Hill 140 area, between Estrées-la-Campagne and Assy, 0805 9/8/1944
‘Easy boys, let him get a little closer.’ They were holed up at the edge of a spinney. Looking out to the northwest, a large village partly blocked the view back from where they had travelled overnight. The rest of the distant panorama was obscured, shimmering vaguely in the morning mist. The sun was over to the west, still climbing on its way up into the sky, a blurred ball of liquid fire.
The vehicle they were tracking was moving towards the east, bouncing its way along a rough track that crossed at right angles to where they lay hidden. It looked very similar to the one they had fired upon earlier that morning from a different position, but with little success. Perhaps this time if they let the vehicle come closer they would have a better chance of a kill.
‘Looks like one of those armoured half-tracks they use for reconnaissance missions,’ Second Lieutenant Dick Booth observed, tensely. The camouflaged vehicle was throwing up a huge cloud of dust. Normally such a lack of caution would almost certainly have signed its own death warrant, but the heavy golden haze had yet to burn off, and rocket-firing Typhoons of the RAF were yet to get airborne and range the battlefield. Booth placed his hand on the PIAT gunner’s shoulder, as if to steady the man and keep him from pulling the trigger prematurely.
‘Just a little more…Easy…Wait for my call,’ he whispered in the man’s ear. The mottled yellow-green enemy vehicle shifted slightly in its path, bringing it even closer to where the small band of Canadian infantry were lying in wait, hidden amongst the trees and undergrowth that bordered the small wood. At its nearest point it would pass no more than fifty yards away from where his men lay in wait. As yet there was no sign that they had been observed. The heavy machine gun, mounted directly above the driving compartment, was still tracking straight ahead. Booth could see three soldiers in the rear of the vehicle. One of them was manning the gun.
‘The rest of you, aim for the gunner and his mates. Get your retaliation in first.’
Closer, closer…The men, most of them combat veterans, could be relied on to wait for the signal and keep their fire discipline. The Germans were almost within optimum firing range. Just another few seconds…
‘Fire!’ Private Fred Rousseau pulled the trigger. The rocket shell streaked away, swiftly looping up and down, and slammed into the enemy vehicle just in front of the armoured driving compartment. A loud bang shook the air, and a cloud of smoke and flame temporarily obscured the front from view. A fusillade of rifle and machine-gun fire swept the armoured sides and gun shield, ricocheting away into the skies, but enough bullets went home to ensure the gunner would never fire again. Booth leapt to his feet and stormed forward, pistol at the ready. A dozen infantrymen ran after him, loosing off a hail of shots as they neared the stricken motor.
There was no reply from the enemy. He ran up to where the armoured car lay smoking and burning. The driver slumped forwards, dead behind the wheel. The co-driver was only partly conscious, and sat tilted sideways towards the far side of the compartment. A bullet had creased the right side of his skull, and blood was running down his face, soaking his camouflage smock. A shout from the back of the vehicle distracted Booth. He hurried around to where the rest of his troopers stood. Two Germans lay dead on the floor of the rear-fighting compartment. A third was stretched out on the dusty track. He must have been thrown out by the force of the explosion, and lay holding his right arm gingerly. It was bent into an abnormal position.
‘Sir, what shall we do with him?’ Several of his men edged closer, weapons still cocked. It was not difficult to gauge the look on their drawn, unshaven features. One of them pulled out a bayonet and held it idly, a grim, sardonic smile on his face.
‘Put that away, Wilkinson. You’re frightening the life out of him.’ Booth spoke lightly, but he was worried. His men were sometimes difficult to control, more so in the heat of battle and especially if they were up against the 12th SS. The man lying in the dust in front of him looked to be from that division, judging by the type of uniform he wore and the rank lapel on his camouflage jacket. The sewn-on cuff around the bottom of his left jacket sleeve provided the final clue. The words ‘Hitler Jugend’ could clearly be seen in white boldly scripted in a Gothic font.
