Omaha Beach and Beyond

The Long March of Sergeant Bob Slaughter

John Slaughter

• Publisher: Zenith Press
• Year: 2009
• Print ISBN: 9780760337349
• eBook ISBN: 9781616737634
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military Biographies
• Index: History

"Slaughter vividly conveys the reality of combat during World War II in his book with sweeping passages that literally place his reader on the battlefield beside him." Belvoir Eagle

Before D-Day, regular army soldiers called the National Guardsmen of Virginia's 116th Infantry Regiment "Home Nannies" and"Weekend Warriors" and worse. On June 6, 1944, on Omaha Beach, however, these proud Virginians who carried the legacy of the famed Stonewall Brigade showed the regular army and the world what true valor really was. In this moving World War II memoir, the author captures the life of GI Joe from pre-Pearl Harbor days through training, deployment overseas, and more training. All leads up to D-Day and Normandy on June 6, 1944, when Sergeant Bob Slaughter came across Omaha Beach with Company D of the 116th Infantry and the Bedford Boys.

CHAPTER ONE
HOW IT ALL BEGAN

WAR AND REMEMBRANCE

In September 1988, on a cloudy, windy afternoon, I was among a group of 29th Division veterans who were making a pilgrimage to Normandy. Many of us had participated in the initial 1944 amphibious assault on Normandy’s Omaha Beach on D-Day, one of the bloodiest and most epic battles of World War II.

We were there to dedicate the 29th Division Memorial-Monument that had just been erected on hallowed ground at the maw of the D-1 exit draw at Vierville, on the Dog Green Sector of Omaha Beach. The draw, referred to on military maps as D-1, is an eroded ravine that leads off the beach to the village of Vierville-sur-Mer. Near here, well-entrenched German defenders mauled hundreds of our proud 1st Battalion in the early morning of June 6, 1944. The memorial erected and paid for by 29th Division Association members, honors the legions of comrades who lost their lives on D-Day and in the eleven months of bitter fighting that followed.

It was my first visit to the Normandy beaches since the end of World War II. My initial reaction was pride in being one of the men who had participated in the pivotal battle of the war in Europe. But I was also saddened for all those brave young men who fought and died that day. Now 9,387 of them are forever interred under crosses and stars on the scenic 172-acre bluff at the Colleville-sur-Mer American Cemetery.

Now, forty-five years later, my wife Margaret and I were standing about two hundred yards to the east of the Vierville Draw. I looked westward toward Pointe du Hoc where the 2nd Rangers did the impossible, then eastward up the beach where the 1st Infantry Division, the Big Red One, stormed ashore. I then scanned the foreboding bluffs, and finally looked out to sea.

Memories of that fateful day long ago overwhelmed me. Tears welled up and began to run down my face. I knew most of the forty brave young men of my D Company who died that day on the sand and in the water. Diehard German machine gunners supplemented by untold numbers of riflemen sent streams of 8mm bullets at anything and everything that moved. Slightly wounded men, who under ordinary circumstances could have been saved, were left to bleed, suffer, and die, because it was impossible for the understaffed medics to attend to all of them. Remembering it all left me speechless.

Margaret tried to make sense of the battle scene by asking me probing questions. I simply didn’t know how to answer, or my brain just couldn’t handle her queries.

I could only wonder, shaking my head, how in the world had we ever managed to cross that long, slightly graded expanse of beach, moving upward into the teeth of a determined enemy? To cross those four hundred yards of mushy sand and gain a modicum of precious cover, my squad and I had to run through a gauntlet of chattering machine guns that sent strings of fiery tracer bullets crisscrossing our front. Many bullets popped and cracked over and about our flattened bodies as we tried to escape the fusillade coming from the bluffs. What scared me the most was the screeching and booming of the German artillery and mortars zeroing in at the shoreline.

And then there were the screams from men being hit, and dire pleadings for help from the drowning.

There were decisions to be made: when to abandon the armpit-deep water at the shoreline, knowing the flooding tide would soon swallow us. If we stayed where we were, the tide would soon force us closer to the gun sights of the well-entrenched and well-camouflaged enemy.

It was much different on this gray and breezy afternoon forty-five years later. I tried to recall the low tide, 200 yards lower, and the nearly five thousand ships of all kinds and descriptions out in the English Channel, forming the largest armada in history. I also recalled other images: a burning landing ship, tank (LST) with its ramp down, an amphibious tank on fire, men and equipment floating in the water and nobody moving on the beach. And then there were the ugly antilanding obstacles, made of timber posts with mines tied to them, that hindered our landings during the flooding tide. The obstacles themselves were bad enough, but the early waves were forced to land at extreme low tide to avoid the potent twenty-pound teller mines tied at their apex. This meant the battalion was forced to run across a much deeper stretch of flat sand, advancing 400 to 450 yards under withering fire.

