Dunkirk Spirit Part 26

'They've just left us to the mercy of the Luftwaffe, they have!'

'I think they might have a point,' chuffed Dibbens, turning back to Burnell. 'RAF - Rare As Fairies! I'm amazed even the Germans shot him down! Ha, ha, ha!'

'Oh, you chaps! You really haven't a clue.' The pilot puffed out his chest. 'How can you say the Royal Air Force is not here?'

'Cos they ain't!' snapped the bruiser.

'Then how come I am here? Answer me that.' The boy had his hands on his hips and a petulant look that only stirred the crowd.

'Look, this is getting us nowhere,' insisted Burnell, tugging the pilot by the elbow and looking back at Dibbens. 'This is a naval operation and he's coming with me.' Burnell tried to grin. The skin cracked. He winced again. 'And you wouldn't know an RAF plane if it knocked your hat off.'

11:58 Thursday 30 May 1940.

Off Mardyck, France 'We are out of range now, I believe, sir.' Gordon's stomach muscles were tight. He hoped he was right.

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

He could almost hear the grind of s.h.i.+ngle and sand. Somewhere directly to their stern, the batteries to the east of Gravelines were firing blindly out to sea. Cameron continued to steer away from the sh.o.r.e on a zigzag course and making copious quant.i.ties of smoke to hide her trail. High above the bridge the watery sun glowed behind the cloud, and the mist that remained hugged the surface of the sea.

'Keep the smoke up for a bit longer, Number One,' said the Skipper. He spun around as the Chief Engineer climbed up to the bridge.

'It's not good news, sir, I'm afraid.' The chief in grubby overalls but clean white collar and black tie pulled himself clear of the ladder and stood to attention. 'I don't even know where to start, sir...'

'Just give us the worst news first,' said Gordon.

'Well, sir. As you know, the gyro compa.s.s is out of action.'

'Yes, we know that.'

'And that's because a sh.e.l.l has cut the de-gaussing cable, sir.'

'Oh, that's all we need!' Gordon wanted to chew his fist but kept his hands firmly at his side. With the de-gaussing system out of action, Cameron's powerful electrical circuit would turn the s.h.i.+p into a giant magnet. 'Right in the middle of a minefield! What else?'

'Well, sir. That's also going to play havoc with all the magnetic compa.s.ses on board. It's a crying shame that Mr Burnell isn't here. He's a dab hand with the old s.e.xtant.'

'It just gets worse!' thought Gordon.

'Well, you know what to do, Number One.' The Skipper smiled for the first time that day. 'Just work out the bearing of the sun. And then you can figure out our relative bearing. A piece of cake!'

Gordon stepped across the bridge and bent down to one of the sealed lockers. He pulled out a mahogany case and placed it carefully on the binnacle. He lifted the s.e.xtant free and stared at it for a moment. He had last used one at Dartmouth College and he had struggled even then. He looked across at the leading signalman.

'Get me the almanac, will you? And what time do you have?'

'Just coming up to noon now, sir. That should make it easier.' He handed the heavy almanac across.

Gordon made a few adjustments and raised the s.e.xtant to the sky, fixing the sun through the eyepiece. He adjusted the moveable arm and aligned the mirrors, and suddenly the sun appeared to rest perfectly on the horizon.

Gordon stepped back to the voice pipes. 'Bridge wheelhouse.'

'Wheelhouse bridge, sir.'

'Port five.'

'Port five it is, sir.'

'Now bring us back a bit,' called Gordon. He lifted the s.e.xtant again, his mind whirling calculations. 'Steady as she goes.'

The Skipper stepped across to his wing of the bridge and spoke to no one in particular 'So let's hope the sun stays out.'

'Where you going with that thing?' asked Nipper.

'Captain's orders,' said Francisco, squeezing past the 20mm anti-aircraft gun. He smiled and shook the Lee Enfield rifle in his hand. 'Target practice.'

Francisco worked his way along the deck until he reached the anchor chains. He stopped and looked over the side. The mist travelled with thin wisps across the surface, revealing a grey sea beneath. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a full clip and slotting it into the base of the rifle. He raised the gun to his shoulder and pulled back the bolt, flipping the safety on. He adjusted the sights for two-hundred-and-fifty yards and scanned the sea.

