by Jeff Shaara
Thorne felt himself shaking, sick, the rifle still in his hands, still wrapped in plastic, watched as more of the men splashed through the shallow water, so many of the landing crafts in the distance. Some of the boats were close, had come in with the tide, pieces, broken and battered, no one at the controls, black smoke. He looked along the rocky embankment, out past the gathering men, and saw a tank on fire, still in the water; another, sideways, farther out in the surf. The larger landing craft were still coming in, spread out all across the rising water. His eyes fixed on one of the larger ones, close; he saw the big ramp come down and heard Woodruff’s angry outburst.
“Tanks! They’re coming in behind us! Behind us! They’re supposed to be here first! This isn’t going to work!”
Thorne didn’t respond, his brain arguing, They did come in first! They just didn’t make it! There weren’t enough of them! He kept his stare on the wrecked tanks, those few that had led the assault, but they were gone, useless, no sign of their crews. More men were coming in through the surf, gathering in a cluster, kneeling behind a burning tank, using the wreckage for cover. But there was no cover; just machine-gun fire sweeping them from too many directions, the men suddenly collapsing into the surf. Farther out, more artillery fire erupted near an LST, the wide maw of its ramp hidden by smoke and tall plumes of water.
Now a tank rolled out onto the ramp, its gun firing with a hard thump, the tank spilling forward into the water, then upright, pushing toward shore, the gun firing again. Another tank emerged onto the ramp, more firing from both tanks, the second tank close behind the first, rolling through the shallow surf. Woodruff was still cursing, but Thorne ignored him, thought, Thank God. Thank God. They’ll save us. He stared at the open bow of the ship, another tank appearing, magnificent power, another one emerging from behind. Yes! Keep coming! The first two reached the flat open sand, turrets in motion, guns firing upward toward the cliffs, and the sand in front of the first tank erupted, the artillery shell just short. The tank kept moving forward, up the incline of the soft beach, and now Thorne heard the sounds, shell after shell in the air close overhead. The sand erupted again, the first tank impacted by the blast, more sand and smoke, the second tank moving past the wreckage, another blast, direct hit, more shells falling farther out, on the landing craft itself. The surviving tanks continued to fire, but the enemy had the range now, and the water around the tanks flew into a fiery spray, more direct hits, an open hatch, men suddenly appearing, scrambling out of the burning wreck, tumbling away, sprayed by machine-gun fire.
Thorne felt sick again, heard low groans around him, and Woodruff, high panic in the man’s voice. “This isn’t working! It isn’t working!”
The machine guns continued to fire, seeking targets, splintering the rocks over his head. Thorne looked to the side, saw a dozen men, most curled up tightly, one man frantically scooping the sand with his hands, others now copying him. Thorne looked at Woodruff, saw none of the older man’s steel but only panic in his eyes.
“Sarge! What do we do? We’re supposed to be going through the draw…toward the church.”
“I’m not going anywhere. The lieutenant is dead. Hell, as far as I know, every lieutenant is dead. We have to get out of here…back to the boats!”
Beside the sergeant, a man began to dig frantically. “They’re all dead! Captain Fellers is dead! I saw him!”
Thorne absorbed that: Fellers, the company’s commanding officer.
“There are no boats!” Thorne shouted. “We can’t stay here! We have to keep going!”
Woodruff said nothing, just rolled to one side, digging his own foxhole, frantic hands working the sand.
Thorne was furious now, grabbed Woodruff by the shoulder and shouted, “Dammit, we can’t stay here!”
Woodruff took his arm, hard grip, terrified anger in the man’s eyes.
“Let go of me. You want to keep going, go ahead. Maybe we’ll catch up to you.”
Thorne was shaking again, realized the M-1 was still in plastic. He unwrapped it, saw wet sand in the breech, blew on it, then again, jerked the small bolt, the rifle loaded. He was panting heavily. Other men watching him with wild-eyed fear, some settling into shallow foxholes, tossing sand out in small scoops. Thorne felt helpless, weak. He glanced up at the rocks cresting a foot above his head. He looked back out toward the water, the vast fleet in the distance, useless now, more of the larger landing craft pushing in under their barrage balloons. Smaller craft came in as well, the next wave, some moving close to the steel obstacles, another explosion, the craft tossed backward, rolling over, men falling away, survivors jumping into the rising tide. Thorne watched the men pushing through the water, some stopping, dropping in shallow water, flattening out, seeking shelter from wreckage and pieces of debris.
