From the May 26, 1961 edition of the Vineyard Gazette:

The most touching and significant ceremony which has to do with Memorial Day is possible only in seashore communities, preferably sea-girt such as the Vineyard. It is the ceremony which brings out the townspeople, and the smattering of summer residents who have reached the Island by then, and look forward to its climax — so simple that it is part of its charm; so almost devoutly presented by the young protagonists who cast their bouquets of garden flowers upon the water to follow as the tide listeth until they reach the sea.

An American fighter pilot died heroically on the outskirts of Ouzouer-sure-Loire in France on Aug. 14, 1944. The story epitomizes the spirit for which Memorial Day has been kept through the years, and for which it will be kept in years to come.

In the Army records, this fighter pilot was represented only by his name, the usual service facts, and a date. But the date was in error by a few days, and there were circumstances that did not come to light until 1960.

The fighter pilot was shot down south of the Loire River near a Maquis hiding place to which he was taken by two couriers. It was judged best that he should remain with the Maquis until a break could be made through an encircling German panzer division.

But the Germans discovered the hiding place in the forest and attacked. The Maquis, two or three hundred strong, rushed to a hidden collection of captured German vehicles and started along a forest trail toward Orleans.

The American pilot found a place in the last truck of the convoy. As the convoy turned into a highway, it was pursued by a German motor column which quickly closed the gap.

Five Frenchmen, and the American pilot, dropped from the truck as it slackened speed to enable them to do so. They set up a heavy machine gun in the center of the road and with the first burst of fire stopped the leading German vehicle and blocked the road. The rest of the Maquis escaped, but these five, and the American, were killed.

The action was reported to the Free French with an account of the bravery of the six men — “especially the English-speaking one.” He had given his life for the others, though he didn’t have to, and didn’t know the men with whom he died.

Because the French of the village could speak no English, and the American graves registration solders could speak no French, the story was not told; and only after many years was it pieced together by a staff writer for Stars & Stripes, and received by the American’s parents on the Vineyard long, long afterward.

The name of the American fighter pilot was Lieut. Edward K. Simpson Jr. As the deed was complete, so the story is now complete, and it belongs in the long perspective of Memorial Day.

There’s good news from shore and countryside. Along some roadsides and in some shore and dune territory the beach plums are abloom, and in others the buds have swollen to the bursting point. If one could imagine torrents of creamy white blossoms, the beach plums would be found already in possession of the fantasy, turning it into reality. So comes a turning point in the season.

As the lilacs are in old dooryards, and where dooryards once were, so the beach plums are in the Vineyard’s civil wilderness — tokens of the sunny turn into summer. And all the while the Sound on a quiet morning lies with blue and blue-white streaks in placid contentment, or turns with the tide, sun, and breeze into freshening depths of color. The cool and the warm of nature are blended, and one not only feels them and tastes them but sees them made visible.

The early song of the birds soon yields to the song of the power lawnmowers. Well, that’s part of the season’s change, too.

More phenomena among the fowls of Gus Ben David 2nd, of Oak Bluffs, this time his mallard ducks. Prone to wander in search of those things which ducks prefer, the two pairs of mallards have been flying down to Farm Pond daily, there to swim and feed, returning home in late afternoon for their corn and remaining until the morning. The distance is a mile or more, which is nothing for a flying duck.

But recently it became known to Gus that his ducks were setting in the sedges around Farm Pond and he felt that this would be the end of his ownership and association with the fowls. What was his astonishment a few mornings ago when visiting his poultry-yards, to find one of his ducks present, with seven tiny ducklings. She had come home for her customary feed of corn, bringing her brood with her, and they, being just hatched, had to be walked over the long distance. Gus believes that the trek was made during the night, which seems reasonable, because the path of travel extended through the center of Oak Bluffs where traffic is to be expected at all times during the day, and dogs, cats and children might well have interfered with their passage.

All safe and secure now, the brood is content to remain at home.

Compiled by Hilary Wall
library@mvgazette.com