by Alan Pearce
‘Sure thing, Charlie,’ called Ted. He clambered across the flattened afterdeck and dropped out of sight at the stern.
‘Here we go,’ shouted Charlie, looking over the side. ‘Brace yourselves! Anchor away!’ He eased the throttle back to neutral and they glided in.
For an instant, her bows seemed to rise out of the water and then Phoebe came to a sudden halt amid an intense grinding of timbers on sand. Her already precarious afterdeck continued to skate forward and gave a lurch, sending the packing case sliding until it collided with the top rail.
‘Happy now?’ asked Charlie, regaining his balance and addressing the young officer assigned to command Phoebe. The cruiser continued to groan.
‘Ecstatic!’
Charlie looked at his fob watch. ‘Four-thirty’s the next high tide. That’s more than nine hours. Right bloomin’ target we’re going to make. Stuck here like a pimple on a cow’s arse!’
An officer, another sub-lieutenant, was wading out towards them. The water reached up to his waist. Behind him charged groups of soldiers. Many waved their rifles and helmets in the air. Nearly all were grinning or shouting. Charlie lent over the side and studied the officer as he pulled himself level with the bridge. Thick dark hair matted with oil covered the right side of his head. The other side appeared to have been shorn. Charlie adjusted his glasses and looked closer. The officer had a livid burn down the entire left side of his face. The skin had tightened, pulling his mouth into a sneer, giving him a wild piratical air.
‘Ahoy, there!’ he called up.
‘Ahoy,’ called back the sub-lieutenant from the bridge. He edged Charlie out of the way. ‘Have you come to give us a hand?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Burnell. ‘I see you just came from Cameron and wondered if you were going back.’ He stepped away a foot or so and looked along the length of the cruiser. ‘But it doesn’t look like you will be going anywhere. And high tide’s hours away.’
‘Nine bloomin’ hours,’ put in Charlie.
The soldiers drew level with Phoebe, sending a small wake in their path as they pulled their way through the water. Burnell stepped aside and puffed out his chest.
‘Hold your horses, you lot,’ he bellowed to the soldiers. ‘This boat’s not going anywhere for some time yet.’ There were groans and catcalls from the mob of soldiers. Burnell cast his eyes around until he spotted an NCO.
‘You! Corporal! If you can grab ten men and help us offload some gear, I will guarantee you places for the return journey home.’ Burnell had successfully shifted the responsibility and he turned back to Phoebe while the troops argued amongst themselves.
‘Have you got any water?’ he asked, looking up at Charlie.
‘How about a nice cup of tea?’ asked Charlie in return.
‘Praise the Lord! I’m coming aboard. Give me a hand up!’
‘I say! You really shouldn’t go around issuing orders like that. I’m in charge here.’ The sub-lieutenant stood framed in the doorway to the small saloon. He looked down at Burnell as he gulped back tea.
‘There’s more in the pot,’ put in Charlie.
Burnell gulped some more and held the mug out to Charlie with a lopsided smirk. He turned to look at the annoying young officer. ‘Burnell of Cameron,’ he said, introducing himself but not getting up.
‘Elliot, assigned to HMS Excellent, Whale Island.’
Burnell decided to get in quick. ‘What’s the date of your commission?’ he asked.
‘November the twenty-third, nineteen-thirty-nine.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, old boy,’ said Burnell, holding back a cracked grin. ‘October the sixth, thirty-nine. Hard luck. Looks like I’m in command.’
‘Do you have your commission on you?’ asked Elliot, seriously miffed.
‘No, it’s back on Cameron,’ lied Burnell.
‘D’you fancy a bacon sandwich?’ asked Charlie, handing Burnell another mug of tea.
‘If it’s no trouble,’
‘No trouble at all.’
22:15 Wednesday 29 May 1940.
