by Jeff Shaara
“Man the guns! All of you! Loaders, up and ready!”
The men responded, the machine guns put back in place, boxes of ammunition opened, belts coming out. Reimer looked toward the water again, could see the ships more clearly now, the sea alive with motion. My God, he thought. They’re coming in. The lieutenant was moving among them, quick and efficient.
“Everyone ready!” He shouted, “No firing! If they put men on the beach, wait for that! Wait for the order!” There was panic in his voice.
Reimer glanced down at the gun. Schmidt was holding the belt of shells, looking at him, waiting. Reimer reached down, pulled hard on the bolt, clamped the first shell in place. He looked out again, saw a narrow crack in the concrete, but the thick walls were still in place, solid, the strength that had saved them from the shelling. The ships were everywhere, larger ones on the horizon, smaller ones, much smaller, moving toward the shore. He felt his stomach turning, rubber in his legs, sat down behind the gun, stared down the barrel, swung the gun from side to side, sweeping motion, wide field of fire. Alongside him, the others did the same, no one speaking, no words, every man focused on the job, the training. Most had done this before, but training was not like this, memories of target practice were swept away by what they faced now. He focused on one boat, strange, flat-faced, pushing awkwardly through the water, and aimed the gun, his hand gripping the mechanism. Around him, the men waited, no sound at all, no planes, no artillery fire.
“They’re coming in right under our guns,” the lieutenant said. “At low tide. This is too easy.”
* * *
20. THORNE
* * *
OFFSHORE NEAR VIERVILLE-SUR-MER (OMAHA BEACH) JUNE 6, 1944, 5 A.M.
They had rolled and tossed for nearly two hours, the men who were able staying on their feet, a pool of salt water and vomit washing around their boots. Despite the seasickness pills, nearly every man had succumbed, and adding to their misery, every man was soaked with the salt spray and the stink of the gas-fighting chemical in their clothing. Thorne had suffered as badly as any around him, but the lieutenant had screamed himself hoarse over a new problem, the rising level of water in the bottom of the boat. The men who could muster the energy began to bail with their helmets, tossing the stinking brew up and over the sides, much of it caught by the stiff breeze and blown back in. Thorne wanted to help, but the aching sickness kept his hands frozen at his chest, one crossed over to grip the rifle, the other hard on the cramp in his stomach. His backpack was pressed against a man behind him, who held them both up by leaning against the side of the boat.
They rolled forward toward the shore beneath a shroud of heavy clouds, faint daylight most of them had not yet noticed. Around him, men were talking, some of them loosening their hold on their fears, trying to fight off the misery by focusing more on what they were about to do. He felt a hand on his shoulder, one of the men standing high above him, and Thorne looked up, saw the man staring out over the side of the boat, a loud shout.
“Wowee! Look at that! It’s a battleship. The Texas, I bet!”
The man was answered by a thunderous roar, the small boat quivering from the shock. The man fell backward, came down hard. Thorne was knocked back, men falling like dominoes, splashes in the boat. The thunder grew, the big guns on the warships opening up in a chorus of hard thumps and roars, and Thorne felt it in his ears and gut. The barrage of fire brought more men out of their sickness, more of them rising up to see, and there were shouts, cheers.
One of the sailors called out, a warning. “Hold on! Brace yourselves!”
A single wave came now, different, a wide swell that rolled the boat sideways, men tumbling back, falling, sloppy splashes. Almost immediately, Thorne felt the boat rolling again, back the other way, and tried to balance himself, move with it, his outstretched hands slamming hard against the bulkhead, men falling against his back, pushing his face into the steel. But the roaring thunder continued, and he fought against the sickness, struggled to see, pulled himself up, looked out, spray in his face again. He could see the battleships, long streaks of fire from the massive guns, more ships firing in the distance, on all sides, another battleship behind them. The lieutenant was close beside him, one fist in the air.
“Yes! Kill the bastards! Blow them to hell!”
Thorne held tightly to the top of the bulkhead and steadied himself, the pressure from behind lightening, the men finding their balance. The sailor called out again. “Brace yourselves! Another wake from the battleship! Hold on!”
