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.
Monday, December 3, 2018
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 ...
Monday, October 15, 2018
Normandy June 7-12, 1944
Shower of Frogs, Chapter 13
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."
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.
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.
*** [more to follow]
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."
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.
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.
*** [more to follow]
Monday, September 24, 2018
Chapter 12: the glider
A Shower of Frogs
Continuing Chapter 12 from the previous post ... describing Bill Stigall's glider
I told Mavis that the glider was almost as large as the two-motored plane that towed it, the C-47, weighted 3,600 pounds, and carried thirteen men and two pilots or a jeep (an additional 3,100 pounds), three men, and two pilots. It could also carry a trailer, a 75mm pack howitzer, or ammunition, food, or other supplies. For all its weight and size, it was fragile. The frame was steel tubing, the sides and wings a tissue-thin fabric taut like a drum head. The nose of the glider, called a snout, unhooked, lifted up and allowed the jeep or artillery piece to enter. All material things inside were tied down with ropes. It was this action that we performed hour after hour, practicing, experimenting, while the makers changed models.
The glider had a hook in the front with a release handle above the pilot's instrument panel and window. To the hook was attached a 300-foot nylon rope about one inch thick. The other end of the rope was attached to the rear of the C-47, which also had a release hook. The C-47 pulled the glider off the ground, into the air, and over the drop zone. We were to travel at about one thousand feet at 130 miles per hour. Over the drop zone either glider or C-47 or both cut loose and the glider circled in order to be certain of the drop area and to slow down to about sixty miles per hour. The C-47, if not severely injured from flack, went home.
On my first flight at Maxton Airbase (an improvised situation, like many other things in World War II) we took off behind the C-47 with the propeller blast blowing like a gale and lifting the glider before the tow plane left the earth. We bobbed up and down, to right and left, like a cork on water, and were soon gaining altitude as the C-47 itself gained elevation. We followed the tow plane around in large circles, like a kite on a string, for about twenty minutes.
Without warning our pilot unhooked us. At that moment the glider is free and there exists a sudden and profound silence--a few seconds of great aesthetic satisfaction. Nothing can be heard save the slight sound of wind pressing against the wings, which, by contrast to the deafening sound of the prop wash, is stunning. This sound, this singing silence, must surely approximate that known to
a soaring eagle.
We four in the jeep sat still, pressing our feet against whatever was solid in front of us. I held fast to the steering wheel, either making as if to land the damn glider or simply cursing a blue streak. Gerry, my corporal sitting beside me, usually outdid me. His streak, in soft Carolina accents, was fiery blue. The landings were tense. The glider had wheels and skids, like skis. The bottom of the glider was eighteen inches off the newly scraped ground and grass, which went by fast under us. The possibility of touching down and of immediately nosing over was ever present. Should this happen it would have been a mess of nuts, bolts, and insurance checks for loved ones. The story of glider landings was clear to me in my first landing.
We only circled once, came down rapidly, shot across the ground at about 120 miles per hour, overran the landing strip, skidded, and wobbled to right and left, coming to a harmless stop on the grass. The pilots unhooked the snout and lifted it. In seconds the three men untied the jeep and I turned on the motor and drove out.
At Maxton Airbase we repeated this action two or three times. No troubles.
The word glider is a misnomer. We glided very little; we soared not at all. It was a way of dumping a certain number of men and materials behind enemy lines. It had marvelous surprise possibilities and great potential shock-to both parties. I always flew in a jeep. Directly under my seat was the gas tank, a point of much humor, bawdy humor. We had no parachutes or seat belts.
Mavis asked if this was a volunteer outfit. I told her that one day we were an ordinary infantry outfit and the next day we were airborne. At the time, we had the privilege of volunteering for the paratroops, which I did, only to flunk the last part of the physical. I didn't have enough teeth. (For several days afterward sad jokes all around.) No, glidermen came by their work "natural-like."
