On 8 June, the 1st Battalion, 505th PIR was finally relieved at La Fière, having spent two and a half torrid days holding the position and becoming increasingly chewed up by enemy artillery and mortar fire. By the time they moved out, Lieutenant-Colonel Mark Alexander had just 176 men left; he should have had over 500. More men were arriving, however. The 325th Glider Parachute Regiment took over and, with the help of some 100 men from the 507th PIR, charged across the causeway, finally taking the village of Cauquigny. It was costly, though, and not helped when the smoke laid down to mask their approach drifted away too soon, exposing them horribly. ‘I was glad I didn’t have that assignment,’ said Alexander.15 ‘I thought afterwards how lucky I was to no longer be there, and have to lead that daytime attack.’
To the south-east, meanwhile, the battle for Carentan was still going on. From the church tower in the town centre, Oberleutnant Martin Pöppel had one of the best views in the area. He could see either side of the Vire estuary to the north, back across to Saint-Côme-du-Mont to the north-west and even away to the east, while to the south, in the distance, the long, low ridge either side of Saint-Lô rose gradually, a patchwork sea of green spreading away from them. Out to sea was the overwhelming spectacle of the Allied fleet. ‘Ship after ship, funnel after funnel,’ he noted in his diary, ‘a sight that absorbs everyone with its sheer military strength.’16
As commander of the 12. Kompanie of the III. Bataillon, Fallschirmjäger-Regiment 6, Pöppel was in charge of the battalion’s heavy weapons – four 88s, four howitzers and a Nebelwerfer six-barrelled mortar. By this time, the I. Bataillon had been largely annihilated – just twenty-five men had escaped back across the flooded areas to Carentan – while II. Bataillon had been badly mauled at Saint-Côme and had been withdrawn across the Douve River. This left III. Bataillon bearing the brunt of any new American attack. Pöppel used his howitzers and 88s for harassing fire, safe in the knowledge that he now had all the regiment’s artillery ammunition because all the other guns had been lost. Even so, Oberst von der Heydte, commander of Fallschirmjäger-Regiment 6, was not happy and early on 10 June rang Pöppel to ask him why he was using artillery rather than machine guns. Because, Pöppel told him, the MGs were completely ineffective at their current ranges. This prompted a major dressing down from the ‘Old Man’, but, even after Pöppel had ordered his guns to cease fire, another boom rang out and the colonel was back on the line complaining his mortars were now falling short.
A couple of hours later, three red Very lights rose into the sky, the signal that the enemy was attacking, so Pöppel ordered his guns to open up on pre-arranged targets with everything they had. Moments later, the phone was ringing again. A furious von der Heydte was demanding why he was firing his guns when he had given express orders not to? Pöppel explained why, but it cut no ice and he was relieved of his command with immediate effect. ‘It’s easy to imagine my bitterness,’ noted Pöppel.17 ‘My platoon leaders, who have gone through the whole business with me are furious as well, but there’s nothing to be done. The scum up there always stick together.’ He was now ordered to present himself at Regimental HQ, where he was made an aide-de-camp to the commander – in other words, an officer courier. It was quite a humiliation for someone of Pöppel’s long experience and service.
If von der Heydte was becoming a little tetchy, it was understandable. He felt as though he was under attack from all sides, including his own. Ammunition was getting woefully short. Originally, he had been instructed to get extra supplies from an ammunition distribution point, but it turned out no ammunition had yet been stored there, so the regiment was assigned another and that turned out to have been destroyed already. Although he now asked for an air-drop resupply, by 10 p.m. on the 10th von der Heydte had already decided Carentan was untenable and that his men should fall back to a new line south of the town the following day, Sunday, 11 June.
However, earlier that evening Brigadeführer Werber Ostendorff, commander of the 17. SS-Panzergrenadier-Division ‘Götz von Berlichingen’, had reached the regimental CP, assuring them his panzers and artillery were making good progress and would soon be there to help split the Americans and drive them back. Perhaps von der Heydte did not believe him; perhaps he thought the situation too dire. At any rate, the evacuation order stayed. Only a single company of the III. Bataillon would remain in the town to hold up and frustrate the Americans.
