I deliberately took my time walking down to the bridge, in the middle of which stood an impatient-looking German colonel and a soldier with a white flag on a stick. We exchanged salutes.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I wish to speak with your commanding officer,” he replied in clipped, precise English. “This is not a matter for a mere lieutenant.”
“Well, he’s having his breakfast and doesn’t want to talk to you,” I lied. “By the way, I think my German is better than your English, so let’s converse in that.”
It wasn’t, of course, but saying so gave me a slight advantage and clearly annoyed the Colonel.
“I am here to offer honourable surrender terms,” he said. His face wore a haggard, desperate expression that I decided to exploit.
“Splendid, Colonel,” I replied. “If you would kindly get your men to throw their weapons in the river and form up in that field we shall deal with them in due course.”
His face went purple with rage.
“You young fool, don’t you understand? I am here to demand your surrender!” he bellowed.
“Out of the question,” I said, feigning astonishment. “And we both know that you’re not really in a position to demand anything, are you?”
“Very well, you have had your chance, Herr Leutnant,” he snarled. “When your men are slaughtered the responsibility will be yours!”
“Good morning to you,” I replied, turning on my heel.
Sergeant Warriner was waiting for me when I returned to the church. I gave him the details of my conversation with the German, at which he gave his short laugh.
“You can’t blame him for trying, sir!” he remarked. “By the way, I’ve found a French doctor who is willing to look after the wounded, sir,” he said. “Two of the women have nursing experience and they’re willing to help, too.”
“Do they know that Jerry will probably shoot them if things go badly for us?”
“They’re willing to take a chance, and we’ll need ’em.” He stood looking thoughtful for a while before he continued.
“Couple of things bothering me, sir. We’ve only enough ammunition for one good engagement, and we’re holding too much ground for a company.”
“Well, there are plenty of captured weapons lying about, so we’ll use those first. I agree about our perimeter, though. My plan is to deny the enemy the bridges for as long as possible, then fall back on the square. That way we’ll still be able to stop them using the route through the village.”
“Very good, sir.” The Sergeant’s tone was non-committal. “I’ll have the men collect the abandoned Jerry arms and ammo. Rations aren’t a problem – there’s a baker’s round the corner, and a butcher’s too, so I’ve requisitioned some of their stock and distributed it.”
Bombardier Seward appeared in the turret of the Stuart.
“Your message has been acknowledged, sir,” he called. “I’ll let you know as soon as the reply comes through.”
I climbed up beside him, consulted my map and scribbled a six-figure grid reference on a message pad.
“This is our position, including the church, the churchyard and the square,” I said, handing it to him. “Get your chaps to add it to their list of targets. The codeword will be VENICE. Use the Slidex code when you send, of course.”
I had learned the Slidex code at OCTU and knew that if enemy operators were listening it would be almost impossible for them to crack it on the basis of one transmission.
“Are things that bad, sir?” Seward replied, eyeing the pad dubiously. Normally, one only called down artillery fire on one’s own position in extreme circumstances.
“No, but we may as well be prepared.”
Helsby-Frodsham poked his head out of the vestry door.
“The Major’s asking for you, sir.”
In the crypt the French doctor and his volunteer nurses were doing what they could for our wounded. The doctor told me that Duncan Flint was drifting in and out of consciousness at the moment and was very seriously injured. His back, left arm and left leg were swathed in bandages through which blood was soaking.
“Ah, Andy, there … you are,” he said. It was obvious that speech was difficult and painful for him. “Now listen carefully … this is what you’ve to do…”
“I’m sorry, Major, but I’m in command now. You’ve been badly hurt and must get all the rest you can.”
He glared at me balefully.
“In command … are you? What … are your plans … then?”
“I’m going to hold the village as long as I can. If we look like being overrun I’m going to pull everyone back here into the crypt, then call down an artillery strike on top of us. When that’s lifted we’ll break out and rejoin the battalion.”
