Countdown to D-Day

by Peter Margaritis

  9When the Americans landed at Omaha on D-Day, instead of coming up against one battalion of the inferior and undersized 716th Infantry, they instead came up against three entrenched full battalions of the veteran 352nd. To make things worse, the addition of the 352nd to the coastline allowed the 716th to shorten its own line, which in turn resulted in most of its troops being able to man the positions facing the British and Canadians at Gold, Juno, and Sword.

  10The broadcast was logged in the US at 4:39 a.m. EST. That would make it 11:39 p.m. British Double Summer Time or 10:39 p.m. German Central Time (see note 1, page 12).

  11Generalleutnant Rudolf Hoffmann, Fifteenth Army Chief of Staff.

  12This is the Kehlstein tea house, which came to be known as the Adlerhaus—Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest.

  13The female equivalent of “The Chief,” the common informal title for the Führer.

  Sunday, June 4

  In the dark early morning hours of Sunday, the fierce storm that had come up the day before continues to rage across the Channel. The Allied invasion fleet, slogging through the howling winds and stormy seas, struggles to make headway. If the landing is to begin on schedule when the weather (hopefully) gets better, they will have to continue on through crashing waves for another whole day before H-Hour comes on the morning of June 5.

  At Southwick Manor, Eisenhower meets around 4:30 a.m. (BDST1) with his staff. The Supreme Allied Commander is briefed on the bad weather by Group Captain Stagg and his meteorological staff. Eisenhower is reluctantly but defiantly told by one of Stagg’s three separate team leaders, Sverere Petterssen, 2 that the weather is still too rough for a landing; the invasion must be postponed until conditions improve. Another briefing is given by the head of the American weather team, 38-year-old Colonel Irving Krick, who claims that in his opinion, conditions are good enough to go. In the end, Krick’s position is dismissed as too optimistic.3

  Eisenhower ponders the three choices open to him. He can postpone the assault for one day and pray real hard for a better break in the weather (and that his five-thousand-ship fleet is by some miracle not detected at sea). Or, he can move back the invasion two weeks to the next period of low tides at dawn, again hope for good weather, and if so fly his airborne troops in on a moonless, perhaps cloudy night. His third choice is to call the whole thing off and reschedule the invasion for July—to hope for better weather at that time, while risking both detection of his plans and a blow to Allied morale.

  Montgomery tells him that he’s for going ahead anyway, no matter what the weather report says. Several other senior members agree.

  Eisenhower ponders the many complicated factors facing him, and at 5:15, he makes his decision. He elects to postpone the landings for 24 hours, hoping that the weather might break enough so that they can go on the 6th. All Allied radar jamming operations are called off, so that those stations in the German naval radar network that are still up do not set off any alarms.

  The codeword “Ripcord 24” is sent to the Allied fleet approaching the French coast in the heavy seas. The word goes out: D-Day has been postponed for at least a day.

  Most of the few thousand ships already at sea immediately begin to turn around and head back to port. Inevitably, as things often happen in war despite the best of plans, some units do not receive the recall, even though it is repeated to make sure that everyone gets notified. Everyone does not. One force of minesweepers is only 35 miles from the beaches when they finally get the word.

  Another slow convoy of some 135 vessels, 4 Task Group U2a out of Salcombe and Dartmouth, 5 sails as a part of Force U (slated for Utah beach). It carries elements of the 4th Infantry Division in dozens of landing vessels and their escorts. Not receiving the recall, it sails onward towards France at six knots, totally unaware that the invasion has been delayed. Further radio signals to the convoy commander prove to be fruitless.

  At last, in desperation, two destroyers turn around to bring back the runaway convoy before it reaches the French coast and tips the enemy off about the whole operation. Unfortunately, because of the stormy seas, the escorts are unable to find the missing convoy.

  At the same time, aircraft are also dispatched to the search, braving the early morning tempestuous elements in a gallant attempt to locate these ships. But time is starting to run out. With the weather bad, it will take the planes some time to reach and then find the convoy, even though the search is much more effective from the air. And after the ships are found, the plane may have a problem convincing the convoy commander that the delay has indeed been made, and to turn the convoy around—all before the vessels are detected from the French coast.