Early on the 11th, Pöppel was told to report to LXXXIV. Korps HQ at Saint-Lô to ask for the regiment to be placed under command of 17. SS-Panzergrenadier-Division. This was granted and he was also able to grab a handful of much-needed maps before heading back on his motorbike along roads littered with burned-out trucks and other vehicles, shot up by the Allied air forces. He found von der Heydte at the new CP at the hamlet of Bléhou, some 7 miles south-west of Carentan. Making the most of the lull in the fighting, most of Fallschirmjäger 6 was withdrawn from the town that afternoon in full daylight, then at 10 p.m. orders were issued for a joint counter-attack with 17. SS for the following day, Monday, 12 June. They were signed not by von der Heydte, but by Brigadeführer Ostendorff.
Meanwhile, the 506th PIR had been moving up overnight to their jump-off positions for the assault on Carentan, unaware that only a skeleton force remained in the town. Already, US infantry and paratroopers had linked up a couple of miles to the north and bridges over the River Douve had been secured. General Maxwell Taylor had then ordered a three-pronged attack to take the town – from the north-east, from the east and with the 506th PIR attacking from the south-west – hence the night march to get them to their jumping-off position.
Easy Company had spent many months training at night, so many of the potential difficulties of crossing unfamiliar ground in darkness, of celestial navigation and of each man keeping in touch with the next had been rigorously overcome long before they ever left England. Dick Winters believed the only people who had concerns about night marches were the divisional and regimental staff who had never undertaken such training themselves. ‘These shortcomings were evident on D-Day,’ he noted.18 ‘These staff officers encountered major problems getting orientated and finding their objectives.’ From what Winters had witnessed so far, however, the junior officers had had no such difficulties. He predicted, though, that problems would arise when two battalions had to cross captured bridges over, first, the River Douve and then a spur, then turn west through swampy, flooded ground and get across two railway lines. The going was tough and, as Winters suspected, the regimental and battalion staff leading the march ran into problems, continually losing contact with the companies and changing battalion boundaries. ‘All told,’ he wrote, ‘it was a rough night.19 We stopped, dug in, set up machine guns and bazookas, moved out, over and over.’ None the less, by 5.30 a.m. they had reached their start point covering the main road south out of town towards Périers. If the 506th could successfully block this road, the Germans who were still in Carentan would be trapped and would only be able to escape by heading west through the flooded areas.
The only way to push into the town was to go straight up the road on which they now found themselves. Winters had deployed one platoon on the left and another on the right, with a third in reserve. The road was slightly raised, with slopes on either side down to shallow ditches. Minutes later, at the agreed H-Hour, Winters hollered at his men to move out and a lone machine gun opened fire from a building up ahead at the first of two intersections where two roads met on the edge of town. The men froze, so Winters pulled himself to his feet and, despite bullets pinging around him, began yelling, ‘Move out! Move out!’ as he ran to the head of his column; it was fortunate the MG42 was so inaccurate.20 His exemplary leadership got the men going, however, and, using grenades, they managed to kill the machine-gun team, while other enemy troops from the town fled south across the fields. Now having reached the second intersection, pre-arranged mortar and machine-gun fire zeroed in on the Easy Company men and casualties started mounting. Winters got a nick from a r
icochet on his ankle, but they pressed on and were soon in the town, which they found deserted of enemy. Carentan had fallen.
‘June 11 I shall long remember,’ wrote Stanley Christopherson, ‘and proved a very sad day for the Regiment and especially for myself.’21 Heavy fighting had been taking place ever since the Panzer-Lehr had first clashed with the British XXX Corps on 9 June. All around Saint-Pierre, Fontenay and Tilly the situation had been fluid, with both sides taking heavy casualties. The rolling countryside with its close fields and woods was ‘unpleasant’, as Christopherson described it, for tanks, with neither side managing to make much headway. Saint-Pierre had been captured, however, and while Christopherson and his A Squadron remained on Point 103, B and C Squadrons, along with Regimental HQ, pushed on down the hill and moved into the village.
At midday, in answer to a call over the net, Christopherson hurried down to the new regimental CP, which was in farm buildings at the northern edge of the village. There he learned that a direct hit had struck the CO’s tank, known as Robin Hood, killing Major Mike Laycock, the CO, as well as Captain George Jones, the adjutant, and Lieutenant Laurence Head, the intelligence officer. Several others had been wounded. It was a shattering blow; Mike Laycock was a stalwart of the regiment – one of the pre-war Territorials who had set sail for Palestine, along with his horse, back in 1939. He had been CO for only a few days after the previous – and short-lived – commander had been wounded on D-Day. Christopherson and Laycock had been close friends; Christopherson considered him not only a fine person but an equally brilliant officer, someone who had been the backbone of the regiment.
