Continuing Chapter 15 ... flak as the sound of type-writing and sleeping in the air en route ...
In half an hour we were over the Channel. Again, as in the Normandy flight, there was a seemingly endless stream of low-flying planes towing gliders. I do not remember any air support. We either had it and it cleared the sky, or the Luftwaffe was extinct in that area. My determination to keep a running account of my actions fell completely apart. I got interested in the scenery below me. Of course we had no maps, and I knew only vaguely the geography from France to Holland. Below, it all looked much the same: distinct plots of cultivated ground, green and brown; scattered villages; larger towns and distant cities; intersecting lines of crisscrossing rivers, highways, and railroads.
In no time at all I got sleepy. My chin wanted to rest on my chest. I rocked gently to right and left. I looked at Gerry. He was gone. Sound asleep. As we bounced up and down, the queasy feeling in my stomach returned. The constant roar of the prop wash soothed my senses to slumber. My head fell forward and I dozed off to an uneasy sleep.
Either a noise outside the glider or someone shouting inside awakened me. Once conscious, I saw familiar flak bursts out the window to my left. I heard a sound like typewriter letters hitting a loose piece of paper. Slowly it dawned on me that the sound was made by small-arms fire going through the wings and fuselage. I had never heard it before. It did not frighten me. We were over land and being fired upon by both small arms and antiaircraft. We were still in position locked within a long line of planes and gliders. The firing on us increased. I could see it ahead of us and to the right where Gerry pointed it out to me. My concern about the glider landing was so great that I was unaware and therefore unafraid of the danger from flak.
Suddenly the pilot reached up for the release handle. I was immediately tense. My old fears returned. The pilot cut us loose. Our tow plane was hit, disabled, and plunging earthward. Almost instantly stillness descended upon us. I spoke to Gerry. We could hear the pilot talking to Birdwell. We settled into a hush with only a slight rumbling sound of antiaircraft off in the distance below us. Nothing else broke into the quiet save our meager attempts at conversation, the rat-tat-tat of occasional bullets or flak tearing through the glider, and the wind against the wings and snout. Gerry was bracing himself and was already swearing. I heard the pilot tell Birdwell that he'd picked the field. He was pointing it out. There was no sound from the man in the rear seat. He was on his own. Bullets continued through the wings and fuselage. We were flying at 700 feet and banking to the left, gliding down slowly, gradually, losing altitude and speed. The pilot was doing exactly as planned. He continued to slowly and silently circle the ground below. I picked out the field. I saw a C-47 dive in flames into a house. There were no chutes in the sky. Off to our left as we completed one circle I saw the sky-train. The planes and gliders moved in sustained flight through a smattering of flak. I saw a solitary glider head for the earth.
We continued to float gracefully downward, an irresistible target. Since we had no chutes, we had no concern about jumping. All we had to do was sit, sweat, and ride the jeep to the ground. On the second circle I again noticed the sky-train. I had no sense of their danger or my own. I was fascinated by the fact of disengagement from them. We were removed as casually as a car might pull out of traffic.
I was still not frightened of the flak. I was only frightened of the landing, the damned landing at too fast a speed into whatever was below. I looked at Gerry and knew that he shared my feelings. Suddenly we straightened out; we were fifty feet off the ground and heading in over the field. The glider was traveling at a much reduced speed, except that I didn't realize it. Gerry and I gripped the sides of the jeep and braced our feet against the floorboards. I never knew whether to use my arms to push away from the steering wheel or hold the sides of the jeep. We hit the earth with both Gerry and me swearing loudly to ourselves. The ground moved fast underneath us. The glider bounced up and came down on the earth again. I held on, prepared for a series of bounces. Almost before I knew it, the pilot dug the nose of the glider into the ground. We skidded about fifty yards and came to an abrupt halt. The tail of the glider settled down. I realized that we had made a perfect landing. Gerry, Birdwell, and I shouted thanks to the pilot.
Friday, December 13, 2019
Tuesday, November 12, 2019
Shower of Frogs Chapter 15: Into Holland
The gliders and C-47s were packed nose to tail, dozens of them in a long double line on one of the concrete slabs leading onto the main runway. It was approximately one o'clock on the afternoon of September 23, 1944. There was little activity around the planes other than mechanics checking and rechecking those most durable of all planes, the C-47s. They warmed up a few motors, shut them off, warmed up others, shut them off. I wondered if they were nervous.
I walked over to my glider and put my map case on my jeep seat. The case contained writing paper, pencils, and two letters received that morning. Sergeant Birdwell, the motor mechanic who stood up behind the jeep into Normandy, Corporal Gerry, who was in charge of a supply squad and who had sat beside me so many times, were joined by a new man. All three dumped their stuff in the jeep and began waiting.
Sergeant Birdwell was my superior. We took turns cursing each other. It was frequently heated but never lasted very long. He seemed heavier than I'd seen him for a long time. He was also worried. Glider pilots were scarce now. There were not enough to supply us with a copilot, so Sergeant Birdwell, who knew absolutely nothing about flying a glider, was to be copilot. If a bullet removed the pilot it was up to Sergeant Birdwell. Just what he was expected to do no one had any idea. Sergeant Birdwell was irritated.
Corporal Gerry, tireless and unflustered as ever, was chewing on the butt of a cigar and grinning. He said, "Looks like we go this time." He was not so relaxed as he acted. In a soft Carolina accent he turned to the new man, saying, "How ya doin'?" The new man nodded affirmatively. Corporal Gerry let it go at that and went in search of our officer.
Somewhere the signal was given. Tow planes ahead of me, followed by their gliders, were pulling out of formation and onto the runway. We in the glider, shouting above the roar, agreed that if this mission was to be called off it had better be damn quick. In minutes we were on the runway, speeding, bobbing, dipping, and rising off the ground. We quickly gained altitude and went into the familiar circling formation until we joined the long column. For the second time that summer I was leaving England. For the second time I was a part of an invasion about which I knew absolutely nothing. We were going to Holland, in broad· daylight, and it was a long flight.
I walked over to my glider and put my map case on my jeep seat. The case contained writing paper, pencils, and two letters received that morning. Sergeant Birdwell, the motor mechanic who stood up behind the jeep into Normandy, Corporal Gerry, who was in charge of a supply squad and who had sat beside me so many times, were joined by a new man. All three dumped their stuff in the jeep and began waiting.
Sergeant Birdwell was my superior. We took turns cursing each other. It was frequently heated but never lasted very long. He seemed heavier than I'd seen him for a long time. He was also worried. Glider pilots were scarce now. There were not enough to supply us with a copilot, so Sergeant Birdwell, who knew absolutely nothing about flying a glider, was to be copilot. If a bullet removed the pilot it was up to Sergeant Birdwell. Just what he was expected to do no one had any idea. Sergeant Birdwell was irritated.
