by Steve Holmes
Blomberg took over, pointing at central France with half of the pencil that Hitler had broken.
‘We have at least a dozen light infantry divisions…’
Hitler looked up and glared at Blomberg. His stare stopped him in his tracks.
‘Don’t guess, Herr Blomberg, the time for guessing is not now. I want to know exactly how many light infantry divisions we have there and how quickly they can get to Calais.’
Hitler had unnerved Blomberg. Beads of perspiration had appeared on his brow as he quickly calculated his numbers and spoke.
‘Fourteen, Fuhrer. Fourteen light infantry divisions in and around Central France, they can be in the area within twenty four hours.’
Adolf Hitler picked up the half pencil and began to take notes, scribbling down the number and names of each division. The generals remained passive and stood in stony silence for at least five minutes. At last Hitler gave his instructions.
‘I want these divisions to head immediately for Calais and Boulogne, these divisions to Dunkirk to provide support for our men who are already there.’ He tore off a small piece of paper.
‘21st, 22nd, 23rd and 24th Panzer Division are to head for Arras and wait for further instructions.’ Hitler traced his finger further down the map.
‘And this division here, which division is this?’
His finger lingered over the Limoges region of Western France. Blomberg looked down and checked on a notepad he held in his hand.
‘That, Fuhrer, is the 2nd SS Panzer Division stationed at a place called Oradour-sur-Glane.’
Hitler nodded… tapped his finger on the map.
‘Then mobilise them, send them to Arras with immediate effect.’
Some of the air crew were also laughing now but not sure why. Wing Commander Baker’s laugh was of the infectious type but almost as suddenly as he’d started he’d stopped again. He looked around the room.
‘Any questions, gentlemen?’ he grinned.
John Holmes raised his hand; he was smiling too but also a little confused.
‘Sir…’ He hesitated, unsure of whether to ask the question.
He swallowed hard and spoke.
‘I’m just not sure what’s so funny, Sir?’
Wing Commander Baker clapped his hands together and shrieked. ‘Ha! At last someone brave enough to ask the question.’
The Wing Commander walked back to the desk and picked up one of the larger images. It showed a huge concentration of tanks pointing towards the sea on the long flat beach at Deal in Kent.
‘Do you recall this photograph, gentlemen? That’s what I’m laughing at; I’m laughing because these tanks don’t exist.’
He’s lost his head thought John, I can see them with my own eyes… they do exist, they’re there in black and white.
Wing Commander Baker held the picture to his chest and pointed to a group of tanks on the photograph.
‘These tanks here are made of rubber.’ He moved his finger. ‘And these trucks and jeeps are made from balsa wood. They are what are commonly known as decoys.’
There was a collective gasp from the assembled men, a few murmurs, one or two even started clapping before the Wing Commander lifted his hand and signalled for silence once more.
‘But from the air or from a Jerry U-boat out in the English Channel they pass for the real thing.’ He placed the photograph on the desk and began to pace the front of the room. ‘We have these dummies in place right across south eastern England. We’ve sent phoney wireless signals to Calais that have been intercepted by the Germans, even sent men into the town to change the road signs and blasted the rail lines to pieces.’
George Tickner raised his hand to ask a question.
‘Yes, Flying Officer.’
‘Sir, you mentioned earlier on that 167 Squadron had been busy dropping panniers and containers, I assume the Horsas were full of men too.’
The Wing Commander shook his head.
‘Empty Sergeant. Empty boxes and empty planes dropped in an area where we know the Germans will stumble across them. And when Jerry do find them they’ll put two and two together and make five and automatically assume that the area is awash with Allied troops, weapons and mortars.’
John Holmes was stunned. He’d covered his open mouth with his fist as the magnitude of the hoax gradually sank in.
Quicksilver, as it was named, was the brainchild of Colonel David Strangeways, Montgomery’s deception officer, and carried out under his supervision. The operation was intended to show military units and hardware massing in south-eastern England. He’d also put together false reports which he allowed to fall into a German double agent’s hands. The alleged stolen documents described the closely guarded invasion plan of Calais, Boulogne and Dunkirk but were carefully constructed so as not to arouse suspicion. In actual fact the real tanks and military hardware were already in place further along the coast, carefully concealed in the forests of Sussex, Dorset and Hampshire together with over 150,000 troops. A flotilla of nearly 5,000 boats, ships and small craft had also been instructed to head for various locations on the south coast.
Mark Azouz raised his hand in the air and asked Wing Commander Baker if there was going to be an invasion of France and if so where and when. The Wing Commander simply gathered his paperwork together and made an elegant but hasty exit towards the doors at the rear of the gym. As he walked past the puzzled and astonished men he was prompted again, this time by Lofty Matthews.
‘You’ll know soon enough chaps,’ he said. ‘You’ll know soon enough.’
On June 4th in Oradour-sur-Glane, Henri-Pierre Raynaud and Pierre-Henri Poutaraud had made their way under the cover of darkness to the house of their good friend, Louis-Leonard Chapelot. A meeting had been hastily arranged early that afternoon.
‘What is it that is so urgent?’ asked Henri-Pierre as he walked into the small kitchen of Monsieur Chapelot’s house.