All along the edge of the water, the tide had brought in a mass of horror, the slow ebb and flow of shattered men and equipment. But the machine guns did not stop, and the wreckage at the water’s edge was no cover at all. On the beach itself, bodies were scattered in chaotic heaps, rifles and helmets, much of the gear they carried blasted into rubble. Thorne could see now that the sand was nearly smooth, no holes, none of the cover from the navy’s shelling. He tried to shake the thoughts from his head, the lieutenant, the rockets. What happened? Did they miss…everything?
The fighter planes came over them again, one man shouting, “Krauts!”
But Thorne could see the distinct shapes of the P-38s. “No! They’re ours!”
The planes began to circle, rips of fire into targets on the cliffs, the planes rolling over, moving away. But still the machine guns sprayed out all across the beach, unstoppable.
The flow of men continued, men fighting their way past the carnage in the surf, and Thorne could only watch them, coming up out of the water, running to reach the rocks.
“Get up!” one man shouted at the huddled men. “Get the hell off this beach! Get to the cliffs! Move it!”
Thorne knew that sound, the authority of an officer, saw captain’s bars on the man’s helmet and felt breathless relief—someone in command—but saw that the captain’s arm was hanging loose, a flow of blood; the man fell to his knees and forward onto the sand. More men came up, a medic, not stopping, all of them seeking the cover of the rocks, but there was no space now, men pushing up hard against the others or scrambling to dig holes. There was a thumping explosion—no warning, a mortar shell—and sand sprayed over Thorne, screams, bodies tossed aside.
He turned toward Woodruff again, his anger boiling. “We’re dead if we stay here!”
“We’re dead anyway! There’s nowhere to go!”
Thorne’s hands ached from the grip on the rifle. He wanted to stick the barrel into the man’s face. “You son of a bitch. You’re supposed to be in charge! The officers are dead! Damn you, you’re just a coward.”
Woodruff turned away. Thorne saw faces, a dozen men watching him. He felt icy desperation, more mortar shells blowing sand in the air, some impacting the shallow water. One man pointed up at the top of the rocks.
“If we go up, there could be cover. If we’re quick.”
Another shell impacted the sand, close, showering them all. Thorne felt the energy, more men coming out of their shock, some watching him, hopeful, men who knew the job they were supposed to do.
“Yes! We can’t stay here!” He pointed out toward the surf, more landing craft dropping their ramps. “They’re sitting ducks if we don’t get those machine guns! That’s what we’re here for!”
Another man called out, “Who’s in command? Are there any officers here?”
Thorne looked out to both sides, no one responding. He thought of the lieutenant, Woodruff’s words: Every lieutenant is dead. Out in the surf, a fresh wave of men was coming in, and he looked along the shoreline, no place for them, no cover at all.
He rolled over, checked the breech on his rifle, took a long quivering breath, and said, “We have to go! We have to get those machine guns!”
&nb
sp; Others responded, nods, quick shouts.
“Let’s go!”
He looked down, a brief moment, stared into sand, another breath, checked the rifle again, pulled himself up, jumped up on the loose rocks, his feet stumbling, the rocks giving way. He was in the open now, his eyes searching, frantic, a narrow stretch of road, the cliff beyond, no holes, no cover at all. He ran, crossed the roadway, saw a deep cut in the hill, a valley, moved that way, the air coming apart around him, shrieks and pops and cracks. He moved toward the base of a hill, a low mound of dirt, saw barbed wire. Another spray of machine-gun fire cut the ground beside him. He dropped flat, his chest heaving, and more men came up around him, some of them firing blindly, curses and shouts.
One man rolled over toward him and said, “Torpedo…in my backpack!”
Thorne saw blood on the man’s chest, the stain spreading, the man staring blankly, then a soft gasp, empty eyes. Beside him, a man fell flat, crawled close, said, “He’s got a torpedo! I’ll get it!”
