Memoirs of a G.I. in Normandy
My name is Corporal Anderson, attached to Baker Company of the United States Army. Today is the 6th of June 1944, the day in which many had already anticipated with mixed feelings. Some had dreaded it, while others were looking forward to this invasion. As the coxswain steered the Higgins boat, a square cigar box-shaped personnel carrier towards its final destination, my last thoughts were with my family. My father had already been posted to North Africa to stop Rommel's Afrika Korps stationed there, while my brother was sent to the Pacific to fight the Japanese. It would be tragic if all three of us were to be killed in action.
My train of thought was interrupted by the coxswain telling us of the impending arrival to the beach, and possibly our doom. Someone near my side quipped that one day our great-grandchildren will read of our heroic feats. I returned a faint smile to him. The smell of burning wood was in the air. Each of us carried backpacks stuffed full of equipments crucial to our survival, and in addition to that, all of us wore combat vests, slung ammo harnesses and had a steel helmet on our heads, each adding to the weight. I had still a bit of time to say a last prayer, wishing for God's guiding hand to be upon my brother and father and to bring all three of us home safely. I gave my thanks to the Lord.
And the ramp finally fell, and for the first time ever, I saw the beach we were all trained to invade and secure away from the Germans, codenamed Omaha. For two gruelling years, my comrades and I trained for this moment, and now it was here. The beach, with marble-white sands, would have made quite a wonderful holiday paradise. But the tranquility was short-lived as a sudden burst of machinegun fire erupted from the cliffs and concrete bunkers littering Omaha, killing the first man in front. His head just popped open like a watermelon, splattering blood onto the men behind him. But they never had a chance to recover from the horror, for they too were cut down by the deadly hail of bullets where they stood. Others, including myself, discarded all proper troop disembarking procedures and went over the side.
With nearly eighty pounds of ammo and equipment strapped to my back, I sank down to the seafloor like a rock. The seawater hurt my eyes and in the temporary confusion, it was easy to get disoriented. Objects were all around me, and I recognised them by touch to be helmets, rifles, discarded equipment and occasionally, a drowned G.I. infantryman. I finally made it to the surface, struggling to catch my breath and I saw, to my horror, the landing craft on my left lowering the ramp, and immediately a storm of machinegun bullets rained in. No man was given time to jump.
My hands started to shake slightly. Not out of any inflicted disease known to Man, but rather by the thunderous sounds of the never-ending falling shells, raining death onto the men on the beach, and spreading pain and misery to those not killed by the enemy artillery but wounding them gravely in the process. I had just witnessed Death doing its job, and no one who has ever seen what a bullet or a mortar round could do to a human body can fully understand the horrors of war.
I was neither wounded nor injured, but the mortars had a different impact on my nerves. Even the M1-Garand which I'd been accustomised to carrying over these two years of training suddenly felt like deadweight in my hands. The waterlogged clothes wet from the channel water didn't help me in my struggle across the deadly beach either. Men on both sides of me seem to go down screaming or in some cases, just fall like a potato sack without nary a sound uttered. The latter must've been killed by bullets that have found their vital points. Some were, by chance, blown to pieces when a well-aimed shell struck them. They would be there one moment, and in a blinding flash of light, they were gone and all that remains is a sickening stew of steaming bones, flesh and lots of blood.
I found temporary refuge by a small rock, barely enough to provide full protection to my torso, but in that kind of scenario, I would have even welcomed a small bush as a ballistic deflector. There was already another G.I. cowering behind the same rock, but in that few moments of chaos I only thought of my own safety. When a mortar round exploded nearby, I pushed my face into the sand, and even then the ground shook so violently I accidentally swallowed some sand. Choking and coughing my eyes caught sight of the same fellow soldier beside me at the rock. He was as dead as could be, eyes wide open, and I immediately saw what caused his death - two small holes neatly puncturing his steel helmet. Blood was already flowing down his face, and whether he died from mortar shrapnel or otherwise is known only to God.
Moments after the shock had set in and the grim reality of questioning one's mortality had passed, the whole place seemed to come alive and angry once more when another round of artilleries started raining on the beach. I felt sorry for the poor chap. But there was no time to indulge in self-pity. Remembering that mortars hitting on rocks made a deadly combination, I regained my composure to my knees and started for the shingles once more, determined to make it through this hellish nightmare alive. But not before jettisoning some of the cargo stowed in my backpack. I told myself I would rather travel light and fight with limited ammo than be bogged down by it and make myself an easy target for the Germans high above the ground.
I did not want to die, but the chain of events that presented itself to me made me believe every bullet fired from the enemy's gun had my name inscribed on it. Or nearly, at least. By now the channel tide was catching up with my struggle, running red from all the blood spilled on this day. Severed limbs were floating freely amongst numerous dead bodies of men killed in the first wave. To say that nausea did not try to take over me at that point would have been a lie. It is made worse when you recognise some of the faces as your friends whom you've already known since the first day of boot camp, but now they all share a same thing in common - Death.
I shed a silent tear for them. There is this nagging feeling that you are the only one left in this struggle, and when you go down, no one will hear your cries of help; the musky, coppery smell of blood being your only companion to the grave. With each step, more men fell, and I had anticipated every breath I took to be my last. God must have intended it not to be that way, for I made it across to the seawall safely, albeit slightly shaken. I huddled there with the rest of those lucky enough not to have meet their end. Maybe not yet. Just a few feet from where I stood moments earlier, another young soldier had his left arm severed and left thigh reduced to a bloody pulp by a shell. He was still alive, but was in great pain. A medic who tried to brave the bullets and drag the young boy's body to safety took a round to his head and was killed instantly.
God have mercy for us sinners in this hour of our death, I thought to myself, keeping my head clear of any would-be enemy snipers.
A man, presumably the captain, began shouting orders for a few sticks of bangalore torpedos. Several helmeted heads automatically turned to look at me. I found out why - by chance, back at the rock when I'd jettisonned most of my cargo, I had inadvertently kept the last stick of three issued bangalores, poking from my backpack like an awkward radio antennae as I ran across the killing beach. But we still needed at least two more to effectively blast an opening through the barb wires. Everyone fell silent and no one volunteered until the captain grew impatient and picked a few from us. Since I provided the first, I was exempted. All eyes were fixed on the two as they scurried across the sands to retrieve a stick each.
After what seemed like an eternity, both men came back unscathed. We grabbed the bangalores greedily like a hungry man snatching at a morsel of bread. I helped pass it to the rest and assumed back my proning position. While awaiting the men to fix and fuse up the charge, I had nothing to do but wait for the explosion to happen. There was a dead G.I. slumped a few feet from me, and I could see that his combat boots were dry and untouched by the channel's water. It was pretty easy to come to that conclusion since his feet were facing me. I took his boots and changed my socks to dry, warm ones, delighted that the size of the footwear was a comfortable fit.
Having no tanks and armour of any type on land made things worse. We were like sitting ducks in this dreadful scenario and the heavy armours, which could have been a welcome sight to any shell-shocked infantryman, was instead mostly floundering in the channel. Those pitiful few which made it up the beach front was immediately put out of action by the shells, with the crew trapped inside the burning tanks. The smell of acrid burnt flesh permeated the nostrils.
"Take cover, fire in the hole!" a voice rang out, followed by several others echoing that statement. It meant one thing - get your ass real low unless you want to be blown away by the bangalore shrapnels. God it was terrifying. It lasted nearly a whole minute, those explosions. But once the smoke cleared we saw a perfect path paved in front of us. With cries and rallying shouts, each man gathered his weapon and set across once more. I did the same. Some of them died immediately from random bullets shot from hidden sources just as they traversed over the shingle. These are the ones who would never live to see another sunset nor go home to their loved ones again. Those poor bastards.
My train of thought was interrupted by the coxswain telling us of the impending arrival to the beach, and possibly our doom. Someone near my side quipped that one day our great-grandchildren will read of our heroic feats. I returned a faint smile to him. The smell of burning wood was in the air. Each of us carried backpacks stuffed full of equipments crucial to our survival, and in addition to that, all of us wore combat vests, slung ammo harnesses and had a steel helmet on our heads, each adding to the weight. I had still a bit of time to say a last prayer, wishing for God's guiding hand to be upon my brother and father and to bring all three of us home safely. I gave my thanks to the Lord.
And the ramp finally fell, and for the first time ever, I saw the beach we were all trained to invade and secure away from the Germans, codenamed Omaha. For two gruelling years, my comrades and I trained for this moment, and now it was here. The beach, with marble-white sands, would have made quite a wonderful holiday paradise. But the tranquility was short-lived as a sudden burst of machinegun fire erupted from the cliffs and concrete bunkers littering Omaha, killing the first man in front. His head just popped open like a watermelon, splattering blood onto the men behind him. But they never had a chance to recover from the horror, for they too were cut down by the deadly hail of bullets where they stood. Others, including myself, discarded all proper troop disembarking procedures and went over the side.
With nearly eighty pounds of ammo and equipment strapped to my back, I sank down to the seafloor like a rock. The seawater hurt my eyes and in the temporary confusion, it was easy to get disoriented. Objects were all around me, and I recognised them by touch to be helmets, rifles, discarded equipment and occasionally, a drowned G.I. infantryman. I finally made it to the surface, struggling to catch my breath and I saw, to my horror, the landing craft on my left lowering the ramp, and immediately a storm of machinegun bullets rained in. No man was given time to jump.
My hands started to shake slightly. Not out of any inflicted disease known to Man, but rather by the thunderous sounds of the never-ending falling shells, raining death onto the men on the beach, and spreading pain and misery to those not killed by the enemy artillery but wounding them gravely in the process. I had just witnessed Death doing its job, and no one who has ever seen what a bullet or a mortar round could do to a human body can fully understand the horrors of war.
I was neither wounded nor injured, but the mortars had a different impact on my nerves. Even the M1-Garand which I'd been accustomised to carrying over these two years of training suddenly felt like deadweight in my hands. The waterlogged clothes wet from the channel water didn't help me in my struggle across the deadly beach either. Men on both sides of me seem to go down screaming or in some cases, just fall like a potato sack without nary a sound uttered. The latter must've been killed by bullets that have found their vital points. Some were, by chance, blown to pieces when a well-aimed shell struck them. They would be there one moment, and in a blinding flash of light, they were gone and all that remains is a sickening stew of steaming bones, flesh and lots of blood.
