The Bridge

by Robert Radcliffe

  Lucie was delighted with the slippers, Manfred and Gertrud were home, a pleasant family weekend ensued. Then on Monday 5 June Rommel locked himself in his study to put the finishing touches to his proposal and await the summons from Berchtesgaden. No call came that day but in the early hours of the next morning confused messages began arriving from Normandy. Paratroops had been observed in the Carentan area, they said, or possibly to the east near Ouistreham. Enemy ships were shelling shore installations; Resistance fighters were cutting telephone wires; two bridges had been seized outside Caen. Rommel kept his nerve. Were these isolated events or part of something bigger? he demanded. Or were they simply a feint to divert attention from the Pas de Calais? The hours ticked by, the messages grew more panicked and more garbled. Still holding out for his meeting with Hitler, Rommel struggled to make sense of it. ‘Stop gabbling,’ he ordered one caller, ‘and get me hard information!’ Finally, mid-morning, his trusted chief of staff Hans Speidel got through. ‘They are on the beaches, Generalfeldmarschall,’ Speidel said calmly. ‘By the tens of thousands.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  By nightfall he was back in Normandy, striding into his headquarters in the chateau at La Roche-Guyon. En route he stopped twice to get updates and order counter-attacks, and what he learned didn’t please him. Was 21st Panzer moving forward? Slowly, came the reply, but hampered by disrupted communications, conflicting orders and traffic chaos. What about the reserve divisions at Lisieux and Chartres? Being held back, he was told, on special orders from Berlin. And the infantry reinforcements at Le Havre? Yet to mobilize, was the reply.

  He swung into action. Slow reactions by on-the-spot commanders had cost them dearly, and his greatest fear – that the enemy might secure a toehold on the coast – had already been realized. This meant Germany was now defending itself on three fronts, an impossible task, he knew, yet the die was cast. All that mattered now was every man doing his duty, and his was to hold Normandy. Heavy reinforcements in the form of four additional Panzer divisions were promised by Berlin; his plan, therefore, was to contain the Allies until the divisions arrived, then drive the enemy back into the sea.

  And over the next few days, as he raced from one position to the next, he had reason to be optimistic, observing first-hand how slow the enemy was getting off the beaches, how they failed to connect up their various beachheads, and how little headway they made inland. This last thanks to his defence measures, and his men, who were performing magnificently. Using the Normandy bocage to best effect, tanks and artillery pinned the enemy down, while the infantry boys moved fast and hard to drive them back. Confidence was high, morale strong, supplies sufficient, and reinforcements on the way. ‘Matters could be a lot worse!’ he wrote to Lucie.

  Days passed. Travelling by staff car he visited every inch of the front – a risky business with Spitfires roving overhead strafing anything that moved, and more than once his driver Daniel had to swerve into cover to dodge an attack. Ignoring these nuisances, Rommel soon concluded that his main strategic concerns – apart from delayed reinforcements and the disgraceful absence of the Luftwaffe – were the Cherbourg peninsula in the west, being contested by the Americans, and the Caen area in the east, under assault from the British and Canadians. A general called Bradley commanded the Yanks, while the Englishman Dempsey led the Tommies. He knew little about either, but soon learned that their boss, the man commanding all land forces in France, was none other than his old adversary, Bernard Montgomery, whose slow-but-steady methods he knew only too well. Monty wouldn’t press forward until sure of favourable odds, he guessed, which allowed him time to manoeuvre and prepare. Once the reinforcements arrived, that is. In the meantime he needed to prioritize, and of the two sectors, the eastern one worried him most. Cherbourg might be an important port for the enemy to win, but they were fighting for it in the wrong direction, and anyway he’d blow it to rubble before letting them take it intact. Caen, however, was a different matter. Centrally located on the main routes east, Caen formed the ‘hinge’ of the whole Allied attack. And if he lost it, the door would swing open to the rest of France.

