Dunkirk Spirit Part 39

Hockley smiled. 'Yes, sir. I cut the silver foil from a packet of cigarettes into three strips and then I used a sixpence as a template for the ring at the top.'

'And how did you stick them on?'

'Well, sir. This is the cleaver part. I used the oil from a tin of sardines.'

Binky sniffed his new helmet and then slipped it on, tucking the chinstrap tight. The ground shook beneath them as another artillery sh.e.l.l hit the beach. He shut his eyes, allowing the hot sand to blow across his face. 'Well timed,' he told the midshipman.

'Don't mention it, sir.'

Commander Babbington waited for the third sh.e.l.l to land and then pulled himself to his feet. A T-Cla.s.s destroyer was coming very close insh.o.r.e. She swung her wheel fifteen degrees to starboard and drew level with the sh.o.r.e. Three bright flashes and three puffs of smoke and then he heard the boom of her four-inch guns and the screech as the sh.e.l.ls flew overhead. He watched the sequence repeated again and again and wondered what chance they had of knocking out the German guns. One vessel overshadowed them all. The Royal Navy had only a handful of monitors, giant floating gun platforms left over from the Great War, and one of these was anch.o.r.ed off La Panne and letting rip with her two enormous fifteen-inch guns.

'Well, that should cheer the men up, sir,' shouted Hockley. He held his fingers in his ears.

'What?' asked Binky. His hearing was already seriously impaired by the dull ringing tone inside his head. Now the boom of the naval barrage raised the pressure to bursting point.

'I said that should cheer the men up, sir,' shouted Hockley again. 'To see the Navy fighting back!'

Binky nodded and looked towards Lieutenant Dibbens who knelt at the water's edge. He had his eyes on a snow-white seaplane tender. One of his men was pushing her away from the jetty with a long boat hook as she reared with the incoming surf. Dibbens turned back to Commander Babbington and waved.

'Next ten men!' called the Commander.

The chief steered them towards Dibbens. The redcap now stood, hands on hips, with encouraging advice on how best to climb to the top of the lorry and how to proceed from there. The ten men moved with difficulty across the wet duckboards, each one's progress hampered by Dibben's insistence that they carry a half-hundredweight sandbag. Some opted to sling the sandbag across one shoulder while others gripped them in both arms. Anyone who dropped a sandbag was required to go back and fill another.

'Come on! Look lively!' shouted Sergeant Norris, his number two. He stood braced at the end of the visible pier, waves washing around his ankles and a much-coveted Bergmann machine pistol cradled in one arm.

'Stop b.l.o.o.d.y dawdling,' he hollered. 'And anyone who drops one gets this!' He waved the gun above his head like a Zulu.

'I thought we only had to go back and fill another?' asked one of the ten men. He had reached the sergeant. 'Where shall I shove this?' he asked, adjusting the sandbag on his shoulder.

'I could tell you,' said Norris. 'But I'll show you.' He pointed down to the Bedford beneath his feet. 'Shove it through the cab window. Come on, man! Bend down. You're going to have to get a little bit wet.'

A small coal-fired launch, the next in line, rode the waves a few yards from the jetty. Sergeant Norris directed the last bag into the cab and then signalled the launch to come in.

'Steady!' He bellowed. 'Hold it there!' He turned to the men. 'Now jump!' They looked at him for a moment, uncertain if he were pulling their legs or not. They decided not and the first man took a deep breath and jumped across. His hands both caught hold of the gunwale but his feet, having no purchase, slipped into the sea and he dropped back, giving his chin a nasty crack. He was quickly tugged aboard. The other crewmen stretched out their arms to the soldiers and tugged them across. One by one the men leapt over; a few slipped and had to be pulled out of the water but none were crushed against the side of the truck jetty.

Another ten had now placed their sandbags in the back of the Bedford and staggered precariously in a line on top of the trucks, ready to take their turn. Inside ten minutes and the launch was away, pressed down under the weight of fifty men.

'Only another two hundred thousand,' said Binky to himself. 'Next ten men!'

'Any more for the Skylark? Any more for the...' Dibbens cut himself short. 'What?' he asked. He looked again at Commander Babbington. Everybody was staring out to sea. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder. A warship of some kind was tearing towards the beach, and more specifically towards his jetty. She sounded her siren, chilling his blood.

'Have they gone stark-staring mad, or something?' he asked himself. He began to take steps back up the beach. Commander Babbington came and stood by his side. 'Have they lost control, do you suppose?' Dibbens asked.

The Commander did not answer immediately. He watched as the minesweeper raced towards them. 'She must be making a good sixteen knots,' he said to himself.

'What's that?' asked Dibbens.

'About sixteen knots!' called back the commander.

'It's going to crash into my b.l.o.o.d.y jetty!' exclaimed Dibbens. He continued to step back up the beach, leaving Binky alone to marvel at the water's edge. Just when it seemed that the jetty was doomed, the minesweeper spun her wheel. Even with the noise of the naval barrage and the incoming rounds, Binky heard her keel sc.r.a.pe along the bottom. Dibbens was put in mind of a high-speed train running into the buffers. The ship continued to scream and groan. She glided through the sand and finally came to a halt. For a few seconds, it was unclear which way should would lean. Eventually, she gave another mournful groan and lurched towards the beach.