Cameron steered a painfully slow course. Each time a new item of debris was sighted in the water it caused Francisco's heart to skip a beat. Above the throb of Cameron's engines all was quiet. Two seagulls lifted away from the water, screeching an alarm and turning their eyes accusingly at the s.h.i.+p. Other gulls glided gently overhead. Francisco relaxed his grip on the rifle and let out his breath. And then he sucked in hard again. A French sailor in full blues turned from his stomach onto his back as the bow wave lifted him along Cameron's side. Francisco crossed himself and swallowed heavily.

Minutes pa.s.sed and then an icy chill ran down Francisco's spine. He brought the rifle up with a jolt but kept both eyes open. He flicked back the safety. Beneath the wisps of fog a large object was edging closer to the s.h.i.+p. He could not make it out.

'Bridge ahoy!' Francisco kept his eyes fixed on the dark object. 'Somethink off the starboard quarter.'

Men of the deck crew, rifles in hand, ran across to Francisco's side.

'Ain't no mine,' announced one after a while.

'Raft,' p.r.o.nounced another.

'There's some men on a raft, sir,' called Francisco. 'Approaching the starboard bow.'

The telegraph bell on the bridge clanged in answer and Cameron reduced speed. The scrambling net was released over the side and several seamen clambered down.

Francisco climbed up onto a scuttle and looked over the side. A homemade raft of wood and oil drums knocked against the side of the s.h.i.+p.

'Mind the paintwork, chum!' called a seaman from the water's edge. 'Easy now. Grab the line.'

A rope was tossed across and the men on the raft made a leap for it, almost upsetting their fragile craft. They looked up at Cameron's tall grey sides with staring white eyes and gaping soundless mouths.

'Come on now. One at a time,' called the seaman, swinging off the netting and reaching down into the raft. 'Give us yer hand, chum!' He pulled the first man across into the welcoming arms of other seamen. Quickly he was guided up the side. He landed with a thump on the deck and struggled to his feet, coming quickly to attention.

'Capitaine Benicoeur of the hundred-and-thirty-second Regiment D'Artillerie Ctiere, at your service, sir.' The officer looked unsteady as he reached forward and shook the Skipper's hand.

'From the sh.o.r.e batteries?' asked the Skipper.

The man nodded. They both turned as other men were manhandled onto the deck.

'Get these men some dry clothes,' said the Skipper to the rating beside him. 'And take this officer and any other officers to my cabin. Make them comfortable.'

The Skipper smiled at the capitaine. 'You will have to excuse me, I'm afraid. We're trying to navigate our way through these sand banks without a compa.s.s. d.a.m.n tricky really. You haven't seen any mines have you?'

'Sea mines?' asked the French officer. 'Oh, yes! But they are not ours. They float free. From the Bosche I believe.'

The Skipper nodded wearily. 'Just one thing,' he said. 'You say you are from the sh.o.r.e batteries?'

'Oh, yes, sir. We made our escape during the night. We could not spike all the guns, I am sorry to say. There was no time but we sabotaged many of the sh.e.l.ls.' The Frenchman looked up at Cameron's two tall funnels. 'Those things, those chimneys, they look like the graters of cheese.'

The Skipper looked perplexed for a moment and then he laughed. 'Oh, yes! Cheese graters! Very good. I must remember that.' He smiled for the second time that day. 'And if those were your sh.e.l.ls, Capitaine, then I can only thank you.'

'Buoy off the port bow, sir.'

'That must be the number seven Outer Ruytingen buoy,' said Gordon to himself, his finger tracing a line across the chart and the edge of a sandbank. 'Let's hope so.' He waited until the sound of the bell drew level with the s.h.i.+p and then he called again into the pipes. 'Port fifteen!'

'Port fifteen it is, sir.'

Gordon lifted the s.e.xtant back to the sky only to see the sun fade behind the heavy cloud. 'Can it get any worse?' he asked himself.

'Ah, chief,' said the Skipper, turning to the bridge ladder. 'How are the repairs coming along?'

'I'm really sorry to say this, sir. But I must report that a sh.e.l.l splinter has penetrated our main fuel tank.'

'We're losing fuel, you mean?'

'We are, sir. But that's not the half of it. Water's pouring into the tank, sir. Contaminating the lot. We can't use it, sir.'

'And the other tank?'

'Oh, that's fine. We've enough to get home, sir.'

'So be it,' said the Skipper slowly. 'Think you can manage it, Number One?'

Gordon tried to smile.

12:30 Thursday 30 May 1940.

West Cappel, France 'More crackling, Major?'

