Amidst untenable emotion that stifles and subdues, the crystalline splendour of Eva Cassidy`s song – Fields of Gold – drifts amongst the congregation, sentiment dripping from the lyrics. I have a sudden urge of wanting to ask, why did you love that song so much?

Of course we all cry. A life, fifty nine years in the making that had not yet fulfilled the desires of the heart. A body engulfed in a stealty illness that crept, eventually swalllowing any trace of those desires. Desires of visiting a much-loved son in Australia. Desires of holding the expected new-born grandchild. Desires of witnessing newly planted trees reach to the sky in a grandeur of greenery.

Listenening to the words of the song, I cannot help but smile at the lyrics of – When the West Wind Blows. You didn`t know north from south – or east from west. You always got names muddled and places were a geographical nightmare.

The pall bearers gently place your coffin before the cross of Christ. Eva Cassidy`s haunting voice trancends, weightless, lubricating this density of space. The spangled brilliance of translucent colours plays upon your coffin draped in cascading lilies. With trembling hands and tears that flow shamelessly, I recall, with traumaitized incredulity, it was only just a few months ago that we did indeed walk in fields of gold.

Our friendships beginning was a fleeting half hours walk with our dogs most mornings. We walked together along the sweeping lane that stretched from our homes. Me, with my bouncy Golden Retriever Sam, you with your regal Boxer Bertie. Our daily walks did not desist as the seasons changed. Biting winds, driving rain,frost laced branches, warm spring breezes and summer searing heat. Nothing fazed us. We would chat about mundane things. The weather, what we watched on television the previous night. As our friendship grew, we realised we had a lot in common, a daughter about the same age as each others and our love of animals and wildlife. Do you remember how we would both, during the cold winter months, take our plastic bag full of bread to feed the solitary robin that would perch on the bare branch next to us? Each morning he would appear and watch us furtively as we held our daily chat on that awful lump of concrete that faced the field. Our derrieres would chill as the dampness of our implausible seat gnawed through our padding of clothes.
“God,” you would chunter, “we`ll get piles from sitting on this thing.”
Do you remember when we walked away after depositing the bag of winter nourishement, we would surrepticiously pause and watch as the robin hopped onto our lump of concrete and peck away at the feast left for him? This cheeky chap began to wait each morning for us, recognizing the two strange women with bulging bags of food and he became another friend on our daily dog walk. We shared our anguishes of rebellious teenagers and tales of your daughter that, when a teenager,was, “An awful mare!”
But you also told me in a lowered tone that hinted at the anguish of your plight simmering in secret, that your daughter had made up for her teenage antics in later years. Now, those rebellious years vanquished, your daughter had become your friend, a carer and subsequently your nurse. Your son emigrated to Australia. Amidst your obvious distress of his departure, you told me how proud you were of him. You gave me weekly reports on his progress after you had spoken and `seen` him through the inovation of advanced technology which held and displayed. almost cruelly, treasured images of a son you could see but not touch. You confided how much you were looking forward to visiting him in Australia. Sadly, fate in is entire inane irony, did not allow you to make that journey. Fate came in the form of cancer. Malignant cells took over, deliberating in its persistance of demoralization. Incredibly, before I knew you, you had survived the `silent killer` ovarian cancer and was just beginning to enjoy life again. The ovarian cancer was now dormant. But with infections, that constantly plagued you, you were finally diagnosed with breast cancer.

You began treatment with a tenacity that humbled me. I am sure in your private moments you displayed your anger and self-worthlessness. But to the outside world you remained happy and optimistic finding the daily grind of chemotherapy and radiotherapy a nusiance rather than a tragedy to incur. Your lovely blond hair fell out and you were relieved it was winter so that you could wear your hood high over your head. No-one other than your immediate friends and family knew anything was amiss. In the summer you donned a bandana that featured bright colours of the rainbow that depicted your sunny optimism. Things seemed to be going well. Chemotherapy pumped into your body and daily doses of radiotherapy shrank the tumour. However, your happy and infectious sanguinity hid a deadly secret. It was a moment I was not expecting. Just a normal day. Two dogs bouncing, ducking and diving in the golden corn. An incomprehensible moment that you spoke of as if telling me you were going shopping, or visiting the family, or having to do the ironing or clean the cooker.
“They can`t cure me – the cancer is inoperable – it`s terminal.”
I could lie and say I felt sad, shocked, lost. However I did not. I felt bloody angry. Angry that I could lose my friend to something I could not see, could not understand. That all of this we shared – could stop.

Nothing seemed to change. You were well, planning Christmas, planning to visit Australia. You were shopping, walking Bertie. I began to feel secure in that knowledge, burying the stark reality of those crippling words you spoke in that fleeting revelation. It had also struck home that you trusted me with that information. I was humbled that our relationship had reached those heights. The next revelation came in much the same way. I was totally unprepared and unaware. You seemed so well when you told me that you were feeling exhausted when we sat our bottoms on our cold lump of concrete. I joked with, “What have you been doing to make you feel so exhausted?” I had totally forgotten that you had an incurable disease.
“The cancer has spread to my other breast,” you declared wistfully. But the darkness of the implication of that fact shifted across your eyes. How much does a body, one of God`s children have to endure? I did not feel angry this time. Instead I asked God why. More than before, from the pit of my stomach that lurched in fear, I sensed your cynicism. Cancer would not let go of you. It had buried itself deep within you only to surface when you thought you were the victor. It tricked you with your days of good health and happy demeanour.

