With that Len jumped out of the crater and headed down the exit road followed by Zack and Johnny. They dodged and weaved through sporadic enemy fire until Len pulled up next to a bunker and called out for his platoon. Slowly and deliberately, Rangers began to appear on the sheltered side of the bunker. When he had about twenty men, Len took half and Zack took the other half and they made their way down both sides of the road, heading south toward the countryside. They used skillful covering fire and maneuver all the way down the road.
By the time the group reached the paved highway that ran perpendicular to the exit road, they had lost almost half their men to skirmishes along the way. Len deployed his remaining men to block the highway and decided to scout further south for the guns.
“Zack, follow me. Bring your friend,” Len ordered. “Let’s find out what we got up here.”
They moved quietly west along the paved road until they came across a sunken lane, with hedgerows on both sides, heading south and inland. Len led them a short distance down the lane and spoke to Johnny. “If your buddies are anywhere, they’re inland. Just keep heading south and you should run into them sooner or later. We’re going to scout a little further down this lane.”
Johnny was no longer keen on crossing Normandy in broad daylight but he nodded. The three men proceeded cautiously down the sunken lane until Len noticed some camouflage netting hung high on the other side of the hedgerow. He raised his index finger to his lips and crawled up the hedgerow to peek through. He could not believe what he saw.
“Zack, here they are! We found them. Here are those goddamn guns!” Len whispered loudly. Zack and Johnny climbed the hedgerow. Straight ahead were the five large artillery pieces they had been looking for on the Pointe. The guns sat silently in an orchard under camouflage with no artillerymen near them. Their deadly ammunition was stacked neatly in piles well behind the guns. At the other end of the field, well over 200 hundred yards away, were about a hundred German soldiers listening to an officer addressing them from atop a vehicle. It was a golden opportunity the fortunate Rangers needed to seize.
“Zack, you cover me. I’m going to take care of those guns. Watch the Krauts across the field. Open up on them if they make a move toward the guns.” Len handed Zack his Thompson and fished two thermite grenades from his pockets. “I only have two. There are five guns.”
Len needed Zack to cover him and Johnny quickly figured out he was the one that had to fetch the needed grenades. It was too long a trip back to the command post at the edge of Pointe-du-Hoc but Johnny had an idea.
“Do all you guys carry these grenades?”
Zack shook his head. “They only issued about ten per company.”
Johnny slid his M-1 rifle over to Zack. “Then some of your guys should have one. I’m going back to the roadblock.” He looked at Len. “Will three do?”
Len smiled. “Three is perfect. Hurry back. I’m not sure how long those Krauts will stay away from the guns.”
Johnny slipped out of the hedgerow and ran back up the sunken lane. An adrenaline rush from finding the guns fueled him. He reached the roadblock out of breath.
“Thermite grenades. We found the guns. I need three,” he gasped.
A few of the Rangers pulled grenades from their packs and Johnny stuffed three of them into his slash pockets.
“Hey, where did you come from?” Two soldiers stepped up to him wearing a Screaming Eagles patch.
Johnny was surprised to see other paratroopers. “Five-oh-six,” he answered.
“Five-oh-two,” one of them answered for both. “We dropped south of here last night. Got separated. Saw the Rangers and decided to join them. It’s crawling with Krauts south of here.”
“Good to know, thanks.” He slapped one of them on the shoulder. “We’ll catch up when I get back.” With that he took off down the highway.
When he got back to the hedgerow he handed the grenades to Len.
“I got two of them,” Len said. “These will take care of the other three.”
Johnny and Zack covered Len as he slipped down the other side of the hedgerow. The Germans were still on the opposite side of the orchard. The smell of melted steel was perceptible even over the smell of cordite that permeated the air. Len picked a big gun and slipped a thermite grenade into the traversing mechanism. He pulled the pin and the chemical reaction was instant. The extreme heat melted the metal, which began to flow in a molten stream fusing the gears irreparably. Len took care of the last two guns in turn and retreated back undiscovered.
