Montgomery and Dempsey now had to rethink their plans for their first major assault. At a commanders’ conference on 22 June, Montgomery claimed that the build-up was now five to six days behind schedule. The trouble was, thanks to Ultra decrypts, Monty was very aware that the Germans were planning their own massed counter-attack at long last. To do this, they would need new infantry divisions to reach the front, take over the holding of the line from the panzer divisions now around Caen and to the west in order to allow them to pull back, reassemble and get themselves into some kind of order for a strike force that really might hurt the Allies, and specifically the British and Canadians in that sector of the front. From the secret intelligence he was receiving, it seemed likely the Germans would launch their attack at the end of the month, so there was now an urgent imperative for Montgomery to get his own assault in first and throw German plans off balance. Suffering a reverse in Normandy was simply unthinkable. A major operation, therefore, had to be launched in the Caen area and, of course, the hope was that it would break through and prove decisive; but in Montgomery’s mind that was to be an added advantage rather than the primary objective.
Operation DREADNOUGHT, an attack to the east of Caen, had been ruled out as too difficult and risky, while a direct assault on Caen was also dismissed. This meant an operation driving southwards to the west of Caen was the only real option. Montgomery originally wanted to launch such an attack using three corps, which would make a potential decisive breakthrough far more likely. The shortfall in the build-up, however, had put paid to such lofty plans and so EPSOM, as the battle plan was code-named, had to be scaled back. Lieutenant-General Dick O’Connor’s newly arrived VIII Corps would be the main strike force, while XXX Corps on the right – western – flank would strike first in an attempt to draw enemy troops away and also gain the important Rauray Ridge – a piece of higher ground that would be very useful to deny to the enemy when EPSOM was launched.
EPSOM would also be fought in two stages. To begin with, the attackers would drive south from around the village of Norrey through Saint-Manvieu and Cheux and then across the River Orne and up the other side to a dominating piece of high ground marked on their maps as Hill 112. Assuming all went to plan, VIII Corps’ armour could then smash on through and break out into the ground beyond, circling back behind Caen and enveloping the city and all German troops caught behind. British armour was organized into two distinct roles. Independent armoured brigades – such as the 8th, to which the Sherwood Rangers were attached – were designed to give direct support to the infantry. Typically, one armoured regiment like the Sherwood Rangers would be temporarily attached to one infantry brigade, and one tank squadron to each infantry battalion. Armoured divisions consisted of tanks but also motorized infantry in half-tracks and Carriers, as well as numerous mobile anti-tank guns. They were trained to ‘exploit’, which meant to push through once an initial breakthrough had been achieved, with both speed and terrific force, and rapidly overwhelm any enemy forces beyond the original defensive line.
EPSOM was precisely the kind of set-piece battle on which Montgomery’s reputation had been made. In support, the attackers would have some 700 field guns, which would lay down a heavy barrage before the attack was launched and then provide a rolling barrage as the infantry and armour pressed forward – in other words, they would be lobbing shells just ahead of the advance. The main width of advance would be just 2 miles in order to concentrate the Schwerpunkt – or main point of attack, to use a German term. Concentration of fire was a principle the British understood as well as the Germans. Naval warships would also offer support, as would, of course, the tactical air forces.
Several factors, however, suggested EPSOM might well fall short of its ultimate aim of achieving a decisive breakthrough. First was the shortfall of manpower. Second was the weather, which continued to be pretty dreadful. Tactical air forces really needed a high cloud base and, preferably, lots of sunshine, but in that last week of June northern Normandy was almost permanently covered in low ten-tenths cloud and drizzle, which helped the British not a jot. Third was the terrain. It was true it wasn’t dense bocage, nor was it as bad as fighting through a city, but it still hardly favoured any kind of rapid operations. The Odon Valley, which ran roughly east–west, suddenly dipped quite steeply to the river, while the roads, the main arteries of any advance, were rough, narrow and winding. The ground rose steeply again on the southern side of the river before rising more gradually up to Hill 112. This was the kind of ground that most definitely defended the defender. EPSOM was not going to be easy.
