My God, thought Dietrich, headquarters duty may be just as dangerous as being at the front. But at least I won't have to go through another of those ghastly Russian winters.
And, oh, yes, von Kluge did decide to move the two Panzer divisions from the west to face the British threat. He guessed wrong. Rommel had been right: the western sections of the German lines were in peril.
Just four days later, after the Panzers had been transferred eastward toward Caen, Dietrich received a puzzling message from the western end of the front, near St. Lô. Elements of the American army were beginning to withdraw, even though the German army was applying no pressure. “Im Westen, Nichts neues,” thought Dietrich: “All Quiet on the Western Front.”
He would not be puzzled for long. The next morning, the quiet was shattered. Wave after wave of Allied aircraft—almost 3,000 in total—began laying a carpet of bombs on the German army facing St. Lô. The purpose of the American tactical withdrawal now became clear: to prevent a repeat of the accidents of preceding days, when a combination of bad weather and poor navigation had led American planes to bomb their own troops. The new attack devastated the German defenses. Every tank in the forward area was destroyed, many being tossed through the air as if they were Patton's inflatable decoys. Through the gap, American tanks began their rush.
Von Kluge's staff meeting was tense. How quickly should they make their stand, and where? Following the Führer's standing orders, von Kluge sent a curt message to the front: No one is to retreat. Dietrich was appalled by the reply:
Every one is holding out. Not a single man is leaving his post! Not one! Because they're all dead. Dead! You may report to the Field Marshal that the Panzer Lehr division has been annihilated.
Even though Dietrich had served in Russia with von Kluge, he decided that it was wise to keep this reply in his pocket. He reported only that the division was being overrun and was in imminent danger of disintegrating.
The Führer's order to stand firm was irrelevant. Within a few days, American tanks advanced 25 miles to Avranches, a seaside town at the base of the Normandy Peninsula. In the vanguard was Patton, who had left his phantom army in England and was now in charge of flesh-and-blood troops and real steel. Ignoring orders to post a strong defense on his left flank, he pushed two infantry and two armored divisions across a single bridge within 24 hours—about 80,000 men—with three more divisions following within the next two days. They fanned out into the open countryside, moving westward into the Brittany Peninsula with its ports, southward toward the heart of France, and eastward towards Paris. They thereby cut off German access to the whole of the northwestern quadrant of France.
After weeks of grinding struggle, the battle of Normandy was coming to a sudden end. The battle for central France was opening—and beyond that, the battle for the Third Reich itself.
23
Headlong Into the Trap
There is only one extremist and that is Hitler himself.
German aristocrat Ewald von Kleist-Schmenzin, attempting to disabuse the British Foreign Office of their illusion,
in the weeks before Munich (1938), that Hitler was a passive leader being egged on by “extremists.”
At Headquarters, Army Group West, panic was setting in. Von Kluge was increasingly depressed by his quarreling generals, and took solace in one-on-one conversations with Dietrich. Von Kluge faced an urgent question: where could he make a stand? But his defensive plans were brushed aside when the Führer, from the isolated depths of his Wolfsschanze (Wolf's Lair) in East Prussia, saw an opportunity where others saw only peril. He ordered his forces to attack westward toward Avranches, to cut the narrow corridor through which Patton's tanks were rushing. “We must strike like lightning,” he urged von Kluge. There must be a “bold and unhesitating thrust” to the sea. Hitler emphasized the stakes in the coming attack: “On its success depends the fate of the battle of France.”
With Hitler's orders came an unwelcome guest: a senior member of the German General Staff, to “observe” von Kluge. Was this just an indication of the Führer's waning confidence in his Field Marshall? Or was it a hint that von Kluge was now suspected of treason, of complicity in the plot against Hitler's life? As Dietrich was already well aware of von Kluge's contacts with the conspirators, von Kluge had little to lose by being frank with his subordinate.
“How can we possibly follow this order? If we do, we'll be delivering ourselves into our enemy's hands. We'll be rushing headlong into the American trap. They'll swing north, behind us, and link up with the British.”
