Dunkirk Spirit Part 5

'Well, it's just for now, I dare say,' pointed out Sandy. 'Just for a day or so, until the skin heals.'

'Yes, sir,' said Lucas.

As days go, this one had been b.l.o.o.d.y awful. Several times throughout the morning, the Germans had attempted to cross the ca.n.a.l in inflatable rubber boats and each time they had been chewed to ribbons by the platoon's combined firepower. Each incident of this kind had been followed by a series of incoming artillery rounds until the cottage had been effectively destroyed. The afternoon had been little better. At one stage, the Germans had managed to provide such covering fire that two infallibles reached the British side of the ca.n.a.l. The Germans, five in all, had all been dispatched with bayonets and their bodies lay in a pile beside the rubbish heap.

Sandy and Lucas squatted in the communications trench with one of the cottage doors for cover. Since dusk, the German attempt at an advance had slowed down until it consisted of little more than sporadic and irritating sniper fire and the occasional mortar round. If any of the platoon had been asked how long since they had last slept, they would all be far too tired to say. Only the pain in Sandy's feet kept him awake.

Peter, the adjutant, jumped quickly into the trench.

'Oh, my G.o.d! You scared the living daylights out of me.' Sandy clutched his hand to his chest and felt the heartbeat through the serge uniform. The pulse reverberated in his feet. He dropped the revolver back on his lap.

'Just thought I'd drop in,' announced Peter. 'Any tea, Lucas?'

''Fraid not, sir. The kettle's got a hole in it.'

'Well, never mind. Never mind. What happened to you?' He noticed Sandy's bandaged feet.

'Oh, it's nothing really,' he replied. 'Just a little shrapnel. Lucas got quite a bit out with his nail scissors but my feet are still a bit sore.'

'Yes, I dare say. Well, take the next few days off and have a jolly good rest, hey?'

'Seriously, sir?'

'No, not b.l.o.o.d.y seriously! We can't spare you for a minute, old boy. Anyway, chin up. I'm the bearer of glad tidings.'

'Glad tidings?'

'Indeed! We are going home.' He grinned as he let the announcement sink in.

'Home?'

'I've just left Becky. Platoons will withdraw at twenty two hundred hours and form up on the main road to Lille.'

Sandy grinned now.

'I'm sorry,' said Peter, 'but we still don't have any proper maps, but I shall be leading the company out and I have made you all route cards. Here's one.' He handed it to Sandy: a card from a roll-index with pencil markings.

'There won't be any halts for the first thirty miles, I'm afraid. Time, apparently, is against us. We've got to keep going. But you will never guess? Our final destination this side of the Channel is the harbour at Dunkirk. For embarkation to England! Topping, hey? Any questions?'

'How far is it to Dunkirk?'

'About sixty miles.'

'Try this for size, sir.' Lucas brought the wheelbarrow skidding to a halt. He had helped the lieutenant hop away from the trench system and had sat him down just inside a copse of trees. The remainder of the platoon were busy firing flares over the German lines to dazzle, bewilder and generally ruin their night vision. Sergeant Harris gave a final burst from the Bren gun, fired from the hip, and then turned to join the lieutenant. He slung the Bren across his back and bent to help lift Sandy into the barrow.

'I feel such a fool, Lucas. But, do you know, I can barely put any weight on my feet? I wish we had some Aspros. But give me an hour or so and I'm sure I shall be just fine.'

'Yes, sir,' said Lucas.

It was a perfect night for marching, even for those travelling by wheelbarrow. With the setting sun, the clouds had returned, blacking out the night sky. Drizzle had been falling and it was a relief to the upturned faces of the ten men that remained of 11 Platoon. But, as the men moved further from the ca.n.a.l and closer to the main roads, so conditions began to deteriorate.

The showers were falling heavy now and the men were obliged to stop regularly as the traffic all around them ground to another halt. Lucas tugged hard and Sergeant Harris helped to push the wheelbarrow up on to one wheel and around the obstructing artillery limber. When Sandy first arrived in France, he had been surprised by just how reliant the French army had been on horses. The French were reputed to have the best army in the world, but much of it remained horse-drawn. The British, by contrast, were entirely mechanised, aside from those who had to march. However, many of the British lorries that lay crippled beside the road bore the homely markings of commandeered bread vans, removal wagons and flatbed builder's lorries.

