“Ja? (Yes?)”
“Ist Bauer da, Herr Sturmbannführer? (Is Bauer there, Major, sir?)”
“Ja, ja, Bauer ist hier (Yes, yes, Bauer is here),” I lied. No doubt they were wondering where he had got to.
“Gut. Hauptsturmführer Klinger wird mit Ihnen in fünf minuten Sein. (That’s good. Captain Klinger will be with you in five minutes.)”
“Danke (Thanks),” I said, and rang off, not wishing to prolong a risky conversation.
“There’ll be an SS captain arriving in five minutes,” I told Haggerty. “My guess is that he’s the Major’s relief and if so he’ll be bringing his radio operator with him. Tell the chaps outside to let them through, then close in behind them.”
Five minutes later the canvas curtain was pulled aside.
“Alles in ordnung? (Everything in order?),” said a cheery voice.
“Für mich ja - für Sie, nein! (For me, yes – for you, no!)” I said in German as I spun round, thrusting my pistol into the startled officer’s face.
Before the look of bewilderment had left their faces, the Captain and his radio operator were grabbed from behind. While their braces and trouser buttons were being cut, I gathered up the various books and papers I had assembled, stuffing them into a briefcase the Major had left behind.
“Come on, let’s go,” I said. “We’re in danger of outstaying our welcome.”
The return journey did not take as long as our outward march, partly because the moon was setting and partly because we had already cleared the trip wires off our path. Our standing patrol on the bank of the stream confirmed that Corporal Baker had come in and taken his prisoners to company headquarters. I did likewise, and from there they were marched off to be interrogated by the battalion’s Intelligence Officer, who was also greatly interested in the documents I had brought in.
Duncan Flint was grinning from ear to ear, a sight I had never seen before.
“Can’t do a darn thing right, can you, Andy?” he said. “I told you I wanted a prisoner and you walk in with five!”
“Thought you’d be glad of the company,” I replied.
“Well done – it won’t be forgotten, I promise you. Now go and get some sleep.”
During the next few days the enemy’s artillery fire was noticeably less intense, and certainly less accurate. A week after the patrol I was summoned again to company headquarters, where I found Colonel Armitage and the Brigade Commander.
“Ah, the young man himself,” said the Brigadier as I entered. “You’ve done well, Andy. In fact you’ve been Mentioned in Despatches. I thought you deserved more but the divisional commander is a bit old-fashioned – believes that officers don’t need medals to perform their duty.”
I was handed the citation which said that a patrol led by Second Lieutenant Andrew Pope had eliminated an enemy artillery observation post, taken several prisoners and captured a number of important documents as a result of which the artillery fire-plan and signals network of the SS Panzergrenadier Division Nibelungen had been severely disrupted.
“That’s just the way it worked out, sir,” I said. “We were lucky, that’s all.”
“Results are what counts,” replied the Brigadier. “Anyway, the Divisional Commander has agreed to bring forward your promotion, which isn’t due for several months yet. Well done.”
“Keep it up, Andy,” said the Colonel, patting me on the back as he followed the Brigadier out.
“You’re improperly dressed,” said Duncan Flint, handing me a pair of pips. “Put these on – you’re a full lieutenant now. Apart from which, I don’t much care for second lieutenants.”
“So I gathered,” I replied. For a moment I almost liked him.
17 – 19 August 1944
By the beginning of August 1944 there had been definite signs that our efforts were beginning to pay off. We learned that Rommel had been evacuated to Germany after being seriously wounded, and that Hitler had narrowly survived an assassination attempt by some of his generals. The Americans had broken out of their beach-head and were swinging round the German left flank, which was being bent steadily backwards. Using new tactics, the British and Canadian armies began to push back the enemy’s right flank to the north of Caen, so that by the middle of August both ends of the enemy line had been bent back so that the line itself resembled a sack. The Germans were now struggling desperately to hold open the neck of this so that they could escape eastwards.