“Hurry up, Len. Get out of there!” The three soldiers slid down the other side of the hedgerow smiling like kids who just got away with playing hooky from school.
“Didn’t you want to find your unit?” Zack asked when they returned to the roadblock.
“Changed my mind,” Johnny answered. “I think I’ll hang with you guys for awhile.”
“Glad to have you,” said Zack and Len at the same time.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Omaha Beach, Normandy, France - June 6, 1944
“Fear is the beginning of wisdom.”
General William Tecumseh Sherman (1829 - 1891)
Sergeant Harley Tidrick peered out over the port side of his British LCA at the small armada heading toward the Dog Green Sector of Omaha Beach. The gusty breeze whipped the briny salt spray into his face and he wiped the sting from his eyes to get a better look at the other five Able Company landing craft in his boat section. They were lined up in formation when one was hit by enemy shellfire. Another was foundering in the rough surf. Beyond them, further to the east, the six landing craft of Golf Company, American made LCVP Higgins Boats, were headed for neighboring Dog White Beach. They were farther away than planned and continued on a course that further opened the distance between them.
His group of LCAs was ordered to use the steeple of the church in Vierville-sur-Mer as their aiming point as they fought the rip tide driving them eastward. Although the church steeple was easily visible from afar, there had been some doubt as to whether the steeple would still be standing after the B-17s got through bombing the town.
Able and Golf Companies’ mission was to capture the town of Vierville. However, Golf Company drifted eastward with the winds and strong tide and eventually lost contact with Able’s left flank. Without Golf, Able Company would be isolated and absorb much more direct enemy fire. Harley knew this was not a good beginning for him and his men. He wiped the salty film from the face of his watch and noted they would hit the beach exactly on time at 0630 hours.
The first assault wave in the Dog Beach Sector was made up of the 116th Infantry Regiment of the 29th Infantry Division. Four companies abreast of Stonewallers would hit the hostile shores of Hitler’s Atlantic Wall at the same time. Eight more companies of Stonewallers would follow. On the starboard side of Harley’s LCA, lagging a few minutes behind, were two LCAs carrying Charlie Company of the 2nd Ranger Battalion. They were headed for Charlie Beach, the western-most designated beach sector on Omaha Beach. Harley could barely make out the white painted numerals on the side of the nearest LCA as it fought through the swells and waves. LCA 1038. He absent-mindedly wondered if there was actually that many. Salt spray from a near miss mortar round snapped him back to the moment.
Beyond LCA 1038, Harley spotted the group of twenty-nine amphibious Dual-Drive tanks of the 741st Tank Battalion that were to provide fire support once the infantry hit the beach. They were specially designed M4A1 Sherman Medium Tanks with dual propellers, a rudder and an inflatable flotation collar. The thirty-five ton monster DD tanks were released from their ships three miles out and were now struggling to maintain their course in the rough waters and against the driving tide. A brisk northwest wind of eighteen knots whipped up the water into four foot swells that pushed against all the tanks. As the three-knot tide slanted their vessels easterly, the drivers tried to compensate by turning their vehicles back toward the church steeple. Eventually, as they turned to a more acute angle to the
wind, the following seas began to hit them broadside. That was when they got swamped and began to sink. Harley was horrified as he watched the tankers scramble out of their steel death traps and into the frigid waters. One after the other, twenty-seven of the twenty-nine DD tanks foundered and disappeared into a watery grave. Most of the tanks that were to support the infantry on the beach were now at the bottom of the channel.
Harley yelled to his assistant squad leader, Corporal Wally Carter, who was bailing. “Wally, the tanks are gone!”
Carter stopped bailing and looked out over the stern of the LCA. He stared wide-eyed at the gruesome sight. “Holy Mother-of-God!”
Harley looked forward at the serene green bluffs rising above Omaha Beach. They were not supposed to be lush with green foliage but brown with the burnt remnants of hours of aerial bombing and naval shelling. There were no craters on the beach or bluffs either. Those were promised in the pre-invasion briefings. Everything he had been told to expect thus far had been wrong. The Krauts are probably more than a single battalion and not the fat, old, third-rate unit that they predicted, either, he thought. The brass got everything wrong!
