THE LONGEST DAY: June 6, 1944
by
CORNELIUS RYAN


"A dramatic, moving masterpiece, a living memorial to the men who died
and as suspenseful as the most gripping mystery story" --J.h. Thompson,
Chicago Sunday Tribune

History

"Fifty years from now, the history of D-Day, I am sure, will lean
heavily on this book." --John Toland, The New York Times Book Review

"If you have read all the accounts of D-Day or none of them, if you
were in the fighting or on the sidelines, you will be spellbound, as I
was, by this magnificent retelling of a glorious and tragic story."
--Lt. Gen. James Gavin

Copyright 1959 by Cornelius Ryan Copyright renewed 1987 by Kathryn
Morgan Ryan, Victoria Ryan Bida and Geoffrey J. M. Ryan

All rights reserved.

Now deceased, Cornelius Ryan was among the preeminent war
correspondents of his time, flying fourteen bombing missions with the
Eighth and Ninth U.s. air forces, and covering the D-Day landings and
the advance of General Patton's Third Army across France and Germany.
In addition to The Longest Day, he was the author of numerous books,
major magazine pieces, and a variety of plays, screenplays, and TV and
radio scripts. Ryan was born and educated in Dublin, Ireland.

For all the men of D Day

CONTENTS

Part Page

Foreword: D Day, Tuesday, June 6, 1944 ................... 9

ONE THE WAIT .................. 11

TWO THE NIGHT ................ 103

THREE THE DAY ................. 175

A Note on Casualties ....... 279

D-Day Veterans: What They Do Today ....................... 281

Acknowledgments ................... 325

Bibliography ................. 330

Index ......................... 337

THE LONGEST DAY

Foreword: D Day, Tuesday, June 6, 1944

Operation Overlord, the Allied invasion of Europe, began at precisely
fifteen minutes after midnight on June 6, 1944-- in the first hour of a
day that would be forever known as D Day. At that moment a few
specially chosen men of the American 101/ and 82nd airborne divisions
stepped out of their planes into the moonlit night over Normandy. Five
minutes later and fifty miles away a small group of men from the
British 6th Airborne Division plunged out of their planes. These were
the pathfinders, the men who were to light the dropping zones for the
paratroopers and glider-borne infantry that were soon to follow.

The Allied airborne armies clearly marked the extreme limits of the
Normandy battlefield. Between them and along the French coastline lay
five invasion beaches: Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno and Sword. Through the
predawn hours as paratroopers fought in the dark hedgerows of Normandy,
the greatest armada the world had ever known began to assemble off
those beaches--almost five thousand ships carrying more than two
hundred thousand soldiers, sailors and coastguardmen. Beginning at
6:30 A.m. and preceded by a massive naval and air bombardment, a few
thousand of these men waded ashore in the first wave of the invasion.

What follows is not a military history. It is the story of people: the
men of the Allied forces, the enemy they fought and the civilians who
were caught up in the bloody confusion of D Day--the day the battle
began that ended Hitler's insane gamble to dominate the world.

PART ONE 10-13 THE WAIT

The village was silent in the damp June morning. Its name was La
Roche-Guyon and it had sat undisturbed for nearly twelve centuries in a
great lazy loop of the Seine roughly midway between Paris and Normandy.
For years it had been just a place that people passed through on their
way to somewhere else. Its only distinction was its castle, the seat
of the Dukes de La Rochefoucauld. It was this castle jutting out from
the backdrop of hills behind the village that had brought an end to the
peace of La Roche-Guyon.

On this gray morning the castle loomed up over everything, its massive
stones glistening with dampness. It was almost 6:00 A.m., but nothing
stirred in the two great cobbled courtyards. Outside the gates the
main road stretched broad and empty, and in the village the windows of
the red-roofed houses were still shuttered. La Roche-Guyon was very
quiet--so quiet that it appeared to be deserted. But the silence was
deceptive. Behind the shuttered windows people waited for a bell to
ring.

At 6:00 A.m. the bell in the fifteenth-century Church of St. Samson
next to the castle would sound the Angelus. In more peaceful days it
had had a simple meaning--in La Roche-Guyon the villagers would cross
themselves and pause for a moment of prayer. But now the Angelus meant
much more than a moment of meditation. This morning when the bell rang
it would mark the end of the night's curfew and the beginning of the
1,451/ day of German occupation.

Everywhere in La Roche-Guyon there were sentries. Huddled in their
camouflage capes, they stood inside both gates of the castle, at road
blocks at each end of the village, in pillboxes built flush into the
chalk outcroppings of the foothills and in the crumbling ruins of an
old tower on the highest hill above the castle. From up there machine
gunners could see everything that moved in this, the most occupied
village in all of occupied France.

Behind its pastoral front La Roche-Guyon was really a prison; for every
one of the 543 villagers, in and around the area there were more than
three German soldiers. One of these soldiers was Field Marshal Erwin
Rommel, commander in chief of Army Group B, the most powerful force in
the German west. His headquarters was in the castle of La
Roche-Guyon.

From here in this crucial fifth year of World War II, a tense,
determined Rommel prepared to fight the most desperate battle of his
career. Under his command more than a half a million men manned
defenses along a tremendous length of coastline--stretching almost
eight hundred miles, from the dikes of Holland to the Atlantic-washed
shores of the Brittany peninsula. His main strength, the Fifteenth
Army, was concentrated about the Pas-de-Calais, at the narrowest point
of the Channel between France and England.

Night after night, Allied bombers hit this area. Bomb-weary veterans
of the Fifteenth Army bitterly joked that the place for a rest cure was
in the zone of the Seventh Army in Normandy. Hardly a bomb had fallen
there.

For months, behind a fantastic jungle of beach obstacles and mine
fields, Rommel's troops had waited in their concrete coastal
fortifications. But the blue-gray English Channel had remained empty
of ships. Nothing had happened. From La Roche-Guyon, on this gloomy
and peaceful Sunday morning, there was still no sign of the Allied
invasion. It was June 4, 1944.

In the ground-floor room he used as an office, Rommel was alone. He
sat behind a massive Renaissance desk, working by the light of a single
desk lamp. The room was large and high-ceilinged. Along one wall
stretched a faded Gobelin tapestry. On another the haughty face of
Duke Franecois de La Rochefoucauld--a seventeenth-century writer of
maxims and an ancestor of the present Duke --looked down out of a heavy
gold frame. There were a few chairs casually placed on the highly
polished parquet floor and thick draperies at the windows, but little
else.

In particular, there was nothing of Rommel in this room but himself.
There were no photographs of his wife, Lucie-Maria, or his
fifteen-year-old son, Manfred. There were no mementos of his great
victories in the North African deserts in the early days of the
war--not even the garish field marshal's baton which Hitler had so
exuberantly bestowed upon him in 1942. (only once had Rommel carried
the eighteen-inch, three-pound gold baton with its red velvet covering
studded with gold eagles and black swastika: that was the day he got
it.) There wasn't even a map showing the dispositions of his troops.
The legendary "Desert Fox" remained as elusive and shadowy as ever; he
could have walked out of that room without leaving a trace.

Although the fifty-one-year-old Rommel looked older than his years, he
remained as tireless as ever. Nobody at Army Group B could remember a
single night when he had slept longer than five hours. This morning,
as usual, he had been up since before four. Now he too waited
impatiently for six o'clock. At that time he would breakfast with his
staff--and then depart for Germany.

This would be Rommel's first leave at home in months. He would go by
car; Hitler had made it almost impossible for senior officers to fly by
insisting that they use "three-engined aircraft ... and always with a
fighter escort." Rommel disliked flying anyway; he would make the
eight-hour journey home, to Herrlingen, Ulm, in his big black
convertible Horch.

He was looking forward to the trip, but the decision to go had not been
an easy one to make. On Rommel's shoulders lay the enormous
responsibility of repulsing the Allied assault the moment it began.
Hitler's Third Reich was reeling from one disaster after another; day
and night thousands of Allied bombers pounded Germany, Russia's massive
forces had driven into Poland, Allied troops were at the gates of
Rome--everywhere the great armies of the Wehrmacht were being driven
back and destroyed. Germany was still far from beaten, but the Allied
invasion would be the decisive battle. Nothing less than the future of
Germany was at stake, and no one knew it better than Rommel.

Yet this morning Rommel was going home. For months he had hoped to
spend a few days in Germany the first part of June. There were many
reasons why he now believed he could leave, and although he would never
have admitted it, he desperately needed rest. Just a few days earlier
he had telephoned his superior, the aged Field Marshal Gerd Von
Rundstedt, Commander in Chief West, requesting permission to make the
trip; the request had been immediately granted. Next he had made a
courtesy call to Von Rundstedt's headquarters at St.-Germain-en-Laye
outside of Paris, to take his leave formally. Both Von Rundstedt and
his chief of staff, Major General Geunther Blumentritt, had been
shocked by Rommel's haggard appearance. Blumentritt would always
remember that Rommel looked "tired and tense ... a man who needed to be
home for a few days with his family."

Rommel was tense and edgy. From the very day he arrived in France
toward the end of 1943, the problems of where and how to meet the
Allied attack had imposed on him an almost intolerable burden. Like
everybody else along the invasion front, he had been living through a
nightmare of suspense. Hanging over him always was the need to
outthink the Allies as to their probable intentions-- how they would
launch the attack, where they would attempt to land and, above all,
when.

Only one person really knew the strain that Rommel was under. To his
wife, Lucie-Maria, he confided everything. In less than four months he
had written her more than forty letters and in almost every other
letter he had made a new prediction about the Allied assault.

On March 30 he wrote: "Now that March is nearing its end and without
the Anglo-Americans having started their attack ... I'm beginning to
believe they have lost confidence in their cause."

On April 6: "Here the tension is growing from day to day ... It will
probably be only weeks that separate us from the decisive events ..."

On April 26: "In England morale is bad ... there is one strike after
another and the cries of "Down with Churchill and the Jews" and for
peace are getting louder ... these are bad omens for such a risky
offensive."

On April 27: "It appears now that the British and Americans are not
going to be so accommodating as to come in the immediate future."

On May 6: "Still no signs of the British and Americans ... Every day,
every week ... we get stronger. ... I am looking forward to the battle
with confidence ... perhaps it will come on May 15, perhaps at the end
of the month."

On May 15: "I can't take many more big [inspection] trips ... because
one never knows when the invasion will

begin. I believe only a few more weeks remain until things begin here
in the west."

On May 19: "I hope I can get ahead with my plans faster than before ...
[but] I am wondering if I can spare a few days in June to get away from
here. Right now there isn't a chance."

But there was chance after all. One of the reasons for Rommel's
decision to leave at this time was his own estimate of the Allies'
intentions. Before him now on the desk was Army Group B's weekly
report. This meticulously compiled evaluation was due to be sent by
noon of the following day to Field Marshal von Rundstedt's
headquarters, or, as it was generally known in military jargon, OB West
(oberbefehlshaber West). From there, after further embroidery, it
would become part of the over-all theater report and then it would be
forwarded to Hitler's headquarters, OKW (oberkommando der Wehrmacht).
[Armed Forces High Command.]

Rommel's estimate read in part that the Allies had reached a "high
degree of readiness" and that there was an "increased volume of
messages going to the French resistance." But, it went on, "according
to past experience this is not indicative that an invasion is imminent
..."

This time Rommel had guessed wrong.

In the office of the chief of staff, down the corridor from the field
marshall's study, Captain Hellmuth Lang, Rom-

mel's thirty-six-year-old aide, picked up the morning report. It was
always his first chore for the commander in chief. Rommel liked to get
the report early so that he could discuss it with his staff at
breakfast. But there was nothing much in it this morning; the invasion
front remained quiet except for the continuing nightly bombing of the
Pas-de-Calais. There seemed no doubt about it: Besides all the other
indications, this marathon bombing pointed to the Pas-de-Calais as the
place the Allies had chosen for their attack. If they were going to
invade at all it would be there. Nearly everybody seemed to think
so.

Lang looked at his watch; it was a few minutes of 6:00 A.m. They would
leave at seven sharp and they should make good time. There was no
escort, just two cars, Rommel's and one belonging to Colonel Hans
George Von Tempelhof, Army Group B's operations officer, who was going
along with them. As usual, the various military commanders in the
areas through which they would pass had not been informed of the field
marshal's plans. Rommel liked it that way; he hated to be delayed by
the fuss and protocol of heel-clicking commanders and motorcycle
escorts awaiting him at the entrance to each city. So with a bit of
luck they should reach Ulm about three.

There was the usual problem: what to take along for the field marshal's
lunch. Rommel did not smoke, rarely drank and cared so little for food
that he sometimes forgot to eat. Often, when going over the
arrangements for a long journey with Lang, Rommel would run a pencil
through the proposed luncheon and write in big black letters "Simple
field kitchen meal." Sometimes he would confuse Lang even more by
saying, "Of course, if you want to throw in a chop or two that won't
bother me." The attentive Lang never quite knew what to order from the
kitchen. This morning, besides a vacuum jug of consomm`e, he had
ordered an assortment of sandwiches. His guess was that Rommel, as
usual, would forget about lunch anyway.

Lang left the office and walked down the oak-paneled corridor. From
the rooms on either side of him came the hum of conversation and the
clacking of typewriters; Army Group B headquarters was an extremely
busy place now. Lang had often wondered how the Duke and the Duchess,
who occupied the floors above, could possibly sleep through all the
noise.

At the end of the corridor Lang stopped before a massive door. He
knocked gently, turned the handle and walked in. Rommel did not look
up. He was so engrossed in the papers before him that he seemed quite
unaware that his aide had entered the room, but Lang knew better than
to interrupt. He stood waiting.

Rommel glanced up from his desk. "Good morning, Lang," he said.

"Good morning, Field Marshal. The report." Lang handed it over. Then
he left the room and waited outside the door to escort Rommel down to
breakfast. The field marshal seemed extremely busy this morning.
Lang, who knew how impulsive and changeable Rommel could be, wondered
if they were really leaving after all.

Rommel had no intention of canceling the trip. Although no definite
appointment had yet been made, he hoped to see Hitler. All field
marshals had access to the Feuhrer, and Rommel had telephoned his old
friend, Major General Rudolf Schmundt, Hitler's adjutant, requesting an
appointment. Schmundt thought the meeting could be arranged sometime
between the sixth and the ninth. It was typical of Rommel that nobody
outside of his own staff knew that he intended to see Hitler. In the
official diaries at Rundstedt's headquarters, it was simply noted that
Rommel was spending a few days' leave at home.

Rommel was quite confident that he could leave his headquarters at this
time. Now that May had passed --and it had been a month of perfect
weather for the Allied at-

tack--he had reached the conclusion that the invasion would not come
for several more weeks. He was so confident of this that he had even
set a deadline for the completion of all anti-invasion obstacle
programs. On his desk was an order to the Seventh and Fifteenth
armies. "Every possible effort," it read, "must be made to complete
obstacles so as to make a low-tide landing possible only at extreme
cost to the enemy ... work must be pushed forward ... completion is to
be reported to my headquarters by June 20."

He now reasoned--as did Hitler and the German High Command--that the
invasion would take place either simultaneously with the Red Army's
summer offensive, or shortly after. The Russian attack, they knew,
could not begin until the late thaw in Poland, and therefore they did
not think the offensive could be mounted until the latter part of
June.

In the west the weather had been bad for several days, and it promised
to be even worse. The 5:00 A.m. report, prepared by Colonel Professor
Walter Steobe, the Luftwaffe's chief meteorologist in Paris, predicted
increasing cloudiness, high winds and rain. Even now a twenty- to
thirty-mile-an-hour wind was blowing in the Channel. To Rommel, it
seemed hardly likely that the Allies would dare launch their attack
during the next few days.

Even at La Roche-Guyon, during the night, the weather had changed.
Almost opposite Rommel's desk two tall French windows opened out onto a
terraced rose garden. It was not much of a rose garden this
morning--rose petals, broken branches and twigs were strewn all over.
Shortly before dawn a brief summer storm had come out of the English
Channel, swept along part of the French coast and then passed on.

Rommel opened the door of his office and stepped out. "Good morning,
Lang," he said, as though he had not seen

his aide until that moment. "Are we ready to go?" Together they went
down to breakfast.

Outside in the village of La Roche-Guyon the bell in the Church of St.
Samson sounded the Angelus. Each note fought for its existence against
the wind. It was 6:00 A.m.

Between Rommel and Lang an easy, informal relationship existed. They
had been constantly together for months. Lang had joined Rommel in
February and hardly a day had passed since without a long inspection
trip somewhere. Usually they were on the road by 4:30 A.m., driving at
top speed to some distant part of Rommel's command. One day it would
be Holland, another day Belgium, the next day Normandy or Brittany.
The determined field marshal had taken advantage of every moment. "I
have only one real enemy now," he had told Lang, "and that is time."
To conquer time Rommel spared neither himself nor his men; it had been
that way from the moment he had been sent to France in November 1943.

That fall Von Rundstedt, responsible for the defense of all Western
Europe, had asked Hitler for reinforcements. Instead, he got the
hardheaded, daring and ambitious Rommel. To the humiliation of the
aristocratic sixty-eight-year-old Commander in Chief West, Rommel
arrived with a Gummiberfehl, an "elastic directive," ordering him to
inspect the coastal fortifications-- Hitler's much-publicized "Atlantic
Wall"--and then to report directly back to the

Feuhrer's headquarters, OKW. The embarrassed and disappointed Von
Rundstedt was so upset by the arrival of the younger Rommel--he
referred to him as the "Marschall Bubi" (roughly, the "Marshal
Laddie")--that he asked Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel, Chief of OKW, if
Rommel was being considered as his successor. He was told "not to draw
any false conclusions," that with all "Rommel's capabilities he is not
up to that job."

Shortly after his arrival, Rommel had made a whirlwind inspection of
the Atlantic Wall-- and what he saw appalled him. In only a few places
were the massive concrete and steel fortifications along the coast
completed: at the principal ports and river mouths and overlooking the
straits, roughly from above Le Havre to Holland. Elsewhere the
defenses were in various stages of completion. In some places work had
not even begun. True, the Atlantic Wall was a formidable barrier even
in its present state. Where it was finished, it fairly bristled with
heavy guns. But there were not enough of them to suit Rommel. There
was not enough of anything to stop the sort of onslaught that
Rommel--always remembering his crushing defeat at the hands of
Montgomery in North Africa the year before--knew must surely come. To
his critical eye the Atlantic Wall was a farce. Using one of the most
descriptive words in any language, he had denounced it as a "figment of
Hitler's Wolkenkuckucksheim [cloud cuckoo land]."

Just two years before, the wall had hardly existed at all.

Up to 1942, victory had seemed so certain to the Feuhrer and his
strutting Nazis that there was no need for coastal fortifications. The
swastika flew everywhere. Austria and Czechoslovakia had been picked
off before the war even started. Poland had been carved up between
Germany and Russia as long ago as 1939. The war was not even a year
old when the countries of Western Europe began falling like so many
rotten apples. Denmark fell in a day. Norway,

infiltrated from within, took a little longer: six weeks. Then that
May and June, in just twenty-seven days and without overture of any
sort, Hitler's blitzkrieging troops had plunged into Holland, Belgium,
Luxembourg and France and, as an incredulous world watched, had driven
the British into the sea at Dunkirk. After the collapse of France all
that remained was England--standing alone. What need had Hitler for a
"wall"?

But Hitler didn't invade England. His generals wanted him to, but
Hitler waited, thinking the British would sue for peace. As time
passed the situation rapidly changed. With U.s. aid, Britain began
staging a slow but sure recovery. Hitler, by now deeply involved in
Russia--he attacked the Soviet Union in June 1941-- saw that the coast
of France was no longer an offensive springboard. It was now a soft
spot in his defenses. By the fall of 1941 he began talking to his
generals about making Europe an "impregnable fortress." And in
December, after the U.s. had entered the war, the Feuhrer ranted to the
world that "a belt of strong points and gigantic fortifications runs
from Kirkenes [on the Norwegian-Finnish frontier] ... to the Pyrenees
[on the Franco-Spanish border] ... and it is my unshakable decision to
make this front impregnable against every enemy."

It was a wild, impossible boast. Discounting the indentations, this
coastline running from the Arctic Ocean in the north to the Bay of
Biscay in the south stretched almost three thousand miles.

Even directly across from Britain at the narrowest part of the Channel,
the fortifications didn't exist. But Hitler had become obsessed with
the fortress concept. Colonel General Franz Halder, then Chief of the
German General Staff, well remembers the first time Hitler outlined his
fantastic scheme. Halder, who would never forgive Hitler for refusing
to invade England, was cool to the whole idea.

He ventured the opinion that fortifications "if they were needed"
should be constructed "behind the coastline out of range of naval
guns," otherwise troops might be pinned down. Hitler dashed across the
room to a table on which there was a large map and for a full five
minutes threw an unforgettable tantrum. Pounding the map with his
clenched fist he screamed, "Bombs and shells will fall here ... here
... here ... and here ... in front of the wall, behind it and on it ...
but the troops will be safe in the wall! Then they'll come out and
fight!"

Halder said nothing, but he knew, as did the other generals in the High
Command, that despite all the Reich's intoxicating victories the
Feuhrer already feared a second front--an invasion.

Still, little work was done on the fortifications. In 1942, as the
tide of war began to swing against Hitler, British commandos began
raiding the "impregnable" fortress of Europe. Then came the bloodiest
commando raid of the war, when more than five thousand heroic Canadians
landed at Dieppe. It was a bloody curtain-raiser to the invasion.
Allied planners learned just how strongly the Germans had fortified the
ports. The Canadians had 3,369 casualties, of which nine hundred were
dead. The raid was disastrous, but it shocked Hitler. The Atlantic
Wall, he thundered at his generals, must be completed at top speed.
Construction was to be rushed "fanatically."

It was. Thousands of slave laborers worked night and day to build the
fortifications. Millions of tons of concrete were poured; so much was
used that all over Hitler's Europe it became impossible to get concrete
for anything else. Staggering quantities of steel were ordered, but
this commodity was in such short supply that the engineers were forced
to do without it. As a result few of the bunkers or blockhouses had
swiveling cupolas, which required steel for the turrets, and the arc of
fire from the guns was

thereby restricted. So great was the demand for materials and
equipment that parts of the old French Maginot Line and Germany's
frontier fortifications (the Siegfried Line) were cannibalized for the
Atlantic Wall. By the end of 1943, although the wall was far from
finished, over half a million men were working on it and the
fortifications had become a menacing reality.

Hitler knew that invasion was inevitable, and now he was faced with
another great problem: finding the divisions to man his growing
defenses. In Russia division after division was being chewed up as the
Wehrmacht tried to hold a two-thousand mile front against relentless
Soviet attacks. In Italy, knocked out of the war after the invasion of
Sicily, thousands of troops were still pinned down. So, by 1944,
Hitler was forced to bolster his garrisons in the west with a strange
conglomeration of replacements--old men and young boys, the remnants of
divisions shattered on the Russian front, impressed "volunteers" from
occupied countries (there were units of Poles, Hungarians, Czechs,
Romanians and Yugoslavs, to mention just a few) and even two Russian
divisions composed of men who preferred fighting for the Nazis to
remaining in prison camps. Questionable as these troops might prove to
be in combat, they filled out the gaps. He still had a hard core of
battle-hardened troops and panzers. By D Day, Hitler's strength in the
west would total a formidable sixty divisions.

Not all these divisions would be up to full strength, but Hitler was
still relying on his Atlantic Wall; that would make the difference.
Yet men like Rommel who had been fighting--and losing--on other fronts
were shocked when they saw the fortifications. Rommel had not been in
France since 1941. And he, like many other German generals, believing
in Hitler's propaganda, had thought that the defenses were almost
completed.

His scathing denunciation of the "wall" came as no sur-

prise to Von Rundstedt at OB West. He heartily concurred; indeed, it
was probably the only time that he completely agreed with Rommel on
anything. The wise old Von Rundstedt had never believed in fixed
defenses. He had masterminded the successful outflanking of the
Maginot Line in 1940 that had led to the collapse of France. To him
Hitler's Atlantic Wall was nothing more than an "enormous bluff ...
more for the German people than for the enemy ... and the enemy,
through his agents, knows more about it than we do." It would
"temporarily obstruct" the Allied attack, but it would not stop it.
Nothing, Von Rundstedt was convinced, could prevent the initial
landings from being successful. His plan to defeat the invasion was to
hold the great mass of his troops back from the coast and to attack
after the Allied troops had landed. That would be the moment to
strike, he believed --when the enemy was still weak, without adequate
supply lines and struggling to organize in isolated bridgeheads.

With this theory Rommel disagreed completely. He was positive that
there was only one way to smash the attack: meet it head on. There
would be no time to bring up reinforcements from the rear; he was
certain that they would be destroyed by incessant air attacks or the
massive weight of naval or artillery bombardment. Everything, in his
view, from troops to panzer divisions, had to be held ready at the
coast or just behind it. His aide well remembered a day when Rommel
had summed up his strategy. They had stood on a deserted beach, and
Rommel, a short, stocky figure in a heavy greatcoat with an old muffler
around his throat, had stalked up and down waving his "informal"
marshal's baton, a two-foot-long silver-topped black stick with a red,
black and white tassel. He had pointed to the sands with his baton and
said, "The war will be won or lost on the beaches. We'll have only one
chance to stop the enemy and that's while he's in the water ...

struggling to get ashore. Reserves will never get up to the point of
attack and it's foolish even to consider them. The Hauptkampflinie
[main line of resistance] will be here ... everything we have must be
on the coast. Believe me, Lang, the first twenty-four hours of the
invasion will be decisive ... for the Allies, as well as Germany, it
will be the longest day."

Hitler had approved Rommel's plan in general, and from then on Von
Rundstedt had become merely a figurehead. Rommel executed Von
Rundstedt's orders only if they agreed with his own ideas. To get his
way he would frequently use a single but powerful argument. "The
Feuhrer," Rommel would remark, "gave quite explicit orders to me." He
never said this directly to the dignified Von Rundstedt, but rather to
OB West's chief of staff, Major General Blumentritt.

With Hitler's backing and Von Rundstedt's reluctant acceptance ("That
Bohemian corporal, Hitler," snapped the Commander in Chief West,
"usually decides against himself.") the determined Rommel had set out
to overhaul completely the existing anti-invasion plans.

In a few short months Rommel's ruthless drive had changed the whole
picture. On every beach where he considered a landing possible he had
ordered his soldiers, working with local conscripted labor battalions,
to erect barriers of crude anti-invasion obstacles. These
obstacles--jagged triangles of steel, saw-toothed gatelike structures
of iron, metal-tipped wooden stakes and concrete cones --were planted
just below high- and low-tide water marks. Strapped to them were
deadly mines. Where there were not enough mines, shells had been used,
their noses pointing ominously out to sea. A touch would cause them to
explode instantly.

Rommel's strange inventions (he had designed most of them himself) were
both simple and deadly. Their object

was to impale and destroy troop-filled landing craft or to obstruct
them long enough for shore batteries to zero in. Either way, he
reasoned, the enemy soldiers would be decimated long before they
reached the beaches. More than half a million of these lethal
underwater obstacles now stretched along the coastline.

Still, Rommel, the perfectionist, was not satisfied. In the sands, in
bluffs, in gullies and pathways leading off the beaches, he ordered
mines laid--all varieties, from the large pancake type, capable of
blowing off a tank's tracks, to the small S mine which when stepped on
bounded into the air and exploded level with a man's midriff. Over
five million of these mines now infested the coast. Before the attack
came, Rommel hoped to have another six million planted. Eventually he
hoped to girdle the invasion coast with sixty million mines. * *
Rommel was fascinated by mines as a defensive weapon. On one
inspection trip with the field marshal, Major General Alfred Gause
(rommel's chief of staff before Major General Dr. Hans Speidel)
pointed to several acres of wild spring flowers and said, "Isn't that a
wonderful sight?" Rommel nodded and said, "You might make a note,
Gause-- that area will take about one thousand mines." And on yet
another occasion when they were en route to Paris, Gause suggested that
they visit the famous porcelain china works at Seevres. Gause was
surprised when Rommel agreed. But Rommel was not interested in the
works of art he was shown. He walked quickly through the display rooms
and, turning to Gause, said, "Find out if they can make waterproof
casings for my sea mines."

Overlooking the coastline, back of this jungle of mines and obstacles,
Rommel's troops waited in pillboxes, concrete bunkers and communication
trenches, all surrounded by layers of barbed wire. From these
positions every piece of artillery that the field marshal had been able
to lay hands on looked down on sands and sea, already sighted in to
give overlapping fields of fire. Some guns were actually in positions
on the seashore itself. These were hidden in concrete emplacements
beneath innocent-looking seaside homes, their barrels aimed not toward
the sea

but directly down the beaches, so as to fire at point-blank range along
the waves of assaulting troops.

Rommel took advantage of every new technique or development. Where he
was short of guns, he positioned batteries of rocket launchers or
multiple mortar throwers. At one place he even had miniature robot
tanks called "Goliaths." These devices, capable of carrying more than
half a ton of explosives, could be guided by remote control from the
fortifications down onto the beaches and detonated among troops or
landing craft.

About all that was missing from Rommel's medieval arsenal of weapons
were crucibles of molten lead to pour down on the attackers--and in a
way he had the modern equivalent: automatic flame throwers. At some
places along the front, webs of piping ran out from concealed kerosene
tanks to the grassy approaches leading off the beaches. At the press
of a button, advancing troops would be instantly swallowed by flame.

Nor had Rommel forgotten the threat of parachutists or glider-borne
infantry. Behind the fortifications low-lying areas had been flooded,
and into every open field within seven or eight miles of the coast
heavy stakes had been driven and booby-trapped. Trip wires were strung
between these posts. When touched, they would immediately set off
mines or shells.

Rommel had organized a bloody welcome for the Allied troops. Never in
the history of modern warfare had a more powerful or deadly array of
defenses been prepared for an invading force. Yet Rommel was not
content. He wanted more pillboxes, more beach obstacles, more mines,
more guns and troops. Most of all he wanted the massive panzer
divisions which were lying in reserve far from the coast. He had won
memorable battles with panzers in the North African deserts. Now, at
this crucial moment, neither he nor Rundstedt could move these armored
formations with-

out Hitler's consent. The Feuhrer insisted on holding them under his
personal authority. Rommel needed at least five panzer divisions at
the coast, ready to counterattack within the first few hours of the
Allied assault. There was only one way to get them--he would see
Hitler. Rommel had often told Lang, "The last man who sees Hitler wins
the game." On this leaden morning in La Roche-Guyon, as he prepared to
leave for Germany and the long drive home, Rommel was more determined
than ever to win the game.

At Fifteenth Army headquarters near the Belgian border, 125 miles away,
one man was glad to see the morning of June 4 arrive. Lieutenant
Colonel Hellmuth Meyer sat in his office, haggard and bleary-eyed. He
had not really had a good night's sleep since June 1. But the night
that had just passed had been the worst yet; he would never forget
it.

Meyer had a frustrating, nerve-racking job. Besides being the
Fifteenth Army's intelligence officer, he also headed up the only
counterintelligence team on the invasion front. The heart of his setup
was a thirty-man radio interception crew who worked in shifts around
the clock in a concrete bunker crammed full of the most delicate radio
equipment. Their job was to listen, nothing more. But each man was an
expert who spoke three languages fluently, and there was hardly a word,
hardly a single stut-

ter of Morse code whispering through the ether from Allied sources that
they did not hear.

Meyer's men were so experienced and their equipment was so sensitive
that they were even able to pick up calls from radio transmitters in
military-police jeeps in England more than a hundred miles away. This
had been a great help to Meyer. American and British MP'S, chatting
with one another by radio as they directed troops convoys, had helped
him no end in compiling a list of the various divisions stationed in
England. But for some time now Meyer's operators had been unable to
pick up any more of these calls. This was also significant to Meyer;
it meant that a strict radio silence had been imposed. It was just one
more clue to add to the many he already had that the invasion was close
at hand.

With all the other intelligence reports available to him, items like
this helped Meyer develop a picture of Allied planning. And he was
good at his job. Several times a day he sifted through sheaves of
monitored reports, always searching for the suspicious, the
unusual--and even the unbelievable.

During the night his men had picked up the unbelievable. The message,
a high-speed press cable, had been monitored just after dark. It read:
"URGENT PRESS ASSOCIATED NYK FLASH EISENHOWER'S HQ ANNOUNCES ALLIED
LANDINGS IN FRANCE."

Meyer was dumbfounded. His first impulse was to alert the headquarters
staff. But he had paused and calmed down, because Meyer knew the
message had to be wrong.

There were two reasons why. First, there was the complete absence of
any activity along the invasion front--he would have known immediately
if there had been an attack. Second, in January, Admiral Wilhelm
Canaris, then chief of German intelligence, had given Meyer the details
of a fantastic two-part signal which he said the Allies would use to
alert the underground prior to the invasion.

Canaris had warned that the Allies would broadcast hundreds of messages
to the underground in the months preceding the attack. Only a few of
these would actually relate to D Day; the remainder would be fake,
deliberately designed to mislead and confuse. Canaris had been
explicit: Meyer was to monitor all these messages in order not to miss
the all-important one.

At first Meyer had been skeptical. It had seemed madness to him to
depend entirely on only one message. Besides, he knew from past
experience that Berlin's sources of information were inaccurate ninety
percent of the time. He had a whole file of false reports to prove his
point; the Allies seemed to have fed every German agent from Stockholm
to Ankara with the "exact" place and date of the invasion--and no two
of the reports agreed.

But this time Meyer knew Berlin was right. On the night of June 1,
Meyer's men, after months of monitoring, had intercepted the first part
of the Allied message--exactly as described by Canaris. It was not
unlike the hundreds of other coded sentences that Meyer's men had
picked up during the previous months. Daily, after the regular BBC
news broadcasts, coded instructions in French, Dutch, Danish and
Norwegian were read out to the underground. Most of the messages were
meaningless to Meyer, and it was exasperating not to be able to decode
such cryptic fragments as "The Trojan War will not be held," "Molasses
tomorrow will spurt forth cognac," "John has a long mustache" or
"Sabine has just had mumps and jaundice." But the message that
followed the 9:00 P.m. BBC news on the night of June 1 was one that
Meyer understood only too well.

"Kindly listen now to a few personal messages," said the voice in
French. Instantly Sergeant Walter Reichling switched on a wire
recorder. There was a pause, and then: "Les sanglots longs des violons
de l'automne [The long sobs of the violins of autumn]."

Reichling suddenly clapped his hands over his earphones. Then he tore
them off and rushed out of the bunker for Meyer's quarters. The
sergeant burst into Meyer's office and excitedly said, "Sir, the first
part of the message--it's here."

Together they returned to the radio bunker, where Meyer listened to the
recording. There it was--the message that Canaris had warned them to
expect. It was the first line of "Chanson d'Automne [Song of Autumn]"
by the nineteenth-century French poet Paul Verlaine. According to
Canaris's information, this line from Verlaine was to be transmitted on
the "first or fifteenth of a month ... and will represent the first
half of a message announcing the Anglo-American invasion."

The last half of the message would be the second line of the Verlaine
poem, "Blessent mon coeur d'une langueur monotone [Wound my heart with
a monotonous languor]." When this was broadcast it would mean,
according to Canaris, that "the invasion will begin within forty-eight
hours ... the count starting at 0000 hours of the day following the
transmission."

Immediately on hearing the recording of the first line from Verlaine,
Meyer informed the Fifteenth Army's chief of staff, Major General
Rudolf Hofmann. "The first message has come," he told Hofmann. "Now
something is going to happen."

"Are you absolutely sure?" Hofmann asked.

"We recorded it," Meyer replied.

Hofmann immediately gave the alarm to alert the whole of the Fifteenth
Army.

Meyer meanwhile sent the message by teletype to OKW. Next he
telephoned Rundstedt's headquarters (Ob West) and Rommel's headquarters
(army Group B).

At OKW the message was delivered to Colonel General Alfred Jodl, Chief
of Operations. The message remained

on Jodl's desk. He did not order an alert. He assumed Rundstedt had
done so; but Rundstedt thought Rommel's headquarters had issued the
order. * * Rommel must have known about the message; but from his own
estimate of Allied intentions it is obvious that he must have
discounted it.

Along the invasion coast only one army was placed on readiness: the
Fifteenth. The Seventh Army, holding the coast of Normandy, heard
nothing about the message and was not alerted.

On the nights of the second and third of June the first part of the
message was again broadcast. This worried Meyer; according to his
information it should have been broadcast only once. He could only
assume that the Allies were repeating the alert in order to make sure
it was received by the underground.

Within the hour after the message was repeated on the night of June 3,
the AP flash regarding the Allied landings in France had been picked
up. If the Canaris warning was right, the AP report must be wrong.
After his first moment of panic, Meyer had bet on Canaris. Now he was
weary, but elated. The coming of the dawn and the continued
peacefulness along the front had more than proved him right.

Now there was nothing to do but wait for the last half of the vital
alert, which might come at any moment. Its awesome significance
overwhelmed Meyer. The defeat of the Allied invasion, the lives of
hundreds of thousands of his countrymen, the very existence of his
country would depend on the speed with which he and his men monitored
the broadcast and alerted the front. Meyer and his men would be ready
as never before. He could only hope that his superiors also realized
the importance of the message.

As Meyer settled down to wait, 125 miles away the com-

mander of Army Group B was preparing to leave for Germany.

Field Marshal Rommel carefully spread a little honey on a slice of
buttered bread. At the breakfast table sat his brilliant chief of
staff, Major General Dr. Hans Speidel, and several members of his
staff. There was no formality. The table talk was easy and
uninhibited; it was almost like a family gathering with the father
sitting at the head of the table. In a way it was a kind of close-knit
family. Each of the officers had been handpicked by Rommel and they
were devoted to him. All of them this morning had briefed Rommel on
various questions which they hoped he would raise with Hitler. Rommel
had said little. He had simply listened. Now he was impatient to
leave. He looked at his watch. "Gentlemen," he said abruptly, "I must
go."

Outside the main entrance Rommel's chauffeur, Daniel, stood by the
field marshal's car with the door open. Rommel invited Colonel von
Tempelhof, besides Lang the only other staff officer going with them,
to ride with him in the Horch. Tempelhof's car could follow behind.
Rommel shook hands with each member of his official family, spoke
briefly to his chief of staff and then took his usual seat next to the
chauffeur. Lang and Colonel von Tempelhof sat in the back. "We can go
now, Daniel," said Rommel.

Slowly the car circled the courtyard and drove out through the main
gate, passing the sixteen square-cut lin-

den trees along the driveway. In the village it turned left onto the
main Paris road.

It was 7:00 A.m. Leaving La Rouche-Guyon on this particular dismal
Sunday morning, June 4, suited Rommel fine. The timing of the trip
could not have been better. Beside him on the seat was a cardboard box
containing a pair of handmade gray suede shoes, size five and a half,
for his wife. There was a particular and very human reason why he
wanted to be with her on Tuesday, June 6. It was her birthday. * *
Since World War II, many of Rommel's senior officers have stood
shoulder to shoulder in an effort to alibi the circumstances
surrounding Rommel's absence from the front on June 4 and 5 and for the
best part of D Day itself. In books, articles and interviews they have
stated that Rommel left for Germany on June 5. This is not true. They
also claim that Hitler ordered him to Germany. This is not true. The
only person at Hitler's headquarters who knew of Rommel's intended
visit was the Feuhrer's adjutant, Major General Rudolf Schmundt.
General Walter Warlimont, then Deputy Chief of Operations at OKW, has
told me that neither Jodl, Keitel nor himself was even aware that
Rommel was in Germany. Even on D Day, Warlimont thought that Rommel
was at his headquarters conducting the battle. As to the date of
Rommel's departure from Normandy, it was June 4; the incontrovertible
proof lies in the meticulously recorded Army Group B War Diary, which
gives the exact time.

In England it was 8:00 A.m. (there was one hour's difference between
British Double Summer Time and German Central Time.) In a house trailer
in a wood near Portsmouth, General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the Allied
Supreme Commander, was sound asleep after having been up nearly all
night. For several hours now coded messages had been going out by
telephone, by messenger and by radio from his headquarters nearby.
Eisenhower, at about the time Rommel got up, had made a fateful
decision: Because of unfavorable weather conditions he had postponed
the Allied invasion by twenty-four hours. If conditions were right,
D-Day would be Tuesday, June 6. 7

Lieutenant Commander George D. Hoffman, thirty-three-year-old skipper
of the destroyer U.s.s. Corry, looked through his binoculars at the
long column of ships plowing steadily across the English Channel behind
him. It seemed incredible to him that they had got this far without an
attack of some sort. They were on course and exactly on time. The
crawling convoy, following a circuitous route and moving less than four
miles an hour, had sailed more than eighty miles since leaving Plymouth
the night before. But at any moment now Hoffman expected to meet
trouble--U-boat or aircraft attack or both. At the very least he
expected to encounter mine fields, for as every minute passed they were
sailing farther into enemy waters. France lay ahead, now only forty
miles away.

The young commander--he had "fleeted up" on the Corry from a lieutenant
to skipper in less than three years--was immensely proud to be leading
this magnificent convoy. But as he looked at it through his glasses he
knew that it was a sitting duck for the enemy.

Ahead were the mine sweepers, six small ships spread out in a diagonal
formation, like one side of an inverted V, each one trailing in the
water, off to its right, a long, saw-toothed wire sweep to cut through
the moorings and detonate floating mines. Behind the mine sweepers
came the lean, sleek shapes of the "shepherds," the escorting
destroyers. And behind them, stretching back as far as the eye could
see, came the convoy, a great procession of lumbering, unwieldy landing
ships carrying thousands of troops, tanks, guns, vehicles, and
ammunition. Each of the heavily laden ships flew an antiaircraft
barrage balloon at

the end of a stout cable. And because these protective balloons, all
flying at the same altitude, swung out in the face of the brisk wind,
the entire convoy appeared to be listing drunkenly to one side.

To Hoffmann it was quite a sight. Estimating the distance separating
one ship from the next and knowing the total number of vessels, he
figured that the tail end of this fantastic parade must still be back
in England, in Plymouth Harbor.

And this was only one convoy. Hoffman knew that dozens of others had
been due to sail when he did, or would leave England during the day.
That night all of them would converge on the Bay of the Seine. By
morning an immense fleet of five thousand ships would stand off the
invasion beaches of Normandy.

Hoffman could hardly wait to see it. The convoy that he led had left
England early because it had the farthest to go. It was part of a
massive American force, the 4th Division, destined for a place that
Hoffman, like millions of other Americans, had never heard of before--a
stretch of wind-blown sand on the eastern side of the Cherbourg
peninsula that had been given the code name "Utah." Twelve miles to
the southeast, in front of the seaside villages of Vierville and
Colleville, lay the other American beach, "Omaha," a crescent-shaped
strip of silvery strand where the men of the 1/ and 29th divisions
would land.

The Corry's captain had expected to see other convoys near him this
morning, but he seemed to have the Channel all to himself. He wasn't
disturbed. Somewhere in the vicinity, he knew, other convoys attached
to either "Force U" or "Force O" were sailing for Normandy. Hoffman
did not know that because of the uncertain weather conditions a worried
Eisenhower had permitted fewer than a score of slow-moving convoys to
set sail during the night.

Suddenly the bridge telephone buzzed. One of the deck

officers reached for it, but Hoffman, who was closer, picked up the
phone. "Bridge," he said. "This is the captain." He listened for a
moment. "Are you quite sure?" he asked. "Has the message been
repeated?" Hoffman listened a moment longer, then he replaced the
receiver on its cradle. It was unbelievable: The whole convoy had been
ordered back to England--no reason given. What could have happened?
Had the invasion been postponed?

Hoffman looked through his glasses at the mine sweepers ahead; they
hadn't changed course. Neither had the destroyers behind them. Had
they received the message? Before doing anything else he decided to
see the turnabout message for himself--he had to be sure. Quickly he
climbed down to the radio shack one deck below.

Radioman Third Class Bennie Glisson had made no mistake. Showing his
skipper the radio logbook, he said, "I checked it twice just to be
certain." Hoffman hurried back to the bridge.

His job and that of the other destroyers now was to wheel this
monstrous convoy around, and quickly. Because he was in the lead his
immediate concern was the flotilla of mine sweepers several miles
ahead. He could not contact them by radio because a strict radio
silence had been imposed. "All engines ahead full speed," Hoffman
ordered. "Close up on the mine sweepers. Signalman on the light."

As the Corry raced forward Hoffman looked back and saw the destroyers
behind him wheel and swing around the flanks of the convoy. Now, with
signal lights blinking, they began the huge job of turning the convoy
around. A worried Hoffman realized that they were dangerously close to
France-- just thirty-eight miles. Had they been spotted yet? It would
be a miracle if they got away with the turnabout undetected.

Down in the radio shack Bennie Glisson continued to pick up the coded
postponement message every fifteen

minutes. To him it was the worst news he had received in a long time,
for it seemed to confirm a nagging suspicion: that the Germans knew all
about the invasion. Had D Day been called off because the Germans had
found out? Like thousands of other men, Bennie did not see how the
invasion preparations--the convoys, the ships, men and supplies that
filled every port, inlet and harbor from Land's End to
Portsmouth--could possibly have gone unnoticed by Luftwaffe
reconnaissance planes. And if the message simply meant that the
invasion had been postponed for some other reason, then it followed
that the Germans had still more time to spot the Allied armada.

The twenty-three-year-old radio operator turned the dial of another set
and tuned in Radio Paris, the German propaganda station. He wanted to
hear sexy-voiced "Axis Sally." Her taunting broadcasts were amusing
because they were so inaccurate, but you never could tell. There was
another reason: The "Berlin Bitch," as she was often irreverently
called, seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of the latest hit
tunes.

Bennie didn't get a chance to listen because just then a long string of
coded weather reports began coming in. But as he finished typing up
these messages "Axis Sally" put on her first record of the day. Bennie
instantly recognized the opening bars of the popular wartime tune "I
Double Dare Y." But new lyrics had been written for the song. As he
listened, they confirmed his worst fears. That morning a little before
eight Bennie and many thousands of Allied troops who had steeled
themselves for the invasion of Normandy on June 5, and who now had
another agonizing twenty-four hours to wait, heard "I Double Dare You"
with these pertinent, if chilling, lines:

"I double dare you to come over here. I double dare you to venture too
near.

Take off your high hat and quit that bragging. Cut out that claptrap
and keep your hair on. Can't you take a dare on?

I double dare you to venture a raid. I double dare you to try and
invade. And if your loud propaganda means half

of what it says, I double dare you to come over here. I double dare
you."

In the huge Operations Center at Allied naval headquarters in Southwick
House outside Portsmouth, they waited for the ships to come back.

The long, high room with its white-and-gold wallpaper was the scene of
intense activity. One entire wall was covered by a gigantic chart of
the English Channel. Every few minutes two Wrens, working from a
traveling stepladder, moved colored markers over the face of the chart
as they plotted the new positions of each returning convoy. Clustered
in groups of two and three, staff officers from the various Allied
services watched in silence as each new report came in. Outwardly they
appeared calm, but there was no disguising the strain that everybody
felt. Not only must the convoys wheel about, almost under the very
noses of the enemy, and return to England along specific, mine-swept
tracks; they were now faced with the threat of another enemy--a storm
at sea. For the slow-moving landing craft, heavily loaded with troops
and supplies, a storm

could be disastrous. Already the wind in the Channel was blowing up to
thirty miles an hour, with waves up to five feet, and the weather was
due to get worse.

As the minutes passed, the face of the chart reflected the orderly
pattern of the recall. There were streams of markers backtracking up
the Irish Sea, clustered in the vicinity of the Isle of Wight and
huddled together in various ports and anchorages along the southwest
coast of England. It would take some of the convoys nearly all day to
put back to port.

The location of each convoy and that of nearly every other ship of the
Allied fleet could be seen at a glance on the board. But two vessels
were not shown --a pair of midget submarines. They seemed to have
disappeared completely off the chart.

In an office nearby, a pretty twenty-four-year-old Wren lieutenant
wondered how soon her husband would make it back to his home port.
Naomi Coles Honour was a bit anxious but not unduly worried yet, even
though her friends in "Ops" seemed to know nothing about the
whereabouts of her husband, Lieutenant George Honour, and his
fifty-seven-foot-long midget submarine, the X23.

One mile off the coast of France a periscope broke the surface of the
water. Thirty feet below, crouching in the cramped control room of the
X23, Lieutenant George Honour pushed his cap back. "Well, gentlemen,"
he recalls saying, "let's take a look-see."

Cushioning one eye against the rubber-cupped eyepiece, he slowly
pivoted the periscope around, and as the distorting shimmer of water
disappeared from the lens the blurred image before him straightened out
and became the sleepy resort town of Ouistreham near the mouth of the
Orne. They were so close in and his view was so mag-

nified that Honour could see smoke rising from chimneys and, in the far
distance, a plane that had just taken off from Carpiquet Airport near
Caen. He could also see the enemy. Fascinated, he watched German
troops calmly working among the anti-invasion obstacles on the sandy
beaches that stretched away on either side.

It was a great moment for the twenty-six-year-old Royal Navy Reserve
lieutenant. Standing back from the periscope, he said to Lieutenant
Lionel G. Lyne, the navigational expert in charge of the operation,
"Take a look, Thin-- we're almost bang on the target."

In a way the invasion had already begun. The first craft and the first
men of the Allied forces were in position off the beaches of Normandy.
Directly ahead of the X23 lay the British-Canadian assault sector.
Lieutenant Honour and his crew were not unaware of the significance of
this particular date. On another June 4, four years earlier, at a
place less than two hundred miles away, the last of 338,000 British
troops had been evacuated from a blazing port called Dunkirk. On the
X23 it was a tense, proud moment for the five specially chosen
Englishmen. They were the British vanguard; the men of the X23 were
leading the way back to France for the thousands of their countrymen
who would soon follow.

These five men crouching in the tiny all-purpose cabin of the X23 wore
rubber frogmen's suits, and they carried ingeniously falsified papers
that would have passed the scrutiny of the most suspicious German
sentry. Each had a false French identity card complete with
photograph, plus work permits and ration cards bearing official-looking
German rubber-stamped impressions, and other letters and documents. In
case anything went wrong and the X23 was sunk or had to be abandoned,
her crew members were to swim ashore and, armed with new identities,
try to escape capture and make contact with the French underground.

The X23's mission was a particularly hazardous one. Twenty minutes
before H Hour, the midget sub and her sister ship, the X20-- some
twenty miles farther down the coast, opposite the little village of Le
Hamel--would boldly come to the surface to act as navigational markers,
clearly defining the extreme limits of the British-Canadian assault
zone: three beaches that had been given the code names Sword, Juno and
Gold.

The plan they were to follow was involved and elaborate. An automatic
radio beacon capable of sending out a continuous signal was to be
switched on the moment they surfaced. At the same time sonar apparatus
would automatically broadcast sound waves through the water which could
be picked up by underwater listening devices. The fleet carrying
British and Canadian troops would home in on either one or both of the
signals.

Each midget also carried an eighteen-foot telescopic mast to which was
attached a small but powerful searchlight that could send out a
flashing beam capable of being seen more than five miles away. If the
light showed green, it would mean that the subs were on target; if not,
the light would be red.

As additional navigation aids, the plan called for each midget to
launch a moored rubber dinghy with a man in it and allow it to drift a
certain distance toward shore. The dinghies had been outfitted with
searchlights which would be operated by their crewmen. By taking
bearings on the lights of the midgets and their drifting dinghies,
approaching ships would be able to pinpoint the exact positions of the
three assault beaches.

Nothing had been forgotten, not even the danger that the little sub
might be run over by some lumbering landing craft. As protection the
X23 would be clearly marked by a large yellow flag. The point had not
escaped Honour that the flag would also make them a fine target for the
Germans. Notwithstanding, he planned to fly a second flag,

a large white Navy "battle duster." Honour and his crew were prepared
to risk enemy shellfire, but they were taking no chances on being
rammed and sunk.

All this paraphernalia and more had been packed into the already
cramped innards of the X23. Two extra crewmen, both navigation
experts, had also been added to the sub's normal complement of three
men. There was scarcely room now to stand up or sit down in the X23's
single all-purpose cabin, which was only five feet eight inches high,
five feet wide and barely eight feet long. Already it was hot and
stuffy, and the atmosphere would get much worse before they dared
surface, which would not be until after dark.

Even in daylight in these shallow coastal waters, Honour knew that
there was always the possibility of being spotted by low-flying
reconnaissance planes or patrol boats-- and the longer they stayed at
periscope depth the greater was the risk.

At the periscope, Lieutenant Lyne took a series of bearings. He
quickly identified several landmarks: the Ouistreham lighthouse, the
town church and the spires of two others in the villages of Langrune
and St.-Aubin-sur-Mer a few miles away. Honour had been right. They
were almost "bang on the target," barely three quarters of a mile from
their plotted position.

Honour was relieved to be this close. It had been a long, harrowing
trip. They had covered the ninety miles from Portsmouth in a little
under two days, and much of that time they had traveled through mine
fields. Now they would get into position and then drop to the bottom.
"Operation Gambit" was off to a good start. Secretly he wished that
some other code word had been chosen. Although he was not
superstitious, on looking up the meaning of the word the young skipper
had been shocked to discover that "gambit" meant "throwing away the
opening pawns."

Honour took one last look through the periscope at the Germans working
on the beaches. All hell would break loose on those beaches by this
time tomorrow, he thought. "Down periscope," he ordered. Submerged,
and out of radio communication with their base, Honour and the crew of
the X23 did not know that the invasion had been postponed.

By 11:00 A.m. the gale in the Channel was blowing hard. In the
restricted coastal areas of Britain, sealed off from the remainder of
the country, the invasion forces sweated it out. Their world now was
the assembly areas, the airfields and the ships. It was almost as
though they were physically severed from the mainland--caught up
strangely between the familiar world of England and the unknown world
of Normandy. Separating them from the world they knew was a tight
curtain of security.

On the other side of that curtain life went on as usual. People went
about their accustomed routines unaware that hundreds of thousands of
men waited out an order that would mark the beginning of the end of
World War II.

In the town of Leatherhead, Surrey, a slight, fifty-four-year-old
physics teacher was walking his dog. Leonard Sidney Dawe was a quiet,
unassuming sort of man and outside

of a small circle of friends he was unknown. Yet the retiring Dawe
enjoyed a public following far exceeding that of a film star. Every
day upwards of a million people struggled over the crossword puzzle
that he and his friend Melville Jones, another schoolteacher, prepared
for each morning's London Daily Telegraph.

For more than twenty years Dawe had been the Telegraph's senior
crossword compiler and in that time his tough, intricate puzzles had
both exasperated and satisfied countless millions. Some addicts
claimed that the Times's puzzle was tougher, but Dawe's fans were quick
to point out that the Telegraph's crossword had never repeated the same
clue twice. That was a matter of considerable pride to the reserved
Dawe.

Dawe would have been astonished to know that ever since May 2 he had
been the subject of a most discreet inquiry by a certain department in
Scotland Yard charged with counterespionage, M.i$5. For over a month
his puzzles had thrown one scare after another into many sections of
the Allied High Command.

On this particular Sunday morning M.i$5 had decided to talk to Dawe.
When he returned home he found two men waiting for him. Dawe, like
everybody else, had heard of M.i$5, but what could they possibly want
with him?

"Mr. Dawe," said one of the men as the questioning began, "during the
last month a number of highly confidential code words concerning a
certain Allied operation have appeared in the Telegraph crossword
puzzles. Can you tell us what prompted you to use them--or where you
got them?"

Before the surprised Dawe could answer, the M.i$5 man pulled a list out
of his pocket and said, "We are particularly interested in finding out
how you came to choose this word." He pointed to the list. The prize
competition crossword in the Telegraph for May 27 included the clue (11
across), "But some big-wig like this has stolen some of it at times."
This mystifying clue through some strange alchemy made sense to Dawe's
devoted followers. The answer, published just two days before on June
2, was the code name for the entire Allied invasion plan--"Overlord."

Dawe did not know what Allied operation they were talking about, so he
was not unduly startled or even indignant at these questions. He could
not explain, he told them, just how or why he had chosen that
particular word. It was quite a common word in history books, he
pointed out. "But how," he protested, "can I tell what is being used
as a code word and what isn't?"

The two M.i$5 men were extremely courteous: They agreed that it was
difficult. But wasn't it strange that all these code words should
appear in the same month?

One by one they went over the list with the now slightly harassed
bespectacled schoolmaster. In the puzzle for May 2, the clue "One of
the U.s." (seventeen across) had produced the solution "Utah." The
answer to three down, "Red Indian on the Missouri," on May 22, turned
out to be "Omaha."

In the May 30 crossword (eleven across), "This bush is a center of
nursery revolutions" required the word "Mulberry"--the code name for
the two artificial harbors that were to be placed in position off the
beaches. And the solution to fifteen down on June 1, "Britannia and he
hold to the same thing," had been "Neptune"--the code word for the
naval operations in the invasion.

Dawe had no explanation for the use of these words. For all he knew,
he said, the crosswords mentioned on the list could have been completed
six months before. Was there any explanation? Dawe could suggest only
one: fantastic coincidence. * * *

There had been other hair-raising scares. Three months before in
Chicago's central post office a bulky, improperly wrapped envelope had
burst open on the sorting table, revealing a number of
suspicious-looking documents. At least a dozen sorters saw the
contents: something about an operation called Overlord.

Intelligence officers were soon swarming all over the scene. The
sorters were questioned and told to forget everything they might have
seen. Next the completely innocent addressee was interrogated: a girl.
She could not explain why these papers were en route to her, but she
did recognize the handwriting on the envelope. Through her the papers
were traced back to their point of origin, an equally innocent sergeant
at American headquarters in London. He had wrongly addressed the
envelope. By mistake he had sent it to his sister in Chicago.

Minor as this incident was it might have assumed even greater
proportions had Supreme Headquarters known that the German intelligence
service, the Abwehr, had already discovered the meaning of the code
word "Overlord." One of their agents, an Albanian named Diello but
better known to the Abwehr as "Cicero," had sent Berlin the information
in January. At first Cicero had identified the plan as "Overlock," but
later he had corrected it. And Berlin believed Cicero--he worked as a
valet in the British embassy in Turkey.

But Cicero was unable to discover the big Overlord secret: the time and
place of D Day itself. So scrupulously guarded was this information
that up to the end of April only a few hundred Allied officers knew it.
But that month, despite constant warnings by counterintelligence that
agents were active throughout the British Isles, two senior officers,
an American general and a British colonel, carelessly violated
security. At a cocktail party in Claridge's Hotel, London, the general
mentioned to some brother

officers that the invasion would take place before June 15. Elsewhere
in England, the colonel, a battalion commander, was even more
indiscreet. He told some civilian friends that his men were training
to capture a specific target and he hinted that its location was in
Normandy. Both officers were immediately demoted and removed from
their commands. * * Although the American general had been a West
Point classmate of General Eisenhower's there was nothing that the
Supreme Commander could do but send him home. After D Day the
general's case received wide publicity and later, as a colonel, he
retired. There is no record that Eisenhower's HQ even heard about the
Britisher's indiscretion. It was quietly handled by his own superiors.
The Britisher went on to become a Member of Parliament.

And now, on this tense Sunday, June 4, Supreme Headquarters was stunned
by the news that there had been yet another leak, far worse than any
that had occurred before. During the night an AP teletype operator had
been practicing on an idle machine in an effort to improve her speed.
By error the perforated tape carrying her practice "flash" somehow
preceded the usual nightly Russian communiqu`e. It was corrected after
only thirty seconds, but the word was out. The "bulletin" that reached
the U.s. read: "URGENT PRESS ASSOCIATED NYK FLASH EISENHOWER'S HQ
ANNOUNCED ALLIED LANDINGS IN FRANCE."

Grave as the consequences of the message might prove to be, it was much
too late to do anything about it now. The gigantic machinery of the
invasion had moved into high gear. Now, as the hours slipped by and
the weather steadily worsened, the greatest airborne and amphibious
force ever assembled waited for General Eisenhower's decision. Would
Ike confirm June 6 as D Day? Or would he be compelled because of
Channel weather--the worst in twenty years--to postpone the invasion
once again?

In a rain-lashed wood two miles from the naval headquarters at
Southwick House, the American who had to make that great decision
wrestled with the problem and tried to relax in his sparsely furnished
three-and-a-half-ton trailer. Although he could have moved into more
comfortable quarters at the big, sprawling Southwick House, Eisenhower
had decided against it. He wanted to be as close as possible to the
ports where his troops were loading. Several days before he had
ordered a small compact battle headquarters set up--a few tents for his
immediate staff and several trailers, among them his own, which he had
long ago named "my circus wagon."

Eisenhower's trailer, a long, low caravan somewhat resembling a moving
van, had three small compartments serving as bedroom, living room and
study. Besides these, neatly fitted into the trailer's length was a
tiny galley, a miniature switchboard, a chemical toilet and, at one
end, a glass-enclosed observation deck. But the Supreme Commander was
rarely around long enough to make full use of the trailer. He hardly
ever used the living room or the study; when staff conferences were
called he generally held them in a tent next to the trailer. Only his
bedroom had a "lived-in" look. It was definitely his: There was a
large pile of Western paperbacks on the table near his bunk, and here,
too, were the only pictures-- photographs of his wife, Mamie, and his
twenty-one-year-old son, John, in the uniform of a West Point cadet.

From this trailer Eisenhower commanded almost three million Allied
troops. More than half of his immense command were American: roughly
1.7 million soldiers, sailors,

airmen and coastguardmen. British and Canadian forces together totaled
around one million and in addition there were Fighting French, Polish,
Czech, Belgian, Norwegian and Dutch contingents. Never before had an
American commanded so many men from so many nations or shouldered such
an awesome burden of responsibility.

Yet despite the magnitude of his assignment and his vast powers there
was little about this tall, sunburned midwesterner with the infectious
grin to indicate that he was the Supreme Commander. Unlike many other
famous Allied commanders, who were instantly recognizable by some
visible trademark such as eccentric headgear or garish uniforms layered
shoulder-high with decorations, everything about Eisenhower was
restrained. Apart from the four stars of his rank, a single ribbon of
decorations above his breast pocket and the flaming-sword shoulder
patch of SHAEF (supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force)
Eisenhower shunned all distinguishing marks. Even in the trailer there
was little evidence of his authority: no flags, maps, framed directives
or signed photographs of the great or near-great who often visited him.
But in his bedroom, close to his bunk, were three all-important
telephones, each a different color; the red was for "scrambled" calls
to Washington, the green was a direct line to Winston Churchill's
residence at No. 10 Downing Street, London, and the black connected
him to his brilliant chief of staff, Major General Walter Bedell Smith,
the immediate headquarters and other senior members of the Allied High
Command.

It was on the black phone, to add to all his other worries, that
Eisenhower heard of the erroneous "flash" concerning the "landings."
He said nothing when he was told the news. His naval aide, Captain
Harry C. Butcher, recalls that the Supreme Commander merely grunted an
acknowledgment. What was there to say or do now?

Four months before, in the directive appointing him Supreme Commander,
the Combined Chiefs of Staff in Washington had spelled out his
assignment in one precise paragraph. It read: "You will enter the
continent of Europe and, in conjunction with the other United Nations,
undertake operations aimed at the heart of Germany and the destruction
of her armed forces ..."

There in one sentence was the aim and purpose of the assault. But to
the entire Allied world this was to be more than a military operation.
Eisenhower called it "a great crusade"--a crusade to end once and for
all a monstrous tyranny that had plunged the world into its bloodiest
war, shattered a continent and placed upwards of 300 million people in
bondage. (actually, nobody at this time could even imagine the full
extent of the Nazi barbarism that had washed across Europe--the
millions who had disappeared into the gas chambers and furnaces of
Heinrich Himmler's aseptic crematoria, the millions who had been herded
out of their countries to work as slave laborers, a tremendous
percentage of whom would never return, the millions more who had been
tortured to death, executed as hostages or exterminated by the simple
expedient of starvation.) The great crusade's unalterable purpose was
not only to win the war, but to destroy Nazism and bring to an end an
era of savagery which had never been surpassed in the world's
history.

But first the invasion had to succeed. If it failed, the final defeat
of Germany might take years.

To prepare for the all-out invasion on which so much depended,
intensive military planning had been going on for more than a year.
Long before anyone knew that Eisenhower would be named Supreme
Commander, a small group of Anglo-American officers under Britain's
Lieutenant General Sir Frederick Morgan had been laying the groundwork
for the assault. Their problems were incre-

dibly involved--there were few guideposts, few military precedents, but
a plethora of question marks. Where should the attack be launched and
when? How many divisions should be used? If X divisions were needed
would they be available, trained and ready to go by y date? How many
transports would be required to carry them? What about naval
bombardment, support ships and escorts? Where were all the landing
craft going to come from--could some be diverted from the Pacific and
Mediterranean theaters of war? How many airfields would be needed to
accommodate the thousands of planes necessary for the air attack? How
long would it take to stockpile all the supplies, the equipment, guns,
ammunition, transport and food, and how much was needed not only for
the attack but to follow it up?

These were just a few of the staggering questions that Allied planners
had to answer. There were thousands of others. Ultimately their
studies, enlarged and modified into the final Overlord plan after
Eisenhower took over, called for more men, more ships, more planes,
more equipment and mateerial than had ever been assembled before for a
single military operation.

The build-up was enormous. Even before the plan reached its final form
an unprecedented flow of men and supplies began pouring into England.
Soon there were so many Americans in the small towns and villages that
the British who lived in them were often hopelessly outnumbered. Their
movie theaters, hotels, restaurants, dance halls and favorite pubs were
suddenly swamped by a flood of troops from every state in the Union.

Airfields blossomed everywhere. For the great air offensive, 163 bases
were constructed in addition to the scores already in existence, until
at last there were so many that a standard gag among 8th and 9th Air
Force crewmen was that they could taxi the length and breadth of the
island

without scratching a wing. Ports were jammed. A great supporting
naval fleet of almost nine hundred ships, from battleships to PT boats,
began to assemble. Convoys arrived in such great numbers that by
spring they had delivered almost 2 million tons of goods and
supplies--so much that 170 miles of new railroad lines had to be laid
down to move it.

By May southern England looked like a huge arsenal. Hidden in the
forests were mountainous piles of ammunition. Stretching across the
moors, bumper to bumper, were tanks, half-tracks, armored cars, trucks,
jeeps and ambulances--more than fifty thousand of them. In the fields
were long lines of howitzers and antiaircraft guns, great quantities of
prefabricated materials from Nissen huts to airstrips, and huge stocks
of earth-moving equipment from bulldozers to excavators. At central
depots there were immense quantities of food, clothing and medical
supplies, from pills for combating seasickness to 124,000 hospital
beds. But the most staggering sight of all were the valleys filled
with long lines of railroad rolling stock: almost one thousand
brand-new locomotives, and nearly twenty thousand tanker cars and
freight cars which would be used to replace the shattered French
equipment after the beachhead had been established.

There were also strange new devices of war. There were tanks that
could swim, others that carried great rolls of lath to be used in
antitank ditches or as stepping-stones over walls, and yet others
equipped with great chain flails that beat the ground in front of them
to explode mines. There were flat, block-long ships, each carrying a
forest of pipes for the launching of warfare's newest weapon, rockets.
Perhaps strangest of all were two man-made harbors that were to be
towed across to the Normandy beaches. They were engineering miracles
and one of the big Overlord secrets; they assured the constant flow of
men and

supplies into the beachhead during the first critical weeks until a
port could be captured. The harbors, called "Mulberries," consisted
first of an outer breakwater made up of great steel floats. Next came
145 huge concrete caissons in various sizes which were to be sunk butt
to butt to make an inner breakwater. The largest of these caissons had
crew quarters and antiaircraft guns and, when it was being towed,
looked like a five-story apartment building lying on its side. Within
these man-made harbors, freighters as large as Liberty ships could
unload into barges ferrying back and forth to the beaches. Smaller
ships, like coasters or landing craft, could dump their cargoes at
massive steel pierheads where waiting trucks would run them to shore
over floating pontoon-supported piers. Beyond the Mulberries a line of
sixty concrete blockships was to be sunk as an additional breakwater.
In position off the invasion beaches of Normandy, each harbor would be
the size of the port of Dover.

All through May men and supplies began to move down to the ports and
the loading areas. Congestion was a major problem, but somehow the
quartermasters, military police and British railroad authorities kept
everything moving and on time.

Trains loaded with troops and supplies backed and filled on every line
as they waited to converge on the coast. Convoys jammed every road.
Every little village and hamlet was covered with a fine dust, and
throughout the quiet spring nights the whole of southern England
resounded with the low whining sound of the trucks, the whirring and
clacking of tanks and the unmistakable voices of Americans, all of whom
seemed to be asking the same question: "How far away is this goddam
place?"

Almost overnight, cities of Nissen huts and tents sprang up in the
coastal regions as troops began to pour into the embarkation areas.
Men slept in bunks stacked three and

four deep. Showers and latrines were usually several fields away and
the men had to queue up to use them. Chow lines were sometimes a
quarter of a mile long. There were so many troops that it took some
54,000 men, 4,500 of them newly trained cooks, just to service American
installations. The last week in May troops and supplies began loading
onto the transports and the landing ships. The time had finally
come.

The statistics staggered the imagination; the force seemed
overwhelming. Now this great weapon--the youth of the free world, the
resources of the free world-- waited on the decision of one man:
Eisenhower.

Throughout most of June 4, Eisenhower remained alone in his trailer.
He and his commanders had done everything to ensure that the invasion
would have every possible chance of success at the lowest cost in
lives. But now, after all the months of political and military
planning, Operation Overlord lay at the mercy of the elements.
Eisenhower was helpless; all he could do was to wait and hope that the
weather would improve. But no matter what happened he would be forced
to make a momentous decision by the end of the day--to go or to
postpone the assault once again. Either way the success or failure of
Operation Overlord might depend on that decision. And nobody could
make that decision for him. The responsibility would be his and his
alone.

