Dunkirk Spirit Part 24

The woman was looking into her handbag, holding it close to her eyes. 'At least I did not forget these,' she said, pulling out a small white paper bag and offering it to Kitty.

'Sherbet lemons! One of my favourites.'

'I am sorry, my dear, but they seem to have stuck themselves together.' She held the bag while Kitty pulled one of the yellow sweets free. She popped it into her mouth, caressing it with her tongue and sucking slowly. The F80A did the same, her lips pursing tight, producing a thousand wrinkle lines. She closed her eyes.

Kitty usually kept at least one bag of sweets with her at all times but had handed over her floral gums and pear drops at Ashford 'I always had a preference for treacle dabs,' explained the woman, smacking her lips silently. 'But I was forced to stop when I got these new teeth.' She ran her tongue around the dentures seeking lost pockets of sherbet. 'Now I just stick to boiled sweets.'

Kitty had sucked the last of her sherbet away, leaving the thin sh.e.l.l of the lemon coating. She crushed it and swallowed slowly. Her childhood in Malaya had been largely devoid of sweets, her parents preferring fresh fruit. But you could never suck a papaya the way you could b.u.t.terscotch. It was only on the occasional trip to Singapore to visit her Uncle Claude that she could ever sample the delights of English confectionery. And most of that had been ruined by the long sea voyage.

'I don't know what the world is coming to,' said the F80A offering Kitty another sherbet lemon. She put the rest away, clipping her handbag shut with a snap. 'When I was a girl, soldiers used to look so smart and would never have gone out without white gloves.'

'Times change,' said Kitty. She tried not to grin. 'And let's face it, these are difficult times.'

'I have seen many difficult times,' announced the woman. 'The Boer War and then the Great War. So many lovely young men, full of promise, lost for ever. And now look at the world. You say we will stand and fight. That certainly is our spirit, my dear. Do you know, I have sat here and watched so many ships go out to sea. Last summer, for instance, there were bands playing and crowds cheering when our boys went off to war. I do not see anyone cheering now.'

'It says here,' said Kitty, lifting the paper up. 'That the crowds gathered along the promenade went almost delirious with enthusiasm yesterday.'

'Well, not that I saw! I may not be able to read the newspaper without my gla.s.ses but I am still blessed with long sight.' She turned and looked out to sea where an aging destroyer, briefly exposed by a gap in the mist, steered a course for France.

'I can tell you that those young men I have seen come home are a sorry looking bunch, and make no mistake.'

'So, what do you think will happen?' asked Kitty. 'Will the Germans invade?'

'Did G.o.d make the little apples?' She nodded her head up and down. 'But ask yourself this, my dear. Who do you think will defend England when the Germans come?'

'Why, we will, of course. The Army, and the people. And don't forget the RAF and the greatest navy in the world.'

'The Army, my dear? I am not deaf yet, and I can hear the big guns over in France. And that is where the Army is now, and it is all there is. We sent everything we had last summer. Forget what you read in the papers and look around you. Go down to the docks if they will let you - and have a look for yourself, or go to one of the railway stations outside of town.' The old woman had her finger raised heavenward and she wagged it furiously.

'This is not an army returning from glorious battle,' she said, eyes sparkling. 'I have seen armies like that and I know what they look like. But ask yourself this, my dear. If our Army is not winning then it must be losing or else it is in a form a stalemate like the last war, and it certainly does not seem like that to me.'

She dropped her finger and let her hands rest in her lap. She looked down at the ground for a while and then up at Kitty. 'And if our Army does not come back in one piece, what effect do you think that will have in Parliament, eh?'

'Mr Churchill has already said he won't let them beat us. Victory at all costs...'

'And he is only there by the skin of his teeth. He could be out as quickly as he got in. Don't forget the first choice for Prime Minister was Lord Halifax and we all know where he stands.'

'Appeas.e.m.e.nt,' nodded Kitty.

'So you might not get your opportunity to fight the Germans, my dear.'

