Dunkirk Spirit Part 18

'How do you mean?'

'Well, miss,' he hesitated. 'Just look at all the removal vans! That's the business I should be in. All the wealthy have left! Do you know, miss, I've lost more than a hundred customers. Just this week!'

'Why? Where are they going?'

'Where are they going? Anyplace! Anywhere's that's away from here. Come here!' He stepped from behind his counter and led Kitty to the door. They stood outside under the awning.

'Listen, miss! D'you here that?'

Kitty strained to listen. She looked up at the sky. 'Do you mean the thunder?' she asked.

'That's no thunder. Listen! Thunder comes in long, rolling bursts. It don't come all at once. Listen!'

Kitty listened. A long, steady rumbled of fire came from somewhere down below and out beyond the English Channel. She could see the sea down at the foot of the hill.

'That's coming from France,' he told her. 'Just twenty-six miles away. They ain't telling us all that's going on.' He looked up at Kitty. 'D'you see the papers this morning?' he asked, highly animated. 'They're blaming the Belgians. But that's not all. Something's up.'

Kitty shook her head, her heart sinking by the second; a new odd sensation tacked on to the last.

'This time the Germans are really on the move.' He pulled Kitty into the shop and then stepped back out into the street, looking both ways up the road. He turned inside and asked: 'What is it now?' He raised his hand, ready to tick off numbers: 'Czechoslovakia, Poland, Norway, Holland, Belgium, Luxemburg. And now France! What's going on over there? And why are so many of our blokes coming back? Tell me that?'

Kitty continued to shake her head.

'It don't seem right to me. People leaving! Warnings on the wireless about fifth column parachutists dropping out of the sky! They've taken all the railings down at the front, d'you know. Taken them all for sc.r.a.p! To build Spitfires and battles.h.i.+ps! I've got no customers any more. They've all gone. And, before you know it,' he lowered his voice to a hush. 'The n.a.z.is will be here. Just you see!'

17:20 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

East Mole, Dunkirk, France 'Can't you put us further down the pier?' asked Captain Knight, aghast at the congestion around the tiny East Mole.

'There are wrecks there, sir,' stated Gordon. 'Hang on! We're being signalled now.' He conferred briefly with the leading signalman and then stepped back. 'They want us to come abreast Fenella, sir. I told them we will try, but I suggest we get in and out as quickly as possible.' He looked hopefully at the Skipper. 'Perhaps we should offload Captain Knight's party and then cut our losses and head straight for Bray.'

'Sounds very sensible, Number One. Take us in will you?'

'Aye, aye, sir. Half ahead both.'

'Half ahead both it is, sir.'

'I think now would be a good time to get a move on,' said the Skipper looking across at Captain Knight. 'Sub-Lieutenant Burnell will give your party a hand getting across. Good luck!'

They shook hands and Captain Knight slid down the bridge ladder to join his party.

Two large vessels, the personnel s.h.i.+p Fenella and the paddle steamer Crested Eagle, lay berthed against the seaward side of the Mole. As Cameron approached at a steady fifteen knots, a vast stream of men could be seen shuffling up the narrow walkway and queuing patiently as they prepared to clamber aboard.

'Full astern both,' called Gordon. He looked at the Skipper. 'Heck of a strong current, sir. This will not be easy. Perkins!' He called now to the acrobatic buoy jumper standing in the eyes of the s.h.i.+p. 'Choose your moment. All stop.'

'All stop it is, sir.'

Cameron glided in against the side of Fenella and Gordon called out a series of orders, securing the destroyer to the former pleasure liner. As soon as their sides touched, Burnell hopped across onto Fenella's deck.

'This way, sir,' he said, helping Captain Knight over. 'Across the deck and up that ladder directly ahead of you, please.'

Suddenly, Cameron sounded her alarm bells and Burnell lifted his head towards the sky. 'Don't hang about,' he warned as he tugged the last of the party over the gunwales. With that, he grabbed one of the party's bags and pushed his way through the soldiers who were struggling aboard and collapsing onto the deck.

