The
Memorial Day I Will Never Forget
By MRS. EUGENIA J. ROSS
as told to Theodore Irwin
is
TP his was my first visit to
Mrs. Eugenia Ross
Margraten. For almost 10
years I'd been saving for the
trip, putting aside money
each month from my salary
as a salesclerk in a Richmond
(Va.) department store.
Some of you may know that
Margraten, near the city of
Maastricht, Holland, is the
resting place of more than
8,000 American boys killed
during World War II in the
Netherlands and nearby Ger
many. Each grave in the
beautifully kept 65-acre cem
etery is maintained by a Dutch family "to pre
serve the memory and perpetuate the honor" of
our boys. This practice was begun after the war by
the Dutch Union of Former Resistance Movement
Members and has been continued ever since.
In maintaining its American grave, the Dutch
family places flowers on it at Christmas, Memorial
Day, the Fourth of July, and the day the soldier
died. Often, particularly on birthdays, American
mothers and fathers wire flowers, and the Dutch
families send photos of the decorated graves.
I first got the idea to visit Margraten when the
van Lennep family wrote me for the date of my
son George's birthday and invited me over. You
see, George, who was my only child, is among the
boys buried at Margraten. His grave is cared for
by the family of H. L. van Lennep,. who live near
Amsterdam, about 100 miles away.
I flew over last year, a few days before Memo
rial Day, with Mrs. Netty Olivers of Castro Val
ley, Calif., whose son Lynn had been George's co
pilot. George was a bombardier with the 331st
Squadron of the 8th Air Force. Returning from a
volunteer daylight bombing mission over Muen
ster, Germany, George, Lynn, and the pilot were
killed by flak on Nov. 11 Armistice Day 1943.
We were met at the Amsterdam airport by Mr.
van Lennep and two representatives of the Neth
erlands War Graves Committee. They gave us
plane tickets to Margraten. All American next-of-kin
are transported free within Holland and given
accommodations for a week.
A vast cemetery across the sea,
a country ever-grateful towards
America, and a mother who lost
her son in the war make this
a poignant human experience
A little Dutch girl reverently places a bouquet of
flowers on one of the graves in Margraten cemetery.
At Margraten, I was escorted to my son's grave
and then left discreetly alone. I felt choked up
and limp. Leaning against the marble cross
bearing the name, George Wilmot Ross, Jr., I
thought of that morning long ago when I received
the telegram informing me George was "missing."
As I looked down at my son's last haven, I shut
my eyes and scenes flashed through my mind:
George as a little fellow, on the first day he left
for school . . . the way he played the drums in
the high-school band . . . how persuasive he was
on the college debating team . . . the day he joined
the Air Force . . . George dead at the age of 24.
I recall vividly how bright and clear that Me
morial Day dawned. For the occasion, stands had
been erected at Margraten, and hundreds of vis
itors, including dignitaries and diplomats, had
arrived. A guard of honor was composed of for
mer Resistance members. The Boy Scouts had
placed Dutch and U.S. flags on each grave.
The touching ceremony started with the invo
cation by an American chaplain. A few brief
words were spoken by U.S. Ambassador Philip
Young and the Queen's Commissioner. Wreaths
contributed by the Queen, the burgomaster of
Maastricht, the American Legion, and others,
were brought up and placed in a row on a pedestal.
Thousands of school children laid flowers on the
graves. Another chaplain gave the benediction.
Then the 3rd Armored Division Band played
Taps. That moment was too much for me. A chill
shot down my spine, and I broke out weeping. So
did Netty Olivers beside me.
At the end of the hour-long ceremony, a Dutch
band played their national anthem and ours. We
were so filled with emotion we couldn't speak.
Afterward, I walked among the graves, noticing
the bouquets and wreaths wired by relatives
who couldn't be present. It reminded me of the time
George sent me an azalea plant on Mother's Day
when he was at an Army camp near Spokane,
Wash. I planted it in our back yard, and it still
flowers each spring. That azalea is like a memorial
to my son. Tomorrow, in return, I am wiring flow
ers to George for this year's Memorial Day.
I can hardly believe it was just a year ago to
morrow that I spent Memorial Day at my son's
grave. The simple but impressive "Remembrance
Ceremony" conducted by the wonderful Dutch
people that day will always be indelibly engraved
on my mind.
I remember how comforted I felt that George
was resting in a place like Margraten. And I re
member how, in the lovely chapel, I sat in silent
prayer, thankful that I could visit his grave. Foi
me, it was the truest of Memorial Days.
COVER:
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y&tvt Penne Peres, 17, of Wtco, Texts.
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