Every Man a Hero

by Ray Lambert

  When most Americans think of beaches, they picture soft sand. But the beaches on both sides of the English Channel often consist mostly of rocks—“pebbles” ranging from fingernail size to something hard to get your whole fist around. The British call them shingle beaches. Many beaches—including those in Normandy where the planners were thinking of landing us—were a mix of sand and shingle. Slapton Sands, with pebbles mostly the size of a schoolboy’s marbles, was one of these.

  It also had cliffs above the beach—exactly like Normandy. And its location was thought to be relatively safe from German interference.

  We traveled there March 11, spending the next several days practicing full-scale assaults on the beach: rope ladders, landing craft, live fire. There were some twists—tanks with funny shapes and large funnels to help their engines breathe in the surf, for example. But most of what we were armed with and much of what we did was familiar.

  Infantrymen were equipped with Bangalore torpedoes—long, slim pipes that contained explosives and were slipped in or under barbed wire or other obstructions, then exploded to clear a path. GIs carried BARs, or Browning Automatic Rifles, an early light machine gun, along with Thompsons to increase firepower.

  We lugged packs and medical bags as we sprinted from the landing craft, ducking the mock gunfire like the infantry, then racing to treat the wounded. Obstructions, barbed wire, and simulated mortar and artillery shells were all a big part of the drill.

  It was a refresher course for those of us who had landed in Africa and Sicily, a reminder of what it was like to hit a hostile beach. For the new guys, it was an introduction to rocking waves and overturned stomachs, the nauseating smell of diesel engines and the heartless whistle of mortar shells.

  It barely hinted at what the real invasion would be like, but it was better than nothing.

  * * *

  Slapton Sands saw a series of large-scale rehearsals in the weeks that followed. Then came tragedy.

  At the end of April, German navy commanders picked up on heavy radio traffic in the area. Patrol boats sent to the area spotted eight LSTs—Landing Ship Tanks, immense craft that, as the name implies, were designed to take tanks and other vehicles ashore. The German commanders launched an attack. Three of the LSTs were hit. Two were sunk, one submerging quickly while the other burst into a spectacular set of flames that lit the night.

  A total of 749 men, including some 198 sailors, died in the attack. The toll might have been even worse had the Germans realized they were not fighting destroyers, as they originally thought, but unarmed landing craft. An earlier accident between escorts had left the boats with practically no protection, and they would have been no match for the speedy little killers.

  For some reason, we don’t often think about the fact that soldiers die in training. Rarely do we note their sacrifice. In this case, it took more than forty years for the army to get around to formally honoring the men who had died that night. But their deaths were as much a part of the war as ours.

  * * *

  Medics were part infantry and part medical department, the point of intersection for both. On the ground with the infantry, we fit in at the company and battalion level, working directly with the men on the front line. At the same time, we were the forward part of a much larger team. And that team was working as hard as we were to get ready for the invasion.

  Anticipating large casualties not only on D-Day but in the weeks that would follow in the battle for Normandy, the medical department ramped up the normal system for treating the wounded and getting them off the battlefield and into hospitals. The basic outline was the same we’d always followed, but there were many more facilities, and a few more steps along the way.

  When someone was hurt, his company medic would treat him; if the injury was bad enough, stretcher bearers would take him to a battalion aid station very close to the forward line. There he would be evaluated and treated. As always, the battalion aid stations would be as close to the action as possible. There would be at least one doctor and often two who could treat the most serious wounds. The more severe cases would be stabilized for further transport.

  Soldiers who were too wounded to return to their unit or who needed more treatment would go to a collecting station and then a clearing station in the rear connected to a field hospital. Though housed in tents rather than permanent buildings, the field hospital had enough advanced equipment to deal with the most serious wounds, which we anticipated would be sucking wounds to the chest threatening a man’s ability to breathe, and stomach and abdominal wounds. There would be X-ray machines, sterilization—basically everything you would find in a first-rate hospital emergency room, and maybe a little more.

  From the clearing station or the field hospital, the injured would be evacuated to England. Landing craft were being adapted to serve not only as transports for the wounded but as floating emergency rooms. LSTs could take upwards of two hundred passengers.

  The LSTs and any other ships carrying the wounded would be routed to different ports on the English coast. Once they arrived, the wounded would go to a holding hospital close to the pier. There they would be evaluated again and treated. They would then be shipped farther north, to either a transit hospital or a general hospital. Further care, if needed, could take place in the States.

  Starting back in France with the first medic who treated him, notes were kept on tags and attached to a man’s shirt to keep track of his diagnosis and treatment. These records would stay with him all the way to the hospital.

  Some five thousand ambulances had been mustered for this network in England; special trains were prepared and put on standby. A large number of African-American troops who had been assigned to service companies as drivers, stevedores, and the like were put on as stretcher bearers for the transports.

  Like much of the rest of America, the U.S. Army was segregated at the time. With very few exceptions, African-American troops had not yet been allowed into direct combat roles. They would eventually prove that this great injustice was a major mistake, but that lay in the future.

