 April that the worst aspect of the Greek business was ‘the literal impossibility of giving any effective cover to the evacuation’; he feared, rightly, that there would be ‘some bitter feeling against us on the part of the soldiers’, especially after being driven out of Greece and then, at the end of May, out of Crete as well, suffering heavy losses.25 ‘There is, and undoubtedly will be more, loose talk about lack of air support for Greece and Crete’, he signalled Portal on 31 May. ‘I am taking line that root of situation is secure air bases … This campaign is primarily a battle for aerodromes.’ 26 Crete proved for him what he came to regard as the ‘central fact’ of the war: ‘Air superiority was the pre-requisite to all winning operations, whether at sea, on land or in the air.’ 27 On 1 May 1941 Longmore was abruptly summoned to London and departed on the 3rd. His days of command in Cairo, ‘days of brainracking scarcity, patient achievement, blazing triumph and hapless, abrupt disaster’ were at an end; from then on, air power was in ‘the strong

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hands, velvet-gloved, of Tedder’.28 Longmore doubted whether he would return, Tedder noted: ‘he’s said two or three times to me: “I hate leaving you such a mess to hold.” It is a mess and it’s going to be pretty unpleasant for the next three or four months, but Longmore is certainly not to be blamed. If anyone is blameworthy, it is the people at home who refused to send adequate forces out here many months ago.’ Tedder had grown to like Longmore. ‘The touches of snobbery and self-importance are very superﬁcial really’, he told Rosalinde on 3 May, ‘and on all things that matter he’s honest, decent and thoughtful to others. I don’t think he’s a great brain or a great leader, but he’s got a lot of straight commonsense and a good sense of proportion. He tries to unbend to the troops sometimes, but it always seems to creak a little – his naval upbringing, I think. The only thing for which I can’t forgive him is a habit he’s developed of calling me “Ted”!’ Meanwhile, as if retreat in Cyrenaica and in Greece were not enough, a rising had begun in Iraq on 3 April, under Rashid Ali el Gailani, mouthpiece of a pro-Nazi junta known as ‘the Golden Square’.29 The great air base at Habbaniya, 50 miles west of Baghdad, was surrounded. For once, the British reacted more swiftly than the Germans, sending troops from India, and a crisis of unlimited potential danger was ended within a month. Air Vice-Marshal Smart, commanding the air forces in Iraq, had on hand only a ﬂying training school equipped with obsolete aircraft, non-operational instructors and pupil-pilots. Tedder’s men performed well, on the ground and in the air, showing enterprise and tireless determination. ‘Your vigorous and splendid action’, signalled Churchill to Smart, ‘has largely restored the situation.’ 30 Tedder ‘seems distinctly churlish’ towards Smart, wrote one historian, but Tony Dudgeon (who fought at Habbaniya and afterwards became an outstanding ﬁghter pilot in North Africa) composed a thorough account of the episode, which makes it painfully clear that Smart in fact broke under the strain.31 Late in 1942, Dudgeon asked Tedder to assess the signiﬁcance of Habbaniya’s resistance. ‘If the School had been overcome’, replied Tedder, ‘the Germans would have got a foothold in Iraq. If they had then created a bridgehead behind us, through Vichy-controlled Syria from Greece, our Middle East base could have been nipped out with German forces both to its east and west. We might then well have lost the war.’ 32 It is a large claim to make, but Arthur Lee (Drummond’s assistant for air operations) agreed: ‘We should have lost the oilﬁelds at Mosul and in southern Persia and the Germans would have had a clear route through to the southern Caucasus and to India.’ 33 Freeman summarised the latest state of various new British aircraft (a discouraging catalogue, for the most part) on 3 May, and reminded Tedder that ‘Policy is to keep your command as far as possible equipped

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with American types shipped direct from USA as this eases strain on British shipping. Ample numbers of American aircraft should be available by autumn. Maryland will be followed by Baltimore and Tomahawk by Kittyhawk. Wellington will continue to be heavy bomber type supplied to you for the present.’ He assured Tedder that if he had ‘nothing but USA types and we have nothing but British types, then the supply of aircraft, engines, spares, etc., is enormously simpliﬁed … Now that you are the centre of attraction, it is quite certain that you will have to have high-performance aircraft.’ 34 Portal sent Tedder a ‘Personal and Private’ signal on 4 May. ‘On taking over command’, he wrote, ‘you should in view of an ever-changing situation feel yourself free to act as you think ﬁt in spite of any appreciation or directive issued before Longmore’s departure.’ Portal then brieﬂy summarised his own views of the Middle East situation: ‘all three services’, he emphasised, ‘should make their big efforts in concert and not separately … you can rely on my not interfering but supporting you in any bold and well-conceived joint operation whatever its result may be’. Tedder needed no reminding about the need for inter-service co-operation. Difﬁcult though it might be to achieve in the ﬁeld, as opposed to around a table, it taxed him less than several other burdens of his new ofﬁce – Lampson’s ‘weekly wafﬂe’ at the embassy, for example. ‘An hour and a half of unadulterated wafﬂe’, he sighed to Rosalinde on 15 May. ‘At a time when one was trying to ﬁnd ways and means of catching the Hun in transit through Syria, it was a bit trying to have long rambling accounts of the eternal and pettifogging ramiﬁcations of Egyptian party politics.’ Tedder had already convinced Freeman – a hot man, difﬁcult to please – that he was capable of high command. During 1941, he would also convince Portal, a cold man, no easier to please. Though younger than Tedder and for long his junior in rank, Portal became Tedder’s model as a high commander. The new CAS was even-tempered, quietly spoken, concise in argument and gave subordinates the loyalty and trust he expected to receive. He also had a disconcerting, ironic sense of humour, very like Tedder’s, that relied on straight-faced understatement. Portal quickly became a master of the war’s broad shape, as well as its particular campaigns. ‘It would help me’, signalled Portal to Tedder on 19 May, ‘if you could from time to time send me very private (repeat private) and personal telegrams’ giving me your views on the Mediterranean scene with ‘complete frankness’; views that would be communicated to the Prime Minister only with his consent. Tedder was, of course, even more ﬂattered by Portal’s attention than by Freeman’s. At ﬁrst, however, he was also apprehensive. As he told Rosalinde, ‘All very well if it were really private to him – but things get round and back!’

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Tedder did not yet feel secure in the saddle: not until 27 May did he learn that Longmore would not, in fact, be coming back – and only then because he received a personal letter, dated the 19th, from Longmore himself. Lampson recorded in his diary that ‘Tedder was equally mystiﬁed, but it just proved what a dictatorial regime we are all living under. Tedder said he gave himself just three months before his own head came off as Longmore’s had just done.’ 35 Until then, he decided to accept Portal’s invitation. ‘I don’t think this is a time to be mealymouthed’, he told Rosalinde on 25 May. ‘If Portal doesn’t like what I say, well it’s too bad.’ However, each liked what the other wrote, and the bond then forged with Portal as well as Freeman helped Tedder to avoid decapitation when a crisis arose in October.36 There was no real co-operation between the services, Tedder told Portal on 26 May, still less any concept of combined operations and yet the entire campaign ‘calls for combined staff manned by ofﬁcers with real knowledge and mutual understanding of powers and limitations of three services’. He realised that ‘questions of location, command and personalities’ made it difﬁcult to create such a staff, but it must be done if the recent run of defeats was to be reversed. ‘With both other services, there is failure to understand the elementary principles of air operations in relation to land and sea operations.’ He emphasised that ‘air operations, like naval operations, are conditioned by bases available, and endurance of aircraft cannot be stretched indeﬁnitely to compensate for loss of bases. Truth is beginning to penetrate, but it is tragic that it has been necessary for the Hun to drive it home.’ 37 Air Vice-Marshal Grahame Dawson was due to arrive in Cairo via Takoradi in June, charged by Churchill (at Beaverbrook’s request) to investigate the aircraft-maintenance organisation and introduce methods which had proven successful in Britain.38 Tedder received him reluctantly because he had been a Beaverbrook favourite in the Ministry of Aircraft Production – and was anxious to remain so. Dawson is ‘a disloyal crook’, Tedder told Rosalinde on 3 June, ‘with a would-be dictator complex, but there’s something attractive about him, he’s full of energy and I think I can use him.’ The crook reformed. In a newly created position as Chief Maintenance and Supply Ofﬁcer, he was put in charge of ‘receiving, modifying, distributing, salvaging, and repairing the aircraft and spares’ for the whole command. ‘Thorold’s men worked wonders’ in Takoradi, recalled Tedder, ‘and Dawson’s men worked wonders in the Middle East. Without them I do not see how we could have mustered sufﬁcient air strength to hold the Germans and Italians in 1941 and to defeat them in 1942 and 1943.’ 39

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Unfortunately, discussion, let alone co-operation, with Cunningham was difﬁcult, because he would rarely move from Alexandria, except to go to sea. As Tedder told Freeman on 29 May, it was ‘sheer lunacy’ that vital decisions, concerning all three services, had to be made at places 125 miles apart.40 The lack of air cover during the Greek and Cretan operations had led Cunningham to demand operational control of reconnaissance, ﬁghter and anti-shipping squadrons, but Tedder refused to commit scarce resources ‘inﬂexibly’ to maritime operations.41 Cunningham urged Churchill to increase the RAF’s strength in the Middle East, believing that Fighter Command absorbed too much strength at home, especially after the Wehrmacht turned on the Soviet Union in June 1941, but he wanted naval control of these reinforcements. Cunningham never accepted the argument that it was the air commander’s responsibility to decide between Navy and Army appeals for support; still less the corollary, that the air commander’s judgement might be superior to his own. Cunningham’s judgment in aviation matters was certainly at fault – ‘beyond comprehension’ for Tedder – over the use of Formidable, his only aircraft carrier. She was put out of service for nine critical months as a result of aerial attacks suffered during an ill-conceived and ineptly executed venture into the Aegean on 26 May. Her absence ‘enabled the Italians to regain control of the central Mediterranean, made transMediterranean and Alexandria–Malta convoys extremely hazardous and tied Cunningham to the eastern basin, within shore-based ﬁghter cover’.42 Lord Louis Mountbatten, the King’s ﬂamboyant cousin, arrived in Cairo on 30 May 1941 at the end of his ‘short, colourful, and unsuccessful’ 43 career as a destroyer captain. He was on his way home to begin, under Churchill’s patronage, a long, colourful and successful career as a high commander. Mountbatten ‘heckled’ Tedder – who reported their long conversation to Portal next day – on the subject of air support, both to the Navy and to the Army. Tedder explained that without secure bases he could do little to help either, and Mountbatten then challenged him on the Luftwaffe’s excellent close-support capability. ‘It is, of course, true that we have nothing like the highly-reﬁned organisation which the Hun has developed’, admitted Tedder to Portal, ‘for communicating between close-support aircraft and forward troops’. Tedder evaded Mountbatten’s conclusion that the Army should have its own air force and merely answered that the available air forces could not be divided into ‘penny packets’.44 According to Lampson, Mountbatten declared that ‘the whole Fleet’ was ‘outraged by the degumming of Arthur Longmore whom they regard as having been made a scapegoat for shortcomings at home’, and that Cunningham was ‘particularly violent in his views’.45

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So ended Tedder’s ﬁrst month in acting command, a month that saw British fortunes fall to their lowest ebb in the war, although that of course, only became evident later. On 1 June he was formally conﬁrmed as Longmore’s successor (with Drummond as his deputy), to the sound of one hand clapping at both Army and Navy headquarters and modiﬁed rapture elsewhere, except – and this was a critical exception – in the opinion of Portal and Freeman. ‘What a party to take over!’ he wrote to Rosalinde in the early hours of 2 June. He would be asked to leave, he thought, before long. Until then, however, he intended to keep the party as lively and well-organised as possible. ‘Oh my dear, it’s a terriﬁc and formidable job’, wrote Rosalinde when she heard the announcement on the wireless that morning. ‘But in a way I know you will like it all the better for that.’ She received, on his behalf, many letters of congratulation, among them one from Freeman. ‘You will be delighted at Tirpitz’s promotion and command’, he wrote, ‘but I honestly believe no more so than I am. It is splendid – chieﬂy I think because it is so very richly deserved. You will be sorry not to be with him to help him – that is a pity. I now feel that things will look up in the ME [Middle East] for at last there is at least one man of real intelligence at the top.’ Some ﬁve weeks earlier, on 27 April, Tedder had caught Churchill’s radio broadcast on the fall of Greece. ‘It was, on the whole, remarkably honest and accurate’, he told his wife. ‘The best part was his ﬁnal quotation, which was very apt.’ It was indeed; for all those who fought against Nazi Germany – and more apt for Tedder personally than he then realised. The words had been written in 1849 by Arthur Hugh Clough, an English poet and academic with many American friends: For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, ﬂooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright.46

14 Ending the Bad Old Days before There Was Mutual Understanding and Faith between the Services Cairo and the Western Desert, June to September 1941

Late on 9 June 1941, just over a week after he was conﬁrmed as air commander in the Middle East, Tedder grasped the nettle of Rosalinde’s dislike of Freeman. ‘I am more than ever convinced’, Tedder assured her, not for the ﬁrst time, ‘that he is entirely non-self-seeking. I think his loyalty to Portal, for whom he is dogsbodying, is a pretty good indication. Anyway, I am quite certain I wouldn’t be holding this baby now if it weren’t for Freeman – perhaps that’s a mixed blessing since it is certainly an unruly babe at the moment.’ Rosalinde promised on 9 July that she would ‘try to feel better towards Freeman’. Even though he sent her a ‘charming letter’ to mark Tedder’s latest elevation, she remained convinced – quite wrongly – that ‘it was not he but the PM [Prime Minister] who put you in the present job’. For the time being, however, Rosalinde was prepared to let a sensitive subject rest. Longmore, she wrote in June, was furious at the way he had been treated – told nothing, given no reasons for his dismissal – though a friend who liked him very much did admit that ‘perhaps he had not a very great brain’. Air Vice-Marshal Charles Medhurst (Director of Allied Air Co-operation in the Air Ministry) told her that ‘many of Longmore’s signals were stupid and unhelpful’, but as soon as Tedder was put in charge signals from Cairo ‘became clear and helpful’. The wife of the unlucky Owen Boyd kept in touch, and Hazel (mother of Gerald Bray, Tedder’s personal assistant) came to lunch. Rosalinde was very glad to have met her. ‘In a way, it brought you nearer. It seems

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strange that you have been, as the girl in the bank put it, “headline news” and that I have had no touch with you except to scribble to you each night.’ Her consolation was that each night found Tedder scribbling as diligently to her, no matter how urgent the demands of war. Why should she not join Tedder in Cairo? Many wives of senior persons, both military and civilian, lived there and some even found useful work to do. On 21 June she learned that a master and his wife at her son John’s boarding school would gladly take him into their home, and her daughter Mina was now rising 21 and serving in the WAAF. ‘It’s maddening to think of those other wives there’, she wrote, and was maddened still more when Tedder told her on 28 June about a proposed ‘hostel for airmen’: an idea that would grow and become of vital importance in the rest of his life, in peace as well as wartime. ‘I ought to be with you’, she replied, ‘and I am sure there is a job there for me, dealing with hostels, etc.’ He agreed: but the war was going so badly in mid-1941 that plans were being made to evacuate dependants to South Africa or other apparently safer places. With or without the joyful stimulus that Rosalinde’s mundane and rambling letters gave him, Tedder got on with nursing his ‘unruly babe’, the air aspect of military operations. His ﬁrst cause for serious concern came not from Britain’s enemies, nor even from his service colleagues, but from Britain’s reluctant ally, Brigadier-General Charles de Gaulle, founder of the ‘Free French’ movement. He rejected British direction, especially in Lebanon and Syria, parts of the Middle East where British and French interests had often clashed in the past.1 Tedder had a tense meeting with him in Cairo on 3 June. ‘I was not impressed’, he conﬁded to Rosalinde that night. ‘A tall man with a solemn, almost fanatical face. I don’t think he is half such a big man as he thinks himself.’ The Vichy government had permitted German aircraft to use Syrian airﬁelds to support the Iraqi rising in April. Although Free French forces agreed to assist British forces in an invasion of Syria, de Gaulle remained almost as discontented with his allies as with his enemies. He issued a paper naming a number of Frenchmen who had joined the RAF Volunteer Reserve and were refusing to transfer to the Free French forces. They were deserters, asserted de Gaulle, liable to arrest and trial. Tedder answered this nonsense calmly, but made it clear that he would permit no action against any men under his command. Having discussed the matter with Major-General Edward Spears, Britain’s principal representative in the Levant, Tedder became still more convinced that de Gaulle was ‘a menace’, because Spears, hitherto a staunch Gaullist, agreed entirely with him. Ambassador Lampson

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noted in his diary on 7 June that the ‘excellent Tedder’ had been holding forth to him on de Gaulle as a prime nuisance.2 A month later, on 7 July, after the Vichy commander in Syria had asked for an armistice, Tedder told Freeman that de Gaulle and many of his entourage were anti-British and ‘doing their best to rouse feeling against us’.3 De Gaulle demanded that Tedder take into one of his squadrons ‘in which we were trying to collect the Free French pilots, some ragtag and bobtail ex-Vichy airmen who have baled out of Vichy aircraft, and some who have been dug out of jug in Damascus’. Tedder refused to accept such persons, and so this meeting – like the ﬁrst – ended with the short Englishman and the tall Frenchman glaring at each other. Their third meeting, on 21 August, was no more friendly. ‘He is a cold slab of codﬁsh’, Tedder told his wife. ‘My ofﬁce felt like a ﬁshmonger’s shop after he’d sat there for ten minutes, saying practically nothing.’ Until Tedder left the Mediterranean, some 28 months later, he would often be distracted from his main task of ﬁghting Germans and Italians by the friends and enemies of de Gaulle. ‘British and American forces won the Mediterranean war’, he later recalled, ‘but the French were set on winning the peace. Vichy or Free, on this point they were agreed and I never trusted any of them. Among our foreign allies, one Pole was worth ten of them.’ 4 A greater cause for concern arose from Tedder’s worsening relations with his fellow commanders in the wake of disasters in Greece, Crete and Cyrenaica. On 3 June, he reported to Freeman a ‘ﬁrst-class hate’ that was building up in the Army against the RAF. Although Wavell was trying to curb it, Tedder thought that neither he nor his senior ofﬁcers understood ‘even now’ the reasons for the lack of air support, and the situation would not improve when Mountbatten – King’s cousin, Prime Minister’s favourite, dashing naval ofﬁcer – reached Whitehall; he was ‘likely to be just about as troublesome as anybody could be – a clever, but not pleasant person’.5 Next day, 4 June, he signalled Portal to say that he had just seen an ‘unfortunate’ and ‘misleading’ signal from Wavell to the War Ofﬁce, but only after it was sent. ‘As I have emphasised again and again’, wrote Tedder, in a signal shown to Wavell before he sent it, ‘our inability to provide ﬁghter defence and other air action was due primarily to the loss of the essential air bases. The aerodromes on Crete itself were deliberately limited so that the available ground defences could be concentrated. These ground defences proved utterly inadequate, not only to enable us to use the aerodromes ourselves, but even to prevent the enemy from seizing them and using them himself.’ 6 The costly German victory

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would have been costlier still if Wavell’s soldiers had done more to make the island defensible during the six months of their occupation before the German attack began. Tedder was well aware that Wavell and General Freyberg (commanding British forces in Crete) received, as he himself did, secret information code-named ‘Ultra’. It derived from decrypts of radio signals enciphered on German ‘Enigma’ machines and became of cardinal importance to all senior British, and later Allied, commanders for the rest of the war. Tedder may not have known that the whole German plan of attack on Crete ‘was in British hands a fortnight before the invasion on 20 May’, but he knew enough to believe that Wavell and Freyberg made poor use of whatever information they did receive.7 Discontent simmered on. As Tedder told Freeman on 7 July, there was ‘a lot of backchat and loose talk going about out here on the subject, ably led by Freyberg who is singularly unbalanced even for a VC, and has made some quite fantastic statements’.8 More than four years later, in October 1945, a draft of Wavell’s ofﬁcial account of those tragic months, February to July 1941, was sent by the War Ofﬁce to the Air Ministry and Tedder was invited to comment. ‘He ignores or slurs over what our own air did to support land and sea operations’, noted Tedder, and remained ‘oblivious to the responsibilities that the Army had as regards the Air: i.e., the security of the air bases.’ The very existence of Ultra would stay secret for another 30 years, but Tedder was able to refer openly to the lack of ground defences for airﬁelds in both Greece and Crete. Overall, however, the main point of his comments was that the time for separate land, sea or air dispatches had gone. Modern operations were nearly all combined, and reports on them should also be combined. Wavell’s dispatch, in Tedder’s opinion, dated from ‘the bad old days when there was not that mutual understanding and faith between the services which developed later’. Tedder signalled Portal on 9 June about the air aspect of Operation Battleaxe, due to begin on the 15th. This was a hastily planned assault by inexperienced troops – poorly equipped and poorly led – on Rommel’s carefully prepared positions at Halfaya Pass, guarding access from Egypt into eastern Cyrenaica, where Australians held the besieged fortress of Tobruk. Wavell was worried, ‘because he is repeatedly told from home that we have strong numerical air superiority’, but this was not conﬁrmed by the numbers Collishaw (Tedder’s ﬁeld commander) actually had available at any given time: 105 bombers and 98 ﬁghters to oppose 84 Axis bombers and 130 ﬁghters.9 Tedder had explained to Wavell that it was misleading to compare the enemy’s total strength ﬁgures with our serviceable ﬁgures, but he assured Wavell, ‘with Collishaw’s agreement’,

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that the ﬁghter force available would be sufﬁcient to secure and maintain ‘a reasonable degree’ of superiority, though many pilots were inexperienced in combat. Portal warned Tedder on the 11th that ‘political circles’ in London would be on the lookout for any failure by the RAF to afford close support to the troops during Battleaxe. Tedder and Collishaw must therefore ensure that the ground commanders agreed beforehand to whatever the air force proposed to do. ‘If their requirements appear to you unsound’, wrote Portal, ‘and if persuasion fails to move them, you should do your best to act as they require and register your disagreement to them and to me before the action starts.’ Tedder replied at once: he quite understood that if Battleaxe failed, the Army would, if possible, blame the RAF.10 Battleaxe swung into action on 15 June.11 The ﬁghting lasted for three terrible days, changing the name of that pass to ‘Hellﬁre’ for the rest of the war. But it ended in a thorough defeat for the British ground forces, and 33 ﬁghters and three bombers were lost while attempting to assist them, in exchange for only ten enemy aircraft certainly destroyed.12 ‘Every single one of our plans has failed’, lamented Churchill on 21 June.13 The Axis victory was not exploited, however, because warfare on an inﬁnitely larger scale – Operation Barbarossa, Hitler’s invasion of the Soviet Union – began next day. Hans-Otto Behrendt, a senior member of Rommel’s intelligence service, regretted that decision: ‘Berlin had never seriously examined the opportunities of deciding the war with Britain in the Middle East’ by capturing the Iraqi oilﬁelds and advancing from there against those of the Soviet Union.14 Even so, the defeat ended Wavell’s career in the Middle East, brought General Sir Claude Auchinleck from India to replace him and conﬁrmed Rommel’s growing reputation as a desert wizard, although never again would he enjoy so complete an advantage in the unseen struggle to protect his own wireless signals and read those of the enemy. Battleaxe also convinced Tedder that Collishaw must go and a less impulsive ofﬁcer be found to ﬂourish a sharper weapon. Both Wavell and his ﬁeld commander, General Sir Noel BeresfordPeirse, had been foolish enough to ﬂy up to the front on 17 June and get themselves lost. ‘Thanks to a lot of good luck and a very heavy ﬁghter escort’, wrote Tedder to Rosalinde, they were rescued. He thought their conduct ‘criminal lunacy’, and said so to Wavell that evening: ‘it was not merely a question of his personal value, but the effect that the loss of the GOC-in-C would have from a prestige point of view. We’ve lost enough generals already!’ It was clear by then that the operation was ‘a complete ﬂop’, he told Rosalinde, and the only bright spot for Tedder was that ‘our chaps have been simply grand and have done more than even the

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Army could have called for. There’ll certainly be a hunt for scapegoats after this and I knew we were marked down as the prospective sacriﬁce – but I don’t think that will come off – this time!’ Lampson visited Air HQ on the 17th. ‘Tedder looked gloomy’, he noted in his diary. ‘We had taken a bad knock, lost lots of tanks. I notice that Tedder, being of a rather puckish nature, is sometimes inclined to do that. I.e., take the gloomiest view.’ 15 The main difﬁculty throughout Battleaxe, Tedder informed Portal on 20 June,16 was the almost complete absence of reports from soldiers to airmen, even though detailed arrangements had been made. Consequently, close support bombing was impossible and Army HQ was rarely able to give even a bombline (between friendly and enemy forces). Wavell admitted that ‘we are not organised or trained’; and Tedder also admitted that many of his pilots were inexperienced and needed a period of intensive training. He had provided a ﬁghter ‘umbrella’ over ground forces during the early stages of the offensive, but if he had maintained it for a long period, supposing the offensive had continued according to plan, the enemy would gradually have gained air superiority. Wavell visited Tedder on 1 July. He liked to look round the operations room next door to Tedder’s ofﬁce, a room in which an intelligence ofﬁcer, Squadron Leader James Pelly-Fry, had set up large identical maps on opposite walls. One showed friendly activity, the other what was known about enemy activity. As Pelly-Fry recalled,17 Tedder would sit in a comfortable chair, observe the latest state of play as it progressed on either wall, and ask himself three key questions: Was he doing the right thing? What was the enemy up to? What should he do next? Having discussed the current situation in an unusually desultory fashion, Wavell suddenly revealed that he and Auchinleck, C-in-C in India, were to swap jobs. Tedder had already met the ‘Auk’ and suspected ‘a complete lack of any sense of humour’; a fatal handicap in his book, but he was prepared – for the moment – to suspend ﬁnal judgement. ‘Auchinleck’s record did not promise genius’, wrote Alan Moorehead, a journalist with Beaverbrook’s Daily Express. ‘His had been the most regular of all regular army lives. He was even born at Aldershot, the vatican of British soldiering, and his father was a gunner.’ 18 Tedder, meanwhile, struggled to remain on civil terms with Admiral Cunningham, ‘our old man of the sea’, as he often called him, ‘even more of an anachronism than Wavell’, a ﬁne commander of ships for whom staff work was extremely taxing.19 Portal, aware of air–naval tension, asked Freeman to summarise the situation for him on 5 June. Freeman attacked the admiral, whose ‘spleen has been vented on the Air Force in more than one acidulated signal’,20 and ‘certain members of the

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government’, who had prevented ‘timely air reinforcements going to Egypt in the early autumn of 1940 and thereafter’. Here lay the root of Cunningham’s complaint. With hindsight, and perhaps with bolder judgement at the time in the Air Ministry, more Hurricanes and some Spitﬁres might safely have been released late in 1940 for service overseas. Bombers were a different matter; few adequate types were then available and the Air Ministry was determined to retain these in England, as the nucleus of a force that might one day be able to attack Germany with signiﬁcant effect. Freeman emphasised the strenuous efforts made in 1941 to build up air strength in the Middle East, mainly from American production, efforts undermined by heavy losses in Greece, Crete and Cyrenaica, but Cunningham may have been right to demand that more British aircraft be sent to the Middle East. Shipping difﬁculties were an obvious problem, but so too was government policy – and on this issue Portal, Freeman and Tedder had a voice that might have spoken louder. Cunningham would have found it easier to accept their vision of uniﬁed air control if Tedder had controlled enough aircraft to provide the Navy with more effective support. Freeman suggested sending ‘some senior ofﬁcer’, superior to the three Cs-in-C, to Cairo, but Tedder feared ‘that some all-seeing power at home may say: “Let there be an issimo – and since you have three services incompatible, let there be a civilissimo incomprehensible.”’ 21 Cunningham pressed hard for a large air force under his own direction – trained, equipped and exclusively employed on naval operations. Tedder was trying to build up 201 Group to have as its primary role such operations, but insisted that that group, like his other formations, must remain under air control for use wherever, in his judgement, it was most needed. Since Crete, complained Cunningham to Dudley Pound (Chief of Naval Staff) on 11 June, when the RAF suffered ‘largely undeserved’ criticism, Tedder had been ‘very touchy and difﬁcult’. Although he had formed 201 Group, ‘he positively refuses to allot aircraft for the sole duty of Naval Co-operation’.22 At a meeting of the three commanders on 13 June, Tedder ‘deliberately put the cat among the pigeons’, he gleefully informed his wife, ‘by pointing out that the three services were not really working together’. A vigorous discussion began, but lapsed into an awkward silence when Cunningham announced that under no circumstances would he leave his ﬂagship in Alexandria and reside in Cairo, where all three commanders could work together on a daily basis. ‘Of course, it is all against tradition’, Tedder commented, ‘to raise awkward questions like this at the Cs-in-C meeting, which have been largely amiable wafﬂes.’ On 25 June he assured Rosalinde that his personal relations with ‘the old chap’ were good, but

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‘it’s all rather pathetic the way in which some of these old men are incapable of appreciating some of the elementary facts of modern warfare.’ Cunningham appealed to Pound for support in his demand for operational control of no fewer than ten squadrons. Pound, in turn, appealed to Portal, who replied on 28 June: ‘I could never agree to it so long as Tedder is responsible for the air war in the Mediterranean Theatre as a whole. I am convinced that our only chance of success against the numerical and geographical advantages which the enemy enjoys is to maintain the maximum of versatility and the minimum of specialisation.’ 23 The admiral had no answer to this clear statement of ﬁxed principle. Cunningham told Pound on the 25th that he thought Tedder ‘on the whole sympathetic’ to naval demands, ‘but he can’t handle his staff’. Drummond, according to Cunningham, ‘obstructs on principle and is a thorough non-co-operator’.24 Such was not the opinion of Arthur Lee, Drummond’s assistant for air operations from May 1941. Lee enjoyed a distinguished career and later wrote several excellent books in which he readily criticised RAF policies and personalities. Drummond was ‘a refreshing man to work with’, he wrote, ‘without pose or frills, serious, but with a sense of humour nearly as irreverent and sarcastic as Tedder’s.’ 25 Luckily, two high-powered civilians reached Cairo in mid-year – one American, the other British – and they began to bring inter-service squabbling under control. First came Averell Harriman, President Roosevelt’s special envoy. He arrived as Tedder had, via the Takoradi route, on 19 June. Churchill had particularly asked him to do so, in order to suggest methods of improving it.26 In Egypt, Harriman would try to sort out problems with the receipt, storage and use of American supplies. Tedder invited him to stay at Air House and took to him at once. Two weeks later, on 5 July, Oliver Lyttelton arrived (with his wife Moira) to take up a new appointment: Minister of State in the Middle East, with direct access to the War Cabinet in London.27 In his own words, he was ‘the highest authority on the spot’,28 and proved not to be the civilissimo incomprehensible that Tedder had feared. A man with excellent managerial skills, a pleasantly commanding personality and an endless ﬂow of entertaining anecdotes, Lyttelton proved an inspired choice to represent Churchill in Cairo.29 Portal gave Lyttelton some ‘Unofﬁcial Notes on the RAF in the Middle East’,30 and permitted him to show them to Harriman. In the Middle East, wrote Portal, ‘naval, land and air operations are inextricably interlocked’. The air force covered all surface actions in addition

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to engaging in constant aerial combat. The enemy’s numerical and geographical advantages must, for the moment, be accepted: it was therefore vitally important to keep units ‘versatile’ and avoid locking them up in little packets for particular duties. Tedder’s greatest difﬁculty, in Portal’s opinion, was the failure of his colleagues to recognise ‘that the war in the Mediterranean is one great combined operation in which constant collaboration and give-and-take between the Cs-in-C is indispensable’. There was an acute need for a combined HQ with a combined operational as well as planning staff, but as long as the general and the admiral ‘merely go their independent ways expecting air support to be given automatically on demand, we clearly cannot expect very good results’. As with Harriman, Tedder took to Lyttelton at once. ‘Certainly has a sense of humour’, he reported to Rosalinde after their ﬁrst meeting. ‘I was alongside him at dinner. Mostly persiﬂage, but some deeper talk and I think I like him.’ In a hand-written letter to ‘Dear Winston’ on 26 July, which was severely critical of the Army’s organisation (though not of Auchinleck personally), Lyttelton expressed approval of Tedder: ‘he is clever, inclined to be a triﬂe secretive, but I should judge will prove ﬂexible’.31 Lyttelton’s ﬁrst impression had been that Tedder ‘liked to express himself in a rather banal and colloquial vocabulary’. When he knew him better, he decided that Tedder was ‘no mere airman’: he knew far more about war than most and was an efﬁcient administrator. ‘If his lack of the dignity of his rank was a fault’, Lyttelton concluded, ‘it was made up for by a lack of conceit.’ 32 In a memorandum of 5 July, the day he left Cairo, Harriman summarised Tedder’s complaint that the other services rarely advised him in time about their needs.33 ‘The more I see of him’, Tedder told Rosalinde, ‘the more I like him. The quiet American. Full out to help us.’ Nevertheless, according to Lampson, both Harriman and Lyttelton thought the air should be under Army control.34 Harriman reached London on 15 July and reported to Churchill next day. ‘Uniﬁed command is essential’, he declared, and could only be achieved under the command of one man.35 Lyttelton, meanwhile, recognising the British liking for discussion, formed a Middle East Defence Committee. It comprised the three Csin-C, plus Lampson and an Army ofﬁcer in charge of supplies and administration behind the ﬁghting areas. Lyttelton himself was chairman; he encouraged co-operative conduct and had the authority – which he preferred to leave untested – to compel it. Tedder began to call him, not entirely in jest, ‘our Commissar’. His main job, ‘Wilfrid’ (Freeeman) reminded ‘Tirpitz’ on 23 July, was ‘to give major decisions and to co-operate with Auchinleck and

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Cunningham’.36 ‘Portal and I’, Freeman continued, ‘are quite certain that you are on the right lines, but in order to get your views over, I personally am convinced that you must make a point of getting on well with Auchinleck and, if possible, combining with him against Cunningham.’ Freeman then offered Tedder a barbed compliment. ‘I am a sufﬁcient believer in you’, he wrote, ‘to think that if you really set about it you could have him [Auchinleck] eating out of your hand in a very short time and still make him think that he was getting all he wanted.’ Auchinleck was summoned home at the end of July to discuss the prospects for a renewed offensive in the Western Desert. Churchill was anxious that ‘brisk action’ be undertaken in the Middle East to show support for the Soviet Union’s desperate resistance to Hitler’s armies and, perhaps, divert some German strength southward; Auchinleck sympathised, but had no wish to swing another blunt Battleaxe. Tedder agreed and decided to accompany the general to London, adding his voice to their joint resolve that the next offensive be so carefully prepared that it must prove a resounding success. Churchill and the Chiefs of Staff met the two commanders on the afternoon of 31 July. ‘There was general agreement that the immediate danger to the right ﬂank of Egypt was greatly diminished by the continued resistance of Russia. Nevertheless, on a longer term view, we must be ready to meet this danger. The Persian oilﬁelds would be a great prize for the Germans.’ 37 Next morning, 1 August, Auchinleck and Tedder appeared before the Defence Committee. Churchill declared that there were as many as 2,000 aircraft and 1,500 pilots in the Middle East, and yet only 450 machines could be put into battle. Tedder replied that he had a front-line strength of no more than 560 modern aircraft, of which 420 (75 per cent) were serviceable at any one time. He added that 200 pilots were employed on the Takoradi route; others served as instructors in training units in Kenya, Egypt and the Sudan. He was actually short of combat-ready pilots. If the Middle East were to become a decisive theatre of operations, he would require many more bombers – and crews for them.38 While in London, Tedder underlined his many messages to Air Ministry ofﬁcials about the huge differences between British and North African conditions. His force was to be increased from 34 squadrons in mid-June to 52 by mid-October, but he needed more than just numbers. Most aircraft reaching the Middle East had to be unloaded from ships and erected before they could be ﬂown; they operated far from supply and repair depots in a harsh climate; and the vastness of the theatre obliged Tedder to maintain several basic ground organisations. ‘Outside the Delta’, he recalled in his memoirs, ‘telephone facilities were so poor that we had virtually to rely upon wireless communication. The Command had on its strength no fewer than 6,500 radio technicians and

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a further 3,700 for observation purposes. Moreover, we had always to allow for the higher sickness rate inevitable in the tropics.’ 39 Tedder left England for Cairo, via Gibraltar and Malta, on 9 August. While in Malta, he spent a few minutes, unattended, with one of the squadrons. ‘Odd little blighter’, courteous but quiet, thought Flight Lieutenant T. F. Neil, who had been detailed to show him round. Back among his mates, Neil was asked the visitor’s name; no idea, he replied. Only later did Neil learn that he was ‘a bloke called Tedder. He’s just been appointed something or other in the Desert. Can’t remember what, exactly.’ 40 Many similar anecdotes emphasise how much Tedder liked (or needed) to chat with ordinary blokes and be taken for an unimportant ‘ofﬁce wallah’, readier to listen than most of his kind, but also less impressive to look at. When Tedder died, The Times singled out this aspect of his personality for special mention. He was described as ‘the most unstuffy of great commanders, who could be found sitting cross-legged, jacketless, pipe smouldering, answering questions on a desert airstrip.’ 41 On the morning of his return to Cairo, 12 August, Tedder had the intense pleasure of again meeting his hero, General Smuts: whom noone could mistake for an unimportant ‘ofﬁce wallah’. Smuts had come to visit South African forces and meet Lyttelton and Auchinleck. Shortly before climbing aboard his aircraft to return home on the 16th, Smuts took Tedder by the arm and said: ‘The air, the organiser of victory. My heart goes out to you.’ Tedder cherished these words and quoted them on many subsequent occasions. In his letter to Rosalinde he wrote ‘organiser’, but that became a more elevated word, ‘architect’, in speeches, published lectures, articles and in his memoirs.42 Tedder wrote to Portal later that day, 16 August, thanking him for the help and encouragement he had received from everyone at the Air Ministry.43 The journey to England with Auchinleck had brought them closer together. ‘So far’, Tedder believed, ‘we think alike on all the things that matter and I have every conﬁdence that we can make a good team.’ The same was true of Cunningham’s excellent staff, if not of the admiral himself. Portal ‘fully realised’ Tedder’s problems with the admiral, he replied on 2 September, and proposed to discuss them with Pound.44 Meanwhile, he urged Tedder not to let these ‘ofﬁcial asperities’ rankle with his staff. ‘The trouble is’, he continued, ‘that so many people see his tactless and stupid remarks and they are deﬁnitely handicapping our relations with the Navy.’ Cunningham had insisted that the headquarters of 201 Group be sited close to a jetty where his ﬂagship sometimes tied up. ‘The site is in the middle of the target area’, Tedder told Portal on 5 September, ‘surrounded by timber yards and oil tanks’, and Cunningham refused to

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accept that soldiers had any place in it. Lyttelton and Auchinleck helped Tedder to persuade the admiral to accept a ‘secure’ site with accommodation for all three services. On 18 September, Tedder assured him that Leonard Slatter, newly appointed head of 201 Group, was speciﬁcally charged to co-operate with naval forces, and that no change in his duty would be made without prior consultation. Slatter, an experienced ofﬁcer with a naval background, had been sent to London to acquire up-to-date information on the organisation and methods of Coastal Command.45 Tedder signalled Portal on 9 July.46 Collishaw, he said, had done some ‘ﬁne work’ in the past, but ‘present and future problem is quite beyond him’; in any case, he was long overdue for relief. Slatter could relieve him temporarily, Drummond could do so permanently, but Tedder needed Drummond in Cairo. ‘I therefore feel I must ask for an appointment from home … a ﬁrst-class man with drive and judgement. As force increases, it will almost certainly be an AVM’s command.’ Portal offered George Pirie, Jock Andrews and ‘Mary’ Coningham, in that order, on 13 July.47 ‘Don’t know which to say’, conﬁded Tedder to Rosalinde next day. ‘Pirie is the most solid, but is out of touch with modern war; Jock has the most practical experience, has the brains and drive, but would be an appalling nuisance due to his ﬁghting with everyone; Mary would get on well with everyone, but lacks the brains and drive – so what??? I’m going to sleep on it.’ Having done so, he informed her that he had ‘more or less’ decided to take Coningham, ‘as being the better co-operator with the other services’. In September, he also acquired the valuable services of Pirie as his chief administrative ofﬁcer. Tedder had chosen a ﬁeld commander who became, in Liddell Hart’s words, ‘the real hero’ of the Desert War.48 Personally, Coningham was everything Tedder was not. Famous and much decorated for his feats as a combat, air-display and long-distance pilot; famous also, within the RAF, for his place in society yachting circles and his prowess at sport; a man of style and presence. ‘Big, masculine, conﬁdent’, as one air marshal recalled him, ‘he had an easy, attractive personality, a ready and colourful ﬂow of talk.’ 49 Tedder soon realised, however, that Coningham’s ﬂamboyance masked a strong, self-regarding personality. His ‘outstanding characteristic’, recorded another air marshal, ‘lay in his ability to keep his own counsel. I never felt I really knew what was going on behind his dark brown eyes.’ 50 Coningham, in other words, was a careful listener, as top commanders usually are: taking in what is said and readily using what they hear to shape their own ideas. Coningham’s success as Collishaw’s replacement was founded on his personal experience during the last months of the First World War. By

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the time of the Armistice, he recalled in 1946, ﬁghters and ﬁghterbombers were co-operating closely with tanks and leading the Allied advance, making the German retreat ‘expensive and chaotic’.51 He emphasised the importance of this period, ‘because the principles there thrashed out have remained constant, only their degree and their application changing in accordance with the technical advance of aircraft, weapons, modern aids and the method of control’. The command of air forces in November 1918, Coningham believed, and the concentration of effort in support of land forces, compared favourably with modern practice. Contact between soldiers and airmen was close and mutual appreciation cemented both forces into a team. With those memories in mind, much of Coningham’s best effort in the Second World War was devoted to restoring that ‘mutual appreciation’. Tedder told Coningham to ‘get together’ with the Army commander as his ﬁrst task on going out to the desert at the end of July 1941. This order, wrote Coningham, was of ‘fundamental importance and had a direct bearing on the combined ﬁghting of the two services until the end of the war’.52 The Army responded to Coningham’s initiative and agreed to set up a joint HQ when the 8th Army was formed in September. In that same month, Churchill ruled (in response to Tedder’s arguments, relayed by Portal on the 5th) that ground forces must not expect ‘as a matter of course’ to be protected against aerial attack. ‘Above all’, the Prime Minister added, ‘the idea of keeping standing patrols of aircraft over our moving columns should be abandoned.’ Hopes of winning and keeping air superiority would be undermined by this ‘mischievous practice’. Whenever a battle was in prospect, he concluded, the Army commander was to ‘specify’ to the air commander the tasks he wanted performed, both before and during the battle. But it was the duty of the air commander to decide how best to carry them out.53 These fundamental rulings were to be widely publicised and vigorously enforced by Coningham during the rest of the Desert War, with Tedder’s wholehearted support. Auchinleck had appointed Sir Alan Cunningham, the admiral’s younger brother, as his ﬁeld commander in August because he greatly admired his sweeping successes against the Italians in north-eastern Africa, although he – like Auchinleck himself – had never seen the desert and knew little about armoured warfare.54 However, on 16 September Auchinleck informed Churchill that the new man was working closely with Tedder’s ﬁeld commander, ‘who is, in my opinion, excellent and has already effected a great improvement in his command.’ During the next few weeks, the similarity in the names of three principal commanders proved irresistible to literate non-Muslims in the Middle East and the ‘Auk’ was no exception. ‘The two of them make a very good

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pair’, he told Churchill, adding with boyish zest: ‘and with the Admiral working on the outer ﬂank, we have a ﬁrst-class trio: Cunningham, Coningham and Cunningham!55 Coningham’s talents did not, unfortunately, include a sure grasp of logistics. As deﬁned by Air Marshal Sir Kenneth Hayr, logistics ‘is the science of planning and carrying out the movement and maintenance of forces’.56 When Tedder became convinced of Coningham’s weakness in this vital area, he provided him in February 1942 with an expert assistant in Air Vice-Marshal Thomas Elmhirst, ‘whose enormous eyebrows never lose their fascination for me’, he told Rosalinde in June 1941, ‘and whose heavy, simple conservatism is a real museum piece.’ Elmhirst, in charge of Egypt’s air defence, resided in Air House. He assured his sister on 13 June that Tedder ‘is brilliant and much more approachable [than Longmore]. Also, he is more in touch with the latest ideas and with the younger generation of airmen.’ 57 Churchill’s doctor – Sir Charles Wilson, later Lord Moran – observed the conﬁdent tone of Coningham’s headquarters at that time. ‘These fellows’, he wrote, ‘were not groomed in a mess before the war. Their thoughts are not borrowed from others and their speech is forthright. They are critical of the Army, and they say what is in their minds without batting an eyelid.’ 58 No praise could be more welcome to Tedder, Coningham, or to the men they led. Someone had told Wilson that Tedder’s father was ‘a rough diamond’ (which is by no means true) who had fought his way to the top (which is). ‘In the son the facets have been polished, but the hard stone is left.’ Tedder was quite unlike any other ofﬁcer whom Wilson had met: ‘a quick mind and a sharp tongue. He admires Smuts, thinks he is a greater man than the Prime Minister, and says so.’ 59 Even before he arrived in Cairo in December 1940, Tedder’s ‘quick mind’ had persuaded him that an alliance with the Americans as close as a marriage was essential.60 He had learned during his long service as Director-General of Research and Development that neither Britain’s aircraft industry nor its merchant ﬂeet would be able to supply the modern ﬁghters, bombers and transports needed in the Middle East. US aircraft would be essential to survival – let alone victory – in the Desert War. Intimate relations with Americans would also be essential. Tedder therefore warmly welcomed President Roosevelt’s announcement in August 1941 of the creation of a military supply line, to be operated by Pan American Airways (PAA), as a practical means of moving desperately needed aircraft and other equipment across the Atlantic and on to Cairo. Sadly, PAA proved so eager both to pursue its own proﬁt and to exclude British Overseas Airways from the trans-

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African route that serious harm was caused to the conduct of military operations. They are ‘the toughest businessmen I’ve come across’, Tedder told Rosalinde on 23 August, ‘provided there are no bombs about – if there are, they aren’t!’ Although he resisted PAA energetically, neither the Air Ministry nor British civil aviation authorities matched his resolution. During 1942 it would be Americans rather than Britons who won battles against PAA on this front. The US War Department cancelled PAA’s African contracts, ‘militarized’ its bases and ferrying service, set up an Air Transport Command equipped with aircraft leased to 11 carriers, and PAA’s African subsidiary disappeared in December.61 Portal advised Tedder on 2 September 1941 that Major-General George H. Brett, representing Lieutenant-General Henry H. Arnold, head of the US Army Air Forces, was on his way to Cairo. Brett ‘probably has more inﬂuence’ than any other American airman, added Freeman. ‘Anything you can do to win his conﬁdence and help will be of great value.’ 62 Brett arrived at Heliopolis on the 10th in a huge four-engined bomber, a Consolidated B-24 Liberator. It was the ﬁrst Tedder had seen and its size, clean lines, and capacity to carry a heavy load a long way warmed his heart: he was, he hoped, looking at the future and liked what he saw. Brett – who was ‘decent, honest and out to help in every possible way’, in Tedder’s words to Rosalinde, and ‘only interested in supply and maintenance’ – brought several experts with him. They all went out into the desert to meet Coningham on the 14th and came back ‘tremendously impressed’. Said one: ‘Say, you babies don’t need any teaching, guess our boys need to come over and get some instruction!’ On 17 September, Tedder reported to Portal on Brett’s early actions.63 ‘I think originally he came out with the idea that we were all ﬁrst-class muddlers and Americans would have to take some pretty drastic steps if all their material, etc., sent to this theatre was not to be poured down the drain.’ The visit to Coningham had changed his mind. Brett proposed to take over the port of Massawa in Eritrea, on the south-west coast of the Red Sea, and set up a complete maintenance organisation there and at Asmara, 30 miles inland, with a forward base at El Faiyum, 50 miles south of Cairo. Tedder agreed with Brett’s opinion that an ‘outpost ofﬁce’ was needed in Washington, headed by a senior RAF ofﬁcer able to speak for Tedder, as well as a senior American ofﬁcer resident in Cairo, able to speak for Arnold. Not least among Brett’s merits, Tedder told Portal, was the fact that he knew all about PAA and ‘is likely to be far better able to keep a ﬁrm hand on these rather slippery customers than we could ever hope to do’. Brett was a leading light in the campaign for an independent US Air Force, added Tedder on 29 September,64 and one American had told Tedder that the Middle East ‘was regarded as a laboratory for this controversy’.

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Brett had reported to Arnold on 17 September that conditions out in the desert were deplorable: ‘dust so thick you can cut it with a knife, dispersion to a point where a pilot has to travel over a mile from the plane to operations, no cover of any sort. Yet through all this they keep 16 airplanes in the air out of 21.’ He went to Aboukir on the 15th to see a repair and salvage unit. ‘Planes were spread over two square miles of area, doping under conditions which we wouldn’t even consider [in peacetime exercises, presumably; wartime imposes its own rules]. Instrument repairing and instrument testing with dust one half-inch thick and no way to get round it.’ 65 The port of Suez, Brett found, was ‘one terrible mess’: valuable equipment scattered about everywhere, poor exits from the dock areas and insufﬁcient transport. All three services and the civilian authorities did as they pleased and there was an obvious need for a uniﬁed command to get them working together. Dawson was a good supply and repair man, Tedder a ﬁne commander, but London gave insufﬁcient priority to the theatre. Portal assured Brett, through Tedder, on 25 September that the Middle East was in fact ‘a ﬁrst priority’ in London, and asked him to ensure that Washington arranged for the timely despatch of American aircraft. American visitors to Egypt sympathised with Tedder over PAA’s brazen self-regard and were tireless in all practical matters, inspired by the unfailing good humour of RAF air and ground crews. Colonel Harvey S. Burwell, for example, was greatly impressed by all he saw of pilots and mechanics in both forward and rear areas, who had ‘superb morale, extraordinary patience and wonderful courage’. He was impressed also by Tedder, Drummond and Dawson. ‘The [British] supercilious superiority so objectionable to Americans is rarely exhibited.’ 66 Everyone carried on working even during vicious sandstorms, reported Brigadier-General Elmer E. Adler in November, ‘with a grin on his face’. The Americans also admired RAF ingenuity. ‘I have seen airplane repair shops where they are going ahead with the job’, wrote Adler, ‘and I will be damned if I have been able to discover more than a few hand tools in their possession, but they still roll out the ships.’ 67 Nevertheless, the British remained ‘in a very tight spot’, as Brett had reported to Arnold on 22 September, ‘and unless somebody wakes up to the situation there sure is the mischief going to get caught’. Unless the Soviet Union could contain the Luftwaffe, he concluded, ‘Hitler [would be able to] concentrate a tremendous mass in Crete and lower Greece. A mass of air power concentrated at this point can practically make Cairo untenable; furthermore, the Egyptians are neutral, and any amount of bombing of Cairo will undoubtedly cause a reaction which

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may eventually force the English [sic] to evacuate … I may be a little pessimistic but from Germany’s angle it appears to me a terriﬁcally simple problem compared to that confronted by the British.’ 68 Brett’s analysis was perfectly sound, if Hitler had regarded Cairo as a major objective. He never did, and British achievements against Italian forces (rarely well equipped, trained or led) and even their dynamic German allies (never numerous until the Tunisian campaign began in November 1942) should always be assessed in that light. Although Tedder and some of his colleagues in all three services proved themselves to be able commanders, they never faced more than a tiny fraction of the Wehrmacht’s full force: four divisions at most, out of an order of battle in June 1941 of 205 divisions.69 That being so, airmen, soldiers and seamen all looked forward conﬁdently to Operation Crusader, planned to begin in November. By Christmas, if all went well, Tedder and Rosalinde would be together again, either in London or in Cairo.

15 Condemned by Churchill, Saved by Freeman and Auchinleck Cairo and the Western Desert, October 1941 to January 1942

Planning for Operation Crusader was in full swing during October.1 Its chief aim was to drive Rommel out of Cyrenaica and thereby relieve Tobruk, which hitherto had absorbed so much naval and air effort: no fewer than 25 ships had been sunk and nine seriously damaged while attempting to supply the fortress, relieve its garrison or carry away sick and wounded.2 In addition, the passage of British shipping through the Mediterranean would be eased by capturing ports and airﬁelds along the Libyan coast. Strong forces were to be sent towards Tobruk – 30 Corps, with all the best tanks – aided by a well-timed sally from the Tobruk garrison. Meanwhile, the other main army formation – 13 Corps – was to contain and cut off enemy forces holding the frontier defences, and then advance to assist 30 Corps.3 Every apparently well-informed person, civilian or military, in London or Cairo, scented victory. ‘Shipload after shipload of fresh troops and machines came round the Cape from England’, wrote Alan Moorehead of the Daily Express, ‘and soon we had 30,000 vehicles in the desert. New American light tanks and medium bombers and ﬁghters kept pouring in. Everyone was impressed. Unlike Wavell’s ﬁrst campaign, there was no secret about this offensive whatever. The only question was – When?’ 4 All three services, putting past miseries behind them, were resolved to pull together as never before. There was even excited talk about what to do after Rommel’s defeat. Should Tunisia be occupied? Should Sicily be invaded? Or, most thrilling of all prospects, should there be a massive expedition to the Caucasus to help our gallant Russian allies?

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At precisely this exhilarating moment, Tedder suddenly found himself on the very edge of the sack. If the Prime Minister had had his way, he would have been dumped therein and only allowed to emerge – if at all – in a Whitehall ofﬁce, where he would have seen out the war in irredeemable obscurity far from the intensely exciting demands of high command. On 13 October 1941, Tedder sent the signal that nearly ended all his Cairo worries.5 Portal had asked him on the 8th for ‘a comparison of your own and enemy strengths at different stages, and methods you propose to employ to attain and exploit air superiority’. The second part of this sentence, in Tedder’s opinion, was the more important, but he began his reply with a provisional answer to the ﬁrst part. Tedder and his fellow commanders were agreed that ‘we shall be deﬁnitely superior in mechanised forces’ when Crusader began, ‘but numerically inferior in the air’. These were the words – ‘numerically inferior’ – that almost broke him. Churchill seized upon them and accused Tedder of saying that he would not have ‘air superiority’ – not at all the same thing, and not what he had written. He had forgotten, for the moment, that Churchill would see this signal, and Portal had neglected to warn him that his ﬁgures would have political as well as military signiﬁcance. And yet Tedder had at hand ﬁgures that would have delighted the Prime Minister. On 12 October, Dawson had informed Beaverbrook that on the 11th there were 748 serviceable aircraft in the command, with another 313 estimated serviceable in 14 days.6 Had Tedder forwarded these impressive ﬁgures to Portal, together with an estimate of Axis numbers indicating that he would have numerical superiority, there would have been no fuss. Tedder, in fact, had offered Portal a realistic estimate of respective strengths. Dawson’s ﬁgures did not reveal how many aircraft were ﬁt for use in a battle area, nor how those that were ﬁt might be transported there, together with all the equipment, ammunition, bombs, fuel, spares, repair and maintenance facilities they would need. Tedder had also to take into account the combat inexperience of many ground and air crews and, not least, Axis ability to reinforce the Mediterranean theatre quickly once ﬁghting began. He had expected a stabilisation (predicted by British intelligence sources) of the Russian front in mid-October, which would thus allow a maximum of 420 German and 370 Italian aircraft to oppose about 500 British aircraft in the Crusader area. He was reinforcing Coningham’s command with four squadrons, Tedder informed Portal, but it would be difﬁcult to send him any more because of a shortage of transport – air and ground – and an equally disturbing shortage of men ready for battle. He had reluctantly allowed

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those four squadrons to take raw pilots and crews to the desert and train them ‘on the job’ – attacking enemy lines of communication, supply dumps, airﬁelds and outposts. Once Crusader began, however, Coningham clearly understood that the ‘main Army requirement is the freedom from air interference which can only be given by air superiority’, and that would require Coningham’s squadrons to give their whole attention to aerial combat. Complete immunity was impossible, but a ‘reasonable degree’ was attainable – as throughout operation Battleaxe in June – unless the Germans sent substantial air reinforcements to the Mediterranean theatre. In another signal to Portal, on 14 October, Tedder added that he would shortly visit Coningham to settle the details of their Crusader plans.7 These plans, as is now known, were greatly aided by information derived from intercepted German wireless signals, supplemented by photo-reconnaissance, captured documents and interrogations of prisoners. According to the ofﬁcial history, ‘it is no exaggeration to claim that the British authorities were as well informed as were its own commanders’ about the Luftwaffe’s readiness for battle. This history goes on to claim that this information ‘played a large part in enabling the RAF to establish air supremacy’ during the weeks before Crusader began.8 Excellent tactical intelligence certainly helped Tedder and Coningham to dispose their forces efﬁciently, but from that point on quantity and quality, of both men and machines, came into play. Once the battle began, the value of signal intelligence declined, because the Germans and Italians were themselves uncertain about what was going on.9 Numerical inferiority was of far less concern to both men than inferiority in experienced pilots and equipment (the best of both still reserved for service in Fighter Command) and the latest ﬁghter tactics. Tedder had sent ‘young Cross’ to take charge of ﬁghter operations. ‘He is ﬁrst-class’, Tedder told Portal, ‘but one knows that new tactical methods are continually being evolved at home and they take a long time to get out here.’ That evening, 14 October, Portal’s reply to Tedder’s signal of the 13th arrived.10 It began with a tart rebuke; the ﬁrst Tedder had received from a man whom he greatly admired, and had hitherto regarded as more of a friendly colleague than a remote master. The rest of the signal – trite and bombastic – puzzled him until he realised that another voice had dictated it. It was ‘obviously pure and almost unadulterated Winston’, he told Rosalinde, one of those signals written ‘for the record’; a practice with which Tedder was already familiar.11 In retrospect, the practice amused him, but not at the time. If the Chief of the Air Staff were to waver in Tedder’s support, his days in Cairo were numbered, for he was no favourite of the Prime Minister.

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Your signal, wrote Portal at Churchill’s behest, ‘has caused me considerable disappointment’. No commander should expect to go into a ‘battle of such far-reaching importance’ at full strength, and units must not be omitted ‘merely’ because of a shortage of transport when ‘improvisation’ can supply the remedy. ‘You must’, he exhorted, ‘go into this battle with one thought only and that is to win it at all costs. Nothing must be held back for insurance in Syria, Iraq and Persia or to enable promises to Turkey to be kept.’ A second Portal signal on the 14th struck an hysterical note.12 Was he throwing everything forward, Portal demanded, using every available transport aircraft to help with supplies and maintenance? Did he intend to send out unescorted Wellingtons and Blenheims? Heavy losses, he was assured, would be ‘fully justiﬁed’. Answer promptly, he was instructed, the stakes are high, hold nothing back. Wisely ignoring this second signal, Tedder replied calmly to the ﬁrst on 15 October.13 ‘I set little store by numerical comparisons of strength’, he wrote. ‘Serviceability, reserves, supply, morale are vital factors in any real comparison. Have repeatedly emphasised this here and realise I should have made this clear in my signal to you.’ He knew that Portal understood these matters perfectly well, and should have remembered that Churchill – who did not – would see that important signal. ‘I am ruthlessly stripping other theatres and formations to give Western Desert all we have’, continued Tedder, but he ﬁrmly refused to ‘put dummies in shop window for D-Day’. That reply crossed with a signal sent by Portal without Churchill’s help.14 The ﬁgures, he wrote, ‘raised acute political difﬁculty’, because Peter Fraser, the Prime Minister of New Zealand, had just asked Churchill ‘for an assurance that we shall have air superiority and PM feels unable to give such an assurance in the light of your unqualiﬁed ﬁgures’. Churchill had decided that ‘no mere process of discounting’ between Portal and Tedder would serve, and that Freeman must go out to Cairo, leaving on the 17th. Freeman paid ‘an extremely conﬁdential visit’ to Lord Hankey, formerly Secretary of the Committee of Imperial Defence and currently Paymaster-General, on the morning of 15 October.15 He told Hankey that Churchill, for whom he had no use at all, had taken a dislike to Tedder and wanted Portal to sack him. Portal refused; he, Sinclair and Freeman all said that they would resign if Churchill insisted. Hankey agreed and urged Freeman to see that Portal stuck to his guns. On returning to his ofﬁce, Freeman signalled Tedder. He would bring with him, he said, ﬁve picked ofﬁcers ‘for you’, two ﬁghter squadron leaders for training duties, two for senior liaison duties, and Air Commodore Basil Embry, an outstanding ﬁghter commander, to assist Coningham.16

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As German forces rolled eastward into the Soviet Union during October 1941 and the Americans remained determined to avoid an open alliance with Britain, Churchill became increasingly anxious for a victory in North Africa before the end of the year. Although it could only be a minor achievement, in comparison with the gigantic struggle on the Eastern Front, a British victory might lead on to campaigns that would overthrow Mussolini, impress ruling elites in Vichy France, Portugal, Spain and Turkey, offer signiﬁcant help to the hard-pressed Stalin, give Hitler real cause for concern, help Roosevelt to seek an open alliance and, not least, encourage the heavily bombed, hard-worked people of Britain. In this volatile context, Churchill’s martial spirit had for some time found the calm, practical tone of Tedder’s signals deﬂating. Tedder, ironically, had a quality that Voltaire attributed to the 1st Duke of Marlborough, an ancestor whom Churchill idolised: ‘that calm courage in the midst of tumult, that serenity of soul in danger, which the English call a cool head’.17 In the absence of dramatic appeals and uplifting slogans, without which he himself could not function, Churchill wrongly concluded that the air aspect of operation Crusader would be conducted timidly. Tedder’s alarming ﬁgures, so much more pessimistic than those produced by the Air Ministry, were the last straw. Churchill had already been obliged to accept Canberra’s demand in September that Australian troops in Tobruk be relieved, followed by a polite but ﬁrm message from Fraser in Wellington on 13 October that caught Churchill on the raw. In the light of New Zealand’s tragic experience in Greece and Crete – avoidable disasters, as Churchill was acutely aware – Fraser required a formal assurance that his troops would not again, ‘and for the third time, be permitted [sic] to battle without adequate air support … and that a situation in which our men are called upon to ﬁght without the necessary means of defence and offence, particularly in aircraft, tanks and AFVs [armoured ﬁghting vehicles] will not recur.’ 18 In consequence, Churchill had worked himself into a lather by 16 October and informed Auchinleck that Tedder’s estimate was ‘so misleading and militarily untrue’ that he had been obliged to send Freeman to Cairo.19 The Air Ministry was convinced that ‘you will have a substantial numerical superiority in the battle zone, even if all Italian planes are counted as if they were equal to German or British’. Tedder was also wrong, said Churchill, to assume that the Russian front would stabilise about mid-October and thus permit Hitler to release aircraft for North Africa. In fact, Churchill was pressing for an early start to Crusader precisely because he feared German reinforcement from the east.20 ‘You will ﬁnd Freeman an ofﬁcer of altogether larger calibre’, the Prime Minister asserted, ‘and if you feel he would be a greater help to

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you and that you would have more conﬁdence in the Air Command if he assumed it, you should not hesitate to tell me so.’ Churchill invited Auchinleck to show this signal to Lyttelton, which he did; he also showed it to Tedder, who deeply appreciated this mark of conﬁdence. Tedder rejected the Prime Minister’s accusation that he had said the RAF would not have air superiority.21 ‘What I did say’, he told Portal on the 19th, ‘is that so far as I could see we would not have numerical superiority – which is quite a different thing.’ Freeman, now in Cairo, signalled Portal on the 20th to say that he, Tedder and Auchinleck had agreed new ﬁgures for D-Day.22 These were impossibly exact, given that no-one knew how many Axis aircraft might be sent to North Africa once ﬁghting began, nor did anyone know how many aircraft on strength, British or Axis, might be made serviceable at need for any urgent purpose.23 Freeman, however, had told Tedder that for political reasons Churchill required ﬁgures indicating a clear British numerical superiority. They therefore found 660 aircraft available to the RAF, 528 serviceable; 642 available to the Axis, 385 serviceable. Better still, said Freeman, all Axis forces were in the ‘shop window’, whereas Tedder would have approximately 50 per cent reserves ‘behind the counter’. Churchill was only partly appeased. He wrote to Sinclair on 21 October, sending a copy to Portal.24 ‘I consider it right and necessary to give Freeman the Air Command in the Middle East’, but Tedder could remain as his deputy. ‘By presenting ﬁgures which were alarmist and are now admitted to be untrue, Tedder has shown that he is not a big enough man to bear the burdens imposed upon him.’ No-one whose opinion had value agreed with the Prime Minister. Auchinleck expressed ‘full conﬁdence’ in Tedder on the 21st: I ‘earnestly request you not – repeat not – to consider any change at present time’,25 and followed this signal with an eminently sane letter on the 23rd.26 ‘Unless there is a tremendous disparity one way or another’, wrote Auchinleck, ‘which does not seem likely in this particular case, I feel that the gaining of a reasonable degree of superiority … is more a matter of leadership, skill and general efﬁciency than of numbers.’ He was entirely content with both Tedder and his subordinate commanders, whose co-operation with the Army was now good. ‘Figures can be made to prove anything’, he gently reminded a politician who had often used those that suited his purpose, ‘but I do not think we have allowed ourselves to be governed by them.’ Lyttelton regarded this playing with numbers as a dangerous distraction from real concerns and supported Auchinleck. Tedder ‘has never wavered from view that he had sufﬁcient air superiority for his task’, he signalled Churchill on the 23rd. ‘I must tell you’, added Lyttelton, ‘that Auchinleck and Tedder are now greatly upset and feel

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that their competence, their facts, and their resolution are all mistrusted. One knows and the other guesses that a change in Air Command is under discussion. I beg you most earnestly not on any account to replace Tedder. He has these operations at his ﬁnger-tips and is trusted by other Commanders-in-Chief, by Air Force, and by me.’ 27 Freeman had formally assured Portal that Crusader’s prospects would not be improved by a change of command; that he himself would ‘certainly not – repeat not’ accept that command, because ‘the role of Judas is one that I cannot ﬁll’; and that Tedder was untroubled by Churchill’s lack of conﬁdence in him, so long as he retained Portal’s: ‘I gave him that assurance.’ 28 Churchill reluctantly gave way on the 23rd and sent Tedder a curt signal of support next day, to which he responded at once and almost as curtly.29 Freeman was pleasantly surprised, he signalled Portal on the 24th, to learn that ‘arguments in favour of decency and efﬁciency’ had prevailed.30 When next they met, Freeman told Churchill that the new ﬁgures differed little from the old, thereby offering him a cue for the essential last word. ‘The only difference’, snapped the great debater, ‘was that the ﬁrst version stated that we should be inferior and the revised version stated that we should be superior. It is only the kind of difference between plus and minus or black and white.’ 31 By mid-December, however, German air strength in the Mediterranean would be more than 50 per cent greater than on the day Operation Crusader began; a rapid redeployment that Tedder had foreseen in October.32 ‘The really bright spot about all this’, conﬁded Tedder to Rosalinde on 25 October, ‘is the grand support one has had in many quarters. But it’s been a lively patch.’ Next day he added: ‘I don’t believe it’s any use your coming out here at the moment. One’s tenure is much too tenuous. At any moment, anyone may be whisked from one place to another. If this next party [Crusader] goes with a bang, one may be secure for a time – but I don’t see much stability yet.’ A week later, on 3 November, he returned to the same subject. ‘I really don’t feel you ought to come out until things have cleared a bit. If this next show goes well and the soldiers do their stuff, then one should be fairly secure for some months, but if they make a mess of it again, there is no question at all but that I shall be made a scapegoat and that might mean your arriving out to ﬁnd I was just going or had even gone.’ He insisted that ‘I don’t give a damn about all this political business’ and ‘these ﬂaps don’t disturb me in the least’. Perhaps these words were not literally true, but the fact remains that he had what he really needed; the conﬁdence of Portal, Freeman, Auchinleck and Lyttelton, as well as the wholehearted support of his own senior staff ofﬁcers.

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Tedder reported to Portal on 25 October that Basil Embry had visited all the ﬁghter squadrons in the desert and studied enemy methods.33 ‘We are up against a picked team of German ﬁghters’, he wrote, ‘who have succeeded in stimulating Italian ﬁghters into a high state of morale and efﬁciency.’ Consequently, he ended, we need more experienced ﬁghter pilots, even on loan. Tedder repeated this appeal to Portal on the 30th, while he was enjoying four days out in the desert; everyone’s spirits were high and Embry was introducing new tactics, but many pilots were green. Dawson and his team were doing ﬁrst-class work to speed up the erection of new machines and repair damaged ones, Tedder told Portal on 4 November, but they were being pestered by an Air Ministry ‘Establishments Committee’, whose members were locked into the stately procedures of peacetime.34 Tedder sought Freeman’s personal intervention on 16 December.35 The committee wished to demote Dawson and place his maintenance and supply organisation under George Pirie, head of administration, but both men had more than enough to do separately. ‘Dawson, with all his failings’, wrote Tedder, was handling his task ‘exceptionally well – I know no-one who could have got the thing moving so quickly and have played the Americans so well as he. It would be an appalling mistake to remove him and it would be ludicrous to demote him. The repair business is developing very fast and well and is responsible largely for the fact that, despite the heavy wastage, the total serviceable operational aircraft in the Command is, after a temporary setback, again within reach of our highest ﬁgures before the battle began.’ With Freeman’s backing, Tedder won another battle that he should have been spared. On 16 November 1941, with Crusader set to begin on the 18th, Churchill signalled Auchinleck. ‘For the ﬁrst time’, he declared, ‘British and Empire troops will meet the Germans with an ample equipment in modern weapons of all kinds’ in a battle that ‘will affect the whole course of the war.’ Then followed what Tedder called a ‘very Marlburian’ attempt at inspiring prose. ‘Now is the time to strike the hardest blow yet for ﬁnal victory, home and freedom. The Desert Army may add a page to history which will rank with Blenheim and with Waterloo. The eyes of all nations are upon you. All our hearts are with you. May God uphold the right.’ 36 Tedder contented himself with a two-word message to all air units in the Desert: ‘Good hunting’. As he told Rosalinde, ‘We’ve given Mary [Coningham] all the cards we have and he’s got to play them’; in Tedder’s opinion, men at the front needed no ponderous exhortation either from politicians at home or staff ofﬁcers in the rear. Crusader began on 18 November in terrible weather. ‘I cursed today’, wrote Tedder to Rosalinde; it took him 15 hours to get a signal through

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to Coningham, because ‘they had been ﬂooded out with torrents of rain for some hours last night, violent thunderstorms and the wireless station had been struck by lightning!’ Such weather helped British forces both to achieve surprise and to conceal from Rommel the scale of their attack. When reporting progress to Churchill, Auchinleck (unlike Wavell) refused to comment on the air’s performance without consulting Tedder ﬁrst. On the evening of the 21st, however, Auchinleck took it upon himself to inform the Prime Minister that a marked feature of operations to date had been ‘our complete air supremacy and excellent co-operation between ground and air’.37 Freyberg, commanding the New Zealanders, agreed. ‘I want to tell you I think your fellows are simply magniﬁcent’, he said to Tedder on 3 December, ‘and all my men are saying the same.’ Tedder, though naturally pleased, reminded Rosalinde that Freyberg was the man ‘who said many quite inexcusable things about us after Crete’. On 23 November, Auchinleck received an urgent request from his ﬁeld commander, Lieutenant-General Sir Alan Cunningham, to visit him at his headquarters near Maddalena, about 100 miles south-east of Tobruk. Coningham had asked Tedder to come up and he therefore accompanied Auchinleck.38 They found Cunningham anxious to break off the offensive, but Auchinleck ordered him to get on with it. Rommel launched a surprise counter-attack next day which broke through at once, and Wing Commander Gordon Finlayson (Coningham’s Senior Operations Ofﬁcer) later wrote: ‘30 Corps lost control of the situation and there ensued a most interesting period which, as a study of panics, chaotics and gyrotics, is probably unsurpassed in military history.’ 39 Cunningham himself was surprised and nearly killed when his aircraft took off from 30 Corps’ Advanced Headquarters on the airﬁeld at Gabr Saleh ‘through a stampede of vehicles with tank shells bursting behind it’. The soldiers sent no warning of the breakthrough to Coningham, and he was obliged to withdraw at a moment’s notice to landing grounds farther east. This shambles was too much for Auchinleck, who sacked Cunningham on 25 November. Churchill and General Sir Alan Brooke (who would be appointed head of the Army on Christmas Day) urged Auchinleck to be his own ﬁeld commander.40 Had he done so, the course of events during the rest of the Mediterranean war would have been drastically altered, probably to Britain’s advantage. Instead, he appointed his Deputy Chief of Staff, Major-General Neil Ritchie, even though he had no experience of desert operations. As for Cunningham, he was required to pretend to be sick, go into hospital in Alexandria for nine days incognito, wear civilian clothes, and travel back to England under an assumed name.41

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The change came ‘in the nick of time’, wrote Tedder in his own hand to Portal on 4 December. He apologised for inﬂicting his scrawl upon the Chief of the Air Staff, but thought his remarks too frank to be seen by anyone else.42 He confessed that he had felt uneasy about Cunningham from the beginning. ‘Again and again he struck me as taking counsel of his fears. He seemed obsessed by the counting of heads. He gave me the impression of feeling completely at sea as regards armoured warfare and two or three times remarked to me: “I wish I knew what Rommel means to do” – which struck me as a rather strange outlook for the commander of a superior attacking force.’ Worse still, in Tedder’s view, was the fact that Coningham found it almost impossible to co-operate with the Army’s ﬁeld commander, because he would neither discuss his plans nor even disclose them, except under extreme pressure. Auchinleck’s ‘only regret’, he wrote to Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Smith (his Chief of Staff) on 6 December, was that he had not got rid of Cunningham sooner, ‘as apparently I was blind where other people, including Tedder, were not’.43 Portal, meanwhile, had sent Auchinleck an important letter on 25 November.44 He thanked Auchinleck for his help in preventing ‘a really dreadful mistake’ last month, but Churchill ‘did not think Tedder a big enough man for the job’. Although Portal disagreed, he nevertheless proposed to sacriﬁce Tedder for the sake of reducing friction in Whitehall. He would bring him back to England as Director of Training and, said Portal, he ‘might secretly welcome a change’. So far so good, from the ruthless point of view that high commanders should take in wartime. But Portal’s choice as Tedder’s successor was Sir Richard Peirse, currently head of Bomber Command. On the night of 7–8 November, in spite of forecasted bad weather, Peirse had insisted on sending out his entire force, of 392 bombers, to attack Berlin and other targets: no fewer than 37 of them were lost, more than twice as many as on any previous attack; no signiﬁcant damage was done, and Berlin would not be attacked again until January 1943. To compound his misjudgement, Peirse submitted an evasive report on the disaster, which Portal ordered him to re-write. Yet, only 48 hours later, he recommended Peirse for command of air forces in the Middle East. When that proposal failed, he sent him in January 1942 to India, where he remained until November 1944, when an affair with Auchinleck’s wife brought his career to a shameful end.45 On 11 December 1941, Auchinleck replied to Portal’s letter and for the second time in seven weeks did his best to save Tedder’s career as an operational commander, although this time he did not show him the letter that threatened to sink him.46 He agreed with Portal that it would

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have been ‘a tremendous mistake’ to drop Tedder before the battle. As for after it, ‘I can tell you at once that I should be very sorry indeed to see Tedder go. He has been absolutely splendid in this show, full of resolution and courage and most helpful with suggestions. The cooperation has, I think, been almost perfect.’ When Auchinleck contemplated sacking Cunningham, he told Portal, it was largely due to Tedder’s ‘courageous outlook and complete straightforwardness’ that he found the strength to make a hard decision. He would, he emphasised, be ‘most distressed’ if Tedder went, and ‘for the good of the Army’ he hoped that he would remain. ‘He knows the whole immense problem backwards and that is saying a lot.’ With the prospect of campaigns in Anatolia, Syria and Iraq in 1942, ‘it would be a mistake to move a commander who has such a unique knowledge of the factors involved’. Such emphatic support weighed with both Portal and Churchill, but as late as 20 December Sinclair was prepared to send Peirse to Cairo, if Churchill insisted, even though he had ‘always felt conﬁdence’ in Tedder and believed that he had ‘delivered the goods in Crusader’.47 The Prime Minster, mercifully, did not insist. Rosalinde followed the course of Crusader as closely as she could. ‘I hoped I had encouraged you not to be so retiring’, she chided her husband on 8 December, and readier to report direct to Churchill – wise advice, which Tedder rarely followed. The press and newsreels were full of pictures from Libya, ‘but never a sign of you! All your friends look in vain for you’. On the 12th she saw a ﬁlm about the ﬁrst phase of the battle. ‘Masses of the Navy, lots of the Army, pictures of Cunningham I and II and of Auchinleck – and just two tiny momentary shots of the Air Force.’ People had actually asked Mina what her father was doing in the Middle East. By December, Tedder was feeling the lack of a ﬂeet of large, sturdy transport aircraft to get supplies forward. A hundred Bristol Bombays would have been of far more value than the ‘marvellous menagerie’ actually at his disposal. ‘The variety of aircraft types’ in use for transport ‘has to be seen to be believed’, he reported to Portal on 4 December:48 among them were a handful of Bombays, an Armstrong Whitworth Ensign, his old friend the Percival Q.6, Lockheeds of various sorts, Vickers Valentias and Vincents, Hawker Audaxes, Miles Magisters, Westland Lysanders and even de Havilland Tiger Moths. Their crews, though gallant and ingenious, simply lacked the tools to do a proper job. Moreover, as Tedder informed Portal on the 7th, Rommel’s ‘control of his armoured forces and his organisation for recovery of unserviceable tanks was much better than ours’.49 Contact between ground and air

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forces was improving, ‘but there have been instances of our armoured forces in doubt for over two hours as to identity of enemy armoured forces less than two miles distant’, a situation exacerbated by the fact that each side used the other’s captured tanks and other vehicles. ‘There are thousands of square miles over which armoured forces and MT [Motor Transport] can wander at will’, he added on the 9th, ‘and often wander unwillingly because completely lost.’ We enjoy ‘general local air superiority’, but our ﬁghters were ‘outclassed’ by the best Axis ﬁghters; only the fact that, as yet, they were few in number and short of fuel and spares was saving us. Tedder therefore supported Coningham’s demand that ‘England’ stop thinking that ‘second-class aircraft will do us out here’. Although Tedder could not say so openly, superior intelligence did not make up for inferior equipment or inexperienced pilots and crews. ‘I fully realise we cannot be up to date everywhere’, he told Freeman on 16 December, ‘but even a small pinch of mustard can make an oldfashioned meal digestible. One squadron of Spitﬁre Vs, manned by picked pilots and given a roving commission, would certainly solve our immediate problems here.’ 50 At that time, as Freeman and Tedder knew perfectly well, there were 75 squadrons in Fighter Command equipped with excellent ﬁghters.51 With little risk to Britain’s security, several of these could have been shipped to the Middle East in time for Crusader and ﬁtted with dust-ﬁlters, had Portal and Freeman agreed to Tedder’s pleas – carefully worded, with Longmore’s fate in mind. News of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor had reached Tedder on 8 December 1941. ‘The Japs have gone mad dog with a vengeance’, he wrote to Rosalinde that night. ‘Commissar [Lyttelton] thinks it will shorten the war’, but Tedder thought Vichy France and Franco’s Spain might now join Hitler openly. Curiously, he did not comment on Hitler’s declaration of war against the United States on the 11th: an excellent decision, from Britain’s point of view, which swept away all remaining awkwardness about co-operating with a ‘neutral’ power. General Brett, head of the USAAF (US Army Air Forces) mission in Cairo, returned to Washington that day: rather chastened, Tedder thought. ‘I gather that all our Americans are not quite so convinced now that they know all about everything – a rather healthier outlook.’ ‘One thing about Japan coming into the war’, wrote Freeman to Tedder on 14 December, ‘that will hit you very hard is that I very much doubt whether the Americans will send any aircraft westabout to Basra or Port Sudan and, taking a broad view, it is pretty obvious that if the Germans can manage to make themselves objectionable up at Archangel, then supplies to Russia from ourselves and the Americans will get badly held up, if not stopped altogether.’ 52 Not only would his own strength

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decline, but Tedder would shortly be required to send aircraft eastward. A gloomy prospect, lightened somewhat by Freeman’s comment that he had recently received a letter from Lyttelton expressing warm approval of Tedder’s conduct of his command. Victory beckoned in the desert as a consequence of determined operations by soldiers and airmen, ably supported by seamen and airmen sinking Axis ships carrying fuel, weapons, ammunition and other vital supplies to North Africa ports. Portal became ‘so excited’ 53 on 18 December at suggestions that Rommel might be leaving North Africa that he sent a personal message to Tedder. ‘It might be deduced’, he wrote, ‘that a Dunkirk is to be attempted. In this event, ﬁghter cover may be difﬁcult. This may well be our opportunity to turn it into another and better Crete.’ Tedder was equally optimistic. ‘Yesterday was the biggest bombing day since battle began’, he told Portal, and ‘I hope we shall be able to give the enemy a taste of Crete as well as of Greece.’ 54 To which Portal replied with rare levity: ‘Excellent, and give them a taste of Tirpitz too.’ At this critical moment, 19 December 1941, four Italian supply ships managed to reach Tripoli, followed by several others on 5 January 1942, carrying 55 tanks and 20 armoured cars as well as anti-tank guns and supplies. ‘This was as good as a victory in battle’, exulted LieutenantGeneral Fritz Bayerlein, ‘and Rommel immediately began to think of taking the offensive again.’ 55 This ‘victory’ went unrecognised by British commanders and their masters in Whitehall, who all gave way to wishful thinking at this time when estimating enemy casualties, losses in equipment, decline in morale and capacity for rapid, effective movement. They over-rated the recovery of Benghazi on Christmas Eve – a useful port, by North African standards, but now thoroughly wrecked – and they under-rated Rommel’s strength, even after he struck at them three times during the last days of December.56 Crusader’s advance came to a lame end on 6 January 1942. There was no Axis scuttle, to wipe away memories of Dunkirk, Greece or Crete; no hope now of a sudden descent on Sicily; and, more fatefully, no immediate prospect of launching from Egypt an expedition strong enough to help Soviet forces, at a time when they needed help, on their south-eastern front. Rommel lay safely at El Agheila, behind a 50-mile line of salt-pans, sand dunes and small cliffs, with the Libyan Sand Sea protecting his southern ﬂank.57 By then, apart from thousands of men missing or captured, Crusader had cost the Axis 8,400 men certainly killed or wounded and the British forces 10,200 killed and wounded in seven weeks of bitter, but tragically inconclusive, conﬂict.58 Tedder had spent Christmas Day with the Drummonds and there heard his own ‘horribly melancholy’ radio broadcast to the troops. On the 27th,

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Churchill congratulated ‘the Army and Air Force of the Nile’ on their recovery of Benghazi – and then warned Auchinleck and Tedder that they had to be stripped of strength in order to shore up British power in the Far East. This unwelcome news prompted the three commanders in Cairo (supported by Lyttelton) to agree on the 28th to send a sailor, a soldier and an airman (Peter Drummond) to London to argue their case for increasing strength in North Africa. Once Rommel was defeated and Tripoli taken, they believed, a secure platform would exist for operations elsewhere, along a vast arc stretching from Tunisia to the Caucasus. In the opinion of Tedder and his colleagues, men and materiel sent to the Far East would prove insufﬁcient to secure victory there, while their absence would certainly harm realistic prospects in the Mediterranean. Later that day, 28 December, Tedder learned that he was to be made a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath (KCB) on New Year’s Day. ‘Oh hell’, he said to the staff ofﬁcer who brought him the signal, ‘a handle – horrible!’ Writing to Rosalinde that night, he told her that ‘I honestly hate the idea of the handle’, although he welcomed the honour for her sake. On 2 January 1942 a letter addressed to ‘Sir Arthur Tedder’ brought his father shockingly to mind. ‘I do dislike the handle’, he told Rosalinde again, ‘and wish we followed American practice and had no titles.’ She was delighted to learn of his elevation and gratiﬁed by an appraisal in The Times on 2 January that singled out precisely those of her husband’s qualities that she most admired: his visits to squadrons, she read, ‘were quite informal. The Air Marshal had meals with the men, asked questions about their experiences and welcomed their views on tactics.’ In addition to many telephone calls and telegrams, she received ‘the most extraordinarily nice letter’ from Freeman. During this lull in active operations, Auchinleck reported to Churchill.59 The enemy’s forces seem ‘weak and disorganised’, he wrote on 12 January. ‘I do not say that there is no ﬁght left in him, because Rommel will ﬁght to the end, but I do say that there are strong reasons for thinking that he has been hit much harder than we dared to believe.’ Tedder, he continued, ‘has been of the very greatest assistance and comfort to me throughout. He has determination, courage and foresight. I ask for noone better to work with and I hope he will not be taken away from me.’ Tedder also took the opportunity to reﬂect on Crusader’s performance to date, assuming, as blithely as Auchinleck, that the initiative now lay with British forces. ‘There is no doubt that one or two opportunities of putting the Hun in the bag have been lost, mostly I think through an excess of bravery and shortage of brains’, he told Freeman on the 13th. However, it was necessary to push on into Tripolitania before considering a ‘northern front’, and both options would be hampered, to say the least, by an almost total lack of capacious transport aircraft.

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There now seemed to be time to consider changing some of Tedder’s senior subordinates. He rejected Freeman’s proposal to send Dawson to the Far East.60 ‘The vital importance of our maintenance and repair organisation has been further increased by recent events’, he replied on 15 January. ‘Dawson’s vision and drive are essential if organisation, still in infancy, is to meet our pressing needs.’ Tedder also rejected a suggestion that Trafford Leigh-Mallory replace Drummond as his Deputy.61 He realised that he could not keep so able a man as Drummond indeﬁnitely, he told Portal on the 21st, ‘but cannot be enthusiastic at prospect of L-M, [Leigh-Mallory] whom I have known many years. Could not Bottomley or Slessor be made available within reasonable time?’ ‘I really don’t think I could bear it’, Tedder confessed to Rosalinde on the 24th. Leigh-Mallory ‘is incredibly pompous, is unapproachable by his staff and I’m sure very ambitious. I suspect he’d be only too glad to see a repetition of last year’s Deputy and C-in-C story!’, when Tedder replaced Longmore. Another Portal suggestion, of 19 January, fell on fertile soil: that Tedder take Keith Park as head of the air forces assigned to Egypt. Throughout the Battle of Britain, Park had been responsible for the day-to-day conduct of ﬁghter operations, and after six months in Egypt would succeed Hugh Pughe Lloyd as air commander in Malta.62 Tedder eagerly seized a rare opportunity to visit the front on 18 January 1942. ‘After we crossed the wire south of Halfaya’, he told Rosalinde, ‘we went down low to have a look at the battleﬁeld. One says “battleﬁeld”, but of course that means practically nothing. Just hundreds of square miles of this stony, sandy desert fretted all over with twisting track marks and dotted here and there with derelict vehicles or the odd tank.’ Coningham and Ritchie ‘make a good pair’, he thought. Next morning, despite foul weather, he went with Coningham in a Blenheim to visit squadrons in and around Benghazi. Tedder returned to Cairo on 20 January, just before Rommel began his astonishing offensive, helped by gales, rain and sandstorms hindering air reconnaissance – an offensive that had profound strategic consequences for both Allied and Axis forces. Within a week, the Germans were back in Benghazi, which had been lavishly stocked with food, fuel, ammunition, vehicles and clothing for the proposed advance into Tripolitania. The Eighth Army was in full retreat to a defensive line stretching from Gazala (35 miles west of Tobruk) southward to Bir Hacheim. Another convoy, carrying 71 tanks and other vital supplies, reached Tripoli virtually unscathed on the 24th,63 and Rommel was able to tell his wife on 4 February that ‘we have got Cyrenaica back. It went

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like greased lightning.’ 64 Far worse, all the courage and determination shown by the British forces during seven weeks of desperate ﬁghting had nothing now to show for it.65 Hans-Otto Behrendt cited in his memoirs the Panzerarmee Afrika’s ofﬁcial report on Operation Crusader. Preparations excellent, execution poor, the Germans thought. ‘At no place and at no time during this battle in Libya’, they concluded, ‘was the British High Command able to take control of the ﬁghting by concentrating all available forces where it mattered.’ 66 Bayerlein agreed, and identiﬁed other British failures: their ‘unwieldy and rigidly methodical technique of command, their oversystematic issuing of orders down to the last detail, leaving little latitude to the junior commander, and their poor adaptability to the changing course of the battle’.67 Tedder also agreed. ‘In both wars’, he told his friend Solly Zuckerman many years later, ‘our propaganda experts claimed that German soldiers were blockheads, incapable of independent thought. It simply wasn’t true. It was our soldiers who needed orders – and they got more dependent on them the longer the war lasted. Our sailors were much better, but I truly believe that it was our airmen – on the ground as well as in the air – who showed the most initiative.’ 68 ‘Original thrust through Agedabia was a complete surprise’, signalled Tedder to Portal from a joint army–air headquarters at Tmimi, 50 miles west of Tobruk, on 26 January, ‘and for some reason, not yet explicable, appears to have been completely unopposed. Our main ﬁghter force at Antelat [40 miles north-east of Agedabia] received no warning of withdrawal and was only just extricated in time.’ Of six squadrons, only six unserviceable aircraft had to be destroyed, but several armoured cars covering the retreat were lost. ‘Auchinleck fully appreciates importance of Cyrenaica and will, I am certain, not let it go lightly.’ Back in Cairo on the 29th, Tedder reported again to Portal. The ﬁghter force, he wrote, ‘is likely to be the main stabilising inﬂuence in Cyrenaica’, and Auchinleck agreed. ‘I do not wish to overstate the case, but that force is already weak and I feel strongly that if it is further weakened, as it would be by the proposed diversions during the next few weeks, the situation would be dangerous.’ 69 But Portal insisted that more aircraft be sent to the Far East. ‘I must warn you’, he added, ‘that I may also have to ask you later to send on ground personnel and equipment.’ Although the surrender of Singapore on 15 February settled that argument, Tedder’s force had been signiﬁcantly reduced by men and materiel sent (or earmarked for sending) eastward; so, too, had Auchinleck’s. At the end of January, after three months of almost constant endeavour, Tedder’s command had lost 539 aircraft – an average of nearly six every day – of which 157 were destroyed on the ground, mainly in Malta. As in Britain, claims for Axis aircraft destroyed were

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much inﬂated, but it seems that the Germans suffered 259 losses and the Italians 204: an average of ﬁve every day.70 In his honest way, Auchinleck tried to understand why his forces had suffered such an unexpected humiliation. ‘We have got to face the fact’, he told Sir Arthur Smith on 30 January,71 ‘that unless we can achieve superiority on the battleﬁeld by better co-operation between the arms [tanks, infantry, artillery] and more original leadership of our armoured forces than is apparently being exercised at present, we may have to forego any idea of mounting a strategical offensive because our armoured forces are tactically incapable of meeting the enemy in the open, even when superior to him in number.’ He had told Churchill that ‘it is no good just counting tanks or regiments and pretending that ours are individually as good as the Germans because they are not.’ By the end of January 1942, then, all the high hopes invested in Crusader had been dashed. British forces were nowhere near Tripoli, let alone in position to assault Sicily; and for the foreseeable future there could be no question of an expedition to assist the Soviet Union in the Caucasus. However, Tedder’s personal position had improved since Crusader began. He could reasonably expect to take part in the next campaign against Rommel and, while helping to prepare it, might even enjoy the company of Rosalinde in Cairo.