Central Hotel, Dover, Kent
Kitty opened the door to her tiny room and flopped straight down onto the bed. Her head was spinning. She stared up at the yellowed plaster rose on the ceiling and traced the cracks that led to all four corners of the room. It had been a day full of surprises ever since Ashford. Her room at the hotel had no desk, just a washstand, a chest-of-drawers and rickety wardrobe, its door wedged shut with a folded piece of newspaper. The room smelt musty and of cheap soap. Kitty pulled herself upright and adjusted the pillows on the bed. She opened her notepad and stared at the blank page. Kitty had beautiful copperplate handwriting, taught to her by the Indian bookkeepers on the plantation. She unscrewed the top of her fountain pen and wrote the first word of her report: Fear.
Everyone here seems to live in fear. Invasion is expected any day. I understand now why the children are all being evacuated again. A number of people told me that they can hardly wait until Sunday and that, while it is a frightening prospect to send one’s children away, it is certainly for the better as each day brings new worries. The streets of Dover are mostly deserted and gunfire can be heard coming all the way from France. There are lots of aircraft in the skies. The few housewives on the street all carry their gasmasks. In four hours, I counted seven removal vans all heading out of town. One shopkeeper, an M60C, told me that everyone who can afford to is leaving and heading as far inland as possible. Wales and the Midlands tend to be the favoured destinations.
At the Central Hotel, listening to the news is quite a ritual. As nine o’clock approaches, the wireless is turned on and the lounge crowds up. People sit on chairs, or arms of chairs in very tense attitudes. It is a very loud wireless, but even so some men crowd right round it and even lean over it. People smoke a lot and the great thing seems to be to avoid anybody’s eye.
It is interesting to watch different peoples’ reaction to each story. When the announcer said that our Army had withdrawn towards the coast in perfect order, there was a strong sense of relief across the room. However, when he quoted the French saying that Calais was still in Allied hands and that Dunkirk was in no immediate danger, a few of the men were heard to scoff and a chorus of coughing broke out across the room.
The coughing grew even worse when the announcer said that the R.A.F. had shot down twenty-two enemy aircraft to the loss of none of our own. Generally, the people I have spoken to tend to rely heavily on the news bulletins and to have more faith in the broadcasts compared to what they read in the newspapers. However, the great feeling amongst everyone is that we were not being given the whole picture.
The strongest reaction came when they reported the Germans deliberately massacring French civilians. This seemed to elicit a furious rage against the Germans but many people remember the newspaper reports of the last war and the exaggeration of atrocities. Some warned that this was probably just propaganda. The announcer said the French refugees, including women and children, were being machine-gunned and slaughtered on the roads by low-flying aircraft. When he said they have been deliberately knocked down and crushed by German tanks, an F60C in the lounge gave a brief shriek and then buried her face in a handkerchief for the rest of the bulletin.
The great fear of the people here is that the Germans will have no regard for the civilians. A number of people mentioned the German atrocities in Spain in the recent civil war, especially the bombing from the air of towns and villages. Parachutists seem to be the greatest fear, together with the idea that they are out to shoot as many civilians as they can. One F25C expressed an intense desire to have something to shoot back at them with. An M55B said every man from sixteen to sixty should be taught how to use a revolver so that “when these buggers land, we’ll be prepared to defend our wives and mothers.”
Another great fear is the possibility of fifth columnists already amongst us. While people tend to express considerable sympathy for the refugees that one sees everywhere, it is often tempered
by the thought that a few may be Germans in disguise. When the announcer said that new regulations were coming into force to curb the movement of all aliens, there was a muted chorus of approval across the lounge.
The wireless is abruptly turned off as soon as the sports bulletin begins. There was rather low subdued talk after, as if people were not very happy. The word parachutist was frequently heard. When I tried to mention the soldiers I had seen earlier in the day, and the sad state that they were in, most people tried to shrug it off, saying that it was usual for soldiers to be replaced on the battlefield and that the ones pouring through the railway station here were those in need of rest. However, one M30B said he thought it was strange that French troops were also being brought back to England to rest. “France is a very big country. Why bring them over here when they have everything they need over there?” Many people said that pulling back the Army to the coast is a good idea because it would be easier to supply our soldiers by sea. Nobody, however, admits to having seen fresh men being sent across to France, and there is a general feeling that things are not going well over there. Perhaps they are keeping the fresh ones here so they can defend England.
