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CORRESPONDENCE
Normandy
Robert Capa’s photograph on the cover of the May/June issue brought back strong memories. I was on an LCI-L 94, and Mr. Capa came aboard after he had taken pictures while we were unloading troops on Omaha Beach. We were pinned down under fire at the time, and tangled with cables anchoring German mines. Some of our crew had been killed, and Mr. Capa photographed the wounded being treated. After about an hour under fire our captain’s fine seamanship allowed us to retract our anchor and then float again, and we returned to a transport with the wounded and Mr. Capa. He later printed his picture in Life magazine. Of the four ships on that section of the beach, we were the only LCI-L to get under way again. I remember Capa coming into the engine room to dry his film, so nervous he was smoking cigarettes in both hands. He boarded a transport to return to England with his film.
Niles A. West
Prairie Grove, Ark.
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Normandy
In his essay on the significance of D-day, “D-day: What It Meant” (May/June), Charles Cawthon writes that had “the British [won] at Saratoga … oppression would have had a further run.” But the effect of Saratoga was catastrophic for those now commonly referred to as Native American (itself a Eurocentric term). Unlike the colonists, the British crown, if it treated the native tribes as subject, did attempt to protect their rights. I doubt if any Cherokee aware of his heritage considers it as a blessing of liberty that a true Democrat, Andrew Jackson, had the final say on their interests rather than William IV. Further, slavery was abolished in the British colonies during William’s reign; Saratoga helped to delay emancipation in these colonies by some thirty years.
This is of course not to question the substantive thesis of the article as to D-day; there can be few instances in history where there was so demonstrably an evil that had to be stopped. But it adds little to the argument to compare it to the relatively benign rule of the House of Hanover.
Alfred E. Froh
Clearwater, FIa.
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Normandy
Along with millions of my fellow Americans watching on television, I saw DeRonda Elliott’s (“D-day: What It Cost,” May/June) participation in the D-day commemoration. I saw the waves of emotion—pride foremost—that crossed her face as President Clinton read from her father’s letters. I saw the loving care with which, in an earlier recorded report, she held and displayed those letters. And as she searched for, and then located, the grave of her father, CpI. Frank Elliott, in the American Military Cemetery; as she and her daughter fell to their knees before the stone cross; as she said to him, “I never called you Daddy before,” I along with many thousands of others wept with them.
The poignancy of these moments was deepened by our having had the opportunity to get to know the Elliotts through their letters as published in American Heritage. Thank you for helping teach us to appreciate the human costs involved in that terrible and wonderful endeavor.
John Henley
Austin, Tex. The letters between Frank and Pauline Elliott not only entered the national discourse during the D-day commemorations, they drew a more passionate response from our readers than any other feature the magazine has ever published. In a forthcoming issue, DeRonda Elliott will report on some of the letters her parents’ correspondence generated, and on her visit—her first—to her father’s grave in the American Military Cemetery at St. Laurent-sur-Mer.—The Editors
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Time Travel
The article “Lucky Strike” by Peter Tuttle in the April issue, with its descriptions of Trinidad, Colorado, and Glenn Aultman, brought back special memories. My wife, two youngest daughters, and I spent four days in Trinidad in 1992 on a research project concerning my great-grandfather, who was a county commissioner there in the 189Os. Part of the research involved a family photograph taken in the Aultman studio.
We found the Aultman Museum, where we met Glenn and were thoroughly charmed by him. Referring to a computer printout, he gave what help he could with our picture and then invited us to a slide show he was to give that evening at the Trinidad State Park campground, where we were staying.
Glenn’s slides were made from photographs taken in Trinidad by his father at a time when it was a booming town and a mingling place of diverse peoples. With its telephones, paved streets, trolleys, streetlights, refrigeration plants, waterworks, and fine residences, it was clearly as progressive in the 189Os as any growing city in America.
Speaking softly, Glenn wove his slides and words together and brought the turn-of-the-century town to life again. Then he put us in it. We were spellbound.
Too soon, the campfire burned low, and Glenn’s spell began to fade. Yet it lingered as we walked through Trinidad the next day and saw it as Glenn had showed it to us. Not just the buildings but the sheer vitality of the people and the town together through time. We had been touched by a master storyteller who worked as well with history as his expert father did with light.
Roger W. Collins
St. Louis, Mo.
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