From Plymouth to Angers

11:29 p.m. WAT
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Dad and I got to Poole on Sunday night after several hours of train rides and a bit of walking from the station. It was fine for me but dad was pretty tired. We got to the Antelope Inn, which is on Old High Street in Poole and is as much a bar and restaurant as it is a hotel. We walked in from the street, through the wrong door, and walked straight into a local pub. Not local like “near by” but local like “this is where all the locals hang out.”
After checking in, laying our stuff down, and plugging our electronics in, we left to find some food. Down the street was an Indian place. I think it was called Tajha Mahal something. Anyway, it was fantastic. Service blew but we didn’t tip much anyway because there was no place to add a tip and neither of us had any pounds left because we were leaving England the next day. I don’t think Dad likes Indian food much. He had a hard time with a mild, non-curry dish. I loved mine. It was duck in a sweet yellow sauce that tasted something like squash.
We went back to the hotel and laid down to bed just to realize that our room was directly above the local pub I was just talking about. Dad had some trouble getting to sleep but not me. It was like I was in Moscow on a Friday night.
Regardless of how much sleep we had, we both had to be up and going early so we could get to the early ferry across the channel. The ferry was completely unique in my experience. There were nice seats with lots of room, a cafeteria, a convenience store, a duty free shop, and a currency exchange. It was the largest vessel I’ve been on.
Our seats were next to and across from two extremely nice British couples who were all young kids in the War. Dad, of course, asked a bunch of questions and told them about what we were doing. One lady lived in Liverpool during the war and remembers going to sleep in her bed and then waking up in the bomb shelter. She really hit it off with the lady across the way and the two of them sat there talking about how they hate waste, how Normandy is amazing and a much needed holiday after having family come to visit, and how such and such a town had the most amazing gardens. The couple across from me eventually started talking about politics and how Gordon Brown might be Labour but he’s not worth very much. Then we talked about how much of an idiot Bush was and how he makes us all look like bumbling, uneducated morons.
After docking, we went through security (they didn’t even stamp my passport) and were picked up by Jean-Paul and Pierre. I really don’t want to bad mouth these two but my first impression of France was not positive. The ride from the dock in Cherbourg to the local airport where we rented the car was very weird. I spent half the time trying to find something beautiful about the countryside and the other half trying to find pockets of clean air to breathe.
We quickly drove through town after village after town with the only stop being our bed and breakfast so we could put down our luggage and drop the rental car off. We all piled into Jean-Paul’s car and went to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery in Normandy.
I don’t know that I can explain much except that you have to go. It is something that every American needs to see because it is the site of the largest invasion in the history of mankind. Think about that. The largest. Everything that Egypt, Rome, Napoleon, the Huns, etc., etc., did was dwarfed by the shear size of the American, Canadian, and British forces – and it was all to take five beaches along the coast of Normandy, France.
Our guides told us that movies often get the invasion wrong. First, the invasions of all of the beaches other than Omaha went off with out a hitch and, in fact, were executed so that there was very little loss of life. Omaha was different. There, the American amphibious tanks sunk in the choppy waters of the channel, the troops landed in the wrong part of the beach leaving them little cover. The air support had trouble with low hanging clouds and so they dropped their bombs too far inland leaving the German line intact and the landing troops vulnerable in every forward direction. It was a slaughter.
But it wasn’t constant slaughter. It was slow moving but hour after hour, the casualties slowed and the Americans came closer to the Germans. They took the pill boxes, the gun emplacements, and bunkers after several hours and only 2000 casualties. The impression I got from movies like “Saving Private Ryan” is that it was a constant slaughter and it was only by sheer force of will that we made it up the cliffs.
The cemetery itself is not on the beach. Rather, it is up the top of the cliffs were the Americans took the high ground. On the top is a massive monument and statute shadowing the rows and rows of white crosses and stars of David. In the center is a chapel for prayer and reflection. I’ll put up some pictures when I have a chance because it is hard to describe when I consider the great shots I got.
After Omaha Beach, we left and went to Santeny, the site of one of the hardest fought battles in WWII – at least from my papa’s recollection. I’m not going to get into what he did because, frankly, it can be summed up in a couple sentences: He came to Santeny through some other towns. He and his unit (The 83rd, 329th, Second Battalion) shot a lot of guns and blew a lot of Germans up. He survived to liberate the town and now he, and his compatriots are local heroes.
I mean heroes. Like… wow. OK, so this is something that very few people experience. At about 6 p.m., I noticed a bunch of people, mostly older, gather around in town square right next to a monument where they were flying the American and French flags. We were taken into a café, given some coffee, and then introduced to the mayor, a young man by this town’s standard. He wore a blue suit, white shirt, American flag tie, and a bolo tie connected by a thunderbolts symbol. More and more people showed up outside as well as a speaker and a bunch of people wearing war metals. Suddenly, panic set in as I figured out that this was for Dad and me.
