by Mark Zuehlke
As the returning ships approached the English coast, all semblance of order was lost and “a massive traffic jam ensued.” The LCIs finally struggled back into Southampton harbour and tied up in the berths they had departed only hours before.38 Sailors and soldiers were left to speculate whether the invasion would happen at all.
THAT DECISION WAS CAUSE for heated debate at Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force. Either the invasion went ahead on June 6 or it must be postponed until June 17 at the earliest, and the meteorologists were predicting that the weather would only worsen as the month progressed. In fact, they were predicting the stormiest June of the century. Because of the vast array of obstacles planted below the high-tide line it was critical the invasion be launched when high tides coincided with first light. The door on the first such period in June was fast closing and would shut entirely on June 7, with the next favourable period beginning June 17 and lasting only until June 21. But during that period there would be no moon, while on the night of June 5–6 the moon would be full, illuminating the channel for the crossing and assisting the air force in locating their bomb targets and paratroop drop zones.39
On the evening of June 4, General Dwight D. Eisenhower and his commanders-in-chief met in the library of Southwick House in Portsmouth, SHAEF headquarters since May 29. SHAEF Chief Meteorological Adviser, Royal Air Force Group Captain J.M. Stagg, was grim. “No one could have imagined weather charts less propitious for the greatest military operation in history as those we had before us,” he later wrote. There did, however, appear to be a slight chance the weather would clear sometime late on the 5th and remain so at least through the morning of June 6. After that, the forecast grew worse by the day. That was the best Stagg could offer Eisenhower.40
The supreme commander looked to the others. His army commander, General Bernard Montgomery, had been willing to go on June 5 despite the weather conditions and vehemently opposed further postponement. Admiral Bertram Ramsay and Air Marshal Trafford Leigh-Mallory were both hesitant, with the latter gravely worried about the likelihood that air operations would be impossible or difficult because of heavy cloud.41 Leigh-Mallory’s enthusiasm for Operation Overlord had been waning steadily as the launch date approached.
Perhaps more than any other commander-in-chief, the air marshal feared disaster. Only the week before, he had argued for cancellation of the airborne operation because the heavy casualties in planes and men predicted for the initial drop was unacceptably high. And there was the probability that the airborne divisions would face annihilation if the amphibious landings failed or the beach assault forces were seriously delayed in reaching them. Eisenhower had remained resolute that the airborne plan must be carried through despite the risks. The role these divisions would play in screening the beaches from immediate counterattacks was critical to success.
Leigh-Mallory again leaned towards cancellation. He suggested the decision be delayed until early in the morning to give the meteorologists more forecasting time. Eisenhower said they would reconvene at 0415 hours. Stagg consulted a clutch of weather forecasters by telephone conference at 0300 hours and was presented with a host of wildly diverging predictions. By the time some consensus was agreed upon, he had to dash directly to the library.
Eisenhower and the rest looked sombre when he rushed in. Stagg told them there would be fair weather throughout southern England during the night of June 5 and that this front should last “into the late forenoon or afternoon of Tuesday [June 6]. Visibility would be good, wind force 3 mostly and not exceeding force 4 to 5 along the Normandy coast.”42
Again Eisenhower polled his commanders. Montgomery was impatient to get on with it. Ramsay deferred to Leigh-Mallory. The air marshal pondered a moment and then slowly stated that although the conditions were poor he was willing to proceed. Eisenhower nodded and then said: “I don’t see how we can possibly do anything else.”43
PART TWO
BATTLE FOR THE BEACH
[ 8 ]
No Bands or Cheering Crowds
AT 0455 HOURS ON Monday, June 5—less than fifteen minutes after General Dwight D. Eisenhower decided to launch Operation Overlord—Commodore G.N. Oliver and Major General Rod Keller, both waiting anxiously aboard HMSHilary, were ordered by Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force to set sail.1The commanders of Force J and 3rd Canadian Infantry Division immediately released their own orders to ensure that all ships were fully loaded and ready to head for Normandy in accordance with a complex schedule of timed departures based on the speed of each class of vessel.
