Chapter 3 (earlier chapters can be found in previous posts)
British Expeditionary Force
Sunday, May 12th, 1940
Operation Chokepoint: Infiltration into Belgium
Biffy wasn’t joking about moving
quickly. Just past midnight they crossed the border into Belgium. A civilian
police car and a military staff car were waiting for them there and they
crossed in moments. Shortly after they were flying north again in the darkness.
The crescent moon was growing and shed a bit of light, but Bill was depending
on the slitted headlamp and the lights of the car to show him what the roads
were doing. Several times they had to slow due to bomb damage and work their
way around some rough bits, but they were often doing better than sixty miles
per hour nearly blind.
The Mercedes was making quick time on
empty, Belgian roads. The man at the wheel knew how to handle a car and was
winding it out whenever he could, sometimes pulling right up behind the
civilian police car which then redoubled its efforts to stay in front.
Bill trailed along at the back on
the BMW which had long legs for this kind of work. Those telescopic forks were
so good, they felt like the future, and the engine and gearing were such that
the bike could easily roll along at sixty miles an hour. Bill wondered if it
had been breathed on since the R12s he’d read about topped out at sixty. This
one was happy looking at the other side of it.
The Belgian countryside flew by in
the shadows. By 2am the fast-moving group found themselves east of Liège and
within striking distance of their target. Castle Selys-Longchamps was a Belgian
operational centre for the front, so they pulled into the grounds. Several
Belgian military vehicles were packed under the trees. A young man in full
field kit carrying a rifle waved them into the area and silence swept over them
as ignitions were cut.
Bill swung a stiff leg off the BMW
and stretched in the damp grass. The men in the staff car were also getting out
and stretching after an intense blast through the dark. Whether Biffy was any
good at planning was put to rest as one of the military lorries revealed
another carafe of steaming black coffee. Biffy waved everyone over, and they
stood in a circle around the warm metal container with camp mugs in hand.
“We’ve made good time, gentlemen,”
he began, a voice in the dark. “The main rail line crosses the river that
divides Belgium and The Netherlands just northeast of here. Latest Belgian
intelligence shows multiple German units on this side of the river, the Dutch
side doesn’t seem to have any special attention. We’ll do this as under the
guise of a rabbit hunt. The staff car will park under the cover of the bridge
and you two will wire it to blow. Bill, you get off the road a hundred yards
back. If we draw any attention, we’ll explain we’re looking for a saboteur on a
motorbike. If things look like escalating, you pop out, fire a couple of shots
over our heads and then make for back here with all possible speed. We’ll do a
bad job of following you with the Germans. Questions?”
Bill liked the bit where he never
had to try and have a conversation with anyone because he didn’t speak any of
it. If riding quickly was his main job, he had a handle that. He nodded curtly
along with everyone else.
“The Belgians are supplying us with
a crate of dynamite, so we need to load that into the trunk of the Mercedes and
then avoid big bumps,” Biffy continued. “It’s half past three now. If we can be
ready to go by four, we can be at the target before dawn. We can have it wired
on a timer and be out of enemy territory before the sun comes up. Check your
kit and get yourself sorted. We move in thirty.”
The two younger, dangerous looking
fellows in lieutenants’ uniforms immediately went over to a Belgian vehicle
that was parked a distance from everything else and began removing a wooden
crate carefully. Bill finished his coffee and then took a nature break.
Returning to the BMW he looked it over, but it seemed perfectly happy after its
prolonged, high speed night flight through Belgium. The German uniform he was
wearing included a service revolver, a newer model of the same Luger he’d found
in the crashed Dornier. It was amazing to think that happened only yesterday,
and he still hadn’t slept yet. The coffee must be what’s keeping him on his
toes, but eventually he’d have to put his head down somewhere and have a kip.
He unclipped the Luger and removed
it from the holster. They’d done basic firearms training when he joined the
RAF, but guns weren’t his focus. Biffy was watching them load the crate into
the back of the Mercedes and pack straw around so it wouldn’t shift.
“Um, sir,” Bill began, holding up
the Luger.
“Ah, not so familiar with German
handguns, eh?”
“Haven’t had much opportunity.”
Biffy took the pistol and
demonstrated how to turn off the safety and open the chamber.
“Testing firearm!” he shouted.
No one stopped what they were doing.
Biffy turned to face one of the large trees in the area, aimed the Luger at it
and pulled the trigger. The concussion from the shot was stunning in the quiet
night.
“This
one shoots straight, they don’t always. You’ve still got six more bullets in
it. If things go cock-up, pull out on the bike, fire your shots then toss the
gun and go.”
