‘The British Army?’ said Milch. ‘I saw perhaps twenty or thirty corpses. The rest of the British Army has got clean away to the other side. They have left their equipment and escaped.’ The British had suffered a major defeat, of that there could be no doubt, but there was no denying that they had managed to flee with almost their entire army. Göring asked him what the Luftwaffe should do now. Milch recommended sending all available aircraft in Luftflotten 2 and 3 to the Channel coast and then invading immediately. The Kriegsmarine would not be ready to take troops across yet, but the Luftwaffe could act right away. Paratroopers could capture vital airfields in south-east England and then they could fly in Stuka units to operate from them, just as they had in Norway. The remaining transport aircraft could ferry over perhaps two or three divisions of ground troops. It was, he realized, a gamble, but one worth taking because the British would be incapable of offering much resistance at the present time. The RAF had suffered and the army had no equipment; the time to strike, Milch argued, was now. ‘If we leave the British in peace for four weeks,’ he told Göring, ‘it will be too late.’
Göring was unconvinced by these arguments. He had just one airborne division, rather than the four he had tried to create. ‘Had I had these four divisions at the time of Dunkirk,’ he said, ‘I would have gone across to Britain immediately.’ The Luftwaffe’s failure to destroy the BEF and French forces at Dunkirk had been a disappointment, but in light of its enormous success in the rest of the campaign, Göring was not unduly concerned. Nor, it appears, was Milch, who despite urging an immediate attack against England seemed content to get on with the job in hand once Göring had dismissed such plans. Thus a golden opportunity to examine the real potential and capability of the Luftwaffe was passed over in the flush of success.
And there were telling lessons to learn too, had they chosen to take note of them. The dive-bomber, for example, was not quite as pinpoint accurate as had been expected, as Oskar Dinort could testify, and as revealed by the intact east mole and the large number of ships that had successfully flitted back and forth across the Channel. There was still a shortage of transport aircraft, whose losses had not been made good after the mauling they had suffered on the opening day of the campaign – and these aircraft would be needed should an invasion of Britain be necessary. Nor were there enough trained crew and pilots coming through to replace the losses.
Still, it was hoped an invasion would be unnecessary. France was all but beaten, that much was obvious, and Britain would surely follow. Hitler was by now convinced that Britain must sue for peace – logic demanded it – and Göring thought likewise. Not everything had gone to plan, but so what? They had still achieved a far greater victory than the Führer had ever dared believe possible.
So instead, while Milch beetled about, visiting airfields and attending conferences, Göring decided to enjoy the spoils of war, taking the opportunity to do a spot of art collecting. On 10 June, he was in Amsterdam, where he had just packed off twenty-six priceless works of art to Carinhall, including a number by Rubens, Rembrandt and Peter Breughel the Elder.
Despite the fears of Britain’s leadership, there would be no immediate attack on Britain. Hitler had already decided on 24 May that they would finish France first. With the northern pocket finally clear, the second phase of the campaign in the west, Case Red, began on 5 June. The Germans had ensnared 1.7 million men in their giant encirclement, from which around half a million had managed to escape one way or another, although most via Dunkirk. Still, 1.2 million men was a huge number and included the cream of the French army. Now, Germany had the numerical advantage in manpower. Thanks to the distraction of Dunkirk and the fighting of the French First Army around Lille, Weygand had been given a bit of time to arrange his forces roughly east–west along the Somme and Aisne rivers, but both he and the rest of the French High Command had accepted that they could not hold the Germans for long.
Army Group B pushed south-west, across the Somme towards Rouen and Le Havre, while Army Group A pushed south and east. There were a few changes between the two army groups. Panzer Corps Hoth, with Rommel’s 7th Panzer, was now in Army Group B, as was Panzer Group Kleist, albeit without Guderian, who had been given his own panzer group and had remained in Army Group A. His task was to wheel behind the French forces, heading for the Swiss border, and thus achieve another encirclement.
