by Will Belford
‘Why do it then General?’ queried a staff officer.
‘General Gamelin insists that it is essential and has committed thirty divisions to what he calls his “left-swing manoeuvre”,’ replied Gort. ‘For political reasons we have been obliged to accept this plan. Our position is right in the centre defending Brussels. It’s bloody Waterloo all over again. You all have your orders, I expect you to carry them out and set an example to the French, yet again, of how to fight. That’s all, I’ll see you all in Belgium tomorrow. Good luck.’
So, on the 11th of May, while the small BEF force prepared to advance to Brussels, the whole might of the French army, except for those units garrisoning the Maginot Line, began to move into Belgium.
At the British headquarters, General Gort was worried—worried about the French army and the strategy the French generals had insisted he adopt. He lit a cigarette and pondered the problem as he strode around the plank and trestle arrangement that was his desk.
He knew that the French army was supposed to be the greatest army in the world. “Forged in the anvil of the Great War”, made up of men filled with the élan of their fathers and grandfathers, armed with some of the best tanks, planes and artillery ever made. Yet Gort knew there was something rotten at the heart of the French army. Despite solid morale amongst the enlisted men, he’d seen something different in the attitudes of the senior officers: a defensive malaise had supplanted the sprit of audacity and advance that had characterised the men he’d known during the Great War. He’d seen how defeatism and bureaucracy had burrowed their way in. It was clear that corruption and mismanagement had left crucial frontier defences incomplete or unmanned. Gort was appalled at how many simple things had been ignored, like minefields and radio networks to co-ordinate the infantry, artillery and the tanks. Worse still, the French tank force had been dispersed in penny-packets, rather than concentrated in powerful mobile divisions. Gort knew that, after months of ‘Phoney War’, in which the French had sat behind their borders rather than attacking Germany, morale was at rock-bottom. He’d heard that at some border points on bridges over the Rhine river, guards had even struck up conversations and shared cigarettes with the Germans on the other side.
Gort stubbed out the cigarette on the floor. Was he the only person who realised the fundamental doctrinal errors that had rendered virtually impotent one of the mightiest armed forces ever assembled, before it even fired a shot? The pity of it was that many of the French general staff were weak-willed men, lost in the glories of old wars; unable to adapt to technological changes that had revolutionised weapons; incapable of re-assessing their own assumptions.
He cursed and looked at the map again. The French strategy was to fight in Belgium, a strategy that rested on one stubbornly-held assumption: that the Ardennes forest was impassable to tanks. With access to France through Luxembourg denied to them by this mountainous wooded terrain, and the French-German border protected by the supposedly impenetrable Maginot Line, the Germans would have to come across the open plains of Holland and Belgium. The theory was that they could be met head-on by a superior force and defeated.
The only problem was that the Germans hadn’t made the same assumption. Their tanks were approaching, across the plains of Holland and Belgium certainly, but they were also coming through the Ardennes.
General Gort picked up the phone.
‘Get me the Prime Minister,’ he said. If the French persisted with their strategy of sending their entire army into Belgium, the British would need a contingency plan.
Chapter Fifteen
Belgium, 12 May 1940
The men in khaki poured out of the trucks. While the sergeants bellowed orders and the platoons unloaded their equipment, the lieutenants gathered at the major’s car. He spread a map of the area on the bonnet and pointed out their position with his swagger stick.
‘This is us, here’s the road, there’s a stream on our left flank that runs to the Dyle River and a Frog battalion on our right, here. Beyond them there’s a thick wood about a mile deep that runs seven miles southwest. Unless he goes around that, which is a sizeable detour, Gerry has to come through here. That’s why we’ve been put here.’
‘Remember, this is a delaying action. We’re only here to give the units in France time to get into position this side of Brussels. We are not expecting to stop Gerry, just slow him down a bit, which means that we will be making a strategic withdrawal to positions beyond the Dyle at 0300 the day after tomorrow. Early reports indicate that the German tanks are bypassing strongly-defended positions and leaving them to their infantry. We will leave the tanks alone as much as possible and go for the mounted infantry that will be riding behind them. Is that clear?’
