Monday, 11 November 2013
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
Day 123
Story about a Belgian survivor of Buchenwald concentration camp during WWII. The Gestapo suspected Louis of being in The Resistance and dangerous so he was designated N.N.,or Nacht und Nebel (the night of the mist) - it seems that the literal translation may be somewhat different?????I have read a variety of explanations about Nacht und Nebel and what it means or meant!
The comments on this page are all written by Paula Fynaut, Louis' daughter!
It is said that the oak tree stump in Buchenwald concentration camp is considered to be Goethe's Tree. (Goethe the great German philosopher who lived in Weimer, Germany). I found this out yesterday while researching Buchenwald as I was thinking of visiting the site of my father's incarceration! After reading about Goethe and Buchenwald and the Oak Tree that once stood in Buchenwald I felt compelled to tell my Dad's story!
So, here I am blogging! When I was a young girl in England in the 60's I remember being fascinated by the number tattooed on my Dad's arm,which I thought was #188590????. (when discussing the number with my brother he had remembered a number slightly different to the one I was recalling and we disagreed - it turned out later, as the blog evolved, that the number my brother had recollected from his memory was indeed the right one and the number I had put on this blog was incorrect - I have decided not to change it now, as at this moment, I can't remember the proper number .
After receiving my Dad's records ,it was confirmed that the number put on his arm was indeed an Auschwitz tattoo- to me the number is symbolic more than anything else - so I have left the number as I typed it originally as I am not sure how to change it on the blog but eventually I will get round to changing it to prevent any more confusion!!!I guess my memory is not quite as good as my brothers!!!
Loo E as Flemish people often pronounce his name was a Belgian political prisoner at Buchenwald during WWII and this was the number he was branded with when he entered Buchenwald. His arm and that number will be etched in my heart forever as symbolic of my Dad's great courage and integrity!
My Dad wrote a book about his life called "To Each his Own", which I considered publishing recently but found it was too expensive so blogging seems another way of honouring my Dad's story!
Hopefully, this story will help someone be strong in their life! Today, I realized that the blog will probably continue for quite a while longer as at this point in February 2012, I am only about a third of the way through my Dad's memoirs.
Since doing this blog I have heard a variety of different opinions about WWII; such as; "I don't believe that so many people got burnt in those ovens" and "it is good that people remember Buchenwald as supremist type thinking seems to be on the rise!!!!!!These comments and others I have heard make me reflect on many things!" Thank you to all my friends and relatives who have encouraged me and continue to encourage me in typing up my Dad's words on this blog!
In addition, I have found that there is a great deal of conflicting information out there in cyber space - so the good side is I have learned to be a much more critical thinker about what I read on the web and I really have tried to check out my sources well before quoting them: it has been a great learning experience for me!
I have had much input about this blog from a variety of people and my sincere thanks goes out to all those people who have been giving me constructive criticism and have helped me make this blog as accurate as possible as it has evolved. .
PLEASE NOTE: My Dad was born in 1920's and so it is important to remember that these were the thoughts of someone from a conflict 70 odd years ago. Some of my Dad's comments may not be appropriate or politically correct today!
The comments on this page are all written by Paula Fynaut, Louis' daughter!
It is said that the oak tree stump in Buchenwald concentration camp is considered to be Goethe's Tree. (Goethe the great German philosopher who lived in Weimer, Germany). I found this out yesterday while researching Buchenwald as I was thinking of visiting the site of my father's incarceration! After reading about Goethe and Buchenwald and the Oak Tree that once stood in Buchenwald I felt compelled to tell my Dad's story!
So, here I am blogging! When I was a young girl in England in the 60's I remember being fascinated by the number tattooed on my Dad's arm,which I thought was #188590????. (when discussing the number with my brother he had remembered a number slightly different to the one I was recalling and we disagreed - it turned out later, as the blog evolved, that the number my brother had recollected from his memory was indeed the right one and the number I had put on this blog was incorrect - I have decided not to change it now, as at this moment, I can't remember the proper number .
After receiving my Dad's records ,it was confirmed that the number put on his arm was indeed an Auschwitz tattoo- to me the number is symbolic more than anything else - so I have left the number as I typed it originally as I am not sure how to change it on the blog but eventually I will get round to changing it to prevent any more confusion!!!I guess my memory is not quite as good as my brothers!!!
Loo E as Flemish people often pronounce his name was a Belgian political prisoner at Buchenwald during WWII and this was the number he was branded with when he entered Buchenwald. His arm and that number will be etched in my heart forever as symbolic of my Dad's great courage and integrity!
My Dad wrote a book about his life called "To Each his Own", which I considered publishing recently but found it was too expensive so blogging seems another way of honouring my Dad's story!
Hopefully, this story will help someone be strong in their life! Today, I realized that the blog will probably continue for quite a while longer as at this point in February 2012, I am only about a third of the way through my Dad's memoirs.
Since doing this blog I have heard a variety of different opinions about WWII; such as; "I don't believe that so many people got burnt in those ovens" and "it is good that people remember Buchenwald as supremist type thinking seems to be on the rise!!!!!!These comments and others I have heard make me reflect on many things!" Thank you to all my friends and relatives who have encouraged me and continue to encourage me in typing up my Dad's words on this blog!
In addition, I have found that there is a great deal of conflicting information out there in cyber space - so the good side is I have learned to be a much more critical thinker about what I read on the web and I really have tried to check out my sources well before quoting them: it has been a great learning experience for me!
I have had much input about this blog from a variety of people and my sincere thanks goes out to all those people who have been giving me constructive criticism and have helped me make this blog as accurate as possible as it has evolved. .
PLEASE NOTE: My Dad was born in 1920's and so it is important to remember that these were the thoughts of someone from a conflict 70 odd years ago. Some of my Dad's comments may not be appropriate or politically correct today!
Day 1234
Excerpt from my Dad's book (in his own words not professionally edited).
Foreword: "My birth soon after the First World War, 1923, at the beginning of the depression was more a necessity than an accident .... It took place in an attic with the sunrays forcing themselves through the tiny roof window within the vicinity of the dockland yards. It was ideally placed for any creature of future adventures to have a window on the world for which I would be gratefully and thankfully hereafter installed, especially as the time would speed away and make the freedoms we would so much like to uphold roll away like a hoop leisurely proceeding at it's own pace pushed by it's own impetus.
Luckily, my youth was completely taken in by the coming change of wind - I don't know the reason: ...it comes to the point that you have just got to be a survivor. One's poor presence is just enough sometimes to fill the contribution to the general influence of events on this planet.
My personal participation in things well done gives absolute satisfaction and contentment as having taking part in such events towards further constructive development.
The eternal strife of good and evil encountered continued to be a part of it all..."
"I am very lucky that my Dad had such a positive attitude as otherwise I would not be sitting here today!
I resisted the urge to correct most of my Dad's spelling and grammar. He was Belgian by birth and leaving it in his own thoughts and words makes it more powerful for me and I hope for you too!
.
As my Dad would say, "Keep Good"!
Foreword: "My birth soon after the First World War, 1923, at the beginning of the depression was more a necessity than an accident .... It took place in an attic with the sunrays forcing themselves through the tiny roof window within the vicinity of the dockland yards. It was ideally placed for any creature of future adventures to have a window on the world for which I would be gratefully and thankfully hereafter installed, especially as the time would speed away and make the freedoms we would so much like to uphold roll away like a hoop leisurely proceeding at it's own pace pushed by it's own impetus.
Luckily, my youth was completely taken in by the coming change of wind - I don't know the reason: ...it comes to the point that you have just got to be a survivor. One's poor presence is just enough sometimes to fill the contribution to the general influence of events on this planet.
My personal participation in things well done gives absolute satisfaction and contentment as having taking part in such events towards further constructive development.
The eternal strife of good and evil encountered continued to be a part of it all..."
"I am very lucky that my Dad had such a positive attitude as otherwise I would not be sitting here today!
I resisted the urge to correct most of my Dad's spelling and grammar. He was Belgian by birth and leaving it in his own thoughts and words makes it more powerful for me and I hope for you too!
.
As my Dad would say, "Keep Good"!
Day 12345
Around us the big bullets were flying and ricocheting making a hellish noise ...I was just helping a neighbour's wife with her pram and baby in it to get them quickly downstairs. We just reached the little cellar in time. That was our first baptism of fire.
The quickness of events suddenly gave me the wish to be in Canada with my youngest Uncle Gerrard...How nice for them they would miss the fireworks, maybe some day I would tell them about it. Similar stories, maybe like my Father and Uncle Louis, both veterans of the last war who both won their laurels and Yzer-Cross decorations. What the hell, all over again! In retrospect it was like a picture in slow motion of the same power continuing the last war.
Our studies in High school had abruptly ended, welcomed by most students like a vacation and some even sung patriotic songs to the announcement of the ultimatum, so moving it always is that it brought tears to our eyes. I also felt sorry for all people especially the mothers, when I jumped on my bike that memorable day and sped homeward.
I was disappointed by the sight of some of our weaponry passing by and moving towards the front. It looked more like old museum pieces than anything else, actually it was! That with our bi-planes dropping out of the sky just before, or flying into the target practice bags because of lack of manouverability was just enough to give us the worst hopes of what was in store to tackle the fast and agile Messerschmit.
My mother was of the same thought and had a foreboding of pending disaster So, when the witan or gathering of elders came together she had a plan in mind. At the gathering, my mother convinced them all that it was better to take the way along to Dunkirk, if possible, to the Panne and then to London, the safer road by a long shot.
One of the reasons for her suggestion was the recent broadcast on the Belgian Radio, announced by this hour of emergency, that all young men of army age should keep themselves ready and proceed to the nearest point at Dunkirk to be able to make a last ditch stand. So they would stay with me as my mother meant.
When we were ready, the picture we made was a bit theatrical, our best clothes and those bright woollen blankets around our shoulders, big cases with our belongings, I started to hate carrying baggage ever since for holidays: saying goodbye to the old friendly house and giving the key to our neighbours who were better know for actual piracy than anything else. I saw them just smiling behind that mask of delightful sincerity but on the other hand knowing, very well, the fierce temper of my grandmother if and when she would come back...and sooner or later they would have that to contend with, so that made for a reasonable balance in this barter, ...
Arriving early morning at the quay to take the coastal train we were amazed at the devastation caused by mines and explosions from the evening before. The train was like a long electrical tram with carriages taking us as far as De Panne, La Panne as the French call it, near the border. The Ostend fleet had mostly left loaded to the brim with their own crews and families.
Melancholy descended over us as we said goodbye to most people we knew.
Covered by those big yellow blankets, the planes were busy following us - coming from miles beyond the eastern horizon.
The quickness of events suddenly gave me the wish to be in Canada with my youngest Uncle Gerrard...How nice for them they would miss the fireworks, maybe some day I would tell them about it. Similar stories, maybe like my Father and Uncle Louis, both veterans of the last war who both won their laurels and Yzer-Cross decorations. What the hell, all over again! In retrospect it was like a picture in slow motion of the same power continuing the last war.
Our studies in High school had abruptly ended, welcomed by most students like a vacation and some even sung patriotic songs to the announcement of the ultimatum, so moving it always is that it brought tears to our eyes. I also felt sorry for all people especially the mothers, when I jumped on my bike that memorable day and sped homeward.
I was disappointed by the sight of some of our weaponry passing by and moving towards the front. It looked more like old museum pieces than anything else, actually it was! That with our bi-planes dropping out of the sky just before, or flying into the target practice bags because of lack of manouverability was just enough to give us the worst hopes of what was in store to tackle the fast and agile Messerschmit.
My mother was of the same thought and had a foreboding of pending disaster So, when the witan or gathering of elders came together she had a plan in mind. At the gathering, my mother convinced them all that it was better to take the way along to Dunkirk, if possible, to the Panne and then to London, the safer road by a long shot.
One of the reasons for her suggestion was the recent broadcast on the Belgian Radio, announced by this hour of emergency, that all young men of army age should keep themselves ready and proceed to the nearest point at Dunkirk to be able to make a last ditch stand. So they would stay with me as my mother meant.
When we were ready, the picture we made was a bit theatrical, our best clothes and those bright woollen blankets around our shoulders, big cases with our belongings, I started to hate carrying baggage ever since for holidays: saying goodbye to the old friendly house and giving the key to our neighbours who were better know for actual piracy than anything else. I saw them just smiling behind that mask of delightful sincerity but on the other hand knowing, very well, the fierce temper of my grandmother if and when she would come back...and sooner or later they would have that to contend with, so that made for a reasonable balance in this barter, ...
Arriving early morning at the quay to take the coastal train we were amazed at the devastation caused by mines and explosions from the evening before. The train was like a long electrical tram with carriages taking us as far as De Panne, La Panne as the French call it, near the border. The Ostend fleet had mostly left loaded to the brim with their own crews and families.
Melancholy descended over us as we said goodbye to most people we knew.
Covered by those big yellow blankets, the planes were busy following us - coming from miles beyond the eastern horizon.
Day 123456
Before the evening fell I decided to venture a bit around while my Dad went to the shops to get bread and other supplies. Suddenly, my daydreaming was interrupted, drawn upward by fighter planes battling each other in full view.
The dog-fight was between one coastal British patrol and an overbearing pompous Messherschmidt, cocksure of itself meeting the British plane. It didn't take long before the Spitfire or whatever is was got the better of him and to our utter enjoyment shot him down. A billowing white object released itself from which dangled a small black dot as the stricken plane plummeted to earth some distance away, drifting to towards the inward open countryside.
