June 6th

The pulleys on the davits began to whir and squeak and the Landing Craft slowly lowered towards the inky black sea, the coxswain gripped the tiller tightly and looked over his shoulder to the men hunkered down in the bottom of the craft. Some crouched, looking eerily relaxed, looks of determination and resolution. Others cowered, clasping rifle butts to prevent their hands trembling, eyes wide with fear.

A young officer stood and walked towards him in the Coxswain’s compartment, he looked far too young to be in charge, probably didn’t even need to shave.

 “Third Canadian Infantry, fifth boat away!” The crews ear pricked up as they recognized the gravelly Scottish bark of the Boson standing up on deck.

As the Landing Craft got lower the waves began to slap the bottom of the hull. The boat started to surge and roll as the swell caught it and swung it back and forwards. A shiver ran through the boat as the twin engines spluttered into life, the sound barely perceptible amidst the cacophony of rushing waves.  The davit continued to pay out cable until the craft was floating and there was enough slack for the crew to release the crane cables.

“Watch pulleys boys!” The coxswain announced, putting his ear to the voice pipe,

“ready” croaked the stoker.

“Cast off!”, the stern cable slipped off easily,

“Off!” confirmed the Sternsheetsman before received a face full of water from the tumultuous sea,

“bloody sea, bugger it….” mumbling curses as he spat out sea water.

The Coxswain ignored him and looked to his Bowman

“It’s jammed!” he exclaimed, “It’s only gone and fucking jammed!”, a note of panic rose in his voice as he tugged and punched at the clip tethering them to the ship. One strong surge or a half decent wave and it would certainly be curtains before they had even set out.

The craft began to sink down into the trough between the waves, the bow cable tightened and the boat lifted again. The next wave started to push on the stern. The bowman continued fighting with the clip, nearly in desperation now. The surge started to turn the boat, a broadside wave would surely tip them!. As the rising water continued to push the craft around it gave them a tiny window, a split second of slack on the cable and the bowman hacked at the release lever in panic. The cable swung away leaving the jubilant soldier to crawl back to his gunners seat weak kneed, his usual jocular cockney manner didn’t return until he took his seat behind the twin Vickers K machine guns.

“Blimey Sir!”, he addressed the Canadian Lieutenant, “I’ve seen a few close ones but I ain’t seen many as close as that!”.

“No more as close as that please!”, the Officer addressed the coxswain, his public school accent despite its youth, betrayed no fear or nerves.

“It’s a scary enough endeavor, we don’t need any additional excitement!”

“Right y’are sir, I’ll do my damnedest” the coxswain replied trying to sound positive, he knew the officer class never understood his thick Somerset accent so he just had to sound positive.

“Yes, well... I’ll reassure the men” responded the Officer, turning on his heels as the next wave bucked the vessel and nearly tipped the young gentleman onto the floor. The Bowman rolled his collar up and sank into his seat and the coxswain bent to his voice pipe and ordered more speed from the stoker.

The crew began to settle for the journey, the Sternsheetsman had to pop his head up frequently to check for communications from other Landing Craft and the coxswain kept a steady eye on the compass. The barely perceptible coast of France sat directly south of them, periodic flashes and steady fires along with the weak ambient light gave a rough outline of the Normandy coast. The rolling thunder of guns and bombs contrasted to the hushed chatter of the men huddled around. Sea-sickness was yet to set in and initial bravado had not yet faded, within ten minutes the sound of retching replaced the chatter.

The flutter of aircraft propellers briefly replaced the booming sounds of the naval bombardment, at first the singing roar of single engine fighter-bombers, replaced by the rumbling baritone of bombers.

“Ours?” questioned the Bowman-gunner of the coxswain.

“Yeh, flying low back from a bombing raid I’d say” came the swift reply,

“Typhoons if I ‘ad to call it, n’ Mosquitos”, the coxswains eyes remained focused on the Landing craft directly ahead of them, if something happened to the lead boat he would be the only hope for the rest of the convoy, only the lead boats had nautical compasses. Infantry compasses wouldn’t be much use because of the armor in the bows.

“I can ‘ardly tell the difference between our birds and jerry’s by sight, but by sound, you been at war too long matey!” chattered the Bowman, fiddling with the drum of his Lewis Gun.

