by Mark Zuehlke
Even before dawn, it had become evident to the naval officers controlling the landing schedules that the rough seas were going to disrupt the timing. While the meteorologists aboard Hilary reported waves averaging three to four feet and a wind blowing out of the northwest at only Force 4—about eighteen miles per hour—no allowance was made for offshore swells that effectively doubled the wave heights. Furthermore, as the waves broached the rocky shoals lying off the beach, their height increased dramatically. There was also a strong starboard cross-current that threatened to push the landing craft well east of their assigned touchdown points.28
Recognizing that the seas were stormier than any of the DD squadrons had encountered during training, the flotilla officers controlling their deployment sought the opinion of the tank commanders on whether a launch should even be attempted. The Fort Garry Horse senior squadron commander, Major William Roy Bray, suggested the decision be postponed until the LCTs were between three thousand and two thousand yards offshore.29 Major J.S. Duncan and Major Dudley Brooks of the 1st Hussars looked into the “churning and choppy sea… [and] replied that it was too rough.”30 The LCTs with the tanks bore on towards shore. As for the British engineers and marines, some of their vessels had fallen out of the convoy inadvertently during the channel crossing and were still hastening to catch it up, so it was impossible for them to precede the infantry’s arrival on the beach.
Well ahead of the LCTs bearing the DD squadrons was the one with the two 1st Hussars 17-pounder tanks mounted on its front that were commanded by Lieutenant Irving and tasked with firing on the fortified gun position near Courseulles. Standing behind the tanks in readiness to hand ammunition up to the loaders, Trooper Ralph Burley and three other Hussars tried to ignore the icy seawater sloshing around their ankles. The LCT was heaving in the swells, making it hard for the men to keep their balance. During the crossing, some of the tankers had tried cooking up some food with a propane burner, but Burley had been too seasick to eat any. Everyone was seasick now and the run towards shore was a misery.
Then the two tanks opened fire with a deafening crash that set Burley’s ears ringing despite an earlier attempt to protect his eardrums by wrapping a scarf around his head. Burley and the others formed a chain and started passing shells to the gun loaders. Coming up from a crouch while passing one round up to the man on the back of the tank, Burley struck his forehead on a bracket bolt mounted on the tank and opened an inch-long gash above one eye. Blood blinded him and the trooper was gripped by a convulsive fit of vomiting. Frantically swiping the streams of blood from his eyes so he could see enough to handle the shells, attempting to ignore the vomiting attacks, Burley kept passing the ammunition.
Because the shells were being manhandled through the hatch in the top of the turret, the tank crew commanders were forced to use periscopes to direct the guns onto the target. Halfway through the shoot, one periscope lens became so covered with seawater that the crew commander was no longer able to see through it. “Somebody get up here and wipe off these periscope sights,” he bellowed. Burley’s crewmate, Trooper Harold Newburgh, jumped to the task by straddling the 17-pounder’s muzzle and reaching up from this position to wipe the periscope lens clean with a rag. Just as he finished the job, the gunner accidentally triggered the gun. When the badly dazed Newburgh returned to the deck, Burley saw that the man’s eyebrows had been blackened and singed by the muzzle blast.
Although the LCT carried two hundred rounds of loose ammunition for use in the firing mission, Irving ordered ceasefire after each tank had fired only about thirty rounds.31 Then the LCT broke off its advance and swung back out to sea.
