Jean-Paul and Vincent tossed three more gammon grenades at the vehicles approaching the docks, causing chaos in the streets below. Over to their left, they heard the last two of Tony’s rockets being fired. They saw two light tanks halted in their tracks. Jean-Paul grinned at Vincent. He picked up his Sten gun and turned back to the window.
"This is a night we will never forget!" He depressed the trigger and flame burst from the muzzle of the gun. The bullets caused mayhem amidst the wounded and dying below them. Vincent too began to fire. Between them they laid down a devastating fusillade of bullets, until their ammunition was almost gone. Each slipped a full clip into their pocket, and fitted the last ones to their guns.
"Right. Let’s get out of here."
Vincent led the way out of the room and down the stairs, Jean-Paul close to his heels. Within moments they were outside, heading off into the darkness. A single shot came from their rear and Jean-Paul cried out in pain. Vincent turned to see his companion fall, wounded by a German soldier who approached rapidly. As the soldier raised his gun to shoot the wounded Frenchman, Vincent raised his and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Cursing the weapon, he ran back in the direction of Jean-Paul, surprised to see that the German had lowered his gun and was kneeling beside the saboteur.
"Boues?"
Jean-Paul looked up through pain filled eyes. He recognised the German soldier who had given Pax to Theresa. He nodded as he saw the indecision in the man’s eyes.
"Yes, I’m Boues. Do what you must."
The soldier shook his head and reached a decision. "You are only doing what I what do if I were in your place. We both know this war is over in all but name. Each new death is a senseless waste of life. Though I have lost a daughter, it would be wrong of me to deprive your children of a father in the name of Hitler. Good luck, Boues." The soldier stood up. With a final look at the injured Frenchman, he disappeared into the night.
Vincent drew up beside Jean-Paul, a frown furrowing his brow.
"Who was that? Why didn’t he kill you?" His voice was breathless.
"I’ll explain later." Jean-Paul looked down at his injured leg. Blood poured from the wound and he knew that the leg would not support his weight. "Just help me get out of here."
Vincent bent down to help his companion to his feet.
On the far side of Tony, Georges and Madeleine fired into the German soldiers who were arriving at the scene. They were easy targets silhouetted against the fires raging in the docks. A few Germans fired back. Bullets thudded into the brickwork. Soon some organisation came out of the chaos and a number of soldiers ran in the direction of the French couple. Madeleine turned to her husband.
"I think we’d better get out of here."
Georges nodded and led the way from the scene of conflagration. The rain was falling harder now, and the night was dark. Within minutes the pursuing Germans had lost sight of them and reluctantly turned back towards the area of the city which lit the night like a beacon.
Tony had fired off the last of his rockets. He was now throwing grenades down onto the soldiers, who were shouting orders above the cries of the wounded and dying. He felt hot, despite the cold rain which drenched him; exhilarated by the success of the mission, he could have stayed there forever. But he was almost out of grenades, and the Germans were beginning to close in. Leaving the rocket launcher, he turned and ran, crouched low to the ground. He had not gone far when he saw Vincent helping Jean-Paul. He rushed over to their aid.
"Are you all right?"
"I have felt better." Jean-Paul forced a grin.
Tony turned to Vincent. "Get him clear of here, and try not to leave too obvious a trail of blood. I’ll cover you."
Jean-Paul had seen the Germans closing in. "What about you?"
"Don't worry about me. Just get out of here!" Tony pulled the pin from a grenade and threw it at the approaching Germans, then took cover behind a heap of rubble. Behind him, Vincent supported Jean-Paul and helped him to hobble away. They heard, and felt, the grenade explode, but they did not stop. As they moved further away from where Tony held the Germans at bay, they heard one, two more grenades, closely followed by the distinctive chatter of a Sten gun. Jean-Paul took a final look over his shoulder. Tony was almost totally surrounded. As he limped away, supported by Vincent, he had a sinking feeling that he would never see Tony again. Tears coursed down his cheeks, and they were not tears of pain.
Tony threw his last grenade at the approaching soldiers. He felt the dust and débris of its explosion rain down on him. Ears still ringing, he lifted his Sten gun. He began to sweep it back and forth, watching the hail of bullets tearing into the Germans. Many of them fell beneath the attack, but more kept coming. A cold knot of fear filled his stomach, as he loaded the last magazine into his gun. There was no way out now. He thought fleetingly of Sarah, of her gently smile, her warm loving eyes, her tender embrace. Then he concentrated on the situation in hand. The Germans were closer now, and he fired again. Seeing the fires raging in the distance, he knew that his night’s work was successful. When the invasion came, the Germans would not dare to strip the garrison of Saint Nazaire. He fired again and again, vowing that he would not die until he had taken more of the enemy with him.
