Blood and Blitzkrieg Page 3

  ‘I think it might be an old dagger. Hard to tell, but it still has a hilt.’ He pointed to the crossbar at one end and held it up to her. Her eyes were shining and a smile played across her lips.

  ‘Oh Lieutenant, we ‘ave not found anything like it. C’est magnifique.’

  He pointed to a series of shapes lying on an army blanket.

  ‘My boys found a few other bits and bobs, we’ve laid them out over here. You’re welcome to them, no use to us. I’m afraid we didn’t manage to record—what did you call it?—the strata they were in though.’

  She knelt in the dirt, examining each object before moving on to the next. The soldiers had found more in one day than she had unearthed in six months of painstaking excavation. She was also finding the presence of the officer quite distracting—he talked to her as if he’d known her for years—it was all a bit too familiar, and quite enticing.

  ‘Most of the items seem to be in, ‘ow do you say? Good condition? Of course, we have no idea what point in the Roman occupation they are from, but it is better than nothing. It is very good of you, ‘ow can I repay you?’

  ‘Well, you could tell me your name,’ said Joe. He’d realised that just standing next to this girl made him feel good, he wasn’t going to let her leave without something to show for it.

  She blushed suddenly. ‘Of course, ‘ow rude of me, we ‘ave not even been introduced. I am Yvette Bendine. And you?’

  ‘My name’s Joseph Dean, but everyone back home calls me Joe.’

  ‘And where is ‘ome Joseph?’

  ‘Well I come from South Australia, but I guess the British army’s my home for the moment.’

  ‘Well Joseph, I will show these to my uncle, ‘e will be overjoyed.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve got a bag for them if you like.’

  ‘Merci Lieutenant. Let us hope that the Germans will not come this way. If they do we will not evacuate, it would mean leaving our work to these Allemand barbarians. Now I must be going, thank you again.’

  She smiled, then turned and headed down the slope towards the town.

  He watched her until she was out of sight. Only when he returned to his trench did he realise she’d left the Roman dagger behind.

  Chapter Three

  Germany, 19 December 1939

  General von Manstein stared out of the bunker’s gunport at the Belgian fortifications. The banks of the river rose steeply to a field of barbed wire, behind which a minefield covered by machine guns made any approach a death sentence.

  ‘Hmmm, the usual defensive rubbish, eh Herr Oberst?’ asked the most brilliant general in the German army. ‘How would you get across there if you had to?’

  The Sturmpionier colonel standing beside him coughed nervously.

  ‘I’d request an artillery barrage to clear the wire, bring some tanks up to give covering fire, and put a second barrage of smoke down in front of the gun positions. Then I’d send a platoon across in boats with mine detectors to clear a channel. After that, a few men with flamethrowers and demolition charges could clear the bunkers under cover of some machine guns. We could be across in an hour.’

  ‘Very good, but what if your artillery was not available?’ queried the general.

  ‘Then we’d do it all under fire. I’d have to send more men across to flank the gun pits and hope for some air support to suppress them. We’d take much heavier losses, but we’d still be over in a few hours.’

  The general smiled grimly at the young man’s confidence. His experiences attacking similar positions in the Great War left him with no illusions of how effective machine guns firing into minefields and wire could be. Still, the young man had a point: close-up support from tanks, artillery and aircraft made all the difference. It was all about co-ordinating everything carefully, something that the Australian Jew, General Monash, had worked out in 1918 to good effect against the Hindenburg Line.

  The colonel interrupted his reverie.

  ‘Herr General, please excuse my impertinence, but may I ask why you are here overseeing an infantry assault? I would have thought you’d be in charge of a PanzerArmee.’

  ‘Indeed Herr Oberst, an excellent question. Let us retire to the hotel in Bitburg for a schnapps and I will tell you.’

  During the journey in the staff car, von Manstein ruminated on the years since the Great War. He had studied Monash’s attack, the last of several successful assaults the Australian engineer had made. The Australians had broken through the Siegfried Line where all others had failed, using an organised and patient attack, concentrating all of their force on a single point. Monash had given his tanks, artillery, aircraft and infantry specific tasks and insisted that they stay in communication so they could adapt to the inevitable delays and confusion of an assault.

