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UNCENSORED VERSION . . . NOT FOR PUBLICATION . . . PUBLICATION RIGHTS OF CENSORED VERSION OWNED BY U. S. COAST GUARD.

I N V A S I O N

The Story of the LCI (L) 92 in the

Invasion of Normandy on

June 6, l944.

* * *

By Seth Shepard, Pho. M. 3c

U. S. Coast Guard

* * *

AT A SURVIVORS BASE, PLYMOUTH, DEVON, ENGLAND, June 25, 1944

PART 1 - INVASION … SHEPARD … 1

Shocked and exhausted, we crawled out of the sea over the smooth pebbles of the Normandy beach a few hours after the start of the great invasion of June 6. Around us as we sank upon the stones were dead and dying American soldiers and sailors; behind us the windswept sea broke against our burning ship; ahead of us in the hills German snipers and machine guns raked the beach. Through it all the deadly 88s and exploding mines blasted the land and sea approaches, shattering the beach and water with violent concussions and filling the gray skies with heavy smoke.

I was with this veteran U.S. Coast Guard crew through those 16 hours of tortuous waiting after our ship -- the Coast Guard manned LCI (L) 92 struck two deadly mines in swift succession, followed by direct hits from German 88s. It was the worst hell the crew had ever experienced in four major invasions. We faced death and destruction so often that day that the first shock of abandoning our burning ship under heavy fire was overcome in the tremendous struggle to establish the beachhead. Our sector was under constant German shelling the whole time we lay there wet, cold and scared without weapons, warm clothes, or food other than a few cans of soup and some Army blankets.

I think it was a grim determination to live, an answer to our prayers and to those at home who prayed for us, and luck, that saved us in our escape from the stricken ship. But we left 41 dead American soldiers behind in the forward troop compartment. They never had a chance when we struck the first mine. Thank God that most of them did not suffer a lingering death after that disastrous explosion of flame and steel. Six of our crew were wounded and burned and it was not until two weeks later that we were able to account for all.

INVASION … SHEPARD … 2

This story I am about to tell of our grim siege, our rescue at midnight just as the year's highest tide began lapping against our hand-dug foxholes, our second trip into the beach aboard the Navy LST that picked us up, and the four long days with little sleep and no fresh clothes as we helped the badly wounded aboard LSTs, could not be told until all the crew had been accounted for at the survivor's base.

While this narrative is the story of the Coast Guard crew of the LCI 92, we cannot forget the other Naval and Coast Guard crews, and other branches of the services, especially the early waves of soldiers who went through just as much, if not more, tragedy, hell, disaster and dangerous excitement as we did that first long day. We were just one tiny part of the greatest amphibious invasion operation in all history, but we were vitally important in the establishment of that beachhead. We did hit the beach, we did land a majority of our troops, although many of them had to leave their arms and equipment aboard, and we did land the few men we carried of the brave Navy beach battalion.

There were some craft and ships that had to go in first in the "suicide squadrons" and logically the older and more experienced Coast Guard LCIs were picked for this job. We were the second LCI of the flotilla to hit that sector of the beach, which was so heavily mined by the Germans that the first early waves after H-Hour, on the high tide, never had a real chance of backing off the beach without some sort of damage. All the world now knows that in this initial struggle the Allies were victorious and the march to Berlin began in a great new western front.

These last two weeks at a Naval survivor's base in Southwest Eng-land, where we have been gathering new clothes, signing papers for claims, getting paid, and waiting for new orders, have not dimmed our vivid memories of that invasion. And now, on the day I am writing this account, the first phase of our adventure has come to a conclusion. With seven others of the newer crew members I watched with a heavy heart the 16 veterans who had not been wounded in the assault drive off in trucks to an embarkation point for the States and home. They deserve this return for they were the majority of the crew who had been overseas for 16 months, living through four invasions in the cramped quarters of the "92." I had only been aboard a short while, but in that time I had come to know every man as a friend. The miracle of our landing on the French beach had drawn us all close together. Now as we watched our shipmates speed away in the trucks Freddy N. Pitzer, fireman first class, USCGR, of Clarksville, Missouri, standing next to me, said what we all felt who were left behind: "There goes the best damn bunch of fellows I've ever been with."

