Voices from D-Day

by Jon E. Lewis

  All this was an immense reassurance. As the men stood in their ranks listening to the colonel you could feel the confidence growing. Here at last was something practical and definite, something to which one could adjust oneself.

  We were not yet told exactly where we would land, but maps with false names were issued. They showed every German position down to the last gun. Here a machine-gun nest. Here a minefield. Here a pill-box and a fortified wall. The defences did not appear nearly so formidable now that one knew the extent of them. Each company was given its objective, the distance it had to go, the obstacles in its way. And all the time continuous air cover, a continuous barrage of guns from the sea. Dinner was almost cheerful that night.

  Private Robert Macduff, Wiltshire Regiment, aged 20 [born 6 June]

  Then all hell broke loose. D-Day was to be 5 June. In came to the Signals Office a group of lads with a tiny piece of my birthday cake, and informed me that the cake had been cut up and well passed around. They handed me my tiny piece with the remark that where I was going I wouldn’t have time to eat any more.

  Donald Burgett, US 101st Airborne Division

  On 3 June they issued each of us with an escape kit, consisting of a small compass, an unmarked map, and seven dollars in French money. We were also issued a metal cricket apiece, one click being the challenge to anyone we met in combat and two the password to keep from getting one’s head blown off. The verbal challenge for all airborne was ‘Flash’, the password ‘Thunder’, and if a man wasn’t sure of who challenged him he could ask for the countersign ‘Welcome’. The way to challenge a man is to draw a bead on him, wait until he is not more than fifteen or twenty feet away, then whisper, just loud enough for him to hear, the challenge word, ‘Flash’. If he doesn’t answer with the password or two clicks of the cricket, pull the trigger.

  That night we sat sharpening knives, cleaning weapons and sorting through the personal things we figured we could or would need after the heavy fighting was over, like soap, shaving equipment and cartons of cigarettes. Phillips, Liddle, Benson, several other troopers and I were in the tent next to company headquarters with Captain Danes, Speedy West, the Teeter twins and some officers. It was raining that night, and all the canvas and blankets were wet, but we didn’t mind, for most of us slept with our clothes on now, just removing our boots. After the usual joking and horseplay, things quieted down in the tent and we went to sleep.

  Captain H.C. Butcher, aide to Eisenhower

  Diary, Shaef Advance (near Portsmouth), Saturday, 3 June 1944

  Ever since I have been with Ike, I have carefully followed his admonition never to arrange for a showing of a moving picture for him if use of the film deprives soldiers of entertainment. In North Africa, films were hard to get, particularly new ones, and there were many evenings when the General could have seen a film but all were in use for the GIs. Our new office caravan is ‘wired for sound’ and I arranged for a movie last night. I try these days to find something light and humorous, never anything on the war. Special Services had no film at Portsmouth but were bringing one down from main headquarters at Bushy Park. As there had been no arrangement for movies for soldiers at the forward headquarters, Special Services suggested 8 o’clock, which fitted in with Ike’s personal schedule. The projector, screen, and operator were driven to the camp during the day and because, as I later learned, the projector was being sent for the General, a later show was laid on for the GIs. However, Ike had some unexpected callers and we entered the caravan about 8.30, just as the GI operator was packing up the projector and the screen. He told the General – whom I had not bothered with the details then – he had another show, one for the Gls of the camp, and he would be too late if he ran the film for the General.

  With this, the General was in instantaneous and complete agreement, but turned on me and gave me a good cussing out for arranging a film for him at a time which would cause GIs to see the later show and be kept up late. I knew then he really had the pre-D-Day jitters.

  As Ike let the GIs in the Portsmouth camp watch movies, many of their fellows and other Allied troops were already being moved out of the assembly areas to the south-coast ports where they would embark for the Great Crusade. (Indeed, some had embarked on to their LCTs, LCIs and a host of other abbreviated craft which would carry them across the Channel as early as 31 May.) The troops moved to their marshalling areas and embarkation points in huge, slow convoys.