16 Winnie and Joe See Arthur as a Fighter Cairo and the Western Desert, February to October 1942

By the end of January 1942, Tedder had been laid low in Cairo by ‘mild lobar pneumonia’.1 This was a consequence of stubbornly ignoring a heavy cold during several long days of freezing rain, which he spent ﬂitting about in light aircraft, cars and trucks from one airﬁeld to another in western Cyrenaica, trying to understand why British forces were once again retreating in wild disorder from Rommel’s unexpected advance. Fortunately, Drummond returned from England on the 31st, and was able to take over the conduct of most affairs, while Tedder reﬂected on the latest humiliation from a hospital bed. ‘We need a cold-blooded determination’, he wrote to Coningham on 4 February, ‘free from wishful thinking or excessive head-counting to remove this gambler from Cyrenaica as soon as possible, and then get on with the main job.’ That ‘main job’, in his view, was to knock Italy out of the war and then to exploit the opportunities that would naturally follow: either to operate heavy bombers from Italian bases against targets in southern Germany, or to mount an army–air expedition through lands north-east of Egypt to assist the Soviet Union in the Caucasus. Two days later, on 6 February, he felt strong enough to send Portal a summary of recent events, a summary so trenchant that he inﬂicted upon the CAS his handwriting (which even Rosalinde found difﬁcult to read). He signed the letter ‘Tirpitz’, a bold informality, given Portal’s forbidding personality, but these were crisis times and his self-conﬁdence was growing.2 The story of the last fortnight, he wrote, was ‘still obscure, and I suspect that for all Auchinleck’s determination to get at the truth, much of it will remain obscure’. The enemy advance was ‘literally unopposed. Why, no man knows, but someone blundered pretty badly’; there was ‘complete and utter chaos’ plus sheer panic; and Army commanders

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still seemed quite unable to understand the importance of protecting airﬁelds. There were, he recognised, several ‘ﬁrst-rate, intelligent, forceful leaders throughout all ranks – beginning with Auchinleck at the top’, but social position, good horsemanship, and hunting skill mattered more to those who ran the Army’s staff college than systematic study of modern military problems. Tedder was well enough to leave hospital on 17 February and went by rail to convalesce in Aswan (on the Nile, some 400 miles south of Cairo). ‘On no account resume duty till thoroughly ﬁt’, signalled Portal, who no longer feared that ‘friction in Whitehall’ impaired Tedder’s ﬁtness for command in Cairo. ‘Much depends on you in future.’ 3 Tedder therefore read books, enjoyed leisurely meals, sailed sketched diligently, admired an immense skyscape and wrote at length to his wife. Tedder returned to duty on 8 March. ‘Peter D and Co have been doing damned well’, he told Rosalinde next day. ‘When I am called home “for consultations”, like my predecessor, my Deputy will be able to repeat history!’ Drummond had instituted a daily conference known as ‘morning prayers’, attended by Dawson, Pirie, Wigglesworth and himself. ‘I usually sit in a big chair in a corner and listen (and butt in sometimes).’ The results were valuable and conﬁrmed his belief that an efﬁcient team could also be a happy one. Among the prayers considered at these services were intercepted enemy wireless messages – part of a vital ‘Y Service’ that made Ultra possible. Without those interceptions, the cryptanalysts at Bletchley Park would have had no data on which to work: ‘Ultra would have been stillborn.’ 4 While Ultra was ‘frequently helpful and sometimes invaluable’, Y Service information was Tedder’s ‘sustaining daily diet’.5 In February he had met a young WAAF ofﬁcer, ‘Mike’ Morris (later Mrs Aileen Clayton), who had already made a name as a signals expert during the Battle of Britain. He promptly sent her to Malta to advise on making the best use of intercepted messages. She did well and thereafter he supported her as deputy to the chief RAF Y ofﬁcer for the Middle East. ‘This was the beginning of my devotion to Arthur Tedder’, wrote Clayton. ‘There was no quibbling about my being a woman. He appreciated that I could do the job and there it ended.’ 6 During the rest of 1942, ‘intelligence-driven interdiction operations were continually destroying the bulk of Axis supply on its way to the front lines. The result was a complete erosion of the ﬁghting ability of the Axis forces.’ 7 Having been brought up to date by his colleagues, Tedder reported at length to Portal on the 11th.8 Only part of this letter was written in his own distinctive scrawl. In one such passage he feared that Auchinleck might prove ‘pig-headed’ and refuse to go home for discussions when Churchill invited him: it would be, for Auchinleck, ‘a fatal mistake’. In

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another, he revealed that quite apart from numerous tanks and guns, the Army had lost no fewer than 1,600 trucks in Rommel’s latest offensive. ‘Recently-escaped ofﬁcers report four out of ﬁve vehicles on the enemy Lines of Communication as British.’ The rest of the letter, though easier to read, was no more cheerful. ‘The effort of sending aircraft, spares, etc., to the East has strained everything to the limit’, he wrote, and ‘we should have been completely lost’ without the work of Dawson and his repair organisation. No fewer than 530 aircraft had been sent to the Far East since Pearl Harbor. ‘During the past ﬁve weeks’, continued Tedder, ‘Coningham has only had four ﬁghter squadrons available for operations in the forward areas, excluding one which is entirely occupied on covering Tobruk’, and even these were under strength. One day, Tedder hoped, he might get some Spitﬁres (no other Allied ﬁghter matched the best Axis ﬁghters), and greatly regretted the absence of Liberator long-range heavy bombers. They offered the only means of hitting Tripoli and preventing the unloading of tanks and trucks. Given a couple of Liberator squadrons, he added, attacks on Romanian oil wells would be ‘an outward and visible way of giving support to Russia’. He repeated these pleas throughout the year, but the best British ﬁghters remained at home, to guard against the consequences of a Soviet collapse, and quantity production of effective heavy bombers, British or American, had not yet begun. Sir Stafford Cripps – Leader of the House of Commons and Lord Privy Seal – arrived in Cairo on 19 March, en route to India. Tedder liked the look of him: ‘One feels that he is an honest man and an idealist – so refreshing.’ Cripps chaired a meeting of the three commanders, plus Walter Monckton (acting Minister of State since 24 February, when Lyttelton had returned to England to become a member of the War Cabinet and Minister of Production). Cripps asked when an offensive might be resumed in Cyrenaica.9 Auchinleck did not know: if dangers developed on the northern front, all air strength must be diverted to meet them. Invited to comment, Tedder’s words were equally bleak. He had lost air superiority, thanks to the diversion of some 350 ﬁghters and 180 light bombers eastwards. He needed US medium bombers to sustain a serious attack on Benghazi and could do nothing whatever about Tripoli without heavy bombers. Auchinleck sent Tedder a depressing, if realistic, memorandum on 21 March in which he concluded that an offensive could not be mounted before 1 June.10 In Auchinleck’s opinion, the enemy would retain the initiative throughout the coming summer and some reverses must be expected. It was necessary not get so involved in Libya, he warned Tedder, that we could not respond to a northern threat. Enemy strength

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was growing as Malta’s capacity to prevent convoys reaching Tripoli waned. Moreover, Rommel’s tanks were superior. So too were the leadership and training of his armoured formations, although Auchinleck’s infantry might be superior in quality as well as quantity. Tedder wanted Hugh Pughe Lloyd to continue as air commander in Malta, despite a request from Lieutenant-General Sir William Dobbie (Governor and Commander-in-Chief) that he be removed. Tedder thought Lloyd had been quite right to criticise an ‘appalling ﬁasco’ over the surviving ships of a convoy that struggled into Malta from Alexandria late in March. Vital cargoes were unloaded far too slowly, as a result of Dobbie’s lack of drive and ﬁrmness. ‘What is needed’ in Malta, concluded Tedder, ‘is more leadership and less talk of harmony.’ That opinion would be in the forefront of his mind a few days later, on 13 April, when he paid a brief visit to Malta and insisted, over Dobbie’s objections, on a meeting of the island’s defence committee. ‘Each of the service commanders remarked to me separately afterwards’, he reported to his wife next day, ‘that it was the ﬁrst real meeting they’d had for months.’ Driving through a village near one aerodrome, he told Rosalinde, ‘was rather like driving through Arras or one of the other wrecks in France last time … dim shapes of wrecked buildings and glimpses of huge piles of stones.’ Yet almost everyone in Malta inspired him. ‘I met a whole string of Maltese tradesmen who had been given a simple little metal “bomb badge” because they stuck to their work while raids were on. It really was impressive to see their eyes sparkle when I said something congratulatory to each of them about it.’ Dobbie was replaced by General the Viscount Gort, VC, three DSOs, MC, on 7 May. Gort, head of the British Army in 1937, commanded the forces overwhelmed in France in 1940, and had been governor of Gibraltar since April 1941. The appointment of ‘Fat Boy’ (as Tedder called him) was, he thought, ‘a tragic mistake’, because Gort’s incapacity at the highest level had been so glaringly revealed during the past ﬁve years. But many Maltese were ﬂattered to be ruled, nominally at least, by a man with such a gallant reputation and imposing manner. On returning to Cairo from Malta, Tedder agreed to meet Cecil Beaton on 19 April. Beaton had made his name before the war as a photographer of famous persons and designer of theatrical scenery and costumes. Now employed by the Ministry of Information, he was keen to photograph Tedder, who thought him ‘quite a decent sort, not as much the “Thethil” as one expected … just a little precious, but not aggressively so.’ Like all other observers of Tedder, Beaton was struck by his youthful appearance – what he called his ‘coltishness’ – before going on to analyse his personality most perceptively. The air marshal, he wrote, ‘does not wish

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to impress – rather to put everyone at ease, so that talk will be at its most natural and interesting. He puffs at his pipe, smiles with his eyes, and invites you to a conspiracy of friendship. He is, you feel, always storing up impressions, and that the opinions of anyone with whom he comes in contact are grist to his mill. He has been accused of being too full of charm, of not being forceful enough. He is a man of undoubted charm, but I would not like to cross him: he can suddenly become granite.’ 11 Beaton admired his crayon sketches: although ‘quite naive in technique’, they gave ‘a better impression of these war scenes than the press photographs’. Four months later, on 22 August 1942, Picture Post published a large portrait of Tedder by Beaton. He sits at his desk, looking singularly ill at ease: no doubt because he anticipates an accompanying caption reading ‘Tedder: The Man Who Must Stop Rommel’s Supplies’, and wonders how those words will be received by his naval colleagues. Richard Casey, an Australian politician who became his country’s ﬁrst Minister to the United States in 1940, had been appointed in April to succeed Lyttelton as Minister of State in Cairo. On learning that Casey’s wife would accompany him, Rosalinde arranged a meeting with Freeman on the 22nd to ask, yet again, why she could not join her husband. ‘I think the trouble about all this’, she sadly informed her husband next evening, ‘has been that you have never said that you wanted me – they think that it is just that I want to go!’ ‘Handsome Dick’, as Tedder named him in letters to Rosalinde, arrived with his wife on 3 May. Tedder thought it ‘the last straw’, but did not ﬁre off an angry demand to Freeman or Portal that Rosalinde deserved equal consideration. At that time, Tedder had more to worry about than yet another rebuff for his wife. He set down his thoughts on the alarming ‘strategic situation’ on 30 April; thoughts that were immediately signalled to the Chiefs of Staff in London. The Axis position then seemed very strong. Between mid-December 1941 and the end of May 1942, Malta was unable to interfere with convoys sailing to North Africa, even though highly secret intelligence provided Tedder and his colleagues with accurate information about their timing and routes.12 During April and May, only 13 Axis merchant ships and a few small coasters were sunk in the entire Mediterranean, and submarines achieved all but one of these victories.13 Axis hopes of linking an assault on Egypt with a larger offensive from the north against Arab oil lands were clearly realistic.14 Consequently, as Tedder wrote on 30 April, there was ‘no real alternative between resuming the offensive in Libya and abandoning the Middle East’; the enemy was growing stronger by the day and the need to assist the Soviet Union was becoming more urgent. ‘This war is going to be won in Europe’, Tedder believed. ‘The goal is in Berlin’, but we

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must ﬁrst achieve victory in the Mediterranean. German power was already severely stretched by the Russian campaign; vigorous action in Libya would stretch it still further, adding to ‘security problems throughout the Occupied Countries’, and would break Italy, ‘by far the weakest spot in the Axis’. At Portal’s request, Tedder signalled a detailed estimate of British and Axis aircraft strength to London on 8 May. ‘Would emphasise’, he added, for Churchill’s eyes, rather than Portal’s, ‘that I consider foregoing ﬁgures are of very limited value for assessment of relative strengths as affecting Western Desert at any particular time, and for this reason I have throughout discouraged any arguments on basis of counting heads.’ He was weaker than before Crusader, but his forces should be sufﬁcient ‘to provide adequate support for a land offensive’. As usual, the absence of bombast was ill received in London. ‘I got the expected rocket this morning’, Tedder told his wife, ‘which had a sinister likeness to the previous one. I’ve sent my reply – and nearly added that I hoped it would sufﬁce to prevent Wilfrid [Freeman] needing a ticket to Egypt!’ Ten days later, on 18 May, Tedder ended on a cheerful note the last but one of several hundred letters written to Rosalinde: ‘I shook one or two of the soldiers’, he told her, at a meeting held the previous day to discuss the intentions of Field Marshal Albert Kesselring, commander of all Axis forces in the Mediterranean, ‘by saying, in a perfectly normal manner: “I had a talk with Kesselring last night and he told me …” One said I’d shaken him; I said I was psychic; he said, are you really?’ During the following week, he visited all the desert squadrons, staying overnight whenever necessary. They were widely dispersed, and getting safely from one tent to another in darkness was no easy task. ‘Back in Cairo’, recalled Fred Rosier,15 ‘Tedder could be a bit brisk, but out in the blue he was never ﬁrst to break up a party, no matter how late it got.’ One night, while being escorted back to his tent by Rosier and several other pilots, Tedder suddenly launched into a famous hymn: Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead thou me on; The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on. Those who knew the words joined in, and the rest provided a sort of ‘humming chorus’. When they reached Tedder’s tent, he formed them into a half-circle and conducted them through an encore. ‘Well, if that

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doesn’t frighten Rommel out of Africa’, he remarked at the end, ‘I don’t know what will.’ Rosier regarded this ‘glorious performance’ as ‘the happiest memory I have of all my time in the desert’. British authorities, in London and Cairo, learned from intelligence sources that Rommel intended to attack before the end of May, but Auchinleck resisted pressure to strike ﬁrst.16 The Gazala Line, he believed, was now so strong that he welcomed an assault as the quickest means of breaking Axis power. Rommel’s offensive began on 26 May and, as usual, achieved spectacular success, even though British forces fought bravely. Within a month they had been driven back to El Alamein, an excellent natural defence line, some 60 miles west of the naval base at Alexandria. That base was rapidly and silently evacuated and on 21 June, the famous fortress and port of Tobruk fell into Rommel’s hands, together with enormous stocks of petrol, ammunition and provisions, as well as 2,000 vehicles and 33,000 soldiers, including one-third of all South African forces. ‘First Singapore and now Tobruk’, lamented an ofﬁcial historian. ‘What hope was there, on this showing, of saving Egypt? Worse still, what was the matter with British arms?’ 17 During the ‘withdrawal’, as it was called, Casey signalled Churchill on 7 June.18 Tedder, he said, needed 95 squadrons of all types to carry out the tasks required of his huge command. He had at present 46 operational and hoped to increase this number to 58 by August, but the gap between aircraft promised – especially from the United States – and aircraft delivered remained as wide as ever. Tedder had plenty of crews and told Casey that ‘a further 18 squadrons now here could be made operational if the aircraft were available for them’, but he was handicapped by a lack of spares and ammunition for both British and American aircraft. At precisely this ill-omened moment Rosalinde was at last granted an air passage to Cairo: a passage designed, one might almost suppose, with malice aforethought to punish her persistence. She left London on 9 June and ﬂew westward to Foynes, near Limerick. From there she travelled to Cairo via Lisbon, Bathurst, Lagos, Point Noire, Kinshasa, Mbandaka, Kisangani, Kampala and Khartoum. She ﬁnally reached her destination on the 19th, after ten days of travelling and covering a total distance of 9,260 miles. The direct distance from London to Cairo is no more than 2,190 miles, and persons considered important could accomplish it well within 24 hours. ‘I am already very glad I have come’, she wrote during the last lap in a circular letter for her children, Ann Jackson (formerly Elder) and Tedder’s sister Margaret. ‘I am sure there are many things I can do – but I am rather frightened about coping with Air House after

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it has been so long a bachelor establishment … I shall try to lie very low at ﬁrst.’ At that time, the most assertive woman in Britain could hardly have upset the residents of Air House. Two large convoys – one sailing from Gibraltar, the other from Alexandria – were escorted with all possible courage and determination by many warships and aircraft, but only two out of 17 merchantmen actually reached Malta: six were sunk en route and the rest forced to turn back by ﬁerce, persistent Axis attack.19 Rommel was carrying all before him in the desert and nothing but bad news reached Cairo from the eastern front. On 20 June, however, Rosalinde’s ﬁrst full day at Air House, Tedder was able to send Portal an encouraging report. ‘For nearly three days’, he wrote, ‘one road was packed solid’ with British troops ‘retiring’ from their Gazala positions, and yet they suffered only six casualties from air attack, despite the fact that many British ﬁghters were active over El Adem and others were trying to protect the Malta convoys. He found time on 23 June, despite the ever-worsening crisis, for a handwritten letter to Portal.20 ‘Admirals and politicians’, he wrote, ‘seem to regard the heavy bomber as the universal answer to the maiden’s prayer. I have done my best to disillusion them, but ignorant optimism dies hard.’ Even so, a good long-range striking force would be a great asset. ‘Can we reach it?’ and ‘Can we hit it hard enough?’ were questions he constantly asked. ‘I have never openly admitted it, but I have felt that had we been in a position to hit harder and further, we would have been able to prevent the Hun building up his strength as he did and so might have prevented the present ﬁasco.’ Perhaps he should have ‘openly admitted’ his opinion and demanded heavy bombers, with adequate ﬁghter escort, thereby obliging the Chiefs of Staff to judge between his claims for the latest equipment and those of Harris and Douglas. But Portal was as immovable on this issue as Harris. Two months later, on 23 August, he assured Tedder that he was ‘absolutely opposed to diverting more heavies from the attack on Germany, which is really beginning to have great results’. Meanwhile, on 23 June, Tedder recorded for Portal ‘a tragic series of lost opportunities and lack of inspired leadership’. He had urged Auchinleck to put the armour under Gott and not Willoughby Norrie, ‘who had been a complete and utter failure in the Crusader affair’. As for Ritchie (Auchinleck’s ﬁeld commander), he was ‘a sound and solid staff ofﬁcer’, but no match for ‘a quick-witted and thrusting opponent’. Britain’s best hope, in Tedder’s opinion, was that ‘our friend Rommel would run true to form and come bullocking on regardless’, thus offering ‘a chance of knocking him right out’. But he was likely to be held back,

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now that Malta lay within Axis grasp. On 25 June he added that he had at last persuaded Auchinleck to go up to the front. ‘I have tried to get him to realise that all these signals and queries from home, important though they are, are utterly unimportant compared with the battle which has now got to be settled at Matruh’, 100 miles and more west of El Alamein. Instead of mounting a serious attempt to take Malta, Hitler did allow Rommel to ‘come bullocking on’, and during the last days of June it seemed that he might sweep on through Alexandria and Cairo to seize the Suez Canal. General Arnold, head of the USAAF, observing the crisis from Washington, concluded that Rommel’s charge was likely to succeed.21 ‘With as few people as possible knowing about it’, he signalled Colonel Orvil A. Anderson on 27 June, ‘make general plans for movement of American Air Forces from Cairo towards Khartoum and then in the best direction to prevent their being cut off from any possible German action.’ About 7.30 p.m. on 26 June, reported Tedder to Portal on the 29th,22 he and Coningham learned that ‘large enemy columns had gone through the gap south of the main Matruh defences and that in consequence the enemy were within 20 miles of the aerodromes on which our whole ﬁghter force was based’. For once Rommel did not press on and the ﬁghters were able to withdraw next morning, but Ritchie was sacked on 29 June. His ‘main preoccupation’, according to Tedder, ‘was how many tanks of various types he had and would have on various dates. It had become quite an obsession.’ Both Tedder and Coningham were relieved when Auchinleck took personal command: ‘one felt that passive bewilderment was being replaced by active command’. Rommel had advanced over 350 miles in six weeks to the last line of defence before the Nile valley, inﬂicting heavy casualties on both the Eighth Army and the Desert Air Force. The force of 125,000 men confronting him at Gazala on 26 May had been reduced by the end of June to 60,000, and Coningham had lost about 600 ﬁghters and 140 bombers. As some offset to these devastating casualties, secret intelligence sources revealed to Tedder and his fellow commanders that Rommel had reported to Berlin on 4 July that he must temporarily suspend further attacks and go over to the defensive for about two weeks, in order to bring up men and supplies and regroup units.23 This comforting information being unknown to practically everyone else in Egypt, panic followed a triumphant announcement on German radio that Rommel would be in Alexandria on the 6th and in Cairo on the 9th. Orders were given for secret documents to be burnt and Arthur Lee (one of Drummond’s senior assistants) experienced ‘a sense of improper satisfaction in seeing one’s burdensome papers thrown

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cheerfully on the ﬂames and their problems postponed indeﬁnitely. All over that part of the Garden City where lay our headquarters and the Embassy, the air was full of tiny scraps of burnt paper.’ 24 On a 40-mile front, from El Alamein in the north to the edge of the virtually impassable Qattara Depression in the south, Auchinleck turned at bay. ‘Our air forces’, he wrote later, ‘could not have done more than they did to help and sustain the Eighth Army in its struggle. Their effort was continuous by day and night and the effect on the enemy was tremendous’: without their ‘devoted and exceptional efforts, we should not have been able to stop the enemy on the El Alamein position’.25 They were also helped by Rommel’s over-extended lines of supply and communication, and by the ease with which Auchinleck could be reinforced, now that he lay so close to a large, undamaged supply-base. Of almost equal value to the Allies was the fact that from now on Rommel would be ﬁghting virtually blind. For months he had been able to read detailed signals sent to Washington by the US military attaché in Cairo, but that leak was at last plugged; then, on 10 July, Rommel’s excellent radio intercept company was captured.26 On 1 July, ten days short of his 52nd birthday, Tedder was promoted to Air Chief Marshal: four-star rank, equivalent to full General or Admiral. He received a rare personal signal from Churchill on the 4th, congratulating him on the vital part being played by the RAF ‘in this Homeric struggle for the Nile Valley. The days of the Battle of Britain are being repeated far from home. We are sure you will be to our glorious Army the friend that endureth to the end.’ 27 Such routine hyperbole mattered far less to Tedder than the fact that he and Rosalinde were able to enjoy both his elevation and the RAF’s excellent performance together. Portal sent Tedder an unusually agitated signal on 21 July.28 He was ‘terribly anxious’, lest Auchinleck ‘miss a chance that may never recur’ of victory in North Africa. Was he receiving the ‘special intelligence’, which indicated that Rommel’s fuel and ammunition supplies were desperately low? ‘Can you give me any comfort for my private – repeat, private – information?’ Tedder replied on the 25th.29 He conﬁrmed that Auchinleck was receiving the fullest information, but they were now faced with a situation unpleasantly reminiscent of the last war: ‘a dug-in line mined and covered by guns and attack requiring detailed preparation’. Tedder followed up this ‘cold comfort’ signal with another handwritten letter next day.30 ‘The blunt fact is that the golden opportunity has been slipping away day by day’ and Tedder rightly suspected that ‘people at home’ were losing conﬁdence in Auchinleck, even though

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he was ‘honest, clear-thinking and full of guts’. Tedder wished that Auchinleck was ‘a better judge of character and more ruthless in judging people solely by results’, and regretted his inability to inspire men. ‘To write like this of a man who has so loyally and wholeheartedly supported me may seem pretty foul’, but personal feelings should not come into such a vital question. ‘If ever a change at the top becomes unavoidable’, he concluded, ‘for heaven’s sake let them choose someone who is alive and young, someone with ﬁre. Surely the Army has men like that amongst its galaxy of Generals?’ Portal showed this letter to Churchill, who asked him to show it to Anthony Eden, the Foreign Secretary, and to Oliver Lyttelton, formerly Minister of State in Cairo.31 Eden told Portal on 31 July that it was ‘a courageous letter and, I feel sure, an all too truthful one’. Lyttelton replied on 4 August: ‘You know what weight I attach to his [Tedder’s] opinions and judgement. He is quite right about Auk being a bad hand at picking men … Let us hope that the Former Naval Person [Churchill] will be able to make the necessary changes.’ That ‘Person’, accompanied by General Brooke, arrived in Cairo on 3 August, wearing the uniform of an Air Commodore: a tribute noted by soldiers and airmen alike. On the 8th, after ﬁve eventful days, Tedder wrote to Portal.32 Churchill had arrived, ‘bubbling over with vitality and cheerfulness’, and spent more than an hour alone with Tedder. ‘I told him frankly what my views were … the last failure in particular has shaken the faith of the troops in their leadership and in the armour – not without cause.’ They had suffered from an ‘all too familiar story of loss of opportunity due to indecision, lack of drive, and ﬁnally (as usual) complete breakdown of all communications’. Tedder then spent an hour or more alone with his hero Field Marshal Smuts, Prime Minister of South Africa, who had also arrived in Cairo to help resolve an evident crisis in Allied affairs. ‘Selection, promotion and removal of staffs and commanders’, declared Tedder, ‘must be entirely based on results, not on seniority, personal friendships, old school ties, etc. Failures must be analysed and exposed – not, as invariably in the past, buried under many coats of whitewash. The fact that a man who has failed notoriously not once but three or more times and can still be given important posts does more to demoralise the troops than anything else.’ Having consulted Smuts and a host of lesser lights, Churchill decided that ‘drastic and immediate’ changes were needed. General Sir Harold Alexander, summoned from Burma, became C-in-C of a command shorn of Iraq and Persia, Lieutenant-General Bernard Montgomery was summoned from England to be his ﬁeld commander (after William Gott, the ﬁrst choice, was killed on 7 August), and three other generals were dismissed. Auchinleck learned – by letter – of his fall on the 8th, politely

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refused Churchill’s offer of the new Iraq–Persia command, and returned to India. Tedder was ‘very sorry indeed’ to lose so loyal a friend. He approved the decision to remove Auchinleck and, though the cowardly manner of it disgusted him, he wisely held his tongue. Churchill rewarded Tedder’s frank advice on 9 August by signalling both Sinclair and Portal to ask for ‘a proportion, if only a small one, of the very latest types of ﬁghter aircraft’ to be sent to Cairo immediately.33 Brooke, however, found Tedder ‘astonishingly pig-headed’, during a discussion on the 9th which ended with Tedder’s refusal to assign more of his air strength to Iraq and Persia. ‘He is, I am afraid, only a small-brained man’, wrote Brooke in his diary. Years later, when helping Sir Arthur Bryant to write his biography, Brooke wrote: ‘Tedder had deﬁnitely gone a long way to annoy me that evening or I should not have written as I did. I had every reason to discover later that he was not “a small-brained man”.’ 34 Rosalinde had met Smuts for the ﬁrst time at lunch on 7 August and was immediately overwhelmed. ‘I had expected a tall, digniﬁed sage’, she wrote home on the 9th, ‘instead, a smallish, quick-moving, alert man burst in. He radiates a warmth which comes both from his direct, friendly manner and also I think from the ﬁres within.’ There was, she thought, ‘something Christ-like about that man.’ Reﬂecting on Smuts in the 1960s, Tedder wrote: ‘I thought him then, and still think him, incomparably the greatest man I have ever met, possessing Churchill’s versatility and vision without his vices.’ 35 Hard upon the heels of these great events came an even greater one: Churchill’s journey to Moscow, ‘one of the most courageous things he did’, in Tedder’s opinion.36 Two Liberators left Cairo about midnight on 10 August, bound for Teheran and then, after re-fuelling, the Soviet capital. Churchill and his personal staff travelled in one; Tedder, Brooke, Wavell (now C-in-C India) and Sir Alexander Cadogan of the Foreign Ofﬁce in the other. Churchill intended to inform Stalin personally that there would be no second front in Europe in 1942. He also wished to convince him that a successful campaign in North Africa would draw German forces away from the Eastern Front, and to learn what he could of Soviet plans for defence of the Caucasus. Both machines reached Teheran safely, but two hours out of that city, en route to Moscow, the pilot of Tedder’s Liberator woke him to say that an engine was faulty: should he press on or turn back? Tedder reminded him, with some asperity, that in the RAF such decisions lay solely with the pilot, no matter how important the passengers. So back to Teheran they went; a decision that saved their lives because, as Tedder later learned, the fault was likely to have resulted in a ﬁre that would soon have

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reached a petrol tank. He and his companions reached Moscow aboard a Russian DC-3 on 13 August, almost 24 hours after Churchill. It had been a bad 24 hours for Cadogan in particular. He was ‘scared stiff’, Tedder thought, ‘as to what the PM might say or do when there was none of the staff with him to keep any sort of check.’ A state villa outside the city had been assigned to Churchill and he was joined there by Tedder and his colleagues for a cheerful lunch. In the absence of his minders, Churchill had enjoyed a very late evening with the Soviet ruler. ‘Unfortunately’, wrote Tedder, ‘in his account of it all to us he rather let himself go, speaking of Stalin as just a peasant, whom he, Winston, knew exactly how to tackle. Being fairly certain that the whole villa was a network of microphones, I scribbled méﬁez-vous [beware], and passed it to him. He gave me a glare which I shall never forget, but I am afraid it was too late. The damage was done.’ When the ﬁrst ofﬁcial meeting began, Stalin ‘expressed utter contempt’ for the Allied military efforts, and Tedder admitted that, to the Soviet leader ‘military activities in the Western Desert must have appeared very much small beer – and rather ﬂat beer at that!’ He was keenly aware that a great opportunity to assist Stalin, at a time when he was in dire peril, had been missed as a result of the failure of Operation Crusader, in 1941. That opportunity never recurred, although Tedder and his staff spent countless hours during 1942 on plans to send as many as 20 squadrons to southern Russia, but they all depended on defeating Rommel ﬁrst, and the ‘Desert Fox’ was still running freely in August.37 While Stalin and Churchill wrangled over grand strategy at the highest level, Tedder took part in long meetings on 15 August with three Soviet commanders (Marshals Voroshilov, Shaposhnikov and Voronov, none an airman) to discuss two possibilities: an assault on occupied France and combined operations in the Caucasus. Brooke tried to explain the difﬁculties of getting an army across the Channel, but the Russians refused to be impressed. Tedder supported Brooke: ‘in narrow waters the advent of air power had undermined supremacy at sea’, he said, and frankly admitted that the RAF had no immediate prospect of achieving a sufﬁcient degree of air superiority over northern France to cover a major landing, let alone a successful advance inland. Discussions about helping the Soviet Union in the Caucasus ended no more happily. Tedder wanted work to begin at once on airﬁelds for British and US squadrons, but the Russians preferred to await the outcome of the North African campaign; airﬁelds could not be prepared until the Soviet Union was certain that they would be used. The atmosphere at a farewell banquet on 15 August was moderately cordial, now that Stalin had been told about the proposed AngloAmerican invasion of north-west Africa (Operation Torch), and had been

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assured that the bombing of German cities was already causing serious destruction, and would greatly intensify during the coming months. Nevertheless, Stalin’s toast to the British Army ‘was perfunctory, to say the least’, in Tedder’s recollection, ‘whereas he walked the full length of the table and back, to drink his glass with mine and [propose] the toast to the Royal Air Force – all, I think, with the deliberate intention of baiting the Prime Minister and Alan Brooke.’ Several Russians went out of their way to compliment the RAF, ‘but I do not for a moment think that they regarded it as having any particular strategic importance.’ According to Rosalinde, writing proudly to Margaret on 22 August, ‘Joe [Stalin] told Winnie [Churchill] that he liked the look of Arthur, thought he was a ﬁghter’: a noble word that Churchill himself had used of Tedder only a few days earlier, to Rosalinde’s delight. ‘Arthur has had some very big problems to handle’, she added, ‘and tremendous issues have been in the balance.’ Back in Cairo on 18 August, Tedder learned that Montgomery’s abundant energy and self-assurance were already lifting the Army’s morale. In Coningham’s opinion, ﬁrst expressed to Elmhirst as early as the 16th, ‘we now have a man, a great soldier if I am any judge, and we will go all the way with him.38 Consequently, Tedder was disappointed to receive a handwritten letter from Freeman, dated 18 August, warning him that Montgomery could not be trusted. He was ‘a good tactical schoolmaster’, sneered Freeman, but ‘small-minded – and nearly had a mutiny in his regiment when he commanded it. He might do well, for he has energy – but he talks balls – is conceited, a hard worker and a cad.’ Freeman was glad to learn that Tedder was now getting on with Churchill. ‘You have the conﬁdence of everyone here from the highest to the lowest to a degree which I have not experienced before in my service life.’ Such lavish praise helped to prepare him for Freeman’s next letter, of 20 August, in which he revealed that he intended soon to leave his position as Vice-Chief of the Air Staff and return to the Ministry of Aircraft Production as Chief Executive. In Freeman’s opinion, there were only four possible candidates for the vacancy. ‘Yourself – the best, but you can’t be spared.’ Next came Douglas, but Freeman was sure that Portal ‘wouldn’t like him next door as he’s not over fond of cads.’ As for Slessor (Assistant CAS (Policy)), ‘he is a bit slapdash and inaccurate’. That left Charles Medhurst (Assistant CAS (Intelligence)): ‘very good, a bit junior and at present is inclined to be impressed by people like Archie [Sinclair, Secretary of State for Air]’. These assessments – passed on to Portal – made it clear to Tedder that victory in the next campaign would probably mark the end of his

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career as an operational commander. He would return to Whitehall as Portal’s right-hand man, but he now felt able to direct air forces in the ﬁeld as well as conferences in Whitehall. He was acutely aware that Britain’s part in the real war – to break Germany’s grip on Europe – had barely begun, and he wanted an active part in it. His next Christmas, he suspected, might be spent in England, because victory in North Africa at long last seemed imminent. So it had seemed on several occasions during the past 18 months, but this time landings in Rommel’s rear – in Morocco, Algeria and perhaps Tunisia – were planned on a massive scale for 8 November, supplies of all kinds as well as soldiers and airmen were ﬂowing into Egypt via the Red Sea, and secret intelligence sources advised Tedder and his fellow commanders that any resumption of the Axis attack in August ‘would rest on an extremely fragile logistical foundation’.39 And yet those same sources revealed that Rommel planned an attack on or about the 26th: an attack that should hasten his own downfall.40 Rommel’s ill-conceived attempt to conquer Egypt began during the night of 30–31 August, just as the worst sandstorms for many weeks swept Coningham’s airﬁelds. The attack was a long right hook, aimed at the Alam el Halfa Ridge, a keypoint some 14 miles behind the centre of the British line. Held up by unexpected mineﬁelds, Rommel did not advance as quickly as planned in the ﬁrst few hours and air raids on an unprecedented scale caused him heavy casualties. The attack was called off on 6 September and Rommel, far from well, went on leave after setting up a new defence line. Montgomery had achieved his ﬁrst and most signiﬁcant victory. Until then, the Army had lacked conﬁdence – following headlong retreats to Gazala in January and then from Gazala in May – but Montgomery’s careful disposition of his forces, helped by accurate information about enemy intentions and, not least, his refusal to follow up Rommel’s retreat, brought victory.41 Had he done so, ‘Rommel would have pulled back on to the fairly elaborate mineﬁelds in his rear, set up a quick but strong anti-tank defence as he had at Gazala and massacred our galloping armour.’ Tedder agreed. The difference between this land battle and previous ones, he informed Portal on 7 September, ‘is that in this one soldiers have refused to play enemy game and send tanks against guns. Enemy has been forced to send his tanks against our guns’.42 Tedder had already written to Smuts, on 1 September, to say that his presence in Cairo and wise advice during those momentous days early in August ‘may well prove to have been the turning-point in the whole battle for the Mediterranean – and all that goes with it’; Montgomery ‘has brought the whole Eighth Army to life again. The effect has been almost electric, far more rapid than I had thought possible.’ 43 Even so,

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Tedder remained ‘gravely worried’ over his ﬁghter strength; the main burden was still being borne by Hurricanes, he had too few Kittyhawks and only three squadrons of Spitﬁres. During the rest of September and October, however, Tedder was able to compare his own and Montgomery’s uninterrupted reinforcement with the trickle reaching Rommel across the Mediterranean; all that ‘the Desert Fox’ was allowed by the combined efforts of airmen, seamen and cryptanalysts.44 Tedder also observed intensive, realistic training going ahead everywhere in Egypt, on the ground and in the air. The growing expertise of a small American air force, under the able command of Major-General Lewis H. Brereton, was particularly gratifying. ‘The Americans work in very well with our squadrons’, Tedder told Portal on 22 October. ‘They now have their own ﬁghter wing with two squadrons who have already shown up well in combat. Their third ﬁghter squadron, which has had more experience and we can make reasonably mobile, is in one of our own ﬁghter wings and will go forward. They are learning from us and we are learning from them – I was glad to hear this from both sides.’ The conclusion was obvious: a turning-point in the desert war had indeed been reached. The arrival in Malta of ﬁve merchant ships, including an oil tanker, on 15 August had enabled the island to join in systematic attacks, guided by accurate intelligence information, on Rommel’s supply lines. These attacks, aimed at ships sailing for his African ports and at trucks carrying such supplies as reached those ports towards his front line, fatally weakened him.45 ‘As you agreed the other night’, minuted Sinclair to Churchill on 30 September, ‘I propose to appoint Tedder as VCAS [Vice-Chief of the Air Staff]’ in succession to Freeman ‘and Sholto Douglas as C-in-C, Middle East. On the other hand, I agree with you that I ought not to move Tedder in advance of Lightfoot’, a massive response to Rommel’s failed offensive, planned for 23 October. Freeman had returned to the Ministry of Aircraft Production on the 19th,46 and Medhurst was to be acting VCAS until 1 December, when Tedder would take over, ‘subject always to reconsideration [emphasis in original] in the light of the military situation at the time’.47 Happily for Tedder, but tragically for Rosalinde, that ‘situation’ prevented him from returning to England, and required him to remain in North Africa.

17 Seeking an Exciting New Command, Avoiding a Dismal Desk in Whitehall, Suffering a Grievous Loss From Cairo to Algiers, October 1942 to January 1943

Now that Rosalinde had joined him, Tedder proved easier to capture for an evening by Cairo’s high society. On 23 October they agreed to be guests of honour at a dinner arranged by two of that society’s most distinguished members: Sir Thomas Russell Pasha, commandant of the police force, and his formidable wife Dorothea, of whom it was said no visiting artist dared refuse her command to perform at the music concerts she organised, and which Tedder had attended whenever he could spare the time. During dinner, he was handed a note. Turning to Dorothea, he asked her to keep an eye on the time for him. At precisely 10 p.m., he announced to the Russells and their other guests that a thousand British guns were opening ﬁre at that moment.1 When the battle of El Alamein began, Tedder’s ﬁeld commander, ‘Mary’ Coningham, had under his control some 420 single-engined ﬁghters and 150 light bombers, including 37 ﬁghters and 37 bombers of the USAAF, but half his ﬁghters were obsolete Hurricanes and he had only about 50 of the much-superior Spitﬁres.2 Allied airmen had achieved air superiority during October, and Montgomery was therefore able to assemble and deploy infantry and armour as he saw ﬁt, untroubled by worries of aerial attack or even reconnaissance. As numerous historians have observed, the land battle did not go according to plan; by insisting that it had, Montgomery founded a reputation for infallibility among the undiscerning, but lost the credit he deserved among his fellow commanders for the skill, determination and rapidity of decision

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with which he re-shaped it. His forces were vastly superior, at least in numbers, to those the Axis had available: 195,000 British and Commonwealth troops with 1,029 tanks against 50,000 Germans and 54,000 Italians with 496 tanks. In artillery, Montgomery had almost twice as many guns of all calibres.3 He also enjoyed excellent communications and ample supplies, whereas Rommel ‘was starved of everything, in large degree because of the blows struck at his rear by the RAF based on Malta’.4 Nevertheless, the initial assault (Operation Lightfoot, launched on 23 October) had failed by the 26th, obliging Montgomery to reorganise battered forces and hastily devise a fresh assault (Operation Supercharge) for 1 November. During this re-organisation, the Army was vulnerable to Rommel’s counter-attacks, but airmen disrupted them. Night bombing of enemy camps and forward landing-grounds by twin-engined Wellingtons (assisted by ﬂare-dropping Albacore biplanes) was supported by attacks from Malta and Egypt on supply ships making for North Africa. Unfortunately, Tedder had been unable to maintain, let alone increase, that force. In July he had had 130 Wellingtons, but only 70 on 23 October. At that time, Bomber Command in England had no fewer than 600 bombers, medium and heavy, on hand. Tedder’s repeated pleas – never demands – for more were denied by Portal, and yet a strong nightbomber force, able to support daytime efforts by attacking ports, supply dumps, airﬁelds and troop concentrations, might have permitted the complete destruction of Rommel’s army at El Alamein. Had that happened, Montgomery’s army would have been able to advance so rapidly westward to support Operation Torch (AngloAmerican landings on 8 November in Morocco and Algeria, led by Lieutenant-General Dwight D. Eisenhower) that Axis resistance in Tunisia might have ended before Christmas. Such a victory, as Churchill clearly realised, would have enabled Anglo-American forces to engage Germany’s main strength much sooner in the war. Moreover, a bitter controversy between British airmen and soldiers over the slow pace of Montgomery’s pursuit of Rommel would have been avoided. El Alamein, offered ‘the last opportunity to score a decisive, strategic victory under exclusively British leadership. The tide of American arms and armies thereafter pushed the British into a supporting role. Had the pursuit been properly done, it is likely the Axis bridgehead [in Tunisia] would have been fatally compromised, the surrender of Italy hastened, the war shortened.’5 On 15 November, Tedder sent Portal a long report on the battle.6 Despite ‘all the victory bells and headlines about our great Generals’, he was far from happy with the situation. Thanks largely to the RAF’s prevention

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of enemy air reconnaissance, Montgomery had achieved surprise, but it had been difﬁcult to get ‘a true story’ of his initial attack. ‘No doubt that the infantry carried out their job brilliantly and cleared the way for the armour. Freyberg with his New Zealanders and a few tanks led the way through in the southern gap, but for some reason the armour failed to exploit the opportunity. Montgomery had to hold a 2 a.m. meeting of his commanders to apply the necessary ginger, but it was too late. After the failure to break through, the prospects were for a series of limited thrusts with a view to wearing the enemy down.’ Tedder feared the consequences of slow progress after the battle and therefore went up to the front on 4 November. ‘I told Montgomery that the enemy’s shortage of supplies of all sorts was only a phase: he was making desperate attempts to remedy it and we could not guarantee to sink all ships’, even with the help of secret intelligence. He also emphasised that a vital convoy must be escorted through to Malta, and that a strong thrust eastward should be made to coincide with the Torch landings on the 8th. ‘However, Montgomery told me that there was not the slightest likelihood of any big move for at least ten days. He had prophesied a “slogging match” and a “slogging match” it would be.’ Half an hour later, having allegedly received new information, the general suddenly decided to move. ‘Throughout the whole advance, it has been a continual effort to get him to sweep far enough and wide enough. Advice he will not take, even that from Coningham, who knows the Desert better than any of them, but fortunately he will quite often use the advice. That the great ideas should come from the great man himself matters little, provided they are acted on. Where we should be if it had not been for Coningham’s continual, tactful, but persistent advice to the soldiers I do not know, but I suspect that a “slogging match” in the neighbourhood of Dhaba [about 25 miles west of El Alamein] might still be going on.’ Even though the general had been ‘inspired’ to press on, continued Tedder, ‘and even attempt to envelop, the facts are that these inspirations have nearly always taken effect too late. Freyberg’s magniﬁcent all-night thrust of some 50 miles to the Fuka escarpment was not followed up quickly enough with armour, with the result that the Hun rearguard got away. He has got away every time: at Matruh, at Sollum, at Tobruk, despite the fact that on our own initiative we have been supplying the Army armoured cars and some of the armour by air with water, petrol, etc. For days now, we have been trying to get across the importance of cutting off the enemy south of Benghazi.’ On 20 November, Coningham sent Tedder a copy of a recent appraisal written for Montgomery by Francis de Guingand, his Chief of Staff.7 ‘As long as we hold Western Cyrenaica’, argued de Guingand, ‘the enemy

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requires the use of Tripoli in order to maintain a large army for use against Cyrenaica and Egypt.’ It was obvious to de Guingand that for logistic reasons ‘the capture of Tripoli should be undertaken from the west’. As for Agheila, ‘we should no doubt be able to blast our way’ in, given time, but it would be better to reduce the enemy’s strength ‘by (i) air and sea attacks against Tripoli, his shipping and communications, (ii) harassing his defences by bomb and shell and so await the time when he withdraws or capitulates from exhaustion or lack of supplies or is so reduced in resources and morale that an attack can be undertaken without incurring heavy casualties.’ It was most important, de Guingand emphasised, ‘that those at home should be left in no doubt as to the problems facing Eighth Army in an advance into Tripolitania, as outlined in this paper’. ‘I know you will be as shocked as I was’, on reading this appraisal, commented Coningham, because reliable secret intelligence sources made it clear that the Axis forces ahead of them were weak in everything except ﬁghting spirit. ‘All it says is: “We have now done our job, the rest can be done by the RAF and the Western Army.”’ Coningham was convinced that ‘Montgomery never wanted to go on beyond Agheila’; even before the battle of El Alamein, ‘he was hedging and murmuring something about the Torch operation doing Tripoli. The whole tone of past weeks has borne this out. Any competent General with overwhelming force can win a positional battle, but it requires the spark of greatness to do well in pursuit or in retirement.’ Tedder sent Coningham’s letter and de Guingand’s appraisal to Portal on 23 November, together with his own handwritten comments. ‘Coningham’s remarks are by no means an overstatement. Montgomery’s supreme self-conﬁdence and personal drive were invaluable when he arrived. It was the tonic the Army needed. The initial attack was wellorganised and led, and thanks to overwhelming material and hard ﬁghting it succeeded. But from that time on, there has been no spark of genius, no glimmer of an attempt to exploit the initial smash. The ﬁnal breakthrough would never have taken place on the scale it did had Montgomery not, after much pressure, used the advice he ostensibly spurned and sent his mobile forces wide. After that one wide swing, the Army has settled down to a lumbering advance, trailing behind the enemy rearguards.’ Portal forwarded these letters, with a polite covering note, to the head of the Army on 13 December, but Brooke dismissed them with airy generalities.8 Montgomery’s caution is easy to understand: he had no experience of desert ﬁghting; he had never commanded a corps, let alone an army, in battle; his experience was limited to command of a division during a heavy defeat in France; and he realised, as Tedder should have done, that

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Churchill – and still more, the British public – needed a result that could be represented as a smashing victory.9 In fact, despite Tedder’s exasperation and Montgomery’s caution, it was easier said than done to pursue even a fatally weakened Rommel westward with any rapidity. Tunis, the ultimate goal, lay 2,000 miles from Alexandria. Almost the whole of this immense journey had to be made along a single metalled road – a road inadequately maintained in peacetime and since then regularly mined, blown up, bombed and shelled by both sides. Neither in his many communications with Portal and Freeman, nor in his subsequent memoirs, did Tedder sufﬁciently acknowledge that countless mines made movement off the road hazardous. Even where mines were not a danger, both ground and air forces lacked adequate transport. An unwelcome signal arrived from Sinclair on 7 November, warning Tedder that he was to replace Freeman as Vice-Chief of the Air Staff about the end of November, if the military situation permitted.10 Tedder’s answer, despatched on 8 November, was a carefully worded plea to be left in the ﬁeld and not hauled back to Whitehall to command a desk. Although well aware, from secret intelligence, that Rommel lacked the strength to mount a counter-attack, Tedder told Sinclair that he feared ‘another stalemate with its consequent risks of yet a third retreat from Benghazi’. He was able ‘to apply the spur’ to everyone, whereas Douglas (his designated successor) would be unable to do so until he found his feet. Tedder also prevailed on Casey to urge Churchill to leave well alone. The Prime Minister agreed and so informed Sinclair next day.11 Sinclair, reluctantly accepting that decision, then turned to Churchill’s proposed awards for ‘the Battle of Egypt’: an immediate GCB (Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath) for Alexander, immediate promotion to full general and a KCB for Montgomery; a delayed KCB (Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath) for Coningham, and nothing for Tedder. Sinclair recommended that Tedder be elevated from KCB to GCB. ‘But for the hard and successful ﬁghting of the RAF in June and July’, he argued, ‘the British Army would not have been able to stand on the El Alamein line’; Tedder and his men had ‘averted disaster’. Afterwards, their attacks – in conjunction with those of the Royal Navy – on Axis supply lines across the Mediterranean ensured that Rommel ‘started the Battle at the end of October short of petrol, ammunition and motor transport’. Moreover, to honour Alexander and not Tedder ‘would be a departure from the precedent set in 1941 when Longmore was awarded the GCB at the same time as Wavell. The relative importance of the RAF’s contribution to the combined victory of all three services in the present campaign is undeniably greater than it was in 1941.’ To overlook Tedder would ‘certainly cause surprise’ and ‘not only in the RAF’,12 given

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the fact that Alexander and Montgomery had not yet spent three months in North Africa, whereas Tedder had served nearly two years. Churchill was unmoved, so Sinclair tried again next day, 10 November. ‘Recognition of the splendid performance of the Army in the recent battle without any corresponding recognition of the part played by the RAF both in that battle and in the previous retreat to the El Alamein position … must inevitably appear slighting to the RAF.’ Churchill told Sinclair on the 11th that ‘I cannot agree to ACM Tedder being recommended for the GCB. It would be altogether wrong to put his services at this crisis on the same footing as those of General Alexander’, whom Churchill admired inordinately for his record in the Great War, his command of the rearguard at Dunkirk in 1940, and his cheerful personality. In Churchill’s opinion, Tedder ‘might be considered’ for a GBE (Knight Grand Cross Order of the Bath) or a GCB ‘on his quitting the scene, which I should regret on account of the value of his services’. Showing a rare tenacity in the face of forbidding obstinacy, Sinclair spoke to Churchill on the evening of the 11th and wrung from him permission to submit Tedder’s name to the King for the award of a GCB on or about the 25th. Churchill nevertheless insisted that the award be granted to mark two years of ‘distinguished services’ in North Africa and not be linked to the victory at El Alamein.13 Sinclair wisely allowed the Prime Minister to split this hair. Portal, he added, was ‘carrying a very heavy burden’ and both he and Sinclair were anxious to see Tedder in Whitehall by mid-December. During that same day, 11 November, Lord Trenchard was penning a tribute that his former protégé would value as highly as any decoration: ‘You were the power behind the whole of the operations.’14 Tedder had received the ultimate American accolade on the 9th when he appeared on the cover of Time magazine. Many copies were circulating in the Torch area, making ‘Tedder of North Africa’ one of only a few British ofﬁcers known by face and name to Americans. Praise of her beloved husband naturally pleased Rosalinde, and she was enchanted by the description of him as a ‘pale, thin gremlin.’ More than two years later, Sir Arthur Harris, the formidable head of Bomber Command, added his commendation in a letter to Trenchard on 21 February 1945. ‘Tedder and his RAF saved the rout in North Africa’, he asserted in his sweeping way, ‘and made the subsequent victory virtually a walkover for the Army.’ It was Harris who had badgered Churchill at his own dinner table to get Tedder ‘a grudging and belated GCB after the public have forgotten’. Since then, although he had gone on to yet greater achievements, growled Harris, ‘It has never, of course, entered the Air Ministry’s head to make Tedder a Marshal.’15

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‘We should be home about the end of the year, I think’, wrote Rosalinde to her son John on 9 November. ‘Naturally, Daddy is very sick at leaving here and giving up what is probably his last command … He hates the idea of the Air Ministry again.’ In a letter of the same date to her daughter Mina, Rosalinde added that Drummond ‘is also in a bad temper about it. He wants to know why they can’t leave things alone when they are going well here!’ Within a week, on 15 November, Rosalinde was writing again to her children to tell them that Drummond was off to Moscow ‘for an indeﬁnite time’, to make practical plans for the dispatch of a force to the Caucasus, now that a German conquest of Egypt seemed unlikely, and so their father might not be leaving Cairo after all. ‘Things change so quickly’, she mused. Things did change when Churchill had second thoughts about losing Tedder, who had ‘a complete mastery of the Command. It would take Douglas six months to acquire Tedder’s knowledge of Middle East conditions.’ He therefore proposed to leave both Tedder and Douglas in their present positions, and bring Strath Evill back from Washington as VCAS. Sinclair replied on 12 November that Evill’s health was uncertain; that Churchill had approved the moves of Tedder and Douglas weeks ago; they were widely known and should go ahead.16 ‘As you say’, wrote ‘Tirpitz’ to Portal on 23 November,17 ‘I naturally hate the idea of leaving this grand Command, but realise these things can’t be helped.’ He hoped Portal did not think he was attempting to evade the move, but ‘I feel that this party is not by any means over and that I may be able to help things on at this rather critical stage better than a newcomer, however good.’ As for the new job, ‘I do hope you are not expecting too much from me … I am one of the world’s worst staff ofﬁcers. To attempt to follow in Wilfrid’s steps is a severe enough test in itself. But I will do all that is in me to back you and help you – and proud to do it.’ Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of all Allied forces in North Africa, signalled the Combined Chiefs on 26 November to say that Tedder, Keith Park (Malta’s air commander) and Lewis Brereton (commanding the 9th Air Force, formed to embrace all US units in the Middle East) had arrived in Algiers to discuss air operations. Eisenhower expected ‘much good’ to come from this conference, expressing – as he so often did – a public optimism at odds with his private opinion. The ground advance, he declared, had been supported ‘in ﬁne fashion’ by airmen, despite ‘difﬁculties encountered in rain-soaked landing ﬁelds, poor supply and lack of maintenance facilities’.18 Tedder emphasised these and many other ‘difﬁculties’ in a long signal to Portal on the 28th.19 ‘Communications are practically non-existent, except for French telephone system,

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which is archaic. This applies to all services. Aerodromes are dangerously inadequate. Heavy rains have bogged two or three. Dispersal is nonexistent and congestion is almost unbelievable.’ According to Tedder, ‘there appeared to be little drive to remedy this situation’, and the most forward ﬁghter aerodrome lay about 100 miles behind the most forward troops. The Supreme Commander had not yet recognised the importance of a combined headquarters. He himself was living in a large hotel, full of soldiers; the US air commander (Brigadier-General James H. Doolittle) had a base elsewhere in Algiers, while the British air commander (Air Marshal Sir William Welsh) had set up camp some miles outside the city, with Air Commodore George Lawson, his principal subordinate, attempting to keep in close touch with the British Army commander, Lieutenant-General Kenneth Anderson. Cunningham was the overall naval commander, having escaped from a Washington ofﬁce. To Tedder’s delight, Cunningham agreed entirely that there should be a single air commander. Unfortunately, the US Air Force was ‘running a separate war, though Eisenhower assured me he has given instructions that it was to be under Welsh’s operational control’. Welsh needed the help of a small party from Cairo, ‘with its experience of mobile organisation, security measures, communications, and repair and salvage’. Tedder himself was reluctant to return to Algiers, as Eisenhower requested, because ‘advice without authority and responsibility is useless’. Portal reminded Tedder on 29 November that Torch had made surprisingly rapid progress, given ‘the indeterminate political situation and preoccupation of the High Command therewith’. He might also have pointed out that neither he nor Tedder, nor anyone else in Whitehall or Washington, had expected the Axis powers to pour strong forces into Tunisia so rapidly. That build-up, fully reported by intelligence sources from 9 November, was unimpeded by Allied air or naval action. Given that Bizerta and Tunis lie only 120 miles from ports and airﬁelds in western Sicily, the Allies should have been grateful that Hitler and Mussolini did not impose on Vichy’s rulers of Tunisia sooner.20 ‘It seems to me quite impossible to remove Tedder from the Middle East’, announced Churchill to Sinclair on 30 November, ‘until the great operations in Tunis and Tripolitania are completed. No-one has his knowledge, connections or inﬂuence. In my opinion, he should act like Kesselring, combining the air effort both in the Libyan and Tunisian spheres.’21 Both Sinclair and Portal agreed. They also agreed with Churchill that it was ‘desirable to give Tedder control of the whole of the air forces in the Mediterranean as one force on behalf of General Eisenhower. I think, however, that the subordination of the US Air Force to the command of an RAF ofﬁcer would require an approach from you

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to the President, even if Eisenhower himself favoured it. Tedder, I know, thinks it would be the best arrangement and if you agree, I will instruct him to pursue the matter further with Eisenhower ofﬁcially and report the result.’ Next day, 1 December, Churchill told Sinclair: ‘So proceed.’22 Major-General Carl A. Spaatz arrived in Gibraltar from England (where he commanded the US 8th Air Force) on 30 November and noted in his diary that evening that poor communications put both Doolittle and Welsh in a ‘hopeless’ position.23 Tedder, he thought, ‘is the type of man to handle this kind of situation, if his services could be had in the next fortnight. No need for command change, since Eisenhower only wanted to borrow Tedder as an advisor in questions of air, ground and naval cooperation, deployment of air forces in conditions of meager facilities, and selection of targets in amphibious operations.’ Although Eisenhower thought the ground commander should control air power, he ‘felt that Tedder might ﬁnd a way to improve the functioning of the machinery’.24 But there were no ground commanders, British or American, in Tunisia who understood air power, as Tedder and Spaatz soon learned. Anderson constantly called for a maximum effort against enemy airﬁelds and aircraft, yet refused to provide the air forces with rail and motor transport needed to support their forward airﬁelds. Worse still was Anderson’s desire to employ heavy bombers as battleﬁeld weapons, whereas Spaatz – a devout advocate of ‘strategic’ bombing – believed that attacks on supply lines and shipping in ports on both sides of the Mediterranean would help the campaign more effectively.25 Portal signalled Tedder on 1 December to say that he and his fellow chiefs were about to suggest to Eisenhower that ‘you assume command of all Air Forces in Mediterranean forthwith’. Churchill was ‘favourably inclined’, and if Eisenhower agreed, would ask the Combined Chiefs of Staff and President Roosevelt to approve. Tedder would be subordinate to Eisenhower for all Torch operations, British or American, and responsible to the British Chiefs of Staff for co-ordinating Middle East operations with those of Torch. ‘Would you be prepared to move your Advanced HQ to Algiers immediately’, asked Portal, ‘and take personal command?’ To no-one’s surprise, Tedder agreed at once.26 Eisenhower decided to detach Spaatz from command of the 8th Air Force in England and designate him ‘for the moment as my Deputy for Air Operations in this theater.’27 Surprised and disappointed, Tedder signalled Portal on 5 December. Eisenhower seemed to think the proposal would place all US aircraft under Tedder’s direct command. That was not so; those ﬁghting in the desert accepted ‘my strategic directions’, but Brereton commanded them. ‘My proposal regarding North Africa was similar.’ Uniﬁed command was ‘urgently essential’ to

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get full value out of our air power. ‘Practically the whole enemy effort, whether in Tunisia or in Libya, comes from ports and air bases in southern Italy and Sicily. The majority of these are closer to our heavy bomber bases in Cyrenaica than they are to those at present in use in North Africa. Our air forces in Malta have played – and are playing – a vital part in these operations, especially in support of Torch.’ Portal agreed and suggested another visit to Eisenhower. The Supreme Commander set down some thoughts for his naval aide and diary-keeper, Commander Harry C. Butcher, on 10 December.28 In the highest positions, he was learning, ‘rich organizational experience and an orderly, logical mind are absolutely essential to success. The ﬂashy, publicity-seeking type of adventurer can grab the headlines and be a hero in the eyes of the public, but he simply can’t deliver the goods in high command.’ Two British ofﬁcers, Cunningham and Tedder, could deliver, and he was ‘sorry that Tedder is not an actual member of this organization’. At a meeting of Middle East commanders on 10 December before leaving Cairo, Tedder asked Alexander when he thought Tripoli might be taken: ‘he thought it unlikely that the capture of Tripoli could be achieved in the next few months by operations from the east alone’. Tedder doubted if even Montgomery could proceed so slowly, given his detailed knowledge from secret intelligence sources of Axis weakness, but by this time Tedder’s eyes were ﬁrmly ﬁxed on Algiers and so he refrained from comment. In the event, Rommel simply abandoned Tripoli six weeks later, during the night of 22–23 January 1943, and British troops occupied the port next day, unopposed.29 ‘One must admire Alex’, Tedder later remarked, ‘for the devoted way in which he played a dead bat for Monty at so many conferences. I doubt if the little man ever realised how much he owes to that ﬁne cricketer batting so well for him.’30 Tedder signalled Portal on 13 December, after two days of meetings with Torch commanders, soldiers and airmen, in Algiers. Communications, whether by landline or wireless, remained ‘incredibly bad’; airﬁelds were waterlogged and there was too little transport. Consequently, the ‘possibility of getting any high standard of concentrated air effort in the immediate future is very poor’. He had enjoyed a long private talk with Eisenhower on command issues. ‘Present air organisation is almost crazy, with two air forces nominally working with no effective command. Spaatz is performing useful function in coordination, though of course he has no operational experience or knowledge, but he is not commanding.’ By 16 December, Tedder thought Eisenhower ‘ﬁrmly hooked, but by

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no means landed’. He understood the need for a uniﬁed command, but was nervous about his call on US air forces in England, and about Washington’s reaction to putting Americans under British command. As for the RAF set-up, it needed Middle East ‘resources and experience’ – and command. On the same day, Eisenhower conﬁrmed to the British Chiefs of Staff the impression Tedder had made on him: he is ‘a topﬂight soldier and has helped us immeasurably.’31 Tedder returned to Cairo on 17 December and reported to the Middle East Defence Committee next day. It might take months, he thought, to overcome Axis power in Tunisia. As for Libya, the Eighth Army’s pursuit of Rommel was slowed, as always, by thousands of mines and booby traps; by the blowing of numerous craters in the road and the difﬁculty of moving heavy vehicles away from it; by Montgomery’s concern for his ever-lengthening supply lines; and now by the certainty that he had no need of haste. Accurate intelligence information – from aerial reconnaissance as well as the interception of signals trafﬁc – assured him that Rommel lacked the resources to mount a counterattack, and every mile he retreated westward took him closer to AngloAmerican forces advancing eastward in Tunisia, sparing the Eighth Army a bloody encounter with a shrewd and savage enemy at bay.32 ‘Tirpitz’ sent Portal a long handwritten account of the situation in Algeria on 21 December.33 ‘Welsh made a very grave error in putting himself and his HQ miles away from Allied HQ and I feel he should have insisted on being very close – I believe Eisenhower would have backed him – but it was apparently the best he could ﬁnd himself, and found despite the Army. On the question of aerodromes and supplies, again the RAF did not get proper priority in the early stages … The net result is that at Allied HQ and, so far as I can tell, in the Army, the RAF carries no weight whatever (though it has taken the brunt of the ﬁghting until the last few days, when the American bombers have been busy).’ Air Vice-Marshal James Robb, appointed to assist Spaatz, ‘is doing a gallant job trying to retrieve the situation, but so much ground has been lost that I doubt if he can ever get things back on a proper footing. The AOC-in-C at Eisenhower’s elbow is the only real hope.’ As for the clueless Anderson: ‘It is strange, a General wouldn’t think of trying to order a destroyer about, but thinks himself quite competent to order a squadron about.’ Signals links were very poor, partly due to local conditions and lack of equipment, as well as inexperience. The chief maintenance ofﬁcer ‘did not apparently realise the importance of relieving the squadrons of all real maintenance work, had no knowledge of modern methods of salvage and no idea of making use of local resources’. No doubt it was shambolic, but Tedder had personal reasons for accentuating the negative; ‘a terrible lack of grip, imagination, drive and leadership’ and for drawing attention

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to ‘people stumbling along the paths we trod and making the mistakes we made two years ago – especially when the Americans alongside are even further behind’. Eisenhower already liked Tedder personally and admired his professional ability, but their relationship began as it would continue: the airman proposed, the soldier disposed. ‘After having considered Tedder for the job’ of air commander, recorded Spaatz in his diary on 29 December,34 ‘Eisenhower was now ﬁrmly convinced that the control should be given to Spaatz’ and wanted the concurrence of General George C. Marshall, head of the US Army, before presenting the case to the Combined COS. To which Marshall replied next day, on Arnold’s advice: a single air command for Torch was desirable, under Spaatz, who might well become supreme air commander in both the Mediterranean and in England, especially if Tedder disappeared into Whitehall. Eisenhower replied to Marshall on 31 December.35 The British had ‘tentatively suggested’ Tedder as his air commander, with operational control of all heavy bombers in the Mediterranean. But Eisenhower believed that his air commander should retain control over US forces in England as well, and therefore preferred Spaatz, ‘with the hope that later developments would soon demonstrate to all the necessity for regarding the whole UK–Torch–Mideast area as a single theater – at least, so far as US long-range bombers are concerned.’ Although Marshall thought Eisenhower would be the loser by not accepting Tedder, he left the question to be settled at a forthcoming conference in Casablanca. Colonel William Stirling, formerly a secretary to the British Chiefs of Staff and currently Eisenhower’s British Military Assistant, wrote privately to Portal on 30 December about some of the ofﬁcers he had met in Algiers.36 ‘Robb appears to be doing very well; and (which is allimportant) the Americans like him.’ Spaatz was neither a commander nor a staff ofﬁcer and ‘I get the impression that he has not Eisenhower’s full conﬁdence because he has not got the experience.’ As for Tedder, concluded Stirling, ‘he stands head and shoulders above the rest – particularly in the view of the Americans’. Eisenhower informed the Chiefs of Staff in Washington and in Whitehall on 31 December that in his opinion a single commander for the entire Torch air force was necessary and Spaatz was the man: ‘Commander, Allied Air Force’, that is, of both the US 12th Air Force and the British Eastern Air Command.37 Both Churchill and Portal disapproved, because Spaatz had little experience of the command or administration of a mixed air force in the ﬁeld, but all the chiefs believed that any system of uniﬁed command was better than none, so they accepted Eisenhower’s decision – pending further consideration at Casablanca. By New Year’s Day 1943, Portal thought Douglas would be in Cairo and it was agreed between

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Portal and Sinclair that Douglas should take over in Cairo in time for Tedder to attend that conference. If a decision were taken there to create a uniﬁed ‘Mediterranean Air Command’, Tedder would be available; if not, he could return to England. Tedder was therefore in limbo on 2 January when Rosalinde ﬂew to Benina, ten miles east of Benghazi. She went to visit a new RAF hospital in Benghazi and nearby airﬁelds and report on ‘facilities for rest and recreation’; she also intended to learn whether mail was coming in and going out promptly. Rosalinde stayed two nights and began her return journey from Benina shortly after midday on 4 January, one of eight passengers, plus a crew of four. When the aircraft reached Heliopolis, it made two circuits of the airﬁeld and then crashed under power into a low hill about one-and-a-half miles south-east of the airﬁeld at 6.26 p.m. All 12 persons aboard were killed. No evidence was found of mechanical failure, and the probable cause of the accident was held to be a sudden downdraught when in the lee of high ground, not helped by a dirty windscreen.38 At the moment of Rosalinde’s death, Tedder was on his way to a Cairo hotel, where he was to be farewelled by press correspondents. Strong winds, full of sand, had been blowing all day and he did not expect his wife’s return on such a black and windy night, but as soon as he learned that a passenger aircraft was ‘down’ at Heliopolis, he drove there at once. He kept well clear of those still dowsing ﬂames and gathering bodies from the wreckage. He identiﬁed Rosalinde with a curt nod, no words, and drove away. No-one dared speak to him. He signalled Portal later that night and asked him to pass a message to Mina at Waddington: ‘Mummy has gone west. Flying accident this evening returning from visiting Benghazi hospital. You and John and I can help each other. Please repeat this to John if he is not with you. Also wire Margaret and [other relatives at] Beccles.’ ‘Hundreds of RAF men in the Middle East will miss Lady Tedder’, wrote Clare Hollingworth in the Daily Sketch, on 5 January, ‘a handsome, kindly woman who worked full-time at RAF hospitals and welfare centres and helped them in many ways. But they never knew her name.’ Tedder wrote to his children that day. ‘I may be home (it seems strange to talk about “home” without Mummy, she was our home) in two or three weeks, but on the other hand I may not … The weather was bad all yesterday, all the way from Tunis to here, there was dust and I don’t know why they attempted it. It was dark when they reached Helio, but not too thick though blowing. They did two circuits (it was a Lockheed, with a very experienced pilot) and then dived in from some 500 feet. Why? God knows. One thing I feel, it is a good way to go out, in the

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middle of the job. She had done a tremendous lot out here for our troops. They loved her. She hated the idea of growing old. I am sure the only thing she is worrying about is you two and me. We will have to help each other over this hurdle so that she need not worry.’ Tedder was writing this letter on returning from the funeral. ‘A brief little service,’ he continued, ‘just for us two. There were no spectators, no crowds, just six squadron leaders who were pallbearers, the Station CO and Bray and two padres, one a nice simple soul called Potts who had worked loyally and hard on the welfare with her. It is a small cemetery, just outside the aerodrome. There were no ﬂowers, but I dropped a rather tired bunch of roses in the grave.’ On 2 September Rosalinde had told her children and friends that ‘roses are the one great joy I will remember about Cairo’. Just as Tedder and his few companions turned away from the graveside, a formation of ﬁghters led by a Boston passed low overhead: a coincidence, he thought, but in fact it was a tribute arranged by his staff in a rare act of collective disobedience. ‘We have always hated funerals because of their barbarity,’ he ended his letter to Mina and John, ‘but I think this is as she would have had it. After all, there is a body, when we have discarded it. It is an empty, worthless thing, yet it is something that has been wonderful and one has loved, so I feel that, discarded though it is, it should be returned to the earth with simple dignity.’ Tedder had insisted on a private funeral – as he had on a private marriage – but was obliged to agree to a public memorial service in the cathedral next day, 6 January. On that day, a young sergeant pilot, John Davis, wrote to his mother to say how shocked everyone was at Lady Tedder’s death. ‘She has been one of the best friends the airmen out here have had. Those who have been in hospital have had especial cause to love and respect her, as she has made weekly visits to us, she organised our Christmas celebrations and gave a special party for us last week.’ Davis’ mother sent this letter to Tedder on 5 February and he received it in Algeria. He copied it and returned the original on the 18th. ‘I cannot say how deeply I appreciate the thought which prompted you to send me your son’s letter to see. My wife loved the service and our men, she thought nothing could be too good for them. It is good to know they loved her too. I am very grateful to you.’ 39 Over 200 messages of sympathy reached him during January and he set himself to answer them all personally. ‘Glad to have your “chin up” message’, he told his daughter on 12 January. ‘I agree. Getting miserable is really just self-pity, which is a poor sort of occupation.’ He went on to describe the memorial service. ‘I don’t believe she had any conception of how much good she had done – she always depreciated herself. I hope she now has the happiness of knowing.’

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On 13 and 14 January a galaxy of civilian and military chiefs, headed by President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill, arrived in Casablanca to work out an Allied strategy to win the war.40 No easy task, especially in the absence of Stalin, whose armies were doing most of the ﬁghting: he had, of course, been invited to join his partners, but felt unable to leave the Soviet Union. Before the conference opened, Sir John Dill outlined to the British contingent three points that particularly concerned the Americans: the need to give full weight to their war against Japan in the Paciﬁc; their reluctance to become trapped into Mediterranean campaigns; and their determination to invade occupied France at the earliest possible moment. Tedder had arrived on the 14th with Alexander, who soon made it clear to everyone that while Tedder had greatly appreciated their messages of sympathy, they should now regard the subject as closed, and get on with important public business. The conference lasted until 24 January, and during that time he wrote a last, brief letter to his dead wife. ‘Eisenhower gave an account of his problems’, he told her. ‘Then Alex – who was very good – saying he felt I ought to give the air side of the Libyan battle. I gave a very short thing, emphasising that the air battle, unlike the land battle, went on all the time and over the whole theatre.’ Tedder liked Roosevelt: ‘Clear thinking, but of course an amateur with the amateur’s interest in numbers.’ He had a drink with Portal, ‘who is anxious for me to take supreme command. Then dinner at Winston’s villa – just Alex, Brooke, Portal, myself and Winston, Winston having broken away from Roosevelt just to have a quiet dinner with us and Alex.’ The conference decided that the main Allied war effort in 1943 should be made in the Mediterranean and that an assault on Sicily should follow victory in Tunisia ‘with the objects of making our Mediterranean lines of communication more secure’, as Tedder later recalled in his memoirs, and of ‘diverting as much German strength from Russia as possible, intensifying the pressure on Italy, loosening the enemy’s hold on the Balkans, and with the hope of securing, at last, Turkey’s entry into the war’.41 As he had long desired, Tedder was to leave Cairo for Algiers and take up an exciting new command: of all air forces in the Mediterranean. He was acutely aware that Rosalinde would not have wished him to abandon this challenge, for which he was so well ﬁtted, in order to comfort their children, relatives and friends in England. For the moment, however, he was still struggling to accept that life must go on without a woman who had been his other self for more than 30 years. On 17 January, he told Mina that he would not be returning to England after all. ‘Things here are very interesting’, he told her, ‘or would be, if one felt particularly like being interested.’

PART V 1943 TO 1944: COMMANDING IN ALGIERS

18 Torch Bearers and Desert Heroes Jointly Countering the Shibboleth of Pershing Algeria and Tunisa, January to May 1943

In January 1943, the Casablanca conference approved the creation of a new air organisation for the Mediterranean theatre.1 From a headquarters in Algiers, Tedder was to command everything with wings between Gibraltar and Palestine, under the overall direction of Eisenhower, the Supreme Commander. Eisenhower signalled Arnold in Washington on the 19th to say that he and Spaatz were both ‘delighted with the prospect of getting Tedder into this headquarters, where we may proﬁt constantly from his great experience and soldierly qualities’.2 Tedder was ‘a brilliant air strategist’, noted Harry Butcher, Eisenhower’s naval aide and diarist, echoing his master’s opinion.3 King George VI shared their delight: he is ‘much relieved’, wrote Sir Alexander Hardinge, his private secretary, to Sinclair on the 25th, ‘to know that Tedder is being given the Command of all the Air Forces in North Africa’.4 Harold Macmillan, a Conservative MP (and future Prime Minister), had joined Eisenhower’s headquarters on 2 January, to offer him the British government’s views on political issues,5 and soon shared this high regard for Tedder: ‘a most interesting man’, he recorded on 26 February. ‘He has that rare quality of greatness (which you can’t deﬁne but you sense). It consists partly of humour, immense common sense, and a power to concentrate on one or two simple points. But there is something more than any separate quality – you just feel it about some people the moment they come into a room. And Tedder is one of those people about whom you feel it.’6

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The details of the new organisation were worked out during February. Tedder retained direct command of Park in Malta, Douglas in Cairo and Dawson (now in Algiers where, as in Cairo, he attended to such vital matters as maintenance, supply, repair and salvage), with Spaatz as his subordinate for the whole of north-west Africa, who had a British Deputy in Robb, and six sub-commanders, two British and four American. Coningham, who had an American Deputy, Laurence S. Kuter, shared an advanced headquarters with Eisenhower’s British Army Deputy, Alexander, and directed air support for all ground forces, British, American and French. Lloyd (Park’s predecessor in Malta) was responsible for general reconnaissance and operations at sea, both offensive and defensive; tasks which brought him into regular contact with Eisenhower’s British Naval Deputy, Cunningham, Tedder’s old sparring partner. The US commanders were James H. Doolittle, in charge of heavy and medium bombers, plus their essential ﬁghter escorts; John K. Cannon (training), Delmar H. Dunton (air service) and Elliott Roosevelt, the President’s son, in charge of photographic reconnaissance. After midFebruary, ‘the confused state of the command structure of the Allied air forces’ was remedied, and ‘an efﬁciently co-ordinated’ attack on Axis supplies began.7 Peter Drummond, formerly Tedder’s deputy in Cairo, had remained there to ease Douglas into his new command. He was to return to England in April as a member of the Air Council with special responsibility for training. Tedder, who had parted with Drummond most reluctantly, asked Portal on 16 March if there was any chance of getting him a knighthood. ‘He has done a magniﬁcent job’, wrote Tedder, ‘and was literally a tower of strength to me and the whole Command. His detailed knowledge of the Command and its problems, and his cool, balanced judgment, both on operational and organisational questions, were vital factors in any success Middle East attained. He was my righthand man in every sense of the phrase – and more.’ This commendation helped Drummond to be appointed a KCB on 2 June. In Drummond’s place, Tedder asked for an American ofﬁcer, Ira C. Eaker, head of the US 8th Air Force in England. Eaker himself wanted the job: ‘there are no three people in the world I would rather work for’, he told his close friend Spaatz, ‘than ACM [Air Chief Marshal] Tedder, General Eisenhower and yourself’.8 Eisenhower wanted Eaker to have the job, but Frank M. Andrews, Commanding General, European Theater of Operations, refused to release him.9 ‘I know of no other American whom I could think of in such a post’, Tedder told Portal on 18 February, ‘so I am afraid the suggestion will have to lapse.’10 The position went to an RAF ofﬁcer, Philip Wigglesworth, an old Cairo hand. A blunt and forbidding man, he gradually established a working

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relationship with Eisenhower’s even more acerbic Chief of Staff, Walter Bedell Smith,11 who advised Tedder to let the question of an American deputy drop. He already had two Americans in his service – Howard A. Craig, Chief of Staff, and Patrick W. Timberlake, Director of Operations and Plans – ‘good men’, as he informed Portal on 27 March, ‘but quite incapable of taking much of the load’. At that time, an unsuccessful campaign was being fought in the depths of a cold, wet winter in an unknown country by forces hurriedly brought together, under commanders not known to their men or even to each other. A country only slightly smaller than England, Tunisia is full of forests and hills, with freezing rainstorms in winter (which had set in by January 1943). Airﬁelds were few and inadequate and there was no semblance of a combined headquarters. Communications were practically non-existent, except for a telephone system likely to give intending users apoplexy. The political situation, even from the perspective afforded by half a century of hindsight, deﬁes cogent summary. Unlike the Western Desert, Tunisia was full of civilian non-combatants, many of them French subjects, who had to be placated or opposed; at the least, kept out of the ﬁring lines. Worse still, there was a marked contrast between battle-hardened veterans coming from bitter conﬂict in the desert, and inexperienced soldiers and airmen coming from training camps in the United States and Great Britain. Fierce tension was rapidly generated when the western ‘torch bearers’, struggling in trackless mud, acutely aware of their failures and heavy casualties at the hands of more battlewise opponents, came face to face with the eastern ‘desert heroes’, conﬁdent survivors of a prolonged and now clearly victorious campaign over those same opponents. The temptation for resentment on the one hand and condescension on the other was great, and that temptation was indulged in many quarters, high and low.12 Fortunately, in the Tunisian as in the Desert campaigns, the Allies enjoyed command of the sea and the air, and an enormous advantage on land in numbers of troops, tanks, guns and supplies of all kinds, especially fuel. Not least, they continued to receive a steady stream of detailed, accurate information about enemy plans, strength, and supply arrangements from codebreakers in England. The Tunisian campaign, in short, proved to be an ideal training ground. Early mistakes in AngloFranco-American relations, and in army–air co-operation, were identiﬁed and remedies sought, in complete conﬁdence that victory in this theatre was certain whatever they did. The campaign set a seal of approval upon Tedder’s sensible methods, conﬁrmed his reputation, and ensured that he would enjoy high command for the rest of the war.

