The Longest Day

by Cornelius Ryan

  Although the fighting was bitter while it lasted, the Canadians and the commandos got off the Bernières-St.-Aubin beaches in less than thirty minutes and plunged inland. Follow-up waves experienced little difficulty and within an hour it was so quiet on the beaches that Leading Aircraftsman John Murphy of a barrage balloon unit found that “the worst enemy was the sand lice that drove us crazy as the tide came in.” Back of the beaches street fighting would occupy troops for nearly two hours, but this section of Juno, like the western half, was now secure.

  The 48th commandos fought their way through St.-Aubin-sur-Mer and, turning east, headed along the coast. They had a particularly tough assignment. Juno lay seven miles away from Sword Beach. To close this gap and link up the two beaches, the 48th was to make a forced march toward Sword. Another commando unit, the 41st, was to land at Lion-sur-Mer on the edge of Sword Beach, swing right and head west. Both forces were expected to join up within a few hours at a point roughly halfway between the two beachheads. That was the plan, but almost simultaneously the commandos ran into trouble. At Langrune, about a mile east of Juno, men of the 48th found themselves in a fortified area of the town that defied penetration. Every house was a strongpoint. Mines, barbed wire and concrete walls—some of them six feet high and five feet thick—sealed off the streets. From these positions heavy fire greeted the invaders. Without tanks or artillery the 48th was stopped cold.

  On Sword, six miles away, the 41st after a rough landing turned west and headed through Lion-sur-Mer. They were told by the French that the German garrison had pulled out. The information seemed correct—until the commandos reached the edge of the town. There, artillery fire knocked out three supporting tanks. Sniper and machine-gun fire came from innocent-looking villas that had been converted into blockhouses, and a rain of mortar shells fell among the commandos. Like the 48th, the 41st came to a standstill.

  Now, although no one in the Allied High Command knew about it yet, a vital gap six miles wide existed in the beachhead—a gap through which Rommel’s tanks, if they moved fast enough, could reach the coast and, by attacking left and right along the shore, roll up the British landings.

  Lion-sur-Mer was one of the few real trouble spots on Sword. Of the three British beaches, Sword was expected to be the most heavily defended. Troops had been briefed that casualties would be very high. Private John Gale of the 1st South Lancashire Regiment was “cold-bloodedly told that all of us in the first wave would probably be wiped out.” The picture was painted in even blacker terms to the commandos. It was drilled into them that “no matter what happens we must get on the beaches, for there will be no evacuation … no going back.” The 4th commandos expected to be “written off on the beaches,” as Corporal James Colley and Private Stanley Stewart remember, for they were told their casualties would run as “high as eighty-four percent.” And the men who were to land ahead of the infantry in amphibious tanks were warned that “even those of you who reach the beach can expect sixty percent casualties.” Private Christopher Smith, driver of an amphibious tank, thought his chances of survival were slim. Rumor had increased the casualty figure to ninety percent and Smith was inclined to believe it, for as his unit left England men saw canvas screens being set up on Gosport Beach and “it was said that these were being erected to sort out the returned dead.”

  For a while it looked as though the worst of the predictions might come true. In some sectors first-wave troops were heavily machine-gunned and mortared. In the Ouistreham half of Sword, men of the 2nd East York Regiment lay dead and dying from the water’s edge all the way up the beach. Although nobody would ever know how many men were lost in this bloody dash from the boats, it seems likely that the East Yorks suffered most of their two hundred D-Day casualties in these first few minutes. The shock of seeing these crumpled khaki forms seemed to confirm the most dreadful fears of follow-up troops. Some saw “bodies stacked like cordwood” and counted “more than 150 dead.” Private John Mason of the 4th commandos, who landed half an hour later, was shocked to find himself “running through piles of dead infantry who had been knocked down like nine pins.” And Corporal Fred Mears of Lord Lovat’s commandos was “aghast to see the East Yorks lying in bunches. … It would probably never have happened had they spread out.” As he charged up the beach determined to make “Jesse Owens look like a turtle,” he remembers cynically thinking that “they would know better the next time.”

