by Jack Belden
What was it like to land on a hostile shore? Here is a classic example—experienced by a war reporter during the landings on Sicily.
“Go to your debarkation stations.”
The voice on the loud speaker rang with a harsh metallic note through the wardroom.
The men sat up and blinked their eyes, and for a moment all of them stared at each other with expressions that seemed to say: “This is it.” Then a few of them broke out in foolish grins and rose slowly from their chairs.
“All right, let’s go! Let’s go!” called Maj. Grant in a brisk voice. He got up and strode down the wardroom, a tiny bundle of energy, and the others slowly followed after him, their heads bent toward the deck as if they were thinking.
It was pitch-dark in the passageways. In the inky blackness men stumbled against each other, but no one muttered a word. In silence we made our way toward the bulkhead door through which a little light from the boat deck outside shone. As we passed through the door, a hand reached out and squeezed each one of us briefly on the arm. “Good luck,” said a voice. It was the captain.
The moon was still shining dimly on the deck, but though we could now see, we clung close to each other for fear of becoming separated. From every passageway men, shuffling in dreary, silent attitudes, were coming out to swell the tide of those going in on the assault waves. They made a depressing sight—a composite of dead and dull faces and drab bodies loaded down with military gear. As we turned the corner of a bulkhead, the man ahead of me halted hesitantly before a boat which was swinging violently back and forth, first toward the deck and then away from it. Several voices behind us shouted and tried to ally any feelings of doubt we had. As we hesitated, they shouted cheerfully, “Get in. What are you waiting for?”
These words, spoken to show us that we were at the right boat, did not produce the action desired. The man who was leading our group paused on hearing those words, raised his hands in a helpless gesture and called back to the others, “I can’t get in.” As he said this, the men back of us yelled as if they were going to throw a fit. The leading soldier, however, remained adamant and made no move to get in the boat.
From my vantage point, it was evident that he was quite right in refusing to do so. The boat was rocking to and fro on its davits, coming close against the ship’s side at one moment and swinging far away at the next. The only way to enter the boat was to slide down a short knotted line and drop in. But to attempt to drop in that swinging boat would be suicidal. One slight slip would mean a plunge down into the water, which was slapping now with a loud and menacing sound against the ship’s side below us. So both the soldier and I remained standing where we were, looking at the dark void between the swinging boat and the ship, making no attempt to get in.
The crowd behind us, growing impatient, again yelled imperatively at us. Goaded by the angry voices, the soldier by me said, “Goddammit, there’s no one here. Where the hell’s the Navy?” At these words, the men behind us transferred their disapproval from us to the whole U.S. Navy.
“Dammit! Get some sailors!” one officer yelled.
“Jesus!” said another. “The way the Navy’s hiding, you’d think they was going to invade Sicily instead of us.”
As yet the delay had not been serious, but in our overwrought state of mind it assumed exaggerated proportions, increasing our nervousness to a state of shaking, angry doubt.
“God!” said an officer who had come up beside us. “If we can’t get our boats launched from the ship, what’s it going to be like in the water when they start shooting at us?”
The soldier by my side laughed bitterly. “Snafu! That’s us. Always snafued.”
At last two or three sailors arrived, the boat was secured firmly, the soldiers slid one by one down the knotted ropes, and the boat descended past the ship’s side into the choppy water.
As we drew away from the ship, our moment’s irritability dropped away from us as quickly as it had come. There was an immediate sense of gladness at getting started and a heightened awareness. When we got away from the shelter of the fleet, this feeling, however, soon gave way to another. We became sick.
The rocking of the small landing craft was totally unlike anything we had experienced on the ship. It pitched, rolled, swayed, bucked, jerked from side to side, spanked up and down, undulated, careened, and insanely danced on the throbbing, pulsing, hissing sea. The sea itself flew at us, threw the bow in the air, then, as it came down, washed over us in great roaring bucketfulls of water.
The ensign standing on the high stern of the boat ordered the sailor by the bow to close the half-open ramp. As he moved to do so, the helmsman in the stern yelled, “I can’t see.”
He did not finish his sentence. At that moment there was a hissing sound, then a dull squashing crash, and a wave of water cascaded through the ramp, throwing down those who were standing on the deck and overrunning the boat with water.
“Bail with your helmets!” called the ensign in a voice of extreme irritation.
Kneeling now in the puddle which sloshed up and down the length of the boat, the men scooped up the water with their helmets, staggered uncertainly to their feet, threw their load overboard, and then went down on their knees to repeat the process.
Meanwhile, the ensign kept the boat zigzagging over the water searching the sea for the boats of our assault wave. From time to time he would shout out to another boat, “Are you the second wave?” When he would receive a negative answer, he would curse loudly, turn the boat in another direction and begin searching again.