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Tedder and Coningham left Maison Blanche, east of Algiers, for Gibraltar on 1 February, both taking ten days’ leave, and ﬂew on to England aboard a Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress.13 Next day, Tedder told his sister Margaret, he took ‘the brats’ (Mina and John) ‘to Buck House to see the Monarch and collect my gong’. The children enjoyed an informal tour of the palace while their father spoke privately with the King. ‘After an exchange of greetings, he said: “I want to give you these” and handed me two large cases containing the GCB and collar. Then: “You haven’t had your K, but I must give you the accolade.” So he went over to the side of the room where there was a low stool alongside a side table on which was a sword. I had to kneel on one knee and he tapped me on each shoulder, shook hands, and we went and sat down in front of the ﬁre. Talked about things and people for half an hour. He was very decent about Ros. His knowledge of events and people in Middle East was remarkably good. It was surprising to me to ﬁnd what a balanced and accurate view he had of the various personalities.’ On 8 February, Tedder and Coningham were guests at an Air Council luncheon, and on the 10th they lunched with Churchill and his wife at 10 Downing Street. ‘Talk mostly shop regarding North Africa, past and future’, he told Margaret. ‘Also the speech he was to make in the House [next day]. She quite active in advising him what to say and what not to say.’ The two airmen were invited to attend. ‘It was a rather pedestrian speech’, Tedder thought, ‘not one of his great orations. And, to be quite frank, one got a little bit tired of all the glamour talk about the Eighth Army – who in fact haven’t been given a chance of showing their mettle since the battle of El Alamein itself. However, one realises that we must boost the Army – I only hope they’ll justify the boost.’ Philip Guedalla, an able and popular British historian, was then at work on a manuscript which would be published in 1944 as Middle East, 1940–1942: A Study in Air Power. Tedder had met him several times in Cairo and been impressed by his grasp of aviation principles, literary quality and – a prime consideration with Tedder – lively conversation. He therefore arranged for Guedalla to ﬂy with him to Algiers, in the rank of squadron leader, and there begin collecting material for a sequel, to be entitled With the Greatest of Ease. As it happened, Guedalla died of an illness contracted in Egypt in December 1944, aged 55. Drafts of two chapters survive in Tedder’s papers. In the ﬁrst, Guedalla tells how he was driven from Whitehall to Northolt, north-west London, on the morning of 13 February 1943. From there, he ﬂew to Maison Blanche with Tedder and Coningham aboard their B-17. They arrived on the afternoon of the 14th, frozen and deafened, after 11 weary hours in the air. The aircraft was much smaller

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than he expected, from its impressive name, but ‘I ought to have remembered that publicity in the US dearly loves to go one better than the facts.’ He regarded Tedder as among air warfare’s ‘greatest living masters, who might otherwise have sat on technical committees for the remainder of the war.’ This ‘bright-eyed little man’, he wrote, ‘with his invariable pipe’ had ‘a slightly donnish air in spite of thirty years away from Cambridge’. Guedalla, an Oxford man himself, always felt like an undergraduate again, when in Tedder’s presence. ‘Not that he is intimidating. For nothing could be gentler than his direction of my infant footsteps on the way to some grasp of air warfare. But I should hate to fall short of his expectations. For dismissal by Tedder would, I think, be a memorable experience.’ Guedalla found both Tedder and Coningham ‘magniﬁcently articulate’, in comparison with senior ofﬁcers known to him in the other services. ‘Algiers in February 1943 was not enlivening’, he lamented. ‘Empty shops, unsmiling faces and a highly questionable government formed an unpleasing combination; and sometimes the lack of any sympathy was painfully apparent.’ He was struck by the uneven security: an armed sentry, ‘who tramped menacingly up and down just outside Tedder’s window was a slight distraction for his more nervous callers’, but stray chambermaids and former valets, who might well have been enemy agents, wandered everywhere. And yet Tedder himself could not get in or out without his pass. After two weeks in Algiers, Guedalla left for Cairo and we get no further glimpse of Tedder through his eyes. On 16 December 1944, shortly after Guedalla’s death, his widow Nellie sent Tedder a copy of Middle East. ‘I wish he could have signed it for you’, she wrote, ‘as he held you in such high esteem. But he did have the pleasure of seeing a copy himself.’ ‘For our money’, recalled that ‘ﬁery and outspoken’14 US airman, Gordon P. Saville, ‘there had to be a British Air Commander’ in February 1943 – and Saville was not a man to place inter-service harmony ahead of military efﬁciency. ‘All of us air people’, he continued, ‘would have been glad to work under anyone sponsoring the British system of air power, regardless of who the individual was. Imagine our collective gratiﬁcation when the guy who we’d been glad to take on as a matter of principle turned out to be a guy who could actually tie things up. Tedder was the man who kept air power as air power. And Eisenhower was prepared to be sold on that, by a man like him.’15 Larry Kuter, Coningham’s Deputy, agreed. Tedder was ‘a great fellow’, he thought, and ‘a great airman, a politician of Eisenhower’s stature. That’s why they got along so well … I don’t know of any American aviator who doesn’t regard Tedder very, very warmly’; his ‘dry wit and his

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lack of ever being excited about anything’ was noted by everyone.16 Doolittle was less easily convinced. ‘At the time, in consummate selﬁshness and egotism, I felt that the appointment of Tedder was unnecessary, but it worked so fairly that there was no question as to its wisdom, which I very soon recognised.’17 The two were playing in tune by 24 April, when Tedder told Trenchard that ‘The merger between the RAF and the USAAF has gone well … better even than one could hope. The heavies are practically all US, but the co-ordination between the Strategic force and the Tactical and Coastal force has been working excellently. Jimmy Doolittle has played extraordinarily well, when the direction of his force has, for speciﬁc operations, been handed to Coningham or Lloyd.’18 Several USAAF ofﬁcers commented on Tedder when interviewed in the Pentagon on returning from duty in North Africa. Their comments are especially valuable because the interviews were unpublished and therefore no question of buttering up an ally arises. Major Frederick S. Wildman, for example, was interviewed on 5 April. He had met Tedder in Algiers, and admired his ‘warmth, his simplicity and, above all, his direct objective thinking and plain common sense.’ Tedder had no ‘artiﬁcial dignity’, thought Wildman, ‘and could as easily be a ﬁne character out of New England or Texas as out of Great Britain. I am convinced he will get along well with us and we with him.’19 As Spaatz wrote to George E. Stratemeyer (Chief of Air Staff in Washington) on 8 February 1943, it was hard to treat aviation as ‘coequal with the Army and Navy in our [American] setup, whereas the RAF will not submit to it being considered in any other way’. It will not accept that air support ‘belongs’ to an army commander, or that he may dictate its employment. Spaatz was quite right, and on 28 February Portal emphasised that point in a letter to Churchill.20 Failures in Tunisia before the desert commanders arrived had been exacerbated, in Portal’s opinion, by British and American generals insisting that air power belonged to them, and that it should be divided into what Portal called ‘penny packets’: that is, numerous small formations of aircraft circling over front-line troops as defensive umbrellas against, in particular, divebomber attacks. According to Kuter, US troops were instructed to abandon their light ﬂak weapons and take cover whenever Stukas appeared. These divebombers were regarded as invincible and deadly by men who had watched too many newsreels.21 Alarmed by such nonsense, Tedder sent Coningham to Tripoli on 16 February, ‘to put a little air sense into the mob of Generals there’, as Robb, Spaatz’s British Deputy, noted in his diary.22 Coningham’s address, to senior American as well as British ofﬁcers, made an uncommon stir, to judge by the number of copies

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surviving in archives on both sides of the Atlantic. The address summarised principles of lasting value formulated (or collected or remembered) by Tedder, Coningham and their staffs. They were incorporated into a pamphlet, approved by the Air Ministry, by Arnold (head of the USAAF in Washington), and by Alexander and Montgomery – the latter had them widely circulated as his own principles. With Tedder’s approval, Coningham made four points. First, that army and air commanders must act together in accordance with a combined plan, the whole operation to be directed by the army commander. Second, that ﬁghter aircraft governed action at the front, and this required the centralisation of air power in the hands of an airman, if its ﬂexibility were to be properly exploited. For instance, ﬁghters must not be used as umbrellas over a static front because this would leave the enemy free to bomb and strafe airﬁelds, rear areas and supply lines. Third, that air superiority must be sought – and continually maintained – both to permit the orderly concentration of friendly forces and their build-up of supplies, and to impede such concentration and build-up by the enemy. If enemy movement could be restricted to the hours of darkness, then unescorted bombing, by a force too small and vulnerable to risk unescorted daylight bombing, would become possible. And fourth, that the battleﬁeld must be isolated, as far as possible, by destroying access to it for troops and supplies.23 At the time of Coningham’s address in Tripoli, the Allied land forces in Tunisia held a front of about 250 miles, extending from Cape Serrat (35 miles west of Bizerta) on the north coast, to Gafsa in the south. Montgomery’s Eighth Army was moving towards the Mareth Line, north of Medenine, in south-east Tunisia, covered by the Western Desert Air Force, now commanded by Coningham’s successor, Harry Broadhurst.24 Rommel had reached Tunisia. Knowing that Montgomery would take plenty of time to clear the port of Tripoli, re-organise his forces and build up supplies, Rommel planned an attack on the Americans. So, too, did Jürgen von Arnim, commander of the Axis forces in Tunisia. Arnim had seized Faid Pass, in the Eastern Dorsale, from its French garrison on 30 January and struck westward two weeks later, routing large US forces. Having moved into the Mareth Line, Rommel sent a detachment to attack Gafsa and caused another withdrawal. On 17 February, the Americans were driven out of Sbeitla and airﬁelds at Feriana and Thelepte. They ﬂed in disorder about 50 miles across an arid plain from the Eastern to the Western Dorsale, and made a stand at the Kasserine Pass. This pass gave access to supply and administration bases at Tebessa and Le Kef. If these were lost, the Allies might have to

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leave Tunisia. Rommel’s attempt to force the pass, rebuffed on the 19th, was resumed next day with staggering success. Arnim, however, held aloof and by the morning of the 22nd the opportunity for a major Axis triumph had passed.25 Rommel withdrew to the Mareth Line. Even so, Butcher recorded in his diary that ‘the proud and cocky Americans today stand humiliated by one of the greatest defeats in our history’. It was hardly that, but Eisenhower was right to inform Marshall, on 25 February ‘that all our people, from the very highest to the very lowest, have learned that this is not a child’s game’.26 Alexander and Tedder had arrived in Algiers at the height of this crisis. On 19 February, Alexander informed the War Ofﬁce that there was ‘no clear policy and no plan of campaign’; we had ‘quite deﬁnitely lost the initiative’. Tedder agreed. ‘The air situation’, he had reported to Portal on the 18th,27 ‘is untidy and Coningham is not going to have an easy time to get rid of the fantastic ideas of soldiers controlling aircraft.’ There would be ‘some headaches in keeping the enemy quiet until we are in a ﬁt state to deal with him properly’, but he foresaw no serious problems because ‘we have got the real goodwill of the Americans and we are determined to make a job of it’. Tedder was right about that goodwill. ‘There was unanimous expression of opinion’, wrote Spaatz’s diarist on 23 February, ‘that we were most fortunate in having a man like Tedder to head an Allied Air Force. He is a calm, direct man, using words of one syllable, and one who has not lost his sense of humor; and who knows the air.’28 He addressed a group of American and British ofﬁcers in Spaatz’s villa one February evening, expressing the hope that the new structure would also serve for the much greater challenge of liberating western Europe. We are proud of our air force, he declared, but ‘it will be the fusion of us, the British, with you, the Americans, that is going to make the very best Air Force in the world’. He then promised never again to speak of us British or you Americans. ‘From now on it is “we” together who will function as Allies, even better than either of us alone.’29 These words were particularly welcome, because Spaatz and his staff ofﬁcers, among them Robb and four other RAF ofﬁcers, had heard Churchill announce the new structure over BBC radio on 11 February without mentioning a single American ofﬁcer. ‘There was dead silence at the termination of the broadcast’, recorded Spaatz’s diarist. ‘Every one of the staff of General Spaatz felt the situation most keenly.’30 Solly Zuckerman, for whom Tedder invented the post of ‘Chief Scientiﬁc Ofﬁcer’ in 1943, observed that both Tedder and Spaatz had the blessed gift at meetings of not speaking unless they had something to say. Although Tedder did not share Spaatz’s passion for poker or

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whisky, and was much less gregarious, where they really differed was in their attitude to the war. Spaatz saw it, in Zuckerman’s opinion, ‘as an opportunity to show what “the Air” could do, Tedder saw it in its historical perspective, without being obsessed about the place of “the Air” in Britain’s military establishment.’31 Zuckerman did not remark that Tedder could well afford his relaxed attitude, as a member of a service long independent; Spaatz’s situation was quite different. Although Tedder showed Spaatz his friendliest public face, he had as yet a low private opinion of his capacity for high command. ‘The weakness in the whole set-up’, he informed Portal on 5 May, ‘is in Spaatz’s HQ which bears no relation whatever to a rational HQ. There is no staff work in the true sense.’ No improvement could be expected until ‘a competent and intelligent man’ took over from Spaatz. If Tedder was mistaken about Spaatz, as the future showed, he was undoubtedly right about Lauris Norstad: ‘the one bright star in Spaatz’s party’: in 1952, he became the youngest four-star general in US Army history, at 45.32 Arnim began his long-planned attempt to take Medjez el Bab, 30 miles south-west of Tunis, on 26 February. It was repulsed with heavy losses. Worse still, Arnim’s action fatally delayed Rommel’s attack on Montgomery at Medenine. Until the 26th, Montgomery had had few troops up forward, but by 6 March, when Rommel at last attacked, he had many forward. He also had ample air support and detailed intelligence information about the attack plan, which was unusually inept.33 At Medenine, recalled Field Marshal Albert Kesselring (C-in-C South) in May 1948, the ‘last trump’ had been played and lost. Hopes of keeping the war away from Europe for another year had been gambled away.34 Tired and ill, Rommel left Africa forever on 9 March. Tedder was relieved to learn of his departure. In theory, the end of German power in Africa had long been certain; but in practice few of the men whom he had so long harried or resisted were prepared to bet on it until they knew that ‘the Desert Fox’ had ﬁnally gone. ‘The new organization is going ahead with a surprisingly small amount of friction’, Spaatz told Arnold on 7 March. ‘However, it is difﬁcult at times not to let national pride, the shibboleth of Pershing, and the ambitions of the personally-ambitious interfere with the smooth working of the re-organization.’ General John J. Pershing, commander of US forces in France during the First World War, had resolutely resisted placing his men under Allied command. Echoing Tedder, Spaatz told Arnold that effective ground–air co-ordination depended ‘to a large extent on the personalities of the commanders’, and those who could not get along with their opposite numbers should be ‘eliminated’.35 Eisenhower wrote to a particular friend, Thomas T. Handy (head of

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the Operations Division in the War Department, Washington) on 20 March. ‘Tedder, Alexander and Cunningham are men in whom I have implicit conﬁdence; if we cannot trust such men as these, then the outlook for Allies ever ﬁghting a war successfully is indeed a black one. Frankly, I do not allow, ever, an expression to be used in this Headquarters in my presence that even insinuates a British vs American problem exists. So far as I am concerned, it doesn’t. The job of winning this war is difﬁcult, even with all of us pulling together as one complete team.’36 Eisenhower and Bedell Smith loyally supported the air organisation, although they were – as Tedder wrote to Portal on 26 March – ‘instinctively antagonistic to it’. Bedell Smith assured Tedder that he would do his best to make the system work, but remained opposed to a separate US air force, which would come only over his dead body.37 He would not have been impressed by Brigadier-General Elmer E. Adler’s assertion at a Washington press conference on 25 March that Tedder had ‘demonstrated beyond peradventure of doubt that even though the RAF is an independent organization, it can support a Ground Army in battle’.38 Alexander ordered Montgomery to break through at Mareth on the night of 20 March and drive north. As usual, Montgomery’s frontal assault failed, but the New Zealanders had once again been entrusted with an outﬂanking movement. They reached the Tebaga Gap (15 miles south-west of El Hamma) by nightfall on 20 March and were there checked. Early on the 23rd, Montgomery recast his plan (again, as usual) to concentrate on a ﬂank attack. The path of the British advance on the 25th was swept by 16 of Broadhurst’s squadrons, making ‘concentrated and continuous’ attacks (as he reported to Coningham), which disorganised the enemy defences and permitted a breakthrough by Montgomery’s armour. Even so, most of the Axis forces reached Wadi Akarit safely, helped by Montgomery’s need to spend a week, from 29 March, re-organising and building-up.39 During that week, on 2 April, Tedder learned of a public quarrel between Coningham and George S. Patton, commanding the US II Corps. It is clear that for some hours, he told Portal on the 17th, ‘there was grave danger of very serious political and international repercussions’. This extravagant language may have resulted from a low mood brought on by an attack of bronchitis severe enough to put Tedder into a Cairo hospital for three days, but even in his memoirs he still spoke of ‘a major crisis in Anglo-American relations’.40 As every published account of Patton’s career records (more or less accurately), he had added an intemperate comment to a routine situation report, and gave it a wider distribution than normal. ‘Forward troops have been continuously

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bombed all morning’, he claimed. ‘Total lack of air cover for our Units has allowed German Air Forces to operate almost at will.’ Kuter, knowing Patton of old, was unimpressed. So, too, were Alexander and Omar Bradley (soon to take over command of II Corps). That signal, thought Kuter, was ‘so obviously exaggerated and emotional’ that he doubted if anyone would take it seriously.41 But Coningham did. It caught him on the raw and he made his own intemperate, widely distributed response. Tedder, also caught on the raw, made Coningham withdraw his signal and apologise in person to Patton. Tedder was exceedingly anxious about any public threat to Anglo-American harmony, and claimed in his memoirs that only his prompt actions prevented the Supreme Commander from resigning. It is certainly true that Eisenhower shared Tedder’s anxiety, but it was in fact Spaatz who settled the affair by pointing out that Coningham had actually defended his American subordinates (12th Air Support Command) against unjust criticism, and convinced Eisenhower that Patton was mostly to blame. ‘If Patton restricted his grousing to proper channels’, recorded Spaatz in his diary, ‘there would be no occasion for such incidents arising.’ 42 The episode nevertheless shows how determined Tedder was to maintain good Anglo-American relations, and Coningham certainly got the message. What weighed most with Tedder, as he conﬁded to Portal on 17 April, was the ‘repeated failure’ of US troops to carry out offensives successfully. This was ‘an unfortunate fact’, and Eisenhower, continued Tedder, was ‘very concerned that this situation may be distorted and developed by Hearst [i.e. owner of numerous popular newspapers] to support campaign for conﬁning American military effort to Paciﬁc theatre. We shall have to be careful to avoid over-stressing British contribution to present campaign.’43 Kuter would take with him to Washington in May a report that was actually an indictment of the handling of air power during the Tunisian campaign before the re-structuring in February. The indictment fell on more fertile soil than Kuter, then or later, cared to admit, because Spaatz had kept Arnold fully informed about all operations. Kuter helped to get a new manual written (FM 100-20), which became ofﬁcial policy in July.44 As William W. Momyer – then a pilot with 12 Air Support Command, later a general – would write, that manual is ‘the emancipation proclamation’ of tactical air power in the US’.45 It made possible, in the words of an American ofﬁcial historian, ‘one of the most effective collaborations known to military history’.46 Montgomery’s attack on Wadi Akarit began at nightfall on 5 April, and two days later patrols from the western ‘torch bearers’ and the eastern

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‘desert heroes’ met for the ﬁrst time. Aircraft struck constantly along the whole ﬂank of the Axis retreat for 150 miles to Enﬁdaville, but could not prevent the enemy from reaching that refuge on 13 April, two days ahead of the Eighth Army’s leading troops. The Axis survivors were now penned into an arc of barely 100 miles in extent from Enﬁdaville to Cape Serrat on the north coast.47 Allied air and naval forces destroyed at least 40 per cent of all cargoes sent by sea from Naples and Sicily to Tunisia during March and April. A desperate attempt was therefore made to help the men trapped there by air, using huge six-engined transports, Messerschmitt Me 323s, as well as the more efﬁcient three-engined Junkers Ju 52s. But in the absence of a numerous force of escort ﬁghters, and given the accurate information about these ﬂights available to Tedder, many German airmen died to no purpose. The German transport ﬂeet, which Tedder had envied throughout 1941 and 1942 for its size and quality, was crippled for the rest of the war by the losses already suffered in Stalingrad and now in this campaign.48 Tedder sent Spaatz a handwritten note on 18 April: Broadhurst, he wrote, had ‘collected’ 62 Ju 52s during that day; several others were destroyed after dark. ‘Passable! Thought you would like this nightcap.’49 Next day, Coningham complimented Broadhurst on his ‘exhilarating success’ in a signal quoted in The Times on the 20th. These transports, he said, ‘are somewhat coarse game, but very valuable at present. I presume that the premium on the air passage over the Sicilian Channel is rising astronomically.’ Churchill was not amused. ‘It is improper that HM [His Majesty’s] Government should be left to learn from the press and radio the result of important operations’, he huffed to Tedder on the 20th, and demanded details. Tedder promptly sent him a very long signal. Churchill’s displeasure was offset by Portal’s invitation to Tedder on 20 April to resume those ‘strictly private’ messages that had begun in the Cairo days. ‘Telegrams to Air Ministry for PM [Prime Minister] and me should wherever possible be so worded as to allow distribution to other Chiefs of Staff. They should be conﬁned to very hot news or very broad impressions. I should not expect one more often than every week or ten days.’ As for less important messages, ‘and those containing anything Americans or other COS [Chiefs of Staff] would be better without should be sent to Air Ministry personal to me, and I will use my discretion about wider circulation’. Tunis fell on 7 May, but Axis resistance lingered on until the 13th. A Dunkirk-like evacuation proved impossible and some 250,000 Germans and Italians were captured.50 Southern Europe was thus left critically short of experienced Axis troops, although the Allied leaders failed to realise this at the time. Consequently, with Tunisia very much in mind,

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they expected a long, hard ﬁght in their next operation, the invasion of Sicily; an expectation that sharpened fears and quarrels. Expulsion from North Africa, Kesselring recalled, ‘hit the Italian High Command and the Italian people particularly hard. With the burial of their colonial aspirations the danger increased to their Motherland, which so far had hardly known there was a war on’.51 They would learn this well, at the hands of all armies, during the next two terrible years. ‘All the shouting about the Tunisian Campaign leaves me utterly cold’, wrote Eisenhower to Marshall on 13 May.52 We should have taken Tunis by mid-December.53 He was well aware that a long campaign had compensations: more Axis casualties and prisoners, and the ﬁghting experience gained by raw units, British and American. But if Tunis had been taken ‘at the ﬁrst thrust’, the Allies would have had at least three extra months to plan further operations; the Italian mainland would have been attacked much sooner, ‘and I am convinced that if our forces, supported by the tremendous air units we had then built up, could have begun the Italian campaign in May [instead of September], we would have been ﬁrmly established in the Po Valley’, before winter. ‘Another error’, in Eisenhower’s opinion, ‘was the initial decision not to unify our air forces under a single command.’ That error was remedied by Tedder and Spaatz: they ‘accomplished a practical perfection in the co-ordinated employment of the air forces of the two nations’.54 The hope had been expressed at Casablanca in January 1943 that ‘by contrivance and ingenuity’ it might be possible to begin Operation Husky, an attack on Sicily, in June.55 Eisenhower reminded Marshall of that hope on 5 May: ‘if we could follow into Sicily on the heels of the withdrawing Axis forces from Tunisia’, Marshall had said, ‘we might take advantage of the confusion and consternation to get a great success very cheaply.’ Tedder and Cunningham, wrote Eisenhower, had always been ‘particularly ardent advocates of some such attempt, always assuming that once the ﬁnal crumbling of the Tunisian front begins, it will go with a rush’.56 A combination of inexperienced troops, an inept command structure until as late as February, a stubborn Axis defence, and a natural refusal of commanders to concentrate on Husky until Tunisia was won, all helped to prevent ‘a rush’ into Sicily, but the decisive factor was an absence of landing-craft (all of which came from American shipyards) until May. The time required to learn how to use and protect these efﬁciently ensured that Husky could not be unleashed until July.57 Time was also required to frame a plan acceptable to all three services. Sailors were most concerned about the danger to ships while loading, unloading and at sea; soldiers worried most about establishing a secure

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bridgehead ashore; and airmen needed airﬁelds in Sicily, to supplement those available in Tunisia and Malta, if they were to protect sailors and soldiers – and assist the subsequent conquest of the island. The easiest places to get ashore lay along the south-east coast, which could be covered by air from Malta and Tunisia, but logistics experts argued that even if Syracuse were captured quickly, other ports had also to be seized on the south coast – and even Palermo, on the north-west coast – because troops ashore could not be sufﬁciently reinforced or supplied across beaches. A debate therefore began over whether there should be several dispersed landings (simultaneous or in sequence) or a single concentrated landing. At ﬁrst, Cunningham and Tedder favoured the former; Montgomery agreed, but on reﬂection changed his mind. As was so often the case with that intolerable man, sound military arguments were conveyed to fellow commanders in such a provocative manner that resentment of the messenger’s arrogance caused a rejection of his sensible message.58 On 25 April, Tedder learned from Douglas that Montgomery had suddenly appeared in Cairo to frame his own Husky plan, for a concentrated landing in the south-east. He proposed to set up a headquarters in Malta and was ‘most anxious’ that Broadhurst join him there to control all aircraft supporting the assault. Douglas, who had a low opinion of Park, thought this ‘the right answer’; Park, he added, would be sufﬁciently occupied ‘on the administrative side’. By the 28th, Montgomery had convinced Douglas of the merits of his plan and was pressing him to co-operate: ‘which we cannot do until it receives your blessing’. Tedder replied on 29 April, withholding that blessing. He realised that Montgomery’s ‘unheralded descent’ had put Douglas in a difﬁcult position, but the general – as Douglas knew perfectly well – had ‘no competence to lay down any requirements for the organisation or operation of air forces’. Tedder had made that point clear to Alexander (still Montgomery’s theoretical master) and bluntly informed Douglas that Park, not Broadhurst, would operate all air forces based in Malta. As for Montgomery’s ‘drastic alterations to the combined plan’, both Tedder and Cunningham regarded them as ‘fundamentally unsound’. Cunningham told Pound on 28 April that Montgomery was ‘a bit of a nuisance: he seems to think that all he has to do is to say what is to be done and everyone will dance to the tune of his piping. Alexander appears quite unable to keep him in order.’59 Nuisance he certainly was, but Montgomery’s initiative at last focused attention on the production of the plan’s ﬁnal version after weeks of leisurely debate. Tedder had assured Patton that Montgomery was ‘a little fellow of average ability who has had such a build-up that he thinks of himself as Napoleon – he is not’.60

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Tedder told Portal on 1 May that ‘a rather grave situation’ had arisen over Husky planning; he agreed with Cunningham that ‘no compromise’ was possible with Montgomery. Tedder had arranged for Coningham to visit Cairo, ‘hoping thereby to give Montgomery a way out by saying he had not had the air aspect properly put to him’, and another meeting was arranged for 2 May. ‘My personal views’, he continued, ‘are that Montgomery, who, as he has repeatedly assured me, will take “no risks”, is shaken at the thought of the risks inevitable in an operation of this sort. His reaction has been to “concentrate” Eighth Army in his plan, and so sacriﬁce the main advantage of an amphibious operation and at the same time ignore the air aspect.’ Montgomery, having been ‘rather off-hand’ with Coningham when he explained that the early capture of airﬁelds in south-east Sicily was vital, presented a revised plan on 2 May that emphasised that very point. ‘The mental gymnastics of some of our generals would be amusing’, Tedder told Portal, ‘if it were not for the effect on their reputation and authority.’ Alexander’s weakness, and his inability to grasp arguments, alarmed Tedder. ‘One does one’s best to cover up, but Ike and Bedell Smith are not fools and the damage is done, I’m afraid.’ At least the deadlock was broken and Eisenhower accepted the latest plan on 3 May; it was approved by the Combined Chiefs of Staff on the 12th, the day before the last Axis forces surrendered in Tunisia.61 For the moment, however, an undoubted victory had been achieved, and in mid-May the commanders responsible were entitled to relax. None more so than Tedder. Harold Macmillan, who had dinner with him on 15 May, found him ‘in great form’62 and no wonder: he was in love, for the second time in his life.

19 Honouring a Man of Cold Courage, Jollying a Suspicious Dutchman From Algeria to Sicily, April to September 1943

In April 1943, Tedder reluctantly agreed to a suggestion from Gerald Bray, his personal assistant, that he ‘look in’ at an Algiers party. Bray had made friends with Mrs Marie Black, ‘an ancient Scottish lady’, as she laughingly described herself, employed to look after the women working in Eisenhower’s headquarters. Knowing that Mrs Black was cheerful, articulate and far from ancient, he introduced them to each other. Tedder had just learned of the posthumous award of the Victoria Cross to a Scottish pilot, Wing Commander Hugh Gordon Malcolm. Finding Mrs Black a sympathetic listener, he told her about him. They talked about much else that evening, but two themes – creating a club to offer airmen and NCOs in Algiers a taste of civilised comfort, and honouring Malcolm’s memory – became vital parts of their lives. Malcolm’s tragedy began in August 1942, when his squadron was reequipped with Blenheim Vs, known as Bisleys. This ‘ghastly aircraft’ was slow, unstable and quite useless in any role.1 On the morning of 4 December, responding to an Army request, Malcolm led six unescorted Bisleys from a forward landing-ground to attack a German airﬁeld north of Tebourba, 20 miles west of Tunis. They achieved surprise and escaped unscathed.2 But within an hour of returning, Malcolm was ordered to go back to the same area, now alerted, and again unescorted. He took off at 3.15 p.m., leading eight Bisleys in tight formation at low level. Six were shot down by German ﬁghters and the other three crash-landed. Malcolm’s Bisley was among the last to be destroyed, and all three crew members were killed. His Victoria Cross, gazetted on 19 April 1943, was only the 13th awarded to an airman since the war began and the ﬁrst to

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recognise three years of intense and continuous air combat throughout the Mediterranean theatre.3 Lord Zuckerman recalled that Tedder made both points ‘as forcefully as he dared’, when recommending Malcolm for Britain’s highest gallantry award, ‘but even then it was touch and go: certain circles felt that the citation was critical of the Army.’4 Mrs Black turned 36 in April 1943. Christened Marie, but usually known as ‘Toppy’, she was the younger daughter of Colonel Sir Bruce Gordon Seton, 9th Baronet of Abercorn, Linlithgow, on the southern shore of the Firth of Forth, west of Edinburgh. At that time, Toppy and her husband, Captain Ian Black, RN, were in the throes of divorce, and their son, Alasdair (born in January 1929), was at school in Canada.5 ‘The really exciting part of my life, the useful years’, recalled Toppy in 1964,6 ‘started at a party in Algiers’, where she met this ‘rather dull’ ofﬁcer, around whom everyone else circled warily, presumably because he was so very senior. ‘Strangely enough, within minutes we were nattering hammer and tongs on some subject that was worth continuing, later and elsewhere’: a club for airmen in memory of Hugh Malcolm. Toppy ‘ensnared the help and wealth of a French black marketeer’, Roger Capgras, whom she described as a combination of Al Capone and Mozart. Within a year, ‘our set-up would have grown to a dozen centres, with a weekly turnover of at least 50,000 eggs and chips!’ US Army authorities had taken over a large building in the centre of Algiers and turned it into a ﬁrst-class welfare centre. At ﬁrst, it was open to men of the British services, but pressure on space and supplies soon required their exclusion. Eisenhower and Tedder recognised an obvious danger. A bleak choice for soldiers between brothels and NAAFI (Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes) canteens left British Army authorities untroubled, so Tedder, using what Toppy called ‘his very soft voice’, invited her to ﬁnd something better for airmen. Capgras, who had endured the German occupation of Paris for 12 months in 1940–41, was eager to help. The ﬁrst club – formerly a small café – was opened by Tedder on 24 July. In a typically brief speech, he made the point that mattered: ‘This is your club; keep it going.’ One week later, Toppy ﬂew with Capgras to Tunis to set up a second club, opened on 14 August. Capgras coped adroitly with French bureaucrats, Toppy with those of the British Army. Ultimately, more than a hundred ‘Malcolm Clubs’, formed into a self-ﬁnancing charity, were opened, wherever the RAF served overseas. Hugh Malcolm’s widow, Helen, presented a bouquet of Scottish heather to the ﬁrst club opened in Normandy in August 1944. Tedder reﬂected proudly on their ‘strange story’ in 1959.7 ‘The clubs have never advertised’, he declared in the House of Lords, ‘never sought publicity or asked for charity; and probably only those who have had close contact

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with the RAF overseas would even know of their existence.’ The story, he thought, was ‘a miracle with an explanation’: the ‘spirit and devotion of the chosen band of Malcolm Club ladies’, under Toppy’s dynamic leadership. Meanwhile, Tedder and Toppy rejoiced in their growing love for each other. On the evening of 1 June, Tedder asked her to arrange a special lunch for ‘a Very Important Person, who was out here on a visit’: Winston Churchill, no less. He had reached Algiers by air on 28 May. ‘I was allowed to stay and welcome all the ﬁrst arrivals’, Toppy told her mother, ‘and was then rushed up to Gerald’s bedroom, where I had the most wonderful grandstand view of the arrival. The huge bullet-proof car drew up and out he stepped, looking killingly funny in a white suit and panama hat.’ While the great ones were at lunch, Tedder sent out frequent cocktails, which encouraged Toppy to listen at the door and cavort about with the hat on her head: she and Bray ‘had a grand giggle over that!’ Tedder was inventing a job for his beloved. ‘I would really love to work for him’, she wrote on 4 June. ‘He is such a darling and is so sweet and kind. Apart from that, he is a very grand man and one can admire him a lot.’ A week later, writing in an unusually solemn vein, Toppy informed her mother that they intended to marry as soon as they could: ‘this is the ﬁrst time in years that I have really known what it is to be happy and contented. I have found a man, a great man, and one who is respected by the world. My only fear is that I am not big enough to cope with what I have to, for in the future, as you may imagine, he will have a lot of responsible jobs to carry out when this war is over.’ On 5 June, Tedder had taken Toppy (with Bray as chaperon) for a three-day break to a tiny village then named Michelet, now Ain el Hammam, about 70 miles east of Algiers, on a road running through the rolling uplands of the Grande Kabylie, before climbing into the Jebel Djurdjura mountains. After dinner, ‘feeling slightly full’, Tedder and Toppy climbed a small hill and watched the sunset. Next day, the lovers went for a drive, leaving Bray at the village. Eventually, they reached the road’s highest point, parked, and climbed on: ‘mad, and full of excelsior spirit.’ It was during this blissful interlude from military worries that Tedder proposed. The happy couple were back in Algiers on 8 June. Churchill had gone to Algiers at the end of May to discuss with British and American commanders plans for Operation Husky, the invasion of Sicily.8 The air forces, said Tedder, ‘had been blasting Italian communications for weeks’ in an attempt to weaken Sicily’s capacity for resistance. But now it was necessary to attack railway marshalling yards in Rome. Tedder assured the Prime Minister that the task could be carried out without damaging ancient monuments. The yards were not, in fact,

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attacked until 19 July. Next day, Spaatz heard the BBC making it clear that this raid was an exclusively American effort, whereas in all earlier broadcasts it had emphasised any RAF participation.9 Spaatz drew Tedder’s attention to this blatant slant and was gratiﬁed to note that, for once, no tart or witty response came snapping back. Before Husky could begin, it was necessary to take Pantelleria, ‘the Italian Gibraltar’ (according to Fascist rhetoric): a small island 53 miles off Cap Bon, Tunisia, and 63 from the nearest point on the Sicilian coast.10 Pantelleria contained radar stations, observation posts, a submarine and torpedo-boat base, fuel and munitions dumps, and a large airﬁeld with an underground hangar. It was also a sitting duck, given Allied air superiority, and the garrison of over 11,000 men – demoralised by 12 days of systematic aerial bombardment – surrendered as soon as a seaborne landing force approached. Many commanders, including Spaatz, who should have known better, were unduly impressed by this display of unhindered air power. It is therefore ironic that Hanson W. Baldwin, an American journalist, should describe Tedder in June as the ‘architect’ of that pounding, when in fact he regarded it as an alarmingly over-rated exercise. Baldwin added, more accurately, that the amount of work Tedder did ‘would kill a horse’, and that he had ‘a sharp and sometimes cutting humor, but he’s a quiet man – one likely to go unnoticed. But not by history.’11 As far as Tedder was concerned, Pantelleria’s chief merit was to introduce him to Solly Zuckerman. They worked closely together during the rest of the war, forging a close friendship. Zuckerman was a South African-born but Anglicised Jew, 14 years younger than Tedder.12 Already an eminent zoologist by 1939, he had made friends with writers and artists of all kinds on both sides of the Atlantic: for example, Evelyn Waugh and Barbara Hepworth, in England; the Gershwins and Lillian Hellman in the United States. It is not surprising that Tedder should immediately respond to a man with such broad interests – and, moreover, a sense of humour akin to his own. On countless occasions during the next 20 years they would quote, smiling wryly, what they regarded as Whitehall’s motto: ‘nothing should ever be done for the ﬁrst time’. Zuckerman got into war work by studying the effects, on humans and structures, of exploding bombs. He arrived in Algiers on 15 March 1943, having collected material for a detailed, and severely critical, analysis of the effects of bombing on Tripoli. Both British and American air commanders nevertheless welcomed him warmly, because they realised that his researches promised to improve bombing performance. ‘His mental approach to the application of our air resources against the enemy is refreshing’, wrote Spaatz to a friend in June, ‘in that it is very coldly analytical and precisely applied.’13

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Tedder invented for Zuckermanan an impressive title, ‘Chief Scientiﬁc Ofﬁcer’, in May and graded him as the equivalent of a group captain.14 Zuckerman helped Spaatz to formulate his offensive against Pantelleria, but agreed with Tedder that no useful lessons could be drawn from such a singular exercise. Although Spaatz disagreed, Zuckerman was not surprised: he enjoyed ‘the party spirit’ of Spaatz’s circle, but Tedder’s ‘wide interests and inquiring mind’ ﬁtted him for a higher level of command.15 ‘I think we have never in our history had three such commanders as Cunningham, Alexander and Tedder’, declared Harold Macmillan on 15 July. These are extravagant words for a hard-headed politician and may therefore reﬂect no more than a passing exhilaration, at a time when victory over Italy was certain and the destruction of Nazi Germany a likely prospect. He was, however, correct in describing the ‘whole setup’ over which Eisenhower presided in North Africa as ‘logically ridiculous’, while observing that it worked: ‘and that is the real test’.16 All air operations before and during Husky were conducted by Tedder from a ‘Command Post’ at La Marsa, a village on the northern arm of the Gulf of Tunis, about eight miles from the city. Spaatz and Coningham, together with the American commander of the heavy bombers (Doolittle) and the British commander of the coastal aircraft (Lloyd), set up their headquarters nearby. They would all be responsible for escorting the assault troops ashore – Montgomery’s Eighth Army, Patton’s US 7th Army – and then providing direct support. Douglas, commanding Tedder’s old empire from Cairo, was to provide locally trained personnel, certain essential supplies, and conﬁne his operational interest to the Balkans and the eastern Mediterranean. This organisation, vast as it was, formed only part of a much larger ‘logically ridiculous’ structure, over which Eisenhower presided with a wisdom Tedder admired and tried to emulate. Eisenhower found a quiet moment on 11 June to set down some ‘opinions and impressions’ of senior colleagues.17 Cunningham, he thought, was the pick of them, although Tedder ran him close; ‘except in the one thing of broad vision’; a limitation that he attributed to passions generated by the RAF’s struggle for independence. Eisenhower did not, however, register that opinion as a ﬁxed conclusion. ‘Certainly in all matters of energetic operation, ﬁtting into an Allied team, and knowledge of his job, he is tops’ and is also ‘a leader type’. As for Alexander, Eisenhower thought him unsure in controlling Montgomery, who ‘loves the limelight’, but may seek it, ‘because of the effect upon his own soldiers, who are certainly devoted to him. I have great conﬁdence in him as a combat commander.’ Eisenhower reserved his most severe

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strictures for Spaatz, whom he thought ‘not tough and hard enough personally to meet the full requirements of his high position’. He irritated Eisenhower by constantly urging promotion for subordinates selected ‘more for their personal qualities of comradeship and friendliness than for their abilities as businesslike, tough operators’. Tedder also found a quiet moment about this time to write to Arnold (head of the USAAF), rejecting credit assigned to him by a Washington Intelligence Service report on air operations against Rommel in Egypt and Libya.18 Most of the writer’s statements, declared Tedder on 23 June, ‘cover the tactical battle and impute to me tactical policy and action which derives from Coningham; in fact, in nine cases out of ten where he uses my name, the name of Coningham should be used.’ Arnold replied to this astonishing letter on 5 July. He regretted the errors, ‘which you were kind enough to point out so clearly’, and would ensure that they were not repeated. Then came the soft soap: congratulations on the ‘close harmony apparent between the several nationalities’ under Tedder’s command; a sign of ‘personal air leadership of the highest order’. Tedder and Zuckerman talked far into the anxious night of 9–10 July (the eve of Husky’s launching), mostly about the Punic Wars. Despite Rome’s ultimate victory over Carthage, asserted Tedder, Hannibal’s brilliant career demonstrated – and many subsequent conquerors conﬁrmed – that Italy should always be invaded from the north. ‘This awkward fact did not at all dismay Tedder’, recalled Zuckerman. ‘Indeed, he took the greatest delight in telling his own staff, and visitors to his headquarters, that it was quite impossible to conquer Italy from Carthage (Tunis) via Sicily. Those who lacked the wit to fashion a suitable response were simply written off – sometimes quite brutally.’19 An unexpected gale blew up that night. It alarmed the Allied commanders, but in fact worked to their advantage because high seas carried many vulnerable landing-craft safely over treacherous sand barriers. Also, as one Italian general said, it was thought by the defenders to be a ‘pyjama night’: one through which they could relax and sleep soundly.20 ‘It is easy now’, recalled Tedder in his memoirs, ‘to forget the scale and scope of this enterprise. The initial assault alone involved 160,000 men, 14,000 vehicles, 600 tanks, and nearly 2,000 guns’,21 carried by nearly 3,000 transports, warships and landing-craft. Excluding coastal and transport aircraft, Tedder had under command 3,462 aircraft, of which 2,510 were serviceable on 10 July. At that time, there were in Sardinia, Sicily and all Italy about 1,750 Axis aircraft (excluding coastal and transport types), of which fewer than half were serviceable.22 Air superiority was achieved over the landing beaches, and regular attacks on Axis airﬁelds in Sardinia and mainland Italy weakened the

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subsequent response. In Cunningham’s opinion, ‘the navies and armies owed a great debt to the air forces for the effectiveness of the protection offered them throughout the operation’. It seemed to him ‘almost magical that great ﬂeets of ships could remain anchored on the enemy’s coast’.23 The most distressing casualties were suffered by US and British airborne troops on three disastrous nights: the 9th, 11th and 13th. Heavy losses were caused by a lethal combination of inexperienced pilots (either carrying paratroops or towing gliders), poor navigation, high winds, darkness, enemy ﬂak and searchlights, smokescreens, and, not least, indiscriminate ﬁre from Allied sailors and soldiers ashore. Some senior commanders, and their political masters in Whitehall and Washington, thought that airborne troops offered a realistic prospect of outﬂanking coastal defenders – not only in Sicily and Italy, but even more so when an assault on north-west Europe became possible.24 Churchill therefore asked Tedder as early as 11 July (his 53rd birthday) for details of airborne losses.25 Lower than expected, he replied next day, but follow-up operations had proved ‘very expensive and I fear largely abortive’. On that day, 12 July, Eisenhower informed Patton (sending copies of his signal to Alexander and Tedder) that US troops had shot down 23 and damaged another 60 out of 144 troop-carrying transports during the previous evening.26 Portal, pressed by Churchill, asked Tedder on 23 July for a full report on the airborne operations. They had a surprising measure of success in confusing the defenders, he replied. But planners unwisely assumed that a task ‘considerably more difﬁcult than a night-bomber operation’ could be carried out with green crews. Should there be a next time, he advised prolonged prior training, the use of experienced pathﬁnders, more concentrated ﬂights, and routes directed well away from friendly ground or naval units. Gliders were a better bet than parachute drops, because troops could be landed close together with more and heavier weapons, ammunition, radios, food and even transport. On 22 July, with the Allies now safely ashore in Sicily, Tedder had arranged for Zuckerman to take some technical assistants to the island and gather information about the effectiveness of bombing. He concluded from a study of railway records that concentrated attack on certain key points in Italy’s network – those which regulated major trafﬁc, serviced and repaired rolling stock – would pay the best dividends by impeding large-scale movement of troops with heavy equipment. Zuckerman discussed the matter thoroughly with Tedder. Unlike most other commanders known to him, Tedder ‘never committed his own judgement on the basis of what he was told by intelligence ofﬁcers and by planners’, if he had any opportunity to see for himself.27 Tedder signalled Portal on 14 August to say that he was sending

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Zuckerman home to report, and collect staff to seize ‘a priceless opportunity’ to investigate systematically bomb damage and its effects on all types of targets: communications, ports, social services, supply dumps, ﬁxed defences and aerodromes. Zuckerman wrote to Tedder from England on 1 September.28 He did not think ‘your major tenet’ was sufﬁciently appreciated in London: the paralysing effect on an enemy’s air force by repeated attacks on his airﬁelds. Zuckerman also wished to emphasise the need to cut enemy communications to an assault area. Together, they formulated a bombing strategy that proved highly successful during the rest of the European war – and yet it generated opposition of such bitter intensity that neither man ever forgot or forgave those responsible. ‘Ike’s bothered about the Air Command’, recorded his naval aide, Harry Butcher, on 17 July.29 Tedder ‘has taken active charge because the targets are outside North Africa, beyond the province of General Spaatz’, who is ‘virtually squeezed out of his job, yet the vast majority of all aircraft in the operation are American’. Eisenhower wanted Spaatz to be appointed Tedder’s deputy, and to succeed him if Tedder returned to England. The three men agreed next day, 18 July, to consolidate all US air units in the 12th Air Force, to regard Spaatz as de facto deputy, and to leave further re-organisation until the Allies were established in Italy. Spaatz had told Arnold on 24 June that ‘much of Germany can be reached from there, with better weather conditions at our airdromes than prevail normally in England’. To that end, he advocated re-equipping his medium bomber groups with B-17s.30 Despite his knowledge of ancient history, Tedder was as enthusiastic as Spaatz in mid-1943 about the chances of a rapid Allied advance up the peninsula, from south to north. Once there, a heavy-bomber offensive could be co-ordinated with operations from English bases.31 In some respects, then, Tedder and Spaatz were at one, but Eisenhower had an uncomfortable discussion about the air organisation with Spaatz in Algiers on 4 August. Spaatz frankly admitted that he and Tedder had serious differences: ‘primarily because of the extent to which I insist that American units be commanded by American commanders all the way up to the highest command’.32 Tedder returned to Algiers from Tunis on the 7th, ‘much to Ike’s relief’, he told Portal in one of his handwritten ‘Tirpitz’ letters that evening. ‘He has been wanting someone to hold his hand.’33 Having listened to Eisenhower’s account of his talk with Spaatz, Tedder went quietly away to blast off steam. ‘Nationalism has reared its ugly head’, he warned Portal. ‘I suppose it is only to be expected, since it usually requires misfortune to unite and maintain unity and now that

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the tide has turned, people are prepared to think of their own selﬁsh interests again.’ Much of the trouble sprang from Spaatz himself, ‘and the little coterie of pleasant incompetents he keeps round him’. Tedder allowed him to run his own show as much as possible, but ‘he is a Dutchman and is full of the suspicions which one has found typical of Dutchmen and, moreover, suffers from a violent inferiority complex. One spends much of one’s time and energy jollying him along – very wearing!’34 For the moment, however, Tedder was concerned that ground commanders were now expecting more than air support for their operations in Sicily; they wanted bombers to lead the way in blasting holes through enemy defences. Tedder (and other airmen) would increasingly demand that soldiers be readier to use their own weapons. But why should they, if bombers could do all that their over-vocal champions claimed? Tedder was as reluctant as other air commanders to admit that even fourengined, so-called ‘heavy’ or ‘strategic’, bombers simply lacked the weight (and accuracy) of shot necessary to offer an effective substitute for ground weapons. By early August, Tedder knew that an evacuation of Sicily was planned and instructed Coningham to do his best to impede it. That best, as Tedder recorded in his memoirs, ‘was by no means so successful as in May’. One reason why is obvious: at least 80 miles separate Cap Bon in Tunisia from the nearest point on the Sicilian coast, whereas only three miles separate the north-eastern tip of Sicily from the Italian mainland – and both sides of the strait were supplied with sufﬁcient guns to deter all but the most determined attackers from the sky or the sea. In addition, the tapering shape of the Messina peninsula gave its defenders a natural advantage. Although more than half the Axis forces in Sicily escaped, as he admitted, Tedder was right to emphasise the fact that ‘we took over 160,000 prisoners, and killed more than 30,000 German and Italian troops’ during the campaign.35 As early as 16 July, only 30 enemy aircraft remained serviceable in Sicily and more than a thousand had been destroyed, damaged, or abandoned.36 These were excellent results. Even so, Tedder’s role in attempting to prevent that evacuation is open to criticism.37 In a survey of the campaign sent to Portal on 18 August he said nothing about the evacuation – and little more in his memoirs, published 23 years later. The Germans had occupied Sicily in order to gain time to prepare a much more stubborn defence in Italy. Unlike in Tunisia, they planned an orderly withdrawal from the island in good time to carry it out – which they did, skilfully and bravely, using four well-chosen routes, between the night of 11 August and dawn on the 17th. Ferries and other vessels, all protected by barrage

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balloons and their own anti-aircraft guns, as well as numerous guns on either shore, carried 40,000 Germans, 10,000 vehicles (including guns and tanks) and 15,000 tons of equipment to safety; during the same period, their Italian allies rescued 62,000 soldiers, 227 vehicles and 41 guns. Allied ground forces proved unwilling to close with savage enemies in rugged terrain, ideal for a ﬁghting retreat. The Germans and Italians therefore reached their assigned exit beaches not only safely but with most of their heavy weapons. Neither Patton nor Montgomery pressed their naval colleagues to make serious efforts to land troops behind enemy lines, and so cut them off from those exit beaches. Naval commanders, British and American, refused to challenge shore defences and so risk the loss of large vessels in the conﬁned waters of the strait. Coningham had even more reason for caution than the generals and admirals, because low-ﬂying aircraft were certain to suffer catastrophic losses in such a hornets’ nest. He employed Wellington bombers at night, but with Tedder’s approval chose not to employ Doolittle’s B-17s in daylight; he doubted whether their light load, dropped from a safe altitude, would land accurately enough to cause signiﬁcant damage to small targets that were either dug in snugly ashore or moving quickly across the strait. Tedder preferred to reserve the heavy day bombers for attacking larger, and softer, railway targets in Naples and Rome. Mussolini had been dismissed from ofﬁce on 25 July 1943, and Tedder hoped that such attacks might hasten an Italian surrender. In any case, the sight of Germans moving backwards was still rare enough in mid1943 to exhilarate those commanders who had personal experience of their ﬁerce resilience. Many years later, the ofﬁcial historians of British intelligence, pronounced it still an ‘open question’ whether the evacuation could have been prevented.38 Neither Tedder nor his fellow commanders foresaw an opportunity to prevent the evacuation, and took too long to notice that it had begun. As late as 4 August, intelligence experts found ‘no sign that the enemy intends an evacuation’, and even believed that reinforcements were still arriving. Not until 10.10 p.m. on the 14th did Alexander, having discounted Eighth Army warnings for nearly a week, advise Tedder that an evacuation really seemed to have started. Alexander, who had a gift for presenting any situation in the best possible light, sent Churchill a signal on the 17th to say that after only 38 days of ﬁghting the last enemy soldier had been ‘ﬂung out’ of Sicily.39 The Allies would pay a high price, in blood and time, for their ﬂawed triumph. General Heinrich von Vietinghoff, commanding German forces in Italy, thought the evacuation was of ‘decisive importance’, because without the men rescued from Sicily, ‘it would not have been possible to offer effective resistance on the Italian mainland south of Rome’.40

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Shortly before Sicily fell into Allied hands, the heavy bombers of the US 9th Air Force in North Africa suffered a terrible disaster. On the morning of 1 August, Tedder watched the conﬁdent take-off and that evening the silent return, spread over two agonising hours, of the battered remnants. Consequently, he had in mind the vulnerability, rather than the power, of heavy bombers when he approved Coningham’s decision not to employ them over the Straits of Messina. This August tragedy had its roots in May, when Colonel Jacob E. Smart (a member of Arnold’s Advisory Council) persuaded Tedder that a massive attack could be launched from Benghazi’s airﬁelds against Ploesti (30 miles north of Bucharest, where nine reﬁneries provided 60 per cent of Germany’s crude oil supplies. According to Smart, ‘Tedder estimated that there was a 10 per cent chance of eliminating 50 per cent of the target, and suffering a 40 per cent bomber loss. Yet he recommended the undertaking, for there was much to be gained if it succeeded. Spaatz concurred.’41 Tedder arranged for Smart to meet Churchill in Algiers on 30 May. Primed by Tedder, the Prime Minister asked Smart if he would consider making the raid an Allied venture. That was desirable, he agreed, but British Lancaster crews, unlike those of American B-24 Liberators, were not trained to ﬂy in daylight in close formation at low levels. Churchill then suggested putting RAF navigators in the leading aircraft. ‘I had to explain to him that our people were good navigators too’, Smart recalled in 1978. ‘Of course, I didn’t realise how bad navigation would affect the mission.’42 Tedder arranged for Smart to visit England and discuss every aspect of this proposed operation. It then had the silly code-name Soapsuds, wisely changed by Churchill to the more uplifting Tidalwave.43 A strong case emerged in July for using the force training for Tidalwave to attack Austrian ﬁghter-aircraft factories instead, but Eisenhower, advised by Tedder and Spaatz, asked Marshall on 20 July to support the Ploesti raid. ‘We deplore the abandonment of plans’, he declared, ‘after an objective has been decided upon and preparations therefore deﬁnitely undertaken.’ Tedder and Spaatz strongly advocated follow-up attacks on Ploesti, ‘until our experts state that from 60–70 per cent destruction has been accomplished in the target areas’.44 Tedder attended the ﬁnal brieﬁng ‘and gave an informal talk enthusiastically received by the crews’.45 No fewer than 176 Liberators were gathered around Benghazi for this raid, which required perfect navigation throughout a journey of 2,300 miles if they were to hit their targets and see Benghazi again. In the event, 73 bombers were destroyed, 55 suffered major damage, and nearly 600 of the 1,725 airmen (plus one RAF ofﬁcer) who took off were killed, wounded, or captured. Ploesti was defended by numerous gunners, for whom large aircraft, ﬂying low and slow in daylight, were easy targets.

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Several reﬁneries were hit hard, but production from the entire complex was higher within three weeks of the raid than it had been before.46 Tedder had been impressed by the American spirit before take-off. ‘They knew it was a death or glory affair’, he reported to Portal on 7 August, ‘and that casualties would be very heavy, but they were keen and determined.’47 As a rule, Tedder had no patience with ‘death or glory’ ventures, and these are disappointingly bland words about a mission described by Gordon P. Saville, then serving on Spaatz’s staff, as a ‘goddamned thing … ridiculous and suicidal’.48 Tedder did not even mention it in his memoirs. His earlier opinion was conﬁrmed: only from bases in northern Italy could Allied airmen in the Mediterranean make a major contribution to the bomber offensive being mounted from England.49 After Sicily, Italy was an obvious target. Although the Calabrian Toe was easier to occupy, Salerno Bay (on the Shin) offered greater strategic value. That bay lay 170 miles from Messina and 190 from Palermo; a long way for troop transports and naval escorts, but just within the range of shore-based ﬁghters. Tedder rightly expected the Germans to make the same calculation, which they did, and arrange their defence of an easily accessible area accordingly. Should aircraft carriers – so useful, but so vulnerable – be risked within comfortable range of enemy airﬁelds? Would Italy ﬁght on without Mussolini? Would the Germans abandon southern Italy? Tedder advised Portal on 26 July that Operation Avalanche (a landing at Salerno) was ‘practicable’, from the air viewpoint, given airstrips in north-eastern Sicily; a concentrated assault on Axis air forces for three weeks prior to the attack; and a maximum airborne effort to secure airﬁelds. ‘On 27 and 28 July’, right in the middle of the Sicilian campaign, Tedder recalled that ‘Eisenhower and I talked for many hours about these issues. As usual, he showed himself willing, indeed eager, to undertake any reasonable risk.’50 In order to reduce that risk, Eisenhower signalled the Chiefs of Staff in Washington and Whitehall on 28 July to ask for a temporary doubling of his heavy bomber strength, ‘to practically paralyze the German air effort in all southern Italy and almost immobilize his ground units’.51 Ira C. Eaker, head of the US 8th Air Force in England, should come himself, Eisenhower suggested, with four groups of B-17s (that is, 192 aircraft). The Italian landing was planned for 9 September and Eaker should should stay for ﬁve weeks, from about 10 August to about 15 September. But Eaker claimed that such a diversion, in high summer, from his main task of hammering Germany would be disastrous; Jacob L. Devers, Commanding General in Europe, agreed; and so did Washington. Eisenhower was furious: ‘the much ﬂaunted mobility of our Air Force

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has been exposed’, noted Butcher, ‘as talk rather than action’. On the other hand, Tedder observed, it would have been necessary to transfer some 4,000 ground personnel from England to Tunisia and during the time that took – perhaps as long as a month – the bombers would have done little.52 Montgomery (and therefore Alexander) were more cautious than Eisenhower about attempting Avalanche. Montgomery preferred a safe, steady drive from the Calabrian Toe, especially when he learned that Eisenhower’s request for additional heavy bombers had been rejected. Tedder feared that Montgomery would insist on such a massive attack across the Straits of Messina (Operation Baytown) that Avalanche would be impossible. ‘The Toe of Italy’, Tedder told Portal on 7 August,53 ‘is absolutely ideal for the delaying action which Monty has so consistently allowed the Hun to take. A piecemeal, pedestrian advance up the Toe throws away all the advantages offered by command at sea and in the air.’ Eisenhower agreed, but Tedder foresaw that at the next meeting, on 9 August, ‘when a decision must be taken, Alex will play his usual “His Monty’s Voice” record. I have signalled privately to Coningham, asking him if he can managed for Monty to be “inspired” to make alternative proposals which will make Avalanche possible. We’ve managed to work the oracle before, but I’m not very hopeful this time.’54 In that signal, sent on 7 August, Tedder told Coningham that he was ‘intensely concerned’ about Baytown threatening to make Avalanche impossible. ‘The implications of this may affect the length of the war by a year. Evident, however, that on present form Alex will play HMV [His Monty’s Voice] record if Napoleon [Montgomery] insists on his usual frontal attack with no risks. Can you possibly do anything which will result in Napoleon being inspired to propose reduction of, or abolishing, Baytown? I feel this is one of the critical decisions of the war, but unless by some means Napoleon can be led to propose, as his own great thought, action which will make Avalanche possible, we shall lose our chance. You have worked the oracle before. Can you do it again?’55 In addition to his usual anxiety about Montgomery, Tedder remained worried over his weak air-striking force. A bad situation seemed set to worsen when Portal proposed on 26 August to strip Tedder of three Wellington night-bomber squadrons; an ‘incomprehensible’ proposal, replied Tedder. Avalanche was more ‘chancy’ than was Husky, both to keep down the enemy air and to prevent his land movement. Unless Portal changed his mind, Tedder would have no alternative ‘but to put the matter to Eisenhower in the strongest possible terms’. Portal wriggled, but Tedder pinned him down. ‘We here have a feeling that there is a tendency to consider the Italian chicken as being already in the pot’, he wrote on 2 September, ‘whereas in fact it is not yet hatched.’ If

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the British government still regarded the establishment of heavy bomber bases in central Italy as a valuable contribution to Germany’s defeat, he ended, ‘surely we should concentrate on this immediate object?’ The three squadrons were left in Tedder’s command. Although Tedder was obviously exhausted by late August, he staggered around the ofﬁce until Toppy went to see Eisenhower, who ordered him to take a week off. They returned to Algiers on the 29th and on 1 September Toppy dined alone with Eisenhower, to work out some means of making Tedder rest more. ‘I like Ike so much’, she told her mother, ‘and he has been simply charming to me. In fact, he has been just like a father to me since I came out here and I have free entry to his menage whenever I like. He is a dear, honest-to-God, straight, good man and a very great friend of ours.’ And so he would remain, for the rest of the war. Although their careers diverged thereafter, Eisenhower remained one of very few men or women encouraged to refer to Tedder as ‘Arthur’.

20 An Alarming Avalanche, Another Dardanelles, a New Job From Algeria to Italy, August 1943 to January 1944

By the end of August 1943, after ﬁve years of constant pressure, Tedder was a tired man, despite the exhilaration of unexpected love with Toppy Black. Eisenhower, primed by Toppy, encouraged him to pay more attention to physical comfort, especially when travelling by air. Hitherto, Tedder had commuted from end to end of his vast command in whatever aircraft was handy. On landing, he would emerge either frozen or cooked, certainly deafened, and with his slight frame sadly strained. The Americans therefore gave him a Douglas DC-3 Dakota with soundprooﬁng, thick carpets, curtained windows and six well-padded reclinable seats, four of them placed round a conference table. There was even a proper lavatory and wash-basin. Inspired by Toppy’s delight, Tedder had ‘her’ (not ‘it’, she insisted) painted light blue, in honour of his beloved Cambridge University – and in memory of his last bluebirds: FE 2b biplanes, painted to mark his elevation to command a ﬂight in 25 Squadron, exactly 27 years earlier.1 This unique Dakota, recalled the navigator, Sergeant Sam Pritchard, provoked a most satisfactory consternation on the ground when approaching an airﬁeld, and ensured a ceremonial reception discreetly enjoyed by a hand-picked crew.2 Tedder ‘looked boyishly younger than his years’, noted Pritchard, ‘and obviously possessed a keen sense of humour – which one soon learned could be both puckish and caustic.’ On longer acquaintance, he admired Tedder’s ‘human qualities: a lively and lucid mind, a low tolerance of fools, a bit impersonal in manner, but warmhearted’. Himself a gifted navigator, Tedder singled Pritchard out for special notice. Finding Pritchard ‘talkable’ as well as competent, he had

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him commissioned. Pritchard also admired Toppy: ‘a no-nonsense Scot who quickly endeared herself to us with her friendliness and attention to our welfare. In her work for the Malcolm Clubs she was “a ball of ﬁre.”’ As for Eisenhower, Pritchard was bowled over by a ‘giant personality’, a capacity to focus attention entirely: ‘I was the only person in his life’, during any few moments when they spoke together. Among other bluebird passengers, Spaatz reminded Pritchard of ‘the solemn photographs one sees of the more devout Generals in the American Civil War, whereas Norstad and Coningham looked like Hollywood ﬁlm heroes’. During September, Toppy spent a week in Cairo, buying equipment in ‘this wicked city’ to set up Malcolm Clubs in Italy, once the Allies were safely established there. ‘I went out to the cemetery to see his wife’s grave’, she told her mother on 12 September, ‘and I put three dozen roses, red, pink and white, on the grave from “him” and the kids. For myself, I put one branch of jasmine.’ She thought it a lovely, simple cemetery, where Rosalinde lay ‘amongst the RAF lads’, for whom both women, in their entirely different ways, cared equally. Toppy returned to Tunis on 14 September and dined that night with Tedder and Eisenhower. News of their engagement and forthcoming marriage had been leaked to British newspapers by her brother Sandy, Sir Alexander Seton: ‘it came as a dreadful shock to us both’, complained Toppy, ‘for we did not want the press to get hold of it until he had told his children and it will be a dreadful shock to them to see it in the papers.’ Nothing, however, could cloud their mutual joy for long, and after another evening with Eisenhower on the 19th, ‘we played silly games, and I wondered just what people would say if they could see two such great men trying to ﬂoat needles on water, bouncing teaspoons into glasses!!’ The engagement became ofﬁcial on 20 September. Messages of congratulation poured in from all parts of the world during the next month. Most of them are now lost, but a hand-written note to Tedder from Lord Trenchard survives: ‘You deserve all the happiness you can get’, wrote his earliest patron, ‘in this sad and unhappy world.’ A grand luncheon was held in Tunis on 1 October at which Field Marshal Jan Smuts, Prime Minister of South Africa, was guest of honour. ‘We got on like a house on ﬁre’, Toppy informed her mother, ‘and talked of Scotland and the barbarians it produces. I told him what I thought about welfare and he turned to the table and said: “Here we have a glowing example of Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth and Mary of Scotland!”’ Tedder’s opinion of Smuts, already high, went through the roof. On the night before the wedding, Eisenhower and Kay Summersby, his British driver, called at Tedder’s caravan for drinks. Both bridegroom and best man ‘behaved shockingly’, reported Toppy to her mother, ‘and

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acted like a couple of small boys, kept on asking what they had to do, etc., etc.’ There is today in the Eisenhower Museum in Abilene, Kansas, a cigarette lighter inscribed ‘To Ike from Arthur and Toppy, 26 October 1943’. Eisenhower, a compulsive smoker, welcomed a present which, he said, ‘will remind me every day – every hour! – of this good day.’ The ‘Gafﬁng Party’, as Toppy called it (with Tedder as the unlucky ﬁsh), took place on 26 October in the British Consulate, Tunis. She wore her ‘RAF Welfare’ uniform, similar to that worn by WAAFs, enlivened by a red carnation, and was attended by Squadron Leader James Warden as ‘bridesmaid’; Tedder’s batman produced a pair of trousers for the occasion which were creased only in the right places; Eisenhower, gallantly accepting the burdens of best man, smiled more broadly than anyone; and Wigglesworth, Tedder’s longest-surviving colleague in North Africa, bore witness. Afterwards, the happy couple drove off to ‘Hammamet’, Coningham’s luxurious villa, some 60 miles from Tunis on the east coast, returning after a break of only three days on the 29th. The conquest of Sicily – completed by 17 August – was followed by an invasion of Italy.3 Operation Baytown (Montgomery’s unopposed crossing from Messina to Reggio) began on 3 September. It encouraged Italy’s post-Mussolini group of leaders to sign a secret surrender that day, publicly revealed by Eisenhower on the 8th. Operation Avalanche began next morning with units of an Anglo-American army scrambling ashore in the Gulf of Salerno, where German forces swiftly made it clear that this landing would be ﬁercely opposed, despite Italy’s surrender. As a consequence of the decision to mount Baytown, the landing force for Avalanche was both smaller and less experienced, especially in leadership, than it need have been: it was ‘a daring, not to say insolent, assault, bearing in mind how quickly the enemy could concentrate against it’.4 Bearing also in mind, as Tedder did, two further worries: the length of time it would take to reinforce the initial landings, and the shortness of time his ﬁghters would be able to spend on patrol over the beachheads. Although he had many more aircraft available than the enemy, eight major airﬁelds lay within 110 miles of Salerno, whereas the distance from Tedder’s three Sicilian airﬁelds was between 175 and 215 miles.5 Air superiority, fortunately, permitted the employment of aircraft carriers within range of the coast, and their ﬁghters proved valuable in helping to cover the troops ashore. Even so, those troops were nearly driven back into the sea during four critical days, 12–15 September. Disaster was narrowly avoided by the courage and determination of US and British soldiers pinned on the beaches; the timely arrival of US paratroops in the German rear; prolonged, accurate, and powerful naval gunﬁre; the reluctance of German

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commanders to commit their whole strength as quickly as possible to the battle area; and intensive bombing, night and day, by all the forces Tedder could muster. ‘We are very much in the “touch and go” stage’, signalled Eisenhower to Marshall on 13 September,6 ‘unable to advance, and the enemy is preparing a major counter-attack.’ Eisenhower’s ‘great hope’ was the air force, but ‘we are going to prove once again that the greatest value of any of the three services is ordinarily realized only when it is utilized in close co-ordination with the other two’. He was ﬁnding Avalanche easier to handle than Husky because all the major commanders, and his own Advanced Headquarters, were located in the Tunis area. ‘We meet daily’, he told Marshall, ‘and it is astonishing how much we can get done to keep our staffs operating at full tilt.’ Two weeks later, when the crisis was over, Eisenhower reported more frankly to his friend, Thomas Handy, in Washington: 13 September ‘was the darkest one, for us, of our present venture, and there were some serious-looking faces around here’.7 Spaatz agreed about the 13th: ‘a very black day’, he told Arnold.8 Allied airmen laboured to clean up that mess next day. ‘Even though we already knew from Sicily what Allied air supremacy meant’, recorded the diarist of 29 Panzer Grenadier Division, ‘the straﬁng we underwent at this time, and particularly on 14 September, put all our previous experience in the shade. It was an achievement if one small vehicle made one short journey, darting from cover to cover, and completed it unscathed.’9 That night, 14–15 September, recalled Tedder in his memoirs,10 a ﬁve-mile stretch of road linking two important rail centres, Battipaglia (south of Salerno) and Eboli, ‘was buried beneath 237 tons of bombs delivered in one raid by 126 Wellingtons’, including three squadrons that Portal’s ‘incomprehensible’ proposal in August would have removed from the Mediterranean before Avalanche began, had not Tedder objected so strongly.11 ‘This was the greatest effort yet made by night bombers in this theatre’, Tedder wrote more than 20 years later, and their effort ‘may have saved the day’. By 18 September, the British Eighth Army and the Anglo-American 5th Army had joined up, and two weeks later the prime tasks of Baytown and Avalanche had been achieved. Three excellent ports – Naples, Bari and Taranto – were then in Allied hands, together with well-equipped airﬁelds around Foggia and Naples. During ten days of bitter ﬁghting, 9–18 September, the Germans suffered some 3,500 casualties (killed, wounded, or missing) and the Allies about 8,800.12 An immediate consequence of the heavy Allied losses was Hitler’s support for the strategy advocated by Kesselring, commander of German forces in Italy: every inch of ground should be contested. Orders were issued for the construction of ‘the Gustav Line’ of formidable defensive positions

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crossing the peninsula south of Rome. During the last four months of 1943, before Tedder left for England, the Allies lost some 785 aircraft in combat or accident or destroyed on the ground: an average of six or seven every day. The Luftwaffe suffered even more heavily: 1,148 aircraft were lost during that period: nine or ten every day.13 Everyone who fought on either side in Italy, or studied the course of that campaign, was acutely aware that if an invasion of north-west Europe were ever launched it would cost countless lives. Tedder visited Brindisi, on the coast of Italy’s Heel, on 21 September to inspect a site assigned for the headquarters of Broadhurst’s Western Desert Air Force. He also had talks with the Italian Air Minister and his staff. They were eager to help him throw the Germans out of Italy, so Tedder ordered them to assemble all their aircraft, personnel and ground equipment in the Brindisi area. He was particularly keen to take over any transport aircraft – a type with which the RAF had never been adequately supplied. ‘Our main problem now’, he told Portal, ‘is to get our forces established in Italy as soon as possible’, with a view to co-ordinating a bomber offensive against Germany with that already operating from bases in England. Portal did not agree. On 23 September, he asked Tedder to return his B-24 Liberator heavy bombers to England now that the Avalanche crisis was over. ‘It was my view that even then you had ample air forces for the battle and there is no doubt in my mind that these groups are doing less for the war as a whole by operating in the Mediterranean than they could do if returned here at once.’ Their absence from Pointblank, the offensive against Germany, was harmful, especially in view of recent bad weather and an alarming increase in the power of German defences. ‘If the bomber offensive is held up by lack of strength and fails in its object’, Portal assured Tedder, ‘then not only will the enemy ﬁghter defences build steadily up on all fronts, but Overlord will probably have to be abandoned with all that this implies.’ Although Tedder accepted Portal’s views on grand strategy, he remained anxious to help Pointblank from Italy. He was less eager to assist partisans in the Balkans, and reluctant to encourage adventures in the Aegean. As early as September 1942, Tedder and his fellow-commanders in Cairo had considered whether it would be possible to recapture Crete, and perhaps seize the Dodecanese Islands – especially Samos, Leros, Cos and the much larger Rhodes.14 The commanders concluded that the attempt would consume men, materials and time required to make a success of Husky; that the islands would have little value once the Cyrenaican airﬁelds were recovered; and that they would be unable to resist a German attack from Greece or Crete. Had these sensible conclusions continued

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to govern action in 1943, recorded Tedder in his memoirs, ‘we should have been spared much unnecessary loss and heart-burning’.15 On 27 July, Churchill urged the Middle East commanders to plan an assault on Rhodes, ‘as I need this place as part of the diplomatic approach to Turkey’.16 He made no mention of Crete, ideally placed to make Rhodes a useless asset, if not to prevent its capture. Long after the war, Tedder conﬁded to Sir Theodore McEvoy ‘with a vehemence surprising in so temperate a man’,17 that Churchill’s obsession with Turkey angered him deeply. Tedder’s own service in Constantinople throughout the Chanak Affair (1922–23) and careful study of the Dardanelles Campaign while at Staff College (1929–31) made it certain that he would regard a third Aegean adventure in which Churchill had a hyperactive hand with the gravest suspicion. Churchill hoped to generate a major campaign in the Balkans, despite American objections that it would delay Overlord.18 Tedder’s unwavering support for American resistance to Operation Accolade, condemned by an ofﬁcial British historian as ‘this rash experiment’,19 helped to ensure him a high place in Overlord. That would become the greatest campaign mounted by the Western Allies during the Second World War, one in which the American voice prevailed as never before, and that voice ﬂatly refused to multiply Mediterranean commitments. Sholto Douglas, Tedder’s successor as air commander in Cairo, agreed wholeheartedly with Churchill about the possible advantages of an Aegean adventure.20 Early in August, Douglas asked Tedder for ‘a little assistance’ to mount an operation after Avalanche was secure. Tedder replied that he was ‘naturally anxious to help’, although he thought the motivation behind the operation was as much ‘sentimental as military’.21 His opinion was strongly supported by Alexander and Cunningham. Neverthless, Samos, Leros and Cos, though not Rhodes, were seized by the Middle East commanders in September and the process of natural escalation desired by Churchill began: ‘glittering prizes’, he declared, await those who ‘improvise and dare’.22 By the 29th, German air raids had begun and Tedder signalled Douglas. The initiative shown by the three Middle East commanders ‘without full consultation with me and Eisenhower is, I feel, most dangerous’.23 Douglas received this rebuke ‘with breathless astonishment’.24 He ﬂew to Tunis on 1 October for two days of talks with Tedder, who agreed only to mount further attacks on Greek airﬁelds. Churchill told Tedder on the 3rd that, ‘Cos is highly important and a reverse there would be most vexatious. I am sure I can rely upon you to turn on all your heat from every quarter, especially during this lull in Italy.’ Tedder, conﬁdent of Eisenhower’s backing, responded coolly next day: ‘You have no doubt heard from CAS we are putting maximum effort against

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enemy in Greece. Anything further I ﬁnd possible will be done.’25 The Germans were recovering Cos as he wrote; the garrisons on Samos and Leros faced a bleak future; and the German grip on Rhodes remained secure. The air aspect of Accolade has never been properly considered, Tedder signalled Eisenhower on 4 October. With Salerno’s near-disaster in mind, he doubted whether the same aircraft – obliged to operate over twice the range – would give good value. Moreover, they would be unavailable to escort bombers for operations either against northern Italy or southern Germany.26 Eisenhower replied at length on the 5th, ending: ‘Our ﬁrst purpose must remain the defeat of the enemy in Italy.’27 Tedder agreed. ‘Sincerely hope there is no question of personal visit [by Churchill] to this theatre’, he warned Portal on the 8th, ‘since I feel it would be most dangerous and might have disastrous effect on AngloAmerican relations.’ Churchill had proposed to ﬂy to Tunis on 7 October. ‘He has worked himself into a frenzy of excitement about the Rhodes attack’, noted Brooke, head of the British Army, in his diary next day, ‘has magniﬁed its importance so that he can no longer see anything else and has set his heart on capturing this one island even at the expense of endangering his relations with the President and with the Americans, and also the whole future of the Italian campaign.’28 On 8 October, in his reply to Churchill’s plea for his personal intervention, Roosevelt asked a pertinent question: ‘Strategically, if we get the Aegean Islands, I ask myself where do we go from there? and, vice versa, where would the Germans go if for some time they retained possession of the islands?’29 Seeking a convincing answer to that question, Churchill asked that a conference of high commanders be held at La Marsa on 9 October to assess Accolade’s merits. He himself was dissuaded from attending. ‘We are agreed’, the commanders recorded, ‘that our resources in the Mediterranean are not large enough to undertake the capture of Rhodes and at the same time secure our immediate objectives in Italy. We must therefore choose between Rhodes and Rome. To us it is clear that we must concentrate on the Italian campaign.’30 Tedder reported to Portal on 31 October. The operation, in his opinion, ‘was a gamble for very big political stakes … The gamble having failed, we are being pressed to throw good money after bad.’ Nothing could be done, with winter coming on, to ‘materially affect a situation which is fundamentally unsound, owing mainly to the simple, but quite unalterable, facts of geography: i.e., we are attempting to maintain, garrison and operate surface ships outside effective range of our own ﬁghter forces and under the very noses of enemy shore-based aircraft’. On the same day, he wrote to Douglas. ‘I very strongly sympathise with

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you in the very difﬁcult situation in which we have been landed, and will continue to do all I can to help you’, but it will not be at Italy’s expense. Portal and Douglas, encouraged by Churchill, refused to accept a ‘fundamentally unsound’ situation, and even clutched at the straw of Turkish assistance. Portal, usually the most level-headed of men, told Tedder on 12 November that Leros was ‘more important at the moment than strategic objectives in southern France or north Italy’.31 Tedder, thoroughly exasperated, did not mince words in his reply. ‘With the best will in the world’, he reminded Portal on the 13th, ‘it is not possible to swing bomber forces to and fro across Mediterranean and operate effectively at a moment’s notice. I am sure you appreciate that Leros is completely out of range of our mediums in the Heel and our heavies in Tunisia, that staging of either or both on any scale to Cyrenaica is a major operation involving movement of personnel and equipment.’ Churchill added his weight to Portal’s on the 16th. ‘This is much the most important thing that is happening in the Mediterranean in the next few days’, he asserted. ‘I shall have many things to discuss with you when we meet, but I must say now that I do not see how you can disinterest yourself in the fate of Leros.’32 The garrison surrendered that day, 16 November. British losses, in a campaign that achieved nothing, were heavy: 26 naval vessels, 113 aircraft and 4,800 men killed, wounded or captured. A few soldiers were spirited away with Turkish help, disguised as civilians. Thousands of Italians, who had supported the British or failed to resist them, were subjected to severe punishment at German hands: some were formally executed, others casually murdered. Such a complete rout strengthened Turkey’s resolve to remain neutral.33 This Aegean adventure, making no military sense and little political sense, puzzled Eisenhower. Six years after the war ended, he asked his friend Sir Hastings Ismay (Churchill’s chief staff ofﬁcer at the time) if he could explain it. Churchill, replied Ismay on 11 October 1951, ‘placed a wholly disproportionate emphasis in his memoirs on the importance of the islands in the Eastern Mediterranean. In his original draft, the wretched topic appeared so often that it was downright boring, and we got him to cut a good deal of it. But on the main issue he was, and still is, as obstinate as a mule.’34 On 1 October, Eisenhower had lunch in Tunis with Frank Knox, Secretary of the US Navy. He learned, as everyone allegedly ‘in the know’ expected, that General George C. Marshall, head of the US Army, was to be Supreme Allied Commander for Operation Overlord.35 Churchill had already agreed to his appointment, and Roosevelt’s formal approval was expected shortly. On 2 October, Eisenhower instructed his

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Chief of Staff, Walter Bedell Smith (who was about to visit Washington), to discuss air matters with Marshall. He will need ‘a top air man who is thoroughly schooled in all the phases of strategic bombing, and more particularly [Eisenhower emphasised] in the job of supporting ground armies in the ﬁeld. Let him know that because of my earnest conviction on this matter I seriously recommend he insist upon getting ACM Tedder.’ It will be a ‘bitter blow for me to lose him’, Eisenhower continued, but Marshall ‘will have a dearth of high-ranking ofﬁcers in England who have had to live with this problem of air-ground coordination and ACM Tedder not only is expert in these matters, but has such a high standing in the British air forces that the readiness of the CAS to place, during critical junctions of the land campaign, every last airplane in England under the General’s Air Commander will be enhanced.’ Eisenhower was therefore ready to make a major ‘sacriﬁce’ in order to help Marshall: ‘I have not consulted Tedder on this point’, he concluded, ‘in spite of the fact that he is my warm personal friend.’ Churchill and Sinclair were reluctant to see Tedder succeeded in the Mediterranean by Spaatz.36 If Marshall were to get Tedder, argued Sinclair, he should be asked to agree to Douglas as Tedder’s successor; if he refused, Tedder should remain where he is. But, by this stage of the war, the desires of Sinclair and even Churchill were subject to the approval of Americans, who gave Douglas a thumbs-down, Tedder a thumbs-up: end of argument.37 Tedder shared Coningham’s concern at the German ability ‘to ﬁght so successfully without air support and with lacerated communications’: not a promising omen for Overlord, especially in bad weather. Air operations, Coningham told Tedder, were already ‘a day-to-day struggle against the weather, with the prospect of permanent daily cloud over the hills in the centre part of the line’. That struggle was made more difﬁcult by a natural desire among many soldiers to see aircraft killing or scattering the enemy in front of them. Support for the land battle was obviously a prime task, but for Tedder – no less than for Spaatz and other ‘strategic’ bombing enthusiasts – a task of at least equal importance was to support Pointblank. They were joined by Ira Eaker, head of the US 8th Air Force in England, at Gibraltar for a two-day conference (8–9 November) on how best to coordinate the efforts of Eaker’s bombers with those of Doolittle.38 Portal, however, was unenthusiastic. On 9 November, he advised Trenchard, who was about to visit Washington at Arnold’s invitation, to ‘soft-pedal on Italy as a bomber base, and particularly soft-pedal as hard as you can on Spaatz. Of course, you cannot tell them he is no good, but perhaps you can suggest that others are better’.39 By the end of 1943, Tedder’s support for American views on Italy as

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a strategic bomber base, and his resistance to Aegean adventures, drew him away from Portal and towards all his American colleagues, not only Eisenhower. His opinion of Spaatz, based upon far closer and longer observation than Sinclair, Portal or Churchill could claim, was improving. The fact that Tedder’s control of operations since June ‘did not cause a great deal more anger and mistrust than it did’, wrote Spaatz’s biographer, ‘is a tribute to the personalities of Tedder and Spaatz, especially Spaatz, who subordinated himself for the mutual good’.40 Spaatz also played a vital part in the creation of the 15th Air Force, without which the Allied bombing campaign would have been signiﬁcantly weaker.41 But Tedder thought Spaatz grossly exaggerated the bomber’s capacity for destruction. On 20 November, for instance, Spaatz assured Harry Hopkins (President Roosevelt’s adviser) that once the weather cleared over Germany next April and May, thus allowing continuous operations from England and Italy, Germany would surrender in three months. Overlord was therefore neither necessary nor desirable.42 Tedder wrote to Ann Jackson (née Elder) , Rosalinde’s dearest friend, on 4 December. Signing himself ‘Bear’, he thanked her for being such a practical support to Mina and John since their mother’s death, and hoped to see her soon, when ‘the Captains and Kings who have been gallivanting out here’ in Malta and Cairo made their decisions about who was to move where and do what. Eisenhower learned on 6 December that he, not Marshall, would in fact command Operation Overlord.43 ‘Tedder would be my chief air man’, he told Marshall on the 17th, ‘and with him I would have Spaatz, who would have control of the Strategic Air Forces. Under Tedder will be one ofﬁcer in charge of co-ordinating the Tactical Air Forces.’ Tedder had written to his daughter on the 15th, discreetly hinting that he was looking forward to ‘an entirely new atmosphere, a new job.’ He had seen a lot of Smuts at recent meetings, he told her. ‘A fascinating man and, I think, a very great man. One feels he is in a different class from Winston, Roosevelt, Uncle Joe [Stalin], etc., he’s a bigger man all round – just as good and astute a politician, just as good a leader of men, a better judge of strategy, and a more far-seeing statesman.’ Smuts and Tedder ‘were obviously close friends’, noticed Sam Pritchard, his navigator, ‘and remained in animated conversation throughout most of the eight-hour ﬂight’ in the blue Dakota from Tunis to Cairo.44 A comparison between Churchill and Smuts was very much in Tedder’s mind on 15 December. The Prime Minister had asked him if it would be possible to place another 15 ﬁghter squadrons at Turkish disposal between mid-February and the end of March 1944, assuming that the Allies captured Rome in mid-January. Our ﬁghter strength, explained Tedder (not for the ﬁrst time), has two roles and is divided

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into two forces: one for coastal and shipping protection over the huge distance between Gibraltar and Haifa; the other for maintaining air superiority in the battle area. ‘It is only by the grace of the air superiority gained and maintained by these squadrons’, he reminded Churchill, ‘that our armies are able to maintain their line of supplies practically without interruption. Also, it is only due to this air superiority that our ﬁghterbombers are able to operate against enemy supplies, communications and positions.’ He and Coningham had examined ‘most closely’ the possibility of sending more ﬁghter squadrons to Turkey, but it would be quite impossible without seriously jeopardising either Allied shipping or the land battle. Tedder dispatched this signal with a fervent prayer – answered, for once – that Churchill might never again involve him with Turkey. Churchill had arrived in Tunis on 11 December and remained there, suffering from pneumonia and a heart attack, until the 27th.45 The Tedders dined with him on the 14th and Toppy told her mother that ‘a lot of the ﬁre had gone out of his eyes – this I suppose due to dope – all slightly alarming, for if anything happened God knows what the answer would be. He does look ill – as if the engine is running down.’ Smuts had offered the Tedders ‘a fortnight’s ease’ in South Africa.46 Sadly, Churchill’s illness obliged Tedder to cancel the trip. On 18 December, Toppy wrote that Mrs Churchill had arrived: ‘which made all the difference to the old devil!! We are lunching there today. I have been keeping him supplied with invalid food – which he adores – and dug up a supply of 35-year-old brandy!!’ Churchill formally proposed Tedder to Roosevelt on 18 December as Deputy Supreme Commander ‘on account of the great part the air will play in this operation [Overlord], and this is most agreeable to Eisenhower’. Montgomery was proposed as ground commander, despite Eisenhower’s preference for Alexander, because ‘Montgomery is a public hero and will give conﬁdence among our people, not unshared by yours.’ Roosevelt agreed to both appointments on the 20th.47 Spaatz also returned to England, taking with him Doolittle as head of the 8th Air Force in place of Eaker, who went – most unwillingly – to Italy as Tedder’s successor. Slessor became Eaker’s Deputy, Douglas returned to England as head of Coastal Command, and was succeeded in Cairo by Park.48 Coningham, who had been appointed to command a tactical air force for Overlord, wrote to Tedder on 30 December. He and Alexander had ﬂown that morning to Montgomery’s headquarters at Vasto on the Adriatic coast, some 15 miles south of the Gustav Line, to bid him farewell. ‘I mentioned your appointment, but he brushed it aside and said that you were merely the Air Adviser to the Supreme Commander. The cheek of the blighter! He then told me that he considered that

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my proposed appointment to Tactical was wrong.’ By Montgomery’s standards, these remarks were relatively inoffensive, and Coningham went on to remind Tedder that ‘Monty oozes conﬁdence (except when Rommel is about), he is most persuasive and he will arrive home with an aura of invincibility, with clear-cut ideas, and the force to put them through.’ These ideas, Coningham warned Tedder, included an ambition to command all the armies – British and US – taking part in Overlord.49 The announcement of the Overlord team late in December attracted massive press coverage in Britain and the United States. In Tedder’s case, the comment was entirely favourable, although the summaries of his origins, career and interests were as inaccurate as usual. He received numerous messages of congratulation, including this from Churchill: ‘My advices are that your appointment has been particularly well received by the Press at home. Special attention has been drawn to the fact that for the ﬁrst time it places an Airman in the second highest place in the Allied command in the ﬁeld, having control over forces of all three services.’50 Writing in the early 1970s, after Tedder’s death, the British ofﬁcial historians assessed his service in the Middle East.51 ‘The saying that “Still waters run deep” well describes the man and the commander whose unostentatious personality and cool and collected style of command almost disguise his great achievement.’ He was not merely an organiser in the rear, but a commander in daily contact with operations. ‘To balance organization, training, and ﬁghting demanded great knowledge and superb judgment, and Tedder, the brilliant airman, had both.’ He was able to grasp the heart of any matter and translate his understanding into simple terms. In the Mediterranean, land, sea, and air power were inter-dependent: a fact that he understood better than most. ‘He fought for his convictions openly, stubbornly, and with uncompromising determination, yet more effectively because he believed that the heretics were reasonable men who had a common purpose and could be persuaded to see where the truth lay.’ The Tedders had intended to return home in their beloved blue Dakota, but ‘higher authority’ decreed that they must travel in a B-17, a noisy and comfortless bomber, but believed to be safer because it had four engines instead of two. They made a preliminary shopping trip in their bluebird to Rabat in Morocco, loaded up with furnishings, wines, olive oil and fruit, boarded the B-17 in Gibraltar and both machines headed for England on 20 January. At Portreath, on the north coast of Cornwall, they thankfully changed back to their bluebird and ﬂew on to London. Thus ended 38 months of overseas service for Tedder, broken only by two visits to England that lasted a total of 18 days.52

PART VI 1943 TO 1945: COMMANDING UNDER EISENHOWER

21 A Lousy Organisation, Smearing the RAF’s Good Name Bushy Park and Castle Coombe, December 1943 to May 1944

Major-General Walter Bedell Smith, Eisenhower’s Chief of Staff, wrote to him from London on 30 December 1943.1 ‘We all believe that Tedder should be the real Air Commander and your adviser in air matters’, but an ofﬁcer by the name of ‘Mallory’ was claiming that position. Eisenhower agreed, as he informed Marshall next day: this attempt to prevent the ‘supreme’ commander from using ‘trusted and superior’ subordinates in their proper spheres was unacceptable. Having found in Tedder a man of proven capacity, as well as congenial personality, Eisenhower saw no good reason why the British should try to impose upon him a man with limited experience of operations, either with other services or with Americans.2 ‘Mallory’ was Air Marshal Sir Trafford Leigh-Mallory. By December 1943, he had spent six years in Fighter Command, ﬁve as a group commander and one as its head. His professional judgement during those years has often been criticised by combat pilots, other commanders and historians.3 Nevertheless, backed by Portal and Sinclair, he had been conﬁrmed in November by the Combined Chiefs of Staff as head of the proposed ‘Allied Expeditionary Air Force’ (AEAF) to support Overlord; promotion to Air Chief Marshal followed in January 1944. To paraphrase what his brother George 4 said about Mount Everest, LeighMallory was appointed because he was there. The head of Fighter Command could hardly be overlooked for a senior place in a massive combined-services operation launched from southern England. When British and American airmen assembled in London during January, exhilarated by past triumphs and conﬁdent of greater to come,

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they were reluctant to accept Leigh-Mallory into their close-knit team even before they discovered that he was unimpressive, personally and professionally. Tedder wanted nothing to do with him. As long ago as January 1942 he had ﬁrmly rejected Portal’s suggestion that he accept him in Cairo as his deputy. To Rosalinde, though not to Portal, he spelled out his objections: Leigh-Mallory, he told her, ‘is incredibly pompous, is unapproachable by his staff and I’m sure very ambitious’; once established in Cairo, he would be ‘only too glad’ to unseat Tedder and take over.5 In order to unseat Leigh-Mallory, Tedder would call upon all those qualities of ‘patience, tact, cunning and political sense’ that Solly Zuckerman observed in him.6 In January 1944, there was a strong belief in Whitehall (and among many British people, thanks to press and radio reporting) that Eisenhower was a mere ﬁgurehead for the Western alliance. Tedder knew better: Eisenhower, backed by Marshall, backed by Roosevelt, had made all the critical decisions in 1943 and would do so, even more conﬁdently, in 1944 – and in air matters, these would be the ones Tedder wanted. Eisenhower conﬁded to his diary on 7 February that he was tired of being regarded by the British press as a friendly front for superb British generals.7 ‘The truth’, he wrote, ‘is that the bold British commanders in the Mediterranean were Sir Andrew Cunningham and Tedder’, and Eisenhower had no intention of forgetting that ‘truth’ in 1944. After Germany’s defeat, Spaatz (appointed head of US Strategic Air Forces [USSTAF] from 1 January 1944) was asked by an American historian about the air organisation. He replied that he had wanted the same organisation for Overlord as had worked in the Mediterranean. Eisenhower, Tedder and Spaatz himself ‘kept in such close touch’ that the system was made to work well enough to win the war, but he hated to think what would have happened if any one of them had been struck down. ‘In other words’, said Spaatz, ‘it was a lousy organisation.’ As for Leigh-Mallory’s place in it, Spaatz supposed that the Air Ministry originally intended Eisenhower’s air support to be provided by tactical air forces only, leaving the strategic bombers to operate independently; which was ‘just contrary to the conception that Eisenhower, Tedder and myself had. We felt that all air forces must be tied in with the operation of the ground forces, all being considered as one problem. That was based on our experience down in the Mediterranean.’8 Churchill raised with Sinclair and the three British Chiefs of Staff on 6 January the ‘anxiety’ expressed to him by Eisenhower and Bedell Smith about Overlord’s air organisation.9 They disliked the powers granted to Leigh-Mallory, ‘who has, apparently, let it be known he intends to be a

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real C-in-C of the air’, but Tedder, thought Churchill, ‘with his unique experience and close relation as Deputy to the Supreme Commander, ought to be in fact and in form the complete master of all the air operations’. Leigh-Mallory would then command only tactical aircraft; Spaatz would come directly under Eisenhower, ‘and can be told to obey Tedder’, who should not be an ofﬁcer without portfolio. ‘We deliberately gave this post to an airman because of the vast part the air is to play in this battle, and he must have all the powers necessary.’ However, Sinclair foresaw a more prominent role for Leigh-Mallory. He suggested to Churchill on 7 January that Coningham and Brereton, commanding the tactical air forces, should come under Leigh-Mallory’s ‘active command’. So too should all airborne forces, a photoreconnaissance wing and, not least, all heavy bombers, British or American, assigned by the Combined Chiefs of Staff to Overlord. The Americans wanted to put Spaatz and Harris directly under Eisenhower, but Sinclair thought this would be a mistake. ‘Not even Tedder has experience of conducting the bomber offensive. Nor, if he is to be an effective deputy over the whole range of land, sea and air, should he concentrate exclusively on air problems.’10 In other words, Tedder was to be politely kicked upstairs to make room for Leigh-Mallory; a solution also favoured by the British Chiefs of Staff. ‘There is a fundamental difference’, they advised Churchill on 8 January, ‘between command arrangements in the Mediterranean and those in the United Kingdom.’ In the former, Eisenhower was supreme in all military matters, but here ‘he is, in effect, a task force commander with certain forces allotted to him for re-entry onto the Continent and the subsequent invasion of Germany’. These words, crassly inadequate as well as typically condescending, emanated from Sir Alan Brooke, head of the British Army. They reveal the heart of the problem faced by Eisenhower and Tedder during the rest of the European war. Other forces based in Britain – especially the two heavy bomber forces – could not be placed under Eisenhower’s command because they were required to continue with Operation Pointblank, the Anglo-American air offensive against German targets. In the Mediterranean, Tedder controlled all air forces, but in Britain that position was held by a combination of Portal and Leigh-Mallory. ‘Our conception’ of Tedder’s position, the Chiefs wrote, ‘is that he has part of Eisenhower’s portfolio and will thus exercise authority over all three services.’ He was asked for by the Americans ‘not as a substitute for Leigh-Mallory, but as a deputy to Eisenhower’, the mouth through which the Supreme Commander speaks, the ear through which he listens – and no longer a mere airman. As for the strategic air forces, they must support Overlord, ‘but we

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certainly do not contemplate that they should pass under Eisenhower’s command’; their employment was a highly specialised business and had to remain under Harris and Spaatz.11 On 20 January Beaverbrook’s Daily Express claimed that the Supreme Commander was being denied control of air operations out of Britain. Eisenhower and Bedell Smith were not yet dismayed because, as Harry Butcher recorded, they did not expect Tedder to be ‘shoved around’ for long by any RAF ofﬁcers.12 Next morning, Tedder attended the ﬁrst meeting of his new appointment in Room 126 of Norfolk House in St James’s Square, where he considered weighty matters and thought about potential shovers. Given his whimsical humour, Tedder may have wondered why the room did not sink into the basement under the weight of so much top brass: 15 generals, four air marshals, three admirals and a colonel, with three lowly majors as secretaries. Eisenhower hated Norfolk House, which lay only a short walk from the differing distractions offered by Whitehall and the West End, and resolved to form a headquarters as far as possible from both. LeighMallory expected him to move close to his own headquarters at Bentley Priory, in north-west London, where communications were excellent. But Bedell Smith, fearing that the Mediterranean team would be swamped by British ofﬁcers, set up shop for Eisenhower some 15 miles south of Bentley Priory, at ‘Widewing’, in Bushy Park, near Kingstonon-Thames, even though communications were inferior. Leigh-Mallory was furious – but helplessly furious, as he would so often be until he left Overlord. Bedell Smith added insult to injury by pretending that he had mistaken Bushy Park for Bushey Heath, near Bentley Priory. Spaatz noted in his diary on 21 January that Overlord would upset Pointblank for weeks prior to the landings: ‘there will be no opportunity’, he lamented, ‘to carry out any air operations of sufﬁcient intensity to justify the theory that Germany can be knocked out by air power’. Overlord operations, he thought, would be ‘child’s play’ in comparison to raids over Germany and would suffer few losses.13 Next day, he had lunch with Tedder. They agreed that a set-up similar to that in the Mediterranean should be created, ‘presided over by Tedder’, and include representatives from both strategic and tactical air forces: ‘all the word we need know’, he assured Tedder, ‘is what is wanted hit and when’. They conﬁrmed that agreement on the 24th: operations ‘must be conducted the same as in the Mediterranean area, no matter what type of organisation was directed by topside.’14 Tedder’s military merits (including his pro-American credentials) had been marked by his appearance on the cover of Time magazine in November 1942.15 These were now conﬁrmed, in many American eyes,

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by Life magazine, on 31 January 1944. The cover was entirely taken up by a photograph of his head, shoulders and pipe. Inside, a gushing story was somewhat redeemed by ﬁve photographs and monochrome reproductions of nine of his wartime sketches. The story emphasised his informal amiability and reputation as a quiet achiever. And yet he was ‘not only Eisenhower’s subordinate and stand-in in case of accident or illness, but also his chief adviser, consultant and strategic co-pilot’.16 More fame came Tedder’s way next day. He was among six of Overlord’s principal commanders who endured a photo-call at Norfolk House. Eisenhower, Tedder, Montgomery, Bradley, Ramsay and LeighMallory were all there (plus Bedell Smith, but minus Harris and Spaatz). ‘Had 34⁄ hour of frightful photographing in the big conference room’, noted Admiral Sir Bertram Ramsay in his diary: ‘There must have been 70 press photographers in the room and the snapping and ﬂashing was continuous. The results, when seen in the evening papers, were dreadful.’17 Tedder would have been ‘amused’ (a favourite word, often used for ‘ﬂattered’ or ‘delighted’) to learn that he had a high rating among enemies as well as friends. According to a German intelligence report of 7 February, ‘Tedder is on good terms with Eisenhower, to whom he is superior in both intelligence and energy. The coming operations will be conducted by him to a great extent’, a forecast that would not have amused, ﬂattered or delighted Montgomery. Under Tedder’s inﬂuence, concluded this German assessment, army–air co-operation had become excellent and ‘he [Tedder] will undertake the invasion only after achieving complete air supremacy and after large-scale bombing of the Reich’.18 Further fame, of a kind, followed later in February. Joseph Auslander of Washington DC sent Tedder one of his ‘Unposed Poem Portraits of the Great Allied Leaders’:19 Here’s to the modest chap nobody knows, As English as ale, roast beef and chedder, Who sent Rommel reeling with hammer blows – Tedder! He likes doughboy slang, the jolt of a jeep, Pipe, poem, piano: a sweet triple-header; From Dunkirk to Rome he’s rocked Goering asleep – Tedder! Invasion Deputy to our own ‘Ike’, Though Hitler sees red now, he’ll see redder, That day when his zero hour shall strike – Tedder! ‘From time to time’, recalled Zuckerman, ‘Toppy would recite these

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verses, but she could never manage all three without breaking up, whereas I don’t recall many things funnier than Tedder reading them himself in his ofﬁcial voice, with a straight face, and eyes coldly ﬁxing the audience over the top of his spectacles.’20 Tedder informed Portal on 22 February that the air organisation was still shaky.21 ‘Spaatz has made it abundantly clear that he will not accept orders, or even co-ordination, from Leigh-Mallory, and the only sign of activity from Harris’s representatives has been a series of adjustments to the records of their past bombing statistics, with the evident intention of demonstrating that they are quite unequipped and untrained to do anything except mass ﬁre-raising on very large targets.’ Both could be brought to heel – but it had to be both. One of the main lessons of the Mediterranean campaign, Tedder reminded Portal, was the need for uniﬁed control of the air forces. He then ended with a clear warning: if Churchill and the British Chiefs of Staff were to concoct a formula that exempted Harris from Eisenhower’s control, ‘very serious issues will arise affecting Anglo-American co-operation in Overlord’. Eisenhower had a long talk with Churchill late on 28 February and summarised their conclusions for Tedder next morning.22 A plan must soon be agreed, ‘if not, the Prime Minister will be in this thing with both feet’. Eisenhower was quite prepared to issue an order saying ‘I will exert direct supervision of all air forces – through you – and authorizing you to use headquarters facilities now existing to make your control effective.’ This proposal would place Harris, Spaatz and Leigh-Mallory on the same level, all reporting to Tedder. Eisenhower felt strongly that he must have the ﬁnal say about air operations during Overlord. He therefore warned Churchill that unless he got full co-operation from the British he would ‘simply have to go home’.23 With these astounding words in mind, Churchill acted promptly. Tedder was ‘the aviation lobe’ of Eisenhower’s brain, he told the British Chiefs on 29 February, and must be allowed ‘to use all air forces permanently or temporarily assigned to Overlord in the manner which will best fulﬁl the plan of the Supreme Commander’.24 Churchill then ruled that while Bomber Command could not be entirely handed over to Eisenhower – because of the demands of Pointblank – Overlord ‘must be the chief care of all concerned and great risks must be run in every other sphere and theatre in order that nothing should be withheld which could contribute to its success’. In effect, as Portal’s air staff agreed on 2 March, Tedder was to be recognised as an operational commander as well as Eisenhower’s Deputy. After a long meeting of the Chiefs on 3 March, Portal asked for the room to be cleared of secretaries and then announced the air re-shufﬂe.