On a two-dimensional map back at the Cabinet War Rooms or SHAEF HQ at Widewing, however, it all looked pretty straightforward and, with doodlebugs continuing to rain down on London and south-east England, a high level of expectation was placed on EPSOM to get the Allies back on track with the phase lines Montgomery had predicted on 7 April at St Paul’s School. Monty tried to introduce a little note of caution, stressing how the weather was continuing to play merry hell with his plans, but this was not a time for pessimism. Confidence was what was needed and that had to come from the top. ‘Of course,’ noted Montgomery some time later, ‘we did not keep to the times and phase lines we had envisaged for the benefit of administrative planning, and of course we didn’t hesitate to adjust our plans and dispositions to the tactical situation as it developed – as in all battles.20 Of course we didn’t. I never imagined we would.’ This was an entirely reasonable comment. The trouble was, in the third week of June 1944 he did not explain this at all clearly to Eisenhower, or to Churchill or anyone else for that matter. They were still remembering that map of phase lines and his bravura pre-invasion performance that had spoken so confidently of being far to the south within a matter of days.
With the storm spent, the flow of Allied traffic to France continued. On Thursday, 22 June, the 356th Fighter Squadron flew to their new base in Normandy, airfield A-2 at Cricqueville, just south of Pointe du Hoc, where Bradley and Pete Quesada had also set up their field headquarters. The 356th followed behind one of the other two squadrons of the 354th Fighter Group. The advance echelon had already gone ahead before the storm and, having received a report of a shortage of potable water, the pilots of Major Dick Turner’s 356th FS had filled two 75-gallon drop tanks with fresh supplies. Then, shortly before they took off, the group finance officer rushed over to Turner and asked him to carry a sack of $75,000 in cash for the payroll in Normandy.
Despite a little anxiety at carrying such a precious cargo, they reached Cricqueville without incident, Turner heading in first to land. Flaps down, undercarriage down, approaching downwind, he was 50 feet short of the runway and 25 feet off the ground when he suddenly felt the aircraft stall. Turner realized his mistake immediately: normally, he was landing on almost empty, but with two drop tanks full of water, which was heavier than fuel in any case, plus a big bag of paper cash, his normal approach gliding speed had not been enough. He was now moments from a fatal crash as the Mustang lurched to the left and dropped a wing, and looked to be heading straight towards the runway Jeep control halfway down the strip. Hastily pushing forward the throttle and playing with the stick and rudder controls, he felt the P-51 reassert power in the nick of time, although he was struggling to pull up the port wing. Full right rudder and right aileron and full power, then suddenly he was climbing again and sped on above the airfield. Having recovered both control and his blood pressure, he rather sheepishly reminded those following him to increase approach speed by about 15 m.p.h. on account of the water load. ‘It was a narrow escape,’ noted Turner, ‘and if I had applied power a fraction of a second later, I probably wouldn’t have been able to recover.’21 Soon after, having made the necessary adjustments, he landed safely. There were now eleven operational airfields in Normandy and there would be even more in the days to come.
Out at sea, meanwhile, the Allied navies continued to provide enormous support. At dusk on 24 June, HMCS Algonquin began yet another coastal pa
trol alongside the British destroyer HMS Swift. Lieutenant Yogi Jenson came on watch at about 4 a.m. the following day, just as it was getting light, and soon after spotted a floating mine, which he shot and sank using a Sten gun.
‘While you play around,’ HMS Swift signalled moments after, ‘may I anchor in your billet and you anchor in mine?’22
Jenson replied yes, she could, and watched Swift steam ahead then lower her anchor. Immediately, there was a mighty explosion and an eruption of spray, followed by another; Swift had hit a couple of mines and had had her back broken. Already she was beginning to sink. Fortunately, all on board were rescued, but Swift’s misfortune had been Algonquin’s lucky escape. The following day, they returned to Portsmouth, their part in the great invasion over for the time being.