We were enjoying a spell out of the line when the officers were called to a briefing by Colonel Armitage. He told us that the battalion had been ordered to seize a village called St Marc les Trois Ponts, situated directly on the enemy’s escape route. The village lay on a hill enclosed in a loop of a river. Bridges crossed the river into the village on its east, south and west sides. During a night attack, we were to enter the village from the north, riding in Armoured Personnel Carriers (APCs). The attack would be spearheaded by tanks moving behind a heavy artillery barrage while the RAF suppressed opposition on the flanks with carpet bombing. Once a hole had been punched in the enemy front we would pass through it, enter the village and hold it against all comers until we were relieved. The result would be that a block would be placed across the enemy’s escape route.
“Ha! It’s a Death or Glory job, sir!” remarked Sergeant Warriner after I passed on the orders to the Platoon. “Difficult enough with a full battalion, but we’re badly under strength.”
That was true enough. The company now numbered about 80 men. My platoon, 25-strong, was the largest, but of those who had landed with me on D-Day only 15 remained, and some of them had returned to us after being wounded. I had also lost most of the original NCOs, either as casualties or because they had been sent to make up losses in other platoons. I had an uneasy feeling about this operation, but if someone higher up the chain of command had decided that we were expendable, there was nothing I could do about it.
We climbed aboard the APCs as dusk was falling on the evening of 18 August. For once, A Company was last in the battalion column. The attached artillery Forward Observation Officer (FOO), a Captain Paddy O’Connor, tagged on behind us in his Stuart light tank. Two squadrons of Shermans clattered past to deploy across the head of the column. We began to move forward, slowly but steadily. The artillery was already at work, pounding the enemy’s front line. Right on time, flights of heavy bombers droned overhead to release tons of bombs on farms, woods and other possible strongpoints on either side of our route. Few could have survived in those rectangles of erupting earth flames and smoke as more and more aircraft released their bombs into the same target areas. Now I knew why the RAF called it carpet bombing.
The column came to a standstill. From ahead came the noise of tank guns. Distant flames indicated burning tanks, but whether they were our own or the enemy’s I had no idea. From garbled talk on the APC’s radio I gathered that the Shermans had run on to a newly laid minefield and were being engaged by the enemy’s anti-tank guns and tanks. Time passed without any further movement forward. As the bombers turned for home it began to seem as though the operation would fail before it had really begun.
“ALL STATIONS ONE – FOLLOW ME!” Duncan Flint’s voice cracked like a whip in my earphones. “SHELLDRAKE CONFORM! OUT.”
Shelldrake was the codename for the FOO. As the company’s five APCs swung off the road to the right, I looked round and saw that his Stuart was following us. It seemed that the Major had studied his map and spotted a route to the objective across country, using farm tracks and minor roads, although this took us through one of the areas that the RAF had subjected to carpet bombing. I heard him call Colonel Armitage to advise him of this, but there was no response. We did not know it at the time, but in trying to work his way round the tank battle, the Colonel’s APC had struck a mine and the shock of the explosion had thrown his radio off the frequency we were using. If we had known, we would probably have halted instead of proceeding deep into enemy territory on our own.
As soon as w
e reached the devastated area, the APCs began to buck, pitch and roll in the bomb craters. It took all the drivers’ skill to get us through this smoking lunar landscape. Those of the enemy who had survived were too dazed to offer resistance. Some disappeared into the darkness, but most stood with their hands raised. Ignoring them, we pressed on, making better time along the farm tracks. The winding course of the river came into view, shining in the moonlight. At length we halted just short of the road leading into St Marc from the north and left the APCs, which Duncan Flint ordered to return by the way we had come.