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Tedder, as Brooke noted, ‘is now to assume more direct command’, which could only be done ‘by chucking out Leigh-Mallory’.25 Would Portal take that step? Or would the issue be fudged, leaving LeighMallory in nominal authority, but effectively neutralised? ‘Last night at Tedder’s house’, recorded Butcher on 3 March,26 ‘where I accompanied Ike, it was arranged for Leigh-Mallory and Tedder to meet with the Supreme Commander this morning. It seemed inevitable that LeighMallory would ask to be relieved, and Tedder thought there was a vacancy in the RAF in the Far East to which he might be assigned.’ This solution, which would have spared Leigh-Mallory much anguish during coming months, was not followed through. Advised by Tedder, Portal drafted a directive on 5 March that reconciled Eisenhower’s desire for complete control of the strategic air forces with Churchill’s ruling that Pointblank must continue.27 Tedder was to ‘co-ordinate’ all ‘strategic’ operations approved by Portal, on behalf of the Combined Chiefs of Staff, in preparation for Overlord. He was also to ‘supervise’ all ‘tactical’ operations (including the use of heavy bombers) during the actual assault period. Between dates yet to be decided by the Combined Chiefs, both strategic air forces would be placed at Eisenhower’s ‘disposal’. Churchill thought Portal’s draft ‘very satisfactory’, but Evill (Vice-CAS) noted: ‘we have been led further towards putting Bomber Command under General Eisenhower than we originally thought wise’. Nevertheless, the draft became a directive on 9 March and Eisenhower scribbled on his copy: ‘I told CAS it was exactly what we want’; next day, Bedell Smith added: ‘I think this is excellent, and a most fair solution.’28 With this directive in hand, Eisenhower instructed Tedder to prepare at once a plan for the employment of all air forces in Overlord.29 The strategic air forces were to be placed at Eisenhower’s disposal when he asked for them, and Tedder’s plan must ‘deﬁnitely indicate the time at which this passage of responsibility should occur’. Although those air forces would remain under the command of Harris and Spaatz, they would ‘receive their general directives from you’. The ‘passage of responsibility’ came on 14 April. According to the ofﬁcial British historians of the strategic offensive, this was ‘an historic event by which a supreme air command was at last created’ – even if as a temporary expedient.30 Another bitter debate concerned bombing policy. How best could air power – speciﬁcally, four-engined ‘strategic’ bombers – assist Overlord? What became known as ‘the transportation plan’, recorded Tedder in his memoirs, ‘was to run like a thread through all the operations up to the end of the war’; a thread sometimes tangled by ‘deliberate intrigue and

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sometimes by ignorance and misunderstanding’.31 Advised by Zuckerman, he proposed a systematic attack on the numerous railways, road, bridges, rivers and canals serving the invasion area. The attack should be prolonged for as many weeks as possible, in order to exhaust repair squads and use up essential materials. It would be easy, Tedder argued, for the Germans to move in reinforcements quickly – especially of heavy weapons such as tanks and artillery – together with ammunition, fuel, food and water, if they had good communications. Therefore, if the Allies were not to be swept back into the sea shortly after D-Day, the German build-up must be delayed and disorganised.32 The plan was so arranged that Calais, rather than Normandy, seemed to be its focus. Apart from sheer destruction, Tedder hoped to canalise surviving trafﬁc and thereby make it more vulnerable to subsequent attack. Immediately before and after D-Day, in order to allow minimum time for repair or replacement, he planned attacks on bridges, track and rolling stock. Attacks would continue, after the bridgehead was secure, to help troops break out of Normandy.33 British and US intelligence agencies, Air Ministry planners, economic experts, academics and political observers in various government departments, together with Harris and Spaatz (who set up their own intelligence ofﬁces), competed with each other to oppose vehemently, rather than to evaluate, that plan. Most of them lacked practical experience of either military operations or transport management, but the excitement of ﬁnding themselves on the edge of great events inspired them to argue ﬂuently, especially on paper. Although quite ignorant of the actual workings of railway systems, they persuaded themselves that this one had large reserves of spare capacity, and therefore that the plan would take too long to make a serious impact. They advocated an ‘oil plan’, without realising the difﬁculty lightly loaded day bombers, operating far from their bases in England or Italy, would face in destroying widely dispersed, well-defended oil targets. As Walt Rostow (the transportation plan’s most persuasive critic) later admitted, scepticism about the destructive power of American ‘precision’ bombing was justiﬁed. Tedder knew that Spaatz had advised Arnold, on 10 January, to avoid the term ‘blind bombing’ in press handouts, and speak instead of ‘overcast bombing technique’ or ‘bombing with navigational devices over cloud’.34 Nevertheless, Spaatz’s conﬁdence in strategic bombing never wavered. When he reached England on 29 December 1943, he found the 8th Air Force in crisis: for ten weeks, as a result of heavy losses, there had been no raids over Germany. A ﬂood of men and machines, including effective escort ﬁghters, together with his own shrewd and ruthless leadership, led to a major triumph late in February known as Big Week.

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American losses, although heavy (2,600 aircrew killed, wounded or captured), were easily replaced; those of the Luftwaffe (one-sixth of its ﬁghter pilots) were not. This victory conﬁrmed Spaatz’s long-standing convictions. Neither Tedder nor Zuckerman, then or later, grasped the emotional signiﬁcance of Big Week for Spaatz and most other American airmen.35 Nevertheless, Spaatz remained on friendly terms with both men, and they continued to regard him as ‘warm-hearted, unpretentious, and friendly’. During March, he became so certain that the transportation plan would be rejected, as he told Arnold on the 16th, that in order to avoid hard feelings he wanted to allow Tedder time to repudiate it ‘of his own accord’.36 The transportation plan, based on experience gained in Sicily and Italy, had both immediate and long-term objectives: initially, to impede enemy movement towards the Overlord landing areas, and then to terminate German industrial production. Before leaving Italy, Tedder had invited several ofﬁcers there to send him any ‘hard evidence’ that came their way about the value of aerial attack on communications. Air Commodore Frank Woolley was among those who responded. On 9 February, he sent Tedder an extract from the diary of a captured German soldier, in which he described a journey constantly interrupted by raids and damaged track. Tedder thanked Woolley on the 16th. ‘I ﬁnd a certain amount of persuasion necessary in this country on the question of attacking railways. Your note has provided excellent grist to my mill.’37 ‘I’m not against the plan’, Spaatz admitted to Zuckerman one boozy night in Oxford, ‘I believe you are right. But what worries me is that Harris is being allowed to get off scot-free. He’ll go on bombing Germany and will be given a chance of defeating her before the invasion, while I am put under Leigh-Mallory’s command.’ Zuckerman tried to convince him that this would not happen. Harris’s objections were of similar calibre. On another night in Oxford, Lord Cherwell (formerly Frederick Lindemann, Churchill’s must trusted adviser on all scientiﬁc or technical matters) rudely challenged Tedder: ‘you surely don’t believe in this nonsense of Solly’s about bombing railways?’ To which Tedder calmly replied: ‘What nonsense? I never believe in nonsense.’38 That ‘nonsense’, as Spaatz admitted to Arnold on 14 June, ‘opened the door for the invasion’.39 The Germans proved unable to move reinforcements towards the invaded area either quickly enough, or on a sufﬁciently large scale, to prevent the Allies from achieving their ﬁrst essential objective: a secure bridgehead. The Transport Ministry in Berlin reported on 15 May that ‘large-scale strategic movement of German troops by rail’ in western Europe, ‘is practically impossible at the present time’. As a result of widespread damage to essential repair

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shops, routine maintenance of locomotives had been so delayed that the entire rail network was disorganised. A week later, on 23 May, the German-controlled radio station in Paris admitted ‘complete chaos’ throughout that network, made worse by ‘experienced squads of saboteurs’. Tedder lifted a ban on straﬁng trains on 20 May – French and Belgian civilians having been repeatedly warned to avoid them – and during the next two weeks, hundreds were destroyed or damaged.40 By D-Day, 76,000 tons of bombs had been dropped on rail centres, bridges, and open lines. All rail links over the Seine north of Paris were closed to trafﬁc, and remained closed for the following month. The air forces, helped by French and Belgian saboteurs, had reduced the entire rail system to almost ‘total collapse’. In addition, all 24 radar stations and most airﬁelds near the proposed landing area had been put out of action or seriously damaged.41 After Paris was liberated in August, a study of French railway records showed that the offensive had had an immediate and devastating effect. In September, after Brussels was liberated, German records conﬁrmed that economic life as well as military trafﬁc had been disrupted.42 The Germans were aware that the movement of heavy weapons and large numbers of men would be slower by road, and therefore more vulnerable to aerial attack, than movement by rail. They were also aware of the fragile state of the rail networks in France and Belgium, thanks to low pre-war investment in new stock, and inadequate repair and maintenance of current stock. Serious damage during the ﬁghting in 1940 had been followed by ‘loans’ to Germany of 4,000 surviving locomotives – including many of the most powerful – out of a total of 18,000; countless carriages and trucks and hundreds of skilled men also went east, reducing the efﬁciency level of the networks still further. Cumbersome management systems had been imposed from Berlin, and from 1943 onwards both active and passive damage to the networks increased, as men and women began to see a possible end to German rule. In short, by January 1944, the networks were ‘peculiarly sensitive to attack’.43 Harris’ opposition to the plan had been partly based on a belief that his crews were still unable, even in 1944, to ﬁnd and hit any target smaller than a city centre. But he would obey speciﬁc orders. British night bombers had always been more destructive (because they carried heavier loads) than American day bombers, and were now becoming more accurate as well. By April 1944, Harris had on hand over 1,000 heavies (including 600 Avro Lancasters), while Spaatz had 4,000 (two-thirds in England, the rest in Italy), but each Lancaster normally carried more than twice the load of a B-17 or a B-24.44 With these facts in mind, plus the fact that Spaatz (backed by Arnold)

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would send most of his bombers to Germany in suitable weather whatever agreements were made, Tedder ignored Leigh-Mallory’s recommendation that the plan be carried out primarily by day bombers. In other words, it could not have succeeded without the readiness of ‘Bert’ Harris to co-operate with ‘Tirpitz’ Tedder, as they addressed each other. Perhaps Harris privately realised that the breathing space thereby given to German targets was also a breathing space for Bomber Command, which had taken a terrible hammering over Germany during the winter of 1943–44.45 Portal summoned everyone of importance to a grand meeting, intended to settle the debate, once and for all, on 25 March.46 Spaatz admitted that his oil plan could have no immediate effect; certainly not in time to help soldiers establish themselves ashore. As Tedder had always known, Eisenhower’s unqualiﬁed support for the transportation plan proved decisive. ‘The greatest contribution’, that the Supreme Commander ‘could imagine the air forces making’ to men getting ashore and staying there, was to hinder enemy movement. As he later told Butcher, there was no substitute for ‘the plodding doughfoot’. Until he took and held ground, the war would not be won; aircraft must help him by isolating the battleﬁeld as much as possible; and Tedder was ‘a perfect master of the art’.47 When Portal asked Eisenhower if the plan would not handicap Allied movement after the bridgehead was secure, he got a dusty answer: that was not a matter of present concern, and in any case the Germans would smash everything in reach as they retreated. Spaatz left the meeting apparently defeated, but actually ‘jubilant and overjoyed’ (in the words of Ira Eaker, who had ﬂown to England from Italy to discuss the matter with him). Spaatz was pleased because Tedder, and not Leigh-Mallory, would be ‘directing’ the strategic air forces; Harris’s night bombers would be doing most of the work; and he himself would continue sending most of his day bombers to targets in Germany.48 After the meeting on 25 March, Portal informed Churchill that ‘very heavy’ civilian casualties would be ‘unavoidable’ when the plan was implemented. Churchill, who had not apparently considered the obvious consequence of any plan to prepare for the liberation of occupied Europe, informed his War Cabinet. Most members, uninformed about the arguments for or against, expressed alarm and asked for the matter to be reconsidered. Cherwell was invited to do this. Using information provided by the intelligence agencies, he stated that as many as 40,000 civilians might be killed, a further 120,000 would be gravely injured; and the plan would fail anyway.49 Churchill, long accustomed to accepting Cherwell’s pronouncements

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as gospel on scientiﬁc or technical matters, was deeply disturbed. On several occasions in April – while raids were actually being carried out – arguments for stopping them were hotly debated at endless meetings of Churchill’s Defence Committee. These ‘midnight follies’, as Zuckerman described them, began late at night in a small airless chamber under one corner of what later became the Treasury building in Whitehall. Briefed by Cherwell, Churchill opposed the plan and cast himself in a familiar role as an aggressive prosecuting counsel. Although it quickly became clear that the original casualty estimates were grossly exaggerated; that French and Belgian civilians recognised their rail networks as obvious and essential targets; and that they were heeding warnings to keep away from them, Churchill’s opposition did not weaken.50 ‘There is no better plan’, Tedder assured the Prime Minister at the ﬁrst of these meetings. ‘I’ll show you a better plan’, came the conﬁdent reply. Zuckerman saw Tedder’s knuckles whiten as he gripped the edge of the table, but he refused every provocation to quarrel. Though tense and unhappy, he did not waver in the face of Churchill at his most hostile. Portal, who had often seen the great man in a rage, discussed the issues with his usual unrufﬂed calm; and Sinclair supported Portal. Tedder relied on Eisenhower’s support, backed by that of Marshall and Roosevelt, men with whom Churchill could not quarrel and win. ‘I shall never forget those meetings’, recalled Tedder in his memoirs. ‘You are piling up an awful lot of hatred’, Churchill snapped at Tedder on 3 May. ‘You will smear the good name of the Royal Air Force across the world.’ Even at the end of the ‘midnight follies’, the Prime Minister claimed not to understand, let alone accept, arguments in favour of the transportation plan. He had talked about bombing fuel and arms dumps, troop concentrations and barracks, but such targets were usually found in or near towns, put civilians at greater risk (because speciﬁc warnings could hardly be given), and were of marginal value. How tired he looked, noticed Tedder: ‘the rush of events since 1940 had undermined even his strength’, and he had been very ill as recently as December.51 On 1 May, Tedder had invited his Principal Staff Ofﬁcer, Wing Commander Leslie Scarman (who later became a high court judge) to comment on Churchill’s objections.52 He made two points, observed Scarman: one political, the other military. With regard to the former, civilians could only be spared all risk if Overlord were abandoned. And yet the plan did not ignore this serious objection. Warnings of attack were routinely broadcast, causing higher bomber losses at the hands of alerted defenders. Several important targets were omitted altogether; in particular, Le Bourget (north of Paris), which became a major route for rapid German movement towards Normandy. As for the military objection, Scarman thought the plan offered obvious beneﬁts in slowing

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and canalising German movement. Attacks on dumps must put civilians living or working nearby at risk. Moreover, dumps could easily be reﬁlled, if railways were left working. Surely they should be left untouched until immediately before and after D-Day? Eisenhower, advised by Tedder, responded to Churchill next day, 2 May.53 The entire Overlord campaign was based on the assumption that the Allies’ overwhelming air power would be fully used. Otherwise, an already hazardous enterprise might fail. The French and Belgian people were now ‘slaves’, and it would be ‘sheer folly’ to abandon a carefully considered plan to help free them, and one speciﬁcally aimed at legitimate military targets, because of concern about ‘grossly exaggerated’ casualty estimates. Civilian casualties from attacks on rail centres before D-Day cannot now be accurately separated from the horrendous casualties (and fearful destruction of livestock, homes, public buildings, pasture and woodland) suffered in France and Belgium after D-Day. But it seems that about 7,000 French civilians were certainly killed and an unknown number injured; no ﬁgures for Belgian losses survive. A ﬁgure of 10,000 casualties in both countries is often quoted in secondary sources.54 Tedder visited his hero, Field Marshal Smuts, at his London hotel on 2 May. Tedder’s admiration for Smut was boundless, but at this critical time he was particularly relieved to see Smuts because he so often brought out the best in Churchill. Tedder discussed the plan with Smuts, who was ‘ﬁrm that political considerations must yield to military’.55 Unwisely, Churchill did not consult Smuts before writing to Roosevelt on 7 May, inviting him to order Eisenhower to cancel the plan. Churchill’s letter used the word ‘slaughter’ (of French civilians) four times and quoted casualty estimates that he then knew to be false. Roosevelt, neither impressed nor deceived, replied coldly on 11 May. He ‘was not prepared to impose from this distance any restrictions on military action by the responsible military commanders that, in their opinion, might militate against the success of Overlord’. Churchill grudgingly accepted defeat on the 16th.56 Despite his refusal to seek Free French opinion, because he did not wish General Charles de Gaulle to be part of the Overlord secret, Eisenhower sent Bedell Smith to call on General Pierre Koenig, head of Free French Forces in Britain, on 16 May. ‘We would take twice the anticipated loss’, Koenig assured Bedell Smith, ‘to be rid of the Germans.’57

22 A Great and Noble Undertaking Challenged by a Toy that Would Profoundly Affect both War and Peace From London to Paris, May to August 1944

To counter the baleful impact of Leigh-Mallory’s abrasive personality and ill-considered proposals, Tedder had James Robb brought home from North Africa in March to serve as his air deputy. During the campaigns of 1943, Robb had gradually become a trusted member of Spaatz’s inner circle and he got a warm welcome from old friends. In October 1944, when Tedder judged the time ripe, Robb would be neatly slotted into what was then left of Leigh-Mallory’s job. Meanwhile, as Tedder’s Personal Staff Ofﬁcer (Leslie Scarman) wrote, Robb was ‘to force the naughty boys’ of all branches of the air forces ‘to plan together … and to charm the US people into compliance’. By the end of May, Tedder was consulting daily with Robb, ‘whose advice is taken on every air problem’.1 Tedder had a tense meeting with Leigh-Mallory on 17 May about his relations with Coningham, an acknowledged expert in the use of tactical aircraft, who was to resume his collaboration with Montgomery, commanding all Overlord’s ground forces. Not for the ﬁrst time, Tedder urged Leigh-Mallory to be tactful and show goodwill to both men, but added privately to Scarman that he ‘requires educating to School Certiﬁcate standard’.2 Further education was administered during a meeting in Leigh-Mallory’s headquarters at Bentley Priory, on 3 June. Tedder criticised the Army’s demand – supported by Leigh-Mallory – for the bombing of villages in the invasion area to create road blocks. The cost in civilian lives and property, he said, would be high and the Germans would simply go round them, as they had in Sicily and Italy.

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Instead, he advocated continuing attacks on the rail system, and more intensive bombing of German airﬁelds, returning at irregular intervals to disrupt repair work. With luck, they would catch some aircraft on the ground. Spaatz, Doolittle, Coningham and Brereton all agreed. Leigh-Mallory, however, argued that direct, unquestioning support for ground forces, on the largest scale possible, should be an absolute priority, and that airﬁeld bombing was unnecessary because Allied ﬁghters would meet and destroy Luftwaffe raiders in the air. When challenged, Leigh-Mallory lost his temper, and Tedder was obliged to end ‘an ugly scene’ by stating ‘very quietly’ that he would decide policy matters, as Eisenhower’s representative. Leigh-Mallory wrote to ‘Dear Arthur’ on 5 June to complain about Tedder’s intervention, to which he replied on the 6th (D-Day): ‘don’t be so silly. Of course criticism is embarrassing – it wouldn’t be good criticism if it wasn’t. You, like all the rest of us, have got to take it and like it.’3 Tedder had lunch at the Athenaeum on 6 May with Sir Robert Bruce Lockhart, Director-General of the Political Warfare Executive. Lockhart ‘was tremendously attracted by him’, and thought Tedder ‘the most natural and mentally best-equipped commander I have ever met’ – and he had met many, during a long career spent among powerful persons. They discussed Cherwell, whom Tedder described as ‘a bad man, a really bad man. Yet the PM listens to him.’ As for Churchill himself, his ‘brilliance was still visible’, even to Tedder’s unenchanted eyes, ‘but now his peaks were fewer and shorter, and his slumps deeper and longer’. Yet Tedder feared his collapse, because the Cabinet comprised only ciphers. Anthony Eden, whom the Americans mocked as ‘Miss England’, was the pick of a poor bunch. Tedder’s opinion of the Whitehall machine, including the service departments, was low; a vast talking-shop, full of old men, and incapable of swift or well-considered decisions.4 By May, Tedder was coming to regard his former patron, Wilfrid Freeman, as one of those garrulous ‘old men’, even though he was only two years older. The memory of Rosalinde’s implacable dislike, reinforced by Toppy’s absolute refusal to defer to Freeman – whom she instinctively distrusted, as had Rosalinde – helped to weaken their friendship. Freeman, now Chief Executive in the Ministry of Aircraft Production, wrote to Portal on 25 May about the choice of a new Air Member for Personnel (AMP), the RAF’s second most important position. Tedder, he thought, ‘is fair-minded, has vision, is careful in detail and more than able to stand up to the Civil Service. He is certainly not a snob. His wife at present is rather a drawback because she is a nuisance, but I have no doubt that Tedder will train her in time.’ In Freeman’s opinion, however, Slessor was ‘the only possible choice for CAS’, when Portal chose to step down, ‘far better than Tedder’ would

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be in that position. Freeman therefore proposed Tedder for AMP and suggested that Slessor be summoned from Italy to take over as Eisenhower’s Deputy. A bizarre proposal, not least in its timing, and one that Portal wisely ignored.5 Tedder drove Eisenhower to a meeting at Bentley Priory on 31 May. Overtaking some civilian workmen, they were recognised, and got ‘a superb cheer’: a little thing, but it greatly heartened both men for the ordeal ahead.6 Starting on 1 June, the commanders were to meet daily with Eisenhower to consider weather reports – but only he could give the order to launch Overlord. They met in Ramsay’s headquarters at Southwick House, north of Portsmouth. These were days of almost intolerable tension, but Tedder managed to ease it for a few moments on 2 June by pulling Montgomery’s leg over Operation Copperhead. This was a deception plan whereby Clifton James, an actor who resembled Montgomery, had been sent to Gibraltar on 26 May and on to Algiers next day, in an attempt to persuade spies that an Allied landing in southern France was imminent. Tedder learned that James ‘rolled drunk out of the aircraft smoking a fat cigar’, and suggested to Eisenhower, Ramsay and Bedell Smith that the actor was identifying too closely with the original: the aggressively abstemious Montgomery was left speechless and everyone else vastly amused.7 Early on 4 June, Montgomery, ‘knowing full well that weather conditions would prevent the air forces from giving any real support’ if the invasion began on the 5th, ‘amazingly asserted his willingness, on the part of the Army, to take the risk’. Tedder advised postponement for at least 24 hours and Eisenhower agreed: air superiority, he reminded Montgomery, was essential.8 Ramsay also agreed: ‘we had only accepted a daylight assault’, he said, ‘on the understanding that overwhelming air and naval bombardment would be available to overcome the enemy coast and beach defences’. Next day, taking advantage of a brief break in the weather, Eisenhower made his heroic decision to begin what he called ‘this great and noble undertaking’ on 6 June.9 ‘We must trust in our invisible assets’, noted Ramsay in his diary: Operation Fortitude and Ultra information.10 These assets would have been valueless without the air superiority – verging on supremacy – won by the courage and skill of Allied airmen at appalling cost: 2,000 aircraft and more than 12,000 men were lost between 1 April and D-Day; between D-Day and the end of August, a further 4,000 aircraft were lost, together with nearly 17,000 men.11 Eisenhower knew what he owed to airmen. He and his son John, a lieutenant in the US Army, were being driven along a busy road in the beachhead on 24 June. ‘You’d never get away with this if you didn’t have air supremacy’, observed John. ‘If I didn’t have air supremacy’, replied his father, ‘I wouldn’t be here.’12

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Fortitude, an elaborate deception plan, persuaded the Germans that the Normandy landings were a feint, and that the main assault was still to come in the Pas de Calais. It would be commanded by Patton – whose spectacular deeds in the Mediterranean had earned him German respect – and was awaited by a large and well-equipped army. The deception was never rumbled, and that army, which might well have overwhelmed the Allied bridgehead in Normandy, did not move until the issue was already decided. But the ‘real miracle’ was Hitler’s decision, on the night of 9–10 June, to stand and ﬁght in Normandy at whatever cost.13 He thus played into the hands of inexperienced Allied soldiers, who proved much more adept at hanging on grimly than they would have been at pursuing a skilful enemy, able to mix his measured withdrawal with savage counterattacks at times and places of his own choosing. As Pete Quesada, a great American tactical air commander, later reﬂected: ‘one’s imagination boggled at what the German army might have done to us without Hitler working so effectively for our side’.14 After the breakout at the end of July, Hitler no longer had the option of a ﬁghting withdrawal across France, because all his strength had gone into holding the Normandy ring. ‘We are gaining ground rapidly’, remarked one German soldier in a letter home, ‘but in the wrong direction.’15 Tedder went ﬁrst to Uxbridge on the morning of D-Day, to see the ﬁrst reports coming in, and then on to Bentley Priory by 11 a.m. The King and the Prime Minister appeared and Tedder, backed by Bedell Smith, assured them that the bad weather had helped the ﬁrst troops to get safely ashore. Spaatz and Doolittle had already ﬂown over the beachheads, as Tedder knew they would, regardless of the risk. For their part, they knew Tedder well enough to guess, correctly, that he would take a perverse delight in not crossing to Normandy on D-Day. In fact, Tedder delayed his ﬁrst visit until the 11th, the last senior commander to do so, and he crossed not by air but by sea; aboard HMS Kelvin, a destroyer.16 Tedder now began to plan a re-organisation of the air forces that would eventually eliminate both Leigh-Mallory and his headquarters. It was supposed to be a combined headquarters, but British ofﬁcers outnumbered and outranked Americans. On several occasions, Spaatz had restrained Hoyt Vandenberg – Leigh-Mallory’s American deputy – from making ofﬁcial complaints. In Scarman’s words, ‘though earnest, LeighMallory does not inspire conﬁdence. Even Harris, who co-operates magniﬁcently, is irritated at AEAF’s delay in giving him his targets for the night. This is due to Leigh-Mallory’s request “for a think”, as he puts it, at the daily conference. No doubt, but for the presence of the Chief, deadlock in control of air forces would have occurred many months ago.’ The Americans are ‘a strange lot’, Leigh-Mallory assured

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his diarist on 27 June. They ‘don’t like being under the command of an Englishman, and that is a fact which I have to face’.17 Coningham, meanwhile, had disturbed the ‘complacency’ of a meeting at Bentley Priory on 14 June by bluntly stating that his information about the ground situation did not agree with that put forward by Montgomery’s representative; the Army had suffered ‘a severe setback’ and the situation was ‘near crisis’. Tedder decided upon ‘a terriﬁc punch’ – using Coningham’s medium bombers and ﬁghter-bombers – and suggested to Eisenhower that they go to Normandy and assess the situation for themselves. Leigh-Mallory had planned just such ‘a terriﬁc punch’ to unstick the Army, and wished to employ US heavy bombers – but failed to discuss his plan with Spaatz or Coningham. During a tense meeting in the headquarters of Lieutenant-General Sir Miles Dempsey, commander of the British Second Army, Tedder cancelled LeighMallory’s plan. He reminded Montgomery that Coningham was his opposite number and that Dempsey’s was Broadhurst, but Montgomery and Leigh-Mallory proved reluctant to accept that ruling.18 Caen was certain to be heavily defended by the Germans, because its control offered an obvious route through open country to the Seine and on to Paris, a country essential for the rapid shaping of airﬁelds and ideal for tank movement, whereas behind the western end of the beachhead lay a land of small ﬁelds, thick hedges, stone walls, solid farmhouses, broad streams and steep valleys, easy to defend. From the start of 1944, Montgomery had made it clear to everyone concerned in all three services that Caen was his prime target. Tedder expected a major effort to take it on the ﬁrst or second day, before the Germans gathered their strength. Quite apart from the strategic imperatives, the casualties suffered in a short action were likely to be much lower than those suffered in a long campaign against an enemy as ferocious as the Germans were known to be. Dempsey ‘always said that if we didn’t get it the ﬁrst day, it would take a month to get it afterwards’. Having shown insufﬁcient urgency on that ﬁrst day, his British and Canadian forces found themselves committed to a succession of ﬁerce and costly engagements that actually lasted for six weeks.19 According to Montgomery’s Military Assistant, Lieutenant-Colonel Christopher Dawnay, he deliberately gave the RAF ‘a totally false impression … as to when he was going to get those airﬁelds, south of Caen’. Once in Normandy, recalled Dawnay, we realised that the master ‘didn’t care a damn about those airﬁelds, as long as he could draw all the German armour on to that [eastern] side and give a chance for his right swing to break out!’ 20 An exceptional storm, during 19–22 June, was a major factor in preventing Caen’s capture before the end of that month, because the

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artiﬁcial harbours were wrecked or badly damaged, and few supplies or reinforcements were landed for four critical days. During those days, the Allies were vulnerable to a fatal counter-attack, but it did not come; in Tedder’s opinion, thanks to the success of airmen in isolating the battleﬁeld.21 Montgomery, making a virtue of necessity, gradually settled for attracting yet more German armour to the Caen front, thus easing the way for an eventual breakout elsewhere. Having failed to take Caen in the ﬁrst rush, he was probably right to hold there, but he certainly failed to make the change of plan clear to Eisenhower or Tedder, with whom (as in Mediterranean days) he avoided regular contact. Tedder informed Leigh-Mallory on 13 July that he could have nothing to do with either Crossbow (countering missile attacks) or the operations of the strategic air forces. More than 20 years later, Tedder reﬂected on these agitations: ‘though earnest, zealous, and brave’, Leigh-Mallory ‘did not inspire conﬁdence’ and was ‘insufﬁciently ﬁrm in explaining to the Army authorities the limitations of air-power in direct support of the ground battle’.22 The Allies had been aware of threats from a ﬂying-bomb (V-1) and a rocket (V-2) since late in 1942. Luckily for them, the Germans chose not to concentrate on the development and production of the cheap and effective V-1, launched from the ground or from an aircraft. It could have been in full production by December 1943, in time to disrupt the Overlord build-up. Although ﬂying straight and level, the V-1 was very small and could only be picked off with difﬁculty by defending ﬁghters or ground gunners, who were further handicapped by darkness, cloud or rain. The ﬁrst V-2 did not hit England until September 1944. Sites for both weapons were being built in an arc from Cherbourg to St Omer from August 1943. During the months before D-Day, heavy bomb loads were dumped on real, suspected, or abandoned launch sites to little effect.23 A few hours after the Allied landings began, Hitler ordered the V-1 offensive to begin on 12 June. Nearly 900 missiles were distributed from underground storage depots – in darkness, because of Allied air supremacy – to about 60 launch-sites, together with the necessary fuel. The Air Ministry, responsible for countering the missile threat, had not yet appreciated the scale of the domestic danger because attention, naturally, was focused on Normandy. The initial assault was a ﬁasco, but between 10 p.m. on 15 June and noon next day, 244 missiles were aimed at London from 55 sites. All told, between mid-June and 5 September, about 6,000 ﬂying-bombs reached England, killing about 6,000 people and seriously injuring 17,000; London suffered 90 per cent of the casualties.24 At ﬁrst, on 16 June, Tedder and his colleagues regarded the arrival of ﬂying-bombs ‘with the necessary detachment’ and refused to allow

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their attention to be diverted from Overlord. He attended a meeting summoned by Churchill to consider the threat and found him ‘sensible, and viewing the problem in its right perspective’.25 By the 18th, Tedder had already changed his mind. So too had Churchill. The V-1 was proving to be an effective terror weapon, causing great alarm among Londoners. No-one could tell how intense the attacks might become, and Allied forces in Normandy were nowhere near the launch-sites. At the request of the British Chiefs of Staff, Eisenhower ruled that the air forces had to make the attack on missiles, Operation Crossbow, a priority over everything except a battleﬁeld emergency. Tedder visited his old friend, Sir Henry Tizard, at Magdalen College, Oxford, on 9 July, ﬁnding him alive to the post-war implications of the ﬂying-bomb. Later that day, he entertained Norman Bottomley, Deputy CAS, and Frank Inglis, head of Air Ministry Intelligence, at his home, Castle Coombe, in Kingston-upon-Thames. He shook Bottomley by asking if Britain, like the Americans, had begun work on making its own missiles. The idea had evidently not crossed his mind, so Tedder snapped forcefully: ‘In their present form, they are a toy; but their development will profoundly affect both war and peace.’26 Spaatz discussed with Tedder on 15 August the possibility of Patton’s army swinging north after reaching Paris and, with the help of airborne troops, seizing the Pas de Calais. Tedder agreed that this offered the best chance of settling the missile menace, but ‘he had in mind using Montgomery’s army to do this job … something had to be done to get the British Army out of the rut’.27 Next day, however, Tedder urged Eisenhower to order airborne troops to seize Boulogne and Calais. The Supreme Commander demurred; they might be needed to help the army across the Seine (when the longed-for breakout from the beachhead was achieved), but he agreed to plans being made. Harris argued that both air forces should use their maximum strength against German targets, but Tedder remained set on an airborne assault before the end of August.28 ‘The principle which worked in the Mediterranean – of the Army and Air Commanders living together – has been allowed to lapse’, recorded Scarman on 22 June. This was partly because poor communications in Normandy prevented Coningham from operating in a joint headquarters with Montgomery, and partly because the Allies still lacked airﬁelds across the Channel. Tedder put these points to Eisenhower, who replied on the 25th that he wanted Tedder to make it his ‘special province’ to keep in the closest touch with Montgomery. Tedder therefore went to Normandy on 29 June, spoke with Coningham and Broadhurst, and then discussed the matter with Montgomery. He returned to England next morning and reported to Eisenhower. Montgomery, he said, thought

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Coningham too critical of the Army’s failure to take Caen. Tedder agreed with Coningham, adding that relations would not improve until the two commanders lived side by side, as in North Africa. Eisenhower remained agitated over both Montgomery’s ‘dilatoriness’ and Coningham’s ‘frankness’; the former wanted the latter sacked, but Tedder assured Eisenhower on 1 July that Coningham’s removal would be ‘a disaster’, and his frankness was entirely justiﬁed.29 ‘Ike is to draft a letter, tactfully telling Monty to get a move on’, noted Scarman on 6 July. ‘Chief (and Coningham) feel strongly that Army is not prepared to ﬁght its own battles.’ Nevertheless, at Leigh-Mallory’s request – supported by Eisenhower – 450 of Harris’s heavy bombers attempted to break the stalemate at Caen on 7 July. As their contribution to Operation Charnwood, they dropped over 2,000 tons of bombs in 40 minutes on the town’s northern outskirks; a spectacle that was held to have boosted the morale of British troops.30 It achieved little else. There was no urgent advance to take advantage of the bombing, and most of the casualties caused proved to be French civilians. At this desperate moment, 10 July 1944, a typically barbed minute from Churchill arrived on Tedder’s desk: ‘how many Frenchmen did you kill’ during the transportation attacks before D-Day? To which Tedder replied calmly that it would be impossible to provide an accurate ﬁgure, but probably not more than 10,000. He then added a barb of his own. ‘I am afraid, however, that those casualties are being dwarfed by the casualties involved in the liberation of Caen and other Normandy towns and villages.’ For once in his many exchanges with the Prime Minister, Tedder had the last word. Zuckerman, assisted by KingstonMcCloughry (AEAF’s Chief Operations Planner), compiled a detailed report on Operation Charnwood, but Tedder refused to circulate it; too demoralising, he said, for all concerned. Its failure generated widespread frustration; even if Montgomery were ﬁreproof, surely it was time for Eisenhower himself to assume direct command?31 Montgomery proposed another massive aerial bombardment, to be followed by another ground advance, this one devised by Dempsey. Goodwood, a set-piece assault by armoured divisions in the best El Alamein tradition, was launched on 17 July in a blaze of publicity, but halted three days later, having suffered heavy losses. A major reason for the halt, overlooked by Tedder, was a storm, creating a muddy swamp through which tanks could hardly move. Another point that Tedder overlooked was the fact that Goodwood had reduced German forces, already over-strained, to a shadow. He was, however, justiﬁably angered by Montgomery’s refusal, yet again, to co-operate with Coningham, but only with Leigh-Mallory – who had taken a personal caravan to the Army Commander’s headquarters and, wrote Tedder’s diarist on 19 July,

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‘seems to be cashing in on the discomﬁture of his own subordinate’.32 That evening, recorded Butcher, ‘Tedder called Ike and said Monty had, in effect, stopped his armour from going farther. Ike was mad.’ Tedder thought the British Chiefs of Staff would support any recommendation that Eisenhower might care to make; meaning, he could sack Montgomery. Butcher, an experienced newspaperman, doubted that he could. ‘Publicly, I should guess Monty has so covered his failure that his removal now would cause a storm.’ Butcher discussed possible successors to Montgomery with Lieutenant-Colonel James Gault, Eisenhower’s British Military Assistant. Gault agreed with Butcher that Montgomery had a 60–40 chance of hanging on, because Alexander was the only alternative. That situation, said Butcher, was a result of British pufﬁng of ‘Chief Big Wind’ in the press and radio.33 Then came news of the attempt on Hitler’s life on 20 July. Tedder told Eisenhower that the Goodwood failure had cost the Allies a great opportunity, and requested ‘immediate action’ against Montgomery. ‘Your own people’, he said, will be thinking ‘you have sold them to the British if you continue to support Montgomery without protest.’ Later, Tedder told Bedell Smith that unless they got the Pas de Calais quickly, ‘southern England will have a bad time’ from ﬂying-bombs. He replied that they would not get there soon. ‘Then we must change our leaders for men who will get us there’, snapped Tedder. Eisenhower wrote to Montgomery on the 21st. A weak letter, thought Tedder (who was not shown it before despatch): ‘Montgomery can evade it. It contains no order.’34 Tedder sent Eisenhower an exceptionally formal letter on 21 July. We were, he said, in ‘a very dangerous situation’, and drew the Supreme Commander’s attention to three points. First, political. The crisis in Germany, following the assassination attempt, called for immediate action, especially in the light of growing war-weariness in Britain, exacerbated by the ﬂying-bombs – and likely to be followed soon by much more deadly rockets. Second, operational. At the moment, the Allies had a military edge, on the ground and in the air, but this might not last. And, third, administrative. The Allies were short of space and port capacity, and needed more of both before bad weather set in. Tedder suggested that Eisenhower instruct Montgomery to prepare at once yet another plan of attack, and submit it for approval prior to action. Eisenhower should also take personal command of all Allied forces immediately, and Montgomery should be invited to review his subordinates. The available evidence indicated ‘a serious lack of ﬁghting leadership in the higher direction of our armies’, but not in those commanded by Bradley and his subordinates.35 Tedder wrote to Trenchard, ‘my old protector and friend’, on 25 July. With regard to Goodwood, he said, we have all ‘been had for suckers. I do not believe

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there was the slightest intention to make a clean breakthrough. Moreover, as has happened before, deliberate and cold-blooded endeavours are being made in high quarters in Normandy to hide the facts.’36 Both Edgar Williams (Montgomery’s Intelligence Ofﬁcer)37 and Carlo D’Este (most reliable historian of the Normandy ground campaign)38 accept that Tedder had grounds for his criticism of Montgomery. Nevertheless, Tedder’s words and actions during that exasperating month of July were uncharacteristic. Instead of working quietly behind the scenes, as he had done to emasculate Leigh-Mallory’s authority, Tedder came centre stage and positively demanded Montgomery’s head. He was tightly wound by mid-1944, after six years of heavy responsibility and grievous personal tragedies. No doubt he missed the safetyvalve of daily letters to Rosalinde, letters in which he not only let off steam, but cleared his mind for constructive action next day. In 1944, he had no occasion to write to his second wife, and in any case Toppy was a totally different person, with a demanding life of her own, centred on the Malcolm Clubs, an ever-growing enterprise. His conviction that Montgomery was handling his command poorly was heightened by nearly two years of exposure to that man’s offensive personality and complacent disdain for other’s opinions. Sir Alan Brooke, head of the British Army, must bear some responsibility for the crisis in relations between Montgomery and his colleagues in July 1944. Instead of stroking the master’s already massive ego, encouraging his constant sneering at Eisenhower, and harping endlessly on what he mistakenly considered to be American strategic ignorance, Brooke should have urged Montgomery to communicate openly and frequently with the Supreme Allied Commander and his deputy. Unlike Tedder, Brooke and Montgomery were unable to grasp the fact that ‘beneath his friendly exterior, Eisenhower was a deeply resolute professional soldier’.39 Montgomery did not tell Eisenhower or Tedder that the British Army was desperately short of infantry, in quality or quantity, for reasons outside any general’s control. During the inter-war years, the Army had been allowed to decay in every respect: doctrine, organisation, equipment, morale, recruitment and training, both with its own infantry and armour and in co-operation with other services. Montgomery was well aware that his soldiers, many reluctant conscripts, would not stand heavy casualties and could be relied upon only in setpiece ﬁghting; rapid manoeuvres, skilfully executed, were beyond them. In order to hide these limitations as much as possible, his plans depended on hardware. On the ground, if not in the air, most of that hardware (tanks, guns of all sizes, and trucks) was inferior to that employed by the Germans.40 Then came Bradley’s Operation Cobra on 25 July, which unexpectedly

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escalated from an exciting breakout in the west into a triumphant sweep eastwards to the Seine and Paris. Hitler co-operated with the Allies by demanding an impossible counter-offensive, mounted from Mortain on the night of 6–7 August, that led to a wholesale slaughter of German troops (and horses) in the Argentan–Falaise area. A costly stalemate had suddenly been transformed into a victory. Montgomery – encouraged, as ever, by Brooke, British newspapers and the BBC – would claim more than his fair share of the credit, with consequences that would place the Western alliance under severe strain by the end of the year. In fact, Montgomery and Bradley jointly failed to close the jaws of the Falaise pocket, and some 50,000 of the toughest soldiers in the German Army escaped to ﬁght on many another day.41 ‘For all the attention lavished by historians on the land battle in Normandy, Overlord was a classic example of Admiral Mahan’s famous dictum that the sea rules the land.’42 Quite apart from carrying thousands of men, weapons and supplies to the landing areas, there was an insatiable demand to re-supply the beachhead for many weeks to come, one that helped to justify Eisenhower’s insistence, backed by Tedder, on activating Operation Anvil. It became yet another issue in which Tedder found himself lined up with his American colleagues against Churchill and many senior British ofﬁcers. Anvil had at ﬁrst been planned as a landing on the south coast of France to begin at the same time as Overlord. Shortage of shipping ruled out a simultaneous assault, but weeks of failure outside Caen convinced Eisenhower that it was essential, from August onwards, to supply the armies in Normandy with men and munitions by capturing the great ports of Marseille and Toulon. Churchill, however, strongly supported by Brooke and others, was determined to continue the Italian campaign, the ‘centrepiece’ of the British war effort, ‘an imperial crusade holding postwar implications.’43 In Tedder’s opinion, the case for Anvil was unanswerable. The need for capacious ports if Overlord were ever to reach the Rhine, let alone advance beyond, was becoming clearer every day. So too was the need to feed into France those French divisions being formed in Italy and North Africa (which should have weighed heavily with the allegedly Francophile and politically alert Prime Minister). Resistance forces were strong in number in the south and could more easily be armed from American sources than by air drops from England. German forces there were known to be weak and poorly trained. Not least, Roosevelt was under pressure, in an election year, to ensure that Overlord remained at the centre of attention, and that commitments elsewhere, especially those that seemed pleasing only to the British, were kept to a minimum, otherwise voices would be raised for greater efforts in the Paciﬁc.44

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Tedder endured a six-hour lunch at Portsmouth on 5 August with Churchill, Eisenhower, Bedell Smith and Ramsay, among others. Churchill pressed Eisenhower to abort Anvil, but Ramsay and Tedder were stout in his support and he never wavered. Churchill nevertheless summoned Eisenhower to London on the 9th, wept and pleaded, threatened to lay down ‘the mantle of his high ofﬁce’ unless he got his way, and proposed a last-minute re-routing of the enterprise to Brittany. Gracelessly accepting the inevitable, Churchill insisted that it be renamed Dragoon, alleging that the enemy might have discovered the original code-name, but actually because he had been ‘dragooned’ into accepting it. He then turned up aboard a British destroyer on 15 August to observe the landing ‘of frog blackamoors, whose bravery I do not doubt’, together with US troops, all under the command of an American, Alexander M. Patch. The operation proved to be anything but the ‘bleak and sterile … tomfoolery’ Churchill had conﬁdently predicted, ‘where three months hence they will be found sprawling in the suburbs of Marseille’.45 By the end of October, the southern French ports were handling nearly 40 per cent of all American supplies reaching Europe, and transporting them along a rail network deliberately left intact by Tedder. Without these ports and railways, the supply crisis which hit the Allies in November might have proved insurmountable.46 Despite their many advantages, the Allies’ victory in Normandy was dearly bought – over 200,000 men lost in 80 days – and 70 per cent of those casualties were suffered by the infantry minority.47 By the end of that campaign, however, ‘all the elements and relationships for the rest of the tactical air war in Europe were in place: forward observers and controllers, occasional airborne controllers, radar strike direction, “on call” ﬁghter-bombers, armoured column cover, night intruders’: everything, in other words, that Tedder, Coningham, and their colleagues, British and American, had laboured to devise and perfect since 1940.48 At the end of August 1944, the way seemed clear for an early end to Hitler’s regime. Constant boosting in the British press and by the BBC of the British Army was ‘laying the seeds of a grave split between us and the Americans’, wrote Tedder to Trenchard on 5 September. ‘At the moment, they are being extraordinarily reticent and generous (due in no small measure to Eisenhower’s very ﬁne attitude over the whole business) but sooner or later they will come into the open and if the British public believe all they are being told now, they will not like being told a very different story by the Americans. It is a dangerous situation and may become a tragic one.’ 49 Events in the last months of 1944 would show that Tedder was an accurate prophet.

23 Aunt Sallies, Red Herrings, and a Patchwork Quilt From London to Brussels, August to December 1944

Early on the morning of 25 August 1944, the portly and sedate Solly Zuckerman found a compelling reason to dash into the ante-room of Tedder’s ofﬁce, in the Petit Trianon at Versailles, clutching two long rolls of what looked like wallpaper, which he spread out on the ﬂoor; Tedder arrived, got down on his hands and knees, and soon realised why Zuckerman was so uncommonly excited. They were looking at daily trafﬁc ﬂow charts, from May 1940 until the end of May 1944, in the German-controlled railway region, which had Brussels as its centre; charts that not only conﬁrmed the success of the transportation plan in helping Overlord, but also convinced them that similar attacks should now be extended into western Germany. Few members of the ever-growing army of alleged experts in economic or intelligence matters, British or American, civilian or military, agreed. Those who advised Portal in Whitehall, and Harris at his headquarters, urged a massive attack on Berlin to shatter civilian morale and compel the government to surrender, while those who advised Arnold in Washington, and Spaatz at his headquarters, wanted a continued focus on oil plants, believing that the German economy was about to collapse for lack of fuel.1 Tedder’s opponents gained an apparent advantage over him on 6 September, when Eisenhower was obliged by the Combined Chiefs of Staff to relinquish control of the heavy bombers to Arnold and Portal, who nominated Spaatz and Sir Norman Bottomley (Portal’s deputy, to whom Harris was formally subject) as their agents. The change was intended to end Tedder’s authority to require heavy bomber support

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either for the armies in France or for the attack on communications; from now on, he would have to ask for it. Tedder advised Eisenhower to accept the change. Whatever the rulebook said, any help he got from Spaatz or Harris would always depend on his powers of persuasion.2 In his quietly persistent way, Tedder exerted plenty of inﬂuence. He did so partly as Eisenhower’s known friend, as well as his respected deputy, and partly as chairman of the air commanders’ conferences that met regularly at SHAEF (Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force) to select targets. He readily agreed that oil remain ﬁrst priority, but persuaded Spaatz, Harris and Bottomley to agree on 13 September that transport targets be attacked whenever bad weather prevented oil attacks. Spaatz, he knew, was insisting that synthetic oil plants be attacked visually; they were small targets, not easy to identify, cleverly camouﬂaged, and protected by ﬂak and smokescreens. Whenever they were also obscured by cloud – which would be often, from September onwards, as bad weather returned to northern Europe – Spaatz instructed his bombers to use radar aids to hit marshalling yards instead: large targets, impossible to conceal or defend completely by ground ﬁre. Tedder therefore got most of what he wanted, ‘by assiduous political preparation, relentless struggle, and maintaining good personal ties’ with all concerned, helped by the cloudy autumn weather. Unlike the gurus of the American Enemy Objectives Unit (EOU), ‘he did not exclude alternatives to his own preferences. He advocated transportation bombing, but also saw the merits of attacking Germany’s oil supply simultaneously.’3 During October, thanks to that cloudy weather, oil targets received only one-third of the bombs dropped by US heavy bombers, and Tedder persuaded Harris to shift the aiming-point for his night bombers in area attacks from city centres to marshalling yards; they also attacked canal and river trafﬁc. As a bonus (the value of which everyone was slow to realise), both US and British bombers wrecked telephone and telegraph communications, cut gas and electricity supplies, and interrupted postal services; in all these ways, efﬁcient centralised administration gradually came to an end in Germany. In daylight, virtually unimpeded by the Luftwaffe, Allied ﬁghters strafed repair and damage-clearance crews, who became increasingly reluctant to attend to their duties and were, in any case, short of materials and tools. On 13 October, Bottomley ordered all air forces to focus on marshalling yards, viaducts and canals in the Ruhr. They caused ‘the spread of a deadly coal famine’ from the Ruhr throughout central and southern Germany. By the end of the month, the rail network had lost access to over a third of its entire stock of freight waggons through disorganisation in marshalling. This worsened and widened the coal famine. Given that the German armies needed every available weapon after suffering heavy

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defeats on all fronts during the summer of 1944, ‘tranportation bombing was already exerting a direct if far from decisive inﬂuence on the actual combat power of the Wehrmacht’; it was also undermining the capacity of the two Alberts – Speer (Armaments Minister) and Ganzenmüller (Chief Executive of the German National Railway) – to cope with further strain. ‘Systematic air raids’, wrote Speer, ‘throttled trafﬁc and made transportation, this time for good, the greatest bottleneck in our war economy.’4 Allied intelligence agencies, unsurprisingly, found it difﬁcult to assess what was happening in Germany. Photo-reconnaissance provided insufﬁcient evidence to evaluate attacks accurately, thanks to the same clouds that reluctantly diverted the Americans from their preferred oil targets. Tedder was amused by many of the objections to transport attacks. They were, he told Zuckerman, ‘Aunt Sallies and red herrings.’5 On 28 October, Richard Hughes, a senior ofﬁcial in EOU, wrote to Charles Cabell (head of operations and intelligence in Italy, formerly a member of Spaatz’s staff). Hughes had just emerged ‘from another furious battle with Tedder and the old AEAF gang’, and congratulated himself on ‘some prompt underground action … to spike their guns’. Cabell, however, took a more mature attitude. He wrote to Fred Anderson, Spaatz’s Deputy, on 5 November: ‘So long as unrestricted oil warfare has positive ﬁrst place, I personally believe that the disruption of transportation deserves second place. The effect of it is cumulative with the oil attacks, and the inevitable rail interdiction attacks, and further cuts across the entire German economy. Until evidence is presented to show otherwise, I feel that there is no transport cushion in Germany proper.’6 Both British and American experts failed to appreciate that Allied bombers were actually winning their contest with German repair crews; that the supply pipelines were becoming critically shortened, blocked or empty; that continued pressure was essential; and, above all, that no sudden shortcut to ‘victory before Christmas’ was available. Tedder’s opponents argued that an oil offensive would bring victory much more quickly than a transport offensive. They underestimated the difﬁculty of destroying oil targets, the extent of damage already done to the transport network, and quite failed to grasp the overwhelming dependence of the German economy on coal. ‘Six tons of coal stood behind every ton of synthetic gasoline. A heavy tank could rumble from the factory only after 115 tons of coal had been burned by a myriad of companies to produce it.’7 A Combined Strategic Targets Committee (CSTC) was formed on 5 October, with representatives from numerous agencies, British and American, under joint chairmen, Air Commodore Sidney Bufton,

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Director of Bomber Operations in the Air Ministry, and Colonel Alfred R. Maxwell, his opposite number at USSTAF, both of whom were wholly committed to oil attacks. Tedder therefore compelled the CSTC, despite its vehement protests, to form a transport sub-committee on 25 October. ‘I am not satisﬁed’, he told Portal the same day, that ‘we are using our air power really effectively. The various types of operations should ﬁt into one comprehensive pattern, whereas I feel that at present they are more like a patchwork quilt.’ Tedder then identiﬁed a key point that the two Alberts were desperately trying to protect: ‘The one common factor in the whole German war effort, from the political control at the top down to the supply of the troops in the front line’ was communications, by rail, road or water. ‘Industries may have gone underground’, he argued, ‘but their lifelines remain on the surface. Industries may have been dispersed, but the more they have been dispersed the more they depend on good communications. Government control depends to a very great extent on efﬁcient road and rail communications.’ Next day, 26 October, Tedder convened a meeting at Versailles of bomber chiefs and intelligence experts at which he had ‘a ﬁne time’, observed Zuckerman, telling them that they had been wrong about the transport plan, but ‘he probably went too far in rubbing Bufton’s nose in the facts’.8 The Allies had faced so many perplexing problems in getting safely ashore in Normandy that their thoughts about what might happen when (or if) they broke out of the landing areas could only be tentative. They expected an orderly German retreat to the Seine, giving them time to move their logistic bases forward, and prepare a powerful drive across that river. They would then press the Germans back towards the Rhine, and repeat the process until all the Allies, Western and Eastern, met in Berlin. But with the enemy suddenly in headlong retreat, an exhilarating pursuit followed, and plans were improvised in an attempt to exploit an unexpected triumph. By D + 100 (14 September), the Allies had advanced to where logistic planners calculated they might reach in May 1945.9 On 4 September, Montgomery called for ‘one really powerful and full-blooded thrust towards Berlin’, under his command, by no fewer than 40 divisions marching abreast, ‘which need fear nothing’. Tedder thought this a most revealing phrase: such a mighty force, he told Eisenhower, should be causing, not avoiding, fear. In his opinion, no competent general would seriously advocate such an advance without a large, secure logistic base in his rear, quite apart from the dangers inherent in crossing several rivers with an ever-extending right ﬂank increasingly exposed to attack. But even if the plan had been sound

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militarily, it was impossible politically, as neither Montgomery nor his War Ofﬁce admirers ever understood. The US government and its people would simply not accept leadership by any British general in the ﬁnal battles of the war in the west. Least of all when that leadership would dim the glory of Eisenhower, Bradley and Patton, their own heroes.10 Eisenhower reminded Montgomery on 5 September that he had always given priority to the northern route of advance, but could not agree that it should be ‘to the exclusion of all other manoeuvres’. In Eisenhower’s opinion, with which Tedder agreed, it was ‘fantastic’ to talk about marching to Berlin with an army still drawing most of its supplies over beaches north of Bayeux. Access to Antwerp was essential. It would be best, Eisenhower decided, to breach the Siegfried Line, cross the Rhine on a wide front, and seize both the Ruhr and the Saar. A sensible strategy, but one requiring ‘an assertive leadership style’ not in Eisenhower’s nature.11 Eisenhower and Tedder arranged to meet Montgomery at Brussels airﬁeld on 10 September. They took with them Lieutenant-General Sir Humfrey Gale, SHAEF’s head of administration, to discuss supplies, but Montgomery – newly promoted to ﬁeld marshal and believing himself to be on the brink of a famous victory at Arnhem – arrogantly demanded that Gale withdraw from the meeting, and Eisenhower agreed. At the time, Tedder was surprised and disappointed at what seemed weakness, as well as an insult to an able senior ofﬁcer. Montgomery worked himself into a rant over the conduct of operations until Eisenhower gently rebuked him: ‘Steady, Monty. You can’t talk to me like this. I’m your boss.’ However, the incident deeply upset Eisenhower, as Ramsay noticed during a long private conversation on the 11th. ‘Ike does not trust his [Montgomery’s] loyalty, and probably with good reason. He has never let himself go to me like this before.’ The meeting made such an impression on Eisenhower that its 15th anniversary reminded him of Montgomery’s ‘preposterous proposal’ to go to Berlin, shortly before he failed even to cross the Rhine.12 Nevertheless, Eisenhower supported Montgomery’s thrust towards the Ruhr by assigning Courtney Hodge’s army to his command, despite Bradley’s objection. British troops had occupied Antwerp on 3 September and found the great port practically undamaged. But because Antwerp lay at the head of the Scheldt Estuary, many miles from the open sea, the British needed to capture both banks of the river in order to use the port. Montgomery’s attention was ﬁxed on the Ruhr; its conquest was to be followed by a triumphal procession to Berlin, and he quite overlooked the vital task of securing access to Antwerp. Several tragic consequences, from an Allied viewpoint, followed. As many as 80,000 of the German

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15th Army, isolated on the Channel coast, were allowed to escape across the estuary into Holland and neutralise Antwerp for 12 vital weeks; the ﬁrst Allied ship did not berth there until 28 November.13 Eisenhower had approved the formation of an Allied Airborne Army on 8 August. It was commanded by Lewis Brereton, with two corps commanders, one British (Frederick Browning) and one American (Matthew Ridgway). This army, Eisenhower’s only strategic reserve, was anxious for action and Montgomery obliged. Against the advice of his own staff, he chose to launch a drive to the Lower Rhine at Arnhem. Montgomery already had a notorious inclination to prefer the company of ‘young and adoring acolytes’, men who became old and adoring apologists, and to avoid regular contact with his fellow commanders: men with the rank, character, and experiences to argue with him, and even to contradict him.14 Operation Market, carried out by airborne troops between 17–25 September, was intended to seize several river bridges and establish a corridor extending 80 miles into Holland, from Eindhoven north to Arnhem. Operation Garden was an advance by Brian Horrocks, commanding 30 Corps (part of Dempsey’s army), along that corridor – a single narrow road, overlooked by enemies on either ﬂank. Montgomery assured Frank Simpson, Director of Military Operations in the War Ofﬁce, that ‘we could be in Berlin in three weeks and the German war would be over’.15 As numerous accounts make clear, every Allied unit involved fought hard from start to ﬁnish of both operations. But they encountered experienced German commanders, with well-equipped and determined troops, who took full advantage of hasty, careless and impractical Allied planning, exacerbated by an astonishing disregard of unwelcome intelligence and inept leadership. ‘Everybody thought it would be a romp’, recalled Roy Urquhart, who led the descent on Arnhem. None of the British radios worked properly, and Coningham was unable to give maximum support because the air plan forbade him to approach the landing/dropping zones while troop-carrier aircraft and gliders were about. In short, ‘there is no aspect of the preparation of that tragic ﬁasco that does not ﬁll one with dismay’.16 Even Montgomery admitted a mistake. ‘Not only were the lives of many brave men needlessly sacriﬁced’, commented his approved biographer, but the disaster reduced still further his inﬂuence with the Americans,17 as Tedder was quick to perceive. Churchill had the nerve to inform Smuts that the disaster was actually ‘a decided victory’, while Montgomery was soon claiming a 90 per cent success – which provoked Tedder to remark to Zuckerman, ‘one jumps off a cliff with an even higher success rate, until the last few inches, but the result remains

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a disaster’. Edgar Williams was appalled by ‘the sheer wilfulness’ of Montgomery’s decision to mount Arnhem before clearing the Scheldt Estuary, and still more by the ‘lack of grip’ he showed throughout Market Garden.18 At a meeting on 5 October, Montgomery made ‘the startling announcement’, noted Ramsay in his diary, ‘that we could take the Ruhr without Antwerp’. This gave him the cue ‘to lambast’ the ﬁeld marshal for not having made the Scheldt Estuary his highest priority: ‘I let ﬂy with all my guns at the faulty strategy we had allowed.’ It was, however, a blessing that Jacob Devers’ 6th US Army Group, supplied from southern France, would soon reach the Rhine. That valuable reinforcement, and supply route, would not have existed if British strategic notions had succeeded in cancelling Operation Anvil/Dragoon. Portal wrote to Churchill on 13 October to remind him that he had agreed on 21 August to Leigh-Mallory being released by Eisenhower and his headquarters being disbanded on 15 October. Everyone was glad to see Leigh-Mallory go, but not all resentments went with him. The command structure remained ‘defective’, but Tedder and Spaatz ‘left lesser men to do the squabbling’. Brigadier-General Herbert B. Thatcher was one American airman who did not share those resentments. ‘No man can be a Head of Operations’, Tedder told him, ‘unless he has all the information.’ He therefore arranged for Thatcher to have access to ‘British Eyes Only’ letters, as well as Ultra information. ‘He gave me an absolute, wonderful free hand’, Thatcher remembered, more than 30 years later, ‘and he was a great, great man, Tedder was, and he didn’t say a whole lot. He sat back and smoked his pipe, and when he spoke it wasn’t the usual British hems and haws, he came out with something pretty good, and Ike listened to him, absolutely.’ A cocktail party was held on 9 October at Eisenhower’s headquarters in the Trianon Palace Hotel to farewell Leigh-Mallory. Attendance was compulsory for both top and medium-level brass, and the result was ‘the stiffest thing I ever attended’, recalled Colonel Edmund C. Langmead, an American member of his staff. ‘Leigh-Mallory did not want to leave, and the atmosphere was not one of gaiety and pleasure.’19 Encouraged by Zuckerman, Tedder was trying to create a Bombing Research Mission from September onwards. He intended it to have British, American, Soviet and French members, who would examine the effects of every kind of bomb on every kind of target: factories, railway centres, oil plants, ofﬁces, private homes and the human beings found in them. It would be a comprehensive study, Zuckerman hoped, ‘of the dissolution of a society under stress’. Tedder agreed that Sir Henry

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Tizard, with whom he had worked at the Ministry of Aircraft Production in 1940, was a big enough man to head it, helped by a team of graduatelevel research students and ofﬁcials with experience in communications, civil engineering, and urban management. By October, Churchill had unexpectedly expressed strong opposition (both to the idea and its cost); the Americans preferred to make their own investigations; and the Russians were not interested. The question of testing weapons and assessing their performance had concerned Tedder since at least 1932, and with Portal’s backing, a small RAF team was formed, not only to study past performance but to offer guidance for future decisions. On 3 January 1945, Churchill decided not to sanction a British Bombing Research Mission; a decision Tedder regarded as scandalous, ‘perverse, personal, and political’.20 A year later, when Churchill was no longer Prime Minister, and Tedder was Chief of the Air Staff, strenuous efforts were made to make up for lost time. The ﬂying-bomb (V-1) could certainly have been produced in sufﬁcient numbers to disrupt preparations for Overlord, but fortunately for the Allied cause, time and resources were spent on another missile, far more complex and costly. Each V-1 cost the equivalent of only £115, whereas each rocket cost the enormous amount of £12,000, delivering the same weight of explosive, and causing far less blast damage. The ﬁrst V-2 struck England on 8 September 1944, followed by many more, but two months passed before Churchill told the British public what those in London already knew: that the Germans had a new weapon to supplement their ﬂying-bomb attacks. The last of more than a thousand rockets, travelling at ﬁve times the speed of sound, was ﬁred from Holland at England on 27 March 1945. All told, some 2,800 people were killed and over 6,500 seriously injured, 90 per cent of them in the London area.21 Defence against the V-1 was difﬁcult enough, but the V-2 was invulnerable. Tedder took part in several meetings at which there was anxious debate over how to limit casualties in England without causing at least as many in Holland, given that the German launching organisation took great care to blend into Dutch residential areas. Tender agreed with Spaatz and Harris that the only solution was to force a German surrender, but meanwhile did what he could to disrupt supplies of rockets and fuel to Holland. In 1944–45, mercifully, rockets were too few, too inaccurate, and their explosive force too small to affect the course of the war, although the organisation would not be driven out of Holland until the end of March 1945 and surrendered to the Americans in May – who promptly offered employment to its key members.22

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Flight Lieutenant Sam Pritchard, navigator of Tedder’s personal DC3, had fallen ill in September, and Tedder ordered him into his own household at Versailles for a week’s rest. The villa had been owned and occupied by Elinor Glyn, at one time an immensely popular novelist. He urged Pritchard to read her books, which still ﬁlled a long shelf in the guest bedroom, but he did so with that ‘particular expression’ in his face and voice that Pritchard recognised as a warning. Thanks to a long occupancy by two high-ranking Luftwaffe ofﬁcers, the villa was still furnished to a pre-war standard. Toppy visited regularly, but brieﬂy, and the permanent residents were Tedder, Robb, Sir Frederick Morgan (who had played a major part in devising the Overlord plan; since which he had served as Eisenhower’s Deputy Chief of Staff) and Air Commodore Harald Peake, Director of Air Force Welfare. During meals, conversation never touched on the war, but only on such civilised subjects as literature, music, history, education and memories of happier days. After dinner, Tedder would go off into a corner with one or two guests to discuss some problem, and would draw in Pritchard if any question of geography came up. Otherwise, he was free to enjoy Robb’s card tricks, and Peake’s endless ﬂow of funny stories. Eisenhower sometimes called in, and on one occasion talked to Pritchard for a full half hour about the American Civil War, with Tedder sitting silently by.23 Grahame Dawson, Tedder’s repair and maintenance expert during his Mediterranean campaigns, ﬂew from Algiers on 14 November to attend a conference in Paris and visit his old chief. At about 12.30 p.m., near Autun in eastern France, some ten miles north of Le Creusot, Dawson’s B-24 Liberator ﬂew into a hillside during a violent snow storm and all 11 persons aboard were killed. Within the hour, that same storm killed Leigh-Mallory and all ten persons aboard his aircraft in a crash some 15 miles east of Grenoble and 150 miles south of Autun (although the wreckage would not be found until seven months later).24 On 18 November, just after learning that Dawson was certainly dead and that Leigh-Mallory was missing, Tedder received his ﬁrst handwritten, personal note from Montgomery. The ﬁeld marshal had learned that Coningham had his wife living with him in Brussels, and asked Tedder to have her sent away. Tedder was unamused, and would have been even less amused had he learned that a few days later, on the 27th, Freeman took it upon himself to write to Portal to complain that Tedder was living with his wife in Paris, that Lady Coningham was in Brussels, and that Lady Leigh-Mallory had been ﬂying with her husband to Ceylon. Freeman – who had his own wife by his side throughout the war, and had done his bit to keep Rosalinde and Tedder apart – asked Portal

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to recall the surviving wives to England. Not surprisingly, Portal ignored this offensive letter. Lady Coningham’s elder son, a tank commander, had been killed near Eindhoven on 11 November. She, like Toppy, was devoted to welfare work both before and after that tragedy. Eisenhower wrote to ‘Dear Toppy’ on 4 December to say how much he had enjoyed a recent visit to one of her Malcolm Clubs: ‘I wish that all the ﬁghting men that visit the Club could know how much they owe to you.’25 Meanwhile, another quarrel with Montgomery was coming to a head. Eisenhower wrote to him on 9 October to underline, not for the ﬁrst time, ‘the supreme importance’ of opening the port of Antwerp to cargoes from Britain and the United States. ‘Unless we have Antwerp producing by the middle of November, our entire operations will come to a standstill’, and efforts to do that ‘require your personal attention’. Next day, the 10th, he wrote again, to inform Montgomery about the new air organisation: ‘Tedder is being made personally responsible for all air operations in the theater, and will always be constantly available for conference when your air needs transcend those immediately available to you.’ Montgomery, still eyeing the Ruhr and glory beyond, resumed his agitation for the appointment of a single ground commander, himself, to remedy what he perceived as current failures.26 But now, after Antwerp and Arnhem, Eisenhower decided that he had given Montgomery enough rope. ‘Normandy is history’, he tartly informed him on 13 October, ‘but if you, as the senior commander in this theater of one of the great Allies feel that my conceptions and directives are such as to endanger the success of operations, it is our duty to refer the matter to higher authority for any action they may choose to take, however drastic.’ These words got through to Montgomery, and he backed down. ‘You will hear no more on the subject of command from me’, he replied on 16 October. This promise was not kept, thanks to the continued encouragement he received from Brooke, Simpson, and Grigg, Secretary of State for War, who shared his conviction that Eisenhower was a clueless battleﬁeld commander and that British strategic notions were superior to those of the Americans.27 Ramsay struck his usual realistic note on 17 October. ‘The Army are far behind with organising’, he recorded in his diary, ‘as I knew they would be, as they entirely under-estimated their task, and Montgomery had not given the Canadians sufﬁcient support for their work’ of clearing the Scheldt Estuary. ‘The fact is’, added Ramsay on the 22nd, ‘that it has at last come home to him that Antwerp is the ﬁrst priority of all, and he has moved back to Brussels to give it his attention. And high time too.’28 That attention included the opening of a determined campaign to get

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rid of Tedder. He had been too free with his criticism of the ﬁghting ability of the Anglo-Canadian armies, and the quality of their leadership, ever since D-Day. Now, when strenuous efforts were at last being made to open Antwerp, Tedder strongly resisted demands for heavy bomber support. He supported Coningham’s claim that if only ground forces would closely follow up attacks by medium bombers and ﬁghterbombers, the estuary would soon be cleared. Dutch lives and property would suffer more, without obvious military advantage, from heavy bombing. Montgomery and his Whitehall admirers, including the Prime Minister, disagreed. Their thoughts turned to Alexander, then commanding in Italy; British opinions would get a better hearing, because Eisenhower liked him, and Montgomery easily swayed him.29 Brooke was keenly aware of ever-declining British strength and became shriller even than usual in criticising Eisenhower (not only in his private diary); Montgomery, thus encouraged, made yet another takeover bid.30 Tedder went to London on 1 December for talks with Portal about whether there really was a need for a single ground-force commander. Portal agreed with Montgomery that ‘one mind’ should be in control, but Tedder argued that Eisenhower should be that ‘one mind’, if only he would abandon the ‘political atmosphere’ in Paris and move forward to Reims. Tedder sent Portal one of his long hand-written letters on the 4th, having just spoken with Eisenhower about his latest visit to Montgomery’s headquarters, where the master informed him that Eisenhower had failed to concentrate on the northern drive. ‘This, of course, ignores the hard fact’, commented Tedder, ‘that the lines of communication to the north were strained to the uttermost and that it was literally impossible to operate larger forces on that front: it also ignores the fact that for weeks three American divisions were immobilised in Normandy by being denuded of all their motor-transport to feed 21 Army Group, divisions which, had they been sent forward to Patton, might well have taken us straight through to the Rhine.’ On 6 December Churchill urged Roosevelt to support a full-scale discussion in London by the Combined Chiefs of Staff of ‘the serious and disappointing war situation’, but the President preferred, as usual, to rely on professional advice in military matters. Eisenhower’s strategy, approved by Marshall, was achieving the best results that could be expected in mid-winter, against a tenacious and skilful foe, desperate to protect the Fatherland. On the morning of 7 December, Montgomery actually attended a meeting of top brass, held in Maastricht, at the headquarters of William Simpson’s newly formed US 9th Army. With Eisenhower’s approval, Tedder took minutes, in view of past ‘misunderstandings’ with

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Montgomery – and in the private hope, shared only with Bedell Smith – of getting from the supreme commander ‘that ﬁnal precision and decision’, as he told Portal, which he ‘does in some degree lack’. Montgomery demanded Bedell Smith’s exclusion, as he had Gale’s at a similar meeting in September, but this time Eisenhower refused. He then demanded that Tedder be regarded as ‘just the airman’, and again Eisenhower refused, even more ﬁrmly. As he would tell Roderic Owen in 1950, Tedder’s opinions ‘were just as important to me on army matters as on air matters. On several occasions he vigorously upheld the land point of view if he considered that the airmen were indulging in untidy thinking.’ Eisenhower endeavoured to lighten Montgomery’s mood by reminding him that the Allies were inﬂicting much heavier casualties than they were suffering, although present and prospective ﬂooding might delay a Rhine crossing until May. The ﬁeld marshal replied that the present command structure was not succeeding and that he would willingly take orders from Bradley. An offer of transparent dishonesty, in Tedder’s opinion, ‘relying, I suspect, on an outcry from the British public and possibly from the Chiefs of Staff which would kill such a proposal at birth’.31 Eisenhower offered Montgomery command of Simpson’s army and two US airborne divisions to help his Anglo-Canadian armies in their attack on the Ruhr. He also accepted Bradley’s proposal that the Americans launch their own offensive, aimed at Frankfurt, from both north and south of the Ardennes. Montgomery rejected the offer, refusing to admit, in Bradley’s words, ‘any merit in anybody’s views except his own’. The meeting had been ‘another balls up’, Montgomery told Tedder. ‘Everything has been a balls up ever since September 1st.’ To Grigg he wrote that the meeting had been a ‘complete failure’; ‘That Tedder should take their side is too dreadful’; Grigg underlined these words.32 Eisenhower and Tedder, recognising the importance of not allowing the views of Montgomery and his allies to pass unchallenged into the record, arranged to meet Churchill and the British Chiefs of Staff on 12 and 13 December to give them ‘a personal and very informal presentation of our situation and general plans’. Brooke recommended that Montgomery’s proposed thrust across the Rhine north of Dusseldorf be given maximum support, even at the expense of a standstill south of the Ardennes. Eisenhower preferred a double advance into Germany: Montgomery’s north of the Rhine and Bradley’s through Frankfurt. Military plans stand high amongst the uncertainties of human affairs, and no-one then, or now, can be sure that Brooke was wrong and Eisenhower right. What can be said is that Brooke and Montgomery had erred over Antwerp and Arnhem; that Eisenhower was the agreed

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Supreme Allied Commander; that his US forces now dominated the alliance in numbers and equipment; and that a prominent role for his American subordinates was politically essential as well as militarily explicable. It can also be said that Brooke (no less than Montgomery) expressed his opinions in extravagant and offensive terms, whereas Eisenhower made his points calmly and cogently. When Brooke had ﬁnished a strident repetition of Montgomery’s views, Tedder quietly observed that ‘all the forces south of Saarbrucken were maintained via Marseille’, and that ‘the scale of Allied operations in the north had been, and would be, governed mainly by problems of supply and maintenance’. He went on to remind Churchill and the Chiefs that ‘at Mareth, in Sicily, and at Caen, the main attack, according to the original plan’ – framed in each case by Montgomery – ‘had been held by the enemy, and the breakthrough had occurred in an area where, according to the original plan, supporting operations only were contemplated’. In view of the enemy’s lack of mobility – a result of the transport plan’s success – Tedder was impressed by the advantages of attacking in two widely separated areas. Brooke, however, thought ‘Tedder talks nothing but nonsense in support of Ike’, and petulantly threatened to resign when Churchill gave him his support. The Prime Minister, aware that Eisenhower’s famous patience was becoming exhausted, and that he was wholeheartedly backed by Roosevelt and Marshall, had no choice. The Supreme Allied Commander and his deputy then returned to France, feeling rather pleased with themselves, just in time to get the shock of their lives, when the greatest German offensive in the west since 1940 began at 5.30 a.m. on 16 December 1944.33

24 Painting on a Bicycle and Winning Another Contest with Churchill From London to Germany via Moscow, December 1944 to April 1945

‘The enemy’s situation’, declared Montgomery on 16 December 1944, ‘is such that he cannot stage major offensive operations.’ Every senior commander, including Tedder, agreed and all were proved wrong that very morning, when 25 divisions from three German armies mounted a shattering attack in the Ardennes. Concealed by fog and snow showers, they burst across a 70-mile front, weakly held by US forces. Antwerp – now at last open to receive and distribute supplies of all kinds – was the ultimate German target. If it could be re-taken, there would be no Rhine crossing in the near future. With his rear relatively secure, Hitler’s prospects of building and maintaining a strong defence in the east, where Russian armies had still to cross the Vistula river in Poland, would improve.1 On 19 December, Eisenhower and Tedder began a long, cold, and anxious journey in an armoured, heavily guarded Packard motor car from Versailles to Verdun. There they met Bradley, Patton and Devers. Tedder agreed with Eisenhower that the German offensive should be regarded ‘as one of opportunity for us and not disaster’; consequently, the Supreme Commander demanded only ‘cheerful faces’ at this meeting.2 The grins on those faces would have been less ﬁxed had the Allied commanders known that Speer expected the offensive to fail. ‘I saw the switching yards east of the Rhine jammed with freight cars’, he recalled, in words which would have delighted Tedder, because ‘enemy bombers had prevented the movement of supplies for the offensive’. On 23 December, the skies cleared. Against fully alerted forces, enjoying total

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air superiority, and far superior in numbers, arms and supplies, the result was certain. Speer returned disconsolately to Hitler’s headquarters, convinced now that the war was lost.3 Tedder snatched a moment to scribble a few lines to Margaret on 22 December. ‘That the Hun should have stuck his neck out as he has is undoubtedly a good thing from the point of view of ending the war earlier, but that he should choose this moment to do it is worse than a nuisance so far as I’m concerned.’ He also wrote to Mina that day. ‘Isn’t this the devil? I’m terribly sorry to let the show down like this. We’d counted so much on really being together for a day or two this time, and now – !’ However, he thought the attack ‘may make months of difference. But he might have waited till after Xmas!’ Faced with a shocking crisis in the west, Eisenhower was anxious to learn when the Soviet Union intended to resume its offensive in the east. He persuaded his masters in Washington and Whitehall to ask Stalin to receive Tedder and two American ofﬁcers, Major-General Harold R. Bull (operations) and Brigadier-General Thomas J. Betts (intelligence).4 Tedder was authorised to give Stalin full information about Allied armies and air forces, plus whatever was known about German armies and the Luftwaffe, because the ‘whole purpose’ of the visit, said Eisenhower, ‘was to co-ordinate the two fronts’. He hoped for a Russian offensive no later than March, when he planned to cross the Rhine; ‘at that time’, said Betts, ‘we thought it would be a very, very serious operation’.5 During a swift circuit of Whitehall ofﬁces, Tedder was briefed about recent contacts with the Soviet Union. ‘At the conference table’, he learned, Stalin’s ‘approach is marked chieﬂy by an air of serenity and quiet alertness – the quiet alertness of a cat about to spring’; he spoke little, often with ‘disconcerting humour’, and was ‘a master of the art of doodling’. In these respects, if in no others, he and Tedder were brothers under the skin.6 Tedder and his American colleagues drove to Bovingdon in Hertfordshire on 30 December, intending to take off next morning, bound for Naples. ‘I hoped to be in Moscow in three days; ﬁve at the most’, he later reﬂected. ‘Had I known that the journey would take a fortnight, I would have walked.’ Technical problems with the aircraft – a twin-engined North American B-25 Mitchell bomber – delayed their departure for 24 hours and set a standard for ‘the most frustrating journey of my life’. As late as 6 January, thanks to dreadful weather, he was no further east than Cairo and suggested to Eisenhower that he return to SHAEF, but was told to press on. Churchill agreed, though not because he thought the mission important. ‘I had no occasion to be consulted upon the choice

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of such an ofﬁcer for this purely military mission’, he complained to the British Chiefs of Staff, ‘but as he has got so far, and it is understood that only very simple and general indications are required from the Russians, I should object very much to his returning to SHAEF because the weather is bad for a day or two from Cairo onwards.’ Sending Tedder, he told John Colville (one of his secretaries), ‘is like asking a man who has learned to ride a bicycle to paint a picture’.7 A lucky break in Cairo dispelled some of his frustration. Tedder had swapped the cramped, unheated bomber in Naples for a comfortable Douglas DC-3 Dakota. After hearing one of the Dakota’s fuel tanks drizzling, he decided to abandon the Dakota for an Avro York, a large transport aircraft. At last the SHAEF party reached Simferopol in the Crimea, landing ‘at a grim, bleak, featureless plain on which two or three timber huts were the only sign of human habitation’.8 Food, ‘which I found difﬁcult to identify’, appeared at regular intervals, plus Crimean wine, and by the end of the day, most of his hosts were drunk. ‘I myself, as last man in (or perhaps I should say, last man out)’ chose a bench to sleep on, in preference to a ﬂea-ﬁlled bunk. Flying was again impossible next morning, and Tedder took the opportunity to visit Sevastapol. Except for its associations with the Crimean War and the immortal Charge of the Light Brigade, he found it ‘a singularly uninspiring spot to visit on an early January day’. He made a poor sketch near Balaclava, which he got the top local airman to sign, heard a weather forecast, and agreed to continue by rail. It was a slow but comfortable journey, taking 42 hours to cover some 800 miles (an average speed of 19 mph). Though ancient, the carriage was handsomely upholstered, beautifully carpeted, with its own washroom and lavatory, but far from ﬂea-free. For most of the time they trundled through an empty land covered in snow, stopping wherever there was a settlement not totally destroyed, as well as in every town. Everyone got out to buy or barter for vegetables, bread, and something safer to drink than water. In many places they passed smashed waggons and overturned locomotives, pushed to the side of the track, while around Kursk and Orel – scene of ﬁghting on a gigantic scale in 1943 – they saw numerous wrecked tanks, trucks and aircraft.9 After a friendly but unceremonial welcome at Moscow’s railway station, Tedder was driven to the British Embassy. The Ambassador being away, he discussed his mission with the US Ambassador, Averell Harriman, with whom Tedder had worked amicably in Cairo.10 Harriman now demanded that both he and a British diplomat accompany the SHAEF party to Stalin’s ofﬁce in the Kremlin, for otherwise they ‘would immediately get into deep water’. Allowing the insult to pass, Tedder quietly reminded Harriman that he had already met Stalin,11 that he (and

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his companions) were experienced military men sent to discuss vital military matters, and that they would politely clam up if non-military subjects were raised. He therefore refused to allow Harriman to join the party, but agreed that two ofﬁcers might: Major-General John R. Deane, head of the US military mission in Moscow, and his British equivalent, Admiral Edward Archer. Major Arthur Birse, a British interpreter, also accompanied them. Betts remembered Harriman as ‘very, very difﬁcult’; a conceited man unwilling to believe that mere military men might get through to Stalin even on military matters.12 On arriving at Stalin’s ofﬁce in the early evening of 15 January, Tedder noticed signiﬁcant changes since his last visit in August 1942. At that time, there had been vast portraits around the walls of such Communist heroes as Marx, Engels and Lenin; these had now been replaced by equally vast portraits of Soviet generals. Stalin himself was no longer dressed as a civilian but was ‘in full sail as a Field Marshal, suitably hung with red stars and similar appropriate decorations’. He was attended only by his Army Chief of Staff, General Alexei Antonov, and Valentin Pavlov, his interpreter. Stalin stood up to greet Tedder, shaking hands and saying: ‘Well, I’m happy to tell you that I responded to your pleas and have started an offensive to take the pressure off you in the Bulge.’ The SHAEF party reckoned that battle already won, but Tedder immediately expressed delight. Betts was convinced that Tedder had deliberately delayed his arrival in Moscow. ‘He wanted to be darn sure that the Bulge was liquidated before he started talking about crossing the Rhine.’ No evidence survives on this point, but Tedder was certainly determined to present Eisenhower as a victorious ally and not as an anxious suppliant.13 Tedder probably wished Stalin to hear that General Sharapov, head of the Soviet military mission’s air section in London, was getting ‘the red-carpet treatment’ from Coningham in Brussels. Sharapov arrived there on 13 January, and was allowed to see all aspects of tactical operations. In return, he supplied details about Soviet methods and answered questions more readily than in the past.14 Stalin ‘twitted’ Tedder with having taken so long to get to Moscow, to which he replied ‘with a rude remark about Russian weather’; he said nothing about Russian railways. Tedder then offered him two cigar boxes, already opened to calm the nerves of the armed guards. ‘When do they go off?’ asked Stalin. Tedder made a performance of consulting his wristwatch and replied: ‘Not until after I’ve gone.’ This little joke was so well received by the Man of Steel that even Antonov and Pavlov smiled. Tedder had expected hours of fencing, but Stalin promptly spread out a map and outlined current operations and future intentions lucidly and concisely. At one moment, Bull intervened to say that the Western

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allies expected to be on German soil soon and were wondering how best to treat civilians brought under their control. Did Stalin have any advice to offer? Not a man to miss such an easy opening, he gave ‘a very hard smile’, and asked if Bull had heard of the Cheka, a special force employed to deal with ‘unreliable elements’.15 After an ominous silence, Tedder raised a matter currently agitating Anglo-American commanders: the difﬁculty of crossing the Rhine. Engineers had assured him that the optimum period lay between midMarch and mid-April. Would Stalin ‘keep the Germans occupied’ during that critical period? Certainly, he replied. Tedder then told Stalin about an improved version of the Tiger tank encountered during the recent offensive. This led to an animated discussion about the quality, performance, and appropriate employment of tanks and aircraft. Stalin agreed that many Luftwaffe pilots were still willing to ﬁght hard, but poorly trained because Germany lacked fuel. Tedder seized this cue to emphasise the immense efforts being made, round the clock, by Western strategic bombers against both oil and transport targets. ‘I pointed out that the Blechhammer synthetic oil plant was at extreme range for the British and American bombers from the west, and consequently had so far escaped attack, but on the other hand it was at short range from Russian bomber bases.’ Stalin rounded menacingly on Antonov, who turned pale, so Tedder quickly intervened, promising to provide details of the target’s location and defences. This bad moment passed, but Tedder caught Antonov’s eye: both men knew that those details had been passed to the Soviet Union months previously.16 Arthur Birse, the British interpreter, later commented that this interview ‘stands out in my memory as one of the most satisfactory I ever attended’; and Tedder ‘stands out in my memory as the man for whom I should like to have worked more often … His manner was pleasant and at the same time businesslike, but behind a simple exterior there were uncommon depths of knowledge and experience.’17 Stalin, said Birse, ‘never pays fulsome compliments and dislikes hearing them. Nor does he indulge in rhetoric.’ Tedder’s avoidance of both was well received. Stalin seemed impressed by his direct manner and his brevity. Stalin, in fact, was pleased to welcome a ﬁghting commander, rather than yet another politician, ‘telling him frankly, in his quiet impressive way, our plans’. Stalin had little respect for any Western soldiers, but admired their navies, and especially their air forces: another point in Tedder’s favour. ‘He was particularly interested in what the Air Chief Marshal had to say about our air effort’, Birse reported: ‘the devastated areas behind the front in Normandy and the process being repeated on the Rhine … He

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seemed pleased that Germany’s oil output was 30 per cent of normal, that tanks were being captured with no petrol in them.’ His interjections, which could be cruel, were all constructive at this meeting. Portal sent a copy of this report to Churchill on 5 February, who made no comment. However, Birse’s high opinion of Tedder’s achievement was widely seconded by permanent representatives of the Allies in the Soviet capital. ‘Tedder presented our plans and worries with the utmost clarity’, recorded Deane, ‘and made a great impression on Stalin by his blunt sincerity.’18 The interview with Hitler’s most powerful and ruthless enemy lasted some 45 minutes and was an undoubted hightlight in Tedder’s long career. Years later, when the Western press had given up on ‘Uncle Joe’ and presented him in his true colours, as a villain in Hitler’s class, Tedder was often asked about his meeting with the monster. ‘I won’t pretend that I saw the beast within’, he told Theodore McEvoy, ‘and I won’t deny the force of his personality: stronger than Winston’s, and stronger even than that of Smuts. He sat so still and his eyes, like a reptile’s, hardly moved. But what impressed me most was the silence of Antonov, his Chief of Staff. He just sat there – I’m sure he thought he should be standing at attention – like a naughty schoolboy in the headmaster’s study!’19 Tedder had often observed the British Chiefs of Staff arguing the toss with Churchill. They admired his amazing energy and ability, but were not blind to his errors in judgement of men and issues. Stalin, reﬂected Tedder, would not be advised as frankly or expertly by Antonov as Churchill was by Portal, Cunningham or Brooke. Either by accident or design, Tedder had timed his arrival in Moscow perfectly. By 15 January, it was clear that the Ardennes offensive had failed on the Western Front; and equally clear that the massive Soviet blitzkrieg would soon bring a decisive victory on the Eastern Front. Consequently, the SHAEF party’s farewell lunch with a group of air generals on the 16th was ‘quite light-hearted’, with much joshing. Tedder, however, deliberately cornered Marshal of Aviation Khudyakov to tell him that Soviet and Western airmen should share their combat experience. Khudyakov agreed. Russians, he declared, were particularly expert in the close support of ground forces, to which Tedder politely replied that he too had some grasp of those problems. The SHAEF party left Moscow on 17 January, aboard an American Dakota. They reached Poltava, some 450 miles south of Moscow, where there was a US base. Betts was admitted to hospital, for treatment to an old leg injury that had become infected during the journey to Moscow, and was left there. Tedder had arranged for the York to await them in Poltava, and on the 18th they began the long haul home.