‘Be patient Henri-Pierre, let us take a coffee, perhaps something a little stronger. We have much work to do.’
Louis-Leonard Chapelot spoke about the recent developments and the reports from the other side of the channel that had filtered through to the key personnel in the French Resistance. He explained to his two grinning colleagues that the invasion of France by the Allies was only a few days away. He’d also had his sleepers report to him that the 2nd SS Panzer Division based in the village appeared to be getting ready to move out.
‘They are preparing to head north my friends, they are on their way to the beaches of the north.’
‘And good riddance I say,’ said Pierre, ‘fuck the lot of them. I hope they get cut to ribbons with our friends’ bullets and shells.’
Chapelot wagged his finger.
‘No, no, no my friend, you do not understand, we must keep them here, pin them down. The less Panzer Divisions that make it to the beaches of northern France the better.’
‘So we keep them here, we keep that scum in our village?’
‘Yes.’
‘For how long?’
‘For as long as it takes for our Allies to establish a foothold. The Germans are already in disarray, they are fighting on too many fronts. Can you not feel their anger as you walk past them in the village?’
Pierre-Henri Poutaraud picked up a glass of the red wine that his host had poured out for the three of them. He took a drink and spoke.
‘Yes I feel it. I feel it every time I encounter them and I feel we are fighting a desperate enemy. But if the reports filtering through are correct it will not be too long before our country is free once more.’
‘That may be the case but we must continue to inflict more damage.’
Henri-Pierre Chapelot stood up and walked from the room. A little later he returned with a roughly sketched map of the area. He laid it flat on the kitchen table.
‘Gentlemen if you look at this map you will see where we are and also the road to Limoges. The blue crosses marked on the map indicate the six German Battalions station
ed within a hundred mile radius.’ He let out a sigh.
‘But it is the red cross marked approximately seventeen kilometres from Limoges just off the main road we must concentrate on.’ He looked up from the map. ‘We must take it out.’
The two men waited patiently for more details.
‘It’s a German fuel dump,’ Chapelot continued, ‘and if our information is correct then this fuel dump services not only the 2nd SS Panzer Division but also most of the other battalions too.’
Chapelot drained the last of his wine and proceeded to replenish the three glasses.
‘And after we have set fire to every litre of fuel in that dump we need to disable the bridges here,’ he pointed to the map, ‘and here. If we succeed there’ll be no way that the 2nd SS Panzer Division will ever make it anywhere near our northern beaches.’
Henri-Pierre Chapelot’s men were pleasantly surprised during the course of the hours they had studied the movements of the half dozen German sentries who patrolled the perimeter fence of the fuel dump north of Limoges. For once the Germans appeared lackadaisical and even casual in the application of their duties. They relied on the rather remote location of the farm they had taken over in 1941. It had never once been attacked and they assumed it simply hadn’t been discovered. It lay at the end of a single track road facing east which was always patrolled by two guards. Chapelot’s men went in from the West side across several acres of vineyards. The vines were well on their way to producing that year’s crop, perfect cover to get within a few metres of the fence. The fencing was neither alarmed nor electrified; two men opened up a gap with hand held bolt clippers and were through within a few minutes. After they’d gone, Chapelot and another man closed up the gap with wire and slipped back in between the vines.
The men worked quickly and located the main supply of fuel, ten huge tanks with taps fitted and surrounded by large drums. Two metres away lay more manageable containers. The depot seemed to be in darkness, most of the guards fast asleep inside the converted farmhouse. They waited until two of the guards had drifted aimlessly by on the other side of the fence then opened up all the taps. The fuel spilled noisily onto the dusty ground. They then opened up two of the smaller containers, held them in their arms and began walking backwards to the damaged fence laying a trail of petrol in their wake.
As they approached the fence they stopped, whistled to simulate the hoot of an owl. A few seconds later the signal was returned and they knew it was safe to move. They breached the fence once again and continued to pour the line of fuel deep into the vineyard.
The night was silent and calm and Chapelot peered over the top of the vines.
‘All clear,’ he said to the young man ready to strike the match. ‘Go.’
The young man grinned as he lit the match and threw it to the floor. They watched on in amazement as the fuel took hold and all of a sudden a line of fire burst through the vineyard and surged towards the fence. Chapelot signalled.
‘Come, let’s go, all hell will break loose in two seconds flat.’
Chapelot had miscalculated slightly. It took about thirty seconds before the first tank exploded. By this time the small group of men were already out of the first vineyard and racing towards the forest beyond. One by one the huge tanks exploded; the intense heat blew up the drums and the containers too and balls of burning oil and fuel fell onto the barracks that housed the so called protectors of the depot. Within the hour there wasn’t a single drop of fuel anywhere within the compound.
At 02.30 Pierre-Henri Poutaraud’s men disabled the bridge on the outskirts of Oradour-sur-Glane and forty minutes later a team led by Henri-Pierre Raynaud blew up the bridge at Saint-Junien. The 2nd Waffen SS Panzer Division was effectively stranded.