“Yes, sir,” Bill replied, taking the
smoking Luger back and turning on the safety.
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that.
Is the bike alright?”
“Yes, sir. Once I’m moving, I can
get it to dance.”
“Perfect!” Biffy’s eyes glinted in
the dark. “Part of me is hoping you have the opportunity to dance!”
Biffy turned and walked over to a
senior officer. They began talking in German. He was the one who would be doing
the majority of the talking if they ran into the enemy.
Preparations were wordless and
quick; these men had done this before, which made Bill feel even further out of
his depth. The Belgian soldiers supplied more petrol for the vehicles and Bill
took the panniers off the bike, which included a heavy jerrycan full of fuel,
and left them under a tree. Given more time he would have stripped it down
further. The fenders on it looked like they were made from cast iron and
weighed a ton. Biffy called them all together one final time.
“Gentlemen, this is a quick in and
out. Our captain here will do the talking if we run into any German military.
You two look unapproachable,” he nodded to the two-man demolition crew. “Since
he doesn’t ‘
Deuch’[1] , our sergeant will be down the road
out of sight on the bike. If things look tense, he’ll pop out and provide a
distraction. When we get to the bridge, we’ll park under the arch the road
passes through. Demolitions will rig the girders where they leave the
foundation over the river. Ten minutes to set up a basic circuit?”
The taller of the two young men
nodded.
“Once we’ve got the bridge wired, we
make haste back here. If you get separated, you’re on your own. Get back over
the river. There’s an intact bridge five miles south of the target we’re going
to cross to get in. Eleven miles north is another bridge, but there is a lot of
activity up that way so I wouldn’t suggest it. If you’re on foot, an
alternative might be seeing if you can find a rowboat to get back into Belgium.
Off we go!”
Bill returned to the bike and kicked
it to life. The men folded themselves into the Benz and carefully made their
way back to the dirt road that led to the castle, going out of their way to
avoid bumps. Bill fell in behind them, a bit further back than before.
The road bridge into Lise in the
Netherlands was the first goal. Even in the bottom of the night the Belgian
military were active, and a number of vehicles were in motion on their way to
the bridge. The Belgian army staff car leading them got them waved through two
roadblocks when they finally crested a ridge and saw the river wreathed in fog.
The Belgian car led them down to a
fortified placement on the west side of the bridge. Another military vehicle
that had seen better days was waiting there. Biffy jumped out of the Mercedes
when they pulled up and everyone killed engines and lights. After a brief chat
with the front-line officer, they shook hands and Biffy returned to the Benz.
The beaten-up army vehicle moved aside and let them onto the bridge, lights
out.
They crossed through the thickening
river fog and stopped again. The Belgian officer handed Biffy a map through the
window. Bill kept an eye out but there wasn’t much to be seen in the grey wall
of fog. Bill hunkered down on the BMW, feeling the heat from the engine rising
up around him. After another brief discussion and a handshake. The German staff
car started up and took a right up the road next to the river. Bill kicked the
BMW over and followed. As he passed the front-line officer the man gave him a salute
and Bill nodded awkwardly in return.
This was one of those strange parts
of Europe where the borders followed a tortured history of conquest and take
back. This pocket of Belgium bulged over to Germany, but The Netherlands was
now north of them. Because of this it was a nightmare to defend and had been
quickly conceded, but the rapid advance meant things were still chaotic,
especially in the countryside where they were headed. German paratroopers had
taken Eben-Emael so quickly it had made a mess of any plans.
The
Mercedes’ taillights shone red through the thick fog, providing the only source
of direction as they followed the river. The road was paved and clung to the
edge of the Meuse. They crept north moving slower than they’d planned, but the
fog also provided excellent cover. Finally, the massive rail bridge appeared as
a monolithic shadow in the mist. The staff car pulled into the even darker
shadow of the arch and went dark. Bill pulled up at the entrance. The plan was
going to have to change if visibility was this poor.
“Go through to the north side of the
bridge and keep an eye out,” Biffy said quietly as Bill pulled up.
He kicked the BMW into gear and
pulled through to the other side. When he killed the engine, his blood froze.
German voices could clearly be heard through the fog. Still sitting on the
bike, he shifted it into neutral and made a three-point turn, so he was facing
south, and then, leaving the bike there, crept back through the bridge tunnel
to the Mercedes.
“German voices, north of the
bridge,” he whispered to Biffy.
The two young men were lifting the
crate out of the back of the car and paused after hearing that, waiting for the
next order.
“We proceed,” Biffy said quietly and
calmly. “Hauptsturmführer Müller and I will stay up that way. If we run into
anyone, we’ll delay them as long as possible. Take the bike just south of us.