Amongst the French forces facing Army Group B were the last remaining British units, those that had been cut off from the rest of the BEF when the panzers had driven their wedge through to the coast. Le Havre and Rouen had been the BEF’s main supply points and there were vast stores and ammunition dumps there, manned by Ordnance Corps and other base troops as well as a number of infantry battalions. The bulk of 12th Division had already been evacuated, but not so the 1st Armoured Division, Britain’s only one of its kind, nor the 51st Highland Division, which had been taking its turn to man a portion of the Maginot Line when the offensive began and had only recently been sent back west. These had since been placed under the command of IX Corps of the French Seventh Army on the left wing of the French line. There were also the remnants of the Advanced Air Striking Force of six bomber squadrons and thirty battered Hurricanes.
The French had already made good use of these disparate British forces, flinging them pointlessly at Abbeville in an attempt to destroy the German bridgehead there. 1st Armoured had taken part in the failed counter-attack on 27 May, losing over a hundred tanks in the process, while the Highland Division had also suffered during another attempt on 4 June. The rest of the British units had been formed into a loose under-gunned force called Beauman Division, named after its hastily appointed commander.
The German attack, launched first by Army Group B, did meet stiffer resistance than they had been accustomed to from the French, and initially suffered heavy losses. One of the German units that managed to break through quickest was Rommel’s 7th Panzer. Once again, Hauptmann Hans von Luck and his Reconnaissance Battalion were at the vanguard. To avoid the congestion of refugees, they advanced cross-country in open battle order, keeping clear of any major roads. They took the Somme bridges intact but then came up against the Weygand Line, the main French defences, and immediately found themselves under heavy enemy fire.
It was still early morning when, taking cover from French shelling, Hans heard a voice behind him say, ‘Captain, your breakfast.’ Hans turned around to see one of his runners clutching a tray of sandwiches. He had crawled through enemy fire carrying the meal, which had even been garnished with parsley and a napkin. Such was the confidence and high spirits of these lead units.
With the support of artillery and panzers, they soon managed to break through the French line. On 7 June, Hans and his men covered some sixty miles, blasting their way not only through the French but also between the two brigades of 1st Armoured Division. Rouen, recently pasted by the Luftwaffe, lay smoking ahead of them. They had assumed the next obstacle would be the formidable River Seine, but instead Hans received orders to swing north-west to the coast north of Le Havre. ‘In the harbours between Le Havre and Dieppe there are said to be British units still waiting to be evacuated,’ ran Hans’s orders.
This was true. Both the 7th and 5th Panzer Divisions, by breaking through, had the British forces potentially trapped. The Highland Division had fallen back to the line of the River Bresle, some ten miles behind the Somme, on 6 June, but the German troops following them seemed in no hurry to push them back further. There was no point – they had most of IX Corps ensnared, a trap that would be complete once the panzers to the south wheeled round and reached the coast. Before the Germans had launched their attack, General Fortune, commander of the 51st Division, had recognized that by being on the coast, with the Havre peninsula behind them, they would be particularly vulnerable to an out-flanking movement, and had discussed possible evacuation from Le Havre with Brigadier Beauman. However, by 7 June, when such an encirclement first seemed likely, it was already too late for IX Corps
to fall back – they simply could not organize themselves that quickly. And since the British troops were under French command they faced a simple choice: desert their French comrades or fight their way back with them step by step. Both honour and the political situation ensured they took the latter option.
As it happened, however, General Fortune had been given authority to fall back on Le Havre with all speed early on 8 June, but because of the usual communication problems that had been such a feature of the Allied effort it was not until late afternoon that he received these instructions. He did manage to send a covering force – ‘Arkforce’ – of two brigades to protect the approach to Le Havre, but the rest of the division and those French units on their right could only fall back as far as Dieppe.
On 10 June, Rommel’s men reached the coast. ‘Am at sea,’ he signalled to Army Group B. Then calling his commanders together, he explained his plan. He was now going to drive up the coast to St Valéry sur Mer, but wanted Hans von Luck, with a battery of 88 mm guns, to push west towards the coastal town of Fécamp and secure the approach to Le Havre.
