Festival de les Jeeps

Festival de les Jeeps
June 17th, 2007

Today our trip began with a two hour drive north to the town of Sagey. Ysidor and I were told to come in uniform because there was going to be “beaucoup” (lots) of WWII jeeps and vehicles.

When we arrived, Eric, also in uniform, telephoned someone letting them know Ysidor was near by. We parked. Are we going to walk, I asked my self?

Off in the distance I heard a soft but roaring sound approaching. The roar twisted between narrow street buildings while the 63 year old engine complained all the way up hill.

They had sent for a staff car (the kind WWII generals rode in) to come shuttle Ysidor, Eric and I to the event. “Holly mackrow!” Said Ysi.

84 years young, Ysi youthfully jumped in the front seat.

The driver radioed back to someone letting them know that he was 2 minutes out with the veteran.

It was then it downed on me that Rene had stealthy arrange something big for Ysidor.
I knew in the next 90 secs something memorable was going to happen and I should prepare myself for salty tears.


HONNK HONNNNNKKKK Honk honk…

As we drove through the back entrance the driver sounded the siren and blew the horn. With Ysidor’s medals glistening in the sun, passer buyers looked up at Ysi as if Jesus was returning to the Promise land.

Ysi was returning as a liberating hero.

As the car came to a stop in front of the main square, Ysi was met with a standing obviation of several hundred people along with a hundred WWII reenactors at attention.

Private First Class Sanchez was now General Sanchez.

“Bonjour Monsieur Sanchez, I am happy to welcome you!”, said the ranking organizer of the event, a Captain. He was flanked by a staff of welcomes.

“Mr. Sanchez, I will be your interpreter for the day. Welcome! What language would you prefer, Spanish or English?” Said the 1st Lt.

A menu of languages to chose from? That’s amazing!!

Ysidor was given a heroes welcome and a brief summary of his military experience was given by Rene. Rene recited Ysi’s story from memory, like a Priest who can recite the Old Testament on any given Sunday.

Rene trembled as the gawking crowd listen and journalist scribbled notes for tomorrows newspaper.

Ysidor was presented with a plaque in commemoration of the 63rd Anniversary of the D-Day landings by the Mayor of the Sagey.

Everywhere Ysi goes, he passes out hand made poppie flowers that were made at his local Veteran of Foreign War, post 3982 in Santa Clara, Ca.

General Sanchez then personally pinned poppies on each and every WWII reenactor soldier and individually saluted each soldier.

Photo-journalist fired automatic weapons of their trade. Some reloaded several times a minute.

---

An elderly man, maybe in his 70, stood behind the columns of soldiers peeking over thier shoulders. At times, he had disappeared, but only to return several seconds later. He continued his disappearing act several times more. The man’s eyes streamed rivers of tears. The old eye lids could not hold back the 63 years worth of water pressure.

His mother, killed at Auschwitz. His life rescued by brave men like Ysidor. A Jew.

---
This was indeed a festival of Jeeps. The Olive Drab vehicles where one with the grass.
Hundreds of jeeps waited to be blessed by General Sanchez.

The day ended with a fantastic reenactment of the Battle of France. A mock village was erected with houses, a café and a bridge. This 30 min reenactment was top notch. The French really know how to put on a show. With at least 1000 people on hand, Ysidor and his guest had reserve seating for this spectacular.

There must have been at least 200 people involved in this reenactment. Local towns people played school children, farmers, bakers etc. And of course the countless German and American reenactors.

A narrative voiceover moved the recreation along.

In front of us a battle raged. Germans vs. Americans and men screaming for help. The rat tat tat tat that I mention earlier echoed through the hills. The jeeps and thanks rolled by and the smell of sulfur and carbon dioxide decorated the air.

I looked over at Ysi to see how he was taking it. I was afraid that the sounds and smells might be too much. He was fine.

To add to the excitement it began to rain, heavily.

The reenactment got a little crazy with its pyrotechnics. A flare from a firecracker shot in my direction and landed on my WWII class A coat. It burned the outer layer on my coat. This was the only causality of today’s battle.

By the time the war ended, we were soaked. I could feel my uniform start to shrink as my uniform is 100% wool, but it was just my mind overreacting.

The Captain came up to us and apologized on the behalf of Mother Nature. Ysi replied “Are you kidding, this is beautiful. You know, it rained on us, too!”

Ma Copine

Interpreter

Causality

Frere Jacque

Jacque and I.