Eisenhower was faced with a dreadful dilemma. On May 17 he had decided
that D Day would have to be one of three days in June--the fifth,
sixth, or seventh. Meteorological studies had shown that two of the
vital weather requirements for the invasion could be expected for
Normandy on those days: a late-rising moon and, shortly after dawn, a
low tide.

The paratroopers and glider-borne infantry who would launch the
assault, some eighteen thousand men of the

U.s. 101/ and 82nd divisions and the British 6th Division, needed the
moonlight. But their surprise attack depended on darkness up to the
time they arrived over the dropping zones. Thus their critical demand
was for a late-rising moon.

The seaborne landings had to take place when the tide was low enough to
expose Rommel's beach obstacles. On this tide the timing of the whole
invasion would depend. And to complicate the meteorological
calculations further, follow-up troops landing much later in the day
would also need a low tide--and it had to come before darkness set
in.

These two critical factors of moonlight and tide shackled Eisenhower.
Tide alone reduced the number of days for the attack in any one month
to six, and three of those were moonless.

But that was not all. There were many other considerations he had to
take into account. First, all the services wanted long hours of
daylight and good visibility--to identify the beaches, for the naval
and air forces to spot their targets and to reduce the hazard of
collision when five thousand ships began maneuvering almost side by
side in the Bay of the Seine. Second, a calm sea was required. Apart
from the havoc a rough sea might cause to the fleet, seasickness could
leave the troops helpless long before they even set foot on the
beaches. Third, low winds, blowing inshore, were needed to clear the
beaches of smoke so that targets would not be obscured. And finally
the Allies required three more quiet days after D Day to facilitate the
quick build-up of men and supplies.

Nobody at Supreme Headquarters expected perfect conditions on D Day,
least of all Eisenhower. He had schooled himself, in countless dry
runs with his meteorological staff, to recognize and weigh all the
factors which would give him the bare minimum conditions acceptable for
the at-

tack. But according to his meteorologist the chances were about ten to
one against Normandy having weather on any one day in June which would
meet even the minimal requirements. On this stormy Sunday, as
Eisenhower, alone in his trailer, considered every possibility, those
odds appeared to have become astronomical.

Of the three possible days for the invasion he had chosen the fifth so
that if there was a postponement he could launch the assault on the
sixth. But if he ordered the landings for the sixth and then had to
cancel them again, the problem of refueling the returning convoys might
prevent him from attacking on the seventh. There would then be two
alternatives: He could postpone D Day until the next period when the
tides were right, June 19; but if he did that the airborne armies would
be forced to attack in darkness--June 19 was moonless. The other
alternative was to wait until July, and that long a postponement, as he
was later to recall, "was too bitter to contemplate."

So terrifying was the thought of postponement that many of Eisenhower's
most cautious commanders were even prepared to risk attack instead on
the eighth or ninth. They did not see how more than 200,000 men, most
of them already briefed, could be kept isolated and bottled up for
weeks on ships, in embarkation areas and on airfields without the
secret of the invasion leaking out. Even if security remained intact
during the period, surely Luftwaffe reconnaissance aircraft would spot
the massed fleet (if they hadn't done so already) or German agents
would somehow learn of the plan. For everybody the prospect of a
postponement was grim. But it was Eisenhower who would have to make
the decision.

In the fading light of the afternoon the Supreme Commander occasionally
came to the door of his trailer and gazed up through the wind-swept
treetops at the blanket of clouds that covered the sky. At other times
he would

pace up and down outside the trailer, chain-smoking, kicking at the
cinders on the little pathway--a tall figure, shoulders slightly
hunched, hands rammed deep into his pockets.

On these solitary strolls Eisenhower scarcely seemed to notice anybody,
but during the afternoon he spotted one of the four pool correspondents
accredited to his advance headquarters--Merrill "Red" Mueller of NBC.
"Let's take a walk, Red," said Ike abruptly, and without waiting for
Mueller he strode off, hands in his pockets, at his usual brisk pace.
The correspondent hurriedly caught up with him as he disappeared into
the woods.

It was a strange, silent walk. Eisenhower uttered hardly a word. "Ike
seemed completely preoccupied with his own thoughts, completely
immersed in all his problems," Mueller remembers. "It was almost as
though he had forgotten I was with him." There were many questions
that Mueller wanted to put to the Supreme Commander, but he didn't ask
them; he felt that he couldn't intrude.

When they returned to the encampment and Eisenhower had said goodbye,
the correspondent watched him climb the little aluminum stairs leading
to the trailer door. At that moment he appeared to Mueller to be
"bowed down with worry ... as though each of the four stars on either
shoulder weighed a ton."

Shortly before nine-thirty that night, Eisenhower's senior commanders
and their chiefs of staff gathered in the library of Southwick House.
It was a large, comfortable room with a table covered by a green baize
cloth, several easy chairs and two sofas. Dark oak bookcases lined
three of the walls, but there were few books on the shelves and the
room had a bare look. Heavy double blackout curtains hung at the
windows and on this night they muffled the drumming of the rain and the
flat buckling sound of the wind.

Standing about the room in little groups, the staff officers talked
quietly. Near the fireplace Eisenhower's chief of staff, Major General
Walter Bedell Smith, conversed with the pipe-smoking Deputy Supreme
Commander, Air Chief Marshal Tedder. Seated to one side was the fiery
Allied naval commander, Admiral Ramsay, and close by the Allied air
commander, Air Chief Marshal Leigh-Mallory. Only one officer was
dressed informally, General Smith recalls. The peppery Montgomery, who
would be in charge of the D-Day assault, wore his usual corduroy slacks
and roll-necked sweater. These were the men who would translate the
order for the attack when Eisenhower gave the word to go. Now they and
their staff officers--altogether there were twelve senior officers in
the room--waited for the arrival of the Supreme Commander and the
decisive conference that would begin at nine-thirty. At that time they
would hear the latest forecasts of the meteorologists.

At exactly nine-thirty the door opened and Eisenhower, neat in his
dark-green battle dress, strode in. There was just the faintest
flicker of the old Eisenhower grin as he greeted his old friends, but
the mask of worry quickly returned to his face as he opened the
conference. There was no need for a preamble; everybody knew the
seriousness of the decision that had to be made. So almost immediately
the three senior Overlord meteorologists, led by their chief, Group
Captain J. N. Stagg of the Royal Air Force, came into the room.

There was a hushed silence as Stagg opened the briefing. Quickly he
sketched the weather picture of the previous twenty-four hours and then
he quietly said, "Gentlemen ... there have been some rapid and
unexpected developments in the situation ..." All eyes were on Stagg
now, as he presented the anxious-faced Eisenhower and his commanders
with a slender ray of hope.

A new weather front had been spotted which, he said, would move up the
Channel within the next few hours and cause a gradual clearing over the
assault areas. These improving conditions would last throughout the
next day and continue up to the morning of June 6. After that the
weather would begin to deteriorate again. During this promised period
of fair weather, the winds would drop appreciably and the skies would
clear--enough at least for bombers to operate on the night of the fifth
and throughout the morning of the sixth. By noon the cloud layer would
thicken and the skies would become overcast again. In short, what
Eisenhower was being told was that a barely tolerable period of fair
conditions, far below the minimal requirements, would prevail for just
a little more than twenty-four hours.

The moment Stagg had finished, he and the other two meteorologists were
subjected to a barrage of questions. were all of them confident about
the accuracy of their predictions? Could their forecasts be wrong--
had they checked their reports with every available source? Was there
any chance of the weather continuing to improve in the few days
immediately after the sixth?

Some of the questions were impossible for the weathermen to answer.
Their report had been checked and double-checked and they were as
optimistic as they could be about the forecast, but there was always
the chance that the vagaries of the weather might prove them wrong.
They answered as best they could, then they withdrew.

For the next fifteen minutes Eisenhower and his commanders deliberated.
The urgency of making a decision was stressed by Admiral Ramsay. The
American task force for Omaha and Utah beaches under the command of
Rear Admiral A. G. Kirk would have to get the order within a half hour
if Overlord was to take place on Tuesday. Ramsay's concern was
prompted by the refueling problem; if

those forces sailed later and were then recalled it would be impossible
to get them ready again for a possible attack on Wednesday, the
seventh.

Eisenhower now polled his commanders one by one. General Smith thought
the attack should go in on the sixth--it was a gamble, but one that
should be taken. Tedder and Leigh-Mallory were both fearful that even
the predicted cloud cover would prove too much for the air forces to
operate effectively. It might mean that the assault would take place
without adequate air support. They thought it was going to be
"chancy." Montgomery stuck to the decision that he had made the night
before when the June 5 D Day had been postponed. "I would say, Go," he
said.

It was now up to Ike. The moment had come when only he could make the
decision. There was a long silence as Eisenhower weighed all the
possibilities. General Smith, watching, was struck by the "isolation
and loneliness" of the Supreme Commander as he sat, hands clasped
before him, looking down at the table. The minutes ticked by; some say
two minutes passed, others as many as five. Then Eisenhower, his face
strained, looked up and announced his decision. Slowly he said, "I am
quite positive we must give the order ... I don't like it, but there it
is. ... I don't see how we can do anything else."

Eisenhower stood up. He looked tired, but some of the tension had left
his face. Six hours later at a brief meeting to review the weather he
would hold to his decision and reconfirm it--Tuesday, June 6, would be
D Day.

Eisenhower and his commanders left the room, hurrying now to set the
great assault in motion. Behind them in the silent library a haze of
blue smoke hung over the conference table, the fire reflected itself in
the polished floor, and on the mantelpiece the hands of a clock pointed
to 9:45.

It was about 10:00 P.m. when Private Arthur B. "Dutch" Schultz of the
82nd Airborne Division decided to get out of the crap game; he might
never have this much money again. The game had been going on ever
since the announcement that the airborne assault was off for at least
twenty-four hours. It had begun behind a tent, next it had moved under
the wing of a plane, and now the session was going full blast in the
hangar, which had been converted into a huge dormitory. Even here it
had done some traveling, moving up and down the corridors created by
the rows of double-tiered bunks. And Dutch was one of the big
winners.

How much he had won he didn't know. But he guessed that the bundle of
crumpled greenbacks, English bank-notes and fresh blue-green French
invasion currency he held in his fist came to more than $2,500. That
was more money than he had seen at any one time in all his twenty-one
years.

Physically and spiritually he had done everything to prepare himself
for the jump. Services for all denominations had been held on the
airfield in the morning and Dutch, a Catholic, had gone to confession
and communion. Now he knew exactly what he was going to do with his
winnings. He mentally figured out the distribution. He would leave
$1,000 with the adjutant's office; he could use that on pass when he
got back to England. Another $1,000 he planned to send to his mother
in San Francisco to keep for him, but he wanted her to have $500 of it
as a gift--she sure could use it. He had a special purpose for the
remainder: that would go on a helluva blowout when his outfit, the
505th, reached Paris.

The young paratrooper felt good; he had taken care of everything--but
had he? Why did the incident of the morning keep coming back, filling
him with so much uneasiness?

At mail call that morning he had received a letter from his mother. As
he tore open the envelope a rosary slid out and fell at his feet.
Quickly, so that the wisecracking crowd around him wouldn't notice, he
had snatched up the beads and stuffed them into a barracks bag that he
was leaving behind.

Now the thought of the rosary beads suddenly gave rise to a question
that hadn't struck him before: What was he doing gambling at a time
like this? He looked at the folded and crumpled bills sticking out
between his fingers--more money than he could have earned in a year.
At that moment Private Dutch Schultz knew that if he pocketed all this
money, he would surely be killed. Dutch decided to take no chances.
"Move over," he said, "and let me get at the play." He glanced at his
watch and wondered how long it would take to lose $2,500.

Schultz wasn't the only one who acted strangely this night. Nobody,
from enlisted men to generals, seemed eager to challenge the fates.
Over near Newbury at the headquarters of the 101/ Airborne Division,
the commander, Major General Maxwell D. Taylor, was holding a long,
informal session with his senior officers. There were perhaps half a
dozen men in the room and one of them, Brigadier General Don Pratt, the
assistant division commander, sat on a bed. While they were talking
another officer arrived. Taking off his cap, he tossed it onto the
bed. General Pratt leaped up, swept the cap onto the floor and said,
"My God, that's damn bad luck!" Everybody laughed, but Pratt didn't
sit on the bed again. He had chosen to lead the 101/'s glider forces
into Normandy.

As the night closed in, the invasion forces all over En-

gland continued to wait. Keyed up by months of training, they were
ready to go, and the postponement had made them jittery. It was now
about eighteen hours since the stand-down, and each hour had taken its
toll of the patience and readiness of the troops. They did not know
that D Day now was barely twenty-six hours away; it was still much too
early for the news to filter down. And so, on this stormy Sunday
night, men waited, in loneliness, anxiety and secret fear, for
something, anything, to happen.

They did precisely what the world expects men to do under such
circumstances: They thought of their families, their wives, their
children, their sweethearts. And everybody talked about the fighting
that lay ahead. What would the beaches really be like? Would the
landings be as tough as everybody seemed to think? Nobody could
visualize D Day, but each man prepared for it in his own way.

On the dark, wave-tossed Irish Sea, aboard the destroyer U.s.s.
Herndon, Lieutenant (j.g.) Bartow Farr, Jr., tried to concentrate on a
bridge game. It was difficult; there were too many sober reminders all
around him that this was not just another social evening. Taped to the
walls of the wardroom were large aerial reconnaissance photographs of
German gun positions overlooking the Normandy beaches. These guns were
the Herndon's D-Day targets. It occurred to Farr that the Herndon
would also be theirs.

Farr was reasonably certain he would survive D Day. There had been a
lot of kidding about who would come through and who wouldn't. Back in
Belfast Harbor the crew of the Corry, their sister ship, had been
giving odds of ten to one against the Herndon's return. The Herndon's
crew retaliated by spreading the rumor that when the invasion fleet set
out the Corry would remain in port, because of low morale aboard
ship.

Lieutenant Farr had every confidence that the Herndon would return
safe, and he with her. Still, he was glad he

had written a long letter to his unborn son. It never occurred to Farr
that his wife, Anne, back in New York, might give birth to a girl
instead. (she didn't. That November the Farrs had a boy.)

In a staging area near Newhaven, Corporal Reginald Dale of the British
3rd Division sat up in his bunk and worried about his wife, Hilda.
They had been married in 1940, and ever since both had longed for a
child. On his last leave, just a few days before, Hilda had announced
that she was pregnant. Dale was furious; all along he had sensed that
the invasion was close and that he'd be in on it. "This is a hell of a
time, I must say," he had snapped. In his mind he saw again the quick
hurt that had come into her eyes, and he berated himself once again for
the hasty words.

But it was too late now. He could not even telephone her. He lay back
down on his bunk and, like thousands of others in British staging
areas, tried to will himself to sleep.

A few men, nerveless and cool, slept soundly. At a British 50th
Division embarkation area one man was Company Sergeant Major Stanley
Hollis. Long ago he had learned to sleep whenever he could. The
coming attack didn't worry Hollis too much; he had a good idea what to
expect. He had been evacuated from Dunkirk, had fought with the Eighth
Army in North Africa and had landed on the beaches of Sicily. Among
the millions of troops in Britain that night Hollis was a rarity. He
was looking forward to the invasion; he wanted to get back to France to
kill some more Germans.

It was a personal matter with Hollis. He had been a dispatch rider at
the time of Dunkirk, and in the town of Lille during the retreat he had
seen a sight which he had never forgotten. Cut off from his unit,
Hollis had taken a wrong turn in a part of the town that the Germans
had apparently just passed through. He found himself in a cul-

de-sac filled with the still warm bodies of over a hundred French men,
women and children. They had been machine-gunned. Embedded in the
wall behind the bodies and littering the ground were hundreds of spent
bullets. From that moment Stan Hollis had become a superb hunter of
the enemy. His score was now over ninety. At D Day's end, he would
notch his Sten gun with his one hundred and second victory.

There were others who were also anxious to set foot in France. The
waiting seemed interminable to Commander Philippe Kieffer and his 171
tough French commandos. With the exception of the few friends they had
made in England, there had been no one for them to say goodbye
to--their families were still in France.

In their encampment near the mouth of the Hamble River, they spent the
time checking weapons and studying the molded-foam-rubber terrain model
of Sword Beach and their targets in the town of Ouistreham. One of the
commandos, Count Guy de Montlaur, who was extremely proud to be a
sergeant, was delighted to hear this night that there had been a slight
change of plan: His squad would be leading the attack on the resort's
gambling casino, now believed to be a strongly defended German command
post. "It will be a pleasure," he told Commander Kieffer. "I have
lost several fortunes in that place."

One hundred fifty miles away, in the U.s. 4th Infantry Division's
staging area, near Plymouth, Sergeant Harry Brown came off duty and
found a letter waiting for him. Many times he had seen the same sort
of thing in war movies, but he never thought it would happen to him:
The letter contained an advertisement for Adler Elevator Shoes. The ad
particularly galled the sergeant. Everyone was so short in his section
that they were called "Brown's midgets." The sergeant was the
tallest--five feet five and a half inches.

While he was wondering who had given his name to the Adler Company, one
of his squad showed up. Corporal John Gwiadosky had decided to repay a
loan. Sergeant Brown couldn't get over it as Gwiadosky solemnly handed
him the money. "Don't get any wrong ideas," explained Gwiadosky. "I
just don't want you chasing me all over hell trying to collect."

Across the bay, on the transport New Amsterdam anchored near Weymouth,
Second Lieutenant George Kerchner of the 2nd Ranger Battalion was
occupied with a routine chore. He was censoring his platoon's mail.
It was particularly heavy tonight; everybody seemed to have written
long letters home. The 2nd and 5th Rangers had been given one of the
toughest D-Day assignments. They were to scale the almost sheer
one-hundred-foot cliffs at a place called Pointe du Hoc and silence a
battery of six long-range guns--guns so powerful that they could zero
in on Omaha Beach or the transport area of Utah Beach. The Rangers
would have just thirty minutes to do the job.

Casualties were expected to be heavy--some thought as high as sixty
percent--unless the air and naval bombardment could knock out the guns
before the Rangers got there. Either way, nobody expected the attack
to be a breeze. Nobody, that is, except Staff Sergeant Larry Johnson,
one of Kerchner's section leaders.

The lieutenant was dumbfounded when he read Johnson's letter. Although
none of the mail would be sent out until after D Day--whenever that
would be-- this letter couldn't even be delivered through ordinary
channels. Kerchner sent for Johnson and, when the sergeant arrived,
gave him back the letter. "Larry," said Kerchner dryly, "you better
post this yourself--after you get to France." Johnson had written a
girl asking for a date early in June. She lived in Paris.

It struck the lieutenant as the sergeant left the cabin that

as long as there were optimists like Johnson nothing was impossible.

Almost every man in the invasion forces wrote a letter to someone
during the long hours of waiting. They had been penned up for a long
time, and the letters seemed to give them emotional release. Many of
them recorded their thoughts in a way that men seldom do.

Captain John F. Dulligan of the 1/ Infantry Division, slated to land on
Omaha Beach, wrote his wife: "I love these men. They sleep all over
the ship, on the decks, in, on top, and underneath the vehicles. They
smoke, play cards, wrestle around and indulge in general horseplay.
They gather around in groups and talk mostly about girls, home and
experiences (withand without girls). ... They are good soldiers, the
best in the world. ... Before the invasion of North Africa, I was
nervous and a little scared. During the Sicilian invasion I was so
busy that the fear passed while I was working. ... This time we will
hit a beach in France and from there on only God knows the answer. I
want you to know that I love you with all my heart. ... I pray that
God will see fit to spare me to you and Ann and Pat."

The men on heavy naval vessels or large transports, on airfields or in
embarkation areas, were the lucky ones. They were restricted and
overcrowded, but they were dry, warm and well. It was a different
story for the troops on the flat-bottomed landing ships heaving at
anchor outside nearly every harbor. Some men had been on these vessels
for more than a week. The ships were overcrowded and foul, the men
unbelievably miserable. For them the battle began long before they
ever left England. It was a battle against continuous nausea and
seasickness. Most of the men still remember that the ships smelled of
just three things: diesel oil, backed-up toilets and vomit.

Conditions varied from ship to ship. On LCT 777, Sig-

nalman Third Class George Hackett Jr., was amazed to see waves so high
that they smashed over one end of the wallowing craft and rolled out
the other. LCT 6, a British landing craft, was so overloaded that
Lieutenant Colonel Clarence Hupfer of the U.s. 4th Division thought it
would sink. Water lapped at the gunwales and at times washed over into
the craft. The galley was flooded and the troops were forced to eat
cold food--those who could eat at all.

LST 97, Sergeant Keith Bryan of the 5th Engineer Special Brigade
remembers, was so overcrowded that men were stepping over one another,
and it rolled so much that those lucky enough to have bunks had
difficulty staying in them. And to Sergeant Morris Magee of the
Canadian 3rd Division the heaving of his craft "was worse than being in
a rowboat in the center of Lake Champlain." He was so sick he could no
longer throw up.

But the troops who suffered most during the waiting period were the men
in the recalled convoys. All day they had ridden out the storm in the
Channel. Now, water-logged and weary, they glumly lined the rails as
the last of the straggling convoys dropped their anchors. By 11:00
P.m. all the ships were back.

Outside Plymouth Harbor, Lieutenant Commander Hoffman of the Corry
stood on his bridge looking at the long lines of dark shadows,
blacked-out landing ships of every size and description. It was cold.
The wind was still high and he could hear the shallow-draft vessels
slopping and slapping the water as they rolled in the trough of every
wave.

Hoffman was weary. They had returned to port only a short while before
to learn for the first time the reason for the postponement. Now they
had been warned to stand to once again.

Below decks the news spread quickly. Bennie Glisson,

the radio operator, heard it as he prepared to go on watch. He made
his way to the mess hall and when he got there he found more than a
dozen men having dinner--tonight it was turkey with all the trimmings.
Everybody seemed depressed. "You guys," he said, "act like you're
eating your last meal." Bennie was nearly right. At least half of
those present would go down with the Corry a little after H Hour on D
Day.

Nearby, on LCI 408, morale was also very low. The Coast Guard crew
were convinced that the false start had been just another dry run.
Private William Joseph Phillips of the 29th Infantry Division tried to
cheer them up. "This outfit," he solemnly predicted, "will never see
combat. We've been in England so long that our job won't start until
the war is over. They're going to have us wipe the bluebird shit off
the White Cliffs of Dover."

At midnight Coast Guard cutters and naval destroyers began the huge job
of reassembling the convoys again. This time there would be no turning
back.

Off the coast of France the midget submarine X23 slowly came to the
surface. It was 1:00 A.m., June 5. Lieutenant George Honour quickly
undid the hatch. Climbing up into the little conning tower, Honour and
another crewman erected the antennae. Below, Lieutenant James Hodges
flicked the dial on the radio to 1850 kilocycles and cupped his
earphones with his hands. He hadn't long to wait. Very faintly he
picked up their call sign: "Padfoot ... Padfoot ... Padfoot." As he
heard the one-word message that followed, he looked up in disbelief.
Pressing his hands more firmly over the earphones, he listened again.
But there was no mistake. He told the others. Nobody said anything.
Glumly they looked at one another; ahead lay another full day under
water.

In the early-morning light the beaches of Normandy were shrouded in
mist. The intermittent rain of the previous day had become a steady
drizzle, soaking everything. Beyond the beaches lay the ancient,
irregularly shaped fields over which countless battles had been fought
and countless more battles would be fought.

For four years the people of Normandy had lived with the Germans. This
bondage had meant different things for different Normans. In the three
major cities--Le Havre and Cherbourg, the ports which bracketed the
area on east and west, and between them (both geographically and in
size) Caen, lying ten miles inland--the occupation was a harsh and
constant fact of life. Here were the headquarters of the Gestapo and
the S.s. Here were the reminders of war --the nightly roundups of
hostages, the never-ending reprisals against the underground, the
welcome but fearful Allied bombing attacks.

Beyond the cities, particularly between Caen and Cherbourg, lay the
hedgerow country: the little fields bordered by great mounds of earth,
each topped with thick bushes and saplings, that had been used as
natural fortifications by invaders and defenders alike since the days
of the Romans. Dotting the countryside were the timbered farm
buildings with their thatched or red-tiled roofs, and here and there
stood the towns and villages like miniature citadels, nearly all with
square-cut Norman churches surrounded by centuries-old gray stone
houses. To most of the world their names were unknown--Vierville,
Colleville, La Madeleine, Ste.-M`ere-eeglise, Chef-du-Pont, Ste.
Marie-du-Mont, Arromanches, Luc. Here, in the sparsely

populated countryside, the occupation had a different meaning than in
the big cities. Caught up in a kind of pastoral backwash of the war,
the Norman peasant had done what he could to adjust to the situation.
Thousands of men and women had been shipped out of the towns and
villages as slave laborers, and those who remained were forced to work
part of their time in labor battalions for the coastal garrisons. But
the fiercely independent peasants did no more than was absolutely
necessary. They lived from day to day, hating the Germans with Norman
tenaciousness, and stoically watching and waiting for the day of
liberation.

In his mother's house on a hill overlooking the sleepy village of
Vierville, a thirty-one-year-old lawyer, Michel Hardelay, stood at the
living room windows, his binoculars focused on a German soldier riding
a large farm horse down the road to the sea front. On either side of
his saddle hung several tin cans. It was a preposterous sight: the
massive rump of the horse, the bounding cans and the soldier's
bucketlike helmet topping it all.

As Hardelay watched, the German rode through the village, past the
church with its tall, slender spire and on down to the concrete wall
that sealed the main road off from the beach. Then he dismounted and
took down all but one can. Suddenly three or four soldiers appeared
mysteriously from around the cliffs and bluffs. They took the cans and
disappeared again. Carrying the remaining can, the German climbed the
wall and crossed to a large russet-colored summer villa surrounded by
trees which stood astride the promenade at the end of the beach. There
he got down on his knees and passed the can to a pair of waiting hands
that appeared at ground level from under the building.

Every morning it was the same. The German was never late; he always
brought the morning coffee down to the

Vierville exit at this time. The day had begun for the gun crews in
the cliffside pillboxes and camouflaged bunkers at this end of the
beach--a peaceful-looking, gently curving strip of sand that would be
known to the world by the next day as Omaha Beach.

Michel Hardelay knew it was exactly 6:15 A.m.

He had watched the ritual many times before. It always struck Hardelay
as a little comic, partly because of the soldier's appearance, partly
because he found it amusing that the much vaunted technical know-how of
the Germans fell apart when it came to a simple job like supplying men
in the field with morning coffee. But Hardelay's was a bitter
amusement. Like all Normans he had hated the Germans for a long time
and he hated them particularly now.

For some months Hardelay had watched German troops and conscripted
labor battalions digging, burrowing and tunneling all along the bluffs
which backed up the beach and in the cliffs at either end where the
sand stopped. He had seen them trellis the sands with obstacles and
plant thousands of lethal, ugly mines. And they had not stopped there.
With methodical thoroughness, they had demolished the line of pretty
pink, white and red summer cottages and villas below the bluffs along
the sea front. Now only seven out of ninety buildings remained. They
had been destroyed not only to give the gunners clear arcs of fire, but
because the Germans wanted the wood to panel their bunkers. Of the
seven houses still standing, the largest--an all-year-round house built
of stone--belonged to Hardelay. A few days before he had been
officially told by the local commandant that his house would be
destroyed. The Germans had decided they needed the bricks and the
stone.

Hardelay wondered if maybe somebody, somewhere wouldn't countermand the
decision. In some matters, the Germans were often unpredictable. He'd
know for certain

within twenty-four hours; he had been told the house would come down
tomorrow--Tuesday, June 6.

At six-thirty, Hardelay switched on his radio to catch the BBC news.
It was forbidden, but like hundreds of thousands of Frenchmen he
flouted the order. It was just one more way to resist. Still he kept
the sound down to a whisper. As usual, at the end of the news "Colonel
Britain"--Douglas Ritchie, who was always identified as the voice of
Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force--read an important
message.

"Today, Monday, June fifth," he said, "the Supreme Commander directs me
to say this: There now exists in these broadcasts a direct channel of
communications between the Supreme Commander and yourselves in the
occupied countries. ... In due course instructions of great importance
will be given, but it will not be possible always to give them at a
previously announced time; therefore, you must get into the habit,
either personally or by arrangement with your friends, of listening at
all hours. This is not as difficult as it sounds ..." Hardelay
guessed that the "instructions" would have something to do with the
invasion. Everyone knew it was coming. He thought the Allies would
attack at the narrowest part of the English Channel--around Dunkirk or
Calais, where there were ports. But certainly not here.

The Dubois and Davot families living in Vierville didn't hear the
broadcast; they slept late this morning. They had held a big
celebration the previous night that had gone on until the early hours.
Similar family gatherings had taken place all over Normandy, for
Sunday, June 4, had been set aside by the ecclesiastical authorities as
First Communion Day. It was always a great occasion, an annual reason
for families and relatives to get together.

Togged out in their best clothes, the Dubois and Davot children had
made their first Communion in the little Vier-

ville church before their proud parents and relatives. Some of these
relatives, each armed with a special pass from the German authorities
which had taken months to get, had come all the way from Paris. The
trip had been exasperating and dangerous--exasperating because the
overcrowded trains no longer ran on time, dangerous because all
locomotives were targets for Allied fighter-bombers.

But it had been worth it; a trip to Normandy always was. The region
was still rich in all those things that Parisians rarely saw now--fresh
butter, cheese, eggs, meat and, of course, Calvados, the heady
cider-and-apple-pulp cognac of the Normans. Besides, in these
difficult times Normandy was a good place to be. It was quiet and
peaceful, too far away from England to be invaded.

The reunion of the two families had been a great success. And it
wasn't over yet. This evening everyone would sit down to another great
meal with the best wines and cognacs that their hosts had been able to
save. That would wind up the celebrations; the relatives would catch
the train for Paris at dawn on Tuesday.

Their three-day Normandy vacation was due to last much longer; they
would remain trapped in Vierville for the next four months.

Farther down the beach, near the Colleville exit, forty-year-old
Fernand Broeckx was doing what he did every morning at six-thirty: He
sat in his dripping barn, spectacles askew, head tucked down by the
udders of a cow, directing a thin stream of milk into a pail. His
farm, lying alongside a narrow dirt road, topped a slight rise barely a
half mile from the sea. He hadn't been down that road or onto the
beach in a long time--not since the Germans had closed it off.

He had been farming in Normandy for five years. In World War I,
Broeckx, a Belgian, had seen his home destroyed. He had never
forgotten it. In 1939, when World

War II began, he promptly gave up his job in an office and moved his
wife and daughter to Normandy, where they would be safe.

Ten miles away in the cathedral town of Bayeux his pretty
nineteen-year-old daughter Anne Marie prepared to set out for the
school where she taught kindergarten. She was looking forward to the
end of the day, for then summer vacations began. She would spend her
holidays on the farm. She would cycle home tomorrow.

Tomorrow also, a tall, lean American from Rhode Island whom she had
never met would land on the beach almost in line with her father's
farm. She would marry him.

All along the Normandy coast people went about their usual daily
chores. The farmers worked in the fields, tended their apple orchards,
herded their white-and-liver-colored cows. In the little villages and
towns the shops opened. For everyone it was just another routine day
of occupation.

In the little hamlet of La Madeleine, back of the dunes and the wide
expanse of sand that would soon be known as Utah Beach, Paul Gazengel
opened up his tiny store and caf`e as usual, although there was almost
no business.

There had been a time when Gazengel had made a fair living--not much,
but sufficient for the needs of himself, his wife, Marthe, and their
twelve-year-old daughter, Jeannine. But now the entire coastal area
was sealed off. The families living just behind the seashore--roughly
from the mouth of the Vire (which emptied into the sea nearby) and all
along this side of the Cherbourg peninsula-- had been moved out. Only
those who owned farms had been permitted to remain. The caf`e keeper's
livelihood now depended on seven families that remained in La Madeleine
and a few German troops in the vicinity whom he was forced to serve.

Gazengel would have liked to move away. As he sat in

his caf`e waiting for the first customer, he did not know that within
twenty-four hours he would be making a trip. He and all the other men
in the village would be rounded up and sent to England for
questioning.

One of Gazengel's friends, the baker Pierre Caldron, had more serious
problems on his mind this morning. In Dr. Jeanne's clinic at Carentan
ten miles from the coast, he sat by the bedside of his five-year-old
son Pierre, who had just had his tonsils removed. At midday Dr.
Jeanne reexamined his son. "You've nothing to worry about," he told
the anxious father. "He's all right. You'll be able to take him home
tomorrow." But Caldron had been thinking. "No," he said. "I think
his mother will be happier if I take little Pierre home today." Half
an hour later, with the little boy in his arms, Caldron set out for his
home in the village of Ste.-Marie-du-Mont, back of Utah Beach --where
the paratroopers would link up with the men of the 4th Division on D
Day.

The day was quiet and uneventful for the Germans, too. Nothing was
happening and nothing was expected to happen; the weather was much too
bad. It was so bad, in fact, that in Paris, at the Luftwaffe's
headquarters in the Luxembourg Palace, Colonel Professor Walter Steobe,
the chief meteorologist, told staff officers at the routine daily
conference that they could relax. He doubted that Allied planes would
even be operational this day. Antiaircraft crews were promptly ordered
to stand down.

Next, Steobe telephoned 20 Boulevard Victor Hugo in
St.-Germain-en-Laye, a suburb of Paris just twelve miles away. His
call went to an immense, three-floored blockhouse, one hundred yards
long, sixty feet deep and embedded in the side of a slope beneath a
girl's high school--OB West, Von Rundstedt's headquarters. Steobe
spoke to

his liaison officer, weatherman Major Hermann Mueller, who dutifully
recorded the forecast and then sent it along to the chief of staff,
Major General Blumentritt. Weather reports were taken very seriously
at OB West and Blumentritt was particularly anxious to see this one.
He was putting the finishing touches to the itinerary of an inspection
trip the Commander in Chief West planned to make. The report confirmed
his belief that the trip could take place as scheduled. Von Rundstedt,
accompanied by his son, a young lieutenant, planned to inspect the
coastal defenses in Normandy on Tuesday.

Not many in St.-Germain-en-Laye were aware of the blockhouse's
existence and even fewer knew that the most powerful field marshal in
the German west lived in a small unpretentious villa back of the high
school at 28 Rue Alexandre Dumas. It was surrounded by a high wall,
the iron gates permanently closed. Entrance to the villa was by way of
a specially constructed corridor that had been cut through the walls of
the school, or by way of an unobtrusive door in the wall bordering the
Rue Alexandre Dumas.

Von Rundstedt slept late as usual (the aged field marshal rarely got up
now before ten-thirty) and it was almost noon before he sat down at his
desk in the villa's first-floor study. It was there that he conferred
with his chief of staff and approved OB West's "Estimate of Allied
Intentions" so that it could be forwarded to Hitler's headquarters,
OKW, later in the day. The estimate was another typical wrong guess.
It read:

The systematic and distinct increase of air attacks indicates that the
enemy has reached a high degree of readiness. The probable invasion
front still remains the sector from the Scheldt [in Holland] to
Normandy ... and it is not impossible that the north front of Brittany
might be included ... [but] it is still not clear where the enemy will
invade within

this total area. Concentrated air attacks on the coast defenses
between Dunkirk and Dieppe may mean that the main Allied invasion
effort will be made there ... [but] imminence of invasion is not
recognizable. ...

With this vague estimate out of the way--an estimate that placed the
possible invasion area someplace along almost eight hundred miles of
coast--Von Rundstedt and his son set out for the field marshal's
favorite restaurant, the Coq Hardi at Bougival nearby. It was a little
after one; D Day was twelve hours away.

All along the chain of German command the continuing bad weather acted
like a tranquilizer. The various headquarters were quite confident
that there would be no attack in the immediate future. Their reasoning
was based on carefully assessed weather evaluations that had been made
of the Allied landings in North Africa, Italy and Sicily. In each case
conditions had varied, but meteorologists like Steobe and his chief in
Berlin, Dr. Karl Sonntag, had noted that the Allies had never
attempted a landing unless the prospects of favorable weather were
almost certain, particularly for covering air operations. To the
methodical German mind there was no deviation from this rule; the
weather had to be just right or the Allies wouldn't attack. And the
weather wasn't just right.

At Army Group B headquarters in La Roche-Guyon the work went on as
though Rommel were still there, but the chief of staff, Major General
Speidel, thought it was quiet enough to plan a little dinner party. He
had invited several guests: Dr. Horst, his brother-in-law; Ernst
Junger, the philosopher and author; and an old friend, Major Wilhelm
von Schramm, one of the official "war reporters." The intellectual
Speidel was looking forward to the dinner. He hoped they'd discuss his
favorite subject, French literature. There was something else to be
discussed: a twenty-page manuscript that Junger had drafted and
secretly passed

on to Rommel and Speidel. Both of them fervently believed in the
document; it outlined a plan for bringing about peace--after Hitler had
either been tried by a German court or been assassinated. "We can
really have a night discussing things," Speidel had told Schramm.

In St.-Leo, at the headquarters of the 84th Corps, Major Friedrich
Hayn, the intelligence officer, was making arrangements for another
kind of party. He had ordered several bottles of excellent Chablis,
for at midnight the staff planned to surprise the corps commander,
General Erich Marcks. His birthday was June 6.

They were holding the surprise birthday party at midnight because
Marcks had to leave for the city of Rennes in Brittany at daybreak. He
and all the other senior commanders in Normandy were to take part in a
big map exercise that was to begin early on Tuesday morning. Marcks
was slightly amused at the role he was supposed to play: He would
represent the "Allies." The war games had been arranged by General
Eugen Meindl, and perhaps because he was a paratrooper the big feature
of the exercise was to be an "invasion" beginning with a paratroop
"assault" followed by "landing" from the sea. Everyone thought the
Kriegsspiel would be interesting--the theoretical invasion was supposed
to take place in Normandy.

The Kriegsspiel worried the Seventh Army's chief of staff, Major
General Max Pemsel. All afternoon at the headquarters in Le Mans he'd
been thinking about it. It was bad enough that his senior commanders
in Normandy and the Cherbourg peninsula would be away from their
commands all at the same time. But it might be extremely dangerous if
they were away overnight. Rennes was a long way off for most of them
and Pemsel was afraid that some might be planning to leave the front
before dawn. It was the dawn that always worried Pemsel; if an
invasion ever came in Normandy, he believed, the attack would be
launched at first light. He decided to warn all those due

to participate in the games. The order he sent out by teletype read:
"Commanding generals and others scheduled to attend the Kriegsspiel are
reminded not to leave for Rennes before dawn on June 6." But it was
too late. Some had already gone.

And so it was that, one by one, senior officers from Rommel down had
left the front on the very eve of the battle. All of them had reasons,
but it was almost as though a capricious fate had manipulated their
departure. Rommel was in Germany. So was Army Group B's operations
officer, Von Tempelhof. Admiral Theodor Krancke, the naval commander
in the west, after informing Rundstedt that patrol boats were unable to
leave harbor because of rough seas, set out for Bordeaux. Lieutenant
General Heinz Hellmich, commanding the 243rd Division, which was
holding one side of the Cherbourg peninsula, departed for Rennes. So
did Lieutenant General Karl von Schlieben of the 709th Division. Major
General Wilhelm Falley of the tough 91/ Air Landing Division, which had
just moved into Normandy, prepared to go. Colonel Wilhelm
Meyer-Detring, Rundstedt's intelligence officer, was on leave and the
chief of staff of one division couldn't be reached at all--he was off
hunting with his French mistress. * * After D Day the coincidences of
these multiple departures from the invasion front struck Hitler so
forcibly that there was actually talk of an investigation to see
whether the British service could possibly have had anything to do with
it. The fact is that Hitler himself was no better prepared for the
great day than his generals. The Feuhrer was at his Berchtesgaden
retreat in Bavaria. His naval aide, Admiral Karl Jesko von Puttkamer,
remembers that Hitler got up late, held his usual military conference
at noon and then had lunch at 4:00 P.m. Besides his mistress, Eva
Braun, there were a number of Nazi dignitaries and their wives. The
vegetarian Hitler apologized to the ladies for the meatless meal with
his usual mealtime comment, "The elephant is the strongest animal; he
also cannot stand meat." After lunch the group adjourned to the
garden, where the Feuhrer sipped lime blossom tea. He napped between
six and seven, held another military conference at 11:00 P.m., then, a
little before midnight, the ladies were called back. To the best of
Puttkamer's recollection, the group then had to listen to four hours of
Wagner, Lehar and Strauss.

At this point, with the officers in charge of beachhead defenses
dispersed all over Europe, the German High Command decided to transfer
the Luftwaffe's last remaining fighter squadrons in France far out of
range of the Normandy beaches. The fliers were aghast.

The principal reason for the withdrawal was that the squadrons were
needed for the defense of the Reich, which for months had been coming
under increasingly heavy round-the-clock Allied bombing attack. Under
the circumstances it just did not seem reasonable to the High Command
to leave these vital planes on exposed airfields in France where they
were being destroyed by Allied fighters and bombers. Hitler had
promised his generals that a thousand Luftwaffe planes would hit the
beaches on the day of invasion. Now that was patently impossible. On
June 4 there were only 183 day fighter planes in the whole of France, *
of which about 160 were considered serviceable. Of the 160, one wing
of 124, the 26th Fighter Wing, was being moved back from the coast that
very afternoon. * In researching this book I found no less than five
different figures for the number of fighter planes in France. The
figure of 183 given here I believe to be accurate. My source is a
recent Luftwaffe history written by Colonel Josef Priller (see below),
whose work is now considered one of the most authoritative yet written
on the Luftwaffe's activities.

At the headquarters of the 26th at Lille in the zone of the Fifteenth
Army, Colonel Josef "Pips" Priller, one of the Luftwaffe's top aces (he
had shot down ninety-six planes), stood on the airfield and fumed.
Overhead was one of his three squadrons, heading for Metz in northeast
France. His second squadron was about to take off. It had been
ordered to Rheims, roughly halfway between Paris and the German border.
The third squadron had already left for the south of France.

There was nothing the wing commander could do but protest. Priller was
a flamboyant, temperamental pilot renowned in the Luftwaffe for his
short temper. He had a

reputation for telling off generals, and now he telephoned his group
commander. "This is crazy!" Priller shouted. "If we're expecting an
invasion the squadrons should be moved up, not back! And what happens
if the attack comes during the transfer? My supplies can't reach the
new bases until tomorrow or maybe the day after. You're all crazy!"

"Listen, Priller," said the group commander. "The invasion is out of
the question. The weather is much too bad."

Priller slammed down the receiver. He walked back out onto the
airfield. There were only two planes left, his and the one belonging
to Sergeant Heinz Wodarczyk, his wing man. "What can we do?" he said
to Wodarczyk. "If the invasion comes they'll probably expect us to
hold it off all by ourselves. So we might as well start getting drunk
now."

Of all the millions who watched and waited throughout France only a few
men and women actually knew that the invasion was imminent. There were
less than a dozen of them. They went about their affairs calmly and
casually as usual. Being calm and casual was part of their business;
they were the leaders of the French underground.

Most of them were in Paris. From there they commanded a vast and
complicated organization. It was in fact an army with a full chain of
command and countless departments and bureaus handling everything from
the rescue of downed Allied pilots to sabotage, from espionage to
assassination. There were regional chiefs, area commanders, section
leaders and thousands of men and women in the rank and file. On paper
the organization had so many overlapping nets of activity that it
appeared to be unnecessarily complex. This apparent confusion was
deliberate. In it lay the underground's strength. Overlapping
commands gave greater protection; multiple nets of activity

guaranteed the success of each operation; and so secret was the entire
structure that leaders rarely knew one another except by code names and
never did one group know what another was doing. It had to be this way
if the underground was to survive at all. Even with all those
precautions German retaliatory measures had become so crushing that by
May of 1944 the life expectancy of an active underground fighter was
considered to be less than six months.

This great secret resistance army of men and women had been fighting a
silent war for more than four years--a war that was often
unspectacular, but always hazardous. Thousands had been executed,
thousands more had died in concentration camps. But now, although the
rank and file didn't know it yet, the day for which they had been
fighting was close at hand.

In the previous days the underground's high command had picked up
hundreds of coded messages from the BBC. A few of these had been
alerts warning that the invasion might come at any moment. One of
these messages had been the first line of the Verlaine poem, "Chanson
d'Automne"--the same alert that Lieutenant Colonel Meyer's men at the
German Fifteenth Army headquarters had intercepted on June 1. (canaris
had been right.)

Now, even more excited than Meyer, the underground leaders waited for
the second line of this poem and for other messages which would confirm
the previously received information. None of these alerts was expected
to be broadcast until the very last moment in the hours preceding the
actual day of invasion. Even then the underground leaders knew that
they would not learn from the messages the exact area where the
landings were due to take place. For the underground at large the real
tip-off would come when the Allies ordered the prearranged sabotage
plans to go into effect. Two messages would trigger

off the attacks. One, "It is hot in Suez," would put into effect the
"Green Plan" --the sabotaging of railroad tracks and equipment. The
other, "The dice are on the table," would call for the "Red Plan"--the
cutting of telephone lines and cables. All regional, area and sector
leaders had been warned to listen for these two messages.

On this Monday evening, the eve of D Day, the first message was
broadcast by the BBC at 6:30 P.m. "It is hot in Suez. ... It is hot in
Suez," said the voice of the announcer solemnly.

Guillaume Mercader, the intelligence chief for the Normandy coastal
sector between Vierville and Port-en-Bessin (roughly the Omaha Beach
area) was crouching by a hidden radio set in the cellar of his bicycle
shop in Bayeux when he heard it. He was almost stunned by the impact
of the words. It was a moment he would never forget. He didn't know
where the invasion would take place or when, but it was coming at long
last, after all these years.

There was a pause. Then came the second message that Mercader had been
waiting for. "The dice are on the table," said the announcer. "The
dice are on the table." This was immediately followed by a long string
of messages, each one repeated: "Napoleon's hat is in the ring. ...
John loves Mary. ... The Arrow will not pass. ..." Mercader switched
off the radio. He had heard the only two messages that concerned him.
The others were specific alerts for groups elsewhere in France.

Hurrying upstairs, he said to his wife, Madeleine, "I have to go out.
I'll be back late tonight." Then he wheeled out a low racing bike from
his bicycle shop and pedaled off to tell his section leaders. Mercader
was the former Normandy cycling champion and he had represented the
province several times in the famed Tour De France race. He knew the
Germans wouldn't stop him. They had given him a special permit so that
he could practice.

Everywhere now resistance groups were quietly told the news by their
immediate leaders. Each unit had its own plan and knew exactly what
had to be done. Albert Aug`e, the station-master at Caen, and his men
were to destroy water pumps in the yards, smash the steam injectors on
locomotives. Andr`e Farine, a caf`e owner from Lieu Fontaine, near
Isigny, had the job of strangling Normandy's communications; his
forty-man team would cut the massive telephone cable feeding out of
Cherbourg. Yves Gresselin, a Cherbourg grocer, had one of the toughest
jobs of all: His men were to dynamite a network of railway lines
between Cherbourg, St.-Leo and Paris. And these were just a few of the
teams. It was a large order for the underground. Time was short and
the attacks couldn't begin before dark. But everywhere along the
invasion coast from Brittany to the Belgian border men prepared, all
hoping that the attack would come in their areas.

For some men the messages posed quite different problems. In the
seaside resort town of Grandcamp near the mouth of the Vire and almost
centered between Omaha and Utah beaches, sector chief Jean Marion had
vital information to pass on to London. He wondered how he'd get it
there--and if he still had time. Early in the afternoon his men had
reported the arrival of a new antiaircraft battery group barely a mile
away. Just to be sure, Marion had casually cycled over to see the
guns. Even if he was stopped he knew he'd get through; among the many
fake identification cards he had for such occasions was one stating
that he was a construction worker on the Atlantic Wall.

Marion was shaken by the size of the unit and the area it covered. It
was a motorized flak assault group with heavy, light and mixed
antiaircraft guns. There were five batteries, twenty-five guns in all,
and they were being moved into positions covering the area from the
mouth of the Vire all the way to the outskirts of Grandcamp. Their
crews, Mar-

ion noted, were toiling feverishly to emplace the guns, almost as
though they were working against time. The frantic activity worried
Marion. It could mean that the invasion would be here and that somehow
the Germans had learned of it.

Although Marion did not know it, the guns covered the precise route the
planes and gliders of the 82nd and 101/ paratroopers would take within
a few hours. Yet if anybody in the German High Command had any
knowledge of the impending attack, they hadn't told Colonel Werner von
Kistowski, commander of Flak Assault Regiment 1. He was still wondering
why his 2,500-man flak unit had been rushed up here. But Kistowski was
used to sudden moves. His outfit had once been sent into the Caucasus
all by itself. Nothing surprised him anymore.

Jean Marion, calmly cycling by the soldiers at work on the guns, began
to wrestle with a big problem: how to get this vital information to the
secret headquarters of Leeonard Gille, Normandy's deputy military
intelligence chief, in Caen, fifty miles away. Marion couldn't leave
his sector now--there was too much to do. So he decided to take a
chance on sending the message by a chain of couriers to Mercader in
Bayeux. He knew it might take hours, but if there was still time
Marion was sure that Mercader would somehow get it to Caen.

There was one more thing Marion wanted London to know about. It wasn't
as important as the antiaircraft gun positions--simply a confirmation
of the many messages he had sent in the previous days about the massive
gun emplacements on the top of the nine-story-high cliffs at Pointe du
Hoc. Marion wanted to pass on once again the news that the guns had
not yet been installed. They were still en route, two miles away from
the positions. (despite Marion's frantic efforts to warn London, on D
Day U.s. Rangers would lose 135 men out of 225 in their heroic attack
to silence guns that had never been there.)

For some members of the underground, unaware of the imminence of the
invasion, Tuesday, June 6, had a special significance of its own. For
Leeonard Gille it meant a meeting in Paris with his superiors. Even
now, Gille was calmly sitting in a train bound for Paris, although he
expected Green Plan sabotage teams to derail it at any moment. Gille
was quite sure the invasion was not scheduled for Tuesday, at least not
in his area. Surely his superiors would have canceled the meeting if
the attack was due in Normandy.

But the date did bother him. That afternoon in Caen, one of Gille's
section chiefs, the leader of an affiliated Communist group, had told
him quite emphatically that the invasion was due at dawn on the sixth.
The man's information had proved invariably right in the past. This
raised an old question again in Gille's mind. Did the man get his
information direct from Moscow? Gille decided not; it seemed
inconceivable to him that the Russians would deliberately jeopardize
Allied plans by breaking security.

For Janine Boitard, Gille's fianceee, back in Caen, Tuesday couldn't
come soon enough. In three years of underground work, she had hidden
more than sixty Allied pilots in her little ground-floor apartment at
15 Rue Laplace. It was dangerous, unrewarding, nerve-racking work; a
slip could mean the firing squad. After Tuesday, Janine could breathe
a little easier--until the next time she hid a flier who was down--for
on Tuesday she was due to pass along the escape route two R.a.f. pilots
who had been shot down over northern France. They had spent the last
fifteen days in her apartment. She hoped her luck would continue to
hold.

For others, luck had already run out. For Ameelie Lechevalier, June 6
could mean nothing, or everything. She and her husband, Louis, had
been arrested by the Gestapo on June 2. They had helped more than a
hundred Allied fliers to escape; they had been turned in by one of
their own farm boys. Now, in her cell in the Caen prison, Ameelie

Lechevalier sat on the bunk and wondered how soon she and her husband
would be executed.

Off the French coast a little before 9:00 P.m. a dozen small ships
appeared. They moved quietly along the horizon, so close that their
crews could clearly see the houses of Normandy. The ships went
unnoticed. They finished their job and then moved back. They were
British mine sweepers--the vanguard of the mightiest fleet ever
assembled.

For now back in the Channel, plowing through the choppy gray waters, a
phalanx of ships bore down on Hitler's Europe--the might and fury of
the free world unleashed at last. They came, rank after relentless
rank, ten lanes wide, twenty miles across, five thousand ships of every
description. There were fast new attack transports, slow rust-scarred
freighters, small ocean liners, Channel steamers, hospital ships,
weather-beaten tankers, coasters and swarms of fussing tugs. There
were endless columns of shallow-draft landing ships--great wallowing
vessels, some of them almost 350 feet long. Many of these and the
other heavier transports carried smaller landing craft for the actual
beach assault--more than fifteen hundred of them. Ahead of the convoys
were processions of mine sweepers, Coast Guard cutters, buoy-layers and
motor launches. Barrage balloons flew above the ships. Squadrons of
fighter planes weaved below the clouds. And surrounding this

fantastic cavalcade of ships packed with men, guns, tanks, motor
vehicles and supplies, and excluding small naval vessels, was a
formidable array of 702 warships. * * There is considerable
controversy as to the exact number of ships in the invasion fleet, but
the most accurate military works on D Day--Gordon Harrison's
Cross-Channel Attack (the official U.s. Army military history) and
Admiral Samuel Eliot Morison's naval history Invasion of France and
Germany--both agree on a figure of about five thousand. This includes
the landing craft which were carried on board. Operation Neptune by
the Royal Navy's Commander Kenneth Edwards gives a lower figure of
around 4,500.

There was the heavy cruiser U.s.s. Augusta, Rear Admiral Kirk's
flagship, leading the American task force-- twenty-one convoys bound
for Omaha and Utah beaches. Just four months before Pearl Harbor the
queenly Augusta had carried President Roosevelt to a quiet Newfoundland
bay for the first of his many historic meetings with Winston Churchill.
Nearby, steaming majestically with all their battle flags flying, were
the battleships: H.m.s. Nelson, Ramillies and Warspite, and U.s.s.
Texas, Arkansas and the proud Nevada which the Japanese had sunk and
written off at Pearl Harbor.

Leading the thirty-eight British and Canadian convoys bound for Sword,
Juno and Gold beaches was the cruiser H.m.s. Scylla, the flagship of
Rear Admiral Sir Philip Vian, the man who tracked down the German
battleship Bismarck. And close by was one of Britain's most famous
light cruisers-- H.m.s. Ajax, one of a trio which had hounded the pride
of Hitler's fleet, the Graf Spee, to her doom in Montevideo harbor
after the battle of the River Plate in December 1939. There were other
famous cruisers--the U.s.s. Tuscaloosa and Quincy, H.m.s. Enterprise
and Black Prince, France's Georges Leygues-- twenty-two in all.

Along the edges of the convoys sailed a variety of ships: graceful
sloops, chunky corvettes, slim gunboats like the Dutch Soemba,
antisubmarine patrol craft, fast PT boats,

and everywhere sleek destroyers. Besides the scores of American and
British destroyers, there were Canada's Qu'Appelle, Saskatchewan and
Ristigouche, Norway's Svenner, and even a contribution from the Polish
forces, the Poiron.

Slowly, ponderously this great armada moved across the Channel. It
followed a minute-by-minute traffic pattern of a kind never attempted
before. Ships poured out of British ports and, moving down the coasts
in two-convoy lanes, converged on the assembly area south of the Isle
of Wight. There they sorted themselves out and each took a carefully
predetermined position with the force heading for the particular beach
to which it had been assigned. Out of the assembly area, which was
promptly nicknamed "Piccadilly Circus," the convoys headed for France
along five buoy-marked lanes. And as they approached Normandy these
five paths split up into ten channels, two for each beach--one for fast
traffic, the other for slow. Up front, just behind the spearhead of
mine sweepers, battleships and cruisers, were the command ships, five
attack transports bristling with radar and radio antennae. These
floating command posts would be the nerve centers of the invasion.

Everywhere there were ships. To the men aboard, this historic armada
is still remembered as "the most impressive, unforgettable" sight they
had ever seen.

For the troops it was good to be on the way at last, despite the
discomforts and the dangers ahead. Men were still tense, but some of
the strain had lifted. Now everybody simply wanted to get the job over
and done with. On the landing ships and transports men wrote
last-minute letters, played cards, joined in long bull sessions.
"Chaplains," Major Thomas Spencer Dallas of the 29th Division recalls,
"did a land-office business."

One minister on a jam-packed landing craft, Captain Lewis Fulmer Koon,
chaplain for the 4th Division's 12th Infantry Regiment, found himself
serving as pastor for all

denominations. A Jewish officer, Captain Irving Gray, asked Chaplain
Koon if he would lead his company in prayer "to the God in whom we all
believe, whether Protestant, Roman Catholic or Jew, that our mission
may be accomplished and that, if possible, we may be brought safely
home again." Koon gladly obliged. And in the gathering dusk, Gunner's
Mate Third Class William Sweeney of a Coast Guard cutter remembers, the
attack transport Samuel Chase blinked out a signal, "Mass is going
on."

For most of the men the first few hours of the journey were spent
quietly. Many grew introspective and talked of things men usually keep
to themselves. Hundreds later recalled that they found themselves
admitting their fears and talking of other personal matters with
unusual candor. They drew closer to one another on this strange night
and confided in men they had never even met before. "We talked a lot
about home and what we had experienced in the past and what we would
experience at the landing and what it would all be like," Private First
Class Earlston Hern of the 146th Engineer Battalion recalls. On the
slippery wet deck of his landing craft, Hern and a medic whose name he
never learned had such a conversation. "The medic was having trouble
at home. His wife, a model, wanted a divorce. He was a pretty worried
guy. He said she'd have to wait until he got home. I remember, too,
that the whole time we were talking there was a young kid nearby
singing softly to himself. This kid made the remark that he could sing
better than he ever had in the past and it really seemed to please
him."

Aboard H.m.s. Empire Anvil, Corporal Michael Kurtz of the U.s. 1/
Division, a veteran of the invasions of North Africa, Sicily and Italy,
was approached by a new replacement, Private Joseph Steinber of
Wisconsin.

"Corporal," said Steinber, "do you honestly think we've got a
chance?"

"Hell, yes, boy," said Kurtz. "Don't ever worry about getting killed.
In this outfit we worry about battles when we get to them."

Sergeant Bill "L-Rod" Petty of the 2nd Ranger Battalion was doing his
worrying now. With his friend, Private First Class Bill McHugh, Petty
sat on the deck of the old Channel steamer Isle of Man watching the
darkness close in. Petty took cold comfort from the long lines of
ships all about them; his mind was on the cliffs at Pointe du Hoc.
Turning to McHugh, he said, "We haven't got a hope in hell of coming
out of this alive."

"You're just a goddam pessimist," said McHugh.

"Maybe," replied Petty, "but only one of us will make it, Mac."

McHugh was unimpressed. "When you gotta go, you gotta go," he said.

Some men tried to read. Corporal Alan Bodet of the 1/ Division began
Kings Row by Henry Bellamann, but he found it difficult to concentrate
because he was worrying about his jeep. Would the waterproofing hold
out when he drove it into three or four feet of water? Gunner Arthur
Henry Boon of the Canadian 3rd Division, on board a landing craft
loaded with tanks, tried to get through a pocket book intriguingly
titled A Maid and a Million Men. Chaplain Lawrence E. Deery of the 1/
Division on the transport H.m.s. Empire Anvil was amazed to see a
British naval officer reading Horace's odes in Latin. But Deery
himself, who would land on Omaha Beach in the first wave with the 16th
Infantry Regiment, spent the evening reading Symond's Life of
Michelangelo. In another convoy, on a landing craft which was rolling
so much that nearly everybody was seasick, Captain James Douglas Gilan,
another Canadian, brought out the one volume which made sense this
night. To quiet his own nerves and those of a brother officer, he
opened to the Twenty-third Psalm and read

aloud, "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. ..."

It wasn't all solemn. There was lightheartedness, too. Aboard the
transport H.m.s. Ben Machree, some Rangers strung three-quarter-inch
ropes from the masts to the decks and began climbing all over the ship,
much to the astonishment of the British crew. On another ship, members
of the Canadian 3rd Division held an amateur night with assorted
recitations, jigs and reels and choral offerings. Sergeant James
Percival "Paddy" de Lacy of the King's Regiment became so emotional
listening to the "Rose of Tralee" played on the bagpipes that he forgot
where he was and stood up and offered a toast to Ireland's Eamon de
Valera for "keepin' us out of the war."

Many men who had spent hours worrying about their chances of survival
now couldn't wait to reach the beaches. The boat trip was proving more
terrible than their worst fear of the Germans. Seasickness had struck
through the fifty-nine convoys like a plague, especially in the rolling
landing craft. Each man had been supplied with antiseasickness pills,
plus an article of equipment which was listed in the loading sheets
with typical Army thoroughness as "Bag, vomit, one."

This was military efficiency at its best, but it still wasn't enough.
"The puke bags were full, tin hats were full, the fire buckets were
emptied of sand and filled," Technical Sergeant William James Wiedefeld
of the 29th Division recalls. "The steel decks you couldn't stand on,
and everywhere you heard men say, "If they are going to kill us, get us
out of these damn tubs."" On some landing ships men were so ill that
they threatened--possibly more for effect than in earnest--to throw
themselves overboard. Private Gordon Laing of the Canadian 3rd
Division found himself hanging on to a friend who "begged me to let go
his belt." A Royal Marine commando, Sergeant Russel John Wither,
remembers that on his landing ship "the spew bags were

soon used up and in the end only one was left." It was passed from
hand to hand.

Because of the seasickness, thousands of men lost the best meals they
would see for many months to come. Special arrangements had been made
to give all ships the finest food possible. The special menus, which
the troops dubbed the "last meal," varied from ship to ship, and
appetites varied from man to man. On board the attack transport
Charles Carroll, Captain Carroll B. Smith of the 29th Division had a
steak with eggs on top, sunny side up, and then topped it off with ice
cream and loganberries. Two hours later he was fighting for a position
at the rail. Second Lieutenant Joseph Rosenblatt, Jr., of the 112th
Engineer Battalion ate seven helpings of chicken ea la king and felt
fine. So did Sergeant Keith Bryan of the 5th Engineer Special Brigade.
He put away sandwiches and coffee and was still hungry. One of his
buddies "lifted" a gallon of fruit cocktail from the galley and four of
them finished that.

Aboard the H.m.s. Prince Charles, Sergeant Avery J. Thornhill of the
5th Rangers avoided all discomforts. He took an overdose of seasick
pills and slept through it all.

Despite the common miseries and fears of the men who were there some
memories are etched with surprising clarity. Second Lieutenant Donald
Anderson of the 29th Division remembers how the sun broke through about
an hour before dark, silhouetting the entire fleet. In honor of
Sergeant Tom Ryan of the 2nd Rangers, the men of F Company gathered
around him and sang "Happy Birthday." He was twenty-two. And for
homesick nineteen-year-old Private Robert Marion Allen of the 1/
Division it was "a night ready-made for a boat ride on the
Mississippi."

All over, throughout the ships of the fleet, the men who would make
history at dawn settled down to get what rest they could. As Commander
Philippe Kieffer of the lone

French commando unit rolled himself into his blankets aboard his
landing ship, there came to his mind the prayer of Sir Jacob Astley at
the battle of Edgehill in England in 1642. "O Lord," prayed Kieffer,
"Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do not
Thou forget me ..." He drew up the blankets and was almost immediately
asleep.

It was a little after 10:15 P.m. when Lieutenant Colonel Meyer,
counterintelligence chief of the German Fifteenth Army, rushed out of
his office. In his hand was probably the most important message the
Germans had intercepted throughout the whole of World War II. Meyer
now knew that the invasion would take place within forty-eight hours.
With this information the Allies could be thrown back into the sea.
The message picked up from a BBC broadcast to the French underground
was the second line of the Verlaine poem: "Blessent mon coeur d'une
langueur monotone [Wound my heart with a monotonous languor]."

Meyer burst into the dining room where General Hans Von Salmuth, the
Fifteenth Army's commanding officer, was playing bridge with his chief
of staff and two others. "General!" Meyer said breathlessly. "The
message, the second part--it's here!"

Von Salmuth thought a moment, then gave the order to put the Fifteenth
Army on full alert. As Meyer hurried out of the room, Von Salmuth was
again looking at his bridge hand. "I'm too old a bunny," Von Salmuth
recalls saying, "to get too excited about this."

Back in his office, Meyer and his staff immediately notified OB West,
Von Rundstedt's headquarters, by telephone. They in turn alerted OKW,
Hitler's headquarters. Simultaneously all other commands were informed
by teletype.

Once again, for reasons that have never been explained satisfactorily,
the Seventh Army was not notified. * It would take the Allied fleet a
little more than four hours now to reach the transport areas off the
five Normandy beaches; within three hours eighteen thousand
paratroopers would drop over the darkening fields and hedgerows--into
the zone of the one German army never alerted to D Day. * All times in
this book are given in British Double Summer Time, which was one hour
later than German Central Time. So to Meyer the time his men
intercepted the message was 9:15 P.m. Just for the record, the
Fifteenth Army War Diary carries the exact teletype message that was
sent out to the various commands. It reads: "Teletype No. 2117/26
urgent to 67th, 81/, 82nd, 89th Corps; Military Governor Belgium and
Northern France; Army Group B; 16th Flak Division; Admiral Channel
Coast; Luftwaffe Belgium and Northern France. Message of BBC, 2115,
June 5 has been processed. According to our available records it means
"Expect invasion within 48 hours, starting 0000, June 6."" It will be
noted that neither the Seventh Army nor its 84th Corps is included in
the above list. It was not Meyer's job to notify these. The
responsibility lay with Rommel's headquarters, as these units came
under Army Group B. However, the biggest mystery of all is why OB West,
Rundstedt's headquarters, failed to alert the whole invasion front from
Holland to the Spanish border. The mystery is further compounded by
the fact that at war's end the Germans claimed that at least fifteen
messages pertaining to D Day were intercepted and correctly
interpreted. The Verlaine messages are the only ones I found entered
in the German war diaries.

Private Arthur B. "Dutch" Schultz of the 82nd Airborne Division was
ready. Like everybody else on the airfield, he was in his jump suit, a
parachute hanging over his right arm. His face was blackened with
charcoal; his head, in the crazy style affected by paratroopers
everywhere this night, was shaven Iroquois fashion, with a narrow tuft
of hair running back the center of his scalp. All around him was his
gear; he was ready in every respect. Of the $2,500 he had won a few
hours before he now had just $20 left.

Now the men waited for the trucks to carry them to the planes. Private
Gerald Columbi, one of Dutch's friends,

broke away from a small crap game that was still going and came running
up. "Lend me twenty bucks quick!" he said.

"What for?" asked Schultz. "You might get killed."

"I'll let you have this," said Columbi, undoing his wristwatch.

"Okay," said Dutch, handing over his last $20.

Columbi ran back to the game. Dutch looked at the watch; it was a gold
Bulova graduation model with Columbi's name and an inscription from his
parents on the back. Just then someone yelled, "Okay, here we go."

Dutch picked up his gear and with the other paratroopers left the
hangar. As he climbed aboard a truck he passed Columbi. "Here," he
said, as he gave him back the watch, "I don't need two of them." Now
all Dutch had left were the rosary beads his mother had sent him. He
had decided to take them after all. The trucks moved across the
airfield toward the waiting planes.

All over England the Allied airborne armies boarded their planes and
gliders. The planes carrying the pathfinders, the men who would light
the dropping zones for the airborne troops, had already left. At the
101/ Airborne Division's headquarters at Newbury, the Supreme
Commander, General Dwight D. Eisenhower, with a small group of officers
and four correspondents, watched the first planes get into position for
take-off. He had spent more than an hour talking to the men. He was
more worried about the airborne operation than about any other phase of
the assault. Some of his commanders were convinced that the airborne
assault might produce more than eighty percent casualties.

Eisenhower had said goodbye to the 101/'s commanding officer, Major
General Maxwell D. Taylor, who was leading his men into battle. Taylor
had walked away carrying himself very straight and stiff. He didn't
want the Supreme Commander to know that he had torn a ligament in his

right knee that afternoon playing squash. Eisenhower might have
refused him permission to go.

Now Eisenhower stood watching as the planes trundled down the runways
and lifted slowly into the air. One by one they followed each other
into the darkness. Above the field, they circled as they assembled
into formation. Eisenhower, his hands deep in his pockets, gazed up
into the night sky. As the huge formation of planes roared one last
time over the field and headed toward France, NBC'S Red Mueller looked
at the Supreme Commander. Eisenhower's eyes were filled with tears.

Minutes later, in the Channel, the men of the invasion fleet heard the
roar of the planes. It grew louder by the second, and then wave after
wave passed overhead. The formation took a long time to pass. Then
the thunder of their engines began to fade. On the bridge of the
U.s.s. Herndon, Lieutenant Bartow Farr, the watch officers and NEA'S
war correspondent, Tom Wolf, gazed up into the darkness. Nobody could
say a word. And then as the last formation flew over, an amber light
blinked down through the clouds on the fleet below. Slowly it flashed
out in Morse code three dots and a dash: V for Victory. PART TWO
103-105 THE NIGHT

Moonlight flooded the bedroom. Madame Angeele Levrault, sixty-year-old
schoolmistress in Ste.-M`ere-eeglise, slowly opened her eyes. On the
wall opposite her bed bunches of red and white lights were flickering
silently. Madame Levrault sat bolt upright and stared. The winking
lights seemed to be slowly dripping down the wall.

As full consciousness came to her, the old lady realized she was
looking at reflections in the large mirror on her dressing table. At
that moment, too, she heard off in the distance the low throbbing of
planes, the muffled booming of explosions and the sharp staccato of
quick-firing flak batteries. Quickly she went to the window.

Far up the coast, hanging eerily in the sky, were brilliant clusters of
flares. A red glow tinged the clouds. In the distance there were
bright-pink explosions and streams of orange, green, yellow and white
tracer bullets. To Madame Levrault it looked as if Cherbourg,
twenty-seven miles away, was being bombed again. She was glad she
lived in quiet little Ste.-M`ere-eeglise this night.

The schoolmistress put on her shoes and a dressing gown and headed
through the kitchen and out the back door, bound for the outhouse. In
the garden everything was peaceful. The flares and the moonlight made
it seem bright as day. The neighboring fields with their hedgerows
were still and quiet, filled with long shadows.

