Cornelius Ryan WWII papers, box 006, folder 30: Francis X. Keashen

Keashen, Francis X. Penna. 29th Inf. 115th Inf. Exc [crossed out] [illegible] [end crossed out] [crossed out] [illegible] [end crossed out] [crossed out] [illegible] [end crossed out] ONE OF THOSE "MOOD" ESSAYS_TOO LONG TO QUOTE [?Dead?] BOX 6, #30

D-DAY - 2ND WAVE - OMAHA RED BEACH 3RD BN, 115TH INF., 29TH DIV.

Soldiers on a ship are like yoked critters. Land is their home, mud their terrain. Everyone questions his ability during a landing. Bravery is a mass of quivering doubts and urgings knotted and bundled by faith. The throat becomes sanded that even water does not slake. Wise cracks were hollow and fell like broken plaster. "When you hit the beach -- get off it"! We were wet to our shoulders in the landing. In battle, fear is being afraid of the noise. Medics cope with neuroses without a couch. The litter and a cigarette are the usual sedatives for the wounded until the first aid station is reached. Stoic doctors sutured that which shell had torn asunder. Transfusions dueled with death. Chaos was bridled under a canopy of death.

The noises of battle were the first wounds of the assault. "Be ready to shoot"! You never need to use rifle windage on the beach. There is no manual for safety at this point, only your guardian angel, and brass turned gold.

Wounded landing crafts in grotesque convulsions breathed their last on shore as honorably as the fallen. Officers removed their bars, sergeants their stripes. Only the PFC's seemed safe in their rank. "Get off the beach"! But some were diggingin. Soldiers from another outfit tried to sweep a path with mine detectors but soon gave up. Strung white tape and the casualties were our arrow from the beach.

The dead from the first wave had marked a way for us. Their faces were covered by unknown mourners. There was no blood. The dead don’t bleed. Their mission was accomplished. God rest them. Between these dead, killed

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by spider-webbed land mines, we crept, ever mindful of the crawling feet ahead lest they set off another mine. This for the first time was what team work meant. We were not only our brother’s keeper, we were our broth- er.

The sky birthed allied planes miraculously, but their mission seemed to be far away as they locust-clouded overhead. Ships, landing crafts, an armada of khaki and courage, spilled their load and tried to escape the wrath of the shore.

War doesn’t start until your buddy is killed, then hate becomes the barbed wire that wounds the soul.

I saw a soldier proceed a cautious tank on a distant road leading from the beach; he was wearing a derby. I smiled. He gave sanity a lift.

Everything seems expendable in logistics and the morning report -- but not the objective, nor the courage of youth ground into fighting men in a few short hours of torment.

Too bad they don’t hold critiques on the beach. After the travail of landing, the crawl to higher ground was tortuous. Our path had previously been a death spray from the enemy pillboxes. This was not a dry run but a slow, wet, humiliating climb on our bellies. We exhaustedly reached the top. Here was the preface of conquest. Hedgerows became perimeters of death, trees branched vulturous snipers, and grass rooted insidious land mines. The beach and its slaughter seemed far away. Somehow we thanked God for saving us from the fate of the already judged and unburied.

Soldiers took the first statistics among themselves by inquiring for their buddies. They tended their wounds, reconnoitered , dug in, and defended

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their positions until their companies were reassembled. Some still were on the beach. Shells exploded and splashed destruction. Other shells fell, and refused to detonate.

The Germans had their gun emplacements set to hit any target on the beach without unnecessary calculations. Some fields that were seeded with mines were still posted with German printed warnings. We had surprised the waiting horde.

Our Navy guns blasted concrete machine gun nests and made us even closer in our admiration for our own nautical dragons of fire. A comment of one of the Navy lads as we were leaving the ship, "I wish I were going with you fellows.", sort of made the debarkation a little less fearful. The sandy beach helped to hide many a silent tear born in anger.

Snipers were the next ordeal. Where did the shot come from? Why didn't we have rifles like theirs? We cameacross a dead sniper in his camouflaged uniform. The pattern resembled a shedding snake.

Many soldiers were pinned down in a field by one sniper. Some put their helmet on a stick and held it up from their hideout, and their helmet was repeatedly hit by snipers, but from where?

The German burp guns, with their raucous staccato of venom, had a spinechilling effect. With each minute alive we gained new experience. We saw the enemy dead. This for some of us was our first encounter with the silent ones. Why was their putty-gray faces different? Their dead all had ashen complexion. Even in death they appeared to breathe.

Through all this tornado of steel, cows solemnly munched, and birds somehow

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sang between serenades of death. They were the only neutrals.

Prisoners of war were taken to the ships that we had just evacuated. "Lucky Krauts."

Later in the day we saw cattle, casualties of war, and the neat selection of steak cut away from their carcass by practical French farmers. To some we were the intruders. They were the ones who pander in loyalty. Others had become accustomed to barter with the enemy during the years of occupation. Grateful French farmers said "Boche"! and then spat in eloquent hatred.

Old people don’t seem to take sides. They want only the warmth of their own hearths and the chill of their remorses. But youth, the wheat of the land, is always partriotically stirring for justice and freedom. The French underground and its young patriots gave generously of valor, making our advance much easier. The traders of virtue must have quickly aired their boudoirs, while the Nazi fled.

War is violence, sedated by defeat. To the victor goes the dead. The casualties are the living. May our dog tags never be separated, was more than a wish.

Food was uncraved that first day. Later in the night while eating chocolate, it soured along with the acid of the day’s nightmare.

The stars and moon know no blackout regulations. There were no lights allowed as it would give our position away. Artillery flashed regardlessly. There were no atheists in foxholes, nor were there foxes.

At last from exhaustion when we tried to sleep, word was whispered around that German paratroopers were in the area. Numb from the day’s victory,