80th Infantry Division

La Fiére Causeway, Normandy – 76 Years Ago

Guest Post by Andy Adkins as part of my Stories of the Greatest Generation series.

I can’t begin to describe what I’ve been through the past few days. Hell, what we’ve all been through. I’m not even sure where to begin, it’s all been such a blur. Nonstop… day after day, hour after hour, minute by minute. It hasn’t let up.

We’ve lost hundreds, if not thousands, of men—good-hearted young men, fighting for freedom, helping to rid the world of this tyranny. I knew many of them; trained with them all; and led a few through these past horrific days. It’s hard to believe they died. I hope not in vain. Time will tell.

This place we’re at today—and have been for the last couple of days… it’s just a bridge across a small river (Merderet River, I believe). I’m not even sure the name of this bridge, if there is one. We’re a few miles west of Sainte Mère-Église. They’ve had some heavy fighting, too. But our mission today is to capture and hold this bridge. I know we’ll succeed—we’re Airborne.

We’re next to a French manor. There’s a group of buildings that overlook the east end of the bridge. There are a half-dozen farm buildings, two or three stories high, and constructed with heavy stone walls. There’s also a five-foot wall surrounding the buildings. It’s probably strong enough to withstand mortar fire.

Today is June 9, 1944. Just a few days ago, we parachuted into Normandy, behind enemy lines. It was pitch black, about one in the morning.

We were supposed to jump the day before and were ready and waiting inside our C-47 for what seemed like hours. Me and 17 other men in my stick. But, at the last minute, they called it off, “Not today.”

Judas Priest. What a bloody letdown. We’d trained for two years, built up our bodies and our minds, and were strapped in with 100 pounds of gear. 6,000 of us in 830 C-47s, ready for our greatest challenge. Now, we had to wait… again. No sleep for many. But we’re the 82nd Airborne; we’re paratroopers; we do what we’re told.

We jumped the next day in the early morning hours of June 6th—D-Day. I could’ve died then.

I vividly remember being called up to the front (I was in the rear of the C-47). The pilot yelled out, “Lieutenant, the plane has been hit, and it’s not responding. I’ve lost formation and I don’t know where I am. We’re going to be over the Channel in a few minutes. If you’re going to get out, you’d better get out now!”

I shouted to the Jumpmaster on my way back to the rear of the plane, “Let’s go!”

While a normal jump would have been about 800 feet off the ground, for some reason, this one was only about 300—my chute opened and immediately, I landed in an apple tree. Fortunately, I was only a few feet off the ground. I cut myself out of the chute and dropped down—nothing broken. I still had my carbine and my pistol. I was ready…

Just when I thought I was safe, I heard a faint, “click.” I searched my pockets, but couldn’t find my “cricket” signal clicker. I heard it again. I know he was one of us, we’d trained for this. But I couldn’t see him. I took a cautious step, crunching a few leaves. “Halt, or I’ll shoot!”

“Don’t shoot. I’m Lieutenant Rufus Broadaway of the 507th. I lost my clicker.”

“Who’s our CO?”

“Captain Bob Rae.”

“Damn, Lieutenant! I almost shot you.” It was my platoon sergeant.

That was close—one of many close calls to come. Thank the good Lord, I’m still here. And to think, if I’d listened to my mother, Miss Eva, I’d be a Baptist preacher.

We were scattered all about, not sure where we were, or who else was around. Did anyone else from my stick land nearby? It was still dark, but luck was with us. There was a little moonlight.

Sergeant Hobeck, our platoon sergeant (the one who challenged me earlier), and I made our way toward our mustering area, and we ran into other paratroopers. Some were from our company, others from other units. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the area we were supposed to land (our drop zone) had been flooded by the Germans. Many of our troopers landed in water over their heads. With all the extra weight, they didn’t have a chance and drowned.

The next day, we ran into Captain Rae, my commanding officer. Instead of heading to Sainte Mère-Église—our original objective—he told us we were needed to help men from the 325th Glider Infantry Regiment at the La Fiére Causeway. It was an important bridge to capture so our landing troops coming from Utah Beach could cross the Merderet River and advance inland.

By the time we got here, the 325th soldiers were fighting hard against units of the German Seventh Army, who had taken up defensive positions at the end of the bridge. Our soldiers were bogged down and not able to get across.

