Voices from D-Day

by Jon E. Lewis

  Donald Burgett, US 101st Airborne Division

  We lay there talking and joking with each other, wondering what combat would really be like, when suddenly the talk in the next tent came into focus and we heard the Captain ask Speedy to play ‘San Antonio Rose’ on his guitar. The music sounded good, and we listened as we went about our small chores, but the request was repeated each time the song ended. Finally someone yelled at the Captain and asked if he wouldn’t like to hear something else. He replied that he was from San Antonio and the plane he was riding in was also named that and he wanted to listen to that particular song until it was time to go.

  The rain kept falling harder and harder through an increasing wind until it was coming down in torrential sheets and we thought for sure the whole operation would be called off. Suddenly a runner poked his head through the tent opening and said, ‘This is it, let’s go.’

  We hit the outside on the double, and in columns of two started slogging our way toward the waiting planes. The ground was hard packed and grassless, and with the rain, the surface became slippery and slimy. Men kept sliding around until we got to the runways on the airfield; then it was easy walking, but still a long way to go. We found our assigned places at last, and looking and feeling like a bunch of half-drowned rats, we started to get ready. I was trying to get the wet parachute harness fastened while water ran into my eyes, off my nose and down my neck, every step bringing a squishy sound from my boots. All the extra equipment we had to carry didn’t make the job any easier. Jeeps were running around the field on various errands looking like shadowy ghosts through the downpour of rain. One pulled up, spraying us with grit-filled water from under its wheels, and the driver said the operation was postponed until further notice. Some of us just stood there not knowing whether to feel relieved or mad, because we knew that we would have to go through the same thing again either tomorrow or the next day at the latest. Back in the tents most of us lay on the cots and slept the best way we could in the chill dampness of night, under single blankets from the packs we had made up to carry into combat with us.

  War Diary: 8th Canadian Infantry Brigade

  Alan Moorehead, Australian war correspondent

  Up to this point the morale had been steady. Everyone’s spirits had risen as we had come on board, although this act of embarking had been the final irrevocable break with England. But now with this renewed delay there was time to think again. And this at a moment when one had no desire to think or to write letters or engage on any distraction from the inevitable thing ahead.

  816 was an American ship which had already made three assault landings: North Africa, Sicily and Salerno. On this their fourth landing the sailors showed no excitement or emotion. Their attitude was summed up by, ‘Another dirty job.’ The captain had sailed for twenty years. The crew had seen the sea for the first time at New York a year or two before. The captain himself had taken the wheel since he had no wheelman as they left New York. He himself had trained his officers on the voyage to Europe, during the actual assaults. He was gloomy. ‘This will be a bad one.’ It was perhaps more superstition than gloom. For eight or ten hours through the day inconsequent American swing music poured out of the ship’s loudspeakers. The American sailors liked to work to the music. They went about, loose-limbed, chewing gum, not mixing much with the soldiers. A negro sat in the stern peeling potatoes endlessly.

  At least one American officer though, did take advantage of the postponement to write a final letter home.

  Captain John Dulligan, US 1st Infantry Division

  I love these men. They sleep all over the ship, on the decks, in, on top and underneath the vehicles. They smoke, play cards, wrestle around and indulge in general horse-play. They gather around in groups and talk mostly about girls, home and experiences (with and without girls) … They are good soldiers, the best in the world … Before the invasion of North Africa, I was nervous and a little scared. During the Sicilian invasion I was so busy that the fear passed while I was working … This time we will hit a beach in France and from there on, only God knows the answer … I want you to know I love you with all my heart … and I pray that God will see fit to spare me to you and Ann and Pat.

  At SHAEF HQ, at 9.45 p.m. on 4 June, after polling his deputy commanders and the weather forecasters of Group-Captain Stagg, Ike decided that the invasion should go ahead for the sixth.

  General Dwight Eisenhower, Supreme Allied Commander

  I’m quite positive we must give the order. I don’t like it, but there it is … I don’t see how we can possibly do anything else.

