Later in the Day - June 6th, 1944

(From Tracks Across Europe - Dal Estes)

It must be stated here that even though there was great confusion during the landing and also all over Omaha Beach, man of our objectives were met.  However,  it was expected that we would be dug in, camouflaged and ready to fire on enemy aircraft or troops over the beach by noon that day - but we were delayed.  It was almost 7:30pm that evening before our two squads were ready.

Later that afternoon, near the town of St. Laurent Sur Mer we moved into an apple orchard surrounded by a hedge row.  The house was set on the main street and had its usual arched entrance.  It was pretty clear that the area had been used as a training place for the Germans as there was a large table with replicas of the sand beaches shown, plus various buildings and churches - apparently used to depict their expected defense of this area against us.

The hedgerow presented both a plus and a minus.  In the dark of a moonlight night you were not exactly sure if the sudden appearance of a head was a friendly soldier relieving himself, an enemy trooper or a cow or horse that decided to nibble on some of the hedges.  Several friendly troops were accidentally shot in the first few days in these orchard hedgerows.  Also, several French farmers lost livestock this way.

Not wanting to blow up our half tracks, the writer grabbed a French farmer.  (we did not know if we could trust them or not) and with a bayonet, demanded to know if the field where we were to stay that first night was mined.  We learned a quick lesson from the farmer, not pointed out to us in training. The Frenchman quietly told us whenever there were cows, sheep or horses in a field - it was NOT mined! He happily slipped into his house and brought us out a bottle of Cognac and a bottle of Calvados - he drank first.  We still didn't know if we could trust them.

(Dal Estes, Tracks Across Europe)

Present Day:
On Dad's three return trips, he searched high and low for that apple orchard with the arched entrance. He thought he found it in 2004, but then decided after looking at it for a bit of time, that it wasn't quite right.  Prior to leaving the States I was bound and determined we were going to find it this time, and had convinced myself that there was no way anyone would have changed it in the past 70 years.  We made several circuitous routes up the hills around the city looking for it. (Some planned and some, because we made a wrong turn or were detoured, but enough about THAT comedy of errors.) Like Dad, I too left without seeing it.  My sister is convinced that it no longer exists and despite my desired fairytale ending, indeed, someone destroyed the entrance leaving only Dad's description behind.

As for the hedge rows in Normandy that were so prevalent in stories about the DDay landings, there were more than the eye could see.  They dotted the landscape and ran the gamut from short and manicured, to tall and wildly out of control.  Some stood on their own as an aesthetic break in front of a Norman home and others looked plopped in the middle of a field for no apparent reason. Those were usually older ones whose purpose in times past was to signify property lines. The ones that sat upon brick or stone walls were used as an old (very old),  functional livestock gate. The ones that stood on their own and whose thickness made of criss-crossed branches made it impossible to see through, were the ones that were problematic for soldiers 70 years ago. Although you can't see through to the other side It would be very easy to slide a rifle through one of the small openings and take aim.  

Last evening we were guests at an event at a newly constructed community building in a small French village.   The dinner was to honor 50 visitors from Bedford, Virginia - the town with the highest per capita loss on DDay than any other town in the United States.  In addition to the table wine poured from carafes on the long white tables, men from the town were walking around what appeared to be Calvados.   As the man approached our table, our wonderful hostess, Martine Lebrec got a stern look on her face, put her hand over her head, waved her arm back and forth and said emphatically "no, no, no"!   Although I have no idea what she said, it was something in French that made it clear that he was to pour NONE for her guests.  My sister looked and her and asked her in French what the issue was.  It turns out there is REAL Calvados from Normandy and then there is something between wine and calvados that is a bit cheaper, and from Martine's description, tastes horrible and gives you bad headaches.  The way she described it,  it was like the  French equivilent of a strong Boone's Farm.  (The cheap wine we used to drink as kids).

On the way home last night, I chuckled thinking about how much has changed in the past 70 decades.  I thought about Dad not trusting that farmer offering a drink,  to me staying with a French family who  I have only heard of for years, having meal after meal and by the end, laughing like old friends.  That French farmer protected Dad and his men from the mines in the field, Martine protected us from bad Calvados.  Life is funny, isn't it.