The first bomb to land did so in the sea but sufficiently close to the destroyer Grenade, moored on the opposite side of the Mole, to rip a giant hole in her side. By that time, Burnell had scrambled up the ladder, tugging the heavy holdall behind him. Another bomb now landed directly onto the trawler Calvi, moored not very far from where he stood. A blast of steam rose up from the trawler and into the faces of the men pressed together on the pier. Burnell could see Captain Knight pus.h.i.+ng his way through the mob, urgently making for the sh.o.r.e. Burnell hesitated. He should rejoin the s.h.i.+p immediately and forget the bag he was carrying. He dropped it and turned. Just then a third bomb landed plumb on Fenella's promenade deck turning it into an instant charnel house.

The blast, as if from a vast meat-filled oven, knocked Burnell backwards into the press of men, screaming and hollering around him on the pier. He struggled for breath and pitched himself forward, clawing his way towards the pier's edge and the devastated deck of the liner below. Thick brown smoke s.h.i.+elded much of the horror. A ma.s.s of tangled, b.l.o.o.d.y and broken bodies lay strewn or writhing around a gaping black hole in the centre of the deck like petals on a dead flower. The fourth blast lifted Burnell off his feet. The bomb fell between the pier and Fenella's side, lifting up the wooden planking, sending lengths tumbling with deadly force into the crowd. The blast also tore away a fair portion of the concrete piling below and sent it straight through Fenella's side to wreck her engine-room. Men were charging up out of Fenella and trying to jump aboard the Crested Eagle as she slipped her moorings. Many others were running in a desperate panic back along the Mole to the sh.o.r.e.

As Burnell pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, his hands reached directly to his head, coming away sticky with blood. He looked at the blood in his hands and then looked up. Cameron was pulling away from the liner's side, reversing as fast as she could, sending her decks rocking as she swerved to avoid an earlier wreck of a trawler. Amid the continuous AA, Burnell caught the flash of an Aldis lamp from the bridge.

'Must fly!' He mouthed the two words soundlessly.

17:50 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

Above Bray Dunes, France 'Break, break, break!' shouted Red Leader across the static, and the two Hurricanes of Red Section swerved away in opposite directions. At twenty-nine thousand feet they were far too high, having allowed themselves to follow the rest of the wing in a high pursuit. Now the German fighters were providing an effective cordon, preventing the Hurricanes and remaining Defiants from attacking the bombers busy below. At this height, the fighters trailed brilliant white vapour clouds, lacing the pale blue sky in a spectacular display of aerobatics and death. And, yet, despite the new wing tactics, the RAF was outnumbered on a ma.s.sive scale.

Ginger was now alone, his hands and feet tingling like ice at the alt.i.tude, and forty minutes into his second sweep of the day. He described a tight circle downward, trying to shake the two Me110s on his tail. As he did so, he flew into the path of two more soaring Messerschmitts. He turned directly towards them and let loose a quick burst before pus.h.i.+ng his Hurricane into another dive. Within moments, four Me110s were on his tail. Ginger pulled and pushed at the controls like a madman, hoping that his erratic path might throw them off. He was having no luck. He was out-climbed and out-turned by the new German fighters at this alt.i.tude. Two Messerschmitts had managed to position themselves beneath him and were starting to climb, forcing Ginger upwards. He dipped his starboard wing and attempted to drop away but a steady line of tracer rushed past his c.o.c.kpit and clipped a portion of wing. He pulled up again. He was now at twenty-three thousand and the s.h.i.+ps below were no more than faint scratches on the surface of the sea. There was no other way out. Ginger rolled onto his back. The Hurricane plummeted and the engine cut out.

The nightmare returned. The Hurricane screamed through the sky, vibrating so violently that Ginger could not focus on the dials. Black smoke poured out of the exhaust. Petrol and glycol gushed out of the vents and streaked across the c.o.c.kpit gla.s.s before vaporising in clouds of their own. The sea below spun like a map on a gramophone. To the four n.a.z.i pilots above, Ginger's Hurricane was charging to its doom. They pulled up to regroup and to seek another victim in the target-rich sky. Ginger had already forgotten them. He pressed his cheek hard up against his left shoulder and fought to keep some blood in his head. The old Hurricane might enjoy the dives but she did not want to pull back out.