  John G. Coleman, schoolboy

  Then we realized something was up when we were stopped going to the camp, and all the surrounding area was patrolled by armed soldiers who came from Canada, Australia, and some of our own soldiers as well. They did their patrol in an area of about 3 miles, so all the playing woods and fields were completely out of bounds.

  This coincided with the heavy build-up of armoured vehicles on the Forge Lane road at Bassaleg down to the Tredegar House.

  Then suddenly they were gone without warning and everything was dead.

  Major D. Flowers, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders

  Our destination was Southampton, eighty-seven miles away by direct route, but well over a hundred miles by the way we were required to take to conform with the traffic arrangements which spread like a cat’s cradle over the whole of southern England. According to the book this far exceeded the maximum mileage waterproofed vehicles were supposed to cover, but in fact they all stood the strain well except the three-ton lorries, which boiled constantly, and the 146th Battery’s ‘slave-chargers’, which completely disintegrated.

  The first event was a disappointment. So much was supposed to happen at the RCRP, in our case situated just outside Winchester, that when the advance party drew up importantly it was a shock to find nothing but a caravan beside the road containing one private who had never heard of the Regiment, and whose sole immediate ambition was to complete his shaving. We were deeply distressed, and in our state of excitement and nerves we imagined some awful disaster which would preclude our ever going abroad at all. We were not comforted by the arrival of an officer who assured us that officially we did not exist, but that he would try to fit us in somewhere. We lay on the grass half asleep after our long drive while he chattered on the telephone.

  Just as Tom Geddes was setting out on his motor-cycle to stop the convoy somewhere by the roadside, so that they would not pile up at the RCRP, news came through that accommodation had been found for us in Camp 19. Thus by three o’clock in the afternoon we had got to the marshalling area on Southampton Common, the drivers remaining with their vehicles while the remainder were firmly imprisoned within barbed wire. Everyone who had been in the main column was suffering from eye strain, varying from a minimum slight soreness to Lieutenant Pothecary, who lost his sight completely and for some time had to be led about. This disturbing and painful ailment was brought about partly by the dust, and partly by the diesel fumes thrown up by M10s travelling head to tail, for the roads approaching all south-coast ports carried so much traffic that normal road discipline was abandoned and the order was ‘close up and get on’.

  Bombadier Harry Hartill, RA, aged 24

  The only place we recognized that day was Stonehenge and we spent the night in Bulford Army Camp on Salisbury Plain. Rumours were rife. We knew we were going to an embarkation port but our destination was a secret, and we seemed to be retracing our route as if to confuse enemy observations. I recognized Denham Film Studios just before we bedded down for the night at the roadside just outside London. Next morning we were off again, this time through the city of London. I felt like Montgomery himself as I drove over London Bridge at the wheel of the Bren gun carrier. We arrived at what I later found out was Tilbury docks.

  Captain Douglas G. Aitken, Medical Officer, 29th Lancers

  In the towns where we have long halts and more tea, the people take a little more interest, but security police keep everyone segregated and there is no mixing. The girls look much more attractive when we know we won’t see any for a long time to come. T
hree attractive ones pass on bicycles on their way to tennis – they look very cool and very English. I occasionally find myself thinking foolish thoughts about not coming back or being away for a hell of a long time.

  Mary J. Thomson, Tilbury, aged 11

  There were troops – mostly American and Canadian – all around [Tilbury], living in tents – bell tents and all sorts of tents, anything they could sleep in – covering every square inch of grass. By this stage we were confined to home, we weren’t allowed out. But the troops needed to get washed up, so some of them came knocking at the door and asked if we could spare a bucket of water, very politely. ‘Yes certainly,’ we said, a bit surprised. Then we discovered that there were lots of boys outside who wanted to get washed and shaved, so we invited them in. They said they couldn’t come in, but would be very grateful for the water. We filled up all the buckets and baths we could find and handed them out, and there were men washing on the lawn, on the path and on the drive. They also used our outside toilet at the back of the house, because it didn’t come into the house. When they finished they were very grateful and left us with lots of chewing gum. My mother even had a pair of nylons, which were beyond price. A really nice pair of stockings.