HMCS Algonquin might have returned to home waters, but with the abating of the storm the flow of men and materiel continued across the Channel to France, at a rate of around 14,500 men per day in both the American and the British and Canadian sectors – which amounted to the best part of two divisions in total every twenty-four hours. Now arriving in Normandy was 21-year-old William Biehler, from a German–American community in Summit, New Jersey; his grandparents had emigrated to the States in 1890. Not that the Biehler family were in any way for Germany. ‘My folks were very definitely American-minded,’ said Biehler, ‘and they wanted to stay in America.23 They thought America was great.’ Biehler was a highly intelligent and academic young man who had been at Rutgers University in his first year, majoring in chemistry, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. Drafted soon after, he was allowed to finish his sophomore year and even enrolled in the Army Specialized Training Program – a college officer-training scheme – with the hope of becoming an officer in the engineers. Soon after completing his basic training, however, he was told he was too short-sighted to be considered for officer material and was posted to the infantry rather than the engineers.
By mid-May, Biehler, all 6 foot 4 inches of him, had crossed the Atlantic, gone by train to Devon and immediately been put into a ‘repple-depple’ – a replacement depot. ‘The repple-depples were terrible places,’ he said, ‘because nobody belongs to anything.’24 Unlike many of the troops that had already landed, or complete divisions that were crossing the Channel, those from the repple-depples had built up little sense of camaraderie or notion of regimental pride. They were simply spares to be slotted wherever needed. The storm delayed his shipload of replacement troops, so not until 22 June did Biehler wade ashore. Sporadic artillery firing was going on in the distance as they were marched off to another repple-depple, where he spent his first night. The following day he and the others were divided – some into one truck, others into another – and then rumbled off. When they eventually came to a halt it was at the Rear HQ command post of the beleaguered 90th Infantry Division, still at the base of the Cotentin. Biehler was put on to another truck and that was how he ended up in Company K of the 3rd Battalion, 357th Infantry Regiment. He was cold, hungry, his boots were still wet from wading ashore, and almost immediately he was led to a foxhole where he met his new buddy. He was now in A Squad of the 1st Platoon with three others – there should have been twelve in all, but, as he swiftly discovered, he was among the first of the replacement troops. The company had been decimated in their first, recent, fighting. ‘I don’t think,’ said Biehler, ‘they had more than thirty.’25 For the time being they were simply holding a line. Their turn, however, would come soon enough. The 90th Division would then have a lot to prove.
Another new division arriving in Normandy was the British 43rd Wessex, re-formed back in 1939 after being disbanded at the end of the last war and now about to enter combat for the first time since then. Among its infantry battalions were the 4th Dorsets, who came ashore at Arromanches on the 22nd. It was a further three days, however, before Sergeant Walter Caines and the rest of the battalion Signals Platoon finally finished unloading, by which time he had begun to feel really fed up, hungry and sick of being at sea. It was afternoon by the time the Signals Platoon reached the battalion concentration area near Bayeux. At last Caines had time for a quick hot meal – albeit of compo rations – plus a wash and a shave, and then attended an O Group with Lieutenant-Colonel Cowie, the battalion CO, and Lieutenant Hogan, the signals officer. They would be moving the following morning, and the day after would take over positions currently held by the Canadians. During the night it began raining again, but Caines managed to crawl under a truck and spent the night there. So far, he wasn’t much impressed with Normandy.
Also now joining Second Army was the sister battalion of Ken Tout’s 1st Northamptonshire Yeomanry, the 2nd Battalion, not part of an independent armoured brigade but of 11th Armoured Division. Having landed on Juno Beach just after midnight on 19 June – before the storm had really whipped up – they had moved inland to near Creully. One of the tank commanders of 2 Troop, A Squadron, was Corporal Reg Spittles. A pre-war member of the Territorial Army, he had been just a part-time soldier, but on 1 September 1939 had been ordered to report to the local drill hall in Northampton in the English Midlands and sworn in to serve for the duration. Since then, he had seen the battalion transform itself from its pre-war unit of just one obsolescent tank to a well-honed, fully equipped armoured battalion ready for modern combat. ‘I suppose I could be looked upon as a war-time veteran,’ he wrote, ‘as I was twenty-five years old at that time and had been involved in many, many training exercises.’26
The battalion had also been re-equipped with Cromwell tanks, the British Army’s latest and new for the Normandy battle, while the battalion’s ranks, since the previous autumn, had also swollen from the various training regiments in anticipation of the invasion and the campaign to follow, so there would be enough replacement crews available once the fighting began and inevitable losses began to mount.
