Blood and Blitzkrieg

  Blood and Blitzkrieg

  Will Belford

  By Will Belford

  Published by Will Belford at Smashwords.

  Copyright 2013 The Style Merchants Pty Limited.

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  Glossary

  AIF: Australian Imperial Force

  BEF: British Expeditionary Force

  Bren: The standard light machine gun of the British army, named after the Czechoslovakian town of Brno where it was originally designed.

  CHQ: Company Headquarters

  Condor Legion: German volunteer unit that fought in the Spanish Civil War on the side of Franco’s Fascists.

  CSM: Company Sergeant-Major

  Feldpolizei: Military police

  Feldwebel: Sergeant

  Fritz: British Army slang for the Germans

  Goldfish: Tinned herring

  “Gott mit uns”: God is with us

  HauptFeldwebel: Company Sergeant Major

  Hauptsturmfuhrer: Assault Unit Leader, SS equivalent of Captain

  Heeresgruppe: Army Group

  Hotel de ville: Town hall

  JU88: Junkers 88, a versatile twin-engined plane used as a bomber, reconnaissance plane and night-fighter and throughout the war.

  Kubelwagen: Four-wheel-drive car, German equivalent of the Jeep.

  Les Pantalons Rouge: “The Red Trousers”, nickname for the French Infantry of the war of 1870, still in vogue in 1914.

  Low heel: Australian slang for a prostitute.

  MGB: Motor Gun Boat

  MO: Medical Officer

  MP: Military Policeman

  NCO: Non-commissioned officer (lance-corporals, corporals, sergeants)

  Oberst: Colonel

  Oberstleutnant: Lieutenant Colonel

  OKW: Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, the German High Command.

  Poilus: French infantry, literally ‘hairy ones’.

  Rosbif: “Roast beefs” a French expression for Englishmen dating back to the 1700s.

  Stosstruppen: Shock troops

  Stubble hoppers: Foot infantry

  Stuka: The infamous JU87 dive bomber with its distinctive inverted gull-wings and dive sirens spread terror, especially amongst civilian populations. The term is an abbreviation of the German word for dive bomber: Sturzkampfflugzeug.

  Sturmpioneren: Assault engineers armed with flamethrowers and satchel charges.

  Tirailleurs: Skirmishers

  Untermenschen: Sub-humans, literally ‘under men’.

  Unteroffizier: Non-commissioned officer

  Acknowledgements

  Plenty has been written about this part of the Second World War, but it’s not a ‘popular’ period in fiction, probably because of the seemingly never-ending series of defeats the Allies suffered. Yet it is in their defeats, their recovery and their eventual victory that countries like Great Britain and Australia find so much of their martial history. The battle for the Low Countries and France was short and brutal, and the Allies fought a lot harder than history has generally acknowledged. It seemed to me that it was a piece of history that deserved another look. I’m just glad I didn’t have to live through it.

  I’d like to thank all the people who reviewed this book for me, and particularly Peter Gifford (aka Universal Head) for his cover design, his critical editing and his help with the title. I’d also like to acknowledge the immense contribution to the history of this period of a few authors, without whose work this story would have been impossible to tell.

  Hugh Sebag-Montefiore’s epic work ‘Dunkirk – Fight to the Last Man’ (Penguin 2007) is an immensely detailed and immaculately researched account of the whole campaign that led to the evacuation from Dunkirk. There’s no better account that I’ve seen, and I’m immensely indebted to this book for providing a lot of the background for the events in which Joe becomes embroiled.

  Karl-Heinz Frieser’s work ‘The Blitzkrieg Legend’ (Naval Institute Press 2005) is a detailed technical examination of the German invasion. Its analysis of the methods of the Blitzkrieg and the reality behind critical aspects of it such as the breakthrough at Sedan and the ‘Fuhrer’s Halt Order’ provided a side of the story that was completely new to me.

  Andre Maurois’ first-hand account ‘The Battle of France’, (Austin & Sons 1940), written while he was the French Official Observer attached to the British army, was an invaluable source of verbatim accounts that are often absent from history books.

  ‘The Private Diaries of Paul Baudouin’ (Eyre & Spottiswood, 1948) was a useful source of information about the machinations of the French government and high command.

  I hope you enjoy ‘Blood and Blitzkrieg’.

  Prologue

  Belgium, 20 May 1940

  The last of the dive-bombers was only a speck in the sky above them, but they could already hear the beginnings of the awful scream that heralded its attack. Huddling under the overhang of the trench, Lieutenant Joe Dean clawed at the soil and tried to burrow in like a mole.

  The banshee wail rose rapidly as the bomber hurtled out of the sky in a near-vertical dive. When the ear-splitting shriek had reached an unbearable pitch, the plane released its 500-pound bomb and hauled itself sluggishly out of the dive, airbrakes fully extended. The bomb continued straight down and plunged into the trench a score of yards from Joe’s position. The blast made the earth shake and a shower of dirt rained down upon the soldiers cowering in terror in their holes.