This time there was a change in you. You did not seem so optimistic. The weekly doses of chemotherapy stripped away your strength and the daily radiotherapy was painful. Even so, seeing you everyday I did not notice you in obvious decline and hung on to the fact that whilst you were receiving treatment, there was a glimmer of hope. I still hung on to that fact when you were too ill to bring Bertie for his morning walk convincing myself that you were just going through a bad time. I did plan to come to see you. I wanted to so badly. Truth was I was scared, scared to see the change from the happy, optimistic jovial friend, to the victim of a filthy disease that had dared to encompass your body. I did not want to witness you fall victim to cancers laceration of dignity and thought that you deserved better than having to succumb to its degradation. God must have thought so to, because, quite unexpectedly, he took you whilst you were asleep.

So here you lie in this little chapel surrounded by your family and friends. My tears stumble on my cheek, waiting. My hand reaches to my face, faltering to wipe them away. Will I wipe you away with them? Are you in the dark shadow of my heart as I foresee my lonely walks? Are you in the laughter that bursts from my soul as I remember your witless statements? Are you with me as I tread the future missing my friend? Are you with me when I forget to remember you?

Eva Cassidy`s voice is still holding us in a captivated state with her harmonic layered tone and I fear I will never know why you chose that song to be played at your funeral. Did you know that you had more in common with Eva Cassidy than the cancer that infiltrated you both? I recall reading an article about her after she had just passed away whereby a friend commented, “Nature was Eva`s soul. She respected and nurtured everything that grows, crawls and flies. She was not interested in a glittering career, preferring to surround herself with surpportive friends.” These words magnify everything I know of you. I want to tell you here an now about Eva`s likeness to you and I hear you say in your usual endearing surprise, “Oh was she?”

As Eva`s song trancends, luxuriantly asking, – If we remember you – and asking us to stay with you in the – Fields of Gold and gaze amongst the fields of barley – I stand with the inconceivable surprise at my own stupidity, for you have answered my question. My smile plays with the corner of my mouth and encourages the waiting tear to drop. The hot lump in my throat subsides at the rapid lurch of my heart. The answer is so obvious it is though a new era is born. You chose the song because you loved the spring – the summer – the winter`s snow.

You are with the oppulence of the changing seasons – when the orb of the sun sits in the jealous sky. You are with – the west wind that blows.

The rustle of gold sits in wait for you as your spirit transcends above natures burst of glory. Whilst nature continues with its ever-surprising metamorphosis, tantalising us to step over its boundary, you will never be gone from this world. I know that whenever I walk my lonely walk and watch the golden corn whispering and dancing – you will be there. Because:

You are the eyes of the fox that twists its head in awe of the approaching stranger.

You are the leaves that lift and curl.

You are the puddle that colours eloquently drawing the insect.

You are the robin that sits in hope.

You are the rustle that sweeps across the fields with the warm gentle breeze.

You are the cry of the new-born babe.

My walks will still be lonely, my heart still heavy. But in my sudden realization and secure in the knowledge that has come in this house of God, your final message to us all was a carefully chosen one designed to soothe the searing pain of the death of a loved one. Your final message has come in the form of a simple song that outweighs any wonderful words said in your memory.

Maybe my steps of the future will be a little lighter. Your spirit is within the wanting of what we want to believe, of what we know to be true.

You are happy. For you are:

The Fields of Gold.

In memory of my friend Anne Jenkins


Breast Cancer's photo.


Eva and her family were not in the apartment now.  They had lost that during one of the hellish raids that had come at the time of restraint from the allies which had lulled them into a false sense of hoping the worst was over.  That was what the newspapers and wireless broadcasts were telling then and, of which her neighbour from upstairs had verified.  He had pounded on her door a few days after the allies had invaded Normandy to relay the good news.”Frauline Butz,” he`d gushed, rushing past her waving the Volkischer Beobachter, the Nazi party newspaper in front of her face.  “Look what`s happening in France – we have nearly won the war.  Let me read it to you.”

“It`s too soon to say.”  Pierre answered in a hushed voice.  He led Henri by the shoulder taking him away from the throng of people who were going about the daily task of making the most of their cave like existence.  “The Germans have their tanks all around the entrance to Caen.  Pierre drew Henri hard by his shoulder toward him and hissed.  “The SS have murdered over six hundred people in the village of Oradour-sur-Glane. They shot some in the market square and burned others alive in the church.”

Henri`s head shot up.  “Why would they do such a thing?”

“Because they are murderers and since the allies landed are finding any excuse to kill.”

Chapter Fifty Nine

With the shrill of the dawn chorus, the allies began the artillery pounding and when it started, it didn`t stop – not for one second. As the ground exploded, the atmosphere became contaminated with thick acrid smoke and dust which throttled senses.  Hearing became incoherent. The mind numbing continuous booms, beckoned a madness of tears and screaming.  Red hot splinters punctured and tore at flesh already seeping life juices.


This was part of a soldiers uniform swept up on Portsmouth beach – cast aside from the shores of France.  Lying here were all these items – personal items, photographs curled and stained. Some of the photographs portrayed just a single person, others, groups, that Irene assumed to be families.  There were letters, never to be read, the ink running as though tears. There were just hundreds of them.  Footwear, wallets, clothing, papers. Letters and possessions from all different nationalities washed up on Pompay beach.  It was all planned – Irene`s life.  But now the evidence of D day was here, the remnants of lives lived – and lost in a moment.



