D-Day 68Th Anniversary Mgv2>Publishing
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D-Day 68th Anniversary mgv2>publishing D-Day 68th Anniversary Anthology edited by Walter Ruhlmann mgv2>publishing © mgv2>publishing & contributors, June 2012 Contents: Walter Ruhlmann Arromanche photograph Nick Armbrister Normandy Beach poetry Eleanor Bennet photograph Fern G.Z. Carr The Devil poetry Bob Cooper Lest We Forget poetry Emer Davis Moonlight poetry Emer Davis The Crossing poetry Bill Dodds In the Background poetry Bill Dodds photograph SJ Fowler Muyock poetry Gene Grabiner Normandy poetry Jan Oskar Hansen Landfall poetry Charlotte Henson Poppy 1 poetry Charlotte Henson Poppy 2 poetry Charles Langley Christmas 1942 fiction Lyn Lifshin War poetry Lyn Lifshin World War 2 poetry Eleanor Bennet photograph Lyn Lifshin Why the Charcoal... poetry Andy N. Percy poetry David Pointer Shoreward poetry Harold G. O'Leary D-Day non-fiction Walter Ruhlmann Where Allies Lie poetry Tom Sheehan Mushawie off the Hill fiction William Tinkham Beginning of the End fiction Normandy Beach by Nick Armbrister I walk along the beach, my bare feet parting the fine sand. I wonder how many people have died on this beach, shed blood for freedom or fascism, called for their mother. This is a Normandy beach full of so much history and life, past and present. It is a timeless place now, as it was then back in ’44. Now the sea washes up the sand in an endless wave, of time and of water. To do so forever more. Will more blood be shed, more lives taken here? Photograph by Eleanor Bennet 3 The Devil by Fern G. Z. Carr The devil greedily licked his lips as the lambs were led to the slaughter, perched on his haunches cackling derisively and salivating unholy water; mercilessly he lay in wait tail flicking like savage beast as the masses fell prey to his guile they indulged in carnivorous feast – the blood dripped from their greedy lips as they witnessed with glazed eyes the carnage that only brainwashed minds could ever realize. With forked tongue the devil enticed man down the slippery slope, inciting patriots to genocide as the Fatherland’s only hope, “Inferiors contaminate our master race! They are a genetic mutation! The final solution for these lowly vermin is wholesale extermination!” the devil shrieked as his flared nostrils snorted cyanide gas into the death camps of Auschwitz where millions were murdered en masse. What blinded the devil’s henchmen to such depraved animosity, to so obediently perpetuate these vehement atrocities? It began insidiously with propaganda and misplaced blame, leading to suspension of freedoms in justice’s name. 4 Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass, proved an ominous sign – a flight from pandemonium thwarting the devil's design. Cordoned off into ghettos some of the lambs were held in submission, exposed to poverty and disease they were incapable of opposition; others were callously executed randomly on the spot – a period of intense culpability that history never forgot. The devil flexed his muscles as he seethed with murderous lust, reveling in hateful sadism and betraying his country’s trust. The lambs were lured into the Devil’s clutches via deportation; with cunning lupine rhetoric he ordered their transportation unfittingly in cattle cars not worthy of his bleating beasts, packed so tightly their movement restrained, they could barely breathe. Ruthlessly flocks were rendered asunder – the ewes separated from the rams, perversely mocking the innocence of these tender little lambs whose juicy flesh would soon be cleansed in preparation for the altar – a sacrificial rampage from which he’d never falter. “Move rats! You will be deloused! Step quickly into the shower!” 5 he howled triumphantly in an orgy of diabolical power; unable to fathom any method to the madness of his sinister plot, the terrified lambs couldn’t predict those to be gassed and those not. Hiding his profanity from the outside world was an act of cowardice, attempting to disguise his vicious obsession and genocidal avarice; yet smoke still belched from crematoria with tell-tale acrid smell, unable to camouflage the flames of those who burned in hell. But the devil forgot that the bible proclaims “The meek shall inherit the Earth,” in fact, the lambs were courageous survivors who never lost sight of their worth – despite lack of food, abuse, disease and experimentation, they valiantly fought to exist, escaping hell’s conflagration, surmounting astronomical odds, defiantly and with persistence, they ensured their children’s future by their tenacious resistance; these traumatized heroes were survivors right to their very core, tragically, they bear the devil’s brand of the ravages of war. 6 Lest We