The Fall of the Father Land

by D. N. J. Greaves

  Hofheinz glanced up at the sky. The beautiful August summer sky was marred by dense columns of smoke that rose interminably, blotting out much of the view forwards. At least they’re theirs, not ours. The Canadian tanks around the small wood to his left front were all destroyed, victims of their lack of thick armour and inadequate main gun. ‘Tommy Cookers,’ his men called them, a grimly apt joke. The enemy Sherman tanks were well known for their tendency to ‘brew up’, even at very long range. He’d seen so many of them go up in flames, a roaring inferno of orange-red flame that usually immolated everyone inside, unless you were fortunate enough and quick enough to bale out in the few seconds before the tank exploded. He wondered how anybody could be persuaded to get into such a death trap in the first place, let alone go forward into battle and slug it out with the enemy. The enemy tank crews deserved his respect for such courage. They must have known how heavily the odds were stacked against them. The Tiger crews had a much greater chance of survival in battle – usually, but not always. Yesterday’s irreplaceable losses were still fresh in his mind.

  It was nearly half past two in the afternoon. His Tiger had just received a fresh load of 88mm shells and machine gun ammunition, not a full load but enough to keep them going for the next few hours. They were situated a few yards from the crest of the slope in front of them, effectively in a hull-down position so only the top of the turret and main gun presented a target to any enemy tanks. It was so easy to pick off the enemy vehicles, one by one. Although his tank had suffered three impacts they were all glancing shots, deflected away by the thick turret armour. None of them left any serious damage.

  He could hear the sounds of battle further off to the north, but what was really going on was difficult to tell from where he was positioned. The smoke and haze made long-range observation very difficult. He suspected it was the battered remnants of Meyer’s division blocking any relief attempts by the enemy to rescue their surrounded colleagues. Once that mission was accomplished then they could begin the final assault on the surrounded Canadians. One sharp, hard blow should be enough to finish them off.

  Booth looked tired a he glanced at his watch. It was nearly seven o’clock, and evening shadows were beginning to fall slowly across the sky as the sun moved slowly down towards the horizon. The day had been a disaster. It had started so well, but now everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong. The artillery barrage had roared in, but nowhere near their position. One of the headquarters staff spotted where the shells were landing. It was at least four miles away, somewhere over to the west. The haze made pinpointing the exact spot difficult, but the fact that it was so far away simply confirmed what they all suspected- the battle group was in the wrong location, miles off course.

  Worse was to follow. Within half an hour, stragglers from the forward positioned Shermans struggled back through the waving cornfields. Most of them were burnt or smoke blackened, with a high proportion of them wounded. All twelve Shermans were knocked out. The last man in was their commander, Captain Hope. His right arm was missing. He was the only survivor from his tank. His unit had been attacked from both flanks. The enemy was using Tigers and Panthers, as well as infantry equipped with anti-tank weapons, and they could not be stopped.

  It was soon obvious that the rest of them were more or less surrounded. Worthington drew up his forces into a wagon- wheel position, just like the beleaguered settlers in North America a hundred years ago. The Germans now played the part of the American Indians, but this time their weapons were far more effective than bows and arrows. As the day ran its inexorable course, more and more Shermans blew up. Under- gunned and poorly armoured, they were easy kills for the technically superior enemy weapons. Dense clouds of smoke billowed all over their position. To add to their misery, mortars were ranged in, showering lethal shell fragments that sliced cruelly through the air. By the early afternoon Worthington had given permission for some of the surviving vehicles to break out, and take with them the wounded. Somehow they had run the gauntlet of enemy fire and miraculously disappeared in a cloud of dust towards the north.

  Shortly afterwards the RAF decided to pay a visit. The pilots mistook the presence of armoured vehicles so far behind the front lines as those belonging to the enemy. Swooping in low, the aircraft bombed and strafed the woods and fields, returning with rocket attacks against the remaining tanks and half-tracks. It was all the Canadians could do to release yellow smoke canisters and desperately warn them that their targets were friendly forces. Realising their error the pilots soon changed targets and began to hit the encircling enemy, much to the delight of the Canadian defenders, but with little obvious effect.

