Bloody Battle for Tilly: Normandy 1944

by Ken Tout

Overview

The fierce battle to capture the French village of Tilly-la-Campagne was an exceptionally bloody episode in the story of the allied breakout from Normandy in the summer of 1944. Small Allied infantry units faced an almost impossible mission, hampered by the proximity of the elite German 1st SS Panzer Division and 'friendly fire' from the erratic USAAF bombing raids. If that was not enough, appalling tactical errors by Allied commanders resulted in infantry attacks which were as costly pro rata as the losses suffered on the first day of the Somme. Drawing on vivid eyewitness accounts and the recollections of many who were there in 1944, Ken Tout's masterly portrayal of the bloody battle is a fitting tribute to the British and Canadian youth, who fought, and the many who died, during the breakout from Normandy in the last summer of the war in Europe.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780752499857
Publisher:	The History Press
Publication date:	05/26/2010
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	288
File size:	649 KB
Age Range:	18 Years

Read an Excerpt

The Bloody Battle for Tilly

Normandy 1944

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By Ken Tout

The History Press

Copyright © 2013 Ken Tout
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7524-9985-7

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CHAPTER 1

In the Foot-slogger's Boots

They struggled with the ferocity that was to be expected of brave men fighting a forlorn hope against an enemy who had the advantage of position ... knowing that courage was the one thing which could save them.

(Julius Caesar, 57 BC)

'They told us this was to be our gradual initiation into battle', said the sergeant, 'and one Hell of an initiation it turned out to be.'

'Hell?' responded a rifleman. 'After Tilly, Hell would be a holiday camp.' A German trooper felt the same way. 'Up to this point I had only fought on the Eastern Front. Nothing from my previous experience could have prepared me for what happened at Tilly. The tactic of unbroken artillery barrages lasting for hours was gruesome mental and physical torture.' The war-hardened, war-worn Desert Rats, sent to Normandy, concurred.

Under Canadian command, within enemy artillery range, in a very small area ...

the next eight days were as unpleasant a time as the troops were to have throughout the whole North-West Europe campaign. Shelling was incessant, all movement could be observed by the Germans, there was a steadily mounting roll of casualties ... the infantry could only sit in their trenches, watching the first salvoes throwing up their mushrooms on the ridge, the range increasing every few salvoes and searching out every nook and cranny of the ground.

The tough men from the wild coasts of northern Nova Scotia described it graphically:

Soon the night was a bedlam of noise. Enemy guns began shooting from all angles. The dug-in tanks began shooting at fixed targets. Machine-gun fire came from emplacements concealed in haystacks, from the tin-roofed building, from the orchards, from everywhere. The Germans shouted and yelled as if they were drunk or drugged and the North Novas pitched into them with bomb and butt and bayonet in one of the wildest melees ever staged. ... Soon voices were calling in many directions and most of them were groans or pleas for mercy.

Men from the prairies of the Canadian mid-west knew the same horrors:

The South Saskatchewan Regiment are driven back over the ridge on their bellies through the wet grain and mud, seeking only to escape the savage machine-gunning and the crushing tracks of rampaging Panther and [54 ton] Tiger tanks. And even as they crawl through the three-feet-high wheat, the insensate steel monsters, with engines roaring horribly, follow them, trying to squash them or flush them out where their machine-guns can get at them.

Yet another writer records that 'all that dusty day of July 25th the men kept crawling back, with raw knees and arms and minor wounds. The whole affair had been more or less a nightmare. ... Those who escaped were they who crawled like snakes on the ground. It was one of the worst death traps soldiers had tried to cross, with practically every foot of ground ranged for machine-gun fire.'

No more unlikely place could be found for such grisly happenings than those gentle, fertile slopes south of Caen. A ridge whose dual name would be carried as an honour on more than forty regimental standards: Verrieres-Bourguebus. A ridge but not a mountainside. A pleasant incline up which to take a summer afternoon stroll across fields high with golden corn in 1944. A panorama speckled with innocent-looking villages of sandstone cottages, busy farms and long vistas. Places with attractive sounding names: Tilly-la-Campagne, Fontenayle-Marmion, Beauvoir Farm, May-sur-Orne. Places with religious sounding names: St Andre, St Aignan, St Martin, St Sylvain. Perhaps also places with ominous sounding names: Hubert Folie, Ifs, Grimbosq.

