The LCT slowed as it ploughed into the beach, the ramp quickly being dropped into the shallow water. As the Churchill roared forward, a rattle of machine-gun strikes echoed through the vehicle. The commander did not need to glance at his map to know the location of the Widerstandsnester, or resistance nest; he had memorised the carefully plotted positions days before, wondering about who had collected this information and the risks that had been taken. The turret swung smoothly round and the commander peered into the periscope. Just… there! The tank’s HESH shell slammed into the German bunker, flattening into a cake of HE before the base fuze detonated, the shock wave blasting the bunker’s inner layer of concrete through the interior. The machine gun stopped firing.
As the Churchill growled up the beach, passing a wrecked Triton, the commander could see other armoured vehicles pouring ashore; among the first were some of Hobart’s ‘funnies’, specialist Flails: modified Centaurs whose rotating chains thumped the sand to detonate the anti-tank mines which littered the beach. Behind them came many Covenanters, carrying their cargoes of hand-picked infantry past the deadly beach and into the interior, their task to reinforce the Triton-mounted first wave and penetrate further inland to suppress all local resistance as quickly as possible. Some of the Comet AA tanks were there too, not just to defend against aircraft but also to turn their 20 mm Polstens onto any suitable ground targets.
The Churchill lurched to a halt as it approached the crest of the low dunes behind the beach. This point was most likely to be covered by a second line of PaK guns, whose reported locations were still being pounded by the ships offshore. While waiting for the rest of his troop, the commander opened his hatch and peered behind him. The growing light revealed a remarkable scene, the water covered with ships and craft of all sizes as far as he could see. Great gouts of flame and smoke periodically came from the battleships in the distance. Closer to shore, the water around the teeming craft erupted in splashes of all sizes as the surviving defenders fought back. The noise was a continuous, mind-numbing, battering of machine gun and cannon fire punctuated by the blasts of explosions and the strange, express-train roar of heavy shells speeding overhead. The commander spotted three LCTs which had not made it ashore, victims of artillery shells or Teller mines attached to beach obstacles; they lay at odd angles, burning, and one suddenly tilted over and sank as he watched. On the beach itself lay a Churchill, a track torn off by a mine. So far, though, casualties seemed to be light; the bulk of the invasion force was getting ashore as planned.
The members of the Oversight Committee clustered tensely around the big table in the living room, now covered with maps and situation reports. A junior Intelligence Officer kept popping in and out, bringing fresh reports. Most attention, though, was focused on the first reconnaissance photographs which had begun to trickle in. One showed an extensive area of marshland, water streaked with broad, parallel lines of foam from the hovercraft. One line ended short of the land, the craft obscured by smoke. Evidently, some of the defenders had reacted quickly.
The vast array of craft and larger ships was revealed in panoramic views. Their neat arrangement was disturbed in several places as smoking, damaged ships were hauled out of station. Some had run over Oyster mines too quickly, others been hit by those coastal artillery batteries which had so far resisted suppression by airborne troops, air attack or naval gunfire. Overall, though, the big gamble appeared to be paying off.
‘So far so good,’ muttered Don. ‘No sign of the Luftwaffe yet.’
‘They’ll be there,’ said Peter quietly. ‘We know they’ve been training with their new jet bombers and we think they have some new anti-ship missiles as well. They’ve been holding them well back, out of trouble, but they can’t pass up this chance.’
Mary had been scanning one of the reports. ‘The armoured units landed by hovercraft have met little resistance; that tactic seems to have been a complete surprise – it was definitely worth switching the landing grounds around to give the British forces a crack at the Cotentin Peninsula. Key points along the Route Nationale 13 to Cherbourg, at Carentan, St Mère-Église and Montebourg, have already been secured. And the beaches to the east of the Vire, with the restricted exits, were taken from the rear. They’re now just waiting for the reinforcements from the beaches before moving on Cherbourg.’
