THE FORESIGHT WAR

by Anthony G Williams

  He turned around and glared back at the spider’s web of the radar dish gleaming in the moonlight, feeling suddenly vulnerable. He had heard the gossip that many of the gun batteries along the coast were dummies, left as decoys while the real guns were moved back. His own position was too good to leave, commanding as it did the approaches to a vulnerable stretch of coastline. He looked around again, feeling uneasy. Not long before, Allied aircraft had cruised invisibly past not far away. He had heard no bombs and the FlaK batteries had held their fire, not wanting to reveal their positions until it really mattered. Now the night was still again.

  The guard stomped his feet and marched around a little to warm up, slinging the heavy weight of the StG.40 onto his other shoulder for a change. He tried not to keep looking at the luminous hands on his watch as they crawled interminably towards the time when he would be relieved.

  He heard a quiet quacking noise in the dark and looked towards it, puzzled. What was a duck doing up here, making a noise at this time of night? The noise came again and he walked slowly towards it, pleased for even the most trivial diversion to relieve his boredom. Perhaps he could capture a prize for tomorrow’s dinner.

  The sergeant watched him coming, put down his ‘Duck, Bakelite’ which the SAS paratroopers used to locate each other, and waited. As the guard approached, a dark form rose up behind him, there was a brief gleam of steel, then only one man stood. The small team, who had practised for months the skill of landing their steerable black-silk parachutes precisely onto a target lit only by moonlight, moved swiftly into co-ordinated action. The charges were placed at critical points around the radar station. The team melted back into the night. They would be long gone by the time the explosives detonated.

  The pilot gazed through the windscreen of the glider at the tow-rope pointing towards the vague shape of the Albemarle transport ahead of him. For now, he had little to do but wait until the tow-plane’s crew advised him that they were close enough to the target for him to cast off. Then, he would need to steer the big Horsa down to the landing ground, to deliver its cargo of two dozen troops and their equipment where it was needed. He thought for a moment about the paratroop planes which had preceded them, and wondered how they had got on. One of his friends had the job of dropping dummy parachutists away from the landing zones, designed to let loose with a barrage of fireworks to simulate gunfire as soon as they hit the ground. He smiled at the thought of the panic among the German commanders as they received frantic messages about paratroop landings scattered halfway across Europe.

  Landing by glider was better, the pilot reflected, as the troops all landed together and were immediately ready to fight as a unit instead of spending minutes, or even hours, just locating each other. But some targets had no suitable landing grounds, so parachutes were the only way of getting the troops to them with the silence needed for surprise. At least, there was no excuse for not finding the right landing place, as all of the transports had been fitted as a rush job (as if someone had only just remembered it, he thought) with the highly accurate Oboe navigation system normally used for blind bombing.

  While he waited for the signal, he focused for the hundredth time on reviewing the reconnaissance photographs of his destination: the narrow strip of land between the Orne River and the Canal de Caen. And most particularly, the appearance of the vital road which crossed both waterways via the two bridges which were to be seized and held by his men and those in the other five gliders somewhere in the night around him.

  The signal flashed in the cockpit and the pilot pulled the lever to release the tow. Minutes later, the moonlight gleaming on the twin waterways led him in to a precise landing by the Pegasus Bridge over the canal, or more precisely a controlled crash as the glider ploughed through the vegetation. The heavily-armed troops poured out of the Horsa as three others landed in quick succession, another two landing by the Orne Bridge at Ranville. Speed and surprise were their main weapons against the garrison defending the bridge. The first that most of the sleeping German soldiers knew of the attack was when grenades went off in their dugouts, followed by a burst of Solen fire.

  The officer rallied his men after the brief but savage battle was over. Now the problem would to be hold the bridges until reinforcements could arrive, the long way.

