Dunkirk Spirit Part 19

'Full ahead both!' called Gordon.

'Full ahead both it is, sir.'

'Port ten.' Cameron swerved away from the dying s.h.i.+p and into the path of the Stukas.

'Shoot!' And the guns blazed away.

'No! No! Over 'ere!'

Burnell watched Cameron pull gracefully aside, sending a powerful wash towards the paddle steamer. Above, bursts of grey AA fire bloomed in the path of the dive-bombers. They came down regardless. The first bomb landed to within a hundred yards of the port paddle wheel. A towering wall of grey sea burst upward, sending the s.h.i.+p heeling over and altering her course. Burnell slipped on the deck and collided in a tangle of arms and legs against a bulwark. Men were now launching themselves up onto the rail and dropping into the fast moving water. The sound of the port paddle as it lifted clear of the sea clattered like a deranged thres.h.i.+ng machine. A sound of splintering timbers and then the wheel began to break apart.

The Crested Eagle continued to heel at a dangerous angle, forcing Burnell to place his palms flat on the deck for purchase. Another explosion brought the next deadly siren to its conclusion and the sea erupted again towards the stern, sending yet more filthy grey foam into the evening sky. Burnell was suddenly on his side and sliding along the wet deck towards the front of the s.h.i.+p. He felt the timbers below scream in protest as they came up hard against the compacted sand of the sloping sh.o.r.e. The Crested Eagle came to a very sudden halt. The smoke that had been seeping through the cracks in the decking now burst out in torrents. The s.h.i.+p may have ground to a halt but much of her superstructure continued to push itself forward. Steam burst in an enormous grey cloud from a point yards above Burnell's head. The funnel gave a lurch and toppled forward, colliding with the mast in an intricate web of rigging. Burnell continued to slide across the deck.

'That's it! She's aground now,' announced the Skipper, looking back from his wing of the bridge. Cameron ploughed through the sea, tearing across her own wake, forcing the bows to rise and plummet.

'Bring us in close, Number One. Let's have some good men in the chains, and lower the boats.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'More aircraft, sir!' shouted the lookout. 'Different ones!'

'We really are going to have to conserve our ammunition, sir,' called Gordon above the din. 'We won't be able to keep this up for much longer.'

Both officers looked into the sky. Now twin-engine fighters were swooping down, coming two-by-two in a giant swarm. As they swept between Cameron and the blazing steamer, the water between them erupted with bursts of cannon fire.

'Mark five...deep four.'

'I can't get us in any closer, sir. And at this range we're having no b.l.o.o.d.y effect.'

'Ceasefire!' called the Skipper and gradually Cameron quietened down. Gordon watched as the two whalers were swung away from the side and lowered with hast into the water.

'Boats away, sir!' he called 'Then get us out of here, Number One.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Burnell clung to the rail looking down into the water. All around him men were clambering up, balancing momentarily, and then dropping down into the sea. Since grounding, the fuel tanks had ruptured and now the surface of the sea took on an iridescent sheen. It suppressed the few remaining waves and lapped over the heads of each man in the water, blackening and scalding, and leaving them gagging. Burnell let go of the rail and stood back. Cameron was pursing a zigzag course out to sea. Her two whalers were pulling hard now towards the men in the water. Burnell did not hear the Messerschmitt as it came racing along, barely ten feet above the surface. The water erupted and a momentary furrow ripped through the oily grey sea. Heads that had bobbed there moments before now disappeared. Those not hit increased their efforts to reach the whalers. Another Messerschmitt and another terrible burst of deadly cannon fire. Burnell looked up and saw dozens more circling above. The whole sky seemed alive with dark monsters. Out to sea, Cameron lay cloaked in fine blue-grey smoke as her gunners continued to chase targets in the sky.

In the back of his mind, Burnell knew that the sea would catch fire. And then, when it did, it still came as a surprise. It came first as a blue flame, so small and so pretty, that it resembled the wind rippling across a field of bluebells. The flames raced across the surface, spreading with urgency all around the s.h.i.+p. As the flames reached each swimmer in turn, so their hair ignited in a bright yellow flare that fizzled and flickered until each man sank below the surface. As the flames reached out, so they suddenly licked up against the sides of the whalers. Oars were hastily uns.h.i.+pped, only to come away flaming like torches, dripping liquid fire back into the sea. As the flames grew in confidence, so they grew in size and intensity. Within an instant, the sea was aglow in brilliant reds, yellows, and dying blues. One by one, the men in the whalers stood upright. Many clutched at their heads as their hair, too, ignited. The whalers burnt an intense white that produced a thick black smoke. Burnell turned away horrified and ran towards the eyes of the s.h.i.+p. Hundreds of men were still lining her rails. The majority were screaming. The sh.o.r.e was a good three hundred yards away. Flames licked up the sides, toasting the foul air, and singeing the hairs in his nostrils. Young Kenneth Burnell had been married just six weeks.

