London Calling

by D. N. J. Greaves

  Perriers-le-dan / Cambes area, Normandy, France 1330 2/5/1944

  General Feldmarschall Erwin Rommel strode around the huge field, resplendent in his immaculate field grey uniform complete with decorations and the broad red trouser stripe of senior command. He moved from position to position, all of them chosen for maximum concealment against marauding Allied aircraft. It was a gloriously sunny spring day. Soldiers braced to attention in front of their armoured vehicles, their officers saluting as the great man passed by. He stopped occasionally to say a few words. A gaggle of senior officers followed in his wake, led by the divisional commander, Generalmajor Edgar Feuchtinger. Rommel was inspecting the new location of part of the 155th Artillery Regiment and other units of the 21st Panzer Division. The division had just arrived from the Rennes area after a five day move. Normally the journey would have taken less than a day by train for the tracked vehicles and tanks. The wheeled vehicles would move by road. But the Allied air offensive throughout northern France had severely disrupted any rail movement, and although enough rolling stock to move the artillery and tanks was at hand, the move was slow and halted by frequent interruptions for damage to bridges, tracks and marshalling yards. The Panzer Regiment was still somewhere short of the Falaise area, a good twenty-five or more miles away.

  The Field Marshal walked over to another section of troops and vehicles. It was a mixed collection of self propelled artillery, wheeled mortars, rocket launchers, and close support weapons. The officer in charge, a middle-aged Hauptmann, saluted briskly and answered a few questions. Then Rommel inspected his command in silence, briefly appraising the troops standing at attention and the vehicles behind them. Finally, he turned away and walked off, brusquely acknowledging the salute with a brief flick of his baton. Feuchtinger hurried to keep up with Rommel’s frenetic pace. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the Field Marshal’s face. He did not look at all happy.

  ‘Tell me, Feuchtinger; are these troops representative of the state of the rest of the division?’ Rommel spoke gruffly, with a marked Württemberger accent.

  ‘Yes sir.’ Feuchtinger realised that Rommel was obviously unhappy about something, but he was not entirely sure why. Maybe he was displeased with their uniforms. ‘I apologize for their turn-out, but-‘

  ‘No, general, there’s nothing wrong with that. They’re all immaculate. That’s not what I’m worried about. Surely you must have noticed what’s wrong with them? I know you’ve just returned to take command again after a four month absence, but what’s wrong with this picture?’.

  Feuchtinger was still uncertain as to what Rommel was driving at. The division staff had worked wonders with the limited equipment they were given. True, a lot of their armoured vehicles were obsolete French types captured after the fall of France in 1940, but they had all been up-gunned and up-armoured wherever possible. Major Becker, the engineer in command of the special self-propelled artillery assault group, had performed wonders of improvisation with limited resources. Perhaps Rommel still had a bee in his bonnet about one of the original formations he had commanded in North Africa. After all, that was where his stellar reputation began. 21st Panzer was one of the two Panzer Divisions that had given the British such a hard time for nearly three years, before finally surrendering in Tunisia in 1943. Hitler had been so impressed with the division that Feuchtinger was given the job of forming a new division from the ashes of the old one, here in France. And Rommel had received his promotion to Field Marshal, and the mandate to thicken up the Atlantic Wall defenses along the French, Belgian and Dutch coastlines at the beginning of 1944.

  ‘Sir, I’m still not sure what you’re on about.’

  ‘It’s simple, Feuchtinger, simple!’ Rommel stopped abruptly and snapped his fingers in front of the taller man’s nose. ‘Look at them! They’re either all too old, or barely out of school. I doubt if they can take the pace of combat. And look at their equipment. It’s obsolete! Old Somua chassis, thin armour, too small a gun caliber against modern enemy tanks, poor crew protection. Do I need to go on?’