Corporal Gerry, tireless and unflustered as ever, was chewing on the butt of a cigar and grinning. He said, "Looks like we go this time." He was not so relaxed as he acted. In a soft Carolina accent he turned to the new man, saying, "How ya doin'?" The new man nodded affirmatively. Corporal Gerry let it go at that and went in search of our officer.
Somewhere the signal was given. Tow planes ahead of me, followed by their gliders, were pulling out of formation and onto the runway. We in the glider, shouting above the roar, agreed that if this mission was to be called off it had better be damn quick. In minutes we were on the runway, speeding, bobbing, dipping, and rising off the ground. We quickly gained altitude and went into the familiar circling formation until we joined the long column. For the second time that summer I was leaving England. For the second time I was a part of an invasion about which I knew absolutely nothing. We were going to Holland, in broad· daylight, and it was a long flight.
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
Follow-on from D-Day
Chapter 14 (continued) Shower of Frogs
On the evening of September 22 we saw a movie. Once it was over, the enormous hangar was lit up and we had an hour before lights out. The hangar's lights were pale green fluorescent, which gave a washed-out appearance to the human face. I sat on the edge of my cot writing a letter. I looked around me at the dozens of men, some new and unknown to me, others whom I had known in daily, hourly acquaintance for over two years. Some were lying down, some sitting up playing cards, others talking, smoking, joking, fussing with their equipment. There was movement to the letter box, the water fountain, the latrine. I observed the strain in their cheeks and jaws. These men whose faces were once relaxed and whose smiles were easy had tension in the muscles of their faces. Many had accumulated a smattering of gray hairs. Some had a headful. They could still laugh with the unmistakable free and easy American laughter; only it was keyed lower. Their eyes were tired and did not light up with the quick and sudden changes of youth, which was theirs by age. Impression after impression had, upon the sensitive plate in the eyes, left their everlasting pictures.
Weariness, death, a thousand strange and unusual sights in foreign lands; bitter cold, intense heat; fear, sickness, sorrow, and loneliness. The sound of explosions, the stench of bloated bodies, the strain of fog, the tastelessness of food, the rattle of mess kits, the click of rifles, the whispering of challenges in the unfriendly night; the bloodless faces, the whine of motors, the shrill of whistles, the nausea of latrines. The remembrance of the wounded's cry, the repetition of olive drab-the sights, sounds, smells innumerable burning upon the inner eye-all formed into one enormous picture. Eyes that in that brevity of time had seen too much, perhaps. Too much to absorb it all, leaving it, as it were, all jammed up in the outer eyes, making them heavy with strain, meaningful with memories, saturated with history.
Someday, I thought, these men whose eyes searched ever westward will come home. They will come home to tell their stories, individually and collectively. Some will remember much, others little. Some would talk hesitatingly, but most would open the gates of their dammed-up impressions and a great flood would pour forth. These men who were on a pilgrimage of liberation and who on their way saw half a world, most of which lay in various degrees of ruin, death, and destruction, would one day truly come home. They would come home certainly not as heroes, nor seeking applause, nor pity, but only understanding and love. They would come home with a great hope and a renewed faith-a hope for peace and a faith in America.
The next day my glider left English soil, and when it landed I was in Holland, miles from the target, surrounded by Germans. In the days that followed, my feelings about the American soldier were put to a severe test. It was in some cases a shattering experience, a deeply disillusioning experience. It temporarily embittered me toward almost all my fellow Americans, while setting the seal of admiration upon a few and separating me, to some degree, from the rest of mankind. Being a prisoner of war was one of those experiences no man in his right mind would ask for, but once he endured it, it would be equally foolish to deny its compensations.
On the evening of September 22 we saw a movie. Once it was over, the enormous hangar was lit up and we had an hour before lights out. The hangar's lights were pale green fluorescent, which gave a washed-out appearance to the human face. I sat on the edge of my cot writing a letter. I looked around me at the dozens of men, some new and unknown to me, others whom I had known in daily, hourly acquaintance for over two years. Some were lying down, some sitting up playing cards, others talking, smoking, joking, fussing with their equipment. There was movement to the letter box, the water fountain, the latrine. I observed the strain in their cheeks and jaws. These men whose faces were once relaxed and whose smiles were easy had tension in the muscles of their faces. Many had accumulated a smattering of gray hairs. Some had a headful. They could still laugh with the unmistakable free and easy American laughter; only it was keyed lower. Their eyes were tired and did not light up with the quick and sudden changes of youth, which was theirs by age. Impression after impression had, upon the sensitive plate in the eyes, left their everlasting pictures.
Weariness, death, a thousand strange and unusual sights in foreign lands; bitter cold, intense heat; fear, sickness, sorrow, and loneliness. The sound of explosions, the stench of bloated bodies, the strain of fog, the tastelessness of food, the rattle of mess kits, the click of rifles, the whispering of challenges in the unfriendly night; the bloodless faces, the whine of motors, the shrill of whistles, the nausea of latrines. The remembrance of the wounded's cry, the repetition of olive drab-the sights, sounds, smells innumerable burning upon the inner eye-all formed into one enormous picture. Eyes that in that brevity of time had seen too much, perhaps. Too much to absorb it all, leaving it, as it were, all jammed up in the outer eyes, making them heavy with strain, meaningful with memories, saturated with history.
Someday, I thought, these men whose eyes searched ever westward will come home. They will come home to tell their stories, individually and collectively. Some will remember much, others little. Some would talk hesitatingly, but most would open the gates of their dammed-up impressions and a great flood would pour forth. These men who were on a pilgrimage of liberation and who on their way saw half a world, most of which lay in various degrees of ruin, death, and destruction, would one day truly come home. They would come home certainly not as heroes, nor seeking applause, nor pity, but only understanding and love. They would come home with a great hope and a renewed faith-a hope for peace and a faith in America.
The next day my glider left English soil, and when it landed I was in Holland, miles from the target, surrounded by Germans. In the days that followed, my feelings about the American soldier were put to a severe test. It was in some cases a shattering experience, a deeply disillusioning experience. It temporarily embittered me toward almost all my fellow Americans, while setting the seal of admiration upon a few and separating me, to some degree, from the rest of mankind. Being a prisoner of war was one of those experiences no man in his right mind would ask for, but once he endured it, it would be equally foolish to deny its compensations.
Monday, July 15, 2019
William Stigall ... Paris 2001
A bit late, but here's Bill Stigall celebrating his birthday in Paris a few years ago. Cheers!
