Invasion Journal

By Richard L. Tobin

Invasion Journal, first published in 1944, is veteran war correspondent Richard Tobin's account of his time in England, aboard several Royal Navy fighting ships, and in France with American G.I.s shortly after the D-Day invasion. Offering interesting insights into English life – the food, morale of the civilians, V-1 bombings – as well as a look at Allied soldiers from its leaders to its soldiers and sailors, Invasion Journal portrays war-time life as it was for millions of people during the heady year of 1944. Of note is his coverage of the broadcasts by the Nazis of the unsuccessful attempt on Hitler's life on July 20, 1944. Tobin (1910-1995) was a reporter, editor, and war correspondent for The New York Herald Tribune from 1932-1956. From 1960-1976 he worked at The Saturday Review as a senior editor and executive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eumenes Publishing
• Release date: Dec 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781839741388

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

INVASION JOURNAL

War Reports from England and France, April-August 1944

By

RICHARD L. TOBIN

War Correspondent for the New York Herald Tribune

Invasion Journal was originally published in 1944 by E. P. Dutton & Company, Inc., New York.

* * *

TO THE PEOPLE OF LONDON

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

April 1944 5

May 1944 16

June 1944 31

July 1944 68

August 1944 120

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 131

April 1944

Port of Embarkation, U.S.A., April—, 1944

The night river is oily beneath the lights. The black oil fractures quicksilver light paths again and again, yet the lights are stronger; they never disintegrate for all the shimmering. The face of a clock over the river is so darkened that the numbers have disappeared, but I can tell the time anyway, from the position of the hands. At least I think I can, for I am not absolutely sure which is the long hand and which the hour. Yet it must be one o’clock; Sylvia and Rusty drove me to the pier at nine, and I was hours through customs, immigration, medical examination and briefing. The look on her face when I kissed her told me how serious this is going to be and what it means to her.

It is far easier for a man to face danger or pain himself than for someone who loves him but cannot be there, cannot feel and share the actual pain. Six months, nine months, a year, possibly never to see her again, or she me; she, the little person I know so well and have slept with, lived with, loved with, had fun with, talked with, thought with, hurt with, argued with, shared everything with, winter and summer, day and night, for seven years. And now she cannot be allowed to go with me on this great adventure. Parting carries terrible hurt, vagueness, an emptiness I feel already, though the great ship and her precious cargo are still tight to the pier. There is something of the lightheadedness of hunger about parting. At least I will be busy, seeing a new world, a world I never made; but it is most grossly unfair to her to be left behind and alone. Even Mark is no compensation at his age. To Mark it is all uniforms and medals. There is none of the reality of hurt about war in the mind of a child. There are only the medals and uniforms.

I hesitated to tell Mark I was going overseas. We had been so close so long. Finally I knew it had to be done. So I told him where I was going, and why. He took it calmly enough. He asked if I would be in uniform. Oh, yes, I told him, in an officer’s uniform. Then Mark wanted to know: If you get wounded will you get the Purple Heart? Why, I said, after the shock, I suppose so. I’ll get any medal I win. I’ll be in the Army, in uniform. If I’m wounded I’ll get the Purple Heart. Yipppee! said Marcus. Oh, he’ll be all right.

But I wish for Mark’s sake that I had a rank. He wants me to have something he can boast about. I will be an assimilated captain, but how can you tell your adoring son that? A war correspondent is below a private and above a general. That’s good. I shall have to remember that in conversation. Now, there’s a girl on the deck over there, one of a group going to London for the State Department. She’s wearing what looks like miniature captain’s bars on her lapel. I wonder if she’s going around with a captain, or two first lieutenants?

The anaesthetic effect of custom is beginning to wear off, leaning here against the rail, seeing the burdensome troops move inside our great ship, which has no end of appetite. They have been loading since mid-morning. We will sail with the tide, around four, unless some railroad fails its schedule. But it won’t. No gongs or shouting, All ashore that’s going ashore, to announce our going. No splendid, gigantic whistle in the night air. When we are loaded we will sail, as quietly as floating wood. Goodbye, Rusty, Mark; goodbye, my very dearest. Goodbye from me to every one of those left ashore by the thousands of men in uniform now inside our ship, on the oil-black river.