'Can't be far now until we reach Poperinge, sir. We're coming up to Bailleul.' Lucas leant forward over the lieutenant and was going to point out the town on the adjutant's route card. But Sandy was so deeply asleep that it seemed a shame to wake him.

22:30 Monday 27 May 1940.

Eastern Entrance, Dover Harbour, Kent 'That smells b.l.o.o.d.y good!' announced the steward as he stepped into the wardroom galley.

'Hot chocolate for the Skipper. You can take it up in a mo'.' The chef warmed some thick Navy rum in another small saucepan, careful not to take the temperature too high and lose any of its alcoholic value. He mixed the contents of both saucepans and poured the drink carefully into the Thermos flask.

'Here you go,' he said, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g tight the lid and handing it over. 'What's it like up there?'

'p.i.s.sing down, or at least it was last time I looked.'

'I don't suppose we'll be stopping?' The chef sipped the last of the leftover hot rum, balancing his rump against the steel work surface. 'Fat chance of a d.i.c.ky run ash.o.r.e, then?'

'Don't look like it,' said the steward. 'Just long enough to wait for the convoy and we'll be on our way.'

'Great,' said the chef with no enthusiasm.

Convoy duty, the bread and b.u.t.ter work of the Royal Navy's aging destroyers, was never glamorous. It was invariably cold, wet, dirty and dangerous. HMS Cameron, a Scotts-cla.s.s destroyer of fifteen hundred tons and advancing years, was approaching Dover Harbour, en-route from Portsmouth, expecting to shepherd two-dozen rust buckets to Halifax, Nova Scotia, and n.o.body aboard showed any enthusiasm.

The steward, a Gibraltarian, dropped the Thermos into his jacket pocket and climbed the labyrinth of ladders and gangways until he reached the open bridge. The rain had eased off and was now falling in large, solid drops. Cameron sat still in the dark water. Directly ahead of them a small fish cutter, armed with Lewis guns fore and aft, led a straggling procession of pleasure craft out into the open seas. The only lights came from three red dots in a triangle at the top of the cutter's mast.

'Well, that's a strange one,' said Commander Edward Bishop to himself. 'Steady,' he called to reduce the s.h.i.+p's swing. As he looked back up from the voice pipe, he saw Francisco out of the corner of his eye. The steward stepped smartly forward against the faint swell and held out the Thermos.

'Piping hot cocoa, sir. Just how you like it. Shall I pour it now, sir?'

'Please, Frank,' said the Skipper. 'Here. Let me hold the cup while you pour.'

'All clear now, sir,' called the officer of the watch.

'Half ahead both,' replied the Skipper. The telegraph clanged and Cameron, after a brief pause, began to cut through the waves towards the Eastern Entrance.

'Dead slow ahead.'

'Dead slow ahead it is, sir.'

'Make pennants.' The Skipper lifted the hot cup and sipped.

'Aye, aye, sir,' said the leading signalman.

'Excellent cocoa! How much rum did chef put in this?'

'Oh, not so much, sir. Just enough, you know, to keep out the damps.'

'Yes, I thought so.' The Skipper smiled. 'Very good, tell him.'

'Signal from the sh.o.r.e, sir,' called the signalman.

'Let me guess,' said the Skipper. 'We are being diverted to Norway again.'

'No, sir. It's a signal from Vice-Admiral, Dover, sir. It says: The last chance of saving the BEF is tonight! b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell! You are to proceed with all despatch to beaches two or three miles east of Dunkirk and embark troops in your own boats. Sir.'

'Well, I'll be blowed! Things must be worse than we thought. In that case, I think we had better have cocoa all round, please Frank. And Mr Burnell, acknowledge, and lay us a course for the green light buoy off Calais, if you please.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' said the officer of the watch.

Day Three.

01:32 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Dunkirk Approaches, France.