Aboard Landing Ship, Infantry HMSBrigadier, anchored off the Isle of Cowes, North Shore (New Brunswick) Regiment’s Roman Catholic Padre Miles Hickey anxiously watched a bleak dawn break. Whitecapped waves whipped hard by a strong wind pitched the large ship from one side to another and Hickey worried that the invasion would again be cancelled or delayed. Going below, he found the officers’ quarters packed with men tensely awaiting the verdict. He imagined every one of the thousand soldiers crowded into the ship’s berths was waiting with bated breath. A short while later, Major G.E. Lockwood, the North Shore’s second-in-command, walked in and said simply, “It’s on.” An audible sigh of relief passed through the room and young men turned to each other and grinned or shook hands.
Although it was less than twenty-four hours since Sunday Mass, Hickey held another service in the early afternoon and thought every Catholic soldier and sailor aboard attended. Aware that many of the kneeling soldiers were undoubtedly receiving their last Holy Communion, he put his heart and soul into delivering the service and thought he had never done better.2
“Church services are held on practically all craft,” the 19th Field Regiment, Royal Canadian Army war diarist noted.3 The Canadian Scottish Regiment’s Protestant chaplain, thirty-two-year-old Anglican Reverend Robert Lowder Seaborn, managed to hold individual services aboard the three ships over which the Canadian Scottish Regiment was scattered. Then, like thousands of other Canadian troops aboard the ships, he wrote letters home—two, in fact, both to his wife, Mary Elizabeth, called Betty.
“I can’t help being proud to be in on this show with such a grand lot of men,” he wrote. “They are so steady and trustworthy and ready for the job they have to do.
“If anything should happen to me,” he added with palpable reluctance, “so that I don’t return, it will bring so much sorrow and pain to you, such added burdens with Dickie and John and Jane dependent on you. But you will work your way through it and come out stronger and steadier, with your faith tried and tested and not found wanting.”4
In his later letter, the chaplain added, “Don’t think of this as an ‘in case’ letter, because it isn’t. It’s just to write you tonight while I have the opportunity and to let you know that I am well and happy and quite content to be here—not to say a bit excited… Always remember that no news is good news.”5
Seaborn’s attempt to reassure his wife while also bracing her for the worst was common to the letter writers. It fell to the platoon officers to read their men’s letters to ensure no military secrets were betrayed. Queen’s Own Rifles Lieutenant John D. McLean found that most said little more than “good night and good luck.” But one soldier apologized to his mother so heartrendingly for every misdeed, whether real or imagined, and then emotionally thanked her for raising him so well. Disturbed by the morbid tone, McLean visited the man in his bunk to cheer him up. The soldier grimly predicted his death in the morrow. McLean countered that if he survived the letter would only cause his mother undue anguish. But the soldier refused to take back the pages or to write another version. Finally, he consented to McLean’s holding the letter and mailing it only in the event of his death. Back in his own quarters, the officer carefully tucked the letter inside the palm-sized edition of the New Testament that he carried in the left breast pocket of his battle jacket. He then joined the other platoon officers from ‘B’ Company in a game of hearts and quickly lost all his French francs to Lieutenan
t Hank Elliot.6
Always a good time-killer during the long periods of waiting that were a soldier’s lot, gambling helped many pass the tedious hours until their ship sailed. Equally popular, and not merely a diversion, was the cleaning of weapons and final adjusting of gear. Then there were assigned tasks that rammed home the imminence of approaching combat, such as the need for the troops in the infantry battalions to prime their grenades.
Despite the fact that a first round of seasickness pills was distributed in the morning, most of the men were not bothered by the ship motion as long as the vessels remained at anchor, so much thought was given to last meals before entering a combat zone. While those troops aboard the former ocean or channel liners dined well on food whipped up by the ship cooks, the LCIs and LCTs lacked kitchens, so the men aboard them had to break open composite ration boxes and scour them for the tastiest offerings.
