“The Forgotten Battle”: Bringing Untold Stories of the Scheldt to Life
When The Forgotten Battle (2020) began production, the filmmakers knew they weren’t merely recreating history — they were unearthing a tragedy long buried beneath silence. The film, a Dutch-Polish co-production set during World War II’s Battle of the Scheldt, tells a story rarely spoken of: the struggle of ordinary people caught in extraordinary circumstances. Its narrative follows a British glider pilot, a Dutch resistance fighter, and a reluctant German soldier — all swept into the chaos and moral ambiguity of war. The film’s power lies not in heroics or spectacle, but in the human experience, the personal cost of conflict that history books often overlook.
Director Matthijs van Heijningen Jr. insisted on realism at any cost. From the beginning, he rejected the artificiality of staged suffering. “We didn’t want actors pretending to be miserable,” he said. “We wanted them to feel it.” To achieve this, the cast trained in freezing mud, endured hours in relentless rain, and performed scenes amid explosions and pyrotechnics that left the ground trembling. Every sequence was designed to immerse both actors and audience in the brutal reality of combat — not just the physical hardships, but the emotional and moral weight that soldiers and civilians alike carried.
Gijs Blom, who played Marinus, the Dutch resistance fighter, embodied that struggle in every moment on set. Weeks of grueling filming left a permanent mark on him. Even off camera, Blom carried the weight of guilt and moral conflict in his expression, a haunting reminder that war is as much a battle within as without. Co-star Susan Radder recounted, “He barely spoke off set. It was like he stayed inside that moral storm.” The intensity was not an act. It was methodical, lived-in truth. Every glance, hesitation, and tremor on screen reflected the real psychological toll of life in the Scheldt.
One of the film’s most grueling sequences came during the flooding scene. The filmmakers deliberately avoided CGI, choosing instead to fill the trenches with real water. Cast and crew alike waded knee-deep through freezing conditions for hours, performing sequences that demanded endurance, focus, and resilience. Radder later recalled, “It stopped being acting. We were just surviving, like the people we were portraying.” The authenticity of these moments elevated the film, transforming it from a historical retelling into a visceral experience. Audiences can sense the cold biting at the actors’ skin, the fatigue etched on their faces, and the dread that accompanies every decision in a war zone.
The commitment to realism resonated far beyond the set. After the film’s release, families of veterans contacted the production team, many moved to tears. One letter poignantly captured the film’s impact: “My father was there. He never spoke about it — until your film.” The Forgotten Battle offered these families a bridge to memories long suppressed, honoring experiences that had been silenced by trauma, grief, or the passage of time. It became a vessel for remembrance, giving voice to those who could not speak, and connecting new generations to the human cost of history.
What makes The Forgotten Battle distinct is its refusal to glorify victory. While many war films celebrate strategy or triumph, this film centers loss, moral complexity, and the harrowing choices faced by ordinary people. War, as the story reminds us, is not only waged on the battlefield but inside human hearts. In the rising waters, in the frozen mud, and in the sleepless nights, lines between right and wrong blur. Acts of heroism and cruelty coexist, and the cost is measured not in medals, but in shattered innocence, enduring guilt, and the quiet endurance of survivors.
The film’s meticulous attention to historical and emotional truth extends to its depiction of civilians and soldiers alike. Dutch villagers, caught between occupying forces and the Allies’ push to liberate the region, faced impossible choices. German soldiers, portrayed with nuance, are shown as human beings struggling under duty, fear, and survival. And the Allied forces, while disciplined and courageous, are not immune to moral dilemmas. By weaving together multiple perspectives, the film achieves a profound sense of empathy and realism, emphasizing that in war, everyone suffers, and every choice carries weight.
Ultimately, The Forgotten Battle reminds viewers that history is more than dates and maps. It is lived experience, the quiet anguish behind reports of campaigns, and the moral storms faced by individuals. By embracing authenticity, both in performance and production, the filmmakers allow audiences to feel the terror, confusion, and humanity of the Scheldt’s battles. It is a film that honors memory, giving long-overlooked stories the visibility they deserve.
Through mud, rain, and rising waters, The Forgotten Battle captures not just events of the past, but the emotional truth of war — the endurance of ordinary people, the fragility of morality, and the quiet heroism that often goes unrecorded. It reminds us that remembrance is more than telling a story; it is feeling it, witnessing it, and carrying its lessons forward.
A Life Cut Short: The Story of Private Jesus Peña, 315th Infantry Regiment, 79th Division
In the quiet fields of France, where the autumn of 1944 was painted in both fire and sacrifice, a young Texan named
He was just 20 years old.
Born on April 19, 1924, in Delmita, Texas, Jesus was one of seven children of
When war swept across the globe, young men from every corner of America answered the call to serve. Jesus was one of them. He enlisted in the United States Army
Assigned to the 315th Infantry Regiment of the 79th Infantry Division
It was in one of those grim, rain-soaked woodlands—the Parroy Forest—that Private Peña’s journey came to an end.
On October 28, 1944, as the 315th Regiment returned to the front lines after a brief rest, they encountered fierce German resistance. Mortar fire, snipers, and relentless artillery turned the forest into a maze of chaos. Amid that confusion and danger, Jesus Peña was killed in action.
He was twenty years old.
Though his service was brief, his sacrifice was profound. The Battle of Parroy Forest became one of the bloodiest engagements for the 79th Division in northeastern France. Soldiers fought not only the enemy but the elements—cold, mud, and exhaustion. Yet through it all, they pressed on, driven by the belief that each step forward brought the world closer to freedom. Jesus was among those who paid that price.
Private Peña’s remains were laid to rest far from Texas, beneath the quiet rows of white marble crosses at the Épinal American Cemetery and Memorial in France. His grave—Plot A, Row 8, Grave 66—stands among thousands of others, each marking a young life lost in the struggle to liberate Europe. Visitors who walk the cemetery grounds today often pause to read the names and ages carved into the stones. It is there, among them, that the story of a young man from Delmita continues to speak across generations.
The Peña family, like countless others across America, carried both pride and sorrow. They had sent two sons to war. Jesus’s older brother, Eugenio “Gene” Peña Jr., also served in the U.S. Army during World War II. He survived, returned home, and lived a long life—passing away in 2011 at the age of 89. Yet even decades later, Gene often spoke of his brother with reverence and quiet pain. To him, Jesus was not just a soldier but the boy who used to help mend fences, play under the Texas sun, and laugh with his siblings at the dinner table.
Stories like Jesus Peña’s are the heartbeat of history—ordinary young men transformed by extraordinary times. They remind us that freedom was secured not just by generals or grand strategies, but by individuals who believed that their sacrifice could make a difference.
Today, nearly eighty years after his death, Jesus Peña’s name remains etched in stone, his memory preserved by family, historians, and those who continue to honor the fallen.
He was one of millions who crossed oceans and continents to fight tyranny, yet his courage, like so many others’, burns brightly in the collective memory of a grateful world.
When the sun sets over the rows of white crosses at Épinal, it catches the inscription on his grave—“Jesus Peña, Texas, October 28, 1944.” It is simple, unadorned, yet powerful.
Behind those few words lies an entire life: a son, a brother, a soldier, and a hero who gave everything at twenty years old so others might live free.
