Voices from D-Day

by Jon E. Lewis

  …

  When we got up to the top of the bluff and the column slowed down, Hank and I moved off to a little grassy knoll there. And I said, ‘We’re going to take a five-minute break’, and I reached into my knapsack and brought out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, which was a gift from a wonderful old lady in Lyme Regis. So Hank and I, sat on top of our first objective, had a nip of Scotch and an apple.

  It was about 10.30 a.m. when Captain Al Smith sat down on top of the bluff above the Easy Red sector of Omaha beach, aside the route forced by Joe Dawson. By that time the Americans had found ways up the bluffs in other sectors and were fighting their way inland. The morning on the US beaches had also seen one of the most epic actions of D-Day, the assault by the Rangers on the Pointe du Hoc, a headland which jutted out between Omaha and Utah and was the site of a German gun battery.

  Lieutenant Hodenfield, Stars and Stripes reporter

  As the morning light grew brighter, we could see hundreds of other boats all making for the shores of Normandy. But those boats were landing on beaches, while ahead of us were sheer cliffs that had to be scaled before we could come to grips with the Germans. Personally, I was less scared of the Germans than of those cliffs; I had been shot at before, but I had never had to climb a rope ladder first.

  Those rope ladders were the secret weapon of this expedition. Lt.-Col. James Rudder, former Texas football coach, and Capt. Harold Slater had worked out a system by which grapnel hooks were shot over the cliffs by rockets, trailing ladders and single lines. The grapnels were to bite into the bomb-blasted earth on Pointe du Hoc, and when the slack was taken up, the ladders would be ready to climb.

  The entire success of this operation depended on those ladders. Pointe du Hoc is accessible from the sea only by scaling the cliffs, and the Germans, believing that not even ‘military idiots’ would dare to come from that direction, had placed all their defences facing inland. They knew that Pointe du Hoc was an extremely important target, but they thought our attack would be made from the flank, so they had placed a ring of defences around the inner arc of the point.

  Soon we were able to see on the horizon the dim outlines of the coast of France, and about that time a terrific naval barrage started. The naval barrage was not primarily intended to destroy the German guns – they were too well casemated for that – but the barrage would drive the Germans into their deep tunnels.

  The plan was that the Rangers were to land at exactly six-thirty in the morning, just five minutes after the lifting of the barrage. By the time the Germans would dare to come out of their holes, the Rangers would be over the top of the cliffs, spiking the big guns. And then, after the guns had been spiked, the Rangers would be able to devote their full time to killing Germans.

  Gradually we drew nearer, and some of us raised ourselves partially out of the boat to take our first real look at Normandy. It looked very much like England, which we had just left the night before, and for some reason we felt disappointed.

  But we weren’t disappointed in our Navy. The Texas, bulking heavily against the horizon in the half-light of early morning, was sending shell after shell screaming into Pointe du Hoc, the sound of the firing reaching us long after we could see the blast of flame from the gun muzzles.

  As we watched the coast of France draw nearer and nearer, it didn’t seem possible that this was really the invasion, the second front for which so many men had trained for so long. It looked too peaceful, too quiet. But suddenly we heard a sharp rat-ta-tat, and we saw machine- gun bullets fall into the water ahead of us.

  ‘Hey, boss!’ yelled one man. ‘Those jerks are trying to hit us!’

  They were, too.

  The wind was blowing at least fifteen knots, and the heavy seas, with waves reaching four feet, had pushed us off our course. A check with charts and watches showed we were well behind our carefully planned timetable. The naval barrage stopped, as scheduled, five minutes before we were to make our touchdown, but we were far off the course and we had to give up the idea of surprising the Germans. So we kept bucking and bobbing about, getting closer and closer to Pointe du Hoc, but likewise getting closer to the cliff defenders, who had taken positions along the top.

  We kept our heads ducked low below the gunwales of the LCA, and we jumped each time a burst of machine-gun fire rattled against our sides. When we dared to look up, we could see men floating around in the water after their boats had been overturned. One man gave us a cheery wave of his hand. It was Captain Slater, who had helped devise the rope-ladder-launching idea. After two hours in the water, he was picked up by the Navy in a fit of high temper at the fate which had robbed him of his chance to see his own weapon in action. He didn’t reach France until a week later.

