Billy Gray, who was part of Operation Deadstick, recalled:
We knew exactly what we had to do. We trained and practised it so often that we knew it like the back of our hand. Anyone could have taken each other’s place. Each individual soldier knew exactly what he was supposed to do on the night . . . I don’t think there was an incident that could have happened that we hadn’t rehearsed in one way or another.
After months of preparation, the go-ahead for Operation Deadstick and Operation Tonga was finally given on 5 June 1944. Operation Deadstick, and the troops of D Company, would be the first to get underway.
In the evening, D Company gathered in front of Major Howard for a last-minute pep talk before Private Wally Parr chalked ‘Lady Irene’, the name of his wife, onto the side of the glider in which he would be travelling. As they boarded the gliders, the men looked a fearsome sight. With blackened faces, some had also shaved their hair to the bone. They were also armed to the max, each carrying a rifle, Sten gun or Bren gun, six to nine grenades and four Brengun magazines, while some had mortars.
At 2256 hours, D Company took off in ‘Lady Irene’, with other gliders following behind at one-minute intervals, all being tugged by Halifax bombers. In the back of these ‘black crows’, everyone sat tensely, squashed together. Some vomited due to airsickness, or fear, while others said silent prayers. Others sang songs to gee up themselves and their comrades. Yet, no matter how each man dealt with the situation, all were aware that this was a highly dangerous mission and many of them would soon be dead.
Whenever I would feel afraid of death on my expeditions, I would remember that I was not alone in facing the dreaded hours ahead. I would picture my grandfather who had trapped in northern Canada and fought for his country all over the world. I thought of my father and uncle who were killed in two world wars. I pictured my wife, my mother and my sisters and I knew that all of them were right behind me. I have no doubt that many of these men would have been having very similar thoughts of their own families, and would have looked at their pictures in their hands.
Suddenly, just after midnight, the crashing waves of the Normandy coast came into view. With this, ‘Lady Irene’ was cast off. However, as the glider silently drifted into France the clouds covered the moon, so that the bridges and the glider landing zones could no longer be seen. All the pilot, Jim Wallwork, had to direct him was a watch and a compass. This was hard enough at the best of times, especially as he still wasn’t sure if the anti-glider poles had been erected. Moreover, Wallwork had also been given the impossible task of taking out a barbed-wire fence as he landed, making it easier, and quicker, for the troops to reach the bridges, with every second vital if they were to take them intact.
At 0014, Wallwork could suddenly make out the grey form of Benouville Bridge up ahead. As he brought his glider down, it zipped past trees at 90mph, bounced off the ground on impact, then ploughed through the barbed-wire fence, destroying its nose as it did so. Wallwork and his co-pilot were thrown from the cockpit while the troops inside were all knocked unconscious. With every second crucial, they needed to wake up urgently before they were discovered.
As they slowly came round, they found that despite the bumpy ride they had not only put down in the designated landing zone, with the barbed-wire fence taken out, they had also remained undetected. With glider two soon landing close by, now was the time for action.
Bundling out of their gliders they raced to the canal bridge in their camouflaged battle smocks, holding their guns at their hips. On seeing them, the few Germans on the bridge quickly retreated and screamed out to their colleagues in the pillbox. There wasn’t a second to lose.
As the Germans in the pillbox scrambled to react, the British soldiers ran with all they had towards it before throwing grenades inside. An explosion followed, along with great clouds of dust. The bridge was still intact but the pillbox had been destroyed.
Not taking any chances D Company searched the bridge for explosives, cutting all fuses and wires, only to find that they had not actually been fitted. The Germans had not foreseen an airborne attack and had believed that, if the Allies should attack via the ocean, then they would have enough time to fit them before they landed. It was to prove a fatal mistake.
Soon the cry went out, ‘Ham and Jam! Ham and Jam!’, to signify the mission’s initial success. By 0040 hours, having overwhelmed the German platoon of the 736th Infantry Regiment, the bridge and the second structure over the River Orne 600 metres away had been secured.