  The die was cast.

  To the Far Shore

  5 June 1944

  D-Day minus 1

  In the pre-dawn darkness of the morning of 5 June, the day before D-Day, Eisenhower held another brief meeting of his weather forecasters and confirmed the decision of the previous evening. Among the first to know was his naval aide.

  Captain H.C. Butcher, aide to Eisenhower

  Diary, Shaef Advance (near Portsmouth), Monday, 5 June 1944

  D-Day is now almost irrevocably set for tomorrow morning, about 6.40, the time varying with tides at different beaches, the idea being to strike before high tide submerges obstacles which have to be cleared away …

  The actual decision was confirmed and made final this morning at 4.15 after all the weather dope had been assembled. During yesterday the weather looked as if we might have to postpone for at least two days, until Thursday, with possibility of two weeks. Pockets of ‘lows’ existed all the way from western Canada across the United States and the Atlantic, and were coming our way. What was needed was a benevolent ‘high’ to counteract or divert at least one of the parading lows. During the night, that actually occurred. During the day, Force U, the US task force which started from Falmouth at the western end of the Channel at 6 a.m. Sunday, had become scattered, owing to the galelike wind sweeping southern England and the Channel. But Admiral Kirk had heard some encouraging news that the scattering was not as bad as feared. It was enough improved by the early-morning session to warrant the gamble, which only Ike could take, and he did, but with the chance of decent weather in his favour for possibly only two days. After that we hope to be ashore, and while weather will still be vitally important, we will have gotten over the historic hump.

  Throughout the morning the invasion ‘On’ signal was flashed and passed to embarkation camps and the cramped, rain-lashed ships. The postponement had frayed everybody’s nerves, and for most the invasion order was a relief, an end to the waiting. From sealed envelopes and packages were pulled maps and orders. Now, for the first time, the men and junior officers were fully informed about their exact landing place and the job that would be expected of them. At least one British soldier rushed to his diary breathlessly to record the news.

  Corporal G.E. Hughes, 1st Battalion, Royal Hampshire Regiment

  Diary, 5 June

  D-Day tomorrow. Everybody quite excited. We land at Arromanches near Bayeux.

  For one British Marine waiting ashore the news was delivered with a fearsome religious accompaniment.

  Marine Stanley Blacker, RM

  Our commanding officer said, ‘This is it chaps’, and we were ordered to kneel in the road in three ranks. Then the local vicar appeared like magic, prayed and said ‘Please God give them courage to face the enemy.’ There was no saliva in my mouth. I thought I was sailing to my death.

  Marine Blacker was to go to France in one of the smallest invasion craft, an LCM only 50 feet in length and completely open to the elements. Aside from its small crew it carried one lorry and four soldiers. Elsewhere, for the last but umpteenth time equipment was checked, and the men made ready. In the aft wardroom of USS Carroll, the deputy commander of the US 29th Division gathered his advanced headquarters staff for some final words of advice.

  Brigadier-General Norman ‘Dutch’ Cota, US 29th Infantry Division, aged 51

  This is different from any other exercise that you’ve had s
o far. The little discrepancies that we tried to correct on Slapton Sands are going to be magnified and are going to give way to incidents that you at first may view as chaotic. The air and naval bombardments are reassuring. But you’re going to find confusion. The landing craft aren’t going in on schedule, and people are going to be landed in the wrong place. Some won’t be landed at all. The enemy will try, and will have some success, in preventing our gaining ‘lodgement’. But we must improvise, carry on, not lose our heads.

  Throughout the Allied invasion forces senior officers gave similar ‘pep talks’, but Cota’s words would have a particular resonance because the 29th Division was bound for Omaha beach, the bloodiest of the Allied landings. In mid-afternoon the last of the seaborne forces, including the commandos of Lord Lovat’s 1st Special Service Brigade, were given their orders and driven from their marshalling points close to the ports. Awaiting them was the Allied armada, a sight which many still rank as the most ‘tremendous’ of their lives.

