Panther-321 and the rest of the 2nd Platoon were at the edge of the tree-line, watching 3rd Platoon advance with supporting infantry across the open ground as the ambush broke out. The division had lost relatively few tanks throughout all their battles so far that day, and now they’d suddenly lost almost an entire platoon in just a few moments, several heavy panzers left burning furiously along with half a dozen shattered Marder infantry fighting vehicles and a number of smaller P-1Cs. Smoke from muzzle blasts and fire from light-weapons was rising right across the distant defensive line, and in the failing light it was almost impossible to pick out any specific targets in the shadows running along the base of those woods.
With Divisional and Battalion HQs and CO’s staff still back at Hythe, preparing to move forward, Schmidt was the ranking officer on the scene and he reacted immediately, deciding that with no clear targets for direct fire, it’d be necessary to make use of other means to soften up the defending British. Just a few thousand metres to the north-west, the town of Ashford was both strategically and tactically important and was a vital junction for both road and rail. If the Wehrmacht could bring it under control by night fall, it would do much to disrupt British supply lines in the immediate area and also throughout other the rest of Kent and Sussex.
“Fire mission… fire mission…!” The obersturmführer called over the radio, carefully checking his maps and providing the correct grid references. “Enemy armour, guns and infantry… well dug in… request heavy artillery on those coordinates.”
“Mission acknowledged…” the response came after just a moment’s pause. “Coordinates marked… allocating resources now… special assets assigned… recommend you seek cover… heavy incoming fire imminent…” Schmidt flashed a warning to all of the surrounding troops and vehicles to prepare for the coming barrage, dropping back into the turret of his own tank and locking down his hatches as the others sought cover within their own armoured vehicles.
The 3rd Shock Division was one of the Waffen-SS’ premier combat units, and as such had been provided the best equipment and weapons the Wehrmacht could offer. Of course, the quid pro quo was that in return for such favouritism, the unit was also expected to face and defeat the best the enemy could throw at them. Schmidt, Wisch and the rest of the men of the division were all hardened veterans and considered it an honour to be given such responsibility, and their Divisional HQ intended to provide them every possible assistance in the performance of their duties.
Most of the division’s self-propelled artillery had been heavily utilised throughout the day, and many units were either down for minor maintenance or awaiting resupply as cargo ships were being hastily unloaded at Folkestone and Dover. Normally, aircraft would’ve been assigned to provide support in their place; however the exceptionally low cloud cover and poor light made flying dangerous, and also made it difficult for pilots to distinguish between foe and friend below… something that potentially made things very dangerous for ground troops. As the advance on Ashford was considered something of a priority objective, the SS area command instead decided to activate some rather more esoteric and far more deadly assets.
Remaining ready to fire, as they had right through that first day of invasion, the giant guns of Special Battery 672(E) received their fire orders within seconds of Schmidt’s radio call and immediately turned their cavernous muzzles in the appropriate direction as firing coordinates were locked in. Base-bleed, long-range HE rounds were the only projectiles the battery could field possessed of enough range for the task, and at a distance of almost sixty kilometres, they’d still be reaching out to the very limit of their capabilities. As had come to be standard practice, Gustav fired the first ranging shell and their gunlayers waited for news of the fall of shot as the weapon’s crew began their five minute reloading cycle.
The shell landed in the middle of an open field, four hundred metres or so beyond the British lines and to the north of Grosvenor’s position. The conventionally-fused round was set for detonation upon impact and blasted a ten-metre-wide crater in the landscape, spraying tonnes of earth high into the air in all directions. A powerful shockwave spread out from the explosion with enough force to part the low cloud directly above, almost as if clearing a path for the thick pillar of black smoke that followed it into the sky.
“Revised fire coordinates,” Schmidt advised over the radio, his observations patched directly through to the control bunker at Sangatte as he watched the blast through his hatch episcopes. “Right one hundred… down three hundred… fire for effect!” The adjustments were instantly relayed to the gun crews, and appropriate alterations were made to the elevation and traverse of both weapons, Dora fired on those new coordinates a moment later as Gustav continued reloading its next shell.
