Yeoman spent the first day and a half of the fog in clearing up a deskful of outstanding paperwork that required his attention, and in reading all the latest Intelligence reports. Privately, he was worried about the state of morale of the Eindhoven Wing; the pilots’ apathy and general listlessness were becoming all too apparent, and the last straw came when he organized a rugger match against the Typhoon boys from Gilze and then, through lack of interest on the part of his men, only just succeeded in getting together a XV which the Typhoon boys beat by forty points to three.
The following morning, on Yeoman’s orders, every pilot not on duty went for a five-mile cross-country run. They returned, panting, cursing and mud-spattered, to find that soccer matches had been arranged for the afternoon, and that anyone not wishing to take part could go on another cross-country run with the kind co-operation of the physical training officer of a nearby army unit. Everyone decided to take part. A notice on the mess board proclaimed that the programme would be repeated the next day, and for as long as the bad weather continued.
That night, the bar was full. Yeoman stood in a corner near the stove and quietly smoked his pipe, exchanging an occasional comment with Tim Phelan. He was aware of sidelong glances from one or two of his pilots, and was also aware that they probably considered him to be a bastard with a capital B. He didn’t care; the Wing was beginning to come together again as a team, and that was all that mattered.
And so, still under its foggy shroud, the war slipped into its sixth December, and all along the front, from the Hook of Holland to the junction of the German, French and Swiss borders, the Allied Command began the concentration of massive forces at strategic points so that when all was ready, they could resume the attack with a series of smashing blows designed to bring Germany finally to her knees. Already, the US Third Army had reached the River Saar at four points, and the stage seemed set for the last great offensive.
The enemy, however, was not finished yet, as the Allies — and in particular the Americans — were soon to discover to their cost.
*
At night and under cover of the blanket of fog, safe from the omnipresent eyes of the Allied reconnaissance aircraft, a thousand tanks and a quarter of a million men — equal to twelve divisions — had been moving steadily up to assembly areas in the eastern fringes of the Ardennes, that great natural barrier of dense pine forests, deep ravines, steep ridges and fast-flowing streams sprawling over the common frontiers of Germany, Belgium and Luxembourg.
The creation of this massive force of men and armour had been little short of a miracle. During November 1944 war production in Germany had broken all records in order to turn it into a reality, and an entire new army group had been formed by scraping the bottom of the manpower barrel to conscript sixteen-year-old boys, middle-aged men and those who had hitherto been considered medically unfit.
So, early in December, three armies — one armoured and two infantry — were stealthily moved into the Eifel hills, facing an eighty-five-mile sector of the American front running from Monschau in the north through the Ardennes to Echternach in Luxembourg — a sector defended by only four divisions of the US VIII Corps, of which two had never been tested in combat and two were recuperating after receiving a terrible mauling in savage forest fighting a couple of weeks earlier.
The new German force was designated Army Group B and was commanded by Feldmarschall Walter Model, a soldier of vast experience who believed that attack was the best form of defence and whose aggressive tactics had saved the German armies on the Eastern Front from crushing defeat on three occasions. The generals under his command were equally experienced and battle-hardened; men like General Josef ‘Sepp’ Dietrich, who had actually been Hitler’s sergeant-major in the First World War and whose Sixth SS Panzer Army was to spearhead the offensive in the north; and like General Hasso von Manteuffel, a small, hawk-faced man — also a veteran of the terrible battles in Russia — whose Fifth Panzer Army was to attack through the centre, protected on its long southern flank by the infantry of the newly-raised Seventh Army.
The German plan was to be virtually a carbon copy of the Blitzkrieg of May 1940. Following a massive artillery barrage, assault troops would smash the weak American defensive line in several places, creating gaps through which the armour and infantry would pour, flooding the Ardennes to capture key bridges over the Meuse.