She had taken only a few steps when she heard the sound of airplanes
growing louder, heading for the town. Suddenly every flak battery in
the district began firing. Ma-

dame Levrault, frightened, rushed wildly for the protection of a tree.
The planes came in fast and low, accompanied by a thunderous barrage of
antiaircraft fire, and she was momentarily deafened by the din. Almost
immediately the roar of the engines faded, the firing ceased and, as
though nothing had happened, there was silence again.

It was then that she heard a strange fluttering sound from somewhere
above her. She looked up. Floating down, heading straight for the
garden, was a parachute with something bulky swinging beneath it. For
a second the light of the moon was cut off, and at that moment Private
Robert M. Murphy * of the 82nd Airborne's 505th Regiment, a pathfinder,
fell with a thud twenty yards away and tumbled head over heels into the
garden. Madame Levrault stood petrified. * As a war correspondent I
interviewed Madame Levrault in June 1944. She had no idea of the man's
name or unit, but she showed me three hundred rounds of ammunition,
still in their pouches, which the paratrooper had dropped. In 1958,
when I began writing and interviewing D-Day participants for this book,
I was able to locate only a dozen of the original American pathfinders.
One of them, Mr. Murphy, now a prominent Boston lawyer, told me that
"after hitting the ground ... I took my trench knife from my boot and
cut myself out of the harness. Without knowing it I also cut away
pouches carrying three hundred rounds of ammunition." His story
tallied in all respects with Madame Levrault's, told to me fourteen
years before.

Quickly the eighteen-year-old trooper whipped out a knife, cut himself
loose from his chute, grabbed a large bag and stood up. Then he saw
Madame Levrault. They stood looking at each other for a long moment.
To the old Frenchwoman, the paratrooper looked weirdly frightening. He
was tall and thin, his face was streaked with war paint, accentuating
his cheekbones and nose. He seemed weighted down with weapons and
equipment. Then, as the old lady watched in terror, unable to move,
the strange apparition put a finger to his lips in a gesture of
silence

and swiftly disappeared. At that moment, Madame Levrault was
galvanized to action. Grabbing up the skirts of her nightwear, she
dashed madly for the house. What she had seen was one of the first
Americans to land in Normandy. The time was 12:15 A.m., Tuesday, June
6. D Day had begun.

All over the area the pathfinders had jumped, some from only three
hundred feet. The task of this advance guard of the invasion, a small,
courageous group of volunteers, was to mark "drop zones" in a
fifty-mile-square area of the Cherbourg peninsula back of Utah Beach
for the 82nd and 101/ paratroopers and gliders. They had been trained
in a special school set up by Brigadier General James M. "Jumpin' Jim"
Gavin. "When you land in Normandy," he had told them, "you will have
only one friend: God." At all costs they were to avoid trouble. Their
vital mission depended on speed and stealth.

But the pathfinders ran into difficulties from the very beginning.
They plunged into chaos. The Dakotas had swept in over the targets so
fast that the Germans at first thought they were fighter planes.
Surprised by the suddenness of the attack, flak units opened up
blindly, filling the sky with weaving patterns of glowing tracer
bullets and deadly bursts of shrapnel. As Sergeant Charles Asay of the
101/ floated down, he watched with a curious detachment as "long
graceful arcs of multicolored bullets waved up from the ground,"
reminding him of the Fourth of July. He thought "they were very
pretty."

Just before Private Delbert Jones jumped, the plane he was in got a
direct hit. The shell slammed through without doing much damage, but
it missed Jones by only an inch. And as Private Adrian Doss, burdened
with upwards of one hundred pounds of equipment, fell through the air,
he was horrified to find tracer bullets weaving all about him. They
converged above his head and he felt the tug-

ging of his chute as the bullets ripped through the silk. Then a
stream of bullets passed through the equipment hanging in front of him.
Miraculously he wasn't hit, but a hole was ripped in his musette bag
"large enough for everything to fall out."

So intense was the flak fire that many planes were forced off course.
Only thirty-eight of the 120 pathfinders landed directly on their
targets. The remainder came down miles away. They dropped into
fields, gardens, streams and swamps. They crashed into trees and
hedgerows and onto rooftops. Most of these men were veteran
paratroopers, but even so they were utterly confused when they tried to
get their initial bearings. The fields were smaller, the hedgerows
higher and the roads narrower than those they had studied for so many
months on terrain maps. In those first awful moments of
disorientation, some men did foolhardy and even dangerous things.
Private First Class Frederick Wilhelm was so dazed when he landed that
he forgot he was behind enemy lines and switched on one of the large
marker lights he was carrying. He wanted to see if it still worked.
It did. Suddenly the field was flooded with light, scaring Wilhelm
more than if the Germans had actually opened fire on him. And Captain
Frank Lillyman, leader of the 101/ teams, almost gave his position
away. Dropping into a pasture, he was suddenly confronted by a huge
bulk that bore down on him out of the darkness. He almost shot it
before it identified itself with a low moo.

Besides frightening themselves and startling the Normans, the
pathfinders surprised and confused the few Germans who saw them. Two
troopers actually landed outside the headquarters of Captain Ernst
Deuring of the German 352nd Division, more than five miles from the
nearest drop zone. Deuring, who commanded a heavy machine gun company
stationed at Brevands, had been awakened by the low-flying formations
and the flak barrage. Leaping out of bed,

he dressed so quickly that he put his boots on the wrong feet
(something he didn't notice until the end of D Day). In the street
Deuring saw the shadowy figures of the two men some distance away. He
challenged them but got no answer. Immediately he sprayed the area
with his Schmeisser submachine gun. There was no answering fire from
the two well-trained pathfinders. They simply vanished. Rushing back
to his headquarters, Deuring called his battalion commander.
Breathlessly he said into the phone, "Fallschirmjeager [Paratroopers]!
Fallschirmjeager!"

Other pathfinders weren't as lucky. As Private Robert Murphy of the
82nd, lugging his bag (which contained a portable radar set), headed
out of Madame Levrault's garden and started toward his drop zone north
of Ste.-M`ere-eeglise, he heard a short burst of firing off to his
right. He was to learn later that his buddy, Private Leonard
Devorchak, had been shot at that moment. Devorchak, who had sworn to
"win a medal a day just to prove to myself that I can make it," may
have been the first American to be killed on D Day.

All over the area pathfinders like Murphy tried to get their bearings.
Silently moving from hedgerow to hedgerow, these fierce-looking
paratroopers, bulky in their jump smocks and overloaded with guns,
mines, lights, radar sets and fluorescent panels, set out for
rendezvous points. They had barely one hour to mark the drop zones for
the full-scale American airborne assault that would begin at 1:15
A.m.

Fifty miles away, at the eastern end of the Normandy battlefield, six
planeloads of British pathfinders and six R.a.f. bombers towing gliders
swept in over the coast. Ahead of them the sky stormed with vicious
flak fire, and ghostly chandeliers of flares hung everywhere. In the
little village of Ranville, a few miles from Caen, eleven-year-old
Alain Doix had seen the flares, too. The firing had awak-

ened him and now he stared transfixed, as had Madame Levrault, utterly
fascinated by the kaleidoscopic reflections which he could see in the
great brass knobs on the posts at the end of the bed. Shaking his
grandmother, Madame Mathilde Doix, who was sleeping with him, Alain
said excitedly, "Wake up! Wake up, Grandmama, I think something is
happening."

Just then Alain's father, Ren`e Doix, rushed into the room. "Get
dressed quickly," he urged them. "I think it's a heavy raid." From
the window, father and son could see the planes coming in over the
fields, but as he watched Ren`e realized that these planes made no
sound. Suddenly it dawned on him what they were. "My God," he
exclaimed, "these aren't planes! They're gliders!"

Like huge bats, the six gliders, each carrying approximately thirty
men, swooped silently down. Immediately on crossing the coast, at a
point some five miles from Ranville, they had been cast off by their
tow planes from five to six thousand feet up. Now they headed for two
parallel waterways shimmering in the moonlight, the Caen Canal and the
Orne River. Two heavily guarded bridges, one leading to the other,
crossed the twin channels just above and between Ranville and the
village of Beenouville. These bridges were the objectives for this
small band of British 6th Airborne glider infantry--volunteers from
such proud units as the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry
and the Royal Engineers. Their hazardous mission was to seize the
bridges and overwhelm the garrison. If their task could be achieved a
major artery between Caen and the sea would be severed, preventing the
east-west movement of German reinforcements, particularly panzer units,
from driving into the flank of the British and Canadian invasion area.
Because the bridges were needed to expand the invasion bridgehead, they
had to be captured intact before the guards could set off demolitions.
A swift surprise assault was called for. The British had come up with
a bold

and dangerous solution. The men who now linked arms and held their
breath as their gliders rustled softly down through the moonlit night
were about to crash-land on the very approaches to the bridges.

Private Bill Gray, a Bren gunner, in one of three gliders heading for
the Caen Canal bridge, closed his eyes and braced himself for the
crash. It was eerily silent. There was no firing from the ground.
The only sound came from the big machine, sighing gently through the
air. Near the door, ready to push it open the moment they touched
down, was Major John Howard, in charge of the assault. Gray remembers
his platoon leader, Lieutenant H. D. "Danny" Brotheridge, saying "Here
we go, chaps." Then there was a splintering, rending crash. The
undercarriage ripped off, splinters showered back from the smashed
cockpit canopy, and, swaying from side to side like a truck out of
control, the glider screeched across the ground, throwing up a hail of
sparks. With a sickening half swing, the wrecked machine smashed to a
halt, as Gray recalls, "with the nose buried in barbed wire and almost
on the bridge."

Someone yelled, "Come on, lads!" and men came scrambling out, some
piling through the door, others tumbling down from the stove-in nose.
Almost at the same time and only yards away, the other two gliders
skidded to a crashing halt and out of them poured the remainder of the
assault force. Now everybody stormed the bridge. There was bedlam.
The Germans were shocked and disorganized. Grenades came hurtling into
their dugouts and communications trenches. Some Germans who were
actually asleep in gun pits woke to the blinding crash of explosions
and found themselves gazing into the business ends of Sten guns.
Others, still dazed, grabbed rifles and machine guns and began firing
haphazardly at the shadowy figures who seemed to have materialized from
nowhere.

While teams mopped up resistance on the near side of

the bridge, Gray and some forty men led by Lieutenant Brotheridge
charged across to seize the all-important far bank. Halfway over, Gray
saw a German sentry with a Very pistol in his right hand, ready to fire
a warning flare. It was the last act of a courageous man. Gray fired
from the hip with his Bren gun and, he thinks, so did everyone else.
The sentry fell dead even as the flare burst over the bridge and arched
into the night sky.

His warning, presumably intended for the Germans on the Orne bridge a
few hundred yards ahead, was fired much too late. The garrison there
had already been overrun, even though in that attack only two of the
assaulting gliders found the target (the third came down seven miles
away on the wrong bridge--a crossing over the Dives River). Both
target bridges fell almost simultaneously. Stunned by the swiftness of
the assault, the Germans were overwhelmed. Ironically, the Wehrmacht
garrisons couldn't have destroyed the crossings even if they had had
the time. Swarming over the bridges, the British sappers found that
although demolition preparations had been completed, explosive charges
had never been placed in position. They were found in a nearby hut.

Now there was that strange silence that seems always to follow a
battle, when men partly dazed by the speed of events try to figure out
how they lived through it and everybody wonders who else survived. The
nineteen-year-old Gray, elated by his part in the assault, eagerly
sought out his platoon leader, "Danny" Brotheridge, whom he had last
seen leading the attack across the bridge. But there had been
casualties, and one of them was the twenty-eight-year-old lieutenant.
Gray found Brotheridge's body lying in front of a small caf`e near the
canal bridge. "He had been shot in the throat," Gray recalls, "and
apparently hit by a phosphorous smoke grenade. His airborne smock was
still burning."

Close by, in a captured pillbox, Lance Corporal Edward Tappenden sent
out the success signal. Over and over he called into his
walkie-talkie-like radio the code message. "Ham and jam ... Ham and
jam ..." D Day's first battle was over. It had lasted barely fifteen
minutes. Now Major Howard and his 150-odd men, deep in enemy territory
and cut off for the moment from reinforcements, prepared to hold the
vital bridges.

At least they knew where they were. The same couldn't be said for the
majority of the sixty British paratroop pathfinders who jumped from six
light bombers at 12:20 A.m.--the same time that Howard's gliders
touched down.

These men took on one of the toughest of all D-Day jobs. The vanguard
of the British 6th Airborne assault, they had volunteered to jump into
the unknown and to mark three drop zones west of the Orne River with
flashing lights, radar beacons and other guidance apparatus. These
areas, all lying in a rectangle of roughly twenty square miles, were
close to three small villages--Varaville, less than three miles from
the coast; Ranville, near the bridges which Howard's men now held; and
Touffreeville, barely five miles from the eastern outskirts of Caen.
At twelve-fifty British paratroopers would begin dropping on these
zones. The pathfinders had just thirty minutes to set them up.

Even in England in daylight, it would have been tricky to find and mark
drop zones in thirty minutes. But at night, in enemy territory and in
a country where few of them had ever been, their task was awesome.
Like their comrades fifty miles away, the British pathfinders dropped
headlong into trouble. They, too, were scattered widely and their drop
was even more chaotic.

Their difficulties began with the weather. An unaccountable wind had
sprung up (which the American pathfinders did not experience) and some
areas were obscured by light patches of fog. The planes carrying the
British pathfinder teams ran into curtains of flak fire. Their pilots
instinctively took evasive action, with the result that targets were
overshot or couldn't be found at all. Some pilots made two and three
runs over the designated areas before all the pathfinders were dropped.
One plane, flying very low, swept doggedly back and forth through
intense antiaircraft fire for fourteen hair-raising minutes before
unloading its pathfinders. The result of all this was that many
pathfinders or their equipment plummeted down in the wrong places.

The troopers bound for Varaville landed accurately enough, but they
soon discovered that most of their equipment had been smashed in the
fall or had been dropped elsewhere. None of the Ranville pathfinders
landed even close to their area in the initial drop; they were
scattered miles away. But most unfortunate of all were the
Touffreeville teams. Two ten-man groups were to mark that area with
lights, each one flashing up into the night sky the code letter K. One
of these teams dropped on the Ranville zone. They assembled easily
enough, found what they thought was their right area and a few minutes
later flashed out the wrong signal.

The second Touffreeville team did not reach the right area either. Of
the ten men in this "stick," only four reached the ground safely. One
of them, Private James Morrissey, watched with horror as the other six,
suddenly caught by a heavy wind, sailed far off to the east.
Helplessly Morrissey watched the men being swept away toward the
flooded Dives valley, gleaming in the moonlight off in the distance
--the area the Germans had inundated as part of their defenses.
Morrissey never saw any of the men again.

Morrissey and the remaining three men landed quite close to
Touffreeville. They assembled and Lance Corporal Patrick O'Sullivan
set out to reconnoiter the drop zone. Within minutes he was hit by
fire which came from the

very edge of the area they were supposed to mark. So Morrissey and the
other two men positioned the Touffreeville lights in the cornfield
where they had landed.

Actually in these first confusing minutes few of the pathfinders
encountered the enemy. Here and there men startled sentries and drew
fire, and inevitably some became casualties. But it was the ominous
silence of their surroundings which created the greatest terror. Men
had expected to meet heavy German opposition the moment they landed.
Instead, for the majority all was quiet--so quiet that men passed
through nightmarish experiences of their own making. In several
instances pathfinders stalked one another in fields and hedgerows, each
man thinking the other was a German.

Groping through the Normandy night, near darkened farmhouses and on the
outskirts of sleeping villages, the pathfinders and 210 men of the
battalions' advance parties tried to get their bearings. As always,
their immediate task was to find out exactly where they were. Those
dropped accurately recognized the landmarks they had been shown on
terrain maps back in England. Others, completely lost, tried to locate
themselves with maps and compasses. Captain Anthony Windrum of an
advance signal unit solved the problem in a more direct way. Like a
motorist who has taken the wrong road on a dark night, Windrum shinnied
up a signpost, calmly struck a match and discovered that Ranville, his
rendezvous point, was only a few miles off.

But some pathfinders were irretrievably lost. Two of them plunged out
of the night sky and dropped squarely on the lawn before the
headquarters of Major General Josef Reichert, commanding officer of the
German 711th Division. Reichert was playing cards when the planes
roared over, and he and the other officers rushed out onto the
veranda--just in time to see the two Britishers land on the lawn.

It would have been hard to tell who was the more as-

tonished, Reichert or the two pathfinders. The General's intelligence
officer captured and disarmed the two men and brought them up to the
veranda. The astounded Riechert could only blurt out, "Where have you
come from?" to which one of the pathfinders, with all the aplomb of a
man who had just crashed a cocktail party, replied, "Awfully sorry, old
man, but we simply landed here by accident."

Even as they were led away to be interrogated, 570 American and British
paratroopers, the first of the Allied forces of liberation, were
setting the stage for the battle of D Day. On the landing zones lights
were already beginning to flash up into the night sky.

"What's happening?" yelled Major Werner Pluskat into the phone. Dazed
and only half awake, he was still in his underwear. The racket of
planes and gunfire had awakened him, and every instinct told him that
this was more than a raid. Two years of bitter experience on the
Russian front had taught the major to rely heavily on his instincts.

Lieutenant Colonel Ocker, his regimental commander, seemed annoyed at
Pluskat's phone call. "My dear Pluskat," he said icily, "we don't know
yet what's going on. We'll let you know when we find out." There was
a sharp click as Ocker hung up.

The reply didn't satisfy Pluskat. For the past twenty minutes planes
had been droning through the flare-studded sky, bombing the coast to
the east and the west. Pluskat's coastal area in the middle was
uncomfortably quiet. From his headquarters at Etreham, four miles from
the coast, he commanded four batteries of the German 352nd Division
--twenty guns in all. They covered one half of Omaha Beach.

Nervously, Pluskat decided to go over his regimental commander's head;
he phoned division headquarters and spoke with the 352nd's intelligence
officer, Major Block. "Probably just another bombing raid, Pluskat,"
Block told him. "It's not clear yet."

Feeling a little foolish, Pluskat hung up. He wondered if he had been
too impetuous. After all, there had been no alarm. In fact, Pluskat
recalls, after weeks of on-again, off-again alerts this was one of the
few nights when his men had been ordered to stand down.

Pluskat was wide awake now, too uneasy for sleep. He sat on the edge
of his cot for some time. At his feet, Harras, his German shepherd,
lay quietly. In the cheateau all was still, but off in the distance
Pluskat could still hear the droning of planes.

Suddenly the field telephone rang. Pluskat grabbed it. "Paratroopers
are reported on the peninsula," said the calm voice of Colonel Ocker.
"Alert your men and get down to the coast right away. This could be
the invasion."

Minutes later Pluskat, Captain Ludz Wilkening, the commander of his
second battery, and Lieutenant Fritz Theen, his gunnery officer,
started out for their advance headquarters, an observation bunker built
into the cliffs near the village of Ste.-Honorine. Harras went with
them. It was crowded in the jeeplike Volkswagen and Pluskat recalls
that in the few minutes it took them to reach the coast nobody talked.
He had one big worry: His batteries had only enough ammunition for
twenty-four hours. A few days before, General Marcks of the 84th Corps
had in-

spected the guns and Pluskat had raised the question. "If an invasion
ever does come in your area," Marcks had assured him, "you'll get more
ammunition than you can fire."

Passing through the outer perimeter of the coastal defense zone, the
Volkswagen reached Ste.-Honorine. There, with Harras on a leash, and
followed by his men, Pluskat slowly climbed a narrow track back of the
cliffs leading to the hidden headquarters. The path was clearly marked
by several strands of barbed wire. It was the only entrance to the
post and there were mine fields on either side. Almost at the top of
the cliff the major dropped into a slit trench, went down a flight of
concrete steps, followed a twisting tunnel and finally entered a large,
single-roomed bunker manned by three men.

Quickly Pluskat positioned himself before the high-powered artillery
glasses which stood on a pedestal opposite one of the bunker's two
narrow apertures. The observation post couldn't have been better
sited: It was more than one hundred feet above Omaha Beach and almost
directly in the center of what was soon to be the Normandy beachhead.
On a clear day, from this vantage point, a spotter could see the whole
bay of the Seine, from the tip of the Cherbourg peninsula off to the
left to Le Havre and beyond on the right.

Even now, in the moonlight, Pluskat had a remarkable view. Slowly
moving the glasses from left to right, he scanned the bay. There was
some mist. Black clouds occasionally blanketed out the dazzling
moonlight and threw dark shadows on the sea, but there was nothing
unusual to be seen. There were no lights, no sound. Several times he
traversed the bay with the glasses, but it was quite empty of ships.

Finally, Pluskat stood back. "There's nothing out there," he said to
Lieutenant Theen as he called regimental headquarters. But Pluskat was
still uneasy. "I'm going to stay

here," he told Ocker. "Maybe it's just a false alarm, but something
still could happen."

By now vague and contradictory reports were filtering into Seventh Army
command posts all over Normandy, and everywhere officers were trying to
assess them. They had little to go on--shadowy figures seen here,
shots fired there, a parachute hanging from a tree somewhere else.
Clues to something--but what? Only 570 Allied airborne troops had
landed. This was just enough to create the worst kind of confusion.

Reports were fragmentary, inconclusive and so scattered that even
experienced soldiers were skeptical and plagued by doubts. How many
men had landed--two or two hundred? were they bomber crews that had
bailed out? Was this a series of French underground attacks? Nobody
was sure, not even those, like General Reichert of the 711th Division,
who had seen paratroopers face to face. Reichert thought that it was
an airborne raid on his headquarters and that was the report he passed
on to his corps commander. Much later the news reached Fifteenth Army
headquarters, where it was duly recorded in the war diary with the
cryptic note, "No details given."

There had been so many false alarms in the past that everyone was
painfully cautious. Company commanders thought twice before passing
reports on to battalion. They sent out patrols to check and recheck.
Battalion commanders were even more careful before informing regimental
officers. As to what actually transpired at the various headquarters
in these first minutes of D Day, there are as many accounts as there
were participants. But one fact seems clear: On the basis of such
spotty reports nobody at this time was willing to raise the alarm--an
alarm that later might be proved wrong. And so the minutes ticked
by.

On the Cherbourg peninsula two generals had already

departed for the map exercise in Rennes. Now a third, Major General
Wilhelm Falley of the 91/ Air Landing Division, chose this time to set
out. Depsite the order issued from Seventh Army headquarters
forbidding commanding officers to leave before dawn, Falley did not see
how he could make the Kriegsspiel unless he departed earlier. His
decision was to cost him his life.

At Seventh Army headquarters in Le Mans, the commanding officer,
Colonel General Friedrich Dollmann, was asleep. Presumably because of
the weather, he had actually canceled a practice alert scheduled for
this very night. Tired out, he had gone to bed early. His chief of
staff, the very able and conscientious Major General Max Pemsel, was
preparing for bed.

In St.-Leo, at the headquarters of the 84th Corps, the next level of
command below army headquarters, all was set for General Eirch Marcks's
surprise birthday party. Major Friedrich Hayn, the corps intelligence
officer, had the wine ready. The plan was for Hayn, Lieutenant Colonel
Friedrich von Criegern, the chief of staff, and several other senior
officers to walk into the general's room as the clock in St.-Leo
Cathedral struck midnight (1:00 A.m. British Double Summer Time).
Everybody wondered how the stern-faced, one-legged Marcks (he had lost
a leg in Russia) would react. He was considered one of the first
generals in Normandy, but he was also an austere man not given to
demonstrations of any kind. Still, the plans were set and although
everybody felt a little childish about the whole idea the staff
officers were determined to go through with the party. They were
almost ready to enter the general's room when suddenly they heard a
nearby flak battery open up. Rushing outside, they were just in time
to see an Allied bomber spiraling down in flames and to hear the
jubilant gun crew yelling, "We got it! We got it!" General Marcks
remained in his room.

As the cathedral bells began chiming, the little group, with Major Hayn
in the lead carrying the Chablis and several glasses, marched into the
general's room, perhaps a shade self-consciously, to do honor to their
commander. There was a slight pause as Marcks looked up and gazed at
them mildly through his glasses. "His artificial leg creaked," recalls
Hayn, "as he rose to greet us." With a friendly wave of the hand he
immediately put everybody at ease. The wine was opened and, standing
in a little group around the fifty-three-year-old general, his staff
officers came to attention. Stiffly raising their glasses, they drank
his health, blissfully unaware that forty miles away 4,255 British
paratroopers were dropping on French soil.

Across the moonlit fields of Normandy rolled the hoarse, haunting notes
of an English hunting horn. The sound hung in the air, lonely,
incongruous. Again and again the horn sounded. Scores of shadowy
helmeted figures, in green-brown-and-yellow camouflaged jump smocks
festooned with equipment, struggled across fields, along ditches, by
the sides of hedgerows, all heading in the direction of the call.
Other horns took up the chorus. Suddenly a bugle began trumpeting.
For hundreds of men of the British 6th Airborne Division this was the
overture to battle.

The strange cacophony came from the Ranville area. The calls were the
assembly signals for two battalions of

the 5th Parachute Brigade and they had to move fast. One was to rush
to the assistance of Major Howard's tiny glider-borne force holding the
bridges. The other was to seize and hold Ranville, at the eastern
approaches to this vital crossing. Never before had paratroop
commanders assembled men in this manner, but speed this night was
essential. The 6th Airborne was racing against time. The first waves
of American and British troops would land on Normandy's five invasion
beaches between 6:30 and 7:30 A.m. The "Red Devils" had five and a half
hours to secure the initial foothold and anchor the left flank of the
entire invasion area.

The division had a variety of complex tasks, each one demanding almost
minute-by-minute synchronization. The plan called for paratroopers to
dominate the heights northeast of Caen, hold the bridges over the Orne
and the Caen Canal, demolish five more on the Dives River and thus
block enemy forces, particularly panzers, from driving into the side of
the invasion bridgehead.

But the lightly armed paratroopers didn't have enough fire power to
stop a concentrated armored attack. So the success of the holding
action depended on the speedy and safe arrival of antitank guns and
special armor-piercing ammunition. Because of the weight and size of
the guns there was only one way of getting them safely into Normandy:
by glider train. At 3:20 A.m. a fleet of sixty-nine gliders was due to
sweep down out of the Normandy skies carrying men, vehicles, heavy
equipment and the precious guns.

Their arrival posed a mammoth problem all by itself. The gliders were
immense--each one larger than a DC-3. Four of them, the Hamilcars,
were so big that they could even carry light tanks. To get the
sixty-nine gliders in, the paratroopers had first to secure the chosen
landing zones from enemy attack. Next they had to create a huge
landing field out of the obstacle-studded meadows. This meant

clearing a forest of mined tree trunks and railroad ties, in the dead
of night, and in just under two and a half hours. The same field would
be used for a second glider train due to land in the evening.

There was one more job to be done. It was perhaps the most important
of all the 6th Airborne's missions: the destruction of a massive
coastal battery near Merville. Allied intelligence believed that this
battery's four powerful guns could harass the assembling invasion fleet
and massacre the troops landing on Sword Beach. The 6th had been
ordered to destroy the guns by 5:00 A.m.

To accomplish these tasks, 4,255 paratroopers of the 3rd and 5th
parachute brigades had jumped into Normandy. They dropped over a huge
area, victims of navigational errors, bucketing planes forced off
course by flak fire, badly marked drop zones and gusty winds. Some
were fortunate, but thousands fell anywhere from five to thirty-five
miles from the drop zones.

Of the two brigades the 5th fared best. Most of its soldiers were
dropped close to their objectives near Ranville. Even so, it would
take company commanders the better part of two hours to assemble even
half their men. Scores of troopers, however, were already en route,
guided in by the wavering notes of the horns.

Private Raymond Batten of the 13th Battalion heard the horns, but
although he was almost at the edge of his drop zone he was momentarily
unable to do anything about it. Batten had crashed through the thick,
leafy roof of a small woods. He was hanging from a tree, slowly
swaying back and forth in his harness, just fifteen feet from the
ground. It was very still in the woods, but Batten could hear
prolonged bursts of machine-gun fire, the droning of planes and the
firing of flak batteries off in the distance. As he pulled out his
knife, ready to cut himself down, Batten heard the abrupt stutter of a
Schmeisser machine pistol

nearby. A minute later, there was a rustling of underbrush and
somebody moved slowly toward him. Batten had lost his Sten gun in the
drop and he didn't have a pistol. Helplessly he hung there, not
knowing whether it was a German or another paratrooper moving toward
him. "Whoever it was came and looked up at me," Batten recalls. "All
I could do was to keep perfectly still and he, probably thinking I was
dead, as I hoped he would, went away."

Batten got down from the tree as fast as he could and headed toward the
rallying horns. But his ordeal was far from over. At the edge of the
woods he found the corpse of a young paratrooper whose parachute had
failed to open. Next, as he moved along a road a man rushed past him
shouting crazily, "They got my mate! They got my mate!" And finally,
catching up with a group of paratroopers heading toward the assembly
point, Batten found himself beside a man who seemed to be in a state of
complete shock. He strode along, looking neither to his left or right,
totally oblivious of the fact that the rifle which he gripped tightly
in his right hand was bent almost double.

In many places this night men like Batten were shocked almost
immediately into the harsh realities of war. As he was struggling to
get out of his harness, Lance Corporal Harold Tait of the 8th Battalion
saw one of the Dakota transports hit by flak. The plane careened over
his head like a searing comet and exploded with a tremendous noise
about a mile away. Tait wondered if the stick of troopers it carried
had already jumped.

Private Percival Liggins of the Canadian 1/ Battalion saw another
flaming plane. It was "at full power, with pieces falling off it,
blazing from end to end," and seemed to be heading for him. He was so
fascinated by the sight that he was unable to move. It swept overhead
and crashed in a field behind him. He and others tried to get to the
plane in an effort to rescue anybody still in it, but "the ammo started
to go and we couldn't get near it."

To twenty-year-old Private Colin Powell of the 12th Battalion, miles
from his drop zone, the first sound of war was a moaning in the night.
He knelt down beside a badly wounded trooper, an Irishman, who softly
pleaded with Powell to "finish me off, lad, please." Powell could not
do it. He made the trooper as comfortable as he could and hurried off,
promising to send back help.

In these first few minutes their own resourcefulness became the measure
of survival for many men. One paratrooper, Lieutenant Richard Hilborn
of the Canadian 1/ Battalion remembers, crashed through the top of a
greenhouse, "shattering glass all over the place and making a hell of a
lot of noise, but he was out and running before the glass had stopped
falling." Another fell with pinpoint accuracy into a well. Hauling
himself up hand over hand on his shroud lines, he set out for his
assembly point as though nothing had happened.

Everywhere men extricated themselves from extraordinary predicaments.
Most of their situations would have been bad enough in daylight; at
night, in hostile territory, they were compounded by fear and
imagination. Such was the case with Private Godfrey Maddison. He sat
at the edge of a field imprisoned by a barbed-wire fence, unable to
move. Both legs were twisted in the wire and the weight of his
equipment--125 pounds, including four ten-pound mortar shells --had
driven him so far forward into the wire that he was almost completely
enmeshed. Maddison had been heading toward the rallying horns of the
5th when he missed his footing and crashed into the fence. "I started
to panic a bit," he remembers, "and it was very dark and I felt sure
someone would take a potshot at me." For a few moments he did nothing
but wait and listen. Then, satisfied that he had escaped notice,
Maddison began a slow and painful struggle to free himself. It seemed
hours before he finally worked one arm free enough to get a pair of
wire cutters from the back of his belt. In a few minutes he

was out and heading in the direction of the horns again.

At about that same time Major Donald Wilkins of the Canadian 1/
Battalion was crawling past what appeared to him to be a small factory
building. Suddenly he saw a group of figures on the lawn. He
instantly threw himself to the ground. The shadowy figures did not
move. Wilkins stared hard at them and, after a minute, got up cursing
and went over to confirm his suspicions. They were stone garden
statues.

A sergeant of the same unit had a somewhat similar experience, except
that the figures he saw were only too real. Private Henry Churchill,
in a nearby ditch, saw the sergeant, who had landed in knee-deep water,
shrug out of his harness and look about in desperation as two men
approached. "The sergeant waited," Churchill remembers, "trying to
decide whether they were British or Germans." The men came closer and
their voices were unmistakably German. The sergeant's Sten gun barked
and "he brought them down with a single fast burst."

The most sinister enemy in these opening minutes of D Day was not man
but nature. Rommel's antiparatroop precautions had paid off well: The
waters and swamps of the flooded Dives valley were deathtraps. Many of
the men of the 3rd Brigade came down in this area like so much confetti
shaken haphazardly out of a bag. For these paratroopers, mishap
followed tragic mishap. Some pilots, caught in heavy cloud, mistook
the mouth of the Dives for that of the Orne and let men out over a maze
of marshes and swamps. One entire battalion of seven hundred whose
drop was to be concentrated in an area roughly a mile square was
scattered, instead, over fifty miles of countryside, most of it
swampland. And this battalion, the highly trained 9th, had been given
the toughest, most urgent job of the night--the assault on the Merville
battery. It would take some of these men days to rejoin their unit;
many would never return at all.

The number of troopers who died in the wastes of the Dives will never
be known. Survivors say that the marshes were intersected by a maze of
ditches about seven feet deep, four feet wide and bottomed with sticky
slime. A man alone, weighed down with guns, ammunition and heavy
equipment, could not negotiate these ditches. Wet kitbags nearly
doubled in weight and men had to discard them in order to survive.
Many men who somehow struggled through the marshes drowned in the river
with dry land only a few yards away.

Private Henry Humberstone of the 224th Parachute Field Ambulance
narrowly missed such a death. Humberstone landed waist-deep in the
marshes, with no idea of where he was. He had expected to come down in
the orchard area west of Varaville; instead he had landed on the east
side of the drop zone. Between him and Varaville were not only the
marshes but the Dives River itself. A low mist covered the area like a
dirty white blanket, and all around Humberstone could hear the croaking
of frogs. Then, ahead, came the unmistakable sound of rushing water.
Humberstone stumbled on through the flooded fields and came upon the
Dives. While he looked for some way to cross the river, he spotted two
men on the opposite bank. They were members of the Canadian 1/
Battalion. "How do I get across?" yelled Humberstone. "It's quite
safe," one of them called back. The Canadian waded into the river,
apparently to show him. "I was watching him one minute and the next
minute he was gone," Humberstone remembers. "He didn't yell or scream
or anything. He just drowned before either me or his buddy on the
other bank could do anything."

Captain John Gwinnett, the chaplain of the 9th Battalion, was
completely lost. He, too, had landed in the marshes. He was all alone
and the silence around him was unnerving. Gwinnet had to get out of
the swamps. He was certain the Merville assault would be a bloody one
and he wanted

to be with his men. "Fear," he had told them at the airfield just
before take-off, "knocked at the door. Faith opened it, and there was
nothing there." Gwinnet did not know it now, but it would be a full
seventeen hours before he found his way out of the swamps.

At this moment the 9th's commander, Lieutenant Colonel Terence Otway,
was in a towering rage. He had been dropped miles from the rendezvous
point, and he knew that his battalion must have been thoroughly
scattered. As Otway marched quickly through the night, small groups of
his men appeared everywhere, confirming his worst suspicions. He
wondered just how bad the drop had been. Had his special glider train
been scattered, too?

Otway badly needed the glider-borne guns and other equipment if his
plan of assault was to succeed, for Merville was no ordinary battery.
Around it ranged a formidable series of defenses in depth. To get to
the heart of the battery--four heavy guns in massive concrete
emplacements--the 9th would have to pass through mine fields and over
antitank ditches, penetrate a fifteen-foot-thick hedge of barbed wire,
cross more mine fields and then fight through a maze of
machine-gun-filled trenches. The Germans considered this deadly
fortification with its garrison of two hundred men almost
impregnable.

Otway didn't think it was, and his plan to destroy it was elaborate and
incredibly detailed. He wanted to leave nothing to chance. One
hundred Lancaster bombers were to saturate the battery first with
four-thousand-pound bombs. The glider trains were to bring in jeeps,
antitank guns, flame throwers, "Bangalore" torpedoes (lengths of
explosive-filled pipe to destroy the wire), mine detectors, mortars,
and even lightweight aluminum scaling ladders. After collecting this
special equipment from the gliders, Otway's men were to set out for the
battery in eleven teams to begin the assault.

This called for dovetailed timing. Reconnaissance teams would lead off
and scout the area. "Taping" parties would remove the mines and mark
the approaches through the cleared areas. "Breaching" teams with the
Bangalore torpedoes would destroy the barbed wire. Snipers, mortar men
and machine gunners were to take up positions to cover the main
charge.

Otway's plan had one final surprise: At the same time that his assault
troops rushed the battery from the ground, three gliders filled with
more troopers were to crash-land on the top of the battery, in a
combined massive rush on the defenses from ground and air.

Parts of the plan seemed suicidal, but the risks were worth taking, for
the Merville guns could kill thousands of British troops as they
touched down on Sword Beach. Even if everything went according to
schedule in the next few hours, by the time Otway and his men
assembled, moved out and reached the battery they would have barely an
hour to destroy the guns. He had been told plainly that if the 9th
could not complete the task on time, naval gunfire would try to do it.
That meant that Otway and his men had to be away from the battery, no
matter what the outcome, by 5:30 A.m. At that time, if the signal of
success had not come from Otway, the bombardment would begin.

That was the strategy. But, as Otway hurried anxiously toward the
assembly point, the first part of the plan had already misfired. The
air attack which had taken place at twelve-thirty had been a complete
failure; not one bomb had hit the battery. And the errors were
multiplying: The gliders with the vital supplies had failed to
arrive.

In the center of the Normandy beachhead, in the German observation
bunker overlooking Omaha Beach, Major Werner Pluskat still watched. He
saw the white tops of the

waves, nothing more. His uneasiness had not lessened; if anything,
Pluskat felt more certain than ever that something was happening. Soon
after he reached the bunker, formation after formation of planes had
thundered over the coast far off to the right; Pluskat thought there
must have been hundreds. From the first moment he heard them, he had
expected a sudden call from regiment confirming his suspicions that the
invasion was in fact beginning. But the phone had remained silent.
There had been nothing from Ocker since the first call. Now Pluskat
heard something else--the slowly swelling roar of a great number of
planes off to his left. This time the sound was coming from behind
him. The planes seemed to be approaching the Cherbourg peninsula from
the west. Pluskat was more bewildered than ever. Instinctively he
looked out through his glasses once again. The bay was completely
empty. There was nothing to be seen.

In Ste.-M`ere-eeglise the sound of bombing was very close. Alexandre
Renaud, the mayor and town pharmacist, could feel the very ground
shaking. It seemed to him that planes were attacking the batteries at
St.-Marcouf and St.-Martin-de-Varreville, and both places were only a
few miles away. He was quite worried about the town and its people.
About all the habitants could do was take shelter in garden trenches or
cellars, for they could not leave their homes because of the curfew.
Renaud herded his wife, Simone,

and their three children to the passageway leading off the living room.
Its heavy timbers afforded good protection. It was about 1:10 A.m.
when the family collected in the makeshift air raid shelter. Renaud
remembers the time (it was 12:10 A.m. to him), because just then there
was a persistent, urgent knocking at the street door.

Renaud left his family in their living quarters and walked through his
darkened pharmacist's shop, which fronted on the Place de l'eeglise.
Even before he reached the door, he could see what the trouble was.
Through the windows of his shop the square, with its edging of chestnut
trees and its great Norman church, appeared brilliantly lit up. M.
Hairon's villa across the square was on fire and blazing fiercely.

Renaud got the door open. The town's fire chief, resplendent in his
polished, shoulder-length brass helmet, stood before him. "I think it
was hit by a stray incendiary from one of the planes," the man said
without any preamble, motioning toward the burning house. "The fire is
spreading fast. Can you get the commandant to lift the curfew? We
need as much help as we can get for the bucket brigade."

The mayor ran to the nearby German headquarters. He quickly explained
the situation to the sergeant on duty, who, on his own authority, gave
permission. At the same time the German called out the guard, to watch
the volunteers when they assembled. Then Renaud went to the parish
house and told Father Louis Roulland. The cur`e sent his sexton to the
church to toll the bell, while he, Renaud and the others banged on
doors, calling for the inhabitants to help. Above them the bell began
to clang, booming out over the town. People started to appear, some in
their nightwear, others half dressed, and soon more than one hundred
men and women in two long lines were passing buckets of water from hand
to hand. Surrounding

them were about thirty German guards armed with rifles and
Schmeissers.

In the midst of this confusion, Renaud remembers, Father Roulland took
him aside. "I must talk to you--something very important," the priest
said. He led Renaud to the kitchen of the parish house. There Madame
Angeele Levrault, the aged schoolmistress, awaited them. She was in a
state of shock. "A man has landed in my pea patch," she announced in a
wavering voice. Renaud had almost more trouble than he could handle,
but he tried to calm her. "Don't worry," he said. "Please go home and
stay indoors." Then he raced back to the fire.

The noise and confusion had intensified in his absence. The flames
were higher now. Showers of sparks had spread to the outbuildings and
they were already starting to burn. To Renaud the scene had a
nightmarish quality. He stood almost rooted to the spot, seeing the
flushed, excited faces of the fire fighters, the overdressed, ponderous
German guards with their rifles and machine guns. And above the square
the bell still tolled, adding its persistent clanging to the din. It
was then they all heard the droning of the planes.

The sound came from the west--a steadily mounting roar, and with it the
approaching racket of antiaircraft fire as battery after battery across
the peninsula picked up the formations. In the square of
Ste.-M`ere-eeglise everybody looked up, transfixed, the burning house
forgotten. Then the guns of the town began firing and the roaring was
on top of them. The aircraft swept in, almost wing tip to wing tip,
through a crisscrossing barrage of fire that hammered up from the
ground. The planes' lights were on. They came in so low that people
in the square instinctively ducked and Renaud remembers that the
airplanes cast "great shadows on the ground and red lights seemed to be
glowing inside them."

In wave after wave the formations flew over, the first planes of the
biggest airborne operation ever attempted--882 planes carrying thirteen
thousand men. These men of the U.s. 101/ and veteran 82nd airborne
divisions were heading for six drop zones all within a few miles of
Ste.-M`ere-eeglise. The troopers tumbled out of their planes, stick
after stick. And as those destined for the zone outside the town
drifted down, scores of them heard an incongruous sound over the
clatter of battle: a church bell tolling in the night. For many it was
the last sound they ever heard. Caught by a heavy wind, a number of
soldiers floated down toward the inferno of the Place de l'eeglise--
and the guns of the German guards that a twist of fate had placed
there. Lieutenant Charles Santarsiero of the 101/'s 506th Regiment was
standing in the door of his plane as it passed over Ste.-M`ere-eeglise.
"We were about four hundred feet up," he remembers, "and I could see
fires burning and Krauts running about. There seemed to be total
confusion on the ground. All hell had broken loose. Flak and
small-arms fire was coming up and those poor guys were caught right in
the middle of it."

Almost as soon as he left his plane, Private John Steele of the 82nd's
505th Regiment saw that instead of landing in a lighted drop zone he
was heading for the center of a town that seemed to be on fire. Then
he saw German soldiers and French civilians running frantically about.
Most of them, it seemed to Steele, were looking up at him. The next
moment he was hit by something that felt "like the bite of a sharp
knife." A bullet had smashed into his foot. Then Steele saw something
that alarmed him even more. Swinging in his harness, unable to veer
away from the town, he dangled helplessly as his chute carried him
straight toward the church steeple at the edge of the square.

Above Steele, Private First Class Ernest Blanchard heard

the church bell ringing and saw the maelstrom of fire coming up all
around him. The next minute he watched horrified as a man floating
down almost beside him "exploded and completely disintegrated before my
eyes," presumably a victim of the explosives he was carrying.

Blanchard began desperately to swing on his risers, trying to veer away
from the mob in the square below. But it was too late. He landed with
a crash in one of the trees. Around him men were being machine-gunned
to death. There were shouts, yells, screams and moans--sounds that
Blanchard will never forget. Frantically, as the machine-gunning came
closer, Blanchard sawed at his harness. Then he dropped out of the
trees and ran in panic, unaware that he had also sawed off the top of
his thumb.

It must have seemed to the Germans that Ste.-M`ere-eeglise was being
smothered by paratroop assault, and certainly the townspeople in the
square thought that they were at the center of a major battle.
Actually very few Americans--perhaps thirty--dropped into the town, and
no more than twenty came down in and about the square. But they were
enough to cause the German garrison of slightly less than one hundred
men to panic. Reinforcements rushed to the square, which seemed to be
the focal point of the attack, and there some Germans, coming suddenly
upon the bloody, burning scene, seemed to Renaud to lose all control.

About fifteen yards from where the mayor stood in the square a
paratrooper plunged into a tree and almost immediately, as he tried
frantically to get out of his harness, he was spotted. As Renaud
watched, "about half a dozen Germans emptied the magazines of their
submachine guns into him and the boy hung there with his eyes open, as
though looking down at his own bullet holes."

Caught up in the slaughter all around them, the people

in the square were now oblivious to the mighty airborne armada that was
still droning ceaselessly overhead. Thousands of men were jumping for
the 82nd's drop zones northwest of the town, and the 101/'s zones east
and slightly west, between Ste.-M`ere-eeglise and the Utah invasion
area. But every now and then, because the drop was so widely
scattered, stray paratroopers from almost every regiment drifted into
the holocaust of the little town. One or two of these men, loaded down
with ammunition, grenades and plastic explosives, actually fell into
the burning house. There were brief screams and then a fusillade of
shots and explosions as the ammunition went up.

In all this horror and confusion one man tenaciously and precariously
clung to life. Private Steele, his parachute draped over the steeple
of the church, hung just under the eaves. He heard the shouts and the
screams. He saw Germans and Americans firing at each other in the
square and the streets. And, almost paralyzed by terror, he saw
winking red flashes of machine guns as streams of stray bullets shot
past and over him. Steele had tried to cut himself down, but his knife
had somehow slipped out of his hand and dropped to the square below.
Steele then decided that his only hope lay in playing dead. On the
roof, only a few yards away from him, German machine gunners fired at
everything in sight, but not at Steele. He hung so realistically
"dead" in his harness that Lieutenant Willard Young of the 82nd, who
passed by during the height of the fighting, still remembers "the dead
man hanging from the steeple." In all, Steele dangled there for more
than two hours before being cut down and taken captive by the Germans.
Shocked and in pain from his shattered foot, he has absolutely no
recollection of the tolling of the bell, only a few feet from his
head.

The encounter at Ste.-M`ere-eeglise was the prelude to the main
American airborne assault. But in the scheme of

things this initial and bloody skirmish * was quite accidental.
Although the town was one of the principal objectives of the 82nd
Airborne, the real battle for Ste.-M`ere-eeglise was still to come.
Much had to be accomplished before then, for the 101/ and 82nd
divisions, like the British, were racing the clock. * I have not been
able to determine how many were killed and wounded in the square,
because sporadic fighting continued all over the town until the actual
attack which resulted in its capture. But the best estimates put
casualties at about twelve killed, wounded and missing. Most of these
men were from F Company, 2nd Battalion, 505th Regiment, and there is a
pathetic little note in their official records which reads: "2nd Lt.
Cadish and the following enlisted men dropped in the town and were
killed almost instantly: Shearer, Blankenship, Bryant, Van Holsbeck and
Tlapa." Private John Steele saw two men fall into the burning house,
and one of those he believes was Private White of his own mortar squad,
who dropped behind him. Lieutenant Colonel William E. Ekman,
commanding the 505th, also says that "one of the chaplains of the
regiment ... who dropped in Ste.-M`ere-eeglise was captured and
executed within minutes."

To the Americans went the job of holding the right flank of the
invasion area just as their British counterparts were holding on the
left. But much more was riding on the American paratroopers: on them
hung the fate of the whole Utah Beach operation.

The main obstacle to the success of the Utah landing was a body of
water known as the Douve River. As part of their anti-invasion
measures Rommel's engineers had taken brilliant advantage of the Douve
and its principal tributary, the Merderet. These water barriers
veining the lower part of the thumblike Cherbourg land mass flow south
and southeast through low-lying land, link up with the Carentan Canal
at the base of the peninsula and, flowing almost parallel with the Vire
River, empty into the English Channel. By manipulating the century-old
La Barquette locks just a few miles above the town of Carentan, the
Germans had inundated so much ground that the peninsula, marshy to
begin with, was almost isolated from the

remainder of Normandy. Thus, by holding the few roads, bridges and
causeways through these wastes, the Germans could bottle up an invading
force and eventually wipe it out. In the event of landings on the
eastern coast, German forces attacking from the north and west could
close the trap and drive the invaders back into the sea.

That, at least, was the general strategy. But the Germans had no
intention of allowing an invasion to get even that far; as a further
defense measure they had flooded more than twelve square miles of
low-lying land behind the beaches on the eastern coast. Utah Beach lay
almost in the center of these man-made lakes. There was only one way
that the men of the 4th Infantry Division (plus their tanks, guns,
vehicles and supplies) could force their way inland: along five
causeways running through the floods. And German guns controlled
these.

Holding the peninsula and these natural defense barriers were three
German divisions: the 709th in the north and along the east coast, the
243rd defending the west coast and the recently arrived 91/ in the
middle and spread about the base. Also, lying south of Carentan and
within striking distance was one of the finest and toughest German
units in Normandy --Baron von der Heydte's 6th Parachute Regiment.
Exclusive of naval units manning coastal batteries, Luftwaffe
antiaircraft contingents and a variety of personnel in the Cherbourg
vicinity, the Germans could throw about forty thousand men almost
immediately at an Allied attack of any sort. In this heavily defended
area Major General Maxwell D. Taylor's 101/ Airborne Division and Major
General Matthew B. Ridgway's 82nd had been given the enormous task of
carving out and holding an "airhead"--an island of defense running from
the Utah Beach area to a point far to the west across the base of the
peninsula. They were to open up the way for the 4th Division and hold
until relieved. In

and about the peninsula the American paratroopers were outnumbered more
than three to one.

On the map the airhead looked like the imprint of a short, broad left
foot with the small toes lying along the coast, the big toe at the La
Barquette locks above Carentan and the heel back and beyond the
Merderet and Douve marshes. It was roughly twelve miles long, seven
miles wide at the toes and four miles in width across the heel. It was
a huge area to be held by thirteen thousand men, but it had to be taken
in less than five hours.

Taylor's men were to seize a six-gun battery at
St.-Martin-de-Varreville, almost directly behind Utah, and race for
four of the five causeways between there and the coastal hamlet of
Pouppeville. At the same time, crossings and bridges along the Douve
and the Carentan Canal, particularly the La Barquette locks, had to be
seized or destroyed. While the Screaming Eagles of the 101/ secured
these objectives, Ridgway's men were to hold the heel and the left side
of the foot. They were to defend crossings over the Douve and the
Merderet, capture Ste.-M`ere-eeglise and hold positions north of the
town to prevent counterattacks from driving into the side of the
bridgehead.

The men of the airborne divisions had one other vital mission. The
enemy had to be cleared off glider landing areas, for big glider trains
were coming in to reinforce the Americans, just as they were the
British, before dawn and again in the evening. The first flight, more
than one hundred gliders, was scheduled to arrive at 4:00 A.m.

From the beginning the Americans worked against staggering odds. Like
the British, the U.s. divisions were critically scattered. Only one
regiment, the 505th of the 82nd, fell accurately. Sixty percent of all
equipment was lost, including most of the radios, mortars and
ammunition. Worse still, many of the men were lost, too. They came
down miles from any recognizable landmarks, confused

and alone. The route of the planes was from west to east and it took
just twelve minutes to cross the peninsula. Jumping too late meant
landing in the English Channel, too early meant coming down somewhere
between the west coast and the flooded areas. Some sticks were dropped
so badly they actually landed closer to the western side of the
peninsula than to their zones on the east. Hundreds of men, heavily
weighted with equipment, fell into the treacherous swamps of the
Merderet and the Douve. Many drowned, some in less than two feet of
water. Others, jumping too late, fell into the darkness over what they
thought was Normandy and were lost in the Channel.

One entire stick of 101/ paratroopers-- some fifteen or eighteen
soldiers--met such a death. In the next plane Corporal Louis Merlano
fell on a sandy beach in front of a sign reading "Achtung Minen!" He
had been the second man in his stick to jump. Off in the darkness
Merlano could hear the quiet slapping sound of waves. He was lying in
sand dunes surrounded by Rommel's anti-invasion obstacles, just a few
yards above Utah Beach. As he lay there, trying to get his breath, he
heard screams far off in the distance. Merlano was not to find out
until later that the screams were coming from the Channel, where the
last eleven men from his plane were at that moment drowning.

Merlano got off the beach fast, ignoring the possibility that it was
mined. He climbed over a barbed-wire fence and ran for a hedgerow.
Someone else was already there; Merlano didn't stop. He ran across a
road and started to climb a stone wall. Just then he heard an agonized
cry behind him. He whirled around. A flame thrower was hosing the
hedgerow he had just passed, and outlined in the flame was the figure
of a fellow paratrooper. Stunned, Merlano crouched down by the wall.
From the other side came the shouts of German voices and the firing of
machine guns. Merlano was caught in a heavily fortified area,

with Germans on all sides of him. He prepared to fight for his life.
There was one thing he had to do first. Merlano, who was attached to a
signal unit, pulled from his pocket a two-by-two-inch communications
log containing codes and passwords for three days. Carefully he tore
up the log and, page by page, ate it all.

On the other side of the airhead men were floundering in the dark
swamps. The Merderet and the Douve were dotted with parachutes of all
colors and the little lights on equipment bundles gleamed eerily from
out of the marshes and the water. Men plummeted down from the sky,
barely missing one another as they splashed beneath the surface of the
water. Some never appeared again. Others came up gasping, fighting
for air and sawing desperately at chutes and equipment that could drag
them under again.

Like Chaplain John Gwinnett of the British 6th Airborne fifty miles
away, the 101/ chaplain, Captain Francis Sampson, landed in the wastes.
The water was over his head. The priest was pinned by his equipment
and his parachute, caught by a strong wind, remained open above him.
Frantically he cut away the equipment hanging from him--including his
Mass kit. Then, with his parachute acting like a great sail, he was
blown along for about a hundred yards until he finally came to rest in
shallow water. Exhausted, he lay there for about twenty minutes. At
last, disregarding the machine-gun and mortar fire that was beginning
to come in, Father Sampson set out for the area where he had first gone
under and doggedly began diving for his Mass kit. He got it on the
fifth try.

It wasn't until much later that Father Sampson, thinking back about the
experience, realized that the Act of Contrition he had so hurriedly
said as he struggled in the water was actually the grace before
meals.

In countless small fields and pastures between the Channel and the
flooded areas, Americans came together in the

night, drawn not by hunting horns but by the sound of a toy cricket.
Their lives depended on a few cents' worth of tin fashioned in the
shape of a child's snapper. One snap of the cricket had to be answered
by a double snap and--for the 82nd alone--a password. Two snaps
required one in reply. On these signals men came out of hiding, from
trees and ditches, around the sides of buildings, to greet one another.
Major General Maxwell D. Taylor and a bare-headed, unidentified
rifleman met at the corner of a hedgerow and warmly hugged each other.
Some paratroopers found their units right away. Others saw strange
faces in the night and then the familiar, comforting sight of the tiny
American flag stitched above the shoulder patch.

As confused as things were these men adapted quickly. The
battle-tested troopers of the 82nd, with airborne assaults in Sicily
and Salerno under their belts, knew what to expect. The 101/, on its
first combat jump, was fiercely determined not to be outdone by its
more illustrious partner. All these men wasted as little time as
possible, for they had no time to waste. The lucky ones who knew where
they were assembled promptly and set out for their objectives. The
lost ones joined with small groups made up of men from different
companies, battalions and regiments. Troopers of the 82nd found
themselves being led by 101/ officers and vice versa. Men from both
divisions fought side by side, often for objectives they had never
heard of.

Hundreds of men found themselves in small fields, surrounded on all
sides by tall hedgerows. The fields were silent little worlds,
isolated and scary. In them every shadow, every rustle, every breaking
twig was the enemy. Private Dutch Schultz, in one such shadowy world,
was unable to find his way out. He decided to try his cricket. On the
very first click he got a response he hadn't bargained for: machine-gun
fire. He threw himself to the ground, aimed his M1 rifle in the
direction of the machine-

gun position, and pressed the trigger. Nothing happened. He had
forgotten to load it. The machine gun opened up again and Dutch ran
for cover in the nearest hedgerow.

He made another careful reconnaissance of the field. Then he heard a
twig crackle. Dutch felt a moment's panic, but he calmed down as his
company commander, Lieutenant Jack Tallerday, came through the
hedgerow. "Is that you, Dutch?" Tallerday called softly. Schultz
hurried over to him. Together they left the field and joined a group
that Tallerday had already assembled. There were men from the 101/
Division and from all three of the 82nd's regiments. For the first
time since the jump Dutch felt easy. He was no longer alone.

Tallerday moved down along the side of a hedgerow with his little group
fanning out behind him. A short while later they heard and then saw a
group of men coming toward them. Tallerday snapped his cricket and
thought he heard an answering click. "As our two groups approached
each other," Tallerday says, "it was quite evident by the configuration
of their steel helmets that they were Germans." And then there
occurred one of those curious and rare happenings in war. Each group
silently walked past the other in a kind of frozen shock, without
firing a shot. As the distance between them grew, the darkness
obliterated the figures as though they had never existed.

All over Normandy this night paratroopers and German soldiers met
unexpectedly. In these encounters men's lives depended on their
keeping their wits and often on the fraction of a second it took to
pull a trigger. Three miles from Ste.-M`ere-eeglise, Lieutenant John
Walas of the 82nd almost tripped over a German sentry who was in front
of a machine-gun nest. For a terrible moment, each man stared at the
other. Then the German reacted. He fired a shot at Walas at
point-blank range. The bullet struck the bolt mechanism of the
lieutenant's rifle, which was directly

in front of his stomach, nicked his hand and ricocheted off. Both men
turned and fled.

One man, Major Lawrence Legere of the 101/, talked his way out of
trouble. In a field between Ste.-M`ere-eeglise and Utah Beach, Legere
had collected a little group of men and was leading them toward the
rendezvous point. Suddenly Legere was challenged in German. He knew
no German but he was fluent in French. As the other men were some
distance behind him and had not been seen, Legere, in the darkness of
the field, posed as a young farmer and explained rapidly in French that
he had been visiting his girl and was on his way home. He apologized
for being out after curfew. As he talked, he was busily removing a
strip of adhesive tape from a grenade, placed there to prevent the
accidental release of the pin. Still talking, he yanked the pin, threw
the grenade and hit the ground as it went off. He found he had killed
three Germans. "When I backtracked to pick up my brave little band,"
Legere recalls, "I found they had scattered to the four winds."

There were many ludicrous moments. In a dark orchard one mile from
Ste.-M`ere-eeglise, Captain Lyle Putnam, one of the 82nd's battalion
surgeons, found himself utterly alone. He gathered up all his medical
equipment and began searching for a way out. Near one of the hedgerows
he saw a figure approaching cautiously. Putnam froze in his tracks,
leaned forward and loudly whispered the 82nd's password, "Flash."
There was a moment of electric silence as Putnam waited for the
countersign, "Thunder." Instead, to his amazement, Putnam recalls, the
other man yelled, "Jesus Christ!" and turned and "fled like a maniac."
The doctor was so angry he forgot to be frightened. Half a mile away
his friend Captain George Wood, the 82nd's chaplain, was also alone and
busily snapping his cricket. No one answered him. Then he jumped with
fright as a voice be-

hind him said: "For God's sake, Padre, stop that damn noise."
Chastened, Chaplain Wood followed the paratrooper out of the field.

By afternoon these two men would be in Madame Angeele Levrault's
schoolhouse in Ste.-M`ere-eeglise fighting their own war--a war where
uniforms made no difference. They would be tending the wounded and
dying of both sides.

By 2:00 A.m., although more than an hour would pass before all the
paratroopers were on the ground, many small groups of determined men
were closing in on their objectives. One group was actually attacking
its target, an enemy stronghold of dugouts and machine-gun and
antitank-gun positions in the village of Foucarville just above Utah
Beach. The position was of extreme importance, for it controlled all
movement on the main road running behind the Utah Beach area--a road
which enemy tanks would have to use to reach the beachhead. Storming
Foucarville called for a full company, but only eleven men under
Captain Cleveland Fitzgerald had as yet arrived. So determined were
Fitzgerald and his little group that they assaulted the position
without waiting for more men. In this, the first recorded 101/ unit
battle of the D-Day airborne assault, Fitzgerald and his men got as far
as the enemy command post. There was a short, bloody battle.
Fitzgerald was shot in the lung by a sentry, but as he fell he killed
the German. At last the outnumbered Americans had to pull back to the
outskirts to await dawn and reinforcements. Unknown to them nine
paratroopers had reached Foucarville some forty minutes earlier. They
had dropped into the strongpoint itself. Now, under the eyes of their
captors, they were sitting in a dugout, oblivious of the battle,
listening to a German practicing on his harmonica.

These were crazy moments for everyone--particularly

the generals. They were men without staffs, without communications,
and without men to command. Major General Maxwell Taylor found himself
with several officers but only two or three enlisted men. "Never," he
told them, "have so few been commanded by so many."

Major General Matthew B. Ridgway was alone in a field, pistol in hand,
counting himself lucky. As he was later to recall, "at least if no
friends were visible neither were any foes." His assistant, Brigadier
General James M. "Jumpin' Jim" Gavin, who at this time was in complete
charge of the 82nd's parachute assault, was miles away in the swamps of
the Merderet.

Gavin and a number of paratroopers were trying to salvage equipment
bundles from the marshes. In them were the radios, bazookas, mortars
and ammunition Gavin so desperately needed. He knew that by dawn the
heel of the airhead which his men were to hold would be under heavy
attack. As he stood knee-deep in cold water, alongside the troopers,
other worries were crowding in on Gavin. He was not sure where he was,
and he wondered what to do about the number of injured men who had
found their way to his little group and were now lying along the edge
of the swamp.

Nearly an hour earlier, seeing red and green lights on the far edge of
the water, Gavin had sent his aide, Lieutenant Hugo Olson, to find out
what they meant. He hoped they were the assembly lights of two of the
82nd's battalions. Olson had not returned and Gavin was getting
anxious. One of his officers, Lieutenant John Devine, was out in the
middle of the river, stark naked, diving for bundles. "Whenever he
came up, he stood out like a white statue," Gavin recalls, "and I
couldn't help thinking that he'd be a dead turkey if he was spotted by
the Germans."

Suddenly a lone figure came struggling out of the swamps. He was
covered with mud and slime and was

wringing wet. It was Olson coming to report that there was a railroad
directly across from Gavin and his men, on a high embankment which
snaked through the marshes. It was the first good news of the night.
Gavin knew there was only one railroad in the district--the
Cherbourg-Carentan track, which passed down the Merderet valley. The
general began to feel better. For the first time he knew where he
was.

In an apple orchard outside Ste.-M`ere-eeglise, the man who was to hold
the northern approaches to the town--the flank of the Utah invasion
bridgehead--was in pain and trying not to show it. Lieutenant Colonel
Benjamin Vandervoort of the 82nd had broken his ankle on the jump, but
he had made up his mind to stay in the fighting no matter what
happened.

Bad luck had dogged Vandervoort. He had always taken his job
seriously, sometimes too seriously. Unlike many another Army officer,
Vandervoort had never had a popular nickname, nor had he permitted
himself the kind of close, easy relationship with his men that other
officers enjoyed. Normandy was to change all that--and more. It was
to make him, as General Matthew B. Ridgway later recalled, "one of the
bravest, toughest battle commanders I ever knew." Vandervoort was to
fight on his broken ankle for forty days, side by side with the men
whose approval he wanted most.

Vandervoort's battalion surgeon, Captain Putnam, still fumbling from
his encounter with the strange paratrooper in the hedgerow, came across
the colonel and some of his troopers in the orchard. Putnam still
vividly remembers his first sight of Vandervoort: "He was seated with a
rain cape over him, reading a map by flashlight. He recognized me and,
calling me close, quietly asked that I take a look at his ankle with as
little demonstration as possible. His ankle was obviously broken. He
insisted on replacing his

jump boot, and we laced it tightly." Then, as Putnam watched,
Vandervoort picked up his rifle and, using it as a crutch, took a step
forward. He looked at the men around him. "Well," he said, "let's
go." He moved out across the field.

Like the British paratroopers to the east, the Americans--in humor, in
sorrow, in terror and in pain--began the work they had come to Normandy
to do.

This, then, was the beginning. The first invaders of D Day, almost
eighteen thousand Americans, British and Canadians, were on the flanks
of the Normandy battlefield. In between lay the five invasion beaches
and beyond the horizon, steadily approaching, the mighty
five-thousand-ship invasion fleet. The first of the vessels, the
U.s.s. Bayfield, carrying the commander of the Navy's Force U, Rear
Admiral D. P. Moon, was now within twelve miles of Utah Beach and
preparing to drop anchor.

Slowly the great invasion plan was beginning to unfold--and still the
Germans remained blind. There were many reasons. The weather, their
lack of reconnaissance (only a few planes had been sent over the
embarkation areas in the preceding weeks, and all had been shot down),
their stubborn belief that the invasion must come at the Pas-de-Calais,
the confusion and overlapping of their own commands, and their failure
to take the decoded underground messages seriously all played a part.
Even their radar stations failed them this night. Those that had not
been bombed had been confused by Allied planes flying along the coast
dropping bundles of "window"--strips of tinfoil which snowed the
screens. Only one station had made a report. It was only "normal
Channel traffic."

More than two hours had elapsed since the first paratroopers had
landed. Only now were the German com-

manders in Normandy beginning to realize that something important might
be happening. The first scattered reports were beginning to come in
and slowly, like a patient coming out of anesthetic, the Germans were
awakening.

General Erich Marcks stood at a long table studying the war maps spread
out before him. He was surrounded by his staff. They had been with
him ever since his birthday party, briefing the 84th Corps commander
for the war games in Rennes. Every now and then the general called for
another map. It seemed to his intelligence officer, Major Friedrich
Hayn, that Marcks was preparing for the Kriegsspiel as though it was a
real battle, instead of merely a theoretical invasion of Normandy.

In the midst of their discussion, the phone rang. The conversation
ceased as Marcks picked up the receiver. Hayn recalls that "as he
listened, the General's body seemed to stiffen." Marcks motioned to
his chief of staff to pick up the extension phone. The man who was
calling was Major General Wilhelm Richter, commander of the 716th
Division, holding the coast above Caen. "Parachutists have landed east
of the Orne," Richter told Marcks. "The area seems to be around
Breeville and Ranville ... along the northern fringe of the Bavent
Forest. ..."

This was the first official report of the Allied attack to reach a
major German headquarters. "It struck us," Hayn says, "like
lightning." The time was 2:11 A.m. (british Double Summer Time).

Marcks immediately telephoned Major General Max Pemsel, chief of staff
of the Seventh Army. At 2:15 A.m., Pemsel placed the Seventh on
Alarmstruffe II, the highest state of readiness. It was four hours
since the second Verlaine message had been intercepted. Now at last
the Seventh Army, in whose area the invasion had already begun, had
been alerted.

Pemsel was taking no chances. He wakened the Seventh's commanding
officer, Colonel General Friedrich Dollmann. "General," said Pemsel,
"I believe this is the invasion. Will you please come over
immediately?"

As he put down the phone, Pemsel suddenly remembered something. Among
a sheaf of intelligence bulletins that had come in during the
afternoon, one had been from an agent in Casablanca. He had
specifically stated that the invasion would take place in Normandy on
June 6.

As Pemsel waited for Dollmann to arrive, the 84th Corps reported again:
"... Parachute drops near Montebourg and St.-Marcouf [on the Cherbourg
peninsula] ... Troops partly already engaged in battle." * Pemsel
promptly called Rommel's chief of staff, Major General Dr. Hans
Speidel at Army Group B. It was 2:35 A.m. * There has been considerable
controversy over the timing of the German reaction to the invasion and
over the messages that were passed from one headquarters to another.
When I began my research, Colonel General Franz Halder, the former
Chief of the German General Staff (now attached to the U.s. Army's
historical section in Germany) told me to "believe nothing on our side
unless it tallies with the official war diaries of each headquarters."
I have followed his advice. All times (corrected to British Double
Summer Time), reports and telephone calls as they pertain to German
activities come from these sources.

At about the same time, General Hans Von Salmuth, from his Fifteenth
Army headquarters near the Belgian border, was trying to get some
firsthand information. Although the bulk of his army was far removed
from the airborne attacks, one division, Major General Josef Reichert's
711th, held positions east of the Orne River on the boundary line
between the Seventh and Fifteenth armies.

Several messages had come in from the 711th. One reported that
paratroopers actually were landing near the headquarters at Cabourg; a
second announced that fighting was going on all around the command
post.

Von Salmuth decided to find out for himself. He rang Reichert. "What
the devil is going on down there?" Von Salmuth demanded.

"My General," came Reichert's harassed voice on the other end of the
wire, "if you'll permit me, I'll let you hear for yourself." There was
a pause, and then Von Salmuth could clearly hear the clatter of
machine-gun fire.

"Thank you," said Von Salmuth, and he hung up. Immediately he, too,
called Army Group B, reporting that at the 711th's headquarters "the
din of battle can be heard."

Pemsel's and Von Salmuth's calls, arriving almost simultaneously, gave
Rommel's headquarters the first news of the Allied attack. Was it the
long-expected invasion? Nobody at Army Group B at this time was
prepared to say. In fact, Rommel's naval aide, Vice Admiral Friedrich
Ruge, distinctly remembers that as more reports came in of airborne
troops "some said they were only dolls disguised as paratroopers."

Whoever made the observation was partly right. To add to the German
confusion, the Allies had dropped hundreds of lifelike rubber dummies,
dressed as paratroopers, south of the Normandy invasion area. Attached
to each were strings of firecrackers which exploded on landing, giving
the impression of a small-arms fight. For more than three hours a few
of these dummies were to deceive General Marcks inffbelieving that
paratroopers had landed at Lessay, some twenty-five miles southwest of
his headquarters.

