Hail to the heroes who took the beach

On June 4, 1944, Staff Sgt. Donald Gordon Barron, wire sergeant for the headquarters unit of the 113th field artillery, then attached to the 80th (Old Hickory) Division, boarded a landing ship off the coast of England. The former lumber salesman from Flint, Mich., was referred to as “Pappy” by most of the men in his unit. He, along with the others on board, knew where they were headed. Well, not exactly where, but they knew it was to the south or southeast, and that their reception would be warm.

The weather was, as our allies might have put it, “filthy.” La Manche was in a mood. Rain poured down, the seas ran high. The shallow-draft landing craft were not at their best.

While the commanders paced and worried in their quarters, the men of the 113th sat in cramped quarters in driving rain and heaving seas. Almost everyone was seasick except Barron.

Throughout his life, he seemed impervious to motion sickness of any kind. Rumor has it that he had a little fun that night. While always one to do his duty no matter what, his make-up may have contained a trace of the smart-ass.

As usual, the “dog faces” got the worst of it. That said, the situation of the commanders was anything but enviable. Particularly that of Gen. Dwight D. “Ike” Eisenhower, the “buck stopper” for that particular exercise. The proposed operation, code-named “Overlord,” depended upon a full moon so preliminary work could be done by the Army Air Corps. There was no chance of sailing on the originally scheduled date of June 5. Eisenhower slept little. If the Allied fleet didn’t sail, it wouldn’t have another opportunity for a month. The chances of keeping the mission secret for that much longer were small.

It’s not clear whether Sgt. Barron considered the general’s dilemma that night. He might have. A few days previously, Ike had stopped to speak with him. He asked if his men had everything they needed. Using good judgment, the sergeant opted not to say that they lacked transportation home. The sergeant did advise the general that his men were having difficulty obtaining sufficient cigarettes, whereupon several cases somehow materialized on the doorstep of the unit’s quarters the next morning.

As we all know now, Eisenhower stuck it out, the weather broke and the invasion of France began the morning of June 6, 1944.

Barron and his men were not along on that journey. Units had been loaded on ships up and down the coast that day, many of them red herrings. When the 113th did go, somewhat later, they landed on Utah Beach. Evidence of the terrible carnage on that beach was still very evident. Unburied corpses and body parts were still scattered over the terrain. The horror of that landing is unimaginable. Also unimaginable is what they must have felt for the brothers who had been in that first assault.

Though the landing of the 113th Field Artillery was relatively uneventful, the trip across was not. Barron was enjoying a hot cup of coffee — soon to be a great luxury — with his best friend and companion of three years, Jimmie. Jimmie asked if Barron wanted another cup of coffee. He declined and allowed as how he’d go forward to wash his mess kit. Jimmie went aft for another cup. Moments later the landing craft hit a mine that destroyed the rear half of the ship. It’s unknown whether that very young man got his cup of coffee. He didn’t make it.

Miraculously, the ship stayed afloat and was towed in with most of its men and materiel intact. The sergeant never forgot his friend. He spoke about him often in the years to come. That a simple cup of coffee had such impact on generations is remarkable.

Barron survived the following 11 months. He earned a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. Mostly, he did his job quietly and efficiently to the best of his ability. Well, mostly quietly. There was New Year’s Eve 1944. The noise, apparently, involved a sufficient quantity of French brandy, the C.O. and a battery of 105mm Howitzers. Happy New Year.

There followed occupation duty in Germany through November 1945. Then a family, a job or two and a good life. A life that was interrupted with decreasing frequency by the dreams, cold sweat and 3 a.m. screams.

He was a good soldier, a good husband, a good father and a good man. In June 2008, very nearly D-Day +64, Sgt. Barron rejoined his unit. There may have been thunder that morning. Or maybe Capt. Carlton had Jimmie pull the lanyard on a one-oh-five.

Today’s focus is, understandably, on the heroes. The outrageous feats of valor. But most were like Staff Sgt. Barron. Steady, reliable, always there when needed, not looking for trouble, but not backing away either.