1: 'Big Trouble! - Tommies Kommen!'

When Adolf Hitler issued his War Directive No. 40 on 23 March, 1942, he could hardly have imagined just how timely was its warning of imminent British strikes against the exposed and vulnerable coastline of the new Reich.

More often than not an albatross around the necks of his many more gifted subordinates, the Führer and Supreme Commander was nevertheless capable of acting from time to time with uncanny prescience; and on this occasion his prediction was so accurate that he might almost have been able to see inside the mind of Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten, the determined and charismatic adversary charged with delivering to Adolf just such unwelcome surprises.

The thrust of his warning was that, however unlikely such adventures might seem from a purely military standpoint, the desperate British must eventually be driven by political and propaganda considerations alone to mount a strong attack somewhere along the borders of the Reich. Yes, they were woefully short of men and matériel; and yes, their hard-pressed armies were retreating almost everywhere: however, their attacks at Vaagso and the Lofotens during 1941, and their recent assault on the radar site at Bruneval, had proved they could still lash out from behind the shelter of Churchill's bombastic oratory.

In an absolute sense such escapades posed little threat to the overall security of the Reich; however, they most certainly would - as Hitler feared and Mountbatten fully intended - force a withdrawal of vital resources from other theatres in order to mount a comprehensive defence.

With such an extended seabord to protect, stretching all the way from the North Cape to the Franco--Spanish frontier, it was all but impossible to define with any certainty even the general area against which such a strike might be launched. Past experience, fuelled by Hitler's personal conviction that the British would eventually attempt a full-scale invasion in the north, would seem to place Norway at the top of any potential list of targets; however, no one could be sure, so his warning was issued to all commanders of strong points and Coastal Defence Sectors, each of whom must guage its import on the basis of how vulnerable he believed his own particular charge to be.

Of all the potential targets, temptingly close to England though its channel coast might be, Occupied France must surely be considered far too hard a nut to crack, unless an attacking force was prepared to risk being mauled by coastal artillery and the Luftwaffe.

Perhaps the most secure of all were the chain of heavily fortified western seaports, the glittering prizes of Brest, Lorient, St. Nazaire, La Rochelle and Bordeaux, which gave the German navy direct access to the Atlantic from France's Biscay coast; and of these the defenders of St. Nazaire had particular cause to feel smug, for in addition to the multiplicity of cannon that surrounded it, the benign hand of mother nature had rendered this importand port and submarine base all but unapproachable by stealth.

Situated six miles from the open sea, tucked deep inside the throat of the yawning estuary of the River Loire, St. Nazaire was protected by shoals and mudflats so extensive as to restrict ships of any substance to a narrow, twisting and easily defended deep-water channel. No enemy warship could pass along this channel and survive the guns which lined the estuary shores, this almost certain guarantee of her destruction greatly easing the mind of the commander of the port, the Sea Commandant (Seekommandant) Loire, Kapitän zur See Zuckschwerdt.

Apparently inviolate, it was small wonder, therefore, that when the air raid sirens wailed out at 2330 on the night of 27th March no significance was attached to the event beyond the expectation of yet another pounding from the bombers of the RAF.

As the progress of the lumbering Whitleys and Wellingtons was carefully monitored by radar, the defenders of St. Nazaire rushed to their action stations at searchlight batteries and coastal artillery emplacements, as well as at the light and heavy flak positions infesting the port itself and the area immediately surrounding it.

As the gun crews and garrison troops tumbled from their shelters, most of the townspeople, whose support for the RAF did not render them immune from the blast of the coming bombs, hurried to their favourite places of safety. In what was becoming an all-too-depressing routine they took up their suitcases and valuables and helped the children and those of the elderly and the infirm who could be moved, down to the shelters they were coming to know so well. All but forgotten in the cruel equation of war, they had only themselves to rely on: themselves, that is, and the courageous personnel of the Défense Passive, whose ambulances, first-aid posts and volunteer groups were spreading across the waiting city.

