The entire fleet staggered the imagination with its total of 5,000 ships. Bobbing about in the sky above were hundreds of silvery captive balloons, appearing tiny because of the height, floating up there to hex the Luftwaffe.

But where were those German planes? I wondered. The heavens were full of our bombers and fighters pouring down death and destruction on enemy troop concentrations and hidden batteries. This preliminary softening up of enemy defenses previous to the landing of or assault forces was the task of the Allied air arm, and they were doing a splendid job.

But if the vaunted fighters of the Luftwaffe did not rise to meet the challenge, the ground defenses were brutally busy. The smashing explosions of the anti-aircraft batteries rose to a new pitch of fury, presenting an inferno of smoke and flame and brain-splitting sound that nobody viewing it could ever forget. Those German ack-ack gunners, also, were doing a good job. Too damned good. It sickened me to watch plane after Allied plane come plunging down into the sea in blazing, smoking spirals.

Everybody on the Texas had been extremely nice to me. Id been told I could go anywhere I pleased on the ship, even in action with the tacit proviso, of course, that I wouldnt get under the Admirals feet or stick my head in front of a crucial salvo. I took advantage of my freedom more important to me at this moment than all of the Presidents famous four to go up to the navigation bridge, where I made myself as small and inconspicuous as possible. A few feet away from me the skipper of the Texas, soft-spoken, easy-going Captain Charles Baker, was standing, his features showing no more emotion than if this were just a routine spot of target practice.

I looked up at the countless planes maneuvering overhead. One of them, I knew, was taking a personal interest in the Texas. This was an RAF spotter plane, linked to us by the mystery of radio, whose pilot would note the effect of our fire and correct our ranges as necessary. Just one tiny detail of teamwork exemplifying the marvelous coordination of land, sea, and air forces in what was to prove one of the greatest precision operations of the war.

Now, the bugle and pipes were still. After so much noise and seeming confusion the silence that descended on the ship was nerve-wracking in its turn. It was the hush of expectancy, the muted prelude to pandemonium. Men at their stations were poised tensely, waiting for the word that would explode them and their guns into action. Marines with rifles, expert marksmen all, were perched in the rigging to pick off floating mines as fast as sighted. Other men, target spotters, had their eyes fixed to telescopes, probing the enemy defenses for likely marks. The great 14-inch rifles, the longhorns of the Texas, were trained on the crest of Point du Hoc, never swerving from their target despite the slow roll of the ship.

I remembered the cottonwood that had been issued to me and hastily packed a wad of it in each ear. Captain Baker, quietly stroking his mustache, was waiting for fire control to let go the first salvo from the big guns. He looked at his wristwatch. I looked at mine. Forty minutes to the second before H-hour! A calm voice, speaking over the intercommunication system, came to me faintly.

Stand by! And instantly: Commence firing!

The shock seemed to tear the ship apart. Though I was set for it, the concussion jerked my whole body forward. The crash of the explosion was almost stunning. The effect is usually described as deafening; it was not so this time in my case, but it might well have been except for my shielded eardrums.

Huge clouds of brownish smoke billowed from the guns. The shells tore away with a deep, rumbling roar. I was to hear that sound many times during the next six days and it never failed to give me the same fantastic sensation; I would imagine for a moment that I was standing in the center of Times Square, New York, with a heavy subway train rumbling into the station underfoot.

We saw that first salvo land slightly short. Dirt and rocks were still spurting from its impact when our high-flying pal, the RAF spotter, reported the near miss. Our range was upped a trifle. Came the faint, calm, voice of fire control:

Rapid fire!

The Texas plunged and shook as five more salvos were loosed in swift succession. I clung to a stanchion to avoid being felled by the concussion.

Then it happened. Five big waterspouts rose from the sea just a hundred yards off our port side. They rose slowly, held a moment, then sank in tumbling swirls of white water. Nobody had to tell me, or anybody else who saw them, what they meant. After her thirty years of immunity, the Texas had been fired on.

The next few seconds were one of breathless suspense. As clearly as if I were standing beside him, I could see a German spotter up on the Point du Hoe scowling darkly at those telltale waterspouts. I could hear his guttural command: Up one hundred! In just another instant But Barrumph! went our seventh and life-saving salvo. There were fire and smoke on the crest of the hill that had not come from German guns. Our spotter friend came swooping down, his clipped English accents sounding exultant over the radiophone.

Damno! What wonderful, wonderful shooting! Lay it on some more and youll knock them out completely!

We laid it on. I think the RAF pilot must have been a good prophet, for nothing more came at us from Point du Hoe. The old Texas had shown her mettle and thrown her metal and a certain number of supermen who had started out to rule this world had been translated to another.