Dunkirk

by Joshua Levine

  At Gort’s headquarters, meanwhile, the mood was far from buoyant. Pownall wrote in his diary:

  Here are Winston’s plans again . . . How does he think we are to collect eight divisions and attack as he suggests? Have we no front to hold (which if it cracked would let in the flood)? He can have no conception of our situation and condition . . . The man’s mad.

  On 22 May, it became clear that the Germans had cut the BEF’s lines of communication – meaning that supplies would now have to be brought from the Channel ports. Confident that the German advance would move along the coast, Gort rearranged his forces. The new BEF front along the French-Belgian border was now defended by four divisions (42nd, 1st, 3rd and 4th). The area running north from Arras along the canal line to La Bassée was protected by a further two divisions (2nd and 48th). And the area to the north of this, all the way to the sea, was defended by four patchwork forces, each a collage of smaller, often untrained units. There were two significant consequences. First, the weakest British forces would be confronted by the German armoured divisions while the strongest forces would face only infantry. And second, Gort would be extremely hard pressed to set aside units for Weygand’s attack, an operation with which he fervently disagreed.

  In the meantime, nine Panzer divisions were advancing into threatening positions on the La Bassée canal line. Anthony Irwin of the Essex Regiment was on the other side of the line. He remembers ‘being dumped in a little village by a canal’. The village was named Pont à Vendin, south of La Bassée, and it was here that his company was given three bridges over a 2,500-yard front to defend. As his Pompadours were digging in, Irwin shouted over to a French soldier on the far bank of the canal, asking who he was. The soldier spat defiantly in response before tossing his rifle and ammunition pouches into the canal. When he started to shout abuse, Irwin ordered a sergeant to shoot him dead.

  By this time, Irwin’s battalion was desperately short of supplies. Second Lieutenant Patrick Barrass remembers his quartermaster raiding abandoned dumps and NAAFI canteens to keep the men fed. Irwin recalls two warrant officers finding chickens from goodness-knows-where, while a fellow officer managed to get hold of an eighteen-gallon cask of beer from a nearby bar. But difficult as conditions were for the soldiers, they were worse still for the Belgian refugees crossing the canal in swarms. When Irwin pulled out a handful of sweets to hand to a refugee child, he was swamped by adults trying to grab one.

  Orders were given to the battalion to destroy the barges on the far side of the canal that might be used by enemy troops (and were being used by refugees). Many barges were burned, others were sunk by opening their sea-cocks, and a few were shot at close range by a howitzer. Then, one afternoon, three unmarked armoured cars drove up to the far side of the canal in Irwin’s sector. Two officers jumped out and shouted, ‘Hi, you bastards, come over and give us a hand, we’ve had a bit of trouble!’ The section commander moved forward to help when somebody noticed a black cross on the side of one of the cars. The Germans were on a reconnaissance assignment, and they were posing as British soldiers, trying to lure Irwin and his men into a trap. A fierce fire fight broke out across the canal. One of the Germans was shot dead on the bank before the armoured cars sped away.

  As they went, a man fell from one of the cars, jumped to his feet and started running back towards the canal. Fired at by one of Irwin’s soldiers, he fell again, before picking himself up and running closer. He was, it transpired, a Cameron Highlander who had been captured by the Germans and kept in the armoured car for three days. Despite being shot twice, his injuries were not serious and he was sent to the rear, after telling how the Germans parked their cars every night and slept in local houses – ideally with young French women.

  The following day, the bridges were blown – to Irwin’s relief – as they threatened to funnel an entire Panzer army directly towards his men. And they were blown just in time, because the Germans returned shortly afterwards. At first, several motorcycle combinations rode forward. One was destroyed, its crew of three killed. A second was put out of action. And a third stopped, its crew jumping out to set up a machine gun. Their bullets struck the wall behind Irwin’s head; a second later a British anti-tank shell removed the gunner’s head.

