EvanL
06-02-2004, 12:53 PM
Sixty years ago this week, Frank Helden was piloting a craft through rough waters to Normandy, landing on Gold Beach on the afternoon of D-Day in time to see the immensity of the operation. 'The sea was black with ships.'
By ROD MICKLEBURGH
UPDATED AT 12:48 PM EDT Wednesday, Jun 2, 2004
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VANCOUVER -- Frank Helden had a quiet D-Day. That is, if you consider piloting a 50-foot landing craft for nearly 24 hours through rough, stomach-churning seas to the beaches of Normandy, dodging mines and machine-gun fire on the way in, quiet.
For reasons the ex-member of Britain's Royal Marines still doesn't understand, he was selected to arrive on the afternoon of D-Day, transporting only a small cargo of naval personnel and their jeep.
By the time Mr. Helden's craft showed up, Gold Beach -- one of two sections of the Normandy coast targeted by British troops -- was mostly secured.
"It was still scary," Mr. Helden recalled, eyes shining at the memory as he sat in his small, seniors' apartment in Burnaby, B.C.
"You could hit a mine. You could be machine-gunned. You could get sniped at. Tracer bullets were still flying through the air. I could have been killed."
He was almost disappointed more wasn't going on.
"When I saw Normandy, I thought: 'Oh my God, I've got to fight.' I got my rifle. I stepped on the beach. I wanted to pitch in. But they said, 'No, you're landing craft.' So I had to go back."
Yet Mr. Helden has never lost his pride at being part of the great invasion that ensured Hitler's barbaric rule over most of Europe and his own people would soon be over.
He remembers the simple, understated instructions from his British commander on June 5: "Come on, we're going." Mr. Helden asked if it was just another practice. "Maybe," was the terse reply.
"It wasn't a practice, I'll tell you," said Mr. Helden, still in awe, groping for the words to describe what he saw when the dawn broke on June 6.
"It was horrendous . . . no, not horrendous . . . enormous. I couldn't comprehend the enormity of it. It was awesome. Just awesome. It had been pitch dark and suddenly we were surrounded by all these boats, from small ones to battleships. It was all so huge. The sky was black with planes. The sea was black with ships.
"I never expected to see an invasion like that. I thought: 'My God, it's bigger than the Spanish Armada.' "
Mr. Helden was born above a fish-and-chip shop near Newcastle during the last year of the First World War.
After leaving school at 14, he worked through a series of uninspiring jobs, including work in a French polish factory, a lemonade factory and as an errand boy.
When the Second World War began, Mr. Helden joined St. John's Ambulance, helping to pull bodies and survivors out of bombed-out homes during the Blitz.
It was a shattering experience. "I remember one time a bomb hit on a girl's wedding day. Her body was cut in two. She was still wearing her wedding dress. I thought to myself: 'Why?' And then I thought: 'We've got to beat them.' "
Eventually, Mr. Helden joined the Royal Marines, staying with the British armed forces until 1947 when a large Fly to Canada sign outside Ontario House in London's West End beckoned him to Canada.
He wanted to be a cowboy, but wound up working on coastal ferries and then for the B.C. Telephone Co. for nearly 30 years.
Along the way, Mr. Helden became somewhat of a political gadfly, with a seemingly obsessive desire to poke his nose into things. He mounted quixotic mayoralty campaigns in Vancouver and Burnaby, losing badly each time, and rarely refrained from taking sides on contentious issues.
"Oh, I was controversial all right. Very much so," Helden agreed. "My wife left me because of all the politics. She got tired of it. I was crazy."
No surprise then that Mr. Helden raised a bit of a ruckus when Canada turned down his request to be part of the country's official veteran contingent to the D-Day commemorations in France.
"They said I didn't land on the right beach [Canadians attacked Juno Beach on D-Day] and I wasn't a Canadian at the time."
Eventually, Mr. Helden was offered $1,000 by the federal government to go. A woman who heard about the situation offered $3,000 to pay the rest of his expenses.
At that point, Mr. Helden had to confront reality. Age is catching up to the veteran. While he escaped death on D-Day itself, revisiting Normandy in 1997 nearly killed him.
"We went everywhere by bus. No bathroom on board. Mostly it was just going from cemetery to cemetery. When I got back, I was dead beat. I don't think I could do it again. I'm feeling pretty weak and tired these days."
He decided not to go. Instead, he is resting up for D-Day anniversary celebrations here. "I won't be marching. I'll be riding in a military vehicle."
But don't underestimate Mr. Helden. Give him a cause and the battle juices kick right back in.
Last year, a group of squatters pitched their tents at Victory Square in downtown Vancouver, site of the city's imposing cenotaph. Mr. Helden went down as an army of one to get them out.
"I told them that this land is dedicated to the veterans, and I felt they were defiling it. I told them to leave or I would start tearing their tents down." The squatters moved.
More recently, Mr. Helden's campaign for a pedestrian crosswalk light at a busy street near his apartment also ended in victory.
Meanwhile, as D-Day approaches, Mr. Helden has been keeping busy, telling his well-worn war tales to schoolchildren. They listen respectfully, he said, but most have a hard time relating to events so long ago.
