If only Britain had carried the enormous technological and, ultimately, tactical, advances made during the First World War into the inter-war years! But there had been little attempt to maintain her traditional position at the cutting edge of technical and industrial development. Tanks, aircraft, and bigger, higher-velocity guns – even the thermionic valve that led to wireless telegraphy and portable radio communication – had changed the nature of warfare for ever. Yet instead of embracing this new technology and applying serious thought to how it could be developed and applied, too many senior officers had reverted to the traditions and mentality of the pre-1914 colonial army.
Certainly, the culture within the army hardly helped. The British regimental system was such that talking ‘shop’ was simply not done. In the mess, one discussed cricket, polo or pig-sticking, not how to improve the mobility and firepower of a tank. In the 1930s, most cavalry regiments were appalled that they should give up their horses for anything so vulgar as tanks. The Royal Scots Greys, for example, were so disgusted at the idea of mechanization that even in 1938 they were lobbying Parliament against such a move and taking their grievances to The Times. Yeomanry regiments – territorial cavalry for the young gentry of the shires – were also still on horseback by the summer of 1939.
Admittedly, publications such as the Royal United Services Institute Journal published forward-thinking essays, but little notice was taken of them. Of the big thinkers of the day, none were generals; of the best-known, John Fuller was a colonel and Basil Liddell Hart a journalist. Leslie Hore-Belisha, the extremely energetic War Minister, had tried to make the army more progressive and had heavily depended on Liddell Hart’s advice. Rather than embracing such a dynamic figure, however, Gort had taken umbrage at his meddling and had used his influence to drive him out of office. And, in any case, Hore-Belisha was not an establishment figure; even worse, he was a Jew. Anti-Semitism might not have been so monstrously or violently articulated in Britain as it was in Nazi Germany but it was widely felt all the same.
Furthermore, in all parts of the army pay was low even at the highest ranks, so promotion was stripped of one of its great incentives. For many middle-ranking officers, it was easier to keep one’s head down and make the most of what the army offered: good company, sport and a reasonable standard of living. It prompted a descent into complacency that could not be rectified overnight. The result was that initiative was stifled, while little thought had been given to how infantry, armour and artillery could operate together. Technology had moved on over the past twenty years, but not military thinking.
Nonetheless, it wasn’t all bad, and although tactically the British army had barely moved forward, its kit was quite impressive. For starters, it was in relative terms far more mechanized than the German army. Its field and anti-aircraft guns were good, and most of the tanks were on a par with the majority of German panzers. The Bren light machine gun, of which there was one per section of ten men, was an excellent and reliable piece of kit, while the Short Magazine Lee Enfield rifle was as good as any in the world, with a short bolt that meant a reasonable marksman could fire twice as many rounds per minute as his German equivalent could with the Mauser K.98. Furthermore, the majority of soldiers in the BEF were now dressed in the modern 1937 pattern battledress, a warm and practical uniform that was light and allowed greater freedom of movement. Both German and French troops, on the other hand, were still dressed in traditional-style, heavily tailored tunics.
Yet because Britain had only lately decided to build up the strength of its army, the BEF’s contribution – on the ground at any rate – was small. By May 1940, the BEF’s nine divisions in France were fewer than the ten the Dutch had mobilized, and under half the twenty the Belgian army could field. The French, on the other hand, had three groups of armies on the North-East Front alone, containing no fewer than sixty-six divisions at the front with a further eighteen in reserve.
Since both Holland and Belgium, as neutrals, had made it clear they would remain so unless their countries were invaded, they had not become involved in any planning discussions about what should be done if Germany launched an attack in the west. Thus France and Britain, as allies, had prepared for a German attack together, while the Dutch and Belgians worked on their own, separate plans of action.
Yet there could be no doubting that in such preparations Britain was very much the junior partner. The BEF was effectively just one of five armies that made up Général Gaston Billotte’s No. 1 Army Group, part of Général Georges’s North-East Front. However, Gort was under the command not of Billotte, the Army Group Commander, but of Georges. Above Georges was Général Gamelin, the Supreme French Commander. Gort was ordered to carry out ‘loyally’ any instructions given to him by Georges in ‘pursuit of the common object, the defeat of the enemy’. There was a get-out clause, however. ‘If any order given by him appears to you to imperil the British Field Force,’ his written instructions decreed, ‘it is agreed between the British and French Governments that you should be at liberty to appeal to the British Government before executing that order.’ It was an important proviso, and one that Gort would be eternally grateful for once the German offensive began.
Nonetheless, as far as preparing for a German attack went, the French were happy to pay lip-service to the British, but little more; indeed, the British Government had accepted that direction of any land campaign should be the responsibility of the French. The French war policy was much the same as the British – that is, to wait until she had built up her strength and then, and only then, to go on to the offensive. The great tragedy was that in 1939 France was in fact already more than strong enough. French forces were superior in numbers to the Germans in almost every department at the outbreak of war, and still would be by May 1940. Sadly for the entire history of the world, they had fallen for Nazi spin-doctoring, believing that even Hitler would not be crazy enough to risk war if his armed forces were not as invincible as had been made out.
