But when the train arrived in Amsterdam, neither he nor anyone else on board could have anticipated what they saw from the carriage windows.
Chapter 7
13 May 1940
Amsterdam, Holland
‘Oh shit,’ Dawson muttered as the train pulled to a squealing halt in the railway station in Amsterdam.
The hall was full of people, which was hardly surprising in view of what was going on, but it was what they were shouting – in fact almost chanting – that gave him pause.
‘Are they shouting what I think they’re shouting?’ he asked Captain Michaels.
‘I’m afraid they are.’
‘And in English?’
‘A lot of Dutch people speak quite good English,’ Lieutenant Barber pointed out. ‘I’ve heard somebody rather unkindly remark that the Dutch try to learn English because their own native tongue sounds more like a chronic throat infection than a language. Having heard the Dutch language spoken, I can tell you there is a certain amount of truth in that suggestion.’
‘Right.’ Michaels raised his voice so that everybody in the carriage could hear him. ‘You can all hear what’s going on outside. Under no circumstances is anyone to say anything about what we have been sent here to do. We don’t want a riot on our hands. If you have to say anything, tell them we’re an advance party and that the rest of the troops will be arriving over the next two weeks. Something like that.’
And then they opened the carriage doors and began filing out, heading for the station exit and making their way through the dense crowds of Dutch men and women, all shouting a raucous welcome to Holland’s ‘British allies’ who had come to fight the Germans on their behalf.
Exactly what the assembled multitude thought that fewer than two dozen lightly armed British soldiers could do against the might of the Nazi advance was by no means clear, but at least the KFRE soldiers appreciated the sentiment of the crowds, and the back-slapping and shouts of encouragement. If any of the Dutch had realized that the troops were actually there on a mission to destroy several significant and expensive commercial assets in Amsterdam, the mood would almost certainly have been very different, and they might not even have made it out of the station.
As they pushed their way through the crowd towards the exit to the street, Captain Michaels was approached by two men, both obviously naval officers, although Dawson didn’t recognize the rank badges on the uniform either man was wearing.
Dawson was standing right behind Michaels as the officers exchanged salutes, and he could clearly hear every word that was said.
‘Do you speak Dutch, Captain?’ the clearly more senior officer asked, in fluent but accented English.
‘Not a word,’ Michaels replied, shaking his head.
‘Not a problem. My name is Dieckman, and I represent the commander in chief, Amsterdam. We’ve been expecting you, and have been sent here to escort you and your men to the naval barracks here in the city centre’ – he gestured in a generally easterly direction – ‘where you are to await further orders.’
Michaels came to a dead stop and just looked at the man.
‘You do know why we are here, Lieutenant?’ he asked. ‘You have been given details of our tasking?’
The Dutch naval officer stopped beside him and nodded.
‘The information is generally classified, for obvious reasons, but I have been given details of your mission, yes. Is there a problem?’
‘Not at the moment, no,’ Michaels replied, ‘but to carry out this kind of demolition work requires planning and preparation, and we frankly do not have time to sit around in some naval barracks waiting for further orders, or even for confirmation of the orders we have already been given. We need to get on site as quickly as possible so that we can begin working out how best to complete the job, and to prepare and place our charges.’
The Dutch officer shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Captain. I am aware of your tasking, and I understand your wish to get started as soon as possible, but my orders are different.’
‘Then I need to take advice from a higher authority. Can you escort me to the British consulate so that I can make representations there?’
‘If that is your wish, then of course I can, but as it is now after nine in the evening, there may well be nobody in the building.’
‘In the circumstances,’ Michaels said, ‘I believe we’ll find someone still working there. Where is the consulate? Somewhere near here?’
‘Not really. It’s near the Vondelpark, about 3 or 4 kilometres from here, but I have a staff car outside the station.’
‘Good. That’ll save our shoe leather.’
‘Very well, if that is your wish. We can go now, but what about your men?’
