Authors: Anthony G Williams
The lieutenant grinned wryly at his men, whom he had got to know very well in a week of hard fighting.
‘OK, listen up. This morning we’re moving in support of an attack to encircle Caen from the east. We expect the Krauts will be kind enough to present us with lots of targets, since there’s a Panzer Division known to be in the area. We will have Thunderbolts on immediate call, as usual.’
The Feldwebel peered through the grass stalks fringing the ditch at the line of vehicles some 300 metres away.
His men to either side of him were, he knew, almost invisible under their camouflage of netting and vegetation; certainly enough to fool the observation planes which had been cruising overhead, looking for PaK guns.
The Feldwebel had much experience of the Eastern Front and had chosen the ambush with care; the distant road was, for once, exposed to the side instead of being obscured by banks and hedges.
The view was perfect.
He grunted in satisfaction as the lead Pershing jerked to a halt.
Its commander had spotted the line of badly-filled holes which crossed the road and instantly identified them as mines.
In fact, there were no mines there but the ruse was having the desired effect, as the following vehicles bunched up behind the lead tank and stopped.
Perfect!
‘Los!’
He shouted, and the men beside him pressed their firing buttons.
Like a covey of rocket-propelled game birds, the missiles roared into the air, wires trailing behind them.
Their trajectories gradually dropped, then steadied as they were gathered into the sights and steering commenced.
The Feldwebel held his breath and watched, fascinated, as the dots of fire streaked towards the unsuspecting vehicles.
The road suddenly flashed into flame and smoke as the hollow-charge warheads struck home.
An orderly queue of tanks was transformed in a few seconds into chaos as vehicles burned and exploded.
The Feldwebel grinned in satisfaction and signalled his men to retreat rapidly along their pre-arranged route.
The ditch would shortly be a very unhealthy place to be.
To the south-west of Caen a Canadian artillery battery was awaiting the order to commence firing in support of the planned envelopment of the town. Despite the usual breakfast grumbling about the boiled Compo tea, made from heavily chlorinated water, and the boring Compo rations, the men felt the tension coiling inside them as they waited to hear from their Forward Observation Officer located at an Observation Point overlooking the planned battlefield.
They had moved into their pre-planned location with some difficulty only the night before, the light of the waning moon unable to help much through the overcast sky. Now they were still, with no vehicle movement permitted; signs reading ‘dust means death!’ had been erected; their German opposite numbers would be alert for any signs of a target.
The FOO scanned the distant fields from his location within the roof of an old barn. After checking his bulky radio, he had spent much of the night positioning sandbags around his OP. Nothing was moving in the distance, but he could hear the roar of engines from just behind him as the Churchills rumbled forwards preceded by a screen of infantry, now cast much wider to counter the threat of the new guided anti-tank missiles. Dust rose from the tanks and as expected it wasn’t long before the first ‘Moaning Minnies’ came in; the wailing mortar shells causing the troops to drop flat before their detonations erupted around the area. The FOO regarded the blasts with professional interest; they were not big enough to come from the biggest of the Nebelwerfer, so were probably from the 15 cm version, which had a range of just over 7,000 yards; well within reach of his 25-pounder troop. He scanned the horizon more intently, searching for signs of activity. In the distance, dust was rising.
The observer in the Auster looked through his binoculars and whistled through his teeth. ‘Looks like an entire Panzer Division is on the move – must be trying to stop us from surrounding Caen. He switched on his microphone to send a warning, but died even as he drew breath to speak.
The pilot of the Fw 190 led his Schwarm away from the tumbling wreckage of the observation plane, climbing back up to their station. The Army had planned a major battle around Caen, and the Luftwaffe had promised full support. The Allies were about to face their first major challenge.