Sometimes, Mr. Helden has the same problem. "It's becoming more and more dim. Did it really happen?"
By ROD MICKLEBURGH
UPDATED AT 12:48 PM EDT Wednesday, Jun 2, 2004
Advertisement
VANCOUVER -- Frank Helden had a quiet D-Day. That is, if you consider piloting a 50-foot landing craft for nearly 24 hours through rough, stomach-churning seas to the beaches of Normandy, dodging mines and machine-gun fire on the way in, quiet.
For reasons the ex-member of Britain's Royal Marines still doesn't understand, he was selected to arrive on the afternoon of D-Day, transporting only a small cargo of naval personnel and their jeep.
By the time Mr. Helden's craft showed up, Gold Beach -- one of two sections of the Normandy coast targeted by British troops -- was mostly secured.
"It was still scary," Mr. Helden recalled, eyes shining at the memory as he sat in his small, seniors' apartment in Burnaby, B.C.
"You could hit a mine. You could be machine-gunned. You could get sniped at. Tracer bullets were still flying through the air. I could have been killed."
He was almost disappointed more wasn't going on.
"When I saw Normandy, I thought: 'Oh my God, I've got to fight.' I got my rifle. I stepped on the beach. I wanted to pitch in. But they said, 'No, you're landing craft.' So I had to go back."
Yet Mr. Helden has never lost his pride at being part of the great invasion that ensured Hitler's barbaric rule over most of Europe and his own people would soon be over.
He remembers the simple, understated instructions from his British commander on June 5: "Come on, we're going." Mr. Helden asked if it was just another practice. "Maybe," was the terse reply.
"It wasn't a practice, I'll tell you," said Mr. Helden, still in awe, groping for the words to describe what he saw when the dawn broke on June 6.
"It was horrendous . . . no, not horrendous . . . enormous. I couldn't comprehend the enormity of it. It was awesome. Just awesome. It had been pitch dark and suddenly we were surrounded by all these boats, from small ones to battleships. It was all so huge. The sky was black with planes. The sea was black with ships.
"I never expected to see an invasion like that. I thought: 'My God, it's bigger than the Spanish Armada.' "
Mr. Helden was born above a fish-and-chip shop near Newcastle during the last year of the First World War.
After leaving school at 14, he worked through a series of uninspiring jobs, including work in a French polish factory, a lemonade factory and as an errand boy.
When the Second World War began, Mr. Helden joined St. John's Ambulance, helping to pull bodies and survivors out of bombed-out homes during the Blitz.
It was a shattering experience. "I remember one time a bomb hit on a girl's wedding day. Her body was cut in two. She was still wearing her wedding dress. I thought to myself: 'Why?' And then I thought: 'We've got to beat them.' "
Eventually, Mr. Helden joined the Royal Marines, staying with the British armed forces until 1947 when a large Fly to Canada sign outside Ontario House in London's West End beckoned him to Canada.
He wanted to be a cowboy, but wound up working on coastal ferries and then for the B.C. Telephone Co. for nearly 30 years.
Along the way, Mr. Helden became somewhat of a political gadfly, with a seemingly obsessive desire to poke his nose into things. He mounted quixotic mayoralty campaigns in Vancouver and Burnaby, losing badly each time, and rarely refrained from taking sides on contentious issues.
"Oh, I was controversial all right. Very much so," Helden agreed. "My wife left me because of all the politics. She got tired of it. I was crazy."
No surprise then that Mr. Helden raised a bit of a ruckus when Canada turned down his request to be part of the country's official veteran contingent to the D-Day commemorations in France.
"They said I didn't land on the right beach [Canadians attacked Juno Beach on D-Day] and I wasn't a Canadian at the time."
Eventually, Mr. Helden was offered $1,000 by the federal government to go. A woman who heard about the situation offered $3,000 to pay the rest of his expenses.
At that point, Mr. Helden had to confront reality. Age is catching up to the veteran. While he escaped death on D-Day itself, revisiting Normandy in 1997 nearly killed him.
"We went everywhere by bus. No bathroom on board. Mostly it was just going from cemetery to cemetery. When I got back, I was dead beat. I don't think I could do it again. I'm feeling pretty weak and tired these days."
He decided not to go. Instead, he is resting up for D-Day anniversary celebrations here. "I won't be marching. I'll be riding in a military vehicle."
But don't underestimate Mr. Helden. Give him a cause and the battle juices kick right back in.
Last year, a group of squatters pitched their tents at Victory Square in downtown Vancouver, site of the city's imposing cenotaph. Mr. Helden went down as an army of one to get them out.
"I told them that this land is dedicated to the veterans, and I felt they were defiling it. I told them to leave or I would start tearing their tents down." The squatters moved.
More recently, Mr. Helden's campaign for a pedestrian crosswalk light at a busy street near his apartment also ended in victory.
Meanwhile, as D-Day approaches, Mr. Helden has been keeping busy, telling his well-worn war tales to schoolchildren. They listen respectfully, he said, but most have a hard time relating to events so long ago.
Sometimes, Mr. Helden has the same problem. "It's becoming more and more dim. Did it really happen?"