How I Survived the
THREE FIRST WAVE INVASIONS

North Africa - Sicily - Omaha Beach

 

This is not a story by someone that wasn’t there, as are most of the writings you possibly have read. This is the story of a “Boot” on the ground and is eyewitness accounts of events as seen by the writer. It is truthful in all instances, and in most instances can be corroborated by three living witnesses at this time. It can also be confirmed in many instances by video camera interviews and on audio tape recordings, with some of the men that have gone on ahead, beating me to that great reunion.

I am attempting this story to appease my friends that have been hounding me for the last sixteen years to ‘Harley, you need to write your memoirs. It’s going to be too late some day.’ The truth is I have been collecting and squirreling away notes since my first reunion with the 1st Infantry Division, and I need to make some room. It has been a long quest.

It is a story different from most because in the ‘old days’ we didn’t have AARs (After Action Reports) or embedded reporters as are now tagging along to record everything happening for their evening news reports.

Most things written about in this story aren’t recorded in history books; they are day-to-day events as recalled by me, and things that I have been reminded to tell about by friends after they learned that I was writing my memoirs.

The Second World War was a monumental event in my life and most is burned in my memory. With all the events I have to tell about truthfully, I don’t need to fabricate or exaggerate to fill my book. I like to talk about the war because I am proud to have been a part of it. A person or two has told me that I talk about it too much. A good friend told me that I have earned the right to talk about it, and that I don’t talk about it enough. That I should never let them forget it. And I try!

Some of the things I talk about will touch some sensitive nerves, but so be it. My ole Pappy once told me “the truth hurts, only when it is getting closer to the truth.”

I write about many things that are too personal and reveal things that would hurt the individuals if I mention their names. Even though they are gone, I hope that relatives and living family members will be able to read this book, and I don’t mention names many times so that I don’t embarrass anyone.

I hope my story will tell family members of those that ‘didn’t like to talk about the war’, about some of the daily activities that go on and never get talked or written about. This story differs in that respect.

There is much blood and sacrifice written about in this book, and a lot that I leave out, because I don’t remember enough details to fully cover the incident, but as war went on with time, there is one vivid shout that remains with me: “Medic!” It never changed its meaning throughout the entire war; just the thought ‘who was it this time, or how many?’

When in the attack, one could guess ‘there goes another good Scout.’ Normally they were too often the first to get hit. Maybe it sounds cruel, but actually that was their job; ‘to find the enemy’ and in too many instances the cost was another good Scout. I’m lucky to have gotten out of that job I started out in back at Fort Devens, Massachusetts.

Sometimes we knew immediately who the man was as word passed back along the line. Many times the man was carried back on a stretcher, and we had the chance to say something to console them. “Take it easy on those nurses, or “looks like a good stateside wound, lucky guy!” Always wondering “Will I be so lucky?”

Too often we passed them by with their rifle with bayonet attached, stuck in the ground upright with their helmet and dog tags hanging on the butt of the rifle. To this day I get wet eyed remembering this scene. It happened to ‘too many of my friends.’

I try to convey to the reader a picture of war before Omaha Beach, in North Africa and Sicily, where so much is missing in our history books. I add a lot that is also missing to our history on Omaha Beach. I don’t have very much respect for the ones responsible for the omissions. The loss is sinful!

One has to remember that there were others there, in adjoining Platoons, Companies, Battalions, Regiments, and other units that gave just as we did. My story may seem tunneled to my personal unit, but it is the only way to get the story done. I’m sure others saw and experienced the same tribulations we did. My belief is that they deserve the same recognition.

 

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