After months of disruption as the fighting came closer, Holland had finally run out of food. Thousands had already died of hunger, and tens of thousands more would follow within a week or two if the situation were not urgently addressed. The occupying Germans had just cut the ration for Dutch civilians from 400 calories a day to 230, not nearly enough to sustain life. The many Dutch who could find no food at all had long since eaten their family pets and were subsisting on grass, sugar beets, and tulip bulbs. In Amsterdam, one church alone housed fifteen hundred bodies in moldering piles, urgently awaiting burial.
The German starvation of the Dutch had been deliberate at first, a sharp reduction in the food supply to punish them for the help they had given the Allies at Arnhem in 1944, when a mass rail strike had prevented German reinforcements from hurrying to the battlefield. But the policy was no longer deliberate. Cut off from home by the Allied advance, the German forces in Holland had recently developed a keen interest in the welfare of the civilians under their control. They had secretly approached the Allies for help in feeding them.
Mindful of what had happened in Buchenwald and Belsen, the Allies had agreed to a meeting to discuss the problem. General Eisenhower had sent Major-General Sir Francis de Guingand to consult representatives of Arthur Seyss-Inquart, the Nazi governor of Holland, at a school in Achterveld on the Allied side of the line. The Germans did not have the authority to agree to a cease-fire, but both sides accepted that the problem was urgent and something had to be done. They had arranged to meet again on April 30 to finalize the details.
Yet time was of the essence, with the Dutch so short of food. Although the truce was not yet in place, the Allies had decided to begin the food drop anyway, hoping for the best and trusting to luck that the Germans would not oppose them. The weather had been bad on April 28, but it improved slightly on the twenty-ninth. The air bases of East Anglia remained shrouded in fog, which prevented the Americans from taking part in the first day of the drop, but bases elsewhere were less badly affected. The RAF rose to the challenge.
They made a test run first, a preliminary drop by two Lancasters flying along a corridor prescribed by the Germans to see if they would be allowed to drop food over the designated area without being shot at. The two Lancasters had been chosen because they had not yet been fitted with secret new radio equipment and were therefore expendable if they fell into enemy hands. One Lancaster had a Canadian pilot, the other an Australian. It was a tense time for both crews as they took off early on the morning of April 29 and headed through a squall of bad weather toward the Dutch coast. Visibility was so poor that Canadian Bob Upcott was forced to fly on his instruments through the murk. It wasn’t until they reached Holland that the weather suddenly cleared up, giving him a bird’s-eye view of the German defenses only a few hundred feet below:
When we passed the Dutch coast we saw anti-aircraft guns that pointed their muzzles in our direction. We even saw tanks that tried to keep their gun barrels on us. We were looking right down a number of barrels. All the guns were still manned and they didn’t have any reason to do otherwise since the war was still going on.1
There were very few Dutch about. They had been warned to expect a food drop at some point, but they weren’t expecting it so soon. The two Lancasters flew straight on toward the drop zone at Duindigt, a race track near The Hague. Upcott found the target without difficulty and commenced his approach run:
The Australian pilot was on my port side, flying echelon port. I dropped first when we were over the race track, while the Australian dropped almost that same moment. I had waited a little bit too long with the drop, because I partly overshot the drop zone. Half of the load slammed into the bleachers at the end of the race course.2
But the drop had been made, one way or another. The Lancasters flew safely back to Britain, unmolested by the Germans except for a hole in Upcott’s fuselage that had probably come from a pistol shot. As soon as they were over the North Sea, they radioed back to base that the mission had been successful. The BBC thereupon announced the commencement of Operation Manna on the lunchtime news. Shortly afterward, an armada of two hundred Lancasters set off for Holland, scheduled to arrive over their respective drop zones just before two that afternoon.
Pathfinder aircraft led the way: Mosquitoes flying ahead to mark the drop zones with red target indicators. Alerted by the BBC, the Dutch on the ground had marked the center of each zone with a red light in the middle of a white cross or T. There were four zones across Holland initially, each near a major city. The Lancasters rumbled toward them, hoping that the reports were accurate and they would not be fired at when they crossed the Dutch coast.
