Dunkirk Spirit Part 38

'Red Leader. Red Leader. This is Blue Leader. Blue Leader. Over.'

'This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Over,' called Ginger across the static.

'Red Leader. Go deal with those Stukas down there, will you? They're bothering one of our minesweepers.'

'Roger, Blue Leader. Wilco.'

Ginger pulled back on the stick and allowed his elderly Hurricane to climb. He looked quickly to each side, seeing that the rest of his section was on the ball. They were. He continued to pull up and then he dropped away, pointing his port wing at the sea, and plummeting down much like the Stukas below.

The minesweeper Devonia cut a zigzagged wake in slow motion. Two giant circles, like milky white puddles on a tablecloth, marked the sea to either side of her. A second Stuka adjusted its angle of approach and peeled down for the dive. Ginger watched the first Stuka pulling back up. He had a choice. The climbing Stuka was easy. The second, now lining up for the kill, much harder. Ginger peeled away to starboard. His scalp tingled with the vibrations. The dials were blurred. He cut a quick glance to either side, catching a glimpse of Red Two and Three. He was gaining on the diving Stuka.

'Five hundred yards,' calculated Ginger. 'Come on! Come on!' Four hundred yards and the Stuka was pointing at a ninety degree angle to the sea. Three hundred yards. Ginger squeezed hard on the fire control b.u.t.ton and his Hurricane stuttered. He pulled back just a fraction and fired again. Puffs of grey smoke erupted around the Stuka's tail. Something black fell away. Suddenly the Stuka's lengthy canopy shattered just as the pilot was releasing his bombs. Ginger clearly saw the tiny orange sparks as .303 rounds from Red Two hammered into the gla.s.s and struts. The Stuka could not pull up from its dive. The machine tilted slightly to starboard and began to spin. Before it could turn a full circle, it hit the sea. Ginger was already pulling back up and searching for more. Red Two pulled dangerously close and Ginger tugged quickly, pulling his own Hurricane away. Now Red Three was pulling back to avoid a collision. They fell into place and then the section soared up towards the clouds.

'Red Two. Red Two. b.l.o.o.d.y well done, man. Capital shooting!' called Ginger.

'Really?' called back Peeky Beaky 'Was that me?'

'Red Three? It wasn't you, was it?' asked Ginger looking back over his right shoulder.

'Not me. I couldn't get a clear shot.'

'And it wasn't me,' said Ginger. 'I just clipped his tail. So that one's all yours, Peeky Beaky.'

'Thank you, sir. Beginner's luck, I a.s.sure you!'

Without forward guns, the RAF's new Boulton-Paul Defiant had few defensive manoeuvres available to it. The most effective tactic had been copied from the wagon trains of the Wild West and African veldt. As Red Section climbed, it saw the Defiants from Duxford pulling into a defensive circle. This way, the rear guns of one could cover the other behind, and so on. Ginger looked up. Above the Defiants, and beyond the few swirling Hurricanes, another circle was brewing. In all, there were nearly seventy Me109s, fast, effective, single-seater fighters, battle proven over Spain and Poland, and outcla.s.sing the Defiants in all respects.

'Oh, s.h.i.t!' whispered Ginger. He continued to climb. Even higher above the Me109s, fine vapour trails weaved beyond the clouds as the Hornchurch Spitfires tackled twin-engined Me110s. As rescuing cavalry, they were too few, too far and too pre-occupied. Ginger had also been aware of movement down to the southeast. The clouds parted and a score of Heinkel bombers could be seen approaching the coast at low-level.

'This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Stick tight and follow me.'

Ginger looked again at his altimeter. It registered thirteen thousand feet and was falling fast. The sun, thin as it was, poked through the clouds. He had the sun to his back and a clear field. Red Section moved inland.

'This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Remember what I said. Wait 'till we get in close. And I want you each to pick a target. I'll go for the leader.'

'Roger!' confirmed Red Two and Three in turn.

