大象传媒

My father, Quentin J. Gobble, was a Marine stationed at Beechill,in Derry in WWII. Along with his older brother, Hughes, they were part of C Company, responsible for guarding the ammunition site located there. They came from the mountains of upper East Tennessee sometime in 1942, and left behind a large family 鈥� nine sisters, one brother, and parents.

Like a lot of the young men and women in WWII, this was their first trip away from home. Ireland left an impression on my dad that he conveyed to me many times, which has not dimmed in my memory even though he has been dead for almost 33 years. In spite of several tragedies that occurred there, my dad loved Ireland. Indeed, there were only two places on earth he would ever concede as equal in beauty and in the warmth of the people 鈥� Tennessee and Ireland.

It strikes me as a bit ironic how much my dad loved Ireland when I consider the difficulties he occurred there and that eventually led to his early death at age 53. You鈥檇 think his memories of Ireland would have been bitter. But they weren鈥檛. He left Ireland in 1943 and never returned. His health would not permit it. And so I find myself at nearly the same age my dad was when he died, making that trip and hoping to find the Ireland my Dad loved.

In the US, each state has a 鈥渘ickname鈥� and Tennessee鈥檚 is 鈥淭he Volunteer State鈥� because we had so many volunteers for WWI and WWII, and true to form, my dad and his brother were volunteers. My dad was in college at the time 鈥� and if you knew my dad, education was everything to him 鈥� so giving that up would have been a big deal. But off they went. My dad and his brother were stationed together, which I understand is no longer permitted in today鈥檚 military. I have to believe they would have felt grateful about being together, and probably somewhat excited about going abroad, even if it was wartime and the dangers were clear.

My dad鈥檚 letters, the few I have, tell about the fun they experienced and little of the difficulties. He never wanted to worry his mother. Even the tragic news of September 23, 1943, that my uncle was killed in the River Foyle was tempered with comments about the kindness of his command and the support of the people around him. My own son is nearly 30 now and active duty Navy 鈥� I think many times about the dangers he faces as he has served in Iraq multiple times. To think that my dad was even younger than my son is now and dealing with such a loss really puts my dad鈥檚 story in perspective for me 鈥� perhaps only the perspective a mother can have.

The story is that my dad was on guard duty while my uncle was on maneuvers with his platoon 鈥� apparently they were running about 10 miles with heavy packs, and it was a rainy, and probably chilly, day. These young Marines had been running for some time, and were directed into the River Foyle. Given their packs, their probable body temperatures after running some distance, and the cold of the River Foyle, several of them went down upon hitting the water. My dad said that it was thought that they didn鈥檛 drown 鈥� that they were dead before that could occur 鈥攁ssuming the theory was correct that their hearts stopped beating due to the dramatic changes in temperature. In any case, the Marine in charge of his platoon went back to save these young men and he himself drowned in the process. Although I don鈥檛 know the number who died, I understand at least four or five did not survive.

My dad said he was advised something had happened while he stood at his post, and he knew immediately in his gut that Hughes was dead. When they finally came to relieve him, he had apparently had some time to take this in. The blow was tremendous. It just wasn鈥檛 expected to die in a training maneuver with a war going on all around them!

I remember he said that the Marines would not leave the spot until all the bodies of those young men were found and taken out of the water. Not one was left behind. Alone, he escorted his brother鈥檚 body to burial in Brookwood Cemetery in England, just south of London. His letter to his mother chronicling the sad event stated that 鈥渕om, we would never had had the money to give Hughes the kind of burial that the Marines gave him鈥�, and many times mentioned Capt Ludke. How I wish I could have met Capt Ludke when he was there in 1999! I would have very much liked to talk with him. I suspect he would have remembered this terrible accident and could have shared those memories with me. My dad thought so highly of him.

Shortly after his brother鈥檚 death, my father was stricken with rheumatic fever. I have photos of him in Ireland looking much like a concentration camp survivor. The rheumatic fever damaged his heart and finally sent him home early from Ireland. Ultimately, the damage claimed his life in 1973.

Although I was a teenager when my dad died, and probably like most teens, a bit too self-absorbed to pay much attention, I recall most of all his great love of the people and the country of Ireland. The older I got, the more I wanted to know, but the fewer people there were around who had any information for me. In fact, when people of my generation discussed WWII (rarely), and I mentioned that my dad was in Ireland, I was generally met with odd gazes 鈥� 鈥渨here?鈥� No one seemed to know anything about Ireland and WWII, including a number of WWII vets, and nothing about a base in Ireland.

So with this event I am about to attend, I feel I am perhaps making a connection with my dad and his brother. I am completing a trip my dad longed to make himself, and in some way perhaps resolving my own guilt about not paying more attention to what he had to share when he was with me and able to share it.

I cannot believe I am about to make this journey. I am thrilled and very emotional about it. And I am so very grateful for all the people in Ireland who are making me feel so welcome, and the Marines who are inviting me to join them. I hope I am making my dad a bit proud of me. I am so very proud of him. And I鈥檒l have the story to share with my children and grandchildren on his behalf. Thanks to all of you who cared to listen!
Polly Booher January 2006

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