Day 5 - WW1 Battlefields - Bruges

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Day 5
8 AM. I was loitering out on the sidewalk in the spitting rain. Nearby, a small group of people huddled together beneath a shallow overhang in front of the hostel entrance. It was cold. The morning’s coffee was starting to wear off. After about fifteen minutes of soaking up the atmosphere it finally arrived. A red and yellow mini-bus plastered with the label ‘Quasimodo Tours’ on the side, pulled up alongside the anxious pedestrian battalion. The door opened and out stepped a tall, lanky character. Quasimodo’s taller, less-humped younger brother, I presumed. Immediately, he went to work. He was anxious to get started. Reading from a list of names scrawled on his clipboard he bellowed…Jimmy, Joe, Marlene, Darlene, Wei Chung, Won Do, Won Ton and on and on and on and then…nothing. My name was not listed. I asked him to re-check but I knew it wasn’t going to be there. Of course it wasn’t there. I would have had to read the damn brochure in order to get it added in the first place.

Like a poor forsaken boy, I turned to Quasimodo…”But…but…but, I wanna come too.” The big Belgian looked down to me and belched ‘all interested persons must reserve a spot with his office prior to boarding’. I returned “But kind sir…there was nothing on the brochure advising that one must follow this process prior to taking part in the tour.” Well, I would quickly learn that I was not exactly correct in my assessment. Pointing to the brochure in my hand, he asked me to look at the masthead above the cool pictures of war, death and destruction. Ohhh, it was those words listed in big, black bold letters. Retreat. Retreat!! I guess I got caught up in the images of myself hurdling forward in old trenches and walking across WWI minefields. Luckily, somebody who 'did' sign up for the tour hadn’t shown up at one of the earlier pick-up. Thankfully, he squeezed me on. Ha! Raise a glass to the lackadaisical drunkard who was still droning away the morning in sleepy-town. Alcohol, the cause of and solution to all of life’s problems! Ha Ha! He pointed to the bus and we were on our way.

Our tour guide was a local gent named Lode Notredame. Lode was a native Belgian with a keen knowledge of world war one history and a pure hatred of Germany and all Germans. It has only been eighty years since his country was invaded for the first time and only fifty-seven since the crusading Krauts high-stepped across his rolling fields for their encore. Being local, Lode probably spent his youth watching foreigners flock to his hometown just to get a chance to trudge across his pock-marked farm fields. I gather that he opined that he could make some cash showing tourists where the most historically significant spots were. Also, he could put his local knowledge to use by showing those foreigners the exact spots where their ancestors fought and died. What a fascinating concept? To have a job where you get paid helping inquisitive minds locate the final resting spots of their great-grand parents and grand parents. However, I think that the most self-gratifying aspect of Lode’s job was to get an opportunity to sow a little well-deserved, anti-German propaganda into the minds of tourists.

The first stop on our tour was at a memorial commemorating the first use of gas by the German army in the war. To review the event, the year was 1915 and a menagerie of divisions from several countries was stationed in a very strategic section of the front that protected the city of Ypres. Following the rapid movement of troops experienced during the onset of hostilities, the war had come to a stalemate. The troops on both sides had begun to dig themselves in. This situation resulted in neither side able to make much progress against the other. Whenever one side emerged from their trenches en masse to attack, the other would simply set up their machine guns and cut the opposing soldiers down. After a seemingly endless number of casualties and deaths, each side began to realize that this war would be one of attrition. To win, one side would need to completely destroy the other. It would take more than men, more than guts and courage. It needed something different.