Ginger held his breath and watched the distance close between him and his prey. He had sighted up the Heinkel 111 and still not been seen. Beneath his skin, every muscle strained with the tension. He was entering a world of slow motion. He nudged the stick down and the Hurricane tipped forward. Then it began. The Heinkel 111's gunner in the roof sent a shower of sparks curving in front of him. Ginger nudged the stick a fraction and then squeezed on his trigger. He held his shot for four seconds and watched as the rounds found their target. The gla.s.s dome above the pilot shattered first. Then, like an explosive sewing machine, Ginger drilled his way along the length of the bomber. He swerved violently to port to avoid the debris and another Heinkel 111 that had flown into his path. Again, he squeezed down on the trigger and his Hurricane stuttered and appeared to hang in the air. More bursts of grey smoke and showering fragments of gla.s.s. Ginger tipped down on his starboard wing and swerved away. He cast his head across the sky and pulled back for a broad sweep of the scene. The bombers had dispersed, heading in all directions. His first Heinkel fell as bits and pieces. The largest single item was the port wing and Daimler-Benz engine. It tumbled like a clumsy sycamore leaf towards the earth. The second Heinkel, now miles back inland and not worth the chase, cast a thin black smoke trail as it arched away and raced for home. There was no sign of Red Two or Red Three.

'This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Red Section where the h.e.l.l are you?'

He looked next at his fuel gauge and calculated ten more minutes before he need head home. He looked again. 'How can that be?' Ginger wondered. He tapped it quickly with gloved knuckles, having expected to find the needle registering empty after a ten-minute dogfight that had, in reality, only lasted ten seconds. He spotted the Defiants' diminishing circle a long way above and pulled into a steep climb. Vapour trails continued to lace the sky beyond the white clouds. As he climbed, he saw an Me109 fall through the centre of the circle and spin down, black smoke billowing from the engine. Ginger watched the plane as the pilot struggled to pull level and out of the spin. It seemed that the pilot was going to regain control and Ginger altered course towards the Messerschmitt. Suddenly, the plane was on its back and the canopy falling away. The black dot of the pilot tumbled out of his c.o.c.kpit and rolled head over heels through the air. Ginger kept his Hurricane on course towards the falling pilot. A burst of white exploded above the small figure and then the canopy inflated. Ginger watched the pilot, his legs splayed, swinging back and forth beneath the parachute, and heading towards the sea. He pushed forward on the throttle and resumed his climb.

The Defiants' protective laager was tattered and torn with gaping holes where the planes of the Duxford squadron had been. Ginger soared up on the outside. Another Me109 was swooping down from a near vertical. He tilted the Hurricane onto its side and tried to line up his guns so the Messerschmitt might charge directly into his rounds. He squeezed the trigger and caught a quick flash of sparks as he clipped a small area of fuselage. The Me109 continued to dive. One particular Defiant, realising that it was to be the next target, pulled suddenly away from the circle. From his c.o.c.kpit, Ginger could not see clearly what happened next. But the Defiant, as it pulled up and away, collided with another. Within an instant, both planes were tumbling through s.p.a.ce, bits of wings and canopies and other items tumbling, too. One Defiant had regained control, albeit briefly. Ginger could see an entire two sections of its port wing missing. It turned and headed away. Ginger scanned the sky as he flew in a circle around the remaining Defiants. Below two parachute canopies had blossomed open and were drifting out to sea.

Ginger looked at his fuel gauge. Now it was time to head for home. He was not overly worried about Red Two or Three. It was common to lose one another in a melee. He had not seen them crash and that was a good sign. Ginger suddenly had a wicked thought. He looked down, realising that he was now slightly to the west of Dunkirk. The thick oily smoke from the refineries drifted inland, resembling a vast black awning covering the route to the coast. The beaches to the east ran like a broad yellow ribbon beside the sea. Ginger dropped down and lined up for the beach. Out to sea, dozens of small vessels stood off the sh.o.r.e. Indistinguishable black dots now transformed themselves into lines of men and stacks of burning equipment. The altimeter read seven hundred feet.