These were strange, confusing minutes for Von Rundstedt's staff at OB
West in Paris and for Rommel's officers at La Roche-Guyon. Reports
came piling in from every-

where--reports that were often inaccurate, sometimes incomprehensible
and always contradictory.

Luftwaffe headquarters in Paris announced that "fifty to sixty
two-engined planes are coming in" over the Cherbourg peninsula and that
paratroopers had landed "near Caen." Admiral Theodor Krancke's
headquarters-- Marinegruppenkommando West--confirmed the British
paratroop landings, nervously pointed out that the enemy had fallen
close to one of their coastal batteries, and then added that "part of
the parachute drop consists of straw dummies." Neither report
mentioned the Americans on the Cherbourg peninsula--yet at this time
one of the naval batteries at St.-Marcouf, just above Utah Beach, had
informed Cherbourg headquarters that a dozen Americans had been
captured. Within minutes of their first message, the Luftwaffe phoned
in another bulletin. Parachutists, they said, were down near Bayeux.
Actually none had landed there at all.

At both headquarters men tried desperately to evaluate the rash of red
spots sprouting over their maps. Officers at Army Group B rang their
opposite numbers at OB West, hashed the situation over and came up with
conclusions many of which, in the light of what was actually happening,
seem incredible. When OB West's acting intelligence officer, Major
Doertenbach, called Army Group B for a report, for example, he was told
that "the Chief of Staff views the situation with equanimity" and that
"there is a possibility that parachutists who have been reported are
merely bailed-out bomber crews."

The Seventh Army didn't think so. By 3:00 A.m., Pemsel was convinced
that the Schwerpunkt--the main thrust--was driving into Normandy. His
maps showed paratroopers at each end of the Seventh's area-- on the
Cherbourg peninsula and east of the Orne. Now, too, there were
alarming reports from naval stations at Cherbourg. Using sound

direction apparatus and some radar equipment, the stations were picking
up ships maneuvering in the bay of the Seine.

There was no doubt now in Pemsel's mind--the invasion was on. He
called Speidel. "The air landings," Pemsel said, "constitute the first
phase of a larger enemy action." Then he added, "Engine noises are
audible from out at sea." But Pemsel could not convince Rommel's chief
of staff. Speidel's answer, as recorded in the Seventh Army telephone
log, was that "the affair is still locally confined." The estimate
that he gave Pemsel at this time was summarized in the war diary and
reads: "Chief of Staff Army Group B believes that for the time being
this is not to be considered as a large operation."

Even as Pemsel and Speidel talked, the last paratroopers of the
eighteen-thousand-man airborne assault were floating down over the
Cherbourg peninsula. Sixty-nine gliders, carrying men, guns and heavy
equipment, were just crossing the coast of France, headed for the
British landing areas near Ranville. And twelve miles off Normandy's
five invasion beaches, the Ancon, headquarters ship of Task Force O,
under the command of Rear Admiral John L. Hall, dropped anchor. Lining
up behind her were the transports carrying the men who would land in
the first wave on Omaha Beach.

But at La Roche-Guyon there was still nothing to indicate the immensity
of the Allied attack, and in Paris, OB West endorsed Speidel's first
estimate of the situation. Rundstedt's able operations chief,
Lieutenant General Bodo Zimmermann, informed of Speidel's conversation
with Pemsel, sent back a message agreeing with Speidel: "Operations OB
West holds that this is not a large-scale airborne operation, all the
more because Admiral Channel Coast (krancke's headquarters) has
reported that the enemy has dropped straw dummies."

These officers can hardly be blamed for being so utterly confused.
They were miles away from the actual fighting, entirely dependent on
the reports coming in. These were so spotty and so misleading that
even the most experienced officers found it impossible to gauge the
magnitude of the airborne assault--or, for that matter, to see an
overall pattern emerging from the Allied attacks. If this was the
invasion, was it aimed at Normandy? Only the Seventh Army seemed to
think so. Perhaps the paratroop attacks were simply a diversion
intended to draw attention from the real invasion--against General Hans
von Salmuth's massive Fifteenth Army in the Pas-de-Calais, where nearly
everybody thought the Allies would strike. The Fifteenth's chief of
staff, Major General Rudolf Hofmann was so sure the main attack would
come in the Fifteenth's area that he called Pemsel and bet him a dinner
that he was right. "This is one bet you're going to lose," said
Pemsel. Yet at this time neither Army Group B nor OB West had
sufficient evidence to draw any conclusions. They alerted the invasion
coast and ordered measures taken against the paratroop attacks. Then
everybody waited for more information. There was little else they
could do.

By now, messages were flooding in!command posts all over Normandy. One
of the first problems for some of the divisions was to find their own
commanders--the generals who had already left for the Kriegsspiel in
Rennes. Although most of them were located quickly, two--Lieutenant
General Karl von Schlieben and Major General Wilhelm Falley, both
commanding divisions in the Cherbourg peninsula--couldn't be found.
Von Schlieben was asleep in his hotel in Rennes and Falley was still en
route there by car.

Admiral Krancke, the naval commander in the west, was on an inspection
trip to Bordeaux. His chief of staff awakened him in his hotel room.
"Paratroop landings are taking place near Caen," Krancke was informed.
"OB West insists

that this is only a diversionary attack and not the real invasion, but
we're picking up ships. We think it's the real thing." Krancke
immediately alerted the few naval forces he had and then quickly set
out for his headquarters in Paris.

One of the men who got his orders at Le Havre was already a legend in
the German Navy. Lieutenant Commander Heinrich Hoffmann had made his
name as an E-boat commander. Almost from the beginning of the war, his
speedy, powerful flotillas of torpedo craft had ranged up and down the
English Channel, attacking shipping wherever they found it. Hoffmann
also had been in action during the Dieppe raid and had boldly escorted
the German battleships Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Prinz Eugen in their
dramatic dash from Brest to Norway in 1942.

When the message from headquarters came in, Hoffmann was in the cabin
of T-28, the lead E-boat of his 5th Flotilla, preparing to go out on a
mine-laying operation. Immediately he called together the commanders
of the other boats. They were all young men, and although Hoffmann
told them that "this must be the invasion," it did not surprise them.
They had expected it. Only three of his six boats were ready, but
Hoffmann could not wait for the others to be loaded with torpedoes. A
few minutes later the three small boats left Le Havre. On the bridge
of T-28, his white sailor's cap pushed back on his head as usual, the
thirty-four-year-old Hoffmann peered out into the darkness. Behind
him, the two little boats bounced along in Indian file, following the
lead boat's every maneuver. They raced through the night at more than
twenty-three knots--blindly heading straight toward the mightiest fleet
ever assembled.

At least they were in action. Probably the most baffled men in
Normandy this night were the 16,242 seasoned troops of the tough 21/
Panzer Division, once a part of Rommel's famed Afrika Korps. Clogging
every small vil-

lage, hamlet and wood in the area just twenty-five miles southeast of
Caen, these men were sitting almost on the edge of the battlefield, the
only panzer division within immediate striking distance of the British
airborne assault and the only veteran troops in that area.

Ever since the alert, officers and men had been standing alongside
their tanks and vehicles, engines running, waiting for the order to
move out. Colonel Hermann von Oppeln-Bronikowski, in command of the
division's regiment of tanks, couldn't understand the delay. He had
been awakened shortly after 2:00 A.m. by the 21/'s commander,
Lieutenant General Edgar Feuchtinger. "Oppeln," Feuchtinger had said
breathlessly, "imagine! They have landed." He had briefed Bronikowski
on the situation and told him that as soon as the division got its
orders it would "clean out the area between Caen and the coast
immediately." But no further word had come. With growing anger and
impatience, Bronikowski continued to wait.

Miles away, the most puzzling reports of all were being received by the
Luftwaffe's Lieutenant Colonel Priller. He and his wing man, Sergeant
Wodarczyk, had stumbled into their beds about 1:00 A.m. at the 26th
Fighter Wing's now deserted airfield near Lille. They had succeeded in
drowning their anger at the Luftwaffe High Command with several bottles
of excellent cognac. Now, in his drunken sleep, Priller heard the
phone ring as though from a long way off. He came to slowly, his left
hand groping over the bedside table for the phone.

Second Fighter Corps headquarters was on the wire. "Priller," said the
operations officer, "it seems that some sort of an invasion is taking
place. I suggest you put your wing on the alert."

Sleepy as he was, Pips Priller's temper promptly boiled over again.
The 124 planes of his command had been moved away from the Lille area
the previous afternoon and now the very thing he had feared was
happening.

Priller's language, as he remembers the conversation, is unprintable,
but after telling his caller what was wrong with corps headquarters and
the entire Luftwaffe High Command, the fighter ace roared, "Who in hell
am I supposed to alert? I'm alert. Wodarczyk is alert! But you
fatheads know I have only two damned planes!" With that he slammed
down the receiver.

A few minutes later the phone rang again. "Now what?" yelled Priller.
It was the same officer. "My dear Priller," he said, "I'm awfully
sorry. It was all a mistake. We somehow got a wrong report.
Everything is fine --there's no invasion." Priller was so furious he
couldn't answer. Worse than that, he couldn't get back to sleep.

Despite the confusion, hesitancy and indecision in the higher levels of
command, the German soldiers in actual contact with the enemy were
reacting swiftly. Thousands of troops were already on the move and,
unlike the generals at Army Group B and OB West, these soldiers had no
doubts that the invasion was upon them. Many of them had been fighting
in isolated, face-to-face skirmishes ever since the first British and
Americans had dropped out of the sky. Thousands of other alerted
troops waited behind their formidable coastal defenses, ready to repel
an invasion no matter where it might come. They were apprehensive, but
they were also determined.

At Seventh Army headquarters, the one top commander who was not
confused called his staff together. In the brightly lighted map room,
General Pemsel stood before his officers. His voice was as calm and as
quiet as usual. Only his words betrayed the deep concern he felt.
"Gentlemen," he told them, "I am convinced the invasion will be upon us
by dawn. Our future will depend on how we fight this day. I request
of you all the effort and pain that you can give."

In Germany, five hundred miles away, the man who might have agreed with
Pemsel --the one officer who had

won many a battle by his uncanny ability to see clearly through the
most confusing situations-- was asleep. At Army Group B the situation
was not considered serious enough yet to call Field Marshal Erwin
Rommel.

Already the first reinforcements had reached the airborne troops. In
the British 6th Airborne's area sixty-nine gliders had landed,
forty-nine of them on the correct landing strip near Ranville. Other
small glider units had landed earlier--notably Major Howard's force on
the bridges and a formation carrying heavy equipment for the
division--but this was the main glider train. The sappers had done a
good job. They had not had time to completely clear the long glider
field of all its obstructions, but enough of these had been dynamited
for the force to come in. After the arrival of the gliders the landing
zone presented a fantastic sight. In the moonlight it looked like a
Daliesque graveyard. Wrecked machines, with crumpled wings, squashed
cabins and crazily canted tails, lay everywhere. It did not seem
possible that anyone could have survived the splintering crashes, yet
casualties had been low. More men had been injured from antiaircraft
fire than in the landings.

The train had brought in the 6th Airborne's commander, Major General
Richard Gale, and his headquarters staff with more troops, heavy
equipment and the all-important antitank guns. Men had poured out of
the gliders expecting to find the field under harassing enemy fire;
instead they found a strange, pastoral silence. Ser-

geant John Hutley, piloting a Horsa, had expected a hot reception and
had warned his copilot, "Get out as quick as you can the moment we hit,
and make a dash for cover." But the only sign of battle was off in the
distance where Hutley could see the multicolored flash of tracers and
hear the sound of machine-gun fire coming from nearby Ranville. Around
him the landing field was bustling with activity as men salvaged
equipment from the wrecks and hitched up the antitank guns to the backs
of jeeps. There was even an air of cheerfulness now that the glider
ride was over. Hutley and the men he had carried sat down in the
wrecked cabin of their glider and had a cup of tea before setting out
for Ranville.

On the other side of the Normandy battlefield, on the Cherbourg
peninsula, the first American glider trains were just coming in.
Sitting in the copilot's seat of the 101/ lead glider was the assistant
division commander, Brigadier General Don Pratt, the officer who had
been so alarmed back in England when a hat was tossed on the bed where
he was sitting. Pratt was, reportedly, "as tickled as a schoolboy" to
be making his first glider flight. Strung out behind was a procession
of fifty-two gliders in formations of four, each towed by a Dakota.
The train carried jeeps, antitank guns, an entire airborne medical
unit, even a small bulldozer. High on the nose of Pratt's glider a big
No. I was painted. A huge "Screaming Eagle," insignia of the 101/,
and a U.s. flag adorned the canvas on either side of the pilot's
compartment. In the same formation, Surgical Technician Emile Natalle
looked down on shell bursts and burning vehicles below and saw "a wall
of fire coming up to greet us." Still hitched to their planes, the
gliders lurched from side to side scudding through "flak thick enough
to land on."

Unlike the paratroopers' planes the gliders came in from the Channel
and approached the peninsula from the east. They were only seconds
past the coast when they saw the

lights of the landing zone at Hiesville, four miles from
Ste.-M`ere-eeglise. One by one the three-hundred-yard-long nylon tow
ropes parted and the gliders came soughing down. Natalle's glider
overshot the zone and crashed into a field studded with "Rommel's
asparagus" --lines of heavy posts embedded in the ground as antiglider
obstacles. Sitting in a jeep inside the glider, Natalle gazed out
through one of the small windows and watched with horrified fascination
as the wings sheared off and the posts whizzed past. Then there was a
ripping sound and the glider broke in two--directly behind the jeep in
which Natalle was sitting. "It made it very easy to get out," he
recalls.

A short distance away lay the wreckage of glider No. 1. Skidding down
a sloping pasture, its brakes unable to halt its
one-hundred-mile-an-hour rush, it had smashed headlong into a hedgerow.
Natalle found the pilot, who had been hurled from the cockpit, lying
in the hedgerow with both legs broken. General Pratt had been killed
instantly, crushed by the crumpled framework of the cockpit. He was
the first general officer on either side to be killed on D Day.

Pratt was one of the few casualties in the 101/ landings. Almost all
of the division's gliders came down on or close to the field at
Hiesville. Although most of them were totally wrecked, their equipment
arrived largely intact. It was a remarkable achievement. Few of the
pilots had made more than three or four practice landings and these had
all been in daylight. * * There was also a shortage of glider pilots.
"At one time," General Gavin recalls, "we didn't think we'd have
enough. In the invasion each copilot's seat was occupied by an
airborne trooper. Incredible as it may seem, these troopers had been
given no training in either flying or landing gliders. Some found
themselves with a wounded pilot and a fully loaded glider on their
hands as they came hurtling in through flak-filled space on June 6.
Fortunately, the type glider we were using was not too hard to fly or
land. But having to do it for the first time in combat was a
chastening experience; it really gave a man religion."

Although the 101/ was lucky, the 82nd was not. The

inexperience of the pilots produced near-disaster in the 82nd's
fifty-glider train. Fewer than half their formations found the right
landing zone northwest of Ste.-M`ere-eeglise; the remainder plowed into
hedgerows and buildings, dove into rivers or came down in the marshes
of the Merderet. Equipment and vehicles so urgently needed were strewn
everywhere and casualties were high. Eighteen pilots alone were killed
within the first few minutes. One glider loaded with troops sailed
directly over the head of Captain Robert Piper, the 505th Regiment's
adjutant and, to his horror, "careened off the chimney of a house,
dropped into the backyard, cartwheeled across the ground and smashed
into a thick stone wall. There was not even a moan from the
wreckage."

For the hard-pressed 82nd, the wide dispersion of the glider train was
calamitous. It would take hours to salvage and collect the few guns
and supplies that had arrived safely. In the meantime, troopers would
have to fight on with the weapons they had carried with them. But
this, after all, was standard operating procedure for paratroopers:
They fought with what they had until relieved.

Now the 82nd men holding the rear of the airhead --the bridges over the
Douve and the Merderet-- were in position and already encountering the
Germans' first probings. These paratroopers had no vehicles, no
antitank guns, few bazookas, machine guns or mortars. Worse, they had
no communications. They did not know what was happening around them,
what positions were being held, what objectives had been taken. It was
the same with the men of the 101/, except that the fortunes of war had
given them most of their equipment. The soldiers of both divisions
were still scattered and isolated, but little groups were fighting
toward the principal objectives--and strongholds were beginning to
fall.

In Ste.-M`ere-eeglise, as the stunned townspeople

watched from behind their shuttered windows, paratroopers of the 82nd's
505th Regiment slipped cautiously through the empty streets. The
church bell was silent now. On the steeple Private John Steele's empty
parachute hung limp, and every now and then the glowing embers of M.
Hairon's villa erupted, briefly outlining the trees in the square.
Occasionally a sniper's bullet whined angrily into the night, but that
was the only sound; everywhere there was an uneasy silence.

Lieutenant Colonel Edward Krause, leading the attack, had expected to
fight hard for Ste.-M`ere-eeglise, but apart from a few snipers it
appeared that the German garrison had pulled out. Krause's men swiftly
took advantage of the situation: They occupied buildings, set up road
blocks and machine-gun posts, cut telephone cables and wires. Other
squads continued the slow sweep through the town, moving like shadows
from hedge to hedge and doorway to doorway, all converging on the
town's center, the Place de l'eeglise.

Passing around the back of the church, Private First Class William
Tucker reached the square and set up his machine gun behind a tree.
Then as he looked out on the moonlit square he saw a parachute and,
lying next to him, a dead German. On the far side were the crumpled,
sprawled shapes of other bodies. As Tucker sat there in the
semi-darkness trying to figure out what had happened, he began to feel
that he was not alone--that somebody was standing behind him. Grabbing
the cumbersome machine gun, he whirled around. His eyes came level
with a pair of boots slowly swaying back and forth. Tucker hastily
stepped back. A dead paratrooper was hanging in the tree looking down
at him.

Now other paratroopers came into the square and suddenly they, too, saw
the bodies hanging in the trees. Lieutenant Gus Sanders remembers that
"men just stood there

staring, filled with a terrible anger." Lieutenant Colonel Krause
reached the square. As he stood looking at the dead troops, he said
just three words: "Oh, my God."

Then Krause pulled an American flag from his pocket. It was old and
worn--the same flag that the 505th had raised over Naples. Krause had
promised his men that "before dawn of D Day this flag will fly over
Ste.-M`ere-eeglise." He walked to the town hall and, on the flagpole
by the side of the door, ran up the colors. There was no ceremony. In
the square of the dead paratroopers the fighting was over. The Stars
and Stripes flew over the first town to be liberated by the Americans
in France.

At the German Seventh Army headquarters in Le Mans a message was
received from General Marcks's 84th Corps. It read "Communications
with Ste.-M`ere-Eglise cut off ..." The time was 4:30 A.m.

The eiles-St.-Marcouf are two barren piles of rock just three miles off
Utah Beach. In the vast and intricate invasion plan the islands had
gone unnoticed until three weeks before D Day. Then Supreme
Headquarters had decided that they could be the sites of heavy gun
batteries. To ignore the islands, then, was a risk that no one was
prepared to take. Hurriedly, 132 men of the U.s. 4th and 24th cavalry
squadrons were trained for a pre-H-Hour assault. These men had landed
on the isles at about 4:30 A.m. They found no guns, no troops--only
sudden death. For as Lieutenant Colonel Edward C. Dunn's men moved off
the beaches they were trapped in a hideous labyrinth of mine fields. S
mines--which bound into the air when stepped on and gut the attacker
with bulletlike ball bearings--had been sown like grass seed. Within
minutes the night was ripped by the flash of explosions, the screams of
mangled men. Three lieutenants were injured almost immediately, two

enlisted men were killed and Lieutenant Alfred Rubin, who was also a
casualty, would never forget "the sight of one man lying on the ground
spitting up ball bearings." By the end of the day their losses would
be nineteen killed and wounded. Surrounded by the dead and the dying,
Lietuenant Colonel Dunn sent out the success signal, "Mission
accomplished." These were the first Allied troops to invade Hitler's
Europe from the sea. But in the scheme of things, their action was
merely a D-Day footnote, a bitter and useless victory.

In the British zone, almost on the coast and just three miles east of
Sword Beach, Lieutenant Colonel Terence Otway and his men lay under
heavy machine gun fire at the edge of the barbed wire and the mine
fields protecting the massive Merville battery. Otway's situation was
desperate. In all the months of training he had never expected every
phase of his elaborate land-and-air assault of the coastal battery to
work out exactly as planned. But neither had he been prepared for its
total disintegration. Yet, somehow, it had happened.

The bombing attack had failed. The special glider train had been lost
and with it artillery, flame throwers, mortars, mine detectors and
scaling ladders. Of his seven-hundred-man battalion, Otway had found
only 150 soldiers and, to take the battery with its garrison of two
hundred, these soldiers had only their rifles, Sten guns, grenades, a
few Bangalore torpedoes and one heavy machine gun. Despite these
handicaps, Otway's men had grappled with each problem, improvising
brilliantly.

With wire cutters they had already cut gaps through the outer barricade
of wire and placed their few Bangalore torpedoes in position ready to
blow the rest. One group of men had cleared a path through the mine
fields. It had

been a hair-raising job. They had crawled on hands and knees across
the moonlit approaches to the battery, feeling for trip wires and
prodding the ground ahead of them with bayonets. Now Otway's 150 men
crouched in ditches and bomb craters and along the sides of hedges,
waiting for the order to attack. The 6th Airborne's commander, General
Gale, had instructed Otway, "Your attitude of mind must be that you
cannot contemplate failure in the direct assault ..." As he looked
around at his men, Otway knew that his casualties would be high. But
the guns of the battery had to be silenced--they could slaughter the
troops crossing Sword Beach. The situation was, he thought,
desperately unfair, but there was no alternative. He had to attack.
He knew this even as he knew that the last part of his carefully
detailed plan was also doomed to failure. The three gliders due to
crash-land on the battery as the ground attack went in would not come
down unless they received a special signal--a star shell fired from a
mortar. Otway had neither the shell nor the mortar. He did have
flares for a Very pistol, but they were to be used only to signal the
success of the assault. His last chance for help was gone.

The gliders were on time. The tow planes signaled with their landing
lights and then cast off the machines. There were only two gliders,
each carrying about twenty men. The third, parting from its tow rope
over the Channel, had glided safely back to England. Now the
paratroopers heard the soft rustle of the machines as they came over
the battery. Helplessly Otway watched as the gliders, silhouetted
against the moon, gradually lost height and wheeled back and forth,
their pilots searching desperately for the signal he could not send.
As the gliders circled lower the Germans opened up. The machine guns
which had pinned down the troopers now turned on the gliders. Streams
of 20-millimeter tracers ripped into the unprotected canvas sides.
Still the gliders circled, following the

plan, doggedly looking for the signal. And Otway, agonized, almost in
tears, could do nothing.

Then the gliders gave it up. One veered off, to land four miles away.
The other passed so low over the waiting, anxious men that Privates
Alan Mower and Pat Hawkins thought it was going to smash into the
battery. At the last moment it lifted and crashed instead into a wood
some distance away. Instinctively a few men pushed themselves up from
hiding to go help the survivors. But they were stopped immediately.
"Don't move! Don't leave your positions!" whispered their harassed
officers. There was now nothing more to wait for. Otway ordered the
attack. Private Mower heard him yell, "Everybody in! We're going to
take this bloody battery!"

And in they went.

With a blinding roar the Bangalore torpedoes blasted great gaps in the
wire. Lieutenant Mike Dowling yelled, "Move up! Move up!" Once again
a hunting horn sounded in the night. Yelling and firing, Otway's
paratroopers plunged into the smoke of the explosions and through the
wire. Ahead of them, across the no-man's-land of mine fields, manned
trenches and gun pits, loomed the battery. Suddenly red flares burst
over the heads of the advancing paratroopers and immediately
machine-gun, Schmeisser and rifle fire poured out to meet them.
Through the deadly barrage, the paratroopers crouched and crawled, ran,
dropped to the ground, got up and ran some more. They dived into shell
craters, pulled themselves out and went forward again. Mines exploded.
Private Mower heard a scream and then someone yelled, "Stop! Stop!
There's mines everywhere!" Over on his right, Mower saw a badly
wounded corporal sitting on the ground waving men away, and shouting,
"Don't come near me! Don't come near me!"

Above the firing the bursting of mines and the yells of the men,
Lieutenant Alan Jefferson, out ahead, continued to blow his hunting
horn. Suddenly Private Sid Capon

heard a mine explode and saw Jefferson go down. He ran toward the
lieutenant, but Jefferson shouted at him, "Get in! Get in!" Then,
lying on the ground, Jefferson raised the horn to his lips and began
blowing it again. Now there were yells and screams and the flash of
grenades as paratroopers piled into the trenches and fought hand to
hand with the enemy. Private Capon, reaching one of the trenches,
suddenly found himself facing two Germans. One of them hastily raised
a Red Cross box high above his head in a token of surrender and said,
"Russki, Russki." They were Russian "volunteers." For a moment, Capon
didn't know what to do. Then he saw other Germans surrendering and
paratroopers leading them down the trench. He handed over his two
captives and continued on toward the battery.

There Otway, Lieutenant Dowling and about forty men were already
fighting fiercely. Troopers who had cleaned out trenches and gun pits
were running around the sides of the earth-banked concrete
fortifications, emptying their Sten guns and tossing grenades into the
apertures. The battle was gory and wild. Privates Mower, Hawkins and
a Bren gunner, racing through a torrent of mortar and machine-gun fire,
reached one side of the battery, found a door open and plunged inside.
A dead German gunner was lying in the passageway; there seemed to be
nobody else around. Mower left the other two men by the door and went
along the passage. He came to a large room and saw a heavy field piece
on a platform. Next to it great stacks of shells were piled. Mower
rushed back to his friends and excitedly outlined his plan to "blow the
whole business up by detonating grenades among the shells." But they
didn't get the chance. As the three men stood talking there was the
blast of an explosion. The Bren gunner died instantly. Hawkins was
hit in the stomach. Mower thought his back had been "ripped open by a
thousand red-hot needles." He couldn't control his legs. They
twitched involuntarily--

the way he had seen dead bodies twitch. He was sure he was going to
die and he didn't want to end this way and he began to call out for
help. He called for his mother.

Elsewhere in the battery Germans were surrendering. Private Capon
caught up with Dowling's men just in time to see "Germans pushing each
other out of a doorway and almost begging to surrender." Dowling's
party split the barrels of two guns by firing two shells simultaneously
through each barrel, and temporarily knocked out the other two. Then
Dowling found Otway. He stood before the colonel, his right hand
holding the left side of his chest. He said, "Battery taken as
ordered, sir. Guns destroyed." The battle was over; it had taken just
fifteen minutes. Otway fired a yellow flare--the success signal--from
the Very pistol. It was seen by a R.a.f. spotting plane and radioed to
H.m.s. Arethusa offshore exactly a quarter of an hour before the
cruiser was to start bombarding the battery. At the same time Otway's
signal officer sent a confirming message out by pigeon. He had carried
the bird all through the battle. On its leg in a plastic capsule was a
strip of paper with the code word "Hammer." Moments later Otway found
the lifeless body of Lieutenant Dowling. He had been dying at the time
he made his report.

Otway led his battered battalion out of the bloody Merville battery.
He had not been told to hold the battery once the guns were knocked
out. His men had other D-Day missions. They took only twenty-two
prisoners. Of the two hundred Germans, no fewer than 178 were dead or
dying, and Otway had lost almost half of his own men--seventy killed or
wounded. Ironically, the four guns were only half the reported size.
And within forty-eight hours the Germans would be back in the battery
and two of the guns would be firing on the beaches. But for the
critical few hours ahead the Merville battery would be silent and
deserted.

Most of the badly injured had to be left behind, for

Otway's men had neither sufficient medical supplies nor transport to
carry them. Mower was carried out on a board. Hawkins was too
terribly wounded to be moved. Both men would survive--even Mower, with
fifty-seven pieces of shrapnel in his body. The last thing Mower
remembers as they moved away from the battery was Hawkins yelling,
"Mates, for God's sake, don't leave me!" Then the voice grew fainter
and fainter and Mower mercifully drifted into unconsciousness.

It was nearly dawn--the dawn that eighteen thousand paratroopers had
been fighting toward. In less than five hours they had more than
fulfilled the expectations of General Eisenhower and his commanders.
The airborne armies had confused the enemy and disrupted his
communications, and now, holding the flanks at either end of the
Normandy invasion area, they had to a great extent blocked the movement
of enemy reinforcements.

In the British zone Major Howard's glider-borne troops were firmly
astride the vital Caen and Orne bridges. By dawn the five crossings
over the Dives would be demolished. Lieutenant Colonel Otway and his
emaciated battalion had knocked out the Merville battery, and
paratroopers were now in position on the heights overlooking Caen.
Thus the principal British assignments had been completed, and as long
as the various arteries could be held German counterattacks would be
slowed down or stopped altogether.

At the other end of Normandy's five invasion beaches the Americans,
despite more difficult terrain and a greater variety of missions, had
done equally well. Lieutenant Colonel Krause's men held the key
communications center of Ste.-M`ere-eeglise. North of the town
Lieutenant Colonel Vandervoort's battalion had cut the main Cherbourg
high-

way running down the peninsula and stood ready to repel attacks driving
in from there. Brigadier General Gavin and his troops were dug in
around the strategic Merderet and Douve crossings and were holding the
rear of the Utah invasion beachhead. General Maxwell Taylor's 101/ was
still widely scattered; by dawn the division's assembled strength would
be only 1,100 out of a total of 6,600 men. Despite this handicap
troopers had reached the St.-Martin-de-Varreville gun battery, only to
discover that the guns had been removed. Others were in sight of the
vital La Barquette locks, the key to the flooding across the neck of
the peninsula. And although none of the causeways leading off Utah had
been reached, groups of soldiers were driving for them and already held
the western edge of the inundated areas back of the beach itself.

The men of the Allied airborne armies had invaded the Continent from
the air and secured the initial foothold for the invasion from the sea.
Now they awaited the arrival of the seaborne forces with whom they
would drive into Hitler's Europe. The American task forces were
already lying twelve miles off Utah and Omaha beaches. For U.s. troops
H Hour--6:30 A.m. --was exactly one hour and forty-five minutes away.

At 4:45 A.m., Lieutenant George Honour's midget submarine X23 broke the
surface of a heaving sea one mile off the Normandy coast. Twenty miles
away its sister sub

the X20 also surfaced. These two fifty-seven-foot craft were now in
position, each marking one end of the British-Canadian invasion
area--the three beaches Sword, Juno and Gold. Now each crew had to
erect a mast with a flashing light, set up all the other visual and
radio signaling apparatus and wait for the first British ships to home
in on their signals.

On the X23 Honour pushed up the hatch and climbed stiffly out onto the
narrow catwalk. Waves rolled over the little deck and he had to hang
on to avoid being washed overboard. Behind him came his weary crew.
They clung to the guide rails, water washing about their legs, and
hungrily gulped in the cool night air. They had been off Sword Beach
since before dawn on June 4 and they had been submerged for more than
twenty-one hours out of each day. In all, since leaving Portsmouth on
June 2, they had been under water some sixty-four hours.

Even now their ordeal was far from over. On the British beaches H Hour
varied from 7:00 to 7:30 A.m. So for two more hours, until the first
wave of assault craft came in, the midget subs would have to hold their
positions. Until then the X23 and X20 would be exposed on the
surface--small, fixed targets for the German beach batteries. And soon
it would be daylight.

Everywhere men waited for this dawn, but none so anxiously as the
Germans. For by now a new and ominous note

had begun to creep into the welter of messages pouring into Rommel's
and Rundstedt's headquarters. All along the invasion coast Admiral
Krancke's naval stations were picking up the sound of ships--not just
one or two as before, but ships by the score. For more than an hour
the reports had been mounting. At last a little before 5:00 A.m. the
persistent Major General Pemsel of the Seventh Army telephoned Rommel's
chief of staff, Major General Speidel, and told him bluntly, "Ships are
concentrating between the mouths of the Vire and the Orne. They lead
to the conclusion that an enemy landing and large-scale attack against
Normandy is imminent."

Field Marshal Gerd Von Rundstedt at his headquarters, OB West, outside
Paris had already reached a similar conclusion. To him the impending
Normandy assault still looked like a "diversionary attack" and not the
real invasion. Even so Rundstedt had moved fast. He had already
ordered two massive panzer divisions--the 12th S.s. and the Panzer
Lehr, both lying in reserve near Paris--to assemble and rush to the
coast. Technically both these divisions came under Hitler's
headquarters, OKW, and they were not to be committed without the
Feuhrer's specific approval. But Rundstedt had taken the chance; he
could not believe that Hitler would object or countermand the order.
Now, convinced that all the evidence pointed to Normandy as the area
for the Allied "diversionary attack," Rundstedt sent an official
request to OKW for the reserves. "OB West," explained his teletype
message, "is fully aware that if this is actually a large-scale enemy
operation it can only be met successfully if immediate action is taken.
This involves the commitment on this day of the available strategic
reserves ... these are the 12th S.s. and Panzer Lehr divisions. If
they assemble quickly and get an early start they can enter the battle
on the coast during the day. Under the circumstances OB West therefore
requests OKW to

release the reserves. ..." It was a perfunctory message, simply for
the record.

At Hitler's headquarters in Berchtesgaden in the balmy unrealistic
climate of southern Bavaria, the message was delivered to the office of
Colonel General Alfred Jodl, chief of operations. Jodl was asleep and
his staff believed that the situation had not developed sufficiently
enough yet for his sleep to be disturbed. The message could wait until
later.

Not more than three miles away at Hitler's mountain retreat, the
Feuhrer and his mistress, Eva Braun, were also asleep. Hitler had
retired as usual at 4:00 A.m. and his personal physician, Dr. Morell,
had given him a sleeping draught (he was unable to sleep now without
it). At about 5:00 A.m. Hitler's naval aide, Admiral Karl Jesko von
Puttkamer, was awakened by a call from Jodl's headquarters.
Puttkamer's caller--he cannot recall now who it was--said that there
had been "some sort of landings in France." Nothing precise was known
yet--in fact, Puttkamer was told, "the first messages are extremely
vague." Did Puttkamer think that the Feuhrer should be informed? Both
men hashed it over and then decided not to wake Hitler. Puttkamer
remembers that "there wasn't much to tell him anyway and we both feared
that if I woke him at this time he might start one of his endless
nervous scenes which often led to the wildest decisions." Puttkamer
decided that the morning would be time enough to give Hitler the news.
He switched off the light and went back to sleep.

In France, the generals at OB West and Army Group B sat down to wait.
They had alerted their forces and called up the panzer reserves; now
the next move was up to the Allies. Nobody could estimate the
magnitude of the impending assault. Nobody knew--or could even
guess--the size of the Allied fleet. And although everything pointed
toward Normandy, nobody was really sure where the main

attack would come. The German generals had done all they could. The
rest depended on the ordinary Wehrmacht soldiers holding the coast.
They had suddenly become important. From the coastal fortifications
the soldiers of the Reich looked out toward the sea, wondering if this
was a practice alert or the real thing at last.

Major Werner Pluskat in his bunker overlooking Omaha Beach had heard
nothing from his superiors since 1:00 A.m. He was cold, tired and
exasperated. He felt isolated. He couldn't understand why there had
been no reports from either regimental or division headquarters. To be
sure, the very fact that his phone had remained silent all night was a
good sign; it must mean that nothing serious was happening. But what
about the paratroopers, the massed formations of planes? Pluskat could
not rid himself of his gnawing uneasiness. Once more he swung the
artillery glasses over to the left, picked up the dark mass of the
Cherbourg peninsula and began another slow sweep of the horizon. The
same low banks of mist came into view, the same patches of shimmering
moonlight, the same restless, white-flecked sea. Nothing was changed.
Everything seemed peaceful.

Behind him in the bunker his dog, Harras, was stretched out asleep.
Nearby, Captain Ludz Wilkening and Lieutenant Fritz Theen were talking
quietly. Pluskat joined them. "Still nothing out there," he told
them. "I'm about to give it up." But he walked back to the aperture
and stood looking out as the first streaks of light began to lighten
the sky. He decided to make another routine sweep.

Wearily, he swung the glasses over to the left again. Slowly, he
tracked across the horizon. He reached the dead center of the bay.
The glasses stopped moving. Pluskat tensed, stared hard.

Through the scattering, thinning mist the horizon was magically filling
with ships--ships of every size and de-

scription, ships that casually maneuvered back and forth as though they
had been there for hours. There appeared to be thousands of them. It
was a ghostly armada that somehow had appeared from nowhere. Pluskat
stared in frozen disbelief, speechless, moved as he had never been
before in his life. At that moment the world of the good soldier
Pluskat began falling apart. He says in those first few moments he
knew, calmly and surely, that "this was the end for Germany."

He turned to Wilkening and Theen and, with a strange detachment, said
simply, "It's the invasion. See for yourselves." Then he picked up
the phone and called Major Block at the 352nd Division's
headquarters.

"Block," said Pluskat, "it's the invasion. There must be ten thousand
ships out here." Even as he said it, he knew his words must sound
incredible.

"Get hold of yourself, Pluskat!" snapped Block. "The Americans and
the British together don't have that many ships. Nobody has that many
ships!"

Block's disbelief brought Pluskat out of his daze. "If you don't
believe me," he suddenly yelled, "come up here and see for yourself.
It's fantastic! It's unbelievable!"

There was a slight pause and then Block said, "What way are these ships
heading?"

Pluskat, phone in hand, looked out the aperture of the bunker and
replied, "Right for me."

PART THREE 175-177 THE DAY

Never had there been a dawn like this. In the murky, gray light, in
majestic, fearful grandeur, the great Allied fleet lay off Normandy's
five invasion beaches. The sea teemed with ships. Battle ensigns
snapped in the wind all the way across the horizon from the edge of the
Utah area on the Cherbourg peninsula to Sword Beach near the mouth of
the Orne. Outlined against the sky were the big battlewagons, the
menacing cruisers, the whippetlike destroyers. Behind them were the
squat command ships, sprouting their forests of antennae. And behind
them came the convoys of troop-filled transports and landing ships,
lying low and sluggish in the water. Circling the lead transports,
waiting for the signal to head for the beaches, were swarms of bobbing
landing craft, jam-packed with the men who would land in the first
waves.

The great spreading mass of ships seethed with noise and activity.
Engines throbbed and whined as patrol boats dashed back and forth
through the milling assault craft. Windlasses whirred as booms swung
out amphibious vehicles. Chains rattled in the davits as assault boats
were lowered away. Landing craft loaded with pallid-faced men
shuddered and banged against the high steel sides of transports.
Loud-hailers blared out, "Keep in line! Keep in line!" as
coastguardmen shepherded the bobbing assault boats into formations. On
the transports men jammed the rails, waiting their turn to climb down
slippery ladders or scramble-nets into the heaving, spray-washed
beaching craft. And through it all, over the ships' public-address

systems came a steady flow of messages and exhortations: "Fight to get
your troops ashore, fight to save your ships, and if you've got any
strength left, fight to save yourselves." ... "Get in there, Fourth
Division, and give 'em hell!" ... "Don't forget, the Big Red One is
leading the way." ... "U.s. Rangers, man your stations" ... "Remember
Dunkirk! Remember Coventry! God bless you all" ... "Nous mourrons sur
le sable de notre France cheerie, mais nous ne retournerons pas [We
shall die on the sands of our dear France but we shall not turn back]."
... "This is it, men, pick it up and put it on, you've only got a
one-way ticket and this is the end of the line. Twenty-nine, let's
go!" And then the two messages that most men still remember: "Away all
boats," and "Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name
..."

Along the crowded rails many men left their positions to say goodbye to
buddies going in on other boats. Soldiers and seamen, who had become
firm friends after the long hours spent aboard ships, wished one
another good luck. And hundreds of men took time to exchange home
addresses "just in case." Technical Sergeant Roy Stevens of the 29th
Division fought his way across a crowded deck in search of his twin
brother. "I finally found him," he says. "He smiled and extended his
hand. I said, "No, we will shake hands at the crossroads in France
like we planned." We said goodbye, and I never saw him again." On
H.m.s. Prince Leopold, Lieutenant Joseph Lacy, the chaplain of the 5th
and 2nd Ranger battalions, walked among the waiting men and Private
First Class Max Coleman heard him say, "I'll do your praying for you
from here on in. What you're going to do today will be a prayer in
itself."

All over the ships, officers wound up their pep talks with the kind of
colorful or memorable phrases that they felt best suited the occasion--
sometimes with unexpected results. Lieutenant Colonel John
O'ationeill, whose special com-

bat engineers were to land on Omaha and Utah beaches in the first wave
and destroy the mined obstacles, thought he had the ideal conclusion to
his debarking talk when he thundered, "Come hell or high water, get
those damned obstacles out!" From somewhere nearby, a voice remarked,
"I believe that sddo.b. is scared, too." Captain Sherman Burroughs of
the 29th Division told Captain Charles Cawthon that he planned to
recite "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" on the way in to the beach.
Lieutenant Colonel Elzie Moore, heading up an engineer brigade bound
for Utah, was without a speech. He had wanted to recite a most
appropriate excerpt from the story of another invasion of France, a
battle scene from Shakespeare's Henry Very, but all he could remember
was the opening line, "Once more unto the breach, dear friends ..." He
decided to give up the idea. Major C. K. "Banger" King of the British
3rd Division, going in on the first wave to Sword Beach, planned to
read from the same play. He had gone to the trouble of writing down
the lines he wanted. They closed with the passage, "He that outlives
this day, and comes safe home ar Will stand a tip-toe when this day is
named ..."

The tempo was increasing. Off the American beaches more and more
troop-filled boats were joining the churning assault craft endlessly
circling the mother ships. Sodden, seasick and miserable, the men in
these boats would lead the way into Normandy, across Omaha and Utah
beaches. In the transport areas, debarking was now in full swing. It
was a complex and hazardous operation. Soldiers carried so much
equipment that they were barely able to move. Each had a rubber-tube
life preserver and, besides weapons, musette bags, entrenching tools,
gas masks, first-aid kits, canteens, knives and rations, everybody had
extra quantities of grenades, explosives and ammunition--often as much
as 250 rounds. In addition, many men were burdened with the special
equipment that their particular jobs

demanded. Some men estimate that they weighed at least three hundred
pounds as they waddled across decks and prepared to get into the boats.
All this paraphernalia was necessary, but it seemed to Major Gerden
Johnson of the 4th Infantry Division that his men were "slowed down to
the pace of a turtle. "Lieutenant Bill Williams of the 29th thought
his men were so overburdened that "they wouldn't be able to do much
fighting," and Private Rudolph Mozgo, looking down the side of his
transport at the assault craft that smashed against the hull and rose
sickeningly up and down on the swells, figured that if he and his
equipment could just get into a boat "half the battle would be won."

Many men, trying to balance themselves and their equipment as they
climbed down the weblike scramble-nets, became casualties long before
they were even fired on. Corporal Harold Janzen of a mortar unit,
loaded down with two reels of cable and several field phones, tried to
time the rise and fall of the assault craft beneath him. He jumped at
what he thought was the right moment, misjudged, fell twelve feet to
the bottom of the boat and knocked himself out with his carbine. There
were more serious injuries. Sergeant Romeo Pompei heard someone scream
below him, looked down and saw a man hanging in agony on the net as the
assault boat ground his foot against the side of the transport. Pompei
himself fell headlong from the net into the boat and smashed his front
teeth.

Troops that boarded craft on the decks and were lowered down from
davits were no better off. Major Thomas Dallas, one of the 29th's
battalion commanders, and his headquarters staff were suspended about
halfway between the rail and the water when the davits lowering their
boat jammed. They hung there for about twenty minutes--just four feet
beneath the sewage outlet from the "heads." "The

heads were in constant use," he recalls, "and during these twenty
minutes we received the entire discharge."

The waves were so high that many assault craft bounced like monstrous
yo-yos up and down on the davit chains. One boatload of Rangers got
halfway down the side of H.m.s. Prince Charles when a huge swell surged
up and almost pitched them back on the deck. The swell receded and the
boat dropped sickeningly down again on its cables, bouncing its seasick
occupants about like so many dolls.

As they went into the small boats veteran soldiers told the new men
with them what to expect. On H.m.s. Empire Anvil, Corporal Michael
Kurtz of the 1/ Division gathered his squad about him. "I want all of
you Joes to keep your heads down below the gunwale," he warned them.
"As soon as we're spotted we'll catch enemy fire. If you make it, O.k.
If you don't, it's a helluva good place to die. Now let's go." As
Kurtz and his men loaded into their boat in the davits they heard yells
below them. Another boat had upended, spilling its men into the sea.
Kurtz's boat was lowered away without trouble. Then they all saw the
men swimming near the side of the transport. As Kurtz's boat moved
off, one of the soldiers floating in the water yelled, "So long,
suckers!" Kurtz looked at the men in his boat. On each face he saw
the same waxy, expressionless look.

It was 5:30 A.m. Already the first-wave troops were well on the way to
the beaches. For this great seaborne assault which the free world had
toiled so hard to mount, only about three thousand men were leading the
attack. They were the combat teams of the 1/, 29th and 4th divisions
and attached units --Army and Navy underwater demolition teams, tank
battalion groups and Rangers. Each combat team was given a specific
landing zone. For example, the 16th Regiment of Major General Clarence
R. Huebner's 1/ Division would assault one half of Omaha Beach, the
116th of Major General Charles H. Gerhardt's 29th

Division the other. * Those zones had been subdivided into sectors,
each with a code name. Men of the 1/ Division would land on Easy Red,
Fox Green and Fox Red, the 29th on Charlie, Dog Green, Dog White, Dog
Red and Easy Green. * Although the 1/ and 29th divisions' combat teams
shared the assault, the actual landings were technically under the
command of the 1/ Division in this opening phase.

The landing schedules for both Omaha and Utah beaches were planned on
an almost minute-by-minute timetable. In the 29th Division's half of
Omaha Beach at H Hour minus five minutes--6:25 A.m.-- thirty-two
amphibious tanks were to swim onto Dog White and Dog Green and take up
firing positions at the water's edge to cover the first phase of the
assault. At H Hour itself-- 6:30 A.m.--eight LCT'S would bring in more
tanks, landing them directly from the sea on Easy Green and Dog Red.
One minute later --6:31 A.m.--the assault troops would swarm across the
beach on all sectors. Two minutes after that--6:33 A.m.--the
underwater demolition engineers were due; they had the tough job of
clearing sixteen fifty-yard paths through the mines and obstacles.
They had just twenty-seven minutes to finish this ticklish job. At
six-minute intervals, from 7:00 A.m. on, five assault waves, the main
body of troops, would begin landing.

This was the basic landing plan for both beaches. The build-up was so
carefully timed that heavy equipment like artillery was expected to be
landed on Omaha Beach within an hour and a half and even cranes,
half-tracks and tank recovery vehicles were scheduled to come in by
10:30 A.m. It was an involved, elaborate timetable which looked as if
it could not possibly hold up--and in all probability the planners had
taken this inffconsideration, too.

The first-wave assault troops could not yet see the misty

shores of Normandy. They were still more than nine miles away. Some
warships were already dueling with German naval coastal batteries, but
the action as yet was remote and impersonal for the soldiers in the
boats--nobody was firing directly at them. Seasickness was still their
biggest enemy. Few were immune. The assault boats, each loaded with
about thirty men and all their weighty equipment, rode so low in the
water that waves rolled over the side and out again. With each wave
the boats pitched and tossed, and Colonel Eugene Caffey of the 1/
Engineers Special Brigade remembers that some of the men in his boat
"just lay there with the water sloshing back and forth over them, not
caring whether they lived or died." But for those among them not yet
incapacitated by seasickness, the sight of the great invasion fleet
looming up all about them was awesome and wonderful. In Corporal
Gerald Burt's boatload of demolition engineers, one man wi/lly remarked
that he wished he'd brought his camera.

Thirty miles away Lieutenant Commander Heinrich Hoffmann, in the lead
E-boat of his 5th Flotilla, saw a strange, unreal fog blanketing the
sea ahead. As Hoffmann watched, a single plane flew out of the
whiteness. That confirmed his suspicion--it must be a smoke screen.
Hoffmann, followed by the other two E-boats, plunged into the haze to
investigate --and got the shock of his life. On the other side he
found himself face-to-face with a staggering array of warships--almost
the entire British fleet. Everywhere he looked there were battleships,
cruisers and destroyers towering over him. "I felt as though I were
sitting in a rowboat," Hoffmann says. Almost instantly shells began to
fall around his dodging, twisting boats. Without a moment's
hesitation, the cocky Hoffmann, unbelievably outnumbered, ordered the
attack. Seconds later, in the

only German naval offensive of D Day, eighteen torpedoes knifed through
the water toward the Allied fleet.

On the bridge of the Norwegian destroyer Svenner, the Royal Navy's
Lieutenant Desmond Lloyd saw them coming. So did officers on the
bridges of Warspite, Ramillies and Largs. Largs promptly slammed her
engines to full speed astern. Two torpedoes sliced between Warspite
and Ramillies. Svenner couldn't get out of the way. Her captain
yelled, "Hard aport! Full ahead starboard! Full astern port!" in a
vain effort to swing the destroyer so that the torpedoes would pass
parallel to the ship. Lieutenant Lloyd, watching through his
binoculars, saw that the torpedoes were going to hit directly beneath
the bridge. All he could think of was, "How high will I fly?" With
agonizing slowness Svenner turned to port and for a moment Lloyd
thought they might escape. But the maneuver failed. A torpedo slammed
into the boiler room. Svenner seemed to lift from the water, shuddered
and broke in two. Nearby, Leading Stoker Robert Dowie, on the mine
sweeper H.m.s. Dunbar, was amazed to see the destroyer slide beneath
the water with "her bow and stern sticking up to form a perfect V."
There were thirty casualties. Lieutenant Lloyd, unhurt, swam about for
nearly twenty minutes, keeping a sailor with a broken leg afloat, until
they were both picked up by the destroyer Swift.

To Hoffmann, safely back again on the other side of the smoke screen,
the important thing now was to raise the alarm. He flashed the news to
Le Havre, serenely unaware that his radio had been knocked out of
commission in the brief battle that had just taken place.

On the flagship Augusta lying off the American beaches, Lieutenant
General Omar N. Bradley plugged his ears with cotton and then trained
his binoculars on the landing

craft speeding toward the beaches. His troops, the men of the U.s.
First Army, were moving steadily in. Bradley was deeply concerned. Up
to a few hours before he had believed that an inferior and overextended
German "static" division, the 716th, was holding the coastal area,
roughly from Omaha Beach all the way east to the British zone. But
just before he left England, Allied intelligence had passed on the
information that an additional German division had moved into the
invasion area. The news had arrived too late for Bradley to inform his
already briefed and "sealed" troops. Now the men of the 1/ and 29th
division were heading for Omaha Beach, unaware that the tough,
battle-tested 352nd Division manned the defenses. * * Allied
intelligence was under the impression that the 352nd had only recently
taken up these positions and then only for "a defense exercise."
Actually, units had been in the coastal zone and overlooking Omaha
Beach for more than two months--and some even longer. Pluskat and his
guns, for example, had been there since March. But up to June 4,
Allied intelligence had still placed the 352nd around St.-Leo, more
than twenty miles away.

The naval bombardment which Bradley prayed would make their job easier
was about to begin. A few miles away, Contre-Amiral Jaujard, on the
French light cruiser Montcalm, spoke to his officers and men. "C'est
une chose terrible et monstrueuse que d'eetre oblig`e de tirer sur
notre propre patrie," he said, his voice heavy with emotion, "mais je
vous demande de le faire aujourd'hui [It is a terrible and monstrous
thing to have to fire on our homeland, but I want you to do it this
day]." And four miles off Omaha Beach on the destroyer U.s.s. Carmick,
Commander Robert O. Beer pressed a button on the ship's intercom and
said, "Now hear this! This is probably going to be the biggest party
you boys will ever go to--so let's all get out on the floor and
dance!"

The time was 5:50 A.m. The British warships had been firing off their
beaches for more than twenty minutes. Now

the bombardment in the American zone began. The entire invasion area
erupted with a roaring storm of fire. The maelstrom of sound thundered
back and forth along the Normandy coast as the big ships slammed
steadily away at their preselected targets. The gray sky brightened
with the hot flash of their guns and along the beaches great clouds of
black smoke began to bunch up into the air.

Off Sword, Juno and Gold the battleships Warspite and Ramillies lobbed
tons of steel from their 15-inch guns toward powerful German gun
batteries at Le Havre and around the mouth of the Orne. Maneuvering
cruisers and destroyers poured streams of shells into pillboxes,
concrete bunkers and redoubts. With incredible accuracy, the
sharp-shooting H.m.s. Ajax of River Plate fame knocked out a battery of
four 6-inch guns from six miles offshore. Off Omaha, the big
battleships Texas and Arkansas, mounting between them a total of ten
14-inch, twelve 12-inch and twelve 5-inch guns, pumped six hundred
shells onto the coastal battery position atop Pointe du Hoc in an
all-out attempt to ease the way for the Ranger battalions even now
heading for the one-hundred-foot-high sheer cliffs. Off Utah, the
battleship Nevada and the cruisers Tuscaloosa, Quincy and Black Prince
seemed to lean back as they hurled salvo after salvo at the shore
batteries. While the big ships blasted away from five to six miles
offshore, the small destroyers pressed in to a mile or two off the
beaches and, line astern, sent a saturating fire into targets all over
the network of coastal fortifications.

The fearsome salvos of the naval bombardment made deep impressions on
the men who saw and heard them. Sub-Lieutenant Richard Ryland of the
Royal Navy felt immense pride in "the majestic appearance of the
battleships," and wondered "whether this would be the last occasion
such a sight would be seen." On the U.s.s. Nevada, Yeoman Third Class
Charles Langley was almost frightened by the massive fire power of the
fleet. He did not see

"how any army could possibly withstand the bombardment" and believed
that "the fleet would be able to pull out in two or three hours." And
in the speeding assault boats, as this roaring canopy of steel flashed
over their heads, the sodden, miserable, seasick men, bailing with
their helmets, looked up and cheered.

Now a new sound throbbed over the fleet. Slowly at first, like the
mumbling of some giant bee, and then building to a great crescendo of
noise, the bombers and fighters appeared. They flew straight in over
the massive fleet, flying wing tip to wing tip, formation after
formation--nine thousand planes. Spitfires, Thunderbolts and Mustangs
whistled in over the heads of the men. With apparent disregard for the
rain of shells from the fleet, they strafed the invasion beaches and
headlands, zoomed up, swept around and came in again. Above them,
crisscrossing at every altitude, were the 9th Air Force's B-26 medium
bombers, and above these, out of sight in the heavy cloud layer, droned
the heavies--the R.a.f. and 8th Air Force Lancasters, Fortresses and
Liberators. It seemed as though the sky could not possibly hold them
all. Men looked up and stared, eyes damp, faces contorted with a
sudden emotion almost too great to bear. It was going to be all right
now, they thought. There was the air cover--the enemy would be pinned
down, the guns knocked out, the beaches would be cratered with
foxholes. But, unable to see through the cloud layers, and unwilling
to risk bombing their own troops, 329 bombers assigned to the Omaha
area were already unloading thirteen thousand bombs up to three miles
inland from their targets, the deadly guns * of Omaha Beach. * There
were 8 concrete bunkers with guns of 75 millimeters or larger caliber;
35 pillboxes with artillery pieces of various sizes and/or automatic
weapons; 4 batteries of artillery; 18 antitank guns; 6 mortar pits; 35
rocket-launching sites, each with four 38-millimeter rocket tubes; and
no less than 85 machine-gun nests.

* * *

The last explosion was very near. Major Werner Pluskat thought the
bunker was shaking itself apart. Another shell hit the cliff face at
the very base of the hidden position. The shock of it spun Pluskat
around and hurled him backward. He fell heavily to the ground. Dust,
dirt and concrete splinters showered about him. He couldn't see
through the clouds of white dust, but he could hear his men shouting.
Again and again shells smashed into the cliff. Pluskat was so dazed by
the concussion that he could hardly speak.

The phone was ringing. It was the 352nd Division headquarters.
"What's the situation?" a voice asked.

"We're being shelled," Pluskat managed to say, "heavily shelled."

Somewhere far behind his position he now heard bombs exploding.
Another salvo of shells landed on the cliff top, sending an avalanche
of earth and stones in through the bunker's apertures. The phone rang
again. This time Pluskat couldn't find it. He let it ring. He
noticed that he was covered from head to foot with a fine white dust
and his uniform was ripped.

For a moment the shelling lifted and through the thick haze of dust
Pluskat saw Theen and Wilkening on the concrete floor. He yelled to
Wilkening, "Better get to your position while you have a chance."
Wilkening looked glumly at Pluskat--his observation post was in the
next bunker, some distance away. Pluskat took advantage of the lull to
phone his batteries. To his amazement not one of his twenty guns--all
brand-new Krupps of various calibers--had been hit. He could not see
how the batteries, only half a mile or so from the coast, had escaped;
there were not even any casualties among the crews. Pluskat began to
wonder if observation posts along the coast were being mistaken for gun
positions. The damage around his own post seemed to indicate it.

The phone rang just as the shelling began again. The same voice he had
heard earlier demanded to know "the exact location of the shelling."

"For God's sake," Pluskat yelled, "they're falling all over. What do
you want me to do--go out and measure the holes with a ruler?" He
banged down the phone and looked around him. Nobody in the bunker
seemed to be hurt. Wilkening had already left for his own bunker;
Theen was at one of the apertures. Then Pluskat noticed that Harras
was gone. But he had little time to bother about the big dog now. He
picked up the phone again, walked over to the second aperture and
looked out. There seemed to be even more assault boats in the water
than when he had last looked, and they were closer now. Soon they
would be in range.

He called Colonel Ocker at regimental headquarters. "All my guns are
intact," he reported.

"Good," said Ocker, "now you'd better get back to your headquarters
immediately."

Pluskat rang his gunnery officers. "I'm going back," he told them.
"Remember, no guns must fire until the enemy reaches the water's
edge."

The landing craft carrying U.s. 1/ Division troops to their sector on
Omaha Beach had not far to go now. Behind the bluffs overlooking Easy
Red, Fox Green and Fox Red, the gun crews in Pluskat's four batteries
waited for the boats to get just a little nearer.

"This is London calling.

"I bring you an urgent instruction from the Supreme Commander. The
lives of many of you depend upon the speed and thoroughness with which
you obey it. It is particularly addressed to all who live within
thirty-five kilometers of any part of the coast."

Michel Hardelay stood at the window of his mother's

house in Vierville at the western end of Omaha Beach and watched the
invasion fleet maneuver. The guns were still firing, and Hardelay
could feel the concussion through the soles of his shoes. The whole
family--Hardelay's mother, his brother, his niece and the maid--had
gathered in the living room. There seemed no doubt about it now, they
all agreed: the invasion was going to take place right at Vierville.
Hardelay was philosophical about his own seaside villa; now it would
most certainly come down. In the background, the BBC message, which
had been repeated over and over for more than an hour, continued.

"Leave your towns at once, informing, as you go, any neighbors who may
not be aware of the warning. ... Stay off frequented roads. ... Go on
foot and take nothing with you which you cannot easily carry. ... Get
as quickly as possible into the open country. ... Do not gather in
large groups which may be mistaken for troop concentrations. ..."

Hardelay wondered if the German on horseback would make his usual trip
down to the gun crews with the morning coffee. He looked at his watch;
if the soldier was coming, it was nearly time. Then Hardelay saw him
on the same big-rumped horse, with the same bouncing coffee cans that
he always carried. The man rode calmly down the road, turned the
bend--and saw the fleet. For a second or two he sat motionless. Then
he jumped off the horse, stumbled and fell, picked himself up and ran
for cover. The horse continued slowly on down the road to the village.
The time was 6:15 A.m.

By now the long, bobbing lines of assault craft were less than a mile
from Omaha and Utah beaches. For the three thousand Americans in the
first wave, H Hour was just fifteen minutes away.

The noise was deafening as the boats, long white wakes streaming out
behind them, churned steadily for the shore. In the slopping, bouncing
craft the men had to shout to be heard over the roar of the diesels.
Overhead, like a great steel umbrella, the shells of the fleet still
thundered. And rolling out from the coast came the booming explosions
of the Allied air forces' carpet bombing. Strangely, the guns of the
Atlantic Wall were silent. Troops saw the coastline stretching ahead
and wondered about the absence of enemy fire. Maybe, many thought, it
would be an easy landing after all.

The great square-faced ramps of the assault craft butted into every
wave, and chilling, frothing green water sloshed over everyone. There
were no heroes in these boats--just cold, miserable, anxious men, so
jam-packed together, so weighed down by equipment that often there was
no place to be seasick except over one another. Newsweek's Kenneth
Crawford, in the first Utah wave, saw a young 4th Division soldier,
covered in his own vomit, slowly shaking his head in abject misery and
disgust. "That guy Higgins," he said, "ain't got nothin' to be proud
of about inventin' this goddamned boat."

Some men had no time to think about their miseries-- they were bailing
for their lives. Almost from the moment the assault craft left the
mother ships, many boats had begun to fill with water. At first the
men had paid little

attention to the sea slopping about their legs; it was just another
misery to be endured. Lieutenant George Kerchner of the Rangers
watched the water slowly rise in his craft and wondered if it was
serious. He had been told that the LCA was unsinkable. But then over
the radio Kerchner's soldiers heard a call for help: "This is LCA 860!
... LCA 860! ... We're sinking! ... We're sinking!" There was a
final exclamation: "My God, we're sunk!" Immediately Kerchner and his
men began bailing.

Directly behind Kerchner's boat, Sergeant Regis McCloskey, also of the
Rangers, had his own troubles. McCloskey and his men had been bailing
for more than an hour. Their boat carried ammunition for the Pointe du
Hoc attack and all of the Rangers' packs. The boat was so waterlogged
McCloskey was sure it would sink. His only hope lay in lightening the
wallowing craft. McCloskey ordered his men to toss all unnecessary
equipment overboard. Rations, extra clothing and packs went over the
side. McCloskey heaved them all into the swells. In one pack was
$1,200 which Private Chuck Vella had won in a crap game; in another was
First Sergeant Charles Frederick's false teeth.

Landing craft began to sink in both the Omaha and Utah areas--ten off
Omaha, seven off Utah. Some men were picked up by rescue boats coming
up behind, others would float around for hours before being rescued.
And some soldiers, their yells and screams unheard, were dragged down
by their equipment and ammunition. They drowned within sight of the
beaches, without having fired a shot.

In an instant the war had become personal. Troops heading for Utah
Beach saw a control boat leading one of the waves suddenly rear up out
of the water and explode. Seconds later heads bobbed up and survivors
tried to save themselves by clinging to the wreckage. Another
explosion followed almost immediately. The crew of a landing barge
trying to launch four of the thirty-two amphibious tanks bound for Utah
had dropped the ramp right onto a submerged sea mine. The front of the
craft shot up and Sergeant Orris Johnson on a nearby LCT watched in
frozen horror as a tank "soared more than a hundred feet into the air,
tumbled slowly end over end, plunged back into the water and
disappeared." Among the many dead, Johnson learned later, was his
buddy, Tanker Don Neill.

Scores of Utah-bound men saw the dead bodies and heard the yells and
screams of the drowning. One man, Lieutenant (j.g.) Francis X. Riley
of the Coast Guard, remembers the scene vividly. The
twenty-four-year-old officer, commanding an LCI, could only listen "to
the anguished cries for help from wounded and shocked soldiers and
sailors as they pleaded with us to pull them out of the water." But
Riley's orders were to "disembark the troops on time regardless of
casualties." Trying to close his mind to the screams, Riley ordered
his craft on past the drowning men. There was nothing else he could
do. The assault waves sped by, and as one boat carrying Lieutenant
Colonel James Batte and the 4th Division's 8th Infantry Regiment troops
threaded its way through the dead bodies, Batte heard one of his
gray-faced men say, "Them lucky bastards--they ain't seasick no
more."

The sight of the bodies in the water, the strain of the long trip in
from the transport ships and now the ominous nearness of the flat sands
and the dunes of Utah Beach jerked men out of their lethargy. Corporal
Lee Cason, who had just turned twenty, suddenly found himself "cursing
to high heaven against Hitler and Mussolini for getting us into this
mess." His companions were startled at his vehemence--Cason had never
before been known to swear. In many boats now soldiers nervously
checked and rechecked their weapons. Men became so possessive of their
ammunition that Colonel Eugene Caffey could not get a

single man in his boat to give him a clip of bullets for his rifle.
Caffey, who was not supposed to land until 9:00 A.m., had smuggled
himself aboard an 8th Infantry craft in an effort to catch up with his
veteran 1/ Engineer Brigade. He had no equipment and although all the
men in the boat were overloaded with ammunition, they were "hanging
onto it for dear life." Caffey was finally able to load the rifle by
taking up a collection of one bullet from each of eight men.

In the waters off Omaha Beach there had been a disaster. Nearly half
of the amphibious tank force scheduled to support the assault troops
had foundered. The plan was for sixty-four of these tanks to be
launched two to three miles offshore. From there they were to swim in
to the beach. Thirty-two of them had been allotted to the 1/
Division's area--Easy Red, Fox Green and Fox Red. The landing barges
carrying them reached their positions, the ramps were dropped and
twenty-nine tanks were launched into the heaving swells. The
weird-looking amphibious vehicles, their great balloonlike canvas
skirts supporting them in the water, began breasting the waves, driving
toward the shore. Then tragedy overtook the men of the 741/ Tank
Battalion. Under the pounding of the waves the canvas water wings
ripped, supports broke, engines were flooded--and, one after another,
twenty-seven tanks foundered and sank. Men came clawing up out of the
hatches, inflating their life belts, plunging into the sea. Some
succeeded in launching survival rafts. Others went down in the steel
coffins.

Two tanks, battered and almost awash, were still heading for the shore.
The crews of three others had the good fortune to be on a landing
barge whose ramp jammed. They were put ashore later. The remaining
thirty-two tanks--for the 29th Division's half of the beach--were safe.
Officers in charge of the craft carrying them, over-

whelmed by the disaster they had seen, wisely decided to take their
force directly onto the beach. But the loss of the 1/ Division tanks
would cost hundreds of casualties within the next few minutes.

From two miles out the assault troops began to see the living and the
dead in the water. The dead floated gently, moving with the tide
toward the beach, as though determined to join their fellow Americans.
The living bobbed up and down in the swells, savagely pleading for the
help the assault boats could not tender. Sergeant Regis McCloskey, his
ammunition boat again safely under way, saw the screaming men in the
water, "yelling for help, begging us to stop--and we couldn't. Not for
anything or anyone." Gritting his teeth, McCloskey looked away as his
boat sped past, and then, seconds later, he vomited over the side.
Captain Robert Cunningham and his men saw survivors struggling, too.
Instinctively their Navy crew swung the boat toward the men in the
water. A fast launch cut them off. Over its loudspeaker came the grim
words, "You are not a rescue ship! Get on shore!" In another boat
nearby, Sergeant Noel Dube of an engineer battalion said the Act of
Contrition.

Now the deadly martial music of the bombardment seemed to grow and
swell as the thin wavy lines of assault craft closed in on Omaha Beach.
Landing ships lying about one thousand yards offshore joined in the
shelling; and then thousands of flashing rockets whooshed over the
heads of the men. To the troops it seemed inconceivable that anything
could survive the massive weight of fire power that flayed the German
defenses. The beach was wreathed in haze, and plumes of smoke from
grass fires drifted lazily down from the bluffs. Still the German guns
remained silent. The boats bored in. In the thrashing surf and
running back up the beach men could now see the lethal jungles of
steel-and-concrete obstacles. They were

strewn everywhere, draped with barbed wire and capped with mines. They
were as cruel and ugly as the men had expected. Back of the defenses
the beach itself was deserted; nothing and no one moved upon it.
Closer and closer the boats pressed in ... 500 yards ... 450 yards.
Still no enemy fire. Through waves that were four to five feet high
the assault craft surged forward, and now the great bombardment began
to lift, shifting to targets farther inland. The first boats were
barely 400 yards from the shore when the German guns--the guns that few
believed could have survived the raging Allied air and sea
bombardment--opened up.

Through the din and clamor one sound was nearer, deadlier than all the
rest--the sound of machine-gun bullets clanging across the steel,
snoutlike noses of the boats. Artillery roared. Mortar shells rained
down. All along the four miles of Omaha Beach German guns flayed the
assault craft.

It was H Hour.

They came ashore on Omaha Beach, the slogging, unglamorous men that no
one envied. No battle ensigns flew for them, no horns or bugles
sounded. But they had history on their side. They came from regiments
that had bivouacked at places like Valley Forge, Stoney Creek,
Antietam, Gettysburg, that had fought in the Argonne. They had crossed
the beaches of North Africa, Sicily and Salerno. Now they had one more
beach to cross. They would call this one "Bloody Omaha."

The most intense fire came from the cliffs and high bluffs at either
end of the crescent-shaped beach --in the 29th Division's Dog Green
area to the west and the 1/ Division's Fox Green sector to the east.
Here the Germans had concentrated their heaviest defenses to hold two
of the principal exits leading off the beach at Vierville and toward
Colleville. Everywhere along the beach men en-

countered heavy fire as their boats came in, but the troops landing at
Dog Green and Fox Green hadn't a chance. German gunners on the cliffs
looked almost directly down on the waterlogged assault craft that
heaved and pitched toward these sectors of the beach. Awkward and
slow, the assault boats were nearly stationary in the water. They were
sitting ducks. Coxswains at the tillers, trying desperately to
maneuver their unwieldy craft through the forest of mined obstacles,
now had to run the gauntlet of fire from the cliffs.

