NORMANDY

On the night of 5 June 1944, shadowy figures dropped out of the black skies over Normandy. Planes roared in the midnight heavens, and from their interiors the paratroopers poured, counted ten, and opened silken parachutes. The skies were alive with them, camouflaged umbrellas of foliage‑green carrying men, and red parachutes riding ammunition to earth. The skies rained down equipment, and sp1ashed vital medical supplies to the ground. And coasting silently downward came the gliders, more American Air‑borne infantrymen, rushing like doom into the battle.

This was the beginning, the spearhead, the courageous vanguard of the tremendous Allied fury which was in another day to be unleashed on the sandy beaches of Normandy, France.

The 6th of June was officially D‑Day. Then the Allies struck with irresistible might. The story of this unparalleled invasion, unequaled in the history of the world in scope or in power, has already been told many times. It is written indelibly in the glorious annals of our American history. It need not be repeated here.

We are concerned primarily with the 790th Ordnance Company. While America launched its attack, the Liberty ship bearing the company hugged the shores of England, keeping its place in the mighty Armada, holding its position in the great plan of attack. Slowly it moved forward, a tiny cog in a vast machinery of shipping. The world was made up of ships. Nothing else. Even the sparkle of the water was lost. Only ships – and equipment – and men – and the mean‑looking muzzles of the long range artillery.

On the morning of the 8th, two Ordnance ships moved into previously ordered positions some distance off the shores of Utah Beach. All morning they waited, the two ships, one containing the vehicles and its personnel, the other the Ordnance personnel not assigned to trucks.

Early in the afternoon the first signal came. One of the ships moved up towards the shore. While hell was breaking loose, Ordnance men poured out and began wading ashore. The artillery fire was heavy and intense but the men pushed ahead, packs on their backs, their weapons held high over their heads. Without a single casualty they reached the banks of Utah Beach.

It was almost midnight before the second ship moved in as close as it could safely get to shore. The world was now in chaos. It rocked with fire and was covered with the black, smoky pall of imminent death.

The heavens were lighted by flares which went on and off like giant fireflies. The crash and thunder of heavy artillery shells pounded on without respite. The great ship rolled as their big guns spewed forth death and destruction into the blackness of the shores. The answering volleys from the hills screamed the Heinie challenge of death. The reddish‑orange flame and fire of the incessant gunnery burned the night with a weird glow.

Death was everywhere.

On the LST’s the Ordnance trucks were ready. Their motors were turning, ready to go. The muffled hum of the impatient jeeps could be heard as drivers crept into position behind the wheels and stepped on starters. In other landing craft, men with equipment piled high on their backs waited patiently, saying little, only their tight lips betraying their feelings.

Then the moment came …

The landing craft charged forward. Shells dropped perilously close sending great geysers of water high into the air. Not for a moment did the landing barges slow down. Only when their bottoms scraped dirt and the engine would pull no farther did they stop.

The bow doors swept open. The ramps dropped 1ike giant palms smacking the waters. And the boats disgorged equipment, trucks, jeeps and men.

The waterproofed vehicles plowed into the water and moved forward. Only an occasional one stuck in the soft sand. The others pulled around. There was no time to lose now. Later these stalled vehicles would be towed out. Now it was forward – forward – forward.

And everywhere the water was filled with Infantrymen wading waist deep, their weapons high over their heads. And the flares lighted the waters and singled them out like ducks on a pond. The whine of small arms pierced the intermittent roars of the heavy artillery. The occasional scream of a wounded man added, as if it was necessary, to the stark reality of the scene. This was no Hollywood landing. This was no longer maneuvers. This, damn it, was the real thing!

Then the first Ordnance trucks hit the beach. Ashore, at first glance, all was impossible confusion. The entire area was littered with the weapons and material of war. Every inch of space seemed to he occupied with piles of vital equipment. Yet, almost miraculously, space was found and trucks roared into it. And behind them came the jeeps.

The Division had landed. Its casualties had not been as heavy as anticipated. Long months of training had paid off with smooth operation and superb efficiency. The assault and the landing had been a complete success.

The landing of the 790th Ordnance Company had been accomplished without the loss of life, without, in fact, sustaining a single injury.

The Ordnance trucks formed into convoy, drivers took a quick glance at previously prepared maps, and moved out of the beachhead onto the inundated roads leading to its first, camping area on enemy‑held soil

All the way from the beachhead to Ecoquincaville, the marching men, and the men in the rolling trucks, were accompanied by the pounding of the heavy guns. The night was black with clouds. The rains came down. The chill was deep in their marrow.

But when they reached the bivouac area, they took no time out for rest. Not with the sound of the thunder still in their ears. They dug. Behind the protection of the thick hedgerows, with spades and shovels and even with helmets, they dug themselves in. Camouflage nets were quickly strung over the trucks, blending them in with the background and making them invisible to enemy airplane observation. This routine was to become an established habit upon each movement, in the many months to follow.

At 2330, the company was initiated. Heinie planes appeared overhead. Men plummeted into foxholes, hugging the earth, The planes made one quick circle. The bombs dropped earthward. From across the field an ack‑ack battery opened fire and the planes disappeared in the black clouds. The enemy bombs tore great gashes in the land, but the company suffered no casualties.

Finally, weary and exhausted, the man dropped off to sleep. But whenever you woke up ‑ and you wakened frequently ... clearly audible in the heavy silence was the soft, scratchy sound of someone digging, widening a foxhole, dredging it deeper, ever deeper.

The next day was occupied in organizing and orientation. Minor repairs were made on vehicles which had suffered some damage in the night landing. Equipment was set up for work. Then separated only by yards were innumerable other combat units, infantry companies, ack-ack outfits, quartermaster and signal corps.