“Good … I would have … done … the same. Not altogether … wasted my time with … you, it seems. I’ve seen … my company … march into captivity once. Don’t want … to see it again. Just don’t … mess up, laddie.”
It was hardly a vote of confidence, but he was drifting into unconsciousness and I bit back a sharp reply. I climbed the tower again. To the south the American shell bursts seemed much closer and our aircraft were harrying the enemy columns without mercy. I was witnessing the death of the German Army in Normandy. From the north came the sounds of intense fighting as the rest of our battalion tried to break through to us. I began to wonder whether the German Colonel’s threats had simply been bluster, although from time to time salvos of shells continued to land in the village, wrecking houses and setting one ablaze. Sergeant Warriner joined me. By shouting instructions to Seward, we were able to bring down our own shells on areas in which the enemy might be forming up for an attack.
“Slidex message, sir,” said Helsby-Frodsham from the top of the belfry ladder. He handed me the message pad. “The Bombardier’s decoded it for you.”
The message read: CRUMPETS FOR TEA USUAL TIME EARLIER IF POSSIBLE.
“What’s it mean, sir?” asked Sergeant Warriner.
“I think it means that the battalion will have broken through to us by 16:15. That’s the time we used to have tea in the Mess. It’s coming up to noon now, so we’ve about four hours to wait, unless Jerry decides to attack us after all.”
“He has, sir! Take a look!” Warriner exclaimed, pointing.
A large force of enemy infantry were moving stealthily along the north bank of the river, using trees and hedges for cover. They obviously intended attacking the open end of the village, using the same route we had entered it by. It was here that our defences were weakest.
“Tell Sergeant Mason to send one of his sections across to the north end of the village!” I shouted down to Helsby-Frodsham, then turned to Sergeant Warriner. “Go and take charge there yourself. There’s only a narrow gap between the two bends in the river and I don’t think Jerry will be able to deploy his full strength for an attack there. I’ll reinforce you if necessary.”
I had the sickening feeling that somehow I had made a terrible mistake. The sounds of heavy fighting still came from the north, so where had this attack come from? I glanced quickly at the map and saw that a weir was marked two miles downstream. Obviously the enemy had crossed there on foot. I cursed myself for not noticing it earlier. Yet, they could not have known that the north end of the village was our weakest point, and would have been aware that they could only attack on a limited frontage. If this was a diversion where would the main attack be delivered?
Seconds later I knew the answer. Four low-slung assault guns were moving along the road towards the west bridge. Behind each trotted a squad of infantry, with yet more infantry beyond them. I rejected at once any idea that our Stuart should engage them, for its little 37mm gun was no match for the assault guns’ long 75mm cannon, apart from which its radio was our only link with the outside world. I shouted for Seward to bring down shellfire on the west bridge, and for Helsby-Frodsham to tell Corporal Baker to keep his men hidden in accordance with our plan. Already I co
uld hear the crackle of rifle fire and the stutter of Brens as Sergeant Warriner’s men began beating off the diversionary assault.
The assault guns passed through the rain of shells apparently unscathed. The leading vehicle fired in turn at each of the overturned supply wagons we were using as barricades, then pushed its way through the splintered wreckage. As it reached the square its driver, spotting our “minefield”, halted, uncertain what to do. Immediately, a PIAT bomb slammed into the side of the vehicle, its blast killing those within. A second bomb hit the rearmost vehicle, which shuddered to a standstill with smoke pouring from its engine compartment. Then all hell seemed to break loose. Three Platoon appeared at the windows of houses on both sides of the street, hurling Molotov cocktails and blazing away with their weapons. The assault guns’ infantry escort were cut down, as were the crews attempting to escape from their burning vehicles.