‘Yes Major,’ replied the assembled officers.
‘Sir,’ said Joe, ‘if there’s a river to our left and Frogs and woods to our right, the panzers won’t have any option but to go straight through us, are we not to fire on them at all?’
‘No, concentrate on the infantry. One platoon, you take the left, Two you take the centre, Three you take the right. Lieutenant Dean, you speak this bloody Frog lingo don’t you? Come with me, I’ve got to introduce ourselves to the Frogs here so they don’t shoot us by mistake. One more thing gentlemen, this is the first time in combat for this regiment, I don’t expect you to stop the Gerry tanks, but by God I expect you to give their infantry a hiding. Dismissed.’
Joe had finally made it to Roubaix after a seemingly interminable flight in an ancient Belgian transport. The plane had dropped him in Tournai, and he’d spent a miserable few hours trying to find some transport back to Roubaix. The local barracks was in a panic over the news that the Germans had invaded all across Belgium and Holland, and no vehicle could be spared. After waiting for hours, he’d eventually stolen a bicycle and covered the twenty-odd miles to Roubaix at breakneck speed, arriving just as his regiment was moving out of its familiar entrenchments.
Bundled into the back of a truck with his platoon, Joe had watched Roubaix vanish into the distance as they travelled east all night, finally stopping at midday in a small town south of Brussels.
While they were waiting to move on, a German fighter plane had come screaming out of nowhere at rooftop height, machine guns and cannon blazing. The rear truck took a few cannon rounds and was instantly a mess of shattered metal, with blood dripping over the sides and pooling under the axles. Three men were killed and five badly wounded, along with one of the local girls who had come out to see the troops go past. She was hit by a bullet that took most of her left leg off; she wouldn’t be chatting up the soldier boys anymore.
This first encounter with war and the horror of airpower left a deep impression on the men: the suddenness of the attack, the noise and the appalling violence wrought upon their fellows. Men, who moments before had been personalities, chatting and joking, were now mangled piles of bone and offal, while the wounded screamed in agony until the morphine took effect. Bright blood splattered the dust and unidentifiable pieces of flesh were scattered across the road.
Major Merrivale came scowling down the line of trucks and yelled at the crowd of soldiers, gaping at the ruins of the lorry.
‘You men, stop gawping and mount up. You’ve seen your first dead bodies now. Good. Don’t think you can consider yourselves soldiers yet, you need to kill some Germans first, now let’s get moving. Lieutenant Dean?’
‘Yes Major?’
The major walked over and lowered his voice.
‘I don’t want the men thinking too much about what is going to happen to them. Get ‘em into another truck, now.’
‘Yes Major,’ gulped Joe.
He was still in shock himself; he would have been in that truck if he hadn’t hopped out a minute before to ask directions. One of the men in his squad, Private Powell, had been sitting in the truck talking to a friend when the attack came. He’d been disembowelled by a cannon shell, and Joe felt responsible.
‘Pull yourself together man,’ snapped Merr
ivale, ‘set an example for God’s sake. Were any of ‘em yours?’
‘One.’
‘That’s one SIR, you bloody convict. Forget about him, he’s gone, there’ll be plenty more in the next few days. Do you think these are the first men to die for their country? You’ve got a tradition to live up to, even if you are an Australian. Now get your men into another truck, the medics will take care of this lot.’
As the trucks pulled away from the shambles, Joe couldn’t take his mind off the sight of the bodies of the men he’d known. As the day wore on they crouched fearfully in the truck, expecting to be strafed or bombed at any moment, but after that attack they hadn’t seen a single German plane all day. Where was the Luftwaffe?
Chapter Sixteen
Belgium, 13 May 1940
The German 1st Panzer Division arrived at the banks of the Meuse during the early hours. Erich and Reiner dug a foxhole on the edge of the woods as ordered, and laid down covering fire across the river with their MG34, while successive waves of SturmPioneren and Stosstruppen inflated their boats and rowed out across the dark waters.
