Necrocide

by Jonathan Davison

  “Wake up sleepy head. Plenty of time to sleep when you're dead.” The coarse and tactless statement parted from the lips of Charlie Brooks, a fellow Commando in the 47th as he passed by. Hawkins rolled his eyes and dismissed his fellow Royal Marine's brashness. He had got quite used to his antics over the preceding months.

  Looking along the corridor, Hawkins was not the only soldier to find some vestige of solace on the cold metal floor. The Ajax was filled to the brim and there was little room for comfort within. Only the feint waft of bacon and eggs from the galley down the way reminded Hawkins that life was not so bad after all. There were little in the way of comforts but none could be expected. The Ajax had become a cargo ship about to make its most important voyage. As Hawkins felt the revolutions of the prop shafts increase, he knew there was no turning back. He was going to France whether he liked it or not and he might just not see the shores of his own country ever again.

  Whilst each individual tackled their fears in their own way, the black haired Yorkshire man Hawkins had an air of acceptance about him. He had known that this time would come; they had talked of this moment in the barracks for weeks. The invasion of France had been expected for some time now. The Germans knew too well that British, American and Canadian forces had mustered, ready to take back France and then find a foothold in continental Europe, driving the Germans back to their roots. Deception tactics, espionage and secret operations had gone before and it was widely touted that this was a make or break moment for the Allies. To be repelled on the shores of Normandy could spell the beginning of the end. This was one operation that no one could dare contemplate its failure.

  Whilst every mission was portrayed as vital when briefing combat soldiers, Hawkins and the rest of his company were aware from the start that a greater emphasis was being placed on security of information and being well supplied from the off. Indeed, Hawkins felt the heavy weight of encumbrance from his equipment and wondered what chance he would have of even making it up the beach, let alone force marching nine miles to the Port Au Bessin. This was the small town where that they would secure for fuel deliveries until Cherbourg was liberated. As far as secrecy was concerned, it had only been a matter of hours since the 47th had even been informed that Normandy was the target. It was hoped by all that the Germans had bought the 'Pas de Calais' red herring although many were sceptical. The Germans had built a significant line of armaments along the French coast. Bunkers, casemates and battery emplacements. No one had suggested this would be an easy ride and inwardly, all who set sail on this day knew in their heart of hearts that casualties would be seen on an unprecedented scale. Not since the Great War had so many men rushed headlong into the unknown with little more than sheer weight of numbers to support their efforts.

  Hawkins was clearly a fit, young man. His acceptance as an elite soldier in the Commandos was testament to that. Aged twenty seven, he was seasoned but not a veteran. He had seen action in Italy at Monte Cassino and had performed well. He had gained a reputation for being more of a thinker than his peers but this did not detract from his prowess with a Sten sub-machine gun. Born in Leeds, in the north of England, he initially wanted to be a train driver but one way or another, he ended up following his father's footsteps by enrolling in the forces where he felt a great acceptance and was at home instantly. If he had not excelled at being a professional soldier, perhaps he might have made an excellent footballer. The right back position was his most potent role and it summed up his outlook on life. Always supportive to his team, defensive for the most part but able to spring forward and take a few people by surprise when necessary.

  “Hawk, the queue for breakfast is looking good, do you want some?” A friendly voice asked. It was George Granger, a man Hawkins new very well; he was the young soldiers Corporal. Granger was a tall pale red-headed individual, tougher than an old Wellington boot but a personable chap. He looked after his squad well and was clearly respected for it.

  “I don't know George. Apparently the weathers a bit shit in the channel. I'm nervous enough as it is. Don't need a dodgy belly when I’m dodging MG42 fire, might slow me down.”

  Hawkins defied his hunger but he knew that rough seas and a full stomach did not always mix well.

