“Hendersen! Neema! You make sure you hustle your butts up the beach with those Bangalores. If the Navy fucked this up and didn’t knock out those obstacles, we’re gonna have to do it ourselves. But that would just be typical wouldn’t it,” Capt. Bocek yelled aloud. He continued to issue playful orders to individual men in an effort to both remind them of their jobs and keep the mood as light as possible. Which still amounted to being as light as an anvil attached to a boulder. But still he tried. “Burg, you cover those two as they lug those heavy, explosive bastards up the beach. Give me some discipline with that BAR. She’s a lady, so treat her like one.”
Corporal Burg laughed at his captain’s words as he looked up into the cloudy sky. He couldn’t help but think how chilly it felt for a June day - even if they were on the sea under an overcast sky. He thought about summer months back home in the Midwest and how hot they would be at this point in the year. He closed his eyes for a moment and considered what he would have been doing during this time of year the last time he was home. He felt a slow grin crawl across his face. He remembered what he’d been doing. He was on the baseball field – Harrison Park – with eight of his best friends.
It’s funny, usually he had trouble remembering specific dates, and especially when it came to sports. But that day, June 6, 1943, was a special day. He had the game of his life at the plate against the defending state champions. Burg collected four total hits including a walk off single in the bottom of the final inning to bring home the win. He’d never felt more alive in his entire young life than when he rounded first base only to get mobbed by his onrushing teammates. He remembered that day well. The sun was hot. The grass was freshly cut. The stands were packed. And they had one hell of a celebration afterwards that included a “liberated” bottle of whiskey from one of his teammate’s dad’s liquor cabinet.
His stroll down memory lane was rudely interrupted when the squadmate – and good friend – behind him projectile vomited all over Burg’s back. “Dammit, Hendersen! If you’re going to get seasick, puke on the deck or in your helmet,” he said in frustration.
He wished he could say that was the first time he’d seen his buddy in such a state, but that just wouldn’t be true. Granted it was a much different situation than approaching a hostile beach – more a of a mischievously innocent one. During one of their 48-hour passes in England, Hendersen had enjoyed knocking back drinks a little too much. Always the life of the party, he made friends with every single patron in any establishment he found himself in. One of the side effects of his excessive friendliness was free-flowing drinks from his newfound pals.
As his pass neared expiration, Hendersen drunkenly sauntered back to the base and hit the sack with only a few minutes before reveille. Being in this raw state, he was the last to make it out of the barracks and fall in line with the rest of his unit. No sooner had his platoon sergeant begun his inspection than when he noticed a wavering Hendersen in the back. The sergeant intensely strode over and laid into him with a barrage of insults that would make a deaf-mute blush. After finishing his tirade, the sergeant leaned in and asked, “Anything to say for yourself, Private?” what came out of Hendersen’s mouth next were not words.
While grinning at the thought of his friend throwing up all over a platoon sergeant, Burg unslung his BAR from his shoulder to make sure that the more recent incident hadn’t shot some of his friend’s former breakfast in the breach of his weapon. The last thing he needed was a malfunctioning firearm thanks to blown chunks. This made him rethink his decision to remove the BAR’s plastic cover intended to keep sand and salt water out of each soldier’s weapon. He examined the automatic rifle carefully, and after he was satisfied it was in good working order, he slung it back over his shoulder.
Not only did his buddy’s seasickness awaken a second memory in as many minutes, but it also brought him back to the reality of the situation. Instead of thinking about a warm sun in a familiar setting back home or a funny anecdote in the safety of a basecamp in England, he was now very aware of his current and unsettling whereabouts. He was in an assault craft under an overcast sky on his way to engage in mortal combat in a country he barely knew anything about.
He took a look around at the rest of the men in the boat and took note of the mixed looks on their faces. Some of the older veterans wore a blank stare. Having seen combat before, they knew what was coming. The looks on those soldiers who had yet to taste battle had a different look. Their faces showed a blend of anxiousness and fear – some more so than others.