Now they just had to hold both bridges from any German counterattacks before they would be relieved by the commandos in the morning, provided they managed to land successfully at Sword Beach. This aspect was now in the hands of the 9th Battalion, who had to ensure the guns at Merville were taken out beforehand.
At that very moment, thirty-two Dakotas were in the sky, each carrying twenty men of the 9th Battalion. Each had a luminous skull and crossbones symbol painted on the left breast of his smock to avoid being shot by his own side. Below them in the Channel, from the Solent to the far side of the Isle of Wight, the water was crammed with ships in readiness for the D-Day invasion. It was the biggest naval force ever assembled for war and a reminder of the importance of their mission.
Before the Dakotas discharged the 9th Battalion over their drop zones, 100 RAF Halifax and Lancaster bombers unleashed 4,000lb ‘cookies’ on the battery at 0030 hours. From the coast, the fleet of Dakotas could see the orange explosions light up the landscape. Soon the cry went out, ‘Get ready! Stand up! Hook up! Check Equipment!’ The paratroopers responded instantly, clipping the snaplinks of their static lines onto the inboard cable running the length of the roof of the aircraft. All did a last-minute equipment check as they anxiously waited for the red bulb to turn green, to signify they could jump.
Suddenly, red tracer fire from German anti-aircraft guns lit up the sky. The Dakotas’ tight V formation disintegrated as they tried to avoid the incoming fire, with the paratroopers thrown around inside like ragdolls.
In the darkness, and disorientated from coming under attack, some of the pilots lost their bearings and could not see their designated drop zone. Like the glider pilots, all they could do was use time, speed and distance calculations to work out their positions and hope they were as close as possible. When they estimated they were over their drop zone, the pilots flicked the switch to turn the cabin bulb green, with the dispatcher yelling, ‘GO! GO! GO!’ One after the other the paratroopers descended into the night sky, pulling their cords to feel the reassuring tug at their shoulders and hear the crack of silk as their chutes opened and deployed into fully functioning canopies above them. However, the Germans had now seen they were coming and, as they sailed to earth, many were sitting ducks.
With the Germans opening fire, many men were killed before they had even reached the ground. Those who survived being shot in mid-air soon found that their Dakota pilots had drastically missed their drop zone. Some landed in the forest, becoming impaled on branches, while others smashed into the sides of buildings. The speed at which they left their plane, along with the gusts of wind, saw some hit the ground too fast and break their legs upon impact. The unluckiest of all found themselves submerged in the marshes or rivers and drowned under the weight of their equipment. Those who made it in one piece found that they had fallen disastrously short of their target, which led to the battalion being scattered over an area of 20 miles. It was a disastrous start to the operation, with 9th Battalion in total disarray.
Despite this inauspicious start, they needed to gather their wits quickly if they were to reach the rendezvous point on time and take the guns. In the darkness, pockets of men stumbled their way through the countryside, while trying to avoid German patrols in the process. The orders of their commanding officer were ingrained into every man: ‘No person will return fire unless directly attacked by the enemy at close quarters.’ Getting to the rendezvous remained paramount and there were to be no private battles. Time was
of the essence, with the clock ever ticking towards the 0525 hours deadline.
By 0130 hours, some of the 9th Battalion began to assemble at the rendezvous, but it was a pitiful sight. Some were badly wounded, while none of the gliders carrying Jeeps, engineering stores, medical equipment or anti-tank guns appeared to have landed anywhere near. Only one of the Vickers medium machine guns had been recovered from the equipment containers that had been widely scattered by the Dakotas, and none of the 3-inch mortars could be found. In addition to other missing bits of vital equipment, there was no sign of the naval gunfire party and their radios, which meant that the battalion would have no means of signalling HMS Arethusa to confirm whether the attack on the battery had been a success or failure.
Trying to take the battery in such circumstances seemed madness. But the men had no choice. The lives of thousands of British soldiers were relying on them to make it happen.