We walked back then to the barracks, thinking about our buddies, our ship and the invasion. I know every man can be proud of the job he did on June 6, even though we were all scared as hell and hope we don't have to hit another beach as tough as that. But they all did their duty. In fact I was the only member of the crew that actually failed at his appointed task. You see, I'm a combat photographer of the U. S. Coast Guard and in the con-fusion of the shelling and abandoning ship I not only lost my camera and equipment but all film and pictures.

INVASION ... SHEPARD ... 3

As we talked over the events in the barracks I thought of how far in the background now were the long weeks of preparation. Those days of com-fortable suspense, of waiting and wondering, seem more like a haze-drenched dream than the actual prelude to battle. Yet we cannot completely forget the peaceful last weeks in England before the invasion. The fresh green of the English spring had come, leaving the cold and dampness and heavy fogs of winter behind. We were conscious all along of the essential importance of those lengthening days and to what eventually they would lead.

All the invasion veterans of North Africa, Sicily and Italy, and that included most of the crews of the Coast Guard LCIs in our flotilla, knew that no large scale operation could hope to be even partially successful with-out the long grind of preparation. This meant actual maneuvers along the coast of England - - called "dry runs" - - and those million and one little items, plans, stores, orders that must in the end dovetail into the complete pattern.

Weeks before the invasion we felt the time was approaching. Most of the ships of our LCI flotilla had been tied up at the docks in a South of England base -- a seaside resort in peacetime. The daily routine included chipping decks, painting topsides and in the bilges, getting the whole ship in first class condition. And that meant work for the crew, including watches, not the romantic or thrilling war epics of which we so often hear but seldom meet. It was a time every man wished for at least a look at the good old States, was sick and tired of the regimented military life and the long months of overseas duty aboard a cramped little amphibious ship. On an LCI the crew eats and sleeps in the same small compartment and uses it also for a recreation room.

Yet at the same time, conscious of what was to come, I think each man to himself felt that he was in a way glad to be in the operation that was to make history. Perhaps not actually glad, but at least conscious that he was doing something vitally important for his country that he could be proud of in the years to come.

It was after the ship had been lightened some by taking off such non-essential equipment as the washing machine on the stern, that the first of the new gear began arriving. Too, we began to hear of the growing feel-ing back home in anticipation of the coming invasion. Needless to say the crew constantly talked invasion and we all wished that it would hurry up and come. Waiting is tough.

Our first bit of suppressed excitement came when Army blankets were brought aboard. Just before that we had been issued new gas masks, gas suits and decontamination gear in case of enemy gas attacks. A few days later colored troops loaded crates of Army field rations, the same as before Sicily and Italy. This crowded up the well deck above the two forward troop compart-ments. Then from that day on supplies and equipment came trickling aboard that gave us every hint that the amphibious ships were getting set for some large scale movement.

One bright morning we woke to find that the outer harbor had begun to fill with Allied warships, from all kinds of amphibious craft to destroyers and on up to huge battleships. When they remained there in full concentration we knew that the big event was really shaping up.

INVASION . . . SHEPARD . . . 4

Finally, the skipper, Lieutenant Robert M. Salmon, USCGR, of Maplewood, N.J., who brought the ship across the Atlantic from Norfolk, Va., 16 months ago and through the Mediterranean invasions, was called to a secret meeting one night. He didn't arrive back aboard until 3 A.M. Before breakfast the scuttlebutt was flying fast and when we came up from chow we found posted on the ship's bulletin board strict new regulations canceling all liberty. In fact no one was even allowed off the ship unless in some official work party to be always accom-panied by an officer. We were not to speak to anyone on the docks, even Naval personnel. The men of the repair base were restricted; movies in the evening were stopped, and aboard our ship the ominous two section sea watch list was posted to take effect, it said, whenever the Captain should so direct. The order came out, too, to secure all painting and to get everything in readiness to cast off suddenly. The time was drawing short.

I remember that last night before the troops came aboard. There were more than the usual letter writers huddled around the big table in the sticky air of the crew's quarters, below in the center of the ship. A number of men quickly took the advantage to send money orders home when our executive officer, Lieutenant (j.g.) Zack Felder, USCGR, of Dallas, Texas, passed out the word.

The next day, June 2, messages from General Eisenhower and high Naval officers were posted on the bulletin board telling us of the coming invasion. All that morning the small boats from American and British transports plowed through the harbor, taking on troops at the base. In the afternoon the first soldiers came marching down the docks to swarm aboard the outboard LCIs of our flotilla. We noticed from the start that the troops looked extremely hardened and tough and in fine condition. They were rather quiet and serious, though not solemn.