'I don't see as how anyone could be left inside - not alive any roads.' Leading Seaman Stewart Cragg, a former plasterer's mate from Canterbury, stood open-mouthed as he manned the starboard 20mm anti-aircraft gun. His two mates watched the blazing inferno of Dunkirk in silence. Slowly, HMS Cameron pressed on past the darkened lighthouse, silhouetted against the flames. Slower still, she turned towards the sh.o.r.e, sounding continuously with the lead. When the depth was a bare foot more than her propeller draft, Commander Bishop on the bridge ordered the anchor to be dropped underfoot.

There was a sharp, prolonged rattle of chains and Cragg heard the splash. He let out his breath slowly. It was difficult to judge their distance from the sh.o.r.e in the dark. The reflected flames from the burning port down the coast outshone the moon, largely hidden behind the clouds. Each ripple in the still water was highlighted in orange and gold. With each new flash, another vessel could be made out lying off the sh.o.r.e; one moment picked out in bright lights, the next hidden again from view. The sound of sh.e.l.ls continuing to fall on Dunkirk travelled the distance slowly, out of synchronisation with the bright white flashes.

''Ere look!' Cragg spoke in a whisper. 'There's stuff in the water. Loads of stuff, like reeds or something.'

'There ain't no reeds round here. It's all beaches for miles.' The gun's number two, an unusually quiet man from Devon known as Nipper, spoke in a husky murmur.

'Well, I can't b.l.o.o.d.y see it now,' said Cragg, annoyed. 'It was like a line of things, all sort of flickering and waving in the water.'

n.o.body spoke for a while. Somewhere overhead the steady drone of an aircraft could be heard.

'Messerschmitt!' stated Cragg in a hush. 'Single engine.'

Nipper spoke again. 'What's that?' n.o.body needed to answer. Everybody on deck could hear it.

'Over here! Oy! Over here!'

'Where's it coming from, then?' This time the gun's number three spoke, Soapy Watson of Lincoln, a failed baker and orphan turned ordinary seaman.

'Over here! Oy! Over here!'

'Ergh! It's givin' me the creeps,' Cragg whispered and clenched his teeth.

There was another noise as the first of the s.h.i.+ps' three boats were lowered into the water amids.h.i.+ps. Cragg and the gun crew turned and looked back along the length of the darkened s.h.i.+p. A small party of seamen were busy unlas.h.i.+ng the scrambling nets.

The s.h.i.+p's First Officer, Lieutenant Commander Gordon Hubbard, known to all as Mother, could smell the musky odour of the rope's fibres as the nets unravelled and then dropped down to the waterline. He felt the heavy Hollis revolver slap against his thigh as he hoisted himself over and carefully but swiftly picked his way down to the waiting whaler.

It was not long before Gordon also spotted something that looked like reeds in the water. 'Good Lord!' The wet helmets reflected the distant flashes, too. A jagged line of men stretched out from the sh.o.r.e.

'Hold water,' he whispered. The men held their oars firmly in the water, checking the whaler's progress.

'We gonna pick 'em up, sir?' asked the c.o.xswain. 'There must be sodding thousands of 'em! They'll have us over if we ain't careful, sir.'

'Yes, I was having the same thoughts,' said Gordon. 'Best steer clear of them for the moment. Get us to the sh.o.r.e and be prepared to fend off any boarders.' The small wooden boat curved away from the line of men.

A powerful explosion away at Dunkirk's main dock sent a ball of light into the sky, reflecting back like lightening off the heavy clouds that hugged the entire coast. For a moment, Cameron's three boats were backlit against the flash and were clearly visible to all on the beach.

'Back water! All together now, pull,' cried Gordon, suddenly aware of the danger. The crews of the two following s.h.i.+p's boats had the best view. Away from the immediate noise, it seemed at first glace as if a wave of phosph.o.r.esce was about to engulf the leading whaler as three or more dozen men charged through the water and attempted to leap aboard. The boat crew that manned the oars, having their backs to the beach, were mostly taken unaware. There was a startling impact and a chorus of shouts, and many of the crew found themselves floundering on the duckboards. Those that had pulled themselves to their feet tried to repel the boarders as best they could. Gordon felt a heavy hand thrust him hard in the centre of his chest and he toppled over the side.

