Neptune: The Allied Invasion of Europe and the D-Day Landings (40 page)

By 4:15 a.m. on June 4, the winds had moderated, and when the SHAEF command team gathered again at Southwick House, there was a surge of cautious hope. As he entered, Captain Stagg felt an almost physical tension in the room. Ike nodded to him meaningfully, and Stagg presented his updated forecast. It was not good. Clouds and winds would continue to increase all day, he reported, and bring the cloud ceiling down to a mere three hundred feet. Ramsay spoke up to observe that it was clear and calm outside at the moment, but Stagg assured him that the weather would worsen over the next several hours. Eisenhower again queried his commanders. Ramsay feared that the low cloud ceiling “would prohibit use of airborne troops” and most other air action, “including air spotting” for naval gunfire support. Ramsay had agreed to a daylight attack in the first place only because of assurances that air and gunfire support would be “overwhelming.” Given the conditions described by Captain Stagg, it seemed unlikely now that there could be any significant air or naval support. Ramsay believed the invasion should be delayed. Eisenhower concurred. “If the air cannot operate,” he said, “we must postpone.” He looked around the room and asked if everyone was in agreement. No one spoke; even Montgomery remained silent. Eisenhower thereupon announced that the landings would be postponed for twenty-four hours. In fact, the postponement would be twenty-four and a half hours, since the original H-Hour was 6:00 a.m. on June 5 but had now been changed to 6:30 a.m. on June 6 to accommodate the tide.
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Ramsay at once notified his task force commanders by phone. Vian’s three task groups, though fully loaded and ready to go, had not yet left port, so for them, while the news was irksome, it was not dire. Kirk’s two task groups were more of a problem. Hall’s Force O had been scheduled to depart at 7:00 a.m., now just over two hours away, which meant that his ships had already begun their departure routines. And of course most of Moon’s Force U had been at sea since the night before. Nevertheless, when Ramsay called Kirk to ask, “Can you hold up?” Kirk at once replied, “Yes we can.” Kirk’s confidence derived from his knowledge that there was an annex to the operational plan dedicated to precisely these circumstances. All that was necessary, Kirk believed, was to broadcast the preestablished code
phrase for a twenty-four-hour delay, and all the elements of his Western Task Force would adjust accordingly.
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For the most part, Kirk’s confidence proved well founded. The signal (“One Mike Post”) went out over the radio at 5:15 a.m., and hundreds of ships from the Irish Sea to the Thames Estuary adjusted as necessary. The battleships and cruisers from Scotland and Ireland reversed course. As Admiral Deyo put it, “We merely countermarched up the Irish Sea during the day, got some sleep, and countermarched again that evening.” The “corncobs,” proceeding under tow at a leisurely three to four knots, adjusted similarly.
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The problem, of course, was Moon’s Force U. Moon had been up all night ensuring that the various elements of his eclectic command successfully got to sea in accordance with the detailed timetable. So far he had managed it, though during the transit eastward, near-gale-force winds and high waves had scattered elements of his command over a wide swath of the western Channel. Now with the postponement, Moon not only had to consolidate his literally far-flung command, he also had to redirect the ships into nearby ports. They could not remain at sea like the cruisers and destroyers, for they were already in mid-Channel where daylight (sunrise was at 5:58 that morning) would soon expose them to German reconnaissance aircraft if any bothered to overfly the Channel. Moreover, the smaller vessels, including the LCTs, LCIs, and Mike boats, did not have the fuel capacity to stay at sea for another twenty-four hours and still have enough left to carry out the operation. They had to find a safe harbor for the night, one with substantial refueling capability. Most of Moon’s ships headed into Weymouth and Portland, though one of the convoy groups, designated as U-2A, was beyond the reach of the short-range TBS (talk-between-ships) radio and unwilling to break radio silence, Moon sent the destroyer
Forrest
(DD-461) speeding at better than thirty knots to find it and turn it around.
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Unsurprisingly, the recall dampened morale. Though most of the sailors and soldiers had correctly guessed that this was the actual invasion, the ship captains had waited until their vessels had cleared the harbor before making a formal announcement. On many ships that announcement had provoked cheers; on others, thoughtful solemnity. Then, only hours later, came
the “One Mike Post” radio message, and the captains came back on the speaker system to announce, essentially, never mind. For some it was relief; for many it was disappointment. For almost everyone it was frustrating. Having steeled themselves to make the supreme effort of their lives, their adrenaline crashed and left behind a curious lethargy. “When we departed … we were ready to go, and in a high state of excitement,” one sailor remembered later. The recall announcement “was a real letdown, and it exhausted the crew.”
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Not all of Moon’s command was at sea when the postponement order came through. Those forces designated for the follow-up assaults, including most of the personnel-carrying LCIs, were still loading in the several West Country ports. Captain James Arnold was supervising the embarkation of soldiers at Dartmouth when a courier handed him a flimsy with the new orders. Arnold secured the work details, but he was too keyed up to sleep, so he got a cup of coffee from the galley and went out on the starboard wing of one of the ships. There he “gazed at the silent, eerie waters of the Dart River, watching the incoming tide slack the mooring lines.” Like ghostly shadows in the dark, sailors took in the lines to keep the ship secure, carefully stepping over and around the sleeping bodies of hundreds of soldiers lying on the deck.