  Caen therefore became his focus and he strove hard to hold it against repeated attacks from land and air. Allied mechanized units including tanks and artillery tried encircling moves from the west, and a British Fallschirmjäger division was dug in to its east. The encircling threat lacked vigour and he was able to repel it, but the airborne troops, which included battle-hardened veterans of the Tunisian and Sicilian campaigns, were fighting furiously and refused to give ground. They were also blocking vital supplies and reinforcements coming in from Rouen and Le Havre, including the much-needed 711th Infantry Division. If they prevailed, a pincer movement might yet close round Caen, with all that implied. One small hilltop town in particular was dominating matters, and coming to symbolize the struggle for the sector. Situated just east of Caen and repeatedly changing hands as the days passed, its name was Bréville-les-Monts.

  *

  The police station on Hirschstrasse is a modern brick-built affair, still amazingly intact despite much bomb damage to the buildings around it. Arriving there in the blackout with my escort, I’m handed over to an elderly Polizeibeamter who signs me in politely like a hotel receptionist before showing me to my cell. Prien, meanwhile, bids me a rather regretful farewell and heads back to the Revier. I see no sign of other guests; the cell is square and spartan with an iron bed and chair, folded blanket for bedding, a small window and single bulb for lighting. The policeman shows me in, apologizes for the cold and tells me to call if I need anything.

  ‘Etwas zu essen, bitte?’ I ask, pointing at my mouth.

  ‘Sorry, but I have nothing.’

  ‘Oh well…’

  ‘You are the English doctor at the Revier, yes?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He nods. ‘You are known as a compassionate man.’

  And with that he leaves, quietly locking the door behind him. I pace up and down a little, the blanket about my shoulders, pondering this latest turn of events and rueing my impulsiveness yet again. Nor can I help wondering about Vorst’s sinister term ‘processing’ and what that might mean. Some sort of sham trial, I presume, followed by a period of incarceration before being shipped to some Godforsaken POW camp in Poland. At least I hope that’s what it means. Not for the first time my thoughts stray back to October, my day with Inge Brandt, and our visit to that dreadful camp outside Bergen. Then, since fretting’s pointless, there’s no food, no Erik to talk to, and nothing else to do, I stretch out on the bed to reflect on the folly of my ways.

  It was around D-Day that my own military service stuttered into motion. In fact 6 June 1944 found me newly assigned to 11th Parachute Battalion as their regimental MO, although I actually joined up some months earlier. Why did I do this? A 26-year-old doctor with no military experience, little interest in the war and a perfectly good job in a top London hospital? It’s a fair question – especially in view of my present predicament. And there are two answers. Firstly I was recruited. A major of the Royal Army Medical Corps came to the hospital and gave a talk on the urgent need for doctors in the army, particularly the airborne forces who were by now in the thick of it. We’d heard these talks before; one by an obviously drunk Royal Navy medic was particularly amusing. But unlike some colleagues, I’d never been tempted by the king’s shilling, partly because of my ambivalence towards the war in general, and partly because I was engaged to be married, and running off would be selfish and uncaring – or so I told myself. But this RAMC major’s talk was different from the others, because it struck a chord. He was about forty, gently spoken, and clearly a man of insight and conscience. He talked quietly and honestly, and in a doctor’s language we recognized and could relate to. And at the end he said something memorable.

  ‘Battlefield medicine is counter-intuitive, you know, and contrary to so much we believe in as doctors. Our role, in effect, is to watch men try to kill each other, then repair th
e result so they can do it again. Prostitute ourselves, in other words. Like a vet at a cockfight, it is base and barbaric and an affront to our profession. And yet working in the midst of battle I have discovered humankind at its best. I have found compassion and charity, fellowship and humour. I have marvelled at the resilience of the human spirit, found solace amid great suffering, and drawn strength from the unique kinship of men at arms. Finally, to my surprise, I have found myself, my purpose, and who I really am. Which is, it turns out’ – he smiled shyly – ‘a servant of God.’

  The second reason I joined up was because my fiancée ditched me for another man.

  Who happened to be in uniform too, which only made things worse, so in a fit of self-pity, and in the pathetic hope she’d be impressed by this heroic gesture, I signed on the dotted line and waited for the summons. Of course she wasn’t impressed, in fact probably didn’t even notice, and subsequently sealed the break-up with a classic ‘Dear John’ letter which I carried next to my lovelorn heart until losing it, ironically, somewhere amid the carnage of Arnhem.

