This is an excerpt from Roger W. Major's final manuscript of his work ...funny about war. It is a fictional story based on his experiences in WWII. The names have been changed- but most of the story is an account of actual events. This is his story from 70 years ago today:
We lived our
lives as if from a compactor. We were
ordered, shuttled, trucked, walked in mud, obliged to stand in the rain for any
and all chow that, if hot at the chow line, soon became unpalatable cold and
slimy. I know a murder could be bought
for a hot meal and a dry pair of socks.
I thought I could smell sea air, or
something from my past, or even from our recent sojourn across the Atlantic. That next morning we were moved to the
staging areas and herded into ships that then moved out for additional ships to
load. We knew we had to be close to
something more than maneuvers; we were issued live ammunition and told not to
load until given orders to do so. My
guns were loaded, extra clips back to back for my sub-machine-gun and just let
anything even look like enemy and I was going to open fire! Chief and O’Reilly
felt the same way but were more prone to following orders.
Slowly dawn’s light invaded the
scene. Lumps on the water ahead of
us? Dark, ominous looking . . . ships,
landing craft, a myriad of ships that one could have used to walk from England
to France on like garden stepping stones!
We were not alone!
Small craft came alongside; hatches
of this large craft of ours were opened and cranes started lifting armored
equipment up and then over the side and down to those little stinking boats!
Gun fire! Rumblings like someone was tearing the sky in
half, then booms of protest that scared living hell out of us. We could see plumes of white water ahead
where the shells had landed and exploded.
There was no way of knowing if they were hitting anything we cared
about.
The hauling of
tanks from the hold was obscene for they had the crew members on the outside of
these tanks using the cables that transported as their only support; keeping
them from falling off and into that angry channel.
It had to happen. One of the tank’s cables broke! The crew fell directly into the landing craft
seconds before the tank broke free and squashed them through the craft into the
English Channel. It was merely loud
impact and then burp! All traces of
crew, tank and landing craft were gone!
Chief and I were transferred then
and there to “A” company as was Lt. Parrish who would be their new company
commander; their commander went down with that tank! He’d seen too many propaganda movies of
Patton in the fucking tank’s hatch.
O’Reilly shook his head, then looked bug-eyed as his name was called:
he, too, would go to “A” company; seems they had another casualty on the other
side of this craft!
I was ordered to ready to get onto
the next tank and be loaded to the landing craft below. I pulled back the bolt of my Thompson, aimed
it at the guy yelling the command and assuring him I was ending his war right then
and there if they didn’t put that tank down into that craft, first, and then if
it floated I would think about joining it.
He was screaming something about a direct order until I let about ten round burst dance bullets off a beam just
above his head. I noticed some MP types
starting to move and just waved my magic sub-machine-gun over them and warned
them to try it. The tank was lowered, it
floated, the crew and I went down on the cables and that was all I saw of
either Chief and O’Reilly.
The little craft comes to life! Guy sitting right up there in the wide open
with a steering wheel that looked crazy to me is putting the throttle to this
thing and heading for France, I guessed.
I was gunner and we did not have a commander so I was in charge of this
crew and I told them in no uncertain terms: get ready to fight! I had absolutely no feelings of loyalty to
this new bunch of victims I joined. I
felt some as we faced our new challenge and they seemed to need me to yell
orders.
We were in a lull of artillery
action when we first started our trip.
This was remedied quickly; our ships in support of this invasion started
to fire at the shore positions. Now they
seemed to get the shore positions pissed off and they are firing at us that are
trying to just get our feet dry. The
spray from the blunt front of our craft was soaking us to the skin. Gun fire is more intense now. We are hiding down in the craft’s belly just
behind the bow. Guy driving yells,
“Better get in that tank, we’re coming to shore!”
We dove for our positions; a shell burst to our right flank and just
about filled the damned boat; the little guy on top didn’t seem human; he just
grits his teeth and aims that damned thing at the shore and we came to one hell
of an abrupt stop as he tried to drive that thing through France. He opens the front end and my busted
ass! We are facing cliffs! He’s a good 600 yards up the beach
that-a-way!
I yelled, “You
silly son of a bitch! These fucking tanks don’t climb mountains!”
He throws a switch, the front end
closes with half the channel washing around our treads and puts that thing in
full reverse! We’re boiling up the
shore! Jerk, lurch, movement, then more
and be damned he got off!