  General von Manstein knew that Monash had not had an easy time of it—like many generals before him he’d had to spend nearly as much time fighting political battles as he had planning the attack—yet his meticulous planning had paid off: the Australians punctured the Siegfried line and advanced twenty miles in just three days, further than the entire Allied army had managed in nearly four years.

  ‘This might sound petty Herr Oberst,’ said von Manstein, ‘but I fear I am the subject of what you might call professional jealousy. A few years ago I presented a plan for an attack on Belgium and Holland. I believe that the French and British want to fight in Belgium, where the Dutch and Belgians can add weight. Combined, the Allied armies far outnumber the Wehrmacht. In theory, fighting from prepared defensive positions they should be unbeatable. But there is a way to defeat them. Of course, I can’t tell you all the details, but we might as well pass the time. You’re familiar with the Schlieffen Plan of the Great War?’

  ‘Ja, naturlich Herr General,’ replied the colonel, nodding.

  ‘My plan is loosely based on the Schlieffen Plan,’ said von Manstein, ‘but with massed formations of tanks leading the way and going as fast as they can, whether the infantry can keep up or not. In my plan, three Army Groups, consisting of tanks, infantry, artillery and tactical air support strike across Belgium and Holland for the coast. Army Group C in the north goes for Antwerp, Army Group B in the centre heads for Brussels, while Army Group A in the south comes through the Ardennes forest, drives west to the Channel and separates France from Belgium.’

  Manstein’s plan depended on the French advancing the bulk of their army into Belgium to defend the Dyle River east of Brussels. This so-called ‘Dyle Plan’ was well-known to von Manstein due to the efforts of German spies. His plan was to cut off the Dutch in the north from the Belgians with Army Group C and defeat them first. While this was happening Army Group B would engage the Belgians, the French and the British in running battles on the Belgian plains. Meanwhile, to the south, Army Group A would slice a ‘sickle cut’ beneath the French forces, breaking their lines of communication with France and trapping them in Belgium.

  ‘But what about the flanks Herr General,’ interjected the colonel, ‘would not the French reserves drive north from Paris and cut the panzers off once they had advanced?’

  ‘That is exactly what many officers in the General Staff believe will happen, but it will not. Why? Because the whole French army will already be in Belgium and will themselves be cut off by the panzers’ advance.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’ asked the colonel.

  Von Manstein tapped his aquiline nose and smiled.

  ‘They will be in such a panic, they will commit their whole reserve to try to contain the situation early. It’s what I would do if I were in their place, and if I were French,’ he added with a wry smile.

  The whole plan depended on aggressive movement, and disregarded the military maxim of defending your flanks. In von Manstein’s plan there was neither the time nor the manpower to defend flanks—after a week the flanks would be hundreds of kilometres long anyway—the key was speed: break through and reach the English Channel so quickly that the French wouldn’t even know what was happening, o
r where the German forces were.

  It was a daring plan, but when von Manstein had presented it to the Chiefs of Staff in 1939 he had been ridiculed. General Halder, the most senior general in the army, saw to it personally that the plan was buried, and that von Manstein was transferred to command of an infantry force.

  ‘Being a good military strategist does not necessarily make you a good politician, verdammt,’ muttered von Manstein to himself.

  ‘I beg your pardon Herr General?’ asked the colonel.

  ‘Nothing, nothing, Herr Oberst. I think your attack plan would be a good one, it’s simple. Simple plans work best, because there‘s less to go wrong, remember that. Good luck if we ever decide to invade.’

  The car pulled up and the colonel saluted.

  Standing in the main street of the picturesque German town, von Manstein breathed deeply and gazed west for a moment. He knew that the high command were planning to invade Belgium and Holland any day now. Furthermore, his contacts at headquarters had told him that Hitler had resurrected his plan, and the Chiefs of Staff were now enthusiastic about it. The question was, would they stick to it? Or would some fool tamper with it and ruin everything?

