The Fall of the Father Land Read online

  USS Aurora, off Omaha Beach, Vierville, Normandy 1830 6/6/1944

  General Omar Bradley, Commanding Officer, United States First Army, leaned against the railing located just aft of the bridge and focused his binoculars on the distant shore. A salvo from the 15-inch main guns shook the vessel, belching out huge clouds of black-grey smoke as the heavy calibre shells sped towards their targets, rousing him from his thoughts. He wore a worried frown. Today his characteristically friendly, although often shy and diffident manner, was absent. It was the evening of D-Day, the Allied invasion of France, and he was in command of the American landings. The day had been one of mixed success. The 4th Division had made a straightforward assault on the coastal defences at Utah beach, near the base of the Cotentin peninsula. That was about twenty miles away, not quite visible from where his flagship lay at anchor. The drive inland was proceeding rapidly enough and a quick link up would soon be achieved with the two airborne divisions, the 82nd and 101st. Their drops were for the most part on target, although he suspected that the cost, in terms of both disruption and casualties, was not insignificant. No, he was not worried so much about Utah. It was the invasion here at Omaha that greatly troubled him.

  The landings started at 0630. The sea was rough, but the first waves went in on time. Troops from the 1st and 29th Divisions with engineer and armoured support hit the beaches according to schedule, but after that everything had gone wrong. The German defences were formidable, well-entrenched soldiers of good quality fighting from behind formidable fortifications. What few reports came back spoke of a murderous crossfire that swept across the open expanse of shoreline from the heights and bluffs above. It was extracting a terrible price in men and equipment. The amphibious tanks were knocked out, one by one. All bar one of the heavy 105mm howitzers planned to support the infantry were sunk before they could be landed, and the remaining gun that was put ashore was soon destroyed by German artillery. All that remained of the initial waves were isolated groups of frightened men, huddled behind whatever meagre cover they could find.

  The Navy and Air Force had done what they could, but their ability to intervene was aggravated by the poor weather and reduced visibility. Low cloud hampered the aerial bombardment, which had swept over the beaches before the first wave had touched down. The bombers were forced to drop their loads blind, and Bradley reckoned that many of them had inadvertently left their intended targets untouched as a result. Dust and smoke from bombs and shells obscured much of the beach defences, making it equally difficult for the Navy to pin point accurately enemy casemates and guns.

  The reality of the unfolding disaster was brought home to him by reports from the beach. A graphic illustration was also provided by aerial reconnaissance. A camera plane had flown directly over the beaches late that morning. The film was quickly rushed back to England, where photo intelligence assessed the results. By early afternoon a report was in his hands. It made disturbing reading. The casualty count was extremely high - the pictures taken had shown bodies stacked like cordwood along the beach, rows and rows of matchstick men lying on the shore or floating in the surf, the dead and dying. Bradley was prepared for heavy casualties in achieving his objectives, but the count shocked him. An estimate spoke of between five and seven thousand dead and wounded men, an extortionate amount to pay for such a miniscule amount of real estate. The future of the landings here hung in the balance.

  But even as these depressing reports reached him, matters ashore began to look up. By early afternoon several groups of soldiers at different points along the landing zones had managed to fight their way up the slopes and bluffs and through the minefields and onto higher ground. There they had begun to attack the defences, rolling them up by outflanking them, their bravery and fury overpowering the defenders and inflicting heavy losses on them. Soon more and more men were able to get off the foreshore and advance inland and as they did so the enemy fire sweeping the beaches dramatically eased off. Several navy destroyers and even a cruiser almost ran aground in moving closer to the beaches. The risk was worth it. Their point blank fire had pulverized the remaining defences, particularly those concentrated around the beach exits and gullies between the bluffs. As a result, successive waves of men and equipment began to land without significant loss and were moving steadily inland to expand the precarious foothold.

