“One man with courage makes a majority.”
Andrew Jackson (1767 - 1845)
Johnny Kilroy
went out of the plane at a bad angle and knew he was in imminent danger of
fouling his shroud lines. The snapping
impact of his parachute opening jarred him breathless. He groaned as his lungs expelled his
air. Despite the shock and pain, he
looked up thankfully to a full canopy.
Before he could feel relief he looked down to see only the wide, angry
moonlit ocean. He was about to
experience a paratrooper’s worst nightmare, a night water landing.
He had to work
fast. He only had moments before
plunging into the roiling blackish sea with his 130-pound load. Under this extreme burden, it would only
take seconds to sink like a rock with no chance of escape.
First came the
reserve chute since it was easy to unbuckle.
With it went the M-1 Garand in its Griswold case that he had jammed
behind his reserve chute. Next he slid
his Schrade-Walden switchblade knife from his breast pocket, snapped out the
razor sharp blade and cut one riser.
The other one would get cut just above the water so his parachute
wouldn’t settle on top of him and keep him submerged. Then he quickly cut the straps on his ammo bandoliers and they
dropped into the sea. He began to spin
wildly, suspended by one riser, and saw the spit of ground he had nearly landed
on. It was jutting out into the ocean
like the pointed prow of a ship. It was
a steep and high cliff with an escarpment that ran back into the Normandy
countryside and he cursed his bad luck for just missing it.
No time for
recrimination! With his left hand he began pulling the heavy Gammon grenades
from pants side pockets and dropping them into the water hoping they would not
somehow detonate. With his right hand
he fumbled to find the pull-ring on his Mae West life jacket, careful not to
pierce it with his safety knife. When
he found the ring and jerked it the vest inflated with a small controlled
explosion of air. He cut loose his
musette bag as he approached the water and then saw Buzz Buggy crash and
cartwheel into the dark ocean. He took
a deep gulp of air just before cutting the second riser.
The icy cold
water was yet another shock to his system and in spite of the inflated life
vest, he sank to the bottom quickly under the remaining weight of his
load. He knew he only had thirty or
forty seconds to find the surface. He
desperately looked for something else to cut off of his body, only to realize
that in the shock of the water landing, he dropped his safety knife. By kicking his feet he would leave the
bottom but not by much. He had neutral
buoyancy at best and had to lose some weight quickly if he was to reach the
surface. The water was dark and murky
and he couldn’t see much. He began to
work by touch.
Keep your
head. Think. He willed himself to take
action as he fought off the panic that was an impulse away from taking
over. Grenades! He pulled and dropped six fragmentation
grenades from his harness where they were hooked in by their spoons. Gas Mask! It was attached to his web belt but would not come free. Trench knife! He reached down to his boot and pulled out
his trench knife. It was razor sharp
and he had no difficulty slicing off his web belt, which took the gas mask and
his water-filled steel canteen with it.
His .45 was in a shoulder holster under his life vest so he slipped his
hand beneath the vest and dropped his pistol.
All the while he was kicking his feet slowly and he began to rise
slightly. At least he thought he was
rising. It was hard to determine his
orientation in the dark waters. He felt
his pockets and pulled out and dropped some K-rations as he slowly breathed out
the bubbles from the deep breath he had taken before he hit the water. He only had a few seconds before the
unstoppable urge to breathe would take over and he would suck water into his
lungs and drown. Hoping he was at least
oriented upward, he dropped the trench knife and began to kick and pull his
arms violently toward the surface. He
pulled and kicked relentlessly and just before he was about to suck in a lung
full of deadly seawater, he broke the surface and gasped hungrily for air.
He lay there, buoyed by his life jacket, sucking in mouthfuls of
life-giving oxygen. His silk parachute
had blessedly drifted away and did not obstruct his emergence from the
depth. Buzz Buggy was nowhere to
be seen having disappeared into the swirling waves without a trace. His thoughts went to that brave navigator
who kept the plane in the air long enough to give him a fighting chance. Johnny didn’t even know his name. Someday, he decided, he would find out. His family had a right to know how he
died. With so much going on in the dark
skies and shadowy waters around Normandy this day, too many families would
never know the circumstances in which they would lose loved ones. At least he
could fill in the blanks about what happened to the brave crew of the C-47
named Buzz Buggy.
When he
finally caught his breath he turned toward the shore. The cliffs towered above him to the height of a ten-story
building and blocked out a good piece of the night sky. Looking left and right, the cliffs extended
for thousands of yards in both directions from the point. The night sky was full of planes still
dropping parachutists inland and returning to England over the English
Channel. The gunfire could still be
heard and the tracers and floodlights continued to spray the inky night sky.
He wasn’t that
far off shore and with the help of his Mae West and his lightened load, he
would make it in. Despite his relief,
he had to keep in mind he was disembarking on a fortified enemy shore and if
not careful, he could be killed or taken prisoner. He had no food, no weapon and no plan. What a way to invade Europe, he thought.
