On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month We Will Remember you!!!

On the 11^th hour of the 11^th day of the 11^th month

We Will Remember you!!!

Mr Spring told me of the time that Colonel Dick Pedder rallied his men around before the Litani River raid in Syria, where over 120 men gave their lives needlessly due to a mix up with a map.

Colonel Dick Pedder said to his men as he formed them into the 11^th Scottish Commandos “you must be ready to fight against all tyrants and oppressors”.

Tyrant meaning: - absolute ruler who uses powers cruelly and unjustly, an exerciser of authority.

Oppressor meaning: - dominate harshly or cruelly, to be a source of worry, stress or trouble to somebody.

Those words are as poignant, true and rousing as they were when he stood in front of his men in the Second World War, and just before he died fighting for those words. Mr Spring would say that you did not have to be fighting a war against tyrants or oppressors, as they walk amongst us. Over the years I have thought back on Colonel Dick Pedder’s chosen words.

There will always be tyrants and oppressors of countries and governments, local authorities, in our work place and around us in our everyday life; it is a frailty of human nature. It is up to us all, to ask questions and to strive to have humanity in our societies. That humanity is hard fought for and guarded by a few who pay the ultimate price.

History in general and Europe’s History in-particular, shows us what can happen if one group of people believe that they are more intelligent, or more worthy than any other. Disrespect of others breeds War, greed, pain and suffering.

No one human has an absolute right over another. Against the frailty of human nature democracy is all we have. But democracy comes at a very high price and is hard to keep. So on this day on the 11^th hour I will remember every child, woman and man, civilian or soldier, who has or is striving to hold onto humanity through the adversity and give thanks for their bravery, grit and determination.

This year 2016 more than any other in my life, Mr Springs story of Colonel Dick Pedder gathered more meaning, and never have I truly understood what this could mean. It is a very strange time to be a woman, and a mother and it is not just Donald Trump we fight. It is the injustice done to those who fight to support those less fortunate, the ill and infirm, those that are left to fend for themselves while our tick box society, leaves their morals in rhetoric and justify their actions by sanctions. When the powers of government, establishment and media, that think they can hoodwink us, make us fight each other on all sides of a tangled web of lies. We are braver than that, we are stronger than that!

I will ask questions, I will strive for justice and humanity and I will remember you!

One Young Man Goes Looking For Cows And enlist the help of some Germans

J. D. Vervoorn and the Dutch Resistance

I was very privileged to have met and personally thank Professor J.D Vervoorn (Hans) and he has read; in most part what I have written here. I was told that he was surprised that I remembered or knew about him, and was amused that he had four pages to himself. I hope to soon go to Oosterbeek and pay my deepest respects to all.

    

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Sitting in the summer sun eating Mr Springs peas while reading, I was aware that I could get caught. Although I knew his daily routine, through the summer months they were a little unpredictable. I knew, he knew I ate his peas and have no idea why he tolerated me so, but he did. Hidden well beneath an old man’s grumpiness, was a whole spectrum of humour and understanding, I am sure he planted more peas near my side of the hedge.

          

I was suddenly was aware of his presence; it was too late to make a dash for it. On the back of his house was a big rain butt on a brick and slab plinth, perched upon it was the man himself. I felt a little guilty watching him, studying his face as I did but I knew that if I moved it would break the trance he was in and this would be a bad thing. So I sat there and in those moments I witnessed the legacy that war bestows on the ones that survive.

          

On his taught cheek bones his muscles flexed and his unseeing eyes of the here and now were in the memories of the past. I have no idea why I thought this as a child, but somehow, deep down I know this to be true. For each year I saw the same expression and I recall it was in those summer months of reflection that his stories flowed at their best. This face has stayed with me not haunting exactly but ever present in my consciousness. In my time of need and strength I pull this face to my mind’s eye to strengthen and to remember his teaching.

          

Shortly after the pea-pod moment I had walked over to say hello as I often did, I remember I was in my teens and wanted to get away quickly but didn’t want to appear rude so entered into a conversation.

           

That taught face took over the normal congenial face that I was used to seeing. I knew that I couldn’t ask questions as this would break that trance state, and he would abruptly finish the conversation. I had asked him once to write down his accounts of the war but he told me that it was quite enough to have lived and survived it. I had no right to ask more from a man that had seen and felt what he had. So I would intently cling on to every word to keep, while searching his face for meaning.