  The lieutenant looked down from the bridge onto the landing craft’s open well, conscious of the discomfort of the troops as the vessel moved uneasily, idling slowly through the lively sea, waiting for the signal to move into position and head towards the coast, still many miles away. It could have been worse, he thought. Not much more than a week ago there had been a full gale in the Channel; it had blown for three days, the worst May gale in forty years. The planners must have been having kittens, he reflected. After the unusually hot weekend which had followed, Monday had been cool, clear and sunny and everything seemed perfect. Then the strong wind had started to blow, pushing the bulky, shallow-draft vessel away from its intended course, much to the disgust of the helmsman who had been forced to keep a close eye on the position. The choppy sea had not made the American troops any happier, either. They had been uncomfortable enough as it was in their stiff uniforms, chemically impregnated against mustard gas, which felt constantly damp and gave off a sour odour. Even their boots had been impregnated with special grease to make them impervious to gas. The lieutenant glanced at this watch. It was past midnight. Wednesday the nineteenth of May had just begun.

  The Gefreiter looked gloomily over the barrel of his Hotchkiss machine gun at the indistinct greyness of sea and sky. Dawn was just breaking. The wind was chill against his face and he snuggled more deeply into his greatcoat. Rumours of an imminent Allied invasion were building up to fever pitch but he was relatively unconcerned. He was guarding a strip of sand dunes, planted with coarse grass, which separated the beach from the newly flooded lowlands behind him. The La Barquette locks near Carentan had been operated to allow the River Douve, and its tributary the Merderet, to flood a wide area crossed only by a few causeways. Anyone foolish enough to land on his beach would find themselves with a long swim before reaching dry land, or would have a long and hard fight to use one of the few causeways!

  He turned his head, trying to locate a far-off murmur of sound which gradually penetrated his consciousness. It sounded like distant aeroplane engines. He scanned the sky, reluctant to sound an alarm until he could identify the source. The noise built steadily and the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up as he raised his binoculars for a systematic sweep. Where were these planes? They should be silhouetted against the sky by now – it sounded like a whole air fleet! The air was vibrating with the intensity of the noise and the Gefreiter felt panic rising in his breast. He dropped his binoculars then gaped in astonishment at the clouds of spray speeding towards him. Huge machines, skimming over the water faster than any ship, hurled themselves at the beach. He dropped flat as one charged straight at him, went over him in a violent blast of noise, wind and sand! Trembling, he slowly straightened and looked up. The sea was clear again. He looked round and saw the clouds of spray rapidly diminishing as the incredible craft sped across the flooded land. Eventually, he remembered the field telephone.

  The commander of the hovercraft chuckled briefly at the memory of the white, astounded face of the soldier they had flown over, then concentrated on keeping to his course. He had seen a score of times the cine film, made by a reconnaissance Reaper which had flown this route at low level, and it was playing in his mind now as he checked the few landmarks in this flooded land. He looked to either side and behind, to check that the other eleven craft in this group were still echeloned with him, for all the world like a flight of massive geese finding trouble in taking off. He looked ahead again, spotted the church steeple he was waiting for, crowning higher land ahead. They were approaching dry land.

  The commander began to slow the hectic pace and the scream of the Merlin engines, hastily stripped from decommissioned Spitfires as the plane was retired fro
m service, slowly reduced, the big propellers above and behind him winding down. This craft had no brakes and he needed to locate his target with precision. The broad straight road which paralleled this part of the river valley came into view and he slowly manoeuvred the giant craft into position, nose close to the road, then cut the engines. The hovercraft settled ponderously, like an elephant lying down. A quick glance showed the rest of his flotilla to each side.

  A ramp dropped just below the cockpit and with a snarl of its powerful engine, the Churchill tank lumbered out of the bowels of the craft and onto the road, its massive gun barrel questing menacingly. To either side, other vehicles disembarked. The hovercraft could carry one Churchill or two of the smaller Comet AA tanks or Covenanter APCs. With the benefit of much practice, the small armoured formation assembled itself in the correct order: four Churchills first, followed by two Comets, then eight Covenanters, two more Comets and the last two Churchills.

