Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘Let’s give it a go, then,’ suggested Dibbens.

  ‘All right, sir,’ said the chief. He pulled a clip of 40mm rounds from the case and dropped them into the auto-loader. ‘You set the range here, sir, and twiddle this thing for elevation.’ He spun a small wheel and the barrel of the Bofers rose into the sky.

  ‘Damn typical, really,’ exclaimed Dibbens. ‘Just when you want one, there’s no Stukas anywhere in sight.’

  ‘We could fire a couple of rounds out to sea, sir.’ The chief nodded in the direction of the fading mist.

  ‘All right,’ said Dibbens. ‘But let me have a go.’ He climbed into the seat. ‘I press my foot down here, yes?’

  Before the chief could answer, Dibben’s foot slammed down and the Bofers burst into life, four rapid rounds shattering the relative still of the morning.

  ‘Yes, yes, oh, yes!’ Dibbens face beamed with excitement. The weeks of tension burst like a bubble. ‘I want something to shoot at,’ he beamed excitedly.

  ‘Well, hang on a mo’, sir,’ said the chief. ‘There’ll be another Nazi plane along in a minute.’

  Dibbens sighed. ‘I can’t be doing with that,’ he thought. ‘Let’s point it at something. Lower the barrel and swing me over to the right.’

  The scratch gun crew spun the wheels and the Bofers turned smoothly.

  ‘Take that you bastard,’ said Dibbens to himself. He squinted down the barrel. ‘Just a bit more to the right, please.’

  Phoebe, high and dry on the sand with a giant rent across her bows, lay squarely in his sights.

  ‘Bang, bang, bang, bang!’ he said.

  ‘They’re pointing that big gun at us, sir,’ said Ted. ‘You should never point a gun, even if it’s not loaded.’

  ‘Did you learn that in the cadets?’ asked Burnell.

  Ted nodded.

  ‘Thought so,’ said Burnell.

  ‘Eh! Keep your bloomin’ hand still, will you!’ Charlie pulled a nail from between his lips and raised the hammer. ‘I told ‘em she was as rotten as a pear, and I weren’t kiddin’.’ He banged the nail through the plank and called to Tom on the other side.

  ‘All right, flatten that one down, too.’ There came a series of taps from inside Phoebe’s hull while Tom hammered the nail flat.

  ‘Right! Let’s have a look at that.’ Charlie Lavender lifted himself up off the sand. He stepped back to admire his handiwork and stretched to relieve his aching spine. His oilskin coat had been neatly tacked over the hole on Phoebe’s bow and the frame nailed into place.

  ‘Pass us a plank,’ he said to Ted. He bent down and held his hand out, popping the nails into his mouth. But Ted was distracted as were most of the men on this part of the beach. The burst from the Bofers had drawn a small crowd from the dunes. Now a fight had broken out.

  ‘Oy! Give us a plank!’ mumbled Charlie. He turned around, and then spat the nails onto the sand. He climbed again to his feet and stood and watched. About two-dozen soldiers were hollering and shouting in a rapidly growing scrum.

  ‘What’s up with them?’ he asked Burnell.

  Burnell did not answer. He stared across the sand towards the crowd. Men were shouting, some louder than others.

  ‘Don’t you talk back to me, you little shit!’

  ‘Let’s drown the fucker!’

  ‘Take that, Nancy boy!’

  The focus of their attention was knocked to the ground and now the boots began to lash out. Burnell was half way across when there came the sharp report of a pistol shot. He ran the rest of the way. The crowd parted. Burnell’s eyes were drawn to two men on the sand. One, a young RAF pilot in an Irvin and yellow Mae West, sat propped up on one elbow. His other hand was outstretched and waving a Webley .32 automatic. The other man lay curled up on his side clutching his knee. Blood seeped from between his fingers and was quickly absorbed by the sand.

  ‘Stand back! Stand back!’ shouted Burnell, stepping up and pushing men aside. He looked down at the soldier. Tears poured from his eyes and his lips were stretched back, exposing his black receding gums. The pilot quickly pulled himself to his feet and pointed his pistol across the crowd.

  ‘All right! What’s all this about?’ Burnell demanded of the pilot. ‘And put that bloody thing down!’

