Memorial Day

Memorial Day: the beginning of summer, barbecues, long weekend, the swimming pool finally open...


Here in Belgium, Saturday was the commemoration of the end of WWII. As every year, we were invited to the ceremonies at the American Cemetery at Henri-Chapelle, about 10 miles from our house. This is only one of the many cemeteries for Americans who died in the Allies' drive through northern Europe into Germany and in the Battle of the Bulge. There are bigger cemeteries at Liege and Bastogne, but this one is big enough—7992 Americans are buried here. 7992 sons and brothers, fathers and fiancés, comrades and friends. 7992 families not started, 7992 lives of hopes and dreams lost so that the people of Belgium could have their hopes and dreams. Here, in the Ardennes, where the battle raged, where the occupation crushed so many lives, people don't forget. Here, where people still remember seeing the GIs liberate their town or village, they don't forget. There are those still living who remember bringing the bodies to this hallowed ground. They looked at the faces of the fallen, those who had died to liberate them. They don't forget. Here, Memorial day doesn't mark the beginning of summer. It marks the end of hell.

ELEVEN

Eleven. In 1918, the eleventh day of the eleventh month, at 11 am, was the end of what my grandfather called "the war to end all wars". In Belgium and France and England today, in cities and villages and hamlets, the citizens will gather at their local war memorials to remember. They'll go and lay their wreaths and they'll remember uncles, brothers, cousins, neighbors, strangers.

Nowhere are these ceremonies more poignant than here in Belgium. In this tiny country, the size of the US state of Maryland, are found the sites of three of the bloodiest battles in the last couple of centuries. Waterloo. Ypres.

Bastogne.

Waterloo, where Wellington ended the reign of Napoleon.

Ypres, where nearly half a million died in Flanders fields.

Bastogne. The name rolls like thunder down the decades. More than 100,000 died there in the Ardennes winter.

They're all here, within an hour or so of my house. But we don't have to go that far to be reminded. In our village, as in every village, there is a memorial to those who died in what's called here quatorze-dix-huit (14-18). Not "the war to end all wars". Here they know better--the next one is called quarante-quarante-cinq (40-45).

Some of our neighbors are of an age to remember that one, but that's a story for another time. Today, it's quatorze-dix-huit that we remember. The war of 14-18 ended officially with the treaty of Versailles in June of 1919, but the fighting ended with a cease-fire which came into effect on the 11th of November at 11 am--the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. at 10:59 there was war. At 11:00 there was none. I often think of the soldiers who died after the cease-fire was signed but before 11 am on 11 November. That would be my luck.