  Which at that point was still some months away. Meanwhile, having received the call-up, I duly reported to Ringway to carry out the training course reserved for doctors, clerks, clergymen, bandsmen and so on. Disparagingly referred to as the ‘vicars and tarts’ course by regulars, this was an abbreviated version of the full Para training syllabus. We still had to do all the jumps, including two from the hated balloon, but we were excused some of the more extreme training: marching forty miles with full pack, swimming icy rivers, charging straw dummies with bayonets and so on. We did, however, spend much time in the classroom absorbing all we could about field medicine, learning about the triage system and the front-line-to-aid-post-to-dressing-station casualty movement process, typical battle injuries and how to handle them, and familiarizing ourselves with the rather basic equipment doctors use in the field. Nor were we excused twice-daily PT, dawn runs through the countryside, and hours of square-bashing round the parade ground. There was even some arms instruction: ‘This here is the Webley service revolver,’ a sergeant showed us grimly. ‘Whatever you do don’t fire it.’ Ten weeks later, looking leaner and fitter than in years, we were duly commissioned as officers and passed out, marching inexpertly about in front of our families, before being awarded our insignia and red beret, which to my surprise meant more to me than almost anything – including my ex-fiancée. Two weeks’ home leave followed, D-Day came, then finally the long-awaited envelope hit the mat.

  My orders were to report to Colonel Lea at 11th Battalion, which was then based at Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire. In fact most of 1st Airborne Division was scattered about that county, some fifteen battalions of testosterone-charged Paras rampaging about the place, shattering the peace and clogging up the pubs, while impatiently following events in Normandy and chafing to go into action. New and untested, 11th Battalion was formed the previous year in Egypt, but since then had been something of a wallflower. Attached to 4th Parachute Brigade, most of its men had yet to fire a gun in anger, and so had a point to prove. I moved in to my hut with three other captains, introduced myself to Lea and his second-in-command Dickie Lonsdale, met Jack Bowyer and my batman Sykes, and settled down to wait for something to happen.

  *

  Unknown to Windy Gale and his men at the time, losing Bréville was a significant setback for Rommel. Not decisive in itself, it nevertheless signalled a turning of the German situation. Whereas before Rommel was exerting control, now he was losing it – mostly for want of proper support. The promised extra divisions didn’t arrive, supplies of fuel and ammunition began to run low, devastating attacks from the air went unopposed, casualties soared, and his exhausted men – denied rest, respite or replacements – were fighting themselves to a standstill. Time was against him too, for as his situation weakened the Allies grew steadily stronger, with more tanks, more artillery, ammunition, vehicles, stores, fuel, and above all more men arriving on the beaches every day. Airfields sprang up, allowing them to ship goods in by air; they built artificial ports called Mulberry harbours to accommodate bigger ships, their beachheads linked up and their fronts stretched ever wider. And as their numbers swelled, their incursions inland at last began to gain traction.

  Adding to Rommel’s logistical difficulties were his orders from Berlin, which were ruthlessly inflexible. ‘Give not one inch,’ he was repeatedly warned, in a depressing echo of the African campaign. Nor was he allowed to act on his own initiative, with virtually every move requiring High Command approval. And the structure of that command was absurdly complicated. He could not move heavy armour without permission from Hitler himself. Sometimes that permission would take hours, or days; often it never came at all. Anti-aircraft units within his command would only take orders from Luftwaffe officers, and nearby SS Panzer units, well equipped and supplied, would only act on the direct orders of their leader, Heinrich Himmler, who seemed answerable to no one. Then there was Rommel’s own superior, Gerd von Rundstedt, in charge of all France and holed up in his hotel suite in Paris. Rundstedt sympathized with Rommel’s predicament but was elderly, weak and incapable of acting decisively. This left Rommel hamstrung, for if years of warring had taught him anything it was the importance of decisiveness, and speed, and flexibility. His commanders in the field understood this, even Rundstedt grasped it, in principle, but Germany’s high commanders seemed in ignorance, and worse still, completely divorced from the reality of the situation. Hitler, Himmler, Goering and the rest, they weren’t even there; they were hundreds of miles away, sticking pins in a map.

