Chapter 1

In the closing days of World War 2, our Regiment, The 48th Highlanders of Canada, part of 1st Canadian Division, 1st Brigade, were tasked with fighting the Germans through many small towns and villages in the Netherlands, east of Amsterdam.

I found it quietly satisfying to be there, having fought and survived through the Italian Campaign, but more importantly, my last name being Van Der Haven, I’m Dutch by heritage. Speaking the Dutch language was lost to me over the generations of my ancestors migrating to Canada in the mid-1800s. I only knew a few sentences when talking with my grandparents.

We were tasked, along with the Royal Canadian Regiment and Hastings and Prince Edward Regiment, to attack the Germans holding the town of Deventer. We were to enter from the southwest and west on the left side of the Issel River, while other Regiments attacked from the southeast and east.

On the 12th of April, 1945, the day was cold and damp, the king of dampness that chilled you to the bone. Now there was a light snow, rain mixture to ad to our misery. Two miles from the bridge crossing the Ijssel River into Deventer, we were split into two groups. Our group was tasked to meet up with the Royal Canadian Regiment west of Deventer to prevent the Germans from receiving more support.

We patrolled along a beat-up, hardened clay road that paralleled the mainline train tracks. The countryside was dotted with large impact craters from aerial bombings that had missed their intended targets.

Once lush forests were reduced to charred remains, scavenged for firewood, or left to rot. I could see the burnt-out remains of farmhouses and two windmills missing several blades. Then we heard the crack of small arms fire from our point men. We took cover in the ditch as the German patrol drew closer.

As Section Commander, I made sure the men spread out, directing several to the trees by the tracks for cover. The burst of machine guns mixed with the constant crack, crack of our rifles and Bren machine guns. The Germans began to hit us with scattered mortor fire. The ground would erupt from the exploding shells coating many of us with dirt and rock.

The RCR was contacted, needing support from the First Hussars Armoured. As the fighting continued, grenade launchers were scattering us. Soon I heard the rumble of a Sherman tank arriving along a side road.

I was next to Private Ferguson, taking cover in a drainage ditch, continuing to return fire to the Germans. Then there was an explosion, and everything went blank.

It would take me weeks to find out the results of the battle. What took place was told to me by 48th Highlander personnel and the family that saved me.

“We need Doc! We need Doc! Van Den Haven and Ferguson have been hit!” A soldier yelled.

“Be right there, I’m kinda busy!” The Medic hollered, finishing tying a tourniquet on an injured leg and giving his patient a shot of morphine. He scrambled, keeping low as he approached the slumped soldiers.