The roaring of powerful engines and the clanking and squealing of tracks
was
a constant background din which the Standartenführer had learned to tune out of his consciousness. He peered through the dust, constantly aware of the risk of air attack. At least, he thought grimly, any plane which attacked him would have one of the new Flakpanzers to worry about; he turned to check that the vehicle was keeping station behind him, its two 3 cm MK 103 cannon mounted one on each side of the squat turret. Not that the fighter-bombers were much of a threat, he reflected – news from the battlefront had indicated that their rockets and bombs were too inaccurate to hit a tank, except by unlucky chance, while their 2 cm cannon and machine guns posed no threat to the thick armour. He looked with satisfaction at the massive barrel of the new high-velocity 8
,8
cm L/71 gun which, along with thicker armour, distinguished the Ausf.B version of his Panther. The 2d SS Panzer Division ‘Das Reich’ had just finished working-up with the new vehicles and after a frustratingly slow journey towards the battlefield he was looking forwards to coming to grips with the enemy around Caen.
The bombardier in the Mosquito picked up the flare on the tail of the 2,000 pound medium-case bomb as it dropped clear of his aircraft, and nudged the joystick to ensure that it was responding to his control. The thin line of the road far below him disappeared under the long, narrow dust haze which represented the position of the armoured column, but he was only concerned with the point of the column. The other planes in this attack had been briefed to drop their bombs in a line, working back along the column. He grinned as the bomb obediently moved a fraction sideways at his command to line up precisely with the road. In a few seconds time, that Panzer division would be receiving the shock of its life.
The succession of massive detonations seemed to go on forever, the violent shock-wave from each of the instantaneously-fuzed bombs stunning the senses and tumbling vehicles too close to the explosions, while the shards of steel from the bomb casings sliced through the column. The Standartenführer’s tank wasn’t hit, but he was so stunned that he could barely hang on to the hatch ring; his ears rang like a bell and blood poured from his nose. Recovering slightly, he looked around him. Most of the armoured vehicles seemed to have survived, but the whole column had ground to a halt. He could see men wandering around outside their vehicles in shock, others slumped on the ground. He was too deafened to hear the roar of the Brigands as they dived in a steep line, releasing their rocket projectiles in rippling salvoes before following up with their cannon. The smaller RP explosions were hardly noticeable after the big bombs, but after the strafing run yet more of the lightly-armoured vehicles were hit. He clenched his teeth grimly and shook his head to clear it; it was essential that they pressed on! He never saw the Hereford IIs as they came in from behind, their 57 mm guns firing tungsten-cored ammunition which accurately punched through the rear armour of tank after tank. Some Fw 190s raced in too late, distracted by the aggressively-handled Brigands. Only disorganised remnants of ‘Das Reich’ would survive to reach the Caen battlefield.
Thirty miles away, the Canadian artillery battery was a hive of desperate activity as the gunners strove to keep up with the demands of the FOO. The day had started early with a Time-on-Target shoot at a ‘Mike’ target – all twenty-four guns of the regiment synchronizing their fire in order to land all the shells on the target at the same instant for maximum effect. Orders followed steadily throughout the morning with barely a pause, the quieter periods between more intense efforts being filled with harassing fire, with each of four guns of the troop firing in turn at prescribed intervals. Then orders for a concentrated effort would come from the radio operator linked to the FOO; ‘Hello Foxtrot, I have an Uncle target for you.’ All seventy-two guns of the Division would shift their aim to a specified grid point. ‘Fire for effect, intense fire,
scale
ten.’ The guns would fire ten rounds in two minutes, then stop and await the next command. Sometimes, the barrels of the 25-pounders became so hot that they started to glow, and a bucket chain was set up to the nearest stream, to pour water down the barrels. At other times, the gunners almost collapsed with exhaustion, ears ringing with the noise of their fire, arms aching from the effort of humping the twenty-five pound shells. Whenever possible, they took cover in the slit trenches by the guns; their position had been identified by some of the dreaded ‘eighty-eights’ whose supersonic-velocity time-fuzed shells gave no warning – they just exploded overhead, showering the area with fragments, instantly followed by the metallic, yowling screech of their noise catching up with them. Despite the heat generated by their efforts, the gunners all wore helmets and many had body armour; fabric-covered, moulded pieces of dense plastic, made of separate pieces dangling on shoulder straps. They knew nothing of their
targets,
saw no enemy except for an occasional glimpse of the intense air battle raging overhead. Their world was their guns, and they fought them until they dropped.