Commander Babbington let go his breath. He waited until Dibbens had stepped up beside him. 'Well, you can't say the Navy isn't efficient.'

'You call that efficient!'

'It's not quiet what I expected, but she will certainly do the job.'

'What?' exclaimed Dibbens. 'It's colossal! It'll never float off!'

'About seven hundred tons,' estimated Binky.

'But what's the b.l.o.o.d.y point?'

'To form a lee, of course, and aid embarkation,' explained Binky.

Dibbens shook his head, confused.

'To act as a barrier. To stop the waves. It's working already. See?'

14:25 Friday 31 May 1940.

Off Koksijde-Bad, Belgium HMS Hemera had anch.o.r.ed as close to the beach as she dared and sufficiently beyond range of the German batteries at Nieuport. Both Charlie Lavender and Captain D'Arcy watched her with a growing sense of hope. She appeared to lie directly in their path. And then she opened fire with her twin fifteen-inch guns. Even at that distance, something approaching two nautical miles, the blast was nearly sufficient to burst all four of their eardrums.

'Oh, no!' groaned Charlie when their hearing had returned. 'You know what's gonna happen, don't you?' He pulled the fob watch from his waistcoat and noted the time.

'No, no!' D'Arcy shook his head. 'No! They will surely see us before then.'

'You reckon, do you? Just looked at her.'

HMS Hemera, an Erebus-cla.s.s monitor, was something of a monster. She had the bows and stern of a battleship but not much between, except a tall conning tower, a single funnel, and one humongous gun turret. As Charlie studied her, he had the impression of a giant armoured crab with one mighty claw.

'It's all a question of timing,' tried to explain D'Arcy. 'It all depends on her rate of fire.'

'And if we happen to time it wrong, and we're anywhere near those giant guns when they go off, you know what will happen don't you?'

D'Arcy could not keep his eyes off the monitor. 'Well, for starters, it will suck the air out of our lungs,' the artillery captain explained. 'Collapsing them. The capillaries will expand...'

'And burst our brains,' added Charlie. 'I've seen what big guns can do. I know all about concussion. I've seen blokes with blood squirting out of their eyes and ear'oles. Look at her! There ain't a single person on deck. They're all tucked away below and their ears stuffed with cotton wool.'

'We should try to signal, anyway,' said D'Arcy. 'And you're sure there's no way we can steer this thing?'

Charlie just huffed.

'What have we got to signal with?' asked Captain D'Arcy.

'Take your pick,' said Charlie. 'You could wave your vest or I could wave my trousers.'

'But no signal lanterns, nothing like that?'

Charlie huffed again.

'Are you a praying man?' asked D'Arcy.

'Naw!' exclaimed Charlie. 'I tried it once and it never worked. How about you?'

D'Arcy gave a tight-lipped smile and looked heavenward, hedging his bets.

'Shall I top the pot?' asked Charlie.

'I think you better had,' said D'Arcy.

HMS Hemera fired her guns at precisely five-minute intervals. Her crew had been trained to accomplish a rate of two rounds per gun per minute but there was no particular urgency about her task. The men in her conning tower were awaiting further instructions from the Fleet Air Arm Hudson flying somewhere over the German lines and from her observer who also had to plot the fall of several other naval guns. Thames Lighter X217 continued to drift closer.

It was when Captain D'Arcy was helping himself to the tin of powered milk that he hit upon the idea of using the lid as a signal mirror. He pulled himself upright and looked into the sky. The sun had momentarily vanished behind a cloud but it promised to reappear soon. He rubbed the lid against his damp PT shorts and held it in readiness.

Dit, dit, dit. Dah, dah, dah. Dit, dit, dit. Captain D'Arcy mouthed the Morse code aloud in preparation. He imagined the light reflecting off the monitor's conning tower. This was going to work. He was certain.

'You're wasting your bloomin' time,' said Charlie. 'They've probably set that thing to automatic and they're sitting down to tea and cuc.u.mber sandwiches right now.'

D'Arcy took his eyes away from the cloud. 'Has anyone ever accused you of being optimistic?' he asked.

Charlie gave him a sideways look and curled his lip. He strolled along the narrow deck and stood to watch X213 follow a quarter mile behind. He dipped into his pocket and pulled out his tobacco pouch. He was just licking the paper when he glanced back up into the sky. A tightly packed group of aircraft was heading out towards them. Charlie called over his shoulder. 'Oy, 'arsy! Do you think those are ours or Jerry's?'

D'Arcy looked up into the sky above the French coast. 'We were told to shoot anything below one-thousand feet,' he called to Charlie. 'To be on the safe side.'

Charlie scratched the back of his neck and continued to look up. 'I was told if they're painted black and white underneath, then their ours.'

'Well, give them another minute or two and we might be able to tell. Do you have any weapons on board?'

Charlie huffed again. 'Blow me!' he exclaimed. 'You youngsters today, you want it all. Steering gear, engines...'