  The pilot struggled for breath. He spat blood from his mouth and Burnell noticed the start of a nasty shiner around his left eye.

  ‘I think you had better ask them,’ the boy declared. His face was sallow, accentuating the adolescent red spots.

  Burnell looked around the crowd. He stopped when he saw a sergeant. ‘You, man! You should know better than to let this sort of thing happen. What’s it all about then?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ stuttered the sergeant. He clutched his rifle to his side. ‘Some of the blokes thought this fly-boy was jumping the queue, sir. We’ve been here days, sir. And some of the boys I think took exception to this one pushing in.’

  ‘And what do you have to say?’ Burnell turned back to the pilot.

  ‘Oh, really!’ The boy scoffed and cast his head around. ‘I mean. There’s not even a queue here, is there? I heard that ack-ack go off. I was just looking for someone in charge, that’s all.’

  ‘He’s a murderer, that’s what he is!’ shouted an unhelpful voice from the crowd.

  ‘And they think they’re God’s gift. Bloody RAF!’

  ‘Rare As Fairies!’

  The men laughed.

  ‘Pipe down!’ called Burnell. He stepped towards the pilot and took the pistol from his hand. ‘Defiants?’ he asked, thinking back to the unfortunate incident on Cameron.

  The boy shook his head. ‘Hurricanes.’

  ‘Somebody go fetch a medic,’ called Burnell over his shoulder. The crowd continued to give off a dangerous vibration. ‘Go on!’ Nobody moved. Now Burnell felt the ugly mood welling around him.

  ‘He’s asking for it now!’

  A powerful man pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He wore no jacket, just a stained white singlet from the waist up. He stepped towards to the pilot and jutted out his jaw. ‘You piece of shit!’ He spat directly at the pilot and turned swiftly to glare at Burnell.

  ‘You leave him to us. Why don’t you run along, sailor-boy?’ He took a swift step forward, forcing Burnell to step back.

  ‘Go on. Fuck off! Leave him to us.’

  Burnell looked down to the pistol in his hand. The hammer was back and ready to fire again. We swallowed painfully.

  ‘Yeah? Just try it!’ declared the bruiser. ‘Who do you think you are, anyway? The Phantom of the Fucking Opera!’

  Burnell smelt the bruiser’s foul breath and slowly raised the small pistol level with the man’s groin. He had no idea what would happen next.

  ‘Hello, hello! What’s going on here, then?’ boomed Lieutenant Dibbens. He pushed his way into the centre of the crowd and took in the scene within an instant.

  ‘Oh, I might have guessed,’ he said, looking at Burnell and the pistol in his hand. ‘Scored another home goal have we, sonny-boy?’

  Burnell winced inwardly. He took a deep breath and slipped the pistol into his pocket.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, turning to the pilot and stepping past the military policeman.

  ‘Not so fast, sub-lieutenant.’ Dibbens spun on his heels and looked around. ‘I want to know what went on here first.’

  ‘It’s that RAF bloke. He started it.’

  ‘Tried to push in, he did.’

  ‘They’ve just left us to the mercy of the Luftwaffe, they have!’

  ‘I think they might have a point,’ chuffed Dibbens, turning back to Burnell. ‘RAF - Rare As Fairies! I’m amazed even the Germans shot him down! Ha, ha, ha!’

  ‘Oh, you chaps! You really haven’t a clue.’ The pilot puffed out his chest. ‘How can you say the Royal Air Force is not here?’

  ‘Cos they ain’t!’ snapped the bruiser.

  ‘Then how come I am here? Answer me that.’ The boy had his hands on his hips and a petulant l
ook that only stirred the crowd.

  ‘Look, this is getting us nowhere,’ insisted Burnell, tugging the pilot by the elbow and looking back at Dibbens. ‘This is a naval operation and he’s coming with me.’ Burnell tried to grin. The skin cracked. He winced again. ‘And you wouldn’t know an RAF plane if it knocked your hat off.’

  11:58 Thursday 30 May 1940.

  Off Mardyck, France

  ‘We are out of range now, I believe, sir.’ Gordon’s stomach muscles were tight. He hoped he was right.

  ‘…and a aarf three…and a quarter three.’

