Special D-Day Edition of Southport Village Voices

It's hard to describe our landing craft. I told Mom and Dad that it resembles a rolling bucket in a stormy sea. It's called an LCI, which stands for Landing Craft Infantry, and it's our only means of getting ashore. We've prepared for this day for what seems like an eternity, climbing up and down rope ladders and being screamed at by the sergeants. Now here I am, jammed shoulder to shoulder with the other men, jotting notes in my journal. An officer told us, This will be a history making event. Someday, I hope my children will read these words.

Squinting into the pre-dawn light, I see other LCIs lumbering along, breaching the surf like giant sea turtles carrying human cargo, headed for an appointment with destiny. No one is talking-everyone seems consumed with his own thoughts and fears. Where's the jokester from second platoon who tells all the gags? We could use his help about now. Someone up forward--can't see who--just lost his last meal. Squad leaders said it would happen. Some guys took bets on who'd be first. I didn't bet. I don't have much money. I want to send some home next month--if I'm still around.

Most everyone is young-my age-with smooth unshaven cheeks. I've been shaving since Dad bought me a double edge razor last year. We get along real well; I felt terrible the day I boarded the train for boot camp because I could tell he was all choked up. When we parted, he said, You're tough son. You'll make it. We love you!

The sun is beginning to crack the horizon, causing the sky to glow a beautiful pink. I must've been daydreaming. The soldier next to me startled me by pointing back at the troop ships we just left. They look like worried mothers watching over their children. They're waiting for us to land-to signal back-to tell them we're okay. I managed to smile, but he didn't notice. He's concentrating on some pictures--a smiling couple and a young girl with pigtails hugging a shaggy dog. Must be his family. We were told not to bring anything of a personal nature ashore so I left my photos on the ship.

Men on Boat

I look at the men around me; we all look alike. I wonder if our platoon sergeant can tell us apart. I hope so, especially once we're on the beach. Crazy fleeting thoughts of what I might be facing race through my head, shifting scenes of war and fond memories of home. It's like turning a kaleidoscope. My rifle barrel is cold to the touch-makes my fingers numb. Did I load it? I must have, the breech is closed and the safety is on. Why can't I remember? My thoughts are jumbled. Don't worry, I caution myself. Calm down.

Our medic is fumbling through his aid bag. What's he looking for? I hope he didn't leave something important on the ship. We talked the other night out on deck when I went topside for a smoke. Seems like a nice kid. He comes from a small rural town in South Carolina and graduated from high school the same year I did.

Sarge is yelling at us to check each other's rucksack to make sure it's buckled down tight. Everyone is patting each other on the helmet-good luck sign I guess. Now he's looking at me. Does he know who I am? Maybe all he sees is another scared kid, just a set of dog tags he'll have to yank off when I'm face down in the sand. He's 25 but he's already old and tired; he's seen too much action. I try to force a brave smile, telling him, and myself, that I'll be okay once we hit the beach. Dad said I'd make it.

I'm freezing, my mouth tastes like salt water, yet perspiration is rolling down my chest. How can I be hot, cold and scared all at the same time? I wish I knew what my chances were. So many stories go around; it's hard to decide what's true and what's just talk. Some guys say you never hear the bullet that kills you. Others say bullets can't hit you as long as you keep running. I don't know what to believe. The last two nights I had a really bad case of the runs. Probably the Navy beans and powdered eggs, maybe just nerves.

We must be getting closer-I can see the beachhead. It's quiet. Nobody's shooting at us; that's good, I guess. Looks like a wall of railroad ties half way up the beach, then more sand extending back to the tree line. Maybe that's where their gun emplacements are. The sun is at our back, which means it's in the enemy's eyes. Enormous plumes of acrid smoke from our bombardment hang like a fog over everything. I don't see how anything could've survived the pounding the battlewagons and heavy cruisers gave them--three solid hours from 0200 on.

Some guy is reciting the 23rd Psalm. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Maybe I should too, but it makes it seem all too real. Some guys are praying. Others are real tough--city kids who fought their way to and from school every day. They were tough in boot camp, too. I see one of them way up front near the ramp. It's Joey, a tough kid from the Lower East Side. He isn't praying. His jaws are tight--his eyes distant and bitter. I wish I had his guts.

I can't see anything now except the sun glinting off steel helmets in front of me. This is the first time I've ever been really scared. I wish Dad was here. We did everything together and he could always tell when I was scared. Maybe I should pray like the others. Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our need. Our fighter planes are screaming down through smoke and clouds, strafing the trees at the edge of the beachhead, fire spitting from their wings. I wish I were up there and not down here.

Oh my God! The tree line just came alive with gunfire. The enemy is shooting at us. Geysers of water from their shore batteries rise three stories high, like giant fountains. The noise is deafening! Why don't our planes knock them out? My ears are throbbing harder than my heart. All of a sudden the LCI thumps hard against the sea bottom almost knocking me off my feet. I fall hard against the guy in front of me. This is it.

Men Helping One Another

Good God! The ramp is down. Big splash, men yelling, jumping into the water, stumbling, falling, trying to help each other. Some guys aren't getting up. I grab the rucksack of the first guy I see face down in the water and drag him out. He'll drown if I leave him there. Someone's pushing me hard--screaming in my face, Leave him! He's gone! Keep moving!

I stare in disbelief at his body bobbing in the water. He looks peaceful. A minute ago we were standing next to each other, and he was looking at those photographs. Now he's gone. All I hear is incoming fire. I'm up to my waist in water--can't run--can hardly walk. My rucksack is so heavy, but I have to move faster. Stay low--head down--keep my weapon high and dry. Slipping again, up to my chest in water, gasping for air--swallowed a mouthful. Am I yelling or crying? I can't tell. Water is now knee high; I must be getting closer to the beach.