  The situation was fast becoming out of control. Most of the remaining tanks were destroyed, and few other vehicles were capable of movement. Two enemy infantry attacks were beaten off in short

  order, but now the end could not be far off. Ammunition was running out, and Booth had the additional responsibility of scavenging weapons for those knocked out tank crews that were still fit to fight.

  A runner from headquarters’ company sprinted along the shoulder-high hedgerow that ran up to the copse they were sheltering in, and jumped into his foxhole. He lay there for a moment, gasping for breath. It was Corporal Labatt.

  ‘What’s the news, corporal?’

  ‘Not good sir,’ Labatt gasped. ‘SNAFU.’ Situation normal, all fucked up. The man looked scared and despondent, but then they all probably looked much the same. A shout of ‘incoming’ made them duck. Another barrage of shells landed in the field to their right front, blasting earth and hot shards of steel far and wide.

  ‘Division HQ thinks they’ve finally identified where we are. They sent two relief forces to break through towards where they think our position is- our own 4th Armoured Division and the Poles.

  Trouble is, sir, they’re both having a torrid time. The Krauts are not giving an inch, and it looks like we’ll have to do the job ourselves.’

  Booth swore silently to himself. ‘What have we got left? Any tanks?’

  ‘Three or four half-tracks, maybe, but it’s hard to be sure if they’re in working order. All the remaining Shermans were brewed up in that last attack- that’s about it. There’s worse, sir…’

  ‘What is it?’ A feeling of icy despair gripped his heart- as if anything else could go wrong.

  ‘Sun Ray’s down, sir. His dugout was hit by a mortar round. The MO dashed across over to him as soon as he could, but I don’t think there was anything he could do.’

  Booth felt a numbing shock settle over him. The last thing they needed was to lose their commanding officer. Worthington was a good man, an inspiring and dynamic leader. It was not his fault that they had been given a foolhardy mission, mounted at such short notice. The operation smacked of wishful thinking and unrealistic, inadequate planning. What was division HQ thinking of? The Germans were not yet finished off, and they were damn good soldiers.

  ‘Who’s in command now?’

  ‘There’s only Lieutenant Hudson left, and he doesn’t know what to do.’ Labatt’s expression said it all. Hudson was a very new second lieutenant who had only just arrived in France, and could hardly be expected to take command and get them out of the mess they were in. ‘All the other officers are dead or badly wounded. Sir, the MO can’t make a military decision, but he thinks we should get the hell out of here before they wipe us out.’

  ‘Sounds like the right thing to do. Get back over to him and tell him I concur. Tell Hudson to get everybody that can move over here pronto. We’re going to break out on foot- anything else is too much of a give-away.’

  ‘But what about the wounded?’ The concern in Labatt’s voice was urgent. If there were SS out there…

  ‘Get the MO to assess who can be moved. The others will have to stay where they are and take their chances.’ A thought flashed through Booth’s tired brain. ‘Hold on, I’ve got a better idea. We’ll leave that captured SS officer in charge of them. He’s been treated well en
ough today, and I think we should be able to persuade him to ensure their safety. Off you go.’

  Labatt nodded. After a few seconds wait he shot off back in the direction from which he had just come, running hard in a crouched-over hunch to lower his profile. Booth ignored the lack of salute. Military courtesies could wait until they were safely behind their own lines. Anybody stupid enough to be saluted at on a battlefield was likely to get shot dead by the ever-wary snipers that kept a constant look out for enemy commanders. No officer he knew wore rank epaulettes on their shoulders, or swaggered about with maps and their reflective talc covers on display- too many had already paid the ultimate price.

  Sadly, quite a few more had joined that list today - all because of an error of navigation, and an over-optimistic plan. Booth rolled over and surveyed what was left of his platoon. Probably less than a third would be able to move under their own steam. He was confident that Meitzel would see sense and guarantee the Canadian wounded were treated well. After all, he had suffered the same murderous attacks and barrages as they had throughout the day, and doubtlessly wanted to survive, just the same as any other man. It was time to strike a deal.

