Necrocide (6 page)

A whistling volley of artillery fire suddenly screamed overhead and sent a plume of water high into the sky in the LCA's wake. It had become apparent that not all of the guns had been silenced as hoped. Hawkins looked over to George Granger who returned the glance with a raised eyebrow. Nothing need be said at this time; a depressing wave washed over the soldiers as they all realised that their hopes for the best possible course of events were lost. It was now time to knuckle down and take the fight to the enemy with the stiffest of upper lips.

The barrage of artillery shells only grew more ferocious as the LCA's in their numbers neared the beach. The soldiers stooped low in their vessel as on a number of occasions, they heard the impact of the powerful munitions find their target and small pieces of shrapnel flew above their heads. Some soldiers clung to each other to offer moral support, some offered a moment of prayer but none cried out in terror. The Commandos were as mentally tough as they were physically. As the Coxswain called out to deliver the news that only a hundred yards remained before the ramp at the bow was dropped, Hawkins clutched his Sten tightly and ensured the safety catch was released. Hawkins Sergeant, Scott McBride could be heard to call out from the aft, the strain of the moment present in his voice.

“Once the coxswain gives the call to disembark, keep moving no matter what. Rally at your designated points. If you are wounded and are able, seek cover and wait for the medics to attend to you.”

McBride exhibited a broad Scottish accent, his robust tone inspired confidence in his men. No sooner had McBride finished his speech, the fizzling whistles of machine gun fire began to scream overhead and clang against the hull of the LCA and to a man, all stooped a little lower in the craft. Hawkins looked back of his right shoulder to the Coxswain awaiting his command to lower the ramp and make haste. The tall lean figure was seen to be ducking down into his cockpit. He was far more exposed than the Commando's in his raised platform and could no doubt see the full horror of what awaited the men as soon as the ramp was lowered. The pallid complexion of the man told a tale that needed no words. The man’s eyes were wide and black. He shuddered visibly every time a shell hummed overhead. Hawkins was in no way daunted by this man's lack of composure; instead it at least prepared him for what was to come.

“Come on, drop the ramp!” Brooks called out as a shell struck the water on feet away from the boat causing a torrent of water to be splashed over the deck. Indeed Brooks might have been correct, the coxswain had dropped the engines revolutions and the craft felt like it was drifting aimlessly, spinning around. Hawkins looked back again to the coxswain but he was not there. The pilot had been struck by a round across the face and he was now slumped across his seat, unrecognisable as the man he once was.

“Drop the ramp!” Others cried out. They felt it better to keep moving than drift helplessly along, easily targeted by long range weapons. Someone duly obliged and it was perhaps fortunate that when the bow dropped and the soldiers were exposed to the menace of MG42 fire from the beach head, the LCA had spun almost forty five degrees, allowing the invaders to alight their craft without the direct spray of thousands of bullets.

Hurling themselves into the water, it quickly became apparent that the LCA had not progressed far enough towards the beach and each and every soldier plunged into the cold sea and promptly submerged, their heavy packs and guns pulling them down to the fine sandy bottom if they were not adept at rapidly removing their encumbrance. Hawkins, flailing in the dark waters and feeling himself being pulled downwards dropped his weapon and pulled his pack from his back. Even after this weight had been removed, his buoyancy was compromised by every possible pocket and compartment in his webbing being filled with survival paraphernalia. Bobbing up the surface, he gasped a breath of life and shook his head to clear his eyes. A train of bullets pierced the waters before him and he rolled away to his left in vain as the stream of flying lead passed him by but not without skimming his right shoulder in the process. Hawkins reeled as the force of the impact which no matter how negligible took the wind from his lungs. He flapped about desperately as if grappling with an opponent for his very life until a strong pair of arms grasped him under his armpits and offered the support required to take three or four calming gasps of air.

