When it was announced in an Admiralty Fleet Order that the King had approved the award of the Distinguished Service Cross to Lieutenant (j.g.) G. C. Clark, U.S.C.G.R., “for gallantry and undaunted devotion to duty during the Allied landings in Normandy,” the officers of a certain LCI (S) Flotilla (of which I happen to be Senior Officer) raised their caps, grinned with satisfaction, and uttered a solemn “Waccol”
Perhaps I ought to explain that LCI (S) in this war of initials stands for Landing Craft Infantry (Small)—and that “Wacco” is Flotilla slang for almost anything from “Cheers” to “Down-the-hatch” or simply “Things are going very, very well, brother.” The story of this British award to a young American naval officer is something more than just another story of a gallant act. It illustrates once again the simple truth that the ordinary fighting men of Britain and the United States, cheerfully ignoring the pulse- rate of higher Anglo-American relations, confronted only by the stark reality of common danger, can and do achieve a very real understanding, a mutual respect for each other’s qualities, and together form a formidable fighting team.
Shortly before D-day we in the British Assault Flotillas learned with much satisfaction that American Coast Guard cutters were being loaned to British convoys to act as rescue craft. It was said that President Roosevelt had caused sixty to be sent over here for this purpose, which we regarded as an extremely thoughtful gesture.
Among the American officers who came over with these cutters was Lieutenant (j.g.) G. C. Clark, of Hilltop Road, Bronxville, N. Y. He commanded cutter Number 35 and was assigned to our particular convoy. His sturdy 83-foot boat was crammed with specialized gear (and a much envied refrigerator), and it was his job to pick up our survivors if any British craft were sunk on the way over.
Our convoy had a specially important role It was to carry the First Special Service Commando Brigade under the command of Brigadier Lord Lovat, D.S.O., M.C. It was the task of these Commandos to storm through the beachhead, strike inland at a hot pace and, fighting to a carefully timed schedule, link up with those magnificent soldiers of the 6th British Airborne Division who were dropped from the sky to the Orne Canal before H-hour. We were determined to do our job and knew that some of us must die in the doing, but with the cutters along we could feel that if we were unlucky enough to be sunk we stood a chance of being picked up.
Today it is a matter of history how brilliantly the Commando Brigade did its job, so that Lord Lovat apologized at the Orne Brigade for being two and a half minutes late in his rendezvous with the paratroopers 1 By completing this link-up, the British Commando and Airborne troops secured the vital eastern flank of the whole Allied beachhead. Incidentally they kept it secure for over eighty days without relief, but that is another story.
It was our job in the LCI (S) Flotillas to give the Commandos a flying start by landing them at exactly the right time and place on the long Normandy coast line. And we were determined to do that at all costs.
When Lieutenant Clark first headed the purposeful bows of his cutter up the placid waters of a certain river in Southern England, beloved in peacetime by yachtsmen and famous for the crab and lobster teas to be had in the inns on its banks, he could hardly be expected to know that he had come to join a highly specialized team.
I think it can be said without exaggeration that the name of Lord Lovat has become a legend among fighting men. All those naval personnel who were fortunate enough to serve with him will agree that by D-day his inspired leadership had welded the Commandos and the Navy into a grand team. We felt that we were a closely knit band of brothers imbued with mutual confidence and full of determination. For months we had trained hard together; I might also add, with satisfaction at the memory of many happy gatherings over a stoup of ale, we had played hard too. The resultant sense of comradeship was a telling factor and built up a spirit between us which really meant something in the test of action. And no man did more to foster this spirit than Brigadier Mills Roberts, D.S.O., M.C., who so ably succeeded Lord Lovat in the command of the Brigade when the latter was seriously wounded during fierce fighting at the village of Breville on D-plus six.
But let us return to Lieutenant Clark nosing his craft carefully up the rather tricky bit of English river until he berthed alongside one of my Flotilla. As soon as he made fast he came ashore to the Flotilla Office to report. Quiet spoken, unassuming, and almost shy in manner, he asked for instructions.