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A cheerful message from Zuckerman, appointed CB in the New Year Honours List, awaited Tedder in London. ‘I shall never be able to tell you’, wrote Zuckerman on 4 January, ‘how much I have enjoyed working with you and what fun it was ﬁghting with you for what we knew to be right answers.’ Tedder was warmly welcomed in Paris by Eisenhower on 21 January, even though the key question – when will the Soviet forces resume their offensive? – had already been answered. The mission had opened a direct line to Stalin for Eisenhower, and revealed that Deane and Archer lacked up-to-date information about the Western military situation; this would be remedied by sending detailed daily reports to Moscow. Tedder now learned that Montgomery had offended Eisenhower so deeply during his absence that he had come within a whisker of dismissal. He had brusquely challenged Eisenhower’s judgement for the umpteenth time, bullied Bradley, shown open contempt for other US commanders, and implied at a press conference on 7 January that only his exceptional leadership had saved the Allied cause. Churchill thought his speech ‘most unfortunate’, he told the British Chiefs of Staff on 10 January. ‘It had a patronizing tone and completely overlooked the fact that the United States have lost perhaps 80,000 men and we but 2,000 or 3,000.’ Eisenhower had warned Churchill that his generals were so angry ‘he would hardly dare to order any of them to serve under Montgomery’.20 This news did not unduly distress Tedder. Eisenhower asked the British Chiefs of Staff to arrange for details of Tedder’s unique journey and amicable interview with Stalin, and with senior air ofﬁcers, to be publicly revealed. Stalin had signalled Churchill on 15 January to say that ‘the mutual exchange of information was sufﬁciently full’ and that ‘Marshal Tedder made a very favourable impression on me’. Churchill replied next day that he was ‘extremely glad’ to have that opinion of Tedder, ‘and from the bottom of my heart I offer you our thanks and congratulations on the immense assault you have launched upon the Eastern front’. But to Eisenhower’s surprise – though not to Tedder’s – the Chiefs informed him on 26 January that Churchill ‘strongly opposed’ any publicity ‘which would, in his view, shock British and American publics as revealing the lack of contact which existed before Tedder’s visit to Moscow’.21 Churchill had no intention of allowing the press to splash Tedder’s name across its front pages as the intrepid airman who risked his neck to carry Ike’s vital message through to Uncle Joe. ‘It is a great pity that General Eisenhower has not had in the last few months a Deputy with some knowledge of the military art’, Churchill told the British Chiefs of Staff on 30 December 1944, ‘who would have

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been capable of pointing out to him the faulty dispositions of the armies’.22 Tedder should be replaced by Alexander. Although Brooke had a low opinion of Alexander’s capacity for high command, he thought this ‘a sound move, and one which would assist in keeping Ike on the rails in future’. Brooke passed the good news to Montgomery on 5 January, who agreed – at the time – even though he shared Brooke’s opinion of Alexander’s military incapacity. ‘The more I see of him’, wrote Brooke of Alexander on 12 January, ‘the more I marvel at the smallness of the man. I do not believe he has a single idea in his head of his own!’ His ‘deﬁciency in brain allows him to be dominated by others’, he added on the 18th. ‘He has no personality of his own!’ And yet Brooke wanted this man at Eisenhower’s side. Unlike Tedder, Alexander would offer no opposition to Brooke’s strategy, and would allow him to counter US dominance in the Western alliance.23 Churchill had sown the seed at lunch with Portal on 2 January, telling him, ‘under a pledge of secrecy’, that Tedder should be appointed Air Member for Personnel (AMP) in order to make room for Alexander. Portal, surprised, replied that he supposed Churchill would discuss this proposal with Eisenhower, who would not, he thought, approve. Portal began to pin the Prime Minister down on 9 January. He hoped, he said, that he had not given him ‘the false impression’ that either he or Sinclair wanted Tedder as AMP instead of Slessor. They were convinced ‘that the loss to the war effort caused by moving Tedder before Germany is defeated … would be very much greater than any loss involved in moving Slessor’. Churchill wriggled, Portal pressed. Did Churchill want the AMP post left vacant in case Tedder ceased to be Deputy? Was he considering Tedder as Alexander’s replacement in Italy? Or as Portal’s Vice-CAS? Or as Portal’s successor? If the Mediterranean theatre declined, replied Churchill on the 11th, ‘I might wish to have a soldier at Eisenhower’s side, and you can guess who it would be’, adding, in a rational moment: ‘Of course, the Americans have a say in all the high commands.’ Portal now made it clear to Churchill that the only Air Ministry job he had in mind for Tedder was his own. If Tedder were replaced by Alexander, it would be good to have an airman succeed as Supreme Commander in Italy: he is ‘by far the best qualiﬁed candidate we can put forward. I should have every conﬁdence in him’. Should that move prove impossible, Tedder could replace Evill as Vice-CAS. ‘I have regarded Tedder as my most probable successor, and if you had the same idea, it would be an excellent thing in every way for him to have a period as ViceCAS.’24 Rumours of a change reached Marshall in Washington. He told Eisenhower that Alexander’s appointment as Deputy would mean that

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the British had won a major point in gaining control of ground operations, even though their forces were much smaller and were suffering many fewer casualties. Moreover, Alexander – being so weak – would act as Churchill required. Eisenhower replied on 12 January, promising Marshall that he would ‘seriously object’ to this change, though he liked Alexander personally. ‘My present Deputy is equally a splendid man, the only difﬁculty being that experienced senior ground ofﬁcers, particularly on the British side, assume that he is incapable of discussing intelligently any important matter pertaining to the ground, except in the single ﬁeld of air–ground co-operation.’ Eisenhower understood from Churchill that Tedder was wanted in the Air Ministry. If that were so, he would take Alexander – but he would be a Deputy without Portfolio, not ground commander.25 Although he refused to admit it, Tedder was mentally and physically exhausted by mid-January 1945. His Moscow mission, apparently so vital at the outset, and an unprecedented honour for an airman, followed hard upon months of bitter argument. At his lowest ebb, Tedder learned that Churchill was again after his blood, and feared that both Eisenhower and Bedell Smith, hitherto staunch allies, were wavering. The ﬁnal straw came in a long handwritten rebuke from Portal, whom he had supposed to be an even stauncher ally. Portal’s letter, dated 25 January, referred to a British bombing raid on Royan, a town on the west coast of France. Strongly garrisoned by Germans, it prevented the Allies from using the major port of Bordeaux. As a result of the raid, carried out in the early hours of 5 January, 1,400 French civilians were killed or wounded. According to SHAEF headquarters, wrote Portal, the raid was mounted at the request of French Army authorities, but apparently this was not so. This ‘lamentable affair … can certainly do nothing but harm to the good name of the RAF, possibly eventually more so than the bombing of the railway centres prior to and during Overlord’.26 Tedder’s letters of 27 and 28 January, written in anger and distress, were provoked by Portal’s ﬁnal words.27 In the ﬁrst, he took up Portal’s ‘clear and inescapable’ implication that the employment of the RAF before and during Overlord, for which Tedder had been responsible, did ‘harm to the good name of the RAF’. He had supposed that Portal, of all men, would realise that there was not ‘a vestige of truth in such an allegation’. Now thoroughly wound up, he went on to say that for the past ten months he had faced ‘a campaign of misrepresentation and intrigue, emanating from Bufton of your staff’, which spread everywhere: throughout the Air Ministry, the War Ofﬁce, the Ministry of Economic Warfare, US headquarters and even into the Prime Minister’s

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private circle.28 At present, Tedder continued, he owed his allegiance to the Combined Chiefs and to Eisenhower. So long as he retained their conﬁdence, he would remain at his post. ‘I have, however, reason to believe that various changes in the higher direction are under consideration; if, as I suspect, they involve my removal from SHAEF, I must ask that I be allowed to take that opportunity of retiring from the service.’ That letter was to be taken by James Robb (Tedder’s Deputy) to Portal, then in Malta for a meeting of the Combined Chiefs of Staff. Having brooded overnight, Tedder gave Robb a second letter on 28 January. Since yesterday, he had learned more about the ‘intrigues’ whereby Alexander was to take over his job. He had long been fully aware that neither Churchill nor Brooke ‘had conﬁdence in me in my present post and that, to put it bluntly, they would like to have someone in my place who would be more amenable’. Not once had either of them consulted him on any issue, and he believed himself to be a victim of ‘Whitehall intrigues which emanate from the War Ofﬁce’. In no circumstances would he agree to go to the Mediterranean or to the Air Ministry. Portal replied at once, on 30 January.29 He promised to show Tedder all the papers about possible moves when he returned to London, invited him to reconsider his threat to resign, insisted that Churchill had ‘your interests very much at heart in all this’, and apologised for adding to Tedder’s stress, ‘but you have always had my fullest conﬁdence’. Tedder subsided. Eisenhower met with Marshall and other senior US ofﬁcers at a château near Marseille on the 28th. Everyone knew that Churchill wanted Alexander beside Eisenhower, but Marshall was convinced that Tedder should not be replaced at this late hour. He backed the idea of offering Alexander a title without a job, knowing it would be rejected. Eisenhower returned to Paris next day, 29 January, and admitted to Tedder that he had wavered, but only because the Prime Minister insisted that he was needed for a vital post in the Air Ministry.30 During the Yalta conference, Churchill secured what he took to be an agreement that Alexander and Tedder should swap jobs in about six weeks, when the Ardennes offensive would be ‘more forgotten’.31 Bedell Smith and Bull dissented, and Marshall ‘took a dim view’ of the decision. That dim view, Eisenhower realised, mattered more than Churchill’s affection for his favourite soldier. He therefore asked everyone concerned to stay calm: ‘things would be OK’.32 And so they were. Eisenhower learned on 14 February that Montgomery was now ‘most emphatic’ in resisting a change (recognising, perhaps, that Tedder had more to offer the Allied cause than Alexander). Backed by this unexpected ally, Eisenhower and Tedder agreed the text

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of an exceptionally sharp letter sent to Brooke on 17 February.33 Eisenhower had supposed that the proposal to swap Tedder and Alexander was dead, but recent rumours indicated that the transfer was to be effected shortly. If so, the implications must be carefully considered, to avoid any subsequent misunderstanding. Alexander could not be expected to handle problems of air co-ordination, and Eisenhower would therefore ask for Spaatz to be appointed air commander. Also, Alexander must understand that there could be ‘no question whatsoever of placing between me and my Army Group Commanders any intermediary headquarters, either ofﬁcial or unofﬁcial in character’. US commanders and their men were ‘aggrieved by the unfortunate burst of publicity in the London papers following upon my placing of Montgomery in temporary command of the lst and 9th Armies during the Ardennes battle. No single incident that I have encountered throughout my experience as an Allied Commander has been so difﬁcult to combat as this particular outburst in the papers.’ In short, Alexander would have no military duties, but concern himself exclusively with civilian welfare and public relations. Brooke promptly passed this astonishing letter to Churchill, who was shocked by both its tone and content. He protested to Eisenhower on 22 February, but got only a bland reply. The days were gone when Churchill’s wishes were commands at the highest level of Allied decision-making. ‘The PM was sore’, noted Kay Summersby, ‘but E [Eisenhower] said that he would get over it.’34 That would not happen, sadly, until after Churchill chose to play the last card of a losing hand. He and Brooke visited Eisenhower and Tedder in Reims (where they were setting up a forward headquarters, overlooking a well-blasted marshalling yard) on 5 March to press the Alexander case yet again. They argued until 2 a.m. but got nowhere, and departed after breakfast, ‘much to everyone’s relief’, recorded Summersby, who added on the 10th that it had been decided to take no further action: ‘Everyone contented.’ The Prime Minister sent Tedder a curt signal on 12 March. ‘Eisenhower will doubtless have informed you that the change I had in mind and about which we talked will not now take place.’ Just to add a ﬁnal twist to this sorry saga, the cypher ofﬁce contrived to omit the word ‘not’!35 As the war drew to a close, Tedder and Zuckerman became increasingly anxious that detailed and accurate information be gathered about the effect of various weapons on various targets. Zuckerman had set up a Bombing Analysis Unit (BAU), which, he told Tedder on 27 February, was stuck ‘between the devil of USSTAF’s isolationism and the deep blue sea of Air Ministry neglect’. Tedder invited Portal’s support on 22 March for a ﬁeld research team, based on the BAU, under an ofﬁcer of

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air rank supported by an experienced scientist. As with criminal investigation, so with this: ‘the trail must be hot’.36 Portal needed no persuasion. He had already told his fellow Chiefs on 20 March that, without such an organisation, ‘we shall face the grave danger of Government opinion on the lessons of this war being based largely on propaganda, personal recollection, or on the results of investigation by other nations’. Brooke and Cunningham agreed, but Churchill refused his support. All was not entirely lost, because Tedder and Zuckerman created a British Bombing Survey Unit (BBSU) by joining Bomber Command’s Operation Research Section to their BAU, but it lacked civilian experts, an independent chairman, and depended largely on statistics gathered by the Americans. It also reﬂected the views of its founders, advocates of attacks on transport targets ahead of oil targets, and of either ahead of ‘area’ attacks. Carefully reasoned though these views were, they would have carried more weight had they been subjected to independent analysis. Both the American and British studies offer ‘a ﬁeld day for the advocates of various competing bombing policies’, and not a balanced judgement on what they had achieved. Also, one reason why Tedder’s transport offensive was not implemented sooner is that he sold it as a ‘common denominator’ that would affect both the German economy and military operations. ‘It was thus very difﬁcult for him to order attacks on targets too deep inside Germany before the ground forces were close enough to be persuaded of the direct effect of such attacks.’37 Eisenhower signalled Stalin on 28 March, ruling out an Anglo-American advance on Berlin, as Churchill, Brooke, and Montgomery ardently desired. After the destruction of German forces in the Ruhr, he decided that the main western thrust, directed by Bradley, would be in the direction of Erfurt, Leipzig, and Dresden. He wanted to know Stalin’s intentions in order to co-ordinate Allied action. Stalin replied on 1 April, praising Eisenhower’s initiative, indicating that Berlin was now a target of secondary importance, when in fact he was planning a massive onslaught, to begin on 16 April.38 In Eisenhower’s opinion, fully supported by Tedder, the Western Allies had no compelling reason to attempt an entry into the German capital ahead of their Eastern Allies. On the day of his signal, some two million Soviets were massing a mere 30 miles east of Hitler’s capital, while Eisenhower’s armies lay more than 200 miles away.39 In any case, a large part of what would be left of Berlin after the slaughter was over had already been assigned, by agreement at Yalta, to the Western powers. Eisenhower’s forces had at last crossed the Rhine, on 23–24 March, and their objectives were now to secure the independence of the Netherlands,

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Denmark, Norway and establish a presence in north Germany, by seizing Hamburg, Bremen and Emden. Less exciting than a glorious charge for Berlin, such as Churchill, Brooke and Montgomery yearned for, but more practical and more likely to remain in Western control. In short, the attempt to seize Berlin ‘would have been a strategic as well as an operational error of enormous magnitude’.40 Eisenhower assured the Prime Minister on 7 April 1945 that it was a purely military decision, that Tedder had been ‘freely consulted’ – together with other senior British ofﬁcers at SHAEF headquarters – and that they were all in agreement, though Tedder was not actually present when the message was sent.41 Angered by yet another rebuff, Churchill ﬁred off to the Chiefs of Staff one of the ‘worst minutes I have ever seen’, noted Brooke in his diary on 12 April. The minute roundly abused Tedder for failing to prevent Eisenhower from dispatching such an offensive signal, ‘forgetting that he himself had undermined Tedder’s position by continually communicating direct with Ike and cutting Tedder out!’ Eight months later, the then ex-Prime Minister ordered all copies of his minute – and the replies it provoked – destroyed.42 April saw arguments over the most effective use of military power gradually overtaken by appalling revelations of German atrocities, and by the compelling demand to ﬁnd some means of feeding and sheltering millions of people: no longer designated ‘friendly’ or ‘enemy’, just people in desperate need. By the 30th, an end to ﬁghting was at last in sight, but Tedder was too tired and too overwhelmed by the sights and smells of wreckage to rejoice. On that day he received a note from Trenchard, which he would treasure, when his mind had relaxed sufﬁciently for him to take it in: ‘Words fail me’, wrote Trenchard. ‘How can I write to you what I and all the air force feel, and what I hope the nation feels, or will feel, we owe to the air force and to the senior ofﬁcers in it?’43

PART VII 1945 TO 1949: COMMANDING THE ROYAL AIR FORCE

25 Chief Aunt Sally in the Whirligig of Whitehall London and Elsewhere, May 1945 to December 1946

Tedder held his last wartime air commanders’ conference in Reims on 4 May 1945. The mood, for once, was boisterous, undisciplined, and no serious work got done; rather like the end of term at school, he remarked; a term that had lasted far too long. As at school, the occasion was marked by the dishing out of prizes. Seven ofﬁcers of the USAAF, among them Vandenberg and Quesada – with whom Tedder would remain in contact for years to come – received the insignia of their appointment as CBs (Companion of the Order of the Bath). Tedder was not a man for speechifying, but made his admiration of such able comrades perfectly clear.1 Later that day came news that the Germans had capitulated in western Europe, and Tedder – persuaded by Bedell Smith and coached by Butcher – recorded a short speech to be broadcast throughout the United States when VE Day (Victory in Europe) was ofﬁcially declared. We have victory here in Europe, he declared, we need it next over Japan; and then begins ‘our major task’: ﬁnding some means of keeping alive that ‘spirit of unity and co-operation by which alone we can win the peace for which we have been ﬁghting’.2 During the next ﬁve years, that would become Tedder’s ‘major task’. Tedder’s memoirs end in 1945, but his ﬁnal words – recording a comment made in August 1941 by Jan Christian Smuts – look forward to that task. ‘I am not worried about the war’, Smuts told him, ‘it will be difﬁcult, but we shall win it; it is after the war that worries me. Mark you, it will take years and years of patience, courage, and faith.’3 General Alfred Jodl (representing the German Army), Admiral Hans Georg von Friedeburg (Navy) and General Hans-Jürgen Stumpff (Air

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Force) were sent to Reims to sign an unconditional surrender. By a combination of bad weather, good luck and crafty stalling, they managed to delay their arrival until the evening of 6 May, earning precious hours for countless soldiers and civilians to ﬂee westward, away from vengeful Russians. Eisenhower and Tedder remained discreetly out of sight until the document was signed, at 2.41 a.m. on the morning of 7 May 1945. Only then did the two principals emerge to face a roomful of excited journalists, cameramen and photographers, in addition to numerous staff ofﬁcers.4 Eisenhower found a quiet moment to say that he had decided to send Tedder to Berlin next day to conﬁrm that surrender, on behalf of the Western Allies, with the Soviet Union. No higher honour ever came his way and he was speechless, emotionally overwhelmed. With two dead members of his own family in mind, this quietly commanding British airman would put his name to a document formally ending years of slaughter in Europe. He had no illusions about the long-term value of these ceremonies. One ‘war to end all wars’ had already been fought in his lifetime, but the chaos left by this one – still raging in parts of Asia and the Paciﬁc – would take far longer to remedy. Nevertheless, an evil regime had been destroyed, and that was an achievement to savour – whatever happened in the future. Four Dakotas, with 42 passengers aboard (in addition to journalists and cameramen), took off from Reims on 8 May. They landed at Stendal, 60 miles west of Berlin, where Tedder counted 150 damaged German aircraft and noted that every hangar and airﬁeld installation was wrecked. The German representatives (Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel replacing Jodl) were collected, and the Dakotas – escorted by Russian ﬁghters – ﬂew on to Berlin’s enormous airﬁeld at Tempelhof. A pall of yellowish smoke hung over the city, recalled Tedder, and throughout their stay they never escaped the acrid smell of burning. He made a short speech (repeated in Russian) and then inspected a guard of honour; ‘having looked at them’, Tedder recalled, ‘I quite sympathised with the Germans being scared stiff.’ The route to Russian headquarters had been roughly cleared of rubble at the expense of blocked side streets, and numerous buildings were ruined. He saw no other vehicles, not even tanks; no Russian soldiers and few civilians were visible. The city gave Tedder ‘a weird impression of being in some sort of coma. The only sign of life was in the queues at water standpipes.’5 The Russians had taken over an army engineering school in Karlshorst, east Berlin, that was surprisingly intact; even the windows were unbroken. It took the best part of 12 hours to get the surrender document into an agreed format, and to decide who should sign it. Among the complications were a fuss over the absence of a French ﬂag, both at Tempelhof

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and at Karlshorst – not helped when the Russians, perhaps innocently, offered de Lattre de Tassigny a Dutch one. Many verbal changes, none of substance, were proposed to the document signed in Reims, and all had to be checked by the interpreters. Eisenhower’s secretary was obliged to type each version by candlelight, electric power having failed.6 Andrei Vyshinsky, Soviet Deputy Foreign Minister, objected to Spaatz and de Lattre de Tassigny signing as witnesses. Tedder said he could not give way on this point and, as he later told the American historian Forrest Pogue, ‘took my pipe over in a corner to sulk’. Marshal Georgi Zhukov, head of all Soviet forces in Berlin, went across to him. ‘I don’t want to be unreasonable’, he said, ‘but you represent SHAEF, I represent the USSR. It isn’t logical to have the other two.’ Tedder replied: ‘It’s not a matter of logic. We have to have an American name because 140 million people are involved; we have to have France because 40 million are involved. We have three ﬂags to consider; you have one.’ Hours later, when Vyshinsky sighed and looked yet again at his watch, Tedder caught his eye: ‘Yes. We aren’t getting any vodka and food, are we?’ Vyshinsky nodded and reluctantly agreed that the witnesses might sign on a line below the two principals. The Germans were at last brought in. They saluted the seated Allies. Tedder then rose, and asked them if they were prepared to sign an act of unconditional surrender. Keitel said he was. Encouraged by their Russian colleagues, the journalists got out of hand, climbing on tables, exploding ﬂash bulbs, and shouting while the surrender documents were signed. The Germans – infuriated by the jostling and lack of respect for their eminence – were then hustled away. The room was cleared, and a small army of Russian women swiftly prepared a memorable banquet, which lasted until 5.30 a.m. Beside each place was set red and white wine, champagne, vodka and brandy: ‘as lethal a loading as one could imagine’, thought Tedder. He had taken to calling Vyshinsky ‘the man in grey’, the eternal bureaucrat – or worse, the nameless secret policeman. Proposing the ﬁrst toast, Tedder said: ‘We military people have learned how to understand each other – at terrible cost – let us hope men in grey learn to understand each other as well without so much trouble.’ Zhukov smiled and whispered: ‘He’ll not let that go without a speech.’ Nor did he: 20 minutes on how the antifascist community must co-operate to ensure that Germany never rises again. Tedder, observing that Zhukov toasted only in small glasses of white wine, followed suit. At 5.30 a.m. on 9 May 1945 – day one of ofﬁcial peace in Europe – a sober Tedder had the SHAEF party collected and poured into a ﬂeet of cars for a swift tour of Berlin, en route to Tempelhof. He stole a few minutes to make a sketch at the Brandenburg Gate, but a visit to the Tilly Institute proved impossible, although he did learn that it had escaped destruction. Wandering around the rubble of what had been Hitler’s

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Chancellery, Tedder saw two or three huge swastika banners. A Russian ofﬁcer pointed at one and then at Tedder, so ‘it eventually found a place of dishonour in the Imperial War Museum in London’. Flying out of Berlin, in the co-pilot’s seat, Tedder watched ‘with satisfaction a ﬁnal display of Allied air superiority as typiﬁed by the victory rolls being carried out by our escorting Yak ﬁghters’.7 Portal sent Tedder a handwritten letter on 9 May offering thanks, ‘from the bottom of my heart, for all the great work you have done during the time I have been CAS. I was so delighted to see that you had a great moment at the end in Berlin – an unforgettable experience and one you had richly earned.’ Tedder, deeply moved, replied to ‘My dear Portal’ on the 11th, saying that his invaluable support had ‘kept my tail up during many of the awkward periods we’ve seen in the past four years’.8 On 12 June 1945, Tedder was invited to accompany Eisenhower to the Guildhall, where the American received the Freedom of the City of London. They rode there in a horse-drawn open carriage, escorted by policemen on white horses. It was on this occasion that Tedder ﬁrst heard, and never forgot, Eisenhower’s magniﬁcent words: ‘Humility must always be the portion of any man who receives acclaim earned in blood of his followers and sacriﬁces of his friends’; words now inscribed in the Chapel of Remembrance at the Eisenhower Center in Abilene, Kansas.9 A month later, on 19 July, Eisenhower wrote to ‘Dear Arthur’, expressing his ‘very deep sense of gratitude for your brilliant accomplishments in the Allied team’. Since February 1943, he wrote, ‘I have come to lean on you constantly’, because Tedder’s advice was always sound, objective and offered in a friendly manner. Always a man to look ahead, however, ‘Arthur’ told ‘Ike’ on 28 July that he hoped ‘the end of the biggest and ﬁnest thing with which I have ever had the good fortune to be associated’ marked only the end of a chapter, and that AngloAmerican co-operation would continue. Bedell Smith had written on 27 July to say that, ‘I feel closer to men like you … than I have ever been to friends that I have known all my life … Give my love to Toppy. Both you and she will always be at home wherever I am.’10 Polling day for the general election in Britain was 5 July, but results were not to be declared until the 26th, in order to allow the votes of men and women serving in the armed forces abroad to be collected and counted. A Conservative victory, with Churchill remaining Prime Minister, was widely expected. Although Tedder was keen to succeed Portal as CAS, he had good reason to expect that Churchill would reject him. He therefore responded cautiously on 7 July to a discreet sounding. If Portal and Sinclair – as well as ‘the head of the government’ – thought ‘I should in due course, and for a limited time, succeed you, I should no

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longer contest the decision.’ Meanwhile, he did not wish to be appointed Inspector General (a job for a man on the way out), nor to be sent to Washington: ‘much as I like the Yanks, I really would relish a relief from them’.11 He celebrated his 55th birthday on the 11th, and next day attended an enormous party to mark the formal end, at one minute after midnight on 13–14 July, of that enormous institution, SHAEF.12 During the evening of 26 July, Tedder learned – to his delighted surprise – that Britain’s voters had overwhelmingly rejected the Conservatives. Clement Attlee (leader of the Labour Party) succeeded Churchill as Prime Minister. ‘It would be difﬁcult to imagine two more different characters’, wrote Harold Wilson. Unlike Churchill, ‘Attlee regarded words as valuable, and not to be uttered for the sake of being heard … But he was neither unfeeling nor remote. It is probably true to say that he knew his Government colleagues and his backbenchers better than they knew him.’13 He was, in short, a man for Tedder. Pressed again by Portal, Tedder therefore came into the open on 2 August: ‘my view is that you should stay and see the Service through at least the next two years’, until Slessor was ﬁt to take over. ‘I do not feel that Jack [Slessor] is yet up to it, I think he is still not sufﬁciently balanced.’ On reﬂection, Tedder could see no place for himself. He hated the thought of retirement, but ‘the cards have panned out differently. That is no-one’s fault, it is just the way things happen. If therefore you tell me that the time has come for me to retire from the Service, I shall accept that decision with many regrets but without cavil.’ Meanwhile, he and Toppy were off to South Africa for three weeks as guests of Smuts and his government; exhilarating weeks, during which their son Richard was conceived. Portal, replying next day, strongly opposed Tedder’s offer to retire: ‘these things often manage to solve themselves in some unforeseen way’, and so might this one.14 That ‘unforeseen way’ proved to be the dropping of two atomic bombs in August, which brought the war against Japan to an unexpectedly sudden end. This cleared the way for Portal to retire – as he wished – at the end of the year, and for Tedder to succeed him. In preparation, he was elevated to ﬁve-star rank as a Marshal of the Royal Air Force, equivalent to Admiral of the Fleet or Field Marshal, in September.15 Congratulations ﬂowed in again, among them a welcome letter from Spaatz, soon to succeed Arnold as head of the USAAF. ‘I know that never will I have a post similar in happiness’, he wrote on 18 September, ‘to that which I had under you and Ike in North Africa, England and Europe. Those days to me are remembered as happy ones.’ Tedder replied at once: ‘It means a lot to me to get that from my old partner. Yes, it was a good team, and I hope it has done something even more permanent than winning the war.’16

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Tedder knew by October that on 1 January 1946 he was to succeed Portal as CAS – Chief of the Air Staff or ‘Chief Aunt Sally’, as he extended those initials in an address to the Cambridge University Air Squadron in May 1949. He would return to the Air Ministry, and spin around the corridors of power in what an ofﬁcer called ‘the whirligig of Whitehall’.17 Trenchard offered his congratulations, and Tedder responded with unusual emotion: ‘the fact that I know I shall always have your strong arm behind me is one of the few comforts I can see in a rather grim prospect’.18 It was also an uncertain prospect. ‘I don’t know whether my job means burying the RAF or keeping it alive’, he told Zuckerman, who reluctantly refused to join him as Chief Scientiﬁc Adviser, preferring a return to his long-neglected academic career.19 In November, the Tedders enjoyed another overseas trip: this time, three weeks in the United States as guests of General Marshall. As in South Africa, the lavish hospitality of a people untouched by war on the home front overwhelmed them. ‘For your private ear’, he wrote to Mina on his return to England in December, ‘there may be an awful announcement about me (and us) in the New Year Honours List. I’ve done my best to evade it because I think it is most unfair, especially to the family, but if it does appear it is because I’ve failed to dodge it.’ In other words, he had been offered elevation to the peerage as a baron. It is an honour easily and privately evaded, but some quirk in Tedder’s personality required him to protest, even to those closest to him, that this honour – like his knighthood 20 – was being forced upon a simple soul who accepted it only as a tribute to the RAF. Toppy, self-assured daughter of a ninth baronet, had no patience with that particular quirk, and they quickly agreed on appropriate symbols for a coat of arms: an eagle with widespread wings, SHAEF’s ﬂaming sword, and two representations of the falcon god Horus in memory both of Egypt and of the Staff College. His motto, ‘For Freedom’. ‘I am glad to see you where you are’, wrote Harris, late of Bomber Command, on 2 January 1946, ‘knowing who you are! A good show too for the Service.’ Now ‘virtually retired’, Harris believed that the Air Ministry had allowed the public to suppose he had been sacked, and so he was off ‘to my own country, South Africa’. He was to lunch with Churchill on the 4th and intended to have ‘a ﬁnal row with the old boy’ over the award of nothing more than the defence medal to members of Bomber Command, a scandal in which Harris knew that he had Tedder’s tacit support.21 In another letter, of 6 January, Harris expressed his displeasure that Montgomery and Alexander had been made viscounts, ‘and you, as their superior, a baron. Shades of Reims and the attempt to oust you!’ Although Harris went to Cape Town, Tedder was keen to keep in touch. Harris agreed, but ‘as you know’, he wrote on 23 July, ‘I have no

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intention of ever setting foot in England again. I’ve had it!’ 22 He hoped Tedder would like his book – Bomber Offensive, published in 1947, and thought of asking him for a foreword – ‘but have been so cursed with similar requests myself that I hadn’t the heart – especially in view of the load you must now carry. I have tried to avoid undue controversy, and have even curbed myself into not expressing my views of the wartime Air Ministry. A large effort – considering!’ If Tedder felt able to write a word of admiration for Harris’s bomber crews – and disclaim the rest – Harris would be obliged. In fact, Tedder did ‘disclaim’ much of the book. It is full of ‘bitter and unbalanced comments’, he told Trenchard on 20 January 1947. ‘I know there is good stuff in it, and it ought to have been a great book, worthy of a great commander and a great command. Unfortunately, it is not … I feel his book does injustice both to him and to Bomber Command.’ No chief executive of a world-wide organisation inherits an empty intray. Consequently, many ﬁles awaited Tedder’s attention on 1 January 1946. Now that another war to end all wars was over, the ﬁles on Tedder’s desk were certain to demand undramatic management in years when the resources tap would be reduced to a trickle of its wartime ﬂow. Moreover, his ﬁrst two years in ofﬁce were a time of what his staff called ‘rundown’ – which he more accurately described as ‘gallopdown’ – because 19 out of 20 of the men and women who had served under Portal left the RAF during 1946 and 1947; and half the survivors had under two years’ service. ‘The unfortunate fact’, he told his daughter on 23 February 1946, ‘is that so many people during the past six years have been entirely concerned with operations and literally haven’t a clue about anything else. They have all got to learn, and that is going to be an uncomfortable process for everyone. The plain fact is that what with rapid demobilisation and shortage of experienced people, continual postings and repostings, the service is going to be thoroughly messy for the next twelve months. Everyone is going to need a lot of patience and a lot of faith.’ Tedder found less time for purely air-force matters than he desired, but his vice-chiefs were hardened survivors of numerous conferences and campaigns, with good contacts throughout the service, as well as in Whitehall and Washington. Tedder inherited Strath Evill, who had worked with Portal since March 1943, and provided a valuable link with the past until his retirement in May 1946. The next three had excellent war records and enjoyed distinguished careers thereafter. William Dickson worked with Tedder until the end of 1947, when he was released to take command of RAF Middle East. Dickson would reach the top, in January 1953, as CAS and later as ﬁrst Chief of the Defence Staff. After

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Dickson’s departure, Tedder chose James Robb, his old Mediterranean and SHAEF colleague, but was obliged to release him in November 1948 for an important European command. Then came the unﬂappable Arthur Sanders, formerly head of British Air Forces of Occupation (BAFO) in Germany, and subsequently a Deputy CAS and head of Middle East Air Force. Five sets of ﬁles were rarely out of Tedder’s hands for long. He would, ﬁrst, oversee a massive demobilisation plan already being implemented in January 1946 by Slessor, Air Member for Personnel; a plan which worked far more fairly and efﬁciently than the organisation set up for the release of men and women after the Great War. But an unintended result of this fairness and efﬁciency left Tedder in charge of a force desperately short of experienced staff in every department. Had the RAF been a private company, he often remarked, the sensible option would have been to sell up, close down, and start again on a realistically small scale. Recruiting drives never prospered in his day, mainly for reasons beyond his control, and almost throughout his term of ofﬁce he puzzled over what value the service – as opposed to society at large – might get out of short-term compulsory National Service airmen.23 In a second batch of ﬁles Tedder tried to ﬁnd permanent accommodation that the families of ofﬁcers and men would ﬁnd tolerable in a vast network of bases stretching all the way from Scotland to Japan, via Germany, the Middle East, India and Malaya. Britain’s resources, he frequently remarked, did not match its responsibilities. Given appalling difﬁculties in recovering from the severe damage and immense expense of a long and total war, these ﬁles rarely had satisfactory conclusions in Tedder’s day. Closely linked to these were those concerning the Malcolm Clubs, pride and joy of both Tedder and Toppy. It remained an unofﬁcial organisation, with only reluctant Air Ministry backing despite their ardent advocacy. The clubs were held to compete with, rather than complement, NAAFI’s activities. With a single exception, no clubs were permitted in Britain, and were never allowed to expand overseas on a scale the Tedders thought desirable – and yet 14 clubs outlived them, thanks to their constant support and energetic fund-raising. Third, thousands of aircraft were junked or returned to the United States from September 1945 onwards. As with demobilisation, however, so with aircraft; hardly had the old stock gone than new stock was being urgently sought. A decade earlier, in the 1930s, Tedder had been closely concerned with a technological revolution in the design, construction, equipment, and production of aircraft. Now, in the later 1940s, he found himself involved in another revolution, with jets beginning to replace piston engines. In both cases, the new types would bring difﬁcult and

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expensive consequences in maintenance, repair, training (ground and air) and operational employment. These ﬁles grew fatter as well as more numerous after Tedder had spun away from the Whitehall whirligig, but critical decisions were made about types and numbers before 1950. A fourth concern was Tedder’s role from June 1946 as Chairman of the Chiefs of Staff committee. He was brought into regular contact with the War Ofﬁce and the Admiralty, not merely to argue the Air Ministry case, but increasingly to consider matters of grand strategy with his fellow Chiefs – Montgomery and Admiral Sir John Cunningham (no relation to the wartime Cunninghams) – and then to advise senior members of Attlee’s government. Tedder, like Eisenhower, held conferences ‘to collect ideas’, smirked Montgomery; ‘I held them to give orders.’ His dictatorial approach, as even a sympathetic biographer wrote, ‘often based on inadequate advice or hasty judgement, would be a distinct liability, casting an unfortunate shadow’ over his post-war career.24 The work of the Chiefs got done, sometimes by deputies, but harmony was not restored until November 1948, when Attlee found Montgomery a job outside England. By July 1945, Brooke was anxious to retire and selected Alexander – whom he regarded with contempt – to replace him as head of the British Army. Churchill, however, persuaded Brooke to stay on for another year and encouraged Alexander to go to Canada as Governor-General. Brooke did not support his Vice-Chief, Sir Archibald Nye, who ‘knew how to handle the Chiefs and Whitehall with a lightness of touch that Montgomery did not possess’, and so cleared the master’s path to the top. Portal and Andrew Cunningham share responsibility for this disaster by failing to oppose Montgomery’s proposed appointment at a meeting in August 1945. The appointment, publicly announced in the following January, took effect in June 1946.25 A strong word, ‘disaster’, but it is supported by General Sir Leslie Hollis, Military Secretary to the Cabinet. In December 1947, Hollis told Bruce Lockhart that ‘all the excellent co-operation which had existed between the Chiefs of Staff, the three Services and the Foreign Ofﬁce had vanished … The chief culprit was Montgomery, who had been a complete failure as CIGS. Quite apart from his frequent voyages abroad to collect more honours and decorations, he was useless when he was here.’26 There were actually many points of agreement between Montgomery and Tedder. One can pay too much attention to the numerous anecdotes in contemporary memoirs and subsequent histories. For example, Montgomery repeatedly said – and Tedder entirely agreed – that ‘all modern military operations are in fact combined army/air operations’. He did not go on the claim that the army commander should direct all air forces working over land. On the contrary, he thought air power must

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be under centralised air control, within the framework of an agreed army/air plan.27 He and Tedder agreed on a wide range of subjects: the shortage of regular recruits for the armed forces, and the lack of adequate, modern ﬁghting equipment for them; the adverse effects of reliance on National Servicemen; the poor pay and living conditions of ofﬁcers and men; and on the inept performance of A. V. Alexander as Minister of Defence.28 When Montgomery disagreed with Tedder, his case was usually strong. In February 1948, for instance, while Montgomery accepted that Britain’s main weapon in a war with the Soviet Union would be air power, he argued that British troops would have to be sent immediately to the continent for three practical reasons. First, to hold positions on the Rhine until support from the United States became effective. Second, to establish and protect air bases from which the Allies could mount counterattacks. And, third, to prevent enemy forces from launching bomber or rocket attacks on Britain from bases close to the channel coast. Tedder believed, and Admiral John Cunningham supported him, that British ground forces would be quickly swept aside and that effective counterattack could come only from secure bases in the Middle East. As it happened, Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin agreed with Montgomery, and Attlee with Tedder, but even today no-one can say who was ‘right’. The issues were grave, and it was entirely proper that the soldier and the airman should offer their political masters stark alternatives rather than fudged compromises.29 Both Attlee and Bevin, as experienced politicians, were accustomed to dealing with colleagues who detested each other. The notorious rift between the Chiefs of Staff in the period June 1946 to November 1948 had little effect on either the major policies of the British government or the wider world in which those policies were framed. Had the Chiefs been blood brothers, Britain’s dire ﬁnancial situation throughout these years would not have improved one iota. It was a situation that tightly governed the actions of all three, no matter what noises they made, publicly or privately. The McMahon Act of August 1946, to prevent Anglo-American collaboration in atomic research, would still have appeared; so too the Truman Doctrine to contain Soviet aggression; the Marshall Plan to assist west European economic recovery; and the long crisis of the Berlin Blockade. The arrival at the Chiefs’ table of Admiral Sir Bruce Fraser in September 1948 and Field Marshal Sir William Slim in November pleased Tedder, but did nothing to hurry along any faster the union of Western powers that resulted in the formation of NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organisation) in April 1949; nor did it prevent the Soviet Union from testing its ﬁrst nuclear device in August 1949, nor hinder Chairman

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Mao’s proclamation of a Chinese People’s Republic in October. The three main pillars of British strategy throughout these years were not questioned by any of the Chiefs. These were: the defence of the United Kingdom, including western Europe; the defence of sea communications with the rest of the world; and the retention of a ﬁrm hold on the Middle East, to safeguard oil supplies and provide effective bases for offensive action in the event of Soviet aggression. Above all these concerns was the atomic bomb. A possibility of extinguishing life on earth now existed, thankfully in the hands of a friendly power, but another power – growing daily less friendly – was prepared to bear the expense of creating its own bomb, an expense diminished by successful espionage. Britain’s continued independence, quite apart from its global inﬂuence, seemed to require a matching response. But the US government was no longer prepared to share its knowledge or permit further joint research with British scientists, thanks partly to that espionage. Tedder therefore supported Attlee’s decision in January 1947 that Britain must have its own nuclear weapons, and planning began, under his direction, for a British jet-bomber force capable of carrying them. Meanwhile, he regarded the American stance as one likely to change if, as seemed likely, relations with the Soviet Union worsened. The thoughts of Washington and Whitehall would then turn to the restoration of long-range bomber bases in eastern England. Spaatz was thinking along the same lines; so too were his excellent younger colleagues, Vandenberg and Norstad, both of whom Tedder could expect to be in high positions after Spaatz retired. A problem anticipated is a problem much more easily solved, so the former wartime allies put their heads together during the summer of 1946. All these ﬁles were temporarily set aside on Tedder’s ninth day in ofﬁce when he delivered a brief, thoughtful survey of the recent war entitled ‘Air, Land and Sea Warfare’ at the Royal United Services Institute (RUSI) in Whitehall.30 As usual, he expressed admiration for Smuts, who urged the making of ‘a Peace with Teeth’. If the ‘teeth’ are to be sound, argued Tedder, and help us avoid or prevail in another world war, we must learn from the last one. Also as usual, he referred to the other great man in his life. ‘We all owe far more than will, I expect, ever be recognised’, he said, ‘to the personality of General Eisenhower and to his ability to build and maintain a real team – and, if I may say so, a team including a number of prima donnas.’ Although Tedder emphasised the RAF’s claim to the largest share of defence funds, he also urged all three services to remember the value of combined operations. His key words for the future were ‘ﬂexibility and speed’, because he believed that an

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alert ‘David’, if he made better use of scientists and technicians than in the past, would overcome a ponderous ‘Goliath’.31 Later in 1946, Tedder received one of the most welcome invitations of his life: to deliver four lectures in the prestigious Lees Knowles series early in 1947 at his beloved Cambridge University.32 He thought four points were of particular importance. First, that conclusions about military operations must not be drawn by Britain and the United States from ‘a time of plenty’ in the last year of the war, against an enemy already severely weakened by heavy ﬁghting on another front. Second, that air power would be the ‘dominant factor’ in the event of another war. Third, that sea power would be vital for as long as Britain remained a densely populated island. And, fourth, that any attempt at merely passive defence would be ‘suicide’. This last point he expressed in November 1949 as ‘we would never win a match with eleven goalkeepers’.33 Tedder attended his ﬁrst meeting of the Air Council as CAS a week later, on 15 January 1946. Viscount Stansgate, who presided as Secretary of State for Air, welcomed him: ‘the Council could not only congratulate him, but also themselves, on his appointment’. There were only nine members: three politicians and six ofﬁcers:34 a small enough body to permit plenty of time for ‘informal discussion on problems of current interest’, as Stansgate agreed (at Tedder’s request) on 1 February.35 An evening of relief from insoluble problems came to Tedder on 22 March 1946, when he attended a dinner at the Savoy Hotel in London to mark the 350th anniversary of the foundation of Whitgift School: 300 old boys attended, all greeted by Tedder, who was described as ‘the greatest of their number’ by the Croydon Advertiser. Such was not Tedder’s opinion, but he was quietly proud – and Toppy was openly ecstatic – at the honour accorded him: seated on this exhilarating occasion at the right hand of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Six months later, in September 1946, ‘Croydon’s own air hero’ received the freedom of ‘one of the worst bombed towns in the country’ from the hands of Mayor James Marshall, a Whitgift contemporary.36 Since March 1946, the Tedders had been settling into a new home: Corner Croft, in Kingston, Surrey. It was ‘full of phoney oak beams’, Toppy informed ‘dear old Ike’ on 15 April; it also had ‘a charming garden and a loopy gardener’, whom they lacked the nerve to sack.37 Eisenhower had agreed to be godfather to their child, due in June, but Richard was actually born on 22 May. Smuts having also agreed to accept a godfather role, Richard’s life began under favourable auspices. Within the week, on 28 May, came a great honour, for a man largely formed there: Freedom of the City of London. Like Eisenhower before him, Tedder was driven to the Guildhall in an open horse-drawn carriage. He was presented with a sword of honour by the Lord Mayor;

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Attlee, Smuts, the US Ambassador and a full complement of civilian and military notables attended. His speech, broadcast by the BBC, echoed Eisenhower’s great words about humility. ‘No commander’, said Tedder, ‘whose honours have been won for him by the skill, courage, determination, and self-sacriﬁce of hundreds of thousands of men and women can feel anything but humble in such a position.’ He then spoke about ‘our national team’, which he had observed at work during his exhausting service in the critical years 1938–40. He admired their efforts in numerous factories, railway yards and docks long before he had gone to Cairo and Algiers, where he had met Eisenhower, ‘the arch-teambuilder’. Tedder then looked directly at Smuts, before recalling that the South African had rightly spoken of air power as ‘the architect of victory’. He ended by quoting the ﬁnal words of President Lincoln’s immortal Gettysburg address and making one signiﬁcant change: ‘that we here highly resolve that the dead shall not have died in vain, that the nations shall, please God, have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people and for the people shall not perish from the earth’.38 A few days later, on 8 June 1946, Tedder made his third ceremonial drive through the streets of London, as one of the ‘Victorious Commanders’, leading a ﬂeet of 430 vehicles and 80 motor-cycles. The enormously popular occasion was the Victory Parade. A carefully prepared public spectacle, it was intended to signal that peace might really have returned to Britain. For the ﬁrst time since the war, there were searchlights, ﬁreworks, fountains and even ice-cream for lucky children. A victory arch was constructed, incorporating SHAEF’s ﬂaming sword, and the parade route was marked by ﬂags of every Allied or Occupied nation. The Royal Family, together with foreign relatives and important persons, occupied a brightly painted saluting base in The Mall, past which marched over 20,000 men and women from all branches of the services – except, as Tedder sourly remarked at the Air Council’s next meeting, any representatives of the Malcolm Clubs.39 Anglo-American relations came to the top of Tedder’s agenda during June and July, when he and Spaatz made a secret agreement of longlasting inﬂuence. Almost from the day of their return from Moscow in May 1945, they had shared concerns about the strength of Soviet forces, western Europe’s vulnerability, and the rapidity of demobilisation in the United States and Britain. The Avro Lincoln – a development of the famous Lancaster – could not reach signiﬁcant targets in the Soviet Union from eastern England, but the superior Boeing B-29 Superfortress could not operate from runways in that region unless they were lengthened and strengthened.

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Spaatz had been chosen to succeed Arnold as head of the USAAF on 9 February 1946, and Tedder signalled his congratulations on 26 January, as soon as he heard the news and Spaatz responded with matching enthusiasm on the 29th.40 Before leaving Washington in June to visit England and Germany, Spaatz was advised that US air forces in Europe were currently at ‘an extremely low state of readiness’, and neither they nor British forces could prevent Soviet forces from rapidly occupying western Europe, if they chose to attack. Several air bases should therefore be acquired in England, equipped to handle B-29s, some of which should be modiﬁed to carry atomic weapons, the only ‘distinct advantage’ the Allies had over the Soviet Union.41 Tedder and Spaatz agreed that there would be ‘certain physical facilities on two airﬁelds adequate for the handing of some very special purpose VLR [very long range] aircraft’, and ‘the matter must be handled as routine, and not attract special attention’. Spaatz would send an ofﬁcer familiar with ‘special equipment’ to England to discuss these matters.42 They had taken the ﬁrst steps to turn Britain into an unsinkable aircraft carrier for US bombers.43 During 1946, Spaatz and his colleagues were conducting a campaign for an independent US Air Force, co-equal with the Army and the Navy, in a single department of national defence.44 Tedder was eager to give every assistance: it was self-evident that air forces should be independent; friends should be helped, especially those with whom one had fought shoulder to shoulder; and both Eisenhower (who had succeeded Marshall as head of the US Army) and President Truman strongly supported the air force case. Spaatz wrote to Tedder on 29 July to thank him for his congratulations on the passing of the Uniﬁcation Bill. ‘We are deeply indebted to you’, he said, ‘and your many associates for the knowledge which you gave to us so freely out of your own prior experience.’ 45 That was far from the end of RAF help. With the enthusiastic assistance of Trenchard, Portal and Slessor, Tedder ensured that Spaatz received a comprehensive account, going back to 1920, of their case. This was a battle airmen on both sides of the Atlantic wanted to win, because they were convinced that command of the sea in any future war would depend upon air power controlled by airmen.46 On 13 November, ‘Arthur’ answered an informal request from ‘Ike’ for notes on the RAF’s role in the Atlantic and North Sea campaigns. Eisenhower forwarded these notes to Lauris Norstad, Director of Plans and Operations, who studied them carefully and approved them entirely. Ike thanked Arthur for his help on 25 November. By the following October, after a long struggle, the United States had a single department of national defence and three co-equal services.47

26 Avoiding Complete Subservience to Our Essential Ally in Countering the Risk of Atomic War London and Elsewhere, January 1947 to June 1948

On practically every issue that came before Tedder as ‘Chief Aunt Sally’, he and Sir John Slessor (Air Member for Personnel since April 1945) were agreed. When Tedder chose to retire – unlike his successors, he had not been appointed for a ﬁxed term – Jack Slessor, seven years younger, would be widely regarded as the natural successor. At ﬁrst, it seems, Tedder accepted that view, but sadly for both men he changed his mind during 1947. Slessor’s exceptional ability and energy had long been recognised, and he became one of Trenchard’s script-writers: an important job, given the great man’s inability to express his tumbling thoughts on paper.1 That experience encouraged a natural eagerness to communicate his own thoughts widely. Slessor had opinions on every aspect of past history, current problems, and future strategy in all three services. But he was incapable either of brevity or of waiting to be asked for those opinions, and rarely resisted the temptation to instruct seniors as well as juniors at inordinate length. Both men left autobiographies covering their careers to the end of the European war, and yet in a joint total of 1,325 pages, there are no more than six passing references by one to the other – all by Slessor. On 13 June 1947, Tedder sent a handwritten note to ‘My dear Jack’, inviting him to accept nomination as Commandant of the Imperial Defence College (IDC) in London. Outstanding medium-rank ofﬁcers in all three services, British and Commonwealth, were there introduced

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to those inter-service and national issues that would concern them if they achieved high rank.2 No-one, he added, in any of the services could ﬁll the post better. On the back of his copy of this letter, he set down less ﬂattering words in his thinking about Slessor: ‘ﬂuent, verbose, favourites, erratic, ambitious, personal publicity, political, clubs, conventional, snob, refusal to accept appointments’. The offer, nevertheless, made good sense. Slessor had spent two exhausting years managing an orderly system of release, and yet retaining sufﬁcient experienced men to permit the RAF to meet its world-wide obligations. These remained ill deﬁned in the uncertain post-war years, as did the terms of service for regulars and short-term conscripts. Slessor deserved a break from such endless worries. Moreover, Tedder knew that he had considered leaving the RAF to follow an academic career at the end of the war, and the position now offered was the closest in the services to master of an Oxbridge college.3 Slessor only turned 50 in June 1947, and was unwilling to accept any position, however agreeable, that might weaken his prospects of succeeding Tedder. He knew that the ofﬁce was not in the holder’s gift – CAS proposed, Prime Minister disposed – but Slessor thought the IDC position was a last resting-place before retirement. He was mistaken: the current Commandant, Sir William Slim, would succeed Montgomery as head of the Army late in the following year. Slessor complained to Trenchard, Portal and Freeman, and angled with their support for a promise – if not a guarantee – that if he accepted this offer he might return to the Air Ministry as CAS. Tedder preferred Sir Ralph Cochrane, who had earned a high reputation during the war. He was, said Slessor, ‘the best group commander that Bomber Command ever had’.4 Sir Leonard Cheshire, VC, thought the European war might have ended sooner if Cochrane had replaced Harris late in 1944, because he would have co-operated more eagerly in implementing Tedder’s transportation plan.5 In February 1945, Cochrane had taken on a demanding task as head of Transport Command. He had few experienced crews (ground or air), most of the suitable aircraft were American, and supplies of these were cut as soon as the war against Japan ended. He moved troops and supplies out to the Far East until August, when Japan surrendered, and then began the even more daunting task of moving released prisoners and long-serving troops home as quickly as possible. Although these difﬁcult operations did not always run smoothly, the fact remains that in a period of 21 months (ending in September 1946), Transport Command completed more passenger miles than had British civil aviation in the preceding 21 years.6 ‘But for the luck of the draw’, wrote Harris after Cochrane’s death, ‘he would have made an outstanding Chief of the Air Staff.’7 Perhaps,

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but Tedder failed to provide him with Air Council experience and, unlike Slessor, he had little inter-service experience and none at all with the Americans; he also had a dour personality that would have dismayed them. All his life he had a lean and hungry look, a face not made for easy laughter, and a manner that was at best distant. On the other hand, intelligent men of every class and rank who valued efﬁciency and hard work as highly as Cochrane did not look to him in vain for wholehearted support. At Slessor’s request, Freeman asked Tedder on 13 June to explain what he had against him.8 His answers, reported Freeman to Portal (now Controller of Britain’s atomic-energy programme) were inadequate: ‘he is inﬂuenced solely by a dislike for Jack, a strong wish to remain on, and by his wife’. Freeman asked Portal if he should urge Tedder to retire at the end of 1947, ‘as he originally said he would’, and was puzzled by his advocacy of Cochrane: ‘thinks he has no sense of humour’, which was usually a kiss of death in Tedder’s book, as Freeman well knew, and ‘has the advantage [sic] of having no friends!’ Freeman passed on these opinions to Slessor, who wrote to Portal for advice on 17 June.9 He did not fancy the IDC job; was tempted to retire at the end of the year; and had no idea why Tedder disliked him. Freeman saw ‘the dark hand of Toppy’ behind all this, but Slessor professed not to agree. Portal then invited Tedder (though not in writing) to promise Slessor (though not in so many words) that he might become CAS after the IDC job. Angered by all this nudging and winking, Tedder tried to pin Slessor down on 19 June. ‘I am more sorry than I can say that he [Portal] should have given you such advice. As I told him, it is the ﬁrst time he and I have ever disagreed on a matter of principle. To make any appointment – however senior – subject to an undertaking or promise as to subsequent appointments would, in my view, be to go against one of the fundamentals of our service code. Frankly, Jack, I could not be a party to such an arrangement. In actual fact, I cannot but feel that the suggestion is rather unrealistic. As Trenchard put it when we were discussing things last night, “no-one can say who will go where two years ahead”. To put the matter in its simplest terms – I believe it to be your duty to the RAF and to our national security to take charge of the IDC. I ask you to consider it in the light of that fact.’ This shook Slessor, who protested that he had never sought a guarantee of the succession, but, after another ﬂurry of correspondence, now involving Philip Noel-Baker (Secretary of State) and Attlee, the words ‘should not be passed over’ were selected to apply to Slessor’s prospects. He informed Noel-Baker and Tedder on 10 July that he had decided not to retire and would accept the IDC appointment. ‘I cannot pretend

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to enjoy the prospect of serving on in the circumstances as they are’,10 he moaned, but manfully did so, for another 29 months (until 31 December 1949), when Tedder at last retired. His ﬁrst action as CAS was to appoint Cochrane as his Vice-Chief. Hugh Saunders, meanwhile, took over as AMP on 1 October 1947, and Slessor succeeded Slim on 1 January 1948. Many years later, probably during 1966, Slessor set down what he then recalled about these events.11 ‘I admit I should have been happier if anyone other than Tedder had taken over from Portal as CAS’, he wrote. ‘I had never been at ease with his extraordinary manner – a sort of compound of nonchalant detachment, mischievous impishness and roguish humour which bafﬂed and irritated me.’ Not least, ‘those damned Malcolm Clubs’ were a bone of contention: ‘a sort of pet hobby of his on which he made himself – or his wife did – a perfect nuisance to me.’ Slessor’s anger at Tedder’s conduct did not fade with time: ‘I regard him as an under-bred bounder who has succeeded to an incredible degree in getting himself taken at his own valuation.’ Three years later, in 1969, Slessor had persuaded himself that his move to the IDC was fortunate. ‘I still believe it to be an ideal prelude to becoming one of the Chiefs of Staff’, he wrote, ‘and think it a pity that Slim and I are the only two who have enjoyed that advantage.’12 How Tedder would have relished those words. The need to balance military strength against economic recovery and social improvement was constantly in Tedder’s mind throughout his CAS years, governing his thinking on the size and shape of Britain’s armed forces. By May there was agreement between the Chiefs and their political masters that planning, and spending, should proceed on the assumption that a major war was unlikely during the next ﬁve years, but thereafter the risk escalated and would become critical by 1957.13 Montgomery added a constant twist to these anxieties throughout his term on the Chiefs’ committee. ‘I consider that our present system of a joint staff has failed’, he asserted on 2 September. ‘We are quite unable to agree on basic fundamental issues; every recommendation we make is a compromise on essentials.’14 His energy, persistence and reputation (still high with the general public) served to keep his opponents, Tedder especially, on their toes. The emotional cost was high, but the outcome of endless argument was probably beneﬁcial in producing clearly deﬁned points of view. On 19 November 1947, for example, the Chiefs completed ‘a world strategic summary’ for use in informal discussions with Commonwealth representatives. The Soviet Union, they roundly declared, was a potential enemy. It could attack on land in western Europe at any moment and would enjoy immediate success. Unless the initial attack was a complete

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triumph, however, ‘economic insufﬁciency’ and lack of air and sea power would handicap it in a long war. The Chiefs knew little about its atomic research, but thought it unlikely that the Soviet Union would possess ‘before 1957 at the earliest a sufﬁcient stock of bombs to produce a decisive result, by these means only, even against the United Kingdom alone’. All three services were ‘running down’, they concluded, and ‘a good deal disorganised. The trained manpower, which was the source of their strength at the end of the war, is rapidly being released and the services are now inevitably dependent to a great extent upon the raw and untrained intake’. Their equipment was mostly obsolete and would not be renewed for years to come. Some three weeks later, on 8 December, Tedder produced an important memorandum on the future size and shape of the armed forces. The basic fact, he wrote, is that ‘at some date in the near future, this country will be liable to attack with weapons of mass destruction’, and its chances of survival, ‘in the event of full-scale atomic war are small indeed’. Although the United States was an essential ally, Tedder thought Britain must avoid ‘complete subservience’ to US policies or it would be ‘completely impotent’ in negotiations with the Soviet Union or other powers. If Britain’s forces were strong at sea and in the air, where Soviet forces were weak, they might deter an attack – especially if the Soviet Union were threatened from bases in the Middle East. Bases there also protected British oil supplies and communications by sea with Commonwealth and other countries. Encouraged by Tedder and his fellow Chiefs, Attlee and Bevin agreed in January 1947 to hang on to as many places as possible in the Mediterranean and the Middle East. Unless Britain did so, Tedder argued in March, it risked being driven to the ‘outer ring’ of the Americas, South Africa, Australia and New Zealand in the early stages of a war with the Soviet Union; we would already be in the ‘last ditch’ and might not survive. Bevin arranged for secret talks in the Pentagon in October and November to learn to what extent the United States would support British interests in the Middle East. The Americans recognised the Soviet threat and the consequent value of bases within range of important Soviet targets; if the British withdrew, Russian forces were likely to replace them. Although relieved to know that his friends understood these facts of life, Tedder would be frustrated – until the Soviet blockade of Berlin in June 1948 galvanised everyone – by their reluctance to get down to detailed talks about a possible network of bases between Tripoli and Baghdad. For all his closeness to most senior US airmen, he failed to realise that in those pre-Cold War days they too had grave shortages

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of manpower and matériel. Powerful voices were raised in Washington against Britain’s pro-Arab stance against Jewish claims for an independent state in Palestine. But these reservations were overcome on 21 November by a desire to keep the Russians out. Bevin met George C. Marshall, newly appointed Secretary of State, in London on 4 December 1947. Their agreement that this region was vital to both powers encouraged detailed talks between the two air forces.15 The US government, however, remained determined to encourage the creation of a Jewish state in Palestine, whereas the British government remained ﬁrmly pro-Arab. The Foreign Ofﬁce, and the three Chiefs, were convinced that a Jewish state would be at best neutral, at worst pro-communist, and likely to attack Transjordan (Jordan). Tedder attended a meeting on 25 May 1948 with Attlee, Bevin and Ambassador Lewis W. Douglas, at which he urged a strict embargo on arms shipments to the region, to avoid a repetition of the Spanish Civil War in the late 1930s, when both sides were armed from outside. Although an embargo was agreed, Tedder was aware that Britain had treaty obligations to supply arms to several Arab states, and the RAF was equipping the air forces of both Iraq and Transjordan. He greatly feared a situation where a Jewish attack, supported by the United States, might be made on Transjordan, supported by Britain; precisely the situation most desired by strategists in the Kremlin.16 During 1946, Tedder had supported the government’s intention to allow Rolls-Royce to sell Nene and Derwent turbojet engines to the Soviet Union. He understood the need for earnings from sales abroad to help Britain recover from a costly war, but by December he was resisting this particular deal; it strengthened a potential enemy and alarmed an essential ally. On 18 December, he advised the RAF delegation in Washington to make ﬁve points in answer to queries: the engines were no longer on the secret list; there had already been sales to other countries; the manufacturing process remained secret; Britain needed the money; and deals to import essential timber and grain from Sovietcontrolled sources might be cancelled if the engines were withheld.17 A Soviet trade delegation visited Britain in January 1947 and asked to buy three twin-engined Gloster Meteor IV ﬁghters and three singleengined Nene-powered de Havilland Vampire ﬁghters. Tedder was even more concerned by this proposal to sell airframes as well as engines. According to the Ministry of Supply, he had no cause for concern, because the Russians were believed to be years behind Britain, even with the help of captured German designers and technicians, in producing types as efﬁcient as the Meteor and the Vampire. Russian engineers were therefore permitted to attend the Rolls-Royce technical school for

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instruction in the assembly, operation, maintenance and repair of engines; and information about airframe construction was made available to them. Tedder’s protests had no effect, and sales went ahead throughout the year. He was successful in assuring his American friends that the Air Ministry strongly objected, although that point cut little ice in those Washington circles where it was believed that Britain’s socialist government was only one step removed from a communist one. In November 1947, Tedder repeated an earlier request for permission to return to Moscow and prepare the way for an RAF mission to visit Soviet aircraft factories, with a view to making purchases. As he expected, the request was refused and, together with worsening East–West relations, an embarrassing episode ended in January 1948.18 Serious harm had been caused to Western interests. No combat aircraft has had a bigger impact than the MiG-15, which owed its existence to the Attlee government’s decision to permit these sales. ‘At one stroke this removed the very serious lack of a suitable engine for the advanced ﬁghter the [Mikoyan-Gurevich] bureau were planning, and within eight months the prototype MiG-15 had ﬂown [December 1947] and the Nene was frantically being put into production (without a licence) in slightly modiﬁed form as the RD-45.’19 Friendly relations between Tedder and Spaatz, revived in 1946, prospered in 1947 and 1948, despite this unfortunate episode. In February 1947, ‘Arthur’ thanked ‘Tooey’ for his help in arranging to test new high-explosive bombs during July and August in the Mojave Desert, north of Los Angeles. He agreed to send only a few observers, who would arrive secretly and discuss technical issues of mutual interest unofﬁcially. We quite understand, he assured Spaatz, ‘that it is politically important from the general international standpoint to keep these tests as secret as possible’.20 Such private arrangements kept members of the two air forces working together, quietly and harmoniously, before the Berlin crisis of June 1948 made it easier for them to do so in public. Longer and stronger runways were being prepared, as Tedder and Spaatz had agreed, at Marham and Sculthorpe in Norfolk and at Lakenheath in Suffolk for the use of B-29s. In addition, ordnance stores, control towers and accommodation blocks were also under construction. The ﬁrst ofﬁcial visit, lasting a week, began on 9 June 1947, when nine B-29s arrived at Marham from Frankfurt; a total of 150 men were aboard, many of them wartime veterans. All were warmly greeted by Tedder, who arranged for a host of journalists and cameramen to be present, and encouraged Colonel Charles L. Sommers – commanding the party – to allow some of them a jaunt over southern England. When Tedder shook hands with Sommers he said: ‘We must keep this grip ﬁrm.’

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Tedder played his part in this public display of close relations by sending 16 Avro Lincoln bombers of 617 Squadron (the ‘dambusters’) to the United States to help celebrate the ﬁrst-ever Air Force Day, 1 August 1947. The Lincoln was an ‘unenterprising’ design, with an ‘unremarkable’ performance, utterly incapable of successful raids on Soviet targets, but the gesture was appreciated across the Atlantic.21 The June ‘tone’ was so carefully maintained that when Vandenberg wrote to ‘Dear Lord Tedder’ the reply was addressed to ‘My dear Van’.22 Britain had secretly decided in January 1947 to try and make its own atomic bomb, but this was one area in which the heads of the two air forces could not make private deals. Spaatz, Vandenberg and Norstad were all aware that other nations would eventually produce their own bombs. They knew also that the B-29 was nearing the end of its life as an adequate carrier, and that even a much-improved version – the B-50, ﬁrst ﬂown in June 1947 – would not last long. Crew training, especially in accurate navigation at night, needed a vast improvement; the USAF needed secure, fully equipped bases in Britain and the Middle East if Soviet aggression were to be deterred or answered; and at most 11 atomic bombs were available in 1947. During that year, Tedder learned – or deduced – most of this, including the astonishing fact that even Spaatz and his most senior colleagues found it extremely difﬁcult to extract information from the Atomic Energy Commission, formed in January 1947 and committed to the opinion that its work was ‘a sacred trust which took precedence over even military requirements.’23 Under the joint inﬂuence of Tedder and Spaatz, collaboration between the two air forces grew steadily closer. As one US ofﬁcer put it, a considerable amount of ‘healthy hanky panky’ was going on through various channels. It gradually extended during 1947 to Canada, South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand in detailed talks on ‘standardisation’; that is, an attempt to agree on common operating procedures, navigational aids, communications, tactical doctrine, staff and training methods, research and development, interchangeable bombs and ammunition. Fusion of the British and US zones of Germany in December 1946, the Truman Doctrine in March 1947 and the Marshall Plan in June all encouraged professional co-operation as well as friendly social relations. Early in 1948, representatives of the US, Canadian and British air forces got together in Ottawa and Washington to ensure, in Tedder’s words, ‘that in a future war there will be no material or technical obstacles to full co-operation for mutual defence between the three countries, and to obtain the greatest possible economy in the use of combined resources and effort’.24 On 17 March, he invited Spaatz’s help in preparing highspeed wind-tunnel tests for Britain’s forthcoming heavy bombers. Spaatz successfully recommended to James V. Forrestal, Secretary of

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Defense, that the USAF should help the British: ‘in any war with Russia they would in all probability be on our side’.25 Between 1929 and 1931, Tedder became a superb staff college lecturer, thoroughly prepared and imaginative in presenting information to students.26 Looking back in 1947, it seemed that during those years he had himself learned lessons of great value, especially the need to take broad views and grasp unchanging principles, the better to understand present and future problems. He therefore decided to mount an exercise on an unprecedented scale, lasting four full days, and employing ofﬁcers of the highest rank in re-considering issues with which they had been intimately concerned, in an attempt to inspire the next generation of upand-coming ofﬁcers. The exercise, entitled Thunderbolt – because, he told Solly Zuckerman, ‘he wanted it to hit everyone right between the eyes’27 – was a detailed study, held in the School of Air Support at Old Sarum, Wiltshire, of strategic-bombing issues between January 1943 and the end of the European war.28 In addition to formal lectures, Tedder had scripts written for ‘simulated conferences’, in which the actual points of view expressed during 1943–45 were ‘boiled down’ and clearly presented to the audience. There were elaborate, multi-coloured wall charts (a favourite device in Tedder’s teaching days), exhibitions of gadgets devised during that period, ﬁlms and photographs (to encourage those who had served in Bomber Command), and ample opportunity was provided for uninhibited discussion. All the still-serving senior RAF ofﬁcers took part, and they were provided with copies of the reports of the British Bombing Survey Unit and of Tedder’s Lees Knowles lectures at Cambridge to help jog, guide or direct their fading memories. Several distinguished US ofﬁcers attended, among them Quesada and William E. Kepner (both ﬁghter experts) and George C. Kenney (ﬁrst head of the new Strategic Air Command). In his opening address, Tedder said that the exercise raised three important points for the future. First, that Britain’s economic intelligence about a potential enemy must be inﬁnitely better than it had been in 1939. Second, that a target system causing the least general destruction – or ‘hangover’, as he called it – must be identiﬁed. Hangover ‘from these last two wars as we waged them’, he said, ‘really has been one over the top’. And third, training and planning had to be combined. From then on, all three services had to consider themselves a single defence force. During and immediately after the Great War, continued Tedder, two great men – Trenchard and Smuts – had seen into the future, helped by their experience of the past. It was now necessary to do likewise, and to have ideas about the principles of air war ﬁrmly in mind, and keep these

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distinct from ever-changing methods of application. He ended his address with ‘a very serious word of warning’: towards the end of a long war, if you are winning, everything becomes relatively easy, with manpower and matériel ﬂowing towards the ﬁghting fronts, but attention had to be focused on preparation and on the early days of war – which would be hard, for a society not preparing an offensive. In his closing address, Tedder remarked that the key to the whole exercise was ‘economy of force’. It was necessary to be more efﬁcient than in the past with the limited manpower and matériel available. Intelligence, he suggested, must cover military, economic, ﬁnancial, industrial and social aspects of the enemy state. That did not mean ‘an enormous building in Whitehall with masses of experts ﬁlling in ﬁles’, but instead ‘a spider’s web with a small nucleus of permanent people at the centre, and then strands going out into industry, into the commercial ofﬁces, into all the scientiﬁc bodies and laboratories, keeping in touch with the people whose peacetime business it is to know about a particular country and particular activities in that country’. With this information at hand, it should be possible to recognise such ‘common denominator’ targets as transport systems and oil plants that all available aircraft could attack. Finally, he said, Britain hoped one day to have atomic weapons of its own, but it was most unlikely that the services would be permitted to use them except in retaliation. If or when the Soviet Union acquired such weapons, it too might reserve them for retaliation. In that case, he said, the next war might be fought out with what we now call ‘conventional’ weapons; and everyone knew how destructive they had become by 1945. Between 16 October and 9 November, Tedder had an opportunity to return brieﬂy to the desert, during a long tour of the Middle East.29 The question of withdrawing from Egypt had been discussed by the Chiefs on several occasions during 1947 and on 9 October he sent Medhurst (head of the RAF in that region) a summary of their secret views on the main strategic issues. Tedder ﬂew out in his Dakota, taking Toppy with him. They visited Malta, Cyprus, Cairo, the Canal Zone, Khartoum, and Aden. While in Cairo, they went by themselves to lay roses on Rosalinde’s grave. They were anxious, as she would have been, to see living conditions for all ranks, on and off duty, as informally as possible. With Toppy’s advice, he reported on morale, welfare, passages out and home, conditions en route for individuals and families, on manning issues, including the employment of native labour, the cost and quality of married quarters, the services offered by NAAFI and the Malcolm Clubs. Although living conditions for ofﬁcers and men, and their

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families, were generally inadequate, and below the standard sought in Britain, he saw no prospect of immediate improvement, given Britain’s seemingly endless economic crisis. Overall, the tour depressed him, putting him in mind of the darkest days of 1941, when it seemed likely that a powerful enemy (then Hitler’s armies, now Stalin’s) might invade from the north-east. Britain’s resources, on land and in the air, were insufﬁcient without American aid, which, then as now, might not arrive in time. Tedder welcomed Bevin’s proposal in January 1948 to create ‘a Western Union’ that might eventually include the Commonwealth and the United States as well as most countries in western Europe. The Chiefs debated this proposal, and battle was joined on 4 February between Tedder and Cunningham against Montgomery in the presence of Attlee, Bevin and Alexander. Tedder did not think a Western alliance would collapse unless British troops stiffened it. Britain could not afford to maintain a ﬁeld army on the Continent that would be strong enough to make the difference between victory or defeat if the Soviet Union invaded. One must be realistic, he argued: our only hope was to retain control of the seas and mount heavy air attacks on the invading forces from bases in eastern England, and on targets in the Soviet Union from bases in the Middle East; and, as in both world wars, hang on somehow until American help arrived. Although Attlee and Bevin agreed with Tedder in February, they had changed their minds by May; it was politically, if not militarily, essential for British troops to serve beside their new allies.30 On 17 March, representatives of Britain, France, Belgium, the Netherlands and Luxembourg, alarmed by news of a communist coup in Czechoslovakia, signed a treaty in Brussels that brought a Western Union into existence. Tedder, aware of communist inﬂuence in the ruling circles of all these new partners, feared that military secrets would be leaked, angering Washington and conﬁrming what Moscow already suspected of British weakness. In the near future, however, he thought it unlikely that Russian armies would invade the West, not when Soviet agents and local sympathisers seemed to be successful in undermining Western conﬁdence and resolution.31 The question of Britain’s representation on a military staff committee for the Western Union arose in April. Tedder thought the Chiefs could not themselves be members, but that their Vice-Chiefs should be. In the end, it was decided that a new position should be created – for an airman, given the air’s importance in Western defence. Tedder selected Air-Vice Marshal Edmund Hudleston, whom he had known in Cairo.32 Tedder had ordered a ‘stocktaking’ in March of air strength that could be raised and maintained in an emergency during the next 18 months.33

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The tally was as bad as he feared. The ‘war potential’ of most squadrons was low and would remain so throughout that period. Lancasters and Lincolns were capable of ‘only shallow penetrations into Russia from Middle East bases’, and neither aircraft could reach any target in the Soviet Union from British bases. No better aircraft were due in service before 1952 and the RAF’s only option to ﬁll the gap was the purchase of B-29s. Over 60 per cent of the ﬁghter force still consisted of Spitﬁres, which – it was believed – would give a good account of themselves against most known Soviet bombers and ﬁghters, ‘provided the radar screen and ﬁghter control organisations of the United Kingdom are properly manned and operated’; this was not the case in April 1948 and Tedder’s staff could not tell him when they would be. No effective radar screen existed for the defence of British ports or convoys approaching those ports, and the defence available – either electronic or human – to protect Middle East bases was also inadequate. During the early hours of 30 January 1948, the air liner carrying Tedder’s old friend and recently retired comrade, ‘Mary’ Coningham, from England to Havana in Cuba, was lost at sea. News of the accident shared the front page of the New York Times next morning with reports of Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination in India and the death of Orville Wright in the United States. In London, late on that dreadful day, Coningham’s 13-year-old daughter answered a knock at the door. A small man, wearing a shabby raincoat, stood there. ‘My name is Tedder’, he said, quietly and shyly. ‘May I come in?’ He had come to tell Coningham’s wife that there was no longer any chance of ﬁnding her husband alive. Tedder’s glowing appreciation of ‘the airman personiﬁed’ appeared in The Times on 14 February. ‘It was a grand Air Force team we had in Middle East in the difﬁcult days’, he recalled: ‘a team led by a handful of individuals, outstanding alike in their vision, courage and initiative, but each with his own strong individual personality.’ Three members of that team – Grahame Dawson, Peter Drummond and now ‘Mary’ Coningham – were already dead, killed in aircraft accidents while still in the prime of life. Coningham, wrote Tedder, had ‘the alert, active, inquiring mind, the imaginative, highly-strung temperament, the perennial youth’ of ‘a brilliant commander of air forces’. The Tedders were among a host of friends and colleagues who attended his memorial service in St Margaret’s, Westminster, on 17 February.34 During these miserable days, when memories of three departed friends ﬁlled his mind, Tedder wrote to Eisenhower, who shared some of those memories. ‘Hotel St George, Algiers, in November 1942 seems

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very far away’, he wrote on 6 February, ‘but as the beginning of my association with your great team it will always be the outstanding landmark in my life.’ Eisenhower, who had just retired as head of the US Army, replied promptly, sending his ‘lasting devotion to a loyal friend and true son of Scotland’. Building on the success of Thunderbolt, Tedder mounted another elaborate exercise at Old Sarum in May 1948. Pandora, as it was called, explored the prospects for scientiﬁc and technical developments to affect air warfare, with or without atomic weapons. Pandora, he explained to Eisenhower, ‘was the lady with the box of tricks!’35 The exercise was set seven years ahead, in 1955, and supposed a war against ‘Eastland’. Tedder had taken a particularly keen interest in the world of science ever since his service as Director-General of Research and Development from July 1938 to November 1940. Senior US ofﬁcers again attended and Tedder sent ﬁve copies of the proceedings to Washington – where the USAF was preparing a similar exercise – even though it revealed only too clearly how little the RAF could achieve by itself.36 To the delight of both Tedders, Spaatz made good his promise to return to England, bringing his wife Ruth with him. Spaatz was on the brink of retirement (formally on 1 July 1948) and had selected Vandenberg as his successor. Tedder had known, liked and respected ‘Van’ since North Africa, ﬁnding him a man of a temperament similar to his own. ‘It is easy to get acquainted with Van’, said a friend, ‘but hard to know him well’; he rarely lost his temper and when angry became quieter; and, like Tedder, he had visited Moscow during the war.37 At Spaatz’s request, Vandenberg conﬁrmed that the State Department feared no ‘undesirable repercussions’ from his attendance at Pandora.38 The presence of such high-proﬁle Americans clearly indicated the success of Tedder’s determined efforts to foster closer relations, quite apart from the actual achievements of the exercise. In response to queries from interested British aircraft desigers, he arranged an Industrial Pandora for 18 June.39 Cochrane was among those who replied to Tedder’s invitation to comment on Pandora.40 He made the bleak point, which Tedder accepted, that in order to ‘scrape together’ a striking force that might be effective if war came in the near future, Britain’s defence would have to be neglected. As for next year, if the fragile peace survived, Cochrane thought the RAF should get together with administrators, engineers, teachers and heads of the nationalised industries. Tedder agreed and decided to mount a ‘conference’, not an exercise, in April 1949. It would be called Ariel and consider manpower issues – ﬁtting the needs of the

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RAF into those of the nation – and to that end he had in mind inviting 200 appropriate civilians, as well as selected senior ofﬁcers and representatives of the other services. Eisenhower wrote to Tedder on 6 June 1948,41 the fourth anniversary of D-Day, when ‘we were together sharing responsibilities and burdens that I trust men will not have to carry in the future’. He confessed that ‘there is nothing that would appeal to me more at this minute than to drop in on you and Toppy for a long evening talk. While I have now left active military service to undertake duties [as President of Columbia University, New York] in a ﬁeld in which I am completely ignorant, I still believe we could ﬁnd much to occupy our memories, to say nothing of our speculations for the future.’ To this Tedder replied in an undated letter, written at some time in July and August: ‘For many weeks now I have been trying to get a little peace to sit down and write to you. In my bag, I have a half-written letter started on the anniversary of D-Day, just before getting your signal.’ He was so pleased that Ike was keeping in touch with his son Richard, and had remembered his own 58th birthday (on 11 July). ‘Toppy and I’, he ended, ‘often talk over the old days, when we were all together. One sometimes wishes that the problems and issues were as clear now as they were then!’ These ‘problems and issues’ had indeed been difﬁcult for Tedder to get into focus since the summer of 1945, largely because of uncertainty over US policies, though he could hardly make this point to his old friend. In June, however, when the Soviet blockade of Berlin began, Tedder felt both relief and fear. Whatever the danger, Britain and the United States would once again face it together.

27 Working in a Strange and Secretive Society, Leaving the Whirligig London and Elsewhere, June 1948 to December 1949

At the end of the European war in May 1945, the victorious Allies divided Germany into four ‘Zones of Occupation’, but Berlin – though deep inside the Soviet zone – was also quartered, into four ‘Sectors of Occupation’. Geography alone made it difﬁcult for this arrangement to work, quite apart from Soviet insistence that US, British or French access to Berlin was a privilege, not a right; that supplies of food, fuel, medicines, clothing and manufactures for the three Western sectors must all come from the Western zones; and that free movement of people or goods between the Western and Eastern divisions of Germany or Berlin could not be permitted. The three Western Allies gradually became aware that only economic revival, in which Germany had to play a leading part despite French reluctance to help an old enemy, would permit the creation in Western Europe of armed forces strong enough to resist the danger of invasion by a new enemy, the Soviet Union. They therefore decided in March 1948 to link their zones into a common economic unit and introduce a new currency: clear indications that they intended to accept the division of Germany and create a new state in the west. Vehement Soviet protests, culminating in the closure on 23 June of Western access to Berlin by road, rail or waterway, led Lucius D. Clay, the US military governor, to propose ﬁghting a land convoy into the city. Clay’s proposal appalled Tedder and his fellow Chiefs in Whitehall. The West’s presence in Berlin, they argued, was ‘militarily unsound and could not be maintained by ﬁghting’.1 Clay was quickly persuaded that the British and Americans should use their unquestioned right of aerial

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access to ﬂy supplies into Berlin. The northern corridor, from south-east of Hamburg in British territory to Gatow, was the shortest. The southern corridor was more than twice as long and ran north-east of Frankfurt in US territory to Tempelhof. For their return journeys, both would use the central corridor running towards Hannover in British territory. All three corridors were 20 miles wide. During the crisis, a third terminal was built at Tegel in the French sector and the number of despatchpoints was steadily increased, including two at Celle and Fassberg in British territory for American use. No-one supposed that a city of more than two million people (plus a few thousand garrison troops and civil servants) could be supplied indeﬁnitely by air. No stockpiles of food, fuel or other necessities existed in Berlin, and some public services – notably electric power – depended upon the Eastern sector. The Allies were short of everything needed to mount such an unprecedented exercise on the scale required: transport aircraft, air and ground crews, airﬁelds with sealed runways, navigational aids, trafﬁc controllers, equipment for rapid loading and unloading of cargoes, and much else besides. Sir Brian Robertson, the British military governor, told Sir Arthur Sanders, head of British Air Forces of Occupation (BAFO) in Germany that ‘something must be done at once’, and Ernest Bevin added: ‘Do your best.’ What followed was magniﬁcent, but it was not an airlift. Rather, it was a hasty improvisation, an unplanned gesture of goodwill to Berliners, intended to buy time for diplomats to do their work. Gradually, however, as weeks passed without a diplomatic solution, the improvisation was transformed into an airlift: a carefully organised system, operating day and night. Under the inspired guidance of a US airman, William H. Tunner, a ‘steady rhythm’ (he later wrote) of loading, ﬂying, and unloading, ‘constant as the jungle drums, became the trade mark of the Berlin Airlift’.2 A Combined Airlift Task Force was created on 14 October, with Tunner in charge and a British airman, John Merer, as his deputy. By May 1949 (when Stalin accepted defeat), more than two million tons of food, fuel, medical supplies and other essential items had been delivered; in addition, 220,000 military and civilian passengers had been carried to and from the city, and over 80,000 tons of local manufactures were ﬂown out.3 The RAF’s code-names reﬂect the transformation from improvisation to airlift: the initial simple-minded choice of Knicker was replaced by Plainfare, a neat and accurate pun. As for the Americans, they named their contribution Vittles, although most of their deliveries were coal. The efforts made by British and US air forces from June 1948 to May 1949 represent an undoubted triumph for air power, its ‘ﬁnest hour’ in peacetime. Better still, in Tedder’s opinion, that triumph helped his constant efforts to keep alive the partnership born in wartime with

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Spaatz and his colleagues. One irritation was the emphasis many newspapers placed on comparing the weight delivered by US and British aircraft as if they were rivals of equal strength engaged in a sporting contest. Cecil James, a civil servant employed in the Air Ministry, drew Tedder’s attention to this ‘contest’, and to the impression it was making on the Secretary of State, Arthur Henderson. Tedder’s reply, recalled James, ‘was best handled with a pair of tongs’;4 nothing rufﬂed him quicker than any suggestion that the two air forces were other than a match made in Heaven. At the risk of war, the Soviet Union could have ended the airlift by shooting down transport aircraft; less spectacularly, Stalin could have used his ﬁghters to disrupt the airlift by ‘buzzing’ the transports, or by ﬂying static balloons close to their routes, or by jamming radio frequencies. Tedder was well aware that Stalin did not seek an open conﬂict, but an unplanned ‘incident’ might cause serious injury to Western or Soviet prestige and provoke a response that would have to be answered. If that happened, he knew that Britain’s obsolete Lancaster and Lincoln bombers would certainly suffer severe casualties in causing insigniﬁcant damage to Soviet targets. He also knew that US bombers, although superior in number and quality, might not arrive in Europe quickly enough in sufﬁcient strength to hit those targets hard. At what point would the US government – with or without British agreement – decide to use its small stock of atomic weapons? The airlift’s amazing success conﬁrmed what Tedder and many fellow ofﬁcers, British and American, had preached throughout their careers: that the particular strength of air forces lay in their capacity for rapid response in maximum strength at an identiﬁed key point. So sudden and strenuous a challenge had severely tested everything and everyone, especially the skill and stamina of air and ground crews, controllers, signallers, drivers, loaders and catering staffs. It lifted morale in the RAF sky-high and Tedder’s encouragement of participation by civilian pilots and aircraft helped to revive the old Dunkirk spirit. He recognised, as commanders had done during Dunkirk, that whole-hearted enthusiasm in desperate times by civilian patriots can offset incidents of inefﬁciency and indiscipline. By the time Stalin gave up, the Western Union had been greatly strengthened (in morale, if not yet in matériel) and transformed into an alliance with the United States, Canada, Iceland, Denmark, Portugal and Italy; a West German Republic was about to emerge; and several British airﬁelds were being actively readied for US bombers that were nuclear-capable.5 Tedder relied on ﬁve ofﬁcers to handle Plainfare and link it both to BAFO (which continued to carry out numerous non-airlift duties in

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Germany throughout the crisis) and to the American airlift, Vittles. Above all, there was Ralph Cochrane, head of Transport Command: a man of intimidating efﬁciency. He rose easily to the daily challenges of an immensely complicated operation, as did his crews, who were rewarded for their skill and discipline by suffering remarkably few accidents. Cochrane endeared himself to Tedder with his droll remark that ‘an aeroplane is no use on earth’. Second, there was John Merer, Cochrane’s highly regarded group commander. Merer took charge at Wunstorf (the RAF’s main dispatchpoint, ten miles west of Hannover), and from October served as Tunner’s deputy. Third, came Sanders, an unﬂappable staff ofﬁcer who remained head of BAFO until November, when Tedder appointed him Vice-CAS (in place of Robb, sent to Paris to command Western Union air forces). To succeed Sanders, Tedder chose Air Marshal Thomas Williams, who had earned a high reputation for managing airlift operations in Burma during the war. The ﬁfth man was Group Captain Freddie Rainsford, effectively Director of Air Transport in the Air Ministry, and experienced in handling problems of training and organisation. The RAF’s Dakotas, Yorks, Hastings, and Sunderlands all gave good service, but varied too much in capacity and performance to ﬁt easily into a systematic, non-stop operation. In addition, no fewer than 25 private British companies supplied 104 aircraft between them, among them modiﬁed Lancaster and Halifax bombers (known as Lancastrians and Haltons) and a modern airliner, the Avro Tudor.6 This wide variety of types posed logistic problems for Tedder’s ﬁve principal aides far beyond those faced by the USAF, which gathered together in Germany many excellent four-engined Douglas C-54 Skymasters, and was then able to phase out its own Dakotas (C-47s). On the positive side, however, it was the British who ﬂew in most of the liquid fuel, and its loads of food and other goods were more awkward to handle, at either end of the airlift, than the sacks of coal in which the Americans mainly specialised. Apart from selecting the right men for the job, Tedder’s contribution to the airlift was to bat for them in Whitehall: to answer criticism and ask for help. For example, although out of ofﬁce, Anthony Eden remained inﬂuential in Foreign Ofﬁce circles. By 17 July, according to Bruce Lockhart, he was taking ‘a very serious view of the situation’. The RAF, Eden complained, should be using bombers as well as transport aircraft, ‘and blamed Tedder, of whom he has never thought much’.7 Tedder answered by explaining that he had few bombers on hand, they made poor cargo-carriers even in a crisis, and at such a time were best reserved for their proper role in case the crisis turned into conﬂict. Early in September, he fended off a more serious criticism. Some Air Council

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members claimed that RAF aircraft were doing less than they should. Tedder put to them the simple point that ‘the volume of trafﬁc was limited in practice by what Berlin airﬁelds could receive’. At another Air Council meeting on 23 September, he was obliged to make the equally simple point that it took time for air and ground crews to transfer from one type of aircraft to another, and so no immediate increase either in cargo delivered or speed of operation was to be expected when the new four-engined Handley Page Hastings aircraft joined the airlift in November.8 Although the Berlin blockade was lifted on 12 May 1949, ﬂights continued for another four months, to build up stocks for the coming winter. Plainfare formally ended on 23 September, when a Dakota landed at Gatow with the words ‘Psalm 21, verse 11’ painted on its nose: ‘For they intended evil against thee: they imagined a mischievous device, which they were not able to perform.’ 9 An elegant, academic rebuke to Stalin and his minions of which Tedder warmly approved. The British share of all cargo delivered was about 23 per cent, but that share included nearly half the food and most of the liquid fuel. The airlift demanded the most precise ﬂying by thousands of US and British airmen, day and night, and imposed a fearful strain on everyone involved. Mick Ensor’s experience may stand as an example. He was a New Zealander serving with the RAF who ﬂew exactly 200 airlift missions, 86 of them wholly or partly in darkness, between Wunstorf and Gatow. ‘In the beginning’, he later reﬂected, ‘God created Heaven and Earth. Then he created the Berlin Airlift to cure keen pilots of their sinful desire to ﬂy aeroplanes.’ 10 ‘Don’t you think we can meet in the back room for the global business and let the French continue in the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation?’ Vandenberg made this brazen suggestion at a meeting of the Combined Chiefs of Staff in October 1950.11 It revealed how much he had learned from Spaatz and Tedder during the 1940s. Those who conducted AngloAmerican defence relations were ‘a strange and secretive society, whose intricate social and professional networks are familiar to their members but quite bafﬂing to the outsider’.12 Tedder and Spaatz, founder members of this ‘strange and secretive society’, had foreseen in June–July 1946 an urgent Anglo-American need to base strategic bombers, capable of carrying atomic bombs, within striking range of Soviet targets. On 17 and 18 July 1948, their foresight paid off when 60 Boeing B-29 Superfortress bombers landed at three specially prepared airﬁelds in East Anglia, ostensibly on a 30day training visit. It was the ﬁrst time that the United States had stationed combat aircraft in another sovereign state in peacetime. As the

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Berlin crisis continued, these 30 days became 60 and then 90 by September. Soon they were rotating through England on 90-day tours. A major depot for repair and maintenance work on both transports and bombers was opened for the Americans at Burtonwood, east of Liverpool. None of these B-29s had been modiﬁed to carry atomic bombs, and all such bombs remained in the United States – two facts, probably not known in Moscow, which encouraged Stalin to rely on ‘General Winter’ to upset the airlift. Questions were asked in Parliament about Henderson’s admission on 28 July that ‘informal and long-standing arrangements’ had been made (he did not disclose by whom) ‘for visits of goodwill and training’. Members of Parliament began to ask questions about the cost – past, current, future – of basing huge bombers and their crews (air and ground) in England. They also began to ask two questions which Tedder and Spaatz had set aside: how long would the Americans stay, and would they launch bombers armed with atomic weapons from English bases without ﬁrst consulting the British government? Not until 13 November did Tedder quietly announce that a long-term stay ‘was assumed’; three more years would pass before the second question was settled. By then, Britain had become for the United States ‘an unsinkable aircraft carrier’. Unsinkable, but not indestructible.13 Charles Medhurst, his representative in Washington, signalled Tedder on 26 July to say that he had had a long off-the-record talk with Norstad (Vandenberg’s deputy) about several sensitive matters. Among them, fuel supplies to meet the Berlin situation; the number of strategic bombers in store and in service; the shortage of qualiﬁed aircrews and radar equipment; plans for sending a third bomber group to England; and the likely performance as an escort for these bombers of the USAF’s ﬁrst single-seat jet ﬁghter, the Lockheed F-80 Shooting Star. Medhurst asked Tedder to send him details about RAF shortages that he wanted Vandenberg to remedy – and urged him to ensure that the content of this signal did not appear in ofﬁcial records. Medhurst warned Tedder in September that Vandenberg was concerned about ‘the exposed position’ of his B-29s in eastern England.14 He therefore proposed to ask Omar Bradley (head of the US Army) to send soldiers to England, bringing their own anti-aircraft guns, to provide ground defence. Vandenberg was also keen to send an engineer company to make improvements to those airﬁelds.15 Tedder welcomed both suggestions: they gave substance to the agreement he had made in 1946 with Spaatz. He believed it vitally important to encourage a strong American presence in Britain – and to discourage a growing opinion among younger USAF ofﬁcers that British bases might be dispensed with. They were enthralled by the appearance in July 1948 of the Convair

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B-36, a gigantic bomber, with ten engines (six piston, four jet). It carried four times the bombload of the B-29 and was intended to hit targets in Europe from US bases. By mid-November 1948, Tedder had decided that it would be folly to keep the Lincolns going for another six years, until Britain’s ﬁrst jet bombers were expected to enter service. He therefore asked Medhurst to sound out Vandenberg or Norstad unofﬁcially to see if the RAF could receive some B-29s on a lend-lease basis. Tedder knew that many of these bombers were ‘cocooned’ on storage airﬁelds in the United States and that the B-50, a superior version, was now in front-line service. His decision not to ask for B-50s may be thought timid, rather than realistic, but he knew the men with whom he was dealing. Tedder admitted to Medhurst that a request for US bombers would provoke adverse comment in Britain from the aircraft industry and from many politicians. His answer would be that the government had banked on there being no major war before 1955 at the earliest. That decision committed the RAF to using wartime types until then, but the Berlin crisis and Soviet aggression elsewhere persuaded Tedder that the RAF needed a more effective bomber than the Lincoln to serve during the years 1949–55.16 Negotiations concluded in March 1949 with an agreement that the Americans would sell – not lend or lease, as Tedder had hoped – at a total cost of about $250 million, 194 B-29s to Britain over a two-year period.17 If war against the Soviet Union had broken out in 1949, the B-29s would doubtless have been delivered promptly, but as late as November none had arrived. Apart from high-level haggling over precisely what equipment and spares were to be included, some members of Tedder’s staff were uneasy about ‘the broad implications’ of the deal. George Pirie, Air Member for Supply and Organisation, summed up for Tedder on 7 November. From both the political and military points of view, he agreed, it was desirable that the RAF possess an aircraft capable of carrying an atomic bomb to targets in the Soviet Union, but the B-29 ‘is not as good as we thought’; it could not operate at a higher altitude than the Lincoln because ‘the engines are liable to blow up or catch ﬁre when given extra boost’. Moreover, the RAF’s poor manning situation would be made worse by the need to ﬁnd larger air crews for the B-29s; servicing, repairs, and an adequate supply of spare parts remained major worries. Pirie ended his catalogue of woe by observing that the USAF occupied the only three airﬁelds suitable for operating such heavy bombers.18 Tedder nevertheless ruled on 8 November that the deal was on. He had encountered similar difﬁculties with American equipment during the war; they had been overcome then, and would be now. Far more