  Chapter Four

  France, 22 December 1939

  At Captain Bareau’s insistence, the French lessons were conducted in the local tavern. Three afternoons a week, Joe would start out concentrating, but after downing the best part of a bottle of vin rouge, he would find increasingly difficult to focus on details like formal and informal forms of address.

  ‘You see Lieutenant,’ said Captain Bareau, apparently unaffected by the wine, ‘there is nothing like a French woman. They have what you would call a ‘double standard’. When they are young they are happy to be the mistress of a successful married man; as they get older they yearn to be married and once they are they demand fidelity from their husbands, even though they have no right to expect it, having denied it to other wives. And so they grow bitter as they age and lose their beauty, and before you know it you are married to a woman like your Dickens’s Madame DeFarge, knitting as she watches the guillotine rise and fall.’

  Joe’s head was befuddled with wine and the fumes of the strong Gauloises they had been smoking since they sat down. He was struggling to follow the captain’s complex French sentences. The bar had filled up and the din of the other patrons was making it hard to hear his tutor. Above all he wanted fresh air and a drink of water. He struggled for the right sentence structure.

  ‘So what you’re telling me then Captain, is that under no circumstances should I marry a French woman, I should just have a series of mistresses?’

  ‘Ah ha. Oui mon ami, but to have a mistress you must first be married. It is a beautiful paradox ne’ cest pas? Only the French could have invented it.’

  The door of the bar swung open and Yvette Bendine came in, carrying a basket in one hand. She walked from table to table, leaning down to speak quietly with each group. At each table the men dug in their wallets and produced money which she accepted graciously and placed in the basket.

  Joe’s eyes followed her intently and the Captain smiled.

  ‘You have noticed ‘la belle’ of Roubaix then Lieutenant? Along with every other man here. She is stunning is she not? A bouquet of heartbreak. She comes. Quick, get some money ready.’

  After a brief laughing conversation at the next table, Yvette approached the two men. They both stood as she neared the table.

  ‘Capitan,’ she said, inclining her head modestly.

  ‘Mademoiselle, enchanté, allow me to introduce my fellow officer all the way from Australie, Lieutenant Joe Dean.’

  Yvette smiled briefly at Joe and held out her hand to the captain.

  ‘The lieutenant and I have already met, mon Capitan. His men are turning my precious excavation into a trench.’

  ‘In that case Mademoiselle, he owes you a favour. Lieutenant, I order you to empty your wallet into the young lady’s basket, for the sake of the orphans of Roubaix, of which there will be many more before this war is over.’

  ‘It is my duty, mon Capitan,’ replied Joe, dropping his last bills into the basket in the name of duty, and looking the girl right in the eye.

  ‘Merci m’sieur,’ said Yvette in a little sing-song voice, then whisked away to the next table.

  Joe sat down with heavy sigh. Was she mocking him?

  ‘Ah, you are in love Lieutenant, non? How old are you? Twenty-one maybe? It is a disease that afflicts all men of your age, but there’s no doubt she is something special. I wish you luck in your pursuit. Something tells me many have failed before.’

  Captain Bareau savoured a sip of wine and smacked his lips.

  ‘Now then, what we need is some cheese.’

  He signalled to the barman and called out a request that Joe should have understood, but he was watching the girl as she moved from one table to the next, flirting just a little with every man in the room, making each one feel he was somehow special.

  Chapter Five

  Belgium, 10 January 1940

  Luftwaffe Major Helmuth Reinberger had received orders to be at OKW forward headquarters in Cologne, by nine the next morning. The orders stated that officers attending were expressly forbidden to fly, but that night in the mess at Loddenheide airfield, he had met Major Hoenmanns. After a few lagers, the major had mentioned that he was flying to Cologne the next day and offered him a lift.

  ‘I need to get my uniforms laundered, and that is my wife’s duty,’ said Hoenmanns, ’mind you, it’s the only conjugal duty she will do these days. Fortunately,’ he added with a wink, ‘I have a little fraulein off base here to take care of that.’