One such group quickly came together in the cellar of the Santé Maritime building, situated in the 'Little Morocco' district of the Old Town, on its seaward edge and with a perfect view along both river and estuary. Old St. Nazaire was the original seaport, built long before the town of the Second Empire which sprawled across the countryside to the west of the great north-south basins which effectively cut the community in two. A tightly packed muddle of buildings, alleyways and crooked streets, it was virtually an island in its own right. Flanked by the estuary to east and south, its westen edge was defined by the long, straight moat of the New Entrance, the lock that gave access directly from the tidal estuary to the Bassin de St. Nazaire, while to the north it looked out across the empty expanse of the Place de la Vieille Ville, to the disparate clutter of dockyard sheds and workshops which harsh experience would all too soon prove to be the perfect infantry 'killing ground'.

Dr. Bizard, who was in charge of the Santé Maritime as well as the Municipal Laboratory, had control of the aid post, which was equipped for the primary care of the injured and burned. In addition to nurses and other medical personnel, he was joined there by his son Alain, his son's friend Gilles Chapelan, and Gérard Pelou.

They did not have long to wait before the bombers arrived overhead. Alain, Gilles and Gérard, who would also act as stretcher-bearers should the need arise, set off to tour the houses and shelters of their district. Distinctively clad in navy-blue greatcoats and white helmets, wearing red-cross armbands and with whistles at the ready to catch the attention of the careless or the tardy, their first jobs were to see that all the people were safe and that the blackout was being fully observed. They hurried through the twisted network of streets and alleys, accompanied by the crack of anti-aircraft guns from rooftops, from bunkers and from flak towers, even from the warships tied up in the basins.

Although most of the Nazaieriens in the threatened area had quickly gone to ground, not everyone had been quite so prudent in respect of their personal safety. Nineteen-year-old Jean Bouillant, with his mother and his aunt, all of whom lived at No. 32 Grande Rue just a few streets north of the Santé Maritime, preferred to die at home in their beds. Though most of the buildings were quickly evacuated, one or two other hardy souls remained to face the music, such as old Mother Filipon, who lived just opposite the Bouillants and who was too unwell to be moved. Her two daughters, Germaine and Louise, would stay by her side throughout.

As he waited in vain for the first bombs to drop, Jean became increasingly concerned by the apparent impotence of the aircraft overhead and eventually concluded that, if it was not bombs they had brought to St. Nazaire, then it must be parachutists. This was a new and dangerous development which he thought must surely bring fighting to the streets, with the possibility that none of them might survive to greet the dawn. To be suitably dressed to meet St. Peter they put on their smartest clothes, after which they sat down to have what might well turn out to be their own 'last supper'.

As the time dragged by and neither bombs nor parachutists put in an appearance, the family decided to go down to their cellar after all. Like so many of the houses in the Old Town, this gave on to a little courtyard which was joined to the street by a path. Jean heard whispering behind the door and slowly opened it, to find himself confronted by the members of a nervous German patrol looking for a place in which to keep their heads down till the worst of the danger had passed. The officer gave Jean a German cigarette and then they all settled down to wait in the gloom and cold of the cellar.

Similarly cavalier in his response to the aircraft, Pierre Brosseau, also nineteen, who lived with his grandparents on the Boulevard Président Wilson, had chosen to hide where his view of the aerial fireworks display would not be obstructed. His refuge was the open drain that ran down to the beach at the bottom of the Rue Fernand Gasnier. It was hardly ideal, as it was sometimes used as a toilet and so one had to take care in the dark. But it afforded a wonderful view of both the sky above and the leaden waters of the estuary. He watched the searchlights and the waving fronds of flak; he heard the restless droning of the aircraft circling high above; and, like so many others in the threatened town, he puzzled at the strangeness of an air raid in which the bombers seemed prepared to risk the German fire and yet do nothing that might justify the effort that had brought them here.

Much closer to the centre of the town and denied Pierre's grandstand view of the developing situation in the estuary, Serge Potet waited patiently with the other members of his team, close by the indoor market.