  Alan Melville, RAF war correspondent

  We received our last instructions and our emergency rations – bully, chocolate, chewing gum, two 24-hour packs and the natty little cooker for boiling hot water which was alleged to transform the chunk of rather sad wood-pulp issued to us into a luscious plateful of porridge with sugar and cream thrown in. Hermione was manoeuvred into position between two DUKWs and we were off. We weren’t, of course – but there is always a feeling of ‘This is it!’ when you leave the marshalling area. Actually, our convoy meandered through villages and country roads and then sat down for seven hours on the outskirts of Portsmouth. People didn’t pay much attention to us on the way; they were fairly blasé about convoys by that time. But Portsmouth had sensed that this wasn’t just another exercise, and the population turned out en masse. There were no bands and no flags: it was a very different farewell to the last war; but there was great friendliness. We had been given strict instructions that, for security reasons, we were not to ‘fraternize’ with the local inhabitants. But it is impossible not to fraternize with people who insist on bringing you out cups of tea every hour, who shower their sugar ration on you, who ask you into their homes for a wash and brush up. Anyway, no Army Council Instruction has ever succeeded in stopping the British soldier from fraternizing with the children – especially if you’re driving a ‘duck’ with a life-size painting of Donald on its side.

  Alan Moorehead, Australian war correspondent

  At three o’clock we were standing in a line on the path leading up to the gate. The young naval officer came by festooned with his explosives and rather surprisingly took up a position behind me. As each new group of troops turned up they exchanged wisecracks with the others already arrived. ‘Blimey, ’ere’s the Arsenal.’ … ‘’Ome for the ’olidays.’ … ‘Wot’s that, Arthur?’ ‘Them’s me water-wings, dearie.’ Even after waiting another hour there was still optimism in the ranks. Then we marched out through the gate and got on to the vehicles. An officer was running down the line making sure everyone was on board. He blew a whistle and we started off. Five miles an hour. Down Acacia Avenue. Round the park into High Street; a mile-long column of ducks and three-ton lorries, of jeeps and tanks and bulldozers. On the sidewalk one or two people waved vaguely. An old man stopped and mumbled, ‘Good luck.’ But for the most part the people stared silently and made no sign. They knew we were going. There had been rehearsals before but they were not deceived. There was something in the way the soldiers carried themselves that said all too clearly ‘This is it. This is the invasion.’ And yet they were cheerful still. It was a relief to be out of the camp and moving freely in the streets again. Every now and again the column halted. Then we crept on slowly again towards the hards.

  Two hours went by and the soldiers began to grow bored. They seized on anything for amusement. When a girl came by on a bicycle she was cheered with salacious enthusiasm from one end of the column to the other. An athlete dressed in a pink suit began to pace round the cricket field. The soldiers watched him with relish for a minute. Then, ‘Hyah, Pinkie.’ ‘Careful, dearie.’ Derisive shouting followed him round the ground. Towards the end of the column a soldier who was trained as a sniper took down his rifle with its telescopic sights and fixed them upon two lovers who were embracing at the farther end of the park. His friends gathered round him while he gave them a lewd commentary on what he saw. The soldiers were becoming very bored. It grew dark and the cricket match ended. Every hour or so a tea-waggon came round and the men ran towards it with their enamel mugs. One after another the lights in the houses were blacked out and the soldiers, left alone in the empty street, lapsed into complete listlessness and tiredness. Rumours kept passing back and forth from vehicle to vehicle. ‘Our ship has fouled its anchor.’ ‘There has been a collision in the harbour.’ Or more spectacularly, ‘We have already made a landing on the Channel Islands.’