His landing could not have been contemplated to be anywhere near our spot as the wind took him further inland. Nevertheless, as I was looking up some directions on old German maps found in my Grandmother's cupboard before departure was considered. I now decided to check our position on these excellent maps. All of a sudden, appearing from nowhere, a rubicond lady, French speaking came near me, all excited gesticulating towards another group like herself: in no time they surrounded my innocent person and now pointing at me as I held the German map.
Actually, the Germans had repaid us with them after having so irresponsibly destroyed our old towns, cities and lands so fiercely defended by the Belgian soldiers, mostly Flemish judging by the names on gravestones of the fallen.
Anyhow, those panicky citizens, accusing me in my own region, and in my own country with much ado are the biggest let down of the lot sowing the seeds of discord. To take me for a German parachutist who was blown a couple of miles away was an act of complete stupidity and no decent excuse can be found for citizens who do not recognise their own inhabitants in a bilingual country.
After hearing all the noise, luckily, my mother and grandmother arrived simultaneously on the scene and could prove my identity and innocence and later my dad arrived to verify that. It had to be seen! My grandmother, a real fighter, soon put this group to shame for their ignorance and they scattered like cackling hens.
They were lucky that we had no time for them. Later, we had a good laugh about it all while sitting around the campfire during supper - never mind the planes and war now. We settled down for a healthy nights sleep. My first one to remember under a starry sky. This was the 10th of May, 1940, my birthday.
We proceeded on the road which divided the dunes and polder? ground following in the footsteps of a miserable multitude, head and backs bent, noses burning in the sun, trudging along. We could have sung the boatsong but instead the sighing was stronger than the Volga flowing gently to the Black Sea.
Suddenly, a low flying plane of unrecognisable marking appeared over our heads and although it made a small stir in the masses nobody moved towards the ditches. Possibly most of them had seen the tricolour - I had not from where I was. I was the only one jumping for the ditch, to the laughing concern of the nearest crowd, who turned out to be our accusers of the day before - the French planes had become one of the rarest sights we had seen for a long time. My father called me back and made me feel ashamed of myself - I could have crawled back into my skin."
The dog-fight was between one coastal British patrol and an overbearing pompous Messherschmidt, cocksure of itself meeting the British plane. It didn't take long before the Spitfire or whatever is was got the better of him and to our utter enjoyment shot him down. A billowing white object released itself from which dangled a small black dot as the stricken plane plummeted to earth some distance away, drifting to towards the inward open countryside.
His landing could not have been contemplated to be anywhere near our spot as the wind took him further inland. Nevertheless, as I was looking up some directions on old German maps found in my Grandmother's cupboard before departure was considered. I now decided to check our position on these excellent maps. All of a sudden, appearing from nowhere, a rubicond lady, French speaking came near me, all excited gesticulating towards another group like herself: in no time they surrounded my innocent person and now pointing at me as I held the German map.
Actually, the Germans had repaid us with them after having so irresponsibly destroyed our old towns, cities and lands so fiercely defended by the Belgian soldiers, mostly Flemish judging by the names on gravestones of the fallen.
Anyhow, those panicky citizens, accusing me in my own region, and in my own country with much ado are the biggest let down of the lot sowing the seeds of discord. To take me for a German parachutist who was blown a couple of miles away was an act of complete stupidity and no decent excuse can be found for citizens who do not recognise their own inhabitants in a bilingual country.
After hearing all the noise, luckily, my mother and grandmother arrived simultaneously on the scene and could prove my identity and innocence and later my dad arrived to verify that. It had to be seen! My grandmother, a real fighter, soon put this group to shame for their ignorance and they scattered like cackling hens.
They were lucky that we had no time for them. Later, we had a good laugh about it all while sitting around the campfire during supper - never mind the planes and war now. We settled down for a healthy nights sleep. My first one to remember under a starry sky. This was the 10th of May, 1940, my birthday.
We proceeded on the road which divided the dunes and polder? ground following in the footsteps of a miserable multitude, head and backs bent, noses burning in the sun, trudging along. We could have sung the boatsong but instead the sighing was stronger than the Volga flowing gently to the Black Sea.
Suddenly, a low flying plane of unrecognisable marking appeared over our heads and although it made a small stir in the masses nobody moved towards the ditches. Possibly most of them had seen the tricolour - I had not from where I was. I was the only one jumping for the ditch, to the laughing concern of the nearest crowd, who turned out to be our accusers of the day before - the French planes had become one of the rarest sights we had seen for a long time. My father called me back and made me feel ashamed of myself - I could have crawled back into my skin."
Day 1234567
There was Dunkirk, in front of us, all of it's old glory ready for total destruction. Some bombs had fallen here and there and people of all races were still roaming around the streets and sitting about looking at the passing refugees waiting for their ships to leave. The first B.E.F. troops were beginning to arrive.
My Dad was always struggling and queuing for provisions to keep us on the go and all of us couldn't have agreed more than to get out of this trap as quickly as possible - even if that meant before the evening. With our load still growing lighter we hurried off to the countryside on the back, that would be the front facing the Germans...
By night fall we reached an old village called Chappele-Saint-Pierrre and found shelter in an open school, looked after by French soldiers. They were keeping order and were accepting money bribes for inside boarding in the classrooms, so we slept outside. A Jewish family choosing and being given the inside. It would have been better if those soldiers had been at the front, maybe they were stragglers!
The battle of Dunkirk now started to unfold in front of our eyes. We were like spectators in an amphi-theatre, sitting on our blankets. At night, Goering was now sending his planes non-stop. We saw them swooping and diving in the searchlights. The continuous pounding of bombs and explosions from anti-aircraft guns all turning continuously up in the sky as well as over the city.
The city had become a blazing inferno of fires and lightning flashes, with short outbursts of gunfire and thick, bellowing engulfing smoke. Sometimes, we wondered about the planes coming too close for our comfort but all glad we weren't there now and that we had followed our hunch.
The rumbling went on still further into the night but so tired had we become that we just fell asleep where we were. In haste, after our uneasy sleep and a quick bite we were packing up once again. The further away we could get, in the shortest possible time, from this doomed city the better.
Looking back in the morning sun we saw nothing but huge columns of smoke rising up in the sky. "Think it all over"; I told myself, "they might as well have given us all guns and rifles to fight back, we could be just as good as the soldiers".
Paris was becoming more and more remote for us now but we relentlessly struggled towards it. Of course, in this phony war we didn't know anything about Rommel busy cutting us off. Mind you it wouldn't take long before the phony war would be on us again - it looked like we were the only army trying to get somewhere.
Eventually, reaching for what I believed to be the old Pachendaele Canal we found an empty barge which was able to take us, at a price, further. It had no motor but a horse was ready to pull - at least we were going to save our poor feet. Those plumb barges looked and moved like a long black dragon at a snail's pace. They passed through the still flat and cultivated countryside be speckled with well kept and bigger farms than ours.
Our farms had never kept pace with the increasing population and loss of space. Everything was in luster and bloom smelling of a good harvest. Sometimes we walked alongside the horse who came to know us very well. Keeping the same pace between the coast by day we could distantly see the long smoke funnels from Dunkirk...
In previous years this very same countryside had been frequented by our pickers. Once upon a time these Small holders had come to harvest beets. They were a special breed of hardy country people, not without humour and their swagbags. Working hard from early morning until late in the evening fulfilling their sweethearts desires to set a home up.
They smoked their own tobacco, grown by themselves, bringing also a bit of life to the villages here. The beer was cheap, girls plentiful and all of the old music of Breughel's feasting embodied in their dances and merrymaking with a gorging of the best farmer's food. Our mouths were watering thinking of it. We were still not short of food and water in as much as they were supplying it.
When we called at the farms they asked jokingly if we had come to bring in the harvest. As before, the general atmosphere was still friendly and the theatre of war somewhat removed from us - cordiality and innocence of the same events was shared between us.
The different characters who had taken the barge as their temporary floating home consisted of a variety of people. One of these was a lonely monk who didn't seem to belong to any particular group. The monk was, of course, suspected of being a fifth columnist. This time they could have been right!
He had a military contenance and could hardly converse with any of us. He looked tall, thin and pale and almost embodied the spirit fo the epidemic which had overtaken Europe in the Dark Ages. Even his attire took the shape of it. One night, he suddenly disappeared - the German vanguards were now be much nearer than we had thought. It looked like the ghost-figure had preceded them and forewarned us.
It was now very calm - the quiet before the storm. It seemed all too much like a bad omen. Indeed, people were dying en mass all around us now - at least that was the prevailing feeling we had. In St. Omair, the crossroads were heavily bombed and bombarded - with reluctance, that was the place to which we were headed. Dunkirk was in flames and the drama on the beaches was unfolding itself behind us.
Boulogne and up to Calais were just the same - Rommel was busy hacking his way through and closing the gap, with the main body proceeding in France, advancing relentlessly. Rumors were filtering through to us, that later proved to be true, of a Scottish regiment that had been hacked to pieces by S.S. troopers near a little place called Paradis.
Right now, just over the tree tops, we were in the process of watching an agile German spotter plane and it's pilot trying to dodge a British fighter by playing the fallen leaf and getting away with it - that was more than a sign and omen. They were all around us, now for sure!
The horse driver stopped, got paid off and packed up there and then to return as quickly as he could. Thus we were stuck and now most people were leaving the barge and going in all directions. The horse gave us a last farewell look in a dispairing kind of way, that only a horse can do, and disappeared with it's driver - soon out of sight, to become just a small dot in the distance..."
My Dad was always struggling and queuing for provisions to keep us on the go and all of us couldn't have agreed more than to get out of this trap as quickly as possible - even if that meant before the evening. With our load still growing lighter we hurried off to the countryside on the back, that would be the front facing the Germans...
By night fall we reached an old village called Chappele-Saint-Pierrre and found shelter in an open school, looked after by French soldiers. They were keeping order and were accepting money bribes for inside boarding in the classrooms, so we slept outside. A Jewish family choosing and being given the inside. It would have been better if those soldiers had been at the front, maybe they were stragglers!
The battle of Dunkirk now started to unfold in front of our eyes. We were like spectators in an amphi-theatre, sitting on our blankets. At night, Goering was now sending his planes non-stop. We saw them swooping and diving in the searchlights. The continuous pounding of bombs and explosions from anti-aircraft guns all turning continuously up in the sky as well as over the city.
The city had become a blazing inferno of fires and lightning flashes, with short outbursts of gunfire and thick, bellowing engulfing smoke. Sometimes, we wondered about the planes coming too close for our comfort but all glad we weren't there now and that we had followed our hunch.
The rumbling went on still further into the night but so tired had we become that we just fell asleep where we were. In haste, after our uneasy sleep and a quick bite we were packing up once again. The further away we could get, in the shortest possible time, from this doomed city the better.
Looking back in the morning sun we saw nothing but huge columns of smoke rising up in the sky. "Think it all over"; I told myself, "they might as well have given us all guns and rifles to fight back, we could be just as good as the soldiers".
Paris was becoming more and more remote for us now but we relentlessly struggled towards it. Of course, in this phony war we didn't know anything about Rommel busy cutting us off. Mind you it wouldn't take long before the phony war would be on us again - it looked like we were the only army trying to get somewhere.
Eventually, reaching for what I believed to be the old Pachendaele Canal we found an empty barge which was able to take us, at a price, further. It had no motor but a horse was ready to pull - at least we were going to save our poor feet. Those plumb barges looked and moved like a long black dragon at a snail's pace. They passed through the still flat and cultivated countryside be speckled with well kept and bigger farms than ours.
Our farms had never kept pace with the increasing population and loss of space. Everything was in luster and bloom smelling of a good harvest. Sometimes we walked alongside the horse who came to know us very well. Keeping the same pace between the coast by day we could distantly see the long smoke funnels from Dunkirk...
In previous years this very same countryside had been frequented by our pickers. Once upon a time these Small holders had come to harvest beets. They were a special breed of hardy country people, not without humour and their swagbags. Working hard from early morning until late in the evening fulfilling their sweethearts desires to set a home up.
They smoked their own tobacco, grown by themselves, bringing also a bit of life to the villages here. The beer was cheap, girls plentiful and all of the old music of Breughel's feasting embodied in their dances and merrymaking with a gorging of the best farmer's food. Our mouths were watering thinking of it. We were still not short of food and water in as much as they were supplying it.
When we called at the farms they asked jokingly if we had come to bring in the harvest. As before, the general atmosphere was still friendly and the theatre of war somewhat removed from us - cordiality and innocence of the same events was shared between us.
The different characters who had taken the barge as their temporary floating home consisted of a variety of people. One of these was a lonely monk who didn't seem to belong to any particular group. The monk was, of course, suspected of being a fifth columnist. This time they could have been right!
He had a military contenance and could hardly converse with any of us. He looked tall, thin and pale and almost embodied the spirit fo the epidemic which had overtaken Europe in the Dark Ages. Even his attire took the shape of it. One night, he suddenly disappeared - the German vanguards were now be much nearer than we had thought. It looked like the ghost-figure had preceded them and forewarned us.
It was now very calm - the quiet before the storm. It seemed all too much like a bad omen. Indeed, people were dying en mass all around us now - at least that was the prevailing feeling we had. In St. Omair, the crossroads were heavily bombed and bombarded - with reluctance, that was the place to which we were headed. Dunkirk was in flames and the drama on the beaches was unfolding itself behind us.
Boulogne and up to Calais were just the same - Rommel was busy hacking his way through and closing the gap, with the main body proceeding in France, advancing relentlessly. Rumors were filtering through to us, that later proved to be true, of a Scottish regiment that had been hacked to pieces by S.S. troopers near a little place called Paradis.