Ginger strained so hard on the stick that he could feel his stomach muscles tearing with the effort. Down below, small grey puffs of anti-aircraft fire exploded in the sky. His Hurricane continued to spin vertically. A s.h.i.+p, now no more than a rotating half-inch smudge on his winds.h.i.+eld, was blasting away upwards. With effort he managed to control the spin. The stick released grudgingly in his hands and the Hurricane, imperceptibly at first, began to pull out of the dive. Ginger tried to focus on the altimeter. Although he could not read off the numbers, he could see the larger of the two white hands spinning backwards like a clockwork toy. The s.h.i.+p was growing rapidly in size. Ginger continued to wrench back the stick and progressively the Hurricane pulled out.

The scream of the wind as it buffeted the Hurricane almost drowned out the sudden crack from his wing. Ginger turned to his left and looked across. The Hurricane was racing along at sea level. He reached down to the throttle lever at his side and fired up the engine. A portion of the canvas skin of the wing, just beyond the four Brownings, had just ripped away, exposing the rigid struts beneath. The engine coughed back into life with a sudden jerk. She stuttered as black bursts of exhaust exploded from the vents. Ginger climbed. He let out his breath and felt his chest and stomach muscles sag in pain.

The elderly kite handled strangely now. She tried to pull away from his control and dip down to the right. As he climbed, Ginger picked out a gruppe of Stukas swarming above a paddle steamer. He could see that the pleasure boat was already on fire. She appeared to be out of control, casting a vast white wake as she turned in a broad circle on the sea. Smoke billowed from a point just forward of her wheelhouse, and another towards the stern. Her decks were crowded with tiny dark figures. As he watched, a ma.s.sive shock-wave spread out from the s.h.i.+p as another bomb landed close to her bridge. The bright spark of golden light was almost instantly engulfed in thick smoke and steam. Ginger was still low enough to see the tiny figures of men topple from the sides and disappear into the foaming wake. He opened the throttle wide and the Hurricane soared to give chase. He approached from beneath. The last Stuka was dawdling behind the rest of the pack, enjoying the show below.

At this angle, as he approached from beneath and from the rear, Ginger had the luxury of sighting his target. He eased back and brought his fighter squarely in line with the ascending Stuka. He placed his sights directly between the German's claw-like wheel struts and squeezed the fire b.u.t.ton. There was a brief series of rapid clicks, more felt than heard. His thumb was still squeezing down hard. Nothing. He knew that he should have plenty of ammunition left. He had even adopted Clouston's trick of loading the final ten rounds of each gun with tracer so he could watch and know when he had fired his last. He had yet to see his own tracer. The German was so close now that he could discern rivets along the base of the wing. Ginger still had not been spotted. He allowed the Hurricane to pull down to the right and he dropped away.

17:57 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

Bergues-Hondschoote Ca.n.a.l, France There will be another edition of The Children's Hour at the same time tomorrow. In just a moment, a bulletin of news and then, at six-twenty, a chance to hear A.R.P. Question Time with Hilton Brown. Later, at six-forty-five, Mr. F.H. Grisewood presents The World Goes By when he brings to the microphone people in the news, people talking about the news, and interesting visitors to Britain. This week W. Roy Chadburn is just back from Paris, and we have the experiences of a fighter pilot by a Royal Air Force Flying Officer.

'Can't wait!' exclaimed Nigel as he sat sipping his sherry. Lucas, who was the hero of the hour, had laid a small table and three chairs behind the cottage. The officers were enjoying their sherry while the smell of coq-au-vin drifted pleasantly from the windows of the well-stocked building. High above, vapour trails laced the dramatic afternoon sky.

'How many of those do you suppose are ours?' asked Simon of No. 2 Company, staring up.

'Perhaps half,' suggested Sandy. 'It must be great fun!'

'Certainly looks it from here,' said Nigel.

'My uncle was in the Flying Corp in the last show,' proffered Simon.

'Oh, really?' asked Nigel, wondering if he might regret it. 'Did he enjoy it?'

'Hard to say, really,' replied Simon. 'He never came back from his first patrol. So, probably not, really.'

'Does look like fun though,' said Sandy again. 'More sherry?'

'Please.'

'I must say, your man did remarkably well with all this stuff. d.a.m.n good of you to share it around.' Simon raised his gla.s.s and the officers sat back content.