“But, sir, with our new 'guest,' we can't use the most obvious ruse. We can't pretend we didn't get the order. With all the people at headquarters, we wouldn't get away with it, anyhow.”
“Then what are my alternatives? I could ignore Hitler's command and attempt an orderly withdrawal.”
“There's a powerful case to do that, sir. It's a fundamental of blitzkrieg: if we rush at our enemy, with insufficient forces to protect our flanks, we'll be blundering into a trap; we'll be surrounded. For the sake of our men, we should be setting up a tenable defense. But I should point out, sir, that I can't advise you to defy the Führer's direct order.” By now, Dietrich was becoming accustomed to the desperation around headquarters and added, “Of course, I'm not sure that I know what it's like to be a field marshal.”
“Ah, so field marshals are entitled to defy orders?” Von Kluge was trying to salvage a bit of humor from the gloomy outlook.
“Not exactly, sir.” Dietrich still did not feel comfortable enough to banter with his boss. “But field marshals do have some leeway in interpreting orders in light of the situation at the front.”
“Not in this case. Not with our new little guest. He's here to have me removed if I waver. I don't see how I have any alternative; it wouldn't make any difference. If I don't order the attack, they'll get somebody who will. But if we're going to attack, the sooner, the better. The fewer Americans we'll have at our backs.”
Dietrich took this as a decision; he said nothing. Von Kluge summed up.
“It's incredible: blissfully planning an attack while Patton is rushing along our southern flank, eagerly forming a noose to strangle us.”
The German plan was to drive down the valley of the River Sée toward the ocean, spearheaded by the 1st SS Panzers—the heretofore invincible Adolph Hitler Division. The plan was not entirely without hope of success. Patton had skimped on the defenses on his flank. His situation was less precarious than it seemed, however, because Eisenhower had assured him that his army could be temporarily resupplied by air if it were cut off.
The stripped American defenses proved surprisingly resilient. On high ground overlooking the Sée Valley, American infantry were dug in, supported by assault guns. On the second morning of the German attack, the U.S. Second Armored Division launched a counterattack after materializing, according to a contemporary account, “out of thin air”—the thin air being supplied by top-secret Enigma intercepts. To compound their woes, Nazi tanks were repeatedly stung by hornets from the sky: American Thunderbolts and British Typhoons hurling their rockets earthward.
Having stopped von Kluge's thrust, Bradley and Patton saw the chance of which they had dreamt, and which had given von Kluge and Dietrich nightmares. Aware of Hitler's orders committing his Panzers to a full-scale westward assault, Patton reinforced his armor racing eastward along the German left flank. His tanks then swung north toward Falaise in a classic armored maneuver: a great hooking move to encircle the German armies.
As a precaution, Dietrich had approached an old friend from the Russian front—Lt. Jurg Bock, a communications expert. Through him, he arranged backdoor communications to other old comrades from the Russian front who were now serving in Hitler's command post in East Prussia. “Little Sir Echo,” he called Lt. Bock, borrowing from a song he had been taught many years ago by an English nanny. Bock sadly reported the Führer's reaction: a cold fury that the German counterattack had failed because von Klug
e wanted it to fail.
6 August 1944. With Canadian/Polish forces south of Caen.
Kaz and Swann dropped by the operations office early in the afternoon to see the most recent aerial reconnaissance pictures, hoping to find a place where their “starburst” tactic might be tested. After flipping through hundreds of pictures, Swann whistled softly and handed a photograph to Kaz. He could not have invented a better location. There was nothing special about the road running through the middle of the picture, a typical French country lane with straight stretches of several hundred yards interrupted by mild curves.
Rather, it was what lay on the sides of the road that made for an ideal location. For 100 yards on either side was a young pine forest—trees of approximately the same age and height, perhaps the result of a reforestation program, perhaps natural growth when farmers abandoned the cultivation of infertile land. As far as Kaz could tell, most of the trees were about 20 feet high, quite adequate to hide a Sherman, but small enough that they could easily be pushed over without impeding the progress of a tank.
