“Sir, they’re making our call sign from the beach. Message reads berth at the eastern breakwater. It’s from a Captain Tennant, sir, SNOD.”
“Snod?” queried Barr, watching his men stowing away the hoses on the blackened fo’c’s’le.
“Yes, sir, Senior Naval Officer Dunkirk.”
“Tennant! said Barr, turning to Lieutenant Usbourne in sudden realisation, “That’ll be Bill Tennant, well at least we’re in the best possible hands. I served under him in my first ship… Acknowledge please, Yeo and add, ‘Congratulations on your new appointment, but the initials would have been more appropriate if you’d left the naval part out.’ ”
Even before they had the first line across, the harbour came alive with small craft ferrying soldiers to the ‘Nishga’s’ waiting scrambling nets. Barr leant on the bridge screen watching the tired soldiers being dragged inboard by his sailors. He could only image the comments. He walked across the width of the open bridge. Low tide had the mole towering a good five feet above the ‘Nishga’s’ iron deck, but it was no impediment to the impatient soldiery who, even before the gangway, was out were crossing the yawning gap under their own steam.
Within the hour and fully loaded, they were nosing their way back out through the treacherous shoals and the burning wrecks.
They took Route Y that first time… the longest of the three routes. It took them a torturous three and a half hours, first north east along the French coast as far as Bray-Dunes, then west to the North Goodwin Light and finally south for Dover and home. They were not destined to help Lieutenant Grant, far to the north; indeed he had finished his assignment long before the ‘Nishga’ had finished hers.
The next day, Tuesday, saw the ‘Nishga’ entering harbour to the news that General Brook’s II Corp were trying hastily to plug the hole in the line left by the surrendering Belgian Army.
The congestion ashore and in the harbour had, if anything, become worse. As they entered harbour the old ferry, ‘Queen of the Channel’ came out through the mole, black smoke from her funnel swirling about her in a fitful breeze from the west, her decks alive with nearly a thousand men.
Suddenly the sky seemed filled with German aircraft, the ‘Nishga’s’ guns opened up with a tremendous roar. Every gun on the shore, as well as on the gathered ships, joined in a furious barrage, sowing the sky around the aircraft with deadly white tracer and the blossoming black and brown flowers of exploding A.A.
The old ferry took the brunt of the attack as, laden to the gunwales, she chugged lady-like towards the harbour mouth. Time and time, again she disappeared behind the spray from the exploding bombs only to reappear on the other side, unharmed and seemingly unconcerned. Then she started to list over, a near miss must have damaged her below the waterline, she was taking on water through her sprung plates.
The yeoman of signals called from the bridge wing, “She’s flying, ‘Need assistance’, sir.
“Very good, make to her, repeated SNOD, ‘Going to assistance of foundering ship.’ “
“Hard astarboard…Half astern starboard, half ahead port. Barely underway the ‘Nishga’ began to turn in her own length as her engines spun her round like a top, at the same time all her guns continued to blaze away.
Grey climbed the bridge ladder, shouting “We going alongside, sir?”
“Affirmative, Number One… Port side to.”
“Aye, Aye, sir, shall I rig hoses?”
“Yes…” said Barr, and then turned away yelling, “Bridge messenger! Inform the sickbay that they may be having some customers shortly… Bosun’s Mate! Ring down to the Engine Room tell them we will be stopping engines. Make sure they understand they are not to turn the screws without permission. There will be men in the water.”
Grey called down to the sea boat between the crack and boom of the four-point -sevens, the rattle tat of the machine guns. “Bosun! Prepare to go alongside… port side to… rig fenders…scrambling nets over the starboard side… run hoses out ready in case of fire.”
The Bosun’s gravel voice could be heard seemingly louder that four-point- sevens; but then their whole attention was focused on the ferry, as she swung into view on the starboard bow.
