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Joe B. Davis
I don't recall losing my temper with Joe B. Davis but once. That was late on the afternoon
of D plus 3. He and I had been sitting for some time in our waterproofed jeep on the loading
deck of a landing craft, tank (LCT). Tech Sergeant Johnson perched on top of all our baggage,
which filled the entire back of the vehicle. All three of us watched with interest as the front end
of the ship swung down to form a ramp to the beach. I somehow had expected to see a stretch of
sand at the end of that ramp, so it came as a shock when I realized that the nearest dry land was
at least two hundred yards further on, and that we had to drive into what looked like about four
feet of gray turbulent water. (Had I thought the matter out, I should have realized that the ship
was heavy and couldn't skim over the surface like a water-skater bug, right up to the edge. But I
hadn't thought it out.)
Each vehicle ahead of us went down the ramp and chugged off toward the shore.
Wow! I thought. The waterproofing really works.
One of the last things done before embarking to cross the channel was waterproofing the
vehicles. A gasoline engine has to have air-specifically oxygen-to mix with the fuel in the
carburetor, and electricity to flow to the spark plugs. Without both these things, it will not run.
So waterproofing involved smearing some sticky stuff around the distributer, spark plugs, battery
terminals, and other key points along the electrical system. And a snorkel was installed on each
vehicle to enable it to take in air and give off exhaust somewhere above the level of a driver's
head.
The drivers were admonished not to drive the vehicles any farther than necessary,
because running the engines while waterproofed tended to burn out (a) the waterproofing and (b)
the engine. Then after the drivers had waterproofed their vehicles, they drove them twenty miles
to the docks at Cardiff to be loaded onto the ships that were to take us to France.
And now here we were, and finally it was our turn. This was it! Joe B. Davis started the
engine and we crept forward in compound low gear. The opening at the front of the LCT framed
the scene ahead: the gray dismal sky, the water to match, and the distant beach, full of bustling
men and vehicles, plus stacks of supplies. Occasional enemy artillery shells burst here and there.
The jeep hesitated, put its head down, and splashed into the surf. The engine chugged
twice before it wheezed and died. The frigid water came up to our armpits, speedily soaking
through three layers of clothes.
I turned my head toward Joe B. Davis. "God damn it!" I screamed. "I thought you had
this son-of-a-bitch waterproofed!" I was trying to think of some more creative language to
express my emotion when I caught the stricken look on my driver's face.
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