Troops beside me are returning fire--got to get my weapon ready. The guy in front of me goes down hard--half his face is gone. Got to keep going! Feels like I'm moving in slow motion, boots sinking in the sand. Can't look back--I can't help anyone but myself right now. The beach is exploding in my face, sand and rock raining down and bouncing off my helmet. More yelling and screaming--people hollering for medics.

Intense explosions so close they make my eyeballs ache. Planes screaming overhead. Yellow fireballs are tearing the beach apart. Through it all I see little twinkling lights like fireflies-small arms fire directed at us. I must've fallen because I'm covered in sand--hard to recall. A soldier is rocking on his hands and knees yelling for a medic. Got to try and help him--no medics around. He's staring in wonder at his stomach. His insides are lying in the sand. Can't help him--too late for that--gotta keep moving.

Equipment and Men on the Beach

I'm almost to the retaining wall and I'm scared as hell. Groups of men are huddled together, faces pressed against the wall, cradling their weapons. Some pop up briefly to fire at the enemy. Officers are duck-walking up and down the line screaming words of encouragement. Explosions are terrible now--all around us--the ground is rocking like the worst roller coaster ride I was ever on. My eyes sting from the sand, all gritty, can hardly see. I run headlong into something solid. It's the wall and I slump heavily against it for protection. My breathing is labored--I'm exhausted. Gotta yank off my chinstrap--feels like I'm choking.

Remember the rules--don't get spooked--just remember the rules. What were they?
Fix bayonet. Check bandoliers, check grenades, wipe sand off the rifle breech, check first aid kit, might need it. Medics will be too busy to help everyone.

Can't believe the noise and confusion, men running in every direction, separated from their units. Did they tell us it would be like this? Can't recall. Does it matter now? Second platoon is all split up-can't locate the BAR man. Maybe he was hit? Maybe he's in the water? We need that BAR! Eyesight blurry--burns like hell--trying to see where everyone is. I pop up and squeeze off four quick rounds and then it feels like someone kicked me in the chest--really hard--so hard I can hardly catch my breath. Who hit me? My back is burning like someone's holding a blowtorch against it. Shrug it off. Keep firing.

Men are lying on the beach--incoming tide shifting their bodies--helmets bobbing in the surf like apples in a tub of water at Halloween. I hate this stinking beach! It's killing my buddies. One guy is lying close to me and I reach out and drag him out of harm's way. I make it back to the wall. So tired--difficult to breathe--back is killing me. Where's my weapon? Someone's yelling in my face. I don't recognize him. The noise never quits. I'm yelling back, Why did you kick me? He's saying something--too much noise. He's mouthing, The medic is on the way. Stay here--stay low--you'll be okay. You've been hit, just don't move. Here's your weapon.

He slams my helmet on my head and then he's gone. The chatter of an enemy machine gun tears ragged chunks from the wall splattering me with wood splinters. Not sure if I can prop myself up to shoot back. The guy I dragged up to the wall has no legs--only pieces of bone showing through his shredded fatigues. I brush sand and blood off his face and tell him to tough it out until a medic shows up. And then I see his face. Oh God! It's Joey--he's crying like a baby. He's the last guy I ever thought I'd see cry. He's tugging on my dog tag chain crying for his Mom.

Incoming mortar rounds are unyielding as they pound the beach! I try to reassure Joey telling him he's tough while trying to peel his fingers off my dog tag chain. A medic is crawling toward us--big Red Cross on his helmet. He's crouching over Joey doing something, and then he's in my face.

I scream, Get away from me! My back is killing me! Don't touch me! Help Joey! He needs his legs! Go find them! He yells back, Too late for your friend, pal! Too much bleeding--massive blood loss! I don't believe it. I grab him by his shirt. Save him, doc. You're a medic for God's sake! Find something in your aid bag and fix him!

He's already dead-there's no fixing him! You're hit! You took a bullet in the chest that went clean through your back. Let me look at it. Hit? Is he kidding me? I can't be hit--impossible! When did I get hit? He's stuffing gauze inside my shirt. I look down and see that my shirt is bloody. Good God! I am hit! I refuse to die on this lousy beach. Not like Joey--no! I have to go home. I need to see my parents.

Black clouds of noxious smoke drift over the beach. I ache all over--eyes still burn--my back feels as if someone is standing on it. More explosions farther up the beach. Men are going over the wall, yelling, charging, and firing into enemy positions.

The medic is in my face again, saying something I can't hear. God! He's young. How'd he learn to save lives? Isn't anyone older than our platoon sergeant? Who's going to help us survive? Where Sarge? He can help. He knows everything. I look helplessly at Joey's lifeless body. Joey--I gotta go. Someone will be along to take care of you. His vacant eyes stare right through me. He doesn't look so tough now. He looks stunned. I'm sorry, Joey. I'll write your Mom and tell her you were brave. Someday she'll know.

Art DeBonville

The medic is yelling at me to stay where I am and wait for help. Can't stay--gotta go. Gotta get off this bloody beach. Hate this beach! More buddies are clambering over the wall. I can't be the last one. I'll get lost in the smoke and gunfire. My chest and back hurt like hell but I gotta keep moving.

I'm over the wall. Enemy machine guns are raking the beach. More bodies. Got to get up and run--can't crawl forever or I'll never make it. I'm running in slow motion. Stay low-head down-got to get to shelter.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I'll be 19. Why did I think of that? I wish Dad was here-we always did everything together. I'm exhausted. Keep moving. Got to catch up to my squad. My chest hurts like hell. Rifle fire now scattered from both sides. Thoughts are racing through my head about being anywhere but here. Remember what Dad said, You're tough son. You'll make it. We love you!