Remembering the fallen in Flanders Fields

The Belgian towns of Ypres and Passchendaele and the fields that surround them were the scenes of the bloodiest battles of World War I and are at the heart of Western Front tourism.

Tyne Cot cemetery, near Ypres

“I’m all right, Mother. Cheerio.”

Of all the inscriptions on the thousands of headstones of British, Commonwealth and Irish soldiers in West Flanders, none perhaps is more poignant than those last words written by Lieutenant Harold Rowland Hill in a letter home from the front.

By the time it reached Mrs Margaret Hill in Sydney, she had already been informed that her son was dead. He was 22.

Lt Hill, of the 25th Battalion Australian Infantry, was mortally wounded by an exploding German shell in the town of Zonnebeke on October 4, 1917, during the Third Battle of Ypres, also known as the Battle of Passchendaele.

He drew his last breath as stretcher-bearers carried him to a first-aid post.

Little black donkey Tommeke stands sentry-like in the doorway of his stable beside Polygon Wood cemetery

Every ANZAC Day (April 25), as the sun rises over Buttes New British Cemetery, where Lt Hill is buried, a little black donkey named Tommeke is being hand-fed carrots in his nearby paddock to stop him braying while the Last Post is sounded.

Experience of the last few years has taught the organisers of the dawn service commemorating Australians and New Zealanders who gave their lives for their countries that Tommeke isn’t a big fan of bugles and has a powerful pair of lungs.

Buttes, which is close to Zonnebeke and Ypres, contains the graves of 2,108 Commonwealth servicemen; 1,677 are unidentified, and their headstones, like so many throughout Belgium and France, bear the words: “Known unto God.”

Tommeke’s paddock and stable are directly across the road, next to the smaller Polygon Wood cemetery where 107 soldiers, just over half of them from New Zealand, lie at rest, as does one German teenager.

Standing on its own as if ostracised, but actually marking the spot where he died, is the headstone of Corporal Hans Bogner, a 19-year-old machine-gunner from Bavaria who was killed on September 28, 1918, as he covered his comrades’ retreat.

Like Lt Hill and all the other conscripts, volunteers, reservists and regulars from both sides of the conflict whose lives were ended by bullets, bombs, bayonets or gas, or by drowning in water-filled shell craters, Cpl Bogner was some mother’s son.

Tyne Cot cemetery contains nearly 12,000 war graves

Buttes and Polygon Wood are among the more than 200 World War I military cemeteries in West Flanders that are cared for by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission and receive hundreds of thousands of visitors every year.

Tyne Cot, also close to Ypres, is the biggest, with 11,968 graves, of which 8,373 are unidentified. A memorial that forms the site’s rear boundary wall contains the names of nearly 35,000 men whose remains were never recovered.

It was in Tyne Cot, after pedalling the 3km from the Passchendaele Museum in Zonnebeke, that I took a photo of a headstone bearing the words: “A soldier of the Great War. Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Known unto God.”

At a nearby grave, three generations of a Canadian family stood, heads bowed in silent prayer.

None of them was old enough to have met the young man in uniform whose faded photo, embossed against the elements, they had pinned to a wreath of blood-red paper poppies.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

Canada issued this postage stamp in 1968 in tribute to Lt Col John McCrae, who wrote ‘In Flanders Fields

Canadian soldier, surgeon and poet Lt Col John McCrae, who survived the fighting in Belgium, wrote In Flanders Fields after presiding at the battlefield burial of his student, 22-year-old Lt Alexis Helmer, who was killed at Ypres in May, 1915. It continues:

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Lt Helmer was laid hastily in the waterlogged earth, with the intention of exhuming his remains later for permanent burial elsewhere, but when the opportunity arose, his makeshift grave had been obliterated by shelling, leaving no trace.

Lt Col McCrae’s poem is the best known of World War I and is reproduced on monuments, at cemetery entrances and in museums and churches throughout West Flanders.

It’s there, too, on the wall of the foyer of the Novotel hotel in Ypres, where I stayed during my three-day cycling tour of the surrounding area where so many men, with an average age of 23, died. It concludes:

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high,
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

From the Novotel, it’s a short walk to the Menin Gate Memorial to the Missing, where the names of more than 54,500 soldiers who gave their lives fighting the Germans and have no known graves are inscribed. Lt Helmer’s is among them.

