Dunkirk Spirit Part 10

18:45 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Dunkirk Approaches, France 'Well, this does not look too promising, sir,' offered Lieutenant Commander Gordon Hubbard. In consort with her sister s.h.i.+p HMS Montrose, Cameron was steaming close to her maximum of thirty-six knots, and the East Pier was clearly in focus through Gordon's binoculars. They were travelling in company because they only had one accurate chart between them, and the sand banks off the French coast were equally as treacherous as the minefields, both German and Allied. 'It looks a bit flimsy, sir. And those are definitely wrecks alongside.'

'Very good,' said the Skipper, Commander Edward Bishop, thinking entirely the opposite. 'If they want us to embark troops from that pier, then so be it. But I agree with you, it does not look too promising.'

He stretched for the binoculars and brought them into focus. The East Pier, or East Mole as it was also known, was a very long flimsy wooden structure resting on concrete pylons. Together with the shorter West Pier it acted as a protective arm, sheltering Dunkirk's outer harbour. The moles were never intended as loading bays. They were open at the sides allowing the sea to rush through at the changing of the tides. And, while they were so narrow as to only allow three or four men to stand abreast, on the plus side they were proving difficult targets for the Luftwaffe. Easier targets were the vessels now expected to tie up alongside.

'And we are going to have to watch the tide, sir. It will be out in just over an hour and a half.'

Through the gla.s.ses the Skipper watched a small steam-drifter back away urgently from the pier as two plumes of water exploded on the other side. He watched with professional detachment as the returning water landed in a giant descending wave onto the human cargo lining the pier, sending as many as a score over the side and tumbling down into the water and wrecks several feet below.

'Another air attack, sir,' called Burnell from the other side of the bridge.

'Sound off action stations,' called the Skipper, and the shrill bells began to clang throughout the s.h.i.+p, quickly followed by chattering blasts from the various anti-aircraft defences. Montrose followed suit. There was a sudden blast several hundred feet above the bridge and everybody looked up in time to see a fighter, smoke billowing from the engine, swerve violently away from the two destroyers and aim for the beach. The gun crews of both s.h.i.+ps cheered.

'I am not entirely sure that that wasn't one of ours,' said the Skipper, turning to Burnell.

'Really, sir?' Burnell's face contorted with doubt.

'Wasn't that a Hurricane?' The Skipper turned to Gordon.

'I think it might have been a Defiant, sir. There was definitely a rear-gunner.'

'And yellow markings. That's a bit odd, isn't it?' The Skipper continued to stare through the binoculars. 'Well, whatever it was, it looks like its going to land on the beach. Whoops!'

The fighter, whatever its origin, now sat with its tail in the air, having charged up the beach at considerable speed before grinding to a sudden halt.

'Better send the cutter and pick up the pilot.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' said Burnell. 'Stand by with the cutter.'

'Half ahead, now,' called the Skipper and the telegraphed clanged.

'Half ahead it is, sir.'

'Gordon, take us in will you?'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

As Cameron approached the fragile mole with seven or eight knots headway, Gordon called, 'Full astern both,' at the critical moment, and then he leaned over the bridge and called below. 'Choose your moment, Perkins, but don't hang about.'

The s.h.i.+p's acrobatic buoy-jumper sprang ash.o.r.e, turned two apparent summersaults, and twisted to grab a wire tossed up to him from the s.h.i.+p, throwing the eye over a post in one slick movement. Cameron's foc'sle grazed against the concrete and sparks flew up, making the Skipper's teeth grind painfully.

'No damage, sir. Just a little paintwork,' called Gordon looking back to the bridge. He turned and shouted out another series of orders and HMS Cameron clung to the East Pier against the strong current.

'All secure, sir.'

'Very good,' said the Skipper.

'Hey, you know the rules. No heavy kit or weapons.' A naval rating armed with Lee Enfield and bayonet, along with five others, was filtering the men as they shuffled towards the pier. 'Toss that Tommy gun over the side, quickly does it.'

'You can't be serious, mate. What kind of room is it going to take up?'

'It ain't so much the room as the weight. Those two destroyers can only take so much weight and weight for Tommy guns means less s.p.a.ce for men. Got it? Now chuck it over the side, or I'll chuck you with it.'

'All right, all right,' said Miller. 'But just hear me out for two seconds.' The crowd had paused while the first of the destroyers tied up. The rating looked down at Miller.

'Me and these other wounded blokes here, we fought our way up from Lille. We fought all the way and we lost hundreds of our mates. I already lost a f.u.c.king eye,' he said, pointing theatrically to the heavily bloodstained bandage wrapped around his head and half his face. 'And I ain't f.u.c.king loosing this gun.' The rating stood stony-faced so Miller tried another approach.