  I suppose that we all should have been scared when we finally nosed up to the narrow beach to make our touchdown, but we all were too excited. I was sitting next to Capt. Otto (‘Big Stoop’) Massney, a company commander. Together, we watched rockets being launched from other craft on our right, and he cursed roundly when he saw that some had been fired too soon and had fallen far short of the cliff top.

  ‘Don’t fire those things until I give the word!’ he yelled. ‘We’ve got plenty of time!’

  When the nose of our LCA ground against the sand, we stopped: he gave the word, and, with a loud roar and whooshing sound, our rockets sailed over the top of the cliffs.

  I had ducked my head when the first series of rockets exploded, heeding Massney’s warning that we could be blinded if we didn’t, but then I looked up to see what had happened. I was lost in admiration of the pretty picture the rockets were making, when the second and third series went off. The explosions were so startling that I fell over backward into the bottom of the boat, but as I rose shamefacedly, Massney patted me on the back and said, ‘If that scared you, what in hell you think it did to the Germans?’

  But there was no time for further conversation, for the ramp had been lowered and our men were scrambling ashore with lethal weapons ranging from pistols and knives in small hip cases to big bazookas and trench mortars.

  Snipers and machine-gunners were on the cliffs all around us, so we scrambled to the base of the cliff for safety. Sgt. Bob Youso and Pvt. Alvin White had already started up the ladders which were hugging the face of the cliff, and others were lined up, waiting their turn, while Massney stood at the bottom, yelling advice and encouragement.

  Those of us not so useful had to wait nearly an hour for our turn to start climbing, so, for lack of anything better to do, I lit a cigarette. Then the thought struck me, This is a helluva way to invade France, sitting down in the shade with a cigarette.

  I saw Lt. Amos Potts, Army photographer, who was fuming mad because here he was, in the middle of the greatest picture story of his life, and all his equipment had been water-soaked in the landing. He and I were too nervous to sit still, so we started digging some ammunition out of the sand, where it already was being partially buried by the incoming tide. Later, we had reason to be very thankful that we had salvaged that ammunition.

  Over on our right, Capt. Walter (‘Doc’) Block, of Chicago, the medical officer of our battalion, had set up a first-aid post for those men wounded by snipers on the trip in to the beach. He had an impressive number of patients already.

  My trip up the ladder was interrupted only by numerous stops to catch my breath. We were able to hear the firing of small arms and occasional loud roars from the top of the cliff, but we had no way of telling what was going on, because Massney had become impatient and had gone up earlier than scheduled, taking the field telephone with him.

  Finally I tumbled over the top of the cliff into a shell hole left by a previous bombardment from our Air Force, and I asked some of the men in the shell hole what the score was. But I could learn only that two of the six guns in Target No. 1 had been destroyed by the Air Force, prior to D-Day, and that the remaining four had been removed.

  Raising my head carefully over the edge of the shell hole, I got my
first real look at Pointe du Hoc. Just picture it as a huge letter V, jutting into the Channel, with sides formed by cliffs 15o feet high. The Rangers had landed on the left side of the V, with our group at the extreme upper end.

  Straight ahead of me for a mile was nothing but shell holes from the air and naval bombardments. At my left was a series of small fields with hedgerows extending to the cliffs. On the far right was the English Channel on the other side of the V, and along the cliff was a concrete observation post which controlled the fire of all six German guns. I moved over to the left-flank troops and stayed there until late that evening.

  Meanwhile, other units which were also assaulting the cliffs had been having various sorts of trouble. The Germans had come to the edge of the cliffs and had rolled hand grenades down the ladders. Later, as a sort of afterthought, they started cutting the ropes, but by this time the Rangers had gone up and over and were pushing the Jerries back.

