Pickle me a herring and call me a Dutchman
I — like I suspect just about every civilized person on the planet — have a thing about old maps and books. So I like to keep tabs on BibliOdyssey.
I sent the link to CK, giggling at the phrase
Holland is impolitely interrupted during breakfast as a stray bomb lands in his cup of cocoa.
CK writes back that his
great uncle was one of four Dutch soldiers to be injured during WWI. He was in an observation post when the Germans ‘accidentally’ lobbed in some a small shell. The explosion set fire to their store of cooking oil and he was a bit burned trying to fight the fire.
Good enough for him to claim a war pension for the rest of his life.
As far as I can tell, just about every male member of CK’s extended family did something in one of the two major unpleasantnesses in Europe last century, from sinking U-Boats single-handedly to rescuing 45,000 Polish refugees using only a rubber dinghy and a bag of flour.
Amazing.
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