Then, in that July and August of ripening wheat, those slopes were blasted by raging fire and jagged, screeching steel splinters. The sky was darkened with smoke and dust, and then illuminated by lurid flashes, briefer but more frequently lethal than lightning. Flashes of guns firing and shells bursting and tanks exploding. Now flashes only of unwelcome memory in the minds of survivors.

Flashes that persist into a new Millennium. Flashes of recollections they are reticent to share. Unless the records pay tribute to the quickly forgotten dead, and warn of the barbarity and inanity of war.

A Highlander recalled the insane ferocity of battle:

Everyone was shouting, screaming, swearing ... someone said look at the ground for spider mines, someone said look at the sky for the flashes, shells were coming all ways, the man next to me got hit through the shoulder, he fell down. I looked at him and said 'Christ' and then ran on. I didn't know whether to be sick or dirty my trousers.

Cpl Charles Kipp, of the Lincoln and Welland regiment, had no illusions about the reality of battle. For him it was:

dog eat dog, no quarter asked and no quarter given. It was a fight to the death. And I did lose many comrades killed, wounded and missing. And was very lucky to have lived through it. The German firepower was superb. Well directed and in the right place. They knew what to do, and how to do it. It was devastating ... too terrible!

It was indeed hand to hand in the most literal sense. One Canadian company, seeking their own dead, found an enemy infantryman in the middle of their own.

The German had no wound of bullet, shrapnel, burns or blast. He had been throttled by hand in the midst of the battle. It could even be eye to eye:

We had a hole dug atop the bank for our Bren gun ... one night I was on the Bren gun at this post when Jerry opened fire at me. Their machine-guns do fire at a very rapid rate and this time about every fifth bullet was a tracer and it appeared with the path they were coming at me that I was going to be hit right between the eyes and what a cracking sound as the bullets went by my ear.

There was no respite. The savagery went on and on and on. When the Royals thought that they had experienced the worst, and that there was nothing conceivably worse, it became worse:

Every night the Germans would lay down heavy smoke on our flanks and penetrate the Canadian line to encircle our rear. Each morning we'd find the Regiment surrounded till we were able to force the Tiger tanks to withdraw. And, every night, the enemy also sent Fighting Infantry Patrols deeply into our positions, and then would leave snipers behind everywhere. Each morning Royals had to spray all the trees with machine-gun fire to rout them out. [There were no 1914–18 continuous trench lines or clear No-Man's-Land but only networks of two man slit trenches.]

Even sleep guaranteed no escape as gunner George Blackburn records:

You're surrendering to the sweetest of sleeps when Jerry starts lobbing over something of very large calibre. You only can guess it's one of their larger-calibre Nebelwerfers firing their rocket-propelled mortar bombs, one bomb at a time. You can hear one coming from a long way off, growing louder and louder – sounding remarkably like a bus humming towards you at high speed on a highway while you stand at the side of the road. But just as the sound suggests it's going by, it lands with a wicked flash and a horrendous roar that make the ground shudder and sifts sand from the bunker ceiling ... once more there's a plaintive cry of 'Stretcher!'

The tiny slit trench, accommodating two men, was the most convenient refuge at the point of battle, but even that was not foolproof, as a bomb or shell descending vertically could drop right into the trench, the explosion's flesh-rending power increased by being confined within the narrow walls of the six-foot-deep slit. John Martin of the Lincs and Wellands, then a Lieutenant, is not ashamed to admit that:

My most vivid recollection of the night [at Tilly] was the intense shelling ... how terrified you all were in a slit trench and just anxious to dig yourself further into the ground. Every time there was a break in the shelling you could peek out of the trench and someone would be screaming and someone yelling for a stretcher bearer. I'm not sure how we survived.

Stan Whitehouse, an English Oxs and Bucks reinforcement for the Scottish Black Watch temporarily under command of the Canadian II Corps, also recorded a similar sentiment:

Relaxing uneasily in my 'slitter' up front, it was impossible to unwind completely ... a chill moved through my body. I began sweating heavily and the sweat turned icy cold ... During the day I was too busy protecting life and limb to dwell on morbid thoughts, but now, crouched below ground, I reflected on our two lads lying dead back there ... an occasional spasm of trembling ran through my limbs and I wondered when my number would be up too.

