by Matthew Nuth
On the next page, there were two pictures of Dad in the Army. They were the only two pictures I had ever seen of him in uniform. On the back of the first picture, in cursive was written Paul at boot camp at Fort Benning Alabama – 1943. I showed Dad by himself standing ramrod straight. One could almost sense that youthful confidence that comes with supreme ignorance of the world, and complete cluelessness as to his own ignorance. He was invincible.
The second picture included Dad with several others in uniform leaning against a weathered wooden shed. The writing on the reverse side was in a different pen and I can only assume it was Dad’s hand writing. The back was only titled Orley, me, and the guys. The picture showed a different look for Dad. The youthful exuberance replaced with the look of comfort and true friendship. Dad, was second from the left in the picture. The soldier to Dad’s left, I could only assume, was Orley. He dwarfed Dad and had his right arm wrapped around him as if Dad were his kid brother. In Orley’s left hand, a cigarette was clamped between his curled index and middle fingers. A cigarette draped from the corner of Dad’s mouth; a look I had become accustomed to over the years. Three other young men looked to be completely indifferent to the photographer and preoccupied in discussion.
The change in Dad’s face over the span of less than a year was striking, moving from late adolescence to being a man. Growing up came quickly in uniform.
* * *
Boredom and anticipation, not a good combination. By the time Paul joined the 1st, the Division had already seen extensive duty in the war, having returned from seven months of heavy action in Sicily. It was in Sicily as part of the 7th army that the Division had its first taste of amphibious landings. They had landed in the Gulf of Gela in South -Central Sicily. The weather and seas had been horrendous making the first challenge of the mass landing just keeping one’s food down. The initial Axis defenses had been pretty limited. The real fighting started as the infantry moved inland. Now that the 1st was preparing for another amphibious landing, many were expecting to be a repeat of the Sicily experience, albeit on a larger scale.
Private Orley and Private Paul Simmons viewed themselves as a pretty formidable duo. As members of the same platoon, they quickly had developed a friendship forged out of the fire of war, two people that would have likely never met in another time. Orley, a philosophical 20-year-old, had come from the sleepy town of San Diego in southern California. His descriptions of home been seemed as foreign to Paul as the English countryside in which they were now residing. The idea of living someplace where snow didn’t exist, where frigid cold weather was any time the thermometer dropped below 50 degrees, and the beaches extended as far as you could see to the north and south. For Paul, coming from the base of the Rocky Mountains, snow would regularly be expected in early October and as late as May. It was not unusual to see snowflakes even in early June. Paul made up his mind to move to southern California as soon as the war was won.
Orley was only a couple of years older than Paul, but exuded an air of maturity and complete confidence borne out of having actually been part of the previous Allied campaign at Gela. Having joined the army two years earlier, he had infinitely more battle experience than Paul and was prepared to share descriptions of his experiences at every opportunity. At first, it had been off-putting to Paul, but he had begun to live vicariously through this sharing and now perceived himself as a battle-hardened soldier, fully prepared for the planned invasion of Normandy, Operation Neptune.
The preparation over the past month had been mind-numbing. In between the war gaming and exercises, it had been a steady diet of study, tactic development, learning and reviewing specific objectives for each and every platoon. Once through the battery of planning, it was back to the beginning to ensure there were no questions, no doubts, no uncertainty at the time of the invasion. Repetition had become a way of life. Everyone had become anxious for the first day of Operation Overlord, the Western Europe offensive and Operation Neptune, in particular.
* * *
June 5, 1944 - I am unable to sleep. Today had been a day of incredible activity, preparing for tomorrow. I should be bone tired, but I cannot even close my eyes. Nobody spoke today. It was if everyone was preoccupied with their own thoughts. I know I was. I could not help wondering if it will hurt when I get shot. What will I say if I meet God tomorrow? Will I be brave? Will I see my family again? Do you think God really forgives us? For everything?
