Page 7 of The Island Girls

A navy guide boat signalled to the flotilla to slow their speed and they were led into a calm, expansive natural harbour, so vast it was more like an inland lake that followed the curve of a varying and mostly unseen landscape. There were several islands in the harbour, the main and most central one appearing to be over a mile long, and almost as wide, with a number of ancient buildings and even a castle at its eastern point.

Almost every direction the refugees looked, they saw the vessels with wings like the strange plane they had seen earlier, moored in channels near the islands, or taxiing across the calm waters. Hans followed the instructions to take his boat alongsidethe largest island, towards a mooring in a channel further along. As they passed the island with the castle, he saw there were tents and huts being erected, and a small army of people in various uniforms – both men and women – milling about, unloading crates onto the short jetty, setting up small tents and tables, carrying baskets of food. Klaus caught the mooring line that was offered to him and tied the boat securely to it.

And now they waited. They were safely nestled within a calm British harbour, unoccupied by the Germans and yet, they were not allowed to land. Alarm ran through the body of refugees who feared being sent away, back into the English Channel.

Patiently, the thousands of refugees stayed on their moored boats while the naval officers moved, one boat to another, with painfully slow, meticulous attention to detail, checking the identity documents and credentials of all the boat owners and pilots. And although it was plain for all to see the Dutch were relieved to be there, their terror of what they believed to be coming close behind them was palpable to all the navy and army staff who greeted them.

After hours of waiting, and a full day since all their food had gone, the turn came for Hans’s boat to be checked. As the small navy launch pulled up beside them, Hans helped tie the two boats together.

‘Good afternoon,’ the naval officer greeted them with a stiff smile. ‘Who’s in charge here?’

Hans stepped forward and doffed his cap, reaching instinctively to his pocket for the identity papers. His hand froze mid-way to his chest as he remembered that both the German and the Dutch papers were still there together. In his stupor of grief, he had forgotten to separate them on the journey. He would never be able to sort through them now, unseen. His palms began to sweat, and he licked his lips nervously at the thought of being considered German. He would not make it onto British soil before they shot him, surely? Hans dropped his hand to his trouser leg, wiping it there and waiting for their next instruction.

‘Papers?’ the naval officer asked curtly, looking to both Hans and Klaus, who had come to stand beside him.

‘Good day to you,’ Klaus offered. ‘I am Klaus Schmidt, and I work with my friend, Hans Meyers,’ he said in remarkably good English, and holding out his papers as he did so. ‘Hans, you should get your papers from the cabin,’ he said with a look in his eye that only Hans could read.

Of course. Hans recalled how, one quiet hour on their journey, between his grieving and his worry, Klaus had talked more of his plan once he reached England, and had asked to see Hans’s two sets of papers. He knew now that Klaus was giving him a way to step down into the cabin and separate the papers, hiding the German ones there. Hans nodded to Klaus and ducked down into the clammy darkness of his small cuddy cabin. His hands shook as he unbuttoned the pocket, keeping his back to the hatch. He took the German papers and spread them open, then unbuttoned the cover on the cushion he kept in there as a pillow. This was the pillow that Katrijn had used to rest her head, that day of their picnic.

He paused to lift it to his face, hoping to sense some aroma of her still lingering there. But now it just smelled of salty sea water and engine oil. He sighed deeply and slipped the German papers inside, smoothed them flat, and rebuttoned the cover, throwing the cushion into the very front of the cabin. He held his Dutch papers in his hand and, taking three deep breaths to calm himself, climbed back up into the warm May sunshine.

The naval officer stared at his papers for an age while time stood still. He compared them to Klaus’s, and then handed both sets to another officer to study while he began his questioning. Where had they come from? Why were they here? Who were theothers in the boat with them? What work did they do? Where were their families?

At this last question, Hans’s patience and resolve to remain calm exploded. His tolerance for the ‘normalness’ of this standard processing had reached its end.