  Irwin asked for volunteers. Two soldiers spoke up, both of them, according to Irwin, men with grubby crime sheets and the hearts of lions. The three Pompadours rowed across the canal; one grabbed the machine gun, while Irwin ran to the motorcycle where he found two German maps. Under fire, the men returned to their side of the river, before a tank rolled towards them pushing forward an anti-tank gun manned by a gunner. British and German shells and bullets crossed; a German shell hit the wall between Irwin and his corporal as a British bullet killed the German gunner, and machine-gun fire smashed the tank driver’s face through his narrow visor. Once the tank had stopped, Irwin’s men were able to fire repeatedly into it. By the end of the action, one tank, one large gun, two motorcycles and several German soldiers had been ‘dealt with’ to varying degrees, while the British had suffered no casualties. Irwin earned a Military Cross for his part in the action.

  This had not been a serious German effort to cross the canal, just a flank reconnaissance as their divisions moved towards the coast. In fact, the Germans would mount no concerted push to cross the canal line, even though such an attempt, made at this stage by combined divisions, would have cut off almost the entire BEF from the coast.

  But Heinz Guderian, whose Panzer corps was at the forefront of the German advance, was not overly interested in this kind of thrust. As his corps diary of 23 May noted, ‘the essential thing seems to the Corps now to be the push to Dunkirk, the last major harbour; with the fall of this the encirclement would be complete.’ Dunkirk was the Panzer generals’ glimmering objective, and it was within their reach, not much more than a stone’s throw from the most advanced German units. On capturing the town, and assuming that they could hold it, the war would effectively be over. The British army would be captured, or killed trying to resist, and the Germans could attack the demoralised French to the south of the Somme.

  On 23 May, the German army and army group commanders-in-chief, Kluge and Rundstedt, met to discuss their concerns about a potential Allied attack across the Somme. Greatly alarmed as they already were by the Arras counter-attack and its apparent success against Kleist’s Panzer group, they were now concerned about an Allied attack while the Panzer divisions remained stretched out. A temporary halt, they believed, would allow the lagging infantry to close up, concentrating the formations and strengthening the flanks. By advancing too quickly on the Marne in 1914, after all, the Germans had cost themselves a quick victory.

  From Rundstedt’s perspective, a halt made sense for other reasons too. Kleist was reporting that over half of his Panzer group’s tanks were out of action, and a halt would give him a chance to refurbish this force for the forthcoming fight against the still substantial French army south of the Somme. Fighting over the marshy, canal-covered ground and then inside the confines of Dunkirk would put the Panzers at risk and leave them possible prey to the impressive British Matilda Mark IIs. Why risk the armoured divisions in these circumstances against an already beaten enemy when a far more pressing challenge remained to the south? Paris, after all, had still to be taken.

  To Franz Halder, Chief of Staff of German Army High Command, this decision made no sense. The tanks of Army Group A were on the verge of encircling the BEF, and encountering little resistance. Yet they were being stopped, while the infantry of Army Group B, encountering far greater resistance head on, was expected to push the BEF into submission.

  On 24 May, Hitler confirmed Rundstedt’s existing order – but with different motivation. When Hermann Goering, the Luftwaffe commander-in-chief, had learned that British forces were almost surrounded, he sensed an opportunity to win glory for his air force and for himself. Goering telephoned Hitler, imploring him to allow the Luftwaffe to finish off the BEF. Goering was close to Hi
tler, an ally from the early days of the Nazi Party. He understood that Hitler mistrusted the majority of his army generals. They were conservatives, not loyal Nazis. Goering warned that if the generals were to achieve the final victory over the British, their success would earn them a prestige with the German people that would threaten Hitler’s position. If, on the other hand, Goering’s loyal Luftwaffe won the victory, it would be a triumph for Hitler and National Socialism.

  Hitler was receptive, particularly when, visiting Rundstedt’s headquarters the next morning, he discovered that Army High Command (made up of the very generals he distrusted) had just ordered that the Panzer divisions be removed from Rundstedt’s control. A furious Hitler reversed the order and confirmed Rundstedt’s halt order. He would not allow his authority, and that of the trusted Rundstedt, to be undermined by jealous men of dubious loyalty. Had he not authorised Blitzkrieg when his generals had urged against it? Now he would halt it while they strained at the leash.

