It struck me as odd, during the planning stage for Operation Neptune, that the higher echelon of Naval Command was comprised of officers whose names were monosyllables. King, (Cominch); Cook (COS to Cominch); Stark (Comnavu); Kirk (ComTask Force 122), who was the American Assault Commander of Force "O" and Force "U" in Operation Neptune); Wilkes (Comlancrabeu, and later Commander Naval Ports and Bases, France); Korns (COS to Comlancrabeu, and later Comlancrabeu).
Then there was my driver, whose name was Kare.
It will be noted that all the above-listed names, in addition to the unusual circumstance of being monosyllabic, also contain the letter "K."
So also does the word work.
It did not occur to me at the time of the frantic, sleepless planning days, preceding the assault, but in retrospect I am reminded that King had five stars; Stark had four stars; Kirk had three stars; Wilkes had two stars; Korns had one star.
Kare was a boatswain's mate second class and had no stars.
Also, he had no knowledge of the meaning of the key word, work.
Upon detachment early in April, 1944, from the command of the U. S. Naval Advanced Amphibious Base at Falmouth, Cornwall, I reported to Admiral Wilkes at Plymouth, Devon, for training and planning a new command, a very hush-hush assignment.
This new assignment was NOIC UTAH.
NOIC stood for Naval Officer in Charge. That was comparatively simple to interpret.
After a super-duper processing in top-top, hush-hush, secret indoctrination, I was officially declared a "Bigot." This confirmed one as holding all the top secrets (so I thought). After being duly "Bigoted," I was enlightened further that UTAH was one of the two American beaches on the Normandy Coast where it was proposed to "establish a lodgement regardless of loss of life or equipment—for the purpose of accomplishing the total defeat of Hitler's Armies on the continent of Europe."
I further inferred that this operation would occur soon. From the serious attitude of my seniors, I concluded the deal was going to be for keeps, and really rugged.
To say that the results of my first week's probing into the mysteries of the duties of the nebulous NOIC UTAH were a bit hazy, would be putting it mildly.
The oracles of the top echelons, both Navy and Army, were more than cooperative. "Sure, we'd love to help you," they counselled. "But, really, we don't know much about it either. You see, it's a brand new set-up, this NOIC business. It has never been tried before. Assaults in the Med disclosed that it is absolutely essential to have a NOIC. There is no use wasting your time asking us questions. Submit your Plan for consideration and approval no later than a week from today.
"And, oh, yes, there'll be a full-scale dress rehearsal called 'Exercise Tiger' in a week or so. Maybe you will discover then that any plan you formulate probably won't work."Then, as an afterthought, "Have you discussed this business with the British? They are putting on a show called 'Exercise Gold Braid' down on Bracklesham Beach, probably tomorrow. Better attend that."
Kare drives me headlong over the winding, blacked-out English roads to Bracklesham Beach, near Bognor Regis. All night long we tear through fog and rain, arriving at Bracklesham near daybreak.
British officers are sauntering along the shale beach, smoking pipes and chatting amiably. Landing craft clutter the shore line for miles. Cardboard signs mark the beach activities. I see one marked NOIC GOLD with an arrow pointing to a little stone structure, resembling more than anything else an ancient Chick Sale.
I enter, discovering several officers wearing uniforms of the British Royal Navy. They are drinking tea from tin pannikins. One officer wore four stripes and a black, fiercely bristling beard. Two piercing blue eyes darted merrily in my direction.
"I'm Captain Arnold, U. S. Navy, gentlemen, and I'm looking for NOIC, British Forces," I began. "I wanted to discuss—"
"Aye. Sit down and have a spot of tea. I'm the ruddy NOIC GOLD himself. I've been wanting to talk with your American blokes. Y'see, we don't know a damned thing about this NOIC set-up. New and all that sort of thing. A bit of a beastly puzzle, what? I've made no plans, myself. Seems to me it will be an on-the-spot-decision sort of mess. Any plan you make can't work anyhow. The ruddy Army won't know what they want, and if they did, it wouldn't be there, and if it was, they would decide they didn't need it by the time you got it ashore. So, y'see, plans wouldn't be any use. And don't forget Jerry will jolly well see that any carefully formulated plan will be knocked into the King's whiskers. It's going to be a sticky mess at best. But it's surprising how well all our blokes will get in and solve their problems when the bombs and shells are batting about. Don't you think so, Captain?"
As I left, with my tea practically untasted, the cheerful "Cheerio, Captain," ringing emptily in my ears, I remarked to Kare, "Afraid I didn't acquire too much information there."
