Jack Watson
By BILL MEYER
You've never heard of a British soldier named Jack Watson nor a village named Bure in Belgium. You should.
Jack and I met 10 years ago as so-called "advisers" hired by major networks and news media to help with coverage of the 50th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge.
A retired major, he had been commanding officer of A Company, 13th Lancaster Bn. of the 6th Airborne Division. A paratrooper, Jack continues to wear the red beret at 86 years of age. He also wears miniature medals, including the highly regarded Military Cross.
Jack dresses impeccably, never a wrinkle, but always with creases in his suit and tie which are worn like a uniform. His body is erect and his gait measured.
Inside the coat pocket is a small bottle of Gordon's gin, which Jack "nips at" from early morning and all day, but never shows any sign of intoxication. His offer of "a nip" was refused and Jack was dismayed. "You blokes couldn't get enough back in '44."
Jack's friend, Angus, accompanies him at all times. Angus was in his company and has a deep respect for his CO. Angus is a Scotsman, dresses in the finest tweed, and prefers a "wee nip of the single malt."
We saw Bure, where the company faced impossible odds but prevailed. There had been Tiger as well as Panther tanks. "When you've seen one, you've seen them all," Jack agreed with his American friend, then asked, "What did you do when you saw your first King Tiger at Bullingen, armed only with a .30 cal. rifle?" The answer was "I didn't know whether to s - - - or go blind."
Jack quickly responded, "I see you still have your eyesight."
A Company marched down a road three feet deep in snow leading into Bure. Jack noted, "In a few minutes I'd lost a third of my men."
His American friend suggested, "We'd have advanced protected by that line of trees on the right." Jack replied, "My orders were to use the road."
Among those who died was Jack's highly regarded "batman" or "orderly."
He was hit by white phosphorus, which burns to the bone. You can't put it out. The soldier screamed as he asked his beloved commander to put him out of pain. Angus said Jack unholstered his service revolver and complied.
We visited the small British cemetery at Bure. The British bury their dead where they fall. Jack walked up to his batman's grave, never spoke and rendered the hand salute, clicked his heels, and stepped back a pace. The air was heavy with respect. Such a sight will never be forgotten. That's why you should know a British officer named Jack Watson and a Belgian village named Bure.