Hauptmann Helmut Ritgen, whose men in the II. Bataillon of Panzer-Lehr-Regiment 130 were fighting against the Sherwood Rangers, suffered a similar tragedy that day. He had moved forward to Tilly with a supply column and to talk to Prinz von Schönburg-Waldenburg. On arrival at the battalion CP, he discovered a shell had just hit their field HQ, killing Obergefreiter Füssell, the Prinz’s faithful old valet. The Prinz had been earlier called away to confer with the CO of Regiment 901, but on his return he was inconsolable; Füssell had been his greatest friend for twenty-five years, he told Ritgen. Furthermore, he was convinced the attack they had been ordered to carry out that afternoon was a mistake. ‘He judged the terrain to be totally unsuitable for an armoured commitment,’ noted Ritgen.22
Ritgen tried to lift his spirits, but as he left him the Prinz said, ‘Who knows if we all will die?’ On this dramatic note, Ritgen headed back to Parfouru. At around 10 p.m., he was called upon by the battalion adjutant. While attacking Point 103, the Prinz’s command tank had been hit in the turret. He and the communications officer were both killed instantly. A third officer also died in the action. Ritgen was stunned, but hurried forward with more supplies, finding the battalion moving into its positions for the night – known as ‘leaguring’ – and then headed on to speak to Oberst Gerhardt, the CO of Panzer-Lehr-Regiment 130. ‘He temporarily entrusted me with the command of the battalion,’ wrote Ritgen.23 ‘How often in silence had I longed for this position, but not under these tragic and horrible circumstances. The death of the Prinz touched me deeply.’
CHAPTER 18
The Constraints of Wealth and the Freedom of Poverty
Now that the period of close cover above the invasion front was over, the tactical air forces were once again roaming more deeply. On Monday, 12 June, the Mustangs of the 354th Fighter Group were given targets to dive-bomb in northern France and all three squadrons set off together from Boxted in Suffolk. Leading the 356th FS to hit a railway bridge near Rouen was Major Dick Turner, and he was expecting it to be another fairly routine mission. They reached the target area without incident and, having successfully spotted the right bridge, Turner orbited it at around 5,000 feet, checking for any enemy flak emplacements, which would then help him decide how to attack the target. The most effective way was a ‘concentrated’ attack, in which each P-51 would follow the other along the same diving line. If the first one or two aircraft were either short or long in dropping their bomb, then those following would be able to adjust accordingly. The concentrated attack invariably led to the destruction of the target.
On the other hand, if there were enemy flak positions, then a concentrated attack was too dangerous because it would enable the gunners below to predict the line of the dive-bombers and hone their aim. The first few aircraft might get away with it, but those following almost certainly would not. A better option would be a ‘coordinated’ attack, in which some of the fighters targeted the flak emplacements and kept them busy, while the rest tried to hammer the target. A little bit of judicious reconnaissance, just as Turner was carrying out now above the bridge, usually paid dividends and ensured he kept his pilots in one piece. ‘Besides,’ he noted, ‘my squadron-mates were all good friends.’1
Peering down, he could see no sign at all of any flak, and so, licking his lips, he gave the order for a concentrated attack. Taking the lead, he led them down and dropped his two 500-pounder bombs with satisfying accuracy. In fact, it looked as though they had dropped all thirty-two of their bombs on the cherry; having climbed back up again, once the smoke and dust settled he could see the tracks at both ends all twisted and smashed, and the remains of the bridge now crumpled into the ravine below. With mission accomplished, they headed north-east, but Turner now decided to take his men on a little predatory hunt. They had received reports of more Luftwaffe units moving west, so he felt a quick look might not be a bad idea.