But maybe I did.
Before "Exercise Tiger" commenced, several firm premises developed out of the fog of uncertainty surrounding NOIC's duties.
Summarized, they appeared as follows:
(1) NOIC would command a body of men called the "Far Shore Group."
(2) This group was charged with the orderly movement of ships and craft destined to land thousands of men and tons of equipment on UTAH beach.
(3) As soon after H-hour as possible, NOIC must establish himself ashore, where, in collaboration with the Army, his task force would be responsible for the beaching of landing craft and the operation of ferry craft to disembark troops and their equipment from transports and supply ships which could not approach close into the beach area on account of their draft.
(4) During the assault phase, NOIC must land with such elements of his command as would insure a proper functioning of his mission at the earliest possible moment, notifying the Assault Force Commander in the U.S.S. Bayfield of his readiness to take over all naval commitments of the beach operation.
It was just as simple as that.
The major elements of NOIC's command included the following:
(a) Operations control ashore and afloat of all water borne equipment.
(b) Communications to render these operations functional to the extreme degree. (This would include radio and visual signals, walkie-talkies, and dispatch boats.)
(c) Sighting and approving the sinking of the artificial harbor called" Goose berry."
(d) Locating and constructing the pontoon causeways for the unloading of troops dry-shod on Utah Beach.
(e) Erecting and maintaining bivouacs for naval forces based ashore.
(f) Supplying fuel and fresh water for all forces afloat and ashore during the assault and the first phases of the build-up.
(g) Beach salvage to remove wrecked craft from boat lanes and beach-head areas.
(h) Repair facilities for landing craft and emergency repairs for larger ships in the turn-around.
Except for a few minor tasks such as prisoner-of-war evacuation, embarking of wounded on ships selected for that purpose, and submitting volumes of daily reports, there wasn't much else to NOIC's simple job.
There were numerous gatherings at the Royal Marine Theatre in Plymouth, Devon, for the discussion of plans, exchange of misinformation and what-not. These gatherings were misnamed "briefings." Kare called them "beefings."
I recall the last "beefing." It started at nine o'clock in the morning. By the time the mine-sweeper group, the convoy commanders, the air-assault force, the fire-support group, the beach battalion, the transport command, the intelligence, and the rocket ships had all spoken their pieces, it was past ten o'clock at night, when NOIC UTAH was called upon to elaborate on the final plans of the Far Shore Group.
That was on the first day of June, 1944.
Since this was the final briefing, I decided to make it so. Everybody was tired and worn out. Pointer in hand, on the stage surrounded by charts and maps, my only comment was, "NOIC UTAH is as ready for this kick-off as he ever will be. I wish you all a Happy D-Day."
I received a postcard last Christmas from a British naval captain addressed "Captain Happy D-Day Arnold, care Navy Department, Boston, Mass." It was delivered to me at my home in Natick, Massachusetts, several days before Christmas.
"Exercise Tiger," the last full dress rehearsal for Force "U," confirmed the prophecy that NOIC's plans were bad, and almost unworkable. Communications proved the most critical stumbling block. Also, many officers whom I had chosen for key jobs had to be shifted to less responsible assignments. I had too many round pegs in square holes.
Discouraged, I called on my admiral, letting my hair down. He listened patiently to my tale of woe. I was thoroughly discouraged. I was afraid that I had made a complete flop of the whole deal. I was nearly convinced that the British whiskers had the right philosophy.
My admiral stared thoughtfully at me a moment, when I had finished.
"Yeah," he said, rising to shake my hand. "If you didn't feel like that, I'd be worried. I picked you to do a job on Utah Beach. Don't let me down, Arnold."
That was that.
From the Bristol shore to the Channel ports, all England and Wales swarmed and seethed with men in khaki-alert, serious soldiers moving thousands upon thousands through the silent, English, blacked-out country-side. Stealthily at night endless convoys of men and vehicles embarked with their impedimenta onto thousands of naval vessels concealed in rivers and bayous.
Many weary months of training at Appledore, Falmouth, Plymouth, Dartmouth, Tinmouth, Exeter, Fowey, St. Mawes, and all the other Channel ports south of Dover now proved its worth. The embarkation of these legions was accomplished with quiet orderliness. Packed into their allotted vessels they were sealed aboard for the greatest military operation the world has ever known. For too many of these heroes it was to be their greatest and last adventure.
I embarked at Dartmouth on the LCI (L) 530. It was the evening of June 4, 1944. And it was one of the most beautiful, peaceful nights I ever remember in England.
