大象传媒

One evening, on the duly appointed day and five minutes before the duly appointed time, I found myself on my own and feeling very alone, wondering what it was all about and looking along a starkly empty road, uncertain as to what to expect. In my mind, having heard the local chat around town, I was expecting a small group of soldiers and some fire fighting equipment. Perhaps a sort of army fire engine.

When it happened my jaw took on a life of its own, having had the immediate urge to drop in the general direction of my knees. I gaped at the long line of soldiers arriving in jeeps and other transport, seemingly stretching back forever. Whatever had been planned, had somehow moved on to becoming something different and surely on a larger scale. The servicemen in the first jeep all had white polished helmets. They looked, as did the whole outfit as far back as I could see, as sharp as new paint. They sat straight and rigid, as at attention, looking directly ahead. Above all, they looked very professional and whatever it was about, it was serious business.

Then there was myself. In my official uniform of black helmet and otherwise my very ordinary clothes, courtesy of wartime ration coupons. The helmet particularly had become noticeably cantankerous, it more than once having the disconcerting habit of nodding all of its own - whilst I was shaking my head. No doubt this was how I had been persuaded into taking on this job.

I had to make the best of it and get on with it. The line of troops in their vehicles were waiting. Waiting for me to do something. No-one had informed me about this part of the procedure, but boyish inspiration came to the rescue. I had seen many a Western depicting wagon trains and as these were sure enough Americans, I mounted what stood in for my steed and let out with something like, 鈥淭he wagons had better roll then". To make sure, I pointed a finger down the road we were going to take.

As I moved off, I looked back and it was awesome. That great band of men and equipment started forward. And there was I, on my old borrowed bicycle and on a sort of special American assignment. To a fifteen year old Grammar School boy, it was unreal. The front wheel, well trained in these matters, had for some time pointed down a road that I was obviously intended to proceed along. Thankfully, the back wheel had dutifully followed on and after a flat stretch of road of about a mile and a half, both wheels were now turning faster of their own accord, telling me that we were now definitely beginning to descend to the valley below.

The hill was well known to me, yet on this occasion it was proving to be deliberately unfamiliar, appearing to be much longer than ever before and stretching away endlessly like a piece of elastic. This had revealed another aggravation that could well be described as waiting to happen. As already mentioned, there was the huge fascination the helmet had for my facial apparatus. Now, the combination of a black hearted helmet, a design of semi-dropped handlebar on the bicycle that demanded leaning forward over same, together with careering down a long hill, created a situation which can only be described as wild, as the helmet decided to leap almost indecently on to my innocent and unprotected nose. Moreover, both my hands were fully engaged on other more urgent matters, requiring a firm grip on the aforementioned steering apparatus, with fingers hovering on the brakes. I had no other choice but leave them there and to follow what little I could see from under the helmet rim, of the wall on the left hand side of the road. On and on I went, oblivious of everything except the flying front wheel of the bicycle in relation to that wall.

Blushing a bright pink from the uninhibited attention it had been getting, the bridge of my nose was a shining example of virtue. It might have earned me the nickname of Rudolph, but right now, I had to concentrate my mind. I knew from past experience, the guiding wall followed the road bearing to the left. Crossing over there was no oncoming vehicle, but leaping at me was a large garage on the far side of a sharp bend to the right, which was the intended route.

The old borrowed bicycle like a trusty steed, allowed itself to be reined in with an application of brakes, as I whirled down and around. Shortly after that, there was the relief of a short piece of level roadway and the first sight of the Fowey harbour and the church came into view.

It would be a timely place to halt and deal with my helmet. On another day I might have kicked it over the wall I was leaning against. Instead, I got myself together, or whatever you do on these occasions and I pulled in the strap of the helmet. In frustration I jambed it on to the back of my head. I knew that the next stage of the journey was testing, with a long and very steep Cornish hill that did not allow for an error of judgement all the way to the bottom. Especially on this occasion, with that long convoy of American vehicles behind me. In the narrowest parts, there would not be a lot of room to spare on either side of the road.

I looked back. There they all were, still as slick as can be and stretching right back up and around the right hand bend we had just negotiated. Perhaps some of the soldiers back there, would be the ones I had got to know by sight. They had shown me how to throw a "sidewinder" with a baseball - and I had acquired from them the nickname of "Slim." Wherever they were all going in time to come, "Slim" was doing his best. Then, with some hitherto unknown determination of purpose, I gave a second firm push on the helmet so that it was almost balancing on the nape of my neck and it was with a certain style, that I got back into my saddle. The way ahead, was the way ahead. Led by the old borrowed bicycle, the black helmet at a raunchy angle, with me in between, away I went and away went the first jeep with the white polished helmets and all the rest of the cavalcade.

As the gentle incline gave way to the steepest of hills, I peered much further down, towards the mass of glass window that was the large grocery store that faced on to the roadway. With what was intended to be with an iron grip, I held on to the brakes, knowing the guys behind me in the jeep of the white helmets, could fully see the hazard that lay in front. It was not the time to dwell on the possibility of vehicles getting out off control. Coming up was a right hand turn which must be ignored, but to veer to the left to negotiate a sharp dip down the hill and go by the side of the grocery store - and then on by the old butcher's shop.

