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Into Hell
Hugo Sims' Story of Normandy, Holland & Bastogne
By Herb Moore AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2015 Herb Moore
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5049-5427-3
CHAPTER 1
That First June Night
"To know how to wait is the great secret of success"
- Xavier de Maistre
The C-47's flew southwest toward their marker boat stationed off the northwest tip of the Cotentin Peninsula of France. The planes had lifted off English soil at 2221 hours, 10:21 pm, and climbed to 2000 feet. Approaching the English Channel, the aircraft dipped to flying altitude for the trip over the water. This altitude of five hundred feet placed them below the probing eyes of German radar. The moon was nearly full, casting a deep purple-blue-black tint to the channel below and punctuating frothy whitecaps in the water. Winds were brisk, out of the west at 35 mph.
The flight plan was to swing southeast at the marker boat, then dash east into French airspace after passing the small islands of Guernsey and Jersey. This path would take the planes into drop zones from west to east, arriving behind German lines and fortifications on the beaches of Normandy. The Allied Command had code named Utah, Omaha, Juno, Sword and Gold Beaches on the coast and identified them as assault targets. Their specific Drop Zone (DZ) was behind Utah Beach, where the Army's 4th Infantry Division was to storm ashore at daybreak. The prearranged flight path placed the aircraft over the drop zones for less than ten minutes, plenty of time to complete their part in the overall plan.
Twin 1,200 horsepower Pratt & Whitney R-1830S1C3G Twin Wasp radial piston engines droned in the night, powering each aircraft at the normal cruising speed of just under two hundred miles an hour. For paratroop operations, the C-47 interior was fitted with 28 fold-down bucket seats hinged to the walls. Six parachute containers filled with explosives and equipment for use on the ground were on some planes, attached to racks under the fuselage and ready for release by the pilots once over the proper drop zones. Painted olive drab for the military, the 1,000 transports were marked with three white and two black bands around the fuselage and each wing for easy recognition and identification in flight.
Wind buffeted the C-47's with sufficient velocity to cause sudden lurches up and down, as well as side-to-side. Paratroopers of the 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment (PIR) sat in the darkness, helmet-clad heads bobbing in unison with the motion of the bumps of the invisible air currents outside. Darkness enveloped the interior of the transport, except for the small pale blue light in the tiny passageway to the pilot's compartment. This faint glow afforded modest details of faces sitting in the semi-darkness, but there was an element of apprehension in all the men. They tried, as do all men heading towards danger, to show a game face. Some sat with helmet-clad heads resting against the bulkhead of the plane, eyes closed. Others sat staring at nothing; eyes open but unseen by others in the dark shadows, thinking about the operation, or home, or whether or not they would survive until daylight. With the aircraft bouncing and swaying as it was, some even wondered to themselves if the plane would hold together long enough to get them to the drop zone.
The jumpmaster stood near the open door with a major and one young lieutenant; all three staring down at the black water below. Other C-47's, over a thousand of them, full of more paratroopers from the 101st, 82nd Airborne, and the British 6th Airborne were flying in multiple V formations in the dark sky, like so many geese heading south in October. Over 17,000 paratroopers were staged for the night jump. As the planes passed midpoint of the English channel, the jumpmaster and two officers saw thousands of ships on the water, all heading southward toward the largest beach assault invasion ever attempted in history: D-Day, Operation Overlord, the day the Allies invaded France at the previously unheralded Normandy beaches.
Inside those outwardly tranquil ships floating below on the water were hundreds of thousands of men armed with the most modern weapons of destruction: bazookas, Bangelor torpedoes, flame throwers, hand grenades, rifle grenades, 30 and 50 caliber machine guns, tanks, wheel mounted artillery and tons upon tons of ammo and explosive charges. Men inside those ships were charged with the task of winning the beaches first, and then plunging headlong toward the heart of the German held territories in France, Holland, and Belgium. The plan called for them to destroy Hitler's army and liberate those countries viciously invaded under Hitler's orders. History was to be written in the coming weeks, a history to change the world. The veteran sergeant and two officers watched the ships for a few minutes, and then peered back into the solemn and dark confines of the plane.
The 501st PIR was part of the 101st Airborne Division. Colonel Howard F. "Skeet" Johnson, a demanding and hardened veteran who trained his men to excel at physical conditioning and the determination to succeed in combat, led the 501st. An Annapolis graduate from Washington, DC, he had trained alongside his troops, often making three or four jumps to each one made by his men. Paratroopers of the 501st affectionately switched his nickname to "Jumpy" instead of "Skeet" as a result of his love to parachute with the Airborne. He had been a young lieutenant colonel when he enrolled in the parachute school located at Fort Benning, Georgia and earned the coveted wings of a paratrooper.
Colonel Jumpy Johnson was an angular man, thin and sinewy, with blonde hair and clear eyes, filled with a passion to excel. Men shuddered under his demands when his anger exploded and his fiery eyes gleamed intensely. Demanding and precise, Colonel Johnson was charged with molding the raw recruits, which he handpicked, into a force to be reckoned with in any situation. He was not interested in average. His men had to be much more than that. He would personally see to it himself. Johnson knew that men had to be filled with total commitment if they were to be the best. Total commitment meant they had to obey orders instantly, without hesitation and with complete trust in their leaders. Each individual would be tested to ensure he had that extra drive to be one of Johnson's men.
