by Sarah Sundin
“Check fire!” Wyatt ordered. “Track target tare-seven-zero.”
Down in the Combat Information Center, Jack and his crew would be lining up target T-70, using the radar to see through the smoke and dust.
Omaha Beach’s bluffs now wore a heavy cloak of smoke. Shells zipped in from the fire support ships with no reply from the Germans.
Made Wyatt nervous.
The Nazis were smart. If the German guns fired, flashes would reveal their positions and allow Allied ships to target them. But after the troops landed, the Allied ships would have to hold fire to avoid hitting their own soldiers. That would be the perfect time for the Germans to shoot.
“CIC to director,” Jack said on the intercom. “Target bearing two-five-two, range three-eight-double-oh.”
When Holoch reported the computer had a solution, Wyatt ordered another series of salvos at thirty-second intervals.
The ship bucked like a bronco as round after round fired at the batteries.
A loud whistling overhead, then a geyser sprang up a thousand yards off the port quarter. A German shell.
“Well, look at that.” Paul Tucker, the pointer, peered through his sight. “Guess we disturbed their beauty sleep.”
Wyatt managed a chuckle as the Ogie sped up and made a tight starboard turn to throw off the Germans’ aim. The computer would compensate for the change in course and adjust the destroyer’s fire.
The Ogie’s guns kept pumping. Another whistle and splash, this time about a thousand yards ahead. The Ogie’s engines went into reverse, and Wyatt held on tight. Those were big splashes, probably from 105-mm or 155-mm coastal artillery. One shell could sink the Oglesby.
His pulse hammered, and he searched the landscape for the enemy gun. Through an opening in the haze, light flashed, muted as if from behind a shield.
“Got him!” Wyatt read the markings on his slewing sight. “Bearing one-five-five. Top of the bluff. Range?”
Behind him, Clyde Dabrowski, the rangefinder operator, adjusted dials. “Range three-six-two-oh.”
In the seconds it took the computer to get a solution and the guns to align, Wyatt obtained permission to fire. “Open continuous fire.”
The thunder from the ship eclipsed the earlier barrages as each gun fired independently, as fast as they could. After five minutes, he ordered, “Check fire.”
Smoke rose from around the target, and chunks of concrete lay on the slopes beneath the battery. “We hit it, boys. Good shooting.”
“Cease firing,” Captain Adams said on the intercom.
In the boat lane to the east, four LCT landing craft chugged toward Dog Green Beach loaded with duplex drive tanks, and then came six little LCA landing craft, each loaded with thirty-two men.
Reality slammed him in the chest. Those men would hit the shore within minutes.
Wyatt had done his best cataloguing targets in the sector. All the personnel at the Allied Naval Expeditionary Force Headquarters had done their best. Would it be good enough?
Southwick House
The operations room thrummed with activity. Wrens on ladders moved cutouts of ships on the giant wall map, showing the invasion force approaching Normandy. The clock read 0620. The Americans would begin landing in ten minutes, the British and Canadians at 0730.
Dorothy’s throat clamped shut. She had helped create the maps and diagrams that sent those men into battle. Today, men would live or die based on her work.
She grimaced and readied the materials on her clipboard—maps and lists of ships and such. Her Wrens would keep the wall map current as information came in from the battle.
Her area of expertise was Omaha Beach. Where she’d spent her holidays. Where Wyatt Paxton served on the USS Oglesby.
Love and worry for him twisted together. She’d never see him again, but she’d do her best by him today.
“Ready?” Gwen asked, her gray eyes full of emotion.
“We are.” Dorothy smiled and patted her friend’s hand.
“Second Officer Fairfax? Why are you here?” First Officer Bliss-Baldwin’s voice sliced the air.
Dorothy gritted her teeth. This was no day for her commanding officer to play her little games. “This is my station, ma’am.”
Blissy’s eyes were bright and sharp. “Not until you finish your other duties. You haven’t turned in the paperwork due a week ago.”
“Paperwork, ma’am?” Everything sank inside her. The transfer papers.
The first officer clucked her tongue. “You’ve forgotten? Shame on you. You’ve neglected your duties lately, and I’m quite disappointed in you.”