  Although bloody, the beach fight was brief.* Except for initial losses, the assault on Sword went forward speedily, meeting little sustained opposition. The landings were so successful that many men coming in minutes after the first wave were surprised to find only sniper fire. They saw the beaches shrouded in smoke, medics working among the wounded, flail tanks detonating mines, burning tanks and vehicles littering the shore line, and sand shooting up from occasional shell bursts, but nowhere was there the slaughter they had expected. To these tense troops, primed to expect a holocaust, the beaches were an anticlimax.

  In many places along Sword there was even a bank holiday atmosphere. Here and there along the seafront little groups of elated French waved to the troops and yelled, “Vive les Anglais!” Royal Marine Signalman Leslie Ford noticed a Frenchman “practically on the beach itself who appeared to be giving a running commentary on the battle to a group of townspeople.” Ford thought they were crazy, for the beaches and the foreshore were still infested with mines and under occasional fire. But it was happening everywhere. Men were hugged and kissed and embraced by the French, who seemed quite unaware of the dangers around them. Corporal Harry Norfield and Gunner Ronald Allen were astonished to see “a person all dressed up in splendid regalia and wearing a bright brass helmet making his way down to the beaches.” He turned out to be the mayor of Colleville-sur-Orne, a small village about a mile inland, who had decided to come down and officially greet the invasion forces.

  Some of the Germans seemed no less eager than the French to greet the troops. Sapper Henry Jennings had no sooner disembarked than he was “confronted with a collection of Germans—most of them Russian and Polish ‘Volunteers’—anxious to surrender.” But Captain Gerald Norton of a Royal Artillery unit got the biggest surprise of all: He was met “by four Germans with their suitcases packed, who appeared to be awaiting the first available transportation out of France.”

  Out of the confusion on Gold, Juno and Sword, the British and the Canadians swarmed inland. The advance was businesslike and efficient, and there was a kind of grandeur about it all As troops fought into towns and villages examples of heroism and courage were all around them. Some remember a Royal Marine commando major, both arms gone, who urged his men along by shouting at them to “get inland, chaps, before Fritz gets wise to this party.” Others remember the cocky cheerfulness and bright faith of the wounded as they waited for the medics to catch up with them. Some waved as the troops passed, others yelled, “See you in Berlin, mates!” Gunner Ronald Alien would never forget one soldier who had been badly wounded in the stomach. He was propped up against a wall calmly reading a book.

  Now speed was essential. From Gold troops headed for the cathedral town of Bayeux, roughly seven miles inland. From Juno the Canadians drove for the Bayeux-Caen highway and Carpiquet Airport, about ten miles away. And out of Sword the British headed for the city of Caen. They were so sure of capturing this objective that even correspondents, as the London Daily Mail’s Noel Monks was later to recall, were told that a briefing would be held “at point X in Caen at 4:00 P.M.” Lord Lovat’s commandos marching out of the Sword area wasted no time. They were going to the relief of General Gale’s embattled 6th Airborne troops holding the Orne and Caen bridges four miles away and “Shimy” Lovat had promised Gale that he would be there “sharp at noon.” Behind a tank at the head of the column Lord Lovat’s piper Bill Millin played “Blue Bonnets over the Border.”

  For ten Britishers, the crews of the midget submarines X20 and X23, D Day was over. Off Sword Beach, Lieutenant George Honour’s X2
3 threaded through waves of landing craft streaming steadily in toward the shore. In the heavy seas, with her flat superstructure almost awash, all that could be seen of the X23 were her identifying flags whipping in the wind. Coxswain Charles Wilson on an LCT “almost fell overboard with surprise” when he saw what appeared to be “two large flags apparently unsupported” moving steadily toward him through the water. As the X23 passed, Wilson couldn’t help wondering “what the devil a midget sub had to do with the invasion.” Plowing by, the X23 headed out into the transport area in search of her tow ship, a trawler with the appropriate name of En Avant. Operation Gambit was over. Lieutenant Honour and his four-man crew were going home.

  The men for whom they had marked the beaches marched into France. Everyone was optimistic. The Atlantic Wall had been breached. Now the big question was, how fast would the Germans recover from the shock?

  *Some two hours later a Ranger patrol found a deserted five-gun battery in a camouflaged position more than a mile inland. Stacks of shells surrounded each gun and they were ready to fire, but the Rangers could find no evidence that they had ever been manned. Presumably these were the guns for the Pointe du Hoc emplacements.