Over the whole of
Piston engines and turbines competed in a strange battle of generations; and the combats did not always go the way of the fast new jets. Offshore, battleships and cruisers loosed salvo after salvo of massive shells at the behest of their airborne observers, tormenting the German troops, while fighters circled anxiously, ready to pounce on attempts to launch the new radar-guided missiles against them. On land, the Germans had the benefit of numbers, but the effectiveness of their formations was patchy in terms of quality and equipment. The battle raged furiously, both sides locked in desperate determination. It was as if each soldier knew that the future of the war, and of the postwar world, was being decided here – and now.
CHAPTER 10 - GÖTTERDÄMMERUNG
Summer 1943
The mood in von Rundstedt’s HQ was grim. Rommel was slumped in a chair, grey with exhaustion, his clothing creased and covered with dust. He had been touring the front in his usual fashion, racing from one crisis to another in his staff car, heedless of the danger from the prowling Jabos which had almost shot him off the road twice already.
‘Cherbourg has fallen, and they have surrounded Caen.’ Von Rundstedt’s voice was bleak.
Rommel nodded wearily. ‘They have paid heavily for it, but they can afford it. We have damaged but not broken their supply lines from England, and they are receiving reinforcements faster than we can transfer them to the area.’
‘The Führer will be furious. What explanations do you have?’
Rommel shrugged.
‘Many small matters, adding up to one big defeat.
Too many of our divisions were of poor quality – the best troops were always being weeded out to send
East
. Then we couldn’t get the good Panzer divisions there in time. First, the Allies bombed all of the bridges and rail junctions, aided by the partisans blowing up whatever they could. Then their Jabos constantly harassed the units whenever they tried to move.’
‘This was predicted, so the Luftwaffe transferred many
fighter
Geschwader from Germany; why could they not deal with them?’
Rommel snorted. ‘Few of them were effective. They were used to flying missions under the control of a sophisticated radar-directed home defence system. Many of them were unable to find the French airfields when they tried to transfer and crash-landed all over the place. Many more were hit by Jabos as they landed. Most of the rest were like fishes out of water without being told exactly where to fly and what to attack. They should have transferred units from
Russia
,
they would have been better suited.’
‘Even so, you cannot deny that we had far larger forces.’
‘I know,’ Rommel sighed, ‘but they had the concentration of strength where they needed it, aided by that damned naval gunfire. The troops did their best, and are still holding Caen, but we have lost the initiative. We no longer stand any chance of pushing them back.’
‘What next?’
‘They seem to be content to leave Caen encircled while fresh formations are moving up to carry their advance further. When can we expect reinforcements from the East?’
Von Rundstedt grimaced. ‘That’s another problem. Russia has launched a heavy counter-attack, alongside the British forces there. Given the scale of their successive defeats it is amazing that they could pull together the necessary resources, but they seem to have a limitless supply of men and materials.’
‘And space’ agreed Rommel sourly.
‘The partisans also seem to have been coordinated and probably reinforced by air, as they have stepped up their attacks on the supply lines. Furthermore, it seems that some British heavy bombers transferred to northern Russia and carried out precision attacks on bridges and other key points of the railway network. So we can’t expect much help to reach us in the near future.’
Rommel got up abruptly and started pacing around the room. ‘I must go and see Hitler. Now is the time to reach an agreement with the British and Americans, while we are still strong. They have nothing in common with Russia, except that they are all fighting us. If we can reach an honourable treaty with them, we can deal with the Russians. The longer we wait, the weaker our bargaining position will be.’
Von Rundstedt raised an aristocratic eyebrow. ‘You know the Führer’s position on that – he likes his generals to concentrate on fighting while he deals with policy and strategy.’
‘I know. But if matters continue on their present course, there is a strong chance that Germany will eventually be defeated. That must not happen. He has to see reason.’