‘My family is dead,’ he spat with bitterness. ‘The German bombs have killed my wife – she was beautiful, and kind, and talented – and my baby girl with her. Anika was just three weeks old. Three weeks! She had barely breathed a lungful of fresh air, only seen the sun a few times, and the Germans have killed her in the bed where I left her safely in her mother’s arms!’ he shrieked at them now, tears pouring down their well-worn rivulets in his face.

The naval officers looked at one another, quietly clearing their throats and wiping their brows. The first one held out a hand to quiet Hans, and spoke a few words to placate him, and offer his brief and polite condolences.

An hour later, they were delivered to the shores of the large island, weary past the point of being able to think any more.

‘Welcome to Brownsea Island,’ called a cheery young woman in a uniform that wasn’t quite military. She gave them water and hot tea to drink and then beckoned them to cold-water troughs and showed them the basic washing set-up that had been made ready for them. The mothers washed their children and then themselves, and the men poured the fresh water over their heads, faces and hands, and the life began to return to their bones.

A chubby-legged little boy with a round face and dark, curly locks tugged at his mother’s hand, demanding that she lookto the imposing castle they’d seen as they first arrived in the harbour.

Hans had wondered himself about this ancient-looking castle, but realised it was in prime position to protect the harbour entrance from advancing foes. He wondered if it would be used soon as a defence against the Germans. But now he was too exhausted to think any more, and the pain in his injured leg was immense. They had walked, and he had hobbled, for what seemed far too long to such weary people, up a hill and over to the southern side of the island, to a clearing not far from the beach, where the welcome aroma of hot soup wafted on the warm summer afternoon air. The tents were all erected here, and Hans recognised the site that they’d passed on the way to their moorings.

‘One bowl of soup and a bread roll each,’ called out a stern, stout woman overseeing the distribution of a thick, hot vegetable broth from a camp kitchen. She wore a long, dark coat, and a woollen hat, even though the summer weather was mild and sunny. ‘There will be more later,’ she enunciated slowly and loudly, as if the Dutch might be a little bit deaf and stupid as well as foreign. ‘This will have to do for tonight, but more supplies will be here by morning.’

The expectant mother took her place in the queue for soup, and when the broth was ladled into the dish she’d been given to hold, she made a point of searching out the eyes of the bossy lady serving her.

‘Ontzettend bedankt,’ she said earnestly. ‘Thank you, thank you so much.’

In response, the English lady nodded curtly but gave no hint of a smile.

‘My name is Lotte,’ the Dutch woman tried again. ‘And you?’

The ladle hung still for a moment as the older woman seemed to battle with herself about how to respond. She sighed and,glancing down at the little boy beside the woman, she answered, ‘Mary. My name is Mary. This is my island. I’m not used to people. I don’t allow anyone to visit, you see. The island is just for the animals and the birds. For me, and the trees.’

‘But it is a very beautiful place,’ said Lotte with the warmth of hot Dutch chocolate in her voice. ‘Thank you.’

Tents were being set up by soldiers and others sat at temporary desks rechecking papers and handing out basic supplies. The queue of refugees snaked forever and as they stood in line, waiting to be processed through the next stage of bureaucracy, all were amazed at the activity in the harbour around them. The sound of a thousand bumble bees thrumming around a massive hive signalled to the refugees that another of the strange planes was coming into the harbour and they turned as one to watch in awe as it came down so low, they thought it might crash-land, but it splashed onto the water beside the island, sea spray shooting into the air behind it, apparently quite deliberately.

The more watchful of the refugees could see that others like this were being towed about all over the harbour, closer to the town beyond. These weren’t just strangely shaped planes. They were planes that were built to float on the water. Flying boats.

After almost a week of tense waiting, Hans had successfully passed the processing station, and been accepted by the British security forces who were manning this camp. He was granted refuge in the United Kingdom until such time as it was safe for him to return to Holland. He walked away from the first processing desk and on to the next where he was handed a small bag of food supplies to take with him to the mainland. Thesoldier then pointed in the direction of the large tent that had been home since his arrival.

‘Go and get your things, son,’ said the soldier. Hans understood him perfectly, but simply shook his head.

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