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Already it was D plus 15 and we were luxuriating in the most
phenomenal English sun we had seen during our nine months' sojourn
on that grossly overburdened little island. The warm white sand
on the Bill of Portland filled our shoes until we took them off
to wriggle our toes with childlike glee. Spring fever enticed
some of us into the deep, blue-green waters beyond the dunes,
and we dared to swim for seconds though the water was bitter
cold.
Our tanks and half-tracks, peeps and six by sixes, rested
in long columns, bumper to bumper, along lanes called hards.
We knew that within days these weapons would be facing German
tanks, that we would be pitting our skill against a foe we had
not yet seen. Still, there were no outward signs of worriment,
perhaps because we were anxious to get started and get it over
with; more probably because we just didn't know what war was.
The harbor laid on the east side of the Bill. Here, a motley
mass of ships pitched gently at anchor. There were LST's, LCT's,
LCI's, freighters, and sundry types of smaller warships. There
were multitudes of them, and each was being methodically loaded
with vehicles, men, and all imaginable equipment.
We waited patiently for our ships to be ready to receive us.
There were few of us with responsible duties, and the time was
spent most pleasantly. For the first time since we arrived in
the United Kingdom, we ate white bread. The meals from the large
kitchens were well prepared, delicious, and in unheard-of abundance.
Between meals, American Red Cross girls drove around in trucks
giving freely of their famous wares, doughnuts, hot coffee, smiles
and cheerful words.
On the third day we loaded. The whole procedure was so effortlessly
and efficiently performed that the miracle of it never occurred
to us. Great credit must be given these experts in the Transportation
Corps who directed every vehicle to the most impossible crannies
without a bit of confusion.
Without delay, turning engines set our craft slightly atremble.
In the twilight of 22 June, 1944, anchors weighed, ships silently
glided out of the harbor, assembled in an orderly convoy, prows
pointed towards the East. We gathered round the rail, watching
our sister ships, admiring the trim lines of the cruisers who
accompanied us. In undertones we reminisced of England, and wondered
about the future. One by one the ships wrapped themselves in
a cloak of darkness and we went to bed.
Minor incidents awakened some of us, but generally, the night
was uneventful. It was not unpleasant falling asleep to the gentle
swishing of waves against the ship.
Morning came, and after breakfast we again sought a place
along the rail. Word was soon passed along that land had been
sighted. We strained our eyes and craned our necks until it appeared
to us, a thin green strip on the horizon. Gradually it took shape,
became a wavy line indicating hills. Barrage balloons and myriad's
of ships came into view. We knew that this was Omaha Beach. At
1100 hours, we anchored.
Hustle and bustle was evident everywhere. At first it seemed
all confusion. Then definite patterns became apparent, until
the whole amazing scene was comparable to the antics of a beehive.
DUKW's, the army's "Ducks," were swimming out to
freighters, returning to shore and driving off on land. Bulldozers
were keeping traffic lanes at least in a semblance of repair.
High on the nearest hill were the tents of an Evacuation Hospital,
and C-47 transport planes were coming and going constantly. It
was an inspiring sight, and we thoroughly enjoyed waiting for
the low tide which would let us onto the beach.'
Late that afternoon we started driving out of the yawning
mouths of our ships. Suddenly, the weeks of arduous waterproofing
became totally unimportant as we drove easily through inches
of water onto the firm sands of France.
M.P.'s directed us along tortuous roads to our bivouac areas.
For the first time we saw German equipment laying where it had
been destroyed. We drove through the famous town of Isigny, shattered
to rubble by naval bombardment. The French folk waved at us,
gave the V-sign with their fingers, and asked for chewing gum
and chocolate.
A steady rumble of artillery met our ears, and we could see
the muzzle flashes as night approached. We were on the Normandy
Beachhead and not so very far from the front lines.
The land looked as we had heard it would. Tiny fields surrounded
by tall hedgerows growing on earthen fences several feet high.
This was Bocage country. Even to our inexperienced eyes it looked
like difficult terrain to fight on, and next to impossible for
tanks.
These fields devoured our long armored columns, and with the
aid of camouflage nets, hid them admirably. Even from short distances
it would have been difficult to guess how much material was concealed
here.
Under these nets we pitched pup-tents and were directed to
avoid unnecessary movement. For the most part, foxholes were
already dug by the infantry which had fought through the region
around Neuilly. All we had to do was empty them daily of the
big black and yellow salamander's which would fall in.
