My Father's Memories of D-Day

June 6 marks the 65th anniversary of the D-Day invasion of Normandy, France, in 1944. Hundreds of thousands of American and Allied soldiers took part in one of the greatest military maneuvers in the history of mankind, at one of the greatest costs.

While many of us look at the paratroopers and ground support troops who took part in the invasion as heroes, they were all ordinary men in an extraordinary place at a pivotal point in time. Many of those men were regaled as heroes and their stories were splashed on the front pages of newspapers and magazines. But just as many were silent participants of a momentous strategy that changed the course of one of the greatest wars in history.

One of those men was my father, Carl A. Gottschalk. Of German ancestry, my father was born and raised in Wisconsin was twice turned down for military service (he was underweight) before he finally succeeded in joining the Army Air Corps in 1942. He was not among those in the first wave up Omaha, Utah or Juno Beaches, but speaking of his experiences, nearly 50 years later, it was obvious to see, and hear, that his memories were as vivid as if it happened only yesterday. My father is gone now, but his memories of that event are etched into my mind forever.

I interviewed my father one day as part of an ancestry project my son was taking part in for school. He was asked to interview a veteran of World War II, which was no easy task, as many men and women from that war were well into their 70s and 80s at that point. I do remember being surprised that my father agreed to the request, as he pointedly declined, or most commonly refused, to discuss any mention of his experiences in France and Germany for decades.

On that day in June 1944, my father, along with his comrades, watched as tens of thousands of troops were launched, scrambling from the decks of ships that had carried them across the English Channel toward the coast of Normandy. Many people don't realize that the D-Day invasion of Normandy was a multi-day affair, and after the initial wave of paratroopers and ground troops onto the beachheads, many thousands were to follow, all under enemy sniper fire from every direction.

As my father spoke, his voice grew soft with reflection, his eyes seemed to see a distant place, as he spoke of the gently rocking ship, the landing craft bumping loudly against it, and then trying to scramble over the side and navigate precarious netting in full pack combat gear. Explosions and constant gunfire were heard on the beaches, despite the fact that the first, second and third wave of troops had engaged and attempted to drive back German forces for several days. He spoke quietly of seeing bodies bobbing face down on the surface of the water, gently riding the tides toward the beach and then back again. The beaches were a crowded confusion of vehicles, supplies and men, all shouting orders and scurrying this way and that like agitated ants.

My father climbed over the side of the ship with his buddies, startled when one of them lost his footing and splashed into the space between the rocking landing craft and the side of the ship. The weight of his pack dragged him under and he was never seen again. Clutching onto the netting for dear life, my father says he tried to time his leap into the landing craft with the utmost care, knowing that if he didn't, he too, would go over the side and disappear.

My father was ordered to drive one of the many troop trucks from the landing craft onto the beach, and climbed in behind the wheel, the back loaded with others from his unit, and the seat beside him crowded and cramped with two others. He cranked the engine and hung on for dear life while the landing craft zoomed toward shore, rocking, dipping and threatening more than one suddenly seasick soldier to vomit.

For some reason, my father said, the landing craft stopped short of its goal and dropped open its door. Water flooded the landing craft and my father floored the truck, hoping beyond hope that the truck wouldn't sink beneath the surface of the waves. To his right, he saw one such truck disappear, along with a good portion of its troops, only a few of whom managed to scramble to the surface and loosen their packs, lest they also disappear forever beneath the waves.

Water steadily crept upward into the truck, and my father remembers how cold the water seemed, but that, of course, it may have just been his nerves that made the water seemed colder than it was. He was scared to death, and kept his right foot floored on the accelerator while trying to stand up in his seat to avoid the rising water. He hitched his left leg outside the door, just in case he had to abandon the truck, while his comrades climbed onto the roof of the vehicle to avoid the waves.

After what seemed like several hours, though was only minutes, or perhaps even seconds, my father felt firm ground, felt the wheels catch and hold, and lurched forward onto the beach, heart racing erratically, somewhat surprised that they had made it. He drove his truck where he was directed, automatically ducking and cringing at the sound of sniper's bullets flicking up spurts of sand, pinging off metal pans, and occasionally, dropping a soldier.

Such was my father's immersion into the uncertain world of a combat soldier's life, and only the first of many hair-raising experiences that affected him throughout his life, from watching a little French boy being torn apart by a booby-trapped grenade, and walking into the deathly silent compound of Buchenwald, my father's memories were his own, rarely shared, and borne, for the most part, in stoic silence.