Swann delicately raised the question of who would go where in the formation. It was Swann's squadron, but Kaz held the senior rank. Any awkwardness was avoided, however, when Kaz informed him of the explicit understanding when he had asked to maneuver with the Canadians: the Canadian officers, regardless of their rank, were to be in command; he was there simply as a guest to observe current battlefield tactics. This made sense to Kaz, and he had readily agreed. He knew the importance of esprit de corps. He didn't want, as an outsider, to be giving orders to resentful tankers in a language that was not his mother tongue.
As the squadron leader, Swann would take the command position at the base of the star, at 6 o'clock. He offered Kaz the 11 o'clock position—one of the two best locations to get a killing shot at any adversary they might meet. Kaz also noticed that Swann was taking the most exposed position, where he was most likely to be knocked out by a Tiger. The other four positions were filled out by the rest of Swann's squadron.
They did not begin their foray until 16:00; they wanted to go over details with their whole squadron. As they started out, they would stay quite close together, so that they could communicate with hand signals and maintain radio silence. They would either keep in line, when they were in a confined area, or spread out closely side by side, where the terrain permitted. Two jeeps—eight soldiers with assorted bazookas, machine guns, and rifles—would follow closely behind.
When they got to their target area at the beginning of the pines, they spread out side by side, with Kaz and Windsor to the left of the road. Shonberg stayed on the road, slightly behind and to the right of Swann, with Martyn off to the right.
They proceeded slowly, at about 10 m.p.h., without event for about half an hour. Kaz wasn't sure whether he was disappointed or relieved by the absence of an enemy. Then suddenly, as they rounded a bend, Swann was terrified by the picture 200 yards ahead. From its huge size and massive turret, he recognized a Tiger. Fortunately, the German's turret was pointed to the side, and only slowly began to swing towards Swann. Swann got off one quick shot, which ricocheted harmlessly off the side of the Tiger's turret with a low, whistling sound. Swann ducked down into the tank and slammed the hatch—just in time, as machine-gun bullets raked his turret. His terrified driver headed for the ditch on the left. Swann couldn't believe his luck. The ditch was deep enough to hide his tank from the German's line of fire, but he could still see the action from his periscope.
Shonberg headed for the ditch on the other side, as did the two jeeps. But Shonberg was not quite so lucky. Before he got completely down into the protection of the ditch, the Tiger fired. The shell hit a glancing blow, not penetrating the tank. Shonberg was almost immediately on the radio:
“Just a flesh wound, chaps. We're OK, but there's so much ringing in our ears we can't hear a thing. We'll stay off the air until we get our hearing back. Once Jerry rotates his turret in another direction, we'll head for our assigned 4 o'clock position.”
Apparently Shonberg was by now also in a protected position where he could observe the German from his periscope without presenting a target.
But the German was bearing down on Swann and Shonberg. Not very fast—he had slowed to 5 m.p.h.—but inexorably. Swann was sweating profusely. He would soon be exposed to the German fire, and he was trapped in a place where he couldn't move.
“We need help. Quick. Can anybody get off a shot to distract the Tiger?”
“Coming up, cap'n.” Martyn was by now about even with the Tiger. There was a thinning in the woods that gave him a clear view of the German. He fired a round, which again deflected harmlessly off the Tiger's turret. He recognized his mistake—his next shot would be lower and to the left, where the side armor ended and the wheels and treads were exposed and vulnerable.
The German commander apparently realized his peril; he began to back up along the road. His turret was turning to the left, towards his tormentor. Martyn decided that he had better get out of the German's sight. Quickly. Rather than take a second shot, he moved forward, to a much heavier section of pines. But he was not safe. The German could see the tops of the pines bend as Martyn proceeded, and knew his approximate position. There was a sharp report as the German's 88 fired. The shell sheared off one of the pines neatly, just to the rear of the Sherman. Martyn ordered his driver to stop, to avoid giving the German any better idea of where he was. The next 88 shell passed about 15 feet in front of his tank. It was now Martyn's turn to shout over the radio for help.