'But we lost the captain this morning and, as he lay dying, he turned to me and said, "Corporal, you make sure my Tommy gun gets back to England. They are going to need every gun they got if we're going to stop the n.a.z.is."'

Miller was supporting another injured soldier, even shorter than himself, and he pulled his arm around the dazed boy's shoulders, tugging him close. 'And I made a vow to the captain. I said, "You can trust me, sir. n.o.body's going to take it off me, not even Hitler himself. I'll make sure it gets back to the battalion." And then he died.'

'Go on then, hop it!' said the rating, his eyes rolling in their sockets. 'But keep it out of sight, and I never said so.'

19:25 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

East Mole, Dunkirk, France

'Montrose is shoving off now, sir,' called Gordon.

'Thank G.o.d for that,' said the Skipper, casting another glance into the heavy sky. They had been enormously lucky so far, thanks largely to the covering of thick oily smoke from the refineries. It would be a different story once they cleared the coast.

'As soon as she's under weigh, take us out of here please, Number One.' The Skipper turned away from Montrose, preferring not to see her damage his precious paintwork, and looked over the starboard wing of the bridge. Yet more men fought to get aboard. 'Have we had a tally yet?' he asked over his shoulder.

'No, sir,' said the first officer. 'They're still counting heads but we reckon not less than one-thousand aboard.'

With the falling of the tide, the pier was now level with Cameron's bridge. The mess tables that had been used as slides to pour the troops aboard had been removed but dozens more men were prepared to take their chance. The Skipper watched a man swan dive directly onto the crowded deck, sending the ma.s.sed troops toppling in all directions amid an explosion of bitter oaths.

'We're ready to cast off now, sir,' said Gordon.

'Then make it so,' replied the Skipper. 'Oh,' he said, remembering. 'Has the cutter come back yet?'

'No, sir,' said Gordon. 'Mr Burnell somehow contrived to get sand in the engine and they are rowing off now. I said we would pick them up by the wrecked transport just over there, sir.'

'Very good. Make sure Mr Burnell brings the pilot and any crew to the bridge, please.'

'Yes, sir,' said Gordon, turning to the voice pipe. 'Slow astern, both,' called Gordon, and Cameron pulled cautiously away from the pier.

'Bridge wheelhouse,' called Gordon into another pipe.

'Wheelhouse bridge, sir,' replied the hidden helmsman.

'Reduce rudder to five degrees and hold.' Gordon craned his neck and looked back anxiously. Men were toppling off the pier in the press of bodies and tumbling down into the water.

'Steady!' he cried. 'Port ten. Slow ahead both.' He breathed an audible sigh of relief a few moments later as they edged around a wreck and cleared the Mole. 'Steer zero-four-five.'

'Steering zero-four-five,' answered the helmsman. 'Zero-four-five it is, sir.''Steady as she goes,' said Gordon.

'By my estimate,' said the Skipper stepping towards Gordon. 'One thousand men will give us a deck cargo of around eighty tons. Have you tried getting as many as you can below?'

'Yes, sir,' said Gordon. 'They're squeezed in everywhere, even in the heads. And it's still standing room only on deck!'

'Well, never mind. There's not much we can do about it now. Let's pick up young Mr Burnell as quickly as we can.' He watched their consort steaming away. 'And then don't spare the horses. We must stick like glue to Montrose through the Zuydecoote Pa.s.s.' The Skipper shook his head. All this extra weight would increase his propeller draft by about four feet. With no chart and a falling tide it was a serious case of touch and go. He turned back to his first officer and asked hopefully: 'Any joy with our new echo sounding machine?'

'No, sir,' said Gordon. 'It's still on the blink. Tiffy swears its just teething troubles but the thing is totally unreliable.'

'Well, let's make sure we have two reliable men in the chains, heaving the lead.'

'I have already done so, sir.'

As they entered the pa.s.s, the laconic reports came fast from the chains as both able seamen swung their leads.

'Mark five...deep four.'

Gordon found himself holding his breath, antic.i.p.ating the grinding crunch of s.h.i.+ngle and sand. Numerous other vessels with infinitely less draft had already run aground. He swallowed painfully and looked again around the sky. If she were to join them, Cameron would be a sitting duck for the Luftwaffe and the carnage on her overcrowded decks would be appalling.

'...and a aarf three...and a quarter three.'

'Gos.h.!.+' said the Skipper with considerable understatement. 'That's only six inches between our screws and the bottom!'

'Excuse me, sir,' said Sub-Lieutenant Burnell, pulling himself up the ladder to the bridge.

'What is it?' asked the Skipper curtly, not looking round.

