German children were not being raised to believe in a world of tolerance and acceptance. According to Rust, ‘God created the world as a place for work and battle. Whoever doesn’t understand the laws of life’s battles will be counted out, as in the boxing ring. All the good things on this earth are trophy cups. The strong win them. The weak lose them.’
This mentality was the distilled essence of Nazism. Describing it as Europe’s greatest problem, Shirer wrote about it in his diary on the eve of Blitzkrieg. A fellow American war correspondent, Webb Miller, had died in a rail accident, and the German press was full of stories that he had been killed by the British secret service. ‘What happens,’ writes Shirer, ‘to the inner fabric of a people when they are fed lies like this daily?’ It is a question as important today as it was when posed on 9 May 1940.
The following day, Shirer was read a memorandum by Joachim von Ribbentrop, the Reich Minister for Foreign Affairs, announcing that Britain and France were about to attack Germany through the Low Countries and that Germany, desperate to safeguard their neutrality, had no option but to send its troops into Belgium and Holland. ‘It sets up a new record,’ writes Shirer, ‘for cynicism and downright impudence.’ Unsurprisingly, the German censors would not allow Shirer to describe the German attack as ‘an invasion’, though he was allowed to announce to Americans that the Germans had ‘marched in’ to Belgium and Holland. ‘And anyway,’ Shirer writes, ‘America knew an invasion when it happened.’
Throughout this period, Hitler had been desperate to launch his attack, held up only by weather forecasts. He was finally given the meteorological go-ahead on the night of 9 May. Heinz Guderian, the author of a book entitled Achtung! Panzer! and, together with Manstein, the chief proponent of mobile warfare, was in command of XIX Panzer Corps, made up of almost sixty thousand men and twenty-two thousand vehicles. Known as schneller Heinz (speedy Heinz), he oversaw three Panzer tank divisions, one of which would be racing towards Sedan on 10 May. Guderian would later explain his belief that a ‘determined and forcibly led attack’ through Sedan and Amiens towards the coast, hitting the advancing Allied forces in the flank, had a ‘great chance of succeeding’.
Attacking across the River Meuse at Sedan, supported by continuous raids from bombers and dive bombers (rather than concentrated raids which gave the defenders a chance to regroup), Guderian intended to disprove the Allies’ belief that the French had the equipment and manpower to cope with any German effort to bypass the Maginot line.
On the face of it, Guderian’s plan was hopelessly ambitious. He intended his three Panzer divisions to break through an area little more than three miles wide between the villages of Donchery and Wadelincourt. Surely his men could not force their way through such a tight bottleneck? Particularly as the French defenders had three times as much artillery as he had?
In fact, the Luftwaffe’s rolling air raids proved to be the decisive factor. In the ninety minutes before the river crossing on the morning of 13 May, 750 aircraft, many of them Junkers Ju 87 dive bombers, rained bombs on the defenders. Commonly known as Stukas, the dive bombers were interesting aircraft. Inherently slow with a limited range, they would play very little part in the Battle of Britain, so vulnerable were they to fighter attack. But at this stage of the war, supporting ground forces and encountering few fighters, they were a formidable and terrifying weapon.
The Stuka’s mode of attack made it an accurate bomber. With its distinctive kinked wings, it could dive near-vertically at a speed of 370 miles per hour from a height of 15,000 feet. A wing of Stukas might take turns diving at a target, peeling off one by one like angry seagulls, dropping their bomb at 1,500 feet before pulling up sharply and machine-gunning as they climbed away. A button on the pilot’s control column automatically pulled the Stuka out of its dive; this was a crucial feature as the pilot (and his backward-facing gunner) were exposed to blackout-inducing forces of 6 or 7G.
Stukas would usually carry a central 250kg bomb and four 50kg bombs, two under each wing. Some Stukas were fitted with ‘Trumpets of Jericho’ (wailing sirens operated by small propellers fitted to the legs that became louder with speed), while the central bomb had cardboard sirens fitted to its fins, each tuned to a different pitch. The hellish screams these sirens created were the Stukas’ greatest weapon, far beyond actual bomb damage, causing intense terror to soldiers and civilians. Rather as fear of Panzer tanks sometimes caused troops to panic and vacate their positions without the tanks even needing to be present, so the sound of a Stuka could often clear an enemy position without an attack having to be imminent or direct. As a French officer wrote, ‘The noise from the siren of the diving aircraft drills into your ear and tears at your nerves. You feel as if you want to scream and roar.’