Friday, June 7, 2019
June 7, 1944 -- In the air ... then down
June 7, 1944 -- WJ Stigall, Jr. A Shower of Frogs
Two important thoughts never occurred to me on the flight. The trip was so exciting, the flight so inevitable and irresistible in its search for a target, and it all happened so fast, in so short a time, that I never gave a thought to falling in the water or that there might not be room for all of us on the approaching fields. We crossed safely over the coast (the French coast, I guessed). We continued inland for a minute or two, dutifully following the C-47 as it banked to the right. By now we must have been going 140 miles per hour, at about 800 feet, probably less. I could determine nothing special about the land below us. If we were being fired at, I never heard or saw it. The ground seemed marshy, woody, and green. Small fields suddenly began to appear. Without warning the roar in the glider stopped. We experienced that moment of great beauty, of almost absolute silence. Either w were cut off by the C-47 or our pilot cut us from the tow plane. We made a wide silent swoop and dropped quickly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see other gliders moving earthward. I also saw numerous C-47s banking and turning in every direction. Beside me I could hear Gerry cursing, even louder than I, and saying forcefully, "'Get this damn thing on the ground." In seconds we were over a group of trees and racing earthward.
Just beyond the row of trees we touched the earth, immediately bounced up from it, crashed down upon it again, scraping the ground and racing pell-mell without any apparent reduction in speed toward the field's end, two hundred yards ahead, where stood another row of tangled trees and tall bushes. The pilot was trying furiously to either stop the glider, which was surely impossible, or so it seemed at the moment, or force the glider up and over the hedge. Our speed decided this for him. We hit the trees and bushes, ripped through them, bounced over a road with ditches on either side, and tore into another hedgerow. The glider came to a violent, jerky, and abrupt halt. Most of it was through the fence. The tail lingered on the road and over one ditch. The snout of the glider, carrying the two pilots, was unhooked in the crash and hung high out from the fuselage. I have no remembrance of crossing the hedges, the road, and the ditches, save that it was rough. It happened in one second and was supported by the sound of tearing and ripping fabric on the glider. My helmet fell off; my head bashed against the steel tubing. I was certainly in mild shock. The man beside me was still there, still, as was I, cursing. I remember being aware of the two men behind me and thinking how shaken and bruised they must be, having been banged against the rear of the jeep. They, too, must have been expressing themselves.
Two important thoughts never occurred to me on the flight. The trip was so exciting, the flight so inevitable and irresistible in its search for a target, and it all happened so fast, in so short a time, that I never gave a thought to falling in the water or that there might not be room for all of us on the approaching fields. We crossed safely over the coast (the French coast, I guessed). We continued inland for a minute or two, dutifully following the C-47 as it banked to the right. By now we must have been going 140 miles per hour, at about 800 feet, probably less. I could determine nothing special about the land below us. If we were being fired at, I never heard or saw it. The ground seemed marshy, woody, and green. Small fields suddenly began to appear. Without warning the roar in the glider stopped. We experienced that moment of great beauty, of almost absolute silence. Either w were cut off by the C-47 or our pilot cut us from the tow plane. We made a wide silent swoop and dropped quickly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see other gliders moving earthward. I also saw numerous C-47s banking and turning in every direction. Beside me I could hear Gerry cursing, even louder than I, and saying forcefully, "'Get this damn thing on the ground." In seconds we were over a group of trees and racing earthward.
Just beyond the row of trees we touched the earth, immediately bounced up from it, crashed down upon it again, scraping the ground and racing pell-mell without any apparent reduction in speed toward the field's end, two hundred yards ahead, where stood another row of tangled trees and tall bushes. The pilot was trying furiously to either stop the glider, which was surely impossible, or so it seemed at the moment, or force the glider up and over the hedge. Our speed decided this for him. We hit the trees and bushes, ripped through them, bounced over a road with ditches on either side, and tore into another hedgerow. The glider came to a violent, jerky, and abrupt halt. Most of it was through the fence. The tail lingered on the road and over one ditch. The snout of the glider, carrying the two pilots, was unhooked in the crash and hung high out from the fuselage. I have no remembrance of crossing the hedges, the road, and the ditches, save that it was rough. It happened in one second and was supported by the sound of tearing and ripping fabric on the glider. My helmet fell off; my head bashed against the steel tubing. I was certainly in mild shock. The man beside me was still there, still, as was I, cursing. I remember being aware of the two men behind me and thinking how shaken and bruised they must be, having been banged against the rear of the jeep. They, too, must have been expressing themselves.
Thursday, June 6, 2019
D-Day for WJ Stigall
A Shower of Frogs, William J. Stigall, Jr.
I do not know if the men in Henry the Fifth's army knew, on the morn of Agincourt, that they were about to take part in one of the memorable moments of world history. I do not know if King Henry knew. In Shakespeare he is fully aware of it. He calls his little band about him and exhorts them with:
I do not know how many men who were a part of the first hours of the invasion of France knew that they were to be a part of history. I suspect many knew. I knew. I wanted to see it, hear it, smell it, touch it, feel it. I had no wish to die in one of the great battles of the world's history. That did not seem heroic, noble, glamorous, or anything good to me. I simply wanted to be a part of it-to
get in the act, as it were. I wanted to do what I was expected to do and get back safely. Which is sort of wanting to have your cake and eat it, too.
Of course we had no inspiring speech to set us upon the stinking enemy. No Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester . . .
Being Americans, we never dreamed of remembering in after years Eisenhower, Monty, and Roosevelt, Bradley and Taylor, Ridgeway and Gavin. That we were few we knew; that we were a happy few I doubt; that we were a band of brothers-yes, in the deepest sense. The long buildup to invasion and the realities of the world put stirring orations out of reach. There was at that time, on that day, little sense of glory, none of honor sought. But there were other things.
There was excitement compounded of masses of men going through for the final time what they had been trained to do, and had shared doing, for months; the magnitude of roaring planes, planes by the score, revving up at full throttle, thundering upon thundering, in darkness just before dawn-compounded of precision hooking up of glider, two men for each glider, two men for each C-47;
compounded of a sense of endeavor, a feeling of support, a certain and clear knowledge of purpose.
I do not know if the men in Henry the Fifth's army knew, on the morn of Agincourt, that they were about to take part in one of the memorable moments of world history. I do not know if King Henry knew. In Shakespeare he is fully aware of it. He calls his little band about him and exhorts them with:
And Chrispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers."
get in the act, as it were. I wanted to do what I was expected to do and get back safely. Which is sort of wanting to have your cake and eat it, too.
Of course we had no inspiring speech to set us upon the stinking enemy. No Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester . . .
Being Americans, we never dreamed of remembering in after years Eisenhower, Monty, and Roosevelt, Bradley and Taylor, Ridgeway and Gavin. That we were few we knew; that we were a happy few I doubt; that we were a band of brothers-yes, in the deepest sense. The long buildup to invasion and the realities of the world put stirring orations out of reach. There was at that time, on that day, little sense of glory, none of honor sought. But there were other things.
There was excitement compounded of masses of men going through for the final time what they had been trained to do, and had shared doing, for months; the magnitude of roaring planes, planes by the score, revving up at full throttle, thundering upon thundering, in darkness just before dawn-compounded of precision hooking up of glider, two men for each glider, two men for each C-47;
compounded of a sense of endeavor, a feeling of support, a certain and clear knowledge of purpose.