  The commander watched the small but powerful formation rumble off towards its first objective. It might not look much, but he knew that this scene was being repeated in many places. Some hovercraft were carrying reconnaissance units with armoured cars (they could carry eight of the heavy ones, sixteen of the light) and a screen was being thrown around the whole landing area. The heavy armoured units had various roles: some were to seize key communications nodes, others moved outwards, ready to block reinforcements, while still others headed inwards, towards the coast, preparing to take the German defences in the rear.

  As the armoured unit disappeared into the early morning, the commander signalled to the other hovercraft and the big fans began to spin up. They would be very busy shuttling to and fro for as long as they could, bringing up reinforcements and supplies. He sighed grimly. The advantage of surprise having been played, the other trips would not be so easy.

  Elsewhere along the Normandy coastline, German soldiers awakened to another strange sound; a throbbing, clattering noise filled the air and they looked up into the dawn light to see large helicopters skimming low over the coast. The helicopters each carried a section of Royal Marine Commandos, laden with weapons and supplies, who had taken off from Merchant Aircraft Carriers only a few miles offshore. Their pilots homed in on the beacons thoughtfully placed by Special Boat Service units parachuted in the night before, and neatly dropped their troops precisely where they were wanted.

  The sky was now light enough to see clearly and the defenders gaped at the panorama revealed to them just off the coast. Row upon row of ships filled their vision. Every telephone along the coast was picked up. Just inland, the old farmer stopped searching and grunted with satisfaction as he held up a loop of wire. He fumbled for his pliers for a moment, then carefully snipped through the wire. He climbed back on his bike and laboriously pedalled on. There should be some more telephone wires, a little further on.

  The pilot of the Hereford II pulled the plane out of its shallow dive and steadied its course as the French coast grew rapidly before him. Columns of smoke rose where the fighter-bombers had dropped napalm on the local flak defences. The squat, square shape of the massive reinforced concrete casemate moved smoothly into the centre of the gunsight, the central dot tracking up towards the barrel of the coastal gun poking out of the wide, black aperture. He thumbed the firing button and a stream of 0.5 inch incendiary-tracer rounds streaked towards the target. They kicked up the sand in front of the casemate and walked up the concrete in flickers of fire. The pilot thumbed the other button and the Bofors 57 mm gun thumped into life, sending a mixture of high-explosive shells and armour-piercing shot around and through the aperture at a rate of two per second. A violent puff of smoke burst from the aperture just before the pilot had to haul the big plane upwards to clear the casemate. He grinned with satisfaction – at least one of his shots had hit a vulnerable spot! He turned the plane to watch the other members of his unit tracking steadily in to attack the other casemates of the battery, then turned for home. A quick reloading session, then there would be plenty of other targets beckoning.

  The turret of the Churchill II rang like a massive gong, leaving the crew momentarily stunned by the violence of the shock. The Second Lieutenant in command, his head out of the turret, checked briefly to make sure that the crew were OK and the tank intact, its well-sloped, four inch thick armour no more than gouged by the glancing strike of the German projectile. He returned to scanning the land ahead with the 6x30 binoculars, focusing with difficulty as the tank lurched for the cover of the hedge-topped bank ahead and accelerated down the lane, its Meteor engine roaring. A brief flash flickered in his vision just before a distant copse disappeared from view and this time the commander felt the air blast accompanying the deafening bang as the supersonic shell just cleared the top of the tank.

  ‘Follow the lane,’ he ordered, then switched to the inter-tank net to direct the next tank behind to engage the copse with HE. He heard the thump of the big four-inch gun as it lobbed a low-velocity 35-pound HESH shell at the wood. If it was a PaK that was engaging them, the shells would really distract them. If it was a tank, then a direct hit was unlikely but the attack would keep their heads under armour.

  The lane went past the copse at a distance of about half a mile, the steep banks on each side, so typical of this bocage country, shielding the tank from view. When he judged they were side-on to the enemy’s position, the lieutenant ordered the driver to slow down, engage the lowest gear and turn towards the bank. He traversed the turret to one side to keep the long gun barrel out of the way as the Churchill rammed the bank, then slowly pushed through it, sawing from side to side so that the serrated ‘Rhino’ attachment on the front of the hull could dig through the bank. After a minute, the tank burst through into the field. The commander, binoculars to his eyes, rapidly traversed the turret to the front. It should be… there! The land dipped to a shallow valley before rising to the copse, giving a clear view across the intervening hedgerows. The squat profile of a Panther tank was intermittently visible through the smoke and flames now pouring from the copse.