In fact, the German Siegfried Line, or West Wall – the defensive system along Germany’s western border – was underdeveloped and held by a mere skeleton force throughout the Polish campaign. As it was, the Germans nearly shot their bolt in Poland. Had the campaign lasted even a few days longer, front-line units would have found themselves without any ammunition at all. Had Gamelin mobilized his vast armies and marched over the Rhine in September 1939, Berlin would have been theirs for the taking and the war would indeed very likely have been over before Christmas.
It was not to be, however. From the moment the guns fell silent in 1918, France was determined that such a war should never happen on her soil again. Unlike Britain, her response had been not to disarm but to build such a strong defensive line that no attacker would ever again force its way through.
France had fewer colonies than Britain and had been far more traumatized than Britain by the experience of the First World War. The attrition of the trenches had proved to the French that concrete was king. It had also proved that the side with the stronger economy and the best defences would ultimately prevail. This view did not alter in the 1920s and 1930s. The Maginot Line, a series of interconnected reinforced bunkers mounted with heavy artillery and anti-tank and machine guns, and protected by layers of obstacles, was named after the French Defence Minister – a Verdun veteran – who devised the plan in the 1920s. Stretching from Switzerland to the Belgian border, it cost more than 7,000 million francs.
The Maginot Line was a reasonable deterrent along France’s border with Germany, but there were still 250 miles along the Belgian border that were not so well protected. France would have liked to have stationed troops in Belgium but the latter refused them entry because of her strict adherence to her neutrality. Only when and if Belgium were attacked would she allow Allied troops on to her soil.
This left Gamelin with a conundrum. On the one hand, there were advantages to moving into Belgium to meet any German assault because the French line would be shorter and French forces swell
ed further by the thirty divisions of the Dutch and Belgian armies. Also, by moving into Belgium, the battle could be fought clear of France and her northern industrial area. On the other hand, if they stayed put on the French border, they would lose those benefits but gain the advantage of well-prepared defences. It was a tricky call.
Gamelin also had to decide where a German attack was most likely to come. Yes, he had considerable forces at his disposal, but he had to defend 500 miles of the French border, whereas the Germans could concentrate their forces at a point of their choosing. Thinking quite logically, he assumed that the Germans would probably not attack the Maginot Line. He also believed that a thrust through the Ardennes was unlikely. Although the Ardennes forest lay just beyond the northernmost point of the Maginot Line, the thick woods and deep valleys of this stretch of Belgium and Luxembourg were felt to be unsuitable for tanks. Furthermore, there was the major obstacle of the Meuse to cross as well. The Germans had made much of their panzer force and Gamelin again fell for the propaganda. Marshal Pétain, the French hero of Verdun in 1916, had called the Ardennes ‘impenetrable’. Gamelin, too, had described the Meuse as ‘Europe’s best tank obstacle’. And so he reasoned that the Germans, as in 1914, would advance through the Low Countries, where they would be able to put their tank forces to best effect.
Gamelin had resolved his conundrum in his mind swiftly not least because intelligence suggested the Germans were planning an attack soon, and he asked Général Georges to produce plans for an advance into Belgium that could be implemented the moment the Germans launched an attack. Georges was not enthusiastic about the decision but nonetheless delivered two options. The first, a short advance to the River Escaut, the first major water obstacle that ran as a natural line of defence across south-west Belgium, was known as ‘Plan E’. The second was a further advance to the River Dyle, which ran from Antwerp all the way to Namur, where it linked up with the Meuse. This was called ‘Plan D’, and at a meeting of the Supreme War Council on 17 November was the one provisionally adopted.
Gort and his commanders were broadly happy with this plan. General Pownall thought Plan D much better than an advance to the Escaut. It would not be an easy move – some eighty miles in a bit of a hurry – and would require some serious logistical effort. ‘But of course it can be done,’ he noted, ‘and if we can bring it off neatly it would be an excellent move.’ Lieutenant-General Alan Brooke, commander of the British II Corps, was also receptive to the plan. ‘If we can get there in time to organize ourselves properly to meet the German onrush,’ he scribbled in his diary, ‘it is without doubt the right strategy.’
Meticulous planning and preparations continued over the winter, but then, on 20 March, Gamelin added his so-called Breda Variant to the plan. Rather than try to link up with only the Belgians, Gamelin’s new idea was to thrust further north from Antwerp to Breda in Holland so as to link up with the Dutch army too and thus make a continuous Allied front, just as in the Western Front of the First World War. On paper, this seemed like a small addition, but logistically it was a major revision. Breda was twice as far from the French border as it was from the German, and so in a race against the Germans the French could not hope to win. Also, the plan required considerably more manpower. In the original D Plan, ten French and five British divisions were to advance to the Dyle. The Breda Variant required thirty divisions. To achieve this, Gamelin moved the entire French Seventh Army north so that, when the moment came, it could move northwards towards the Dutch border; it had been Georges’s intention to keep this army in reserve in the centre of his North-East Front.
It was this version of the D Plan that the Allies were putting into action this morning, 10 May. Général Gamelin was happy. At the French War Ministry, the Supreme Commander had been walking around with a broad smile on his face. Just as he had predicted, the Germans seemed to be attacking through the Low Countries. His forces were perfectly prepared. Indeed, the Germans were providing him with just the opportunity he had been waiting for.
