by Alan Pearce
Even in the peak of summer, Dover would have to be a depressing town, thought Kitty as she negotiated her way down the hill along the rows of grey Victorian terraces and their empty streets. It has just started to spit and the patchy clouds above promised more to follow. The air was warm and heavy with damp but it was a pleasant relief after the claustrophobic stuffiness of the train. She thought of the soldiers at Ashford. Her first thought was how bashful they had appeared. It was as if they had been overwhelmed by the reaction of the people on the platform. What was going on over there, she wondered? It was as if they had expected chastisement and not the surge of warmth and pride they had actually received.
It seemed as if the entire London to Dover train had disgorged its passengers on to the platform. The kiosk had been swamped. Then people were searching through their pockets and bags, offering anything that came to hand: cigarettes, sweets, even a few pound notes. It was unbelievably touching.
An odd sensation washed through her body as she walked. During her life she had catalogued lots of odd sensations. Each one unique to its own peculiar happening. There was the odd sensation of first arriving in London. There had been a similar and yet distinctly different sensation on her first day at the Tanglin school. But it was more than a sensation. It was a collection of smells, sights, sounds and feelings, each unique to each special event in life, and woven into a single emotional charge. There had been the odd sensation the first time she realised the houseboys were watching her when she bathed. And yet, despite the repetition of the event, it was an odd sensation never to be fully experienced again, only remembered. There had been another odd sensation that had cloaked the house when Kitty’s eldest brother, Douglas, had been thrown from his horse and the doctors had said he might never walk again. The sensation of Ashford left Kitty with a similar feeling; hollowness deep inside, tinged with an unknown sadness, and even fear. That was a new twist.
She reached a crossroads and paused, trying to remember the directions. A fishmonger’s shop with blue awnings stood on the corner and Kitty stepped up to the display. Four dabs, nice but small. Two unidentifiable white fish, a puny crab, and a sack of muscles. She stepped inside the shop.
‘What can I do for you, miss?’ asked an M60C.
Kitty looked again at the display. The wonder at the paucity of it all reflected in her face.
‘I’ve got some nice roe out the back, if you’re interested.’ The fishmonger stood poised, as if ready to jump if Kitty so commanded.
‘I am so sorry,’ she said, smiling. ‘But I’m actually looking for the Central Hotel.’
He was obviously disappointed. ‘The Central? Yes, miss. Out the shop. Turn left. Go straight, all the way to the next crossroads, and then it’s on your right. Big, tall, white building. The sign out front.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Kitty, turning.
‘But you’re be lucky to get a room,’ he called. ‘The whole town’s in uproar. People coming. Even more going. Now,’ he said, leaning forward and smiling. ‘If you wanted to rent a house, I could help you.’
Kitty laughed. ‘No. I don’t want to rent a house. Thank you very much. I only want a room for the night.’
‘Just visiting are you, miss?’
‘Just for a couple of days, yes.’
‘Makes a change,’ said the fishmonger. He picked up a cloth and began to wipe the slab in decreasing circles. ‘Everybody’s getting out while they can.’ He tutted and raised his eyes upward. ‘You can’t blame them. It’s not safe here.’
‘How do you mean?’ Kitty became alert.
‘You can’t sleep properly. You stay in your clothes. I’d go myself, I don’t mind telling you. If only I had the money. You don’t know what’s going to happen. We don’t live day to day, but minute by minute.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, miss,’ he hesitated. ‘Just look at all the removal vans! That’s the business I should be in. All the wealthy have left! Do you know, miss, I’ve lost more than a hundred customers. Just this week!’
‘Why? Where are they going?’
‘Where are they going? Anyplace! Anywhere’s that’s away from here. Come here!’ He stepped from behind his counter and led Kitty to the door. They stood outside under the awning.
‘Listen, miss! D’you here that?’
Kitty strained to listen. She looked up at the sky. ‘Do you mean the thunder?’ she asked.
‘That’s no thunder. Listen! Thunder comes in long, rolling bursts. It don’t come all at once. Listen!’
Kitty listened. A long, steady rumbled of fire came from somewhere down below and out beyond the English Channel. She could see the sea down at the foot of the hill.
