Normandy '44

by James Holland

  Operating a tank was not a natural occupation, however. It could get very, very hot inside and, although there were hatches, it didn’t take long to fill with fumes, especially when moving a lot and firing. A stench of oil, sweat, urine, cordite and rubber pervaded the tank. Throats would quickly become dry and eyes would sting. Panthers were incredibly cramped inside despite their size. There was no way of linking the driving compartment with the turret. Inside the turret, the space was barely big enough for three men – the commander, gunner and loader. In a Sherman there was a recoil guard but, for all its complexity, there were no such precautions in the Panther; loaders, especially, must frequently have had an arm, shoulder or even head crushed.

  Casualties in tanks were every bit as bad as, if not worse than, those of the infantry. The German Panthers and Tigers and the British Churchill tanks had the thickest armour, but every tank was susceptible to being hit and ‘brewing up’. Shermans, Cromwells and Panzer Mk IVs were more vulnerable because they had less armour and not such a big gun as the Panthers and Tigers, so they needed to be closer to be effective. Shermans became known as ‘Ronsons’ after the American cigarette lighter or ‘Tommy cookers’ because if hit by a high-velocity shell they would often burn. Different parts of the tank had greater thickness of armour – the turret and front glacis, for example, were generally the strongest. A high-velocity 88mm shell, however, did not have to penetrate completely to kill the crew. A shell might only penetrate the size of a penny, for example, but that might be enough to punch out a ring the size of the shell’s diameter on the other side. A large part of this would hit the nearest hard object but the rest – the spawling – would amount to thousands of molten bits of steel that would be flung around the inside of the tank and then cool into jagged shards. If these hit the explosive charge in the ammunition stacked within the tank, then the consequences could be catastrophic. The kinetic pressure inside the tank caused by the shell could also be fatal. If a tank started to burn then the crew had only moments to get out; on other occasions the combination of blast and pressure meant the entire inside blew up with everything in it. Not uncommon was the sight of a turret, several tons in weight, bursting into the air like a champagne cork. Very, very few tank crews survived more than a week or two in the front line without their tank being knocked out in some shape or form; it might be a broken track, or something quite minor, but the moment the tank stopped in the middle of an action, it became a sitting rather than a moving target, which in turn made it considerably more vulnerable.

  On 7 July, twelve days after originally planned, the Panzer-Lehr finally began moving westwards to help support the defence of Saint-Lô, although it was planned that it should, for the time being, avoid contact with the enemy. It was to be the reserve mobile force. One of Hauptmann Helmut Ritgen’s panzer companies was to stay behind for a couple of days longer, while the rest set off that night. Even though the distance was only a matter of 25 miles or so, it still took them the best part of three nights to shift to their new positions as they wound their way through rough, narrow roads, pitted with bomb craters and wreckage.

  They finally reached their assembly area near Pont-Hébert at around midnight on the 9th and were immediately flung into an attack, something they had been assured would not happen. Such, though, was the desperate nature of the situation and the threat from the latest American push. It meant they had had no time for any kind of reconnaissance, nor any appreciation of the kind of dense bocage in that part of Normandy. ‘The bocage,’ noted Ritgen, ‘allowed for neither wide fields of fire, nor movement on either side of the few narrow roads, tank commitment was difficult.’11 Every single American and British tank crew would have agreed with his assessment.

  Inevitably, the counter-attack failed completely. As in the open ground further to the east, so it was in the bocage: attacking successfully – and decisively – was extremely difficult. Ritgen lost two more of his officers that night and even more in the days that followed. Because of the shortage of fire-power and dwindling numbers of infantry, his panzers were being forced to act as anti-tank gunners, blocking roads and potential choke-points. What’s more, because of the infantry shortage, they were being committed for longer than was bearable and were suffering the same if not worse artillery and mortar response to movement in the American sector as they had in the British and Canadian. ‘My crews suffered greatly from the inability to move,’ Ritgen noted, ‘with swollen limbs and shattered nerves.’12 By 15 July, he had lost fifteen officers from the battalion since their deployment to Normandy; of the lieutenants with whom the battalion had left Germany, not a single one now remained. Nor was the situation much better with the NCOs. It was bad for morale as well as combat effectiveness. Ritgen was suffering from the burden of responsibility, from witnessing the loss of so many of his men, from the relentlessness of the action. Even when away from the front line there was no escape. What had happened to his II. Bataillon was representative of the division as a whole. It had arrived in France supremely well equipped, but from the moment it began its move to Normandy it began to be chewed up, bit by bit, day by day. Soon there would barely be a division left at all. And the Americans had not even launched their main offensive yet.

