It is June 5 1944 and I, Edward Harvey,
have been reluctantly yet willingly stationed as a field reporter, responsible
for writing on account of Operation Overlord, or D-Day. It is the night before
the operation and sleep is hard to come by. The men are restless as the
growing and impending fear of a lead death looms on a dark horizon. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and men as we sat around our quarters below deck.
Little is said but much is thought. In every soldier’s mind there is a hopeful
belief; a small light amongst hungry shadows. Perhaps it is a thought of
victory for their country and life for themselves. Though just as the thought
appears in our minds it darts back to the abyss and is filled with the obvious
chance of death.
We have nothing to distract ourselves from these dreaded thoughts save a deck of cards and tobacco. I pull a pack out from the pocket in my jacket and proceed to smoke one. A couple other reporters and soldiers whom I knew well enough to call friends ask if they can have a smoke. I oblige. In the end it won’t matter how many of these cylinders I have left if I am no longer here to smoke them. As the burning stops and the butt becomes the tip, I stamp on it, throw it away, and without a second thought turn to my meager cot of inadequately thin sheets. It was time to get some shuteye. When sleep finally came, it came dreamless and cold, like a black void taunting me and waiting for me to enter. I welcomed this though, for I needed the rest and tomorrow would be no easy day.
It was just before first light when I arose. The shouts of officers woke us men up with a start and we scrambled to get out of our beds. I grudgingly put on my scratchy and worn army fatigue and started with my gear. First my chest rig with my canteen and second my rucksack filled with supplies and a standard issue entrenching shovel. I then began to fill my many pouches with two pens, my journal, and M1 Garand magazines. Lastly I picked up the Garand and held it firmly, a last resort. It was an hour later when we were ready and made our way to the LCVPs (Landing Craft Vehicle Personnel).
Inside the crafts there is just enough room for the twenty-something men to fit inside and little comfort and safety within the thin armored sides of the amphibious vessel. We were given a short debrief from the Staff Sergeant who was kind enough to let me tag along. There was not much to be said, the task was simple yet far from easy: storm the beach, secure a beachhead at Normandy. After his steady voice fell silent we were left with just our thoughts.
I hadn’t known true fear all my life until those final seconds before we launched. The frightened and timid faces of the soldiers, some of them just boys fresh out of high school, only added to my terror. I forgot who I was and my purpose. My mind drifted back to New York City and smiles of civilians. There are no smiles during war, only hatred and sorrow. I began to imagine what my life would have been, had I not accepted this assignment. Thoughts of a family came to pass and I soon came to regret my perilous decision. Before I could contemplate anymore a sound jarred me from my thoughts. A sound I had never heard before. At first thought I believed it was a siren or a soldier slamming the butt of his gun repeatedly into the side of the boat. However I soon realized I was alone in noticing this ear-piercing sound. A pain followed the sound, a pain that came from my chest. I hastily realized the sound was the unmistakable beating of my heart. I clutched it tightly as it continued to pound, threatening to break through my chest. I could not worry about the pain or noise any longer as I realized there was the new and unfamiliar noise of the sirens. They were signaling our final launch, we were going to war.
All silence came to a halt as we left the company of the numerous battleships and cruisers. The sound of the F4U Corsair’s roared against a crimson sky and the blare of the heavy guns stationed on our battleships did nothing to ease my ears. We were set to land in the fifth wave of the infantry transporters. Had I been in the second or first wave I would not have been fortunate enough to transcribe these recollections. Aboard the ship the rough seawaters tossed breakfast around in our stomachs. The soldier behind me leaned over and became sick over side of the LCVP. I could not help myself as I too in turn leaned over the side and felt the sour mixture flow out and dissolve in to the black waters below. I decided to look ahead at what was to come for the first. The beach was on a slope lined with barbed wire and several barriers to prevent vehicles from landing. The Germans were bunkered down in the safety of their pillboxes that were nested high on the dunes. Their menacing guns aimed down towards the sand, their hands pressed to the trigger.
Before I could take anymore of my surroundings in, our sergeant gave a roar just as the ramps dropped and our protection lowered, “This is it boys!” As the ramp lowered we heard a deafening cry from the Jerry’s several feet above us on the beach “Amerikaner am strand!” I sprinted forward, faster than I had ever had as a boy, passing the men around as more and more of them succumbed to the bullets and mortar fire. I witnessed soldiers fall all around me as I risked a look with my peripherals. It seemed like ages before I reached a small angle of the hill where the rest of soldiers lay, hunkered down in a position where enemy guns could not reach them. I did not know how I made it passed the black wall of shells and gunfire, I asked my self “Why me?” as I looked around at where I had ran from. Disfigured bodies littered the now maroon sand. Blood pored out from where organs had once been, arms and legs were scattered around, missing their hosts. The ocean ran red with blood on this black day.
After most of the soldiers had regrouped at the bottom of the hill we began our slow crawl upwards towards the pillboxes. Ammunition rained down on us as the Nazis soon realized what was happening. German MP40s, MG 42s, and Karabiner 98k alike fired down upon us from inside the concrete bunkers. As we got close enough, troops began chucking grenades in through the vulnerable openings in the pillboxes. Screams could be heard over the sounds of the explosions. However pity did not come to me as I looked just behind me towards the beach. I took a grenade out of a Private’s pocket and threw one in myself. I had never thrown a grenade before, however I have thrown a baseball. As we came to last of our grenades soldiers equipped with M2 Flamethrowers moved into the vanguard and began igniting the pillboxes on fire, consuming our enemy in a fiery death. As I peered in a now vacant bunker I watched as the flames licked and devoured their corpses, “What a way to go” said a lieutenant nearby.
As the fight wore on, a victory became clear. The remaining Germans were either shot and killed on the spot or taken captive to be sent to nearby POW camps. We had secured a strategic error that would be key to the offensive. I do not know how I survived that day, nor do I know whether I was one of the lucky ones. To continue on fighting and living with these moments for the rest of your life or to become one of the ever sleeping fallen, I do not know what is worse. After many hours of fighting we had finally made our way into the underbelly of the Germans, and the Allied advance was now on it’s way to Berlin.
