They set off across open fields with no cover at all, in a staggered formation with Siegel’s tank leading. After just a couple of hundred yards, they spotted some British armoured vehicles and opened fire on the move, hitting and destroying three Carriers, each loaded with ammunition, which blew up angrily. Reaching a small copse in the lower ground that fell towards the River Odon, they rumbled forward and discovered an embankment the height of a man to the left of the road that ran south from Cheux to Grainville-sur-Odon. Up ahead, to the north, Siegel could see the smashed gables of Cheux, perhaps 1,500 yards away. This was perfect. Spacing the four Panzer IVs along this embankment so that just the turrets and the machine gun were above the mound and the rest of the body of the tank hidden below, he could not think of a better hull-down position.
Siegel jumped out of his tank and ordered a couple of his men to scout to the right, while he and his gunner carried out a quick recce to the left. They saw no one – just an abandoned Kübelwagen and, up ahead, to the right of the road, abandoned German guns with empty shell cases scattered around. It was eerily silent, but then Siegel spotted an earthen bunker and, with his gunner giving cover and his pistol at the ready, he approached the entrance. To his relief, he found a number of the gunners huddled there, out of ammunition and taking shelter.
Back at the tanks, the others had returned and reported grenadiers about 500 yards to the west, but not enough men to close the gap. This meant Siegel’s four tanks would have to fill it. They were well placed: hull down, covering the road south and with excellent fields of fire. With dusk falling, they used one of the panzers to pull the abandoned guns back, along with the gunners, who now joined them by the hull-down panzers. ‘This was done,’ noted Siegel, ‘as heavy rains sets in and under a pitch-black sky.’17 Siegel now took the Kübelwagen and sped to Grainville, where Wünsche had his CP in a farmhouse lit inside only with flickering candles. Cupboards had been pulled across the windows to protect them from shrapnel blast. Siegel was offered a mug of hot coffee. It tasted good. It was now nearly midnight.
Soon after, he was heading back to his four Mk IVs with fresh supplies of rations and ammunition for the guns. Making it safely back, he discovered the commander of the artillery, Sturmbannführer Schöps, was also there and Siegel was just talking to him when suddenly a British voice shouted out, ‘Hands up!’ and several figures jumped out of the trees and bushes. Clearly, a British fighting patrol had crept up on them and now had the startled group caught. But it was dark, and raining, and the German tank men and gunners dived for the cover of the commander’s Mk IV as the Tommies opened fire. Only Siegel had the wherewithal to charge at the nearest, grabbing the British man’s throat with his left hand and pushing away the gun barrel of his sub-machine gun with the other. As they both fell to the ground, the British man fired his entire magazine, but the bullets went harmlessly through Siegel’s leather trousers without touching him at all.
With Siegel’s hand still gripping the Tommy’s throat, the man gasped, ‘Help me! Help me!’ Another figure – a second British soldier – now approached and fired, but hit his mate by mistake, not Siegel.18
‘Oh – I’m wounded!’ the man on the ground groaned. Siegel pulled out his own pistol and fired it at the disappearing figure. He got himself back on to his feet, the Tommy now dead on the ground.
Suddenly there was silence but for the rain beating down on the leaves in the trees above. Siegel could feel the blood pulsing through his temples and staggered back to his panzer, only to discover Schöps crouching on his knees, gasping. Hurrying over to him, Siegel tried to lift him, but the Sturmbannführer merely slipped on his own blood. Dragging him to the cover of his panzer, Siegel looked around, wondering where the rest of his men in the other three panzers were – perhaps they had not heard the scuffle. Hurrying to the nearest, some 70 yards away, Siegel replaced the clip in his pistol as he ran. Nearing, he stopped again, momentarily paralysed as he saw two further Tommies silhouetted, standing on the panzer and pulling on the turret hatch, which was obviously being held down by the men on the inside. One of them said to the other, ‘Hand grenade!’
Snapping himself out of his stupor, Siegel crept forward, the sound of his footsteps covered by the British soldiers on the tank and the sound of the rain. Slowly, he raised his arm, as he had practised on the firing range, and squeezed the trigger twice, one shot for each man. They fell just as the guard Siegel had set, finally woken by the pistol shots, fired his sub-machine gun at the turret. ‘The crew inside the Panzer had been surprised by the scouting party creeping up,’ wrote Siegel.19 ‘No wonder: rain – exhaustion – midnight!’ He was certainly not going to chastise them.