On the 10th, work began with the arrival of the first major job ... the repair of a 105 mm howitzer which had suffered a muzzle burst. Other jobs followed quickly. In a matter of hours all sections were swamped with work.

The Rumor of a vessel sunk and an infantry outfit without weapons was quickly verified. The 2d Battalion of the 359th Infantry Regiment had been forced to abandon its weapons; a company of the 315th engineers, too, had suffered a similar loss. Arrangements had to be made immediately to reequip them. This was quickly accomplished. By morning of the a 11th, gliders drifted out of the sky and came to neat landings on the nearby fields.

They came from supply depots in England. Within their capacious bodies, they carried sufficient Ordnance equipment to fill to T/O & E strength a full infantry regiment. This material was promptly absorbed by Ordnance, tested, and reissued to the 2d Battalion of the 359th Infantry Regiment, and to Company C of the 315 Engineers.

It was on this day, too, that Private William Simpson set himself on fire while experimenting with a gasoline stove. The flames shot up, encircling him in a matter of seconds. His scream of pain brought Technician Fifth Grade Boerger on the double. Quickly he threw the burning Man to the ground, rolled him about, meanwhile slapping at the flames with his bare hands. His prompt, intelligent action undoubtedly saved Simpson's life. The soldier was evacuated to the hospital with severe burns. Boerger later was to receive the Silver Star medal for his heroism. Ste Mere Eglise [Pont-l’Abbe] was captured on the 13th. The bitter battles had taken a heavy toll on automatic weapons and bazookas in the division. The need for them became critical. Into the front lines moved the Recovery Section under Lt. Hazbda.. They drove up in trucks, set up an Ordnance Collecting Point, and under heavy artillery fire performed an immense amount of vital recovery work. When the shells began striking perilously close to the trucks, the men switched to smaller targets, jeeps. But the work went on.

Time for recovery, repair and reissue was cut to a matter of hours. Work in the Armament Platoon was particularly heavy. The stock of spare parts and equipment was rapidly depleted. The company's skilled mechanics improvised ingeniously. The weapons came in and though repair parts were not in stock, Yankee ingenuity and invention sent them out again in a space of short hours to the demanding infantry regiments ... issued again after being tested, and operating perfectly. Salvage operations were now a major function of the company.

The company moved to the vicinity of Fresville The next day, the 18th of June, the residue group arrived from England with its important company records and a windfall of spare parts. The shortage was temporarily relieved. During this second week in France, the Automotive Section accomplished 24 major jobs and innumerable minor jobs such as unit replacements. Battery recharging and repair work formed a large part of the work of the Automotive Section. Approximately fifty batteries a week were being repaired and reissued at this time ... much of the repair being accomplished with captured enemy material.

Captain Louis A. Larrey, popular commanding officer of the company, sustained serious injuries in the vicinity of Chef du Pont on the 22nd of June when he fell from a truck while engaged in unloading operations. He was evacuated to the hospital.

In this same vicinity, men of the company probing a swamp found a precious stock of Ordnance equipment. Apparently lost by paratroopers, the material was completely salvaged.

All sections now worked long into the night. Close on the advancing heels of the infantry. Ordnance rolled on – maintaining … recovering … salvaging … issuing … Captured German material poured into the shops in ever increasing piles. These were tested, experimented with, modified, reissued. German mortars particularly were returned to the infantry regiments to spew forth death on their original makers.

Repair parts and replacement items were non‑existent. The Automotive Section was frequently faced with seemingly impossible repair jobs. American ingenuity and initiative kept the vehicles rolling. Two outstanding heroes of “Keep ‘Em Rolling” were “Hot Patch Moe” and “Cold Patch Murray” – two persevering souls who were known to patch an inner tube 67 times!

The 10th of July was a banner day. A mobile shower unit was available to the company. The men took their first bath since leaving England!

Work grew steadily heavier. The volume of repair and reclamation work on recovered weapons forced the expansion of the Small Arms section to 18 men.

And the company moved forward, ever forward, keeping up with the advancing front line units. In the vicinity of Pont-l’Abbe some changes were effected in the officer personnel: 2d Lt John M. McKillen Jr was assigned to the company as Small Arms Shop Officer; 1st Lt. Eugene W. Connor assumed command of the company; 1st Lt. Robert L. Edenfield became the Supply Platoon Commander; 2d Lt. Mathew L. Habzda was placed on special duty in the Artillery Section.

Always within artillery range of the enemy, there was no break in the work routine. In spite of constant movement the work went on. And nightly, almost at the stroke 2130, the “washing‑machine” motors of the “Bed‑Check Charlies” would be heard overhead, signaling the approach of the Jerry planes. Men would dive for cover. Ack‑ack would open up and bring an occasional plane crashing to earth But the next night they would be back again.

In St. Jores, on the 24th of July, the company was quietly eating dinner when someone heard a sound. He took no chances, but dove for a hole. Others followed until the chow line was deserted, the area empty. Spilled food was everywhere as men flew to safety. It was a plane overhead, so high it was barely visible. A half dozen men hugged each other in the garbage pit, the nearest “foxhole.” From the chow truck, the three cooks leaped, one atop the other, to a search for shelter. The whistle of a single bomb was heard – and it fell a mile or so away on the outskirts of a railroad yard. It did no damage. The plane disappeared. No one knew whether the rail road yard was the target, or whether the bomb had just slipped from the bomb racks. But there wasn’t much dinner that day. Though you grow accustomed to the thunder of distant bombing … you never lose respect for the individual bomb.

This day saw the end of the Normandy Campaign as Allied forces pushed through Avranches. The first of five bitter campaigns in the crushing defeat of German was over. Next came …