Day after day we did little but become more accustomed to
some of the noises of war. We were several thousands of yards
from the front, and most of what we heard were our own guns booming
away endlessly like a great symphony of kettle drums.
Those bivouacked with Task Force King were less fortunate.
Every now and then several rounds of enemy artillery would burst
nearby, and they were frequently driven to their foxholes. Listening
to the ominous whine and terrifying bursts of these shells was
educational if not fun, and we learned to quicken our reflexes
and sharpen our ears. Looking back on it, we must have hit the
ground or headed for foxholes much more often than we later found
to be necessary. However, it has always been better to be safe
than sorry, and no one was ever called a coward for taking available
precautions.
A few administrative changes were made during these dull days
of waiting. We lost one medium tank company, "F," to
the First Battalion, and acquired one light company "B."
We became a part of Task Force "X," commanded by Lt.
Colonel Cockefaire with his Second Battalion of the 36th Armored
Infantry Regiment, and with Lt. Colonel William B. Lovelady of
our own Second Battalion, 33rd Armored Regiment, next in command.
Colonel Cockefaire was a fine officer and always a gentleman.
There were none who did not feel the loss of a good friend when
he was killed early in August.
Soon after landing in France, we started eating 5 in 1 rations,
a novelty then, which later wore off until meals became an essential
part of living rather than a pleasant interlude. However, these
rations were very satisfactory, and months afterwards when substitutions
were made to prevent total monotony, their edibility was immensely
enhanced.
This portion of Normandy was completely agricultural, devoted
to dairying and abounding in apple orchards. Hard cider seemed
a dietary mainstay and soon became popular with us. The horribly
potent distillate of this was Calvados, which became known among
us as "White Lightning," bringing nostalgic memories
of "Mountain Dew" to men from the South. Real cognac
was scarce and mostly taken away by the Germans as they reluctantly
gave way to the banks of the Vire River.
We had been hiding under our camouflage nets for fifteen days.
Early in the evening of 8 July, Colonel Lovelady called the officers
to his command post.
"Gentlemen, I always thought it would be something like
this, but I didn't expect quite such a rat race."
Subconsciously, muscles tightened, pulses quickened. We knew
that, finally, this was it. The colonel continued:
"We have five minutes for briefing before moving out,
so we can't waste time with preliminaries."
The 30th Infantry Division had a foothold across the Vire
River and a bridge had been constructed near the town of Aire,
which would carry tanks. Quickly, the commander gave the route
on our maps, then the Order of March and the location of our
assembly area.
There was no time for questions and the colonel concluded
crisply with "Synchronize your watches. It is 1925 hours.
Move out at 1930. That is all."
Already, runners had notified the companies. Engines were
being warmed up and last-minute packing completed. We began to
move at the specified time. Though we had no inkling of it then,
this was the actual commencement of nearly ten strenuous months
of adventure, filled with excitement, the extremes of pathos
and comedy, loss of blood and comrades, defeats and victories,
which did not culminate until late in April of 1945 at the Mulde
River in central Germany.
Hundreds of tiny fields suddenly stirred with life. One by
one they disgorged tanks and half-tracks, peeps and trucks, until,
at sixty-yard intervals, there was a column more than twelve
miles long on the road.
Until the vehicles approached the bridge the march was uneventful.
Then, an enemy artillery shell burst nearby, followed by another
and another. This sporadic shelling increased until it reached
the proportions of a barrage, forcing the column to halt. After
midnight the shelling diminished, and we continued to roll through
the occasional bursts of fire.
Private Avery, a motorcycle rider, crossed the bridge and
could not be located for the rest of the night. In the morning
his body was found, riddled by shell fragments. Thus, he was
recorded as the first casualty in Task Force Lovelady.
On our left and right there were the still smoldering ruins
of the town of Aire. Chimneys and broken stone walls made eerie
silhouettes in the flickering light of the fires.
It was nearly 0300 hours when our last vehicles moved off
the road and coiled in adjacent fields. We learned immediately
that this so-called assembly area belonged as much to the Germans
as it did to us.
Before dawn, we became fairly accurate diagnosticians of certain
German weapons. The ping of rifle bullets cut through leaves
and hedges. The rapid, typewriter-like clackity-clack of machine
guns annoyed us constantly. They sounded much faster than ours,
and went "Brrp, brrrp, brrrp," until we called them
"Burp" guns. The whine and startling crash of artillery
made indelible impressions on our minds. The crunching mortars
came in without a warning whistle and we came to fear them more
than most other high calibre weapons.
