A JOURNEY OF REMEMBRANCE Pt6

By Dave HughesAirframes


You may remember that we were staying in this pub in Nijmegen and I last left you with the thump, thump, thump of the pub's disco continuing well into the night. For all that, we all apparently slept reasonably well. With two, or possibly three days left, dependent upon how you count (and J and I never could agree), we were moving towards the climax of our journey.

But first there was breakfast at Hotel Credible. J and I were there early, D taking his time to get himself going, as often was the case. So, deciding not to wait for D, we got on and ordered breakfast. Now there really were no language difficulties at Credible so when D eventually joined us, and our breakfast still hadn't arrived, we were wondering what was happening. Another couple of visits to our table by a waitress gave us the news that we had not actually ordered, we had only suggested what we might have. So that little language misunderstanding beyond us, we all got on and ordered.

I can't remember what the boys had. Mine turned out to be a little unusual though. In effect, I ordered fried egg on toast with bacon. What came were three fried eggs with some bacon and ham, all on two rounds of rather soggy, very dark bread, all these on a thick bed of salad. I suppose the latter did not help to make the bread less soggy and to be honest, except for the bread which I didn't overly care for, everything was totally satisfactory. It just seemed to be a strange mix though.

Eventually we got on our way, recovering the car from that underground car park in the correct manner, i.e. out via the OUT ramp. I had thought we might head for the bridges of Nijmegen and Arnhem but the weather this day was pretty poor and I just did not fancy more motorway driving in such conditions. OK, I was denying the boys a little of the local WW2 history by not doing what I had thought we might but who was to know what we might find elsewhere.

So, following the other part of the planned route we headed in the general direction of Groesbeek, Mook and Malden, not really knowing what we might find but hoping that it would allow us some link to September/October 1944. We were not to be disappointed.

Not far from Groesbeek we came across the Canadian cemetery. I don't know why or how but somehow I knew about this. So when we saw the road signs, we diverted to this place, as usual being the only visitors present. That point is interesting, for when we had stayed in Caen we had talked with some US travellers who were visiting various cemeteries on their journey of discovery, so we knew we were not alone in doing what we were doing.

We paid our respects, made an appropriate entry into the visitors' book, and moved on. Quite out of the blue (or dark grey as it was still raining!), we came across a museum, the Bevrijdingsmuseum, or in English, The (Dutch) National Liberation Museum (1944-1945) and I decided that this might be an interesting place to visit. Why as humans are we able to make decisions like that? What causes us to suddenly make such a choice? Yet how right that decision turned out to be.

The museum told the story of the liberation of Holland from oppression, including, in detail, from the time of the quite disastrous parachute landings in the Nijmegen and Arnhem areas to the point where the country achieved full liberation. There was so much to see and we began to note things seen and places we had reviously passed through, particularly in and around Grave, but also as far away as Leopoldsburg in Belgium where we were eventually headed for. So, for instance, we learned the importance of the bridge at Grave and the battle, most probably involving my cousin at some point, which took place around the bridge and in that general area.

I liked this museum. I though it to be well presented, chronologic in sequence, always telling a story as it moved us through that period. The display eventually took us to what I will describe as a chapel complete with dedication altar, the chapel having a roof in the shape of a parachute, i.e. symbolising those who first came to liberate. After taking a while to look around, the boys long since having gone off to investigate on their own, I then noticed that all around the periphery of the chapel were the crests of the many Commands and Divisions involved in this part of the struggle, not only English, but US, Canadian, Polish and others. Beneath each crest was a folder, this effectively including a roll of honour of all the various units within those Commands and Divisions. I began to realize that possibly, just possibly, I might find my cousin's unit, the 7th Somerset Light Infantry. It was at this point the boys re-joined me.

As I indicated a moment ago, isn't it strange how sometimes, we are drawn to objects, or people, or whatever it might be that draws us? Strangely, I reflected later, I found myself being drawn to a particular crest and folder. There was no text to indicate what might be included in this particular folder, nothing that I could naturally relate to. Yet it turned out to be the crest and folder of The Wessex Brigade, of which the 7th SLI were a part. How weird is that?

At this point I was becoming quite excited and looked through the pages, avidly searching for the 7th. Of course I found reference to it and there, inside, were the names of the fallen, the names in all these folders being of those who had in one way or another, given their lives for the liberation of Holland. I found this very emotional; I had not expected to come across anything like this. My only thoughts previously, at least as far as my cousin was concerned, had been the village of Hochheid, the place where he fell, and his burial later at Leopoldsburg. To find him listed amongst so many others and commemoratedin such a way was so very special. So many others? 150,000+ apparently! As for the Wessex Brigade, the folder told us their losses were 1846 in and around the Caen area in June, July and August 1944 followed by a further 709 in the Nijmegen, southern Holland and German border area between September 1944 and February 1945.

