Echoes from The Past
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: Mild ones only.
Description: An eerie encounter on a trip through Normandy.
_____________________________________________________________________
My father never said much about the Second World War. On arriving home from the battlefields of Europe he, like most demobbed soldiers, got on with his life.
In my fifties, I desperately needed a break from work but being recently widowed I did not really have any plans or thoughts on the matter. On my way home one evening, I noticed an advertisement at Liverpool Street Station; Visit Normandy and enjoy its gastronomic delights. I love good food and thought, what better way to discover a country. With several weeks holiday leave available, I booked a return train journey from London to Paris and then on to Bayeux for the next week.
The day arrived and with my rucksack and rough guide, off I went. The journey was uneventful and apart from a short wait in Paris, I was soon on my way. I read my guide, Bayeux, a small medieval town, famous for its tapestry and Calvados.
Bayeux is an idyllic location and I did all the touristy bits detailed in my guidebook. Why I chose to visit the war graves, I don’t know.
The following morning, with a mixed bag of other visitors, I boarded the waiting coach. The weather was kind, cold with clear blue skies. We started at the Jerusalem War Cemetery, which is the smallest, containing 49 graves. During that day, we saw many more, ending our tour at the American Cemetery overlooking Omaha Beach. Nine-thousand crosses, perfectly aligned, allow one to remember that here lay the young men who gave their lives that we might be free.
Whilst I stood by one particular grave, an American soldier dressed in World War II combat attire came and stood alongside me.
“What a waste,” he exclaimed.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I replied in annoyance.
“Well it was. Those poor sons of bitches had one of the worst beaches. The Germans controlled the high ground, which commanded all approaches. They had their guns lined up before we even got close. The beach had plenty of well dug-in-pillboxes, each with three machine guns. Their defence force strafed the beach unremittingly from every angle. And what did the top brass order us to do? Take them out by direct assault. Do you know how many men died to capture one pillbox?”
For a moment he stopped, his expression turned solemn and tears flowed from his eyes. His voice became angry when he resumed talking. “Hundreds. And to make life more difficult, there was a seasoned German infantry regiment to contend with. This lot had just returned from the Russian front. For them it was a clay-pigeon shoot. Half of U.S. troops were dead before they left the landing craft. Have you ever tried to swim in full combat kit? You start by sinking like a stone and then you have thirty seconds to get it off before you drown.”
A small crowd of his comrades gathered as he continued. “Thousands of soldiers ran scared shitless onto a corpse-strewn beach. Men vanished, pulverised in seconds. Surprisingly, a few managed to get a foothold. Many sheltered behind their fallen buddies only to die seconds later after gaining, if they were lucky, a few more precious yards. There was the obscene thump of mortars and the harsh chatter of machine guns. Exploding mines and shellfire were deafening and took their relentless toll. It was total mayhem; line of command changed and disappeared like a jack rabbit with its ass on fire.”
I thought that this soldier must have served in Vietnam as only someone who had been there could describe such slaughter. Strangely, as I listened, I no longer felt the cold.
He barely stopped for breath as we all stood in total silence. He had an audience and he knew how to keep the past conflict as taut as a strained anchor chain.
He went on. “Can you imagine the sea turning red with the blood that spewed from so many mutilated bodies? Shells hit those paper-thin landing craft, ripping them from stem to stern. Those poor bastards waiting inside never knew they were dead. It was a disaster. They didn’t get any respite that day but they took the beach, although as you can see all around, the cost was high.
“The enemy fought well. Their losses were just as great and every boy soldier had a mother who grieved for him. You must remember that there are no enemies in a cemetery.”
The way he graphically told the story was a completely different slant on the history books. There was no glory, no heroes, only young men dying.
When he finished, I said to him, “Thank you for your vivid insight into a most horrific battle.” I walked away with tears in my eyes.
Outside the chapel, I rejoined the group.
“Why were you looking at that one grave for so long?” the coach driver asked.
I explained about the young man and his storytelling.
He looked at me oddly.
When we returned to the hotel, the driver grabbed my arm and pulled me to one side. “Are you okay? I’m sure you saw something this afternoon but from where I stood, you were on your own.”
Swearwords: Mild ones only.
Description: An eerie encounter on a trip through Normandy.
_____________________________________________________________________
My father never said much about the Second World War. On arriving home from the battlefields of Europe he, like most demobbed soldiers, got on with his life.