  ‘Sir, it’s the best we could do. Our Panzer Regiment-’

  ‘Don’t mention that.’ Rommel shook his head in exasperation. ‘I know the bad news already. Over half your tanks are the same- obsolete French designs, Renault, Hotchkiss, Somua. The first battalion should have sixty-eight modern Mark IVs, but I’m told that half of them are older models from the training schools, and even the Mark IV is now considered to be almost obsolete. Where are the Panthers? How the hell am I supposed to fight off an Allied invasion with Panzer divisions that are using out of date equipment, schoolboys and old men?’

  Feuchtinger could make no reply. Rommel appeared to be in a foul mood, and it was best to keep quiet when the great man was displeased. Feuchtinger was well aware of the compromises that had been made to bring the embryonic division to somewhere near full strength. After all, it was only last year that he had been given a nucleus of barely two thousand veterans of the North African campaign to start off with. These men, recovering from wounds or evacuated just before the final collapse around Tunis, were all that was left of a once potent and proud formation. Others had been drafted into the division from all corners of the Reich. Many of them were from coastal defenses, performing garrison duties or serving in other static formations. Not all of them could be considered to be ideal physical specimens.

  He had been lucky enough to get a shipment of Mark IV tanks recently. The only other way was to hunt around the tank scrap- yards, and use every bit of ingenuity to cannibalize old AFV’s into something approaching a modern vehicle. All the other Panzer Divisions in the West were crying out for replacement tanks and other heavy equipment. As usual the refitting SS Panzers took the lion’s share and even they were waiting for last minute shipments from the factories. The insatiable demands of the Eastern Front overshadowed all other considerations. Rommel was perhaps conveniently forgetting that Feuchtinger had been specifically ordered by OKH to form his division from whatever spare and old equipment was available in France. He was really quite pleased with what had been achieved so far, and more than a little hurt about this unfair criticism.

  Rommel slapped his baton against his thigh. He still looked extremely irritated, but tried to soften his tone. ‘Edgar, I apologize’, he said, in evident frustration. ‘I know it’s not your fault. You are merely playing the hand you’ve been dealt with, and to be fair to you, you’ve done well considering your lack of resources. But I’m worried about these old French tanks- they’re simply not good enough. At most they would give the Americans and British something to laugh about, a little bit of extra target practice.’

  Feuchtinger was immensely relieved, but tried not to show it. ‘Sir, what can you do?’

  ‘As soon as I get back to HQ I’m going to get on the ‘phone to Guderian and Speer. Speer controls armour production and as you know Guderian directs and controls the state of the Panzer forces. I get on reasonably well with both of them. If I could get an allocation of Panzers then the second battalion could be re-equipped. The trouble is, it would have to convert to the new tank, and that would leave you with only a half-strength Panzer Regiment for a couple of months. But it’s a better deal than what those men have at the moment.’

  Feuchtinger brightened immediately. ‘Sir, if you could arrange that…it would transform the fighting power of the division.’

  ‘Yes, it would. I’ll let you know how I get on, but don’t hold your breath. How many men are you below full establishment?’

  ‘Nearly seven hundred sir’.

  ‘Well, that could be worse. That’s another problem that needs rectifying.’ He sighed. ‘But there’s something else that I am much more concerned about. Tell me, who do you think ordered the division’s tra
nsfer from Rennes to the Caen area?’

  ‘I imagine that was von Rundstedt, Supreme Commander of the Western theatre of operations.’

  ‘No, it was me. Von Rundstedt used to be a great soldier, but he’s old and tired now. I now command everything from the Friesian islands in Holland to the mouth of the Loire. The only exceptions are the Panzer Divisions in Panzer Group West, still under the control of that idiot, von Schweppenburg. But the Führer has given me control over some of them- 21st Panzer is one such division. You may get orders from von Schweppenburg regarding where your sub-divisional units are to be placed, but ignore them. You answer to me, and me alone.’

  ‘Sir, but if I receive orders from him-‘.

  ‘Then you will get in contact with me. I will countermand anything von Schweppenburg orders that is not in keeping with my wishes.’

  ‘And what are they?’