  While the Allies had unquestionably won the battle of the build-up, more and more German troops were reaching the front. As with the first reinforcements posted to Normandy, they were arriving piecemeal, one unit at a time, torturously heading along roads and rail lines broken by incessant Allied air attacks or by Résistance networks, SAS teams and Jedburghs. Strict new instructions were issued to all who were attempting to travel these routes. ‘March on several roads.13 Avoid main roads!’ ran the new instructions. ‘Every man of the unit must know the destination (write it down!) Reason: if a marching platoon is blown apart by an air raid, each vehicle and each soldier must nevertheless reach the marching destination. Do not use closed passenger cars during aviation weather! If necessary, place observers on foot boards or fenders!’ It went on with details about guards, camouflage, the right process for awaiting road repair units, the distance vehicles should keep from each other. It was accepted there would be losses. The key, these new instructions made clear, was to try to keep these to a minimum.

  It made the journey to Normandy an agonizingly slow one, as Artillerie-Regiment 277 discovered. Attached to the 277. Infanterie-Division, they had been based near Béziers in the south of France and were given their marching orders on 23 June. Kanonier Eberhard Beck was an 18-year-old gunner in 10. Batterie of heavy 150mm sfH18 howitzers. Born in Tirana, Albania, he had been drafted very reluctantly and would never have dreamed of wearing a uniform had it not been for the war. In the south of France conditions had been spartan and tough, but at least it had been quiet and he had dutifully attended his training, albeit without much enthusiasm. Now he was heading to the front and to battle. It did not appeal at all; he just wished the war would be over.

  The journey began on trains, which were slow and often interrupted, but after reaching the River Loire they marched the rest of the way, the barrels and gun carriages towed separately by horses, just as they had been in the days of Frederick the Great. ‘It was incredibly cumbersome when a horse lost a shoe and then came the command, “Shoeing master forward!”’ wrote Beck.14 ‘Such actions paralyzed everything. It disordered the whole unit, disrupted and delayed the advance.’ As they finally neared the front, so they were joined by infantry units trudging alongside them, despite the instructions for them to march separately and spaced apart. Repeatedly as they passed this procession of horse-drawn artillery, they asked Beck and his comrades when the new miracle weapons would be arriving.

  On the last night of marching, as Beck and his comrades neared the front, they saw the sky lit up with shellfire and flares: the ongoing battle for Caen. And then they were in the ruins of Évrecy, just a couple of miles south-east of Hill 112. ‘Fields and streets were brightly lit by the fire of the front,’ he wrote.15 ‘It twitched and flas
hed along the entire length … One was tired from the march and very upset. The gunfire became louder, brighter and brighter.’ They moved up to straddle the road between Évrecy and Esquay-Notre-Dame, which led up past the northern side of Hill 112 and on towards Éterville and Caen. It was around 2 a.m. on Sunday, 9 July. Beck was assigned to the second gun, which the horses pulled into a narrow, uneven lane lined by high trees. After a few hundred yards they pulled off the track and into a clearing surrounded by more trees, which would give them some much-needed cover. Beck clambered up one tree to cut way some of the branches and as he did so enemy shells screamed over. Soon after, they suffered their first casualty. One of the horse drivers was killed as he took the horses away from the guns. ‘It was said his head,’ noted Beck, ‘had been ripped off by a shell.’16 The next task was to start digging a foxhole. Beck was exhausted; they all were. And hungry. At first light, a kitchen wagon arrived with some hot food at their firing position. All was well until more shells whistled over, the horses reared and the food canister was knocked over.