It was a mission of mercy for the RAF crews. They were greatly looking forward to it. Some of the men were due for leave, but had volunteered to fly anyway rather than miss the operation altogether. After months and sometimes years of raining down bombs on Europe, knowing that innocent civilians were being killed along with the guilty, they all wanted to be part of Operation Manna. Dropping food to starving people was much more to their taste than bombing them into oblivion.
Some aircraft flew with a full complement, but others took only a skeleton crew, leaving more room for food. Some carried a full armament, while others lightened the aircraft by ditching their guns. The crew had all received rudimentary training in a mercy drop, learning to release their load from a very low altitude and at a slow speed so that the bags wouldn’t burst on impact. It was quite the opposite of what they had been used to in their war against the Germans.
Flight-Sergeant Pat Russell piloted one of the Lancasters in the first wave. Their drop zone was an airfield south of Rotterdam. With five panniers of food in the bomb bay, Russell wasn’t sure what to expect as they approached the Dutch coast:
We flew across Holland at an altitude of about two hundred feet and could see the crowds out in the streets waving anything they could lay their hands on. Here and there, the green uniforms of the Wehrmacht stood out; needless to say, they weren’t waving. In fact, several aircraft came back with bullet holes in them.
After our previous operations, when we had been dropping nasties on Germany from 21,000 feet, the Manna flights were a joy for all sorts of reasons. We now had official instructions to fly low, which was normally not allowed but was highly enjoyable. We no longer expected to be shot either by fighters or flak. And we were caught up in the obvious excitement of the crowds below.3
Dutch reporter George Franks shared the excitement. He had hitched a lift on a Lancaster to witness the relief of his countrymen from the air:
From the moment we crossed the Dutch coast, people in the fields and roads and in the gardens of the sad little houses, waved frantically. But it was not until we were actually flying over The Hague that we saw what this manna from heaven really meant to the Dutch. Every road seemed full of people waving flags, sheets, or anything they could grab. The roofs of tall buildings were black with Dutch citizens welcoming us. On a barge we saw the Dutch tricolour bravely hoisted; across a large flat roof an Orange flag was colourfully stretched.
The people were certainly overjoyed to see these huge bombers emptying their bomb bays one after another on the target area, as thousands of food bombs fluttered out like confetti from a giant hand. And along the roads leading into The Hague were carts, prams and bicycles as the populace seemed to race to join in the great share-out. Unfortunately, owing to the recent spell of bad weather, we were just too late to give them their Sunday dinner, but with amazing enthusiasm the RAF aerial grocers certainly delivered the goods.4
Flour, yeast, sugar, margarine. Dried egg, peas, beans, cheese. Bars of chocolate. Cans of meat and bacon, dehydrated potato. Some airmen dropped cigarettes as well, tins of Player’s from their own rations. Others made parachutes out of handkerchiefs and dropped a personal gift of sweets and chocolate. It all fell to earth in a great shower, while the Dutch cheered and the aircrew waved. The Germans watched from a distance, still manning their defenses in
case the Allies dropped paratroops instead of food. First aid workers watched, too, ready to assist if anybody was hit by a falling sack. The Dutch had been warned to keep away from the zones until the drop was over, but some couldn’t help themselves and ran out into the open as soon as the Lancasters arrived, laughing and shrieking with the excitement of it all. For the people of Holland, most of whom were thirty or forty pounds underweight after the worst winter any of them had ever known, the arrival of the RAF that rainy afternoon really did seem like manna from heaven.
* * *
IT WAS MORE THAN FOOD, for the Dutch. It was the realization that the war was nearly over and they had not been forgotten. The Dutch saw the Allied planes flying to their aid and knew that people in London were thinking of them, that plans were being made and help was on its way. The Germans would be gone soon, and they would be among friends again, free at last after so long under Nazi occupation. The Dutch were not an emotional people, but it was easy to forget that as the Lancasters swept overhead and the emaciated figures below ran out of their houses and waved their national colors in the street. Another few days and they would all be properly looked after again. The whole ghastly nightmare would be over.