It was around 11 a.m. on the 10th that Fortune learned that the road to Le Havre had been cut. There was now only one exit route for him, and that was the tiny port of St Valéry, so what remained of his division and the French IX Corps fell back on the port and began digging in. Meanwhile, at Fécamp some British troops and a number of French had been captured by Hans von Luck’s Reconnaissance Battalion, but most of Arkforce had managed to successfully escape back to Le Havre. They were the lucky ones. On the afternoon of 11 June, St Valéry came under fire. An attempt was made to evacuate the troops that night but rain and fog hampered efforts so that only 2,137 men were lifted.
At 8.15 a.m. the following morning a white flag was raised over the town, which Fortune immediately demanded should be taken down as he had no intention of surrendering – not yet, at any rate. His depleted forces still had heart – they would fight on. Yet Général Ihler, commander of IX Corps, had already accepted the hopelessness of the situation and called on Fortune to give up. By ten, Rommel’s tanks were in the town but it was not until 10.30 a.m. that Fortune finally agreed it was over. Proceeding to the town square he discovered Général Ihler and his French commanders already there facing none other than Generalmajor Rommel himself.
‘And what do you command?’ Rommel asked Fortune.
‘You, sir, should know that,’ Fortune replied tersely.
Rommel laughed and invited Fortune to have a meal with him, which the British general declined even though he had no rations left.
‘Dearest Lu,’ Rommel wrote that night to his wife, ‘The battle here is over.’
* Figures vary slightly between those given by the War Office, the Dover Report and the Admiralty. The War Office figures are considered the most accurate and are the ones used here.
23
The End in France
AT 8 A.M. EXACTLY ON the morning of 6 June, three airmen, scanning the dark, grey-green waters of the North Atlantic from their inflatable dinghy, suddenly saw the outline of a low shape emerge through the heavy haze. Immediately, they took their flare pistol and fired a white star into the sky, then began waving and shouting madly. It was forty hours since they had sent a wireless signal that they had been attacked by a British Blenheim, that their pilot was badly wounded in the head, and that they were going to ditch their Dornier 18 flying boat and take to the rubber life-dinghy. Since then, the pilot had died, but another of the crew, Unteroffizier Stökinger, was also wounded. The three survivors were hungry and parched with thirst. They were exhausted too, having first smashed the floats on their aircraft to make it sink, and then having paddled east for nearly two days in a vain attempt to reach the Shetland Islands. But in all that time they had seen nothing but an empty grey sea, and now all hope had begun to slip away. Now, however, it appeared that salvation was at hand.
It was only a few minutes later that the grey vessel, scything gracefully through the mist, drew towards them. At first they thought it must be a British submarine, but then a voice – a German voice – called out to them. The men, overjoyed with relief, watched as the 220-foot-long boat drew alongside them. A couple of men were clambering down on to the deck, while above, on the bridge, stood the captain. He was easily identifiable with his white-top cap, battered leather jacket, black woollen scarf and the pair of massive 7 x 50 Zeiss binoculars. Painted on to the conning tower was a picture of a white snorting bull. This was U-47, the single best-known submarine in all of Germany, and its skipper, Germany’s most famous submariner, the 32-year-old Kapitänleutnant Günther Prien. The first man in the Kriegsmarine to win the Knight’s Cross.
Günther had been delighted to find the men. The signal to all U-boats in the area to look for the men had reached them at four o’clock the previous afternoon, and since then they had been searching hard, wasting precious time and fuel. That morning, there was hardly a breeze so the water was calm, but the haze meant visibility was limited. He had continued hunting, changing course from time to time, but was on the point of giving up when at last the flare had been spotted.
The airmen were lifted on to the deck and then taken down below, and Günther followed soon after. When he reached the cramped wardroom he found his off-watch men gathered round the airmen, plying them with sausage and drink. Crouching down by Stöckinger, Günther examined his wounds. ‘One through the calf and a flesh wound in the shoulder,’ he said. ‘Nothing too serious.’ That was good, for there was no way of getting the wounded man off again until the patrol’s end – and that would not be for another month.