149
Bobby and Al waited in their holding area as the terrible storm raged, wondering if it would affect the date of the invasion. The rain lashed down in sheets from the black sky, and the wind blew to almost hurricane force. It seemed to be never ending as the emotionally charged soldiers waited in their confined space. The storm raged for three days, and only began to abate late on 5th June. The assembled masses would have been relieved, if they had known that those in charge of the invasion forces had decided that now everything and everyone was in position and ready to go, the D-Day landings could not be halted. If they waited four more weeks for the next favourable moon and tides, it would cause almost insurmountable problems with the masses of men and equipment concentrated on the south coast of England. It was logistics which finally convinced them to go, whatever the weather. The D-Day force consisted of one thousand two hundred ships against fifteen German destroyers, ten thousand aircraft against Germany’s five hundred, four thousand one hundred and twenty-six landing craft and eight hundred and sixty-four transport ships. There were tanks with flails for clearing mine fields, amphibious tanks, tanks to destroy concrete bunkers, tanks that laid their own carpets and tanks for bridging dikes. To back up all of these machines, there were almost two hundred thousand men. It was a magnificent exercise in logistics, but to hold everything in the same place for almost another month would be impossible. Eisenhower, showing rare wit for him, said that 'Only the great number of barrage balloons floating constantly in British skies kept the islands from sinking under the waves'. As the force of the storm finally began to abate on 5th June, the go-ahead for D-Day was given and the troops began to embark in the still-falling rain.
Bobby and Al boarded their transport with two days of rations in their packs as there would be little chance of re-supplying the forward troops in the first forty-eight hours after landing. The 1st Infantry Division and two Ranger Battalions made up Force O, under the command of Major-General Clarence R. Huebner. He sent his officers to explain the plans of the imminent invasion to their troops. The American soldiers who had been stationed near Heronfield listened intently to their instructions.
"There will be five beaches,” the captain explained. “The British will take Sword, Juno and Gold in the east. The US will come ashore on Omaha and Utah beaches in the west. We are destined for Omaha. The beach has been further divided into four - Fox, Easy, Dog and Charlie. 2nd Ranger Battalion, with the 5th as reserve, will come ashore in the centre of Dog. 116th RCT will come ashore on Dog and Easy, while 16th RCT with 18th as reserve will come ashore on Easy and Fox. Charlie will be hit by the forces from Utah."
He perused the thousands of men who listened to his words in silence. Most of them would be seeing action for the first ti
me when they hit the beaches of Normandy. He wondered how they would fare. Their faces showed determination but little fear, and he was encouraged.
"You each have two days’ rations. Barges with four thousand tons of ammunition will be beached with the invasion forces, as an immediately available reserve. Once all the troops are landed, a huge flotilla of ships will re-supply you. Everything is ready. Nothing can go wrong, so hit the beaches fast and hard. We will be in Berlin for Christmas."
A rousing cheer greeted his words, and the officer smiled. "Right. For now relax and get some rest if you can. We hit the beaches at dawn."
Bobby made his way to the side of the ship, and looked off into the dark night. The huge bulk of the ships rose up ahead of and behind him and he hoped the air cover was sufficient. If the Luftwaffe got in amongst this lot, it would be a disaster. Bobby need not have worried. The skies were totally under Allied control. RAF Coastal Command had one thousand and seventy aircraft in forty-nine squadrons, patrolling around Iceland and into the Eastern Atlantic as far as the Western English Channel, where they concentrated their efforts. Air Defence of Great Britain was covering all shipping and convoy routes to a range of forty miles from the British coast. The Allied Expeditionary Air Force, with 69 and 171 fighter squadrons, was to give protection to the invasion forces; five squadrons of American planes were permanently over the swept channels, five further American squadrons would be used as high cover for the beaches while five British squadrons would provide low cover for the ground troops.
As the transport ship moved further on its way, Bobby was unaware of the number of ships in the waters surrounding him, and the perfect timing and control it would take to get them all safely into the right place at the right time. The assembled invasion fleet moved down four swept lanes, from the south coast to Main Assembly Area 2, about eight miles south-east of St. Catherine’s Point. All the ships en route to France were to pass through this area, known euphemistically as Piccadilly Circus, and pick up its route to France. From Piccadilly Circus they would follow two hundred and forty-five minesweepers down five marked channels which were assumed to be free of mines, one channel leading to each of the beaches. South of latitude 50 North the minesweepers began to clear and mark two lanes for each assault force, one for fast traffic and one for slow ships, leading to transport areas where the assault craft were to be lowered, and the various amphibious vessels arranged into attack formation. The British transport areas were seven miles off-shore while the Americans had to be eleven miles out, because of the danger of converging fire from the two adjacent coasts of their beaches. It would take the Americans three hours to make touchdown from the transport area. They needed to begin assembling in the area four hours before touchdown. Between the time of assembly and assault, the minesweepers were to clear lanes for the bombarding forces and assault vessels. Bobby stood at the rail of the ship unaware of any of these complicated arrangements. He could see four other ships, and occasionally heard the muted engines of aircraft overhead. It seemed so calm and peaceful. The rolling of the huge transport vessel left him with a feeling of safety and security. He wondered how he would react when the quiet of the night was rent asunder by the sounds of war, by bombs and mortars, gunfire and screams. He breathed in the salty sea air, wondering how far from the French coast they were, and hoping that when he finally did reach land, he would not let the side down.