  “No point being nervous mate, just go and enjoy it!” Granger smiled and sloped off towards the mess room leaving Hawkins wondering if he was talking about the coming battle or the greasy breakfast. It might seem odd to some that a grisly, bloody battle could be enjoyed but there was often little time to think about the potential consequences when in the heat of the fight. It was times like these, quiet contemplation before the event where the true realisation often took hold. There were many 'green' soldiers on the ship; they stood out to Hawkins who had seen the look before. He was thankful that he had enough experience to keep the feelings of trepidation at bay, at least to the point that he did not feel physically sickened by the thought of being shredded by machine gun spray or blown apart by artillery shells.

  Hawkins closed his eyes and tried to ignore the loud drone of the ships engines. He wanted to enjoy these few hours of relative calm. He oddly loved the smell of the ship, the grease and the diesel. He reached out, still with his eyes firmly closed and caressed the cool barrel of his Sten. If he was to survive over the coming days or weeks, his deadly accomplice would offer him the smallest of hopes, courage and perseverance would see him through the rest of the way.

  *

  Hawkins opened his eyes, his heart was racing a little and his head felt a little pained. It was clear that he had fallen asleep and been woken with a start. There seemed to be a great deal of movement within the bowels of the vessel and looking at his wristwatch, John realised he had been asleep for a number of hours. The ship had throttled back as the slower turn of the engines created significant vibration which was enough to make a soldiers voice warble.

  “Jesus Christ, John. How did you sleep through that?”

  Granger stood towering over him, back pack hoisted upon his shoulder and Sten hanging by his hip.

  “Sleep through what?” Hawkins asked curiously only then to be told in no uncertain terms as the ships guns spoke again. The barrage had begun.

  “It's started.” Granger said as the booming of the guns above shook the vessel to its core. It was only then that Hawkins felt the undulations of the ship rolling about on the waves of a murky English Channel and felt decidedly queasy. The smell of bile was strong in the corridor and it seemed apparent that sickness was rife throughout the ship.

  “I'm glad I skipped the eggs.” John said as Granger offered him a helping hand. Climbing to his feet, he felt the full weight of his backpack and webbing. With his relatively light Sten slung over his right shoulder, he was also carrying a holstered Webley revolver. Maps, compasses, rations, medical materials, survival paraphernalia, ammunition; it would be a treacherous landing. Hawkins hoped that his landing craft had a good pilot.

  Climbing the narrow ladders, the Marines made their way to the upper deck in an orderly fashion. There was no bravado or small talk. An unusual atmosphere was punctuated by the thunderous bangs of artillery. Not one soldier complained about the painful din, they knew that this immense barrage was there for a purpose; it was to soften the blow for the infantry on the ground. Further to the massive bombardment, bombers had dropped thousands of tonnes of payload upon the coastline, pock marking every square mile and hoping to penetrate toughened concrete shelters. Hundreds of gliders filled with paratroopers had landed in behind enemy lines in an attempt to silence the batteries that lay a few miles inland. Every man who set foot on the beach was already indebted to these valiant men, many of whom would have already succumbed to the German repulsion. This was not a surprise attack anymore, the Germans knew they were coming and were now readying their weapons and sending for reinforcements.

  Out on the upper deck, the soldiers were herded like cattle, shuffling gradually to the correct part of the ship to be assigned to their LCA.

  “A
t least we won't be the first on the beach. The 231st get that pleasure.” Granger whispered, not wishing to offend any of the other company who jostled their way through to the front.

  “I reckon it'll be light resistance. They haven't a clue really.” Said Charlie Brooks who lurked behind his two mates grinning like a demented old man.

  “Let's hope you're right.” Hawkins muttered knowing that there was no way to tell what lie in store. Intelligence suggested that the Germans had spread thin their resources to cover all bases. Using veterans unable to be of use at the Russian front and Ost Battalion troops recruited from other countries, they had high hopes that they would quickly be overcome. Even if there was initially light resistance, it would not remain so as there were no doubt Panzer divisions lying in readiness to react to the call for reinforcements.