One factor high on Johnson's list was the attitude of each man under his command. He had to know they would do whatever was necessary in any situation. He had to be completely satisfied that the men would do the impossible. Could they go without rest? Did they have the guts? Did they have the desire? Could they exist on almost nothing and still succeed? Above all, could they actually kill? It was one thing to sit on a ship far out at sea and send huge artillery rounds into an unseen enemy, killing at random, or drop bombs from high altitudes and return to a warm bed at night, knowing that you had just killed someone. But it was another thing altogether to look a man in the eye and deliberately put a bullet in his face, or, in the absence of a firearm, to grasp a man with bare hands, pull out a knife and slit his throat, then watch the life ooze from him, feeling his warm blood drip down your arms and hands in the process. Unacceptable in civilian life, that very trait could mean the difference between being a survivor or a dead body. Dead bodies won no battles. Johnson did not want to risk that possibility.
Jumpy Johnson led the men on conditioning runs, pushing and cajoling them to run faster and farther than on the previous run, then do it in less time. He led them in calisthenics, again pushing them to extremes and teaching them how to do more with less. His training camp was the outdoors, knowing that the outdoors would be their home in combat. No frills and no nonsense. Bare bones comforts and rigid training were the order of the day for anyone who wanted to become a paratrooper with Johnson. Everywhere they went, they ran. Johnson weeded out those who couldn't keep up with the tough schedule. If they couldn't keep up in training, they would fail in combat. Johnson knew that. He wasn't willing to be surrounded by anyone who would give up.
Camp Toccoa became the dusty, dirty home to those who trained for the 501st. Scratched out of red Georgia clay, Toccoa was not much more than wooden shacks with tarpaper roofs. When it rained, the Georgia clay turned into a quagmire of slippery gummy mud that stuck to boots and clothes with a stubborn determination to make training even more miserable. The recruits ran up and down a famous nearby hill called Currahee so much that the very mention of that name conjured up memories of desperation and exhaustion. They ran in the cold, ran in the rain and mud, ran in lightweight running clothes, and ran in full combat gear. They carried their weapons, carried additional weight to simulate extra ammo that would be carried in combat, and they carried each other on obstacle courses. Leg muscles ached every night. There was no end to the conditioning in those winter and spring months at Toccoa. Slowly, sometimes in agony, they whipped themselves into shape. By the time Toccoa was behind them, they were a reflection of their leader, lean and fit, ready and prepared to meet the next challenge. Many did not survive the weeding out process. As few as thirty men out of every hundred remained when the training at Toccoa was completed.
The early months of 1943 molded the 501st into a fighting unit under the stern eyes of a commander they would all grow to love and respect. Moving first to Fort Benning for four weeks of parachute school, then to North Carolina, and on to Tennessee, the 501st completed training and was declared ready to join the fighting overseas. Colonel Johnson was eager to get going. Training was over. Time to go to work.
Someone near the front of one C-47 got airsick, throwing up in a small bucket passed around for that purpose. The small pink pills for airsickness didn't always work, especially in a plane bouncing around in the clutches of high winds. Many had taken several doses of the pills. The trip was to take two hours. Some thought the pills would help them catch a few winks of sleep during the flight. Didn't work. Stomachs churned, if not from airsickness, from nerves. If the airsickness and nerves weren't the cause, it was apprehension, or fear or anticipation. After all, they were headed into the unknown. This was the first combat for the 501st. No matter the training, no matter the preparation and classes, for the most part, none knew what was ahead. The odor of vomit drifted in the air, mixed with a hint of exhaust fumes from the propellers churning away outside. The noise of the motors rose and fell as pilots attempted to keep a tight formation, urging the aircraft up or down, sometimes left or right, adding to the discomfort of the paratroopers.
Inside one C-47 was a young lieutenant of the 501st, bouncing around like those sitting on each side of the transport plane. He stood with Major Richard Allen, his CO, at the open door of the aircraft, alongside the veteran jumpmaster sergeant. As the Assistant G-3 of his regiment, First Lieutenant Hugo Sims would be the last out the door over the DZ. His parachute harness and his gear were securely strapped in place and his mussette bag packed with spare clothes, hand grenades, hand shovel, mess kit, rifle cleaning kit, compass, maps, toiletries, two extra pairs of socks, a picture of his wife, French money, and first aid gear.
Hugo Sims recalled, "I didn't want to carry the extra weight so I shoved some chocolate bars into my pockets for food and tossed the balance of the K-rations before we took-off ." He wasn't going to starve without the K-rations; " I just figured the chocolate would be enough. I carried a carbine in a canvas bag strapped across my chest and two .45 pistols on a cartridge belt."