Burg found his emotions somewhere in between. He’d seen a bit of action at the end of the Sicilian campaign as a replacement – including a few small firefights and more than a few artillery barrages. It was at least enough exposure under fire that his company commander saw fit to promote him to corporal prior to the invasion they were currently undertaking – it also helped that the company’s depleted ranks called for hasty elevations in rank.
After thinking about that promotion, he turned to look at his commander, Captain Bocek, near the ramp at the front of the craft. The captain must’ve felt his ears burning because he turned around to look at Burg. He gave him a subtle smile and a confident nod before returning his eyes ahead.
Lastly, he turned to the man standing next to him. The man he considered to be his best friend – Pvt. Neema. They had arrived together as replacements and felt right at home with each other from the moment they met. It didn’t hurt that they were both from the same Midwestern state and had practically grown up in identical households as youths. The other men in the unit even joked with them about being twins, despite the fact that they looked nothing alike – Burg being tall and burly with dark blonde hair, and Neema being short and thin as a rail with jet black hair. Burg knew he could handle his fear as long as his buddy was next to him.
He returned his gaze forward, squinting to avoid the splash of salt water from getting into his eyes. He could still hear the waves hammering the craft as it surged forward. But he could also hear a more ominous sound in the distance. The unmistakable sounds of artillery rounds shaking the earth. Knowing that those were Allied shells crashing into enemy emplacements, Burg hoped that the sound would give him a boost in morale. Instead, it just sobered him even further into the realization that he was about to be shot at by a determined and lethal enemy.
“One minute!” the coxswain steering the boat yelled to his passengers.
Burg gave the coxswain a glance after the announcement could see the man was noticeably trembling. He wasn’t sure if it was from the cooler weather and even colder ocean water splashing into the craft or if it was from overwhelming panic regarding what was to come. He couldn’t help but believe it was the latter.
If putting a timestamp on the commencement of combat wasn’t terrifying enough, machine gun rounds panged off the sides and front of the Higgins Boat. And the crashing waves received some assistance from German mortar rounds in dowsing the GIs with ocean water. It was as if the water was playing a cruel joke and teasing the infantrymen with shards of water that would soon be shrapnel.
Capt. Bocek started barking out last second reminders of their mission in a reassuring tone. Though still scared, Burg appreciated his leader’s words.
Eternal seconds dragged on. Men fidgeted with apprehension. Some continued to vomit. Capt. Bocek kept talking.
“Ten seconds! Good luck!” the coxswain yelled.
Burg closed his eyes and tried to calm his escalating nerves. “Okay. Okay. Okay. You’ll be fine…” he whispered to himself. He could feel Neema’s eyes on him.
The ramp at the front of the craft began to drop. Everyone tensed.
Clunk. The ramp was stuck about halfway down. Now everyone began to panic.
“Get that fucking ramp down!” a sergeant screamed. “We’re sitting ducks here!” someone else said. And one less-ambitious soldier demanded, “Back the boat up and let’s get out of here!”
But before anyone could react to any demands, fate made a decision for them.
Boom! A mortar round struck the rear of the craft, liquefying the naval crew and killing ten or so men at the back.
This time, something else splashed against Burg's back. It wasn't vomit, but it did originate from the same head as the aforementioned sick. Hendersen's brain matter sprayed all over his field jacket and helmet, knocking him forward.
In a twist of cruel irony, the explosion did the bidding of the soldiers trying to lower the ramp only moments before. No sooner had the front of the ship dropped than machine gun fire began chopping up the soldiers up front like meat through a buzz saw. Without as much as a step toward the beach, Captain Bocek received what seemed like an entire belt of MG42 rounds in his upper torso and head. He was dead before his body even began dropping to the deck of the craft.
From left to right, the rounds ripped into the ranks of assaulting GIs. A round went through one man’s throat. He collapsed backward clutching to his jugular in a fruitless attempt to stave off death. Another NCO witnessed his own entrails exit his stomach after a burst of machine gun fire opened him up. One man became unrecognizable as his face was smashed inside of his head with the impact of the powerful rounds. It was a sight straight out of hell.