In my fifties, I desperately needed a break from work but being recently widowed I did not really have any plans or thoughts on the matter. On my way home one evening, I noticed an advertisement at Liverpool Street Station; Visit Normandy and enjoy its gastronomic delights. I love good food and thought, what better way to discover a country. With several weeks holiday leave available, I booked a return train journey from London to Paris and then on to Bayeux for the next week.
The day arrived and with my rucksack and rough guide, off I went. The journey was uneventful and apart from a short wait in Paris, I was soon on my way. I read my guide, Bayeux, a small medieval town, famous for its tapestry and Calvados.
Bayeux is an idyllic location and I did all the touristy bits detailed in my guidebook. Why I chose to visit the war graves, I don’t know.
The following morning, with a mixed bag of other visitors, I boarded the waiting coach. The weather was kind, cold with clear blue skies. We started at the Jerusalem War Cemetery, which is the smallest, containing 49 graves. During that day, we saw many more, ending our tour at the American Cemetery overlooking Omaha Beach. Nine-thousand crosses, perfectly aligned, allow one to remember that here lay the young men who gave their lives that we might be free.
Whilst I stood by one particular grave, an American soldier dressed in World War II combat attire came and stood alongside me.
“What a waste,” he exclaimed.
“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I replied in annoyance.
“Well it was. Those poor sons of bitches had one of the worst beaches. The Germans controlled the high ground, which commanded all approaches. They had their guns lined up before we even got close. The beach had plenty of well dug-in-pillboxes, each with three machine guns. Their defence force strafed the beach unremittingly from every angle. And what did the top brass order us to do? Take them out by direct assault. Do you know how many men died to capture one pillbox?”
For a moment he stopped, his expression turned solemn and tears flowed from his eyes. His voice became angry when he resumed talking. “Hundreds. And to make life more difficult, there was a seasoned German infantry regiment to contend with. This lot had just returned from the Russian front. For them it was a clay-pigeon shoot. Half of U.S. troops were dead before they left the landing craft. Have you ever tried to swim in full combat kit? You start by sinking like a stone and then you have thirty seconds to get it off before you drown.”
A small crowd of his comrades gathered as he continued. “Thousands of soldiers ran scared shitless onto a corpse-strewn beach. Men vanished, pulverised in seconds. Surprisingly, a few managed to get a foothold. Many sheltered behind their fallen buddies only to die seconds later after gaining, if they were lucky, a few more precious yards. There was the obscene thump of mortars and the harsh chatter of machine guns. Exploding mines and shellfire were deafening and took their relentless toll. It was total mayhem; line of command changed and disappeared like a jack rabbit with its ass on fire.”
I thought that this soldier must have served in Vietnam as only someone who had been there could describe such slaughter. Strangely, as I listened, I no longer felt the cold.
He barely stopped for breath as we all stood in total silence. He had an audience and he knew how to keep the past conflict as taut as a strained anchor chain.
He went on. “Can you imagine the sea turning red with the blood that spewed from so many mutilated bodies? Shells hit those paper-thin landing craft, ripping them from stem to stern. Those poor bastards waiting inside never knew they were dead. It was a disaster. They didn’t get any respite that day but they took the beach, although as you can see all around, the cost was high.
“The enemy fought well. Their losses were just as great and every boy soldier had a mother who grieved for him. You must remember that there are no enemies in a cemetery.”
The way he graphically told the story was a completely different slant on the history books. There was no glory, no heroes, only young men dying.
When he finished, I said to him, “Thank you for your vivid insight into a most horrific battle.” I walked away with tears in my eyes.
Outside the chapel, I rejoined the group.
“Why were you looking at that one grave for so long?” the coach driver asked.
I explained about the young man and his storytelling.
He looked at me oddly.
When we returned to the hotel, the driver grabbed my arm and pulled me to one side. “Are you okay? I’m sure you saw something this afternoon but from where I stood, you were on your own.”
About the Author
Ron A. Sewell was born in Leith, Edinburgh. At the age of fourteen, he ran away from home. Heading for the south of France, he found work as a deckhand on luxury yachts. On his return to the United Kingdom, he enlisted in the Royal Navy, eventually becoming a commissioned officer. During his career, he travelled the world, qualifying as an engineer, deck officer, boarding officer, a diver, and parachutist and for a time part of an Air Sea Rescue team. This has given him much experience and many ideas.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.