大象传媒

We were there as evacuees from the wars dangerous places--London, Dover, Deal, and many other cities and towns targetted by the Luftwaffe. Sturminster Newton in Dorset was our little haven away from Hell and we loved its rolling hills, the meadows and woodlands.

The London children tended to look down on anyone not from "The Smoke" and at first referred to most of us, particularly the local children as "Swedes", but after a short time we were all good mates and even the street wise Londoners were beginning to sound likes "Swedes" too, and were developing a Dorset accent.

Most of the children were in the care of families other than their own but I was fortunate to live with relatives, Aunt Cissy and Uncle Herbert Inkpen. Theirs was a pretty little bungalow on the Hinton Saint Mary Road, with a nicely kept flower garden in the front and a large vegetable garden in the back with a garden shed. From there, one could see for miles across the undulating Dorset countryside.

Aunt Cissy was a slim, softly spoken, kindly woman, who could whip up heavenly steak and kidney pies and puddings and jam duffs out of thin air, or so it seemed. Uncle Herbert, an auctioneer, was a thick set man with beetle brows and a stern countenance. He was quite intimidating and I was a bit afraid of him at first, but once I got to know him I discovered he had a big and generous heart. He owned an Austin Ruby car and always seemed to have plenty of petrol for it, even though there was very strict rationing of fuel. Come to think of it, he would bring home plenty of other good things from his travels, like eggs, chickens, legs of pork and other items in short supply at the time. It was my guess Uncle Herbert knew a lot of kind people.

Although we missed our parents, most of our Dads were away in one of the armed forces and Mum still back "at Home", we generally enjoyed our lives in the green of Dorset. We continued with our schooling, of course, but when that was done for the day we were off to the woods playing hide-and-seek, building camps and leaping into the river Stour from a small railway bridge, much to the horror of the grown-ups.

Then one day something happened which would change the face of sleepy old "Stur" -- the Yanks arrived. Suddenly the roads were crowded with big olive green lorries, white star on the side, packed with soldiers in strange looking uniforms and helmets. Many of the soldiers were grinning and waving and, of all things, throwing packets of chewing gum and chocolate bars to the kids. It seemed they were about to take over the town; they certainly took over the vicarage. Hundreds of tents were erected in pastureland on the outskirts of town and they took over the little elementary school just up the road from Aunt Cissy. In no time, big notice boards were everywhere --"4th Inf Div Pers Only", "4th Inf Div Intell Sec", "Out of bounds--This means YOU".

Tall radio aerials appeared on the roof of the school and a generator roared to life and remained roaring day and night. Jeeps and lorries were always screeching to a halt outside the school HQ and officers with silver stars on their jackets would hurry into the building after being smartly saluted by the armed soldiers at the entrance. After some time, they would leave the HQ carrying what appeared to be large rolls of paper under their arms, get back into the Jeep and roar off in clouds of exhaust smoke. We wondered what it was they were carring and why they always looked so serious. Little did we know...

As the weeks went by, we became better acquainted with the Yanks who would put on little parties for us and give a film show (they called them movies) of Laurel and Hardy and The Three Stooges. There were always plenty of good things to eat and every child left with a couple of chocolate bars. We got to know many of the men well. There was Lonnie, from New Jersey; he was a terrific artist and he used to draw pictures of Spitfires and P-47 Thunderbolts shooting down German bombers. He would also draw pictures of American soldiers attacking German machine gun emplacements. We thought it was terrific and wished and wished we were grown up and could put on those snazzy uniforms and shoot down German bombers and attack German machine gun nests. On my, how we envied them. Then there was Tex; he was big and tall and every one called him Tex. He was from Montana! He would tell us about his spread in Montana and how he wished he were back there with his horses and his kids. He showed us photographs of his two daughters who were very pretty and older than we were. We asked the soldiers when they would be going back to America and they said when the war was won.

There came a day when all the soldiers went to some movies that only soldiers could see. They told us they were "propagada" movies and we wondered what that meant. They took over the Scout Hall and no civilians were allowed. We asked what the movies were about and were told "tactics". We didn't know what that meant either. A few days later, the artist Lonnie said
"Well, kiddo, we leave tomorrow. The show is on the road" and he gave me a big hug. I did not want to say goodbye to my American friend and his buddies and I wept hot tears. We had all grown attached to these kind men from that far off country. But leave they did the next day, in long columns of lorries and tanks. It took several hours before they were all gone and we stood at the side of the road waving and waving and missing them so much. We would never see those men again.

A few days later, just before dawn, we were awakened by the loud throbbing of aircraft engines and the roar went on for what seemed hours. No one knew what it meant but one of the grown ups said it was a thousand bomber raid on Germany. Later that day, I was on a train with Aunt Cissy going from Sturminster Newton to Blandford to buy some curtain material. Suddenly, there was the screeching of brakes, the carriage shuddered and the train slowed down to a complete stop. We were in a cutting and unable to see anything to the left or right. After about ten minutes, the train started to slowly move out of the cutting. To our left was a small copse and among the trees across the embankment we saw a mass of bright splintered wood and olive green fabric flapping in the morning breeze. Pointing straight up into the blue sky was an olive green wing with a shining white star, brilliant in the Dorset morning sun. Everyone got off the train. Beside the tangle of olive green wreckage lay some soldiers in the uniforms that we had come to know so well. They seemed to be sleep- ing, their faces covered with pieces of the olive green fabric. They did not move.

Another American soldier sat near the wreckage smoking a cigarette, staring straight ahead. Several soldiers stood near by, silent, and two or three used their rifles as crutches for support. Some women passengers, including Auntie Cissy, started to cry and then the full impact of what happened struck me, too, and I began to cry. I understood why those American soldiers in their snazzy uniforms were lying on the ground and not moving. I heard the train guard say to one of the women "It was one of them invasion force gliders, Missus, and they was supposed to land in France but the poor blighters didn't get very far, I'm afraid".

It was D-Day, sixth of June 1944.

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