  *Correspondents on Juno had no communications until Ronald Clark of United Press came ashore with two baskets of carrier pigeons. The correspondents quickly wrote brief stories, placed them in the plastic capsules attached to the pigeons’ legs and released the birds. Unfortunately, the pigeons were so overloaded that most of them fell back to earth. Some, however, circled overhead for a few moments—and then headed toward the German lines. Charles Lynch of Reuter’s stood on the beach, waved his fist at the pigeons and roared, “Traitors! Damned traitors!” Four pigeons, Willicombe says, “proved loyal.” They actually got to the Ministry of Information in London within a few hours.

  *There will always be differences of opinion about the nature of the fighting on Sword. Men of the East Yorks disagree with their own history, which says that it was “just like a training show, only easier.” The troops of the 4th commandos claim that when they landed at H-plus-30 they found the East Yorks still at the water’s edge. According to Brigadier E. E. E. Cass, in command of the 8th Brigade that assaulted Sword, the East Yorks were off the beach by the time the 4th commandos landed. It is estimated that the 4th lost thirty men as they came ashore. On the western half of the beach, says Cass, “opposition had been overcome by eight-thirty except for isolated snipers.” Men of the 1st South Lancashire Regiment landing there had light casualties and moved inland fast. The 1st Suffolks coming in behind them had just four casualties.

  3

  BERCHTESGADEN LAY QUIET and peaceful in the early morning. The day was already warm and sultry, and the clouds hung low on the surrounding mountains. At Hitler’s fortresslike mountain retreat on the Obersalzberg, all was still. The Fühter was asleep. A few miles away at his headquarters, the Reichskanzlet, it was just another routine morning. Colonel General Alfred Jodl, OKW’s chief of operations, had been up since six. He had eaten his customary light breakfast (one cup of coffee, a small soft-boiled egg and thin slice of toast) and now, in his small soundproofed office, he was leisurely reading the night’s reports.

  The news from Italy continued to be bad. Rome had fallen twenty-four hours before and Field Marshal Albert Kesselring’s troops were being hard pressed as they pulled back. Jodl thought that there might be an Allied breakthrough even before Kesselring disengaged his troops and withdrew to new positions in the north. So concerned was Jodl about the threatened collapse in Italy that he had ordered his deputy, General Walter Warlimont, to proceed to Kesselring’s headquarters on a fact-finding trip. Warlimont was to leave by the end of the day.

  There was nothing new from Russia. Although Jodl’s sphere of authority did not officially include the eastern theater, he had long ago maneuvered himself into a position whereby he “advised” the Führer on the conduct of the Russian war. The Soviet summer offensive would begin any day now, and all along the two-thousand-mile front two hundred German divisions—more than 1.5 million men—were poised, waiting for it. But this morning the Russian front was quiet. Jodl’s aide had also passed on several reports from Rundstedt’s headquarterers about an Allied attack in Normandy. Jodl did not think that the situation there was serious, at least not yet. At the moment his big concern was Italy.

  In the barracks at Strub a few miles away, Jodl’s deputy, General Warlimont, had been carefully following the Normandy attack since 4:00 A.M. He had received OB West’s teletype message requesting the release of the panzer reserves—the Panzer Lehr and 12th S.S. divisions—and he discussed this by phone with Von Rundstedt’s chief of staff, Major General Günther Blumentritt. Now Warlimont rang Jodl.

  “Blumentritt has called about the panzer reserves,” Warlimont reported. “OB West wants to move them into the invasion areas immediately.”

  As Warlimont recalls, there was a long silence as Jodl pondered the question. “Are you so sure that this is the invasion?” asked Jodl. Before Warlimont could answer, Jodl went on, “According to the reports I have received it could be a diversionary attack … part of a deception plan. OB West has sufficient reserves right now…. OB West should endeavor to clean up the attack with the forces at their disposal…. I do not think that this is the time to release the OKW reserves…. We must wait for further clarification of the situation.”

  Warlimont knew there was little use in arguing the point, although he thought the Normandy landings were more serious than Jodl seemed to believe. He said to Jodl, “Sir, in view of the Normandy situation, shall I proceed to Italy as planned?” Jodl answered, “Yes, yes, I don’t see why not.” Then he hung up.

  Warlimont put down his phone. Turning to Major General Von Buttlar-Brandenfels, the Army’s operations chief, he told him of Jodl’s decision. “I sympathize with Blumentritt,” Warlimont said. “This decision is absolutely contrary to my understanding of what the plan was to be in the event of an invasion.”

