A Storm of Eagles: a World War II novel

By Robert B. McNeill

“In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.” — Winston S. Churchill.

9 May, 1944:  Eisenhower and other Allied chiefs have succeeded in convincing the Nazis that the invasion of Europe will come at the Pas-de-Calais (Straits of Dover).

When Lieutenant-General Charles McKinney is captured after his plane is downed in the sea off the west coast of England, however, the most closely-held secret of the war is in danger of falling into German hands, threatening the success of Operation Overlord, the forthcoming assault on Normandy.

For McKinney is one of a select few who knows where the Allied invasion will take place … and when. He is taken to a Nazi stronghold where the Gestapo’s top agent aims to extract the truth — by whatever means necessary.

Sergeant Jack Steele, an ex-US Ranger seconded to British 6 Commando, is tasked with rescuing McKinney before that can happen. He and his team join forces with SOE agents and members of the French Resistance and put together an audacious plan to liberate the general.

But their quest is fraught with danger. The Nazis have a double-agent close to the team whose only objective is to thwart Steele’s mission.

Will the commandos succeed? Or will the Nazis discover Normandy is the real target, and deploy enough forces in time to halt the invasion?

Fast-paced, with unrelenting action and suspense from start to finish, ‘A Storm of Eagles’ is the ultimate World War II adventure story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pibroch Publishing
• Release date: Feb 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386243694

Book preview

A Storm of Eagles:

a World War II Novel

Robert B. McNeill

© Pibroch Publishing 2015

Cover art by Ander Plana

***

Preface

South-west England, May 1944:

For more than two years the influx of troops and materiel entering Britain has been gathering pace, and now two million men are under arms.

In less than a month the first of these troops — a hundred and fifty thousand strong — will board thousands of vessels at anchor in Channel ports and set sail in the largest armada the world has known.

Their destination is a thirty-mile stretch of the Normandy coast east of Cherbourg. The objective: to breach Hitler’s Fortress Europe and secure a foothold from which a successful invasion can be sustained.

Opposition is formidable: some fifty Wehrmacht divisions man the Atlantic Wall — a series of fortifications comprising gun batteries and machine gun emplacements supplemented by off-shore mines and anti-tank obstacles.

If the Allies have any edge, it is the quality of the defenders: many divisions consist of inexperienced younger troops and older men — soldiers the Wehrmacht consider unsuitable for the Eastern Front.

A much more substantial advantage, however, lies in where the Germans expect the attack. Only six kilometres separate England from France at the Pas de Calais (Straits of Dover), and it is here that Hitler and his top commander, Field Marshal von Runstedt, are convinced the invasion will come.

This belief is based on a welter of reports which reveal that an entire US army is camped in south-east England. The First United States Army Group (FUSAG) consists of no fewer than fifty divisions and is led by the man the Nazis consider their most daunting opponent — General George S. Patton.

The German intelligence comes from trusted sources. These include intercepts of radio traffic, reconnaissance flights which bring back pictures of tented cities surrounded by masses of equipment, and wire messages from Nazi agents in England who witness troop movements in the area. These reports persuade Hitler to post many front-line Wehrmacht divisions and crack SS-panzer units at the Pas de Calais.

But what if FUSAG is nothing other than a well-constructed Allied subterfuge — and the Germans discover this in time to deploy those troops to the real invasion site?

One

The English Channel, three nautical miles from Arromanches, Normandy, 0245 hours, May 9, 1944.

HMS Lochranza prepared to surface as a quarter moon cleared a bank of clouds and cast a wash of soft light across the placid channel waters. The Royal Navy T-class submarine, which had departed Devonport on England’s south coast only forty minutes earlier, had reached its objective.

The vessel’s commander, Lieutenant Geoffrey Morgan, took his place in the conning tower and ordered the periscope raised.

A naval rating moved forward quickly and did so, then retreated inside the vessel, allowing a dark-clad figure to take his place.

The submarine leader manoeuvred the scope back and forth for a minute as he scanned the shoreline, then turned to the man at his side. ‘Your section of beach is over there, Sergeant Steele. On the nail with map coordinates. Topography is as indicated, too. I’d say we’re approximately a mile west of Arromanches.’ Morgan stood to one side and indicated the periscope. ‘Take a look.’

At six foot three, Sergeant Jack Steele stood almost a head taller than Morgan, and had to raise the scope to his eye level. After the dim lighting in the sub, however, it was a moment or two before his eyes were able to take in the moonlit outline of the beach and the dunes beyond it. ‘I agree, sir. Landmarks match the reconnaissance images we’ve studied.’