The west to east route through the village was now successfully blocked, but as our artillery concentration on the west bridge lifted, more and more of the German infantry swarmed across, fanning out to the right and left so that they outflanked the positions held by Sergeant Brumby and Sergeant Warriner. I descended the tower just as Corporal Baker signalled that he had lost two houses near the bridge. I told Helsby-Frodsham to call the platoon commanders and tell them that they should fall back slowly on the church, but make the enemy pay for every yard of ground. He was to add that on hearing three long blasts on my whistle they were to break contact and run for the church.
“MAKE SURE EVERYONE KNOWS WHAT YOU’RE DOING,” said a sudden voice in my head. I put it down to fatigue, but it was just the sort of annoying remark Duncan Flint would make when I had already decided to do something.
It had now become a soldier’s battle. There was nothing more I could do at this stage, so I snatched up a machine pistol and several magazines from a dead German lying beside an assault gun, and visited each platoon in turn. I cannot recall the details, but the fighting was bitter. It raged in the streets, through houses, from barricade to barricade and across gardens. The Germans were fighting to break out of a trap, but we were fighting for our survival and that gave us an edge.
Heavily outnumbered, we were forced back slowly, which was good in one way as we had less ground to hold. On the other hand, we were losing men steadily and had fewer to hold it with. During each lull I managed to gather half a dozen men together as a reserve and used it to recapture a house or barricade with a counter-attack. I lost track of time but at length it became apparent that we would be overrun. Sergeant Warriner’s group had already fallen back to the north wall of the churchyard. Corporal Baker and Three Platoon were already pulling back to the west wall. One and Two Platoons were retreating doggedly but were being pressed hard. The danger was that they would be swamped by the next enemy assault, and that would leave us with too few men to hold the churchyard. Worse, this was the moment I should have called down our own artillery, but I could not leave them exposed to it. I already had my whistle in my mouth when I heard the voice again: “NOW! BRING ’EM IN BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE! YOU HAVEN’T A SECOND TO SPARE!”
I blew three long blasts. The men came streaming in, pursued by the enemy’s fire. I saw Sergeant Brumby run to the leading assault gun, which had been knocked out in the centre of the square. He clambered on to the superstructure, where a Spandau machine-gun was mounted beside the commander’s hatch. He immediately opened fire on the Germans massing in the streets leading to the south and west bridges, scything through them and forcing them to dive for cover.
“Back to the church!” I yelled at the two platoons. “Barricade the doors when everyone is inside and go down to the crypt!”
As they ran past me I turned to Sergeant Brumby. “Come on – you’ve done enough!” I shouted. “Get inside – I’m calling down an artillery strike!”
“I’ll just see the lads safely inside, sir!” he replied as he continued to blaze away. “Don’t worry about me!”
Bullets were already ricocheting off the gun shield and the assault gun’s armour as I ran to the Stuart.
“Call for VENICE now!” I yelled at Bombardier Seward. “Then get out of there and into the church!”
As we squeezed through the last gap in the church’s big double doors I glanced across the square. Sergeant Brumby was lying slumped across the machine-gun, his blood running down the assault gun’s side. The doors slammed shut and were barricaded with anything we could lay our hands on. In the crypt, we did likewise with the door connecting it to the church. The doctor and his nurses were hard at work in the hot, over-crowded space. A small door in the wall of the crypt gave access to a flight of steps leading up to the churchyard. I ordered the fit men to assemble by it and told them that as soon as our bombardment had lifted we would use these to assemble behind the north wall of the churchyard.
“We’ll go over it together,” I said. “I’m counting on Jerry being too dazed to do anything, but don’t stop for anyone or anything. The rest of the battalion is heading this way and we should be able to break through to them.”
From above came the sound of the enemy battering on the church door, together with the tinkle of breaking glass and explosions as they flung grenades into the building. I went over to Duncan Flint and to my horror saw that his face was now covered by a blanket. Shaking his head sadly, the French doctor told me that he had died only minutes after my last visit. The men had liked him, and I decided to keep this news to myself for the moment. Although I had never really liked him, I felt a terrible sense of loss, for A Company was his creation and now he had gone.