Tomorrow, I propose to visit the harbour where, I am told, there is much increased activity. The police are said to be moving on-lookers away from the cliffs and piers and there is talk of laying poison gas pipes along the beach. There was, however, one item of good news on the wireless. Now all holders of provisional driving licenses need not be accompanied by fully licensed drivers or carry Learner Plates. This mean I do not have to worry about taking the test, especially as I have already failed once.
Day Five
04:20 Thursday 30 May 1940.
Bray Dunes, France
‘What do you reckon to this mist, then? Will it last?’ asked Burnell of Charlie. They were standing on Phoebe’s bridge watching the last of the false dawn slowly reveal the scene around them.
‘Hard to say. I don’t know the coast here. But it’s thick enough to last all morning if there’s no sun. We might be lucky.’
Burnell looked at his watch. ‘Better make a start then. Are you all set up here?’
‘Say when! There’s ten men ready to heave on the kedge anchor. Just make sure your blokes shove us off hard.’
Burnell hopped down off the tiny bridge and made his way forward, past the rows of wooden benches that lined the foredeck, until he came to Phoebe’s prow. Down on the sand Elliot stood with his hands on his hips, assuming an impatient stance. The men who had been promised a lift, some three hundred in all, stood assembled in ranks. Some fifty of their number stood in the water, ready to push the cruiser back out to sea. Burnell jumped down onto the sand.
‘Take your time, why don’t you?’ proffered Elliot, more to himself than to Burnell. ‘Just ten minutes more and it will be high tide.’
Burnell ignored the remark and asked: ‘Mr Elliot. Are you all ready here?’
‘Ready, aye, ready… sir.’
‘Then get your men prepared and let’s shove off.’
Elliot barked orders to the NCOs and within seconds the soldiers had their shoulders pressed up against Phoebe’s side, taking the strain. There was a chorus of laughter, horseplay and general high spirits. Everybody was keen to get off.
‘Ready up there, Charlie?’
‘All ready!’
‘Then on my mark,’ called Burnell. ‘Two-six-heave!’
Nothing happened.
‘Two-six-heave!’
Phoebe refused to budge. Many of the faces of the men in the water flushed red with the effort. Many now had looks of concern.
‘That stupid old fart!’ exclaimed Elliot, stamping his foot onto the sand. ‘I never told him to run her so hard aground. She’s jammed fast!’
‘I heard that!’ shouted Charlie from the bridge.
‘You were meant to,’ mumbled Elliot.
‘All right! Quit the squabbling. Let’s try again,’ called Burnell. He looked down at the brown scum that foamed at the water’s edge. His clothes were only just dry and he felt suddenly reluctant to go back into the water. He held his breath and stepped over the scum, the water chilling first his ankles and then his thighs, sending shivers racing up his spine. Burnell reached out his hands and pressed them hard up against Phoebe’s smooth side.
‘Ready! Two-six-heave!’
Again nothing.
‘Are your lot pulling on the anchor, Charlie?’ Burnell turned his head and called up towards the bridge.
‘Course they’re bloody pulling. She’s sunk into the sand. We need a tow. We ain’t getting off otherwise. I just can’t see how.’
‘Mr Elliot. We’re going to need some more men.’ He turned again to Charlie and called: ‘Throw us down the heaviest line you’ve got.’
Burnell stepped back and wadded to the shore, turning to the other sub-lieutenant. ‘If we get a rope across the bows, and put another fifty men on each side, that should give us plenty of purchase. And let’s have another five to heave on the anchor.’
‘Okay,’ agreed Elliot. ‘Sergeant! You heard the officer. Let’s have some more men, if you please.’
Charlie had reached the prow. He tossed the heavy rope down onto the sand at Elliot’s feet. ‘Here you go, sunny. Don’t get it in any knots!’ He turned and walked back to the bridge.
Elliot screwed his mouth tight with anger and turned to the sergeant.
‘Here’s your rope. Let’s have fifty men on each side. Think of it as a tug-of-war. I want the men at each end of the rope to take a turn around their shoulders. Come on, get them in the water now.’ Reluctantly, the soldiers stepped into the cold sea.
