Open Writing

Memories Mingle
1985

And so began a new phase of life. She had a good job. However, her marriage was on the rocks and, with nowhere to go, she was profoundly unhappy. She began stretching her wings a little, discovering that the experience was quite uplifting. The rigid walls that had held her captive for so long were now fuzzy, almost ethereal. This new-found freedom was magical, especially as it had taken so long to come. This was a feeling that had never been previously embraced.

Becoming involved in various forms of activity that were new, she met a man named Bert. His story was fascinating. He had been in the Second World War, and was taken captive by the Japanese. While they were transporting him and several other platoons by boat, it was bombed by the British, and started to sink. The Japanese kept the prisoners in holds below the deck, and even though it was obvious that they would drown, the hatches were not opened. In vain the captured men yelled and shouted for release.

Bert found it incredible and deeply soul-destroying to witness this level of inhumanity of man to man. He had to watch many of his men die as he awaited the inevitable, he believed. Fortunately, at the very last minute, the hatches were opened. He was lucky enough not only to escape, but to be fit enough to be able to swim to a nearby island owned by China, where the local inhabitants hid him for a while.

The Japanese came looking for him, however, and the Chinese were unwilling to take any more risks. He spent four years in a prisoner or war camp. He always insisted that the war had just ended in time. He could not have survived much longer. All his possessions from that experience he had kept, and they all fitted into a matchbox. That matchbox meant more to him than anything you could name. It had taught him that there were many things we could live without, that he could survive hardships. It was the most poignant matchbox she had ever seen. He kept it prominently on display in his home.

After the war, he worked with a prominent law firm, and there he stayed until he retired. He was very shrewd, a very good judge of character, and when she met him, exceptionally lonely. His wife had just died, in the most tragic of incidents. She had gone down to the shops for something for his tea, and met a happy Labrador, tied up outside on an extending lead. As she made a fuss of the dog, it wrapped itself round her legs with the lead, and she overbalanced. Her resulting fracture of the skull ended her life within two hours.

Gradually, over a period of months, a firm friendship was established, and once a week they painted the town a variety of colours – not merely red. Bert helped to ease her through the difficulties of her changed situation. His wisdom, his stories of times much harder than anything she had known, were a real assistance.

This strange occurrence was quite noticeable throughout her life; when she came to a crossroads, there was always been someone there for her, waiting. She could not explain it.

At work, she was studying orthopaedics. It was in addition to her Nursing Qualification, and very enjoyable. It was also very hard work and extremely demanding.

The summer of ’86 was particularly interesting, and left enduring memories. It was now forty years since the end of the war, and Coatbridge had spent the previous year on an anniversary bus tour, which had frustrated him more than anything else. The tour stopped a mere two miles from the Pegasus Bridge, which he desperately wanted to see. The timing of the tour did not allow him the time to walk to see it, nor would it be flexible enough to take him. He came back quite disgusted.

“I’ll go again next year, and get a bike!” he informed her.

She was concerned that he should try to cycle round France at his advanced years, so the situation offered itself to her to drive him to France, and allow him to enjoy himself.

As she was on night duty, where she had six nights off in a row, this could be done without using up any holiday time.

They left together in June of that year and they travelled the roads that he had marched on foot. Many things were pointed out that a casual traveller would have missed, had he not been there to guide. He described in vivid detail the sights, sounds and smell of war.

“Look at that!” he would exclaim excitedly. “There are still bullet holes in the wall! That is a farm that we took – and oh dear, it was dreadful! The roads were so blocked with dead cattle that the men could not get through without a bulldozer. The bodies of the beasts were all bloated and the smell was atrocious.We were told to shell the barn, and there were horses inside. It was horrific. To listen to their cries of terror and futile attempts at escape was bad enough, but it only preceded the stench of burning flesh.”

His battalion base at a chateau in Ranville was found, and as she drove in, he said "You can't just drive in, dear."

"Just watch me." was the response.

Although they were challenged by an official going up the drive, a very warm welcome was accorded from the owner, who requested that he sign the visitors book. Next, he wanted to find a farm, in whose barn he had managed to capture over 40 Germans. The town, however, was all new build.

She said ”I think you might be unlucky with this one. All these houses look too modern.”

“No,” he replied. “We have just crossed a railway line, and the farm was very near a railway line. Let me get out and walk if it is here, I’ll find it.”

