The airstrip was sparsely lit, and there was barely enough illumination for a take off in that fine rain, but the biplane surged forward all the same as Eileen and Trumbull moved away, their clothing and hair buffeted heavily in the increased backwash. The take off run was relatively short without the added weight of a torpedo slung beneath its belly, and in a few moments the ‘Stringbag’ had lurched into the dark sky, navigation lights winking as it turned slowly south and continued to climb beyond fifteen hundred metres. The flight would be a long and arduous one without automatic pilot, but the first part over the northern wilds of Scotland would a least be free of threat from enemy fighters, and he could therefore stay at a higher altitude. The real dangers would come as they flew further south in daylight hours, through skies ruled completely by the Luftwaffe.
3rd SS Shock Div Marshalling Area,
Tardinghen , Northern France
Dawn was just minutes away as Second-Lieutenant Berndt Schmidt and the crew of Panther-321 of the 3rd SS ‘Totenkopf’ Division waited inside their vehicle for the signal to ‘go’, their brand new P-40A itself sitting on the flatbed cargo area of a Typ-2 Schnellmarinefährprahme, something the Wehrmacht called a ‘fast naval landing barge’ and the officers of Hindsight might’ve classed as an assault ACV or hovercraft. The landing craft was almost 27 metres long and fourteen wide, and could carry as much as 70 tonnes of payload. The sound of their engines was deafening: each Typ-2 was powered by no less than eight huge BMW808 radial engines of the same type that powered the S-2D and several other Luftwaffe aircraft, of which four were used solely to produce lift and the other four to turn the huge ducted fans mounted at the rear corners of the vessels to provide propulsion.
That huge payload could comprise a main battle tank and light tank; two infantry fighting vehicles; four Wiesel light tanks; half a dozen trucks; or up to 180 fully-armed troops. It could carry that multitude of payloads at close to 90km/hr, out to ranges of almost 500km, and as an ACV it could also operate equally well over land or water — something that made it particularly well-suited to the Channel assault they were about to commence. The 3rd SS consisted of almost five thousand men and five hundred combat vehicles, and had been training heavily for weeks for exactly that moment. The Kent coast at that point was forty-five kilometres away across The Channel, and in their exercises, they’d perfected a crossing of that distance in less than sixty minutes. The 100 Typ-2 ACVs waiting there that morning had been loaded with their first payloads during the night, and could transport the entire division to the beaches of Kent in just over six hours.
Everything was on a tight schedule that had been rehearsed dozens of times over the last eight weeks, and at the head of the formation on that French beach, ten Typ-4 fast assault barges also warmed up, the craft built up from the same basic hull as the Typ-2 SMFP but armed with a variety of heavy weapons in multiple turrets. They’d be escorting the landing craft and providing covering fire as the 3rd SS deployed and secured a beachhead. They’d also be accompanied by air support from helicopter gunships of SHG2, flying from a forward ‘airbase’ in open fields a few kilometres away, and would also be supported by units of SS Fliegertruppen that remained in reserve, ready to deploy into forward areas as required.
Schmidt glanced nervously at his watch. The sun would rise over the eastern horizon within moments, and they were part of the first wave of landing craft. From his commander’s position, head and torso protruding out of the turret hatch of Panther-321, he couldn’t quite see directly over the high sides or the forward loading ramp of the Typ-2, but the slope of the beach as it stretched down to the water meant he could still see some of the Channel and western horizon in the distance, faint as it was in the lightening, pre-dawn sky. A gathering layer of low-level cloud was threatening to fill the entire sky — the forecasts had all carried warnings of light showers over the next few days — and the water ahead seemed hazy and indistinct. Schmidt grimaced… good weather or not, their part of the assault would begin in a few moments and they’d surge out onto the waters of The Channel as a pre-planned bombardment softened up the English beaches that were their ultimate goal.
