D-Daywear has a brick at Juno Beach for this man, I was taken back a little hearing his story from the grave.
Joe Wilson
www.ddaywear.com
A POST CARD FROM NORMANDY
Greetings from Calvados
Summer has at last arrived in Normandy. The days are getting longer and
the nights shorter, the same as when I got here. For those who've yet to
visit this part of France it may come as a surprise to learn that
nowadays at this time of year Normandy's beaches are overrun with
topless sunbathers, picnicking families, and hordes of tourists. I know,
because I've been keeping track of the comings and goings around here
for some sixty odd years now. I didn't plan to stay here this long, but
that's how my government sponsored ocean voyage to England, and the
bonus dawn excursion by air to Drop Zone V, turned out.
Folks in Canada must imagine it to be very monotonous for me - always in
the same place with the same chums, and for such a long time. I did too,
at first. Then the visitors from home started to show up. Some of them
couldn't fathom why I and the others did what we did, or why we had to
travel so far from home to do it. But then, there is probably no good
reason why they should, especially after so many years have gone by, and
no one probably ever took the time to give them any of the details. If
they could have heard me, though, I'd have set them straight. We really
had no choice in the matter. Besides, a good many of our dads had
already got here ahead of us, in 1914, to fight for the same things as
us. And like me, many of them stayed on over here too, and in places
just like mine now.
When I first got here I thought I was alone. But I soon discovered there
are two thousand five hundred and sixty two others with me. And every
one of them remains forever the same age they were back in June, 1944.
Most arrived at about the same time too, including the seventy-six who
jumped with me, were scattered far and wide, and ended up in the
flood-waters between the Orne and Dives Rivers. In those days everyone
in the battalion called me either "Mister," or "Sir." But we've become a
pretty tight knit group since then, and everyone nearby now just calls
me: "Knobby." Each one of us has been given his own special address,
though, and all have their own special story to tell.
My journey here began right after I landed and coughed up most of the
water I'd swallowed. I had my small pack and my sub machine gun with me,
and I was heading toward our rendevous with a few of the lads following.
I also recall seeing several others from my battalion travelling
alongside our path, and all were going in the same general direction.
The details are fuzzy after that. The long and the short of it is that
before being given a permanent address in Grave 2, Row F, Plot 5, in the
British Airborne Cemetery, I had first to spend more than a year all on
my own. It seems someone along the way picked up my drill cane. Another
soul took my kit and my boots. And either a friend, or a foe, buried me
in an isolated spot near Bavent. It was on the east side of the road
that runs north from Troarn to Petiville. The ones who eventually found
me didn't have much to go on at first, just a lone wooden cross
inscribed: "Unknown Canadian Soldier." Then they dug deeper and saw my
dog tags. About six weeks later I was relocated to where I am today.
Shortly after that is when my first visitor, Brigadier James Hill, came.
By the time my mom and dad arrived to see where I was the white, wood
marker I first had had been replaced by a proper and permanent one made
of grey concrete. It was exactly the same stone that everyone else from
Canada had, except my folks arranged for a favourite verse to be
chiselled into mine, near the bottom: "When from Sight Our Loved One
Fell, Thine Arms Encircled Him, All Is Well." It summed up my situation
pretty well, don't you think? They never did get to make a second visit.
In later years, though, my two sisters came to see me several times. But
they too have now joined our parents.
Every year some of the lads from the battalion drop by, usually around
June 6, to visit with us. They always doff their cherry beret, bow their
head, lay a poppy on the earth above us, and most times shed a tear,
before saying goodby. Sometimes they speak to us as well, but none of us
has ever been able to hear what was said. Now their numbers are getting
fewer and fewer with each passing year, so we know it will be just a
matter of time, before we won't be seeing any of them either. I always
knew it was bound to happen, what with them getting on in age and most
now in their eighties, but its sometimes hard to take, especially when
you're forever 29 years old.
Never mind, though, always look on the bright side, I say. Should you
ever come to Normandy, I and my chums would love to have you visit with
us. Especially if you can make it on or about June 6. I'm not to good at
giving directions any more, but if your driving you'll find all of us
eleven kilometres northeast of Caen, between the River Orne and road
N.813, from Caen to Cabourg. Or you can always take the bus from Caen to
Cabourg. It passes through Ranville Village. Our cemetery lies next to
the village churchyard. You'll find all our names on our stones. Mine
says: "CLARK, WO1, (RSM) WENDELL J., P/15392 1ST CANADIAN PARACHUTE BN,
RCIC, 6TH JUNE 1944. AGE 29. SON OF T.C. AND IRENE M. CLARK, OF OTTAWA,
ONTARIO, CANADA."
