emplacements in terror as the large calibre shells exploded around them.
Slowly and reluctantly he turned away from the gap in the hedge as he heard his wife’s distant shout for him from further up the track, the urgency to start the barbecue apparent in her voice as she finished preparing her best party dish, traditional German Potato Salad with roasted Frankfurters. At forty-seven, Kurt was a manager at Dusseldorf Airport, his fascination with World War Two finally forcing his reluctant wife to permit the two-week holiday to where his grandfather had fought with his unit, in the town just south of their current location, Caen.
The distant lights from Arromanches-les-Bains glinted out from below the cliff as he glanced out one more time over the hedge, the broken shadows of the Mulberry Harbour, the ingenious allied idea to create a port where one did not exist, avoiding a costly attack on Cherbourg or Calais. The dark rectangular contours lined against the breaking surf further out from the seafront, the cement and metal structures having survived for generations. Trudging away, he vowed to visit the nearby museums the following morning after walking his dogs along the long wide beach, his mind wandering back to what historically it must have been like all that time ago.
He pursed his lips in irritation as his wife called out again, the annoyance clear in her voice as the many families chatted around their large white and fawn recreational vehicles. The middle aged and older men chatting in informal groups about differing military tactics, the German defence and differing places of interest to go and view. Most of the wives would be busying with the food preparation, Kurt increasing his pace as he considered what he would like to cook for the many American and British holidaymakers, his keenness to provide a close comparison to the German rations available on the day.
Kurt reached the top of the track, the land levelling into the carpark as he looked across the many figures and camper vehicles, several with plush awnings and additional seating as the sounds of laughter and the clanking of beer bottles echoed welcomingly towards him, the addition of oil lamps seeming to provide further welcoming enticement as the light began to fade. A few cars passed far to the left, the main coastal road relatively quiet in the late evening as the restaurants and many bars along the Normandy coastline filled with the numerous tourists.
Hearing several American and British accents as he slipped between the large vehicles, he smiled to people as they turned and nodded to him, heading for the German owned vehicles parked further across the large car park. A smile crossing his face as he saw his wife staring from the rear doorway of their hired Mercedes Camper Van, her eyes narrowing in mock dissatisfaction as he approached, hands moving upwards to her hips as he shrugged playfully in innocence.
Then Kurt’s head dropped slightly to one side with suspicion, the distant wail of a siren sounding far to the east sweeping across the flat Normandy terrain. His eyes widened further in surprise, a jolt of adrenalin filling is body as a siren began to sound and escalate in the French town below the cliffs. He glanced round warily, the collection of men and their wives stiffening as conversations tailed off abruptly, the figures turning to look towards the cliff as the siren wailed louder.
Kurt Hausser lunged forward, running past the German camper vans towards the edge of the cliff, the adrenalin surging through him in suspicion. His wife called after him in worry as he ran past, her eyes widening as her husband simply nodded to her, his voice stern, ‘Bring me the binoculars!’ The German slowed as he neared the edge, the town lights extending into the distance beyond the cliff ahead. Staring through the gorse and thick bushes, he looked over the woods below and down into Arromanches, the many lights sparkling as the siren rose in
Slowly and reluctantly he turned away from the gap in the hedge as he heard his wife’s distant shout for him from further up the track, the urgency to start the barbecue apparent in her voice as she finished preparing her best party dish, traditional German Potato Salad with roasted Frankfurters. At forty-seven, Kurt was a manager at Dusseldorf Airport, his fascination with World War Two finally forcing his reluctant wife to permit the two-week holiday to where his grandfather had fought with his unit, in the town just south of their current location, Caen.
The distant lights from Arromanches-les-Bains glinted out from below the cliff as he glanced out one more time over the hedge, the broken shadows of the Mulberry Harbour, the ingenious allied idea to create a port where one did not exist, avoiding a costly attack on Cherbourg or Calais. The dark rectangular contours lined against the breaking surf further out from the seafront, the cement and metal structures having survived for generations. Trudging away, he vowed to visit the nearby museums the following morning after walking his dogs along the long wide beach, his mind wandering back to what historically it must have been like all that time ago.
He pursed his lips in irritation as his wife called out again, the annoyance clear in her voice as the many families chatted around their large white and fawn recreational vehicles. The middle aged and older men chatting in informal groups about differing military tactics, the German defence and differing places of interest to go and view. Most of the wives would be busying with the food preparation, Kurt increasing his pace as he considered what he would like to cook for the many American and British holidaymakers, his keenness to provide a close comparison to the German rations available on the day.
Kurt reached the top of the track, the land levelling into the carpark as he looked across the many figures and camper vehicles, several with plush awnings and additional seating as the sounds of laughter and the clanking of beer bottles echoed welcomingly towards him, the addition of oil lamps seeming to provide further welcoming enticement as the light began to fade. A few cars passed far to the left, the main coastal road relatively quiet in the late evening as the restaurants and many bars along the Normandy coastline filled with the numerous tourists.
Hearing several American and British accents as he slipped between the large vehicles, he smiled to people as they turned and nodded to him, heading for the German owned vehicles parked further across the large car park. A smile crossing his face as he saw his wife staring from the rear doorway of their hired Mercedes Camper Van, her eyes narrowing in mock dissatisfaction as he approached, hands moving upwards to her hips as he shrugged playfully in innocence.
Then Kurt’s head dropped slightly to one side with suspicion, the distant wail of a siren sounding far to the east sweeping across the flat Normandy terrain. His eyes widened further in surprise, a jolt of adrenalin filling is body as a siren began to sound and escalate in the French town below the cliffs. He glanced round warily, the collection of men and their wives stiffening as conversations tailed off abruptly, the figures turning to look towards the cliff as the siren wailed louder.
Kurt Hausser lunged forward, running past the German camper vans towards the edge of the cliff, the adrenalin surging through him in suspicion. His wife called after him in worry as he ran past, her eyes widening as her husband simply nodded to her, his voice stern, ‘Bring me the binoculars!’ The German slowed as he neared the edge, the town lights extending into the distance beyond the cliff ahead. Staring through the gorse and thick bushes, he looked over the woods below and down into Arromanches, the many lights sparkling as the siren rose in
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