On the morning of April 22nd 1915, the allied regiments noticed a strange orange cloud descending upon them. Confused and scared, the young boys, unaware of the evil weapon that was set upon them, breathed in the toxic fumes. Instantly, the sounds of choking, frothing scarred lungs, gasps for air, the clamour of death were heard across the salient. On that frightful day, boys died. Many young boys died. However, where death comes, bravery is shown. This morning marked the first extraordinary achievement that was attributed to the Canadian Expeditionary Force on the Western Front. Our boys stood their ground. Unlike their frightened and panicked neighbours, the Canadian raced forth and braved the cloud of orange death. They filled the gap in the hole left by English, French and Algerians. Fighting off the advancing German army all the way, the Canadian army saved Ypres and potentially the allied progress of the war due to their bravery and steadfastness. I took a couple of pictures of the splendid memorial before we proceeded onto the next stop in our journey.

As we travelled along the country roads, Lode recited a basic history of the surroundings and aimed our time machine towards the next destination; Tyne Cot Cemetery. Tyne Cot is the largest Commonwealth war cemetery in Europe. It was built in the heart of the Passchendale battlefield. The names of over 100,000 men deemed ‘missing in action’ are carved into the memorial walls. The cemetery was constructed in a large semi-circle format. In the area between the outer walls, the remains of 12,000 allied soldiers are buried in approximately twenty rows that spiral from the centre. It was walking upon such grounds that I really started to understand the vast extent of the sacrifice. As I walked up and down the rows of white stone marble markers I realized that the green grass and the vivid flowers were being fed by the remains of thousands of heroic youth. One tends to rethink each step when they traverse upon such revered land. From the centre of the grounds I gazed back onto line upon line of perfectly aligned memorials. Each stone alertly stared back to a marble and iron cross. I reached over, felt the edge of one of the monuments, silence…and then mixed in back amongst the boys.

As I walked among the dead, I made a point to read aloud the names listed on the stones. Jimmy McMillan, 18 John Drysdale, 24. William Gray, 19. This is where the word 'remember' in Remembrance Day should be put to use. On my way back to the bus I noticed another interesting feature of the cemetery. Nestled amongst the stones are the battered remnants of machine gun nests. It is quite chilling when you think that some of these boys may have actually been killed by guns fired from within the very machine gun nests which consecrate their eternal resting places. My tour continued for another five or ten minutes. I recited a few more names, read aloud the heart-felt epitaphs engraved by loved ones and touched the stones. It was the least I could do to remember these adolescent warriors, these heroic young boys.

Lode marshalled the troops and whisked us away to our next destination. As we drove along some of the dirt farm roads he pointed out some odd piles of refuse dotting the roadsides. The piles were made up of corroded artillery shell casings. Lode explained, even though eighty years have passed since the war ended locals are still killed or injured while tilling their fields. Apparently, the injuries occur when their farm machinery strikes unexploded WW1 shells that remain buried beneath the ground. It blows my mind….literally. All that time has passed and thousands of active shells are still being unearthed. We travelled a short distance before the bus came to a stop at the edge of a forest. We arrived at Polygon Wood.

You wouldn’t believe it, however after all the years the forest still bears the scars inflicted upon it during the big show. However, now protected from the towering forest canopy overhead, lines of German trenches remain in almost the same condition as when they were first constructed. Following the troops, I walked atop the remains of the trench line. Inquisitively, I jumped down to meander my way through the zig-zagging German lines. At one point, I reached down and grabbed a handful of dirt. Immediately, I ported myself 'back in time' to share the experience of Flanders, 1916.

Clad in dirty flea-infested dungarees, I waded through the mud…oblivious to the rats scurrying between my legs. I adjusted the tin cap atop my head. After the last burst, I was tossed into the mud wall from the force of the explosion. That tin cap protected my skull from flack. Smoke and the stench of death encapsulated me.
A flare burst overhead.

Dive!

Dive!

Up to my ears in mud, I peeked over the parapet.

Pat! Pat! Pat! Pat!

Down again.

Thump…..thump.

Screams of agony. Looks like some sorry lad just got it.

Then

BOOOM!!!!

Clumps of dirt, tree, rock and human remains cover me in the aftermath of a wizzbang that just missed.