“Midships! Stop engines…Slow ahead both engines. Port ten…Steady!” For’ard the ‘Nishga’s’ lowered jack staff centred on the ferry’s stern, like an unerring gun sight, as, in the wheelhouse, the coxswain countered the destroyer’s rapid swing.
His steady matter-of-fact voice repeating the orders, somehow extinguished all excitement like a damp blanket.
“Course south, sir, both engines repeated slow ahead.”
The willowy destroyer passed slowly down the starboard side of the plump little ferry, all gun’s still firing madly at the swooping aircraft. There was a rising spiral of foam from her stern; a plate-rattling shudder ran through her as her twin turbines went astern. Abruptly the way came off her and she settled within feet of the listing ferry, rolling lazily.
Lines were passed, they were brought to the capstan forward and the winch aft and the two vessels were dragged together like reluctant lovers.
A well ordered evacuation of the doomed ferry began under the cover of the rapidly firing guns. Soldiers were soon leaping across the treacherous gaps, created by the difference in the shape of the hull.
* * *
That day the only workable jetty, the harbour breakwater, was judged too dangerous for merchant shipping. From then on it was used only by the warships.
The merchantmen waited off shore, out of range of German shore guns, their human cargo ferried to them by the hundreds of small craft, requisitioned by the Ministry of Shipping.
On the morning of Thursday the 30th they heard news of the casualties The ‘Wakeful’ had been torpedoed the day before by an E-boat and had sank in fifteen seconds, only a handful of the six-hundred crew had survived. The ‘Grafton’ had also gone, torpedoed by a U Boat. The ‘Grenade’ had burned, like a torch, after she had been attacked and there had been few survivors. In the close family that was the regular Navy, most of ‘Nishga’s’ crew knew someone who had been lost. Many had served on those very ships; all mourned the loss of not only the men, but their fine ships.
There was some good news; a thick fog had crept in, keeping the enemy aircraft away for most of the day.
The men fighting in Norway, were fairing no better than the men in France, the evacuations of the Bodo and Mo were both under way, Norway was being abandoned, along with France.
That day, also, the old paddle minesweeper ‘Waverley’ and the Anti aircraft ship ‘Crested Eagle’ were both sunk in the harbour.
On Friday the wind increased to force three from the south-west; nothing to the ‘Nishga’, but the small boats found it hard going, several were swamped, troops were seen frantically bailing water out of the frail craft, using their battered helmets as balers.
A rising wind cleared the fog, and in came the Heinkels, the Junkers and the dreaded Stukas.
The surf, whipped up by the wind ran up the exposed beach making it impossible to land boats. Evacuation was now only possible from the sheltered harbour. Inevitably the orderly queues of men waiting to board lengthened, winding their way back through the smoking ruins of the dockyard.
The Germans continued around the clock to shell and to bomb. Ghastly gaping holes were blown in the queues and in the breakwater they trod. The bodies of the wounded and the dead were removed and makeshift bridges constructed to get the men across to the waiting destroyers.
By Saturday, 1st of June, the bone-weary crew of the ‘Nishga’ were near to collapse; they had been closed up at their action stations, almost continuously, for five days and nights, managing only to catch a few hours sleep on the longer routes across the channel. There was no rest, even when the ship was away from poor decrepit Dunkirk. For then they moved under perpetual threat of attack from the fighters and bombers that were constantly overhead and, of course, there were always the U Boats and E-boats known to be in th
e Channel.
At one point Barr was an interested listener to a conversation between his Gunnery Officer, and the Cockney gun layer of ‘A’ gun. It concerned their last target. ‘Guns’ was apparently concerned over the exact identity of the target.
“Director to ‘A’ Gun.”
“ ‘A’ Gun”
“You were blazing away there, Petty Officer…Are you absolutely certain that was a Jerry?”
“Yes, sir,” came the confident reply.
“What makes you so sure?”
“I used colour recognition to identify her, sir.” replied the gun layer technically.
“Well, Erh…Well spotted…The colours aren’t that different, though, are they?”