Forty-five years had done nothing to erase the vividness of these memories.

Preparing for D-Day, the largest air, land, and sea battle ever fought, began for me on my sixteenth birthday, February 3, 1941. Ironically, this was also the date the Virginia National Guard, of which I was a member, was inducted into federal service. Following twenty months of training in the United States and the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor, my unit, Company D, 116th Infantry Regiment, 29th Division, was sent to the war zone in the British Isles. We didn’t know it then, but our ultimate goal would be to spearhead the invasion of Normandy, France, in less than two years.

The world was at war. Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini were hell-bent on conquering the world by using devious diplomacy and the iron fist. The United States was struggling to get back on its feet after the devastating economic depression of the 1930s. Unemployment was strangling the country—and its feeble military defenses invited these ambitious despots and the Japanese to take bold military gambles.

My decision to join the National Guard was not entirely patriotic. My family was financially pinched. I believed that I could help and, too, I was impatient to become a mature man. Hollywood movies had already become the favorite propaganda medium, and the silver screen’s biggest stars played larger-than-life war heroes. The War Department and the film industry collaborated to make the handsome and brave American soldier, sailor, marine, or pilot always the winner. He might suffer a heroic wound, but it was seldom fatal. The military hero always ended up with the most beautiful girl, too, which attracted the attention of many naïve schoolboys. For Whom the Bell Tolls, Sergeant York, A Yank in the RAF, and Dawn Patrol were a few of my favorites.

Rousing John Philip Sousa martial band music saturated the airwaves. Thousands of posters and billboards promoting jingoistic patriotism enticed youngsters to “Join the Navy and See the World!” On zillions of posters, a stern Uncle Sam pointed directly at me and declared: “I Want YOU!” All these gimmicks had an effect on the subconscious thinking of eager young men and boys, and long lines began to form at recruiting offices. Many of my fuzzy-chinned school chums were joining the navy or the marines and some made a point of showing off their splendid uniforms. These branches of service didn’t interest me, though, because the regular enlistment for a marine was four years and for a sailor it was six.

One evening, a neighborhood schoolmate came by our house on his way to National Guard drill, wearing an olive drab (OD) woolen dress uniform. His name was Medron R. Patterson, but everyone called him Nudy. Nudy’s brass buttons glistened, and the military insignias revealed the colorful history of his regiment in the last war. He had already made corporal, and explained that with each promotion came extra pay.

Corporal Patterson was a well-built lad and, I thought, looked very impressive in his olive drab woolens. He proudly told me he was allowed to keep a uniform at home to wear to the weekly drills. I could picture myself wearing a uniform like that, a uniform that would help me to gain respect. Patterson assured me that his company commander, Captain William Stinnett, might consider my application.

Captain Stinnett was looking for a few good men, but not necessarily a naïve, smooth-faced schoolboy. He questioned my decision, but said that if my parents signed, he would consider the request. It was well known that the Virginia National Guard was to be activated into federal service for a year of intense military training. But I doubt that one person in D Company believed at the time that the United States was gearing up for a world war. I know I didn’t.

My family prior to 1937 lived in Bristol, Tennessee. My father had joined the army in 1918 during World War I and was assigned to the coast artillery at Fort Story, Virginia. During his military service he contracted the dangerous pandemic Asian flu virus, and almost died. This illness so weakened his system he never fully recovered.

After the war, John W. Slaughter settled in Bristol, Virginia, where he found work as a lumber salesman and billing estimator at the Bristol Builders Supply Company. Although he had only a tenth-grade education, my father was considered a gifted mathematician. He met and married my mother, Vera Hunter, who was then working in Bristol as a medical secretary for the Massengill Pharmaceutical Company. I was born nine months later on February 3, 1925; then came William Hunter fifteen months later, and James Walker about four years after that. After an interval, Mary Louise entered the picture.

The stock market crash that led to the great worldwide depression of the 1930s caused the nation to hunker down and try to weather the very serious financial crisis. The Slaughter family, although struggling a bit financially, was no worse off than its neighbors. We lived moderately on my father’s salary until the building trade hit a slump that forced Bristol Builders to drastically downsize its work force. My father was one of the employees the company cut loose. This move caused the Slaughter family much physical and mental stress.