June 6, 1944 - 75 years ago
The Shower of Frogs - William J Stigall, Jr.
[A first-hand look at D-Day and then the following day's invasion]
During the day of June 6, I drove to the airstrip where hundreds of gliders were packed-parked on the runways. I backed my jeep into the glider and watched the men tie the vehicle down. We came back to our tents, wrote letters, read, ate, and lay on our cots. Some men went to church services. During the day we were each issued 200 francs in newly minted money. Each piece was two and a half by three inches, bright, crisp, and colorful, and stimulated the imagination. We were also each issued an oilcloth American flag five and a half by four inches, shellacked, with instructions to sew it on our right arm at the shoulder. Across the body on the left arm was the Eighty-second Airborne insignia. We were well marked. We went to bed.
We were awakened in the dark on June 7. We ate, were transported to the field, walked to the gliders, got in. The pilots arrived; we chatted awhile. And then we waited. Shortly before dawn the C- 47s on our flanks warmed up, first one motor, then the other. Gradually they built up to full throttle, diminished the power, and began taxiing in from right and left in front of the massed gliders. One by one, with precision timing, the men, working in pairs, hooked the two ends of the tow rope to the glider and to the C-47 approximately three hundred feet away. The tow plane made taut the nylon rope and upon signal gunned wide open down the runway with the prop wash blasting against the glider, making it rise and bobble and filling it with a deafening roar. We lifted off the English earth
Glider after glider after glider left the ground, circled in the brightening day, and maneuvered into position. It was barely light and I could see eight hundred feet below me, as if through a gauze, the gentle, peaceful, beautiful English countryside, the small divisions of land, red-bricked houses, cattle, and now and then, the slow movement of early-rising people. No music in any form would ever be needed to accompany any film of such an event. The powerful music of hundreds of motors, of the mass gunning of plane after plane roaring wide open throttle pushing a potent prop wash against the fragile glider creating within it an enforced silence-this would be music enough. As always, only by shouting could I converse with Gerry beside me. Communication with the two men behind me was by gesture and facial expression.
It never occurred to me how long the flight might be. I knew the Channel was about 25 miles wide and that we'd fly at about 120 miles per hour. I did not know where in England I was, nor where in France we were going. We must have flown thirty minutes over English land, maneuvering into position. I was surprised when suddenly we were over the edge of water. I recall looking to left and right and seeing what I now remember as cliffs to the left and hundreds of small ships in dock to the right.
We were now in a long column, one glider behind one C-47. The line stretched as far forward as I could see past the pilot's head and as far back as I could view from the isinglass in the door at my left elbow. I never saw so many gliders at one time. Fighter planes peppered the sky. Thunderbirds and P-38s, like great stinging wasps, buzzed over us, under us, to right and left, shooting off in both directions. They twisted and turned, dived and swooped over the entire sky. None of us ever saw and probably never would again so crowded a sky. They were a protective shield of great and exciting comfort and completely swept the sky of festering Stukas. In a few moments out from the English coast as far as the eye could see front and back there was an unending flight in that bright dawn, "fifty miles in length," of C-47s and a football field's distance behind each one a slightly bobbing glider.
Eight hundred feet below was the historic English Channel, whose waters had supported and received so much of history. On its surface there were, near the English coast, a few scattered ships, but as we approached the coastline ahead the number of ships suddenly increased by hundreds and hundreds. There were more ships on the water than planes in the sky. The beach (Utah) was swarming with boats and behind them a thousand battle gray ships of many sizes and shapes.
[A first-hand look at D-Day and then the following day's invasion]
During the day of June 6, I drove to the airstrip where hundreds of gliders were packed-parked on the runways. I backed my jeep into the glider and watched the men tie the vehicle down. We came back to our tents, wrote letters, read, ate, and lay on our cots. Some men went to church services. During the day we were each issued 200 francs in newly minted money. Each piece was two and a half by three inches, bright, crisp, and colorful, and stimulated the imagination. We were also each issued an oilcloth American flag five and a half by four inches, shellacked, with instructions to sew it on our right arm at the shoulder. Across the body on the left arm was the Eighty-second Airborne insignia. We were well marked. We went to bed.
We were awakened in the dark on June 7. We ate, were transported to the field, walked to the gliders, got in. The pilots arrived; we chatted awhile. And then we waited. Shortly before dawn the C- 47s on our flanks warmed up, first one motor, then the other. Gradually they built up to full throttle, diminished the power, and began taxiing in from right and left in front of the massed gliders. One by one, with precision timing, the men, working in pairs, hooked the two ends of the tow rope to the glider and to the C-47 approximately three hundred feet away. The tow plane made taut the nylon rope and upon signal gunned wide open down the runway with the prop wash blasting against the glider, making it rise and bobble and filling it with a deafening roar. We lifted off the English earth
Glider after glider after glider left the ground, circled in the brightening day, and maneuvered into position. It was barely light and I could see eight hundred feet below me, as if through a gauze, the gentle, peaceful, beautiful English countryside, the small divisions of land, red-bricked houses, cattle, and now and then, the slow movement of early-rising people. No music in any form would ever be needed to accompany any film of such an event. The powerful music of hundreds of motors, of the mass gunning of plane after plane roaring wide open throttle pushing a potent prop wash against the fragile glider creating within it an enforced silence-this would be music enough. As always, only by shouting could I converse with Gerry beside me. Communication with the two men behind me was by gesture and facial expression.
It never occurred to me how long the flight might be. I knew the Channel was about 25 miles wide and that we'd fly at about 120 miles per hour. I did not know where in England I was, nor where in France we were going. We must have flown thirty minutes over English land, maneuvering into position. I was surprised when suddenly we were over the edge of water. I recall looking to left and right and seeing what I now remember as cliffs to the left and hundreds of small ships in dock to the right.
We were now in a long column, one glider behind one C-47. The line stretched as far forward as I could see past the pilot's head and as far back as I could view from the isinglass in the door at my left elbow. I never saw so many gliders at one time. Fighter planes peppered the sky. Thunderbirds and P-38s, like great stinging wasps, buzzed over us, under us, to right and left, shooting off in both directions. They twisted and turned, dived and swooped over the entire sky. None of us ever saw and probably never would again so crowded a sky. They were a protective shield of great and exciting comfort and completely swept the sky of festering Stukas. In a few moments out from the English coast as far as the eye could see front and back there was an unending flight in that bright dawn, "fifty miles in length," of C-47s and a football field's distance behind each one a slightly bobbing glider.
Eight hundred feet below was the historic English Channel, whose waters had supported and received so much of history. On its surface there were, near the English coast, a few scattered ships, but as we approached the coastline ahead the number of ships suddenly increased by hundreds and hundreds. There were more ships on the water than planes in the sky. The beach (Utah) was swarming with boats and behind them a thousand battle gray ships of many sizes and shapes.