  A couple of hours passed as the soldiers watched the landing crafts known as LCA's, packed with their comrades head off for the Normandy coast. The 47th were not due to hit the beach codenamed Gold until 09:45 but the willingness to get things over and done with meant that the soldiers were chomping at the bit to get going. This led to a lot of hanging around when they could have been below catching a few more hours rest. Once the barrage had begun however, there was no sleeping and on more than one occasion, an NCO ordered the Commandos to go below deck and make room. Little hindrance was taken however and Hawkins hung over the side of the ships railings looking into the depths of the choppy waters imagining how cold and unwelcoming it would be as it lapped the fine shale of the beach.

  “Forty Seventh!” The call finally went up, bringing the young men to attention in the strong light of the morning. As Hawkins shuffled along to the rope netting with which they would make their way down to the small landing crafts, he saw firsthand the scale of the assault. The darkness of night had given way to an overcast morning and on the horizon, ships and boats of all sizes and descriptions could be seen as one gargantuan flotilla. The larger of those military vessels had finished pounding the coastline and had virtually spent every shell they had. The air was thick with smoke and France could barely be seen through the haze.

  As John Hawkins grappled at the rope ladder and lowered himself into the clutches of his LCA's coxswain, he knew that the next half hour would define his future life or end it as swiftly as it had begun.

  CHAPTER 7

  The translucent silhouette of the beachhead greeted Hawkins' eyes as the wind, bitter and biting whistled about his ears. Behind him, he could see the Coxswain struggling at the helm to keep the landing craft on a steady tack.

  “Damn it!” He cried out and Hawkins grew pessimistic about the helmsman's composure which only added to a sense of apprehension. Tossed around within the high sided LCA which resembled an elongated commercial skip and offered the same comforts, several dozen soldiers rolled about in an attempt to compensate for the movement of the waves which battered the flat bow of the boat and pounded the craft with a boom like a distant 88mm gun.

  Salty spray drizzled over the heads of the soldiers who remained quiet and pensive as the craft drew ever closer to the beach. Hawkins peered out over the shoulders of the men in front of him and attempted to get a good look at the coastline. He could make out a few small dwellings dotted about in the greenery but what he was looking for was signs of life upon the beach itself. He, like the others in the boat had high hopes that the preceding forces would have cleared out the initial resistance and their landing would be a safe one.

  A whistling volley of artillery fire suddenly screamed overhead and sent a plume of water high into the sky in the LCA's wake. It had become apparent that not all of the guns had been silenced as hoped. Hawkins looked over to George Granger who returned the glance with a raised eyebrow. Nothing need be said at this time; a depressing wave washed over the soldiers as they all realised that their hopes for the best possible course of events were lost. It was now time to knuckle down and take the fight to the enemy with the stiffest of upper lips.

  The barrage of artillery shells only grew more ferocious as the LCA's in their numbers neared the beach. The soldiers stooped low in their vessel as on a number of occasions, they heard the impact of the powerful munitions find their target and small pieces of shrapnel flew above their heads. Some soldiers clung to each other to offer moral support, some offered a moment of prayer but none cried out in terror. The Commandos were as mentally tough as they were physically. As the Coxswain called out to deliver the news that only a hundred yards remained before the ramp at the bow was dropped, Hawkins clutched his Sten tightly and ensured the safety catch was released. Hawkins Sergeant, Scott McBride could be heard to call out from the aft, the strain of the moment present in his voice.

  “Once the coxswain gives the call to disembark, keep moving no matter what. Rally at your designated points. If you are wounded and are able, seek cover and wait for the medics to attend to you.”

  McBride exhibited a broad Scottish accent, his robust tone inspired confidence in his men. No sooner had McBride finished his speech, the fizzling whistles of machine gun fire began to scream overhead and clang against the hull of the LCA and to a man, all stooped a little lower in the craft. Hawkins looked back of his right shoulder to the Coxswain awaiting his command to lower the ramp and make haste. The tall lean figure was seen to be ducking down into his cockpit. He was far more exposed than the Commando's in his raised platform and could no doubt see the full horror of what awaited the men as soon as the ramp was lowered. The pallid complexion of the man told a tale that needed no words. The man’s eyes were wide and black. He shuddered visibly every time a shell hummed overhead. Hawkins was in no way daunted by this man's lack of composure; instead it at least prepared him for what was to come.