  Then suddenly they weren’t. A signal came through. In response to repeated requests, it said, the Führer was coming to France to see the situation for himself. Rommel was surprised but delighted, and immediately began preparing a front line tour, suitably protected of course, but designed to show his leader precisely what was what. At the same time, he hoped secretly, opportunity would finally arise to discuss Case Green. Two days passed in frantic preparation, then another message came. The visit would begin with a conference at the Führerhauptquartier in Margival. Rommel checked the map. Margival FHQ was a special bunker complex built for Hitler in 1940 for the invasion of England, but never used. It was in Champagne, over 170 miles from Normandy. ‘Will the Führer still be touring the front?’ he queried. ‘That depends on the conference,’ came the reply.

  But the conference was a fiasco. Rommel attended with Rundstedt and their respective chiefs of staff, while Hitler’s entourage included two High Command yes-men, Generals Jodl and Kluge. Rundstedt was invited to open proceedings with an overview of the situation, but soon became muddled and Rommel had to take over. Halfway through his report he became aware of sighing and tutting from Jodl and Kluge, while Hitler’s attention appeared to be on the floor. Having politely waited for Rommel to finish however, he then ignored every word he’d said.

  ‘Cherbourg is the key,’ he announced bafflingly, ‘and our efforts must focus on holding it at any cost. We must furthermore destroy the enemy’s ability to bring in materiel, and I have therefore ordered the Luftwaffe and Kriegsmarine to open major new offensives in the air and on sea. These will become effective in the next two weeks whereupon the enemy will be strangled of supplies and their invasion attempt will founder.’ When Rommel pointed out that the Luftwaffe hadn’t been seen in weeks and the biggest naval force in history was currently patrolling – and shelling – the entire coastline, Hitler merely shrugged and said his decision was final, also chiding Rommel for his defeatism. Of the land war he made little mention except to repeat that retreat of any kind was utterly forbidden, and that supplies and reinforcements would be sent: ‘as expediency dictates’. He then spoke expansively about incredible new wonder weapons that would turn the war in Germany’s favour in a matter of weeks, Rommel made a swiftly rebuffed attempt to draw him into discussion about the war in general, and with that the conference closed. Nor, he was then told brusquely by Kluge, would the Führer hav
e time to visit the troops at the front.

  The mood on the journey back was sombre. Rundstedt made his own way by train, leaving Rommel alone with Hans Speidel to travel by car. For safety’s sake they waited until nightfall before setting out; by the time they got back to La Roche-Guyon it was after midnight.

  ‘This can’t go on, Hans,’ Rommel muttered darkly at one point. ‘The lunacy, it must be stopped.’

  ‘There are many who think as you, sir.’

  ‘Case Green. If only he could be made to study it.’

  ‘I fear it’s too late. Something more radical is needed.’

  ‘You are speaking of Stauffenberg and his madcap proposal.’

  ‘It is more than a proposal, Generalfeldmarschall, it is a plan. It has widespread support; all that is needed are a few key people to be ready, including a senior field marshal to take command of the armed forces. When it is over.’

  ‘You are in touch with him? Stauffenberg?’

  ‘Indirectly.’

  ‘Then tell him it’s the wrong way. It will only create a martyr – and a dangerous vacuum of power. God knows who’d step in Hitler’s place. Goebbels? Goering? That lunatic Himmler? No, Hans, the Führer must simply be made to see sense. He must.’

  *

  Theo kept a letter from a loved one close to his heart too, although his was rather better than mine. In fact his was the best love-letter I ever read.

  Lying in my blacked-out prison cell, I can’t help but wonder where he is and what he’s doing. Rain has been falling heavily outside and I can hear the far-off rumble of thunder, which doesn’t bode well for anyone camped out in the open. In any case Germany is no place for a confused British Tommy to be wandering. Although I admit he didn’t look confused when he left this morning, he looked like someone waking from a dream. Like someone on a mission. Which is why I’m wondering about the letter.