Landing In France


In the very early morning, in pitch-black darkness, when our ship anchored outside LeHarve, we were assembled on deck with all our equipment, rifles and duffel bags. It was freezing cold and the sea, at least by our standards, was anything but calm. Of course, there was a long wait (there is an old Army phrase "Hurry up and Wait" which was demonstrated repeatedly throughout my army career) before the LSTs (landing ship tanks or troops)) arrived and we began to disembark via rope web ladders thrown over the side. This was a precarious task under any conditions but given the rolling sea, our heavy loads and the weakened condition of many of us due to severe and long seasickness, even more so. But in retrospect, as most of us recalled it in later life, it was nothing compared to the original storming of the Normandy beaches six months before. Comparatively speaking, we were damn lucky but that thought never occurred to us at the time.

The port of LeHarve, of course, had been devastated by prior bombings, which was why our ships couldn't dock and had to use the LSTs to tie up at the small wharves remaining. We were off-loaded, it must have been about two or three in the morning, and told to wait for the trucks to come and transport us to where the division was being assembled. It was a miserable, freezing long wait. Most of us who had been seasick had not eaten for days and were suddenly hit by an all-consuming hunger, at least I was. As we had left the ship, each soldier was issued one day's K-rations (three crackerjack size cartons containing a small can of "something", candy, a drink powder and crackers) and told not to eat them under any circumstances until given permission. Of course, I couldn't wait thereby earning my First Sergeant's additional commendations. Some more enterprising souls built small fires on the wharf for a little warmth. Soon, in the pitch dark, we attracted our first meeting with French citizens. They were ill-clothed, bedraggled, skinny kids with red faces and knees, begging for food and cigarettes (to sell or barter). We had our first experience with the soon to be ubiquitous pimp selling the sexual services of his sister but there were no takers. It was a sad welcome.

Finally, many hours later, our transportation arrived. They were open, 10-ton semi-trailer trucks providing no protection from the wind and cold but off we went heading, we knew not where, to a slop hole called Camp Lucky Strike. As we drove through the city in the morning, huddled together for warmth, many French people welcomed us with smiles and waved at us although by this time Yanks were not a unique sight. We enjoyed throwing gum and candies to the kids but the inescapable and visible hardship that these people obviously had to endure was disheartening to all of us. Lucky Strike, a former Nazi airfield and farming area now strewn with German mines, was the assembly point for the Division. All units would wait at this "camp" until all the heavy equipment, supplies and artillery were unloaded from the ships of our convoy, uncrated and/or assembled and sent on to the various Normandy towns nearby where we would regroup into company and battery units.

At first sight of Lucky Strike, we knew we were in for it. The huge field was covered by deep snow and under it were the unassembled tents for our use but no stoves or anything to deal with the cold. The first job was to find the tents, pass them out by squads, and assemble and raise them - not an easy job under the conditions. The first few days, there was no straw for the bare ground "floors", very few stoves and no food except the K-rations (ha). Gradually, and I emphasize the work "gradually", things improved. Of course, still being under the penalty of "extra duty", all the dirty jobs first fell to me. As we tried to settle into tent life, the biggest problem was food. It was in such limited supply that unit messes were never setup. Rather, only two meals a day were served in regiment-size mess tents. This, of course, resulted in very long lines to wait in the cold for insufficient food and the seemingly interminable wait for supper. Grumbling increased.

To add to our misery, and probably one of the dumbest ideas to emerge on how to keep us busy, some bright officer bucking for a Bronze Star got the idea that we should build trench ditches around each tent to provide protection against air raids. Even when our boys hit the beach six months before, the Luftwaffe was barely seen and wasting their dwindling resources on us would have been preposterous. That would have bad enough but what happened next took the cake. There was an unseasonably early thaw. The company and battery streets at Lucky Strike became an unbelievable quagmire of mud reminiscent of scenes from World War I. We had earlier been issued "combat boots", an example of how badly designed some of our equipment was. There were buckles above the ankle with a rubber sole and moisture absorbing leather. In the snow, to which we were soon again to be immersed in Germany, they proved that they were almost useless and a leading cause of trench feet. GI goulashes were not much better. The streets were laborious to walk on and avoided when possible. An incident can clearly demonstrate the discomfort of mud, mud and mud. The insides of our tents were relatively dry, i.e., very damp with the wetness penetrating our thin sleeping bags, another Quartermaster supply debacle, and the straw underneath. About 50 yards from our tent was the Battery latrine, just in front of a marked landmine area. Like many others of my comrades, I was suffering from diarrhea and one night it hit me with a vengeance. I unentangeled myself from my bedroll as quickly as possible, jumped into my boots and, in my long johns, started rushing towards the latrine. Three or four steps out of the tent, my right boot got stuck firmly in the mud but I was forced to rush on without it, slowed only when the same thing happening to my left boot a few steps later. By the time I reached the latrine, irreparable damage had been done. An hour later, I struggled back to my tent, pulled my only other pair of LJs out of my duffel bag and tried to get back to sleep. To complete the agony of this story, it took me all the next day boiling the soiled LJs over and over again in a tin bucket over an open fire until I could manage to wear them again (the stood by themselves) but I got rid of them as soon as I could.

Co-conspirators

It seemed like ages but finally we all left Lucky Strike and headed out to our individual unit locations, ours being on the outskirts of Neufchatel-en-Bray. My buddies and I ended up in a cow barn, not fancy but dry and comparatively comfortable. The biggest joy to us all was that we again had our own mess. Naturally, I was the first soldier "selected" for KP (Kitchen Police) but this time it was welcomed. I remember that day clearly. We had pancakes and I gobbled them down so quickly, our mess sergeant told me to eat all I want. He was one of the five mess sergeants we distributed rations to daily, so they were usually pretty nice to my partner, Wilkie, and me. I believe I ate 20 flapjacks. Funny, when I got back to civilian life my passion for pancakes was considerably reduced but over the years it has returned.

Neufchatel-en-Bray was a small town in fairly good shape but there wasn't much to buy or do but walk about a bit. One night, with some of my Service Battery buddies and a (very) few French occupation francs in my pocket, we took the stroll and ended up (surprise) in our first French bar, a very typical one I'm sure. We all ordered a "Calvados"; a very famous apple brandy produced in Normandy, which except for some weak beer was probably all they had. Bear in mind that I was no drinker, I didn't even like beer, and when I took my first taste at this bar it almost blew off my head. 'Till this day, I always claim it gave me an ingrown toenail. The stuff must have been made within the past three to six months and it was raw! [In 1983, during the summer before we returned to the States from eight years in Vienna with the UN, my wife, son and I took a long-planned two-week gastronomic tour through France by car. I had spent a year planning it. We drove through Neufchatel-en-Bray but I couldn't recognize it. It now is a small city. In 1999, during the 89th's "Tour of Remembrance" through Europe, my son and I visited a very similar bar in a very similar small town nearby, and drank some Calvados together. We all had aged very well.] My Battalion, the 563rd Field Artillery (medium, 155mm guns) was assembled with all its equipment and we were ready to roll.

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