Wednesday, June 5, 2019
The night of June 5th, 1944
On the night of June 5, 1944, I heard, from my tent, the planes roar off the runways, saw them circling above me as they did in Tunisia preparing to fly off to Sicily-occupied Europe from the south. Later that night I heard them return. This was part of the first wave of paratroopers and glidermen landing on the soil of Fortress Europe, D day, before dawn, June 6, 1944. Whatever happened during the day, we heard little of it. Some of us remembered North Africa and recalled our anguish when our flight was canceled. This time we had to go.
Men in small groups, by ranks, were called to briefing sessions. I waited my turn to have, at last, some concrete knowledge of where I was going, some sense of my minute part in a gigantic operation, some feeling of history, some gratification. In this case, how very special it was to be. It was almost worth waiting for. The men in my tent went; all the sergeants and the corporals went. I was not called. My reaction was simple rage. Rage followed by the fury of bursting frustration almost to tears. In order to abate my anger and, no doubt, out of sympathy for my bitterness, a tech-sergeant friend, sitting on the edge of his cot smoking one cigarette after another, broke security and, looking me straight in the face, told me three things: we go June 7 at dawn; it's France; it looks horrible.
Men in small groups, by ranks, were called to briefing sessions. I waited my turn to have, at last, some concrete knowledge of where I was going, some sense of my minute part in a gigantic operation, some feeling of history, some gratification. In this case, how very special it was to be. It was almost worth waiting for. The men in my tent went; all the sergeants and the corporals went. I was not called. My reaction was simple rage. Rage followed by the fury of bursting frustration almost to tears. In order to abate my anger and, no doubt, out of sympathy for my bitterness, a tech-sergeant friend, sitting on the edge of his cot smoking one cigarette after another, broke security and, looking me straight in the face, told me three things: we go June 7 at dawn; it's France; it looks horrible.
Tuesday, June 4, 2019
The week of D-Day - somewhere in England
The rain continued; we brooded upon our situation. It seemed to me that death in war was not what was most terrible about war - death is common, happening to men, women, and children every day-not death but the things that happen to the spirit of man.
Those things that set the clock back on civilization-that is the horror of war. Years of struggle to civilize a mind or a group of minds only to have war drive society further and further backward.
Dark thoughts. But also bright thoughts. Great advancements are made in modern war. Also we see again how men can endure terrific hardships. War provides one means of proving man's greatness. Some are heroes, some cowards. Most every man just goes on being what he's always been-or maybe a little more.
My last letter contained brief sentences: "No special news here. Been reading Shakespeare-new meanings, new interpretations. False report of Invasion. People cheered-and then prayed. Same old human race-ain't it wonderful?"
Those things that set the clock back on civilization-that is the horror of war. Years of struggle to civilize a mind or a group of minds only to have war drive society further and further backward.
Dark thoughts. But also bright thoughts. Great advancements are made in modern war. Also we see again how men can endure terrific hardships. War provides one means of proving man's greatness. Some are heroes, some cowards. Most every man just goes on being what he's always been-or maybe a little more.
My last letter contained brief sentences: "No special news here. Been reading Shakespeare-new meanings, new interpretations. False report of Invasion. People cheered-and then prayed. Same old human race-ain't it wonderful?"
The week of June 1st, 1944
About June 1, we left Leicester. We drove a few miles through the countryside to the airfield and passed a security guard, whom we had not seen before. We were housed in green-brown camouflaged tents, four men to a tent. Once we were on the field the area was sealed off. As a driver I unexpectedly went out once, under orders to say nothing. That was silly, for I knew nothing. Thousands of men were pouring into flight areas and going south and southwest to ports. The highways were jammed with traffic, convoys of trucks carrying soldiers, pulling artillery pieces, pulling stacks of materials. Most of the movement was in the same direction. I went through village after small village where every resident knew what I knew. There was a kind of silent communication between us. Once back in the staging area, I stayed in. Extra guards were posted. Security was tight. This looked like it.
No one believed for a minute that the Germans were unaware of what we knew. At this point we and the Germans were, at least, equal. Both knew it was soon, but neither of us knew when or where it would be. We waited. I'm sure they waited.
No one believed for a minute that the Germans were unaware of what we knew. At this point we and the Germans were, at least, equal. Both knew it was soon, but neither of us knew when or where it would be. We waited. I'm sure they waited.
Tuesday, May 14, 2019
Follow-up from D-Day: Chapter 14 continued
In the middle of August, Lloyds of London offered 5 to 8 odds that V day would come by October 31. If only the weather in France would clear for a week, Paris might fall. London was taking a frightful beating from the Robot bombs. It was worse than the Blitz, and Londoners were fed up with it and hating Germans as never before.
On August 21 there was an Allied invasion in southern France and a breakthrough at St.-Lo, which led quickly to the capture of Paris. This in turn set off waves of emotion as far west as the United States. Understandably the entrance of U.S. and French troops in the enchanted city lifted our hopes for an early end of the war. It also stirred up desires to see Paris. However, I soon checked my regrets at not being among the first in Paris. It sounded wildly romantic. But experience had taught me the price of a visit to Paris. I was not interested in paying that price.
...
It was a summer of medals. The long journey from the wooden soldiers of my childhood to the "sterling" soldier of 1944 was completed. It all started with the Purple Heart. This presented a problem. I was perfectly aware that had the accident occurred in the States or England the only award would have been sulfa, a couple of stitches, and a pat on the head. It was ironic. Why I was awarded it in the first place I had no idea. Why anyone is awarded such a medal for such a reason I couldn't fathom. Can one be proud to wear such a medal or its ribbon? Is one happy or proud about such an event? I took it because others took theirs. I also thought, for reasons that I can't imagine now, that my parents might be pleased.
Another good reason to take it was that rumor had it that the Purple Heart added five points toward discharge. Also, once it has been awarded, can one refuse it?
There were also awards to men who demonstrated heroic actions beyond the call of duty. No one could begrudge this. It was exceptional. But it also prompted thoughts about the general run of fighting soldiers and the great paradox surrounding their actions in combat. The American soldier utterly loathed his job, yet he was one of the great fighting men of all time. How to explain men who will fight among themselves, quarrel with an Allied partner and the "colored" race, but are not angry at the German and yet will go ahead and slaughter the German? Nearly every American soldier was totally ignorant of why he was where he was or why it was necessary for the United States to do what it was doing. If he had any inkling of it, he was unable to verbalize it.
