James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“We’re the only ones daft enough to drive in here,” Quick said, hanging on to his seat in the rear as the jeep negotiated the ruts in the road.

“No reason for them to,” I said. “Those are emergency vehicles.”

“Then shouldn’t they be closer to a possible emergency?” Kaz asked.

“It’s the army, Kaz,” I said. “No one moves unless they’re ordered to. Don’t worry.” I hadn’t been worried myself until Tom brought up everyone else staying behind. All of a sudden, it felt damn lonely to be driving through a deserted landscape in a restricted area, heading for the site of a canceled bombardment from a heavy cruiser.

We drove through Strete, past untended fields and cottages, and watched a herd of deer bolt for the woods as we disturbed their morning feed. The road curved along the coast, hugging a rise a few hundred feet high. I pulled over, the heights a ringside seat to watch the landings once the fog cleared. The Channel was dotted with LCVPs-Landing Craft, Vehicle, Personnel-or “Higgins boats” as the flat-bottomed tubs were commonly known. Each one carried thirty-six combat infantrymen, and there were dozens and dozens crashing through the surf, coming closer to the shingle at Slapton Sands.

“I can’t see the cruiser,” Kaz said, scanning the horizon with binoculars.

“It’s too far out,” Quick said. “Those big naval guns can lob shells for miles.” Large LCTs and LCIs stood offshore, with smaller landing craft circling as they formed up for the run in.

As the Higgins boats drew closer, they were overtaken by half a dozen fast patrol boats-odd-looking craft, shorter than any PT boat I’d ever seen, about ten or twelve yards long at most. Three hundred yards from the beach, they stopped, and in seconds a terrific volley of rockets launched from each boat, bright flames coursing above the waves and slamming into the barbed-wire entanglements we’d seen put up yesterday. Most of the rounds hit, blowing gaps in the wire, leaving openings for the GIs about to land. The craft turned and made smoke as they headed back into the Channel.

“That’s something new,” Kaz said. “Very effective, but of course no one was shooting back at them.”

“You can’t have everything,” I said, and started the jeep. “Let’s head closer.”

“Perhaps they canceled the naval bombardment in favor of those rocket boats,” Kaz suggested.

“Impressive, but they’re not quite the same thing,” Quick said. “It’ll take Jerry by surprise, but concrete isn’t the same as strands of barbed wire.”

Closer to the beach, we came upon the paratroopers we saw yesterday, sitting outside their entrenchment, smoking cigarettes. They waved, looking happy about the absence of 7.5-inch shells raining down near their position. We halted at the end of the shingle, watching the landing craft drop their ramps and men storm the stony shore.

“Kaz, would you contact Colonel Harding? We should let him know we’re here.”

“All right, Billy,” Kaz said, getting out of the jeep. Quick and I joined him, stretching our legs and watching as hundreds of GIs poured out of the LCVPs and sloshed their way to the beach. Some made for the gaps in the barbed wire while other men with wire cutters worked their way through it. The rest bunched up behind them, milling about, waiting.

“That’s not good,” I said. “Their noncoms should be pushing them forward, getting them off the beach.”

“Pity no one takes training exercises seriously,” Quick said. “Whenever we practiced getting out of a Lancaster while it was on the ground, we’d end up laughing at how silly it all was. Especially Freddie.” He smiled at the memory, and I had to admit he was right. Training was a game for most guys, even if what they were training for was anything but. I gave a sympathetic laugh and was about to ask who Freddie was when Kaz put on the headset and broadcast our call sign. I heard a faint screeching sound echoing out over the water and looked up, wondering if there were high-speed fighters overhead. But the sound wasn’t right. It took a split second to register.

The cruiser Hawkins was shelling the beach.

The screeching grew in intensity, drawing everyone’s attention, like a magician’s distraction, masking a deadly trick. I could see the wire cutters stop their work as the GIs making their way off the beach turned and stared, everyone wondering what was going on, wasting precious seconds in bewilderment.

“Get down!” I hollered, hands cupped around my mouth. They were too far away to notice or understand. I could hear Kaz telling whoever was at the other end of the radio to stop the shelling, that the beach was crowded with men.

The first shells overshot the strand, hitting the Slapton Ley beyond it, sending plumes of water skyward. I could see a few men digging in, scraping at the stony beach with their helmets, but most scurried around, confused and unsure which way to go and whether this was part of the exercise.

The whistling threat came again, earsplitting and terrifying.

This time they had the range. Seven shell bursts struck the beach, sending bodies flying and men rushing in all directions, some swimming for the Higgins boats, which had already backed off the shore and were heading into the Channel.

“Stop the shelling!” Kaz roared into the microphone. “You are killing men on the beach!”

“Is that Harding?” I asked. He shook his head no. Tom Quick ran toward the beach, calling to the men to come to him and the safety of the road leading off the beach. Safe for now, anyway. A group sprinted in his direction, others running for the ruined hotel and seeking cover there. Another round of shells shrieked in, hitting right at the waterline, killing those who had sought refuge there.

“No, you idiot!” Kaz screamed into the radio. “There are men on the beach!”

“What’s happening?” I hollered as Kaz handed off the microphone and earpiece.

“The ensign said the landings were delayed an hour. He insists the Higgins boats haven’t gone in yet.” Which made sense, given that we’d seen craft circling the larger ships on the horizon. The men now on the beach apparently hadn’t gotten word of the delay.

“Find Colonel Harding,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “This is Captain Boyle.”

“I sent a runner to find him,” a tinny voice said. “But there can’t be anyone there, the landing craft were ordered to wait an hour.”

“Well we’re here, goddamn it!” I yelled as another volley ripped the sky open. As the shells began their shrill incoming descent, I braced myself for them to hit. One struck the beach, another hit close to the hotel, and a third was screeching straight for us. I grabbed Kaz and threw him to the ground, covering his body, wishing I knew where Quick was.

I thought I would hear it, but I swear there was no sound at all, even when the jeep flew into the air, twisting and turning as metal and debris flew in every direction in silent slow motion. It finally came down on its side with a sudden, fearful loud crash of metal and earth, and then rolled, a black shadow of burning rubber and searing flame above me as I pressed my face into Kaz’s shoulder. Then, nothing.

“Billy,” I heard Kaz say in a choked voice that drifted into my dazed mind. I tried to open my eyes, but it was useless; heat and darkness pressed out all other sensations. “Get off of me, I can’t breathe.”

“I can’t move,” I said, feeling my face pressed into the wool of Kaz’s uniform jacket. There was pressure on my legs, and I became aware of a dull throb in my arm. I tried to rise, but a piece of metal was in the way, pinning my back to the ground.