Juno Beach by Mark Zuehlke

Author:Mark Zuehlke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: HIS000000
Publisher: Douglas & McIntyre
Published: 2005-03-24T16:00:00+00:00

[ 14 ]

Go! Go! Go!

“FOLLOW ME!” Major Charles Dalton gallantly shouted at 0812 hours before dashing down the ramp of an LCA bearing on the beach directly fronting Bernières-sur-Mer and plunging over his head into water eight feet deep. Swimming until his feet found a purchase, Dalton started wading in, noticing with a kind of curious dread how the water to his immediate right was being whipped by bullets. The soldier closest to him on that side staggered under the impact of four slugs that punched ragged holes in his chest and stomach before he flopped lifelessly into the sea. Looking beyond the stricken man, Dalton realized that every man he could see in that direction was floating lifelessly in the water. Yet he remained untouched.1

Every soldier of the Queen’s Own Rifles’ ‘B’ Company to touch down in two LCAs on Dalton’s right-hand side clambered off the ramps into a deadly maelstrom of fire coming from a concrete fortification standing immediately in front of their position. It was the major’s miraculous good fortune that none of those machine guns could traverse the few extra inches to include him in their killing zone.

When Sergeant Fred Harris and Corporal John Gibson on No. 10 Platoon led the men out of their LCA into waist-deep water, a machine gun burst instantly killed Harris. The three men ahead of Rifleman Doug Hester fell in turn as each jumped off the ramp. Last to die was his friend, Rifleman Doug Reed. Hester plunged into water frothing with the blood of fallen comrades and wallowed frantically after Gibson, who seemed blessedly bulletproof.2

Lance Corporal Rolph Jackson, in the same section as Hester, was almost on the beach when a bullet hit his left hand and twirled him back into the water. Bouncing back to his feet, Jackson snatched up his rifle and raced for the protection of the seawall. Throwing himself behind it, Jackson shouldered his Lee Enfield, only to discover it was too clogged with sand to fire.3

Hester joined Gibson by the wall just as a machine-gun burst shredded the corporal’s pack. Gibson grinned. “That was close, Dougie.”

“Yes, Gibby, there goes your lunch,” Hester joked. “We’ll have to share.” Suddenly Gibson pitched over as a second burst killed him. Hester attempted to remove the dead man’s ID bracelet and the silver wristwatch that his wife had sent only the week before, but was forced to abandon the task when another burst of fire nearly hit him. He crawled to the scant cover offered by the wall of one of the pillboxes drenching the beach with fire. Looking over his shoulder, Hester saw Rifleman Ted Westerby from his shredded section staggering across the beach under the weight of a ladder the men were supposed to use to scale the seawall. Three slugs punched into the man and he fell dead in a spray of blood.

Hester decided to climb onto the pillbox and throw a grenade into an aperture above him, but before the rifleman could act a

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