Von Rundstedt regarded his younger and rather impetuous colleague thoughtfully. ‘In that case, I can only wish you good luck.’
The bottle of champagne was a rare extravagance, carefully hoarded for just such a moment. The Oversights, as Mary had taken to calling them, sprawled in the garden of their base at Kew, relaxing in the warm afternoon sunshine.
‘Isn’t this a bit premature?’ Harold was the pessimistic one, as usual. He had been badly shaken by the loss of several fine ships to the radar-directed missiles.
‘Taking all things into consideration,’ drawled Charles, savouring the wine with a connoisseur’s air, ‘I think we are justified a modest celebration.’
‘If only through pure relief,’ added Don drily. The past few weeks had seen him in particular under intense strain as the crucial events unfolded across the Channel.
Mary nodded. ‘Let’s tick off the reasons. First and foremost, the biggest gamble of the war has paid off. We are firmly ensconced on the Continent, with acceptable losses, have seized a major port which the Germans hadn’t had much time to damage, have beaten the German Army in a standup fight around Caen and are now advancing further into France. What’s more, the Free French have landed in southern France, just as the Germans were pulling their forces out to send them north, and are holding on. The Russians are still, amazingly, fighting back with our support, so the Germans are on the defensive across the board. And all the time, our bombers are hitting their supply lines and key industrial plants, especially those concerned with fuel and other chemicals. Furthermore, the crippling of the Japanese navy stopped their advance very quickly and the Americans and our Commonwealth forces are now making steady progress against them. That will take a while longer but the outcome is inevitable. The war will be won, and much earlier and at far less cost than in Don’s time.’
‘Let’s hope so. But the Germans are far from finished yet. They are also stronger than they were in my time, and Hitler will not contemplate defeat or negotiation. Now is the time when we need to get rid of him; up to now his faulty judgment has helped us, but now his stubbornness will just prolong the war and add to the cost, both human and economic.’ He turned to Charles, ‘more in your department, I think.’
Charles nodded, suddenly thoughtful. ‘It was hard work getting anyone interested in offering support to the Schwartz Kapelle,’ he said, adopting the Gestapo’s name for the German resistance movement against Hitler. ‘There was a general feeling that they stood no chance of success, and anyway who wants to deal with a bunch of traitors?’
Don leaned forward intently. ‘This really is vital now; we have to let them know that we will negotiate an honourable peace if they get rid of Hitler.’
‘Unfortunately, their idea of what constitutes honourable is rather different from ours. Our intermediaries have told us that the plotters expect Germany to retain many of her territorial gains, including Austria, Danzig – reconnected to Germany, of course – and the German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia. They feel that Germany’s military successes have earned them that much, at least. And neither Winnie nor Roosevelt will contemplate that; it was hard enough to get them to consider anything less than unconditional surrender.’
‘But just think of the alternative: a Europe in ruins, divided by an iron curtain for almost half a century, with the East suffering under Russian oppression. Is that what they want to see? Some sort of deal has to be struck, or all of this will have been for nothing!’
For once, Konrad Herrman would have agreed entirely with his British opponent. He sat alone, but for his rapidly-emptying bottle of schnapps, in his small flat in
Much later, he left his flat and stumbled into the warmth of early evening, trying to clear his head. He gave no attention to where he was walking, but his feet led him to a small park not far away, where he often sat to enjoy the sunshine. At this time, there were still many others walking about, enjoying the summer weather. This part of
Once in his flat, he locked the door and unfolded the paper. On it was written a brief note:
‘You are being watched wherever you go, but we need to speak with you privately. Please go tomorrow lunchtime to the restaurant by the park.’
Puzzled, he tore up the paper and flushed it down the toilet. Whatever this was about, he didn’t want to leave any evidence which might be regarded as involving him in anything illegal. He had no intention of visiting the restaurant.