At Sea, April—

We are virtually lying to in fog somewhere off the North American shore. Our engines have been rung off and the helmsman has been relieved after a harrowing night. In war, one does not use a foghorn; yet we are in the convoy, lanes and collision is a momentary threat. The bows of one freight ship after another, bound empty for America, can be seen emerging from the fog, sometimes as close as one hundred and fifty feet away. The ghostly ships come from all angles. The bows of one are heading this minute for the starboard quarter of our great ship; but fortunately we are a large enough vision that we can be seen in time, if the engines are rung slow or rung down altogether. Although neither we nor they can use a horn, we do use deck bells that are to be rung for fog. Here comes another in the westbound convoy, at right angles to our starboard stern. Now, that skipper should have sounded for fog, for he is improperly under way in fog. If he had been further amidships he might not have been able to avoid us and our precious human cargo. Even one day out, the ocean water is too cold for survival for very long.

Once this evening I could hear our own engines suddenly reverse, and the great ship heel to port like a Queens-bound subway train at rush hour. I saw nothing, and it is possible that the lookout saw nothing, except an illusion of shapes in the thickened atmosphere. Our bell now rings continuously for fog as our engines are rung half-ahead. The Master has been here long enough. Idling troop ships are like sitting ducks to hunters. But where a hunter won’t shoot a sitting duck, a U-boat or a German will shoot at anything. I’m glad the Captain has made up his mind to go along despite the fog and the counterconvoy. The fog has been our first adversary.

At Sea, April—

What has shaken me most these first hours aboard this brimming transport ship? I think it has not been the personal dangers of war, nor the fears and dreads of black adventure, the unknown paths ahead, or even the fact of war itself. After many years of comfortable married life, I am certain that it is the complete lack of privacy that strikes me above all the other events and embroideries. I suppose that nowhere on earth is there as little privacy as aboard one of the largest troop transports. I am a serial number among serial numbers. No one really cares if I am seasick or homesick, or uncomfortable. I am beginning to understand the words, Every man for himself. What man fights for on earth is really not fortune or fame, but the right to privacy. This right I have now abrogated, or it has been abrogated for me.

I try to make something of myself so that I shall enjoy privacy, privacy coming from independence, and independence the child of labor and earnings. At thirty-three, with a wife and child, I have unknowingly secured privacy, or I had until this voyage began. I suppose that no one truly knows anything until it happens to him. No more can one imagine the actuality of pain in another. He can sympathize and help, but he cannot feel the pain until the stimulus strikes him. So in this terrible overcrowding, especially below decks where the G.I. Joes are herded like cattle, I am beginning to learn what privacy meant to me and what it will mean when the war is past. Here aboard this once great passenger liner, a British ship of magnificence and expanse, where in peacetime a few hundred passengers would have slept, thousands now not only sleep, but eat, and stand and wait. If there is one thing a troop transport is apt to teach a man it is how to wait; for me there is a sharper lesson. I now have learned a specific price on a golden commodity—privacy.

Since there are only two meals a day and many sittings at each meal, the G.I. soldier and the privileged guest must take some of each meal, wrapped in a paper napkin, back to his sleeping quarters. This is comparatively easy for me, a privileged guest, sleeping in a soft bunk, albeit the cabin is packed with roommates. But for the G.I. soldier down in the hold, many feet below water level, his destination a secret; jailed behind blackened portholes, in an atmosphere of continuous seasickness, eating is a bulky problem.

Tonight I went below decks, where the troops are like steerage. Most of them have no hammocks or bunks. Most of them—thousands of them—sleep, eat, stand and wait, and also vomit, within the same few square feet of dank smells. The troop commander in one hold asked me to join in supper, but I said I had already eaten, thank you, though this was a lie. One look at the basin of squashed mess from which I and they were to be served was enough for me. The poor chap furthest inside the row of wooden benches, packed against the wall of the ship, has been vomiting for a whole day and night. He will not be eating his supper, but it will be eaten for him by stronger stomachs, stomachs apparently unaffected by the odor, by all the odors that settle in any submarine compartment where men are packed together without proper facilities for toilet in any sense.