'All in all, a splendid haul,' guffawed Sandy. 'Cheers!'

'Bottoms up!'

'Chin, chin!' Nigel lit his pipe and puffed. 'So how many Brens did you get, Sandy?'

'Fourteen Brens,' he admitted. 'Three Lewis guns, two Boyes anti-tank rifles, fifty thousand rounds of small arms ammunition, and six cases of Mills bombs. Plus a spanking new French sixty-mil mortar and twenty rounds. Still in the box! Oh, and fifty a.s.sorted smoke rounds, in red, white and blue. All very patriotic.'

'Splendid!'

'And a b.l.o.o.d.y great French tractor-thing that we can use to block the road if it comes to that. And then all the food! I just wish we had some sound drinking water.'

'My chaps don't seem to like the Bren much,' put in Nigel. 'But they were totally delighted with the Lewis. Thanks.'

'We love Brens,' said Sandy. 'Perfect for bursting German inflatable boats.'

'I'm really looking forward to dinner,' said Simon. 'I'm ravis.h.i.+ng!'

'Ravished, darling!' corrected Nigel. 'No one could ever truly describe you as ravis.h.i.+ng!' He laughed. 'As youthful as you are!'

'I heard you found some Wilts.h.i.+re bacon?' inquired Simon, keen to think about food. 'Any eggs?'

'By the dozen, and four more chickens.'

'Well, that's breakfast sorted, then.' Simon smiled inwardly. 'And a breakfast beer, how perfect! Takes me back to Oxford.'

'Six crates of Belgian beer,' confirmed Sandy. 'I rather like the stuff.'

'And wine?' asked Nigel.

'Just tres ordinaire, I'm afraid. But plenty of it. Lucas is cooking the chicken in it.'

'I know. I know. I can smell it!' sighed Simon.

'What's for dinner, Lucas?' asked Samson poking his head through the window and into the kitchen.

'For you, d'you mean?'

'Yeah. For me and the lads!'

'Well, we have quite a menu this evening, my young sir.' Lucas stood back from the charcoal stove and wiped his hands on a dainty tea towel. 'For starters you can choose from a selection of tinned beetroot, tinned peas or tinned beans.'

'Lovely!'

'For your main course, you can have either MacConochie's meat and veg with hard biscuits, or bully beef and tinned potatoes.'

'Hmm!'

'For desert, we have Nestles condensed milk, a selection of tinned fruit, from pears, peaches and plums. And to finish, should you have room, there's a lot of some rather smelly cheese, served with French Army biscuits.'

'And what's that on the stove, there? Smells b.l.o.o.d.y great!'

'That's for the officers. That isn't for the likes of you. And besides, I ain't your blooming cook. You can come and help yourselves when the lieutenant says so.'

'Then how about some of that rum, just to be getting on with? To give me an appet.i.te!' Samson showed his bad teeth through cracked lips.

'What, ain't you hungry already?'

'f.u.c.king starved! What d'you think?'

'I think you just want a drink. That's what I think.' Lucas bent down, retrieved a gallon jar from one of the cases on the floor, and tipped some into a deep mug.

'Don't let none of the officers see this,' he said, handing it through the window. 'And bring the mug back.' Lucas stepped away and turned to the other window, looking out to the north where the lieutenant and the others sat in the sun drinking sherry. Another ten minutes, thought Lucas, and I'll serve dinner.

Outside, one of the officers became suddenly animated as he pointed up at the sky. 'Oh, look! There goes another one!'

18:25 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

Off Bray Dunes, France Sub-Lieutenant Kenneth Burnell of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve had a fair grasp of first aid. He had paid keen attention during the training course at the King Alfred base in Portsmouth. Some of what he did now was automatic. The rest was blind panic.

'Look!' he shouted to the soldier beside him. 'You've got to apply pressure here.' Burnell took a large piece of cloth and stuffed it into the sucking chest wound of the man's friend. Bright pink bubbles foamed around the cloth as he forced it inside. Burnell surprised himself. Such a sight in his civilian days might easily have brought on a fainting fit or worse. The Atlantic convoys had cured him of any squeamishness.

'Oh, bleedin' h.e.l.l! Is he gonna be all right?' The soldier was as grey in the face as his wounded friend.

