Zero Hour Trilogy: Deep Trouble

Book 0: Zero Hour Trilogy

by Rob Lofthouse

Genres: Action & Adventure; Coming of Age; Historical Fiction; War & Military; Military Thrillers

Synopsis

Written by a retired British soldier, Deep Trouble is the first in a trilogy of novels telling the breathless, vivid story of one young recruit's experience of one of the greatest military invasions ever launched. 6 June 1944 - Somewhere over the Normandy coastline, Robbie Stokes sits in a glider, his Bren resting on the floor between his outstretched legs. The nose lowers and the glider descends rapidly: ten minutes of stomach-churning twists and turns until suddenly the call goes up to 'BRACE'. The belly makes contact with the ground and the first Allied troops tumble out into occupied Europe. For Robbie Stokes it is the beginning of 72 hours of brutal and relentless conflict: a test of character, a test of nerve, a test of comradeship, of the band of brothers around him. If they fail, then the Allied invasion fails. They must succeed on their longest day. The operation to Pegasus Bridge is one of the most famous of the Second World War. Taking place six hours before the famous Normandy landings, when six gliders deposited the 2nd Battalion, Oxford and Bucks Light Infantry behind enemy lines with the orders to take and hold the bridges at Bénouville and Ranville. Part of this work has been previously published under the title, Well Past Trouble.

Release date: January 7, 2016

Publisher: Heron Books

Print pages: 128

Sample

Operation Overlord, the Battle of Normandy, which included the D-Day landings or Operation Neptune, was launched with an airborne assault involving 1,200 aircraft, preceding the 5,000 vessels and 160,000 troops that would cross the English Channel on 6 June 1944. These advanced operations to seize key infrastructure points in the Normandy hinterland included the battle to secure the Bénouville Bridge by glider-borne forces, as described in this book. The bridge was renamed Pegasus Bridge in 1944, in honour of the operation, the success of which led to the limiting of the counter-attack capability of German forces.

Rob Lofthouse writes with passion and a compelling eye for detail which is informed by his family connection with the operation and his experiences as a soldier in 5 Airborne Brigade in the 1990s. At this time his unit was in a tactical air-land operations role, which might be seen as one of the legacies of glider-borne operations. This intimate and deeply personal understanding of the history and environment is captured in his ability to propel the reader into the sensory assaults experienced by the troops of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry as they were towed towards their drop zone through the hostile night skies over France.

This book was written in the year of the seventieth anniversary of Operation Overlord, and there is a poignancy and sense of place and time embedded in Rob’s writing. Although his descriptions of the individual actions are meticulous and exceptional in their adherence to authenticity and accuracy, it is the author’s portraits of the men at the heart of the story that drive the emotional intensity which grips the reader so staunchly and prevents the narrative becoming mechanistic.

I believe it is possible for soldiers throughout the history of the British Army in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries to identify with Robbie Stokes, and to feel a deep-rooted connection and sense of reflected self in his experiences, thoughts and motivations.

It is the moments of tenderness, fatigue, humour, inactivity and frustration that form the most affecting passages, as Rob Lofthouse propels us into the heart of modern military operations and allowed them a rare glimpse into the heart and mind of a young man in close combat.

*

Major Justin Featherstone MC

00.01 hrs, 6 June 1944, somewhere over the Normandy coastline

The flight so far had been uneventful, but I was slowly losing faith in the overloaded kite we were all crammed into. The Horsa glider bucked and jerked left and right, as if we were being dragged through the night sky by a large energetic child. My stomach heaved and I silently cursed the airsickness tablets they given us that were no good to man or beast. The airframe creaked and moaned with all the forces imposed on it. With every creak of timber and aluminium, I waited for the glider to disintegrate. It looked great sat in the hangar back at RAF Tarrant Rushton in Dorset. It even looked a pretty awesome concept on the sketches we were shown, but it dodged and weaved so much as it was dragged through the sky by the Halifax bomber out front, I was worried when we released ourselves from its umbilical, we would plummet to the ground far below with the elegance and grace of a house brick.