'This is going to be tough on Daisy,' he thought. He ran quickly up the anchor chains and dropped over the side.

18:55 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

Bray Dunes, France

The Crested Eagle continued to burn and would continue to do so for many more days, providing yet another clear landmark off the beach. Periodically, small explosions could be heard from within her blackened hull as odd items such as tins of paint and varnish ignited. The sea was no longer afire. Now scores of bodies rolled facedown with the waves. Those that had made it to the sh.o.r.e, rolled and turned with the outgoing tide. Sub-Lieutenant Burnell of the RNVR lay amongst them.

He turned over and propped himself up on his elbows. His eyes were sore and his vision blurred. His arms and legs s.h.i.+vered with shock and exertion. Out to sea, the Luftwaffe continued to bomb and strafe. He felt violently sick from the fuel oil. Burnell had such a serious aversion to vomiting that he had rarely allowed himself to be sick even in the worst Atlantic storms. He had no such compunction now. He turned on his side and spewed his heart out. After some time, when his head had stopped spinning and the desire to retch had subsided, Burnell pulled himself with difficulty to his feet. He tried to take stock. A crowd had gathered along the sh.o.r.e to watch the paddle steamer burn. A rich black smoke rose into the sky and then stretched back over their heads, fading to grey as it dissipated over the dunes. Thousands of men stood, sat or lay across the sand. Weeks of fighting, days of marching, and now they faced a dead end or just plain death. The fear and anxiety was reflected in every face that Burnell could focus upon.

He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. Slowly he wiped the oil away from his eyes and mouth, wincing slightly at the tenderness of his skin. He spat again onto the sand. The noxious maritime fuel oil coated his mouth. At his feet, a seaman's blue cap turned in the surf, the HMS on the band still shone a watery gold beneath the oil. Burnell took a few steps up the beach and turned to look out to sea. Four destroyers raced at speed a few miles from the sh.o.r.e.

Around fifty s.h.i.+ps and boats of all sizes milled around at their best speed in their efforts to avoid the bombers. Cameron swung towards the sh.o.r.e. She still needed to offload her wireless gear and was seeking out a suitable craft to bring it insh.o.r.e. She was chasing down a pleasure cruiser of around fifty tons. The boat seemed reluctant to stop. Eventually Cameron pulled alongside, hiding the cruiser from view. Burnell waited, watching the skies and willing away every Stuka and Heinkel.

After an agonising ten minutes, the cruiser pulled into view. Two large crates had been lowered onto her raised rear deck. As the cruiser turned towards the sh.o.r.e, the crates appeared to slide awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye, Burnell saw a stick of five bombs tumbling downward. They landed in an untidy cl.u.s.ter between Cameron and the cruiser. For an instant, Cameron was obscured from view as a towering mountain of grey sea roared into the sky. Burnell's heart seemed to stop. Suddenly he relaxed. Cameron was turning hard to port and back out to sea, sending a prodigious white wake behind her. He let out his breath and felt the back of his throat burn. The cruiser had disappeared for an instant, too. Now she came tearing out of the descending wall of water and spray. Her upper deck as she turned briefly side-on appeared to have crumpled under the weight of the water. Just one crate was now visible. Burnell watched the cruiser pick up speed and aim for a point on the beach about five hundred yards to his left. He turned and trotted along the sh.o.r.e.

'What, run her aground on an ebb tide? Are you off your rocker?'

'Just do it, will you?'

'I've got the owners to think about,' shouted Charlie Lavender above the roar.

'Just do it, man!' The sub-lieutenant fought hard not to scream.

'Right! You bloomin' asked for it.' Charlie opened the throttle wide and Phoebe's bows lifted out of the water as she topped twenty-nine knots. The sh.o.r.e was approaching fast and Charlie called back over his shoulder. 'Ted, I want the kedge anchor off the stern. Let her out fast when I say.'

'Sure thing, Charlie,' called Ted. He clambered across the flattened afterdeck and dropped out of sight at the stern.

'Here we go,' shouted Charlie, looking over the side. 'Brace yourselves! Anchor away!' He eased the throttle back to neutral and they glided in.

For an instant, her bows seemed to rise out of the water and then Phoebe came to a sudden halt amid an intense grinding of timbers on sand. Her already precarious afterdeck continued to skate forward and gave a lurch, sending the packing case sliding until it collided with the top rail.

'Happy now?' asked Charlie, regaining his balance and addressing the young officer a.s.signed to command Phoebe. The cruiser continued to groan.

