“Impressive, but they’re not quite the same thing,” Quick said. “It’ll take Jerry by surprise, but concrete isn’t the same as strands of barbed wire.”
Closer to the beach, we came upon the paratroopers we saw yesterday, sitting outside their entrenchment, smoking cigarettes. They waved, looking happy about the absence of 7.5-inch shells raining down near their position. We halted at the end of the shingle, watching the landing craft drop their ramps and men storm the stony shore.
“Kaz, would you contact Colonel Harding? We should let him know we’re here.”
“All right, Billy,” Kaz said, getting out of the jeep. Quick and I joined him, stretching our legs and watching as hundreds of GIs poured out of the LCVPs and sloshed their way to the beach. Some made for the gaps in the barbed wire while other men with wire cutters worked their way through it. The rest bunched up behind them, milling about, waiting.
“That’s not good,” I said. “Their noncoms should be pushing them forward, getting them off the beach.”
“Pity no one takes training exercises seriously,” Quick said. “Whenever we practiced getting out of a Lancaster while it was on the ground, we’d end up laughing at how silly it all was. Especially Freddie.” He smiled at the memory, and I had to admit he was right. Training was a game for most guys, even if what they were training for was anything but. I gave a sympathetic laugh and was about to ask who Freddie was when Kaz put on the headset and broadcast our call sign. I heard a faint screeching sound echoing out over the water and looked up, wondering if there were high-speed fighters overhead. But the sound wasn’t right. It took a split second to register.
The cruiser Hawkins was shelling the beach.
The screeching grew in intensity, drawing everyone’s attention, like a magician’s distraction, masking a deadly trick. I could see the wire cutters stop their work as the GIs making their way off the beach turned and stared, everyone wondering what was going on, wasting precious seconds in bewilderment.
“Get down!” I hollered, hands cupped around my mouth. They were too far away to notice or understand. I could hear Kaz telling whoever was at the other end of the radio to stop the shelling, that the beach was crowded with men.
The first shells overshot the strand, hitting the Slapton Ley beyond it, sending plumes of water skyward. I could see a few men digging in, scraping at the stony beach with their helmets, but most scurried around, confused and unsure which way to go and whether this was part of the exercise.
The whistling threat came again, earsplitting and terrifying.
This time they had the range. Seven shell bursts struck the beach, sending bodies flying and men rushing in all directions, some swimming for the Higgins boats, which had already backed off the shore and were heading into the Channel.
“Stop the shelling!” Kaz roared into the microphone. “You are killing men on the beach!”
“Is that Harding?” I asked. He shook his head no. Tom Quick ran toward the beach, calling to the men to come to him and the safety of the road leading off the beach. Safe for now, anyway. A group sprinted in his direction, others running for the ruined hotel and seeking cover there. Another round of shells shrieked in, hitting right at the waterline, killing those who had sought refuge there.
“No, you idiot!” Kaz screamed into the radio. “There are men on the beach!”
“What’s happening?” I hollered as Kaz handed off the microphone and earpiece.
“The ensign said the landings were delayed an hour. He insists the Higgins boats haven’t gone in yet.” Which made sense, given that we’d seen craft circling the larger ships on the horizon. The men now on the beach apparently hadn’t gotten word of the delay.
“Find Colonel Harding,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “This is Captain Boyle.”
“I sent a runner to find him,” a tinny voice said. “But there can’t be anyone there, the landing craft were ordered to wait an hour.”
“Well we’re here, goddamn it!” I yelled as another volley ripped the sky open. As the shells began their shrill incoming descent, I braced myself for them to hit. One struck the beach, another hit close to the hotel, and a third was screeching straight for us. I grabbed Kaz and threw him to the ground, covering his body, wishing I knew where Quick was.
I thought I would hear it, but I swear there was no sound at all, even when the jeep flew into the air, twisting and turning as metal and debris flew in every direction in silent slow motion. It finally came down on its side with a sudden, fearful loud crash of metal and earth, and then rolled, a black shadow of burning rubber and searing flame above me as I pressed my face into Kaz’s shoulder. Then, nothing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Billy,” I heard Kaz say in a choked voice that drifted into my dazed mind. I tried to open my eyes, but it was useless; heat and darkness pressed out all other sensations. “Get off of me, I can’t breathe.”
“I can’t move,” I said, feeling my face pressed into the wool of Kaz’s uniform jacket. There was pressure on my legs, and I became aware of a dull throb in my arm. I tried to rise, but a piece of metal was in the way, pinning my back to the ground.
It was the jeep. It had fallen on us, and judging by the working end of the gearshift a few inches from my eyeballs, it was upside down. That was the good news. The bad news was that it was on fire.
Burning rubber and blistering paint gave off an acrid spume of smoke that forced its way into my lungs and eyes. Kaz began to cough and hack, each spasm reverberating beneath me. I tried to call for help, but as I opened my mouth I drew in more of the smoke and felt the heat of the fire on the undercarriage, fanned by the wind and fed by the burst fuel line. It wouldn’t be long before the tank went and we roasted in a fireball of Uncle Sam’s Grade A gasoline.
“Heave!” A voice sounded from within a jumble of shouts and boots shuffling around the jeep. The side panel came off my back, and hands dragged me out as I kept a grip on Kaz and pulled him with me. “Clear!” Quick shouted as soon as Kaz was safe, and a dozen or so GIs let the jeep drop from their grip, scampering back from the flames licking out at them.
“Are you all right?” Quick asked, kneeling and looking into our eyes. For signs of shock, my mind dully registered.
“I think so,” Kaz answered, dusting himself off. “Now that I don’t have a jeep and Billy on top of me.”
“I’m fine,” I said, then noticed my torn pants and the red, oozing gashes on my legs. Plus my left arm was warm and sticky with blood. Maybe not quite so fine, I realized.
The next thing I knew, I was coming to in a field ambulance, my arm swathed in a bandage as a medic wrapped gauze around multiple wounds on my legs. Harding stood outside the open rear door, the medic telling him I’d be fine, nothing but superficial lacerations. I was about to say they didn’t feel superficial, but then I remembered the dead on the beach, and the others who must have been grievously wounded, so I kept my trap shut.
“What happened?” I asked, struggling to sit up on the stretcher.
“Constable Quick tells me a shell narrowly missing taking your heads off,” Harding said. “It flipped the jeep and tossed it on top of you. You were damned lucky it dropped the way it did. The seat well gave you space and protection.”
“Colonel,” I said, swinging my legs off the stretcher, “if I was really lucky I wouldn’t have been stuck under a burning jeep while our own side bombarded the beach.” Some people had the oddest way of looking at luck. “What I meant was, what went wrong with the shelling?”
“Misjudgment, error, incompetence,” Harding said, glancing around to be sure no one heard. “Some of the transports were slow in forming up, so the naval commander delayed H-Hour by sixty minutes. The Hawkins got word, but some of the transports didn’t. They launched on the original schedule.”