Blood and Blitzkrieg

by Will Belford

  And this time it would be worse than before, he knew that. The last time the war had been limited to a narrow front. Times had been hard, but the civilians had been mostly left alone. From what he knew of Hitler and his cronies, this time it would be quite different, especially for Jews like him.

  What to do? Flee to England? America? None of them had any particular love for the Jews. Three of his German Jewish archaeologist friends had gone to America in the last few years, but they had faced incredible obstacles to get into the ‘home of the brave and the land of the free’. Even Great Britain would not accept you just because your life was threatened on the basis of your race. It seemed that no one wanted Jews.

  Palestine then. But how to get to Palestine? Catch a train to Marseilles and hope for a ship? He didn’t have the money, and anyway, who would greet him there? What would he do? It would be throwing away everything he’d worked for, and for what? An uncertain future in a country populated by Arabs who hated him and his people.

  Yvette came down the stairs, her eyes red from crying.

  ‘Yvette, what’s wrong?’ asked her uncle.

  ‘I told you, the Germans are coming,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I’ve just heard the announcement. There’ll be panic of course.’

  ‘Uncle, what are we going to do?’

  ‘Nothing. We’ll stay here and try to remain unnoticed. We’re well-liked, and we don’t look particularly Jewish, the townspeople will look after us. Where’s Joe?’

  ‘Joe has returned to his unit. They moved out two days ago.’

  ‘I see,’ said Pierre, ‘I hope you said goodbye. You realise that he’s unlikely to come back don’t you?‘

  ‘Oh uncle don’t say such things,’ cried Yvette, ‘I know he will come for me, I know it. He promised me he would.’

  With that, she stormed up the stairs to her room and slammed the door.

  Her uncle gazed at the picture of his brother on the mantelpiece. He recalled a similar promise being made twenty years before.

  ~ ~ ~

  The French dispatch rider leant into the turn and accelerated down the driveway between the rows of poplars. His uniform was coated with dust and he coughed through the scarf over his mouth. At the end, the driveway opened into a turning circle with a fountain in the centre. Beyond the fountain stood the vast and elegant chateau Vincennes; the French flag over the main entrance hung lifeless in the baking air, and the two guards on duty at the steps sweated in the noonday sun.

  A French staff officer in gleaming cavalry boots emerged and eyed the dusty rider inquisitively. The rider saluted without dismounting and handed the officer a package from his satchel.

  ‘Dispatches for Generalissimo Gamelin from the 55th Infantry Division at Sedan, sir.’

  ‘Very good, when were these issued to you?’

  ‘Yesterday at noon sir.’

  ’Noon? You mean it’s taken you a whole day to get here from Sedan? Did you stop overnight for heaven’s sake?‘

  ‘No sir, the roads are crammed with refugees sir, nothing’s moving much, not even motorbikes.’

  ‘I see. So, where is the 55th?’

  ‘I’m not sure where they are now sir, but when I left them they were heavily engaged with German armoured units west of Sedan and about to retreat.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said the officer, drawing a sealed envelope from inside his tunic, ‘these orders to the division probably won’t be much use then, but deliver them anyway.’

  ‘Very good sir.’

  A private came down the steps and a placed a small cage containing a pigeon on the top step. Reaching into the cage, he grasped the bird and tossed it into the air. The pigeon fluttered momentarily then got a grip on the air and sped off northwards.

  ‘Sir, may I ask a question?’ said the dispatch rider.

  ‘Of course,’ replied the officer, as the private walked back inside.

  ‘Why has the Generalissimo chosen this chateau as his command centre sir, when it has no telephone?’

  ‘That is a question many of us have asked ourselves private, I believe it has something to do with the quality of the wine cellar. Now get going, you are our telephone for the moment.’

  As the rider pulled his throttle and accelerated away, the captain gazed after him. ‘Why indeed private, why indeed?’

  Inside, the cream of the French high command were crowded around the map table. General Gamelin looked up as the captain entered with the dispatch case.