“’avn’t we all, it’s this lot I feel sorry for like.” He paused to take a breath and check the compass again before looking over his left shoulder to his check his heaving, retching cargo.

A private stood half bent over behind the gunner’s armored compertment. His collar was turned up, tunic soaking and his face startlingly pail in the dim light. His lips held a quivering cigarette, the way he held his elbows ,tucked in for warmth, made the handling of his Zippo twice as awkward with his cold numbed, sea sickness paralyzed hands. He had managed to open the lid of the lighter and was pawing at the wheel trying to get a spark.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you. You feel green now my lad, a smoke should be the last thing on yer mind” rumbled the coxswain, his deep West Country brogue nearly matching the heavy guns for pitch.

“I’ll be fine, just need to calm my….” He barely got his words out before he was bent double over the port gunwale retching.

“Save yer’self another wasted cigarette boy, did your quartermaster not give you ginger tablets?” It amazed him, how many landing craft he had guided to shore and how little some men knew about sea sickness.

“Quartermaster never told us we needed them” gasped the Canadian Private,

“told us it would be a short trip”

“If you got ‘em, take ‘em” chimed in the Bowman “too late now though”

“I’ll know for next time”, the optimism of the private was admirable but both veteran Landing Craft crew returned their eyes to the looming landmass and grimaced.

The silhouettes of the destroyers bombarding the beaches got sharper as the Landing Craft pushed on through the gloom, spurts of flame from their towering gun barrels, followed by the reverberating boom as they hurled metal and hatred at their enemies.

Tossed on the rough seas, nine tons isn’t much compared to the power of the waves. As daylight crept nearer the coast became more visible, the outlines of other landing craft more discernible and the faintly perceptible outline of planes returning to England after their bombing runs, alas the sea was no calmer. The lieutenant struggled back to stand between the crew members compartments, joined by the Sternsheetsman with a cigarette between his lips. He cupped his hand round the tip and light it with his Zippo and admired the jealous looks of the green cargo.

The lieutenant raised his wrist to show the three crew members the time.

“Twenty five past seven, with the delays we are expected on the beach at quarter to eight. I don’t want to be late.” He spoke as though he was reminding a tardy friends what time to meet him for lunch, no hint of emotion still. He tugged his sleeve back down over his watch and went aft to resume his seat. The coxswain checked his tiller direction again and fixed his eyes to the stern of the lead boat, ignoring his Sternsheetsman and Gunners chatter.

The destroyers kept growing larger and larger still, their gunfire getting louder, causing the men’s chests to vibrate from the percussion. As they drew closer and closer the Bowman suddenly leaned forward and cocked both his Vickers machine guns.

“Strafing run, I want to get them before they get me!” he justified,

“No ‘arm in being ready” responded his coxswain, “drawin’ level with the destroyers soon, w’ll be the targets then”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the naval barrage picked up in tempo, their gun barrels dropped and the shells began to pepper the beach and buildings more directly.

“Final salvo” murmured the lieutenant, “Final salvo!”, trying to knock his voice down a few octaves as he announced the final British pummeling of the shoreline.

“Final salvo”,”It’s the final salvo”, the news rushed around the thirtty soldiers seated in the craft as the Officer took to the bow and turned to face his men.

“Remember the words of Churchill Men, We shall fight on the beaches, and landing grounds and in the fields and streets, We shall never surrender, remember those words? We have been over the plan, we have trained for this and you all know what to do. Have you all committed to memory todays plan?” He cast his eyes about, seeing the general nods of confirmation from his men.

“Have you all destroyed any page or document with any formal plans on?”

More nods,

“And finally, remember, men in the center off first, then the right, then left, the slower you are on the ramp the easier it will be for jerry to pick you off!”

The vessel stayed quiet, sea sickness had subsided for all but an unlucky few, the lieutenant stood resolutely between the crew compartments looking back as it men. Previous officers the crew had taken in showed two archetypes.

Some belted out triumphant motivational speeches, others sat in silence and maintained an air of total calm before delivering final briefings devoid of all emotion.

“You should really get your head down Sir” announced the Bowman, “once we get past these destroyer we are the front line.”

“Ah, yes, give me a signal before you drop the ramp”, stepping away from the compartments and resuming his seat.

