Straussler just nodded, spitting out brown river water. "No," he said quietly. "It's a theory that hasn't worked yet. There's a difference."
But at Sword, Juno, and Gold beaches, the crews remembered Straussler's lesson: Don't fight the sea. Borrow its skin. They launched closer to shore. The canvas screens billowed. The little propellers whirred. And out of the grey, choppy water, the tanks rose like prehistoric beasts crawling onto land.
On a cold November morning, Straussler stood on the bank of a placid, man-made lake in Surrey. A Valentine tank, its canvas screen raised like the frill of a startled lizard, sat on the concrete ramp. The crew inside—three nervous volunteers—gave a thumbs up.
His assistant, a young Royal Engineer named Corporal Bill Jenkins, fished him out. "It's a coffin, sir," Jenkins said, shivering.
Straussler lit his pipe with a shaking hand. He gave the signal.