Phoebe had a convenient dent in her prow, caused by a careless skipper ramming the lock gates at Teddington the previous summer. Burnell positioned the rope across the dent and called out. ‘Okay, sergeant! Have your men take the strain.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The rope quickly disappeared round the cruiser’s sides as the soldiers took up the slack. Burnell tugged on the rope, holding it in place across the dent.
‘Everybody! Take the strain. Two-six-heave!’
There was the faintest sensation of grinding sand transmitted through Phoebe’s woodwork, but no sense that the cruiser had budged so much as an inch.
‘Two-six-heave!’ Burnell felt his hands slipping off Phoebe’s painted sides and he struggled to stay upright. Many of the soldiers had lost their footing in the soft sand and were landing facedown into the filthy water around him.
‘It’s high tide now,’ called Elliot from the sand, a higher tone than usual in his voice. He pointed at his wristwatch with an exaggerated air. ‘What do you suggest now?’
‘I suggest that you organise the men to start digging the sand away from underneath her. I have a plan. Keep the men digging and, if I’m not back in ten minutes, have another go at hauling her off.’
‘Where are you going then?’ asked Elliot, miffed.
‘I’m going to borrow a lorry,’ said Burnell.
As Burnell trotted along the sand he was surprised at the transformation of the beach from the previous evening. The soldiers, instead of milling around in hapless groups, were now standing in organised queues, guided by orderly lines of telephone wire held in place by bayonets in the sand. The nearest line zigzagged back to the dunes. Each line of men extended out into the water, its head hidden in the mist. Burnell slowed down and listened. Out at the end of the line, some three hundred yards away, he could hear the sound of oars splashing in the water. A sailor was calling out in a harsh voice. ‘Watch it, you stupid sod! You’re ‘ave us over!’ Slowly, the line of men progressed out into the mist. Burnell pressed his way through the men and trotted on.
The truck jetty was about five hundred yards up the beach, in line with the seafront at Bray. As Burnell approached he could see men in the water, struggling to lash the most recent arrivals to the trucks already half submerged by the incoming swell. He slowed down and looked for someone in cha
rge. He approached the jetty and addressed an oil-soaked soldier sitting on the sand.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ he asked.
The soldier looked up at Burnell and studied the left side of the naval officer’s face. ‘Lieutenant Dibbens is over there.’ He turned and pointed up the beach to a small group of men deep in discussion. Burnell thanked him and strode on.
‘Lieutenant Dibbens?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Hello,’ said an officer, detaching himself from the others. ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars.’ The redcap laughed and then shook his head. ‘How can I help?’
‘I wondered if we could borrow a lorry.’
‘A lorry? Planning a trip somewhere?’
‘We need a push. I’ve got an eighty-foot cruiser stuck fast on the sand. I thought we might shove her off if we could use a lorry.’
‘An eighty-foot cruiser, you say? What sort of tonnage?’
‘About fifty tons. Why?’
‘Well, she’s a bit heavy but we’re just about finished here and we need someone to try it out. Do you fancy it?’
‘If you lend me a lorry, you mean?’
‘Yes. I lend you a lorry and then you come here and moor up at the end of our new jetty. You can help us offload this lot.’ The officer waved his hand back along the beach. It seemed as if most of the Army’s First Corp had formed up along the strand.
‘Well, I’ve actually promised a lift to some chaps who have been trying to help us. How about we run them out to the nearest ship and then come back?’
‘Sounds like you’ve got a deal, young man,’ said Dibbens, shaking Burnell by the hand and grinning. ‘And I suggest that you put some Germolene on that burn before it turns really nasty.’
‘Okay, back her up, nice and slowly.’ Burnell stood again at the water’s edge and watched tentatively as the three-ton Bedford reversed. ‘Easy now. Stop!’ called Burnell. He nodded to Elliot, indicating that the men take up the strain. ‘Now let the clutch out gently.’ The Bedford’s tailgate nudged against Phoebe’s bow with a thump and clatter of chains. ‘Okay, now give it some welly. And heave!’