Dorothy’s cheeks warmed, and Gwen gave her an alarmed look. Old Blissy’s voice was loud enough for half the room to hear. “I’ve never neglected my duties, ma’am.”
“Yet the paperwork is overdue. Until it’s turned in, I can’t have you here in operations.”
She’d do that? She’d pull Dorothy from her station if she didn’t submit for a transfer? How could Dorothy choose between her duty to her father and her duty to her post?
First Officer Bliss-Baldwin gave her a smile tight with exasperation. “Well, do you have the paperwork?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then I’ll turn over your duties to a more responsible girl.” She turned to Gwen. “Third Officer Hamilton, you’ll take her station as well as your own.”
Gwen’s gaze darted between Dorothy and Bliss. “But, ma’am, I have plenty of work already.”
Dorothy’s breath hopped around. “Please, ma’am. I know Omaha. I’ve walked those beaches—”
“How arrogant.” Blissy jerked up her chin. “As I told you before, you’re hardly indispensable.”
Dorothy stared at her clipboard. She was indeed dispensable. The Wrens were only monitoring the battle today, not fighting it. Gwen could do Dorothy’s job, but only Dorothy could care for her father.
“Unless . . .” Bliss drew the word out. “Unless I receive that paperwork within the hour.”
“Dorothy . . . ,” Gwen pleaded.
If she transferred, who would watch over Papa? He was barely surviving now. When the company went bankrupt, he’d wither and die without her. She refused to abandon him.
Dorothy shoved the clipboard into Gwen’s hands, then raised her chin to her commanding officer. “I don’t have the paperwork, ma’am, and I never will.”
The first officer stared, blinked, then glared. “I’m disappointed. You seemed like such a promising officer.”
Dorothy swallowed back her anger, grief, and humiliation. Whatever punishment she received, she would suffer gladly. For Papa’s sake.
40
USS Oglesby, Omaha Beach
“Fire up ladder, fifty-yard steps,” Wyatt said.
Since the new target lay out of sight 1500 yards inland, the Oglesby’s fire was guided by radar. Firing in a ladder, with each salvo fifty yards farther inland, would pepper the area.
The guns roared, and Wyatt made notes in his log. They’d used 320 shells in the initial bombardment, 19 percent of stock, and he had to keep track.
He looked through his slewing sight at the beaches. The sun was up, if invisible behind the overcast, and the green of the land seemed wrong for the day, too happy and full of life.
The gray waters off Dog Green Beach churned as dozens of vessels approached the shore. Special LCT(R) landing craft shot hundreds of rockets at the beaches in slanting, whizzing bursts of white fire.
One of the LCTs carrying tanks had sunk in flames—a mine, most likely. Wyatt’s eyes stung from the cold wind and from the losses.
The remaining three LCTs hadn’t unloaded their duplex drive tanks offshore as planned. The rough seas would probably have swamped the canvas shields that kept the tanks afloat. Instead, the LCTs drove right onto the beach and flopped down their bow ramps so the tanks could drive off.
Wyatt kept a close eye on his wristwatch. At 0642 he’d cease fire and switch to targets of opportunity until they contacted the
ir Shore Fire Control Party.
In the distance, little LCAs bobbed forward. The 1st Battalion of the 116th Regiment had arrived on a British transport ship and therefore landed in British LCA “Landing Craft, Assault” rather than American LCVPs.
An explosion close to shore, and an LCA disappeared. Just disappeared.
Wyatt gasped. “Lord, help those men.” Thirty-two of them. The binoculars in the slewing sight allowed a better view than the naked eye, but he wished he could get closer to see, to help.
Lots of smoke and dust being kicked up on shore. A tank exploded in a fireball.
Beside him, Tucker cussed.
Wyatt didn’t blame him. The five remaining LCAs stopped near the beach—but not on it. Yet men in khaki and olive drab swarmed out, falling in the water. “Lord, be with them.”
The Oglesby fired another salvo. Only one more to go.
Three medium-sized LCM landing craft rode up onto the beach. Those carried the Army engineers and Navy underwater demolition teams to blow up the beach obstacles.