His hunch proved spot on. In under quarter of an hour, one of his pilots was excitedly pointing out a rough airfield below full of Focke-Wulf 190s tailed into the hedgerows. Turner looked left and, sure enough, there they were, half-hidden in the trees and foliage. Quickly looking around for flak once more and satisfied he could see none, he called the squadron to follow him and rolled over into a dive. As the nearest line of 190s came into view, he opened fire with his six .50-calibre machine guns, allowing the line of bullets to ‘walk’ on to the targets. In moments, two had caught fire and were billowing smoke. Pulling up from the deck in a shallow turning climb to port, he saw another, single, Focke-Wulf being refuelled near the edge of a second field. Rolling out level and pushing the stick forward to depress the nose of his Mustang, Turner opened fire again, hitting the fuel bowser and the 190 together in a brilliant flash of flame, before climbing out of the fray once more.
Glancing around, he saw his squadron were circling the airfield, while one or other dived down to attack a target. Mayhem reigned over the airfield, with burning fighters lining the edges, but Turner reckoned it was time to skedaddle; loitering at low level was not a good idea with the chance of other enemy fighters cruising about nearby. Calling his squadron to climb back up to 10,000 feet, he had just reached 1,500 when he saw a dust trail below and, looking down, saw it was a Ju88 about to take off. Seeing him coming, the Junkers pilot promptly aborted his take-off, but it was too late. ‘I hit him just as he rolled to a stop,’ noted Turner, ‘and he exploded.’2
With ammunition running low and the possibility of a hornet’s nest having been stirred, Turner ordered them to head for home. All sixteen touched back down safely with no damage to a single plane. In addition to the bridge, they had accounted for twenty FW190s. ‘And with my bonus Ju88,’ added Turner, ‘the total destroyed ran to twenty-one.3 It was a satisfactory day’s work.’
The success of the Allied air forces was very welcome news, but the arrival of the first V-1 flying bombs over England earlier the next day most certainly was not. Most appeared to have fallen short over Kent, Suffolk and Essex, but a number also landed on London. ‘Our attacks on CROSSBOW targets,’ noted General Brereton, the Ninth Air Force commander, in his diary, ‘must be resumed.’4 Time and again the CROSSBOW sites had been hammered, and even more so after Eisenhower had agreed to up the ante on 19 April; so now, just a week after the invasion, it had come as a great shock to discover that London was under attack.
One of those in
the British capital that day was Lieutenant Mary Mulry, a nurse in the Queen Alexandra Imperial Military Nursing Service – the QAs – who had come to town on a rare day off to try to buy a trunk for their forthcoming deployment to Normandy. ‘These buzz bombs are quite terrifying,’ she wrote in her diary after a close call near Victoria Station.5 On her way to the Underground, she had heard the ominous buzz and had just managed to reach the station entrance when the engine cut and it dropped. ‘I could hear the ambulance bells ringing as I descended the stairs,’ she added. ‘Londoners are remarkably phlegmatic and carry on with their normal lives in between dodging the doodlebugs.’
From neutral Ireland, Mary had left home in 1939, aged seventeen, and headed to London, since there were few jobs and even less money back home. Her older brother, Michael, had already emigrated to America, but Mary preferred England and had gained a position as a nursing probationer at Guy’s Hospital in London. After war was declared she was evacuated to the Kent and Sussex Hospital in Tunbridge Wells.
Her first real taste of war had come during the retreat from Dunkirk in late May and early June 1940, when the hospital had been flooded with wounded servicemen. Then had come the Battle of Britain, much of which had played out in the skies above the hospital. Three years later, she had passed her State Registered Nurse exams and had moved back to London, to the Brook Hospital in Woolwich, where she had specialized in nursing fevers. Only in the spring of 1944 had she finally finished her training and applied to join the QAs. This army nursing service had been founded in 1902 at the end of the Anglo-Boer War to train up nurses to serve in the military and its ranks had grown from just over 600 in 1939 to some 12,000 by 1944. Mary had been desperate to join them, but her decision to leave Woolwich appalled both her hospital matron and her father, a fervent Republican who had fought the British during the struggle for Irish independence. Neither could deter her; and so, on 10 May, she had formally been called up to the QAs, one of some 165,000 Irish neutrals who chose to join the British Armed Services during the war. She had arrived at 101 General Hospital at Hatfield House in Hertfordshire, to the north of London, on 5 June. A large country house, it was the seat of the Earl of Shaftesbury, although was now being used as a military hospital – one that Mary found ‘beautiful but rather frightening’.6
Normandy '44 Page 34
