Rommel nodded respectfully. ‘Normally, I would entirely agree. Our problem is twofold. First, it is better to deliver an instant response when the invaders are most vulnerable. Even a small Panzer unit could wreak havoc on the initial stages of a landing, whereas calling up reserves would inevitably delay a response. Secondly, our fighter strength is at a premium, given the necessity to counter the American bomber attacks on Germany, and might not be able to protect against the swarms of Allied fighter-bombers we can expect. We understand that they have been intensively practising ground-attack techniques and this could cause us serious problems in moving our troops from their reserve areas. On balance, I think that deploying them in small units on the coast would provide our best opportunity to defeat the invasion.’
Herrman awaited Hitler’s response with interest. He had of course provided a comprehensive briefing on what had actually happened on ‘his’ D-day: von Rundstedt had won Hitler’s support then and most of the Panzers had been held back, only to find that they were seriously delayed in setting off because Hitler had insisted that they could only move on his orders and no-one wished to wake him from sleep to obtain permission. Once they did move, their progress was severely hampered by fighter-bomber attacks, together with sabotage of roads and railways by the Resistance.
Hitler nodded thoughtfully. ‘It is a difficult decision. The Panzers’ main strength is in concentrated attack. I have decided on a compromise. Those Panzer units which are completing training and would normally be heading east soon will be distributed under local control. However, the units which are re-equipping and training will be held back under von Rundstedt’s command.’
Herrman concealed a grimace. The need for a clear chain of command, with all defences under one commander, was intellectually recognised by Hitler, but the man was constitutionally incapable of trusting any one man with an important task. Even the organisation of the OKW was confused; it was supposed to be the senior military body, with the OKH – the Army command – subordinated to it, but in practice Hitler treated them as equal. He just had to hope that von Rundstedt responded quickly when Rommel needed those units. Still, although a bit messy, the solution was better than in his time. Now it was a question of wait and see.
‘Now,’ Hitler declaimed, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming with the enthusiasm he showed when concocting his often unrealistic strategies, ‘I want further strengthening of the defences. Concentrate first on the harbours – the Allies will need to seize some quickly if they are to continue to supply their force. Then I agree to the focus on the beaches of the Kanalkueste, which I feel is the most likely target this time. I know that Pas-de-Calais would not be such an easy target for them, but our new V-weapons are being launched from there so they will want to neutralise it as soon as possible.’
The meeting went on long into the evening.
The cyclist pedalled slowly along the coast road, the traditional baguette in the front basket announcing his early-morning visit to the baker. He was not as young as he had been and the slight upward slope caused him to pant for breath. Near the top he paused to recover, taking out a handkerchief to mop his brow. He glanced around unobtrusively before setting off again to coast gently down towards the stream. The night had been disturbed by the rumbling roar of powerful engines and he was anxious to discover what this portended. Over the stream was a small open copse. Something bulky, hard-edged and metallic gleamed among the trees.
A soldier, assault rifle slung casually over a shoulder, suddenly stepped out into the road and demanded his papers in appalling French. The cyclist was well-prepared; a local farmer, he had permission to live in the area. The German checked the papers, passed them back and waved him on. The cyclist pedalled steadily home, planning the message he would need to smuggle to his comrade who held the radio transmitter. He had recognised the uniform insignia, and was sure that the Allies would be very interested to learn of the presence of a Waffen-SS Panzer unit on the Normandy coast!
Geoffrey Taylor accepted another slice of cake and settled back in the armchair.
‘How is central London faring these days?’
‘Pretty well, Mary. I think the Luftwaffe’s attention is elsewhere. These new ‘buzz-bombs’ are the biggest nuisance, but our new Typhoon jets can easily catch and destroy them.’
‘All well at Grosvenor Square?’ Don enquired. Geoffrey had been seconded to liaise with ETOUSA, the European Theatre of Operations USA.
‘You can feel the excitement. New faces all the time and a real buzz about the place. About a hundred and fifty thousand troops a month are arriving now; they’re packing them into high-speed liners to avoid the U-boats, twelve thousand at a time. Half of southern England must be under canvas by now.’
‘Do you get to listen to any Londoners?’ Mary asked, ‘what are they saying now?’
‘Oh, there’s a lot of talk. They all know there’s going to be an invasion, of course. They’ve noticed that a lot of commuter train services have been stopped so they can be switched to military transportation. Some people have relatives on the coast and are grumbling because they can’t get to them; the coastline has been virtually sealed off to civilians, in view of all the training exercises as well as troop build-ups. Basically, the people are just holding their collective breath, waiting for the day.’
‘No problems, with all those American troops about?’
Geoffrey grimaced. ‘Some. Unfortunately, all the money and fine presents they bring are dazzling some of the London ladies and their menfolk aren’t too happy about it. The sooner the invasion happens, the better for Anglo-American relations. Still, it’s interesting to hear so much unfamiliar music around London. Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw – it’s almost like being in the USA!’