Wyatt checked his watch—0642. “Cease firing!”
The Oglesby’s guns fell silent.
And a horrid sound reached his ear, low but unmistakable—staccato machine-gun fire and blasts of bigger guns and mines.
The German guns weren’t trained to fire on ships at sea but to send vicious enfilading fire down the length of the beach.
Wyatt ducked inside the hatch and grabbed his map. The batteries at the Vierville draw were positioned for that kind of fire. He’d shot hundreds of shells at them, but it wasn’t enough. With the guns close to beach level, the Ogie couldn’t target them now without endangering GIs.
His tightening fists threatened to crush the valuable map, so he set it aside. Men were dying over there, and he couldn’t help them.
“Conn to director. No contact with SFCP. Any targets of opportunity?” Captain Adams asked.
His chest filled with lead. The Shore Fire Control Party should have landed by now, should have been radioing targets. “No, sir.”
“Very well.” He issued new orders—proceed west at one-third speed, watch for targets, clear the decks of cartridge cases, and distribute rations.
Wyatt poked his head out the hatch again. His chest clenched as Dog Green Beach drifted away to stern, but perhaps they could find some of the big guns raking the sands.
Down on the decks, brass powder cartridge cases lay heaped behind the guns, where they’d been pitched out after each projectile was fired. Now the repair parties hauled them to a clear spot on the deck amidships.
Wyatt turned knobs on his slewing sight. He had to find those guns. Had to.
“K rations? Water?” Dabrowski passed out the provisions stashed in the compartment. The Navy didn’t usually use Army rations, but with all the cooks at battle stations, the Navy was experimenting.
“Ration, sir?” Dabrowski nudged Wyatt’s leg.
“No, thanks.”
“Mr. Paxton. Sir. We could be at general quarters all day. You gotta keep up your strength.”
Wyatt glanced down to deep-set brown eyes.
The rangefinder operator shrugged. No apology for ordering an officer around. Sure wouldn’t see that on a British ship.
“Aye aye.” Wyatt lifted a smile and a mock salute, and he took the little cardboard box. “Y’all eat up. Who knows when we’ll get another chance.”
Inside the box, he found a tin of ham and eggs, crackers, and a dried fruit bar. He scooped the ham-and-egg mixture with a cracker and looked through the slewing sight while he chewed.
Not a pleasant taste. And not a pleasant sight. Between Charlie Beach west of the Vierville draw and Pointe de la Percée the bluffs came right to the shore, so no landings were taking place there. But they made good locations for artillery.
Where? All around the ship, crewmen would be scouring the landscape. Wyatt had marked potential targets on his map, but nothing confirmed by photo reconnaissance, nothing warranting the use of precious ammunition.
For twenty minutes, the Ogie cruised back and forth in Fire Support Area 3. With the brown haze of smoke and dust on the bluffs, Wyatt couldn’t see any targets. His insides writhed. How could this great ship with all her guns sit idle when the men on shore needed help? But he couldn’t risk hitting those men either.
Blind and helpless as a baby rat.
If only Captain Adams would order them to the far western end of DesRon 18’s sector. To Pointe du Hoc. He sure wouldn’t mind lobbing a few hundred shells at any Nazis who might be shooting at his baby brother.
Overhead, aircraft engines throbbed. Not Adler’s P-51 Mustangs, but P-38 Lightnings, chosen to cover the beachhead because Navy gunners could quickly identify their unique twin-boomed fuselage as friendly.
Booms rose from the west. Off Pointe de la Percée, a destroyer sailed before them, flat and gray, orange flashes around her guns, probably the USS Thompson.
Wyatt stashed the fruit bar in his pocket. “Director to conn. Sir, suggest we join the Thompson’s party.”
“Permission granted. CIC, contact the Thompson for coordinates. Director, open fire when ready.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Finally something to do. He followed the Thompson’s line of fire to the top of the bluff. No smoke in that area, and the barrel of a big field gun poked through the brush over a rise.
“CIC to director. Grid 635928, bearing three-two-six, range four-three-five-oh.”