Thorne, Kransky and Ritter were making their way through a small, wooded area behind the lines as that first shell landed to the north of their position, all three throwing themselves flat against the ground in response to the deafening, ‘tearing’ sound of the shell hurtling past overhead. It was somewhat fortunate they were all close to the ground in the following moments, as a huge blast wave tore through the trees around them, snapping thick branches like twigs and stripping them of foliage. All of them were stung by splintered wood and coated by a rain of earth and debris, and as they regained their feet once more they could clearly see the thick, black mushroom cloud through the trees as it rolled skyward.
“Okay… that’s just fuckin’ uncalled for…!” Thorne howled, fear and uncertainty suddenly showing clearly in his expression and tone as he stared up at the sight, no illusion in his mind as to the weapon tha’d just been used against them.
“We gonna just stand here and wait for the next one?” Kransky snarled angrily, shaking the man by the shoulder and bringing him back to his senses.
“Fuck that!” Thorne responded with a definite shake of his head, his ears still ringing from the blast. “If we don’t put some space between us and the target area right now, we’re going to be completely fucked…!” With that he was off and running again, the others in pursuit as they took off through the shattered wood, seeking safety in distance.
Davids and the crew of Grosvenor had been far enough away to be safe from the blast, but they’d been as terrified by it as the rest of the men in the lines nevertheless. A haze of smoke and dust hung like a grey-brown fog around the entire area and there’d been real concern that their firing pit would collapse and imprison their tank as the earth shook violently and the shockwave literally clanged off the Matilda’s armoured hide. Earth had showered down on them, along with some fairly large shell fragments, and none of the crew wanted to think about what it would’ve been like further along the lines, closer to the point of impact.
They didn’t have to wait long to find out. Dora’s first round landed further north, but this time just fifty metres long, and that was more than close enough to ensure anyone occupying the trenches in that area was killed outright by the blast overpressure, or buried alive as huge mounds of dirt and debris spread from the explosion in huge clouds of solid matter. Branches and tree trunks alike were pulverised and turned into lethal chunks of splintered wood that killed and severely maimed many outside of the immediate blast area, and Davids and his crew could only wait the barrage out in their locked down tank, knowing they were safe from shrapnel and debris inside the Matilda, but also well aware that there’d be nowhere to hide in the case of a direct hit or something similarly close.
Fire from the British lines ceased almost immediately as another 800mm shell landed some distance away, on the opposite side of Grosvenor’s pit, leaving a similar amount of death and devastation in its wake. Gustav was now targeting the southern sections of the defences, heading down toward the A20 and beyond, while Dora continued to walk its fire slowly northward. The excruciatingly long wait between each impact as the guns reloaded only served to increase the terror and tension, as the SS units on the far side of the field waited implacably for the bombardment
to do its work.
It was a full thirty minutes before the barrage finally lifted, and the destruction it had wrought on the lines became more obvious as the thick clouds of black smoke and dust began to clear. Many of 7RTR’s Matildas to the north had been destroyed in their pits by the huge shells, blasted into oblivion or buried with their crews beneath tonnes of earth, and those few left in operable condition were confronted by the sight of a massed assault rumbling across the open field before them at high speed, two platoons of main battle tanks at its head as Schmidt and the rest of the 3rd SS wasted no time in calling the advance.
“Heavy tank… three hundred yards…!” Davids called instantly, picking out one of the leading Panthers.
“On target…!”
“Fire… hit… no damage!”
“Loaded…!”
“Fire… hit… no damage! Fuck…!” Both rounds had shattered uselessly on the advancing enemies’ glacis plate. As Thorne had already warned, their 2-pdr simply wasn’t powerful enough to have any effect, and Davids made his next decision in an instant. “Angus! Get us out of here! Full reverse… we’re heading for our fall back positions at Smeeth!” Grosvenor’s diesels were already idling, and plumes of exhaust billowed into the air as Connolly immediately threw the tank into reverse and powered backward out of the pit.
