41
USS Oglesby, Omaha Beach
As far as Wyatt could see, dozens of landing ships waited and dozens of landing craft darted, not approaching the shore. And the men on the beach—the few who remained alive—were pinned down, not advancing up the draw.
Wyatt’s jaw hardened. What good would it do to protect the Oglesby if the invasion failed?
Even if the landings went well on Utah and the British beaches, Omaha was the vital link between them, and Vierville was the key to Omaha.
But closing the beach wasn’t part of the Neptune plan. It was risky. How could he propose the idea to Captain Adams?
A German shell hit a landing craft, and it exploded in a ball of smoke and splinters.
Wyatt gritted his teeth and flipped the switch on his intercom. Failure at Omaha wasn’t part of the Neptune plan either. “Director to the captain. Suggest we close the beach.”
A pause. “How close?”
“As close as we can without scraping bottom.”
Another pause.
Wyatt breathed a quick prayer. “Sir, we could spot more targets, help those men—”
“Checking the tide table, the charts. The Oglesby draws thirteen feet of water . . .” The captain’s voice drifted off.
Wyatt ducked inside and flipped his map over to the tide table. June 6 . . . 0830 . . . the height above the low-water mark was seventeen feet, with high tide at 1052. He flipped back to the map and read the soundings in small brown numbers, same as the captain would be doing.
“One thousand yards,” Captain Adams said. “That’ll keep us this side of the sandbars off the draw, and we’ll have a good three fathoms beneath us. We can get even closer to the east by those fortified houses.”
Dorothy’s house. “Suggest we start at the draw.”
“Very well.” The captain called out a heading and speed, and the Ogie surged forward.
Wyatt gazed hard through his slewing sight, the wind cooling his forehead under his helmet. The breeze also blew the smoke from the initial bombardment inland, clearing the view.
“Mr. Paxton, sir,” Ralph Jacoby, the talker, said behind him. “Bow lookout reports machine gun bearing zero-three-zero at the top of the bluff.”
Wyatt turned his sight. There it was, about a hundred yards east of the draw. “Target sighted. Machine gun bearing zero-three-zero, top of the bluff.”
“Left fifteen degrees rudder. Prepare 40-mm automatic fire,” Captain Adams said. “Commence firing when ready.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Jacoby passed the coordinates to the crews of the two twin-mounted Bofors heavy machine guns located behind the funnels.
“Commence firing,” Wyatt said.
The Bofors guns pumped out their giant bullets, 120 rounds per minute. Red tracer fire streaked toward the bluff. Bits of earth spat out below the gun, then the tracers rose, and the German machine gun spun into the air.
“Good job, men.” Wyatt grinned. Finally doing some good.
The destroyer zigged and zagged, avoiding other vessels, and Wyatt studied the beach. One machine gun knocked out, but how many remained?
“Captain to director. Bearing three-three-five. See those tanks on the road behind the seawall? They’re firing into the bluff.”
Sure enough, three tanks had made it across the beach and through the seawall, and they sat on the road aimed west toward the draw. All were firing at a spot on the bluff about fifty feet up—a concealed gun position? “Captain, we can hit it.”
“Walk it down.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He’d aim high to avoid hitting GIs, then walk the fire down to the target. After the trainer and pointer finished their work, Wyatt ordered a single salvo from the 5-inch guns.
The boom resounded through the Ogie, and chunks of earth fell from the bluff, about ten yards above the tank fire. Wyatt called out the adjustment and ordered another salvo.
The guns inched down and shot another group of four shells. Right on target.
The three tanks rolled forward, then one fired a single shot at a new spot on the bluff.
“Would you look at that?” Paul Tucker said.
Wyatt’s mouth drifted open. “They’re giving us directions.”
Another two salvos, and the tanks advanced again, then fired at a new spot.
“Well, I’ll be.” A slow smile rose. They might not have contact with their SFCP, but they were still communicating.
Once more, the Ogie talked back. Once more, the tanks advanced. This time they rolled up to three other tanks at the roadblock at the draw. The hatch of the last tank opened, and a tanker rose from inside and waved to seaward.
Wyatt gaped, then remembered his manners and waved back. He popped inside and stared at his men. “I think that was a thank-you.”
Tucker’s thin face broke into a wide grin. “I think you’re right, sir.”
Captain Adams ordered an easterly heading. “DesRon 18 ordered us to join the Carmick between D-1 and D-3. Troops observed climbing the bluff.”
Part of Wyatt wanted to stay at the D-1 draw. They’d done some good in the last half hour. But still no troops were advancing. The roadblocks, strongpoints, and big batteries would take time to crack. The 14-inch shells of the battleship USS Texas howled overhead to the draw, much better suited to doing that cracking than the Ogie’s shells.
