To all the 'Mr. Evans'

Many of life’s greatest moments are unexpected.   As a young girl growing up in the small town of Hampton, I dreamed of someday visiting Paris and being captivated by its lights, life, art and architecture. The “City of Lights” did not disappoint, but little did I expect that its glow would be outshone in my memory by the quiet, humbling, nearby shores of Normandy.  

Every year of our married life since 1980 my husband Eddie had said, “Next year I’m going to Normandy”.  Never the war historian, I did not quite understand his determination. However, his heart attack in March of 2002 was a good excuse for me to tell him that I thought “next year” was here and that we should take the family overseas on his doctor‘s advice to get away from it all. To convince him, I promised a day trip from Paris to visit the region of Normandy on June 6th.   That date would mark the 58th anniversary of the D-Day Invasion.  Once there, the one day excursion turned into three. Even our 13- and 18-year-old daughters, though scrunched in the backseat of a small European rental car, were relatively patient and attentive as we went from the five landing sites to museums to ceremonies. None of us can ever forget stopping on Omaha Beach when we saw a veteran recounting his experience to a large group of young people. As we listened, he said, “We came ashore right over there as a part of the first landings.  We were cold, wet, sea-sick and had been cramped without sleep for days. We were scared as we landed amidst sniper gunfire and cannons and had to step over dead bodies and wrecked boats to advance on land. I was 17 years old.  There were 33 men on my boat and only two of us survived that day.” Afterwards we met him and learned he volunteered as a guide for the National D-Day Museum in New Orleans. We knew him only as Mr. Evans.  That unexpected moment and his unforgettable remarks lay a foundation for all of us of how much was sacrificed to end World War II.  He made the planned visits later on that trip to a concentration camp in Munich and to Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam even more worthy of our reading every word on every placard. Upon our return home, Emily (13 at the time) went to the movie rental store and asked if they had any movies based on the Holocaust. The checkout people thought that a little odd, but then again, they hadn’t met Mr. Evans. 

That trip instigated what has become a full-blown passion for Eddie.  Two years later he attended the 60th anniversary with a relative. With his last-minute planning, he couldn’t find a room and slept in a small rental car near a German bunker on Omaha Beach the night of June 5.  Awakening on the historical shores was quite a moment, as was hearing President Bush speak and seeing the many veterans honored in the American Cemetery later that morning.   

This year, as plans were being made for the 65th anniversary and airfares were dropping, the two of us hastily decided in mid-May to make the journey once more.  Larry and Gail Pennington had already planned to attend, as this had also been a years-long desire for them.  Knowing there would be English speaking friends from home at the anniversary made the idea of another trip irresistible for Eddie.  At first I was reluctant to go because I had already been there and thought time might be better spent in some place new. Thankfully I changed my mind. While making our 12-day travel arrangements, we managed to include the southern coast of France and Monaco, a train ride through the pastoral countryside, stops in two of the Loire valley castles, and the highlights of Paris. Once again, the time spent in the quaint and timeless towns  of Normandy where world history changed remains the most memorable.  Except for driving in Paris, this trip seemed more relaxed; maybe it was the absence of  backseat sibling rivalry and fewer demands for McDonald’s. More likely I think, it was because we understood that with 1200 veterans from World War II dying per day, the opportunity to witness this commemoration might not come again.   

Since we were last-minute in making plans, we were lucky that Gail had helped us find a bed and breakfast through her online contact.  The Penningtons arrived in the afternoon of June 4th at their farmhouse, owned by a lady who spoke only French.  Taking a wrong turn in Paris delayed us a couple of hours in getting to Normandy. With cell phones we made contact with Larry and met them for dinner at a small, neighborhood restaurant in St. Laurent-sur-Mer that we had discovered during our first visit. Frequented by many locals and guests for the occasion, the restaurant served up a chalkboard full of authentic French dishes---all written in French.   To be safe, we ordered quiche and salad. Eddie had already had his fill of mussels that were in-season in June.  Dining in France is no fast food trip, as they linger two hours over a meal with bottomless baskets of bread and fresh butter, not to mention the homemade, to-die-for desserts.  Somehow the people are frustratingly thin. Wine flows more freely than water and is less expensive than a Coke. I tried to impress with my newly acquired knowledge of how to say “tap water”  in French, since no one there seemed to know what that was; instead, I think I butchered the beautiful French language. 