  And then came the last great assault from the sea of the morning of 6 June 1944. Four years after Dunkirk the British sailed back to France, touching down at 07.30, an hour after the Americans, on the eastern half of the invasion coast, some 20 miles of flatness backed by dunes and marshes and dotted with fortified villages. With them came the Canadians whose 3rd Division were to land at beach Juno, in between the British beaches of Sword and Gold. The British landings would prove a curiously mixed affair. Many would find the myriad sea-obstacles and the getting ashore itself the most terrifying part of the process. Others – like the men of the East Yorkshire Regiment – would be mown down as they left the water in a slaughter reminiscent of the Western Front in 1916.

  Lieutenant K.P. Baxter, 2nd Battalion, Middlesex Regiment

  Steadily the flotilla of LCAs pressed onwards towards the beach. Four hundred yards from the shoreline and the Royal Marine frogmen slipped over the side to start the job of clearing underwater obstacles. This would be sufficiently hazardous at the best of times, but add to it the risk from all those churning propellers – with many more following – and their task became most unenviable.

  Closing to the shore rapidly, eyes scanned the clearing haze for familiar landmarks. There were none. A burst of machine-gun fire uncomfortably close overhead brought curses upon those in following craft for their enthusiastic ‘covering fire’. Suddenly a burst ricocheted off the front of the craft, telling us that this was no covering fire. The opposition was very much alive and well.

  We had still been unable to identify our position but we were by now right on top of the beach. The protective steel doors in the bows were opened and everyone waited, tensed for the soft lurching bump. ‘Ramp down!’ – and out into knee-deep water. Ahead, a line of prone figures just above the water’s edge and, some 200 yards beyond, a tank was nosed up against the small strip of dunes at the head of the beach.

  The first impression was that the tank had got in ahead of the first wave and they, following the same instructions as given to the Beach Exit Teams, were holding back until the explosive charges had been detonated.

  I had not gone far when I was tripped by some underwater wire, and, with no hope of retaining balance with the heavy Assault Jacket pack that had been issued to us, went flat on my face. Attempting to rise, I was struck a heavy blow on the back which flattened me again. Then suddenly the machine gun opened up on us once again.

  The fire came from dead ahead and we could now make out the shape of a heavy embrasure in the low silhouette of some concrete fortifications at the top of the beach. We then realized that, by the narrowest of margins, we had landed immediately in front of Strongpoint 0880, code word COD.

  Sergeant Leo Gariepy, 3rd Canadian Division

  More by accident than by design, I found myself the leading tank. On my way in I was surprised to see a friend – a midget submarine who had been waiting for us for forty-eight hours. He waved me right on to my target and then made a half turn to go back. I remember him very very distinctly standing up through his conning hatch joining his hands together in a sign of good luck. I answered the old, familiar Army sign – to you too, bud!

  I was the first tank coming ashore and the Germans started opening up with machine-gun bullets. But when we came to a halt on the beach, it was only then that they realized we were a tank when we pulled down our canvas skirt, the flotation gear. Then they saw that we were Shermans.

  It was quite amazing. I still remember very vividly some of the machine-gunners standing up in their posts looking at us with their mouths wide open.

  To see tanks coming out of the water shook them rigid.

  Lieutenant-Commander Dennis Glover RNZNVR, HM LCI (S) No. 516, transporting Lord Lovat’s Commando Brigade to Ouistreham

  The beach looms close, maybe a mile. There are people running up and down it. There are fires, and the bursting of shells. Yes, and wrecked landing craft everywhere, a flurry of propellers in the savage surf and among those wicked obstructions. Beach-clearance parties, I expect, bloody heroes, every one. Special craft stooging quietly in, some of them on fire, though. Diesel fuel burns black. That vicious destroyer to port is irritating me, but the Colonel doesn’t seem to mind. He’s cool but I bet he’s worried. Curious how all these soldiers dislike an assault by water. I’d hate to dash out of foxholes at machine-guns. Damn him, I can pretend I’m cool, too. It’s the noisiest gun – starboard ten! – it’s the noisiest gun in the Navy, that four point seven – Midships, Cox’n! What a cool, disinterested reply he makes. Colonel, you make me grin. I like your nerve.

