What the demoralized G.I.’s crouching behind the shingle needed most to save them was mortar fire of their own to rain down vertically into the trenches on the bluffs above them—but they had lost all their own mortars landing in the surf. Or else the terrific impact of bursting heavy naval shells to smash through the enemy casemates and silence for good the Nazi artillery and their concrete strongpoints. Then they might hope to ascend the draws and clear those trenches and their death-dealing machine gun nests with hand grenades—but the warships close by and anxious to help were all blind; they had no spotters any longer. Without spotters, they dared not fire; they were more likely then to kill our own men huddled on the beach than the well-sheltered Nazis.
0700.
The second wave of assault infantry began to come in. In the assault plan, by 0700 there should have been sixteen marked gaps in the obstacle field, through which all succeeding small landing craft and the much larger LCI(L)’s and LCT’s could come to discharge their men, artillery, and vehicles well up on the beach sands. But it hadn’t worked out that way. The second wave had practically as much trouble with the obstacles as the unfortunates who had preceded them.
Still there were some improvements, mainly due to the fact that with more targets in their field all at once, the Nazi gunners could not concentrate so effectively on the newcomers as they had on their predecessors. The landing craft coming in now caught only part of the artillery fire—willy-nilly, the enemy gunners had to devote some of their attention to the tanks still able to fire on them. And some of the machine gunners also, though they were hitting nothing there, had to keep a substantial curtain of fire going on the top of the shingle bank lest the men sheltering behind it seize a lull to rush en masse across the beach road toward the bluffs and burst through the wire.
The results were uneven. On the far right, once again misfortune ruled. Most of the boats of Company B, 116th Infantry, landing in front of the Vierville Draw to reinforce the first company of their regiment, were just as badly mangled there in their landing—only an ineffective remnant ever reached the shelter of the seawall to join the already demoralized survivors of Company A.
From there on east, conditions varied radically. Some companies, while the machine gunners on the bluffs were busily occupied shooting to pieces men landing from adjacent boats, got up to the shingle with slight losses and with many of their heavier weapons. The other companies, the unfortunates in the adjacent boats, on whom meanwhile as targets all the automatic weapons spraying the beach front with fire were concentrating, left as high a percentage of dead and wounded as they came through the obstacles as had any companies in the first wave.
The luckiest group was a battalion of the 5th Rangers, carried in fourteen landing craft, supposed to come in behind Companies A and B of the 116th Infantry, whose shattered remnants were huddled against the seawall fronting the Vierville Draw. But Lieut. Colonel Max Schneider, commanding the 5th Rangers, after a searching look at the mass of dead and wounded of the 116th Infantry already littering the sands there as his flotilla approached, concluded that spot was a death trap and veered his boats to the east to land them halfway between the Vierville Draw and les Moulins. As a result, he got his 450 Rangers through the obstacles and up the seawall with the startlingly small loss of only six men.
To emphasize his luck, and possibly also in some measure the cause of it by letting his small craft slip through while bigger game took the gunners’ eyes, LCI(L) 91, the first of any of the larger troop carriers attempting to beach, came in just where Schneider’s Rangers were snaking through the obstacles to the left of the Vierville Draw.
LCI(L) 91, an ocean-going infantry carrier, jammed full with more troops of the 116th Regiment, came in looking for the marked gap in the obstacles in its assigned sector. Through that gap it would swiftly drive up on the beach to pour its load of G.I.’s down the ramps hanging on its starboard and port bows, and then back out of there, four bells.
But the skipper of the 91, already a veteran of the landings both on Sicily and Salerno, could find no sign of any gap at all, either marked or unmarked, for him to come driving ahead in. However, since it was as yet around half tide only, the tops of what obstacles were there still protruded sufficiently above the waves to show him where they were. His only chance now of fulfilling his mission was to attempt to nuzzle his way in between them to the surf line to land his troops.
Slowly, so as to be able to maneuver enough to avoid exploding the mines on those obstacles visible to him, he came on.
And instantly such a major target, and a slow-moving one at that, got the undivided attention of those enfilading guns on Pointe de la Percée. Shells began to splash about her. The 91 brought up against a “Belgian Gate” and came to a forced stop. Before she could back, several shells struck her. With engines reversed, the 91 pulled clear, stopped, headed in for a second attempt. This time she fouled up solidly on another “Belgian Gate” and could get no farther in.
By then, the 88’s on Pointe de la Percée were bracketing her with bursting shells. The 91 was in a tough spot; whatever she did now was bad. What was least bad? In desperation, the skipper decided the least bad thing he could do was to drop his ramps where he was, in six feet of water forward. He must get rid of his troops now, regardless, before worse happened. Down went the ramps. The G.I.’s, led by their officers, started to pour down the gangways over both bows into water over their heads, there to start swimning for the surf breaking not so far ahead.
Now came disaster. A shell burst squarely on the crowded deck forward and apparently touched off other explosives on deck. A tremendous volcano of flame leaped skyward to send those on deck still able to jump plunging overboard to extinguish their burning clothes—most of those in that vicinity, however, were beyond where even jumping into the sea would do them any good. And of the twenty-five G.I.’s in the bow compartment on the deck below, not one ever got out.