“First of all,” I said, “please make yourself and your men at home here; and if there is anything we can do to help, just say the word.” Actually we were able to do one or two little things for them, including the speedy provision of some gun shields for their Oerlikon which Clark’s crew voted just dandy.
I went on, “We’ve got all the information you’ll need about a little job of work we are going to do together. Oh, and this is top-secret, we’ve got some beer.” Clark grinned—somehow I felt we were all going to like this young American immensely, j? That night Clark dined at our Squadron Mess where he met Commander Scott Bell, D.S.O., R.N., our Squadron Commander, an officer who had served in the submarine service for many years and who was just the fighter we had needed to develop a force such as ours. There were also present Surgeon Lieutenant Potts, R.N.V.R., the Squadron “Doc” sometimes rudely referred to as the “Virgin Surgin.” Doc always accompanied us on sticky jobs and did some fine work for our wounded off Normandy and Walcheren. Another at dinner was Lieutenant E. K. Jones, D.S.C., R.N.V.R., our burly navigator, regarded as an infamous character throughout Coastal Forces and known affectionately to everyone as “Bones.” He used to assure us with great solemnity that he knew nothing, “absolutely nothing, old boy,” about navigation, but it is a curious fact that he usually got to the right place, particularly during the Sicilian landings when he won his D.S.C.
Clark also met one or two of our Commanding Officers who were typical of the men in the Flotillas—Lieutenant Denis Glover, D.S.C., R.N.Z.V.R., one-time New Zealand publisher with a Rabelaisian sense of humor, a gift for writing poetry, and a most courageous and determined fighter, who also won his D.S.C. on D-day, and Lieutenant Jack Barker, R.N.V.R., an ex-outboard racer, a fine seaman who could turn his craft on the proverbial half-penny and was a glutton for difficult jobs.
We had been waiting for weeks for the “big thing” which we knew was daily drawing nearer, and the atmosphere had become tense; we were all keyed up and trying not to show it. So, when Clark confessed that he had not tasted alcohol for a fortnight, we rang the telegraphs to “Full Ahead” and quickly remedied this serious situation. From that evening on Clark became “Clarkie” to everyone, and I recall that the gentleman bore himself gallantly and completed a somewhat uproarious night aboard one of our craft to a chorus of “Waccos.”
Next day we held our final briefing when Lord Lovat, Brigadier Mills Roberts, and the naval and Commando officers gathered together for a last check-up on plans and to wish each other Godspeed and good luck. There were some fine men at the gathering, including the French section of the Commandos whom Lord Lovat described as among the finest fighting men he had met.
As Senior Flotilla Officer, it was my job to review the final details of the naval planning. I wound up by saying:
We’ll proceed through the anchorage in single line ahead so as to negotiate the mass of shipping more easily and pass through the gate in comfort. Outside we rendezvous with our escorts at X and then we’ll proceed in two columns. Remember the Admiral’s orders—if any of us arc hit, no assault craft will stop for survivors—drive on. Clarkie is the only one who will stand by for rescue work. When we reach the lowering position, the first wave will head for the hole in Jerry’s Atlantic Wall at 12 knots. If Clarkie is not flying the “house full” signal, I would like him to follow us in and pick up the bits, but he will use his discretion to act as he thinks best. Don’t forget, chaps, whatever obstacles Jerry has got there, find a gap and get your troops as far up that b—beach as you can. Give the Commandos as dry a landing as possible—we owe it to them!
Another twenty-four hours’ suspense and then the signal to go. At the appointed hour the LCI’s slipped in prearranged order from the loading pier, each with its precious load of picked troops. Time for one last look at the familiar river scene. There are the rushes nodding their gold and silver heads at us from the water’s edge and the battered beacons marking the channel we know so well. Here are the mooring buoys and then we come to Clarkie and his men standing by to slip and join our line. We give the American cutter a special wave as we pass—we are all in on this.
The bright blue and yellow Squadron Flag is flying from the masthead of my craft indicating the Senior Officer’s ship. Lord Lovat is with me on the bridge. Gudge, my signalman, reports that all craft have repeated our hoist, “Take up your appointed station.”