  The shoreline still looked angry, sullen in the glare of exploding tanks and burning landing craft. The USS Aurora shuddered as yet another volley of heavy shells sped from the thickly armoured turrets towards the shoreline. Bradley sighed to himself. He was pleased that the overall situation was improving, but he still had serious concerns. Would the beachhead be deep enough? Were there enough men and equipment ashore to protect it against the inevitable counterattack? Where was the German armoured reserve?

  The answers to his questions were almost immediately forthcoming. The first message was from a regimental headquarters, the 115th Infantry. It was struggling to gain possession of the village of St Laurent, but had little to say about the presence of other units on its flanks. He could read between the lines of the report- it spoke of considerable confusion and disorganisation ashore. A quick glance at the tactical map revealed that they were less than a mile inland - nowhere near far enough. The second message was even more alarming.

  A reconnaissance aircraft had spotted a column of German armour on the road just outside Bayeux, no more than eight or nine miles away. Where had they come from- was it 21st Panzer near Caen? If armour reached the coast at Omaha then the consequences could be fatal. The troops ashore had little in the way of anti-tank weapons or tanks to protect them. If Omaha was subsequently lost then the whole of the D-Day landings were at risk. A huge gap would separate the British beaches from the Americans at Utah, inviting the Germans to defeat the remaining landings in detail. He had to do something and that something needed to be done right now.

  An ADC hurried up to where he stood, looking out towards the shore. ‘Excuse me, General, but members of the Press Corps are here. They want to hear your opinion of today’s events and take some photos. With your permission sir.’

  Bradley turned around quickly. ‘No way,’ he said, gesturing angrily. ‘There’s no time. We have a crisis on our hands. I’ll talk to them later. But no photos damn it!’ That was the last thing he wanted. A wad of sticky plaster covered his nose. An unsightly blind boil had caused the tip to swell up and turn red, and he was embarrassed by his appearance. The public most definitely did not need to see it. ‘Get me General Quesada at Ninth Tactical Air Command, immediately.’ The boil was a minor blemish. He had far more important things to think about.

  Luc-sur-Mer, Normandy 2100 6/6/1944

  Oberst Hermann von Oppeln-Bronikowski stood up in the turret of his command Mark IV Panzer and stared out at the scenes in front of him in wonder. The impeccably attired and normally suave and cool commander of Panzer Regiment 22 was quite stunned. He found it hard to believe the view on display. The Channel coast lay but a mile away, but this was not the source of his amazement. What staggered him was the numbers of Allied ships that lay at anchor on both sides of the narrow salient still open to German forces – it was a profoundly shocking sight. He knew that the Allies possessed a large combined fleet, but he had never expected to see so many vessels laid out before him. There were all types - from menacing battleships, bristling with guns and firing off salvo after salvo, to a multitude of small assault craft ferrying troops and equipment ashore, and everything in between- cargo ships, cruisers and destroyers, vessels carrying tanks - the list went on and on. The sheer scale of naval activity threatened to overwhelm his usual sangfroid. The Kriegsmarine and Luftwaffe were conspicuous by their absence. Where the hel
l were they? He gritted his teeth in frustration. They would never have a better chance to strike at such at such a richly concentrated target.

  To his right he could see the landing area on the beaches near Ouistreham. That was busy enough, but over to his left the activity was even more intense. Enemy landings were visible from St Aubin-sur-Mer to La Rivière and even further west. How many enemy divisions were coming ashore? He estimated at least three in the sectors he could see, maybe more to the west, but how many were there altogether?

  All told, it was an eventful, frustrating day. The madness had begun in the early hours. Divisional HQ received reports just after midnight about airborne landings on the right bank of the Orne – then nothing for several hours. In the grey dawn enemy bombers were out and about in unprecedented force, attacking anything that looked like a worthwhile target. As a result, communications were badly disrupted by the bombing. Later that morning news began to filter through of seaborne landings to the north of Caen and elsewhere, but the division remained paralysed. There were no orders from OKH. It seemed that nobody there could make up his mind what to do.