He started by telling me how astonished he was over the resilience of the Dutch people. How their country had been bombarded. I held in my mind that he was talking about operation ‘Market Garden’ the drop over Arnhem of the allied troops. I had seen the pictures. He recounted how men were shot from the skies as they parachuted down and inadequate gliders stumbled and stalled to the ground. Men burning while trying to save others, each had imprinted how futile war was on him. 

           

I knew Mr Spring was dropped off un-ceremonially at Arnhem. Caught by some hot shrapnel his glider had caught fire. The pilot hit an over head cable to slow down the glider. This man was on fire and knew he was dying. Having made sure all his men jumped as safely as he could, he then went to the cockpit where the American pilots were trying to control the aircraft while burning. He was ordered to jump out and join his men. 

           

After bailing out and before he rounded his men up he searched for one of his comrades, he had noticed that his parachute had caught alight. Having dropped 200 ft with no parachute to speak of, he found this man in a very bad way and so he gave him morphine to ease the man’s passing. His name was Alfred Penwill and was a Norfolk lad who was expecting his first child.

           

It would have taken Mr Spring very little time to assess the situation on the ground, he, by now had enough experience to know that - weather, communication difficulties, and the amount of Germans on the ground meant he would be lucky if he or any of his men would survive that day. 

           

Rounding up his men they found the glider and recovered both pilot’s; the co pilot had broken both legs and wrists but was still alive. by this time the Dutch resistance were already on the scene, Mr Spring was ready to shoot not knowing whether they were friend or foe and this is where he met Hans for the first time as Hans whistled the national Anthem to indicate that they were freinds. Hans he said was very important boy to his men, as he spoke very good English. He showed me a paper telling me a few of these facts. In those days we had no photo copiers so I could not keep a copy, it is with my memory checking what I know with what others have written on the internet that I’m able substantiate events. After he folded the paper and put it away he continued, with one of the greatest escapes I have ever heard.

           

He set the scene of five or six men made up from the Dutch resistance and his regiment going for a bike ride in the Dutch countryside. He was dressed in civi clothes of that region and played the part of a deaf dumb Dutchman. As he couldn’t speak the language nor understand it, the part suited him he would tell me, with that humours twinkle. When they came across ‘a few Germans out on patrol’ he would say. It was the way he said this that always got me hooked, and on less stressed days we would always laugh at that throw away comment. But this day as I looked into those globes of that other world, I saw an intensity that gave away the true tension of the situation. He would tell how little details made all the difference like; remembering that you had to get on and off the bike the opposite way to what you were used to. These small details would arouse curiosity and suspicion of the soldiers who were on high alert. 

           

At some point Mr. Spring felt that things were getting tricky so he pulled the pin out of a hand grenade that he held it in his pocket; I’m not sure how much he had thought this through. He would say it was ‘fool hardy’ with a glint in his eye that would forever perplex me. 

           

Hans and Harri Tomason of the Dutch resistance had worked their magic and talked the soldiers into letting them pass. A way down the road and out of earshot Mr. Spring asked for some advice on what to do. He would say to me ‘It takes fifteen pounds of pressure to hold the leaver down, you know’ and I would think and only seconds for it to explode. His hand was getting tired and cramp had set in. Hans commented that the soldiers didn’t know how close they were to being killed and suggested that Mr Spring lob it in the dyke.

           

Now this is where my version of the events take a slightly different path. As I am under the impression that they caught some fish that day but as no one else reports this in their telling I may have got it wrong. You see Mr Spring liked to throw a humorous twist to things. Now many years have passed and I’m not sure if this particular twist is in my imagination. Perhaps, what he meant was that they should have caught some fish. A spot of poaching under the noses of the Germans and to have made good use of the limited amount of hand grenades they had, would have made it worthwhile in his opinion. But it was how he told me how they ate the fish and the family who were looking after the co-pilot were grateful and the fact so many of my remembered stories have been proven facts, that I think this could be true and highly likely. 

           

One thing that has puzzled me through the years was why did they take the risk in the first place? Even more so when I found out later that the Germans were bombarding anything that moved or that the allied forces could hide behind, leaving Oosterbeek resembling a pile of matchsticks. All Mr Spring and his comrades had, were their bren machine guns and grenades, no room in their backpack for a tank or two. It was for a funeral or funerals under the watchful eyes of the German soldiers. There you have it, humanity in adversity with humour showing us the light. Thanks to Hans and the Dutch resistance Albert was able to attend the funeral of Alfred Penwill; the father to be, radio operator Hollis and pilot Spurrier who had gallantly fought to save his passengers and land as safely as possible.