Burg struggled to get back on his feet after the force of the blast knocked him to the deck. Thanks to Hendersen’s mauled corpse draped across his legs and the slippery boat surface, his initial efforts were useless. Fighting off pure panic, he looked for a way to free himself and get off the craft. He grabbed the web belt of a nearby dead comrade and pulled himself out from under Hendersen’s body. He was finally able to get his footing, and without hesitation, he sprung to the front of the craft and went face-forward into the water.
A feeling of near calm took hold of him as he slipped further and further under the waves. The equipment he was wearing was so heavy that it didn’t take long for him sink and hit the beach floor. Since he dove in head first, his pack hit and then his head followed with a bump causing him to lose his helmet. Awaking him from his odd calm, the impact set him off into a desperate swimming frenzy. His arms and legs flailed with fury as he tried to get his head back above water.
Full panic kicked in, and he felt the lack of oxygen hit him hard. He kicked and he thrashed for what seemed like minutes, but in reality, only a second or two had passed. Seeing the air bubbles exiting his mouth and nose rapidly beating him to the water’s surface gave him a further feeling of hopelessness.
Close to passing out and succumbing to death, he finally broke the water trapping him and sucked for air. Instinctually, he kept kicking his legs to stay afloat and realized that the water was only about five feet deep. Feeling a small sense of relief that the weight of his equipment would not pull him back under the waves, he gave a near maniacal laugh of relief.
That relief didn’t last long. Burg heard dozens of rounds whiz by his head, and he ducked back under water for a brief moment. As he broke the surface again, he realized he was facing away from the beach. In front of him, were the smoking remains of the landing craft that had brought him and many of his now dead platoon-mates to shore. The flames emanating from the rear of the boat highlighted the gore filling the inside of the ship. Burg immediately knew that scene of blood, guts, and severed limbs would be burned into his brain for as long as he lived. At the current moment, he wasn’t sure how long that might be.
With panic-stricken eyes, he looked into the slaughter in the boat to see if he could find Neema. Even if he was in there, Burg wasn’t able to discern who was who in the mess of guts and limbs. As hard as it was, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand – getting off the beach alive.
He turned around in the water and began wading his way to a nearby obstacle to seek cover, sans weapon and helmet. As he continued to wade into shallower water, he could feel his pace ever-so-slightly quicken with every step. He was soaked to the bone and still wearing sixty-plus pounds of equipment, so every step, he thought, felt like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back. What a hell of a thing to think of on the dawn of a battle that could shift a world war, was his counterthought.
Finally, he reached dry land – if you count murky sand sloshing with bloody water as dry that is. As he exited the waves, he fell face forward onto the ground and began to crawl towards the obstacle. He could feel his heart beating against his rib cage with rapid intensity as he continued his advance. Once he made it to the Czech Hedgehog, he hugged up against it as closely as he possibly could. So close that his body begged to become a part of it. He buried his head into his arms and began to scream.
The sounds of battle seemed to bark straight from hell. The whizzes and snaps of small arms fire sounded like teasing whistles of demons. Exploding mortar rounds were like the growl of the devil himself. And the cries of wounded and dying men sucked all hope out of the air. He closed his eyes and continued to scream until his throat burned. Burg couldn’t fathom that such fear was even capable of existing.
He reached to pull his helmet down over his face as an added measure of fruitless protection, but once his wandering hands passed through the phantom cover and touched his scalp, he remembered that he’d lost it on the wade in.
The rational part of his mind that still remained told him that if he didn’t move, he’d soon be killed. After some internal convincing, Burg allowed his eyes to open, and he began to cautiously look around his surroundings as the sounds of chaos continued to rain up and down the shoreline. A patch of empty beach lay beside him where a trickle of a wave slowly splashed up and down. It was almost a peaceful sight. Whatever serenity it offered was immediately destroyed when a soldier dropped dead on top of it, leaking blood from half a dozen machine gun holes.
