The British Soldiers Cradled in Dutch Woods

My visit to a British World War II cemetery in Holland.

If you stand and listen long enough, you begin to hear whispers in the wind.

Perfectly peaceful, there’s something far too orderly about a war cemetery cradling the lifeless remains of those who unwittingly made the ultimate sacrifice.

One wishes places like this didn’t exist and never existed.  It seems so utterly bewildering that they must exist at all.  But so long as some men foolishly follow the orders of other men and believe the lies they’re told about still other men, oblivious to imminent peril, there will always be places on every continent, in every country like the Mierlo War Cemetery in Holland.

Drive but a few kilometers east of Geldrop, down a lonely roadway engulfed by a canopy of oak trees, and you’re liable to miss it, there on the left side, except for the red sign marking a green meadow cluttered with rectangular white stones.  Maintained with great dignity by the Dutch Government at the behest of Great Britain, this is the final resting place of British soldiers who were part of the wave of what would eventually become the liberation of Europe during World War II, thus putting an end to human history’s most deadly conflict.

Visiting cemeteries is important, I’m convinced.  Not because they teach us much about death, but rather for what they instill upon the living — which is an essential reminder that life is a precious gift always worth embracing.

Yet for all those who passed on before us, the unfortunate fate of those who fell far too short of their prime and potential, in the midst of violent conflicts that brought no treasure nor gain to anyone but rather only destruction and loss to everyone, and then lingering pain for survivors — this small parcel of sacred land represents but at a small fraction of the many millions who suffered the same fate, now lying in virtual anonymity.

The town of Geldrop is located on the outskirts of Eindhoven (12 km away), a much larger commercial and rail center in southeastern Holland.  Back during the war, railroad lines were vital to supplying forces along the front of what the Germans called “Fortress Europe.”  So cities like Eindhoven became critical milestones to victory, whether advancing or in retreat.

You wouldn’t know it from the tranquility of today, but this is a region ravaged by war.  Just to the south, the ravishes of the Battle of the Bulge took place, Nazi Germany’s last desperate military offensive gasp, one final exhale foreshadowing the looming end that would come a season later.  Off to the east, the German border, and just beyond it the Reich’s industrial heart, including the major cities of the Rhein-Ruhr including Dortmund, Essen, Dusseldorf, and Cologne, which were ceaselessly bombed by the Americans by day and the British by night.

To hasten the retreat and surrender of German defenses, British forces led by Bernard Montgomery implemented a bold military action plan called “Operation Market Garden.”  The Allies’ goal was to parachute thousands of troops behind enemy lines near Dutch cities including Eindhoven, Nijmegen, and Arnhem, who would then disrupt German defenses, work with the local resistance, and ultimately try to save vital river crossings and other key logistical targets from the destruction that would be critical to the Allied advance into Germany and on towards Berlin.

Indeed, thousands of soldiers — mostly British, but American and Canadian also — landed behind the Axis lines.  They even managed to take control of several towns, including Eindhoven.  But German resistance proved way too formidable and the less experienced and hopelessly under-supplied Allied forces were overwhelmed.  The operation was a disaster.

Some British troops managed to escape.  Others were captured and later transported to prisoner of war camps.  The even less fortunate ended up here — in Geldrop-Mierlo, where I now stand in honor and remembrance of them, some 71 years later so seemingly far removed from those earlier times.

During my research, I discovered that this cemetery holds 665 bodies, virtually all of them British soldiers who fought and died during the fall of 1944.  Most of the dead were in their early 20s.  A few were even in their late teens.

Today, I wonder how many of their descendants — grandsons and granddaughters, nieces and nephews, and friends and fellow countrymen — know of them and are aware they rest here.  Who were these 665 men?  Might any of us know what lives they might have led had fate been different?  Who knows what wonders they might have accomplished had it not been for the war.

Sure, we all know war cemeteries exist.  Somewhere out there and over there.  Most of us never go to them and hardly care about those who rest.

Now, standing here in solitude, but not alone, beneath the falling leaves of autumn, there is only stillness — eternal tranquility interrupted by the occasional passerby who likely gives little thought to this place tucked in the woods which merits our remembrance.

I imagine those days back then were cool and crisp, just like on this day when I have come here to pay personal homage.  It seems the road leading away from Geldrop through Mierlo hasn’t changed much either.  These trees dropping their leaves this time of year are probably much the same now as they were then.

And the whisper of the winds continues to speak if we will only listen.