Sims had more gear, including his gas mask, attached to other pieces of equipment,. Jump gloves fit snugly and his knife was holstered in the sheath of his combat boots. The Mae West life preserver was strapped tightly to his upper torso. His body weight was less than a hundred thirty pounds. His gear weighed as much as he did. He had packed his chute like the other paratroopers. Face darkened by charcoal, he was as prepared as he could be for whatever followed. Impatient to get on the ground and start on his assigned target, he could only sit and wait. All in due time, Hugo Sims was to become a combat veteran.
The young lieutenant was a graduate of Wofford College in South Carolina. Sims was born, raised, and educated in Orangeburg, South Carolina, a small town midway between the capital city of Columbia and the coastal town of Charleston. Just like most of the South, Orangeburg sweltered in the summer. Most locals found little to smile about during those days following the Depression years. A rural, farming community inhabited by hard working modest people, Orangeburg was sending her young soldiers off to war. It wasn't easy to watch them board buses and trains, not knowing if, or when, they would return. However, Orangeburg wasn't the type of community to question Washington's decisions. Patriotic loyalty and commitment were well known characteristics of the citizens. It was a time of concern and prayer for those young men sent into the wrath of war.
Sims's lean figure and quiet manner hid a fierce competitor. His physical stamina had earned him a spot on the Wofford track team, and he could run for hours on end. Sims refused to quit any race, winning more than his fair share in competition on sheer determination. He recalled, "I worked hard to stayed in good physical condition. I ran ten miles every day during the summer before going to college. I maintained a steady training schedule of running from that point on."
After graduating from college, Sims married his high school sweetheart, Virginia; he called her "Gin." Still does. Sims recalled, "I wrote columns for my father's news syndicate and I continued to do that until I graduated." Sims became quite the accomplished wordsmith while still a student. "The syndicate was growing and I believed I would continue in my father's footsteps to grow and expand the business."
"Then," Sims spoke in a lower tone, "Japan attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941." Sims knew his fate; he would join the fighting forces and prepare for war. He volunteered, not knowing what was in his future, but confident of his ability to face whatever came his way. "I signed up for the US Army and was sent to Camp Wheeler, where I sought a commission as an officer." Turned down as an Officer Candidate School applicant by the review committee, Sims was puzzled as to why he was not accepted. "They only told me I had not passed the board evaluation." It only deepened his resolve to prove they were wrong. He had few options. "I could stay in the army as a private, or enter another branch of service. I chose to remain and completed basic training."
Three months later, Sims's commanding officer thought the review committee had made a mistake with Sims. He arranged for Sims to get another meeting with the review board under new officers. This time Sims passed without question. They offered the opinion that Sims would make an excellent officer. Sims left for OCS at Fort Benning, Georgia.
Sims remembered, "Halfway through OCS training, it was announced that two candidates, out my class of two hundred, would be selected to become paratroopers.
When I heard about the paratroopers, I knew where I wanted to go." Thirty men applied. Two were selected. Sims was one.
"Captain Richard Allen, of Atlanta, Georgia, was my Company Commander," Sims smiled. Allen had no idea that this soft-spoken, slightly built, southern gentleman could run right alongside his trusted and hardened Lt. Rice, step for step. Allen planned a grueling run to weed out the new lieutenant who he thought was too small to pass all the rigors to come. He ordered Rice to run as many miles as it took for Sims to quit.
Sims remembered that test well, "We started out with the platoon of about thirty-five men. At the conclusion of the run, the only ones left were Lt. Rice and me." Sims was promoted to First Lieutenant and became a leader in the company, later being promoted to a staff position under Major Allen.
Sims was Assistant G-3 of the 501st PIR. He studied the plan for his part in the invasion. His unit was to take and hold La Barquette lock on the Douve River, south of the small village of Vierville, and to destroy both highway bridges crossing the Douve. Overall plans developed by the high command looked good on paper. It was a well-designed plan that could produce the desired end result if all went well. Lieutenant Sims went over his assignment in his mind as the flight continued in the rough air over the Channel. His stomach tightened like the others. The unknown always harbored apprehension, and each man was touched by unspoken and sometimes unthinkable fears of what may await him in the dark night in France.
"The flight over was bumpy," Sims remembered. "It was real quiet in our plane. Nobody talked much and most everyone just sat and thought. Richard Allen and I talked a little but we couldn't hear much over the noise of the plane."
The C-47 tilted left in a sweeping turn heading southeast. They had reached the marker boat. Only a few minutes more and they would pass by the tiny islands off the western coast of France. Then the planes would proceed inland, passing over the coast. Each man knew the procedure. The red light by the exit door of the plane would come on. That was the signal for the jumpmaster to shout the order, "STAND UP AND HOOK UP." A cable strung down the center of the cargo bay was used to attach the metal snap of the static line. This fifteen-foot static line was a strap attached to the flap on the parachute pack strapped on each back. A reserve chute was in a separate harness strapped across each paratrooper's chest. When a paratrooper jumped from the plane, the static line tightened and jerked open the flap on the parachute pack. If, for any reason, the main parachute failed to deploy, the paratrooper could yank a ripcord and deploy the reserve chute.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Into Hell by Herb Moore. Copyright © 2015 Herb Moore. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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