Even back, but not so far back, at headquarters there is no respite, no relief. The officer responsible for entering up the war diary of the Stormont, Dundas and Glengarry Highlanders of Canada at their HQ had his pen poised to write down his regiment's experiences when he was given an unwanted opportunity to get 'bang up to date':

All Hell breaks loose! The RSM's ammo dump is hit and catches fire: small arms and grenades go up in fire and smoke. Our BHQ office truck is perforated with shrapnel. Several are wounded and suffering from shock. Shelling continues at intervals, id est, at 11.15, 11.40, 13.25, 13.30, 13.45, 13.50, 14.00, 14.25, etc.

At this period of July, a month after D-Day, Allied troops were still coming ashore and being given the 'Quick march!' almost straight into battle. The Royal Regiment of Canada had disembarked on 6 July and by 10 July were in front line positions. There was no time for gentle introductions. For many there was a ghastly (and sometimes mortally brief) initiation by dirt, desperation and death:

This vicious baptism of fire upon green troops fed with uncooked compo-box rations, little drinking water (none for washing or shaving), with sleep impossible and ravaged by ground-lice was a shocking initiation to war. Our Tanks were no match for the Tiger, our rifles were inferior to their Mauser, his 88 mm was legendary and his Nebelwerfer six-barrelled mortar sequentially fired six 150 mm 70 lb bombs nearly four miles. During these [first] five days, with little [attacking] activity from our prepared positions, the Royals had 1 Off & 29 ORs killed and 3 Off & 71 ORs wounded, mostly from direct hits... In one of these 'Moaning Minnie' attacks on our HQ, our Doctor, Capt I.P. Weingarten, MD, was killed.

For those who, like the author, sat in the vulnerable Sherman tanks, at least with armour proof against bullets and with a big gun to fire at 800 yards range and having the ability to retreat at 25 mph, the thought of fighting German tanks was frightening. What must it have been like to confront the same monsters at 20 yards range, having only a puny rifle and a tiny tin hat, and needing to crawl away through the crops in order the escape the gargantuan fury? Maj L.L. Dickin, 'D' Company, South Saskatchewans, wrote it all down in a dispassionate report next day:

Enemy tanks appeared over our left flank, shooting all hell out of everything in their path. They moved up and down on our left flank. This area is completely flat and there is no cover provided except by grain. In the wheat fields the tanks had the advantage of height, which gave them vision, while our weapons could not see because of the standing grain. Three [of our static] 17 pounders began shooting blind after beating down the grain in front of them. They were knocked out in a few minutes. I next called for the PIATS [infantry anti-tank bomb tubes] ... two of them tried to fire standing up. They were soon dealt with by the tanks.

A Canadian Highlander who wanted to remain anonymous wrote down what his impressions were at such a moment:

Ah, yes, ha ha! This is some joke. They said this was perfect tank country, wide open spaces to charge across with the PBI [poor bloody infantry] safely behind our tanks. And there are those tanks all blasted away and the poor buggers burning inside them and without our tanks we're just sitting ducks for their tanks. And those bloody great Tigers! It was plain murder. And if you got up and tried to run away through the wheat that was plain suicide. ... You daren't even poke your little hose over the top of the slit to pee. Jerry snipers loved that.

The Tigers had 88 mm guns, originally designed to shoot down aircraft flying at 15,000 feet. Now they were used point blank. There were also 88 mm guns in self-propelled hulls and more 88 mm anti-tank guns which were towed into battle. The Lincs and Welland history states that 'so impressive were the enemy's 88 mm guns that one man in the Mortar Platoon informed Battalion HQ that the shells were burrowing into the twelve-inch [thick] stone walls and stopping with their noses poking through'.