A torn and flaming wreck now, LCI(L) 91 was hurriedly abandoned by everybody else still alive and able to jump. Overboard went all hands, G.I. and seaman alike. All about, the waves were dotted with men trying to swim in, while to insure a thorough job of it, the gunners on Pointe de la Percée poured in more shells, both on the stricken vessel and on the men about her in the sea. LCI(L) 91, wholly aflame now and with the fires fed continuously from her fuel oil tanks, burned fiercely all day, sending up to hang like a funeral pall over the beach a vast column of black smoke, visible for miles.
A few minutes later, her sister, LCI(L) 92, similarly came to grief. Heading in for a landing close by on the beach and finding no cleared path, the 92’s first attempt to worm a way in landed her on a “Belgian Gate” where she exploded some underwater mines. These promptly ignited her oil tanks and the helpless 92 was immediately out of action. At that, the 88’s on Pointe de la Percée, with their muzzles scarcely clear of smoke from their fusillade on the 91, opened fire on the disabled LCI(L) 92 with sickening results.
And then there were two flaming torches that minutes before had been ships, both going at once on the outer edge of the belt of obstacles—far enough offshore so they were the one thing easily visible from end to end of the beach to every G.I. burrowing into the shingle for shelter.
If anything further was needed completely to destroy their shattered morale, the sight of those two huge pillars of fire and smoke furnished it. What hope of success or even of rescue could there possibly be now?
CHAPTER 23
With the arrival of more and more G.I.’s in the second wave, what space there was behind the crest of the shingle bank and the seawall safe from the plunging fire of machine guns on the bluffs beyond, began to get decidedly overcrowded. And it was further evident that when the Nazis above had caught up with the simpler problem of shooting down all the G.I.’s in sight, and had time then to give the matter a little thought and to reorganize their ideas, they would then turn to on the unfinished business of shooting up all the G.I.’s not in sight. And for that
, all that was required was to plaster the area just to seaward of the shingle with mortar and enfilading artillery fire. Those mortar shells particularly, coming down almost vertically and exploding directly in the lee of the shingle to drench it with flying shrapnel, could very swiftly make a bloody shambles of that shelter.
But most of the G.I.’s behind the shingle were too stunned for any coherent thought on that or any other subject. Still, there were some yet able to think a little, and to them it did not seem that there was any future in just waiting for help from support troops coming in from seaward—trying to crowd more men behind the shingle would simply leave the rear ranks bulging beyond the shelter zone. The only way out for them was toward the bluffs.
They peered ahead over the top of the shingle. Just ahead lay the beach road—it wasn’t so wide—thirty feet maybe—a man could get over the top of the shingle and across that in a few seconds—if he were fast on his feet, before a machine gun could zero in on him.
But beyond the road came the hitch—those wicked rolls of concertina wire. That would stop a man long enough for the automatic fire from above certainly to finish him off—unless there were gaps in the wire, so he could keep going until he got into the tall beach grass just beyond the road. That might hide him till finally he arrived at the foot of the bluffs. And from there, he might scale the bluffs to do the fighting he had come for, with the Nazis at present safe from him in the trenches above.
But, of course, there weren’t any gaps in that wire. The bombs and rockets that should have washed it out had missed it altogether. And now there were never going to be any gaps unless some G.I.’s got over there and cut them. How hazardous was that?
You could look and see for yourself. Here and there, a few men, armed with wire cutters usually, had already crossed the road to try it. And there, lying in grotesque lumps in the front of the tangled wire coils were their mangled bodies—caught on the barbs where machine gun bullets had riddled them as they attempted to work their wire cutters. The Nazis above seemed to be keeping a keen eye and sufficient machine guns alerted to cope with attempts at wire cutting.
However, there were still the bangalore torpedoes—those didn’t expose a man to fire so long. Those bangalore tubes, twenty feet long and loaded with high explosive, you could shove through the bottom of the coils of wire in an instant, set the igniter, and dart back behind the shingle. You did not have to stick around working wire cutters on the wire while the enemy carefully drew a bead on you. In a moment, the explosion of that bangalore torpedo would have torn a fine gap in the wire. Through that, you and your comrades could dash when it suited you.
Yes, there were still the bangalore torpedoes, all right; exactly what the job needed—only, where were the bangalore torpedoes? With sinking hearts, the men of the first wave looking about behind the shingle for the wherewithal to get them through the concertina wire, found that the bangalore torpedoes had had no better luck in getting lugged ashore than had their mortars and their bazookas. Bangalore tubes twenty feet long are a substantial handicap to a man trying to swim in rough water or even to one crawling on his stomach through the surf amongst those damnable obstacles. There were no bangalore torpedoes.
Not till the later arrival of the second wave did even a bangalore torpedo or two start to show up here and there behind the shingle. But even then, the few G.I.’s contemplating using them took a second look at the corpses already draped in the concertina wire across the road and decided it might be more prudent to wait till some officer, organizing an attack, ordered him to take one and open a gap.
0800.
