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)
The comments on this page are all rewritten from my dad's original English dialect into my English dialect by Paula Fynaut, Louis' daughter! Forever the same, just different expressions!
So, here I am blogging and reblogging! 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,
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 - it is February 2012..Here I am rehashing and reposting July 2017...Is my dad's story as relevant for today's age as it was in the 1040's and 1940. You decide!
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 sun's rays 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..."
.
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 sun's rays 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..."
.
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 neighbor'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 woolen 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 neighbors 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 woolen 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 neighbors 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 rubicund 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 recognize 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 boat song but instead the sighing was stronger than the Volga flowing gently to the Black Sea.
Suddenly, a low flying plane of unrecognizable 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 tri color - 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 rubicund 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 recognize 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 boat song but instead the sighing was stronger than the Volga flowing gently to the Black Sea.
Suddenly, a low flying plane of unrecognizable 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 tri color - 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 amphitheater, 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 humor and their swag bags. 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 theater 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 bearing and could hardly converse with any of us. He looked tall, thin and pale and almost embodied the spirit of 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 despairing 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 amphitheater, 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 humor and their swag bags. 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 theater 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 bearing and could hardly converse with any of us. He looked tall, thin and pale and almost embodied the spirit of 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 despairing 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 re known painting @ 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 Incompetence," 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 pin pricking 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 skipper schiuite 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 among 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 kilometres 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 Bergue 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 Bergue 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 subservience 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 re known painting @ 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 Incompetence," 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 pin pricking 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 skipper schiuite 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 among 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 kilometres 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 Bergue 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 Bergue 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 subservience were not our weaknesses at any time: lest we forget. Once wrongly challenged our wrath would have to be reckoned with...