Harley took off his steel pot helmet. “We’re gonna catch hell, Wally.” He bent over and began bailing.
The booming thunder behind them was followed by the screeching roar of artillery shells screaming overhead as the Allied armada continued the ineffectual barrage. The sky overhead was overcast and the low hanging haze clung to the sea as if to escape the storm of projectiles hurtling through the air. The clouds eerily reflected the brilliant reddish orange flashes of the bombardments. Explosions on the shore could be heard loudly along with the concussive pressure wave on the faces of the soldiers. But the shell-fall was too far inland. Rockets being fired from barges let out a loud whooshing sound as they ignited. They arched colorfully in the air and fell uselessly short of the bluffs.
The engine of their landing craft roared loudly as the flat-bottom boat plowed its way through the angry waters. The thrum of the bilge pumps added to the overall loud and continuous din. Fountains of white water plumed skyward as enemy artillery fire found the range. Waves broke over the gunwales and threatened to swamp every landing craft. Despite being issued Dramamine tablets, boys vomited from seasickness. Having long ago exhausted the brown paper vomit bags they were issued, the soldiers were forced to bail the vomit-laden seawater from the bottom of their boats with their steel helmets. Nearing the end of the ten-mile run-in, nearly every soldier was shivering wet, soaked to the skin, nauseated from the rolling sea and the putrid smells of vomit, urine and oily engine smoke. The young men were racked with anxiety and fear and exhausted from both the weight of their gear and the gravity of their mission. Suddenly the naval bombardment stopped. They were but five minutes from hitting the beach. The young soldiers were already on the brink of despair and the worst was yet to come.
The plan for Operation Overlord underwent years of detailed preparation, training and innumerable modifications as the day drew nearer. The code names for the two forces that comprised the largest sea borne invasion in history were the Western and Eastern Task Forces. The Western Task Force, on the right flank, was made up of the United States First Army divided into the U.S. V and U.S. VII Corps. The former would assault Omaha Beach and the latter would attack the westernmost beach of the invasion, Utah Beach. This attack was added late in the planning and caused considerable consternation because it was twelve miles as the crow flies from Omaha Beach to Utah Beach. In addition, the wide mouth of the Vire River estuary separated the two beaches. In order to assist the isolated 4th Infantry Division, American airborne forces were targeted to drop behind Utah Beach.
The British and Canadian Forces of the Eastern Task Force would invade across three beaches covering a twenty-one mile front. Gold, Juno and Sword Beaches would be the targets for the British Second Army comprised of the British XXX and I Corps. These forces included British and Canadian Divisions supported by three Royal Marine Commando Battalions.
German General Erwin Rommel, Commander of Army Group B, had been given command of the defenses of the Atlantic Wall and worked diligently to improve them in the months preceding the invasion. However, a fractured command structure and Hitler’s constant meddling made a cogent defensive strategy virtually impossible. Rommel, arguably Germany’s best general, was frustrated by his inability to apply his experience and leadership. He left Normandy for Berlin on 5 June to celebrate his wife’s birthday on 6 June. The weather was poor, he reasoned, and the Allies had never mounted an invasion in bad weather.
It was 0200 hours when the alarm bells of the HMS Empire Javelin sounded general quarters and jolted the men of the 1st Battalion, 116th Infantry Regiment awake. Harley wolfed down a breakfast of mutton and white gravy even though he had no appetite. Eating was something to do to pass the time and he wasn’t sure when he might get his next meal.
By 0400 hours the men of Able Company, sixty percent of which came from the same small town of Bedford, Virginia, started loading into British LCAs hanging from the davits of the ship. It was a slow process. Once launched, they would circle until all six boats had been assembled and then depart for the long trip to shore. The men were weighed down with nearly seventy pounds of gear, much of which was stored in special canvas assault vests with multiple pockets for extra rations and ammo. Each Stonewaller carried enough supplies to sustain himself for three days. This load made them heavy and hampered their movement. Despite the encumbrances, they all had to bail with their helmets as soon as the boats were launched into the choppy waters of the English Channel.
