The Longest Day

by Cornelius Ryan

  In the midst of their discussion, the phone rang. The conversation ceased as Marcks picked up the receiver. Hayn recalls that “as he listened, the General’s body seemed to stiffen.” Marcks motioned to his chief of staff to pick up the extension phone. The man who was calling was Major General Wilhelm Richter, commander of the 716th Division, holding the coast above Caen. “Parachutists have landed east of the Orne,” Richter told Marcks. “The area seems to be around Bréville and Ranville … along the northern fringe of the Bavent Forest….”

  This was the first official report of the Allied attack to reach a major German headquarters. “It struck us,” Hayn says, “like lightning.” The time was 2:11 A.M. (British Double Summer Time).

  Marcks immediately telephoned Major General Max Pemsel, chief of staff of the Seventh Army. At 2:15 A.M., Pemsel placed the Seventh on Alarmstruffe II, the highest state of readiness. It was four hours since the second Verlaine message had been intercepted. Now at last the Seventh Army, in whose area the invasion had already begun, had been alerted.

  Pemsel was taking no chances. He wakened the Seventh’s commanding officer, Colonel General Friedrich Dollmann. “General,” said Pemsel, “I believe this is the invasion. Will you please come over immediately?”

  As he put down the phone, Pemsel suddenly remembered something. Among a sheaf of intelligence bulletins that had come in during the afternoon, one had been from an agent in Casablanca. He had specifically stated that the invasion would take place in Normandy on June 6.

  As Pemsel waited for Dollmann to arrive, the 84th Corps reported again: “… Parachute drops near Montebourg and St.-Marcouf [on the Cherbourg peninsula] … Troops partly already engaged in battle.”* Pemsel promptly called Rommel’s chief of staff, Major General Dr. Hans Speidel at Army Group B. It was 2:35 A.M.

  At about the same time, General Hans Von Salmuth, from his Fifteenth Army headquarters near the Belgian border, was trying to get some firsthand information. Although the bulk of his army was far removed from the airborne attacks, one division, Major General Josef Reichert’s 711th, held positions east of the Orne River on the boundary line between the Seventh and Fifteenth armies. Several messages had come in from the 711th. One reported that paratroopers actually were landing near the headquarters at Cabourg; a second announced that fighting was going on all around the command post.

  Von Salmuth decided to find out for himself. He rang Reichert. “What the devil is going on down there?” Von Salmuth demanded.

  “My General,” came Reichert’s harassed voice on the other end of the wire, “if you’ll permit me, I’ll let you hear for yourself.” There was a pause, and then Von Salmuth could clearly hear the clatter of machine-gun fire.

  “Thank you,” said Von Salmuth, and he hung up. Immediately he, too, called Army Group B, reporting that at the 711th’s headquarters “the din of battle can be heard.”

  Pemsel’s and Von Salmuth’s calls, arriving almost simultaneously, gave Rommel’s headquarters the first news of the Allied attack. Was it the long-expected invasion? Nobody at Army Group B at this time was prepared to say. In fact, Rommel’s naval aide, Vice Admiral Friedrich Ruge, distinctly remembers that as more reports came in of airborne troops “some said they were only dolls disguised as paratroopers.”

  Whoever made the observation was partly right. To add to the German confusion, the Allies had dropped hundreds of lifelike rubber dummies, dressed as paratroopers, south of the Normandy invasion area. Attached to each were strings of firecrackers which exploded on landing, giving the impression of a small-arms fight. For more than three hours a few of these dummies were to deceive General Marcks into believing that paratroopers had landed at Lessay, some twenty-five miles southwest of his headquarters.

  These were strange, confusing minutes for Von Rundstedt’s staff at OB West in Paris and for Rommel’s officers at La Roche-Guyon. Reports came piling in from everywhere—reports that were often inaccurate, sometimes incomprehensible and always contradictory.

  Luftwaffe headquarters in Paris announced that “fifty to sixty two-engined planes are coming in” over the Cherbourg peninsula and that paratroopers had landed “near Caen.” Admiral Theodor Krancke’s headquarters—Marinegruppenkommando West—confirmed the British paratroop landings, nervously pointed out that the enemy had fallen close to one of their coastal batteries, and then added that “part of the parachute drop consists of straw dummies.” Neither report mentioned the Americans on the Cherbourg peninsula—yet at this time one of the naval batteries at St.-Marcouf, just above Utah Beach, had informed Cherbourg headquarters that a dozen Americans had been captured. Within minutes of their first message, the Luftwaffe phoned in another bulletin. Parachutists, they said, were down near Bayeux. Actually none had landed there at all.