Sleep seemed impossible, yet some of the boys managed it. How on earth could they sleep at a time like this? Never mind crashing at any moment, we still had the Germans to contend with. As I thought about our daring plan, the more absurd it became. We were to land our gliders next to a canal bridge and jump out and capture it in the vain hope Jerry would be scratching his arse in bed while we did it. Maybe the most absurd plans during war were the most successful. I glanced around the dim interior of the glider; most just sat there, eyes open, deep in their own thoughts. Boots tapping and knees bouncing – with nerves no doubt. I was not any better. I couldn’t read their facial expressions. The camouflage cream was smeared on heavily, and I could just make out the moustaches on some of them.

Conversation was almost impossible. The glider may have been without an engine, but the air outside screamed past with a horrendous din. In the confined space it was rather warm. I was sweating like a beast in all my gear. Cam cream and sweat was causing my eyes to sting. I made a fruitless attempt to ease the stinging with my sleeve. My helmet was firmly in place, crude strips of green material attached to break up its outline. Heavy hobnailed combat boots were standard issue. Thick woollen socks made them as comfortable as they were going to be. Canvas gaiters were strapped around the tops of the boots, more for decoration than anything else, since I always ended up with wet feet. My combat trousers were rough, heavy and brown, held up with braces. My underwear was a basic affair, light shorts with an undershirt. I wore my heavy Denison smock over the top, which weighed a ton with everything crammed into the pockets. Equipment was basic, given the limited space we had in the glider. A canvas belt, shoulder straps, plus two large ammunition pouches on the front. Worn high on my back, I had a small canvas backpack, which only really had room for food but was filled with more equipment required for the mission, including wire cutters and raincoat. No luxuries, we just didn’t have the room. Digging into the base of my back was my entrenching tool, a small lightweight shovel-cum-pickaxe. We all had one, so if we were static for a considerable period of time, we had the means of digging in to protect us from artillery fire and the like.

My personal weapon was a Bren light machine gun. A beast of a weapon. Its only real drawback was that it could be rather cumbersome, especially when moving around in confined spaces such as buildings. Its large curved thirty-round magazine protruded from the top, feeding it with .303 calibre rounds. The .303 could put an elephant down, no problem, let alone a man. I had an extra five magazines in my pouches, and every non-gunner in the platoon carried another four magazines for the gunners. The company commander, Major Anthony Hibbert, wanted maximum firepower, but we also had to be mindful of our weight for the glider. To top off our combat loads, each man had up to nine grenades, since they were excellent at dealing with houses and stubborn Jerries in trenches, really taking the fight out of them. Each platoon also had a two-inch mortar, which the serjeant controlled. For good measure, the riflemen in the platoon also had to carry two mortar bombs each. They carried all the extra ammunition in canvas sacks, enabling them to drop it off at positions when required. Despite my reservations, I was quietly confident we would give Jerry a proper good hiding, should they contest what we had in mind.

Strapped to a wall of the glider, I tried to adjust myself. I accidentally kicked a shin belonging to my platoon serjeant, Sean Wardle. In a faint glow of red torchlight I could make out his glare at me. It was a menacing, murderous glare, the red glow and his heavily cam-creamed face making him look all the more sinister. I smiled sheepishly and mouthed an apology, trying my hardest to break free of his gaze. Sean was a firm but fair man. His method of leadership was rather brash, but he would take time to show you how he wanted stuff done. If you put your hand up and admitted you didn’t understand or had forgotten what he wanted you to do, that was fine; he would show you again. I never pretended to be the best soldier, since there were plenty of men more worthy of that title, but if I tried to cuff it, and everything then went tits up, he would be on my case like you wouldn’t believe. Very rarely did he drink with me or the other lads in my section of the platoon. It wasn’t because he didn’t feel us worthy of his company, he just had enough on his plate. He wasn’t on all the lads’ Christmas-card lists either, but as far as I was concerned, it was a fair trade-off.