  Even worse, his division commander, General-Major Edgar Feuchtinger, had not exactly covered himself in glory. Nobody could find him in the early hours - the general was not in his quarters, and all telephone calls throughout the division net had drawn a blank. Some of the divisional HQ staff suspected he had been playing away from home with a stunning African beauty from one of Paris’ racier nightclubs, but no one could be sure just where he was. Eventually, well after the news of enemy activity had circulated throughout the Normandy sector, Feuchtinger had turned up, looking more than a little sheepish. And as for senior command intervention in France, where was Rommel? Rumour control said that he was at home in Heerlingen for his wife’s birthday, and that he was in the process of hurrying back to Normandy. All in all, it was a right cock-up. There was nobody on the spot to issue definitive orders.

  Feuchtinger now found himself impaled on the horns of a dilemma. Did he really have to wait for OKH to get back in contact, or should he seize the initiative and make an all out attack now, as Rommel had suggested to him back in May? If so, was he to continue to attack the parachute drop zones across the River Orne, or bypass them entirely and charge straight ahead towards the coast where he would annihilate the beach landings north of Caen?

  Even now he could not use all his strength. Nearly half of his division’s sub-units were already placed under the control of other local commanders - two battalions of infantry, the anti-aircraft, assault gun and anti-tank battalions - a large proportion of his normal command. The assault gun and infantry battalions were fiercely engaged with the airborne landings at Ranville, just across the river on the east bank of the Orne. Did he have a strong enough case to change their orders and impose his will, especially without higher authority? It was like fighting with one hand tied behind your back. What should he do? If he took the risk of acting without OKH’s permission, he might easily make the wrong choice and jeopardize the chances of successfully beating off the enemy. The threat of a court martial and a firing squad was at the back of his mind. These options were always available as punishment for those commanders who made a mess of things.

  All he could do was to wait. At long last the eagerly awaited OKH directive arrived, shortly before two o’clock. Feuchtinger was finally given the permission he needed to act decisively. The bulk of what was left of his division would attack north towards the enemy landings at Ouistreham, while continuing to contain and attack the airborne landings east of the river. Another smaller kampfgruppe would move towards Bayeux to help the 352nd, hard pressed by the Americans. Additional help would arrive from elsewhere to help him deal with the airborne landings, but until then his troops committed there would have to stay put.

  But another complication soon followed. During the early afternoon, not long after Feuchtinger had issued his orders and his sub-units started to move, the Chief of Staff at the 352nd Division HQ rang up. His forces were dealing with the American landings and could manage on their own. Then four hours later he called back to revise his opinion, saying that the Americans were enlarging their beachhead and that his division urgently needed extra help. The kampfgruppe dispatched earlier towards Bayeux and Omaha had by this time almost returned to Caen, turned back by the first message. When the later report arrived the kampfgruppe then had to reverse course and head straight back to Bayeux. No sooner had it reached the outskirts of the town when it was caught in an intense bombing raid that destroyed it almost entirely. Only a few disorganized and scattered remnants were left, in no fit state to carry out a major attack.

  Von Oppeln-Bronikowski’s own command had concentrated the Panzer Regiment as ordered, although part of one battalion was already across the river and engaged at Ranville against the enemy paratroops. The remainder, under his direct command, eventually cleared the congestion caused by Allied bombing in Caen and headed north towards the beaches. A few tanks were lost to an enemy anti-tank ambush near Perriers but the rest had continued onwards, some forking left towards Douvres, the rest holding open the corridor to the rear as he drove on towards the sea. And here he was, smack in the middle of two landing areas. Reports from his rearward HQ told him that the British to his right had seized a corridor stretching from the coast to near Lébisey, just north of the city, while the Canadians on his left were advancing on a broad front to the west. A potential enveloping noose was being drawn around his neck.

  But what could he do on his own? All he had left was less than a dozen Mark IVs and a few half-tracks crammed with infantry, hardly an overwhelming force, not enough in itself to make a decisive attack on his own. Still, it was better than nothing. Which way to go? The beachhead to his right appeared to be smaller, less formidable than the other. He looked at his map, considered contacting divisional HQ, then he thought the better of it. He would simply attack first and wait for permission later.