In the early afternoon, the slower LCTs, LCIs, and LSIs weighed anchor. The craft bearing the Highland Light Infantry sailed at 1330 hours with the war diarist noting: “There were no bands or cheering crowds to give us a send off on the biggest military operation in history. A few dockworkers silently waved good-bye. Friends called farewell and bon voyage from one craft to another. A few craft blew their whistles and up on the bridge Sagan the piper played ‘The Road of the Isles.’ The 9th ‘Highland’ Brigade was on its way.”7
They sailed into the midst of a vast armada of ships jockeying for position and also into a rising wind that “tossed the tiny craft about like straw—necessitating a second issue of pills.” At 1600 hours, the ship bearing the Highland Light Infantry was deemed far enough out to sea for the true invasion maps to be broken out and distributed to the officers. A briefing of the troops ensued, but the war diarist thought it good that—except for the true names of objectives being provided—the plans remained unchanged, “as many were too sea-sick to evoke much interest. As night bore down the sea got worse. Many spent the night on the deck in a driving rain—just to save time. Others lay below in a miserable heap and evoked the gods that be to do their worst as nothing could be any worse. Few were interested in eating that night—a sure proof of their misery. Those leaning over the rail lost complete faith in the effectiveness of seasick pills—and that’s not all they lost.”8
First Hussars tanker Lieutenant Bill McCormick’s troopers had a cooker set up in the front of their LCT and were trying to concoct a stew for dinner. But once the ship rounded the Isle of Wight and entered the English Channel, every fifth wave broached the bow, swamping the flame. Anyone trying to relight it ended up drenched. Finally, McCormick told the men to forget about the cooker and make do with cold rations. Finding anywhere dry to sleep was impossible. When darkness fell, the lieutenant bedded down on his tank’s back deck.9
Rifleman Jack Martin was particularly susceptible to seasickness. His cross-Atlantic voyage as a replacement bound from Halifax to Britain in April 1942 had been horrible, as had all amphibious exercises since. This voyage, however, seemed even more hellish. Martin and his mates were mortarmen in the Queen’s Own Rifles Support Company’s No. 3 Platoon, which was to land after the battalion’s initial assault companies and follow the advance inland in their Bren carriers. Being mechanized meant crossing the channel aboard an LCT rather than a more comfortable and seaworthy liner. With a following wave pitching up the bow as the last one lifted the stern, the flat-bottomed craft seemed to literally buckle inward at the centre every few seconds. The deck was awash with several inches of saltwater. “I’m going to be awfully sick,” an increasingly queasy Martin warned a nearby sailor. The man looked at him pityingly and then said, “Listen, why don’t you lay up on the gunwale by the ramp door and then if you have to be sick just let it go overboard.” Martin took his suggestion and was repeatedly ill, but also found the air fresher than down on the deck and imagined he might live after all. But, God, he wanted to get on that beach and off this damned sea. Dying could be no worse.10
Aboard Landing Craft Infantry, Large 262 Lieutenant Peter Hinton thought the stiff southwesterly wind hammering the invasion fleet was undoubtedly the cause of the “most massive case of seasickness in history.” When he went below to check on the North Nova Scotia Highlanders jammed in the tight troop spaces below decks, he found the conditions “ghastly.” But there was nothing he could do to lessen their misery except keep his craft plodding eastward into the gathering night.11
FIVE MILES AHEAD of the main armada, 255 Allied minesweepers and dan-buoy layers divided into ten flotillas were clearing wide channels within which the invasion forces were to travel in closely organized columns. That German-laid minefields existed along “the whole length of the Channel south of latitude 50° N to within ten miles of the French coast” was known, but intelligence had been unable to accurately pinpoint precise locations. Consequently, the largest minesweeping operation in history was required to ensure that the invasion fleet approached the Normandy coast unscathed. Initially, the invasion fleet was broken into five columns with one bound directly towards each landing beach. Upon reaching the German minefield zone, each column would split in two, with ships capable of twelve knots entering one swept channel and those able to achieve only five knots the other.12
Sixteen Canadian minesweepers were involved in the sweeping operation. Ten comprised the 31st Minesweeping Flotilla under command of Acting Commander Tony Storrs, while the six others had been divvied out among three British flotillas. The thirty-seven-year-old Storrs was worried sick that his flotilla might stray off course and cause the American ships following closely behind not to draw up precisely in front of Omaha Beach. Accurately navigating a course across the channel in darkness with a strong cross-tide that was attempting to shove the vessels sideways posed a formidable task, particularly as minesweeping flotillas were highly unwieldy. Taking up position on the extreme starboard boundary of the channel, Storrs’s ship, HMCSCaraquet, led the formation. Eight hundred yards astern of Caraquet and two hundred yards to port followed Fort William. Maintaining the same distances and bearings from Fort William was Wasaga. Then came Cowichan, Minas, and Malpeque. Known as a ‘G’ Formation, this positioning of the minesweepers enabled each leading ship to cover the one behind with its sweeping wire, while ensuring that the entire breadth of the designated channel was swept.