If you hear voices being raised, take your shots, and then get south back to
the bridge as planned.”
The two demolition boys took the
crate between them and carefully made their way down the south side of the
muddy riverbank into a darkness so absolute Bill couldn’t understand how they
could work in it, but it didn’t seem to bother them. The German speaking French
soldier dressed as an SS Captain and Biffy in his SS Major uniform both
followed Bill back to the north end of the tunnel where the German voices
echoed hollowly through the fog. It sounded like they’d made a camp by the
river.
Bill rolled the BMW quietly back
through the tunnel and past the Benz. He stopped when he could just make out
the bridge in the darkness. Minutes passed by. He eventually stepped off the
bike, pulled it up onto its stand and went for a stretch and a pee by the
river. If anything, the fog was even thicker now, with rolls of it blowing
through.
The bridge and river along with the
dense fog made for strange sound distortion. The end of this long night was
wearing on Bill as he alternately sat against the warm BMW and occasionally got
up to stretch. At one point he nodded off for a moment and was woken up by
unfamiliar voices. The tunnel amplified the voices of the people standing in
it. The French officer’s upper-class accent was clear even though Bill couldn’t
understand the words. Standing up, Bill threw a leg over the bike and waited
tensely. The mist was a lighter tinge of grey; sunrise wasn’t far off.
The two figures of the French
officer and Biffy loomed in the shadows under the bridge, followed by way too
many silhouettes. Bill’s adrenaline surged. The French officer was speaking
with one of the figures and gesturing around the area. This was it, time to do
his bit. Bill pulled out the German handgun and turned off the safety as he’d
been shown. Aiming at the top of the arch with a shaking hand, he was about to
pull the trigger when he remembered the bike wasn’t running. Getting caught
trying to start it wasn’t the way. Holding the Luger awkwardly, he stepped down
on the kick starter and the BMW thudded to life. Bill pulled it off the stand.
The figures in the mist had frozen at the sound.
Bill held up his shaking hand and
began pulling the trigger. The gun jumped in his hand and the figures in the
mist scattered for cover. When he stopped firing, Bill threw the gun into the
mud and spun the heavy bike on the wet road before roaring away with a handful
of throttle. Behind him shouts of “achtung” and “halt” and then sporadic gun
fire erupted. One bullet sizzled through the mist nearby but by then Bill was
thundering through the fog as fast as he dared.
The small town of Vise lay ahead
where the road bridge back over the Meuse lay. It had been stone silent when
they passed through earlier but now in the predawn there were people out and
about. The fog was patchier a couple of miles south of the bridge and when Bill
could see better, he urged the BMW forward. The bridge back to free Belgium
loomed in the grey morning light and Bill aimed for it. Skidding to a stop at
the intersection, he turned right to cross the river. Several locals looked
wearily at the madman in the SS uniform on a Nazi bike.
Behind him vehicles roared in the
fog and a moment later a sidecar outfit and Biffy’s Mercedes staff car burst
out of it. The two German army types in the sidecar looked grim. The French
officer in his SS uniform was yelling at them and pointing at Bill while
hanging out of the back window of the Benz.
Bill gunned the motor and tore off
over the bridge. The outfit gave chase with the Mercedes right behind. As Bill
got onto the bridge, he looked back up the riverside where two panzerwagens
were catching up with them. Ahead of him the Belgian military was on full
alert, watching the pale motorcyclist thunder towards them. A bullet whizzed by
from the Belgian side.
“Marvelous,” Bill thought. “If I slow down, I get shot by
Nazis and if I keep going, I’ll get shot by Belgians.”
He could see the officer who’d
wished him luck waving his arms and yelling to the Belgian soldiers on the
bridge, so he kept going, hoping for the best. Approaching the roadblock, he
held up a hand and the officer pointed him through a gap in the vehicles and
Bill took it.
By this point the Germans on the
sidecar outfit had slowed, but the Benz surged past them onto the bridge and
drove right at the Belgians. The sidecar seemed to think better of it and
turned around back to the east side where many German vehicles were now parked
with troops swarming around. As the Mercedes filtered through the gap in the
Belgian line the Germans on the east bank began to fire and everyone ducked for
cover. The Benz pulled up next to Bill behind one of the heavy Belgian military
lorries.
“That went well,” Biffy laughed,
sticking his head out of the window of the car. “When you fired your shots the
demo boys had just returned. There was a whole regular army regiment north of
the bridge! We told them to aid us in capturing the deserter when the bridge
lit up. We didn’t take it down, but it’s severely damaged. Follow us back,
Corporal, good job!”
