It was after this postprandial tutorial (Jacob had said almost nothing except for required noises of understanding and the odd question or two to show willing) that Mr van Riet suggested Jacob accompany him and the family dog (a bouncy, slightly drooling and ageing, not to mention smelly Sealyham) on their nightly walk. And it was while they were out that Mr van Riet gave Jacob Daan’s address, saying as he did so not to mention this to his wife. There were family problems between her and Daan at present, to do with his wife’s mother. Mrs van Riet was in an upset condition. Nothing for Jacob to worry about. You know how women can be—he chuckled—especially women of a certain age. Daan would be glad to help Jacob if help were needed, and, Mr van Riet knew, would like to meet him anyway.
All this left Jacob feeling in an awkward position and wishing even the more that he had not come.
James Sims:
We clambered aboard the aircraft on the order ‘Emplane’. The twin engines [of the Douglas Dakota C-47 ‘Skytrain’] burst into life with a shattering roar, the plane gave a shudder and rolled forward along the tarmac. The American pilots taxied in Vic formation. Our aircraft lurched over as it turned at the head of the runway and stopped. Staggered on either side of us were two other aircraft and behind us were three more.
The plane shook as the engine revolutions increased. We began to pick up speed and were soon thundering along the runway. The noise grew to a howling storm of sound as we bumped and bucketed along. We glued our faces to the small windows and waved to our comrades in the other aircraft. It seemed as though we would hurtle on until we smashed into the boundary fence but a subtle change in the motion of the aircraft told us we were airborne; Lieutenant Woods confirmed this by lifting his outstretched hands and smiling. It was approximately 11:30 a.m. and—a sobering thought—we would be in Holland before lunch was over …
We watched the friendly soil of England drop away as we rose ponderously heavenwards. The Dakota was a sluggish aircraft and completely unarmed. When our aerial armada reached the coast we fell in with our fighter escort, mostly RAF Hawkers, Tempests and Typhoons armed with cannons and rockets. We had been promised ‘maximum fighter support’, which meant a thousand aircraft and was very comforting.
The imposing airborne army swung out over the North Sea and we settled down for the journey. We sat eight-a-side down the ribbed fuselage on bench-type seats. We were a right British cocktail of mixed blood: English, Irish, Scots and Welsh; Geordies, Scouses, Cockneys, men like Brum from the Midlands, men from Cambridge, Kent and Sussex. There were three Brightonians in our platoon. Some of us had been shop assistants, others salesmen, farmers, and barrow boys; there was even a poacher.
Lieutenant Woods as Number One was seated next to the open doorway. I was Number Fifteen and the man behind me, the last man out, was Maurice Kalikoff [a sergeant and a Russian Jew—‘a first class soldier and one of the finest human beings I have ever met’] …
I tried to tell myself that this was what I had always wanted. It went with the red beret, wings and jump pay. We were flying at about four thousand feet [1220 metres] over masses of billowing cloud which reflected the sunshine and made me think I was already in heaven. It was one of those moments in life of sheer beauty. The Dakota droned on over the sea. Talking was impossible so we either dozed or read …
We were nearing the Dutch coast and were warned to brace ourselves as the aircraft dived down through the clouds to about two thousand feet [610 metres]. We were still over the North Sea when a German naval vessel opened fire on us. Fortunately it was a small boat and only had a machine gun. The American pilot took instant evasive action and we held on to one another, bracing our feet as we banked alarmingly. We watched fascinated as a stream of tracer bullets arched towards us, slowly at first but then finally whipping past the open doorway like angry hornets.
Now we were told that the Dutch coastline lay just ahead, and my stomach did another somersault. All that marked the coastline of flooded Holland [the Germans had flooded the coastal area to try and prevent Allied landings] was a long ridge of land, not unlike the spine of some extinct prehistoric animal. As we flew inland the water gradually gave way to ribbons of soil and then whole fields. [Sims, pp 52–5]
The change of trains at Utrecht was simple enough but the platforms and stairways were crowded. Again, they sat side by side, this time with Jacob next to the window the better to see the view. As they travelled east, the country became less flat, there were patches of wooded areas, not such a noticeable grid of canals.