  We are on those bristling stakes. They stretch before us in rows. The mines on them look as big as planets. And those graze-nose shells pointing towards us on some of them look like beer bottles. Oh, God, I would be blown up on a mine like a beer bottle! Now for speed and skill and concentration. Whang, here it comes – those whizzing ones will be mortars – and the stuff is falling all round us. Can’t avoid them, but the mines and collisions I can avoid. Speed, more speed. Put them off by speed, weave in and out of these bloody spikes, avoid the mines, avoid our friends, avoid the wrecked craft and vehicles in the risking water, and get these troops ashore. Good, the Commando officers have their men ready and waiting, crouched along the decks. Number One is for’ard with his ramp parties ready. Everything is working as we’ve exercised it for so long. Oh, hell, this new tin hat is far too big for me – I’ll shake it off my head out of fright if I’m not careful. Port twenty. Midships. Starboard ten. That was a near one. Nearly hit it. But we won’t, we can’t, slow down. Midships. Port ten, port fifteen, port twenty. We’re going to hit it, we’re going to hit it! A beer bottle, I knew it. Ease to ten. Midships! Not bows on, though. We’ll strike to starboard on the beam. One, two, three, four, five … Huh, nothing’s happened. Must be luck for me in beer bottles after all. Now for the next lot of obstructions.

  Don’t jump, you fool. It was near, but you’re not hit. Straddled. All right, keep on. And here’s where I go in, that little bit of clear beach. Port ten. Midships. Starboard five. Wish the swell weren’t throwing us about so much. Let’s be in first, as a glorious gesture, then no one will know how frightened we really were. Tommy always said when coaching us, if you hang around on the outside of the scrum you’ll get hurt – go in! Sorry to give you so much work, Cox’n. That’ll rock him, and I’ll light up my pipe, too. What does he say? Nae bother at all, sir, and I’m still sticking to my pipe, am I? Can’t even the enemy take the bounce out of this, Cox’n? You’re not being familiar, I hope, Cox’n? I musn’t grin. What? Not bloody likely? Anyhow, he’s a cocky bastard and cheerful. A shell may kill us both any minute.

  Slow ahead together. Slow down to steady the ship, point her as you want her, then half ahead together and on to the beach with a gathering rush. Put her ashore and be damned! She’s touched down. One more good shove ahead to wedge her firm. Out ramps!

  Smooth work, Fitz, oh, smooth as clockwork. Now off you go! Good luck, Commandos, go like hell! Next meeting – Brighton! How efficiently, how quickly, they
run down the accustomed ramps, not a man hit that I can see, and there they go splashing through a hundred yards of water, up over more of the flat beach than that, and out of sight among the deadly dunes. The colonel turns to wave, and is gone with them. They ignore beach fire. They have their objective and they are going for it, the best troops we can produce. God be with them.

  Commander Phillipe Kieffer, French Commandos, attached to British 1st Special Service Brigade

  Our two landing craft advanced as on exercise – straight for the coast. The 4th Commandos (British) were in their LCI on our left flank. We couldn’t see the coast, which was obscured by a thick cloud of smoke, but the radio contact between the craft on the sea was perfect. The smaller British ones danced on the short waves. At 700 metres to port a Polish destroyer had hit a mine and was sinking by the prow. We had to be very close to the coast, the enemy shells enveloped us increasingly. Were we in fact in front of our objective? My watch said 7.25. The two landing craft with the French commandos on board navigated at the same level, fifty metres apart. Suddenly, through a gap in the smoke, the submarine defences, stakes and barbed wire entanglements surged up in front of us. We had arrived. A shock – a bump – we were aground. At this exact moment the sea bed seemed to rise in a rumble of thunder: mortars, the whistle of shells, staccato fire of machine guns – everything seemed concentrated towards us. Like lightning the ramps were thrown down. Wearing their green berets, a first group rushed to the beach but a few seconds before the second group flung themselves forward a 75-mm shell tore away the ramps in a scream of metal and wood. A second’s hesitation – the vessel must be cleared and the beach reached at all costs. Speed became the vital factor. The commandos jumped into 6 feet of water with their 35-kilo packs, their weapons making even more weight, and they gained a footage in a few strokes. The other craft, more fortunate, was able to put down its troops by way of its ramps.