After weeks of searching for work, my father finally found it in Roanoke, Virginia. We lived for a few weeks at a public boarding house on Patterson Avenue until we were able to rent a house within walking distance of my father’s new job at the Skyline Lumber Company. This lumber supply company was similar to the one he left in Bristol, but he was forced to accept much less responsibility and less pay. Due to circumstances, he considered himself lucky to find this job as the warehouse superintendent. His weekly paycheck was thirty-five dollars.

There were four children to feed, and increasingly frequent doctor bills. My father’s health was deteriorating, and it became hard to make ends meet. I was almost fifteen years old and wanted to do my part with the household expenses.

In 1940, Roanoke was a midsized southwest Virginia town with a population of about fifty thousand. The Norfolk & Western Railway was headquartered in Roanoke and was the chief employer. The coal-burning N&W steam engines were infamous for depositing black coal dust on front porches, white linen suits, and straw hats. Tree-climbing children like us caused our mamas to work extra hard washing the black coal dust out of our play clothes.

The smaller Virginian Railway was electrified and much cleaner. N&W employees were comparatively well paid and most of them lived comfortably on a fifty-dollar paycheck a week. And then there were the trolley cars that ran on tracks to almost every section of the city. The clanging trolleys rambled noisily over paved streets through neighborhoods on up to, and past bedtime. But the electric streetcars offered cheap and dependable fare—a one-way token cost seven cents, allowing many Roanokers to leave their expensive automobiles at home.

The morning Roanoke Times newspaper, and the evening Roanoke World-News were the news-gathering print media of that day and time. WDBJ and WSLS were the major radio broadcast stations. Several movie houses downtown furnished popular entertainment for all ages.

My brothers and I had a newspaper route in a distressed section of Roanoke, where many of the customers were either late paying or simply couldn’t keep up the payments at all. Paper carriers, being contractors, are required to pay the company up front for the product they carry and sell. After many months of losing money, we were forced to give up the paper route.

We also mowed our neighbors’ lawns and did other odd jobs to earn money. Mrs. Poindexter, who lived up the street, hired Billy and me to pick all the cherries off a large tree in her front yard. We were paid fifty cents a day and all the cherries we could eat. Our clothing was hopelessly stained with red cherry juice and the black N&W coal dust.

During the summer of 1939, I heard about a sawmill job that paid fifty cents a day, with a brown bag lunch thrown in. Brother Billy and I signed on to work as lumber stackers. Billy was then about twelve years old, and I was fourteen. Mr. Carroll, the owner of the mill, rounded up the work crew at 7 a.m. sharp, Monday through Friday. His pickup truck arrived at the work site in Bedford County about 8 a.m. We were supposed to work eight-hour shifts, but we never returned home until after 5:30 or 6 p.m.

My job was to catch and stack the sawn yellow pine boards as they came off the circular saw blade. The sappy lumber was sticky, and the boards were much too heavy for young boys to handle. As the saw log was drawn into the whirling saw blade, a piercing scream ensued, causing our eardrums to ring and ache. Worse than that, large and small wood chips went flying in all directions. I was lucky my face and eyes were spared; the rest of me wasn’t so lucky.

Working close to that saw blade was very dangerous, and the noise of the whining blade was ear shattering. There were no goggles or gloves to protect the worker. Billy and I gave Mr. Carroll notice after the first week that we were quitting. He offered a nickel a day raise, but we had to refuse the offer.

That was how it was in the 1930s. Almost every neighborhood chum I knew was desperate for a decent paying summertime job.

I began asking Nudy Patterson questions about how I might join the National Guard. Patterson liked to show off his army uniform, and he always had green folding money in his wallet for movies and cigarettes. I was lucky to have a dime or a quarter for the weekly Saturday morning shows at the downtown Rialto Movie Theater. Our favorite Saturday morning ritual was to buy a nickel bag of chewy caramel kisses at Woolworth’s Five & Dime Store, and pay fifteen cents to watch a cowboy movie at the Rialto. The clincher that lured most of the rowdy juveniles each Saturday was a Mickey Mouse or Bugs Bunny cartoon, a Three Stooges comedy, and a hair-raising serial that always left us hanging until the next week’s show.

I reasoned that one year of army life would do me good, and afterward I could finish my education. I would have spending money for myself and still send at least half of what was left home to the family. The National Guard was paying one dollar per drill. It seemed too good to be true. But first, I had to get my parents’ approval for the one-year enlistment.

