(10 of 14)
What I found when I finally reached the seawall at the foot of the bluffs is difficult to describe. Men were trying to dig or scrape trenches or foxholes for protection against incoming fire. Others were carrying or helping the wounded to areas of shelter. We had to crouch or crawl on all fours when moving about. Most of us were in no condition to carry on. All were trying to stay alive for the moment. Behind us, other landing craft were attempting to unload their equipment and personnel in the incoming tide and were coming under enemy fire as well. I realized that we had landed in the wrong beach sector and that many of the people around me were from other units and were strangers to me. What's more, the terrain before us was not what I had been trained to encounter. We could see nothing above us to return fire to. We were the targets.
By now we were being urged by braver and more sensible noncoms and one or two surviving officers to get off the beach and up to higher ground. But it would be some time before enough courage returned for us to attempt it. One or two times I was able to control my fear enough to race across the sand to drag a helpless G.I. from drowning in the incoming tide. That was the extent of my bravery that morning.
By now, clear thinking was replacing some of our fear, and many of us accepted the fact that we had to get off the beach. Word was passed that a small draw providing access up the bluff had been found and that attempts were being made to blow up the barbed wire with bangalore torpedoes and find a way up through the mines. As I started up, I saw the white tape marking a safe path through the mines, and I also saw the price paid to mark that path for us. Several G.I.s had been blown to death, and another, still alive, was being attended to. As I passed, I could see that both his legs were gone, and tourniquets were being applied by a medic.
The rest of the day is a jumbled memory of running, fighting and hiding. We moved like a small band of outlaws, much of the time not knowing where we were, often meeting other groups like ours, joining and separating as situations arose. I remember one time, while moving along a road, suddenly coming under fire from some sort of artillery piece around the bend. I could also hear the clank of a track vehicle and realized that it was a tank or half-track of some kind. Terrified, I turned, ran like hell, and dove into a deep covered roadside ditch. Already there was a tough old sergeant from the 1st Division lying on his side as one would relax on a sofa. Knowing that the 1st Division was combat experienced, I screamed at him, "I think it's a tank--what the hell can we do now?" He stared calmly at me for a few seconds, poker-faced, and said, "Relax, kid, maybe it will go away." And sure enough, it did go away.
"IN A FIELD OPPOSITE, WE SAW THE MOST TERRIBLE CARNAGE. THERE WERE GLIDERS UPENDED ON THE POSTS AND DEAD MEN EVERYWHERE." --John Kite Kite, 23, a special-forces sergeant in the British army, took part in the assault on Juno Beach