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The Fruits of Victory
Somewhere in Belgium
September 9, 1944
Dear Mom,
The past few weeks have more than made up to me all the things
that I gave up in civilian life to become a part of Uncle Sam's
army. During the years of training I was often nearly consumed
with self-pity. The privations of basic training, the hellish
months in the desert, the nasty cold of a winter in Virginia
and the chill of an English winter were enough to make anyone
feel a little down in the mouth. But all resentment has been
swept away by the magnificent reception awarded us here on the
Continent. I am sure that mere words will fail to describe the
feeling and pathos of our welcome, but at least I'll attempt
to picture it for you.
Never in my life have I been so carried away by anything as
I have been as we trundle or race, as the case may be, through
these beautiful countries in pursuit of the Germans. Whether
it's sunny or raining, quiet or in the thick of battle, the populace
is always out to welcome us. And what a welcome! When we are
traveling we are showered with fruits and flowers, and when we
stop we are plied with cider, wine, champagne, cakes and kisses.
The French and Belgians, who have always been excitable, impulsive
races of people, have - as we of the midwest would put it - gone
"hawg wild." A veritable cascade of flowers greets
us at every turn of the winding highways. Such flowers too! Mums,
Glads, Asters, Roses, Honey-suckle, Rhododendrons, Pansys and
- oh, every flower I ever knew and dozens that were strangers
to me. The flowers thrown to our column in a single hour would
cost thousands of Francs (I mean hundreds of dollars) in a florist
shop back there. And it goes on hour after hour and day after
day. Almost any of the blooms would win prizes in our national
flower show.
In their frenzy to greet us adequately, they even rushed to
the potted plants, broke them off at the roots, and threw them.
Thank the Lord they didn't throw pots and all. By the time we
have gone even a few kilometers our cars are decked until they
look like floats in the "Rose Parade." Instead of the
grim dealers of blasting death that they really are. We ourselves
are almost as ornate and the highway is literally "a path
of roses." Every man wears a boutonniere and our helmet
netting is laced with blossoms, until the people cry, "Le
chapeau camouflage?" That same tin chapeau comes in darned
handy sometimes, as an overly excited citizen covers us with
a barrage of fruit, sometimes even the tin hat doesn't help.
I remember one afternoon, we were racing through a village in
France, when a girl, who was holding up some luscious looking
tomatoes to us, saw that we weren't going to stop. So she threw
them to us. Dee Palmer, one of our crew, was leaning over the
side with hands outstretched to catch them. One huge red one
missed his hands and hit the side of the half-track. Dee pulled
back in, and you should have seen his face! It looked like he
had gotten a direct hit from an 88mm cannon. He would have made
a good ad for Campbell's' tomato juice. Five minutes later he
got a big green pear right in the mouth. After that he was content
to wave from inside the car.
Both countries are great fruit raisers. We are in a position
to know for we must have received a great percentage of this
year's crop. We have learned from experience, so now we place
a big box on the floor of the car before we start out in the
morning. In it we place all offerings and by night we will have
pears, peaches, a dozen varieties of apples, plums, grapes, tomatoes,
potatoes and onions. Whoever said these people were starving
was certainly wrong. People of both countries are better fed
by far than the English. Of course people in the large cities
may have a little trouble getting the bounty of the land because
transportation has been blasted. But even they look well fed.
It is in the line of clothing that one sees the greatest effect
of the long war. Many people are almost in tatters, especially
in the country. In the city, even the "Sunday best"
is threadbare and shiny.
Better by far than the tangible offerings, are the word and
face greetings we get from every side. By "face greetings"
I don't mean the kisses that are thrown to us as we ride by,
or are delivered in person if we stop. (Thank goodness there
is a shortage of lip-stick!) I was referring to the expressions
of gratitude and happiness on every face. One sees some heart-rending
sights too. Here in the pouring rain, decked in his tatters and
medals, will stand a veteran of the last great war. He is stiffly
at attention and the salute. Tears stream down his weathered
cheeks and he stands until the long column has passed. We turn
and watch him as he trudges back up the long hill to his little
cottage, a free man once more.
