Saving private Ryan

gunmetal gray sea clawed at the gunmetal gray sky, but the Allied Armada-its five thousand ships shades of deeper gray-moved inexorably forward, the Channel's icy waves cleaved by waves of war-ships. Perturbed by neither the glowering sky nor the towering whitecaps came ten lanes, twenty miles across, of sleek new attack transports, rust-pocked old freighters, converted ocean liners and steamers, tankers and tugs, Coast Guard cutters, minesweep-ers, motor launches, buoy-layers, and convoy upon convoy of cruisers, destroyers, and battleships.

The assault on the beaches of Normandy, however, would be the work of fifteen hundred landing craft, which would make the twelve-mile trip from the armada to the beach in three and a half endless hours.

Among them, out in front, two hundred craft headed for shore in the first wave, including LCIs (Landing Craft, Infantry) carrying two hundred-some troops apiece, and the smaller LCVPs (Landing Craft, Vehi Personnel), each carrying a platon of thity, or

twelve plus a jeep.

In one of the lattera Higgins boat, named after its inventor, Andrew Jackson Higgins, Jr., who made his fortune selling speedy boats to bootleggers (and speedier ones to the Coast Guard)-Captain John H, Miller of Addley, Pennsylvania, sat with his men,

"new meat" fresh out of basic.

Miller, Charlie Company, Second Ranger Battalion, was not a career soldier; his rank reflected escalating battlefield commissions, earned by surviving Arzew in North Africa, Gela in Sicily, and Salerno in Italy.

He was thirty-eight years old and by far the oldest man on the flat-bottomed landing craft, a small taxi-cab of combat piloted by a single Navy coxswain, a big trough of humans with a gate waiting to empty them onto a beach that could not yet be seen.

As baby-faced as any of his men, with clean-shaven, soft features betrayed by ancient eyes,

Miller-like all survivors of multiple combat cam-paigns - knew all too well that he was a fugitive from the law of averages. How many sevens in a row can one man roll in the same game?

His hand might have been shaking dice, at that- but it was just shaking. And this was no game. He hoped his boys had not seen his trembling hand. He stared at it, willing it to stop, forcing the fear back

within him, and the flesh obeyed.

None of his boys had noticed their captain's

trembling hand; they were busy, caught up in the reigning madness as the flat bow of the boat plowed into swell after swell, a freezing spray blowing in, soaking their fatigues and the woolen ODs (olive drabs) underneath. The boat battling the waves tossed the soldiers like rag dolls, sending them smashing and tumbling into each other, slender young men fat with equipment, wearing inflatable "Mae West" life preserv-ers, carrying various weapons (rifles, mortars, bazoo-kas, flamethrowers), canvas bags, gas masks, first-aid kits, canteens, entrenching tools, knives, wire cutters, rations, grenades, explosives, ammo. Their helmets, laced with netting, bobbed like the heads-on-springs of carnival hula dolls. The smell of diesel oil and salty metal smudged the sea breeze.

Periodically seasickness would spread across the little ship, as if it had been spilled from a container.

And containers were what the men were seeking, their barf bags (each man having been issued by the Army "Bag, vomit, one") long since filled and buried at sea. Their helmets came off and were soon brimming with the remnants of the fabulous condemned-man style meals they'd been served last night, steak dinner send-offs the Army had provided, the "Last Supper," the men had called it.

At least with the water sloshing in, cleaning the helmets out wasn't a problem. A lot of the guys were helping out the craft's pump by bailing with their helmets, anyway.

Everybody had been issued anti-seasickness pils, but many a would-be tough guy had pooh-poohed the need for them, and Private Anthony Caparzo, twenty-two, Chicago, Illinois, had bought them up for a nickel apiece, on the troop ship, throughout their several long days of waiting. Caparzo had figured to make a small fortune, selling the pills for a quarter apiece, but now-with his buddies moaning and puking around him-he just didn't have the heart for it, or the stomach.

Caparzo, full-lipped, blunt-nosed, eyes so small and dark in his pale oval face they seemed like black beads, began handing out the pills, solemn as a priest giving the Eucharist.

The boat lurched, and so did Stanley Mellish, twenty-one, Yonkers, New York. He lunged right at Caparzo, snatching the handful of pills.

