Dunkirk Spirit Part 61

'All on her own, sir?'

'Well,' pondered the captain. 'In retrospect maybe it wasn't such a good idea. There's so many wounded backed up on the other side, you see. So it was decided that, what with no daylight lifts, two hospital ships could occupy the berths without detriment to the operation.'

'Isn't that a bit risky?'

'Mmm,' considered the captain. 'We did send out a warning signal en clair, hoping the Germans would respect the Geneva Convention.'

'Well, let's keep our fingers crossed then, sir.'

'Bit late now,' said the captain. 'The poor old Worthing was bombed and machine gunned at fourteen-thirty. She's being towed back now. That just leaves Paris.'

'And what are all those broken matches?' asked the Skipper. He stood on the Dover side of the huge chart and pointed down into the harbour.

'Those are all the little ships,' declared the captain. 'We don't have enough regular pieces. Anyway, let me explain the plan. All these matches are due to go off...' He stopped to chuckle briefly and then looked up at the wall clock. 'In less than five minutes. One big ma.s.sed descent, you see.'

'I see, sir. But isn't that just going to add to the congestion the other side?'

'Not really,' explained the captain. 'They are all going to be moving at their own speed. That'll pace 'em out.'

'And what about us, sir?'

'Yes, I was coming to that. In all, thirteen destroyers have been detailed to arrive at Dunkirk at intervals of half-an-hour, beginning twenty-one-hundred.'

The Skipper was visibly impressed.

'And groups of minesweepers,' he declared. 'This really is the big one.' He tapped at various points along the south coast. 'From Margate, Sheerness, Dover and Harwich, plus an untold number of other ships, tugs, scoots, drifters, and whatnot.'

'I thought we had got most of the troops last night, sir. How many more are you expecting?'

'Well, good question, Teddy. We think there's something in the order of just six-thousand of our chaps left. Not counting the wounded, obviously. But then there's the French, you see.' He sucked in air through clenched teeth. 'Conservatively, we're thinking about sixty-thousand.'

The Skipper whistled.

'But not that many will be requiring lifts, of course. They'll be too busy holding back the Bosche.'

'Of course,' agreed the Skipper.

'You're to sail at eighteen-forty-five, in company with Shikari. So, good luck!'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Oh, and don't worry if you hear any loud bangs when you get there,' chuffed the captain. 'Demolition parties are blowing up all the lock gates.'

18:20 Sunday 2 June 1940.

Approaching Dunkirk Harbour, France Pilot Officer Neil Wood, the new White Three, took a deep breath, enjoying the undertone of Brylcreem, pipe tobacco and even the vomit. He squeezed the spade-like control stick affectionately in his hands. At six thousand feet there was no need for piped oxygen, which was just as well. His entire face ached from the rain of fists outside the pub. Now the heavy rubber mask, when strapped tight, induced stars to swim before his eyes. Static crackled in his ears.

Way up ahead, Bonzo rocked his wings as an order to close up. Ginger could see the Stukas now, about four miles away, heading out to sea and towards the armada.

'This is Blue Leader. Blue Leader. White Section guard our rear, will you? Everybody else into line astern, please.'

Ginger felt the delicious glow of antic.i.p.ation. White Leader dropped his speed. Ginger followed suit. His thumb began to itch. An anti-aircraft barrage burst out below, forcing the leading three Stukas to peel off, abandoning their attack. Almost immediately, Blue Leader locked onto the tail of the leading Ju87. Two short bursts and his victim went into a right-hand spiral. A third burst followed. Ginger could not tear his eyes away. At less than seventy-five yards Bonzo set the Stuka on fire. Ginger nudged his stick and pulled himself up tight alongside White Two as they went into a sharp turn to port. Below, Bonzo's Stuka hit the sea, sending a shower of white across the silvery blue.

'White Section stick close to me!'