He trained his eyes on the fallen man’s helmet. It appeared to be just out of his reach, but if he scooched out from behind the obstacle he was using for cover, he could grab it and place it atop his own exposed head. He took a deep breath and began to crawl towards it.
No sooner had he begun to crawl out than he heard the impact of approaching machine gun rounds stitching their way in the sand towards him. He felt a violent yank on his webbing and his body jerked back behind the cover of the Czech Hedgehog. Thinking it was divine intervention that had saved him, he looked back, expecting to see an angel. Instead, he saw his buddy, Neema. Burg reached over and gave his friend an abbreviated embrace as a small gesture of thanks.
“C’mon! We gotta move our asses off this beach!” Neema shouted. Helping, Burg to his feet, the two soaking wet warriors began a crouched run towards the enemy. Whizzes, bangs, and booms erupted all around them as they labored forward.
Weighted down by their wet clothes and burdensome equipment, they dove behind another obstacle so they could catch their breath. A burst of machine gun fire panged off the hedgehog. Huddling behind cover for only a few moments, they hopped up and continued their charge forward.
Neema still clutched his M1 Garand in his hands, but Burg’s arms swung freely at his sides as he ran. He felt naked without his weapon and began to scan the beach for a replacement BAR. The thought of taking a dead man’s weapon sickened him, but he knew it was necessary if he wanted to get through this day alive. His eyes wandered for a fallen automatic rifle, but all he could see were other busted weapons, scattered gear, and spilled guts.
During his on-the-run search, he abruptly tripped over something and fell face first into bloody sand. Lifting his head up, he spat with disgust and rolled over onto his backside. He looked down at what he had tripped over and felt crippling fear begin to creep its way back into his mind. His leg had snagged a dead man – well, half of a man. The former rifleman’s upper torso – from his left hip to his right shoulder – had been blown away from the lower part of his body by a gruesome mortar blast. Fearfully, Burg began to crab walk backwards until he lifted his weight from under him, turned around, and began to run forward again. He felt his pace was quicker than before.
He caught up to his friend and they continued their march to the seawall under the hail of gunfire. His eyes continued to scan for a weapon as they ran. Finally! He spotted the rifle he was looking for a dozen yards directly in front of him. Without breaking stride, he scooped up the weapon and clutched it as if he were afraid it would fly away.
With exhausting intensity, the pair waddled their way from obstacle to obstacle, pausing to catch their breath at each spot. They couldn’t have been moving for more than ten minutes at this point, but their lungs were desperate for relief. Burg cursed the man who thought it was a good idea to load down the infantrymen with so much gear while they assaulted a beach. How many people would die today because they were too tired and slow in making their way to cover?
All that separated the men from this final obstacle and the seawall were ten or so yards of unbloodied sand. Neema looked back at Burg as if to ask permission to make a dash for it. The two nodded to each other and mustered one last sprint out of their exhausted legs. They held their breath and gritted their teeth as they dashed forward. With twin thuds, they threw themselves against the cover of the seawall. They’d made it through the gauntlet. But their worries were far from over.
Burg lay on his back and looked up into the sky gasping for air. After several seconds of rest, he looked back down at the beach. He saw expensive equipment blown to hell, thunderous explosions, infinite bullets slamming into the sand, and mangled dead bodies as far as the eye could see. His mind couldn't quite comprehend the amount of gore. His eyes were seeing it, but his brain wasn’t accepting it.
After removing his “borrowed” BAR from its protective plastic cover and inserting a fresh magazine, Burg looked to his left and right and saw men huddled tightly against the sand, clinging onto it if it were a child’s safety blanket. Many men had made it up through the murderous fire, but many more were still on the beach. Burg had no idea how they would be able to succeed.
A skinny kid weighed down with all of his gear lay several yards away from Burg. He was shaking and screaming at the top of his lungs, clearly terrified at the events unfolding around him. Burg watched and briefly entertained the idea of joining in on the screaming.