Coming down a hill as steep as it was, the fingers of both hands were squeezing the brake handles desperately. I could visualise suddenly increasing speed and thereby inducing the Americans to follow a lead into acceleration, which would easily have ended in disaster. At the bottom, the roadway bore to the left, hiding from view a sharp right turn which had to be made. There were small shops on both sides looking on to a narrowing of the old road.
Stifling any thoughts of the general mayhem that could be caused by U S transport and troops piling up in a terrible chaos at one of the two main entrance roads into the town, I deliberately slowed to a near crawl, negotiated the left bend and then automatically, put out my right hand to indicate the sharp turn - for the access road to the Town Quay and the River Fowey.

It would not have been too long after my guiding of the American troops into the town, that it was being suggested to my parents that I should join with a number of young people of Fowey to help out on a farm located much further down the coast, near Penzance. Our visit to the Penzance farming area had a dual purpose. In the West Country generally, there were a large number of children who had been brought away from London to escape the German bombing. In time we had got used to seeing them around and about the town and attending the local schools. It was now our turn to become evacuees to escape the bombing of Fowey and we were reasonably well looked after, as we assisted the farmer and the Land Army girls already employed there with any task that we were gIven.

The weather was agreeable, until the end of May. Then with the coming of the first week in June 1944, it changed dramatically, as it gave way to heavy rain over the English Channel with choppy to very rough conditions at sea. Although there was a constant surveillance by allied patrolling aircraft, it was impossible to conceal from the enemy the build up of ships and troops on the Southwestern coast of Britain. Part of the planning had been that the enemy would construe the massive concentration as being a deliberate deception, to keep the enemy guessing about the true invasion landing zones. It had seemed to be inconceivable that an operation of this size could remain undetected. Yet, the anticipated air raid on the massive build up of US military presence at Fowey, never happened.

At Southwick House, just outside of Portsmouth, and now the HQ of the Supreme Allied Command, the elements spitefully lashed at the windows with defient disregard for rank and authority, boldly challenging the lone figure watching the relentless pouring rain. It was a desperately lonely and awesome responsibility. The Supreme Commander carried the onerous task for launching 鈥淥verlord鈥� the code name of the invasion. That vitally important decision lay on the shoulders of one, General Dwight David Eisenhower.

The one thing that wasn't going according to plan was the weather. Everyone knew it could be decisive. At that time, according to the expert meteorological forecast it was likely to go from difficult to very difficult, offering an overcast sky which would ground much needed air support, together with heavy seas which could overpower landing craft. Many of the small beaching craft were already in the open sea lanes in a driving downpour of rain, crowded with soldiers waiting for the word to go, but who were becoming exhausted by the cold and their own retching stomachs. Some of the troops had already been suffering these conditions for three days.

Yet if the great armada was launched in spite of the weather conditions and then defeated, it could mean the loss of unthinkable numbers of young servicemen. The same result might follow from a daylight landing at a later date. It was also painfully apparent that any sort of delay would give the enemy time to strengthen its defences. There could only be one attempt at the invasion across the Channel. It had to be as right as it could be the first time. A decision had to be made.............

There had been a vast amount of intense activity by the American forces. It was an enormous operation, involving vast numbers of forces and yet requiring the utmost secrecy. With careful and efficient pre-planning and management, all those soldiers and marines together with their equipment, were brought down from their camps by road. They then would have waited in line, for their turn perhaps to descend perhaps old Cornish granite steps, going down to boats at the water's edge. There to board them, to be ferried out to the various seagoing assault craft.

There was the old Town Quay at Fowey, a one time landing place for pilchards. Now ready for a different purpose. How many had gone from there?

With all lights blacked out, the American ships just a dark floating mass, they had silently slipped away in the grey of very early dawn. Leaving Fowey Harbour, to join the great armada crossing the English Channel from England to France. This was 鈥淒-Day鈥� the 6th of June 1944.

Today and the grace of the present moment, it has been said, is all we have. Yet this very thought brought the poignent realisation to mind, that for so many of those servicemen, that day of the invasion was all they had. There were the stories of the many hundreds lying lifeless, on the beaches of Omaha, or floating in the sea darkly reddened by the blood of their sacrifice. Those young Americans who intending to be friendly, electing to call me 鈥淪lim鈥� - were they there amongst those dead? Had they given their today, so that we could have our
tomorrow?

Tomorrow, there was hope for a better world. My brother would be returning, perhaps to reclaim his old bicycle, but with bad memories of the battle of Monte Cassino and the permanant memento of a serious shoulder wound he had received there. Coming up for me would be National Service in the Royal Air Force, when after lengthy training I would be sent out designated on active service, to join an operational Squadron in the Middle East. My Dad, for his continuing work with the St Johnls Ambulance Brigade, would go to London to receive the honour of becoming a Senior Brother of the Order of St John.

Tomorrow had yet to come.

This was today, the day of celebration for victory after a long and costly war. That had started for me, standing on the granite steps going down from the vestry into the back of the Fowey church. A memorable day but which gave way to many reminiscences and then to thoughts of soldier's boots, perhaps on their final journey descending down those other old granite steps to the water's edge, at the Fowey Town Quay.

I was holding between the fingers of both hands, the rim of the old black steel helmet, my sole piece of uniform of the war. For a moment I had been lost in so many different thoughts until I heard a voice, which I recognised as my own, saying to the helmet, "Well we did do a little bit to help didn't we ?" It must have been my imagination, but didn't that old black steel helmet give a nod?

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