by Alan Pearce
The lorry’s wheels began to spin in the sand, forcing many of the men gathered around the cruiser to back off hastily. Burnell looked down at the water’s edge. The tide was already on its way out. Another ten minutes and Phoebe would be high and dry again.
‘Stop! Stop!’ called Burnell. The lorry was churning up the sand to no effect. ‘Hold her there. Sergeant! Let’s wedge these wheels to stop them spinning. Grab what you can. Lumps of wood, cloth, anything.’
Dozens of men ran around, looking for items to jam beneath the wheels. Less than two minutes later and they were ready to try again. ‘Okay,’ called Burnell to the driver. ‘Let the clutch out. Nice and slow.’
The wheels spun, sending more sand into the air and engulfing the men as it blasted back from beneath the lorry. The exhaust fumes were making many of them cough and choke. As the wheels spun, the sergeant wedged another plank of wood firmly beneath the tread. Suddenly, the wheel caught and the lorry moved backwards, sliding to the right as it did so. A quick-witted soldier wedged his rifle butt beneath the other wheel. The lorry hesitated for a moment and then reared up.
Phoebe began to move. The men hauled with all their might. The sand grated against her bottom and she heeled to port briefly as the lorry applied more pressure. Charlie on the bridge kept his hand over the throttle. He felt the cruiser rise away from the sand and bob free. He pushed the throttle down, and Phoebe’s engine roared and the propeller bit into the water. Phoebe reared back in a wash of foam. Charlie brought her to neutral and then edged her forward until she was just a few feet from the rear of the lorry and still floating free. Burnell clambered up and hopped across.
‘Tom, you come and take the wheel now,’ called Charlie across the bridge. ‘Your eyes are younger than mine.’ Charlie stepped aside and slipped off his glasses, wiping away the condensation with his fingers. ‘I can’t see a bloomin’ thing!’
Phoebe crept through the mist, parting the cloud of cold vapour with her sharp bows. Tom took his eyes away and looked down onto the deck. The majority of men lay strewn where there was space. A few had managed to don kapok life preservers giving them a strange hunched-back appearance. They seemed in better order than the troops they had lifted the previous day. Even those encased inside the life preservers still retained their helmets. A good third of the men were French. And most were sleeping like the dead.
‘Is Mr Elliot down below?’ asked Tom of Charlie after a while. The young sub-lieutenant’s usual place was on the bridge and breathing down the coxswain’s neck.
‘Little Lord Fauntleroy? No, I ain’t seen him.’
‘Maybe he’s down below, Charlie.’ Tom paused for a while but soon felt compelled to fill the silence. ‘It’s a lot nicer when he’s not here. He makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, a bit nervous, like he’s always sneering down his nose.’
Charlie did not answer. Aside from the faint murmur of men below, Phoebe sailed on in heavy silence.
‘But Mr Burnell, he’s below, right?’
‘Yeah, he’s below.’
Tom did not speak for a few minutes more and then he shivered and turned to Charlie again. ‘This silence is giving me the creeps, Charlie. I wish we could put the wireless on.’
‘What? And attract the Jerries?’
‘I don’t see how they’d hear us. They wouldn’t hear us if they were in Stukas, would they? But, if they were in submarines, would the sound travel under the water?’
‘I dunno,’ said Charlie, knitting his bushy eyebrows. ‘But it would be a bit eerie, wouldn’t it, hearing Joe Loss through the walls of your submarine? Anyway, there’s no programmes until a quarter-to-seven, and then it’s the news in bloody Norwegian.’
Tom shivered again at the silence. Suddenly his face illuminated with insight. ‘But, perhaps we should ring the bell, Charlie. How else are we going to find the big ships in this peasouper? We’re going to have to make some kind of signal.’
‘God! That’s a thought.’ Charlie laughed aloud, a heavy growl that began in his throat and ended in a puff of breath through his nose. ‘I think my mind musta been elsewhere.’ He laughed again and then turned quickly to Phoebe’s brass bell, now coated in sloppy grey paint.
‘K’dong! K’dong!’
Many of the men on deck jerked convulsively at the sound, but few bothered to raise their heads.