  Warlimont was “shocked” by Jodl’s literal interpretation of the Hitler edict concerning the control of the panzers. True, they were OKW reserves and therefore they came under Hitler’s direct authority. But, like Von Rundstedt, Warlimont had always understood that “in the event of an Allied attack, whether diversionary or not, the panzers would be immediately released—automatically released, in fact.” To Warlimont, such a move seemed only logical; the man on the spot, fighting off the invasion, should have all the available forces to use as he saw fit, especially when the man happened to be the last of German’s “Black Knights,” the venerable strategist Von Rundstedt. Jodl could have released the force, but he was taking no chances. As Warlimont was later to recall, “Jodl’s decision was the one he thought Hitler would have made.” Jodl’s attitude, Warlimont felt, was just another example of “the chaos of leadership in the Leader State.” But nobody argued with Jodl. Warlimont put through a call to Blumentritt at OB West. Now the decision to release the panzers would depend on the capricious whim of the man whom Jodl considered to be a military genius—Hitler.

  The officer who had anticipated just such a situation and who had hoped to discuss it with Hitler was less than a two hours’ drive from Berchtesgaden. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, at his home in Herrlingen, Ulm, seems somehow to have been completely forgotten in all the confusion. There is no record in the meticulously kept Army Group B War Diary that Rommel had even heard as yet about the Normandy landings.

  At OB West outside Paris, Jodl’s decision produced shock and incredulity. Lieutenant General Bodo Zimmermann, chief of operations, remembers that Von Rundstedt “was fuming with rage, red in the face, and his anger made his speech unintelligible.” Zimmermann couldn’t believe it either. During the night, in a phone call to OKW, Zimmermann had informed Jodl’s duty officer, Lieutenant Colonel Friedel, that OB West had alerted the two panzer divisions. “No objections whatsoever were made against the movement,” Zimmermann bitterly recalls. Now he called OKW again and spoke to Army
Operations Chief Major General Von Buttlar-Brandenfels. He got a frigid reception—Von Buttlar had picked up his cue from Jodl. In an angry outburst Von Buttlar ranted, “These divisions are under the direct control of OKW! You had no right to alert them without our prior approval. You are to halt the panzers immediately—nothing is to be done before the Führer makes his decision!” When Zimmermann tried to argue back, Von Buttlar shut him up by saying sharply, “Do as you are told!”

  The next move should have been up to Von Rundstedt. As a field marshal, he could have called Hitler directly, and it is even likely that the panzers might have been immediately released. But Von Rundstedt did not telephone the Führer now or any time during D Day. Not even the overwhelming importance of the invasion could compel the aristocratic Von Rundstedt to plead with the man he habitually referred to as “that Bohemian corporal.”*

  But his officers continued to bombard OKW with telephone calls in vain and futile efforts to get the decision reversed. They called Warlimont, Von Buttlar-Brandenfels and even Hitler’s adjutant, Major General Rudolf Schmundt. It was a strange, long-distance struggle that would go on for hours. Zimmermann summed it up this way: “When we warned that if we didn’t get the panzers the Normany landings would succeed and that unforeseeable consequences would follow, we were simply told that we were in no position to judge—that the main landing was going to come at an entirely different place anyway.”* And Hitler, protected by his inner circle of military sycophants, in the balmy, make-believe world of Berchtesgaden, slept through it all.

  At Rommel’s headquarters in La Roche-Guyon, the chief of staff, Major General Speidel, knew nothing of Jodl’s decision as yet. He was under the impression that the two reserve panzer divisions had been alerted and were already en route. Also Speidel knew the 21st Panzer was moving into an assembly area south of Caen, and although it would be some time before their tanks could move up, some of their reconnaissance forces and infantry were already engaging the enemy. So there was a definite air of optimism at the headquarters. Colonel Leodegard Freyberg recalls that “the general impression was that the Allies would be thrown back into the sea by the end of the day.” Vice Admiral Friedrich Ruge, Rommel’s naval aide, shared in the general elation. But Ruge noticed one peculiar thing: The household staff of the Duke and Duchess de La Rochefoucauld was quietly going through the castle taking the priceless Gobelin tapestries down from the walls.