Don felt a shiver of goosebumps. He remembered the terrible slaughter at Omaha Beach as the American V Corps landed head-on into strong defences, and the smaller but equally ferocious and bloody struggles over the causeways leading from Utah.
Geoffrey grunted. ‘There have been some losses in local tank battles, though. Those Panzers are waking up. It’s a close match between the Churchill Two and the Panther, but the APDS shot should give our boys the edge. A bigger problem will be the number of those PaK eighty-eights they have. Our tanks will have to stay on the offensive, which means driving into the sights of their guns. We tried to plot the positions of the PaK units but of course they’ll be moving into different locations now, the first our boys are likely to know about them is when they open fire.’
‘How are the Americans doing?’ asked Don.
Geoffrey looked up from the papers he had been studying. ‘Not bad. They’ve taken some losses but are getting ashore. We’ll just have to wait and see how the new Pershing tank acquits itself though – the cavalry have had little time to get it ready.’
Charles picked up another paper. ‘The coasts of Europe are being blanketed by ‘Window’ to confuse the radar stations which we didn’t attack, every wireless communication station we could identify has been bombed or jammed and the decoy raids have all gone in on schedule. Let’s hope those units don’t get carried away by success and forget they have to pull back before their supplies run out.’
‘What’s the latest weather forecast look like?’ This had been the object of more than usually obsessive study over the past few weeks, nearly leading to collective heart failure during the savage storm which had only ended at the beginning of the previous week.
‘Looks good,’ said Mary, ‘calm seas still being forecast for the next few days.’
‘Any reports of German reinforcements being brought up?’ Don asked.
‘Not yet,’ Charles responded, ‘I expect they’re still trying to sort out the decoys from the real invasion. That shouldn’t take them long, though, then we can expect to see the first organised resistance.’
‘Every hour counts,’ muttered Don. ‘A successful landing is only the first step. Sustaining the invasion will be a long, hard, grind.’
‘Radar contact; hostile planes approaching!’ The Commander turned to the indicated direction, binoculars reflexively sweeping the sky even though he knew that it would be some time before the bogeys were within visual range. Most of the day had passed, so far with little Luftwaffe activity; a few Arado 234 recce jets, some of which had succeeded in evading the watchful Typhoons. The LCT, not the most glamorous of warships, had been heavily modified to act as a fighter direction ship, a task betrayed by the massive radar aerials. A new Allied IFF system was being tried for the first time in action, and it was working well in distinguishing the hostile aircraft from the swarm of Allied planes overhead.
The Commander was expecting trouble. By now, the Germans should have identified the main invasion force and readied their first strike. A stream of information was relayed to him from the Control Centre: several aircraft, coming fast from the east. The outer screen of Reapers had already been vectored on to them, but it was clear they would only have a fleeting chance of interception, on a hazardous collision course; the attackers were obviously jets, travelling too fast to be caught in a tail chase. The P-51s would do no better; only the Typhoons could match their speed.
The Control Centre was dark and stuffy, the controllers’ attention fixed on the green dots and lines on the radar screens. The Commander looked over their shoulders, noted that there were only nine aircraft, still ten miles away. A Reaper, identified by its IFF retur
n, approached the first jet head-on. The two blips merged, then broke up into many small pieces. He winced; the Reaper pilot had misjudged his attack, kept firing his guns for a fraction of a second too long. The eight survivors came on. Typhoons were now closing with them. This should be interesting, he thought.
Suddenly the green blips of the attackers multiplied as each split into two. A missile launch, this far out? He was puzzled: the bombers could not hope to control their missiles with any accuracy at such a range. His puzzlement increased when half the blips – obviously the bombers – suddenly turned through 180 degrees and retraced their course before the Typhoons could reach them. What was going on? He went back on deck, and after a few moments’ searching spotted the missiles by the flares of light from their rocket motors. They came on through an intensifying barrage of AAA fire from every ship within range, but most of the fire fell behind, the directors unable to compensate for the high speed of the missiles.