A fireman by profession, Serge and the others had left headquarters at the first sound of the alert and stationed their ambulance and fire-engine opposite the Rue du Bois Savary. The streets nearby appeared deserted; however, other eyes peering anxiously from the tops of cellar stairways joined his own in scanning the riven sky. What was happening just did not make any sense. The bombers were coming over much more frequently these days, to the extent that people in the town could speak with authority on both their intentions and technique. They were after the docks, of course, and the U-boats and the fourteen huge pens built to keep them safe that were even now close to completion. In the twisted logic of war the planes had stayed away in the early days of their construction. They could have destroyed them then. Now they could not, for their bombs were no better than firecrackers tossed against the burster slab atop the massive roof. It was the town that suffered more: the homes, the shops, the innocents who could only hide and hope. They had come over four times already during March. Just this past Wednesday a raid had hit the Rue de la Paix, killing ten and injuring more. Always they had dropped their bombs; so why not tonight?

Ground down by tiredness and fear, vulnerable, confused, their children fractious at being forced to swap the warmth of their beds for the gloom and chill of the cellars, men and women all across the town wondered just what it was the Tommies were up to this time. Some said the pilots could not see their targets, others that only a single British aircraft was circling high above.

As the seconds stretched to minutes that seemed disinclined to end, the cold seeped through their clothes and they prayed to hear the sounding of the 'all clear'. For most of them the only missiles heard to fall were metal fragments from the bursting anti-aircraft shells, which showered the city in a hot, hard rain. Eventually the droning faded and their spirits leapt as it was slowly swallowed up by the distance. Those who could see through windows or doors, and the few brave souls who climbed up through the buildings for a better view, saw the searchlights flick off one by one, and heard golden silence almost instantly replace the shattering cannonade. The Tommies had gone at last, but still no 'all clear'. Then the lights came on again, and then the guns rang out again, more of them this time, firing not into the sky as before, but in glowing curves towards the waters of the estuary and river.

Alarming in itself, this new twist to an already eccentric plot-line was made doubly strange by what had happened earlier. It kept the prudent in their shelters and filled their ears with mews and wails not heard before. In an effort to explain it the invention of the very best was strained beyond the limits of reality, consideration even being given to the thought that, since no bombs had dropped, perhaps the whole thing was no more than an elaborate concoction of the Germans - an excercise designed to test the port's defences whilst darkness shielded their activities from prying eyes.

Hiding in his ditch by the Boulevard, Pierre Brosseau was one who laboured under no such happy illusion, as the wondrous but distant display of the mystery air raid was suddenly replaced by a living nightmare the fearsome sights and sounds of which were all around him.

There had been an all-too-brief hiatus after the last drone of engines had faded into the night, before Pierre's attention was caught and held by lights reflecting out upon the waters of the estuary. At the eastern end of the beach the powerful searchlights on the east and west jetties of the Avant Port flicked on again as the Germans, clearly nervous about something, swept their beams across the surface of the sea. Suddenly there was an exploratory crack of cannon fire. Another precious nugget of silence. Then the guns all round the port and estuary really began to thunder, spitting out shell after shell into a dark void out of which came returning streams of fire of new and different colours. There was barely time to register surprise when a group of German soldiers ran out of 'Sud 1', the slab-sided blockhouse on the seafront between Pierre's position and the Avant Port. Pierre was used to meeting them; however, on this occasion they were not at all inclined to be friendly.

'Big trouble!' They yelled out. 'Tommies kommen!'

They demanded that Pierre get out and join the other civilians in the blockhouse. They even threatened to toss a grenade if he didn't move quickly. But Pierre was far from persuaded of the safety of the German structure which would surely become a target if indeed the Tommies were 'kommen', and so he scrambled instead across the Boulevard to where his own home was, keeping low to avoid the steadily increasing fire.

