Politics, earthquakes, wars - choose your topic of endless, repetitive coverage - then look for something different. That is exactly what inspires Viewoint to go back about 70 years to tell a story rarely told - never in print - perhaps more interesting than today's headlines because it's personal and completely true. We shall see!

It is a little more than a month following "D" Day and tens of thousands  of American and British troops have crossed the English Channel on their way to the unknown that awaits them on the other side. In the staging area near Portsmouth, England, the 795th Military Police Battalion, about 300 strong, mark time awaiting the call to move out, head for the docks and board a vessel unlike any most of us have seen before. More like a ferry than an ocean going ship, but sturdy in appearance and totally unwelcoming, thanks to a camouflage paint job and the absence of flags, glitter, banners or whatever. 

In less time than it is taking here, we are up the gangplank and told to disperse as fast as possible. That meant find a place to park, sit down, loosen or drop the rifle and back pack each carried. In minutes every available sit-down spot was filled with bored and curious, if not anxious, GIs. Where were we going? How long will it take? Are we finally 'going to war'?

As luck would have it, Cpl Carlton was seconds late in finding a spot to unload and sit after hours of foot slogging, back packing, not eating, and sheer boredom. But here we are, better find someplace or just sit on the cold, steel deck, with no way to lean back or relax, when sudddenly, through the total darkness, an opportunity appears. It is about ten feet above the hatch cover which had become the seating place for every man who could squeeze in - and now the problem was how to climb up there to establish a sitting spot.

When push comes to shove in this man's Army, one does what is necesary - not necessarily smart or clever. By literally stepping on a couple of the seated ones, with the rifle and pack poking then as I ascended the hatch, I made it to open territory - but the vision seen from below was not usable as a resting place. No place to sit - just some gear and cable material for loading the hatch when needed. What to do? Turn around, drop the heavy stuff, put your hands on some shoulders of the seated ones, and vault over the bodies onto the deck.

One, two, jump! And in a moment of athletic prowess I hit the deck, completely ignoring the fact that I was equipped with new, metal spiked boots, and my feet shot out from under me, later informed that sparks flew, and there I was flat out, on my back, on the deck unable to move! It must have been minutes before any seated GI would get up to see if I was dead or alive, injured or just out cold, but it probably was a few seconds and I was being hoisted to my feet, dazed but apparently with nothing broken. By this time the laughter had subsided and the spectators actually made room for me to squeeze in.

End of story? Hardly the begining. Shortly, a call came over the PA that food was available below deck - and a mass exodus from the deck was under way. With some effort, I retrieved my equipment, joined the mob, and ate whatever was put out. Someone who had seen the smashing leap and crashing landing, asked me if I wanted to see a medico on board. I said that might make sense and was directed to a tiny office where a Brit officer found it hard to believe that anyone who did such a stupid thing could atually be up and around and eating! But a cursory exam revealed nothing amiss, not even visible bruises. He suggested I'd be better after a nights sleep.

Ha! Sleep? Where? No bunks, no beds, no chairs, nothing but more steel deck and space to pull a blanket from the back pack, spread it and lie down. And, believe it or not, with all the noise and clatter of feet practically at my ears, I fell asleep. 

In what seemed to be a full night of rest, I was awakened by the PA booming instructions to get on deck, form lines according to individual companies, and prepare for debarkation. Getting off where? It's barely dawn. Where are we?

Where do the lines descend a gangplank? What do you mean, "No gangplank!" Oh, my aching back. We're going over the side, down rope ladders. Into landing craft bobbing in the water 50 feet below. With an aching back!

Now, one may think that after months of special police training, climbing down rope ladders would have been included - but no, this was a first for every man aboard! That became all too obvious when as I stepped over the rail, gingerly sought to place my spiked boot onto the first of the ladder ropes and began the descent. It was even more obvious when the GI following me made no attempt to keep his booted feet from crushing my fingers as I shouted every invective known to Army personnel! Once, only once, I looked down to see where I was heading - then simply did what we had been trained to do - make the best of whatever! And, in a minute or two, my feet touched something moving - and it was the landing craft with Navy guys  whisking each of us off the ladders onto the craft - not dropping one in the churning water!

As we filled up, the order was shouted to shove off and we headed toward shore slightly ill from the experience, not knowing what to expect when we made terra firma. And this is the end of the story? No way! It was actually the real begining. The craft pulled up at the tip end of a long pier, built by Army engineers as D Day took place. Narrow but strong, wide enough to handle tanks and vehicles, not meant for GIs coming ashore. "Move it! Keep it going!" -the officers meant business. We had arrived at "Utah Beach", France, and ahead of us a war was going on!

The scene was incredible. Hundreds of men were loading, sorting, moving boxes, crates, equipment, weapons - all heading to the advancing troops not far from where we were now standing awaiting orders. And they came all too soon. Get in line, packs on, rifles ready, and start up the dunes, follow the track made by tanks and other heavy vehicles - and KEEP MOVING!

The dust from the sandy road was as fine as powder, you inhaled it whether you could stand it or not. The temperature must have been close to one hundred. Blazing sun, no stopping for any reason. The troops following  would have over whelmed us if we stopped or slowed down. Still no food, no aditional water, so if your canteen has been emptied you now know why you were always cautioned -"Never let your canteen go dry until there is a renewable source". The march continued for 8 hours - one stop to let some straglers catch up. Still no food or water. And then, finally, a small town ahead, recently taken from the Germans, and showing signs of battle. We turned into a parklike area, told to unwind, drop, and food and water was on the way. 

It is the end of this story - but only chapter one of the great adventure ahead.

And, if you should ask: the aching back was no problem on ,or after, that hike.

What's more, unlike so many contemporaries who suffer from back problems,

this ex-GI has never had back trouble. So, if you are one who does suffer from back ailments, try this: put on spiked shoes or boots, jump onto a steel surface from about eight feet up - and see what happens! Just don't call me, please.

Richard Carlton

March 1, 2010

Issue No. 4