It had been a good day, so far. One of the best. Ginger did not feel sick about sending the Heinkel to its doom nor did he add its five-man crew to his score. He was well ahead of the game, providing value for money and, therefore, unlikely to find himself transferred to admin. He gripped the stick tightly in both hands. A quick flick to the right and his starboard wing pointed directly down to the beach. He could almost make out individual startled faces as he tore along. Another flick and the racing sand was above his head. Two more flicks and he was level again. Ginger pushed the throttle forward and soared up and away.

'Ha, ha, ha!'

13:05 Friday 31 May 1940.

Off La Panne, Belgium 'You c.o.c.ky little sod!' bellowed Charlie Lavender. He thought to wave his fist after the soaring Hurricane but he couldn't be bothered. 'Aerobatics, my a.r.s.e! Why ain't you out shooting Stukas?'

Charlie had just topped the pot for another cup. He stood on the step outside the tiny crew quarters on Thames lighter X217. He had watched the Hurricane come tearing along the beach. He had his eyes on it before Bray Dunes where it had performed the victory roll. He stepped back inside and gave the teapot a shake. The handle was hot but Charlie did not mind. He poured the dark fluid into the mug and then heaped in a spoonful of powered milk and two of sugar. He stepped outside quickly, stirring as he did so, and looking up into the sky. By his estimate, the bombers arrived every half an hour. They were ignoring Dunkirk's town and port and concentrating on the vessels off sh.o.r.e. Mercifully, there were none now off La Panne. He was, however, drifting up the Belgian coast, away from Dunkirk, as were the other two lighters, X213 and X149.

Phoebe was taking her time. He sipped his tea and studied the coastline. The huge pillar of black smoke at Dunkirk gave him a good indication of his drift. Other, smaller pillars of smoke and fire rose at intervals along the sh.o.r.e. The beach at La Panne, once a popular holiday resort, had several small bonfires burning. It was now largely deserted as the Germans nibbled away at the western flank of the perimeter. A ragged line of lorries, similar to the one at Bray, ran out into the water. With the aid of Burnell's binoculars, Charlie could just make out the small figures that clambered from one vehicle to the next. An RNLI lifeboat could be seen holding off from the makeshift jetty.

He looked up into the sky again. The Stukas had left him a trifle edgy. Charlie swirled the last of his tea around the mug and then drained it in a gulp. He took his eyes away from the sky to examine the tealeaves. His wife, Lil, had a friend who could read the leaves. He had seen her do it often enough, and using the tea he had provided for the house. He wondered what she might predict. A long sea voyage, perhaps. Maybe he would meet new friends. It was a load of old cobblers, anyway. Charlie wondered if he should have another cup. He decided to relieve himself first.

He stepped across the narrow deck and unb.u.t.toned his flies. X149 drifted about a quarter of a mile away, leading them along the Belgian coast. He noticed a man splashing in the water.

'Well, he must be a bloomin' good swimmer,' thought Charlie. They were at least two miles from the beach. 'Oy!' he called out. 'Fancy a nice cup of tea?'

The man called back and waved but Charlie could not make out the words. He was about to wave himself when he realised that he had been intent on other matters. He gave himself a shake and fastened back the b.u.t.tons.

Charlie folded his arms and waited. He looked down at the sea. The deck of the barge towered above the water. Even if the man could swim the extra quarter mile, he would find it neigh impossible to pull himself up the steep sides. Charlie sat down and unlaced his boots. He placed them carefully on the deck and then stood to unb.u.t.ton his trousers. His pants had been clean on last Sunday so he had no cause for undue embarra.s.sment. He delved into the pockets and pulled out his handkerchief, which he had not realised was even there, and then lifted out all the small change. He placed these together with his wallet inside his boots. He then lay down flat on the deck.

'Grab these!' called Charlie. He held one leg of his trousers and dangled the other above the water. The man splashed about to raise himself up, treading water furiously. He struggled and then caught hold with one hand.

Charlie tugged, turning on the deck for purchase. He heard the trousers tear. Just then the man's free hand clasped the gunwale. Charlie pulled himself upright and grabbed the wrist. 'Up you come, chum!' He heaved and the man sprawled on the narrow deck. He coughed and spluttered and managed to get out the words, 'Thank you.'

'I hope you're handy with a needle and thread,' said Charlie. 'It's the only pair I've got.'