The LCT's with the advance waves for the assault on UTAH had sailed at dusk to their rendezvous off Portland Bill. I had completed every little detail I could think of to insure the proper functioning of my Far Shore Group.
Kare was with me on the LCI 530. He was the only one of the MOIC group aboard.
Deputy NOIC and a small element of the Communications and Operations Unit were embarked on other vessels. This was just in case. He had the plan for NOIC UTAH, and was quite capable of carrying out the mission if the LCI 530 ran afoul of a mine or got interrupted by one of Jerry's big gun messengers from Killebouf or one of those from the Contenin Peninsula. Intelligence reports assured us that the convoy area and boat lanes at Utah could be expected to be enfiladed by plenty of heavy stuff, manned by trained, trigger-happy Rommelites.
Just as we were about to cast off our lines, a messenger from the decoding room thrust a flimsy into my not too-steady hands.
"D-Day postponed twenty-four hours."
Double up all lines again. Stand by for another twenty-four hours. Each sixty minutes of these delayed hours was an eternity for me. There was no use to turn in, as I couldn't sleep anyhow.
Kare brings me a steaming cup of coffee. I sit on the little folding chair on the starboard wing of the bridge. The LCI skipper takes my advice and turns in while I sit and gaze at the silent, eerie waters of the Dart river, watching the incoming tide slack the mooring lines. Silent, ghostly sailors take in the slack of the lines, stepping carefully around dark, khaki-clad forms cluttering the deck. These forms are soldiers-two hundred infantry for the sixteenth wave of the assault.
Just before dawn, the LST's which had sailed out to the rendezvous for the original planned D-Day, creep silently back into their berths, only to turn about and sail down the river again without dropping anchor. It is now June 5. They deploy to their same rendezvous again, sailing once more to join the hundreds of ships off Portland Bill, where they will assemble and sail on the delayed schedule. Twenty-four hours more life for some of these youngsters. Thank God, they didn't know it.
Dusk again finds our crew singling lines and casting off for the new D-Day schedule. I don't remember leaving my seat on the starboard side of the bridge in twenty-four hours. Kare brought me coffee and a bowl of hot soup. I remember calling the commander of the Sea Bees to discuss the bivouac area when we should hit the beach. I also recall making a lot of penciled notes in my memoranda book about some new idea I had for marking causeways with captive balloons to keep ferry craft from perching on them like setting hens when they would be concealed by the high tide.
Clearing the lighthouse at the mouth of the Dart, which was lighted for a few hours for the first time in many war-weary months, we took position in column with hundreds of other vessels. It looked like a veritable "bridge of ships to France."
But it wasn't. It takes a lot of ships to bridge the English Channel's ninety miles from Portland Bill to France. There is really a lot of uneasy water from Southampton to Isigny or St. Vaast.
It's nearly dusk now, and most of the ships in the assault force could be identified: transports, cruisers, screening destroyers, patrol craft-LST's towing Rhinos—LCM's ML's, LCT's—hundreds of them. It occurred to me that Hitler's Luftwaffe could certainly have a field day if they decided to attack this column, and I wasn't too sure they would not.
The speed of the convoy was limited to the top speed of the slowest component—in this case, the wallowing little LCT's laden with their precious burden of modern fighting equipment and carefully trained men. Many of the soldiers manning this gear had been sealed aboard the little craft for more than a week, living in unbelievably cramped and uncomfortable quarters.
Well, it wouldn't be long now.
Through the silent night the LCI skipper and I studied charts, following the Plan. "Upon reaching Point Mike at approximately zero one-thirty hours, change course to so and so. If ahead of schedule, slow to three knots to await arrival of other elements of convoy. Observe strict radio silence. Dan buoys will show the turn at point Oboe, etc. etc."
The ripple of the bow wave sounded like Niagara Falls in the tense silence. Though we were still so far from the French shore that Hitler's reception committee couldn't possibly hear the report of a forty millimeter, everybody on board spoke in whispers. It's funny about that, too. It is the same on submarines when diving off soundings.
My gaze-weary watch reads 3:30—H-hour minus three hours! My knees are shaking so much that I'm sure they are causing the ship to vibrate. My skipper glances at me. In the dim glow of the shaded binnacle light his face looks ghoulish. My return grin must look as forced and silly as his does.
I reflect on the Plan. We should reach the convoy area off Utah Beach by four o'clock. It should be light enough by that time to make a landfall on the Normandy coast. The air-borne troops of the 82nd and 101st Divisions must be just about due to land in their gliders around St. Mere Eglise behind Utah Beach. A rugged job was that one. Thinking of their hazardous mission, my knees steady down a bit.