Nine kilometres to the north-east, Battery 672(E) had been prepared and on alert for several hours. South of the weapons’ projected firing paths, a single NH-3D utility helicopter hovered above the surface of The Channel, careful to remain well out of range of British anti-aircraft fire. The chopper was attached to the battery’s plotting team, and was ready to report each fall of shot and advise on any required adjustments if necessary. At a pre-determined time, carefully synchronised to the invasion timetable, Gustav fired its first shot for the day at the English coastline.
The five-tonne high-explosive shell detonated a few hundred metres inland, just half a kilometre or so south of the beachside town of St Mary’s Bay and not far short of the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Railway line. There was a huge blast, a gigantic cloud of smoke and dust rolling into the air in a mushroom-shaped cloud, however there was no crater. The specifically-designed shells were fitted with proximity fuses that had been set to go off when the shell was still several metres above the ground, and the blast effect of the subsequent ‘air burst’ was significantly magnified as a result. Aboard the NH-3D, the artillery forward observer noted the fall of shot on his map and radioed through the appropriate corrections to traverse and elevation. Dora fired the moment those adjustments to aim had been made, followed by Gustav’s second shot three minutes later.
The wide, sandy beaches in that area were lined with layers of anti-invasion defences that included concrete dragons teeth, tank traps made up of clusters of welded angle iron, and row after row of coiled razor wire. Further up the beach, there were also minefields intended to take care of anything that managed to make it through the obstacles and other defences, and they too were ringed with barbed wire, this time as a warning for the local populace. That section of coastline approached the water at quite a shallow gradient, and as such it had been identified as an area of great strategic value for any landing force… the War Department had done its best to ensure that section of Kent coastline was completely inaccessible to the enemy.
That particular strip of broad, sandy beach running three thousand metres south from St Mary’s to Littlestone-on-Sea was suddenly shattered by blast after blast as the huge, 80cm shells began to fall from the sky and detonate in a slow but inevitable rolling barrage. Powerful blast waves radiated outward from each massive explosion as visible ripples of compressed air that shattered the concrete and iron obstacles and shredded the coils of barbed wire. The shockwaves were enough to shake the very earth, and many of the mines buried nearby were also set off by the resulting tremors, adding their own destruction to the maelstrom.
Smoke, sand and debris rose high into the air, mingling with the low cloud cover and hanging like a pall over the entire area as large sections of the defences were obliterated under the onslaught. Further inland, the British defenders watching from trenches and prepared defences could only look on in awe, and steel themselves for the attack they knew was sure to follow. Shells continued to fall as the pair of guns shifted their fire methodically from north to south, their helicopter-borne observer ensuring no visible section of beach was spared.
The word to go was given just a few minutes after the bombardment commenced, the havoc wrought by the giant guns faintly visible as a thin line of black smoke on the western horizon. Schmidt and Wisch hung on for dear life, but refused to leave the vantage points of their respective turret hatches as the first wave of hovercraft rose on cushions of air, accelerated quickly down the French beach, and roared away across The English Channel in a mass of deafening noise and spray of salty water. They were in the first line of twenty ACVs, howling across the choppy, grey waves in a tight, even formation at better than seventy kilometres per hour, a heavily-armed Typ-4 assault craft ‘riding shotgun’ at either end of the group. A second, then a third line of twenty craft followed them out across The Channel from
the marshalling area at intervals of three minutes, the process continuing until the entire hundred were heading for the enemy coast at full throttle, each wave escorted at either end by similar Typ-4s.
Before the first wave had travelled more than a few kilometres, they were passed overhead by twenty SH-6C attack helicopters of I./SHG2, chin turrets armed with cannon and machine guns and their wings laden with rocket pods. The gunships circled around ahead of the assault force once before breaking into four-ship sections and also taking up positions in escort of each of the five waves of assault craft. By the time the head of the invasion force had reached the half way point of the journey, several flights of S-2D attack aircraft had also roared past overhead in finger-four formation.
The Lions flew on ahead, disappearing into the haze of the smoking beaches and pounding the remaining defences with napalm, high explosives and cannon fire. Long, yellow fingers of tracer reached up into the sky from various points as anti-aircraft guns attempted to engage, downing two of the attacking aircraft and sending them into the ground in flames. The victories were short-lived however, as further waves of S-2Ds pinpointed and destroyed each weapon that fired in turn.