Here in the doorway of a little house, whose empty windows
and shattered roof tell only too well of the recent battle, stands
a woman. Two small children are tugging at her skirt. Her right
arm is in a sling, and ten-to-one her husband is dead or a prisoner
in Germany. Yet, we get the warm smile and a frantic waving of
her good arm.
Here, we see two old women helping a cripple down a long,
steep hill, that he too may greet the liberators.
We stopped in a small town and were at once pounced upon and
kissed by young and old. Of both sexes. Then the crowd started
singing "It's a long way to Tipperary." It seems to
be a hangover from the last war when the British were fighting
here. "Tipperary" has decomposed until it sounds like
"Tipalolly," but the tune and the feeling are still
the same. Then came "My Old Kentucky Home." Then, to
our utter amazement, a boy with a mouth-harp and a group of the
young folks singing gave out with the Jive. Shoo Shoo Baby, Larnbsy
Divey, Elmer's Tune, and Tuxedo Junction followed one another
in rapid succession. We piled out into the streets. The girls
grabbed our hands and went into a folk dance. We caught on and
were soon doing the quaint steps as we danced in a huge circle.
The young fellows watched and clapped their hands in time to
the music as we danced with their girls.
Suddenly a pert little lassie, with brown sparkling eyes,
asked, "Sling?" She meant "Swing" and at
once there was a demonstration of jitterbugging and rug-cutting
that would have turned the Harlem Hop-Cats green with envy. Then
the signal to move came down the line and we mounted our vehicles.
Once more headed for Berlin.
The " Yanks" are a soft hearted bunch, for all their
fighting ability, and even the toughest can sometimes be seen
to turn away to hide a lump in their throats, or to hide a pair
of misty eyes. And their generosity is limited only by their
possessions. Or lack of them. All candy and gum from their rations
is tossed to the children, who have already learned that the
"Yank" is a source of "Bon Bons." Many a
fellow goes without a smoke because he threw his last fag to
the smoke-hungry crowd.
One amazing thing is the number of flags folks have hidden
away, all through their years of slavery. Under threat of death
too. These hoarded emblems come out now and are flying from almost
every window. Streamers are everywhere. Some of the attempts
to concoct flags are truly pathetic. From one window in France
hung the eternal Tri-colors but they were a sorry sight. The
red was, or had been, a pair of red flannel underwear. The white
had been a baby dress and the blue was from a pair of faded blue
denim overalls. There were paper flags that had been hurriedly
colored with crayons, knitted flags and flags painted on the
buildings. There was a goodly sprinkling of British and American
flags too. Some of the crude attempts at these would have been
exceedingly laughable if it weren't for the feeling that we knew
had gone into the making of them. The number of stars in "Old
Glory" varied from one to fifty. Some stars were so large
they were overhanging the field of blue. There were stars with
four, five, six and seven points, and the number of stripes varied
from six to twenty. Anyway, the feeling was there and we thrilled
at every one we saw.
The hatred for the Germans and the people who collaborated
with them is of course very intense. On every side one sees the
FFI or Underground, now in the open, ranging the fields and forests
in search of stray "Boche." These men are a motley
crew, with any weapon they can lay hands on, but woe betide the
hapless German they find. They make short work of them. The French
women who collaborated with the Germans are dragged through the
streets to the town square. There, amid hisses and cat-calls
from the crowd, their hair is cut and their heads shaved. We
have seen this happen several times.
So it goes as we cross the Continent and, as I said before,
I have never been so touched by anything in my whole life as
by the gratitude of these peoples. As I write this, the cries
of, "Vive les Amerique," "Vive les Allies"
are still ringing in my ears and my heart is filled to bursting.
Yes, it's good to be even a small part of a liberating army and
to know that you have helped these good people in their such
desperate need.
However, as day by day we get nearer and nearer Germany, I
wonder how one will feel in the role of conqueror instead of
that of liberator. Instead of cheers we will probably get only
blank stares or looks filled with hatred. No, I don't think I'll
like that. But there is a job to be done and we must see it through
before we can come back to the ones we love. Good-bye then to
you - my French and Belgian friends - who are loved by this particular
"Americain."
And, Mom, you are also loved by this son. Will write again at
the next chance.
Fondly,
Glen
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