Tank men looked in awe and fright on the infantryman's sufferings and sometimes themselves became involved in the vicious encounters of man versus machine. This has been graphically described by Cpl Reg Spittles, a tank commander with 2nd Northamptonshire Yeomanry:

The Germans, Panzer Grenadiers, were jumping on the tank and all sorts, fierce buggers, but some only looked about 16, boys, you know. They had sticky bombs and that was their delight to stick a bomb on your tank. It had a little projectile inside, like a bullet. The charge drove the projectile, which was like a bolt, straight through the armour: it didn't explode and it didn't necessarily damage the tank, it depended what it hit inside the tank! It was like being in a small room with a hornet, because when they came inside, they flew round and round until they hit something. If it hit a human being it could go on and hit another one, so you could have two or three wounded crew in an undamaged tank, or a tank totally out of action but nobody wounded.

Meanwhile we are tossing hand grenades and phosphorus bombs out. They were like little paint tins; you took the cap off and there were two tapes with lead weights on. You threw it up in the air and the tapes flew undone; when it hit the floor it ... went off like a firework and the phosphorus would spray out and cover an area of 10 or 12 feet, and if a spot got on you, you started to burn and could not stop it. We were chucking them out like rain ...

One occurrence involving man and machine was recorded by the Royals who saw a Sherman tank burst into flames. 'The hatch flew open, emitting clouds of black smoke, and those of the crew who could do so threw themselves out. One man came out backwards, catching his knee on the edge of the hatch, and hung there for a moment, blazing like a torch, before he fell to the ground on his head. The burning trooper actually set the wheatfield afire, and the stretcher bearers who rushed forward had to put out these flames as well as those covering the body of the man.'

Waiting to go into action the atmosphere in Bourguebus was most sinister. 'The village was virtually destroyed, and every wall, every hole, every skeleton of a tree sheltered one of the men of the North Nova Scotia Highlanders, whose helmet was covered with net bristling with branches so as to assure perfect camouflage.

Many infantrymen actually found some security advancing out in the open if they could 'lean into' their own artillery barrage which moved forward at a constant pace. This was in spite of the risks from faulty shells or shrapnel spinning back. It had dangers as one battalion commander pointed out. 'A disadvantage of the highly concentrated artillery fire is the dense smoke and dust raised. In one instance the assaulting infantry were unable to see the exploding shells and walked right into them: in another they waited too long and lost their support because they couldn't see through the smoke. Defenders began firing back almost immediately.'

Then there were the perilous minor individual tasks, as when Stan Whitehouse was issued with a prodder with which to dig into the earth as one crawled along searching for mines:

Schu mines were triggered by the slightest tread and could easily remove a man's foot. As he fell sideways he often exploded another mine which blew off a hand or an arm. Flail tanks deal with the mines easily enough but were not always available. It was asking a lot of a squaddie, to go into action poking about with his prodder like a blind man, while at the same time keeping an eye on the enemy ahead and somehow having his personal weapon handy. I still marvel at the accoutrements we had to carry into battle. Even without the prodder they must have weighed well in excess of 60 lb.

There was nothing certain, nothing definite about battle. 'Uncertainty is in the very air which a battle breathes ... the uncertainty of the enemy's whereabouts, the uncertainty of falsehood, the uncertainty of surprise, the uncertainty of your own troops' actions, the uncertainty of a strange land, the uncertainty of rescue and the uncertainty of confusion itself.' There was an all-pervading fear of 'the bullet in the back':

A wounded lad was put on a door and two cooks carried him out, only to walk into five Germans armed to the teeth. [The cooks] had no Red Cross bands but the Germans waved them on their way. They walked forward stealthily, placing each foot carefully on the ground and expecting a bullet between the shoulder blades at any moment.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Bloody Battle for Tilly by Ken Tout. Copyright © 2013 Ken Tout. Excerpted by permission of The History Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Map of Normandy, June–August 1944,
Acknowledgements,
Introduction,
1. In the Foot-slogger's Boots,
2. Departure Point 'Despair',
3. Operation Atlantic – in Deep Water,
4. Tilly – the Epicentre,
5. Operation Spring – Unsprung!,
6. Tilly – Encore Plus!,
7. Operation Totalize – Eating Dust,
8. May – Tilly's Murderous Sister,
9. Fontenay – Fatal for Officers,
10. Tilly – Deadly to the Last,
11. The Other Terrible Tilly Twin,
12. Reasons and Recriminations,
Notes & References,
Bibliography: Sources & Further Reading,