The tide was
out and he crawled up onto the sandy part of the beach on the east side of the
promontory. He continued to crawl on
his belly until the sand turned to shale at which time he stood up in a low
crouch and skulked to the base of the cliff.
The huge craters on the shale part of the beach looked deep enough to
devour a man so he carefully avoided them until he came to the base of the
vertical cliff. There was no cover or
concealment here so he worked his way eastward until he came upon a hollow
cleft in the steep bluff partially covered by some wild growth of
shrubbery. It wasn’t exactly the cover
he would have liked but it was nevertheless some concealment. Johnny stepped inside the cleft and sat down
on the hard ground. His teeth were
chattering and his body was shivering as he held himself and tried to draw some
heat from the cold stone cliff face. He
pushed his wet hair back off of his forehead, tried to wipe his face with his
still wet hands and braced against the chilling breeze. The seawater dripped slowly from his stiff
clothes as he waited helplessly for the Allied invasion from the sea. At least he was still alive.
The C-47 transports droned overhead for two more hours as the empty
planes made their way home. Shortly
after the last one passed above at no more than 500 feet, he began to hear a
more distant, deeper drone of engines, higher, obscured by the clouds. The rumble of bombs dropped from invisible
bombers shook the landscape. Loose
stones and small rocks tumbled down the side of the cliff and peppered him with
sandy debris. He looked for a safer
place and scrambled higher up to an outcropping loosened from the side of the
bluff by previous bombings. He climbed
twenty or thirty feet up and while no longer being covered by the shrubbery, he
was not easily visible to anyone on the heights or the beach because of the
overhang directly above him. The
bombing continued but Johnny wondered why they were targeting so far inland. He knew Omaha Beach lay just a few miles to
his right as he looked out toward the sea.
On his left, blocked by the high escarpment, was Utah Beach a few miles
in the opposite direction. Thus far,
none of the bombs had come close to either of the beaches or the heights
overlooking them. The inaccurate
bombing went on for what seemed like hours.
Then there was near silence, just the sound of the angry surf slapping
against the peaceful shore.
Johnny looked
out toward the east. The sky was just
beginning to brighten. Out over the
horizon there were bright orange flashes of light. At first he thought it might be lightning but a few moments later
the shells roared overhead and exploded inland. Then he heard the sound of the big naval guns over the
horizon. Each salvo, sounding like a
huge thump, sent 2000 pound naval artillery shells onto the headland
above. He could feel the pressure waves
on his face. More bright lights lit the
horizon as more ships joined the fusillade against the shoreline. The far horizon glowed red as more ships added
to the barrage. Low clouds reflected
the flashes in a kaleidoscope of colors.
Many of the artillery shells landed well inland beyond both Utah and
Omaha Beaches. The sky was filled with
the screeching sounds of shellfire.
Each salvo sounded like a runaway freight train crashing into a
mountainside. The ground shook
repeatedly and violently under the enormous barrage.
From his perch up the side of the cliff he could see the small dots on
the horizon become slightly larger as the vast invasion fleet became more
visible. It sent a chill up his already
frigid spine. Before long, the sea
between the horizon and the shoreline filled up with all types of small craft
bringing soldiers to establish the beachhead.
There were more than he could count.
The great invasion from the sea had begun.
Johnny glanced
at his watch. It was 0610 hours. Bombers appeared, came in low and began
dropping bombs on the plateau above.
They were American B-26 Marauders, and they were dropping their bombs at
low altitudes. Meanwhile the large
shells continued to pour in from over the horizon and two destroyers ventured
closer to the shoreline, adding to the firepower pounding the cliffs. Smoke and dust swirled everywhere partially
obscuring the massive fireworks display of rockets, tracers and gun flashes.
Johnny became
aware he was in danger and scrambled down the rubble pile to the beach as
shells continued to whistle overhead and bombs cratered the land above the
cliffs. He found his former hiding spot
and, determining it was not safe enough, moved farther west to the base of the
steep cliff. He came upon a small cave
and hid in it. At 0625 hours the
bombers abruptly stopped. Five minutes
later the sea bombardment ceased. Small
arms and cannon fire could still be heard coming from the east. Flares, rockets and bursting shells lit up
the sea around Omaha Beach but it became eerily quiet where he was. He stepped out of the cave and looked out to
sea. Normally, when a barrage stopped a
landing was close behind. No ships were
visible off the beach. He strained his
eyes to scan the horizon and then he saw them.
A small flotilla of nine landing craft was running parallel to the
beach. He recognized them as British
Landing Craft Assault vessels, called LCAs.
He watched them for a time as they slowly closed the distance to the
small narrow spit of land he was standing on.
They were fighting the tide and running westward until they were only a
few hundred yards away from the beach.
The fingers of the tracer rounds from high above on the cliff probed at
the defenseless line of small boats.