From horizon to horizon the Channel was filled with ships of all shapes and sizes. There were heavy battleships and cruisers providing bombardment support. Smaller destroyers would range in close to shore to provide direct fire support to the troops. Thousands of vehicles were also aboard hundreds of supply ships, which carried the other necessary victuals of war. Small craft darted in and out of numerous transport ships bringing the troops to the beaches; soon to be returning with the dead and wounded. This carefully orchestrated waltz of ships seemed haphazard and chaotic but the small pieces meshed with the larger ones and the timing, with some exceptions, was conducted with the precision of a masterpiece.
The commander of the LCA yelled, “Ready, mates!”
The men braced for the shock of the boat grounding on the shore.
“Remember,” yelled Harley. “Disburse. Go right and left off the boat and keep moving.”
The Allied plan was to invade at low tide so the beach obstacles would be visible. The Germans had erected a wide array of obstructions to sink or damage the landing craft. Some were as simple as sturdy wooden posts built at a forty-degree angle designed to pierce the bottom of the boats or capsize an incoming craft. Others, called “Belgian Gates”, were made of steel and were taller than a man and wider than a vehicle. Finally, three iron beams welded together formed a tetrahedron called a “hedgehog”. These were often mined and placed randomly below the high water mark. It would become impossible to negotiate these obstacles when covered by high tide.
The men of Able Company had over 300 yards of firm golden colored sandy beach to cross before they could get to the smooth round stone shingles near the seawall. The LCA grounded with a loud scraping sound, the ramp dropped and the men filed out, spreading out as ordered. The entire shoreline erupted in fire as the first man stepped off of the launch. Two men on the right disappeared into a water filled crater and struggled against their load to climb out. A machine gun stitched a trail of bullets into the soft sand with a zipping sound. The unseen gunner walked the bullets right up into the LCA and more men were hit. The soldiers behind pushed their way over their dead and wounded comrades and made their way to the front of the boat and onto the spit of sand they had grounded on. A few men went over the side to avoid the blistering fire coming directly at them. Some men were running, others found their way behind steel beach obstacles. Yet others, who were killed
instantly, dropped to the smooth blood soaked sand. No one was fighting back at the unseen enemy. The wounded were screaming in agony. The medics tried to attend to them and they too came under fire. Other wounded were crawling, vainly trying to find cover or get to the meager protection of the distant seawall. The ground shook with the vibrations of enemy artillery and the air cracked with the sound of flying bullets. The entire coastline was infested with German machine guns and they were all firing at the few remaining LCAs of Able Company.
Harley and Wally worked their way to the front of the boat as bullets ricocheted off of the steel sides. Once out they headed for one of the obstacles. Machine gun bullets traced a stripe in the sand next to Harley. Wally was hit and went down. Harley scrambled behind one of the wooden obstacles. There was a dead Stonewaller clinging to it. Harley hid behind the body. He was in the grip of the greatest fear he had ever known. Nothing in his life could have prepared him for this moment. Absolute terror rose up from deep within him and froze his body. It was the strongest emotion he had ever experienced. He hugged the base of the obstacle, paralyzed.
“Hey Mac, you gotta move. I gotta blow this son of a bitch!”
Harley turned. It was one of the beach demolition team who was blowing up obstacles before the tide covered them. Harley looked at the demolition soldier, or was he a sailor? How in the hell is this guy getting around the beach without getting killed? The demolition expert was wrapping some C-4 explosive around the long pole near its own explosive charge. The combination of the two would turn the wooden obstruction into splinters.
“You and your buddy gotta move, Mac. This is a fifteen second fuse.”
“He’s dead,” Harley answered.
“Then move out! I can’t stand here all day.”
Harley hesitated. The soldier pulled on the fuse and it sparked and started to burn. Harley got up and sprinted to the right while the demolition man took off left. “Fire in the hole!”
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 42