Even for seasoned veterans like Schmidt and Wisch, the display of force was somewhat unsettling, and it was difficult to imagine anything surviving such an attack. Yet there were definitely survivors for all that, and as they drew to within a few thousand metres of the coast, they began to come under the fire of enemy artillery positioned further inland (and therefore more difficult to locate and destroy). Geysers of water sprayed high into the air around them as they charged on toward the beach, but the British gunners were fighting a losing battle. Taking their aim second-hand via radio from forward observers, neither those observers nor the gunlayers had any experience in firing on such fast-moving targets. The inevitable delays in the relay of information meant by the time any changes to traverse or elevation had been made, those new coordinates were already well out of date.
The first few waves of the invasion force swept on through the scattered artillery fire into relative safety, although several of the ACVs in the rearward echelons were destroyed by close or direct hits. Two were struck squarely by shells from 60-pdr artillery pieces and were blown to pieces, men trapped inside their fighting vehicles as the 30-tonne APCs instantly sunk to the bottom of the Channel. Few defenders made any attempt to open fire on the approaching hovercraft as they neared the beach between St Mary’s and Littlestone-on-Sea, few capable of actually seeing anything through the smoke of the bombardment. Gunships dealt harshly with any who did make an attempt at engaging the approaching force, as did the four-barrelled 23mm cannon of the Typ-4 assault craft at either end of the first wave. One of the Typ-4s to the south also ripple-fired its entire load of 100mm artillery rockets from the modular nebelwerfer mounted between the pair of large propulsion fans at the rear of the craft.
They hit the beaches with little real opposition in the end: three months hadn’t been anywhere near enough time for the British to rebuild following the loss of over 300,000 men at Dunkirk, and total Luftwaffe air superiority had in any case made reinforcement of the beach defences a task not unlike outright suicide. Those men that were available to man the trenches and emplacements were thinly spread, poorly armed, and were in most cases unable to get a clear view of anything to shoot at anyway through the smoke and dust.
It was in those moments that the utility of those hovercraft truly became apparent. Instead of being forced to land on the beach itself, as would’ve been the case with landing ships or barges, the drivers of the Typ-2s were able to continue on unimpeded, generally able to ignore the shattered remnants of barbed wire and anti-tank obstacles as they thundered up onto the sand at high tide. One or two in the first wave were savagely and rather suddenly brought to a halt as the remains of concrete bollards or welded masses of angle iron ripped through their air cushion skirts and tore through the delicate lift fans and machinery beneath, but most were able to run straight up the beach and onto solid ground beyond, leaving the SS commanders the luxury of deciding on a disembarkation point that was suitable to themselves rather than the British defenders.
The bulk of the first two waves continued inland for the better part of a thousand metres, bypassing the ruins of the Littlestone Golf Course and sweeping over the raised tracks of the Romney, Hythe & Dymchurch tourist railway that ran slightly inland along that part of the Kent coast. Only one of the few craft disabled at the sea shore was too damaged to unload its cargo of men and armoured vehicles, most also able to join the battle with few casualties as tanks and infantry fighting vehicles made their way up the beach toward the rest of their comrades.
Panther-321 surged down the loading ramp the moment the Typ-2 came to a complete halt, blue clouds of exhaust billowing into the air as the panzer was quickly joined the rest of Schmidt’s 3rd Platoon. Seventeen main battle tanks and five of the smaller, lighter P-1C Wiesel light tanks broke clear onto English soil in a rush supported by Marder infantry fighting vehicles filled with mechanised infantry, three Wirbelwind self-propelled flak, and a pair of Nashorn assault guns. The armoured assault spread out in a practiced, pre-planned manoeuvres and deployed to an initial defensive perimeter between the railway line and the Dymchurch Road that ran parallel beyond.