Some boats, unable to find a way through the maze of obstacles and the
withering cliff fire, were driven off and wandered aimlessly along the
beach seeking a less heavily defended spot to land. Others, doggedly
trying to come in at their assigned sectors, were shelled so badly that
men plunged over the sides into deep water, where they were immediately
picked off by machine-gun fire. Some landing craft were blown apart as
they came in. Second Lieutenant Edward Gearing's assault boat, filled
with thirty men of the 29th Division, disintegrated in one blinding
moment three hundred yards from the Vierville exit at Dog Green.
Gearing and his men were blown out of the boat and strewn over the
water. Shocked and half drowned, the nineteen-year-old lieutenant came
to the surface yards away from where his boat had gone down. Other
survivors began to bob up, too. Their weapons, helmets and equipment
were gone. The coxswain had disappeared and nearby one of Gearing's
men, struggling beneath the weight of a heavy radio set strapped to his
back, screamed out, "For God's sake, I'm drowning!" Nobody could get
to the radioman before he went under. For Gearing and the remnants of
his section the ordeal was just beginning. It would be three hours
before they got on the beach. Then Gearing would learn that he was the
only surviving officer of his company. The others were dead or
seriously wounded.

All along Omaha Beach the dropping of the ramps seemed to be the signal
for renewed, more concentrated machine-gun fire, and again the most
murderous fire was in the Dog Green and Fox Green sectors. Boats of
the 29th Division, coming into Dog Green, grounded on the sand bars.
The ramps came down and men stepped out into water three to six feet
deep. They had but one object in mind--to get through the water, cross
two hundred yards of the obstacle-strewn sand, climb the gradually
rising shingle and then take cover in the doubtful shelter of a sea
wall. But weighed down by their equipment, unable to run in the deep
water and without cover of any kind, men were caught in crisscrossing
machine-gun and small-arms fire.

Seasick men, already exhausted by the long hours spent on the
transports and the assault boats, found themselves fighting for their
lives in water which was often over their heads. Private David Silva
saw the men in front of him being mowed down as they stepped off the
ramp. When his turn came, he jumped into chest-high water and, bogged
down by his equipment, watched spellbound as bullets flicked the
surface all around him. Within seconds, machine-gun fire had riddled
his pack, his clothing and his canteen. Silva felt like a "pigeon at a
trap shoot." He thought he spotted the German machine-gunner who was
firing at him, but he could not fire back. His rifle was clogged with
sand. Silva waded on, determined to make the sands ahead. He finally
pulled himself up on the beach and dashed for the shelter of the sea
wall, completely unaware that he had been wounded twice--once in the
back, and once in the right leg.

Men fell all along the water's edge. Some were killed instantly,
others called pitifully for the medics as the incoming tide slowly
engulfed them. Among the dead was Captain Sherman Burroughs. His
friend Captain Charles Cawthon saw the body washing back and forth in
the surf.

Cawthon wondered if Burroughs had recited "The Shooting of Dan McGrew"
to his men on the run-in as he had planned. And when Captain Carroll
Smith passed by, he could not help but think that Burroughs "would no
longer suffer from his constant migraine headaches." Burroughs had
been shot through the head.

Within the first few minutes of the carnage at Dog Green one entire
company was put out of action. Less than a third of the men survived
the bloody walk from the boats to the edge of the beach. Their
officers were killed, severely wounded or missing, and the men,
weaponless and shocked, huddled at the base of the cliffs all day.
Another company in the same sector suffered even higher casualties.
Company C of the 2nd Ranger Battalion had been ordered to knock out
enemy strongpoints at Pointe de la Perceee, slightly west of Vierville.
The Rangers landed in two assault craft with the first wave on Dog
Green. They were decimated. The lead craft was sunk almost
immediately by artillery fire, and twelve men were killed outright.
The moment the ramp of the second craft dropped down machine-gun fire
sprayed the debarking Rangers, killing and wounding fifteen. The
remainder set out for the cliffs. Men fell one after another. Private
First Class Nelson Noyes, staggering under the weight of a bazooka,
made a hundred yards before he was forced to hit the ground. A few
moments later he got up and ran forward again. When he reached the
shingle he was machine-gunned in the leg. As he lay there Noyes saw
the two Germans who had fired looking down on him from the cliff.
Propping himself on his elbows he opened up with his Tommy gun and
brought both of them down. By the time Captain Ralph E. Goranson, the
company commander, reached the base of the cliff, he had only
thirty-five Rangers left out of his seventy-man team. By nightfall
these thirty-five would be cut down to twelve.

Misfortune piled upon misfortune for the men of Omaha Beach. Soldiers
now discovered that they had been landed in the wrong sectors. Some
came in almost two miles away from their original landing areas. Boat
sections from the 29th Division found themselves intermingled with men
of the 1/ Division. For example, units scheduled to land on Easy Green
and fight toward an exit at Les Moulins discovered themselves at the
eastern end of the beach in the hell of Fox Green. Nearly all the
landing craft came in slightly east of their touch-down points. A
control boat drifting off station, a strong current running eastward
along the beach, the haze and smoke from grass fires which obscured
landmarks--all these contributed to the mislandings. Companies that
had been trained to capture certain objectives never got near them.
Small groups found themselves pinned down by German fire and isolated
in unrecognizable terrain, often without officers or communications.

The special Army-Navy demolition engineers who had the job of blowing
paths through the beach obstacles were not only widely scattered, they
were brought in crucial minutes behind schedule. These frustrated men
set to work wherever they found themselves. But they fought a losing
battle. In the few minutes they had before the following waves of
troops bore down on the beaches, the engineers cleared only five and a
half paths instead of the sixteen planned. Working with desperate
haste, the demolition parties were impeded at every turn--infantrymen
waded in among them, soldiers took shelter behind the obstacles they
were about to blow and landing craft, buffeted by the swells, came in
almost on top of them. Sergeant Barton A. Davis of the 299th Engineer
Combat Battalion saw an assault boat bearing down on him. It was
filled with 1/ Division men and was coming straight in through the
obstacles. There was a tremendous explosion and the boat

disintegrated. It seemed to Davis that everyone in it was thrown into
the air all at once. Bodies and parts of bodies landed all around the
flaming wreckage. "I saw black dots of men trying to swim through the
gasoline that had spread on the water and as we wondered what to do a
headless torso flew a good fifty feet through the air and landed with a
sickening thud near us." Davis did not see how anyone could have lived
through the explosion, but two men did. They were pulled out of the
water, badly burned but alive.

But the disaster that Davis had seen was no greater than that which had
overtaken the heroic men of his own unit, the Army-Navy Special
Engineer Task Force. The landing boats carrying their explosives had
been shelled, and the hulks of these craft lay blazing at the edge of
the beach. Engineers with small rubber boats loaded with plastic
charges and detonators were blown apart in the water when enemy fire
touched off the explosives. The Germans, seeing the engineers working
among the obstacles, seemed to single them out for special attention.
As the teams tied on their charges, snipers took careful aim at the
mines on the obstacles. At other times they seemed to wait until the
engineers had prepared whole lines of steel trestles and tetrahedra
obstacles for blowing. Then the Germans themselves would detonate the
obstacles with mortar fire--before the engineers could get out of the
area. By the end of the day casualties would be almost fifty percent.
Sergeant Davis himself would be one. Nightfall would find him aboard a
hospital ship with a wounded leg, heading back for England.

It was 7:00 A.m. The second wave of troops arrived on the shambles that
was Omaha Beach. Men splashed ashore under the saturating fire of the
enemy. Landing craft joined the ever growing graveyard of wrecked,
blazing hulks. Each wave of boats gave up its own bloody contribution
to the incoming tide, and all along the crescent-

shaped strip of beach dead Americans gently nudged each other in the
water.

Piling up along the shore was the flotsam and jetsam of the invasion.
Heavy equipment and supplies, boxes of ammunition, smashed radios,
field telephones, gas masks, entrenching tools, canteens, steel helmets
and life preservers were strewn everywhere. Great reels of wire,
ropes, ration boxes, mine detectors and scores of weapons, from broken
rifles to stove-in bazookas, littered the sand. The twisted wrecks of
landing craft canted up crazily out of the water. Burning tanks threw
great spirals of black smoke into the air. Bulldozers lay on their
sides among the obstacles. Off Easy Red, floating in and out among all
the cast-off materials of war, men saw a guitar.

Small islands of wounded men dotted the sand. Passing troops noticed
that those who could sat bolt upright as though now immune to any
further hurt. They were quiet men, seemingly oblivious to the sights
and sounds around them. Staff Sergeant Alfred Eigenberg, a medic
attached to the 6th Engineers Special Brigade, remembers "a terrible
politeness among the more seriously injured." In his first few minutes
on the beach, Eigenberg found so many wounded that he did not know
"where to start or with whom." On Dog Red he came across a young
soldier sitting in the sand with his leg "laid open from the knee to
the pelvis as neatly as though a surgeon had done it with a scalpel."
The wound was so deep that Eigenberg could clearly see the femoral
artery pulsing. The soldier was in deep shock. Calmly he informed
Eigenberg, "I've taken my sulfa pills and I've shaken all my sulfa
powder into the wound. I'll be all right, won't I?" The
nineteen-year-old Eigenberg didn't quite know what to say. He gave the
soldier a shot of morphine and told him, "Sure, you'll be all right."
Then, folding the neatly sliced halves of the man's leg together,
Eigenberg did the only thing he could think of--he carefully closed the
wound with safety pins.

Into the chaos, confusion and death on the beach poured the men of the
third wave--and stopped. Minutes later the fourth wave came in-and
they stopped. Men lay shoulder to shoulder on the sands, stones and
shale. They crouched down behind obstacles; they sheltered among the
bodies of the dead. Pinned down by the enemy fire which they had
expected to be neutralized, confused by their landings in the wrong
sectors, bewildered by the absence of the sheltering craters they had
expected from the Air Force bombing, and shocked by the devastation and
death all around them, the men froze on the beaches. They seemed in
the grip of a strange paralysis. Overwhelmed by it all, some men
believed the day was lost. Technical Sergeant William McClintock of
the 741/ Tank Battalion came upon a man sitting at the edge of the
water, seemingly unaware of the machine-gun fire which rippled all over
the area. He sat there "throwing stones into the water and softly
crying as if his heart would break."

The shock would not last long. Even now a few men here and there,
realizing that to stay on the beach meant certain death, were on their
feet and moving.

Ten miles away on Utah Beach the men of the 4th Division were swarming
ashore and driving inland fast. The third wave of assault boats was
coming in and still there was virtually no opposition. A few shells
fell on the beach, some scattered machine-gun and rifle fire rattled
along it, but there was none of the fierce infighting that the tense,
keyed-up men of the 4th had expected. To many of the men the landing
was almost routine. Private First Class Donald N. Jones in the second
wave felt as though it was "just another practice invasion." Other men
thought the assault was an anticlimax; the long months of training at
Slapton Sands in England had been tougher. Private First Class Ray
Mann felt a little "let down" because "the landing

just wasn't a big deal after all." Even the obstacles were not as bad
as everyone had feared. Only a few concrete cones and triangles and
hedgehogs of steel cluttered the beach. Few of these were mined and
all of them were lying exposed, easy for the engineers to get at.
Demolition teams were already at work. They had blown one fifty-yard
gap through the defenses and had breached the sea wall, and within the
hour they would have the entire beach cleared.

Strung out along the mile of beach, their canvas skirts hanging limply
down, were the amphibious tanks--one of the big reasons why the assault
had been so successful. Lumbering out of the water with the first
waves, they had given a roaring support to the troops as they dashed
across the beach. The tanks and the preassault bombardment seemed to
have shattered and demoralized the German troops holding positions back
of this beach. Still, the assault had not been without its share of
misery and death. Almost as soon as he got ashore, Private First Class
Rudolph Mozgo saw his first dead man. A tank had received a direct hit
and Mozgo found "one of the crew lying half in and half out of the
hatch." Second Lieutenant Herbert Taylor of the 1/ Engineer Special
Brigade was numbed by the sight of a man "decapitated by an artillery
burst just twenty feet away." And Private First Class Edward Wolfe
passed a dead American "who was sitting on the beach, his back resting
against a post, as though asleep." So natural and peaceful did he seem
that Wolfe "had an urge to reach over and shake him awake."

Stomping up and down the sands, occasionally massaging his arthritic
shoulder, was Brigadier General Theodore Roosevelt. The
fifty-seven-year-old officer--the only general to land with first-wave
troops--had insisted on this assignment. His first request had been
turned down, but Roosevelt had promptly countered with another. In a
handwritten note to the 4th's commanding officer, Major

General Raymond O. Barton, Roosevelt pleaded his case on the grounds
that "it will steady the boys to know I am with them." Barton
reluctantly agreed, but the decision preyed on his mind. "When I said
goodbye to Ted in England," he recalls, "I never expected to see him
alive again." The determined Roosevelt was very much alive. Sergeant
Harry Brown of the 8th Infantry saw him "with a cane in one hand, a map
in the other, walking around as if he was looking over some real
estate." Every now and then a mortar burst on the beach, sending
showers of sand into the air. It seemed to annoy Roosevelt;
impatiently he would brush himself off.

As the third-wave boats beached and men began to wade ashore, there was
the sudden whine of German 88 fire and shells burst among the incoming
troops. A dozen men went down. Seconds later, a lone figure emerged
from the smoke of the artillery burst. His face was black, his helmet
and equipment were gone. He came walking up the beach in complete
shock, eyes staring. Yelling for a medic, Roosevelt ran over to the
man. He put his arm around the soldier. "Son," he said gently, "I
think we'll get you back on a boat."

As yet only Roosevelt and a few of his officers knew that the Utah
landings had been made in the wrong place. It had been a fortunate
error; heavy batteries that could have decimated the troops were still
intact, sited in along the planned assault area. There had been a
number of reasons for the mislanding. Confused by smoke from the naval
bombardment which had obscured landmarks, caught by a strong current
moving down the coast, a solitary control boat had guided the first
wave into a landing more than a mile south of the original beach.
Instead of invading the beach opposite Exits 3 and 4--two of the vital
five causeways toward which the 101/ Airborne was driving--the entire
beachhead had slipped almost two thousand yards and was now astride
Exit 2. Ironically, at this moment Lieu-

tenant Colonel Robert G. Cole and a miscellaneous band of seventy-five
101/ and 82nd troopers had just reached the western end of Exit 3. They
were the first paratroopers to get to a causeway. Cole and his men
concealed themselves in the swamps and settled down to wait; he
expected the men of the 4th Division along at any moment.

On the beach, near the approach to Exit 2, Roosevelt was about to make
an important decision. Every few minutes from now on wave after wave
of men and vehicles were due to land--thirty thousand men and
thirty-five hundred vehicles. Roosevelt had to decide whether to bring
succeeding waves into this new, relatively quiet area with only one
causeway, or to divert all other assault troops and take their
equipment to the original Utah Beach with its two causeways. If the
single exit could not be opened and held, a nightmarish jumble of men
and vehicles would be trapped on the beach. The general huddled with
his battalion commanders. The decision was made. Instead of fighting
for the planned objectives which lay back of the original beach, the
4th would drive inland on the single causeway and take out German
positions when and where they found them. Everything now depended on
moving as fast as possible before the enemy recovered from the initial
shock of the landings. Resistance was light and the men of the 4th
were moving off the beach fast. Roosevelt turned to Colonel Eugene
Caffey of the 1/ Engineer Special Brigade. "I'm going ahead with the
troops," he told Caffey. "You get word to the Navy to bring them in.
We're going to start the war from here."

Off Utah the U.s.s. Corry's guns were red-hot. They were firing so
fast that sailors stood on the turrets playing hoses on the barrels.
Almost from the moment Lieutenant Commander George Hoffmann had
maneuvered his destroyer into firing position and dropped anchor, the
Corry's guns

had been slamming shells inland at the rate of eight 5-inchers a
minute. One German battery would never bother anyone again; the Corry
had ripped it open with 110 well-placed rounds. The Germans had been
firing back--and hard. The Corry was the one destroyer the enemy
spotters could see. Smoke-laying planes had been assigned to protect
the "inshore close support" bombarding group, but the Corry's plane had
been shot down. One battery in particular, on the bluffs overlooking
the coast above Utah--the gun flashes located it near the village of
St.-Marcouf--seemed to be concentrating all its fury on the exposed
destroyer. Hoffmann decided to move back before it was too late. "We
swung around," recalls Radioman Third Class Bennie Glisson, "and showed
them our fantail like an old maid to a Marine."

But the Corry was in shallow water, close to a number of knife-edged
reefs. Her skipper could not make the dash for safety until he was
clear. For a few minutes he was forced to play a tense cat-and-mouse
game with the German gunners. Trying to anticipate their salvos,
Hoffman put the Corry through a series of jolting maneuvers. He shot
forward, went astern, swung to port, then to starboard, stopped dead,
went forward again. All the while his guns engaged the battery.
Nearby, the destroyer U.s.s. Fitch saw his predicament and began firing
on the St.-Marcouf guns, too. But there was no letup from the
sharp-shooting Germans. Almost bracketed by their shells, Hoffman
inched the Corry out. Finally, satisfied that he was away from the
reefs, he ordered, "Hard right rudder! Full speed ahead!" and the
Corry leaped forward. Hoffman looked behind him. Salvos were smacking
into their wake, throwing up great plumes of spray. He breathed
easier; he had made it. It was at that instant that his luck ran out.
Tearing through the water at more than twenty-eight knots the Corry ran
headlong onto a submerged mine.

There was a great rending explosion that seemed to

throw the destroyer sideways out of the water. The shock was so great
that Hoffman was stunned. It seemed to him "that the ship had been
lifted by an earthquake." In his radio shack Bennie Glisson, who had
been looking out a porthole, suddenly felt that he had been "dropped
into a concrete mixer." Jerked off his feet, he was hurled upward
against the ceiling, and then he crashed down and smashed his knee.

The mine had cut the Corry almost in half. Running across the main
deck was a rip more than a foot in width. The bow and the stern
pointed crazily upward; about all that held the destroyer together was
the deck superstructure. The fireroom and engine room were flooded.
There were few survivors in the number two boiler room--the men there
were almost instantly scalded to death when the boiler blew up. The
rudder was jammed. There was no power, yet somehow in the steam and
fire of her death agonies the Corry continued to charge crazily through
the water. Hoffman became suddenly aware that some of his guns were
still firing--his gunners, without power, continued to load and fire
manually.

The twisted pile of steel that had once been the Corry thrashed through
the sea for more than a thousand yards before finally coming to a halt.
Then the German batteries zeroed in. "Abandon ship!" Hoffman
ordered. Within the next few minutes at least nine shells plowed into
the wreck. One blew up the 40-millimeter ammunition. Another set off
the smoke generator on the fantail, almost asphyxiating the crew as
they struggled into boats and rafts.

The sea was two feet above the main deck when Hoffman, taking one last
look around, dived overboard and swam toward a raft. Behind him the
Corry settled on the bottom, her masts and part of her superstructure
remaining above the waves--the U.s. Navy's only major D-Day loss. Of
Hoffman's 294-man crew thirteen were dead or

missing and thirty-three injured, more casualties than had been
suffered in the Utah Beach landings up to this time.

Hoffman thought he was the last to leave the Corry. But he wasn't.
Nobody knows now who the last man was, but as the boats and rafts
pulled away, men on the other ships saw a sailor climb the Corry's
stern. He removed the ensign, which had been shot down, and then,
swimming and climbing over the wreckage, he reached the main mast.
From the U.s.s. Butler, Coxswain Dick Scrimshaw watched in amazement
and admiration as the sailor, shells still falling about him, calmly
tied on the flag and ran it up the mast. Then he swam away. Above the
wreck of the Corry, Scrimshaw saw the flag hang limp for a moment.
Then it stretched out and fluttered in the breeze.

Rockets trailing ropes shot up toward the one-hundred-foot-high cliff
at Pointe du Hoc. Between Utah and Omaha beaches the third American
seaborne attack was going in. Small-arms fire poured down on
Lieutenant Colonel James E. Rudder's three Ranger companies as they
began the assault to silence the massive coastal batteries which
intelligence said menaced the American beaches on either side. The
nine LCA'S carrying the 225 men of the 2nd Ranger Battalion clustered
along the little strip of beach beneath the cliff overhang. It
afforded some protection from the machine-gun fire and from the
grenades the Germans were now rolling down on them --but not much.
Offshore the British destroyer Talybont and the U.s. destroyer
Satterlee lobbed in shell after shell onto the cliff top.

Rudder's Rangers were supposed to touch down at the base of the cliff
at H Hour. But the lead boat had strayed and led the little flotilla
straight toward Pointe de la Perceee, three miles east. Rudder had
spotted the mistake, but by the time he got the assault craft back on
course, precious

time had been lost. The delay would cost him his five-hundred-man
support force--the rest of the 2nd Rangers and Lieutenant Colonel Max
Schneider's 5th Ranger Battalion. The plan had been for Rudder to fire
flares as soon as his men had scaled the cliff, as a signal for the
other Rangers waiting in their boats some miles offshore to follow in.
If no signal was received by 7:00 A.m., Colonel Schneider was to assume
that the Pointe du Hoc assault had failed and head for Omaha Beach four
miles away. There, following in behind the 29th Division, his Rangers
would swing west and drive for the Pointe to take the guns from the
rear. It was now 7:10 A.m. No signal had been given, so Schneider's
force was already heading for Omaha. Rudder and his 225 Rangers were
on their own.

It was a wild, frenzied scene. Again and again the rockets roared,
shooting the ropes and rope ladders with grapnels attached. Shells and
40-millimeter machine guns raked the cliff top, shaking down great
chunks of earth on the Rangers. Men spurted across the narrow,
cratered beach trailing scaling ladders, ropes and hand rockets. Here
and there at the cliff top Germans bobbed up, throwing down "potato
masher" hand grenades or firing Schmeissers. Somehow the Rangers
dodged from cover to cover, unloaded their boats and fired up the
cliff--all at the same time. And off the Pointe, two DUKWS--AMPHIBIOUS
vehicles--with tall, extended ladders, borrowed for the occasion from
the London Fire Brigade, tried to maneuver closer in. From the tops of
the ladders Rangers blasted the headlands with Browning automatic
rifles and Tommy guns.

The assault was furious. Some men didn't wait for the ropes to catch.
Weapons slung over their shoulders, they cut hand-holds with their
knives and started up the nine-story-high cliff like flies. Some of
the grapnels now began to catch and men swarmed up the ropes. Then
there were wild yells as the Germans cut the ropes and Rangers hur-

tled back down the cliff. Private First Class Harry Robert's rope was
cut twice. On his third try he finally got to a cratered niche just
under the edge of the cliff. Sergeant Bill "L-Rod" Petty tried going
up hand over hand on a plain rope but, although he was an expert free
climber, the rope was so wet and muddy he couldn't make it. Then Petty
tried a ladder, got thirty feet up and slid back when it was cut. He
started back up again. Sergeant Herman Stein climbing another ladder,
was almost pushed off the cliff face when he accidentally inflated his
Mae West. He "struggled for an eternity" with the life preserver but
there were men ahead and behind him on the ladder. Somehow Stein kept
on going.

Now men were scrambling up a score of ropes that twisted and snaked
down from the top of the cliff. Suddenly Sergeant Petty, on his way up
for the third time, was peppered by chunks of earth flying out all
around him. The Germans were leaning out over the edge of the cliff,
machine-gunning the Rangers as they climbed. The Germans fought
desperately, despite the fire that was still raining on them from the
Rangers on the fire ladders and from the destroyers offshore. Petty
saw the climber next to him stiffen and swing out from the cliff.
Stein saw him, too. So did twenty-year-old Private First Class Carl
Bombardier. As they watched, horrified, the man slid down the rope and
fell, bouncing from ledges and rock outcroppings, and it seemed to
Petty "a lifetime before his body hit the beach." Petty froze on the
rope. He could not make his hand move up to the next rung. He
remembers saying to himself, "This is just too hard to climb." But the
German machine guns got him going again. As they began to spray the
cliff dangerously near him, Petty "unfroze real fast." Desperately he
hauled himself up the last few yards.

Everywhere men were throwing themselves over the top and into shell
holes. To Sergeant Regis McCloskey, who

had successfully brought his half-sinking ammunition boat in to the
beach, the high plateau of Pointe du Hoc presented a weird, incredible
sight. The ground was so pitted by the shells and bombs of the
pre-H-Hour naval and air bombardment that it looked like "the craters
of the moon." There was an eerie silence now as men pulled themselves
up and into the protective craters. The fire had stopped for the
moment, there was not a German to be seen, and everywhere men looked
the yawning craters stretched back toward the mainland --a violent,
terrible no-man's-land.

Colonel Rudder had already established his first command post, a niche
at the edge of the cliff. From it his signal officer, Lieutenant James
Eikner, sent out the message "Praise the Lord." It meant "All men up
cliff." But it was not quite true. At the base of the cliff the
Rangers' medical officer, a pediatrician in private practice, was
tending the dead and the dying on the beach--perhaps twenty-five men.
Minute by minute the valiant Ranger force was being chipped away. By
the end of the day there would only be ninety of the original 225 still
able to bear arms. Worse, it had been a heroic and futile effort--to
silence guns which were not there. The information which Jean Marion,
the French underground sector chief, had tried to send to London was
true. The battered bunkers atop Pointe du Hoc were empty--the guns had
never been mounted. * * Some two hours later a Ranger patrol found a
deserted five-gun battery in a camouflaged position more than a mile
inland. Stacks of shells surrounded each gun and they were ready to
fire, but the Rangers could find no evidence that they had ever been
manned. Presumably these were the guns for the Pointe du Hoc
emplacements.

In his bomb crater at the top of the cliff, Sergeant Petty and his
four-man BAR team sat exhausted after the climb. A little haze drifted
over the churned, pitted earth and the smell of cordite was heavy in
the air. Petty stared almost

dreamily around him. Then on the edge of the crater he saw two
sparrows eating worms. "Look," said Petty to the others, "they're
having breakfast."

Now on this great and awful morning the last phase of the assault from
the sea began. Along the eastern half of the Normandy invasion coast,
Lieutenant General M. C. Dempsey's British Second Army was coming
ashore, with grimness and gaiety, with pomp and ceremony, with all the
studied nonchalance the British traditionally assume in moments of
great emotion. They had waited four long years for this day. They
were assaulting not just beaches but bitter memories --memories of
Munich and Dunkirk, of one hateful and humiliating retreat after
another, of countless devastating bombing raids, of dark days when they
had stood alone. With them were the Canadians, with a score of their
own to settle for the bloody losses at Dieppe. And with them, too,
were the French, fierce and eager on this homecoming morning.

There was a curious jubilance in the air. As the troops headed toward
the beaches the loudspeaker in a rescue launch off Sword roared out
"Roll Out the Barrel." From a rocket-firing barge off Gold came the
strains of "We Don't Know Where We're Going." Canadians going to Juno
heard the rasping notes of a bugle blaring across the water. Some men
were even singing. Marine Denis Lovell remembers that "the boys were
standing up, singing all the usual Army and Navy songs." And Lord
Lovat's 1/ Special Service Brigade commandos, spruce and resplendent in
their green berets (the commandos refused to wear tin helmets), were
serenaded into battle by the eerie wailing of the bagpipes. As their
landing boats drew abreast of Admiral Vian's flagship H.m.s. Scylla,
the commandos gave the "thumbs up" salute. Looking down on them,
eighteen-

year-old Able Seaman Ronald Northwood thought they were "the finest set
of chaps I ever came across."

Even the obstacles and the enemy fire now lacing out at the boats were
viewed with a certain detachment by many men. On one LCT Telegraphist
John Webber watched a Royal Marine captain study the maze of mined
obstacles clotting the coastline, then remark casually to the skipper,
"I say, old man, you really must get my chaps on shore, there's a good
fellow." Aboard another landing craft a 50th Division major stared
thoughtfully at the round Teller mines clearly visible on top of the
obstacles and said to the coxswain, "For Christ's sake, don't knock
those bloody coconuts down or we'll all get a free trip to hell." One
boatload of 48th Royal Marine commandos were met by heavy machine-gun
fire off Juno and men dived for cover behind the deck superstructure.
Not the adjutant, Captain Daniel Flunder. He tucked his swagger stick
under his arm and calmly paraded up and down the foredeck. "I
thought," he explained later, "it was the thing to do." (while he was
doing it, a bullet plowed through his map case.) And in a landing craft
charging for Sword, Major C. K. "Banger" King, just as he had promised,
was reading Henry V. Amid the roar of the diesels, the hissing of the
spary and the sound of gunfire, King spoke into the loud-hailer, "And
gentlemen in England now a-bed ar Shall think themselves accurs'd they
were not here ..."

Some men could hardly wait for the fighting to begin. Two Irish
sergeants, James Percival "Paddy" de Lacy, who had toasted De Valera
hours before for "keepin' us out of the war," and his sidekick Paddy
McQuaid stood at the ramps of an LST and, fortified by good Royal Navy
rum, solemnly contemplated the troops. "De Lacy," said McQuaid,
staring hard at the Englishmen all around them, "don't you think now
that some of these boys seem a wee bit timid?" As the beaches neared,
De Lacy called out to

his men, "All right, now! Here we go! At the run!" The LST ground to
a halt. As the men ran out, McQuaid yelled at the shell-smoked
shoreline, "Come out, ye bastards, and fight us now!" Then he
disappeared under water. An instant later he came up spluttering.
"Oh, the evil of it!" he bellowed. "Tryin' to drown me before I even
get up on the beach!"

Off Sword, Private Hubert Victor Baxter of the British 3rd Division
revved up his Bren gun carrier and, peering over the top of the armored
plating, plunged into the water. Sitting exposed on the raised seat
above him was his bitter enemy, Sergeant "Dinger" Bell, with whom
Baxter had been fighting for months. Bell yelled, "Baxter, wind up
that seat so you can see where you're going!" Baxter shouted back,
"Not bloody likely! I can see!" Then, as they swept up the beach, the
sergeant, caught up in the excitement of the moment, resorted to the
very thing that had begun the feud in the first place. He slammed down
his fist again and again on Baxter's helmet and roared, "Bash on! Bash
on!"

As the commandos touched down on Sword, Lord Lovat's piper, William
Millin, plunged off his landing craft into water up to his armpits. He
could see smoke piling up from the beach ahead and hear the crump of
exploding mortar shells. As Millin floundered toward the shore, Lovat
shouted at him, "Give us "Highland Laddie," man!" Waist-deep in the
water, Millin put the mouthpiece to his lips and splashed on through
the surf, the pipes keening crazily. At the water's edge, oblivious to
the gunfire, he halted and, parading up and down along the beach, piped
the commandos ashore. The men streamed past him, and mingling with the
whine of bullets and the screams of shells came the wild skirl of the
pipes as Millin now played "The Road to the Isles." "That's the stuff,
Jock," yelled a commando. Said another, "Get down, you mad bugger."

All along Sword, Juno and Gold--for almost twenty miles, from
Ouistreham near the mouth of the Orne to the village of Le Hamel on the
west--the British swarmed ashore. The beaches were choked with landing
craft disgorging troops, and nearly everywhere along the assault area
the high seas and underwater obstacles were causing more trouble than
the enemy.

The first men in had been the frogmen--120 under-water demolition
experts whose job it was to cut thirty-yard gaps through the obstacles.
They had only twenty minutes to work before the first waves bore down
upon them. The obstacles were formidable-- at places more densely sown
than in any other part of the Normandy invasion area. Sergeant Peter
Henry Jones of the Royal Marines swam into a maze of steel pylons,
gates and hedgehogs and concrete cones. In the thirty-yard gap Jones
had to blow, he found twelve major obstacles, some of them fourteen
feet long. When another frogman, Lieutenant John B. Taylor of the
Royal Navy, saw the fantastic array of underwater defenses surrounding
him, he yelled out to his unit leader that "this bloody job is
impossible." But he did not give it up. Working under fire, Taylor,
like the other frogmen, methodically set to work. They blew the
obstacles singly, because they were too large to blow in groups. Even
as they worked, amphibious tanks came swimming in among them, followed
almost immediately by first-wave troops. Frogmen rushing out of the
water saw landing craft, turned sideways by the heavy seas, crash into
the obstacles. Mines exploded, steel spikes and hedgehogs ripped along
the hulls, and up and down the beaches landing craft began to flounder.
The waters offshore became a junkyard as boats piled up almost on top
of one another. Telegraphist Webber remembers thinking that "the
beaching is a tragedy." As his craft came in Webber saw "LCT'S
stranded and ablaze, twisted masses of metal on the shore, burning
tanks

and bulldozers." And as one LCT passed them, heading for the open sea,
Webber was horrified to see "its well deck engulfed in a terrifying
fire."

On Gold Beach, where frogman Jones was now working with the Royal
Engineers trying to clear the obstacles, he saw an LCI approach with
troops standing on the deck ready to disembark. Caught by a sudden
swell, the craft swerved sideways, lifted and crashed down on a series
of mined steel triangles. Jones saw it explode with a shattering
blast. It reminded him of a "slowmotion cartoon--the men, standing to
attention, shot up into the air as though lifted by a water spout ...
at the top of the spout bodies and parts of bodies spread like drops of
water."

Boat after boat got hung up on the obstacles. Of the sixteen landing
craft carrying the 47th Royal Marine commandos in to Gold Beach, four
boats were lost, eleven were damaged and beached and only one made it
back to the parent ship. Sergeant Donald Gardner of the 47th and his
men were dumped into the water about fifty yards from shore. They lost
all of their equipment and had to swim in under machine-gun fire. As
they struggled in the water, Gardner heard someone say, "Perhaps we're
intruding, this seems to be a private beach." Going into Juno the 48th
Royal Marine commandos not only ran afoul of the obstacles, they also
came under intense mortar fire. Lieutenant Michael Aldworth and about
forty of his men crouched down in the forward hold of their LCI as
shells exploded all about them. Aldworth shoved his head up to see
what was happening and saw men from the aft hold running along the
deck. Aldworth's men yelled out, "How soon do we get out of here?"
Aldworth called back, "Wait a minute, chaps. It's not our turn."
There was a moment's pause and then someone inquired, "Well, just how
long do you think it will be, old man? The ruddy hold is filling full
of water."

The men from the sinking LCI were quickly picked up

by a variety of craft. There were so many boats around, Aldworth
recalls, that "it was rather like hailing a taxi in Bond Street." Some
men were delivered safely onto the beaches; others were taken out to a
Canadian destroyer, but fifty commandos discovered themselves on an LCT
which had unloaded its tanks and was under instructions to proceed
directly back to England. Nothing the infuriated men could say or do
would persuade the skipper to change his course. One officer, Major de
Stackpoole, had been wounded in the thighs on the run-in, but on
hearing the LCT'S destination he roared, "Nonsense! You're all bloody
well mad!" With that he dived overboard and swam for shore.

For most men the obstacles proved to be the toughest part of the
assault. Once they were through these defenses, troops found the enemy
opposition along the three beaches spotty--fierce in some sectors,
light and even nonexistent in others. On the western half of Gold, men
of the 1/ Hampshire Regiment were almost decimated as they waded
through water that was at places three to six feet deep. Struggling
through the heaving sea line abreast, they were caught by heavy mortar
bursts and crisscrossing machine-gun fire that poured out from the
village of Le Hamel, a stronghold occupied by the tough German 352nd
Division. Men went down one after another. Private Charles Wilson
heard a surprised voice say, "I've bought it, mates!" Turning, Wilson
saw the man, a strange look of disbelief on his face, slide beneath the
water without another word. Wilson plowed on. He had been
machine-gunned in the water before --except that at Dunkirk he had been
going the other way. Private George Stunell saw men going down all
around him, too. He came across a Bren gun carrier standing in about
three feet of water, its motor running and the driver "frozen at the
wheel, too terrified to drive the machine onto the shore." Stunell

pushed him to one side and with machine-gun bullets, whipping all
around drove up onto the beach. Stunell was elated to have made it.
Then he suddenly pitched headlong to the ground; a bullet had slammed
into a can of cigarettes in his tunic pocket with terrific impact.
Minutes later he discovered that he was bleeding from wounds in his
back and ribs. The same bullet had passed cleanly through his body.

It would take the Hampshires almost eight hours to knock out the Le
Hamel defenses, and at the end of D Day their casualties would total
almost two hundred. Strangely, apart from the obstacles, troops
landing on either side encountered little trouble. There were
casualties, but they were fewer than had been anticipated. On the left
of the Hampshires, men of the 1/ Dorset Regiment were off the beach in
forty minutes. Next to them the Green Howards landed with such dash
and determination that they moved inland and captured their first
objective in less than an hour. Company Sergeant Major Stanley Hollis,
killer of ninety Germans up to now, waded ashore and promptly captured
a pillbox singlehanded. The nerveless Hollis, using grenades and his
Sten gun, killed two and captured twenty in the start of a day that
would see him kill another ten.

On the beach to the right of Le Hamel it was so quiet that some men
were disappointed. Medic Geoffrey Leach saw troops and vehicles
pouring ashore and found that there was nothing "for the medics to do
but help unload ammunition." To Marine Denis Lovell, the landing was
like "just another exercise back home." His unit, the 47th Royal
Marine commandos, moved quickly off the beach, avoided all enemy
contact, turned west and set out on a seven-mile forced march to link
up with the Americans near Port-en-Bessin. They expected to see the
first Yanks from Omaha Beach around noon.

But this was not to be--unlike the Americans on Omaha, who were still
pinned down by the rugged German 352nd Division, the British and the
Canadians were more than a match for the tired and inferior 716th
Division with its impressed Russian and Polish "volunteers." In
addition, the British had made the fullest possible use of amphibious
tanks and a Rube Goldberg-like collection of armored vehicles. Some,
like the "flail" tanks, lashed the ground ahead of them with chains
that detonated mines. Other armored vehicles carried small bridges or
great reels of steel matting which, when unrolled, made a temporary
roadway over soft ground. One group even carried giant bundles of logs
for use as steppingstones over walls or to fill in antitank ditches.
These inventions, and the extra-long period of bombardment that the
British beaches had received, gave the assaulting troops additional
protection.

Still some strong pockets of resistance were encountered. On one half
of Juno Beach men of the Canadian 3rd Division fought through lines of
pillboxes and trenches, through fortified houses, and from street to
street in the town of Courseulles before finally breaking through and
pushing inland. But all resistance there would be mopped up within two
hours. In many places it was being done with quickness and dispatch.
Able Seaman Edward Ashworth, off an LCT which had brought troops and
tanks in to the Courseulles beach, saw Canadian soldiers march six
German prisoners behind a dune some distance away. Ashworth thought
that this was his chance to get a German helmet for a souvenir. He ran
up the beach and in the dunes discovered the six Germans "all lying
crumpled up." Ashworth bent over one of the bodies, still determined
to get a helmet. But he found "the man's throat was cut--every one of
them had had his throat cut," and Ashworth "turned away, sick as a
parrot. I didn't get my tin hat."

Sergeant Paddy de Lacy, also in the Courseulles area,

had captured twelve Germans who had come almost eagerly out of a
trench, their arms raised high above their heads. De Lacy stood
staring at them for a moment; he had lost a brother in North Africa.
Then he said to the soldier with him, "Look at the super blokes--just
look at them. Here, take them out of my sight." He walked away to
make himself a cup of tea to soothe his anger. While he was heating a
canteen of water over a Sterno can a young officer "with the down still
on his chin" walked over and said sternly, "Now look here, Sergeant,
this is no time to be making tea." De Lacy looked up and, as patiently
as his twenty-one years of Army service would allow, replied, "Sir, we
are not playing at soldiers now--this is real war. Why don't you come
back in five minutes and have a nice cup of tea?" The officer did.

Even as the fighting was going on in the Courseulles area, men, guns,
tanks, vehicles and supplies were pouring ashore. The movement inland
was smoothly and efficiently handled. The beachmaster, Captain Colin
Maud, allowed no loiterers on Juno. Most men, like Sub-Lieutenant John
Beynon, were a little taken aback at the sight of the tall, bearded
officer with the imposing bearing and the booming voice who met each
new contingent with the same greeting, "I'm chairman of the reception
committee and of this party, so get a move on." Few men cared to argue
with the custodian of Juno Beach; Beynon remembers he had a cudgel in
one hand and the other held tight to the leash of a fierce-looking
Alsatian dog. The effect was all he could have hoped for. INS
correspondent Joseph Willicombe recalls a futile argument he had with
the beachmaster. Willicombe, who had landed in the first wave of
Canadians, had been assured that he would be allowed to send a
twenty-five-word message via the beachmaster's two-way radio to the
command ship for transmission to the U.s. Apparently no one had
bothered to so inform Maud.

Staring stonily at Willicombe, he growled, "My dear chap, there's a bit
of a war going on here." Willicombe had to admit that the beachmaster
had a point. * A few yards away, in the coarse beach grass, lay the
mangled bodies of fifteen Canadians who had trod on mines as they
dashed ashore. * Correspondents on Juno had no communications until
Ronald Clark of United Press came ashore with two baskets of carrier
pigeons. The correspondents quickly wrote brief stories, placed them
in the plastic capsules attacked to the pigeons' legs and released the
birds. Unfortunately, the pigeons were so overloaded that most of them
fell back to earth. Some, however, circled overhead for a few
moments--and then headed toward the German lines. Charles Lynch of
Reuter's stood on the beach, waved his fist at the pigeons and roared,
"Traitors! Damned traitors!" Four pigeons, Willicombe says, "proved
loyal." They actually got to the Ministry of Information in London
within a few hours.

All along Juno the Canadians suffered. Of the three British beaches
theirs was the bloodiest. Rough seas had delayed the landings.
Razor-edged reefs on the eastern half of the beach and barricades of
obstacles created havoc among the assault craft. Worse, the naval and
air bombardment had failed to knock out the coastal defenses or had
missed them altogether, and in some sectors troops came ashore without
the protection of tanks. Opposite the towns of Bernieeres and
St.-Aubin-sur-Mer men of the Canadian 8th Brigade and the 48th Marine
commandos came in under heavy fire. One company lost nearly half its
men in the dash up the beach. Artillery fire from St.-Aubin-sur-Mer
was so concentrated that it led to one particular horror on the beach.
A tank, buttoned up for protection and thrashing wildly up the beach to
get out of the line of fire, ran over the dead and the dying. Captain
Daniel Flunder of the commandos, looking back from the sand dunes, saw
what was happening and oblivious of the bursting shells ran back down
the beach shouting at the top of his voice, "They're my men!" The
enraged Flunder beat on the tank's hatch with his swagger stick, but
the tank kept on going. Pulling the pin on a grenade, Flunder blew
one

of the tank's tracks off. It wasn't until the startled tankers opened
the hatch that they realized what had happened.

Although the fighting was bitter while it lasted, the Canadians and the
commandos got off the Bernieeres-St.-Aubin beaches in less than thirty
minutes and plunged inland. Follow-up waves experienced little
difficulty and within an hour it was so quiet on the beaches that
Leading Aircraftsman John Murphy of a barrage balloon unit found that
"the worst enemy was the sand lice that drove us crazy as the tide came
in." Back of the beaches street fighting would occupy troops for
nearly two hours, but this section of Juno, like the western half, was
now secure.

The 48th commandos fought their way through St.-Aubin-sur-Mer and,
turning east, headed along the coast. They had a particularly tough
assignment. Juno lay seven miles away from Sword Beach. To close this
gap and link up the two beaches, the 48th was to make a forced march
toward Sword. Another commando unit, the 41/, was to land at
Lion-sur-Mer on the edge of Sword Beach, swing right and head west.
Both forces were expected to join up within a few hours at a point
roughly halfway between the two beachheads. That was the plan, but
almost simultaneously the commandos ran into trouble. At Langrune,
about a mile east of Juno, men of the 48th found themselves in a
fortified area of the town that defied penetration. Every house was a
strongpoint. Mines, barbed wire and concrete walls--some of them six
feet high and five feet thick--sealed off the streets. From these
positions heavy fire greeted the invaders. Without tanks or artillery
the 48th was stopped cold.

On Sword, six miles away, the 41/ after a rough landing turned west and
headed through Lion-sur-Mer. They were told by the French that the
German garrison had pulled out. The information seemed correct--until
the commandos reached the edge of the town. There, artillery fire

knocked out three supporting tanks. Sniper and machine-gun fire came
from innocent-looking villas that had been converted into blockhouses,
and a rain of mortar shells fell among the commandos. Like the 48th,
the 41/ came to a standstill.

Now, although no one in the Allied High Command knew about it yet, a
vital gap six miles wide existed in the beachhead--a gap through which
Rommel's tanks, if they moved fast enough, could reach the coast and,
by attacking left and right along the shore, roll up the British
landings.

Lion-sur-Mer was one of the few real trouble spots on Sword. Of the
three British beaches, Sword was expected to be the most heavily
defended. Troops had been briefed that casualties would be very high.
Private John Gale of the 1/ South Lancashire Regiment was
"cold-bloodedly told that all of us in the first wave would probably be
wiped out." The picture was painted in even blacker terms to the
commandos. It was drilled into them that "no matter what happens we
must get on the beaches, for there will be no evacuation ... no going
back." The 4th commandos expected to be "written off on the beaches,"
as Corporal James Colley and Private Stanley Stewart remember, for they
were told their casualties would run as "high as eighty-four percent."
And the men who were to land ahead of the infantry in amphibious tanks
were warned that "even those of you who reach the beach can expect
sixty percent casualties." Private Christopher Smith, driver of an
amphibious tank, thought his chances of survival were slim. Rumor had
increased the casualty figure to ninety percent and Smith was inclined
to believe it, for as his unit left England men saw canvas screens
being set up on Gosport Beach and "it was said that these were being
erected to sort out the returned dead."

For a while it looked as though the worst of the predictions might come
true. In some sectors first-wave troops

were heavily machine-gunned and mortared. In the Ouistreham half of
Sword, men of the 2nd East York Regiment lay dead and dying from the
water's edge all the way up the beach. Although nobody would ever know
how many men were lost in this bloody dash from the boats, it seems
likely that the East Yorks suffered most of their two hundred D-Day
casualties in these first few minutes. The shock of seeing these
crumpled khaki forms seemed to confirm the most dreadful fears of
follow-up troops. Some saw "bodies stacked like cordwood" and counted
"more than 150 dead." Private John Mason of the 4th commandos, who
landed half an hour later, was shocked to find himself "running through
piles of dead infantry who had been knocked down like nine pins." And
Corporal Fred Mears of Lord Lovat's commandos was "aghast to see the
East Yorks lying in bunches. ... It would probably never have happened
had they spread out." As he charged up the beach determined to make
"Jesse Owens look like a turtle," he remembers cynically thinking that
"they would know better the next time."

Although bloody, the beach fight was brief. * * There will always be
differences of opinion about the nature of the fighting on Sword. Men
of the East Yorks disagree with their own history, which says that it
was "just like a training show, only easier." The troops of the 4th
commandos claim that when they landed at H-plus-30 they found the East
Yorks still at the water's edge. According to Brigadier E. E. E. Cass,
in command of the 8th Brigade that assaulted Sword, the East Yorks were
off the beach by the time the 4th commandos landed. It is estimated
that the 4th lost thirty men as they came ashore. On the western half
of the beach, says Cass, "opposition had been overcome by eight-thirty
except for isolated snipers." Men of the 1/ South Lancashire Regiment
landing there had light casualties and moved inland fast. The 1/
Suffolks coming in behind them had just four casualties. Except for
initial losses, the assault on Sword went forward speedily, meeting
little sustained opposition. The landings were so successful that many
men coming in minutes after the first wave were surprised to find only
sniper fire. They saw the

beaches shrouded in smoke, medics working among the wounded, flail
tanks detonating mines, burning tanks and vehicles littering the shore
line, and sand shooting up from occasional shell bursts, but nowhere
was there the slaughter they had expected. To these tense troops,
primed to expect a holocaust, the beaches were an anticlimax.

In many places along Sword there was even a bank holiday atmosphere.
Here and there along the seafront little groups of elated French waved
to the troops and yelled, "Vive les Anglais!" Royal Marine Signalman
Leslie Ford noticed a Frenchman "practically on the beach itself who
appeared to be giving a running commentary on the battle to a group of
townspeople." Ford thought they were crazy, for the beaches and the
foreshore were still infested with mines and under occasional fire.
But it was happening everywhere. Men were hugged and kissed and
embraced by the French, who seemed quite unaware of the dangers around
them. Corporal Harry Norfield and Gunner Ronald Allen were astonished
to see "a person all dressed up in splendid regalia and wearing a
bright brass helmet making his way down to the beaches." He turned out
to be the mayor of Colleville-sur-Orne, a small village about a mile
inland, who had decided to come down and officially greet the invasion
forces.

Some of the Germans seemed no less eager than the French to greet the
troops. Sapper Henry Jennings had no sooner disembarked than he was
"confronted with a collection of Germans-- most of them Russian and
Polish "volunteers"--anxious to surrender." But Captain Gerald Norton
of a Royal Artillery unit got the biggest surprise of all: He was met
"by four Germans with their suitcases packed, who appeared to be
awaiting the first available transportation out of France."

Out of the confusion on Gold, Juno and Sword, the British and the
Canadians swarmed inland. The advance

was businesslike and efficient, and there was a kind of grandeur about
it all. As troops fought into towns and villages examples of heroism
and courage were all around them. Some remember a Royal Marine
commando major, both arms gone, who urged his men along by shouting at
them to "get inland, chaps, before Fritz gets wise to this party."
Others remember the cocky cheerfulness and bright faith of the wounded
as they waited for the medics to catch up with them. Some waved as the
troops passed, others yelled, "See you in Berlin, mates!" Gunner
Ronald Allen would never forget one soldier who had been badly wounded
in the stomach. He was propped up against a wall calmly reading a
book.

Now speed was essential. From Gold troops headed for the cathedral
town of Bayeux, roughly seven miles inland. From Juno the Canadians
drove for the Bayeux-Caen highway and Carpiquet Airport, about ten
miles away. And out of Sword the British headed for the city of Caen.
They were so sure of capturing this objective that even correspondents,
as the London Daily Mail's Noel Monks was later to recall, were told
that a briefing would be held "at point X in Caen at 4:00 P.m." Lord
Lovat's commandos marching out of the Sword area wasted no time. They
were going to the relief of General Gale's embattled 6th Airborne
troops holding the Orne and Caen bridges four miles away and "Shimy"
Lovat had promised Gale that he would be there "sharp at noon." Behind
a tank at the head of the column Lord Lovat's piper Bill Millin played
"Blue Bonnets over the Border."

For ten Britishers, the crews of the midget submarines X20 and X23, D
Day was over. Off Sword Beach, Lieutenant George Honour's X23 threaded
through waves of landing craft streaming steadily in toward the shore.
In the heavy seas, with her flat superstructure almost awash, all that
could be seen of the X23 were her identifying flags

whipping in the wind. Coxswain Charles Wilson on an LCT "almost fell
overboard with surprise" when he saw what appeared to be "two large
flags apparently unsupported" moving steadily toward him through the
water. As the X23 passed, Wilson couldn't help wondering "what the
devil a midget sub had to do with the invasion." Plowing by, the X23
headed out into the transport area in search of her tow ship, a trawler
with the appropriate name of En Avant. Operation Gambit was over.
Lieutenant Honour and his four-man crew were going home.

The men for whom they had marked the beaches marched into France.
Everyone was optimistic. The Atlantic Wall had been breached. Now the
big question was, how fast would the Germans recover from the shock?

Berchtesgaden lay quiet and peaceful in the early morning. The day was
already warm and sultry, and the clouds hung low on the surrounding
mountains. At Hitler's fortresslike mountain retreat on the
Obersalzberg, all was still. The Feuhrer was asleep. A few miles away
at his headquarters, the Reichskanzlet, it was just another routine
morning. Colonel General Alfred Jodl, OKW'S chief of operations, had
been up since six. He had eaten his customary light breakfast (one cup
of coffee, a small soft-boiled egg and thin slice of toast) and now, in
his small soundproofed office, he was leisurely reading the night's
reports.

The news from Italy continued to be bad. Rome had fallen twenty-four
hours before and Field Marshal Albert Kesselring's troops were being
hard pressed as they pulled back. Jodl thought that there might be an
Allied breakthrough even before Kesselring disengaged his troops and
withdrew to new positions in the north. So concerned was Jodl about
the threatened collapse in Italy that he had ordered his deputy,
General Walter Warlimont, to proceed to Kesselring's headquarters on a
fact-finding trip. Warlimont was to leave by the end of the day.

There was nothing new from Russia. Although Jodl's sphere of authority
did not officially include the eastern theater, he had long ago
maneuvered himself into a position whereby he "advised" the Feuhrer on
the conduct of the Russian war. The Soviet summer offensive would
begin any day now, and all along the two-thousand-mile front two
hundred German divisions--more than 1.5 million men--were poised,
waiting for it. But this morning the Russian front was quiet. Jodl's
aide had also passed on several reports from Rundstedt's headquarterers
about an Allied attack in Normandy. Jodl did not think that the
situation there was serious, at least not yet. At the moment his big
concern was Italy.

In the barracks at Strub a few miles away, Jodl's deputy, General
Warlimont, had been carefully following the Normandy attack since 4:00
A.m. He had received OB West's teletype message requesting the release
of the panzer reserves--the Panzer Lehr and 12th S.s. divisions--and he
discussed this by phone with Von Rundstedt's chief of staff, Major
General Geunther Blumentritt. Now Warlimont rang Jodl.

"Blumentritt has called about the panzer reserves," Warlimont reported.
"OB West wants to move them into the invasion areas immediately."

As Warlimont recalls, there was a long silence as Jodl

pondered the question. "Are you so sure that this is the invasion?"
asked Jodl. Before Warlimont could answer, Jodl went on, "According to
the reports I have received it could be a diversionary attack ... part
of a deception plan. OB West has sufficient reserves right now. ...
OB West should endeavor to clean up the attack with the forces at their
disposal. ... I do not think that this is the time to release the OKW
reserves. ... We must wait for further clarification of the
situation."

Warlimont knew there was little use in arguing the point, although he
thought the Normandy landings were more serious than Jodl seemed to
believe. He said to Jodl, "Sir, in view of the Normandy situation,
shall I proceed to Italy as planned?" Jodl answered, "Yes, yes, I
don't see why not." Then he hung up.

Warlimont put down his phone. Turning to Major General Von
Buttlar-Brandenfels, the Army's operations chief, he told him of Jodl's
decision. "I sympathize with Blumentritt," Warlimont said. "This
decision is absolutely contrary to my understanding of what the plan
was to be in the event of an invasion."

Warlimont was "shocked" by Jodl's literal interpretation of the Hitler
edict concerning the control of the panzers. True, they were OKW
reserves and therefore they came under Hitler's direct authority. But,
like Von Rundstedt, Warlimont had always understood that "in the event
of an Allied attack, whether diversionary or not, the panzers would be
immediately released--automatically released, in fact." To Warlimont,
such a move seemed only logical; the man on the spot, fighting off the
invasion, should have all the available forces to use as he saw fit,
especially when the man happened to be the last of German's "Black
Knights," the venerable strategist Von Rundstedt. Jodl could have
released the force, but he was taking no chances. As Warlimont was
later to recall, "Jodl's decision was the one he thought Hitler would
have made." Jodl's attitude, Warli-

mont felt, was just another example of "the chaos of leadership in the
Leader State." But nobody argued with Jodl. Warlimont put through a
call to Blumentritt at OB West. Now the decision to release the
panzers would depend on the capricious whim of the man whom Jodl
considered to be a military genius--Hitler.

The officer who had anticipated just such a situation and who had hoped
to discuss it with Hitler was less than a two hours' drive from
Berchtesgaden. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, at his home in Herrlingen,
Ulm, seems somehow to have been completely forgotten in all the
confusion. There is no record in the meticulously kept Army Group B
War Diary that Rommel had even heard as yet about the Normandy
landings.

At OB West outside Paris, Jodl's decision produced shock and
incredulity. Lieutenant General Bodo Zimmermann, chief of operations,
remembers that Von Rundstedt "was fuming with rage, red in the face,
and his anger made his speech unintelligible." Zimmermann couldn't
believe it either. During the night, in a phone call to OKW,
Zimmermann had informed Jodl's duty officer, Lieutenant Colonel
Friedel, that OB West had alerted the two panzer divisions. "No
objections whatsoever were made against the movement," Zimmermann
bitterly recalls. Now he called OKW again and spoke to Army Operations
Chief Major General Von Buttlar-Brandenfels. He got a frigid
reception--Von Buttlar had picked up his cue from Jodl. In an angry
outburst Von Buttlar ranted, "These divisions are under the direct
control of OKW! You had no right to alert them without our prior
approval. You are to halt the panzers immediately-- nothing is to be
done before the Feuhrer makes his decision!" When Zimmermann tried to
argue back, Von Buttlar shut him up by saying sharply, "Do as you are
told!"

The next move should have been up to Von Rundstedt. As a field
marshal, he could have called Hitler directly, and

it is even likely that the panzers might have been immediately
released. But Von Rundstedt did not telephone the Feuhrer now or any
time during D Day. Not even the overwhelming importance of the
invasion could compel the aristocratic Von Rundstedt to plead with the
man he habitually referred to as "that Bohemian corporal." * *
According to Von Buttlar-Brandenfels, Hitler was well aware of Von
Rundestedt's contempt. "As long as the Field Marshal grumbles," Hitler
had once said, "everything is all right."

But his officers continued to bombard OKW with telephone calls in vain
and futile efforts to get the decision reversed. They called
Warlimont, Von Buttlar-Brandenfels and even Hitler's adjutant, Major
General Rudolf Schmundt. It was a strange, long-distance struggle that
would go on for hours. Zimmermann summed it up this way: "When we
warned that if we didn't get the panzers the Normandy landings would
succeed and that unforeseeable consequences would follow, we were
simply told that we were in no position to judge--that the main landing
was going to come at an entirely different place anyway." * And
Hitler, protected by his inner circle of military sycophants, in the
balmy, make-believe world of Berchtesgaden, slept through it all. *
Hitler had become so convinced that the "real" invasion would take
place in the Pas-de-Calais area that he held Von Salmuth's 15th Army in
its position until July 24. By then it was too late. Ironically,
Hitler seems to have been the only one who originally believed that the
invasion would take place in Normandy. General Blumentritt says that
"I well remember a call from Jodl some time in April in which he sid,
"The Feuhrer has definite information to the effect that a landing in
Normandy is not unlikely.""

At Rommel's headquarters in La Roche-Guyon, the chief of staff, Major
General Speidel, knew nothing of Jodl's decision as yet. He was under
the impression that the two reserve panzer divisions had been alerted
and were already en route. Also Speidel knew the 21/ Panzer was moving
into an assembly area south of Caen, and although it would be some time
before their tanks could move up, some of their reconnaissance forces
and infantry were already en-

gaging the enemy. So there was a definite air of optimism at the
headquarters. Colonel Leodegard Freyberg recalls that "the general
impression was that the Allies would be thrown back into the sea by the
end of the day." Vice Admiral Friedrich Ruge, Rommel's naval aide,
shared in the general elation. But Ruge noticed one peculiar thing:
The household staff of the Duke and Duchess de La Rochefoucauld was
quietly going through the castle taking the priceless Gobelin
tapestries down from the walls.

There seemed greater reason for optimism at the headquarters of the
Seventh Army, the army that was actually fighting the Allied attack.
To staff officers there it looked as though the 352nd Division had
thrown the invaders back into the sea in the area between Vierville and
Colleville-- Omaha Beach. What had happened was that an officer in a
bunker overlooking the beach had finally been able to get through to
his headquarters with an encouraging report on the progress of the
battle. The report was considered so important that it was taken down
word for word. "At the water's edge," said the observer, "the enemy is
in search of cover behind the coastal-zone obstacles. A great many
motor vehicles--among them ten tanks-- stand burning on the beach. The
obstacle demolition squads have given up their activities. Debarkation
from the landing boats has ceased ... the boats keep farther out to
sea. The fire of our battle positions and artillery is well placed and
has inflicted considerable casualties on the enemy. A great many
wounded and dead lie on the beach. ..." * * This report was given,
sometime between eight and nine, directly to the 352nd's operations
chief, Lieutenant Colonel Ziegelmann, by a certain Colonel Goth, who
commanded the fortifications on Pointe et Raz de la Perceee overlooking
the Vierville end of Omaha Beach. It caused such elation that
Ziegelmann, according to his own account written after the war,
considered that he was dealing with "inferior enemy forces." Later
reports were even more optimistic and by 11:00 A.m. General Kraiss, the
352nd's commanding officer, was so convinced that he had rubbed out the
Omaha beachhead that he diverted reserves to strengthen the division's
right wing in the British sector.

This was the first good news that the Seventh Army had received.
Spirits were so high as a result that when the Fifteenth Army's
commanding officer, General von Salmuth, suggested that he send his
346th Infantry Division to help the Seventh out, he was haughtily
turned down. "We don't need them," he was told.

Even though everyone was confident, the Seventh Army's chief of staff,
General Pemsel, was still trying to piece together an accurate picture
of the situation. It was difficult, for he had practically no
communications. Wires and cables had been cut or otherwise destroyed
by the French underground, by the paratroopers or by the naval and air
bombardment. Pemsel told Rommel's headquarters, "I'm fighting the sort
of battle that William the Conqueror must have fought--by ear and sight
alone." Actually Pemsel did not know how bad his communications really
were. He thought that only paratroopers had landed on the Cherbourg
peninsula. At this time he had no idea that seaborne landings had
taken place on the east coast of the peninsula, at Utah Beach.

Difficult as it was for Pemsel to define the exact geographic limits of
the attack, he was certain of one thing--the Normandy assault was the
invasion. He continued to point this out to his superiors at Rommel's
and Von Rundstedt's headquarters, but he remained very much in the
minority. As both Army Group B and OB West stated in their morning
reports, "at the present time, it is still too early to say whether
this is a large-scale diversionary attack or the main effort." The
general continued to look for the Schwerpunkt. Along the Normandy
coast any private could have told them where it was.

Half a mile from Sword Beach, Lance Corporal Josef Heager, dazed and
trembling, somehow found the trigger

of his machine gun and began firing again. The earth seemed to be
blowing up all about him. The noise was deafening. His head roared
and the eighteen-year-old machine-gunner was sick with fear. He had
fought well, helping to cover the retreat of his company ever since the
716th Division's line broke back of Sword. How many Tommies he had hit
Heager did not know. Fascinated, he had watched them come off the
beach and had chopped them down one after another. Often in the past
he had wondered what it would be like to kill the enemy. Many times he
had talked about it with his friends Huf, Saxler and "Ferdi" Klug. Now
Heager had found out: It was terribly easy. Huf hadn't lived long
enough to discover how easy it was--he had been killed as they ran
back. Heager had left him lying in a hedgerow, his mouth open, a hole
where his forehead had been. Heager didn't know where Saxler was, but
Ferdi was still beside him, half blind, blood running down his face
from a shrapnel burst. And now Heager knew that it was only a question
of time before they were all killed. He and nineteen men--all that
remained of the company-- were in a trench before a small bunker. They
were being hit from all sides by machine-gun, mortar and rifle fire.
They were surrounded. It was either surrender or be killed. Everyone
knew this--everyone except the captain firing the machine gun behind
them in the bunker. He wouldn't let them in. "We must hold! We must
hold!" he kept yelling.

This was the most terrible time of Heager's life. He no longer knew
what he was firing at. Every time the shelling lifted he automatically
pulled the trigger and felt the machine gun pound. It gave him
courage. Then the shelling would begin again and everyone would yell
at the captain, "Let us in! Let us in!"

Perhaps it was the tanks that made the captain change his mind. They
all heard the whirring and clanking. There

were two of them. One stopped a field away. The other ambled slowly
on, crushing its way across a hedge, passing three cows that munched
unconcernedly in a nearby meadow. Then the men in the trench saw its
gun slowly lower, ready to fire at point-blank range. At the moment
the tank suddenly, unbelievably blew up. A bazooka man in the trench,
down to his last bulbous-nosed rocket projectile, had scored a direct
hit. Spellbound, not quite sure how it had all happened, Heager and
his friend Ferdi saw the hatch of the blazing tank open and through the
billowing black smoke a man desperately trying to climb out.
Screaming, his clothes on fire, he got halfway through the opening and
then collapsed, his body hanging down the side of the tank. Heager
said to Ferdi, "I hope God gives us a better death."

The second tank, prudently remaining out of bazooka range, began
firing, and at last the captain ordered everyone into the bunked Heager
and the other survivors stumbled inside--into a fresh nightmare. The
bunker, barely the size of a living room, was filled with dead and
dying soldiers. More than thirty other men in the bunker were so
jammed together that they were unable to sit down or even turn about.
It was hot and dark and hideously noisy. The wounded were moaning.
Men were talking in several different languages--many of them were
Poles or Russians. And all the time, the captain, oblivious to the
yells of the wounded to "Surrender! Surrender!" fired his machine gun
through the single aperture.

For an instant there was a lull and Heager and the suffocating men in
the bunker heard someone outside shout, "All right, Herman--you better
come out!" The captain angrily began firing his machine gun. A few
minutes later they heard the same voice again. "You better give up,
Fritz!"

Men were coughing now from the acrid gaseous discharge of the captain's
machine gun, which was fouling

the already stifling atmosphere. Each time the captain stopped to
reload the voice demanded that they surrender. Finally somebody
outside called to them in German and Heager would always remember that
one of the wounded, apparently using the only two words of English he
knew, began chanting back, "Hello, boys! Hello, boys! Hello, boys!"

The firing outside stopped and it seemed to Heager that everyone
realized almost at the same moment what was about to happen. There was
a small peephole in a cupola over their heads. Heager and several
others lifted a man up so that he could see what was happening.
Suddenly, he yelled, "Flame thrower! They're bringing up a flame
thrower!"

Heager knew that the flames could not reach them because the metal air
shaft which entered the bunker from the back was built in staggered
sections. But the heat could kill them. Suddenly they heard the
"woof" of the flame thrower. Now the only way that air could get into
the bunker was through the narrow aperture, where the captain continued
to blaze away with his machine gun, and through the peephole in the
roof.

Gradually the temperature began to rise. Some men panicked. Clawing
and pushing and yelling, "We've got to get out!" They tried to drop to
the floor and burrow through the legs of the others toward the door.
But, pinioned by the press of men around them, they were unable even to
reach the floor. Everyone was now begging the captain to surrender.
The captain, still firing, didn't even turn from the aperture. The air
was getting indescribably foul.

"We'll all breathe in and out on my command," yelled a lieutenant.
"In! ... Out! ... In! ... Out! ..." Heager watched the metal
fairing of the air shaft go from pink to red and then to a glowing
white. "In! ... Out! ... In! ... Out!" yelled the officer "Hello,
boys! Hello, boys!" cried

the wounded man. And at a radio set in one corner Heager could hear
the operator saying over and over, "Come in, Spinach! Come in,
Spinach!"

"Sir!" yelled the lieutenant. "The wounded are suffocating--we must
surrender!"

"It's out of the question!" roared the captain. "We're going to fight
our way out! Count the men and their weapons!"

"No! No!" men yelled from every corner of the bunker.

Ferdi said to Heager, "You're the only one besides the captain with a
machine gun. That madman will send you out first, believe me."

By now, many of the men were defiantly pulling the bolts of their
rifles and throwing them on the floor. "I won't go," Heager told
Ferdi. He pulled the locking pin on his machine gun and threw it
away.

Men began to collapse from the heat. Knees buckling, heads lolling,
they remained in a partly upright position; they could not fall to the
floor. The young lieutenant continued to plead with the captain, but
to no avail. No one could get to the door, because the aperture was
next to it and the captain was there with his machine gun.

Suddenly the captain stopped firing and turning to the radio operator
he said, "Have you made contact?" The operator said, "Nothing sir."
It was then that the captain looked about him as though seeing the
jam-packed bunker for the first time. He seemed dazed and bewildered.
Then he threw down his machine gun and said resignedly, "Open the
door."

Heager saw somebody stick a rifle with a piece of torn white cloth on
it through the aperture. From outside a voice said, "All right, Fritz,
out you come--one at a time!"

Gasping for air, dazzled by the light, the men reeled out of the dark
bunker. If they did not drop their weapons and helmets fast enough,
British troops standing on either

side of the trench fired into the ground behind them. As they reached
the end of the trench their captors cut their belts, laces and tunics
and sliced the buttons off the flies of their pants. Then they were
made to lie face downward in a field.

Heager and Ferdi ran down the trench, their hands in the air. As
Ferdi's belt was cut, a British officer said to him, "In two weeks
we'll be seeing your pals in Berlin, Fritz." Ferdi, his face bloody
and puffed up from the shrapnel splinters, tried to joke. He said, "By
that time we'll be in England." He meant that they would be in a
prisoner-of-war camp, but the British misunderstood. "Take these men
to the beaches!" he roared. Holding up their pants, they marched
away, passing the still burning tank and the same cows munching quietly
in the meadow.

Fifteen minutes later, Heager and the others were working among the
obstacles in the surf, removing mines. Ferdi said to Heager, "I bet
you never thought when you were putting these things in that one day
you'd be taking them up again." * * I was not able to locate the
fanatical captain who tried to hold the bunker, but Heager believes
that his name was Gundlach and that the junior officer was a Lieutenant
Luke. Later in the day Heager found his missing friend Saxler--he,
too, was working among the obstacles. That night they were taken to
England and six days later Heager and 150 other Germans landed in New
York en route to a Canadian prisoner-of-war camp.

Private Aloysius Damski had no heart for the fight at all. Damski, a
Pole who had been impressed into the 716th Division, had long ago
decided that if the invasion ever came he would run up the ramp of the
nearest landing craft and surrender. But Damski didn't get the chance.
The British landed under such a fierce protective bombardment of naval
and tank fire that Damski's battery com-

mander, in a position near the western edge of Gold Beach, promptly
ordered a withdrawal. Damski realized that to run forward would mean
certain death--either at the hands of the Germans behind or at those of
the advancing British ahead. But in the confusion of the withdrawal he
struck out for the village of Tracy, where he was billeted in the home
of an old French lady. If he stayed there, Damski reasoned, he could
surrender when the village was captured.

As he was making his way across the fields he ran into a hard-bitten
Wehrmacht sergeant on horseback. Marching ahead of the sergeant was
another private, a Russian. The sergeant looked down at Damski
andwitha broad smile asked, "Now, just where do you think you're going
all by yourself?" They looked at each other for a moment and Damski
knew that the sergeant had guessed he was running away. Then, still
smiling, the sergeant said, "I think you'd better come with us."
Damski wasn't surprised. As they marched off he bitterly thought that
his luck had never been good and that it certainly wasn't improving.