For a long time we coursed back and forth over the water, picking up one boat here and another there. Then we went in a circle, going round and round in the shadow of our fleet until, certain that every boat was present we broke out of the circle formation and headed in a line toward a blue light, which, shining to seaward, was bobbing up and down some distance ahead of us.
The uneven motion of the boat was now almost unbearable. Hemmed in between the high steel bulkheads of the boat, the men crouched like beasts, shivering from the cold spray, silent, but uneasy with imminent sickness. One by one they vomited, holding their heads away from their loosely clasped rifles, and moaned softly. One man clambered up the side of the boat and crawled out on the narrow ledge running around the top and clung there like a monkey, with one hand clasping the boat and the other fumbling at his pants. The boat was rocking heavily; the man was swaying with its motion, and it seemed momentarily as if he would fall into the sea or a wave would wash him overboard. The ensign in a sharp voice commanded him to get back inside the boat.
“I have to move my bowels, sir,” the man said in a tone of distressed pain.
Someone tittered.
“Jesus! What’s so funny about that?” said a soldier, and he got up and grasped the man, who was now half-hanging over the side by his shoulders. “Here, Joe,” he said, “hold on to me.”
From that time on, our dash toward the unseen shore became a nightmare of sickness, pain, and fear. The boat had gathered speed now and we were beginning to bound from one wave crest to the next with a distinct shock. There were no thwarts, no seats of any kind in the boat; only the deck itself to sit on and the steep, high hull of the boat to lean against. The motion of the boat threw us all against one another. My hand in bracing my rolling body had accidentally come to rest on the shoulder of a young boy. I looked down at him and saw that he was holding his head in both of his hands and quietly vomiting. “It’s the motion that gets you,” I said.
“The what?” the boy said.
“The motion. It’s different from on the ship. You’ll get used to it. You’ll be all right.”
“Oh, sure. The motion. You ain’t kiddin’. I’ll be all right.” He bent his head down, a sudden spasm contracting his shoulders, and he spewed from the mouth. “Oh, sure, I’ll be all right.”
I stood up and took a quick look over the boat’s side. Astern our great fleet fled, diminishing, sinking beneath the waves. The boat had begun to pitch and shudder now, swooping forward and down, jolting almost stationary for a moment, then lifting and swooping again; a shot of spray smashed aboard over the bows like a thrown bucket of water, and I knelt down again.
The boat pounded on. It rolled us against iron pipes, smashed us against coils of wire and jammed us on top of one another, compounding us with metal, water, and vomit. There was nothing we could do but wait, herded helplessly between the high, blank walls of the boat, huddled together like blind men not knowing where we were going or what was around, behind, or ahead of us, only looking at one another with anxious eyes. That not being able to tell what was ahead of us, to catch even one slight glimpse of the universe outside our tossing, rocking world, was almost unbearable, leaving us, as it did, prey to all manner of nighttime fancies. The unnatural and unwholesome motion of the boat, churning my stomach into an uproar, the bare and opaque walls of the hull, shutting out everything but the vault of the sky overhead, evoked in my mind a picture of the world outside that was fantastic and terrifying. Instead of feeling myself part of a group of American soldiers going ashore on a carefully planned invasion, I saw myself and the men as strange phantoms flung out across the maw of the sea, into the blackness of eternity, fast revolving away from any kind of world we ever knew. I felt as if we had been caught up in some mysterious rocket, and that we were being borne onward in this bouncing projectile of machinery toward a nether-world goal as incapable of taking command over our own destinies as a squirrel in a cage.
In a moment of hollow doubt I stood up, edging my eyes over the gunwale and looking out into the comparative world of light around us. The sea was sparkling with tossed spray. Ahead, and on either side of us, boats were dodging and twisting through the choppy waves, and from their sterns, waving from side to side with the motion of the boats, showers of gleaming water streamed out behind like the plumes of birds. What was causing the water to gleam was a wide streak of light. It sprang like the tail of a stationary comet from a ball of incandescent yellow that was shining on the edge of the blackness off to our left.
Suddenly, the light swung across the water, fastened on our boat and illuminated us like actors on a darkened stage. In the glare, I saw the green, pale faces of the soldiers and their bodies huddled close against the hull. Then the light shot past and over us.
“Why don’t they shoot out that goddamn searchlight?” growled a voice from the depths of the cavernous boat. “Jesus! We’ll be drowned without knowing what hit us!”
“Steady there!” said the voice of Captain Paul Carney. “Take it easy.”
Again I craned my neck upward, just getting the top of my helmet above the hull and looking out with fascinated eyes. The light had now swung onto a small group of boats which were thrashing wildly from side to side trying to escape off into the darkness. From somewhere ahead faint red flashes began to flicker like fireflies. Then red balls, describing a high arc like a tennis lob, arched over our heads and fell down toward the illuminated boats which could not seem to shake off the hunting glare of the searchlight. At this I drew in my breath and involuntarily I shouted, “They’re shooting at the boats.” Below me, from the soldiers crouching with their heads toward the bottom of the boat, floated up an echo, “Shooting at the boats—Jesus!”