  After a couple hours of desperate searches by air and by sea, the wayward convoy is finally spotted by a British Walrus reconnaissance biplane.6 It is now dawn, and the convoy has traveled almost 100 miles and is some 30 miles south of the Isle of Wight.

  The pilot immediately sees that the ships are still dutifully headed for their assigned positions off the Normandy coast, struggling forward across the high waves. Frenzied signaling from the aircraft does not sway the convoy commodore. He knows that the Germans (as he had been briefed), using captured American planes, could quite possibly pull a stunt just like that. His orders are to ignore any such local signals, and that is exactly what he does. After all, his contingent of men and cargo will be desperately needed at Utah beach tomorrow morning.

  The frantic pilot braves the storm’s winds and dives the little pusher-engine aircraft down to a scant hundred feet above the water. Through a cracked open window in the plane, he drops a signed, coded message in a canister down at the commodore’s ship. The canister just misses the vessel and plummets into the heavy seas.

  The convoy sails on.

  There are a number of German radio stations working in the early hours. Many have been recently hit by enemy raids, including the key listening station at Ferme d’Urville.7 This is the headquarters for the German “Y” Service, their main radio intercepting organization in Western Europe. This station, like several others along the English Channel, is still operational, although barely. Luckily, tonight there is not much enemy traffic on the air.

  Several undamaged radar stations are also routinely sweeping the Channel that evening. Their signals clear significantly after a few hours and are now relatively unmolested by enemy jamming stations across the Channel. It is just as well. The German radar units are having enough problems as it is. All night, the winds and heavy waves have been creating many false echoes on their scopes, coming and going as the sea and wind patterns constantly change. So tonight, true radar returns off vessels at sea are particularly hard to detect.

  At least one radar station though, picks up a few formations of aircraft headed for the Straits of Dover. No doubt, an enemy bombing raid. The station reports them and their position, and then tracks them as they fly southeast across the Channel. The targets turn out to be coastal batteries at Calais and Wimereux.

  Another operating station begins to detect an oddly large amount of surface activity in the western part of the Channel. Careful analysis shows that this does not look like any natural formation of false echoes brought on by the weather. No, something seems to be out there.

  The radar report is immediately routed to Admiral Hennecke’s naval headquarters in Cherbourg. The other operational radar stations are all alerted, and the one tracking the echoes is told to stay with the signal and to advise headquarters immediately if the contact pattern heads for the French coast.

  The dauntless British pilot circling over the wayward contingent of Force U2a does not give up—way too much is at stake. He somehow has to convince this rogue convoy to turn back. Hurriedly, he writes out his own note to the convoy. The co-pilot sticks it into their last canister, and they dive down, hoping this time to somehow drop the container onto the commodore’s ship. The aircraft makes a very low pass and miraculously, in this second try, the canister lands on the deck of the flagship.

  The wrapped package
is taken to the convoy commander, who opens it and reads the scribbled message inside. While the convoy sails on, he studies its meaning, trying hard to determine if it is genuine, the nagging worry of what-ifs now foremost on his mind. He realizes that if the message is authentic, he could quite possibly ruin the entire operation—the invasion itself.

  The pilot, now low on fuel, is forced to return home, cursing the storm and that stupid convoy commander down there. Frustrated, the radio operator transmits the convoy’s position back to base.

