Post by Murphy Slaw on May 6, 2006 15:28:33 GMT
Oosterbeek (pronounced oosterbake I think) used to be a normal town in Holland. Events in 1944 changed that. The 4th and 5th of May are special days in the Netherlands. The 5th is Liberation day.
Edward sat on the steps and watched the sun rise over the gardens of Hartenstien.
He was always here first on the fourth of May. It was something he’d done for years. He enjoyed the sights and sounds of dawn breaking over the Gelderland. They were no different to those back home really but here, on this day, they were something special.
The noises of the house busying itself for this important day roused him from his thoughts. The dew no longer shone on the grass and the stone balustrade had warmed to the touch by the time he hauled himself up. Time to move and look around before the crowds arrived.
He hobbled a few steps before his legs began to work. The bandage on his left leg was restricting his knee. He’d tied it a bit too tight. Too late to make a fuss, he thought as he headed along the footpath.
Edward wandered through the grounds of the former hotel.. He could imagine the scene in the 1930s. Cocktails on the lawn served by bowing waiters. He knew the scene in 1944. Carnage. Today it was the Airborne Museum.
He stopped by a flowerbed to admire the tulips, so typically Dutch. They’d been his favourite flower ever since he’d been given one in September 1944 not far from here. He remembered crouching in the open doorway and seeing the young woman in the gloom of the hallway. Her hand, holding that single red flower, extended towards him. He’d taken the tulip and tucked it in the front of his tunic. It was the same deep red as his beret. She didn’t speak. She hadn’t needed to. He’d never seen so much hope in a person’s eyes before.
The flowerbeds looked so much better than the slit trenches and foxholes that decorated the lawns here all those years ago. Any Para sticking his head up as far as those tulips was certain to attract the attention of the grim reaper.
Edward carried on towards the woodland in Parc Hartenstien. Today he ambled , hands in his pockets and cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth. There weren’t any German snipers to add incentive to his movements.
He stopped to read the information signs by the side of the path. They told visitors the simple facts of what happened there. In both English and Dutch.
He found a bench. He sat. He remembered. .
Edward heard the sound of exploding shells, the screams of the wounded and smelled the stench of war. Those were the same in any language. He also remembered the scent of freshly brewed tea and the taste of bully beef.
Scattered among the trees neat plaques recorded the sites where the remains of his fallen comrades had been found. Killed and buried in one fell swoop. German shells had a reputation for efficiency. Ruthless efficiency that left its victims buried in the unmarked spot for decades.
Arthur Foster was the last one they found near here in 2003. He was interred in the cemetery in March last year. Full military honours and a name on his headstone. No longer did his name show only on the Groesbeek Memorial to the missing.
His slow walk and reflections had taken up the morning and some of the afternoon.. He headed back under a clear Oosterbeek sky. The same sky those poor Polish lads had leapt into. The same sky the German troops had opened fire into. He’d cried when he saw that.
He skirted around the museum. The car park was full and he knew the exhibits well. Inside was full of Dutch families. Each child learning from its parents the story of this town as the parents learned from their parents.
He passed the engraved stone as he made his way to the road. He didn’t stop to read it. He knew the words. He’d seen that girls eyes too.
TO THE PEOPLE OF GELDERLAND
50 years ago British and Polish Airborne soldiers fought here against overwhelming odds to open the way into Germany and bring the war to an early end. Instead we brought death and destruction for which you have never blamed us. This stone marks our admiration for your great courage remembering especially the women who tended our wounded. In the long winter that followed your families risked death by hiding Allied soldiers and airmen while member of the Resistance helped many to safety. You took us then into your homes as fugitives and friends we took you forever into our hearts. This strong bond will continue long after we are all gone. 1944--SEPTEMBER--1994
Across the Utrechtseweg the brickwork needle of the Airborne memorial pointed into the air. Bouquets and posies piled up at the base. A couple with 2 children were walking down the hill away from it. Edward followed them.
The parents were talking. The two girls, Edward judged them to be about 6 and 8 years old., seemed to be listening closely.. The family turned left towards Edwards destination. The tale the parents were telling involved a lot of pointing. The girls looked and sounded enthralled by it. He didn’t need to speak Dutch to understand it.
The road was busy. Cars and buses jostling for the few remaining parking places. It took a little while but the family eventually arrived at the Airborne Cemetery. Mother leaned down to them, spoke softly, and passed them both a posy from her bag. She fussed a little over their dresses, as mothers do the world over, before the family joined hands and walked through the gates.
He followed the little flower children
The Flower Children. Nowhere else in the world has anything like the Arnhem Flower Children. In 1945 over 1200 Dutch schoolchildren each adopted a grave at the Arnhem-Oosterbeek War Cemetery, kept it clear of weeds and placed flowers at regular intervals.