Right now, just over the tree tops, we were in the process of watching an agile German spotter plane and it's pilot trying to dodge a British fighter by playing the fallen leaf and getting away with it - that was more than a sign and omen. They were all around us, now for sure!
The horse driver stopped, got paid off and packed up there and then to return as quickly as he could. Thus we were stuck and now most people were leaving the barge and going in all directions. The horse gave us a last farewell look in a dispairing kind of way, that only a horse can do, and disappeared with it's driver - soon out of sight, to become just a small dot in the distance..."
Day 12345678
It was finally just The Skipper, his family and us waiting for the following day and what might come with it. I think The Skipper was rather glad to have us as company. The barge was our second home now. Without the other people around we were feeling lost and were in the depth of the hold and checking our luggage. We climbed back onto the deck and we indulged in a quiet talk, the calm waters gently lapping against the sides of the bulk of the flat nose of the boat, making us dwell on our own bewildered thinking.
Suddenly, as in a nightmarish dream and in magnitude only to be compared with the spectacle of Hyronimus, Bosch's reknown painting of infamity @ death's allergory. Now a display of the most unlikely planes in history passed us by on different highs and low altitudes, hardly flying more like fluttering along in the sky, southward bound. "The fly-past of decadence and corruption"...
This was the French Air Force in all strength. It was more like an apparition or maybe a mirage. No, indeed shaking our heads in disbelief it was for real! Where was the Luftwaffe to catch the kites with a big net? Depressed we went to our bunks, there was no more hope for anything. "The Flight of Incompetance," I called it.
Gloom and despair overcame us. Suddenly, we heard that the Belgian King was the likely culprit and by preference his "Flemish People", a remark well taken, after all weren't we considered to be "Boches du Nord". What were we supposed to do now, turn chicken like them ...
Now we knew too definitely where the road lay, straight back home, with the lions. Meanwhile, The B.E.F. were busy trying to cut off the beaches ... in a tactical retreat. Blowing up a bridge up full with refugees, without any Germans being anywhere near. Considering, British stiff upper lip policy, they seemed just as panicky under strain as the rest of humanity.
Little did they know that Hitler had let them leave the beaches with their little boats so that they could tell how he had beaten them. This was said to be to the full amazement of Hitler's generals who already had their guns in place for the final assault and encirclement. The planes only kept pinpricking them, most of the bombs getting muffled in the sand.
The straffing was the worst on the long columns standing or wading in queues like sitting ducks. Surely the whole Luftwaffe was not used on these points otherwise it would have been a total massacre. Hitler seemed to have a knack for doing things that way, which eventually made him our best lunatic at large and for the Germans their worst enemy.
We now had to find a way to cope with the situation we found ourselves in ...
In the early morning we explored the other bank where there were high, thick trees that gave some protection from the air. The Skipper helped us to take our cases to the side in his little boat, ä skipperschiuite and tears in our eyes,we said farewell to the nice fellow and waved goodbye to the family. Before we left my father warned the skipper that he should not stay on the boat!
We had just placed our cases down when a dogfight started above us. Planes diving after each other, the big bullets cascading and ricocheting amongst us, we kept the trees between them and us as a shield. Our yellow blankets were on again, ideal targets, looking like French soldiers.
We had not gone two paces further after the dogfight when suddenly as from nowhere but really from the direction of St. Omaire appeared a low flying spotter plane above the treetops. It was clearly visible to us the instant we looked up, grey green fuselage with black crosses on the wings and the red swastika at an angle on the rudder. Well there we were, right in it, it couldn't have been more plain.
More refugees coming in haste and hysterical panic with grim stories of shootings, bayoneting and with tales of victims hanging on barbed wire fences hacked to pieces. The only thing left for us to do was to make for the open fields in front of us. If we kept to the road, following the canal, the troopers would be after us quicker - as there was no resistance anywhere.
With a ditch between us we now tried to get as much distance, in the shortest possible time between the last point near the barge and the length of the field, We had just covered a couple of kilometeres when we heard the short, sharp, speedy droning of two low flying Dorniers coming from the direction of St. Omair. They were skimming the canal between the lane of trees and the place where we had left the barge, ... it went up in broken and splintered planks, boards flying in all directions.!!!!!We hoped the skipper had heeded the warning for him and his family. There was no time to turn back or wonder what could have been done as suddenly we came under fire ...
The German Artillery had us in its sights and shells began falling short of us only twenty yards away. Before we could hear more of the distant deep sounding bangs of the guns and the whistling shells following us we quickly dove into the ditch. Then at a rapid pace, we then continued to follow the ditch until we were safely behind a big farm wall. No doubt, they had taken us for soldiers and once out of sight they had lost us and didn't waste any more ammunition. How close it had been!
A toothless old crow appeared before the old farmstead mumbling, it was an English exercise and not to worry about it! The old lady looked more like a witch and we thought should have looked better in her crystal ball!We left her where she stood as we all turned around and saw a few more craters opening up on her land... The old lady went back inside in some doubt!
As we didn't fancy being stuck there we hurried along until we reached the bend in the winding,curving road facing the other way again taking our steps north again, coming to another canal behind a little village called Bergues, derived from the Flemish Bergen for mountains, more like little hills, as that is what they appeared to be.
A British platoon was busy behind Bergues working to enlarge the canal and digging their trenches very close to the bridge. They were all nice chaps, we all had the same adverse thoughts after what we had experienced before arriving in Bergues which was tell the chaps not to go over the bridge with The Hun so near! So we started a nice conversation, calmly telling what we had seen with the Germans on the back of us, too close for comfort, from where we had come.
A scout was sent straight away on a motor bike in that direction and it didn't take long for him to return and verify the statement. The only course left for them was to leave the trenches and retreat swiftly before being cut off. We hoped for their success in a tactical retreat as it came so often to be called.
As the platoon was soon out of sight we continued our march towards Hondschote and the border where we crossed into Belgium - we felt just like victorious warriors from the, "The Battle of the Golden Spurs". We were so glad to back on home ground.
We had been insulted, not given bread or water anymore since those silly remarks by irresponsible statesmen, even by our distance cousins in those territories that were French now.
At that moment, we couldn't forgive any of them either! The hurt had cut too deep; cowardice and subservance were not our weaknesses at any time: lest we forget. Once wrongly challenged our wrath would have to be reckoned with...".
Suddenly, as in a nightmarish dream and in magnitude only to be compared with the spectacle of Hyronimus, Bosch's reknown painting of infamity @ death's allergory. Now a display of the most unlikely planes in history passed us by on different highs and low altitudes, hardly flying more like fluttering along in the sky, southward bound. "The fly-past of decadence and corruption"...
This was the French Air Force in all strength. It was more like an apparition or maybe a mirage. No, indeed shaking our heads in disbelief it was for real! Where was the Luftwaffe to catch the kites with a big net? Depressed we went to our bunks, there was no more hope for anything. "The Flight of Incompetance," I called it.
Gloom and despair overcame us. Suddenly, we heard that the Belgian King was the likely culprit and by preference his "Flemish People", a remark well taken, after all weren't we considered to be "Boches du Nord". What were we supposed to do now, turn chicken like them ...
Now we knew too definitely where the road lay, straight back home, with the lions. Meanwhile, The B.E.F. were busy trying to cut off the beaches ... in a tactical retreat. Blowing up a bridge up full with refugees, without any Germans being anywhere near. Considering, British stiff upper lip policy, they seemed just as panicky under strain as the rest of humanity.
Little did they know that Hitler had let them leave the beaches with their little boats so that they could tell how he had beaten them. This was said to be to the full amazement of Hitler's generals who already had their guns in place for the final assault and encirclement. The planes only kept pinpricking them, most of the bombs getting muffled in the sand.
The straffing was the worst on the long columns standing or wading in queues like sitting ducks. Surely the whole Luftwaffe was not used on these points otherwise it would have been a total massacre. Hitler seemed to have a knack for doing things that way, which eventually made him our best lunatic at large and for the Germans their worst enemy.
We now had to find a way to cope with the situation we found ourselves in ...
In the early morning we explored the other bank where there were high, thick trees that gave some protection from the air. The Skipper helped us to take our cases to the side in his little boat, ä skipperschiuite and tears in our eyes,we said farewell to the nice fellow and waved goodbye to the family. Before we left my father warned the skipper that he should not stay on the boat!
We had just placed our cases down when a dogfight started above us. Planes diving after each other, the big bullets cascading and ricocheting amongst us, we kept the trees between them and us as a shield. Our yellow blankets were on again, ideal targets, looking like French soldiers.
We had not gone two paces further after the dogfight when suddenly as from nowhere but really from the direction of St. Omaire appeared a low flying spotter plane above the treetops. It was clearly visible to us the instant we looked up, grey green fuselage with black crosses on the wings and the red swastika at an angle on the rudder. Well there we were, right in it, it couldn't have been more plain.
More refugees coming in haste and hysterical panic with grim stories of shootings, bayoneting and with tales of victims hanging on barbed wire fences hacked to pieces. The only thing left for us to do was to make for the open fields in front of us. If we kept to the road, following the canal, the troopers would be after us quicker - as there was no resistance anywhere.
With a ditch between us we now tried to get as much distance, in the shortest possible time between the last point near the barge and the length of the field, We had just covered a couple of kilometeres when we heard the short, sharp, speedy droning of two low flying Dorniers coming from the direction of St. Omair. They were skimming the canal between the lane of trees and the place where we had left the barge, ... it went up in broken and splintered planks, boards flying in all directions.!!!!!We hoped the skipper had heeded the warning for him and his family. There was no time to turn back or wonder what could have been done as suddenly we came under fire ...
The German Artillery had us in its sights and shells began falling short of us only twenty yards away. Before we could hear more of the distant deep sounding bangs of the guns and the whistling shells following us we quickly dove into the ditch. Then at a rapid pace, we then continued to follow the ditch until we were safely behind a big farm wall. No doubt, they had taken us for soldiers and once out of sight they had lost us and didn't waste any more ammunition. How close it had been!
A toothless old crow appeared before the old farmstead mumbling, it was an English exercise and not to worry about it! The old lady looked more like a witch and we thought should have looked better in her crystal ball!We left her where she stood as we all turned around and saw a few more craters opening up on her land... The old lady went back inside in some doubt!
As we didn't fancy being stuck there we hurried along until we reached the bend in the winding,curving road facing the other way again taking our steps north again, coming to another canal behind a little village called Bergues, derived from the Flemish Bergen for mountains, more like little hills, as that is what they appeared to be.
A British platoon was busy behind Bergues working to enlarge the canal and digging their trenches very close to the bridge. They were all nice chaps, we all had the same adverse thoughts after what we had experienced before arriving in Bergues which was tell the chaps not to go over the bridge with The Hun so near! So we started a nice conversation, calmly telling what we had seen with the Germans on the back of us, too close for comfort, from where we had come.
A scout was sent straight away on a motor bike in that direction and it didn't take long for him to return and verify the statement. The only course left for them was to leave the trenches and retreat swiftly before being cut off. We hoped for their success in a tactical retreat as it came so often to be called.
As the platoon was soon out of sight we continued our march towards Hondschote and the border where we crossed into Belgium - we felt just like victorious warriors from the, "The Battle of the Golden Spurs". We were so glad to back on home ground.
We had been insulted, not given bread or water anymore since those silly remarks by irresponsible statesmen, even by our distance cousins in those territories that were French now.
At that moment, we couldn't forgive any of them either! The hurt had cut too deep; cowardice and subservance were not our weaknesses at any time: lest we forget. Once wrongly challenged our wrath would have to be reckoned with...".
Day 123456789
"Once in Belgium, the place was still pretty full of German hordes and other foreign troops for that matter. Thank goodness for that breathing space and babbling brooks in which to dangle our tired and blistered feet and plenty of food and water. A small, British garrison was left behind on a farm and a friendly soldier now offered us some bully-beef. Before any of us could answer, my grandmother gave an absolute "No". He probably wondered what it was all about!
The feeling from the previous bad confrontation would take some time to go away - considering that we were anglophiles! If a bigger nation like France had to be placated by British politicians, then we certainly thought that they had to put up with their own chicanery - don't expect us to do the dirty work unless we are respected and part of the same set-up, freely, and we would then prove our worth.
Anyway, the farmer looked after us very well, we ate at the same table as in days gone by - Belgians had always been known for this kind of hospitality, it had been an honour to accommodate the stranger in your home and land! This was about the end of that custom because at the end of the war there was no such thing anymore. The rat race had begun - anything else was tantamount to softness! No more code of honour or hospitality to keep up.
The first long and sound sleep soon engulfed our tired minds and bodies.
After a good breakfast of eggs and boerspek, "Gammon", instead of the weak bowl of coffee with crusts in France that had been introduced, we felt ourselves more rejuvenated again. Some of the soldiers we were now watching near the wagon train and waiting for food were very young.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, over the treetops again, a low flying Dornier came on the scene making them run and jump like rabbits among the cabbages. Luckily, it was too sudden for the pilot and he hadn't observed any of them or had not been ready, maybe he just let them be! Their rifles were standing like tripods, when they came back embarrassment was showing on their faces. Probably, they felt the very same way I had felt near Bredune from the De Panne trip - the day my dad had told me off. They weren't told off!
Everybody goes through the same frustrations and trials, baptism by fire, soldiers and civilians alike. This was more like that than any other war as civilians became more vulnerable from the beginning of the hostilities due to intimidation and psychological warfare...
Leaving this last development behind us we headed surefooted for the coast again at an angle towards the North Sea and reaching the white sand dunes across the nearby fertile polder ground! We were away from the bulk of the incoming enemy army which was assembling for the final push or rather walk over, we may say so now!