With every salvo from their fourteen-inch guns, the great ships recoiled, and the wake they created spread through the tiny landing craft, adding to the roughness of the surf. But the men knew what to expect now, and when the boat rolled to the side again, they were ready, most huddling low, no one falling. Thorne stayed up, holding tight to the top of the steel bulkhead, straining to see, streaks of fire from every warship, the arc of the massive shells pointing the way, smoky blasts along the shoreline. The other landing craft were close, their own fleet of six boats, packed with helmets, men peering up as he was. To one side were the larger craft, the LSTs, which carried tanks and artillery, and far in the distance, many more, large and small, every one pounding its way forward through the rolling swells.
The shock waves continued to roll the deep water beneath them, and Thorne looked ahead, the shoreline buried under smoke and fire, the sight energizing him, energizing all of them. But then the fire began to slow, the big ships growing silent, others, in the distance, quieting as well. And then, it stopped. The men were still straining to see, the crowded boat still plunging forward, rolling and pitching, some men still bailing water. Thorne stared forward, saw low clouds of smoke, the last remains of the naval bombardment. But it was clearing now, and he could see the shoreline, a chalky wall, cut by a deep V, hints of houses and buildings. The only sound was the smoky churning of the boat’s engine. He scanned the horizon out to both sides of the boat and could still see the battleships and other warships, silent sentinels.
The lieutenant spoke beside him. “That’s it. We’re too close in. They can’t shoot over us. Whatever is left out there…is ours.”
Suddenly there were new sounds, high shrieking wails, the men flinching, heads turning toward the closest landing ships, sheets of flame pouring toward the shore. Thorne felt his heart leap in his chest.
“Rockets!” the lieutenant said. “Give ’em hell!”
Thorne had seen this before in the rehearsals at Slapton Sands, but only from a great distance. He had never heard the frightening screams before, the ships that carried the rocket launchers very close to them. Some were behind them, the rockets streaking right over their heads, every man flinching, holding their helmets, some kneeling down. Thorne wanted to see, fought the fear, the lieutenant again, “Damn! They’re too close! Keep your heads down!”
Thorne obeyed, leaned his helmet against the moving bulkhead, the piercing screams whining in his ears. And just that quickly, it was over. Men responded as he did, standing tall again, staring forward, more smoke on the shoreline.
“That’s our cover!” the lieutenant shouted. “Doesn’t matter if they hit anything. Sure as hell they put holes on the beach!”
Cover. Thorne hadn’t thought of that; there was nothing in the drills about making cover. Do we need it? Who could survive all that shelling? There’s nobody left out there. He focused on that; surely, surely no one’s left alive. Or they ran away. He was breathing hard, could see a wide flat stretch of sand; his heart thundered in his chest.
The men were talking again, a clatter of voices rising, all of them standing up now, and the sailor shouted, “Get ready!”
The words sliced through him, an icy bayonet. Ready. Get ready. I’m ready. He thought of the battle cry, all that pride drilled into them. Twenty-nine…let’s go! All right, then, let’s go. Let’s go get our bronze stars. He thought of the man who had said that; maybe he was right. Bronze star. Words rolled through his brain.
The colonel’s last briefing: Get off the beach…get your ass off the beach…too many men coming in behind you…clear the way. That’s the job, he thought. Clear the way. Blow the wire, find the draws, look for the church steeple. The church steeple. He stared out toward the V-shaped dip in the cliff, just like the drawings, and beyond, through the drifting smoke, a steeple.
The sight punched him, and he shouted, “There it is! The church!”
It was the first thing he had said since he boarded the small craft, but other men were calling out as well, and Thorne saw a sign, posted beside the ramp at the front of the boat, had not noticed it before: NO SMOKING.
His eyes froze on the sign, and for one moment his brain grabbed on to its pure nonsense. What the hell difference would it make anyway? He looked at the others, most of them staring to the front, smoother water, and his eyes caught motion, low along the beach, the sounds reaching him now, fighter planes, screaming past.
At the rear of the boat, the sailor called out again. “Another minute!”
