by David Roy
Barbarossa
Hitler had postponed his attack on Russia from the previous summer. The campaign against Britain was taking longer than he had hoped but with summer approaching he knew that he had to give the order. On the 29 May 1942 the first of the newest Panzer IVs rolled into the USSR. The Soviets were unprepared for the ferocity of the skilfully co-ordinated attack. Never before had they faced an enemy able to use airpower so effectively and they found that they had no answer to the airborne artillery of the Blitzkrieg. Their huge numbers were not enough. Much of their equipment was obsolete and Stalin had done a fine job of removing the finest generals from their posts in a rather irreversible fashion; these were not men who could be re-instated, at least not until someone had found a way to bring the dead back to life. The Russian air force suffered catastrophic losses on the ground. The invasion seemed unstoppable. They could only endure until their not-so-secret weapon was ready to play its part. The Russian winter was their only hope…. but that was long way off.
Hitler, despite his fanatical belief in both himself and his armed forces, did fear the consequences of the forthcoming winter in the East. Keitel had assured him, of course, that Britain would be finished by then. Keitel. ‘The Lackey’ they called him and the name suited him well…. just as it suited Hitler to have just such a lackey there to justify his own demands when the generals were being too blinkered to see the reasons behind his decisions. Keitel claimed that he could see the sense of Hitler’s decisions. And if he could not? Well, at least he never said so.
Nevertheless, Hitler was haunted by the slightly incredulous look that Rommel had given Keitel upon the pronouncement that they would wage war against Russia. He favoured an end to the war with Britain first. Hitler trusted Rommel but he was still only a general, of course; a junior general at that. Supposing the war in Britain dragged on. How did that bode for Barbarossa?
These were the Fuhrer's orders and he knew best. Only he had the vision to create the Third Reich.
The Midlands Defence Line
It wasn’t a great name. It wasn’t even an official name. It was just a name given to it by someone on the spur of the moment to describe what it was and no-one now knew who had come up with it. Not Montgomery or Alexander. The former would have called it the Alexander line after his illustrious superior, or failing that, the Montgomery line after himself…. but now it was the Midlands Defence Line or MDL. At a time when it had been proven that static defences were vulnerable and obsolete, it had held against the Germans. They now had the Italians with them, of course. Despite their poor showing in the Middle East and the Balkans Hitler had permitted an Italian army to land in Britain but they had performed badly against the British. In fact, those British formations which found themselves facing an Italian rather than a German foe considered themselves blessed.
The British had armed and trained a Free French infantry brigade, a Polish division and several new squadrons of fighters manned by Czechs, Belgians and French. Canada had also sent a division to the UK but the government there was getting itchy feet and had no desire to see the cream of its land forces falling into German hands. New tanks were rolling out of factories in the Midlands - the Crusader, the Cromwell and the Churchill - tanks armed with a six-pounder gun that could knock out their German opponents.
The RAF had partially rebuilt itself almost from scratch with new fighter wings of Spitfires and Hurricanes. The Wellington medium bomber and the Stirling heavy bomber were in full production and the Lancaster and Halifax about to enter production. The problem was for these aircraft - strategic bombers - that there were no suitable targets in range…. unless the decision was taken to bomb southern Britain. Air cover was provided by Grumman Martlets of the Fleet Air Arm whilst the new aircraft were being produced and new crews trained but as a result that service had taken a terrible mauling, leaving some of the fleet’s carriers bereft of fighter planes.
Enormous pressure was put on British shipping, both by the submarines operating out of Plymouth and the Focke-Wulf Condors based in Cornwall but despite this, ship production in the north of England, Scotland and Northern Ireland continued unabated. But with almost the entire population of England crammed into the top half of the country, food shortages were becoming a problem. Churchill and his advisors knew that they would have to strike soon to push the Germans out. They had lost almost half a million soldiers, killed, wounded or captured - and worse than that, those casualties accounted for the cream of the British Army. There was no need to discuss what would happen if the offensive failed.