The Panther they’d fired on quickly picked out the sudden movement, and a huge cloud of flame burst from its muzzle as it fired on the retreating Matilda, the first shot missing by several metres and blowing a nearby tree to pieces at its base. Grosvenor’s crew were jarred savagely seconds later as the tank slammed its rear into another tree nearby and came to a sudden halt, Angus changed gears frantically and slewing the vehicle sideways as a second round also missed but nevertheless exploded much closer. Earth sprayed skyward from its tracks as Grosvenor turned on the spot, Angus finally finding some visibility in the right direction, and he picked out a clear path of retreat. The Matilda lurched forward once more after a moment’s pause, Davids taking the opportunity to fire one last shot of his own in their enemy’s direction before they were on the move again, lumbering off through the trees.
That last round again hit its target, this time low on one of the oncoming panzer’s tracks, and the two-pound slug of solid shot was easily powerful enough to at least shatter those tracks and damage the forward idler wheel on its left side. Already travelling at high speed, Panther-321’s driver had no time to react as the left track stripped from beneath its wheels and piled onto the grass behind. As the tank powered on, its bare road wheels bit into the earth and dragged the vehicle sharply the left, bringing it to a complete and sudden halt.
“Missed…!” Schmidt howled in adrenaline-laced anger as the unexpected movement threw out the aim of his third shot on the retreating Matilda. “Load wolfram…!”
“Wolfram loaded!” Loewe advised, his words accompanied by the reassuring rattle of the breech slamming home on a tungsten-cored, armour-piercing shell.
“Still tracking target…” Wisch reassured, also clearly annoyed by his own inability to hit the relatively slow-moving infantry tank. In deference to the Matilda’s superior frontal armour, they’d already wasted several of their precious, high-velocity tungsten rounds rather than the standard armour-piercing or HEAT rounds, but Panther-321 was now completely stationary, and that made targeting much easier. He could see the enemy tank clearly as it slowly threaded its way through the distant trees, and at a distance of just three hundred metres or so, he didn’t have to ‘lead’ it a great deal in his sights, as the flight time between the two vehicles would be just a fraction of a second.
“Fire…!” Schmidt snarled angrily, following the fleeing green tank through his own optics, and the immobilised Panther lurched as its 88mm gun fired again. “Hit…!” He crowed triumphantly a second later, and only then did Schmidt think to send a call through to one of their engineer recovery units at the rear of the advance. They continued to scan the battle area for more targets, providing covering fire as the rest of the advancing tanks and troops passed them by and eventually reached the shattered defensive line. Panther-321 could afford the luxury of waiting for help now, and with any luck, the damage to the panzer’s tracks would be minor and easily fixed to get them back into action.
In the years to come, Jimmy Davids would never be able to fully remember what had happened. His first recollection was of regaining consciousness after what must only have been seconds, vision blurred and blood streaming freely down the left side of his face from his head being slammed against the side of his own commander’s cupola. He struggled for a few moments, trying to stand upright before finally realising it wasn’t his balance that was the problem: instead, the whole tank was actually tilted and lying almost on its side
“Angus… Gerry…” he called out groggily, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. The tank was darker than it should’ve been, and he found that it was full of smoke, something that cleared his mind far more quickly and got him moving. He eventually managed to push his hatch open, the smoke clearing quickly into the open air, and although he was reassured there was no fire, the sight that met his eyes then made him wish he’d never opened them.