'But I simply refuse to believe that!' Kitty felt the start of another odd sensation sweep over her. 'We would never throw in the towel. This is obviously a strategic withdrawal to the coast. It all makes sense when you think they need to be supplied by sea now the Germans are running all over the Continent.'

Kitty felt her face flush. She remembered the soldiers at Ashford. 'I've seen some of the soldiers who've come home,' she told the old woman. 'And they are a sorry sight, yes they are. But all armies have their wounded and worn out casualties.' Kitty felt as if she were pleading.

'Then don't just look, young lady. Go and speak to them as well. They would be glad to speak to you. Then come and tell me what you think. And when you do, bring me some nice cough candy.'

11:10 Thursday 30 May 1940.

No. 6 Calais Bell Buoy, France 'Buoy up ahead, sir'

Lieutenant-Commander Hubbard raised himself on tiptoes and stared into the fog.

'Off the port bow now, sir,' called the lookout.

Gordon paused a moment, listening to the clang of the bell, and then called into the voice pipes: 'Port ten.'

'Port ten it is, sir'.

Cameron heeled over as she changed course.

'Steer zero-eight-zero.' Gordon consulted the chart.

'Steering zero-eight-zero, sir.'

'Steady as she goes.'

'Steady it is, sir.'

'G.o.d! I miss Burnell,' said Gordon flatly.

'Well, we found the buoy so you can't be doing too bad, Number One.' The Skipper drew his lips back in an approximation of a smile.

'I just caught a sight of the coast, sir,' called the leading signalman, peering off the starboard wing of the bridge.

'Where away?' asked Gordon.

'There, sir. Look!' The mist parted briefly revealing a tall spire no more than two miles away. Above the distant low cliffs, green fields tapered down to a long yellow strand of beach. In a second, the scene dissolved.

'Engine room!' called Gordon. 'Full ahead both.'

'Full ahead both it is, sir.'

A few minutes pa.s.sed in relative silence and then the first of the sh.o.r.e batteries opened fire.

'Christ! What was that?' The wardroom chef tensed over the breadboard, the b.u.t.ter knife squeezed tight in his hand. The powerful screech of the sh.e.l.l stopped and the sea erupted somewhere out beyond the steel bulkheads. Cameron gave a swift lurch to port and the chef placed both hands on the counter to steady himself.

'The batteries at Calais,' stated Francisco. He c.o.c.ked his ear for more. 'I thought they'd make more of a noise than that.'

'Christ, mate! Tempt fate or what!' The chef turned to look at Francisco. 'And you a Catholic, too.'

An entire salvo tore through the air and landed almost simultaneously somewhere off their bow. Cameron lurched again and both men clutched the counter for support.

'No, what I mean is,' said Francisco. 'I thought they'd make a bigger bang.'

'You'd think you were talking about a firework display, not the entire German war machine out to kill us.'

'I just thought it'd be louder, that's all.'

'Just pa.s.s the corned beef will you?'

'Guns,' called Gordon into the voice pipe. 'Open fire on those flashes with the four-inchers, will you?'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

The two guns mounted forward of the bridge were already trained on the sh.o.r.e. They opened fire and Cameron rocked with the recoil, the cordite hitting the nostrils and sharpening the senses. The guns boomed in chorus again and maintained a steady rate of fire.

'They're getting closer each time, sir,' called Gordon, watching the water erupt beside them.

'Are we going flat out?' asked the Skipper.

'With everything we've got, sir. Thirty-six knots.'

The Skipper turned to the signalman. 'Signal Dover with our position. Tell them we are under fire.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

He turned back to Gordon. 'Six miles, you say?'

'Yes, sir. Six miles and then we're there.' Gordon watched the flashes from the sh.o.r.e batteries and then bent to the pipe. 'Hard a port!'

'Hard a port it is, sir.'

'Close call that time, sir.' Gordon pulled his head down into his shoulders as the icy water crashed down on top of them. 'Hard a starboard!'

'Hard a starboard it is, sir.'

'Steady.'

More flashes glowed orange through the remaining patches of fog and Gordon continued to order a zigzag course. The next sh.e.l.ls to fall crashed into the water just to seaward of them.