'Ecstatic!'

Charlie looked at his fob watch. 'Four-thirty's the next high tide. That's more than nine hours. Right bloomin' target we're going to make. Stuck here like a pimple on a cow's a.r.s.e!'

An officer, another sub-lieutenant, was wading out towards them. The water reached up to his waist. Behind him charged groups of soldiers. Many waved their rifles and helmets in the air. Nearly all were grinning or shouting. Charlie lent over the side and studied the officer as he pulled himself level with the bridge. Thick dark hair matted with oil covered the right side of his head. The other side appeared to have been shorn. Charlie adjusted his gla.s.ses and looked closer. The officer had a livid burn down the entire left side of his face. The skin had tightened, pulling his mouth into a sneer, giving him a wild piratical air.

'Ahoy, there!' he called up.

'Ahoy,' called back the sub-lieutenant from the bridge. He edged Charlie out of the way. 'Have you come to give us a hand?'

'Not exactly,' said Burnell. 'I see you just came from Cameron and wondered if you were going back.' He stepped away a foot or so and looked along the length of the cruiser. 'But it doesn't look like you will be going anywhere. And high tide's hours away.'

'Nine bloomin' hours,' put in Charlie.

The soldiers drew level with Phoebe, sending a small wake in their path as they pulled their way through the water. Burnell stepped aside and puffed out his chest.

'Hold your horses, you lot,' he bellowed to the soldiers. 'This boat's not going anywhere for some time yet.' There were groans and catcalls from the mob of soldiers. Burnell cast his eyes around until he spotted an NCO.

'You! Corporal! If you can grab ten men and help us offload some gear, I will guarantee you places for the return journey home.' Burnell had successfully s.h.i.+fted the responsibility and he turned back to Phoebe while the troops argued amongst themselves.

'Have you got any water?' he asked, looking up at Charlie.

'How about a nice cup of tea?' asked Charlie in return.

'Praise the Lord! I'm coming aboard. Give me a hand up!'

'I say! You really shouldn't go around issuing orders like that. I'm in charge here.' The sub-lieutenant stood framed in the doorway to the small saloon. He looked down at Burnell as he gulped back tea.

'There's more in the pot,' put in Charlie.

Burnell gulped some more and held the mug out to Charlie with a lopsided smirk. He turned to look at the annoying young officer. 'Burnell of Cameron,' he said, introducing himself but not getting up.

'Elliot, a.s.signed to HMS Excellent, Whale Island.'

Burnell decided to get in quick. 'What's the date of your commission?' he asked.

'November the twenty-third, nineteen-thirty-nine.'

'Well, I'm sorry, old boy,' said Burnell, holding back a cracked grin. 'October the sixth, thirty-nine. Hard luck. Looks like I'm in command.'

'Do you have your commission on you?' asked Elliot, seriously miffed.

'No, it's back on Cameron,' lied Burnell.

'D'you fancy a bacon sandwich?' asked Charlie, handing Burnell another mug of tea.

'If it's no trouble,'

'No trouble at all.'

22:15 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

Central Hotel, Dover, Kent

Kitty opened the door to her tiny room and flopped straight down onto the bed. Her head was spinning. She stared up at the yellowed plaster rose on the ceiling and traced the cracks that led to all four corners of the room. It had been a day full of surprises ever since Ashford. Her room at the hotel had no desk, just a washstand, a chest-of-drawers and rickety wardrobe, its door wedged shut with a folded piece of newspaper. The room smelt musty and of cheap soap. Kitty pulled herself upright and adjusted the pillows on the bed. She opened her notepad and stared at the blank page. Kitty had beautiful copperplate handwriting, taught to her by the Indian bookkeepers on the plantation. She unscrewed the top of her fountain pen and wrote the first word of her report: Fear.

Everyone here seems to live in fear. Invasion is expected any day. I understand now why the children are all being evacuated again. A number of people told me that they can hardly wait until Sunday and that, while it is a frightening prospect to send one's children away, it is certainly for the better as each day brings new worries. The streets of Dover are mostly deserted and gunfire can be heard coming all the way from France. There are lots of aircraft in the skies. The few housewives on the street all carry their gasmasks. In four hours, I counted seven removal vans all heading out of town. One shopkeeper, an M60C, told me that everyone who can afford to is leaving and heading as far inland as possible. Wales and the Midlands tend to be the favoured destinations.

At the Central Hotel, listening to the news is quite a ritual. As nine o'clock approaches, the wireless is turned on and the lounge crowds up. People sit on chairs, or arms of chairs in very tense att.i.tudes. It is a very loud wireless, but even so some men crowd right round it and even lean over it. People smoke a lot and the great thing seems to be to avoid anybody's eye.