  ‘Load AP! Gunner, fire when ready!’

  The Churchill rocked under the violent kick of the powerful gun, the tracer of the APDS shot a brief streak as the projectile covered the distance in half a second. There was a pause, then the Panzer’s turret suddenly lifted into the air in a flash of flame. The sound of the detonation arrived a couple of seconds later.

  The lieutenant grinned with relief as his crew cheered. The new 45 ton Panzer IV Ausf.B ‘Panther II’, armed with a high-velocity 88 mm L/71 gun, was a formidable opponent but had most of its armour protection on the frontal arc. His own tank was at least as well protected and had the benefit of the tungsten-cored AP shot which the Germans could not use because of a shortage of tungsten. He reversed the tank back into the lane, then waited for the rest of his troop to join him. They still had a couple of miles to go to their destination on the shore.

  From the little Auster, bouncing through the disturbed air near the coast, the view revealed by the dawning light was spectacular. The invasion fleet was laid out below them. The observer had been told that nearly seven thousand vessels were involved, in more than fifty separate convoys, and he could well believe it. The minesweepers were closest to the shore, carrying out their unglamorous but vital and hazardous work to clear the way for the landing ships. Behind them came destroyers, ready to protect them from attack. Next came the huge variety of landing craft, most loaded with troops, tanks, guns and supplies, some fitted with rockets – the LCT (R) – or guns for shore bombardment (LCG) or, for AA defence (LCF), a few festooned with radar and wireless aerials for their fighter direction role. MAC ships further out were a hive of activity as the peculiar-looking new helicopters shuttled to and fro, transporting Marines and supplies. Moored parallel to the coast were the big ships, battleships and cruisers, guns ready to herald the frontal assault, surrounded by AA frigates. Around the perimeter of the fleet loitered more destroyers and sloops, providing a screen aga
inst submarines. The ships all moved very slowly, careful to keep their speed below four knots in order to avoid triggering the ‘Oyster’ pressure mines which reportedly littered the sea bed. No safe way of sweeping these had yet been devised.

  High above him, the protective umbrella circled. Further out were the P-51s and the Reapers. Right overhead were the new Typhoon jets, burdened with the biggest auxiliary fuel tanks they could carry, but still forced by their short range to come and go in a regular shuttle.

  The observer checked his watch and called ‘here we go’ to the pilot, just as the big ships erupted with fire. The long flashes from their guns were followed by billowing smoke, almost obscuring the shock waves sweeping across the surface of the sea as the battleships opened fire. Rodney and Nelson were down there, the observer knew, lobbing their one-ton shells many miles inland. They were joined by older British battleships and some American ones as well. By comparison, the fire from the cruisers passed almost without notice.

  As the barrage of fire continued, the invasion force started its crawl towards the shore. First to hit the beach were the Tritons, amphibious armoured tracked carriers launched from a couple of miles offshore. Some of these were fitted with old Cromwell turrets with 25-pounder guns for suppressing enemy defences, others carried Marine Commandos which they planned to deposit just inland from the beach danger zone, to protect the armoured vehicles against Panzerfaust-armed defenders. The LCTs went next, some carrying three heavy tanks, other a larger number of smaller vehicles. Waiting further back were the bigger ships which would not approach until the shore had been secured: the LSTs, which could carry fifty tanks across oceans, and the LCI infantry carriers. As the Auster circled, the observers saw more flame and smoke erupting close to the shore as the LCT (R) vessels reached close enough to let loose their terrifying stream of over a thousand rockets, fired in just half a minute. The shoreline had by now disappeared under a pall of smoke as the first landing craft crept in. Some smoke was laid deliberately to confuse defending gunners, but much was simply the result of the devastating bombardment.