The dunes which were in a straight line formed better protection against bombs as a good deal of the blast got muffled up. We could hide better and look out over the flat land for the approaching enemy coming either by land, air or even sea - the enemy was expected at any minute now!
There was shelter everywhere with occasional visits to farms. For the time being we felt very free in this last, open strip and corner. If nobody had the foresight to use it - we at least did! Eventually, we had to leave our dunes to swerve around the town to reach the harbor. By now, the tram stations along the coastal strip had all been destroyed. Our first real hold up was in front of Nieuwport.
In the evening we arrived at a big farm. Belgian soldiers were already installed and in defensive positions. They made room for us sharing their meager rations and telling us that, according to the news, this was likely to be their last stand as both our allies had fled.
As we tried to sleep we could hear the soldiers talking in subdued voices. They were describing the intense battles and skirmishes they had passed through from the beginning and during their retreat - so many comrades wounded and lost without much purpose to it all. The wages of war I suppose. We fell asleep to the murmer of their voices.
In the morning, after a short breakfast, we gathered ourselves to brace the last kilometers. Not without the soldiers warning us that the Stuka bombers came regularly at 7 O'Clock in the morning to bomb the bridge at the other side of Nieuwport, near the harbour. With this message we thanked them and left, we got through the town safely - very much deserted like everywhere.
When we reached the bridge we noticed everything around was very much in ruins and destroyed except the bridge itself. There was a Belgian soldier in front of the bridge with a small shelter. One soldier with a rifle to protect and defend the whole bridge, the town, the harbour and sluices on the west side. The Germans would reach this point from the north and east.
As predicted, we could hear the Stuka's droning in the distance. "That's them", said the Belgian soldier, now making ready to get in his shelter, "you had better do the same", he said. The dreaded sound was steadily approaching and in the sunlight, the small specks started taking shape in the sky and were heading straight for us! From high above they started spreading out and picking out their respective targets like eagles ready for their dives.
For a moment, I thought we were a bit too visible to make a run for it. It was time to take evasive action and scatter but where? There was not enough room in the shelter! My grandmother was already half way across the bridge but we didn't think it very wise to follow. My mother and I ran back towards the ruins and lay flat behind a wall from where we saw the first plane do its low trial run. My Dad screaming at us, to come back: to what?
Too late anyway and he was now jumping into the shelter as the first bombs started to come down. In between the bombings my mother and I jumped up and made for the first cellar we saw facing us - it was already full with the inhabitants. Extra room was made for us.
Now the shrieking of the Stuka's and screaming bombs started in earnest, our little shelter shuddering and wobbling like a jelly. Possibly, it only lasted for ten minutes but for us it felt like a life time. Meanwhile, everybody was wondering what was happening to the others who weren't there.
When it was all over and we heard the planes gradually fading away we climbed out dazed by the smoke and dust. Now observing the sun through the thick screen of smoke - to me it looked like a scene from the end of the world.
As their air gradually cleared and thanking God and the people in the shelter we proceeded towards the bridge. My Dad and the soldier were rising out of the compact hole which had a cover on top and with sides made of sandbags which were piled on top and around the hole. They were still rubbing their eyes, not believing their luck and again the bridge was intact. Honestly, they couldn't possibly have missed it if they wanted to.
No trace of my grandmother, we thought the worst now, what might have happened to her! My father said that some shrapnel from a brisant bomb had just missed him while he was shouting at us and then diving for cover, head over tail into the shelter. Everything seemed to be there, the same as before. I noticed the soldier had a machine gun, maybe that's where the short burst of fire I had heard had come from! I hoped that my grandmother was safe, he couldn't have shot her by mistake, surely......"
The feeling from the previous bad confrontation would take some time to go away - considering that we were anglophiles! If a bigger nation like France had to be placated by British politicians, then we certainly thought that they had to put up with their own chicanery - don't expect us to do the dirty work unless we are respected and part of the same set-up, freely, and we would then prove our worth.
Anyway, the farmer looked after us very well, we ate at the same table as in days gone by - Belgians had always been known for this kind of hospitality, it had been an honour to accommodate the stranger in your home and land! This was about the end of that custom because at the end of the war there was no such thing anymore. The rat race had begun - anything else was tantamount to softness! No more code of honour or hospitality to keep up.
The first long and sound sleep soon engulfed our tired minds and bodies.
After a good breakfast of eggs and boerspek, "Gammon", instead of the weak bowl of coffee with crusts in France that had been introduced, we felt ourselves more rejuvenated again. Some of the soldiers we were now watching near the wagon train and waiting for food were very young.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, over the treetops again, a low flying Dornier came on the scene making them run and jump like rabbits among the cabbages. Luckily, it was too sudden for the pilot and he hadn't observed any of them or had not been ready, maybe he just let them be! Their rifles were standing like tripods, when they came back embarrassment was showing on their faces. Probably, they felt the very same way I had felt near Bredune from the De Panne trip - the day my dad had told me off. They weren't told off!
Everybody goes through the same frustrations and trials, baptism by fire, soldiers and civilians alike. This was more like that than any other war as civilians became more vulnerable from the beginning of the hostilities due to intimidation and psychological warfare...
Leaving this last development behind us we headed surefooted for the coast again at an angle towards the North Sea and reaching the white sand dunes across the nearby fertile polder ground! We were away from the bulk of the incoming enemy army which was assembling for the final push or rather walk over, we may say so now!
The dunes which were in a straight line formed better protection against bombs as a good deal of the blast got muffled up. We could hide better and look out over the flat land for the approaching enemy coming either by land, air or even sea - the enemy was expected at any minute now!
There was shelter everywhere with occasional visits to farms. For the time being we felt very free in this last, open strip and corner. If nobody had the foresight to use it - we at least did! Eventually, we had to leave our dunes to swerve around the town to reach the harbor. By now, the tram stations along the coastal strip had all been destroyed. Our first real hold up was in front of Nieuwport.
In the evening we arrived at a big farm. Belgian soldiers were already installed and in defensive positions. They made room for us sharing their meager rations and telling us that, according to the news, this was likely to be their last stand as both our allies had fled.
As we tried to sleep we could hear the soldiers talking in subdued voices. They were describing the intense battles and skirmishes they had passed through from the beginning and during their retreat - so many comrades wounded and lost without much purpose to it all. The wages of war I suppose. We fell asleep to the murmer of their voices.
In the morning, after a short breakfast, we gathered ourselves to brace the last kilometers. Not without the soldiers warning us that the Stuka bombers came regularly at 7 O'Clock in the morning to bomb the bridge at the other side of Nieuwport, near the harbour. With this message we thanked them and left, we got through the town safely - very much deserted like everywhere.
When we reached the bridge we noticed everything around was very much in ruins and destroyed except the bridge itself. There was a Belgian soldier in front of the bridge with a small shelter. One soldier with a rifle to protect and defend the whole bridge, the town, the harbour and sluices on the west side. The Germans would reach this point from the north and east.
As predicted, we could hear the Stuka's droning in the distance. "That's them", said the Belgian soldier, now making ready to get in his shelter, "you had better do the same", he said. The dreaded sound was steadily approaching and in the sunlight, the small specks started taking shape in the sky and were heading straight for us! From high above they started spreading out and picking out their respective targets like eagles ready for their dives.
For a moment, I thought we were a bit too visible to make a run for it. It was time to take evasive action and scatter but where? There was not enough room in the shelter! My grandmother was already half way across the bridge but we didn't think it very wise to follow. My mother and I ran back towards the ruins and lay flat behind a wall from where we saw the first plane do its low trial run. My Dad screaming at us, to come back: to what?
Too late anyway and he was now jumping into the shelter as the first bombs started to come down. In between the bombings my mother and I jumped up and made for the first cellar we saw facing us - it was already full with the inhabitants. Extra room was made for us.
Now the shrieking of the Stuka's and screaming bombs started in earnest, our little shelter shuddering and wobbling like a jelly. Possibly, it only lasted for ten minutes but for us it felt like a life time. Meanwhile, everybody was wondering what was happening to the others who weren't there.
When it was all over and we heard the planes gradually fading away we climbed out dazed by the smoke and dust. Now observing the sun through the thick screen of smoke - to me it looked like a scene from the end of the world.
As their air gradually cleared and thanking God and the people in the shelter we proceeded towards the bridge. My Dad and the soldier were rising out of the compact hole which had a cover on top and with sides made of sandbags which were piled on top and around the hole. They were still rubbing their eyes, not believing their luck and again the bridge was intact. Honestly, they couldn't possibly have missed it if they wanted to.
No trace of my grandmother, we thought the worst now, what might have happened to her! My father said that some shrapnel from a brisant bomb had just missed him while he was shouting at us and then diving for cover, head over tail into the shelter. Everything seemed to be there, the same as before. I noticed the soldier had a machine gun, maybe that's where the short burst of fire I had heard had come from! I hoped that my grandmother was safe, he couldn't have shot her by mistake, surely......"
Day 1234567890
"After this we quickly crossed the bridge and noticed my grandmother appearing like a banshee from under a previously burned and shelled skeleton of an army car. She was swearing and cursing and waving her arms in anger after the disappearing "flying machines", she should have had a machine gun!
To stay here any longer was asking for a repeat performance so we gathered our wits together and took a last look at the monument of King Albert which had been slightly touched by shrapnel and had been part of the shelter. It turned out to be have been a good shelter after all but you never know after listening to the droning and feeling the vibrations all around us.
We also saw the sluices opened by the brave sluice guard that had let the waters through. The fishing hangers seemed to have had a good few bombs, also the sheds and boats. Now it was time to proceed on our march back now following close to the ditches along the highway. Soon we came to Westende and Middelkerke and were on homeground. From here we saw German Dorniers deliberately bombing a convent with the red crosses clearly visible for miles around. What a cruel thing to do! What was Goering and his henchmen up to. We were tired and fed up with these silly war games and didn't know what to expect in Ostend. The war was not even over!
We decided to call in on my mum's sister, Elisa, in Middlekerk, which not too far off - her placed was a bit inland and veered off towards the polder. As it turned out later it was just as well that we did go there We turned off at St. Willibrod's Church, still called after him in Middlekerk and arrived in no time at my Aunt Elisa's safe house. Everybody glad to see each other. What a surprise!.
Of course, they had never left - wise people that they were, unless you wished to be blasted away it was best to stay. Everything seemed to be on its last legs now and they said we might as well stay until the end - who knew what was still in store for us now, with such an unscrupulous adversary to cope with. Hun, German, what was the difference.
Anyway, our welcome was warm and cordial and that was the main thing -, everybody was glad to see each other intact. In the fields and a good distance from the house, my Uncle Odiel had made a little shelter. As evening was setting in we could see Ostend in the distance, straight over the openess of the wind swept prairies - that's what it looked like.
Similar to Dunkirk it was covered in smoke, burning all over with fires We could hear the pounding of incessant bombing, planes flying away and coming back relentlessly with another load. Nothing was over yet. We sensed and knew that so many souls were expiring during this useless slaughter so we thought it better to get to the shelter in time.
The mother of my uncle sat with her Alsation dog; which was very nervous, sensing the atmosphere. The lady religiously declaring that this was the anti-Christ at work and we ourselves felt that we had had a belly full of it!
We were in the grips of the last moments. It was intense and you could feel the tension also but we were all together. A consolation, somehow, against the terror of what might be in store for us together with a feeling of utter desolation pressing down on us. This was the intention of the enemy to take the last spiritual resistance away for his own cruel inner sadistic satisfaction.
The heaviest of his punishment was poured out on the so called Jewish quarters, the nice Chapel Street, and the huge hotels on the dike full up with wounded soldiers as well as the docks and workers quarters. What a kiss of death, the Casino went too.
The fires on the wood docks were tremendous and lit up the evening sky, they illuminated their targets perfectly. A couple of planes dropped their loads near us at an old German shelter called the "dronkenspit," named because of the way it was tilted by a delayed explosive - giving one the impression of feeling drunk while walking down the spiralling stairway.
The dike near us had also received bombs and a Belgian horse team had been decapitated. The following morning, as all the shops were closed, saw my dad and uncle deciding to use the opportunity to stock up the larder against more shortages. As nobody objected both went out and cut steaks from the fresh killed horses. It didn't take them long before they returned like hunters with their dripping slabs of fresh meat.
The big news was brought back that the British Fleet, mostly destroyers, was laying in front of the coast at a close distance watching and any minute a fierce dual between the advancing German forces and the fleet was expected - with us in between! After distributing the meat, we quickly went back into the shelter with no hanky panky! The confrontation would be terrible, just imagine the size of those guns, keep on praying!
After a while of unusual quietness nothing seemed to be happening ... the real fighting was over. Secret agreement, stalemate, whatsoever, we were safe. A silent non-aggression pact ..... Not long after this we reappeared like groundhogs from the flimsy hole. We will never know how close it all was, thank goodness. Subconsciously, one likes his country, his city, his people and when something tantamount to a catastrophe of certain and horrible proportions happens than it stays imprinted on your mind forever - there is not much left to ones imagination.
Under cover of the trees towards the sea the German grey coated columns kept moving along behind us, keeping to the canal of Passchendaele. Endless columns just like 1914-18 when some people remarked that,"they must be going in circles to produce such lengthy amounts of robot-like soldiers keeping on continuously".
An Artillery of articulated guns had taken up position next to us, starting to give regular salvo's?? at the soldiers at Nieuwport. I suppose our King thought it better to give up than risk complete annihilation.... We were still in our little shelter, expecting the worse to happen at any time. In a way, it was a relief on hearing the news of capitulation and at the same time we were apprehensive as to this situation would entail.....