  Towards ten o’clock the officers began running down the column shouting for the drivers to start. We began to edge forward slowly and presently came out on the dark promenade along the sea. There were many ships, both those moving in the sound and those which had brought their bows up on to the hard and had opened their gates to receive the vehicles. We were marked down for the Landing Ship Tank 816. A clamour of light and noise was coming out of its open bows. One after another the vehicles crept down the ramp and on to the great lift that took them to the upper deck. The sailors kept shouting to one another as they lashed down the trucks on the upper deck. All night the thump of army boots against the metal deck went on.

  Alan Melville, RAF war correspondent

  We lay at anchor for three days while our part of the invasion fleet mustered. It was difficult to realize that this was only part of the fleet. Whenever you came out on deck the scene had changed and new arrivals had crept into anchorage until the whole great stretch of water was a mass of grey ships. They were constantly manoeuvring: long lines of landing craft getting into their flotilla positions and moving slowly nearer the open sea, MTBs fussing round us, launches and packet boats scuttling between ships, sign-flashing all day and night. We added our own modest quota on the evening of the second day, when an immaculate RASC launch with its full crew came alongside and to my horror four more pigeons were hauled up on deck with a polite note from the Wing-Commander saying that we’d better be on the safe side, and that he hoped we were remembering to give Blood, Toil, Sweat, and Tears their water every evening.

  Driver John Osborne, 101 Company General Transport Amphibious

  The next few days in the Solent were rather boring and were spent in the main playing cards. Our bunks were in the sides of the LSTs and it was rather stuffy and claustrophobic down there. Up on the foredeck towards the bows, a cable ran from a winch through an eye in the bow, then to a steel raft called a rhino on which were two ambulance DUKWs belonging to 633 Company. Four of us used the cable as a ridge-pole and made tents with our ground sheets. No one moved us so we stayed there until D-Day.

  Major F.D. Goode, Gloucestershire Regiment

  We were issued with Mae Wests [lifebelts] and told to wear them at all times at sea. In fact, they made a very good pillow as the quarters were very cramped and one had to lie in a canvas berth with about two feet between the one above. Had we sunk there could not have been many survivors, so closely were we packed below … we were also issued with a pair of waterproof waders which came up to our waists and which were meant to enable us to arrive dry on the beaches: in the event they were a damn nuisance and quite useless.

  The weather for D-Day had long been a preoccupation of the Allied chiefs. The assault needed a reasonable sea to disembark the troops and good visibility for the Allied aircrews who would give fighter cover and bomb the German defence installations. As June
progressed the weather became increasingly bad, causing Eisenhower to make some tough decisions. No sooner had the men of D-Day been told the date for the invasion than it was postponed. The postponement inevitably increased the strain on the men waiting aboard the overcrowded ships and in the damp tents of the Airborne divisions.

  Trooper Peter Davies, 1st East Riding Yeomanry

  The storm when it brewed up was a real snorter of a storm. A number of barrage balloons suspended from the ships broke off and flew off God knows where. Some of the lads had been sick on the third even, some on the fourth, but on the fifth they really started to get seasick. Of course the boat was going like mad from side to side. Even though the tanks were holding the LST down it was still rocking violently at times.

  General Omar Bradley, US First Army Group

  At midnight I turned in and fell asleep. It was almost six when I was awakened on Sunday, 4 June. The weather in Plymouth harbor was soupy and wet; visibility was down and I shivered as I dressed. Kean came in with a copy of the Admiralty radio to Kirk.

  ‘Postponed?’ I asked.

  ‘Twenty-four hours.’

  Captain H.C. Butcher, aide to Eisenhower

  Diary, Shaef Advance (near Portsmouth), Sunday morning, 4 June 1944

  D-Day was postponed by Ike for at least twenty-four hours last night. Weather looks very bad for air support, but suited Navy, as wind was from south-west and not expected to be so strong by morning, when the attacks were to have begun shortly after good light.

  A large portion of the 4,000 ships already were at sea, from landing craft to battleships. They were notified shortly after the 4 a.m. meeting this morning. Each task force was previously instructed what to do in just this possibility.