St Aubin Sur Mer

My father served in World War 2, as a member of the 8th Army. He never mentioned his experiences in the war; I belive that they were too upsetting for him to voice. He died over 30 years ago, when I was only 16.

Prior to the outbreak of war, he served in Singapore and Ceylon, and spoke about this time as a period of comradeship and contentment. The picture of him is taken during this pre-war period.

He left school at the age of 14, with no qualifications and joined the army to avoid his only other option, which was to become a coal-miner. He told me that he went down the pit once and vowed never to go down there again. Enlisting gave him the opportunity to learn many new skills, including joinery; an interest which he pursued throughout his life.

I visited Normandy recently and was deeply moved by the memories that the D Day landing left behind, so many years later. The event has become an integral part of the identity of the area. Everywhere traffic islands bear flags of the many nations who were in the conflict and each town has its own memorial or museum.

Although the purpose of my trip was a family holiday, I was unable to visit the beach at St Aubin without remembering the terrible events that took place there. The depth of this feeling took me totally by surprise.

I don't think that my father was part of the D Day operation, but I felt particularly close to him in this place. It brought home to me the rawness of the conflict. I know that my father's regiment was know as the Desert Rats, and that they were involved in active combat. Visiting the museums and exhibitions in Normandy, helped me to understand the horror of what the soldiers had to go through.

This prompted me to write a poem about St Aubin Sur Mer, which I would like to submit to the site in my father's memory and in memory of all the soldiers of World War 2.

St Aubin sur Mer

The spire stands over St Aubin sur Mer
and decked in summer blooms, the neat streets purr
with families who search for souvenirs,
or stroll along the mellow promenade.
Small huts stand in line upon the sand
and tourists try uncertain hands at boules,
or lie at ease, while women gather round
preparing moules for hotels in the town.

This pearly coast once listened for the sobs
of Verlaine’s violins and shuttered eyes
soon spied a storm approach, that sixth of June;
one hundred thousand swarmed for Normandy.
Sons from the British Isles and Canada
spilled from the dreadful mist onto the beach
at St Aubin and breached the fiery line
to open up a door of liberty.

A memory distilled so many times
it lives within the essence of this place,
a peaceful space, to breathe, to think and see
white cattle graze among the apple trees;
to pay a visit to a roadside shrine,
near poppies blowing in a field of corn;
to linger in a small café and talk
with friends upon the ending of the day.

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