I think that moment will live with me as perhaps the one memory I will cherish on this journey. There were many others, of course there were. But this was somehow so very different, so very special to me.

We (I) recovered by having coffee or hot chocolate in the café and moved on, looking in Mook and Malden for continuing signs of 1944, but finding few. It all seemed so new once again. We did however find a further British cemetery, the penultimate one on this journey, just outside Groesbeek, and decided again to pay the respects we each found necessary in our separate ways. I believe the boys also were beginning to understand why though we did not talk about this aspect at all. perhaps I should have addressed it; perhaps I yet might.

While we were there, the only visitors up to this point, a car drew up alongside us. It turned out to be that of an English guy who lived locally and, seeing our UK car registration, he had stopped to ask us what we were doing in a similar way to the woman who had spoken with us outside the burger bar in Grave. I related our story as best I could and even though it was still slightly raining, he was as fascinated as she had been. But the story came to an end and the open road awaited us.

We used the same motorway we had driven up to Grave for the first part of the journey in order to head south again, but then turned off it and wandered down a long straight road out of Holland and into Belgium. Driving down this 'N' road was far better than sticking to the motorway, not that there was too much to see. However, excellent navigation from the lads eventually took us to Bree, Bocholt, Kaulille and Alpacaboerderijk.

I suppose I should explain that this was an Alpaca farm, though you had most probably guessed that, and it was to be home for our last two nights on the continent. We had come across it when looking for local accommodation that would place us near to Leopoldsburg, many other local hotels either being exorbitantly expensive or just not available. The Alpaca farm was - how do I put it? - quite cost effective. However, it might not have suited the average stay and I can well imagine that ladies would have found the circumstances quite difficult. I will explain in a moment.

First though we were invited by John, the owner, to go down and meet the 120 or so Alpacas at the farm. I suppose in the end we met about 30-40 because the rain came down in ever increasing intensity and it really was not practical to go out into the paddocks. The 30-40 were in compartments within the barn, that same barn which, at the other end, housed our accommodation. Having had contact in a limited way with Alpacas before - there are three where we stay in Dorset - I didn't feel there was much to interest me. But J & D seemed fascinated, though J could not bring himself even to stroke one of them on the head, fearing that they might instinctively spit at him, something Alpacas are prone to do. Yet though he did not wish to approach them, at the same time he also bought 50 cent packs of feed so that he could do so using the palm of his hand. What a strange lad.

Back upstairs the apartment, for that is what it was, comprised two bedrooms, bunk beds for the lads and a double for me, along with a combined living room and kitchen area. All cutlery and cooking utensils were provided but no food. That meant, prior to our arrival, we had actually stopped in the village of Bocholt to purchase our evening meal and items for breakfast the following day. Assuming there would be a microwave - well, everyone has one these days don't they? - we bought meals which we could rapidly cook in it, two lasagnes and a pasta; frustratingly, on arrival, we found there wasn't one. More of that in a minute!!

What could have been a difficulty, had there been ladies with us, was the washing, shower and toilet facilities. These were supposedly to be 'shared'! Now beforehand, even before leaving home, I wasn't able to work out exactly what that meant but I reckoned that three men from the same family, travelling together, would not necessarily have a problem; and we didn't. The combined shower and toilet we were allocated was solely ours; we had a separate key to this, the key being the same one as for our front door. The other guests staying, a German family I think, also had their own separate shower and toilet. What was unusual was that the washbasins, two of them, were together in the open corridor, immediately opposite the shower/toilet doors, so it might have been possible that both we and the German family could have been washing at the sink, cleaning teeth, etc, all at the same time. In fact, we never saw them at all and, as we had the place completely to ourselves on the second night, none of us were the least bit concerned with these peculiar arrangements. We just got on with using them.

Oh yes, that evening meal; I debated how I could cook the lasagne and the pasta using the resources I had available and the logical step seemed, literally, to empty each one individually into a saucepan and just slow cook them until they were ready. The end result was two versions of lasagne stew and a similar sort of pasta dish. But in each case it worked and we each had a hot meal that we enjoyed.

As if the Alpacas were not enough, there was a games room, this particularly having a table tennis table. That proved to be a bonus because it allowed the lads to go and vent a little of their energy prior to us all calling it 'a quite unusual day'.

Our day 7 - and, back in early October 1944, my cousin and the 7th SLI were in the same areas that we have been today. They too were in the Groesbeek, Mook and Malden areas and for them, though the fighting intensity might not have been as great, they were still involved in various skirmishes. In fact, they were so close to the German border at this point that even with small arms fire, they could actually shoot into Germany - or so it is said. Those skirmishes continued on and off, to a greater or lesser intensity, until 10th November, when the 7th SLI moved to Schinnen in the extreme southern corner of Holland. Though he didn't know it, my cousin's time was now close at hand.