Despite the years of preparation, Harold Johnson felt a frisson of excitement as he entered the Georgian building of Southwick House near Portsmouth, the base for Operation Neptune: the naval operation for crossing the Channel. He hoped briefly that the Germans didn’t know about this one; it was one of the few places that Don had forgotten about, and by the time he remembered it had been used in this role before, the planners were well ensconced and unwilling to move. It was now the HQ for the Supreme Allied Command and accordingly surrounded by massed batteries of AA guns as well as nearby night and day fighter squadrons on permanent alert.
He slipped into the back of the room being used for the briefing, his role as usual to listen and report back to Don, to check for anything which might sound alarm bells. The audience was full of fairly senior officers of all branches and several nationalities. Harold judged that they were staff officers belonging to various units, there to hear about the overall grand plan so they could begin to fill in the details of their own units’ part in the action.
The speaker, a young and brisk naval intelligence officer of surprisingly high rank, first ran through all of the material gathered prewar: the maps and photos used to prepare models and the huge D-day wall map behind him. This information had been kept up-to-date by aerial reconnaissance and a steady trickle of information from the French Resistance movement, aided by Fighting French agents flown in at night, in hazardous operations. More recently, coastal defences and beach conditions had been plotted by frogmen making secretive visits all round the coastline.
‘The Germans will be well aware we’re coming but, I sincerely hope, they still don’t know where, let alone when.’ No-one laughed: this was too serious. ‘There is a good case for heading straight for the Pas-de-Calais. It’s by far the shortest crossing so it maximises the chance of achieving surprise and minimises the exposure of the ships to attack. Unfortunately, it’s also probably the most heavily defended stretch of coastline in the world. We have accordingly decided on Normandy. The landings will be distributed over a wide front, with sectors allocated to the British, Americans, Canadians and the Fighting French. We have preferred dates, depending on the moon and the times of the tides, but will reserve final judgment
until we can check the weather. We have ships and aircraft out in the Atlantic doing nothing but providing us with weather reports. Ideally, we would like to capture a port as quickly as possible and use that to land most of the troops and supplies. This would be particularly convenient in the case of Cherbourg, as American troops could land there directly from the USA. Unfortunately, our intelligence appreciation has revealed that the major ports are so heavily defended that they will take a considerable time to subdue, and by that time they will probably have had all of their dock facilities destroyed anyway. So we will have to rely on beach landings. We did consider building special floating harbours which could be sunk in position, but again this idea was rejected as too cumbersome and inflexible. Instead, we will be relying on direct beach landings, sinking blockships offshore to protect from the worst of the weather and constructing piers to speed offloading from those ships not designed for beaching. We have calculated that we have a sufficient margin of shipping not just to deliver the initial assault, but also to keep the supplies coming.’ The officer paused to sip from a glass of water. ‘Of course, the Germans have been busy preparing a warm reception. We know that they have installed mines and beach obstacles on a liberal scale anywhere they think we might land, as well as covering the beaches with strong points, backed up by both fixed and mobile artillery and, we now hear, some Panzer units distributed along the coast. They have also flooded as many as possible of the low-lying drained areas, particularly the river valleys around Caen and the Cotentin Peninsula. This will not only make conventional landings very difficult in those areas, but also hazardous for our paratroops who would be at risk of drowning on landing. Despite this, these flooded areas have a key part to play in our plan, as you will hear.’
The intelligence officer went on to outline the plan of attack. There was a long, tense pause after he had finished, as the gathered staff officers absorbed the plan, turned it over in their minds to see if it felt right, then began to work out the implications for their units. Some hands began to rise. The officer nodded at one.
‘What about diversionary attacks? Are we landing anywhere else at the same time – Denmark, Italy or southern France, for instance?’
‘We’re going to some lengths to keep the Germans guessing about that one. More to the point, Stalin will be launching a major offensive before D-day with all of his remaining reserves. The German forces in the east will be thoroughly pinned down by the time we land.’
Harold noted with wry amusement that the intelligence officer had neatly avoided answering the question. These staff officers didn’t need to know about the plans for other areas, so they weren’t being told. He reflected on the wide range of elaborate deception plans, particularly focused on the Pas-de-Calais, which Don had insisted on calling Operation Overlord. ‘Too obvious,’ the others had groaned, ‘Your opposite number would never fall for that! It’s just as bad as calling the main operation Sledgehammer – he’s bound to remember that was the name of a plan for a 1942 raid on France.’ Still, some of the plans were rather more than just deceptions.
As the questions petered out, the naval officer called for attention. This was obviously the bit where he was planning to send them off in a state of optimism, tempered by a note of caution; oh hell, Harold silently berated himself, I’ve been to too many of these!
‘In total, we have well over two million men gathered for the attack; that’s over thirty divisions, with a very high proportion of them armoured or mechanised. We will be launching our attack with ten divisions, half in the first wave, half already afloat and waiting to follow on. The Germans are spread thinly along the coast, so when we land it will be with overwhelming force.’ He paused for effect. ‘The important thing to remember is this: a successful landing is obviously absolutely crucial, but nevertheless the landing will be the easiest part. Everything has been planned and there is an excellent chance of the plan working smoothly. The moment the landing has taken place, the uncertainties of war begin to take effect. We do not know exactly how the Germans will respond, but it will be violently. The difficult part will be to deal with their counter-attacks and press on with the exploitation phase of our attack while keeping our troops supplied with materials, food and fuel.’
