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It is considered good form to avoid first person accounts. Also, the too-frequent use of the personal pronoun "I" renders suspect one's modesty and one's accuracy. However, after twenty years few of us understate our contribution to the great events of June 6, 1944 on the French shore.
I may not recognize the president of our largest account, nor remember with whom I lunched with last Tuesday, but I recall every heartbeat of June 5 and 6, and a ridiculous amount of detail before and after those stirring days. So, I am sure, do thousands of those who crossed Omaha Beach on "D" Day. Summer days are long in England and though the weather was foul, daylight lasted well after 10:00 p.m. on June 5. I was one of the last to board USS Ancon lying under Portland Hill. Ancon was the flagship of Rear Admiral Hall, another of whose flagships had transported me to "Husky," the Sicilian Invasion.At such times the dramatic seems almost called for, and while waiting to embark, I scribbled a last letter. As the boat came alongside, I scooped up a handful of England which suddenly was "home." A photograph of my wife and three-month old daughter was pasted in my helmet. I attached sinister significance to its loss later as I scrambled down a cargo net to the landing craft.This was it!
For fourteen months, I had been on the planning staff of Overlord. I knew what we were in for and was pessimistic about our chances. Ancon was the most up-to-date command ship in the Navy and was most comfortable. With the flag aboard she was smart. Even we Beachmasters were assigned bunks with crisp sheets and white blankets. But it was a big night and few were interested in sleep. Besides, it began to get light at 0300, and mess boys in clean white jackets served breakfasts like we wouldn't see again for a long time. I was not hungry.
Shortly after first light, the huge gray transports began overhauling convoys of slow-moving LCT's, LST's and extraordinary variety of naval craft. Ships everywhere, but not need to worry about collision for minute planning including "Mickey Mouse" diagrams showed hour-by-hour locations of all convoys.
Planes droned low overhead in the thick overcast, but all other sounds were smothered by the wind, a near-gale. Below, the ship was strangely quiet and business like.
As the great ships moved into the transport area twelve miles off shore, traffic increased frighteningly. "Mickey Mouse" became unsynchronized. LCT's, LCM's, LCI's cut in and out of the transports still under weight. To hell with the rules of the road, get to assigned areas. Battleships and Cruisers opened fire, anchor chains rattled and boat davits creaked with the steel decks clanking to soldier's boots.
Would it be anything like we had planned? Perhaps never before had man undertaken such a colossal project, civil or military: 5000 vessels, 6500 aircraft, a half-million men and more fire-power than ever before mustered were going to grab a foothold on the European continent.
A year's production of British and American munitions factories and shipyards plus a harbor larger than Dover were moving inexorably toward the mudflats on the Normandy beaches. The minutest detail was planned and documented, every vessel from landing-craft to transport had its individual orders, every minute was now precisely timed for every step, even the timing at which fresh bread and meat could be issued had been worked out months before.
In March 1943, a small staff detached from other commands was assigned to British Lt. Gen. Frederick Morgan, Chief of Staff, Supreme Allied Commander (General Eisenhower was not assigned until December), to work in earnest on the plans for an Allied return to the continent. It eventually grew to over 500 officers. The original U.S. Navy staff consisted of a captain, a commander, a Marine lieutenant colonel, and two lieutenants. As one of the lieutenants eminently qualified by eighteen months in a Cruiser on the North Russian run, I was designated Intelligence Officer (USN) and immediately began appraising beach gradients and tides, enemy troop strength and defenses. In a week, I was qualified "Bigot" and told that in May of the following year we would land three divisions in assault on beaches behind Bayeux.
Later, as Plans Officer (USN), I pressed neat rows of drawing pins representing every craft in the operation into a war room map, proudly illustrating split-second timing: LCVP's make 6 knots, LCM's - 8, DUKW's - 4, LCT's - 6, but yaw badly. LCI's move last, and the tanks by LST's too big for this assault will be called in later. The DD tanks (Sherman tanks in canvas bags with propellors) are slow and unseaworthy; may be launched at 6000 yards, but better at 1000. Their fire-power is absolutely essential to cover the first wave.
Allowances must be made, but timing precise. The underwater demolition teams will clear and buoy channels. Beachmasters will have their designated flags in place shortly after "H"-hour.
The tide will rise 23 feet in the morning and 22 feet in the afternoon on "D" Day. There will be 2500 feet between high and low-water marks which means the tide will come in at about one foot per minute.Force "I" comprising 34,000 men and 3300 vehicles will be landed on Omaha in the forenoon and Force "B" with 25,000 men and 4400 vehicles will begin landing in early afternoon. An additional force of 17,000 men and 2300 vehicles will be in the transport area waiting to come ashore.
We had planned carefully and well and were more than a match for the enemy, and even for the unpleasant surprise of a first-line division where we expected static troops. But no one can plan on the weather. The storm that churned the channel was unequalled in eighty years. The twenty-four hour postponement meant seasick men cramped in airless compartments for days.All major elements arrived off the beach on schedule, but the rough seas made the launching and loading of assault craft most difficult. The foul weather reduced visibility and the frightening number and variety of craft confused coxswains.