  This is not the whole story; Hitler agreed with Rundstedt that the armoured divisions ought to close up, and that the tanks should be conserved for the coming battle against the French. He had grown, as Franz Halder previously noted, scared of his own success. But he also felt very strongly that his generals needed to be taught a lesson. The halt order was to be that lesson.

  It has been argued, down the years, that Hitler’s chief motivation for halting the Panzers was to provide the BEF with a ‘golden bridge’ to return safely to England. That he was keen, in other words, to let the BEF escape. No one argued this more insistently than Hitler himself, after most of the British had already escaped. Rundstedt’s chief of staff also made this claim after the war. They both had their reasons; Hitler in order to justify his error of judgement, and Rundstedt’s aide in order to excuse himself and his boss.

  There was no golden bridge. The explanation sometimes heard is that Hitler had great respect for the British, that he saw them as equals in a world of inferior races, and that he had no designs on their empire. He did not want to have to defeat them, merely sign a peace treaty with them. While there is truth to this, it does not follow that he allowed the BEF its freedom.

  For one thing, Hitler’s Führer Directive No. 13, issued on 24 May, states: ‘The next objective of our operations is to annihilate the French, British and Belgian forces.’ For another, some Panzers were actually allowed to ignore the halt order; the tanks of 1st and 2nd Panzer Divisions carried on moving towards Boulogne and Calais, in order to cut off British supplies. And of the roughly nine hundred ships and boats involved in the eventual evacuation, well over a third were sunk or badly damaged by bombs, mines, torpedoes or shells. Similarly, around 3,500 British soldiers, sailors and civilians were killed at sea or on the beaches between 26 May and 4 June. Many more soldiers were killed on the Dunkirk perimeter by Hitler’s troops – who attacked them ferociously. What better way to force Britain to the negotiating table, after all, than to destroy her army? None of these factors suggests the existence of a golden bridge.

  Hitler finally allowed the Panzer divisions to move again on the afternoon of 26 May, although they would not advance until the following morning. And by this time it was more difficult to secure a great German victory. The BEF had moved north, the perimeter around Dunkirk was developing, a rescue fleet was forming, and evacuations had already begun. Through a combination of Hitler’s fear and pride, Rundstedt’s timidity and Goering’s ambition, the BEF was offered a chance of survival.

  That chance was still extremely slim, however. As 2nd Panzer Division moved on Boulogne, two battalions of Irish and Welsh Guards prepared to defend a ten-thousand-yard perimeter around the town. The war diary of XIX Corps reported that its attack on the city and the citadel was meeting violent resistance from the British defenders, adding that Luftwaffe support was inadequate and the attack was progressing slowly. In the event, it took the Germans three days to capture Boulogne, and the majority of the Guards were able to escape back to Britain, having spent an exceptionally difficult long weekend in France.

  On the afternoon of 23 May, meanwhile, officers and men of the Rifle Brigade and the King’s Royal Rifles stepped onto the dock at Calais to join members of the Royal Tank Regiment and Queen Victoria’s Rifles who had previously arrived. Collectively they would serve as the Calais Garrison under Brigadier Claude Nicholson; their job was to defend the town against 10th Panzer Division, commanded by General Ferdinand Schaal.

  According to Major Bill Reeves of the Royal Tank Regiment, Calais was an eerie, sinister place at this time. Houses had been knocked down, streets were full of rubble, and the few remaining civilians appeared drunk on looted wine. Considering the town difficult to hold, Nicholson sent a patrol of four tanks, led by Major Reeves in his cruiser tank, to Dunkirk to ascertain whether the path was clear.

  Having passed through a roadblock, Reeves’s patrol drove past a Panzer unit that had stopped by the side of the road for the night. Mistaking the Panzers for French tanks, an officer leaned out of his turret and began addressing the Germans in French. Reeves quickly drove up alongside him and shut him up. ‘For God’s sake,’ Reeves said, ‘move on as fast as you bloody well can!’ The patrol moved a mile further, passing a procession of Germans on both sides of the road. Trying to avoid suspicion, they waved occasionally. After a while, a dispatch rider came up behind Reeves and shone a torch on his number plate, before driving away again. They now expected an attack from the rear – but none came, and they drove on.

