by Ray Lambert
If you don’t, you’re useless.
Yet underneath it, humanity stirs. You can’t help it.
* * *
Between the waves, the diesel fumes, and what we were about to do, every guy on the boat got seasick, including me. I can’t remember what we had for breakfast, but somehow it stayed in my stomach. I didn’t throw up, but you wouldn’t have known it from looking at my uniform; it was covered with vomit spray, thanks to the wind and the crowding in the boat.
Twenty minutes, twenty-five—finally, our flotilla was ready. The landing craft passed some sort of signal. Engines revved, the boats—and our stomachs—heaved as the sailors cranked their tillers, pointed themselves at the shore, and hit the gas.
We were too far out to see the land; as far as the soldiers standing in the well were concerned, we were heading to a compass point in the distance, hoping like hell the sailors knew their business. Waves crashed over the bow and sides, chopping at the boat as it raced forward, throttle wide open. The engine and the water passing beneath the hull set up a staccato vibration that drummed the soles of my feet.
Guys were still puking. With packs and guns and gear, we were crowded tightly enough that no man could fall over without working at it, but the waves shoved so hard that it was impossible not to jostle against your neighbor or feel that any second you would lose your balance and crash in a senseless, seasick heap.
The sun hadn’t broken through the clouds, but the light was strong enough to see anything close in the water, and to at least make out the shadows moving with us toward land.
I was forward, at the left—port—side of the ramp, close enough so I could get out first. There was a slit of an opening at the center of the ramp near the top; in training, we’d peeked through it to see where we were heading. Now there wasn’t much to see except the gray void before us. Behind me, guys craned their heads over the gunwale, stealing glimpses of what lay ahead.
I stood and waited.
Overlord
Our little landing boat was part of a vast armada destined for Normandy. Some three thousand landing craft were to ferry more than 150,000 men across the rocking waves to five separate sections of beach that day. The targets spanned fifty miles on the coast, from Merville on the east to Sainte-Mère-Église on the west. Paratroopers had landed a few hours ahead of us, seeking out strategic sites inland as they aimed to disrupt the German response and help us get off the beaches.
The British Second Army was landing at three areas on the east. The farthest beach on the east was code-named Sword and was northeast of Caen, an important day-one target. The British 3rd Infantry Division would be the primary force landing there.
The Canadian 3rd Division would be at Juno on the east side of Courseulles; next to them were the British 7th Armored and British 50th Infantry Divisions, which would strike at Gold Beach. Inland were the cities of Bayeux on the west and Caen on the east. Caen was strategic because holding it would open a route across northern France.
The two American beaches were U.S. First Army territory.
Landing on the east coast of the Cotentin Peninsula, VII Corps and the 4th Infantry Division would take Utah Beach. After the beachhead was secured, troops would strike out for Cherbourg, a port city at the top of the Cotentin Peninsula. Cherbourg was seen as a key port for supplying the offensive that would follow.
We were in V Corps, which included the 29th Infantry Division as well as the Big Red One, heading for Omaha Beach. Strategically, we were protecting the others’ flanks, connecting the sectors, and striking inland to expand the Allied areas. The two American sections were a good distance apart, as were Omaha and Gold; our early objectives were aimed at closing the gap as quickly as possible, to prevent the Germans from outflanking the forces and counterattacking at their weakest points.
Omaha was roughly five miles long, running from Sainte-Honorine-des-Pertes to Vierville-sur-Mer. Cliffs rose on either end; the entire beachhead was crescent shaped, a rounded indentation of the shoreline. The beach itself rose gently from the water over a quarter mile or more to a narrow row of rocks or pebbles, sand dunes and seawalls; beyond this was a shelf of “shingle”—more small rocks—maybe two hundred yards wide, and then bluffs that were in some cases well over one hundred feet high. The exact dimensions of the beach depended on the tide; at high tide, there was precious little sand in front of the high ground.
No seaborne landing is an easy thing, and D-Day was no pleasure cruise for anyone. But our assignment was unarguably the most difficult, because of both the geography and the German forces that were known to be in the area.
It would turn out that there were far more defenders than army intelligence realized. Even the weather was worse than anyone had imagined.
The planners divided Omaha into ten sections, with every few hundred yards getting its own name, from Charlie to Fox Green. Our section was the widest—Easy Red.
I should say that “Easy” would have been chosen because of the alphabet, not as a remark about the defenses, ironical or otherwise.
Two battalions of 16th Infantry were landing in the first wave at Easy Red and its adjacent sector, Fox Green, which marked Omaha’s eastern boundary, on our left going in. The beach was below Colleville-sur-Mer; there was a draw or exit from the beach that ran to a road connecting with Colleville and other nearby towns; a second, narrower trail did as well. We wanted to grab these exits right away; take them, and a path would be open for us to get off the beach.