'Sails.'

'Sails,' confirmed Charlie. 'Signal lanterns, and now you want a pop-gun.'

'In a nutsh.e.l.l!'

'Suppose you want a roll up, as well?'

'I never say no.'

Charlie stepped back and handed the cigarette to D'Arcy. 'And I suppose you want a light, too?'

'Please.'

Charlie struck a match and then looked at his watch. 'One-minute-forty-five seconds,' he announced.

Charlie Lavender pulled himself to the side of the barge and vomited. Although the monitor was only slightly less than half a mile away, the blast from her guns tore at their insides, putting abnormal pressure on their internal organs and disrupting their central nervous systems. Both men had been careful not to lie on the deck but to crouch instead. The Thames Lighter, with a hold capacity of 150 tons, acted as a giant sound box, amplifying the blast and vibrating with a shocking intensity. Captain D'Arcy waited for the vibrations to subside and then collapsed onto the deck clutching his head.

The bombers had turned off, heading towards the east and the ma.s.s of vessels in Dunkirk roads. They could relax on that score. Eventually, Charlie pulled himself to his feet. He tried to roll a cigarette but his hands were damp with perspiration and the tips of his fingers tingled.

He spat over the side and then pulled the watch from his pocket. The flecks of white spittle sat still on the surface of the sea while the barge drifted on. By his estimate, they should be directly beneath the big guns in just over three minutes.

'Three minutes to the next one,' he told D'Arcy. 'We couldn't have timed it any worse.'

HMS Hemera sat rigid at anchor, impa.s.sive as Gibraltar. A flowing bow-wave had been painted down her side to foster the illusion of great speed when, in fact, she could only manage a maximum of twelve knots. On any other occasion, Charlie would have enjoyed the joke.

'We could swim for it,' suggested D'Arcy.

'Same problem,' said Charlie. 'We'd still be caught in the current and dragged under her guns. If you'll pardon my French, I think we're f.u.c.ked.'

D'Arcy continued to flash the lid at the monster's conning tower. 'Come on!' he shouted. 'Wake up you dozy blighters!'

HMS Hemera poured out a filthy cloud of grey smoke from her single stack. It swirled around her conning tower and then drifted away over the twin guns. Each time they were fired, the smoke was sucked into a vortex and blasted away from the ship. As X217 drew closer, both men craned their necks to look up the lofty sides. Charlie no longer needed to look at his watch. He was counting the seconds off in his head. His spine went suddenly rigid. The monster ship came alive and Charlie thought that his heart had stopped. First there was a mechanical whirl and then a clatter of anchor chains. One giant anchor, itself an equal weight to their barge, broke the surface and rose, dripping water and weed.

'Ahoy!' shouted Charlie. 'Ahoy!' They were now directly beneath the towering blunt bows. Inside the ship came the clang of many bells. D'Arcy tapped Charlie on the shoulder and pointed up into the sky.

15:57 Friday 31May 1940.

Bergues-Hondschoote Ca.n.a.l, France 'Steady on, man! What on earth are you playing at?'

'We're taking ground fire,' responded the pilot of the Lysander. 'Just a little evasive action, sir.'

'Right you are,' said General Gort, VC, the BEF commander. He gripped the underside of his seat tightly. 'At least it shows they are on the ball, eh?'

The general peered back out of the window at the flat fields below. He studied the glistening network of ca.n.a.ls and committed to memory the last line of defence. He relaxed his grip and pulled back his sleeve, revealing his watch. 'Now let's swing back so I can take one last look at the beaches.'

'Well, of course it's no b.l.o.o.d.y good like this,' shouted Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox. 'The d.a.m.n thing's set to six hundred yards. That aeroplane must be only a thousand feet up.'

'Sorry, sir,' said Sampson. 'But that's the range across the ca.n.a.l, sir. I wasn't expecting to go shooting at any aircraft, sir.'

'Then why is the blasted thing on an anti-aircraft mounting? Answer me that!' Samson stood mute. 'That was a b.l.o.o.d.y good opportunity absolutely wasted!'

Sandy stepped away from the Bren. Pain shot through both feet and he wanted to curse aloud. Instead, he bit his lip and hobbled back down the trench, the water now up to his ankles. He turned as a car approached, tooting its horn. Sandy climbed onto a firestep and watched it drive up.

'No, why would I want tea?' asked Peter, the adjutant, once he reached the cottage. 'When I've got these?' He pulled two bottles of sherry from his bag. 'And this,' he added, producing a bottle of scotch.

'Lucas! Go rustle up some gla.s.ses.'

'Paris goblets all right, sir?'

'They'll have to do,' said Sandy accepting. He steered Peter over to the kitchen table and they both sat down.

'I thought we might save the whisky 'till later,' announced Peter. 'Hope that's all right with you. It's just that we might be glad of it then.'

Sandy pushed forward the gla.s.ses and watched while Peter uncorked the sherry and poured a generous measure of the ruby-coloured wine.

'So, it's all been very quiet here, then?' asked Peter after their second sip.