The Menin Gate Memorial to the Missing in Ypres

So, too, is the name of Irish rugby international Captain Basil Maclear, who was killed in action, aged 34, on May 24, 1915, while serving with the Royal Dublin Fusiliers during the Second Battle of Ypres.

English-born Capt Maclear, whose grandfathers were Irish, one from Dublin, the other from Tyrone, was stationed in Fermoy, Co Cork, when he was sent to the Western Front.

He had already lost a brother, Percy (39), also of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, who was killed in action in the German colony of Kamerun (Cameroon) in August, 1914. Another, Harry (44), of the Royal Scots, died in northern France in March, 1916.

Of the five Maclear brothers who fought in World War I, only Ronald and Arthur survived.

The Menin Gate, which is the size of an aircraft hangar and incorporates the 36-metres-long Hall of Memory, took four years to complete and was inaugurated in July, 1927.

It stands on the spot where the road out of Ypres towards Menin on the border with France passed through the old defensive wall, from where tens of thousands of soldiers marched to the front line and to their fate.

Twelve months after it opened, the daily ritual of closing the gate to traffic for half-an-hour and sounding the Last Post at 8pm began. Interrupted only by the Nazi occupation of Belgium in World War II, the ceremony has been observed nearly 34,000 times.

Buglers sound the Last Post at the Menin Gate

It’s attended each evening by hundreds of people, including descendants of the fallen from all over the world, schoolchildren and university students, members of history societies, tourists and ex-servicemen and women.

When the lingering final note of the Last Post fades away and the buglers in the uniform of the local volunteer fire brigade lower their instruments, the Exhortation is read.

The words are taken from For the Fallen, written by English poet Laurence Binyon, which was first published in The Times on September 21, 1914, seven weeks after the beginning of the war.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old,
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,
We will remember them.

There follows a minute’s silence, then wreaths are placed, Reveille is sounded by the buglers and the crowd disperses as normal daily life resumes.

For the fighting men in the stinking, rat-infested trenches of the Western Front, what passed as normal daily life is depicted in the In Flanders Fields Museum in the centre of Ypres and in the nearby Passchendaele Museum.

The reconstructed 13th-century Cloth Hall in the centre of Ypres. Below, the same building reduced to rubble during World War I

The In Flanders Fields Museum is housed in the rebuilt 13th-century Cloth Hall, a grand Gothic former market and warehouse, which, like every other structure in Ypres, was reduced to rubble by the near-constant artillery fire of the war.

Nothing escaped the shelling: homes, shops, schools, hospitals, churches, the cathedral, power plants, water and sewerage systems, roads and railways were destroyed. All that remained of the flattened town was its name.

It took 50 years after the war ended, on November 11, 1918, to resurrect the historical centre of Ypres, using salvaged stone, bricks and timber and working from original plans and photos of how it looked before it was pulverised.

Much of the reconstruction was financed with money paid in reparations by Germany.

Today, Ypres is home to 35,000 people and one of the prettiest places in Flanders, full of buildings that appear to have been there since medieval times, yet nothing that visitors see is more than 108 years old, because in 1918 there was nothing.

Houses in the main square, Grand Place, in Ypres

While it’s a well-to-do town, it’s unlikely to again know the wealth that was generated from the 11th to the 13th centuries by the linen trade with England, unless it strikes oil.

Local farmers today are more likely to strike unexploded munitions while ploughing their fields. Every year, the region’s full-time bomb disposal squads are called on to remove about 200 tonnes of live shells, a haul known as the “metal harvest”.

It’s not uncommon for human remains to be discovered, too, as thousands of missing servicemen still lie beneath the earth.

Last April, Belgian archaeologists carrying out excavations near the Palingbeek Golf Club in Ypres – land that was on the front line – found the remains of 22 soldiers, most of them German, but including some Commonwealth and French combatants.

They died when the trenches and bunkers they were sheltering in collapsed under heavy bombardment, entombing them.

A World War I trench in the grounds of the Passchendaele Museum, Zonnebeke

Those who were identified using DNA or simply by their dog tags were given a military burial and a headstone bearing their name, regiment and age in nearby war grave cemeteries. The others remain “Known unto God”.

