This is one essay in a six part series:
Postcard from Ypres, Bruges, and Brussels
Sleeping, Talking, and Walking Around
Postcard from Ypres, Bruges, and Brussels: October 14, 2000
Among Belgium’s many virtues, the saddest is that this is apparently a really swell place for a war – particularly if you’re from somewhere else. Since Caesar, warriors of various nationalities have repaired to these parts to duke it out in the name of empire, king, and country. Though the average American couldn’t tell you on a bet, it is in these same parts that Wellington roughed up the last French military genius (though the French have probably still not come to that realization). It is also through Belgium that the Germans twice marched in the last century, and it was for the purpose of investigating some small bit of the Great War that I set myself this morning.
I have read a great deal about the “war to end all wars” (which did nothing of the sort), and I’ve always been keen on walking some part of the trench line that stretched grimly, year after year, from the sea to Switzerland. Lacking the time or energy that would have required, I instead rented a car and drove most rapidly first north from Brussels to Ghent, and thereafter east to Ypres (now called Ieper) and the heart of “Flanders Fields.”
On the way, I was cheered on by the dulcet tones of Madonna, Whitney, and Cher – who are just as irritating to my ears over here (or over there depending on your point of view). In between I jumped from station to station, alternatively listening to French (which always sounds like they’re talking about sex), and Dutch (which always sounds like they’re talking about food), the two official languages of this country.
Ypres is an old town, or at least it was prior to the Great War. In October of 1914, some two months after the German Army stepped off in their great right hook through neutral Belgium, Ypres stood very much in the way of an advance to the channel ports. For the balance of the war, the British (and colonials) and the Germans faced off in Flanders Fields on a front that twisted back on itself in a confusion of trenches.
There were three major Ypres offensives, and another at Passchendaele, all of which managed to do nothing to advance the front in either direction any meaningful distance, and left behind a lunar landscape and hundreds of thousands dead. Looking at the pictures from these slaughters, it’s hard to imagine you’re looking at something on this planet so torn up is the countryside. Even stranger is the constant sensibility that everything you’re looking at used to be nothing but mud and death.
On this day, Flanders was clothed in a ground hugging fog and light drizzle. I first stopped at Tyne Cot, which is the largest of many British cemeteries. If you’ve not been to a military cemetery, it’s a sobering experience – particularly if it’s close by the scene of the action (unlike Arlington National Cemetery for example). I found myself staring at a gravestone marked for some young Tommie who was killed on October 3, 1917, a day I tend to remember fondly as my birthday.
Big pause.
As it happens, all of the men buried in Tyne Cot, from what I can tell, were killed in the first two weeks of October, more or less exactly 83 years ago to the day that I was standing there.
More big pause.
Still, it is now a lovely and peaceful place and it honors the war dead magnificently. If its intent is to also stir following generations to think about bigger issues, it succeeds at this equally as well.
The area around Ypres is thick with cemeteries and memorials. A few miles down the road is Sanctuary Wood in which original British trenches are still preserved. Today, the area around the trenches is grown up with trees so it’s difficult to get a real sense of what it was like. Still, the trenches were filled with puddles, there are many shell craters, and a couple of blown up trees lashed to metal poles give silent testimony to what went on. It’s captivating and depressing.
Hill 62 is home to the largest Canadian war memorial. It was here that the boys from the north swapped lives with Germans who were intent on capturing one of the few elevated positions in this part of Belgium. In keeping with the spirit of my day, it was quiet, shrouded in fog, and deserted, all of which afforded still more contemplation on my part.
I finished my tour of the Salient with a visit to the Hooge Crater Cemetery, another after effect of the Third Ypres, October 1917. Once again I was haunted by gravestones bearing my birth date. Once again I was struck by the simultaneous beauty and horror of what I was looking at, and what it must have looked like, sounded like, and smelled like 83 years ago.
Bruges
Back in my car and ready for other things, I hammered north to Bruges, which is described by some people as the “Venice of Belgium.” I’ll give you a moment to reflect on how that should be interpreted, other than the obvious implication that there are canals. Moment is up.
Bruges is actually lovely. The part that everyone goes to see is a warren of cobblestone streets and alleys, old buildings (many of which aren’t as old as they look due to the incessant predations of the folks to the east), squares of all sizes, and yes, canals and bridges going every which way. I happily occupied myself with wandering and photographing, finally stopping at a shop for a piece of quiche (real man that I am) and some especially foul-smelling cheese.
On my way back to my car, I got thoroughly lost and briefly played in my head the calls I would be making, first to Hertz to explain that I’d lost their car, and then to my wife, asking her to call the embassy to come and retrieve me. Fortunately, our hard working ambassador will be able to sleep well tonight, at least on my account, as I was able to find my car and return it and me back to Brussels airport after a spirited drive down one of Belgium’s splendid and splendidly marked motorways.
There is an end to this chapter and it is here in Brussels. I’m finally ensconced in the downtown Sheraton, keeping intact my recent string of American-badged hotels on foreign shores. Dinner tonight was at a very presentable establishment on Place St. Catherine, which is home to a many fine fish restaurants. I supped on mussels and a plate of grilled salmon, sole, lobster tail, and sand dabs that were delicious. I pigged out on mousse and felt fully justified in doing so given the miles I’d walked and the food I didn’t eat up until then.
. . . (continued)