Violet was just about to fetch the trolley to fill with fresh cups and saucers before the WVS ladies came on the ward with the tea, when Audrey rushed up to her.  Leaning into her she said in a low urgent voice, “Matron wants to see us in her office right away.”

“Why, what have we done?”

Audrey shrugged, pulled a non – plus face and held out the flat of her palms in reply.  But she was already on her way. Violet hurried after her, tucking a few escaped strands of hair into her hat, hoping that her face looked reasonable.

“I have an important job.”  Matron declared to the two girls standing before her.  “One that, I am afraid, seems to elude some people and one that will not suit everybody.  It is a job that will not be an order due to the delicate nature of it, but a job that needs doing nevertheless.”

The two girls exchanged an inquisitive and nervous glance.

Matron placed her clasped hands on her desk seeming to relax a little. Taking a small intake of breath she said, “We are in desperate need of people to help out with the German prisoners who have arrived here.”  Violet sensed the definite shift in the tone of Matron`s voice which was, a little more – subdued.  “They were picked up off the beaches during the first few hours of the invasion.”

It was Audrey who spoke first.  Sideways glancing at Violet she said quietly, “I`m game if you are.”

Violet cleared her throat.  “Well it does say in our Girl Guides oath that we should help everyone,” she said with a tremor in her voice.

But even as the words spilled out, Violet was unsure.  These were Germans for goodness sake, the very ones who may have tried to kill Jack and Gary – who could have killed Jack and Gary and could also have inflicted the terrible wounds on the poor soldiers she had been tending to.  But Matron didn`t wait for any change of mind sensing the falter in Violet`s voice.  “Excellent,”  she announced with gusto.  “Here are the necessary papers to give to the guards on the doors of the Nissan hut where the prisoners are being h…, waiting to be treated,” she quickly corrected.

Both girls dare not look at the other as they in turn took the papers from Matron`s outstretched hands.

But both girls were wondering – what the hell had they done.



The key was in the lock – Isaac managed it despite his hand dancing to imaginary tunes and a dizziness that held his innocence.  He was in – the silence and the dank starkness of nothingness hitting him.  The thing under his foot – he picked it up, but not without a battle, his boot refusing to give it up until he lashed it out in mid-air.  The brown card was held in his hand before eyes that could not focus.  “Humph!”  He discarded the card, like his life had been.  “Who cares – so you`re safe – who cares – go to hell!”

Isaac stumbled to the chair – falls into a luxury that is cold and untouched.  He is ashamed.  But there is no-one to care.  No-one to hear his shuddering sobs.  How had it come to this.  This loneliness, this emotion so stark and solid it would not leave.  But now he dithered – dithered in an eternity of love that he would not allow and when he did? Spurned – sent packing – left with this nothingness and reddening eyes and a sobbing throat that only allowed –

“Go to hell – the lot of you!”

To Commemorate the 70th Anniversary of D-day – Excerpt From My Novel


To come upon a tank, a sentiment of war, silhouetting shapes in smoking metal, once a driver,gunner,husband, father, brother or son. Now all that is left of the residue of life are ID discs that would be shipped home with no possessions – possessions lingering in the skeletal pockets of death, just memories of happy faces and the embrace of final hugs and promises of return. New babies cradled and children holding onto trouser legs, misty eyes upward turned to search their father`s face as they kissed mum goodbye entrenched in a crowded platform with whistles – and steam – and tears.
Farewell wasn`t meant to be eternal and no-one prepared them for the finality of it.

omaha beach

Gary was hardened to war, after four years he had to be. But thinking of ma, as they buried them, he hoped she wouldn`t have to carry the burden of a lost child. For he knew, his tears for once defying his hard-edged heart, his ma would not harbour the weight of it.

6th June 1944 – 70th Anniversary of Dday. Dday – Excerpt from my novel.


JUNE 6th 1944


It had been slick, quick and bloody for the Germans.  Major John Howard`s D company 2nd battalion of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire light infantry had attacked the two bridges, one over the Orne Canal – codename Pegasus, and one over the Orne four hundred yards away – codename Horsa. The bridges provided a crucial link between the invasion beaches and the airborne landings and needed to be in British hands before the landings took place preventing any counter attack from the Germans.  John Howard`s men comprising of six platoons, plus thirty sappers form 249 Company Royal Engineers, in total, one hundred and eighty men, plus pilots in six gliders, had attacked the bridges at one minute past midnight.

“Christ there`s the bridge!” The pilot, Staff Sergeant Jim Wallwork had shouted from the cockpit.  The nose of the glider dove steeply.  “Where do you want to finish up sir?”  He asked, in jocular fashion, as he fought with the controls of the glider having to deploy the arrestor parachute – the glider coming in way too high.

Major Howard, never one to turn down a challenge, albeit his answer rather droll knowing the likelihood of pinpointing a precise landing in the engine-less Horsa gliders nigh impossible, told him,” Ideally Jim, right through the wire defences of the bridge!”

“Right oh sir.”

Daft old sod, Major Howard smiled wryly.  But the skill of the pilot was paramount to the success of the operation.  Too short and the glider would end up in the pond – too long and they would land on the Germans heads!  Complete surprise was what was needed.  The great wooden bird, swooping silently alongside the canal bounced on the ground – became airborne – bounced again – hit the ground – bounced again – rose up briefly – the ground whizzing past – flint flashing.  Were they German bullets?  Were the Germans ready and waiting?  Luckily it was just the skids hitting the ground.The glider hurtled in frenzied speed on uneven ground then – crashed, hitting the ground for the final time.

