tell stories about life in the barracks, his friends, and the good times they had, poaching deer in England, avoiding the officer of the day while stowed-away British girls fell through the attic of the barracks, things like that.
My father, George L. Potter Jr., was one hell of a man. He lived creatively and intensely and was an innovator in his industry. He also died broken and bitter. Those were his life’s contradictions. He did much more than most men ever dream of doing, and he made it through the war physically. But psychologically, I don’t think he ever really survived the war. I think that’s the best way to put it.
And what about me believing his war stories?
Everything changed the night before the D-day museum opened in New Orleans. I was over there at the time and met someone by chance who put everything in perspective for me.
At the museum opening, a woman named Lies Staal was introduced as a guest. She had been a fifteen-year-old girl living in Eindhoven at the time of the Market-Garden jump. The night before the opening we had a banquet. After the meal was over, I wandered over to her table to ask her a few questions. I was curious about what it was like to live under Nazi occupation. She told me all about it, how her father was in exile in the UK, and how she and her brother needed to walk to the town of Sonne to pick potatoes out of a field. They had heard there was some food there, and that’s what they ate to survive.
This girl had witnessed the Allied parachute landing for Operation Market-Garden, and she and her brother had made their way back from the potato field to Eindhoven. The next day, when the troops came through, her mother had allowed her to stand in front of their house as the troops walked by. She had asked several of the troops to sign her autograph book. Years later, she had brought this book with her to the banquet, and she let me look at it.
On the very first page was unmistakable handwriting. It was my dad’s signature: George L. Potter. It completely stunned me—when you think of the coincidences—it still chokes me up today. Dad had obviously made the jump into Holland. He needed to have walked down the correct side of the street where she was standing. That book needed to survive the bombing of Eindhoven a few days later. The woman needed to care for that book all of those years, and then hear about this D-day museum opening, and then bring the book to the banquet. Then I needed to go over and talk to her, and she needed to show me the book. What are the chances?
Seeing Dad’s signature brought everything together for me. The piece of paper was tangible and the handwriting was his own, the scrawl that was so familiar to me. His stories and experiences were validated in my mind. I had no doubt that he had told me the truth all those years. His stories were horrific and far-fetched and fantastic—and it’s true. Real men actually lived through those extraordinary experiences.
On a Motorbike in Swindon
From moment one, my father was a military man. He was born in 1923 at Fort Benning. His dad was an officer from WWI and had fought in Europe with the 5th Infantry regiment. Later, my grandfather went into the ministry, which was quite a change from his previous career. After my dad was born, the family moved around from Fort Benning to Long Beach then to Arizona—Tombstone, Mesa, and Winslow—working at different churches in those cities, then to Spokane, Washington, then to Hood River, Oregon. That’s where my dad lived in 1942 when he turned eighteen and enlisted.
When Dad enlisted, he came home and told everybody. His mother was really upset. But his dad said, “Well it’s not too bad. At least he’s enlisted, so he’ll be with a good group.” Then he asked what unit my dad had enlisted with. “The paratroopers,” Dad said. My grandfather shook his head and immediately hauled him back to the recruiter, trying to get him transferred out. But he was
My father, George L. Potter Jr., was one hell of a man. He lived creatively and intensely and was an innovator in his industry. He also died broken and bitter. Those were his life’s contradictions. He did much more than most men ever dream of doing, and he made it through the war physically. But psychologically, I don’t think he ever really survived the war. I think that’s the best way to put it.
And what about me believing his war stories?
Everything changed the night before the D-day museum opened in New Orleans. I was over there at the time and met someone by chance who put everything in perspective for me.
At the museum opening, a woman named Lies Staal was introduced as a guest. She had been a fifteen-year-old girl living in Eindhoven at the time of the Market-Garden jump. The night before the opening we had a banquet. After the meal was over, I wandered over to her table to ask her a few questions. I was curious about what it was like to live under Nazi occupation. She told me all about it, how her father was in exile in the UK, and how she and her brother needed to walk to the town of Sonne to pick potatoes out of a field. They had heard there was some food there, and that’s what they ate to survive.
This girl had witnessed the Allied parachute landing for Operation Market-Garden, and she and her brother had made their way back from the potato field to Eindhoven. The next day, when the troops came through, her mother had allowed her to stand in front of their house as the troops walked by. She had asked several of the troops to sign her autograph book. Years later, she had brought this book with her to the banquet, and she let me look at it.
On the very first page was unmistakable handwriting. It was my dad’s signature: George L. Potter. It completely stunned me—when you think of the coincidences—it still chokes me up today. Dad had obviously made the jump into Holland. He needed to have walked down the correct side of the street where she was standing. That book needed to survive the bombing of Eindhoven a few days later. The woman needed to care for that book all of those years, and then hear about this D-day museum opening, and then bring the book to the banquet. Then I needed to go over and talk to her, and she needed to show me the book. What are the chances?
Seeing Dad’s signature brought everything together for me. The piece of paper was tangible and the handwriting was his own, the scrawl that was so familiar to me. His stories and experiences were validated in my mind. I had no doubt that he had told me the truth all those years. His stories were horrific and far-fetched and fantastic—and it’s true. Real men actually lived through those extraordinary experiences.
On a Motorbike in Swindon
From moment one, my father was a military man. He was born in 1923 at Fort Benning. His dad was an officer from WWI and had fought in Europe with the 5th Infantry regiment. Later, my grandfather went into the ministry, which was quite a change from his previous career. After my dad was born, the family moved around from Fort Benning to Long Beach then to Arizona—Tombstone, Mesa, and Winslow—working at different churches in those cities, then to Spokane, Washington, then to Hood River, Oregon. That’s where my dad lived in 1942 when he turned eighteen and enlisted.
When Dad enlisted, he came home and told everybody. His mother was really upset. But his dad said, “Well it’s not too bad. At least he’s enlisted, so he’ll be with a good group.” Then he asked what unit my dad had enlisted with. “The paratroopers,” Dad said. My grandfather shook his head and immediately hauled him back to the recruiter, trying to get him transferred out. But he was
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