Continuing Chapter 12 from the previous post ... describing Bill Stigall's glider
I told Mavis that the glider was almost as large as the two-motored plane that towed it, the C-47, weighted 3,600 pounds, and carried thirteen men and two pilots or a jeep (an additional 3,100 pounds), three men, and two pilots. It could also carry a trailer, a 75mm pack howitzer, or ammunition, food, or other supplies. For all its weight and size, it was fragile. The frame was steel tubing, the sides and wings a tissue-thin fabric taut like a drum head. The nose of the glider, called a snout, unhooked, lifted up and allowed the jeep or artillery piece to enter. All material things inside were tied down with ropes. It was this action that we performed hour after hour, practicing, experimenting, while the makers changed models.
The glider had a hook in the front with a release handle above the pilot's instrument panel and window. To the hook was attached a 300-foot nylon rope about one inch thick. The other end of the rope was attached to the rear of the C-47, which also had a release hook. The C-47 pulled the glider off the ground, into the air, and over the drop zone. We were to travel at about one thousand feet at 130 miles per hour. Over the drop zone either glider or C-47 or both cut loose and the glider circled in order to be certain of the drop area and to slow down to about sixty miles per hour. The C-47, if not severely injured from flack, went home.
On my first flight at Maxton Airbase (an improvised situation, like many other things in World War II) we took off behind the C-47 with the propeller blast blowing like a gale and lifting the glider before the tow plane left the earth. We bobbed up and down, to right and left, like a cork on water, and were soon gaining altitude as the C-47 itself gained elevation. We followed the tow plane around in large circles, like a kite on a string, for about twenty minutes.
Without warning our pilot unhooked us. At that moment the glider is free and there exists a sudden and profound silence--a few seconds of great aesthetic satisfaction. Nothing can be heard save the slight sound of wind pressing against the wings, which, by contrast to the deafening sound of the prop wash, is stunning. This sound, this singing silence, must surely approximate that known to
a soaring eagle.
We four in the jeep sat still, pressing our feet against whatever was solid in front of us. I held fast to the steering wheel, either making as if to land the damn glider or simply cursing a blue streak. Gerry, my corporal sitting beside me, usually outdid me. His streak, in soft Carolina accents, was fiery blue. The landings were tense. The glider had wheels and skids, like skis. The bottom of the glider was eighteen inches off the newly scraped ground and grass, which went by fast under us. The possibility of touching down and of immediately nosing over was ever present. Should this happen it would have been a mess of nuts, bolts, and insurance checks for loved ones. The story of glider landings was clear to me in my first landing.
We only circled once, came down rapidly, shot across the ground at about 120 miles per hour, overran the landing strip, skidded, and wobbled to right and left, coming to a harmless stop on the grass. The pilots unhooked the snout and lifted it. In seconds the three men untied the jeep and I turned on the motor and drove out.
At Maxton Airbase we repeated this action two or three times. No troubles.
The word glider is a misnomer. We glided very little; we soared not at all. It was a way of dumping a certain number of men and materials behind enemy lines. It had marvelous surprise possibilities and great potential shock-to both parties. I always flew in a jeep. Directly under my seat was the gas tank, a point of much humor, bawdy humor. We had no parachutes or seat belts.
Mavis asked if this was a volunteer outfit. I told her that one day we were an ordinary infantry outfit and the next day we were airborne. At the time, we had the privilege of volunteering for the paratroops, which I did, only to flunk the last part of the physical. I didn't have enough teeth. (For several days afterward sad jokes all around.) No, glidermen came by their work "natural-like."
Spring 1944 [Chapter 12]
A Shower of Frogs (WWII memoir)
Chapter 12: The Spring [1944]
[Post note: D-Day approaches, but for Bill Stigall, it was still just waiting, not knowing when or how the invasion would begin. A follow-up post will provide his perspective on the glider in which he would "fly".]