Yours truly,
Knobby & his chums
Joe Wilson
www.ddaywear.com
A POST CARD FROM NORMANDY
Greetings from Calvados
Summer has at last arrived in Normandy. The days are getting longer and
the nights shorter, the same as when I got here. For those who've yet to
visit this part of France it may come as a surprise to learn that
nowadays at this time of year Normandy's beaches are overrun with
topless sunbathers, picnicking families, and hordes of tourists. I know,
because I've been keeping track of the comings and goings around here
for some sixty odd years now. I didn't plan to stay here this long, but
that's how my government sponsored ocean voyage to England, and the
bonus dawn excursion by air to Drop Zone V, turned out.
Folks in Canada must imagine it to be very monotonous for me - always in
the same place with the same chums, and for such a long time. I did too,
at first. Then the visitors from home started to show up. Some of them
couldn't fathom why I and the others did what we did, or why we had to
travel so far from home to do it. But then, there is probably no good
reason why they should, especially after so many years have gone by, and
no one probably ever took the time to give them any of the details. If
they could have heard me, though, I'd have set them straight. We really
had no choice in the matter. Besides, a good many of our dads had
already got here ahead of us, in 1914, to fight for the same things as
us. And like me, many of them stayed on over here too, and in places
just like mine now.
When I first got here I thought I was alone. But I soon discovered there
are two thousand five hundred and sixty two others with me. And every
one of them remains forever the same age they were back in June, 1944.
Most arrived at about the same time too, including the seventy-six who
jumped with me, were scattered far and wide, and ended up in the
flood-waters between the Orne and Dives Rivers. In those days everyone
in the battalion called me either "Mister," or "Sir." But we've become a
pretty tight knit group since then, and everyone nearby now just calls
me: "Knobby." Each one of us has been given his own special address,
though, and all have their own special story to tell.
My journey here began right after I landed and coughed up most of the
water I'd swallowed. I had my small pack and my sub machine gun with me,
and I was heading toward our rendevous with a few of the lads following.
I also recall seeing several others from my battalion travelling
alongside our path, and all were going in the same general direction.
The details are fuzzy after that. The long and the short of it is that
before being given a permanent address in Grave 2, Row F, Plot 5, in the
British Airborne Cemetery, I had first to spend more than a year all on
my own. It seems someone along the way picked up my drill cane. Another
soul took my kit and my boots. And either a friend, or a foe, buried me
in an isolated spot near Bavent. It was on the east side of the road
that runs north from Troarn to Petiville. The ones who eventually found
me didn't have much to go on at first, just a lone wooden cross
inscribed: "Unknown Canadian Soldier." Then they dug deeper and saw my
dog tags. About six weeks later I was relocated to where I am today.
Shortly after that is when my first visitor, Brigadier James Hill, came.
By the time my mom and dad arrived to see where I was the white, wood
marker I first had had been replaced by a proper and permanent one made
of grey concrete. It was exactly the same stone that everyone else from
Canada had, except my folks arranged for a favourite verse to be
chiselled into mine, near the bottom: "When from Sight Our Loved One
Fell, Thine Arms Encircled Him, All Is Well." It summed up my situation
pretty well, don't you think? They never did get to make a second visit.
In later years, though, my two sisters came to see me several times. But
they too have now joined our parents.
Every year some of the lads from the battalion drop by, usually around
June 6, to visit with us. They always doff their cherry beret, bow their
head, lay a poppy on the earth above us, and most times shed a tear,
before saying goodby. Sometimes they speak to us as well, but none of us
has ever been able to hear what was said. Now their numbers are getting
fewer and fewer with each passing year, so we know it will be just a
matter of time, before we won't be seeing any of them either. I always
knew it was bound to happen, what with them getting on in age and most
now in their eighties, but its sometimes hard to take, especially when
you're forever 29 years old.
Never mind, though, always look on the bright side, I say. Should you
ever come to Normandy, I and my chums would love to have you visit with
us. Especially if you can make it on or about June 6. I'm not to good at
giving directions any more, but if your driving you'll find all of us
eleven kilometres northeast of Caen, between the River Orne and road
N.813, from Caen to Cabourg. Or you can always take the bus from Caen to
Cabourg. It passes through Ranville Village. Our cemetery lies next to
the village churchyard. You'll find all our names on our stones. Mine
says: "CLARK, WO1, (RSM) WENDELL J., P/15392 1ST CANADIAN PARACHUTE BN,
RCIC, 6TH JUNE 1944. AGE 29. SON OF T.C. AND IRENE M. CLARK, OF OTTAWA,
ONTARIO, CANADA."
Yours truly,
Knobby & his chums