Lieutenant Colonel Terence Otway, the commanding officer, waited for as many men to arrive as possible before having no choice but to set off. By now, it was 0245 hours and just 150 out of a total of 640 men who had jumped were present. Gliders carrying further troops were due to land on the battery, promising to increase the ranks, but the men of 9th Battalion were not to know that one of the gliders had already crash-landed in England.
Moving through the hedgerows, the remains of the battalion made their way towards the battery. Reaching the outer perimeter, a small team cut the cattle wire and crawled on their hands and knees into the surrounding minefield so as to clear a path. Progress was slow, as without mine detectors they had to feel with their hands for anti-personnel mines and tripwires. When they found a wire, they cut the strands and moved forward cautiously. It was vital no one set one off. Not only would it be fatal for the man involved but it would also inform the German garrison that an attack was in progress.
As the men crawled through the minefield, they saw some of the Germans outside the battery smoking and talking. They were clearly unaware that British paratroopers were making their way towards them. For the paratroopers, the soldiers’ presence outside the battery was a good sign. The battery was not yet under lockdown.
But suddenly the Germans burst into urgent chatter. It seemed that one of the British gliders had crash-landed nearby, with all the occupants burnt to death. Inside, the Germans had found explosives, flamethrowers and pneumatic drills. Now they were well aware that they were under attack, while yet more much-needed British reinforcements had been lost. The odds against success for the paratroopers were rapidly increasing.
It was now approaching 0430 hours. The remaining gliders had still not appeared and it was starting to get light. With no time to waste, the breaching party placed their Bangalore torpedoes in the thick-coiled wire of the inner perimeter but were spotted by the now alert German garrison. With the enemy machine guns opening fire, the paratroopers raced for cover. Hiding behind trees, and in ditches, they suddenly saw a glider appear overhead, carrying vital reinforcements. But, just as it swooped low to land, an anti-aircraft tracer flashed through the sky and made a direct hit, forcing it to crash-land in the village of Merville. Soon another glider was under attack, with troops being shot as they sat in their seats and the aircraft set alight.
However, at 0445 hours, the air suddenly split with two almighty cracks. The Bangalore torpedoes had detonated and, as the explosives cleared a path, the sky filled with smoke and dust. Soon the remainder of the 9th Battalion were streaming towards the battery under heavy attack, racing across the minefield, setting off the explosives and getting torn apart as they did so.
As men fell to bullets and mines, some managed to reach the battery intact. To their surprise, they found that the steel doors at the back were partially open. Stuffing Mills bombs and sixty-six phosphorus grenades through the gaps, the sudden explosion, followed by the gas, saw the Germans come rushing out of the steel doors, gasping for breath. Now the way was clear for the paratroopers to get inside.
However, the equipment they needed to ensure the guns were destroyed had not arrived. They had to make do with stuffing them with plastic explosives and removing key parts, hoping to damage them beyond repair. By now, heavy German reinforcements were on their way to retake the battery. Meanwhile, the crew of HMS Arethusa had still not heard the codeword ‘Hammer’ to signify the guns had been taken. Having no choice, the ship was now beginning to turn its guns towards the battery, with the men of the 9th Battalion still in the area.
Time was pressing. The 9th Battalion needed to get away from the battery as soon as possible while also alerting the Arethusa that the mission had been a success. Without a radio link to the ship, they lit yellow candle flares in the hope that they would be spotted by Allied reconnaissance aircraft. A carrier pigeon, which had been transported in a cardboard container in the smock of a signals officer, was also released with a message that the battery had been taken.
Having done all that they could, the survivors tried to help their wounded colleagues to safety before they were all blown to smithereens. As they did so, the German reinforcements arrived, preventing them from escaping an area they thought might soon be blasted sky-high by their own ship. Engaging in hand-to-hand combat, darting behind trees and in ditches, the men did all they could to get as far away from the gun battery as possible.
