Second Front: The Allied Invasion of France, 1942–43 (An Alternative History) Read online

  SECOND FRONT

  THE ALLIED INVASION OF FRANCE:

  AN ALTERNATIVE HISTORY

  ALEXANDER M. GRACE, SR.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1: Opening Moves

  CHAPTER 2: Dueling Strategies

  CHAPTER 3: Pounce!

  CHAPTER 4: Consolidation

  CHAPTER 5: The Lull Before the Storm

  CHAPTER 6: Sideshow

  CHAPTER 7: The Bulge

  CHAPTER 8: Triumphant Return

  CHAPTER 9: Coup

  CHAPTER 10: Warsaw Rising

  CHAPTER 11: Curtain

  IMAGE GALLERY

  SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY

  PROLOGUE

  IF THE LINES at the movie theaters at the time of this writing are any indication, by the time this book appears in print, virtually every person in the world will have seen the motion picture Saving Private Ryan at least once. Apart from being just plain good cinema, this exceptional film has served the purpose of reminding the generations born since World War II just how much sacrifice our fathers and grandfathers made to defeat what was arguably the most evil regime to darken the face of the earth. The film essentially drops the viewer, as if in a glass bell, onto one corner of “Bloody Omaha” beach during the Normandy invasion, and for an intense half hour one gets a disturbing, even traumatizing, taste of the death and destruction faced by the American soldiers on that thin stretch of sand and gravel.

  Beyond the scope of the film was the similar suffering of Allied soldiers in the campaigns leading up to and following D-Day. Over five hundred Allied soldiers died just clearing Vichy French troops from Algeria and Morocco in 1942, and many more fell in the fierce fighting at Salerno and in the beleaguered coastal pocket at Anzio the following year. While the Americans landing at “Utah” beach during D-Day faced far less resistance, and the British and Canadians farther to the east found the shore defenses in their sector virtually deserted, there followed weeks of desperate assaults on the heavily fortified town of Caen by the British and the agonizing advance of the Americans through the bocage country that spread throughout Normandy. Even after the breakout from the Normandy beachhead, the Allied advance across France and into Germany was crippled by the shortage of supplies brought on by the lack of a major port, with those captured from the Germans having been so thoroughly sabotaged as to require tons of munitions and thousands of reinforcements to continue to make their way ashore across the original landing beaches months after the invasion.

  It is the theme of this book that none of this need have happened. Of course, a simple change in strategy would not have brought the war to a screeching halt, and many of those who died in Normandy would ultimately have died at another time and in a different place as the German Wehrmacht was painfully brought to its knees. It is my contention, however, that postponing the creation of a second front until mid-1944 and then making its centerpiece an opposed amphibious assault on the most heavily fortified portion of Festung Europa handed the Germans far too many advantages and greatly increased the cost of the ultimate Allied victory.

  In late 1942 the Petain regime at Vichy was taking seriously Allied overtures for a French reentry to the war, but the French put up some strict and thoroughly justifiable conditions. Germany already held one million French prisoners of war as hostages within the Reich and occupied half of metropolitan France, with the unoccupied portion lying defenseless before them. Thus the French made it clear that they would not incur German wrath without at least a reasonable hope of enough Allied support to give them a fighting chance at surviving the initial German onslaught and then of reconquering their country. The most the Allies had been willing to commit was a handful of divisions to take control of French North Africa. Vichy correctly assumed that the Germans would react by seizing the rest of France, and the energetic French resistance to the Allies was prompted by the vain hope that Nazi rule would be ameliorated if at least it could be proven that the French had not simply handed over the strategically valuable territory to the Allies.

  The British had opposed any talk of an early second front for some very valid reasons, the primary one being their unwillingness to see the untried American Army given its baptism of fire on the continent in the face of the full might of the battle-hardened Wehrmacht. Apart from the likely bloodbath itself, the British feared that a major defeat would dishearten the American people and cripple the war effort once and for all. Given the poor performance by the Americans in their first encounter with the Germans at Kasserine Pass, this assumption might not have been too far off the mark, although it is not generally recognized that the American forces quickly recovered from their setback and soon had the Germans on the run. It could also be argued that the American forces actually outdid the more experienced British in the Sicily campaign only a few months later.

  In any event, just suppose that a deal could have ben cut with Vichy at the end of 1942. Instead of crawling ashore over the bodies of their comrades, the Allied soldiers would have poured, dry shod, onto the piers at Marseille, Toulon, and half a dozen lesser ports, ready to race inland to set up their defenses. The Germans would have reacted quickly and violently, of course, but their troops would have had to cover hundreds of kilometers of hostile territory, harassed by the Allied Air Forces, thousands of maquisards, regular French troops, and Allied paratroopers. Then, when the clash came, it would have been a meeting engagement, with both sides on an equal footing, rather than the Allies trying to batter their way through defenses on which the Germans had had years to work. It should also be remembered that this was at the height of the Battle of Stalingrad, with every spare soldier, gun, and plane already en route to the Eastern Front, and the German OKW would have had a hard time coming up with resources to face a double blow of this magnitude.