Abruptly, our boat slowed down. Above me, and slightly to the right, hung a blue light, seemingly suspended in the air. Dimly I discerned the outlines of a naval patrol vessel. Out of the darkness above mysteriously came a metallic voice, “Straight ahead! Go straight ahead. You’ll see a small light on your right. Land there. Look out for mines. Good luck.”
It was all very eerie—rocking there on the sea and hearing a voice calling out of the black above us. But I had no time to think of this. Our engine gave a sudden full-throated roar as the ensign cut off the underwater exhaust. The boat leapt forward. The other boats behind us raced around to either side of us, and we sped forward like a charging football line. “Hurry!” I thought. “God! If we can only make it!” The sea cascaded through the ramp and a broadside of water catapulted down on us. The boat shuddered, bucked, then plunged onward in a confident show of power.
All my senses were now alerted to the straining point. A flush of thrill and excitement shot through me like flame. It was wonderful. It was exhilarating.
Smash! Pound! Roar! Rush!—toward the goal. Here we come! Wheee! My mouth was open and I giggled with insane laughter.
The sailor by the bow tapped me on the shoulder. I peered around. The boy was pointing. Ahead—directly ahead—two strings of dotted red light were crossing each other. They came out from the right and left, like two necklaces of strung red and black beads, and crossed each other in the air some distance before us.
“Machine guns!” the sailor shouted. “Theirs.” The little fireflies of light were growing very close now. “Going right through them!” the sailor shouted. He made a gesture with his hand across his throat. “Right through them.”
Snap! I heard a sharp cracking sound. Snap! Snap! Snap! Jittering, I ducked below the side of the boat. Then I half slid, half fell to the deck, huddling low with the rest of the soldiers. I was on fire inside, but outside I was cold. I could feel all my flesh jerking. It was not from excitement. No longer did I feel any thrill. The boat was pitching and rocking like a roller coaster. I knelt now and was sick. Gasping for breath I wiped the strings of sputum from my lips, drawing my sleeve across my chin. Dimly I saw the boy beside me on all fours with his mouth wide open and his head bent down. I tried to pull myself together and sidled over and held his head. My gesture was almost automatic. I told myself I had to be of some use. But I no longer cared about anything. The boat seemed to be spinning like a merry-go-round. Dazed, I wished that a shell would come along and end all this horror, wetness, and misery. If we could only get out of this insanely rocking prison. If the boat would only stop for just a moment.
Soon I was almost beyond feeling. All I knew was that we were enclosed in an infernal machine, shuddering through the darkness, toward the edge of the world, toward nowhere. I did not feel the boat slow down. I neither heard nor saw men get to their feet. At first, all I felt was a violent shudder. Then I heard the engine break out into a terrible thundering roar. At last, there was a jerk and a bump and the boat came to a halt.
“Open ramp!” shouted the ensign at the stern.
Glancing fearfully toward the bow of the boat, I saw it swinging down, like a huge jaw opening. Halfway down it stopped, stuck. We could see nothing. Only a half-open hole.
The soldiers stared at the hole as if fascinated. Grappling at the side of the boat, they pulled themselves to their feet and peered uncertainly out into the darkness through the ramp. For a brief moment they stared at each other, then bent their heads down, shuffling their feet. No one moved.
The ramp jerked down farther until it was level with the water. Still nothing could be seen. Still no one moved.
“Get off!” Major Grant’s voice was imperious.
No one moved.
“Jump off!” he hollered again. “You want to get killed here? Get on that beach!”
With these words he leapt into the darkness. Another man with a coil of wire followed. The others hesitated as if waiting to see what happened to those who had jumped.
I felt I would go crazy if I stayed in the boat any longer. I advanced to the ramp. ‘Here it comes,’ I thought and jumped.
The water struck me like a shock. I kept going down. ‘It’s over my head,’ I thought. My feet sank down and touched bottom. My chin was just at the water. I started to push forward. A sharp crackle burst the air nearby. There was a whine and whiz overhead. Then a metallic, plunking sound as if something was striking the boat.
The water was growing shallower. I bent my knees, keeping only my helmet-covered head above the water. I felt as if I were wearing a shield. Finding I wasn’t hit, I realized the machine gun fire was so far surprisingly light. “Hell,” I said to myself, “this is not as bad as the Mareth Line.”
It was dark. The fires that had been visible from the ship could not be seen here. Ahead of me I made out a sandy beach, rising in a slight slope. Figures were crawling on hands and knees up the slope. Every few moments they halted and lay on their stomachs. By now the water was really shallow. I straightened up and dashed for the beach. Bullets snapped overhead. I threw myself flat on the sand. At last I was on dry land.