Weaver by Stephen Baxter

September, S-Day. This was England. He thought he could hear church bells ringing distantly, a beautiful nostalgic noise. Hitler had had all the bells in Germany melted down for munitions.

XV
    The sound of the tug engines died, and the barge drifted. At last, thought Ernst. It was two hours since his first glimpse of land. Since then they had run parallel to the shore, before finally turning and driving in.
    The sound of the long battle raging along the coast was already huge. The men lay as low as they could, sheltered by the barge’s reinforced walls. But Ernst risked raising his head and looked out over the barge’s fortified flank, hoping for his first glimpse of Pevensey, his landing site.
    There was a murky light now, and the coast was obscured by haze and drifting smoke. But it was chaos on land and on sea. Assault-troop barges like his own were sliding in towards the shore, jostling for a place to land. On the beach more craft were stranded by a tide that was already receding, the rubber boats and speedboats of the advanced detachments. The beach itself looked littered, as if by bits of seaweed, and it was striped by peculiar black bands that ran parallel to the shore. The invaders were under fire. Ernst saw a tower to his right, and the larger guns of a coastal battery were coughing somewhere to his left; shells hissed as they flew, and landed with crashing explosions, or threw water spouts spectacularly into the air. From the area directly ahead Ernst heard the bark of automatic arms fire, and he saw the bulky silhouettes of pillboxes, fire sparking from the slits drawn in their forbidding faces.
    All this was screened by smoke and a spray of water thrown up by the shells. But it was clear that the coastal defences were not subdued by the advance troops, as they had been promised. The very pile-up of boats struggling to find a place to land proved that something had gone wrong, that the beach wasn’t clearing as fast as it should.
    The barge’s unteroffizier turned in the grey light. He was younger than Ernst, but his left cheek was darkened by a huge livid scar, picked up somewhere during the Nazis’ dash across Europe. ‘All right, lads. Now, we’ve been over the drill often enough. The first echelon are clearing the beach. They’ll cover us when we land, and in turn we’ll need to cover the command companies. Then we’ll organise into our assault companies, get off the damn beach and through the marshy rubbish further up, and then we’ll be off into the hills before breakfast.’ Even as he said this, everybody could see the plan made no sense. The unteroffizier was faced by rows of wide-eyed faces, many of them pale under their blacking. ‘Right, check your lifebelt,’ he said. This was a bulky item like a motor tyre you wore under your gear. Ernst had his tucked up under his armpits. ‘Remember what the officers said. Don’t stop for wounded. Somebody else will follow up for them. Your job is to advance. Don’t forget that ...’
    A motor roared, and their barge, one of a group of four, ploughed forward once more. The tug that had brought them across the Channel had to standout to sea; a smaller motor-boat was dragging them to land. Whether the plan was defunct or not made no difference. They were going in.

    As they neared the beach the barge jostled with those around it, gathering in a throng as tight as in Boulogne harbour. But now they were coming into the range of the shell fire, and Ernst ducked down, into the cover of the barge’s hull. The men were splashed with water thrown up by the detonations, and once by a hail of splinters from some smashed boat.
    There were screams nearby, and a rip of metal. Ernst risked another glance. One of the barges in his group was ripped open and was tipping, spilling out its men. Its flank had snagged on a tangle of scaffolding jutting out of the water, revealed by the receding tide.
    Shingle scraped, and Ernst’s barge rocked. It was grounded. The