'Oh, I really d-d-don't think I can m-m-manage any m-m-more.' The Major placed both hands over his distended belly and sighed with pleasure.

'Another spud, then, sir?'

He shook his head but eyed the crackling, undecided.

'Go on, sir,' said Boland, pus.h.i.+ng it closer. 'It's the last piece, sir. You know you want it.'

'W-w-well, if you insist.' The Major stretched out and took the crispy pork in his hand. He turned to the Padre.

'I say, P-p-padre. W-w-wake up! Last p-p-piece of crackling!'

The Padre waved the pork away and struggled to open his eyes. 'Oh, my G.o.d!' He looked around him. 'What time is it?'

'Half t-t-twelve, P-p-padre.'

'What?' he exclaimed, struggling to rise to his feet. His head felt heavy and his mouth sour. 'Is there any water?' he asked, raising a hand to his temple.

'S-s-sorry, old boy. And we've f-f-finished the last of the Corton Charlemagne. Just tres ordinaire, but p-p-plenty of it. Actually, it's not too b-b-bad.'

'Why didn't you wake me?' he asked, a desperate look on his face. 'We have to push on. We can't sit around here all day.'

The Major bit into the crackling and worked at it with his teeth. The Padre looked around him. The pioneers sat or lay around the dying fire, the remains of the pig pushed to one side and stacked on a sheet of cardboard.

'What's that noise?' The Padre raised his head and stroked his temples.

'P-p-patriotic song of old Ireland, so it is.' The Major applied a heavy brogue.

'No, not that d.a.m.n din,' exclaimed the Padre. 'The explosions!'

'Oh, that!' answered the Major. Fat dribbled down his chin. 'W-w-well, we are not entirely s-s-sure. It is a matter of certain c-c-conjecture.'

'What?' asked the Padre, exasperated.

'W-w-well,' explained the Major. 'Some of the c-c-chaps seem to think the Germans are sh.e.l.ling C-c-calais. But I say C-c-calais is nowhere near here. Some of them climbed the c-c-church tower earlier and they said you could see for miles, or that you could if it wasn't for the fog.'

The Major waved the crackling off to the north. 'That huge p-p-pile of smoke you see over there, well that we think is D-d-dunkirk. And if that is the c-c-case, then I believe the Bosche are p-p-pounding Bergues.'

'But that can't be more than five miles away!' the Padre exclaimed. 'That means the Germans are in front of us!'

'No, no it doesn't,' explained the Major. 'Listen!' He paused and held his jaws still. 'Hear that, P-p-padre? That's the German b-b-big guns. Firing from b-b-b.l.o.o.d.y miles away. They w-w-won't be here for h-h-hours'

A tingle of alarm rushed through the Padre's body. 'Then we just have to push on immediately.' He opened and clenched his hands and bit into his lip.

'Oh, s-s-surely not! The c-c-chaps must rest a bit first,' said the Major. 'D-d-don't be such a s-s-spoilsport!' He popped the last of the crunchy skin into his mouth and bore down with his teeth. There was a loud crack.

I was born on a Dublin street where the Royal drums do beat And the loving English feet they tramped all over us And each and every night when me father'd come home tight He'd invite the neighbours outside with this chorus.

The Irish sergeant sat crossed-legged beside the fire, a bottle of wine, its top snapped off at the neck, in his hands. His nodded to the lads and they all joined in the chorus.

Oh, come out you Black and Tans, Come out and fight me like a man Show your wife how you won medals fown in Flanders Tell them how the IRA Made you run like h.e.l.l away From the green and lovely lanes in Killashandra.

'I say,' put in the Padre. 'But we really should be making a move.' He pulled back his sleeve and pointed to his watch.

'Ah, come on now Fawdah,' slurred the sergeant. 'The lads are just warming up, so they are.'

'But we have to move on!' The Padre shuffled his feet. His head was pounding and the sight of the congealing meat sickened him. 'We can't stay here all day!'

'I'll tell you what, Fawdah. We'll let the lads digest their food first. You can't be marching on a full stomach and not when it's such a novelty to these poor boys. Tis their first square meal in days, so it is.'

Come tell us how you slew Those brave Arabs two by two Like the Zulus they had spears and bows and arrows, How you bravely slew each one With your sixteen pounder gun And you frightened them poor natives to their marrow.

The Padre stood for a while, aware that he was being ignored. The first hint of stomach cramp rippled through his insides. He turned on his heels and walked away.