‘K’dong! K’dong!’
Down below in the saloon, Sub-Lieutenant Burnell was still trying to arrange the press of men. He paused when he heard the bell. The majority of those below, being so tightly packed and unable to sit or lie down, were still awake, swaying in a mass as Phoebe negotiated her way through the swell.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ called a small voice at his side. ‘Is there a toilet down here?’
Burnell swivelled in the crowd and looked down at a dark-complexioned tank crewman.
‘There is,’ answered Burnell, feeling the skin to the side of his mouth crack painfully. ‘But there are about twelve men pressed in there right now and I don’t think even you will fit in. Can’t you hold on?’
‘I got that dis-en-tree, sir’
‘What?’
‘The trots, sir, you know. I’ve gotta go every ten minutes. Can’t help it.’
Burnell’s face hurt even more. ‘Well, you’re just going to have to try to hang on. Perhaps were can run you out to a passenger liner and then you can have a nice hot bath as well.’
‘Well, I’d hang on for that! But it ain’t very likely is it, sir?’
‘No, not very likely,’ agreed Burnell. ‘But take my word for it, I don’t think anyone will actually notice. It smells worse than a cattle pen down here.’
‘Yeah, I know what you’re saying, sir. I’d cross my legs but I can’t move ‘em. I lifted one up a moment ago and now can’t get either of ‘em back down again.’ He smiled at Burnell. ‘But when it comes to smells, I got something you might like. Can you get your hand into my backpack?’
‘I could try,’ said Burnell. He pulled an arm free and worked to slip his hand inside the pack.
‘There’s some small boxes in there,’ said the tankman. ‘Grab yourself one.’
Burnell pulled his hand back and looked at the tiny box. He read the label: L'Air du Temps.
‘D’you have a sweetheart, sir?’
‘I’m married,’ said Burnell. ‘Just six weeks.’
‘Then have it as a wedding present, sir. I’ve loads more. Perfume’s always a good seller.’
‘Where did you get this stuff?’
‘From the back of a lorry.’ He laughed conspiratorially. ‘You should see what some of the other blokes have got. There was one lad trying to get on board carrying a typewriter. A great big one!’
‘Yes, I saw him, and another fellow with a sewing machine,’ said Burnell. ‘I made them throw the stuff over the side.’
‘They’d have nicked some of the cars, too, if they could. I bet there’s blokes on the beach carting anvils around.’ They both laughed.
‘Well, I won’t mention this to anyone,’ said Burnell, struggling to slip the box into his breast pocket. He thought to himself: my Daisy will love this. He smiled at the man. ‘A genuine souvenir from France. Thank you very much.’
‘Least I can do for a ride out of that hellhole! I’ve been waiting on the beach two whole days and nights, and been bombed senseless the whole time.’ He winked at Burnell. ‘And you ought to put some butter on that burn of yours. That’s what my mum always did. Burns can turn nasty if you’re not careful.’
‘I think we might be out of butter,’ replied Burnell, aware again of the increasing pain.
‘Wot! No butter?’ asked the tankman, beaming.
‘K’dong! K’dong!’
‘Zzzzzz! Zzzzzz!’
‘Did you hear that?’ asked Burnell, craning his ear towards the hatchway.
‘The bells, d’you mean?’
‘No, not the bell. That’s ours. Something else that sounded like a steam whistle.’
; ‘K’dong! K’dong!’
‘Zzzzzz! Zzzzzz!’
‘No good asking me, sir. I’m a deaf as a post. Must be that dis-en-tree. That or driving a bloomin’ tank. One of the two.’
05:30 Thursday 30 May 1940.
Port Admiral’s Office, Dover, Kent
‘And this is the list, sir,’ said Commander Edward Bishop handing it over.
‘I make that eighteen men,’ said the captain after running his finger down the column. ‘But you will be lucky if I can find you even five replacements. You’ve seen what it’s like over there, Teddy.’
‘Well, anyone you can spare.’ The Skipper tried to look deserving. ‘I will take anything you have got. And I am also short of two boats now.’
‘And what about a navigating officer? I don’t see him on the list.’