Behind it, the LCTs carrying the DD tanks were doing likewise, even as the squadron commanders still wrestled with whether to launch or, instead, have the LCTs land the tanks directly on the beach. Able to make better time in the rough seas than the LCAs, the LCTs had closed on the beach so far ahead that they risked touching down at 0725 hours—twenty minutes earlier than the infantry. The flotilla officers therefore ordered them to come about in a wide circle to the right that would bring them back in fifteen minutes to the possible launch point three thousand yards out. At that time, the flotilla officers would decide whether a launch was to proceed or not. While a direct landing would avoid the risk of DD tanks being swamped or capsized, it would greatly increase their danger of being lost by the sinking of the LCTs or destroyed on the beach in clusters by concentrated German antitank fire. Whatever the choice, their new landing time was to be 0740 hours for Mike sector and 0745 for Nan—five minutes ahead of the scheduled touchdown for the infantry on Mike and ten minutes ahead of that for Nan.32
As the LCT carrying Bombardier Okill Stuart reached its holding position offshore, the young bombardier was struck by the deafening noise around him. From near the beach, the rocket ships were unleashing salvoes that shrieked ashore with a “swish, swish, swish” sound. Then “you heard, ‘chug, chug, chug’ [and] found it to be the noise of the 16-inch shell from a battleship, so far to the rear that you could not see it. Something different was happening everywhere—all with a bang!”33
[ 11 ]
Roll Me Over, Lay Me Down
BERTHED AS THEY had been aboard the seafaring passenger liners converted into Landing Ship, Infantry rather than the smaller LCTs and LCIs, the infantry of the leading assault wave had enjoyed a more comfortable night than most other soldiers in the Canadian invasion force during the storm-tossed channel passage. Still, the troops had been so keyed up that few slept and the poker games in the smoke-filled holds played on. Men smoked cigarettes, cursed their luck when the cards failed them, or roared in triumph when the dice rolled right. Those who declined gambling concentrated on cleaning weapons and gear, writing final letters, or chatting quietly with friends about what the coming day might bring. Reveille came between 0300 and 0400 hours, with breakfast soon served. Food quality varied in accordance to each ship’s mess facility. For the Royal Winnipeg Rifles, it meant nothing but tea and a cold snack.1The Queen’s Own Rifles fared well as the cooks heaped the plates with eggs cooked sunny side up, fried bacon, and thick slices of white toast.2 Any man desiring a tot was allowed “a… shot of good old navy rum.”3
Similar fare without the rum ration was offered the Canadian Scottish Regiment, but Captain H.L. Alexander of ‘C’ Company noted that “breakfast was a meager affair for most.”4 Having observed the churning seas, most of the men ate sparingly because they knew the LCAs would be hard tossed in the rough seas despite also knowing “it would be the last proper meal for a couple days.”5 The Canadian Scottish aboard the Royal Canadian Navy’s Prince Henry were each given “two hard-boiled eggs and cheese sandwich as extra ration” courtesy of the ship’s crew, who had saved the food from their own previous day’s lunch and this morning’s breakfast. The battalion’s second-in-command, Major Cyril Wightman, thought it a gesture typical of the crew and skipper Captain Val Godfrey, who he considered “a grand man.”6
No sooner had the Canadian Scots of ‘B’ Company and the Headquarters Company on Prince Henry finished stuffing the lunch ration into their already overloaded packs than the ship ceased steaming towards the Normandy coast. It was 0605 hours. Godfrey ordered three short blasts on the ship’s whistle to signal the other LSIs that they were at the assigned disembarkation point and dropped anchor. The LSIs stood in an almost perfect line twelve thousand yards off Juno Beach, with each ship spaced one thousand feet apart.7 The thirty-nine-year-old Wightman, who had initially joined the Victoria-based regiment in 1924 to fill a spot on its rugby team and then taken an officer’s commission four years later, “was tense, overly tense, almost to the point of speechlessness.”8 But like everyone else, he filed to his assigned LCA. Each LCA complement numbered between thirty and forty, most comprised of a single platoon. Reverend Robert Seaborn moved along the boat deck and said “a little prayer to each little group before they went over the side” into their assault craft.9 Then he walked over to where Wightman stoo
d to take his place among the men assigned to that LCA. At 0645 hours, with the battalion’s pipers playing “cheerfully in the bright morning,” 146 Canadian Scots embarked in seven LCAs. “As the troops left,” noted a naval report, “they gave three rousing cheers for the Prince Henry, which her ship’s company heartily reciprocated.”10
Only one company of the Canadian Scottish Regiment was part of the first assault wave—Major Desmond Crofton’s ‘C’ Company. This company would land on the extreme western flank in Mike Sector Green to protect the right flank of the Royal Winnipeg Rifles by taking out a fortification dug in on the beach in front of the Château Vaux and then securing the estate itself. Immediately to ‘C’ Company’s left in Mike Red, the Winnipeg’s ‘D’ Company under Major Lochie Fulton would land, while Captain Philip Edwin Gower’s ‘B’ Company secured the left bank of the River Seulles. On ‘B’ Company’s right flank in Nan Green, ‘A’ Company of the Regina Rifles would set down in front of Courseulles-sur-Mer, with ‘B’ Company coming ashore to the immediate left. Major Duncan Grosch commanded ‘A’ Company and Major F.L. Peters ‘B’ Company. Supporting the 7th Canadian Infantry Brigade regiments were the Duplex-Drive Shermans of the 1st Hussars, with ‘A’ Squadron backing up the Winnipegs and ‘B’ Squadron the Reginas.