H-Hour—the targeted landing time—varied, depending on the beach because of the tides and other factors. Ours was 0600—6:00 A.M., roughly an hour ahead of the planned landings by the British and Canadians. Just ahead of us, specially trained engineers were to blow passages through the maze of obstacles and mines that littered the approach. By then, heavy bombardment from airplanes and ships in the channel would have neutralized the big guns and bunkers on the bluffs and beyond.
We’d be off the beach and driving our Jeeps and trucks through Colleville two hours after we landed.
At least, that was the plan.
* * *
Often we talk about what happened on D-Day as isolated events, but the entire assault was a complicated, interconnected event. We were depending on the other companies and battalions involved just as they were depending on us.
And there were many other components besides those from the Big Red One. Nearby to our west, the 2nd and 5th Ranger Battalion was to scale the cliffs at Pointe du Hoc. Intelligence had spotted batteries of 155-millimeter guns and some smaller weapons at the top of a nearly sheer cliff; the massive shells from those guns could wipe out an entire platoon with a direct hit. The Ranger force—only a few hundred men, all told—were to land below du Hoc a few minutes before we got to the beach, climb the cliffs with rope ladders, defeat the infantry guards, and spike the big guns.
Looks impossible, even on paper.
At least it could be said that the army had come to expect the Rangers to do the impossible, thanks to their track record. I’m not sure how anyone could have expected tanks to float.
But that was the idea behind the DD tanks—specially prepared Sherman M4s that were to accompany us to shore.
Not land in shallow water. Actually swim.
The tanks had specially sealed, hull-shaped underbellies and propellers. To the naked eye, their most telling features were the “flotation screens”—a series of tubes around their middles that looked for all the world like a child’s swimming ring.
The tanks were seen as one answer to the problem of German firepower onshore. Command believed that they would help neutralize German strongpoints, providing firepower as the infantry swarmed through cracks in the defenses.
It was a great theory, if they could actually swim. Thirty-two DDs were scheduled to join us in the first wave at Omaha; another two dozen conventional Shermans were to come in the following waves. (DD stood for “Duplex Drive,” a code name for the project.)
You’ll have t
o excuse a medic for thinking that a thirty-four-ton tank has no business swimming.
Still, in my opinion, the idea wasn’t nearly as out there as the decision to put parts of the 29th Infantry in the first wave.
I mean absolutely no disrespect for my brother soldiers. The 116th Infantry Regiment, tasked for the job, had good men. But unlike the regiments in the 1st Division, this was their first battle. And the 29th was a National Guard unit; the bulk of its members had not been full-time soldiers before being mobilized.
That is not a criticism of them. It’s simply a fact—their unit was not designed to be on the leading edge of a desperate assault. A lot of effort had been put into improving divisions of the National Guard at the start of the war, and the 29th’s preparation was certainly far better than the norm a few years before. But its inexperience made it a very poor choice for the first wave.
The first time in combat for any unit—including ours—was always difficult. Commanders didn’t know how their soldiers would react. Privates didn’t know which NCOs to trust; NCOs would be unsure of their officers. A thousand things you couldn’t learn from instructors or on maneuvers would become important in the flash of a gun.
And there was that killing thing. It wasn’t an easy thing to learn, even if someone was shooting at you.
True, they were between the Rangers and us. But surely a more experienced unit could have been found. Our other regiment, or part of the 4th, or another unit that had tasted action in the Mediterranean.
From what I understand, the decision was political, made because the head of the division wanted to prove that National Guardsmen were the equal of “regular” army.
They certainly could be, but only after they went through what we had.
Which would soon happen, in spades.
What About Us?
The first shell passed without us noticing. The second and third must have as well. Short or long, left or right—our senses were dulled by the rumbling tumult of the Higgins boat charging toward the beach, and it took long moments before we realized we were being fired at.
The flashes in the sky suddenly made sense. This was the moment when your stomach either tightened or let loose altogether. This was the moment you steeled yourself and decided you were doing your best. Either that or everything let go, your legs became water, and you lost your will to do anything more than breathe.
Either way, you were getting the hell off the boat. We all were.
Behind us, our battleships were launching salvo after salvo. A destroyer passed nearby—I saw the shadow—and its guns flashed.
I thought how incredibly close he was to the shore. Surely he would be hit.
If he could be hit, what about us?
Moving at top speed, the landing craft twirled up whitecaps along their sides. Specially modified versions sent volleys of rockets skyward, rows at a time; the engines all seemed to ignite a few feet above the ship, a burst of explosive energy as coordinated as a symphony.
Our boat veered hard right, apparently steering away from an obstruction one of the sailors had spotted at the last moment. The Germans had seeded the long beach approach with girders and mines intended to stop us before reaching the water’s edge.
The engineers had been tasked to sneak in just ahead of us and clear out a path; they’d missed that one.
And another; our boat veered back.
And another!
Where are the engineers? Where are our guys?
I didn’t realize it, but the answer was rumbling around us, encoded in salvos from the German batteries on the bluff.
They’re dead. You’re on your own.
I raised my head and looked forward, trying to make out what was ahead, how far we were.