John Howard was thrown to the ground – the cockpit disintegrating.  There was no time to check the condition of the pilots or the fate of the other gliders. The rest of the platoon was out, some thrown out, some tumbling out.  Major Howard collected his men.  They knew exactly what was expected of them.  He led his platoon towards the road which led to the bridge.  Phosphorous bombs were lobbed at the pillbox across the road.  Waking Germans, confused and unsure of what was happening, screamed as thirty-six grenades – dumped through slits of the pillbox, dropped at their feet. Panic, screams, explosions, ripped flesh – and then silence.  Any survivors were finished with bursts of machine gun fire. Then they were on to the next target.  Miraculously, there was no firing from the Germans.  John Howard`s men moved swiftly and with deadly earnest attacking without mercy pillboxes, gun nests and trenches.

The Germans tried in the confusion to man their positions and fire back – but it was too late.

“Ham and Jam,” were the magic words that came from the 38 radio set carried by Major Howard`s batman, indicating that the mission was a success.  The whole thing had taken just fifteen minutes – the bridge secure and intact.


For the young men of the 101st and 82nd Airborne, things had not gone quite so well.  Thick banks of cloud had encumbered the pilots in finding the correct drop zones and the Germans had opened the sluice gates flooding the valleys and turning the whole area into a quagmire.  As hundreds dropped from planes hopelessly off target, many inexperienced parachutists were swallowed by glupes of mud, dragged down with heavy equipment, arms flaying, mouths filled with rancid water.  Or they dropped into the sea or became entangled in trees or hit roofs.  Many were shot down by heavy fire before they even hit the ground.

For private Sherman Oyler, this was not the glorious first entrance into Normandy he had hoped for.  He had lost his leg strap as soon as he had jumped, plus his webbing with most of his ammunition.  But this was worse!  He couldn’t release himself from his harness as he hit the mud.  He squealed with panic when he could feel nothing beneath him.  He flayed at the mud as he was slowly sucked down.  If only he could release his harness!  But he couldn’t reach the knife in his jacket.  His hands fought the straps – the parachute sprawled in front of him but was not attached to anything solid and would not hold his grip. Frantically pulling at it as it lay on dry land just yards in front of him, he panicked further as the parachute collected in a great white mass before him.  In his panic, he had discarded his sub machine gun – his mouth filling with black gunk, his screams becoming garbled – sickly – his nose the only organ taking in air – then that too began to fill – his ears could still hear the frantic throes in his throat – they too became muffled in silence shutting out the sensory of his world.  His head became heavy and pounding, even more terrifying – his brain was still very much alert – his eyes the only thing visible – wide with terror  – then blackness – stinging thick slime – his world dark and suffocating – a huge bubble of mud entombing him – grappling hands slowing – then stopping, both hands laying flat upon the surface of the swamp – they too then disappeared.

A gift General Eisenhower had given him just before take off, a small plate, was the only thing visible.  The inscription on the plate read:

Heaven Can Wait


Major Danvers sat at the small desk aboard the Empire Battleaxe and opened his diary for what would be his last entry:

6th June 1944 04.45 hrs.

What a gigantic effort each man now has to make – to face up to something like this.  Men who may have had only a little of life – men with  little education and little knowledge – men with ailing estranged or poor  families.  Men who have never been loved – men who had high ambitions.  Yet we are all here – we`re going as ordered – willingly into battle.

Putting down his pen, he slowly closed the page, wondering if any other entry would ever be made.  Picking up the photograph of his family, he kissed them, replaced it on the desk, placed the diary in his top pocket and went to spend the last few hours on board – with his men.


The minesweepers stealthily forged ahead flanked by the great destroyers escorting them on their hazardous task.  Sweeping away the thousands of mines laid by the Germans in the English channel, the crew of the minesweepers did not deviate from the enormity of their mission, facing death and destruction at every turn.  The ten channels – within the English channel of which the fleet was divided – two per force and beach sector, had to precede the flotilla`s advance.  Marking the lanes with lighted dan buoys, they then moved in to sweep the waters of the invasion beaches.  Behind the minesweepers came the floating nerve centre of the operation, the Command ships.  Equipped with radio antennae and radar, these floating Command posts would formulate the network of communication directing the fleet through the perilous waters.


Jack sighed a long laborious sigh and muttered under his breath.  He was cold, wet and wondered what the hell he was doing here.  He should, if he were at home, be just starting his shift at Winterbottoms.  It was almost light, dawn had broken, a realization that chilled his heart.  He pushed through the lines of soldiers standing on the deck of the Empire Battleaxe to where his mate Sam was standing.  Sam was staring out to sea.  The early morning mist lamenting across the grey foreboding channel was slowly lifting.  As it did so, it was uncovering its prize, one it had cleverly concealed in the darkness.  Nothing – absolutely nothing could have prepared Jack for the sight before him.  He gulped, mesmerised at what his eyes were telling him and what was bearing down on Hitler`s fortress Europe.  As far as Jack could see, across each side of the Empire Battleaxe – were ships – hundreds and hundreds of ships – of every description.