'They've got our range now, sir. And we're about sixty degrees off our intended course.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell! That nearly took my tin hat off,' declared Leading Seaman Stewart Cragg on the starboard 20mm anti-aircraft gun. 'That went right over the top of us, I swear!'

'I wish we could fire back,' declared Soapy Watson. 'Makes you feel naked standing here with just your d.i.c.k in your hand.'

'Wouldn't do any good, anyway,' mumbled Nipper. 'Nor are the four-inch guns, for that matter.'

Cragg felt compelled to answer and to stick up for the gunners up for'ard, but he found himself slipping in his harness as Cameron turned sharply back to the sh.o.r.e, aiming head-on for the beach, the two big guns pounding away. The sea erupted somewhere beyond the stern. Another series of orange flashes lit up the rapidly diminishing mist and Cameron turned again, heeling violently to starboard and sending a vast wash up over the sides and knocking Cragg's feet from under him.

Cragg dangled from his harness, his knees floating just free of the grey wave washing along the deck. Both Soapy and Nipper were rolling along in the scuppers, arms stretching for any purchase. Cameron returned to an even keel after completing a full circle, and continued to navigate the narrow channel in the direction of Dunkirk.

'Another buoy coming up, sir. On our port bow.'

'Mark seven...deep five.'

'Steer zero-five-zero.' Gordon turned to the Skipper. 'It's d.a.m.n tight here, sir.'

More batteries ahead of them were opening fire. The remaining mist hung tantalizingly close to the shoals, affording no immediate protection, and now the details of the sh.o.r.e were visible. High above Cameron's bows the thin yellow orb of the sun was eating away at the clouds. Another series of salvos exploded all around them.

'Hard a starboard,' yelled Gordon. He looked up at the Skipper. 'We can't dodge them all, sir.'

The Skipper nodded and Gordon turned to call out more instructions. Cameron turned one way and then the other. And then the first sh.e.l.l hit.

Francisco pushed open the hatch and poked his head out. There was an almighty crack as an incoming sh.e.l.l tore through the after funnel a few feet above his head. He ducked back down again.

'Stella Maris!' Francisco called aloud. He placed one hand to his chest as he balanced on the ladder, struggling for breath, the corned beef sandwiches bulging in his pockets. He tried to name all the other saints of the sea and to call their names aloud. 'Saint Peter, Saint Andrew, Saint Francis of Paola, and Saint Brandon, and G.o.d Almighty. That was loud!'

'I make that ten hits now,' said the Skipper, lifting himself back off the deck. Gordon continued to shout instructions into the voice pipes. 'And not one has exploded! How is that? How?'

'Perhaps, sir,' offered the leading signalman, helping the Skipper to his feet. 'Perhaps the French sabotaged the sh.e.l.ls before they surrendered the batteries, sir.'

'Hmm,' nodded the Skipper. He looked towards his First Officer.

'There's one hope, sir,' called Gordon, stretching out the chart and stepping up. 'At the next buoy we can turn away northward and try to find a channel through the sandbanks...and the minefields.'

'Then make it so,' said the Skipper. 'And don't hang about.'

'Another buoy coming up, sir. On our port bow.'

'Mark five...deep four.'

Gordon called into the pipe. 'Bridge wheelhouse.'

'Wheelhouse bridge, sir.'

'Hard a port and steer us due north.'

'I don't think I can, sir. The ruddy gyro compa.s.s is going haywire.'

11:30 Thursday 30 May 1940.

Bray Dunes, France 'Captain Howson's compliments, sir. He thought you might be able to make use of a Bofers gun.'

'Really?' asked Binky.

'Yes, sir,' replied the young RN lieutenant. 'He thought you could use it to keep the Jerries away from your jetty.'

'Is that it over there?' asked Binky, pointing to the promenade. A Quad truck had stopped on the seafront. The driver gave him a wave.

'Yes, sir. You can't really see it from here. It's all wrapped up in tarpaulin.'

'And does it come with a crew?'

'Actually, no, sir. The MPs found it dumped a few miles back up the road and offered it to us. The crew probably scarpered.'

'So, how does it work?'