Gerry Gawler lay beside him and was rather obviously dead, the mass of blood and flesh stuck to the side of the 2-pdr’s breech evidence enough of what he’d smashed his skull against. His eyes were wide and lifeless, and the back of his head a strange, moist shape. Hodges was gone too, his body almost cut in half below the level of the turret ring, and Davids wasn’t sorry he couldn’t see anything below the man’s waist. One of the Matilda’s AEC diesels wasn’t in the hull behind them where it should’ve been – instead it’d been rammed forward into the crew space and had smashed through the rear of the turret basket, taking his loader’s lower half with it and pinning the man fatally against the main gun and the forward part of the turret ring. Davids couldn’t see what had happened below in the forward hull, or whether or not Angus was still there or even alive, but he could still hear explosions and gunfire raging nearby, and he knew he couldn’t stay in that dark, steel coffin any longer.
Pain seared across the side of his face and in both of his legs as he struggled to drag himself out through the turret hatch, but everything seemed to work for all that, leaving him to assume whatever injuries he’d suffered probably weren’t permanent or immediately life-threatening. None of that was helped of course by him falling from the tank’s turret roof and landing heavily on the ground beside it, at the same time discovering why he’d felt off-balance. Grosvenor had obviously been hit by an enemy tank gun, and the impact had been powerful enough to literally push the Matilda sideways into a long slit trench beside the shattered bulk of an abandoned 3.7-inch AA gun. The width of the trench had been sufficient to jam the left side of its body and tracks in the opening, which at least provided Davids with some shelter from small arms fire as the fighting continued to the north, although it seemed to be drawing closer.
Drawing his revolver from a shoulder-holster, he took a few moments to examine his shattered tank and could see that she’d never be repaired or recovered… that was clear enough. From where he was hiding beneath the angled left side and turret, he could see where they’d been hit: most of the Matilda’s rear had completely disintegrated, almost as far forward as the back of the turret. The tank’s armour was hardened steel that by the standards of the time was considered quite thick, but it was now bent and twisted apart in shreds, and one of her diesel engines had been smashed forward into the crew space by the impact, while the other appeared to be missing completely. He looked quickly around and spotted what was left of it a good five metres away, on the other side of the ruined AA gun. Half of the six-cylinder engine was also blown into pieces, with part of a piston and the crankshaft poking forlornly from what remained.
He was surprised at that moment as a sobbing and incomprehensible Angus Connolly suddenly dragged himself into view from the front of the wreck, his own pistol clutche
d in one hand and soaked from waist to feet with blood.
“Come on, Angus… we’ve gotta get out of here, boyo! Can you walk at all?” But neither his questions nor physically shaking the man by the shoulders produced any coherent reaction. Connolly was raving and too stunned to be brought to his senses, and Davids gave up trying, instead spending a few seconds examining his driver but finding no obvious wounds or injuries. He could only assume the blood coating the man’s lower body had belonged to Steven Hodges. He took another look around the wrecked rear of the Matilda and discovered the proximity of advancing Germans was now such that they needed to get out of there immediately: he could no longer afford to wait for Angus to regain his senses.
Grasping the man by the back of his collar, Davids forcibly dragged him to his feet and they made off at a run, keeping low and darting through the ruined, burning woods as fast as they could manage, with bullets and larger shells howling overhead and around them all the way. As they neared the A20, it seemed defences on the southern side of the road were still managing to hold on desperately, although there was no way of knowing for how long. Even as they reached the Hythe Rd and darted across, the defenders were already starting to falter and fall back. With their left flank already completely lost, they were now also receiving reports of enemy units pushing up from the south-east, and they’d be running the risk of a complete encirclement if they did nothing. The 1st London defensive lines began to break completely.
The battle on the northern side of the A20 was already a total rout following the bombardment and subsequent storming of the British lines, and the centre and right of the German advance pressed on toward Smeeth and Brabourne Lees as the left turned and put pressure on the flank of the already failing defenders on the other side of the main road. Reinforcements were also coming through in the form of elements of the 1st Fallschirmjäger and the 7th Panzer Division, pushing up from Folkestone and from Dover to the north-east, with the parachute troops riding in on the tanks’ engine decks and on the hull tops of infantry fighting vehicles.
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 91