This guy driving that thing had his
own angel. We were going down the
damned shore, broadside to the enemy guns and I swear the shore gunners had
to be about as hypnotized with this action as we; they didn’t seem to take
register of the fact they had a simple duck to pop. We were about half way to where we wanted to be when the batteries realized we were enemy and not
some comic act. They started firing and we were bouncing around from their near
misses like a cork in a toilet.
Our jockey now
turns that crazy looking steering wheel of his and puts full throttle to the
bucket and hits France again. Drops the
front hatch, we gunned up onto the beach and the last I saw of him was he was
backing out with the frigging front door closed! We saw the taped course the infantry had laid
out for us and we headed for it. Our
total invasion of France might have been 200 yards before all hell broke
loose! We hit a land mine on our right
side and blew the track, BOG gunner and driver to kingdom come. I dove out of the hatch; machine-fire sprayed
the tank for a moment and then found something more interesting I’d have to
assume. My loader tried to dive out and
he was killed right on top of the turret.
Welcome to France.
We should never have gotten those
Germans this mad. I stayed down on my belly and tried to see what I could do to
find cover and hopefully stay alive a bit longer. Bodies all over the place! Some dead, more wounded, and there were the
brave ones: the medics trying to help all they could; marked with their red
crosses on white fields on their helmets and we found too many of them with
bullets right through those fields; the Germans liked killing medics.
Noise, smell of blown intestines, stomachs blown inside out,
heads half on and half off, brains teeth, hands and legs all over the
place. The smell was enough to choke
you. I was so scared I don’t know if I shit myself or not; and didn’t care all
that much; the little bit of smell I could contribute to this scene would not
matter one little bit.
I crawled every chance I got from
one disaster to another; playing dead any time I thought I saw a living thing
move. The gunfire was to my flank from
concrete bunkers. I wanted to get away
from them for I knew the big guns would target this area in trying to soften it
up. I crawled slowly. Finally I am on what seems like tracks that
might be construed as a road. It had
deep ditches on each side and I took to one of them. Everything was either dead or in the throes
of dying. When I checked a few I thought
I could help I almost puked; they all were in stages of dying with too much
blood and guts showing to be anything but terminal.
This war was
going like a bad thunderstorm; it was in stages. We’d be in total explosion, bursts all over
the place, and then a lull. Neither side
seemed to be doing anything, then a minor rumble, the other side would do the
same, and then both would open fire with full force, lull. It was eerie.
I could not detect tank sounds from where I’d just crawled. I rolled over and tried to peek to the water;
I saw large navy craft way off and nothing in between! They’d stopped sending landing craft! Now I was in total panic; I’m alone?
I knew I had to get to some kind of
hiding place until I could figure out what next to do. I crawled to the next knoll and spotted what
looked like a small farm out building. It was a mess from near misses; shrapnel
tears right from the ground through the roof but it was cover where I could
hide.
It was an old chicken house best I
could figure. No fresh chicken crap but
plenty of bird droppings which could be chicken or pigeons, I didn’t really
care. When I was safely inside I sat up and peeked through one of the holes
blown into the side. Nothing but
artillery fire. I was so tired, wet,
cold and down right scared I must’ve burned myself out; I fell asleep!
It was getting dark when I came
to. I hurt. I didn’t realize it until then: I’d been hit
by some shrapnel; it had cut off my pants down near my right ankle and I had
bled but I didn’t know it until now. I
seemed to have stopped bleeding so I didn’t concern myself with it; getting out
of this mess was primary for me. But
how?
It became dark. I heard voices! German! Two guys came towards my shed and when close
to it, put their rifles on the ground, leaning against the wall of the shed I
was in and hid behind to take a smoke. I
don’t know what they were saying and didn’t much care and I knew I could kill
the two of them easily and if I did how many Krauts would this bring? No way!
They got over their break, picked up
their guns, and made off into the darkness.
I felt relieved. Then I was
scared out of my ever-loving-mind by a tap, then grasp of my arm and some guy
saying in a very heavy accent, “Yankee?”
I didn’t know if I should answer but then he did have hold of me, I said
quietly, “Yeah. You?”
“French. Come, come with me. I take you to safety from this place.”
Copyright recorded.
In five years, on the 75th anniversary of the Normandy invasion I hope to start a bicycle trip retracing the route of Patton's 3rd Army, 4th Armored division.