At six o'clock (H-hour minus thirty minutes) the Air force, according to Plan, was to give the beach a final drenching. This would continue for twenty-five minutes.
The naval fire support group would commence pitching in big stuff at H-hour minus forty, and continue until three minutes before H-hour. Battleships with fourteen-inch, cruisers with eight-inch, and destroyers with five-inch H.P. would lay it into predetermined beach fortifications and strongholds. Then, at H-hour, the naval gunfire would shift to targets inland while our first waves of landing craft hit the beach.
The first waves would be automatically scheduled like the first few plays of a football team running plays without signals. There would be eighteen silent plays, each consisting of a wave of landing craft with deadly purpose; the first two, consisting of DD tanks loaded on LCT's, would land at H-hour minus five minutes, and the second at H-hour, on Red and Green beaches respectively.
Third wave embarked in LCVP's would land the first Regimental Combat Teamsof infantry, landing one minute behind the second wave of DD tanks.
Fourth wave in LCM's carried the Army engineering and naval demolition units for the clearing of beach obstacles and mines. These unsung heroes commenced their maniacal tasks at H plus three minutes.
At H plus 30 minutes the fifth wave embarked in LCVP's and LCA's would land the Naval beach battalions, H.Q. infantry, and anti-aircraft batteries.
Sixth wave at H plus forty minutes, lifted in LCM's, LCVP's, and LCA's, would carry more engineers and the last elements of the naval beach battalion.
Ten minutes later the seventh wave, consisting of about one thousand infantry mounted in LCVP's, would augment the pitifully small number of men in khaki wilting under the German counterfire.
More LCVP's in the eighth wave carried more infantry.
At H-hour plus sixty minutes, LCT's making up the ninth wave would move in heavy engineering equipment.
And so it went on Plan. Sixth ranger battalion—more engineers—an armored battalion mounted in LCT's in the twelfth wave—a field artillery armored battalion—more engineers—two more field artillery battalions—more antiaircraft units—a medical unit—until the eighteenth wave, which included an amphibious truck company, loaded in DUCKS. That was H plus three hours. After this, NOIC should take over and quarterback the team.
I had studied the Plan until I could repeat it almost wave for wave on this eerie morning of June 6, 1944.
My eyes have been a source of pride to me for over a quarter of a century in and out of the Navy. But I wasn't the first to pick up the ghostline of France, slinking out of the fog and mist of the English channel at four o'clock on that memorable morning.
It was Kare, I think, who, standing by my side with more hot coffee, whispered, "Landho, sir." I swear he didn't speak above a whisper. Yet every shadowy form hunkered down on that gently heaving deck sprang erect to man the rails.
Then we all spied it. A red glow lighted the western horizon. Silhouetted by this light was the unmistakable outline of low-lying land. It flashed through my mind that this indelible picture was identical with the silhouettes pasted on the walls of the "Bigot" room, where we studied the intelligence reports describing Utah Beach.
What caused that red flash which gave us our first landfall still remains a mystery to me. It wasn't a bomb, because there was no concussion or sound. It might have been a flare from the defenses ashore expecting a continuation of the daily bombings from the Allied air forces, who had pounded this area relentlessly for the past weeks.
It's your guess or mine.
"How's your courage, Skipper?" asks the LCI captain, munching a three-inch G.I. ham sandwich.
"Well, Bill, if it wasn't for this glorious opportunity to die for democracy, so this world could exist in everlasting peace and tranquility, I fear my courage might be a little on the brittle side."
"Yeah," says Bill, taking a huge bite out of the sandwich.
It might have been my imagination, but I'll swear he glanced at my knees.
It was 4:15 now. Land was plainly visible. The rapidly approaching dawn revealed the thousands of ships and craft. As far as the eye could see, they stretched away toward the English Coast.
The U.S.S. Bayfield, flying our admiral's two-star flag, had anchored and swung to the gentle breeze. Already her LCA's were lowered away, loaded to wallowing gunwales with helmeted men in khaki. The Bayfield marked the transport area. That would be thirteen miles from the beach, and in mine-swept waters leading to the boat lanes. At the head of the boat lanes and about four miles seaward from the beach would be the control vessels which would start the assault waves on the scheduled race for glory and victory—or defeat and indescribable slaughter.
