D-Day: The Greatest Invasion

“OKAY, WE'LL GO.” With that simple, homely sentence, General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander, Allied Expeditionary Force, launched Operation Overlord — the long-awaited invasion of Western Europe in the Second World War. These words were uttered in the early morning hours of June 5, 1944. The next day, June 6, would become famous in history as “D-Day.”
Once that order was given, the mightiest amphibious invasion force in history began cutting its way through the waters around the United Kingdom — an armada of 5,000 ships carrying 130,000 men and 20,000 vehicles, supported by the gunfire of 700 warships, including six monstrous battleships. Eight thousand aircraft were involved. All these were to converge at first light along a stretch of Norman beach from the Cotentin Peninsula on the west to Caen on the east — a distance of fifty miles. Five beaches had been selected for the landings; two were to be taken by the Americans, one by the Canadians, and two by the British. To protect the flanks of the assaulting troops, three airborne divisions — two American and one British — were to drop in the early morning, a couple of hours before the seaborne troops would come ashore.
The stakes in the venture were enormous. The Allies — the Americans, British and Canadians — were literally putting all their eggs in one basket. The invasion of Nazi-held Western Europe had been their objective from the very first days of America’s entry into the war. Through two and a half years of grim warfare, the Allies never lost sight of their ultimate goal: the defeat of Hitler’s Germany by means of a massive assault through France. Nobody underestimated its importance. Success would mean the liberation of enslaved Western Europe; failure would result in a stalemate, possibly of years. Or, if the German forces facing the Russians collapsed, it would mean an occupation of Western Europe by Joseph Stalin’s Soviet Union. Neither situation could be tolerated. Overlord had to succeed.
By the spring of 1944, the fact that the Allies were planning an assault across the English Channel was no secret. American troops had been pouring into the United Kingdom for months, and their presence was being felt all too keenly by the British populace. Vast stores of supplies not only filled the warehouses but lined the roadsides as well. The names of the top Allied generals and admirals were publicly announced. There were only two secrets to the invasion: when it would come and where it would occur.
German intelligence knew when the day came near. The atmosphere in May 1944 was electric all over England and Scotland; the whole of southern England was sealed off from communication with the outside world. On the question of where, however, the Germans had less to go on. Their guess, quite logically, was that the Allies would cross the English Channel at the Pas de Calais. The English Channel is only twenty-one miles wide at that point, and the Pas de Calais is three hundred miles closer to Germany than the other possible landing area, Normandy. Even though Hitler gave his priority to Calais, the German defenses of Normandy were strong and growing. Hitler’s most high-profile general, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, had been placed in charge of preparing those defenses, and his photograph, taken while he was inspecting the great gun emplacements, reached the American and British publics. No one doubted that, wherever the landings occurred, the going would be tough.
Everyone waited in suspense on both sides of the Atlantic. And, as with other cataclysmic events, those who experienced early June 1944 still remember where they were when the news first arrived. That is particularly so in my case. By the most extraordinary coincidence, I graduated from West Point as a member of the Class of 1944 on that date. Despite the war, West Point had gone through its usual week-long series of graduation rituals — ceremonies, parades and formal dances. On the morning of June 6, 1944, as the Corps of Cadets fell into ranks to march to breakfast, I took my customary place as first battalion sergeant major behind Cadet Battalion Commander Alan Weston. Weston turned and looked at me quizzically: “You’ve heard, I guess, that the Allies landed in Normandy this morning.” I had not.
Americans received this news with a mixture of relief and apprehension. It was good to know that the Allies were ashore, but would they be able to stay? For my part, as the son of the supreme commander, General Eisenhower, I felt a special apprehension. I was not so concerned for the inevitable risk to my father’s career — the stakes were much too high to worry about that — but in common with families of other prominent people, I felt a share of responsibility for the enterprise. During that whole day, the landing in Normandy was never out of my mind as West Point went through with its program.
Finally, the ceremonies were over. The banks of newspaper photographers left, and I joined my mother in the Thayer Hotel to change uniforms. My classmates were going on a month’s leave, but I was headed for the New York Port of Embarkation to board the Queen Mary, the British liner that had been converted into a troop carrier. General George C. Marshall had ordered me to spend about three weeks with my father in London, after which I would return and join my classmates at the Infantry School. The Queen Mary sailed that very evening. I would have to endure a full week without word as to how the landings had gone.
In London I found my father restless but cheerful. He had recovered from the strain of his agonizing decision a week earlier to launch the invasion despite the miserable weather conditions. He was not one to look back, and he said little about that decision. He did, however, mention one aspect with a wry grin. “On the morning that I decided to postpone the invasion, the weather was beautiful. The stars were out and the air was warm. The next morning, when we would have gone, the rain was coming down in torrents, almost horizontal. But acceptable weather was predicted for June 6, so I decided to go. At least the rains assured me that the meteorologists had some idea of what they were doing.” Then he shrugged and his mind turned to other business.
In the days that followed, I accompanied my father twice to Normandy and once to call on Prime Minister Winston Churchill. The most memorable day, however, was June 19, 1944, when a storm hit the English Channel, the most virulent in fifty years. Had General Eisenhower delayed the invasion of Normandy pending the next date of favorable tide and moon conditions, he would have faced this storm. It seemed almost eerie to both of us, a matter of Providence perhaps.
Over the passage of sixty years, the memories of these personal matters fade. What remains in our consciousness is what should remain — the heroism of the men who actually hit the beaches. For they were the ones to whom the triumph of D-Day belongs. All the planning, the transport of supplies, the training and even the order to go were mere directions to the central figures of D-Day — the members of the assault divisions. I have felt a secret discomfort that West Point’s Class of 1944 was savoring its graduation at the same time that boys younger than us were clinging desperately to the cliffs of Normandy or sinking in the English Channel, and yet finally pulling themselves together to launch the beginning of the liberation of Europe. It is a humbling thought.

This book, D-Day: The Greatest Invasion, is a tribute to all the veterans of Normandy. While it provides background for the invasion and gives proper recognition to the planners and commanders, it recognizes that the everyday soldier really occupies center stage. It tells us of the heroes of Pegasus Bridge, of the Canadians at Juno Beach and of the American 1st Division, with the 116th Infantry, at Omaha Beach. Those men, and many others, are the heroes of this book. It is an honor to join in paying this tribute — especially because the year 2004 will represent the last ten-year anniversary of D-Day for nearly all of them.