  World at War, Spring 1944

  Those of us in the 1st Division were focused pretty intensely on France, since we knew that would be our next destination. But this was a world war, and there was more to it than us.

  Every night, Royal Air Force bombers left from bases in southern England to strike strategic targets in Germany. American planes took off in the day to do the same. The Battle of the Atlantic—the fight between U-boats and convoys—continued, despite the large losses the Germans had suffered in May.

  In Italy, Mussolini had resigned and been arrested, only to be liberated and returned to power as Hitler’s puppet. The rocky hills and mountainous terrain of central Italy was a force multiplier for the German troops who had rushed in to fight the Allies. They made the Fifth Army under General Mark W. Clark struggle mightily for every inch of ground. The Allies had Rome in their sights that spring, though there were no illusions that taking the capital would end the war there.

  In the Pacific, the U.S. Navy had won a major battle in June 1942 at Midway, sinking four aircraft carriers. That victory marked the turning point of the war, which was slowly becoming clear. By the end of 1943, U.S. forces had taken Tarawa and Makin, rolling back Japanese gains. The spring and summer would see us invade Hollandia, Saipan, and eventually Guam. MacArthur was planning his return to the Philippines.

  In Eastern Europe, the Soviet army had begun to make serious gains with counterattacks following the German defeat at Stalingrad at the beginning of the year. Leningrad, which had been surrounded but not taken by the Germans, was relieved in January; the summer would see two massive offensives practically destroy the German Center and South Armies.

  Out in the deserts of the American West, a team of scientists were working on a weapon that would radically change warfare and geopolitics. We knew nothing of that, and to be honest, didn’t know much about the rest of the war aside from what we might glean from Stars and St
ripes, the army’s GI newspaper, and BBC broadcasts. New equipment kept arriving, and more men were assigned to us. We didn’t need news stories to tell us rest time was nearly over.

  * * *

  By the middle of May, unnecessary travel by civilians to the south of England had been banned. We got new equipment—six sandbags for each vehicle, to be used to bulk up protection from mines.

  General Huebner addressed the division on May 19, 1944, telling us in broad terms that the invasion would kick off soon, and we were to be part of the spearhead. The following week, the officers were briefed on the plans.

  The medics were issued a second med kit; we’d have two going into the beaches.

  We were also issued gas masks, and told to practice wearing them.

  We were supposed to wear them for an entire day. I settled for twenty minutes.

  I don’t think I even took mine with me when we went to Normandy. I know none of the guys wore them that day. They were the most uncomfortable and impractical things you could imagine. Just as bad were the heavy protective suits we were issued. Get one of those wet and you’d never make it through the surf.

  Those also didn’t get worn.

  Other equipment made more sense and was put to use. We waterproofed our Jeeps, upgrading the wires and filling openings with putty. We were issued sandbags to put along the floors, providing a little protection against mines.

  On May 17, we set out from Bridport to a way station about halfway to Weymouth Harbor. There we were quarantined—no one could leave, and no one who wasn’t part of the unit could enter without special permission.

  I saw estimates on how many casualties we’d have to deal with. The numbers were high; 15 percent was the average. Some planners were talking even higher. We were clearly facing the most difficult battle we’d ever been in. There would be a lot of guys we’d have to save. And many we wouldn’t be able to.

  The plan for us was to board a troopship, which would anchor roughly ten miles from the Normandy coast. At the appointed hour, we would load into Higgins boats—thirty-man landing craft with swing-down ramps at the bow—then hit the beaches. Our regiment was part of the first wave, and I’d be on one of the first craft, together with a handful of guys and a doctor to set up a first aid station. It wasn’t going to be a full-on aid station; we weren’t so optimistic to think that we’d get a tent up. We just planned on finding a safe place to treat guys out of the water. A bigger aid station would be set up a few hours later when Major Charles Tegtmeyer, the regimental surgeon, came ashore with more medics.

  Our ship, the USS Henrico, was a simple merchant vessel converted to troop carrier duties. It had a single stack midship, with a bare-bones superstructure and no-nonsense furnishings; originally a cargo carrier, it was all business and had been from the day it was commissioned, unlike our previous transport.

  The entire 2nd Battalion went aboard the ship on June 4, expecting to invade the next day. Once settled in, we had detailed briefings using sand tables that showed the defenses and gave us an idea of the geography of the beach. We tentatively planned where we might site the aid station.

  We also saw that the 16th Infantry was going to face some of the roughest defenses on the beach. We might have expected that, given our experience.

  It was a mixed honor.

  * * *

  The weather was so bad that Eisenhower delayed the landing twenty-four hours. Some of the other ships had already left the dock when they had to be called back. That didn’t happen to us, but it was small consolation. We sat and waited through the night and most of June 5. The weather just a few days before had been perfect spring, with a clear sky and a warm, light breeze. That morning, it was vicious.