We were escorted to in front of the memorial where several dozen people had gathered. There, we were introduced to a bunch of French people, none of who spoke English. Many people had wonderful things to say (or terrible) but it was all in French so I had no idea what they were trying to get across. The Mayor then started a ceremony where Dad and I were introduced to the town and given an honored welcome (we had a translator for this part). Dad was asked to put a bunch of flowers in front of the four-foot high rectangular marble block that had the 83rd Thunderbolts symbol carved in it. Around him stood French war vets holding French flags words embroidered on them. People clapped as he set them down and dad shook hands with the mayor.
When things had finished, reporters asked if we would pose behind the memorial and answer some questions about ourselves. I think they all got the impression I live in Washington, D.C. because I said “Idaho, near Washington State” and then everyone said, “ah, Washington.” Whatever, it’s all America to them. Someone said they would mail Dad a copy of the paper.
We were then rushed into the café again where wine had been poured and snacks had been set out. More elderly people, as well as a very few members of younger generations were now grouped in the back yard of this café. The mayor hushed everyone and then presented Dad and I with medals commemorating our visit to Santeny. After reluctantly accepting this praise and chunk of puter, we milled about while people spoke French to us as though we could understand.
The most interesting person we met there was the lone veteran of WWII, who was more than 90 years old. He stood only about 4’5” and weighed probably 95 pounds. His eyes were worn and partially hidden behind his thick glasses. He had very little hair left but what was there was salt and peppered and buzzed short. He wore his medals proudly on the pocket of his black and tan jacket. He had really gone all out. He tried to tell us so much but we just couldn’t understand. What I did get was that he was so thankful for what my papa and the other troops did for him. His eyes welled up with tears as he shook our hands and thanked us over and over. I guess it was the first time I could understand – even slightly – how it must have been to see the Allied forces roll up making the Germans scatter like cockroaches from the light.
9:55 a.m. WAT
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
How amazing is this? I am sitting just outside the Citadel of St. Malo, a large ancient structure used by the Germans in WWII as a fortification against British and American invaders.
The structure itself is about one kilometer long and built from stone and mortar. Originally, it was constructed to protect the harbors of St. Malo from invasion by the English during the 100-Years War. It was not used much after that war but looked out over the city and harbors for decades.
Then the Germans invaded France. In 1940, the British came across the channel to help defend France and push the Nazis back to the Motherland. The British failed and, instead, lost more ground including the surrounding islands like Jersey. The Germans fortified their positions in St. Malo, Jersey, and an island fort about a mile from the shore. During the four years between the capture of St. Malo and the invasion of Normandy, the Germans built amazingly complex and fortified concrete bunkers on the Citadel and the surrounding islands.
This port was incredibly important to the war effort because the Germans used it to supply Jersey and other channel islands that housed a great deal of the German navy. Also, the port was an important shipping area to get supplies from occupied Poland, Russia, and Germany to the troops in Normandy. For the Allies, to take St. Malo would be to cripple the German war effort in France.
The bunkers were amazing. The ground level had anti-aircraft guns mounted on high mounds. The walled area had only one entrance by land and that was protected by twenty foot think walls, a main gate, and gun turrets hidden from view. In fact, after a day of shelling, the Army thought they could take the citadel using ground troops. The first 14 troops that entered the citadel were mowed down immediately by heavy machine guns looking out of the bunkers and into the courtyard.
The bunkers themselves where under about 12 feet of concrete and steel and then earth piled on that. They had their own air system, which was pressured incase of a gas or chemical attack. Water, food, and electricity came from outside but they had built redundant systems that could keep them secure for who knows how long. You could get from one end to another using a system of tunnels dug out of the bedrock. Tracks were built in the tunnels allowing ammunition to be transported by small trains of mining carts. The bunkers housed literally thousands of German soldiers.
It also housed about 600 POWs shipped from Russia, Poland, France, and Germany. They were not only POWs but also slaves forced to construct the fortifications.
Interestingly, when the Americans came to St. Malo, they heard that there were a lot of Germans in the city. But what the French said was the French word for “citadel.” Not knowing the difference, the Americans bombed and shelled the town. That, coupled with German arson essentially leveled the entire city. Funny story, the accepted history of the town is that the Americans used incendiary bombs and burnt the city to the ground. However, what our guide’s research, which includes eyewitness accounts, indicates is that the Germans started the fires in brothels because they were mad at the whores. The fires spread and destroyed the town.