British officer Anthony Irwin of the Essex Regiment was left with an even more primal exhaustion after being attacked by six Stukas near Lens. ‘As the bastards swept over my head,’ he wrote, ‘I could actually see the pilot of one, his head strained back against gravity, eyes shut and mouth wide open, and he seemed to be laughing at me.’ After all six Stukas had moved on, Anthony lay where he was, shattered and gratified, as though recovering from an intense sexual experience. ‘I sweated,’ he says, ‘and wanted more.’
Perhaps surprisingly, many Ju 87 units had actually removed their sirens by May 1940. This was done for a number of reasons; the sirens slowed the aircraft down in level flight, they alerted the enemy to the aircraft’s presence when they failed to disengage, and having to listen to them for extended periods drove the crew mad. Yet it is very rare to read an account of German dive bombing by a British, French or Belgian soldier (or civilian) that does not include a description of the sirens. Perhaps the reputation of the Stuka was such that soldiers and civilians imagined the siren even when it was absent, or perhaps an aircraft diving almost vertically at 370mph could achieve a scream akin to a siren.
Supported by the aircraft, Guderian’s tanks had a huge advantage. But a close examination of the celebrated German breakthrough offer some surprises. 1st Panzer Division, led by 1st Rifle Regiment and the Großdeutschland Regiment, constituted the central thrust of the attack. The Großdeutschland Regiment would attempt to cross the river at the northern edge of Sedan across the Pont Neuf Bridge; the orders given were simple: ‘The 2nd Battalion will spearhead the regiment’s crossing of the Meuse, break through the Maginot Line, and secure Point 247.’
For two sweaty and sweary hours, 6 and 7 Companies marched across six miles of no-man’s-land towards the river, carrying ammunition, machine guns and mortars. They marched through the town of Floing, destroyed and empty save for cats and dogs. Beyond the town was the Meuse. Assault boats were called up, and when the French began firing from bunkers, anti-aircraft guns silenced them.
After a while, the first platoon of 6 Company crossed the river in the assault boats. It was followed by a machine-gun team. The rest of the company was covering them on the river bank when French rifle and machine-gun fire opened up from a previously unseen position; the Germans moved within charging distance, hurled in hand grenades and, yelling, stormed the position. The French defenders were taken prisoner, happy, according to their captors, to have escaped with their lives.
Once the majority of the company was across the river, it moved forward towards its objective – Hill 247, a strategically important piece of high ground. Soldiers passed through a suburban estate, fighting from house to house, taking prisoners who were passed backwards. Shots rang out from a wrecked factory, acrid smoke pouring from its windows. More prisoners were taken.
The attackers crossed the railway line running between Sedan and Donchery to the west. There they confronted sections of 7 Company, and learned that several large bunkers of French defenders were preventing them from making progress. A quick conference led to a decision: 6 Company would attack the bunkers. The attacks started straight away. The main body of the company ran towards the first pillbox through an orchard, while a sergeant and two men cr
ept up on the left through a clump of trees, taking the occupants by surprise. A hand grenade was tossed into the pillbox, and the French came out surrendering.
As the company approached the second bunker, resistance started to increase; machine-gun fire opened up from the village of Frenois, artillery fire seemed to be intensifying, and an anti-tank gun began firing repeatedly – though from where was not clear. Men were falling and shouting for medical help. One man died as he gave his platoon leader a last message for his mother. Finally, it was realised that the firing was coming from a barn standing on a suspicious green base – which was really a gun emplacement. This was quickly put out of action, and when the second bunker was taken, dozens of bottles of water were found inside to slake the soldiers’ raging thirst.