  W. Emlyn ‘Taffy’ Jones, 1st Special Service Brigade

  We sped away in trucks – destination ‘Rising Sun’ Warsash, where our landing craft were waiting. Cries of ‘Good luck’ and ladies blowing kisses. They knowing full well what was about to happen. The scene that greeted us when we arrived was fantastic; lines upon lines of craft of various sizes and overhead a ceiling of literally hundreds of barrage balloons, so awe-inspiring. Well, this was the last of terra firma and before boarding our landing craft, for some unknown reason, I kissed the ground – perhaps a comical gesture to ease the tension.

  Captain Keith Douglas, Nottinghamshire Yeomanry

  Actors waiting in the wings of Europe

  we already watch the lights on the stage

  and listen to the colossal overture begin.

  For us entering at the height of the din

  it will be hard to hear our thoughts, hard to gauge

  how much our conduct owes to fear or fury.

  Everyone, I suppose, will use these minutes

  to look back, to hear music and recall

  what we were doing and saying that year

  during our last few months as people, near

  the sucking mouth of the day that swallowed us all

  into the stomach of a war. Now we are in it

  and no more people, just little pieces of food

  swirling in an uncomfortable digestive journey,

  what we said and did then has a slightly

  fairytale quality. There is an excitement

  in seeing our ghosts wandering …

  Douglas was killed in action D-Day +3.

  In the late afternoon, in weather which was windy but with dashes of sun, the first of the 5,000 Allied ships weighed anchor and began leaving their south-coast ports, doing so amid cheers and the sound of bagpipes (if they were British) and swing music (if they were American; the Andrews Sisters’ ‘The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B’ was much played that day). Outside port, the ships made for the assembly point off the Isle of Wight, dividing there into huge convoys, miles wide, bound for five beaches in Normandy.

  W. Emlyn ‘Taffy’ Jones, 1st Special Service Brigade

  There was a stiffish breeze but a clear night. Sailing down the Solent through an array of ships and craft that were at anchor was tremendously impressive. As we passed by the crews stood on deck and gave us a remarkable send-off with their cheering and waving, it made one feel so proud, and above all this glorious noise we could hear the pipes, the bagpipes of Bill Millin, our commando piper.

  Lieutenant H.T. Bone, 2nd East Yorkshire Regiment

  The Bar was closed and everyone got themselves ready for action stations. On both sides of the ship could be seen other slower convoys moving out past the Boom, one after another, all so familiar to us, yet this time just a little more exciting. There were shouts from the local people we worked with, a wail of bagpipes, multi-coloured signal flags, new paint and our divisional sign on every vessel. It was a memorable sight. Later that night just before we sailed I collected from everybody all their written orders and all other secret bumf and descended with them into the bowels of the ship where I burned them in the boiler, ascending afterwards in a lather of sweat.

  Able Seaman J.H. Cooling, RN, aboard HMS Scorpion

  Overhead went a great escort of fighters to protect us from attack and a very comforting and impressive sight it was too, but what was still more impressive was that as far as the eye could see were hundreds and hundreds of ships of all shapes and sizes, and you knew that beyond the horizon were more and still more.

  Sergeant Richard W. Herklotz, 110th Field Artillery, US 29th Infantry Division

  There were so many vessels, so many ships, that there was nowhere on the horizon that you could look and not see some type of vessel. Everywhere in the air there were barrage balloons on cables from each ship. It seemed that they filled the sky.

  Captain Eric Bush, Naval Assault Group Commander with 8 Brigade, 3rd British Division

  We sailed during the afternoon of June 5th and as the Isle of Wight fell away behind us I saw from Goathland’s bridge a sight never to be forgotten. Thousands and thousands of ships of all classes stretched from horizon to horizon, and all were heading in the same direction.

  Although the weather had improved, it was still unkind, with strong tides and headwinds. Many soldiers, and some sailors, too, were extremely seasick, despite an issue of pills, and there were moments when we feared that some of our craft would never make it. Admiral Talbot flew the signal: ‘Good luck, drive on’, and, by God, we did.