Outside the house he met and stopped his frightened young cousin, who was running away. Not thinking clearly, he put her inside an empty rainwater barrel as though its flimsy construction might somehow protect her from the rain of bullets. After a time he plucked her out again and carried her instead to the basement of the bakery where, amongst the kneading machines, many of the district's inhabitants, perhaps thirty or forty, were already sheltering. Not content to remain with the others, he climbed back up again to where he could peer out from the porch. A boat was on fire out in the river. The cries of those on board could clearly be heard. But there was nothing Pierre could do for them and he watched with growing anguish as the grim spectacle of the developing English attack unfolded on the water before him.

Over on the far side of the Avant Port, in Old St. Nazaire itself, the men of the Défense Passive were similarly caught out
by these new and sinister developments.

Alain Bizard and his friend Gilles, acting together as a team, had gone as far as the Place de la Vieille Eglise, right at the north-east corner of the Old Town, by the time the ineffectual air raid sputtered to a close. Returning to their post along the Rue de l'Ecluse, which runs beside the New Entrance, they saw ahead what appeared to be an exchange of signals between the observation post atop the Port Authority Office and an unidentifed ship out in the roadstead. Clearly illuminated by a searchlight, it looked very much like one of the German boats that had sailed from the port the evening before, perhaps returning early to its berth.

Gérard Pelou, watching the same scene from close by the Santé Maritime, also thought the ship was German until the gun batteries over at Villès-Martin, followed by those atop the 'Frigorifique' building and on the bunker adjacent to the aid-post, opened up on her. The response was swift and punishing, and very soon a furious exchange of fire was taking place, reverberating through the streets as well as through the minds of the dazed spectators.

Alain and Gilles hurried to rejoin the others in the aid-post, who had already been told of what was happening by the incredulous Pelou. The Santé Maritime, because of its proximity to the gun position at the base of the East Jetty, was already being peppered with 'misses'. Gérard, who was concerned for the safety of his parents, set off through the Old Town to warn his father, who was leader of a block on the corner of the Place de la Vieille Eglise. Once the Hôtel Blanconnier, the building was now home to nine families. The offices of the 'Loire Fluviale' occupied the ground floor, and the family Pelou the third. Always when there was an air raid the families gathered together in the cellar. Gérard found then there now. In a tearing hurry to get on he had time only to call to them through the door, 'The English are landing! Do not move!' And then he was gone again, back through the hazard of the twisting streets.

There were Tommies in the Place itself. Gérard had seen them clearly. A little further on he spied a cluster of Germans in position to fire. The normally peaceful port had been transformed into a madhouse. Blades of brilliant light stabbed through the darkness of the estuary occasionally fixing in their glare grey, elusive shapes.

German sailors, armed and helmeted, had already entered the Old Town from the direction of the Port Authority Office. They were even now feeling their way round either side of the Santé Maritime, prior to moving north towards the enemy. All across the town and in the countryside around it, the German defence plan was being enacted just as quickly as units could be mobilized and despatched to their emergency positions. Reinforcements were summoned from outlying bodies of infantry. Everyone who could carry a weapon was being given a part to play in hurling the Tommies back into the sea.

But why had the Tommies come at all? What had driven them to accept the risks involved in such a crazy, costly enterprise? There were the shipyards, of course, plenty of targets there, though few that could not be more safely bombarded from the air. And then there were the massive bunkers of the U-boat base, far and away the most visible manifestation of German presence within the town. With nine out of fourteen pens already built, the base had long been home to the boats of the U-flotillas. Largely immune from the bombs of the RAF, it would, when complete be a fortress in its own right, sporting flak towers, strong steel doors and embrasures for ground defence. Bearing in mind the awful loss of merchant tonnage being suffered by the British, perhaps they had sent their soldiers to accomplish what their air force clearly could not.

This was the target most obviously worth the heavy loss of life an attack must surely incur. But as the events of the night would all too quickly show, its disruption was merely a consolation prize.

It was not for fear of U-boats that so many young men would fight and die this night, but of the awful potential of a German warship far away in northern waters, so strong and swift that British guns and bombs alone were not a match for her.



© James Dorrian: 1998