Poet soldier John McCrae died in northern France in January, 1918, after contracting pneumonia while treating the wounded of both sides, but the words he wrote while serving in Flanders’ fields live on.

The daily Last Post ceremony at the Menin Gate is over in 10 minutes. The war that people believed, at the outbreak on July 28, 1914, would be over by Christmas lasted four years, three months and 14 days and resulted in the deaths of 17 million soldiers and civilians.

That’s why people remember.

GET THERE Fly to Brussels. From the railway station beneath the airport, take a train to Ghent and change for Ypres.

STAY I stayed at the Novotel Ieper Centrum Flanders Fields in Ypres (novotel.accor.com) and was a guest of the Visit Flanders tourism board.

For bicycle hire, including electric bikes, see bikingbox.be

To search for a World War I grave or name on a memorial to the missing in Flanders, see cwgc.org

For further information on Western Front cycling and walking routes and visitor attractions, see visitflanders.com

Antwerp gets my stoemp of approval

Good things – like Belgium’s second city and its colcannon equivalent, stoemp – come to those who wait, but they come a lot quicker when you’re travelling with an EU passport

Antwerp’s splendid main square, Grote Markt

British passengers landing at Brussels Zaventem airport must have been cursing the day the UK voted for Brexit.

The passport queue for EU citizens was two-dozen people long and they were sailing through, while the non-EU line stretched for more than 100 metres and was barely moving.

In the train station below, an Englishman complained loudly into his phone: “An hour and 40 minutes to get your passport stamped? Bloody disgrace. I just hope Antwerp’s worth it.”

Antwerp is well worth it, if only to listen to the Cathedral of Our Lady’s carillon, which has a historical link to Cobh and the Belgian bell player who reduced Laurel and Hardy to tears when they visited Ireland 71 years ago.

Our Lady’s Cathedral, viewed from one of Antwerp’s many narrow streets

Known as the “highest jukebox in town” because the carillonneurs in the belfry play requests during regular recitals, it rings out a repertoire of popular hits that includes Bohemian Rhapsody, Dancing Queen and Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters.

On January 11, 2016 – the day after David Bowie died – the bells of Our Lady’s paid tribute with a rendition of Space Oddity.

However, on September 9, 1953, long before all those songs were written, it was Stan and Ollie’s instantly recognisable signature tune that sounded from the bells of St Colman’s Cathedral in Cobh to greet them off the SS America from New York.

Playing Dance of the Cuckoos that day, 221 steps up in the tower overlooking Cork Harbour, was Antwerp-born Staf Gebruers, who was appointed carillonneur of St Colman’s in 1924 and held the post for 46 years.

A young Staf Gebruers plays the carillon in Our Lady’s Cathedral. Photo courtesy of Adrian Gebruers

As I sat sipping a beer in the afternoon sunshine outside Den Engel (The Angel) bar in the de facto Flemish capital’s medieval main square, Grote Markt, I googled an article about Gebruers’ son that I remembered having read.

Adrian Gebruers, who’s 81, became carillonneur of St Colman’s on his dad’s death in 1970 and is still there. He was 10 when Laurel and Hardy stepped ashore in Cobh, and recalled their hugging and thanking his father for the warm musical welcome.

Some years later, Stan told an interviewer about the scene that day on the quayside.

“There were hundreds of boats blowing whistles and thousands of people screaming,” he said. “And then the church bells started to ring out our theme tune, and Ollie looked at me and we cried. I’ve never forgotten that day.”

Two messers in Dublin GAA tops had clearly forgotten their manners as they plonked themselves down at a table on the Den Engel terrace and sniggered like Beavis and Butthead when one ordered “a pair of bollocks” from a waiter.

Antwerp’s favourite beer, Bolleke

Top-selling local beer Bolleke is known as “the taste of Antwerp”, and very tasty it is too – slightly hoppy, a tad malty and with a hint of the caramel that gives it its amber colour.

Such nuances were lost on the Dubs, who were more interested in taking photos of the name on the chalice-like glasses to share with their pals than in drinking what was in them.

It was time to take my own photos of a city where the lamp-posts should be padded to prevent visitors doing themselves an injury as there’s as much historical architecture to see and admire by looking up as looking around.