  At both headquarters men tried desperately to evaluate the rash of red spots sprouting over their maps. Officers at Army Group B rang their opposite numbers at OB West, hashed the situation over and came up with conclusions many of which, in the light of what was actually happening, seem incredible. When OB West’s acting intelligence officer, Major Doertenbach, called Army Group B for a report, for example, he was told that “the Chief of Staff views the situation with equanimity” and that “there is a possibility that parachutists who have been reported are merely bailed-out bomber crews.”

  The Seventh Army didn’t think so. By 3:00 A.M., Pemsel was convinced that the Schwerpunkt—the main thrust—was driving into Normandy. His maps showed paratroopers at each end of the Seventh’s area—on the Cherbourg peninsula and east of the Orne. Now, too, there were alarming reports from naval stations at Cherbourg. Using sound direction apparatus and some radar equipment, the stations were picking up ships maneuvering in the bay of the Seine.

  There was no doubt now in Pemsel’s mind—the invasion was on. He called Speidel. “The air landings,” Pemsel said, “constitute the first phase of a larger enemy action.” Then he added, “Engine noises are audible from out at sea.” But Pemsel could not convince Rommel’s chief of staff. Speidel’s answer, as recorded in the Seventh Army telephone log, was that “the affair is still locally confined.” The estimate that he gave Pemsel at this time was summarized in the war diary and reads: “Chief of Staff Army Group B believes that for the time being this is not to be considered as a large operation.”

  Even as Pemsel and Speidel talked, the last paratroopers of the eighteen-thousand-man airborne assault were floating down over the Cherbourg peninsula. Sixty-nine gliders, carrying men, guns and heavy equipment, were just crossing the coast of France, headed for the British landing areas near Ranville. And twelve miles off Normandy’s five invasion beaches, the Ancon, headquarters ship of Task Force O, under the command of Rear Admiral John L. Hall, dropped anchor. Lining up behind her were the transports carrying the men who would land in the first wave on Omaha Beach.

  But at La Roche-Guyon there was still nothing to indicate the immensity of the Allied attack, and in Paris, OB West endorsed Speidel’s first estimate of the situation. Rundstedt’s able operations chief, Lieutenant General Bodo Zimmermann, informed of Speidel’s conversation with Pemsel, sent back a message agreeing with Speidel: “Operations OB West holds that this is not a large-scale airborne operation, all the more because Admiral Channel Coast (Krancke’s headquarters) has reported that the enemy has dropped straw dummies.”

  These officers can hardly be blamed for being so utterly confused. They were miles away from the actual fighting, entirely dependent on the reports coming in. These were so spotty and so misleading that even the most experienced officers found it impossible to gauge the magnitude of the airborne assault—or, for that matter, to see an overall pattern emerging from the Allied attacks. If this was the invasion, was it aimed at Normandy? Only the Seventh Army seemed to think so. Perhaps the paratroop attacks were simply a diversion intended to draw attention from the real invasion—against General Hans von Salmuth’s massive Fifteenth Army in the Pas-de-Calais, where nearly everybody thou
ght the Allies would strike. The Fifteenth’s chief of staff, Major General Rudolf Hofmann was so sure the main attack would come in the Fifteenth’s area that he called Pemsel and bet him a dinner that he was right. “This is one bet you’re going to lose,” said Pemsel. Yet at this time neither Army Group B nor OB West had sufficient evidence to draw any conclusions. They alerted the invasion coast and ordered measures taken against the paratroop attacks. Then everybody waited for more information. There was little else they could do.

  By now, messages were flooding into command posts all over Normandy. One of the first problems for some of the divisions was to find their own commanders—the generals who had already left for the Kriegsspiel in Rennes. Although most of them were located quickly, two—Lieutenant General Karl von Schlieben and Major General Wilhelm Falley, both commanding divisions in the Cherbourg peninsula—couldn’t be found. Von Schlieben was asleep in his hotel in Rennes and Falley was still en route there by car.