Over dinner Gail shared how the two of them were trying to use sign language to communicate with their hostess.  Larry remarked how amazed he was with the pride evident along the roads and in every little town and farm:  no litter, no piles of discarded trash, but plenty of brilliant flowers and gardens. We all discussed how welcomed we felt as Americans. It was obvious that this region will never forget what America did to restore their freedom. Larry also commented how moving it was for him when he first saw the landing shores that day. When we entered the restaurant, Eddie noticed a large poster with pictures of a young soldier. Now in his 80’s, that soldier was sitting at a table across the room.  Eddie started a conversation with him and learned he was Bernard Dargols, a native of Paris, who at 18 left to study in the United States.  Two years later, he could not return to France because of the war. Subsequently, he decided to join the US army and became an American citizen. With his knowledge of French, Dargols was a great asset to the Allies, helped liberate several villages, served in Belgium and Germany and carried out some counter-espionage missions. After the war he returned to France to continue his business career. The next morning he was to participate in a ceremony in which a street near where he arrived on D-Day, beside a major German bunker, would be named after him.  Encounters with such interesting men are just one reward for visiting the area in early June.  

After dinner Eddie and I embarked on our mission of finding our B&B in the darkness, down a narrow, winding  road.  Around 11 p.m. we pulled into a wooden-gated drive and an elderly gentleman came out to greet us. This was not the right house, he could not speak English, but with my broken French and his pointing we figured out the directions. Just down the road our hostess was waiting up for us and flashed her porch lights as we approached her stonewalled, slated roof, 16th century farmhouse. Her name was Hillary, an English teacher and native of Vermont, who settled in Normandy after marrying a man from the area. Warm and hospitable, she gave us our first taste of calvados, a cider made from apples or pears, which is a specialty of the region. The next morning we were awakened by her rooster and were served fresh breads and homemade jams.  At $50 per night, this had to be the bargain-of-the-year in France. In these moments life seemed idyllic; it was difficult to imagine how different it must have been 65 years earlier under German occupation.  

Starting our first full day in Normandy at the American Cemetery refocused our attentions on the purpose of our trip.  No one or any picture can ever prepare you for the emotions that overcome you as you look across the perfectly aligned 9300 white stone crosses, standing erect on a sea of green grass. These crosses represent lost American lives buried in this area alone.  This number only reflects servicemen buried here; the bodies of two-thirds of those killed were returned home at the request of their families. Etched in the crosses are the names, division, date of death and home state of each life.  As you look toward the beaches, the crosses seem to come at you from every direction and at that moment you know you are one with them.  French and American flags decorate each grave.  Other cemeteries nearby memorialize the British and Canadian soldiers, but this one, not even the largest American cemetery in Europe, felt like it could contain the remains of any of our family members, or the boy next door.  

The scene this day was nowhere near normal, as 5000 chairs were being set up and staging prepared for the next day’s arrival of President Obama, French President Sardosky, Great Britain Prime Minister Brown, Prince Charles, and other dignitaries.  Wreaths and arrangements of red, white and blue flowers sent as memorials covered the amphitheater.  We would not be able to be in the cemetery grounds for the June 6th program since we had not applied earlier for the proper credentials.  Security was much tighter than Eddie remembered when Bush attended and major roads would even be closed leading into the area.   

The American Cemetery museum occupied much of our time on the 5th.  The collections  offered  detailed accounts and videos of many years’ events leading to the war, of how Hitler and the Nazis rose to power and occupied most of Europe, and how America got involved and prepared to fight for democracy.  What overwhelmed me most was just how massive this war was. That sounds a little shallow considering it was a world war, but the idea that practically everyone, overseas and at home, was engaged in this in some respect is almost incomprehensible. The depth of planning and strategies used to carry out missions boggle my non-military mind. That a country could allow a dictator’s need for power and control to lead to the calculated death of 6 million Jews, not counting the physically disabled, and homosexuals, is not understandable,  but I think is meant for us to question. The historical facts, figures and analysis are best left to the history teachers and the numerous history books written on the war.  However, some of the statistics for this day in 1944 gave me chills and a mental picture that can’t be deleted.    6500 vessels, 11,500 allied aircraft, and 194,000 Allied troops all left the shores of England to enter occupied France to gain an entrance in Europe to stop Hitler’s control. Hitler had ordered obstacles built from Norway to Spain to prevent the invasion. The unexpected landing sites in Normandy provided the key element of surprise that caught the German troops off-guard.  With the German’s concrete bunkers several feet thick, high above the shoreline, and sharp steel obstacles placed hundreds of yards out into the sea, many of our soldiers never stood a chance of getting on-land.  The enemy forces rained fire down upon them. By the end of  
D-Day, over 9000 had died. When we watched the video of General Eisenhower giving the address to the soldiers over the PA system as they were about to sail, saying, “You are about to embark on the great crusade, the eyes of the world are upon you”,  we could feel their loyalty and their fear.  Visitors walked through this darkly lit museum in a hushed reverence. At the end we walked outside to the reflecting pool where the ever-flowing water appears to slip endlessly into the sea. 