The troops we were to carry came aboard at 2:30 A.M. the next morn-ing, June 3. When I went above to stand a regular four-hour gangway watch, the troops were mostly just sitting on deck in the sun, doing nothing in particular except for some singing to themselves. There was one big bushy-eyed fellow up forward, with a soft southern mountain accent, singing a mournful song. One Joe was fixing his pipe, another polishing his home-made lighter. Others were prop-ped up on the boxes of K rations calmly reading armed service's edition books. Many were stretched out in their bunks below asleep. There were, of course, the inevitable card and crap games, although the limited space aboard the cramped ship made this difficult. Most of the soldiers playing cards were using the crisp new French Franc issue, which looked like stage money.

Some of the soldiers took apart their guns and drew our Coast Guard crew as interested observers. For ourselves, we of course had our watches to stand, but mainly we kept to ourselves in the crew's quarters, playing the "92's" most popular game, "Acey-Ducey" and poker. Some of us went around trying to find guys from our home towns. J. W. Spring, motor machinist's mate third class, USCGR, of (2524 Loving Street) Fort Worth, Texas, found a fellow Texan from his home town and they spent the whole evening talking over old times and, of course, Texas.

At times we lined the rail to watch the troops, on the dock, go through stiff exercises, which they did with a healthy gusto. As they limbered up and became more familiar with the ship they grew more talkative and spirited, and the old American habit of horseplay was much more in evidence.

INVASION ... SHEPARD ... 5

June 4th was Sunday. Although we knew that the next day was the time set for our departure, we were all rather calm and no different from any other day. I slept until 11 A.M. that morning and then had the regular 12 to 4 P.M. gangway watch. We all tried to get as much sleep as possible because once underway we knew there would be very little time for rest. The usual Sunday church services were held and the usual number of our crew went, but no more. The Skipper spent most of the day in the chart room plotting his courses and going over his instructions. Occasionally an army officer would consult with him. Late in the afternoon an Army chaplain came aboard and with a megaphone spoke to the troops from the upper deck of a Navy LCI tied alongside us. The troops sat in all manner of positions in the well deck, staring out in space, looking at the deck, thinking or dreaming. Then they sang a few songs which dragged and were slightly off key, but they still sounded okay and sort of lifted us up a little.

Later on we had a muster in our crew's quarters and Mr. Felder explained what to do in case of being taken prisoner. Though there was seri-ousness to the directions there were hilarious jibes made by the fellows which started a series of jokes about what we would tell the Germans. No one had the slightest idea they would be captured. We were all in a confident mood, and, I think, fairly optimistic about the whole invasion.

After chow that night, which already was getting to be very mono-tonous as we were using those K rations, I got to thinking about this canned age war. Everywhere I looked on deck there were cans of this and that. There were even individual cans of coffee. And who will ever forget the canned soup that cooks itself. All you do is shake the can, punch two holes, and pull up the wick and light it. Woosh, the chemical in the little top compartment goes off and in a couple of minutes you have a steaming can of hot soup. We were later to be very thankful for that self cooking soup when we were wet and cold on the French beach.

That evening I sat up on the bow with Bobby Gene Smith, seaman first class, of (700 Austin Street) Wichita Falls, Texas, who was on gun watch. After some playful jibes over what knots I could or couldn't tie, we fell into a more reflective mood.

"You know, Smitty," I said, "by looking at all these soldiers and sailors in their uniforms you wouldn't think they were split up in different outfits, like the Army, Navy, Seabees, Coast Guard, Navy Beach Battalion and so on. Why, you can hardly tell an enlisted man from an officer in their steel helmets and battle clothes. I'd say it really is a 'combined operation', as the British say."

"That's right," Smitty said. "But no matter what uniforms they have you can tell they're Americans, even from just the way they walk or look around."

Came Monday and with it gray skies and colder weather - - invasion weather, we said. Still at the docks, the troops continued with their exercises. There was a more restless feeling among everyone, but also more laughter and jokes. At one time Allied planes were flown over the harbors, rather low, in order that we could see the type of identification to be used in the invasion. After this the troops took showers on the docks, running up the gangway in their skivvies.

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