His thought was interrupted by a mortar exploding on the other side of the skinny kid. Whack! The helmet formerly atop the kid’s head flew horizontally and smacked Burg on his bare scalp and landed right in his lap. If that wasn’t some sort of sick and twisted divine intervention, Burg wasn’t sure was. But at least he had a helmet now. He looked over at the smoking remains of the previous owner as he put the helmet on his own head.
Neema was doing his best to fight back against the onslaught. Keeping his head down, he raised his rifle towards the concrete pillboxes and fired off a quick eight rounds. He was more likely to hit a passing bird than a German, but it at least felt good to fire his rifle. He removed a fresh clip from a bandolier pouch, slammed it home, and turned to Burg.
“What do we do, man?” Neema asked his friend. Burg had no good answer so he just didn’t say anything. He was hoping an officer or a senior NCO would step up and take charge of the situation. Knowing that someone was still in command would make him feel a little more confident in their chances of surviving. Or so he thought.
Out of the corner of his eye, Burg could see some action happening down the seawall to his left. Soldiers were putting together Bangalore torpedoes to burst through the barbed wire entanglement that was preventing them from moving up towards the enemy bunkers.
Burg hit Neema’s shoulder with the back of his hand to get his attention. He then pointed towards the guys with the “bangers,” indicating they should head that way. “Beats the shit out of staying here. Let’s go,” he said.
Both men began crawling to their new destination. When they were about half way there, the Bangalores were detonated and sent sand and mangled barb wire into the air. Burg looked up to see men pouring through the newly made entrance. This gave him a surge of adrenaline. He felt the urge to stand straight up and run through it with his BAR blazing. Fortunately, his rational side kept him in check and on the ground.
They finally reached the hole in the wire and hopped up into a low crouch to go through it. As they went through, Burg looked up to his left and saw the opening of a pillbox spill flashes of machine gun fire towards the beach, and he couldn't help but feel relieved that he wasn’t still making his way up. Burg and Neema stayed low as they followed their comrades up a debris-ridden trail that ascended up a hill towards the enemy in staggered single file.
Ratatat! A burst from an MP40 smashed into the man in front of the column. He dropped dead, but the troops behind him unloaded their weapons into the offending Kraut soldier at the top of the hill. After downing the German, the Americans had their weapons trained forward as they continued to advance. They abandoned their crouching and made a mad dash up to seek the nearest defilade.
After reaching the top of the bluff, the men - 15 or so - fanned out and fired their weapons. They didn’t care if there were Germans in front of them or not, they just kept pulling their triggers as a means to feel more in control of the situation. A staff sergeant in the middle of them noticed the lack of discipline ordered the others to cease fire.
“Quit wasting your ammo!” He shouted and then began issuing loose orders for this mixed unit of troops. “You five, go to the left and secure that pillbox! You guys,” pointing to another group, “head to the right and clear out that trench. You four, follow me,” Burg and Neema were among those four in the last group the sergeant pointed to.
The makeshift fire teams spread out and ran to their new objectives. Soon after being issued the save-your-ammo order, Burg could hear the group to the right open up again. As he followed his own group, he looked to the squad at the right and saw them pumping rounds into the trench. The sergeant recaptured his concentration and told his crew to hop the trench and head for the sandbag bunker 30 or so yards to their front.
As Burg began leaping over, he saw a German running in the trench under him. Surprised by the sight, he lost his footing on the way down from his leap and tumbled forward. He quickly recovered, gripped his BAR fiercely, and scrambled back to the defilade. He saw the oblivious Kraut continue his attempted escape and lined up his sights. He squeezed the trigger with more effort than was needed and poured a volley of rounds at the German. Two rounds went wide, two entered the German’s back, and one punched through his helmet and into his skull.
Burg stood their wide-eyed, staring at the corpse of the the first life he’d ever taken. He felt nauseous.
“Don!” Neema yelled at his friend. “Let’s go! You’re gonna get shot if you don’t keep moving.” Burg took his friend’s advice and caught up to the others. He looked over his shoulder one more time as he ran.