  “Come on, drop the ramp!” Brooks called out as a shell struck the water on feet away from the boat causing a torrent of water to be splashed over the deck. Indeed Brooks might have been correct, the coxswain had dropped the engines revolutions and the craft felt like it was drifting aimlessly, spinning around. Hawkins looked back again to the coxswain but he was not there. The pilot had been struck by a round across the face and he was now slumped across his seat, unrecognisable as the man he once was.

  “Drop the ramp!” Others cried out. They felt it better to keep moving than drift helplessly along, easily targeted by long range weapons. Someone duly obliged and it was perhaps fortunate that when the bow dropped and the soldiers were exposed to the menace of MG42 fire from the beach head, the LCA had spun almost forty five degrees, allowing the invaders to alight their craft without the direct spray of thousands of bullets.

  Hurling themselves into the water, it quickly became apparent that the LCA had not progressed far enough towards the beach and each and every soldier plunged into the cold sea and promptly submerged, their heavy packs and guns pulling them down to the fine sandy bottom if they were not adept at rapidly removing their encumbrance. Hawkins, flailing in the dark waters and feeling himself being pulled downwards dropped his weapon and pulled his pack from his back. Even after this weight had been removed, his buoyancy was compromised by every possible pocket and compartment in his webbing being filled with survival paraphernalia. Bobbing up the surface, he gasped a breath of life and shook his head to clear his eyes. A train of bullets pierced the waters before him and he rolled away to his left in vain as the stream of flying lead passed him by but not without skimming his right shoulder in the process. Hawkins reeled as the force of the impact which no matter how negligible took the wind from his lungs. He flapped about desperately as if grappling with an opponent for his very life until a strong pair of arms grasped him under his armpits and offered the support required to take three or four calming gasps of air.

  Hawkins looked around to see George Granger, his helmeted head now bare and his orange hair darkened by the oily waters. No words were exchanged; conversation led to hesitation and in this moment, to hesitate was to succumb to German fire which though indiscriminate, was heavy enough to be ext
remely effective. Swimming to the shore, Hawkins unhampered by his wound was yet to feel the pain from his injury and he used every sinew in his being to splice the waters before him. Not daring to look up but not bothering to dive down out of sight, he knew that he was as easily killed by a bullet several feet below the surface as he was on top. His arms powering him forward, he did not stop to think about his lost weapon which nestled into the soft sea-bed, he just wanted to feel the firm shingle beneath his feet so he could move more quickly than the painfully slow crawl that he could achieve in the water.

  With only feet to go to the beach, the froth of the waves lapping at the shore could be seen, their usual white foam now a blood tinged pink. Hawkins, gasping gulps of air from his exertions began to encounter the forlorn bulks of fallen soldiers who floated with the tide, their bodies rolling about in the wash. The Commando looked up to his destination and for the first time, took more than a few fleeting moments to survey his surroundings.

  A hundred yards of sand and fine shingle presented itself interspersed with 'hedgehogs', large pronged metallic obstacles which hindered the progress of tanks or armoured vehicles. Behind each of these, a mound of bodies, their flesh torn by a hail of deadly bullets. Hawkins immediately made for the closest of these most macabre of structures. It clearly presented the best cover from which to gather his breath before making another push up the beach. With concussive explosions all around the on-rushing soldiers, there was no time to aid the wounded and Hawkins felt with great urgency that if he did not find cover he would soon be target by the machine gun nests which although present were hard to see due to their camouflage. Only the occasional muzzle flash gave any indication of their location but there was little time to linger. Hawkins left the waters and suddenly felt very heavy legged as his waterlogged clothes added a significant burden. He stumbled a few feet to the nearest hedgehog and crashed to the ground behind a cluster of five or six bodies that bore the insignia of the 231st. Granger dived to the ground beside Hawkins and could be seen to wriggle and writhe his way into the beach like a sand eel.