George Singleton writes about the anniversary of World War II's D-Day

George Buster Singleton

(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere in Time.” The column below, which was titled “D-Day, the 6^th of June, is a day we should never forget,” was originally published in the June 7, 2001 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

We Americans are a lucky people, but sometimes we tend to let slip by many events that did much to mold our lives and our society.

We forget as the years begin to grow in number and times passes into the pages of the past. This date, June 6, 1944, is one of those dates that we need never to forget. On this date, the greatest invasion force that man has ever assembled stormed ashore on the beaches of Normandy.

On this date in 1944, during the frightful days of World War II, the allied forces launched the largest invasion force the world had ever known in hopes of defeating for all times the evil forces of Hitler’s army.

On June 5, Gen. Dwight Eisenhower set into motion a plan to lay the groundwork for the Normandy Invasion to be launched the following day. This day would be recorded in history as “D-Day” throughout the known free world.

Let us look back in time and try to visualize the magnitude of this invasion force. On June 5, 1944, over 3,000 American and British bombers, protected by the famed P-51 fighter planes, dropped thousands of tons of bombs on the Nazi forces that were dug in on the high cliffs that overlooked the beaches of Normandy.

The following day, ships from a hundred ports, numbering over 4,000 began crossing the English Channel. These ships would put ashore over 176,000 men in the first wave that landed on the sandy beaches. In less than three weeks that followed, over 1 million men and 170,000  vehicles made their way across the bloody sands of the Normandy beachhead.

Thousands of young men, many no more than 18 or 19 years old, never reached the sandy beaches. Many of these young men had no combat experience, except less than eight weeks of basic training, before they were shipped to overseas ports to help make up the other thousands of the allied invasion force.

As the landings of troops increased, so many died there on the beach until bulldozers were used to push the dead bodies aside, so that the men and equipment yet to come ashore would have open space to maneuver as they fought for the high ground.

Should you visit the many military cemeteries that dot the landscape throughout Europe and see the thousands upon thousands of white crosses that mark the graves of our fallen sons and brothers, then you will realize the price we paid that fateful day.

In 1986, I had by chance, to visit one of such cemeteries. The row upon row of snow-white crosses in the Luxembourg Cemetery gave witness to the many thousands who sleep there. As I searched for the grave of a cousin who fell in the heavy fighting of the invasion, I remembered being told that he had not reached his 19^th birthday prior to his death.

I remember that day as a student in high school when the principal of the school called an assembly. This was the day after school had started in September. Mr. Johnson, a World War I veteran, read out the names of those who had gone to school there at Sweet Water and had fallen in battle that fateful day of June 6.

I remember that the old man wept as he called the names of seven young men from a prior graduating class that had fallen there on the bloody beaches of Normandy. This class would lose a total of eight young men, both in the Pacific and Europe, before the dreadful war’s end.

There are those who say that we should bury the past and let bygones be bygones. But, I believe we should remember those brave young men who gave their lives for the freedom that we enjoy today. We should hold in high esteem the memories of those who died in battle so that we can continue to live as a free people. We should forever remember those who never knew the joys of raising a family and having the chance to grow old with their children and grandchildren.

We, as a nation cannot know where we are going unless we know where we have been. We must not forget those who gave their all for our way of life  that we so often take for granted.

As we remember the millions who died in our past wars, we should remember that they too wanted to live a full and happy life. They didn’t want their lives to end there on the blood soaked sands of Normandy, or on some unknown island in the Pacific.

They didn’t want it to end on some frozen hillside in far off Korea, or the steaming jungles of Vietnam, or in the parched deserts of the Middle East.

We Americans are a forgiving people; for the want of wealth, we sell our homeland and even our souls to the very ones who tried so hard to destroy that which we cherished. We turn a deaf ear to the cries of the millions slain who tried to protect us from the armies of the aggressor.

The jingle of money pushes from our ears the cries of the dead who also wanted to live and enjoy a part of our tomorrow. We allow our sacred flag to be burned in public places by deadbeats who have contributed nothing to the freedom we enjoy.

One day we must learn that freedom is not free. Freedom has to be wanted. It has to be cherished. And, then there comes a time when it has to be fought for and protected.

So, this past Wednesday, June 6, 57 years since the sands of Normandy beach turned red with the blood of our brave young men, we need to stop again and remember. It doesn’t take much time. Find a quiet spot and raise your arms to the heavens and thank God that you have been allowed to live in this great land of ours. You will be heard if you are sincere, and those who sleep beneath the white crosses in those forgotten cemeteries in some far off land will know that they are remembered.

Do not let the spirits of those young men who fell in battle on a thousand battlefields wander forever on the winds of oblivion. Take time to be proud and let the world know that you are proud to be an American. Our country is approaching the crossroads of history. We must stand up and be proud. We cannot let that which we love cross over the point of no return.