  ‘At last, some news from the Front. What have our gallant soldiers to say Capitan Girard?’

  ‘These are from the 55th Infantry Division at Sedan sir. General Lafontaine reports that his men have been assaulted by air for an entire day, attacked by infantry and panzers at night and have now retreated against his orders and despite all his efforts to stop them. He adds that his command post has been overrun and requests that the air force be assigned to his sector, as they are experiencing continual dive-bombing. He has counterattacked, but has lost seventeen tanks to aerial attack alone.’

  ‘Retreat?’ harrumphed the aged general, ‘Well that is rather sudden, we only advanced two days ago. Can he not dig in?’

  ‘Apparently the advance units of the German armoured forces have already driven past him sir. When the Belgians decided to retreat yesterday they left his flank unguarded and the Germans drove through the gap last night. He says there are German armoured columns loose in his rear area, and the roads are so crammed with refugees that no progress can be made forward or back. Unless the situation in his rear and on his left can be contained, he will have to abandon his horse-drawn artillery to be able to move south at all.’

  ‘But this is intolerable,’ said Gamelin, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, ‘that is the fourth such report we have had today.’

  The general turned to the assembled officers.

  ‘Gentlemen, we clearly have no sense of where the front line is anymore. This map we are looking at does not reflect reality. The Germans are beating us. How do you recommend we direct our units?’

  ‘Generalissimo,’ said one general, ‘we must protect Paris. We should dig in along the Marne where we stopped the Boches last time.’

  ‘Non,’ interjected a tall colonel called de Gaulle. ‘We must counter-attack immediately with those units, thrust up into the German centre and cut off their lead units. If they are behind the 55th they must be miles from their supply units and they have no flanking defences, if we strike now we can envelope two whole panzer divisions.’

  ‘And leave the nation’s capital undefended from those same units?’ cried a general, ‘What is to stop them turning south and taking Paris while our armies are fighting in Belgium?’

  ‘Most of our forces are already in Belgium, General,’ said de Gaulle, ‘it’s getting them back to France that concerns me. If we don’t attack the Germans on their flanks now, they will bring in support units and cut us off from our units in Belgium.’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ cried Gamelin, ‘let us not argue, we have plenty of time to make this decision. Let us adjourn for lunch and see if any more news arrives. There’s a particularly fine Chateau Lafite I’ve been looking forward to.’

  The generals and their aides shuffled out to the dining room, where waiters were pouring glasses of chilled Sancerre to go with the salmon mousse entrée.

  The captain who’d received the dispatch walked over to the map and found the flags marking the 55th Division, and the 10th Division that was in reserve behind it. He looked at the situation as described in the last dispatch: the 55th had been guarding Sedan, only about 50 kilometres north of the point where the Maginot Line ended. If that division retreated, it left a clear gap in the extreme southern end of the line, right where the borders of France and Belgium met. The 10th Division’s job was to plug just such a hole in the line.

  He removed the 55th Division marker and looked at the map again: if the roads really were blocked by refugees as the dispatch rider had said, the 10th Divisi
on and the other reserves were too far back to plug the gap in time. With the 55th division gone, there was nothing to stop the German panzers punching right across southern Belgium and cutting off the French army from France.

  He shrugged, returned the 10th Division’s flag to its position and headed out to the dining room. He was only a staff captain, what possible influence could he exert in this exalted company?

  ~ ~ ~

  In the headquarters of the French Northern Air Defence zone, General Billotte, the commander of the French 1st army group appealed to the local commander of the French air force General Francois d’Astier de le Vigerie and General Tetu, commander of the Tactical Air Forces.

  ‘The Germans are building a pontoon bridge just south of Sedan and another further north at Houx,’ explained Billotte, pointing at the map, ‘if they complete them they can get their whole panzer army across in less than two days. Do you understand what this means? This is the critical moment in the battle. Victory or defeat will depend on those bridges.’