Sean returned his gaze to a torchlight-illuminated map in the hands of our platoon commander, Lieutenant Bertie Young, who was sitting next to him. Young was no clown; very intelligent, very fit and a good soldier. He was daring and reckless in equal measure. His devil-may-care attitude to life was rather fun but bloody tiring. He endeavoured to have his platoon doing the risky parts of any exercise, the toughest of the assignments dished out by Major Hibbert. Consequently, our level of physical fitness as a platoon was very high. Where Young got his energy from was anyone’s guess. Sean spent most of his time keeping him out of trouble.

Sitting just out of the glow of Young’s torch was my section commander, Corporal Terry Thomson. Terry was pretty much cut from the same cloth as Sean. They were long-term friends, but when it came to operations like this, you could see the professional boundary between corporal and serjeant. Like Sean, Terry was a family man, but had a more maverick streak. He had the same leadership style as Sean, but the rogue mindset of Young, a dangerous combination, some might say. But as far as I was concerned, Terry was a good guy to have in your corner.

Watching the three of them try and converse above the awesome din of the flight became a rather pleasant distraction. Young would shout like a madman, Sean and Terry nodding. Serjeant and corporal both knew what was required; Major Hibbert insisted we all did. Our rehearsals for tonight had been detailed, to say the least. Things could change in the blink of an eye, so even the newest private soldier had to understand clearly what the mission was, come what may.

My focus on their discussion was broken when the glider began to bob and weave heavily again. Another flicker of light caught my attention. In the glow of a match I could make out the heavily cam-smeared profile of Tony Winman. He was the same age as myself, twenty-three, and hailed from Southampton. How on earth he had managed to end up in the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry, God only knows. The story I heard was he moved up to St Albans at the start of the war, since Southampton was getting hammered by the Luftwaffe. St Albans was a safer bet for his mother and sister too. He had only joined the Ox and Bucks about a year ago, and was still very much one of the new boys.

Something thick and heavy clashed against the right side of my helmet, making me jump and feel rather agitated. The solid mass happened to be the dozing head of Frank Williams. This guy could sleep on a chicken’s lip. A London boy, he was a bull of a man. But despite his intimidating frame, he was a wonderful guy, the platoon clown. His antics in and out of barracks would drive Sean to despair sometimes, which would do nothing more than fuel Frank’s thirst for larking about. Without ceremony, I shoved Frank’s head away from mine, and his bonce crashed into Dougie Chambers, on the other side of him. Even over the din, I could make out Dougie’s curses. Frank emerged from his slumber. Sean slowly shook his head. Frank gave an exaggerated yawn and stretched his arms wide, pinning me and Dougie against the wall. Frank flinched as Dougie jabbed at his midsection. I just sat there, waiting for it all to subside, Frank’s huge arm across my chest. Besides, I couldn’t get a good jab in. Off to my left, towards the tail of the glider, I noticed Lance Corporal Bobby Carrol dozing away. Second-in-command of my section, he was also company fitness instructor. Frank lit a cigarette, and proceeded to blow smoke rings at those he knew were non-smokers. I noticed Sean and Young look at each other, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes.

A barely audible shout came from the cockpit: ‘Action stations!’ This was passed down the aircraft, and the professional in all of us came to the surface. Cigarettes were extinguished, torches put out, maps put away, dozing soldiers shoved awake. I got myself sorted, ensuring my helmet was correctly fitted, my seat harness secure, Bren stowed muzzle up between my knees. My stomach began doing somersaults; clammy hands gripped the gun. I couldn’t help myself, but my left knee was bouncing up and down like crazy. I fought hard to prevent it, peering around at the other faces in the gloom. Some had bouncing knees too. We were really doing this. We were at the tip of the spear fo. . .