What you won’t see, no matter where you look and despite so many people walking about with cartons of chips – the Belgian snack of choice – is squadrons of dive-bombing, thieving gulls. Maybe they don’t like mayonnaise.

Statue of Antwerp hero Brabo in Grote Markt

Flemish Dutch is the first language of most Antwerp citizens, who slip seamlessly in and out of English, and it’s from an amalgam of two Dutch words, hand (hand) and werpen (throwing), that the city gets its name.

Legend has it that a local giant, Druon Antigoon, demanded an exorbitant toll from anyone who wanted to sail past his fortress on the River Scheldt. If they couldn’t or wouldn’t pay, he chopped off their right hand and chucked it into the water.

Antigoon met his match when Roman soldier Silvius Brabo told him where to stick his toll and engaged him in battle. Brabo won, hacked off the giant’s hand and flung it to the fishes.

That heroic act, which allowed river traffic to flourish and Antwerp to prosper, is commemorated in Grote Markt with a monumental fountain on which stands a bronze statue of Brabo, turned green by the elements, in mid-throw.

Children play on the Nello and Patrasche statue outside the cathedral

Another statue with a story is that of penniless little orphan boy Nello and his dog Patrasche, cuddled up under a blanket of cobblestones in front of the entrance to Our Lady’s in Handschoenmarkt (Glove Market).

In her 1872 novel, A Dog of Flanders, English author Maria Louise Rame tells how aspiring artist Nello longs to enter the cathedral to see Rubens’ The Descent from the Cross, but it’s on view only to paying visitors.

One snowy Christmas Eve night, he discovers the cathedral doors have been left unlocked and finally gets to marvel at the Antwerp artist’s masterpiece.

However, when the caretaker arrives in the morning, he finds Nello and Patrasche lying together in front of the altar, not asleep but dead, having succumbed to the icy temperature on the coldest night the city has ever known.

The statue is the cutest ever, and if you loiter for a few minutes while tourists listen to the story on their earphones, it’s almost guaranteed you’ll spot someone wiping away a tear, and it’s a good bet they’ll be Dutch.

The magnificent main concourse of Antwerp Central Station, known as the Railroad Cathedral

Antwerp, which is 90 minutes down the track from Amsterdam, attracts nearly two million day-trippers from the Netherlands every year, and those who arrive by train start ooh-ing and aah-ing the second they set foot in the main station’s concourse.

Known as the Railroad Cathedral for its grandiose architecture and exquisite decoration inspired by the Pantheon in Rome, Antwerp Central, which opened in 1905, is considered one of the world’s most beautiful railway stations.

Contemporary English architect Jonathan Tuckey, who once missed his train there and had to wait an hour for the next, which he missed as well as he was so enchanted by his surroundings, described it as “a temple to transport”.

It was while standing under its huge glass dome that I overheard a bubbly tour guide tell her party of Swedish seniors: “The conservative Protestant Dutch love visiting Antwerp because the crazy Catholic Belgians are party animals, ha-ha.”

Far from the chorus of guffaws she was clearly expecting, there was an awkward silence, then a stern-looking woman said: “Excuse me, young lady, but Sweden is a Protestant country – I am a Lutheran minister – and we also are the party animals.”

“Ja, ja – parties with the crayfish,” said her jolly husband, who appeared to be bare-chested and covered in tattoos, until I put on my glasses and saw he was wearing a Paisley shirt.

The fantastical chocolate-making machine in the Chocolate Nation museum

I wandered off and nipped into the Chocolate Nation museum, just across the street, for a quick nosey, but was still there 90 minutes later – it’s great fun.

The main draw, apart from stuffing your face, is a fantastical chocolate-making machine that looks like a cross between a pipe organ and the innards of a giant watch retrieved from a skip.

It reminded me of those ridiculously complicated contraptions dreamed up by cartoonist Heath Robinson to carry out simple tasks like pouring tea or pulling a tooth using pulleys, steam-train whistles and lengths of string.

Belgium is the world’s second-biggest producer of chocolate, exporting nearly €3bn worth every year (Germany is first with €4.5bn), but it’s way down the list when it comes to consumption.