  Later that day, he and his comrades went to explore their new surroundings and met some SS men from the 9. ‘Hohenstaufen’ Division. Beck and his mates could only marvel at the SS men’s camouflage smocks, shiny new weapons and latest equipment. Beck had respect for these men but did not envy them. ‘For us,’ wrote Beck, ‘the war was long lost, we had to survive.17 We knew that these units were ruthlessly led into the fire.’

  Unbeknown to Eberhard Beck, he had arrived just a day before Second Army launched its latest attack, Operation JUPITER. Although much of Caen had now fallen, the Germans were still stubbornly holding the ground to the south-east on the far side of the River Orne and they still held Hill 112, which both General Miles Dempsey and General Hans Eberbach, Geyr’s replacement, were well aware was a vital piece of high ground. And while General O’Connor’s decision to pull back from the hill ten days earlier might well have been the right one, there was no denying it was going to be a tougher nut to crack for a second time. Holding the line were the 9. SS- and 10. SS-Panzer-Divisions, both in far better condition than 12. SS and now with all their units arrived at the front. Additionally, they had the Schwere SS-Panzerabteilung – Heavy Tank Battalion – 102 of Tigers attached, as well as an array of 88mm and anti-tank guns and the 277. Infanterie-Division also joining II. SS-Panzerkorps. It was the 43rd Wessex Division who were to assault the hill, supported by Churchills and flame-throwing Crocodiles.

  Supporting the Wessexmen was the usual heavy artillery. Sergeant Walter Caines had never experienced anything like it. He could hardly hear himself think. The barrage was followed by the arrival of Typhoons overhead, strafing enemy positions with rockets, bombs and cannons. The first objectives were taken easily, largely because Eberbach had already ordered his men back to a line straddling Hill 112. Caines had set up the signals equipment near the battalion’s start line. Enemy ‘Moaning Minnies’ and shells screamed over, but the first prisoners were also being brought in; Caines thought they looked exhausted and terrified. A few hours later, word reached the battalion CP that Éterville, right on the Évrecy–Caen road, had been successfully captured, so Caines and the rest of the Signals Platoon moved up with Battalion Headquarters to the shattered remains of the village church. ‘Shells rained down upon us as we entered,’ noted Caines, ‘and it was truly terrifying and most nerve-racking.18 It appeared to us that we would not have an easy stay in this village and to be quite honest, I thought that if every attack was to be like this, I could not guarantee my own life longer than a few days.’

  Vicious fighting continued all day. With their thick 150mm frontal armour, 30mm greater than any other tank on the battlefield, the Churchills were, on paper, a good option for supporting the advancing infantry, and to begin with progress was good. Not only was Éterville taken, so too was Maltot beyond, while both tanks and infantry managed to rumble up the shallow, steady and wide incline to the ridge of Hill 112. As they neared the summit, however, the waiting array of Tigers and 88s on the far side was able to blast them at short range. Not even the Churchills’ frontal armour was enough. The 31st Armoured Brigade lost 39 tanks that day, most left strewn and burning amid the crater-pitted open ground of the hill.

  Later, 43rd Division commander Major-General Ivor ‘Butcher’ Thomas ordered another brigade of tanks, this time thinner-skinned Shermans, to push on through the Churchills, but the new and young Brigadier Michael Carver point-blank refused, leading to an angry exchange between the two. Carver, though, was in situ and could see that his Shermans would be entering an attack more suicidal than that of the Light Brigade at Balaclava. He unquestionably made the right decision.

  In the meantime, Walter Caines had watched large numbers of casualties stream back into the village; the medical officer and his team were struggling to cope. Caines and his men were feverishly digging in – he reckoned he was digging for two hours solidly, while smoking endless cigarettes and taking swigs from his water bottle. The company runner commented on how calm he seemed. ‘Little did he know,’ noted Caines, ‘how scared I was.’19 Moments later, two Bren Carriers just 60 yards away were hit and burst into flames. Caines realized the armoured car with the radio link to the gunners was in danger of being hit by the exploding ammunition on the burning Carriers. It was parked in a lane blocked by several abandoned motorbikes but, with a couple of men, he dashed across and pulled the bikes out of the way just as a shell screamed over his head and hit a wall behind them. But they were still in one piece and the armoured car was now able to move to a safer position.