Nah. Could I do it? To eat, to sleep and spend four long years ‘living’ in a glorified ditch? Impossible. Heck, looking back I skipped along the overgrown parapet in a T-shirt and shorts. However, I am not much different in age than my great-grandfather. He heeded the call, quit his job, left his newly married wife and joined the lads. Would I?

In a heartbeat.

I find that for one to fully understand and contemplate the hellish experience that our forefathers endured, they must try to walk in their shoes. Feel the dirt. Smell it. Peak your head over the parapet. Take the tour when you are hungry. Go in late November, when the rain is cold and your clothes have not been washed in two weeks. Imagine that the trees you are surrounded by have been blown to smithereens. I am not sure we can ever fully understand the experience. I don’t think we can ever recreate the smell, the atmosphere, the fear. Those, who like myself, contemplate what those young boys experienced, then try to look beyond our own comfortable existence may have a chance at understanding. However, most tourists are relatively naïve, protected from the reality of our past, cushioned from the fact that humans could have been so destructive and inhumane. To them, it was a forest with some ditches. To others, it was the only thing that protected them from certain death.

Upon exiting the forest we encountered another interesting site. A pile of used artillery shell casings littered the forest floor. They were the used way back in the war when thousands upon thousands of artillery shell were lobbed onto Allied trenches. The size of the pile has since diminished, reduced after years upon years of souvenir seekers. Sure, I would take one if I could, but I really don’t think it would be easy to explain to Canadian customs officials why there was an artillery shell in my carry-on.

The next stop on our tour was at a remarkably preserved underground bunker. Lode told us that it is probably the only undisturbed bunker in its’ original condition left in Europe. There are others in France and Europe but they have been rebuilt and made safe for tourists. Screw safety, I would rather see them in their original condition than having been renovated with its walls lined with reinforced coats of iron bars and concrete. As we descended into the bunker I noticed why there ware not many other bunkers open for public perusal. During a recent rain storm, the ceiling of one part of the underground haven collapsed leaving tons of mud and concrete on the bunker floor. Standing within the bunker you could look up at the sky from the gaping hole in the ceiling. Other than that, the bunker was in pretty good shape. The wooden bunks for sleeping remain and the tunnels that lead to other rooms located deeper in the system were also in good shape. As I walked throughout its interior I noticed how dark and dirty it was. The air smelt very dank and it was so cramped that you could not easily move around. Imagine if there was a war going on outside. The bunker would serve as Valhalla for a young boy who had the option of staying outside where was raining cats, dogs and machine gun bullets or in a cold dank, safe hole in the ground. The young soldier would have danced the jig if he were given the opportunity to cuddle up with a hundred or so of his good friends in that underground bunker.

Our roving interactive history tour took us to the infamous Hill 60. Upon this hill, thousands died either fighting for or defending a clump of dirt. The ‘60’ refers to the meters above sea level that the hill stood at the onset of hostilities. However, by the end of the war, four year of shelling and mining reduced it to about Hill 45 or 50. The landscape most resembled a moonscape covered in grass. It was rather interesting. A series of holes measuring up to 20 feet deep were scattered about. However, as 80-odd years have passed since the first mines were set off, a number of large trees have grown atop and within the hill. We also learned that there was a reason why this section of the front was not reclaimed and reused for farming purposes following the war. Supposedly, an unknown number of rather large unexploded mines remain buried deep beneath the surface. Therefore, as one walks over the grassy meadow they must climb up and over shell holes and craters with the knowledge that potentially live mines remain dormant under your feet. That was pretty cool.

Craters are not the only visible scar left from the war. Located at the top of the hill, one can still find the remains of machine gun nests. I found those nests very intriguing. If you take a close look at the structures you can see the evidence of how the war proceeded and the different strategies of the participants. In each machine gun nest, two noticeably different layers of concrete were used within their construction. The Germans were the first side to take and hold Hill 60. When the Axis powers made the initial advance into France and Belgium in 1914, their quick victories allowed them to control of vast sections of land. As the events of the war proceeded, they changed their strategy from offensive to defensive. This was used to protect their hard-earned gains. Therefore, to protect their gains the Germans used thick, strong concrete within the construction of the machine gun nests.