  Oppeln-Bronikowski was about to give his orders when a distant droning noise distracted him. It was coming from the sea over to his right, in the direction of England. He raised his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon - where was it? Suddenly he could see what appeared to be a large grey-green cloud rapidly approaching from the sea. On closer inspection he could make out individual aircraft - hundreds of them. The droning quickly became louder and louder. He could pick out transports, tugs and gliders, all surrounded by a wall of fighters weaving in and around the formation. Soon he no longer needed his binoculars. The noise was deafening. It was like a huge swarm of bees, relentlessly buzzing as they drew closer and closer. Puffs of black smoke began to appear among the formation as the aircraft crossed the coast- that must be the coastal anti-aircraft batteries opening up.

  For one wild moment he thought they would have a field day. After all, they could hardly miss. The heavy transports and gliders were flying a straight, undeviating course, not bothering to take evasive action, chugging at a measured pace across the sky. But only one of them began to smoke, a great plume of fire belching from one of its wings. The reason soon became apparent. The escorting fighters had already swept down, almost to tree level, as they sought out the anti-aircraft guns and raked them with machine gun and cannon fire, smashing the batteries and suppressing their ability to wreak havoc in the skies. As the tugs passed across his field of vision the gliders were cast loose. They banked and then slipped downwards towards the ground, a heavy hissing of wood on air as they swooped gracefully down towards the fields on either side of the river and out of view.

  The spectacle was incredible. There must be well over two hundred gliders landing only a few miles away. A multitude of parachutes filled the air, suspending tiny figures or heavier bundles of equipment as they slowly floated downwards. He could hear the cries of his men as they looked on in wonder and dismay. The airborne drop was directly in front of him and across the path of his intended attack. But what was the point? At least a brigade must have dropped directl
y ahead. However, he still had his orders.

  At that moment his headphones began to crackle. It was divisional HQ. The order was simple enough, but hardly helped his feelings of disappointment and gloom. In view of the airborne landings that everybody had just witnessed, higher command had decided to pause while all the divisions’ subunits could be reassembled for a concerted, decisive drive to the coast. The Panzer Regiment, complete with all its supporting units and all the division’s infantry battalions, would be assembled just north of Caen for a night-time attack, or at the latest first thing in the morning.

  He swore to himself. Bloody idiots! By then it would be far too late. Every single wasted minute gave the enemy more time to land extra forces and to reorganise for the battles ahead. He had no confidence in the division’s ability to mount a coordinated attack at night. It had not trained enough for it, and God knows how long it would take to reorganize. What about petrol supplies? His tanks were not far off running on empty and needed urgent refuelling before a regrouping and subsequent attack could be considered, let alone mounted. To make matters worse, most of the division’s fuel dumps had been hit hard by the Allied air forces during the day. With a sigh of exasperation he ordered what was left of his kampfgruppe to turn around and head back towards Caen.

  Krankenhaus Hohenstein, near Höxter, Westphalia 1130 17/7/1944

  Schellenberg’s Mercedes drew up to the front door of the private hospital, located at the edge of a series of undulating, heavily forested hills that stretched away east towards the Harz mountain range. The air was warm, and the late morning sun glinted off the imposing façade of the long, low building set back into a wooded slope. The Krankenhaus Hohenstein was a famous clinic and sanatorium, well respected and recognized in the world of Neurology as one of the foremost centres in Head and Spinal injury rehabilitation, certainly in Germany, if not throughout the whole of Europe. Its reputation was second to none, and the accommodation was first class, better than many a five-star hotel. It was a place where many dreamed of being treated, but few could afford the bills. However, all that had changed since the onset of war. The clinic had been ‘persuaded’, by none other than the Reichsführer himself, to volunteer its services to the war effort and make some beds available to those suffering from serious neurological injuries.