  Admiral Krancke, the naval commander in the west, was on an inspection trip to Bordeaux. His chief of staff awakened him in his hotel room. “Paratroop landings are taking place near Caen,” Krancke was informed. “OB West insists that this is only a diversionary attack and not the real invasion, but we’re picking up ships. We think it’s the real thing.” Krancke immediately alerted the few naval forces he had and then quickly set out for his headquarters in Paris.

  One of the men who got his orders at Le Havre was already a legend in the German Navy. Lieutenant Commander Heinrich Hoffmann had made his name as an E-boat commander. Almost from the beginning of the war, his speedy, powerful flotillas of torpedo craft had ranged up and down the English Channel, attacking shipping wherever they found it. Hoffmann also had been in action during the Dieppe raid and had boldly escorted the German battleships Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Prinz Eugen in their dramatic dash from Brest to Norway in 1942.

  When the message from headquarters came in, Hoffmann was in the cabin of T-28, the lead E-boat of his 5th Flotilla, preparing to go out on a mine-laying operation. Immediately he called together the commanders of the other boats. They were all young men, and although Hoffmann told them that “this must be the invasion,” it did not surprise them. They had expected it. Only three of his six boats were ready, but Hoffmann could not wait for the others to be loaded with torpedoes. A few minutes later the three small boats left Le Havre. On the bridge of T-28, his white sailor’s cap pushed back on his head as usual, the thirty-four-year-old Hoffmann peered out into the darkness. Behind him, the two little boats bounced along in Indian file, following the lead boat’s every maneuver. They raced through the night at more than twenty-three knots—blindly heading straight toward the mightiest fleet ever assembled.

  At least they were in action. Probably the most baffled men in Normandy this night were the 16,242 seasoned troops of the tough 21st Panzer Division, once a part of Rommel’s famed Afrika Korps. Clogging every small village, hamlet and wood in the area just twenty-five miles southeast of Caen, these men were sitting almost on the edge of the battlefield, the only panzer division within immediate striking distance of the British airborne assault and the only veteran troops in that area.

  Ever since the alert, officers and men had been standing alongside their tanks and vehicles, engines running, waiting for the order to move out. Colonel Hermann von Oppeln-Bronikowski, in command of the division’s regiment of tanks, couldn’t understand the delay. He had been awakened shortly after 2:00 A.M. by the 21st’s commander, Lieutenant General Edgar Feuchtinger. “Oppeln,” Feuchtinger had said breathlessly, “imagine! They have landed.” He had briefed Bronikowski on the situation and told him that as soon as the division got its orders it would “clean out the area between Caen and the coast immediately.” But no further word had come. With growing anger and impatience, Bronikowski continued to wait.

  Miles away, the most puzzling reports of all were being received by the Luftwaffe’s Lieutenant Colonel Priller. He and his wing man, Sergeant Wodarczyk, had stumbled into their beds about 1:00 A.M. at the 26th Fighter Wing’s now deserted airfield near Lille. They had succeeded in drowning their anger at the Luftwaffe High Command with several bottles of excellent cognac. Now, in his drunken sleep, Priller heard the phone ring as though from a long way off. He came to slowly, his left hand groping over the bedside table for the phone.

  Second Fighter Corps headquarters was on the wire. “Priller,” said the operations officer, “it seems that some sort of an invasion is taking place. I suggest you put your wing on the alert.”

  Sleepy as he was, Pips Priller’s temper promptly boiled over again. The 124 planes of his command had been moved away from the Lille area the previous afternoon and now the very thing he had feared was happening. Priller’s language, as he remembers the conversation, is unprintable, but after telling his caller what was wrong with corps headquarters and the entire Luftwaffe High Command, the fighter ace roared, “Who in hell am I supposed to alert? I’m alert. Wodarczyk is alert! But you fatheads know I have only two damned planes!” With that he slammed down the receiver.

  A few minutes later the phone rang again. “Now what?” yelled Priller. It was the same officer. “My dear Priller,” he said, “I’m awfully sorry. It was all a mistake. We somehow got a wrong report. Everything is fine—there’s no invasion.” Priller was so furious he couldn’t answer. Worse than that, he couldn’t get back to sleep.

