If You Survive (2 page)

Now the words of the port commander leapt back vividly. “You are going to Normandy as
replacements.”
This could only mean that the position each of us was being sent to fill had become vacant because the other officer was killed in action (KIA), wounded in action (WIA), missing in action (MIA), or a nonbattle casualty (NBC). All sorts of dismal thoughts chased one another across my mind.

I wondered about my fiancée, Florine. How long before she would know I was at the front? Would I ever see her again and hold her in my arms? If I got wounded badly, would she still love me? Would I be able to support her? Somehow it seemed clear to me that I would make it.

I was brought back to the present by the drone of the duty officer calling the roll. As I listened and watched each respond it was obvious we were a mixed lot. I did not recognize anyone. It probably didn’t matter, because we would all be sent to different units once ashore.

As hunger began to gnaw at my empty stomach, it occurred to me that none of us had rations. Somehow we had been sent aboard without chow. Someone took our problem to the Canadian naval captain, who came to our rescue with some cans of split pea soup from his emergency rations,
one can each. Each can held about two cups and was heated by a cylinder in the center filled with some chemical that burned. Instructions told us to punch two holes in the top of the can before igniting the fuel, otherwise the can could explode. The soup was delicious, and I’ve loved pea soup ever since.

Someone was shouting, “Look at all the ships,” and we jumped up to see a glorious sight. Ships by the hundreds were everywhere ahead as we approached Normandy. We strained to see the armada. Huge balloons were straining at cables. They were supposed to keep enemy aircraft from flying too low. The harbor was busy as a beehive. Cargo nets were being loaded in waiting amphibious trucks, called ducks. A steady stream came out for a load and then headed back to shore. Vehicles like ants seemed to crawl all over the beaches and inland roads.

We lurched forward as our LCI came to a grinding halt on the flat bottom. Gangplanks were lowered on each side of the bow, and we started single file down into the water. Holding our weapons high, we headed for shore. The water was up to my chin, and some of the shorter men had to be helped.

The fighting for Utah beach had been light compared with Omaha beach. Of course, those who were wounded and died there would never agree that it had been an easy battle. I understand most of the credit for the success goes to General Roosevelt, son of President Teddy Roosevelt. We sure were grateful the beach had been secured.

I’m sure much of the horrible results of that battle had been cleared away, and all the dead and wounded were gone. Still, the terrible scars of war seemed to shout at us. Burned-out vehicles, sunken landing craft, ships, tanks, guns, pillboxes lay twisted and still. It hardly seemed possible anyone could have survived, yet men had waded in
and driven the Germans back, now some seven or eight miles inland in most places.

We marched quickly inland to a replacement center near Sainte Mère Église. Our first instructions were to pair off and set up pup tents in an apple orchard nearby. We would stay there until assigned to our units. It was impossible to find out where we would be going or when. Most of us took a good look at the situation map, and it appeared the front was about three miles from us. We could clearly hear our artillery all night as a constant shelling seemed to be taking place. The concussion was close enough to shake our tents, and sleep was difficult.

Sainte Mère Église was the small town made forever famous in the movie of D day. There the Eighty-second Airborne stubbornly fought its way back toward the coast to link up with the Fourth Infantry Division. Had I known the Fourth was to be my unit, perhaps I would have asked more about the battle there.

Since we were not confined to camp, several of us took the opportunity to see some of the battle area nearby. Our noses and grapevine information led us to a burial site about a quarter of a mile away. The ghastly stories we had heard about the fierceness of the fighting were true. German war prisoners were digging up the partially decomposed bodies of their own dead—buried in neat rows in mass graves about three feet deep—for movement to a new location. Working with shovels and bare hands, the prisoners stuffed the corpses into mattress covers and piled them on trucks in rows, like cordwood. Some of the bodies were badly mangled and very difficult to pick up. Stern-faced men turned white, and many had to turn away to vomit at the sight and smell.

The guard stated that several hundred American bodies had already been moved a few days before. Over three
hundred Germans had been buried in the mass grave, but the two fields were being cleared to make way for a fighter plane airstrip.