As we entered the village I could hear the sound of many wheels and horses’ hooves on the cobbles. At the top of the main street a steady procession of horse-drawn enemy supply wagons was crossing the little square by the church. It was obvious that they had entered the village by the bridge to the west and would leave it by that leading east. Duncan Flint wasted no time. He instantly ordered the whole company to make a bayonet charge up the street. Confronted by a swarm of yelling figures emerging from the darkness, the transport drivers surrendered at once. I was instructed to continue the attack down the street leading to the western bridge, where we captured more wagons and their drivers. Across the river I could see a long stream of traffic was waiting to cross, including more horse-drawn wagons and a number of motor lorries. I opened fire on these. When the fuel tank of one of the lorries exploded, the light of the blazing vehicle revealed frantic men running in every direction for cover.
I attended a quick orders group at the church while Sergeant Warriner put the houses nearest the bridge into a defensible state by barricading the windows and doors. The FOO’s Stuart was parked alongside the church vestry, which was now Company HQ. Duncan Flint said that he expected the rest of the battalion to join us soon. In the meantime, each platoon would guard one of the bridges and contribute five men to cover the way we had entered the village. The horses were to be turned loose and the wagons used to form barricades across the streets.
“What about the prisoners?” I asked.
“We haven’t the manpower to guard ’em, so send them back where they came from. Chances are they’ll say there are more of us here than there are. You can expect probing attacks, but because the river is on three sides of the village these can only be directed at the bridges.”
“What about behind us?” asked Nigel.
“My guess is that the people to the north of us already have their hands full,” the Major replied. “Nevertheless, I’m keeping an eye on the situation.”
The probing attacks began an hour later. There were bursts of firing from Sergeant Brumby’s One Platoon at the southern bridge, followed by more firing from Sergeant Mason’s Two Platoon at the eastern bridge. I guessed that it would be our turn next. The burning lorry was no longer giving much light so I sent up flares from time to time. One of these showed a score of crouched figures running across the bridge. They were caught in the crossfire of our three Brens, the leaders being cut down at once. None of those who tried to escape across the bridge reached the other side. Quiet descended once more on the village. The thought struck me that our situation was similar to that of the position held by Duncan Flint’s company at Tobruk, which had been protected by two wadis and a cliff. An hour before dawn I was summoned to another orders group. As I hurried up the street the frightened faces of the village’s inhabitants peered at me from their cellar windows.
Duncan Flint was standing on the church steps when the rest of us arrived.
“There has been an unfortunate development, gentlemen,” he began. “The battalion has been heavily counter-attacked and I do not know how long it will be before it will join us. Meanwhile, we are sitting right on one of Jerry’s lines of retreat and, his probing attacks having failed, he will try and use some of his armour to dislodge us. I believe that you’ll be hit first, Andy, and—”
His words were drowned by the scream of an incoming salvo of shells. There was an explosion in the church doorway and I remember being hurled through the air – then blackness. I do not think that I was unconscious for more than a few seconds. I was aware of running feet and the sound of Sergeant Brumby’s voice.
“Take ’em down to the crypt under the church, lads. Joe, have look at Mr Pope.”
I opened my eyes to see Sergeant Mason looking down at me.
“You hit, sir?” he asked.
All my limbs seemed to be in working order but I had a splitting headache. Soldiers were carrying bloodstained figures down the steps into the crypt. More figures were sprawled on the cobbles. There seemed to be blood everywhere. I sat up slowly, shaking my head.
“What’s happening?”
“The Major’s been badly hit, sir,” answered Sergeant Mason. “So has the Artillery Officer. I’m afraid Captain Wood is dead, so is Sergeant Major Darracott and Barnes, the Company Signaller.”
I stood up unsteadily. Obviously, those who had been standing on the other side of the orders group had absorbed the worst of the shell’s effects.
“You’re in command, now, sir,” said Sergeant Brumby in a matter-of-fact voice.
The shock of our loss was bad enough, but suddenly I felt crushed by the immense weight of the additional responsibility thrust upon me. I was commanding an under-strength company that was doing a battalion’s job behind enemy lines, and whatever happened had become my responsibility. The two sergeants were looking at me expectantly.
“Send someone to fetch Sergeant Warriner,” I heard my voice say. My ingrained training and discipline were asserting themselves automatically. “Tell him to bring Corporal Baker and Helsby-Frodsham with him – at the double!”
