7th FA on D-Day at Omaha Beach: First to Fire - Field Artillery

FA Journal, Nov-Dec, 2001 by Alfred A. Alvarez

D-Day and Hell. The first indication that we were approaching landfall and H-hour on D-Day was strange pinging on the side of the LCT. The smoke from the burning beach engulfed us. The beach bombing and shelling must have been horrific, but as we later found out, it had not been as effective as we had hoped. We heard loud scraping noises as the LCT rammed some underwater obstacles. Finally, the LCT ramp slowly started down.

At this time, the vehicles in the craft were revving their engines and the carbon monoxide and diesel fumes were overcoming us. We wanted out.

The jeep went out and down. The ramp clanked, and we jumped out on both sides into five and one-half feet of surf. The jeep had a one-foot high exhaust and could operate submerged and loaded with all baggage and equipment and still hold three people: the driver and the two lieutenants.

The rest of us trudged out into the water carrying heavy loads. I had "long johns," impregnable "goo" to preclude contact with chemical gas, woolen ODs, gas flaps on my neck and wrists, a field jacket and netted helmet, web equipment, two canteens, three first aid pouches (one on the helmet with morphine syrettes), a Haversack, grenades, extra ammo, an M1 carbine enclosed in plastic taped with banana clips and one mag in its stock, an assault jacket with many pockets, a plastic-enclosed one-quarter mile reel of wire, a telephone and the 610 radio wrapped in a life preserver--we were overloaded.

I'm five feet, seven inches tall and only had my nose out of water. I inflated the radio's life preserver as I stepped into the surf and rode it in. (I encountered Sergeant Kowalski later that morning, and he noted my radio was intact.)

The life preservers had explosive cartridges that inflated a rubber doughnut around your waist. Our combat-assault veterans had told us to wear our rubber gas mask cases inflated under our chins to keep our heads up and out of the water.

Unfortunately, the soldiers of the 116th Infantry RCT from the 29th Infantry Division assaulting the beachhead section to our left were inexperienced in beach landings. Many drowned when their inflated waist life preservers caused their heads to go underwater. Their bodies with their blue-and-grey shoulder insignia sadly lined the beach tidemark the next day.

I trudged out of the deep and into waist deep and then knee deep water. Later, my readings of this remembrance explained that these changing depths were "wave runnels." But what was fortunate for me was a death knell for others.

Eddie King and I got separated as we both hid behind large metal boat obstacles. However, both of us had identical portions of the radio, so when we got together, we had no commo; we needed Rosner with the battery packs.

After what seemed hours, we finally left the comparative safety of these large metal beach obstacles. Then crawling and dragging our stuff, we emerged and hid behind a berm lined with literally hundreds of soldiers.

Eddie King went back into the surf to pull in wounded, drowning soldiers. When he returned, he pointed to his head where blood trickled down his face. There in the center of his helmet was a bullet hole where a round had gone through it. I had the unenviable task of sticking my hand in his helmet and feeling mush, but it was only his hair soaked in blood. Luckily, the bullet only creased his head.