Forget by Bob Cooper Sod it. Who was it said he’d rather drink piss than the spray that sloshed over and then he was sick as the ramp slapped on- to the sand? Sod it. Who was it scared of cows in a field with the serge and the subaltern when the Spandau opened up and they each crumpled down? Sod it. Who was it I dug the fox-hole with, gold rings on three fingers, every other word “Christ,” as tracer necklaced the moon. In a baccy tin: cap badge, identity disc, postcard of Caen – and sod it, who was it said he’d never forget all we’d been through as he tore this pound- note in half? On the telly: maps with arrows, figures crouching, explosions, ruins, then panoramas, in colour, of wind-swept dunes, a voice-over saying we veterans have memories… but, sod it, some are missing in action, some have died. 7 Moonlight by Emer Davis Moonlight Becomes you Standing on deck Shimmering On the water’s edge, Your eyes drift Across the black sea Moving nearer To the unknown, We hold onto That last note And drift With the reclining moon, The terror in our hearts Clasped in that final note. 8 The Crossing by Emer Davis first published in Poetry Kit's Caught in the Net Issue 95 From our outpost we tiptoed across this green divide rifles in hand. A ragged allied force sleep walking this unknown land we marched on, hoping to smell the sweet scent of summer. Fields pockmarked by war stood before us. Bloodied and betrayed empty shells littered the scorched ground. A soft light flickered through as we retraced our steps on the relentless road of an unnerving peace. 9 In the background by Bill Dodds She crouched on a crumbling carpetless stair, offended by the rancorous early summer smells bitten by midgies in that Glaswegian tenement, a chipped tumbler of gin held like a grenade, as if she feared to swallow her first session, to release the pin that restrained her auburn hair, against the chatter, laughter, fiddle and accordion, off key, six smiling wrens, six young women, six sisters, all wrapped in dark blue suits, white shirt and tie, each a given name, a word or two, a home town, so Annie, the prettiest, “lovely girl but Scottish.” In the foreground Before she awoke, she could not dream, her brother stood with Sherman tanks, feminised with floating canvas skirts, launched a mile or more offshore, to swim unseen by Wehrmacht guns, he watched the vicious sea explode, water, oil and spew carpeted the deck, whilst others lowered landing ramps, in rough seas with waves a metre deep, their tanks drove off, struggled, sank, but his ramp was jammed fast shut. 10 Photograph of Bill Dodds's mother and uncle Muyock by SJ Fowler poetry for Tiphaine Mancaux if you weep, I think that others might cry Larry Eigner on m knees theearth bere ft breaks intodryred mud heavy w birds & gherman pricks dumpin a way that invites... until th wet congeals everywhere / in the great arches of invitation tolerant*stretched like a house cat whoishungry wellgroomed &wellsought out th ceilings in florence are so high but the summertoo hot after all the singing faces u with u handinmouth out & ready fortackle 12 what is being said, from over that is was a aste on you then, please but i shouldn be attending to a sister physically for ive yet not grown old but youll not come back again unless i m nice ^today my lovers are here talking&talking while you arein the opposite the closed rm library a book on social ethics th art of writing / reading th notion of recognising as necessary all th roads ar ebuilt now you can fuck off back to spider island w allthe dead i cant thank enough sweet beaches 13 Normandy by Gene Grabiner I climbed the boardwalk down the bluff, unruffled open sea out front. And on the strand, amplified, diminished, enlarged again in the sand by so many hands taking stones, replacing some, all worn smooth, this agate band. Testament to that world-affront of war, memorialized with all the dead ― known but one, who could be one or many, garnered here, garnered there, on Omaha shore. René Coty’s pathetic letter on display decried democracy’s flinch ― liberal cowardice. Untold millions gone, too abstract to speak for themselves. And my father’s cousin from Utah Beach, to whom I gave two smooth round stones; he and dad ― both came home. He held the touchstones; talismans of when and what they thought was ended, then he cried. His tears burned these rocks, unquiet stones; telling what was done, he raised the question, with constant warring since, what was won? 14 Landfall by Jan Oskar Hansen Normandy, the day the allied landed, should like the holocaust not be forgotten, it spelled the end of a malevolent empire. When landing crafts hit the shore, many brave soldiers died before they could step ashore on the golden sand of Normandy.