'Sir, the pilot of the Defiant has had to go straight to sickbay. He seems to have damaged his spine. But the gunner is just behind me, sir.'

'Well, he will have to wait a moment.' The Skipper watched the lead fly away from the seaman's hand and the line spin fast.

'Quarter less four...dee-eep four!'

'Yes, yes, yes!' Gordon breathed out. Both he and the Skipper turned to look at one another. 'We're over the top, sir.' The Skipper nodded and Gordon gave the command: 'Half ahead both.'

'Perhaps not a thousand next time,' suggested the Skipper, running his hand down his damp face. 'Let's say eight hundred, tops. Now, Mr Burnell.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. This is Flight Sergeant Whitman.' He stood back and presented the aircraft's rear gunner. 'The pilot, Flying Officer Moore, is in the sickbay. The surgeon says he will have to be stretchered off.'

'I am very sorry to hear that,' said the Skipper, holding out his hand. He paused when he noticed that the sergeant held both hands stiffly in front, bright red and black, with flaking skin. 'And you've had an accident, yourself, I see. Well, we must get that seen to immediately.' He paused, not sure what to say next, and then added: 'So! The new Defiant. Are they as good as the Press makes out?'

'Sir?' asked the sergeant.

'Are they as vulnerable to ground fire as they say?' asked Gordon, trying to broach the subject carefully.

'Yes, sir. Ha, ha,' said the sergeant flatly.

'Yes,' said the Skipper on delicate ground. 'And there was a lot of ack-ack from the sh.o.r.e. But tell me, seriously, are the Defiants any good?'

'They're all right, performance-wise, sir,' said the sergeant. 'But, well, it was better when we first got them, sir. The Germans thought we were Hurricanes and tried to take us from behind. That gave them a shock, naturally. That's where I come in. The first few times it was easy to pick them off. Then they wised up and they come at us head-on now.'

The Skipper shook his head, indicating mild confusion.

'Well,' explained the sergeant. 'We've not got any forward guns, as you know. Something of an oversight, I guess. And that, unfortunately, leaves us rather helpless.'

'Air attack, sir,' called Burnell.

'Sound the alarm,' said the Skipper, and the bells clanged. 'You timed that rather well.' The Skipper spoke as he scanned the sky. 'You can help us out with some aircraft recognition.'

As he spoke, puffs of anti-aircraft fire followed a Vic of fighters just beneath the cloud base.

'Well, those are Hurricanes, sir. They're on our side.'

'Hurricanes?' asked the Skipper. 'How can you tell?'

The sergeant hesitated on the verge of a facetious reply. 'Umm! There are several things, sir. The shape, for one. But you can tell they're ours by the way the wings are painted underneath.'

'How do you mean?' asked Gordon.

'Well, our planes the RAF planes, sir have the underside port wing painted black and the starboard painted white.'

'Really? Now, why didn't anyone bother to tell us?' The Skipper turned to Burnell. 'Better pa.s.s that along to the gun crews.' He turned back to the airman, and asked: 'And, what are those?'

'Heinkel one-one-ones,' he said, looking up. 'Medium bombers. German.'

'Evasive action, number one,' called the Skipper.

'Might I suggest, sir,' said the airman. 'That your gunlayers keep them in their sights until they come within range and then give them everything you've got? But hold on 'till then.'

'Mr Burnell!'

'Aye, aye, sir. Doing so now, sir.' The young officer spoke rapidly into the intercom.

'Starboard twenty,' shouted Gordon. 'Full speed ahead both!' Cameron lurched violently twenty degrees to the right, and then the second snag with a deck cargo of eighty tons suddenly became apparent.

'Oh, my G.o.d!' thought Gordon. 'She's top heavy. She's going over!'

Cameron heeled at a painfully dangerous angle. 'Mids.h.i.+ps!' shouted Gordon. 'Come back, come back. Pleeese!' Cameron righted herself with a momentary lurch to port, and Gordon called again, 'Port ten!' And, again, Cameron lurched over at an impossible angle, leaving a sharply bent wake in her path. The sea erupted as five closely grouped bombs. .h.i.t the surface two hundred yards astern.

'Port twenty!' called Gordon again, and Cameron heeled so hard that foaming white waves washed all along one side of the s.h.i.+p, saturating the soldiers and knocking many down. She steered now directly into the descending stream of vaporised water, blotting her out of view momentarily to anyone above. Water came cras.h.i.+ng down with such force that it knocked the breath out of many men not in immediate cover. As Cameron broke into the clear, her anti-aircraft guns burst into action.

'You've got one!' shouted the sergeant. 'You've b.l.o.o.d.y well got one!'