The man grabbed the dead man’s trio of metal pipes and cut through the straps with his bayonet. Another man was there now and fastened them together, a lengthening pole, the first man attaching the explosive charge. Thorne pointed the rifle up the hill, pulled the trigger, pulled it again, but there were no targets, nothing to shoot at.
The man beside him rolled to one side, the long pipe in his hands. “Ready! Heads down!”
They all flattened out, the man shoving the pipe out beneath the barbed wire, then a sharp blast, dirt falling on them, pieces of wire. Thorne raised up and saw the gap, shreds of wire on both sides of him. The machine guns fired again, and now rifle fire, lower in the rocks, hard pops, a sharp grunt from the man beside him, rolling backward. Thorne reached for him, froze, the rifle fire cracking around him, blood on the man’s face, too much blood, and Thorne ducked low, gripped the rifle again, turned to the side—more men had gathered, a dozen more—and he shouted out, “Go!”
They rose together, but not everyone, the machine guns still finding their targets. Thorne ran forward, searched the ground frantically, the enemy firing from the rocks above them. He stopped again, lay flat, flickers of fire from a stout wall of concrete. He crawled forward, rolled into a low dip in the ground, the guns firing over his head, German words shouted above him. Thorne rolled over, faced the water, leaned his back against the embankment, saw men hunkered down along the splintering rocks, some moving closer, some firing their rifles. Thorne looked up, straight above him; he could see slits in the heavy concrete, but too far. He put a hand on his chest, felt for a grenade, and said, “We have to get up higher!”
Men were watching him, others pulling at the grenades on their chests, understanding, one man starting to climb, keeping flat against the rock. Thorne watched him: Yes, good, go! Others were firing their rifles, covering fire, and the man worked his way up slowly, the rip of the machine guns still above them. Thorne wanted to help, to climb as well, but the rock above him was smooth, no steps, nothing to grab. He leaned back, aimed the rifle at the slits, but there was nothing, and he thought of the rocks on the beach, shattered into splinters. Maybe…just shoot at something!
There was a rattling in the rocks beside him and he heard a shout, looked that way, saw the distinct shape of a German grenade rolling, tumbling down the rocks, coming to a stop below his feet.
He felt himself bouncing, opened his eyes, saw a man standing below his feet, and realized he was on a stretcher. The bouncing stopped now, the stretcher down, his back resting on hard ground, more men around him, soft cries, gray light in his eyes. He wanted to talk, questions forming, but the fog was thick in his brain, dull aching in his arm, his eyes trying to close again. He felt a burst of panic, forced his eyes open, and the energy came now, his voice hollow, distant.
“What happened? Where are we?”
One man leaned low, dirty red cross on his helmet, low thin voice, very far away. “You’re wounded. But we got you. I gave you morphine. You’ll be okay.”
Thorne felt his eyes close, forced them to open again, the word rolling into his brain: wounded. Where? How bad? The medic was gone, just gray sky above him, rock walls, shadows. There were thumps in the distance, and he felt the panic returning—artillery, mortar fire—tried to sit up, useless, no energy, realized now there was a bandage on his right arm. Wounded…where? I’m okay? Is he lying? Maybe I’m dead. Angels. He fought the fog, raised his head, all the strength he had, a blanket across his body, had to see, flexed his fingers, the left arm free, no bandage. He raised it slowly, looked at his fingers, saw them moving, heard more voices, one man calling out, flickers of movement to one side, men carrying another stretcher. He tried to see, blinked through the fog, thought, Where am I? The fog spilled through his brain, and he forced his eyes open, saw rocky walls straight up on two sides of him, Yes, that’s good. Cover…protection. His hand dropped down to the side, his fingers curling up in soft sand. The beach? He tried to move his right arm: a bolt of pain, wounded. How bad? Dammit, where’s the medic? His fingers flexed again, and he put the hand over his chest, reached for the other arm, felt the stiff gauze, the ache in his shoulder. He pulled the blanket away, slid his hand down, the uniform crusted, stiff and stinking, his hand moving to his genitals; nothing missing, thank God. His hand stopped at his thigh, no strength to sit up, no way to reach farther down. He flexed his toes, both feet, felt them wrapped in soft socks, no boots. No boots. Somebody took my boots!
