Exodus

[Today would have been Lydia's 85th birthday. We remember her with love. Meanwhile, back in 1940, the plan to flee to the coast is not universally welcomed...]

Neither wife was enthusiastic at the idea. My mother pleaded with my father to abandon the crazy plan. And crazy it was. There were four adults, thirteen children and one small dog. How we ever managed to gather this pathetic collection together in a short space of time, lock up our homes and go, I shall never understand. All of a sudden my father was in a desperate hurry to leave, in case we had left it too late. Already it was rumored that the lifting of Dunkirk had ceased because of the constant bombardments and we would have to go further along the French coast, where it was still possible to operate.

Our transport consisted of two bicycles, laden down with every conceivable bit of our belongings, even clattering pots and pans. A pram: in it a baby of a few months old and one toddler who could barely walk. The other young ones just straggled behind, holding hands with the older children. My young brother was in charge of the dog on a leash. We, the older children carried bags with all the food and drink we could muster together. On the handle of the pram hung wet nappies to dry, washed at the last minute. We must have looked a most bizarre group of travellers. I guess we had walked about half way to the main highway when the baby started to cry. The mother was distressed and insisted we all stop, so she could feed the baby.

Our little dog had never run very far from home, after going a little further the poor wretch was probably tired, hot and thirsty and had a fit, foaming at the mouth and rolling his eyes. My little brother had hysterics, upset at seeing his pet like this.

The mothers began to argue with their husbands, protesting that this whole undertaking was just too ludicrous. After a while everyone calmed down and the journey was resumed. We reached the highway and I will never forget the sight that met our eyes. As far as the eye could see, up and down the straight wide roadway, one long stretch of vehicles of every description; cars and Lorries, handcarts, horse carts, bikes, prams and so on, were moving along. Weary pedestrians were trudging past, laden down like pack horses, rolled up blankets on their backs, carrying packets and battered suitcases, children on their shoulders. We just stood there, watching open-mouthed and silent. It looked like the exodus of Egypt, the whole of the population was fleeing, or so it seemed. Some had come from as far as Holland. We were just another small group who tagged on to the endless stream of refugees.

It was a beautiful sunny spring day. The month of May had been unusually lovely and warm, with cloudless blue skies. The fields were a fresh fragrant green. The avenue of strong tall trees in a straight line, bordering both sides of the highway, like guarding sentinels, were bursting with budding new leaves. The bright beginning of a new season was in sharp contrast with the dejected gloom of the fleeing multitude.

Before the construction of the now modern concrete motorways, these tree lined, cobbled highways, a typical landscape of the lowlands made an ideal setting for beautiful country walks and bicycle rides. I had enjoyed many such outings in the past. The atmosphere was different now, grim and unreal.

We had barely walked a mile when all of a sudden all hell was let loose. A formation of German fighter planes was heard to approach. Panic ensued; people were running hither and thither, diving into the dry ditches and down embankments on either side of the road, trying to hide in bushes. Children were screaming as mothers threw themselves on top of them for protection. It was bedlam.

When the planes screamed overhead with sudden bursts of firing, a deadly silence came over the dispersed crowd, frozen with fear. For a full five minutes after the danger had passed, nobody dared to move. We were in such a state of shock at our first encounter with the violence of war. The children were white faced, crying and shaking. I was sick. The mothers could not utter a word, unable to cope with the situation.

The Belgians do not posses the virtue of the British: to keep a “Stiff Upper Lip”. They are inclined to give full vent to their inner feelings and emotions. Reaction set in with the men too and my father conceded it was an absolute madness to continue what had been an insane impulsive action. Many other groups decided to return to the safety of their homes after this adventure. And so we made our way back, to the great relief of our mothers. Our poor dog never really recovered from the ordeal. He remained neurotic and had occasional fits. Not long after we had to have him put to sleep. To replace him, we got a cat instead. Later, this pet too met with a sad end.

Despite the admission that it had been a mistake to try and flee with the whole family, my father still felt and thought it was his duty to make for England and join the Allied Forces like a true patriot, to fight and free us from the evils of Nazi domination. There was an intense family consultation and discussion, and in the end it was agreed my father and his friend would set off alone on their bikes. Without the hindrance and responsibility of their families they thought it would be easier to avoid danger and stand a better chance to make it to the coast. That very same day, after very emotional farewells and reassurances that all would soon be well and right again, the two men departed.

During the following two weeks I saw my mother age about ten years. She could not eat or sleep with worry about the fate of her husband, with no hope or means of hearing any news about him.