A muttered growl came from some of the men standing further away. One of them shouted angrily. ‘He’s one of those murdering bastards from the SS. Remember what happened to the Winnipegs at Audrieu and the massacre at the Ardenne Abbey!’ His outburst was rewarded by several cries of agreement from a few of the others. ‘Let’s do him now!’ Some of the men moved closer still. The tension in the air was palpable.
‘Knock it off. Now! That’s an order. Ease springs!’ Booth shouted. ‘He’s an officer, dammit, and standing orders state very clearly that all enemy officers, no matter what formation they come from, are held for further questioning. Do I make myself clear?’ Booth glared angrily at them, and moved to place himself between the more rebellious of his men and the injured German. He still held his pistol in his right hand.
‘Sar’nt Garièpy!
‘Sir’, the reply was instant..
‘Get your men back to their positions, now. I’m taking this prisoner to the CO for further questioning. Get the MO to have a look at that wounded co-driver. In the meantime, take over in my absence and deploy the rest of the platoon for all round defence. Detail one of your men to accompany me and keep an eye on this German.’
‘Yes sir.’ Garièpy sprang to attention, an impassive look on his face, and started to boss the men back to their foxholes. At least he could rely on the platoon sergeant. Several loud clicks rang out as weapons were un-cocked and made safe. The group broke up slowly and began to march back to the edge of the copse but not without a few mutters and angry looks directed both at him and the prisoner.
Booth breathed a sigh of relief as he watched them depart. The men were still angry and confused. They were all exhausted before the start of yesterday’s mission, and the subsequent night march had tired them out even more so. To make matters worse, nobody was exactly sure of their current position. They were supposed to be on Hill 195, but Booth wasn’t so convinced. He was unable to orientate his map to the topographical features around him and the haze was not exactly helpful either, obscuring much of the surrounding terrain. Hopefully his commanding officer would be able to make more sense out of the mess they were in and find out their true location.
‘Monk, cover him.’ The soldier moved a few feet to one side to guarantee an unobstructed line of sight, and held his rifle at the ready. Booth leaned forward and offered his left hand to the German, who grasped it and pulled himself upright.
‘Sprechen-zie Englisch?’
The German nodded, still shocked from the explosion that had destroyed the half-track. ‘A little. Thank you.’ He spoke with a marked accent. From the look on his face it was quite clear that he had understood most if not all of what had just happened.
Booth eyed him warily. ‘Don’t thank me yet. The day is still young. Follow me.’
Lieutenant-Colonel Donald Worthington, the commanding officer of ‘Worthington Force’, as his battle group had come to be known, was tired, irritated and above all frustrated, and all at the same time. The mystery of their current location had yet to be solved. Where exactly were they? None of the officers in his headquarters section had demonstrated conclusively, and to his complete satisfaction, the exact position on the map that his force occupied. This was not Hill 195. Somehow their overnight navigation had gone awry. What was just as worrying was the sound of tank motors coming from the valley beyond and below him. They were highly unlikely to be friendly. His force of Canadians had been spotted, and the enemy was on the move. That much was certain, but where was his follow-up support?
New orders had reached him just after midnight. Worthington’s command, the 28th Canadian Armoured Regiment, otherwise known as the British Columbia Regiment, would be merged in with additional infantry and ot
her armoured support from the Algonquins, a sister regiment of the same division. The plan called for this composite battle group to make a surprise attack through enemy lines under the cover of darkness. It was almost an exact repetition of the previous night’s attacks, but on a much smaller scale. Once a breakthrough was achieved his force would head across country to take the commanding hill top position at Hill 195. This feature dominated the surrounding countryside, and was only six miles north of Falaise, the next big objective. By bursting through the enemy lines and seizing this vital height his superiors hoped to continue the momentum of their recent attacks. The German defences would be prised open and the route to the southeast would be unblocked. Other Allied forces, attacking at daybreak, would then break through to back him up. The Americans were rapidly approaching from the south, and if all went well then the two pincers would meet somewhere between Falaise and Argentan, and bag two German armies in the process.