Wriggling uneasily on my hard chair, I glance anxiously at the sky. Then I peer again at my watch. Five-fifteen! Where in hell is that air fleet? Suppose they are fouled up on the schedule…But they weren't! Here they come, thousands of them crowding the meager dawnlight, like wild geese on a hunter's morning.
To this day I can't tell a Lightning from a Lancaster; but Lancasters or P-38's, that mighty armada roaring over the assault fleet off Utah Beach on that fateful June morning was the most welcome sight I have ever witnessed.
For the next half hour the low-lying coast of France seemed to leap into the air in a sheet of jagged flame and thunder, nor did it settle back until the last bomb bays were emptied by those welcome harbingers of courage to sailor men.
Meanwhile we headed for the starting line to check the position of the control ships. Just before we jockeyed into position, a terrific explosion to starboard a few hundred yards rocked our LCI. It was the LCT 707. She had hit a mine full and bye, turning her completely over. Then all hell seemed to cut loose. German shore batteries recovering from the shock of surprise were returning the slugging salvos of the naval fire support ships, raising great gouts of water as they plumbed for the correct range. They got it on the little P.C. 1261, the control vessel of Green Beach. She was standing broad on our starboard bow about three cables lengths when she took it. The little 173-foot hull seemed to disintegrate in a belch of flame and noise. I doubt if a man aboard survived.
The first two waves had left the line of departure on schedule. The third wave was joining, while the components of the fourth and fifth were circling slowly, ready to take position on signal from control.
The noise was deafening: returning planes roaring back to Britain to reload-fire support ships belting away at unseen targets inland, making an almost continuous wall of sound-Jerry batteries banging and barking, indicating definitely that the element of surprise attack had passed.
Another large transport hit a mine. She seemed to rise from the water on an even keel. It was a gentle heave rather than the savage jerk which might have been expected from the power of the mine. Then she seemed to hang a moment just clear of the water. Breaking gently in two, she slid back. The two great masses which were once a ship upended crazily and disappeared to add to the graveyard of that glutton, the English Channel.
The white crescent of sand, which was Utah Beach, was now visible through the glasses. Tiny columns of men wading ashore from beached ferry craft, dodging and running between shell bursts, disappeared suddenly into the white sand. Black columns of smoke arose from some of the convoys creeping along the dunes.
Then two LCM's came close aboard. The young officer in one cups his hands, trying to make himself heard in the uproar.
I beckon him alongside, racing down the ladder to the rail.
"Blankets and blood plasma are needed desperately ashore, sir."
My skipper nods that we have both.
I order the two LCM's alongside.
To the wide-eyed young Army captain in command of the two hundred infantry men aboard I issue an order, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Get your men over the side, Captain. Have each of them carry two extra blankets. You carry this blood plasma. On the double now! This craft makes a good target for Jerry at this range."
Before I could check my own impedimenta—carbine, canteen, gas mask, rations, papers, etc.—the soldiers were swarming into the landing craft. Kare helps me over the side and leaps down after me.
Skipper Bill makes a motion with his hands like a prize fighter greeting his audience. I try to return a half-hearted grin. Then to the coxswain of the LCM, a pasty-faced kid, who is a hero without decoration, I give the order:
"Cast off. Hit the beach where you were told to bring the blankets."
In reality, it must have been twenty minutes, but it seemed like less than three when we grated to a shuddering stop in three feet of muddy water off that inferno which was Utah Beach head.
As the ramp lowered, I was shoved forward up to my knapsack in cold, oily water.
German eighty-eights were pounding the beach head. Two U. S. tanks were drawn up at the high water line pumping them back into the Jerries. I tried to run to get into the lee of these tanks. I realize now why the infantry likes to have tanks along in a skirmish. They offer a world of security to a man in open terrain who may have a terribly empty sensation in his guts. But my attempt to run was only momentary. Three feet of water is a real deterrent to rapid locomotion of the legs. As I stumbled into a runnel, Kare picked me up. A little soldier following grabbed my other arm. Just for a moment he hung on. Then he dropped, blood spurting from a jagged hole torn by a sniper's bullet.
The rows of wounded lying on the narrow strip of sand between high-water line and the concrete sea wall supplied the answer for the need of blankets and plasma.
Never before, or since, have I seen Kare or any other enlisted man work so hard, nor his commanding officer help him so vigorously.
Kare dug a foxhole in the sand. This would be Headquarters NOIC until some of the savage German fire could be silenced.
It was near noon when an Army officer wearing the single star of a Brigadier jumped into my "headquarters" to duck the blast of an eighty-eight.