Siegel was just getting his breath back from the drama of the past few minutes when he heard the engine of his own panzer start up and, to his horror, saw and heard it pull out and retreat into the meadow behind, only for the engine to shut down again. Running after it, pistol at the ready, he wondered whether some other Tommies had captured it. As he neared, he crouched down, then crawled across the sodden ground to the rear exit hatch and tapped on it with his pistol grip. At first there was silence, then he called out the password and, to his great relief, heard the correct reply. It turned out the rest of crew, realizing there was trouble and with the whereabouts of their chief uncertain, thought they should get clear. There was also no sign of the gunner, but he eventually showed up half an hour later; he had been captured during the first scuffle, but in the dark and the rain had managed to make good his escape. Sturmbannführer Schöps, however, had bled to death, while several other of his men had been wounded.
What a night it had been for Siegel and his four panzers. It could have turned out so different. Siegel had been lucky – very lucky – to have escaped unscathed and with his tanks intact. Had the British patrol been successful, they would have cleared the gap in the line that had emerged earlier and which Siegel had managed to plug. As events turned out, however, the panzer commander was still alive and well, and his four tanks would be ready and waiting when dawn arrived the following morning, the second day of the EPSOM battle.
CHAPTER 23
Cherbourg and the Scottish Corridor
Ever since D-Day, the 70th Tank Battalion had been attached to the US 4th Division, working their way northwards up the Cotentin Peninsula every step of the way with the infantry. In many ways, single tank battalions such as the 70th were operating much as the Sherwood Rangers and the British armoured regiments of the independent brigades. The problem was that the infantry regimental commander – or brigadier in the British instance – always outranked the half-colonel of the tank battalion or regiment. This meant tank units were always at the beck and call of the infantry. ‘Send liaison officer to the 22nd Inf. at once to plan for the use of tanks during their attack today,’ ran orders received by Lieutenant-Colonel John Welborn, the CO of the 70th, on 26 June.1 ‘Report the number of tanks available for us w/the 22nd Inf. and # of tanks you recommend to be used.’ There was no discussion, no debate. Welborn was being ordered to do so.
For the most part, the line of command was smooth enough and the tank men didn’t mind playing second fiddle, but Sherman tanks were most effective when working hand in hand with the infantry, rather than as both scouts and fire-power. Sergeant Carl Rambo, for example, found that sometimes he simply had to refuse orders from infantry officers. On a number of occasions he had been ordered by the infantry to head down a road until they drew enemy fire. ‘Now you didn’t do that,’ he said, ‘unless you were in open country.2 Some did, but they aren’t alive. You have to see what is ahead or have infantry spot a gun around the corner, or another tank.’
Usually, tank commander and infantry officer quickly learned how best to operate together, but the casualties among officers and senior NCOs were so high that no sooner was a relationship established than an officer would be killed or wounded and the process would have to start all over again, because one of the major weaknesses of Allied training was the
lack of all-arms exercises. By and large, infantry, armour and artillery tended to train separately then learn on the job. It was a paradox that Allied troops should be so well and extensively trained in many areas – far more so than their German counterparts – and yet not at all in others.
During the battle for Cherbourg, Rambo’s own Sherman and four others were fanned out as they supported an infantry attack against a machine-gun nest. All five tanks were hurling a lot of fire – high-explosive shells (HE) from the main 75mm gun as well as machine-gun fire – yet it didn’t stop his own tank being hit by an enemy MG, the bullets pinging off his turret like hail off a tin roof. By now a veteran of two earlier campaigns in North Africa and Sicily, Rambo had experienced enough action to realize this didn’t quite make sense. There was simply no way a lone German MG could be firing back after the saturation fire they been throwing their way. ‘That machine-gun has got to be coming from a tank,’ he radioed to the other four Sherman commanders.3 ‘He’s suckering us in. Be careful and don’t move.’