Orley is particularly quiet. Normally he keeps us all light with his banter, but today, even at breaks, he remained mute, his eyes dropped to staring at the ground as a dog that had just been punished. It is disconcerting to see him this way. He has been our emotional leader for the past few months. In the one time we did talk today, he had only taken the time to pass a note on to me with his parents’ address while admonishing me to see them when I got back to the States. “Paul make sure you tell them I died bravely. I think my time is up. I know I will not make it through tomorrow.” I gave him my address, too, with Mom and Dad’s names.
It is hard to imagine how big and powerful the ocean really is, that is until you are on a boat that is getting tossed about as a toy in bath tub. Today the ocean was intent on reminding us of its strength and complete authority over us mere men. With our Landing Craft Transport, known as an LCT, there was no contest in dealing with the sea; if the ocean wanted to win, it would. The LCT was small, 36 feet long and just over 11 feet wide. It had a shallow draft enabling it to quickly offload equipment and soldiers on the beach, but making it completely unwieldy, when buffeted by waves of any significance. Certainly, the seaworthiness of this ponderous boat was brought into question with the waves pounding us the morning of June 6, 1944. The challenges and risks became more acute after stuffing this small boat with three dozen soldiers with full packs.
The men leaned into the Landing Craft Transport’s side walls and to each other just to avoid being thrown to the deck. It was doubly important to stay standing; the mixture of vomit from sea sickness combined with the sea water splashing over the wooden walls had become a slimy wash that no one wanted to sit in. It was bad enough the rancid mix washed over their boots with each rock of the boat. The odor was overpowering; mixed with the salt air and cold humidity, you could almost feel the smell. It permeated the fatigues. In spite of the seriousness of the day, Paul could not help but smile at the thought that flying bullets might be a preferential change in venue.
Paul and Orley were standing next to the steel ramp at the front of the LCT; they would be the first off from the starboard side of their boat. Orley first, Paul second. Orley’s head rocked back and forth, not to the sway of the ship, but as if it was part of some internal clock ticking away the seconds.
Paul could just make out Orley’s mantra over the creaks of the boat and the banging of the waves. “Today, please not today. Today, please not today.” Paul tipped his head and turned as far to the left as the crowded quarters and his full pack would allow to see if anyone else from his platoon had noticed Orley. No one could notice. Their faces looked blank, zombies with no expression, numbed by the realization of what they were committed to. The reality of D-Day had set in.
Paul nudged Orley. “Orley, stop the chant, man. You’re freaking me out.”
Orley, turned around as best as he could, tears streaming down his face. “Paul, as soon as that gate falls, I’m taking one. I know it! I can even feel the burn; right here.” With that comment, Orley rubbed his hand across the right side of his face, from the nose sideways to his ear. “I’m done. Promise not tell my family I was afraid. Promise!”
“I promise, but today isn’t going to be your day and it sure as hell isn’t going to be mine, either. Swap places with me so you can’t take one when the ramp drops. I’ll be first off.”
Paul and Orley swapped places. Now that Orley was behind him, Paul had no idea if this change stopped his head bobbing, but at least he would not have to watch it continuous
ly through the remainder of the crossing. He placed his head in helmet against the LCT’s wood side wall, closed his eyes, and began to pray, not that he would live through the day, but that he could maintain his faith and not be afraid to die. Then he chickened out and began to pray that he be spared today. Time stood still.
* * *
The pounding of the artillery had become huge and overwhelming. They could feel the concussions shaking the LCT’s walls. The vibration shook Paul out of his meditative state. The sounds of the waves pounding the LCT had been replaced by pounding thuds, accentuated by “thwips” and “pops” from bullets cutting the air overhead. Paul could feel the occasional impact on the steel ramp of bullets fired from the bluffs; the very bluffs they would soon be attacking. The impacts were hard, loud, and still hurt like Hades as they transferred their energy to the steel and then into him as he leaned against the inside of this life protecting ramp.