  Coudehard and the Mont Ormel area, Normandy 1145 20/8/1944

  The time on Hofheinz’s wristwatch told him it was nearly midday, but the dense clouds of heavy black smoke that obscured the sun made it look more like midnight. The choking, acrid fumes from explosions and burning vehicles were more in keeping with Dante’s description of hell. And hell was happening here, in this normally beautiful and quiet part of the Norman countryside, a whirling inferno of shellfire and explosions that smashed trees, uprooted the ground and flung men and tanks around with callous disregard.

  The Allies had caught them in a steel vice, the jaws of which were relentlessly closing with unceasing pressure. To the south, less than half a mile away, an American division was reported to be holding firm, the southern jaw of the pincer. To the north the British and Canadians were pressing hard from the direction of Falaise to meet up with the Americans. Up ahead he could hear the unceasing rattle of machine gun fire. Mortars and artillery were smashing the area where the remnants of his unit and others were huddled. The intermittent bark of tank guns mingled in with the storm of explosions- some of them probably Shermans, from what he could tell. Their escape route was blocked; a stopper inserted into the neck of the bottle to prevent any more units escaping the boiling cauldron that lay just behind him. Further back, what was left of two armies was trying to escape. There must be a way out, but which way would lead to safety? From where he crouched it was hard to tell.

  All their Tigers were knocked out, save one or two that had been sent back to the factory at Kassel, for repairs beyond the remit of the field workshops. There were maybe twenty men from the 101st still with him but it was hard to tell at times, such was the confusion in the wooded valley. So many had already been hit by shell fragments, their wounds dressed with the few remaining bandages, or left to bleed freely. The more seriously injured remained where they lay, unable to move further. Nobody had the strength to carry them onwards. At times remnants and stragglers from other units had merged with his men, only to disappear later in their own efforts to find a breakout route. Everybody was exhausted, throats parched from thirst, their stomachs rumbling with hunger. The water had long since run out, and nobody had eaten or slept properly for two or three days. The men were dead on their feet, almost at the limit of human endurance.

  Tiredly he pulled the large-scale map out from his hip pocket, and unfolded it with his grimy fingers, trying to orientate it in the direction of north and approximating his position. A gap in the trees lay just up ahead, and he crawled carefully through the long grass to the edge of the wood, staying in the shelter of a large oak. Almost directly in front of him a steep slope led up towards to a wooded ridgeline that lay along the crest of a series of hills. From the map and his own observation he estimated the height to be nearly a hundred meters, not a problem for typically young fit men, but much more of a serious obstacle for the wounded and exhausted. To his right the ridge twisted its way south towards the spot height at Mont Ormel. There the crest was shrouded in smoke, broken up by the intermittent flash of artillery shells exploding. The roar of approaching aircraft engines made him look up at the darkened skies. Through the smoke he could vaguely make out the shapes of about six aircraft. They swooped nearer, suddenly launching multiple volleys of rockets around the far end of the ridge. The tree line erupted in a series of thunderous detonations.

  Over to his left the northern end of the ridge looked more inviting. However, beyond that lay an exposed slope nearly a kilometer away. The roar of battle from that direction was even louder than to his right. He thought he could hear the distinctive whip-crack of an 88mm gun firing, but it was hard to be sure. Maybe there was a counter-attack going on there, trying to open a hole for the encircled units to break out. Directly in front of him the slope up to the ridgeline was far too open. Anybody trying to go that way, even with the clouds of smoke billowing across the area, would soon be spotted. There were probably several hundred bodies there, torn and scattered over the pockmarked ground that bore silent testament to the murderous effects of Allied artillery fire. There were more trees and cover a little further up on the left.

  He checked the terrain again and swiftly made up his mind. Then he slid back the way he had come, soon rejoining the others who lay in a small hollow, sheltering as best they could from the hot, angry shrapnel that fizzed about between the trees.