Before I could focus my eyes, something rattled against the ramp. I hunkered down automatically, ducking; my legs and chest, my neck and upper body were all quicker than my brain to realize what was happening: a machine gun had targeted our boat.
We’re close now.
When the rattle stopped, I rose again, leaning to the side to look out the boat.
There was smoke everywhere. A thick fog of it wafted down the dunes ahead. I couldn’t make out the waterline. There were flashes, dots of light everywhere. Enemy gunners wailed away.
The water ahead erupted with fury . . . mortar shells.
Smoke, and more smoke.
Diesel in your lungs. Retch in your mouth.
The uniform wet against my thighs.
Sshhwosh, sshhwosh—the massive shells of the battleships had been redirected, firing farther inland to avoid hitting us. The symphony had gone up an octave.
The landing craft to our left slowed abruptly, bow nudging down.
Hit.
Another, farther on, had stopped. Gray men rushed out, ran, fell, danced in the surf.
“When the ramp goes down, run and try and get under the water,” I told the others. I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the roar of the engines, surf, and explosions. “Get into the water where the machine gunners won’t see you!”
Did they hear me?
I’m not sure why I spoke. They knew what to do as well as I did.
Did I even speak? I can’t remember now, not for certain. What I do remember, most vividly, deep in my bones, is this:
The boat lurched forward. The ramp went down, and I launched myself forward.
Around Us
We were supposed to hit the beach around six o’clock. I’d guess that by now it was six thirty, or closer to a quarter to seven. The entire wave was running well behind schedule.
At the far western end—on my right, as I looked at it from the water—the Rangers were struggling to get to their landing points beneath the gun emplacements at Pointe du Hoc. It would take another thirty minutes for them to finally make land; when they did, Lieutenant Colonel James E. Rudder would find he had a much smaller contingent than originally planned. Two destroyers offshore, the USN Satterlee and the British ship Talybont, were sailing well within the enemy’s range, attempting to neutralize the defenses with their cannons.
Another group of Rangers and companies from the 116th Regimental Combat Team under the 29th Infantry Division were having a hard time finding their beaches. Some of the boats ran into sandbars well offshore. As the landing craft dropped their ramps, men found themselves wading in relatively shallow water; a few steps later, they were nearly drowning in water to their necks and above. Our companies in the 16th, my brother’s among them, had similar problems.
The heavy weather had made it difficult for the bombers to see their targets properly, and the bombs intended for the heavy artillery behind the beach had missed. With no spotters ashore yet, many of the ships supporting us were having similar difficulties finding their targets.
Not only were most of the German defenders still in place, but so were nearly all of the mines and obstructions scattered in the low waves and beach. The engineers assigned to blow up passages had not managed to do so. Buffeted by the same problems we had, many were lying dead in the surf.
Farther inland, paratroopers from the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions had landed during the night. As had happened in Sicily, the winds and weather made for a very scattered landing, and many of the units spent hours finding each other and then organizing attacks.
The major exception came at Sainte-Mère-Église, where the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment’s 3rd Battalion took the strategic town a few hours before we launched. It was the first French municipality to be liberated by Americans.
Sainte-Mère-Église was a key point inland from Utah Beach on the Cotentin Peninsula, where troops from the 4th Division were heading. They, too, had trouble with the waves and wind. And as the flotilla of landing craft approached the beach, three of the boats that were acting as guides hit mines, in effect blinding a good part of the fleet.
The British were preparing to invade at Sword, the easternmost beach of the D-Day plans. Inland, a British parachute unit had already sei
zed and destroyed five bridges that could have been used by German reinforcements.
Offshore at Juno Beach, the Canadians were boarding landing craft for the assault as destroyers made a last-minute run at the defenses. Here, too, weather caused delays, pushing back attack times and complicating plans to land tanks meant to support their attacks. It would be closer to 8 A.M. before the first wave touched land.
Gold Beach, the middle of the five beaches and the one to our east, was being lashed by British shells. The Tommies were scheduled to land at 0725, not quite an hour away. Like everyone else, they would have a tough time with the weather, and find that the beach defenses had not been damaged anywhere near as badly as they’d been promised.
The German command was still not sure what was going on. While the paratrooper attacks and the heavy bombardment had raised alarms, the German commanders away from the beaches were hampered by everything from the French Resistance to the conviction that we’d never land at Normandy, much less choose a day with bad weather and borderline tides. The men firing at the approaching landing craft had no doubts that they were under attack, but many in the upper echelons were unsure whether this was a diversion or the main assault. General Rommel—our old Africa nemesis, now in charge of the defenses in northern France—was only now being informed of the attack; he was many miles away in Germany, having gone to celebrate his wife’s birthday.
He, too, had thought the weather was so bad that no one in their right mind would try an assault today.
In the Water
From the glimpses I saw as my Higgins boat plowed toward the Normandy shore, I realized that the obstructions on the beach remained. Not only that, but there were geysers everywhere around us and ahead. The guns and enemy we were promised would be destroyed were very much alive.
The landing craft were under heavy fire. Not just the others, but us, too.