‘That’s coming from France,’ he told her. ‘Just twenty-six miles away. They ain’t telling us all that’s going on.’ He looked up at Kitty. ‘D’you see the papers this morning?’ he asked, highly animated. ‘They’re blaming the Belgians. But that’s not all. Something’s up.’
Kitty shook her head, her heart sinking by the second; a new odd sensation tacked on to the last.
‘This time the Germans are really on the move.’ He pulled Kitty into the shop and then stepped back out into the street, looking both ways up the road. He turned inside and asked: ‘What is it now?’ He raised his hand, ready to tick off numbers: ‘Czechoslovakia, Poland, Norway, Holland, Belgium, Luxemburg. And now France! What’s going on over there? And why are so many of our blokes coming back? Tell me that?’
Kitty continued to shake her head.
‘It don’t seem right to me. People leaving! Warnings on the wireless about fifth column parachutists dropping out of the sky! They’ve taken all the railings down at the front, d’you know. Taken them all for scrap! To build Spitfires and battleships! I’ve got no customers any more. They’ve all gone. And, before you know it,’ he lowered his voice to a hush. ‘The Nazis will be here. Just you see!’
17:20 Wednesday 29 May 1940.
East Mole, Dunkirk, France
‘Can’t you put us further down the pier?’ asked Captain Knight, aghast at the congestion around the tiny East Mole.
‘There are wrecks there, sir,’ stated Gordon. ‘Hang on! We’re being signalled now.’ He conferred briefly with the leading signalman and then stepped back. ‘They want us to come abreast Fenella, sir. I told them we will try, but I suggest we get in and out as quickly as possible.’ He looked hopefully at the Skipper. ‘Perhaps we should offload Captain Knight’s party and then cut our losses and head straight for Bray.’
‘Sounds very sensible, Number One. Take us in will you?’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Half ahead both.’
‘Half ahead both it is, sir.’
‘I think now would be a good time to get a move on,’ said the Skipper looking across at Captain Knight. ‘Sub-Lieutenant Burnell will give your party a hand getting across. Good luck!’
They shook hands and Captain Knight slid down the bridge ladder to join his party.
Two large vessels, the personnel ship Fenella and the paddle steamer Crested Eagle, lay berthed against the seaward side of the Mole. As Cameron approached at a steady fifteen knots, a vast stream of men could be seen shuffling up the narrow walkway and queuing patiently as they prepared to clamber aboard.
‘Full astern both,’ called Gordon. He looked at the Skipper. ‘Heck of a strong current, sir. This will not be easy. Perkins!’ He called now to the acrobatic buoy jumper standing in the eyes of the ship. ‘Choose your moment. All stop.’
‘All stop it is, sir.’
Cameron glided in against the side of Fenella and Gordon called out a series of orders, securing the destroyer to the former pleasure liner. As soon as their sides touched, Burnell hopped across onto Fenella’s deck.
‘This way, sir,’ he said, helping Captain Knight over. ‘Across the deck and up that ladder directly ahead of you, please.’
Suddenly, Cameron sounded her alarm bells and Burnell lifted his head towards the sky. ‘Don’t ha
ng about,’ he warned as he tugged the last of the party over the gunwales. With that, he grabbed one of the party’s bags and pushed his way through the soldiers who were struggling aboard and collapsing onto the deck.
The first bomb to land did so in the sea but sufficiently close to the destroyer Grenade, moored on the opposite side of the Mole, to rip a giant hole in her side. By that time, Burnell had scrambled up the ladder, tugging the heavy holdall behind him. Another bomb now landed directly onto the trawler Calvi, moored not very far from where he stood. A blast of steam rose up from the trawler and into the faces of the men pressed together on the pier. Burnell could see Captain Knight pushing his way through the mob, urgently making for the shore. Burnell hesitated. He should rejoin the ship immediately and forget the bag he was carrying. He dropped it and turned. Just then a third bomb landed plumb on Fenella’s promenade deck turning it into an instant charnel house.