  ‘OK lads, I think I’ve found a way out,’ he said brightly despite his dulling fatigue, hoping to galvanize some enthusiasm from his weary men. ‘One more effort and we should be through.’

  ‘Sir, what about Reisler?’ It was Schmidt, who looked angry and frightened. His friend lay on the grass beside him. The surrounding area was stained red from where a shell fragment had sliced into his left side. His face was pale. Sweat ran down his forehead, soaking his black panzer jacket. His trousers were already sodden, but from a far more vital body fluid. Hofheinz knelt and examined him quickly, then turned and stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry, Heinz,’ he said quietly in Schmidt’s ear. ‘Looks to me as if he’s beyond anybody’s help now.’ He put his arm around the younger man, whose eyes were filled with tears. ‘At least he’s had some morphine.’ There were no more ampoules left. ‘We can’t take him with us - we’ll kill him if we move him. The best thing to do is leave him here. He’ll be far more comfortable and better off that way. And if the opposition find him, he’ll have a much better chance with them than where we’re going.’

  Schmidt nodded, unable to speak. Hofheinz looked around at the rest of them, shouting above the noise of the artillery barrage. ‘Right, follow me. We need to move quickly and get out of this shit hole. Nobody stops for nothing. Let’s go.’ With that, he bent low and plunged through the trees, heading north. The little group had gone no more than two hundred meters when they bumped into another, much larger group of soldiers. They were paratroops, distinctive by their unique helmets and camouflage smocks. They looked just as desperate and tired as Hofheinz’s own men, their gaunt, unshaven faces sunken and sallow. Further off, he could hear tank engines running among the noise of the shell bursts.

  One of their non-commissioned officers ran up. This band of brothers was one of the last remnants of the 3rd Fallschirmjäger Division. Their commanding officer was further on ahead. He would soon give the order to advance up the ridge to the north and smash through the enemy who dominated the approaches. There was a rumour that the 2nd SS Panzer Corps was counter- attacking from the other side of the ridge in a similar direction. Did they want to join in and break out that way?

  Hofheinz declined. The direction of their attack looked to be heading straight towards where the battle was at its most furious. Besides, his men were tankers, not infantry. They only had a few machine pistols and revolvers among them, and the rest were unarmed. Thanks for the offer, but they wo
uld go their own way.

  They moved off again. This time Hofheinz turned right and led them directly up the slope, trying to move from tree to tree and staying undercover as much as possible. Behind him, his men struggled to follow. As they moved further away from the valley floor the shelling grew less intense, but the going became much harder. Bushes and thickets snagged their progress, and the slope seemed to rise almost vertically, at times making them crawl on their hands and knees as they scrambled their way upwards. Soon they reached a thick hedgerow, the boundary of a country lane that ran under the shadow of the ridge above. It barred their way. There was only one thing that they could do- force an opening in the hedge, crawl through the gap and sprint across to the other side, where they would have to repeat the same process all over again.

  A sense of desperation overtook them. They ripped the base of the hedge apart with their bare hands, thrusting their way through, oblivious to the cuts and thorns that ripped into the flesh of their fingers and arms. Soon a wide enough hole was made. Hofheinz urged them through. One by one they forced their way through the hedge and sprinted across the lane to lie in a small ditch at the other side. He was the last to go. As he made his way through the gap the noise from the bombardment temporarily eased, enough for him to hear the pfftt of mortars firing from close by. He wriggled through and dashed across the lane, launching himself into a dive to land in the far side ditch, clattering into some of his men who already lay there. He was only just in time. Three explosions crashed into the area they had just come from, shredding the trees and hedgerow with lethal fragments and showering them with dust and stones where they lay.

  ‘Quick,’ he gasped, ignoring the groans and shouts from the men he’d landed on. ‘We can’t stay here. We’ve been spotted. Keep moving.’ With a fury born of desperation they clawed their way through another hedge and struggled further up the slope, panting and sweating as they neared the top of the ridge. Several more explosions followed them, but once they had regained the cover of the trees, the shelling stopped. The enemy gunners had either run out of ammunition or found more lucrative targets to concentrate on.