Untitled Document

II ….AND WE WAVED THEM A FOND FAREWELL.

The War years were really uneventful. Off and on the Germans would shoot at a train which went by Waterhuizen within the sight of our
house (the railroad was about a half a mile away from us).
When that happened, we went and hid in the root cellar (basement) till the danger was over. Sometimes, there’d be shooting either during
day or night, whatever the reason may have been; and being between one and four years old, I would, of course, never wonder “why.” That’s just how my world was.
The night from April 7 till April 8, 1945, stands out in my memory as one that created a little havoc in Waterhuizen. There was a battle going on in the air and an allied
bomber, a Whitley from the base of Linton-Ouse in Yorkshire, England, was shot at and came down in flames in front of our house and crashed into the shipyard.
Four of the five men in the bomber died. A fifth landed safely with his parachute. His name was Arthur Ronald Mason. He was wounded and was transported to the
hospital in the city of Groningen, about 4 miles west of Waterhuizen. Arthur, obviously, was a lucky man, since this was the third time that he had been in a
plane that was shot down, and all three times he parachuted safely and escaped the Germans.
Somehow, during this air battle, we did not dive into the cellar because I remember watching the plane come down in flames.
Things did get somewhat rougher on Friday, April 13, 1945.
At noon.
I was four years old then. Four years and three months. That has nothing to do with the importance of that day; it’s just another fact. The Canadians,
the allies who liberated Holland, were approaching Waterhuizen from the village of Haren, about 3 miles away.
On the other side of the canal…..and the Germans figured that it might be a good idea to stop the Canadians from advancing, so they decided to
blow up the bridge. They told grand-uncle Tjeerd Veenstra (the bridge keeper) to stay away, which he wisely did, and they warned all of us to seek
cover and keep the windows open, because the air pressure the explosion would create might shatter the windows. No one argued with that, except
three of the more curious and obviously less cerebrally advanced by the names of Hendrik Georg Sr., Lammert Hartman ( he was not too smart; never
learned to read or tell time), and my most likely inebriated grand-uncle, uncle Jan Veenstra. They took cover outside near a ditch behind the road and watched.
As warned, at High Noon (Germans are always exact) the bridge blew. Loud and clear. No doubt about this one. Pieces went up high in the air and
came down all over the place. A big piece of metal even landed near a ditch. It smashed Hendrik Georg’s head, and he became the late Hendrik Georg.
Surely, the allies heard the big boom. They were advancing. You could hear their gunfire coming closer from not all that far away.

It was coming from the village of Haren and from the town Groningen.
It was noisy. But then, wars are supposed to be noisy. This went on for the rest of the afternoon; towards six in the evening the Canadians
of the 8th Reconnaissance Regiment (RECCE) arrived with their Daimler pantzer wagons. Problem was that the bridge was gone and there was this
canal to be crossed. Two Canadians took the rowboat belonging to uncle Tjeerd Veenstra, crossed the canal and hid in one of the farms on the other side,
so they could see what was going on in the surrounding fields and report back to their units. In a short time the liberators laid a pontoon bridge, crossed it and
opened fire on the Germans, thereby killing many of them and, sadly, also a few horses. These horses, on the other hand, served the people well for the weeks
after the liberation, because horsemeat ain’t bad. Especially when there isn’t much else to be had.
During the night there was still much firing going on, but towards morning it quieted down somewhat and we could get out of our cellar.
There were still some, by now fleeing, Germans in the neighborhood, and one of them stole my mother’s bicycle which didn’t sit too well with her.
She was going to give him a hard time about it; but my grandpa (the Bull, which was his nickname) stopped her from carrying the argument too far,
because he noticed that the Hun was in a panic and had a gun, which put mother at quite a disadvantage. The German soldier got the bike and took
off toward dem Heimatland (the fatherland).
All Germans were fleeing by now; there was no more command, discipline or order.
It was every German soldier for himself and a beautiful sight to behold.

It was on the next day, Saturday, April 14, 1945, that I saw the tanks come through Waterhuizen, early in the morning. It was a sunny day.
We all went out to greet the liberators and at one point they stopped the tanks and talked to us--the people in Waterhuizen spoke little English,
but even in Dutch they understood our gratitude.
It was, also, then that one of the soldiers noticed me and picked me up. I remember that
well and thought he was very nice. Before he put me down, he gave me a bar of chocolate and an orange; the first orange of my life and the first chocolate ever.
I’ve never forgotten the smell of a Hershey bar.

Mom

Mother, of course, never got her bike back, but a year later the owner of the shipyard, Jan van Diepen, gave her a new one.
We couldn’t afford to buy one ourselves.
Before the war, in 1939, however, someone took a picture of mom and her little daughter, my sister Loesje… and her bike,
which then later would become German property. It is only fitting that I show it here.
….. and finally, on Sunday, April 15, 1945, after 48 German soldiers had been taken prisoner on the farm of farmer Schrikkema (where some hid out),
Waterhuizen was liberated and the people could continue with what they were doing before they were invaded on June, 10, 1940.
The war officially ended for the Dutch on May 5, 1945.
A date still celebrated by them Dutch as a National Holiday.
And you thought it was just Cinco de Mayo, right???!!
Tanks