  ‘It’s quite simple, really. The one thing I really learned from Africa was the paralyzing effect of enemy air superiority. Look at the Luftwaffe now. Could they do anything to stop the Allies in their recent bombing campaign here in France?’ Feuchtinger shook his head. ‘Exactly. They’re a spent force. When the Allies invade, what’s left of them will be swept from the skies. We won’t have any air cover worth talking about. Panzer divisions will not be able to travel unmolested from their bases deep in the interior without serious disruption and delay, maybe even heavy losses. That’s why we need our Panzers right up front, almost at the water line. It’s the only way we’ll have a chance of defeating the invasion.’

  ‘But that goes against the principles of defense in depth, keeping the Panzer divisions in reserve until the main point of enemy effort becomes clear.’ Feuchtinger was slightly bewildered. Rommel’s suggestion was contrary to everything he had learned in Panzer school. ‘Then we can strike a counterblow. Surely that’s the proven technique of how best to use our Panzers?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the well-proven theory, and it usually works. But this is a different situation. I’ve studied their invasions of Sicily and Italy. We came within a hair’s breadth of victory at Salerno. If we’d had another Panzer division there we could have defeated the Italian landings. The same applies here. We need to defeat an invasion at the water’s edge- that’s where they’ll be weakest, just as they land. Every tank must be up in the firing line, every man too, no matter whether they’re bakers, signalers or panzer- grenadiers. Everything we have must be there, or as near to the coast as possible. That’s why we’re only five miles away from the Normandy beaches in front of Caen, as we speak. Nothing else will do.’

  ‘Do you think they will land here?’

  ‘Logically, it looks like the Calais area, or maybe around the Somme. But my instincts tell me that’s too obvious. Normandy has plenty of suitable beaches and not a few ports as well. I think they’ll land here, possibly first as a feint to the main beachhead further north. Either way, the Panzers must be ready to meet them. If we can destroy them right on the beaches, it may put them off so much that they’ll be reluctant to try invading elsewhere. That’s why I’ve positioned you here a few miles from the coast. Caen and Bayeux must be defended, as well as the beaches across the Orne’. Rommel pointed east, in the direction of Le Havre. ‘That’s why I want to get your Panzer Regiment moved up to where we are now. 12th SS and Panzer Lehr are still too far back to intervene on the day of a landing. It could take them between one and three days to intervene. That could spell all the difference between success and disaster.’

  Rommel fell silent for a moment. He gazed towards the north, the sunlit Channel where the invasion would come from. Then he spoke softly. ‘If they get established ashore, then we will be unable to stop them, and the war will be lost. That’s why the first day is so vital. They’ll be comparatively weak and disorganized by the landings, and that’s when we must strike our hardest blows. Remember this- if the landings are here, don’t wait for official permission from Berlin or the Führer’s headquarters. They’ll land on the beaches between six and eight in the morning. There may even be parachute drops overnight. The Führer doesn’t get up until midday these days, so I’m told. By then it may be too late. My advice to you is to act first, and seek permission later. I’ll back you up and take full responsibility.’

  ‘Yes sir. Thank you for your thoughts. I’ll bear them in mind’. Feuchtinger thought it best to appear to be in agreement with his superior, but he felt very uneasy about this piece of advice. It was one thing to start messing around with his sub- unit dispositions, but quite another to take independent action without permission from higher authority. If he upped and sent his division off on a wild goose chase without clearance, when the real threat was elsewhere, then the consequences could be very serious indeed. Demotion, Torgau or a firing squad were the most likely eventualities. Besides, he did not really know Rommel that well. Could he trust him to keep his word? Better to have something in writing, but that was highly unlikely to occur.

  ‘One last thing. The Führer also shares the same hunch as I do - that Normandy will be where they land. I will be back here soon, within the next two weeks. There are other formations in this area that I need to inspect and keep a close eye on. However, I need to look at the rest of your division and especially the Panzer Regiment. We need to get it closer to the beaches, and the same applies to as much of the rest of your division as possible. Your immediate task is to conduct a feasibility study of where we can deploy your troops to counter both beach and airborne landing sites. There’s not much time left.’