June 12-14, 2007

Frere Jacque (Brother Jacque)

Our next journey leads us 4 hours north towards the Belgium French border village of Houtwort.

We exit off the freeway and Jacque, our host for the next few days, awaited us in his Jeep.

We exchange greetings.

I rode in the jeep to his house. The best sounding jeep I have ridden in. Very good engine.

For the next two km we pass several suburb house, we veered left onto a flat winding road passing farms along the way. The cows pay no attention to us as if veterans of their own bread to the sounds of rumbling war machines.

We entered a tunnel of dark green trees. We drove towards the light at the end. We emerged to the sight of a sole house souranded by flats of potato fields and green grass bending in the gentle breeze. Freshly posted was an American flag waving in the front yard (or should I say field?)


A beautiful home.


This evening I laid witness to countless casualties.

Dinner was overwhelming. Dinner took at least 3 ½ hours to eat. The French way of eating is very different, at least at this house. First you get some mini teasers, like chips juice. Then about 30 mins later you get the appetizers with Champagne. Then 30 mins later you get some light cold meats. Then final after an hour of waitin arrives the main course.

After the main course comes wave after wave of plate. It was like Iwo jima or Anzio over again. It was Frozen Chosen all over again and the Chinese never stop coming over the hill.

Once I thought it was over (the dinner,) additional waves of forks, knifes and glass rushed me. Hour after hour they feel. Their laid a litter of dirty silver war all around me.. Blood from the medium rare roast stained the table cloth. Green pea helmets hid under jungles of lettuce. The medic, Nicole, came and took our wounded… I mean dirty dishes away and returned with replacements.

My stomached could not go on any longer. The human stomach isn’t meant to stretch so much. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run. But my manners kept me pinned downed.


Our stay here was excellent. Again we there was cross translation. In addition to French, Jacque spoked Spanish. He had learned Spanish after working for a year in Columbia. He also spoke fluent Flemish; with only a 4 km from the Belgium border he spoke it regularly.

English to Spanish to Flemish to French and back up the chain.

Jacque also learned somewhere that constant laughter was crucial to a gathering.

A collection to Envy and Three Mexicans speaking spanish in the middle of nowhere (in France)

Part 1
A Collection to envy
(The first half of this entry may not be of interest to some. This is specifically written for my brothers in the 3rd ID WWII RPS.)

Today we had an outdoor lunch at a friend’s house in the out skirts of Illiers L’Eveque surrounded by wheat fields and countless bugs.

This is the home to Jean- Francois and his wife. Here, at least I believe, is the biggest collection of WWII memorabilia in Normandy… and maybe even in France. I have never seen such a large collection in the United States. You name it… he has it.

What is fascinating about this man’s collection is his attention to the smallest details that accompanied a G.I.’s enlistment. Besides from uniforms and field gear he had collection of odds and ends, such miscellaneous items as every type of soap container and toothbrush produced to Standard GI issued toilet paper.

Some items such, like a shaving brush, was dug out of the ground near the port of Le Havre where many soldiers assembled in staging areas for their journey back to the States.

In addition, Jean Francois has a collection of paper work to reinforce the authenticity of his collection. In one lot, he had the uniform, discharged papers, more uniform, toiletries, dog tags, the list goes on all from the same soldier. He has a full medic, paratroopers and armored Infantry impression desplayed.

He talked at length about each item. I think it had been a while since he was able to share his collection with an American.

Thought there was a language barrier, with my broken French and his limited English; nevertheless, we spoke one common language: the language of the WWII collector.

I learn that he is good friends with the author of what I like to call the “Old Testament”, the WWII collectors guide. For many WWII buffs, it is the Bible of collector guides written by Henri Paul Enjames. We seek the words of this book for its knowledge and wisdom.

Also learn that there is a new collectors guide coming out in 2008 and several of the photos in this book where taken from Jean Francois’ collection.

I some times feel guilty about what I do. I often ask myself and others, what we would be doing if there was no WWII or wars to study and examine. Imagine what a peaceful world it would be without conflict, but we would be out of a hobby. It is a hobby I would be glad to be without.

PART 2

Albert+o

This had to be one of the best lunches, not so much because of the food, which was fantastic, but because of the people we were surrounded by. One man in particular was a Frenchman by the name of Albert. He had driven out from Paris, a good 200 km, to meet Ysidor.

Yet a Frenchman, he spoke beautiful Spanish. Not so much like a Spaniard, but like a Mexican. He rolled his R’s very smoothly. Immediately Ysi and Mary connected with Albert. It was quite interesting seeing the day develop and snowball into Mexican festia.