That afternoon we drove with the Penningtons to Bayeau through small villages, about the size of Sparkman, where one would end and another would begin.  You could practically reach out and touch the old stoned walls or the wide, dense six-foot tall hedgerows lining the roads. We could understand the frustration the young, American soldiers must have felt in a foreign land, trying to navigate their way to liberate towns through these tough bushes that their equipment could not even cut.  Hundreds of re-enactors were camped along the way and passed us in convoys of vintage trucks, jeeps and motorcycles. Throughout the drive we all noticed signs in business windows proclaiming, “Welcome to our Liberators”. Window boxes on many houses prominently displayed the American and French flags together.  These people are very appreciative of what America did for them, and it made us so proud to be Americans. When we came out of a circular theater depicting life in France before, during, and after the war, we were spellbound by a group of Scottish men playing “Amazing Grace” on bagpipes.    

As we were headed back to the farm, Eddie and I unexpectedly came upon a ceremony in progress at the national guard memorial right on Omaha Beach, actually built on top of one of the bunkers.  A large crowd had gathered to hear a speech being delivered by an American veteran seated in a wheelchair. As he spoke with a French interpreter we were stunned by his photographic memory and graphic details. “We didn’t know where we were going,” he said, “as we started across the English Channel that night. Stormy weather had delayed us, and sometimes the 10-15 foot waves tossed our boats about like matchsticks in the icy cold water. We used our helmets to bail water out of our boats.  By the time we got to these shores we had been standing packed together for three hours. As we stepped off, we faced enemy fire and stepped into water neck-deep with 80 pounds of equipment on our backs. The scene was horrific and by the day’s end the water and the sand were red with blood. I was 19. The average age was 24.”  He said he felt it was his duty to tell the story for those who did not live to tell it. After his speech we  learned he was 84 year-old Harold Baumgarten, who became a medical doctor after the war and wrote the book D-Day Survivor.

During Baumgarten’s speech, I noticed another veteran walk in on a cane and helped to a front row seat. He looked so familiar.  In a moment I realized he was the Mr. Evans whom we had met seven years earlier. At the conclusion of the ceremony, French schoolchildren were passed a torch from the veterans and they laid wreaths upon the memorial. A trumpeter played “Taps” as flags on tall poles representing four countries blew fervently in the wind.  We made our way through the crowd to find Mr. Evans and were grateful for the opportunity to tell him how much his prior words had meant to our family.  At age 82 he was here this time with a war historian leading a group of six men on a personal tour. He walked with his cane down a ramp to the sands of the beach where he had landed.  He pulled some pictures out his pocket and showed us his picture when he enlisted.  I will always remember that moment of Mr. Evans at 82 looking at himself at 17 with the sands of where he fought beneath him. I’ll never forget his words as he looked us all in the eyes and said, “Don’t ever give away the freedoms we fought for on this beach.” 

The words of these men were not said with arrogance, but with deep humility and with incredible passion for America. This day had been climactic enough, but it would not end until 11:00 with a dramatic, synchronized fireworks display stretching 45 miles of coastline. The waves were crashing at high tide and even in jackets and dry warm clothes we felt like we were freezing.  After all we’d heard and seen that day, we began to feel guilty for even thinking we were cold. 

