Eighty years ago today, my 20-year old father walked off a landing craft into the choppy waters of Omaha Beach at Normandy. In April 1994, shortly before his 70th birthday, he sent me some memories of his time in the Army. He was part of an anti-aircraft unit; when he refers to "tracks", those are the half-tracks (tires in front, tank-style tracks in back) with the guns mounted on top. Below are his experiences on D-Day: a ground-level view from a somewhat sarcastic private. This is as written, except for my comments and explanations in square brackets.
On May [he meant June] 4 the order came to move out. We drove down to the beach and loaded our tracks on LCTS (LANDING CRAFT TANK). Then, as is the custom in the military, we sat around and waited. While waiting, I ran my assets of 40 cents up to $140 in a dice game. I loaned the money back to the losers (and never saw a cent of it again), but it did pass the time.
Off we went, with braves [waves] breaking over the sides of the LCT. That was when I learned to swallow pills. I took my seasick tablets and those of the tough guys who didn't need them. I made it; they became helpless. Eisenhower must have gotten word that sick men are poor fighters because we turned back to port. The next night we tried again and, according to the history books, this time we kept going.
Our orders were to land at H-hour plus 120, or two hours after the first engineers (to clear the land mines) and first waves of infantry. Our mission was to provide anti-aircraft cover for the landing. It was lucky that there weren't many German fighters about because our guns quickly went under water.
The LCTs stopped about 100-200 yards offshore, to the best of memory. I'm not sure whether that was due to caution or because of orders. Anyway, once again I was one of the chosen. The captain ordered our platoon to send men out to test the water depth to see if the tracks could make it to shore. The platoon sergeant ordered our squad to furnish the volunteers. The corporal selected me, the "new guy" of the platoon, Adam of the iron fist (presumably because he was not one of the Missouri boys), and Long, who was even newer to the squad than I. Adam was to go straight, I was to veer right and Long was to veer left. Adam went straight, I veered right, Long grabbed Adam's cartridge belt and stayed right behind him.
After several yards in chest-high water, I went in over my head. I inflated my lifebelt (a rubber belt of two compartments that inflated when squeezed in a way that activated, I believe, carbon dioxide pellets). Whoever designed those things should be sentenced to wear them for eternity. Their chief function was to pitch the wearer face first into the water. The only way they worked was if worn under the arm pits. Belt indeed.
Choking and gasping I struggled along until I reached a swamped truck. The crew of the truck was sitting on the hood, wondering whether to "smoke" or wind their watches. They asked me, since I was already damp, to free the winch cable on the front bumper in case they could get a tow. I obliged, only to discover that the cable was wired tight. When I requested wire cutters, they replied that they were in the locked tool box and no one had a key. For want of a nail the shoe was lost, etc. It occurred to me later that it would have been a simple matter to shoot the lock off the tool box, but who would expect soldiers to destroy government property. So, I bid them adieu and proceeded shoreward.
While wandering along the beach to get lined up with my LCT I encountered the company headquarters track. I climbed in and chatted with the company clerk. I think it was from him I learned that the captain already had bought it, also that another platoon's half-track, that had made it to shore, had caught a direct hit. The gunner, a very nice guy with a wife and family, was blown to pieces and several others were wounded. (In fact, if you have seen my duffle bag, it isn't really mine; it belonged to Helmer Hrincer, one of the wounded men. It was turned over to me after all my gear went down with the LCT.)
One interesting procedure caught my attention while I sat in the company track observing the action. The big LCIs [Landing Craft Infantry] were anchored probably a quarter mile from the beach, probably because their draft wouldn't let them into shallower water. They lowered DUCKS (I've forgotten what the acronym signified; anyway they were trucks designed to be amphibious.) [DUKW is General Motors' manufacturing code: D indicates the model year, 1942; U is the body style, utility (amphibious); K for all-wheel drive; and W for dual rear axles.] One Duck lowered; one Duck swamped. Two Ducks lowered; two Ducks swamped. I don't know how long that went on given the proclivity of the military mind to ignore evidence that something doesn't work the way it was designed to work.
My progress had me opposite our LCT. A welcoming committee overwhelmed me just as I waded up to the ramp. What? Not a warm welcome? No, they were abandoning ship. An 88-millimeter crew had zeroed in on our pitiful little boat just as I came back from the depths. So I turned and went with the flow. All the work to waterproof the half-track gone. All the extra food we had stowed away under the turret gone. All the pocket books I had stuffed into my duffel bag gone. C'est le guerre.
After everyone was on the beach, the new acting captain told us to move up the hill and dig in. I learned the next day that the man (Brewer) who was digging in beside me caught a mortar round right on his head. I often have wondered how I could have been unaware of it. I guess grabbing a faceful of dirt had become so unconscious that, after the explosion, I resumed digging without looking around.
Later that night we watched our LCT -- and others -- burn and explode as the ammunition went off. One lieutenant (nicknamed "Joker" behind his back because of his frequent use of the expression) remarked, "Well, jokers, we won't have to worry about those #$&*#+ things anymore." On the following night (by then we were on top of the bluff) he had a bad experience. Shells started falling and everyone dove into the nearest cover. The lieutenant flew face first into his foxhole, only to come up sputtering with rage. "Some joker," he spat, "shit in my foxhole." The Joker was reassigned to the States to train more anti-aircraft troops so we never heard from him again.
That covers the highlights of D-Day from my vantage point. A dirty, frightening, miserable and uncomfortable experience. One must wonder that if the Allied forces were that inefficient, how much greater the German foul-ups must have been. War not only is hell, it's humbling.
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