After the War Graves Commission had replaced the original iron crosses with the present grave stones and the official staff at the cemetery had taken on the care of the graves, the children's task was over, but every year since at the memorial service on September 17th children from the local schools place flowers, in unison, on each grave. Today wasn’t Arnhem day. Today was Remembrance Day but Edward knew the children would still come and lay flowers and crosses by the headstones.
He walked in past the stone of Remembrance . The inscription said it all.
He walked past the parades of headstones to his favourite spot. The north corner offered the best view of the day’s proceedings and, as a general rule this time of year, a little bit of sun to warm his face. It also had the added advantage of being easy to light another crafty fag out of the wind. “Those damned cigarettes will be the death of you” his mother had always said. He chuckled at the memory.
He watched the children lay flowers. He watched the parents lay flowers. He watched grandparents lay flowers. He watched great grandparents lay flowers. No grave went unnoticed. The gothic arched shaped Polish stones as brightly adorned as those of any other nation. From 18 year old glider pilot to 55 year old Warrant Officer, from those awarded the Victoria Cross to the simple “Known Only To God”. Everyone received a gift, a prayer and a thank you.
18 years old and flying a glider. Poor kid knew how to handle a Horsa before a Gillette. At 55 it should have been pipe and slippers. Not parachutes and bullets. Ordinary people, thought Edward, extraordinary and sometimes short lives.
At the 60th anniversary of the Liberation the returning veterans were treated like film stars. People clamouring for autographs, to hear stories, to renew old friendships begun in 1944. They didn’t set out to be heroes but every man, woman and child that lived, or died, in that hell became one.
The sun sank low. He stood to take his rightful place. The clergy, the dignitaries, the representatives of the Allied forces were all here. He looked across at the young paratroopers in their pressed uniforms and shining boots. Tall, proud young men who bore the scars of modern battles. Embarrassed as he usually was on these occasions Edward attempted to clean his boots on the back of his trousers,
At every cemetery prayers were said, words were spoken. The 3 wreaths were laid. One for the civilians. One for the Dutch servicemen and resistance. One for the allied servicemen.
At a thousand memorials the Last Post sounded.
At 8pm precisely the country stopped in silent tribute to the fallen.
At forgotten foxholes, small family plots and formal military cemeteries those that gave their lives to liberate this country stood to attention, as Edward and his 1,762 comrades did, beside their final resting place.
At the going down of the sun they were remembered.
It is said that a man never dies until no one speaks his name or of his achievements.
In the Netherlands they would live forever.
Edward sat on the steps and watched the sun rise over the gardens of Hartenstien.
He was always here first on the fourth of May. It was something he’d done for years. He enjoyed the sights and sounds of dawn breaking over the Gelderland. They were no different to those back home really but here, on this day, they were something special.
The noises of the house busying itself for this important day roused him from his thoughts. The dew no longer shone on the grass and the stone balustrade had warmed to the touch by the time he hauled himself up. Time to move and look around before the crowds arrived.
He hobbled a few steps before his legs began to work. The bandage on his left leg was restricting his knee. He’d tied it a bit too tight. Too late to make a fuss, he thought as he headed along the footpath.
Edward wandered through the grounds of the former hotel.. He could imagine the scene in the 1930s. Cocktails on the lawn served by bowing waiters. He knew the scene in 1944. Carnage. Today it was the Airborne Museum.
He stopped by a flowerbed to admire the tulips, so typically Dutch. They’d been his favourite flower ever since he’d been given one in September 1944 not far from here. He remembered crouching in the open doorway and seeing the young woman in the gloom of the hallway. Her hand, holding that single red flower, extended towards him. He’d taken the tulip and tucked it in the front of his tunic. It was the same deep red as his beret. She didn’t speak. She hadn’t needed to. He’d never seen so much hope in a person’s eyes before.
The flowerbeds looked so much better than the slit trenches and foxholes that decorated the lawns here all those years ago. Any Para sticking his head up as far as those tulips was certain to attract the attention of the grim reaper.
Edward carried on towards the woodland in Parc Hartenstien. Today he ambled , hands in his pockets and cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth. There weren’t any German snipers to add incentive to his movements.
He stopped to read the information signs by the side of the path. They told visitors the simple facts of what happened there. In both English and Dutch.
He found a bench. He sat. He remembered. .
Edward heard the sound of exploding shells, the screams of the wounded and smelled the stench of war. Those were the same in any language. He also remembered the scent of freshly brewed tea and the taste of bully beef.
Scattered among the trees neat plaques recorded the sites where the remains of his fallen comrades had been found. Killed and buried in one fell swoop. German shells had a reputation for efficiency. Ruthless efficiency that left its victims buried in the unmarked spot for decades.