Ten miles away, roughly in the vicinity of Caen, Private Wilhelm Voigt
of a mobile radio monitoring unit was also wondering how he could
surrender. Voigt had lived seventeen years in Chicago, but he had
never taken out naturalization papers. In 1939 his wife, visiting her
home in Germany, had been forced to stay because of an ailing mother.
In 1940, against the advice of friends, Voigt had set out to bring her
home. Unable to reach wartime Germany by regular routes, he had made a
tortuous journey across the Pacific to Japan, then to Vladivostok and
via the Trans-Siberian railway to Moscow. From there he had traveled
to Poland and into Germany. The journey took nearly four months--and
once across the border Voigt could not get out. He and his wife were
trapped. Now, for the first time in four years, he could hear American
voices in his

earphones. For hours he had been planning what he would say when he
saw the first U.s. troops. He was going to run up to them yelling,
"Hi, you guys, I'm from Chicago!" But his unit was being held too far
back. He had made almost a complete circle of the world just to get
back to Chicago--and now all he could do was sit in his truck and
listen to the voices, only a few short miles away, * that to him
spelled home. * Voigt never did make it back. He still lives in
Germany, where he works for Pan American Airways.

Behind Omaha Beach, Major Werner Pluskat lay gasping in a ditch. He
was almost unrecognizable. He had lost his helmet. His clothes were
ripped and torn. His face was scratched and bloody. For more than an
hour and a half, ever since he had left his bunker at Ste.-Honorine to
return to his headquarters, Pluskat had been crawling through a
burning, erupting no-man's-land. Scores of fighter planes, flying back
and forth just behind the bluffs, were strafing everything that moved,
and all the while naval gunfire was plowing up the area. His
Volkswagen was somewhere behind him, a burning, twisted wreck. Smoke
billowed up from burning hedgerows and grass fires. Here and there he
had come across trenches filled with dead troops, blasted either by
artillery or by the merciless strafing. At first he had tried to run,
but he had been pounced on by the planes. Again and again he had been
strafed. Now Pluskat crawled. He figured he had made just one mile
and he was still three miles from his headquarters at Etreham.
Painfully he moved on. Ahead he saw a farmhouse. He decided that when
he came abreast of it he would sprint the twenty yards or so from the
ditch and ask the occupants for a drink of water. As he drew near, he
was amazed to

see two Frenchwomen sitting calmly in the open door, as though immune
from the shelling and strafing. They looked across at him and one,
laughing spitefully, called out, "C'est terrible, n'est-ce pas?"
Pluskat crawled past, the laughter still ringing in his ears. At that
moment he hated the French, the Normans and the whole rotten stinking
war.

Corporal Anton Wuensch of the 6th Parachute Regiment saw the parachute
hanging high in the branches of a tree. It was blue and there was a
large canvas container swinging below it. In the distance there was a
lot of rifle and machine-gun fire, but so far Wuensch and his mortar
unit had seen nothing of the enemy. They had been marching for almost
three hours and now they were in a small wood above Carentan, roughly
ten miles southwest of Utah Beach.

Lance Corporal Richter looked at the parachute and said, "It belongs to
the Amis [Americans]. Probably contains ammo." Private Fritz
"Friedolin" Wendt thought there might be food in it. "God, I'm so
hungry," he said. Wuensch told them all to stay in the ditch while he
crawled forward. It might be a trick; they might be ambushed when they
tried to get the container down, or it could be a booby trap.

Wuensch carefully reconnoitered ahead. Then, satisfied that everything
was quiet, he tied two grenades around the tree trunk and pulled the
pins. The tree crashed down and with it the parachute container.
Wuensch waited, but apparently the explosions had gone unnoticed. He
waved his unit in. "Let's see what the Amis have sent us," he
yelled.

Friedolin ran forward with his knife and cut through the canvas. He
was ecstatic. "Oh, my God," he yelled, "it's food! Food!"

For the next half hour the seven tough paratroopers had the time of
their lives. They found cans of pineapple and orange juice, cartons of
chocolate and cigarettes, and an assortment of foods the like of which
they had not seen in years. Friedolin gorged himself. He even poured
powdered Nescaf`e down his throat and tried to wash it down with
condensed milk. "I don't know what it is," he said, "but it tastes
wonderful."

Finally, over Friedolin's protest, Wuensch decided that they had better
"move on and find the war." Stuffed, their pockets bulging with all
the cigarettes they could carry, Wuensch and his men moved out of the
wood and headed in single file toward the distant firing. Minutes
later the war found them. One of Wuensch's men fell, shot through the
temple.

"Sniper!" yelled Wuensch. Everyone dived for cover as shots began to
whistle about them.

"Look," yelled one of the men, pointing toward a clump of trees off to
the right, "I'm sure I saw him up there."

Wuensch took out his binoculars and, focusing his glasses on the
treetops, began a careful search. He thought he saw a slight movement
of the branches in one tree, but he wasn't sure. For a long time he
held the glasses steady and then he saw the foliage move again.
Picking up his rifle, he said, "Now we'll see who's the man and who's
the fake." He fired.

At first Wuensch thought he had missed, for as he watched he saw the
sniper climbing down the tree. Again Wuensch aimed, this time for a
spot on the tree trunk which was clear of branches and foliage. "My
boy," he said aloud, "I'm going to get you now." He saw the sniper's
legs appear and then his torso. Wuensch fired, again and again. Very
slowly the sniper fell backward out of the tree. Wuensch's men cheered
and then everybody ran over to the body. They stood looking down at
the first American

paratrooper they had seen. "He was dark-haired, he was very handsome
and very young. There was a trickle of blood at the side of his
mouth," Wuensch recalls.

Lance Corporal Richter went through the dead man's pockets and found a
wallet with two photographs and a letter. Wuensch remembers that one
of them "showed the soldier sitting next to a girl and we all concluded
that maybe it was his wife." The other was a snapshot "of the young
man and the girl sitting on a veranda with a family, presumably his
family." Richter began putting the photographs and the letter into his
pocket.

Wuensch said, "What do you want to do that for?"

Richter said, "I thought I'd send this stuff to the address on the
envelope after the war."

Wuensch thought he was crazy. "We may be captured by the Amis," he
said, "and if they find this stuff on you ..." He drew his finger
across his throat. "Leave it for the medics," said Wuensch, "and let's
get out of here."

As his men moved on, Wuensch remained for a moment and stared at the
dead American, lying limp and still "like a dog who had been run over."
He hurried after his men.

A few miles away a German staff car, its black, white and red pennant
flying, raced along the secondary road leading toward the village of
Picauville. Major General Wilhelm Falley of the 91/ Air Landing
Division, together with his aide and a driver, had been in his Horch
for almost seven hours, ever since he set out for Rennes and the war
games a little before 1:00 A.m. Sometime between 3:00 and 4:00 A.m.,
the continuous droning of planes and the distant explosions of bombs
had caused the concerned Falley to turn back.

They were only a few miles from the headquarters north of Picauville
when machine-gun bullets ripped across the

front of the car. The windshield shattered and Falley's aide, sitting
beside the driver, slumped down in his seat. Swaying from side to
side, tires screaming, the Horch swerved and smashed into a low wall.
The doors flew open with the impact and the driver and Falley were
hurled out. Falley's gun slithered out in front of him. He crawled
across the road toward it. The driver, shaken and dazed, saw several
American soldiers rushing up to the car. Falley was shouting, "Don't
kill! Don't kill!" but he continued to crawl toward the gun. There
was a shot and Falley collapsed in the road, one hand still stretched
out toward the gun.

Lieutenant Malcolm Brannen of the 82nd Airborne looked down at the dead
man. Then he stooped and picked up the officer's cap. Stenciled on
the sweatband was the name "Falley." The German wore a greenish-gray
uniform with red stripes down the seam of the trousers. There were
narrow gold epaulets at the shoulders of his tunic and red tabs
decorated with gold-braided oak leaves at the collar. An Iron Cross
hung from a black ribbon around the man's neck. Brannen wasn't sure,
but it looked to him as though he'd killed a general.

On the airfield near Lille, Wing Commander Josef "Pips" Priller and
Sergeant Heinze Wodarczyk ran for their two solitary FW-190 fighter
planes.

The Luftwaffe's and Fighter Corps headquarters had telephoned.
"Priller," the operations officer had said, "the invasion has started.
You'd better get up there."

Priller had exploded: "Now you've dropped it! You damned fools! What
the hell do you expect me to do with just two planes? Where are my
squadrons? Can you call them back?"

The operations officer had remained perfectly cool. "Priller," he had
said soothingly, "we don't know yet exactly

where your squadrons have landed, but we're going to divert them back
to the field at Piox. Move all your ground personnel there
immediately. Meanwhile you better get up to the invasion area. Good
luck, Priller."

As quietly as his anger would allow Priller had said, "Would you mind
telling me where the invasion is?"

The officer, unruffled, had said, "Normandy, Pips--somewhere above
Caen."

It had taken Priller the best part of an hour to make the necessary
arrangements for the movement of his ground personnel. Now he and
Wodarczyk were ready--ready to make the Luftwaffe's only daylight
attack against the invasion. * * In some accounts it has been written
that eight JU-88 bombers attacked the beaches during the initial
landings. Bombers were over the beachhead on the night of June 6-7,
but there is no record that I could find of a D-Day morning raid other
than Priller's fighter attack.

Just before they got into their planes, Priller went over to his wing
man. "Now listen," he said, "there's just the two of us. We can't
afford to break up. For God's sake, do exactly as I do. Fly behind me
and follow every move." They had been together a long time and Priller
felt he must make the situation quite clear. "We're going in alone,"
he said, "and I don't think we're coming back."

It was 9:00 A.m. when they took off (8:00 A.m. to Priller). They flew
due west, hugging the ground. Just over Abbeville, high above them,
they began to see Allied fighters. Priller noticed that they were not
flying in tight formation as they should have been. He remembers
thinking that "if I only had some planes, they'd be sitting ducks." As
they approached Le Havre, Priller climbed for cover in the clouds.
They flew for a few more minutes and then broke through. Below them
was a fantastic fleet-- hundreds of ships of every size and type,
stretching endlessly, it seemed, all the way back across the Channel.
There was a steady

procession of landing craft carrying men toward shore, and Priller
could see the white puffs of explosions on and behind the beaches. The
sands were black with troops, and tanks and equipment of all sorts
littered the shoreline. Priller swept back into the clouds to consider
what to do. There were so many planes, so many battleships offshore,
so many men on the beaches, that he figured he'd have time for just one
pass over the beaches before being shot down.

There was no need for radio silence now. Almost lightheartedly,
Priller spoke into his microphone. "What a show! What a show!" he
said. "There's everything out here--everywhere you look. Believe me,
this is the invasion!" Then he said, "Wodarczyk, we're going in! Good
luck!"

They hurtled down toward the British beaches at over four hundred miles
an hour, coming in at less than 150 feet. Priller had no time to aim.
He simply pressed the button on his control stick and felt his guns
pounding. Skimming along just over the tops of men's heads, he saw
upturned, startled faces.

On Sword, Commander Philippe Kieffer of the French commandos saw
Priller and Wodarczyk coming. He dived for cover. Six German
prisoners took advantage of the confusion and tried to bolt. Kieffer's
men promptly mowed them down. On Juno, Private Robert Rogge of the
Canadian 8th Infantry Brigade heard the scream of the planes and saw
them "coming in so low that I could clearly see the pilots' faces." He
threw himself flat like everyone else, but he was amazed to see one man
"calmly standing up, blazing away with a Sten gun." On the eastern
edge of Omaha, Lieutenant (j.g.) William J. Eisemann of the U.s. Navy
gasped as the two FW-190'S, guns chattering, zoomed down "at less than
fifty feet and dodged through the barrage balloons." And on H.m.s.
Dunbar, Leading Stoker

Robert Dowie watched every antiaircraft gun in the fleet open up on
Priller and Wodarczyk. The two fighters flew through it all unscathed,
then turned inland and streaked up into the clouds. "Jerry or not,"
said Dowie, unbelievingly, "the best of luck to you. You've got
guts."

All along the Normandy coastline the invasion stormed. For the French,
caught up in the battle, these were hours of chaos, elation and terror.
Around Ste.-M`ere-eeglise, which was now being heavily shelled, 82nd
paratroopers saw farmers calmly working in the fields as though nothing
were happening. Every now and then one of them would fall, either
wounded or killed. In the town itself paratroopers watched the local
barber remove the sign "Friseur" from the front of his shop and put up
a new one that said "Barber."

A few miles away, in the little coastal hamlet of La Madeleine, Paul
Gazengel was bitter and in pain. Not only had the roof of his store
and caf`e been blown off, but he had been wounded during the shelling,
and now 4th Division troops were taking him and seven other men down to
Utah Beach.

"Where are you taking my husband?" demanded his wife of the young
lieutenant in charge.

The officer answered in perfect French. "For questioning, madame," he
said. "We can't talk to him here, so we're taking him and all the
other men to England."

Madame Gazengel couldn't believe her ears. "To England!" she
exclaimed. "Why? What has he done?"

The young officer was embarrassed. Patiently he explained that he was
simply carrying out instructions.

"What happens if my husband gets killed in the bombing?" asked Madame
Gazengel tearfully.

"There's a ninety percent chance that won't happen, madame," he said.

Gazengel kissed his wife goodbye and was marched off. He had no idea
what it was all about--and he never would find out. Two weeks later he
would be back in Normandy, with the lame excuse from his American
captors that "it was all a mistake."

Jean Marion, French underground sector chief in the seaside town of
Grandcamp, was frustrated. He could see the fleet off Utah Beach to
his left and Omaha Beach to his right and he knew troops were landing.
But it looked to him as though Grandcamp had been forgotten. All
morning he had waited in vain for soldiers to come in. But he was
heartened when his wife pointed out a destroyer that was slowly
maneuvering opposite the town. "The gun!" exclaimed Marion. "The gun
I told them about!" A few days earlier he had informed London that a
small artillery piece had been mounted on the sea wall, sited so that
it would fire only to the left, in the direction of what was now Utah
Beach. Now Marion was sure that his message had been received, for he
saw the destroyer carefully moved into position on the gun's blind side
and commence firing. With tears in his eyes Marion jumped up and down
each time the destroyer fired. "They got the message!" he cried.
"They got the message!" The destroyer --which may have been the
Herndon--blasted the artillery piece with round after round. Suddenly
there was a violent explosion as the gun's ammunition blew up.
"Merveilleux!" yelled the excited Marion. "Magnifique!"

In the cathedral town of Bayeux, roughly fifteen miles away, Guillaume
Mercader, the underground intelligence chief for the Omaha Beach area,
stood at the window of his living room with his wife, Madeleine.
Mercader was having a hard time fighting back his tears. After four
terrible years, the main body of German troops billeted in the town
seemed to be pulling out. He could hear the cannonading in the
distance and he knew that heavy fighting must be taking place. Now he
had a strong urge to organize his resistance fighters and drive the
remainder of the Nazis out. But the radio had warned them to be calm,
that there must be no uprising. It was difficult, but Mercader had
learned to wait. "We'll be free soon," he told his wife.

Everyone in Bayeux seemed to feel the same way. Although the Germans
had posted notices ordering the townspeople to stay indoors, people had
gathered quite openly in the cathedral courtyard to hear a running
commentary on the invasion from one of the priests. From his vantage
point he could clearly see the beaches; hands cupped around his mouth
he was yelling down from the belfry of the steeple.

Among those who heard of the invasion from the priest was Anne Marie
Broeckx, the nineteen-year-old kindergarten teacher who would find her
future husband among the American invaders. At seven she had calmly
set out on her bicycle for her father's farm at Colleville, back at
Omaha Beach. Pedaling furiously, she had cycled past German
machine-gun positions and troops marching toward the coast. Some
Germans had waved to her and one had warned her to be careful, but
nobody stopped her. She had seen planes strafing and Germans diving
for cover, but Anne Marie, her tresses flying in the wind and her blue
skirt ballooning around her, kept on. She felt perfectly safe; it
never dawned on her that her life was in danger.

Now she was less than a mile from Colleville. The roads were deserted.
Clouds of smoke drifted inland. Here and there fires were burning.
Then she saw the wreckage of several farmhouses. For the first time
Anne Marie felt frightened. Frantically she raced on. By the time she
reached the crossroads at Colleville she was thoroughly alarmed. The
thunder of gunfire rolled all about her and the entire area seemed
strangely desolated and uninhabited. Her father's farm lay between
Colleville and the beach. Anne Marie decided to continue on foot.
Hitching her bicycle over her shoulder, she hiked across the fields.
Then, topping a little rise, she saw the farmhouse--still standing.
She ran the remainder of the way.

At first Anne Marie thought the farm was deserted, for she could see no
movement. Calling to her parents, she dashed into the little farmyard.
The windows of the house had been blown out. Part of the roof had
disappeared and there was a gaping hole in the door. Suddenly the
wrecked door opened and there stood her father and mother. She threw
her arms around both of them.

"My daughter," said her father, "this is a great day for France." Anne
Marie burst into tears.

Half a mile away, fighting for his life amid the horrors of Omaha
Beach, was nineteen-year-old Private First Class Leo Heroux, the man
who would marry Anne Marie. * * Anne Marie is one war bride who does
not live in the U.s. She and Leo Heroux now live where they first met
on June 8--at the Broeckx farm near Colleville back of Omaha Beach.
They have three children and Heroux runs an auto-driving school.

While the Allied attack raged in Normandy, one of the region's top
underground officials was fuming on a train just outside Paris.
Leeonard Gille, Normandy's deputy military intelligence chief, had been
riding the Paris-bound train for more than twelve hours. The journey
seemed interminable. They had crawled through the night, stop-

ping at every station. Now, ironically, the intelligence chief had
heard the news from one of the porters. Gille had no idea where in
Normandy the assault had taken place, but he could hardly wait to get
back to Caen. He was bitter that after all the years of work, his
superiors had chosen this of all days to order him to the capital.
Worse, there was no way for him to get off the train. The next stop
was Paris.

But back in Caen his fianceee, Janine Boitard, had been busy ever since
she had heard the news. At seven she had roused the two R.a.f. pilots
she was hiding. "We must hurry," she told them. "I'm taking you to a
farm in the village of Gavrus, twelve kilometers from here."

Their destination came as a shock to the two Britishers. Freedom was
only ten short miles away, yet they were going to head inland. Gavrus
lay southwest of Caen. One of the Britishers, Wing Commander K.t.
Lofts, thought they should take a chance and go north to meet the
troops.

"Be patient," said Janine. "The area between here and the coast is
swarming with Germans. It will be safer to wait."

Shortly after seven they set out on bicycles, the two Britishers
dressed in rough farm clothes. The journey was uneventful. Although
they were stopped several times by German patrols, their fake identity
papers stood the test and they were passed on. At Gavrus, Janine's
responsibility ended--two more fliers were a step closer to home.
Janine would have liked to have gone farther with them, but she had to
return to Caen--to wait for the next downed pilots who would pass along
the escape route, and the moment of liberation that she knew was close.
Waving goodbye, she jumped on her bicycle and cycled off.

In the prison at Caen, Madame Ameelie Lechevalier, expecting to be
executed for her part in saving Allied pilots, heard a whisper as the
tin plate with her breakfast was slid

under the cell door. "Hope, hope," said the voice. "The British have
landed." Madame Lechevalier began to pray. She wondered if her
husband, Louis, in a cell nearby, had heard the news. All night there
had been explosions, but she had thought that it was the usual Allied
bombing. Now there was a chance; maybe they would be saved before it
was too late.

Suddenly Madame Lechevalier heard a commotion in the corridor. She got
down on her knees by the slit beneath the door and listened. She could
hear shouting and the word "Raus! Raus! [Out! Out!]" repeated over
and over. Then there was the tramping of feet, the slaming of cell
doors and then silence again. A few minutes later, somewhere outside
the prison she heard prolonged machine-gun fire.

The Gestapo guards had panicked. Within minutes of the news of the
landings, two machine guns had been set up in the prison courtyard. In
groups of ten the male prisoners were led out, placed against the wall
and executed. They had been picked up on a variety of charges, some
true, some false. There were Guy de Saint Pol and Ren`e Loslier,
farmers; Pierre Audige, a dentist; Maurice Primault, a shop assistant;
Colonel Antoine de Touchet, a retired officer; Antole Lelieevre, the
town hall secretary; Georges Thomine, a fisherman; Pierre Menochet, a
policeman; Maurice Dutacq, Achille Boutrois, Joseph Picquenot and his
son, French railway workers; Albert Anne; Deesir`e Lemieere; Roger
Veillat; Robert Boulard--ninety-two in all, of whom only forty were
members of the French underground. On this day, the day that began the
great liberation, these men, without explanation, without a hearing,
without a trial, were slaughtered. Among them was Madame Lechevalier's
husband, Louis.

The firing went on for an hour. In her cell Madame Lechevalier
wondered what was happening.

In England it was 9:30 A.m. All night General Eisenhower had paced the
floor of his trailer, waiting for the reports to come in. He had tried
to relax in his usual manner by reading Westerns, but with little
success. Then the first messages began to arrive. They were
fragmentary, but the news was good. His air and naval commanders were
more than satisfied with the progress of the attack and troops were
ashore on all five beaches. Overlord was going well. Although the
foothold was slight, there would be no need now for him to release the
communiqu`e he had quietly scribbled just twenty-four hours before. In
case the attempt to land troops was defeated, he had written: "Our
landings in the Cherbourg-Havre area have failed to gain a satisfactory
foothold and I have withdrawn the troops. My decision to attack at the
time and place was based upon the best information available. The
troops, the air and Navy did all the that bravery and devotion to duty
could do. If there is any blame or fault attached to the attempt, it
is mine alone."

Certain that his troops were ashore on the invasion beaches, Eisenhower
had authorized the release of a far different communiqu`e. At 9:33
A.m. his press aide, Colonel Ernest Dupuy, broadcast the news to the
world. "Under the command of General Eisenhower," he said, "Allied
naval forces, supported by strong air forces, began landing Allied
armies this morning on the northern coast of France."

This was the moment the free world had been waiting for--and now that
it had come people responded with a curious mixture of relief,
exhilaration and anxiety. "At

last," said the London Times in a D-Day editorial, "the tension has
broken."

Most Britons heard the news at work. In some war plants the bulletin
was read out over loudspeakers and men and women stood back from their
lathes and sang "God Save the King." Village churches threw open their
doors. Total strangers talked to one another on commuter trains. On
city streets civilians walked up to American soldiers and shook hands.
Small crowds gathered on corners to gaze upward at the heaviest air
traffic Britons had ever seen.

Wren Lieutenant Naomi Coles Honour, wife of the skipper of the midget
sub X23, heard the news and immediately knew where her husband was.
Sometime later she got a call from one of the operations officers at
naval headquarters: "George is all right, but you'll never guess what
he's been up to." Naomi could hear all that later; the important thing
now was that he was safe.

The mother of eighteen-year-old Able Seaman Ronald Northwood of the
flagship Scylla got so excited she ran across the street to tell her
neighbor Mrs. Spurgeon that "my Ron must be there." Mrs. Spurdgeon
wasn't to be outdone. She had "a relative on the Warspite" and she was
certain he was there, too. (with minor variations the same
conversation was taking place all over England.)

Grace Gale, wife of Private John Gale, who had landed in the first wave
on Sword Beach, was bathing the youngest of their three children when
she heard the bulletin. She tried to hold back her tears, but
couldn't--she was certain that her husband was in France. "Dear God,"
she whispered, "bring him back." Then she told her daughter Evelyn to
turn off the radio. "We're not going to let your dad down by
worrying," she said.

In the cathedral-like atmosphere of the Westminster Bank at Bridgeport
in Dorset, Audrey Duckworth was hard at work and didn't hear about the
assault until much later

in the day. It was just as well. Her American husband, Captain Edmund
Duckworth of the 1/ Division, had been killed as he stepped onto Omaha
Beach. They had been married just five days.

En route to Eisenhower's headquarters at Portsmouth, Lieutenant General
Sir Frederick Morgan heard the BBC warn listeners to stand by for a
special announcement. Morgan told his driver to stop the car for a
moment. He turned up the volume on his radio--and then the author of
the original invasion plan heard the news of the attack.

For most of the United States the report came in the middle of the
night; on the East Coast it was 3:33 A.m., on the West Coast 12:33 A.m.
Most people were asleep, but among the first to hear of D Day were the
thousands working on the swing shifts, the men and women who had toiled
to produce most of the guns, tanks, ships and planes that were being
used in the assault. Everywhere in the great pulsing war plants work
stopped for a moment of solemn meditation. In a Brooklyn shipyard,
under the harsh glare of arc lamps, hundreds of men and women knelt
down on the decks of partially finished Liberty ships and began to say
the Lord's Prayer.

Across the nation, in sleeping towns and villages, lights flashed on.
Quiet streets suddenly filled with sound as radios were turned up.
People woke their neighbors to tell them the news, and so many phoned
friends and relatives that telephone switchboards were jammed. In
Coffeyville, Kansas, men and women in their night attire knelt on
porches and prayed. On a train between Washington and New York a
clergyman was asked to hold an impromptu service. In Marietta,
Georgia, people thronged into churches at 4:00 A.m. The Liberty Bell
was rung in Philadelphia, and throughout historic Virginia, the home of
the 29th Division, church bells tolled in the night just as they had
during the Revolution. In little Bedford, Virginia

(population 3,800), the news had a special significance. Nearly
everyone had a son, brother, sweetheart or husband in the 29th. In
Bedford they did not know it yet, but all of their men had landed on
Omaha Beach. Out of forty-six Bedford men in the 116th Regiment, only
twenty-three would come home again.

Wave Ensign Lois Hoffman, wife of the skipper of the Corry, was on duty
at the Norfolk, Virginia, naval base when she heard about D Day. From
time to time she had kept track of her husband's destroyer through
friends in the operations room. The news had no personal significance
for her. She still believed her husband was escorting a munitions
convoy in the North Atlantic.

In San Francisco, Mrs. Lucille M. Schultz, a nurse at the Veterans
Hospital at Fort Miley, was on night duty when the first announcement
was made. She wanted to stay by the radio in the hope that the 82nd
Airborne would be mentioned; she suspected the division was in the
assault. But she was also afraid the radio might excite her cardiac
patient, a World War I veteran. He wanted to listen to the reports.
"I wish I was there," he said. "You've had your war," said Nurse
Schultz as she turned off the radio. Sitting in the darkness, weeping
silently, she said the Rosary over and over for her twenty-one-year-old
paratrooper son, Arthur, better known to the 505th Regiment as Private
Dutch Schultz.

At her home on Long Island, Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt had slept
fitfully. About 3:00 A.m. she awoke and could not get back to sleep.
Automatically she turned on the radio--just in time to catch the
official D-Day announcement. She knew that it was characteristic of
her husband to be somewhere in the thick of the fighting. She did not
know that she was probably the only woman in the nation to have a
husband on Utah Beach and a son-- twenty-five-year-old Captain Quentin
Roosevelt of the 1/ Division--on Omaha

Beach. Sitting up in bed, she closed her eyes and said an old and
familiar family prayer: "O Lord support us this day ... until the
shadows lengthen and the evening falls."

In Stalag 17But near Krems, Austria, the news was received with a
rejoicing that could hardly be contained. U.s. Air Force enlisted men
had picked up the electrifying announcement on tiny handmade crystal
sets, some of them built to fit in toothbrush holders, others
camouflaged to look like lead pencils. Staff Sergeant James Lang, who
had been shot down over Germany more than a year before, was almost
afraid to believe the report. The camp's "news monitoring committee"
tried to warn the four thousand POW'S against overoptimism. "Don't get
your hopes up," they cautioned. "Give us time to verify or deny." But
in barracks after barracks men were already at work drawing secret maps
of the Normandy coast on which they intended to plot the victorious
advance of the Allied armies.

At this time the prisoners of war knew more about the invasion than the
German people. So far the man in the street had heard nothing
officially. It was ironic, because Radio Berlin, beating the
Eisenhower communiqu`e by three hours, had been the first to announce
the Allied landings. From six-thirty on, the Germans had showered a
somewhat doubting world with a steady stream of newscasts. These
short-wave broadcasts could not be heard by the German public. Still,
thousands had learned of the landings from other sources. Although
listening to foreign broadcasts was forbidden and punishable by a stiff
prison term, some Germans had tuned in Swiss, Swedish or Spanish
stations. The news had spread swiftly. Many of those who did hear it
were skeptical. But there were some, particularly women with husbands
in Normandy, who got the report and were deeply concerned. One of
these was Frau Werner Pluskat.

She had planned to go to a movie in the afternoon with

Frau Sauer, another officer's wife. But when she heard that the Allies
were rumored to have landed in Normandy, she became almost hysterical.
Immediately she called Frau Sauer, who had also heard something about
the attack, and canceled the movie date. "I must know what has
happened to Werner," she said. "I may never see him again."

Frau Sauer was very abrupt and very Prussian. "You shouldn't act like
this!" snapped Frau Sauer. "You should believe in the Feuhrer and act
like a good officer's wife."

Frau Pluskat shot back, "I'll never talk to you again!" Then she
slammed down the phone.

In Berchtesgaden it almost seemed as though the men around Hitler had
waited for the official Allied communiqu`e before daring to break the
news to him. It was about 10:00 A.m. (9:00 A.m. German time) when
Hitler's naval aide, Admiral Karl Jesko von Puttkamer, called Jodl's
office for the latest report. He was told that there were "definite
indications that an important landing has taken place." Gathering all
the information he could, Puttkamer and his staff quickly prepared a
map. Then Major General Rudolf Schmundt, the Feuhrer's adjutant,
awakened Hitler. He was in a dressing gown when he came out of his
bedroom. He listened calmly to the report of his aides and then sent
for OKW'S chief, Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel, and Jodl. By the time
they arrived Hitler was dressed and waiting--and excited.

The conference that followed was, as Puttkamer recalls, "extremely
agitated." Information was scanty, but on the basis of what was known
Hitler was convinced that this was not the main invasion, and he kept
repeating that over and over again. The conference lasted only a few
minutes and ended abruptly, as Jodl was later to remember, when Hitler
suddenly thundered at him and Keitel, "Well, is it or isn't it the
invasion?" and then turned on his heel and left the room.

The subject of the release of the OKW panzer divisions, which Von
Rundstedt so urgently needed, did not even come up.

At ten-fifteen the phone rang in Field Marshal Erwin Rommel's home at
Herrlingen. The caller was his chief of staff, Major General Hans
Speidel. The purpose: the first complete briefing on the invasion. *
Rommel listened, shocked and shaken. * General Speidel has told me
that he called Rommel "around 6:00 A.m. on a private wire." He says
the same thing in his own book Invasion 1944. But General Speidel had
his times confused. For example, his book states that the field
marshal left La Roche-Guyon on June 5--not on June 4, as Captain
Hellmuth Lang and Colonel Hans George von Tempelhof have stated and as
the Army Group B War Diary records. On D Day the diary lists only one
call to Rommel: the 10:15 A.m. call. The entry reads: "Speidel informs
Field Marshal Rommel by phone on the situation. Commander in Chief
Army Group B is going to return to his headquarters today."

It was not a "Dieppe-type raid." With all the canny instinct that had
served him so well for most of his life, Rommel knew that it was the
day he had been waiting for--the one he had said would be "the longest
day." He waited patiently until Speidel had finished the report and
then he said quietly, with no tinge of emotion in his voice, "How
stupid of me. How stupid of me."

He turned from the phone and Frau Rommel saw that "the call had charged
him ... there was a terrible tension." During the next forty-five
minutes, Rommel twice called his aide, Captain Hellmuth Lang, at his
home near Strasbourg. Each time he gave Lang a different hour for
their return to La Roche-Guyon. That in itself worried Lang; it was
unlike the field marshal to be so undecisive. "He sounded terribly
depressed on the phone," Lang recalls, "and that was not like him
either." The departure time was finally set. "We will leave at one
o'clock sharp from Freudenstadt," Rommel told his aide. As Lang hung
up the phone he reasoned that Rommel was delaying their departure in
order to see Hitler. He did not know that at

Berchtesgaden no one but Hitler's adjutant, Major General Schmundt, was
even aware that Rommel was in Germany.

On Utah Beach the roar of trucks, tanks, half-tracks and jeeps almost
drowned out the sporadic whine of German 88's. It was the noise of
victory; the 4th Division was moving inland faster than anyone had
anticipated.

On Exit 2, the only open causeway running in from the beach, two men
stood directing the flood of traffic. Both were generals. On one side
of the road stood Major General Raymond O. Barton, commander of the 4th
Division, on the other the boyishly exuberant Brigadier General Teddy
Roosevelt. As Major Gerden Johnson of the 12th Infantry Regiment came
up he saw Roosevelt "stomping up and down the dusty road, leaning on
his cane and smoking his pipe almost as unperturbed as though he were
in the middle of Times Square." Roosevelt spotted Johnson and yelled,
"Hi, Johnny! Keep right on the road, you're doing fine! It's a great
day for hunting, isn't it?" It was a triumphant moment for Roosevelt.
His decision to bring the 4th in two thousand yards from the planned
touch-down point could have been disastrous. Now he watched the long
lines of vehicles and men moving inland and felt an immense personal
satisfaction. * * For his performance on Utah, Roosevelt was awarded
the Congressional Medal of Honor. On July 12, General Eisenhower
confirmed his appointment as the 90th Division's commanding general.
Roosevelt never learned of the appointment. He died that same evening
of a heart attack.

But Barton and Roosevelt, despite their air of unconcern, shared a
secret fear: Unless the traffic could be kept constantly moving, the
4th could be stopped dead in its tracks by a determined German
counterattack. Again and again the two generals unsnarled traffic
jams. Stalled trucks were ruthlessly pushed off the road. Here and
there blazing vehicles, victims of enemy shells, threatened to halt the
advance. Tanks bulldozed them into the inundated area where troops
were sloshing inland. About 11:00 A.m. Barton got the good news; Exit
3, just one mile away, was open. To ease the pressure Barton
immediately sent his tanks rumbling off in the direction of the newly
opened exit. The 4th was rolling, rushing toward the link-up with the
hard-pressed paratroopers.

When it came, the link-up was unspectacular --lone men meeting one
another in unexpected places, often with humorous and emotional
results. Corporal Louis Merlano of the 101/ may well have been the
first airborne soldier to encounter troops of the 4th Division. With
two other paratroopers, Merlano, who had landed among the beach
obstacles just above the original Utah Beach, had fought his way almost
two miles down the coast. He was tired, dirty and battered when he met
the 4th Division soldiers. He stared at them for a moment and then
asked irritably, "Where the hell have you guys been?"

Sergeant Thomas Bruff of the 101/ watched a 4th Division scout come off
the causeway near Pouppeville, "carrying his rifle like a squirrel
gun." The scout looked at the weary Bruff. "Where's the war?" he
inquired. Bruff, who had landed eight miles from his drop zone and had
fought all night with a small group under the command of General
Maxwell Taylor, growled at the soldier. "Anywhere from here on back.
Keep going, buddy, you'll find it."

Near Audouville-la-Hubert, Captain Thomas Mulvey of the 101/ was
hurrying toward the coast along a dirt road

when "a soldier with a rifle popped into view from the edge of the
bushes, about seventy-five yards ahead." Both men dived for cover.
Cautiously they emerged, rifles ready, and in wary silence stared at
each other. The other man demanded that Mulvey drop his rifle and
advance with arms raised. Mulvey suggested that the stranger do the
same. "This," says Mulvey, "went on for several go-rounds, with
neither of us giving an inch." Finally Mulvey, who could now see that
the other man was a U.s. soldier, stood up. The two met in the middle
of the road, shook hands and slapped each other on the back.

In Ste.-Marie-du-Mont, Pierre Caldron, the baker, saw paratroopers high
in the steeple of the church waving a big orange identification panel.
Within a few moments a long line of men, marching in single file, came
down the road. As the 4th Division passed through, Caldron lifted his
little son high on his shoulders. The boy was not fully recovered from
his tonsillectomy of the day before, but this was a sight Caldron did
not want his son to miss. Suddenly the baker found himself crying. A
stocky U.s. soldier grinned at Caldron and shouted, "Vive la France!"
Caldron smiled back, nodding his head. He could not trust himself to
speak.

Out of the Utah Beach area the 4th Division poured inland. Their D-Day
losses were light: 197 casualties, sixty of whom were lost at sea.
Terrible fighting lay ahead for the 4th in the next weeks, but this was
their day. By evening 22,000 men and 1,800 vehicles would be ashore.
With the paratroopers, the 4th Division had secured the first major
American beachhead in France.

Savagely, inch by inch, men fought their way off Bloody Omaha. From
the sea the beach presented an incredible picture of waste and
destruction. The situation was so crit-

ical that at noon General Omar Bradley aboard the Augusta began to
contemplate the possible evacuation of his troops and the diversion of
follow-up forces to Utah and the British beaches. But even as Bradley
wrestled with the problem, the men in the chaos of Omaha were moving.

Along Dog Green and Dog White, a crusty fifty-one-year-old general
named Norman Cota strode up and down in the hail of fire, waving a .45
and yelling at men to get off the beach. Along the shingle, behind the
sea wall and in the coarse beach grass at the base of the bluffs, men
crouched shoulder to shoulder, peering at the general, unwilling to
believe that a man could stand upright and live.

A group of Rangers lay huddled near the Vierville exit. "Lead the way,
Rangers!" Cota shouted. Men began to rise to their feet. Farther
down the beach was an abandoned bulldozer loaded with TNT. It was just
what was needed to blow the antitank wall at the Vierville exit. "Who
drives this thing?" he thundered. No one answered. Men seemed still
paralyzed by the merciless gunfire that flayed the beach. Cota began
to lose his temper. "Hasn't anyone got guts enough to drive the damn
thing?" he roared.

A red-haired soldier got slowly up from the sand and with great
deliberation walked over to Cota. "I'll do it," he said.

Cota slapped him on the back. "That's the stuff," the general said.
"Now let's get off the beach." He walked away without looking back.
Behind him, men began to stir.

This was the pattern. Brigadier General Cota, the 29th Division's
assistant commander, had been setting an example almost from the moment
he arrived on the beach. He had taken the right half of the 29th's
sector; Colonel Charles D. Canham, commanding the 116th, had taken the
left. Canham, a bloody handkerchief tied around a wrist wound, moved
through the dead, the dying and the

shocked, waving groups of men forward. "They're murdering us here!"
he said. "Let's move inland and get murdered!" Private First Class
Charles Ferguson looked up in amazement as the colonel went by. "Who
the hell is that son of a bitch?" he asked and then he and the other
men with him got up and headed toward the bluffs.

In the 1/ Division's half of Omaha Beach, the veterans of Sicily and
Salerno came out of the shock faster. Sergeant Raymond Strojny rallied
his men and led them up the bluffs through a mine field. On top he
knocked out a pillbox with a bazooka. Strojny had become "just a
little mad." A hundred yards away Sergeant Philip Streczyk had had his
fill of being pinned down, too. Some soldiers remember that Streczyk
almost booted men off the beach and up the mined headlands, where he
breached the enemy barbed wire. A short while later, Captain Edward
Wozenski met Streczyk on a trail running down the bluffs. Horrified,
Wozenski saw Streczyk step on a Teller mine. Streczyk said coolly, "It
didn't go off when I stepped on it going up, either, Captain."

Ranging up and down the 1/ Division sector, oblivious to the artillery
and machine-gun fire that raked the sands, was the 16th's commanding
officer, Colonel George A. Taylor. "Two kinds of people are staying on
this beach," he yelled, "the dead and those who are going to die. Now
let's get the hell out of here."

Everywhere intrepid leaders, privates and generals alike, were showing
the way, getting the men off the beach. Once started, the troops did
not stop again. Technical Sergeant William Wiedefeld, Jr., stepped
over the dead bodies of a score of his friends and, with face set, went
up the hill through the mine fields. Second Lieutenant Donald
Anderson, nursing a wound --he had been shot in the back of the neck
and the bullet had come out through his mouth--found that he had "the
courage to get up, and at

that point I changed from a rookie in combat to a veteran." Sergeant
Bill Courtney of the 2nd Rangers climbed to the top of the ridge and
yelled down to his squad, "Come on up! The sddo.b.'s are cleaned out!"
Immediately there was a burst of machine-gun fire to his left.
Courtney wheeled, hurled a couple of grenades and then yelled again,
"Come on! Come on! The sddo.b.'s are cleaned out now!"

Even as the troops began to advance, the first few landing craft began
driving right up on the beaches, ramming their way through the
obstacles. Coxswains on other boats saw it could be done and followed.
Some destroyers, backing up the advance, came so close to the shore
that they ran the risk of foundering and, at point-blank range, fired
at enemy strongpoints all along the bluffs. Under the covering
barrage, engineers began to complete the demolition job they had begun
almost seven hours earlier. Everywhere along Omaha Beach the deadlock
was breaking up.

As the men found it possible to move forward, their fear and
frustration gave way to an overpowering anger. Near the top of the
Vierville bluff, Ranger Private First Class Carl Weast and his company
commander, Captain George Whittington, spotted a machine-gun nest
manned by three Germans. As Weast and the captain circled it
cautiously, one of the Germans suddenly turned, saw the two Americans
and yelled, "Bitte! Bitte! Bitte!" Whittington fired, killing all
three. Turning to Weast he said, "I wonder what bitte means."

Out of the horror that had been Omaha Beach, troops pressed inland. At
one-thirty General Bradley would receive the message: "Troops formerly
pinned down on beaches Easy Red, Easy Green, Fox Red advancing up
heights behind beaches." By the end of the day men of the 1/ and 29th
divisions would be one mile inland. The cost of Omaha: an estimated
2,500 dead, wounded and missing.

It was 1:00 P.m. when Major Werner Pluskat got back to his headquarters
at Etreham. The apparition that came through the door bore little
resemblance to the commander his officers knew. Pluskat was shivering
like a man with a palsy, and all he could say was, "Brandy. Brandy."
When it came his hands shook so uncontrollably that he was almost
unable to lift the glass.

One of his officers said, "Sir, the Americans have landed." Pluskat
glared and waved him away. His staff crowded around him, one problem
uppermost in their minds. The batteries, they informed Pluskat, would
soon be low on ammunition. The matter had been reported to regiment,
he was told, and Lieutenant Colonel Ocker had said that supplies were
on the way. But nothing had arrived as yet. Pluskat rang Ocker.

"My dear Plus," came Ocker's airy voice over the wire, "are you still
alive?"

Pluskat ignored the question. "What's happening about the ammunition?"
he asked bluntly.

"It's on the way," said Ocker.

The colonel's calmness maddened Pluskat. "When?" he shouted. "When
will it arrive? You people don't seem to realize what it's like up
here."

Ten minutes later Pluskat was summoned to the phone. "I've got bad
news," Ocker told him. "I've just learned that the ammunition convoy
has been wiped out. It will be nightfall before anything gets up to
you."

Pluskat wasn't surprised; he knew from bitter personal experience that
nothing could move along the roads. He also knew that at the rate his
guns were firing, the batteries would be out of ammunition by
nightfall. The question

was, which would reach his guns first--the ammunition or the Americans?
Pluskat gave orders for his troops to prepare for close combat and
then he wandered aimlessly through the cheateau. He felt suddenly
useless and alone. He wished he knew where his dog Harras was.

By now the British soldiers who had fought D Day's first battle had
been holding on to their prize, the bridges over the Orne and the Caen
Canal, for more than thirteen hours. Although Major Howard's
glider-borne troops had been reinforced at dawn by other 6th Airborne
paratroopers, their numbers had been steadily dwindling under fierce
mortar and small-arms fire. Howard's men had stopped several small,
probing counterattacks. Now the tired, anxious troopers in the
captured German positions on either side of the bridge eagerly awaited
the link-up from the sea.

In his foxhole near the approaches to the Caen Canal bridge, Private
Bill Gray looked at his watch again. Lord Lovat's commandos were
almost an hour and a half overdue. He wondered what had happened back
up on the beaches. Gray didn't think the fighting could be much worse
there than it was at the bridges. He was almost afraid to lift his
head; it seemed to him the snipers were becoming more accurate by the
minute.

It was during a lull in the firing that Gray's friend, Private John
Wilkes, lying beside him, suddenly said, "You know, I think I hear
bagpipes." Gray looked at him scornfully.

"You're daft," he said. A few seconds later, Wilkes turned to his
friend again. "I do hear bagpipes," he insisted. Now Gray could hear
them, too.

Down the road came Lord Lovat's commandos, cocky in their green berets.
Bill Millin marched at the head of the column, his pipes blaring out
"Blue Bonnets over the Border." On both sides the firing suddenly
ceased, as soldiers gazed at the spectacle. But the shock didn't last
long. As the commandos headed across the bridges the Germans began
firing again. Bill Millin remembers that he was "just trusting to luck
that I did not get hit, as I could not hear very much for the drone of
the pipes." Halfway across, Millin turned around to look at Lord
Lovat. "He was striding along as if he was out for a walk round his
estate," Millin recalls, "and he gave me the signal to carry on."

Disregarding the heavy German fire, the paratroopers rushed out to
greet the commandos. Lovat apologized "for being a few minutes late."
To the weary 6th Airborne troopers, it was a stirring moment. Although
it would be hours before the main body of British troops reached the
farthermost points of the defense line held by the paratroopers, the
first reinforcements had arrived. As the red and green berets
intermingled, there was a sudden, perceptible lightening of the
spirits. Nineteen-year-old Bill Gray felt "years younger."

Now, on this fateful day for Hitler's Third Reich, as Rommel raced
frantically for Normandy, as his commanders

on the invasion front tried desperately to halt the storming Allied
assault, everything depended on the panzers: the 21/ Panzer Division
just behind the British beaches, and the 12th S.s. and the Panzer Lehr
still held back by Hitler.

Field Marshal Rommel watched the white ribbon of road stretching out
ahead and urged his driver on. "Tempo! Tempo! Tempo!" he said. The
car roared as Daniel put his foot down. They had left Freudenstadt
just two hours before and Rommel had uttered hardly a word. His aid,
Captain Lang, sitting in back, had never seen the field marshal so
depressed. Lang wanted to talk about the landings, but Rommel showed
no inclination for conversation. Suddenly Rommel turned around and
looked at Lang. "I was right all along," he said, "all along." Then
he stared at the road again.

The 21/ Panzer Division couldn't get through Caen. Colonel Hermann Von
Oppeln-Bronikowski, commanding the division's regiment of tanks, drove
up and down the column in a Volkswagen. The city was a shambles. It
had been bombed some time earlier and the bombers had done a good job.
Streets were piled up with debris, and it seemed a Bronikowski that
"everyone in the city was on the move trying to get out." The roads
were choked with men and women on bicycles. There was no hope for the
panzers. Bronikowski decided to pull back and go around the city. It
would take hours, he knew, but there was no other way. And where was
the regiment of troops that was supposed to support his attack when he
did get through?

Nineteen-year-old Private Walter Hermes of the 21/

Panzer Division's 192nd Regiment had never been so happy. It was
glorious. He was leading the attack against the British! Hermes sat
astride his motorcycle, weaving ahead of the advance company. They
were heading toward the coast and soon they would pick up the tanks and
then the 21/ would drive the British into the sea. Everybody said so.
Nearby on other motorcycles were his friends, Tetzlaw, Mattusch and
Schard. All of them had expected to be attacked by the British before
now, but nothing had happened. It seemed strange that they hadn't
caught up with the tanks yet. But Hermes guessed that they must be
somewhere ahead, probably attacking already on the coast. Hermes drove
happily on, leading the advance company of the regiment up into the
eight-mile gap that the British commandos still hadn't closed between
Juno and Gold. This was a gap the panzers could have exploited to
split the British beaches wide open and menace the entire Allied
assault--a gap that Colonel von Oppeln-Bronikowski knew nothing
whatever about.

In Paris at OB West, Major General Blumentritt, Rundstedt's chief of
staff, called Speidel at Rommel's headquarters. The one-sentence
conversation was duly recorded in Army Group B's War Diary. "OKW,"
said Blumentritt, "has released the 12th S.s. and Panzer Lehr
divisions." The time was 3:40 P.m. Both generals knew that it was too
late. Hitler and his senior officers had held up the two panzer
divisions for more than ten hours. There was no hope of either
division reaching the invasion area on this vital day. The 12th S.s.
would not get to the beachhead until the morning of June 7. The Panzer
Lehr, almost decimated by continuous air attacks, would not arrive
until the ninth. The only chance of catching the Allied

assaults off balance now lay with the 21/ Panzer Division.

Close on 6:00 P.m., Rommel's Horch pulled up in Rheims. In the city
commander's headquarters Lang placed a call to La Roche-Guyon. Rommel
spent fifteen minutes on the phone, getting a briefing from his chief
of staff. When Rommel came out of the office, Lang saw that the news
must have been bad. There was silence in the car as they drove off.
Sometime later Rommel drove his gloved fist into the palm of his other
hand and said, bitterly, "My friendly enemy, Montgomery." Still later,
he said, "My God! If the Twenty-first Panzer can make it, we might
just be able to drive them back in three days."

North of Caen, Bronikowski gave the order to attack. He sent
thirty-five tanks, under the command of Captain Wilhelm von Gottberg,
ahead to take the heights at Peeriers, four miles from the coast.
Bronikowski himself would try for the ridge at Bieeville two miles away
with another twenty-five tanks.

General Edgar Feuchtinger, commander of the 21/ Panzer, and General
Marcks, the 84th Corps commander, had come to see the attack go in.
Marcks came over to Bronikowski. He said, "Oppeln, the future of
Germany may very well rest on your shoulders. If you don't push the
British back into the sea, we've lost the war."

Bronikowski saluted and replied, "General, I intend to do my best."

As they moved up, the tanks fanning out across the fields, Bronikowski
was halted by Major General Wilhelm Richter, commander of the 716th
Division. Bronikowski saw that Richter "was almost demented with
grief." Tears

came to his eyes as he told Bronikowki, "My troops are lost. My whole
division is finished."

Bronikowski asked, "What can I do, sir? We'll help as best we can."
He got out his map and showed it to Richter. "Where are their
positions, sir? Will you point them out?"

Richter just shook his head. "I don't know," he said, "I don't
know."

Rommel turned half around on the front seat of the Horch and said to
Lang, "I hope there isn't a second landing right now from the
Mediterranean." He paused for a moment. "Do you know, Lang," he said
thoughtfully, "if I was commander of the Allied forces right now, I
could finish off the war in fourteen days." He turned back and stared
ahead. Lang watched him, miserable, unable to help. The Horch roared
on through the evening.

Bronikowski's tanks rumbled up the rise at Bieevllle. So far they had
encountered no enemy resistance. Then, as the first of his Mark IV
tanks neared the top, there was the sudden roar of guns opening up
somewhere in the distance. He couldn't tell whether he had run
headlong into British tanks or whether the firing was from antitank
guns. But it was accurate and fierce. It seemed to be coming from
half a dozen places all at once. Suddenly his lead tank blew up
without having fired a shot. Two more tanks moved up, their gun
firing. But they seemed to make no impression on the British gunners.
Bronikowski began to see why: He was being outgunned. The British guns
seemed to have a tremendous range. One after the other Bronikowski's
tanks were knocked out. In less than fifteen minutes he lost six
tanks. He had never seen such shooting. There was

nothing Bronikowski could do. He halted the attack and gave the order
to pull back.

Private Walter Hermes couldn't understand where the tanks were. The
advance company of the 192nd Regiment had reached the coast at
Luc-sur-Mer, but there was no sign of the panzers. There was no sign
of the British either, and Hermes was a little disappointed. But the
sight of the invasion fleet almost made up for it. On the coast, off
to Hermes's left and right, he saw hundreds of ships and craft moving
back and forth, and a mile or so offshore were warships of every
description. "Beautiful," he said to his friend Schard. "Just like a
parade." Hermes and his friends stretched out on the grass and took
out their cigarettes. Nothing seemed to be happening and no one had
given them any orders.

The British were already in position on the Peeriers heights. They
stopped Captain Wilhelm von Gottberg's thirty-five tanks even before
the panzers got into firing range. In a matter of minutes Gottberg
lost ten tanks. The delay in orders, the time wasted trying to get
around Caen had given the British the opportunity to consolidate fully
their positions on the strategic heights. Gottberg roundly cursed
everyone he could think of. He pulled back to the edge of a wood near
the village of Lebissey. There he ordered his men to dig in their
tanks, hulls down, with only the turrets showing. He was sure the
British would drive on Caen within a few hours.

But to Gottberg's surprise time passed without an attack. Then, a
little after 9:00 P.m., Gottberg saw a fantastic sight. There was the
slowly mounting roar of planes and, off in the distance against the
still-bright evening sun, he saw swarms of gliders coming in over the
coast. There were

scores of them, flying steadily in formation behind their tow planes.
Then as he watched, the gliders were cast off and, wheeling and
banking, they came soughing down, to land out of sight somewhere
between him and the coast. Gottberg swore angrily.

At Bieeville, Bronikowski had dug in his tanks, too. As he stood by
the side of the road, he watched "German officers with twenty to thirty
men apiece, marching back from the front --retreating toward Caen."
Bronikowski couldn't understand why the British didn't attack. It
seemed to him that "Caen and the whole area could be taken within a few
hours." * At the end of the procession Bronikowski saw a sergeant, his
arms around two hefty German Wacs. They were "as drunk as pigs, their
faces were dirty and they swayed from side to side." Reeling by,
oblivious to everything, they sang "Deutschland euber Alles" at the top
of their voices. Bronikowski watched them until they were out of
sight. "The war is lost," he said aloud. * Although the British made
D Day's greatest advances, they failed to capture their principal
objective--Caen. Bronikowski was to stay in position with his tanks
for more than six weeks--until the city finally fell.

Rommel's Horch purred quietly through La Roche-Guyon, moving slowly by
the little houses that shouldered each other on either side of the
road. The big black car turned off the highway, passed the sixteen
square-cut linden trees and entered the gates of the castle of the
Dukes de La Rochefoucauld. As they came to a halt before the door,
Lang jumped out and ran ahead to inform Major General Speidel of the
field marshal's return. In the main corridor he heard the strains of a
Wagnerian opera coming from the chief of staff's office. The music
welled up as the door suddenly opened and Speidel came out.

Lang was very angry and shocked. Forgetting for a mo-

t that he was talking to a general, he snapped, "How can you possibly
play opera at a time like this?"

Speidel smiled and said, "My dear Lang, you don't think that my playing
a little music is going to stop the invasion, now do you?"

Down the corridor strode Rommel in his long blue-gray field coat, his
silver-topped marshal's baton in his right hand. He walked into
Speidel's office and, hands clasped behind his back, stood looking at
the map. Speidel closed the door, and Lang, knowing that this
conference would last some time, made his way to the dining room.
Wearily he sat down at one of the long tables and ordered a cup of
coffee from the orderly. Nearby another officer was reading a paper.
He looked up. "How was the trip?" he asked pleasantly. Lang just
stared at him.

On the Cherbourg peninsula near Ste.-M`ere-eeglise, Private Dutch
Schultz of the 82nd Airborne leaned against the side of a foxhole and
listened to a distant church bell sounding eleven. He could hardly
keep his eyes open. He figured he had been awake now almost
seventy-two hours-- ever since the postponement on the night of June 4
when he had joined in the crap game. It struck him as funny that he
had gone to so much trouble to lose all his winnings--nothing at all
had happened to him. In fact, Dutch felt a little sheepish. He had
not fired a single shot all day.

Back of Omaha Beach, beneath the bluffs, Medic Staff Sergeant Alfred
Eigenberg flopped wearily into a crater. He had lost count of the
number of casualties he had treated. He was bone-tired, but there was
one thing he wanted to do before he fell asleep. Eigenberg fished a
crumpled sheet of V-mail paper out of his pocket and, with the aid of a
flashlight, settled down to write home. He scribbled, "Somewhere in
France," and then began,

"Dear Mom and Dad, I know that by now you've heard of the invasion.
Well, I'm all right." Then the nineteen-year-old medic stopped. He
couldn't think of anything more to say.

Down on the beach Brigadier General Norman Cota watched the "cat's
eyes" blackout lights of trucks and heard the shouts of MP'S and
beachmasters as they moved men and vehicles inland. Here and there
landing craft still burned, throwing a ruddy glare into the night sky.
The surf pounded the shore, and somewhere off in the distance Cota
heard the lonely stutter of a machine gun. Suddenly Cota felt very
tired. A truck rumbled toward him and Cota flagged it down. He
stepped up onto the running board and hooked one arm around the door.
For just a moment he looked back at the beach, then he said to the
driver, "Run me up the hill, son."

At Rommel's headquarters Lang, like everyone else, had heard the bad
news: The 21/ Panzer attack had failed. Lang was very depressed. He
said to the field marshal, "Sir, do you think we can drive them
back?"

Rommel shrugged, spread his hands and said, "Lang, I hope we can. I've
nearly always succeeded up to now." Then he patted Lang on the
shoulder. "You look tired," he said. "Why don't you go to bed? It's
been a long day." He turned away and Lang watched him walk down the
corridor to his office. The door closed softly behind him.

Outside, nothing stirred in the two great cobbled courtyards. La
Roche-Guyon was silent. Soon this most occupied of all French villages
would be free--as would the whole of Hitler's Europe. From this day on
the Third Reich had less than one year to live. Beyond the castle
gates the main road stretched broad and empty and the windows of the
red-roofed houses were shuttered. In the Church of St. Samson the
bell tolled midnight.

A Note 278-280

on Casualties

Over the years a variety of vague and contradictory figures have been
given on the losses sustained by Allied troops during the
twenty-four-hour period of assault. None of them can be said to be
accurate. At best they must remain estimates, for by the very nature
of the assault it was impossible for anyone to arrive at an exact
figure. In general, most military historians agree that the total
Allied casualties reached 10,000; some even put the figure at 12,000.

American casualties are put at 6,603. This figure is based on the U.s.
First Army's after-action report, which gives the following breakdown:
1,465 killed, 3,184 wounded, 1,928 missing and 26 captured. Included
in this compilation are 82nd and 101/ airborne losses, which alone are
estimated at 2,499 killed, wounded and missing.

The Canadians had 946 casualties, of which 335 were killed. No British
figures have ever been issued, but it is estimated that they had at
least 2,500 to 3,000 casualties, of which the 6th Airborne suffered
losses of 650 killed, wounded and missing.

What were the German D-Day losses? No one can say. In my interviews
from senior German officers I was given estimates ranging from 4,000 to
9,000. But by the end of June, Rommel was to report that his
casualties for the month were "28 generals, 354 commanders and
approximately 250,000 men."

D-Day Veterans: What They Do Today

In the following lists of contributors, all ranks shown are those as of
D Day. Occupations may have changed for some men during the months
since the lists were compiled.

AMERICAN

Accardo, Nick J., Lt. [4th Div.]

Orthopedic surgeon, New Orleans,

La. Adams, Ernest C., Lt. Col.

[1/ Eng. Sp. Brig.] Col.,

U.s. Army Adams, Jonathan E.eaJr., Capt.

[82nd Airborne] Lt. Col.,

U.s. Army Albanese, Salvatore A., S/sgt.

[1/ Div.] Payroll clerk,

Verplanck, N.y. Albrecht, Denver, 2nd Lt. [82nd

Airborne] W/off., U.s. Army Allen, Miles L., Pfc. [101/

Airborne] SFC, U.s. Army Allen, Robert M., Pfc. [1/ Div.]

High school teacher, athletic coach,

Oelwein, Iowa Allen, Walter K., T/s [467th AAA

(Aw) Bn.] Farmer, Monmouth,

Iowa Allison, Jack L., Pvt. [237th

Eng.] Accountant, Chester, W. Va. Alpaugh, Stanley H., 2nd Lt. [4th

Div.] Maj., U.s. Army Anderson, C. W., Pfc. [4th Div.]

Sgt., Military Police

supervisor, U.s. Army Anderson, Donald C., Lt. [29th

Div.] Flight test engineer, General

Dynamics, Edwards, Calif.

Anderson, Donald D., Sgt. [4th

Div.] Dealer, timber products,

Effie, Minn. Anderson, Martin H., Stm. 1/c [11th and

12th Amphibious Force, USN]

Ast2c, U.s.a.f. Apel, Joel H., 1/ Lt. [457th

Bomb Group] Squadron Couldr.,

U.s.a.f. Apostolas, George N., Tstbled [39th

AAA Bn.] Service officer,

Illinois Veterans Commission Appleby, Sam, Jr., Cpl. [82nd

Airborne] Attorney, Ozark,

Mo. Araiza, Joe L., Sgt. [446th Bomb

Group] MstcomSgt., U.s.a.f. Arman, Robert C., Lt. [2nd

Rangers] Capt., Disability

retirement, Lafayette, Ind. Armellino, John R., Capt.

[1/ Div.] Mayor, West New

York, N.j. Armstrong, Louis M., T/sgt. [29th

Div.] Post office clerk, Staunton,

Va. Arnold, Edgar L., Capt. [2nd

Rangers] Lt. Col., U.s. Army Asay, Charles V., Sgt. [101/

Airborne] Linotype operator,

Placer Herald, Auburn, Calif. Ashby, Carroll A., S/sgt. [29th

Div.] Lt.; adviser, Army reserve

unit, Arlington, Va. Azbill, Boyce, Q.m. 2/c

[U.s.c.g. LCI (like) 94]

Branch manager, U.s. Pipe and

Supply Co., Tucson, Ariz. Baechle, Joseph W., Sgt. [5th Eng.

Spec. Brig.] Accountant,

Cleveland, Ohio Bagley, Frank H., Lt. [U.s.s.

Herndon] Branch manager, De

Laval Steam Turbine Co.,

Milwaukee, Minn. Baier, Harold L., Ens. [7th

Naval Beach Bn.] Doctor

(biological research), Frederick, Md. Bailey, Edward A., Lt. Col.
[65th

Armored Field Artillery Bn.]

Col., U.s. Army Bailey, Rand S., Lt. Col. [1/

Eng. Sp. Brig.] Retired; part-time

consultant, Rural Electrification

Administration, Washington, D.c. Baker, Richard J., Lt. [344th Bomb

Group] Maj., U.s.a.f. Balcer, Charles I., Lt. [HQ VII

Corps] Maj., U.s. Army Ball, Sam H., Jr., Capt. [146th

Eng.] Television account executive,

KCMC-TV, Texarkana, Tex. Barber, Alex W., Pfc. [5th

Rangers] Chiropractor, Johnstown,

Pa. Barber, George R., Capt. (chaplain),

[1/ Div.] Minister and investment

adviser, Montebello, Calif.

Barrett, Carlton W., Pvt.

[1/ Div.] SFC, U.s. Army Barton, Raymond O., Maj. Gen.

[C.o., 4th Div.] Southern Finance

Corp., Augusta, Ga. Bass, Hubert S., Capt. [82nd

Airborne] Maj. (retired),

Houston, Tex. Bassett, Leroy A., Pvt. [29th

Div.] Claims examiner, Veterans

Administration, Fargo, N. Dak. Batte, James H., Lt. Col. [87th

Chem. Mortar Bn.] Col., U.s.

Army Bearden, Robert L., Sgt. [82nd

Airborne] Bearden's Personal

Service, Fort Hood, Tex. Beaver, Neal W., 2nd Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Cost accountant, Toledo,

Ohio Beck, Carl A., Pvt. [82nd

Airborne] Engineering parts inspector,

IBM, Poughkeepsie, N.y. Beeks, Edward A., Pfc. [457th AAA

AW Bn.] Foreman mechanic,

Scobey, Montana Beer, Robert O., Comdr. [U.s.s.

Carmick] Capt., U.s. Navy Belisle, Maurice A., Capt., [1/

Div.] Lt. Col., U.s. Army Belmont, Gail H., S/sgt. [and

Rangers] Capt., U.s. Army Bengel, Wayne P., Pvt. [101/

Airborne] Senior clerk, Cunard

Steamship Co., Ltd., Pittsburgh,

Pa. Billings, Henry J., Cpl. [101/

Airborne] Chief Wstoff., U.s.

Army Billiter, Norman W., Sgt. [101/

Airborne] Chief parachute

inspector, Fort Benning, Ga. Bingham, Sidney V., Maj. [29th

Div.] Col., U.s. Army Blackstock, James P., S/sgt. [4th

Div.] Optician, Philadelphia,

Pa. Blakeley, Harold W., Brig. Gen.,

C.o. [4th Div., Artillery]

Maj. Gen., (retired) Blanchard, Ernest R., Pfc.

[82nd Airborne] Machinist, E.

Ingraham Clock Co., Bristol, Conn. Bodet, Alan C., Cpl. [1/ Div.]

Assistant cashier, Guaranty Bank and

Trust Co., Jackson, Miss. Boice, William S., Capt. (chaplain)

[4th Div.] Minister, First Christian

Church, Phoenix, Ariz. Boling, Rufus C., Jr., Pvt. [4th

Div.] Apartment house superintendent,

Brooklyn, N.y. Bombardier, Carl E., Pfc. [2nd

Rangers] Tractor operator, shipper,

Proctor and Gamble Mfg. Co., North

Abington, Mass.

Bour, Lawrence J., Capt. [1/

Div.] Editor, Pocahoutas

Democrat, Pocahoutas, Iowa Bradley, Omar N., Lieut. Gen.

[C.o., U.s. 1/ Army] General

of the Army; Chairman, Bulova Watch

Co., New York, N.y. Brandt, Jerome N., Capt. [5th

Eng. Sp. Brig.] Lt.

Col., U.s. Army Brannen, Malcolm D., Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Maj.; Stetson

University ROTC, DeLand, Fla. Brewer, S. D., Seaman 1/c

[U.s.s. Arkansas] Post office

clerk, Hackleburg, Ala. Briel, Raymond C., Sgt. [1/

Div.] MstcomSgt., U.s.a.f. Brinson, William L., Capt. [315th

Troop Carrier Group] Lt. Col.,

U.s.a.f. Broughman, Warner A., Capt. [101/

Airborne] Vocational-education

director, U.s. Public Health

Hospital, Lexington, Ky. Brown, Harry, Sgt. [4th Div.]

Optometrist, Clawson, Mich. Bruen, James J., Sgt. [29th

Div.] Police officer, Cleveland,

Ohio Bruff, Thomas B., Sgt. [101/

Airborne] Capt., U.s. Army Bruno, Joseph J., Seaman 1/c

[U.s.s. Texas]

Freight traffic clerk, U.s. Army,

Pittsburgh, Pa. Bryan, Keith, Sgt. [5th Eng. Sp.

Brig.] Veteran's service officer,

Columbus, Neb. Buckheit, John P., Seaman 1/c

[U.s.s. Herndon] Guard,

Olmsted A.f. Base, Harrisburg,

Pa. Buckley, Walter, Jr., Lt. Comdr.

[U.s.s. Nevada] Capt.,

U.s. Navy Buffalo Boy, Herbert J., S/sgt.

[82nd Airborne] Ranch hand,

farmer, Fort Yates, N. Dak. Burke, John L., Cpl. [5th

Rangers] Sales supervisor, A.h.

Robins Inc., Delmar, N.y. Burlingame, William G., Lt. [355

Fighter Group] Maj., U.s.a.f. Burt, Gerald H., Cpl. [299th

Engrs.] Pipe fitter, Niagara

Falls, N.y. Busby, Louis A., Jr.,

Watertender 1/c [U.s.s.

Carmick] Chief boilerman,

U.s.s. Saratoga Butler, John C., Jr., Capt. [5th

Eng. Sp. Brig.] Realty officer,

Bureau of Indian Affairs, Arlington,

Va. Byers, John C., T/sgt. [441/

Troop Carrier Group] Mechanical

engineer, San Pedro, Calif. Caffey, Eugene M., Col. [1/ Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Maj. Gen. (retired);

attorney, Darden and Caffey, Las

Cruces, N.m.

Callahan, William R., Capt. [29th

Div.] Maj., U.s. Army Canham, Charles D. W., Col. [29th

Div.] Maj. Gen., U.s. Army Canoe, Buffalo Boy, T/sgt. [82nd

Airborne] Judo instructor,

Venice, Calif. Capobianco, Gaetano, Pfc. [4th

Div.] Butcher, Easton, Pa. Carden, Fred J., Pfc. [82nd

Airborne] Airborne

technician, U.s. Army Carey, James R., Jr., Sgt. [8th

AF] Carey's West Side

Service, Ossian, Iowa Carlo, Joseph W., Hosp. Corpsman

[LST 288] Lt. (chaplain),

U.s. Navy Carlstead, Harold C., Ensign

[U.s.s. Herndon] Accountant;

teacher, Northwestern University School of

Business, Chicago, Ill. Carpenter, Joseph B., FirstO [410th

Bomb Group] MstcomSgt.,

U.s.a.f. Carroll, John B., Lt. [1/ Div.]

Public relations, Glass Container and

Mfriends. Assn., New York, N.y. Cascio, Charles J., Seaman 2/c

[LST 312] Mail carrier,

Endicott, N.y. Cason, Lee B., Cpl. [4th Div.]

M/sgt., U.s. Army Cassel, Thomas E., Specialist 2/c

[Task Force 122-can]

Capt., fire department, New

York, N.y. Cator, Richard D., Pfc. [101/

Airborne] Lt., U.s. Army Cawthon, Charles R., Capt. [29th

Div.] Lt., Col., U.s. Army Chance, Donald L., S/sgt. [5th

Rangers] Safety engineer, Yale and

Towne Mfg., Co., Philadelphia,

Pa. Chase, Charles H., Lt. Col. [101/

Airborne] Brig. Gen., U.s.

Army Chase, Lucius P., Col. [6th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] General counsel and

director, Kohler Co., Kohler,

Wis. Chesnut, Webb W., Lt. [1/ Div.]

Production Credit Association,

Campbellsville, KY. Chontos, Ernest J., Pvt. [1/

Div.] Realtor, Ashtabula, Ohio Ciarpelli, Frank, Pvt. [1/ Div.]

Sanitation inspector, Health Department,

Rochester, N.y. Cirinese, Salvatore, Pfc.