Three Stukas had continued to press home their attack and were now pulling up from their dive. White Leader led his section down. Ginger's instrument panel began to vibrate. He clenched his teeth. They were in danger of overshooting their targets. Ginger eased back. A burst of grey broke out just yards ahead of White Two and then, for the briefest instant, Ginger saw the gla.s.s-domed c.o.c.kpit of a Stuka. A golden spray poured from the rear-gunner. Ginger squeezed down hard on the fire control b.u.t.ton. The elderly Hurricane seemed to pause in s.p.a.ce. He tugged violently at the stick and turned hard away. He swerved again, narrowly missing a Spitfire that had got caught up in the melee. Ginger remembered to breathe. He could feel his heart lodged somewhere in his throat. It was now every man for himself.

He pushed forward the throttle and sought alt.i.tude. Away from his section, he felt horribly exposed. He shivered and scanned the sky as he climbed. White vapour trails criss-crossed high above. He nudged the stick, narrowly avoiding the dark shadow of a solitary wing on its way to earth. Now he needed oxygen. He s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away from the throttle and pressed the rubber mask to his face, sucking urgently. He took a deep gulp and flicked his head to the right. Another Spitfire ploughed past him, a huge stream of white glycol fanning out from its cowling. Ginger pulled to starboard, letting the mask flop to his chest. He took one quick look down at the plummeting Spitfire and then turned his head to look up through the c.o.c.kpit gla.s.s. An Me109 roared past so close that Ginger clearly saw the tail wheel only inches away.

Now he was pulling as hard as he could on the stick, one foot flat on the floor. The Hurricane turned tightly in pursuit. Again he forgot to breathe. A minor adjustment on the stick, and then another, and then the Messerschmitt was briefly in his sights. His thumb hovered over the b.u.t.ton. Another nudge on the stick and the German eased into Ginger's crosshairs. His Hurricane stuttered as he put a quick burst into the n.a.z.i's starboard wing, shattering the aileron into flying black fragments. The German dropped sharply out of sight, leaving Ginger in hot pursuit of the disintegrating Spitfire. He pulled back as hard as he could and again sought alt.i.tude. The Messerschmitt had vanished. Now he glanced down at the panel and the fuel contents gauge. 'Bags of time,' thought Ginger. He clasped the oxygen mask in his hand and sucked urgently, trying to quell his racing heart.

Down below, rich clouds of smoke were rising in gentle plumes from the wrecked docks of Dunkirk. The sky, which only seconds before had been swarming with aircraft, was now devoid of life. He continued to climb. The vapour trails laced the sky miles above. Ginger looked at his altimeter and eased out of the climb. It was then that he felt the cannon rounds tear into his own port aileron.

He dropped the mask and pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go. With his other hand, he forced the stick over to the right until it pressed hard against his thigh. Stars returned to his eyes. He felt the blood drain from his head. A sharp surge of anger took its place. 'Where are you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d? Where are you?'

Ginger's Hurricane was doing what she loved best. The needle topped three-hundred miles an hour before it blurred out of focus. Down she went. He tipped the stick gently to the right and entered a controlled spiral. And there was the Messerschmitt pulling out of a plume of black smoke and seeking height. Ginger let off a quick burst at once. He positioned the crosshairs again and tilted his Hurricane to intercept.

'Brrrrrrrrrr,' snarled his eight Brownings.

Ginger did not see the Stuka that came soaring up towards him. He was just as surprised to see its' twin forward machine guns burst into life. By the time all this registered on his brain, several rounds had already pa.s.sed through his aircraft. One round had blown the boost gauge clear off the control panel. Another round had shattered on impact with a hydraulic flap and now a fragment was lodged in Ginger's right knee. Ginger could only see red. He panicked and simultaneously tugged back on the stick while apply all his strength to the throttle. Up she climbed.