           

He tried to re-join his platoon and was in some skirmishes around Opheasden, Kesteren and Dodeward but on this point I could never get him to open up and talk.

           

Now after a little banter about the fish there came another story that he only ever told me once. It was short and simply told. The Germans were hot on their tail and a few of the men could not swim or not that well at any rate. Good men that would rather have been drowned than be caught by the Gestapo. His concentrated face held a meaning behind this story that I can only guess at. With five or more men clinging to him he lost one. This man had saved his life and his regret in the telling of this made me numb and still does.

Piecing together accounts off Wikipedia, my dad (Mike Alderman) and Phillip (Mr Springs youngest son) version, gives some background to these events. They were only days apart. Mr Spring was dropped on 18th September 1944 and due to bad weather a lot of the backup and equipment never made it. The 10th Battalion were fragmented and communication was poor. They were ordered to get to Oosterbeek and were to hold their positions and wait for reinforcements. The Germans unleashed a self-propelled gun up and down the battalions, shooting high explosives shells into any building, followed by infantry fighting at close quarters forcing the allies out of their defensive positions. Small isolated units managed to hold until the 22nd September for the Pathfinders 21st independent Parachute Company and the 1st Polish Parachute Brigade to drop down. Although they drew off some of the Germans attention, they still had 100 or so artillery guns firing onto their positions. They were then ordered to with draw. The last few men were evacuated over the nights of the 25th and 26th of September 1944. Out of 582 men that were dropped from this regiment 404 were taken as prisoners, many of which were injured, some critical, 92 were killed and 96 were evacuated. Due to this the 10th Battalion was disbanded. 

           

Without the Dutch resistance the numbers would have been much worse and Mr Spring became reliant on that one young Dutchman who was resourceful, determined and probably most importantly of all had a good sound sense of humanity and humour. This young man took that swim with Mr Spring and it was the last time they saw each other for many years, although they did keep in touch from time to time. It was across the River Waal that was as big as the river Rhine. Searchlights were looking for anything that moved and after a cup of tea Hans swam back….. Hold that thought, Yep, he swam back over the river, where agitated Germans were shooting anything that moved in the dark!

           

When he reached the other side he laid low until the morning and when the Germans caught him he explained that he was a farmer’s boy who had lost his COWS! And that the farmer would be very cross with him. So there they were, German SAS soldiers’, one young medical student who had just helped the allied forces to escape, looking for non-existing cows together. 

           

Whenever Hans name cropped up Mr Spring would marvel at the warmth that the Dutch people showed him. Looking at the few pictures I found on the internet I have begun to understand his reasoning behind this more. In his opinion whenever he turned up it was bad news but for the civilians of this area in particular, it was catastrophic.        

           

It was Hans’s humanity and humour that touched Mr Spring and through the years and the telling of his stories, Hans and the Dutch people have dwelt through my thoughts, shining a light on my path. I would like to convey my deepest and heartfelt thanks.

           

Having learnt that his brother Albert had made it back from Arnham and not seeing him at all from 1941 John paid Mr Spring a visit just outside Grantham. John Wrote “In Albert’s corner hanging up behind a blanket were numerous rabbits, pheasants, and bundles of snares. On top of the black coke-fired stove was a Dixie full of rabbit stew. I only had to close my eyes and I was back in the humble cottage at Winwick hill. I thought, good God, he will never change. Talking to his comrades I gathered that my brother was held in very high esteem because with the help of the wartime Dutch Resistance he had been mainly responsible for their escape from the enemy-occupied Holland, but one of his fellow men told me, ‘It’s terrible being back; I never know when I am going to get into one of his bloody snares.’ I can just see the amusement on Mr Springs face as he read his brothers words.       

           

Albert wrote to Penwills family to let them know what had happened to him and made a point of going to his grave whenever he could and laid flowers there, Phil and Danny now carries on that tradition.

           

In Oosterbeek it was estimated 10,000 people attended 65^th commemorative service of the battle. The Dutch children are told of how it was and flowers have always been laid for the men who fought courageously and yet were defeated. The Dutch suffered many hardships after the Allied Forces left. So yet again I can see Mr Spring reluctance to say too much about it all. But like the Dutch people I think this event in History should be noted. Because of these men women and children, who at great personal cost both physically and mentally, with so many paying the ultimate price, we can without tyrant or oppressors stamp our feet in indignation and oust the government!

Tina Rodwell © All rights reserved.

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.