Machine gun fire opened up, rippled the water and peppered the landing
craft. They were under heavy and
accurate fire and taking casualties as they struggled westward through a rip tide
and an angry, pounding surf.
Time seemed to stand still as the men on the small ships returned
fire. Clearly, they were late to their
target. As time went on, their
destination appeared to be the narrow shale shelf under the high cliffs. But where would they go from there? The vertical walls were at least a hundred
feet high and appeared unassailable.
Finally, the nine landing craft turned toward the beach. They came in roughly abreast and slightly
staggered. Johnny noticed four more
craft hovering out to sea seemingly waiting for the initial nine to clear the
beach. Some of them looked to be
American DUKW amphibious vehicles. This
ingenious design married a boat hull to the standard General Motors
deuce-and-a-half truck to create a unique vehicle that could easily bring men
and supplies from the water to anyplace on land they were needed. This indicated to Johnny these were probably
Americans.
The first LCA of the nine abreast neared the beach and fired a
rocket-propelled rope up toward the cliff.
It fell short and the rope came crashing down on the sand. The ramp dropped from the front of the first
landing craft and men came pouring out.
Johnny glanced at his watch. It
was 0710 hours.
The same LCA moved in closer and fired another rocket-propelled rope
ladder and this one held. Immediately,
soldiers were scaling the rope and heading up toward the heights.
As more landing craft neared the shore, they too fired ropes up to the
top of the cliff. Some landed to his
left and others to his right. They
covered a stretch of beach nearly 400 yards wide. Scruffy looking soldiers stormed out of the boats, avoided the
water-filled shell craters and began to climb.
Others added to the ropes already dangling from the cliff by firing
hand-held rockets with attached ropes tipped by grapple hooks. Still others were assembling scaling ladders
as they ascended the cliff face. Johnny
couldn’t believe his eyes. They were
scaling the precipitous cliff walls like spiders.
The Germans on the top of the cliff fired on the climbers. They also dropped concussion grenades into
the mass of men at the base of the cliff.
The soldiers returned fire. This
counterfire, along with a barrage from two destroyers, maneuvering in close,
gave the first climbers a chance to get over the top and establish a small
bridgehead. The covering fire, however,
did not prevent some of the soldiers from being killed or wounded by sporadic
German fire. More than just a few
bodies crashed back down to the narrow beach from their ropes and ladders.
Johnny stepped out of the small cave.
A soldier, a grimy looking staff sergeant, carrying a machine gun
immediately challenged him. He was
wearing a Ranger tab on his sleeve.
Johnny instinctively raised his hands over his head. The soldier shouldered his weapon and took
aim at Johnny’s chest.
“I’m an American,” Johnny yelled over the din of gunfire and began to
drop his hands.
The Ranger looked confused and motioned for Johnny to keep his hands
up.
“I’m an American paratrooper,” Johnny yelled again.
“This way,” the Ranger motioned with his weapon. “Keep those hands up.”
Johnny locked his hands on his head and walked in the direction the
staff sergeant had indicated. The
soldier fell in step behind him. In a
few moments they came to a group of officers huddled under the base of the
cliff giving orders and communicating on their radios. The other soldiers on the shore continued to
send ropes up and over the cliff and began to climb them.
“Look what I found, Colonel,” the soldier prodded Johnny in the back
and pushed him toward the officer. He
was a large man with a map case and binoculars hung around his neck. He stared at Johnny for a moment and before
Johnny could speak, said, “Why Sergeant, can’t you tell one of our own men from
the Krauts?” He studied Johnny for a
moment. Johnny thought he must have
looked like a drowned rat. “What outfit
are you with, son?”
“Private John
Kilroy, Five-oh-six,” Johnny snapped a quick salute and pointed to the
Screaming Eagle shoulder flash on his left sleeve.
“Lieutenant
Colonel James E. Rudder, Second Rangers,” the officer casually returned the
salute. He seemed calm and very much in
control despite the chaos around him.
“What the hell happened to you, soldier? Where’s your gear?”
“Bottom of the
Channel, sir. I got dropped into the
water.”
Rudder shook
his head and laughed. “You airborne
guys are crazy. Stay right here and
we’ll get you onto one of those LCAs taking our wounded back to the ship.”
Johnny
interjected. “Sir, if it’s all the same
to you, I’d like to rejoin my outfit.”
Rudder paused
and turned back to Johnny. “Fine,
Private.” Then he looked at the
sergeant. “Sergeant, let’s get this
soldier a weapon and some gear. He’s
going to be our guest. Take him up the
ladder with the war correspondent after we secure the cliff. See that he gets back to his unit.” He turned back to Johnny. “Like I said, you guys are crazy.”
Johnny snickered. He pointed up toward the hundreds of Army Rangers scaling the steep cliffs like ants on thin slippery ropes under enemy fire. “Sir, you think we’re crazy?”