Ginger was surprised to find that he had bitten through his tongue. The sharp, metallic taste filled his mouth. His head was swimming. The Hurricane was climbing and Ginger fumbled for the oxygen. Then his Hurricane stuttered. The engine briefly cut and Ginger felt his heart do the same. Then, just as suddenly, the Merlin burst back into life. He levelled out at around ten thousand feet, his heart beating hard against his ribcage. And then everything seemed to stop. The engine cut again. Ginger scanned the sky and sucked hard on the oxygen. One thought flashed through his mind: What will I tell Mum? It was only when he let the mask drop free that he noticed the smoke. Thin grey at first, it soon turned jet back and filled the c.o.c.kpit. He saw a sudden flash through the smoke, accompanied by a loud bang, and then he felt the first of the flames. They licked around his ankles, slowing charring his best uniform trousers. Ginger knew he had no alternative. He pulled the stick hard to the right and the elderly Hurricane settled uncomfortably onto her back. He adjusted the flaps and reached across to grasp the canopy lever. He hands felt as if they were on fire. He continued to fumble with the catch. Suddenly there was another loud bang and within an instant the thick black smoke was driven from the canopy as icy, cold air blasted in. Ginger knocked open the side flap. He tugged at the lip of the canopy, finding just enough s.p.a.ce for his fingers. He tugged again and then it was gone. Ginger felt with his hands. He unfastened his oxygen lead, radio plug and harness. He barely had time to push away with his feet before he was caught by the slipstream and sent tumbling through s.p.a.ce.

18:45 Sunday 2 June 1940.

12th Casualty Clearing Station, Chapeau Rouge, Dunkirk The Reverend Thomas Charlesworth sat on the steps, his knees drawn up to his chin. The fact that a French 75mm gun crew were setting up in the grounds of the clearing station did not seem to register. He watched without interest as the seven-man crew hastily dug shallow trenches in the overgrown gra.s.s and fastened down their heavy field gun.

He shivered and a trickle of cold sweat escaped from his hairline. He felt its progress down to his jaw where it finally halted in the stubble. The Padre slipped off his helmet and ran one hand through his hair. More cold sweat sat at the roots. The helmet, when he placed it back on his head, felt cold and clammy and he shivered again.

He had seen h.e.l.l and he was sickened to his soul.

He took another deep breath and then stood up. The men lying around in the hallway and up the stairs were those in line for the operating theatre. He shuddered as a bluebottle buzzed close to his ear. He now took shallow breaths through his mouth, tasting the putrefaction on his tongue. The waves of annoyance and frustration that had been his constant companion were transforming themselves subtly into a dull ache. Now he did not feel quite so alone. Others, notably the frenetic doctors and orderlies, were suffering the same impotence.

This was like no hospital he had ever visited. It more resembled a macabre production line where the sick, wounded and dying came through its doors to be patched and processed. But, unlike any sane factory, nothing came out the other end. The products littered the gra.s.s, waiting for a collection that might never come.

The Padre knelt down and looked at one of the men on the floor. In the normal course of events, in a life that could once have been considered ordinary, men with both legs blown off at the knee might be expected to scream and wail their misery. Not so here. Their Christ-like suffering put them closer to G.o.d than even the brightest of stained gla.s.s.

'h.e.l.lo,' smiled the Padre. 'Would you like to say a short prayer together?'

The man had difficulty opening his eyes, and when he did the pain was apparent. 'Please.'

'Is there anything in particular?'

'I'm not really sure. I never stopped to give religion much thought. Not until now, that is.' He tried to laugh but it caught in his throat. 'I used to flippin' hate Sunday school.'

'And so did I,' lied the Padre. 'But we can all find peace and strength through prayer.'

'What do you suggest, then?' asked the man. He had a faded red M painted on his forehead.

'I think that there is a lot of strength to be found in the psalms,' the Padre told him. 'They were written, you see, in the days of the Old Testament, another time of great troubles.' He smiled kindly. 'There is always a psalm to suit the moment. Only a few minutes ago, I was thinking of number 27.'

'Let's have that one then, sir.' He gritted his teeth.

The Padre smiled and took the man's hand. 'Though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear; though war break out against me, even then will I be confident.'

'Do you find that helps then, sir?' The man did not sound convinced.

'Very much.' The Padre gave the man's hand a gentle squeeze.

'And you're confident, are you, sir?'

The Padre held the man's gaze. 'Yes.'

'What of exactly, sir?'

The Padre's heart beat a little faster.

The man shut his eyes for a moment and took a slow, deep breath. 'Are you confident of going home?'

'I have faith. I have faith in England and faith in the Royal Navy.'