“Oh it’s Dolly Dimple when you get the ‘ang of it, sir,” replied the seaman gunner, condescendingly.
“Well, perhaps you could let us all in on your secret. All stations listen in a minute, will you?”
Gun layer: “It’s pretty straight forward, sir…If it’s grey… it one of theirs. If it’s black… it’s one of theirs at night.”
* * *
Saturday, 1st June; 1940
Adding to the tension, the Germans were now known to be laying mines, not only in the Dunkirk area, but also around the south coast ports that were being used to land the evacuees. By the end of that most terrible of days thirty-one ships had been sunk or disabled. Six destroyers were included in the toll, the brave ‘Keith’ amongst them; they were losing old friends at an alarming rate.
* * *
On Sunday the ‘Nishga’, returning empty from Dover via ‘X’ Route, received a distress call from two hospital ships, the ‘Paris’ and the ‘Worthing’, they were under attack in the channel. By the time they reached the ‘Paris’s position, three quarters of a mile east of W buoy she had already sunk.
The ‘Worthing’ badly damaged, following the attack by twelve German aircraft, had turned back for England.
They joined the other Navy ships in the search for survivors. Both vessels had been clearly marked as hospital ships and the Germans had been given notice that they would be carrying wounded from Dunkirk. Outraged by the brutality of the enemy the ‘Nishgas’ worked through their exhaustion in an angry silence, removing body after body from the water.
When they eventually reached Dunkirk they had to wait outside the breakwater. All the berths alongside were occupied; but the ships were empty. The seemingly endless stream of men had suddenly dried up. There were still thousands inland, but there had been a communication failure between Tennant’s staff and Army Headquarters. Before long the news that there were empty ships in the harbour had spread verbally and the flood-gates reopened, but by that time, the ‘Nishgas’ had other things on their minds. They had orders to join the screen of destroyers, submarines and A.S.W. Trawlers protecting the evacuation from the packs of U Boats prowling the Channel. They sailed immediately: That day Dunkirk fell.
Epilogue
Barr settled back in his chair, drained the last of his pink gin and lit his battered pipe. He had dined alone, with only his steward to disturb his thoughts. It was his custom on these increasingly rare moments, to let his mind wander over the events of the day. Mentally he ticked off the day’s tasks, occasionally leaning across and making notes in his salt stained diary.
That morning he had finished the last of the letters to the relatives of the dead, killed in the Dunkirk operation.
Dunkirk…Distracted by the memory, his pipe hung unnoticed from his mouth, the smoke twisting its way upwards. Scene after scene flashed before his eyes, memory after memory, shouted order after shouted order, bloody incident after worse.
Dunkirk had changed everything. Several brutal lifetimes had been condensed into those few days. A sort of shorthand in intense living, a brief alarming seminar that would remain with them for the rest of their days.
Before Dunkirk he had been a bit player, totally absorbed in his own part, with little thought for the greater plot. It was all those men, all those ships that had finally brought home to him the sheer immensity of the all. It was a tragedy performed on a world stage with a cast of thousands that was set to run and run. It had it all, death, calamity, horror even comedy; a play with surreal, gruesomely indelible scenes. Unrehearsed scenes of death and destruction, performances of heroism and self sacrifice on a scale he had never envisaged.
Out of defeat had come triumph. A triumph of organisation helped by heroism and not a small amount of prayer. Out of it too had come a dogged determination to prevail in the final act, whenever that might be.
He rose, a little unsteadily, from his chair, banged his pipe out in the desk ashtray and turning out the light, staggered to his bunk.
* * *
Lieutenant Crosswall-Brown’s grave lay two miles north-east of Olaf’s Inlet in eighty fathoms of cold water. The graves of Sub Lieutenants Hogg and Kendel and their men lie one hundred and ten miles north of Dunkirk, just part of the terrible human loss that was the beginnings of the Second World War. They were mourned by few of the many they had fought and died for… Some never forgot, told the tale to their grandchildren who although they understood the story could not begin to comprehend the sacrifice. Theirs was to be a very different world.
