The night of June 5th, 1944

On the night of June 5, 1944, I heard, from my tent, the planes roar off the runways, saw them circling above me as they did in Tunisia preparing to fly off to Sicily-occupied Europe from the south. Later that night I heard them return. This was part of the first wave of paratroopers and glidermen landing on the soil of Fortress Europe, D day, before dawn, June 6, 1944. Whatever happened during the day, we heard little of it. Some of us remembered North Africa and recalled our anguish when our flight was canceled. This time we had to go.

Men in small groups, by ranks, were called to briefing sessions. I waited my turn to have, at last, some concrete knowledge of where I was going, some sense of my minute part in a gigantic operation, some feeling of history, some gratification. In this case, how very special it was to be. It was almost worth waiting for. The men in my tent went; all the sergeants and the corporals went. I was not called. My reaction was simple rage. Rage followed by the fury of bursting frustration almost to tears. In order to abate my anger and, no doubt, out of sympathy for my bitterness, a tech-sergeant friend, sitting on the edge of his cot smoking one cigarette after another, broke security and, looking me straight in the face, told me three things: we go June 7 at dawn; it's France; it looks horrible.