To add to the confusion already on the beachhead cluttered with dead bodies, smashed bulldozers, disabled tanks, and wrecked LCVP’s, now there began to arrive the much larger landing craft, the LCT’s and rhino ferries (huge, flat, rectangular self-propelled scows). With their decks crammed with the first flight of the 3300 vehicles that were due to be unloaded on the beach by noon, they headed in from seaward for discharge.
Of course, all this had been predicated on the existence by now of sixteen cleared and well-marked gaps in the obstacle fields through which these larger craft could come and discharge well up on the beach. And on the further assumption that the sixteen bulldozers sent in just behind the first wave would already have cut slopes through the shingle by which these vehicles could get off the sand and up and onto the beach road. And on the still further assumption that the 64 DD’s, the 32 General Shermans, and the G.l.’s in the first wave would have burst through such shattered remnants of that nondescript battalion of the 726th German Regiment as might be left after the bombs, the rockets, the Dukws’ fire, and the spotter-directed naval fire had finished with them. And on the final assumption that our assault spearhead having burst through, the combat engineers and their equipment would have cleared for traffic all four of the roads leading through the draws in the bluffs to the plateau behind, so that the vehicles coming in could immediately proceed inland with their loads.
Since most of these basic assumptions had turned out to be one hundred per cent pure fantasy rather than fact, there was immediate trouble on the beach.
Starting with the complication that there were but six gaps instead of sixteen, the first snarl came when the vehicle-loaded LCT’s and rhino ferries all tried to get inshore through those six gaps. Jammed together that way, they made fine targets for artillery fire.
And the second and far worse snarl came when some of them managed to get through to touch down in the surf line moderately well up on the sand by now, and began to discharge their vehicles—trucks, jeeps, bulldozers, halftracks, cranes—almost anything you might name that ran either on wheels or treads.
But there was not even one path cut through the shingle to the beach road. So there wasn’t anywhere that a single vehicle could go once it was unloaded on that strip of sand above the surf line. And that strip of sand between the surf line and the shingle was constantly narrowing as the flooding tide now rose faster and faster. The result was shortly a traffic jam on the sand of indescribable proportions, particularly in front of the St. Laurent Draw, where four gaps had been blown, and the nearby spot to the left of les Moulins where there was a fifth gap. Through these five gaps, most of the vehicles coming in had been landed.
The sands from the surf line up, which till this time had been cluttered mainly with corpses, began now in this St. Laurent area to be almost hidden from sight by massed vehicles unable to move. To the enemy artillery flanking this area on both sides were offered magnificent targets—a bursting shell, if by chance it missed the vehicle aimed at was bound to hit another next to it. Even to the less accurate fire of the German mortars in the trenches above, accuracy became of little moment—you couldn’t miss. It was a gunner’s paradise.
And once one vehicle was hit and disabled, it jammed up even what slight movement was previously available to those behind. So all soon became a solid mass incapable of spreading out to minimize the hazards from shell fire; even worse, incapable of moving any higher up on the sands to escape the rising tide which swiftly now, row after row, began’ to drown out even such vehicles as had as yet escaped any damage from shells.
With the jam on his beach approaching irremediable chaos, the distracted commander of the 7th Naval Beach Battalion took action along the only line left open to him to take any action whatever. He had absolutely no power to do anything to make matters on the beach he was supposed to control any better, but he could prevent them from getting any worse. He did. In possession of one of the few radio sets on the beach still operable, he radioed out an order suspending completely the landing of any more craft bearing vehicles—no matter what they were nor how badly anyone thought they were needed ashore.
‘Immediately that developed a wholly unforeseen situation. Since they could no longer come in on the beach, nor get back offshore to reload their cargoes on larger ships, scores of rhino ferries, LCT’s, and even some cargo-loaded Dukws, had no option save to circle where they
were. So round and round they went in the rough water off the beachhead, as Colonel Talley, Army observer, noted and reported it to Corps Headquarters, “like a herd of stampeded cattle,” chased continuously by splashes and bursting artillery shells from Nazi gunners on the cliffs. Apparently the latter, tiring of shooting at the sitting ducks before them in the traffic jam on the sands, perhaps feeling also that those jammed up vehicles were incapable of any further offensive action anyway, and wanting “to keep their hands in on moving targets, found the excitement of chasing that ocean circus about, worth the ammunition. It seemed as if that weird target circling just offshore was the only thing that saved those immovable vehicles already on the beach from total annihilation.
CHAPTER 24
Omar Bradley, commanding the first U. S. Army, was having an agonizing time. By now, his men should have been miles inland from the Omaha Beach, getting themselves set for the shock of the first counterattack. All he knew for certain was that those who hadn’t already been slaughtered had not as yet even got off the beach sands.
Why not? He didn’t know.
What should he do about it? He did not know that either.
Since he knew next to nothing about what was going on, except that it was bad, nor could he seem to find out anything, he was helpless.
Not five miles off the beach aboard the Augusta, which should have been for him the ideal command post from which to direct his battle, he found himself most unexpectedly a general both blind and deaf.
The Far Shore Page 23