The men were silent now, all eyes to the front, wispy smoke on the beach, small fires, the larger LCTs moving in closer; the tanks will go in first. Thorne was shivering again, tight pain in his stomach, the sailor’s words: another minute. His eyes stayed fixed on the beach: no movement, nothing alive, no one there. There was silence from the men around him, and now a whistle, coming toward them, a soft punch in the water, a plume suddenly rising high. He looked that way, saw another rising farther out, close to another boat. Now the whistles rolled overhead, the air split by the sounds. The lieutenant shouted, “Artillery! Keep your head down!”
Thorne ducked, his helmet pressed against the bulkhead, one hand against the steel. Steel. Good. We’re okay in here. He felt a hard jerk, the boat lurching to a stop, suddenly pulling backward, the engine reversing, and the sailor called out, “This is it! As far as I go! Lower the ramp!”
Beside Thorne, the lieutenant yelled out, “Not yet! Get closer!”
“No! This is it! We’ve got to do it now!”
“You son of a bitch! Get us closer!”
“I said, lower the ramp! Now!”
The sailor’s crewmen obeyed, the ramp yawning outward, falling downward to the surface of the water. The lieutenant was still shouting and Thorne saw his face, raw fury. But the boat had stopped, and the training was in all of them. The lieutenant turned, moved toward the opening, yelled out one more time. “We might have to swim. Inflate your belts!”
Thorne saw the edge of the ramp dipping below the water in front of them, the wide expanse of beach still a hundred yards away, and the lieutenant stepped out onto the ramp, one glance back.
“Life belts! Let’s go!”
And now there were new sounds, sharp cracks and pings, lead on steel, and Thorne saw the lieutenant’s face, sudden shock in his eyes, the man dropping to his knees, falling to one side, tumbling off the ramp into the water.
Behind Thorne, the sailor shouted, “Go! Go!”
The men seemed frozen, most staring at the place where the lieutenant had been, but his body was gone completely. The bullets were coming into the boat now, another man falling forward, a hard grunt. Some of the men began pulling back, trying to escape from the inescapable, but one man moved out onto the ramp, jumped quickly into the water, and Thorne saw him standing upright, the water waist-deep, the man waving his arm.
“Let’s go!”
Thorne slid the rifle off his shoulder, pressed forward, and waited while the men in front of him filed out. He was there now, the sloping ramp under his feet, chattering rips in the air, a hard crack, the man falling away, then another beside Thorne dropping to his knees, falling facedown on the ramp. A bullet smacked into the steel beside him, a whistle of artillery, a tall plume punched up to one side. Men were pushing at him from behind, hard cursing shouts, and Thorne jumped down, water in his face, his boots hitting bottom, heard a man crying out behind him, more splashes. He pushed hard through the water, ducking low, down to his shoulders, held his rifle in front of his face. Men were moving beside him now, as he was, pushing forward. There were more spits in the water around him, zips above his head, a sharp crack rattling past his helmet, a hard watery blast to one side, but he did not stop; he pushed forward, furious at the water that grabbed him, slowed him. The artillery shells ripped overhead, and he was swarmed by the hard stink of smoke, saw a thick black swirl, fire, wreckage in the shallow water. His legs kept moving ahead, water and smoke in his face and now a hard blast, a ball of fire, more black smoke. He looked that way, saw another boat, direct hit, men on fire, bodies in the water. He wanted to stop, thought of helping, but it was too far, the bullets were still cutting the water around him, and his legs did not stop but pushed him forward, his brain screaming, Keep going! It was easier now, shallow water, then he was out, hard sand, black steel in the sand, crosses and poles in front of him, men moving past, his lungs burning, his legs heavy, the weight on his back dragging him down. He fought that, looked straight ahead, smoke rolling past, screaming men, more blasts, more fighter planes overhead, wide flat sand, the cliffs so far away. He lowered his head again, heard another sharp cry, more thunder, a burst of sand beside him, whistling steel. There was no thought, just the motion of his legs, driven by the training and the terror. He could hear the steady rattle and rip of machine guns far out in front of him, thumping bursts of mortar fire in the wet sand. He was gasping, his legs cold lead, and he moved to one of the steel crosses, his hand out, holding himself, his knees giving way, his chest heaving. Men were around him, no words, desperate and exhausted, stopping, as he was, finding cover behind the steel, more men tumbling into the sand.
