As a part of our coverage of the 81st Anniversary of the D-Day Invasion of the Nazi German ‘Fortress Europa’ – NetNewsLedger is covering the event as if we were there, with a reporter embedded with the Allied Forces.
Somewhere in Southern England – May 26, 1944 – The hedgerows are greening and the apple blossoms are in bloom, but the English countryside, once dotted with sheep and quiet farm carts, now echoes with the tread of war.
South of London, in Hampshire, Sussex, and Devon, narrow lanes wind past hedged fields filled not with livestock, but with rows of olive-drab tents and camouflaged vehicles. Thousands upon thousands of Allied troops—American, British, Canadian, and men of the Free Forces—are here, hidden beneath canvas and trees, preparing for the most momentous assault in modern warfare.
In sleepy villages like Southwick, where naval signal flags now flutter above country manors converted into command posts, the pulse of history is quickening. General Eisenhower’s headquarters lies not far from here, and from this pastoral ground the Supreme Commander watches and waits for the moment when the great armada will depart.
At makeshift camps near the coast, soldiers drill endlessly, clean rifles, and rehearse landings on mock beaches built in secret. The roar of engines and the bark of commands fill the air from dawn until after dusk. Yet the men are not anxious — they are ready.
I met Private First Class Harold Jenkins of the U.S. 29th Infantry Division as he polished his gear beside a Quonset hut hidden in a copse of oak trees. “We’ve trained for this for months,” he said. “The boys just want to get going. It’s like being all dressed for a dance and waiting for the music to start.”
British villagers, many of whom have housed troops or shared their kitchens, display the stoicism for which they are famous. A Mrs. Pritchard of Sussex, whose farmhouse now feeds a dozen GIs nightly, said simply, “They’re good lads. We keep the kettle on and the radio louder, just in case anything comes down from the sky.”
Indeed, even here, so close to the Channel, the skies remain watched. Anti-aircraft units dot the hillsides, and the Royal Observer Corps keeps constant vigil. Yet for all the threat of German reconnaissance, the enemy seems unaware of the full scale of what is about to be unleashed.
The ports — Portsmouth, Southampton, Weymouth — are crammed with landing craft, Liberty ships, and tank-laden transports. Crews are sleeping aboard vessels. Ammunition is being loaded at night. Every day, more ships join the silent fleet waiting to cross.
And all the while, the men wait. They write letters home. They play cards, polish boots, and murmur about weather reports. And above all, they wait for the single word — the signal that will send them across the sea, into the storm, and into history.
They may not know the name of the beach where they will land. But they know why they fight.
Filed in the field, May 28, 1944