Soon they heard the sound of guns erupting on Sword Beach. The largest armada ever assembled, nearly 6,000 ships, now lay off the Normandy coast. As the big guns from the warships pounded the beaches, landing craft moved forward, towards the coastline, carrying the first of 127,000 soldiers who would cross the beaches that day. Overhead, nearly 5,000 planes of all types, the largest air force ever put together, provided cover. The men looked to the Merville gun battery. It was silent. Despite their heavy losses, with just seventy-five men left from the 150 who commenced the attack, they took some comfort in knowing that they had achieved their mission against all conceivable odds. And it appeared their message had reached HMS Arethusa, whose guns did not open fire on them.
While the 9th Battalion had somehow achieved the impossible, D Company had spent the night holding the bridges, while coming under sustained attack. They had, however, managed to destroy the first tank that came their way with a PIAT gun, resulting in the tank blocking a T-junction, thus preventing movement between Benouville and Le Port and between Caen and the coast. It also sent a message to the German commanders that the British were present in great strength, which of course was not the case. Nevertheless, this bought D Company vital time.
As they continued to come under attack from German fighter-bombers, frogmen and soldiers, D Company saw them all off one by one until the commandos finally relieved them just after 1300 hours. To the men of D Company, this was nothing less than the arrival of the cavalry. ‘Everybody threw their rifles down,’ Sergeant Thornton reminisced, ‘and kissed and hugged each other, and I saw men with tears rolling down their cheeks. I did honestly. Probably I was the same. Oh dear, celebrations I shall never forget.’
The road to Caen was now open to the Allies, while the Germans were unable to get their tanks to the beaches.
Following these incredible missions, the surviving paratroopers had expected to be sent back home. However, most stayed in France for the weeks and months ahead, fighting as regular infantrymen and helping British forces finally take Caen in August and, eventually, destroy the German army, leading to the end of the Second World War. Without the incredible deeds of the paratroopers, it is debatable whether D-Day could have succeeded.
With the war soon to be over, Britain would still require the use of its special forces in the years to come. Operations in the Middle East would in time inspire the creation of one of the most elite special forces the world has ever known. And when London came under terrorist attack, it would be ready . . .
23
THE SAS
AD 1980
At 11.25 a.m., six Iranian revolutionaries, with scarves pulled tightly around their h
eads, ascended the steps of the Iranian Embassy at 16 Princes Gate in London. Their leader, Oan Ali Mohammed, stormed towards PC Trevor Lock, screaming, ‘Don’t move! Don’t Move!’ as he fired a deafening burst of machine-gun fire into the air.
Soon a major incident was underway, with flashing blue lights surrounding the embassy. On their arrival, the police found that the terrorists had taken twenty-six hostages and had a list of demands, these included: ‘our human and legitimate rights’; autonomy for ‘Arabistan’; the release of ninety-one Arabs being held in Iranian jails and safe passage for them out of Iran to the destination of their choice. Oan then stated that, if these demands were not met by noon on Thursday, 1 May, the embassy and all of its occupants would be blown up.
At this threat, the area was cordoned off, police marksmen took up positions in surrounding buildings and hostage negotiators attempted to establish contact with Oan. The press also flocked to the scene and soon the world was gripped by live reports of the hostage crisis. I can actually remember hearing of this incident while trudging through subzero temperatures during my Transglobe Expedition. In our communications camp, Ginny would listen to the BBC World Service and then radio us through the headlines. On that day, I recall her telling us that terrorists had stormed the Iranian Embassy. Like millions of others, I was shocked at the news, but I must confess it wasn’t on my mind for too long as I still had a good few hundred miles of ice-cold, treacherous terrain in front of me.
Yet, while I braved a windchill of minus 20, it did cross my mind that an agency I had once been a part of would no doubt be preparing itself, for this was just the type of situation in which they excelled. They were the SAS and this operation would soon see their name known throughout the world.
The Elite Page 28