There inside of the tank was a raucous symphony of noise as Schmidt turned his commander’s episcopes this way and that in search of a target. Rifle and machine gun fire rattled and whined against the P-40A’s hide to no effect whatsoever: with armour as thick as 150mm in places, rifle-calibre ammunition was no more dangerous than a passing breeze, although the deafening environment it created was annoying to say the least. Mortar fire began to fall around them sporadically, the danger small for a main battle tank, although a three-inch mortar bomb could destroy one of their thin-skinned Wiesels with a direct hit. All the while, constant air patrols ensured heavier enemy artillery in the area never managed more than a few initial shots before the guns were taken out of action by bombs and cannon fire.
There was a deafening clang against the right side of Panther-321’s turret that could mean only one thing, and Schmidt quickly picked out a sandbagged anti-tank emplacement, 400 metres to the north-east at a point where the railway line and the Dymchurch road crossed. His low-magnification cupola optics easily spotted the low, squat shape of a shielded two pounder gun as it fired again, and for a second time a 40mm projectile of solid steel shot ricocheted uselessly away from Panther-321’s tough hide, this time deflecting off its thick glacis plate.
“Load sprenggranate…!” Schmidt called sharply into his throat microphone. “Target… four hundred metres… pak-kanone…!”
“Sprenggranate ready…!” Loewe, his loader advised a moment later, accompanied by the metallic rattling of the main gun’s breech slamming home on an 88mm shell.
“Pak-kanone, four hundred metres,” he heard Wisch confirm a few seconds later as the turret turned in the appropriate direction under his control, accompanied by the whine of electric motors. There was a loud hammering below him in the turret as Wisch also opened up with the MG3C mounted coaxially beside the main gun, hosing the sandbagged area around the AT gun with 7.92mm tracer and keeping the enemy’s heads down.
“Fire…!” Schmidt bellowed, adrenalin racing as it was through all of them now that combat had begun in earnest. There were no higher philosophical issues to think of or consider in the heat of battle for these seasoned veterans, and the ‘equation’ was simple: kill or be killed. The fact that in this case they were invulnerable to the enemy gun’s fire in return wasn’t even considered. There was a roar, and the entire tank bucked and shuddered as the KWK49 main gun let loose at their enemy. Muzzle blast obscured the sights a second or two, but the result was clear enough as shattered bodies, debris and flame erupted into the air above what had once been an anti-tank emplacement.
“Hit…!” Schmidt crowed loudly, immediately spinning his scopes to seek out another target as P
anther-322 shot off a round to their right, the blast wave ringing heavily against their hull and filling the air around the tank with more dust and smoke.
Little of the propellant gases from the spent shell entered the turret as the smoking spent shell casing ejected automatically: a short, thick section of outer sleeve added to the midway join of the 88mm’s two-piece barrel contained a fume extractor — a new and novel device that removed smoke from the fired shell and pumped it out through the muzzle before the breech was opened to reload. Of all the things about the P-40A that were new and wonderful, that was one of those most loved by the crews that manned them. While space was a little cramped for some in the flattened dome of the turret, that piece of equipment at least provided a clear and relatively breathable atmosphere to work in, and that alone made the crews much more efficient and far more deadly.
“Forward at current bearing…!” The Obersturmführer directed the driver, Klugmann, as orders from his company commander came over the radio. “New position… fifty metres east of the A259… go…!” He relayed his orders to the rest of 2nd Platoon, and Panthers -322, -323, -324 and -325 following suit, spreading out across the Dymchurch Road to provide covering fire to their eastern flank as the second wave of hovercraft arrived behind them and began to unload more tanks and infantry vehicles.
One of the Wiesel light tanks of 3rd Company’s recon platoon powered ahead and into the field of Schmidt’s vision, firing its 30mm automatic cannon and coaxial MG at an unidentified target. A moment later, there was a small flash against its glacis plate, and the light tank came to an abrupt halt, rocking on its suspension as smoke began to pour from its forward-mounted engine. Spinning on his seat as he turned the episcopes set into the rim of the cupola above him, Schmidt was already looking for what had hit the P-1C as its three-man crew bailed out into a hostile battlefield.
England Expects el-1 Page 83