Left of the Reginas in Nan White, the Queen’s Own Rifles would assault Bernières-sur-Mer, with ‘A’ Company on the right and ‘B’ Company left. Major Hume Elliott Dalton commanded ‘A’ Company, while his brother Major Charles Dalton, six years older than Elliott, led ‘B’. The thirty-three-year-old Charles had joined the Queen’s Own Rifles Cadet Company in 1925, followed by his brother a few years later. The two siblings were extremely close and were also popular with their men. Both were handsome, looked perfectly cast in the dashing young officer role, and played the part as if born to it. But they were also competent leaders who led from the front.
That two brothers would lead both Queen’s Own Rifles assault companies had been determined purely by chance when the battalion’s four company commanders established the order of landings with a coin toss. Aboard SSMonowai, a New Zealand liner, the two brothers had stood together as they waited for the order to board the LCAs. Realizing that he might never see his brother again, Charles tried to think of some meaningful parting words. Elliott, too, wondered what to say. Finally, when the order to embark came, Charles simply said, “I’ll see you tonight.” The two men shook hands and walked briskly to their boats.11
Also taking to LCAs were the men of ‘A’ and ‘B’ companies of the North Shore (New Brunswick) Regiment that were to attack Nan Red. Major John Archibald “Archie” McNaughton commanded ‘A’ Company. At forty-seven, he was older than most company commanders. Leading ‘B’ Company was Major Bob Forbes. ‘A’ Company was to set down immediately west of St. Aubin-sur-Mer and pass through an open gap between this town and Bernières-sur-Mer on the right while ‘B’ Company pushed directly into St. Aubin.
Supporting the Queen’s Own Rifles and the North Shore Regiment were respectively ‘B’ Squadron and ‘C’ Squadron of the Fort Garry Horse. Major Jack Meindl commanded ‘B’ Squadron and Major William Roy Bray ‘C’ Squadron.
SOME LSIS HAD THEIR assault craft slung in a single rank of davits. This enabled all the troops to simply climb aboard their respective LCAs and be lowered on cables to just a few feet from the water and then released. Major Lochie Fulton’s ‘D’ Company of the Winnipeg Rifles departed the liner Canterbury in this manner. On other LSIs, such as Llandovery Castle, the LCAs hung in tiers so that it was possible only for the lower rank to be boarded directly from the boat deck. Once these craft were dropped, the upper tier was lowered with only its boat crew aboard. The soldiers then climbed down scramble nets cast over the ship’s side and jumped into the LCA—no easy task for men burdened with heavy packs and weapons even in calm water. On June 6, the LCAs were pitching up and down violently in five- to six-foot swells and bouncing hard off the sides of the LSIs.12
One of the first infantry casualties was probably Winnipeg Rifleman Andrew G. Mutch. He was on board a ‘D’ Company LCA that had been damaged by a large wave just as it cast free of its LSI. With one engine knocked out, it was struggling to make way forward as wave after wave broached its side, threatening to swamp the little craft. Drenched and scared, the soldiers aboard were all desperately seasick. About two miles out, Rifleman J.H. Hamilton noticed that Mutch had crawled up on the gunwale in order to be sick. Seeing a large wave bearing down on them, he lunged for the man but was too late to prevent him being washed overboard. The rifleman went under the surface and did not reappear.13
Aboard Monowai, ‘B’ Company of the Queen’s Own was lowered to the water in ten LCAs and then ‘A’ Company scrambled down the nets to jump into their craft. Charlie Martin, ‘A’ Company’s Company Sergeant Major, watched anxiously as the men boarding the LCA he commanded made the slow and awkward descent. Each man had to pause, clinging to the net, to measure the moment he should jump into the LCA. This was just as it yawed against the LSI’s side. A mis-timed leap could easily drop a man between the two craft so that he would either be drowned or crushed between the two hulls. The loading was taking longer than scheduled and the naval officers in the LCA and on the boat deck shouted at the soldiers to pick up the pace. Finally, everyone but Martin was aboard. After one final look around the boat deck to ensure no equipment had been forgotten, Martin turned to see the LCA crew already casting off. Clambering down the net, the CSM jumped towards the departing boat but landed on the gunwale and would have fallen back into the sea had not two of his men pulled him inside.