Running to the house we saw Germans passing by on their vehicles. It had started to drizzle now, the sunshine was gone and gaiety with it - somber, grinning faces passing by, especially one on his motor bike looking at us pompous with victory. What a spectre to envisage for the coming years......"
To stay here any longer was asking for a repeat performance so we gathered our wits together and took a last look at the monument of King Albert which had been slightly touched by shrapnel and had been part of the shelter. It turned out to be have been a good shelter after all but you never know after listening to the droning and feeling the vibrations all around us.
We also saw the sluices opened by the brave sluice guard that had let the waters through. The fishing hangers seemed to have had a good few bombs, also the sheds and boats. Now it was time to proceed on our march back now following close to the ditches along the highway. Soon we came to Westende and Middelkerke and were on homeground. From here we saw German Dorniers deliberately bombing a convent with the red crosses clearly visible for miles around. What a cruel thing to do! What was Goering and his henchmen up to. We were tired and fed up with these silly war games and didn't know what to expect in Ostend. The war was not even over!
We decided to call in on my mum's sister, Elisa, in Middlekerk, which not too far off - her placed was a bit inland and veered off towards the polder. As it turned out later it was just as well that we did go there We turned off at St. Willibrod's Church, still called after him in Middlekerk and arrived in no time at my Aunt Elisa's safe house. Everybody glad to see each other. What a surprise!.
Of course, they had never left - wise people that they were, unless you wished to be blasted away it was best to stay. Everything seemed to be on its last legs now and they said we might as well stay until the end - who knew what was still in store for us now, with such an unscrupulous adversary to cope with. Hun, German, what was the difference.
Anyway, our welcome was warm and cordial and that was the main thing -, everybody was glad to see each other intact. In the fields and a good distance from the house, my Uncle Odiel had made a little shelter. As evening was setting in we could see Ostend in the distance, straight over the openess of the wind swept prairies - that's what it looked like.
Similar to Dunkirk it was covered in smoke, burning all over with fires We could hear the pounding of incessant bombing, planes flying away and coming back relentlessly with another load. Nothing was over yet. We sensed and knew that so many souls were expiring during this useless slaughter so we thought it better to get to the shelter in time.
The mother of my uncle sat with her Alsation dog; which was very nervous, sensing the atmosphere. The lady religiously declaring that this was the anti-Christ at work and we ourselves felt that we had had a belly full of it!
We were in the grips of the last moments. It was intense and you could feel the tension also but we were all together. A consolation, somehow, against the terror of what might be in store for us together with a feeling of utter desolation pressing down on us. This was the intention of the enemy to take the last spiritual resistance away for his own cruel inner sadistic satisfaction.
The heaviest of his punishment was poured out on the so called Jewish quarters, the nice Chapel Street, and the huge hotels on the dike full up with wounded soldiers as well as the docks and workers quarters. What a kiss of death, the Casino went too.
The fires on the wood docks were tremendous and lit up the evening sky, they illuminated their targets perfectly. A couple of planes dropped their loads near us at an old German shelter called the "dronkenspit," named because of the way it was tilted by a delayed explosive - giving one the impression of feeling drunk while walking down the spiralling stairway.
The dike near us had also received bombs and a Belgian horse team had been decapitated. The following morning, as all the shops were closed, saw my dad and uncle deciding to use the opportunity to stock up the larder against more shortages. As nobody objected both went out and cut steaks from the fresh killed horses. It didn't take them long before they returned like hunters with their dripping slabs of fresh meat.
The big news was brought back that the British Fleet, mostly destroyers, was laying in front of the coast at a close distance watching and any minute a fierce dual between the advancing German forces and the fleet was expected - with us in between! After distributing the meat, we quickly went back into the shelter with no hanky panky! The confrontation would be terrible, just imagine the size of those guns, keep on praying!
After a while of unusual quietness nothing seemed to be happening ... the real fighting was over. Secret agreement, stalemate, whatsoever, we were safe. A silent non-aggression pact ..... Not long after this we reappeared like groundhogs from the flimsy hole. We will never know how close it all was, thank goodness. Subconsciously, one likes his country, his city, his people and when something tantamount to a catastrophe of certain and horrible proportions happens than it stays imprinted on your mind forever - there is not much left to ones imagination.
Under cover of the trees towards the sea the German grey coated columns kept moving along behind us, keeping to the canal of Passchendaele. Endless columns just like 1914-18 when some people remarked that,"they must be going in circles to produce such lengthy amounts of robot-like soldiers keeping on continuously".
An Artillery of articulated guns had taken up position next to us, starting to give regular salvo's?? at the soldiers at Nieuwport. I suppose our King thought it better to give up than risk complete annihilation.... We were still in our little shelter, expecting the worse to happen at any time. In a way, it was a relief on hearing the news of capitulation and at the same time we were apprehensive as to this situation would entail.....
Running to the house we saw Germans passing by on their vehicles. It had started to drizzle now, the sunshine was gone and gaiety with it - somber, grinning faces passing by, especially one on his motor bike looking at us pompous with victory. What a spectre to envisage for the coming years......"
Day 12345678900
Big gun carriers, filled to the brim with soldiers were temporarily parked close to us, waiting for orders and one of the young bullies dropped his bayonet at my Dad's feet and I watched with trepidation, that could be the start of a massacre depending on how my Dad reacted.
I knew all the stories from the first World War, I knew his courage but also of his common sense: looking at us and smiling, he picked up the damned thing as if it was hot and presenting it back to front like a non-aggression offering he gave it back to the soldier. Which was accepted with a short snappy "Danke". We heaved a relieved sigh and thought what a close shave that had been. Just, the same, all of us were breeding secret thoughts of how to get this well armed enemy, we had to use underhanded methods from now on.
There were far too many of them and all that material it was rather difficult to try and jump them as it had been done in the past with success. We had to bide our time. It is no good to be a dead soldier or single hero, this was not the day for martyrdom. The battle was over for us for a while. We had our horse steaks to deal with and did not wish to deplete the supplies of our helpful aunt. The hearty meal carried us further on our way towards Ostend which we were finally able to reach and which turned out to be in a shambles of immense proportions.
The last minute bombing had left its destructive path in our wake, craters and debris all over the place. Telephone poles and lights in all positions laying across the streets. Some people walking aimlessly around with an incomprehensible glazed look. On reaching the centre cross-roads called "Petit Paris" people told us that Hitler Youth had stood on the corners of with an enourmous swastika flag trying to engage the attention of the German planes who were still bombing with their troops already crossing the town.
Approaching the Chapel Street that was practically destroyed, people were still coming from the dyke after helping rescue the wounded out of the hotels, they had gruesome tales to tell. The Casino was destroyed also. The British ships lay in front, with the German artillery firing a couple of shots quickly ordered by the officers to stop and proceed immediately to France. We heard the same stories over and over again from the few witnesses, most of the population being in the shelters at the time.
The great storm had subsided and calmed down. It was a great time to take account of it all. After this we proceeded in safety crossing the bridge, as usual, intact, and continued to the old tram-station where we had started our trip to nearly Bourbourg and back on the road to Saint-Omaire. We looked back in utter disbelief at the backlash and eagerness to totally bomb Ostend on the mad orders given by their leaders, similar to the destruction of Rotterdam!
The first German motorized platoon was completely annihilated, plastered on both sides of the house walls on the curve on the entrance to Ostend, its own soldiers crucified by their own planes. Most of the evidence, such as the bodies and human remnants had been quickly taken away but the wreck of cars and the blood splattered all around was overwhelming.
I wondered how the communique would be worded to the parents, wives and children of the victims. Would the incident be described as one of the hazards of war, fallen in the line of duty to the Fatherland on foreign soil. I don't think anybody enjoyed that either on any side and therefore we go back To Each His Own. (translation of the sign on the camp entrance to Buchenwald, meaning, at that time, Everybody Get's What They Deserve!
Luckily, we were on our own finding our way throughout the useless debris, otherwise we could have been mistaken for looters. The big ramp with busts of opulent women set in bronze was saved and intact, it crossed the railway track and sluices from The Barquentine Station towards the wood docks and onwards to Brussels.
The busts were an enterprise started in the reign of Leopold II. The pious fathers of the Bishopry had to interfere with the project with the pretence that their flock needed protection from the nakedness. Under indignant protest "The ladies" displayed had to be removed. Maybe the Germans would have used them for their shells anyway as cannon fodder.
All this was a traversity of free thought and liberal ideas. Our country had been used to free thought and liberty for centuries through its arts, culture and progressive policies. It also had became a cornerstone that would help tumble empires.
Maria Hendrika was the dowager who preferred to live in Belgium and so took up residence. Franz Joseph, despite his many reforms was obliged to leave Belgium because of the revolt of "Boerenkrijg", another Boer War. Napolean Bonaparte another occupier was responsible for building a fort in the dunes which was strategically placed to protect the harbour and on the other side of the town. We had just entered old Fort Wellington from Middlekerke, only a frontage was left.
The Guilds had played the biggest part in defending our freedoms to get our "Charters" established - sometimes in aristocratic families. Trade had begun to flourish including that, with the New World. Our new governors Albrecht and Isabella would became the intermediaries and the pacifiers.
The Flemish fleet would never recover its formal glory but the cruel times of the terrible Alva and his Inquisitors were over and times of burning heretics, plundering and destroying were finished. The best of the fleet stayed in Holland and so did the East India Company, found in Ostend.
From our vantage point, it was a short time before we noticed the marine school which had been partly destroyed by a "Voltreffer!!!", as they called it, a direct hit. The body of one of my school friends was still in it, which we later came to know was the reason for him being missing. He had gone there to get himself a typewriter at the crucial moment the bombing took place. His one and only ambition in life was to be a reporter, his life cut short in one moment, while attempting to achieve his ambition!"
I knew all the stories from the first World War, I knew his courage but also of his common sense: looking at us and smiling, he picked up the damned thing as if it was hot and presenting it back to front like a non-aggression offering he gave it back to the soldier. Which was accepted with a short snappy "Danke". We heaved a relieved sigh and thought what a close shave that had been. Just, the same, all of us were breeding secret thoughts of how to get this well armed enemy, we had to use underhanded methods from now on.
There were far too many of them and all that material it was rather difficult to try and jump them as it had been done in the past with success. We had to bide our time. It is no good to be a dead soldier or single hero, this was not the day for martyrdom. The battle was over for us for a while. We had our horse steaks to deal with and did not wish to deplete the supplies of our helpful aunt. The hearty meal carried us further on our way towards Ostend which we were finally able to reach and which turned out to be in a shambles of immense proportions.
The last minute bombing had left its destructive path in our wake, craters and debris all over the place. Telephone poles and lights in all positions laying across the streets. Some people walking aimlessly around with an incomprehensible glazed look. On reaching the centre cross-roads called "Petit Paris" people told us that Hitler Youth had stood on the corners of with an enourmous swastika flag trying to engage the attention of the German planes who were still bombing with their troops already crossing the town.
Approaching the Chapel Street that was practically destroyed, people were still coming from the dyke after helping rescue the wounded out of the hotels, they had gruesome tales to tell. The Casino was destroyed also. The British ships lay in front, with the German artillery firing a couple of shots quickly ordered by the officers to stop and proceed immediately to France. We heard the same stories over and over again from the few witnesses, most of the population being in the shelters at the time.
The great storm had subsided and calmed down. It was a great time to take account of it all. After this we proceeded in safety crossing the bridge, as usual, intact, and continued to the old tram-station where we had started our trip to nearly Bourbourg and back on the road to Saint-Omaire. We looked back in utter disbelief at the backlash and eagerness to totally bomb Ostend on the mad orders given by their leaders, similar to the destruction of Rotterdam!
The first German motorized platoon was completely annihilated, plastered on both sides of the house walls on the curve on the entrance to Ostend, its own soldiers crucified by their own planes. Most of the evidence, such as the bodies and human remnants had been quickly taken away but the wreck of cars and the blood splattered all around was overwhelming.
I wondered how the communique would be worded to the parents, wives and children of the victims. Would the incident be described as one of the hazards of war, fallen in the line of duty to the Fatherland on foreign soil. I don't think anybody enjoyed that either on any side and therefore we go back To Each His Own. (translation of the sign on the camp entrance to Buchenwald, meaning, at that time, Everybody Get's What They Deserve!
Luckily, we were on our own finding our way throughout the useless debris, otherwise we could have been mistaken for looters. The big ramp with busts of opulent women set in bronze was saved and intact, it crossed the railway track and sluices from The Barquentine Station towards the wood docks and onwards to Brussels.
The busts were an enterprise started in the reign of Leopold II. The pious fathers of the Bishopry had to interfere with the project with the pretence that their flock needed protection from the nakedness. Under indignant protest "The ladies" displayed had to be removed. Maybe the Germans would have used them for their shells anyway as cannon fodder.
All this was a traversity of free thought and liberal ideas. Our country had been used to free thought and liberty for centuries through its arts, culture and progressive policies. It also had became a cornerstone that would help tumble empires.
Maria Hendrika was the dowager who preferred to live in Belgium and so took up residence. Franz Joseph, despite his many reforms was obliged to leave Belgium because of the revolt of "Boerenkrijg", another Boer War. Napolean Bonaparte another occupier was responsible for building a fort in the dunes which was strategically placed to protect the harbour and on the other side of the town. We had just entered old Fort Wellington from Middlekerke, only a frontage was left.
The Guilds had played the biggest part in defending our freedoms to get our "Charters" established - sometimes in aristocratic families. Trade had begun to flourish including that, with the New World. Our new governors Albrecht and Isabella would became the intermediaries and the pacifiers.