The five men dashed towards the abandoned sandbag fortification while keeping their eyes peeled for more Germans. From what they thought was an unmanned position, two enemy soldiers popped up from behind the sandbags and fired their rifles at the onrushing Americans. Both rounds missed, but before the US troops had a chance to return fire, the German soldiers rammed back their bolts, loaded new shots, and planted two bullets into the chest of the closest charging soldier.
The remaining four infantrymen raised their weapons and let lead fly towards their comrade’s executioners. So many rounds impacted the two defenders that the Americans couldn’t tell which of their weapons had downed them.
Just before reaching the sandbags, a rogue round from off to the fire team’s left hit one the Americans in the midsection. The man buckled over, collapsed to the ground and began writhing in pain. The remaining men - Neema, Burg, and the sergeant - crashed against the bunker for protection. They scanned the surroundings for who shot their friend, but couldn’t identify where it had come from.
As an added measure of safety, the sergeant pulled the pin on a grenade and dumped it on the other side of the sandbag wall. After it detonated he swung his Thompson over the top to scan for any live enemy. Finding none, he hopped over the bags and into the dirt bunker. Neema and Burg quickly followed him.
Each man took up a field of fire and scanned for targets - sergeant to the left, Neema in the middle, and Burg to the right. Burg could hear the man who’d been hit outside of the emplacement. He was a good ten yards away, and Burg told himself that he was needed right where he was to fight back against any approaching Germans, and that he couldn’t try to help the man. The truth, though, was that he was just scared.
It didn’t take long for more Krauts to show up. A full squad of Germans rushed out of a pillbox located more inland from the Americans’ newly secured position. Seeing the threat at the same time, the three tired infantrymen unloaded their weapons into the tightly bunched enemy soldiers. Eight or so fell dead in their tracks, but the remaining four retreated back into the bunker.
“Cover us while we reload,” the sergeant said to Neema. The rifleman, needing to reload himself, quickly slammed home a fresh clip while keeping his eyes forward. Burg and the NCO ducked down to replenish their ammo.
As Burg reached to unsnap a pouch on his ammo belt, he could feel his hand trembling uncontrollably. He forced his hand to find a fresh magazine and slap it into his weapon. He took a deep breath, racked the bolt, and returned to his firing position.
For several eternal minutes, the three soldiers continued to scan the area for threats and steadily fire off rounds. Return fire from all over hit against their sandbag protection. They all hoped more Americans would show up soon to support them. They couldn’t hear the wounded man’s screams anymore.
The sergeant peered over the wall of bags to get a look at something off to the left, but all he found was a rifle round to the face. He slumped forward and did not move again. It took a few moments for Burg and Neema to even realize that he was hit, but as soon as both of them saw his lifeless form, they felt nauseatingly tense.
Before fear could grip them too tightly, a German potato-masher grenade struck Neema right in the chest and bounced into his lap. The shock of the situation caused Neema to pause, but after a second or two, he tried to pick up the grenade and dispose of it. Burg watched as his friend tried to fling the deadly explosive out of the sandbag bunker. It detonated in his hand.
When Burg came to, he saw stars and had a painful ringing in his ears. A man hovered over him, an American. “He’s not dead yet,” the man said as he rested his rifle on a sandbag next to Burg, turning his attention to the still raging battle.
Burg looked around and saw several new Americans filling out the emplacement he and Neema had defended. He had no idea how long he’d been out, and he had trouble focusing on anything.
Feeling something warm near both of his ears, he reached up to see what it was. When he pulled his hand back in front of his face, he saw fresh red blood. He then remembered the grenade going off in his Neema’s hands.
Still hazy, he forced himself to concentrate long enough to look for his friend to make sure he was okay. He wasn’t. Burg shifted his gaze to the side of the bunker and saw his best friend - someone closer than a brother - awkwardly sprawled against a wall of sandbags. Neema’s eyes were open, staring into nothingness. The life had been forever extinguished from them.