  ‘I understand, we will send every bomber we have. I will also ask the British what they can do,’ replied le Vigerie. ‘But we cannot hit both. Which bridge is more important?’

  Looking at the map and the dispositions of the German units, General Tetu said ‘Concentrate everything on Sedan. Priority between Sedan and Houx is at a million to one.’

  A few hours later General le Vigerie called on British Air Marshal Arthur Barrett in Chauny and explained the situation.

  ‘We need every bomber we can get for this mission Air Marshal,, what can you offer us?’

  ‘After yesterday’s losses I’m not supposed to be flying at all,’ replied Barratt gruffly, ‘especially against what sounds likely to be the most heavily defended target in Belgium.’

  ‘Let me be sure you understand the gravity of the situation,’ said le Vigerie, ‘General Billotte described it to me thus: “Victory or defeat is passing over those bridges.”

  Barratt looked into his eyes.

  ‘Very well, I will send six Battles at dawn. Let me have the targets.’

  ‘Be sure to send me the pilots’ reports when they return won’t you?’ asked le Vigerie.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ replied Barratt, ‘there won’t be any reports, since none of them will return.’

  ~ ~ ~

  That night, less than two kilometres south of Sedan, German engineers pulled their last metre of planking out the truck and laid it across the river. They had created a single lane that was expected to carry the entire Heeresgruppe A into Belgium. With no more bridging equipment available, and no other way across, the entire Sichelschnitt would be stuck on the wrong side of the river if the makeshift bridge was hit a by even a single bomb.

  When General Guderian heard the bridge was completed he leapt to his feet and called for his officers.

  ‘Get two companies of panzers and grenadiers across immediately, then start moving the flak guns. When the French air force discovers this bridge tomorrow, all hell will break loose.’

  By dawn, through inhuman effort and superb organisation, Guderian had seven flak battalions in position around the bridge. More than 300 anti-aircraft guns, the biggest concentration of flak guns ever seen, protected a narrow strip of planks bolted together floating on tin boats. Across those planks, the tanks, half-tracks and trucks of the 1st, 2nd and 10th Panzer Divisions were streaming, at a rate of nearly a thousand vehicles every hour.

  Many of the AA guns, mostly 20mm and 37mm light cannons, were positioned on a hill about a kilometre and a half northwest of the bridge. Seventy years before, French cavalry had charged from here into the mouths of the German artillery batteries in the Battle of Sedan of 1870. A huge monument atop ‘Cavalry Hill’, as it was known, had commemorated the valour of those long-dead Frenchmen for decades. Now as the sun rose, the long shadow of the monument fell on the thin barrels of the German guns as they readied themselves for the aerial onslaught they knew would be coming.

  ~ ~ ~

  In his headquarters west of Sedan, General Flavigny looked at the bulge in the French line on the map before him, then glared at General Brocard, the officer in charge of the French 3rd Armoured Division. It was 5am and his mood had not been improved by the lukewarm cup of coffee his adjutant had just provided.

  ‘Twelve hours you say? Twelve hours to ready your tanks for a counter-attack? Why so long?’

  ‘Well mon General, many of them have used their fuel reserves to get to the positions you ordered yesterday, so they need to be refuelled. It will take five or six hours to get the fuel bowsers to all of them and fill their tanks. Then it will take them at least two hours to move to the starting line, south of Bois du Mont Dieu. Then they will need to be refuelled again. Twelve hours is, if anything, an optimistic estimate.’

  ‘Why do they need to be refuelled twice?’ demanded Flavigny, ‘they have a range of 180 kilometres do they not? I am only asking them to move 60.’

  ‘Oui mon General,’ replied General Brocard patiently, ‘they can go up to 180 kilometres on roads, but in practice this theoretical range is not achieved unless conditions are ideal. If the tanks have to negotiate obstacles or go off-road, they use up their fuel far more quickly. If they are to be ready for an attack on Sedan they will need full fuel tanks or they risk becoming immobilised in the midst of the battle. I should also point out, mon General, that there are other factors: my men have not completed their training, their tanks have only the most basic of radio communications and there are no skilled personnel to repair the tanks when they break down. All of these things add up.’