They were planning to mount another assault. Our small group of paratroopers approached from the southeast. Word came down from Brigadier General James Gavin (Assistant Commander, 82nd Airborne Division) to take the bridge, “at all costs.”

The bridge is only a two-lane road, maybe 20-30 feet wide, probably 3/4 mile long. The Germans had flooded the Merderet, so the river was actually wider than usual.

There’s a hole in the manor fence wall alongside. That’s where we’ll head, then out onto the bridge and attack. But there’s a German heavy machine gunner who has zeroed in on that opening. I can tell because there are a lot of dead and dying soldiers nearby.

But we’ve got to go—attack and hold the bridge “at all costs.” We’re Airborne. We will succeed. My heart is pounding and sweat drips from my brow.

The air is full of lead, almost indescribable. The stench of cordite hangs in the air like a heavy fog, burning my nostrils. Mortar fire, heavy machine guns, light machine guns, rifle fire—it’s all around and the smoke and haze have made it nearly impossible to see what lies in front of us.

German soldiers are in foxholes on both sides of the river, throwing their potato masher grenades. Dead men are scattered about—both theirs and ours. It’s a pure bloodbath and there’s only one way out.

I’m in the middle of this. No time to think. If I get hit, then I get hit. I can’t worry about that now. I’ve—we’ve—got a mission. The success of the D-Day invasion is counting on us.

The Germans are still firing at us, but we’re making headway. We’re slowly pushing them back and gaining ground.

There’s a narrow farm road on the left, sunken with hedgerows. I run and jump over a fence at the end of the bridge. Next to me is another young lieutenant; he joined us in England, before the jump. I don’t even know his name.

We both stand on our toes, trying to peek over the embankment to see where the mortar fire is coming from. He falls back into my arms, a shot right through the single lieutenant bar on his helmet.

I’m 23 years old… the war just got serious for me.

# # #

That was 80 years ago. Dr. Rufus K. Broadway was one of the greatest men I’ve ever known. He was a man of integrity and a man who wasn’t afraid of anything. He’d faced death many times during the war and afterwards on the operating table—he was a top-notch and compassionate surgeon.

After the war, he returned home to his bride, Marion, and their daughter, Judy, whom Rufus had yet to meet. She was born July 2, 1944. After finishing college (he started at Mississippi College before the war and ended with a degree from Tufts University, then a medical degree from Harvard Medical School), he, Marion, Judy, Dana, and little Becky moved to Miami, Florida. Rufus was one of the first faculty members at the new University of Miami School of Medicine.

I first met Rufus in 1980—I drove down from Gainesville to ask his and Marion’s permission to marry his youngest, Becky. He wasn’t a tall man (I’m 6’4″), but I looked up to him from the start. I knew he’d fought in WWII, like my own father. Both men, to me, were bigger than life.

Becky and I married in 1981. Over the years, he and I had several opportunities to talk about the war. It obviously affected him, as it did all combat soldiers. I had the privilege to conduct an Oral History of Rufus in 2010. Amazing man, amazing stories. The story above is one of the many stories he shared with me.

We lost Rufus a few years ago at the age of 95. Marion, 99, is still with us, still vibrant as ever, and hunkering down in quarantine, like the rest of us.

During these current trying and troubling times, we can Never Forget the sacrifices these courageous men made in order to preserve the freedoms we continue to enjoy today. God Bless all our veterans.

Notes:

·       “No better place to die”

o   Attributed to Captain John J. “Red Dog” Dolan, a paratrooper CO. He wrote to his men, “We hold here. There is no better place to die.”

o   The title of a book, written by Robert M. Murphy, 82nd Airborne.

o   The name of an upcoming movie (pre-production), directed by Dale Dye.

·       The battle to secure the La Fiére Causeway has been described by historians as “the bloodiest small unit struggle in the experience of American arms.”

·       More than 250 American troops died in the battle for the La Fiére Causeway.

·       More than 830 Douglas C-47 aircraft took part in the Normandy D-Day drop.

Guest Author Information

Andy Adkins is a US Navy veteran (’73-77) and a World War II historian for the 80th Infantry Division Veterans Association. He spent most of his professional career as an independent legal technology consultant and worked as a Chief Information Officer for a large law firm and a software development company. He is retired and spends his time writing and publishing books. You can read more about him on his website: www.azadkinsiii.com. 

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