Once again topside, I feel the first great relief I have experienced aboard. It is a feeling of superiority, certainly akin to the feeling the publican expressed in the temple. Is it wrong? Right or wrong, I am perfectly sure I like being a war correspondent in my clean soft bunk, rather than a G.I., which I at my age might well be. I have now regained my appetite, with interest. The relief has made me hungry. But never in all my days will I forget what I saw, smelled and heard below decks tonight. Never.

From the first hour aboard, the privileged passengers in the crowded staterooms, or the soldiers packed below, have been aware that for the next week or more every individual will be living in a sort of enclosed Ebbets Field. He soon discovers that he will be sleeping fully clothed, wearing even his shoes to bed. Some soldiers aboard have no bed at all. One entire company, supernumerary, is bunked on the floor of what was once the ship’s cinema and meeting hall. This locality turns into an officers’ lounge at daybreak, so the G.I. has to turn out, bringing all his paraphernalia with him each time, not to return to this dubious paradise until 10 p.m., when the last officer has left the card tables that are then folded and stacked against the wall. Only because he is used to something like this on bivouacs and in open camps, and because he is very young, can the ordinary soldier stand such treatment night after night. Some of the officers are so enraged at the facilities granted this unlucky company that they are refusing to patronize the officers’ lounge, despite its piano, card tables, Red Cross entertainers, and beauteous Yankee feminine comforts. The G.I.’s involved are as close to mutiny as they’ll ever be. On American ships, officers share the discomforts of their troops. On this British liner, the American G.I. and officer are learning that there is a qualitative difference between rank and caste, and between commander and commanded. One young soldier, in tears, keeps telling his mates that he will not be surprised if his own first lieutenant, whom he hasn’t seen below decks since the trip began, becomes an early casualty in the invasion fighting. Nor shall I. At any rate, some G.I.’s sleep better than others, while the officers and guests sleep and eat far less like cattle. Major-General John C. H. Lee, deputy theater commander, has sent a letter to all officers en route to the European Theater of Operations, aboard this badly crowded, England-bound vessel. It reads in part: Right now, get your men cared for. If you stay with them below decks the first night, you will not regret it. It is already becoming apparent which officers aboard will be good officers, and which officers will not be officers at all.

At Sea, April—

Even in our large cabin on the main deck, transport life is not very easy. We have six men in the cabin, made for two. The extra bunks are built in above each side, with two auxiliary bunks at right angles forming the crossbar of the letter H. We are lucky indeed. We have a bathroom. It works most of the time in spite of the salt water. Many cabins do not have bathrooms, and of course the soldiers in the hold have almost no privacy. In the cattle-like holds, the foot soldier is fortunate to be able to comply with the ship’s order that once a week everyone must take a shower bath. Seasickness is again a factor here, since there is almost nowhere below decks to be seasick in. The soldiers in the depths sleep, eat and live their tedious hours of nights and days in a cauldron of smells and crowding. The lights are on night and day. Tempers and language are sharpened by the extreme difficulty of doing simple things at all, much less doing them well. Since nine-tenths of the boys below have never so much as seen the ocean until now, perhaps it is seasickness that affects most deeply their corporate lives in this crossing for invasion. Many of the troops aboard are colored boys. One of them turns to a sick companion and says: Boy, you is sho’ a landlubber. The other colored (gray) boy replies: You said it, and Ah never knew until now how much Ah lubs de land.

But if seasickness is the sworn enemy of the G.I., the shock of crowded troop transport life and the complete lack of privacy are uppermost to the average cabin passenger, who is usually an older man. This lack of privacy is accentuated with age and habit. Boys are used to its absence; indeed most young men in their teens and twenties do not seek out privacy, but companionship and constant entertainment. Philosophy, reflection and privacy are signposts to maturity. By the time a man has had a wife and family for a decade, he is used to the routine of married life. He is used to tiny comforts, as well as the obvious comforts that come with living with a woman. He is used to having his things where they can be found. He is used to being waited on, and of course he is badly spoiled. Aboard a troop transport he can find nothing unless he carefully repacks it after use—does it himself. ‘