Squashing himself smaller so he could fit between the troops, Jack was trying to take in the inconceivable sight.  Gracing the waters, paramount amongst the lesser vessels were the warships of Bombardment Force D, gigantic predators majestically stalking the waters.  H.M.S Warspite and Ramilies, cut through the water like knives cutting paper, almost shunning the rust scarred freighters that parried astride them.  Then came the British cruisers Mauritius, Arethusa, Frobisher, Danae, all equipped with powerful naval guns.  Hospital ships, weather beaten tankers, ocean liners and channel steamers with columns of smoke trumpeting, had taken their place in the vast fleet.

Jack looked right – left – in front of him- behind him – pushed himself right up to the rails.  “Here watch it mate!”  Great vessels carried numerous smaller landing craft, neatly aligned in rows, soon to be lowered into the water.  Little tugs parried around the huge vessels, hordes of them, jostling for power.  LSI`s like the Empire Battleaxe – H.M.S Glenearn, Cutlass, Broadsword, Astrid, Maid of Orleans, Goathland and the Locust were advancing in order packed to the brim with troops.  Endless columns of larger landing craft, full of glistening helmets below the LSI`s bobbed and bounced.  Ahead of the convoy were minesweepers and dozens and dozens of motor launches.  Leading this awesome procession of the Eastern Task Force was the cruiser H.M.S Scylla – the flagship of Rear Admiral Sir Philip Vian.  Again, as always, hundreds of silver barrage balloons, almost invisible as they merged with the dawn mist, bowed and curtsied high above the fleet.

Jack looked upward, the sky imitating the frenzied activity of the sea.  Roaring and buzzing were Spitfires and Thunderbolts weaving in and out of the clouds and then came the long drawn out pulsating roar of more B26 bombers, and then, droning and thundering along came the magnificent heavies – the Lancaster bombers, wing to tip – cumbersome, laborious – beautiful.  All of the aircraft had the three invasion stripes on their wings, which struck joy to the heart.

Sam slapped Jack`s back.  “Hitler`s fucked!”

Suddenly, without warning, a great thunderous BOOM,  although a good distance away from the Empire Battleaxe had Jack and the troops instinctively ducking, hands curled around helmets.  Another BOOM – billows of smoke – a huge flash – BOOM – the warships covering Gold Beach had begun firing onto the Normandy coastline.  From their position on the ship they could see, screaming from the LCT(R`s) (landing craft rocket) salvoes of rockets streaking towards the coast like devils with tails alight thwarting the grey dawn`s arrival.

The lads cheered and whistled.  “We’ll have nothing to do,”  Sam shouted.  “They’ll have flattened the bastards!”

The naval bombardment  of the Normandy coastline had now begun;  In the distance warships and destroyers were pulverising the coastline.  Fighters and bombers were bombing the headline of the coast with the ferocity of a wolf snapping up its prey.

The assault convoy had now arrived at the lowering position, heaving to and anchoring eight miles off the French coast.  Admiral Ramsey`s Operation Neptune, the first stage of Operation Overlord, was now in full swing.  It was Jack, Gary`s, Captain John Hamilton`s and thousands of troops – last stop.

The next stop – the Normandy beaches.

The ships were now a hive of activity, seething with noise, chains rattling in the divits as assault crafts swung down the side of the mother ships.  Navy coxswain positioned in the crafts as they were lowered away.  When the crafts hit the water, the coxswain thrust the engines into life and roared off, did a semi-circle and brought the assault craft back in line with the mother ships.

This was something they had practised time and time again during the months of rehearsals, so the climb down the scramble net was not deterring, but the sea below was.  The LCA was bouncing and bobbing with each huge swell.  Jack`s heavy boots felt their way down each ridge of rope.  Loaded down with his seventy-pound pack on his back, the large bulge of his May-West under his armpit, it was a laborious decent, the sea rolling and swelling towards him waiting to snatch him away.

The assault crafts of the flotilla dipped and rolled the undulating waves that crashed over the gunwales.  Vomiting was continuous and relentless.  The stink of engine oil, the landing crafts rolling this way, rolling that way, lifted up, smashed back down again.  Darting eyes, thumping hearts, tears and rosaries held in white knuckles.  A mighty fleet forging onwards.  Lines and lines of ships, destroyers, battleships, landing crafts, a magnitude of power carrying youth too young for death, for life, for fear, just babes trying to be men.   Thousands of ships, waves crashing against bows, white surf.  This great flotilla facing the tyranny that will no longer destroy, will no longer rule, a swirling mass of power, breaking the dawn, breaking the waves, breaking hearts. The sea covered with the hope of the world.

The bombardment ceases – the big guns are silent.  Jack`s landing craft weaves in between grotesque iron rails and pickets.  He eyes the deadly teller mines strapped on top and as the craft blindly passes the calling of death – in the midst of his minds eye – he can see other craft all around strike the obstacles and explode upwards.

The landing craft beaches some thirty yards from the shore.  They crouch – diesel engines in reverse, they stand – zip – zip – bullets like someone sucking on their teeth – BOOM – BOOM – mortars explode.

“RAMPS DOWN!”  They surge – visitors to hell.

Jack is in the water.  Someone screams.  “JACK – JACK!” Sam`s lungs are filling. “JACK – JACK.”

Jack tries to run, water waist high, the weight on his back pulling him down. The man in front falls – he`s going under. Gulping, swallowing, pink flesh lodges onto Jack“s face, he grapples.  Coming up – he sucks the air – zip-zip-zip.  Bulging eyes.  An arm floats.  A landing mine swerves – hits the teller mines – disintegrates – no survivors.

