I moved to Antwerp, Belgium after departing Amsterdam and signed up for two nights on the start of a long follow on tour of Belgian and French Battlefields. The first day in Antwerp I putted around the town in some ever changing weather. It was unseasonably cool and squalls of rain kept coming out of nowhere. Antwerp is a working man’s town (It’s a port) and (for me) did not offer a tourist friendly experience. Between my lack of warm clothing and very little worth getting hypothermia to see; I decided that the next day, I would drive the 120 kilometers to the Ardennes American Cemetery and Memorial. I wished to knock "Jeremy’s favor" off my "to do" list.

Unfortunately the next morning, the sunny then rainy weather had not improved. I toyed with the notion of not going to the cemetery. It was not going to be easy to drive the distance in that poor weather, but well guilt has a way of motivating even me….. so off I went. As I drove, I questioned the intelligence of continuing the journey as what’s the point if your pictures are filled with black skies and rain? But, between some good music and my lead foot I started to eat up the distance. The squalls kept coming and going making it some of the toughest driving conditions I have ever experienced. That voice of doubt was back in my head again, yet I continued on. It would appear I had to "earn" these photos. I had made peace with the fact that due to the weather, my photos were going to be at best a well-intentioned disappointment; regardless, I was almost there.

I finally arrived in the Belgian town of Neupre. It was still quite overcast, but at least the rain had stopped and the visibility improved. I slowed down and began to look for signs that surely would direct me to the cemetery. It wasn’t a large town either, so I figured worse case a 5,000 plus plotted cemetery would be hard to miss. Right at the moment of highest doubt, a sign informed me that the cemetery was only 200 meters ahead.

As I swung the car into a brief opening between two huge converging dark green hedges, I received a glimpse of a huge white memorial. Between the vibrant wet greens of the grass and hedges it floated ethereally above the surroundings. This, I thought, was going to be something special. I pulled into the vacant parking area and pulled on my rain slicker. The clouds were breaking up a bit, yet I didn’t trust them.

Camera ready, I moved towards the administration building to get the assistance of the assigned staff. Jeremy had provided me his Grandfather’s name and even his exact plot’s location, but I felt all would move faster if I inquired for some help. Based upon the lack of cars in the parking lot, I figured the staff should not be too busy to render me assistance. I walked in the unlocked door and found a seated man studying a computer monitor. He looked up and seemed surprised (not startled mind you) to have a visitor. As I rattled off William E. McCallister’s particulars he plugged away at his keyboard. Based upon our limited conversation, I assumed he was a local Belgian hire. As the printer groaned out a copy of William’s data, he asked if I was related. He seemed a bit down when I told him no I was not. I shared with him,
“William was my best friend’s grandfather." With that, he perked back up a bit and he grabbed a smallish rucksack and off we went to see William.

The wind freshened as we left the hedged area and entered the flats that surround the memorial. I felt small in its presence. I feel that was what the memorial’s designer must have been attempting to impart. As we moved out its shadow a vista of white crosses arranged in a Greek cross was set before me. The wind continued to pulse through the air, I could hear it rushing through the branches of the trees on the field’s perimeter. I was at once struck sad at the loss of so many service members. We made some small talk as we continued to walk by row after row of crosses with an occasional Star of David breaking up the cross’ geometrical monotony. I think I spoke to the gentlemen to mask my feeling of guilt of being alive around so much death. Odd, are the emotions that stroke through one’s thoughts during such an experience. I had visited many military cemeteries before, but never had such a profound feeling of loss. He explained there was a Ranger from Dieppe buried here, a Soldier from the Big Red One from Algeria, countless Soldiers killed during the Battle of the Bulge, and of course no small amount of Airmen. He continued that “not many Americans came here,” instead, most visit the bigger cemetery in Luxemburg, where the famous General Patton is buried.

We finally stopped at our designated row and he counted out eight in until we were centered upon William’s cross. He set his rucksack down and pulled out a Belgian and an American flag. They looked puny in context of the field of crosses in front of us. He planted them in firmly either side of the cross’ base. Kneeling, he slowly rubbed sand into the lettered etchings on the cross’ middle. The contrast of the sand against the white marble starkly highlighted William’s name. Without the ever present clouds’ cooperation, I took my photos. I thanked the staff member for his assistance and he warmly thanked me for caring enough to visit the memorial. Yes, I got a bit misty eyed at that, but he pretended not to notice. With my pathetic attempt at a photo shoot complete, we both headed back. He left the planted flags fluttering in the wind. I looked to him to see if he wanted to retrieve them, he intimated he’d come back later and get them.

As we walked away from William’s grave, he pointed at the patches on the back of the memorial itself. They indicated what units the majority of the interned service members had originated from. Eerily enough, I saw my current unit of assignment’s shoulder sleeve insignia that of the Seventh Army. As we parted, he indicated to go into the memorial itself as there was, “much to see inside.” And with another heartfelt “thank you,” I was left alone by the memorial. I took some photos of the memorial’s interior walls. WWII’s European campaign’s major operations were laid out in three stages on conveniently enough three walls, and on the fourth wall was a huge crucifix. I stepped outside and took two more exterior shots of the Memorial. My task was complete. At about the time I was congratulating myself that I had done my best, the sun started to shine through a small gap in the clouds. I thought, "do I want to see if it will still be out by the time I get back down to William’s site?" I figured Jeremy would do it for me, "so git a gain Lance!" I ran, OK I quickly walked back down and got my final photographs with the sun’s slightest of participation.

I think, the last shot (see below) is the best. The dark clouds emphasize the loss of so much surrounding youth and William’s own personal sacrifice. The light in the foreground shows that this was not the end of the McCallister clan, nor Europe, nor for that matter America. They are all still extant and flourishing, because men like William were willing put themselves in harm’s way.