The fire from the French artillery and machine guns was savage. Even firing blind, the so-called ‘second-line fortress troops’ of the French 55th Infantry Division inflicted severe casualties on the first German assault, but two hours after dawn, everything changed.
Three days of marching through the Ardennes and fighting without sleep had completely ruined Erich’s sense of reality. Only the amphetamine pills issued to every soldier before the jump-off had kept him going. After a few unsatisfactory hours of sleep, he awoke to find Reiner brewing coffee on a tiny kerosene burner.
‘What time is it?’ he asked. Out in the river, a French 75mm shell deafened them as it sent up a fountain of water.
‘About eight in the morning mein freund,’ replied Reiner. ‘No rain. As good a day as any to die trying to cross a river under artillery and machine gun fire.’
‘Bloody pessimist,’ muttered Erich, ‘what day is it then?’
‘The 13th of May. Another auspicious omen wouldn’t you say? “Three days to the Meuse, on the 4th day, across the Meuse”, at least it’s not a Friday,’ said Reiner, pouring the bitter brew into battered metal cups.
Erich sat up and sipped the scalding fluid. His whole body ached and his head was fuzzy with pills and lack of sleep; the coffee helped and after a minute he cocked his ear to one side.
‘Can you hear something Reiner?’ he enquired.
‘Do you mean the artillery, or the machine guns?’
‘No above all that. Engines. Planes I think.’
The distant buzz of aero engines grew louder, while across the river, Sedan sat patiently, watching the river flow. The buzz grew into a roar that filled their ears, then far above them, the shapes of aircraft appeared above the trees. As they watched, the planes toppled into a steep dive revealing the distinctive inverted gull-wing shape of the Stuka dive bomber.
The awful rising scream of dive sirens came to their ears and across the river, Sedan was abruptly engulfed in explosions.
‘Gross Gott, it’s the Luftwaffe,’ screamed Erich over the thunderous din.
Clouds of yellow dust towered into the air and the shock wave came rolling across the water, flattening the two panzer grenadiers into their foxhole. The two men huddled below the earth as the bombs fell without letup. As one flight of bombers passed over, another took its place, pounding the Sedan river front into devastation.
Reiner tried to count of the number of raids, but gave up after reaching three-hundred. They lay in their foxhole numbed, covering their ears: how could anyone survive that? The bombing continued hour after hour, getting progressively heavier if that were possible, until around midday the onslaught petered out. Looking over the lip of the foxhole, Erich could see nothing of the town— it was totally obscured by dust and smoke— only the flashes of the few bombs still falling indicated where ground level was.
Then silence descended. Nothing moved but the settling dust.
Three hours later, it began again, and at 4 o’clock a raid consisting of hundreds of planes came over. During the hiatus, Eric and Reiner had dug their foxhole two feet deeper and now they sat there smoking cigarettes and playing cards, ignoring the bombing as best they could. There was no conversation, neither of them could hear a thing over the concussion of the bombs, but inwardly, each was thanking their God that they were on this side of the river. Finally, as the light was fading, the last plane passed over and they peered out at the destruction.
‘Privates Schemmel and Grensch!’ came the voice abruptly through their dulled ears; it was Leutnant Fuchs, the battalion hard-ass. He came striding up to the foxhole as if it were a beautiful day for a walk.
‘Jawohl, Herr Leutnant,’ they both replied instinctively, leaping up and saluting.
‘Infantry assault in funf minuten, panzers to start crossing at nightfall. Now, pay attention: General Guderian has decided he needs to be on the other side of the river to supervise the breakthrough after we take the town. Oberstleutnant Bolck has told him that joyriding in canoes on the Meuse is not permitted at this time of year, but the general is determined. For reasons mere mortals like myself fail to understand, you two have been given the honour of rowing him over once the far bank is secure. Be sure not to sink or be hit by artillery. You have twenty minutes to get your boat inflated and in the water. Schnell!’