“JACK – JACK!” Sam disappears.

Another body floats past, blackened face – no face, sea turned red. Jack pushes a severed head away with his chest.  The head bobs as the waves taunt it – mouth gaping, blood red eyes staring. Jack has Sam in his grasp, his friend, his mate, his brother in arms.  Zip-zip-zip.  So many men running.  Smoke, screams, bullets, explosions, shouts, crazy, horror.


At precisely, 7.25am on Gold Beach, the 1st battalion of the Hampshire Regiment hit the right of the beach – Jig Green – the right of the line, the traditional post of honour. It was an honour duty bound and bestowed upon the Hampshires for unrivalled accomplishments – but was not replenished by any added heroics – not this day.  This day was about staying alive.  The Dorset Regiment were on the Hampshire`s left, but from this position, no-one could tell how they were fairing.

Private Charlie Hewson, the driver of the Bren Gun Carrier was struggling to get the carrier out of the water and onto the beach.

“Which way? Which way?”  Charlie yelled from his seat.  Despite her extra side extensions specially fitted for the event, sea water poured over the carriers side, the extensions blocking Charlie`s view.

“RIGHT – LEFT – RIGHT – LEFT.”  Gary stood on the back of the carrier, a precarious position, trying to avoid the angle irons that were loaded with teller mines protruding out of the water like some barbaric torture mechanisms.  Out of the haze of the morning mist and smoke, the underwater obstacles loomed up.  About 250 yards from the shoreline were the high ramps and posts tipped with mines.  Sited closer to the high-water mark, eight foot by ten foot steel girders bolted together at their centres with wooden ramparts and barbed wire, guarded the beach against any foolhardy invasion.   The obstacles towering above them and sown a few feet apart, the choppy waves threatened to draw them toward then, the carrier swaying, tilting with each wave, the angle irons just a hairs breath away.  Any slight collision would have brought their Dday to a short conclusion, as already had for so many.  The deep water obstacles, revealed by the tide, had still managed to achieve their intentions the steel spikes ripping along the hulls of craft rendering them useless before teller mines on top exploded. Dug deep into the beach the Germans had developed a complex of over two thousand five hundred mined obstacles, the four foot high wooden posts and six foot high iron built rails laden with explosives – had taken their prize.

Many landing craft were blown hopelessly off course, caught by the sudden swell turning sideways, men ready to disembark – mines and explosives detonated, sending a circus of chaos upward. Splinters of wood encased flesh, bodies blown high into the air like rag dolls, limbs departing, the screaming just a whisper amongst the pandemonium.   Boat after boat hung on the obstacles.

With each instruction Gary yelled, Charlie yanked the steering wheel right-left, water soaking his feet, the torrent of water, like a waterfall, pouring over the carriers sides.  Must keep the engine going at full revs!  As she lifted upward, the tracks snug on dryer land, Gary, privates Robert Smith and Christopher Knight, jumped into the water, wading through waist high.  The sea was teeming with soldiers all making their affront onto Gold Beach.  They were greeted by withering machine gun fire.


Nine miles west of Gold Beach, Captain John Hamilton was ignoring the murderous machine gun fire.  A soldiers gut was spilling into his hand. He was trying to administer sulphonamide powder to the wound pulling the packet open with his teeth, whilst trying to plug the hole in the soldier`s stomach with his fist.  And he needed morphine.  German fire was coming from all angles on Omaha Beach.  All along the six-mile stretch of flat beach – from five gullies embedded in the cliffs, artillery positions plunged into disgorging GI`s.  Grazing fire swept the sand like a spreading fire, from all types of weapons.  The cliff-like ridges concealed many German foxholes and bunkers from which, not one inch of that beach was not pre-sited for devastating and enfilade fire.

John had already treated so many soldiers.  It had been a slaughter – a blood-bath.  From their artillery positions all along the cliffs at either end of the crescent shaped beach, Omaha had been like a turkey shoot. Fingers on triggers of machine guns and rifles, mortars held back until the landing crafts hit the sand bar.  As was on Sword and Gold beaches,  the air bombardment, because of the cloud cover, caused the B-17s to drop their bombs five miles inland.  Not one bomb had dropped on the beach or bluff. The naval bombardment too had failed to clear the German strong-points at the top of the bluff and at either end of the beach.  From the moment the ramps came down as the landing crafts hit Omaha Beach, they were mown down – droves of them.

John was weary with the dead, his medicine mostly obsolete in this theatre of death.  The padre constantly made the invisible sign of the cross above the dead and the dying, muttered his prayers or predominantly, the last rights, whilst holding bloody hands.The padre questioned his own faith.  In the odd moment, he took refuge behind the wreckage – so much wreckage.  “God, why are you allowing this?”  He wiped his brow.  The blood of America transferred to his skin.  He shed a quiet tear.  Then,his bible clutched to his heart, tried to instil some faith back into his soul.

John did save lives, but they were so few they seemed almost insignificant. And still the landing crafts came – spilling more youth to their slaughter.


It had to be a quick recovery.  The allies bombardment had immobilised their brains, desensitised every thinking pattern.  First it had been the heavy bombers, their payload whistling and crashing down.  Then something unseen, unexpected, had unleashed a mighty fury upon them. They had taken refuge from the bombardment in the casement that housed the big 88mm gun on the beach at Hermanville-la-Breche.  The beach Heinrich would later learn the Tommies called – Queen Red – Sword Beach.  They had withstood everything the allies could throw at them.  Though only God would know how they had survived.  Heinrich had expected that at any moment they would be blown to Kingdom Come, blown into the sand.  Dust that covered every morsel of their skin had seeped into lungs, clogging the throat making breathing almost impossible.