The blast, as if from a vast meat-filled oven, knocked Burnell backwards into the press of men, screaming and hollering around him on the pier. He struggled for breath and pitched himself forward, clawing his way towards the pier’s edge and the devastated deck of the liner below. Thick brown smoke shielded much of the horror. A mass of tangled, bloody and broken bodies lay strewn or writhing around a gaping black hole in the centre of the deck like petals on a dead flower. The fourth blast lifted Burnell off his feet. The bomb fell between the pier and Fenella’s side, lifting up the wooden planking, sending lengths tumbling with deadly force into the crowd. The blast also tore away a fair portion of the concrete piling below and sent it straight through Fenella’s side to wreck her engine-room. Men were charging up out of Fenella and trying to jump aboard the Crested Eagle as she slipped her moorings. Many others were running in a desperate panic back along the Mole to the shore.
As Burnell pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, his hands reached directly to his head, coming away sticky with blood. He looked at the blood in his hands and then looked up. Cameron was pulling away from the liner’s side, reversing as fast as she could, sending her decks rocking as she swerved to avoid an earlier wreck of a trawler. Amid the continuous AA, Burnell caught the flash of an Aldis lamp from the bridge.
‘Must fly!’ He mouthed the two words soundlessly.
17:50 Wednesday 29 May 1940.
Above Bray Dunes, France
‘Break, break, break!’ shouted Red Leader across the static, and the two Hurricanes of Red Section swerved away in opposite directions. At twenty-nine thousand feet they were far too high, having allowed themselves to follow the rest of the wing in a high pursuit. Now the German fighters were providing an effective cordon, preventing the Hurricanes and remaining Defiants from attacking the bombers busy below. At this height, the fighters trailed brilliant white vapour clouds, lacing the pale blue sky in a spectacular display of aerobatics and death. And, yet, despite the new wing tactics, the RAF was outnumbered on a massive scale.
Ginger was now alone, his hands and feet tingling like ice at the altitude, and forty minutes into his second sweep of the day. He described a tight circle downward, trying to shake the two Me110s on his tail. As he did so, he flew into the path of two more soaring Messerschmitts. He turned directly towards them and let loose a quick burst before pushing his Hurricane into another dive. Within moments, four Me110s were on his tail. Ginger pulled and pushed at the controls like a madman, hoping that his erratic path might throw them off. He was having no luck. He was out-climbed and out-turned by the new German fighters at this altitude. Two Messerschmitts had managed to position themselves beneath him and were starting to climb, forcing Ginger upwards. He dipped his starboard wing and attempted to drop away but a steady line of tracer rushed past his cockpit and clipped a portion of wing. He pulled up again. He was now at twenty-three thousand and the ships below were no more than faint scratches on the surface of the sea. There was no other way out. Ginger rolled onto his back. The Hurricane plummeted and the engine cut out.
The nightmare returned. The Hurricane screamed through the sky, vibrating so violently that Ginger could not focus on the dials. Black smoke poured out of the exhaust. Petrol and glycol gushed out of the vents and streaked across the cockpit glass before vaporising in clouds of their own. The sea below spun like a map on a gramophone. To the four Nazi pilots above, Ginger’s Hurricane was charging to its doom. They pulled up to regroup and to seek another victim in the target-rich sky. Ginger had already forgotten them. He pressed his cheek hard up against his left shoulder and fought to keep some blood in his head. The old Hurricane might enjoy the dives but she did not want to pull back out.
Ginger strained so hard on the stick that he could feel his stomach muscles tearing with the effort. Down below, small grey puffs of anti-aircraft fire exploded in the sky. His Hurricane continued to spin vertically. A ship, now no more than a rotating half-inch smudge on his windshield, was blasting away upwards. With effort he managed to control the spin. The stick released grudgingly in his hands and the Hurricane, imperceptibly at first, began to pull out of the dive. Ginger tried to focus on the altimeter. Although he could not read off the numbers, he could see the larger of the two white hands spinning backwards like a clockwork toy. The ship was growing rapidly in size. Ginger continued to wrench back the stick and progressively the Hurricane pulled out.
