The Song of Silvio’s Sleep

AUTHOR NOTE: As best I could, I have tried to synthesize the extended discussion I had with Silvio Marcucci, 1st Infantry Division, First Wave Omaha Beach. It is as accurate as I can remember. At best, it paraphrases his description. At worst, it is a reasonable approximation of his experience that morning.t

The USNS Henrico, lifted anchor in broad daylight with dozens of other ships in Portland Bay as it joined the mass migration to the South and Normandy. Silvio could see nothing but grey steel hulls from horizon to horizon. Many were festooned with barrage balloons on the stern which glinted and glowed with the passing rays of the sun. It was a stunning and invigorating sight. So many ships and such purpose. They were truly moving to destiny.

As all his companions, Silvio Marcucci was moving toward the most important event in his life, one they clearly understood as such. He had survived North Africa and Sicily and hoped he would not fall prey to the inexorable math of Time=Casualty.

Enjoying the fresh air as a contrast to the fetid cloud in the berthing spaces, he and his companions jammed all available deck space to watch history unfold. Grey steel hulls broke the water as far as he could see kicking up bow and stern waves in the sparkling blue-black sea.

Fast patrol craft darted between ships with escort destroyers arrayed at all points of the compass as dogs shepherding sheep. The immensity of the sight was overwhelming for all as they just looked on in silence at the passing scene, deep in personal thoughts. This was a life moment.

As dark finally descended, about 2300 English Double Daylight Savings time, he descended to his space to find some sleep before a very early wakeup call. He found this a wasted effort. The combination of the sight of streaming steel as well as the knowledge of the morning made sleep impossible. He closed his eyes to the constant drumming of the ships propellors on its shaft as the slamming vibrations of a ship’s life clouded his mind. Silvio was Twenty and already more than an adult.

He was loudly alerted by the Bosun’s pipe about 0300 on 6 June and began his journey. He and hundreds of others slowly shuffled their way through an immense chow line, preparatory to loading into the assault craft for Omaha. Today, unlike the two previous skimpy breakfasts, they could have a huge array of choices. Steaks, mashed potatoes, apple pie, ice cream, soda, coffee, hot chocolate, scrambled eggs, pancakes and sausages, adorned the galley racks.

Most everyone took as much as their steel mess trays could hold, some even using canteen cups to hold the largesse-an act they would all later regret. Silvio sat on the deck by the stacked bunks with his buddies and wolfed the food down. NCOs went through the spaces warning them of load time and hustling the feeding process.

Soon, he looked at the load card he had been given. As a communications technician, he drew a roll of assault telephone wire to be attached to his web gear, a heavy wooden frame with his SCR 300 radio attached weighing more than thirty pounds and two waterproof bags. One would hold the spare batteries and the other the spare tubes and necessary tools. This, all before his basic combat gear of rifle, ammunition, grenades, rations, shaving kit, rain jacket, ground cloth and signal smoke and flares. Very quickly, the load almost equaled Silvio’s weight-as he described as 140 pounds soaking wet.

He ditched the issued rations in favor of several apples and cigarettes which he stowed in his rubber gas mask bag just under his chin. With all this and on the announcement for loading, he stood in line and staggered to the deck. It was about 0400.

Fresh sea air hit him as he emerged on deck to a forbidding weather and sea state. There was a constant gusting wind with mixed rain coursing over him. Even in the dim somewhat moonlit dark, he could discern a rough sea beaten with spume and rolling waves. This would not be a fun ride.

He was lined up by Naval Petty Officers per his boat number and jammed against the railing, now lowered by half. The heavy boarding netting was attached to the rail top. The Higgins boat, less than fifty feet below, bucked and slammed into the side of the ship and finally settled into a roughly parallel position alongside the hull. Crews, barely discernible in the dark, positioned the end of the netting into the boat.

He took a position along the rail per shouted instructions, did a reverse to face the ship and in line with five others, grasped the rough hemp and began his descent. As soon as he cleared the railing, his position was filled with a seemingly endless line of replacements stacked in the companionways, awaiting their turn.

Minding both his training and experience, Silvio grasped only the vertical ropes, using the horizontal as steps below. The netting constantly slammed back against the hull with the wave action and he had to wait between iterations of movement to continue without losing his balance as heavily loaded as he was. By the time he reached the bottom, his knuckles were bleeding and he was exhausted.

Loading onto the craft required a careful sense of timing as well as depth perception. The craft rose rapidly up and down with the wave action, a distance of more than a dozen feet at a time. Drop on a down dip and one would be slammed on to the deck risking a broken leg. The trick was to drop at the top of the ascent for a soft elevator ride to the floor.

