As he nears 90 years old, my father, Aaron, continues to write poetry. This is about an experience he had during WWII.
THE PAST IS ALWAYS PRESENT
The French Hedges, Normandy
Over six feet tall
Cast moving shadows
In the night time
A month ago, January 4, 1944
An American soldier on patrol
Shot and killed
We suspect German saboteurs
On evening patrol
The regulation
Two soldiers patrol together
On this dark night
I patrol alone
Tense
Frightened
With my rifle cocked
And then
I hear it
A muffled rifle shot
200 years away
I crouch down
Crawling
Inching forward
Sounds
Then Voices
Then American voices
Closer and closer
English words
I recognize the voice
It is Jake
A fellow soldier
He must have heard me
He shouts
“Who goes there?”
I hear the click of his rifle
I holler
“It’s me Aaron.”
He calls out
“Come forward and be recognized.”
I walk forward slowly, very slowly
With my rifle held high
Willy, a fellow soldier
Is on the ground
Bleeding and moaning
Hearing footsteps
Jake had panicked
And shot Willy
We put a tourniquet on Willy
Carry him back to headquarters
Will survives
Is reassigned to patrols
Repeats over and over again
“I am going to die here,
I am going to die here”
Three nights later
On patrol
Alone again
Peering into the moving bushes
I realize
“The fucking French Hedges
It is a hell of a place to die.”
Dad - 2004
To give your dad’s poem some historical military perspective:
“A significant tactical dilemma facing the U.S. Army in Normandy was the local terrain, called Bocage in French. Bocage refers to farmland separated by thick coastal hedgerows. These hedgerows are denser, thicker, and higher in Normandy than elsewhere along the French coast or in the British countryside on the opposite side of the English Channel. From a military perspective, they were ideal for defense, since they broke up the local terrain into small fields edged by natural earthen obstacles. They provide real defense in depth, extending dozens of miles beyond the coast. The Bocage undermined the U.S. Army’s advantages in armor and firepower, and the hedgerows gave the German defenders natural shelter from attack.”
Breakout From the Hedgerows: A Lesson in Ingenuity
by Walter S. Zapotoczny
My father spent the war working in a library of a POW camp in upstate New York. He could communicate with the German prisoners because he spoke Yiddish and he said most of them weren’t such bad guys. But he didn’t have to face them over a wall of hedgerows on the Normandy coast. Your lucky to be here Dave.
Lester
There are at least four or five other stories along these lines that I’ve asked my father to write up. But frankly – anyone of them would have meant his demise. My favorite story is how his ability to use a typewriter saved his life.
If he won’t tell it in poetry, I’ll write it up, though I may have done that already over the years.
i love this post. soulful. honest. and….dear. typewriters and cameras can save lives…
Have an Uncle
Hapenstance in
Hedgerows HeadHigh
Listenedclose
For the bullet
You neverhear
Normany soil grows rich
Tell your Dad we honor him and respect him and are grateful for his service to our country. He’s a true Americsn hero and we all owe him our gratitude.
Thanks Ken. Will let him know.