Near the graves were the wrecks of many gliders, some still hung up in trees, others smashed into hedgerows, all riddled with bullet holes. It’s a wonder to me that any of the glider troops survived or were able to fight once on the ground. I had tried to join the paratroops shortly after OCS. I was rejected because I wore glasses.

We walked through a field that had been shelled by the Navy, probably with rockets. The holes were about four feet deep and six feet across. They covered a pattern about twenty feet apart over a couple of acres. It seemed impossible that anyone could have survived such a bombardment.

We were pretty quiet as we made our way back to the tents. For me, the cruel realities of war came into vivid focus, and for the first of many times I felt the intestinal stirrings of fear.

Finally, on July 12, orders came through. I was assigned to the Twenty-second Infantry Regiment of the Fourth Infantry Division. About a dozen of us climbed onto a two-and-a-half-ton truck and were driven through Carenten on our way to Service Company of the Twenty-second Infantry. Our first taste of shelling occurred as we crossed a small bridge near Carenten, but it screamed overhead and exploded about one hundred yards beyond us.

Captain Hawkins, the commanding officer (CO) of Service Company, met us warmly. He took us directly to headquarters of the Twenty-second Infantry nearby, somewhere in the swamps near Carenten.

Colonel “Buck” Lanham was there to greet us. He was a small, wiry man who looked as tough as he was gruff. He wasted no time in scaring the hell out of us. He stated flatly that the German resistance was very stubborn, and our
losses were extremely high. He explained how tough it was to cross a field with the Germans dug in behind every hedgerow. Machine gun crossfire made advance very difficult. “We are only able to gain a few hundred yards each day. As officers, I expect you to lead your men. Men will follow a leader, and I expect my platoon leaders to be right up front. Losses could be very high. Use every skill you possess. If you survive your first battle, I’ll promote you. Good luck.”

After our brief indoctrination by Colonel Lanham, we were assigned at random to various battalions within the regiment. Five of us were ordered to follow our guide to Second Battalion Headquarters, then in regimental reserve roughly a quarter mile behind the front lines.

Our guide was a corporal who was tired, hollow-eyed, and jittery. He acted like a cornered animal. Just watching his actions gave one the creeps as, bent low, he ducked and ran from one piece of cover to the next. We ran with him down farm lanes, between hedgerows. Some were sunken below ground level. We passed many empty foxholes dug along the banks. Some were partially covered with wood or metal torn from some farm building. Bodies of dead Germans were strewn along the way. They lay as they had fallen, in grotesque positions, glossy-eyed, cheeks sunken, mouths open. The awful odor of death was increased by the hot July sun. The guide said our dead had already been moved, and we were grateful.

Second Battalion Headquarters was in a rather large field with most of the battalion dug in nearby. Headquarters was just a small ten-by-twelve tent set up under a tree near a hedgerow. Lieutenant Colonel Lum Edwards was in command. He greeted us briefly but made no speech. Captain Tom Harrison, the S-3, assigned us to companies. Lieutenant Piszarak and I were assigned to E Company. We
became very good friends and served together from July until November, when he was killed in action. We had to go across the field to report to Captain Holcomb, commander of E Company.

Lieutenant Piszarak was assigned to the First Platoon and I was sent to the Second Platoon. Lieutenant Plume and Lieutenant Tawes had the Third and Fourth platoons.

One thing I felt important was learning the names of my men. So I made a real effort, and the men were pretty surprised to have me call all forty of them by name the very first day.

My first concern was my noncoms. Sergeant “Chick” Reid was the platoon sergeant. The assistant platoon sergeant was Otha Anders. These men had landed on D day and had about one month’s combat experience. I was grateful they were both willing and able to give me a lot of useful pointers on what it was like at the front. At least four other officers had already been casualties in my platoon, and only five men of the original forty who landed on D day were still assigned.

I was lucky to have a few days with my new platoon before going into battle. Later, I saw many green lieutenants sent up to take over platoons in the thick of battle. They had no chance to meet any of their men or to find out who the noncoms were. I can’t imagine a tougher, more demanding job being thrust upon any young man than that of a frontline infantry platoon leader.