A sudden brilliant flash in the sky signalled a lucky hit, but seven missiles came on. The Lieutenant-Commander watched, fascinated, as each missile’s course diverged and they began to dive towards the invasion fleet. They were huge, he saw now, with stub wings and rounded noses. Rounded? The horrible truth suddenly dawned: those were radomes – the missiles were radar guided! He swore suddenly as they plunged unerringly towards their targets and vanished from view almost simultaneously. He held his breath, then groaned quietly as a seven massive explosions ripped through the fleet, billowing clouds of red-tinged smoke rapidly towering overhead. Seven vessels had been hit, and badly by the look of it. He turned back to the Control Centre. The Typhoons would have to be reinforced, he decided. Some should be stationed further out so they could reach the missile carriers before they could launch. Others would be held close in and ordered to intercept the missiles – if they could. This invasion was suddenly beginning to look costly, he reflected. He just had to hope that the Germans didn’t have too many of those missiles.
The burning ships provided convenient beacons in the night sky as the S-boote crept slowly forward, anxious to make no noise or wash which might be detected by the escorts lurking around the teeming shipping lanes. The Kapitänleutnant had only a few of the fast torpedo boats in his Flotilla, after days and nights of intensive bombing of their Cherbourg base, but each was carrying two torpedoes in their tubes with two more reloads, set for shallow running to ensure that they did not pass beneath the shallow-draft LCTs.
The Flotilla had approached from the land, hoping to confuse the radar on the defending ships, but were now entering the danger area. The silhouettes of ships were visible against the glowing sky and the Kapitänleutnant assessed their size and calculated the range. About three thousand metres. Suddenly, a searchlight speared out nearby, swept over the sea, passed over, swung back and caught one of the Flotilla. The Kapitänleutnant screamed an order and the S-boot surged forward as the supercharged diesels roared. To either side he could see the other four boats leaving plumes of spray as they raced towards the targets. Two and a half thousand metres, he thought – nearly there. Behind them, the destroyer which had spotted them was turning to give chase, but could not hope to catch the 40-knot boats; they were not called Schnellboote for nothing! Guns flashed and the feared thumping of the 57mm Bofors pursued them. The boats snaked and swerved to throw off the aim but pressed on, ever closer.
Two thousand metres! He checked his line on the nearest ship and gave the order. The two torpedoes lanced forward into the night but the Kapitänleutnant did not stay to watch their course; his boat heeled round in a tight curve and headed for the masking protection of the shore. Behind him, one of his Flotilla flashed into flame and shuddered to a halt. No time to stop – the Royal Navy would have to pick up any survivors. The S-boote turned again onto a reverse parallel course with the destroyer, slowed to a crawl. The crew held their breath. Suddenly, booming explosions reverberated across the sea and two – no, three – ships staggered under the impact of the torpedo strikes.
Half an hour later, the remaining S-boote slowly accelerated away from the battleground back to their base, their task completed. Their low silhouettes and the proximity of the land had enabled them to escape. As they steadied on a course back to Cherbourg, the Kapitänleutnant began to relax, and congratulated himself on a difficult task, well executed. It was almost his last thought. He stared at his huge shadow, suddenly projected onto the sea in front of him, and just had time to realise that they had not escaped, after all, before the torrent of cannon and machine gun fire from the radar and Leigh-light equipped Hereford tore his boat to pieces.
The Kapitän of the U-boot saw the flames thought his periscope and grimaced as he guessed their source. It had been hard enough reaching this point, given the tremendous efforts made by the Allies to stop them. Constant bombing of their pens by the massive ‘earthquake’ radio-controlled 5,000 kg bombs, nightly minelaying by the RAF in the approach channels to their bases, intensive day-and-night anti-submarine patrols by warships and aircraft; the pressure was never-ending. This was especially bad over the past few weeks, with the Allies determined to block any U-Boote trying to interfere with the invasion. Even the small and sophisticated new Type XI coastal submarines like his own, equipped with Schnorkels as well as powerful motors and massive batteries for high underwater speed and endurance, were frequently trapped and sunk. He turned back to focus on the burning ships on the horizon. One attack, then out – if he was lucky.