We spent the morning of June 6th quietly walking on Omaha beach, where children were playing and people were reading signs of remembrance---quite the contrast to the scene in 1944. We visited another smaller museum full of artifacts and lifelike scenes of war situations.  The exhibit I most remember there was “ the Bedford Boys”.  Bedford, Virginia, a town not unlike Arkadelphia, lost 23 of its young men in these battles.  How devastating that must have been for that community. As we left people were running to get a glimpse of the helicopters bringing in the countries’ leaders to the program at the American Cemetery. A band from Belgium was playing 1940’s swing music at a small outdoor café where we stopped for coffee. A few minutes later planes flew over in the missing man formation. 

As rain began to fall we headed for Utah Beach and Pointe du Hoc, where rangers scaled cliffs that looked beautiful, but insurmountable. In my video camera I couldn’t help but follow a couple of seagulls flying over the cliffs, seemingly as a reminder of the peace that exists there today.  A downpour followed us to St. Mere Eglise where an American paratrooper’s parachute landed on a church steeple during the war and he was taken as a German prisoner. On the anniversary every year a community festival is held around the church square and a full military parade is held to honor the Allied veterans.  Streamers of flags were strung across the streets and military bands played “The Star Spangled Banner” and the other national anthems. What was most amazing in this town to me was that even though it was cold and rainy, crowds packed the streets and parents and grandparents brought their young ones in strollers and in arms to be a part of the liberation celebration.

At our hostess Hillary’s suggestion, we pulled over during our return at La Cambe to just to see the German cemetery from the road. She said to her it was interesting as a contrast, because of the drab, low key profile. Over 21,000 are buried there; 80 per cent were under 20 years old.  Her point was that many of them may not have agreed with the reason they were fighting, but they did it also out of duty to their country, and in their dying, their parents also suffered pain.  She also told us that while the vast majority of people celebrate the liberation, there are a very few whose memories of the bombings and subsequent, personal loss of family and friends is too painful and they simply pull their shutters closed, rather than openly celebrate. We ended our last night in Normandy discussing the events of the day with Hillary who had attended the program to honor veterans in the American Cemetery with some teacher friends. She said that, as we would have expected, it was inspiring to see the veterans attend and see the appreciation they were given. 

Except for a couple of tiny seashells, I returned home with no tangible souvenirs of our visit to Normandy, but with a lot more questions than answers, a determination to know more about the war and the French language, and a heart full of emotions and gratitude. To help further his self-study, Eddie received a copy of D-Day Survivor and World War II:  The Definitive Visual History for father’s day.  As I read through those I felt a little guilt that I never asked my own parents more about this time period that they lived through on the home front.  Like millions of women across the country, my mother joined the workforce building rockets at the naval plant in East Camden, one of six such sites in south Arkansas. Eddie’s parents and grandparents were living outside Bearden near that site.  When the government declared eminent domain, his family had to move out of the area and they relocated to Sparkman.  I never asked my mom what she did at work there; she never told me, or maybe I just didn’t know to listen. Like most of what Tom Brokaw called “The Greatest Generation”, they just did whatever they could to help America to be unified in the cause and to support our troops. It is hard to imagine how parents and families felt with loved ones overseas at such tough times with such limited lines of communication.  

I hope that I am changed for this experience and will continue to question the basic war roots of intolerance of others.  I have a feeling this weekend at Eddie’s family’s 4th of July reunion, his mom’s three surviving brothers, all World War II veterans in their mid-80’s, will be questioned as long as they’re willing to talk.  Last week I talked to Judy Duvall, with the family center at OBU, who worked with college students in conducting 43 video and written histories of local county veterans.  These documents are now in the university library and were part of the 2007 AETN special In Their Own Words. The AETN website offers extensive insight to the Arkansas veterans who served.  Larry’s and Gail’s late fathers served in World War II in the European and Pacific theaters, respectively.  Larry suggested offering to assist the public schools in helping to make this war a living history for young students, who may never see the actual fighting fronts, but need to feel its importance to their freedoms.      

We are grateful for the blessings of having had this opportunity.  When I see flags flying around town, I feel that sense of Normandy pride and thankfulness. Understandably, for some veterans, opening up these memories is just too painful. But if it’s possible in your family, consider taking the time during this weekend as we celebrate our own country’s independence to share your story.  You might just be someone’s Mr. Evans and become one of their life’s greatest moments. To all the Mr. Evanses throughout Clark County, thank you for all you did for all of us.  We will never forget.