It was still dark when Bobby made his way down the ladder and into the landing craft. As it hit the water, he was conscious of the change in motion from the gentle rocking he had felt on the transport ship. The landing craft was much smaller. It rose and bucked in the waves, the final vestige of the storm which had raged for so long. He looked around at his grim faced companions waiting for whatever lay ahead of them. Each had a pack on his back, rifle in his hand and helmet on his head. Some had already done up the chin straps in anticipation of the beaches, but most left them hanging loose. All was still. The only movement was the rocking craft, and the ceaseless movement of American jaws as they chewed gum.
At last the landing craft carrying V Corps were on their way to Omaha beach, a seemingly endless line of craft, like a column of army ants on the move. The approach to the beaches seemed to go on forever. Three hours can seem an eternity when you know that each moment your life could be in danger from enemy patrols. But miraculously the flotilla approached the beaches unobserved and unopposed. The sky was beginning to brighten with the grey light of dawn as the order came to prepare for the assault. Seconds later, the scream of shells high above their heads could be heard, followed by the dull roar as they hit the coastal defences. Bobby was on his feet now, one of a line of soldiers who waited with shoulders hunched and heads bowed low for the ramp to be lowered. So far, it was just like a training exercise, with the roar of friendly fire to their backs and, as yet, no enemy in sight. But Bobby knew that was all about to change. He tightened his grip on his weapon, and said a swift prayer that when the day was over he would still be alive to tell the tale.
High above, unseen and unheard, Allied planes approached and dropped their lethal cargo onto the enemy defensive positions. The ramp was quickly lowered, covering those closest to it with fountains of sea water. A cry came from the officers in the rear.
"Let them have it, boys!"
Bobby shuffled forwards, then found his feet on the unstable surface of the ramp. He moved on, jumping into the waves which reached above his knees. Rifle held high above his head, he waded ashore as the enemy opened up with a withering defensive fire. On all sides of him Bobby saw men fall, arms flailing wildly as the bullets ripped into them and they struggled to keep their footing. The water was shallower now. Bobby made his way onto the hard-packed sand, and looked wildly around him. Up ahead, the German 352nd Infantry Division was sited in commanding defensive positions which the air and naval bombardment had failed to destroy. From there, they were creating havoc amongst the force struggling to come ashore.
Bobby spied some sand dunes which would offer limited protection. He sprinted in their direction, but before he was halfway there the sand around his feet was thrown up in a stinging spray as bullets tore into it. He threw himself down beside another soldier, and pushed his helmet tighter onto his head.
"Gee! This is hotter than I expected!"
The soldier made no reply. Bobby turned to look at him in the early dawn light. Half of his chest was missing, and the sand around him drank the red blood as swiftly as it flowed from the gaping wounds. Bobby paled. He felt his stomach churn. He released his hold on his gun to wipe nervously at his mouth, and realised that he had not yet fired a single shot. Lying prone and using the body of his dead compatriot as cover, he sighted on the defensive positions which were becoming more visible as the sun rose higher. Carefully, methodically, he began to fire.
Bobby was reloading for the third time when a hand tapped him on the shoulder. He turned his head towards the lieutenant who had crawled up beside him.
"They're backing up behind you, soldier, and have no cover. They're sitting ducks at the water’s edge. Move on up the beach."
Bobby perused the wide expanse of sand, littered with broken and bleeding humanity.
"Where do you suggest I go, sir?"
The lieutenant pointed to the sand dunes Bobby had tried to reach earlier.
"Try to get up there. You need cover just as much as the lads behind you. If you don't get moving soon, they'll be using you just as you're using this G.I.”
Bobby looked at the soldier whose body had sheltered him, then back at the lieutenant.
"I'm on my way, sir!"
It took him almost thirty minutes to travel the one hundred and fifty yards to the sand dunes. He crawled on his belly, stopping to fire off a few rounds at the enemy, cowering low as the enemy mortars rained down on the beach. When he finally reached his destination, the relative safety of the dunes was already packed with soldiers who could see no way ahead. Those who were hit, or died of their wounds after reach
ing the dunes, were mercilessly pushed clear to make room for the living who crowded the blocked beach with nowhere to go.
"Where the hell is the armour?"
Bobby looked at the soldier beside him and shook his head. "I don't know, pal."
Looking down the beach he could see a few tanks. Most of them had been damaged by German mortar fire, and the only contribution they now made to the battle was to provide cover for those soldiers unfortunate enough to be stuck out in the open expanse of the beach. Those who were in the relative safety of the dunes were still under pressure from the masses of soldiery behind them, and eventually moved forward once again. So it went on throughout the day, small movements forward followed by long periods of lying low and trying to pick off the enemy. It was like a slow game of leapfrog amidst a field of dead and dying. By the evening of D-Day, the forces attacking Omaha beach had penetrated at their furthest point little more than a mile inland. In places opposite the main landing sites they were still within a thousand yards of the beaches. As darkness fell, Bobby found himself on the edge of a road. American forces stretched on either side of him into the distance, and the German 352nd Division still opposed them heavily ahead. He wondered, in his tiredness tinged with fear and frustration, if the whole invasion had been as disastrous as the small part in which he was involved.
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