I remember the evening I tried to get my parents’ attention at the supper table. After a few attempts, I blurted out, “Daddy, I want to join the National Guard like Nudy Patterson.” He could tell I was serious. “BOBBY, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT?” he cried, as he slammed his fist to the table.

Both parents explained that first I had to complete high school. Then it might be all right to enlist. They reasoned that maturity and education would help my military career. I knew they were giving good advice, but I had no intention of making the military a career. I promised I would send at least half my thirty-dollar-a-month private’s pay to help with household expenses and besides, I reasoned, there would be one less mouth to feed.

When they saw my determination, they signed.

I enlisted with Roanoke’s Company D, a heavy weapons company that supported rifle companies in combat. The company was made up of eight Browning .30-caliber, water-cooled, heavy machine guns and four 81mm mortars. I had heard that the life span of a machine gunner was about three minutes in the last world war—a grim statistic that was grounds for bragging, and it added prestige and honor to being a machine gunner. There was no hint, however, that any of us would ever see combat in any form.

Before our departure to Fort Meade, we received a military sendoff by the City of Roanoke and Roanoke Post 64, 29th Division Association. The parade began at Elmwood Park, passed through downtown Roanoke, and ended in front of the City Court House on Campbell Avenue. After the ceremony, we marched back to the Roanoke Auditorium encampment and to the crowded gymnasium floor.

A newspaper article that appeared in The Roanoke Times on February 8, 1941, quoted Roanoke’s mayor, Walter W. Wood, as he addressed the young men about to leave home:

“I do not know what tasks will be assigned you. . . . I do know that whatever the tasks are, or whatever the sacrifice required of you, that not one single member of the 1st Battalion, 116th Infantry, 29th Division will be found wanting. Your Battalion has a splendid and noble record. Many of its members in the World War I are standing here beside me. They are not handing the baton to you, but merely back standing you here, for their services may be needed before the insane dictators of Europe are crushed. . . . Good luck and God bless you.”

CHAPTER TWO
STATESIDE TRAINING

1941 CAROLINA MANEUVERS

There we were, eight hundred troops clad in woolen olive drab or cotton blue denim uniforms, sitting or lying on canvas cots in a basketball arena, many of us smoking cigarettes or shooting the breeze with friends. The setting was the multipurpose auditorium and arena that the city of Roanoke used for recreational sports, concerts, and dances. But on this occasion, the arena was the temporary quarters for the newly inducted Roanoke, Virginia, National Guard companies.

The facility, near the Norfolk & Western railway passenger station, was across the way from the elegant Hotel Roanoke. Once a week, before the National Guard had been federalized, local units of the 116th Infantry had drilled at the arena on weeknights, using the basketball court for close-order drill and other exercises, and the classrooms for instruction in soldiering. Now we were federalized, and we were allowed to leave the crowded confines of the auditorium only to go out for meals.

The local units of the 116th Infantry that shared the armory included Regimental Headquarters Company, 1st Battalion Headquarters Company, D Company, Service Company, Antitank Company, Band Company, and a Medical Detachment of the 104th Medical Company. D Company’s first sergeant, George W. Boyd, was the epitome of an army “top kick.” He was older than most of us, for one thing. Plus, he was blessed with a special military presence and a booming, commanding voice. He immediately took charge of the company as we formed for the short march to breakfast at the Manhattan Restaurant on North Jefferson Street.

In early 1941, all of us in D Company knew we were a comical sight as we attempted to march in step to chow. I prayed that no one I knew would r...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Foreword
• Introduction
• Chapter One: How It All Began
• Chapter Two: Stateside Training
• Chapter Three: Going Abroad
• Chapter Four: The 29th Rangers
• Chapter Five: Assault Training
• Chapter Six: The D-Day Plan
• Chapter Seven: Rough Ride to Hell: Omaha Beach, Dog Green
• Chapter Eight: Omaha to Saint-Lô
• Chapter Nine: Saint-Lô and Beyond
• Chapter Ten: Shrapnel Wound at Hill 203
• Chapter Eleven: Recovery and Return
• Chapter Twelve: A Long Winter into Spring
• Chapter Thirteen: My War Ends
• Epilogue
• Appendix I: Eyewitness Accounts of Omaha Beach, 29th Infantry Division
• Appendix II: Tricky Tides at Omaha Beach
• Appendix III: Fatalities, 1944–1945: D Company, 116th Infantry Regiment
• Appendix IV: Additional Documents
• Acknowledgments
• Copyright Page