It is interesting to watch different peoples' reaction to each story. When the announcer said that our Army had withdrawn towards the coast in perfect order, there was a strong sense of relief across the room. However, when he quoted the French saying that Calais was still in Allied hands and that Dunkirk was in no immediate danger, a few of the men were heard to scoff and a chorus of coughing broke out across the room.

The coughing grew even worse when the announcer said that the R.A.F. had shot down twenty-two enemy aircraft to the loss of none of our own. Generally, the people I have spoken to tend to rely heavily on the news bulletins and to have more faith in the broadcasts compared to what they read in the newspapers. However, the great feeling amongst everyone is that we were not being given the whole picture.

The strongest reaction came when they reported the Germans deliberately ma.s.sacring French civilians. This seemed to elicit a furious rage against the Germans but many people remember the newspaper reports of the last war and the exaggeration of atrocities. Some warned that this was probably just propaganda. The announcer said the French refugees, including women and children, were being machine-gunned and slaughtered on the roads by low-flying aircraft. When he said they have been deliberately knocked down and crushed by German tanks, an F60C in the lounge gave a brief shriek and then buried her face in a handkerchief for the rest of the bulletin.

The great fear of the people here is that the Germans will have no regard for the civilians. A number of people mentioned the German atrocities in Spain in the recent civil war, especially the bombing from the air of towns and villages. Parachutists seem to be the greatest fear, together with the idea that they are out to shoot as many civilians as they can. One F25C expressed an intense desire to have something to shoot back at them with. An M55B said every man from sixteen to sixty should be taught how to use a revolver so that "when these b.u.g.g.e.rs land, we'll be prepared to defend our wives and mothers."

Another great fear is the possibility of fifth columnists already amongst us. While people tend to express considerable sympathy for the refugees that one sees everywhere, it is often tempered by the thought that a few may be Germans in disguise. When the announcer said that new regulations were coming into force to curb the movement of all aliens, there was a muted chorus of approval across the lounge.

The wireless is abruptly turned off as soon as the sports bulletin begins. There was rather low subdued talk after, as if people were not very happy. The word parachutist was frequently heard. When I tried to mention the soldiers I had seen earlier in the day, and the sad state that they were in, most people tried to shrug it off, saying that it was usual for soldiers to be replaced on the battlefield and that the ones pouring through the railway station here were those in need of rest. However, one M30B said he thought it was strange that French troops were also being brought back to England to rest. "France is a very big country. Why bring them over here when they have everything they need over there?" Many people said that pulling back the Army to the coast is a good idea because it would be easier to supply our soldiers by sea. n.o.body, however, admits to having seen fresh men being sent across to France, and there is a general feeling that things are not going well over there. Perhaps they are keeping the fresh ones here so they can defend England.

Tomorrow, I propose to visit the harbour where, I am told, there is much increased activity. The police are said to be moving on-lookers away from the cliffs and piers and there is talk of laying poison gas pipes along the beach. There was, however, one item of good news on the wireless. Now all holders of provisional driving licenses need not be accompanied by fully licensed drivers or carry Learner Plates. This mean I do not have to worry about taking the test, especially as I have already failed once.

Day Five.

04:20 Thursday 30 May 1940.

Bray Dunes, France.

'What do you reckon to this mist, then? Will it last?' asked Burnell of Charlie. They were standing on Phoebe's bridge watching the last of the false dawn slowly reveal the scene around them.

'Hard to say. I don't know the coast here. But it's thick enough to last all morning if there's no sun. We might be lucky.'

Burnell looked at his watch. 'Better make a start then. Are you all set up here?'

'Say when! There's ten men ready to heave on the kedge anchor. Just make sure your blokes shove us off hard.'

Burnell hopped down off the tiny bridge and made his way forward, past the rows of wooden benches that lined the foredeck, until he came to Phoebe's prow. Down on the sand Elliot stood with his hands on his hips, a.s.suming an impatient stance. The men who had been promised a lift, some three hundred in all, stood a.s.sembled in ranks. Some fifty of their number stood in the water, ready to push the cruiser back out to sea. Burnell jumped down onto the sand.

'Take your time, why don't you?' proffered Elliot, more to himself than to Burnell. 'Just ten minutes more and it will be high tide.'

Burnell ignored the remark and asked: 'Mr Elliot. Are you all ready here?'

'Ready, aye, ready... sir.'

'Then get your men prepared and let's shove off.'

Elliot barked orders to the NCOs and within seconds the soldiers had their shoulders pressed up against Phoebe's side, taking the strain. There was a chorus of laughter, horseplay and general high spirits. Everybody was keen to get off.

'Ready up there, Charlie?'