Germany often transported their ‘quality’ material all the way from home, travelling hundreds of kilometres to the front. The Brits, on the other hand, had a very different outlook on war. They were confident that the next battle would be the one where they defeated the Krauts. To a Brit, considering a defensive strategy was paramount to admitting defeat. Therefore, they chose to not exert any serious efforts into strengthening their trenches or structures. The Tommy thought, ‘why would he spend time, effort and resources on building a defensive structure when they were only going to defeat the Germans and win back the land in the next battle’. Therefore, instead of using their logistics system to transport rock and concrete, the Brits focused on moving vast quantities of artillery shells and ammunition. The result of this strategy was seen in the machine gun nest. Theirs was constructed with almost everything not typically found in concrete. There were pebbles, odd sized rocks, chunks of metal and virtually anything else that they could get their hands on. Good Tommy know-how!

The next stop was the site of a field hospital. The hospital was the same one manned by Canadian war poet and hero John McRae. McRae was the Great War soldier who penned the glorious poem “In Flander’s Field”. He wrote it while stationed as a doctor at the hospital. Quite different that the field hospitals in the TV show MASH, this military hospital was merely a slab of concrete covering a hole in a hillside. There were no lights, no evidence of a structure to keep out the cold nor anything to provide quiet solace for the suffering, wounded, dying soldiers. I cannot picture surgery going on in this hole in the ground however it went on, in the open cold air on a daily basis. After endless days and weeks spent prying out burning shrapnel from torn tissue it is understandable that a man would be inspired to seek refuge, contemplate the futility and necessity of war and then scribe the world's most memorable war poem.

The last stop on the tour before we headed back to Bruges was the town of Ypres and its' Menin Gate. Over time, Ypres has been rebuilt. However, it was pretty much obliterated during the war. All visitors to Ypres must pass through Menin Gate to enter the city. Today the gate serves as a memorial to allied soldiers who are 'missing in action'. Over 50, 000 names are etched its many walls. I was able to locate the names of a few soldiers who belonged to the same battalion as my grandfather, the 116th Canadian Battalion. Interesting, yet fully understandable, there are no references to the dead of the Axis powers. While millions of soldiers were killed on both sides of the battlefields there are no memorials to the defeated, killed or missing German invaders. This is a true case of the victors earning the right to pen the history of the war and control who and how its’ dead are remembered.

After visiting the Menin Gate, our tour headed back to Bruges. While on board, I met a couple of fellow Canadians who were also interested in learning about and visiting the WWI battlefields. Their names were Marie Josee Lafond of Ottawa and Sabrina Heinekey of Vancouver. Both worked as tour guides at the Canadian Vimy Memorial in Arras, France. They were granted a few days off from their jobs as official guides to the trenches and tunnels of Vimy Ridge. I was impressed that these ladies spent their holiday from war, visiting a war memorial. Talk about women after my own heart. Both were students at the University of Ottawa and got their job as Vimy tour guides by applying through the Canadian government. After our tour, Sabrina had to go back to work. She promised to give me an extra special tour of the tunnel system if I ever made my way to see the Vimy site. With an offer like that how can I refuse? After Sabrina left, I found myself in the company of Marie Josee. She is smart, pretty and cool to hang around with. At the end of the tour I took her the see that Bruges Basilica I raved about. She really did not get to see much of the city so I showed her a few of the things that I ran into the previous day. As expected, she was impressed.

To my luck the evening was also spent in the company of Marie. We had dinner together in the restaurant within our hostel and bantered about insignificant things over Belgian beers for a few hours. It is unfortunate that she had to take off in the morning. I would have liked to spend a little more time with her. Maybe I will run into her sometime in the future but in the meantime there is always Amsterdam.

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