We are six in M-32. There is Ernie Byfield, manager of the Hotel Sherman and the two Ambassadors in Chicago, a man of fifty-four to whom pleasant living has become deep-rooted, and personal service automatic. Ernie has children in the war. Now he is going to write the war for the Chicago Herald-American. My father’s old friend from Iowa and Chicago, Walter Howie, dreamed this one up. Ernie is as greatly affected by the lack of privacy as I am. He is a kind man, genuinely kind, and very thoughtful. His wonderful Scotch whisky and his stories and limericks shorten our days and nights. Then there is Robert Barnes, a radio engineer filled with magic secrets. He is in uniform, going to Italy to add one stone to Hitler’s gravehead. I think he suffers least of all of us because of his unquenchable thirst for knowing how this great ship is being operated. He is, moreover, girded with logic, and logic is an armored shield against physical and mental discomfort.

Then there are two Army captains, engineers, an advance detachment. Captain Samuel Smith, of Fort Worth, Texas, looks like a sun-parched Douglas Fairbanks Jr. He is already a good officer. He answers all summonses over the ship’s public-address system as though the ship’s life depended upon it. He takes care of his men below decks. He invites them up to take baths in our bathroom, and to eat our fresh fruit, since they get none at all below. Smitty from Texas is a good officer. If he is shot, the bullet will enter his body from the front side. Captain Walter Davis, of Salamanca, New York, near Buffalo, sleeps above me. Walt is six feet four and weighs 230 pounds. He is of Welsh descent. He’s a quiet man, who reads the Bible at night and sleeps a great deal. If there is such a thing as a typical engineer, Captain Davis is that. I like him tremendously.

My other roommate is Ted Malone, whose real last name is Russell. Malone operates radio broadcasts in the States known as Between the Book-Ends on which he reads other people’s poetry. He is a pleasant soul, over his head in the deep waters of professional war correspondence. This he resents. Perhaps I am prejudiced against him since his snores would frighten the MGM lion. His snoring is, indeed, -a topic of constant conversation in our cabin, for snoring behind sealed portholes and closed doors is not funny. Byfield has devised what he calls the anti-Russell device, but he finds himself listening even more eagerly through the wads of cotton. So the device is no good, and we lie there and anticipate the next intake from upper six. To Malone’s credit, he has been moving into the bathroom as the rest of us retire, letting us get a head start on his snores. But we wake up anyway when the snoring begins. Malone and I are from New York. He comes originally from Kansas City, and I from Illinois and Michigan. Barnes is from Redwood, California.

Byfield is universal, one of America’s best-known hosts. His Pump Room in Chicago is famous. He is carried into the Pump Room each night on a flaming sword, or vice versa. He knew Uncle Ring and tells me two good stories about him, both of them obviously true. He says that Tony Sarg introduced puppets to the hotel’s entertainment program some years back, and for a while the puppets were a great nightclub success. But when poodle puppets began acting up on Sarg’s miniature stage, the act soon palled. One night Ring was guest of honor, and when the show was over he turned to Byfield and said: "Were those real mice? It sounds so much like him, that I like Byfield immensely for remembering it. The other Byfield remembrance of Ring Lardner goes back to a saloon in Chicago. Most of the stories about Ring did. Everyone had been talking about the Charleston, and the subject had worn pretty thin. Lardner had said not one word, as was his custom, for an hour or more. There was a pause, and then Ring said, in his over-lugubrious way: In Pennsylvania, they call it the Altoona." Yes, I like Byfield.

The two Army engineers think our accommodations luxurious, and are in no way appalled by the lack of privacy. That is natural. They are much more impressed with the power and’ force of the sea. They are unaffected by seasickness, except that they profess great hope of seeing land again. They worry about submarines too. Byfield and I don’t.

We six and all our luggage live in a room seventeen feet long and nine feet wide. Having our own salt-water bathroom saves us. But M-32 is not a wigwam for men with claustrophobia. Since we sleep fully clothed and since the porthole is locked until the last moments of our crossing, it is a good deal like being in jail. Every man in the room is or has been married, a man used to small privacies and comforts. I think the continuous danger from U-boats (What a target we are!) is less acute to four of the six than the way we have to live. The two Army Captains lie awake imagining U-boats every few rods; yet these officers are undisturbed by