Moments later, an infantryman ran over to warn him that a German panzer was approaching from behind, so his hunch had been right. Telling the others to hold firm, Rambo moved his own tank off, sheltering under some trees where he could see a little further and, sure enough, just around the corner was a panzer. Fortunately, a 57mm anti-tank gun was in position and able to knock it out, and the infantry and Shermans pressed on. Rambo and his fellow tankers in Company B were among the first into Cherbourg, although even as they reached the high ground overlooking the port and began picking their way into the outskirts, it was still a nerve-racking business being in a Sherman. In any building there could be a machine gun or enemy troops with Panzerfausts.
None the less, by Sunday, 25 June there were three US divisions surrounding Cherbourg, which was now being defended by remnants of the German 709. Division, a static infantry unit of low quality, as well as scratch groups from other divisions. It was Generalleutnant Karl-Wilhelm von Schlieben’s misfortune to be commander of the 709. despite considerable experience as a panzer commander in France in 1940 and later on the Eastern Front; he had even commanded a panzer division at the Battle of Kursk, so the 709. Division had been something of a demotion. Then, on 23 June, he had been made Kommandant of Cherbourg, a poisoned chalice if ever there was one, and told to fight to the last man. ‘Concentrated enemy fire and bombing attacks have split the front,’ he signalled late on Saturday, 24 June.4 ‘Numerous batteries have been put out of action or have worn out. Combat efficiency has fallen off considerably. The troops squeezed into a small area will hardly be able to withstand an attack on 25th.’ The situation was hopeless.
On 25 June the US Navy brought up three battleships, four cruisers and screening destroyers to help bring the Cherbourg garrison to its knees while the three American divisions reached the edge of the town and began inching their way forward, clearing each street and strongpoint in turn. Later that day, General von Schlieben again appealed to Heeresgruppe B, pointing out that further fighting, and with it loss of life, would not change the outcome. Cherbourg was doomed. ‘You will continue to fight until the last cartridge,’ Rommel told him, ‘in accordance with the order from the Führer.’5
The following day, Monday, 26 June, the noose was tightened further around Cherbourg. Ernie Pyle had been attached to the 9th Division, one of the few veteran units in First Army. They had been in Tunisia, then Sicily, and, from what Pyle had seen of them over the past week, they had lost none of their fighting ability – as they had shown all too clearly in the swift severing of the Cotentin and since then in the drive north. Pyle thought they performed like a smooth machine, showing the tenacity to keep right at the neck of the enemy and never letting them regain balance after falling back. Now, on 26 June, he and two others, Charles Wertenbaker, a journalist for Time, and Robert Capa, the photographer for both Time and Life magazines, drove up to the CP of the 47th Infantry Regiment, now on the high ground overlooking the western side of the town and port. A number of prisoners were being brought in, many of them Russians fighting for the Wehrmacht. Below, there were some big fires in the town and rolling clouds of thick, black smoke rising upwards. Off shore, the big naval guns were hammering the enemy strongpoints, including the old forts and newer bunkers, all part of the Atlantic Wall. Guns fired, shells screamed, single rifle shots rang out and machine guns brrrped. ‘The whole thing,’ noted Pyle, ‘made me tense and jump.6 The nearest fighting Germans were only 200 yards away.’
While they were still at the CP, Lieutenant Orion Shockley, the executive officer of Company B of the 47th Infantry, arrived. Despite the bruising sky, he was wearing a trench coat and, rather incongruously, dark glasses.
‘Our company is starting in a few minutes to go up this road and clean out a strong point,’ he said.7 ‘There are probably snipers in some of the houses along the way. Do you want to go with us?’
Pyle most certainly didn’t, but found himself saying, ‘Sure.’ Capa and Wertenbaker also agreed to come. So they set off, walking at the head of the company alongside Shockley. Pyle found himself ducking involuntarily when their own shells screamed over. Most of the men had two weeks’ growth of beard and uniforms that were grubby and torn. They all looked exhausted and as though they had aged since landing in Normandy.