"Sonsabuzzards," he muttered as we untangled sufficiently to look at each other. "I’m Teddey Roosevelt. You're Arnold of the Navy. I remember you at the briefing at Plymouth. If you have any authority here, I wish you would stop bringing in my troops down on Red Beach. They're being slaughtered. Navy ought to know better than send them into that sector where the darn Krauts have them bracketed."
I had in mind to explain to him that NOIC Utah was not supposed to function until the assault phase was over. Looking at his grim eyes, however, I decided against this procedure.
"Seems to me, General, there was something in the Plan about you soldiers neutralizing this Kraut artillery. But wait a moment—"I could almost feel the blast he was about to erupt—"I'll shift the unloading from the Red sector over to the Green beach area."
"How?" he demanded.
"By the simple expedient of alerting the Navy beach battalion on Red Beach to send the incoming craft over to the Green Beach area. I'll station a ship off a couple hundred yards and divert them. Somebody's going to raise hell because it isn't according to the book, but I have to agree there's no use landing dead men down in that suicide area. Meantime, General, suppose you alert your outfit to change the staging area or post guides to direct the incoming troops to wherever you want them staged after they land."
Before he could argue Kare and I were on our way to execute the idea. It was remarkably successful, too, until German spotters finally notified their batteries to shift their fire over to Green Beach. That was some three hours later. Shifting his barrage, Jerry gave us an opportunity to clear up the wreckage and carnage on Red Beach.
Early in the afternoon I contacted the Army general and his executive officer in that area. They were commanding the First Special Engineering Brigade, who would work with me in consolidating all beach operations.
Together we decided on sites for operations installations. Two stout German concrete pillboxes right on the sea wall would serve as the general's C.P. and my H.Q. We agreed on sites for the pontoon causeways, bivouac areas, water and fuel dumps, signal stations. I surveyed the proposed site for the "gooseberry" ships to be sunk for the artificial harbor. The location set forth in the Plan appeared as good as any. They could be towed in and sunk on the original coordinates set forth in the Plan of the grid.
The general's responsibility was to advise what ships bearing what equipment and fighting units were wanted, where, and when.
It was NOIC's responsibility to bring them into the most expeditious anchorage and supply the ferry craft to unload them, then beach the ferry craft where the troops could march to their staging areas and where the supplies could be unloaded by the Army and taken forward to the front or to predetermined dumps in the fields contiguous to the beach area.
At nightfall the beach was swarming with men and vehicles huddled on the thin strip of sand dunes between the sea wall and the inundated field shoreward. Jerry's fire became more desultory and less accurate as the reluctant darkness hovered. Led by Seabee officers, men were frantically working, forgetting danger of enemy fire.
Other elements of our command landed. Deputy NOIC UTAH arrived with the nucleus of operations control, a few communicators, and part of the ferry control group.
Plans were discussed in the candle-lighted dugout where mooring charts and landing diagrams with their overlays were placed upon the bulkheads of the concrete stronghold, evacuated less than sixteen hours ago by Rommel's defending supermen. At least two of the "master race" still lay sprawled on the steps leading down into the shelter.
Kare said these were probably two of the best Germans in Europe. They were awfully dead.
Army engineers, assisted by the Navy communicators who were now ashore, ran wires from NOIC's H.Q. dugout to that of the general. They connected with the naval beach battalion posts at Red and Green Beaches. On the highest dune, a signal searchlight and signal halyards were quickly installed and manned by alert communications men trained for the job.
From this signal station, Ferry Control afloat was tied into Operations Control ashore. The landing craft along the en tire beach head could be con trolled and directed from H.Q., through the beach battalion outposts.
Satisfied that this setup could be expanded for proper function of NOIC's organization, I stumbled aboard an LCVP and headed out to the Bayfield, to report readiness to take over NOIC's mission.
The transport area was still 25,000 yards out from the beach. Seas were running better than seven or eight feet. Rhinos and LCT's were having difficulty marrying to LST's. In peaceful water and daylight, this was not a simple maneuver; in darkness and withthese seas, it was well-nigh impossible.
Seas were too heavy to make the lee gangway of the Bayfield, so I ordered the coxswain to make the Jacob's ladder of the boat boom.
The captain of the Bayfield, a doughty Coast Guard officer, met me at the gangway. Conducting me to the Admiral's quarters, he volunteered the information that the Admiral had sent a dispatch ordering me to report aboard less than a half hour gone.