  After fifteen minutes of deliberation, the still-skeptical commodore, having discussed the issue at length with his officers, at last grudgingly admits that the message just might be on the level. Reluctantly, he breaks radio silence and calls his debarkation port for a confirmation of the delay. They are now just 36 miles from the coast of Normandy. The commodore is directed by a distraught, nearly frantic harbormaster to turn about immediately and head back for England. The order goes out to the vessels, and slowly, cumbrously, the multi-columned formations at last begin to come about. Bucking the rolling swells, the convoy finally completes its turn and makes its sluggish journey in the heavy seas northwestward. It is almost 9 a.m.8

  As dawn nears, a few German coastal radar operators are tracking the set of contacts they had picked up a few hours before. The plotting crews are starting to get tense as the formation appears to be making its way southeast across the Channel. The contacts seem to be on a course for somewhere in the Seine Bay. One watch commander, edgy because he knows what this many contacts implies, has kept his eye on the blips over the shoulder of his seated operator. Unfortunately, there is no way that the contacts can be checked out. The bad weather has kept the German outpost ships and minelayers in harbor, and the few Luftwaffe recon aircraft still in Western France are grounded.

  About 40 minutes later, the tracked positions of these unknown contacts (and there have to be many, because of the size of the return) slow and then become stationary. Gradually they begin moving back northwest again towards Weymouth Bay. After another hour, the fuzzy echoes become lost in the radar returns from England’s ground interference, the rain, and the choppy waves.

  Since the blips have disappeared, the radar crews are eventually told to stand down. Perhaps this was a crazy Allied exercise in the tempest. Maybe the enemy navy was testing its radar capabilities. Or possibly just a case of false echoes from the storm seas. Nevertheless, a report will have to be written and sent through proper channels, although in light of the results, it will probably now be filed and forgotten. Admiral Hennecke’s Headquarters at Cherbourg is not contacted again.

  The Allies are very lucky. The rogue convoy remains undetected.

  ***

  At the Army Signals Interception Center near Fifteenth Army headquarters, a bleary-eyed, tired but happy Oberst!leutnant Helmuth Meyer emerges from the communications bunker that he has stayed awake in most of the night. Turning to his on-duty sergeant, he gives some last-minute instructions, and then wearily trudges off to get some sleep.

  Admiral Canaris’ predictions still appear to be right. The second Verlaine verse has not been transmitted, and despite that tremendous scare that the American news flash had given him last night, nothing unusual has happened.9 The break of day has thankfully revealed no enemy fleet off the French coast. Just a lot of bad weather. Still, God only knows what tonight will bring.

  If he only knew...

  ***

  At La Roche-Guyon, dawn is gray and misty. The town is still wet in the aftermath of the brutal storm that had first hit the Channel. Torrents of rain and heavy winds have ravaged the dry land. The worst of the storm for now has abated inland, and in the fog, the château stands like something out of a gothic horror story. The road in front of it is as usual devoid of traffic, more so because it is Sunday. The countryside is deserted, except for the sentries in their camouflaged capes dotted throughout the area. In a short while the hour will change, and the bell in the Church of St. Samson in the town will sound the Angelus, to let the villagers know that it is time to stop a moment for silent prayer.

  Rommel is in his study, reading the latest messages. He has been up since 3 a.m., listening to the early morning sounds outside. It had still been raining while he was in the bathroom. Now the rain has subsided somewhat.

  The weather forecasters predict that bad weather will continue for at least another three or four days, with heavy swells and rain over the English Channel. The winds are between Force 5 and 6 and forecast to go up to Force 6 at the Pas-de-Calais, and up to Force 7 at Cherbourg. Gales in the Channel average 48 km/hr. The heavy cloud base is low—275 to 550 meters—and the storm in the Channel is producing waves over two meters high. The Kriegsmarine report also details the stormy seas in the Channel, and that it will be at least two weeks before meteorological conditions and the tides are again right for an invasion. Altogether a lousy time for an invasion.

  He picks up the latest situation report:

  The continuation and systematic increase of enemy air attacks and more intensive minelaying in our harbors with improved mining equipment indicate an advance in the enemy’s readiness for invasion. Constructional work on the defense front is being impeded by further deterioration in the transport situation and in fuel supplies (shortages of coal).

  Constant enemy air attacks obviously concentrated on bridges over the Seine, Oise, and to a certain extent, over the Aisne, also coastal defenses in the Dunkirk-Dieppe sector and on the northern and eastern sides of the Cotentin.