Now over our bows is the familiar silhouette of the Island. “Many, many times have I seen you, old Island,” I muse, “through mist and sun, darkness and cold dawn, in all your moods, all shifts of weather, and, by God, I’m not ashamed to pray I see you again after tomorrow’s work!”
Clear of the river now, and Lord Lovat’s piper comes on deck. Our loud hailer is switched on and we lead the long line to the shrill proud scream of pipes than which there is no fitter music for men who go to fight. Those pipes seemed to work some strange magic that night. As we came abreast the big ships, the men in them lined ship and lusty cheers echoed through the anchorage and rolled among the multitude of craft waiting to slip in turn and play their part in the greatest invasion in history.
Anxiously we study the weather. It looks ugly and threatening with lots of wind in the sky and a lop on the water which will be really nasty in the Channel, but two men have taken a decision that will alter the course of history. The show is on.
Dawn, June sixth, found the LCI’s and the American cutter with wind and spray tearing across the exposed bridges and the craft rolling and plunging in a heavy cross sea. But we were in good station and in good heart. “All craft in company, Sir,” reported Gudge—Clarkie had had no work to do yet. Soon after midnight we had seen flares falling over big ships well away to starboard and, expecting bombs, had seen none.
Many of our Commandos slept, a few men were sick—and small wonder, cramped in the heaving spaces below deck. Lord Lovat had turned in early. Good to feel that such a leader had complete trust in a handful of the Navy’s wartime breed of reserve officers. Then, fine on port bow, we saw long flickering tongues of orange flame that traced gigantic patterns of fire across the still dark horizon—15-inch bricks from Messrs. Warspite, Ramillies and Company with much love to Jerry. “Lovely grub,” said the lookouts. “Wacco,” said Number One, “hope they knock hell out of the bastards.”
To the east we could clearly see the tough looking hulls of the British destroyer screen, and from H.M.S. Stork, our own particular escort, a lamp winked. “Good morning and bloody good luck,” read Gudge.
“Nice of ’em, and now for a Nelsonian reply from the R.N.V.R. to the R.N.” thought I, and dictated somewhat lamely, “Thank you —we’ll bloody well need it.” Hardly up to “England expects,” but it will have to do. Anyway that’s how I feel in this damnably rolling sea with decks plunging.
And now things were beginning to take shape. We were fast overtaking an armada of slower moving craft led by a business-like frigate with whom we checked our position. Lightnings and Spitfires flew overhead in comforting numbers. Ahead and slightly to starboard we could see the shapes of the big infantry carriers which marked the vicinity of the lowering position. To port was the arc of bombarding battleships and cruisers, and right ahead, almost lost in smoke and mist, the destroyers carrying out their deadly inshore bombardment. This was D-day and we were heading for it absolutely on time.
Where is the Dan Buoy with the yellow flag marking the Lowering Position? Ah, there it is, Green one ’O, about eight cables distant. God, the sweepers and Dan layers have done a noble job this night and morning.
We head for the yellow marker. “Suggest we keep away from groups of big ships,” says the Brigadier with a tentative eye on a column of water rearing up among the carriers. “Entirely agree, Sir,” I reply gravely.
Here is the buoy, and the second flight pauses to follow us in later. No need for signals. Everyone knows his job. Just in case of need I order Gudge to hoist the signal “Assume Arrow-head formation.” But we never use it.
And now, in Flotilla slang, it is “Harry Flatters” for the still invisible beach some miles distant beyond the bombarding destroyers and covered by a pall of smoke and haze. In exactly 40 minutes we of the first flight will touch down. This time, in Flotilla slang, for some it will be “Hands to quarters clean harps.”
“Number One, pass the word to the troops we are going in. Tell the lookouts to keep their eyes skinned for the chateau against the small wood.” Our beach lies 4 cables to the westward of this mark. If we make too much easting—and it’s damned easy to do it in this cross tide and poor visibility—we shall head straight for Jerry’s private beehive, and the noble six hundred will have nothing on us.