Parliament had moved to Edinburgh, as had the Royal family. Two new submarines, Churchill and Windsor, were built in great secrecy on the Clyde. They each had extra fuel tanks, batteries for extended range and carried minimal armament. In place of much of the war-making equipment normally found in a submarine, they had comfortable accommodation as well as the ability to carry supplies sufficient for a one-way trip to Canada.
Birmingham
By the end of May 1942, Birmingham had effectively been besieged for a month. Three quarters of a million people were now surrounded by eight German divisions including one from the Waffen SS. The ring around the great industrial city tightened day by day and very little external help was offered for fear of further weakening the forces gathered and trained for the counter-offensive. Luckily the Germans were loath to cause too much damage to the city, realising its importance to the economy - an economy which they full expected to be running very shortly. It was Rommel, newly promoted to Field Marshall, who insisted that his troops fight carefully, street by street, in an attempt to capture the city intact. But Rommel was not wasteful of his most precious resource - the German soldier - and he monitored the casualty rate very carefully. The British would have to surrender soon or firmer steps would be taken. He knew that their offensive was due to begin and had no desire to see his forces split between two separate tasks.
Counterattack!
At 0400 hours on 2 June bombs began to rain down on the German positions in Shropshire, Leicestershire, Northamptonshire and Cambridgeshire. Over five hundred bombers - everything that bomber command could muster including some war-weary Hampdens pounded the enemy below. Simultaneously several commando raids had been carried out, attacking two Army Group headquarters and various rail junctions in the hope of causing disruption panic and confusion amongst those who controlled the deployment of German ground troops. Most of the Commandos were caught and many later executed, depending on the whim of the local commander.
Two other raids, launched by submarine and carried out by the Special Boat Squadron on Portsmouth and London, met with only partial success, their aim having been to block the passage of merchantmen trying to berth at the docks. The raiders struggled to get close to the ships they intended to sink and, in the event, both target ships were refloated and towed away within days.
0500. From concentration areas in Staffordshire, Derby and Lincolnshire, over one thousand tanks from twenty new divisions rolled forwards. They were supported by armoured cars, armoured personnel carriers, artillery and anti-tank weapons mounted on tank chassis. Over four hundred thousand men trained and organised specifically for assault rather than defence bore down on the German lines. Overhead, Hurricanes armed with twenty-millimetre cannons and two-hundred and fifty-pound bombs, strafed the German lines and rear areas, whilst the latest mark of Spitfire (recently made in Belfast) provided top cover.
0515. Rommel was informed of the assault just as his front line at Wolverhampton gave way. The Italians. Of course! He immediately made provision for two German divisions to reinforce that sector. He ordered that every close support aircraft they possessed - Stukas and Henschels - be put into the air to smash the armoured formations. This was the last throw of the dice for the British. He had to make sure that they lost.
Fifteenth Armoured Division had been a real hotch-potch. Charles Henderson knew that. Around an admittedly strong cadre of professionals (about one thousand five hundred
of them) he had had to build a first rate fighting formation from a thousand or so good, experienced territorials and fifteen thousand ‘call-ups’ of varying experience and worth. He didn’t have all the equipment that he needed but despite that things weren’t too bad. Or so he thought in his rare moments of optimism. He had three tank regiments, about one hundred and fifty tanks, mostly Churchills and twelve motorised infantry battalions, plus artillery support and sappers. Not much in the way of logistical support but their line of communication was short so that should not be a problem. His HQ comprised three scout cars and three wireless trucks.
They had trained for the assault. ‘Keep moving forwards. Don’t stop for casualties’, and he hoped that they all understood the importance of what they were doing. He inspired the men, even when he wasn’t really inspired by them…. but over time - of which he never had enough - he had begun to see some signs of martial spirit. Maybe they were turning into soldiers. Perhaps it was just happening so slowly that each incremental improvement was undetectable in isolation. But were they a match for the Germans?