Dirty, wet, and resembling a ghoul seeking a contract to haunt a house, I was ushered into the wardroom. The Admiral and his chief of staff were there. So, also, was one of the highest-up Army generals. Greetings were friendly, but brief. Faces were tired and drawn.
"Sit down, Arnold. We are advised that the show on OMAHA didn't go quite according to plan. Looks like your beach may have to take a little extra burden." This from the Admiral.
"Well, sir, we are set up to take over on a scale commensurate with the Plan, Admiral; but if you expect to land stuff quickly, we'll have to move the LST's in closer to the beach. You can see by glancing over the rail that we can't unload them out here. Seas are too rugged."
"Can't bring them in closer to the beach until the German shore batteries are silenced," somebody ventures.
"Can't silence the shore batteries until we have the heavy stuff ashore to silence 'em," somebody else suggests.
The Admiral's chief of staff left the conference at this moment to take the bridge. The Luftwaffe was coming over. They sank a transport in the next berth to the Bayfield—Ithink it was the Susan B. Anthony.
Then a quiet man with a quiet manner said, "Sort of a vicious circle, isn't it, gentlemen. Perhaps Captain Arnold, whose responsibility it is to get these vital troops and supplies ashore, will give us his opinion on the problem."
This was the Army general. For my money he was one of the Army's aces—a quiet, kindly, intellectual soldier who had confidence in his juniors.
Our admiral directed that the LST's close the beach to anchorage "FOX," four miles from mean low water line. He also directed me to assume the duties of NOIC UTAH at once, and sent a dispatch to all concerned to this effect.
I left the Bayfield in a P-T boat at three o'clock in the morning of D plus one. Hitler's Luftwaffe was over us again in some strength. Flares lighted the transport and beach areas. It was a spectacle indescribable and fearful. Attacking bombers and protecting night fighters roared and zoomed. Anti-aircraft batteries from the thousand anchored ships joined with those batteries on the beach head in a super-brilliant pyrotechnic display. The sharp, authoritative bark of the radar-controlled 90-millimeter cannon thundered above the rattle of lesser calibre guns.
I ordered the P-T boat to heave to, lest some trigger-happy gunner mistake us for any enemy E boat, blasting us to hell first and investigating later.
It is weird and awesome to see planes burst into flame at night and plunge into dark water, with a momentary flash and then complete blackness.
Repetition of this spectacle almost nightly in the ensuing chaotic two weeks renders it now in retrospect almost unworthy of mention, but in that dawn of D-day plus one it left a lasting impression on my mind.
It was nearly daylight when the German planes left the area, defeated and blasted. NOIC UTAH slopped ashore on the teeming sands of Utah Beach.
Half-naked Seabees were flooding down the first components of the pontoon causeways, utilizing the high spring tide to float the massive steel structure high on the beach, with second and third units waiting impatiently to settle the extending lengths as the tide receded. I paused a moment to watch.
The Seabee officer in the charge of this operation approached, his face pale and tired under his helmet.
"Location O.K., sir?"
"Excellent. You are one tide ahead of schedule, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir, but I figured they were better in place than cluttering up your boat lanes. I looked for you to get your permission, but you were out on the Bayfield, and jockeying these things into position took the boys' minds off the air raid. Hope I didn't do wrong, sir."
"I wish everyone would do things just as wrong," I replied.
NOIC UTAH's staff officers were in the busy operation dugout surrounded by milling Army officers, many of whom wore the insignia of brigadier and major generals on their netted helmets.
These warriors immediately encircled me. Their attitudes were varied. Some were anxious and nervous. Some were belligerent and bellicose. All were deadly earnest.
"Captain, when do you think you can get my outfit ashore? Been waiting hours here and we're supposed to be up around Ste. Mere Eglise right now."…"Say, listen, when is the goddam' Navy going to get my guns ashore? How in hell you expect to fight a war without guns?"…"My outfit is out there on your LST's waiting to be unloaded for most a whole day now. They'll die of seasickness if you don't land 'em right away."
My deputy sneaks a gleeful wink in my direction. He had apparently spent the entire night with these restless heroes.
I had to tell them something. Yet just what could I tell them that wouldn't be too far wrong? I certainly did not know how many of their units would not be disembarked for another twenty-four hours.
"Sure, General, what is the number of your outfit? The Sixty Second?" I glanced through a sheaf of papers which in reality had no bearing on the unloading plan at UTAH. "Yes, General, your outfit is to be unloaded very shortly." The General hustles out to pass the word to his staff, who pass the word to the non-coms, who pass the word to Joe Bloe, who ends up sitting on the sand on his ditty box waiting along with his restless superiors.