Once this first phase of the offensive had been completed, and before the Allies could regain their composure, Army Group B would then drive north-westward to the vital port of Antwerp, where it would be joined by the Fifteenth Army under General Kurt Student — the redoubtable paratroop commander whose men had captured Crete three and a half years earlier-pushing southwards from Holland. Between them, Army Group B and the Fifteenth Army would secure Antwerp and the Scheldt Estuary, driving a great wedge through the Allied armies and destroying the four that would then be trapped in the northern pocket — the US 1st and 9th, the British 2nd and the Canadian 1st.
It was the firm belief of Adolf Hitler that once this objective had been achieved, the western Allies would be more than ready to sue for peace, leaving the Germans free to send all their forces into the battle against the Russians. His generals were not so optimistic. Feldmarschall von Rundstedt — who would later be erroneously named as the architect of the operation — was outspoken in his condemnation of it, right from the outset. Hitler, however, was adamant that it should go ahead; after two postponements, he decreed that the offensive should begin not later than dawn on 16 December.
The final Blitzkrieg was to go ahead, despite all opposition. And as the build-up of troops and armour continued, so the morale of the German troops and their commanders slowly but surely lifted. Perhaps the Führer was right; perhaps they could still snatch a victory from defeat, avenging the shattered cities of the Fatherland and the hundreds of thousands of Germans who had died. And if not ... would it not be better to end in horror, than to face a horror without end?
*
Oberstleutnant Joachim Richter was not one of the optimistic ones. On Sunday, 10 December, after attending a briefing on the forthcoming operation — which was code-named ‘Autumn Fog’ — he quietly confessed his misgivings to Oberstleutnant Erwin Wiltz, an old friend from the days before the war who now commanded a fighter-bomber wing.
‘I know the Ardennes, Erwin, just as you do yourself. Remember those twisting, turning roads? Why, pushing tanks and trucks over them was difficult enough in 1940, when it was summer — and now they plan to do the same thing in the middle of winter, when the roads will be waist deep in snow.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just not feasible.’
Wiltz chuckled. ‘And all this at Christmas time, too, just to make things worse.’
His face grew serious and he thoughtfully swirled the cognac round in his glass. Richter noticed the deep lines etched on his companion’s forehead, the streaks of grey in his hair, though he was not yet thirty years old.
‘Seriously, Joachim,’ he went on soberly, ‘what alternative is there? To pull all our forces in and concentrate on defending the perimeter of the Fatherland? You know that wouldn’t work. We could probably hold the enemy for a time, but in the end they would starve us into submission. We’d have no fuel or raw materials left, or food either. The whole of Germany would become one vast charnel house.’
‘Some people would prefer to see it that way,’ Richter said softly, ‘rather than live with defeat.’
Wiltz looked up, studying the other’s face intently, and gave a tired smile.
‘I know what you mean, Jo. We know that the Führer does not think the German race fit to survive in defeat. But I don’t happen to agree with all this Wagnerian “Twilight of the Gods” nonsense. I have two children in Bavaria, and I want them to grow up — hopefully into a better world than the one you and I have known.’
He set aside his glass and sat back in his chair. The two of them were quite alone in the apartment, which belonged to Wiltz’ brother — a Panzer m
ajor who was at present somewhere in northern Italy. It was small but comfortably furnished, and Wiltz had the use of it whenever he happened to be in the capital. He noticed with dissatisfaction that there was a large crack in the ceiling, the result of vibrations set up by Allied bombing. In fact, it was little short of miraculous that the apartment had survived this far without serious damage.
‘I believe that we must make one last great effort,’ he continued, ‘even though we might exhaust our forces in the west in the process. Total collapse on the Western Front, after all, will only result in the Tommies and Amis reaching Berlin a lot faster — and I’d rather see them here than the Ivans.’
In this, Richter was in total agreement. He shuddered to think what would happen if the Russians, bloodthirsty for revenge, ever set foot on the soil of Germany.
‘This offensive, as I see it, is our last chance — our sole remaining chance — to make the Allies see sense,’ Wiltz emphasized. ‘We must make them see how costly it will be for them if they fail to agree to a compromise. And, Jo, don’t forget that we have one factor on our side — the Allies must be as sick and tired of this war as we are ourselves.’