Martin took up his assigned position directly behind the drop ramp. On his right was No. 9 Platoon’s sergeant, Jack Simpson. Before being promoted to CSM, No. 9 had been Martin’s platoon. Almost every man on the LCA had enlisted in 1940 at about the same time as Martin had. They had trained together for almost four years for this moment. Simpson was a good friend of Martin’s and a competent sergeant, who also had a brother over in another LCA carrying No. 7 Platoon ashore.
Milling around in the rough seas, the LCAs circled the LSIs as they waited for the order to head for the beach. Martin wondered what caused the holdup.14 Every extra minute spent aboard the LCAs added to the numbers of men becoming violently seasick. Aboard the LSIs, most of the soldiers had been okay, but being pounded about in the smaller craft was making dozens of men ill.
Rifleman Bill Bettridge started throwing up the steak and eggs he had eaten for breakfast just minutes after he jumped into Martin’s LCA. One of ‘A’ Company’s two snipers, the twenty-three-year-old from Brampton was tough as nails on land but now he was so sick he worried about being useless when they finally reached the beach. Bettridge filled his brown plastic vomit bag and those of several of the unaffected men around him. Bettridge looked up from his hunkered position of misery at the sound of a rocket ship loosing off hundreds of charges just as an Allied P-51 Mustang fighter flew directly into the salvo’s path. The plane disintegrated. Bettridge realized with a kind of grim awe that he had just witnessed a man die.15
In another LCA, Lance Corporal Gerry Cleveland of Yarmouth, Nova Scotia was in the middle row just behind the door, with his platoon section of the North Shore’s ‘A’ Company in a line behind him. They were supposed to sit like kids on a toboggan on the bench that ran down the centre, but everyone was standing and craning to see the beach as well as to help their queasy stomachs. The men on the benches running along the sides were also standing rather than sitting, with their backs against the armoured hull. “We’d be on top of a wave and could look down and see an LCA in a trough. The next thing you’d be down in the trough looking up and there was water on either side of you way up there high above,” Cleveland later recalled. Although raised in a town where fishing was the economic mainstay, Cleveland’s family had been dairy farmers. He knew nothing of the sea. To his untrained eye, the waves seemed thirty to forty feet high and terrifying.16
WITH THE I
NFANTRY heading shoreward, the moment of decision arrived for the flotilla officers commanding the launching of the Duplex-Drive squadrons of the Fort Garry Horse and 1st Hussars. Deciding that the sea was too rough, the officer controlling the Fort Garry Horse tankers ordered the LCTs to take these Shermans to within a few hundred feet of shore and let them swim from there.17 When the LCTs carrying the 1st Hussars were about three thousand yards from the beach, however, their flotilla commander told ‘A’ and ‘B’ squadrons to launch.
Aboard the four LCTs bearing ‘A’ Squadron’s nineteen tanks, the Down Ramp Order bells rang and Major Dudley Brooks radioed for the crew commanders to launch their Shermans. German artillery and mortar rounds were splashing into the water all around the closing LCTs as the Hussars’ tankers fired up their engines and deployed the canvas screens. In the LCT farthest to port, Lieutenant H.K. “Kit” Pattison rolled off the ramp and bobbed down into the water—the Sherman settling nicely so that it looked like nothing more than a large rectangular canvas dinghy with three-foot-high sides making its way shoreward. Just as his tank took to the sea, however, the chains holding the door level to the waterline were shot away, preventing the other tanks from launching safely in deep-water conditions. The LCT on the starboard flank was also unable to disembark its tanks due to a mechanical failure with the ramp. Both of these LCTs made for the beach in order to disembark their tank complements onto dry land.18