by Alan Pearce
‘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 bloody 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 passengers will not be ordinary passengers. They will be exhausted, and many of them wounded. They will be soldiers who have just passed through hell.’
‘’Ere! What you doing to our lovely brass 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 bloody believe it.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘I had these lads full at it, getting that brass just so, all the way down from Kingston. Now you’ve gone and covered it in sodding grey paint!’
‘Tough titties, 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 glass. But Charlie thought better of it.
21:35 Monday 27 May 1940.
Somewhere on the Escaut Canal, 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 anticipated.’ 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.
‘Well, it’s just for now, I dare say,’ pointed out Sandy. ‘Just for a day or so, until the skin heals.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Lucas.
As days go, this one had been bloody awful. Several times throughout the morning, the Germans had attempted to cross the canal in inflatable rubber boats and each time they had been chewed to ribbons by the platoon’s combined firepower. Each incident of this kind had been followed by a series of incoming artillery rounds until the cottage had been effectively destroyed. The afternoon had been little better. At one stage, the Germans had managed to provide such covering fire that two infallibles reached the British side of the canal. The Germans, five in all, had all been dispatched with bayonets and their bodies lay in a pile beside the rubbish heap.
Sandy and Lucas squatted in the communications trench with one of the cottage doors for cover. Since dusk, the German attempt at an advance had slowed down until it consisted of little more than sporadic and irritating sniper fire and the occasional mortar round. If any of the platoon had been asked how long since they had last slept, they would all be far too tired to say. Only the pain in Sandy’s feet kept him awake.
Peter, the adjutant, jumped quickly into the trench.
‘Oh, my God! You scared the living daylights out of me.’ Sandy clutched his hand to his chest and felt the heartbeat through the serge uniform. The pulse reverberated in his feet. He dropped the revolver back on his lap.
‘Just thought I’d drop in,’ announced Peter. ‘Any tea, Lucas?’
‘’Fraid not, sir. The kettle’s got a hole in it.’
‘Well, never mind. Never mind. What happened to you?’ He noticed Sandy’s bandaged feet.
‘Oh, it’s nothing really,’ he replied. ‘Just a little shrapnel. Lucas got quite a bit out with his nail scissors but my feet are still a bit sore.’
‘Yes, I dare say. Well, take the next few days off and have a jolly good rest, hey?’
‘Seriously, sir?’
‘No, not bloody seriously! We can’t spare you for a minute, old boy. Anyway, chin up. I’m the bearer of glad tidings.’
‘Glad tidings?’
‘Indeed! We are going home.’ He grinned as he let the announcement sink in.
‘Home?’
‘I’ve just left Becky. Platoons will withdraw at twenty two hundred hours and form up on the main road to Lille.’
Sandy grinned now.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Peter, ‘but we still don’t have any proper maps, but I shall be leading the company out and I have made you all route cards. Here’s one.’ He handed it to Sandy: a card from a roll-index with pencil markings.
‘There won’t be any halts for the first thirty miles, I’m afraid. Time, apparently, is against us. We’ve got to keep going. But you will never guess? Our final destination this side of the Channel is the harbour at Dunkirk. For embarkation to England! Topping, hey? Any questions?’
‘How far is it to Dunkirk?’
‘About sixty miles.’
‘Try this for size, sir.’ Lucas brought the wheelbarrow skidding to a halt. He had helped the lieutenant hop away from the trench system and had sat him down just inside a copse of trees. The remainder of the platoon were busy firing flares over the German lines to dazzle, bewilder and generally ruin their night vision. Sergeant Harris gave a final burst from the Bren gun, fired from the hip, and then turned to join the lieutenant. He slung the Bren across his back and bent to help lift Sandy into the barrow.
‘I feel such a fool, Lucas. But, do you know, I can barely put any weight on my feet? I wish we had some Aspros. But give me an hour or so and I’m sure I shall be just fine.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Lucas.
It was a perfect night for marching, even for those travelling by wheelbarrow. With the setting sun, the clouds had returned, blacking out the night sky. Drizzle had been falling and it was a relief to the upturned faces of the ten men that remained of 11 Platoon. But, as the men moved further from the canal and closer to the main roads, so conditions began to deteriorate.
The showers were falling heavy now and the men were obliged to stop regularly as the traffic all around them ground to another halt. Lucas tugged hard and Sergeant Harris helped to push the wheelbarrow up on to one wheel and around the obstructing artillery limber. When Sandy first arrived in France, he had been surprised by just how reliant the French army had been on horses. The French were reputed to have the best army in the world, but much of it remained horse-drawn. The British, by contrast, were entirely mechanised, aside from those who had to march. However, many of the British lorries that lay crippled beside the road bore the homely markings of commandeered bread vans, removal wagons and flatbed builder’s lorries.
‘Can’t be far now until we reach Poperinge, sir. We’re coming up to Bailleul.’ Lucas leant forward over the lieutenant and was going to point out the town on the adjutant’s route card. But Sandy was so deeply asleep that it seemed a shame to wake him.