  Feuchtinger grasped the proffered hand, and saluted. With a wave of his baton, Rommel marched off to where his entourage was standing, next to the troop of staff cars.I also need to keep an eye on you, my dear Edgar. You have a bit of a reputation for being distracted too easily-too much nightlife, too much of a ladies’ man. There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your duties. If you do your job properly, and if I can persuade von Rundstedt to back me up, then hopefully we’ll get a few more Panzer divisions up to where they should be. And if not, then we’ve lost the war. Maybe then I can persuade Hitler to seek a political solution. After all, this is our last chance…

  Bad Sassenburg, Westphalia 1430 3/5/1944

  It really was a beautiful spring day. Not a cloud sullied the blue sky. The lightest of zephyrs stirred the air, gently ruffling the profusion of leafy trees that lined the lanes and streets of this small village. Shrubs and flowers were in glorious, colourful bloom. The houses and gardens were neat and impeccably groomed, a picture postcard of suburban perfection. It seemed a million miles away from the death and turmoil that convulsed most of Europe. The pretty village was almost untouched by the ravages of war. Almost.

  The bomb had just cleared the Gästhaus and restaurant in the centre of the village, but the small detached cottage that lay beyond had absorbed the full impact of the explosion. Nothing much was left, apart from a neatly bulldozed area of rubble and debris. The rest of the village had quickly got back to normal -even the broken windows had been repaired in record time. Nothing must disturb the tranquility, order and peaceful repose of this spa resort.

  The message had eventually got through to Berlin. At least the Ordnungspolizei were sympathetic and rather decent, even if they had no idea why the house was really deserted at the time of the bombing.

  ‘So sorry, Hauptsturmführer. The bomb hit your house but thankfully it was unoccupied at the time. Miraculously no-one in the village was killed or injured. We think it was probably a rogue bomb released from an RAF plane. They bombed the railway lines at Soest and the nearby autobahn last night. We could do with your permission to clear the site.’

  Schellenberg had very decently given him leave to return home immediately. He’d even provided a car and driver. The trip had taken nearly four hours. And now Simon was looking at the wreck of what had once been a happy home, a blissful refuge from the horrors of war and the brutality of life at the front. She’s gone, and now what�
��s left of my former life has been ripped away, too. Just my rotten, fucking luck. It might be easier to make the emotional break from his former life this way, but somehow he doubted it would help.

  He stood at the edge of the piled up debris. There was nothing left to salvage. The devastation of the bomb, and the subsequent fire, was complete. A search through the rubble had proved fruitless. He was just about to turn away when a broken picture frame caught his attention. Nothing remained of the portrait, although he thought that it might have been one of their wedding day photos. But amazingly, a tiny fragment of paper with writing on it had survived. It must have been tucked in at the back of the frame. He bent down to pick it up. Although the edges were curled and blackened, he could still read the childish script.

  It was his wife’s writing, a small memento of something from her childhood. ‘Dear Santa’, it read. ‘All I want for Christmas is a large teddy bear with…’ The rest was charred and unreadable. He pulled out his wallet and gently inserted the fragment inside, his vision beginning to blur. A tear slid down his cheek. He stood looking at their former home for a long time, his eyes unseeing, his mind thinking back to their brief moments of comfort and joy…

  Eventually, his thoughts returned to the present. It was time to return to Berlin. He wiped his wet eyes and cheeks, and turned back towards where the car was parked. Schellenberg expected him back as soon as possible, no later than first thing in the morning. There was still the trip to the Führer’s HQ, and Himmler wanted to see him. And naturally, there was the planning and training for the mission ahead.

  He walked over to the Mercedes and got into the back seat.

  ‘Thanks for waiting. Let’s get back to Berlin. There’s nothing left for me here.’ Hansen nodded, gunned the engine into life, and eased the car away from outside the Gästhaus. It took but a few minutes to drive out of the village and turn right onto the autobahn towards Paderborn and Hannover. There was no point driving further on to Dortmund and the suburb of Aplerbeck, where Klarissa’s parents lived. He could not bear to see them. The wounds were still too fresh in all their minds. Perhaps later - when the mission was over.