Despite the problems most transports arrived at the rendezvous point as scheduled at 0.3.30 some 11 miles from the Normandy coast.

The Gap Assault team members straightened up, donned their 40-pound haversacks bulging with charges,

slung their car beans wrapped in clear pliophil, shook hands with the Army Tankers, and wish them luck.

And in pitch black darkness clambered down the cargo nets into their bobbing landing crafts.

For two more hours they waited, crammed on top of one another, while the landing craft

turned endless circles like so many diesel churning sharks.

Before long, the smell of exhaust joined with the four to six foot chop to kindle a seven bag case of vomiting so bad that many men lost

their fear of landing.

When the boats stopped circling, it was time.

The date was June 6, 1944.

As the first wave of landing craft turned south to close the final leg to Omaha Beach, the men who rode them could see nothing of what lay ahead except the wave crest that the cross winds was whipping into white curls.

Suspended in darkness and diesel thrum, this lull was finally interrupted at 0.5.30 with the opening scream of a rocket salvo to their rear that sent to flinch through every closed-shouldered rank snapping heads from hypnosis and eyes skyward to watch the suddenly visible cloud

gray ripple with glowing red strips.

A moment later, explosions like heat lightning could be seen against the mist draped hills before them.

Seconds after this, the unseen thunder roar of 10,000 airplane engines,

shrank every helmet beneath them

into its corresponding collarbone,

and lifted every eye to the still distant shore

and the promised light splash of bombs.

At the wall of assembled battleships now lined up parallel to the beaches, the armada of the

landing craft slid through the gaps.

Among these was Boat Team 8, which passed just under the prow of the USS Texas

...