Bullets were being exchanged across
the river behind them. Both sides were bolstering their forces and it looked
like it was going to turn into a pitched battle, but there was little they
could do dressed as SS, so they made their way back east to Selys-Longchamps.
The ride back was the hardest bit.
Bill kept dozing off as the early morning sun hit his face. They pulled back
into the castle grounds they’d left only hours before to find the officer’s
mess was in full production and breakfast waiting for them. Bill got off the
bike feeling a hundred years old, but the smell of eggs and bacon were calling.
Biffy thanked them for their work
over breakfast, eaten off metal trays and drunk from steel camp cups; it was
one of the best breakfasts Bill had ever had.
“The main structure of the bridge
got damaged when the demolitions went off. Can you confirm that, Pierre?” Biffy
asked around a mouthful of eggs.
“Oui,” the German speaking French
officer replied with a quirky grin. “They won’t be running trains over that any
time soon.”
Biffy nodded vigorously and turned
to the two demolitions men, “Are you two headed to Achnacarry?”
They glanced at each other before
the taller blond one replied, “nothing confirmed, but it looks a good site.”
“Achnacarry in Scotland?” Bill
interrupted, surprising himself.
“And how would a Norfolk lad like
you know where a remote castle in Scotland is?” asked the younger dark-haired
demolition man.
“I did the Scottish Six Days out of
Fort William in ’38. Achnacarry’s just up the loch from there. We spent a day
bouncing across the grounds,” Bill replied, sipping his coffee.
“Did you finish it?
“Silver medal.”
“Impressive! I watched a day of it
last spring while on leave. It’s a ferocious thing.”
“What the corporal is not telling
you is that he also rode from Norfolk to the Trials, competed on his bike, and
then rode it back again,” Biffy interjected.
The hard men at their make-shift
table were appraising Bill now in a different light. Things had relaxed at
mission’s end, and everyone seemed more comfortable with each other. This
latest revelation had Bill’s stock rising.
“We’ll have to stay in touch,
Corporal,” the taller blond man said. “We’re aiming to bring in bike training.”
Biffy smiled and raised his mug,
“that was a good night’s work, gentlemen. I’m off to Antwerp for some things
and Pierre and Bill must get back to the war. I’ve arranged with the Belgian
Army to run you both back to France after you’ve finished breakfast.”
Biffy was an efficient eater and had
already cleared his plate. Leaving it on the hood of the staff car they stood
around he gave them all a nod and turned to go, “Get yourself some sleep
gentlemen, you’ve earned it.”
The remaining four quickly finished
their breakfasts and necked their coffee. A Belgian NCO appeared and directed
Pierre and Bill into the car they were eating breakfast on.
“Sirs, I’m to take you south to the
French border at Cendron where the French military will take you back to your
units,” he paused for a moment looking a bit emotional. “Thank you for your
service today, for Belgium.”
Pierre and Bill glanced at each
other, both taken aback by the emotionality in his voice.
“It has been our pleasure,” Pierre
said, stepping forward and taking the man’s hand in a firm shake. “We are all
in this together, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied, almost
in tears.
Their little action in the night had
evidently buoyed up the troops. It hadn’t occurred to Bill that what they did
might help these exhausted soldiers keep up their fight. The sergeant ushered
them into the back of the staff car and then ran around and jumped into the
driver’s seat before driving them through the camp and out to the road.
Exhausted, grotty tough-as-nails Belgian regular army types smiled and waved as
they passed by.
“It’s a relief to be out of the
wind?” Pierre asked as the car bounced across the wet lawn and onto the gravel
driveway.
“Usually, it’s all I want to do,”
Bill replied with a tired smile, “But this morning all I want to do is sleep.”
“Oui, moi aussi!” Pierre laughed.
They drove south on winding roads
through the morning sunrise, but soon both were sound asleep. The sun was high
when the driver shook them awake.
“Sirs, we have arrived at the
border,” he said, opening the car door to let warm morning air in.
Bill and Pierre rubbed their eyes
and stretched while getting out of the car. At the border crossing a French
military Citroën was idling and its driver was standing by. They changed cars
quickly and were soon moving through the French countryside back to Reims.
Bill asked after a moment, “Sir, are
you a translator?”
Pierre’s easy smile returned, “Ah,
non. I fly bombers pour l’Armée de l’Air. We have been flying over eastern
Belgium for the past two weeks, so I knew the area.”
“Ah,” Bill replied. “I’d assumed you
were a translator because your German is so fluent.”
“I’m not sure how Biffy knew about
that. My mother is German.”
Bill hesitated for a moment before
asking, “Is it difficult fighting your own people?”