Sporadic shelling continued to strike the village, so I moved the orders group to the narrow space between the vestry and the parked Stuart. Shortly after, the others arrived.
“Sergeant Warriner, you’ll take over as company sergeant major,” I said. “Corporal Baker, you are now commanding Three Platoon. Helsby-Frodsham, you are responsible for the company signals net.”
They nodded, obviously aware of what had happened.
“Now, the Major’s opinion was that we would be attacked by armour shortly,” I continued. “I agree with that, and also that Three Platoon is most likely to be hit first. This is what we are going to do. There’s a china shop round the corner. It contains a supply of round, earthenware casserole dishes. Lay them upside down in a pattern across the square. With any luck Jerry will think they are anti-tank mines, especially if we get someone to paint a sign saying ACHTUNG – MINEN! Sergeant Warriner, would you attend to that?”
“Sir!” Sergeant Warriner did not bat an eyelid at the changed circumstances.
“What about us, sir?” asked Sergeant Brumby.
“Collect as many bottles and jars as you can and make Molotov cocktails with them. Use the petrol in the Stuart, but leave enough for the engine to charge the tank’s radio batteries or we’re sunk. Supplement it with paraffin, lamp oil, any liquid that will burn.
“When the attack develops, keep your men out of sight. Jerry may think we’ve pulled out – if so, well and good. With any luck, his leading vehicle will halt at our ‘minefield’. At that point, your PIAT will knock it out, Sergeant Mason. Simultaneously, Corporal Baker, your PIAT will knock out the last vehicle in the column. That will leave the rest of them trapped between the two. At that point, and not before, we tackle them with our Molotov cocktails, as well as any infantry who happen to be escorting them. Any questions?”
They shook their heads.
“All right, we’d all better get on with it. I calculate that we’ve only 30 minutes of darkness left.”
No sooner had they left than Helsby-Frodsham reported that the company’s radio linking us to the battalion was smashed beyond repair. We therefore decided that he would operate the company’s internal radio net while we tried to establish a new link using the artillery set in the Stuart.
I clambered aboard the tank, where the FOO’s operator, Bombardier Seward, a very capa
ble and experienced NCO, was sitting beside his set. He told me that, subject to my orders, he could probably get us fire support when we needed it. He showed me a map board already marked by the FOO in which the three bridges had been given codewords, as were various crossroads, farms and woods in enemy territory.
“All I have to do is send the codeword and the guns will do the rest, sir,” he said. “It may not be as accurate as it would be if Captain O’Connor was controlling the shoot, but it will be near enough.”
He also said that a message could be relayed on the artillery’s radio frequency to brigade headquarters and then to our battalion, although it would take time. I handed him a scribbled note to send:
ONE FOR NINE. SUNRAY DOWN ALSO SUNRAY MINOR AND SHELLDRAKE. AM PROCEEDING WITH MISSION BUT EXPECT MAJOR ATTACK SHORTLY. OUT.
“One” was the A Company callsign and “nine” was the battalion control set, while the words “Sunray” and “Sunray Minor” indicated the company commander and his second-in-command.
I climbed the church tower just as day was breaking. Looking south, I could see a long line of enemy traffic that had by-passed the village moving across country. It included horse-drawn transport and guns as well as motor vehicles of every type. A massive jam was building up where it attempted to join another traffic stream heading east. Further south, I could see shells bursting and guessed that they were probably fired by the Americans as they strove to close the enemy’s escape route from their side. A roar of powerful aero engines signified the arrival of a squadron of rocket-firing Typhoons that pounced on the stalled lines of vehicles. Explosions erupted along the columns and fires sprang up. Through my binoculars I watched tiny figures running across the fields. It seemed that we were doing our job and I was determined to see it through.
“Sir, Sergeant Brumby says there’s a Jerry officer with a flag of truce at the south bridge,” shouted Helsby-Frodsham up the belfry ladder. “Wants a word with whoever is in charge.”
D-Day Page 9
