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 The Invasion
Interactive feature of the most complex attack ever conceived
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E-mail your letter to the editor
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Harry Parley as a young soldier before the invasion , England 1944
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IN HIS OWN WORDS: HARRY PARLEY
Posted Sunday, May 23, 2004
Private Parley, 24, carried a flamethrower in the first wave on Omaha Beach with the 116th Infantry Regiment
There was some humor to being the flamethrower. While waiting to be loaded onto the ships at dockside, I would often light a cigarette using my weapon. Being experienced with it, I knew all the safety factors. I could, without triggering the propelling mechanism, light a cigarette by simply producing a small flame at the mouth of the gun. In doing so, it produced the same hissing sound as when the thrower was actually being fired. When my team would hear the terrifying sound, I would immediately be the only one on the dock.
The liquid used in the flamethrower [for training] had always been a pinkish-red in color and had a consistency similar to warm Jell-O. As we made ready for what we thought would be just another practice run, and as I filled my tanks, I saw that the liquid was not the usual Jell-O–like substance. What I was pumping was a mucus-like liquid both in color and consistency. I realized that morning that the invasion was on.
In the landing craft, I cowered with the others as we circled, waiting for our signal to approach. I remember looking back and seeing the Navy coxswain at the controls of our boat standing high above us completely exposed to enemy fire, doing his job as ordered. As our boat touched sand and the ramp went down, I became a visitor to hell. Some boats on either side of us had been hit by artillery and heavy weapons. I was aware that some were burning and some were sinking. I shut everything out and concentrated on following the men in front of me down the ramp and into the water. I stepped off the ramp into a deep pocket in the sand, and went under completely. With no footing whatsoever, and with the weight of the 80-lb. flamethrower on my back, I was unable to come up. I knew I was drowning, and made a futile attempt to unbuckle the flamethrower harness. Inadvertently, I had raised the firing arm, which is about 3 ft. long, above my head. One of my team saw it, grabbed hold, and pulled me up out of the hole to solid sand. Then slowly, half-drowned, coughing water and dragging my feet, I began walking toward the chaos ahead.
During that walk (I was unable to run), I got my first experience with enemy fire. Machine-gun fire was hitting the beach, and as it hit the wet sand, it made a "sip sip" sound like someone sucking on their teeth. Ahead of me in the distance, I could see survivors of the landing already using the base of the bluffs as shelter. Due to my near drowning and exhaustion, I had fallen behind the advance. To this day, I don't know why I didn't dump the flamethrower and run like hell for shelter. But I didn't.
What I found when I finally reached the seawall at the foot of the bluffs is difficult to describe. Men were trying to dig or scrape trenches or foxholes for protection against incoming fire. Others were carrying or helping the wounded to areas of shelter. We had to crouch or crawl on all fours when moving about. Most of us were in no condition to carry on. All were trying to stay alive for the moment. Behind us, other landing craft were attempting to unload their equipment and personnel in the incoming tide and were coming under enemy fire as well. I realized that we had landed in the wrong beach sector and that many of the people around me were from other units and were strangers to me. What's more, the terrain before us was not what I had been trained to encounter. We could see nothing above us to return fire to. We were the targets.
By now we were being urged by braver and more sensible noncoms and one or two surviving officers to get off the beach and up to higher ground. But it would be some time before enough courage returned for us to attempt it. One or two times I was able to control my fear enough to race across the sand to drag a helpless G.I. from drowning in the incoming tide. That was the extent of my bravery that morning.
By now, clear thinking was replacing some of our fear, and many of us accepted the fact that we had to get off the beach. Word was passed that a small draw providing access up the bluff had been found and that attempts were being made to blow up the barbed wire with bangalore torpedoes and find a way up through the mines. As I started up, I saw the white tape marking a safe path through the mines, and I also saw the price paid to mark that path for us. Several G.I.s had been blown to death, and another, still alive, was being attended to. As I passed, I could see that both his legs were gone, and tourniquets were being applied by a medic.
The rest of the day is a jumbled memory of running, fighting and hiding. We moved like a small band of outlaws, much of the time not knowing where we were, often meeting other groups like ours, joining and separating as situations arose. I remember one time, while moving along a road, suddenly coming under fire from some sort of artillery piece around the bend. I could also hear the clank of a track vehicle and realized that it was a tank or half-track of some kind. Terrified, I turned, ran like hell, and dove into a deep covered roadside ditch. Already there was a tough old sergeant from the 1st Division lying on his side as one would relax on a sofa. Knowing that the 1st Division was combat experienced, I screamed at him, "I think it's a tank—what the hell can we do now?" He stared calmly at me for a few seconds, poker-faced, and said, "Relax, kid, maybe it will go away." And sure enough, it did go away.
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