Dunkirk Spirit Part 4

Some people might have termed Miller a hard, callus kind of b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but he was rather upset that he had not been able to help the captain and the rest of the poor b.l.o.o.d.y Norfolks. Miller had slipped un.o.bserved out of the farm. The trail had been easy to negotiate but he had been forced to go to ground some distance from a crossroads. He had waited there for nearly an hour before he had deemed it safe enough to go on. While he waited, the sound of resistance from the Norfolks had gradually petered out until there was an eerie silence. With the aid of a pair of Karl Zeiss binoculars found at the last farm, Miller had been able to partly observe what happened next. Although most of the details had been hidden from view, behind trees and walls, the bones of the affair were clear. The silence had been followed by a series of chilling guttural shouts, then more silence. Suddenly, two heavy machine guns had opened fire in unison. Then no sound. Even the crows that had screeched for much of the day fell silent.

17:19 Monday 27 May 1940.

Dunkirk Approaches, France In just a few moments it will be time for The Children's Hour. But, before we go over to the House at Pooh Corner, the Ministry of Home Security has asked us to put three important questions to younger listeners. Number One: Did you know that in air raids a high proportion of casualties are caused by flying splinters of window gla.s.s, and that you should endeavour to keep away from windows? Number Two: Have you made a note to leave your front door open in an air raid to pa.s.sers-by who are seeking shelter? And lastly, Number Three: If there should be an air raid warning at this particular moment, what would you and your family do? Have you made all the preparations you can or would you find that you had nothing ready?

Commander Hector Babbington was not ready for the sight of Dunkirk even though the scene that now unfolded before his eyes had been developing slowly over the hours. The vast plume of black smoke from the refineries and storage tanks could be seen from the Castle at Dover. So, too, could the vapour trails that laced across the now deep blue sky. The afternoon sun cast a celestial golden light down through the remaining clouds onto the blazing town and harbour, providing illumination on a monumental scale.

The noise had also been slow to register above the steady throb of the engines. As soon as they were out of Dover and into the Channel, a low distant rumble had travelled across the calm sea; only to grow in pitch and intensity the closer they drew to the sh.o.r.e. Now, as they approached the harbour mouth, the sound was thunderous.

'Full astern,' called Binky. The barge, a commandeered Dutch ca.n.a.l schuitje of three hundred tons, slowed rapidly. 'Hold her steady.' The rating at the helm acknowledged the order and held Oranje II still in the disturbed water. Ahead of them HMS Wolfhound, a fast escort destroyer, lay at an awkward angle, aground on some unseen obstruction, and struggling to free herself. The sea churned alternately grey and white as full power was applied to her propellers. The greater part of the immediate noise was provided by her anti-aircraft defences. Ribbons of white hot tracer swept across the sky, arcing elegantly as the gunners below swivelled to fix on the Heinkel 111s above.

'Full ahead,' called Binky.

'Full ahead it is, sir,' replied the helmsman. Oranje II reluctantly began to push herself through the water until she gathered weigh.

'Hard-a-port,' called Binky now.

'Hard-a-port it is, sir.'

'Midships. Steady as she goes. See that point over there, helmsman? Just where the East Pier joins the sh.o.r.e?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, make for that. Let's get out of here.'

'Are you all secure there, sir?'

'All secure.'

'Then might I suggest you and your crew run like greased lightening for the dugout, sir?' The six-man crew of Oranje II needed little more encouragement than a quick nod from Commander Babbington and then they were scrambling up the side of the wooden pier and running in a scrum behind the midshipman.

The dugout was constructed from the st.u.r.diest materials that a devastated town could provide. Even so, the roof appeared to leap momentarily an inch or two before settling down in a cloud of dust. The last of a stick of five bombs fell close by.

'I won't offer to take your hat, sir,' said the midshipman as he ushered him along a dark corridor and towards an even darker recess at the back of the shelter.

'It's a bit airless, isn't it?' suggested Binky.

'Yes, I'm sorry about that, sir. There's not much we can do about it, I'm afraid. No ventilation. Mind your head, sir. Anyway, things seem to be easing off now. You should have been here earlier, sir, about lunchtime. It was pure h.e.l.l then. Mind those wires, sir.' He paused before a curtain, pulling it back. 'In here, please, sir.'

A middle-aged lieutenant commander rose slightly from a corner and beckoned Binky to take a seat. Other men sat in the shadows. 'h.e.l.lo,' he said. 'Have you just arrived? It's a bit mad, isn't it?'

Binky smiled and they shook hands. The officer excused himself and turned to the wireless operator beside him. After several minutes of shouting, he turned back again towards Binky.

'We haven't been able to embark anyone for quite a while now,' he explained. 'And they're backing up around the town and along the beaches. Still, we'll sort it out, right enough. Captain Tennant, perhaps you know him. He's just come across from the Admiralty to organise things this end as Senior Naval Officer ash.o.r.e.'