It was the spring, and it did lead to a breath-abated hour. But from early March to June, when my glider was one in a fifty-mile-long flying train across the Channel, the hundred days were a strange
mixture of impatience, serenity, waste, happiness, boredom, and beauty. The times bring to mind the analogy of a man's life being like a tone poem. Various passages of agitation and calm, shifting
moods from vivace to largo, with mucho moderato in the middle. A series of themes, some abandoned, some recurring. Now and then passages of intentional monotony, including several beats of silence. Those hundred days lived at the bottom of the military pile must have been very different from life at SHAPE Headquarters and in the United States. Not knowing the date or place of invasion, making no decisions, seeing no end to repetitive preparations, contrasted with reams of information, boxes of reports, conferences galore, and some generally determined week "to go." Or in America, living under the pressure of newspaper, magazine, and radio coverage hyped by wild guessing, adding up to plain jitters. The tension at the bottom was, on the surface, nil. Subconsciously there was tension, expressed in short tempers, frustration, despair, including a sense of having been forgotten.
...
During the hundred days, I went to Stratford, London, and Derbyshire. I loved and treasured every moment of them. By the first of April my life sank into dull, seemingly senseless action, lacking any quality of expectancy. Only in a rare moment did I give a thought to the true reason for my existence and whereabouts. Life lacked drama; it lacked suspense; it lacked excitement. My main drive was a burning desire to get on with the war and get it over. I hated the army more than ever. Somehow the seductive presence of civilians made life more difficult than had their absence. The strain of waiting, of watching the sky where men were getting things done while I trained and wasted time in block-long chow lines, was nerve-wracking. Tempers were as short as green grass in the desert.
Life turned sour. I thought we'd never get off the ground-not for real. Mail call, the heartbeat of our life, slowed down to a trickle. It may have been real or it may have been psychological, but we felt
forgotten by those at home.
Chapter 12: The Spring [1944]
[Post note: D-Day approaches, but for Bill Stigall, it was still just waiting, not knowing when or how the invasion would begin. A follow-up post will provide his perspective on the glider in which he would "fly".]
It was the spring, and it did lead to a breath-abated hour. But from early March to June, when my glider was one in a fifty-mile-long flying train across the Channel, the hundred days were a strange
mixture of impatience, serenity, waste, happiness, boredom, and beauty. The times bring to mind the analogy of a man's life being like a tone poem. Various passages of agitation and calm, shifting
moods from vivace to largo, with mucho moderato in the middle. A series of themes, some abandoned, some recurring. Now and then passages of intentional monotony, including several beats of silence. Those hundred days lived at the bottom of the military pile must have been very different from life at SHAPE Headquarters and in the United States. Not knowing the date or place of invasion, making no decisions, seeing no end to repetitive preparations, contrasted with reams of information, boxes of reports, conferences galore, and some generally determined week "to go." Or in America, living under the pressure of newspaper, magazine, and radio coverage hyped by wild guessing, adding up to plain jitters. The tension at the bottom was, on the surface, nil. Subconsciously there was tension, expressed in short tempers, frustration, despair, including a sense of having been forgotten.
...
During the hundred days, I went to Stratford, London, and Derbyshire. I loved and treasured every moment of them. By the first of April my life sank into dull, seemingly senseless action, lacking any quality of expectancy. Only in a rare moment did I give a thought to the true reason for my existence and whereabouts. Life lacked drama; it lacked suspense; it lacked excitement. My main drive was a burning desire to get on with the war and get it over. I hated the army more than ever. Somehow the seductive presence of civilians made life more difficult than had their absence. The strain of waiting, of watching the sky where men were getting things done while I trained and wasted time in block-long chow lines, was nerve-wracking. Tempers were as short as green grass in the desert.
Life turned sour. I thought we'd never get off the ground-not for real. Mail call, the heartbeat of our life, slowed down to a trickle. It may have been real or it may have been psychological, but we felt
forgotten by those at home.
Monday, August 13, 2018
A romantic interlude, 1944
Chapter 11: England, 1944 -- additional excepts, these related to the young Irish woman he had met months before in Ireland ... many, many years later, Bill and his wife Phyllis, met Mavis and her husband, now of New Zealand, in New York when the latter were traveling.
