During the first week of June every year, I remember my father, Gilbert C. Frye, and what he experienced as part of the landing on Utah Beach on D-Day.  I would like to share an excerpt of his written memories, which we pressed him to create.  (He never talked about his experiences.)

Going for D-Day: The weather that evening was marginal at best, foggy and drizzly, typical English soup. After a restless night spent aboard the landing craft — wherever we could find room to “bed down” with blanket, at dawn next morning — morning of June 3, I think, there were signs of movement. Sometime that morning we got underway, the navy men driving our “boat” finding their proper spot in the mass (mess?) of shipping. And then, outside Plymouth harbor we were in open water, chugging along as part of a convoy of ships, as far as the eye could see. By afternoon it was open water, and rough going, the bow plowing into a rising sea, with waves cascading over the sides, everyone wet and chilled.

At some point that day — June 3 — an officer read us a message from the supreme commander, General Eisenhower. Not surprisingly, it stated that we were starting out on a Great Crusade for the liberation of the continent, etc. etc., and wished us Godspeed. It put the official stamp on what we already knew: the Fourth Infantry Division — including our 12th Regimental Combat Team — was on its way to spearhead the landings in France. Where, we knew not, but at least it was a relief finally to get on with invasion. Our spirits were high, even jovial, as we considered the prospects. Much joking and speculating about what lay ahead. Very little, if any, evidence of fear or apprehension.

At first, word was that the landings would take place June 4, next day, my birthday, no less. But when the weather worsened, with a rough sea to match, we were told that it would be June 5, or maybe the sixth. Judging from the movement of ships all around us, in the thick fog and mist, the flotilla was “marking time”. We marveled that the navy men were able to maintain any kind of position and avoid collisions. A real credit to them.

Our people made the best of a lousy situation. With the inactivity, people found diversions, some of ‘em pretty crazy. For example, just before embarking at Plymouth, I had “grown” a boil on the back of my neck — first and last time ever. By the following day, it had turned nasty, with the hint of a “head.” We had a medic aboard, who allowed he could “force it,” or I could let it take its course. I chose the latter. But someone then got the idea of forming a pool, with bets on when Frye’s boil would erupt. When the hours passed without relief, and with time growing short, it became apparent that it would take the medic’s touch. With some ceremony, he did — to my great relief and applause from the troops. Who collected the money I do not recall.

My birthday, too, became a cause célèbre. When word got out that it was, in fact, my twentieth birthday, it became reason for diversive action. At the urging of a buddy, people deposited portions of their field rations into a round cook pan. The navy boys came up with a single altar candle, which they thrust into the center and lit. Alas, just as people broke into song, the boat dipped into a trough, a wave cascaded over the front with disastrous effect on the “cake.” It had turned to glop. Still, the spirit remained, and I was touched by the effort. Surely, a twentieth birthday I would not forget. ...

The Landings: Utah Beach: We could see and hear explosions and the constant rattle of small arms fire ahead. I feared for [Paul] Mobley and our other men with the first wave. Then it came our turn — the signal for our boat to make the run to the beachhead. The young skipper revved the engines and we charged through the surf, toward the beach, with incoming shells exploding nearby. Suddenly the worst happened. The boat ran up on a hidden sand bar and stuck. No amount of revving would free us, and we were still several hundred yards from the beach. Impatient and fearful of being a target of the German artillery, the skipper tried to drive forward, hanging us up all the more. Then, apparently in a panic, he simply dropped the ramp and ordered us off. What to do? Nothing but try to make it to shore. I was in the lead vehicle, a small weasel, a tracked amphibious-type jeep. There was the driver and me, with radio, plus duffels and rifles. We were to be first off, to be followed by the two M-7 tanks. With the engines of the tanks already revving up behind, we in the weasel drove off the ramp, hopeful that we could stay afloat and make progress enough to touch ground. But it didn’t happen. Within seconds water flowed over the sides, swamping us.

Our little vehicle settled below the surface, directly in the path of the tanks (I recall thinking I’d like a talk with whoever designed the “amphibious” jeep). Fortunately, the driver and I were wearing life preservers and we bobbed on the surface. But now we faced another challenge. The two tanks could not be delayed in leaving the boat and reaching the beachhead. I was horrified to see the lead tank move forward and start down the ramp — directly toward me. To my relief, one of the gunners aboard the tank spotted the driver and me, threw ropes, and managed to pull us up to where we could hold to the side. It was in that position that I arrived on Utah Beach. With landing craft relieved of the weight of the tanks, the skipper revved the boat onto the beach, dropped ramp and deposited the rest of our crew.

By now, at H-hour plus one, the Germans, recovering from their initial surprise, had zeroed their artillery on the landing area and were pounding the beaches. Soaking wet from my enforced bath I shook almost uncontrollably from the chill — and sheer fright, the realization that someone was trying to kill me. My personal effects — extra clothing, rations, cigarettes, etc. — plus my all-important rifle — had gone down with the weasel. I picked up a rifle and steel helmet from near the body of a dead GI, and acquired a jacket from a discarded duffel. As I started across the beach, a murderous barrage hit the area. I dove into a large shell hole, to find that I had landed squarely on another occupant. There was a yelp, grunt and curse. With something like an apology, I disengaged from my new mate, and was startled to see that he wore the silver leaves of a Lt. Colonel. I think I mumbled more apologies (“sir!”). In any case, he made room for me, and, seeing my soaking wet, shaky condition, offered me a cigarette, which I took — and smoked — gratefully (one of few times I truly enjoyed such). Came a lull in the shelling, and we clambered up and out, he going one way, I another to find our outfits.

By now the beaches were alive with activity — and confusion. Most units had been landed some distance from their intended landing zones. Men and units, including mine were scattered and searching. Fortunately, I connected with a few of our people, and together we walked inland.

Never forget.  Thanks, Dad.

C.S. Boddie writes for Meadowlark Press, LLC.

Image via Picryl.