When the lull had finally come, their ears thick with a silent terror and worse, what terror their eyes fell upon when they dared look beyond the confines of their concrete tomb.  Thousands upon thousands of ships were upon them.  A dark mass of incomprehensible power.  Boats, landing crafts and soldiers – so many soldiers – running straight  towards them!


“This is the BBC news at midnight.  Reports of operations show our forces have succeeded in their landings.  After four years, the allies have finally returned to the northern shore of occupied France.”

A note from the author.

Dday the 6th of June was just the beginning.  The allies would take another three months to break out of Normandy.  There were many more deaths and wounded on both sides – and not forgetting the many casualties the French civilians endured for the liberation of their country, of which my novel also covers.  This is a story of hellish proportions of misery, bravery and loss taken from many accounts and from many veterans who became my friends.  My great friend Sergeant Ronald White of the Hampshire Regiment who landed on Gold Beach at 7.25am on Dday told me, “You can`t put it into words really.  You had to be there.”  These posts are only short extracts from my novel and I have posted them for the 70th Anniversary of Dday.  Many of my Veteran friends are no longer with us, including my wonderful friend and mentor Ron.  My only answer to Ron`s statement is:

We, the generation who now benefit from your sacrifice were not there, but I can only hope that through the words of my novel, I may have just portrayed a little of what it was like for you.  I can only say, with your help, I have tried my very best.

AE Newstead.









5th June 1944 70th Anniversary Dday – 1 day to H hour – Excerpt from my novel.

The clock read 3.30 am. the morning of the 5th June and General Eisenhower was already awake as he had been for most of the night. Placing the clock back on the table beside his bunk, he sighed heavily, not through tiredness, though he was tired enough, but his exasperation was because of the rain still pounding the roof of his trailer.  He was forty-five minutes from having to make the biggest decision of the war – maybe his life – and the weather was sure not going to help that decision.  Having already preliminarily ordered the fleet to converge to Normandy, all it would take now was his final order and the fleet would be unstoppable.

The lights up at Southwick House glared through the darkness, horizontal rain beating against shuttered windows.  The wind, furious and ever fervent shook the very foundations. There was no small talk, no pleasantries exchanged.  General Eisenhower resumed the meeting with the formality and urgency required.  The next fifteen minutes would decide the fate of hundreds and thousands of men and over two years of planning.

“Well John, what do you have for us?” General Eisenhower asked.

“Well – I’ve got good news.” John Stagg had just taken the phone call that had given him the final weather report.  “There is no substantial change to my forecast from last night General.”  John was smiling.  “The storm will break before dawn.  The 6th of June will be a fine day and possibly the 7th as well.”  Not one to wallow in praise, however, after all John had endured these past forty-eight hours, some around this table, he sensed, maybe not trusting his report, he added, “I would just like to add gentlemen,” his eyes whipped past each Commander. “if we had gone on the 5th as planned, the landings would have been a complete disaster.”  Not wanting to take the praise for this, after all it had not been his decision to postpone the landings, but General Eisenhower`s, turning to the General John told him, “You certainly without a doubt sir, took the right decision to postpone.”

“Could you perhaps enlighten us more of what the actual weather report stated John?”  General Eisenhower asked.

“The approaching front is likely to dominate until late morning and probably late afternoon of the 6th.  Cloud cover will be 3/10ths or less – cloud base 700 to 1000 metres – wind force at the landing coast 4 to 5 – but could be 3 – visibility good.”

General Eisenhower, silent and alone in his deliberation had to weigh up this new situation.  If John Stagg was wrong and the weather did not clear, at best the Allied Expeditionary Force would be landing sea sick men without adequate air cover and naval bombardment. The landings would prove disastrous, troops unable to land in gale swept seas.

No-one spoke.  The fire crackled, the clock ticked.  The Supreme Commander was a man who believed in his hunches.  All he had before him were the facts, a window of opportunity miraculously given him – and his gut feeling.  Time had run out.  One man and one man alone had to make the final decision; it was why he had been given the job – a decision that would change millions of lives forever.

After that final pause needed to assure himself that all necessary due deliberations had been taken, he looked up, he smiled and he uttered the words.  It was a soft announcement.  Grossly underrated and one that would mark the history books forever.

“OK – let`s go!”


The invasion was now unstoppable.  The library had only taken a few moments to clear.  After a thunderous cheer, the Commanders dashed to take up their command posts. Admiral Ramsey sent out the Order of the Day to every officer in his fleet.

It is our privilege to take part in the greatest amphibious operation in history – the hopes and prayers of the free world and of the enslaved people of Europe will be with us and we cannot fail them.  I count on every man to do his utmost to ensure the success of this great enterprise.  Good luck to you all – and God speed.

Thus the scene was set:

Operation Overlord had never been one man’s idea, one man`s planning.  A great machinery of minds had put the plan into place.  Every plausible option, every plan, every assault was studied for faults, improbabilities and impossibilities.  With a little bit of luck, good weather and a momentous amount of bravery, there was every chance of success.

Dday the 6th June – would hopefully lead Europe to victory and end the five year war.