Pierre looked him in the eye, “Nazis
are not my people. My mother is Jewish. If we don’t stop them, I doubt there
will be many of ‘my people’ left in Europe.”
There were a couple of Jewish
fellows in Seventy-Three. Nice chaps. Bill couldn’t understand what the problem
was with them, but Nazis seemed to talk about little else given a chance. Bill
pressed on.
“Why do Nazis hate Jews so much?”
Pierre seemed taken aback by the
question and paused to consider his answer.
“I think Hitler had bad experiences
when he was younger and now it has become one of Nazi Germany’s main
distinctions. A common enemy has a way of making people blind to other things.”
“Sorry if I offended…” Bill began,
but Pierre waved off his apology.
“My friend, it’s people not asking
these questions that caused the problem to begin with.”
They drove in silence for several
minutes. The Citroën was much newer than the old Belgian car and silently
glided over the pavement. It occurred to Bill that they were driving for hours
away from the war to get back to the war. This wasn’t his father’s war of
trenches and mud. Pierre seemed to read his mind.
“This war is like no other. I worry
that we aren’t fighting it the way the Nazis are. Have you read about what
happened in Poland?”
“Only that is was over before it
began,” Bill replied.
“Blitzkrieg is what the Germans call
it, ‘lightning war’. They use mechanical support to move much faster than their
opponents. Poland had a good army, but it was swept aside in only a few weeks.
I fear the same may happen with us.”
“But the allied countries have so
much man-power,” Bill replied.
“Oui, but we respond slowly to this
Nazi lightning.”
Bill was surprised to hear this from
a French officer, not that he spent a lot of time talking to French officers.
“Isn’t the Maginot Line
impregnable?” Bill asked.
“It may be, but I’ve flown over it
many times and it has never slowed me down,” Pierre hesitated again, but Bill
was starting to realize it was his way of thinking through a difficult topic in
a foreign language. “It would have been invaluable during The Great War, but
this isn’t that war.”
Any time an officer had talked to
the squadron they had been absolutely certain of victory, but maybe that was
just for show. It had never occurred to Bill that the people running things
doubted what they were all doing. They drove on in silence into an overcast
afternoon.
Reims-Champagne was running at full
chat as their car pulled up to the gate. Pierre rapid-fired French to the guard
and in seconds they were bouncing over the grass towards the main French
buildings.
“My squadron has been scrambled and
I missed it,” Pierre said, worry in his voice. “I’ll have the driver drop you
off at the RAF north field.”
He collected the Belgian overcoat
they’d given him and pulled it on over the rumpled SS uniform.
“What should we do with these?” Bill
asked, gesturing at his own German outfit.
“Souvenir, I suppose?” Pierre
smiled. “I’m going to fold mine up, keep it in my barracks box and hope I never
have to use it again.”
He opened the door of the car as it
rolled to a stop in front of French HQ.
“Bon chance, William, it has been a
pleasure meeting you,” Pierre said, offering his hand.
The two men shook, and Pierre turned
to face the busy airfield. As he walked away a bomber limped in trailing smoke
and hit the ground hard beyond the control tower. The car jumped into gear and
bounced over the field to the north end of the sprawling air base where the
RAF’s temporary buildings had been growing like mushrooms in Bill’s absence.
He thanked the driver and made sure
to get his Belgian overcoat on before getting out of the car. Things looked
hectic. Two of the squadron’s Hurricanes were refueling and another was a burnt
husk beyond the busy hangars. Men were running to and fro rearming and
refueling. A squadron of Fairey Battle light bombers were lining up for takeoff
while a group of Hurricanes, two of them trailing smoke, were landing behind
them on the rutted field.
Bill pushed through the busy
entrance to the operations hangar and found Flight Sergeant Grimes orchestrating
field maintenance under the heavy clouds. Bill waited while he directed
mechanics and support staff with questions. When the last left, Grimes looked
over at Bill.
“What have you been up to,
Corporal?”
Bill undid the top button of his
Belgian great coat showing the SS uniform underneath. Grimes’ eyebrows shot up.
“Belgian coat, SS uniform
underneath… did it go well?”
“One less bridge for the enemy to
supply petrol with,” Bill smiled through a grotty face.
“Jolly good,” Grimes replied, eying
Bill’s grey face. “When was the last time you slept?”
“I might have had forty minutes in
the car ride back.”
“We’re busy but we have a lot of new
bodies, and everything is where it needs to be. Drop by the mess and then hit
your bunk. The war will still be here for you tomorrow.”
Bill stood to attention and then
went to look for a place to lay down.
Chapter 4 can be found here.
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