As soon as we moved in, there were wounded soldiers from the
30th Infantry Division, unable to find their own aid station
in the darkness. By dawn, our medics had already evacuated nineteen
casualties, nearly all doughboys.
The rest of 9 July will always be remembered. Many of us quickly
developed a fatalistic attitude which persisted through all the
months that followed. All of us were frightened though few showed
it. It just didn't seem possible to live through many days of
that inferno. Fortunately or not, the American soldier has always
retained his sense of humor, albeit a trifle grim at times. During
these days a common greeting made us laugh: "My mother always
told me there would be days like this, but she never told me
it would be this rough."
At dawn the attack began, astride a narrow country road and
in a southerly direction. Our two "D" companies (tanks
and infantry) were on the left, and two "E" companies
on the right. After nine hours, we had advanced some two thousand
yards, through hedgerows and over rough ground.
Who will forget that first day? The bow-gunners joining the
infantrymen to spray every tree from top to bottom; the platoon
of tanks dashing a few yards to a confining bank which enclosed
every field; the great lumbering lank-dozer carving a crude driveway
into the next field followed closely by infantry lookouts who
would peek around the corners to point out tank targets, crawling
on their bellies and shooting snipers, real and imaginary, out
of trees; the tanks pouring through the narrow gap to disperse
hurriedly in the tiny field beyond monotonously like the ones
they had just come from; the piercing, urgent cry of "Medic!"
when one was wounded. These memories, and more, come back today
with a vividness that can be retained only by the frightful uniqueness
of high adventure.
Without exerting one's recollections too greatly, the unearthly
whine of the Nebelwerfer can still be heard above all the other
din of battle. This German weapon, whose name was descriptively
Americanized to "Screaming Meemie," hurled rocket-propelled
projectiles whose crescendo screams could be heard for several
seconds before they finally burst in a great ball of fire. We
soon learned that the psychologic effect of their noise was the
most dangerous part of them, for when the final score was counted,
they had actually caused very few casualties. They were impossible
to aim accurately and a large portion of their energy was expended
in driving them to their destinations. They became a part of
every day and every night just as the thrumming engines of German
reconnaissance planes almost marked the time in the evenings
and mornings throughout the months of battle. They became just
another taken-for-granted part of war, like the endless sight
of dead cattle, bloated and stinking by the side of every road;
like burning buildings and machines and bodies; like blood and
death and heartbreak; like all the little things that happened
every day.
Wild tales of cunning snipers filtered back in all their variations,
each story magnified and elaborated upon by successive narrators.
Some of these would set off packages of Chinese firecrackers
by remote control, thus encouraging our infantrymen to expose
themselves while the actual sniper happily fired away from an
unsuspected location. Another common fable was, "The Germans
have Japs with them teaching them how to snipe!" This originated
from the fact that the enemy used Russian deserters in their
army and those of Georgian descent with Mongoloid features were
occidental enough to remind one of the Japanese.
Admittedly, we were green, inexperienced troops. But we showed
promise and got the job done, with all our mistakes. Lieutenant
Lipman's "D" company platoon, together with some tanks
from "E" company, performed exceptionally well by knocking
out five Mark IV tanks almost before dawn of their first day
in combat. In addition, they destroyed two enemy pillboxes, and
killed several enemy soldiers. armed with bazookas. Only one
of his Shermans was hit. This belonged. to Staff Sergeant Triola.
It was quickly repaired and fighting again before the day ended.
By dusk we were very tired and felt that we deserved a rest.
Task Force King passed through us to continue the tedious advances
from hedgerow to hedgerow, while we welcomed a short respite
at the place we started from. Little did we suspect that soon
we would fight day and night, week after week, without thought
of rest or relief.
The next day we were in a state of harassed flux, alerted
for combat, moved out, and returned to our original site. The
following day we actually were given an objective with the 30th
Infantry Division. We advanced toward St. Jean-du-Daye, turned
southwest along a road leading to Hauts Vents, our proposed goal.
We drove cautiously down a paved road marked on both sides
by the skeletons of war: disabled and burning Sherman tanks,
a burned "Weasel," German armored cars, several dead
German soldiers with one officer, and one dead American, apparently
an infantryman.
