Many of them were veterans of the campaigns in Poland and Western Europe… some, like Witzig, had seen action at Eben Emael. A greater majority were newer recruits that were part of a huge expansion of the force in preparation for Operation Seelöwe. All of them were highly trained and highly motivated all the same: the continuing existence of the Fatherland rested on their shoulders, and it was up to them to do their duty and ensure the security of the Reich. None of them would ever know how true that belief actually was.
The lead pilot saw the landing flares from several kilometres away, and instantly increased his altitude to five hundred as he activated another switch that caused the red light in the cargo bay to begin flashing, signalling that the jump was imminent. Increasing his flaps and dropping his airspeed slightly to ensure a slightly smoother ride, the pilot noted the wind direction revealed by the lines of smoke trailing away from the flares. He banked momentarily, placing his aircraft in a more suitable position, and waited until the nose of the aircraft drew level with the trees where Witzig waited below.
The jump light inside the cargo bay changed to green, and there were screams of “Go!” from the loadmaster as paratroops began streaming from the open access doors on either side of the aircraft. It was all over in just sixty seconds, all forty troops had left the aircraft, and the crew were dragging in the static lines before closing the doors once more. The moment he was given the ‘all clear’ from his crew chief, the pilot activated his navigation lights and went to full power, banking away to the north. A thousand metres behind him, the second pilot in line watched his squadron leader’s tail and wing lights began flicking faintly and readied his own aircraft, knowing the first drop was complete.
Lieutenant Clement Howell of the West Hythe Home Guard yawned as he and his platoon trudged tiredly along Royal Military Rd, the condensation of their breath swirling around them in the pre-dawn darkness. Howell was a small, bookish man who, at fifty years of age, had served in the Great War as a junior officer in a supply unit, and had spent his civilian life as an accountant with a small firm in Hythe. Their unit was one of many around the country, garrisoned in smaller communities like West Hythe, with the duties of providing observation of any enemy activity and of local defence in the case of an invasion.
With the current hysteria concerning imminent invasion over the last few months, Howell’s unit had been kept quite busy at all hours of the night and day, and had frequently been sent traipsing all over the local area in recent weeks in search of spurious parachute sightings, reported by excited night piquets and nervous civilians alike. One such report had reached their barracks within the last hour from a local farmer, who swore blind he’d heard a multi-engined plane come over his farmhouse just after midnight, and had seen parachutes coming down nearby.
So Howell and his platoon had been dragged out of bed, and had ventured out into the chilly early morning to investigate and reconnoitre the area, crossing the canal at the West Hythe Bridge and immediately turning left down Royal Military Rd. They’d personally observed no unusual activity so far, and it’d been the third night in succession they’d been called out for what had previously turned out to be wild goose chases. Howell was close to ordering his men to pack it all in and head back to barracks when a member of his three-man advance squad — an experienced corporal who’d seen combat in France during the First World War — appeared out of the darkness ahead in a rather agitated state.
“We’ve got something, sir!” He panted seriously to the great surprise of all, shifting the weight of his Tommy gun from one hand to the other. “There appears to be some kind of force in section strength, setting up flares about five hundred yards away near the ruins of the Roman fort.
“Very good corporal,” Howell replied nervously. “It might be best if we…!” He was cut off by the sound of aircraft off to the east, and they all looked skyward but were initially unable to see anything at all. As the sound passed overhead however, they clearly spotted the small, blossoming flowers of open parachutes in the pre-dawn sky, and a moment later the transporting aircraft’s navigation lights came on as it powered away at the same time that a second aircraft’s approach became audible.
“Quickly…!” Howell snapped, turning to a lance corporal beside him. “Jones… get back to barracks immediately and ring through to HQ Twelve Corps! Give them our position and tell them to broadcast Codeword ‘Oliver’! Make sure they’re clear that we’re reporting ‘Oliver’ and not ‘Cromwell’: make sure they understand we’ve seen parachute troops!” The report of such a sighting would send command centres all over England wild with activity, and as the junior NCO saluted and disappeared quickly back the way they’d come, Howell turned back to the corporal who’d first approached him. “Lead the way, man… let’s see if we can get a better look at these cheeky buggers!”
The platoon spent fifteen minutes trying to approach the landing area without being detected. Howell had kept two squads with him and had headed directly through the trees for what was clearly becoming the greatest source of audio and visual activity. Three-section had been sent off to the left flank, with the intention of setting up a crossfire against the enemy from cover along northern edge of the canal. Howell had been given enough training regarding the engagement of parachute troops to know their enemy was at their most vulnerable in the moments directly following a landing, while they were still trying to gather together and organise into coherent units. With every minute that passed, more of them would reach designated rally-points, dig in and become far more difficult to attack.
They were within two hundred metres of the nearest German lookouts when one of Howell’s riflemen stumbled, accidentally discharging his weapon into the ground. It was as if hell itself had opened up against the British soldiers in the moments that followed. Tracer instantly arced in at them from several directions as enemy light machine guns began to lay down suppressing fire, and a parachute flare ignited above their heads, illuminating their area and casting weird, swinging shadows as it floated slowly earthward trailing smoke.
Half-a-dozen rifle-grenades detonated nearby fired from under-barrel, and six of Howell’s men were killed instantly, with another three severely wounded. Their screams mingled with the cacophony of gunfire as greater numbers of automatic rifles added their weight to the already considerable fire pouring into Howell’s position. Two successive gunners manning one-section’s old Lewis gun were killed outright, with a third injured while trying to return some kind of heavy fire, and Howell was forced to order a withdrawal after just ten hectic minutes. Just eight fit men out of twenty remained, dragging another four wounded with them as they retreated to a position of relative safety.
By complete contrast, three-section was able to reach a more secure position in a lightly wooded area, a few hundred metres further west, without any opposition whatsoever, and the NCO in charge immediately set up a broad firing line as they prepared to attack with his Thompson SMG, one battered old Browning BAR, and a brace of bolt-action .303 rifles of various models. From their flank position, they could clearly see the activity of several hundred fallschirmjäger out in the open fields before them, in the process of collecting their equipment and organising into units as dozens more continued to fall from the sky.