My papa’s role in this whole thing is actually pretty important. He started in the city with massive anti-tank guns pointed at the citadel. He was one of the people who bombarded the fortress and, in fact, managed to use a concussion blast to force many Axis forces out of hiding. See, the concrete and steel was too strong for the munitions they had to destroy them. There are some areas that were blown out (they are almost all reconstructed now) but for the most part, they couldn’t get through the bunkers. So they used concussion blasts to force people who were inside out. Then his position moved to a fort in Dinnard, which is across the bay. From there, they shelled the other side of the citadel with the help of some air support.
After the Germans finally surrendered, they were walked down the road into the town square. Papa took a photo of this happening and kept a white flag with a swastika on it. Dad and I think it was the German’s surrender flag and there is talk of donating it to this museum.
The Germans still had fortified positions on the islands out in the bay. One in particular was extremely well secured and supplied by Nazi ships coming out of Jersey. The Americans, including my papa, shelled this island into oblivion. There were pictures in the bunker museum that showed the before and after shot. Before, there were buildings making up a small shipping town, with a small natural spring supplying fresh water. After the Americans were done, the buildings were gone, the ground was literally blown apart and cratered. The fairly large island broke in half right were the spring was so that the fresh water now flows directly into the ocean, making the island uninhabitable. Per square kilometer, more munitions were dropped on this island than anywhere else during the war.
Well, that was the morning. This afternoon, we are going to Le Mont de St. Michele.
8:32 a.m. WAT
Friday, May 21, 2008
Sitting at a coffee shop just outside of Orleans in a town called Chateunuff, France. I have to say that the coffee here in France is outstanding. It is rich like tar, served sweet with milk, and dark, dark roasts. These little cafes are everywhere. They sell coffee in the morning, alcohol in the afternoon and evening, and loto tickets and tobacco all day. It is pretty strange because they are all over France and you can’t get any food here, just booze, coffee and tobacco – they are like sin shops.
I’m not going to write much about yesterday. I was miserable the whole time with allergies so I can hardly remember what happened, which is good because not much of anything happened. We walked around Angers very briefly so that we saw a citadel, cathedral, and a couple other things that were not that interesting. There was a union protest in the town square so, that was weird.
We drove from Angers to Orleans and spent most of the day doing that. We stopped briefly at a couple of the chateaus along the way. And we stopped in Tours for all of ten minutes. We ended up in Orleans with Jean-Paul. He showed us a statue of Joan of Arch, the Orleans Cathedral and where to park. Dad and I ditched him, ate at a small bakery along the main street (I think they are chains in France), and then left to get to St. Denis de l’Hotel.
What was far more interesting, and impossible to fully describe was Le Mont de St. Michele, which is east of St. Malo about 30 something kilometers.
The most amazing thing about the Mont is that it sits on a hunk of rock rising from a flat plain that floods every day with the tide. During low tide, the water is not even visible but during high tide, it rises about 12 meters across miles and miles of gray silt. It covers the entire area around the Mont making it appear as though it is a island with a small piece of man-made land connected it to the mainland.
From sea level, the church/castle/abbey/town rises 710 meters and was visible for us more than 30 kilometers away. The Mont started as a shrine to St. Michele on the far side of the rock. As it grew in popularity, an abbey was established, followed by a cathedral, and surrounded by a walled town. The church, which still exists today, was completed in 1082 (I think) but originally founded in 708. This October it will celebrate its 13th Century – truly amazing.
The abbey and church are the two highest points on the Mont and the most beautiful. It is a mixture of Romanesque and Gothic architectural styles giving a sort of contradictory feel to the structure. The main area is Romanesque with massive and solid-looking columns supporting the floors above it. The walls and stairs up to the abbey have the same feeling. But, what is striking is the Gothic portions. I will have to post pictures so you can get an idea.
We spent quite a bit of time wondering about the town and abbey. We walked on the silt along the perimeter of the island. I felt like I was wondering into a desert when I looked toward the ocean because all you could see was gray sand and a glare in the distance. If you go to the Mont, you have to go at low tide so you can get the ocean-side perspective. The walled town does not wrap completely around but rather stops at the steeper side. On the cliff side, a thick forest grows and completely muffles any of the sound coming from the Mont.
Oh, I have to mention that the Mont is still in use by the Benedictine monks that live there. They hold mass there, live there, and pray there. The priest was actually in the main hall, behind the alter, in meditation. It was odd to think that this castle-like structure was actually a house of God. Dad and I kept remarking about how it reminded us of the way we envisioned Care Parvell, the house of kings in Narnia.
This morning, Dad and I found a Laundromat, called “la lessive.” So I am spending a bit in there waiting and writing while Dad finishes looking for some things. It’s fine; I don’t wan to be in the car if I can avoid it. Today, we are going to the royal palace outside Paris and then staying on the east side of Paris. Tomorrow, we spend the whole day there. These next few days are going to be much better than yesterday and two days ago.