With practiced eye, he timed the drop perfectly and found himself jammed in the fourth row from the front. The excessive gear all had insured that most would have to stand for the ride into shore. The Higgins, now fully loaded eight lines deep with thirty laden troops, freed itself from the netting and moved through the gloaming to meet its companions.

The sea was in an ugly state and waves broke constantly over the front soaking the complement in less than a minute. Constant droning wind whipped spume. It was 0430 and landing was scheduled for 0630. This would be a very long day before it began.

The craft joined dozens of others, now discernible in all directions as it bucked and slid attempting to hold direction against the coursing waves. The freeboard was less than four feet under decent seas and this morning, the waves were breaking over less than two feet of plywood protection. Very soon, the copious breakfasts arose simultaneously amongst the men with most impacting on the man to the front. Save for the wind, the stench of vomit wafted constantly over the packed men, now somewhat stupefied by the experience. It was approximately 0445.

The combined effect of the vomit, trash and breaking waves quickly overwhelmed the bilges. This resulted in water steadily rising within the hull and alarming the crew. Quickly, they yelled at the men to use their helmets as bailing buckets to forestall sinking. Silvio could see several of his traveling companions broaching with the waves and going under. Despite his incredible seasickness and vomit covered clothes, he bent to the task. Bailing and barfing. Bailing and barfing.

The outboard file of troops on each side, having the favorable locations, took on the primary bailing tasks. In time, a reasonable compromise had been reached between the flooding water and the efforts of the personnel to save the craft. This constant process became a rhythmic habit for the voyage. Troops would alternate by the hull, bail and then shift to a replacement. The work was exhausting, but necessarily rewarding in that the boat did not sink. They still were more than two miles from shore. It was about 0500 and dawn was clearly present.

Due to the low freeboard, it was extremely hard to discern shore from sea as both were a dark blue-black with only a hint of horizon. What Silvio could see was an endless line of his assault companions passing through the larger steel-clad hulls of the escort and support vessels. He saw them clearly between swings of his helmet which had provided some relief from the agonies of the sea.

The first line he crossed from his transport, about Twelve miles out, was the bombardment line. Here, the Cruisers, monitors and battleships stood at anchor, parallel to the unseen shore. They would begin firing at 0600, judged to be when light was best for target selection-an ephemeral thing with the clouds and fog obscuring any definition of terrain.

Dramatically floating just to his left as he passed was the battleship Texas, a mountain with the more Lilliputian shapes arrayed around. In the distance, less than a mile, reposed the Battleship Arkansas, a solid shape against the scudding sky.

Altogether, Omaha, somewhat less than five miles in width, was to be saturated with the fires of two battleships, four cruisers and 12 destroyers. Their effectiveness was to be determined, but it gave Silvio and his companions a great sense of confidence as well as the knowledge that they were participating in a truly historic moment. After a moment of reflection, it was back to the bailing and barfing.

Closer in, less than five miles out, was the destroyer line. Unlike the larger bombardment ships, they roamed slowly parallel and in depth to the beach. Once beyond their screen, the Higgins boats all came on line to the blaring guidance and flags of the control craft. It was approximately 0545.

For the remaining run in, protection was provided by darting patrol craft, guide boats and the obscurity of the sea. German shot was beginning to fall randomly among the horde now racing toward the beach. Silvio noted that he was suddenly unable to see the vast array of shipping as it passed to his rear. He was utterly alone with 140,000 of his companions. The outline of the bluffs of Omaha could be dimly seen in the distance and fog. It was 0600.

Suddenly, the men in the boat were physically lifted up and slammed back down. A broadside from the Texas’ 14” guns had just passed overhead creating a vacuum as it passed.

As an orchestrated event, the sky suddenly filled with arching shots from dozens of vessels ranging from the battleships to the rocket firing landing craft. Silvio passed through a line of DUKW’s carrying 105mm artillery for direct support on the initial landing and the several LCT’s with the floating DD tanks yet to be determined as something other than experimental. The immensity of effort was largely lost on the boat’s members as they focused on their impending arrival.

The bombardment had begun, its effectiveness to be noted by Silvio at a slightly later time. It was thirty minutes to touchdown and the churning lines pointed in continuous waves of streaking white wakes toward the shore.

NCOs prompted the men to recover their helmets, buckle up, check their weapons and gear and standby for ramp drop. The waves and wind constantly swept across, obscuring any ability to note landmarks save the rapidly growing mass that were the cliffs and shore.

By now, less than two miles from shore, the Germans were clearly fully awake and responding. The artillery intensified dropping amongst the packed craft and impacting with increased frequency. Higgins boats were turned into flaming wrecks. Men could be seen struggling in the unforgiving sea, largely ignored by the escort craft, ordered to proceed without halting. This was the run in. It was 0615.