Each tank commander had been instructed to organize his ‘first crew’, with whom they would initially go into combat. Most chose those who had been longest in the battalion, but Spittles was a man of independent thought who liked to buck the trend and so had chosen mostly 18- and 19-year-olds. From what he had seen of them, they seemed keener than a lot of the older lads. ‘After all,’ he scribbled, ‘they were freshly trained compared to the casual way we older ones took our training.’27 There was Denny Wells, aged eighteen, from Hull, who was the gunner and a bit of a loner. Bill Bagguly, from Birmingham, was the loader and wireless operator, also eighteen but quick-thinking and naturally aggressive. Bill ‘Benny’ Benmore, from London, the third 18-year-old, was the driver, ‘sharp as a tack’ and totally reliable. Finally there was Bill Barnett, the co-driver and machine-gunner from Stafford, a very easygoing and mild-mannered 23-year-old. As it turned out, they had had the best part of nine months together before heading to Normandy and in that time Spittles had got to know them all well. So far, he had had no cause to regret his decision. The biggest test, however, would come the moment they went into combat – and that was going to be very soon in General Dempsey’s Operation EPSOM.
The 101st British Field Hospital was now up and running in its fields near Bayeux, albeit in a number of canvas tents. Because they were so close to the front they had a number of Pioneer Corps to protect them. Mary Mulry thought they seemed wonderfully unmilitary – most were conscientious objectors or foreign nationals who had taken refuge in Britain. One officer she quickly befriended was a Polish Jew with a name she could not pronounce, so they all called him ‘Chezzy’. He was cheerful, good humoured and could speak English, German and Russian as well as Polish; he was a professional pianist in civilian life. ‘Chezzy has so much warmth and personality,’ Mary wrote in her diary, ‘that it knocks me over.28 Why are ugly people often more attractive than handsome ones?’
Conditions at the hospital were a little too primitive for Mary’s liking. The nearest water supply was over a mile away, although the Pioneer Corps swiftly worked out a system for getting it directly to the hospital. Sterilizing equipment wa
s also basic and relied on storing needles, scalpels and so on in spirit, while there were Primus stoves for boiling water. Their first patients were Germans. One, a young German sniper called Fritz, was caught by the Pioneer Corps after being shot in the leg. Mary thought he couldn’t have been more than fifteen. He admitted he had been ordered to stay behind to fight for the Fatherland, and to begin with was ‘very high and mighty’, although the arrogant sheen soon disappeared when they offered him some food; he was ravenous.29
Nor was his wound too serious. They gave him a stick and within a day he was hobbling about, the life and soul once he realized he was not going to be shot. Mary and the other nurses put him to work helping out on the ward, which he seemed quite happy to do. Three days later, two more Germans were brought in – another teenager like Fritz, also with a leg injury, and an older man in his thirties called Hans, who was married with children back home in Frankfurt. He was thrilled to have been caught and, apart from some superficial cuts and bruises and obvious malnutrition, was in reasonable shape. Like Fritz, they intended to keep him on to help out with odd jobs. ‘Hans is quite unlike the jackbooted “Hun” whom we had anticipated,’ noted Mary.30 ‘He is polite and timid and makes me feel that he is one of the many pawns in this game of war.’
Further to the east, out of the Allied bridgehead, life was not getting any easier for Robert Leblanc and the Maquis Surcouf. By Wednesday, 21 June he’d been promoted to capitaine by the FFI, but he turned it down, feeling he did not deserve it and that it was merely a sop to keep him keen when all around him his Résistance movement was on the point of collapse; his instincts were almost certainly correct. The responsibilities that came with leading a Maquis and the almost daily dilemmas facing him were immense. The less successful they were, and the more they struggled for lack of arms, the greater the risk not just of being outgunned but of being betrayed. Times were desperate. People were hungry, fed up, scared, and if captured they could expect torture, harm to their families and execution. It was not surprising that some talked.
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