My grandmother wrote these memories from her time during WWII. These are her words:
My American
I love shoes, especially sandals. As I stared at my brown sandals slowly scuffing the dust under the swing, I realized just how quiet and peaceful everything was on this lovely summer day of 1943. I tightened my grip on the ropes as I lay back and stared through the pear tree’s shiny leaves to a soft English blue sky: Birds singing, silence, quiet interruption of busy bees collecting pollen. Pushing gently with my brown sandals, I could swing back and forth never taking my eyes off the sky above. With my head bent back like that the ends of my hair swept underneath the swing.
“Now I am really a princess.” I thought to myself. You see, I found a beautiful palace this morning, never discovered before, under the gooseberry tree: My very own palace. No one would ever find me there. What was really silly was that palace had been there all the time and I had only discovered it this morning. Shifting my weight I leaned forward, stopping the swing by the toes of my sandals in the dust. I rubbed my hands together and shifted them; enjoying the smell of the ropes on them I could see a snail making his way across a dandelion with purposeful intent.
Suddenly, I sensed something happening. It was a feeling at first, but it turned into a low rumbling. A noise I never heard before. The rumbling grew louder and louder, I had never heard sounds like them before in my whole life and I was eight years old. I jumped off the swing and ran down the garden path past lettuce, peas, and wallflowers. I swerved around the old conservatory (now used for storage of unused furniture), around the corner of the large, red brick house, across the sweeping front lawn, through bushes of lilac and orange blossom, and stopping under the biggest tree in the whole world. From here I had a view of High St. that traveled through the village of Midsommer Norton in Sommerset England.
The sight that beheld my eyes, I will never forget as long as I live. The strangest of all things: millions and millions of men, tanks, and jeeps thundering into this sleepy village. Some of the workers peaked out of their windows and doorways not knowing quite what to do about it all.
Actually, there was not millions of them, maybe just a hundred or so, but, to my eyes, there were millions and millions all brown and dusty, heavy boots, marching while jeeps and trucks were rambling along. They made a sharp turn and marched right into my courtyard (at least I’d always thought of it as mine since nobody else had seemed to want it). This cobblestone courtyard was adjacent to the red brick house where I was living at the present time. They marched into some sort of formation, trucks and jeeps pulling into toe, and came to a stop. It would be years and years before I realized how profound this moment was. Staring at those dusty, sweaty men; one of them turned his head ever so slightly and winked at me. I was never winked at before and didn’t know what to do, so I just tried to smile. I was a very shy little girl.
I stayed rooted to my spot under the beach tree for some time watching all the comings and goings; yes, it seemed they were definitely going to stay for a while. Later, I ran into the house for my supper. Auntie Annie was just her calm self, dishing up the food as if nothing at all had happened. Uncle Arthur sat down at the table and he too remained his stoic self. Jayne, Connie, and Dorothy, their daughters, did a lot of whispering, but I was bursting at the seams. Questions were popping in my head until finally, I could stand it no longer. “Who are they? Where do they come from?? Did anyone hear them speak? I did, and they sounded strange. Why are they here and how long will they stay?” My questions were met with a quiet sigh from Auntie Annie and giggles from the girls. Obviously Uncle Arthur was just going to completely ignore the whole thing, and he did for the whole seven months the Americans stayed in our courtyard. Later the girls told me all they knew, which wasn’t much and that their parents (Auntie Annie and Uncle Arthur to me) had asked them to please go about the house and garden as though THEY weren’t there at all, and to stay away from the courtyard. Connie explained that as she was 19 and Methodist and Dorothy 17 and Methodist and Jane 14 and Methodist, it was proper to ignore the whole thing.
I tried to sleep that night but, as usual, just could not. I had a “sleeping” problem, everyone knew that, but there was nothing anyone could do about it. Tonight I didn’t care; I leaned my elbows on the windowsill and began my nightly vigil of watching what the men would do tonight. My thoughts, though, were in a great turmoil. What were Americans? What were they doing here? Did they like us? Were they really our friends and could they be trusted? Did they hate Hitler as much as me? Just because Auntie Annie and Uncle Arthur had forbidden Dorothy, Connie and Jane to go into the courtyard there didn’t seem any likelihood that they would stop me. After all, it was my courtyard and I was the only one who played there in years. Anyway, I was 8 and Catholic that made the difference. I hugged myself longing for morning, to go to the courtyard and make sure they were still there. I finally climbed into my big bed, fell asleep and dreamed of cowboys and Indians.
During the months of their stay, we were all to become very good friends. Now I realize I must have been sort of a “mascot” for them. They let me ride on the hood of their jeeps up and down the country lanes, wear their jackets on cold, wet days, and wear their green, heavy helmets. They took pictures of me, sent the pictures to America; to “mom, “dad” and “sis”. Well, not before too long, boxes of oranges addressed to me arrived. I took them to school and shared them and became very popular. Auntie Annie and Uncle Arthur didn’t mind a bit. After all, they were “using” my courtyard. I also received lots of chewing gum, one was called “beechnut” and I could never relate that to my huge beech tree in the courtyard.