But all had not gone well. The ‘best laid plans of mice and men’ echoed dimly in his mind. Navigating in the dark was tricky in the extreme, and enemy resistance had not made life any easier. Somewhere along the route Jack Carson, the officer in charge of B Squadron and leading the attack, must have taken a wrong turn. In the early light of dawn, the rising hill mass in front of him would have looked much like their planned objective. However, now that they were here, Worthington had a strong suspicion that they were nowhere near where they should have been. The local terrain simply did not match up to where he thought their presumed position was.
Half an hour ago, events out of his control had forced him to react and play his hand. In response to the enemy movement coming from the valley beyond, Worthington had sent three troops of Shermans to the small wood he could just see over the brow of the hill on which he stood. According to the map the French had named it ‘Les Trentes Acres’, Thirty Acres Wood for some unknown reason, despite it being nowhere near that big in size. Maybe it was the size of the field it stood in. It lay five hundred meters to the southeast from where he now stood. Twelve tanks in all, the Shermans were to mount guard and cover the approaches from the area of the Laison valley, where the enemy reserve was thought to be hidden. They would form part of his forward defences, a trip wire in case the Germans mounted a sudden attack.
He stood in front of the prisoner, eyeing him carefully. An officer from the SS was a rare catch. What should he do with him? So far, the man had only given his name, rank and number, strictly in accordance with the Geneva Convention. That was all very well, but how often had the SS followed the dictates of decency and accepted behaviour on the battlefield? A colleague from the Régiment de la Chaudière had already told him about the murders of surrendering Canadian soldiers shortly after D-Day. He’d also heard of quite a few other stories that told much the same thing, all of them common knowledge, and all no doubt told from the Allied point of view. But he was old enough and wise enough to know that history was written by the victors, who were often quick to hide the excesses of their own side. Only a few weeks ago, after one too many beers, a tank commander from the 2nd Canadian Armoured Brigade had told him a rather different story. The Chaudières had exacted their own kind of revenge shortly after the murders were discovered.
The regiment had just taken Carpiquet village and the neighbouring airfield, not far from the western outskirts of Caen. Many of the German defenders, one of the battalions from the 12th SS, was caught in the attack and suffered heavy casualties. The enemy dead and dying lay strewn around the village and surrounding fields. By this stage of the battle some of the Chaudières were out of control, and almost impossible to discipline. Contrary to orders they slipped into the fields where the enemy lay and slit their throats, irrespective of whether they were still living or dead. A few SS soldiers were even scalped. Afterwards, the only way order could be restored among the troops was by force, at the point of a gun. This horrific story made him realise that both sides were equally guilty, and in the heat of battle, neither side could claim the moral high ground. The Canadians could hardly hold their bloody hands up and proclaim their own innocence.
The officer in front of him looked just like one of his own men, bar the obvious difference in uniform. Injured, dirty, unshaven, battle-soiled and wary of his fate, he hardly looked the picture of Aryan supremacy. Even so, he stood his ground without flinching or cowering. Could the man be persuaded into a more cooperative frame of mind? Possibly. He must have realised by now that they were Canadians, and what their reputation was like on the battlefield. The thought of some hastily improvised intimidation crossed his mind, but he quickly rejected it -Worthington had no time for brutality, even in the midst of battle. Perhaps a different approach would be more productive.
He smiled and pulled his hip flask and unscrewed the cap. The SS officer looked amazed, unable to believe that an enemy would be so considerate and friendly in the midst of battle.
‘Drink?’
Meitzel looked at him warily, took the flask in his good hand, cautiously sniffed the contents and took a small sip. He frowned a little as the strong liquid went down, spluttered slightly, and then wiped his lips with the sleeve of his battle smock.
‘OK?’ Worthington smiled again.
‘Ja…Yes. Brandy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very good. French?’ Worthington nodded. ‘Yes, much better than we have in Germany. Thank you…’ Meitzel looked at the crown and star on Worthington’s epaulette, clicked his heels and stood to attention, acknowledging his enemy’s superior rank. Besides, a Heil Hitler salute would be quite inappropriate, considering the pain in his broken arm and the situation he was in.