I could see very little from the well-deck of our LCV as it milled about for almost three hours, and I dozed as we approached the shore. This was not misplaced bravado or boredom, but a peculiar juxtaposition of fear abetted by seasickness. The terrifying shambles exposed when our ramp dropped could only mean we had failed. After more than a year of working plans, I thought that I knew better than any other person lying in the mud of Omaha beach what a real shambles it was.
From the boat we waded 50 yards to the muddy sand and flopped as a shell whined out to sea. I lay face down, wet, sick, shaking with cold and scared, very scared. Not only did I assume that we on the beach were done-for, I was terrified for my family and all behind. This probably meant the loss of the war.
As confusion had bred confusion, action began to inspire action. In spite of small-arms fire, men began moving mechanically to untangle the mess.
It was my job to help coordinate naval beachmaster activities with the Army's Special Engineer brigade. We were supposed to control traffic and organize the flow of men and supplies over the beach.
I could only find half of our beachmasters and everyone of them was out of position and had no idea of what was coming ashore. It didn't much matter because we had only one radio in working order.
The planners had feared the Germans would use gas on the beaches. All assault personnel were required to wear grotesque overalls impregnated with a foul-smelling compound and carry gasmasks. These must have all been of one size as my trousers and sleeves were twelve inches too long and a constant nuisance. Navy gasmasks were never meant to be carried while working. Eventually, I ditched both my mask and overalls. I really panicked when a gas alarm was sounded. Rushing into a bunker I stole a gasmask, feeling criminal. Only after the alert proved false did I discover that in my panic I had managed to recover my own mask.
The only other gear I carried ashore was a blanket and a small bottle of Port. I buried these in a half dug fox hole (Hours later, when I could have used both, I found someone else wrapped in my blanket and the empty bottle nearby). Gradually, I became more optimistic about our chances of survival, but still could see no chance for sucess. Many boats "grounded" on sandbars and discharged their passengers in deep water. Many GI's died without firing a shot. Very few vehicles were operable and on a rising tide were quickly submerged.The enemy were still dug-in just above the beach. Five hundred bombers were to have dropped thousands of tons of bombs on those defenses, but because of the weather the bombardment missed by as much as three miles. The tide began to fall and most of the grass fires burned out, exposing even more chaos. Wrecked jeeps, trucks, bull-dozers and artillery were exposed by the falling water. DD tanks, with their crews tragically drowned inside and with their tattered flotation gear looking like shrouds, rose from the deep.To add to other problems, the water receded so rapidly that most landing-craft dried out and remained land-locked traffic hazards until the new tide should free them.
The only way off the beach was through four deep gullies to which the Germans clung tenaciously. As it turned out, the exit which planners had considered least likely was the only one that functioned.
Eventually, GI's initiative and courage took the place of all the magnificent machines that had failed. By the middle of the afternoon they had climbed the hill and moved far enough inland to give us working space.
However, artillery observers were hidden in caves on the cliff-face and continued to zero-in 88 mm. and 155 mm. gunfire. Two LCI, high and dry on the beach, burned for hours. Stretcher-equipped landingcraft broached on the falling tide and their tortured cargo was transferred hopefully to the other boats. Seabees solved more than one problem that day. Their bulldozers re-floated stranded boats, shoved aside mined obstacles, pushed wrecked vehicles out of traffic lanes, and eventually pushed over the dune itself. The latter enterprise served well while the tide was out, but caused the flooding of an additional 300 feet of beach, including my foxhole when the tide again rose.Destroyers came right in-shore, and one by one eliminated remaining artillery positions.I have always been squeamish about anything dead and was shocked at my indifference to the many bodies lying amongst the collective junk at the high-water mark. I can only remember how very peaceful and lifelike they all appeared, and what a shame it was to waste such valuable young material.
By dark, things began to shape up and we were greatly encouraged by reports of success on Utah and the British beaches. For all the planning, inventive genius and direction that Operation Overload represented, the element upon which it survived and then succeeded was that of the resourcefulness and courage of the lowest-rank soldier and sailor. Admiral and Generals contributed very little to Omaha after "H"-hour, and the casualty rate among lower rank officers was severe. But the GI finally took over, ignored the rules and odds, and improvising as he went he cracked the greatest fortress man has ever built.
Mr. Russell was born in 1914 in Newark, New Jersey. Following a decorated military career during World War II, he became a publisher and journalist of the Harrisburg, Pennsylvania Patriot News. In October of 2001 he traveled to the Royal Naval College at Greenwich, England (where he had been inducted into the Royal Navy after 60 years before) - to be honored as one of the 21 Americans who had joined the Royal Navy to help Britain who stood alone against the Nazi threat. He was the only one of the group able to attend. Mr. Russell died on December 22, 2001 at the age of 87.