‘Do you know a lot about the battle?’ Tessel asked.
‘Wouldn’t say a lot,’ Jacob said. ‘Read a couple of books on it, out of interest, you know, because of Grandad. And I’ve seen the film of course. Anthony Hopkins as a dashing officer. Pretty funny. Don’t expect that’s what it was really like.’
‘Films never are, I would think. How can they be?’
‘One of the books I read was a proper history. But the one I liked best is by an ordinary soldier who took part, not an officer, just a squaddy. The sort of man I suppose my grandfather must have been. It’s not brilliantly written, but I like it because he tells you the sort of detail that doesn’t get into books written by professional historians who are trying to cover the whole battle. He tells things you can only know if you were there. And being an ordinary guy, he sees everything differently from the way historians or officers do. And he’s not gung-ho, you know. But he’s proud to have been there and done that. So it makes a good story as well as being a history of the battle.’
‘I’ve never read anything about it,’ Tessel said. ‘I heard so much from my mother it was enough. Besides, all war is horrible, dreadful, I don’t like to hear about it. And that war, Hitler’s war, is still so much talked about here in the Netherlands, on and on, almost as if it only ended yesterday. I wish people would stop. So much pain, why do we go on remembering it so much? It would be better if we forgot. But people say, no, we must always remember so that nothing like it ever happens again. To which I ask, when has the human race ever forgotten about their wars, and how much has that prevented another being fought?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t think I agree. You know Anne Frank’s Diary?’
‘Everyone must by now, surely?’
‘And you know how she wanted to be a famous writer? Well, she started rewriting her diary not long before she was captured because she heard a broadcast by one of the Dutch ministers. He said he wanted everyone to save letters and diaries and things like that, things they had written during the occupation, and after the war they would collect these together and put them into a national library so that in future people would be able to read what it was actually like for ordinary people during the war, and not just have to rely on books by professional historians.’
‘It was done. It’s our State Institute for War Documentation in Amsterdam.’
‘Don’t you think that was a great idea? Don’t you think it’s good to know how things were and what people were like in the past? I mean, know about it from what the actual people wrote at the time?’
‘I suppose it is, yes. I just dislike going on and on about the days of the war as if that were all there was of the past.’
‘Well, yes. But it’s always boring if people go on and on about anything.’ He had Mr van Riet in mind.
Tessel laughed. ‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘Sometimes I wish there were some letters of Grandad’s, or a diary maybe. It’s not that I want to know about the battle, as a battle, but I would like to know what it was like for him, what he did, and what happened to him. Everything as he saw it. I’d really like that. He’d be more alive for me then. I mean, alive in the way Anne Frank is alive for me. Because when you can read what someone wrote, the way she did, you somehow feel you’re living with them. Inside their head, if you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I know. Of course, Geertrui can tell you quite a lot, but that’s not what you mean and anyway is only how she remembers
it. And memory—. Well, memory is not to be trusted, in my experience. Memory tells what happened the way memory wants it to have been. This is my opinion anyway.’
‘That’s what my father says. He always accuses my grandmother of inventing my grandfather. He says the man she talks about isn’t the one who existed, but the man she wishes he had been.’
‘And what does Sarah say to that?’
Jacob laughed. ‘She hits him with the frying pan.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry. Metaphorically … Figure of speech?’
‘Ach, yes,’ laughing, ‘I see! Yes, I imagine she does. Oh, but now you must look, because we are passing the fields where the men landed.’
A broad flat area of ground, blond after harvest, trees along its far-off edges, and some, silver birches, here by the railway. Almost exactly as he remembered in photographs taken from the air during the landings and from the ground soon afterwards. For a weird moment what he’d read came together with what he was seeing and he felt he was there, not now but then, not nineteen ninety-five but nineteen forty-four. With his grandfather, a man then only a few years older than he, now. Daan’s age in fact. He looked up at the sunny cloud-rising sky, and thought: Jumping together into the up there not knowing what danger lay waiting in the down here.
