by
Robert LaFrance
First things first, I want to say
thank you to the guys who hit the beaches in Normandy on June 6, 1944 and
finally got Allied troops onto the European mainland. We owe them a lot.
Although it was sixty-eight years
ago, some of them are still around, but don’t bother trying to get them to talk
about it. I don’t think I would want to either if I looked back to remember
seeing those Nazi guns on the hills. It was rather noisy too, if I understand
it right.
Many of us who weren’t there might
be under the impression that the Allies hit the beaches with such an
overwhelming force that the Nazis just couldn’t do anything but retreat, but
those who study history know that it was what one Canadian general called ‘a
damned close-run thing’.
While it didn’t take long to get a
foothold in Normandy, the main reason the Allies could keep it was because
Hitler, against the advice of his generals including Erwin Rommel, kept back several
Panzer divisions because he was sure the main attack was going to take place at
Calais, not at the five Normandy beaches it did.
It was not the first (nor the last)
time Hitler had overruled his generals. Most of the time he screwed up and
blamed the soldiers, but sometimes not, and then it was his own brilliance that
had been responsible. On D-Day – and his aides were so scared of him they
didn’t dare wake him up until 10:00 am, five hours after the Allies landed – he
could be excused for thinking the Normandy attack was a diversion. After all,
only 5000 ships had crossed the channel, 800 Allied planes were dropping bombs
and strafing, and 100,000 soldiers had arrived on the ground in France. Quite a
diversion!
I won’t go on with this; suffice to
say that the good guys finally won, and, by the way, in spite of what you might
guess from American movies and shows on the Military Channel, it was more than
Americans on the beaches. The Canadian soldiers, as usual, were punching well
above their weight, but John Wayne, well-known draft dodger, made loud movies –
and lots of them - from the safety of
Hollywood, and that’s what some people remember.
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According to Red Green, imitation is
the sincerest form of flatulence, and I’m sure it’s true. (He may, possibly,
have meant flattery.)
My neighbour Silas is always going
on about how wonderful Prince Charles is, and does everything he can to imitate
or emulate the Heir to the Throne. Not so much lately though, since Silas got
tossed into Oromocto jail for trying to get the prince’s autograph during the
latter’s recent Canadian visit to Gagetown. Probably he shouldn’t have lunged.
Those security guys have no sense of humour.
I suppose the bottom line is that
Silas is back home now and mad as a hatter – not at Prince Charles, but at
Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall. “She thought I was trying to kiss her and
screamed,” moaned Silas, “and I can assure you, I was not. She reminds me of my
third grade teacher, Mrs. Hagglefort.
“So you were trying to kiss the
prince?” I queried.
“No, you moron,” Silas said. “I just
wanted his autograph.” I asked him if he would be continuing to imitate the
prince in dress and deportment. “Of course,” he said. “I certainly wouldn’t try
to imitate her, not with that hat.”
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Speaking of Royalty, one of the
forest creatures just down the road from us has been getting his share of
crowds whenever he dines in his favourite restaurant. A yearling black bear
whom I would guess to weigh about a hundred pounds or, in the metric system,
the equivalent of 100 pounds, only in kilograms, has taken to coming out in a
nearby field to have a snack.
Unlike most bears, he’s not the
least bit shy or self-conscious, and just continues to munch grass even though
people are standing there along the road or sitting in their cars and taking
photos of him. He’s become what Kincardine needs one more of – a celebrity.
I’ve been getting quite weary of carrying the load by myself.
I have named him Edward IX. Although
he, minus a name, seemed quite content to dine out there in the field just
about every day, I felt he should have a handle and Edward the Ninth seemed as
good a one as any. I’ve taken a few pictures of him myself and I always see
nobility in the way he pauses and looks at me as if I were standing along
Kensington Street and watching him go by in a Royal coach.
-end-
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