Albert is an interesting man. A smoker, four children, and modest and humble. His father was a veteran of the Korean War. (In which army I am unsure of). He lived with his father in Tijuana, Mexico, for nine years, where it is evident he fell in love with the Mexican culture.

Albert was one of us in many ways. He learned that the best way to liven up a party was through music.

Mary and Albert quizzed each other on Mexican lyrics. Albert said he played a little guitar, but not very well. Albert disappeared for a minute and returned with a well worn guitar. For the rest of the afternoon Mary, Ysi and I sung traditional Mexican tones… echoing through the French wheat fields.

He played songs Mary haven’t heard sine she was a little girl. Mary, 76, sound beautifully, as if ripened with age. It would not surprise me if in her youth she sung like the Sirens in the Greek Tragedy, The Odyssey. Even though time has robbed Mary of her prime, between the valleys of wrinkles stream tears of joyful memories.

What I found most striking was the cross translation of languages. For example, if I wanted to make a comment and didn’t know who to say it in French, I would tell Mary in English, she then in turn would translated my message into Spanish to Albert, and Albert would then convert the message into French.

It was flabbergasting to be able to sit around a table and understand three languages! It is amazing how the brain is able to convert words so quickly.

Sadly, the afternoon had to come to an end.

Robert

Photos from Saint Mere Eglise

Exchanging contact info.

Saint Mere Eglise. Paratrooper caught on church steeple.
















Ysi chatting with a Lt. at the Airborne museum
















508th PIR of the 82nd ID reenactors
Group photo with Ysi.

Metly

Meeting fallen soldiers

American Cemetery Colleville sur Mer

Daniel H. Tremper

Daniel, met Robert. Robert, met Daniel.

Never have I’ve so many WWII jeeps and array of vehicles in one place. On our drive to the cemetery we must have seen at least 20 vehicles, and a dozen others in the parking lot of the cemetery. I thought the US had a lot of WWII vehicles… we ain’t got shit!!


Racing between the various crowds of veterans and children, I raced ahead of Ysi to capture some candid footage of him walking down the path where he was flanked by thousands of white crosses.

Mary, Rene, Magalie and I followed Ysi as he tried to recall the location of Daniel H. Tremper’s grave.

He was dead on. This is his 6th visit. He said it doens't get any easier.

Plot E Row 7 Grave 30

Ysi knelt down and placed the basket of flowers and spoke words only known to Daniel and god. On one knee, Ysi let out a deep sigh, a sound I have become too familiar with it.

He had made it back yet another year.

Now this time, Daniel has a face. It was in the fall of 2006, over 62 years, that Ysi finally made contact with a relative of Daniel’s, a sister. She mailed Ysi a picture of Daniel prior to entering the Army and his Purple Heart. She died a few months later at the age of 87 in Dec 2006. The window off opportunity and luck had waited for six decades until the hatches final withered with age.

Now I can erase the image of Tom Hanks with the real image of SSgt Daniel H. Tremper. Surprisingly enough, there is a slight resemblance.

We stood there for a few moments in silence gathering our thoughts, before it was time to say good bye. Among the Row 7 Daniel’s grave stood solely and proudly among his fallen friends.

Ysi rendered, yet again, another Last Salute.

The camera rolled the whole time.

PFC Esau Olague...

Now it was my turn to render a final salute.

This story must started a year ago when my Barber, Ronnie, and I were talking about the war. Over 12 years of being a monthly costumer of Ronnie, I’ve come to learn a few things about his life. I knew he started cutting hair when he was in his twenties and that he was raised by his Grandparents. I knew he had trouble in school. He always gave me excellent advice that has never failed. I have many deep toughts in that barbers chair.

I learned that his father was killed in the battle for Normandy. Ronnie had only been a few months old. His mother, sadly, was killed in a shipyard accident when a piece of steel fell from a crane and crushed her. She was only 19 years old.

With his fathers name I researched and found out where he was buried at. Little did I know that in 2006 that I would soon pay my respects to PFC Olague in the same Cemetery that SSGT Tremper is buried.

From the National Battle Monuments Commission website I learned that he served with the 2nd inf Reg of the 5th Inf Div. He was killed in action on July 27, 1944. With that information I began to research the the 2nd Inf Reg and the battles that took place on the 27th. Sure enough I digged through some archives and found his name along with others who were killed in the battle for Voudiville.

I concluded that he must have been killed by German artillery or armor.