There is a graveyard far, far away.
Where a forgotten soldier lies.
No flowers there are sprinkled,
Nor tears from mourners eyes.

I stood there no so long ago
In remembrance for these brave,
When suddenly I heard a soft faint voice
Speak out from the depts of a grave.

“Did we really win our freedom
That we battled so hard to achieve?
Do we still respect that tiny flag
Above that empty sleeve?”

“Wonder if those who planned it
All are really satisfied?
As they sing and dance and live it up
After many thousands died.

“I am that forgotten soldier
And maybe I died in vain
But, if I were alive, and my
County called, I’d do it all over again.”

(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He also helped organize the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president of that organization. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)

Singleton tells of ghostly Rebel soldier in Monroe County, Alabama

George Buster Singleton

(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Return to the hill country,” was originally published in the May 20, 2004 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

Since my dear wife couldn’t find anything for me to do May 13, I decided to slip away for a few hours of wandering aimlessly around the hill country of Monroe County.

I cranked up my vehicle and headed toward the hill country of the Old Scotland area. I never get tired of traveling the winding dirt roads of this area of our county. I have traveled these roads and trails many times, and always something appears that I have seemed to miss on other previous trips.

My first stop was the old Cunningham cemetery, located only a short distance from the pavement known as the Ridge Road. As I had noticed earlier, the wrought-iron fence around the small family cemetery had been repaired and painted. Much work had been done on the fence and the cleaning of the grave markers of the members of the Cunningham family that are buried here.

It’s refreshing to know that there are those who yet see to it that the final resting places of their ancestors are kept clean and in good repair. But, much to my surprise the old cemetery needed some repair and cleaning.

Down the road, I stopped in front of the beautiful and scenic Old Scotland church. Almost expecting to hear the sounds of the Scottish bagpipes from the nearby wooded area, I viewed the historic old church and the well-kept cemetery nearby.

Noticing the recent burial site of a grand old lady who had just recently passed away, I remembered the day that this gracious and dear lady called me and wanted me to escort her to her old family home place, down the road aways from the church and cemetery. When we reached the old homesite, this dear lady sat down and cried, stating that it had been over 65 years since her last visit there.

Along the edges of the grownup yards, she pointed out some blooming jonquils that struggled to survive there among the tall weeds and brush. With tears streaming from her eyes, she told me that she had planted these jonquils many years ago when she was a small young girl and had lived there.

Returning to the church yard, she pointed out to me the graves of her family and her ancestors. She also pointed out the place where she was to be buried. This beautiful and darling old lady had gotten her wish. She now sleeps among those she loved so dearly, there in the beautiful old cemetery of Old Scotland church.

Making my way slowly down the narrow dirt road, I stopped for a moment at the old Davison burial ground. There under the protective branches of the trees that grow in the old cemetery, those who sleep here were also a part of the then active community of Old Scotland.

Making my way slowly down the winding hill that leads to the creek, I stopped for a few minutes on the wooden bridge that spans the creek. I remembered being told the story of the wounded Confederate soldier by my dear friend, now deceased, Raymond Fountain.

The story goes that this wounded Rebel had camped for several months under an earlier bridge that had spanned the creek here.

The wounded and sick Confederate had camped here for a period of about four or five months. He survived on the wild berries that grew nearby and the fish he caught out of the large creek. Those who passed this way said he could be seen during the early morning hours and the hours of the late evenings, walking along the narrow road near the bridge.

The stories state that the wounded Rebel, dressed in a torn and dirty Confederate uniform, would always be seen walking toward the west. Never was he seen walking east, back toward the bridge where he camped.

The stories go on to say that one day the wounded soldier disappeared, never to be seen again. No one knows what happened to the wounded and sick Rebel.

My friend stated that those who traveled this narrow road during the years after the terrible war had seen the ghost of the unknown Rebel, walking the road and across the wooden bridge. As always, he was seen walking to the west. I have visited this location many times, searching for the ghost of the unknown Rebel. But, that’s another story.

Slowly making my way across the low flat bottom lands, I thought of the many times that I had journeyed this way. As I started the climb up the steep hill known as Locke Hill, I thought of the many stories that had been told to me by my friends, Mr. Fountain and Mr. Wiggins.

Many times, we would come this way, and they would tell and tell again the stories of this area. Both of these dear friends had a thorough knowledge of the early history of this area. The ancestors of my friend, Oscar Wiggins, had settled up the narrow road in the old community known as the Red Hills community.