As they passed the line of destroyers the final salvo was reaching its end, the coxswain requested down the voice pipe for more power as he ducked his head down and pulled his armored hatch into place. The clang on the heavy demagnetized steel gave him a sense of security. He knew it only guarded against light arms and shrapnel, but having something solid between you and the enemy really boosted confidence. He felt the increase in Engine revs through the controls and began to push the tiller to port to take his place in the first wave. Out of viewing holes in the armor to his right he could see the rest of the convoy coming abreast to the lead vessel and through the front he could see the beach getting closer and closer. He heard machine gun rattle, short test bursts of five or six rounds from each barrel, they worked, he only had one thing to focus on now. Getting the men onto the beach and getting his vessel of it.

In the open air the Bowman-Gunner pulled his sleeve over his hand to pick up the hot shell casings, inspected a few before tossing them overboard. Next he looked down by his knee. He couldn’t test the launch ramp though he had seen a ramp drop while underway on training. The boat had swamped and washed out a few soldiers and most of the gear. Not the time remind himself of the experience.

In the rear the Sternsheetsman prepared to slip into the engine room. He had to keep his head out the longest to keep an eye and ear for any signals to retreat or to increase speed. He heard the final shots of the Navy’s bombardment as they gave way to the bellow of German artillery and evil laughter of Machine guns still aimed skywards at prospective raiding RAF planes. The wave pushed forward, quiet engines, propelling them along, aided by wind and water ever closer to Normandy and occupied France. A wave of landing craft that had departed a few minutes before them had slowed and were timing their push to the watches of their officers. A message down the voice tube requesting a decrease in power as the coxswain lifted his hatch for his last chance to survey his position. He was equally spaced from the vessels of his wave and the right distance from the vessels advancing ahead. As he dropped down again the boats ahead began to accelerate towards the beach. The first waves final push to the beach, trailing wash, and preparing to spit fire and fury. ‘Daybreak on June 6^th 1944’ he thought to himself, ‘if I didn’t know better id call it beautiful’.

His hatch clanged shut not a moment too soon as the first machinegun round bounced of the bow armor. Clad in steel he pushed on, fearless through training not temperament, he ignored the sound of rounds pinging of the metalwork and zipping overhead in increasing regularity. As the waves got close specific targets became visible on the shore, soon the landing crafts were sending back bursts of Vickers fire and occasional mortar rounds. Through peep holes the Coxswain observed the vessels ahead of him being picked up by breaking waves, the roiling surf adding to their speed towards the shore. He winced as he thought he felt a metallic bump under the hull. His imagination was tricking him. They were too far out for beach mines and Belgians gates, plus he could see the German defenses high and dry on the beach. He pushed on, aiming for a gap between two craft ahead of him.

The beach got nearer, the hot bullets whizzing about in the air seemed to raise the temperature and he began to sweat. The Bowman gunner reached for another drum of Vickers ammunition and kept firing, As the first boats hit the beach an eerie calm seemed to descend. In his mind he could see the ramps dropping, as he had seen to many times before, the steady stream of damp tunics, the crack of rifles and snaps of sub-machineguns and pistols as they spat lead at the enemy. But today was different. In horror he sat and watched as trails or machine gun fire arced across the beach, kicking up puffs of sand as they honed in on the beached steel whales. Men burst forth, trying to spread out and advance to the beach. The sinister puffs of sand following them. Some men sprinted, some men zigzagged and some men dropped. Some men got back up, some started to crawl, some lay still. All the while boats continued to hit the beach, men rushing forward, tripping over the fallen. The occasional ramp dropped to far out and men six feet and over would disappear under the surface. Popping back up minus helmets and rifles.

Something wasn’t right, the coxswain looked to his left and saw the gunner taking careful aim at bunkers and sand bags, squeezing the triggers and counting the bursts. He looked at the Lieutenant, his left arm cocked in front of him, his right raised with three fingers raised, silver whistle in his mouth. Behind him stood the optimistic private, rifled in hand looking scared. His helmeted head several inches shorter than the men around him, on the right side was a faint motif, a four-leaf clover. All he had to do was push the tiller left or right. Point the bow anywhere but there, he would be court marshaled, but the lives that would be saved. He looked forward once more, to an empty, clean piece of sand and lined up the vessel perfectly with it then took his hands off the tiller and placed them flat either side. He looked across to his gunner, engrossed in his work, intent of laying down as much fire as he could. He saw the lieutenant in the same position, his hand still ready to count down the charge. Finally the private, still looking dead ahead, his eyes filming into a steely resolve, the fear gone. He looked back to the tiller, nothing had changed, the tiller was still aiming dead ahead.