Joining up (by chance) with a machine-gun crew of 1st Rifle Regiment, advancing to the right, the company entered the last phase of its attack on the slopes of Hill 247 where the French defenders were waiting for them. As they approached, the Germans opened up with light mortars and machine guns. The French replied and several men fell. As the Germans came closer, they threw hand grenades, trying to ignore the French fire. And finally, as the first few Germans reached the position, they flew into close combat as the chaos of hand-to-hand fighting took over. ‘We are all pulled forward in one great surge,’ said Oberleutnant von Courbiere, commander of 6 Company, who realised that ‘Point 247 is in our hands! The way to the south lies open!’
The theory of Blitzkrieg, as proposed by Manstein and Guderian, was, of course, formulated around the speed and mobility of the Panzer divisions. And received wisdom has long told us that the Panzer tanks forced the extraordinary breakthrough at Sedan that led to the events of May and June 1940. But when examined closely, it is clear that the initial success was really achieved by small assault teams who crossed the river with the help of engineers and aerial support. It was not achieved by the celebrated tanks at all. And it happened while the tanks were still carrying out maintenance in advance of their assault.
The tanks of 1st Panzer Division began to cross the river, on a bridge constructed by engineers during the night, on 14 May. Guderian quickly launched his tanks towards the Channel coast, leaving the infantry far behind. Yet though the image of the Panzers surging for the coast is more familiar than that of a small number of foot soldiers fighting their way across a river, the fact is that the initial breakthrough was made with the loss of little more than a hundred men. When compared with the tens of thousands lost searching for a breakthrough on a single day on the Somme twenty-four years previously, and given the pains that France had recently taken to keep the Germans from invading, it seems an extraordinary achievement.
To an observer, the speed and success of the armoured attack might have seemed an unmitigated triumph. Yet some foresaw problems. On 15 May, Guderian’s superior, Paul von Kleist, ordered an immediate halt to the tanks’ advance. Guderian was furious; he telephoned Kleist and voices were raised. Kleist backed down, and agreed to the advance continuing.
Yet the next day, 16 May, it became clear that both General Gerd von Rundstedt, commander of Army Group A, and Hitler himself shared Kleist’s concerns. Just as the Allies began to sense impending defeat, so German fears grew that the French, attacking from the south, could overwhelm the Panzers. The motorised divisions must be halted, Rundstedt believed, until a ‘pearl necklace’ of infantry divisions could catch up to protect their flanks. Hitler quickly confirmed the order.
Franz Halder, Chief of Staff of German Army High Command, could see no such danger. He agreed with Guderian that the advance should be continued as vigorously as possible. Of Hitler, he wrote: ‘The Führer is terribly nervous. Frightened by his own success, he is afraid to take any chance and so would rather pull the reins on us. Puts forward the excuse that it is all because of his concern for the left flank!’
This was only the first halt order to be confirmed by Hitler over the coming days. Halder was probably right; Hitler had been hoping to avoid a repeat of the last war’s attrition by sending the armoured divisions through the Ardennes, but he had not anticipated such an easy passage. The fearless leader was scared by his own success.
By the following day, however, Hitler had changed his mind. He allowed the attack to continue. As Walter Warlimont (who was in daily contact with Hitler) notes, the Führer had given himself total power which he was determined to wield, but without knowledge or experience, his moods and emotions swayed him from one extreme to the other.
If the Germans were struggling with a capricious leader, the British had just acquired their own. When, on 7 May, the British Parliament had debated the recent Norway campaign, the country’s leader was Neville Chamberlain. Most members of Parliament understood that the debate would be impassioned, perhaps bad tempered, but few would have expected it to end with a new Prime Minister. And fewer still would have expected their new Prime Minister to be that troublesome old adventurer Winston Churchill.
In the event, the debate turned from a discussion on Norway into an assessment of the administration’s overall performance, its relationship with its citizens, and its ability to fight the war. One interested party, sitting in the public gallery, was the United States ambassador, Joseph Kennedy, who had just told Lord Halifax, the Foreign Secretary, that he was disgusted with Britain’s performance. Britain would, Kennedy was quite sure, lose the war.