A stop for a few moments atop Locke Hill was breathtaking. Looking back across the vast bottoms to the east seemed almost as being in another world. I remembered being told the story by my friends of the family who had settled nearby, thus giving the tall hill its name. Many stories of good times and heartaches had taken place here on Locke Hill.

Stopping at the old Red Hills cemetery, I visited the final resting place of my friend’s ancestors. He, too, had fought for the Southern cause and had been laid to rest in the red clay of the Red Hills cemetery.

Walking through the old burial grounds, the many stories told to me crowded my mind. Many of the old grave markers and crumbling burial crypts brought to mind the stories of their lives and good times related to me by my dear friend. Then, too, many of those who sleep here had suffered many hardships as the dreadful Civil War took its toll on the community nestled here in the hill country.

As I mounted my transportation and head westward toward the Franklin community and Highway 41, I new that I had made the right choice by coming this way. I felt as I had on all the other excursions through this area. I had done the right thing by coming this way.

Perhaps, somewhere beyond the sunset, there are those who sleep in the old cemeteries and burial grounds along the way know that they are not forgotten. They are remembered. I was glad that I had come, if only for a short time.

(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He also helped organize the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president of that organization. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)

 

Singleton writes of historical society visit to old Claiborne in 1987

George Buster Singleton

(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere in Time.” The column below, which was titled “An afternoon in the old town of Claiborne,” was originally published in the May 7, 1987 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

Sunday, April 26, 1987 was a perfect day. At 2 p.m. the members of the Monroe County Museum & Historical Society gathered in front of the old courthouse for an afternoon outing in and around the old town of Claiborne.

Our first stop was the old Jewish cemetery. Nestled back in the woods near where once was the southeast corner of the town, the remaining markers and tombs stand in almost forgotten memories of the Jewish people who once lived here in Claiborne.

As we moved among the headstones, many of which had fallen over or had been broken due to neglect, one could feel a certain sadness or a feeling of helplessness that seemed to filter from the faint impressions there in the ground.

Many of the ones who slept there among the underbrush and briars had traveled from the far corners of the earth to a town called Claiborne atop the high banks of a mighty river. They came this way looking for a better lift, a life of freedom, a life without fear.

And in the quietness of the moments there among the final resting places, one had only to look around, after all these years, to know that tragedy and heartbreak had been present in the town by the river.

Isaac Jacobson had been a successful merchant in the growing town of Claiborne. His store was growing along with the town. His business required many hours of work, even after hours when the doors were closed to his customers. Many nights he would work into the early hours of the morning, ordering the goods that would be shipped up the river by boat. Life was being good to Isaac. He traveled from Posen, Prussia to Claiborne. He had worked for another merchant until he had saved some money to open his business.

Then one night as he was closing early to go home and enjoy an evening meal with his family, an unknown assassin stepped from the shadows and killed him in cold blood. The faded epitaph relates the gruesome story of Isaac Jacobson’s tragic death that November evening long ago.

Many of the headstones sway drunkenly, leaning this way and that. If you look carefully among the underbrush, your eyes fall upon the small markers of the Metzger brothers, who fell victim of the dreaded yellow fever. The two young brothers were buried within two days of each other.

Pass in review, all the memories
That dwell within my soul.
For now is the time of remembering,
And the ghosts from another time
Cry out to be heard.

Our tour carried us northward to the old town cemetery atop the high banks of what was once known as the north gorge. Beneath the tall, majestic pines, the quietness lay over the few remaining headstones like a heavy blanket. As times passes, I have noticed that the markers within the cemetery have decreased in number. It seems that nothing is sacred anymore in our modern society. When vandals destroy and carry away the old markers and large headstones that have stood for well over a hundred years as guardians in this city of sleep, our priorities and values have reached an all-time low.

A moment’s pause, a quiet recital, the faded epitaph on the tomb of the broken-hearted stranger bring to mind once again the many tragedies that lie hidden in the many graves of the old cemetery.

“I am a stranger,” I heard him say.
“Broken-hearted and lonely, I came
This way – in search of a love who
In anger fled. Too late, too late,
I found her dead.”

Few of us care to known or try to remember the old story of the stranger who came to Claiborne in search of his lost love, only to contract the dreaded fever. As he lay on his death bed, alone and among strangers, he wrote the words of the epitaph that is to be found carved on his headstone:

A doctor, a lawyer, a governor’s wife,
Too, sleep peacefully by a soldier true.

Here on the high banks of the North Gorge, the many victims of the dreaded yellow fever sleep and wait for the final roll call of eternity. The town that they lived in, which boasted at one time over 5,000 people, sleeps in its past memories. Only the sound of the rushing traffic, crossing the new, modern bridge that spans the mighty river, jolts ones mind back to the present and the commitments at hand.

(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He also helped organize the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president of that organization. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)