* * *
“So you see gentlemen,” said Churchill, addressing the senior officers of Special Operations, “You are part of the greater plan…” He paused to puff an expensive cloud of blue Havana smoke at the Georgian cornice. “It will be your job to carry the war to the enemy, to pick us up off the canvas. The nastiest of bullies hesitates when he’s being punched in his fat soft belly, and that is what you and your men will be doing. I call it ‘Butcher and Bolt’. You are my strong left jab and the coast of Europe is the Hun’s soft underbelly. I’ll lead with you while I build up my strength for the right’s knockout blow. When we left France, we left, by far, the greater part of our equipment behind. We need time…time, gentlemen…time to consolidate…time to build anew. You will buy me that time with the lives of your warriors… The cost will be high, but we so desperately need that time, for we stand on the edge of darkness.”
* * *
The power of the unseen was infinite, the ‘others’ knew nothing of his presence, knew less of his power. He saw all, yet remained himself unseen. They were the unaware, they were the watched, they were the powerless, they were the prey, his amusement … his game. Now he was alone…free…free to continue the lethal game he loved.
* * *
The King, in the uniform of Admiral of the Fleet stood on the rostrum, his gold braid startlingly bright against the red carpet and the blue velvet curtains. An aide gave him the first medal. There was just the one Victoria Cross to be presented today. It was posthumous…they nearly always were… They were always the first in the long line. He looked in the direction of the queue of recipients… the George Crosses were next, the… The quiet beauty of the first woman in the queue took his breath away. She wore black. He had never seen a woman look more beautiful in black, dignified and solemn yet somehow… radiant. At her side one of his uniformed aides leant forward and spoke to her. He could not hear what was said, but she walked towards him… head held high, the sparkling chandeliers reflected in the tears that filled her eyes.
* * *
Grant and Charlotte joined the throng leaving Buckingham Palace Charlotte looked down at the Victoria Cross in its small box. Suddenly she gave a short laugh…
“What’s wrong? asked Grant surprised.
“I was just thinking of Ben’s last signal, wasn’t it ‘Enemy astern of you…am attacking’… that’s the old ‘look behind you trick’ isn’t it. He used it when we were kids…Old as the hills… but it worked… He would have liked that… He would have found that funny… oh so very, very very funny.”
He looked down at her...She had begun to sob softly.
THE END
Author’s Notes
When I began to write this series of books, I started to think that
, perhaps, I had gone a bit too far with the exploits of the entirely fictitious ‘Orca’. Making them perhaps a little too daring, a little too farfetched.
Then one day, I read an account of the war time experiences of the men who served on M.T.B.s and M.G.B.s and I began to wonder if I had done them justice
These men took on enormous odds in their frail craft. For the most part these boats ran on aviation fuel, their crews literally went to war sitting on a bomb.
Men like the blockade-runners who, aboard converted M.T.B.s, ran the gauntlet of Skagerrak, a hundred mile wide channel with German occupied Norway on one side and German occupied Denmark on the other; they brought vital supplies of ball bearings from Sweden, the only supplier.
Men like the crew of M.T.B. 345, who were trapped by the Germans when they were spotted in a Norwegian Fjord. They managed to hide their boat for four days under camouflage netting. They were eventually caught and shot. Their bodies were tied to depth charges that were then fired into the cold waters of a fjord.
Men still carried on this work knowing full well that if they were caught, they could suffer a similar fate.
Men like Lieutenant Commander Tommy Fuller, R.C.N. who won the Distinguished Service Cross for taking on twenty- two German E-boats single-handed.
The eight hundred craft involved in the huge operation that was Dunkirk were finally stood down on June 4th. The exploits of the ‘Keith’, ‘Vimey’, ‘Whitshed’ and the ‘Venamous’ in the port of Boulogne are based on eye witness accounts.
On the Edge of Darkness (Special Force Orca Book 1) Page 32