THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, June 16, 1994 TAG: 9406150192
SECTION: SUFFOLK SUN PAGE: 06 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY ROBERT R. POCKLINGTON
DATELINE: 940616 LENGTH: Long
All through that cold, wet night on the English Channel, we waited for our signal to turn eastward. Our assignment was to blow up enemy obstacles preventing our ships from coming ashore. As combat engineers, our only war experience had been practicing landings on England's beaches and storming the windswept Moors. It was days before we realized we had been part of the invasion of France, months before we learned it was Omaha Beach.
{REST} Helicopters, jet planes and television had not yet been invented. No Dan Rather was there to describe the action. There was not even one enemy soldier present. The thousands of casualties were the result of rough seas, machine gun bullets, exploding shells and mines, not particularly what they hit. But in recent days you have seen all that on your TV screen. I missed that great coverage by American television. I was back in England.
Before the invasion, we were quartered in a castle called Dartington, near the town of Totnes in Devon, the west side of southern England. There is no way to describe the landscape beauty of Devon. You have to see it.
I lived there long enough to know the people, date the girls, enjoy the friendly atmosphere of the local pubs. I even learned the language. In the USA we think we speak English. In England, they do and the words they use are more picturesque and descriptive. In our huge country we remark about our regional accents. In England, about the size of Idaho, you will hear several at one bus stop, many of which you cannot understand. At age 19, I fell in love with Totnes and vowed to return. D-Day 1994 was the perfect opportunity.
From the moment my wife and I arrived, we were honored guests. Officials waited at the airport, along with a reporter from the BBC. We landed in Plymouth, one of the many ports from which the invasion forces sailed. We were whisked to Totnes by car and had our first cup of tea. Tea time in England is an event celebrated anytime you need to collect yourself and unwind, great for body and soul. Somehow you lose a day flying to Europe, and jet lag is real. We were given a day to adjust, but from then on there was no rest. For two weeks we were honored, feted and made part of every Totnes civic event.
The British have not forgotten our role in the war. They do not mention that they suffered relentless bombing for years, they do not decry the fact that many of their beautiful cities were reduced to rubble. They did not once remind us that many of their own people fought and died. Keep in mind that most of the citizens who were present fifty years ago are now gone and to most of the younger ones, WW II is merely a page in the history book, but they remember the Americans were there.
The most emotional event was when several dignitaries and I placed wreaths on the monument to their war dead. It was at that moment I realized that my efforts in the war paled when compared to theirs. I was alive, reading their names carved in the stone. I hoped they were all together somewhere in a special place for those who have given it all.
One wonderful evening was spent with a group of citizens, many my age and older, who did remember the war years and in particular the morning in June when they woke up to find the Americans had vanished during the night. We sat in a large circle and each told of their experience with the American soldiers, and I was very proud and flattered by their remarks.
Many remembered that as children they received chewing gum from the Americans as well as food, including our abominable K-rations, which we ate only as a last resort. They remembered many love affairs with soldiers, and how our huge trucks tore up their beautiful hedge rows and stone walls. But there were no complaints. During another evening of chorus and symphony, we were introduced and presented with a watercolor of the town center and toasted with sherry by the dignitaries.
On June 5, we took part in a symbolic flotilla of ships leaving Dartmouth to cross the channel. The weather was almost exactly as it had been when we left that same harbor 50 years before, and 485 private boats of all kinds were assembled. Unlike D-Day, this time the decision was made to remain in the harbor, so several hundred persons partied in Dartmouth instead of becoming seasick in the channel. I spent a memorable day in the company of a two-star British general who had been too young for WW II but wanted all the details of June 6 from a lowly three-stripe sergeant. Another great night, we sang and danced to old war tunes. Many a tear was shed.
Reporters sought interviews with the only Americans to return to Totnes. Most D-Day veterans had opted to head for the beaches in France. If I never see that sand again, it will be too soon.
D-Day is famous, but every other day of that war created a loss for someone. Most of the wounds and deaths and destruction came long before and long after that honored 24 hours. I have written this account so that you will know that the American effort during World War II is still deeply appreciated by the English people of those times. They are still in awe of America's ability to crank out limitless supplies of war materials. They marvel at how American women became overnight ``Rosie the Riveter.'' They bless our willingness to send nearly two million young people to help preserve their nation. And they asked me to thank you.
by CNB