American soldiers could not, or at least were not supposed to, get passes to London without a room reservation. I had one at the American Red Cross in Marble Arch.
The trains in England ran pretty much on time. The London train pulled into Leicester on the dot. I milled around in the crowd and had no difficulty spotting Mavis. She waved and called out to me, "Hello, Bill!" I waved back, sidestepped a few people, and joined her. She was in uniform, with a jaunty overseas cap, large leather gloves, and shoulder bag. "
In a matter of moments the train moved quietly and smoothly from the brick station and we were off for London. We looked out both sides of our compartment where we could see the countryside and occasional small villages slip past us. "Have you a place to stay?" I asked. "No," Mavis casually answered, as if it didn't matter that we were going to the world's largest city in the most crowded country in the hemisphere. "Well, don't worry," I said. "Your big coat and mine up there will make a fine bed on a park bench." She laughed and agreed but added, "Don't you worry about it. I'll find a place." I said, "Mavis, for a farm girl from Tipperary, who's never been to London, you're doing fine."
The weather was lovely, a bright sun and only a slight spring chill. Good fortune blessed us, for every day was sunny. We spent the first evening at the theatre, having missed dinner to see the sights. The
performance of Arsenic and Old Lace was early, as were most performances in London in the blackout. At the first intermission we had delivered to our seats tea and cakes, a marvelous surprise and delight. After the show we found a restaurant in the blackout and had supper. I was delighted to discover that the Irish eat. As a matter of fact, Mavis and I never had the slightest trouble agreeing on
tea, lunch, and dinner. After supper we walked around, arm in arm, for fear of being separated, if for no other reason, hoping for an air raid-just a little one for excitement. None came ...
We saw the usual sights. We walked. Mavis with a long, firm, graceful stride kept pace, and we stopped a hundred times to ask questions of the bobbies and rode the tube, taxis, and the bus. We walked all over central London from Buckingham Palace to Marble Arch, from Big Ben to Waterloo Bridge, along the Victoria Embankment to Bloody Tower and beautiful London Bridge. We climbed to the top of St. Paul's, later saw the changing of the guards, Scottish to English. We walked around Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, and Charing Cross. We visited the Old Curiosity Shop, the Wax Museum, some lovely parks, Kensington Gardens, Westminster Abbey and Bridge, the exterior of the House of Lords, and Drury Lane. Names, names as old as my reading, as rich as my inheritance. London of Elizabeth, of James, of Anne, of Victoria, Dickens, Wilde, Irving, and Disraeli.
Naturally, this was a wartime London-a united nations city. Girls in uniform from Ireland, Wales, Scotland, Norway, Poland, and Czechoslovakia and WACS from America. Soldiers from New
Zealand, South Africa, Belgium, Greece, France, from the forty eight states, from Australia, the Netherlands, from all over Britain. Uniforms of every description-royal blue, pale blue, and a dozen shades of khaki. As many different hats as there were services, everyone's favorite being the Aussies' and the Wrens' style!
All of this was London, but it was not until I looked over the city from the top of St. Paul's that I knew for certain just where I was, felt sure that I was in London. A good sun was shining, although it was somewhat hazy. The haze softened the lovely spires and towers of London. All about St. Paul's there was the ugly hand of the barbarians. The area on three sides of it was flattened for several blocks. I looked at London Bridge from where on one such hazy morning Wordsworth had written: "Earth hath not anything to show more fair." It was still an inspiring and gracious sight-the winding slow-moving Thames and the laden barges, a great city, horribly scarred, but like a great people only just that, scarred but never beaten, holding firm to this challenge to civilization. It was common, of course, to draw the obvious remarks about St. Paul, something intact, permanent, and spiritual amid ruin. That was true, yes, but there was something else also significant inside the church.