  Hoenmanns’ domestic arrangements and infidelities were of little interest to Reinberger, but the offer stood. He pondered the delays caused by the troop trains marshalling around Cologne for the assault on Belgium—he had next-to-no-chance of getting to the meeting on time that way, he should have left that afternoon.

  With his orders not to fly ringing in his ears, Major Reinberger swallowed his beer.

  ‘I accept your offer. 9am then? Alles gut.’

  It was 10am by the time they left the ground, and the headwind blowing from the west slowed the tiny Messerchmitt 108’s airspeed to little more than 70 knots. The sun had filled the windscreen when they took off, but now they were entering a fog and the ground below was becoming shadowy and indistinct.

  Reinberger pulled one of the earmuffs off his ear and leaned over to where Major Hoenmanns held the joystick.

  ‘How long now?’ he yelled over the roar of the engine only a few feet in front of them.

  ‘Ten minutes?’ shrugged Hoenmanns, flashing the fingers of his left hand twice, ‘I’m surprised we haven’t seen the Rhine already.’

  Nervously fingering the pigskin briefcase on his lap, Reinberger looked down again. The fog had thickened. He tapped Hoenmanns on the shoulder and gesticulated downwards with this thumb.

  ‘Get below this fog,’ he yelled, ‘we need to know where we are.’

  The major pushed the stick and the ME108 fell rapidly towards the earth. Passing through 300 metres they abruptly cleared the fog, to find themselves over white fields, with no river in sight.

  ‘Where the hell are we?’ Reinberger yelled to Hoenmanns.

  Reinberger stared out the cockpit window. He had spent many hours reviewing aerial maps of the border of France and Belgium, planning the co-ordination of Luftwaffe sorties with advance units in the forthcoming invasion. The reconnaissance photos he had studied were taken in summer; now the land was covered in snow and none of it looked familiar. After a few minutes his eyes picked out the curve of a river beneath them. He studied the river with a worm of doubt gnawing at his mind. Was it the Rhine? Was it the Meuse? Then he recognised a distinctive bow in the river.

  ‘Turn around.’ he yelled at Hoenmanns, pointing down at the river, ‘I think we’re over Belgium.’

  ‘What?’ screamed Hoenmanns over the noise of the eng
ine.

  Reinberger pointed down and howled ‘Belgium!’ into his ear.

  Hoenmanns blanched. He altered course south-east, then opened a side window in the side of the cockpit glass and stuck his goggled face into the slipstream to get a better view. In his haste to find out where they were, his arm bumped the fuel line switch to ‘Off’.

  After a few seconds the note of the engine climbed, coughed once, cut back in, hiccoughed, then cut altogether, leaving only the sound of rushing wind.

  Reinberger stared at the pilot. The man was frantically flicking switches and seemed to be in a panic.

  ‘Put your belt on and brace yourself,’ yelled Hoenmanns as he pitched the plane forward into a glide. He quickly scanned the ground for a clear field, then noted the wind direction from the smoke of a farmhouse chimney a few hundred metres ahead: it was blowing across the field, not ideal.

  He lowered the flaps and struggled to wind down the landing gear, making the plane wobble as it descended. Major Reinberger closed his eyes and gripped the briefcase.

  The ME108 approached the field at just above stalling speed and the major pushed it down slowly. They ghosted over some telegraph wires, then the ground came up with a rush and the plane hit between two poplars that sheered off the wings with a tremendous crash. The cockpit glass exploded into a thousand fragments and the two men were thrown about as the plane bounced once, then smashed into a thicket and came to a stop.

  There was silence, but for the ticking of the cooling engine.

  The owner of the field looked up from his cows and took a puff on his pipe. The plane had left a smear across his lower paddock and come to rest in the hedgerow beside the road. The pilot was clambering out of the wreck, lucky for him.

  The farmer trudged off towards the shattered plane, puffing slowly. A sunbeam poked through the clouds, and he gazed across towards the Meuse River glinting in the distance. A man in uniform emerged from the plane, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead, and came running up to him. He had a briefcase in his right hand.