Then the moment came …
The landing craft charged forward. Shells dropped perilously close sending great geysers of water high
into the air. Not for a moment did the landing barges slow down. Only when their bottoms scraped dirt and the
engine would pull no farther did they stop.
The bow doors swept open. The ramps dropped 1ike giant palms smacking the waters. And the boats
disgorged equipment, trucks, jeeps and men.
The waterproofed vehicles plowed into the water and moved forward. Only an occasional one stuck in
the soft sand. The others pulled around. There was no time to lose now. Later these stalled vehicles would be
towed out. Now it was forward – forward – forward.
And everywhere the water was filled with Infantrymen wading waist deep, their weapons high over their
heads. And the flares lighted the waters and singled them out like ducks on a pond. The whine of small arms
pierced the intermittent roars of the heavy artillery. The occasional scream of a wounded man added, as if it was
necessary, to the stark reality of the scene. This was no Hollywood landing. This was no longer maneuvers.
This, damn it, was the real thing!
Then the first Ordnance trucks hit the beach. Ashore, at first glance, all was impossible confusion. The
entire area was littered with the weapons and material of war. Every inch of space seemed to he occupied with
piles of vital equipment. Yet, almost miraculously, space was found and trucks roared into it. And behind them
came the jeeps.
The Division had landed. Its casualties had not been as heavy as anticipated. Long months of training
had paid off with smooth operation and superb efficiency. The assault and the landing had been a complete
success.
The landing of the 790th Ordnance Company had been accomplished without the loss of life, without, in
fact, sustaining a single injury.
The Ordnance trucks formed into convoy, drivers took a quick glance at previously prepared maps,
and moved out of the beachhead onto the inundated roads leading to its first, camping area on enemy-held soil
All the way from the beachhead to Ecoquincaville, the marching men, and the men in the rolling trucks,
were accompanied by the pounding of the heavy guns. The night was black with clouds. The rains came down.
The chill was deep in their marrow.
But when they reached the bivouac area, they took no time out for rest. Not with the sound of the
thunder still in their ears. They dug. Behind the protection of the thick hedgerows, with spades and shovels and
even with helmets, they dug themselves in. Camouflage nets were quickly strung over the trucks, blending them
in with the background and making them invisible to enemy airplane observation. This routine was to become an
established habit upon each movement, in the many months to follow.
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