Because I was Catholic, my little church was an old barn way down off of High Street. It was quiet and peaceful there. Father Brown and I were good friends. The first Sunday after My Americans arrived, I was quietly playing in the barn. I heard a SLOW, HEAVY noise coming toward us. It got louder and louder then I realized My Americans were coming inside my little church. I was amazed. The noise of their boots with cleats on them… THE PRESENCE OF THOSE MEN…oh, I was soooo proud. It seemed most of my Americans were Catholic! Wow!! And, as they walked down to my little “barn church”, they all had to pass the wonderful stain glass windows and my tall pine of the protestant church. Pass that by and continue on to our wee church. Just imagine the excitement we will have every Sunday!
One day it was drizzling rain and I ran over to the shelter of a jeep. Inside was John, one of my favorites, and he was crying. I’d never seen a “boy” or a man cry before. So I said nothing, just sat there and watched the rain dripping from the windshield. Finally, he turned to me, eyes so blue and brimming with tears, “She’s not going to wait for me to get home. She’s not going to wait for me.” He mumbled. I said “who?” he said “my girl”. Well, again, like a lot of other things that happened, I would not fully understand what he was talking about for years and years. “Ann,” he said, “Don’t ever do that, do this to any man… say you’ll marry him and then turn around and go for some other guy.” “No John, I will never do that.” Silence. As rain dripped down, I was getting wet because the side windows were not “buckled on”. Silence. “Ann, if you ever get to Bakersfield California, just know that you will always have a home there. My folks would just love you and you’d love Bakersfield, California.” That was the first time of several times I would be told of girls taking off with other guys, and it was always sad. It seemed to happen a lot to this particular group of men.
That night as I kept my vigil with my moon sailing across the sky, I remembered every word of what John had said: Bakersfield, California. All that meant to me was that they must have fields of bakers all baking bread outside in the sun. Sunshine and freshly baked bread, it sounded glorious. I can go anytime; I’ve been invited.
One day Uncle Arthur planned a picnic. Now this was a very special occasion. This would be the day that Uncle Arthur would drive out our Hummer, one of about seven cars owned in Midsomer Norton, let alone in running order. Yes, if Uncle Arthur got out there in the stable (in the courtyard) and really worked on the car, it would run. It was very old and had cellophane windows that snapped shut with snappers.
Now the Americans had never seen “Betsy”, our old Hummer, and this was Sunday morning. Auntie Annie had made us dress in our finest. We lined up by the house (facing the courtyard). Connie was spotless in clue, Dorothy beautiful in pink, Jane all in yellow, and me. We all wore white gloves and hats: Aunt Annie too. Uncle Arthur rolled out “Betsy” huffing and puffing because “Betsy” was very heavy. After getting her into position, he went around to the front of the car and started to “wind” her up: A big crank used for only this purpose. Wind, wind, wind….nothing. “Betsy” was tired. Wind, wind, wind….nothing. Meanwhile, all the Americans came out to watch. They loved is and laughed, reeling in the courtyard. Uncle Arthur never looked at them and kept up his “winding”. Finally, thank the Lord, “Betsy” started…cough…cough…sputter…sputter…BANG. She was running. We carefully got in, each in our own place with Uncle Arthur at the wheel. What cheering! The Americans whooped and screamed in delight as we sailed by (noses in the air) out of the courtyard.
We had a wonderful picnic! The Mendip Hills are full of surprises. That day I found an old church hidden in the woods and dated something like 1431, or something like that. Anyway, it hadn’t been used in years. We had fun exploring it. We picked flowers to take home, ate all of Aunt Annie’s lovely sandwiches and “rock” cakes. Our arrival home was an event that even Uncle Arthur secretly must have enjoyed. My Americans came running out to meet us and surround “Betsy” singing, whistling, and laughing. “You made it home” seemed to be the popular cry. We got out of the car as sedately as we could, all of us walking quickly into the house leaving Uncle Arthur to push “Betsy” back into the stable. “Betsy” wasn’t used again until after the Americans had left.
Photographs and letters came addressed to me from America. A lot of times now and then, when I played in the courtyard with my American Friends, I had a very warm glow of peace and contentment. It turned out so well and we had so much fun. Several of them asked me if they could “come to tea” and meet Connie or Dorothy but, when I broached the subject with Aunt Annie, I got a definite “NO.” Feeling very badly about this answer, I made tea one day and carried it on a tray for them.
One day there was a lot of hustling and bustling. My friends looked a little grim. Finally I asked what was going on. I was told “not to bother my pretty little head about matters of war.” Matters of war… Well, the inevitable was here; they were to leave. I didn’t think I could stand the pain in my heart. I was too young to love so many and lose them all together. A few days later they were filed in order and standing in my courtyard all dressed and clean. Boots were shiny and one had flowers stuck in his hat that I had given him. The sergeant (who I never liked) came around to each man and yelled so horribly but my men didn’t turn a hair. About face, quick march and they were leaving. I stood immobile under my beech tree, my heart pounding with pain. Useless tears began to stream down my face. Helpless, absolutely helpless I turned and watched them start to march through the courtyard and out onto High Street facing South. As they marched toward me and past me, as if on command, all of my dear American friends were “eyes right” and saluted me: Each one with his own special smile and some with a little tear glistening. I waved and waved until the very last one was out of sight.
And on to D-Day, the 6th of June.