  Despite the confusion, hesitancy and indecision in the higher levels of command, the German soldiers in actual contact with the enemy were reacting swiftly. Thousands of troops were already on the move and, unlike the generals at Army Group B and OB West, these soldiers had no doubts that the invasion was upon them. Many of them had been fighting in isolated, face-to-face skirmishes ever since the first British and Americans had dropped out of the sky. Thousands of other alerted troops waited behind their formidable coastal defenses, ready to repel an invasion no matter where it might come. They were apprehensive, but they were also determined.

  At Seventh Army headquarters, the one top commander who was not confused called his staff together. In the brightly lighted map room, General Pemsel stood before his officers. His voice was as calm and as quiet as usual. Only his words betrayed the deep concern he felt. “Gentlemen,” he told them, “I am convinced the invasion will be upon us by dawn. Our future will depend on how we fight this day. I request of you all the effort and pain that you can give.”

  In Germany, five hundred miles away, the man who might have agreed with Pemsel—the one officer who had won many a battle by his uncanny ability to see clearly through the most confusing situations—was asleep. At Army Group B the situation was not considered serious enough yet to call Field Marshal Erwin Rommel.

  *There has been considerable controversy over the timing of the German reaction to the invasion and over the messages that were passed from one headquarters to another. When I began my research, Colonel General Franz Halder, the former Chief of the German General Staff (now attached to the U.S. Army’s historical section in Germany) told me to “believe nothing on our side unless it tallies with the official war diaries of each headquarters.” I have followed his advice. All times (corrected to British Double Summer Time), reports and telephone calls as they pertain to German activities come from these sources.

  6

  ALREADY THE FIRST reinforcements had reached the airborne troops. In the British 6th Airborne’s area sixty-nine gliders had landed, forty-nine of them on the correct landing strip near Ranville. Other small glider units had landed earlier—notably Major Howard’s force on the bridges and a formation carrying heavy equipment for the division—but this was the main glider train. The sappers had done a good job. They had not had time to completely clear the long glider field of all its obstructions, but enough of these had been dynamited for the force to come in. After the arrival of the gliders the landing zone presented a fantastic sight. In the moonlight it looked like a Daliesque graveyard. Wrecked machines, with cr
umpled wings, squashed cabins and crazily canted tails, lay everywhere. It did not seem possible that anyone could have survived the splintering crashes, yet casualties had been low. More men had been injured from antiaircraft fire than in the landings.

  The train had brought in the 6th Airborne’s commander, Major General Richard Gale, and his headquarters staff with more troops, heavy equipment and the all-important antitank guns. Men had poured out of the gliders expecting to find the field under harassing enemy fire; instead they found a strange, pastoral silence. Sergeant John Hutley, piloting a Horsa, had expected a hot reception and had warned his copilot, “Get out as quick as you can the moment we hit, and make a dash for cover.” But the only sign of battle was off in the distance where Hutley could see the multicolored flash of tracers and hear the sound of machine-gun fire coming from nearby Ranville. Around him the landing field was bustling with activity as men salvaged equipment from the wrecks and hitched up the antitank guns to the backs of jeeps. There was even an air of cheerfulness now that the glider ride was over. Hutley and the men he had carried sat down in the wrecked cabin of their glider and had a cup of tea before setting out for Ranville.

  On the other side of the Normandy battlefield, on the Cherbourg peninsula, the first American glider trains were just coming in. Sitting in the copilot’s seat of the 101st lead glider was the assistant division commander, Brigadier Genereal Don Pratt, the officer who had been so alarmed back in England when a hat was tossed on the bed where he was sitting. Pratt was, reportedly, “as tickled as a schoolboy” to be making his first glider flight. Strung out behind was a procession of fifty-two gliders in formations of four, each towed by a Dakota. The train carried jeeps, antitank guns, an entire airborne medical unit, even a small bulldozer. High on the nose of Pratt’s glider a big No. 1 was painted. A huge “Screaming Eagle,” insignia of the 101st, and a U.S. flag adorned the canvas on either side of the pilot’s compartment. In the same formation, Surgical Technician Emile Natalle looked down on shell bursts and burning vehicles below and saw “a wall of fire coming up to greet us.” Still hitched to their planes, the gliders lurched from side to side scudding through “flak thick enough to land on.”