'I wish I 'ad.' The man nodded and winced. 'Do they have proper anaesthetics in there?'

'Yes. Yes, of course they do.' The Padre felt the cold sweat break out again from his hairline. He let go of the man's hand, letting it rest on the stone floor.

'Well, I'm glad to hear that, sir, 'cos I just pray I don't wake up again. You got a psalm for that?'

'We heard the Jerries aren't taking prisoners, sir,' said a man from the Ox and Bucks Light Infantry, one of several suffering shrapnel wounds. The men lay together in a corner.

'Well, I would not believe everything you hear.' The Padre attempted a thin smile. 'Truth is always the first casualty of war, you know.'

'We heard they were putting blokes up against the nearest wall,' said a lance corporal with bandaged legs. 'And shooting 'em in cold blood, Padre.'

'Umm,' murmured the Padre. 'You just have to cast your mind back to the last war. All those rumours of German atrocities.' He shook his head. 'Pure propaganda.'

'Not the way my old man used to tell it,' put in a weasel-faced private.

'They're moving so fast that they ain't got time to look after prisoners,' explained another man. He wore no clothes and had a piece of sacking to cover his decency. 'What's gonna happen when they get here, d'you reckon?' he asked.

'Umm. That really should not be an issue,' began the Padre.

'I reckon they'll toss grenades in and then finish us off with bayonets.'

'Good Heavens! No!'

'We thought you might say a few words, sir,' said the man who had started the conversation. 'Something to help us feel more at peace, you know, when the time comes, sir.'

'Ah, Padre! Just the chap,' called Major Newman. He c.o.c.ked his head for the Padre to follow him outside. 'You don't speak French, do you?'

'Umm, not above ordering egg and chips,' he admitted. 'Why?'

'b.l.o.o.d.y Frogs are planning a last stand here. Look!'

More 75mm guns were now in place. An officer was bellowing into a field telephone. Another man led a team of artillery horses past the steps.

'Won't they protect us?' he asked, innocently.

'What? Protect us! You must be joking! They'll have the Germans on to us in a flash. Counter-battery fire and then tanks and infantry! That b.l.o.o.d.y colonel professes not to understand a d.a.m.n word I say.'

'I see,' said the Padre.

'Anyway, that's not why I wanted you,' explained the major. 'I was wondering if you could help with something else.'

'Anything.'

'There are two hospital ships on their way now. There isn't much time. They have to be out of here by nightfall. But it means we can evacuate this post.'

The Padre let out a deep sigh. 'That's wonderful news!' he exclaimed. 'And what would you like me to do?'

'Padre, I would like you to organise a lottery.'

19:05 Sunday 2 June 1940.

W Buoy, Route X, approaching Dunkirk 'We're putting a bit of a spurt on!' declared Leading Seaman Stewart Cragg.

HMS Cameron, in company with the destroyer Shikari, cut a straight white line on the surface of the sea. Her lookouts held a buoy in sight, marking the start of the Outer Ruytingen bank and the entrance through the treacherous shallows; and by rights she should be reducing speed. Instinctively, the three-man crew of the starboard 20mm anti-aircraft gun returned their gaze to the sky.

There was something playing on Soapy's mind. 'But what d'you mean, I'll have to do a turn?' he asked.

'Everyone has to do a turn at a party,' insisted Nipper.

'What sing, you mean?'

'Sing or recite something.'

'I can't sing a note.' Soapy had an edge of panic in his voice. As a new member of the ship's company he had yet to experience a jolly aboard and, as an orphan, he had thus far been spared the necessity of doing a turn. 'And I don't know any songs!'

'Course you must know some b.l.o.o.d.y songs,' insisted Cragg, sneering. 'Knees Up Mother Brown. For Christ's sake! Roll out the Barrel. Everyone knows those.'

'But I don't know all the words.'

'Give me strength!' huffed Cragg. 'Didn't they teach you nothing at that approved school?'

'It wasn't an approved school. It was an orphanage. A Catholic orphanage. We only did hymns.'

'Well, we don't want one of those, do we? We'll all want to slash our bloomin' wrists!'

'Can't you recite something?' asked Nipper.