Michaels turned round and saw Rochester standing a few feet away, obviously listening to the exchange.
‘We have to get this sorted out right now, Gordon,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and talk to the British consul. Until I get back, just keep the men here. There must be a café or something near the station, so find it, take them there and make sure they get some proper food down their throats.’
‘There is a cafeteria just over there,’ Dieckman said, gesturing towards the opposite end of the station building.
‘That’ll do fine.’
‘This may take us some time, and the cafeteria will close soon. If we are not back before that happens, could I suggest that my colleague here, Lieutenant Bergstrom, then escorts your men to the barracks to await your return?’
‘Yes, good idea. Right, Gordon, that’s what we’ll do. I’ll be back as quickly as I can. Dawson, you’re coming with me.’
‘Me, sir?’
Dieckman looked almost as surprised at Michaels’ decision as Dawson did. He glanced quickly at the other senior members of the group – Lieutenant Barber and Sergeant Woodston, who appeared distinctly unamused – and then looked again at the big corporal.
‘You need to take a corporal with you to see the British consul?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Michaels replied crisply. ‘Dawson here is an explosives expert. If I can’t convince the consul to do something by my arguments, then maybe he can because he knows better than anyone else the difficulties we’re facing.’
That seemed to Dawson to be somewhat overstating the case, bearing in mind that he had no idea whatsoever about the number or types of oil tanks they would find when they finally reached their objective. But he obviously wasn’t going to say anything like that in front of the Dutch officer.
Michaels and Dawson followed Lieutenant Dieckman out of the station and into the darkening but crowded streets of Amsterdam.
The staff car was parked only a few yards from the station. It was an elderly four-door saloon of indeterminate make, probably a requisitioned vehicle, and somewhat battered around the edges but clean enough inside and out. Michaels and Dawson sat in the rear seats while Dieckman climbed into the front passenger seat beside the driver.
Unlike IJmuiden, where they had encountered remarkably few civilians, obviously because of the bombing campaign being waged against the harbour city, Amsterdam teemed with people, the majority very clearly heading out of town to try to seek shelter somewhere else before the German army overran the place. Most of them were carrying bags or pushing bicycles or pulling carts, and in a few cases combining the two and riding bicycles with small wheeled carts attached to the rear of the frames.
The other obvious difference was that in Amsterdam there were very few signs of bomb damage, and the reason was fairly obvious.
When Dawson remarked on what he’d noticed, Michaels replied in a quiet voice so that the driver wouldn’t overhear what he was saying over the dull roar of the car’s engine.
‘The Jerries are bound to be careful about where they drop any ordnance here,’ he said, ‘precisely because of the amount of oil that’s held in the various storage facilities, mainly to the north of the city centre. The German advance has been so fast that by now their
supply lines must be stretched to near breaking point. Make no mistake, the Nazi war machine absolutely needs this oil, and that’s why we’ve got to stop them getting their hands on it.’
‘Here we are,’ Dieckman said, about a quarter of an hour later, as the car drew to a halt on a wide street lined with large and impressive properties.
The British consulate was almost exactly the kind of building Dawson had been expecting: solid, old-fashioned and fronted by what looked like a small but well-kept garden. The only surprise was that it occupied only half of the building, the left-hand side when viewed from the road, the other half of the large four-storey property possibly another government building of some sort: in the darkness it was impossible to tell. Behind the building, the trees of the Vondelpark were just visible as rounded grey shapes and, more sensed than seen, one of the small lakes that dotted the park lay directly behind the consulate.
Almost every window blazed with light, and the main door was opened just seconds after Michaels knocked on it. Inside the atmosphere was tense, to say the least. Knowing that there was absolutely nothing to stop the German war machine rolling into Amsterdam and taking control of the entire city, the staff were busy destroying anything that could possibly be of any use to the enemy, and they were clearly making preparations to leave in the very near future.