And replacements for the casualties, thought Harold, there will be plenty of them.
A fine drizzle was drifting down as Harold left the building. He turned up his collar and walked down the driveway to the waiting car, the moisture beading on his face, trickling down his cheeks. I hope that’s not an omen, he thought. There will be tears enough before this is over. For a moment he paused, visualising the immensity of what they were about to do. Millions of men, countless weapons, all poised to throw themselves across the water at a fierce and unrelenting enemy. He shuddered; the risks were appalling and even success would demand a high price. He walked more slowly, feeling suddenly depressed. So much could go wrong; there was so much still to do!
Early Summer 1943
The USAAC pilot tried to ignore the constant howling of the wind through the numerous holes in the B-25’s fuselage. At least, he thought, it had blown away the smell of high-explosive from the cannon shells which had detonated inside his plane. One of the gunners had not survived the onslaught from the Me 262 jet but the rest of his crew was surprisingly unhurt. He pondered once again the brutal randomness of war; the sheer chance which meant that one man lived while the man next to him died, like some decimation lottery. Still, it looked as if the rest of the crew were going to make it back from this one. The shadow of a ‘little friend’ flickered briefly across the canopy, the P-51 keeping close watch on its battered charge as it struggled wearily across the Channel.
The raid had been risky from the start. The target, as so often these days, was a railway junction and marshalling yard, a key point on a supply route from Germany into France. Of course, the Germans knew it was a key point as well, so it was surrounded by the predictable layers of flak. The P-47 boys had gone in first as usual, shooting up every flak gun they could find, but the bigger guns were protected by smaller ones and he guessed that more than one of the tough fighter-bombers would have fallen prey to the deadly quad 20 mm or twin 30 mm cannon. Despite their efforts, the bomb run had been nerve-jangling, the deadly flare of the big, high-velocity tracer shells flashing just past the plane several times. Art, his young new bombardier, had kept his nerve and planted the bombs squarely over the target and the pilot had thankfully hauled the big Mitchell round, careful to keep station with the rest of his formation, and headed for home. They were just beginning to relax when the jet bounced them in one fast, raking pass, 30 mm cannon shells hammering the bomber for a terrifying fraction of a second before the plane disappeared, barely glimpsed as it sped away from the defending fighters.
Now all the pilot could do was wait and watch the gauges, hoping that nothing vital had been hit and they would make it back to base. He thought for a moment about what else had been going on over the deadly skies of Europe. He knew from his friends in other units that the Allied pressure on the Luftwaffe was relentless. Some units specialised in knocking out bridges with guided bombs – a nerve-racking task to hold the plane steady through the eruption of flak, while the bombardier steered the bomb home – and others hit radar stations or bombed the ports harbouring the deadly U-boats and E-boats, but the most dangerous task was taking the battle to the enemy. He grimaced as recalled the graphic description of one visiting pilot who had – understandably – been consuming more alcohol than was good for him.
The P-47s had gone in first to hit the fighter bases, aiming to knock out as many jets as possible before they could get off the ground. The Luftwaffe was intolerant of such enterprise so there was the usual barrage of flak. Then the medium and heavy bombers went in – it hardly mattered what the target was – they were there as bait. As the jets climbed to attack, they were met by diving P-51 escort fighters, pilots frantically calculating distances, angles and relative speeds in the hope that whe
n they pulled up onto the tails of the jets they would, for a few seconds, be able to hold them in their gunsights. As the jets approached the bombers, other escorts hurled themselves into their path, desperate to distract them if not shoot them down. Some did not survive. The four MK 108 cannon carried by the Me 262 were not good dog-fighting weapons – their muzzle velocity was too low – but any fighter unlucky enough to occupy the same airspace as a burst from those weapons would simply disintegrate.
The air battle was soon over, the jets heading for home as their fuel ran low. As they shaped up to land at low speed, they were at their most vulnerable and more Allied fighters swooped on them, battling through the defending Fw 190s sent up specifically to guard against this tactic.
The war against the Luftwaffe was one of grinding attrition, the pilot reflected. Both sides were taking heavy losses. He knew that ultimately the Allies would win this particular battle – America was producing so many planes and training so many pilots that Germany would run out of both long before them – but that was of little comfort to the crews, many of them just teenagers, who went out day after day, knowing that each time they went out, the odds were stacked more heavily against them.
A green patchwork quilt slowly materialised below him, the landscape blooming with the life of early summer. They would make it back, this time.
The guard wrapped his coat more tightly around him, silently cursing the strong, cool, north-easterly breeze. The unseasonably hot weekend they had just enjoyed make the change in the weather all the less welcome. He stared gloomily out over the sea. From his elevated position, the choppy surface broke the reflection of the full moon into shimmering fragments. No sign of the invading armada, he thought sarcastically. However, he knew better than to deviate from the orders of his commanding officer so he stayed at his post, trying not to think of his comrades sound asleep in the comfort of their bunker.
THE FORESIGHT WAR Page 34