Richter lit one of his customary cheroots and peered at Wiltz through the drifting cloud of grey smoke.
‘Do you really think this offensive has a chance of success?’ There was a cynical note as he asked the question. Wiltz spread out his hands.
‘I wish I could say “yes” with certainty,’ he said. ‘But who can tell? So much depends on so many different factors. Speed and surprise ... the ability of our spearhead forces to capture Allied fuel dumps so that the armour can keep moving ... and, of course, the weather.’
‘Yes, the weather,’ Richter agreed. ‘That’s the key factor. The forecast for mid-December is fog and snow. If it’s accurate, then we might have a chance after all. The going will be hard, but at least snow and fog will keep the Allied air forces on the ground. We don’t want the whole operation to end in another Falaise,’ he concluded grimly.
Wiltz nodded. The Germans had bitter memories of those grim days in August, when thousands of troops and masses of transport, in full retreat through the Falaise gap, had been wiped out by the continual onslaught of Allied fighter-bombers.
Richter hoped against hope that the weather forecast was right, and that the fog of the last few days — which had given way to cold, intermittent rain — would return. He did not envy the lot of the thousands of Wehrmacht troops who would soon be trudging through the Ardennes in the teeth of winter, weary and soaking wet, lashed by freezing particles of snow and sleet, knowing that they would have to go for days without proper sleep, fighting incessantly and sustained only by the knowledge that the success of this last, desperate gamble depended on their fortitude. Suddenly, he felt ashamed to be sitting in this comfortable apartment in the glow of the firelight, his belly warmed by good food and cognac. He thought of all the thousands who would die, of all the thousands who had already died; boys who were little more than children, young men and old; the past, the present and the future of Germany, severed from the body of their motherland as though by a surgeon’s knife and cast into oblivion.
And he knew, suddenly, that whatever the outcome of this last offensive might be, the end for Germany would be the same; for the future was gone, wantonly sacrificed to the gods of war.
Chapter Five
AN INSISTENT VOICE WAS PENETRATING YEOMAN’S dreams. He tried to ignore it but it refused to go away, and now someone was shaking him, tearing aside the warm, comforting canopy of sleep.
He stuck his head out from under the blankets and opened one eye, then closed it again quickly as the harsh light of a torch seared it.
‘What’s the matter?’ he grunted. The voice that answered him was that of the duty officer.
‘Group Control’s just been on the phone sir. They want us to put on a maximum-effort sweep as far as Bremen. Take off at first light.’
Yeoman propped himself up on one elbow, carefully keeping the blankets around him to hold in the warmth.
‘Bremen? That’s a bloody long way. What time is it, anyway?’
‘Four o’clock, sir.’
‘Oh, shit. All right, thanks for telling me. I’ll be along directly.’
The duty officer left the room and Yeoman promptly dozed off again, knowing that in fifteen minutes’ time the amazing McGann, ever on the alert, would visit him with a mug of scalding tea and a couple of thick bacon sandwiches. McGann, who looked after the two squadron commanders and a couple of flight lieutenants as well as Yeoman, seemed to have a sixth sense about a forthcoming operation and was always up and about a good half-hour before anyone else, his kettle burbling away on the stove.
‘Guidmornin’, sorr. Here’s yer tea an’ yer saanies.’
The tubby Scot’s voice jerked Yeoman wide awake and he sat up in bed, reaching out for the mug. It was freezing cold in his room, and he was grateful for the warmth that seeped through the enamel into his fingers.
‘Good morning to you, Jock. What’s the weather like?’
‘Jest a wee bit frosty, sorr. Sky’s pretty clear, though. It’ll snow afore dark,’ he added cheerfully
Yeoman nodded and sat for a few moments lost in thought, sipping his tea and munching his sandwiches, waiting for McGann to return with his bucket of hot water. The batman’s ‘wee bit frosty’ probably meant that the temperature was way below freezing, which in turn meant that there would be the usual crop of problems in starting the Tempests’ engines and in taking off on icy runways.