‘Why don’t you tell the folks back home what this is like?’8 said one of the men to Pyle. ‘They don’t know that for every hundred yards we advance somebody gets killed.’ Pyle explained that he tried to do that all the time, but didn’t push it; he understood – the fellow was exhausted, had seen too much action and too many of his pals fall. It was no wonder he was bitter. They paused by a small farm at the very edge of town and, with maps, Shockley explained how they were going to attack a series of concrete bunkers and machine-gun nests, which were at the end of a street on the edge of town. Behind was a hillside and farmland.
‘A rifle platoon goes first,’ he told them.9 ‘Right behind them will go part of a heavy-weapons platoon, with machine guns to cover the first platoon. Then comes another rifle platoon. Then a small section with mortars, in case they run into something pretty heavy. Then another rifle platoon. And bringing up the rear, the rest of the heavy-weapons outfit to protect us from behind. We don’t know what we’ll run into, and I don’t want to stick you right out in front, so why don’t you come along with me?’
‘Okay,’ agreed Pyle, who by this time had stopped feeling scared.
They were about to start when suddenly cannon shells whipped and hissed over their heads. Everyone crouched beside a wall as more 20mm shells began hitting the farmhouse. The farmer, who moments earlier had been nonchalantly hitching up his horses, now fled. In his driveway were two dead Americans and a German. The shelling stopped and the order was given to get moving, out of the protection of the wall, across a small culvert and then right into the road. Shockley was yelling at the men. ‘Spread it out now.10 Do you want to draw fire on yourselves?’ he shouted. ‘Don’t bunch up like that. Keep five yards apart. Spread it out, dammit.’
Some men had Garand rifles, others had grenades at the ready, while several had the big Browning automatic rifles. One man carried a bazooka. Medics were interspersed among the men. They all seemed hesitant and cautious, more like the hunted than the hunters as far as Pyle could tell. ‘They weren’t warriors,’ he wrote.11 ‘They were American boys who by mere chance of fate had wound up with guns in their hands, sneaking up a death-laden street in a strange and shattered city in a faraway country in driving rain. They were afraid, but it was beyond their power to quit.’ As usual, Pyle was unerringly observant and spot on.
Pyle made his own dash for it, safely reaching the street. The troops were hugging the walls on each side and he followed. Most of the house windows were shattered and there were bullets and cannon shell holes all over the place. Telephone wire lay everywhere, twisted and ugly. Some dogs suddenly tore down the street, barking and snarling. The street was winding, but soon they bega
n to hear firing from up ahead – single shots, steady machine guns and the rapid brrupp of the German MGs. Word came back that the street had been cleared and a hospital liberated, which included a number of wounded Americans. Lieutenant Shockley, Pyle, Capa and Wertenbaker went on down the street and reached the hospital. Beyond, there appeared to be more fighting, although it was hard to tell what was happening; there would be some shooting, then an inexplicable lull, then some more.
In a street beyond the hospital, Pyle came across two Shermans, one 50 yards beyond the other. Pyle scurried towards the lead tank and was only some 50 feet from it when it fired its 75mm gun. ‘The blast was terrific there in the narrow street,’ he recorded.12 ‘Glass came tinkling down from nearby windows, smoke puffed around the tank, and the empty street was shaking and trembling with the concussion.’ Pyle ducked into a doorway, figuring the enemy would likely fire back. And so they did, just as the lead Sherman was backing down the road. A yellow flame pierced the belly of the tank with an immense crash. A second shot whammed into the pavement next to it. Smoke engulfed it, but it didn’t burst into flames and a moment later the crew bailed out and sprinted manically for Pyle’s doorway. The five men were all safe and began jabbering excitedly, relieved at their lucky escape. This was the third time they had had their tank knocked out and each time it had been swiftly repaired and put back into action. They had named it Be Back Soon. This time they had been hit on one of the tracks and now they began to worry because they had left the engine running. Eventually, when the firing seemed to have died down, they sneaked out, looked at the damage and one of them clambered back in to turn it off. Up ahead, a German truck stood in the middle of the road, blackened and burned. Not a soul could be seen. Everyone had vanished, but then an American infantryman came running up the street yelling for a medic and pretty soon one appeared from another building. Pyle followed and saw, on the corner, the remains of a smashed pillbox and another one beyond that – these were what the Shermans had been firing at and they had destroyed them both before being hit in turn by a third, beyond that.
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