Bombs had landed upon part of this beautiful building, this Wren masterpiece. It was horribly mutilated in spots, made a little ugly even-ignoble. But repairs were in process even amid the bombings. Block and tackle were hoisting new stones where others crumbled. Some things could never be replaced, but others took their place. The essential beauty remained. Something like this was happening to our civilization, our culture, our lives. We were being scarred, were being subjected to brutality, we were losing much, moving backward in some ways, and some things would never be seen again by anyone. But we were not entirely lost-we had not given in to the Germans; we were holding on to some measure of our culture; we still had something to build upon. We could use block and tackle; we could plug the hold that we in our neglect allowed to weaken and be pushed down. This seemed to me the meaning of St. Paul's and of London.
Of the nearly forty shows from which to choose Mavis and I saw three. We saw the Lunts in There Shall Be No Night. Our arrangements were to share expenses, but I had to see one show from the stalls. I pulled my rank-I had one stripe; Mavis had no stripes and we sat fifth row center. I have ever forgotten the night. As I was in much-bombed London in the very center of tragedy, sadness, and death and daily examples of conquering this death, this poignant and beautiful performance brought tears and memories that would live forever afterward. My personal involvement in World War II seemed, as it was meant to be reflected for us all, in the life of the play. Dr. Vlachos's situation, a very much heightened version of my own, was one I could not help identifying with. I was thankful for the understanding and sympathy given me, in silence or otherwise, by the strong, sensitive woman who shared the evening with me.
We also watched John Gielgud lead a superb company in Congreve's Love for Love. In the beautiful Haymarket Theatre, Gielgud both entertained me and taught me. We saw The Lisbon Story-a play with music, another side of the theatrical coin. During supper after Love for Love I remarked to Mavis that Mr. Gielgud, in program notes, called our time the "barren present." In contrast to the carefree world of the seventeenth century, yes. But barren? And a world in revolution? We knew what he meant-barren of artistic creation. Yet the adjective bothered us. Much was being born, much was getting started, in the fiery crucible of 1943-44. It was true that no great novel, play, song, or movie had as yet come from the United States. Perhaps none of these forms could contain the war. It was more like an epic. The scale of the war was so great that no play, no movie, nor even a novel could encompass it. The breaking and smashing of ancient sanctuaries, the frenzy of hatred, the incipient revolution that was sweeping the world surged beyond the confines of any form of art save the epic. It would probably be written by someone of another generation.
We ultimately had an air raid.
***
The next morning, Mavis and I said good-bye to the Markendales and returned to Derby. On the station platform I kissed Mavis good-bye. She went north to Scotland and across the Irish Sea to Belfast. I returned south to Leicester. Under the severity and long silence of the fall, winter, and spring of 1944-45 we grew more fond of each other.
American soldiers could not, or at least were not supposed to, get passes to London without a room reservation. I had one at the American Red Cross in Marble Arch.
The trains in England ran pretty much on time. The London train pulled into Leicester on the dot. I milled around in the crowd and had no difficulty spotting Mavis. She waved and called out to me, "Hello, Bill!" I waved back, sidestepped a few people, and joined her. She was in uniform, with a jaunty overseas cap, large leather gloves, and shoulder bag. "
In a matter of moments the train moved quietly and smoothly from the brick station and we were off for London. We looked out both sides of our compartment where we could see the countryside and occasional small villages slip past us. "Have you a place to stay?" I asked. "No," Mavis casually answered, as if it didn't matter that we were going to the world's largest city in the most crowded country in the hemisphere. "Well, don't worry," I said. "Your big coat and mine up there will make a fine bed on a park bench." She laughed and agreed but added, "Don't you worry about it. I'll find a place." I said, "Mavis, for a farm girl from Tipperary, who's never been to London, you're doing fine."
The weather was lovely, a bright sun and only a slight spring chill. Good fortune blessed us, for every day was sunny. We spent the first evening at the theatre, having missed dinner to see the sights. The
performance of Arsenic and Old Lace was early, as were most performances in London in the blackout. At the first intermission we had delivered to our seats tea and cakes, a marvelous surprise and delight. After the show we found a restaurant in the blackout and had supper. I was delighted to discover that the Irish eat. As a matter of fact, Mavis and I never had the slightest trouble agreeing on
tea, lunch, and dinner. After supper we walked around, arm in arm, for fear of being separated, if for no other reason, hoping for an air raid-just a little one for excitement. None came ...