Within seconds, Holoch had a solution.
“Fire salvo,” Wyatt ordered.
Four projectiles leapt to the cliff. A plume of dirt flew up a bit to the right. “Left five.”
“Left five.” Frank Zaneti, the trainer, cranked his hand wheels.
“Fire salvo.”
The Oglesby and the Thompson alternated fire, blasting away the brush on the bluff. Then a shell from the Oglesby knocked the gun askew—a direct hit! A shell from the Thompson followed, and bits of steel exploded into the sky.
Wyatt’s crew cheered, and so did he. One fewer gun to harass the soldiers.
The captain ordered the destroyer back to Dog Green Beach. When they arrived, a sick feeling stirred up the fake ham and eggs in Wyatt’s belly.
In the distance off Dog White Beach, two big LCI infantry landing ships were in flames. At Dog Green, tanks burned at the water’s edge, and LCA landing craft milled about, probably looking for a safe place to come ashore. There were none.
Wyatt pressed his eyes to the slewing sight. “Oh, Lord,” he prayed.
GIs huddled behind obstacles and broached landing craft. At the seawall, dozens of men hunched over. No activity at the Vierville draw. And the beach—the beach was littered—guns, equipment, bodies, too many bodies, twisted and motionless. A trio of soldiers dashed across the beach and fell—one, two, three.
Wyatt pushed away, his breath rushing out, his mouth agape.
Mayhem. Madness. Slaughter.
“CIC here. I can’t contact the SFCP.” On the intercom, Jack’s voice sounded shrill with panic.
Wyatt coughed to restart his lungs. Without the SFCP to call in targets, they’d have to rely on their eyes. But with the German guns trained to fire down the length of the beach, the gun flashes weren’t visible from two thousand yards out.
Everything in him wanted to charge the beaches, but the waters were shallow and infested with mines. Too dangerous for the ship and her crew.
Almost three hundred men served on the destroyer. But how many soldiers were struggling on Omaha? Dying?
Wyatt backed up and pressed fists to his forehead. Protect the soldiers or protect the sailors? Why did his decisions always seem to come at a price?
Southwick House
Deep in the cellar of Southwick House, dozens of teleprinters clacked as Wrens transmitted and received dispatches.
Dorothy meandered behind the girls, useless. She wore only a light coat of face powder to mute the freckles rather than conceal them, but not even full stage makeup could have
masked the redness of her humiliation.
She wasn’t familiar with this department, and Blissy knew it, knew she’d add a failure to Dorothy’s record today. How long would it take to become demoted?
“Excuse me, Second Officer?” The lieutenant in charge held up his narrow chin. “You have bigoted clearance, do you not?”
“Yes, sir.” What used to be a source of pride—being trusted with classified knowledge of Operation Neptune plans—now only deepened her embarrassment.
He passed her a slip of paper. “Take this to Commander Pringle in operations. He’s a short man, rather—”
“I know him, sir.”
His eyebrows rose up his high forehead.
Dorothy strode out of the room before he could ask the question—whatever had she done to deserve banishment?
What had she done indeed?
The operations room was even more painful than the teleprinter room, because she’d lost the right to be where she belonged, where her hard work over the past few years had led her.
Gwen darted over, blonde tendrils falling from the roll at the nape of her neck. “Dorothy, please? Whatever the battleship wants, please do it. I’m drowning.”
Dorothy’s heart ached for her friend, for her own duties, for her father. She brushed a tendril behind Gwen’s ear. “You don’t know what she asked. I can’t. You’ll do fine.”
“Ma’am?” Leading Wren Stella Dodds handed Gwen a pile of papers.
Gwen’s shoulders sagged, she sent Dorothy a beseeching look, and she dashed to her station.
Dorothy sighed and continued across the room. Commander Pringle stood in front of the wall map with two officers in US Army olive drab, and she gave the commander the dispatch.
He read it and muttered a mild curse. “Wait for my reply.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Pringle faced the US Army officers. “Your boys are making a poor show of it at Omaha. We finally received a report. Your men aren’t advancing off the beach, and the beachmaster has halted further landings.”