It was approaching teatime, and she was getting hungry, but she watched him wander off into the distance.

As he re-approached after about ten minutes, she could see the spring in his step, and he waved happily.

“I’ve found it!” he shouted from some distance. “It’s still here!”

She drove towards him, and he explained that he would like her to introduce him to the farmer, and explain what had happened during the war. They knocked on the door, and she explained in basic French who they were. An invitation inside followed, and she translated his story to the best of her ability.

“My father says that he arrived at your farm with his platoon and discovered that there were forty four Germans hiding under brushwood” (this was a struggle – she didn’t know the word for brushwood in French.) “They were all terrified, and he took them prisoner.”

The farmer was totally riveted. He was flabbergasted, having no idea that the Germans had been hiding out on the property. He was too young to have been around during the war, but his parents had always owned the farm and the Germans had certainly forced the local French out.

When he was told that a visit had already taken place to the chateau at Ranville, he burst out laughing, That was his cousin!

Next stop was Point de Hoc. Her father wanted to see the place where so many Americans landed, and died, trying to scale this hugely fortified rock. It seemed as high as the cliffs of Dover. Because these American soldiers had been specially trained to climb cliffs and had special skills, the plan was to completely bombard the area, taking out the pillbox at the top of the cliff. This was the only position that allowed the Germans a clear view, and would be essential to hold against troops ascending to their position. Unfortunately, the objective was missed, and the death toll was quite horrific. The area around remains very heavily cratered, with many unexploded bombs.

The pillbox was so well built that it is used today as a memorial to the men that fell attempting the assault.

Then it was time for Courseilles–sur-Mer, which was where Coatbridge had landed with his men on D-day plus one, (7th of June 1944). She made to get out of the car with him, but he restrained her.

“No, dear” he said gently. “I have to do this alone.”

So he stood, alone on the shore, and looked out to sea, lost in thought for a very long time. The sky was grey, overcast and leaden, and the waves heaved menacingly in perfect harmony with his mood. How could she describe a moment that was so moving? She couldn’t. She hadn’t been there. But when, at last, he turned, she saw that some memory had been put to rest.

Based at Le Havre with friends on the last night, someone was found who was an expert in the fighting that had gone on in that town. Her father had missed this part of the fighting because he had been ill, and so was interested in the whole story. The host had very kindly made enquiries and discovered an elderly Frenchman named Marcel. He arrived, in full battle fatigues, clutching various maps, and explaining that he still had the British code names for all the objectives. “Steak and kidney”, “Bacon and egg,” etc. (Obviously, either rationing had reached High Command, or they understood how much a soldier thinks about food!).

Marcel explained that the Germans had built a whole series of passageways under the town and surrounding area, although the British were unaware of the full complexity and extent of this. To add to the German defences, there was a periscope system, which would every so often break the surface of a field from their underground haven, so that they could observe all movement on the ground.
Again, the British were unaware. They knew the Germans had been there for some time, and were well dug in, but the effort the extent, had not been imagined. By sheer good luck that they attacked at night, and took the Germans by surprise.
All this fascinated Coatbridge, and when Marcel said “I take you. You want to see?” her father was off like a shot.

It was a fascinating journey. There were whole rooms connected to each other underground. It was like a rabbit warren. There were beds, rooms which had probably been used for relaxation, and latrines. They did not need to come out for anything. Apparently there had also been food and a lot of beer and wine, which had disappeared over the years. It was difficult to imagine construction on this scale in the middle of a war.

He thoroughly enjoyed what he saw. However, Marcel, decided that he should demonstrate his full knowledge, as he had a captive audience that shared his interest. Coatbridge was dragged him through fields with bulls in them, over some quite difficult terrain, and with Marcel demonstrating no desire to turn back, it became quite an ordeal.

However, he returned home to Scotland with a whole new collection of stories, and a slightly different view of the French.

***

She went back on night duty, totally unsuspecting, to her usual ward which specialised in spinal surgery. Not long after, a phone call came through asking her to go to the convalescent ward for the night.

Pardon?

Convalescence and rehabilitation?

After all her intensive care experience?

Delusions of grandeur must have set in, because she put up considerable resistance to this move.

She lost the battle. She was to spend time in rehabilitation.

To this day, the logic of her being chosen for this ward is obscure.

There were many others more skilled in this area than she was.

Whatever the reason, in these few months her life was changed forever.