“Help! Medic! Oh, God!”
Thorne searched for the man but there were too many, stumbling and falling, helmets off, backpacks scattered, another blast, a chorus of pings on the hard steel beam above his head. He knelt low, kept his face down, both knees in the wet sand, another man down beside him, seeking cover, a hand grabbing his shoulder, panic in the man’s voice.
“We can’t do this! We have to go back!”
More men were down behind him, one man crying, uncontrollable wailing, but most of them were silent, heads down, some of them flattening out behind the protection of the steel, the shower of machine-gun fire relentless. Thorne heard more of the thumps, grunts and cries, sparks in front of him, bullets striking the steel. He tried to roll himself up tight, a smaller target, but a hand was grabbing his collar, a deafening voice in his ear.
“Let’s go! Get to the beach!”
The man moved out in front of him, beyond the protection of the steel, and Thorne saw more men doing the same, running across the flat sands, some tumbling forward, one man tossed to the side, broken by a mortar blast. Pieces.
Behind him another man came forward, screamed, “Go! We gotta go!”
Thorne knew the voice, the old sergeant; Woodruff went past him, running low, holding his M-1. Thorne saw the plastic wrapping, thought of his own, the rifle clamped in his hands, his brain yelling instructions, Load it! Shoot back! He glanced up toward the beach again, nothing to see, in his head the idiotic instructions: Know your targets. He saw Woodruff, still moving, going up a rise, a low wall of rocks, Woodruff down now, waving his arm, calling them forward; more men moving up to him, more cover.
Thorne tried to move his legs, cramped, paralyzed, another hard blast, black smoke rolling over him, machine-gun fire striking the steel in front of him. He felt himself shaking, wanted to cry, terror holding him, but another wave of men was moving past him, some of them stopping close to him, behind the obstacles, seeking cover, but the mortar fire was finding them too. The thumping explosions came in a steady rhythm around them, throwing sand in the air, a direct hit on one of the steel obstacles a few yards away. He stared that way: pieces of men, an arm hanging on a steel beam, rocking slowly, fingers curling up.
You can’t stay here! He realized now, there was water beneath him, a shallow wave coming slowly from
behind. The briefing came back, one fact no one had paid attention to, something about the tide coming in, faster than anything they had seen. A helmet rolled past him now, carried by the flow, more clothing, and men were splashing past him, panicked cries, wounded men calling out. You can’t stay here! He looked for Woodruff and saw dark shapes, men huddled low behind a rocky wall. Cover. Go!
He pulled himself up, fought through the stiffness in his legs, the burning weakness in his lungs. He held the rifle close in front of him and tried to run, slow plodding steps, splashing water. The machine-gun fire was steady, cutting the air over and around him, hard splashes, more heavy blasts behind him, a sharp explosion, more smoke. He focused on the wall, now closer—no more water, no more obstacles, just soft sand, the beach rising up—hard pain in his legs, fire in his chest. He was close to the wall, saw it wasn’t a wall at all, just a mound of small rocks, spread out all along the beach, but it was all the cover they had. He dropped to his knees, crawled forward, moved through a cluster of men, lifeless, dark stains in the sand, a broken rifle, shredded backpack. He pushed past, saw faces watching him, one face, Woodruff, the sergeant staring back at him with black eyes, dull shock.
Thorne crawled up beside him, collapsed, gasping, spitting through the sand in his mouth. No one was talking, machine-gun fire chattering across the rocks above him. More men were coming up the sloping sand, dropping down along the rocks, soft cries; one man, blood on his face, helmet gone, running; men shouting at him, Get down; and Thorne saw the impact punching the man’s chest, the man curling up, rolling forward. The cries rose across the beach in a horrible chorus, wounded men calling for stretchers, some still out on the open beach. Thorne looked back and saw a hand in the air, the man screaming, meaningless noises, one man running low, moving toward him, a dull red cross on the man’s helmet. But the storm of fire blew over them and the medic collapsed, falling onto the man he was trying to help.