- Contributed byÌý
- Bob Scrivener
- People in story:Ìý
- Lt. Edmund Scrivener, other unknown
- Location of story:Ìý
- Arnhem, Holland
- Background to story:Ìý
- Army
- Article ID:Ìý
- A2661996
- Contributed on:Ìý
- 24 May 2004
My father, Edmund F. Scrivener (1916—2003) served with 1st Battalion, The Border Regiment, Air Landing Brigade, at Arnhem. He wouldn’t talk much about his nine days in hell, but he did once say to me, 'Why is it a man’s scream sounds so much more blood-curdling than a woman’s?'
He wrote this poem about an incident near the end of the battle.
Death In Oosterbeek
At the dawning he came to me again,
That gentle smile, and blood upon his cheek
Reminding me, for his end had come
In the dappled woods of Oosterbeek.
A passing shower of German mortar bombs
Had driven me beneath a fallen tree,
And when, at last I rose, prepared to go,
I saw him turn his head and look at me.
The wonder and compassion in his eyes,
The friendship of the smile upon his face,
Mocked the blood that trickled from his lips,
And made me curse aloud the human race.
He knew they could not hurt him any more,
No longer would he feel the pains and fears,
Forgiveness shone from that young soldier's face,
The mem’ry brings a flood of angry tears.
I wish these tears would wash away the thought
That e’en in death we humiliate them so;
I saw him later at the First Aid Post,
A label tied to his bare and lifeless toe.
I often wonder who that young lad was,
Who gave his life to cross the bloody Rhine;
And if no loved ones have him in their thoughts,
Come haunt me lad, and live again in mine.
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