Arthur Foster was the last one they found near here in 2003. He was interred in the cemetery in March last year. Full military honours and a name on his headstone. No longer did his name show only on the Groesbeek Memorial to the missing.
His slow walk and reflections had taken up the morning and some of the afternoon.. He headed back under a clear Oosterbeek sky. The same sky those poor Polish lads had leapt into. The same sky the German troops had opened fire into. He’d cried when he saw that.
He skirted around the museum. The car park was full and he knew the exhibits well. Inside was full of Dutch families. Each child learning from its parents the story of this town as the parents learned from their parents.
He passed the engraved stone as he made his way to the road. He didn’t stop to read it. He knew the words. He’d seen that girls eyes too.
TO THE PEOPLE OF GELDERLAND
50 years ago British and Polish Airborne soldiers fought here against overwhelming odds to open the way into Germany and bring the war to an early end. Instead we brought death and destruction for which you have never blamed us. This stone marks our admiration for your great courage remembering especially the women who tended our wounded. In the long winter that followed your families risked death by hiding Allied soldiers and airmen while member of the Resistance helped many to safety. You took us then into your homes as fugitives and friends we took you forever into our hearts. This strong bond will continue long after we are all gone. 1944--SEPTEMBER--1994
Across the Utrechtseweg the brickwork needle of the Airborne memorial pointed into the air. Bouquets and posies piled up at the base. A couple with 2 children were walking down the hill away from it. Edward followed them.
The parents were talking. The two girls, Edward judged them to be about 6 and 8 years old., seemed to be listening closely.. The family turned left towards Edwards destination. The tale the parents were telling involved a lot of pointing. The girls looked and sounded enthralled by it. He didn’t need to speak Dutch to understand it.
The road was busy. Cars and buses jostling for the few remaining parking places. It took a little while but the family eventually arrived at the Airborne Cemetery. Mother leaned down to them, spoke softly, and passed them both a posy from her bag. She fussed a little over their dresses, as mothers do the world over, before the family joined hands and walked through the gates.
He followed the little flower children
The Flower Children. Nowhere else in the world has anything like the Arnhem Flower Children. In 1945 over 1200 Dutch schoolchildren each adopted a grave at the Arnhem-Oosterbeek War Cemetery, kept it clear of weeds and placed flowers at regular intervals.
After the War Graves Commission had replaced the original iron crosses with the present grave stones and the official staff at the cemetery had taken on the care of the graves, the children's task was over, but every year since at the memorial service on September 17th children from the local schools place flowers, in unison, on each grave. Today wasn’t Arnhem day. Today was Remembrance Day but Edward knew the children would still come and lay flowers and crosses by the headstones.
He walked in past the stone of Remembrance . The inscription said it all.
He walked past the parades of headstones to his favourite spot. The north corner offered the best view of the day’s proceedings and, as a general rule this time of year, a little bit of sun to warm his face. It also had the added advantage of being easy to light another crafty fag out of the wind. “Those damned cigarettes will be the death of you” his mother had always said. He chuckled at the memory.
He watched the children lay flowers. He watched the parents lay flowers. He watched grandparents lay flowers. He watched great grandparents lay flowers. No grave went unnoticed. The gothic arched shaped Polish stones as brightly adorned as those of any other nation. From 18 year old glider pilot to 55 year old Warrant Officer, from those awarded the Victoria Cross to the simple “Known Only To God”. Everyone received a gift, a prayer and a thank you.
18 years old and flying a glider. Poor kid knew how to handle a Horsa before a Gillette. At 55 it should have been pipe and slippers. Not parachutes and bullets. Ordinary people, thought Edward, extraordinary and sometimes short lives.
At the 60th anniversary of the Liberation the returning veterans were treated like film stars. People clamouring for autographs, to hear stories, to renew old friendships begun in 1944. They didn’t set out to be heroes but every man, woman and child that lived, or died, in that hell became one.
The sun sank low. He stood to take his rightful place. The clergy, the dignitaries, the representatives of the Allied forces were all here. He looked across at the young paratroopers in their pressed uniforms and shining boots. Tall, proud young men who bore the scars of modern battles. Embarrassed as he usually was on these occasions Edward attempted to clean his boots on the back of his trousers,
At every cemetery prayers were said, words were spoken. The 3 wreaths were laid. One for the civilians. One for the Dutch servicemen and resistance. One for the allied servicemen.
At a thousand memorials the Last Post sounded.
At 8pm precisely the country stopped in silent tribute to the fallen.
At forgotten foxholes, small family plots and formal military cemeteries those that gave their lives to liberate this country stood to attention, as Edward and his 1,762 comrades did, beside their final resting place.
At the going down of the sun they were remembered.
It is said that a man never dies until no one speaks his name or of his achievements.
In the Netherlands they would live forever.