'Is that William Tennant,' asked Binky.

The officer confirmed it. 'Nice chap. He's at the Bastion right now, chatting to Fat Boy.' Binky withheld a smile at the popular nickname of the BEF commander, otherwise known as the sixth Viscount Gort, General Sir John Standish Surtees Prendergast Vereker.

'When do you expect him back?' asked Binky.

'Well, he's only just arrived so I imagine not for a while yet.'

'In that case,' said Binky. 'I think I shall go and do a bit of sightseeing. I haven't been here since twenty-nine.'

If Commander Hector Babbington were ever allowed the time and luxury of writing his memoirs, the thing he would remember most about the burning town of Dunkirk would be the horses. He had hitched a ride on the mudguard of a returning ambulance and hopped off at the northern entrance to the town. The skies, less visible once he stepped into the narrow side streets, felt safer, especially as the bombs and sh.e.l.ls were falling on the port's main lock.

He stepped carefully over the broken gla.s.s. A set of telegraph wires drooped down into the street, wrapping themselves around a coiffeur's candy-striped pole. The shop's expansive gla.s.s front remained in tact. Binky shielded his eyes up against the shop front and looked at the barber's red leather chairs and neatly arrayed clippers and combs.

He slipped off the helmet and ran his fingers through his slicked grey hair. The store man who kitted Binky out at Dover had referred to the helmet as a 'battle bowler'. He slipped it on again and stepped back to study his reflection. He seemed to resemble the cartoon character in the Evening Standard. 'Yes,' he thought. He looked like Colonel Blimp in the trenches. He had the same tan gabardine mackintosh, the same canvas belt with revolver holster, and the respirator strapped to his chest. The only thing missing was the moustache. No moustaches in the Royal Navy. Binky chuckled to himself, turned and strolled on.

The horses that so disturbed the Commander had found themselves trapped in a narrow cul-de-sac. They were away now from any immediate danger. No buildings flamed in this part of town. In all, there were five horses, powerful bays from a French artillery team, harnessed to a sixth horse, recently dead. Their eyes were wild and white. They foamed at the mouth. And, as they raced towards the far wall and reared up in terror, two of the horses twisted within the harness and slipped on the cobbles. All the horses were suddenly down and thrashing wildly. They shrieked in panic and rage. Their metalled hooves clattered against the stones, causing sparks to fly.

'She's free now, sir,' said the yeoman, referring to Wolfhound.

'Jolly good,' said Captain Tennant. 'Signal: make for beaches east of Dunkirk and embark troops with own boats.'

The yeoman clattered away with the Aldis lamp.

'Sorry, Binky,' said the captain turning around at last. 'You've just been into town, I believe. How was it?'

'Pretty much as you might expect, sir. Quite shocking, really. I was surprised by the number of civilians. You might think they would take to the cellars.' Binky watched as a vast plume of water rose beside Wolfhound as she cleared the harbour. 'Unchecked looting, too.'

'Gives one a rather hollow feeling in the pit of the stomach, don't you think?' said Captain Tennant. 'It's funny, the Admiralty sent us a demolitions party to blow up all the lock gates but the Germans are doing the job for us. We can save ourselves the bother. I'm sorry about that barge of yours.'

Both men look down. Only Oranje II's mizzenmast showed above the oily waves.

'That's all right, sir,' said Binky. 'But it rather puts me out of a job. Doesn't it?'

19:22 Monday 27 May 1940.

Dunkirk Harbour, France Red Section came snarling out of the smoke at a little under five hundred feet. The skies had mostly cleared of cloud but smoke had taken its place. More than three hundred thousand incendiaries had been dropped on the town and port during the afternoon. As the three Hurricanes tore through the sky, a small party of naval officers hunched their heads down into their shoulders and then stared as the tight Vic climbed and swept out to sea. Wolfhound was pounding the sky with anti-aircraft fire. The intended target was a Henschel 126, a single engine artillery spotter.

'Red Two. Red Two. This is Red Leader. Climb to ten and give us cover, there's a good man, just in case this fellow's a decoy.'

Ginger pulled sharply away to port for a tight, sweeping spiral skyward. 'Roger! Wilco!'

As he did so, he felt the blood rush from his head. He fought to keep his eyes open against the G-force. A glance down at the altimeter and he levelled out as he topped nine thousand feet. The old Hurricane enjoyed the aerobatics. Her controls tightened and, as the speed increased into a climb or a dive, she became suddenly responsive. She wallowed slightly as Ginger evened out from the climb and looked down onto Red Section. The Henschel's pilot had been quick off the mark and had turned rapidly inland, weaving erratically at what appeared to be an impossibly slow speed. Both Red One and Red Three overshot their target.