‘That’s right. We were wondering if he might make it back. He’s a resourceful chap and only been married a few weeks. I don’t want to give his wife any unnecessary worries.’
‘Better give me his name anyway…’
‘Sub-Lieutenant K. R. Burnell, R.N.V.R. That’s with two Ls.’
‘Yes, I think I know him. Is he that baby-faced chap who spilt tonic on the Admiral’s shoes at Christmas?’
‘That’s him,’ said the Skipper.
‘Well, probably best not to fret too much as yet, eh? There are a lot of chaps getting separated so there’s a very good chance that he will hitch a lift back. Our chaps have priority, as you know. I’ll pass the word around. How are the rest of the crew holding up?’
‘Actually, I’m amazed. Those eighteen men were all from the starboard watch, prime hands and all very popular. If anything, it’s steeled everyone’s resolve to see this through.’
‘Well I must say you have done very well so far, old boy. What is it? Four trips now?’
‘Yes, sir. And we are taking on ammunition and fuel now.’
‘Jolly good! Come and look at my chart.’ He stepped away from his desk and steered the Skipper over to the wall. Three green tapes, marked Routes X, Y and Z, ran from Dover across the English Channel to the French beaches. The endless maze of sandbanks, beginning with the Goodwin Sands and growing with profusion along the French coast, was shaded in grey. Between both stretched a series of short red tapes indicating the mines that blocked off almost every channel. ‘You see what a problem the mines are, Teddy.’
‘Yes. We had to anchor in the Downs this morning. Even the approach to Dover was mined.’
‘Well, the Nazis are laying mines by aircraft, submarine and trawler. Our minesweepers have been almost as busy throughout the night but nothing is guaranteed. Everything between here,’ he indicated a solid swath of red tape stretching from the Downs to the coast alongside Calais. ‘To here, is a no-go area. They are mostly ours, of course. The French have also done a thorough job laying mines across almost every channel on their side. Bloody shame really because they have made absolutely no effort to clear them. Given the circumstances, it’s downright irresponsible.’
The captain let his arm drop and he paused for a moment, looking as if he might say more. He dismissed the idea and carried on: ‘So, between the three of us, there’s hardly room to move. Now let’s look at the weather.’
They stepped back to the desk and both sat down. The captain pulled open the bottom draw and lifted out a bottle of South African brandy. ‘Best I can manage, I’m afraid. Not too early for you?’
‘Hardly!’ said the Skipper. ‘I haven’t been to bed since Sunday night so I couldn’t say whether it was early or late.’
The captain placed the bottle on top of the desk and looked for glasses. ‘I say, you don’t mind drinking out of a cup do you? It’s quite clean. It’s just that things have got a little out of hand since this operation started.’
‘I’ll drink it straight from the bottle if it makes it any easier, sir,’ offered the Skipper.
‘Well, there’s no need for that.’ He paused and stretched down and fumbled at the back of the draw. ‘No need to worry. Here’s a sherry glass.’ He passed it across and looked down at the weather report.
‘We really could not wish for better with this fog. Visibility is down to about one mile all the way across the Channel, and stretching quite a way inland on the French side. There’s a very good chance that it will last for most of the morning. It might even last well into the afternoon. There’s no sign of any wind brewing.’
He pulled the cork from the bottle and lent across to fill the Skipper’s glass.
‘Even so,’ he said. ‘I cannot stress enough the need for hast. There really is not a moment to lose. I want you to head straight back to Dunkirk and the Mole.’ He sat back in his chair and lifted up his glass. ‘So, I suggest this, Teddy. Instead of taking the safer swept channel through the Downs and northward of the Goodwins, you should cut straight across by the direct route, trusting to the fog to conceal you from the batteries that the Germans have now captured between Calais and Gravelines. You will have to hug the coast all the way down to Dunkirk. It’s only five or six miles.’
He raised his glass. ‘So you had better pray that this fog lasts. Cheers!’
05:45 Thursday 30 May 1940.