Another splash ahead and a red two ’O— we discern just above water the bow and stern of a vessel with her back broken. Some poor devils have paid the price early. And there goes an LCT on fire forward, but still heading for the beach. Don’t stop to think. “Steer another 5 degrees to starboard, Coxswain.”
Now through the smoke we see what we had expected to see—the Chateau against the trees, the line of shattered houses over the beach, the big fat strong point in the center, the uncompromising rows of stakes sprouting from the water, and tanks on the beach, some of them flaming and smoking. This is it.
The tale of how those beaches were stormed under a hail of mortar, anti-tank, and machine gun fire has already been told, and I am not so concerned with it as with the story of Clarkie and the crew of the U. S. Coast Guard Cutter.
When our first flight made the final dash for the beaches, Clarkie followed us in and coolly cruised off the shore waiting for the moment when he might be of assistance.
His opportunity came with dramatic suddenness. Among the battered craft limping away from the beach after landing their troops was His Majesty’s LCI (S) 504 commanded by Lieutenant Nigel Cromar, R.N.V.R. She had a fire in her engine-room, she was scarred by mortar fire, holed by armor-piercing shell, and she carried wounded men. Among them was Ordinary Seaman Barton with a foot blown off, yet imploring the first aid party to attend to other wounded first.
Cromar hoped to get out of range of enemy fire, transfer wounded, and carry out repairs. At 0925 he ran into further fire which holed his petrol tanks. A few minutes later the craft blew up, disintegrating in a sheet of flame.
“Never,” said Cromar writing from hospital, “did men go in with better heart and never did men less deserve the horrible fate which overtook them.”
We in the flagship were about a mile distant at the time, and from our position it seemed that even if anyone survived the explosion, they could not possibly live in the mass of flaming petrol which now covered the sea and gave forth a dense volume of black smoke.
But we had reckoned without two factors —the strange law of chance and the American Coast Guard Cutter. We saw a slow moving LCI gallantly trying to close the fire and also we observed the American Cutter racing right into the flames without hesitation.
And here we might well quote from the official report:
Although Lieutenant Clark’s cutter burnt high octane petrol and risked a fate similar to that of the LCI(S), he did not hesitate to steer his craft into the flames and was thus able to rescue the Commanding Officer and three ratings.
Before sailing, Lieutenant Clark had promised that if need be he would beach with the LCI(S)' It is considered that he lived up to his words in the finest way.
During the ensuing weeks I was able to piece together the full story from scraps of information obtained from the somewhat reticent Clark and other eyewitnesses.
He had to agree that his crew scorched their pants in going down the scrambling nets to get on board the burnt and injured Cromar, Bennett his motor mechanic, Levick the wireless operator, and the signalman.
In the heavy seas then running it proved impossible to transfer such gravely injured men to larger vessels. The cutter rose and fell with the swell of the sea, and crashed heavily against the sides of the LST. She did manage to get a doctor on board and then it was decided to race to England. The burnt Cromar, both knees crushed as well, was kept doped with morphia and propped up amidships to be saved as much as possible from the violent motion of the boat. Despite every attention that the Americans could give them, the passage must have been a grim ordeal for those wounded men.
Six months later the three ratings were back in service, but Cromar was still in a hospital. A cheery letter from him shortly afterward said, “It is my hope that somehow or other most of the old gang may all do a job together on some sunny beach in the Pacific. I’ll have to watch the sharks this time, though.”
This is only one story among those waiting to be told of the sturdy U. S. Coast Guard Rescue Cutters, their officers, and their crews. For months after D-day, they carried on their rescue work, sailing in all weathers and facing the hazards of mine and “E” boat. Up to the time the LCI (S) sailed from the Normandy coast on D-plus 90, they had saved many hundreds of lives, since the Battle of the Channel was not won on D-day alone but went on for months afterwards.
Finally, I have a strong feeling that if we and they could sit around a table for a yarn we could soon iron out some of the differences which seem to be troubling some of our own and your American newspapers at the moment. I am not foolish enough to imagine that we would reach agreement on all points, but this I do know—we would work together.