22:30 Monday 27 May 1940.
Eastern Entrance, Dover Harbour, Kent
‘That smells bloody good!’ announced the steward as he stepped into the wardroom galley.
‘Hot chocolate for the Skipper. You can take it up in a mo’.’ The chef warmed s
ome thick Navy rum in another small saucepan, careful not to take the temperature too high and lose any of its alcoholic value. He mixed the contents of both saucepans and poured the drink carefully into the Thermos flask.
‘Here you go,’ he said, screwing tight the lid and handing it over. ‘What’s it like up there?’
‘Pissing down, or at least it was last time I looked.’
‘I don’t suppose we’ll be stopping?’ The chef sipped the last of the leftover hot rum, balancing his rump against the steel work surface. ‘Fat chance of a dicky run ashore, then?’
‘Don’t look like it,’ said the steward. ‘Just long enough to wait for the convoy and we’ll be on our way.’
‘Great,’ said the chef with no enthusiasm.
Convoy duty, the bread and butter work of the Royal Navy’s aging destroyers, was never glamorous. It was invariably cold, wet, dirty and dangerous. HMS Cameron, a Scotts-class destroyer of fifteen hundred tons and advancing years, was approaching Dover Harbour, en-route from Portsmouth, expecting to shepherd two-dozen rust buckets to Halifax, Nova Scotia, and nobody aboard showed any enthusiasm.
The steward, a Gibraltarian, dropped the Thermos into his jacket pocket and climbed the labyrinth of ladders and gangways until he reached the open bridge. The rain had eased off and was now falling in large, solid drops. Cameron sat still in the dark water. Directly ahead of them a small fish cutter, armed with Lewis guns fore and aft, led a straggling procession of pleasure craft out into the open seas. The only lights came from three red dots in a triangle at the top of the cutter’s mast.
‘Well, that’s a strange one,’ said Commander Edward Bishop to himself. ‘Steady,’ he called to reduce the ship’s swing. As he looked back up from the voice pipe, he saw Francisco out of the corner of his eye. The steward stepped smartly forward against the faint swell and held out the Thermos.
‘Piping hot cocoa, sir. Just how you like it. Shall I pour it now, sir?’
‘Please, Frank,’ said the Skipper. ‘Here. Let me hold the cup while you pour.’
‘All clear now, sir,’ called the officer of the watch.
‘Half ahead both,’ replied the Skipper. The telegraph clanged and Cameron, after a brief pause, began to cut through the waves towards the Eastern Entrance.
‘Dead slow ahead.’
‘Dead slow ahead it is, sir.’
‘Make pennants.’ The Skipper lifted the hot cup and sipped.
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said the leading signalman.
‘Excellent cocoa! How much rum did chef put in this?’
‘Oh, not so much, sir. Just enough, you know, to keep out the damps.’
‘Yes, I thought so.’ The Skipper smiled. ‘Very good, tell him.’
‘Signal from the shore, sir,’ called the signalman.
‘Let me guess,’ said the Skipper. ‘We are being diverted to Norway again.’
‘No, sir. It’s a signal from Vice-Admiral, Dover, sir. It says: The last chance of saving the BEF is tonight! Bloody ‘ell! You are to proceed with all despatch to beaches two or three miles east of Dunkirk and embark troops in your own boats. Sir.’
‘Well, I’ll be blowed! Things must be worse than we thought. In that case, I think we had better have cocoa all round, please Frank. And Mr Burnell, acknowledge, and lay us a course for the green light buoy off Calais, if you please.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said the officer of the watch.
Day Three
01:32 Tuesday 28 May 1940.
Dunkirk Approaches, France
‘I don’t see as how anyone could be left inside - not alive any roads.’ Leading Seaman Stewart Cragg, a former plasterer’s mate from Canterbury, stood open-mouthed as he manned the starboard 20mm anti-aircraft gun. His two mates watched the blazing inferno of Dunkirk in silence. Slowly, HMS Cameron pressed on past the darkened lighthouse, silhouetted against the flames. Slower still, she turned towards the shore, sounding continuously with the lead. When the depth was a bare foot more than her propeller draft, Commander Bishop on the bridge ordered the anchor to be dropped underfoot.
There was a sharp, prolonged rattle of chains and Cragg heard the splash. He let out his breath slowly. It was difficult to judge their distance from the shore in the dark. The reflected flames from the burning port down the coast outshone the moon, largely hidden behind the clouds. Each ripple in the still water was highlighted in orange and gold. With each new flash, another vessel could be made out lying off the shore; one moment picked out in bright lights, the next hidden again from view. The sound of shells continuing to fall on Dunkirk travelled the distance slowly, out of synchronisation with the bright white flashes.
‘’Ere look!’ Cragg spoke in a whisper. ‘There’s stuff in the water. Loads of stuff, like reeds or something.’