The sentries woke the crews. Men rolled from their pits and rubbed tired eyes. It was 0300. It was the worst time of the day - the worst time to be awake at any rate - and the men were depressed. Not excited. Not scared. That was the thing about this early morning depression - every other emotion was subjugated by it. One by one, little orange glow-worms pricked the gloom as men lit that cigarette - the one that they hoped would get them up and moving. The power of tobacco; that touching faith in the evil weed. It was a constant. It was a unifying thread through their daily activities. It was a common bond with friend and foe. For some it was second only to a cup of tea….and that was next on the agenda. The cookhouse tent had been a bustle of hushed-clank activity since 0200, making big, greasy breakfasts and urns of strong tea. Each opening and closing of the cookhouse tent door lifted another invisible cloud of competing food smells into the air. Sausages and bacon, eggs, fried bread…. It was surprising that this alone didn’t rouse the men.
Sam stumbled to the cookhouse with two tins mugs. The staff-sergeant chef liked to say that he had worked in the Savoy Grill before the war, but it didn’t look that way judging by his beer gut, drooping fag that shed ash like an autumnal tree dropping leaves and grease-stained apron. If the food tasted as good as he looked, it would be fairly disgusting. He stumbled back through a forest littered with semi-recumbent soldiers in various states of consciousness, ranging from almost ‘back to sleep’ right through to ‘almost ready to get up’. Cigarette smoke polluted the air from three hundred tiny tobacco pyres but he didn’t smell it.
‘There you go, sir. Wet and warm.’
‘Thanks, Corporal Beattie’, he said taking the tin mug from his driver. He was in the process of loading his pipe. ‘How’s breakfast looking?’
‘Well….’
‘It’s okay. Too much detail might put me off all together.’
Sam drank his tea as he shaved, stripped to the waist and freezing. He felt his chin for stubble in the dark and winced as his blade cut the skin once again. Shaving was one of those tasks which simply compounded the misery of the cold morning. Perhaps on the day of the big assault he could have gotten away with avoiding this task but the habit was there, ingrained from his years of service. He might be dead in a few hours but he’d die clean-shaven. It was no solace to him.
Afterwards the two men, not equals in any sense (not in life, anyway), shared a companionable breakfast.
‘I’m sure these cooks are trying to kill us, Beattie.’ It was an old joke but Sam laughed and nodded at this piece of received barrack room wisdom. The General was in a mood for talk. ‘Contemplative’ was the word which Sam would one day use. ‘Not my favourite time of the day, this’, he said casting a quick glance upwards.
‘No-one’s at their best at this time of the day, sir.’
‘No. It’ll be better once we’re on the move.’ He paused and then added by way of qualification. ‘In a way, it’ll be better.’ He set down his mess tin. Sam would presumably have to wash it in a minute. ‘Are you going to stay in the Army after the war?’, asked the General.
‘I can’t see it, sir. For some reason I’ve gone off it a bit.’ At which the General guffawed.
‘Yes. Quite’, he said.
They were due to move at 0430. The start point was a grid reference and nothing more. Not far from here either. And then after that they would roll forwards into the unknown. Some of the soldiers had never fought before - well, they would learn quickly. They ate breakfast in silence. Neither man could or would share his innermost thoughts - too many ranks separated them and too many different experiences. Sam thought about his survival in the main, with some spare emotional capacity given over to the importance of the assault to his country and way of life. Could you be free and dead? How would being alive and enslaved feel? For his part the General wanted to succeed in battle, to contribute to that victory that might save them all. But there was no denying, although he tried to suppress these thoughts, that he too wished to get home and be with his wife and children. Their cottage in Devon…. was some German now living in it?