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Meanwhile, the recalled elements of Moon’s command were discovering that the harbors at Weymouth and Portland were already crowded with the ships of Hall’s Force O. They worked their way cautiously into the harbors seeking an open stretch of water where they could drop anchor, and in doing so many inevitably became separated from the other vessels in their unit. Those lowest on fuel made their way to the fueling docks to top off their tanks. Moon and his various flotilla commanders tried to keep track of all the vessels in their charge, but in the chaos of the moment, with each ship captain looking out for his particular command, that became all but impossible. “We were never again in the proper order in the convoy,” Edwin Gale remembered. An additional burden was that all the ships were operating under strict radio silence. The short-range TBS radio could be used, but only for emergencies, and most communication took place by flag hoist, by blinker light, or even by shouting and gesticulating from ship to
ship. At one point two LCT flotillas, one from Force U and one from Force O, became intermingled. Seeking to restore order, the commander of one flotilla found himself reduced to yelling and waving, recalling later that “we could not do anything but curse and swear at one another until the whole thing got sorted out.”
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Though they had reached safe harbor, the crews and the embarked solders remained confined to their ships, and by now the men were no longer “freshly bathed, shaved, and wearing warm underclothing,” as the operational order had specified. As one sailor put it, “we were exhausted, saltwater soaked, and hungry long before we got back to England and tied up at Weymouth.” Besides the physical exhaustion and the anticlimax of the recall, there was now another period of apprehensive waiting. The thoughts of many turned to home, family, and their own mortality. Some prayed. Richard G. “Jack” Laine recalled making a private vow that if he lived through the invasion, he would strive to be a better Christian. He assumed others were making similar pledges, for he could see men in various corners with their beads bent and their lips moving silently. Others played cards, read, passed along rumors, and waited in lines to use the limited number of heads on board. Nearly all wondered “what the dawn would bring.”
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Once it was full dark, their reveries were broken by a routine Luftwaffe raid. The planes dropped mainly mines, and with the harbors as crowded as they were, they could hardly miss. Though no ships were sunk, several were damaged. When a mine exploded near LCT-271, it threw everyone out of their bunks and severed the anchor cable. Unable to operate without an anchor, the 271 made a quick trip to the repair yard for a new one so that it would not miss the sortie.
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THAT NIGHT AT
9:00, Eisenhower met yet again with his command team. His decision to postpone the landing from June 5 to June 6 had been difficult, but it was not evident that the operation could be launched even on June 6. Unless the weather moderated, it might have to be postponed again, perhaps even until the next moon and tide cycle, which was not until June 19–21. If that happened, the ships would all have to return to their original
ports, the men disembark, and the loading process be restarted.
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Aware of that, the men who gathered at Southwick House that night were solemn. As Stagg had foretold, a storm was raging outside, the sound of it clearly evident in the room as rain beat against the windows and wind whistled around the corners. This time, however, Stagg had a glimmer of good news. It appeared likely, he reported, that the storm would moderate on June 6. That provoked cheers from the assembled officers, though Tedder, Ike’s deputy, leaned in to ask for specifics. He wanted to know exactly what the weather would be like over the landing beaches on June 6. Stagg was quiet for a long breathless moment before he replied, “To answer that question would make me a guesser, not a meteorologist.” The weather was likely to improve, he said, but there remained a huge element of uncertainty—and therefore of risk.
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Once again, Eisenhower surveyed opinion in the room. Ramsay was willing to go, though he made it clear that because of the lead time necessary to get his armada back to sea, he had to know Eisenhower’s decision soon, within the next half hour. Both Tedder and Leigh-Mallory were cautious, but Monty, as always, was game. “I would say—Go!” he declared pugnaciously. Ike agreed. “I don’t see how we could do anything else,” he said. As he had the night before, however, Eisenhower declared that they would meet again at four-fifteen in the morning to hear Stagg’s latest report, at which time he would make the final and irrevocable decision one way or another. The decision could be recalled if Stagg came in with bad news, but for now, Ramsay should tell his force commanders that it was a go. When Ramsay called them, Vian and Kirk “showed great concern,” for the storm was then at its peak. Nevertheless, they both passed the orders to their task group commanders, and the five invasion fleets—two of them now intermingled in Weymouth and Portland—again prepared to sortie. Some left immediately.
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After a sleepless night, the SHAEF command team met again at South-wick House at 4:00 a.m. While the weather had begun to improve, it was hardly ideal. Nevertheless, Stagg came into the room smiling. The wind would remain “fresh,” he said, and while it was evident that the crossing would be “uncomfortable,” the weather would improve throughout the day, and indeed for the next several days. Eisenhower got up from his chair and walked about the room, his head bent forward and his hands clasped behind his back. No one spoke. Everyone understood that the decision was his alone. His next words would decide the fate of thousands, and quite possibly change the course of history.

The various commanders left to pass the news. Eisenhower headed down to Portsmouth to watch men boarding the LCI(L)s and to chat informally with some of the soldiers. Now that the decision had been made, a weight was lifted from his shoulders and he talked easily and confidently. Afterward, he met briefly with members of the press, and as he did so, the morning clouds parted just enough to allow “a quick flash” of sunlight. If Monty had been there, he might have made some remark about “the sun of Austerlitz,” the gleam of light that presaged Napoleon’s greatest victory back in 1805. Since it was Ike, he merely said, “By George, there
is
some sun.”
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A
MONG THE FIRST CRAFT
to sortie on June 5 were the minesweepers that would clear channels for the invasion forces. Though less glamorous than combat, and too often underappreciated, minesweeping was (and is) a complicated and dangerous business. Stark believed that “minesweeping is one of the most vital and critical parts of our forthcoming operation,” and Ramsay insisted that “the mine is our greatest obstacle to success.” Despite the advent of advanced sweeping gear, minesweeping remained an imperfect science. The mines were not merely cleared away or “swept,” the way one might sweep a kitchen floor; they were deliberately detonated, hopefully in a way that did not also sink the minesweepers, though occasionally they did.
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