  Attempts to cripple rail transport continue, with raids on marshaling yards and on locomotives. Whereas attacks on bridges have led to destruction or serious damage to all the crossings over the Seine between Paris and Rouen, damage inflicted on coastal defenses is still comparatively small.

  He puts down the report and stands, rubbing his eyes. He yawns, stretches his arms, and winces as a dull pain runs through his lower back. His lumbago is acting up again. He glances at his watch. It is almost 6 a.m.

  He wanders over to the French window on his left and glances out through the rain rivulets trickling down the glass pane. Peering into the gloom of the early morning, he makes out what is left of his rose garden on the terrace. His poor roses suffered badly in last night’s storm, and now pedals, twigs, and broken plants lie haphazardly all over the veranda.

  Bolstered by the bad weather and reassured by the Luftwaffe official weather reports predicting continued rain and winds, he makes what history will record as one of the unluckiest decisions in his career. He decides to take the trip home.10 It will give him a quick rest before the main event begins, which could be coming up. Besides, he wants to try once more to persuade Hitler to give him control of the panzers.

  He leaves his study and sees Lang waiting for him in the hallway.

  “Ah, good morning, Lang,” he greets his aide warmly. “Are we ready to go?”

  Lang smiles and replied, “Jawohl, Herr Feldmarschall.” They wander off together for breakfast. Walking into the dining room, they are warmly greeted by the senior staff members. As they sit down (Rommel taking his customary seat at the head of the dining table) and are immediately served, the seven staff officers continue talking. Rommel occasionally joins in with a remark or two. They discuss his upcoming meeting with the Führer. General Meise reminds him, “And make sure, Feldmarschall, that you get me more mines.”

  They discuss the main goals of the meeting. First, they must convince the Führer of the seriousness of the situation in the West. Second, to get the supplies that they desperately need to prepare to meet the landings. Third, they must convince the High Command to release the reserve panzers to them, so that they can be repositioned much closer to the coast.

  Rommel listens patiently to his staff as he sips his tea and spreads some honey on his buttered slice of white bread. Once in a while, he checks the time. The conversation eventually becomes informal. He feels a bit tense about the trip, but stays in good humor. At one point during the me
al, noting the quality of the food on their plates, he looks down the table at his aide and asks mischievously, “Lang, do all the men at my headquarters get the same sort of breakfast?”

  Lang smiles back at him. “Jawohl, Feldmarschall,” he replies, “But it isn’t served quite as pleasantly as this.” They all laugh affably.

  With breakfast over, he checks his watch at 6:47 a.m., and suddenly announces, “Gentlemen, here I go.”

  Rommel leaves the dining room heads for the main entrance, his officers filing out behind him. Other staff members have gathered along the corridor and stairs to wish him well. Walking slowly, he takes the opportunity to shake their hands and murmur an occasional comment to one or another.

  Accompanying Rommel for the trip is his Operations chief, von Tempelhoff. They will travel in a two-car convoy. No flying home this time. The Führer has insisted that if general officers want to fly anywhere, they have to ride in an aircraft with at least three engines, and be accompanied by an adequate fighter escort. Rommel does not want to tie up so many critical aircraft, especially with the heightened enemy air activity. Anyway, he prefers to travel by car.

  Lang will ride with Rommel and Corporal Daniel. The newly promoted von Tempelhoff, on his way home to see his wife in Bavaria, will ride in the second vehicle. driven by a sergeant. As the field marshal has ordered, their leaving is a secret outside the headquarters. No one has been informed of their trip, much less their itinerary. Rommel’s Horch will not fly his customary field marshal’s banner on the front bumper. And he has insisted that the two cars will have no escort to attract attention. With any luck, he will get home by mid-afternoon.

  Outside, Rommel turns to von Tempelhoff and invites him to ride in the front car with him and Lang until their turnoff. Von Tempelhoff’s driver can follow in the second car behind them. The colonel accepts the invitation, and climbs into the back of the Horch. Lang, carrying a thermos of consommé and some small sandwiches for them to eat along the way, gets in after him and closes the door.