Now a year later I am in France. I rekindled the conversation with Ronnie and told him I will pay his father a visit. I asked Ronnie if he had a photo of his father in uniform. He did.

I ask Ronnie what he knew about his father? His father was only 20 when he was drafted into the Army. Ronnie shared the story his grandfather had told him:

Prior to receiving his draft notice, Esau had bought a brand new car; with his departure date nearing, Esau told his father to use the car. Esau’s father told that him that he would take the tires off, sit the car on blocks in the garage and make sure no one touches it until he returns home.

Esau said “No use it, because I’m not coming home”. A smoker, he turned walked away blowing a puff of smoke into the air. Those where the last words Esau would have with his father.

Now everything was coming into context. I understood the battle. I understood the survivors. And now in the forest of crosses I understood the sacrifice.

As I approached PFC Olague a surge of excitement and anxiety fell upon me, like meeting someone for the very first time. And there he was.

Plot H Row 20 Grave 28

PFC ESAU R. OLAGUE

CALIFORNIA

2nd Inf DiV 5th Inf Div

KIA 27 July 1944

I knelt down place the photo Esau next to his cross and rendered a salute. Ysi, with authority, rendered a final salute. From a veteran to a fallen veteran.


It then downed on me, that I was the first person in 63 years to sincerly pay respects to Esau. No family, no friends (to my knowledge) has genuinely stood in front of this mans grave and wept. I get chills when I tell of this story.

I hope a clunk of dirt will from Colleville sur Mer will be able to connect father and son.


Robert


D Day 0630hrs.
June 6th, 2007

The time is 0630 hrs. D Day plus 63… Years.

I woke up the over cast skies of St Laurent. Omaha could be heard off in the distance crashing against the shores. I open the small window of the second story Inn and am sprayed with a mist from bloody Omaha. This time,63 years later, the water is clear.

I had the hardest time trying to imagine being either a German or American and listening to the bombs fall near by.

I feel back to sleep.

We returned to Colleville Sur Mer for the Annual Ceremonies.

We sat upon the steps of the Plaza. Defense Secretary Gates sat several rows ahead of us along with other dignitaries.

Behind us stood a row of flag barriers from the US military. During the ceremony a sound came from behind as if some one had dropped a hum cap. A Sgt in the US Airforce had collapse after several minutes of attentions. She was given first aid. The topic of discussion among the rows veterans was sharing of stories of soldiers falling over during Attention. They shared tricks they learned when standing at attention.


Ysi and I were interviewed by a French News crew. Ysi was in his VFW uniform and I was in my WWII uniform; identical to his Class A (Dressed) during the war.

At the cemetery I conducted several interviews with British soldiers who landed on DDay. Very interesting. My regret was being to passive in asking for an interview from the American veterans who where there. I kept saying “I’ll get them afterwards.”

We visited the British and Canadian sector the landings. The little town that harbors the beaches was beautiful. With its narrow streets closed off for tourist and people in period uniforms transported this little street back in time to 1944.

The sounds of a Jeeps idling and backfire are common sounds during the 6th of June. And the smell of exhausted and oil has never been so nostalgic.


Saint Mere Elgise
JUNE 7th

Here is where the famous Airborne Divisions of the 82nd and 101st liberated in mid June.

Jeeps, tanks, halftracks and more jeeps accompanied the many reenactors who are still left over from 6th.

A platoon paratroopers did several rounds around the City square sounding cadences. Your left…right righto your left… your left right your left

I thought they must be Americans because they look so damn sharp. As a reenactor, I subconsciously critique WWII impressions. These men where by far the most accurate and poised group of reenactors I’ve encountered in France.

A young French lady, dressed as a medic asked Ysidor if she could take a picture. Before we knew it we followed the platoon into the Airborne Museum where they all asked Ysi questions. Even though Ysi was not in the Airborne they were just as in awe.

They were French. They had learned American phrases just enough to get by in drills and in marches.

Again the camera rolled.

They gather around Ysi for a company picture. One of them said fommage(cheese) while some wise cracked yelled, sex! Sex! Sex! It must have been the only word in English he knew.

Off to the side, Rene was talking to the French young lady. He was telling her about Ysi’s story. Tremper etc…


Afterwards, Ysi and I quickly scanned the Airborne museum. Along the way Ysi was stopped and thanked. I gladly took photos for thankful.

They young French lady and her boyfriend, one of the paratrooper, caught up with us. She said that she spoke with Rene and that the Paratrooper platoon was going to go visit Daniel and pay their respects, too.