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important, in his opinion, was the need to keep the two air forces together. The fact that the Americans already occupied the only suitable airﬁelds would be a bonus, not a problem, if they agreed (as they did) to share them with the British. Tedder asked for nothing better than a revival of the desert and Tunisian days, when US and British airmen had operated side by side. The ﬁrst of eight squadrons of Washingtons (as the RAF named its B-29s) was actually formed in June 1950 and they survived until March 1954. Tedder strongly inﬂuenced the conception and creation of the RAF’s modern jet-bomber force. He had issued a requirement for an aircraft capable of carrying an atomic bomb in August 1946, even before the government decided to try and build that weapon. No correspondence seems to survive, but it is supposed that he remained in contact with Portal, now head of Britain’s atomic energy project, in order to be kept informed about progress in that ﬁeld.19 Australia’s immense size offered scope for long-range bombing trials and Tedder’s former colleague, Sir Henry Tizard, now Chairman of the Defence Research Policy Committee, was sent there in April 1948 to prepare for them.20 The ‘supreme aim of our defence policy’, Tedder told his fellow Chiefs on 3 April 1948, ‘was to prevent war by means of a powerful air striking force’, but Bomber Command could neither reach nor seriously damage important targets in the Soviet Union with conventional weapons. He was therefore having a new generation of aircraft developed capable of carrying an atomic bomb (weighing 10,000 pounds). These aircraft, committed to long ﬂights over enemy territory, had to ﬂy very fast (over 500 mph) at a great height (over 40,000 foot) and sacriﬁce defensive armament to achieve that performance. They had also to be equipped with extremely accurate navigational and bomb-dropping instruments. Tedder would be long out of ofﬁce before British jet-bombers were operational, but they gave his successors a far stronger hand to play in talking with the USAF. The four-engined Vickers Valiant – ﬁrst of Britain’s three long-range V-bombers – appeared in May 1951, followed by the Avro Vulcan and the Handley Page Victor in August and December 1952, but they only reached squadron service between 1955 and 1958 – the years of maximum danger, Tedder thought, of war with the Soviet Union. ‘When I die’, Tedder assured his friend Theodore McEvoy during the Ariel conference in 1949, ‘they will ﬁnd the words “regular recruits” engraved on my heart.’ 21 The problems of persuading a sufﬁcient number of men and women to choose the services as a permanent career plagued all three Chiefs of Staff in his day. They had to counter

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resistance to military discipline, poor rates of pay, inadequate accommodation at home and abroad, separation from spouse and children, risk of injury or death and, not least, the reluctance of many politicians to support recruiting drives. A meeting of the Chiefs with A. V. Alexander, Minister of Defence, on 10 September 1948 ‘was the scene of some very plain speaking’, recorded Montgomery.22 Tedder invited Alexander to link an announcement on releases with a plea for regular recruits, who were the core of ﬁghting efﬁciency. Montgomery gave him vigorous support, but Alexander refused, ‘for political reasons’; such a plea would annoy those Labour Party supporters for whom all things military were anathema. Tedder lost his temper and snapped angrily at the Minister, who was so startled and upset that the meeting broke up in disorder. At their next meeting, on 21 September, the Chiefs produced a memorandum on the parlous state of the armed forces.23 Tedder advocated a National Service term for men over 18 of two years – not one, as the government wished – and by November was prepared to resign over this issue, together with his fellow Chiefs. Attlee backed down and they settled on 18 months.24 During September 1948, Lord Fraser replaced John Cunningham as head of the Navy and Sir William Slim overcame Montgomery’s adamant opposition to become head of the Army. Both good men, their elevation encouraged Tedder to remain in ofﬁce for a fourth year to provide continuity, a complete change at the top being obviously undesirable. Relief was widespread at Montgomery’s departure for Fontainebleau, near Paris, to become Chairman of the Western Union Chiefs of Staff Committee. According to Sir Gerald Templar, who knew both men well, ‘Slim cared about the Army. Monty only cared about himself.’ 25 Tedder’s Ariel conference, held between 18 and 20 May 1949, was his third and last, following Thunderbolt and Pandora, and was intended, as they had been, ‘to keep us mentally alert’ by a detailed study of a speciﬁc issue. Organised by Cochrane, its theme was that ‘delicate balance’, of which Tedder often spoke, between civilian and military interests. Tedder was anxious to see technical and scientiﬁc skills, both in short supply, developed for everyone’s beneﬁt, in or out of uniform. No fewer than 200 civilians were invited to attend, with experience in commerce, industry, several professions and trade unions; 200 RAF ofﬁcers also attended, together with several USAF ofﬁcers. Tedder mounted Ariel in central London, in the Royal Empire Society Hall, off Whitehall. Attlee himself, among other luminaries, attended the closing session, and Tedder declared that the post-war rundown was at last over and the RAF could look forward to a brighter future.26

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It seems clearer now than it did in 1948 that the Soviet Union was not planning an invasion of western Europe in the near future.27 Other forms of aggression promised virtually bloodless triumphs. It was these that Tedder had primarily in mind when he addressed a gathering of Commonwealth premiers on 20 October 1948. The West, he said, was faced ‘by the stark reality of a cold-blooded, utterly unprincipled, ruthless and world-wide war, directed from and closely controlled by the Kremlin’.28 A cold war, which might prove more dangerous than an open war, thanks to political inﬁltration and espionage in every European capital. He summarised the three ‘pillars’ of British strategy: effective home defence; the maintenance of sea communications with the Commonwealth and the United States, and the control of bases in the Middle East, from which strategic bombers could attack targets in the Soviet Union. Those bases also helped to protect sea communications and essential sources of oil. To those pillars, he concluded, must now be added a contribution to the defence of western Europe.29 In October 1948, Britain, France and the three ‘Benelux’ countries (Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg) set up a permanent defence organisation. Tedder now added to his old burdens a new one: Chairman of the ﬁve Chiefs of Staff. He was responsible for sending directives to Montgomery in Fontainebleau, who had a French soldier (Jean de Lattre de Tassigny) and a British airman (Robb) as his principal subordinates. On paper, it was a good organisation, but it had little substance: neither sufﬁcient tanks, artillery, infantry nor aircraft to prevent a determined Soviet invasion from reaching the Channel coast.30 Tedder and his fellow Chiefs (accompanied by A. V. Alexander) met James Forrestal, US Secretary of Defense, in London on 13 November.31 After the usual pleasantries, Tedder lowered the temperature by telling Forrestal that Anglo-American strategic planning was ‘utterly unrealistic’, and would remain so for as long as the United States refused to release information about its atomic weapons, actual and potential, to its only important ally. The Chiefs urged Forrestal ‘to sign a pact to support the west European powers in the event of hostilities’. At this point, Alexander’s unhelpful comment was that the French were ‘completely shot’ for the moment, and Italy had no signiﬁcant military value. At midnight on 14–15 May 1948, Britain’s unhappy Mandate in Palestine expired, and the Jewish state of Israel was proclaimed and immediately recognised by President Truman. The irreconcilable claims of Arabs and Jews left Britain with very little power there, and its inﬂuence throughout the Middle East, except in Transjordan, was declining.32 Fighting between Israel and its neighbours began at once,

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and by 18 July the Arabs had been heavily defeated. The British Chiefs of Staff were anxious to back Transjordan in the event of an Israeli attack, but Truman’s strong support for Israel inhibited action by the British government. A Jewish attack on Egypt, culminating in capture of the Negev Desert and all the territory south of Beersheba as far as Eilat (a port on the Gulf of Aqaba), caused great alarm in Whitehall. Tedder and his fellow Chiefs regarded the Negev as part of an expanded Transjordan state and a secure region for a new British base. On behalf of his colleagues, Tedder regularly emphasised to government Ministers, to the US Ambassador (Lewis Douglas) and to any other Americans who would listen that bases in the Middle East formed an integral part of the defence of Western Europe.33 The ﬁrst Arab–Israeli war ended with an uneasy armistice on 7 January 1949. Shortly before the ceaseﬁre, however, there came an incident that almost started a war between Britain and Israel. Bevin had taken personal control of the armistice negotiations, and, without informing either Henderson or Tedder, ordered an aerial reconnaissance over the ﬁghting area to check whether the Jews had really pulled back from Egyptian territory. Four RAF Spitﬁres and one Hawker Tempest were shot down by Jewish ﬁghters and ground gunners. One of the wrecks was dragged to the Israeli side of the provisional frontier on the orders of Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion in a crude attempt to justify the action as self-defence. Equally crude claims were put into the mouths of two captured pilots. Truman intervened personally to prevent British reprisals. Tedder privately admitted that he was right to do so; Britain’s position in the Middle East, already shaky, would become impossible without American acquiescence.34 During November 1948, Sir Henry Willink, recently elected Master of Magdalene College, Cambridge, corresponded with Tedder about having a full-length portrait of him made, as a permanent record of a distinguished former member. Having exacted Tedder’s reluctant agreement, the college commissioned Henry Carr in March 1949 and the work was done during April and May. ‘I did my best not to look like perforated ham’, Tedder told Willink on 30 June, ‘but it wasn’t easy.’ The result, sadly uninspired, hangs in a dark corner of Magdalene’s dining-hall. He unveiled it on 6 November, Remembrance Sunday, as well as a memorial in the chapel to 129 former members killed during the Second World War, among them his son Dick and Sir Trafford Leigh-Mallory. It faces a memorial to 65 college members killed during the Great War. In a short but moving speech, Tedder recalled his ﬁrst visit to the chapel, when there had been no memorials. Now there were two, both full of names known to him: either his contemporaries or their

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sons. He paused for a long minute in an intense silence before continuing, but made no direct reference to Dick.35 Another emotional occasion followed early in January 1949, when Tedder was invited to another unveiling: this time of a memorial window in the Rolls-Royce factory at Derby to those pilots who fought and died during the Battle of Britain. He did so, he said, as ‘one of the backroom boys’ at that critical time, and spoke feelingly about the numerous problems solved during the years 1938–40: ‘on the drawing-board, in the laboratory, in the foundry, on the test rigs, in the machine-shops and on the production-line’, without which the battle could not have been fought and won. As usual, he took the opportunity to urge his audience – a very large one, including many former pilots – to look forward as well as back. He imagined what their dead comrades might think of the window. ‘Yes, that is a beautiful thing, a ﬁne reminder of what we fought for – so what? What have you done, what are you doing, what are you going to do for the cause for which we did all we could?’ 36 Slim and Fraser agreed with Tedder in 1949 that although Britain needed Middle East bases, she also needed a closer alliance with the United States – and without American soldiers, artillery, tanks and aircraft would ﬁnd it impossible to defend the line of the Rhine until at least 1953. Tedder objected to making military decisions on political grounds, and argued that Britain should not be unduly inﬂuenced by French opinion: France had her own imperial pretensions, which had often been in conﬂict with Britain’s, even during the war. By August, however, he was coming round to the view that if Britain did send wellequipped troops to western Europe, the Americans might be prepared to take on more of the defence burden in the Middle East.37 Britain suffered a severe economic crisis in 1949, and the gulf between it and the United States, in material and ﬁnancial strength, prestige and inﬂuence, widened daily. French pressure to prefer Western Europe to the Middle East in framing policies to contain Soviet aggression was growing, and Britain lacked the strength for both options. The Chiefs agreed on 17 June that they could no longer put off making a decision and opted to give priority to western Europe. But when the Defence Committee met only four days later, Tedder argued – and both Attlee and Bevin agreed – that a promise of two British divisions could hardly prove decisive in holding the Western Union together, that French pressure amounted to blackmail and should be resisted, and that Britain could not simply abandon its long-held positions in the Middle East.38 Meanwhile, a government-sponsored working party was recommending severe reductions in the size of the armed forces; which would, of course, make it more difﬁcult than ever for Britain to play a world

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role. Fortunately, just as Stalin’s actions over access to Berlin in June 1948 proved a catalyst in bringing Britain, western Europe and the United States closer together, so now the explosion of his ﬁrst nuclear device galvanised the Americans into providing the money needed to give the alliance teeth, through a Mutual Defense Assistance Act.39 Lauris Norstad had reported to Dean Acheson (Secretary of State) on 19 July 1949 about his informal talks in London with Tedder. On behalf of the USAF, Norstad was invited ‘to sound out their British counterparts on the question of suitable arrangements for co-operation in the ﬁeld of atomic energy’. The talks were unofﬁcial and could be repudiated by either party; Vandenberg was ‘purposely absent’. Tedder told Norstad that if Britain and the United States had a full partnership in atomic energy, ‘the British in all probability would not insist on having any major production plan’, and promised to argue this line with his government.40 Until May 1949, it seemed that Tedder accepted the overwhelming weight of inﬂuential (though retired) air force opinion in favour of Slessor as his successor. They exchanged letters throughout 1948 and Tedder sometimes asked ‘My dear Jack’ for his advice on matters great and small.41 On 6 April 1949, Tedder sent him a particularly important letter: ‘Is it wise’, he asked, ‘or indeed safe to rely on the Americans, who are concentrating on the technique of atom-bombing vital targets at long range, to intervene in operations in Germany or other areas calculated to help the land campaign or to defend the United Kingdom?’ He recalled how reluctant they had been to divert their heavy bombers to assist Overlord. Tedder also wondered how effective their new aircraft would prove in practice. In order to fend off agitation by the US Navy for carrierborne atomic bombers, the USAF was developing the enormous B-36, which could reach Soviet targets from North America. But only a few would be built (because of their high cost), they were too heavy for British airﬁelds, and Tedder doubted whether they had the speed or agility to penetrate Soviet defences. He rejected the suggestion that Britain leave strategic bombing to the USAF. ‘If we deprive ourselves of our air striking force, I think we are not merely, as some people say, relegating ourselves to being a second-class power, but writing ourselves off completely as a power.’ 42 Slessor replied next day. He entirely agreed that leaving all offensive action to the Americans was ‘dangerous bunkum’, and was ‘very attracted’ to Tedder’s idea of ‘strengthening the Bomber Force at the expense of the Transport Force after 1952’. As good Trenchardists, neither man was ever entirely comfortable – in spite of their wartime

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experiences – with the idea of transport aircraft. Meanwhile, Slessor hoped for ‘real planning’ with the Americans. They would have to use their bomb against the heart of the Soviet Union, but they needed also a ‘complementary plan to use their heavy force, if necessary, in the way you used the Bomber Command and the 8th Air Force to such effect in the Overlord campaign. At present, I am afraid they are thinking far too much in terms of stunt ﬂights from American soil’. Such letters gave Slessor reason to suppose that Tedder now agreed with their mentors about the succession. Instead, in a letter to Henderson on 23 May 1949, Tedder recommended that Cochrane succeed him from 1 January 1950. ‘Since the war’, he wrote, ‘his outstanding achievement has been the organisation and training of Transport Command to the pitch of efﬁciency and morale which made possible the Berlin Airlift.’ By late July, Attlee had rejected that recommendation and selected Slessor. Tedder did not accept his rebuff gracefully. He chose to break into Slessor’s holiday in Scotland, on 1 September, by sending him a list of proposed senior postings. Slessor wasted at least a day, as Tedder had intended, in offering detailed comments – not one of which resulted in a change. During December, Slessor invited Cochrane to accept appointment as his Vice-CAS; he accepted, and remained in that high ofﬁce until the end of October 1952. An Air Ministry Bulletin tersely announced on 29 July 1949 that Lord Tedder ‘will relinquish the post of CAS, at his own request, in order to facilitate the advancement of younger ofﬁcers’. He was then just 59 and Slessor 52. Among the numerous messages reaching Tedder was one that greatly surprised him. ‘I greatly regret your departure’, Lord Beaverbrook wrote on 3 August. ‘You have done wonderfully well. Indeed, you are a much better leader than a follower. And that criticism is the highest praise.’ Sadly, Tedder’s reply – if any – has not survived. No message came from Churchill. Charles Lecheres, head of the French Air Ministry, wrote on 22 August to thank Tedder for his help in reviving a French Air Force. He supposed that he was leaving the Air Ministry only to take up a more important appointment – as nice a compliment as any that he received at this time. ‘On the French side’, wrote Lecheres, ‘there is the unanimous wish to see you at a high post in the military organisation of the Atlantic Pact.’ Tedder was not yet out of ofﬁce, however, and the six Combined Chiefs of Staff – three British, three American – held a rare meeting in London on 3 August.43 They wished to frame a strategic air offensive against the Soviet Union, ‘exploiting the destructive and psychological effects of the atomic bomb’. The Americans refused to commit themselves to immediate help in the event of a Soviet attack, and refused to

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talk to the French, except on issues concerning the north Atlantic. Tedder did not hide his uneasiness at the lack of progress made, and was invited to Washington for further talks. In September, the month in which the Americans and British learned to their amazement and alarm that the Soviet Union had exploded a nuclear device, the Combined Chiefs assembled again in Washington.44 The Atomic Energy Commission wanted Britain to agree that all nuclear weapons be located in North America, although it accepted that for reasons of prestige it must be allowed to hold some. After talking to Tedder, Norstad felt sure that the British would never agree to abandon the attempt to make its own weapons. Tedder conﬁrmed his impression that ‘a great deal of bad feeling had been engendered by our stickiness in the atomic energy ﬁeld’. The root of the problem, Tedder explained, was US reluctance to commit itself to active military support of Western Europe unless and until the citizens of those countries could show that they were making an adequate effort to defend themselves – which they were reluctant to do without a guarantee of American support. Taking Toppy with him, Tedder ﬂew to Washington on 17 September. Apart from attending yet another meeting with the US Chiefs, the Tedders were to enjoy a tour of the United States, as Vandenberg’s guests, then ﬂy to Canada for talks there before returning home.45 Back in England, Tedder offered a heartfelt valedictory to the Oxford American Association on 31 October. After brieﬂy looking back at his almost constant contact with Americans during the previous nine years, he spoke about the future: ‘You may feel that for you to come out of your Western Hemisphere, against the advice of so many of your statesmen in the past, from Jefferson onwards, and accept world-wide commitments – or, as some would call them, entanglements – is a much more revolutionary and daring step for you than it is for us. I would not agree with that view. For us even to consider entering into a European union is a complete breakaway from our traditional policy of keeping out of Europe except in so far as the maintenance of the balance of power called for occasional military alliances.’ Ronald Ivelaw-Chapman told Tedder on 20 December how sorry he was to lose ‘your great leadership’; everyone in the service owed much to you ‘for your patient tenacity on our behalf in enduring the grinding of the Whitehall machine’. He hoped he would enjoy a prosperous and carefree life on departing from ‘the whirligig of Whitehall’. Another pleasing message came from Hugh Saunders, one of his oldest service friends, on 30 December – signed, for once, ‘Dingbat’, a long-established nickname. He thanked Tedder for all his great kindness during the last 25 years. ‘Serving under you has been a wonderful experience and a grand education. I have learnt far more from you than from anyone else

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in or out of the Service. Without your help and cheerful encouragement, I am quite sure I would have dropped out of the running long ago.’ Saunders was certain that no CAS to date had been personally known to so many ofﬁcers, men and women. Tedder had been appointed a governor of the BBC in December 1949. He was invited to say farewell to the RAF on Christmas Eve via a very popular radio programme, In Town Tonight.46 A week later he left the Air Ministry, a civilian for the ﬁrst time in 35 years. Not yet 60, he looked forward to new challenges for the rest of his active life. But, to his dismay, he soon found himself back in uniform.

PART VIII 1950 TO 1967: GIVING AND NOT COUNTING THE COST

28 Providing a Few Drops of Oil and Setting the College Flag Flying From London to Cambridge via Washington, January 1950 to June 1954

‘I walked out of my ofﬁce at a quarter to one on Saturday’ (31 December 1949), wrote Tedder to Trenchard on 6 January 1950, ‘and spent most of Sunday studying BBC memoranda’: his ﬁrst day as a governor of that august institution. ‘I know nothing at all about broadcasting’, he blithely admitted to a Daily Graphic reporter on 10 December 1949, ‘but I can learn.’ His ignorance of a demanding subject did not trouble him. The RAF had always resisted specialisation for its ‘General Duties’ ofﬁcers, circulating them around a wide variety of appointments, in the belief that breadth of experience – helped along by common sense, quick wits and a sharp eye for subordinates with particular expertise – produced men who could command. The power to command, including the effective management of a disparate group around an ofﬁce table, was Tedder’s ‘particular expertise’. Thus armed, he conﬁdently attended his ﬁrst BBC board meeting on 5 January – and would later sit as conﬁdently among brewers, distillers, manufacturers and motor-car salesmen.1 During the afternoon of 6 January 1950, however, came shattering news. Alasdair Black, Toppy’s son by her ﬁrst marriage, had joined the RAF in 1949 and began pilot training at Cranwell. He was killed when his Harvard dived into the ground near Coleby Hall in Lincolnshire.2 In less than a fortnight he would have turned 21. As would always be his way, Tedder grieved only in private and Toppy matched his courage. Immediately after the funeral, Tedder got on with the script for his ﬁrst radio talk in Britain, entitled ‘Personal Pleasures: Off Duty’, broadcast in the Home Service on 22 January. Even on duty, he said, he carried

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a small sketch book and coloured pencils or crayons with him. ‘I hasten to say that I am no artist, but for some obscure reason I have always wanted to make some sort of record on paper whenever I see something I like.’ He remembered drawing pictures of Dutch trawlers from a hillside in Lerwick, in the Shetland Islands, when he was only four. ‘Rather different from standing on the roof of the Governor’s Palace in Malta in April 1942, making a very hurried sketch of the great clouds of yellow dust and smoke rising from Valetta as Ju 88s dive-bombed the harbour.’ Such sketches reminded him, years later, of people, events, colours and places. ‘Of course, the beauty of this business is that one records what one sees oneself; not what a camera sees or necessarily what other people see.’ For example, his sketch at 6.30 a.m. on 9 May 1945 of the battered Brandenburg Gate: ‘it may be that to other people the gate did not look so grey or the red ﬂags so red. But so far as I was concerned, I had had some nine hours of negotiations with General Zhukov and Mr Vyshinsky, followed by about three quarters of an hour’s surrender ceremonies, capped by four hours of caviare, vodka and speeches and no sleep. So that grey sketch is what I saw at 6.30 a.m.’ Lord Simon of Wythenshawe was chairman of the BBC board, Sir William Haley Director-General, and Tedder was one of six governors. He found life with the BBC, even on a part-time basis, refreshing after his hard years in Whitehall, and was content to restrict his military interest to exchanges with Trenchard and others about the olden days. Yet on that very day, 14 March, Tedder reluctantly agreed to Attlee’s request that he accept a year’s appointment as head of a joint-services mission in Washington and Britain’s ﬁrst representative on NATO’s ‘Standing Group’, a newly formed executive committee. ‘I am not at all looking forward to the Washington business’, he told Trenchard on the 17th. ‘I am quite aware that in all probability it merely means 12 months of frustration. At best one can only hope to provide a few drops of oil which may lessen the risk of Anglo-American or Anglo-French relations seizing up.’ Attlee’s decision to re-activate Tedder was justiﬁed by the response of Omar Bradley, head of the US Army and chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. ‘I consider Marshal Tedder one of the United Kingdom’s most outstanding men’, he assured Louis Johnson, Secretary of Defense, on 17 March. ‘I am glad we are going to have him with us.’ 3 Norstad seconded Bradley’s opinion. Tedder ‘has a very strong position with Americans, both in and out of the military establishment’, wrote Norstad, ‘and he has of course the esteem and affection of his wartime associates. The remarkable thing is that he is not considered a foreigner when in this country. We regard him as one of the family. You people made a very wise decision in sending him over here.’ 4 Tedder and Toppy arrived in Washington via New York on 7 May.

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‘Brad’, ‘Van’, ‘Larry’ and other old friends in the Pentagon went out of their way to make ‘Arthur’ feel at home in his new appointment. Other friends, no longer serving, such as ‘Ike’ and ‘Tooey’, were only a telephone call away. At ﬁrst, his duties were undemanding, for a man with his background and personality: he was required to act as a discreet, authoritative conduit for the transmission of opinions, arguments and requests that could not be openly expressed in ofﬁcial correspondence on military matters between Whitehall and Washington. Then, to everyone’s surprise in Whitehall and Washington, came an outbreak of war: not in central Europe or the Middle East, as many observers had half-expected, but in Korea.5 Since August 1945, the 38th Parallel of latitude had separated the interests of the Soviet Union and the United States in that country. By June 1950, a communist state existed in the north and an ofﬁcially democratic republic in the south. When North Korean forces invaded South Korea on the 25th, it was widely supposed to be a Moscow-inspired attempt to draw AngloAmerican forces to the Far East while the Soviet Union ‘destabilised’ the politically shaky states of western Europe (in particular, France, Italy and Greece), where there were large, well-disciplined communist parties. Although Truman and his advisers recognised this danger, they believed they must act in support of South Korea. Britain was anxious to help, but always kept an eye on its interests and obligations in Malaya, Hong Kong and the new People’s Republic of China, as well as the Nationalist state in Taiwan. Tedder was immediately involved in top-level discussions and later, on Attlee’s instructions, would support Truman and Bradley in opposing the attempt of Douglas MacArthur, commanding US forces in the Far East, to escalate the conﬂict.6 Bradley told Philip Jessup, Truman’s ‘Ambassador at Large’, on 26 June that Tedder had already assured him that Attlee agreed with the United States taking ‘a ﬁrm position’, and gave Bradley a full account of all British forces in the area.7 To Washington’s relief, Attlee at once sent Britain’s Far East ﬂeet (supported by several Commonwealth warships) to join US warships in operations off the Korean coasts.8 Tedder was urged to persuade his contacts that the British government believes ‘such demonstrations of solidarity are more important than the actual strength of the forces deployed, and we hope other members of the United Nations will quickly follow suit’. Tedder also underlined the fact that initial press reaction in Britain strongly supported prompt action.9 Attlee instructed his Chiefs of Staff on 29 June to get ‘on a personal basis through Tedder American ideas for future operations’. Tedder replied

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at once. He had spoken with Bradley on his return from a meeting with the President. Truman was anxious to obtain international support, and Tedder was convinced that even a small British force would have ‘an excellent political effect in sealing even more ﬁrmly our complete unity on this issue’. Tedder added that Bradley did not think the Soviet Union wanted war at this stage and that he, Tedder, was to receive all Washington’s information on Korean events. Attlee, naturally, was delighted.10 A week later, on 6 July, Attlee asked Truman to authorise ‘the appropriate authorities’ to discuss the Korean situation secretly with Tedder. Truman agreed that Tedder and Sir Oliver Franks (Britain’s ambassador) should sit down with Bradley and Jessup.11 This meeting began a new Anglo-American partnership, the closest the two countries had managed in peacetime.12 Tedder turned 60 on 11 July and even at this time of acute crisis Eisenhower, Vandenberg and Bradley all remembered to offer congratulations. War Ofﬁce and Foreign Ofﬁce representatives arrived in Washington on 18 July to support Tedder and Franks in their talks with Bradley and Jessup, between 20 and 24 July. The Americans wanted a British force on the ground in Korea, as well as ships off the coasts. Encouraged by Tedder, Attlee agreed to send a small force,13 though the British remained anxious lest the Americans become so committed in Korea that they were unable to take a major part in the defence of western Europe and the Middle East. Bradley reported to Truman that the talks had been held ‘in an atmosphere of complete harmony and with no effort toward concealment or hesitation on the part of any of the conferees’.14 So far so good, but Tedder thought it time for the respective Chiefs of Staff to talk directly to each other, rather than through a conduit. Hastings Ismay, who had served as a conduit between Churchill and his Chiefs, sympathised. ‘I have the highest opinion, which I know you share, of Arthur Tedder’, Ismay wrote to Eisenhower on 15 August, ‘but the problems which confront us are not purely military and he is naturally tied down to instructions from the Chiefs of Staff here – instructions which might be different if they had the advantage of talking the problems over with the American Joint Chiefs.’ 15 By mid-August, the British were being pressed to send more troops to Korea. The Chiefs in Whitehall had recently learned from Tedder and Franks that Bradley wanted British troops to help meet an apparent crisis around Pusan, a vital port in south-east Korea.16 How real, they asked Tedder, was this crisis? The Joint Chiefs, he reported on 16 August, had just concluded a long meeting at which the urgent need for reinforcements was stressed. ‘For your private information’, he wrote, ‘the Americans have denuded Okinawa, Hawaii, Puerto Rico and

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Panama of their garrisons.’ As Bradley conﬁded to Tedder, ‘a platoon today would be more use than a company tomorrow’.17 Since the crisis began on 25 June, Tedder had shared Vandenberg’s concern that it might escalate into a nuclear war. ‘Every day that passes’, wrote Curtis LeMay to Vandenberg on 30 June, ‘makes more possible the total destruction of Washington by several atomic bombs or a single hydrogen bomb, leaving our nation temporarily without top-level direction.’ Vandenberg approved his request to respond promptly, if such a disaster occurred, but privately shared Tedder’s fear that LeMay was itching to get his retaliation in ﬁrst. Late in November 1950, when the UN forces were in retreat, LeMay calmly supposed that nuclear weapons would be used to prevent their defeat.18 Orvil Anderson, Commandant of the Air University, was a less discreet (and far less powerful) advocate of ‘preventative’ nuclear strikes, and Vandenberg dismissed him at the end of August 1950, but Tedder and his particular friends were acutely aware that many younger ofﬁcers were not opposed to use of the atomic bomb.19 At the end of September, MacArthur expected the imminent recovery of Seoul, South Korea’s capital, and planned a ceremony to reinstate its President, Syngman Rhee.20 Attlee recommended holding back MacArthur to give North Korea an opportunity to seek an armistice. Tedder passed this message to Bradley.21 A few days later, on 4 October, Oliver Franks invited Dean Rusk, Assistant Secretary of State for Far Eastern Affairs, to join him and Tedder at the British Embassy, where they could discuss a new situation without being seen in public together: should UN and South Korean forces cross the Parallel into the north? Would the People’s Republic of China and the Soviet Union attempt to rescue their ally? 22 US and British Chiefs of Staff met between 23 and 26 October, as Ismay and Tedder had advocated in August, to discuss these issues further.23 Tedder continued to act as conduit and focus of appeals – sometimes verging on the hysterical – for information. By 6 November, for example, the British Chiefs were desperate to know from Bradley if MacArthur realised that Chinese forces were now helping their North Korean comrades, and if he had been authorised to cross the Yalu River into Manchuria. ‘We look like being in for a prolonged containment at best’, they told him, ‘and war with China at worst.’ Tedder replied on the 8th, calmly and precisely as ever: he had spoken with Bradley, who assured him that the United States wished to avoid war with China, but South Korea had to be made safe from another invasion, and MacArthur did not regard Chinese assistance for the north as serious.24 On 24 November, responding to MacArthur’s advance into North

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Korea, the Chinese launched a massive attack across the Yalu that achieved complete surprise and drove UN forces back in disorder.25 The British Chiefs signalled ‘a catalogue of anxiety’ to Tedder on the 28th, of which the main item was a fear that MacArthur was eager to escalate the conﬂict into full-scale war with China – and even with the Soviet Union. Tedder showed most of this signal to Bradley, deleting a few sentences that he judged ‘unhelpful’, and was told, yet again, that Truman opposed escalation. Military opinion in Washington remained steadfast, but public opinion was not, and at a press conference on 30 November Truman said ‘We will take whatever steps are necessary’ to win this war. When asked if that included dropping atomic bombs, he replied: ‘That includes every weapon we have.’ 26 Attlee ﬂew to Washington on 3 December with his Chiefs of Staff and others.27 Five formal meetings of the principal American and British leaders, civilian and military, were held during the next few days, in addition to many private talks, MacArthur’s conduct and capacity, Chinese and Soviet intentions, the scale of British and Commonwealth support in Korea, and the fragility of western Europe under Soviet pressure were all anxiously discussed, and on 7 December Truman promised Attlee (verbally) that he would never authorise the use of nuclear weapons without informing him ﬁrst.28 Tedder spoke rarely and brieﬂy during these meetings, but Attlee praised, in a report to the House of Commons on 14 December, ‘the admirable work’ being done by Tedder and Franks. ‘It would be a mistake’, he added, ‘to formalise the arrangement: anything more formal might be misunderstood.’ 29 Private talks by Tedder and Franks with senior military and civilian leaders in Washington marked ‘the willingness of the policy-making elite of both countries to go tiger shooting together with surprisingly few qualms, something they were never prepared to do before the Second World War’.30 Tedder had reason to fear that his excellent performance since the outbreak of the Korean War was encouraging those in the know to suppose that he could be persuaded to stay on, at least until the war ended. Himself a Whitehall veteran, he understood the machine’s capacity for inertia as a means of achieving its goals. Still only 60, and back at the centre of vital events, he had only to accept pressure to remain there, and yet he was determined to escape. On 30 December he prodded the machine into life by writing directly to Shinwell, Minister of Defence. As his successor, Tedder naughtily recommended Slessor (who could only have taken on the job if he resigned as CAS, and he knew perfectly well that only death or disgrace would remove Slessor from that ofﬁce before his three years were up).

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On 5 January 1951 the British Chiefs again pressed Tedder for information about MacArthur’s intentions. The effect of being ‘kicked out of Korea would be calamitous’, they told him. The Chiefs saw no military reason why the UN forces should be beaten, unless the morale and determination of certain US units faltered. They thought MacArthur over-rated Chinese power and seemed in a constant panic. In short, they concluded, the British needed more hard information about what was going on – and a change in command at the top would not come amiss. Tedder discussed this message with Bradley, and told Whitehall that there were in fact over 450,000 Chinese troops in Korea, far more than the British Chiefs realised, supported by Russian-built MiG-15 jet ﬁghters. The Chiefs thereupon decided, on 14 January, to send Slessor to Washington to consider ‘a very grave situation’ with Tedder, Franks and the US Chiefs, but in fact the tide of battle was already turning in UN favour under the command of General Matthew B. Ridgway.31 By 8 February, reported Tedder, the UN forces were expecting a major attack, which they were conﬁdent of repelling. They would then establish a ﬁrm line behind which the serious training and equipping of South Korean forces could take place: ‘forces from other UN nations’, he ended tartly, ‘which have voted and talked without ﬁghting would be very acceptable’. Tedder discussed airﬁelds and aircraft in North Korea, Manchuria, north China and Siberia with Bradley on 6 April. Here he was on familiar ground and so the general listened carefully when the airman asked about dispersal arrangements, hangar space, servicing and repair facilities, ground defences, and plans to hit targets in sudden, repeated attacks in daylight and darkness while aircraft were still on the ground.32 Later that day, Truman met Gordon Dean, civilian chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission. Thousands of enemy troops lay across the Yalu, preparing yet another assault. In MacArthur’s opinion, unless nuclear weapons were used, the communists were poised to drive UN forces out of Korea. Repeated acts of insubordination, increasing criticism of his military judgement, and deep resentment of MacArthur’s ambition to be the next President led Truman to dismiss him on 11 April, to the relief of Tedder, most of his Washington allies, the British Chiefs and their political masters. But Truman also ordered Dean to transfer nine atomic bombs to air force control. As it happened, the Chinese attack that began on 22 April failed, the Russians chose not to support them, and the conﬂict did not spiral out of control.33 By mid-April, Sir William Elliot had taken over and the Tedders were packing for their departure on 27 April. ‘As you might expect’, wrote Colonel R. E. Beebe, USAF (director, ofﬁce of NATO affairs) to

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General Marshall, Secretary of Defense, on the 18th, ‘Lord Tedder has endeared himself to Washington and has done an outstanding job of building up the prestige and authority of the Standing Group.’ Bedell Smith (now head of the CIA) wrote to Portal on the 25th: ‘I saw Arthur Tedder off last week with great regret. The old ties are very strong and, in addition, it was a great comfort to have him close at hand.’ 34 Early in November 1950, Tedder had been elected Chancellor of Cambridge University.35 No honour in a distinguished career gave greater satisfaction to a man formed at Magdalene College. There he had sat at the feet of such devoted teachers as Benson and Salter, had a book published, been elected an Honorary Fellow, and in two world wars had several aircraft painted light blue. The fact that he succeeded Smuts, one of his two unquestionable heroes, multiplied his satisfaction. ‘I rejoice to say that you have brought a very great distinction to the College’ as our ﬁrst Chancellor, wrote A. S. Ramsey, formerly President of Magdalene, who was ‘proud and happy to have lived to see the day … The College ﬂag is ﬂying.’ Numerous congratulations were showered upon him by the great and the good, including a leading article in The Times on 11 November, but none may have affected him more than a simple message from Margaret: ‘Dear old boy: Hurrah! Very warmest congratulations.’ They would never meet again, for she died suddenly on 4 May 1951, shortly before the Tedders landed in Southampton. Tedder was installed as Chancellor a month later, on 7 June in a splendid ceremony: music in King’s College Chapel followed by luncheon in Pembroke College, where a procession formed, including those upon whom he would confer his ﬁrst honorary degrees. Among the recipients were General Bradley and Sir William Haley (DirectorGeneral of the BBC): the former of inﬂuence in his past life, the latter of inﬂuence in his new career. Tedder loved his Cambridge duties, especially helping to select eminent persons for honorary degrees, and never missed an opportunity to make his speech about Anglo-American brotherhood. In May 1952, he led a delegation from Cambridge to Downing Street, where, dressed in his magniﬁcent robes of ofﬁce, he received from Lord Salisbury, Secretary of State for Commonwealth Relations, a large cheque to fund a Smuts Memorial Professorship in Cambridge. He then delivered his umpteenth speech in praise of Smuts.36 Omar Bradley, rejoicing in his year-old status as a Cambridge man, wrote to Tedder in June to say that he had represented Cambridge at West Point’s 150th anniversary celebrations. ‘I see a great deal of Bill Elliot’, he added. ‘Since you had to leave, I am glad you sent us Bill.’

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Despite his very brief experience as a governor of the BBC and subsequent absence overseas, Tedder was elevated to vice-chairman in December 1950. He had corresponded regularly with Haley and done his best to keep abreast of broadcasting issues, despite the distractions of Korea and NATO. He attended his ﬁrst board meeting as vicechairman on 10 May, within a week of his return to England. Once a month, Tedder and his colleagues solemnly discussed whether talks in the Third Programme should be aimed ‘at a generally intelligent audience, rather than at those with a specialist knowledge’; whether religious broadcasts were sufﬁciently ‘mainstream’, and whether a service of Holy Communion should be described. These were early days in the creation of a nation-wide network of television, and quite apart from the technical and ﬁnancial costs, Tedder became involved in arguments for and against ‘sponsored’ programmes, and the conditions of employment for men and women coming into a new ﬁeld of broadcasting. By January 1952, audience research showed that there were more viewers in London and the Midlands than listeners to the Home Service. Politicians, of course, were a perennial nuisance, either demanding more air time or complaining about the BBC’s alleged bias in favour of their opponents. Haley and Tedder were invited in February to meet members of a committee chaired by Lord Salisbury to give their opinions on the BBC’s organisation, the case for the continuance of its monopoly, and commercial broadcasting. With his American experience in mind, Tedder vehemently opposed the latter: standards would fall, minority interests would be overlooked, and the BBC’s world-wide reputation for even-handed, in-depth reporting would be undermined. During 1952, Churchill – Prime Minister since October 1951 – appointed Alexander Cadogan (wartime head of the Foreign Ofﬁce) as chairman.37 Cadogan freely admitted that he knew nothing about broadcasting; he had never seen British television, rarely listened to radio and, unlike Tedder, did not intend to change his ways. Haley resigned in June, partly for that reason, but mostly because he had been invited to edit The Times. An honest, uncompromising man, he was admired by Tedder for his determination to preserve public-service broadcasting and resist commercial radio and television. Haley, in turn, expressed his gratitude to Tedder on 3 June for the opportunity to discuss this change of career with him. ‘I can say out of a very full heart’, he wrote, ‘that the privilege of knowing Lady Tedder and yourself has been one of my real happinesses at the BBC.’ Ten years later, on 14 March 1962, when Haley looked back over his days as Director-General, he wrote again to Tedder. ‘Time and again your sanity and wisdom ensured the right thing was done and saved the day.’ 38

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But the ‘spectre’, as Tedder saw it, of a rival broadcasting system, driven by commercial interests, refused to go away. Political interference was a more familiar spectre and one with which the board was well able to cope. For example, Churchill wrote to Cadogan on 29 October to express concern lest a series of American ﬁlms entitled Victory at Sea upset British viewers. Tedder reluctantly agreed that two ofﬁcers – one Army, one Navy – might see them before transmission, but neither he nor his colleagues would countenance cuts or, still less, the addition of a British commentary. ‘The only proper answer’, Tedder thought, ‘to an American account of the naval war as they saw it, is surely a British account as we saw it.’ By 1953, the board was concerned about the further development of its services, including the possibility of opening a second television channel, balancing the claims of rival religious groups, the fees payable for the transmission of national sporting encounters and, not least, resisting pressure from commercial interests and their political allies. By October, reﬂecting on the success of the American Victory at Sea ﬁlms, Tedder advocated the making of a BBC series on Victory in the Air. The board agreed with him, ‘for historical and policy reasons’. In January 1954, Tedder – who frequently acted as chairman in Cadogan’s absence – supported a proposal to allow the BBC’s weekly magazine, the Listener, to carry adverts for wine and beer. He also supported, against the wishes of Sir Ian Jacob (Haley’s successor), pay rises for senior staff, including the six directors. Until June, when his term of ofﬁce expired, he continued to take a close interest in every issue that came before the board. Those which particularly concerned him were the likely breaking of the BBC’s monopoly, political interference disguised as concern for ‘the national interest’, the preference of some politicians for uncontested statement (as opposed to debate), and the improvement of both sound and television news-coverage to include more material from Europe and the United States. On 1 May 1951, the King approved Attlee’s choice of Tedder to chair a Royal Commission to enquire into the organisation of university education in Dundee and its relations with the University of St Andrews.39 After 21 months, he made the commission’s report the occasion of his maiden speech in the House of Lords on 29 January 1953, seven years after his elevation. It was a hard-hitting criticism of academic malice, deceit and selﬁshness. He described a situation ‘festering’ for over 50 years: ‘a sorry story of good traditions and healthy loyalties being twisted and perverted by dissension and distrust, of administrative deadlocks which threatened ﬁnancial chaos’, ending, after 20 minutes: ‘It would be difﬁcult to devise an organisation less workable and more

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certain to lead to friction, uncertainty and muddle.’ 40 Eventually, separate institutions would be created for St Andrews and Dundee. Tedder sat as an Independent and spoke about a dozen times between 1953 and 1962, always from detailed notes. He earned respect from all sides of the House for making his points carefully and calmly; and on the rare occasions that he was interrupted, he responded courteously.41 Whatever reservations Tedder had in 1946 about accepting a barony had long gone by the 1950s. He often attended debates without speaking; as had always been his way, he watched and listened more often than he spoke. On 15 April 1953, Tedder spoke for 37 minutes on a topic close to his heart, ‘The Unity of Air Power’, in a debate on defence. His speech was reprinted by the council of the Air League of the British Empire, which considered it ‘of outstanding importance’, deserving ‘the widest possible publicity’. It was still necessary, he said, ‘to hammer home the lesson we British have learned the hard way – that air warfare is something distinct from land and sea warfare, and that it has an essential unity of its own. But then, having got that fully accepted, there is the corollary – that the operations on land and sea and in the air are not separate, but part of a closely-knit unity.’ We must get away from the idea, he continued, that one or other service has not got its ‘fair share’ of available funds. Britain took part in the winning of the Second World War on ‘a blank cheque’ basis, meaning there was too little selection on tested merit of material for any of the services. ‘I am sure in my own mind that we could not survive another victory of that sort. We cannot have everything, and must therefore select what is really needed, as opposed to wanted. We cannot have a naval aircraft carrier force and separate naval air arm, nor can we have an army air arm.’ Turning to NATO, Tedder saw too many inexperienced ofﬁcers in senior positions and too much inter-service rivalry; too much talk about divisions on the ground in western Europe and not enough about aircraft in the sky. Yet in any future conﬂict, the contest for air superiority would have to be decided before any other action could even begin. There were now some 14 nations in NATO, and that was the reason why a Standing Group – of which he had been the ﬁrst chairman – had been created; to provide leadership for the whole team and serve as the executive body for the Chiefs of Staff of all nations. He observed that changes in the European command set-up were being announced from Paris, with a casual aside that the Standing Group would agree. As for Britain, now that a strategic bomber force was at last appearing, he thought it ‘the right moment for modernising the RAF and making it once again a power in the world, a power for peace – the modern Fleet in Being’. Unfortunately, George Ward – Under-Secretary and then

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Secretary of State for Air, 1952–60 – was ‘vague, hesitant, and apologetic’; British airmen were not occupying sufﬁcient positions of high authority, and Tedder feared that Whitehall’s mind was ﬁxed on past wars.42 Trenchard wrote on 21 April to congratulate him. ‘May I say what a lot of good your speech did? You spoke so clearly and with such obvious sincerity.’ Tedder replied on the 29th: he was ready to debate defence questions, but unwilling to re-ﬁght old (or new) battles with the Admiralty, because these days he found himself more concerned about living conditions, terms of engagement, and ﬁghting equipment in all three services. Ralph Cochrane, recently retired as Slessor’s Vice-CAS, added his congratulations. ‘Thank goodness there is now someone who can take the ﬂoor alongside Boom’, he wrote on 23 April, ‘able to put the whole matter in its proper perspective and not just harping on a single service.’ Trenchard wrote to Tedder again on 16 September. ‘I do hope that you will come to the House, and if you can see your way to saying something in your inimitable way that will make the Navy think twice about spending these enormous sums in these days and putting aircraft on carriers and thinking they are not going to be sunk, I would be glad.’ Tedder agreed – having changed his mind about ﬁghting the Admiralty – and delivered one of the most important speeches of his career at a luncheon given by the Air League of the British Empire in the Mansion House, London, on 6 October 1953. This ‘weighty speech’, before 180 guests, was summarised at length in Flight,43 and reported in all the major British, American and Commonwealth newspapers. Political and military weakness, he began, had paved the way for the past three wars, but it would always be difﬁcult for independent, democratic, war-hating nations to organise a collective defence. The Soviet Union was an obvious enemy, unless it changed its ways post-Stalin, but Tedder did not believe that the West could ever match its ground strength in Europe; only from the air was it vulnerable. The atomic bomb had deterred the Soviet Union after 1945 and still did, though the Russians now also possessed it. This might seem a gloomy picture, he concluded, ‘the world divided into two armed camps with the contestants holding pistols at each other’s heart’, but there were grounds for hope that sanity would prevail. In any case, Britain should not leave its defence against that danger to the Americans. Toppy wrote to ‘my dear Ike’ (elected President in November 1952) that night to say that she had just been listening to the radio news and heard excerpts from his speech at Atlantic City, followed by quotations from Tedder’s: ‘one of his ﬁnest efforts’, she thought, and was amazed by their similarity. Tedder made that point in his own letter to Ike, enclosing

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a copy of his text, on 7 October. Eisenhower replied on the 20th. ‘Your speech to the Air League’, he wrote, ‘was full of wisdom. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it and know that your voice and sound counsel will help – on both sides of the Atlantic – to bring our peoples safely through the perplexing problems that weigh so heavily upon us at this time.’ 44 Thus encouraged, Tedder took part in another Lords’ debate on 22 October. He gleefully opposed Andrew Cunningham, his old friend and enemy, paying lip-service to ending inter-service strife (which in fact he relished), advocating heavy spending on capital ships, including aircraftcarriers, and an independent naval air service. For many years, said Tedder, Trenchard had fought against the ‘hidebound tradition, prejudices, and vested interests’, so eloquently fostered by Admiralty spokesmen. Wartime experience had evidently done little to convince them that the services were no longer independent but inter-dependent. ‘Yet we have had this attempt to put back the clock, which suggests that the old Adam – or perhaps I should say the old Sinbad – of navy self-sufﬁciency is still lurking in some corner of the Admiralty, kept alive, perhaps, by hearing of the achievements of his big and wealthy young brother Sinbad across the Atlantic.’ Aircraft-carriers were hugely expensive and mere hostages to fortune except in the widest oceans, argued Tedder, and plans to build them should be abandoned not to provide additional funding for the air force, but to encourage the Admiralty to spend its money more wisely on vessels of greater value to NATO’s defence.45 Tedder wrote to Trenchard on 4 January 1954 to tell him that he had recently spoken with A. V. Alexander, who admitted that the Admiralty’s attempt to imitate the US Navy’s carrier ﬂeet was impractical. Duncan Sandys, the Minister of Supply, however, had suggested that ‘as a sop to naval pride, Coastal Command should be handed over to them, to make up for not getting all the carriers they wanted. A typical Sandys idea!’ Roderic Owen’s biography of Tedder had been published by Collins in March 1952. A slender volume, it skims lightly over the early years, offering tantalising glimpses, rather than a considered study, of an exceptional career. It would have been exceedingly difﬁcult to probe the later years in any depth, of course, given ofﬁcial restraints on ofﬁcial documents and the subject’s uncommon reserve. Sir Philip Joubert de la Ferté, who had ample opportunity to observe Tedder at various stages of his career, was disappointed by the result. ‘Admittedly, the physical portrait is correct – the fore-and-aft cap plunked straight on the top of a head of impressive proportions, the projecting pipe, the rather sloppy kit and, above all, the quizzical expression.’ Joubert saw him as ‘a man of wide sympathies – politically he is

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towards the left, though not so far as some other senior air force ofﬁcers. His opinions are the outcome of his real tenderness for people less well off than himself, and if this ever needed any fostering, which I doubt, Rosalinde, his wife, was there to remind him of his duty towards his neighbour. In addition, his intellectual stature always commanded respect.’ Joubert liked the latter part of the book better: ‘the quiet organiser, the air force parallel to Henry Tizard, that calm and collected scientist who could decide correctly on the value of an invention or a course of action as a war-winner’.46 If Tedder saw this review, he would have liked the link to Tizard, with whom he worked closely in the critical years 1938–40 and came to admire for his wide knowledge, evident integrity and quirky sense of humour. A few months later, in August 1952, Tedder received an exceptionally welcome letter. It came from Sir Walter Monckton, Minister of Labour, who wrote that he was retiring as President of Surrey County Cricket Club next April and would Tedder like to be considered as his successor? An Australian tour was due in 1953, and Tedder enjoyed many contented hours in the President’s Box during the next few years. He also found he had many friends, service and civilian, who were eager to keep him company there.

29 A Strange Genius From London to Pollochar and the End, June 1954 to June 1967

By June 1954, Tedder had acquired a fair grasp of broadcasting problems. During the next few years, his practical experience and negotiating skills would have served the BBC well, because it was coming under extreme pressure, both to expand its television services rapidly and to confront the challenge of commercial competition. But he did not want to stay on after his term of service expired. As a good ‘General Duties’ ofﬁcer should, he left one job for another without a backward glance, plunging into an entirely new ﬁeld: the motor-car industry. The directors of the Standard Motor Company (at Banner Lane, Coventry) evidently shared his conviction that proven managerial capacity, plus a growing talent for entertaining speeches, compensated for absolute ignorance in every other facet of the industry. On 4 June, therefore, they appointed him not only a director, but also the chairman.1 Standard was one of the so-called ‘big ﬁve’ companies which between them produced about 95 per cent of British cars in the 1950s; but the British Motor Corporation and Ford were responsible for 65 per cent of that total, leaving Rootes, Standard and Vauxhall (in that order) to ﬁght for the rest. Over 40 per cent of Standard’s production was actually of tractors, built for Massey-Harris of Canada, and so it was a small player in the motor-car market. Its Vanguard had appeared in 1947, widely publicised as a new ‘world car’, aimed at overseas markets, but it proved under-powered and insufﬁciently robust for conditions in the Americas, Africa or Australasia.2 It was, however, bought in quantity by the RAF and this deal may mark the beginning of Tedder’s connection with Standard.

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Alick Dick, fortunately, had been appointed managing director in January 1954, at age 37, and his uncommon expertise and energy blended happily with Tedder’s managerial skills to keep a small, vulnerable company aﬂoat. During the war, Dick had been production control engineer for both Standard’s aero-engine shadow factories. That experience meant that he and Tedder, despite a generation gap and markedly different career paths, found vital common ground. Dick ‘quickly became a national ﬁgure, presenting a young, dynamic image, and was seldom out of the headlines.’ 3 They insisted on regular, business-like board meetings and (encouraged by Tedder) Dick found the time and patience to explain technical, ﬁnancial and personnel issues to fellow board members and journalists. Relations between Standard and Massey-Harris were consistently hostile because the Canadians believed, with justiﬁcation, that good tractor sales were subsiding poor car sales. In 1957, they sought to take over Standard, and although they were repulsed after a ﬁerce struggle, bought the Banner Lane facilities two years later. Standard used most of the money received to create Standard Triumph International (STI), and came up with a winner in the Herald range. With Tedder’s enthusiastic backing, Dick insisted that it appear in every possible variant and be saleable abroad as well as at home. He also developed the Triumph sports-car range. Encouraged by Dick and Tedder, Leyland (a company specialising in trucks and buses) was persuaded to make ‘a somewhat bizarre diversiﬁcation’ into the car business and concluded a deal to buy STI in 1961 – which kept the company going for the rest of Tedder’s days.4 From mid-1954, now that he was a captain in the motor industry, Tedder made several speeches advocating lavish government spending to build a road system suitable for a people developing a powerful urge to possess their own cars. The aftermath of Suez, however, called for a solemn note. Petrol rationing in Britain and throughout Europe, he told Standard’s annual general meeting on 19 December 1956, was having a severe effect upon the industry. Unless government relief was forthcoming, the company would be obliged to lay off staff and reduce its dividend to shareholders. During 1957, Tedder found himself facing severe personal criticism for the ﬁrst time since his jousts with Montgomery. Julian Hodge, an accountant and company shareholder, opposed a takeover bid from Massey-Harris which he believed Tedder supported. Hodge and his supporters claimed to have thwarted Massey-Harris’s bid, but in fact it was withdrawn for reasons that Tedder could not reveal publicly without damaging Massey-Harris. The Canadians at that time held unduly large stocks and current sales were below forecast, but that situation was likely

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to be reversed within 18 months – if Standard kept quiet – and a renewed bid would be higher. Nevertheless, ‘vicious’ and ‘unworthy’ calls came for his resignation, together with allegations of ‘bad faith’ and ‘underhand dealing’, all vehemently rebutted by the directors. At a special meeting in December only 12 out of 400 shareholders voted against Tedder.5 As expected, Massey-Harris resumed its campaign in 1958, but a more experienced Tedder – backed by Dick’s uncontested practical knowledge of the industry – steered the company into satisfactory deals during that year and the next, which ended with Tedder being appointed chairman and Dick managing director of a much larger company, Standard Triumph International. After December 1960, as hard times returned and his physical energies declined, Tedder was ‘kicked upstairs’ to president.6 The annual conferment of honorary degrees at Cambridge remained a highlight in his year, and he never ceased to wonder at his elevation and the opportunity it gave him to meet famous men and women, to address them publicly and (quite often) dine with them privately. As President of Surrey County Cricket Club, in years when it regularly won the championship, and Australia twice toured England (in 1953 and 1956), Tedder enjoyed many trouble-free hours watching cricket. In June 1958, he had his ﬁrst trouble-free hours in the company of Churchill. They met with other notables to discuss the funding of a new college at Cambridge, to be named in Churchill’s honour. On 15 October 1961 Tedder took a wry pleasure – privately recalling their old animosity – in laying its foundation stone.7 On 9 November 1955, Tedder opposed in the Lords a proposal that a fourth member be added to the Chiefs of Staff to act as their permanent chairman. Hitherto, he reminded the House, the chairman had merely acted as spokesman for his two colleagues. ‘Will the new chairman be more than a spokesman? Will he be empowered to override his colleagues? Will the chairman speak, as I did on the Standing Group in Washington, as a representative of the British Chiefs of Staff or will he speak on his own independent authority?’ Tedder regarded the proposal as a move towards a single defence service, with everyone wearing ‘an integrated green uniform’. The services must work together, but they had their own tasks and their own traditions and spirit. Several lords, including admirals and generals with whom he was not always in harmony, applauded him on this issue.8 But Anthony Eden (Prime Minister since April 1955) insisted on ‘the fourth man’, to act as ‘military adviser’ to the Minister of Defence.

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Trenchard, now blind, had listened and approved Tedder’s words. ‘I have bought a dozen copies of Hansard to send to my enemies as well as my friends’, he told him next day. ‘Go and do likewise.’ Two months later, on 10 February 1956, the grand old man died, severing a bond that went back almost 40 years and played a signiﬁcant part in Tedder’s rise to the top. He chose not to add to the chorus of public praise, though few men could have spoken of Trenchard from closer personal knowledge. Instead, he visited Katherine, his widow, to share with her a few private moments. Trenchard’s ashes were buried in Westminster Abbey following a magniﬁcent funeral on 21 February, and his ten pall-bearers included the six most distinguished airmen still living: Ellington, Newall, Portal, Tedder, Harris and Douglas.9 The RAF ensign ﬂew above the abbey during the service, and while the casket was being borne in procession from the Air Ministry building in Whitehall (where it had lain in state) a single aircraft, appropriately a strategic bomber, thundered over central London; it also had an appropriate name: Valiant.10 ‘Whenever it has been possible’, Tedder wrote to his son John on 8 November 1956, ‘I have been in the House during the Suez debates. Once the troops were on the move, I could not of course get up and talk, but – well! I’m afraid the whole thing is a hangover from Munich. Anthony [Eden] and one or two others (notably Lord Home) were up to their necks in all that, and it left such bitter memories that at all costs they were determined never again to condone appeasement or anything that might look like appeasement. A tragic affair.’ In response to President Nasser’s nationalisation of the Suez Canal in July 1956, British, French and Israeli forces attacked Egypt at the end of October. ‘In conception, Suez was a demonstration of moral and intellectual bankruptcy’, wrote Denis Healey (Minister of Defence, 1964– 70). It deeply divided the British people, revealed their inability to sustain a global role any longer and, still worse, coincided with the Soviet Union’s assault on Hungary and opened a dangerous rift with the United States. ‘Eisenhower’, said Healey, in words which would have delighted Tedder, is ‘like a distant mountain, his stature appears ever greater as time recedes.’ 11 On 30 November 1956, Tedder wrote to Eisenhower, re-elected President earlier that month, about ‘the tragic folly of “Eden’s War” and the much greater tragedy of the widening rift between our two nations’. Tedder accepted that on this issue Nasser was ‘the victim of aggression’, but he often deﬁed UN resolutions, was hostile to Israel, enjoyed a growing stock of Russian weapons and actively encouraged anti-Western elements everywhere in the Middle East. ‘I write to you’, Tedder concluded with unusual difﬁdence, ‘not as President, but as one who has been a comrade-in-arms. I have felt that I would like to give you what I believe to be a fair picture of feeling over here. This is just a personal

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note from one Scotsman to one American who have worked together and known each other.’ 12 Eisenhower replied promptly. ‘As I see it’, the President wrote on 5 December, ‘the project undertaken by Britain, France and Israel was not well thought through before the plunge. Many of the consequences that now puzzle you were mentioned as possibilities to Anthony and others very early in the game.’ World opinion believed that ‘Nasser for once was within his rights. He did not seize the Canal, he did not stop its operation. He nationalised the company owning the Canal and then proceeded to operate it fully as efﬁciently as it had ever been operated in its long history.’ But the United States was moving quickly, he added, to help western Europe ‘out of the economic mess into which it has fallen as a result of this affair. We could not move earlier because to do so would have seemingly made us an outright supporter of the venture, and would have probably cut off the one thing that must be maintained – and that is Western access to Mid-East oil.’ Eisenhower thanked Tedder for his letter. ‘It was by no means an impertinence – you should know better than even to think such a thing. Give my love to Toppy and to Richard and, of course, all the best to yourself.’ 13 A week later, on 12 December, Tedder had his say in the House of Lords. The ultimatum to Nasser was ‘one of the biggest shocks I have had for years’, a tragic mistake which split the nation. ‘And do not let us be led astray by the discipline of the Lobbies’; the split was evident in all political parties, classes and families. ‘Where do the French ﬁt into all this? Were they in fact the moving spirit or even, as has been suggested, the driving force? I think we are entitled to know. Again, how in the name of heaven did our political intelligence come to be so utterly out of touch with feeling in this country and throughout the world?’ 14 Harold Macmillan, Prime Minister since January 1957, appointed Duncan Sandys as Minister of Defence. In April he produced a White Paper that has reverberated around Whitehall from that day to this. National Service was to be abolished, so that from 1963 the armed forces would be wholly regular – and far smaller. There would be increasing reliance on nuclear deterrence, and Sandys supposed that unmanned missiles would shortly render manned aircraft redundant. Britain’s ﬁghter defences were severely reduced and the auxiliary squadrons were summarily abolished. As Sir Thomas Pike (CAS, 1960–63) later recalled, ‘nothing could change the blinkered attitude of Duncan Sandys, whose conviction that manned ﬁghter aircraft had no future made it impossible for anyone to reason with him’.15 Sandys may well have been ruthless, devious and mistaken in his reliance on missiles, but neither Tedder nor any other air-power advocate

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recognised the economic consequences of the RAF’s practice of making continual changes to its requirements, or of allowing aircraft companies to submit unrealistic estimates of costs and delivery dates. And Tedder was the last man to accept the argument that the RAF’s ﬁxation with moving its ‘General Duties’ ofﬁcers rapidly from post to post ensured an alarming lack of expertise in any particular area. ‘A man who had been commanding a ﬁghter squadron in Cyprus’, wrote Healey, by way of example, ‘would be made responsible in the Ministry for controlling the expenditure of millions of pounds, knowing that he would move on after three years to do intelligence work in Singapore.’ 16 Sandys’ White Paper, declared Tedder in the Lords on 8 May 1957, ‘has had a shattering effect upon the morale of all three services and all ranks’. A single Ministry of Defence, he admitted, would offer Britain obvious ﬁnancial savings, but ofﬁcers should never be divorced from their parent service, traditions and uniforms. These foundations of military life had been gravely shaken by recent events. On the other hand, he agreed with the Prime Minister that Britain could no longer afford to maintain large conventional forces, now that the H-bomb existed, and urged him to support the development of a supersonic manned bomber, out of which a supersonic passenger airliner was likely to emerge.17 Every American civilian transport, he frequently claimed, had originally been designed for military use.18 On 8 August 1958 Tedder wrote to Lord Nufﬁeld, whom he believed to be ‘interested in the welfare of troops’, about his concern for the future of the Malcolm Clubs. The Air Ministry, ‘whilst paying verbose lip service to the welfare work done by the Malcolm Clubs’, was now proposing to close them down. There were 11 in Germany, two in the Far East and one in Britain – at Wittering, Norfolk. Although Nufﬁeld sympathised, the terms of his trust precluded ﬁnancial assistance for a public campaign. As the ofﬁcial canteen for all three services, NAAFI had always opposed the single-service ‘Malcolms’ – not least because they obliged NAAFI, and all other welfare organisations, to offer more and charge less.19 Macmillan had been present in North Africa when the Malcolm venture began, and knew how successful it had been, there and in Italy. He had also expressed great admiration for Tedder.20 Now, sadly, Tedder felt obliged in January 1959 to write personally to him, accusing his government of trying to undermine a determined campaign to save the clubs. He and Toppy had planned a visit to Germany and a radio broadcast stating their case, but cancelled both on learning that the Air Ministry wished to see the script before delivery, and had warned club managers in Germany to avoid public comment.21

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Later that month, Tedder spoke forcefully to his own motion in the Lords, regretting the government’s proposal to close the clubs. He must, he said, publicly differ with Sir George Ward, Secretary of State for Air, who had dismissed the clubs in three words, ‘undoubted welfare value’. Ward, said Tedder, was over-impressed by two other words, ‘ﬁnancial considerations’. Tedder thought it deplorable to see heavy pressure exerted to ensure NAAFI’s monopoly, when it lacked not only ‘the human touch’ of the Malcolms, but their speed of response to crises: at the time of the Berlin Blockade, for example, and on several occasions in the Middle East. Ward correctly stated that the clubs catered for only 10 per cent of airmen, but that was because the Air Ministry refused to allow more to be opened overseas. Most speakers in the debate supported Tedder, and criticised the Air Ministry for handling a welfare issue ineptly. Its leaders spoke eloquently of their determination to provide better off-duty facilities, yet they were clearly out of touch with feeling in the ranks. How else could one judge their decision to close down a small network of clubs offering something like the comfort and pleasant atmosphere that US servicemen took for granted? ‘The NAAFI’, observed Lord Balfour, offers ‘a sergeants’ room, a corporals’ room and an airmen’s room – and woe betide anybody who transgresses from one to the other!’, whereas in a Malcolm Club ‘all muck in together’, irrespective of rank, in ‘a home from home.’ Lord Morris summed up a general opinion: ‘It is a horrifying story that he [Tedder] has told us this afternoon. Nobody can suggest for a moment that he has invented it and I think the moderation with which he related it made it all the more telling.’ Ward grudgingly agreed to back down – for at least another year – and permit the clubs to receive their usual subsidy.22 Tedder was surprised as well as delighted by his victory, limited and temporary though it was. ‘One of the most extraordinary incidents in recent public life’, exulted Tedder in a circular letter to those whom he hoped might help to ﬁnance the organisation on 20 April 1959, ‘was the all-party move in both Houses of Parliament to save the RAF Malcolm Clubs. A government is not often persuaded to change its mind. Yet in the face of united pressure and appeals from all shades of political opinion, it granted the clubs a new lease of life.’ In December, Tedder again addressed the House: on the disgraceful living and working conditions inﬂicted on British troops in Bahrein and Aden. He emphasised that he was speaking out on behalf of both soldiers and airmen, ‘because we are all involved in this’. He thought it ‘utterly wrong to house British servicemen and their wives and families in what even in the East would be classed only as slums’. Until acceptable accommodation could be provided – probably not for three years – steps should

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be taken to hire air-conditioned ships to lie in the harbour. He and Toppy ﬂew to Bahrein and Aden (at their own expense) on 16 December, found NAAFI facilities utterly inadequate, in clear need of Malcolm Club support, and an unacceptable quality of life, on or off duty, which only action by the War Ofﬁce and the Air Ministry could remedy.23 ‘The popular cry just now’, wrote Tedder to his son John on 26 January 1961, ‘is that the Malcolm Clubs are wonderful, and we must ﬁnd some way by which the service canteens (which they now call “clubs”!) can be malcolmised, at the same time preserving unharmed the Malcolm Club identity and spirit. Interesting – we suggested this to the NAAFI in 1945!’ By 1967, when Tedder died, there were still 14 clubs in existence, open to all ranks of all three services, their families, and NATO personnel. ‘We have at long last moved from Kingston and Coombe Hill’, wrote ‘Arthur’ to ‘Ike’ on 20 December 1955. ‘Last Christmas we moved into this funny old house on the Downs, south of London [Well Farm, Banstead, Surrey]. Most of the house (it was a farm until the 1920s) was built in 1471 and it is full of enormous oak beams, sloping ﬂoors and crooked ceilings.’ Eisenhower replied on 10 January 1956. Both he and Mamie, he wrote, shared the Tedders’ enthusiasm for old houses and Mamie resented every day she spent away from Gettysburg.24 Although erratic, Tedder’s correspondence with Eisenhower remained warm on both sides, and Eisenhower – a conscientious godfather – never missed Richard’s birthday. It was actually Eisenhower, as often as not, who kept the contact alive. ‘You might remind your father’, he told Richard in June 1959, ‘that it has been much too long since I have heard directly from him.’ Suitably abashed, Tedder took up his pen on 2 August to write about that hardy perennial, Montgomery’s misconduct. In October 1958, Montgomery had published Memoirs that delighted all who wished to believe that British brains led American muscle to victory (ignoring the massive Commonwealth contribution and, even more, the decisive efforts of the Soviet Union). The familiar arrogance had not disturbed Eisenhower, but scathing contempt for his military judgement had. He thereupon severed the last of his links with a man ever more certain of his infallibility.25 Tedder sympathised. He had been tempted to rebuke Montgomery publicly, until reﬂecting that that was precisely what Montgomery and his publishers wanted. ‘I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed your letter’, replied Eisenhower. He hoped soon to visit England: ‘I shall save any comments about “our” author until we see each other!’ 26 Tedder enjoyed their get-together, he told Eisenhower on 22 January 1960, and repeated his opinion that silence was the best answer to Montgomery, though perhaps one day they might gather together several like-minded colleagues and pool their memories into a dictaphone, but nothing was ever attempted.

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The Tedders were off on a world tour early in 1960, going east. They hoped to reach Washington in April and looked forward to another reunion with Eisenhower then.27 In retrospect, and probably in prospect, the tour was much too strenuous for a man rising 70 who had suffered several illnesses in recent years. They visited every Standard agency and Malcolm Club between Bahrein and Melbourne, wining and dining, meeting and greeting, before taking a very brief break in Fiji, early in April. Lunch with the President in the White House was arranged for the 18th.28 They reached Los Angeles, met by yet more motor agents, and were taken to Disneyland on the 11th. Tedder ‘had been feeling somewhat fatigued’, an American doctor (David Gelbard) later wrote, ‘as a result of the rather accelerated and strenuous pace of his world tour. He had been in his usual state of health, however, until 10 April, when he ﬁrst developed a mild, annoying headache just behind his left eye.’ Gelbard attributed this to a roller-coaster-type ride called the Matterhorn. Next day, the Tedders toured the Disney studios. While watching a ﬁlm in a small private theatre, Tedder began to gasp loudly, stood up, pointed vaguely towards the back of the theatre, spun round twice, fell heavily, and was unconscious for 20 minutes. He was swept into a hospital and by midday on the 12th felt well enough to want to keep his date with Eisenhower. Toppy, however, phoned the White House to cancel and arranged a ﬂight home as soon as Gelbard and a physician recommended by the President thought him ﬁt to travel. Eisenhower supported Toppy and wrote to the reluctant patient: ‘Much as I dislike throwing my vast hospital experience around’, he said, ‘I do think you should obey their professional advice.’ 29 Back in England, Tedder was immediately admitted to hospital for a serious operation to remove a blood clot from his brain, shortly followed by further operations for gall bladder and other problems. ‘Yes – it has been quite the grimmest period of my life’, replied Toppy on 12 May 1960 to Eisenhower’s enquiry, ‘but I have a faith. Bom [bloody old man] is really honestly making good progress’. Eisenhower wrote again on the 25th: ‘News about Arthur’s recovery was just about the only cheerful thing that occurred during those four amazing days’ (in Paris, where a four-power conference collapsed in the wake of revelations that US spy-planes had been ﬂying over the Soviet Union).30 ‘His eyes are shining like diamonds’, Toppy assured a friend, ‘none of that strained look’, although he was actually spending most of his time in bed. In October, he sent Eisenhower best wishes for his 70th birthday – but his ability to write even ‘My dear Ike’ and ‘Yours ever, Arthur’ had declined alarmingly. There would be no more carefully crafted sketches. As for Toppy, she admitted to a friend in October 1961 that she suffered from high blood pressure, often felt desperately tired, giddy and

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too depressed even to ﬁght for the Malcolm Clubs. Nevertheless, they had bought a remote croft on Tigharry Point, the north-west tip of North Uist, part of Scotland’s Outer Hebrides. Tedder had his off-days, she confessed, ‘and can get tired very quickly. They’ve put him on some drugs to help him walk evenly and they appear to be doing the trick. So, in fact, the only real damage done was that he can’t write (not that he ever could!) and is inclined to shufﬂe his feet when walking and stoop. But I give him hell when he’s doing any of these things (sometimes I stick my neck out a bit too far!). He is just as bright and funnical!! There ain’t much wrong with old Tedder!’ For a man hitherto so active, to be unable at 71 to get about easily and enjoy his life-long hobby of sketching were distressing facts for both Tedder and Toppy. Tigharry Point was wisely abandoned for a less inconvenient cottage, some 35 miles farther south, at Pollochar, on the south-west corner of South Uist, near Lochboisdale. Richard wrote to ‘Uncle Ike’ on 7 June 1963. His parents had just been to Germany, ‘though Daddy ﬁnds it impossible to walk very far at all, due to the effects of the brain operation which he had three years ago. It will probably end up by his legs being totally paralysed.’ 31 A year later, on 6 June 1964, Eisenhower wrote to Tedder. ‘I suspect your memory goes back, as mine does, to live over again the gnawing anxieties, the realisation of unavoidable sacriﬁces and the bright hopes that ﬁlled us on D-Day 1944.’ Eisenhower then paid this magniﬁcent tribute to his old comrade: ‘Your professional skill and selﬂess dedication to the cause in which we all served will be noted by the historians of those dramatic months, but no historian could possibly be aware of the depth of my obligation to you.’ 32 Tedder dictated a reply on the 10th, to which Toppy added a heartfelt postscript. ‘Dear Ike, you will never know or understand what your letter meant to Bom. All I have to say is thank you, Ike, for your very true and sincere friendship. My love to you and Mamie.’ A month later, on 7 July, she wrote again to say that Bom was then chairbound, but mentally 200 per cent. They had been married nearly 21 years, the happiest of Toppy’s life. ‘We often sit and talk of you and the days when we were all together in North Africa’, and she was urging her husband to get on with dictating his memories of those days. Toppy turned only 57 that year and seemed full of life, but she died suddenly on 4 January 1965. Eisenhower sent a telegram at once, followed by a letter on the 22nd including words often used when Rosalinde was killed almost exactly 22 years earlier: ‘she gave so much to others’. ‘Mummy’s so sudden departure’, replied Richard to his godfather on the 26th, ‘was a very great shock to all of us, though for her it was undoubtedly the ﬁnest way to go.’

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Leslie Scarman had at once composed an affecting tribute, published in The Times on 6 January. Her untimely death, he wrote, ‘is a tragedy which innumerable servicemen, past and present, and their families will feel very deeply’. She was a dynamic woman, ‘blazing with life up to the moment of death … Her ﬁnal call to arms surprised the Air Ministry when it threatened to close the clubs, but any old AFHQ staff ofﬁcer could have told them what a formidable ﬁghter she was … As always with her, the true victor was the serving airman.’ A memorial service was held in St Clement Danes on 1 February, which drew a capacity attendance, including most senior ofﬁcers of Tedder’s vintage.33 Within hours of her death, Tedder had sent a telegram to all the Malcolms: ‘These are your clubs: keep them going.’ Her ashes were scattered, as she wished, off South Uist. Meanwhile, the long life of Sir Winston Churchill came to a peaceful close, on 24 January 1965. Tedder, invited to be a pallbearer at his funeral, was too frail to accept the honour. Instead, he dictated a tribute for The Times, which appeared on the 25th. Despite his own recent grief, he managed to dictate a more thoughtful and accurate tribute than many of the emotional outpourings then appearing. ‘There were times’, said Tedder, ‘when it would appear that he would almost prefer action at any cost, provided it was immediate. It was this universal urgency that often led to impatience and sometimes injustice where individuals were concerned, but none of such errors of judgement which history may disclose can for one moment dim the splendour of Winston’s ﬁnest hour in 1940, when almost at a word he inspired the nation to a degree which it had never known before or since, a unity which, under his personal, inspiring leadership, gave our civilization another chance.’ In May 1954, Sir Charles Webster had invited Tedder and Dr Noble Frankland to lunch at the Athenaeum. Tedder approved their intention to write a comprehensive account of the strategic air offensive over Germany in the Second World War, and his approval helped to open doors and memories. In due course, he read their draft – which he thought ‘masterly and courageous’, as he told them on 4 May 1959. ‘Frankly, I had not thought that anything so near the truth would be likely to go on record.’ Webster and Frankland faced persistent opposition from inﬂuential senior ofﬁcers and civil servants before bringing their four magisterial volumes to the light of day (in October 1961), but none from Tedder – of whom, in fact, there was much praise and hardly any criticism.34 In June 1957, after conferring a batch of honorary degrees in Cambridge, Tedder referred in his speech to the fuss currently being made over the publication of Arthur Bryant’s edition of Alanbrooke’s

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diaries, and strongly opposed those who objected to what they regarded as ‘indecent exposure’ of arguments over the conduct of strategy and operations. He had learned, when carrying out research for his book that ‘real history was written in the personal letters and records of individuals in all sorts of positions: I forgot that lesson until 1941, when I saw history being made and written – and it was far from the whole story in ofﬁcial reports, signals, etc.’. The idea of making his own ‘indecent exposure’ was gradually taking shape in his mind. A correspondence with Basil Liddell Hart encouraged him. Glowing reviews of an ofﬁcial British account of the Normandy campaign (by Major L. F. Ellis) ‘staggered’ Liddell Hart, he told Tedder on 18 December 1962. The reviewers, like Ellis, had clearly failed to spot Montgomery’s ‘caginess’, and followed his version of events without question. Tedder replied on 2 January 1963, agreeing that it was a superﬁcial work. ‘I am afraid that throughout my experience during the last war’, he continued, ‘one could see the evidence being very carefully and most astutely adjusted to conform with the “Gospel”. It was quite early in the Desert Campaign that I ﬁrst observed this process in operation and I early came to the conclusion that it was highly improbable that the truth would ever emerge.’ Liddell Hart, long suspecting that such was the case, sent him a paper on 6 March that he had written on Churchill in 1942. Tedder replied next day. ‘I wonder if it has struck you that there is a remarkable likeness between Monty and Winston in their respective attitudes towards history. In other words, each of them determined, so far as lay within his own power, to make sure that “his story” should record his own version of events rather than “history”. It was in quite early days in the Desert War – even before Monty arrived – that one saw this process of adjustment in motion.’ Tedder thought Churchill’s story would eventually be ‘disentangled’, but Montgomery had the record so ‘skilfully adjusted’ that he saw little prospect of the truth ever emerging.35 Not only ‘adjusted’: it is now known that when Montgomery was CIGS he ‘removed’ many documents from the War Ofﬁce and destroyed some.36 By March 1963, Tedder had begun his answer to Churchill and Montgomery, to be published by Cassell. He decided, for reasons of physical incapacity rather than academic judgement, to restrict himself to the years 1941–45. One understands, but still regrets, a decision that deprived readers of an account of those vital years 1938–40 and 1946–50, when his actions and opinions were always inﬂuential and often decisive in matters of national importance. David Dilks, a young scholar who had assisted Eden with his memoirs, was engaged from January 1963 as a research assistant.37 Armed with a tape-recorder, Dilks worked carefully through numerous ofﬁcial records, then held mainly in the Air Historical Branch

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or the Cabinet Ofﬁce. He produced tapes, which he sent to Mrs Marjorie Grover, a Banstead neighbour and an excellent typist, who transcribed them, sorting the pages into chronological order and placing them in ﬁles and presenting them to ‘the Chief’. Having digested the material, Tedder dictated his thoughts to Mrs Grover, who typed draft after draft. Tedder also incorporated the memories, opinions and advice of old friends, including his son John. To Arthur Forbes (now Earl of Granard) Tedder wrote on 7 May 1965 that he had masses of material on hand. ‘Up to mid-1942 I had what I called “my Journal” – really, the day-byday letters to my wife, Rosalinde. I wish I had something equally personal covering the rest of the period!’ He invited Granard to comment on his drafts, which he did, regularly and thoughtfully; ‘more needed on the enemy’, he advised in June/July 1965. ‘You give the impression we were more interested in our own quarrels!’ Scarman offered ‘Random Reﬂections’ on the ﬁrst six chapters. He agreed with Granard in liking Tedder’s lively style and urged him to focus on the process of decisionmaking, rather than operational details – with which he was rarely concerned and on which he therefore had nothing of special value to say. Hugh Pughe Lloyd, Wigglesworth and Auchinleck also made signiﬁcant contributions. Zuckerman provided detailed information, particularly on the origin, development, merits and opposition to the transportation plan. On this subject, Tedder ran into trouble with ‘someone in the Cabinet Ofﬁce’, who tried to insist that a bland summary of conclusions take the place of an accurate account of who said what to whom during Churchill’s ‘midnight follies’ before D-Day. A display of outrage from Tedder, together with friendly persuasion (by L. A. Jackets, head of the Air Historical Branch) and judicious disregard (by Dilks) saw common sense prevail. On 21 April 1966, Tedder abandoned work in order to ﬂy to Nicosia in Cyprus, against medical advice, to take part in the 50th anniversary of the foundation of 70 Squadron, his earliest independent command. During that month, the text was almost ready for the printer, needing only some toning down of comments on individuals that the publisher’s lawyers feared might be actionable. Almost at the last moment Tedder lost conﬁdence in the title he had chosen: With Prejudice. Was it not ‘too easy, too slick, too cheap?’ His editor, Kenneth Parker, assured him on 7 June that it was ‘a damned good, eye-catching, intriguing title’. Tedder saw the result of collective labours for the ﬁrst time on 8 September. ‘My wife had set her heart on the book’, he told Desmond Flower (a director of Cassells) ‘and I feel that the end product, after months of work, would meet with her approval – more than that I cannot say.’ Privately, however, he thought the price too high, regretted the

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decision to allow so few illustrations, and was appalled by the dull cover. Liddell Hart, Parker, Scarman and Zuckerman all thought the text unbalanced – too much on the Mediterranean campaigns, too little on those in north-west Europe. ‘If only he’d written this book ten years ago!’ sighed Parker in May 1966.38 Tedder’s book was reviewed in numerous journals throughout the English-speaking world and generally well received. Among many letters of congratulation, Tedder particularly valued one from Arthur Longmore, whom he succeeded as head of RAF Middle East in May 1941. ‘What a time you had’, wrote Longmore. ‘I knew it was going to be tough, but you seemed to survive it so well. You had more patience than I and were well supported by Portal and Freeman.’ He was thrilled to hear from Maurice Holland, in Christchurch, New Zealand. Holland was the pilot obliged to land him midway between Benghazi and Cyrene on 2 April 1941 as a result of an engine failure that almost ended his career before it had properly begun.39 Your book, Holland wrote, ‘shows a clarity of mind and a sense of balance that I have not seen in any other man’. Eisenhower congratulated Tedder warmly. The book will upset some, he added, ‘but you have to call the shots as you see them’.40 Among reviewers, the Economist anonymously made the point on 8 October 1966 that Tedder scorned most politicians and yet he was himself ‘one of the war’s most successful politicians’, in that he so often survived even the wrath of Churchill. ‘It is probably the best sustained and most lucidly argued of the wartime commanders’ testimonies’, concluded the Economist, until he returned to England in January 1944. Sir Michael Howard praised Tedder’s memoirs in the Sunday Times on 9 October. ‘Only gradually did it come to be seen that air and surface operations had to act as two blades of a pair of scissors, neither subordinate to the other but each making it possible for the other to succeed.’ Tedder was the architect of the air strategy that saved the Eighth Army from total disaster in 1941–42 and made possible its victories from El Alamein onwards. Across the Atlantic, Alfred Goldberg 41 noted that Tedder had never been dazzled by Churchill, and lacked the ‘intensely egocentric’ focus that so grievously marred the records left by Montgomery and Brooke. Only Bill Slim, among British commanders, had qualities comparable to Tedder’s. ‘He, too, was successful in leading Allied forces … and in triumphing over terribly ambiguous command arrangements. While character, personality, and intellect were no doubt major elements in the success of both men as leaders of Allied forces, there is ample evidence from their performances that they also possessed political instinct – in which a capacity for survival is fundamental.’ One exceptional achievement, thought Goldberg, was to insist on the

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bombing of French and Belgian railway networks before D-Day against the political (not military) objections of Churchill; great credit should also be granted to Roosevelt for his unﬂinching trust in the responsible military commanders at that critical moment. ‘Tedder’s courageous persistence in his views and advice in the face of certain disapproval from most of his British political and military superiors must be regarded as the measure of the man … There is none of the self-justiﬁcation, vainglory, and posturing that mar the works of many of his contemporaries.’ Tedder died on 3 June 1967, a little over a month short of his 77th birthday. An anonymous obituary appeared in The Times on the 5th. ‘His was a complex personality’, the author wrote, ‘eluding easy analysis. The quizzical humour – like his pipe – was typical Tedder and, as Sir Arthur Harris said on Saturday [the day he died], it tended to upset some people, but it played on great and small alike, as did his twinkling eye. He was the most unstuffy of great commanders, who could be found sitting cross-legged, jacketless, pipe smouldering, answering questions on a desert air strip. Yet to see him as a squadron “hearty” would be to misread his character entirely.’ 42 Five days after his death came the annual conferment of honorary degrees at Cambridge, a ceremony that he had always enjoyed. On this occasion, to honour his memory, the maces were draped in black and reversed.43 Westminster Abbey was full for a memorial service on the 23rd, which Eisenhower was too ill to attend.44 More than 20 years later, Leslie Scarman reﬂected that he ‘would have made an excellent academic or a successful lawyer. He was a true professional, an air commander of genius, a very difﬁcult colleague (but wonderful with his subordinates and those whom he commanded), and one who walked alone. He made enemies, and friends. His strategic handling of air power was subtle and successful … He was formidably clever, wickedly (and sometimes cruelly) witty: the mind was sharp, penetrating, analytical … He was a strange genius.’ 45 A heavy word, ‘genius’, and one that he would resist, even from a distinguished judge accustomed to weighing words carefully. Arthur Tedder always relished oddity, and the fact that his only public memorial is an inscription, shared with his father, on a distillery wall would have appealed to his sense of humour. Also, having inspected from Elysium the uninspired statues of several colleagues scattered around central London, he may well feel that he has at least escaped derision. There is a pew bearing his name in St Clement Danes Church of which he would have approved: a discreet, tasteful, useful memento in a magniﬁcent setting.

Notes NOTES TO CHAPTER ONE 1. R. Owen, Tedder (London: Collins, 1952), p. 17. 2. Family information from Tedder’s papers (copies in author’s possession) and conversation with family members; Owen, Tedder, pp. 17–18; R. Busby, ‘Henry Richard Tedder, FSA, 1850–1924: A Study in Libraries and London Institutional Life’ (London: Library Association Fellowship thesis, 1974). 3. After Henry (1850–1924) and Arthur (1851–1931) came James (1852–1928), George (born and died 1854), Elizabeth (1856–1918), Mary (1858–1940), Annie (1862–19xx), William Byron (1865–1930), Alfred Edward (1868–1953), Emma (1869–1961) and Owen Hugh (1871–1956). 4. Obituary in The Times, 2 August 1924. 5. Quoted in Busby, ‘Henry Richard Tedder’, p. 260. 6. Final Report (28 July 1909) of Royal Commission on Whiskey [sic] and other Potable Spirits: House of Commons Sessional Papers, vol. XLIX, Minutes of Evidence, pp. 201–3, 244–61 and Digest of Evidence of Each Witness, pp. 58–9 (London: HMSO, 1909); Sir Robert Bruce Lockhart, Scotch: The Whisky of Scotland in Fact and Story (London: Putnam, 1951, 3rd edn, 1966), pp. 73, 129–30; Who Was Who, 1920–1940; obituary of Sir Arthur, The Times, 13 August 1931. On 20 April 1988 John Michael, second Lord Tedder, unveiled a plaque at Glengoyne distillery in memory of his father and grandfather. 7. Moray, Nairn and Banff Courant, Elgin, 24 May 1961. 8. L. F. Tuck, Whitgiftian, September 1967, pp. 191–2; Owen, Tedder, p. 29. 9. Owen, Tedder, p. 30. 10. F. Percy, Whitgift School (Croydon: Whitgift Foundation, 1976, 2nd edn, 1991), p. 161. 11. Percy, Whitgift School, pp. 176, 178. 12. Whitgiftian, June 1907, pp. 102–3. 13. ‘First Night in Camp’, Whitgiftian, November 1907, pp. 190–3. 14. Whitgiftian, February 1908, pp. 6–9. 15. Whitgiftian, March 1908, pp. 39–41. 16. Whitgiftian, July 1909, pp. 123–6.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWO 1. He was a son of E. F. Benson, Archbishop of Canterbury (1882–96), and Mary, sister of Henry Sidgwick, eminent moral philosopher. His brothers were E. F., at one time a very popular author, and R. H., also a proliﬁc, though far less popular, author who converted to Rome and became private chamberlain to Pope Pius X. His cousin, F. R., was an actor-manager knighted on stage at Drury Lane by King George V in 1916. 2. P. Cunich et al., A History of Magdalene College, Cambridge, 1428–1988 (Cambridge: Magdalene College, 1994), pp. 218–26; D. Newsome, On the Edge of Paradise, A. C. Benson: The Diarist (London: John Murray. 1980).

Notes

379

3. Benson–Tedder correspondence, Benson Papers, Magdelene College, Masters’ Records, II (1910–25), File 28. 4. Benson–Tedder correspondence, File 28. 5. Benson Diary (Pepys Library, Magdalene College), 125/127: 10 October 1911. 6. Benson–Tedder correspondence,11 September, 12 and 15 October 1911.

NOTES TO CHAPTER THREE 1. The building, in Ringstrasse 40, survived the Second World War and, according to an inscription above the front door, was erected in 1904; in 2003 it was a block of ﬂats. 2. Owen, Tedder, p. 36. 3. Benson–Tedder correspondence, 17 December 1912. 4. Benson Diary, 141/50: 17 November 1913 (Pepys Library, Magdalene College). 5. A. Meredith, ‘Later Philosophy’, in J. Boardman et al. (eds), The Oxford History of the Classical World (Oxford: University Press, 1995), p. 714. 6. Henry Alcock (1886–1948): H. Gregory, Vivant Professores: Distinguished Members of the University of Queensland, 1910–1940 (Brisbane: University of Queensland Library, 1987), pp. l–5. 7. Glenn Burgess, personal comment, 10 September 1993, citing J. Morill, Seventeenth Century Britain, 1603–1714 (Folkestone: Dawson, 1980), pp. 66–7. 8. Observer, 15 February 1914; The Times, 16 February 1914; many other papers. 9. Whitaker’s Almanack, 1914, p. 661; Colonial Ofﬁce List, London, 1915, p. 188. 10. PRO: CO83/122. 11. PRO: CO83/122. 12. Fiji Times, 17 September 1914. 13. PRO: CO83/122.

NOTES TO CHAPTER FOUR 1. 2. 3. 4.

PRO: BT26/595. R. P. G. Blatchford (1851–1943), author and editor of the Clarion, a socialist journal. Supplement to London Gazette, 9 January 1915, p. 358. PRO: BT/26/607.

NOTES TO CHAPTER FIVE 1. A ‘School of Instruction’ had been formed at University College, Reading, in December 1915; designated No. 1 School in April 1916 (when a second school opened in Oxford) and ‘No. 1 School of Military Aeronautics’ in October: H. A. Jones, The War in the Air (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1931), vol. III, p. 295; C. Ashworth, Action Stations 9: Military Airﬁelds of the Central South and South-East (Wellingborough: Patrick Stephens, 1985), pp. 245–6. 2. Tedder Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon: B267; Richard Harman, Mechanical Engineering Department, University of Canterbury, thought the notebooks revealed an excellent grasp of principles, for a man without an engineering background: personal communication, 14 July 1994. 3. In L. Bridgman, The Clouds Remember: The Aeroplanes of World War I (London: Arms & Armour Press, 1936), pp. 7–9. 4. An improved version of the Longhorn: J. Bruce, The Aeroplanes of the Royal Flying Corps (Military Wing) (London: Putnam, 1982), pp. 241–6. 5. C. Lewis, Farewell to Wings (London: Temple Press, 1964), p. 20. 6. Anonymous 39-page history of 25 Squadron in Air Historical Branch, Ministry of Defence, London; PRO: AIR 1 15/304/1 (25 Squadron history). 7. Several excellent photographs in Bruce, Aeroplanes of Royal Flying Corps, pp. 406–9. 8. But Armstrong died of wounds while a prisoner: see C. Hobson, Airmen Died in the Great War (Suffolk: J. B. Hayward & Son, 1995), pp. 19, 232. 9. ‘Quirk’ is the usual spelling.