Hawkins looked around to see George Granger, his helmeted head now bare and his orange hair darkened by the oily waters. No words were exchanged; conversation led to hesitation and in this moment, to hesitate was to succumb to German fire which though indiscriminate, was heavy enough to be extremely effective. Swimming to the shore, Hawkins unhampered by his wound was yet to feel the pain from his injury and he used every sinew in his being to splice the waters before him. Not daring to look up but not bothering to dive down out of sight, he knew that he was as easily killed by a bullet several feet below the surface as he was on top. His arms powering him forward, he did not stop to think about his lost weapon which nestled into the soft sea-bed, he just wanted to feel the firm shingle beneath his feet so he could move more quickly than the painfully slow crawl that he could achieve in the water.

With only feet to go to the beach, the froth of the waves lapping at the shore could be seen, their usual white foam now a blood tinged pink. Hawkins, gasping gulps of air from his exertions began to encounter the forlorn bulks of fallen soldiers who floated with the tide, their bodies rolling about in the wash. The Commando looked up to his destination and for the first time, took more than a few fleeting moments to survey his surroundings.

A hundred yards of sand and fine shingle presented itself interspersed with 'hedgehogs', large pronged metallic obstacles which hindered the progress of tanks or armoured vehicles. Behind each of these, a mound of bodies, their flesh torn by a hail of deadly bullets. Hawkins immediately made for the closest of these most macabre of structures. It clearly presented the best cover from which to gather his breath before making another push up the beach. With concussive explosions all around the on-rushing soldiers, there was no time to aid the wounded and Hawkins felt with great urgency that if he did not find cover he would soon be target by the machine gun nests which although present were hard to see due to their camouflage. Only the occasional muzzle flash gave any indication of their location but there was little time to linger. Hawkins left the waters and suddenly felt very heavy legged as his waterlogged clothes added a significant burden. He stumbled a few feet to the nearest hedgehog and crashed to the ground behind a cluster of five or six bodies that bore the insignia of the 231
st
. Granger dived to the ground beside Hawkins and could be seen to wriggle and writhe his way into the beach like a sand eel.

“Jesus Christ!” Hawkins screamed over the chaotic din.

“This isn’t light resistance!” Granger added as he pulled his Webley revolver from its holster. It would seem he too had lost his primary weapon. Hawkins, with his head low reached up over the body that shielded him from view of the beach head and snatched an unused Sten sub-machine gun from one of the fallen soldiers. There seemed little point to its use at this time. Firing indiscriminately into the distance would only lead to drawing fire and it would surely be a minor miracle if one of the bullets hit anything meaningful.

“We've got to keep moving.” Granger called out despite Hawkins' ear only being a few centimetres away from his mouth. Clearly concussed by the hail of artillery shells, his skin was even more pale than usual. Hawkins looked back to the ocean where the smoking hulks of abandoned LCA's were drifting. The waters lapped gently at his feet but he was being clattered periodically with a body which was being pushed and pulled about by the waves. Along the beach, it seemed that the other soldiers who had made it had also used the hedgehogs as cover but the Germans had got wise to the strategy and now in turn, each mound of bodies was being pummelled by thousands of rounds of machine gun fire. Above Hawkins head, he heard the rapid thuds of pieces of lead pounding into the bodies protecting them and he knew that it was a matter of time before they would find their way through.

“We're sitting ducks here!” Granger cried out knowing full well that once the mortars homed in on the clusters of cowering invaders, they would be blown apart in quick order. Hawkins and Granger had found themselves on the left side of the beach and where the shingle ended in a rocky outcropping, there was the hope of at least a temporary shelter where the bullets at the very least could not find their target. Hawkins dared to raise his hand to point out his observations to Granger and it was telepathically agreed that they would make a break for it. Hawkins could see other soldiers taking the same course of action, some being cut down the instant they took to their feet. There was no time for hesitation, Granger scrambled to his knees and Hawkins shoved him in the backside to aid him in his acceleration. Hawkins immediately followed and instinctively protecting his head with his forearm, the two soldiers sprinted through the whistling bullets for approximately thirty of forty feet before diving to the deck and scrabbling on their bellies the last few desperate yards.