We saw the usual sights. We walked. Mavis with a long, firm, graceful stride kept pace, and we stopped a hundred times to ask questions of the bobbies and rode the tube, taxis, and the bus. We walked all over central London from Buckingham Palace to Marble Arch, from Big Ben to Waterloo Bridge, along the Victoria Embankment to Bloody Tower and beautiful London Bridge. We climbed to the top of St. Paul's, later saw the changing of the guards, Scottish to English. We walked around Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, and Charing Cross. We visited the Old Curiosity Shop, the Wax Museum, some lovely parks, Kensington Gardens, Westminster Abbey and Bridge, the exterior of the House of Lords, and Drury Lane. Names, names as old as my reading, as rich as my inheritance. London of Elizabeth, of James, of Anne, of Victoria, Dickens, Wilde, Irving, and Disraeli.
Naturally, this was a wartime London-a united nations city. Girls in uniform from Ireland, Wales, Scotland, Norway, Poland, and Czechoslovakia and WACS from America. Soldiers from New
Zealand, South Africa, Belgium, Greece, France, from the forty eight states, from Australia, the Netherlands, from all over Britain. Uniforms of every description-royal blue, pale blue, and a dozen shades of khaki. As many different hats as there were services, everyone's favorite being the Aussies' and the Wrens' style!
All of this was London, but it was not until I looked over the city from the top of St. Paul's that I knew for certain just where I was, felt sure that I was in London. A good sun was shining, although it was somewhat hazy. The haze softened the lovely spires and towers of London. All about St. Paul's there was the ugly hand of the barbarians. The area on three sides of it was flattened for several blocks. I looked at London Bridge from where on one such hazy morning Wordsworth had written: "Earth hath not anything to show more fair." It was still an inspiring and gracious sight-the winding slow-moving Thames and the laden barges, a great city, horribly scarred, but like a great people only just that, scarred but never beaten, holding firm to this challenge to civilization. It was common, of course, to draw the obvious remarks about St. Paul, something intact, permanent, and spiritual amid ruin. That was true, yes, but there was something else also significant inside the church.
Bombs had landed upon part of this beautiful building, this Wren masterpiece. It was horribly mutilated in spots, made a little ugly even-ignoble. But repairs were in process even amid the bombings. Block and tackle were hoisting new stones where others crumbled. Some things could never be replaced, but others took their place. The essential beauty remained. Something like this was happening to our civilization, our culture, our lives. We were being scarred, were being subjected to brutality, we were losing much, moving backward in some ways, and some things would never be seen again by anyone. But we were not entirely lost-we had not given in to the Germans; we were holding on to some measure of our culture; we still had something to build upon. We could use block and tackle; we could plug the hold that we in our neglect allowed to weaken and be pushed down. This seemed to me the meaning of St. Paul's and of London.
Of the nearly forty shows from which to choose Mavis and I saw three. We saw the Lunts in There Shall Be No Night. Our arrangements were to share expenses, but I had to see one show from the stalls. I pulled my rank-I had one stripe; Mavis had no stripes and we sat fifth row center. I have ever forgotten the night. As I was in much-bombed London in the very center of tragedy, sadness, and death and daily examples of conquering this death, this poignant and beautiful performance brought tears and memories that would live forever afterward. My personal involvement in World War II seemed, as it was meant to be reflected for us all, in the life of the play. Dr. Vlachos's situation, a very much heightened version of my own, was one I could not help identifying with. I was thankful for the understanding and sympathy given me, in silence or otherwise, by the strong, sensitive woman who shared the evening with me.