380

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10. G. Lewis, Wings over the Somme, 1916–1918 (London: Kimber, 1976), pp. 56, 60. 11. In place of Capt. Clifford Hart, who was killed on 9 August, together with his observer, Lt John Mann: see T. Henshaw, The Sky Their Battleﬁeld (London: Grub Street, 1995), p. 101. 12. Undated clipping in Tedder’s papers. Rosalinde kept copies of all the reviews, but only this one survives. 13. Times Literary Supplement, 31 August 1916, linking Tedder’s book with C. Sanford Terry, The Battle of Jutland Bank (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1916) pp. 409–10; the review appeared on 14 September 1916, p. 437. 14. See Flight, 9 November 1916, p. 984, on rates of pay. 15. C. Shores et al., Above The Trenches (London: Grub Street, 1990), p. 390. 16. Loyd served with 25 Squadron from 22 June to 22 November 1916 and then as a ﬂight commander with 22 and 32 Squadrons. Six victories, according to Shores, Above the Trenches, p. 245. Killed in action on 28 September 1917, aged 23: Flight, 18 October 1917, p. 1087. 17. Credited with six victories in Shores, Above the Trenches, p. 134. 18. PRO: AIR 1 1221/204/5/2634/25sqn; AIR 1 1382/204/24/16. 19. Ibid. 20. Nelson was killed in a collision with another aircraft while ﬂying a BE 2e of 46 Training Squadron on 30 August 1917: see Hobson, Airmen Died, pp. 77, 254. 21. Henshaw, Sky Their Battleﬁeld, p. 86. 22. Ibid., p. 144. 23. PRO: AIR 1 911/204/5/835; AIR 1 1221/204/5/2634/25sqn; AIR 1 1382/204/24/16. 24. Ibid. 25. Unpublished PRO research by Errol W. Martyn, aviation historian, of Christchurch, New Zealand. 26. Logbook, 1922–35: Tedder Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, B.268.

NOTES TO CHAPTER SIX 1. The Times, 5 March 1917. 2. C. Foxley Norris, ‘Marshal of the Royal Air Force Lord Tedder’, in M. Carver (ed.), The War Lords: Military Commanders of the Twentieth Century (Boston, MA: Little, Brown, 1976), p. 486; Owen, Tedder, pp. 67–8. 3. Brief anonymous account in Air Historical Branch, London, dated July 1981; PRO: AIR 1 176/15/184/1 and AIR 1 1434/204/33/12 (histories of 70 Squadron); ‘Extracts from the Diaries of Air Mechanic 29281 Alexander Paice, 34 and 70 Squadron, RFC and RAF’, in H. Cooper (ed.), Cross & Cockade (GB), vol. 16, no. 2 (1985), pp. 72–81; C. Waugh, ‘A Short History of 70 Squadron, RFC/RAF’, Cross & Cockade (US), vol. 20, no. 4 (1979), pp. 289–315. Tedder was guest of honour at 70 Squadron’s golden jubilee, celebrated on 22 April 1966 at RAF Nicosia, Cyprus: it was one of his last public appearances. 4. These letters, unfortunately, like those written by Tedder to Rosalinde in 1917, seem now to be lost. 5. ‘Contact’ [A. Bott], An Airman’s Outings (London: William Blackwood, 1917; reprinted as An Airman’s Outings with the RFC, June–December 1916 (London: Greenhill Books, 1986). 6. Bott, Airman’s Outings, preface, no page numbers. 7. Bruce, Aeroplanes of Royal Flying Corps, p. 502. 8. H. Penrose, British Aviation: The Great War and Armistice, 1915–1919 (London: Putnam, 1969), p. 101. 9. Logbook, 1922–35: Tedder Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, B.268. 10. Foxley Norris, ‘Lord Tedder’, p. 486. 11. MRAF Lord Douglas of Kirtleside with R. Wright, Years of Combat (London: Collins, 1963), p. 187. 12. Unpublished PRO research by Errol W. Martyn; see Waugh, ‘Short History of 70 Squadron’, pp. 298–9. 13. With two synchronised Spandau 7.92 mm machine-guns and a 175hp Mercedes D.IIIa engine, ‘the result was the best ﬁghting scout on the Western Front’: B. Fitzsimons (ed.), Purnell’s Illustrated Encyclopedia of Modern Weapons and Warfare (London: Phoebus, 1978), pp. 64–5; P. Gray and O. Thetford, German Aircraft of the First World War (London: Putnam, 2nd edn, 1970), pp. 45–8.

Notes

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14. F. Courtney, Flight Path: My Fifty Years of Aviation (London: Kimber, 1973), pp. 97–105; C. Jefford, The Flying Camels: The History of No. 45 Squadron, RAF (London: C. G. Jefford, 1995), p. 21; Douglas with Wright, Years of Combat, p. 180. 15. Henshaw, Sky Their Battleﬁeld, pp. 147–8. 16. Waugh, ‘Short History of 70 Squadron’, p. 299. 17. Foreword to C. Babington Smith, Evidence in Camera: The Story of Photographic Intelligence in World War II (London: Chatto & Windus, 1958), p. 5. 18. One example is a card from Mr and Mrs Harley of Blinkbonny, Kirkaldy, who ‘return grateful thanks for [Tedder’s] kind sympathy’ concerning their beloved son, Lt Fred W. Harley, killed on 3 June 1917. 19. The Times, 28 May 1917; Tedder’s was one of seven silver medals awarded for bravery, not valour: Flight, 31 May 1917. 20. P. O’Brian, Master and Commander (London, Collins, 1970; HarperCollins paperback, 1996), p. 338. 21. Bruce, Aeroplanes of Royal Flying Corps, pp. 504, 507–8. 22. D. Smith, Action Stations, vol. III: Military Airﬁelds of Wales and the North-West (Cambridge: Patrick Stephens, 1981), pp. 164–6. 23. W. Williams, ‘Memories of a World War One Veteran’, Channel 19: The Magazine of RAF Shawbury, February/March (2000), pp. 32–3. 24. A. Ferguson, A History of Royal Air Force Shawbury (Liverpool: Merseyside Aviation Society, 1977), pp. 9–10.

NOTES TO CHAPTER SEVEN 1. Captain Dudley George Antoine Allen was killed on 8 October 1918 while serving with 209 Squadron (Camels) and buried at Triangle, Inchy-en-Artois, about eight miles west of Cambrai: see Flight, 24 October 1918, p. 1206; Hobson, Airmen Died, pp. 112, 303. 2. Musgrave fought at Gallipoli before transferring to the RFC. He served under Tedder again in the next war, as a squadron leader, custodian of enemy property in Cyrenaica: Personnel Archives, NZ Defence Force, Upper Hutt, Wellington. 3. P. Liddle, The Airman’s War, 1914–18 (Poole: Blandford Press, 1987), pp. 75–7. 4. PRO: AIR 1 2045/204/374/17–19; Hobson, Airmen Died, pp. 390–2. 5. Flight, 9 January 1919, p. 57. 6. I. Nish, Japanese Foreign Policy, 1869–1942 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1977), p. 119.

NOTES TO CHAPTER EIGHT 1. The 30,122 ofﬁcers and 263,410 men had dwindled to 6,005 ofﬁcers and 31,976 men by 18 October 1919: see Flight, 30 October 1919, p. 1431. 2. P. Lewis, The British Bomber since 1914 (London: Putnam, 3rd edn, 1980), pp. 59–60, 89, 96–8; Fitzsimons, Purnell’s Illustrated Encyclopedia, pp. 1923, 2433. 3. Four years and four months, actually: he was promoted to the rank of wing commander on 1 January 1924. 4. PRO: AIR 27/1233 (207 Squadron Operations Record Book, but nothing is recorded until 19 September 1922); W. Aitken (ed.), A History of 207 Squadron: The First 68 Years (London: HMSO, 1984). 5. Bridgman, Clouds Remember, pp. 109–11; Fitzsimons, Purnell’s Illustrated Encyclopedia, pp. 749–50. 6. Death notice in The Times, 7 May 1920; N. West, MI6: British Secret Intelligence Service Operations, 1909–45 (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1983), pp. 34, 38, 124: Mark is there called ‘Alex’ Elder; Alexander was his ﬁrst Christian name. 7. Flight, 24 June 1920, p. 670; 8 July and 22 July 1920, pp. 741, 822. 8. Flight, 2 June 1921, p. 373. 9. Air Vice-Marshal A. Perry-Keene, ‘Lord Tedder Started It’, RAF Quarterly, vol. 11, no. 1 (Spring 1971), p. 67. 10. S. Roskill, Naval Policy Between the Wars, vol. I: The Period of Anglo-American Atagonism, 1919–1929 (London: Collins, 1968), pp. 248–9.

382

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11. Flight, 16 August 1923, p. 499. 12. The others were Nos 4 (Bristol Fighter, CO Charles Blount), 25 (Sopwith Snipe, CO Sir Norman Leslie, later replaced by Arthur Peck) and 208 (Bristol Fighter, CO Augustine ap Ellis). 13. J. Darwin, ‘The Chanak Crisis and the British Cabinet’, History, vol. 65, no. 213 (February 1980), pp. 32–48 (quotation on p. 32); D. Walder, The Chanak Affair (London: Hutchinson, 1969, reviewed by John Raymond in History Today, vol. XIX, no. 3 (March 1969), p. 211; B. Gokay, A Clash of Empires: Turkey between Russian Bolshevism and British Imperialism, 1918–1923 (London: Tauris, 1997), pp. 1–8, 136–69; A. J. P. Taylor, English History, 1914– 1945 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965), pp. 190–2, 228–9; Roskill, Naval Policy, pp. 181– 203. 14. Darwin, ‘Chanak Crisis’, pp. 37–8. 15. Excellent map in Gokay, Clash of Empires, p. 137. 16. Author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–August 1992. Lloyd George’s coalition government fell apart in October 1922; a general election followed in November and both he and Winston Churchill lost ofﬁce. 17. V. Orange, Winged Promises: A History of No. 14 Squadron, RAF, 1915–1945 (Fairford: RAF Benevolent Fund Enterprises, 1997), pp. 38–9. 18. Logbook, 1922–35: Tedder Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, B.268. 19. Copies of some appear in his album of photographs of 207 Squadron at Constantinople, 1922–23: Tedder Papers, RAF Museum Hendon, B.272, B.273. 20. Foxley Norris, ‘Lord Tedder’, p. 487.

NOTES TO CHAPTER NINE 1. D. Waldie, ‘Relations between the Army and the Royal Air Force, 1918–1939’, PhD thesis, University of London, 1980, pp. 98–9. 2. Roskill, Naval Policy, p. 39. 3. Ibid., pp. 372–8, 393–4. 4. Group Captain Robert Gordon, CB, CMG, DSO, and Wing Command Thomas CaveBrowne-Cave. 5. Tedder Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, B.270/1. His lecture on ‘Cloud Flying’ is not considered here. 6. Author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–July 1992. Tedder was referring to talks in Singapore – only 12 years later. 7. Roskill, Naval Policy, pp. 382–3; Waldie, ‘Relations between the Army’, pp. 76–83. 8. Photographs of No. 2 FTS, Digby, 1924–26: Tedder Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, B.275. 9. Often known as the ‘Lynx Avro’, it was equipped with an Armstrong Siddeley Lynx radial engine of 160, 180 or 215 hp. An excellent primary trainer, it remained in production until 1933 and was used by more than 30 air forces during the 1920s: see Fitzsimons, Purnell’s Illustrated Encyclopedia, p. 231. During the next year, most of the Bristols and all the Snipes were replaced by Avros. 10. Logbook, 1922–35: Tedder Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, B.268. 11. T. E. Lawrence, The Mint (London: Jonathan Cape, 1955, unexpurgated edn), pp. 74–8. 12. Owen, Tedder, pp. 87–8. 13. An undated lecture based on this report was prepared by Tedder in 1927: Tedder Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, B.270/1. It may have been given at the RAF Staff College, Andover; a much-revised version was certainly given there in June 1929. 14. T. Gray (ed.), The Imperial Defence College and the Royal College of Defence Studies, 1927–1977 (London: HMSO, 1977), pp. 3–4. 15. A. Marder, Portrait of an Admiral: The Life and Papers of Sir Herbert Richmond (London: Jonathan Cape, 1952), pp. xx; B. Hunt, Sailor-Scholar: Admiral Sir Herbert Richmond, 1871–1946 (Waterloo, Ontario: Wilfred Laurier University Press, 1982), pp. 149–66. 16. Hunt, Sailor-Scholar, pp. 159–61. 17. Author’s conversations with Goddard, 17 July 1981. 18. Quoted in Owen, Tedder, p. 95. 19. Logbook, 1922–35: Tedder Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, B.268.

Notes

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20. J. O’London (compiler) Treasure Trove: Being Good Things Lost and Found (London: George Newnes, c. 1930), pp. 137–8. 21. Tedder Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, B.270/2. 22. See note 16 above. 23. Admiral W. H. D. Boyle, ‘The Higher Study of War in the Services’, RUSI Journal, vol. 76 (1931), pp. 356–76.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TEN 1. Lord Tedder, With Prejudice: The War Memoirs of Marshal of the Royal Air Force Lord Tedder, GCB (London: Cassell, 1966), pp. 3–5. 2. Flight, 15 April 1932, p. 337. 3. The Wapiti IIa (1927, 550hp Jupiter VIII engine) carried a slightly heavier bomb load (580lb) a little higher and faster than the DH 9a; the Bulldog IIa (1928, 440hp Jupiter VIIF) equipped two-thirds of the ﬁghter force by 1932: see Lewis, British Bomber since 1914, pp. 178–81; Fitzsimons, Purnell’s Illustrated Encyclopedia, p. 474. 4. Fitzsimons, Purnell’s Illustrated Encyclopedia, p. 1209, Lewis, British Bomber since 1914, pp. 174–5. 5. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 4–5. 6. Author’s conversation with ACM Sir Kenneth Cross, 10 June 1992. 7. Quoted in Foxley Norris, ‘Lord Tedder’, p. 487. 8. The Times, 9 April 1934. 9. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 5. 10. Ibid., p. 5. 11. Sir C. Webster and N. Frankland, The Strategic Air Offensive against Germany, 1929–1945 (London: HMSO, 1961), vol. I, pp. 109–10. 12. Flight, 30 May 1935, p. 592. 13. R. Sturtivant, ‘Pre-War RAF Training’, Aviation News, 18–31 October 1985, pp. 542–6; Owen, Tedder, pp. 100–2. 14. Album of photographs and sketches, of journey to Egypt and reconnaissance to Uweinat: Tedder Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, B.274. 15. Fitzsimons, Purnell’s Illustrated Encyclopedia, p. 2220. 16. Flight, 17 January 1935, p. 60; photographs, pp. 62–4. 17. Flight, 21 February 1935, p. 204 and 11 April 1935, p. 391. 18. Lewis, British Bomber since 1914, pp. 132, 233. 19. Viscount Swinton, I Remember (London: Hutchinson, n.d.), p. 124. 20. Flight, 23 July and 15 October 1936, p. 394; The Times, 16 July and 19 November 1936: he took up the appointment on 11 November.

NOTES TO CHAPTER ELEVEN 1. They had returned to England by sea from Constantinople in August 1923. 2. W. D. McIntyre, The Rise and Fall of the Singapore Naval Base, 1919–1942 (London: Macmillan, 1979), p. 41, quoting Admiral Lord Beatty. 3. H. Probert, The Forgotten Air Force: The Royal Air Force in the War against Japan, 1941–1945 (London: Brassey’s, 1995), pp. 1–13 (excellent map of airﬁelds and airstrips on p. 6); McIntyre, Rise and Fall, pp. 1–18. 4. C. Baxter, ‘A Question of Blame? Defending Britain’s Position in the South China Sea, the Paciﬁc and South-East Asia, 1919–1941’, RUSI Journal, vol. 142, no. 4 (August 1997), p. 69. 5. McIntyre, Rise and Fall, p. 14. 6. Straits Times, 5 November 1936. 7. See above, Chapter 1, p. 4. 8. Straits Times, 10 November 1936 and 4 March 1938. 9. PRO: AIR 23/1971; McIntyre, Rise and Fall, pp. 128–9. Darvall went on to enjoy a distinguished career, retiring as Air Marshal Sir Lawrence in January 1956. 10. Ludlow-Hewitt Papers, Box 1, File 6 and Box 3, Air Historical Branch, London. 11. The Times, 1 February 1937.

384 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

Tedder

Flight, 18 February 1937, p. 159. PRO: AIR 2/1886. Slessor to Tedder, 22 February 1937: Slessor Papers, AC75/28/68, Box 14. Straits Times, 5 June 1937. The Times, 14 June 1937. Probert, Forgotten Air Force, p. 11. Flight, 26 August 1937, pp. 215–16. John Babington, Owen Boyd, Bertine Sutton and Charles Portal were also promoted to that rank on that day. Straits Times, 1 and 4 February 1938; Flight, 10 February 1938; McIntyre, Rise and Fall, pp. 136–7; Grey, Straits Times, 26 February 1938. McIntyre, Rise and Fall, pp. 135–6; Straits Times, 11 and 12 February 1938. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 6–7; McIntyre, Rise and Fall, pp. 137–8; Probert, Forgotten Air Force, p. 8. Vlieland Papers, ‘Disaster in the Far East, 1941–2’, Imperial War Museum, London, pp. 4, 19–22; P. Elphick, Singapore: The Pregnable Fortress (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1995), p. 33. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 7; McIntyre, Rise and Fall, pp. xii, 210–30. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 8.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWELVE 1. H. Penrose, British Aviation: The Ominous Skies, 1935–1939 (London: Putnam, 1980), p. 214; A. Furse, Wilfrid Freeman: The Genius behind Allied Survival and Air Supremacy, 1939–1945 (Staplehurst, Kent: Spellmount, 2000), pp. 83–98. 2. S. Ritchie, Industry and Air Power: The Expansion of British Aircraft Production, 1935–41 (London: Frank Cass, 1997), p. 1. This chapter has beneﬁted from conversation and correspondence with Dr Ritchie: any remaining weaknesses are, of course, my own. 3. Owen, Tedder, pp. 115–16. 4. Flight, 14 April 1938, pp. 355–61. 5. Seely (Baron Sherwood, 1941) was Parliamentary Private Secretary to Sinclair, Secretary of State for Air, 1940–41, and Under-Secretary, 1941–45: see M. Stenton and S. Lees, Who’s Who of British Members of Parliament (Brighton: Harvester Press, 1979), pp. 321–2. 6. Flight, 28 April 1938, editorial; 5 May 1938, pp. 436–7; 12 May 1938, pp. 465–6; 19 May 1938, p. 492 (Seely); Penrose, Ominous Skies, pp. 202–4. 7. Flight, 19 May 1938, p. 501. 8. The Times, 28 June 1938, pp. 8, 14. 9. Flight, 19 May 1938, p. 501; Ritchie, Industry and Air Power, pp. 50–3, 88–9. 10. Aeroplane, 8 March 1939, pp. 294–5. 11. Ritchie, Industry and Air Power, pp. 13, 113. 12. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 8. 13. Ibid., p. 9. 14. J. Ferris, ‘Fighter Defence before Fighter Command: The Rise of Strategic Air Defence in Great Britain, 1917–1934’, Journal of Military History, vol. 63, no. 4 (October 1999), pp. 867–8. 15. Handley Page Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, AC70/10/79, Box 1. 16. M. Postan et al., Design and Development of Weapons (London: HMSO, 1964), pp. 15–24. 17. Postan et al., Design and Development, pp. 4–8. 18. Air Historical Branch, Ministry of Defence, London. 19. PRO: AVIA 15/4, AIR 20/425. See below, Tedder to Freeman, undated draft (November 1940). 20. PRO: AVIA 10/41. 21. Postan et al., Design and Development, pp. 55–6. 22. PRO: AVIA 15/4. 23. PRO: AVIA 10/28; Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, p. 102. 24. Author’s conversations with McEvoy, 1981 and 1986. 25. J. Golley, Whittle: The True Story (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1987), pp. 131–52; P. King, Knights of the Air (Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa Press, 1989), pp. 364–70; PRO: AVIA 15/421 (28 March 1940: Tedder memo on Whittle engine; 28 May 1940: Tedder–Wilks re-recorded conversation; 28 August 1940: contracts; 13 October

Notes

26.

27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

385

1940: Whittle project), AVIA 15/670 (8 September 1940: Tedder memo on Power Jets), AVIA 15/478 (21 and 22 October 1940: Whittle project); Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, pp. 94, 108 and 261–4. P. Lewis, The British Fighter since 1912 (London: Putnam, 1979), pp. 257–8; A. Clouston, Dangerous Skies (London: Cassell, 1954), pp. 140–4; Penrose, Ominous Skies, pp. 228–9 and 239–40; Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, p. 109. Lewis, British Fighter since 1912, pp. 268–71; B. Gunston (ed.), The Encyclopedia of the World’s Combat Aircraft (London: Hamlyn, 1976), pp. 35–7; Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, p. 109 and index of aircraft, p. 382. PRO: AVIA 15/4; Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, pp. 119–23. Gunston, Encyclopedia, pp. 57–9; Fitzsimons, Purnell’s Illustrated Encyclopedia, pp. 1841–7; C. Martin Sharp, D.H. A History of de Havilland (Shrewsbury: Airlife, 1982), pp. 181–2. Ritchie, Industry and Air Power, pp. 255–6, 259. Ibid., pp. 219–34; Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, pp. 113–14. A. Chisholm and M. Davie, Lord Beaverbrook: A Life (New York: Knopf, 1993), pp. 370–5; Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, pp. 133–46. PRO: AVIA 10/41. Ibid. Robb Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, AC71/9/60. Chisholm and Davie, Lord Beaverbrook, p. 393. Robb Papers, AC71/9/60. Copy in Tedder’s papers; another in those of MRAF Sir John Salmond, RAF Museum, Hendon, AC71/20. Long extracts from this report appear in With Prejudice, pp. 14–16, but this passage was omitted. Boyd escaped from Italy late in 1943 and returned to Britain in January 1944. Appointed AOC 93 Group in February, this most unlucky ofﬁcer died on 5 August 1944 of a heart attack: Air Historical Branch ﬁle, Ministry of Defence, London. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 14–16. Author’s conversations with McEvoy, 1981 and 1986. Chisholm and Davie, Lord Beaverbrook, p. 397. S. Roskill (ed.), Hankey: Man of Secrets (London: Collins, 1974), vol. III (1931–63), pp. 528, 534. Handley Page Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, AC70/10/81, Box 2. J. Scott, Vickers: A History (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1962), pp. 274–7. Dick Tedder’s ﬁle and Air Ministry War Room Summary No. 381, 4 August 1940: Air Historical Branch, Ministry of Defence, London.

NOTES TO CHAPTER THIRTEEN 1. US Defense Mapping Agency, Digital Chart of the World; the distances, provided for me by Janet Bray, Geography Department, University of Canterbury, are by great circle routes: i.e., the shortest distances between points on a sphere. 2. Quoted in Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 319; a photograph of their meeting is in Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, p. 192. 3. Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, pp. 175–6. 4. V. Orange, Coningham (London: Methuen, 1990; Washington, DC: Ofﬁce of Air Force History, 1992), pp. 18, 42–8 (with a map of the route on p. 44); D. Richards, Royal Air Force, 1939–1945: vol. I: The Fight at Odds (London: HMSO, 1953, 1974), pp. 247–9 (including map). 5. As in all my quotations from Tedder’s letters, these are his orginal words; see p. 37 of With Prejudice for his ‘improved’ version. 6. PRO: AIR 20/2791 and AIR 23/1386. 7. PRO: AIR 20/2791; Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, pp. 159–74. 8. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 55. 9. R. Collishaw, with R. V. Dodds, Air Command: A Fighter Pilot’s Story (London: Kimber, 1973). 10. AM Sir P. Drummond, ‘The Air Campaign in Libya and Tripolitania’, RUSI Journal, vol. 88 (1943), p. 257.

386

Tedder

11. J. Terraine, The Right of the Line: The Royal Air Force in the European War (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1985), p. 304. 12. PRO: AIR 41/25 (RAF Narrative, The Middle East Campaigns, vol. II, part I, pp. 4–7 (Collishaw, ‘Lessons Learnt in Western Desert’); R. Owen, The Desert Air Force (London: Hutchinson, 1948; London: Arrow Paperback, 1958), pp. 17–75; Collishaw with Dodds, Air Command, p. 255. 13. Among them, ACM Sir Frederick Rosier and ACM Sir Kenneth Cross, in conversation with the author during the 1980s. 14. PRO: AIR 23/1386. 15. M. Gilbert, Winston S. Churchill, vol. VI: Finest Hour, 1939–1941 (London: Heinemann, 1983), p. 1029; Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 325–34; the political and strategic context is thoroughly analysed in I. S. O. Playfair et al., The Mediterranean and Middle East (London: HMSO, 1956, amended 3rd edn, 1974), vol. II, pp. 61–105 (Greece), 121–51 (Crete); and S. Lawlor, Churchill and the Politics of War, 1940–1941 (Cambridge: University Press, 1994), pp. 113–259. 16. K. Schmider, ‘The Mediterranean in 1940–1941: Crossroads of Lost Opportunities?’, War and Society, vol. 15, no. 2 (October 1997), pp. 26–7. 17. Sir Michael Howard, review of R. Lewin, The Chief: Field Marshal Lord Wavell, Commander in Chief and Viceroy, 1939–47 (London: Hutchinson, 1980), in Sunday Times, 14 September 1980. 18. C. Barnett, The Desert Generals (London: Pan Books, 2nd edn, 1983), p. 64. 19. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 32. 20. PRO: AIR 23/1386 and AIR 20/2791. 21. PRO: AIR 23/1386. 22. Tedder, With Prejudice, preface. 23. See Howard’s review of Lewin, The Chief, where he makes the same point. 24. PRO: AIR 23/1386. 25. Ibid. 26. PRO: PREM 3/109. 27. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 105. 28. Quoted in Richards, Fight at Odds, vol. I, p. 311. 29. Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. II, pp. 177–97. 30. Quoted in ibid., p. 184. 31. Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 339–40; Richards, Fight at Odds, vol. I, pp. 310–24; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 86–92; AVM A. Dudgeon, The War That Never Was (Shrewsbury: Airlife Publishing, 1991), pp. 101–2. 32. Quoted in Dudgeon, War That Never Was, p. 180. 33. AVM A. Lee, Special Duties: Reminiscences of a Royal Air Force Staff Ofﬁcer in the Balkans, Turkey and the Middle East (London: Sampson Low, Marston, 1947), p. 116. 34. PRO: AIR 23/1386. 35. Killearn Diaries, 28 May 1941. 36. D. Richards, Portal of Hungerford (London: Heinemann, 1977), pp. 230–46; Portal Papers, Box C, File 8. 37. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8. 38. Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. II, pp. 235–6; D. Richards, and H. St G. Saunders, Royal Air Force, 1939–1945: vol. II: The Fight Avails (London: HMSO, 1954, 1975), pp. 163–7; Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, pp. 180–2. 39. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 109. 40. PRO: AIR 23/1386. 41. M. Simpson (ed.), The Cunningham Papers: Selections from the Private and Ofﬁcial Correspondence of Admiral of the Fleet Viscount Cunningham of Hyndhope, OM, VT, GCB, DSO and Two Bars, vol. I: The Mediterranean Fleet, 1939–42 (London: Navy Records Society, 1999), p. 233. 42. Ibid., pp. 249–50. 43. I. Dear (ed.), The Oxford Companion to the Second World War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), p. 763. 44. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8; PRO: AIR 23/1395. 45. Killearn Diaries, 31 May 1941. 46. From Say not the Struggle Naught Availeth (1849).

Notes

387

NOTES TO CHAPTER FOURTEEN 1. P. Bell, ‘Brig.-General Charles de Gaulle and the Free French’, in Dear (ed.), Oxford Companion, pp. 426–31. 2. Killearn Diaries, 7 June 1941. 3. PRO: AIR 23/1386. 4. Author’s conversations with ACM Sir Theodore McEvoy, 1986. 5. PRO: AIR 23/1386. 6. PRO: AIR 23/1395. 7. R. Bennett, ‘Ultra’, in Dear (ed.), Oxford Companion, p. 1167. See also Gilbert, Finest Hour, pp. 1081–97, 1110, and A. Beevor, Crete (London: John Murray, 1991). 8. PRO: AIR 23/1386. 9. Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. II, p. 166. 10. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8. 11. Barnett, Desert Generals, pp. 72–6; D. Irving, The Trail of the Fox: The Life of Field Marshal Erwin Rommel (London: Futura Publications, 1978), pp. 115–19; Major-General R. F. K. Goldsmith, ‘The Development of Air Power in Joint Operations: Lord Tedder’s Contribution to World War II’, Army Quarterly and Defence Journal, vol. 95, no. 1 (1967), p. 197. 12. Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. II, p. 171. 13. Gilbert, Finest Hour, p. 1114. 14. H-O. Behrendt, Rommel’s Intelligence in the Desert Campaign, 1941–1943 (London: Kimber, 1980; English edn, 1985), pp. 83–7. 15. Killearn Diaries, 17 June 1941. 16. PRO: AIR 23/1395. 17. Group Captain J. Pelly-Fry, Heavenly Days: Recollections of a Contented Airman (London: Crecy Books, 1994), pp. 164–5. 18. A. Moorehead, African Trilogy (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1944), p. 209. 19. Dear (ed.), Oxford Companion, p. 278. 20. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8. 21. PRO: AIR 23/1386. 22. Simpson, Cunningham Papers, vol. I, p. 478. 23. PRO: AIR 23/1395. 24. Simpson, Cunningham Papers, vol. I, p. 499. 25. Lee, Special Duties, p. 113. 26. Gilbert, Finest Hour, p. 1111 n.5. 27. Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. II, pp. 240–1. 28. Lord Chandos (formerly Oliver Lyttelton), The Memoirs of Lord Chandos (London: Bodley Head, 1962), p. 234. 29. Moorehead, African Trilogy, p. 185. 30. Arnold Papers, Library of Congress, Washington, DC: Box 39. 31. PRO: PREM 3/296/17. 32. Chandos, Memoirs, p. 235. 33. W. Averell Harriman and E. Abel, Special Envoy to Churchill and Stalin, 1941–46 (New York: Random House, 1975), pp. 68–9. 34. Killearn Diaries: 3 July 1941 (Harriman), 7 July 1941 (Lyttelton). 35. Harriman and Abel, Special Envoy, pp. 70–l. 36. PR0: AIR 23/1386; Robb Papers, 71/9/60. 37. PRO: PREM 3/286. 38. Ibid. 39. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 138–40. 40. Wing Commander T. F. Neil, Onward to Malta (Shrewsbury: Airlife Publications, 1992), pp. 142–3. 41. The Times, 5 June 1967. 42. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 142. 43. PRO: AIR 23/1395; Portal Papers, Box C, File 8. 44. PRO: AIR 23/1395; Portal Papers, Box 12/13. 45. PRO: AIR 23/1386, AIR 23/1395, PREM 3/310/2; Portal Papers, Box C, File 8, Box 12/13; Simpson, Cunningham Papers, vol. I, pp. 533–4. 46. PRO: AIR 23/1395.

388

Tedder

47. Ibid. 48. Liddell Hart to Cassells, 26 April 1966, Liddell Hart Correspondence, 1/339/20: Liddell Hart Centre for Military Archives, King’s College, London. 49. Orange, Coningham, p. 78 (quoting AVM A. S. G. Lee). 50. Ibid. (quoting ACM Sir Philip Joubert de la Ferté). 51. AM Sir A. Coningham, ‘The Development of Tactical Air Forces’, RUSI Journal, vol. 91 (1946), pp. 211–12. 52. Coningham, ‘Development’, p. 213. 53. Quoted in Orange, Coningham, p. 79; Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. II, pp. 287–8. 54. Barnett, Desert Generals, pp. 84–5. 55. Auchinleck Papers, John Rylands Library, Manchester: Item 337. 56. AM Sir K. Hayr, ‘Logistics in the Gulf War’, RUSI Journal, vol. 136 (1991), p. 14. 57. AM Sir T. Elmhirst, Recollections (London: R. T. Elmhirst, 1991), pp. 60–1. 58. Lord Moran, Winston Churchill: The Struggle for Survival, 1940–1965 (London: Constable, 1966), p. 50. 59. Ibid., p. 51. 60. V. Orange, ‘Getting Together: Tedder, Coningham, and Americans in the Desert and Tunisia, 1940–1943’, in D. Mortensen (ed.), Air Power and Ground Armies: Essays on the Evolution of Anglo-American Air Doctrine, 1940–43 (Maxwell AFB, AL: Air University Press, 1998), pp. 1–44. 61. M. Bender and S. Altschul, The Chosen Instrument: Pan Am, Juan Trippe, the Rise and Fall of an American Entrepreneur (New York: Simon & Schuster,1982), pp. 10–15, 362–72; E. Purcell, ‘African Airline: A Study of Pan American Airways’ Operations in Africa, 1941–1942’, MA essay, April 1946, Columbia University, New York, pp. 1–2; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 156–8, 222–4; Brig. Gen. Robert Olds (head of Ferrying Command, Washington DC) to Brig. Gen. Elmer E. Adler (US Military North African Mission, Cairo), 14 February 1942: History Support Ofﬁce, Bolling AFB, Washington DC, microﬁlm A.1748. 62. PRO: AIR 23/1395 (Portal to Tedder), AIR 23/1386 (Freeman to Tedder). 63. PRO: AIR 23/1395; Portal Papers, Box 12/13. 64. PRO: AIR 23/1395; Portal Papers, Box C, File 8. 65. Arnold Papers, Box 41. 66. Arnold Papers, Box 61. 67. Adler to Brig. Gen. H. J. F. Miller, HQ Service Command, Wright Field, Dayton, Ohio, 29 November 1941: History Support Ofﬁce, Bolling AFB, Washington DC, microﬁlm A.1748. 68. Arnold Papers, Box 41. 69. Terraine, Right of the Line, p. 334.

NOTES TO CHAPTER FIFTEEN 1. Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. III, pp. 1–31; G. Schreiber et al., Germany and the Second World War (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), vol. III, pp. 725–54. 2. S. Roskill, The War at Sea, 1939–45 (London: HMSO, 1956), vol. I, pp. 519–20. 3. PRO: AIR 41/25 (RAF Narrative, June 1941 to January 1942), vol. II, pp. 85–6; Richards and Saunders, The Fight Avails, vol. II, pp. 171–4; Orange, Coningham, p. 84. 4. Moorehead, African Trilogy, p. 186. 5. PRO: AIR 23/1395; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 176–84; S. Cox, ‘“The Difference between White and Black”: Churchill, Imperial Politics and Intelligence before the 1941 Crusader Offensive’, Intelligence and National Security, vol. 9, no. 3 (July 1994), pp. 405–47; Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, pp. 178–80. 6. Beaverbrook Papers, D/395. 7. PRO: AIR 23/1395. 8. F. H. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence in the Second World War: Its Inﬂuence on Strategy and Operations (London: HMSO, 1981), vol. II, pp. 289–90. 9. Ibid., pp. 310–12. 10. PRO: AIR 23/1395. 11. See above, Chapter 13, p. 130. 12. PRO: AIR 23/1395.

Notes 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45.

46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

389

Ibid. Ibid. Roskill (ed.), Hankey: Man of Secrets, vol. III, pp. 526–7. PRO: AIR 23/1386; ACM Sir Basil Embry, Mission Completed (London: Methuen, 1957), pp. 209–33. Quoted in B. H. Liddell Hart (ed.), The Rommel Papers (London: Collins, 1953), p. xx. Auchinleck Papers, Item 380; PRO: PREM 3/310/2; Cox, ‘“The Difference between White and Black”’, pp. 414–20. Auchinleck Papers, Item 382. The saga is outlined in PRO: PREM 3/291/2, 3 and 7, PREM 3/310/2. Cox, ‘“The Difference between White and Black”’, p. 437. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8; AIR 23/1395. PRO: AIR 23/1395, PREM 3/284/11; Cox, ‘“The Difference between White and Black”’, pp. 429–31. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 290–1. PRO: PREM 3/272/7. Auchinleck Papers, Item 399. Auchinleck Papers, Item 403. PRO: PREM: 3/291/3 and 3/284/11. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8. PRO: PREM 3/272/7, AIR 23/1395. PRO: AIR 23/1395. Cox, ‘“The Difference between White and Black”’, p. 433. Richards and Saunders, The Fight Avails, vol. II, p. 182. PRO: AIR 23/1395. PRO: AIR 23/1396; Richards and Saunders, The Fight Avails, vol. II, p. 167. PRO: AIR 23/1386. Auchinleck Papers, Item 436. Quoted in Gilbert, Finest Hour, p. 1241. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 194–7. PRO: AIR 41/25 (RAF Narrative, June 1941 to January 1942) vol. II, pp. 157–8; Quoted in Richards and Saunders, The Fight Avails, vol. II, pp. 175–6; Orange, Coningham, p. 86. Gilbert, Finest Hour, pp. 1245–6. Auchinleck Papers, Items 458, 459; Admiral Andrew Cunningham Papers, British Museum, Add. 52570; PRO: AIR 41/25 (RAF Narrative, June 1941 to January 1942) vol. II, 151–3; Chandos, Memoirs, p. 266; Gilbert, Finest Hour, p. 1242 n.4. Portal Papers, CVIII, Item 12: PRO: AIR 23/1396. Auchinleck Papers, Items 524, 542. Portal Papers, Box 6, Folder 4, Item 9; Auchinleck Papers, Item 460. Webster and Frankland, Strategic Air Offensive, vol. I, pp. 254–7; M. Middlebrook, and C. Everitt, The Bomber Command War Diaries: An Operational Reference Book, 1939–1945 (London: Viking, 1985), pp. 217–18; Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 459–61; D. Richards, The Hardest Victory: RAF Bomber Command in the Second World War (New York: W. W. Norton, 1995), pp. 99–102; Probert, Forgotten Air Force, p. 222. Auchinleck Papers, Item 544; Portal Papers, Box C, Folder 4, Item 9a; Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 211. PRO: AIR 19/562; PREM 3/272/7 and 3/8. Portal Papers, CVIII, Item 12; AIR 23/1396. PRO: AIR 23/1396. Ibid. Richards, The Fight at Odds, vol. I, p. 387. PRO: AIR 23/1386. Quoted in Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, p. 314. PRO: AIR 23/1396. Quoted in Liddell Hart, Rommel Papers, p. 180. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 324, 330–1. Richards and Saunders, The Fight Avails, vol. II, p. 180. M. Carver, Tobruk (London: Pan Books, 1964), p. 145. Auchinleck Papers, Item 628.

390 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71.

Tedder

PRO: AIR 23/1386. Ibid.; Portal Papers, Box C, Folder 6. PR0: AIR 23/1386; V. Orange, Park (London: Grub Street, 1984, pbk edn, 2001). Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 330, 331–6. Liddell Hart, Rommel Papers, p. 183. Carver, Tobruk, pp. 145–6, 261–2. Behrendt, Rommel’s Intelligence, pp. 140–1. Quoted in Liddell Hart, Rommel Papers, p. 184. Author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–August 1992. PRO: AIR 23/1396. Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 361–2. Auchinleck Papers, Item 671.

NOTES TO CHAPTER SIXTEEN 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

Drummond to Portal, 6 February 1942: PRO: PREM 3/310/5. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8. PRO: AIR 23/1396. Review of A. Clayton, The Enemy is Listening: The Story of the Y Service (London: Hutchinson, 1980), in BBC Listener, 21 August 1980, p. 248. R. ‘Lewin, A Signal-Intelligence War’, Journal of Contemporary History, vol. 16 (1981), p. 509; D. Hunt (ed.), A Don at War (London: Frank Cass, 1990). ‘For the actual conduct of a battle’, wrote Hunt, ‘Y was of greater value than Ultra’ (p. xvii). Clayton, Enemy is Listening, p. 168. In March 1942, Tedder told Portal that ‘recent visit to Malta by a WAAF Y expert has greatly improved the length of warning of an imminent attack’ (p. 184). B. W. Gladman, ‘Air Power and Intelligence in the Western Desert Campaign, 1940–43’, Intelligence and National Security, vol. 13, no. 4 (Winter 1998), pp. 144–5. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8, No. 16. Auchinleck Papers, Item 763; Cripps to Churchill, 20 March 1942, PRO: PREM 3/291/6. Auchinleck Papers, Item 764. C. Beaton, The Years Between: Diaries, 1939–44 (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1965), pp. 137–8. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 348–50. Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. III, p. 189. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, p. 341. Author’s conversation with Air Chief Marshal Sir Frederick Rosier, 6 March 1986. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 358–63. Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. III, p. 274. For the course of events, see pp. 223–75 and Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 365–88; Auchinleck to Churchill, 24 June 1942, PRO: PREM 3/290/4. Auchinleck Papers, Item 907; PRO: PREM 3/310/5. Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. III, p. 314; Tedder to Portal, 16 June 1942, PRO: PREM 3/310/5. Portal Papers, Box C, Folder 8, Item 19. Arnold Papers, Library of Congress, Washington DC, Box 47. Portal Papers, Box C, Folder 8, Item 20. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 391–7. Quoted in Orange, Coningham, pp. 102–3; A. Cooper, Cairo in the War, 1939–1945 (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1989), pp. 190–201. PRO: AIR 41/50, pp. 3–4. Behrendt, Rommel’s Intelligence, pp. 145–7, 166–86; Hunt, Don at War (1990 edn), pp. xviii–xix. PRO: PREM 3/290/4. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8, Item 22. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8, Item 24. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8, Item 24a. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8, Item 26.

Notes

391

33. M. Gilbert, Winston S. Churchill, vol. VII: Road to Victory, 1941–1945 (London: Heinemann, 1986), p. 167. 34. Alanbrooke Papers, 5/2/18, p. 473 (a); A. Danchev and D. Todman (eds), War Diaries, 1939–1945: Field Marshal Lord Alanbrooke (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2001), p. 297. 35. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 286. 36. All quotations referring to this journey are from Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 328–39; see also War Diary: British Air Mission, Moscow, Air Historical Branch, London; Gilbert, Road to Victory, pp. 170–208; V. A. Lebedev (ed.), ‘Kak Marshal Tedder i General Bruk “Otkryvali” Vtoroi Front’ [How Air Marshal Tedder and General Brooke ‘Opened’ the Second Front], Voenno-Istoricheskii Zhurnal [Military History Journal], no. 3 (1994), pp. 29–33. 37. Portal to Tedder, 21 July 1942, PRO: PREM 3/310/6; further correspondence, PREM 3/392/2. 38. Quoted in Orange, Coningham, p. 106. 39. R. Bennett, Ultra and Mediterranean Strategy, 1941–1945 (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1989), p. 137. 40. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 407–12. 41. Hunt, Don at War (1990 edn), pp. xiii–xiv, 122–6. 42. Orange, Coningham, pp. 107–8; Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 413–16; Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. III, pp. 379–91; Bennett, Ultra and Mediterranean Strategy, pp. 140–8. 43. J. van der Poel (ed.), Selections from the Smuts Papers, vol. VI: December 1934–August 1945 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973), pp. 577–8. 44. Gladman, ‘Air Power and Intelligence’, pp. 157–9. 45. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 418–22. 46. Furse, Wilfrid Freeman, pp. 251–2, 269–70. 47. PRO: PREM 3/272/7.

NOTES TO CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 1. Cooper, Cairo in the War, p. 215. One hates to spoil a dramatic anecdote, but the barrage on the main front – that of 30 Corps – began at 9.40 p.m. and was delivered by 456 guns; 13 Corps ﬁred 136 guns between 9.25 and 9.55 p.m.; the attacks by both corps began at 10 p.m.: Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. IV, p. 36. 2. Orange, Coningham, p. 113. 3. Bennett, Ultra and Mediterranean Strategy, pp. 158–66; Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 436–53; Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. IV, pp. 31–79 (the battle), pp. 81–107 (the pursuit); Orange, Coningham, pp. 113–26. 4. Anonymous review of Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. IV, in The Times Literary Supplement, 19 January 1967, p. 37. 5. C. McFetridge, ‘In Pursuit: Montgomery after Alamein’, Australian Defence Force Journal, vol. 99 (March–April 1993), p. 29. 6. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8, Item 32. 7. Portal Papers, File 12; also in Tedder Papers. 8. Portal Papers, File 12; Alanbrooke Papers, 3/A/VII and 5/2/19, p. 584; Danchev and Todman, Alanbrooke, pp. 348–9. 9. McFetridge, ‘In Pursuit’, pp. 37–8. 10. PRO: PREM 3/272/7. 11. Ibid. 12. Ibid. 13. Ibid. 14. Trenchard Papers, RAF Museum, Hendon, MFC/76/1/546; there is another copy in the Tedder Papers. 15. H. Probert, Bomber Harris: His Life and Times (London: Greenhill Books, 2001), p. 323. 16. PRO: PREM 3/15. 17. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8, Item 33. 18. A. D. Chandler and S. Ambrose (eds), The Papers of Dwight David Eisenhower: The War Years, 5 vols (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1970), vol. II, p. 775. 19. PRO: AIR 23/618. 20. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 486–96; Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle

392

Tedder

East, vol. IV, p. 239. PRO: PREM 3/272/7, PREM 3/15. PRO: PREM 3/15. Spaatz Papers, Library of Congress, Washington DC, Box 97. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 783. Spaatz Papers, Box 9. Spaatz Papers, Box 97; Arnold Papers, Box 274. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 790; PRO: PREM 272/13. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 822. Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. IV, p. 236. Author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–August 1992. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 845. Orange, Coningham, pp. 124–5. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8, Item 18; also in Tedder Papers. Spaatz Papers, Box 97. Spaatz Papers, Box 97; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 878. Portal Papers, Box C, File 8, Item 35. Spaatz Papers, Box 9; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 879. Accident record cards, Air Historical Branch, London. I owe this letter to the courtesy of John Davis. Gilbert, Road to Victory, pp. 292–313; Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. IV, pp. 261–5. 41. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 392.

21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

NOTES TO CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 1. PRO: PREM 3/420/5 and 3/272/7; R. Davis, Carl A. Spaatz and the Air War in Europe (Washington, DC: Center for Air Force History, 1993), pp. 156–7. 2. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 910. 3. Butcher Diary, 20 January 1943, unpublished pages, p. A-177, Eisenhower Library, Abilene, Kansas. 4. PRO: AIR 19/391. 5. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 886. 6. H. Macmillan, War Diaries: Politics and War in the Mediterranean, January 1943–May 1945 (London: Macmillan, 1984), p. 26. 7. Tedder signal to Portal, PRO: AIR 19/391 and PREM 3/6/2; Davis, Spaatz, clear chart on p. 179; Playfair, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. IV, pp. 306–13; Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, p. 574. 8. Spaatz Papers, Box 11. 9. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Andrews, Box 5. 10. Portal Papers, Box D, Folder VII, Item 12. 11. D. Cresswell, The Chief of Staff: The Military Career of General Walter Bedell Smith (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1991), pp. 143–4. 12. V. Orange, ‘Getting Together’, pp. 22–7; D. Syrett, ‘The Tunisian Campaign, 1942–43’, in B. F. Cooling (ed.), Case Studies in the Development of Close Air Support (Washington, DC: Ofﬁce of Air Force History, 1990), pp. 153–92; E. Mark, Aerial Interdiction: Air Power and the Land Battle in Three American Wars (Washington, DC: Ofﬁce of Air Force History, 1994), pp. 19–50; Dear, Oxford Companion, pp. 813–18. 13. Robb Diary, AC 71/9/68. 14. G. Perret, Winged Victory: The Army Air Forces in World War II (New York: Random House, 1993), p. 224. 15. Quoted in Owen, Tedder, pp. 191–2. 16. Kuter memories, recorded 1974: USAF Oral History Program, microﬁlm K.239.0512-810, pp. 284, 385, Bolling AFB, Washington, DC. 17. Quoted in Owen, Tedder, p. 192. 18. Trenchard Papers, MFC 76/1/546. 19. Wildman interview, microﬁlm A.1274, Bolling AFB, Washington DC.

Notes 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44.

45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

59. 60.

393

Portal Papers, PM Minutes, January–June 1943. Orange, Coningham, pp. 131–3, 139–40. Robb Papers, AC 71/9/68. Orange, ‘Getting Together’, pp. 35–7. Orange, Coningham, p. 135. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 583–92. Orange, Coningham, pp. 137–8; Davis, Spaatz, p. 183; Butcher Diary, 23 February 1943, unpublished pages, pp. A-249 and A-251; Dear, Oxford Companion, p. 644, map of battle area, p. 645. Portal Papers, Box D, Folder VII, Item 12. Spaatz Papers, Box 10. Quoted in Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 397–8. Spaatz Papers, Boxes 10 and 23. Lord Zuckerman, Six Men Out of the Ordinary (London: Peter Owen, 1992), pp. 65–6, 99. Perret, Winged Victory, p. 143n. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 594–6. Field Marshal Kesselring, ‘The War in the Mediterranean, Part II’, Air Historical Branch, London: translation VII/106, September 1951, p. 21. Spaatz Papers, Box 11. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Handy, Box 54: Eisenhower Library, Abilene, Kansas. Portal Papers, Box D, Folder VII. Microﬁlm A.1748, pp. 6–7, Bolling AFB, Washington DC. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 597–603; Orange, Coningham, pp. 143–4. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 411. Orange, ‘Getting Together’, pp. 30–2; Orange, Coningham, pp. 146–9; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 203–7; General L. Kuter, ‘Goddammit, Georgie!’, Air Force Magazine, February (1973), pp. 51–6; C. D’Este, A Genius for War: A Life of General George S. Patton (London: HarperCollins, 1995), pp. 480–3. Orange, ‘Getting Together’, p. 31; Spaatz Papers, Box 11; Kuter, ‘Goddammit, Georgie!’, p. 54. Quoted in Orange, Coningham, p. 149. Major J. P. Owens, ‘The Evolution of FM 100-20, Command and Employment of Air Power (21 July 1943): The Foundation of Modern Airpower Doctrine’, MA thesis, Fort Leavenworth, KS, 1989; D. Mortensen, ‘The Legend of Laurence Kuter’, in D. Mortensen (ed.), Air Power and Ground Armies, pp. 93–145; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 210-20. Quoted in Orange, Coningham, p. 159. W. F. Craven, and J. L. Cate (eds), The Army Air Forces in World War II, 7 vols (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1948–58, 1983), vol. III, p. 807. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, pp. 603–5; Orange, Coningham, pp. 151–2. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, 607–9; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 191–6. Spaatz Papers, Box 11. 275,000 in S. Ambrose, The Supreme Commander: The War Years of General Dwight D. Eisenhower (New York: Doubleday, 1970), p. 189; 238,000 in Dear, Oxford Companion, p. 818; somewhat under 250,000 in Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. II, p. 614. Kesselring, translation VII/106, p. 29. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 1129. Eisenhower’s Dispatch on the North African Campaign, 1942–43, pp. 50–2: Smith W B Collection of WW2 Documents, Box 16, Eisenhower Library. Eisenhower’s Dispatch, p. 52. PRO: PREM 3/420/3. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 1113. Ambrose, Supreme Commander, p. 205. Spaatz Papers, Box 11; Ambrose, Supreme Commander, pp. 205–10; D’Este, A Genius for War, pp. 492–4; Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. III, part I, pp. 72–4; N. Hamilton, Monty, vol. II: Master of the Battleﬁeld (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1983), pp. 241–68. Quoted in Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 432. Quoted in M. Blumenson (ed.), The Patton Papers, vol. II: 1940–1945 (Boston, MA: Houghton and Mifﬂin, 1974), pp. 236–7.

394

Tedder

61. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 1113; Portal Papers, Box C, Folder 8, Item 37. 62. Macmillan, War Diaries, p. 84.

NOTES TO CHAPTER NINETEEN 1. AVM Sir Laurence Sinclair, Strike to Defend (privately published by the author, 1992), p. 99; W. Green, and G. Swanborough, ‘Bristol’s Trim Twins’, Air Enthusiast, vol. 28 (1985), pp. 8–21, 69–73. 2. Sinclair, Strike to Defend, pp. 105–7. 3. PRO: AIR 27/243 (18 Squadron ORB); 18 Squadron File, Air Historical Branch, London; London Gazette, 2nd Supplement, 23 April 1943; C. Bowyer, For Valour: The Air VCs (London: Kimber, 1978), pp. 301–5; A. Butterworth, With Courage and Faith: The Story of No. 18 Squadron, Royal Air Force (Saffron Waldon: Air Britain, 1991); J. Yoxall, ‘No. 18 Squadron’, Flight (February 1956), p. 166. 4. Author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–August 1992. 5. Toppy’s elder brother, Sir Alexander Hay Seton (‘Sandy’: 1904–63) succeeded his father as 10th Baronet. She had a younger brother, Sir Bruce Lovat Seton (1909–69), who succeeded Alexander as 11th Baronet: see Burke’s Peerage, Baronetage and Knightage, 106th edn (London, 1980). Bruce made a name on British television in the 1950s as Fabian of the Yard. 6. ‘Darts and Doughnuts: a Light-hearted Account of the Malcolm Clubs’, unpublished manuscript in Tedder’s Papers. 7. House of Lords Debates, vol. 213, no. 29, Thursday, 22 January 1959: London, HMSO. 8. PRO: PREM 3/443/9; Gilbert, Road to Victory, pp. 421–5. 9. PRO: PREM 3/14/3; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 1257; Spaatz Papers, Box 11. 10. A. F. Simpson, ‘Sicily and Southern Italy’, in Craven and Cate (eds), Army Air Forces in World War II, vol. II, pp. 419–34 (map of Pantelleria, p. 420); Davis, Spaatz, pp. 225–39 (same map p. 226); Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 566–9. 11. Hanson W. Baldwin, ‘Men of Destiny – Leaders in North Africa’, New York Times Magazine, 20 June 1943, p. 6. 12. S. Zuckerman, From Apes to Warlords: The Autobiography (1904–1946) of Solly Zuckerman (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1978), supplemented here and below by the author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–August 1992. 13. Spaatz to Major Henry Berliner, Assistant Chief of Staff for Plans, 8th Air Force, 18 June 1943: Spaatz Papers, Box 11. 14. Author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–August 1992. 15. Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 182–96; Zuckerman, Six Men, pp. 76–9. 16. Macmillan, War Diaries, p. 151. 17. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Memorandum for Personal File, Correspondence, Box 137, Eisenhower Library. 18. Arnold Papers, Library of Congress, Washington DC, Box 47. 19. Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, p. 198, and conversations with the author, June–August 1992. 20. Macmillan, War Diaries, pp. 152–3 (Macmillan was mistaken in stating that Tedder was in Malta on the eve of Husky: see Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, p. 198). 21. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 449. 22. Brig. C. Molony et al., The Mediterranean and Middle East (London: HMSO: 1973), vol. V, pp. 45–7. 23. Simpson, ‘Sicily and Southern Italy’, vol. II, p. 452. 24. Simpson, ‘Sicily and Southern Italy’, vol. II, pp. 446–9, 453–6; Lt-Col. A. N. Garland and H. M. Smyth et al., US Army in World War II: The Mediterranean Theater of Operations: Sicily and the Surrender of Italy (Washington, DC: Center of Military History, 1965, 1986), pp. 88–9, 115–19, 175–84, 423–5; Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 571–3; Perret, Winged Victory, pp. 201–10. 25. PRO: PREM 3/227/6. 26. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 1258. 27. Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 200–3, 210; Zuckerman, Six Men, pp. 76–9. 28. Zuckerman Papers, SZ/BSU/7: University of East Anglia, Norwich.

Notes

395

29. Harry C. Butcher (ed.), Three Years with Eisenhower: The Personal Diary of Captain Harry C. Butcher, USNR, Naval Aide to General Eisenhower, 1942 to 1945 (London: Heinemann, 1946), pp. 309–10. 30. Spaatz Papers, Box 11. 31. Spaatz Papers, Box 11; Robb Papers, AC 71/9/68; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 246–51. 32. Spaatz Papers, Box 11. 33. Portal Papers, Box C, Folder 8, Item 39. 34. In fact, he was of German descent: Davis, Spaatz, p. 3. 35. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 453. 36. The Rise and Fall of the German Air Force, 1933–1945 (London: Arms & Armour Press, 1983), pp. 260–1; Simpson, ‘Sicily and Southern Italy’, vol. II, p. 485; Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, p. 169. 37. Mark, Aerial Interdiction, pp. 51–79 (map of Straits on p. 65); Davis, Spaatz, pp. 251–3; Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 578–80; Bennett, Ultra and Mediterranean Strategy, pp. 234–8; Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, pp. 163–8; Garland and Smyth, Sicily and Surrender of Italy, pp. 368–87; Orange, Coningham, pp. 166–8. 38. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. III, part 1, p. 99. 39. Gilbert, Road to Victory, p. 474. 40. Quoted in Mark, Aerial Interdiction, p. 479. 41. D. Copp, Forged in Fire: The Strategy and Decisions in the Air War over Europe, 1940–1945 (New York: Doubleday, 1982), p. 415. 42. Smart interview, microﬁlm K239.0512-1108, 27–30 November 1978, Bolling AFB, Washington DC. 43. Gilbert, Road to Victory, p. 424n. 44. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 1269. 45. Maj-Gen. L. H. Brereton, The Brereton Diaries: The War in the Air in the Paciﬁc, Middle East and Europe, 3 October 1941–8 May 1945 (New York: Morrow, 1946), pp. 196–7. 46. Perret, Winged Victory, pp. 214–18; his casualty ﬁgures are higher than Brereton’s, used by Simpson and Molony, but see p. 499: ‘since December 7, 1941, Brereton had shown a disconcerting willingness to be economical with the truth, where losses were concerned’; Simpson, ‘Conquest of Sicily’, vol. II, pp. 477–83; Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, pp. 219–21; Copp, Forged in Fire, p. 416; Brereton, Diaries, pp. 199, 202n. 47. Portal Papers, Box C, Folder 8, Item 39. 48. Quoted in Perret, Winged Victory, p. 215. 49. Simpson, ‘Sicily and Southern Italy’, vol. II, pp. 483–4; Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, pp. 221–2; Brereton, Diaries, p. 206. 50. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 457. 51. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 1296. 52. Ibid., p. 1305; Butcher Diary, unpublished pages, p. A-624: criticism of Devers was omitted from Butcher, Three Years with Eisenhower, pp. 322–3; Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 459. 53. Portal Papers, Box C, Folder 8, Item 39. 54. Ibid. 55. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 458.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWENTY 1. See above, Chapter 5, p. 35. 2. Squadron Leader R. S. Pritchard memoir: Imperial War Museum, London, 88/41/1, pp. 202–5. 3. Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, pp. 255–330; Simpson, ‘Sicily and Southern Italy’, vol. II, pp. 488–545; M. Blumenson, US Army in World War II: The Mediterranean Theater of Operations: Salerno to Cassino (Washington, DC: Center of Military History, 1988), pp. 73–171; Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. III, part 1, pp. 106–14; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 464–9; Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 580–5; Mark, Aerial Interdiction, pp. 81–108; Orange, Coningham, pp. 171–2. 4. Anonymous review of Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, in Times Literary Supplement, 14 December 1973, p. 1544.

396 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

Tedder

Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, p. 228. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 1411. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Handy, Box 54. Spaatz Papers, Box 12. Quoted in Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, p. 315. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 465. See above, Chapter 19, p. 232. In W. G. Ramsey (ed.), ‘Salerno’, After the Battle, no. 95 (1997), p. 36, contains a photograph of Battipaglia’s wrecked marshalling yards. Ramsey, After the Battle, no. 95 (1997). B. Holden Reid, ‘Italian Campaign’, in Dear (ed.), Oxford Companion, pp. 572–8; Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, pp. 355, 462 and 523. P. Smith, and E. Walker, War in the Aegean (London: Kimber, 1974), Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, pp. 531–59; Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. III, part 1, pp. 119– 33; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 469–87; Douglas with Wright, Years of Command, pp. 207–24. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 470. Quoted in Gilbert, Road to Victory, p. 454. Author’s conversations with ACM Sir Theodore McEvoy, 1986–88. Author’s conversations with ACM Sir Theodore McEvoy, 1986–88; Smith and Walker, War in Aegean, pp. 48–50. Richards and Saunders, The Fight Avails, vol. II, p. 345. Douglas with Wright, Years of Command, p. 207. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 471–2. David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, 1943–1945 (New York: Random House, 1987), p. 13; Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, p. 538. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 476–7. Douglas with Wright, Years of Command, p. 215. PRO: PREM 3/3/7. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Principal File, Box 115. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 1486. Quoted in Danchev and Todman, Alanbrooke, pp. 458–9. Quoted in Smith and Walker, War in Aegean, p. 70. PRO: PREM 3/3/7 and 9, 3/124/3. Quoted in Douglas with Wright, Years of Command, p. 221. PRO: PREM 3/3/8 and 9. Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, p. 557; Smith and Walker, War in Aegean, pp. 133–4, 257, 264–8. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Ismay, Box 60. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 1479; Butcher, Three Years with Eisenhower, p. 427. Portal Papers, Box D, Folder 5, Item 12. PRO: PREM 3/15. Spaatz Papers, Box 12; Simpson, ‘Sicily and Southern Italy’, vol. II, p. 572. Portal Papers, Box D, Folder 5, Item 16. Davis, Spaatz, pp. 279–80. Ibid., p. 280. Ibid., p. 269. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. II, p. 1604. Pritchard memoir, p. 208. Gilbert, Road to Victory, pp. 601–12; Macmillan, War Diaries, pp. 326–44. Smuts Papers, vol. 261, p. 235. PRO: PREM 3/336/1. Spaatz Papers, Box 12; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. III, p. 1611; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 271–9. Quoted in Orange, Coningham, pp. 180–1. PRO: PREM 3/336/1. Molony, Mediterranean and Middle East, vol. V, pp. 576–8. Liddell Hart Papers. Liddell Hart Centre for Military History, King’s College, London, 11/1944/29; Pritchard memoir, pp. 210–11; Eaker Papers. Library of Congress, Washington DC: Box 23.

Notes

397

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 1. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Smith, W. B., Box 109. 2. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. III, p. 1648. 3. Among numerous studies, see Terraine, Right of the Line; J. Ray, The Battle of Britain, New Perspectives: Behind the Scenes of the Great Air War (London: Arms & Armour Press, 1994); R. Hough, and D. Richards, The Battle of Britain (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1989); Orange, Park. 4. Their father, the Reverend Herbert Mallory, changed his name to Leigh-Mallory in 1914. Trafford followed his example; George, who died while attempting to climb Mount Everest in June 1924, did not. 5. See Chapter 15, p. 168. 6. Zuckerman, Six Men, p. 79. 7. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. III, p. 1711. 8. Responses to Dr Bruce Hopper, USSTAF historian, 20 May and 27 June 1945: Spaatz Papers, Box 136. 9. PRO: PREM 3/336/5; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 499–502. 10. PRO: PREM 3/336/5. 11. PRO: PREM 3/336/5. 12. Butcher, Three Years with Eisenhower, p. 405. 13. Spaatz Papers, Box 14. 14. Ibid.; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 310–15. 15. See Chapter 17, p. 192. 16. Noel F. Busch, ‘Tedder: As Eisenhower’s Deputy, a Crack British Airman Has Large Share of Invasion Command’, Life, 31 January 1944, pp. 82–90. 17. R. W. Love and J. Major (eds), The Year of D-Day: The 1944 Diary of Admiral Sir Bertram Ramsay (Hull: Hull University Press, 1994), p. 18; Williams, ‘Supreme HQs for D-Day’, pp. 26–7. 18. F. Pogue, US Army in World War II: The European Theater of Operations: The Supreme Command (Washington, DC: Center of Military History, 1954, 1989), p. 61. 19. Written for the Hecht Company, Washington DC, February 1944, copy in Tedder’s Papers. 20. Author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–August 1992. 21. PRO: AIR 37/1028; Portal Papers, Correspondence with DSC, Box 12/13. 22. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. III, p. 1755. 23. Quoted in Butcher, Three Years with Eisenhower, p. 498. 24. PRO: PREM 3/336/5. 25. Alanbrooke Papers, 3/B/XI; Danchev and Todman, Alanbrooke, p. 528. 26. Butcher Diary, 3 March, unpublished pages, p. 1122. 27. PRO: AIR 37/1028, PREM 3/336/5. 28. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, 1916–52, Principal File (Portal) Box 93. 29. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. III, p. 1765. 30. Webster and Frankland, Strategic Air Offensive, vol. III, pp. 20–1; Portal to Spaatz, 13 April, Spaatz Papers, Box 14. 31. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 506. 32. V. Orange, ‘Cutting through the Political Jungle: Eisenhower and Tedder as Allies and Friends, 1942–1945’, Royal Air Force Air Power Review, vol. 3, no. 4 (Winter 2000), p. 81. 33. A. Mierzejewski, The Collapse of the German War Economy, 1944–1945: Allied Air Power and the German National Railway (Chapel Hill, NC, and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1988), pp. 81–2; Kingston-McCloughry, Direction of War, p. 130; E. KingstonMcCloughry, The Direction of War: A Critique of the Political Direction and High Command in War (London: Jonathan Cape, 1955), p. 130. 34. W. W. Rostow, Pre-Invasion Bombing Strategy: General Eisenhower’s Decision of March 25, 1944 (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1981), p. 21; Spaatz, Box 14. 35. Davis, Spaatz, pp. 287, 323–6, 345–57; Rostow, Pre-Invasion Bombing, p. 38; J. Ehrman, History of the Second World War, UK Military Series: Grand Strategy, vol. V (August 1943–September 1944) (London: HMSO, 1976), pp. 294–5. 36. Spaatz Papers, Box 14; Zuckerman, ‘The Doctrine of Destruction’, review of Mets, Spaatz, and Mierzejewski, Collapse, in New York Review of Books, 29 March 1990, p. 33–5. 37. AVM E. J. Kingston-McCloughry, ‘The Transportation Plan’ (43 pp.), Box 417, Imperial War

398

38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45.

46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

55. 56. 57.

Tedder

Museum, London; Zuckerman, Six Men, pp. 79–81; summary by David Dilks in Tedder’s papers of RAF ﬁle 25/112/1/108/1 (Woolley). Quoted in Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 218–45, quotation on p. 236. Quoted in J. E. Fagg, ‘Pre-Invasion Operations’, in Craven and Cate (eds), Army Air Forces in World War II, vol. III, p. 160. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 534–5; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 409–11. Pogue, Supreme Command, pp. 127–32; G. A. Harrison, US Army in World War II: The European Theater of Operations: Cross-Channel Attack (Washington, DC: Ofﬁce of the Chief of Military History, 1951), pp. 217–30; A. Wilt, ‘The Air Campaign’, in T. A. Wilson (ed.), D-Day 1944 (Abilene, KS: University Press of Kansas, 1971, 1994), pp. 139–42; W. Murray, and A. R. Millett, A War To Be Won: Fighting the Second World War (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), pp. 413–16. Zuckerman, ‘Doctrine of Destruction’, 29 March 1990, p. 34. Harrison, Cross-Channel Attack, pp. 224–5. Mierzejewski, Collapse of German War Economy, pp. 67–8. Webster and Frankland, Strategic Air Offensive, vol. III, pp. 21–8, 35–7, 39; Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, p. 234; Davis, Spaatz, p. 329; Ehrman, Grand Strategy, vol. V, p. 294. According to Middlebrook and Everitt, Bomber Command War Diaries, pp. 488–91, 520–2, 1,230 British bombers were lost over Germany between 18 November 1943 and 31 March 1944 (3.8 per cent of sorties); 525 were lost over France and Belgium between 31 March and 5 June 1944 (2.2 per cent of sorties). Spaatz Papers, Box 14; minutes in Rostow, Pre-Invasion Bombing, pp. 88–98. Butcher, Three Years with Eisenhower, p. 450. Quoted in Davis, Spaatz, pp. 352–3; Zuckerman, ‘Doctrine of Destruction’, 29 March 1990, p. 34. Ehrman, Grand Strategy, vol. V, pp. 297–8. Zuckerman, Six Men, pp. 82–3; Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 25, 247–56; Defence Committee minutes for April and May in PRO: PREM 3/334/2. PRO: PREM 3/334/3; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 521–33; Zuckerman, Six Men, p. 83; Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 246–7. PRO: AIR 37/1030. PRO: AIR 37/1030; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. III, p. 1842. See Webster and Frankland, Strategic Air Offensive, vol. III, pp. 37–8; ‘Effectiveness of Air Attack against Rail Transportation in the Battle of France’, 1 June 1945, p. 164: Maxwell AFB, 138.4–37 (I owe this reference to the kindness of Richard Davis; it replaces the casualty ﬁgure he quotes in Spaatz, p. 403); Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, p. 252; H. Saunders, Royal Air Force, 1939–1945, vol. III: The Fight is Won (London: HMSO, 1954, 1975), p. 87; A. L. Funk, ‘Caught in the Middle: The French Population in Normandy’, in Wilson, D-Day 1944, pp. 238–57. Tedder Diary, 2 and 3 May, Tedder Papers. PRO: PREM 3/334/3; Ehrman, Grand Strategy, vol. V, pp. 298–304; Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 254–6. Davis, Spaatz, p. 408.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

Tedder Diary, 5 and 27 May 1944. Tedder Diary, 17 May 1944. Tedder Diary, 3 June 1944; Spaatz Diary, Box 15; Brereton, Diaries, pp. 270–1. K. Young (ed.), The Diaries of Sir Robert Bruce Lockhart, vol. II: 1939–1965 (London: Macmillan, 1980), pp. 306–9. Portal Papers, Box D, Folder 4, Items 7 and 8. Tedder Diary, 31 May 1944. Tedder Diary, 2 June 1944; Hamilton, Monty: Master of the Battleﬁeld, p. 567n. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 544–6. David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 251–7. Quoted in Love and Major, Year of D-Day, pp. 82–3. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 546–7; Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 662–3.

Notes

399

12. Quoted in Wilt, ‘The Air Campaign’, pp. 134–5. 13. David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 290–1, 351; A. S. Cochran, ‘Ultra, Fortitude, and D-Day Planning: The Missing Dimension’, in Wilson, D-Day 1944, pp. 63–79; G. L. Weinberg, A World at Arms: A Global History of World War II (Cambridge: University Press, 1994), pp. 679–81; D’Este, Genius for War, pp. 592–4. 14. Quoted in M. Hastings, Overlord: D-Day and the Battle for Normandy, 1944 (London: Michael Joseph, 1984), p. 179. 15. Quoted in R. J. Overy, Why the Allies Won (London: Pimlico, 1995), pp. 166–7, 176. 16. Tedder Diary, 6 and 11 June 1944; Love and Major, Year of D-Day, p. 87. 17. Quoted in Davis, Spaatz, pp. 454–8; Tedder Diary, 14 June 1944; PRO: AIR 37/784 (LeighMallory’s ‘Daily Reﬂections on the Course of the Battle’, dictated to Hilary St George Saunders). 18. Tedder Diary, 14 and 15 June 1944; Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 268–71; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 457–8; C. D’Este, Decision in Normandy: The Unwritten Story of Montgomery and the Allied Campaign (London: Collins, 1983), pp. 226–30. 19. D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 120–50, 160; Murray and Millett, A War To Be Won, pp. 424–5. 20. Hamilton, Monty: Master of the Battleﬁeld, pp. 641, 649, 650–1. 21. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 552–3. 22. Tedder Diary, 12, 13 and 15 July 1944; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 564–5; PRO: AIR 37/784. 23. A. L. Gruen, Preemptive Defense: Allied Air Power versus Hitler’s V-Weapons, 1943–1945 (Washington, DC: Air Force History and Museums Program, 1988); W. G. Ramsey, ‘The V-Weapons’, After the Battle, no. 6 (1974), pp. 1–41; B. Collier, The Defence of the United Kingdom (London: HMSO, 1957), pp. 354–62; R. V. Jones, Most Secret War: British Scientiﬁc Intelligence, 1939–1945 (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1978), pp. 523–42. 24. Collier, Defence, pp. 371–2, 384–9. 25. Tedder Diary, 16 June 1944. 26. Ibid., 9 July 1944. 27. Spaatz Diary, 15 August 1944, Box 15. 28. Tedder Diary, 21 August 1944. 29. Tedder Diary, 22 June and 28 June to 1 July 1944; PRO: AIR 37/1032; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. III, p. 1952. 30. Tedder Diary, 6 and 15 July 1944; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. III, p. 1982; Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 272–7; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 460–1; Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 650–2; D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 309–20. 31. PRO: PREM 3/334/4; David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 357–60. 32. Tedder Diary, 13, 18 and 19 July 1944; Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 277–8; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 461–3; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. III, p. 2002; Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 654–6; Weinberg, World at Arms, pp. 689–90; Overy, Why the Allies Won, pp. 167–70; D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 352–99. 33. Butcher, Three Years with Eisenhower, pp. 529–31; Butcher Diary, unpublished pages, pp. 1520, 1525–7; Alanbrooke Papers, 3/B/XIII. 34. Tedder Diary, 21 July 1944; Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 566; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. III, p. 2018. 35. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 566–70. 36. Ibid., p. 571. 37. Hamilton, Monty: Master of the Battleﬁeld, pp. 699–726 (quotation on p. 724), 745–6. 38. D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 198, 455. 39. Ibid., p. 51; Danchev and Todman, Alanbrooke, p. 475. 40. Hastings, Overlord, pp. 170–95; Murray and Millett, A War To Be Won, p. 417. 41. D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 400–31; Murray and Millett, A War To Be Won, pp. 428–33. 42. Overy, Why the Allies Won, p. 147. 43. G. L. Weinberg, ‘D-Day, Analysis of Costs and Beneﬁts’, in Wilson, D-Day 1944, pp. 319–21; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. III, pp. 1938, 1958; David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 310–19; Jones, Britain, United States and Mediterranean, pp. 138–9; A. F. Wilt, ‘The Summer of 1944: A Comparison of Overlord and Anvil/Dragoon’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 4, no. 2 (June 1981), pp. 187–95; Murray and Millett, A War To Be Won, p. 433. 44. Weinberg, World at Arms, pp. 677–95; J. P. Pallud, ‘The Riviera Landings’, After the Battle,

400

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no. 110 (2000), pp. 2–55. 45. David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 322–5, 396–8, 404–6; Gilbert, Road to Victory, pp. 814–31, 843, 874–81; Pogue, Supreme Command, pp. 227–9; Jones, Britain, United States and Mediterranean, p. 184. 46. Terraine, Right of the Line, p. 667; Dear, Oxford Companion, p. 422; Murray and Millett, A War To Be Won, pp. 433, 444. 47. D. French, Raising Churchill’s Army: The British Army and the War against Germany, 1919–45 (Oxford: University Press; 2000), D. French, ‘“Tommy is No Soldier”: The Morale of the Second British Army in Normandy, June–August 1944’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 19, no. 4 (December 1996), pp. 169–70; Liddell Hart Papers, ‘Lessons of Normandy’ (1952), 11/1944/45a; T. J. Copp, ‘Battle Exhaustion and the Canadian Soldier in Normandy’, British Army Review, no. 85 (April 1987), pp. 46–54; R. Callahan, ‘Two Armies in Normandy: Weighing British and Canadian Military Performance’, in Wilson (ed.), D-Day 1944, pp. 261–81; Weinberg, World at Arms, pp. 685–6; D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 252–70 (manpower shortage), 271–97 (poor performance). 48. R. Hallion, D-Day, 1944: Air Power over the Normandy Beaches and Beyond (Washington, DC: Air Force History and Museums Program, 1994), p. 39. 49. Trenchard Papers, mfc 76/1/546.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 1. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 609–10; Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 298–300; Mierzejewski, Collapse of German War Economy, pp. 99–101. 2. Foreign Relations of the United States (Quebec, 1944) (Washington, DC: US GPO, 1972), pp. 309–11; Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, p. 298; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2157. 3. Mierzejewski, Collapse of German War Economy, pp. 101–2; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 504–11; Webster and Frankland, Strategic Air Offensive, vol. III, pp. 225–43. 4. Quoted in Mierzejewski, Collapse of German War Economy, pp. 103–20; Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. III, part 2, pp. 517–22; Webster and Frankland, Strategic Air Offensive, vol. III, pp 65–7; A. Speer, Inside the Third Reich (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1970), pp. 313–14. 5. Quoted in Lord Zuckerman, ‘Doctrine of Destruction’, pp. 33–5; author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–August 1992. 6. Cabell personal ﬁle, microﬁlm 168.7026–9, Air Force Historical Research Agency, Maxwell AFB, Alabama. 7. Mierzejewski, Collapse of German War Economy, pp. 22, 120–2, 125; Lord Zuckerman, ‘Strategic Bombing and the Defeat of Germany’, RUSI Journal, vol. 130, no. 2 (June 1985), pp. 67–70. 8. Mierzejewski, Collapse of German War Economy, pp. 122–3; Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 302–5; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 607–15; J. E. Fagg, ‘Autumn Assault on Germany’, in Craven and Cate (eds), Army Air Forces in World War II, vol. III, pp. 649–57. 9. D’Este, Genius for War, p. 647. 10. R. Lewin, Montgomery as Military Commander (London: Batsford, 1971), pp. 230–2. 11. Murray and Millett, A War To Be Won, p. 436; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 587–92. 12. Love and Major, Year of D-Day, pp. 132, 136–7; Eisenhower Diary, 10 September 1959, Eisenhower Papers, Ann Whitman ﬁle, 1953–61, A75-22, Box 33; R. Lamb, Montgomery in Europe, 1943–1945: Success or Failure? (London: Buchan & Enright, 1983), pp. 216–17; David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 463–5; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2133. 13. David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 448–50; D’Este, Genius for War, pp. 646–7; Terraine, Right of the Line, pp. 667–8; Weinberg, World at Arms, pp. 697–701; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 587–90; Murray and Millett, A War To Be Won, pp. 437–8; Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. III, part 2, pp. 377–81; Lewin, Montgomery, p. 234. 14. Orange, Coningham, p. 218. 15. Quoted in David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 469–81. 16. Quoted in Murray and Millett, A War To Be Won, pp. 438–43; Lamb, Montgomery, pp. 218–27; D. Rempel, ‘Check at the Rhine’, in Craven and Cate (eds), Army Air Forces in World War II,

Notes

17. 18. 19.

20.

21.

22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32. 33.

401

vol. III, pp. 600–12; Terraine, Right of the Line, 668–70; Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. III, part 2, pp. 382–9; Orange, Coningham, pp. 215–16. N. Hamilton, Monty, vol. III: The Field Marshal (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1986), pp. 56, 88–90, 103. G. Powell, The Devil’s Birthday: The Bridges to Arnhem, 1944 (London: Buchan & Enright, 1984), pp. 232–41; Lamb, Montgomery, pp. 213–16; Lewin, Montgomery, pp. 235–9. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2195; Kay Summersby Diary, Eisenhower Papers, PPP, 1916–52, Principal File, Box 140; Rempel, ‘Check at the Rhine’, p. 622; Davis, Spaatz, pp. 488–9; interview, August 1977, with Thatcher, K239.K239.0512953, pp. 66–7, Bolling AFB, Washington DC; Langmead Papers, 168.7011-1, Air Force Historical Research Agency, Maxwell AFB, Alabama. PRO: AIR 37/1033-4; Richards, Portal, pp. 333–7; Zuckerman Papers, SZ/BAU/1/1; Zuckerman, Apes to Warlords, pp. 332–9; author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–August 1992. J. W. Angell, ‘Crossbow: Second Phase’, in Craven and Cate (eds), Army Air Forces in World War II, vol. III, pp. 525–46; W. G. Ramsey, ‘The V-Weapons’, After the Battle, no. 6 (1974), pp. 18–37; D. Irving, The Mare’s Nest (London: Panther Books, rev. edn, 1985), pp. 307–18, 327–40. Hinsley et al., British Intelligence, vol. III, part 2, pp. 551–71; Collier, Defence of United Kingdom, pp. 413–20. Pritchard memoir, pp. 230–4; Young, Lockhart, vol. II, pp. 370–1. D. C. Bateman, ‘The Death of Air Chief Marshal Leigh-Mallory’, After the Battle, no. 39 (1983), pp. 1–25; Orange, ‘Dawson, Grahame George (1895–1944)’,in New Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford: University Press, 2004). Orange, Coningham, p. 222; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2334. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, pp. 2215–16, 2221; Grigg Papers, Churchill College, Cambridge, 9/8/28g. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2221; David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 487–8. Love and Major, Year of D-Day, pp. 159, 161. Orange, Coningham, pp. 219–20; David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 499–500. David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 509–11, 515–18, 537–47; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 616–17. Tedder Diary, 6–7 December 1944; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 620–2; Hamilton, The Field Marshal, pp. 139–76; Owen, Tedder, p. 268; David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 547–8. Portal Papers, Box C, Folder 1, Item 7; Orange, Coningham, pp. 223–4; PRO: PREM 3/341/2; Grigg Papers, 9/9/37a. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, pp. 2338, 2341; PRO: PREM 3/341/2; David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 551–3; Tedder Diary, 9–14 December 1944; Alanbrooke Diary, 12 December 1944; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 622–3.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 1. J. Erickson, The Road to Berlin: Stalin’s War with Germany (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1983), vol. II, pp. 431–2; Murray and Millett, A War To Be Won, pp. 464–71; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 624–40; N. Annan, Changing Enemies: The Defeat and Regeneration of Germany (London and New York: W. W. Norton, 1996), pp. 117–23. 2. David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 567–9. 3. Speer, Inside the Third Reich, pp. 557–62. 4. National Archives, Washington DC: RG 331 SGS 350.05; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2379. 5. Robb Papers, AC71/9/26; Betts Papers, Eisenhower Library, Interview No. 4, 16 August 1976, p. 271. 6. Summary by David Dilks in Tedder’s papers of RAF ﬁle 2S/112/1/32. 7. National Archives, Washington DC: RG 331 SGS 350.05; PRO: PREM 3/398/3; Sir John Colville, The Fringes of Power: Downing Street Diaries, 1939–1955 (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1985), pp. 25–6.

402

Tedder

8. Typescript, ‘Visit to Moscow – January 1945’; most of which is in With Prejudice, pp. 643–54; Betts Papers, pp. 274–5. 9. Typescript; Betts Papers, pp. 275–82. 10. See above, Chapter 15, p. 144. 11. See above, Chapter 17, p. 183. 12. Typescript; Betts Papers, pp. 283–6; Harriman and Abel, Special Envoy, pp. 380–1. 13. Typescript; Betts Papers, pp. 287–9, 305. 14. B. F. Smith, Sharing Secrets with Stalin: How the Allies Traded Intelligence, 1941–1945 (Lawrence, KS: University of Kansas Press, 1996), p. 234. 15. Betts Papers, pp. 295–9. 16. Typescript; memorandum sent by Scarman to Bedell Smith on 4 February 1945 in National Archives, Washington DC, RG 331 SGS 380–1. 17. A. H. Birse, Memoirs of an Interpreter (London: Michael Joseph, 1967), p. 176. 18. National Archives, Washington, DC: RG 331 SGS 350.05; PRO: PREM 3/398/3; Pogue, Supreme Command, p. 407; J. R. Deane, The Strange Alliance: The Story of our Efforts at Wartime Co-operation with Russia (New York: Viking Press, 1947), p. 156. 19. Author’s conversations with Sir Theodore McEvoy, 1986–88. 20. Hamilton, The Field Marshal, pp. 246–50, 259–79, 300–6; David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 612–13; Gilbert, Road to Victory, pp. 1144–5; Pogue, Supreme Command, p. 389. 21. Summersby Diary, Box 140; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2458; PRO: PREM 3/398/3; National Archives, Washington DC: RG 331 SGS 230.7. 22. PRO: PREM 3/398/3. 23. Alanbrooke Diary, 3 January 1945; Hamilton, The Field Marshal, p. 346. 24. Portal Papers, Box D, Folder IX, Items 3–10; PRO: PREM 3/15. 25. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2422. 26. Quoted in Richards, Portal, pp. 242–5. 27. Portal Papers, Box D, Folder IX, Items 15–16. 28. R. F. Cording (of Christchurch, New Zealand), unpublished manuscript, ‘Bufton: Churchill’s Little Air Commodore’, Chapters 12 and 13. 29. Portal Papers, Box D, Folder IX, Item 17. 30. Tedder Diary, 26–28 January 1945; Arnold Papers, Library of Congress, Washington DC, Box 38; Summersby Diary, 29 January 1945, Box 140; Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 661. 31. Alanbrooke Diary, 30 January to 3 February 1945; Admiral W. D. Leahy, I Was There: The Personal Story of the Chief of Staff to Presidents Roosevelt and Truman Based on His Notes and Diaries Made at the Time (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1950), pp. 346–7; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2480; Spaatz Diary, 2 February 1945, Box 20. 32. Summersby Diary, 11 February 1945, Box 140; Young, Lockhart, vol. II, p. 399. 33. Tedder Diary, 15 February 1945; Summersby Diary, 16 February 1945, Box 140; Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2480; PRO: PREM 3/336/6; Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 662–4; Pogue, Supreme Command, pp. 389–91. 34. Quoted in Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2494; PRO: PREM 3/336/6; Summersby Diary, 24 February 1945, Box 140. 35. Tedder Diary, 5 March 1945; Summersby Diary, 6 and 10 March 1945; Brooke Diary, 6 March 1945; PRO: PREM 3/336/6. 36. Tedder Diary, 27 February 1945; Portal Papers, Correspondence with DSC, Box 12/13. 37. Richards, Portal, pp. 333–9; N. Frankland, History at War (London: Giles de la Mare, 1998), p. 65; S. Cox, ‘An Unwanted Child: The Struggle to Establish a British Bombing Survey’, in The Strategic Air War Against Germany, 1939–1945: Report of the British Bombing Survey Unit (London: Frank Cass, 1998), pp. xvii–xli; H. Probert, Bomber Harris: His Life and Times (London: Greenhill Books, 2001), pp. 330–2. 38. Erickson, Road to Berlin, pp. 527–9. 39. Murray and Millett, A War To Be Won, p. 475. 40. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 675–81; David Eisenhower, Eisenhower: At War, pp. 712–52; Lewin, Montgomery, pp. 249–60; Hamilton, The Field Marshal, pp. 442–60; Murray and Millett, A War To Be Won, pp. 477, 480–2. 41. Chandler and Ambrose, Papers of Eisenhower, vol. IV, p. 2590; Gilbert, Road to Victory, pp. 1273–6. 42. Alanbrooke Diary, 12 April 1945; Gilbert, Never Despair, vol. III, p. 133 and n.2; Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 681. 43. Trenchard Papers, mfc 76/1/546.

Notes

403

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

33.

34.

Bolling AFB microﬁlm A.5087. Tedder Diary, 4 May 1945; Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Personal File, Box 115. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 688. Tedder Diary, 5–6 May 1945; W. G. Ramsey, ‘Germany Surrenders’, After the Battle, no. 48 (1985), pp. 24–33; Butcher, Three Years with Eisenhower, pp. 682–93. Tedder, With Prejudice, pp. 683–4. Ramsey, ‘Germany Surrenders’, pp. 34–7; Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 685; Deane, Strange Alliance, pp. 174–80; Butcher, Three Years with Eisenhower, pp. 693–705; The Times, 9 May 1945; Clifford Webb, Daily Herald, 11 May 1945; Harold King, Daily Telegraph, 11 May 1945; Pogue Interviews, Supreme Command box, US Army Military History Institute, Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania: Tedder, 13 February 1947; Colonel Everett Cook, ‘A Trip to Berlin’, 21 May 1945, Spaatz Papers, Box 287. Tedder, With Prejudice, p. 685; Deane, Strange Alliance, p. 180. Portal Papers, Box A, File II, Item 22. M. Miller, Ike the Soldier: As They Knew Him (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1987), pp. 780–1. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Personal File, Box 115; W. B. Smith Papers, Personal Correspondence, Box 10, Eisenhower Library. Portal Papers, Box C, File I, Items 9 and 9a. Tedder Diary, 13–14 July 1945. H. Wilson, Review of K. Harris, Attlee (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson 1982), BBC Listener, 23 September 1982, pp. 20–1. Portal Papers, Box C, File I, Items 9b and 10. The Times, 12 September 1945; Flight, 1 November 1945, p. 477. Spaatz Papers, Box 20. V. Orange, ‘In the “Whirligig of Whitehall”: MRAF Lord Tedder of Glenguin as “Chief Aunt Sally” in “The House of Shame”, 1946–1949’, Royal Air Force Historical Society Journal, no. 21 (2000) p. 151. Trenchard Papers, mfc 76/1/546. Zuckerman, Six Men, p. 92. See above, Chapter 15, p. 167. Quoted in Probert, Bomber Harris, p. 361. Harris returned to live in England in 1954: Probert, Bomber Harris, p. 377. Air Council Memoranda, AHB, London. Hamilton, The Field Marshal, pp. 539–40. Ibid., pp. 579–82; General Sir W. Jackson and FM Lord Bramall, The Chiefs: The Story of the United Kingdom Chiefs of Staff (London: Brassey’s (UK), 1992), pp. 266–7; Zuckerman, Six Men, pp. 94–5. Young, Lockhart, vol. II, p. 639. PRO: Slessor Papers, March 1946, Box 3. Montgomery Papers, Imperial War Museum, London, BLM 206/13, 186/6. R. Ovendale (ed.), British Defence Policy since 1945 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1994), pp. 46–53. Published in RUSI Journal, vol. 91 (1946), pp. 59–68. Commenting on Coningham’s paper, ‘The Development of Tactical Air Forces’, RUSI Journal, vol. 91 (1946), pp. 211–26. Delivered by Coningham on 20 February 1946. Given at Cambridge on 17 and 18 February and 3 and 4 March 1947; published as Air Ministry Pamphlet 235 in September 1947 for service use only; commercially as Air Power in War (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1948; re-printed New York: Greenwood Press, 1975). ‘Air Defence’, 3 November 1949: address to Royal Empire Society, London: edited version in Flight, 10 November 1949, pp. 628–9, full version in microﬁlm K.2634, Bolling AFB. See also ‘The Problem of our Future Security’, in Royal Air Force Quarterly, vol. 19, no. 1 (January 1948), pp. 8–18, and ‘The RAF in the Future’, address at Christ Church, Oxford, 27 September 1948, in Flight, 7 October 1948, pp. 444–6. Air Council Memoranda, Air Historical Branch (AHB), London. Other members were John Strachey (Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State, Vice-President), Jack Slessor (Air Member for Personnel: AMP), Leslie Hollinghurst (Air Member for Supply and Organisation:

404

35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

Tedder

AMSO), Strath Evill (Vice-CAS), Roderic Hill (Air Member for Training: AMT), Alec Coryton (Controller, Supplies (Air), Ministry of Supply) and Lord Henderson (‘Lord-inWaiting’); with Stansgate’s Private Secretary in attendance. Air Council Memoranda, AHB, London. Croydon Advertiser, 27 September 1946; Whitgift school archives. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Personal File, Box 115. Ibid. D. C. Bateman, ‘The Victory Parade of 40 Years Ago’, in After the Battle, no. 53 (1986), pp. 1–17; Air Council Memoranda, 14 June 1946. Spaatz Papers, Box 23; Zuckerman, Six Men, pp. 93–4. Spaatz Papers, Box 265; S. Duke, US Defence Bases in the United Kingdom (London: Macmillan, 1987), pp. 19–22; D. Campbell, The Unsinkable Aircraft Carrier: American Military Power in Britain (London: Michael Joseph, 1984), pp. 28–32; P. S. Meilinger, Hoyt S. Vandenberg: The Life of a General (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1989), pp. 62–4. Spaatz Papers, COS ﬁle. Zuckerman, Six Men, p. 124. H. S. Wolk, Toward Independence: The Emergence of the US Air Force, 1945–1947 (Washington, DC: Air Force History and Museums Program, 1996), pp. 10–16. Spaatz Papers, Box 28. PRO: Slessor Papers, 12 September 1946, Box 2; Spaatz Papers, Box 247; National Archives, Washington, DC: RG 18 AAG 381, Box 754; PRO: AIR 8/1469. National Archives, Washington, DC: RG 319 Army Staff, P & O Div. 320, Section XII, Cases 62–79, Box 240; Spaatz Papers, Box 247; Wolk, Toward Independence, pp. 26–32; Meilinger, Vandenberg, pp. 78–84.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 1. MRAF Sir John Slessor, The Central Blue: Recollections and Reﬂections (London: Cassell, 1956), pp. 45–51; M. Hastings, ‘Slessor’, in Dictionary of National Biography (1986). 2. See above, Chapter 9, p. 76; Gray, Imperial Defence College. 3. See Gray, Imperial Defence College, p. 52. 4. Slessor, Central Blue, p. 373. 5. L. Cheshire ‘Sir Ralph Cochrane: Clearest Mind in the Air Force?’, in L. Lucas (ed.), Thanks for the Memory (London: Hutchinson, 1989), pp. 211–15. 6. V. Orange, ‘Cochrane, Sir Ralph Alexander (1895–1977)’, in New Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). 7. A. Harris, The Times, 20 December 1977. 8. Portal Papers, Box E, Item 28; Orange, Coningham, pp. 219 and 222. 9. Portal Papers, Box E, Item 27. 10. Portal Papers, Box E, Items 25 and 26; Trenchard to Portal, 23 June 1947, mfc 76/1/546. 11. I am indebted to Sir John’s son, also John, for this document. 12. Sir John Slessor, These Remain: A Personal Anthology (London: Michael Joseph, 1969), p. 14. 13. Jackson and Bramall, The Chiefs, p. 271. 14. Montgomery Papers, BLM 195/1; Hamilton, The Field Marshal, pp. 687–8. 15. S. J. Ball, ‘Bomber Bases and British Strategy in the Middle East, 1945–1949’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 14, no. 4 (1991), pp. 521–9; A. Bullock, Ernest Bevin: Foreign Secretary, 1945–1951 (Oxford: University Press, 1985), pp. 471–5; K. Harris, Attlee (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1982), p. 396. 16. I. Pappé, ‘Sir Alec Kirkbride and the Anglo-Transjordanian Alliance, 1945–1950’, in Zametica (ed.), British Ofﬁcials, pp. 121–37; Bullock, Bevin, pp. 562–5; PRO: AIR 8/1794. 17. PRO: AIR 20/5170; T. Buttler, ‘Turbojets for Stalin’, Air Enthusiast, no. 94 (July–August 2001), pp. 73–7. 18. PRO: AIR 20/5170; National Archives, Washington DC: RG330 OSD CD6-1-5, Box 21; Buttler, ‘Turbojets’, p. 77; author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–August 1982. 19. Gunston, Encyclopedia of the World’s Combat Aircraft, p. 152. 20. National Archives, Washington DC: RG 18 AAG400.112, Box 645; AAG471.6, Box 665; AAG380, vol. 3, Box 639; AAG380, vol. 4, Box 640.