My platoon was dug in behind a hedgerow directly across the field about two hundred yards in front of our battery of 105mm self-propelled artillery. At first this didn’t concern me, but it proved to be quite disturbing as they began firing during the night. Not only was it very noisy, but the concussion caused the sides of my foxhole to cave in several times. Of course, sleep was almost impossible,
even without the artillery, for my mind was filled with fears and questions about what it would be like to lead men in combat. How would I face my responsibilities? Perhaps tomorrow would tell.

One evening just before dark while standing in line for hot chow we got a real thrill. Four German fighter-bombers zoomed right over us at treetop level. We scattered instantly and dove for the nearest cover. But their targets seemed to be somewhere near the coast. In seconds just about every antiaircraft gun and machine gun within range opened fire, and we could easily follow the path of the planes by the red glow of the tracers. Every fifth machine gun bullet was glowing white phosphorus to help the gunners see where they were shooting. The display looked just like the fireworks back home on the Fourth of July, but the planes were so fast and so low that they were gone before anyone could take good aim, and none of them appeared to be hit.

About July sixteenth, our regiment moved northeast, close to Saint-Lô. Here we got the news that we were to become part of a special task force of tanks and infantry—with no other purpose than making a major breakthrough of the German lines. This was the first large-scale tank-infantry team action ever undertaken by the Allies. The enemy in our immediate front was to be carpet-bombed before our jump-off, and then a large army of tanks and infantry would drive through any hole created.

The crucial problem was the hedgerows. In Normandy, for generations the farmers had grown hedges to separate their fields, however small. They had started by digging small ditches around the edges of the fields. The earth was piled in rows between two fields, and over the years many of these dirt piles grew to become over two feet thick and three feet high. Hedges were planted on top, and their roots
prevented erosion. Various bushes and trees also took root to form a barrier strong enough to fence in livestock.

The Germans, of course, seized upon hedgerows as the natural earthworks they were. They were excellent for the defense. Easy to hide behind, the thick dirt embankment served as a very good shield against our small arms. Usually the Germans put machine guns near the corners of each field, giving them a crossfire that made a frontal attack by infantry nearly suicidal. Sometimes the poor infantry would fight a whole day to gain a few hundred yards—and that only if they were lucky.

The special tactics that were developed called for the tanks to break out into a field and spray the next hedgerow with their machine guns while the infantry walked or ran behind the tanks, using them as shields. When the tanks got close enough to the hedgerow they’d raise their fire a little, and the infantry would run ahead, keeping as low as possible, throwing grenades over the hedge. The tanks would plow through the hedges and the infantry would follow closely, then fan out to either side to capture any remaining enemy.

Originally a tank could not handle a hedgerow very well, because the dirt mounds would tilt them up and expose their relatively vulnerable underbellies to the German panzerfaust—a lethal, armor-piercing rocket grenade similar to our bazooka, capable of knocking out a tank. After a while a sharp steel scythelike bumper, fashioned from old train rails and the scrap iron from German beach obstacles, was welded to the front of tanks about a foot above the ground. It sliced a chunk out of the hedge, which allowed the tank to keep low as it burst through and took the Germans by surprise.

If all went as planned, we would mop up the enemy and continue the attack across to the next hedgerow, and the
one after. The tactic seemed practical enough, but even in dry runs it was utterly exhausting to carry all our gear while running behind tanks, bathed in their hot fumes and the churned-up dust.

After several days of grueling drill in the new tactics, we were ready to go. Every day we got our gear together and waited for orders to jump off. That went on for about a week, because the bombers that were to do the carpet bombing were grounded by the rotten weather. All the waiting didn’t do our nerves any good.

Meanwhile, there were a few sidelights. One day I came upon one of my young soldiers who had his pistol in hand, apparently getting up the nerve to use it on himself. He was terribly depressed because he hadn’t received any mail from home since his landing in France. I sat down and quietly talked with him alone for quite a spell until he was assured his family really did care, but that our mail was all messed up because of the fighting. The very next day he received a couple of letters, and that snapped him out of his depression.