"Gimme some more of those!" Mellish said after the fact. He had the soft petulant features and dark yearning eyes of a spoiled child.

"That's my entire wartime supply, you shithead!"

"Put it on the war debt." The boat bounced again.

"Anyway, what the hell difference does it make? You really think we're gonna be takin' any more boat rides after this?"

Caparzo had no answer for that, but the boat re-sponded, lifting from the water just as a fifteen-inch naval shell went streaking overhead. Soon its whistle.

had died, and an explosion on the unseen land ahead told them they were close. H-hour had arrived.

Those who weren't puking were praying. Mellish quickly transferred from the latter group to the for-mer, his face turning camouflage green, his neck extending like a cannon taking aim, and the anti-seasickness pills exploding out of him, the deck their target. Bull's-eye.

Then, as Mellish hung over the side, Caparzo glanced around, and when he felt sure no one was looking, he plucked the slimy but hardly used pills from the puke puddle, found a pocket to stow them in, and wiped his hands on his soaked fatigues.

His captain had seen this, but Miller understood the secrets men kept in combat-like his own tremulous hand. Again he stared at it, as if it belonged to someone else. And again it stopped shaking.

Next to him was Sergeant Michael Horvath, Min-neapolis, Minnesota, a blocky battle-scarred vet pushing thirty. Like the captain, the sergeant was discreet and may or may not have seen Miller's shaking hand.

Sarge gestured to their praying, puking troops.

"Guess they don't do too much boating," Sarge said, 'back in the boonies."

"It's not the old fishing hole," Miller admitted.

Miller loved these kids. On the transport ship his boys had enjoyed a final burst of adolescence, sleeping all over the place, on the decks, in and on top of and under vehicles, smoking, playing cards, horsing

had died, and an explosion on the unseen land ahead told them they were close. H-hour had arrived.

Those who weren't puking were praying. Mellish quickly transferred from the latter group to the for-mer, his face turning camouflage green, his neck extending like a cannon taking aim, and the anti-seasickness pills exploding out of him, the deck their target. Bull's-eye.

Then, as Mellish hung over the side, Caparzo glanced around, and when he felt sure no one was looking, he plucked the slimy but hardly used pills from the puke puddle, found a pocket to stow them in, and wiped his hands on his soaked fatigues.

His captain had seen this, but Miller understood the secrets men kept in combat-like his own tremulous hand. Again he stared at it, as if it belonged to someone else. And again it stopped shaking.

Next to him was Sergeant Michael Horvath, Min-neapolis, Minnesota, a blocky battle-scarred vet pushing thirty. Like the captain, the sergeant was discreet and may or may not have seen Miller's shaking hand.

Sarge gestured to their praying, puking troops.

"Guess they don't do too much boating," Sarge said, 'back in the boonies."

"It's not the old fishing hole," Miller admitted.

Miller loved these kids. On the transport ship his boys had enjoyed a final burst of adolescence, sleeping all over the place, on the decks, in and on top of and under vehicles, smoking, playing cards, horsing

had died, and an explosion on the unseen land ahead told them they were close. H-hour had arrived.

Those who weren't puking were praying. Mellish quickly transferred from the latter group to the for-mer, his face turning camouflage green, his neck extending like a cannon taking aim, and the anti-seasickness pills exploding out of him, the deck their target. Bull's-eye.

Then, as Mellish hung over the side, Caparzo glanced around, and when he felt sure no one was looking, he plucked the slimy but hardly used pills from the puke puddle, found a pocket to stow them in, and wiped his hands on his soaked fatigues.

His captain had seen this, but Miller understood the secrets men kept in combat-like his own tremulous hand. Again he stared at it, as if it belonged to someone else. And again it stopped shaking.

Next to him was Sergeant Michael Horvath, Min-neapolis, Minnesota, a blocky battle-scarred vet pushing thirty. Like the captain, the sergeant was discreet and may or may not have seen Miller's shaking hand.

Sarge gestured to their praying, puking troops.

"Guess they don't do too much boating," Sarge said, 'back in the boonies."

"It's not the old fishing hole," Miller admitted.

Miller loved these kids. On the transport ship his boys had enjoyed a final burst of adolescence, sleeping all over the place, on the decks, in and on top of and under vehicles, smoking, playing cards, horsing