[4th Div.] Shoe repairman,

Miami, Fla. Clark, William R., Capt. [5th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Postmaster,

Loysville, Pa. Clayton, William J., S/sgt. [4th

Div.] Painter, Dunbar, Pa.

Cleveland, William H., Col. [HQ

325th Recon. Wing] Col.,

U.s.a.f. Clifford, Richard W., Capt. [4th

Div.] Dental surgeon, Hudson

Falls, N.y. Cochran, Sam L., T/sgt. [4th

Div.] Capt., U.s. Army Coffey, Vernon C., Pvt. [37th

Engrs.] Owner, meat packing,

frozen-food-processing firm, Houghton,

Iowa Coffman, Ralph S., S/sgt. [29th

Div.] Truck driver, Southern

States Augusta Petroleum

Cooperative, Staunton, Va. Coffman, Warren G., Pfc.

[1/ Div.] Capt., U.s. Army Coleman, Max D., Pfc. [5th

Rangers] Baptist minister, Clarkston,

Mo. Collins, J. Lawton, Maj. Gen.

[C.o., 7th Corps] Gen.

(retired); chairman, Charles Pfizer

Co., Washington, D.c. Collins, Thomas E., 2nd Lt. [93rd

Bomb Group] Statistician,

Northrop Aircraft Inc., Gardena,

Calif. Conley, Richard H., 2nd Lt. [1/

Div.] Capt., U.s. Army Conover, Charles M., Lt. [1/ Div.]

Lt. Col., U.s. Army Cook, William, Ensign [LCT 588]

Comdr., U.s. Navy Cook, William S., Signalman 3/c

[2nd Beach Bn.] Manager, grain

elevator, Flasher, N.dak. Cooper, John P., Jr., Col. [29th

Div.] Brig. Gen. (retired);

executive, Baltimore Telephone

Co., Baltimore, Md. Copas, Marshall, Sgt. [101/

Airborne] M/sgt., U.s. Army Corky, John T., Lt. Col. [1/

Div.] Col., U.s. Army Cota, Norman D., Brig. Gen. [29th

Div.] Maj. Gen. (retired);

Civil Defense director, Montgomery

Co., Pa. Couch, Riley C., Jr., Capt. [90th

Div.] Farmer and rancher, Haskell,

Tex. Cox, John F., Cpl. [434th Troop

Carrier Group] Lt., fire department,

Binghamton, N.y. Coyle, James J., 2nd Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Accountant, American

Tobacco Co., New York, N.y. Crawford, Ralph O., Chief W/off.

[1/ Eng. Sp. Brig.] Postmaster,

Dilley, Tex. Crispen, Frederick J., 2nd Lt.

[436th Troop Carrier Group]

MstcomSgt., U.s.a.f. Cross, Herbert A., 2nd Lt.

[4th Div.] Principal,

elementary school, Oneida, Tenn.

Crowder, Ralph H., Cpl. [4th

Div.] Owner, Mick's Glass Shop,

Radford, Va. Crowley, Thomas T., Maj. [1/

Div.] General manager, Division of

Crucible Steel Corp., Pittsburgh,

Pa. Cryer, William J., Jr., 2nd Lt.

[96th Bomb Group] Partner and general

manager, boat-building and repair yard,

Oakland, Calif. Cunningham, Robt. E., Capt. [1/

Div.] Photoengraving; author,

Stillwater, Okla. Dahlen, Johan B., Capt. (chaplain)

[1/ Div.] Pastor, Lutheran

church, Churchs Ferry, N. Dak. Dallas, Thomas S., Maj. [29th

Div.] Lt. Col., U.s. Army Danahy, Paul A., Maj. [101/

Airborne] Manufacturer's

representative, Minneapolis, Minn. Dance, Eugene A., Lt. [101/

Airborne] Maj., U.s. Army Daniel, Derrill M., Lt. Col.,

[1/ Div.] Maj. Gen., U.s.

Army Dasher, Benedict J., Capt. [6th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] President, Universe

Life Insurance Co., Reno, Nev. Daughtrey, John E., Lt. (j.g.)

[6th Beach Bn.] Doctor (general

surgery), Lakeland, Fla. Davis, Barton A., Sgt. [299th

Engrs.] Assistant treasurer, Hardinge

Brothers, Inc., Elmira, N.y. Davis, Kenneth S., Comdr. U.s.c.g.

[U.s.s. Bayfield] Capt.,

U.s. Coast Guard Dawson, Francis W., Lt. [5th

Rangers] Maj., U.s. Army De Benedetto, Russell J., Pfc.

[90th Div.] Realtor, Port

Allen, La. de Chiara, Albert, Jr., Ens.

[U.s.s. Herndon]

Manufacturers

representative, Passaic,

N.j. Deery, Lawrence E., Capt. (chaplain)

[1/ Div.] Priest, St.

Joseph's, Newport, R.i. Degnan, Irwin J., 2nd Lt. [HQ

Very Corps] Insurance agent,

Guttenberg, Iowa DeMayo, Anthony J., Pfc. [82nd

Airborne] Foreman, electrical

construction, New York, N.y. Depace, V. N., Pvt. [29th Div.]

Internal Revenue agent, Pittsburgh,

Pa. Derda, Fred, Signalman 1/c

U.s.c.g. [LCI (like) 90]

Chiropractor, St. Louis, Mo. Derickson, Richard B., Lt. Comdr.

[U.s.s. Texas] Capt.,

U.s. Navy Desjardins, J. L., CM 3/c [3rd

Naval Const. Bn.] Police department

custodian, Leominster, Mass.

Di Benedetto, Angelo, Pfc.

[4th Div.] Letter carrier,

Brooklyn, N.y. Dickson, Archie L., Lt. [434th

Troop Carrier Group] Insurance

agent, Gulfport, Miss. Dokich, Nicholas, Jr., Torpedoman

[PT boat] Torpedoman 3/c,

U.s. Navy Dolan, John J., Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Attorney, Boston,

Mass. Donahue, Thomas F., Pfc. [82nd

Airborne] Clerk, A. and P. Tea

Co., Brooklyn, N.y. Doss, Adrian R., Sr., Pfc.

[101/ Airborne] Spec. 1/c

U.s. Army Doyle, George T., Pfc. [90th

Div.] Printer, Parma Heights,

Ohio Dube, Noel A., Sgt. [121/

Engrs.] Administrative assistant,

Air Force Commissary, Pease A.f.

Base, N.h. Dulligan, John F., Capt.

[1/ Div.] Veteran's

Administration, Boston, Mass. Dunn, Edward C., Lt. Col. [4th

Cav. Recon.] Col., U.s.

Army Duquette, Donald M., Sgt. [254th

Engrs.] M/sgt., U.s. Army Dwyer, Harry A., Chief Signalman

[5th Div. Amphibious Force]

Storekeeper, veterans hospital,

Sepulveda, Calif. Eades, Jerry W., Sgt. [62nd

Armored Bn.] Lead-man, aircraft

factory, Arlington, Tex. East, Charles W., Capt. [29th

Div.] Underwriter, Staunton, Va. Eastus, Dalton L., Pvt. [4th

Div.] Meterman, Indiana and

Michigan Electric Co., Marion,

Ind. Eaton, Ralph P., Col. [82nd

Airborne] Brig. Gen. (retired) Echols, Eugene S., Maj. [5th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] City Engineer,

Memphis, Tenn. Edelman, Hyman, Pvt. [4th Div.]

Liquor store owner, Brooklyn,

N.y. Edlin, Robert T., Lt. [2nd

Rangers] Insurance agent supervisor,

Universal Life Insurance Co.,

Bloomington, Ind. Edmond, Emil V. B., Capt. [1/

Div.] Lt. Col., U.s. Army Eichelbaum, Arthur, Lt. [29th Div.]

Vice president sales, Sands Point,

L.i., N.y. Eigenberg, Alfred, S/sgt. [6th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Lt., U.s. Army Eisemann, William J., Lt. (j.g.)

[Rocket Support Div.] Staff

assistant, New England Mutual Life

Insurance Co., Bethpage, L.i.,

N.y. Ekman, William E., Lt. Col.

[82nd Airborne] Col., U.s.

Army Elinski, John, Pfc. [4th Div.]

Night shipper, Keebler

Biscuit Co.,

Philadelphia, Pa.

Ellery, John B., S/sgt. [1/

Div.] Professor, Wayne State

University, Royal Oak, Mich. Elliott, Robert C., Pvt. [4th

Div.] Disabled, Passaic, N.j. Erd, Claude G., Ch. W/off. [1/

Div.] M/sgt., University of

Kentucky, ROTC, Lexington, Ky. Erwin, Leo E., Pvt. [101/

Airborne] SFC Mess Steward,

U.s. Army Ewell, Julian J., Lt. Col.

[101/ Airborne] Co., U.s.

Army Fainter, Francis F., Col. [6th

Armored Grp.] Rep., N.y. Stock

Exchange, Westheimer and Co.,

Charleston, W. Va. Fanning, Arthur E., Lt. U.s.c.g.

[LCI (like) 319] Insurance,

Philadelphia, Pa. Fanto, James A., Radioman 1/c

[6th Beach Bn.] Chief

Radioman, U.s. Navy Farr, H. Bartow, Lt. (j.g.)

[U.s.s. Herndon] Attorney,

IBM, New York, N.y. Faulk, Willie T., S/sgt. [409th

Bomb Group] MstcomSgt.,

U.s.a.f. Ferguson, Charles A., Pfc. [6th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Price specialist,

Western Electric Co., Inc., New

York, N.y. Ferguson, Vernon V., Lt. [452nd

Bomb Group] Occupation unknown Ferro, Samuel Joseph, Pfc. [299th

Engrs.] Machinist, Binghamton,

N.y. Finnigan, William E., Pvt. [4th

Div.] Personnel assistant, U.s.

Military Academy, West Point,

N.y. Fish, Lincoln D., Capt. [1/

Div.] President, paper company,

Worcester, Mass. Fitzsimmons, Robert G., Lt.

[2nd Rangers] Police

lieutenant, Niagara Falls, N.y. Flanagan, Larry, Pvt. [4th Div.]

Salesman, Philadelphia, Pa. Flora, John L., Jr., Capt. [29th

Div.] Real estate appraiser,

FHA, Roanoke, Va. Flowers, Melvin L., 2nd Lt. [441/

Troop Carrier Grp.] Capt.,

U.s.a.f. Flynn, Bernard J., 2nd Lt. [1/

Div.] Supervisor, package

design, General Mills Inc.,

Minneapolis, Minn. Forgy, Samuel W., Lt. Col. [1/

Eng. Sp. Brig.] President, The

Carabela Trading Co., Inc.,

Manhasset, L.i., N.y.

Fowler, Rollin B., FirstOff. [435th

Troop Carrier Group] MstcomSgt.,

U.s.a.f. Fox, Jack S., S/sgt. [4th

Div.] Capt., U.s. Army Francis, Jack L., Cpl. [82nd

Airborne] Roofer,

Sacramento, Calif. Franco, Robert, Capt. [82nd

Airborne] Surgeon, Richland,

Wash. French, Gerald M., Lt. [450th Bomb

Group] Capt., U.s.a.f. Frey, Leo, Ch. Machinist Mate [LST

16] WstcomOff., U.s.c.g. Friedman, William, Capt. [1/

Div.] Lt. Col., U.s. Army Frisby, Ralph E., 2nd Lt. [29th

Div.] Grocery store owner,

Okmulgee, Okla. Frische, William C., Jr., S/sgt.

[4th Div.] Draftsman, Gibson

Art Co., Cincinnati, Ohio Frohman, Howard J., S/sgt. [401/

Bomb Grp.] Capt., U.s.a.f. Funderburke, Arthur, S/sgt. [20th

Engrs.] Salesman, Coca-Cola

Bottling Co., Macon, Ga. Gagliardi, Edmund J., SCST3C

[LCT 637] Police officer,

Ambridge, Pa. Gardner, Edwin E., Pfc. [29th

Div.] Letter carrier, Plainville,

Kan. Gaskins, Charles Ray, Cpl. [4th

Div.] Owner and operator, Esso

Service Center, Kannapolis, N.c. Gavin, James M., Brig., Gen.

[82nd Airborne, Ass't Div.

Comdr.] Lt. Gen. (retired); vice

president Arthur D. Little Inc.,

Wellesley Hills, Mass. Gearing, Edward M., 2nd Lt. [29th

Div.] Assistant division comptroller,

NEMS, Division of Vitro Corp. of

America, Chevy Chase, Md. Gee, Ernest L., T/sgt. [82nd

Airborne] Owner, Mission Yellow

Cab Co., San Jose, Calif. Gerhardt, Charles H., Maj. Gen.

[C.o., 29th Div.] Maj. Gen.

(retired), Fla. Gerow, Leonard T., Maj. Gen.

[C.o., 5th Corps] Gen.

(retired); bank director, Petersburg,

Va. Gervasi, Frank M., S/sgt.

[1/ Div.] Plant guard,

Monroeville, Pa. Gibbons, Joseph H., Lt. Comdr.

[C.o. Naval Combat Demolition

units] Sales manager, N.y.

Telephone Co., New York, N.y. Gibbons, Ulrich G., Lt. Col. [4th

Div.] Col., U.s. Army Gift, Melvin R., Pvt. [87th Chem.

Mortar Bn.] Dispatch clerk,

Chambersburg, Pa.

Gilhooly, John, Pfc. [2nd

Rangers] Store manager, A. and P.

Tea Co., Roosevelt, L.i.,

N.y. Gill, Dean Dethroe, Sgt. [4th Cav.

Recon.] Cook, veterans hospital,

Lincoln, Neb. Gillette, John Lewis, Signalman

3/c [2nd Beach Bn.] Teacher,

Wheatland-Chili Central School,

Scottsville, N.y. Glisson, Bennie W., Radioman

3/c [U.s.s. Corry]

Teletype operator Goldman, Murray, S/sgt. [82nd

Airborne] Sales supervisor,

Reddi Wip Corp., Monticello,

N.y. Goldstein, Joseph I., Pvt. [4th

Div.] Insurance, Sioux City, Iowa Goode, Robert Lee, Sgt. [29th

Div.] Mechanic, Bedford, VA. Goodmundson, Carl T., Signalman

2/c [U.s.s. Quincy]

Telegrapher, Great Northern

Railroad, Minneapolis, Minn. Goranson, Ralph E., Capt. [2nd

Rangers] Director of overseas

operations, The E. F. MacDonald Co.,

Dayton, Ohio Gordon, Fred, SPC [90th Div.]

SP-3, U.s. Army Gowdy, George, Lt. [65th Armored

Bn.] Fisherman, St. Petersburg,

Fla. Greco, Joseph J., Pfc. [299th

Engrs.] Manager, United Whelan

Corp., Syracuse, N.y. Greenstein, Carl R., 2nd Lt. [93rd

Bomb Group] Capt., U.s.a.f. Greenstein, Murray, Lt. [95th Bomb

Group] Installment sales, owner,

Bradley Beach, N.j. Griffiths, William H., Ens.

[U.s.s. Herndon] Comdr.,

U.s. Navy Grissinger, John P., 2nd Lt. [29th

Div.] General Agency for Mutual

Trust Life Insurance Co. of Chicago,

Harrisburg, Pa. Grogan, Harold M., Tst5 [4th

Div.] U.s. Post Office,

Vicksburg, Miss. Gudehus, Judson, Lt. [389th Bomb

Group] Salesman, Toledo Optical

Laboratory, Toledo, Ohio Hackett, George R. Jr., Signalman

3/c [LCT Flot. 17gg'comcomQ/m

2/c, U.s. Navy Hahn, William I., Seaman 1/c

[Husky Support Boat Crew]

Coal mine operator,

Wilkes-Barre, Pa. Hale, Bartley E., 2nd Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Student, University of

Georgia Haley, James W., Capt. [4th

Div.] Col., U.s. Army Hall, Charles G., 1/ Sgt. [4th

Div.] Chief WstcomOff.,

U.s.a.f.

Hall, John Leslie, Jr., Rear

Admiral [Assault Force O,

Comdr.] Rear Adm. (retired) Hamlin, Paul A., Jr., Pvt. [299th

Eng.] Reclamation analyst, IBM,

Vestal, N.y. Hamner, Theodore S., Jr., S/sgt.

[82nd Airborne] Floor foreman,

B. F. Goodrich Co., Tuscaloosa,

Ala. Hanson, Howard K., Pvt. [90th

Div.] Postmaster and farmer,

Argusville, N. Dak. Harken, Delbert C., MoMM 3/c

[LST 134] Acting postmaster,

Ackley, Iowa Harker, George S., Lt. [5th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Research psychologist,

Fort Knox, Ky. Harrington, James C., Lt. [355th

Fighter Group] Maj., U.s.a.f. Harrison, Thomas C., Capt. [4th

Div.] Sales manager, Henry I.

Christal Co., Chappaqua, N.y. Harrisson, Charles B., Pfc. [1/

Eng. Sp. Brig.] Insurance,

Lansdowne, Pa. Harwood, Jonathan H., Jr., Capt.

[2nd Rangers] Deceased Hass, William R., Jr., Fl/off.

[441/ Troop Carrier Group]

Capt., U.s.a.f. Hatch, James J., Capt. [101/

Airborne] Col., U.s. Army Havener, John K., Lt. [344th Bomb

Group] Materials controller,

International Harvester Co., Sterling,

Ill. Haynie, Ernest W., Sgt. [29th

Div.] Store clerk, marine

engine supplies, Warsaw, Va. Heefner, Mervin C., Pfc. [29th

Div.] Occupation unknown Heikkila, Frank E., Lt. Col.

[6th Eng. Sp. Brig.] Customer

relations, Westinghouse Electric Corp.,

Pittsburgh, Pa. Henley, Clifford M., Capt. [4th

Div.] Road contracting,

Summerville, S.c. Hennon, Robert M., Capt. (chaplain)

[82nd Airborne] Minister,

supervisor, Evangelical Childrens' Home,

Brentwood, Miss. Herlihy, Raymond M., Sgt. [5th

Rangers] Tax representative,

Prentice-Hall publishers, Bronx,

N.y. Hermann, LeRoy W., Pfc. [1/

Div.] Parcel post carrier, Akron,

Ohio Hern, Earlston E., Pfc. [146th

Engrs.] Agent telegrapher,

Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe

Railway Co., Medford, Okla. Herron, Beryl A., Pfc. [4th

div.] Farmer, Coon Rapids, Iowa

Hicks, Herbert C., Jr., Lt. Col.

[1/ Div.] Col., U.s. Army Hicks, Joseph A., Capt. [531/

Eng. Shore Regt.] Board chairman,

Commonwealth Fertilizer Co.,

Russellville, Ky. Hill, Joel G., Tstbled [102nd

Cavalry Recon.] Sawmill and logging

operation, Lookout, Pa. Hodgson, John C., Sgt. [5th

Rangers] Post office worker, Silver

Spring, Md. Hoffman, George D., Lt. Comdr.

[U.s.s. Corry] Capt.,

U.s. Navy Hoffmann, Arthur F., Capt. [1/

Div.] Landscaping, Simsbury, Conn. Hogue, Clyde E., Cpl. [743rd

Tank Bn.] Letter carrier, Diagonal,

Iowa Holland, Harrison H., Lt. [29th

Div.] Coach, U.s. Army

pistol team Holman, John N., Jr., Seaman 1/c

[U.s.s. Hobson] Boy Scout

field executive, Macon, Miss. Hooper, Joseph O., Pfc. [1/

Div.] Fire fighter, Chemical

Corps, U.s. Army Hoppler, Wendell L., Qstmaster 3/c

[LST 515] Agency instructor,

N.y. Life Insurance Co., Forest

Park, Ill. House, Francis J. E., Pfc. [90th

Div.] Potter, Homer Laughlin China

Co., E. Liverpool, Ohio. Huebner, Clarence R., Maj. Gen.

[C.o., 1/ Div.] Lieut. Gen.

(retired); director, Civil Defense,

New York, N.y. Huggins, Spencer J., Pfc. [90th

Div.] M/sgt., U.s. Army Hughes, Melvin T., Pfc. [1/

Div.] Salesman, Adams and

Morrow, Inc., Patoka, Ind. Hunter, Robert F., Maj. [5th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Civil engineer,

Tulsa, Okla. Hupfer, Clarence G., Lt. Col. [746th

Tank Bn.] Col. (retired) Imlay, M. H., Capt. [USCG

Commdr. LCI (like) Flot. 10] Rear

Adm. (retired) Infinger, Mark H., S/sgt. [5th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] SFC, U.s. Army Irwin, John T., Pfc. [1/ Div.]

Sgt. (retired); mail clerk, U.s.

Army Isaacs, Jack R., Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Pharmacist,

Coffeyville, Kan. Jakeway, Donald I., Pfc. [82nd

Airborne] Bookkeeper, Rice Oil

Co., Johnstown, Ohio James, Francis W., Pfc. [87th

Chem. Mortar Bn.] Police officer,

Winnetka, Ill.

James, George D., Jr., Lt. [67th

Tactical Recon. Group] Insurance,

Umadilla, N.y. Jancik, Stanley W., S/c

[LST 538] Salesman,

Singer Sewing Machine Co., Lincoln,

Neb. Janzen, Harold G., Cpl. [87th Chem.

Mortar Bn.] Electrotyper,

Elmhurst, Ill. Jarvis, Robert C., Cpl. [743 Tank

Bn.] Pumpman, Socony Mobil

Oil Co., Brooklyn, N.y. Jewet, Milton A., Maj. [299th

Engrs.] Col.; Manager power plant,

New York City Transit Authority,

New York, N.y. Johnson, Fancher B., Pvt. [HQ Very

Corps] Timekeeper, California

Packing Corp., Kingsburg, Calif. Johnson, Gerden F., Maj. [4th

Div.] Accountant, Schenectady,

N.y. Johnson, Orris H., Sgt. [70th

Tank Div.] Caf`e owner, Leeds,

N. Dak. Jones, Allen E., Pfc. [4th Div.]

SFC, U.s. Army Jones, Delbert F., Pfc. [101/

Airborne] Mushroom grower,

Avondale, Pa. Jones, Desmond D., Pfc. [101/

Airborne] Metallurgical

inspector, Sun Oil Co.,

Greenridge, Pa. Jones, Donald N., Pfc. [4th

Div.] Cemetery superintendent,

Cadiz, Ohio Jones, Henry W., Lt. [743rd Tank

Bn.] Rancher, Cedar City, Utah Jones, Raymond E., Lt. [401/

Bomb Sqdn.] Operator,

Petroleum Chemicals Inc., Lake

Charles, La. Jones, Stanson R., Sgt. [1/

Div.] Lt., U.s. Army Jordan, Harold L., Pfc. [457th

AAA AW Bn.] Tool and die

apprentice, Indianapolis, Ind. Jordan, Hubert H., M/sgt. [82nd

Airborne] M/sgt., U.s. Army Jordan, James H., Pvt. [1/

Div.] Maintenance, Pittsburgh, Pa. Joseph, William S., Lt.

[1/ Div.] Painting

contractor, San Jose, Calif. Joyner, Jonathan S., Sgt. [101/

Airborne] Post office worker,

Lawton, Okla. Judy, Bruce P., Ships Cook 1/c

U.s.c.g. [LCI (like) 319]

Bruce Judy Catering Service,

Kirkland, Wash. Kalisch, Bertram, Lt. Col. [Signal

Corps, 1/ Army] Col., U.s.

Army Kanarek, Paul, Sgt. [29th Div.]

Procedure analyst, U.s. Steel

Corp., South Gate, Calif.

Karper, A. Samuel, Tst5 [4th

Div.] Judge's clerk, New York,

N.y. Kaufman, Joseph, Cpl. [743rd

Tank Bn.] Accounting, Monsey,

N.y. Keashen, Francis X., Pvt. [29th

Div.] Medical Division Veterans

Administration, Philadelphia, Pa. Keck, William S.,

Tech/sgt. [5th Eng. Sp. Brig.]

Sgt/maj., U.s. Army Keller, John W., Pvt. [82nd

Airborne] Tool and diemaker, Sea

Cliff, N.y. Kelly, John J., Capt. [1/

Div.] Attorney, DeGraff,

Foy, Conway and Hall-Harris, Albany,

N.y. Kelly, Timothy G., Ch. Elec. Mate

[81/ Naval Const. Bn.]

Telephone company employee,

Amityville, L.i., N.y. Kennedy, Harold T., Fl/off. [437th

Troop Carrier Grp.] MstcomSgt.,

U.s.a.f. Kerchner, George F., 2nd Lt. [2nd

Rangers] Supervisor, luncheonette

chain, Baltimore, Md. Kesler, Robert E., S/sgt. [29th

Div.] Clerk, Norfolk and Western

Railroad, Roanoke, Va. Kidd, Charles W., 2nd Lt. [87th

Chem. Mortar Div.]

Executive vice president,

First Bank of Sitka, Sitka, Alaska Kiefer, Norbert L., Sgt. [1/

Div.] Sales representative,

Benrus Watch Co., E. Providence,

R.i. Kindig, George, Pfc. [4th Div.]

Disabled, Brook, Ind. King, Wm. M., Capt. [741/ Tank

Bn.] Director of student

activities, Clarkson College of

Technology, Potsdam, N.y. Kinnard, Harry W. O., Lt. Col.

[101/ Airborne] Col., U.s.

Army Kinney, Prentis McLeod, Capt.

[37th Engrs.] Doctor,

Bennettsville, S.c. Kirk, Alan Goodrich, Rear Adm.

[Comdr., Western Naval Task Force]

Adm. (retired) Kline, Nathan, S/sgt. [323rd Bomb

Grp.] Partner, Kline-Auto Supply

Co., Allentown, Pa. Kloth, Glenn C., S/sgt. [112th

Engrs.] Carpenter,

Cleveland, Ohio Knauss, Niles H., Pfc. [1/

Div.] Test operator-generators,

Allentown, Pa. Koester, Wilbert J., Pfc. [1/

Div.] Farmer, Watseka, Ill. Kolody, Walter J., Capt. [447th

Bomb Group] Maj., U.s.a.f. Koluder, Joseph G., S/sgt. [387th

Bomb Grp.] Quality control

inspector

Koon, Lewis Fulmer, Capt. (chaplain)

[4th Div.] Supervisory staff,

Shenandoah County Public Schools,

Woodstock, Va. Kraft, Paul C., Pvt. [1/ Div.]

Post office clerk and farmer, Canton,

Miss. Kratzel, Siegfried F., S/sgt.

[4th Div.] Post office worker,

Palmertown, Pa. Krause, Edward, Lt. Col. [82nd

Airborne] Col. (retired) Krausnick, Clarence E., Sgt.

[299th Engrs.] Carpenter,

Syracuse, N.y. Krzyzanowski, Henry S., S/sgt.

[1/ Div.] Sgt. 1/c, U.s.

Army Kucipak, Harry S., Pfc. [29th

Div.] Electrician, Tupper

Lake, N.y. Kuhre, Leland B., Col. [Hqtrs.,

Eng. Sp. Brig.] Writer and teacher,

San Antonio, Tex. Kurtz, Michael, Cpl. [1/ Div.]

Coal miner, New Salem, Pa. Lacy, Joseph R., Lt. (chaplain)

[2nd and 5th Rangers] Priest, St.

Michael's Church, Hartford, Conn. Lagrassa, Edward, Pfc. [4th Div.]

Power press operator and liquor

salesman, Brooklyn, N.y. Lamar, Kenneth W., Fireman 1/c

U.s.c.g. [LST 27] Chief

engineman, U.s. Coast Guard Lanaro, Americo, Tst5 [87th Mortar

Bn.] Painter, Stratford, Conn. Lang, James H., S/sgt.

[12th Bomb Grp.] TstcomSgt.,

U.s.a.f. Langley, Charles H., Yeoman 3/c

[U.s.s. Nevada] Rural mail

carrier, Loganville, Ga. Lapres, Theodore E., Jr., Lt.

[2nd Rangers] Attorney,

Margate, N.j. Lassen, Donald D., Pvt. [82nd

Airborne] Production foreman,

Victor Chemical Works, Harvey,

Ill. Law, Robert W., Jr., Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Insurance, Bishopville,

S.c. Lawton, John III, Cpl. [5th

Corps Artillery] Insurance,

Fillmore, Calif. Lay, Kenneth E., Maj. [4th Div.]

Col., U.s. Army Leary, James E. Jr., Lt. [29th

Div.] Attorney, manager,

Personal Health Division, John

Hancock Mutual Insurance

Co., Boston, Mass. LeBlanc, Joseph L., S/sgt.

[29th Div.] Social worker, Lynn,

Mass. Leever, Lawrence C., Comdr. [6th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Rear Admiral,

U.s.n.r.; Chief Deputy Division

Civil Defense, Phoenix, Ariz.

LeFebvre, Henry E., Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Maj., U.s. Army Legere, Lawrbbe, J., Jr., Maj.

[101/ Airborne] Lt. Col.,

U.s. Army Leister, Kermit R., Pfc. [29th

Div.] Trainman, Pennsylvania

Railroad, Philadelphia, Pa. Lepicier, Leonard R., Lt. [29th

Div.] Maj., U.s. Army Lillyman, Frank L., Capt. [101/

Airborne] Lt. Col., U.s.

Army Lindquist, Roy E., Col. [82nd

Airborne] Maj. Gen., U.s.

Army Linn, Herschel E., Lt. Col.

[237th Engrs.] Lt. Col.,

U.s. Army Littlefield, Gordon A., Comdr.

[U.s.s. Bayfield] Rear

Adm. (retired) Litzler, Frank Henry, Pfc. [4th

Div.] Rancher, Sweeny, Tex. Lord, Kenneth P., Maj. [1/ Div.]

Assistant to president, Security

Mutual Life Insurance Co.,

Binghamton, N.y. Luckett, James S., Lt. Col. [4th

Div.] Col., U.s. Army Lund, Melvin C., Pfc. [29th

Div.] Shipping room, Smith,

Follett and Crowl, Fargo, N.d. Luther, Edward S., Capt. [5th

Rangers] Vice president and sales

manager, Hews Body Co., Portland,

Me. MacFadyen, Alexander G., Lt.

[U.s.s. Herndon] Consolidated

Brass Inc., Charlotte, N.c. Mack, William M., Fl/off.

[437 Troop Carrier Command]

Capt., U.s.a.f. Magro, Domenick L., Sgt. [4th

Div.] Casting conditioner, Bethlehem

Steel Co., Buffalo, N.y. Maloney, Arthur A., Lt. Col.

[82nd Airborne] Col., U.s.

Army Mann, Lawrence S., Capt. [6th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Assistant professor

of surgery, Chicago Medical School,

Chicago, Ill. Mann, Ray A., Pfc. [4th Div.]

Feed-mill operator, Laureldale,

Pa. Marble, Harrison A., Sgt. [299th

Engrs.] Contractor, Syracuse,

N.y. Marsden, William M., Lt. [4th

Div.] Civil Defense,

coordinator, Richmond, Va. Marshall, Leonard S., Capt. [834

Eng. Aviation Bn.] Lt. Col.,

U.s.a.f. Masny, Otto, Capt. [2nd Rangers]

Salesman, Oil-Rite

Corp., Manitowoc, Wisc. Mason, Charles W., M/sgt. [82nd

Airborne] Editor, Airborne

Quarterly, Fayetteville, N.c. Matthews, John P., S/sgt. [1/

Div.] Supervisor, fire alarm and

traffic signal systems, Hempstead,

L.i., N.y.

Mazza, Albert, Sgt. [4th Div.]

Police officer, Carbondale, Pa. McCabe, Jerome J., Maj. [48th

Fighter Group] Col., U.s.a.f. McCain, James W., 2nd Lt. [5th

Eng. Sp. Brig.] Sgt. Maj.,

U.s. Army McCall, Hobby H., Capt. [90th

Div.] Attorney, McCall,

Parkhurst and Crowe, Dallas, Tex. McCardle, Kermit R., Radioman 3/c

[U.s.s. Augusta] Terminal

Foreman, Shell Oil Co., Louisville,

Ky. McClean, Thomas J., 2nd Lt.

[82nd Airborne]

Police officer, New York, N.y. McClintock, William D., T/sgt.

[741/ Tank Bn.] Disabled, N.

Hollywood, Calif. McCloskey, Regis F., Sgt. [2nd

Ranger] SFC, U.s. Army McCormick, Paul O., Pfc. [1/

Div.] Auto Mechanic,

Baltimore, Md. McDonald, Gordon D., M/sgt.

[29th Div.] Shipping foreman,

American Viscose Corp., Roanoke,

Va. McElyea, Atwood M., 2nd Lt.

[1/ Div.] Part-time salesman;

summer camp director, Candler, N.c. McIlvoy, Daniel B., Jr., Maj.

[82nd Airborne] Pediatrician,

Bowling Green, Ky. McIntosh, Joseph R., Capt. [29th

Div.] Business and law, Baltimore,

Md. McKearney, James B., S/sgt.

[101/ Airborne] Air-conditioning and

refrigeration, Pennsauken,

N.j. McKnight, John L., Maj. [5th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Civil engineer,

Vicksburg, Miss. McManaway, Fred, Maj. [29th

Div.] Col., U.s. Army Meason, Richard P., Lt. [101/

Airborne] Attorney, Phoenix,

Ariz. Meddaugh, William J., Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Project manager,

IBM, Hyde Park, N.y. Medeiros, Paul L., Pfc. [2nd

Rangers] Biology teacher, Father

Judge High School, Philadelphia,

Pa. Merendino, Thomas N., Capt. [1/

Div.] Motor vehicle inspector,

Margate City, N.j. Mergler, Edward F., W/off. [5th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Attorney, Matson and

Mergler, Bolivar, N.y. Merical, Dillon H., Cpl. [149th

Engrs.] Bank assistant,

vice president, Dallas County

State Bank, Van Meter, Iowa

Merlano, Louis P., Cpl. [101/

Airborne] District sales manager,

Facit, Inc., New York, N.y. Merrick, Robert L., S 1/c

[U.s. Coast Guard] Fire

department captain, New Bedford, Mass. Merrick, Theodore, Sgt. [6th
Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Insurance consultant,

Park Forrest, Ill. Mikula, John, Torpedoman 3/c

[U.s.s. Murphy] Reporter,

Ford City, Pa. Miller, George R., Lt. [5th

Rangers] Part owner, acid plant;

farming, Pecos, Tex. Miller, Howard G., Pfc. [101/

Airborne] SFC, U.s. Army Mills, William L., Jr., Lt. [4th

Div.] Attorney, Hartsell and

Hartsell, Concord, N.c. Milne, Walter J., S/sgt. [386th

Bomb Group] TstcomSgt.,

U.s.a.f. Mockrud, Paul R., Cpl. [4th

Div.] Veterans service officer,

Westby, Wisc. Moglia, John J., S/sgt. [1/

Div.] Capt., U.s. Army Montgomery, Lester I., Pfc. [1/

Div.] Gas-station operator,

Pittsburg, Kans. Moody, Lloyd B., Ens. [5th Div.

Amphibious Force] Hardware store

operator, Lake View, Iowa Moore, Elzie K., Lt. Col. [First

Eng. Sp. Brig.] Counselor;

teacher, Culver Military Academy,

Culver, Ind. Mordenga, Christopher J., Pvt. [299th

Eng.] Maintenance, Treesweet

Products, Fort Pierce, Fla. Morecock, Bernard J., Jr., Sgt.

[29th Div.] Administrative

supply technician, Virginia National

Guard, Glenn Allen, Va. Moreno, John A., Comdr. [U.s.s.

Bayfield] Capt., U.s.

Navy Morrow, George M., Pfc. [1/

Div.] Brick company employee;

farmer, Rose, Kans. Moser, Hyatt W., Cpl. [1/ Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Chief W/off.,

U.s. Army Moulton, Bernard W., Lt. (j.g.)

[U.s.s. Herndon] Comdr.,

U.s. Navy Mozgo, Rudolph S., Pfc. [4th

Div.] Capt., U.s. Army Mueller, David C., Capt. [435th

Troop Carrier Group] Capt.,

U.s.a.f. Muller, Charles, Jr., Cpl. [237th

Engrs.] Grocery clerk, A. and P.

Tea Co., Newark, N.j.

Mulvey, Thomas P., Capt. [101/

Airborne] Lt. Col., U.s.

Army Murphy, Robert M., Pvt. [82nd

Airborne] Attorney, Boston,

Mass. Nagel, Gordon L., Pfc.

[82nd Airborne] Senior

mechanic, American Airlines, Tulsa,

Okla. Natalle, E. Keith, Cpl. [101/

Airborne] School administrator,

San Francisco, Calif. Nederlander, Samuel H., Cpl. [518

Port Bn.] Scrap inspector,

Bethlehem Steel Co., Portage,

Pa. Negro, Frank E., Sgt. [1/

Div.] Post office clerk,

Brooklyn, N.y. Neild, Arthur W., Mach. Mate 1/c

[U.s.s. Augusta] Lt.,

U.s. Navy Nelson, Emil Jr., S/sgt. [5th

Rangers] Auto dealer, assistant

service manager, Cedar Lake, Ind. Nelson, Glen C., Pfc. [4th Div.]

Rural mail carrier, Milboro, S.

Dak. Nelson, Raider, Pfc. [82nd

Airborne] Accro Plastics,

Chicago, Ill. Nero, Anthony R., Pvt. [2nd

Division] Disabled; part-time realtor,

Cleveland, Ohio Newcomb, Jesse L., Jr. Cpl.

[29th Div.] Merchant and farmer,

Keysville, Va. Nickrent, Roy W., S/sgt. [101/

Airborne] Town marshal and waterworks

superintendent, Saybrook, Ill. Norgaard, Arnold, Pfc. [29th Div.]

Farming, Arlington, S. Dak. Obert, Edward Jules, Jr., Pfc.

[747th Tank Bn.] Supervisor,

Sikorsky Aircraft, Milford, Conn. O'Connell, Thomas C., Capt. [1/

Div.] Maj., U.s. Army Olds, Robin, Lt. [8th AF]

Col., U.s.a.f. O'Loughlin, Dennis G., Pfc. [82nd

Airborne] Construction, Missoula,

Montana Olwell, John J., Pvt. [1/

Div.] Veterans Administration,

Lyons, N.j. O'Mahoney, Michael, Sgt.

[6th Eng. Sp. Brig.]

Fabricating plant operator, Mercer,

Pa. O'ationeill, John T., Lt. Col.

[C.o. Sp. Eng. Task Force

(prov. Eng. Comb. Grp.--' Col.,

U.s. Army Orlandi, Mark, S/sgt. [1/ Div.]

Truck driver, Smithport, Pa. Owen, Joseph K., Capt. [4th Div.]

Assistant director of hospitals,

Va., Richmond, Va. Owen, Thomas O., 2nd Lt. [2nd Air

Div.] Athletics director and coach,

Nashville, Tenn. Owens, William D., Sgt. [82nd

Airborne] Office manager, Temple

City, Calif.

Paez, Robert O., Bugler 1/c

[U.s.s. Nevada] Film

editor, Atomic Energy Commission,

Eniwetok Atoll, Marshall Islands Paige, Edmund M., Cpl. [1/

Div.] Exporter, New

Rochelle, N.y. Palmer, Wayne E., S/sgt. [1/

Div.] Assistant manager, invoicing and

estimating department, Oshkosh, Wis. Parker, Donald E., S/sgt. [1/

Div.] Farmer, Stillwell, Ill. Patch, Lloyd E., Capt. [101/

Airborne] Lt. Col., U.s.

Army Patrick, Glenn, Tst5 [4th Div.]

Bulldozer operator, Stockport,

Ohio Pattillo, Lewis C., Lt. Col. [Very

Corps] Civil engineer, Hartselle,

Ala. Payne, Windrew C., Lt. [90th

Div.] County supervisor, Farmer's

Home Administration, U.s. Dept. of

Agriculture, San Augustine, Tex. Pearson, Ben F., Maj. [82nd

Airborne] Paint company vice

president, Savannah, Ga. Pence, James L., Capt. [1/ Div.]

Supervisor, pharmaceutical

laboratories, Elkhart, Ind. Perry, Edwin R., Capt. [299th

Engrs.] Lt. Col., U.s. Army Perry, John J., Sgt. [5th

Rangers] SFC, U.s. Army Peterson, Theodore L., Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Occupation unknown,

Birmingham, Mich. Petty, William L., Sgt. [2nd

Rangers] Boys' camp director,

Carmel, N.y. Phillips, Archie C., S/sgt. [101/

Airborne] Flower grower, Jensen

Beach, Fla. Phillips, William J., Pvt. [29th

Div.] Electric power company

dispatcher, Hyattsville, Md. Picchiarini, Ilvo, Motor Mach. Mate

1/c [LST 374] Steel company

employee, Belle Vernon, Pa. Pike, Malvin R., T/sgt. [4th

Div.] Esso Oil company burner and

welder, Baker, La. Piper, Robert M., Capt. [82nd

Airborne] Lt. Col.,

U.s. Army Plude, Warren M., S/sgt. [1/

Div.] Sgt., U.s. Army Polanin, Joseph J., Cpl. [834th

Eng. Aviation Bn.] Baked goods

distributor, Dickinson City, Pa. Polezoes, Stanley, 2nd Lt. [1/

Air Div.] Maj., U.s.a.f. Polyniak, John, Sgt. [29th Div.]

Accountant, Baltimore, Md. Pompei, Romeo T., Sgt. [87th

Chemical Mortar Bn.] Builder,

Philadelphia, Pa. Potts, Amos P., Jr., Lt. [2nd

Rangers] Materials engineer,

Loveland, Ohio

Powell, Joseph C., Ch. W/off. [4th

Div.] Ch. W/off., U.s. Army Pratt, Robert H., Lt. Col. [HQ

Very Corps] President, manufacturing

corporation, Milwaukee, Wis. Presley, Walter G., Pfc. [101/

Airborne] Appliance repair

business, Oddessa, Tex. Preston, Albert G., Jr.,

Capt. [1/ Div.] tax consultant,

Greenwich, Conn. Price, Howard P., Lt. [1/ Div.]

Sgt., National Guard Priesman, Maynard J., T/sgt.

[2nd Rangers] Fishery

proprietor, Oak Harbor, Ohio Provost, William B., Jr., Lt.

(j.g.) [LST 492] Comdr.,

university ROTC, Oxford, Ohio Pruitt, Lanceford B., Lt. Comdr.

[LCT Flot. 19] Comdr.

(retired), San Francisco, Calif. Pulcinella, Vincent J., T/sgt. [1/

Div.] M/sgt., U.s. Army Purnell, William C., Lt. Col.

[29th Div.] Gen. (retired);

railway vice president and general

counsel, Baltimore, Md. Purvis, Clay S., M/sgt. [29th

Div.] Manager concessions, Alumni

Association, University of Virginia,

Charlottesville, VA. Putnam, Lyle B., Capt.

[82nd Airborne]

Surgeon and general practitioner,

Wichita, Kan. Quinn, Kenneth R., S/sgt. [1/

Div.] Manager, Inter-Plan Bank,

New Jersey Blue Cross,

Hillsdale, N.j. Raff, Edson D., Col. [82nd

Airborne] Col., U.s. Army Raftery, Patrick H., Jr., 2nd Lt.

[440th Troop Carrier Group]

Self-employed, elevator construction,

Metairie, La. Rankin, Wayne W., Pfc. [29th

Div.] Teacher, Homes City, Pa. Rankins, William F., Jr., Pvt.

[518th Port Bn.] Telephone

company employee, Houston, Tex. Ranney, Burton E., S/sgt. [5th

Rangers] Electrician, Decatur,

Ill. Raudstein, Knut H., Capt. [101/

Airborne] Lt. Col., U.s.

Army Rayburn, Warren D., Lt. [316th

Troop Carrier Group]

Maj., U.s.a.f. Read, Wesley J., Cpl. [746th Tank

Bn.] Railroad carman, DuBois,

Pa. Reams, Quinton F., Pfc. [1/

Div.] Railroad engineer,

Punxsutawney, Pa. Reed, Charles D., Capt. (chaplain)

[29th Div.] Methodist minister,

Troy, Ohio

Reeder, Russel P., Jr., Col. [4th

Div.] Col. (retired); assistant

mgr. athletics, West Point, N.y. Rennison, Francis A., Lt. [U.s.

Navy] Realtor, New York,

N.y. Reville, John J., Lt. [5th

Rangers] Police officer, New

York, N.y. Ricci, Joseph J., Sgt. [82nd

Airborne] Pharmacist, Bethalto,

Ill. Richmond, Alvis, Pvt. [82nd

Airborne] Clerk,

Portsmouth, Va. Ridgway, Matthew B., Maj. Gen.

[C.o., 82nd Airborne] Gen.

(retired); chairman of the board, The

Mellon Institute, Pittsburgh, Pa. Riekse, Robert J., Lt. [1/

Div.] Company division manager,

Owosso, Mich. Riley, Francis X., Lt. (j.g.)

U.s.c.g. [LCI (like) 319]

Comdr., U.s. Coast Guard Ritter, Leonard C., CPL. [3807

QM Truck Co.] Public relations,

Chicago, Ill. Robb, Robert W., Lt. Col. [HQ

VII Corps] Vice president,

advertising, New York, N.y. Roberts, George G., T/sgt. [306th

Bomb Group] Educational adviser,

U.s.a.f., Belleville, Ill. Roberts, Milnor, Capt. [HQ Co.

V. Corps] President, advertising

company, Pittsburgh, Pa. Robertson, Francis C., Capt.

[365th Fighter group] Lt.

Col., U.s.a.f. Robinson, Robert M., Pfc. [82nd

Airborne] Capt., U.s. Army Robison, Charles, Jr., Lt. (j.g.)

[U.s.s. Glennon] Comdr.,

U.s. Navy Rocca, Francis A., Pfc. [101/

Airborne] Machine operator,

Pittsfield, Mass. Rodwell, James S., Col. [4th

Div.] Brig. Gen. (retired),

Denver, Colo. Rogers, T. DeF., Lt. Col.

[1106th Engrs.] Col., U.s.

Army Roginski, E. J., S/sgt. [29th

Div.] Sales manager, Spaulding

Bakeries, Inc., Shamokin, Pa. Roncalio, Teno, 2nd Lt. [1/

Div.] Attorney, Cheyenne, Wyo. Rosemond, St. Julien P., Capt.

[101/ Airborne] Assistant county

attorney, Miami, Fla. Rosenblatt, Joseph K., Jr.,

2nd Lt. [112th Engrs.]

M/sgt., U.s. Army Ross, Robert P., Lt. [37th

Engrs.] Box manufacturer,

Waukesha, Wis.

Ross, Wesley R., 2nd Lt. [146th

Engrs.] Sales engineer, Western

XR-AY Co., Tacoma, Wash. Rosson, Walter E., Lt. [389th

Bomb Group] Optometrist, San

Antonio, Tex. Rountree, Robert E., Lt. U.s.c.g.

[U.s.s. Bayfield] Comdr.,

U.s. Coast Guard Roworth, Wallace H., Radioman 3/c

[U.s.s. Joseph T.

Dickman] Engineer, Garden City,

L.i., N.y. Rubin, Afred, Lt. [24th Cav.

Recon. Sqdn.] Catering and

restaurateur, Napierville, Ill. Rudder, James E., Lt. Col. [2nd

Rangers] College vice president,

College Station, Tex. Ruggles, John F., Lt. Col.

[4th Div.] Brig. Gen., U.s.

Army Runge, William M., Capt. [5th

Rangers] Funeral director,

Davenport, Iowa Russell, Clyde R., Capt. [82nd

airborne] Lt. Col., U.s.

Army Russell, John E., Jr., Sgt. [1/

Div.] Personnel department, steel

company, New Kensington, Pa. Russell, Joseph D., Pvt. [299th

Engrs.] Telephone company employee,

Moores Hill, Ind. Russell, Kenneth, Pfc. [82nd

Airborne] Bank official, New

York, N.y. Ryals, Robert W., Tstbled [101/

Airborne] SPF, U.s. Army Ryan, Thomas F., S/sgt. [2nd

Rangers] Police officer, Chicago,

Ill. Sammon, Charles E., Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Occupation unknown Sampson, Francis L., Capt.

(chaplain) [101/ Airborne] Lt.

Col., chaplain, U.s. Army Sanders, Gus L., 2nd Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Credit bureau operator,

Springdale, Ark. Sands, William H., Brig. Gen. [29th

Div.] Attorney, Norfolk, Va. Santarsiero, Charles J., Lt. [101/

Airborne] Occupation unknown Saxion, Homer J., Pfc. [4th

Div.] Extrusion press, Titan

Metal Mfg. Co., Bellefonte,

Pa. Scala, Nick A., T/sgt. [4th

Div.] Order interpreter, engineering

service department, Westinghouse Electric

Corp., Beaver, Pa. Scharfenstein, Charles F., Jr., Lt.

U.s.c.g. [LCI (like) 87]

Comdr., U.s. Coast Guard

Schechter, James H., Cpl. [38th

Recon. Sqdn.] Quarry driller,

St. Cloud, Minn. Schmid, Earl W., 2nd Lt.

[101/ Airborne] Insurance,

Fayetteville, N.c. Schneider, Max, Lt. Col., [5th

Rangers] Col., U.s. Army

(deceased) Schoenberg, Julius, T/sgt. [453rd

Bomb Group] Letter carrier, New

York, N.y. Schopp, Dan D., Cpl. [5th

Rangers] MstcomSgt., U.s.a.f. Schroeder, Leonard T., Jr., Capt.

[4th Div.] Lt. Col., U.s.

Army Schultz, Arthur B., Pfc. [82nd

Airborne] Security officer, U.s.

Army Schweiter, Leo H., Capt. [101/

Airborne] Lt. Col., U.s.

Army Scott, Arthur R., Lt. (j.g.)

[U.s.s. Herndon] Salesman,

Arcadia, Calif. Scott, Harold A., S/sgt. [4042

QM Truck Co.] Post

office employee, Yeadon,

Pa. Scott, Leslie J., S/sgt. [1/

Div.] Sgt. Maj., U.s. Army Scrimshaw, Richard E., B.m. 3/c

[15th Destroyer Sqdn.] Aircraft

mechanic, Washington, D.c. Seelye, Irvin W., Pfc. [82nd

Airborne] Teacher, Crete, Ill. Settineri, John, Capt. [1/ Div.]

Doctor, Jamesville, N.y. Shanley, Thomas J., Lt. Col.

[82nd Airborne] Col., U.s.

Army Sherman, Herbert A., Jr., Pfc. [1/

Div.] Salesman, South Norwalk,

Conn. Shindle, Elmer G., Tstbled [29th

Div.] Plastics factory worker,

Lancaster, Pa. Shoemaker, William J., Pvt. [37th

Engrs.] Mechanic, Santa Ana,

Calif. Shollenberger, Joseph H., Jr., 2nd

Lt. [90th Div.] Maj., U.s.

Army Shoop, Clarence A., Lt. Col. [CO

7th Recon. Group] Maj. Gen.

(retired); vice president, Hughes

Aircraft Company, Culver City,

Calif. Shoop, Dale L., Pvt. [1/ Engrs.]

Government ammunition inspector,

Chambersburg, Pa. Shorter, Paul R., Sgt. [1/ Div.]

SFC, U.s. Army Shumway, Hyrum S., 2nd Lt. [1/

Div.] Director, Department of Deaf

and Blind, State Department of Education,

Cheyenne, Wyo. Silva, David E., Pvt. [29th

Div.] Priest, Akron, Ohio Simeone, Francis L., Pvt. [29th

Div.] Underwriter, Rocky Hill,

Conn.

Simmons, Stanley R., Gunner's Mate

3/c [Amphibious Unit] Stone

quarry worker, Swanton, Ohio Sink, James D., Capt. [29th

Div.] Superintendent,

traffic engineering and communications, Roanoke,

Va. Sink, Robert F., Col. [101/

Airborne] Maj. Gen., U.s.

Army Skaggs, Robert N., Lt. Col. [741/

Tank Bn.] Col., (retired); marine

sales, Ft. Lauderdale, Fla. Slappey, Eugene N., Col. [29th

Div.] Col. (retired),

Leesburg, Va. Sledge, Edward S. II, Lt. [741/

Tank Bn.] Bank vice president,

Mobile, Ala. Smith, Carroll B., Capt. [29th

Div.] Lt. Col., U.s. Army Smith, Charles H., Lt. [U.s.s.

Carmick] Advertising, Evanston,

Ill. Smith, Frank R., Pfc. [4th Div.]

Veterans service officer, Waupaca,

Wis. Smith, Franklin M., Cpl. [4th

Div.] Wholesale electrical

distributor, Philadelphia,

Pa. Smith, Gordon K., Maj. [82nd

Airborne] Lt. Col., U.s.

Army Smith, Harold H., Maj. [4th Div.]

Attorney, White Oak, Va. Smith, Joseph R., Cpl. [81/ Chem.

Mortar Bn.] Science teacher, Eagle

Pass, Tex. Smith, Owen, Pvt. [5th Eng. Sp.

Brig.] Post office clerk, Los

Angeles, Calif. Smith, Ralph R., Pvt. [101/

Airborne] Post office clerk, St.

Petersburg, Fla. Smith, Raymond, Pvt. [101/

Airborne] Glass company owner,

Whitesburg, Ky. Smith, Wilbert L., Pfc. [29th

Div.] Farmer, Woodburn, Iowa Snyder, Jack A., Lt. [5th

Rangers] Lt. Col., U.s. Army Sorriero, Arman J., Pfc. [4th

Div.] Commercial artist,

Philadelphia, Pa. Spalding, John M., 2nd Lt. [1/

Div.] Department manager, Interstate

Stores Co., Owensboro, Ky. Spencer, Lyndon, Capt. U.s.c.g.

[U.s.s. Bayfield] Vice

Adm. (retired); president, Lake

Carrier's Assn., Cleveland, Ohio Spiers, James C., Pvt. [82nd

Airborne] Rancher, Picaqune,

Miss. Spitzer, Arthur D., Cpl. [29th

Div.] Employee, E.i. du Pont

Co., Staunton, Va.

Sproul, Archibald A., Maj. [29th

Div.] Executive vice president,

W.j. Perry Corp. Steele, John M., Pvt. [82nd

Airborne] Cost Engineer,

Hartsville, S.c. Stein, Herman E., Tst5 [2nd

Rangers] Sheet metal worker,

Ardsley, N.y. Steinhoff, Ralph, Cpl. [467th AAA

Bn.] Butcher, Chicago,

Ill. Stephenson, William, Lt. [U.s.s.

Herndon] Attorney, Sante Fe,

N.m. Stevens, Roy O., T/sgt. [29th

Div.] Employee, Rubatex division

of Bedford, Bedford, Va. Stivison, William J., S/sgt.

[2nd Rangers] Postmaster, Homer

City, Pa. Strayer, Robert L., Lt. Col. [101/

Airborne] Insurance, Springfield,

Pa. Street, Thomas F., MoMore 1/c

U.s.c.g. [LST 16] Post

office worker, River Edge, N.j. Strojny, Raymond F., S/sgt. [1/

Div.] Sp1, U.s. Army Stults, Dallas M., Pfc. [1/

Div.] Coal miner, Monterey,

Tenn. Stumbaugh, Leo A., 2nd Lt. [1/

Div.] Capt., U.s. Army Sturdivant, Hubert N., Lt.

Col. [492 Bomb Group]

Col., U.s.a.f. Sullivan, Fred P., Lt. [4th

Div.] Salesman, Mississippi

Chemical Corporation, Winona, Miss. Sullivan, Richard P., Maj. [5th

Rangers] Engineering, Dorchester,

Mass. Swatosh, Robert B., Maj. [4th

Div.] Lt. Col., U.s. Army Sweeney, William F., Gunner's Mate

3/c [U.s.c.g. Reserve

Flotilla] Telephone company

employee, East Providence, R.i. Swenson, J. Elmore, Maj. [29th

Div.] Lt. Col., U.s. Army Tabb, Robert P., Jr., Capt.

[237th Eng. Combat Bn.] Col.,

U.s. Army Tait, John H., Jr., Pharmacist's

Mate 1/c U.s.c.g. [LCI

(like) 349] Zanjero, Salt River

Valley Users Association, Tempe,

Ariz. Tallerday, Jack, Lt. [82nd

Airborne] Lt. Col.,

U.s. Army Talley, Benjamin B., Col. [HQ Very

Corps] Brig. Gen. (retired);

vice president, construction company, New

York, N.y. Taylor, Beryl F., Hosp. App. 1/c

[LST 338] Diving instructor,

U.s. Navy

Taylor, Charles A., Ens. [LCT

Amphibious Unit] Assistant

director, athletics, Stanford

University, Palo Alto, Calif. Taylor, Edward G., Ens. [LST 331]

Lt. Comdr., U.s. Coast Guard Taylor, H. Afton, 2nd Lt. [1/

Eng. Sp. Brig.] Hallmark Cards,

Inc., Independence, Mo. Taylor, Ira D., T/sgt. [4th

Div.] Capt., U.s. Army Taylor, Maxwell D., Maj. Gen.

[CO 101/ Airborne] General,

chief of staff (retired); chairman,

Mexican Light and Power Co. Taylor, William R., Ens.

[U.s. Navy, Liaison Off.

communications] Retailer, building

materials, South Hill, Va. Telinda, Benjamin E., S/sgt. [1/

Div.] Locomotive fireman,

Chicago Great Western Railroad, St.

Paul, Minn. Thomason, Joel F., Lt. Col. [4th

Div.] Col., U.s. Army Thompson, Egbert, W., Jr., Lt.

[4th Div.] County supervisor,

Farmers Home Administration, USDA,

Bedford, Va. Thompson, Melvin, Pvt. [5th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Mechanic, Yardville,

N.j. Thompson, Paul W., Col. [6th Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Brig. Gen.

(retired); manager international Editions,

Reader's Digest, Pleasantville,

N.y. Thornhill, Avery J., Sgt. [5th

Rangers] Chief W/off., U.s.

Army Trathen, Robert D., Capt.

[87th Chem. Mortar Bn.] Lt.

Col. (retired); asst. chief plans and

training, U.s. Army Chem. Corps, Fort

McClellan, Ala. Tregoning, Wm. H., Lt. (j.g.)

U.s.c.g. [Flot. 4]

Manager, service department, Fairbanks

Morse and Co., East Point, Ga. Tribolet, Hervey A., Col. [4th

Div.] Col. (retired) Trusty, Lewis, S/sgt. [8th Air

Force] MstcomSgt., U.s.a.f. Tucker, William H., Pfc. [82nd

Airborne] Attorney, Athol,

Mass. Tuminello, Vincent J., Cpl. [1/

Div.] Bricklayer, Massapequa,

L.i., N.y. Vandervoort, Benjamin H., Lt. Col.

[82nd Airborne] Col.

(retired), Washington, D.c. Ventrease, Glen W., Sgt. [82nd

Airborne] Accountant, Gary, Ind. Vaughn, James H., Motor

Mach. Mate 1/c [LST

49] Construction superintendent,

McIntyre, Ga. Ventrelli, William E., Sgt. [4th

Div.] Foreman, Department of

Sanitation, New York City, Mount

Vernon, N.y. Vickery, Grady, M., T/sgt. [4th

Div.] M/sgt., U.s. Army

Viscardi, Peter, Pvt. [4th Div.]

Taxi driver, New York, N.y. Visco, Serafino R., Pvt. [456

AAA AW Bn.] Post office worker,

Dania, Fla. Volponi, Raymond R., Sgt. [29th

Div.] Disabled; Veterans Administration

Hospital, Altoona, Pa. Von Heimburg, Herman E., Capt.

[11th Amphibious Force] Rear

Adm., Naval Reserve Training Command Wade, James Melvin, 2nd Lt.

[82nd Airborne] Maj., U.s.

Army Wadham, Lester B., Capt. [1/ Eng.

Sp. Brig.] Wadham

Mutual Investments, Frankfurt, Germany Wadsworth, Loring L., Pfc.
[2nd

Rangers] Sparrell Funeral

Service, Norwell, Mass. Wagner, Clarence D., Radioman 1/c

[LST 357] CPO, U.s.

Navy Walker, Francis M., Sgt. [6th Eng.

Spec. Brig.] Sgt. 1/c,

U.s. Army Wall, Charles A., Lt. Col. [Eng.

Spec. Brig. Grp.] President,

Associated Music Publishers, New

York, N.y. Wall, Herman V., Capt. [165

Signal Photo Co.] Director of

photography, Los Angeles State

College Foundation Wallace, Dale E., Seaman 2/c

[SC 1332] Salesman, Capitol

Tobacco Co., Jackson, Miss. Walsh, Richard J., Sgt. [452nd

Bomb Group] Sgt., U.s.a.f. Ward, Charles R., Cpl. [29th

Div.] Investigator, Ohio

Department of Liquor Control, Ashtabula,

Ohio Washington, Wm. R., Maj. [1/

Div.] Lt. Col., U.s. Army Weast, Carl F., Pfc. [5th Rangers]

Machine operator, Babcock and Wilcox

Co., Alliance, Ohio Weatherly, Marion D., Cpl. [237th

Engrs.] Disabled veteran, Laurel,

Del. Weintraub, Louis, Cpl. [Photog.

Army Pict. Svce., 1/ Div.]

Public relations, Louis Weintraub

Associates, Inc., New York,

N.y. Welborn, John C., Lt. Col. [4th

Div.] Col.; president, U.s.

Army Armor Board Weller, Malcolm R., Maj. [29th

Div.] Chief W/off., U.s.

Army Wellner, Herman C., Cpl. [37th

Engrs.] Mason, Boscobel, Wis. Welsch, Woodrow J., Cpl. [29th

Div.] Construction engineer,

Pittsburgh, Pa. Wertz, Raymond J., Cpl. [5th Eng.

Spec. Brig.] Self-employed,

construction business, Bassett, Wis.

Whelan, Thomas J., Cpl. [101/

Airborne] Department store buyer,

Smithtown, L.i., N.y. White, John F., 2nd Lt. [29th

Div.] Prosthetic specialist,

Veterans Administration, Roanoke, Va. White, Maurice C., Sgt. [101/

Airborne] Chief W/off., U.s.

Army Wiedefeld, William J., Jr.,

T/sgt. [29th Div.] Postal

clerk, Annapolis, Md. Wilhelm, Frederick A., Pfc. [101/

Airborne] Painter, Pittsburgh,

Pa. Wilhoit, William L., Ens. [LCT

540] Special agent, Insurance Co.

of North America, Jackson, Miss. Willett, John D., Jr.,

Pfc. [29th Div.]

General Electric employee,

Roanoke, Ind. Williams, William B., Lt. [29th

Div.] Secretary-treasurer, Acme

Wire Co., Hamden, Conn. Williamson, Jack L., S/sgt.

[101/ Airborne] Post office

clerk, Tyler, Tex. Wolf, Edwin J., Lt. Col. [6th Eng.

Spec. Brig.] Attorney, Wolf and

Wolf, Baltimore, Md. Wolf, Karl E., Lt. [1/ Div.]

Assistant professor of law, U.s.

Military Academy, West Point,

N.y. Wolfe, Edward, Pfc. [4th Div.]

Assistant manager, Singer Sewing

Machine Co., Westbury, L.i.,

N.y. Wood, George B., Capt. (chaplain)

[82nd Airborne] Trinity

Episcopal Church, Fort Wayne, Ind. Woodward, Robert W., Capt. [1/

Div.] Manufacturer, textiles and

textile machines, Rockland,

Mass. Wordeman, Harold E., Pvt. [5th Eng.

Spec. Brig.] Unemployed--partly

disabled, V.a. Hospital, Brooklyn,

N.y. Worozbyt, John B., Pfc. [1/

Div.] M/sgt., U.s. Army Wozenski, Edward F., Capt. [1/

Div.] Foreman, Wallace Barnes

Co., Bristol, Conn. Wylie, James M., Capt. [93rd

Bomb Group] Major, U.s.a.f. Wyman, Willard G., Brig. Gen.

[Asst. C.o., 1/ Div.] Gen.;

Aeroneutronic Systems, Inc., Santa

Ana, Calif. Yates, Douglas R., Pfc. [6th Eng.

Spec. Brig.] Farmer, Yoder,

Wyo. Yeatts, Lynn M., Maj. [746th Tank

Bn.] Operations manager, Commercial

Oil Transport Co., Fort Worth,

Tex.

Young, Wallace W., Pfc.

[2nd Rangers] Electrician,

Beaver Falls, Pa. Young, Willard, Lt. [82nd Airborne]

Lt. Col., U.s. Army Zaleski, Roman, Pvt. [4th Div.]

Molder, aluminum foundry, Paterson,

N.j. Zmudzinski, John J., Pfc. [5th

Eng. Spec. Brig.] Letter carrier,

South Bend, Ind. Zush, Walter J., Tstbled [1/ Div.]

Occupation unknown

BRITISH

Aldorth, Michael, Lt. [48 (royal

Marine) Commando] Advertising Allen, Ronald H. D., Gunner [3rd

Div.] Cashier Ashover, Claude G., Coxswain [Royal

Navy] Electrician Ashworth, Edward P., Ab/seaman

[Royal Navy] Furnace man,

alloy foundry Avis, Cecil, Pvt. [Pioneer

Corps] Landscape gardener Bagley, Anthony F., Midshipman

[Royal Navy] Banking, office

worker Baker, Alfred G., Ab/seaman

[Royal Navy] Chemical worker Bald, Peter W., Pvt. [Pioneer

Corps.] Foreman mechanic, garage Batten, Raymond W., Pvt. [6th

Airborne] Male nurse Baxter, Hubert V., Pvt. [3rd

Div.] Printer Beck, Sidney J. T., Lt. [50th

Div.] Civil servant Beynon, John P., Sub. Lt.

[R.n.v.r.] Import manager Bicknell, Sidney R., Telegraphist

[Royal Navy] Copy editor Bidmead, William H., Pvt. [No. 4

Commando] Bricklayer Blackman, Arthur John, Leading/stoker

[Royal Navy] Dock engineer Bowley, Eric, F. J., Pvt. [50th

Div.] Inspector, aircraft

components Brayshaw, Walter, Pvt. [50th Div.]

Factory worker Brierley, Denys S. C., FI/LT.

[Royal Air Force] Textile

manufacturer Brookes, John S., Pvt. [50th

Div.] Factory worker Cadogan, Roy, Trooper [27th Armoured

Brig.] Surveyor Capon, Sidney F., Pvt. [6th

Airborne] Master builder Cass, E.e.e., Brigadier [3rd

Div.] Brigadier; British Army

(retired) Cheesman, Arthur B., Sub-Lt.

R.n.v.r. [LCS 254] Quarry

manager

Cheshire, Jack, Sgt. [No. 6 Beach

Grp.] Printer Cloudsley-Thompson, John L., Capt.

[7th Armoured Div.] Lecturer,

zoology, University of London Cole, Thomas A.w., Gunner [50th

Div.] Inspector, machine

tools Colley, James S. F., Cpl. [4th

Commando] Occupation unknown Collins, Charles L., Cpl. [6th

Airborne] Detective sergeant Collinson, Joseph A., Lance/cpl.

[3rd Div.] Engineering draughtsman Cooksey, Frank, Cpl. [No. 9
Beach

Grp.] Aircraft fitter Cooper, John B., Ab/seaman [LCT

597] Occupation unknown Corkill, William A. Signalman

[O LCT Sqdn.] Senior clerk,

accounting office Cowley, Ernest J., Stokerst1c [LCT

7045] Maintenance engineer Cox, Leonard H., Cpl. [6th

Airborne] Engraver Cox, Norman V., Lt. R.n.v.r.

[4th Flotilla] Civil servant Cullum, Percy E., Petty Officer

[Mobile Radio Unit] Inland

Revenue officer Cutlack, Edward B., Lt. Comdr.

R.n.v.r. [9th

Minesweeping Flotilla] Chief

instructor, East Midland Gas Board Dale, Reginald G., Cpl. [3rd

Div.] Self-employed Deaken, B., Pvt. [6th Airborne]

Shoe repairing delacy, James Percival, Sgt. [8th

(irish) Bn., (att. 3rd Can.

Div.--' Travel agent Devereux, Roy P., Trooper [6th

Airborne] Travel agency, branch

manager Dowie, Robert A., Leading/stoker

[H.m.s. Dunbar] Turbine

operator Dunn, Arthur H., Maj. [50th Div.]

Retired Edgson, Charles L., Capt. [Royal

Engrs.] Schoolteacher Ellis, F., Pvt. [50th Div.]

Occupation unknown Emery, William H., Pvt. [50th

Div.] Van driver Emmett, Frederick W., Lance/bombardier

[50th Div.] Chemical

worker Finch, Harold, Pvt. [50th Div.]

Policeman Flood, Bernard A., Sapper [3rd

Div.] Post office supervisor Flunder, Daniel J., Capt. [48th

(royal Marine) Commando] Branch

manager, Dunlop Ltd. Ford, Leslie W., Royal Marine

Signalman 2/c [1/ S.s.

Brig.] Occupation unknown

Fortnam, Stanley, Driver/mech. [6th

Airborne] Compositor Fowler, William R., Lt. [H.m.s.

Halsted] Advertising salesman Fox, Geoffrey R., Leading/seaman

[48th Landing Craft Flotilla]

Policeman Fox, Hubert C., Lt. Comdr. [Naval

Assault Grp.] Dairy farmer Gale, John T. J., Pvt. [3rd

Div.] Post office worker Gardner, Donald H., Sgt.

[47th (royal Marine)

Commando] Civil servant Gardner, Thomas H., Maj. [3rd

Div.] Managing director, Leather

Manufacturers Gibbs, Leslie R., Sgt. [50th

Div.] Charge-hand, steel-works

production Girling, Donald B., Maj. [50th

Div.] Occupation unknown Glew, George W. Gunner [3rd

Div.] Clerk Gough, J. G., Maj. [3rd Div.]

Dairy farmer Gray, William J., Pvt. [6th

Airborne] Occupation unknown Grundy, Ernest, Capt. [50th Div.]

Doctor Gunning, Hugh, Capt. [3rd Div.]

Syndication manager, Daily News

Ltd. Gwinnett, John, Capt. (chaplain) [6th

Airborne] Pastor, Tower of

London Hammond, William, Cpl. [79th

Armoured Div.] Sqdn.