He felt a small scrape on the bottom of the hull, this time it was real.

“Easy there” he yelled into the voice pipe. He hadn’t realized how loud it was on the beach, he hadn’t noticed the German artillery, the corner of his eye only just caught the trail of machine gun fire that riddled the front of the vessel. Next came the last shunt, the hull beaching. The shrill scream coming from the officers whistle snapped his head round, he hadn’t even noticed the ramp dropping. He watched as the stream of men dashed past into the water and up onto the sand. Instinct took over and he screamed words of hatred, punishment and vile retribution. Ordering them to kill as the men ran past, slapping them on the backs in a brotherly fashion. But he found his voice falter as the four leaf clover bounced past. He slapped a few more backs before turned to his tiller, unable to bring him self to look out the peepholes. A bang rattled the structure vessel, an large shell had landed within 10 yards of the port side. Shrapnel peppered the vessels armored flanks, a second bang, slightly smaller landed directly ahead, spraying the vessel again with red hot steel insect. A small piece had flown through one of the peepholes and stung his temple. The felt blood begin to run down his cheek and he snapped back. The ramp was being winches back up and soon the machine guns were back up and firing.

He leaned down and ordered full reverse, looking out to starboard, partly to avoid looking forwards and to gauge when to turn. He glanced down and saw the voice pipe covering in bright red blood. He looked up again, trying to focus his eyes again. Something out of the peephole in the water, it looked like a floating helmet. He pulled a bandage out one of his tunic pockets and pressed it to his head to try and stifle the bleeding and tried again to focus his eyes. A standard issue British helmet with a four leaf clover painted on the side.

The boat continued to push back away from the beach and the coxswain went to push the tiller hard starboard,

“It won’t turn!”

“What” replied the gunner, realizing the grim situation they may be in. The coxswain leaned down and shouted into the voice pipe,

“It won’t turn, its stuck, it’s not turning!”, his voice getting weaker with every shout before he slumped forward, his body weight pushing the tiller to port.

The gunner leapt across to the coxswains compartment and pushed him back in his chair.

“Coxswains down!” he screamed down the voice pipe, bringing the stoker and Sternsheetsman out of the engine room. The stoker immediately grabbed the tiller and heaved it round to full port,

“Bandage up his head proper and get him in the Engine room where its warm!” he ordered as he took his role as the new coxswain. They manhandled the injured man down to the deck and began hunting in his tunic for another bandage that they wrapped round his head to secure the wound.

“He’s been half fucking scalped!” exclaimed the Sternsheetsman, “He’ll be out for a while”.

The sun began to strengthen and there was a distinct sting in his head, the waves gently pushed him against the sand. He laid there, eyes shut, and he could hear tanks in the distance and a vehicle being driven along the beach. A voice that could only belong to an officer barked orders, but he was to far away to hear. Another wave surged up the beach, catching his life jacket and pushing him up a few more inches. The water receded and he felt the sun begin to warm his skin. His eyelids began to crack open, but he couldn’t see anything. He summoned the strength to reach up and feel for his eyes with his left hand, he felt his hair first, moving down he felt a bandage. Relief flooded over him as he slipped the bandage up to his forehead. The bandage tore at the congealed blood on his temple sending a fresh spike of pain through is skull. He opened his eye again and looked at the sky, clouds, and patches of blue. It was bright! He realized he was probably on a D-day beach and prepared himself for what he would see when he rolled over and got up. He threw his left hand over his body and rolled, pushing down with both arms he got onto his knees and then to his feet.

“It’s all there and it all works, this is a good start!” he said to himself, and looked down the beach towards where he had heard tanks, then a voice behind him shouted,

“we’ve got a live one over here!”, he turned to see a short stocky Infantryman with a shock of blonde hair sprinting towards him with a medical bag.

-Let me know about any historical failings or typos-