Morgan nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You and Newman can don your wetsuits. I’ll have a few of my men position the Folbot.’ He turned to the fresh-faced rating who’d raised the periscope moments earlier. ‘Rennie,’ he said, ‘take Miller and Simms. Go aft and bring up the Folbot.’

Rennie replied in a soft Scottish burr.‘Aye, aye, sir,’ he said, then turned and disappeared into the vessel’s interior.

***

A short while later the Folbot — a two-man collapsible canoe — had been passed through the hatch and placed alongside the submarine. Corporal Russ Newman, the second of the two-man recce team, stood at his skipper’s side on the sub’s hull and adjusted his goggles. ‘Glad the sea’s calm, Jack,’ he said. He nodded to the moon, momentarily obscured by scudding clouds. ‘Enough light, too.’

Steele gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Not sure if that’s entirely a good thing.’ He thumbed in the direction of the shore. ‘Kraut patrols, remember.’

Newman pursed his lips, then said, ‘Sure, Jack, I ain’t forgetting.’

At that moment Morgan jumped down from the conning tower and approached. ‘All right with the infra-red signal procedure, Sergeant Steele?’

Steele nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll train my lamp on your bearing when we’re ready to return. Await your signal then head out.’

Morgan looked at his watch. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s synchronise the time. It’s now 0315 hours.’ The three synchronised watches, then Morgan continued, ‘I’ll submerge soon. Be watching for your signal between 0400 and 0415.’

‘Okay, sir,’ Steele said. ‘Our sweep of the beach should take no more than thirty minutes.’

Morgan extended his hand. ‘Well, good luck to you both. Hope to have you back safely aboard within the hour.’ Steele and Newman shook his hand and began making their way to the Folbot.

‘Oh, before you go, Steele,’ Morgan said.

Steele stopped and turned around. ‘Sir?’

‘Sorry. I’m just curious about something and hope you don’t mind my asking. Didn’t get a chance earlier because we were running silent on the way over. Fair number of German E-boat patrols in these waters, you understand?’

‘I understand, sir. What was it you wanted to know?’

‘My orders mentioned you are a reconnaissance unit from number 6 Commando based in Helensburgh in Scotland. Yet you both speak with a North American accent. I take it you’re Canadian?’

Steele grinned. ‘No, sir. American. Newman and I both hail from the New York area — myself from Brooklyn, Newman from Queens. Came over in ’42 with the 34th US Rangers. Seconded to 6 Commando in February last year.’

‘I see.’ Morgan broke into a good-natured laugh. ‘The entire south coast of England is groaning under the weight of your fellow countrymen, Steele. Think the coming show means we’ve a better chance of beating Jerry?’

Steele got into the Folbot beside Newman and gave Morgan a wink. ‘Don’t see how we can fail, sir.’

***

The English Channel, eight nautical miles south of Lyme Bay, south-west England, 0325 hours, 9 May, 1944.

Oberleutnant Franz Keller-Zeibe reduced the Schnellboot’s three 2,000-horsepower Mercedes Maybach engines to half speed and marvelled at the tranquil scene before him.

Just eleven days earlier this wide sweep of Lyme Bay, part of the ancient Jurassic Devon Coastline, had been the scene of a fierce naval engagement which began as an Allied training mission called Exercise Tiger. His craft, the 44-knot S-128 torpedo boat, had been part of a German flotilla which had intercepted and sunk two LSTs (Landing Ship, Tank) and severely damaged two others. More than six hundred American lives had been lost in the action.

The Allies had been lax on that occasion, Keller-Zeibe reflected, and it had cost them dearly. He thought it unlikely he would encounter a similar drama tonight.

Keller-Zeibe turned to his second-in-command, Leutnant Henrik Weiss. ‘South west, then 48 degrees north, Henrik. Around Land’s End and we’ll take a look at the Cornish side. Full thrust.’

‘South west. 48 north. Full thrust. Jawohl, Herr Kapitan.’

The three powerful diesels throbbed in response and the S-128’s bow cut though the sea, creating a maelstrom of the calm channel waters.

Fifteen minutes later the vessel had rounded Land’s End and was within sight of St Ives when Keller-Zeibe ordered the power cut to half. Again the S-128’s engines settled into a rhythmic beat as the craft settled to a steady course.

The Schnellboot’s captain looked to the coast then and raised his binoculars. He studied the shoreline for a long moment, then turned to his number two. ‘Quiet here, also, Henrik.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Not even a rowboat. The Cornish smugglers appear to be having a night off.’

And it was then they heard it: