Love is a Wounded Soldier (22 page)

“Let’s load up,” I told him, and he
reluctantly let go of the rail and followed me to the side of the boat where
the rest were waiting to board the LCA we were assigned to.

One by one, the 30 of us climbed over the
rail and found our seats. I took Ellen’s picture out of my pocket and kissed
it. When we were set, we were lowered into the choppy sea. The bottom of the
craft smacked the water as the
Empire Javelin
rolled on swells ten feet
high. We were drenched almost immediately.

“Bail, goddammit!” Lt. Stavely screamed at
us, and we removed our helmets and frantically scooped out the water that had
splashed in over the bow.

There were six LCAs from our ship
altogether, and we waited until all six boats were in the water, circling
’round and ’round in a maneuver called “Piccadilly Circus.” By the time all the
boats were loaded, half the men in mine had succumbed to sea sickness. We’d
been given Dramamine tablets, but the angry channel proved to be too much for
the stomachs of most everyone on board. I thought I was fine, until we formed a
line and headed for shore. Corporal Charlie Reid was puking his guts out in
front of me when a blast of wind threw a stream of his vomit into my face.
Spitting out any that had gotten in my mouth, I desperately fumbled for the
brown paper bags we’d been supplied with for that contingency. I found one, brought
it to my mouth, and filled it—only to have the water-soaked bottom give out and
the entire bagful deposit itself on my left thigh. We were cold, soaked,
queasy, and covered in the sour stench of vomit. We just wanted to reach shore.
At the moment it seemed things couldn’t get worse. How naïve we were.

The weather was against us. The missions of
the 101st and 82nd Airborne Divisions earlier that night had been hampered by
the clouds and rain, and many of the thousands of tons of bombs the air force
had dropped had missed their targets for the same reason. The efforts of the
battleships shortly before H-Hour (06:30 hours) would also have limited
results.

We were destined for Omaha Beach, Dog Green
sector. Intelligence had reported our opposition would be mainly Russian,
Slovakian, and Polish conscripts—hardly loyal subjects of the Third Reich.
Hitler’s forces were wearing thin, and much of the optimism regarding the
anticipated success of our mission stemmed from the belief that we’d only be
fighting these non-German conscripts and the old men and boys Hitler had
resorted to using.

Unbeknownst to the Allied forces, the
German 352nd Infantry Division had been moved to Omaha Beach. This was a
battle-tested unit that had seen action on the Russian front. They were
professional fighting men. They wouldn’t be greeting us with white flags.

Daylight crept up on us, slowly revealing
the mighty armada we were a part of. Over 5000 ships sailed in the channel. The
LCAs and Higgins boats we rode on looked like bathtub toys compared to the
battleships and destroyers. Every way you looked there were boats; it looked
like a giant could have used them as stepping stones to walk from France to
England, so numerous and close together they were.

No one spoke to each other. The bluster of
the wind and waves, and the roar of the engine prevented unnecessary
conversation. Most of us just sat in miserable silence. Frankie De Luca
fingered rosary beads, and though I couldn’t hear him, I could see him
mouthing, “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .” Jedidiah Hankins sat near me and
belted out “Onward Christian Soldiers” with lusty fervor. Other men prayed or
quoted scripture, though I couldn’t make out what their moving lips were
saying. I prayed, too. I didn’t pray for victory. I didn’t pray for strength. I
just prayed that I’d get to see my Ellen again.

But there was one sound the wind could not
smother. At H-Hour -1 (05:30), the battleships began pounding the coastline.
The USS
Texas
had all 10 of her 14-inch guns trained on the Nazi gun
batteries of Pointe-du-Hoc, and it put on a show that rattled us, together with
other ships and air support. I couldn’t imagine what the Germans must be
feeling. The
Texas
was lined up parallel to the shore, and the force of
firing thrust her back, creating massive waves that affected even us, about a
mile away. Her cannons belched fire and smoke as she unleashed salvo after
salvo. Missiles weighing a full ton raked the belly of the sky, as the
thunderous report of the cannons shuddered me through. The air force joined the
deafening percussive symphony, dropping bombs whose blasts even we could feel
out on the channel. Heaven itself seemed to be burning up. There was no way we
thought the Germans could survive the onslaught before us. We cheered and hollered
with every explosion that sent a million multicolored sparks flying every which
way, as if a star had shattered before us. Even I was now confident we’d take
our objective easily—and maybe be home by Christmas.

“Move over!” Lt. Stavely yelled at the coxswain,
frantically pointing toward the starboard side of the boat. The waves, wind,
and poor visibility had separated our six boats, and the smoke and fog obscured
the Vierville church steeple—our reference point for landing on the Dog Green
sector of Omaha beach. As we approached the beach, we became even more
separated from the other boats, as the coxswains zigzagged their boats to avoid
the deadly Teller mines strapped to the numerous obstacles the Germans had
planted in the water. I started to sweat again as our skipper fought the
current and waves, knowing that if our little boat hit a mine, it would be game
over. Our enemy was forgotten, but not for long. Boats ahead of us started to
take on small arms fire.

“Keep down!” Lt. Stavely screamed as the
men peered around in horrified disbelief. We hunkered down as tracer bullets
pinged off the ramp in front of the boat, as the Jerries zeroed in on us.

“Get in closer!” Lt. Stavely bellowed at
our terrified coxswain. We were still fifty yards from the shore and he was
slowing down.

A boat on our left hit a mine. A geyser of
water, boat, and soldiers shot up into the air. I took a peek over and saw
bodies; headless bodies, half bodies, limbless bodies, and bodies screaming for
help. I felt sick. The coxswain saw it too, and had enough. Before Lt. Stavely
could say anything, he let down the ramp. I thought Stavely would shoot him.

Lt. Stavely was the first down the ramp. He
took a few steps and was cut down by enemy fire. I was the new leader by
default.

“Let’s go!” I yelled, as the men stood like
timid penguins in front of the ramp as it slammed down, causing the boat to
buck violently on the briny surf.

Private William Forsythe was in the front,
and attempted to exit the boat down the ramp. He took one step forward, and
machinegun fire spattered the water around him. He got hit at least once and
fell over, hitting his head on the side of the ramp before sliding off face
first into the water.

Bullets ricocheted around us, and some of
them began to find their mark. Ronnie Fisher got hit in the face and went down.
One of the most eager participants on our boat was one of the first casualties.
Eddie Gunn, who was standing behind him, wiped Ronnie’s blood and brains off
the side of his face. He snapped.

“You goddamn Nazi sonsabitches!” he roared,
leaping off the side of the boat. Five or six fellows tried debarking down the
ramp, but only two made it. It was like facing a firing squad to use the ramp,
so we followed Eddie’s lead and threw ourselves over the side.

The water buried me. Weighted down by sixty
pounds of equipment, I sank like a lead anchor. Struggling to break the
surface, I inflated my Mae West. If it wasn’t for that life preserver, I might
still be at the bottom of the Channel.

The muffled explosions of the mortars and
artillery shells pounded my water-filled ears. I felt for the bottom with my
feet and kicked off. My head broke the surface, and I gulped a breath of air as
the water gave me a salty slap to the face. I swam cumbersomely, looking for
some sure footing. My lungs were burning.

Enemy fire continued, raining a deadly
downpour of lead drops all around. I needed to move quickly, so I dropped my
defunct M1 Garand and clawed my way forward. A floating body hit me in the neck
as I scrambled toward the beach.

When the water reached my waist, I hid
behind a tetrahedron, one of the many obstacles planted by the Germans along
the beach. The beach was strewn with them. They looked like pieces from a giant
game of jacks. Already exhausted, I crouched behind it like a crocodile, with
only my head from my nose up protruding out of the water.

Two men labored to walk out of the water
onto the shingle to my left. An 88 shell exploded in front of them, showering
me with sand and water. They both fell down. Their screams jolted me from my
rest. I slogged through to the pebbled shore and dashed as well as I could in
my water-sopped clothes. The blast had blown them about ten feet apart.

“Medic!” I called as I ran.

“Medic!” I screamed again as I came upon
the first man. It was Private David Sanders, a kid from Chicago who had lied
about his age to get into the army. He lay on his back, his body riddled with
shrapnel wounds. His right leg was held together with a thin strip of skin and
flesh. It was broken off above the knee, and the severed lower half lay at a
forty-five degree angle to the upper part still attached to his body. Muscle
twitched around the white, splintered bone, as a bloody mist pulsed from his
mangled stump.

“Mother!” he cried. “Mama!” The bond
between mother and child remains long after the umbilical cord is snipped.

No medic appeared, so I tried to apply a
tourniquet to his shredded leg. He groaned like a woman in travail, his eyes
rolled back white in their sockets. There was no way to stanch the flow of
blood from the strips of flesh that composed the remainder of his leg. I
reached for a shot of morphine to help appease his demons of pain. He started
shaking, and I knew he was as good as gone. I decided to save the morphine for
someone else.

“Maa . . .” Half a guttural bleat was all
he could muster, and he lay lifeless. I was shaking now, as I removed one of
his dog tags from his neck. His face was unshaven, but smooth. A fine, blond
fuzz grew on his upper lip. He was seventeen.

“Robert!” I heard a voice call weakly
through the mayhem. In my stunned state, I’d forgotten the other fellow. It was
George London. David wouldn’t need his rifle, so I pulled his M1 off his body
and ran to help George.

“Medic!” I screamed again.

“Morphine!” he cried. I quickly produced a
Syrette of morphine and cautiously inserted it in his arm.

“Jesus Christ!” he cursed at me through
gritted teeth, “just give me the goddamn shot!” I squeezed the morphine out
where I hoped it would inject just under his skin and pinned the empty tube to
his collar to ensure no one else would give him another shot.

“That’s better,” he said, a little more
peacefully.

“I don’t want to die, Robert,” he said to
me. He looked at me with his left eye. The right side of his face had been
hollowed out by the blast. His cheekbone was gone, the bone under his eyebrow
blown away, his eye socket a brimming puddle of crimson. His torso had numerous
puncture wounds.

“Aw, George,” I tried to assure him
confidently, “you’ll be fine. Just hang in there and we’ll get a medic for
you.”

“Can I have a cigarette?” he asked. His
mouth opened only a slit when he spoke. It seemed like a ridiculous request,
considering his situation, but I found a dry cigarette on him, lit it, and put
it in his mouth. Smoke puffed out of a hole in his cheek I could have stuck
three fingers through.

“I don’t want to die!” he repeated
plaintively, his eyes begging me for hope.

“Don’t worry, the war’s over for you,” I
assured him. “Before long you’ll be back in America. You’ll bring Camilla over,
settle down in a nice house somewhere, and have a few little babies. It’s going
to be alright.” He seemed to be soothed. The morphine was doing its work.

“Jesus!” he called. He wasn’t cursing.

“Hang in there buddy!” I exhorted.

“Water! I need water!”

I screwed the cap off my canteen, plucked
the cigarette from his cracked lips, and gently poured the water over his
mouth. He choked on the water and started coughing.

“Did you give him morphine?” Finally, a
medic had arrived

“Yes,” I said, relieved there was someone
there that could help George.

“Good,” he said, as I took a step back to
allow him to get to work. But he just kept walking

“Medic?” I said quizzically. He stopped.

“Aren’t you going to do something for him?”
His shoulders sagged as though under the weight of a thousand headstones. He
stepped back toward me, handed me a Syrette of morphine, and said, “I’m sorry,
this is all I can do for him.” He couldn’t look me in the eye as he spoke.

“Help me, medic!” George cried. I battled
tears.

“He left you some more morphine,” I
offered. I had no hope to offer, and George knew it.

“I’m dying. I’m dying,” he quivered. “I
don’t want to die! I’m not a good man!”

“Damn rights you’re a good man,” I told
him, with more conviction than I felt, “the finest.”