My Humble Tribute

Golden Honey

A jar of clear golden honey sits on the table and I joyfully stick my finger in the silky liquid. The sheer joy of seeing the amber thread trickle down the jar, takes me back to when I was a young girl. I’m swinging my legs on the table were I was turning the handle on the aluminium cylinder, joyfully anticipating the time when the honey was extracted and the sweet liquid flowed from the tap. Under Mr Springs smile I would; unseen as possible from his all seeking eyes, wrap the lush scented indulgence and quickly consume the plethora of tastes from the fields around us.

Mr Spring had powder blue eyes that glistened like dew drops. Their piercing gaze held your attention from a rugged but strangely youthful face. Those eyes would captivate me with humour and foreboding. A tall slim frame, held muscles that clung to it tight and taut. His gamekeeper shirtsleeves were always rolled up, a felt cap a donned that to me personified him and his comrades precisely. As he filled the honey jars I’d listen intently to stories that in later life I found out were fact. To me the tales of the war were adventures but preoccupied Mr Spring thoughts.

In his commando voice he would tell me of the desert where they prepared for the Arnhem drop, of the Dutch people’s bravery and of the resistance fighters that got his lads out and back to England. The blurred tattooed images held the respect that Mr Spring had for all the people that made the war pointless; that is to say, good people on both sides died too young. I don’t see these tattoos clearly. Though I know one was for Joe Beet and am sure was in the shape of a Dagger.

Joe was born in Derby and was a conscript; or as Mr Spring would say he joined for fun and to get out of trouble. The platoon had been to North Africa, defeated the German Afriks Korps and on 8th September 1943 they landed at the port of Taranto; Italy. They then marched; at the double, to secure the town. They then marched into Astlellanetta where they found themselves in a spot of bother.

Astlellanetta was built on an escarpment with houses to the right and on the left there was a wall, three feet in height. The other side of the wall fell away steeply for about twenty foot. Weapons at the ready they came across machine-gun fire, they quickly brought the situation under control and were ordered to take defensive positions for the night. A casualty report was taken and to the platoon’s horror Joe and his Bren gun, were missing.

Immediately they silently searched for their anchor, each with an individual fear of Joe’s loss. They heard many expletives burst through the sullen atmosphere that expressed Joe’s discomfort. In the quagmire of rotting tomatoes and grapes, he had sunk down as far as his neck; though the precious Bren gun was held above his head for safe keeping. He felt his comrades had taken too long in fighting the Germans, on purpose. Managing to get enough nylon lines together, they hauled him out of his predicament to the song of ‘Violets Sweet, Violets Sweeter than Roses’. When Joe was eventually hauled to the top of the wall, to add salt to his ego, was asked; none too politely, to move down wind. The tension was broken and the platoon’s disposition restored.

The hearing and retelling of this story cements at the very core of my understanding how important, people like Joe are in life. As for Mr Spring, who knew Joe it was an Honour. Joe hated airplanes and he would chunter to himself incessantly, while they climbed to the desired height and area for the drop; when asked if he was prying he would reply ‘Hell no, I’m cursing my bloody mates who incited me to volunteer in the first bloody place’. This statement I’m sure was cleaned up for the sake of my very young ears. Joe would have to be pushed all the way to the door and out.

Mr Spring said that they could smell his fear and that Joe would assure them that weren’t the only thing they could smell! I vividly remember thinking how could one man be so brave. After his fight with fear of flying and jumping, when his feet hit the ground he had to face death on the run.

When asked how on earth had they kept going; Mr Spring would tell me for a young man who came from the background he did (poor and harsh) he was heading for a life of crime, but meeting the people he had in the war had given him respect and a humility, that had made him the person he was. His humility came from the people in his platoon and the ones he passed on the way through all the towns, that had been destroyed by wars incessant and all devouring needs.


When I had my first child I went to visit Mr. Spring; he had always questioned the war and said that politicians and those with power at the top, were the same whichever side they were on and how England would be the same if Hitler had won. Although I can see where he was coming from and that he probably knew better than me, I could not agree and still don’t. I had always wanted to personally thank him for the life I have and up until then had not known how to. On that visit I handed Mr. Spring my first born not knowing what his reaction would be. That day was the first time I had seen Mr Spring hold a baby and I must say he took to it like a duck to water. As Axl looked intently into those old globes, I’m sure I saw a tear filled tenderness glisten as I thanked him. I thanked him for the sacrifice of his comrades and for his sleepless nights; hearing and seeing again the atrocities that are produced by war.

Shortly after that day he went back to Oosterbeek where he was given a hero’s welcome; Mr Spring had saved many of his men that had been burnt and injured badly. Only on one occasion did he mention the Arnham drop by name and the Anger of the inadequate gliders that put his men in such danger and the total miss calculations of the whole affair, vibrate through my soul even today and as I hear the same opinions expressed with today's wars, I feel so sad; will we never learn, can things ever change?


Joe died in Holland and is laid to rest in Oosterbeek cemetery. Though I have never met Joe or any of his family, through Mr Springs tattoo and his story telling, I will never forget him.
Mr Spring’s lungs sprang a leak and he took me and others to one side asking not to be revived if he was found unconscious, he spent his last years on oxygen and this; for him, was a living hell. When he asked me just to close the door if I ever found him on the floor, I said I could not, but I promised to hold him until I was sure he had slipped from this life. I would like to think I would have the courage to carry out my promise, I know I would have given it my best shot, but unlike Mr Spring and all the brave people out there that have been put to the test of their resolve; I never had to stand up and be counted.

Mr Spring died in 2002 and at his funeral, food and drink were free and an expressed wish from the grave was made, that a good time was to be had by all.

I got to meet and personally thank J D Vervoorn for taking care of Mr Spring and all the men the Dutch resistance fighters got out and back to England. I explained how he had touched my life over the sea and after many years had passed.

One day I would like to go to Oosterbeek and say a thank you, personally to Joe. I can see Mr Spring’s face light up with a captivating smile and his voice reverberates through me ‘He won’t hear you, you know!’ No Mr Spring, perhaps not, but I will know I have honoured him and the people you felt guilty about, the ones you thought we had let down. I want to keep these unknown people in my heart and never forget them and yes pass them on; through the stories you told me, when I was very young, churning honey taking that golden thread, while you watched on with your dew drop eyes.