James Sims:
An American crewman came back and told us we were going down to seven hundred feet [214 metres] for the runin. We put on our close-fitting helmets and adjusted our rubber chin guards. We hooked up and then heaved the kitbags containing six mortar bombs, pick, shovel, rifle and small pack on to our legs, securing them with special web straps. As each of us had at least a hundred pounds [46 kgs] of equipment we would be sure of a rapid descent and little oscillation, and would be a difficult target for enemy machine gunners. We stood upright and closed up behind one another in single file. Our right hand held the kitbag grip and our left was on the shoulder of the man in front. Someone cracked, ‘Pass right down the car, please!’ Another joker plucked at my parachute and said, ‘Blimey, cowboy, this isn’t a chute, it’s an old army blanket.’
It was essential that we followed the man in front out quickly as any hesitation could mean we would be hopelessly scattered on the DZ. Lieutenant Woods stood framed in the doorway, the slipstream plucking impatiently at the scrim netting on his helmet. The red light glowed steadily and then the green light winked on. ‘Go!’ The lieutenant vanished. We shuffled along the heaving deck of the Dakota … three … four … five … an American crewman had set up a cine camera and was filming our exit … six … seven … eight … a chap from Maidstone half turned and shouted something with a grin but it was lost in the roar of the engines … nine … ten … eleven … through the doorway I could see a huge Hamilcar glider on tow right alongside us; one wing of it was on fire but the glider pilot gave the thumbs-up sign … twelve … thirteen … fourteen … the man in front of me hunched over slightly as he went out. Almost before his helmet disappeared I jumped but the slipstream caught me and whirled me around, winding up my rigging lines. I was forced to let go of my kitbag grip in an effort to try and stop the winding up process, for if it reached the canopy I was finished. The roar of the aircraft engines had been cut off and for the first time since leaving England I could distinguish other sounds. All around me parachutists were disgorging from Dakotas and I found myself in the middle of a blizzard of silk. The parachutes were all the colours of the rainbow; and it was an unforgettable sight. I was conscious of taking part in one of the greatest airborne descents in the history of warfare but this exhilaration was tempered by the trouble I was in. Luckily the twisting rigging lines had reversed their motion and I spun beneath them as they unwound. I did not feel much like an eagle as I fell—the experience was more like being hanged. Although my canopy was now fully developed I faced another problem. My right leg hung straight down with the kitbag on it and I was quite unable to reach the grip to pull it up again.
Down below was a scene of orderly confusion as myriads of ant-like figures scurried over the DZ towards the different coloured flares marking battalion rendezvous areas. The sounds of shouts and shots drifted up, punctuated by bursts of machine-gun fire. The Americans had dropped us right on target and I had no difficulty locating the yellow flare, which showed where the 2nd Battalion was forming up. Everywhere order was developing out of seeming chaos as the airborne soldiers quickly organised themselves. The ground, which a moment before had seemed so far beneath me, came spinning up at an alarming rate. I was not looking forward to the landing, as my leg still dangled helplessly below me, weighted down with the kitbag. We had been told that to land in this way would almost certainly result in a broken leg, and any second I was going to find out.
Wham! I hit the deck with a terrific jolt, but all in one piece, and immediately struggled out of my parachute harness, slicing through the cords that held my kitbag to pull out my rifle. That was the first priority. In the distance time-bombs exploded, sending up great fountains of earth. They had been dropped twenty-four hours previously in an effort to persuade the Germans that this was just another bombing raid. Some hopes! [Sims pp 55–7]
Moments later they arrived at Oosterbeek, the station no more than a suburban halt in the bottom of a deep cutting, the platform newish looking, no buildings, only a shelter. A few people got off with them, some carrying flowers, but not the crowd Jacob had expected. Weren’t there to be many at the ceremony? Last year the BBC news had shown a thick mass of people crammed in to the cemetery, but that had been for the fiftieth anniversary.