And the fellows on the ground were trying to make an end run, American improvisation and ingenuity at its best. If they could get enough men up those bluffs, they could take Vierville from behind.
Wyatt studied his map, looking for the route the soldiers might take.
His heart fell. Right near Dorothy’s house.
He could still see her the day they’d met at Norfolk House, how she’d cupped her hand over the photograph on the table, her forehead furrowed at the mention of target selection.
She’d lost so much. How could he steal away one of her few happy memories? He aimed his slewing sight down the line of stone houses. Lord, anything but that.
Southwick House
Dorothy’s fingernails dug into the palms of her shaking hands. “You can’t take Papa from me.”
She was sick and tired of God laying his hands on her and those she loved. Wyatt talked about being safe in God’s hands, but that was a lie.
In her mind she could see the stained glass window she used to love, long since removed to hide it from German bombs. Jesus the Good Shepherd, cradling a lamb with a serene smile.
“A lie . . .” But her words fizzled, her mind muddled.
What was that verse . . . ? “I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.”
With her forehead against the lavatory stall door, she uncurled stiff fingers. White indentations from her fingernails filled in, and truth flooded her.
Her hands were empty. She’d told God he couldn’t pluck Papa from her hands, but Papa wasn’t in her hands. He never had been.
Her knees wobbled. “No man is able to pluck them out of my Father’s hand.”
Not even you, Dorothy.
She gasped and braced herself against the door. She had everything backward. Papa’s life wasn’t in her hands, but she acted as if it were, as if his life depended on her. She had no control over his life or her own, just as she’d had no control over Mum’s or Art’s or Gil’s.
Nor was she meant to.
Papa was in the Lord’s hands. Whether he lived or died was up to the Lord, not Dorothy.
“But . . . but you failed me.” Her voice cracked, and so did her reasoning.
She sounded like a child whining because she didn’t get her way. In her childish faith she had loved God only when her life was happy.
Wyatt’s faith wasn’t like that. He trusted God, not because his life was happy, but because the Lord comforted him and strengthened him through the unhappiness.
Her throat thickened. “Oh, Lord, I want that kind of faith. I want to lean on you instead of away from you.”
She’d had such a stirring lately, so many reminders of God’s love.
The Good Shepherd cradled her close to his heart—not to protect her earthly life but her eternal life. He wanted to hold her because he loved her and liked her, just as he’d created her.
Her hands splayed before her, blurred in her sight. Hadn’t she urged prodigal Wyatt to return to his family empty-handed?
“Oh, Lord, I’m a prodigal too.” And she ran home to him as she was—empty-handed, overly talkative, impulsive, freckled, and so very lonely and unloved.
No, not unloved. God loved her. No matter what happened in this world. No matter what she lost, God loved her.
The lavatory door opened, and Dorothy clapped her hands over her mouth.
“Frightfully busy today,” a Wren said. “I need a rest.”
“Our Tommies won’t have a rest today,” a second woman said in a snippy voice.
Dorothy sat and waited until they left. It was D-day. Men were fighting and dying, and she was crying in the loo.
She ought to be doing her duty.
But Papa . . .
With her fingers flat over her mouth, she shut her eyes.
Could she give up the illusion of control? Could she trust the Lord with her father’s life? Could she continue to trust him even if Papa died?
“He’s in your hands, not mine,” she whispered.
She pushed herself out of the stall, glimpsed her wet and reddened face in the mirror, and washed up, removing the last traces of face powder.
A few steadying breaths, and she headed upstairs to the operations room, where First Officer Bliss-Baldwin discussed a report with a Wren rating.
Dorothy stood at attention before her. “May I have a word in private, ma’am?”
Her commanding officer’s eyes widened, at Dorothy’s appearance, no doubt. “Very good.”
Blissy led Dorothy into the adjoining sitting room. “Yes?”
Dorothy clutched the hem of her jacket, then released it. “Ma’am, I officially request a transfer. I’ll turn in the paperwork this evening after my watch, only please let me serve in operations.”
“You—you changed your mind?” The look in her eyes—shock, confusion, pleasure?
“Yes, ma’am.” Dorothy shifted her gaze to the woman’s forehead. “I’m needed in the operations room more than I’m needed at home.”
“But your father . . . ?”
Dorothy pulled in a shaky breath. “I’ll trust him in the Lord’s hands. I can’t think of my personal needs right now, only the needs of my country, of the Allies.”
“Very—very good. Relieve Third Officer Hamilton straightaway.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Dorothy marched away.
How could her heart feel so heavy and so light at the same time?