Amongst the BEF, the 12th Royal Lancers, a forward screening force of armoured cars, were the first to move, getting going around 10.20 a.m. By 6 p.m., they had signalled over their No. 3 radio set that they had reached the Dyle. The infantry, however, were not so quick out of the blocks. General Brooke, the bespectacled, hawkish 56-year-old commander of II Corps, had spent the morning checking orders and ensuring everything was going to plan. II Corps was to hold a six-mile stretch of the River Dyle around the town of Louvain, some twelve miles east of Brussels. To its north would be the Belgians, to the south I Corps. Below it would be the French First Army. As far as Brooke could tell, everything appeared to be going like clockwork – there had been so many alarms and rehearsals no-one was short of practice – but the start of the move had not been hampered by enemy aircraft. Although plenty of aircraft had been flying over, it seemed the Luftwaffe had more pressing targets to bomb that day than the BEF. And it was a beautifully sunny and warm day. ‘It was hard to believe on a most glorious spring day, with all nature looking quite its best,’ noted Brooke, ‘that we were taking the first steps towards what must become one of the greatest battles in history!’
Amongst those now moving up towards the Belgian border was Stan Fraser. Stan had joined the Headquarters of the 4th Heavy Anti-Aircraft Regiment just eleven days before. A 26-year-old Liverpudlian, he had joined up on the outbreak of war, realizing that he would soon get called up anyway, and thinking that if he volunteered he might get more of a choice. His father was already at sea and his younger brother, Babe, was in the RAF, but Stan preferred to join the army; thinking of his keen interest in the Scouts, he joined the 1st Army Survey Company of the Royal Engineers.
He had been posted to France before Christmas, but rather than surveying he had spent his time in a salvage unit instead, work that he soon found monotonous in the extreme. A bright and single-minded fellow, he had asked for an interview with his commanding officer, and having explained his frustration was told he might try to transfer to the Royal Artillery. On 30 April, the CO had appeared just as Stan was digging a new latrine. ‘Well, Fraser,’ he said, handing him a War Office communiqué, ‘you are now to become a real soldier.’ Although sorry to bid farewell to his friends, Stan had been greatly relieved at the posting, and even more so when on his arrival at 4th HAA Regiment he was told he would remain at Regimental HQ working with the surveyors. He soon found that his mapping skills from his scouting days were particularly useful.
There had been a noticeably restless air about Headquarters the previous evening, but now, with the offensive underway at last, the place had become a hive of activity. Halfway through a quickly snatched breakfast, orders for the entire regiment to pack up and move out had reached them. The heavy guns had been limbered up behind their lorries, while the men had loaded themselves and their equipment into trucks.
By one o’clock, they were nearing the Belgian border. From the back of his truck, Stan saw numerous border fortifications: trenches, wire entanglements, pill boxes and tank traps, and then an air raid siren droned. Stan found it quite a thrill to watch infantrymen scuttling into their trenches with their rifles and machine guns. Their own convoy pulled off the road, the vehicles taking cover under some trees. Grabbing ammunition and rifles the men clambered down. ‘These precautions were in case the planes came low enough for our rifle fire to be effective,’ noted Stan, ‘and also in case they tried to land troops or spies by parachute.’
As they crossed the border into Belgium, they were greeted by waving and cheering civilians, scenes that followed them as they trundled along the dusty roads. Progress was slow because of the traffic, so that when they finally stopped at around 9.30 that evening, they were only just outside Tournai, less than twenty miles east of the French city of Lille. As they clambered out of their trucks and began unlimbering the guns, a flight of twelve German bombers flew over and were met by a hail of antiaircraft gunfire. Much to the gunners’ delight, one of the planes was hit.
Back across the English Channel, the news of the German offensive was not slow in arriving. Neville Chamberlain had gone to bed the previous evening humiliated and defeated and knowing it was almost certainly his last night as Prime Minister. Yet when he was awoken shortly after 5.30 a.m., it was to be told the Germans had attacked and that there was now a new crisis. Winston Churchill, too, had been woken early, and he was immediately confronted with reams of telegrams pouring in from the Admiralty, War Office, and Foreign Office. At 6 a.m. and again twenty minutes later, he spoke to the British Ambassador in Paris. The news was that Belgium and the Netherlands had been invaded and that the French and British were now in the process of moving into Belgium, as had been planned, to meet the attack. Around 7 a.m., his son, Randolph, telephoned again and asked his father what was going on. Churchill told him. And what about becoming Prime Minister, Randolph then asked. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Churchill replied. ‘Nothing matters now except beating the enemy.’
The news spread fast. Up at Drem in Scotland, David Crook was woken by his batman with the words, ‘Jerry’s into Holland and Belgium.’ David was astonished. At breakfast, he noticed everyone else was just as surprised, yet he also sensed a general feeling of relief too that the war had now really begun, and that as a result they would at last see some proper action. ‘Now,’ noted David, ‘we could give the Huns a taste of their own medicine!’
The Battle of Britain Page 7