Decorated
This old gent, a Canadian veteran of World War II, was part of our group as we visited Holland to celebrate the 60th Anniversary of Canada's liberation of the Netherlands. Much decorated, this man, like so many others, is only recognized when he wears his medals.
Mrs. Jones, a widow since she was twenty-one, stands before her husband's grave at Bergen Op Zoom, The Netherlands, weeping. He died liberating Holland more than sixty years ago. This is the first time she has come. She stands alone. No children or grandchildren to share her grief: 60thAnniversary of the end of WWII in Europe. Our tour leader, Jerry Van Dyke of Cambridge, ON was born in The Netherlands. He came to Canada as a young boy in 1954. He and Mrs. Jones place an armful of flowers at the cenotaph and stand back, remembering.
A Kitchener lawyer was the first Canadian soldier into Bergen Op Zoom near the end of the war. A member of the Dutch Resistance led him into town. Apparently Canadian troop movements were relayed via secret messages posted on windmills. The Nazis never caught on. So the Resistance was ready to meet the young man and guide him to the rendezvous, up the back stairs of Hotel Draak into a room where several large bald men sat.
Our brave trooper feared for a moment that he'd been suckered. But, one by one, the Dutchmen stood up and hugged him. How this gentleman wished he could be part of our group. But his doctor advised against it. As we walked around the town, three municipal workers stopped their street repairs to applaud our vets.
At the Canadian War Cemetery at Holten, Anne found her uncle's grave. While she laid her bouquet there, we tried to read as many names as we could and tried to find graves without flags or flowers. I left my flag on one in the back row, my white tulip on another. We put Pete's tulip at a slab that read J. R. Martin, wondering if he could have been a Waterloo County boy.
All the graves are beautiful. Each stone stands in a continuous flower bed, kept immaculately by local people. But the beauty, although a sign of gratitude, can't dilute the heart-wringing messages, three lines near the bottom of each marker, sent by the families. One read in part 'Our Only Child.'
If ever a people were aware of the thanks they owe, it is the Dutch. Every town and village was decorated with Canadian flags. People stopped to smile and wave as we passed in our Canadian-flag-bedecked coach. And at the official celebrations. First was Wageningen, 05 05 05. Liberation Day in The Netherlands. Hundred of our gallant veterans marched along the street of the town where the enemy signed the surrender. Veterans from Canada, Britain, Poland, New Guinea and the Dutch Army passed before us, some in wheelchairs. Hundreds and hundreds of them accepted the cheers of locals and visitors.
On May 7, some of these same men rode in restored Jeeps, army trucks and tanks from 1945 and earlier through Nijverdaal . It rained. It poured. But people stood their ground to cheer the men who had bought their freedom.
Then came the 60th Anniversary of VE Day in Europe, May 8, 2005. This time hundreds of veterans rode in miles of restored vehicles kept in great shape by a Dutch organization called Keep Them Rolling. A subtitle could be keep them remembering. Record readers will have seen a vintage Ariel motorcycle ridden by Harry Watts of Kitchener on the front page on May 9. It is owned by Jeremy Van Dyke a 34-year-old second generation Dutch Canadian from Cambridge, ON. It poured. It hailed. The Dutch stood by, waving Canadian flags, running out to our vets to shake their hands, to kiss them if they could reach. When the parade paused, a grandfather took his two blond angels out to pose, cheek to cheek on either side of one of our guys. Vintage planes and helicopters roared overhead. Even the prized Lancaster from Brize Norton, England flew across the North Sea to join in.
It continued to rain. The Dutch raced out to the trucks, handing up bouquets of flowers, glasses of beer. One offered a wrapped present. A nurse in starched white cap perched on white hair marched by in uniform, arms full of tulips. A Native Chief from Saskatchewan, decked out in war bonnet and preceded by an aide came out of the bleachers beneath us to ride a short while. Applause greeted each new group.
When the vets travelling with us rode by, we yelled their names but they were lost in the love of the people they'd saved. Bands from Orillia, Chatham, and Toronto marched by. One played The Maple Leaf Forever. The Burlington Teen Tour Band brought up the rear. They raised the money themselves to come. Now that's remembering.
Already in the departure lounge in Toronto we knew we were part of something special. A children's choir from Prince Edward County entertained us with an impromptu concert while we were delayed for an hour. Many photo albums will start with a snap of these kids in their red and white T shirts. Pete went to the bar where he stood beside a vet from Halifax who ordered doubles of rum. “I'll never get there on the singles you pour,” he declared. Turned out he was with our group. A quiet man. His niece, Leah, from Victoria came to be with him. She was reserved, too. But after our visit to the cemetery at Holten, she mentioned to us that she was very concerned. He couldn't be coaxed off the bus to participate in the little parade in Nijverdaal. Going over it all again.
The horror stories are buried in the minds of men like Leah's uncle or my uncle, who was shellshocked. Or in the war cemeteries all over Europe. One vet said half his regiment is buried at Bergen Op Zoom. I hoped it wasn't one I overheard saying to another man in Legion dress, “He said we didn't have to go out that night…” Of such mischances are battle stories made.
We mostly hear the happy stories. The funny ones. Like the one about the guy who got a 4-day pass to London. No country mentioned. And made it to London, Ontario by paying passage with German guns lifted off corpses. And somehow got out of his court martial. And wonderful stories of victory. In Harderwijk, an older man, formerly of the Dutch Resistance, came out to meet the vets in our group. As a young man, he had shown the Allies the way into town. One of our guys, Roy B. from Cambridge, ON had helped to liberate that village. He'd been back in 1995, too. I saw his picture in a window surrounded by young people who owed their existence to him and his unit.
We never heard anything of Dutch casualties. They are so generous in their thanks that we were allowed to forget that Dutch people died, too. That many of them are heroes, too. It was the old women standing inside their front windows waving as we left Apeldoorn and Wageningen that made me wonder what war stories they are holding in their hearts. Leah's uncle was buoyed by the Apeldoorn parade. Afterwards, he jumped onto the bus and thrust his bouquets at his niece saying jauntily, “Here you are, Sweet!” As if she were still 8 years old.
All around us lilacs and wisteria announced another Spring. In the fields lambs, calves and foals gamboled while storks fed their young. Swan pairs built nests. Loyal for life, they are. If their mate dies, they never choose another. Just like Mrs. Jones.