Sgt. Maj., British Army Hanneson, Hannes, Capt.

[R.a.m.c., LST 21]

Specialist physician Hardie, I., Lt. Col. [50th Div.]

British Army, active service Hargreaves, Edward R., Maj. [3rd

Div.] Deputy county medical officer Harris, Harry, Ab/seaman [H.m.s.

Adventure] Coal miner Harrison, Roger H., Lt. R.n.v.r.

[4th LCT Flot.] Inspection

staff, bank Harvey, Adolphus J., Acting Col.

[Royal Marine Armoured Support

Group] Market gardener Hayden, A. C., Pvt. [3rd Div.]

Laborer Hollis, Stanley E. V.,

Co./sgt./maj. [50th Div.] Sand

blaster Honour, George B., Lt. R.n.v.r.

[Midget Submarine X23] Area

sales manager, Schweppes

Ltd. Horton, Harry, Trooper [No. 3

Commando] Cpl., H.m. Forces Humberstone, Henry F., Pvt. [6th

Airborne] Clothing factory worker Hutley, John C., S/sgt. [Glider

Pilot Regt.] Canteen manager

Hynes, William, Sgt. [50th Div.]

British Army, active service Ingram, Ronald A., Gunner [3rd

Div.] Painter and decorator James, Leonard K., Cpl. [3rd

Div.] Advertising Jankel, Herbert, Capt. [20th Beach

Recovery Section] Garage

proprietor Jennings, Henry, Sapper [Royal

Engrs.] Contracting John, Frederick R., Trooper [No. 6

Commando] Senior assistant, accounting

office Johnson, Frank C., Lance/bombardier

[50th Div.] Wood machinist Jones, Edward, Maj. [3rd Div.]

Classics master Jones, Peter H., Sgt. [Royal

Marines, Frogman] Building

contractor Kendall, Hubert O., Cpl. [6th

Airborne] Shipping and forwarding agent Kimber, Donald E., Marine
[609

Flotilla LCM] Machine operator King, Gordon W., Lt. [6th

Airborne] Representative, paint

firm Leach, Geoffrey, J., Pvt. [50th

Div.] Laboratory assistant Lee, Arthur W., Ab/seaman [LCT

564] Local government officer Lee, Norton, Sub. Lt. R.n.v.r.

[550 LCA Flotilla] Painter,

interior decorating Lloyd, Desmond C., Lt. R.n.

[Norwegian destroyer Svenner]

Company director Lovell, Denis, Marine [4th Commando]

Engineering Maddison, Godfrey, Pvt. [6th

Airborne] Miner March, Desmond C., Lt.

[3rd Div.] Company director Markham, Lewis S., T/o Signalman

[R.n. LST 301] Shipping clerk Mason, John T., Pvt. [No. 4

Commando] Schoolteacher Masters, Peter F., Lance/cpl. [No.

10 Commando] Art director, WTOP

Television, Washington, D.c. Mathers, George H., Cpl. [Royal

Engrs.] Clerk May, John McCallon, Sgt. [6th

Airborne] British Army, active

service McGowan, Alfred, L/cpl. [6th

Airborne] Packer, flour mill Mears, Frederick G., Cpl. [No. 3

Commando] Accounting machines factory worker Millin, W., Piper [1/
S.s.

Brig.] Male nurse Minnis, James C., Sub. Lt.

R.n.v.r. [LCT 665] Teacher Mitchell, John D., Cpl. [54 Beach

Balloon Unit, RAF] Company

director Montgomery, Sir Bernard Law,

Gen.; Field Marshal (retired) Moore, William J.d., L/cpl.

[3rd Div.] Male nurse Morgan, Vincent H., Pvt. [50th

Div.] Post office worker Morris, Ernest, Cpl. [50th Div.]

Occupation unknown Morrissey, James F., Pvt. [6th

Airborne] Docker Mower, Alan C., Pvt. [6th

Airborne] Security officer, research

labs Murphy, John, Leading Aircraftsman

[RAF, Balloon Command] Post

office worker Neilsen, Henry R., Capt. [6th

Airborne] Knitwear manufacturer Newton, Reginald V., Pvt. [6th

Airborne] Company director Nissen, Derek A., Lt. [3rd Div.]

Works manager Norfield, Harry T., Cpl. [3rd

Div.] British Admiralty

messenger Northwood, Ronald J.,

Ab/seaman [H.m.s. Scylla]

Hairdresser Norton, Gerald Ivor D., Capt.

[3rd Div.] Company secretary Oliver, Arthur E., L/cpl. [No. 4

Commando] Coal miner Otway, Terence, Lt. Col. [6th

Airborne] Executive, Kemsley

newspapers Pargeter, George S., Cpl. [Royal

Marines] Production control clerk Paris, Sydney F., Leading Seaman

[H.m.s. Melbreak] Police

constable Parker, William, Sapper [50th Div.]

Bus driver Peachey, Sidney, Chief P.o.

[H.m.s. Warspite] Engineer Peskett, Stanley V., Lt. Col.

[1/ R.m. Armoured Support

Regt.] Royal Marines, active

service Phillips, Sir Farndale, Lt. Col.

[47 (royal Marine) Commando CO]

Maj. Gen.; president,

British Trades Federation Porter, Walter S., Pfc. [53

Pioneer Corps] Painter, decorator Powell, Colin E., Pvt. [6th

Airborne] Sales department, steel

company Purver, Raymond, Sapper [50th

Div.] Stores foreman Purvis, Joseph, Pvt. [5th Div.]

Laborer Raphaelli, Cyril, Cpl. [3rd

Div.] British Army, active

service Ringland, John, Trooper [8th Armoured

Brigade] Post and telegraph officer Robertson, D. J., Lt. [27th
Armoured

Brig.] Solicitor's managing clerk Rolles, John R., Cpl. [3rd

Div.] Lighterman Ruthen, Walter S., Pvt. [3rd

Div.] Postman

Rutter, William I., Pvt. [6th

Airborne] Poultry farmer Ryland, Richard A., Sub. Lt.

R.n.v.r. [7th Landing Barge

Flotilla] Cultivating oysters and

writing Sawyer, David J., Trooper [79th

Armoured Div.] Power station, foreman Scarfe, Norman, Lt. [3rd Div.]

Lecturer, history, University of

Leicester Scoot, J. E., Marine [48th (royal

Marine) Commando] Department manager,

factory Sharr, Leonard G., S/sgt. [6th

Airborne] Partner, textile agency Sheard, Edgar T., Trooper [6th

Airborne] Sergeant, British Army Sim, John A., Capt. [6th

Airborne] Active service Slade, John H., Sapper [50th

Div.] Railway clerk Slapp, John A., Cpl. [3rd

Div.] Chief clerk Smith, Christopher N., Trooper [27th

Armoured Brig.] Area

representative, gas board Smith, Robert A., Signalman

[3rd Div.] Guard, railways Spence, Basil, Capt. [3rd Div.]

Architect, Coventry Cathedral Stannard, Ernest W., Dvr/operator

[50th Div.] Maintenance fitter Stevenson, Douglas A., Coder [LCI

100] Fishmonger Steward, Stanley, Pvt. [4th Commando]

Occupation unknown Stokes, Albert J., Pvt. [3rd

Div.] Exterminator Stott, Frederick, Pvt. [3rd Div.]

Clergyman Stevens, George A., Cpl. [3rd

Div.] Inshore fisherman Stunnell, George C., Pvt. [50th

Div.] Occupation unknown Sullivan, Bernard J., Lt.

R.n.v.r. [553 Assault

Flottila] Bank clerk Swan, Robert M., L/cpl. [50th

Div.] Bank clerk Tait, Harold G., L/cpl. [6th

Airborne] Grocery manager Tappenden, Edward, L/cpl.

[6th Airborne] Clerk Taylor, John B., Lt. [Frogman,

Team No. 4] Tobacconist Thomas, William J., Cpl. [50th

Div.] Diesel operator Thomson, Roger W.d., Comdr. R.n.

[H.m.s. Sidmouth] Manufacturing

plant Todd, Richard, Lt. [6th Airborne]

Movie actor Tomlinson, Percey, W/Op [Mobile

Signals Unit R.a.f.] Plasterer Vickers, Francis W., Pvt. [50th

Div.] Occupation unknown Warburton, Geoffrey A., Signalman

[8th Armoured Brig.] Accounts clerk

Ward, Patrick, A., Lt. R.n.v.r.

[115th Minesweeping Flotilla]

Occupation unknown Ward, Percy, Co Sgt/maj. [50th

Div.] Telephone engineer Webber, Dennis J., Lt. [9th Beach

Grp.] Bank clerk Webber, John, Telegraphist/o

[200 LCT Flotilla] Ophthalmic

optician Webber, John, J., Capt. [6th

Airborne] Accountant West, Leonard C., W/o [3rd

Div.] Clerical officer,

Admiralty Weston, Ronald, L/cpl. [50th

Div.] Chief clerk, Army White, Niels W., 2/Lt. [50th

Div.] Fur broker Wiggins, John R., Lt. R.n.v.r.

[LST 423] Headmaster Wightman, Leslie, Pvt. [3rd

Div.] Chief cinema projectionist Wilson, Charles S., Pvt. [50th

Div.] Subway railway clerk Wilson, Gordon C., 2nd Lt. [47

(royal Marine) Commando] Advertising

agency Windrum, Anthony W., Maj. [6th

Airborne] Foreign service officer

(retired) Winter, John E., Stokerst1c

[R.n. (combined Ops--'

Bookmaker Wither, Russell J., Sgt. [41 (royal

Marine) Commando] Wages clerk Yelland, Charles H., Sgt. [50th

Div.] foundry worker

CANADIAN

Anderson, James, Maj. [3rd Can.

Div.] Department minister, social

services, New Brunswick Arbuckle, Robert, Gunner [19th Can.

Field Regt.] Sectionman,

Canadian National Railways Axford, Douglas S., Sgt. [3rd Can.

Div.] W/off., Canadian Army Backosti, John, Leading Stoker

[H.m.c.s. Prince Henry]

A.e. Tech., RCAF Bayliss, Gilbert, Fl/off. [RAF]

FlstcomOff, RCAF Blackader, K. G., Brigadier [3rd

Can. Div.] Accountant Blake, John J., Steward

[H.m.c.s. Prince

Henry] Ground Technician, RCAF Boon, Arthur, Gunner [3rd Can.

Div.] Employee, Canadian

National Railways

Brebner, Dr. Colin N., Capt. [1/

Can. Parachute Bn., 6th Airborne]

Surgeon Chalcraft, William R., Fl/lt.

[419 Sqdn.] Fl/off, RCAF Champoux, Robert A., Cpl. [3rd

Can. Div.] Canadian Army Cherrington, Horace D., Sgt. [570th

Sqdn.] Engineer Churchill, Henry L., Pvt. [1/ Can.

Para Bn., 6th Airborne] Occupation

unknown Cockroft, Gordon, Leading Coder

[H.m.c.s. Lindsay] Cpl.,

Canadian Army, Ordnance Corps Couture, George J., Rifleman [3rd

Can. Div.] Recruiting sergeant,

Canadian Army Cox, Kenneth W., Pvt. [14th

Can/field Ambulance]

Sgt., RCAF Cresine, Ellis R., Gunner [3rd

Can. Div.] Air force police,

RCAF Davies, Francis J., Lance/bombardier

[3rd Can. Div.] S/sgt.,

Canadian Army Dewey, Clarence J., Cpl. [1/ TAC

Air Force Police] Firefighter,

RCAF Dunn, Clifford E., Pvt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Dairy business Dutton, Eldon R., Signalman [3rd

Can. Div.] Sgt., Canadian

Army Eldridge, Victor, W./off. [415

RCAF Sqdn.] RCAF Elmes, William J., Lance/cpl.

[2nd Can. Army] Canadian Army Evans, Cyril, Tpr. [3rd Can.

Div.] Electrician Farrell, J. A., Pvt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Broadcaster and writer Fitzpatrick, Carl L., Ab/seaman

[H.m.c.s. Blairmore]

Lt., Canadian Army Forbes, Robert B., Maj. [3rd Can.

Div.] Purchasing manager Forth, John W., Maj. [Asst. Sr.

Chaplain, 3rd Can. Div.] Col.,

director of chaplains, Canadian Army Fowler, Donald M., Pvt. [3rd
Can.

Div.] Pricing supervisor Fraser, George C., Cpl. [3rd

Can. Div.] clerk Fuller, Clayton, Maj. [1/ Can.

Parachute Bn., [6th Airborne]

Canadian Brass Company, Galt,

Ont. Gammon, Clinton C. L., Capt.

[3rd Can. Div.] Papermaker Gardiner, George J., Sgt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Cpl., Canadian

Army Gillan, James D. M., Capt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Canadian Army Goeres, Raymond J., FirstLt. [RAF

No. 101 Sqdn.] FirstLt., RCAF Graham, Robert J., Sapper

[3rd Can. Div.] Office

supervisor Griffin, Peter, Capt. [1/ Can.

Parachute Bn. 6th Airborne]

Occupation unknown

Gunnarson, Gunnar H., Rifleman

[3rd Can. Div.] Farming Haines, Charles W.r., Pvt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Air force police,

RCAF Hall, John T., Fl/off. [51

Bomber Sqdn.] Sqdn. Leader,

RCAF Hamilton, John H., Lance/cpl.

[3rd Can. Div.] Buyer,

wholesale grocery firm Hickey, R. M., Capt. (chaplain)

[3rd Can. Div.] Pastor Hilborn, Richard, Lt. [1/ Can.

Parachute Bn., 6th Airborne]

Preston furniture Co., Preston,

Ont. Hillock, Frank W., Wing Comdr. [143

Wing RCAF] Wing Comdr., RCAF Hurtick, Walter J., Fl/off.

[524 Sqdn.] Sgt., RCAF Jeans, Ernest A., Cpl. [1/ Can.

Parachute Bn., 6th Airborne]

Teacher Johnston, Alexand, Sapper [3rd Can

Div.] Royal Canadian Ordnance

Corps Johnston, John R., Signalman [3rd

Can. Div.] Telegraph

technician, RCAF Johnstone, T., Sgt. [2nd Arm.

Brig.] Instructor, Canadian

Army Labelle, Placide, Capt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Publicity services Laing, Gordon K., Pvt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Industrial painter Langell, Louis, Pvt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Canadian Army LeBlanc, Joseph E. H., Capt.

[3rd Can. Div.] Maj.,

Canadian Army Leroux, Roland A., Sgt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Customs officer Liggins, Percival, Pvt. [1/

Can. Parachute Bn., 6th Airborne]

Parachute rescue jumper Lind, Jack B., Capt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Canadian Army Little, Edward T., Lance/cpl. [1/ Can.

Parachute Bn., 6th Airborne]

Canadian Army Lockhart, Lloyd J., Leading Seaman

[H.m.c.s. Saskatchewan]

Fire fighter, RCAF Lynch, C. Lawrence, Lt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Bank employee MacKenzie, Donald L., Pvt. [3rd

Can. Div.] RCAF MacLean, Richard O., Sgt. [1/

Can. Parachute Bn., 6th Airborne]

Oil and gas distributor MacRae, John, Lt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Member of Parliament Magee, Morris H., Sgt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Cardiographer Mandin, Joseph A., Rifleman [3rd

Can. Div.] Airman, RCAF Manning, Robert F., C/petty Off.

[Minesweeping Flotilla]

Maintenance superintendent, hydroelectric

plant

Mathieu, Paul, Lt. Col. [3rd

Can. Div.] Assistant department

minister, Department of National Defence McCumber, John M., Cpl.
[2nd

Armoured Brig.] Canadian Army McDonald, James W., Cpl. [3rd

Can. Div.] Immigration officer on

U.s.-Canadian border McDougall, Colin C., Capt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Department director,

public relations, Canadian Army McFeat, William P., Gunner [3rd

Can. Div.] Special placements

officer, Canadian Employment Service McGechie, William, Fl/off.
[298th

Sqdn.] Assessor, Canadian

Department of Mines and Minerals McKee, Robert, Fl/off. [296th

Sqdn.] Sqdn. leader, RCAF McLean, Charles W., Maj. [3rd

Can. Div.] General sales

manager, textiles McMurray, Robert M., Lance/cpl.

[3rd Can. Div.] Insurance

underwriter Mcationamee, Gordon A., Fl/off.

[405th Sqdn.] FlstcomLt., RCAF McPhatter, Roderick H., Leading Coder

[H.m.c.s. Caraquet]

FlstcomLt., RCAF McTavish, Frank A., Maj. [3rd

Can. Div.] Maj., Canadian

Army Millar, Ian A. L., Maj. [3rd

Can. Div.] Maj., Canadian

Army Mitchell, James F., Sqdn. Leader

[83rd Sqdn.] RCAF Moffatt, John L., Fl/off. [575th

Sqdn.] Schoolteacher Mosher, Albert B., Pvt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Ground defence instructor,

RCAF Murch, Hewitt J., Signalman [3rd

Can. Div.] Farmer Newin, Harry J., FirstSgt. [625

Sqdn.] RCAF Olmsted Earl A., Capt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Lt. Col., Canadian

Army O'Regan, Robert B., Gunner [3rd

Can. Div.] Public Relations,

Canadian Army Osborne, Daniel N., Capt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Maj., Canadian

Army Paterson, William, Pvt. [6th

Airborne] High school teacher Pearson, Clifford A., Lance/cpl.

[3rd Can. Div.] Sgt.,

Canadian Army Piers, Desmond W., Lt. Comdr.

[H.m.c.s. Algonquin]

Commodore, Royal Canadian Navy Raich, Jack, Cpl. [3rd Can.

Div.] Sgt., Canadian Army Rehill, Cecil, Lt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Canadian Army Rogge, Robert E., Pvt. [3rd Can.

Div.] TstcomSgt., USAF

Ruffee, George E. M., Lt.

[3rd Can. Div.] Canadian

Army Saunders, Frederick T., Lance/cpl.

[3rd Can. Div.] Foreman

supervisor, power station Schaupmeyer, John E., Sapper [3rd

Can. Div.] Farming Scott, Charles J., Lt. [LCT

926] Editor Shawcross, Ronald G., Capt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Manager, envelope

company Smith, Stanley A. E., Leading

Aircadet [2nd T.a.f.] Cpl.,

RCAF Somerville, Joseph, Pvt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Employee, paper

company Stanley, Robert W., Pvt. [1/ Can.

Parachute Bn., 6th Airborne]

Metal worker Stewart, Angus A., Pvt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Farming Stothart, Jack G., Capt. [3rd Can.

Div.] Agricultural

research Thompson, Robert J., Gunner [3rd

Can. Div.] Fire fighter, RCAF Thomson, Thomas A., P/off. [425

Sqdn.] FlstcomSgt., RCAF Todd, Percy A. S., Brig. [3rd

Can. Div. (artillery Comdr.--'

Railway, general manager Velux, Gene, Sapper [3rd Can.

Div.] Cpl., Canadian Army Vidler, Douglas R., Pvt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Film tester Warburton, James A., Lt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Engineer Washburn, Arthur S., Lance/sgt. [3rd

Can. Div.] Civil servant Webber, John L., Sgt. [85th

Sqdn.] FltstcomEngineer White, William B., Pvt. [1/ Can.

Parachute Bn., 6th Airborne]

Sgt., Canadian Army Widenoja, Edwin T., Fl/off. [433rd

Sqdn.] Pulp and paper tester Wilkins, Donald, Maj. [1/

Can. Parachute Bn., 6th

Airborne] Investment broker Zack, Theodore, Trooper [3rd Can.

Div.] Farmer

FRENCH

Kieffer, Philippe, Commander [CO French

Commandos, Att. No. 4 Commando]

NATO Paris

French Underground

Auge, Albert--Caen, French

Railways Gill, Leeonard--Caen, Normandy,

Deputy Military Intelligence Chief Gille, Louise "Janine" Boitard--

Caen, Allied Pilot Escape

Network

Lechevalier, Ameelie--Caen, Allied

Pilot Escape Network Marion, Jean--Grandcamp Omaha

Sector Chief Mercader, Guillaume--

Bayeux, Coastal Section Chief Picard, Roger--Southern France,

Intelligence Reemy, George Jean--Paris, Radio

Communication

GERMAN

Blumentritt, Gunther, Maj. Gen. [OB

West--Rundstedt's Chief of Staff]

Lt. Gen. (retired) Beurkner, Leopold, Vice Admiral

[Chief of Protocol, Hitler's

HQ-OKW] Airline personnel

director Damski, Aloysius, Pvt. [716th

Div.] Occupation unknown Deuring, Ernst, Capt. [352nd Div.]

Businessman Feuchtinger, Edgar, Lt. Gen. [CO 21/

Panzer Div.] Technical adviser,

German industrial combine Freyberg, Leodegard, Col. [Personnel

Chief, Army Group B]

Official, Federation of German

Soldiers Gause, Alfred, Maj. Gen. [Rommel's

Chief of Staff (to Mar. 1944--'

U.s. Army Historical Division,

Germany Heager, Josef, Lance Cpl. [716th

Div.] Machinist Halder, Franz, Col. Gen. [Chief of

German General Staff (to Sept.

1942--' U.s. Army Historical

Division, Germany Hayn, Friedrich, Maj. [Intelligence

Officer, 84th Corps] Author Hermes, Walter, Pvt. [192nd Regt.,

21/ Panzer Div.] Postman Hildebrand, Otto, Lt. [21/ Panzer

Div.] Occupation unknown Hofmann, Heinrich, Lt. Comdr. [5th

E-boat flotilla] German Navy,

Bonn Defense Ministry Hoffner, Hans, Brig. Gen. [Rail

Transportation Chief for France, OB

West] German Army Hoffmann, Rudolf, Maj. Gen. [Chief

of Staff, 15th Army]

Retired; consultant to U.s. Army

Historical Division, Germany Hummerich, Wilhelm, Capt. [709th

Div.] Deputy Commander, German

Support Unit, NATO--ALLIED Forces

Central Europe Krancke, Theodor, Adm. [Naval

Comdr.-in-Chief, West] Now pensioned and

retired (until recently employed as

laborer) Lang, Hellmuth, Capt. [Rommel's

Aide] Storekeeper

Meyer, Hellmuth, Lt. Col.

[Intelligence Officer, 15th Army]

German Army Meyer-Detring, Wilhelm, Brig. Gen.

[Intelligence Chief, OB West]

Chief, Intelligence, NATO--ALLIED

Forces Central Europe Ohmsen, Walter, Capt. [Comdr., Marcouf

Battery] Harbor control officer Pemsel, Max, Maj. Gen. [Chief of

Staff, 7th Army] Lt.

Gen., German Army Pluskat, Werner, Maj. [352nd

Div.] Engineer Priller, Josef, Col. [Wing Comdr.,

26th Fighter Wing] Brewery manager Reichert, Josef, Maj. Gen. [CO

711th Div.] Lt. Gen. (retired) Richter, Wilhelm, Maj. Gen. [CO

716th Inf. Div.] Lt. Gen.

(retired) Ruge, Friedrich, Vice Admiral

[Rommel's Naval Aide]

Inspector of German Naval Forces Saul, Carl, Lt. Dr. [709th Inf.

Div.] High school teacher Schenck Zu Schweinsberg, Maj. Baron

Hans [21/ Panzer Div.]

Private income Speidel, Hans, Maj. Gen., Dr.

[Rommel's Chief of Staff] Lt.

Gen.; NATO--COMMANDER, Allied Land

Forces, Central Europe Staubwasser, Anton, Lt., Col.

[Intelligence Chief, Army Group B]

German Army Stenzel, Willy, Lance/cpl.

[6th Parachute Regiment] Salesman Steobe, Walter, Prof., Dr. [Chief

Meteorologist, Luftwaffe (west--'

Teacher Voigt, Wilhelm, Pvt. [Radio

Monitoring Group] Public relations,

Pan American Airways, Frankfurt,

Germany Von Gottberg, Wilhelm, Capt.

[22nd Regt., 21/ Panzer]

Manager, automobile agency Von Kistowski, Werner, Col. [1/

Regt., 3rd Flak Corps.]

Lightning rod salesman Von Oppeln-Bronikowski, Hermann,

Col. [22nd Regt., 21/ Panzer

Div.] Gen. (retired); estate

steward Von Puttkamer, Karl Jesko, Adm.

[Hitler's Naval Aide]

Personnel director, export firm Von Salmuth, Hans, Gen. [CO 15th

Army] Gen. (retired)

Von Schramm, Wilhelm, Maj.

[Official War Reporter] Author Warlimont, Walter, Gen. [Ass't Chief

of Operations, OKW] Gen. (retired) Wuensch, Anton, Cpl. [6th
Parachute

Regt.] Occupation unknown Zimmermann, Bodo, Lt. Gen. [Chief of

Operations, OB West] Lt. Gen.

(retired); magazine and book publisher

Acknowledgments

The principal sources of information for this book came from Allied and
German D-Day survivors, French underground workers and civilians--more
than a thousand in all. Freely and unselfishly they gave of their
time, and no inconvenience seemed too great. They filled out
questionnaires, and after these forms had been collated and
cross-checked with those of other veterans they cheerfully provided
additional information. They answered my many letters and queries.
They supplied me with a wealth of documentation and memorabilia--
water-stained maps, tattered diaries, after-action reports, logs,
message pads, company rosters, casualty lists, personal letters and
photographs--and they made themselves available for interview. I am
deeply indebted to these contributors. On preceding pages the reader
will find a complete list of all military personnel and French
underground workers who helped. To my knowledge this partial list of
D-Day participants is the only one of its kind in existence.

Of the total numbers of survivors located--a task that took the best
part of three years--some seven hundred were interviewed in the U.s.,
Canada, Great Britain, France and Germany. Some 383 accounts were
blended into the text. For a variety of editorial reasons
--principally that of repetition--it was impossible to include
everyone's account. However, the framework of the book was constructed
on the information supplied by all the participants, plus Allied and
German after-action reports, war diaries, histories or other official
records (such as the magnificent

combat interviews conducted during and after the war by Brigadier
General S.l.a. Marshall, U.s.a.r., the European Theater Military
Historian).

At the onset I wish to thank De Witt Wallace, editor and publisher of
The Reader's Digest, for underwriting nearly all of the costs and thus
making this book possible.

Next I must pay tribute to the U.s. Secretary of Defense; General
Maxwell D. Taylor, until recently the U.s. Army's Chief of Staff; Major
General H. P. Storke, the Army's Chief of Information; Colonel G.
Chesnutt, Lieutenant Colonel John S. Cheseboro and Lieutenant Colonel
C. J. Owen of the Army's Magazine and Book branch; Commander Herbert
Gimpel of the U.s. Navy's Magazine and Book branch; Major J. Sunderman
and Captain W. M. Mack of the U.s. Air Force's Information Division;
Mrs. Martha Holler of the Defense Department's Accreditation and
Travel Division; and the many public relations officers in Europe and
elsewhere who assisted me at every turn. All of these people aided not
only in helping me locate veterans but by opening doors everywhere,
granting me permission to examine hitherto classified documents,
supplying me with detailed maps, transporting me to and from Europe,
and in setting up interviews.

I must also acknowledge the gracious assistance and cooperation of Dr.
Kent Roberts Greenfield, until recently chief historian, the Office of
Chief of Military History, and the members of his staff--Major William
F. Heitz, Mr. Israel Wice, Mr. Detmar Finke and Mr. Charles von
Luttichau--for giving me permission to draw on official histories and
records and for their constant guidance and advice. I would like to
mention here the work of Charles von Luttichau, who spent all of his
spare time over a period of nearly eight months translating bale loads
of German documents and the all important German war diaries.

Among the contributors to the book I would like to thank in particular
the following: Sergeant William Petty for meticulously reconstructing
the Ranger's action at Pointe du Hoc; Corporal Michael Kurtz of the 1/
Division, Second Lieutenant Edward Gearing and Brigadier General Norman
Cota of the 29th for their vivid descriptions of Omaha Beach; Colonel
Gerden Johnson of the 4th Division for his careful breakdown of the
equip-

t carried by first-wave assault troops; Colonel Eugene Caffey and
Sergeant Harry Brown for their portrayals of Brigadier General Theodore
Roosevelt on Utah Beach; Major General Raymond O. Barton, the 4th
Division's Commanding Officer on D Day, for his guidance and for
loaning me his maps and official papers; Brigadier E.e.e. Cass, whose
8th British Brigade led the assault on Sword Beach, for his detailed
memorandums and papers and his kind efforts in trying to research the
British casualty figures; Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt for her many
kindnesses, thoughtful suggestions and criticisms; William Walton,
formerly of Time and Life, the only war correspondent to jump with the
82nd, for digging through his trunks and finding his old notebooks and
then over a two-day session recreating the atmosphere of the assault;
Captain Daniel J. Flunder and Lieutenant Michael Aldworth of the 48th
Royal Marine Commandos for painting the scene on Juno; and Piper Bill
Millin of Lord Lovat's Commandos for his diligent search to find the
list of tunes that he played throughout the day.

I would also like to express my appreciation to General Maxwell D.
Taylor, who took time out from his grueling schedule to take me step by
step through the 101/ Airborne's assault and who later read pertinent
parts of the manuscript for accuracy. Others who checked for errors
and who read two or three versions of the manuscript were Lieutenant
General Sir Frederick Morgan, the architect of the original Overlord
plan, and Lieutenant General James M. Gavin, who commanded the 82nd's
parachute drop into Normandy.

I am also indebted to General Omar N. Bradley, who commanded the U.s.
First Army; Lieutenant General Walter B. Smith, who was Chief of Staff
to General Dwight D. Eisenhower; Lieutenant General J. T. Crocker, who
commanded the 1/ British Corps; and General Sir Richard Gale, who
commanded the British 6th Airborne. These men kindly answered my
queries, or granted me interviews or made available to me their wartime
maps and papers.

On the German side I wish to acknowledge the generous cooperation of
the Bonn Government and the many service associations who located
veterans and set up appointments.

For assistance from the many German contributors I am par- ticularly
grateful to Colonel General Franz Halder, former Chief of the German
General Staff; Captain Hellmuth Lang, Rommel's aide; Major General
Geunther Blumentritt, Field Marshal von Rundstedt's chief of staff;
Lieutenant General Dr. Hans Speidel, Rommel's chief of staff; Frau
Lucie Maria Rommel and her son, Manfred; Lieutenant General Max Pemsel,
the 7th Army's chief of staff; General Hans von Salmuth, the 15th
Army's commanding officer; General von Oppeln-Bronikowski of the 21/
Panzer; Colonel Josef Priller of the Luftwaffe's 26th Fighter Wing;
Lieutenant Colonel Hellmuth Meyer of the 15th Army; and Major Werner
Pluskat of the 352nd Division. All these and scores of others were
kind enough to grant me interviews, spending hours reconstructing
various phases of the battle.

In addition to the information collected from D-Day participants, many
works by eminent historians and authors were consulted during the
research. I would like to express my gratitude to Gordon A. Harrison,
author of the official D-Day history, Cross-Channel Attack, and Dr.
Forest Pogue, author of the U.s. Army's The Supreme Command, both of
whom gave me guidance and helped me solve many a controversial point.
Their books proved invaluable in giving me an over-all picture both
politically and militarily of the events leading up to the invasion and
in detailing the attack itself. Other books that I found most helpful
were The Invasion of France and Germany by Samuel E. Morison; Omaha
Beachhead by Charles H. Taylor; Utah to Cherbourg by R. G. Ruppenthal;
Rendezvous with Destiny by Leonard Rapport and Arthur Norwood, Jr.; Men
Against Fire by Brigadier General S.l.a. Marshall, U.s.a.r.; and The
Canadian Army: 1939-1945 by Colonel C. P. Stacey. A bibliography of
books referred to is appended.

In locating veterans, gathering research and in the final interviewing
I was ably assisted by Reader's Digest researchers, bureau
representatives and editors in the U.s., Canada, Great Britain, France
and Germany. In New York, Miss Frances Ward and Miss Sally Roberts,
under the guidance of department editor Gertrude Arundel, waded through
piles of documents, questionnaires and correspondence and somehow kept
abreast of it all. In London, Miss Joan Isaacs did a similar job,
including many

interviews. With the help of the Canadian War Office, the Digest's
Shane McKay and Miss Nancy Vail Bashant found and interviewed dozens of
Canadian veterans. The European end of the operation was the most
difficult, and I must thank Max C. Schreiber, editor of the Digest's
German edition, for his advice; and especially associate editor George
Reevay, John D. Panitza and Yvonne Fourcade of the Digest's European
editorial office in Paris for their magnificent work in organizing and
researching the project and for their tireless interviewing. My
earnest thanks also to the Digest's assistant managing editor, Hobart
Lewis, for believing in the project in the first place and for holding
my hand through the long months of work.

There are many, many others to whom I owe debts of gratitude. To
mention just a few: Jerry Korn for his thoughtful criticisms and
editorial assistance; Don Lassen for his many letters regarding the
82nd Airborne; Don Brice of the Dictaphone Corp., and David Kerr for
help in interviewing; Colonel John Virden of the Army Times, Kenneth
Crouch of the Bedford Democrat, Dave Parsons of Pan American Airways,
Ted Rowe of IBM, and Pat Sullivan of General Dynamics--all of whom
through their organizations helped me trace survivors; Suzanne Gleaves,
Theodore H. White, Peter Schwed and Phyllis Jackson for their careful
readings of each version of the work; Lillian Lang for her secretarial
work; Anne Wright, who filed, cross-indexed, handled correspondence and
did all the typing; and above all my dear wife, Kathryn, who collated,
organized the research, helped in final revision of the manuscript and
contributed more than anyone else--for she had to live through the
writing.--C.r.

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GERMAN MANUSCRIPTS AND CAPTURED DOCUMENTS

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Army

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B-621. Roge, Commander. Part Played by the

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documents--private papers, photographs

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Scheidt, Wilhelm. Hitler's Conduct

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Study in Command, v1, 2, 3,

MS. B-308.

INDEX

Abwehr, 50 Admiral Channel Coast (krancke's headquarters), 152 Ajax
(british light cruiser), 93,

Aldworth, Lt. Michael, 217-18 Allen, Pvt. Robert Marion, 98 Allen,
Gunner Ronald, 226, 227 Allied High Command. See SHAEF Allied naval
headquarters. See Southwick House Allied pilots, hidden in France, 91
amphibious vehicles, 210 Ancon (u.s. Command ship), 152 Anderson, 2nd
Lt. Donald, 98,

Anne, Albert, 253 Arethusa (british cruiser), 167 Arkansas (u.s.
battleship), 93,

Army-Navy demolition engineers, 200 Army-Navy Special Engineer Task
Force, 201 Asay, Sgt. Charles, 107 Ashworth, AB/SEAMAN Edward, 220
Astley, Sir Jacob, 99 Atlantic Wall, 22, 23, 24-26,

Audige, Pierre, 253 Aug`e, Albert, 89 Augusta (u.s. cruiser), 93,
184-185, 264 Austria, 23, 258 "Axis Sally," 41

bagpipes, 97, 215, 227, 268-69 Barton, Maj. Gen. Raymond O., 204-5,
261-62 Batte, Lt. Col. James, 193 Batten, Pvt. Raymond, 123-24
Bavent Forest, 148 Baxter, Pvt. Hubert Victor, 215 Bayeux (france),
79, 90, 227, 250 Bayfield (u.s. Command ship), 147 Bay of the Seine,
39, 59, 118 BBC (british Broadcasting Corp.),

Bedford (va.), 256-57 Beer, Comdr. Robert O., 185

Bell, Sgt. "Dinger," 215 Ben Machree (british transports),

Berchtesgaden, 84, 172, 228, 259 "Berlin Bitch," 41 Bernieeres
(france), 222-23 Beynon, Sub-Lt. John, 221 Bieeville (france), 275
Bismarck (german battleship), 93 Black Prince (british cruiser), 93,

Blanchard, P.f.c. Ernest, 133-34 Blankenship, Pvt., 136 Block, Maj.,
117, 174 "Bloody Omaha", 196, 263. See also Omaha Beach Blumentritt,
Maj. Gen. Geunther, 16, 28, 81, 229-31, 232, 271 Bodet, Cpl. Alan,
96 Boitard, Janine, 91, 252 Bombardier, P.f.c. Carl, 211 Boon, Gunner
Arthur Henry, 96 Boulard, Robert, 253 Boutrois, Achille, 253 Bradley,
Lt. Gen. Omar N., 184-185, 264 Brannen, Lt. Malcolm, 245 Braun, Eva,
84, 172 Brevands (france), 108 British Air Force. See R.a.f. British
Army

1/ Dorset Regiment, 219

1/ Hampshire Regiment, 218-219

1/ South Lancashire Regiment, 224,

1/ Special Service Brigade, 213

2nd Army, 213

2nd East York Regiment, 225

3rd Infantry, 68, 179, 215

4th commandos, 224, 225

5th Parachute Brigade, 122, 123

6th Airborne, 59, 110-11, 113, 121, 122, 140, 227, 269,

8th Air Force, 55-56, 187

8th Army, 68

8th Battalion, 124

9th Air Force, 55-56, 187

9th Battalion, 126,

12th Battalion, 125

13th Battalion, 123

50th Division, 68

224th Parachute Field Ambulance, 127

assault zones of, 45

Buckinghamshire Light Infantry, 110

at Dunkirk, 44

Green Howards, 219

King's Regiment, 97

Oxfordshire Light Infantry, 110

Royal Engineers, 110 British Navy. See Royal Navy Broeckx, Anne Marie,
79, 250-251 Broeckx, Fernand, 78-79 Brooklyn (n.y.), 256 Brotheridge,
Lt. H. D. "Danny," 111, 112 Brown, Sgt. Harry, 69-70, 205 Bruff, Sgt.
Thomas, 262 Bryan, Sgt. Keith, 72, 98 Bryant, Pvt., 136 Burroughs,
Capt. Sherman, 179, 198-99 Burt, Cpl. Gerald, 183 Butcher, Capt.
Harry C., 53 Butler (u.s. destroyer), 209 Buttlar-Brandenfels, Maj.
Gen. Von, 230, 231-32

Cadish, 2nd Lt., 136 Caen Canal (france), 110, 111-12, 122, 168, 268,
270 Caen (france), 44, 74, 91, 122, 227, 252, 274, 275 Caffey, Col.
Eugene, 183, 193-194,

Caldron, Pierre, 80, 263

Canadian Army

1/ Parachute Battalion, 124, 125, 126, 127

3rd Division, 72, 96, 97

8th Brigade, 222, 225

41/ Royal Marine commandos, 223-24

47th Royal Marine commandos, 217, 219

48th Royal Marine commandos, 214, 217, 222, 223, 224

assault zones of, 45

at Dieppe, 25

at Juno Beach, 222 Canaris, Adm. Wilhelm, 32-33, 35,

Canham, Col. Charles D., 264-265 Capon, Pvt. Sid, 165-66, 167
Carentan Canal (france), 136, 138 Carmick (u.s. destroyer), 185
Carpiquet Airport (france), 44, 227 Cason, Cpl. Lee, 193 Cass, Brig.
E. E. E., 225 casualties, 136, 167, 179-83, 192-94, 195, 198-99,
224-25,

Cawthon, Capt. Charles, 198-99 "Chanson d'Automne" (song of Autumn),
33-34, 87, 99 Charles Carroll (u.s. attack transport), 98 Cherbourg,
74, 105, 107, 130, 136-37, 158 Chicago (ill.), 50 Churchill, Pvt.
Henry, 126 Churchill, Winston, 53, 93 "Cicero" (spy), 50 Claridge's
Hotel, 50-51 Clark, Ronald, 222 Coffeyville (kan.), 256 Cole, Lt. Col.
Robert G., 205-6 Coleman, P.f.c. Max, 178 Colleville (france), 78,
250-51 Colleville-sur-Orne (france), 226 Colley, Cpl. James, 224
"Colonel Britain," 77 Columbi, Pvt. Gerald, 100-101 concentration
camps, 54 convoys, 38-39, 42-43, 71-72, 92-94 Corry (u.s. destroyer),
38-41, 67, 72, 73, 206-9 Cota, Brig. Gen. Norman, 264, 277
Courseulles Beach, 220-21 Courtney, Sgt. Bill, 266 Crawford, Kenneth,
191 Criegern, Lt. Col. Friedrich Von,

Cross-Channel Attack, 93 crossword puzzles, 48-49 Cunningham, Capt.
Robert, 195

Dale, Cpl. Reginald, 68 Dale, Hilda, 68 Dallas, Maj. Thomas Spencer,
94, 180-81 Danski, Pvt. Aloysius, 239-40 Davis, Sgt. Barton A.,
200-201 Davot family, 77-78 Dawe, Leonard Sidney, 47-49 D Day. See
also Invasion of Normandy, Allied assault

Allied bombing of landing sites and, 184-87

BBC'S warning to civilians about, 189-90

Eisenhower's decision to proceed with, 58-64

first battle of, 111-12, 144

first general officer killed on, 159

German intelligence reports about, 32-34

German Navy offense and, 183-84

German reluctance to recognize, 119,

H Hour and, 16, 45, 73, 170,

messages about, 33-35, 87-88, 99,

Pluskat's first view of, 173-74

postponement of, 37, 40-41

weather around time of, 21, 37, 43, 51, 59-60, 62-63 Deery, Chaplain
Lawrence E., 96 de Lacy, Sgt. James Percival "Paddy," 97, 214-15,
220-221 Dempsey, Lt. Gen. M. C., 213 de Stackpoole, Maj., 218 de
Valera, Eamon, 97 Devine, Lt. John, 145 Devorchak, Pvt. Leonard, 109
Diello (spy), 50 Dieppe (france), 25, 213 Dives River, 114, 126, 127
Doertenbach, Maj., 151 Doix, Alain, 109-10 Doix, Mathilde, 110 Doix,
Ren`e, 110 Dollmann, Col. Gen. Friedrich, 120,

Doss, Pvt. Adrian, 107-8 Douve River (france), 136, 138, 160 Dowie, L.
Stoker Robert, 184, 247-48 Dowling, Lt. Mike, 165, 166, 167 Dube, Sgt.
Noel, 195 Dubois family, 77-78 Duckworth, Audrey, 255-56 Duckworth,
Capt. Edmund, 256 DUKWS, 210 Dulligan, Capt. John F., 71 Dunbar
(british mine sweeper), 184,

Dunkirk (france), 24, 44, 68, 77,

Dunn, Lt. Col. Edward C., 162-163 Dupuy, Col. Ernest, 254 Deuring,
Capt. Ernst, 108-9 Dutacq, Maurice, 253

Edgehill, battle of (1642), 99 Edwards, Comdr. Kenneth, 93 Eigenberg,
S/sgt. Alfred, 202,

Eikner, Lt. James, 212 Eisemann, Lt. (j.g.) William J.,

Eisenhower, Gen. Dwight D.

appearance of, 53

decision to go ahead with D Day and, 58-64

forces under, 52-53

headquarters of, 52-53

Mueller and, 61, 102

orders of, 54-55

postponement of D Day and, 37

reports about D Day and, 254

start of D Day and, 101, 102 Eisenhower, John, 52 Eisenhower, Mamie, 52
Ekman, Lt. Col. William, 136 Empire Anvil (british transport), 95,
96, 181 En Avant (trawler), 228 England, 24, 32, 55-56, 254-56 English
Channel, 14, 37, 43, 47, 51, 63, 92, 139, 154 Enterprise (british
cruiser), 93 Etreham (france), 117

Falley, Maj. Gen. Wilhelm, 120, 153, 244-45 Farine, Andr`e, 89 Farr,
Lt. (j.g.) Bartow, Jr., 67-68,

Ferguson, P.f.c. Charles, 265 Feuchtinger, Lt. Gen. Edgar, 155, 272
Fitch (u.s. destroyer), 207 Fitzgerald, Capt. Cleveland, 144 Flunder,
Capt. Daniel, 214,

Ford, Signalman Leslie, 226 Foucarville (france), 144 France, 24, 91.
See also Normandy

Frederick, 1/ Sgt. Charles, 192 French underground, 44, 86-92, 99,

Freyberg, Col. Leodegard, 233 Friedel, Lt. Col., 231 Fritz, Lt., 117
frogmen, 216-17

Gale, Grace, 255 Gale, Pvt. John, 224, 255 Gale, Maj. Gen. Richard,
157, 164,

Gardner, Sgt. Donald, 217 Gause, Maj. Gen. Alfred, 29 Gavin, Brig.
Gen. James M. "Jumpin' Jim," 107, 145, 146, 159,

Gavrus (france), 252 Gazengel, Jeannine, 79 Gazengel, Marthe, 79,
248-49 Gazengel, Paul, 79-80, 248-49 Gearing, 2nd Lt. Edward, 197
Georges Leygues (french cruiser),

Gerhardt, Maj. Gen. Charles H.,

German Air Force. See Luftwaffe German Army

armies Fifteenth, 14, 31, 34, 35, 85, 99, 119, 149, 153, 234 Seventh,
14, 35, 83, 100, 119, 120, 149-50, 151, 153, 156, 162, 171, 233, 234

Army Group B, 14, 15, 18, 19, 34, 36, 82, 84, 100, 149, 151, 152, 153,
156, 157, 172, 231, 234, 260, 271

corps 84th, 83, 117-18, 120, 148,

Afrika Korps, 154

divisions 12th S.s. panzer, 171-72, 229, 270, 271 21/ Panzer, 154-55,
232, 270-72, 277 91/ Air Landing, 84, 120, 137,

243rd Infantry, 84, 137 346th Infantry, 234 352nd Infantry, 108, 117,
185, 188, 218, 220, 233 709th Infantry, 84, 137 711th Infantry, 115,
119,

716th Infantry, 148, 185, 220, 235, 239, 272 Panzer Lehr, 171-72, 229,
270,

OB West (oberbefehlshaber West), 17, 18, 34, 80-81, 99, 100, 150, 151,
152, 153, 156, 171-72, 229, 231, 234,

regiments 6th Parachute, 137, 242 Flak Assault 1, 90 war games and,
83-84, 120, 148, 153 German High Command. See OKW

German Navy 5th Flotilla, 154, 183 Bismarck, 93 E-boats, 154, 183
Gneisenau, 154 Graf Spee, 93 offense against D Day, 183-184 Prinz
Eugen, 154 Scharnhorst, 154 German occupation of Normandy, 13-14,

Germany, 16, 23, 54, 258-61 Gestapo, 74, 253 Gilan, Capt. James
Douglas, 96 Gille, Leeonard, 90, 91, 251-52 gliders, 110-11, 122-23,
158-160, 163, 165 Glisson, Radioman 3/c Bennie, 40-41, 72-73, 208

Gneisenau (german battleship), 154 Gold Beach, 216, 217-19, 226-227
Goranson, Capt. Ralph E., 199 Gosport Beach, 224 Goth, Col., 233
Gottberg, Capt. Wilhelm, 272,

Graf Spee (german battleship), 93 Grandcamp (france), 89, 249 Gray,
Pvt. Bill, 111, 112,

Gray, Capt. Irving, 95 Green Plan, 88, 91 Gresselin, Yves, 89
Gundlach, Capt., 239 Gwiadosky, Cpl. John, 70 Gwinnett, Capt. John,
127-28, 140

Hackett, Signalman 3/c George Jr., 71-72 Heager, Lance Cpl. Josef,
234-39 Hairon, M., 151 Halder, Col. Gen. Franz, 24-25,

Hall, Rear Adm. John L., 152 Hamble River (england), 69 Hardelay,
Michel, 75-77, 189-90 Harrison, Gordon, 93 Hawkins, Pvt. Pat, 165,
166, 168 Hayn, Maj. Friedrich, 83, 120, 121, 148 Hellmich, Lt. Gen.
Heinz, 84 Hermes, Pvt. Walter, 270-71, 274 Herndon (u.s. destroyer),
67, 102,

Hern, P.f.c. Earlston, 95 Heroux, P.f.c. Leo, 251 Heydte, Baron Von
der, 137 H Hour See D Day Hiesville (france), 159 Hilborn, Lt.
Richard, 125 Himmler, Heinrich, 54 Hitler, Adolf, 20, 22-26, 28, 84,
85, 172, 228, 230, 232, 259,

Hodges, Lt. James, 73 Hoffman, Lt. Comdr. George D., 38-41, 72,
206-9 Hoffman, Wave Ensign Lois, 257 Hoffmann, Lt. Comdr. Heinrich,
154,

Hofmann, Maj. Gen. Rudolf, 34, 153 Hollis, Sgt. Maj. Stanley, 68,
219 Honour, Lt. George, 43-47, 73, 169-70, 227-28, 255 Honour, Wren
Lt. Naomi Coles, 43,

Horst, Dr., 82 Howard, Maj. John, 111, 113, 122, 157, 168, 268
Huebner, Maj. Gen. Clarence R., 181 Humberstone, Pvt. Henry, 127
Hupfer, Lt. Clarence, 72 Hutley, Sgt. John, 158

"I Double Dare You," 41-42 eiles-St.-Marcouf, 162 intelligence reports,
31-34, 50, 117,

Invasion of France and Germany, 93 invasion of Normandy. See also D
Day; Overlord

Allied assault build-up for, 55-56 factors affecting, 58-59 first craft
in position and, 44 leaks about, 50-51 Morgan's groundwork for, 54-55
planning and preparation for, 54-58 questions concerning, 55 weather
predictions and, 59-60, 62-63

German defense first official reports and, 148-53 marshes and, 126,
127, 138-144

panzers and, 154-55, 171-172 Pluskat and, 116-19, 129-130,

Rommel's strategies for, 26-31,

surrenders and, 166, 236-39 war games and, 83-84, 120, 148,

watching for, 14 weather predictions and, 21, 81-82 Isle of Man
(british steamer), 96 Italy, 16, 26, 229

James, P.f.c. Donald N., 203 Janzen, Cpl. Harold, 180 Jaujard,
Contre-Adm., 185 Jeanne, Dr., 80 Jefferson, Lt. Alan, 165-66 Jennings,
Sapper Henry, 226 Jodl, Col. Alfred, 34-35, 37, 172, 228-31 Johnson,
Maj. Gerden, 180, 261 Johnson, S/sgt. Larry, 70-71 Johnson, Sgt.
Orris, 193 Jones, Pvt. Delbert, 107 Jones, P.f.c. Donald N., 203
Jones, Melville, 48 Jones, Sgt. Peter Henry, 216, 217 Junger, Ernst,
82-83 Juno Beach, 216, 220-23, 226-227,

Keitel, Field Marshal Wilhelm, 23, 37, 259 Kerchner, 2nd Lt. George,
70-71,

Kesselring, Field Marshal Albert, 229 Kieffer, Comdr. Philippe, 69,
98-99,

King, Maj. C. K. "Banger," 179, 214 Kirk, Rear Adm. A. G., 63, 93
Kistowski, Col. Werner Von, 90 Koon, Capt. Lewis Fulmer, 94-95
Kraiss, Gen., 233 Krancke, Adm. Theodor, 84, 151, 152, 153-54, 171
Krause, Col. Edward, 161, 162, 168 Kriegsspiel (war games), 83-84,
120, 148, 153 Kurtz, Cpl. Michael, 95-96, 181

La Barquette locks (france), 136, 138, 169 Lacy, Lt. Joseph, 178
Laing, Pvt. Gordon, 97 La Madeleine (france), 79, 248 landing craft

casualties of troops in, 179-83, 192-94, 195, 198-99

LCA'S, 192, 209

LCI'S, 73, 217-18

LCT'S, 71-72, 216-17, 218-20

LST'S, 72

wreckages of, 201-2, 216-17 Lang, Capt. Hellmuth, 18-22, 36, 260, 270,
273, 275-76, 277 Langley, Yeoman 3/c Charles,

Langrune (france), 46, 223 Lang, S/sgt. James, 258 Largs (british
Command ship), 184 La Roche-Guyon, 13-14, 21-22, 82, 150, 152 Leach,
Medic Geoffrey, 219 Leatherhead, Surrey (england), 47 Lebissey
(france), 274 Lechevalier, Ameelie, 91-92, 252-53 Lechevalier, Louis,
91-92, 253 Legere, Maj. Lawrence, 143 Le Hamel, 45, 216, 218-19 Le
Havre, 74, 154, 184, 186,

Leigh-Mallory, Air Chief Marshal Sir Trafford, 62, 64

Le Mans (france), 120, 162 Lemieere, Deesir`e, 253 Levieere, Antole,
253 Levrault, Angeele, 105-7, 132, 144 Liberty Bell, 256 Liggins, Pvt.
Percival, 124 Lille (france), 68, 85, 155 Lillyman, Capt. Frank, 108
Lion-sur-Mer, 223-24 Lloyd, Lt. Desmond, 184 Lofts, Wing Comdr. K.
T., 252 London Daily Mail, 227 London Daily Telegraph, 48-49 London
Times, 255 Long Island (n.y.), 257 Loslier, Ren`e, 253 Lovat, Lord,
213, 215, 225, 227,

Lovell, Marine Denis, 213, 219 Luc-sur-Mer, 274 Luftwaffe, 21, 41, 60,
80, 85, 137, 151, 155, 245-48 Lutke, Lt., 239 Luxembourg Palace, 80
Lynch, Charles, 222 Lyne, Lt. Lionel G., 44

McClintock, Sgt. William,

McCloskey, Sgt. Regis, 192, 195,

McHugh, P.f.c. Bill, 96 McQuaid, Sgt. Paddy, 214 Maddison, Pvt.
Godfrey, 125-26 Magee, Sgt. Morris, 72 Maginot Line, 26, 27 man-made
harbors, 56-57 Mann, P.f.c. Ray, 203-4 Marcks, Gen. Erich, 83, 117-18,
120-21, 148, 162, 272 Marietta (ga.), 256 Marion, Jean, 89-90, 212, 249
marshes, 126, 127, 138-44 Mason, Pvt. John, 225 Maud, Capt. Colin,
221 Mears, Cpl. Fred, 225 Meindl, Gen. Eugen, 83 Menochet, Pierre,
253 Mercader, Guillaume, 88, 90, 250 Mercader, Madeleine, 88 Merderet
River (france), 136, 138, 160 Merlano, Cpl. Louis, 139-40,

Merville battery assault, 123, 126, 127-29, 163-68 Metz (france), 85
Meyer-Detring, Col. Wilhelm, 84 Meyer, Lt. Col. Hellmuth, 31-35, 87,
99, 100 M.i$5 (scotland Yard), 48-49 Millin, Piper William, 215, 227,

Monks, Noel, 227 Montcalm (french cruiser), 185 Montgomery, Gen. Sir
Bernard L., 62, 64, 272 Montlaur, Count Guy de, 69 Moon, Rear Adm. D.
P., 147 Moore, Lt. Col. Elzie, 179 Morell, Dr., 172 Morgan, Lt. Gen.
Sir Frederick, 54-55, 256 Morison, Adm. Samuel Eliot, 93 Morrissey,
Pvt. James, 114-15 Mower, Pvt. Alan, 165, 166, 168 Mozgo, Pvt.
Rudolph, 180, 204 Mueller, Maj. Hermann, 81 Mueller, Merrill "Red,"
61, 102 Mulberries, 56-57 Mulvey, Capt. Thomas, 262-63 Murphy,
Aircraftsman John, 223 Murphy, Pvt. Robert M., 106-7,

Natalie, Surgical Technician Emile,

Nazis, 54 Neill, Tanker Don, 193 Nelson (british battleship), 93 Nevada
(u.s. battleship), 93,

New Amsterdam (u.s. transport),

Newbury (england), 66, 101 Newhaven (england), 68 Newsweek, 191
Norfield, Cpl. Harry, 226 Norfolk (va.), 257 Normandy, 13-14, 74-76.
See also Invasion of Normandy Northwood, AB/SEAMAN Ronald, 214, 255
Norton, Capt. Gerald, 226 Noyes, P.f.c. Nelson, 199

OB West. See German Army Ocker, Lt. Col., 116, 117, 130, 189, 267 OKW
(oberkommando der Wehrmacht [Armed Forces High Command]), 18, 23, 34,
81, 85, 90, 99, 171-72, 228, 230, 231 Olson, Lt. Hugo, 145-46 Omaha
Beach

1/ Infantry Division and, 71

aftermath of battle at, 276-277

area of, 39

fighting at, 198-203, 219-20, 263-66

German air attacks on, 247

German guns covering, 117, 187, 195-96, 233

German observation post above, 118, 129-30, 173, 188-89

landings at, 179-83, 194-98

Pointe du Hoc assault and, 70

prior to invasion, 76

transports carrying troops to land at, 152

troops assaulting, 181-82 O'ationeill, Lt. Col. John, 178-79
Operation Gambit, 44-47, 227-228 Operation Neptune, 93
Oppeln-Bronikowski, Col. Herman Von, 155, 270-271, 272-74,

Orne River (france), 110, 112, 122, 168, 171 O'Sullivan, Lance Cpl.
Patrick,

Otway, Lt. Col. Terence, 128,

Ouistreham (france), 43-44, 69 Overlord, 49, 50, 58, 254. See also
Invasion of Normandy, Allied assault

panzers, 154-55, 171-72, 229-230, 232-33, 260, 270-274, 277
paratroopers, 123-27, 133-36, 138-44, 161-62. See also Pathfinders
Paris (france), 41-42, 86, 150 Pas-de-Calais, 14, 19, 147, 153
pathfinders, 101, 106-9, 113-16. See also Paratroopers Pemsel, Maj.
Gen. Max, 83-84, 120, 149, 150, 151-52, 153, 156-57, 171, 234 Peeriers
(france), 274 Petty, Sgt. Bill "L-Rod," 96, 211, 212-13 Philadelphia
(pa.), 256 Phillips, Pvt. William Joseph, 73 "Piccadilly Circus," 94
Picquenot, Joseph, 253 pigeons, 222 Piper, Capt. Robert, 160 Pluskat,
Frau Werner, 258-59 Pluskat, Maj. Werner, 116-19, 129-30, 173-74,
188-89, 241-42, 267-68 Plymouth (england), 69, 72 Pointe du Hoc
assault, 70, 186, 192, 209-13 Poiron (polish destroyer), 94 Poland, 16,
21, 23 Pompei, Sgt. Romeo, 180 Port-en-Bessin (france), 219

Portsmouth (england), 42, 170 Pouppeville (france), 138 Powell, Pvt.
Colin, 125 Pratt, Brig. Gen. Don, 66, 158,

Priller, Col. Josef "Pips," 85-86, 155-56, 245-48 Primault, Maurice,
253 Prince Charles (british transport), 98, 181 Prince Leopold (british
transport),

Prinz Eugen (german battleship), 154 prisoners of war, 116, 167, 258
Putnam, Capt. Lyle, 143, 146-47 Puttkamer, Adm. Karl Jesko Von, 84,
172, 259

Qu'Appelle (canadian destroyer), 94 Quincy (u.s. cruiser), 93, 186

Radio Berlin, 258 Radio Paris, 41-42 R.a.f. (royal Air Force), 55-56,
91, 109, 167, 187 Ramillies (british battleship), 93, 184, 186 Ramsay,
Adm. Sir Bertram, 62,

Ranville (france), 109-10, 113-114,

"Red Devils," 122 Red Plan, 88 Reichert, Maj. Gen. Josef, 115-116,
119, 149-50 Reichling, Sgt. Walter, 33-34 Renaud, Alexandre, 130-32,
134 Renaud, Simone, 130-31 Rennes (france), 83, 84 Rheims (france), 85
Richter, Lance Cpl., 242-44 Richter, Maj. Gen. Wilhelm, 148,

Ridgway, Maj. Gen. Matthew B., 137, 138, 145, 146 Riley, Lt. (j.g.)
Francis X., 193 Ristigouche (canadian destroyer), 94 Ritchie, Douglas,
77 Robert, P.f.c. Harry, 211 Rogge, Pvt. Robert, 247 Rome (italy), 16,
229 Rommel, Field Marshal Erwin

Atlantic Wall and, 22-23, 26

during D Day, 157, 231

defenses against Allied invasion of Normandy and, 26-31, 126

departure from La Roche-Guyon and, 36-37

headquarters at La Roche-Guyon and, 14, 15, 150, 171, 232

Hitler's assignment of, in Normandy, 22-23, 28

Junger's manuscript and, 82-83

letters to wife and, 17-18

losses at Normandy and, 277

message about D Day and, 35

news of Allied invasion and, 260-61

planned meeting with Hitler and, 20

pressure on, 15-18

return to Normandy and, 269-70, 272, 273, 275-76

Rundstedt and, 23

trip to Germany and, 16, 19-22 Rommel, Lucie-Maria, 15, 17, 37, 260
Rommel, Manfred, 15 Roosevelt, President Franklin D.,

Roosevelt, Capt. Quentin, 257-258 Roosevelt, Brig. Gen. Theodore,
204-6, 257, 261-62 Roosevelt, Mrs. Theodore, 257-258 Rosenblatt, Lt.
Joseph, Jr., 98

Roulland, Father Louis, 131 Royal Navy

Ajax, 93, 186

Arethusa, 167

Ben Machree, 97

Black Prince, 93, 186

Dunbar, 184, 247

Empire Anvil, 95, 96, 181

Enterprise, 93

Largs, 184

Nelson, 93

Prince Charles, 98, 181

Prince Leopold, 178

Ramillies, 93, 184, 186

Scylla, 93, 213, 255

Swift, 184

Talybont, 209

Warspite, 93, 184, 186, 255 Rubin, Lt. Alfred, 163 Rudder, Col. James
E., 209-10 Ruge, Vice Adm. Friedrich, 233 Rundstedt, Field Marshal
Gerd Von, 16, 18, 22, 23, 27, 28, 80, 81, 84, 99, 100, 150-51, 171,
229, 230, 231-32, 260 Russia, 21, 24, 26 Ryan, Sgt. Tom, 98 Ryland,
Sub-Lt. Richard, 186

St.-Aubin-sur-Mer (france), 46,

Ste.-Honorine, 117, 118, 241 Ste.-Marie-du-Mont, 80, 263
Ste.-M`ere-eeglise, 105, 130-34, 135-36, 138, 143-44, 146, 159, 160-62,
168, 248, 276 St.-Germain-en-Laye, 80, 81 St.-Leo, 83, 120, 185
St.-Marcouf battery, 130, 149, 151, 207 St.-Martin-de-Varreville
battery, 130, 138, 169 Saint Pol, Guy de, 253 Salmuth, Gen. Hans Von,
99, 149, 150, 153, 234 Sampson, Capt. Francis, 140 Samuel Chase (u.s.
attack transport), 95 Sanders, Lt. Gus Sanders, 161-162 San Francisco
(cal.), 257 Santarsiero, Lt. Charles, 133 Saskatchewan (canadian
destroyer), 94 Satterlee (u.s. destroyer), 209 Sauer, Frau, 259
Scharnhorst (german battleship), 154 Schlieben, Lt. Gen. Wilhelm,
84,

Schmundt, Maj. Gen. Rudolf, 20, 37, 232, 259, 261 Schneider, Lt.
Col. Max, 210 Schramm, Maj. Wilhelm Von, 82-83 Schultz, Pvt. Arthur
B. "Dutch," 65-66, 100-101, 141-42, 257,

Schultz, Mrs. Lucille M., 257 Scotland Yard, 48 Scrimshaw, Coxswain
Dick, 209 Scylla (british cruiser), 93, 213,

SHAEF (supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force), 50, 51, 53,
59, 77, 162, 224 Shearer, Pvt., 136 "The Shooting of Dan McGrew,"
179,

Silva, Pvt. David, 198 Smith, Capt. Carroll B., 98, 199 Smith, Pvt.
Christopher, 224 Smith, Maj. Gen. Walter Bedell, 53, 62, 64 Soemba
(dutch gunboat), 93 Sonntag, Dr. Karl, 82 Southwick House, 42, 52, 61
Speidel, Maj. Gen. Dr. Hans, 29, 36, 82, 83, 149, 152, 232, 260,
275-76 Stagg, Capt. J. N., 62-63

Steele, Pvt. John, 133, 135, 136, 161 Steinber, Pvt. Joseph, 95
Stein, Sgt. Herman, 211 Stevens, T/sgt. Roy, 178 Stewart, Pvt.
Stanley, 224 Steobe, Col. Prof. Walter, 21, 80-81, 82 Streczyk, Sgt.
Philip, 265 Strony, Sgt. Raymond, 265 Stunnell, Pvt. George, 218-19
Supreme Headquarters. See SHAEF Svenner (norwegian destroyer), 94,

Sweeney, Gunner's Mate 3/c William, 95 Swift (british destroyer), 184
Sword Beach

advances beyond, 226-27

fighting at, 223-27

German air attacks on, 247

German defense of, 234

landings at, 213-16

Merville battery assault and 123, 129, 163-68

model of, 69

Tait, Lance Cpl. Harold, 124 Tallerday, Lt. Jack, 142 Talybont
(british destroyer), 209 Tappenden, Lance Cpl. Edward, 113 Taylor,
Col. George A., 265 Taylor, 2nd Lt. Herbert, 204 Taylor, Lt. John
B., 216 Taylor, Maj. Gen. Maxwell D., 66, 101-2, 137, 138, 141, 145,
169, 262 Tedder, Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur William, 62, 64
Templehof, Col. Hans George Von, 19, 36, 84, 260 Texas (u.s.
battleship), 93, 186 Theen, Lt. Fritz, 173, 174, 188,

Third Reich, 16, 269, 277 Thomine, Georges, 253 Thornhill, Sgt. Avery
J., 98 Tlapa, Pvt., 136 Touchet, Col. Antoine de, 253 Touffreeville
(france), 113, 114 Tucker, P.f.c. William, 161 Tuscaloosa (u.s.
cruiser), 93, 186

United States, 24, 256-58 U.s. Army

battalions 2nd Ranger, 70, 90, 96, 98, 136, 178, 181, 199, 209,

5th Ranger, 70, 98, 178, 181,

112th Engineer, 98 146th Engineer, 95 299th Engineer Combat, 200 741/
Tank, 194, 203

brigades 1/ Engineer Special, 183, 204 5th Engineers Special, 72, 98
6th Engineers Special, 202

divisions 1/ Infantry, 71, 95, 96, 98, 181, 182, 185, 189, 195, 200,
257-58, 263-66 4th Infantry, 69, 72, 80, 94, 137-38, 180, 181, 191,
193, 203, 204, 206, 248, 261-63 6th Airborne, 157, 164 8th Infantry,
205 29th Infantry, 73, 94, 97, 98, 178, 179, 180, 181-82, 185, 194,
196, 197, 200, 256, 263-65 82nd Airborne, 59, 65, 100, 105, 107, 109,
133, 135, 136, 137, 138, 141, 143, 145, 146, 159-60, 161, 206, 245,
248, 257, 276 101/ Airborne, 59, 66, 101, 107, 108, 133, 135, 136, 137,
138, 139, 140, 141,

143, 144, 158-59, 160, 169, 205-6, 262-63 116th Infantry, 181

First Army, 185

regiments 8th Infantry, 193, 194 12th Infantry, 94, 261 16th Infantry,
96, 265 505th Parachute, 106, 133, 136, 138, 160, 161 506th Parachute,
133

squadrons 4th Cavalry, 162 24th Cavalry, 162 U.s. Coast Guard, 92, 193
U.s. Navy

Ancon, 152

Arkansas, 93, 186

Augusta, 93, 184-85, 264

Bayfield, 147

Butler, 209

Carmick, 185

Charles Carroll, 98

Corry, 38-41, 67, 72, 73,

Fitch, 207

Herndon, 67, 102, 249

mine sweepers, 38

Nevada, 93, 186-87

New Amsterdam, 70

Quincy, 93, 186

Samuel Chase, 95

Satterlee, 209

Texas, 93, 186

Tuscaloosa, 93, 186 Utah Beach

area of, 39

drop zones behind, 107

German batteries above, 151

German guns covering, 249

islands off of, 162

landings at, 179-83, 192-94, 203-6, 234, 261

obstacles to landing at, 136-138

Pointe du Hoc assault and, 70

positions behind, importance of, 144

prior to invasion, 79

Vandervoort, Lt. Col. Benjamin, 146-47, 168-69 Van Holsbeck, Pvt.,
136 Varaville (france), 113, 114 Veillat, Roger, 253 Vella, Pvt.
Chuck, 192 Verlaine, Paul, 34, 87, 99, 100 Veterans of D Day

American, 281-311

British, 311-17

Canadian, 317-21

French, 321-22

German, 322-24 Vian, Rear Adm., 213 Vierville (france), 77-78, 190 Vire
River (france), 136, 171 Voigt, Pvt. Wilhelm, 240-41

Walas, Lt. John, 142-43 war games, German, 83-84, 120, 148,

Warlimont, Gen. Walter, 37, 229-31,

Warspite (british battleship), 93, 184, 186, 255 Weast, P.f.c. Carl,
266 Webber, Telegraphist John, 214, 216 Wendt, Pvt. Fritz
"Friedolin,"

Weymouth (england), 70 White, Pvt., 136 Whittington, Capt. George, 266
Wiedefeld, Sgt. William James, 97 Wiedefeld, T/sgt. William, Jr.,

Wilhelm, P.f.c. Frederick, 108 Wilkening, Capt. Ludz, 117, 173, 174,
188, 189 Wilkes, Pvt. John, 268-69 Wilkins, Maj. Donald, 126
Williams, Lt. Bill, 180

Willicombe, Joseph, 221-222 Wilson, Coxswain Charles, 228 Wilson, Pvt.
Charles, 218 Windrum, Capt. Anthony, 115 Wither, Sgt. Russel, 97-98
Wodarczyk, Sgt. Heinz, 86, 155, 156, 245-48 Wolfe, P.f.c. Edward, 204
Wolf, Tom, 102 Wood, Capt. George, 143-44 Wozenski, Capt. Edward, 265
Wrens, 42 Wuensch, Cpl. Anton, 242-44

X20 (british submarine), 45, 170,

X23 (british submarine), 43-47, 73, 169-70, 227-28, 255

Young, Lt. Willard, 135

Ziegelmann, Lt. Col., 233 Zimmermann, Lt. Gen. Bodo, 152, 231, 232