  We didn’t know it, but the poor weather had nearly closed the window for our invasion. If the forecast didn’t improve, we’d have to sit around for another few weeks before trying again. In fact, the delay might change plans entirely—the element of surprise was at least part of what Eisenhower was banking on to make the invasion a success.

  The weather didn’t look much better that evening when the ship finally pulled out of the harbor. Fortunately, there were other things to think about besides the pelting rain and wind. A few guys played poker; you could always find a game before a battle. Other men looked at the Bible. Some prayed. A few cried.

  Last Words

  We anchored about ten miles from the shore. The wind screeched above decks as I went out to catch some air and see if I could find my brother. It was just getting light—not dawn, but the false dawn that teases you with the promise of day.

  It was the faintest tease—the sky was still overcast, and the air was so heavy I couldn’t tell if it was spit from the waves or the beginning of a squall.

  My brother saw me and called me over.

  “This will be a rough one,” I said. We agreed it would be far harder than Africa and even Sicily.

  “How lucky can we be?” one of us said.

  The other would have nodded, knowing exactly what he meant—both of us had landed twice before without a scratch. People had died all around us. If that was the sort of thing that involved luck—and our experience said it had to be—then there must be limits to that luck. You could toss a coin only so many times before tails finally came up.

  We talked about Mom and Dad, and what they would think if they knew we were here.

  “They’d worry about us.”

  “Probably, they’re worrying now.”

  There was a call from below, and movement on the crowded deck. Word spread instantly, but we didn’t need to hear what was being said, because we knew the meaning instantly.

  Get to your stations! It’s time.

  Time.

  I shook my brother’s hand. That was us—no hugs, no fancy words, just hand on hand.

  “If I’m lost, take care of my family,” he told me.

  “Same for me.”

  He nodded. I took a breath, then turned for my side of the boat, preparing to test my luck in the biggest battle of the century.

  Eight

  A Mighty Endeavor

  Riding In

  My guys were all coming up the stairs to the deck. I’d already strapped on my two med kits and the life belt; I walked with them to our station near the rail, waiting for our turn to climb down into the Higgins boat. The company guys split off, going to their units; each would ride in with the men he was to look after.

  We had two nets to load the boats. Guys would go over the side one at a time and climb down, their descent steadied by a pair of sailors at the bottom who held on to the net, trying to keep the landing craft tight to the ship. With the waves, this was a near herculean task; they strained against the momentum not just of the sea but of the men jumping in.

  It was so dark when I started over that I couldn’t see the Higgins boat below. The ropes were thick and very wet, and even with my experience and practice I had trouble going down.

  Higgins boats were about thirty-six feet long and eleven wide. They had a shallow draft, meaning that even when fully loaded they could get very close to shore. The front, or bow as the navy called it, needed about two feet of water; the stern, another foot.

  In other words, if the boat beached, you generally got off in the water.

  We could cram more than thirty guys in a boat; the craft were big enough to fit a Jeep, in which case you could get maybe a dozen men. Depending on the engine and configuration, they had a top speed of nine to twelve knots, or about ten to fifteen miles an hour to an army guy like me.

  Each 2nd Battalion boat had between twenty-seven and thirty-one men, with at least one medic per boat. Our boat happened to have four medics, including a company aid man. Meyers was one, I believe, and Lepore; I can’t recall if the third was Joe Baliga, or maybe Willard Braddock, or even Appleby. All were there on the beach with me, so if they weren’t in my boat, they were in another somewhere alongside.

  Dr. Fred Hall was with us, too.

  The idea was t
hat once we had a foothold on land, the three of us medics would set up an aid station. Not the full setup with a tent—there was little chance we’d have that sort of luxury in the first hour or two on the beach. But we would find a place of relative safety where we could take and triage the wounded, as we had in Sicily.

  Two med bags, our personal gear, the life preservers, rain gear—the medics were as loaded down as everyone else. I don’t remember any of my guys wearing the Red Cross symbols on our helmets or arms, but others did. By this point in the war, I’m sure no one believed they would offer any protection, or do anything but make us prime targets.

  Seeing there was aid nearby in case you got hit meant some comfort, faint as it might be.

  The last guy came down, jostling in to find a spot. Our boat moved off a short distance, joining two or three others that had already been filled.

  Rain hoods flapped in the stiff wind while we waited for the others. Wet hands gripped the wet bags covering their rifle barrels. Men shifted as best they could, trying to ease the load of the heavy packs and other gear hanging across their backs and chests.

  Guys cupped hands against the wind to have a last smoke. Others said prayers.

  I was anxious to get going; I’m sure we all were. But at the same time there was a certain amount of dread, knowing what would come next. Unless we were very lucky, some percentage of the fellows crowded around me were going to die.

  Will I bandage that fellow? Will I have to tourniquet that man’s leg?

  Any medic who stopped to think that way would have had a breakdown. You focus on your job; you push yourself back and do your duty, distancing yourself as much as possible from the human side. You wall yourself off.