Notes

405

21. PRO: AIR 8/1606 and 1793; Ball, ‘Bomber Bases’, pp. 517–18; D. C. Webb, ‘Lincoln Losses’, Aeroplane, vol. 26, no. 3 (March 1998), p. 33; Spaatz Papers, Box 251. 22. Vandenberg Papers, Library of Congress, Box 9. 23. M. Gowling, ‘Britain, America and the Bomb’, in Dockrill and Young (eds), British Foreign Policy, pp. 41–2; Meilinger, Vandenberg, pp. 62–5; H. R. Borowski, ‘Air Force Atomic Capability from V-J Day to the Berlin Blockade – Potential or Real?’, Military Affairs, vol. 44, no. 3 (October 1980), pp. 105–8; G. Herken, The Winning Weapon: The Atomic Bomb in the Cold War, 1945–1950 (Princeton, NJ: University Press, 1988), pp. xiii, 6. 24. J. Baylis, Anglo-American Defence Relations, 1939–1980 (London: Macmillan, 1990), pp. 30–2; PRO: AIR 8/1593 and 1594. 25. Spaatz Papers, Box 247 and 28. 26. See above, Chapter 9, pp. 77–8. 27. Author’s conversations with Lord Zuckerman, June–August 1992. 28. Many copies of the proceedings, in whole or part, survive: in addition to Tedder’s Papers, see Bottomley Papers, Hendon, AC71/2/97; Slessor Papers, Box 11; Kingston-McCloughry Papers, Imperial War Museum, Box P.411, 3/8. 29. PRO: AIR 8/1490 and 1492. 30. Ball, ‘Bomber Bases’, pp. 522–4. 31. J. W. Young, ‘Duff Cooper and the Paris Embassy, 1945–1947’, in Zametica (ed.), British Ofﬁcials, pp. 114–15; E. Mark, Defending the West: The United States Air Force and European Security, 1946–1998 (Washington, DC: Air Force History and Museums Program, 1999), pp. 10–12; E. Barker, The British between the Superpowers, 1945–1950 (Toronto: University Press, 1983), pp. 111–12, 141. 32. PRO: AIR 8/1941; Montgomery Papers, BLM 212/31. 33. PRO: AIR 8/1600. 34. Orange, Coningham, pp. 249–59; PRO: AIR 8/1555. 35. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Personal File, Box 115. 36. PRO: AIR 8/1538. 37. Meilinger, Vandenberg, pp. 86, 95, 36–8. 38. Spaatz Papers, Box 28, 29, 247; Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Personal File, Box 115. 39. PRO: AIR 8/1538. 40. PRO: AIR 8/1541. 41. Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Personal File, Box 115.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 1. Air Historical Branch, Britain and the Berlin Airlift (London: Stationery Ofﬁce, 1998), pp. 3–4. 2. Quoted in R. G. Miller, To Save a City: The Berlin Airlift, 1948–1949 (Washington, DC: Air Force History and Museums Program, 1998), p. 47. 3. Miller, To Save a City, pp. 108–9. 4. T. C. G. James, ‘The Berlin Air Lift, 1948–49’, Proceedings of the Royal Air Force Historical Society, no. 6 (1989), p. 71. 5. Air Ministry Publication 3257, April 1950: A Report on Operation Plainfare (the Berlin Airlift) by Air Marshal T. M. Williams, C-in-C BAFO; PRO: AIR 10/5067; A. and J. Tusa, The Berlin Blockade (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1988); D. M. Giangreco and R. E. Grifﬁn, Airbridge to Berlin: The Berlin Crisis of 1948, Its Origins and Aftermath (Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1988); R. Collier, Bridge across the Sky: The Berlin Blockade and Airlift, 1948–1949 (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1978). 6. Miller, To Save a City, pp. 38–40. 7. Young, Lockhart, vol. II, p. 665. 8. Air Council Meetings, 9 and 23 September 1948, AHB. 9. AHB, Britain and the Berlin Airlift, p. 2. 10. Quoted in V. Orange, Ensor’s Endeavour (London: Grub Street, 1994), pp. 130–1. 11. Quoted in A. Danchev, ‘In the Back Room: Anglo-American Defence Co-operation, 1945–51’, in R. J. Aldrich (ed.), British Intelligence, Strategy, and the Cold War, 1945–51 (London: Routledge, 1992), p. 215. 12. Ibid., pp. 215–17.

406

Tedder

13. Zuckerman, Six Men, pp. 93–4; Baylis, Anglo-American Defence Relations, pp. 34–5; PRO: AIR 8/1793; Danchev, ‘In the Back Room’, pp. 224–5; Duke, US Defence Bases in the United Kingdom, pp. 2–3, 44–52; P. E. Murray, ‘An Initial Response to the Cold War: The Buildup of the US Air Force in the United Kingdom, 1948–1956’, in R. G. Miller (ed.), Seeing off the Bear: Anglo-American Air Power Co-operation during the Cold War (Washington, DC: Air Force History and Museums Program, 1995), pp. 15–20; Campbell, Unsinkable Aircraft Carrier, pp. 11, 18, 28–32. 14. PRO: AIR 8/1793. 15. Duke, US Defence Bases, pp. 34–8. 16. PRO: AIR 8/1796. 17. Ibid. 18. Ibid. 19. H. Wynn, The RAF Strategic Nuclear Deterrent Forces: Their Origins, Roles and Deployment, 1946–1969: A Documentary History (London: HMSO, 1994), pp. xx; see also his paper in AHB: ‘Policy and Philosophy behind the V-Force’; Lewis, British Bomber since 1914, pp. 368–86; T. Buttler, ‘Vital Bombers: Origins of the RAF’s V-Bomber Force’, Air Enthusiast, no. 79 (January–February 1999), pp. 28–41. 20. W. Reynolds, ‘Atomic Weapons and the Problem of Australian Security, 1946–1957’, War and Society, vol. 17, no. 1 (May 1999), pp. 57–71. 21. Author’s conversations with Sir Theodore McEvoy in 1988. 22. Montgomery Papers, BLM 186/6 and 206/13. 23. Montgomery Papers, BLM 206/17. 24. Montgomery Papers, BLM 187/1; R. Lewin, Slim: The Standardbearer (London: Leo Cooper, 1976), pp. 268–70. 25. Jackson and Bramall, The Chiefs, pp. 275–8; Hamilton, The Field Marshal, p. 727. 26. Vandenberg Papers, Box 40; Flight, 19 May 1949, p. 605, and 26 May 1949, p. 632; PRO: AIR 8/1541. 27. P. A. Karber and J. A. Combs, ‘The United States, NATO, and the Soviet Threat to Western Europe: Military Estimates and Policy Options, 1945–1963’, Diplomatic History, vol. 22, no. 3 (Summer 1998), pp. 399–429. Commentary by Matthew Evangelista, pp. 439–49. 28. Slessor Papers, Box 12. 29. Barker, British between Superpowers, pp. 141–4. 30. J. Kent, British Imperial Strategy and the Origins of the Cold War, 1940–1948 (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1993), pp. 184–6; B. H. Liddell Hart, ‘The Defence of the West’, New Republic, 14 February 1949, pp. 11–14. 31. W. Millis (ed.), The Forrestal Diaries (New York: Viking Press, 1951), pp. 524–26. 32. M. Shlaim, ‘Britain and the Arab-Israeli War of 1948’, in M. Dockrill and J. Young (eds), British Foreign Policy, 1945–1956 (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1989), pp. 77–8. 33. PRO: AIR 8/1602. 34. Shlaim, ‘Britain and Arab–Israeli War’, pp. 86–97; Bullock, Bevin, pp. 646–9; PRO AIR 8/1791, 1794, 1797 and 1798. 35. Magdalene College pamphlet, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1950. 36. Flight, 20 January 1949, pp. 66–7; Commemorative booklet, Rolls-Royce, 11 January 1949. 37. Kent, British Imperial Strategy, p. 204. 38. Barker, British between Superpowers, pp. 145–52. 39. Ibid., pp. 152–5; Baylis, ‘Anglo-American Defence Relations’, pp. 32–3; Jackson and Bramall, The Chiefs, p. 279. 40. Foreign Relations of the United States, 1949, vol. I: National Security Affairs, Foreign Economic Policy (Washington, DC: US GPO, 1976), pp. 499–500. 41. Slessor Papers, Boxes 3 and 11; PRO: AIR 8/1601. 42. Slessor Papers, Box 12. 43. National Archives, Washington: CCS 337 (7-22-48) Sec. 1. 44. Foreign Relations, vol. I, pp. 520–6. 45. PRO: AIR 8/1566; Eisenhower Papers, PPP, Box 115; Vandenberg Papers, Box 40, Arnold Papers, Library of Congress, Box 36. 46. P. Duncan, In Town Tonight (London: Werner Laurie, 1951), pp. 33–5.

Notes

407

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 1. BBC Written Archives Centre, Caversham Park, Reading, 217.01, R1/1/18–22. 2. Accident Record Card, Air Historical Branch. 3. National Archives, Washington DC: RG 218, USJCS, Chairman’s File, 092.2, NATO, 1950, Box 2. 4. Eisenhower Papers, Pre-Presidential Papers, Norstad, Box 22. 5. B. Catchpole, The Korean War (London: Constable 2000). 6. Jackson and Bramall, The Chiefs, pp. 280–1. 7. Foreign Relations, vol. VII, pp. 178–81. 8. J. F. Schnabel, and R. J. Watson, The Joint Chiefs of Staff and National Policy, vol. III: 1950–1951: The Korean War, Part One (Washington, DC: Ofﬁce of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, 1998), p. 60. 9. M. Hastings, The Korean War (London: Michael Joseph, 1987), p. 71; Catchpole, Korean War, p. 16. 10. A. Farrar-Hockley, The British Part in the Korean War, vol. I: A Distant Obligation (London: HMSO, 1990), pp. 53–5. 11. Foreign Relations, vol. VII, pp. 314–15. 12. Harris, Attlee, pp. 454–5. 13. Catchpole, Korean War, p. 17. 14. Farrar-Hockley, Korean War, vol. I, pp. 102–4; Hastings, Korean War, pp. 91–2; Foreign Relations, vol. I, p. 349, vol. VII, pp. 462–5; National Archives, Washington DC: RG 218, CJCS, 091.713. 15. Eisenhower Papers, Pre-Presidential Papers, Ismay, Box 60. 16. Catchpole, Korean War, pp. 26–32. 17. Farrar-Hockley, Korean War, vol. I, p. 120. 18. P. J. Roman, ‘Curtis LeMay and the Origins of NATO Atomic Targeting’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 16, no. 1 (March 1993), pp. 53–4, 55–6. 19. B. J. Cillessen, ‘Embracing the Bomb: Ethics, Morality and Nuclear Deterrence in the US Air Force, 1945–1955’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 21, no. 1 (March 1998), pp. 116– 19. 20. Catchpole, Korean War, p. 47. 21. Hastings, Korean War, pp. 140–1. 22. Foreign Relations, vol. VII, pp. 859–62; Catchpole, Korean War, pp. 51–3; Schnabel and Watson, Joint Chiefs, pp. 106–7. 23. Foreign Relations, vol. III, pp. 1686–98. 24. Farrar-Hockley, Korean War, pp. 291–2; Catchpole, Korean War, pp. 65, 75–6. 25. Catchpole, Korean War, pp. 78–95. 26. Farrar-Hockley, Korean War, vol. I, pp. 350–3; Catchpole, Korean War, pp. 96–8. 27. Harris, Attlee, pp. 461–4; Schnabel and Watson, Joint Chiefs, pp. 169–71. 28. Foreign Relations, vol. III, pp. 1706–9, 1723–74; Farrar-Hockley, Korean War, vol. I, pp. 364–6; Catchpole, Korean War, pp. 97–8. 29. The Times, 15 December 1950, p. 4. 30. Danchev, ‘In the Back Room’, pp. 230–2. 31. Foreign Relations, vol. I, pp. 804–7; Catchpole, Korean War, pp. 103–5. 32. Foreign Relations, vol. VII, pp. 307–9, 338–42. 33. R. M. Anders, ‘The Atomic Bomb and the Korean War: Gordon Dean and the Issue of Civilian Control’, Military Affairs, January (1988), pp. 1–6; Catchpole, Korean War, pp. 114–17, 121–37; Schnabel and Watson, Joint Chiefs, pp. 220–2. 34. Portal Papers, Box E. 35. Cambridge University Reporter, 2 November 1950, pp. 290–1. 36. The Times, 21 May 1952. 37. D. Dilks (ed.), The Diaries of Sir Alexander Cadogan, 1938–1945 (London: Cassell, 1971), p. 792. 38. A. Briggs, The History of Broadcasting in the United Kingdom, vol. I: Sound and Vision (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), pp. 433, 444–50. 39. The Times, 4 May 1951, p. 4. 40. House of Lords Debates, 29 January 1953, pp. 96–101; The Times, 30 January 1953, p. 9, 13 February 1953, p. 4, 6 March 1953, p. 11.

408 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46.

Tedder

Zuckerman, Six Men, pp. 97–8; personal conversation, June–August 1992. House of Lords Debates, 15 April 1953, pp. 787–96. Flight, 16 October 1953, pp. 546–7. Eisenhower Papers, Central Files, PPF 606, Box 954. The Times, 23 October 1953, p. 12. Press clipping of a review, no date, no source.

NOTES TO CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

Standard Motors Records, University of Warwick, MSS 226/ST/3/A/BD/2. R. Church, The Rise and Decline of the British Motor Industry (London: Macmillan, 1994), p. 98. The Times, 11 March 1986, p. 14. D. Thoms and T. Donnelly, The Motor Car Industry since the 1890s (London: Croom Helm, 1985), pp. 162–73, 187–8; Dunnett, Decline, p. 99. Standard Motors Records, MSS 226/ST/3/MH/8/1-2, 226/ST/3/0/AU/13; The Times, 18 December 1957. Standard Motors Records, MSS 226/ST/3/MH/8/1 and 41; 226/ST/3/A/BD/2. Manchester Guardian, 16 June 1958, p. 8; The Times, 16 October 1961, p. 14. House of Lords Debates, 9 November 1955, pp. 412–19. The others were Dickson, Admiral Sir Philip Vian, Field Marshal Lord Alexander and the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Sir John Nott-Bower; Trenchard’s insignia were carried by Cochrane, Major-General E. Hakewill-Smith (of the Royal Scots Fusiliers) and Sir Henry Dalton, Nott-Bower’s assistant. The Times, 21 and 22 February 1956, pp. 10, 4. D. Healey, The Time of My Life (London: Michael Joseph, 1989), pp. 169–72. Eisenhower Papers, 1953–61, Ann Whitman File, A75-22, Box 33. Ibid. House of Lords Debates, 12 December 1956, pp. 1081–7. Horne, Macmillan, pp. 48–51; Probert, High Commanders, pp. 54, 58. Healey, Time of My Life, pp. 257, 271–2. House of Lords Debates, 8 May 1957, pp. 585–93. House of Lords Debates, 10 July 1957, pp. 928–34, 7 May 1958, pp. 60–2. ‘Notes on the Development of Malcolm Clubs’, unsigned, 16 March 1945, AHB. See above, Chapter 18, p. 205. The Times, 12 January 1959, p. 6. House of Lords Debates, vol. 213, no. 29, 22 January 1959; Commons Debates, vol. 603, no. 95, 17 April 1959. House of Lords Debates, 7 December 1959, pp. 59–64; The Times on several days in December 1959. Eisenhower Papers, Central Files, PPF 606, Box 954. Hamilton, The Field Marshal, pp. 898–902. Eisenhower Papers, 1953–61, Ann Whitman File, A75-22, Box 33. Eisenhower Papers, 1953–611, Ann Whitman File, A75-22, Box 33. Eisenhower Papers, Central Files, PPF 606, Box 954 (Julius C. Holmes, US Consul-General in Hong Kong, 23 February 1960). Eisenhower Papers, Central Files, PPF 606, Box 954; Gelbard to Dr A. T. Richardson, the Tedder family’s doctor, 16 May 1960. Eisenhower Papers, Central Files, PPF 606, Box 954; Horne, Macmillan, pp. 224–31. Eisenhower Papers, Post-PP, 1963, Box 58. Eisenhower Papers, Post-PP, 1964, Box 47. The Times, 2 February 1965, p. 14. Frankland, History at War, pp. 90–1, 100, 115. Liddell Hart Papers, LH 1/679/20, 21, 24 and 27. Michael Carver, review of Hamilton, The Making of a General, in the Times Literary Supplement, 12 June 1981. Dilks letter to author, 14 April 1997, and subsequent conversations, 1997–99. Liddell Hart Papers, LH 1/679/38, 40 and 47–8. See above, Chapter 13, p. 130. Eisenhower Papers, Post-PP, 1966, Box 18.

Notes

409

41. A. Goldberg, ‘With Prejudice, Without Malice’, Air University Review, vol. XIX, no. 4 (May– June 1968), pp. 75–82. 42. The Times, 5 June 1967, p. 10. 43. Ibid., 9 June 1967, p. 17. 44. Eisenhower Papers, Post-PP, 1967, Box 37; The Times, 24 June 1967, p. 12. 45. I owe this reference to the kindness of Michael Ulyatt, who received letters from Lord Scarman dated 30 June 1989 and 15 August 1991.

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Sturtivant, R., ‘Pre-War RAF Training’, Aviation News,18–31 October 1985, pp. 538–52. Syrett, D., ‘The Tunisian Campaign, 1942–1943’, in B. F. Cooling (ed.), Case Studies in the Development of Close Air Support (Washington, DC: Ofﬁce of Air Force History, 1990). Swinton, Viscount, I Remember (London: Hutchinson, n.d.). Taylor, A. J. P., English History, 1914–1945 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965). Tedder, Lord, ‘Air, Land and Sea Warfare’, RUSI Journal, vol. 91 (1946), pp. 59–68. Tedder, Lord, ‘The Problem of our Future Security’, Royal Air Force Quarterly, vol. 19, no. 1 (January 1948), pp. 8–18. Tedder, Lord, Air Power in War (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1948; reprinted, New York: Greenwood Press, 1975). Tedder, Lord, With Prejudice: The War Memoirs of Marshal of the Royal Air Force Lord Tedder, GCB (London: Cassell, 1966). Terraine, J., The Right of the Line: The Royal Air Force in the European War (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1985). Tusa, A. and J., The Berlin Bockade (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1988). Walder, D., The Chanak Affair (London: Hutchinson, 1969). Waugh, C., ‘A Short History of 70 Squadron, RFC/RAF’, Cross & Cockade (US), vol. 20, no. 4 (1979), pp. 289–315. Webb, D., ‘Lincoln Losses’, Aeroplane, vol. 26, no. 3 (March 1998), p. 33. Webster, Sir C. and Frankland, N., The Strategic Air Offensive against Germany, 1939–1945, 4 vols (London: HMSO, 1961). Weinberg, G., A World at Arms: A Global History of World War II (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). Weinberg, G., ‘D-Day, Analysis of Costs and Beneﬁts’, in Wilson (ed.), D-Day, 1944, pp. 319–21. West, N., MI6: British Secret Intelligence Service Operations, 1909–45 (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1983). Williams, W., ‘Memories of a World War One Veteran’, Channel 19: The Magazine of RAF Shawbury, February/March (2000), pp. 32–3. Wilson, T. (ed.), D-Day, 1944 (Abilene, KS: University Press of Kansas, 1971, 1994). Wilt, A., ‘The Summer of 1944: A Comparison of Overlord and Anvil/Dragoon’, Journal of Strategic Studies, vol. 4, no. 2 (June 1981), pp. 187–95. Wilt, A., ‘The Air Campaign’, in Wilson (ed.), D-Day, 1944, pp. 139–42. Wolk, H. S., Toward Independence: The Emergence of the US Air Force, 1945–1947 (Washington, DC: Air Force History and Museums Program, 1996).

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Index Abercorn, 221 Abilene, 236, 306 Aboukir, 152 Abu Sueir, 125 Abydos, 55 Accolade (operation), 239–41 Acheson, Dean, 343 Acton, Lord, 3 Aden, 25, 121, 326, 369–70 Adler, BG Elmer E., 152, 214 Admiralty, 64, 70, 79–80, 90, 311, 360–1 Admiralty Library, 16 Aegean, 79, 135, 238–41 Agedabia, 169 Ain el Hammam, 222 airborne forces, Allied: Sicily, 226; Italy, 236; France, 268, 279, 285 Air Council: pre-WWII, 104, 107–8; WWII, 111, 115, 125, 206, 208; post-WWII, 314–15, 319; Berlin Blockade, 334–5 air forces, Allied: Allied Expeditionary (AEAF), 249, 265, 269; Mediterranean Allied (MAAF), 205, 210; North-West African (NAAF), 210; 2nd Tactical Air Force (2TAF), 243–4 air forces, British: Middle East, 310 air forces, US: 8th, 195, 206, 231–2, 242, 244, 256, 344; 9th, 193, 229–31; 12th, 198, 227; 15th, 243; Strategic (USSTAF), 243, 250, 277, 297; USAAF, 187, 210–11, 303, 316; USAF, 324, 329, 334, 337–9, 343; Independence Campaign, 151, 316 Air Historical Branch, 374–5 ‘Air House’, Cairo, 123, 144, 150, 177–8 Air League of the British Empire, 359–61 Air Ministry: pre-WWII, 55, 62, 64, 68, 70–1, 73–5, 77, 82, 84, 89–90, 93, 96–8, 99, 100–1, 103–9; 1940, 110, 112; Desert War, 123–4, 137, 140, 142–3, 146–7, 150, 158, 161, 192–3; Tunisia, 211, 216;

pre-Overlord, 250, 256; post-Overlord, 267–8, 277; Ardennes–Berlin, 294–7; post-WWII, 308, 310–11, 323, 333–4, 344, 346, 366, 368–70, 373 Air Power Manual, FM 100–20 (US, 1943), 215 aircraft, British: Albacore, Fairey, 188; Albatross, DH 91, 110; Audax, Hawker, 92, 96, 98, 164; Avro 504K & N, 53, 73; BE 2c & e, 34, 56; Beauﬁghter, Bristol, 107–8, 110, 114; Bisley, Bristol (Blenheim V), 220; Blenheim, Bristol, 99, 108, 111–12, 116, 124, 157, 168; Bombay, Bristol, 97, 129, 130, 164; Bulldog, Bristol, 82; Camel, Sopwith, 47; ‘Cordelia’, Short ﬂying-boat, 101–2; DH 9a, 61, 64, 66, 72; Ensign, Armstrong Whitworth, 164; FB 5, Vickers; 32; FE 2b, 32–4, 37, 40–1, 43, 234; Fighter, Bristol, 73; Gauntlet, Gloster, 124; Gladiator, Gloster, 124, 129; Halifax, Handley Page, 107; Halton, Handley Page, 334; Hampden, Handley Page, 107; Hardy, Hawker, 124; Hart, Hawker, 82, 92; Hastings, Handley Page, 334–5; Hurricane, Hawker, 104, 109–12, 124, 129, 143, 185, 187; Lancaster, Avro, 230, 258, 315, 328, 333; Lancastrian, Avro, 334; Lincoln, Avro, 315, 323–4, 328, 333, 337; Longhorn, Maurice Farman, 32; Lysander, Westland, 164;

430

Tedder

Magister, Miles, 164; Master, Miles, 107; Meteor IV, Gloster, 322; Mosquito, DH 98, 110, 113; Moth, DH 60, 77, 83; 0/400 Handley Page, 60; Q.6, Percival, 130, 164; Roc, Blackburn, 130; Shorthorn, Maurice Farman, 32; Singapore III, Short, 85–6, 91, 98, 101; Snipe, Sopwith, 66, 73; Southampton II, Supermarine, 85; Spitﬁre, Supermarine, 104, 109–12, 143, 165, 173, 185, 187, 328, 341; Strutter, One and a Half, Sopwith, 43–7; Sunderland, Short, 101–2, 334; Swordﬁsh, Fairey, 130; Tempest, Hawker, 341; Tiger Moth, DH 82, 164; Tudor, Avro, 334; V/1500 Handley Page, 60–1; Valentia, Vickers, 164; Valiant, Vickers, 338, 366; Vampire, DH 100, 322; Victor, Handley Page, 338; Victoria, Vickers, 87–8; Vildebeest, Vickers, 91, 98, 101; Vimy, Vickers, 73; Vincent, Vickers, 164; Vulcan, Avro, 338; Wapiti, Westland, 61, 82; Wellesley, Vickers-Armstrong, 124; Wellington, Vickers-Armstrong; 107, 111–12, 124, 133, 157, 188, 229, 232, 237; Whirlwind, Westland, 107, 109; Whitley, Armstrong Whitworth, 111–12; Whittle turbo-jet, E.28/39 ‘Pioneer’, 109; York, Avro, 289, 292, 334 aircraft, German: Albatros DI/II, 41; Albatros DIII, 45; ‘Fokker’, 34–5, 39; Junkers Ju 52, 97, 129, 216; Junkers Ju 87 Stuka, 210; Junkers Ju 88, 350; Messerschmitt Me 323, 216; ‘Roland Scout’, 41 aircraft, Soviet: Yak ﬁghters, 306; MiG-15, 323, 355 aircraft, US: B-36, Convair, 336–7, 343; Baltimore, Martin A-30, 133; Boeing B-17, Flying Fortress, 208–9, 227, 229, 231, 245, 258; Boeing B-29, Superfortress, 315–16, 323–4, 328, 335–7; Boeing B-29, Washington, 338;

Boeing B-50, Superfortress, 324, 350; Boston, Douglas A-20, 200; DC-2, Douglas, 97; Dakota, Douglas DC-3/C-47, 97, 183, 289, 292, 326, 334–5; Dakota ‘Bluebird’, 234–5, 243, 245, 281, 304; Electra, Lockheed 10A, 123; Harvard, North American T-6, 107, 349; Kittyhawk, Curtiss P-40, 124, 133, 185; Liberator, Consolidated B-24, 151, 173, 182, 230, 238, 258, 282; Lodestar, Lockheed C-56; Maryland, Martin A-22, 133; Mitchell, North Armerican, B-25, 288–9; Shooting Star, Lockheed, F-80, 336; Skymaster, Douglas, C-54, 334; Tomahawk, Curtiss P-40, 124, 130, 133; Warhawk, Curtiss P-40, 124 Aircraft and Armament Experimental Establishment, 114 aircraft engines: Beardmore, 120 hp, 32; Beardmore, 160 hp, 37; Bristol, 105; Clerget, 43; Rolls-Royce Derwent, 322; Kestrel, 85; Nene, 322–3; Peregrine, 109; Whittle turbo-jet, 109 aircraft sales, to Soviet Union, 322–3 aircraft storage units, 114 airframe manufacturers: Hawker, 105; Roe, A. V., 105; Vickers-Armstrong, 105, 111, 115 Aix-en-Provence, 86 Alam el Halfa, 185 Alanbrooke, FM Lord: see Brooke, Gen. Sir Alan Albert, 40 Aldershot, 6, 142 Alexander, A. V., 312, 339–40, 361 Alexander, FM Lord: Desert War, 181, 191–2, 196; Tunisia, 201, 206, 211–15; Sicily, 218–19, 224, 226, 229; Italy, 232, 244; Aegean, 239; post-Overlord, 270, 284; Ardennes–Berlin, 293–7; post-WWII, 308, 311, 327 Alexandria: WWI, 49–51; post-WWI, 72; Desert War, 124, 129–30, 135, 143, 162, 174, 177–9, 191 Algeria, 25, 185, 188, 197, 200, 205, 220, 234 Algiers, 187, 193–6, 198, 201, 205, 207–10, 212, 220–3, 227, 233, 264, 282, 315, 328 Allen, Capt. Dudley, 51, 53–5, 61 Allenby, Gen. Sir Edmund, 53, 55 Almaza, 51 Americas, the, 321 Amery, Leo, 76 Anatolia, 164 Anderson, Gen. Frederick L., 276 Anderson, LG Sir Kenneth, 194–5, 197

Index Anderson, Col. Orvil A., 179, 353 Andover, RAF Staff College, 70, 77–80, 86, 93, 239, 308 Andrews, LG Frank M., 206 Andrews, AVM John (‘Jock’), 148 Antelat, 169 Antonov, Alexei, 290–2 Antwerp, 278–80, 283, 285, 287 Anvil (operation), 272–3, 280 Aqaba, Gulf of, 341 Archangel, 165 Archer, Adm. Edward, 290, 293 Ardennes Offensive, 285–8, 290, 292, 296–7 Argentan, 272 Ariel (conference), 329, 338–9 Aristophanes, 8 Arles, 86 armies, Allied: 5th, 237–8; British: 1st (WWI), 33; 8th (WWII), Desert War, 149, 168, 179–80, 185, 190, 197, 208, 376; Tunisia, 211, 216; Sicily, 219, 224, 229; Italy, 237–8; 21 Army Group, 284; German: 15th, 278; US: 1st, 297; 7th, 224; 9th, 284, 297; 6th Army Group, 280 Armstrong, 2/Lt John, 34 Arnhem, 278–80, 283, 285 Arnim, FM Jurgen von, 211–12, 213 Arnold, Gen. Henry H.: Desert War, 151–2, 179; Tunisia, 198, 205, 211, 213, 215, 225; Italian bomber bases, 227; Ploesti, 230; Italy, 237; pre-Overlord, 242, 256–8; post-Overlord, 274; post-WWII, 307, 316 Arras, 34, 40–1, 174 Asmara, 151 Asquith, Herbert, 62 Aswan, 172 Asyut, 55, 87 Athenaeum (club), 3, 7, 16, 263, 373 Atlantic City, 360 Atomic Energy Commission, 324, 345, 355 Attlee, Clement, 76, 307, 311–12, 315, 319, 321–2, 327, 339, 342, 344; Korean War, 351–6, 358 Auchel (Lozinghem), 31, 33, 37–42, 44, 98 Auchinleck, FM Sir Claude: 124, 141–2, 145–8, 149, 154, 166–7, 169–70, 171–4, 177–80, 181; his wife, 163; supports Tedder against Churchill (1941), 158–64; 375 Auslander, Joseph, 253 Australia, 321, 324, 338, 362, 365 Australian forces: WWI, 50; WWII, 140, 158 Autun, 282 Avalanche (operation), 231–2, 234, 236–9 Avignon, 86 Avon, Lord: see Eden, Anthony Axis forces: Desert War, 140, 155, 159, 165–6, 168–9, 172–3, 175–8, 185, 188, 190–1,

431 194; Tunisia, 196–7, 206, 211, 214–19; Sicily, 225, 228; Italy, 231–2

Baghdad, 132, 321 Bahrein, 369–70, 371 Balaclava, 289 Baldwin, Hanson W., 223 Balfour, Lord, 369 Balkans, 62, 201, 224, 238–9 Banstead: see Well Farm Barbarossa (operation), 141 Barce, 130 Bari, 237 Baring, Maurice, 46 Basra, 165 Bathurst, 122, 177 Battipaglia, 237 Battleaxe (operation), 140–2, 146, 156 Bayerlein, LG Fritz, 166, 169 Bayeux, 278 Baytown (operation), 232, 236–7 BBC: see British Broadcasting Corporation Beardmore factory, 60 Beaton, Cecil, 174–5 Beaverbrook, Lord, 108, 111–16, 121, 124–5, 128–9, 131, 142, 155, 252, 344 Beccles, 199 Beebe, Col. R. E., 355–6 Beersheba, 341 Behrendt, Lt Hans-Otto, 141, 169 Belgium, 327, 340 Benghazi, 130, 167, 168, 189, 191, 199, 230, 376 Ben-Gurion, David, 341 Benina, 199 Benson, A. C., 7, 9–11, 15–16, 32, 46, 356 Bentley Priory, 252, 262, 264–6 Beresford-Peirse, Gen. Sir Noel, 141 Berlin, 11, 112, 163, 176, 179, 257–8, 274, 277–9, 298, 304–6; Blockade, 312, 321, 323, 330–5, 344, 369; 336–7, 342 Berre, 86 Bethesda, Pool of, 51 Bethune, 33 Betts, BG Thomas J., 288, 290, 292 Bevin, Ernest, 312, 321–2, 327, 332, 341–2 Big Week (1944), 256–7 Bilney, AVM Christopher, 95 Bir Hacheim, 168 Bircham Newton, 59–61 Birkenhead, Lord, 76 Birse, Maj. Arthur, 290–2 ‘Bismarck’: see Davey, Capt. Horace Bizerta, 194, 211 Black, Alasdair: see Tedder, his family Black, Capt. Ian, RN, 221 Black, Marie (‘Toppy’): see Tedder, his family

432

Tedder

Black Sea, 79 Blackheath, 70 Blatchford, Robert, 25 Blechhammer synthetic oil plant, 291 Blenheim, Battle of, 161 Bletchley Park, 172 Boisdinghem, 46 Bombing Analysis Unit, 297–8 Bombing Research Mission, 280–1 Bond (Whitgift schoolboy), 6 Bonham-Carter, AC Ian, 73–4 Bordeaux, 295 Borneo, British North, 93–4 Boscombe Down: see Aircraft & Armament Experimental Establishment Bott, Alan, 43 Bottomley, ACM Sir Norman, 168, 268, 274–5 Boulogne, 48 Bovingdon, 288 Bower, Betty, 113 Bowhill, ACM Sir Frederick, 84–5, 88 Boyd, AM Owen, 114, 121–2, 137 Boyle, V/Adm. W. H. D., 78 Bradley, Gen. Omar N.: Tunisia, 215; pre-Overlord, 253; post-Overlord, 270–2, 278–9, 285; Ardennes–Berlin, 287, 293, 298; post-WWII, 336, 350–1; Korean War, 351–5; Cambridge, 356 Brandenburg Gate, 305, 350 Bray, SL Gerald, 125, 130, 137, 199, 220, 222; his mother, Hazel, 137 Bremen, 299 Brent, 75 Brereton, LG Lewis H., 186, 193, 195, 251, 263, 279 Brett, MG George H., 150–3, 165 Bridlington, 83 Brigades, WWI: Middle East Training, Egypt, 48; No. 1, France, 33; No. 8 ‘Reprisal’, France, 48 Brindisi, 238 Brisbane, 16–17 Britain, Battle of, 168, 172, 180, 342 British Air Forces of Occupation (BAFO), 310, 332–5 British Aircraft Constructors, Society of, 104 British Bombing Survey Unit, 298, 325 British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), 212, 223, 272–3, 315; Tedder as Governor, 346, 349–50, 357–8, 363 British China Fleet, 91 British Military Cemetery, Bayeux, 117 British Motor Corporation, 363 British Museum, 16 British Overseas Airways, 122, 150 Brittany, 273

Broadhurst, ACM Sir Harry, 211, 214, 216, 218, 238, 266, 268 Brockweir, 28 Brooke, F-M Sir Alan, 162, 181–4, 190, 201, 240, 251, 254, 271–2, 283–6, 292–4, 296–9, 311, 373, 376 Brophy (Magdelene College undergraduate), 15 Brown (Air Mech., 25 Sqn), 34 Browning, LG Sir Frederick, 279 Bruce-Gardner, Sir Charles, 104 Brussels, 258, 274, 278, 282–3, 290, 327 Bryant, Sir Arthur, 182, 374 Bryson, Emily: see Tedder, his family Bucharest, 230 Buckingham Palace, 208 Bufton, AVM Sidney, 276–7, 295 Bulge, Battle of the: see Ardennes Offensive Buntingsdale Hall, 84 Bulgaria, 62 Bull, MG Harold R., 288, 290–1, 296 Burgess, Glenn, 17 Burma, 94, 181, 334 Burtonwood, 336 Burwell, Col. Harvey S., 152 Bushey Heath, 252 Bushy Park, 249, 252 Butcher, Cdr. Harry C., 196, 205, 212, 227, 232, 252, 254, 259, 270, 303 Cabell, LG Charles, 276 Cabinet Ofﬁce, 374–5 Cadogan, Sir Alexander, 182–3, 357–8 Caen, 266–9, 272, 286 Cairo: WWI, 16, 50–6; pre-WWII, 86–8; WWII, 114–15. 121–5, 128–38, 143–59, 164–87, 194–201, 206–9, 214–16, 219, 224, 235, 238–44, 288–9, 315; post-WWII, 326 Calabrian Toe, 231–2 Calais, 25, 29–30, 47, 256, 265, 268, 270 Cambrai, 40, 45 Cambridge, University of, 234, 314, 325, 349; Chancellor, 356, 365, 373, 377; Air Squadron, 308; Churchill College, 365; Girton College, 8; King’s College, Chapel, 356; Magdalene College, 3, 7–11, 15–18, 25, 35, 90, 99, 341, 356, Kingsley Club, 15–16, Pepys Library, 15; Newnham College, 8; Pembroke College, 356 Canada/Canadians, 89, 221, 311, 324, 333, 345, 363–5 Canadian forces, 266, 283, 285 Canal Zone, 326 Canberra, 158 Cannon, LG John K. (‘Joe’), 206

Index Cap Bon, 223, 228 Cape Serrat, 211, 216 Cape Spartivento, 49 Cape Town, 309 Capgras, Roger, 221 Capri, 86 Carr, Henry, 341 Carthage, 225 Casablanca, 198, 201, 205, 217 Casey, Richard, 175, 177, 192 Cassells (publishers), 374–5 Castle Coombe, 249, 268 Catfoss, 82–4 Caucasus, 132, 154, 167, 170–1, 182–3, 193 Celle, 332 Central Flying School, 73–5, 84, 109, 349 Ceylon, 94, 282 Chamberlain, Neville, 111 Chanak Crisis (1922–23), 65–9, 239 Chandos, Lord: see Lyttelton, Oliver Charles I, King, 7 Charnwood (operation), 269 Cheka, 291 Chepstow, 28 Cherbourg, 267 Cherry, Maj. Robert, 33, 37–8, 40, 44 Cherwell, Lord, 257, 259–60, 263 Cheshire, Sir Leonard, VC, 318 Chiefs of Staff, British: pre-WWII, 76; Desert War, 146, 175, 178, 195–8; Tunisia, 216; Italy, 231–2; pre-Overlord, 250–1, 254; post-Overlord, 268, 270, 274, 285–6; Ardennes–Berlin, 289, 292–3, 297, 299; post-WWII, 311–13, 320–2, 326–7; Berlin Blockade, 331–5; 338–42; Korean War, 352–6; 365 Chiefs of Staff, Combined: Tunisia, 193, 195, 198; Sicily, 219; pre-Overlord, 249, 251, 255; post-Overlord, 284–5; Ardennes–Berlin, 295–6; post-WWII, 335, 344–5; Korean War, 353–5 Chiefs of Staff, US: 198, 231–2, 345; Korean War, 352–5 China/Chinese, 91, 94, 99, 313; Korean War, 351–6 Christchurch, NZ, 51, 376 Churchill, Winston: pre-WWII, 65–6, 79; 1940, 110–15; Desert War, 121, 125–8, 132–7, 141, 144–6, 149–50, 161–2, 166–7, 170, 172, 176–7, 180–2, 186, 188, 190–3, 374; quarrel with Tedder (1941), 155–60, 163–4; visit to Moscow (1942), 182–4; Tunisia, 194–201, 208, 210, 212, 216; his wife Clementine, 208, 244; Sicily, 222, 226, 229;

433

Ploesti, 230; Aegean, 239–41; pre-Overlord, 242–5, 250–1, 254–5, 259–61, 263, 265; post-Overlord, 268–9, 272–3, 279–81, 286–7; Ardennes–Berlin, 288–9, 292–3, 298–9; attempt to remove Tedder, 293–7; post-WWII, 306–8, 311, 344, 352, 357–8, 365, 375–7; death, 373 civilian casualties, WWII: Britain, 267, 281; France and Belgium, 257, 259–61, 269, 295 Clay, Gen. Lucius D., 331 Clayton, Aileen, 172 Clough, Arthur Hugh, 136 Clouston, AC Arthur, 109 Cobra (operation), 271–2 Cochrane, ACM Sir Ralph, 318–20, 329, 334, 339, 344, 360 Coleby Hall, 349 Collishaw, AVM Raymond, 126–7, 140–1, 148 Colonial Ofﬁce, 21, 25, 56, 59 Columbia University. 329–30 Colville, Sir John, 289 Combined Airlift Task Force, 332–5 Combined Chiefs of Staff: see Chiefs of Staff, Combined Combined Strategic Targets Committee, 276–7 Commands, RAF: Bomber, 84, 108, 112, 129, 163, 188, 192, 254–5, 258–9, 298, 308, 318, 325, 338, 344; Coastal, 84, 147, 244, 361; Eastern Air, 198; Far East, 93; Fighter, 84, 113, 135, 156, 165, 249; Flying Training, 113; Mediterranean Air, 198; Middle East Air, 121, 129, 146, 161; Training, 84; Transport, 318, 334, 344 Commands, USAAF: 12th Air Support Command, 215; Air Transport Command, 150 Coningham, AM Sir Arthur: pre-WWII, 123; Desert War, 148–51, 155–7, 162–5, 168, 171, 173, 179, 184–91; Tunisia, 206–16; Sicily, 218–19, 224–30; Italy, 232–6, 242–3; pre-Overlord, 244–5, 251, 262–3, 269; post-Overlord, 266, 268–9, 273, 279, 282–3, 290; his wife, 282; killed, 328 Constantinople, 59, 64–70, 116, 239 Coombe Hill, 370 Cooper, Gladys, 33 Copperhead (operation), 264

434

Tedder

Cordingley, AVM Sir John, 95 Corps, British Army: No. 13, 154; No. 30, 154, 162, 279; US Army, No. II, 214 Cos, 238–41 Courtney, Lt Frank, 45 Coventry, Banner Lane, 363–4 Cox, Capt., RFC, 32 Craig, MG Howard A., 206 Cranwell: see Central Flying School Craven, Sir Charles, 111 Crete, 129, 131, 135, 139–40, 143, 152, 158, 162, 166, 238–9 Crimea, 289 Cripps, Sir Stafford, 173 Cromwell, Oliver, 8 Cross, ACM Sir Kenneth, 83, 156 Crossbow (operation), 267–8 Croydon, 1, 2, 16, 314 Crusader (operation), 153–70, 176, 178, 183 Cunliffe-Lister, Sir Philip: see Swinton, Lord Cunningham, Adm. Lord: Desert War, 123, 130, 135–6, 142–6, 147, 150, 164; Tunisia, 194, 196, 206, 213; Sicily, 217–18, 224–6; Aegean, 239–41; pre-Overlord, 250; Ardennes–Berlin, 292, 298; post-WWII, 311, 361 Cunningham, Gen. Sir Alan, 149–50, 162–4 Cunningham, Adm. Sir John, 311–12, 327, 339 Curzon, Lord, 65 Cyprus, 326, 368, 375 Cyrenaica, 130, 132, 139, 143, 154, 168–70, 173, 189–90, 195, 238, 241 Cyrene, 130, 376 Czechoslovakia, 327 Dalmuir, 60 Damascus, 139 Dardanelles, 65, 234, 239 Dartmouth, 74 Darvall, AM Sir Lawrence, 93–5 Darvill’s Hill, 48 Dauntsey’s School, 125 Davey, Capt. Horace, 38 Davis, Sgt. John, 200 Dawson, AVM Grahame: Desert War, 134, 152, 155, 161, 167–8, 172–3; Tunisia, 206; 282, 328 (killed) Dawnay, LC Christopher, 266 D-Day (6 Jun 1944) decision, 264 Dean, Gordon, 355 Deane, MG John R., 290, 292–3 D’Este, Carlo, 271 de Gaulle, BG Charles, 138–9, 261 de Guingand, MG Sir Francis, 189–90 de Havilland, Sir Geoffrey, 110 de Lattre de Tassigny, Gen. Jean, 305, 340

Defence Research Policy Committee, 338 Dempsey, Gen. Sir Miles, 266, 269, 279 Denmark, 298, 333 Derby, 342 Devers, Gen. Jacob L., 231, 280, 287 Dhaba, 189 Dick, Alick, 364–5 Dickson, MRAF Sir William, 309–10 Digby, 72–5 Dilks, David, 375 Dill, FM Sir John, 128, 201 Disneyland, 371 Distillers’ Company, 2 Dixon, Capt. Charles, 37 Dobbie, Capt. Robert, 55 Dobbie, Gen. Sir William, 93, 100, 174 Docking, 61–2 Dodecanese Islands, 238–41 Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem, 51 Doolittle, LG James H., 194–5, 206, 210, 224, 229, 242, 244, 263 Dorsale, Eastern & Western, 211 Dorsetshire Regt., 26, 60; 3rd (Reserve) Bn, 26 Douai, 39 Douglas, Ambassador Lewis W., 322, 341 Douglas, MRAF Lord (Sholto): WWI, 44–5; 1939–42, 107, 113, 178, 184; Desert War, 186, 191, 193, 199, 206; Sicily, 218, 224; Aegean, 239–41; pre-Overlord, 242, 244; 366 Dowding, ACM Lord, 63, 68–9, 75 Dragoon (operation): see Anvil (operation) Dresden, 298 Drummond, AM Sir Peter, 123, 126, 132, 136, 144, 148, 152, 166–8, 171–2, 179, 193, 206, 328 (killed) Dudgeon, AVM Tony, 132 Dundee, 358–9 Dunkirk, 166, 192, 253, 333 Dunton, MG Delmar H, 206 Dusseldorf, 285 Eaker, Gen. Ira C., 206, 231, 242, 244, 259 Eastchurch, 81–4, 99 Eboli, 237 Eden, Sir Anthony, 128, 181, 263, 334, 365–7, 375 Edinburgh, 4, 221 Egypt/Egyptians: pre-WWII, 16, 25, 48–56, 69, 81, 85–6; WWII, 140–6, 150–2, 166, 168, 171, 175–9, 185–90, 188, 190, 208, 225, 308; post-WWII, 326, 340–1; Suez, 366–7 Eighth Army: see armies Eilat, 341 Eindhoven, 279, 282

Index Eisenhower, General/President Dwight D.: Tunisia, 188, 193–8, 201, 205–17; Sicily, 219–21, 224–7; Ploesti, 230–1; Italy, 231–5; Tedder’s marriage, 235–6; Aegean, 239–41; pre-Overlord, 241–4, 249–55, 259–61, 263–4; post-Overlord, 266, 268–75, 277–80, 282–5; Ardennes–Berlin, 287–8, 290, 293–4, 296, 298–9; post-WWII, 304, 306, 311, 313–16, 328–30, 351–2; President, 360–1, 366–7, 370–2, 376–7; his wife Mamie, 370, 372 Eisenhower, Lt John, 264 Eisenhower Center: Chapel of Remembrance, 306, Museum, 236 El Adem, 178 El Agheila, 129, 166, 190 El Alamein, 177, 180, 187–92, 208, 269, 376 El Faiyum, 151 El Fasher, 123 El Hamma, 214 El Khanka, 51, 53 Elder, Alexander (Mark), 15, 22, 27–8, 31, 53, 59, 62 Elder, Ann, 15, 28, 42, 59, 62, 177, 243 Elder, Elinor (Eld), 15, 28, 42, 59 Elgin, 4 Ellington, MRAF Sir Edward, 83–4, 98, 366 Elliot, ACM Sir William, 355–6 Ellis, Maj. L. F., 374 Elmhirst, AM Sir Thomas, 150, 184 Embry, ACM Sir Basil, 157, 161 Emden, 299 Enemy Objectives Unit, 275–6 Enﬁdaville, 216 Engels, Friedrich, 290 Enigma: see intelligence Ensor, WC Mick, 335 Erfurt, 298 Evill, ACM Sir Douglas (Strath), 99, 193, 255, 294, 309 Faid Pass, 211 Falaise, 272 Farnborough: see Royal Aircraft Establishment Farnham, 113 Fassberg, 332 Fedden, Sir Roy, 110 Fellowes, GC Peregrine, 68 Feriana, 211 Ferris, Elizabeth: see Tedder, his family Fienvillers, 46 Finlayson, WC Gordon, 162 Fiji, 13, 17–21, 30, 32, 56, 59–60, 371

435

Firth, C. H., 16 Flower, Desmond, 376 Foggia, 237 Folkestone, 32 Fontainebleau, 339–40 Forbes, Arthur, 375 Ford motor company, 111, 363 Foreign Ofﬁce, 55, 62, 311, 322, 352, 357 Forrestal, James V., 324, 340 Fort Canning, 93, 96 Fort Lamy, 123 Fortitude (operation), 264–5 Foynes, 177 France/French: WWI, 26–7, 32, 48; post-WWI, 71–2, 85–6; WWII, Free French, 138–9, 261, 272–3, 295; Tunisia, 206–7, 211; Resistance, 257–8, 272; Vichy, 129, 139, 158, 165; post-WWII, 327, 331, 340, 342, 344, 351; Suez, 366–7 Franco, Francisco, 165 Frankfurt, 285, 323, 332 Frankland, Noble, 373 Franks, Sir Oliver, 352–4 Fraser, Adm Lord, 312, 339, 342 Fraser, Peter, 157–8 Freeman, ACM Sir Wilfrid: WWI, 45; post-WWI, 60, 63, 69, 74, 98; 1938–40, 101–13, 116; Desert War, 121–4, 128–54, 161, 165–6, 167–8, 175–6, 184, 186, 191, 193; supports Tedder against Churchill (1941), 155–60; advice for Portal, 263–4, 282; advice for Slessor, 318–20; 376 Freetown, 122 Freyberg, VC, Gen. Lord, 140, 162, 189 Friedeburg, Adm Hans Georg von, 303 Frise, Leslie, 110 Fuka escarpment, 189 Gabr Saleh Gafsa, 211 Gale, LG Sir Humfrey, 278, 285 Gallipoli, 65, 69, 79–80 Gandhi, Mahatma, 328 Ganzenmuller, Albert, 276–7 Gaskell-Blackburn, SL Vivian, 69 Gatow, 332, 334 Gault, LC James, 270 Gazala, 168, 177–9, 185 Gelbard, Dr David, 371 George VI, King, 111, 125, 205, 208, 265, 358 George, David Lloyd, 8, 62, 65–6 Germany/Germans: pre-WWI, 13; WWI, 34–5, 39, 48, 50, 54; pre-WWII, 89, 91, 99, 101, 103; 1940, 111; Desert War, 129, 132, 134, 143, 152, 156, 161; Tunisia, 207, 210–17; Sicily, 225–30; Italy, 231–2, 236–8; Soviet War, 158, 176, 182–3, 188,

436

Tedder

201; Ardennes, 286–8; bombing of Germany, 178, 183, 252–3, 257–8, 268, 274–5; post-WWII, 310, 324, 331, 333, 368, 372; see also Axis forces Gershwin, George and Ira, 223 Gettysburg: Address, 315; Eisenhower home, 370 Gezira, Island, 123; Palace Hotel, 50 Gibraltar, 72, 121, 147, 174, 178, 195, 205, 208, 242–4, 245, 264 Glasgow, 3 Glenguin (Glengoyne), 3, 60 Gloucester, 28 Glyn, Elinor, 281–2 Goddard, AM Sir Victor, 77 Goering, RM Hermann, 253 Goldberg, Alfred, 376–7 ‘Golden Square’: see Iraq Goodwood (operation), 269–71 Gort, VC, FM Lord, 174 Gosport, 52 Gott, LG William, 178, 181 Granard, Earl of: see Forbes, Arthur Grande Kabylie, 222 Grantham, 63 Greece/Greeks, 65, 127–40, 143, 158, 166, 238–9, 351 Greenwich, RN Staff College, 70–3, 78 Grenoble, 282 Grey, C. G., 100 Grigg, Sir James, 283, 285 Groups, RAF: No. l (Kenley), 63; No. 201 (Egypt), 143, 147–8 Grover, Marjorie, 374–5 Guedalla, Philip, 208–9; his wife, Nellie, 209 Guildhall, 306, 314–5 Gustav Line, 237, 244 Habbaniya, 121, 132 Haifa, 244 Haley’s Comet, 8–9 Haley, Sir William, 350, 356–7 Halfaya Pass, 140, 168 Hamburg, 112, 299, 332 Hamilton, Gen. Sir Ian, 79–80 Hammamet, 236 Hampstead, 14, 42 Handy, LG Thomas T., 213, 237 Handley Page, Sir Frederick, 106, 115 Hankey, Lord, 115, 157 Hannibal, 225 Hannover, 332, 334 Hardinge, Sir Alexander, 205 Harington, LG Sir Charles, 65, 67 Harriman, Averell, 144–5, 289–90 Harris, MRAF Sir Arthur: Desert War, 178, 192; pre-Overlord, 251, 253–9;

post-Overlord, 265, 268–9, 274–5, 318; post-WWII, 308–9, 366, 377 Harrogate, 103, 108–9 Havana, 328 Hawaii, 352 Hayr, AM Sir Kenneth, 150 Healey, Denis, 366, 368 Hearst press, 215 Hebrides, Outer, 372 Heliopolis, 51, 55–6, 60, 87–8, 151, 199 ‘Hellﬁre Pass’: see Halfaya Pass Hellman, Lillian, 223 Helwan, 51, 86 Hemyock, 14, 18, 25, 28, 33, 51, 69, 78 Henderson, Arthur, 333, 336, 341, 344 Hendon, 83 Henin-Lietard, 40 Hennessy, Patrick, 111 Hepworth, Barbara, 223 Herbert, BG Philip, 39, 48, 50–2, 54–5, 123 Hill, ACM Sir Roderic, 113 Hindenburg Line, 45 Hitler, Adolf, 90, 123, 141, 146, 152–3, 158, 165, 179, 194, 237, 253, 265, 270, 272, 287–8, 292, 298, 305, 326 Hodge, Julian, 364–5 Hodges, LG Courtney H., 278 Holland, 279–81 Holland, FO Maurice, 130, 376 Hollingworth, Clare, 199 Hollis, Gen. Sir Leslie, 311 Home, Lord, 366 Home Ofﬁce, 108 Hong Kong, 93–4, 97–8, 351 Honolulu, 19 Hopkins, Harry, 243 Horrocks, LG Sir Brian, 279 Horsham St. Faith, 116 Hourtin, 85–6 Howard, Sir Michael, 129, 376 Hudleston, ACM Sir Edmund, 327 Hughes, Col. Richard D’O, 276 Hungary, 366 Hunstanton, 61 Husky (operation), 217–18, 222–5, 237–8 Iceland, 333 Immelmann, Max, 39 Imperial Airways, 86, 101 Imperial Defence College, 76–7, 317–20 Imperial War Museum, 306 In Town Tonight, radio programme, 346 India/Indians, 16, 26, 85, 87, 97–9, 132, 142, 163, 173, 182, 310; see also Singapore Indo-China, 91 Indonesia: see Netherlands East Indies Inglis, AVM Frank, 268

Index

437

intelligence: signals (Ultra), Desert War, 140, 156, 172, 175, 180, 185–6, 189–90, 194, 196–7; Tunisia, 207, 213; Sicily, 229; pre-Overlord, 264; post-Overlord, 279–80; radio (Y Service), 156, 172 Iraq, 85, 87, 96, 132, 138, 141, 156, 164, 181–2, 322 Ismay, Gen. Lord, 241, 352 Israel/Israelis, 340–1; Suez, 366–7 Italy/Italians, pre-WWII, 86, 89. 91, 99, 101, 103; attacks on, 115, 216–17; invasion of, 231–41, 262, 272; Desert War, 126, 129, 134–5, 149, 152, 156, 161, 166, 171, 176, 188; Tunisia, 196, 201, 207, 210–17; Sicily, 225–30; post-WWII, 333, 340, 351; see also Axis forces Ivelaw-Chapman, ACM Sir Ronald, 345

King’s Lynn, 60 Kingsley, Charles, 15 Kinshasa, 177 Kingston-McCloughry, AVM Edgar, 269 Kisangani, 177 Kitchener, Lord, 79 Kluang, 94 Knicker (operation), 332 Knox, Frank, 241 Koenig, Gen. Pierre, 261 Korean War, 351–7 Kota Bharu, 98 Kremlin, 289, 322, 340 Kuantan, 94–5 Kuching, 94 Kursk, 289 Kuter, LG Laurence S., 206, 209–10, 214–15

Jackson, Ann: see Elder, Ann Jackets, L. A., 375 Jacob, LG Sir Ian, 358 Jaffa, 50–1 James, Cecil, 333 James, Clifton, 264 James, Henry, 45 James, M. R., 17 Japan/Japanese, 89–103, 129, 165, 303, 307, 310, 318; see also ships Jebel Djurdjura, 222 Jebel Uweinat, 87–8 Jerusalem, 50–1 Jessup, Ambassador Philip, 351–2 Jesus, 51 Jodel, Gen. Alfred, 303–4 Johnson, Louis, 350 Johore, 94 Jordan, 322, 340–1 Joubert de la Ferté, AM Sir Philip, 78, 81, 361–2 Jutland, Battle of, 36

Lagos, 122, 177 Lakenheath, 323 La Marsa, 224, 240 Lampson, Sir Miles, 123, 125; his wife, 125; 134, 135, 138, 142, 145 Lang, SL Albert, 85 Langmead, Col. Edmund C., 280 Lausanne, 65, 69 Lautoka, 20 Lawrence, T. E., 73 Lawson, AC George, 194 Lebanon, 138 Le Bourget, 260 Le Creusot, 282 Lecheres, Charles, 344 Leckie, AVM Robert, 99 Lee, AVM Arthur (Stanley), 132, 144, 179 Legion of Frontiersmen, 20 Leigh-Mallory, ACM Sir Trafford: school, 15; Desert War, 168; pre-Overlord, 249–55, 257–9, 262–3; post-Overlord, 265–7, 269, 271, 280, 282 (killed); his wife, 282 (also killed); 341 Leipzig, 112, 298 Le Kef, 211 LeMay, Gen. Curtis, 353 Lemon, Ernest, 104, 111 Lenin, Vladimir, 290 Lens, 39–41 Leros, 238–41 Lerwick, 4, 350 Leslie, SL Sir Norman, 66 Lewis, Cecil, 32 Lewis, Gwilym, 35 Leyland, motor company, 364 Libya, 25, 129–31, 164; Sand Sea, 166; 169, 173–6, 194–7, 225 Liddell Hart, Basil, 148, 374, 376 Lightfoot (operation), 186, 188

Kai Tek, 98 Kallang, 98 Kampala, 177 Karlshorst, 304–5 Kasserine Pass, 211–12 Keitel, FM Wilhelm, 304 Kemal, Mustafa, 65, 67 Kenley, 63 Kenney, Gen. George C., 325 Kenya, 146 Kepner, LG William E., 325 Kesselring, FM Albert, 176, 194, 213, 217, 237 Kharga oasis, 87 Khartoum, 87, 122–4, 177, 179, 326 Khudyakov, Marshal, 292 Killearn, Lord: see Lampson, Sir Miles Kilid Bahr, 65

438

Tedder

Lille, 34, 40 Limerick, 177 Lincoln, President Abraham, 315 Lindemann, Frederick: see Cherwell, Lord Link Trainer, 88–9 Linlithgow, 221 Lisbon, 122, 177 ‘Little Willie’: see Rilett, Capt. Wilfrid Liverpool, 27, 65 Lloyd, ACM Sir Hugh Pughe, 168, 174, 206, 224, 375 Lochboisdale, 372 Lockhart, Sir Robert Bruce, 263, 311, 334 London Library, 16 Longmore, ACM Sir Arthur, 113–15, 121–37, 150, 165, 168, 191, 376 Lords, House of, 221–2, 358–61, 365–70 Los Angeles, 371 Loyd, Lt Alwyne, 38–40, 51 Lozinghem: see Auchel Ludlow-Hewitt, ACM Sir Edgar, 77–8, 94, 108 Luftwaffe, 108–9, 135, 152, 238, 263, 275, 282, 288, 291 Luxembourg, 327, 340 Luxor, 55 Lyttelton, Oliver, 144–5; his wife Moira, 144; 148, 159–60, 165–6, 167, 173, 175, 181 Maastricht, 284 Maaten Bagush, 125 Mackworth, SL Philip, 87 MacArthur, Gen. Douglas, 351–5 McClaughry, GC Wilfred, 87 McEvoy, ACM Sir Theodore, 108, 115, 239, 292, 338 Maclardy, Rosalinde: see Tedder, his family Maclardy, Una: see Tedder, his family Maclean, AVM Cuthbert, 86 McMahon Act, 312 Macmillan, Harold, 205, 219, 224, 367–8 Maddalena, 162 Magdalene College: see Cambridge, University of Mahan, R/Adm. Alfred Thayer, 272 Maison Blanche, 207–8 Malay Peninsula/Malays, 91, 93–4, 96, 100, 122, 310, 351 Malcolm Clubs, 221–2, 235, 271, 282–3, 310, 315, 320, 326, 368–73, 375 Malcolm, VC, WC Hugh, 220–1; his wife, Helen, 221 Mallory, George, 249 Malta: WWI, 49–50; post-WWI, 72, 100, 114; Desert War, 135, 147, 168–79, 186–9, 350; Tunisia, 193, 196, 206; Sicily, 217–18; Italy, 243; Ardennes–Berlin, 296; post-WWII, 326

Manchuria, 353, 355 Mansion House, 360 Mao Zedong, Chairman, 313 Marconi School, 30 Marcus Aurelius, Emperor, 16 Mareth Line, 211–12, 214, 286 Marham, 323 Market Drayton, 84 Market Garden (operation), 279–80 Marlborough, 1st Duke of, 158 Marmara, Sea of, 65, 67 Marseille, 49, 272–3, 286, 296 Marshall, Gen. George C.: Tunisia, 198, 212, 217; Ploesti, 230; Italy, 237; SAC decision, 241–3; pre-Overlord, 249–50, 260; post-Overlord, 284, 286; Ardennes–Berlin, 294–6; post-WWII, 308, 316, 322; Marshall Plan, 312, 324; 356 Marshall, James, 314 Marson, WC Thomas, 68 Marx, Karl, 290 Massawa, 151 Massey-Harris tractors, 363–5 Matruh, Mersa, 179, 189 Maxwell, Col. Alfred R., 277 Mbandaka, 177 Mechili oasis, 130 Medenine, 211, 213 Medhurst, AM Sir Charles, 137, 184, 186, 326, 336–7 Medjez el Bab, 213 Melbourne, 371 Mena, 56 Merchant Taylors’ School, 51 Merer, AVM John, 332, 334 Mergui, 98 Messina (and Straits of), 86, 228, 230–2, 236 MI6 (Secret Intelligence Service), 62 Michelet: see Ain el Hammam. Middle East bases, post-WWII, 310, 312–13, 321, 327, 340–2 Middle East Defence Committee, 145, 197 Ministries: of Aircraft Production, 111–16, 122, 134, 184, 186, 263, 280; of Defence, 368; of Economic Warfare, 295; of Information, 174; of Supply, 322 Missing Research and Enquiry Unit, 116–17 Mitchell, AM Sir William, 82 Mohne Dam, 116 Mojave Desert, 323 ‘Moltke, von’: see Loyd, Lt Alwyne Momyer, Gen. William W., 215 Monckton, Sir Walter, 173, 362 Montgomery, FM Lord: Desert War, 181, 184–92, 196–7; Tunisia, 211–15; Sicily, 218–19, 229; Italy, 232; pre-Overlord,

Index 244–5, 253, 262, 264; post-Overlord, 266–72, 277–80, 282–6; Ardennes–Berlin, 287–8, 293–4, 296–9; post-WWII, 308, 311–12, 318, 320, 327, 339–40, 364, 370–1, 374, 376 Moore-Brabazon, Col. John, 115 Moorehead, Alan, 142, 154 Moran, Lord: see Wilson, Sir Charles Morgan, LG Sir Frederick, 282 Morocco, 185, 188, 245 Morris, Lord, 369 Morris, ‘Mike’: see Clayton, Aileen Mortain, 272 Moscow, 182–4, 193, 287–93, 295, 315, 323, 327, 329, 336, 351 Moss, A. J. R., 98 Mosul, 132 motor-cars: Alldays midget, 62; Crossley 5-seater, 40; Packard, 287; Triumph Herald and sports cars, 364; Standard Vanguard, 363 Mountbatten, Adm. Lord, 135, 139 Munich Crisis (1938), 366 Musgrave (‘Muzzy’), Capt. Christopher, 51, 53–5 Mussolini, Benito, 90, 158, 194, 229 Mutual Defense Assistance Act, 343 NAAFI, 221, 310, 326, 368–70 Nacqueville, 116 Nancy, 48 Naphill Common, 59 Naples, 86, 216, 229, 237, 288–9 Nasser, President Gamal Abdel, 366–7 NATO, 312–13, 335, 350, 357, 359, 361, 370 Negev Desert, 341 Neil, FL T. F., 147 Nelson, Lt Graham, 39, 51 Netherlands, 298, 327, 340 Netherlands East Indies, 91 New South Wales, 27 New York, 19, 27, 350 New Zealand, 321, 324 New Zealand forces, 157–8, 162, 189, 214 Newall, MRAF Lord, 44–5, 48, 98, 366 newspapers/journals: Aeroplane, 100; Blackwood’s Magazine, 43; Croydon Advertiser, 314; Daily Express, 36, 142, 154, 252; Daily Graphic, 349; Daily Sketch, 199; Economist, 376; Fiji Times, 21; Flight, 85, 104–5, 360; Life, 252–3; Listener, 358; New York Times, 328; Picture Post, 175; Straits Times, 93, 96, 98–100; Sunday Times, 376; The Times, 5, 84, 97, 147, 167, 216, 328, 356–7, 373, 377; Times Literary Supplement, 36; Time, 192, 252

439

Nicobar Islands, 94, 98 Nicosia, 375 Nile river, 50, 52, 55, 87, 122, 172 Nimes, 86 Nisida, 86 Noel-Baker, Philip, 319 Norfolk, 70, 108 Norfolk House, 252–3 Normandy Campaign, 221, 256, 260, 266–73, 277, 283–4, 291, 374 Norrie, MG Willoughby, 178 Norstad, Gen. Lauris, 213, 235, 313, 316, 324, 336–7, 343, 345, 350–1 North Coates Fitties, 82–4 Northolt, 208 Norway, 298 Norwich, 31–2, 61 nuclear weapons, 307, 313, 321, 324, 336, 338, 342–5, 353–4 Nufﬁeld, Lord, 369 Nye, LG Sir Archibald, 311 Oakford, 78, 92 O’Brian, Patrick, 46 O’Connor, Gen. Sir Richard, 127, 131 Ofﬁcers’ Training Corps, 5, 7, 18, 26 oil targets, German, 112, 256, 259, 274–6, 291, 298 Okinawa, 352 Old Sarum: see School of Air Support operations, see individual entries: Accolade; Anvil; Avalanche; Barbarossa; Battleaxe; Baytown; Charnwood; Cobra; Copperhead; Crossbow; Crusader; Dragoon; Fortitude; Goodwood; Husky; Knicker; Lightfoot; Market Garden; Overlord; Plainfare; Pointblank; Soapsuds; Supercharge; Tidalwave; Torch; Vittles Ordnance Board, 82 Orel, 289 Ottawa, 324 Overlord (operation), 238–9, 241–5, 249–57, 260–2, 264, 268, 272–4, 281–2, 295, 343–4 Owen, Roderic, 103, 284–5, 361 Oxford, 257; American Association, 345; University of: Bodleian Library, 16; St John’s College, 51; Magdalen College, 268 Palermo, 218, 231 Palestine, 49–53, 67, 85, 205; Jewish state in, 321–2; 340 Panama, 353 Pandora (exercise), 328–9, 339 Pantelleria, 223–4 Pan American Airways (PAA), 150–2 Paris, 257–8, 262, 266, 268, 272, 282, 284, 293, 296, 334, 339, 359, 371

440

Tedder

Park, ACM Sir Keith, 168, 193, 206, 218, 244 Parker, Kenneth, 375–6 Patch, LG Alexander M., 273 Pattinson, AM Sir Lawrence, 95 Patton, LG George S.: Tunisia, 214–15; Sicily, 218, 224, 226, 229; pre-Overlord, 265; post-Overlord, 268, 278, 284; Ardennes–Berlin, 287 Pavlov, Valentin, 290 Peake, AC Harald, 282 Pearl Harbor, 165, 173 Peirse, ACM Sir Richard, 163 Pelly-Fry, GC James, 142 Pembroke Dock, 85–6 Penang, 98 Pentagon, 210, 321, 351 Percival, LG Arthur, 95, 100 Perry-Keane, AVM Allan, 63 Pershing, Gen. John J., 205, 213 Persia, 132, 146, 157, 181–2 Petit Trianon, 274 Philippines, 91 Phillpotts, Tony, 124 Pike, MRAF Sir Thomas, 367 Pirie, ACM Sir George, 93, 148, 161, 172, 337 Plainfare (operation), 332–5 Ploesti, 230–1 Plymouth, 25 Po Valley, 217 Pogue, Forrest, 305 Pointblank (operation), 238, 242, 251–2, 254–5 Point Noire, 177 Poland/Polish, 139, 287 Pollochar, 363, 372 Political Warfare Executive, 263 Poltava, 292 Pompeii, 86 Portreath, 245 Port Said, 86 Port Sudan, 124, 165 Portal, MRAF Lord: pre-WWII, 98; 1940, 112–14, 121–2; Desert War, 128, 131, 133–52, 162–6, 169, 171–88; Churchill’s quarrel with Tedder (1941), 155–60, 163–4; Tunisia, 190–9, 201, 206, 210–16; Sicily, 218–19, 226–8; Ploesti, 230–2; Italy, 231–2, 237–8, 242; Aegean, 240–1; pre-Overlord, 243, 249–51, 254–5, 259–60; Freeman’s advice, 263–4; post-Overlord, 274, 277, 280–2, 284; Ardennes–Berlin, 292, 295–8;

post-WWII, 306–9, 311, 316, 318, 338, 356, 366, 376 Portsmouth, 264, 272–3 Portugal, 158, 333 Potsdam, 13 Potts, padre, 200 Pound, Adm. Sir Dudley, 143–4, 147, 218 Power Jets company, 109 Princes Risborough, 48 Pritchard, SL Sam, 234–5, 243, 281–2 Pryor, WC Arthur, 64, 99 Public Record Ofﬁce, 15 Puerto Rico, 352 Pulford, AVM Conway, 99 Punic Wars, 225 Pusan, 352 Qattara Depression, 180 Queensland, University of, 16–17 Queen Alexandra Military Hospital, 30 Quesada, LG Elwood R. (‘Pete’), 265, 303, 325 Rabat, 245 Railways: see Transportation Plan targets Rainsford, AC Frederick, 334 Ramsay, Adm. Sir Bertram, 253, 264, 273, 278, 280, 283 Ramsey, A. S., 356 Rankine, Richard, 19 Rashid Ali el Gailani, 132 Reading, 30–1 Red Sea, 151, 185 Reggio, 236 Reims, 284, 297, 303–5, 308 Rhine river, WWII, 272, 277–80, 284–8, 290–1, 298; post-WWII, 312, 342 Rhodes, 238–41 Rhodesia, 16 Richmond, V/Adm. Sir Herbert, 76–7 Richthofen, Manfred von, 40 Ridgway, Gen. Matthew B., 279, 355 Rilett, Lt Wilfrid, 38 Ripley, 3 Ritchie, Gen. Sir Neil, 162, 168, 178–9 Robb, ACM Sir James, 197–8, 206, 210, 212, 262, 282, 296, 310, 334, 340 Robertson, Gen. Sir Brian, 332 Romania, 173 Rome, 222, 225, 230, 238, 240, 243, 253 Rommel, FM Erwin: Desert War, 129–31, 140–1, 154, 162–80, 183–6, 188, 191; Tunisia, 196–7, 211–12; leaves Africa, 213; 225, 244–5, 253 Roosevelt, LC Elliott, 206 Roosevelt, President Franklin D.: Desert War, 144, 150, 158; Tunisia, 194–5; Casablanca, 201; Aegean, 240; SAC

Index decision, 241–4; pre-Overlord, 250, 260–1, 377; post-Overlord, 284, 286 Rootes motor company, 363 Rosier, ACM Sir Frederick, 176–7 Rostow, Walter W., 256 Royal Aircraft Establishment, 109 Royan, 295 Ruhr, 275, 278, 280, 283, 285, 298 Rusk, Dean, 353 Russell Pasha, Sir Thomas and Dorothea, his wife, 187 Russians: see Soviet forces Saar, 278 Saarbrucken, 286 St Andrews, 358–9 St Clement Danes, 373, 378 St James’s Palace, 62 St James’s Square, 252 St John, 51 St Margaret’s, Westminster, 62, 328 St Omer, 267 Saionji Kimmochi, Prince, 56 Salerno, 231, 236–8, 240 Salisbury, Lord: 71 (4th Marquis), 356–7 (5th Marquis) Salonika, 53, 59 Salter, F. R., 7, 9–10, 15, 356 Samoa, 20 Samos, 238–41 Sanders, ACM Sir Arthur, 310, 332, 334 Sandhurst, 74 Sandys, Duncan, 361, 367–8 San Stefano, 66, 68 Sarawak, 93–4, 98 Sardinia, 49, 226 Saunders, ACM Sir Hugh, 86, 99, 320, 345–6 Saunderton, 48 Saville, MG Gordon P., 209, 231 Savoy Hotel, 62, 314 Sbeitla, 211 Scarman, WC Leslie/Lord Scarman, 260, 262, 265, 268–9, 373, 375–7 Scheldt Estuary, 278–80, 283 Schmider, Klaus, 129 School of Air Support, 325–6, 328–9 Scotland, 310 Scottish Malt Distillers, 4 Sculthorpe, 323 Seely, Sir Hugh, 104 Seine river, 258, 266, 272, 277 Seletar, 91–3, 95, 98 Seoul, 353 Sembawang, 98 Seton, Sir Alexander (‘Sandy’), 235 Seton, Col. Sir Bruce, 221 Seton, Ellen Mary (‘Elma’), Lady, 222, 233, 235

441

Sevastapol, 289 Severn Tunnel, 28 Sevres, Treaty of, 65 SHAEF (Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force), 275, 278, 288–90, 292, 295–6, 299, 305, 307–8, 315 Shaposhnikov, Marshal, 183 Sharapov, Gen., 290 Shaw, George Bernard, 15 Shawbury, 42, 47–8, 50, 52 Sheppey, Isle of, 81 Shetland Islands, 4, 19, 350 Shinwell, Emmanuel, 354 ships: British passenger: Eboe, 65; Khartoum, 65; Levuka, 21; Lapland, 27; Lusitania, 27; Naldera, 90; Niagara, 19; Oceanic, 19; Omrah, 49, 56; Osterley, 21, 25; Japanese Navy: destroyers (WWI), 49; Japanese Passenger: Katori Maru, 86; Royal Navy: Agamemnon, 64, 67, 72; Formidable, 135; Kelvin, 265 Shrewsbury, 47 Siam, Gulf of, 95 Siberia, 355 Sicily, 25, 114, 154, 166, 170, 194–6, 201, 216–22, 225–8, 230, 231, 236–7, 262, 286 Siegfried Line, 278 Simferopol, 289 Simon of Wythenshawe, Lord, 350 Simpson, Gen. Sir Frank, 279, 283 Simpson, LG William H., 284–5 Sinclair, Sir Archibald: 1940, 113–15; Desert War, 121–2, 157, 159, 164, 182–6, 191–2, 195, 199; Tunisia, 194, 205, pre-Overlord, 242–3, 249–51, 260; Ardennes–Berlin, 294; post-WWII, 306 Singapore, 85–101, 121–2, 126, 169, 177, 368 Slatter, AM Sir Leonard, 148 Slessor, MRAF Sir John: pre-WWII, 97, Desert War, 168; possible VCAS, 184; Italy, 244, 294; possible CAS, 263–4, 307, 317–20; AMP, 116, 316; CAS, 343–4; Korean War, 354–5; 360 Slim, FM Sir William, 312, 318, 320, 339, 342, 376 Smart, AVM Harry (‘Reggie’), 132 Smart, Gen. Jacob E., 230 Smith, Gen. Sir Arthur, 163, 170 Smith, AC Sidney, 92 Smith, LG Walter Bedell: Tunisia, 206, 214, 219; pre-Overlord, 242, 249–51, 253, 255, 261, 264; post-Overlord, 265, 270, 273, 285; Ardennes–Berlin, 295–6; post-WWII, 303, 306, 356 Smith-Barry, Maj. Robert, 52, 78 Smuts, FM Jan Christian: WWI, 325; Desert War, 128, 147, 150, 181–2, 185, 303;

442

Tedder

Tedder’s engagement, 235; pre-Overlord, 243–4, 261; post-Overlord, 279; Ardennes–Berlin, 292; post-WWII, 307, 313–15, 356 Smythies, Capt. Bernard, 32 Soapsuds (operation), 230 Soﬁa, 62 Sollum, 189 Somme offensive/front, 35, 39–40, 43 Sommers, Col. Charles L., 323 South Africa, 307–8, 321 South African forces, 128, 147, 177 South Kensington, 3 Southampton, 19 Southwick House, 264 Soviet forces, WWII, 135, 141, 146, 152, 155, 158, 166, 170–1, 175, 183, 287–8, 292–3; post-WWII, 312–13, 316, 320–1, 327; Berlin Blockade, 330–5; 337–40; Korean War, 351–5; Hungary, 366 Spaatz, Gen. Carl A.: Tunisia, 195–8, 205–6, 210–13, 216–17; Sicily, 223–5, 227–8; Ploesti, 230–1; Italy, 235, 237; pre-Overlord, 242–5, 250–9, 262–3; post-Overlord, 265–6, 268, 274, 276, 280; Ardennes–Berlin, 297; post-WWII, 305, 307–8, 313, 315–16, 323–4, 329. 333, 335–6, 351; his wife, Ruth, 329 Spain, 158, 165; civil war in, 322 Spears, MG Edward, 138 Speer, Albert, 276–7, 287–8 Spink’s of Piccadilly, 46 Spitalgate, 73 squadrons: WWI, No. 9 (Reserve), 31; No. 25, 25, 32–41, 43, 50, 56, 234; No. 32, 35; No. 35 (Training), 32; No. 43, 44; No. 45, 45; No. 67 (Training), 47, 51; No. 70, 42–7, 51, 375; post-WWI, No. 25. 64, 66; No. 45, 86; No. 207, 61–9, 99; No. 216, 87; No. 274, 60–1; WWII, No. 139, 116; post-WWII, No. 617, 323–4 Stalin, Josef, 158, 182–4, 201, 243; 289–93 (meets Tedder); 298, 326, 333–4, 336, 343 Stalingrad, 216 Standard Motor Company, 363–5; Standard Triumph International, 364–5, 371 Stanmore: see Bentley Priory Stansgate, Viscount, 314 Stanstead, 3

Steel, AM Sir John, 125 Stendal, 304 Stewart, Oliver, 32 Stirling, Col. William, 198 Stonehenge, 48 Straits Settlement Volunteer Air Force, 92 Stratemeyer, LG George E., 210 Strensall, 63 Stumpff, Gen. Hans-Jurgen, 303–4 Sudan, 146; Defence Force, 87–8 Suez Canal, 130, 151, 179; Crisis (1956), 364, 366–7 Summersby, Kay, 235, 297 Supercharge (operation), 188 Surrey County Cricket Club, 362, 365 Sutton Bridge, 82–4 Suva, 19–21 Suvla Bay, 80 Sweet-Escott, Sir Ernest, 20–1 Swinton, Lord, 88, 104 Switzerland, 75 Sydney, 13, 17–18, 21, 25, 27, 30, 101 Syngman Rhee, 353 Syracuse, 218 Syria: 53; Vichy rule in, 132–3, 138–9, 164 Taiwan, 351 Takoradi, 121–4, 134, 144, 146 Tanner, J. R., 8 Taranto, 237 Tebaga Gap, 214 Tebessa, 211 Tebourba, 220 Tedder, MRAF Lord: as ‘Tirpitz’, 38, 98, 136, 145, 166, 171, 193, 197, 227, 259 as author: Navy of the Restoration, 15, 17, 36, 70–1; Greenwich lectures, 71–2; Andover lectures, 77–80; RUSI lecture, 313; Lees Knowles lectures, 314, 325; With Prejudice, 372, 374–7 his family: ‘Henry Tedder the Eighth’ (ancestor), 3; William (grandfather), 3; Elizabeth Ferris (grandmother), 3; Sir Arthur (father), 4, 8–11, 14–16, 20, 27–8, 30, 32, 39, 42, 44–5, 48, 53–4, 59–62, 64, 72–6, 78–9 (died), 95, 150, 167; Emily Bryson (mother), 4, 5, 8–11, 14–16, 18, 20, 26, 28, 30–3, 39, 42, 44–5, 53–4, 59, 62, 72, 75, 78–9, 83, 85, 92 (died), 95; Henry (uncle), 3, 7, 11, 16–17, 32, 35, 46; Harry (brother), 4, 11; Margaret (sister), 4–5, 7–9, 15, 20, 28, 42, 59, 75, 78, 83, 85, 92–3, 95, 98, 177, 184, 199, 208, 288, 356 (died);

Index Rosalinde (1st wife), mentioned on nearly every page from 13 until 199–201, when she was killed; 208, 235, 243, 250, 263, 271, 282, 326, 372, 375; Una (sister-in-law), 13–15, 18, 21–2, 27–8, 31, 42, 53, 59, 62 (died), 101; Dick (1st son), 8, 30, 32–3, 42, 48, 59, 61, 75, 90, 99, 108, 116–17 (killed), 125, 341–2; Mina (daughter), 8, 62, 75, 90, 101, 108, 138, 164, 192, 199–201, 208, 243, 288, 308–9; John (2nd son), 8, 75, 88, 90, 101, 108, 138, 192, 199–200, 208, 243, 366, 370, 375; ‘Toppy’ (2nd wife), 220–2, 233–6, 244, 253, 263, 271, 282–3, 306–8, 310, 314, 319–20, 326, 329–30, 345, 349–50, 357, 360, 367, 369–73 (died), 375 Alasdair (stepson), 221, 349 (killed); Richard (3rd son), 307, 314, 330, 367, 370, 372 honours and awards: Italian Silver Medal, 46; CB, 95; KCB, 167; GCB, 191–2; Baron, 308; Freedom of the City of London, 314–15; Chancellor of Cambridge University, 356 promotions: commissioned, 26; Lieutenant, 27; Captain, 32; Flight Commander, 35; Major, 42; Lieutenant Colonel, 56; reverted to Major, 59; Squadron Leader, 60; Wing Commander, 72; Group Captain, 78; Air Commodore, 85; Air Vice-Marshal, 98; Air Marshal, 115; Air Chief Marshal, 180; Marshal of the RAF, 307 Tegel, 323 Teheran, 182 Tempelhof, 304–5, 332 Templar, FM Sir Gerald, 339 Tengah, 98 Thailand, 100 Thames estuary, 81 Thatcher, BG Herbert B., 280 Thebes, 55 Thelepte, 211 Thetford, 32 Thomas, Sir Shenton, 92, 94, 98–9, 101 Thorold, AVM Henry, 124, 134 Thunderbolt (exercise), 325–6, 329, 339 Tidalwave (operation), 230–1 Tiger tank, 291 Tigharry Point, 372 Tilly Institute, 13, 15, 305–6 Timberlake, MG Patrick W., 206 Tintern Abbey, 28

443

‘Tirpitz’: see Tedder, MRAF Lord Tizard, Sir Henry, 268, 280, 338, 362 Tmimi, 169 Tobruk, 130, 140, 154, 158, 162, 168–9, 173, 177, 189 ‘Toppy’: see Tedder, his family. Torch (operation), 183, 188–9, 192, 194–6, 198 Toronto, 19 Toulon, 272 Transjordan: see Jordan Transportation Plan targets: France and Belgium, 255–61, 269, 274, 376–7; Germany, 112, 274–6, 287–8, 291, 298, 318; Sicily and Italy, 222, 226–7, 257 Trenchard, MRAF Lord: WWI, 36–7, 42, 44–6, 52, 325; post-WWI, 59, 62–4, 68, 70–3; WWII, 192, 210, 235, 242, 270, 273, 299; post-WWII, 308–9, 316–19, 349–50, 360–1, 365–6 (died); his widow, Katherine, 366 Trianon Palace Hotel, 280 Tripoli, 127–9, 166–70, 173–4, 190, 196, 210–11, 223, 321 Tripolitania, 167, 190 Truman Doctrine, 312, 324 Truman, President Harry S., 316, 340–1; Korean War, 351–6 Tunis, 194, 199, 213, 217, 220. 224 (Gulf of), 227, 235, 236 (British Consulate), 237, 240–1, 243–4 Tunisia: 1914, 25; WWII, 153, 154, 167, 185, 188, 194–6, 197, 201, 205, 207, 210–12, 215–19, 223, 228, 231–2, 241 Tunner, Gen. William H., 332, 334 Turkey/Turks: WWI, 51; Chanak Crisis, 65–70; Gallipoli, 79–80; Desert War, 157–8; as possible ally, 201, 239, 241, 243–4 Uist, North & South, 372–3 Urquhart, MG Roy, 279 Ultra: see intelligence Uweinat: see Jebel Uweinat Uxbridge, 68, 265 V-l (ﬂying-bomb), 267–8, 270, 281 V-2 (rocket), 267, 281 Valenciennes, 40 Valetta, 350 Vancouver, 19 Vandenberg, Gen. Hoyt S., 265, 303, 313, 324, 329, 335–7, 343, 345, 351–3 Vasto, 244 Vaughan Williams, Ralph, 8 Vauxhall motor company, 363 VE-Day (1945), 303 Verdun, 287

444

Tedder

Vernon, Percy, 6 Versailles, 274, 277, 281, 287 Vert Galand, 44–5 Vickers machine-gun, 104 Victory at Sea (ﬁlm), 358 Victory in the Air (ﬁlm), 358 Victory Parade (1946), 315 Vienna, 69 Vietinghoff, Gen. Heinrich von, 229 Vietnam: see Indo-China Vistula river, 287 Viti Levu, 19–20 Vittles (operation), 332–5 Vlieland, Charles, 100–1 Voltaire, 158 Voronov, Marshal, 183 Voroshilov, Marshal, 183 Vyshinsky, Andrei, 305, 350 WAAF, 108, 138 Waddington, 199 Wadi Akarit, 214–15 Wadi el Natrun, 56 Wadi Halfa, 87 Walcott, 64 Wallis, Sir Barnes, 115–16 Ward, George, 359–60, 369 Warden, SL James, 236 War Cabinet, 144, 173, 259 War Ofﬁce: WWI, 21; post-WWI, 70, 79–80, 82, 90, 93, 100; Desert War, 139–40; Tunisia, 212; post-Overlord, 278–9; Ardennes–Berlin, 295–6; post-WWII, 311, 352, 370, 374 Wash, the, 61 Washington, DC: Desert War, 151–2, 165, 179–80; Tunisia Campaign, 193–6, 205, 210–11; Sicily, 213–15, 225–6; Italy, 231–2, 237; pre-Overlord, 241–2; post-Overlord, 274; Ardennes–Berlin, 288; post-WWII, 307, 309, 313, 321–2, 323–4, 327, 329, 336, 345, 349–51; Korean War, 351–6; 365, 371 Waterloo, Battle of, 161 Waugh, Evelyn, 223 Wavell, FM Lord: Desert War, 123, 129, 131, 139–42, 154, 162, 182, 191 Webster, Sir Charles, 373 Well Farm, 370, 375 Wellington, NZ, 158 Welsh, AM Sir William, 194–5, 197 West Point, 356

Western Desert Air Force, 126–7, 179–80, 211 Western Union, 327, 333–4 Westminster Abbey, 366, 377 Weymouth, 26 Whitehall: pre-WWI, 101, 104, 106, 108; Desert War, 124, 128, 139, 163, 166, 171, 184, 191–2; Tunisia, 194, 198, 208; Sicily, 223, 226; Italy, 231–2; pre-Overlord, 250–1, 259, 263; post-Overlord, 274, 284; Ardennes–Berlin, 288, 296; post-WWII, 303, 308–9, 311, 313, 326; Berlin Blockade, 334; 339, 345, 350–1; Korean War, 351–6; 360, 366–7 Whitgift School, 4–6, 10–11, 14, 314 Whittle, Sir Frank, 109 ‘Widewing’: see Bushy Park Wigglesworth, ACM Sir Philip, 172, 206, 236, 375 Wight, Isle of, 64 Wildman, Maj. Frederick S., 210 Williams, Brig. Sir Edgar (‘Bill’), 271, 280 Williams, AM Thomas, 334 Williams, Walter, 47 Willink, Sir Henry, 341 Wilson, Sir Charles, 150 Wilson, Harold, 307 Wings (WWI): No. 9 (HQ), France, 45; No. 10 (Army), France, 33, 39, 45; No. 38 (Training), Egypt, 51, 59 Witney, 59 Wittering, 368 Woking, 3 Woolley, AC Frank, 257 Woolven, Capt. Charles, 37 Woolwich, 25, 74 Wright, Orville, 328 Wunstorf, 334 Wyke Regis, 25–30 Yalta, 296, 298 Yalu river, 353–5 York, 83 Zamalek, 123 ‘Zanzibar X’ (FE 2b aircraft), 40 Zeppelins, 25, 39 Zhukov, Marshal Georgi, 305, 350 Zuckerman, Lord, 169, 212–13, 221; Sicily, 223–7; pre-Overlord, 250, 253, 255–7, 259–60; post-Overlord, 269, 274, 276–7, 280; Ardennes–Berlin, 292–3, 297; post-WWII, 308, 325, 375–6