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.
Friday, June 7, 2019
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.
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