  As they approached a canal bridge at Marck, Reeves spotted mines along the bridge. The patrol was stuck – so a sergeant volunteered to attach his tank’s tow rope to the mines, and drag them slowly and carefully over to the side of the road. This courageous act enabled the tanks to start crossing the bridge, but they found the other end choked with anti-tank wire which needed cutting, forcing them all to sit stationary and vulnerable for half an hour. Eventually, they moved on to reach Gravelines, on the edge of Dunkirk.

  There, the French commander asked Reeves to assist in the coming battle with the German Panzers. Reeves agreed, and took up position covering the main bridge over the River Aa, while the rest of his tanks covered the other bridges. When a German armoured car appeared three hundred yards away on the other side of the river, Reeves opened fire with his 2-pounder gun and blew the vehicle up. Seeing the crew escape into a blockhouse, Reeves fired again and knocked it down. As he sat and waited, two more tanks appeared, and Reeves scored direct hits on them both. He was soon coming under mortar and shell fire, so he withdrew to a spot in the town where he had an angled but clear view of the same bridge. From there he shot two more armoured vehicles and five more tanks as they attempted to cross.

  By midday, not a single German tank had managed to cross the bridge – though Reeves’s tank had been the victim of friendly fire, shot by a British anti-tank gun. By evening, all was quiet. The German halt order had come into force, and there would be no more attacks for three days. But Reeves’s adventure demonstrates just how close the Germans came to taking Dunkirk, and how significant the halt order was. In fact, had Reeves’s patrol not been sent from Calais, the Germans could conceivably have entered Dunkirk before the halt order had even been issued.

  Back in Calais, meanwhile, Brigadier Nicholson had received a telegram from the War Office informing him that the town was to be evacuated. As he was surrounded by a much stronger enemy, and defending a huge perimeter with limited resources, Nicholson was relieved at the news. Hours later another War Office telegram announced that evacuation would be delayed by at least a day, and as Nicholson focused on the short-term defence of the town, the French commander scuppered his plans by complaining to his superiors about the British intention to evacuate. As a result, a further telegram from the War Office, received that night, stated that the evacuation was cancelled. This, Nicholson was told, was for the sake of Allied solidarity. He was to select his best position and fight on. So, the following morning, when General Schaal sent
the (Jewish) mayor of Calais to ask Nicholson whether he would surrender, he replied that he would not. ‘Tell the Germans,’ he said, ‘that if they want Calais they will have to fight for it.’

  Yet even as Nicholson was speaking these words, French naval personnel had already put their guns out of action and evacuated on their own ships. Nicholson was receiving little moral support from London either. Woefully underestimating the strength of the German forces besieging Calais, Winston Churchill sent a succession of messages to his chief of staff asking why the garrison was failing to attack the Germans. ‘If one side fights and the other does not, the war is apt to become somewhat unequal,’ he said.

  By now, the garrison had been fighting a fierce action for a day – and the fighting continued over the following day as fierce German attacks were supported by artillery and Stuka raids. Again, the German commander called upon Nicholson to surrender, and again he refused. ‘It is the British army’s duty to fight,’ he wrote in a message delivered to Schaal, ‘as well as it is the German’s.’

  Inside the town, Second Lieutenant Philip Pardoe of the King’s Royal Rifles had no thought of surrendering. ‘The prospects,’ he says, ‘were that either we should be reinforced and we would break through the German lines, or if the worst came to the worst, we would be evacuated.’

  Lance Corporal Edward Doe, of the same regiment, remembers being driven back towards the canal as the Germans pushed in on all sides. He fired his Boys anti-tank rifle for the first time at a tank fifty yards away crossing a canal bridge. The shell hit the tank – and did little more than dent its paintwork. ‘It just bounced off,’ he says, ‘and made a noise like a ping-pong ball.’ William Harding, the gunner who had fallen for a French girl in Nantes during the phoney war, witnessed sights he would never forget, such as a sobbing soldier dragging himself along by the elbows, leaving two red trails behind him. The man’s feet had been blown off.