On the Normandy coastline, nothing was untoward.  At the little coastal resort of Riva Bella near Ouistreham, Heinrich sat behind his twin mounted machine gun in the fortified pill box overlooking the beach.  He was writing a letter to his wife:

It is with a troubled soul I write to you my dear.  How are you and the children? I need to ask you this first before my heart pours out its grief to you.  I am here looking over the channel.  The grey-grey channel that holds inconceivable mysteries.  Beyond that slim stretch of water an enemy waits to devour us.  Just this slip of water separates hell and eternity.  My comrades are confident we will throw the enemy back into the sea.  I hope we do, but my heart is heavy.  Who are the enemy I ask – the allies or us?  I do not wish to burden you with these woes, but if I should never see you again, I want you to know how much I was thinking of you in these last hours.

 My Kommanders say the allies will not come yet.  But there is something wrong.  My comrades swim in the cold water and laugh at the shore`s edge.  As they eat strawberries, juice running as blood down their chins, I ask, why are the fishing boats that are usually up and down the coast, despite the bad weather, now remaining in solitude in the harbour?  The sure swell of water slumbers in the certitude of its own survival – albeit that it will turn red.  The sea is so empty – even the seagulls have taken to hiding in the crevices to wait whilst man annihilates and then they will swoop to claim their pickings.  They have an instinct we mere mortals do not comprehend.  Why do we not heed God’s warning?

Please forgive me for sounding so unhappy my dear wife, but I all I want is to be with you away from this place full of death that will gore out mens souls.  The place is littered with instruments of demise of which no flesh will survive.  How can this place so pretty with its villas and brightly painted houses, a holiday resort that beckons happy faces, distort itself to such madness and play host to such barbarism?

I pray my sweet girl that God will forgive all our souls for this untimely and unkempt theatre of war we present to him in the name of his sons.  I pray that God will also forgive me for the men I have to kill in the name of the Fatherland and that if my death is imminent, then let it be ungracious to God`s forgiveness – but also swift in its grace.

I do love you.



He was almost amongst them, his grin as big as his heart.  “How you doin` boys?”

Steel helmets were pulled off, rows of white teeth lit up blackened faces, shoulders shook with hard handshakes and the news had spread that he was here.  The mutterings became shouts, shouts became cheers, cheers became whistles, whistles became handclaps.  The noise had all the troops on the airfields attention. The groups of paratroopers on the airfield merged into one huge crowd – General Eisenhower disappearing amongst them.  He was visiting the base of the 101st Airborne Division at Newbury near Berkshire.  “Everything else can wait,” he had said earlier that morning.  “I want to see the boys of the 101st.”

General Eisenhower spoke to each man as he shook their hand. It was almost adoration, such respect that the Supreme Commander had taken the time to come here.  General Eisenhower laughed with them, shook hundreds of hands and spoke quietly to some, joked with others but conversed with all he met.  Amidst all of this cheery exchange, the General also gave last minute instructions. “There is a need to crush our Nazi enemy if we are to survive and to defeat him, rendering him incapable of rising up and doing it again.  It is therefore necessary to steel ourselves for this task.”

The boys of the 101st elated by General Eisenhower’s visit, a great boost to morale, continued with their preparations, it wasn’t long before take off.

Light was beginning to fade.  Lines of paratroopers began to form a queue before their assigned planes.  Emotional last talks were given then the first man was hauled up the steps, their loads heavy on their backs.

A huge disharmony of sound came from the airfield as each C-47, in its turn, lurched onto the taxi-strip.  As the first of the planes headed the runway the pilots locked brakes, ran the engines until they screamed.  Then each plane, at ten minute intervals started down the runway gathering speed.  The nose tipped upwards, wheels leaving the floor, then up – up – so huge – so cumbersome – so beautiful – were airborne.  One – than another – and another, direction blinker signals winking, three invasion stripes marking their mission.  The glider planes, the spider thin cables snaking frantically until the C-47 towing it took its weight, effortlessly lifting it to the sky.  Circling – circling.  How many? So many – this vast force – this great might flying for freedom – for the love of their country.

General Eisenhower, staff officers, British soldiers manning anti-tank guns, clerical workers – all outside – work abandoned, all eyes turned upwards, all silent, all in awe.  The fading light of the day cast shadows from the airborne monster planes across the runway and the queues of planes still waiting to taxi. The whole scene was a cascade of armoury that defied imagination.

The first in formation circled in farewell, banked and tailed off.  Brave young men, some never to return.  Heading for Normandy.

Thirteen thousand British and American paratroopers from airfields all across England had taken to the skies heading for Normandy on this night – 5th June 1944

In the morning – the morning of the 6th June – one hundred and seventy five thousand vessels, of which four thousand were ships and landing crafts engaged in the assault and follow up stages.

One thousand naval vessels to protect the fleet and to blast the enemy ashore.  Seven hundred and thirty six ancillary craft.  Eight hundred and sixty four merchant supply ships

Eleven thousand five hundred aircraft – of which – over three thousand four hundred heavy bombers, nine hundred and thirty medium bombers, three thousand eight hundred fighters to protect air and sea and provide ground support to the landing forces. One thousand and sixty transport for massive airlift and three parachute divisions.  Three thousand five hundred gliders carried more troops.  Five hundred reconnaissance aircraft watching every movement of land, one thousand planes from coastal command seeking out the enemy out at sea.

And almost two hundred thousand – very brave men.

In a few hours

It is now Dday – 6th June 1944