Next. "You say your brigade is out in the transport area? What ships? What! You don't know the ships they are embarked on? How in hell can I get them in if you can't tell me what ships they are on?"
The General looks nonplussed. He removes his helmet, wipes his brow, and tried unsuccessfully to think of further argument. Before he can make further complaint, he is elbowed aside by more and brighter stars, painted on camouflaged helmets.
Through the long twilight they mill around the operations dugout, until Jerry puts on his evening show with his overrated Luftwaffe.
Junior staff officers and non-corns seek shelter in fox holes. The generals ease into the stout pillbox which can't house the entire Army.
I decide to inspect the beach. Jerry's bombs are less punishment than the scowls and caustic remarks of impatient soldiers wearing helmets with stars.
"By the way, gentlemen, General Eisenhower should be here shortly. He will no doubt straighten everything out," I remark as I leave the smoky, stinking pillbox to the surprised flock.
Somehow, the troops were landed. Somehow the generals dissipated as their commands were landed to take their belated places in the slugging, fluid front.
Meeting these same people later in the war, when many of them were real heroes, they laughed about the panic and snafu times on Utah Beach, when I had set them out on the wet sand to await an imaginary visit from General Eisenhower.
In the uncertain dusk of D-day plus two, ships for the "Gooseberry" arrived according to plan. Of the original thirteen ships to be detonated and sunk to form the artificial harbor off Utah Beach, eleven appeared. The other two still lie restlessly on the bottom of the English Channel. Jockeying the eleven that arrived into place, a tug took a direct hit from the German defense batteries, and sank.
Another tug, assisted by two LCM's, picked up the tow. The "Gooseberry" ships were settled on the sands off Utah, unbelievably close to the predetermined positions of the Plan.
German batteries helped sink them. Gun crews manning the anti-aircraft batteries on the helpless, concrete-laden Liberties will vouch for the help the Germans afforded in the sinking of the "Gooseberry" off Utah. I can readily appreciate their viewpoint.
In fact, the German radio boasted that twenty ships (this estimate of twenty was conservative for the "master race") had been sunk off Utah Beach by virtue of super marksmanship on the part of the German gunners.
The Atlas, an LSR assigned to Utah, moored in the lee of the "Gooseberry."
Crippled LCT's, LCVP's, and British LBV's snuggled around like piglets around a brood sow. Engines, ground tackle, ruptured hulls were repaired. The renovated craft joined the ferry turn-around while other stricken craft took their place alongside the Atlas to receive round-the-clock repairs by tired, overworked men.
A Rhino-ferry repair barge, manned by Seabees, grappled to the Atlas, lending their mechanical skill in welding to the overworked crew of the repair ship. Crippled Rhino's were repaired. Tired crews received hot meals, hot baths, and joined the hurried ferry craft, now unloading thousands of soldiers and thousands of tons of critical supplies on the bloody sands of Utah Beach.
A daily target tonnage of six thousand was set for Utah.
It was met. It was increased to eight thousand—and that was met.
Now, nothing went quite according to Plan on Utah—Operations, causeways, "Gooseberry," ferry service, communications, or bivouac.
Many times I was reminded of the advice of big Black Whiskers of the British NOIC. "It resolves itself down to an on-the-spot decision of men who are resourceful. And any plan you study and make will be upset by Jerry. He, too, is resourceful."
Well, Whiskers was right according to his viewpoints. His premise had been based upon the professional experience of patient military men who for centuries had been accustomed to perennial wars. He knew nothing of American ingenuity. He knew little of the doctrine of American democracy, premised on the theory that personal enterprise is the father of resourcefulness. He knew little of our game of football, which, though much rougher than cricket, develops rugged character. It also develops studied planning. This studied planning, thorough and intricate as it may be, also required "on-the-spot decisions" by seasoned players who demand victory.
Kare, the bosun's mate, agrees in principle with this theory, as I am sure do Admirals King, Stark, Cook, Kirk, and Wilkes, and Commodore Korns.
A graduate of Worcester Polytechnic Institute, Commodore Arnold served in the U. S. Naval Reserve in World War I, then transferred to the regular Navy and served in submarines for 6 years. Returning to the Naval Reserve; he was administration officer, Supervisor of Shipbuilding, Bethlehem Steel Company, at Quincy, Massachusetts, until ordered to command the advanced amphibious base at Falmouth, England. After serving as NOIC UTAH during the Normandy landings, he commanded the U. S. Naval Advance Base at Le Havre, France, during the remainder of the campaign.