The immediate skies were clear and Red Section had the area to itself. Red One and Three came soaring away from the tiny plane, turned and climbed for yet another sweep. Once more, the slow-moving Henschel outmanoeuvred them.

'This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Let the b.a.s.t.a.r.d go. Reform.'

The section had strayed too far inland and Dunkirk, their intended area of operation, had receded into the distance beneath its heavy blanket of smoke. Red One and Three were climbing hard now, leaving the German with enough confidence to return to a straight and level flight. He had not seen Ginger. As he tightened his spiral, Ginger noticed that he held the setting sun full and golden behind him. He pushed the stick forward and his Hurricane plummeted like a bird of prey. At a distance of little more than two hundred yards, Ginger noticed the look of surprise on the rear gunner's face. His thumb pressed hard on the fire control and the Henschel's wings buckled under the force of a four second burst from eight Browning machineguns. As he turned and looked back down on his climb upwards, he saw the crumpled aircraft flutter slowly to earth.

It was not a feeling of elation that came over Ginger but one of intense weariness. It did not help that he had seen the rear gunner's face. Although it was encased in oxygen mask, goggles and flying helmet, the look of abject surprise and horror had been evident in the posture alone. The Henschel may have been lightly armed but it was responsible for the pinpoint accuracy of the enemy artillery and obviously culpable in the destruction of the town and port. Even so, it had felt like an uneven contest. A hawk versus pheasant, as some members of his squadron might term it.

Ginger's hands felt damp and clammy inside the leather gloves. Once again, he was gripping the stick too hard. He flexed his fingers and felt the knuckles crack. He pulled up sharply and fell into formation with Red Section.

'Red Two. Red Two. This Red Leader. You jammy b.u.g.g.e.r,' called Clouston across the static.

'This is Red Two. Red Two. Beginner's luck, I a.s.sure you!' Ginger laughed now for the first time. He felt better. The section continued to gain alt.i.tude, aiming for around ten thousand feet as it approached Dunkirk. Out to sea, tiny white plumes erupted on the surface like giant raindrops in slow motion. Small puffs of smudge-grey AA fire drifted leisurely in the sky a few thousand feet below. Ginger's mouth was dry. Only a nice, sweet cup of tea and a few biscuits would restore the sugar levels that left him so light headed.

'Bandits! Bandits!' called Red Three urgently. 'Behind us to port and way up.'

'Roger that!' called Clouston. 'This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Climb to twenty and let's get that sun behind us, eh?'

The three Hurricanes pushed as fast as they could to gain alt.i.tude. Ginger's eyes became heavy and he squeezed hard on his insides to push some blood back into his brain. His head was beginning to roll slightly from one side to the other. The blood continued to drain and tiny white stars spun and capered before his eyes. He was dribbling into his oxygen mask. The next thing he knew, he was coming out of a confused sleep. There was the sense that he was riding in a railway carriage through fog. The sky at this alt.i.tude was a faint, purple blue and the light, rapidly dimming, had an ethereal quality.

'Oh, s.h.i.t!' said Ginger aloud. The sweat inside his flying suit had chilled to ice. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. The altimeter registered twenty-nine thousand feet and he was on his own and still climbing. The c.o.c.kpit gla.s.s had frosted up. The needle of the fuel contents gauge pointed down to the left, indicating an almost empty tank. Ginger sighted the giant smoke plume far below and turned back towards the Channel.

21:08 Monday 27 May 1940.

HMS Wildfire, RN Sh.o.r.e Establishment, Sheerness, Kent 'Well, that went down a treat,' announced Charlie Lavender, banging his gla.s.s on the counter and catching the steward's eye. 'Shall we have just one more and then think about getting the train back?'

The two cadets nodded in unison and drained their gla.s.ses. By rights, at sixteen years of age, they were too young to drink in a bar but in their cadet's working uniforms they were virtually indistinguishable from the regular naval ratings that filled the smoky canteen.

'Same again,' called Charlie above the din. Three foaming pints were placed on the bar and Charlie slipped over a florin and waited for the change.

'It's been a fun day out, Mr Lavender. Thanks,' said Ted, the taller of the two cadets, happy to sink a few free beers.

'Look, you best call me Charlie,' he told the youngster, stubbing out a cigarette and lifting his gla.s.s. 'Cheers!'

Both boys had known Charlie by sight for the best part of their lives but had rarely spoken until today. As a Thames lighterman he had been a familiar sight along the river for the past four decades, aside from a short gap of eighteen months spent in the line at Ypres and then a further six months at a hospital in Maidstone.

'I wish we knew what it was all about, though.' Tom, the quieter of the two, spoke for the first time. 'My Dad reckons there's a big push on to defend Paris. Maybe that's what all this is about, sending more of our troops over.'