The Flemish fleet would never recover its formal glory but the cruel times of the terrible Alva and his Inquisitors were over and times of burning heretics, plundering and destroying were finished. The best of the fleet stayed in Holland and so did the East India Company, found in Ostend.
From our vantage point, it was a short time before we noticed the marine school which had been partly destroyed by a "Voltreffer!!!", as they called it, a direct hit. The body of one of my school friends was still in it, which we later came to know was the reason for him being missing. He had gone there to get himself a typewriter at the crucial moment the bombing took place. His one and only ambition in life was to be a reporter, his life cut short in one moment, while attempting to achieve his ambition!"
Day 123456789001
Our homecoming was quite a spectacle. I noticed my tree was still standing there and so was the house, there were many gaps where other houses had originally stood and on the other side of the creek as well, it looked more like a mouth with broken teeth than a row of houses. Some of our best friends were killed in the bombing. A foul smell of humans mixed with plaster and wood was hanging over those places, especially with the present dampness from rainy weather. Complete families had disappeared in one swoop from the direct hits "voltreffers"; such people as the Swanpoels and Krugers.
Our throats and mouths were dry and we had looked forward to quenching our thirsts with some of the old stocks my grandmother had in her beer cellar, saved for such an occasion. Good old fashioned beers matured to perfection called Geuzen-Lambic beer. We would indulge before the Germans could lay their hands on it, what a lovely thought; this turned out to be an idle dream and the biggest disappointment yet of the whole trip, we were now at the cursing stage.
Our neighbours thinking that their moment had come during the bombing had drunk themselves into oblivion. This must have been going on since our departure. Anyway, they had a good time in bad circumstances and made the best of it. Right now some were stocking their larders with bully beef, Nestle's milk and boxes filled with all tinned food left behind in the dockyards by the B.E.F.
By the time we had re-established ourselves in our house the Germans had put their guards on the places and we just managed to rummage a couple of boxes, that was to last for the duration of the war; we were done for. You had to be glad with better than next to nothing from now on if you didn't want to be shot in the process. The Germans claimed it as their booty and we were the looters now, there was not much chance for filling our larders anymore.
The propaganda press and tourists came to take pictures of the deverstation their bombs had caused, the bodies of the victims rotting away underneath. We heard that one member of the Kruger family had survived, his knocking had been heard and he had been pulled from the rubble but his mind had gone, poor fellow. He was the oldest uncle of the children I knew so well of the Rixes and the Krugers. I had been astonished at the daring things the eldest Rix did just before the war got on its way. He seemed to get the last kick of living as if he knew time was running short for him.
The queues for the tinned food came to a definite stop with the German officers disciplining their soldiers for being too soft on us. Now and again gun shots were fired into the air to let us know who was in charge. The following six months was without shortages but once the restrictions orders came into force it hit us badly. The occupation forces wanted everything for themselves, even sending things to Germany and on top of that we had the blockade to contend with, this resulted in the farmers hiding their harvest for themselves and the black markets. With almost total restriction on movement it would be increasingly difficult to get some food in. The rationing was abysmal and you could hardly live on it. Not only was it meagre but the quantity and quality was just about at survival level from starvation.
Some of the Belgains ran away and hid till they could go home under the amnesty which was given after six months which Hitler provided for the Flemish soldiers. Maybe he hoped with this adverse news to sow dissension and put a wedge between the unity which was already shaky. It was fully used and the soldiers went home, most of them to form the Resistance Movement. People who had denied their Flemish roots and took the French side were only too glad to revert back to their origins to take advantage of the amnesty: some Walloons were also glad to take advantage of the situation after previous claims to have no knowlege of Flemish. My Grandmother also remembered the bad treatment we had received from the French soldiers, no water or food, so it was tit for tat as far as she was concerned short of spitting in the face. What happens to one is bound to happen to the other, all this has been said by famous philosophers like Erasmus', who wrote, "Praise to Foolishness".
The old lady would hold her position on this stand after being snubbed and I know quite a few others felt the same, like General De Gaulle and Mrs. Baels family, Lillian Baels was the second wife of King Leopold the Third. They had all experienced the same attitude and everybody had ended up in snubbing each other, of course the natural reaction to this was easier for some to get over than others, only time will heal the bitterness it created as long as it doesn't go the other way!
We had to forgive and forget in order to keep our heads, after a while petty thinking was out. The battle to better was better than to give in to worse situations. It was time to collect our wits and train in the lull. Weapons that had been thrown away were retrieved and cleaned and oiled and hidden away again, we gave ourselves a rough going over, hardening our bodies like the spartans, also living like it, on that we had no choice. All the tricks of unarmed combat were learned with the help of additional operatives who had been parachuted in. I don't think there was much the special forces could have taught us in all of this except their own codes and systems with contacts, which was picked up by our teachers anyway.
The harrassing of the enemy took all forms and shapes on a day to day basis, from helping ourselves to ration cards in the offices, to changing passes, obtaining provisions, stripping abandoned or requistioned buildings and general acts of sabotage. Schools were closed or used by the military and when they reopened, much later, there wasn't much in the way of supplies: most of us used the trade schools as they were giving extra rations of sardines out there, also, you could wait to take your final examinations because they wanted skilled youngsters to send to their factories in Germany, also becoming short of people. If you didn't go it was forced labour for you so we had to prepare ourselves well before this and make our own plans which was only for those who dared.
During the six months pause I managed to get myself a small skippers-boat which I had noticed laying submerged and tied to a barge in the woods docks. A bomb had sunk the barge and I figured the "schuite" a skippers-boat to be pretty well intact and worth the effort. We asked the sluice guard if we could have it and he agreed considering it to be war booty for us, otherwise it would rot away and the Germans had no interest in it anyway..."
Our throats and mouths were dry and we had looked forward to quenching our thirsts with some of the old stocks my grandmother had in her beer cellar, saved for such an occasion. Good old fashioned beers matured to perfection called Geuzen-Lambic beer. We would indulge before the Germans could lay their hands on it, what a lovely thought; this turned out to be an idle dream and the biggest disappointment yet of the whole trip, we were now at the cursing stage.
Our neighbours thinking that their moment had come during the bombing had drunk themselves into oblivion. This must have been going on since our departure. Anyway, they had a good time in bad circumstances and made the best of it. Right now some were stocking their larders with bully beef, Nestle's milk and boxes filled with all tinned food left behind in the dockyards by the B.E.F.
By the time we had re-established ourselves in our house the Germans had put their guards on the places and we just managed to rummage a couple of boxes, that was to last for the duration of the war; we were done for. You had to be glad with better than next to nothing from now on if you didn't want to be shot in the process. The Germans claimed it as their booty and we were the looters now, there was not much chance for filling our larders anymore.
The propaganda press and tourists came to take pictures of the deverstation their bombs had caused, the bodies of the victims rotting away underneath. We heard that one member of the Kruger family had survived, his knocking had been heard and he had been pulled from the rubble but his mind had gone, poor fellow. He was the oldest uncle of the children I knew so well of the Rixes and the Krugers. I had been astonished at the daring things the eldest Rix did just before the war got on its way. He seemed to get the last kick of living as if he knew time was running short for him.
The queues for the tinned food came to a definite stop with the German officers disciplining their soldiers for being too soft on us. Now and again gun shots were fired into the air to let us know who was in charge. The following six months was without shortages but once the restrictions orders came into force it hit us badly. The occupation forces wanted everything for themselves, even sending things to Germany and on top of that we had the blockade to contend with, this resulted in the farmers hiding their harvest for themselves and the black markets. With almost total restriction on movement it would be increasingly difficult to get some food in. The rationing was abysmal and you could hardly live on it. Not only was it meagre but the quantity and quality was just about at survival level from starvation.
Some of the Belgains ran away and hid till they could go home under the amnesty which was given after six months which Hitler provided for the Flemish soldiers. Maybe he hoped with this adverse news to sow dissension and put a wedge between the unity which was already shaky. It was fully used and the soldiers went home, most of them to form the Resistance Movement. People who had denied their Flemish roots and took the French side were only too glad to revert back to their origins to take advantage of the amnesty: some Walloons were also glad to take advantage of the situation after previous claims to have no knowlege of Flemish. My Grandmother also remembered the bad treatment we had received from the French soldiers, no water or food, so it was tit for tat as far as she was concerned short of spitting in the face. What happens to one is bound to happen to the other, all this has been said by famous philosophers like Erasmus', who wrote, "Praise to Foolishness".
The old lady would hold her position on this stand after being snubbed and I know quite a few others felt the same, like General De Gaulle and Mrs. Baels family, Lillian Baels was the second wife of King Leopold the Third. They had all experienced the same attitude and everybody had ended up in snubbing each other, of course the natural reaction to this was easier for some to get over than others, only time will heal the bitterness it created as long as it doesn't go the other way!
We had to forgive and forget in order to keep our heads, after a while petty thinking was out. The battle to better was better than to give in to worse situations. It was time to collect our wits and train in the lull. Weapons that had been thrown away were retrieved and cleaned and oiled and hidden away again, we gave ourselves a rough going over, hardening our bodies like the spartans, also living like it, on that we had no choice. All the tricks of unarmed combat were learned with the help of additional operatives who had been parachuted in. I don't think there was much the special forces could have taught us in all of this except their own codes and systems with contacts, which was picked up by our teachers anyway.
The harrassing of the enemy took all forms and shapes on a day to day basis, from helping ourselves to ration cards in the offices, to changing passes, obtaining provisions, stripping abandoned or requistioned buildings and general acts of sabotage. Schools were closed or used by the military and when they reopened, much later, there wasn't much in the way of supplies: most of us used the trade schools as they were giving extra rations of sardines out there, also, you could wait to take your final examinations because they wanted skilled youngsters to send to their factories in Germany, also becoming short of people. If you didn't go it was forced labour for you so we had to prepare ourselves well before this and make our own plans which was only for those who dared.
During the six months pause I managed to get myself a small skippers-boat which I had noticed laying submerged and tied to a barge in the woods docks. A bomb had sunk the barge and I figured the "schuite" a skippers-boat to be pretty well intact and worth the effort. We asked the sluice guard if we could have it and he agreed considering it to be war booty for us, otherwise it would rot away and the Germans had no interest in it anyway..."
Day 1234567890012
The whole contraption (Schuite) was held by a thick rope from the top of the quay by me, with some help, and I had the idea to get a sharp breadknife worked into a polo stick. I had it at an angle and hooked it around the very thick rope of the connection in both boats, once that was done an up and down movement in the water would gradually cut the rope. At the same time my old school friend ,Ächiles, was holding the grappled schuite so as not to lose it and I joined in helping him secure the boat. The whole operation took less than 10 minutes and was so successful we couldn't believe our eyes. Having the schuite freed we pulled it in to the bridge between the two docks which turned out to be a considerable distance away. Ducking under the bridge we had to manoevre and continue along the whole length of the next dock till we came to a ramp to pull it upon. The problem now was to get to the creek.
This had taken a good deal of the day so one of us had to stand guard till the next morning while the others looked for a cart big enough to transport the vessel in. My Dad found an old customer of my Grandmother, a caretaker of Tilbury dock and sheds and he got us the best cart available with all hands now getting the boat on it on the small wharf near the Billard and Creighton works who were trawler makers. Once this was achieved it was quite easy to pull and push it to the creek to put it on the grassy slopes close to the Ibis, a boarding school for seaman's orphans.
The shrapnel damage on the side we managed to mend with a plank from the wood piles and caulked the rest to make it watertight and it was as good as ever. From the bombed and burnt out Tilbury offices we procured a flagpole for a mast, sail. Canvas we got from the cellar, it had been used to cover the boiler. The two oars were another matter, we procured two straight stems from the Spars on the inland sand dunes, the remains of a wooded area which soon would completely disappear. I wouldn't say by encroaching civilization, but rather by unscrupulous stripping mostly of the occupier. The only trouble not being hardwood they would bend slightly so we fixed it by putting skids/slits????on and bolting the planks inbetween. (So, Proud of my Dad!)
The day of the launching was approaching and all old friends and neighbours were present. It was the Vikings again going out a roving!. After this the creek, the river North-Ede to Bruges and front harbour were never safe again, while it lasted. We sailed, tackled, trawled and rowed to our hearts content, argued when one pulled too much to one side, especially the very strong one called Gentilis against the weakness of the group in athletics called Pierre. This caused the boat to go into a spin when they were aboard but everybody had a good time.
We augmented our food supply with eels, flat fish and sea bass, we also cultivated mussel beds and were thinking of going out to sea, just in front of the coast, that is the amount of leeway we were allowed because we were under close surveillance, but who knows was the hope, a sudden mist and we may have been able to get away. A couple had succeeded to do just that, but only one made it, the others never survived the straffing that followed soon after. After a while one could not even get onto the beaches there was barbed wire everywhere plus mines and guns pointed at you.
My Dad kept away from the boat; one day he got caught by his own rod which had a double hanger with hooks to fish with on one side.. As he tried to reel in a wiggling eel, it managed to swing wildly and the other hook embedded in his right cheek I don't know who was catching whom but it was another thing to free him from the entanglement!(Cute story of my Dad and Grandfather)
All good things had to come to an end, once Achiles and I having finished collecting the ropes from the barquentine, which had been thrown in before the government left for England, were involved in an incident that knocked me head first into the water. I was hauling in the ropes, at great speed, and Achiles was rowing. Unfortunately, he wasn't looking where he was going and headed straight into the rear of a bigger boat. As I was standing upright the upper read end of the barge knocked me over into the water, which was none to warm and I had to swim to the boat which was heavy going as I was fully clothed, shoes and all. To keep warm we rowed as fast as we could and we were still fiercely arguing as we passed the Tilbury wharves, that were being used for loading Germant torpedoes on to speed boats. The German sailors watching us too closely maybe thought the worst and knocked somehow their delicate load.