CHAPTER TWELVE
George Tickner walked with John across the airfield towards the Sergeants’ Mess. Patch walked dutifully behind, never more than a few yards from the heels of his new master. John pointed ahead.
‘Isn’t that Lofty Matthews, George?’
‘I do believe it is. Give him a shout, he must be on his way to breakfast too.’
The men shouted after him and Lofty turned around to acknowledge them. He waited until they caught up.
‘Morning Lofty.’
‘Morning chaps, not a bad morning for England but what bloody time of day is this to have breakfast?’
The RAF had moved breakfast on 5th June 1944. It was now more of a brunch, 11am, with plenty of fried food and more coffee pots than tea urns. It meant only one thing.
‘Night exercises, I bloody hate them,’ said Lofty Matthews. ‘It buggers up the whole body clock, don’t know when to eat, when to sleep or even what time to shit.’
The other two men laughed.
‘It’s true, it buggers your whole system up for days. It’s not natural to be nocturnal.’
The sight that greeted the three friends in the mess hall rendered them speechless at least for a few seconds.
A RAF corporal stood at the front of the big dining hall trying to monitor the mass of bodies and retain some sort of order. He looked at the three men as they walked in.
‘It’ll be another ten minutes, chaps, before I can get you a seat, is that okay?’
John nodded. Lofty let out a gasp. The large dining facility was never very full even on a busy day at the peak of the breakfast rush, 100, perhaps 120 dining at any one time. Today the dining room was crowded with men, packed to the gunnels.
‘Jesus fucking Christ when did this lot arrive?’
The corporal grinned. ‘Through the night when you lot were fast asleep.’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Tickner. ‘I haven’t seen this many paratroopers in my life.’
The corporal checked his watch.
‘You’ve a briefing at noon, we should have you out of here by then… just. What crew are you chaps with?’ The corporal picked up a clipboard and studied the list of the crews.
‘Vanrenen, Tickner, Prowd.’ The men answered individually in turn.
The corporal scanned the sheets with a pencil as he located each pilot.
‘You crews are altogether, 23 of you in the north gym. 12 noon, don’t be late.’
John Holmes didn’t feel too much like a hearty breakfast; the sheer scale of the operation became apparent as paratroopers poured through the double doors of the dining room as they ate. Patch sat under the table, more than happy with the extra food coming his way. When they finished and walked outside at least another 500 stood patiently in a queue and thousands of them walked around aimlessly with no apparent purpose. Sure enough some of them confirmed they’d been brought in during the cover of darkness, another described army and police road blocks outside the base and the town of Trowbridge had been effectively sealed off.
Twenty three crews sat in the same converted gym that they’d sat in two days prior and the briefing commenced. Again, it was the same Wing Commander who’d relayed information about rubber tanks and wooden trucks two days before. This time there were no smiles, no humour. His face was stern; he could not have been more serious as he described the scale of the operation and the role 196 Squadron would play. The Wing Commander spoke.
‘Operation Overlord is one that will go down in history.’ He leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk. ‘Gentlemen… I am honoured that 196 Squadron will play a major role. In fact if you chaps fuck up then we’re done for.’
‘No pressure then,’ called out one man from the back which brought a peal of laughter from the assembled men.
‘Gentlemen… prepare yourself for the longest day of your lives. We commence the Allied invasion of France with the first part of Operation Overlord. We’ve about 2,500 paratroopers of the British Army stationed on or around the vicinity of this airfield and our job is to drop them safely inside enemy territory about five miles from the French coastline.’
Wing Commander Baker reached up with a hooked stick and placed the hook in a brass ring suspended from the ceiling. He pull
ed down and a large map unfurled. He let the men of 196 Squadron take it in for a moment.
John studied the imagery, they were flying into Normandy. He looked at the places marked on the map, he saw places called Cherbourg and Caen and something marked in heavy black pencil called Sword Beach. At the bottom of the map marked in red it said Operation Tonga.
Wing Commander Baker braced himself and prepared for the briefing speech of his life.
‘Men… The name of the airborne part of the operation is called Operation Tonga. We will be landing troops in Normandy. Each crew will be flying two or even three night time missions and we will commence our first flights at around midnight. It is imperative that we get our troops on the ground before first light.’
John Holmes couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Two or three ops in a row, Jesus, he thought, this is big.
‘We will be landing men on the eastern flank of the invasion area, near to the city of Caen. The paratroopers’ prime objective is to secure this bridge.’ He pointed to the centre of the map and a thin grey line over the Caen Canal.
‘The Germans think we are landing in and around Calais but they will quickly discover they’ve been duped. But you can rest assured that the Hun will try and hot foot it over to Normandy just as soon as they can. The men that we are dropping will stop them but it’s important that we have as many of them as possible on the ground so they can dig in and secure bridges of strategic importance, bridges like the Caen canal and here… on the Orne River.’
Wing Commander Baker asked if there were any questions and Lofty raised his hand.
‘How many paratroopers are we dropping, Sir?’
Wing Commander Baker raised an eyebrow but nevertheless decided to answer the question. It wasn’t the time to keep the men in the dark. They needed to know the scale of the operation and they needed to be aware of exactly how important their task was.