We also watched John Gielgud lead a superb company in Congreve's Love for Love. In the beautiful Haymarket Theatre, Gielgud both entertained me and taught me. We saw The Lisbon Story-a play with music, another side of the theatrical coin. During supper after Love for Love I remarked to Mavis that Mr. Gielgud, in program notes, called our time the "barren present." In contrast to the carefree world of the seventeenth century, yes. But barren? And a world in revolution? We knew what he meant-barren of artistic creation. Yet the adjective bothered us. Much was being born, much was getting started, in the fiery crucible of 1943-44. It was true that no great novel, play, song, or movie had as yet come from the United States. Perhaps none of these forms could contain the war. It was more like an epic. The scale of the war was so great that no play, no movie, nor even a novel could encompass it. The breaking and smashing of ancient sanctuaries, the frenzy of hatred, the incipient revolution that was sweeping the world surged beyond the confines of any form of art save the epic. It would probably be written by someone of another generation.
We ultimately had an air raid.
***
The next morning, Mavis and I said good-bye to the Markendales and returned to Derby. On the station platform I kissed Mavis good-bye. She went north to Scotland and across the Irish Sea to Belfast. I returned south to Leicester. Under the severity and long silence of the fall, winter, and spring of 1944-45 we grew more fond of each other.
-0-
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
England 1944
Chapter 11
For fifteen years I've wanted to come to this country, to this England.
For months I've wanted to hear music. For days I've wanted to see
shows, eat at tables, and talk to English-speaking men and women.
Now I've come to England. I've heard some music, seen some plays,
been to dances, eaten at tables, conversed in English. In fact I've tried
desperately to have a good time. And I have failed miserably. I have
no heart for it-now that I've got it. I've no mind for it. It isn't the
thing or they are not the things that satisfy my desires-the interest
of my heart and mind. What I want is what I left in the mountains of
Italy-satisfaction of something accomplished, something concrete,
something real, something to eat up this tremendous desire to get on
with the business of exterminating Germans.
Moving from North Ireland through Scotland to Leicester in
the Midlands was like traveling back through one's reading. Little
did I know of North Irish literature, but some I knew of Scotland.
The country I sped through, whether lowlands, highlands, or
moors, suggested those literary landscapes I had read about since
childhood. Conversation in the jeep was certainly negligible, so that
my mind ran off to the songs of Burns, the castles and abbeys of
Scott, the lakes of Wordsworth. We crossed the border into England
seeing road signs (when they were not removed for military security)
pointing to Carlisle, Nottingham, Liverpool; I remembered
Emily Bronte and Thomas Hardy. The deeper we got into England,
with names like Lancaster, Westmoorland, Cumberland, Derby,
Shakespeare, and the Wars, stirred memories of the Henrys and the
Richards. The trip was far more like being on holiday. It was a
dream come true. If only there weren't the army and a war.
***
For fifteen years I've wanted to come to this country, to this England.
For months I've wanted to hear music. For days I've wanted to see
shows, eat at tables, and talk to English-speaking men and women.
Now I've come to England. I've heard some music, seen some plays,
been to dances, eaten at tables, conversed in English. In fact I've tried
desperately to have a good time. And I have failed miserably. I have
no heart for it-now that I've got it. I've no mind for it. It isn't the
thing or they are not the things that satisfy my desires-the interest
of my heart and mind. What I want is what I left in the mountains of
Italy-satisfaction of something accomplished, something concrete,
something real, something to eat up this tremendous desire to get on
with the business of exterminating Germans.
Moving from North Ireland through Scotland to Leicester in
the Midlands was like traveling back through one's reading. Little
did I know of North Irish literature, but some I knew of Scotland.
The country I sped through, whether lowlands, highlands, or
moors, suggested those literary landscapes I had read about since
childhood. Conversation in the jeep was certainly negligible, so that
my mind ran off to the songs of Burns, the castles and abbeys of
Scott, the lakes of Wordsworth. We crossed the border into England
seeing road signs (when they were not removed for military security)
pointing to Carlisle, Nottingham, Liverpool; I remembered
Emily Bronte and Thomas Hardy. The deeper we got into England,
with names like Lancaster, Westmoorland, Cumberland, Derby,
Shakespeare, and the Wars, stirred memories of the Henrys and the
Richards. The trip was far more like being on holiday. It was a
dream come true. If only there weren't the army and a war.
***
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