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.
Tuesday, June 4, 2019
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
Monday, December 3, 2018
That was the beginning of the war ...
Chapter 13 (continued) Shower of Frogs
[Although Bill Stigall had been involved in combat in North Africa and Italy, this was the real war as far as he was concerned. - SP]
This continues D-Day
The gliders came to earth in every imaginable position. They lay over the fields like huge fallen birds, some intact, some lying still, as if a single bullet had brought them to earth. Others were mangled as if shotgun shells had scattered their parts. White parachutes covered a number of dead American soldiers lying beside the gliders. It was now that the final arguments long existing between paratroopers and glidermen as to which job was the worst were settled. Neither was worth a damn. Red, green, yellow, and white chutes were hanging from trees, draped over hedgerows, or lying flat on the fields. Some were still attached to the tails of gliders, where they had been used as brakes for the speeding descent. A certain number of glidermen in U.S. and British Borsa gliders, the great plywood monsters, got no farther into France than the soil of Normandy. First this number seemed enormous, but later it proved less than some expected.
I had a small cut on the top of my head from the glider landing. My head felt as if it would burst. The medical officer powdered it with sulfa and gave me some pills. [For this he would be awarded the Purple Heart, not something he much mentioned except in mild embarrassment.]
The day of the eighth was spent maneuvering and bringing up supplies to troops engaged in fighting Germans. I drove down roads with hedgerows about ten feet high on each side. The hedges were wild and untrimmed, and many nestled snipers. It was a tedious and dangerous job getting them out. Shortly before darkness we moved forward, just as we thought we'd settle for the night. Under the cover of approaching darkness I drove my jeep and trailer of ammunition down a railroad track that was inundated.
I drove a mile or so and crossed a swamp over a road, flooded but marked by engineers with white cloth. Beyond this we went down a deeply banked road and into an apple orchard. I unhooked the trailer and parked it about twenty-five yards away under a tree heavy with small reddish green fruit about an inch in thickness. I started to dig another slit trench beside the jeep but didn't have the strength. It was now completely dark. I fell asleep.
Sometime during the night all hell broke loose. Machine-gun fire ripped over our heads; mortar and artillery shells dropped terrifyingly close. I was frightened and started to dig a trench. I still couldn't do it. Also, it hardly seemed safe to try. I hugged the side of the jeep. Information was shouted out to me that the Germans were coming through our area. We were to hold our positions. No one seemed to know from what direction they were coming. No one seemed to know where the rest of our company was. No one seemed to know anything. We prepared to meet the German attack. I took from the jeep the Browning automatic rifle, put the tripod on the front, and waited. I was about to face my first German. It was a sickening experience.
[Although Bill Stigall had been involved in combat in North Africa and Italy, this was the real war as far as he was concerned. - SP]
This continues D-Day
The gliders came to earth in every imaginable position. They lay over the fields like huge fallen birds, some intact, some lying still, as if a single bullet had brought them to earth. Others were mangled as if shotgun shells had scattered their parts. White parachutes covered a number of dead American soldiers lying beside the gliders. It was now that the final arguments long existing between paratroopers and glidermen as to which job was the worst were settled. Neither was worth a damn. Red, green, yellow, and white chutes were hanging from trees, draped over hedgerows, or lying flat on the fields. Some were still attached to the tails of gliders, where they had been used as brakes for the speeding descent. A certain number of glidermen in U.S. and British Borsa gliders, the great plywood monsters, got no farther into France than the soil of Normandy. First this number seemed enormous, but later it proved less than some expected.
I had a small cut on the top of my head from the glider landing. My head felt as if it would burst. The medical officer powdered it with sulfa and gave me some pills. [For this he would be awarded the Purple Heart, not something he much mentioned except in mild embarrassment.]
The day of the eighth was spent maneuvering and bringing up supplies to troops engaged in fighting Germans. I drove down roads with hedgerows about ten feet high on each side. The hedges were wild and untrimmed, and many nestled snipers. It was a tedious and dangerous job getting them out. Shortly before darkness we moved forward, just as we thought we'd settle for the night. Under the cover of approaching darkness I drove my jeep and trailer of ammunition down a railroad track that was inundated.
I drove a mile or so and crossed a swamp over a road, flooded but marked by engineers with white cloth. Beyond this we went down a deeply banked road and into an apple orchard. I unhooked the trailer and parked it about twenty-five yards away under a tree heavy with small reddish green fruit about an inch in thickness. I started to dig another slit trench beside the jeep but didn't have the strength. It was now completely dark. I fell asleep.
Sometime during the night all hell broke loose. Machine-gun fire ripped over our heads; mortar and artillery shells dropped terrifyingly close. I was frightened and started to dig a trench. I still couldn't do it. Also, it hardly seemed safe to try. I hugged the side of the jeep. Information was shouted out to me that the Germans were coming through our area. We were to hold our positions. No one seemed to know from what direction they were coming. No one seemed to know where the rest of our company was. No one seemed to know anything. We prepared to meet the German attack. I took from the jeep the Browning automatic rifle, put the tripod on the front, and waited. I was about to face my first German. It was a sickening experience.
Friday, November 2, 2018
Normandy (continued)
Shower of Frogs - William J Stigall, Jr.
More from Chapter 13 on the invasion of Normandy
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.
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."
Once over the initial shock, we scrambled through the door of the glider, more than anything else just to get the hell out of it. Once out, we stood about looking around us. We looked at the glider and the country surrounding us. The pilots climbed out of their perch in the snout. We asked each other how the other was. All were standing.
We soon recognized rifle fire and eventually the special sound of mortar shells sailing through the air. Slowly it came to one of us, the corporal probably, that we ought to get the jeep out of the glider. At that moment a mortar shell burst someplace near us. At first there was no reaction, except a looking at one another. Another burst came closer. We took off for the hedge. Several more bursts landed in the vicinity, close to the glider. Only then did it come to me that I was being fired upon by the enemy and that I was in combat.
That was the beginning of the war.
***
More to follow ...
More from Chapter 13 on the invasion of Normandy
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.
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."
Once over the initial shock, we scrambled through the door of the glider, more than anything else just to get the hell out of it. Once out, we stood about looking around us. We looked at the glider and the country surrounding us. The pilots climbed out of their perch in the snout. We asked each other how the other was. All were standing.
We soon recognized rifle fire and eventually the special sound of mortar shells sailing through the air. Slowly it came to one of us, the corporal probably, that we ought to get the jeep out of the glider. At that moment a mortar shell burst someplace near us. At first there was no reaction, except a looking at one another. Another burst came closer. We took off for the hedge. Several more bursts landed in the vicinity, close to the glider. Only then did it come to me that I was being fired upon by the enemy and that I was in combat.
That was the beginning of the war.
***
More to follow ...
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