Why a Stranger in Belgium Refused to Let Me Pay for Lunch

 

A close up of the Battle Of the Bulge Monument in Bastogne, Belgium
(Arkansas Democrat-Gazette/Michael Hoge)

Today is Memorial Day in the United States — a day to mourn, remember, and honor the men and women of the U.S. military who died while serving in the armed forces.

Growing up, I knew of relatives who had been lost in World War II before I was born. I was surrounded by veterans who had returned from the war — my father, numerous uncles, and almost every adult male I knew. Yet they rarely spoke about what they had experienced. For good reason, they wanted to leave it in the past, believing that World War II had been, as many hoped, the war to end all wars.

My grade school and high school history classes didn’t provide much more insight. The lessons were high-level and sanitized, at least as I remember them. There was little that conveyed the horror, grief, or human cost of war. Movies of the era mostly portrayed heroism and valor, rarely touching on trauma or sacrifice. In hindsight, many felt more like Hollywood recruiting films than honest reflections of war.

But my school years coincided with the height of the Vietnam War, and suddenly the reality of conflict felt much closer to home. Young men not much older than me were coming back in flag-draped coffins or wheelchairs. It was a confusing and chaotic time to grow up. Massive anti-war protests dominated the news, and public anger over Vietnam became so intense that President Lyndon Johnson chose not to seek reelection. In April 1975, just before I graduated from high school, North Vietnamese troops overran Saigon, the capital of U.S.-supported South Vietnam. I still remember the haunting images of desperate rooftop evacuations of American personnel.

During my own military service, I worked alongside many Vietnam veterans who had experienced war firsthand. One in particular left a lasting impression on me.

Major Dick Jones was the Maintenance Supervisor for the F-16 Wing to which I was assigned, and I served as his assistant. Dick was a good man — respected, capable, and deeply haunted. His service in Vietnam had left him with severe nightmares and a serious drinking problem. As we worked together, we became friends, and over time he shared some of the memories that tormented him.

Eventually, he could no longer cope with the demands of work, and I assumed many of his responsibilities. Dick was ultimately admitted to an Air Force psychiatric hospital. I never saw him again.

After leaving the military, I began a long career in defense contracting. Years later, while on a business trip to Brussels, my in-country representative — and good friend — Claire took me to the Bastogne War Museum and the Battle of the Bulge Monument, then known as the Mardasson Memorial.

The museum focuses on the Battle of the Bulge, one of the bloodiest campaigns fought by American forces in World War II. Nearby stands a monument honoring the 76,890 American soldiers who were killed, wounded, captured, or listed as missing during the battle.

Inscribed on the memorial stone are the Latin words:

LIBERATORIBVS
AMERICANIS
POPVLVS BELGICVS
MEMOR
IV.VII.MCMXLVI.

Translated, it reads:

“The Belgian people remember their American liberators — July 4, 1946.”

Afterward, Claire took me into the nearby town of Bastogne for lunch. We stopped at a small diner where everyone was speaking French. She helped me understand the menu and placed our order.

As we waited for our food, we chatted in English. An older man — about my father’s age — approached our table and asked Claire if I was American. When she said yes, he told us that my money was no good there. He insisted on buying my lunch.

It was his way of expressing gratitude for the American service members who had made the ultimate sacrifice to liberate Bastogne from the Germans.

That small gesture humbled me.

In that moment, I understood something no history class, movie, or Memorial Day speech had ever fully conveyed. It told me more about what my father, my uncles, and their generation had done in World War II than anyone ever had.

To this day, that moment defines Memorial Day for me.

Not a cookout.
Not a ballgame.
Not a parade.

It was an elderly Belgian man, decades later, still carrying gratitude for Americans he had never known — many of whom never made it home.

Today, I remember the 76,890 American casualties and missing soldiers of the Battle of the Bulge — and all those who gave their lives in service to this country.

May they rest in peace, and may their sacrifice never be forgotten.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. What does Memorial Day mean to you and how were those ideas formed? How does that fit in with modern culture today? Let me know in the comments. The questions are open to everyone.  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

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    Thank you for reading, and for walking this road with me.