Our landing craft hit the beach on the Dog Red sector of Omaha. It was called a Rhino ferry, and it was designed particularly for the Normandy invasion; there were sandbars offshore, and the craft had to be able to handle shallow waters. The idea was that we would head in, beach the landing craft, unload the equipment and head back to sea.
It didn’t work that way at all. The men in the rear started pushing forward because we were caught in a murderous cross-fire, from one end of the horseshoe-shaped beach to the other. Then the Rhino got stuck. So incoming boats used us for a dock, or a pier. Day after day, even as things got quieter, we were still out on Omaha Beach.
That’s what we did for six days. That sixth night, early in the evening, a lone German plane came over at high altitude. Every gun on every ship opened fire. I was the beltman on a .30-caliber machine gun, and we opened fire along with everyone else. A few moments later, I was struck in the left eye by a single piece of shrapnel. I knew immediately that the eye was gone, because the eyeball collapsed and the fluid ran down my face. The shrapnel was from friendly fire. I really think that it was easier to cope with the loss of an eye than the fact that it was friendly fire, even if it was unintentional.
When we got up to the aid station, there were so many wounded that there was barely room for the medics to walk between the stretchers. Earlier that day, a friend and I had scavenged a disabled tank, looking for rations, and found a large can of Vienna sausages. Since I was a typical 17-year-old, voracious and not particularly fussy, I ate every last sausage. Later, while I was waiting for someone to look at my eye, shock set in. And then I was regurgitating that canful practically onto the guy next to me. Let me tell you, I haven’t eaten a Vienna sausage since.
As the morphine wore off, I began to feel the shrapnel in back of my eyeball, scraping away. The medics thought I’d be more comfortable if they bandaged both eyes, so when they evacuated me, I was totally blind. Fortunately, there was a British Salvation Army worker who talked to me all the way. I was strapped onto the hood of a jeep, and I could hear him reassuring me: “Yank, we’re here, now.” “Yank, we’re going to send you fellows out to the hospital ship.” I haven’t the foggiest notion what he looked like, but I felt I owed him a lot. Then he was gone, and my six days on Omaha were over.
title: “Six Long Days On Omaha Beach” ShowToc: true date: “2023-01-30” author: “Leslie Echols”
Our landing craft hit the beach on the Dog Red sector of Omaha. It was called a Rhino ferry, and it was designed particularly for the Normandy invasion; there were sandbars offshore, and the craft had to be able to handle shallow waters. The idea was that we would head in, beach the landing craft, unload the equipment and head back to sea.
It didn’t work that way at all. The men in the rear started pushing forward because we were caught in a murderous cross-fire, from one end of the horseshoe-shaped beach to the other. Then the Rhino got stuck. So incoming boats used us for a dock, or a pier. Day after day, even as things got quieter, we were still out on Omaha Beach.
That’s what we did for six days. That sixth night, early in the evening, a lone German plane came over at high altitude. Every gun on every ship opened fire. I was the beltman on a .30-caliber machine gun, and we opened fire along with everyone else. A few moments later, I was struck in the left eye by a single piece of shrapnel. I knew immediately that the eye was gone, because the eyeball collapsed and the fluid ran down my face. The shrapnel was from friendly fire. I really think that it was easier to cope with the loss of an eye than the fact that it was friendly fire, even if it was unintentional.
When we got up to the aid station, there were so many wounded that there was barely room for the medics to walk between the stretchers. Earlier that day, a friend and I had scavenged a disabled tank, looking for rations, and found a large can of Vienna sausages. Since I was a typical 17-year-old, voracious and not particularly fussy, I ate every last sausage. Later, while I was waiting for someone to look at my eye, shock set in. And then I was regurgitating that canful practically onto the guy next to me. Let me tell you, I haven’t eaten a Vienna sausage since.
As the morphine wore off, I began to feel the shrapnel in back of my eyeball, scraping away. The medics thought I’d be more comfortable if they bandaged both eyes, so when they evacuated me, I was totally blind. Fortunately, there was a British Salvation Army worker who talked to me all the way. I was strapped onto the hood of a jeep, and I could hear him reassuring me: “Yank, we’re here, now.” “Yank, we’re going to send you fellows out to the hospital ship.” I haven’t the foggiest notion what he looked like, but I felt I owed him a lot. Then he was gone, and my six days on Omaha were over.
The invasion had been postponed before, and the weather forecast was chancy. Finally he stopped pacing and said: “OK, let’s go.” Later that day he drafted a press release in case of disaster. “Our landings have failed,” Granddad wrote, “and I have withdrawn the troops. My decision to attack … was based on the best information available. The troops, the air and the Navy did all that bravery and devotion could do. If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt it is mine alone.” Thankfully, he never had to release it.
