In 1994 I went to Italy with my parents, and we attended the international ceremony to mark the 50th anniversary of the battle of Monte Cassino. My father had been there as a young British soldier. This was his first return.
The Canadians, British and Americans landed on the south coast of Sicily in the first stage in the liberation of Europe. This was some time before D-Day. Then they moved up through Italy as the enemy was pushed back - and Monte Cassino was a major roadblock to their advance.
The ceremony at the Commonwealth War Cemetery in the valley was very moving. Previously, Dad had rarely talked about his time in the army - from the ages of 18 to 24 - except to mention the months he'd spent in the mud at Monte Cassino, which had obviously made a lasting impression. He said the smell of death wafting up the Liri Valley at night had been dreadful.
Later, as we headed back to the buses along with hundreds of other people of all nationalities and from several continents, I saw an elderly Australian veteran sitting with his friends waiting patiently by the side of the road. He looked just like any other "old guy" you might see anywhere and not pay much attention to - except I noticed that he had a Victoria Cross pinned to his jacket.
Our group tour was composed of British veterans and their families. We also visited the Polish War Cemetery, and the German one. Both were designed very differently from the Commonwealth one.
The Polish were buried in neat rows, out in the open, across the broad side of a windswept hill.
The Germans were buried around a hill. We passed through a little gateway with a sombre chapel and climbed a winding route that circled the hill, with tall slim evergreen trees marking the way. Passing, I looked down at the names ... Hans 17, Carl 21, Claus 19, Herman 18, Kurt 20 ...
The German officers were buried apart, at the summit.
A couple of days later my father and some of the British veterans met a group of German veterans who had come to the Commonwealth Cemetery to pay their respects. We could tell that they weren't sure how they'd be received, but the British were soon shaking hands and chatting with them. They exchanged stories.
I once asked my Dad why he fought, and he said, "For my Mum back home ... and for my mates" - by which he meant the men in his immediate company. They relied on one another for survival and couldn't let one another down.
I would imagine that the Germans, if asked, would have said exactly the same thing. They fought for their Mums back home and for their mates. I'm not sure it is necessarily a glorious thing to die for your country. But I can't help feeling that the deaths of the young Germans were especially tragic since they died fighting for a cause - fascism - that was so completely worthless.