  Towards evening we mustered aft in our destroyer, and as she tossed and turned in the waves we bowed our heads as the Chaplain gave a blessing. The scene was very moving – soldiers and sailors at prayer together on the eve of battle. Bareheaded and drenched with spray, they stood holding on to anything they could find which would steady them against the violent motions of the ship.

  ‘Preserve us’, we prayed, ‘from the dangers of the sea and from the violence of the enemy, that we may return in safety to enjoy the blessings of the land with the fruits of our labours.’ Then, in keeping with naval tradition, our padre ended his service with this extract from Nelson’s prayer, which so exactly fitted the occasion. ‘May the Great God whom I worship grant to my Country and to the benefit of Europe in general a great and glorious victory. Amen.’ We then returned to our posts refreshed and made our final preparations for the morning.

  At sunset, night guns’ crews were closed up, night lookouts placed and every precaution taken against surprise attack. But the enemy never came, thank God, as most of our craft were very vulnerable and their crews had quite enough to do trying to keep station without having to fight a battle at the same time.

  Every ship was now completely darkened, except for a tiny blue light low down aft for the next ship astern to see and follow. It was sometimes difficult to spot this light because of the waves, but it didn’t matter, for ships and craft were frequently lit up by the phosphorescence in bow wave and stern wash, as they thumped into the heavy seas …

  Alan Melville, RAF war correspondent

  We weighed anchor just after half-past six. The great mass of ships slipped very quietly away. At sea, they formed up in their own convoys and forged steadily out to sea, bearing almost due south. The minesweepers went ahead of us and cleared narrow lanes in the minefields right up to the beaches – a magnificent job superbly carried out. The armada thinned and ships which had been lying almost alongside our own sheered away to port and starboard to keep to their own courses. I went up on the boat-deck and stayed there all night, with a disc ready on my recording gear in case we ran into any excitement. The navigating officer told me with a gloomy satisfaction that the number of our convoy was thirteen. ‘They don’t usually do that,’ he said. ‘They usually miss out thirteen. I don’t like it.’ He showed me the charts of our crossing: where we would be at each hour, what ships would be lying near us, at what points we would alter
course. Everything happened exactly as it had been set down on paper. When we reached the minefields, the lanes through them were marked. At eleven, when we were due to find the battle-wagons of His Majesty’s Navy on our port bow, there they were … Ramillies, Warspite, Frobisher, Mauritius, Dragon, Arethusa. It never got really dark that night; you were always able to make out grey shadows and have a guess at what type of craft they were. And it was certainly one of the quietest nights I have ever experienced: the last quiet night I was to enjoy for many weeks. I recorded nothing; there was nothing to record. The mightiest invasion armada of all time was crossing the Channel to smash an entrance into Europe, and we might have been enjoying a day trip to Margate.

  About nine o’clock the captain had asked me to read the farewell messages from Admiral Ramsay, Admiral Talbot and from General Eisenhower over the ship’s broadcast system. I put them over as well as I could, but all the time I felt – quite wrongly, I know – that they were somehow unreal and out of touch with the actual situation. They were big pronouncements by big men, but it was our own little convoy with its own escort and its own load of troops that mattered most at that moment. We were well out to sea by then and rolling quite a bit. The one padre on board held a service on the quarter-deck; the rhino (a sort of mobile raft with an outboard motor attached) which we were towing ploughed through the swell thirty yards behind us. The men, in their lifebelts and steel helmets, crowded round the padre and we sang the same old hymns … ‘Abide with me’ and ‘O God our Help in Ages Past’. The padre had hoisted himself on to a packing case near the galley doorway and twice, when we took an extra heavy roll, he had to be steadied by the men round him to stop him taking a header in the middle of his prayers.

  As the armada made its way slowly across the Channel, the men aboard the transports and landing ships were in muted, reflective mood.