A totally unnerved Dutch general placed machine-guns and entanglements of barbed wire, behind the backs of his defenders, in order to prevent the panic-stricken flight of that ‘pitiful and cowardly bunch’, which was how he described them. Similar hair-raising cases of defeatism or neglected duty, were compiled in books of official ‘war-reports’ and skilfully detailed by the Dutch Imperial Institute of War Documents. In his research, a chronicler found that it had been Dutch troops and not the accused German soldiers who had plundered articles of gold from jewellers in the evacuated border areas. “One saw soldiers walking around with watches strapped on their arms, and trouser pockets full of gold rings”. However, to lay that military ‘fiasco’ only at the door of the Dutch soldiers, in those tragic and critical days, would be unreasonable.
The results of twenty years of that ‘broken-weapon’ propaganda, by Government and press, had chiselled away the will to fight, and produced that catastrophe. All at once, the insufficiently trained Dutch soldier, the subject of defamation, should be the perfect and morally upright attacker and an example of steadfast fighting spirit.
Despite this, there were some units under the command of courageous officers. They put up dogged resistance, despite the German air-raids and concentrated artillery attacks, thus delaying the advance of the German troops. They found bitter resistance, for instance, from well-built casements at the entrance of the 30 kilometres long dam, separating the Ijselmeer from the North Sea, and hindering their entry. The bitter resistance of that strategically important barrier was the only military accomplishment that emerged from the three northern provinces. Like an egg without its shell and just as defenceess, the green lush flatland provinces of Groningen, Drente and Friesland, fell to the invaders. From Friesland to Ijsselmeer, the hunted Dutch soldiers fled on bicycles or buses, and in private cars. Those they had commandeered, in order to flee over the narrow, now congested end-dam to try to reach the province of North Holland, not yet endangered from the war.
As in Poland, the Dutch were then left to their own devices, with the excuse from 10 Downing Street, that “Unfortunately, we do not possess a flying carpet”. In this precarious situation however, British assistance presented itself in great haste, in the form of ‘demolition groups’. Their machines of destruction destroyed the Dutch harbours, locks and sluices, and burnt their gigantic oil reserves. But the ultimate form of their support came in the form of transportation of Holland’s gold reserves and politically endangered persons, to Britain.
Although geographically in a better position than their British brothers-in-arms, French troops did not produce an effective military performance in their efforts to stand at the side of their Dutch counterparts. A joint effort to take and hold the strategic bridgehead of Moerdijk bridge, collapsed under the tough defence of German paratroopers, who had already landed. On the evening of 11 May, the demoralised Poilus retreated over Breda to Antwerp, accompanied by chaotic conditions. The inhabitants in the southern border regions came to recognise very quickly another side of those French and Belgian warriors. They were ‘freed’, not from the German invader, but from their gold and silver. It is not to be wondered at, that they longed for the German advance, in order that the plundering by the Allied soldiers stopped. They did not have to wait long. Hitler’s tank formations rolled through the Ardennes with an unbelievable speed on a ‘Tour de France’, in the direction of the Channel coast.
Although surrounded by simple field positions, we were endangered, by being within distance of one of the most strategic and important defence-lines, the Grebeberg Wall. Therefore a total evacuation was ordered by the authorities.
Instead of the shopping in preparation for the usual Whitsun holiday, we hurriedly packed the 30 kilos of essentials per person that we were allowed to take for that journey into the unknown. Nearly ten thousand inhabitants, walked, cycled or used the bus to reach the station in Soest-Soestdyke, where special trains waited to take them to safety. Already underway on our bicycles, we ducked our heads, as high above us, we heard the rat-tat-tat of the machineguns, as fighters fought with one another, leaving lightning tracers in the sky.
My brother Evert had gone to war the day before. The events of war in Rotterdam however had caused him to miss his ship, in which he should have departed as an apprentice of the Engineer School. He shakily told us of his ‘horror trip’ when returning to Soest on a motorbike. He passed dead paratroopers hanging in trees, and the wounded from shot down transport planes, or those having made an emergency landing. ‘Lady Fate’ had held her hand over him, for we were to learn later that his steamer had been sunk.
In overcrowded and darkened compartments, our train journey took us hours on end. We passed through a polder that had been flooded for defensive purposes, appearing almost ghostly. Seldom with any pause, our train steamed its way over the miles to the North Holland province, into safety. In passing Amsterdam, we had seen a red horizon of flaming oil-tanks, set alight by the British, and illuminating the sky. The last station of our journey was the small, sleepy town of Enkhuisen, nestling directly on the Ijsselmeer. Our family of ten had to be billeted separately, the small picturesque houses not able to house us all. That was where we spent those May war-days of 1940, in safety. But our peace of mind was clouded with fearful rumours about the situation in Soest.
The German Military Directorate decided to send their most recently formed units, the Waffen SS, to the Grebbe-line. Just three days after marching over the border, they managed to break through the core of the Dutch fortress, which Holland’s military experts had estimated would be their strongest form of protection. They believed it would withhold an enemy invasion for up to two and half months. After the attack, a Dutch soldier gave the following account of the German soldiers. “They gave a devilish impression in their colourful ‘camo’ uniforms, with stick or ‘potato-masher’ grenades stuck into boots and belt”. That description was to be confirmed later by a Dutch officer who said, “with an iron discipline and unprecedented fighting morale, this ‘go-getting’ modern force, although being at a numerical disadvantage, were in comparison to us, far, far superior”. Around 5,000 Dutch soldiers were taken prisoner at the Grebbe-line, having fought with two divisions against the ‘Der Führer’ Regiment. Those two divisions consisted of the cream of Dutch-Colonial troops, who with few exceptions, fought bravely, and with tough determination.
During those turbulent times a newsflash shook our land to the core. Queen Wilhelmina and the whole Cabinet had deserted and fled to England! Her plea to her people, ‘to do their duty, as she and her Government would do’, was forgotten. They had left the day before, being the second day of the invasion. On command of the mother-in-law of the active Prince Bernhard and his wife Juliana, together with her two other daughters, Beatrix and Irene, they boarded the British destroyer Codrington.
The population was shocked and angry at the desertion of the House of Orange. Demonstratively, officers tore their medals from their uniforms and soldiers threw down their weapons. It was an advantage that not all of the front-line soldiers were so quickly informed. General Winkelman of the High Command described the situation as “shameful”, in referring to the desertion of those controllers of state, who had left the already burdened General complete power of government.