Journalist J. G. Raatgever was having a meager lunch with his family at The Hague when the RAF arrived:
We stared at each other. Bombers on Sunday? I looked outside and there I suddenly saw over the roofs two bombers, which roared like heavy cockchafers to the west. My youngest daughter began to cry and asked anxiously: “They won’t do us any harm?” But we understood suddenly: those are the Allied planes that bring us food. We left our meal, raced outside, waved with hats, shawls, flags, sheets, with anything, to the planes which by now were thundering over our streets in an interminable stream. In a flash our whole quiet street was filled with a cheering, waving crowd and the elated people were even dancing on the roofs. Many had tears in their eyes, others could not utter more than a few inarticulate cries.5
Seventeen-year-old Arie de Jong was there, too:
One could see the gunners waving in their turrets. A marvelous sight. Everywhere we looked, bombers could be seen. No one stayed inside and everybody dared to wave cloths and flags. What a feast! Everyone is so excited with joy. The war must be over soon now.6
A ten-year-old boy was playing in his family’s third-floor apartment when he heard the familiar sound of Lancaster engines. The bombers came over every night, but he had never heard them in daylight before:
There they were, Lancasters, the first time we could see them. I thought they would fly straight into the room, they were at such low altitude, and one after another they roared over the houses. In the distance, there were many more. Coming from the east, the Lancasters flew in loose formation over The Hague. They were over the whole town. I could not count them. It was one broad, mighty stream of aircraft, many more than a hundred.
Far away, in the direction of the Malieveld (an ancient tournament field) one could see clouds of dark specks falling from some of the aircraft. I did not understand what that could be and at that moment it did not matter at all.
The boy climbed up to the roof for a better view as the Lancasters flew overhead:
They were black and brown giants, had four engines and a double rudder, guns poking out everywhere. One could easily look into the glass turrets and cockpit, could clearly see the airmen. They waved to us, made the V-sign, some of them had Dutch or British flags fixed inside the front gun turret.7
The Dutch rushed to pick up the food that had been dropped. Some tucked in at once, like the prisoners at Belsen, cramming themselves so full that their stomachs promptly rebelled and they vomited. Others pocketed the food for later. The vast majority handed the parcels to the people appointed to make sure that everything was distributed fairly, so that everyone got their share. It had been feared that riots might break out when the food arrived, but there was very little disorder. The black marketeers did not profit. It took so long to weigh everything and distribute it evenly across Holland—up to ten days, for the outlying regions—that a few people died of starvation in the meantime, though not many. The Dutch kept their discipline well and took care of their neighbors as well as themselves.
The most serious casualties on the first day came from falling sacks, not all of which landed in the right place. One killed a German soldier who saw a bag hurtling toward a young girl. There was no time to yell out a warning, so he threw himself on top of her to save her life. The girl survived, but the soldier was hit on the head and died instantly. He had been a decent young man, underneath his Wehrmacht helmet.
* * *
IN LONDON, Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands was following the drop with ill-concealed excitement. She had been lobbying for it ever since January, when she had made a personal appeal to Roosevelt, Churchill, and King George VI, urging them to act at once to save her people from mass starvation. The Allies had other priorities at the time, but Wilhelmina had never stopped lobbying. She had kept up the pressure, and now at last something was being done.
Wilhelmina was no great friend of the British. She had supported the Boers in the South African war and had traded with the Germans in the Great War. She had also given asylum to the Kaiser in 1918, repeatedly refusing to hand him over to the victorious Allies. But all that had changed when the Germans invaded her country in 1940. Rescued by the Royal Navy, Wilhelmina had made the difficult decision to seek exile in England rather than remain in Holland under Nazi rule. She had taken her government with her and kept in touch with her people through regular radio broadcasts, raising their morale and reminding them that she would certainly return one day, when Holland was free again.