With their bodies pressed snugly into the rocky outcropping, there was enough solid cover to sit upright although they feared an artillery round finding its target now the Germans knew they had taken shelter there. Sharing the cover, another soldier from the 231
st
curled up into a shivering ball had found his way from the deadly spray into the sanctity of the outcropping. He was young, and clearly in severe shock. Hawkins glanced over to Granger who was wiping his face with a shaking hand.

“There's no way we are going to make it up that beach, not a fucking hope in hell George!” The ginger haired soldier nodded in agreement. To venture further was suicide. The advantage they held in their sheer weight of numbers had diminished. Looking along the shore, Hawkins observed the bodies strewn about in their tens, perhaps hundreds. As predicted, the mortars had begun to dial in to the   makeshift shelters behind the hedgehogs and as the seconds passed, bodies were being tossed into the air in an explosive rage, their limbs parting from their torsos and a fine red mist falling in their wake.

A minute passed and it seemed that the attentions of the Germans had been captured by the bulk of the soldiers who cowered upon the beach still. The intensity of artillery fire increased and the machine guns were taking respite, possibly changing their red hot barrels due to their extended use.

“What do you think, Hawk?” Granger called out. Hawkins understood that he was suggesting a charge up the beach during the small arms fire hiatus.

“There's just no cover!” Hawkins replied as he peered over the barnacle covered rocks.

“There's a hundred feet between here and the next decent cover.” He reiterated. Sitting back, shoulder to shoulder with his friend and colleague, Hawkins looked up to the cloudy sky.

“Jesus, I don't know mate. If we stay here we could sit it out until the next wave, if we push forward, we don't have the numbers.”

Granger said, weighing up the options. Hawkins knew too well that although there was a feeling of safety in this place, it was a falsehood. Hawkins regarded the cowering form of the young soldier from the 231
st
who remained silently staring into space as if departed from all reality.

“This guy's been here for two hours at least. Let's sit it out.” Hawkins suggested as a rain of sand fell upon their heads from a nearby explosion.

The Commando's sat and watched the rest of their comrades quickly picked off half a dozen at a time. Knowing that if they drew attention to themselves, the same mortars that were pounding their colleagues would be homing in on themselves, they sat in silence and watched in helpless horror. As the minutes passed, Granger rummaged around in his tunic pocket and pulled a small pack of sweets from his sodden and sandy uniform. Hawkins and Granger chewed down on toffee as they saw the remainder of their battalion eradicated before their eyes. Their young companion from the 231
st
closed his eyes and inexplicably drifted off into an oblivious slumber. Hawkins envied him.

CHAPTER 8

An hour passed and the guns were finally silent. The next wave of Allied soldiers had not materialised. Hawkins wondered if perhaps the High Command had realised the futility of the operation and had aborted.

George offered a less than expert hand in comforting Hawkins as he attempted to tend to his gunshot wound which was wholly superficial but now stinging intensely as the salty water made its mark.

“How bad is it?” Hawkins asked not wishing to see the large flaps of flesh that had hung drooping from his shoulder.

“It's a scratch.” George replied unsympathetically.

“How long do you think before they start searching the beach for survivors?” The young Commando was trying to stay ahead of the game but sounding rather doom and gloom in the process.

“What fucking survivors.” George replied scathingly. The beach was littered with body parts and little else. The Commando's had not seen movement since the barrage stopped. The Germans seemed to offer little hope of surrender to the stranded Allies who took shelter behind the tank traps and mercilessly been pounded into the sand.

As the minutes passed, the tide had ebbed away a little and Hawkins wondered if they could now move around the coastline and move away from this God forsaken beach. Their mission in tatters, there was no clear path of action for these men. The Normandy landings had failed, or at the very least, this part of the operation was a disaster.