In the top 10, the Swiss are champs, chomping their way through an average of 8.8kg per person per year, the Irish are in third place with 8.3kg and the Belgians are bottom with 6.8kg, probably because they haven’t heard of Fredos.

The wooden escalators that lead to the under-river St Anna tunnel that opened in 1933

It’s a 15-minute stroll from Chocolate Nation to one of Europe’s most unlikely visitor attractions. The St Anna pedestrian and cycle tunnel that runs under the Scheldt opened in 1933 and records up to four million crossings every year, an average of nearly 11,000 a day.

But it’s not the tunnel itself that interests tourists – walking 572 metres from one end of a white-tiled tube to the other, just to do it again in the opposite direction, would be high on my list of “Ten boring things to do before you die”.

Rather, it’s the chance to take a leisurely ride on one of the few remaining sets of wooden escalators in the world, which descend 32 metres from street level to the tunnel entrance, where you can simply about turn and go back up.

It’s nowhere near as exciting – or bruising – as that bone-rattling wooden roller coaster in Emerald Park in Co Meath, but it’s quaintly rickety and takes only a few minutes. I had time to kill, so I did it twice, then hopped on a tram and went to see some art.

Antwerp’s Royal Museum of Fine Arts exhibits an eclectic mix of centuries-old paintings and modern art

I spent an hour stroking my chin and cocking my head while looking at the paintings and sculptures on level one of the Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp (KMSKA) and 20 minutes looking for the lift.

In the end, I gave up the ghost and nearly became one while climbing the 142 steep steps to the upper level. Of course, when I got to the top I heard a familiar “Ting!”, and there was the lift, and next to it on the wall was a defibrillator. Handy, that.

Allow at least two hours to view KMSKA’s treasures, which span seven centuries and include works by Van Dyck, Van Eyck, Titian and Rodin and Ostend artist James Ensor.

Modigliani is there, too, as is René Magritte, the Belgian surrealist whose 1954 oil on canvas L’empire des lumieres sold last month for $120 million at a Christie’s auction in New York.

But it’s Rubens’ paintings, some massive, from biblical scenes to landscapes to portraits, that most visitors come to see. The Prado has the biggest collection of his works, but those in KMSKA’s Rubens Gallery show best the range of his genius.

For an insight on his life, head to the nearby Rubenshuis. While the artist’s palazzo-style residence and his studio are closed for renovation, you can enjoy the interactive Rubens Experience and wander in the Baroque garden.

Visit the Rubenshuis to learn about the artist’s life and work and enjoy a stroll in the garden

There are flowers, shrubs and trees galore in Rubens’ garden, but no vegetable patch, so no ingredients to make stoemp, the Flemish cousin of colcannon, England’s bubble and squeak and Scotland’s wonderfully named rumbledethumps.

Steamed mussels is the Belgian national dish, but stoemp is the national passion on a plate, the comfort food Antwerpers abroad miss if they’re away from home for more than a week, like the craving that Ostenders in exile have for shrimp croquettes.

At its simplest, stoemp is a mix of mashed potatoes and bits of boiled carrot (wortelstoemp), often with some fried onion. The ‘busier’ version includes egg yolk and butter, along with leeks, Brussels sprouts, turnip greens, kale and celery. It’s delicious.

Two big dollops of that lot would be a filling meal for a vegetarian, but for meat eaters it’s most commonly an accompaniment for two or three big fat sausages or thick rashers, though many have it with steak or stew.

Beavis and Butthead were well stewed when I spotted them later, criss-crossing Grote Markt like a couple of crabs. I didn’t see the grumpy Englishman from the airport train station again, but I’d say he found Antwerp to his satisfaction.

What he thought of the snack locals love is anybody’s guess, but my money would be on: “Chips with mayonnaise? Bloody disgrace.”

GET THERE

Ryanair and Aer Lingus fly from Dublin to Brussels Zaventem airport, from where it’s a 40-minute train journey to Antwerp Central Station.

STAY

I visited Antwerp as a guest of the Flanders tourism authority (visitflanders.com) and stayed at the Rubens Hotel, behind Grote Markt (hotelrubensantwerp.be).

For more information on the city’s visitor attractions, hotels, restaurants and bars, see visitantwerpen.be

Rubens’ masterpiece ‘The Descent from the Cross’ in Our Lady’s Cathedral