They climbed the steps to the road. Here more people were on the move, across the bridge over the railway and right, in to a road marked by a discreet signpost, ‘Arnhem Oosterbeek War Cemetery’. Well-heeled detached houses, very like an English middle-class private estate: ample well-treed gardens, some with tall clipped hedges, some with fences, the bourgeois battlements of privacy, neatly cut grass verges by the road, trees lining the side where the railway ran in its cutting. The same railway along which the paratroopers had tried to make their way into Arnhem, only to be stopped by the Germans and surrounded in the village. But these houses would not have been built then; it would have been wooded country with the village starting on the other side of the tracks.
After two or three hundred metres the road turned sharp left. Up ahead, cars and coaches were parked among trees that formed a forecourt. Two square brick towers with arched doors in each side stood at the entrance to the cemetery. To his left, over a chain-link fence that struck him as somehow inappropriate, and a border of low bushes on the other side, Jacob could see the expanse of the cemetery, the regimented lines of regulation-shaped white gravestones almost obscured by a packed crowd of spectators. Only when he and Tessel were inside and had found themselves a place on the fringe could he also see that the centre of the graveyard, a wide grass cross formed by the layout of the graves, was completely filled with old people seated in rows and facing a canopied platform at the centre of the cross, the men mostly in blue blazers and many in red or blue berets. For a moment he felt it was as if they had just got up out of the graves to attend a concert. And, he thought, in a peculiar sense they had, for these must be the survivors, their wives and, no doubt, the wives of some of those who had not survived.
He was astonished at the thousands of people (six, ten?) who were gathered in this parade ground of the dead. 1,757 graves, he learned, 253 of them belonging to unknown soldiers whose remains could not be identified. And these still being added to as more remains were found in forgotten burial plots intended during the battle as temporary graves.
Tessel took his arm and edged them down the line, squeezing apologetically past people who blocked her view.
‘We should get as close as we can to your grandfather’s grave,’ she muttered. And then she stopped and pointed. ‘There, you see, in the third row, with the red rose bush almost as high as the gravestone.’
‘Yes, yes. I see.’
�
�Your grandmother and Geertrui planted the rose the last time they were here together. Daan comes to prune it and feed it twice each year.’
The sight put a silence on him. He had seen photographs. (This is your grandfather as a little boy. You used to stand just like that when you were his age. This is your grandfather as a young man with his motorbike. He was a terror then. This is your grandfather just before we got married. He was so handsome. Here we are on our last holiday together at Weston. This is your grandfather in his uniform.) And he had liked that. Used to pore over them, wishing he had known the man whose name he bore and who he was supposed to resemble in so many ways. But this—standing here near his grandfather’s grave bearing the bones of a young man not much older than himself—this was not the same. Photographs were no more than a trace of shadow, not the thing itself, not the person.
There in front of him, two body-lengths away and his own height below, was a reality. The body. Or what was left of it by now. The body but not the man. In some way he had never faced before, never thought of before, he knew at once that what was left of the man, what was essential of him, was not under the ground with the physical remains. What there was of his grandfather was standing right here in his grandson’s town boots peering at the dead man’s grave.
The thought was unnerving, as if a ghost had materialised inside him. He took a deep breath and looked away, up into the sky. By now the sun was fully out, in a dome of cloudless blue arching above the carpet of seated survivors fringed with a border of people standing five or six deep, from babes in arms to old men with walking-sticks. Nearby, a squad of young paratroopers in their red berets and camouflage jackets, a pair of middle-aged women in bright Sunday best, a troop of boys in their Nikes, a bevy of girls in white T-shirts and jeans, three men in grey suits, their jackets over their arms and their sleeves rolled up. All quiet. Not entirely silent. Not hushed as in church, not subdued as at a funeral, not reverential or passive, not even still, for there was movement here and there, comings and goings, and a constant trickle of new arrivals joining the throng. But no bustling officials, no fussing, no hint of pomp and circumstance. They were waiting, and yet they were not waiting. Rather as if what they were waiting for was already with them. There and not there, he thought. Being and not being. Absent presence.
Postcards from No Man's Land (The Dance Sequence) Page 17