  Speaking of the Eastern Front, one of the primary factors that have been identified as causes of the Cold War was the fact that Stalin understood perfectly well that Churchill really did want the Russians and Germans to continue massacring each other for as long as possible. Stalin resented every postponement of the opening of the second front and every diversion of Allied forces to peripheral targets such as North Africa and Italy. Might a determined Allied effort substantially earlier have eased Stalin’s paranoia toward the West? Maybe, maybe not, but it is an interesting possibility.

  That, of course, is the essence of alternative history, the acting out of some of the great “what ifs” of the past. In this work I have done considerable research into the forces available to all belligerents in late 1942. I have also made a conscious effort to avoid 20-20 hindsight and limited the actors’ knowledge to what was known at the time. The book is written in every way as if it were a history compiled after the supposed events described herein, although it is technically fiction since none of this did happen. Most of the characters are historical figures in positions they might logically have occupied had events changed course, and most of the quotes are authentic statements by the participants, albeit in other circumstances. Naturally, the farther away from the historical track we wander, the more fictional this work becomes, and this is why I have chosen to cut off the discussion shortly after the ostensible end of the war, although the temptation to keep spinning the yarn was admittedly strong.

  Monday morning quarterbacking is certainly easier than coming up with solutions under the pressure of events. Still, there is a tendency for us to look back and assume that the way things evolved in history was almost inevitable, and it is sometimes a worth
while intellectual exercise to speculate on what might have happened if a different turn had been taken. I have attempted to avoid the pitfall of “Cleopatra’s Nose” thinking, that is imagining the whole course of history hinging on some minor, unforeseeable event (such as how Western civilization might have changed if Cleopatra had had a huge nose, and Caesar had not fallen in love with her, and then Caesar had not been assassinated, etc., etc.). I have taken one major decision that was before the Allied commanders and simply given the choice to a different group than the one that historically prevailed, and worked from there. Hopefully, this will prompt some thought, even debate, on the part of the readers. If so, our time will not have been wasted.

  CHAPTER 1

  OPENING MOVES

  2200 HOURS, 18 DECEMBER 1942

  NEAR MARSEILLE

  LIEUTENANT COMMANDER Gregory Palmer, USN, caressed the railing of the destroyer Cole as she crept through the inky waters of the Mediterranean, barely illuminated by the ghostly light of a crescent moon. The Cole, his first command, and very possibly his last he could not help thinking, was an old four-stacker of World War I vintage, although in her day she had once held the title of fastest ship in the world with a record speed of over 41 knots; but that was long ago. Now she was stripped of her torpedo tubes and much of her superstructure, and her decks were crammed with the huddled figures of a reinforced company of Rangers in full battle gear, barely leaving the crew room enough to man their pitifully inadequate 3-inch guns and anti-aircraft batteries. She had been chosen for this mission, as had the similarly venerable Bernadou keeping pace several hundred yards to port, neither for her speed nor her firepower, but for her dispensability. If everything went as planned, she would not have to fire a shot, and if it didn’t, she would probably not get the chance.

  Palmer scanned the silhouette of the city of Marseille, just a deeper shade of black than the sky behind it; with only a fitful flicker of light visible here and there, apart from the single prominent lighthouse whose beacon he only had to keep to his starboard. Closer to, he identified a faint green light from a picket boat that was to mark the left side of the channel through the defensive minefields, and a similar red light beyond it to mark the right side limit. So far, so good, he thought.

  The task was simple enough. Steam into Marseille, France’s largest port, and one of the biggest on the continent, and capture it. He knew that powerful shore batteries ringed the port, and a fleet of several dozen warships, from submarines up to modem battleships, was based at Toulon, just a few hours’ sailing time away. Aerial reconnaissance had reported the shore batteries unmanned and the French fleet at anchor at dusk, but that was at least eight hours ago, and much could have changed in the meantime. To be sure, according to the briefings he had received from Admiral Hewitt aboard the cruiser Augusta prior to their run in to shore, complex high-level negotiations had been going on for weeks and had finally come to an agreement by which the Vichy French government would abandon its quasi-alliance with the Axis and rejoin the war on the side of the Allies. However, the armed forces of this same Vichy government had fought against the Allies with desperate courage at Dakar and in Syria and had blatantly given German forces right of passage through Syria in support of the pro-Axis coup in Iraq in 1941. Considering how this entire operation had been on again, off again literally for months, who was to say that Marshal Petain had not had another change of heart at the last minute?

  That was the primary reason for the mission of the Cole and the Bemadou. To guard against an ambush, the two old destroyers were to penetrate into the very heart of the port of Marseille and land their assault troops to occupy at least some of the shore defenses, which the French had reportedly agreed. to turn over as a sign of good faith. Palmer would then send out a coded message to the waiting Allied fleet, hundreds of ships carrying over 100,000 American, Canadian, and Polish troops and tons of munitions and supplies, signaling them to move into the port and also to land at several points along the coast. If the message failed to be received, the landings would still go forward, only with preparatory naval bombardment, under the assumption that resistance had been met.