“Hey! Hey! Somebody!”
The medic was there again, featureless face. “You hurting? Need more morphine?”
“My boots! They stole my boots!”
“What’s he want?”
Thorne saw a second medic, a bag in his hand.
“I’ll give him some more,” the first man said. “He’s asking for his boots.”
“Oh, God. Yeah, it happens like that. He thinks he’s feeling his toes. Okay, give him another shot. No time for this now.”
Thorne felt his head swirling, the medic leaning low, close to his face. “Here. This’ll help.”
The fog rolled thick again, and he saw the barracks, men scrambling for inspection. “I don’t have my boots! The lieutenant won’t have that!”
The medic was there again, the man’s face a soft blur, a voice, far away, meaningless words. “Get this one to the boat. The tourniquets won’t hold much longer. He’s lucky he lived. But he’s lost both legs.”
The men of the Twenty-ninth Division continued to pour onto Omaha Beach, alongside the continuous wave from the First Division, the Big Red One. On the other beaches—Utah, Gold, Juno, and Sword—American, British, and Canadian troops had a far easier time of it, confronting German forces who were caught utterly unprepared for the enormous onslaught of men and machines. In those landing zones, beachheads were quickly established and the enormous fleet of landing craft and transport ships continued to off-load an entire army onto miles of French coastline. As those successes mounted, Omar Bradley, offshore on his command ship, the U.S.S. Augusta, watched in horror as the Americans on Omaha Beach confronted German resistance that no one believed was there. Instead of ill-equipped and worn-out German defenders, the Americans had stumbled into the crack 352nd Division. As the infantry, Rangers, and engineers struggled to find a foothold on Omaha Beach, the flow of reports that reached Bradley provided little optimism. What was supposed to have been a show of magnificent new technology, the floating tank, had instead been a disaster all its own. Of the thirty-two amphibious tanks destined for Omaha, twenty-seven had sunk of their own accord long before they could reach shallow water. Those tanks that were to be off-loaded from LCTs fared almost as badly. Most of the armor that was to have provided the opening fist for the American surge off Omaha Beach was instead reduced to burning wreckage along the water’s edge. It was worse for the American artillery, in particular the 111th Field Artillery Battalion. Their mission was to support the infantry by landing a dozen 105mm howitzers. Those cannon would be hauled to the
beach by another new technology, amphibious trucks. But the trucks had been launched too far offshore, and they were not equipped to ride through so many miles of rough surf. All twelve howitzers were lost, most of them disappearing with their crews beneath the rough seas before they ever fired a shot.
As the men and their equipment rolled into the firestorm on Omaha Beach, it was immediately obvious that the air attacks and the massive naval bombardment had accomplished very little.
Though the fight on Utah Beach had been far less devastating to the Americans than the ongoing disasters at Omaha, a struggle of a different sort took place inland. The mission of the 82nd and 101st Airborne divisions had been to secure the bridges, towns, and crossroads that would prevent German reinforcements from organizing a counterattack against the vulnerable American beachheads, exactly the sort of tactic Erwin Rommel had perfected. For the paratroopers, that fight had only just begun.
* * *
21. ADAMS
* * *
NEAR SAINTE-MÈRE-ÉGLISE
JUNE 6, 1944, 6 A.M.
He had tried to sleep, if only for a few minutes, to ease the aching weariness in his joints. His foxhole was narrow and shallow, just enough to protect him from the machine-gun fire that might suddenly erupt around them. But the fire close by had stopped, and it was the silence that kept him awake. There was still sporadic firing in the distance, but none of the heavy naval guns and no bombers. The bombardments he could hear came mostly from the north, where the lieutenant believed the town had to be. He’s probably wrong, he thought. That damned Texan could have dropped us anywhere. This is just like Sicily: blind pilots. Somebody’s gotta figure out a better way to do this.
He eased himself up, his head above the grass, just enough daylight to see out across the field, the tree line on the far side less than two hundred yards away. He glanced along the brush line close to him and saw others stirring, anxious, as he was, to get moving.