'He will if you can keep the pressure up,' shouted Burnell, far from sure himself. 'Help me.' He gently s.h.i.+fted the patient onto his side so the blood gus.h.i.+ng from one lung did not fill the other and so drown the man. 'If he goes red in the face...' Burnell realised that the man's friend was no longer paying attention. He shook him and shouted again. 'If he goes red in the face, pull the dressing out and then bang it in again. Do you understand?'

The soldier nodded but it seemed clear that he was becoming more concerned with his own safety. Burnell pulled himself upright and looked around. As a means of hitching home, this was not one of his better ideas. The Crested Eagle had taken four hits between the funnel and the engine-room. Thick black smoke swept around him. Fine grey smoke was rising from between the wooden planks of the deck. Burnell stood towards the stern and watched the wake. The steamer was turning in an ever-increasing circle. The giant paddle wheels to each side whirled ungoverned, tearing the surface of the sea and sending it back as brilliant white foam. Down below, the triple expansion engines were exceeding their manufacturer's recommended revolutions and threatening to tear the s.h.i.+p apart. She was easily topping twenty-knots. All around him, men were in panic. Some simply stood and stared with bulging white eyes. Others ran from one part of the s.h.i.+p to another, hoping perhaps to find a patch of safety and thus escape the flames that now threatened to engulf the steamer.

'What the h.e.l.l are they doing on the bridge?' wondered Burnell. He turned and pushed his way through the crowd. 'Gangway!' he shouted as he shoved men aside. A few short steps led to the open bridge. Burnell grabbed the rail and pulled himself up. Now he did feel sick. The entire bridge crew had been shredded. Not one body remained recognisable as such. The s.h.i.+p's big wheel was shattered, too. Burnell stood aghast. He stepped forward towards the telegraph and tugged at the bra.s.s lever until it registered All Stop. There was no corresponding ding of the bell.

The s.h.i.+p continued on at soaring speed. He looked for voice pipes but could see none. A new wave of horror washed over him. Around his feet, the deck lay thick with blood and gore. Curious grey-pink blobs of fat washed up against his shoes as the s.h.i.+p heeled over. Ahead of him, as the Crested Eagle tore on, the beach came into view. A few three-storey buildings lined the front. Smoke billowed from a dozen different points. On the sand, long lines he now knew to be men. Three or four more turns like this and the steamer would very likely run aground. Given the options, it was the best that could be hoped for now the fire had taken a serious hold. The wooden s.h.i.+p could count the rest of her life in minutes not hours.

As she turned back out to sea, Burnell saw the sharp bows of a destroyer pressing towards them. From her bridge came a series of bright white flashes. Burnell read off the words. "Stop! We are coming alongside. Prepare to disembark troops. Repeat stop!"

'Fat chance,' thought Burnell. Men, many of them already soaked and covered in oil, looked over the rails and down to the foaming white water below. Many were wondering if they should take their chances now over the side or wait a while. Salvation seemed a long way off. The destroyer came back into view. Burnell could see it was Cameron. His heart gave a leap. She was reducing her speed now, and turning about ten-degrees to starboard, in an attempt to come alongside. Burnell waved and then realised that everybody else on deck was waving frantically, too.

'The bridge is in ruins. That's why she won't stop,' proclaimed the Skipper. He let his binoculars drop to his chest. 'Suggestions, Number One?'

'I say leave her, sir. She's going to run aground at this rate.' Gordon turned away from the Skipper and looked back towards the Crested Eagle. 'Half ahead both,' he called.

The Crested Eagle was a beautiful s.h.i.+p. She now looked like a wounded animal in a blind panic. He raised his own gla.s.ses and picked out the men lining her rail. They seemed to be staring directly back at him. Gordon's grandmother had been able to read lips but he had never bothered to learn. Now, he didn't need to. He held the binoculars to his eyes. The effect was rather like watching a grainy film at the Odeon. The lenses helped separate him from the reality of a s.h.i.+pload of men on the verge of an agonising death.

'Stukas, sir!' shouted the lookout, jarring Gordon back to reality.

'Sound the alarm!'

Bells clanged throughout the s.h.i.+p and the gunners, who had been watching the tiny black shapes grow by the second, braced themselves as they traced the bombers progress.