Bullets began to lash the water and the steel ramp of the Higgins Boat. Some shrapnel could be felt and heard impacting against the wooden sides. This was getting in close. The men instinctively lowered themselves, jammed forward in anticipation and awaited the drop of the ramp. At the front, an officer, marked by the vertical white stripe on his helmet, peered carefully through the small slit in the ramp to judge touchdown. It was 0632.

The boat suddenly came to an abrupt halt throwing everyone forward simultaneously with the ramp drop. The first three rows were scattered across the open ramp and deck and struggled under all the gear to gain footing and move forward. Machine gun rounds began to search the mass and Silvio could clearly hear and see the impact on his forward protecting companions. Most did not make the sand to their front other than in a lifeless form.

As the fourth row, Silvio was blocked from falling by the mass of men to his front. He stumbled and pushed his way over the bodies on the ramp, jumped off the ramp and promptly began to drown. His boat had grounded into one of the undiscovered deep runnels created by the tide as it crossed parallel to the beach, dredging a channel from several feet to more than ten. It was into the greater depth that Silvio descended.

Weighted by his exceptional load, he sank promptly to the bottom despite his fully inflated belt life belt. Regaining his senses and reacting to training, he reached down and uncoupled his quick release dropping the gear. The sudden loss of weight coupled with the life belt shot him to the surface. But the surface was not what he expected.

In the short time it took from descending to arising, the Higgins boat had broached and overturned jammed broadside against the sandbar. It was in the small gap between the prop and the hull that he emerged. The craft was stern to the beach. Silvio gasped, now helmetless and grasped the large bronze prop and attempted to regain his composure. He was in the front and almost fully exposed.

What he saw in the thin daylight to his front shocked him. The beach stretched more than 500 yards from his position to the cliffs. He could see no one moving in the massive tangle of steel tetrahedrons, Belgian gates and telephone poles scattered throughout the beach. The tide was rushing in and pushed the bow across the channel to the next bar. Silvio couldn’t move to the more protected bow as a combination of bullets, shrapnel and the sandy bottom prevented any movement. In essence, he was trapped to ride the tide to shore. He held tightly behind the blades and began to note the overriding sounds.

He was jammed between the rail protecting the propellor from the beach, the hull bottom and a severely bent rudder. The hull, thoroughly holed and flooded, was slowly grinding its way forward with the rapidly filling tide carrying him toward the cliffs.

Silvio’s precarious position required constant adjustment and a tight grip. The water was dirty and cold, but that was largely lost on him as he struggled for survival. The sounds against the prop quickly gained his attention.

Impacting all around him were mortar and artillery rounds. He was swamped with waves as well as the whistle of shrapnel, some making clear impact with his hull. He could see bullets sweeping the water, bodies floating at the more distant tide line, flaming vehicles and landing craft to his front.

His survey quickly became conscious of a more constant ubiquitous sound, that of bullets impacting the bronze props less than a half inch from his face. Ping. Ping. Ping. Alternating, pausing and then rapidly, Ping. Ping. Ping. It was approximately 0645.

From time to time as the tide carried all before it, Silvio would release the blade and hold the connecting shaft to grasp a moment of physical relief. He heard above all other sounds, Ping, Ping, Ping.

He searched the scene to his front through salt burned eyes seeking any form of companionship-a wish not granted. In time, by 0730, he saw some elements hunkered behind the beach obstacles and random movements obscured by the flotsam jamming his sight line. Still, he didn’t think he could emerge to join as the fire was a continuous song. Ping. Ping. Ping.

As he progressed toward the cliffside road, the tide increased with intensity surging his precarious foxhole forward. It was 0800.

To his immediate left, several Higgins boats surged past, breaching the shallower bar. He could see them and a number of companions beach less than fifty yards to his front. This was the reinforcing wave, but it still provided him no relief. Ping. Ping. Ping.

A third wave passed him by at 0830 and he could, for the first time, sense some degree of order and suppressed fire. The flipped craft finally came to rest breached against a steel obstacle less than fifty yards from the seawall that lined the entire beach. Sensing no further forward movement, Silvio peered over the tips of the blades, saw some men to his front and crawling toward them, sank in the sand.

Two men half crawled toward him, grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him to shelter behind a dead DD. He propped himself up against the torn tread, took a deep drink of water from his rescuers canteen and slumped in exhaustion. He quickly woke to the sound of bullets glancing off the hull. Ping. Ping. Ping.

It was approximately 0900.

Years later, in the banquet room of the St Mere Eglise Hotel De Ville, Silvio Marcucci had described his day to an intensely interested Major. Clearly both exhilarated and exhausted by his lengthy exposition, he fell for a moment into silence.

Not wanting to break the moment, I let him recover.

He looked up, tapped my knee and said with a firm husky voice:

“Ever since then, when I go to bed, I always hear Ping. Ping. Ping.”

He always would.