  ‘Very well, enough excuses, get them moving. When can they be at the start line?”

  ‘4pm perhaps?’ replied Brocard.

  ‘That is too late for an attack, we need them there sooner,’ said Flavigny.

  ‘It simply cannot be done mon General,’ said Brocard, ‘but the days are long, if we have concentrated by 4pm there will still be four hours of daylight in which to attack. That is plenty of time.’

  ‘Non, it is too risky,’ said Flavigny, ‘we will have to postpone the attack until the morning.’

  ‘But sir,’ remonstrated Brocard, aghast, ‘If we wait until dawn the Boches will have reinforced the position. We believe there is only a single infantry regiment holding the town. We must strike now and destroy their bridgehead.’

  ‘I am being asked to lead an army corps into battle with less assistance than is normally allocated to the commander of a battalion,’ said Flavigny. ‘Non, it is too risky, the attack is postponed until tomorrow. Now listen, in case of a night attack I want you to re-distribute your tanks to guard the strategic crossroads across our divisional front. Put groups of three, two light tanks and one heavy, at each intersection. They will act like corks on the German advance.’

  ‘General, an hour ago I passed on your orders to concentrate for a counter-attack. That will take twelve hours. If I now countermand that order and spread my tanks out, we will have the same problem concentrating them all tomorrow for the counter-attack,’ argued Brocard. ‘They are not cavalry, how will I get fuel to them all?’

  ‘Find a way General, that is why you are a General.’

  ~ ~ ~

  The first French bombers appeared over Sedan shortly before dawn. They had already lost several of their number to German fighters on the way, and a depleted squadron of just eight Morane dive bombers approached the pontoon bridge. As the bombers dived in at low level with incredible daring, the flak guns opened up, throwing up a steel curtain of exploding metal that shredded each plane well before it came close to reaching the target. With each hour, two or three French air raids came, and the Germans shot them down one after the other. By early afternoon the French had lost five bombers without a single bomb hitting the bridge.

  Reiner Schemmel and Erich Grensch were sitting in a machine gun emplacement near the east end of the bridge trying to eat, when General Guderian strode past out to the middle of the bridge. He stood th
ere waving on the endless convoy of trucks and tanks hurrying across.

  ‘He’s mad, I tell you,’ said Grensch, ‘as if that stunt getting across the Meuse in a rubber boat wasn’t bad enough. Nearly got us killed. Now look at him.’

  ‘It’s called leadership Erich,’ replied Reiner, ‘an abstract concept that you probably wouldn’t understand.’

  Suddenly a six-wheeled staff car lurched to stop beside them and a distinguished looking man in a general’s uniform stepped out.

  ‘Christ that’s Runstedt, get up, quick.’

  The two men stood and saluted. General von Runstedt returned the salute gravely.

  ‘A busy day here it would seem gentlemen. Have you seen the general?’

  ‘Ja Herr General,’ replied Erich, pointing to the middle of the bridge, ‘he’s just over there.’

  The two generals met in the middle of the bridge, amidst the thunder of diving planes, exploding bombs and the cacophony of multi-barrel flak guns.

  ‘Greetings General,’ yelled Guderian over the din,

  ‘Is it always like this here?’ yelled back von Runstedt.

  ‘So far, yes.’ replied Guderian.

  ‘Sir!’ chorused Erich and Reiner, who had followed the senior general onto the bridge.

  ‘Was ist?’ asked Guderian.

  ‘Raid!’ yelled Reiner, pointing at a French twin-engine Potez bomber that was flying at almost water level straight towards them.

  The four men ran for the safety of the bank, as behind them the flak guns lining the bridge created an invisible steel wall directly in front of the speeding bomber. As it entered the hail of flak shells the plane simply disintegrated, the pieces throwing up a long line of fountains in the river.

  ~ ~ ~