It was just after 7:00 in the morning; the sun had just broken through the clouds. “GO! GO! GO!” The ramped dropped. The platoon only had a few moments to empty the LCT before they would become sitting targets to the gunners from the German 352nd Infantry. The longer they took to disembark the more at risk they were, and more at risk the boat became. The boat had a couple machine guns in the rear, but the defense was meaningless against the onslaught from the bluffs. They were either ramp up and pulled into reverse within three to four minutes, or they were goners.
They were goners. The LCT had beached itself on a sandbar farther out than had been planned. Whereas Paul had expected to jump into a couple feet of water, in the worst case, his feet didn’t touch bottom until his nostrils filled with sea water. “Shit . . . cold and I’m drowning” is all Paul could think as the wave rolled by giving him at least a brief moment to catch a breath. The craziness of landing was accentuated by a “THWOP - THWOP – THOWP.” Not a loud noise but certainly belying the size of bullets flying above and striking into the LCT. Paul gulped in air just in time to have the huge frame of Orley land on top of him driving Paul back under the surf. Paul’s head broke back through the surface having pushed Orley off his back. “Shit, Orley!” Paul yelled as he snagged Orley’s back collar and began to pull him toward the beach. Orley’s head fell below the water. As Paul, pulled him back up he realized Orley’s helmet was lost, not a good thing. Flipping him around to get Orley to snap out of it, he looked at only half a face. The entire right hand side was gone. Really gone. Nothing but space where once had been an eye, ear, cheek. It was amazing that his hairline remained. Paul could not bring himself to let go of Orley, to let him sink quickly in the gray water now stained red. Paul turned to the beach, the bombs, bullets, smoke, and the bluffs that represented both death and his only potential salvation.
* * *
They had been dropped a full 100 yards out in the surf and now were faced with swimming as much as walking these hundred yards, all with full packs and M-1 rifles raised above their heads and the water. Only half the platoon had made it off the LCT. The boat had caught a mortar shell before it could empty. The pilot would never get to extricate himself from the sand bar to retrieve another platoon of soldiers.
The going was slow, but it seemed more so given the surreal surroundings. Men wading, bodies floating, swamped boats, swirling smoke. The noise that had been so loud initially, had become muffled, as if Paul had cotton in his ears. Everything seemed to stand still. Paul had no idea how long it took to get to the beach. He could not even remember dragging Orley’s lifeless body behind him. He did feel as though this might be what hell is like: no God and no way out. With each step, the beach appeared to move further off into the distance. Paul was Sisyphus, always pushing towards, but never achieving the objective. Motivation finally came from the bullets plopping in the water, constantly resulting in new and fresh adrenaline rushes, prompting Paul to strength and speed he thought himself incapable to deliver. Twenty yards from the beach, the water had dropped to his waist and Paul’s pace quickened. He could see his Lieutenant Jameson to his right making progress to the beach reaching back with his arm to wave what remained of his team on.
Upon reaching the beach, Orley’s sheer size and weight, accentuated by full pack made it impossible for Paul to pull him out of the waves. Paul fell to the beach, letting go of Orley’s collar. An unknown hand grabbed Paul’s pack strap, pulling him back to his feet. “Got ‘a move, soldier. Now!” This all the motivation he needed. Up and running, Paul never looked back to his savior, but knowing full well that that hand was the only thing that had kept him from death. Running, running. The beach seemed to extend forever, much longer than expected from the aerial reconnaissance pictures they had been reviewed over and over. They had expected a beach to be no deeper than a hundred yards before they would reach the relative safety of a sand sea wall and the opportunity to regroup before a second assault to the base of the bluffs.
Unfortunately, the LCT had drifted east during the crossing. The team had thought they were landing in the eastern center section of Omaha Beach in an area referred to as Easy Red. The rough seas had pushed them to the far eastern section of Omaha Beach to a section called Fox Green, a section in which the beaches extended for as much as two hundred yards. Two hundred yards without cover, without protection, without hope. Paul could see flash of guns through the smoke surrounding a bunker nestled into the side of the bluff.