A high degree of motivation is said to be necessary to achieve anything. How can men despising their job do it well? Was it a secret formula, some ability to live within a moment's passage of time with no thought to the hereafter? Theirs was not blind devotion, as was that of the Japanese, whose motivation ought to make them unconquerable. However, for all his fervor for dying, the Japanese was not destroyed. For ten years the German nation had been preparing, living as soldiers. With many of them, soldiering was a national way of life. We were johnnie-come-latelies. Yet constantly and in many ways overwhelmingly the American soldier drove the bitterly fighting Nazi back to Berlin. Why? How?
One is still left with the paradox. These men were almost all drafted against their wishes and hated their work, yet they accepted it; they gripingly got in line. They cooperated. Perhaps that is the key: a willingness to give it a try-a chance to go along with the rest: "If he has to do it, I guess I can do it." Once established in garrison, it seemed to carry over into combat.
I went to France and came back. Others went and didn't. Why? I was lucky. I was not ungrateful to those who may have prayed for me. Perhaps that is why I lived. I did not know. I did not mock those who prayed. I thanked them from my heart. But why me?
In France I lay in a gulley or partial slit trench and waited. For several hours all around me there was death. It was a terrible experience. I thought of the people I loved and of the country I loved. I thought of the kindness I would give were I allowed to live through that morning and afternoon.
On August 21 there was an Allied invasion in southern France and a breakthrough at St.-Lo, which led quickly to the capture of Paris. This in turn set off waves of emotion as far west as the United States. Understandably the entrance of U.S. and French troops in the enchanted city lifted our hopes for an early end of the war. It also stirred up desires to see Paris. However, I soon checked my regrets at not being among the first in Paris. It sounded wildly romantic. But experience had taught me the price of a visit to Paris. I was not interested in paying that price.
...
It was a summer of medals. The long journey from the wooden soldiers of my childhood to the "sterling" soldier of 1944 was completed. It all started with the Purple Heart. This presented a problem. I was perfectly aware that had the accident occurred in the States or England the only award would have been sulfa, a couple of stitches, and a pat on the head. It was ironic. Why I was awarded it in the first place I had no idea. Why anyone is awarded such a medal for such a reason I couldn't fathom. Can one be proud to wear such a medal or its ribbon? Is one happy or proud about such an event? I took it because others took theirs. I also thought, for reasons that I can't imagine now, that my parents might be pleased.
Another good reason to take it was that rumor had it that the Purple Heart added five points toward discharge. Also, once it has been awarded, can one refuse it?
There were also awards to men who demonstrated heroic actions beyond the call of duty. No one could begrudge this. It was exceptional. But it also prompted thoughts about the general run of fighting soldiers and the great paradox surrounding their actions in combat. The American soldier utterly loathed his job, yet he was one of the great fighting men of all time. How to explain men who will fight among themselves, quarrel with an Allied partner and the "colored" race, but are not angry at the German and yet will go ahead and slaughter the German? Nearly every American soldier was totally ignorant of why he was where he was or why it was necessary for the United States to do what it was doing. If he had any inkling of it, he was unable to verbalize it.
A high degree of motivation is said to be necessary to achieve anything. How can men despising their job do it well? Was it a secret formula, some ability to live within a moment's passage of time with no thought to the hereafter? Theirs was not blind devotion, as was that of the Japanese, whose motivation ought to make them unconquerable. However, for all his fervor for dying, the Japanese was not destroyed. For ten years the German nation had been preparing, living as soldiers. With many of them, soldiering was a national way of life. We were johnnie-come-latelies. Yet constantly and in many ways overwhelmingly the American soldier drove the bitterly fighting Nazi back to Berlin. Why? How?
One is still left with the paradox. These men were almost all drafted against their wishes and hated their work, yet they accepted it; they gripingly got in line. They cooperated. Perhaps that is the key: a willingness to give it a try-a chance to go along with the rest: "If he has to do it, I guess I can do it." Once established in garrison, it seemed to carry over into combat.
I went to France and came back. Others went and didn't. Why? I was lucky. I was not ungrateful to those who may have prayed for me. Perhaps that is why I lived. I did not know. I did not mock those who prayed. I thanked them from my heart. But why me?
In France I lay in a gulley or partial slit trench and waited. For several hours all around me there was death. It was a terrible experience. I thought of the people I loved and of the country I loved. I thought of the kindness I would give were I allowed to live through that morning and afternoon.
Monday, April 8, 2019
Return to England (after D-Day): Chapter 14, Shower of Frogs
England Again
At sunset we sighted the English coast. First some cliffs, then a small village, finally a lovely red brick house set in a deep green valley touched with the benign light of a declining sun. Dusk and peace in an English harbor with the silhouette of the custom house bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Old Philadelphia. Only when the ship was secure to the dock did I breathe a tremendous sign of relief knowing at that moment for certain that we'd not turn back to Normandy. I then slept the quiet sleep of a mind freed from anxiety and a body relaxed from tension.
The next morning at sunrise we left the ship. The great harbor of Southampton was asleep. In a soiled and wrinkled uniform, minus rifle and pack, with a few souvenirs and a searing experience barely hidden behind a facade of relief, I debarked onto friendly soil. There were no banners flying to herald my return, no band playing, no ceremony. But there was unbounded joy. There was also thankfulness and gratitude at being alive and safe in England, safe from the savagery and slaughter of Normandy.
...
Wrapped in the soft sweetness of that English morning, we moved slowly in a casual line to a waiting train. There we were welcomed by the American Red Cross. We were served doughnuts and coffee. This delicious greeting reinforced my rising spirits. We boarded a train that moved swiftly northward to Leicestershire. We rode beside field after field green in the gentle morning light. Small gardens at the rear of dilapidated but well-tended cottages next to the railroad were still glorious with color. The red-tiled roofs of the cities were bright and warm in the not-too-hot sun of an early July morning. From the open windows we waved and called out to the Land Girls. They were about their morning chores in barnyards and fields. It was good to see them again in their bright green shirts and red bandannas. As always, they interrupted their work to return our greeting, some brushing back their hair while waving to us. We passed clear, rambling streams, their manicured banks green down to the waters' edge. Everywhere there was the serenity and peace of an ancient land, a country that held a paradox for most Americans: English customs, ideas, and traditions were, in spite of our similar language, foreign to the majority of Americans. For all of us on that day, home would have been safest, best, happiest. For me England was the next best. On that lovely morning, barely out of the earshot of Hell, England seemed like a spot in Heaven.
...
Ten days after I sailed from the Normandy beaches, I was seated in the Memorial Theatre at Stratford-upon-Avon. I saw seven shows in five days. I had a room at the White Swan Inn and slept late of mornings, talked with the book dealer, Mr. Jaggard, who traced his lineage back to the first publisher of a complete edition of Shakespeare. I visited Warwick Castle, walked again the mile out to Anne Hathaway's cottage, strolled along the Avon at night after shows, spent more time in the museum. I completely forgot about France. I found the performances vastly entertaining but not all of high quality. Wartime and a rigid board of governors seem to keep the theatre from properly soaring.