The crew had hoped that finding the airmen had been a good omen, but a whole week passed before they found any shipping. Crew morale quickly dipped in such circumstances. The Mk VIIB U-boat might look large enough from the outside, but, inside, the cigar-shaped pressure hull was only 142 feet long and ten feet wide, which for forty crew – five officers and thirty-five ratings – was claustrophobic to say the least. The men literally lived on top of each other since the boat sailed round the clock whilst on patrol, and crews would take turns to be on watch. Thus they shared what few facilities there were, side by side with the fourteen torpedoes, 220 88 mm deck-gun rounds, and the stores for four or five weeks of patrol; every nook and cranny was filled with nets of potatoes, tins of fruit, meat and condensed milk, coffee, sugar, cheese and hard-crusted black bread. From the innumerable pipes that ran along the boat, there hung vast numbers of sausages and sides of cured meat. By the end of a patrol, vegetables and cheese left over had often become mouldy, adding to the already foul stench on board, a stench of sweat, diesel oil, brine and food. There was only one toilet, for which there would often be a long queue and which smelled particularly repugnant. There was little spare water so the men hardly washed, and certainly never changed their clothes. Beards were the norm because shaving was a waste of water. Hair quickly became matted and greasy with oil and sweat. The heating rarely worked properly – it was always either too hot or too cold on board, but the fetid air nearly always clammy. And while on the surface, which U-boats were for most of the time because they could travel so much faster than when submerged, the boat would pitch, plunge and roll with the swell of the ocean. The men who manned the U-boats were tough, hardy and imperturbable. They needed to be.
When U-47 did at last spot a ship, on 14 June, they were way to the south, off the bottom coast of Ireland in a wolfpack along with nine other U-boats. Günther had immediately given the order to dive and was just lining up his first torpedo when the ship suddenly changed direction, veering straight for them, and forcing them to crash-dive and forego the shot. Following behind, however, was a huge convoy of some forty-two ships, a salivating prospect for a U-boat. The problem, however, was closing in on it; they were just too far away to catch the steaming vessels submerged. On the surface, U-47’s seventeen knots was fast enough to catch a convoy that rarely travelled at more than around fourteen knots, but submerged the best it c
ould manage was just eight. When they did finally have a chance to take a shot, they were nearly rammed a second time and had to crash-dive again. A further attempt was then thwarted by the arrival of a Sunderland flying boat swooping overhead.
Günther cursed, convinced the patrol must be jinxed, but then a straggler was sighted. Ordering the boat to dive, he waited, then closed in towards the weaving vessel. It was 11.58 – a couple of minutes before midday. At last, Günther, glued to the periscope in the control room, gave the order for Tube Five to fire. A loud hiss of compressed air filled the boat and the men felt the submarine shiver as the torpedo hurtled from its tube. For a few moments there was silence. And then they heard the sound of an explosion.
‘Hit almost amidships,’ said Günther triumphantly. He continued to give a running report as he peered through the periscope. The ship looked heavily laden; there were a number of crates on the deck. She was British, the Balmoralwood, about 5,000–6,000 tonnes, he reckoned. Men were lowering whalers and scrambling frantically down into them. Then the ship began to list and heel over, and then slipped down into the sea, a huge whirlpool sucking many of the men and the cargo down with it. Soon after, all that was left were a few crates bobbing on the surface. Some had burst open so that Günther could see what she had been carrying on her way to Britain. Aircraft – he could see the wings and fuselages clearly.
Hitler had never intended to subdue Britain by air and land alone. To beat Britain, to bring her to her knees, she needed to be strangled, her sea-borne lifeline cut off to such an extent that she simply would not be able to survive. To achieve that, he had belatedly realized, and as Rear-Admiral Karl Dönitz, commander of the Kriegsmarine’s U-boat arm, had been urging upon his superiors for years, that Germany did not need vast battleships, cruisers and aircraft carriers. She needed U-boats. As Kapitänleutnant Günther Prien had proved all too well when he had sunk HMS Royal Oak the previous October, forty men in a small submarine could destroy a 1,200-man British battleship more effectively than any German surface vessel.
The Battle of Britain Page 35