As Paul collapsed behind protection of the seawall, he could not help but realize that his success in making it this far was only the result of having so many other targets available to the gunners on the hill. He survived this far because others were dying on that same beach. Paul rolled onto his back, pushing his pack into the sand to stare back at the carnage occurring behind him, taking time to collect himself before climbing up and over the pebble wall separating the beach from the beginning of the bluffs. Scanning to his left as he looked out to the sea, he could see the second wave of landing craft approaching the beaches. Smoke swirls wafted by the breezes stood out as dirty finger smudges on this picture of impending death. Closer to the beach, unlucky LCTs from the initial landing wave lay as dead sentries, providing a vivid warning as to the risks.
Paul scanned the beach to find what had been his best friend. He was lost among the numerous bodies being continuously washed by the lapping waves. The beach had fewer casualties than he expected. Apparently, the gunners on the bluffs found the slow-moving soldiers wading through ocean waves an easier target.
Paul closed his eyes and tried to close out the noise. The pounding of the early morning artillery from the battle ships had long subsided and been replaced by the smaller artillery and snapping of the machine guns from the German bunkers. Paul needed to get himself focused again; the past several minutes had seemed like hours, and he needed to let the adrenaline rush subside.
To either side, Paul saw soldiers just as himself, waiting for someone, anyone, to take control and push them on. For the past six months, this void had been filled by the now lost, big brotherly, Orley, Sergeant Constantine, and Lieutenant Jameson. Paul scanned up and down the embankment for either of the remaining two. Twenty yards to his east, Paul saw the Lieutenant had gathered half a dozen soldiers and was giving orders, pointing to a wash to their left leading up to and providing some modest protected access up the bluff.
The Lieutenant crawled westward toward Paul gathering soldiers behind him as he approached. “You, you, and you,” the last “you” referring to Paul, “we’re heading up this wash.” He pointed to the right to a slight depression in the bluff wall. “That is where we are going, soldiers. Time to take it out.”
The Lieutenant held a grenade in his left hand and his carbine in his right and yelled above the din, “Now!”
At the Lieutenant’s bark, the group to the east and four soldiers that included the Lieutenant moved, over the sea wall, across the heavily pebbled ground to the sandy bluffs. Paul could hear the clicking of rounds ricocheting off
the pebbles. The sound was discomforting; but not nearly so much as the sound of the thuds signaling rounds had found their mark, the flesh of American soldiers.
The four that made Paul’s group had made it to the cover of ground that was below the bunkers effective line of fire. For a few moments, at least, they would be safe . . . at least until another machine gunner to their east or west found them and elected to fire laterally across the bluff, picking them off as easy targets. The four now found themselves scrambling up the slippery sandstone wash extending upwards between the bunker and a machine gunner nest. The slope of the climb required the team to crawl on all fours to avoid sliding backwards. Holding his M-1 rifle tightly in both hands as he traversed upwards, the abrasive ground scraping through uniform and skin, Paul moved quickly, hoping to get behind the German machine gunners before being spotted. Speed was critical.
The onslaught of tracer rounds had sparked a grass fire to the east on the bluff providing a slight cover of smoke, but the cover was temporary and intermittent. As the breeze wafted the smoke, Paul could see the first machine gun battery to his right. The German gunners from the 352nd infantry were completely unware of their peril from soldiers no more than 10 yards to their right. Paul quickly pulled up his M-1 to fire for the first time to take a human life. Adrenaline pumping, he pulled the trigger twice from a distance close enough to see the dirty sweat lining the German gunner’s face, streaming from the corners of his eyes. The excitement, the adrenaline, the fatigue . . . who knows, both rounds missed their mark, pulled high. As the gunner pivoted his machine gun, the dreaded MG 34, to face Paul, Paul was deafened by the snap-snap originating from his Lieutenant’s carbine muzzle, no more than 6 inches from his ear. The Lieutenant dropped both the gunner and the assistant gunner.