Chamberlain opened the debate with a weak defence of the government’s Norway performance. He was heckled from the back benches, and forced into an embarrassing justification of his suggestion, made in early April, that Hitler had ‘missed the bus’. The first speech to attract attention was from Admiral of the Fleet (and Conservative member for Portsmouth North) Sir Roger Keyes, who stood up, in full uniform with medals, to speak on behalf of ‘some officers and men of the fighting sea-going Navy who are very unhappy’.
They were unhappy, he explained, because of the actions of the Admiralty and the War Cabinet which had brought about the Norway fiasco. Yet he exempted the First Lord of the Admiralty – Winston Churchill – from criticism. The House listened carefully as Keyes expressed his ‘affection and admiration’ for Churchill, adding that he was longing ‘to see proper use made of his great abilities’.
That evening, King George VI attempted to meddle on behalf of his old friend, Chamberlain.* He offered to telephone Clement Attlee, leader of the Labour Party, to urge him and his socialist colleagues to ‘pull their weight’ and join a National Government under Chamberlain. The Prime Minister refused the King’s offer; he did not think he needed royal assistance. But while he was at Buckingham Palace, Leo Amery, the Conservative member for Birmingham Sparkbrook, began speaking in the Commons. Amery was anti-Chamberlain and pro-Churchill, and his speech amounted to a rallying cry to others who felt the same. He finished in spectacular style, hurling at Chamberlain the words of Oliver Cromwell (or an approximation of them) delivered 287 years previously: ‘You have sat too long here for any good you have been doing. Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!’
The following afternoon, the debate continued with a speech by Herbert Morrison, the member for Hackney South and one of the most respected Labour Party figures. In the course of his speech, Morrison called for a division; this amounted, in effect, to a vote of confidence in the government. And this suited Conservative rebels, such as Amery, who could watch others slit their leader’s throat as they stood by.
The climax of an already surprising debate was a speech by Churchill in which he stoutly defended the government (and himself) whilst fully aware that his only chance of finally becoming Prime Minister depended on a defeat for the government (and himself). In fact, a telling exchange had taken place earlier when Churchill had said that he must take his full share of responsibility for the Norway campaign. ‘The Right Honourable gentleman must not allow himself to be converted into an air-raid shelter to keep the splinters from hitting his colleagues,’ said former Prime Minister
David Lloyd George. If others were prepared to defend Churchill from himself, he might yet become Prime Minister.
Parliamentary voting is, and was, a theatrical affair. Members walk through a corridor (known as a lobby) either to the left, or to the right, of the chamber, depending on how they are voting. On the evening of 8 May, the two groups shouted schoolboy names at each other. ‘Rats!’ yelled one side, ‘Yes-men!’ the other. Many Conservatives, some serving officers in uniform, joined the opposition parties in the ‘no’ lobby. One of the rebels, a long-time supporter of Chamberlain, entered the lobby in tears.
The result was inconclusive, however. The government gained 281 votes, the opposition 200, and Chamberlain believed that this was sufficient for him to remain Prime Minister. The following day, his hopes were briefly raised, as the Conservative rebels let it be known that they would support him so long as his Cabinet included Labour and Liberal ministers. But his hopes were dashed again when the Labour Party decided that its ministers would not serve under him. He had no choice but to resign.
But who would take over? There were two candidates: Churchill and the Foreign Secretary, Lord Halifax. Churchill had enemies. Many in the Conservative Party disapproved of him and his circle for a supposed lack of decency. ‘All we are fighting to uphold will go out of public life,’ predicted Nancy Dugdale of a Churchill-led administration. Chamberlain preferred Halifax; so did the King. Yet Halifax placed himself out of the running. His peerage, he told Chamberlain and Churchill, would make the job impossible.
In reality, this was unlikely. During such a time of crisis, a constitutional exception would surely have been made. Perhaps the sheer weight of the job and the possibility of failure intimidated Halifax. Or perhaps he preferred to stay in the background, steadying Churchill’s excesses, ready to pick up the pieces should he fail. (And he probably expected Churchill to fail; ‘I don’t think WSC will be a very good PM,’ he wrote to Lady Alexandra Metcalfe on 13 May.) But for whatever reason, Halifax turned the job down.
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