Excerpts from The Oak Ridge Journal
75 years ago this week February 26, 1944
The following letter was received by an Officer of this project, from his brother on duty on a landing boat:
1/31/44
Hope that by now you have received by cablegram and know that I am well - but by the barest of margin. This last escapade has really been something, and it isn’t all over yet, though the worst part is, I believe.
We have been under attack many times, but there had never been anything even close to seriousness: this time, however, we had the real thing - the real “blood on the deck” sort of attack. The beginning of it all was perfect, you no doubt have read in the papers - the water glassily calm - the night dark and all other conditions just as they should have been. The Army moved up to the beach in small boats and awaited the zero hour. On the hour our barraged opened up and I mean opened up. I have never seen anything like it. Everything on the ship was shaking and rattling, especially me. I’m sure that there wasn’t even a microbe left in the area or a grain of sand that hadn’t been turned over at least fifty-nine times. While the troops were landing there was practically no opposition.
We were scheduled to move into the beach at dawn and arrived on schedule. The ramp was down and I was on it getting ready to roll out the first vehicle when the guns opened up. As I fell to the deck, I could see two planes over my shoulder and immediately the bombs went off. There had been about 15 of us on the ramp and every one had cleared off and left me there by myself. I was positive that I had been hit and had had my arms blown off because I kept trying to crawl back into the ship, but couldn’t move. Later I realized that I moving them as so fast that I couldn’t get any traction. The planes had come in fast and so low over the sand dunes that they couldn’t be seen till they were right on us. There were about a dozen of them, and it seemed that they were all after me. I looked back into the tank deck and saw the whole cargo hatch falling in. I knew then that we had been hit and could expect any minute to see the back end go up in flames. I ran back to start a fire hose but found that the concussion had lifted the sections of the cover from the girders that support them and when they came down had missed the retaining ledge and fallen through. Luckily no one was on or under the hatch.
The bombs had exploded so close that I still thought we had been hit somewhere and I could hear the shrapnel clacking down on the deck. Some vehicles on the beach had been hit and the fire and smoke roared out as the gas tanks went up. I had no way of knowing what was happening topside and I was trying to get the vehicles off before the inevitable next wave of comers cane over. I have never been near such explosions (and hope I never am again). Every nerve and fibre seems to be rubbing against the other with the feeling you get when walking on sugar plus hot and cold ants gnawing at your skin. After the planes had passed I was sick at my stomach but fortunately was able to “contain” myself.
Places had been fixed for two of us to beach and these spots were what the planes were after. There were two more waves of bombers of about 15 each over us before we unloaded. I had to stay below to keep the vehicles moving. I could tell when the planes were coming over - the big guns would start rhythmically throwing up projectiles and seconds later the stacatto crackling noises of the smaller guns would open up. There was nothing for me to do but fall on the deck and “play like” I was in a foxhole and that takes a lot of imagination when you are lying on the topside of a slab of cold steel.
After a year had passed we were unloaded and could retract. It was a relief to get off the hot spot, but the bombers were still coming in. After we had discharged our dead and wounded I had a chance to look around the ship. The deck was horrible. Nothing could be done about it, because all the men had to stand by their guns, so I went around throwing sand over the red spots. It wasn’t very pleasant but I thought it better to get rid of them than have the men see it all. Cool
I had to laugh at Frank when we went into his bunk. One the planes had sent a projectile into his cabin - through the bulkhead - a chair and table - and through one side of his bunk; the counterpane was slightly wrinkled and the slug had cut off the high spots fraying the cover all the way across and the slug was still in his bed.
The next trip up was almost as bad; after we had discharged the vehicles and were turning around to pull out the planes came in. The AA fire kept them up high, but one of them came down toward our port bow and our guns opened up. The pilot realized he was in a hot spot and tried to pull out; he came aft and across the stern, lurching and twisting his plane trying to dodge but he couldn’t get clear. Two of our aft guns were dead on him. I could see the tracers going into the fuselage. He didn’t blow up or spiral down in flame as they usually do in picture shows, but started trailing smoke and sinking behind some trees. Other planes were coming in and I couldn’t watch any longer, but some of the men said he crashed.
Just at twilight, they came over with the radio controlled glider bombs. These are terrifying. It seems that they are bombs mounted on gliders that can be partially controlled by radio - that is, they can be guided horizontally. They carry a white light so the guide can tell where they are. It is a weird feeling one gets when the white light moves slowly toward the ship.
Later on flares were dropped - these are harmless but terrifying - they light the targets for bombers. From the ship we cannot tell whether we are in the field of light. If you think you can be seen, you are supposed to fire when you hear the planes come in, but if you think you are not seen you should hold fire so the flash dies not give away your position. So there you sit, not knowing whether to fire or jump overboard. The flares burn for about five minutes, but when they are near one feels at least a year older when they burn out.
Such is life in the Navy!
Some other things have been more pleasant. We have been to some lovely villages. Some of them are famous as resorts. Frank and I walked high up a mountain to see an old palace, which is now a tenement. We made friends with the people who keep the grounds - now a citrus and vegetable grove. With Frank’s Spanish and my French, we had an interesting conversation. When they found we were American, they gave us tangerines, but when they found we were non-Catholic, dud not offer us any more. We finally convinced them that C’s and non-C’s do not fight in America, and the situation eased. They gave us things to smell - sweet basil - rosemary - rose geranium, etc., and fenuchi (?) to eat. Like celery, but sweeter - delicious!
More later.
H.”
And we think we’ve got trouble.
P. E. O’MEARA
Captain, Corps of Engineers,
Town Manager.