'What?'

'D'you fancy a cuppa? There's one in the pot.'

'Please,' gasped the man.

'This is the best cup of tea I think I have ever tasted,' exclaimed the man.

'I thought I'd best make a fresh one,' smiled Charlie. 'There's nothing like the first one out of the pot. How you doing with those trousers?'

'Nearly finished.' He nipped the thread with his teeth and held the trousers up for inspection. 'Not exactly Savile Row, but they should keep you decent. Any more tea?'

'Help yourself.' Charlie climbed back into his trousers and examined the st.i.tching. The left leg was now a good three inches shorter than the right but they would do. The man helped himself from the pot beside him, wincing as he scalded his fingers. He spooned in powered milk and extra sugar. He looked up as he stirred. Charlie was scratching his head beneath the helmet. 'I don't suppose you were doing a cross-Channel swim,' said Charlie. 'So what brings you here?'

The man rested his tea on the deck and made to stand up. Charlie waved him back down. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Captain D'Arcy, Royal Artillery.' They shook hands. 'Yes. I saw your boats from the beach and I said to myself that's just what we need to get off and get back home.' He smiled at Charlie and sipped again at his tea.

'You must be a strong swimmer, then?' suggested Charlie.

'Well, thank you. Not bad. We have a big lake at home.'

'Really?' asked Charlie. 'D'you smoke?'

'Do I?'

He held out his tobacco pouch. 'Just rollies, I'm afraid. D'you know how?'

Captain D'Arcy shook his head. So did Charlie.

'Anyway,' continued the officer. 'I would be most grateful if you could take me back to the beach.' He struggled to his feet and looked at the sh.o.r.e, swaying on tingling toes. 'Somewhere over there, I think.'

'Where?' asked Charlie, licking the cigarette paper.

'Well, it can't be far. I swam it after all. Do you see that line of trucks in the water?'

'Yeah.'

'Well, not quite as far as that. Somewhere to the left a bit.'

'So, why d'you want to go back?' asked Charlie, handing over the neatly rolled cigarette.

'My men are there,' he exclaimed. 'That's why I swam out. So you could come and pick us all up.'

'Really? Have you had a look around you?' Charlie struck a match and the captain sucked in gratefully. He nearly coughed and then looked Charlie straight in the eye.

'Pardon?' he asked.

'I mean,' said Charlie, waving an arm. 'Can you see any steering gear, for instance?'

'No,' replied the captain uncertainly.

'Do you see an engine?' asked Charlie.

'No.'

'Did you think this was a ship of some kind?'

'Well, yes. I did, actually.'

'And do you see over there?' asked Charlie, pointing off to the east.

'Yes.'

'Well, we ain't got any means of steering. There's no engine...'

'Sails?'

'No, no sails. This is a barge, or to be more accurate an eighty-three foot Thames lighter. It's usually pulled about by tugs or allowed to glide with the current up or down river. Can you still see that line of lorries in the water?'

The captain looked along the coast. 'No, I can't. That's d.a.m.n strange, isn't it?'

'Not so strange,' explained Charlie. 'When you think we're drifting with the tide. And over there, that's Nieuport and that's where the Jerries have got hold of the French sh.o.r.e batteries.'

'Oh, sweet Jesus!' exclaimed Captain D'Arcy.

'Yeah,' said Charlie Lavender. 'I bet you wish you 'adn't bothered now.'

13:50 Friday 31 May 1940.

Malo Beach, France Situated on the east side of Dunkirk is the pleasant, nineteenth-century seaside suburb of Malo-les-Bains. Shops, restaurants, kiosks and amus.e.m.e.nts of all kinds line the front. Toto took the opportunity to stretch his legs. He did not, however, stray too far from Archie. Most of the seafront amus.e.m.e.nts had been blown to pieces by repeated bombing and sh.e.l.ling. Rubble lay in heaps across the promenade and acrid smoke billowed from the numerous piles of burning equipment and abandoned vehicles. The beach itself was thick with men.