Sailing astern of Fort William was the British armed trawler Green Howard, which dropped dan buoys fitted with a flag and a battery-powered light. Each light was spaced a mile apart and served to indicate the outer starboard perimeter of the channel to the following fleet. Astern of Malpeque, Bayfield performed the same function on the port flank. To the rear of the actively sweeping ships trailed Mill-town, Blairmore, and Mulgrave—serving as reserve vessels in the event that one of the others suffered an equipment breakdown or was damaged by enemy action and needed to be replaced. Another British trawler, Gunner, was also present as the reserve dan layer.13
Were he forced to rely purely on standard navigational skills, Storrs knew some off-course drift would be inevitable. Fortunately, he had the help of a top-secret electronic gadget of which there were supposedly only ten in the entire world—one mounted in the bridge of each minesweeping flotilla commander’s ship. Known as qh2, the device measured the differing pulse rates transmitted from three transmitting stations and presented the information on a cathode ray tube scope. When the readings were plotted on a special chart that provided the transmitter coordinates, it was possible for Storrs to accurately maintain his course. Or so he hoped. The final confirmation would come only when his ship neared Omaha Beach, for standing off its shores was a midget submarine that would flash a recognition beacon as the sweepers drew near. Finding the midget where it was supposed to be would tell him he had maintained the proper course. Storrs did not wish to think about what it would mean if the midget were not to be seen.
Because Caraquet was stationed on the tip of the ‘G’ Formation, it was the only minesweeper in the flotilla that faced real peril durin
g the channel crossing. To provide some measure of protection, a small British motor launch preceded its passage, but the launch’s sweeping wire was too light to be effective and would only serve to provide a last-minute warning should mines be encountered. It was going to be a nerve-wracking night, but so far, except for a brief calamity as the flotilla had left harbour, things seemed to be proceeding like clockwork.14 As the ships had weighed anchor, HMCSWasaga, standing on Bayfield’s port bow, suddenly went full astern instead of full ahead and backed into Bayfield with a mighty crash. Although Wasaga suffered no more than a bend in her port quarter, Bayfield’s stern plate broke above the water line and two holes opened below. At first, it looked as if the ship might not be able to sail, but her engineer officer and his crew managed to shore up the broken bulkhead and then rig collision mats over the holes in her bow. Bayfield soon caught up to the rest of the flotilla and the operation got underway on schedule.15
“We have a big hole in our bow and shipped quite a good deal of water, but nevertheless this is it,” Telegraphist Stan Richardson wrote in his diary on June 5. “Closed up to battle stations at 1 PM and wore our anti-flash gear, tin helmets, life-jackets, and gas masks. Also given Field First Aid Kits and RCN ration tins. No sleep for anyone. Laid red-lighted Dan Buoys every eight minutes. Transports rendezvoused with us at 11 PM.”16
By late evening of June 5, the weather had cleared, although the sea continued to be whipped into high waves by the hard wind. In Weymouth Harbour, HMCSCamrose remained at anchor, for its part in the invasion was not to take place until June 7, when the small corvette would escort two tugs towing the decrepit French battleship Courbet to the Normandy coast. The Courbet was not bound for battle. Rather, it was to be sunk as part of a breakwater to shelter one of two artificial harbours the Allies planned to begin constructing immediately after the invasion beaches were secured. The fact that the Allies were capable of building such harbours, known as Mulberries, was a closely guarded secret. As long as the Germans believed the Allies could only bring major volumes of reinforcements and supplies ashore through an existing French port, the probability of an invasion at Pas de Calais would continue to be suspected and the Normandy landings hopefully dismissed as a feint.