There was some sniper fire and scattered artillery. We remained
roadbound, however, until passing the crest of a hill only two
miles from the objective, when accurate enemy tank fire advised
us to deploy. Enemy resistance stiffened markedly through the
day. Late in the afternoon, as miles of our column halted along
the road with a platoon of tank destroyers unwisely exposed on
the crest of a hill, armor-piercing shells cut through the air
at a rate which could be accounted for only by assuming that
there were several enemy tanks firing at the same time. One of
the tank destroyers and some of our other thin-skinned vehicles
were set afire, and, for an interminable hour, hot steel was
flying thick and fast in both directions. This determined resistance
and part of a series of counterattacks had a meaning we did not
know 'til later, for this was an attempt to split the Normandy
Beachhead, and drive us back through Isigny into the sea. Eventually,
we had the satisfaction of knowing that we had met the best of
Hitler's troops in our early hours, and had given them a thorough
trouncing.
There were a considerable number of casualties, especially
among the doughboys and aid men, mostly from small arms fire
and mortars. The advance continued and the first platoon of "D"
company knocked out a Mark IV tank. By dusk, we were still 500
yards from our objective, and the infantry arranged their outposts
for the night. Such attacks were destined to become more speedily
and expertly executed. As we acquired experience, we became less
cautious, more daring and ruthless. This was the first and nearly
the last time we failed to reach an objective on time.
During the long twilight hours, the body of Lieutenant Petry
of "B" company was brought to the aid station. He had
been standing exposed in the turret of his tank when a sniper's
machine pistol spurted a row of red beads around his heart.
The night of 11 July cannot be forgotten by Captain George
Stallings (now Lt. Colonel), commanding "D" company.
This was the first of a long series of examples of his leadership,
devotion to duty, courage and cool-headedness. Rightfully, he
was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his bold action.
The night was dark as his tank returned alone towards the
front lines, following an officers' meeting. Without warning,
a mass of fire belched down the hatch and all its occupants scrambled
out, looking like human torches. The acrid fumes of asphalt filled
the air, and they-realized that they had been attacked by flame
throwers. Sergeant Lewis and Tec/4 MacHumphrey perished from
their burns. Tec/5 MacLain and Corporal Miracle escaped and crawled
back, wounded, to our lines.
Captain Stallings threshed the flames from his burning clothes
and body, ending up head downwards in a deep wet ditch. Gutteral
voices of the German tank-hunting patrol warned him to simulate
death. Not daring to move, scarcely breathing, and with the pain
of second degree burns on his forehead and arms, he lay motionless.
The intruders gathered round, talking and examining their prize.
Once they approached Captain Stallings, decided he must be dead,
and after an hour, their voices dissolved in the chill night
air. The Captain alternately crawled, walked, and ran back to
the vicinity of our task force command post. He arrived at dawn,
covered with black asphalt spots in his hair, face and uniform.
He refused to be evacuated even though his eyes burned like fire.
He remained on duty and retained his suggestion of cool dignity,
which was to hold the respect and admiration of all who fought
with him during the bitter months which followed.
Finally, the objective, a hill at Hauts Vents, was taken.
Colonel Dorrance S. Roysdon personally led the attack with the
infantry, carrying a tommy-gun, and shouting orders at the top
of his lungs.
The following three days consisted of a holding action, during
which mortar fire kept everyone confined to their foxholes and
under their tanks.
Our brief experience had brought out the "bugs"
in our organization. We changed units somewhat, and became Task
Force #1, commanded by Colonel Roysdon. This was subdivided so
that Task Force 2A was commanded by Lt. Colonel Lovelady and
consisted of Second Battalion Hq and Hq Company, 33rd Armored
Regiment, "D" company of the same unit, "D"
company of the 36th Armored Infantry Regiment, a platoon from
the 23rd Armored Engineer Battalion, and a platoon of tank destroyers
from the 703rd Tank Destroyer Battalion.
In the meantime, "E" company had been attached to
the 119th Infantry Regiment in the 30th Division, and the 743rd
Tank Battalion. They launched a stiff attack south of Haute Vents,
knocking out four Mark IV tanks, and two anti-tank guns.
We had been fighting for eight days, and withdrew for rest
and repair of vehicles into the dark shadows of Bois-du-hommet.
We received sporadic artillery fire which did some damage to
"E" company, but we did catch up on our sleep, rearrange
our vehicles, eat regularly, and enjoyed relative safety.
Task Force Lovelady had been baptized in fire and blood. Its
sword was as the finest crucible steel, for it had been tempered
in the flame of battle. We were warriors. We were beginning to
hate the Germans. We knew that ours was a winning team. Greater
tests would come, and we were confident that we would pass them
all with flying colors.
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