‘There ain’t no reeds round here. It’s all beaches for miles.’ The gun’s number two, an unusually quiet man from Devon known as Nipper, spoke in a husky murmur.
‘Well, I can’t bloody see it now,’ said Cragg, annoyed. ‘It was like a line of things, all sort of flickering and waving in the water.’
Nobody spoke for a while. Somewhere overhead the steady drone of an aircraft could be heard.
‘Messerschmitt!’ stated Cragg in a hush. ‘Single engine.’
Nipper spoke again. ‘What’s that?’ Nobody needed to answer. Everybody on deck could hear it.
‘Over here! Oy! Over here!’
‘Where’s it coming from, then?’ This time the gun’s number three spoke, Soapy Watson of Lincoln, a failed baker and orphan turned ordinary seaman.
‘Over here! Oy! Over here!’
‘Ergh! It’s givin’ me the creeps,’ Cragg whispered and clenched his teeth.
There was another noise as the first of the ships’ three boats were lowered into the water amidships. Cragg and the gun crew turned and looked back along the length of the darkened ship. A small party of seamen were busy unlashing the scrambling nets.
The ship’s First Officer, Lieutenant Commander Gordon Hubbard, known to all as Mother, could smell the musky odour of the rope’s fibres as the nets unravelled and then dropped down to the waterline. He felt the heavy Hollis revolver slap against his thigh as he hoisted himself over and carefully but swiftly picked his way down to the waiting whaler.
It was not long before Gordon also spotted something that looked like reeds in the water. ‘Good Lord!’ The wet helmets reflected the distant flashes, too. A jagged line of men stretched out from the shore.
‘Hold water,’ he whispered. The men held their oars firmly in the water, checking the whaler’s progress.
‘We gonna pick ‘em up, sir?’ asked the coxswain. ‘There must be sodding thousands of ‘em! They’ll have us over if we ain’t careful, sir.’
‘Yes, I was having the same thoughts,’ said Gordon. ‘Best steer clear of them for the moment. Get us to the shore and be prepared to fend off any boarders.’ The small wooden boat curved away from the line of men.
A powerful explosion away at Dunkirk’s main dock sent a ball of light into the sky, reflecting back like lightening off the heavy clouds that hugged the entire coast. For a moment, Cameron’s three boats were backlit against the flash and were clearly visible to all on the beach.
‘Back water! All together now, pull,’ cried Gordon, suddenly aware of the danger. The crews of the two following ship’s boats had the best view. Away from the immediate noise, it seemed at first glace as if a wave of phosphoresce was about to engulf the leading whaler as three or more dozen men charged through the water and attempted to leap aboard. The boat crew that manned the oars, having their backs to the beach, were mostly taken unaware. There was a startling impact and a chorus of shouts, and many of the crew found themselves floundering on the duckboards. Those that had pulled themselves to their feet tried to repel the boarders as best they could. Gordon felt a heavy hand thrust him hard in the centre of his chest and he toppled over the side.
The shock of the water forced his m
outh open and seawater began to fill his lungs. He thrashed with his hands and opened his eyes. As he surfaced, his feet touched the sandy bottom. He was surprised, and felt rather foolish, to find himself standing in little more than three feet of water. The waves lapped around his crotch. He coughed repeatedly to clear his lungs and then reached down to the holster at his side. He tugged at the strap and released the revolver. Gordon had never fired a revolver that had been submerged in seawater before and he was not entirely sure if it would work. As he struggled to balance himself against the incoming swell, he broke open the revolver and spun the chamber. All seemed clear. He snapped it shut again and, as a last precaution, transferred the pistol to his left hand before aiming at the sky and pulling the trigger. There was a deafening report from the heavy calibre Hollis and suddenly Gordon had every man’s attention.
‘You bloody shower!’ he cried. ‘If you lot are a fair representation of the British Army, then thank God for the Senior Service. Just look at yourselves, you bunch of cretins!’
The whaler had not so much sunk, as settled to the bottom. The waves were a good eight or nine inches above her gunwales. The shot from Gordon’s pistol had momentarily halted everyone. The soldiers, and the few visible crew, stood or sat frozen. Many others hung around the boat. Several were poised to step aboard.
‘What? Do you think we brought you a bloody submarine?’ Gordon laughed aloud. A handful of the soldiers began to realise the absurdity of the situation as they sat waiting to depart with the waves lapping around their ears. ‘God help us! There must be two hundred of you sitting in a twenty-seven foot boat!’
Gordon wadded through the water and began to pace around the grounded craft. ‘Right! Listen carefully you lot, and that means all of you. You can forget the Army now. This is a Naval operation and, if you follow my orders, we will try and have you on your way home before morning.’ Gordon glared at the men in the water, his own face illuminated in flashes like a hellish demon. Nobody spoke. ‘Now, when I give the command, I want you all to depart this boat in an orderly fashion. I then want you to line up on the shore, at attention, in threes. Is that understood?’