A clearly harassed female secretary escorted the two men – it was quite inappropriate for Lieutenant Dieckman to be present when they talked to the British consul, so he had been left in a waiting room at the front of the building – along a cream-painted corridor towards a varnished mahogany door. When they reached it, she knocked twice, leaned close to the door as she waited for a call of ‘Enter’, then opened it and preceded them into the room.
‘Captain Michaels and a corporal from his unit, sir,’ she said quickly, then retreated, presumably to attend to other more urgent tasks in the building.
A small and greyish man with a rapidly receding hairline, hunched shoulders and wearing a pair of powerful spectacles atop an impressive Roman nose that seemed almost too big for his face, sat behind a large desk that looked as if it was also made from mahogany. The surface was cluttered with files and papers, apparently devoid of any order, and on one corner sat a telephone that chose that precise moment to ring.
The consul stretched out a hand and picked up the instrument.
‘Wilhoughby,’ he barked, then listened for about half a minute.
‘No. Absolutely not under any circumstances.’
He paused again, listening, and then snapped some final remarks.
‘I’m afraid that’s your problem, not mine. Just sort something out, and make sure you do it quickly. And keep me informed.’
Then he replaced the receiver and looked slightly warily at the two people standing at attention in front of his desk.
But before he could speak, an unmistakable atonic wailing sound from somewhere close by filled the room, immediately being repeated by other sirens around the city.
‘Typical of the bloody Jerries to mount an air raid when most sensible people are on their way to bed,’ the consul remarked.
‘Shouldn’t we be heading for a shelter, sir?’ Michaels asked.
‘Not a lot of point, really. We don’t have one in the building, and the nearest one is about 300 yards away. If this isn’t yet another false alarm, we’ll probably be safer inside these four solid brick walls than out there on the streets. You can lie on the floor if you think it’ll help.’
But the consul didn’t move from his chair, and neither Michaels nor Dawson reacted to his suggestion.
Then they all heard the distant sound of aeroplane engines, drowned out almost immediately by the repeated crack of anti-aircraft guns engaging them. And then a series of about half a dozen much louder explosions as a stick of bombs dropped somewhere nearby. The whole building seemed to shake with each detonation, and a few flakes of plaster fell from the ceiling, one from a spot directly above the desk. The consul picked up the file it had landed on and carefully brushed it off.
The ack-ack guns fell silent as the German aircraft apparently flew on to engage another target.
‘Probably on their way to give IJmuiden another pasting,’ the consul suggested. ‘Now, you’re Captain Mitchell?’ he asked.
‘Michaels, sir, and this is Corporal Dawson.’
‘Michaels and Dawson, right. And how can I help you, Captain?’
It took Michaels less than two minutes to explain who they were and what they were doing in Amsterdam.
‘I was told about your mission, Captain, and I’m glad you’ve managed to get here without suffering any casualties. Let me guess why you’re standing in front of me now. You want to get started as soon as you can, before there’s any chance of the bloody Germans turning up to spoil the fun, and the Dutch authorities have basically told you to sit on your hands and wait. How am I doing so far?’
‘That’s pretty much spot-on, sir,’ Michaels said.
The British consul – Dawson thought the name he’d seen on the outside of the door read ‘George H. Wilhoughby’ – was clearly sharp and well informed.
‘Between you and me, Captain, this is more or less what we were expecting to happen.’
Wilhoughby picked up the telephone handset and dialled a two-digit number that was answered almost immediately.
‘Leslie, it’s George. Could you step into my office for a minute?’
Although it sounded like a question, it was clearly an instruction, and less than a minute later there was a brief double tap at the door which then immediately opened to admit a Royal Navy captain, his uniform jacket unbuttoned and the tie loosened in his collar. He was just over 6 feet tall, probably in his middle forties, with neatly trimmed black hair over a weathered and slightly reddish face. Heavy brows surmounted a pair of brown eyes so dark that they looked almost black and, somewhat incongruously, his full beard was grey and shading to white. The overall effect made him look something like a benevolent badger.
