I remember on the Battlefields trip a few years ago to Belgium, a few of my mates decided to take advantage of the local offy’s lax policy on purchasing alcohol. Before I go on I should point out that at that point i COULDN’T drink, due to recovering from a very bad flu/food poisoning double act. Anyway we bought some and walked into a field to drink. Naturally nature took its course and my friends were suitably sloshed to be lying around on the grass making fools of themselves. I needed to take a wizz, so I walked around a hedgerow to… well you get my drift. After I finished, I turned around and saw a figure about 50m away walking parrallel to me. It looked like a farmer at first, with a walking stick that he was hobbling on.
As he came closer I saw that he was using a rifle as his walking stick. I crouched to avoid what I still thought was an angry Belgian farmer. But as I looked harder at him I saw that it was no farmer. He was wearing American jumpboots and fatigues, complete with American flag and a small unit emblum (sp. sorry!) on his shoulder, with a combat helmet with a Club marked in white on the side, carrying an M1 Garand.
As he neared the centre of my field of vision he paused, looked around and took something out of his pocket. After a few seconds studying the paper (I assume it was a map) he took off his helmet, scratched his head, replaced his helmet, turned right 90 degrees (so he was facing away from me) and started hobbling away. His form faded almost instantly like there was an invisible mist that ate him up. He was a WW2 Paratrooper, trying to find an aid station I guess.
That incient spooked me so much I didn’t sleep for three days. It was also a cornerstone as to why i’m now so into World War Two, and so indebted to the men that fought it.
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