  At 3 p.m. their positions were taken over by the Cameronians and they were able to pull back to the edge of a wood, where they discovered a number of dead Germans. They had barely had a chance to replenish batteries and catch their breath when word arrived that the Hampshires were all but surrounded in Maltot and needed help. Accompanied by tanks, they set off, only to be hammered as they reached the edge of the village. Caines was following with the signals team and Battalion Headquarters but, as they crossed the open wheatfield before the village, machine guns raked them. ‘It was hell,’ wrote Caines.20 ‘No-one dared put his head above the corn. As soon as Jerry observed the slightest movement, a long burst of fire would be the reply.’ They remained there, pinned down, until about 7 p.m., when they were finally ordered to pull back.

  It was too late for A Company, however, which had led the attack on Maltot; the entire company had been killed, wounded or captured. The survivors now frantically dug in along a line they were told to hold at all costs. Caines discovered most of his signals equipment had been destroyed during the attack, while the signallers moving up with the companies had either lost or abandoned their wireless sets; two signallers had been badly wounded, two captured and at least one killed. It had been a terrible day for the 4th Dorsets; a terrible day for the entire division.

  At dawn the next day, Tuesday, 11 July, Caines and his fellows stood to, dog tired and fit to drop. It had been the worst twenty-four hours of his life. ‘Something I will never forget as long as I live,’ he wrote, ‘seeing men fall, and hearing the wounded cry and moan with pain.’21 They were also ravenously hungry. One of the cooks and some of the men managed to salvage a few compo ration packs from some knocked-out Carriers and so everyone got something. More worrying to Caines was the loss of his cigarettes – he had become something of a chain-smoker since arriving in Normandy – but he managed to scrounge enough to keep himself going.

  The German mortars opened just after first light and soon they could see the enemy forming up for a counter-attack. Caines watched one of the forward observation officers directing the artillery behind them from a scout car. ‘We thanked God for this,’ noted Caines, ‘as within a few moments down came our murderous artillery barrage, crash, crash.22 They could be seen bursting on the edge of the corn field amongst the Jerries.’ Two tanks were on fire in moments.

  The battle petered out by evening. Yet again, the British had probed forward wit
h their infantry and armour, and once more they had stalled against the well-dug-in Germans with their machine guns, mortars and high-velocity anti-tank guns. But equally as predictably, the Germans had then launched a series of furious counter-attacks, at which point Allied fire-power kicked in and stopped them dead in their tracks. The following day, the 12th, the 4th Dorsets were out of the line and the survivors were able to wash, shave and clean themselves up. There was little chance to rest, however, for all the kit of those killed had to be unloaded from the rear echelon vehicles, then sifted and sent to the next of kin. Caines sorted out the kit of those in the Signals Platoon with Corporal Penny. Tears came to his eyes as he looked through the photographs of the wives, sweethearts and families of the boys he had lost.

  Yet more men were reaching the front, and the first experience of combat was for many a terrible shock – a hellish experience for which no amount of training could prepare them. On 12 July, 17-year-old Willi Müller and the rest of the 17. SS-Panzergrenadier-Division’s Pioneer-Bataillon finally arrived a month after the division’s first units. The journey up had been predictably awful – agonizingly slow and harried by Jabos all the way – and much to the annoyance of Müller and his comrades they were taking over positions that had been held by the I. Bataillon of SS-Panzergrenadier-Regiment 38 on either side of the village of Tribehou. As soon as they arrived, reconnaissance parties were sent out. One group almost immediately ran into some Americans and were promptly captured, while Müller, packed off in a Schwimmwagen – an amphibious vehicle – with his comrades Lange and Speidel, was lucky not to get killed. Setting off towards the village of Les Champs-de-Losque, just a few miles to the south-east, they were soon attacked by a Jabo. Hurriedly stopping the car, they jumped out and straight into another unit, whose adjutant explained that his commander had been killed and American tanks were breaking through. Suddenly, the next Jabo dived down on them and Müller flung himself against the hedgerow as bullets hissed and zipped around him. When the planes had gone, he returned to the road only to discover the Schwimmwagen and his two comrades had disappeared. Müller couldn’t believe they had abandoned him, then realized that the adjutant must have commandeered them both to take him straight away to the battalion command post to report the American breakthrough.