‘Leslie,’ the consul said, ‘these two are from the demolition party we were told about. Captain Michaels and Corporal Dawson. Gentlemen, this is Captain Tweed of the naval control staff here in Amsterdam. He’s been closely involved in this operation since its inception.’
Both Dawson and Michaels immediately saluted the officer, which he acknowledged with a casual wave of his right hand that got nowhere near his forehead. Although both Tweed and Michaels were captains, there was an enormous gap in rank between an army captain and a navy captain.
‘Sir,’ Michaels said.
‘Captain Tweed gave me a full briefing on your mission yesterday,’ the consul said, ‘but what we haven’t received is any kind of a confirmation from The Hague that the Dutch authorities have given the go-ahead. Or are likely to do so any time soon. Or, in fact, that they are even aware you and your men are now in Holland.’
Tweed walked across the office and sat down in a leather chair to one side of the desk, and as he did so the consul gestured for Michaels and Dawson to do the same. A pair of upright chairs stood against one wall, and the two men pulled them out and sat facing the desk.
‘The problem, sir,’ Michaels began, addressing the consul, ‘is that we really do need to get started on this. We have no idea how difficult this demolition job will be to complete, because we haven’t even been able to take a look at the target sites yet. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate, it will take time to work out where to plant the explosives for the best and most efficient result.’
Wilhoughby held up his hand.
‘You’re preaching to the converted here, Michaels. Both of us know exactly how important it is for this job to be done, and we’re also very aware that it’s not something that can be rushed. The problem is that until The Hague gives the go-ahead there really is nothing you can do. If you even start surveying the sites, far less preparing and planting your explosive charges, there’s a very good chance that the Dutch military or police force will see you do
ing it and arrest you.’
‘And they’d be quite right to do so,’ Captain Tweed chimed in, ‘because they would correctly see it as an enemy sabotage operation, notwithstanding the fact that you are both members of the British army. You could even be shot as saboteurs.’
That sounded like a decidedly unappealing prospect to Dawson.
Wilhoughby glanced at Tweed.
‘Have you talked to them today?’ he asked. ‘The Hague, I mean.’
Tweed nodded.
‘Yes, several times, but it’s the usual kind of T double-F T situation.’
‘“TFFT”?’ Michaels asked, almost hesitantly. ‘I’m not familiar with that acronym.’
‘“Talking to a Field of Fucking Turnips”,’ Tweed clarified. ‘Nobody there seems to know anything or have the slightest interest in providing any kind of assistance. My guess is that nothing much will change until Adolf and his Germanic hordes come along and kick open their front door with their jackboots.’
‘Leslie has a somewhat low opinion of the Dutch government,’ Wilhoughby clarified. ‘Although you may already have gathered that.
‘So there’s absolutely nothing we can do at the moment?’ Michaels asked.
‘From our point of view, Michaels,’ Tweed said, ‘the situation is perfectly clear. We don’t have the authority to give you permission to commence this operation. If you try and do it yourselves, without that official sanction, you will probably be arrested by the local authorities and you could end up facing a firing squad. Getting the necessary permission from The Hague is absolutely essential, so all I can suggest is that I get back on the telephone and see if I can find someone there with the brains, balls and authority to give you the go-ahead. About the only thing you can do is wish me luck.’
It was nearly midnight, the passing couple of hours marked by another two German air raids, when Michaels and Dawson finally walked out of the consulate building, again accompanied by Lieutenant Dieckman; they climbed back into the staff car and drove through the dark and virtually empty streets to the naval barracks that had been allocated to them, having achieved nothing at all. Despite the persuasive efforts of both Captain Tweed and George Wilhoughby, nobody they had talked to at The Hague was prepared to grant permission for the demolition operation to proceed. Most of the officials there appeared to have no knowledge at all about the planned destruction of the oil stocks.
Operation XD Page 6