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]