Aboard a Coast Guard cutter.
My dad was just 22 when he wrote this letter from England in 1944. As many soldiers did during World War II, he occasionally wrote letters to his hometown newspaper, the Hutchinson Herald in Menno, South Dakota. I’d seen some of those letters, but not this one until a couple of months ago; a cousin found it in an old family scrapbook. I treasure this vivid snapshot of his first Independence Day after D-Day.
Ernest W. Hertz QM2 c
USCG-83431
Fleet Post Office
July 10
Apparently I have failed to forward my change of address, because the Herald hasn’t been finding me the last few weeks.
Please note change above.
I look forward anxiously toward each issue and accept it with gratitude and thanks in my heart.
In the last two months that have elapsed since both my geographical and climatical change has been effected, I have had the experience of a lifetime.
Just a little more than a month after my arrival in England I found myself in the midst of the second invasion force. It was a large harbor on the South Coast of England where I beheld a most gratifying and reassuring sight. Seeing the vast armada of ships lying at anchor, answered fully the most asked question of the last few months – “What’s holding them up?” I am sure that the man does not exist who has seen such a great concentration of ships prior to the evening before D-Day – there seemed to be a ship for every hair on Hitler’s gruesome sconce. It is easy to understand now why it took four years of intensive preparation before a decisive blow could be struck effectively and with reasonable assurance of success.
Since D-Day the English Channel has been a virtual bridge of ships. The solid stream of troops and supplies interrupted only by an occasional skirmish with an “E” boat or perhaps a small-scale night attack by the Luftwaffe. I believe the most effective retaliatory measures taken by the Germans has been the extensive use of deadly magnetic and acoustic sea mines. Our particular unit was kept quite busy during the initial phase of the invasion rescuing survivors from mined vessels. When we left the assault area several days ago, the mine menace seemed to have been quelled somewhat and troops and supplies were arriving at the beach uninterrupted by any enemy action. The so-called “Hitler Weather” prevailed however. I do not recall a single day passing without it raining somewhat.
After spending a little time on the beachhead in France, one day, probing about for souvenirs and looking wild-eyed at the smoldering ruins of tanks, Jeeps, and barges, I came to the now obvious conclusion that the infantryman is the man who deserves the highest respect and gratitude for the job he has accomplished. It is not hard to understand this feeling after one views closely the topography of the beachhead area.
Perhaps the most impressive and heart-warming sight it has been my good fortune to see thus far, has been the enthusiastic display of American Fourth of July spirit on the beachhead on the evening of that long remembered day. I remember it distinctly.
Just as the first shadows of dusk began to take shape, all of the American vessels in the bay began shooting flares, anti-aircraft machine guns and rifles—in fact anything that would leave a mark in the sky was unleashed that memorable evening. It began on a small scale at first but it was not long before the spirit of the old Independence Day caught and spread like wildfire. In a matter of minutes the evening sky was measeled with the marks of a million tracer bullets racing up into the heavens at various angles, seemingly delighted no end in finding freedom from all the evil they were intended originally to do.
Intermingled with the tracer bullets were the different colored flares shot from especially designed guns high into the gathering dusk. As each flare reached its crescent, it burst in the fashion of a mushroom, emitting a dazzling brilliance, illuminating the entire beachhead, revealing momentarily the hundreds of ships lying at anchor below. Then as the flare descended reluctantly earthward, it sputtered and spit trying desperately to retain its brilliance. Failing, it gave up with a gasp and fell swiftly to the waters below – leaving a vapor clinging to the sky. The entire spectacle was more colorful than a Cuban Carnival and more exciting than a Jeep ride in the country.
All the Britisher could say as he was shooting flares as fast as he could load, was: “Bloomin’ bloody good fun, what?”
Sincerely,
Ernest W. Hertz
 |  A young E.W., left, and a couple of buddies in New York, during his Coast Guard training. |
RSS Feed