The shock of the water forced his mouth open and seawater began to fill his lungs. He thrashed with his hands and opened his eyes. As he surfaced, his feet touched the sandy bottom. He was surprised, and felt rather foolish, to find himself standing in little more than three feet of water. The waves lapped around his crotch. He coughed repeatedly to clear his lungs and then reached down to the holster at his side. He tugged at the strap and released the revolver. Gordon had never fired a revolver that had been submerged in seawater before and he was not entirely sure if it would work. As he struggled to balance himself against the incoming swell, he broke open the revolver and spun the chamber. All seemed clear. He snapped it shut again and, as a last precaution, transferred the pistol to his left hand before aiming at the sky and pulling the trigger. There was a deafening report from the heavy calibre Hollis and suddenly Gordon had every man's attention.

'You b.l.o.o.d.y shower!' he cried. 'If you lot are a fair representation of the British Army, then thank G.o.d for the Senior Service. Just look at yourselves, you bunch of cretins!'

The whaler had not so much sunk, as settled to the bottom. The waves were a good eight or nine inches above her gunwales. The shot from Gordon's pistol had momentarily halted everyone. The soldiers, and the few visible crew, stood or sat frozen. Many others hung around the boat. Several were poised to step aboard.

'What? Do you think we brought you a b.l.o.o.d.y submarine?' Gordon laughed aloud. A handful of the soldiers began to realise the absurdity of the situation as they sat waiting to depart with the waves lapping around their ears. 'G.o.d help us! There must be two hundred of you sitting in a twenty-seven foot boat!'

Gordon wadded through the water and began to pace around the grounded craft. 'Right! Listen carefully you lot, and that means all of you. You can forget the Army now. This is a Naval operation and, if you follow my orders, we will try and have you on your way home before morning.' Gordon glared at the men in the water, his own face illuminated in flashes like a h.e.l.lish demon. n.o.body spoke. 'Now, when I give the command, I want you all to depart this boat in an orderly fas.h.i.+on. I then want you to line up on the sh.o.r.e, at attention, in threes. Is that understood?'

There was a gurgling chorus of 'yes, sir'.

'Right! On my command, you will vacate the boat. b.l.o.o.d.y move it!'

'Squad. Squad. Shun!' When it came to spit and polish, the Royal Navy were a match for the Guards. Their commands, however, were substantially different from those of the Army, and there was a brief pause while the confused troops came to attention. 'Stomach in, chest out, shoulders back, eyes front!'

Gordon reviewed the a.s.sembled men. 'I a.s.sume there are no officers here?' A sergeant stepped smartly forward.

'No, sir. I think they've all gone home, sir.' Some of the men laughed.

'All right,' called Gordon. 'All NCOs take one step forward.'

Three other men, one sergeant and two corporals, presented themselves.

'Fall out,' called Gordon, replacing the pistol in its holster. 'Tell me, sergeant, why don't these men have any rifles?'

'Most of them are service troops, sir. They were never issued with rifles, sir.'

'In that case, sergeant, detail some men to gather as many rifles as they can from the beach and then hand them over to the chief here.'

Within ten minutes, Gordon had a.s.sembled an armed naval beach party and had organised the soldiers into groups of ten under the NCOs. Dozens more soldiers were wandering over to join the only orderly group for miles. Twenty minutes later and the three overloaded s.h.i.+p's boats came up against the side of HMS Cameron.

Gordon waited in the whaler until the last of the soldiers had scrambled or been pushed, pulled and dragged up the netting. He them climbed up and made his way to the bridge.

'This looks as likely a spot as any, sir,' called the young mids.h.i.+pman above the roar of the Ford V8 engine. 'This must be Bray Dunes now.'

Binky was distracted. A little way out to sea a double-funnel destroyer was lit up like a curious Christmas tree in a blaze of anti-aircraft fire. He had tried for a closer look through his field gla.s.ses but almost lost an eye with the mids.h.i.+pman's erratic driving. This was the first time that the youngster or any of the Commander's team had ever been in a Bren gun carrier and Binky was glad to call a halt.

A large, orderly body of men had formed up on the beach in contrast to the rabble that lined much of the coast from Dunkirk. Binky pulled himself stiffly from the carrier and landed with a thump onto the sand. Ahead of him, an elderly chief petty officer broke away from the group and marched towards him. Binky returned the salute and introduced himself.