He got out of bed and did a few physical exercises to warm himself up, then washed and shaved quickly in the water McGann brought him. He dressed hurriedly, before the cold had time to seize him, putting on the heaviest clothing he had; long woollen underpants, thick socks, a fisherman’s jersey over the top of his uniform shirt. Pulling on his trousers, he tucked the bottoms into the woollen socks and inserted his feet with some difficulty into his flying-boots. Then he wriggled into his battledress blouse, into the pockets of which he stuffed two bars of chocolate, a box of matches, his pipe and tobacco.
He took his Smith and Wesson .38 revolver from its holster, which was hanging behind the bedroom door, and checked that it was loaded before wedging it firmly into the top of his right flying-boot. Finally, after drinking the last dregs of his tea, he picked up his cap and made his way downstairs.
He reached the dining-room and, hanging his cap on a nail which somebody had hammered into the wall outside the door, went inside. The dining room, shared by officers and NCOS alike, must once have been the nuns’ refectory; it was furnished with two long tables and hard, wooden benches.
Yeoman sat down opposite Tim Phelan and Squadron Leader Vincent Masters, 473 Squadron’s commander, and gave a nondescript grunt that might have meant ‘good morning’. They grunted back at him and said nothing else, being fully aware that their wing commander hated early morning attempts at conversation and, in fact, that he was not generally fit to live with until something like eight o’clock.
The room was beginning to fill up as pilots trudged in and plonked themselves down wordlessly on the hard benches. Sleepy airmen hovered around them, doling out helpings of fried bacon, greasy sausages, and scrambled powdered egg that tasted, as Phelan put it, like the inside of a wrestler’s jockstrap. Yeoman would have given his right arm for a fresh, golden egg, but nobody had seen a hen for weeks. Instead, he opted for a bowl of porridge; it was hot and filling and, with some sugar on it, was at least palatable. That and the bacon he’d just eaten would sustain him until his next meal. He was pleased to see that all the other pilots seemed to be eating heartily; he had constantly stressed the need to fill one’s stomach before flying, no matter how much one lacked an appetite. A man with a full stomach flew better, fought better and thought faster.
Their transport arrived a few minutes later and they went out into the freezing darkness. Yeoman, Phelan and Masters climbed into Yeoman’s Mercedes, which, with h
eadlights masked, led the small convoy over the slippery roads to the airfield. It was impossible to see more than a couple of yards ahead, and Yeoman told his driver to proceed with caution. Only two days earlier, a jeep carrying a load of 449 Squadron pilots, travelling too fast, had skidded off the icy road. The result: one pilot dead, with his neck broken, and another with crushed legs.
They arrived at the airfield without incident and, while the other pilots went to their dispersals, Yeoman headed for the operations trailer with Phelan and Masters to find out what was going on.
It was pleasantly warm inside the trailer. Makeshift curtains were drawn to prevent the escape of light and a paraffin heater was going full blast. The duty pilot stood up as Yeoman and the others entered; he looked as though he had been asleep. Yeoman nodded to him and reached for the telephone, putting through a call to Group Central Control.
The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Squadron Leader Gordon Latimer, who was GCC’S duty controller this morning. Yeoman was secretly pleased, for Latimer knew his job inside out and would be certain to steer the Tempests towards any ‘trade’, if indeed there was any.
‘Good morning, Gordon,’ Yeoman said. ‘What’s the gen?’
‘Morning, sir. Sorry to get you up at this unearthly hour, but we’ve had reports that fairly strong Luftwaffe fighter formations have just moved into airfields in the Bremen area, notably Delmenhorst and Lemwerder. We’d like you to take a look at the situation at first light and see if you can catch a few of the Huns unawares.’
‘How strong exactly are the Luftwaffe units?’
‘Three or four Gruppen — about fifty to sixty aircraft, mostly Focke-Wulfs. Our Intelligence people think they’ve been withdrawn from the Eastern Front. It reinforces their belief that the Huns are planning some sort of big show.’
Tempest Squadron Page 6