THE INVASION ARMADA was on the waters. The first landing-craft, laden with British and American troops, had been launched late on the night of the fifth of June to reach the beaches next morning.
Prior to that, bridges over the Seine and the Loir had been bombed and destroyed by thunderous waves of Allied planes. Attacks on railway bridges, lines and roads had been effected to cripple the movements of any German units intent on reinforcing the defence forces in the Normandy landing area.
Paratroops and airborne Commandos were on their way before one in the morning.
East of a town called Montebourg, the commander of a German infantry battalion, disturbed by the continuous drone of aircraft, left his bunker to investigate. He could not, for a moment, believe his eyes. Several giant aircraft, clearly visible in the moonlight, were heading directly for his headquarters. From them spilled what at first seemed to be little white clouds.
‘Mein Gott!’
He knew then what he was seeing, an airborne landing.
‘Achtung! Achtung!’
Down, down to earth dropped hundreds of American paratroops.
Fifty miles away, a German sentry patrolling a bridge over the Caen canal stood rigid as a strangely soundless aircraft glided downwards only a short distance from him. He stared, he blinked. It disappeared, it crashed, but with only a splintering noise. A stricken bomber that had lost engine power, he thought. Bombers had been roaring in from the coast for longer than he cared to estimate. He shouted, and his comrades came up from their dugout to be told an Allied bomber had crashed close by, and then came the spectacle of land and earth being invaded by giant birds from the sky. Gliders. The moon disappeared behind clouds, and by instinct and at random the German soldiers fired in all directions. Out of the darkness came phosphorous grenades that burst into searing white flame, blinding vision.
Commandos landed. Colonel Lucas landed, Tim landed, and their detachment landed. They put the men in the nearby German pillbox out of action by tossing explosive grenades into its aperture.
The combat teams of the British 6th Airborne Division all landed. In very short time, at the expense of a few casualties, the bridge was in their hands.
The Commandos formed an arc of defence to retain their hold. Colonel Lucas peered at Tim.
‘For Christ’s sake, Tim, is that blood all over your face?’
‘No, Colonel Lucas, it’s a faceful of sweat,’ said Tim, taking a breather. God, what a night this was going to be. Were the landing-craft and the naval escorts at sea yet? How long before the Jerries bring up a unit to try to shift us from here? ‘Luke, I’m going home. When’s the next ferry?’
‘Christmas.’
‘Might get there by Boxing Day, then.’
‘Save your jokes, Charlie Chaplin.’
‘You think that’s a joke? I tell you, I wish I’d never joined. How far’s Berlin?’
The fight for a foothold in Normandy had begun, the advance airborne troops detailed to capture and hold strategic objectives, and so create conditions that would help the main invasion force to establish important footholds.
These objectives were numerous. American and British airborne units took them in rushing sorties, and held them against German troops who, recovering from confusion, became certain the offensive by the Allied paratroops presaged an invasion. Local German commanders, telephoning higher authorities, were told they must be mistaken. German Intelligence had long possessed information to the effect that when the invasion did come, it would be in the Pas de Calais area.
‘You are dealing with a feint.’
‘It’s a damned widespread feint that’s costing us bridgeheads and casualties.’
‘Don’t panic. Retake the bridgeheads.’
The landing-craft, the supply ships and the escorting warships were on the broad surface of the heaving Channel, the moon alternately coming and going, the wind chilly, the vast armada of a thousand vessels heading on a hugely broad front for the coast of Normandy. Conditions were appalling for the men packed into landing-craft, which rolled, pitched and staggered through the high swell. Seasickness hit thousands of stomachs, causing the troops to vomit. If they had had qualms about what awaited them on the designated beaches of Normandy, those qualms disappeared beneath a Godalmighty urge to feel land, any kind of land, under their feet, never mind if they ran into a hell of fire. Any kind of hell was preferable to that of constant vomiting. Husky Americans, all built like John Wayne, were green, groaning and vilely sick. Lean, toughened British soldiers cared not if their landing-craft sank.
Nevertheless, the armada sailed on, early morning beginning its approach to dawn, the skies roaring to the thunderous waves of Allied bomber formations that never stopped coming.
The officers of 30 Corps Headquarters, Boots among them, were making the crossing aboard an escort ship. That did not prevent some of them being sick. Boots escaped that by positioning himself amidships, the least affected area of the heaving vessel. He thought of his wife Polly, his twins Gemma and James, and his son Tim. Polly and the twins were in the haven of Dorset, but where were Tim and Colonel Lucas and their Commando team? Already there, already in France. Boots was sure of that. Wars asked a lot of some men, those whose fighting qualities were of a kind that influenced commanders to detail them for participation in one hair-raising action after another. It asked even more of a man whose blinded wife needed him just as much as his country did.
Telephones were dancing a ringing jig in the Paris headquarters of Germany’s Naval Group West. Report after report from Normandy radar stations concerned huge numbers of blips on screens.
‘It’s some kind of technical interference, it must be.’
It was not possible that these blips represented ships. Never. There were hundreds.
The Chief of Staff suggested that what was not possible in such inclement weather might very well be happening. He made up his mind that it was, and signalled the Fuehrer.
‘Allied invasion force on its way to Normandy coast.’
Hitler, sceptical, said that if this was true, the armada was to be blown up and sunk. No-one cared to mention that the concentration of guns was sited in the wrong area, the Pas de Calais. After all, as the Fuehrer himself suspected, the signal might be based on mistaken conclusions, and it was known that the weather over the English Channel was entirely unsuitable for a seaborne invasion.
At grey dawn the sea off the coast of Normandy presented an unbelievable picture to German lookouts. It was covered with ships of every description. Formidable battleships, sleek destroyers, flak ships, supply ships, minesweepers and countless landing craft. And the landing-craft were coming in to disgorge men whose immediate needs were to find terra firma and then to engage with the Hun, very much in that order. Tanks were swimming ashore. Swimming!
The great guns of the battleships were booming, the extensive bombardment pinning Germans down. Fighters and bombers were at their own kind of work.
On their respective beaches, the seasick Americans and British began to land, some to throw up for the last time before engaging with the enemy.
The invasion from the sea, an effort of colossal magnitude, had begun, and there was a day’s furious fighting ahead to establish an invincible foothold.
London and Washington were awaiting the morning’s outcome. Neither Churchill nor Roosevelt realized that the German High Command and their defensive units covering the North-West coast of France were in a stage of hopeless confusion. This state, engineered by the brilliant work of Allied Intelligence, was such that there was no move by the Germans to despatch reinforcements from the Pas de Calais to Normandy, since Hitler and his generals still believed the Normandy landings were a deceptive ploy.
This confusion helped the British units to sweep aside opposition and to begin a first day advance that was beyond Churchill’s happiest dreams. The Americans were having a tougher time, suffering heavy casualties, but they were sticking it out and gradually pushing forward. General Eisenhower was receiving reports minute by minute, and so far no deeply worried frowns had creased his handsome brow. Montgomery was ebullient, chirpy and confident.
Churchill’s cigar kept going out. Not that he was short of puff. In his exultation, he was simply unable to determine which was his cigar and which was his glass of Scotch.
The old boy wasn’t counting his chickens. There had been too many setbacks, too many disappointments and too many failures. But the years of endeavour, the protracted and difficult planning of Overlord, the need for secrecy and colossal bluff, all had at last culminated in a successful landing, and with the unstoppable air might of the Allied Air Forces pounding the Germans, Field Marshal Rommel was faced with the task of a lifetime to push the Americans and British back into the sea.
In a mood of fresh exultation, the Prime Minister treated himself to a new cigar, from which the smoke rose with positive buoyancy.