“These are ‘My boys’”

I consider myself very fortunate and blessed to have been given the opportunity to serve my nation in uniform for nearly three decades. One of my many wonderful overseas assignments was to a Dutch air base in the southeastern portion of that country. My family and I thoroughly enjoyed working and living there and relished in the experience.

We lived in the community of Uden – located along the historic path that a half a century before British and Allied forces took in their fight to liberate Holland from the Nazis. The proud and grateful Dutch have never forgotten. Living there we experienced nothing less than fine hospitality and friendship.

Often, my wife would take pleasant walks around our town or into the nearby countryside. We came to know the area pretty well. One day while walking through a narrow residential streets we came upon a small, very tidy cemetery. Set tightly between a few homes we were surprised that we had never stumbled upon it before. Then something seemed out of place… In front of the beautifully kept place of rest we noted a flag pole. And f lying over the more than 700 stone markers was the British Union Jack banner. We quickly understood that this was one of the dozens of war cemeteries which dot the region.

Then we saw him.

I wish I could remember his name. I seem to remember it as Peter so that’s what I’ll call him. He was an older man neatly dressed in slacks, a woolen vest - complete with tie, and out-of-place work gloves. He was busily scrapping at a stubborn weed poking up from a crack in the pavement. Seeing us he stood, and with a warm smile greeted us. Realizing that we were foreigners he asked in English, “Who are you looking for?” I explained that we were just strolling by and were just curious. Peter explained pointing, that he lived “there, across the street” and that he was the voluntary caretaker. He went on to explain that he had been doing this for many years and gave us a sort of tour of the solemn, but welcoming place. He explained that these were all heroes mostly English, some Canadians, and a few from Australia, New Zealand and even Poland. He knew them all - I mean exactly that. As we slowly walked among the aging stones Peter called most by name, often using a shortened version or a nickname.

“This is Stan, he comes from Dorset” …”Here is Mike, his parents came for many years on his birthday, but no more…”

I was struck with his knowledge, and even more stunning, the depth of his intimacy with these fallen men.

Peter invited us across the narrow street to his modest home where he introduced us to his equally sweet wife. There he pulled out a few thick photo albums stuffed full of letters and photos from countless family members, friends and sweethearts. They wrote Peter inquiring and corresponding about their lost loved ones. He explained that for many years now he has worked to keep the place neat and well maintained. Often visitors came to see where their loved ones rested and he gladly served as their guide helping them find the marker they sought.

Now as aging loved ones grew older less came to visit he explained. However, “these days” he said, now, they often write and ask him to place flowers at the gravesite on some birthday or anniversary, which he gladly did. Sometimes, he would even snap a photo and mail it back to them. Beaming with pride he showed my wife and I an overstuffed book of cards and notes of gratitude.

Greatly impressed, I asked him “Why do you do this?”

To which he replied, “Why? These men fought and died for me. They freed me. It’s the least I can do”

I silently noted how he had used the personal word ‘Me’ instead ‘Us’ and I told him how impressed I was of his patriotism and compassion.

Then he left me speechless saying “Of course. These are ‘My boys’ – I love them all”

I find that I really like the Dutch people.

Scott Hubbartt

CMSgt USAF (Ret)

 Schertz TX