The scream of the wind as it buffeted the Hurricane almost drowned out the sudden crack from his wing. Ginger turned to his left and looked across. The Hurricane was racing along at sea level. He reached down to the throttle lever at his side and fired up the engine. A portion of the canvas skin of the wing, just beyond the four Brownings, had just ripped away, exposing the rigid struts beneath. The engine coughed back into life with a sudden jerk. She stuttered as black bursts of exhaust exploded from the vents. Ginger climbed. He let out his breath and felt his chest and stomach muscles sag in pain.
The elderly kite handled strangely now. She tried to pull away from his control and dip down to the right. As he climbed, Ginger picked out a gruppe of Stukas swarming above a paddle steamer. He could see that the pleasure boat was already on fire. She appeared to be out of control, casting a vast white wake as she turned in a broad circle on the sea. Smoke billowed from a point just forward of her wheelhouse, and another towards the stern. Her decks were crowded with tiny dark figures. As he watched, a massive shock-wave spread out from the ship as another bomb landed close to her bridge. The bright spark of golden light was almost instantly engulfed in thick smoke and steam. Ginger was still low enough to see the tiny figures of men topple from the sides and disappear into the foaming wake. He opened the throttle wide and the Hurricane soared to give chase. He approached from beneath. The last Stuka was dawdling behind the rest of the pack, enjoying the show below.
At this angle, as he approached from beneath and from the rear, Ginger had the luxury of sighting his target. He eased back and brought his fighter squarely in line with the ascending Stuka. He placed his sights directly between the German’s claw-like wheel struts and squeezed the fire button. There was a brief series of rapid clicks, more felt than heard. His thumb was still squeezing down hard. Nothing. He knew that he should have plenty of ammunition left. He had even adopted Clouston’s trick of loading the final ten rounds of each gun with tracer so he could watch and know when he had fired his last. He had yet to see his own tracer. The German was so close now that he could discern rivets along the base of the wing. Ginger still had not been spotted. He allowed the Hurricane to pull down to the right and he dropped away.
17:57 Wednesday 29 May 1940.
Bergues-Hondschoote Canal, France
There will be another edition of The Children’s Hour at the same time tomorrow. In just a moment, a bulletin of news and then, at six-twenty, a chance to hear A.R.P. Question Time with Hilton Brown. Later, at six-forty-five, Mr. F.H. Grisewood presents The World Goes By when he brings to the microphone people in the news, people talking about the news, and interesting visitors to Britain. This week W
. Roy Chadburn is just back from Paris, and we have the experiences of a fighter pilot by a Royal Air Force Flying Officer.
‘Can’t wait!’ exclaimed Nigel as he sat sipping his sherry. Lucas, who was the hero of the hour, had laid a small table and three chairs behind the cottage. The officers were enjoying their sherry while the smell of coq-au-vin drifted pleasantly from the windows of the well-stocked building. High above, vapour trails laced the dramatic afternoon sky.
‘How many of those do you suppose are ours?’ asked Simon of No. 2 Company, staring up.
‘Perhaps half,’ suggested Sandy. ‘It must be great fun!’
‘Certainly looks it from here,’ said Nigel.
‘My uncle was in the Flying Corp in the last show,’ proffered Simon.
‘Oh, really?’ asked Nigel, wondering if he might regret it. ‘Did he enjoy it?’
‘Hard to say, really,’ replied Simon. ‘He never came back from his first patrol. So, probably not, really.’
‘Does look like fun though,’ said Sandy again. ‘More sherry?’
‘Please.’
‘I must say, your man did remarkably well with all this stuff. Damn good of you to share it around.’ Simon raised his glass and the officers sat back content.
‘All in all, a splendid haul,’ guffawed Sandy. ‘Cheers!’
‘Bottoms up!’
‘Chin, chin!’ Nigel lit his pipe and puffed. ‘So how many Brens did you get, Sandy?’
‘Fourteen Brens,’ he admitted. ‘Three Lewis guns, two Boyes anti-tank rifles, fifty thousand rounds of small arms ammunition, and six cases of Mills bombs. Plus a spanking new French sixty-mil mortar and twenty rounds. Still in the box! Oh, and fifty assorted smoke rounds, in red, white and blue. All very patriotic.’