An unexpected chain reaction started gradually developing from that and transferring to everything else like a slow running fire. All I knew was the sparks started to fly suddenly in all directions. What had happened I'll
never know and we suddenly found ouselves rowing for dear life while the spattering of ammunition increased behind us, first in small explosions, to a whole battery of bullets going off simultaneously, it was like being on a battleground.
We just made it towards the stairs opposite our house, after securing the boat, then the whole wharf seemd to rise up in a great glowing red flame. We looked back and waited for the deafening bang which we knew would result from the explosions. When the displacement of air came we were blown along by the force and slid sideways into the hallway and quickly descended into the cellar for shelter. (Now I know why my Dad always appeared to be scared of nothing!) Before our dash for safety we noticed a cyclist coming towards us who never had to pedal, he was just swept away with the force of the rushing wind which carried him along for kilometeres he later told us. We never could figure out how this thing had really started!
A bus load of German artists and tourists dispatched to the war zone for entertainment had waited too long on the signals. Suddenly, the last man came running through the fence to tell them to get away in a hurry and run, which they did, that was after receiving first the full blast in their faces bleeding profusely from the cuts mainly on their heads.
Afterwards, we took a little walk further on from the scene wondering what else might go up and met with the cyclist who told us about the free and effortless ride he had made. After all was quiet we went back and could find no trace of the sailors, labourers or flack team on a tower who were watching the whole incident in their last doomed moments, unbeknown to them!
Soon afterwards a detachment of officers and soldiers made a thorough house search in our row or "wyk", bayonets on rifles, luger drawn in hand pointed towards us; as they looked at my Dad's recommendation on the wall picturing Belgian soldiers with rifle and bayonet looking at them too, wearing the Yzer Cross on the Yzer front of 1914-1918. I thought we were in for it, especially as it seemed the rifle in our picture pointed at them for their father's deeds.
A few questions were asked which I understood with our low German Flemish dialect, about whether we had seen a couple of fellows with a boat who had been near the scene about the time of the explosion. Of course, that is the the bit (of the conversation) that we didn't understand, we kept our fingers crossed. Phew, that was close! The carelessness of the German sailors turned the catastrophe to our favour far better than any sabotage could have done at that moment in time and that is how it was..."
This had taken a good deal of the day so one of us had to stand guard till the next morning while the others looked for a cart big enough to transport the vessel in. My Dad found an old customer of my Grandmother, a caretaker of Tilbury dock and sheds and he got us the best cart available with all hands now getting the boat on it on the small wharf near the Billard and Creighton works who were trawler makers. Once this was achieved it was quite easy to pull and push it to the creek to put it on the grassy slopes close to the Ibis, a boarding school for seaman's orphans.
The shrapnel damage on the side we managed to mend with a plank from the wood piles and caulked the rest to make it watertight and it was as good as ever. From the bombed and burnt out Tilbury offices we procured a flagpole for a mast, sail. Canvas we got from the cellar, it had been used to cover the boiler. The two oars were another matter, we procured two straight stems from the Spars on the inland sand dunes, the remains of a wooded area which soon would completely disappear. I wouldn't say by encroaching civilization, but rather by unscrupulous stripping mostly of the occupier. The only trouble not being hardwood they would bend slightly so we fixed it by putting skids/slits????on and bolting the planks inbetween. (So, Proud of my Dad!)
The day of the launching was approaching and all old friends and neighbours were present. It was the Vikings again going out a roving!. After this the creek, the river North-Ede to Bruges and front harbour were never safe again, while it lasted. We sailed, tackled, trawled and rowed to our hearts content, argued when one pulled too much to one side, especially the very strong one called Gentilis against the weakness of the group in athletics called Pierre. This caused the boat to go into a spin when they were aboard but everybody had a good time.
We augmented our food supply with eels, flat fish and sea bass, we also cultivated mussel beds and were thinking of going out to sea, just in front of the coast, that is the amount of leeway we were allowed because we were under close surveillance, but who knows was the hope, a sudden mist and we may have been able to get away. A couple had succeeded to do just that, but only one made it, the others never survived the straffing that followed soon after. After a while one could not even get onto the beaches there was barbed wire everywhere plus mines and guns pointed at you.
My Dad kept away from the boat; one day he got caught by his own rod which had a double hanger with hooks to fish with on one side.. As he tried to reel in a wiggling eel, it managed to swing wildly and the other hook embedded in his right cheek I don't know who was catching whom but it was another thing to free him from the entanglement!(Cute story of my Dad and Grandfather)
All good things had to come to an end, once Achiles and I having finished collecting the ropes from the barquentine, which had been thrown in before the government left for England, were involved in an incident that knocked me head first into the water. I was hauling in the ropes, at great speed, and Achiles was rowing. Unfortunately, he wasn't looking where he was going and headed straight into the rear of a bigger boat. As I was standing upright the upper read end of the barge knocked me over into the water, which was none to warm and I had to swim to the boat which was heavy going as I was fully clothed, shoes and all. To keep warm we rowed as fast as we could and we were still fiercely arguing as we passed the Tilbury wharves, that were being used for loading Germant torpedoes on to speed boats. The German sailors watching us too closely maybe thought the worst and knocked somehow their delicate load.
An unexpected chain reaction started gradually developing from that and transferring to everything else like a slow running fire. All I knew was the sparks started to fly suddenly in all directions. What had happened I'll
never know and we suddenly found ouselves rowing for dear life while the spattering of ammunition increased behind us, first in small explosions, to a whole battery of bullets going off simultaneously, it was like being on a battleground.
We just made it towards the stairs opposite our house, after securing the boat, then the whole wharf seemd to rise up in a great glowing red flame. We looked back and waited for the deafening bang which we knew would result from the explosions. When the displacement of air came we were blown along by the force and slid sideways into the hallway and quickly descended into the cellar for shelter. (Now I know why my Dad always appeared to be scared of nothing!) Before our dash for safety we noticed a cyclist coming towards us who never had to pedal, he was just swept away with the force of the rushing wind which carried him along for kilometeres he later told us. We never could figure out how this thing had really started!
A bus load of German artists and tourists dispatched to the war zone for entertainment had waited too long on the signals. Suddenly, the last man came running through the fence to tell them to get away in a hurry and run, which they did, that was after receiving first the full blast in their faces bleeding profusely from the cuts mainly on their heads.
Afterwards, we took a little walk further on from the scene wondering what else might go up and met with the cyclist who told us about the free and effortless ride he had made. After all was quiet we went back and could find no trace of the sailors, labourers or flack team on a tower who were watching the whole incident in their last doomed moments, unbeknown to them!
Soon afterwards a detachment of officers and soldiers made a thorough house search in our row or "wyk", bayonets on rifles, luger drawn in hand pointed towards us; as they looked at my Dad's recommendation on the wall picturing Belgian soldiers with rifle and bayonet looking at them too, wearing the Yzer Cross on the Yzer front of 1914-1918. I thought we were in for it, especially as it seemed the rifle in our picture pointed at them for their father's deeds.
A few questions were asked which I understood with our low German Flemish dialect, about whether we had seen a couple of fellows with a boat who had been near the scene about the time of the explosion. Of course, that is the the bit (of the conversation) that we didn't understand, we kept our fingers crossed. Phew, that was close! The carelessness of the German sailors turned the catastrophe to our favour far better than any sabotage could have done at that moment in time and that is how it was..."
Day 12345678900123
Ostend and area was now flooded with German ferrets asking all kinds of questions and opinions, with the barges with their fronts cut off, to allow vehicles to be taken on board from the installations along the banks were appearing everywhere, to take on the military paraphenalia....
All peace and quiet had gone and our allies the British had to bomb all this in return, without choice, and we would be in the midst of it again. I think we had more than enough of it and moved away into town where we got bombed instead as a convoy moved throughout and an articulated gun was chased by a flyer. Also, to remember the bombs that most of the time missed hitting the flack team nearest and above us which was placed at an old hotel called the Canon Hotel. Eventually, they blasted them out of position on the rooftop into oblivion.
We then thought it safer to ride to the countryside and a stricken plane proceeded to drop its bombs right next to us in a field. We just couldn't win! For a time no matter where we went the bombing was following us. We decided to take a rest with an old aunt of my Dad's in Beerst near Diksmuide and that was alright for a while. Enough to eat there and we could still take long rides into the surrounding countryside and look for apples and vegetables.
Slowly our funds where running out and my Dad had to go back to town to live, with us following him. Restrictions were really biting and hard now with the end of the war nowhere in sight. We were placed in good homes from Doctor friends my Mother knew very well, but the Germans requisitioned it all in turn, even my bike, as soon as we became nicely settled in.
I hid in trade schools where most resistance and information was gathered and given out from there too. I was offerred a chance to join, somebody put my name straight on a list which was the last straw as I thought it was unwise thing to do, "fancy giving the enemy a chance to get you through a list", so I didn't join. Many were caught this way and one of my friends even lost his head because of patriotic fervour when he was captured and spat in their faces. This was too simple an action and not for me to be extinquished.
I had another turn in the countryside with another good aunt on my Mother's side near the border, so I had the opportunity to make a crossing near there, it was pretty easy for the daring again! Total starvation was relieved on the coastal region by miraculous events such as the herring and sprats becoming stuck near Dunkirk and Calais, backing right up to Ostend. The little boats were still allowed to catch them. They came in loaded to the brim and near to the danger point of sinking through the shear weight of the catch.
We ate herring morning, noon and night and exchanged them for food with the farmers which we smuggled in from the countryside to keep ourselves and boxers alive for the sake of the sport, the only entertainment available which came to the peak of revival. It was a shame the German propaganda got hold of them to elevate Flemish nationalism. After the war they had to pay the wages of sin for that with a five year jail term and self exile afterwards, mostly to Argentina.
My Great Aunt's husband, Maurice was with the "White Brigade", Maurice was a secret silent man who deigned to talk to me. I still wonder whether he wanted me to join but I went back to Ostend and found other means of work instead.
The coast was on full alert now and put on the defensive after they lost The Battle of Britian, having tried their reign of terror there too, the Germans started losing so many planes there, they never achieved the superiority to make a landing remotely possible considering those barges! They attempted a small raid from France, we heard all about it, the Hitler Youth, who were fully involved got burned and extensively hospitalised in St Omairs afterwards.
The three walls of fire in the possible landings on the English coast were not fully envisaged and anticipated indeed but secretly unknown they got a partial inkling at that time, considering all things were possible but not advisable. They intended to drive the attention off this idea and direct it instead eastwards destroying at once the myth and the unholy alliance with Stalin, the main "Blitz'" Barborossa, the invasion of Russia.
Little did the Germans know that their quick temper would cloud their judgement and distract the leader of the "Luftwaffe", namely Goering, from the destruction of the air fields in Britain ...,
At this time, my Mother sacrificed a lot in rations giving up her share to us ... Sometimes, we stayed with my Aunt Ray and she managed to get things from the Railway Guards but eventually we had to do without extra helpings of food. We even went to funerals in the countryside just to eat and bring back something. You could get a pass for family business and we had a good fill up on such occasions but now we were unable to stock up and take things with us anymore. Somehow, the enemy gave you no choice, even to breath after a time.
About this time I felt it was about time to make a go of it out of the encirclement. The best way was a well prepared overland crossing via the three "S's", Spain, Switzerland and Sweden. The more contacts we could gather the better, that was my my ultimate aim" (Go Dad Go!)
All peace and quiet had gone and our allies the British had to bomb all this in return, without choice, and we would be in the midst of it again. I think we had more than enough of it and moved away into town where we got bombed instead as a convoy moved throughout and an articulated gun was chased by a flyer. Also, to remember the bombs that most of the time missed hitting the flack team nearest and above us which was placed at an old hotel called the Canon Hotel. Eventually, they blasted them out of position on the rooftop into oblivion.
We then thought it safer to ride to the countryside and a stricken plane proceeded to drop its bombs right next to us in a field. We just couldn't win! For a time no matter where we went the bombing was following us. We decided to take a rest with an old aunt of my Dad's in Beerst near Diksmuide and that was alright for a while. Enough to eat there and we could still take long rides into the surrounding countryside and look for apples and vegetables.
Slowly our funds where running out and my Dad had to go back to town to live, with us following him. Restrictions were really biting and hard now with the end of the war nowhere in sight. We were placed in good homes from Doctor friends my Mother knew very well, but the Germans requisitioned it all in turn, even my bike, as soon as we became nicely settled in.
I hid in trade schools where most resistance and information was gathered and given out from there too. I was offerred a chance to join, somebody put my name straight on a list which was the last straw as I thought it was unwise thing to do, "fancy giving the enemy a chance to get you through a list", so I didn't join. Many were caught this way and one of my friends even lost his head because of patriotic fervour when he was captured and spat in their faces. This was too simple an action and not for me to be extinquished.
I had another turn in the countryside with another good aunt on my Mother's side near the border, so I had the opportunity to make a crossing near there, it was pretty easy for the daring again! Total starvation was relieved on the coastal region by miraculous events such as the herring and sprats becoming stuck near Dunkirk and Calais, backing right up to Ostend. The little boats were still allowed to catch them. They came in loaded to the brim and near to the danger point of sinking through the shear weight of the catch.