I found temporary refuge by a small rock, barely enough to provide full protection to my torso, but in that kind of scenario, I would have even welcomed a small bush as a ballistic deflector. There was already another G.I. cowering behind the same rock, but in that few moments of chaos I only thought of my own safety. When a mortar round exploded nearby, I pushed my face into the sand, and even then the ground shook so violently I accidentally swallowed some sand. Choking and coughing my eyes caught sight of the same fellow soldier beside me at the rock. He was as dead as could be, eyes wide open, and I immediately saw what caused his death - two small holes neatly puncturing his steel helmet. Blood was already flowing down his face, and whether he died from mortar shrapnel or otherwise is known only to God.
Moments after the shock had set in and the grim reality of questioning one's mortality had passed, the whole place seemed to come alive and angry once more when another round of artilleries started raining on the beach. I felt sorry for the poor chap. But there was no time to indulge in self-pity. Remembering that mortars hitting on rocks made a deadly combination, I regained my composure to my knees and started for the shingles once more, determined to make it through this hellish nightmare alive. But not before jettisoning some of the cargo stowed in my backpack. I told myself I would rather travel light and fight with limited ammo than be bogged down by it and make myself an easy target for the Germans high above the ground.
I did not want to die, but the chain of events that presented itself to me made me believe every bullet fired from the enemy's gun had my name inscribed on it. Or nearly, at least. By now the channel tide was catching up with my struggle, running red from all the blood spilled on this day. Severed limbs were floating freely amongst numerous dead bodies of men killed in the first wave. To say that nausea did not try to take over me at that point would have been a lie. It is made worse when you recognise some of the faces as your friends whom you've already known since the first day of boot camp, but now they all share a same thing in common - Death.
I shed a silent tear for them. There is this nagging feeling that you are the only one left in this struggle, and when you go down, no one will hear your cries of help; the musky, coppery smell of blood being your only companion to the grave. With each step, more men fell, and I had anticipated every breath I took to be my last. God must have intended it not to be that way, for I made it across to the seawall safely, albeit slightly shaken. I huddled there with the rest of those lucky enough not to have meet their end. Maybe not yet. Just a few feet from where I stood moments earlier, another young soldier had his left arm severed and left thigh reduced to a bloody pulp by a shell. He was still alive, but was in great pain. A medic who tried to brave the bullets and drag the young boy's body to safety took a round to his head and was killed instantly.
God have mercy for us sinners in this hour of our death, I thought to myself, keeping my head clear of any would-be enemy snipers.
A man, presumably the captain, began shouting orders for a few sticks of bangalore torpedos. Several helmeted heads automatically turned to look at me. I found out why - by chance, back at the rock when I'd jettisonned most of my cargo, I had inadvertently kept the last stick of three issued bangalores, poking from my backpack like an awkward radio antennae as I ran across the killing beach. But we still needed at least two more to effectively blast an opening through the barb wires. Everyone fell silent and no one volunteered until the captain grew impatient and picked a few from us. Since I provided the first, I was exempted. All eyes were fixed on the two as they scurried across the sands to retrieve a stick each.
After what seemed like an eternity, both men came back unscathed. We grabbed the bangalores greedily like a hungry man snatching at a morsel of bread. I helped pass it to the rest and assumed back my proning position. While awaiting the men to fix and fuse up the charge, I had nothing to do but wait for the explosion to happen. There was a dead G.I. slumped a few feet from me, and I could see that his combat boots were dry and untouched by the channel's water. It was pretty easy to come to that conclusion since his feet were facing me. I took his boots and changed my socks to dry, warm ones, delighted that the size of the footwear was a comfortable fit.
Having no tanks and armour of any type on land made things worse. We were like sitting ducks in this dreadful scenario and the heavy armours, which could have been a welcome sight to any shell-shocked infantryman, was instead mostly floundering in the channel. Those pitiful few which made it up the beach front was immediately put out of action by the shells, with the crew trapped inside the burning tanks. The smell of acrid burnt flesh permeated the nostrils.
"Take cover, fire in the hole!" a voice rang out, followed by several others echoing that statement. It meant one thing - get your ass real low unless you want to be blown away by the bangalore shrapnels. God it was terrifying. It lasted nearly a whole minute, those explosions. But once the smoke cleared we saw a perfect path paved in front of us. With cries and rallying shouts, each man gathered his weapon and set across once more. I did the same. Some of them died immediately from random bullets shot from hidden sources just as they traversed over the shingle. These are the ones who would never live to see another sunset nor go home to their loved ones again. Those poor bastards.
END OF PART 01
An original fictional war memoir by JDream Anderson-Smith. Copyright 2005.
JDream ranted at
21:00
1 Comments:
nicely wrote! was imagining some ex GI writing it in the battle field.Hey..u can publish a book lo..novel wil do! take K
By
Jarod, at 6:18 PM
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