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Joe to himself, ‘thank God that was the last, one more of those and we’d have been finished.’

  He crept up to the edge of the trench and surveyed the scene: to the south, the bomb had blown a crater thirty feet wide right across the trench. The breeze was blowing the smoke from the explosion slowly west, across a field of red poppies punctuated by dark craters. To the east, across the river Dyle, he could make out the Stuka winging its way back to Germany above the treetops.

  A fly settled to drink from Joe’s sweaty cheek and buzzed as he swatted at it. His ears were ringing from the pressure of the detonation, but apart from that it was strangely quiet; no orders were being yelled out, nothing.

  ‘Sergeant Harris, report please. Anyone hurt?’ called Joe, taking off his helmet and shaking out the dirt.

  A man with three stripes on his sleeve came scrambling along the trench ‘One killed, eight wounded, two seriously Lieutenant,’ replied Sergeant Harris breathlessly in a thick Glaswegian brogue.

  ‘Who bought it?’ asked Joe.

  ‘It was The Pollock,’ interjected Corporal Smythe, ‘I mean, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard sir. Direct hit: not much left of ‘im. It was definitely ’im though, I found a left ’and with a ring on it. You remember that shiny weddin’ band ’e was always showin’ off? At least ’is fiancé won’t have to put up with ’im for the rest of ‘er life now.’

  ‘Stone the crows Smithy,’ replied Joe, ‘the bloke might have been a bit of a silvertail, but bloody hell mate, he’s just been killed.’

  ‘Shall I put the corporal on a charge sir?’ asked Sergeant Harris.

  ‘Bugger that,’ replied Joe with the relief of the man who hasn’t been hit, ‘put him on burial detail. What’d you call him Smythe? “The Pollock”, what is that?’

  ‘It’s a sort of fish sir,’ replied Corporal Smythe.

 
‘A fish eh?’ replied Joe, ‘well he certainly had bad luck, if it was raining soup he’d have only had a fork.’

  ‘Aye well, ’e was a right fool,’ replied Smythe, ‘anyway, this means that you’re in command of the platoon sir.’

  ‘True enough. Harris, can you get the wounded stretchered along the commo trench to HQ for me? And by the way corporal, you almost copped it yourself, have a look at your tin hat.’

  Corporal Smythe pulled off his soup-plate and gaped at the scar that a piece of shrapnel had scored across the side of the helmet.

  ‘I never even felt it,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s hope the one that gets you is that painless then, eh?’ said Joe.

  Joe directed his voice along the trench.

  ‘Platoon, muster on me. Quickly now.’ Two dozen forms detached themselves from the sides of the trench and scurried towards him.

  ‘Okay you blokes, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard was hit by that bomb, which means that I’m in command. There’s nothing left of the Lieutenant, and why? Because he didn’t dig his trench deep enough. Think about that for a few seconds: I don’t want to be scraping any of you off my boots after the next attack, so have a lash at it and dig deep.’

  ‘I’m no expert, but I’ll bet ten pounds that little entrée from Herr Goering’s flying poofters is just the start for today. You can bet your balls that the Nazis will be here within the hour. They’ll probably have tanks, but we can’t do anything about those, so if you see any, get the hell out of their way and stay under cover. When the infantry arrive we’ll see how well they fare against our machine guns. Beating the Poles and the Belgians is one thing, trying to beat us will be different. In the meantime, dig deeper, clean your rifle, check your ammo, and when you’ve done all that, do it again and keep doing it until I say otherwise. Got it?’

  ‘Yes Lieutenant,’ replied a few voices.

  ‘What did I say?’ Joe yelled.

  ‘Yes Lieutenant!’ the men yelled back.

  ‘Righto then, get to your posts.’

  Joe made his way along the trench, patting a man on the back here, having a quick word with one there. He’d been with these men long enough now to get to know them. Being an Australian had made him an item of curiosity at first, but he remembered all their names now and he was pretty sure he’d earnt their respect. Even so, he couldn’t be certain that they’d follow him when the decisive moment came. No junior officer could.

  ‘Commandin’ a platoon in the British Army again sir?’ said Private Billy Simpson, his Irish accent so thick Joe could barely understand him, ‘Not a bad effort for a colonial, sir.’

  ‘Yeah well you’d better look out Billy, I’m your commanding officer now, and I can have you broken anytime I want,’ replied Joe, grinning. He suddenly realised that he’d better report the situation to the Major, and was heading down a communications trench to the rear when an explosion blew him into the dirt. More blasts followed, the screams of descending shells audible for a few seconds in between each ear-pounding explosion.

  He clung desperately to the earth as the shells smashed in and tore the ground all around him. Death was close. He was scared.

  ‘You’re in a trench.’ he yelled to himself. ‘They need a direct hit. They have to get a direct hit, you’re safe unless they get a direct hit, direct hit, direct hit.’

  He recited the lesson to himself over and over as the deafening roar intensified and he found himself screaming the words as he cowered full-length, eyes screwed shut, hands over his ears, mouth filled with earth.