At 0425 engines burst into life like dozens of dragons awakened. Tankies climbed into their steeds and the ground vibrated rhythmically as the air filled with cloying exhaust gases. Henderson took a last look around as the first few faint strands of daylight fell gently through the trees. Make or break. It was nothing less and it hinged on these men. Clerks. factory workers, bus drivers, train drivers, dockers, milkmen and tailors. But were they soldiers? He would soon know. He had chosen to take his headquarters into the fray in the midst of an armoured regiment. The Churchill tank was largely untried in battle but the crews were a good mix of experience and enthusiasm, although he knew that the former was a mixed blessing. Those who really understood battle could all too easily shy away from it - if ignorance is bliss…. perhaps bliss wasn’t the word but the sentiment almost fitted.
Henderson looked into the skies as a sound like a long undying growl took hold of the cool night air. He could just make out the outlines of large four-engined bombers - Lancasters or Halifaxes, he thought - and three minutes later he heard the thunderous blasts of their bombs, a long, drawn out hellish cacophony. Little slits of horizon visible through the trees blazed orange and yellow. Germans died. He hoped so anyway.
They were off. A radio signal buzzed in the CO’s head set and the tanks lunged forwards.
‘Let’s go, Corporal Beattie. Good luck!’, said Henderson. The battle had begun.
Shells whistled overhead and increasingly Sam could see and then feel the earth-shattering concussion with which they landed. The tanks had broken off to plough through the fields but the wheeled vehicles stuck to the roads. This wasn’t open countryside. This wasn’t a place where you would choose to fight a great battle but at least the disadvantages were equal for both sides. Ahead, everywhere they looked, the soil was pulled into the sky and then dropped to earth once more, as shell after shell ripped asunder the forces that usually kept the fragile living veneer of the planet together. As the tanks and soldiers moved in, the barrage rolled forwards, an explosive and steel curtain drawn in an impossible plane. It looked like nothing could survive but Sam’s dad had told him often enough about the barrages in the First War and how the Germans seemed to escape death. They would be waiting for the hapless infantry to arrive, there to cut them down like chaff.
The sun came up redly, ominous perhaps, if you believed in omens, but ominous for whom? It could have been a nice day. To their left a copse burned, ignited by incendiaries. Plumes of smoke detached themselves from the flickering orange flames that roasted the air. The smoke drifted in and out of the fields and trees but still they advanced.
The tanks could still be seen and at points along the line this tableau, or something like it, would be repeated. Some divisions were probably engaging the Germans already, thought Sam. He swallowed hard, his throat aching and his limbs
tense and stiff. He knew about war, its dangers and discomforts. He was a veteran but he knew mere knowledge did little to increase his chances of survival. The bullet did not bother to distinguish between one soldier and another. Faith, age, rank gave them no call to discriminate, just as the death that often followed didn’t.
He glanced over at the General. His head was bowed and a finger traced a line across the map. Signals traffic buzzed in their ears as the bizarre radio-borne language of the Army permeated and then dominated the ether. Suddenly they were engaging the Germans. To his front Sam saw a Churchill lurch out of a field and into their path. It seemed ready to topple sideways from the steep bank before the rear end led the rest of the vehicle slithering down onto the flat of the road. Sam could imagine the crew being flung around, cursing as the driver fought the steering levers for control. Henderson ordered Sam to halt and soon they were in the midst of a sea of infantry charging forwards to engage an enemy Sam had not yet seen. He saw a soldier laden with a radio fall to his knees as if hit but then recover and stumble onwards.
Next to him Henderson barked orders into his radio but then began to climb out of the scout car. ‘Going to the CP. You stay here. If these vehicles move forwards, you move forwards!’
‘Sir!’, acknowledged Sam. It would be chaos from now on. It would be a miracle if he understood what was happening and even his proximity to one of the battle’s commanders wouldn’t change that. The barrage stopped but the vacuum of silence was filled at once by the retort of cannons and musketry. Here and there, carried on the noisy crackling air, he heard the unmistakable cries of battle, as men fixed bayonets and fought their enemies hand-to-hand. And then they were on the move. Trundling forwards edging closer to the scene of the conflict.