I returned to Leicester late one afternoon for one last fling at the best restaurant in town-the dining hall of the largest hotel, where during my first week in Leicester I had taken a date to dinner. This time I got as far as the entrance to the dining room, when I saw a sign that read: AMERICAN OFFICERS ONLY. I exploded. I was furious. I spit out a volley of four-letter words at the headwaiter. He, an innocent victim of the American military caste system, was patient. He'd dealt with this situation before. I told him to forget it. I left. This incident was a sharp reminder of the fact that I was back in the U .5. Army and again would be chauffeuring officers on their evening dates. I ate someplace else, more suitable to my rank, and took the truck back to camp.
The war in Europe was rolling at a terrifying pace, with mounting ferocity and murderous violence. While few of us wanted any more of war, parades seemed to me to be the last thing we needed. As it turned out, it wasn't we that needed the parades; it was the generals. Late in July and again in the middle of a sultry August, we walked miles to practice and returned more miles to be reviewed. At one of these events we paraded for the commander in chief of the entire Allied Forces, Gen. Ike Eisenhower. After we marched by him, he got on the "mike" and told us why we were asked to parade. He began by saying that we must sometimes wonder why we are asked to parade. He, too, when a young officer at West Point, used to wonder the same thing. But now he knew. He needed the inspiration of seeing us parade by him to support him in the demanding decisions he was called upon to make. Fortunately, a friend kicked me in the shins; no one heard my cursing. General Eisenhower, in one of the most glorious positions ever held by any man in the history of the world, needed a bunch of jerks like us to give him inspiration. Vanity, vanity, saieth the Preacher. All is vanity. Looking back upon it now, I know the only good thing about that day was that never again would I be called upon to parade. Never again have I even had to look at one.
[more to come]
At sunset we sighted the English coast. First some cliffs, then a small village, finally a lovely red brick house set in a deep green valley touched with the benign light of a declining sun. Dusk and peace in an English harbor with the silhouette of the custom house bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Old Philadelphia. Only when the ship was secure to the dock did I breathe a tremendous sign of relief knowing at that moment for certain that we'd not turn back to Normandy. I then slept the quiet sleep of a mind freed from anxiety and a body relaxed from tension.
The next morning at sunrise we left the ship. The great harbor of Southampton was asleep. In a soiled and wrinkled uniform, minus rifle and pack, with a few souvenirs and a searing experience barely hidden behind a facade of relief, I debarked onto friendly soil. There were no banners flying to herald my return, no band playing, no ceremony. But there was unbounded joy. There was also thankfulness and gratitude at being alive and safe in England, safe from the savagery and slaughter of Normandy.
...
Wrapped in the soft sweetness of that English morning, we moved slowly in a casual line to a waiting train. There we were welcomed by the American Red Cross. We were served doughnuts and coffee. This delicious greeting reinforced my rising spirits. We boarded a train that moved swiftly northward to Leicestershire. We rode beside field after field green in the gentle morning light. Small gardens at the rear of dilapidated but well-tended cottages next to the railroad were still glorious with color. The red-tiled roofs of the cities were bright and warm in the not-too-hot sun of an early July morning. From the open windows we waved and called out to the Land Girls. They were about their morning chores in barnyards and fields. It was good to see them again in their bright green shirts and red bandannas. As always, they interrupted their work to return our greeting, some brushing back their hair while waving to us. We passed clear, rambling streams, their manicured banks green down to the waters' edge. Everywhere there was the serenity and peace of an ancient land, a country that held a paradox for most Americans: English customs, ideas, and traditions were, in spite of our similar language, foreign to the majority of Americans. For all of us on that day, home would have been safest, best, happiest. For me England was the next best. On that lovely morning, barely out of the earshot of Hell, England seemed like a spot in Heaven.
...
Ten days after I sailed from the Normandy beaches, I was seated in the Memorial Theatre at Stratford-upon-Avon. I saw seven shows in five days. I had a room at the White Swan Inn and slept late of mornings, talked with the book dealer, Mr. Jaggard, who traced his lineage back to the first publisher of a complete edition of Shakespeare. I visited Warwick Castle, walked again the mile out to Anne Hathaway's cottage, strolled along the Avon at night after shows, spent more time in the museum. I completely forgot about France. I found the performances vastly entertaining but not all of high quality. Wartime and a rigid board of governors seem to keep the theatre from properly soaring.
I returned to Leicester late one afternoon for one last fling at the best restaurant in town-the dining hall of the largest hotel, where during my first week in Leicester I had taken a date to dinner. This time I got as far as the entrance to the dining room, when I saw a sign that read: AMERICAN OFFICERS ONLY. I exploded. I was furious. I spit out a volley of four-letter words at the headwaiter. He, an innocent victim of the American military caste system, was patient. He'd dealt with this situation before. I told him to forget it. I left. This incident was a sharp reminder of the fact that I was back in the U .5. Army and again would be chauffeuring officers on their evening dates. I ate someplace else, more suitable to my rank, and took the truck back to camp.
The war in Europe was rolling at a terrifying pace, with mounting ferocity and murderous violence. While few of us wanted any more of war, parades seemed to me to be the last thing we needed. As it turned out, it wasn't we that needed the parades; it was the generals. Late in July and again in the middle of a sultry August, we walked miles to practice and returned more miles to be reviewed. At one of these events we paraded for the commander in chief of the entire Allied Forces, Gen. Ike Eisenhower. After we marched by him, he got on the "mike" and told us why we were asked to parade. He began by saying that we must sometimes wonder why we are asked to parade. He, too, when a young officer at West Point, used to wonder the same thing. But now he knew. He needed the inspiration of seeing us parade by him to support him in the demanding decisions he was called upon to make. Fortunately, a friend kicked me in the shins; no one heard my cursing. General Eisenhower, in one of the most glorious positions ever held by any man in the history of the world, needed a bunch of jerks like us to give him inspiration. Vanity, vanity, saieth the Preacher. All is vanity. Looking back upon it now, I know the only good thing about that day was that never again would I be called upon to parade. Never again have I even had to look at one.
[more to come]
Saturday, March 9, 2019
The end of Bill Stigall's D-Day: Chapter 13 concludes
So we attacked again. We pushed on to a second attack. Eventually, with infernal slowness, we withdrew a short distance, but not before we encountered more artillery and machine-gun fire, not before we accumulated a few more casualties. We waited. The Robot bombs began falling on London, and rumors circulated that Germans, desperate to halt Allied attack, might use gas. But finally I started back, bit by bit. As a great crescendo of music starts with a small sound in the woodwinds, is picked up by a violin, then full violins, and with trumpets mounts to a full chord, so did I, bit by bit, partly in thoughts that it could not be the end for me, part in a small song sung, part in the right kind of smile from a passing soldier, joined by a warm cup of coffee, some food, and sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, and partly the certain knowledge that I am to have no more of it. I started back. The trip, long and weary as it was, was sure, until finally we reached the coast.
