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June 6, 1944, Normandy. Early morning, cold, sky obviously leaden but not due to the black clouds threatening the area. But for the inferno of lead that is about to be unleashed. Operation Overlord begins, involving the landing of U.S. divisions on the beaches of Northern France. Friedmann, known to friends as Robert Capa, a Hungarian war photographer, is on one of the amphibious vehicles crossing a sea that will become a shroud, heading towards a strategically named beach as Omaha.
The sound of diesel fueling the powerful valves mixes with the bullets piercing the countercurrent waves generated by the advance. Someone prays, someone vomits, someone can't hold back a nervous urination due to terror. The air is thick with iron and gunpowder. The infantrymen of the 1st Division load their standard rifles. The 352nd Infantry Division is already unleashing an impressive rain of fire from Sturmgewehr 44, loaded with 7.92 mm cartridges. Friedmann returns fire by wielding his Contax II, loaded with a 50 mm lens, and begins to shoot...
...as a war photographer, I hope to be unemployed for the rest of my life. Damn, what hell. Listen to them shoot. How can there be such madness?
"...make the sign of the cross, boys, we're about to go to the slaughter! Try to stay crouched as much as possible. Avoid getting hit before landing, Christ! Let's not give the krauts this satisfaction. If we have to die—and rest assured, many of us will have this damn experience—let's bleed at least while looking those bastards in the eye! How much longer, Lieutenant?"
"...a few spans from hell. The knots are decreasing, and the beach is near. I'll spare you the last recommendations, boys. There's little to recommend in this chaos. Anyway, for those who manage not to get hit, try to take cover behind the breakwaters. They should be strong enough. Whoever gets miraculously to the beach will take care of the rest. Open the hatch, and may God protect you!..."
"...GO OUT, COME ON, GO..."
"...the Lieutenant is down, boys, let's go! Damn, the water is deep!..."
"...Robbie, follow me! Stay down, Christ! There, behind the breakwater! Don't tremble brother, please. Don't tremble...damn...Steven might be dead. I saw him fall. I can't move in this damn water wearing as much as a diver... "
"...Dave, DAAAAAVE! I've been hit! Don't leave me here! Dave! In my leg...don't leave me here, Dave, don't leave me, please...oh Christ...hhhh...hhhhh...hhhh...damn...hhh...hhh...filthy pigs, fucking krauts..."
"...Marty, help me hold Willy. Let's drag him behind that outcrop. Hey Will, can you hear me? Will? Will...Christ Marty, leave him. He's dead..."
"...advance, advance, ADVANCEEEE!, Come on, sons of a cow! Sergeant! Hey Marshall! Sergeant Marshall! Open path at one o'clock! Call the surviving troops! At one o'clock!..."
The photos in Normandy, a human error as idiotic as it was devastating, nearly erased them forever. Out of 106 images collected in two hours of action, the fifteen-year-old lab assistant Danny Banks, during the darkroom emulsion process, used too strong a dryer, and three rolls and 3/4 out of four ended up burned. Only eleven shots were saved. For years, there was a rumor that the great English photographer Larry Burrows was the culprit of the "crime," which also published them in the "Life" of June 19, 1944. The photos, quite blurry, probably due to the great excitement of the moments, were used as testimony in Friedmann's autobiographical diary-novel, "Slightly out of focus."
Regarding these images, he would have said..."if the photo isn’t good, it means you weren’t close enough..." Those blurry photos, so close to terror, with the perpetual risk of being pierced by German bullets, have never been so good.
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