~ ~ ~
All was quiet at the 55th Infantry Division headquarters at Fond Dagot, a few miles behind Sedan. Captain Bareau stood outside smoking companionably with a group of his fellow staff officers.
‘No sign of the Boches on this side of the river yet apparently, despite the aerial bombardment,’ mused Captain Bareau, ‘I wonder where they are?’
The commander, Colonel Fernand Chaligne, took a last puff of his Gitanes and ground it under his booted heel.
‘I expect they’re still trying to fill the punctures our machine gunners have put in their inflatable boats. Getting across a river in the teeth of a fortified position like Sedan won’t be easy, even if they have bombed it, our men are well entrenched in bunkers.’
They gazed north-east, towards the fortress town. Although they were half a dozen miles to the rear, the sound of artillery shells exploding sporadically carried clearly on the night air. Then they heard another sound. It was a combination of engines being over-revved, men crying out, guns firing, horses whinnying. It was the sound of panic. Then around the corner from the east came a disorderly mob of men, machines and animals, jockeying for position on the road, clambering over each other in their terror.
As the first men streamed past, the officers stood aghast. Some of the men were carrying suitcases, those few still bearing weapons were firing them aimlessly into the air, their faces white with terror. Trucks sped past, festooned with soldiers like flies on a corpse; motorcycle combinations laboured along under a burden of four or five men; terrified horses were flogged along by three men; every conceivable mode of transport had been commandeered, and all with one intent: flight.
After the initial shock, Colonel Chaligne spotted a Lieutenant of Artillery riding on the running board of one of the cars and strode down to the road.
‘What the hell is going on Lieutenant?’ he called as the car passed by.
‘Run!’ yelled the panic-stricken officer, ‘Les Boches are coming. Their tanks are chasing us. Save your lives.’
The colonel turned to the staff officers.
‘We must stop this rout now or there will no division at all in an hour. Bareau, find some trucks, or cars or anything and block this road.’
The officers stared for a moment, stricken by the panicked column passing before them.
‘MOOOOVE!’ screamed the colonel, and they scattered in all directions.
By the time Bareau manoeuvred the second truck across the road, the stream of men had thickened to a torrent. With a barrier behind him, Colonel Chaligne pulled out his pistol and stood in fr
ont of it.
‘I will personally shoot the next man who passes this truck, ‘ he shouted, ‘I repeat, I will personally shoot the next man who passes this truck. Do you hear me? I will kill you if you pass this truck.’
The soldiers stumbling up before him halted and eyed the pistol he was waving. One called out ‘There’s only one of him, he can’t stop us all.’
The colonel fired a shot into the air.
‘The next one is for you, you deserting scum,’ said the colonel, pointing his pistol at the man. Then he climbed on to the truck and addressed the growing crowd, whose flight had been stopped by the roadblock.
‘Listen to me,’ the colonel yelled. ‘What are you men? Are you French soldiers or little girls who run away at the first sign of danger? You say there are German tanks coming, is it not your duty to fight them? Is that not why you were in position? Yet you have abandoned your guns and abandoned your pride. You are the 55th Infantry Division and you are here to fight. Would you rather die fighting to defend your country, or be hanged as cowards and deserters?’
The men stood silent, not daring to meet this mad colonel’s eye. Didn’t he realise that the panzers were coming?
‘You have one chance to redeem yourselves. Stop this madness now and no more will be said about it, but if you pass this truck you will forever be branded as traitors to France.’
The men at the front stood shame-faced as, behind them, the rest of the fleeing unit came to a halt. There was nowhere to go, the colonel had made that quite clear. Not that it mattered, thought Colonel Chaligne, the division was in no shape to fight now. There was clearly no option but to retreat.
Chapter Seventeen
France, 14 May 1940
Pierre Bendine switched off the radio and sighed. The Germans were coming again. What was wrong with those people that they needed to invade their neighbours every second generation? 1870, 1914, now 1940, was there no end to it?