Ysi deeply moved by this was speechless as he tried to thank the two. Tears ran behind his glasses and quickly wiped away by his handkerchief. The young couple also held back tears.

I was lucky enough to be hiding behind the camera.


Robert

June 4-5th 2007

The French country side is beautiful. Just like in the movies the buildings here in Normandy are old, some dating back several hounded years, and the grass is ever so green. The Normandy region is covered with fields of wheat and corn hill after rolling hill.

As we exited the high way and entered the country roads, the roads immediately shrunk down to a narrow road and cars zoom by each other with only several inches to spare.

As we entered the town, or rather Village, of Illiers- L’Eveque, I notice the roads have no shoulder, but rather the road is defined by windows, doors and walls of peoples homes. Decades of erosion and cars whizzing by have given these structures the “Normandy country side” look.

I could not help but wonder how may have these villages looked 63 years ago. Was it devastated by five years or war, or was the village of Illeris- L’eveque left untouch by the war?

Either way, I could imagine French women and children welcoming the liberators with kisses and hugs, French flags flapping over the narrow streets of villages and the overpowering ringing from the church bells.

However, at the same time I could just hear the sounds of war echoing off in the distances: The rat tat tat tat of a machine gun, the clanking of a tank treads or the desperate cries from the wounded and scared. As I sat in back seat, I wondered if these beautiful place instigate awful memories for Ysidor.

We made a left on Rue de Liberation. I quickly scouted the area for any attractive French women and tried to decipher French signs. It has been three years since I lost spoke French.

--
Our first visit was to a German cemetery in St. Andre some 15km away. It was here that Rene, our host, explained to me that it was here that the Americans set up thier first provisional cemetery. The black and white photo showed row upon row of wooden white crosses and some where in that row of crosses was Daniel H. Tremper. Now adjacent from where the American cemetery stood is a German Cemetery. Some 20,000 plus German Soldiers lay buried here. I notice that each grave has two soldiers, meaning there are bodies per grave.

Our next visit was to a German airfield. We drove on the taxi was which planes use to use to get to the garage, barracks or runway. During the war, the taxi way was heavily bombed and the craters are still visible. It at this abandoned airfield that many youth learn how to drive.

I may learn how to drive a stick car here.

Robert




June 5th, 2007

Rene explained to me on the two hour drive to the Normandy coast where certain battle where fought and where Ysidor’s regiment was.

By 11am we arrived in St Laurent sur Mer, better know as Omaha beach. As we drove in on the main road to the left was the Omaha Beach Museum guarded by a rusty Sherman tank, a German anti-aircraft gun and beach obstacles.

We drove by…

And then there it was! The beach! Omaha! Bloody Omaha!! At first I could not believe it, but there it was. It will take me a day for it to finally sink in.

We stood in a very small motel called the D Day house. At ground lever there is a little restaurant that served a modest meal. Our rooms where upstairs. In France, people can still smoke in doors, so years of smoke had crept and embedded itself in our rooms. We got use to it.

I got unpacked and Ysi and I immediately changed into our uniforms. Ysi is a very proud person. Proud of every medel, proud of every citation, and proud of his Sgt, who lays just over the ridge.

Rene had arrange with the Mayor of Colleville for Ysi to speak to a group of school children at the 2nd Divisions Memoral which stits on a hill over looking the Easy Red sector. The moment is an old German Battery bunker.

This was an amazing site. There above the clifs of Omaha one can see the

whole beach. It was nearly impossible for me to picture this quite community a few hundred, to have been the one of many portholes into hell.

Now it is a place of remembrance... A place where the old come to remember and the young try to comprehend. A place where old soles, like myself, try to indulge sprit and mind with history … a place where sprits wonder.

The winds of history bite at your nose and the moister in the air collected on finger tips. Few birds lingered around with their ever so threatening bombs of their own… it was if they knew they where in the presence of greatness.

I must admit I didn’t know the significant of this bunker and hill until a Frenchman ask me if I spoke French. Oui, un pleu.

He pointed to where troops landed and the story of this bunker. How this gun took out a lot of machines and men on June 6th, and how the Americans over came this obstacle. He walked me over the plaque that explained the history. OHHHHH WOW!!!! I said. Every WWII buff knows of this picture and have seen it a thousand times. Even the average person has seen it at least a hundred times.

We talked to a few American who were backpacking across Europe. They were from Connecticut and where on their way to Paris. Told them they should stop at the American Cemetery.

After taking several dozen of photo of Ysi and the children I took a picture of myself ontop of the hill over looking Easy Red.