Off Bray Dunes, France
The admiralty want men experienced in marine internal combustion engines for service as enginemen in yachts or motor boats; others who have had charge of motor boats and have good knowledge of coastal navigation are needed as uncertified second-hands. Applications should be made to the nearest Registrar, Royal Naval Reserve depot or to your nearest Fishery Officer.
It took Burnell a long time to make his way to the bridge. Charlie’s hand was cupped to his good ear as he strained for a sound of the whistle in the fog. Somewhere along the horizon to the east the rising sun lay hidden behind thick cloud, casting a dim and diffused light through the curtain of sea mist. Tom turned with a start and looked at Burnell.
‘I thought I heard her over there a moment ago.’ He pointed off Phoebe’s port bow. ‘But then I heard it again over there.’ He pointed off the starboard bow, the direction in which Charlie’s ear was trained.
‘All right!’ said Burnell. ‘Cut the engine.’
Tom brought the throttle back to neutral and switched off. Phoebe’s engine spluttered momentarily and then a deathly silence settled over the cruiser. Tom visibly shivered. As the engine died, and ears grew accustomed, the sea was found to be alive with sound. The grey swell lapped against her bows and the timber supports groaned as Phoebe tipped one way and then the other. Out to sea the rich throbbing of maritime engines seeped through the mist, their direction lost in the miasma.
Somewhere, far behind them, men’s voices called out of the gloom, the words indistinct amid the chorus of shouts.
‘Ring the bell, Charlie,’ whispered Burnell. He shivered too and pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck.
‘K’dong! K’dong!’
‘Again.’
‘K’dong! K’dong!’
Now other sounds travelled across the sea. Another bell answered out to the north. A smaller, tinnier, bell clanged, its direction unknown.
‘Zzzzzz! Zzzzzz!’
‘There it is!’ said Tom and Burnell simultaneously. ‘Charlie. The bell.’
‘K’dong! K’dong!’
‘Again.’
‘K’dong! K’dong!’
‘Zzzzzz! Zzzzzz!’
‘Zzzzzz! Zzzzzz!’
‘Switch her back on!’ shouted Burnell.
Tom hesitated with the switch. Phoebe’s engine fired and then instantly cut. Tom turned the ignition again and this time the deep purr of the Thornycroft called out.
‘Reverse! Reverse! As fast as you can!’ Burnell was almost screaming out the words. Tom put all his weight above the lever and pushed down. For an instant, it seemed as if Phoebe were sinking backwards, so fast did her propelled drive her. Her bows lifted out of the water and there was a splash or two and a number of shouted oaths. A man, or men, had fallen
over the side. Phoebe continued to rear backwards through the water. Those who had not turned their heads to the rear and who continued to look out across Phoebe’s bows were shocked to see a towering grey wall appear out of the mist.
Charlie was ringing the bell furiously now. The coaster was answering with her powerful whistle.
‘All stop!’ shouted Burnell and Tom let Phoebe drift back.
‘Man overboard!’ shouted someone from the stern.
‘Hold her there!’ called Burnell to Tom.
‘Yes, sir.’
Burnell stepped to the rear of the bridge and called down. ‘Can anyone see him?’ Men shouted back. So many were calling that Burnell could make no sense of the directions.
‘Throw a line and some life jackets,’ bellowed Burnell. He turned back and watched as the rust-stained grey wall slipped gently through the sea a few yards ahead of Phoebe’s bows. Charlie rang the bell again and Burnell in the pause called out: ‘Ahoy there!’
‘Hello!’ came a distant shout back. ‘Anyone down there?’
The coaster Bullfinch, the name of whose master Burnell never did find out, had arrived off the beaches three hours earlier. Unable to see or do much in the thick fog, she had contented herself with steering a narrow course through known channels about five miles off Bray beach. The men aboard Phoebe were the first Allied troops her crew had seen. She carried no scrambling nets but made do with an assortment of other nets used usually for lifting cargo aboard. The few wounded that Phoebe contained, mostly those with minor injuries but unable to drag themselves up the side, were lifted by derrick off the cruiser’s stern in a cargo net, resembling a catch of wild animals destined for a foreign zoo.
‘Aren’t you going up, sir?’ asked Tom.