There we paused in agonizing deliberation as to whether we go at that time or the next day, whether we go first or another outfit goes. But finally I boarded a battered Liberty ship. Although we are not yet out from the shore and until we were we were not safe, fortunate changes. I met an acquaintance from home who had been associated with the plays I had directed. He was a member of the crew and had made many crossings of the Channel. He asked after my health, supplied me with some candy bars, took me below deck, gave me several cakes of soap, and directed me to the showers. I had my first bath in thirty-five days. I came up on deck, where my friend had secured a cot for me.
We swapped war stories and talked about home. He told of the wounded his ship had taken back to England. I reported some statistics. Eleven percent casualties on the glider drop; over half of our officers dead, missing, or casualties; companies greatly depleted, one coming back with six men. I told him how grateful I was to be where I was and alive.
Late in the afternoon we moved from the shore. I sat on one of the hatches and watched the Normandy beaches disappear. A great deal of the original wreckage-sunken boats, iron and wire emplacements, equipment of all description-was still visible. It was countered by tents, moving men and vehicles, and the constant arrival and sailing of ships. On the beaches were antiaircraft installations, including giant barrage balloons anchored to ships or to the ground by a net of ropes. The great balloons were at the mercy of the coastal breezes. From out in the English Channel, as the coast disappeared, I watched the balloons dip and dive, gently swaying like dancers. They caught the bright July sun and shone a shining silver against the blue white-clouded sky of fair France.
There we paused in agonizing deliberation as to whether we go at that time or the next day, whether we go first or another outfit goes. But finally I boarded a battered Liberty ship. Although we are not yet out from the shore and until we were we were not safe, fortunate changes. I met an acquaintance from home who had been associated with the plays I had directed. He was a member of the crew and had made many crossings of the Channel. He asked after my health, supplied me with some candy bars, took me below deck, gave me several cakes of soap, and directed me to the showers. I had my first bath in thirty-five days. I came up on deck, where my friend had secured a cot for me.
We swapped war stories and talked about home. He told of the wounded his ship had taken back to England. I reported some statistics. Eleven percent casualties on the glider drop; over half of our officers dead, missing, or casualties; companies greatly depleted, one coming back with six men. I told him how grateful I was to be where I was and alive.
Late in the afternoon we moved from the shore. I sat on one of the hatches and watched the Normandy beaches disappear. A great deal of the original wreckage-sunken boats, iron and wire emplacements, equipment of all description-was still visible. It was countered by tents, moving men and vehicles, and the constant arrival and sailing of ships. On the beaches were antiaircraft installations, including giant barrage balloons anchored to ships or to the ground by a net of ropes. The great balloons were at the mercy of the coastal breezes. From out in the English Channel, as the coast disappeared, I watched the balloons dip and dive, gently swaying like dancers. They caught the bright July sun and shone a shining silver against the blue white-clouded sky of fair France.
-0-
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
D-Day continues ... and it isn't pretty
This continues Bill Stigall's account of D-Day in Shower of Frogs.
Chapter 13 ...
This was the beginning of the worst twenty-four hours in my life. I was sick with fear. I hoped to God they would not come through. Hours passed. I waited. I tried to get some information.
Flashes of fire seemed to be mostly from one direction, so I determined that that must be the way. It was pitch dark and almost any sound was amplified by uncertainty and apprehension. I would have given anything to get out of that situation.
If this was what war is like, I didn't want any more. I thought of those I loved and wondered if I would ever see them again. I felt there was a good possibility that when the moment came I would freeze and never fire a shot. I didn't know whether to move about, to find someone from my squad, or stay where I was. I realized that I was above ground lying beside my jeep, which was completely stupid, especially after all the holes I had dug. But I thought I still couldn't chance it now. I had to watch.
Very late in the afternoon help came through. A group of paratroopers and some artillery support eased the situation. We discovered that we had wandered into a trap and were separated from the main body of our outfit. Since this was my first real experience in a combat area, I did not have the slightest idea what was happening. Nor did any of my squad. We spent the night in the same place, but the worst had passed. I went out on the road beside the orchard to talk to a para trooper. If memory serves, we swapped rifles. He had a carbine. The Browning automatic would, I thought, be much more helpful in his hands than in mine.
In the gullies beside the hedgerows, on each side of the road, about every twenty feet, lay an American soldier. Few seemed much more than asleep; this was my first reaction. I soon realized my mistake as I saw so many lying still in various positions of silence. I was so caught up in the pushing on of the action that no such emotion as sorrow or hate or anger or pleasure (at seeing German dead) rose in me.
My first sight of the contemptible bastards who brought me to that sickening scene, that putrid spot, was that of dead German bodies in the fields of Normandy. I was surprised to see them. I had also been surprised to see the American dead. I was further surprised that there was no emotion about seeing either - merely observed. It was as if I were a camera equipped for smell, taking pictures. What can one feel in such a situation?
... and it goes on
Chapter 13 ...
This was the beginning of the worst twenty-four hours in my life. I was sick with fear. I hoped to God they would not come through. Hours passed. I waited. I tried to get some information.
Flashes of fire seemed to be mostly from one direction, so I determined that that must be the way. It was pitch dark and almost any sound was amplified by uncertainty and apprehension. I would have given anything to get out of that situation.
If this was what war is like, I didn't want any more. I thought of those I loved and wondered if I would ever see them again. I felt there was a good possibility that when the moment came I would freeze and never fire a shot. I didn't know whether to move about, to find someone from my squad, or stay where I was. I realized that I was above ground lying beside my jeep, which was completely stupid, especially after all the holes I had dug. But I thought I still couldn't chance it now. I had to watch.
Very late in the afternoon help came through. A group of paratroopers and some artillery support eased the situation. We discovered that we had wandered into a trap and were separated from the main body of our outfit. Since this was my first real experience in a combat area, I did not have the slightest idea what was happening. Nor did any of my squad. We spent the night in the same place, but the worst had passed. I went out on the road beside the orchard to talk to a para trooper. If memory serves, we swapped rifles. He had a carbine. The Browning automatic would, I thought, be much more helpful in his hands than in mine.
In the gullies beside the hedgerows, on each side of the road, about every twenty feet, lay an American soldier. Few seemed much more than asleep; this was my first reaction. I soon realized my mistake as I saw so many lying still in various positions of silence. I was so caught up in the pushing on of the action that no such emotion as sorrow or hate or anger or pleasure (at seeing German dead) rose in me.
My first sight of the contemptible bastards who brought me to that sickening scene, that putrid spot, was that of dead German bodies in the fields of Normandy. I was surprised to see them. I had also been surprised to see the American dead. I was further surprised that there was no emotion about seeing either - merely observed. It was as if I were a camera equipped for smell, taking pictures. What can one feel in such a situation?
... and it goes on
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