'But not in small boats like Phoebe. I can't see that,' said Charlie. 'Maybe it's a combination of things.'

'Like what, Charlie?' asked Ted.

'Like evacuating all the kiddies, and beefing up our coastal defences. Boats like Phoebe are ideal for mine clearing, what with their wooden hulls. Don't forget, she was Navy once. I wouldn't mind betting that's what's happening. Use the boats to move the kids someplace else, and then hang on to the best ones. Once the navy gets its claws into something it don't want to let go. Stands to reason. Why give all these boats back when they could use them to patrol the Channel and such like?'

'Suppose so,' said Tom. 'Makes sense. Do you think they sell crisps?'

'Phoebe! Anyone here from Phoebe?'

'Over 'ere, mate!' Charlie turned to the boys. ''Ere comes trouble. Quick, get another one in while there's still half a chance.'

'I been looking for you everywhere,' said the chief petty officer. 'You should have reported in when you tied up.'

'So we did,' answered Charlie. 'Cheers!' He took the pint from Tom and a lengthy sip.

'Good evening, gentlemen, and thank you for bringing...' the captain flicked through the papers on his desk. 'Phoebe. Just the ticket.' There was a brief moment of silence and then the captain spoke again. 'We want volunteers to take your boat to France.'

'France?' exclaimed Charlie, nearing mirth. 'What, that old cow? She's as rotten as a pear! No! Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely. Not me!'

'Well, that is a shame,' said the captain sitting back down at his desk. 'We were looking for volunteers to evacuate the British force from Dunkirk.'

'Evacuate 'em! They only just b.l.o.o.d.y got there!'

'Yes, I know.' The captain looked Charlie directly in the eye. 'There's only one way to put this, I'm afraid, so I'll come straight to the point. We are in the process of evacuating the BEF from France, to extricate them from the possibility of annihilation.'

'What? You're not sending 'em some other place, somewhere else up the French coast?'

'No. I'm not going to beat about the bush. We are looking at a total evacuation and we are not planning an immediate return to the Continent.'

'I don't bloomin' believe it!' Charlie broke into a grin. 'Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? Of course we'll go.' He turned to the two cadets. He could see the excitement shining in their glazed eyes.

'Right, then. That's good. I shall have to sign you in for twenty eight days service in the Royal Navy at a rate of 20 for the month.'

'Twenty quid!' exclaimed both boys at once.

'Yes,' said the captain. 'And, er...How old are you boys?'

'They're both eighteen, sir.' Charlie spoke up. 'They've been hanging on in the Sea Cadets while their papers come through for the proper navy. It'll be b.l.o.o.d.y good experience for 'em. Eh, captain?'

'Fill these in and sign at the bottom. There's one each. And thank you very much, indeed. We need good men who can handle boats.' He stood up again and walked around to the edge of the desk. 'You can use the telephone in the outer office to inform your families. And do not, on any account, let on what I have just told you. For the time being this must remain top secret. You are in the Royal Navy now.'

He turned back towards his desk and scribbled a hasty signature. 'Here's a chit for stores. Tin hats, oilskins, respirators, that sort of thing. Oh, and one last point. Might I suggest that you bear in mind one aspect that may have escaped you? Your pa.s.sengers will not be ordinary pa.s.sengers. They will be exhausted, and many of them wounded. They will be soldiers who have just pa.s.sed through h.e.l.l.'

''Ere! What you doing to our lovely bra.s.s work?' Charlie leaned over the side of the wharf and looked down into Phoebe.

'Orders, mate! They don't want nothing shiny.'

'I don't b.l.o.o.d.y believe it.' Charlie shook his head. 'I had these lads full at it, getting that bra.s.s just so, all the way down from Kingston. Now you've gone and covered it in sodding grey paint!'

'Tough t.i.tties, mate,' called back the sailor. 'Just look around you. Every boat's the same. I lost count of how many I've done since I came on.' He spat over the side. 'I suppose you're gonna complain about your windows, too?'

The sailor referred to the brown paper pasted on every porthole and the tape that criss-crossed the wheelhouse gla.s.s. But Charlie thought better of it.

21:35 Monday 27 May 1940.

Somewhere on the Escaut Ca.n.a.l, Belgium

'Hold still there, sir. Just let me take one more turn with the bandage. There! As neat as you'll find anywhere.'

'Thank you, Lucas,' said Sandy. 'But how am I going to get my boots back on?'

'Yes, that is a problem, sir, but one that I have already antic.i.p.ated.' He held forth a pair of tartan bedroom slippers. They were the lieutenant's own, the green and blue squares on a black background with red and white piping. Clan Mackenzie slippers. 'Mind you, if you wear those, sir, people might think you were in the Scot's Guards.' Lucas laughed as he put the unused field dressings back in the pouch.