I glanced at my watch. It said four o’clock. I felt bitterly disappointed that we had not been able to hold out for another fifteen minutes, because the rest of the battalion would have arrived by then. Then came the scream of the first salvo of shells. What followed seemed to go on for ever. The earth round us seemed to heave as salvo followed salvo. From above came the sound of crashing masonry and the shattering of glass as the huge windows were blown in. In the crypt, dust was shaken from every crevice and hung in the air like a fog. I expected the church floor to collapse on to us any minute, but the stout stone Norman columns continued to support it. Then there was silence.
“Come on!” I yelled, wrenching the door open and charging up the steps. I emerged into a scene from hell. Part of the church wall had collapsed, bringing much of the roof down as well. German bodies, many of them dismembered, lay everywhere. Shattered gravestones and monuments littered the ground. Skeletal remains could be seen in some of the craters. The occupant of an uprooted coffin grinned bonily at me as I ran past. I reached the north wall and heard the thud of boots as the others joined me. I peered over. The enemy, severely shaken, had pulled back into the surrounding gardens to regroup and reorganize. To my surprise, shells began to burst among them.
“Look, sir!” shouted Sergeant Warriner, pointing.
A squadron of Sherman tanks, deployed in line, was approaching the village, firing as they advanced. Some way behind was the battalion’s leading company, riding in APCs. As the enemy turned to face this new attack, two strange vehicles detached themselves from the tank squadron and closed in on the end of the street. Through my binoculars I was able to identify them as Churchills, although they were towing armoured trailers. Suddenly a great tongue of flame belched out of one. It lasted for several seconds and stretched half the length of the street, setting everything in its path ablaze. I had heard of the terrible Crocodile flamethrowers, but never seen them before. Smashing their way through the barricades, they advanced slowly and with infinite menace. I could see the enemy’s fire ricocheting uselessly off their armour. Another belch of flame, this time reaching the edge of the square and sticking to anything it touched. Many of the enemy fled, but most flung down their arms and surrendered.
Beside me, our men were cheering and waving their helmets. The Crocodiles reached the square, shunted the derelict assault gun aside and turned south to cross the bridge into wha
t had been enemy territory. The Shermans followed in their wake. Then came our own B Company, the commander of which, Major James Masterson, stopped briefly beside me.
“Ye gods, young Andy, what’s been going on here?” he asked, looking around the scene of carnage and desolation. “Anything I can do to help out?”
“I’d be glad if you’d drop off a few of your blokes, sir,” I replied. “We’ve a lot of wounded and there’s prisoners to guard.”
“Will do,” he said. “Sorry I can’t stop – got an appointment with our American cousins. Seems they’ve closed the enemy’s last escape route and it’s just about all over.”
The rest of the battalion passed through. The wounded, the enemy’s as well as our own, were taken out to a fleet of ambulances that had arrived. The prisoners were marshalled and I made arrangements for our own men to have a brew of tea and a hot meal. The church tower was still more or less intact, so when these administrative tasks had been attended to Sergeant Warriner and I climbed to the top. We watched in silence as, to the south, British and American red and green recognition flares went up and white flags began fluttering along the stalled enemy columns. Typhoons flew overhead, ready to pounce on any remaining signs of resistance.
“Damn fine show, Andy, damn fine!” said a voice. We turned to see Colonel Armitage clambering out of the hatch. “You can tell A Company how proud I am of them – and so is the Brigadier and the General!”
“Thank you, Colonel, they’ll appreciate that,” I replied. “I’m afraid there are less than fifty of us left on our feet.”
“That’s hard to bear, I know,” he said, looking out at the surrendering German Army. “Nevertheless, several thousand of those people could have made their escape through this village during the time you’ve been here, then been used to fight against us again. You must balance your loss against that.”
D-Day Page 10