We ate herring morning, noon and night and exchanged them for food with the farmers which we smuggled in from the countryside to keep ourselves and boxers alive for the sake of the sport, the only entertainment available which came to the peak of revival. It was a shame the German propaganda got hold of them to elevate Flemish nationalism. After the war they had to pay the wages of sin for that with a five year jail term and self exile afterwards, mostly to Argentina.
My Great Aunt's husband, Maurice was with the "White Brigade", Maurice was a secret silent man who deigned to talk to me. I still wonder whether he wanted me to join but I went back to Ostend and found other means of work instead.
The coast was on full alert now and put on the defensive after they lost The Battle of Britian, having tried their reign of terror there too, the Germans started losing so many planes there, they never achieved the superiority to make a landing remotely possible considering those barges! They attempted a small raid from France, we heard all about it, the Hitler Youth, who were fully involved got burned and extensively hospitalised in St Omairs afterwards.
The three walls of fire in the possible landings on the English coast were not fully envisaged and anticipated indeed but secretly unknown they got a partial inkling at that time, considering all things were possible but not advisable. They intended to drive the attention off this idea and direct it instead eastwards destroying at once the myth and the unholy alliance with Stalin, the main "Blitz'" Barborossa, the invasion of Russia.
Little did the Germans know that their quick temper would cloud their judgement and distract the leader of the "Luftwaffe", namely Goering, from the destruction of the air fields in Britain ...,
At this time, my Mother sacrificed a lot in rations giving up her share to us ... Sometimes, we stayed with my Aunt Ray and she managed to get things from the Railway Guards but eventually we had to do without extra helpings of food. We even went to funerals in the countryside just to eat and bring back something. You could get a pass for family business and we had a good fill up on such occasions but now we were unable to stock up and take things with us anymore. Somehow, the enemy gave you no choice, even to breath after a time.
About this time I felt it was about time to make a go of it out of the encirclement. The best way was a well prepared overland crossing via the three "S's", Spain, Switzerland and Sweden. The more contacts we could gather the better, that was my my ultimate aim" (Go Dad Go!)
Day 123456789001234
It seemed to me that there wasn't much time for romance and idylles,!! it had to wait until the war was over, the eternal moving didn't help. All the girls we grew up with were biding their time waiting for the most eligible of the young men to return. Security was a big thing for them. Most love affairs had to evolve by impulse and need, nature's way. The meeting places like dance halls were closed by the occupation powers, but we held claundestine drinking parties with an advanced warning system operated to warn us of the patrols, then there was the eternal curfews to deal with...
In addition, the constant bombing and increasing flights over us to destroy Germany at night kept us fully awake by the flak! alone, we slept as much in shelters as at home. Also, the Royal Navy had a go at the submarine and speedboat base which soon was completely blocked. Because of this the submarines went more from their northern bases and St. Nazire straight for the open Atlantic: the speedboats quickly monitored as soon as they left their mooring got strafed.
My brother Gerard was born in all this turmoil and was called a typical war child. We were moved out of our house to accommodate the Luftwaffe personnel. Mostly it was for the generals and officers which enabled them to hold their Roman-orgies in the best houses available. Later those ladies of ill repute would run away with the best furniture, if they had not already been caught for doubtful practices, collaboration with intended theft.
Physically, I kept up with my training and morally was more determined than ever that I had to make it to England for the best of reasons. The secret radio broadcasts kept encouraging us to go, come what may, instead of being sent to Germany. This was another restriction not being allowed to tune in to the B.B.C. To be caught meant certain deportation to the camps as an enemy of the state.
One of my biggest disappointments was when a family quarrel broke out, lets say between husband and wife and she gave her husband away, in spite, which could cause the man to lose his life through it. Vice Versa too and so many other pitiful cases one heard about...
With the war on all fronts in full swing the communists brought in their groups of resistance too which was an asset. This uneasy alliance was competitive but nevertheless an additional force. Little groups came together to achieve breakthroughs with the aim of harrassing the enemy as much as possible and results increased with leaps and bounds. We stripped what we could before the enemy could get near. Once we were nearly caught as we contoured the Atlantic Wall right behind the back of a guard and then got chased off the roof by another couple of soldiers who had watched us from a hidden place across the road. We hid in a vent dug near the roof but eventually got flushed out at the end of the line. To our great surprise the soldiers let us go! This was the only long view we had had since the beginning of hostilities of our beloved seaside!
Jewish people were getting the brunt of the German's revenge, the rational for such behavior was explained in "Mein Kamph". For us it was rather a strange experience, Jewish children had been to school with us, amongst us, and nobody had ever thought about it they had been blending in with us for centuries. They kept their own traditions which they had preserved and practiced at home to keep the Jewish faith.
There was a synagogue behind one of our central churches and they seemed to enjoy all the freedom of worship. We didn't really understand what all the big fuss that was made about it at that time. The first thing that happened was that they made them wear the yellow star with "Jood" on it, then they were gradually transported, they just disappeared......!
Some went into hiding fearing the worst. Those were the wise ones of course".....
In addition, the constant bombing and increasing flights over us to destroy Germany at night kept us fully awake by the flak! alone, we slept as much in shelters as at home. Also, the Royal Navy had a go at the submarine and speedboat base which soon was completely blocked. Because of this the submarines went more from their northern bases and St. Nazire straight for the open Atlantic: the speedboats quickly monitored as soon as they left their mooring got strafed.
My brother Gerard was born in all this turmoil and was called a typical war child. We were moved out of our house to accommodate the Luftwaffe personnel. Mostly it was for the generals and officers which enabled them to hold their Roman-orgies in the best houses available. Later those ladies of ill repute would run away with the best furniture, if they had not already been caught for doubtful practices, collaboration with intended theft.
Physically, I kept up with my training and morally was more determined than ever that I had to make it to England for the best of reasons. The secret radio broadcasts kept encouraging us to go, come what may, instead of being sent to Germany. This was another restriction not being allowed to tune in to the B.B.C. To be caught meant certain deportation to the camps as an enemy of the state.
One of my biggest disappointments was when a family quarrel broke out, lets say between husband and wife and she gave her husband away, in spite, which could cause the man to lose his life through it. Vice Versa too and so many other pitiful cases one heard about...
With the war on all fronts in full swing the communists brought in their groups of resistance too which was an asset. This uneasy alliance was competitive but nevertheless an additional force. Little groups came together to achieve breakthroughs with the aim of harrassing the enemy as much as possible and results increased with leaps and bounds. We stripped what we could before the enemy could get near. Once we were nearly caught as we contoured the Atlantic Wall right behind the back of a guard and then got chased off the roof by another couple of soldiers who had watched us from a hidden place across the road. We hid in a vent dug near the roof but eventually got flushed out at the end of the line. To our great surprise the soldiers let us go! This was the only long view we had had since the beginning of hostilities of our beloved seaside!
Jewish people were getting the brunt of the German's revenge, the rational for such behavior was explained in "Mein Kamph". For us it was rather a strange experience, Jewish children had been to school with us, amongst us, and nobody had ever thought about it they had been blending in with us for centuries. They kept their own traditions which they had preserved and practiced at home to keep the Jewish faith.
There was a synagogue behind one of our central churches and they seemed to enjoy all the freedom of worship. We didn't really understand what all the big fuss that was made about it at that time. The first thing that happened was that they made them wear the yellow star with "Jood" on it, then they were gradually transported, they just disappeared......!
Some went into hiding fearing the worst. Those were the wise ones of course".....
Day 123456789012345
By the time of the Spring of 1942, which would have been my early call-up for the class of 1943, I was looking and trying to gather information on how to get closer to the Spanish border without being noticed.
Boosts to our moral were being given by the knowledge that agents were being dropped everywhere with the equipment and monies to continue the struggle on a more even basis. Some were landed by short takeoff planes on the new autostrade strip at Jabeke near Bruges. Somewhere on the other side a party of blackshirts was taking place in an old castle and aerodrome with the consequence that it got bombed out.
This was the boost to our moral we had been looking for. Everything was in good working order now. I met an electrician, in the trade school, called Everaert, an extremely selfish character he turned out to be but reliable, whose uncle, an opportunist of considerable dimensions turned collaborator.
The uncle advertised the fact that he needed able bodied students for the vacation periods and others for the Normandy coast with good pay and food; that was it! John his name was, handled a subcontracting firm for the "örganization Tod" for helping at construction of which we had no knowledge.
Curiosity got the better of us and we were told, find out. We were all fully aware of the secret operations carefully implemented by our teachers, documents were supplied by John. The trip would go through Brussels, Paris, Le Mans to Cherbourg and surrounding places. Contacts would be looked out for by us all along the route. Everything was as wished for and set for those assaults.
I had probed the Dunkirk area first but that was hopeless too well guarded. Some of us got into the Calais region. I went there with an old friend, George, a boyhood acqaintance who had recenlty gained a lot of experience on the island of Jersey. He had escaped by hiding away on a provisions ferry.
George and I nearly got ourselves arrested in the same dunes as I had been in before by a German platoon on exercise, who took us for spies. After this, I lost track of George as he belonged to a new resistance group and found Daniel instead who was interested in getting to England.
For this mission, with John and Everaert plus another eleven of us I had to find out if I could get through now one way or the other. Our team consisted mostly of Ostend lads, quite a few had a British background like the Hendersons, Jarvis's and Maynards of families like mine from past British campaigns and fuly integrated. Ostend had still quite a decent sized Anglican community. We all had one single thing in mind, reaching England and hitting the enemy back as hard as we could from there.
Our John had his quota now and we set off on the day of the trial run fully operational. He had to watch the lot of us as he was solely responsible for us. I suspected that he realized what we had in mind, so much his nephew would have told him, too, but his ideas were to make the knife cut both ways. For so much, I realized from my own personal observations that we were in relatively safe hands for this double game, for the moment!
The loyal bunch I should call the group now was off. The trip went according to plan smoothly rolling along, crossing the frontiers with flying colours. This time check points and free passage provided for! It took us nine hours to reach Paris.
I now stood in the silvery moonlight and I thought, we are making better headway than in that early May day of 1940 when I was with my family. We passed Compiegne, the Armistace Place where Hitler had stood on so much!
I now started to reflect about my Grandmother who had left for the old Inn on t' Sas, Slijkens?? or muddy sluices as we called it. She wouldn't budge anymore for the rest of the war, that was for sure! Once the old lady made up her mind she could be like a "Dulle Griet", or an angry old lady. ""Dulle Griet", was also a well known character in Flemish folklore, illustrated by H. Bosh. It could also mean a big gun used in sieges and in dialect meaning, somebody, usually female, who gets in a fierce fighting mood..."
Boosts to our moral were being given by the knowledge that agents were being dropped everywhere with the equipment and monies to continue the struggle on a more even basis. Some were landed by short takeoff planes on the new autostrade strip at Jabeke near Bruges. Somewhere on the other side a party of blackshirts was taking place in an old castle and aerodrome with the consequence that it got bombed out.
This was the boost to our moral we had been looking for. Everything was in good working order now. I met an electrician, in the trade school, called Everaert, an extremely selfish character he turned out to be but reliable, whose uncle, an opportunist of considerable dimensions turned collaborator.
The uncle advertised the fact that he needed able bodied students for the vacation periods and others for the Normandy coast with good pay and food; that was it! John his name was, handled a subcontracting firm for the "örganization Tod" for helping at construction of which we had no knowledge.
Curiosity got the better of us and we were told, find out. We were all fully aware of the secret operations carefully implemented by our teachers, documents were supplied by John. The trip would go through Brussels, Paris, Le Mans to Cherbourg and surrounding places. Contacts would be looked out for by us all along the route. Everything was as wished for and set for those assaults.
I had probed the Dunkirk area first but that was hopeless too well guarded. Some of us got into the Calais region. I went there with an old friend, George, a boyhood acqaintance who had recenlty gained a lot of experience on the island of Jersey. He had escaped by hiding away on a provisions ferry.
George and I nearly got ourselves arrested in the same dunes as I had been in before by a German platoon on exercise, who took us for spies. After this, I lost track of George as he belonged to a new resistance group and found Daniel instead who was interested in getting to England.
For this mission, with John and Everaert plus another eleven of us I had to find out if I could get through now one way or the other. Our team consisted mostly of Ostend lads, quite a few had a British background like the Hendersons, Jarvis's and Maynards of families like mine from past British campaigns and fuly integrated. Ostend had still quite a decent sized Anglican community. We all had one single thing in mind, reaching England and hitting the enemy back as hard as we could from there.
Our John had his quota now and we set off on the day of the trial run fully operational. He had to watch the lot of us as he was solely responsible for us. I suspected that he realized what we had in mind, so much his nephew would have told him, too, but his ideas were to make the knife cut both ways. For so much, I realized from my own personal observations that we were in relatively safe hands for this double game, for the moment!
The loyal bunch I should call the group now was off. The trip went according to plan smoothly rolling along, crossing the frontiers with flying colours. This time check points and free passage provided for! It took us nine hours to reach Paris.
I now stood in the silvery moonlight and I thought, we are making better headway than in that early May day of 1940 when I was with my family. We passed Compiegne, the Armistace Place where Hitler had stood on so much!
I now started to reflect about my Grandmother who had left for the old Inn on t' Sas, Slijkens?? or muddy sluices as we called it. She wouldn't budge anymore for the rest of the war, that was for sure! Once the old lady made up her mind she could be like a "Dulle Griet", or an angry old lady. ""Dulle Griet", was also a well known character in Flemish folklore, illustrated by H. Bosh. It could also mean a big gun used in sieges and in dialect meaning, somebody, usually female, who gets in a fierce fighting mood..."
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