  Palmer was to steam into the entrance of the old port and land the Ranger company on the back side of the Cap du Pharo, where a number of coastal defense guns were emplaced, while the Bernadou would land her company at the Digue du Large, the long mole protecting the main shipping basin and the modern port facilities. With those positions in friendly hands, General Patton would have the reassurance necessary to send in the heavily laden transports.

  What concerned Palmer most of all was the attitude of the French Navy. He had heard all along that Admiral Darlan was an enthusiastic collaborator with the Germans and had been the main sticking point in the negotiations with the Allies. More importantly, the French Navy still had an ax to grind with the British, their erstwhile allies, who had launched an air attack against the partially disarmed French fleet at Mers el Kebir in Algeria, shortly after the French surrender in June of 1940. As a naval officer, Palmer understood how important it was for Britain that France’s modern battle fleet not fall intact into German or Italian hands, but the deaths of more than a thousand French sailors in the one-sided slaughter brought to mind his own reaction to news of Pearl Harbor, and the Japanese had at least not been America’s allies only days before. For that reason, no British troops or ships were taking part in the initial wave of landings in France, and the Allies were avoiding the naval base of Toulon altogether until after the beachhead had been secured. Hopefully, by that time, the French fleet would not only cease to be a threat but would have joined the fight against the Axis once more.

  Palmer could see the squat silhouette of the Bemadou angling off to the left now, while he corrected his own course to swing around the looming mass of the hill on which the lighthouse stood. A dog-eared copy of a Michelin guidebook from 1932 that he kept in his cabin told Palmer that the Chateau d’If also stood atop the hill, the very place where the Count of Monte Cristo had been imprisoned. He wondered idly whether he’d have the opportunity of visiting the dungeons as a tourist or as an inmate.

  Time was of the essence, he knew. There were still some eight hours of darkness left in the long winter night, but as many troops as possible needed to get ashore before dawn. There would be air cover from the Navy fighters from the carrier Ranger and the escort carriers Sangamon, Suwanee, and Santee, and three squadrons of Army P-40s would fly off the Chenango to operate from French airfields ashore, besides whatever aircraft the French themselves could get into the air; but Palmer had no illusions that the reaction from the Luftwaffe and the Italian air force would be anything less than swift and devastating. The American and British battle fleets, hopefully reinforced by the French, should be more than a match for anything the Regia Marina could throw at them at sea, but, until a good number of anti-aircraft batteries could be off-loaded and set up around the port, the wallowing transports would be sitting ducks for any enemy bombers that got through.

  Then he saw it, a flashing light coming from the small quay that jutted out from the base of the lighthouse hill. Palmer nodded to his signalman who flashed a reply, and the destroyer swung alongside the pier with a gentle thud, just as the engines were cut. The Rangers began to clamber over cargo nets down to the quay even before the gangways could be let down, and in less than a minute, the crowded decks had been cleared, and all that could be heard was the crunching of booted feet hustling off into the darkness. His crew still manned their weapons, with even the cooks and stewards in World War I-style tin hats, gripping old Springfield rifles and setting up Lewis guns fore and aft in case of a last-minute betrayal, warily scanning the entrance to the port and the closely spaced warehouses. Palmer, throwing caution to the winds, quickly made his way down to the main deck, wanting at least to set foot on French soil.

  At the foot of the gangway he saw a solitary figure, a tall man in the dark blue overcoat and white cap of a naval officer. The man saluted.


  “Commandant Jacques Martin, de la Marine Française,” the man said matter-of-factly.

  “Lieutenant Commander Gregory Palmer, USN.”

  “Bien venue en France,” the man responded with a quivering lip before he enveloped Palmer in a warm hug.

  Palmer looked up to see a green flare arch upward from the crest of the hill, and another one rose up from the position of the Bernadou to the north. He pulled himself away from Martin and shouted over his shoulder.

  “That’s it, Mr. Williams. Send ‘Home for Christmas.’ Bring ’em on in.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the answer came back.

  “Do you speak any English?” Palmer asked.

  The Frenchman waggled his hand from side to side. “Un petit peu.”

  “Well, come on anyway, this will be worth seeing,” Palmer said jovially, jerking his thumb and jogging down the quay with Martin in tow.

  They reached the tip of the headland and stopped, Palmer pointing out to sea. A pair of destroyers could be seen clearly in the moonlight, darting into the outer roads, their searchlights sweeping from side to side. Behind them came a stately column of transports. They would be carrying the 60th Regimental Combat Team of the 9th Infantry Division, a battalion of tanks from the 66th Armored Regiment, a battalion of engineers, and several batteries of anti-aircraft artillery. They would secure the port area and prepare for the reception of the rest of the expeditionary force.

  As they watched, the blacked-out port area suddenly blazed with light, spreading like a burning fuse from one end of the port to the other. Flood-lights bathed the immense complex of jetties and piers in a soft yellow glow, and Palmer could see trucks positioning themselves and the tiny specks of men running back and forth. The tall derricks were swinging into action, probably for the first time in months as the war had strangled maritime trade in the Mediterranean, and he could even hear the tinny sound of a brass band wafting over the water, playing the Marseillaise.