Archie stood on the front and looked around him. Toto scampered up and pressed against his leg. To his left, the sky was black. Out to sea, dozens of vessels from large transports to tiny dinghies. And long lines of men. They began almost directly below Archie and stretched far and wide, as if following some invisible maze around the beach and out into the sea. Archie looked further along the coast. It was the same story as far as his eyes could see.

'f.u.c.k this for a game of soldiers!' Archie knelt down and scooped Toto up in his arms. 'This is another fine mess,' he told him. 'Out of the frying pan and into the b.l.o.o.d.y fire.'

He paused then, running low on pat phrases, and simply stared out to sea. He felt sick. The grounding of the ancient liner had closed one exit. In time, he had returned to the ca.n.a.l but had flinched at joining the back of a queue now numbering into the tens of thousands. Someone had suggested he try the beaches. Malo was the first of the resorts. He decided to walk on.

The scene barely changed over the next three miles. Archie shook his head and halted. He dropped Toto gently down and then went and sat on the seawall; letting his legs dangle over the side. The black cloud over Dunkirk was now receding into the distance but the scene all along the beach remained much the same. His eyes followed the start of the nearest line and traced its jagged progress. Those at the front of the queue stood up to their necks in water. The waves were breaking a long way out and the men were bracing themselves for each swell, standing five or six abreast. Archie shuddered. His mouth felt dry; fur coated his teeth and gums. 'Come on, boy,' he called. 'You thirsty?'

Toto showed his pink tongue. Archie gave his canteen a shake and pulled out the cork. He took a slow sip, letting the warm water run all around his mouth before allowing it to trickle down his throat.

'Down boy!' Archie pushed the dog away from his shoulder wound. He cupped his hand and poured a little in. Toto quickly lapped it up and looked for more. 'That's it for now, boy. There's not much left.' He rubbed Toto behind one ear. 'Hungry?'

Toto showed his pink tongue and quivered.

'Just biscuits now, Toto.'

Archie was just about to light a cigarette when the first salvo of sh.e.l.ls flew over his head. Instinctively, he pulled himself low and antic.i.p.ated the explosions. The sh.e.l.ls landed in a line abreast about two miles out to sea. Three grey waterspouts reached up into the sky and slowly began to dissolve. Somewhere, a long way behind him, he heard a dull roar like thunder. Archie counted the seconds off in his head and then the sh.e.l.ls were soaring over again. Once more they landed in line, three abreast, sending up further grey eruptions. They were closer to the sh.o.r.e this time. He could hear the water hiss as it fell back down. He lit his cigarette and counted.

The next salvo fell a little short of a darting corvette. For an instant the mountain of water that rose from the sea obscured her from view. Then she was showing her stern and making a small but growing cloud of thick white smoke to hide her small flotilla of pleasure craft.

'Well, Toto,' asked Archie. 'Do you think the Germans will let me keep you in the prison camp?'

Toto looked undecided.

'They might eat you,' he suggested, a.s.suming a wicked witch voice. 'Make you into sausages.'

Toto seemed to shrink in size. Archie winced as another salvo tore across. Then, an instant before the brief pause that heralds the explosion, the sand in front of his face erupted. He felt scalding heat, and then nothing else.

When he did regain consciousness he was blind. He lifted his hands to his face and was surprised to find himself touching a hardened crust. He dragged his fingers across his eyes and felt the crust crumble away. After rubbing feverishly for some time he could see moderately well out of his right eye but barely out of his left. He continued to rub. His teeth grated on sand and his head throbbed. 'Toto!' he thought. He called aloud. 'Toto! Toto!'

Archie tried to pull more grit from his eyes. Everything was blurred. He fumbled for his gasmask bag and pulled out the canteen. He gave it another shake and winced. He could either drink it or use it to clear his eyes. Archie poured the water into the palm of his hand. Toto quickly lapped it up and looked for more.

14:00 Friday 31 May 1940.

Bray Dunes, France.

'I think you had better take this, sir.' Midshipman Hockley handed a helmet to Commander Babbington.

'Thank you,' said Binky. He examined the tin hat and noticed three silver stripes denoting a commander's rank. 'What's this?'

'Sir?'

'Did you do this?'