The Panzer Lehr Division Major grappled to control his impatience and frustration as his tank company had to pause yet again to clear away a tangle of vehicles and trees chopped down to block the roadways. There would be an accounting, he thought grimly, with these ‘Free French of the Interior’ once the invasion had been thrown back into the sea. Once the bulk of the blockage had been shifted he waved on his tanks, the Panthers grinding they way over and through, clearing the path for the support vehicles following on behind. The Major sat back as his command car roared forward once again, checking his map and calculating distances and times.
It had taken most of the day for OKW to sort out all of the information flowing in about heavy raids on Italy, Denmark, Southern France and the Pas-de-Calais, and identify the Normandy invasion as the real thing. Late in the afternoon, von Rundstedt had ordered his reserve Panzer units into action. They had made good progress through the night but dawn had broken and they still had thirty kilometers to go to reach the nearest of the landing sites. He gritted his teeth; the Allies had had a virtually uninterrupted twenty-four hours to consolidate their landings. The small tank units spread along the coastline had proved no match for the quantity of armour the Allies had been able to put ashore; the huge ‘hovercraft’ had proved a most unwelcome surprise, bypassing immediately many defences which it had been calculated could hold out for days.
He looked back and grimaced at the long plume of dust thrown up by the churning tracks of the Panzers, then he looked round at the sky. They would not have long to wait, he knew.
Ten minutes later, as they were passing through an apparently deserted village, the first deadly shapes appeared over the rooftops, resolving rapidly into the expected formation of fighter-bombers. The USAAF P-47s paused for a moment to line up then swept in, wing guns blazing. His driver hauled the vulnerable command car off the road and down a side street, seeking cover. Behind them, the usual chaos of battle; the roaring of tank and aircraft engines, the rapid tearing noise of the planes’ guns, the deeper hammering of the automatic FlaK, the explosions as bombs and rockets detonated, shock waves sweeping through the streets, blowing in windows and doors and shaking the command car.
The attack lasted for only a few minutes, although it seemed much longer. The command car gingerly nosed back into the main street. At first the Major could see little through the smoke and flames. As the fresh breeze cleared the air, he saw wrecked houses on either side of the road, one tank blown sideways by a close bomb hit. Then hatches started popping open
on the other tanks as the crews emerged to check the damage. A quick roll call showed only the one tank lost to a bomb; it would take more than heavy machine guns to penetrate a Panzer IV’s armour. Furthermore, the crews of the armoured Flakpanzers, with twin 30 mm MK 103 cannon, claimed two aircraft destroyed. His satisfaction was soon diminished, however, as news came from the rear of his column. Fuel tankers and other unarmoured support vehicles had been massively hit. The Major ordered the Panzers forward again with a heavier heart. He had his tanks, all right, but little chance of refuelling or rearming them. They had enough for one battle, then would have to pull back or abandon their vehicles. Still, they had no choice but to go on; the invasion must be thrown back!
The landing beaches were the site of intense but organised activity. The construction of complex artificial harbours had been rejected in favour of building more landing ships, capable of depositing their cargoes directly onto the beach. A steady shuttle of these built up piles of supplies, which an ant-like procession of vehicles moved to storage areas further inland. Each landing zone had some partial protection from the worst of the weather provided by a screen of ‘Corncob’ blockships forming curved ‘Gooseberry’ breakwaters. Within the sheltered area were some Lobnitz floating pontoons – ‘Whales’ – which provided pierheads for conventional ships to disembark their troops and supplies. The landing grounds provided diffuse radar returns so had so far proved difficult targets for the big German long-range guided missiles, and several concentric rings of light and medium AA guns on flak pontoons moored by the Gooseberries deterred a closer approach. However, the topmasts of several ships indicting the position of wrecks further out to sea provided a silent demonstration of the hazards of approaching the coasts.
THE FORESIGHT WAR Page 36
