Richard Schiver

Tag: travel

  • The Ghosts of Conflicts Past

    The Ghosts of Conflicts Past

    The gunfire has long since fallen silent, most of the scars that once marred the field of battle have healed, and the physical signs of the past conflict were but a memory. Yet if one were to listen closely to the restless breeze whispering across this hallowed land, you might hear the voices of the past. The cries of anger and terror fading to the final whimper of a dying soldier as they came face to face with that which awaits all of us in our final moments.

    The names of the battlefields might change as well as the means of conflict, but one thing will always remain. The dying. Be it from sword or arrow, bomb or bullet, death moves among the combatants gathering up the fallen. Where they will march for eternity in lock step with death as the world of the living honors their sacrifice.

    Stories of ghostly encounters near old battlefields are as old as the nature of war itself. On the plains of Marathon, north of Athens, Athenian soldiers repelled the Persians in 490 B.C. Afterwards visitors to the battlefield talked of hearing the whistle of spears and the screams of dying soldiers.

    British history is filled with similar stories. Three battles from the civil war of 1642 have been reportedly seen by visitors, the engagements at Naseby, Marston Moor, and Edgehill. Two world wars have also left their mark upon the landscape from Dieppe to Burma.

    The U.S has its fair share of stories with most centered on the ghostly apparitions that inhabit the civil war battlefields of Gettysburg, and Antietam just to name two.

    I experienced an encounter in West German in the mid-seventies. It was my first trip out of the country, courtesy of Uncle Sam, and we were in the field on maneuvers. I had been assigned to a listening post for two hours. It was punishment because me and my tank commander, a west pointer who was always trying to bully people, had been locking horns ever since he’d been assigned to the tank. I had been bullied growing up, so I had very little patience for people of that nature, no matter their rank.

    It had only been a little more than 32 years since the guns of WWII had fallen silent, and in many parts of the country there remained small reminders of the past conflict. Most notably were the abandoned structures still riddled with bullet holes.  

    We weren’t near any towns, or even farms. The night was clear with a full moon and as I waited to be relieved I caught the sound of movement to my right front. I focused my attention on where the sound was coming from but could see nothing. It sounded like several people sneaking up on our position, and it was obvious from the sound of their movement they were soldiers. An armed force moving through the night, no matter how quiet they think they are, will still make small sounds. A rifle sling rattling softly, pants catching on the weeds, footsteps moving as quietly as possible. When you’ve done it enough you recognize these sounds.

    There were no infantry units nearby, and as per our rules of engagement everything in front of us was considered hostile. I was about to call it in when whoever it was started speaking quietly, in German. Like they were giving orders or bitching about their situation. I only knew enough German to get into trouble. I looked again at where the voices were coming from, but there was nothing there. The weeds in the field were only about a foot high and not very dense so it’s unlikely they were hiding.

    They continued to get closer, their footsteps growing louder, that guttural voice whispering orders. They were no more than five feet away from me, but nothing moved where the voices were coming from. I couldn’t see a damned thing, but I could hear them as clear as a bell. It was then I took a chance and turned on my flashlight. I was supposed to call in any movement, but for some reason this didn’t sound right. There was something off about the way the person was speaking so I hesitated on calling this in. I’d heard a number of stories about strange occurrences that happened to others in the field.

    I searched everywhere but saw nothing. If it had been an opposing force patrol sneaking up on our position, the moment I turned on my flashlight they would have come after me. As it was whoever had been there simply vanished. My relief showed up, and I returned to the tank to get reamed out by my TC for turning on my flashlight. I didn’t tell him what happened. It wasn’t until later that I started to piece together what I might have witnessed. I believe what I heard that night was a lost German patrol that paid the ultimate price but were still continuing their mission.

    Sounds farfetched, and some might question what kind of drugs I had been playing with at the time. But I was stone cold sober, and I know what I heard. I believe it was just one of the little events that put me onto the path I now follow.

    In the coming weeks and months, I plan to explore the stories of hauntings from the world’s battlefields, from ancient times to the present day. If you have any personal experience I’d love to hear about them too, please share your story in the comment below. Thank you.

  • Following in their Footsteps.

    Following in their Footsteps.

    Operation Market Garden 34 Years Later

    In 1978, at nineteen years of age I was serving with the United States Army as an armor crewman. In 1977 the motion picture, A Bridge Too Far, was released and featured a star-studded cast. I along with a couple of my friends watched it at the base theater in Fort Hood, Texas. The following year our unit was slated to take our six month turn at the tip of the spear at the U.S Army’s heavy metal playground in Grafenwoehr, West Germany. Located 21 miles from the Czech Republic border, a member nation of the Warsaw Pact. 21 miles from a border of concrete and barbed wire constructed to keep their citizens from escaping the harsh life of a communist regime. Our only goal, our sole purpose was to halt any soviet advance that might push across the border. As such each of our tanks carried a full load (67 rounds) of what we referred to as service ammunition. It was a mix heavy on armor piercing and HEAT (High Explosive Anti Tank) rounds, designed to slice through enemy armor.

    In Graf, we lived in Quonset huts that featured a large open bay filled with beds and footlockers. It was where we stayed when we weren’t working on our tanks in the motor pool, or out on maneuvers with other units preparing for a day all of us feared. Many a night I would lie in bed worried if I had what it would take to face our adversary. Thankfully that day never came. We also had most weekends off allowing us a chance to blow off some steam.

    Germany is a small country, a little larger than the state of Oregon, and aside from the autobahn, the railroads are a prime means of transportation. You can go practically anywhere on the European continent with a train ride. Which is how a small group of us ended up in the Netherlands, following a route carved into history, and featured in a recent movie we had all watched. What I’m referring to is the primary route followed by the ground forces in Operation Market Garden, one of the most disastrous allied operations during the war.

    In short the operation’s purpose was to open a path into the interior of Germany to outflank the Siegfried Line. The operation used elements from the British First Airborne Division, the Polish 1st Parachute Brigade the 82nd and 101st U.S Airborne Divisions. Their task was to secure and hold the bridges until 30th Corp could relieve them. This would have opened a direct route into the heartland of Germany if it succeeded. Possibly shortening the war. But it didn’t work out that way.

    It’s been forty-seven years since I walked that route, and while much of what I remember from that day has faded into the mists of time, the emotions are still very strong. I recently watched A Bridge Too Far, again, as I recover from knee surgery and those emotions are as powerful today as they were then.

    At the time of our little walk, thirty-four years after it happened, I don’t believe we really understood how deep that river ran through us. I can recall feeling a sense of walking upon hallowed ground, what one might feel at Arlington. Our usual jack assery settled as we were filled with a sense of walking among the honored dead who gave their all for what they believed in. Yet when your nineteen and with your friends it’s nearly impossible to fully explore your emotions of the moment. As such the respect of silence was all we could offer.  

    Every year, on the anniversary of the operation, a memorial walk is held, and I’d give anything to follow once again in the footsteps of those who went before, while I still have time. Only this time not as a young man struggling to figure out life. But as an older, wiser man who understands the full measure of devotion needed to throw oneself against such odds.

    They were called the greatest generation, and their numbers dwindle everyday. It falls to us then to carry their stories forward for a new generation to maybe learn from.

    Follow the link below for some amazing then and now photos from Arnhem.

    War History Online