Kaz had meanwhile found a trail, made by trucks or tractors, through the pines, about 75 yards to the left of the road and parallel to it. He accelerated rapidly down this path, without fear of giving away his position. By the time he heard Martyn's shout for help, he figured that he was beyond the German tank. He swung his Sherman sharply to the right and headed for the road.
As he came to a sparse section of trees, he could scarcely believe his eyes. There, only thirty yards in front of him, was the fattest target he had ever seen—the rear of the Tiger. He did not have to give his gunner an order; he had already pressed “fire.”
The shell struck home. But there was none of the smoke and fire that Kaz expected from the Tiger's engine. Kaz's crew was already reloading; the German's turret was turning away from Martyn and toward him. It was then that Kaz discovered, to his great relief, one of the few defects of the Tiger: its turret was severely underpowered and could be rotated only with excruciatingly slow motion.
The Sherman fired again, this time achieving the desired result. Wisps of smoke began to appear from the Tiger's engine, and the rotating turret slowed to a halt. Over the radio, Kaz could hear cheers from several of the other tanks. But he wanted to make sure.
“Fire!”
With the third shot, greasy smoke billowed from the Tiger's engine. The hatches swung open, and the crew began to bail out. As their feet hit the ground, a rapid series of rifle shots rang out, and the German crew collapsed to the ground. In the middle of the tank action, the infantrymen had moved through the edge of the woods, where they had pointblank shots at the Germans.
Kaz wanted to make sure that there would be nothing left of the Tiger for the Germans to salvage from no-man's land. He ordered his gunner to fire again.
With the next shot, the smoke thickened and began to billow out of the main hatch. Kaz raised his hatch for a better look at the dying Tiger. Suddenly, there was an explosion. One of the shells inside the Tiger had gone off. A round black puff belched from the hatch. It rose slowly in a tight circle, reminding Kaz of the smoke rings that his grandfather, rocking contentedly by the stove with his pipe, used to demonstrate for his awed young grandson.
It was followed, in quick succession, by four or five more puffs. Then came a major explosion, blowing off the turret. They wouldn't have to worry about the Germans salvaging that Tiger.
Swann ordered the tanks to resume their formation, and proceeded cautiously down the road about a mil
e in search of additional victims. But it would soon be dusk.
“The Tiger hunt is over,” Swann announced over the radio, indicating that the time had come to return to their base.
On the way back, Kaz thought back over the action. He mused on the peculiar rules of war. When a warship is sunk, the crews, having taken to lifeboats, are simply not to be attacked; they are out of combat, and, if the perils of the moment permit, they are to be picked up rather than left to perish slowly in the cruel sea. Armored land warfare is quite different: crews bailing out of tanks are fair game. Perhaps the difference is the speed with which a tank crew can be equipped with a new tank and once again become a mortal enemy. Perhaps it is because naval warfare is fought at greater distances. Combatants rarely see their adversaries face to face; they are not attacking flesh-and-blood enemies, but the steel of a destroyer, cruiser, or battleship. The conflict is less personal and less hate-filled. Battleship crews are taught gunnery, the skills needed to hit a dimly seen target ten or even twenty miles away. Infantry, in contrast, begin their training with running charges, shouting “kill” as they plunge their bayonets into limp dummies.
Then, thought Kaz, there is the nasty business of fighter pilots. In the officers' mess back in England, he had heard stories of pilots who had bailed out, being machine gunned as they floated helplessly down. It was a barbaric act, but it was done. Not very frequently—German air crews were too busy trying to survive—but just often enough that pilots had begun to fall freely and not pull the ripcord until they were a thousand feet off the ground. At that height, they wouldn't have much choice of a landing spot, but it was better than the alternative.
That evening, they were told to get a good night's sleep, even sleep in past noon if they wanted. There would be a briefing the next day at 15:00 hrs. on an upcoming operation the following night.
THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel Page 30