The next morning it was cloudy and colder, a fitful wind rattling the windows. He listened to the morning news. As usual, the message was upbeat, about successes on the battlefield and acts of bravery. Herrman made a wry note that the successes and actions were all local, against a wider picture of the Wehrmacht being forced back onto the defensive. One item suddenly caught his attention: the RAF had bombed Leipzig last night.
His home city, where he had enjoyed the only period of happiness in his life, bringing up his young son.
Without knowing why, he put on his jacket, went out and started walking aimlessly. Without planning to, he found that his steps once again took him to the park. He looked irresolutely at the restaurant then, with an irritated shrug, he walked in. He wondered briefly what his unseen SD escort would do: follow him in, or wait outside?
Rabbit featured prominently on the menu, as usual. These ‘balcony pigs’ were a popular source of meat and widely kept, as more traditional meats were in short supply. Herrman could of course have eaten whatever he wished, but he often liked to share the simpler food of the local people, gaining some comfort from proximity to their ordinary lives, a stark contrast to the entourage around Hitler. In a fit of frugality he ordered escalope of kohlrabi with potatoes and awaited events. His meal arrived, as tasteless as he had feared, and was dutifully eaten. Afterwards, he lit a cigarette and waited. Nothing happened, so he headed towards the toilet at the rear of the restaurant, feeling that he had wasted his time. As he came out, a man was waiting to come in. He spoke in an urgent murmur.
‘Please go through the kitchen and out of the door at the back – we will distract your escort.’
To his own surprise, Herrman found himself walking through the kitchen, ignoring the puzzled looks of the staff, and out to the street. An official-looking car was waiting, its engine running. The door opened and he stepped in. There was a man in the back as well as the driver; he looked vaguely familiar.
‘Good afternoon, Professor Herrman. I trust you enjoyed your lunch?’
Herrman just looked at him in silence, feeling weirdly detached from events, as if he were sitting back and watching himself in the same way as he watched others.
‘We have met before,’ the man said, ‘my name is Hans Oster. There are some friends I would like you to meet.’
The car drove to a house in a quiet suburb in an area with which Herrman was unfamiliar. Inside, the walls were panelled with dark
wood,
the room he was shown into was filled with well-stuffed armchairs. The windows were small and closed, revealing a glimpse of a small garden. The air was filled with tobacco smoke. Several men in civilian clothes stood up as he walked in, and Oster made introductions:
‘Field Marshal von Witzleben, General Beck, General Major Speidel, Herr Goerdeler and Herr Popitz.’
Herrman suddenly remembered who Oster was: a Brigadier General and the Head of the Central Division of Military Intelligence under Admiral Canaris. At the same instant, his increasingly erratic memory clicked into place and he realized what he was facing; the core of the German opposition to Hitler. Carl Goerdeler, he knew, was a former mayor of Leipzig, Johannes Popitz a former Prussian Minister of Finance. Speidel he had met before; he was Rommel’s Chief of Staff, and Herrman remembered the curious looks he had received from him in the past. The others were traditional German officers who despised Hitler – ‘the
corporal’,
they called him – and his National Socialist Party.
‘We know more about you than you might imagine,’ continued Oster once they had sat down with some coffee, delivered by a silent young man whose bearing indicated a soldier. ‘It is difficult to keep secrets for so many years without some people being indiscreet, allowing us to put together the pieces. You have an interesting history.’
Herrman received this in silence, his feeling of detachment still present.
‘I think you will know who we are, or rather what we represent,’ Oster continued. ‘We are opposed to this war and most of all to Hitler and his Nazis. We want to see an honourable end to the war, before more damage is done. It is not in the interests of Germany that it should continue. We have reason to believe that you might share our views.’ He paused and waited.
Herrman stirred himself, realizing that it was impossible to remain detached, that this was real, this was here and now. He spoke without considering his words. ‘You are entirely correct. The war must stop as soon as possible. Otherwise the consequences for Germany will be terrible – absolutely terrible.’ He felt the sudden relaxation of tension in the room and realized that the others had had been holding their breath, awaiting his response. They had taken a considerable risk, he realized, placing their future in his hands.