That morning, on the civilian side of the airport, the departure and arrival halls were thronged with vacationers arriving from and departing to their different destinations. Flight schedules for later that day had been changed: all scheduled take-offs and departures from 3.45pm to 6pm were now cancelled. Out of respect for the victims, from the moment the bodies arrived until they had left the air base, no planes would take off or land at Eindhoven airport. But for now, at the height of the summer holidays, the hustle and bustle of everyday life in the terminals was in stark contrast to the solemn preparations taking place on the military side of the complex.
That side of the air base was uncannily quiet as uniformed men received muted orders from their superiors. As the victims’ mourning families and friends started to enter the airport grounds, their grief and incredulity was almost tangible. For most of them the arrival of the coffins would change everything. They had been forced to wait an almost unbearably long time for the bodies to finally come home, so for some it was a relief of sorts. But for others, bringing them home would also bring home the hard and undeniable reality of those deaths.
In the early afternoon in Ukraine, forty simple wooden caskets were being unloaded from a truck. Earlier that morning the truck had picked up the coffins containing the victims remains from the factory grounds in Kharkiv. Each casket was carefully laid out on the tarmac in preparation for its journey home. Ukrainian military personnel plus forensic experts and representatives from the Netherlands, Malaysia and Australia together formed an honour guard around the coffins.
‘Today you start your journey home.’ It was 10.15am when a Dutch representative began his ceremonial speech. ‘It’s a long journey but we want to do it properly, with dignity.’ Moments later, white-gloved Ukrainian soldiers respectfully carried the coffins onto the aircraft one at a time.
At Eindhoven airport, national and international press had gathered. Some five hundred journalists, present to cover the arrival of the first victims, were met by a representative of the Dutch forensic team; he let them know that forty coffins would arrive later that day, but that the bereaved would be screened off to protect their privacy. The Dutch Hercules would arrive first with its transport of sixteen coffins and the Australian Globemaster was to follow with the other twenty-four coffins. The estimated time of arrival was around 4pm. The forty coffins were to be followed by more coffins during the week; it was expected that all the remains now still in Kharkiv would land on Dutch soil within the next four days.
In the meantime, the search for remains went on. Forensic experts hoped to examine the site in Ukraine for any overlooked remains or bone fragments in the following days. It was estimated that some sixteen victims were still unaccounted for. Finding them remained high on the list of priorities of anyone involved with the victims. However, the realistic expectation was that some were never going to have any closure because their loved ones would remain ‘lost’ forever: their bodies had probably disintegrated in the fire that broke out after the plane crashed to the ground. The impossible heat when the fuel tanks exploded left little hope of anything remaining of those caught in the fire. The forensic experts had also faced enormous difficulties in retrieving what was left from the crash site because of the limited and dangerous access.
Around midday, twenty members of the Royal Netherlands Marechaussee, a Dutch gendarmerie force performing military police and civil police duties, arrived at Eindhoven airport on gleaming motorcycles. The honorary escort would accompany the convoy of hearses to the Korporaal Van Oudheusden Barracks in Hilversum. There the Dutch forensic authorities, assisted by a large number of Australians, from forensic scientists to fingerprint and DNA experts, would start their disaster victim identification procedures. The Dutch experts included police officers, military personnel, forensic dentists and other medics, all tasked with collecting samples from close relatives around the country to help identify the 196 Dutch victims. The Dutch National Forensic Investigation Team, known as the LTFO, had already been collecting DNA samples, hair, fingerprints, and information about scars or tattoos or moles from family members.
As soon as a victim was identified by the LTFO they would first and foremost inform no one else but the family, to whom, after identification, the remains would be released and transferred. The identification process, even for experienced investigators, was expected to be so distressing that the team was assessed by a psychologist on a daily basis. The process for a single identification could take weeks, although it was more likely to take months. Every bone fragment found at the site would have to be identified; for some of the dead all that was left were fragments.
Large numbers of people who had been invited to attend the coming home ceremony were starting to pour into the military airport. Among them was Thomas Schansman, Quinn Schansman’s father. His son had been eighteen years old when he boarded the MH17 for a holiday to Malaysia. Although born in the USA, Quinn had spent most of his life in the Netherlands and his parents were Dutch. His dual citizenship held promises for his future and he had been very proud of his American passport, envisioning a future as a CEO for himself in that country. Quinn had been the only person on the plane with an American passport.
A few days after the crash, being the only American casualty, Quinn’s name was mentioned by Barack Obama during a press conference about the MH17. His father thought Quinn would have been proud of this, but for Thomas this wasn’t the way he wanted to have his son commemorated. Quinn was supposed to have gone on to become a CEO in America—that was the plan, not this. As he waited for the planes that carried the coffins, Thomas assumed his son would either arrive in the first coffin or the last one. Either one would have been characteristic for Quinn. But it was anyone’s guess who was in the caskets and it did not really matter. They were coming home, at last.
It was estimated that some 1200 people would be present, among them the bereaved, politicians and officials. Dutch King Willem-Alexander and his wife Queen Maxima, as well as Dutch prime minister Mark Rutte, headed the guests of honour. Australia had sent their minister for foreign affairs, Julie Bishop, and their Governor-General, Sir Peter Cosgrove. No representatives from Malaysia Airlines had been invited to attend the ceremony; this was later explained as an oversight. Malaysia, however, had sent their foreign affairs minister, Sri Anifah Aman, and their minister of transport, Liow Tiong Lai, to represent the country. Belgium’s Prince Laurent sat alongside David Lidington, the minister for Europe. The British ambassador to the Netherlands, Sir Geoffrey Adams, was among the attendees, and the entire Dutch cabinet sat in muted and solemn silence. Many world leaders had sent their condolences.
As the morning wore on, people from all over the Netherlands came to lay flowers at the entrance of the air base. The memorial spot was the old Dutch-built Fokker F-27 aeroplane that proudly stood guard at the entrance of the base.
The Globemaster touched down on Ukrainian soil at 10.50am. Just ten minutes later at 11am, the first plane, the Dutch Hercules, prepared for take-off from Kharkiv with its sad but precious load. As rehearsals for the ceremony in Eindhoven started, the second plane, the Australian Globemaster, took off at 12.30pm with its twenty-four coffins on board. The Globemaster, a much faster plane than the Dutch Hercules, would make up for lost time in the air. Both planes were now on their way, bringing a small number of the victims home at last to a waiting Dutch King and Queen and a nation in mourning.