The day had almost arrived. Wilhelmina had already returned once, making a flying visit in March to the southern provinces liberated by the Allies. She had been close enough to the front line to hear shelling and see V2 rockets roaring overhead. This time, though, she was going home for good. Now that the food drop had started, she had agreed with the Allies that, if the weather held, she would return to her people next day, April 30. She had chosen that day because it was her daughter Juliana’s thirty-sixth birthday. The Dutch were very big on royal anniversaries. It would be a wonderful surprise for them to have their monarch back on Juliana’s birthday. It would be a nice surprise for Juliana, too.
* * *
SOME PARTS OF HOLLAND were already free. The Rhine town of Arnhem, so bitterly contested in September 1944, had finally been liberated in the middle of April. Canadian troops pushing through it had discovered a ghost town, because the Germans had forced its ninety thousand inhabitants to leave immediately after the Allied withdrawal in 1944. The Germans had looted their homes as soon as they had gone, keeping the valuables for themselves and sending all the clothing back to Germany for the use of civilians bombed out of their houses.
But the Dutch had come flooding back, once there was no chance of the Germans returning. They had been overjoyed to see the Canadians, who hadn’t arrived a moment too soon. Like everyone else in Holland, the population around Arnhem had been half-starved, forced to fry tulip bulbs for food and make soup out of nettle leaves. Very few of the babies born to them in the previous twelve months had survived to see the spring. They had died of malnutrition, while their mothers had watched in despair, powerless to intervene.
Walter Cronkite, a United Press reporter who had parachuted into Arnhem in 1944, had returned to Holland with the Canadians to follow their advance. He shared the Canadians’ concern at what they saw as they pressed forward:
What little food there was, the German army took. We found the Dutch near starvation. They had been reduced to eating tulip bulbs. Their clothes hung on their gaunt forms. They looked like children in their parents’ clothing.8
Food was so scarce that Baron Aernoud van Heemstra’s family, in their country home just outside Arnhem, had had nothing at all to eat on Christmas Day that winter. The baron’s fifteen-year-old granddaughter, Audrey Hepburn-Ruston,
had been so weak from hunger that she had had trouble climbing the stairs to her room. Sick with jaundice, weighing only ninety pounds, her legs and feet swollen from edema, she had lived for months close to death, waiting, like the rest of Holland, for the Allies to arrive and bring the ordeal to an end.
Audrey Hepburn had been living with her mother in their own house in Arnhem, until the Germans evicted them. Her mother was a Dutch aristocrat, but her father was British, a descendant of James Hepburn, husband of Mary, Queen of Scots. Audrey’s parents had been Fascists before the war, living in Britain and supporting Sir Oswald Mosley’s Blackshirt movement, even to the extent of meeting Hitler on a fact-finding trip to Germany. But their divorce had been followed by her father’s arrest and internment under British wartime regulations. Rather than stay in England and be bombed, Audrey’s mother had taken her home to Holland in order to sit out the war in a neutral country. It was a decision she had come to regret after the Germans invaded in 1940.
Audrey Hepburn had suffered badly during the war. Despite his earlier Fascist leanings, her interned father had never been a traitor to Britain. Her mother’s family were no friends of the Germans, either. The van Heemstras had Jewish blood, several generations back, and had been obliged to accommodate the Kaiser in their castle at Doorn when he sought asylum after the Great War. They had later had to sell the castle to him against their wishes.
Audrey had seen enough of the Germans during the war to last her forever. The same age as Anne Frank in Amsterdam, she had watched Jews being rounded up, many of them refugees from Germany, and transported to the holding camp at Westerbork for onward transition to Auschwitz. She had been a helpless witness as her own neighbors were herded into trucks and taken away:
Five Days That Shocked the World: Eyewitness Accounts from Europe at the End of World War II Page 10