  Then, just as abruptly, the shells stopped falling and a whistle was blowing shrilly to his left.

  ‘They’re coming, stand to, stand to, they’re coming,’ yelled a disembodied voice.

  Joe struggled to his feet and ran up the trench to his position. Grabbing his rifle he peered over the parapet. Out in the flowery fields beyond the river, dark shapes were moving. They looked like huge beetles mowing a path through the fields.

  Panzers.

  Chapter One

  England, 23 October 1939

  Lieutenant Joe Dean had spent months on the Empress of Australia, travelling from Adelaide to Portsmouth. To call the voyage tedious would be an understatement, the biggest excitement being the news of the German invasion of Poland, announced when they were a week out from Bombay. The mostly civilian passengers had been in a ferment about the possibility of a U-boat sinking them before they reached Home. Despite their fears, they made it to the English Channel, where a Royal Navy motor gun boat guided them into port.

  Having volunteered for an officer exchange, Joe had been keen to get to England and become part of what he considered a ‘real’ army. The Australian army had a glorious, if somewhat short tradition, but there was no denying that it was small, ill-equipped and parochial. The officer school at the Royal Military College Duntroon in Canberra produced first-class light infantry officers, but what Joe wanted was experience in a fully-equipped professional army.

  He stepped onto the dock and dropped his kitbag. After reading about England ever since he was a child, and having chafed to get here, it felt surreal finally to have arrived. Predictably enough, it was raining. A fresh breeze blew the drizzle into his face as he took in the feverish activity of the major dockyard of the British Empire, now at war with Nazi Germany.

  As Joe was watching a crane lowering crates of depth charges into a destroyer, a small man with ginger hair and the twin stripes of a corporal on his sleeve approached him and saluted.

  ‘Scuse me sir, but you wouldn’t be Lieutenant Dean from Australia would you?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s me Corporal. Who are you?’

  ‘Smythe sir,’ said the man, giving a quick salute, ‘I’ve been sent to collect you and take you to the barracks sir.‘

  ‘Barracks?’ said Joe, ‘Of which regiment? I’ve been given no orders, nothing.’

  ‘So I’m told sir, so I’m told. You’ve been assigned to the 2nd Staffordshire Rifles sir, it’s a new regiment, but none finer I’m sure,’ said the man with what Joe thought might have been a wink, ‘I’m your batman sir.’

  Joe held out his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, the man took it and gave it a strong shake.

  ‘Pleased to meet you Smythe, let’s go.’

  Joe swung his kitbag onto his shoulder. The corporal stood as if paralysed.

  ‘Ah sir, would you like me to carry that for you?’

  ‘No, I can manage.’

  ‘It’s just that, some of the other officers might get the wrong idea sir, when we arrive, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘No Corporal, I’ve got no bloody idea what you mean but I’m sure you can explain it to me on the way. Is it just me or is that wind cold enough to freeze the balls off a bullock?’

  ‘Cold sir?’ said the corporal, with a laugh, ‘this is as good as it gets in winter ‘ere sir, positively ‘ot by English standards.’

  ‘Are you fair dinkum mate?’ asked Joe, wiping the rain from his brow.

  ‘Sorry sir, not exactly sure what you mean.’

  ‘Never mind, let’s get out of this bloody wind.’

  ~ ~ ~

  A week later, on the first clear night since he’d arrived, Joe left the mess and walked between the barrack huts out to the parade ground. Looking up, he took in the myriad stars of a northern hemisphere sky alien to him. He lit a cigarette and tried to identify some of the constellations he’d read about.

  ‘Lieutenant Dean,’ came a cry from across the parade ground. The voice was familiar: Major Merrivale, the company commander. Dean stubbed out the cigarette and walked toward the voice. He threw a rough salute and stood to attention.

  ‘Yes Major?’

  ‘At ease man, at ease. You’ve heard we’re joining the BEF in France?’

  ‘Yeah, the boys are pretty chuffed about it, they’ve been earbashing each other ever since you told ‘em.’

  ‘Earbashing? Oh, of course, yes, well they were all born since the last war. No amoun
t of stories on Daddy’s knee are going to prepare you though, eh?’

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  ‘Questioning the wisdom of your decision to exchange are you?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. I expect the boys at home will be here soon now anyway.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised Lieutenant. But in the meantime, I am issuing you with a warning order to move. We have orders to embark from Dover the day after tomorrow, so kindly get your men ready will you? We’ll be travelling down overnight, so you’ve got until 2300 to get everything ship-shape.’

  ‘Yes Major.’

  ‘Very good. Briefing in Dover at 0700, tell the others will you? And Dean, try to make a bit more effort to get on with your fellow officers. They need to know they can rely on you and vice versa. Oh, and try to remember to say ‘sir’ to superior officers. I know it doesn’t come naturally to you colonials, but it will make your life in this army a lot easier. Good night to you.’

  ‘Good night Major,’ replied Joe.