Worthington responded with a salute of his own, reciprocating the gesture. He could see a few shocked looks from some of his head-quarter’s staff nearby, but he ignored them. He needed help in establishing just where they were. Maybe the shock of capture, followed by unexpectedly decent treatment, would help loosen the German’s tongue.
‘Some more?’
Meitzel nodded gratefully, and took a decent sized slug out of the hip flask.
‘Good’. Worthington took back the flask, and at the same time pulled his map out, thrusting it in front of the SS officer. ‘Obersturmführer Meitzel, would you be so good as to show me your position on the map- the spot where your vehicle was hit. In return I guarantee that you will be treated well.’
What? Surely this enemy officer must be joking. Meitzel tried desperately to hide his astonishment that a senior enemy officer was asking him to confirm where his location was on the battlefield? This was ludicrous. Despite the pain in his arm he almost felt like laughing, but of course that would have been unwise. Meitzel was in a dangerous position, and there was no telling what the enemy would do. The Canadians had a fearsome reputation, well deserved from what he had heard. They shot prisoners, just as some men from own division had done. Did that apply to officers as well? Perhaps it would be better not to provoke them, and pretend to cooperate. From the sound of things it looked like his own side was not too far away, and he strongly suspected a new battle would break out shortly.
Earlier that morning Meitzel reported the location of this new enemy force that had established itself deep inside their own positions to his division commander. Meyer, as usual, was quick to appreciate the gravity of the altered situation. A rapid glance at the map confirmed just how dangerous this unexpected Canadian thrust was, and orders soon flew out thick and fast. Meyer then sent him back to observe the same area. He needed a more extensive reconnaissance of the enemy positions, and a better idea of how strong they were. Meitzel was in the process of carrying out his new orders when his armoured infantry carrier was knocked out. What could he do now? Cooperation with the enemy was out of the question, but perhaps he could add to their confusion.
He leaned forward and squinted at the map held in front of him. The enemy used a different type of map, and it took him a few moments to orientate himself. ‘There’, he pointed with a grubby finger to
a spot several kilometres away from where he knew his true position had been, up until the encounter with the anti-tank rocket.
‘Are you sure?’ The Canadian officer looked at him quizzically, a look of suspicion on his face.
‘I think so, sir. Ja…’ Meitzel nodded his head quickly.
Worthington shook his head, trying to hide his disappointment and annoyance. That couldn’t possibly be where they were now. Either this German was lying, or he was as much confused as the Canadians were. Worthington was about to call his adjutant over when suddenly an explosion rent the air. It came from the small wood where the out-posted Shermans lay. A thick column of black, oily smoke rose upwards, an unwelcome sight he’d seen far too many times before. One of ours, Christ… Another volley of shots rang out, and the noise of revving tank engines sounded much closer now. It was time to act.
‘Searle’, he shouted out.
‘Sir!’ The Forward Observation officer ran up.
‘Get on the radio to division HQ. Request an urgent defensive fire mission…no cancel that, just ask them for a ranging shoot on our location. Give them our coordinates and add five hundred meters to avoid friendly fire.’
‘Sir.’ Searle ran off to the half-track that carried the communications link to division. Perhaps the fall of shot from the artillery fire mission would give him a better idea of their real position. He turned to his adjutant.
‘Harry, get the men under cover quickly. Pass the word around. All tanks are to button up and await my further orders. Find out what’s happening to Captain Hope’s Shermans.’
‘Yes sir.’ The officer hurried off to obey. He turned to where the captive German stood.
‘Lieutenant Booth, get this man out of my sight. Make sure he’s under guard at all times. The MO can fix him up with a sling later on.’
Booth hurried to obey. Any second now shells would start landing, hopefully somewhere in the field beyond where the battle group was currently deployed. He preferred not to hang around and find out. Sometimes friendly fire could be a little too friendly.
The Fall of the Father Land Page 5