  He could almost hear the grind of shingle and sand. Somewhere directly to their stern, the batteries to the east of Gravelines were firing blindly out to sea. Cameron continued to steer away from the shore on a zigzag course and making copious quantities of smoke to hide her trail. High above the bridge the watery sun glowed behind the cloud, and the mist that remained hugged the surface of the sea.

  ‘Keep the smoke up for a bit longer, Number One,’ said the Skipper. He spun around as the Chief Engineer climbed up to the bridge.

  ‘It’s not good news, sir, I’m afraid.’ The chief in grubby overalls but clean white collar and black tie pulled himself clear of the ladder and stood to attention. ‘I don’t even know where to start, sir…’

  ‘Just give us the worst news first,’ said Gordon.

  ‘Well, sir. As you know, the gyro compass is out of action.’

  ‘Yes, we know that.’

  ‘And that’s because a shell has cut the de-gaussing cable, sir.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all we need!’ Gordon wanted to chew his fist but kept his hands firmly at his side. With the de-gaussing system out of action, Cameron’s powerful electrical circuit would turn the ship into a giant magnet. ‘Right in the middle of a minefield! What else?’

  ‘Well, sir. That’s also going to play havoc with all the magnetic compasses on board. It’s a crying shame that Mr Burnell isn’t here. He’s a dab hand with the old sextant.’

  ‘It just gets worse!’ thought Gordon.

  ‘Well, you know what to do, Number One.’ The Skipper smiled for the first time that day. ‘Just work out the bearing of the sun. And then you can figure out our relative bearing. A piece of cake!’

  Gordon stepped across the bridge and bent down to one of the sealed lockers. He pulled out a mahogany case and placed it carefully on the binnacle. He lifted the sextant free and stared at it for a moment. He had last used one at Dartmouth College and he had struggled even then. He looked across at the leading signalman.

  ‘Get me the almanac, will you? And what time do you have?’

  ‘Just coming up to noon now, sir. That should make it easier.’ He handed the heavy almanac across.

  Gordon made a few adjustments and raised the sextant to the sky, fixing the sun through the eyepiece. He adjusted the moveable arm and aligned the mirrors, and suddenly the sun appeared to rest perfectly on the horizon.

  Gordon stepped back to the voice pipes. ‘Bridge – wheelhouse.’

  ‘Wheelhouse – bridge, sir.’

  ‘Port five.’

  ‘Port five it is, sir.’

  ‘Now bring us back a bit,’ called Gordon. He lifted the sextant again, his mind whirling calculations. ‘Steady as she goes.’

  The Skipper stepped across to his wing of the bridge and spoke to no one in particular ‘So let’s hope the sun stays out.’

  ‘Where you going with that thing?’ asked Nipper.

  ‘Captain’s orders,’ said Francisco, squeezing past the 20mm anti-aircraft gun. He smiled and shook the Lee Enfield rifle in his hand. ‘Target practice.’

  Francisco worked his way along the deck until he reached the anchor chains. He stopped and looked over the side. The mist travelled with thin wisps across the surface, revealing a grey sea beneath. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a full clip and slotting it into the base of the rifle. He raised the gun to his shoulder and pulled back the bolt, flipping the safety on. He adjusted the sights for two-hundred-and-fifty yards and scanned the sea.

  Cameron steered a painfully slow course. Each time a new item of debris was sighted in the water it caused Francisco’s heart to skip a beat. Above the throb of Cameron’s engines all was quiet. Two seagulls lifted away from the water, screeching an alarm and turning their eyes accusingly at the ship. Other gulls glided gently overhead. Francisco relaxed his grip on the rifle and let out his breath. And then he sucked in hard again. A French sailor in full blues turned from his stomach onto his back as the bow wave lifted him along Cameron’s side. Francisco crossed himself and swallowed heavily.

  Minutes passed and then an icy chill ran down Francisco’s spine. He brought the rifle up with a jolt but kept both eyes open. He flicked back the safety. Beneath the wisps of fog a large object was edging closer to the ship. He could not make it out.

  ‘Bridge ahoy!’ Francisco kept his eyes fixed on the dark object. ‘Somethink off the starboard quarter.’

  Men of the deck crew, rifles in hand, ran across to Francisco’s side.

  ‘Ain’t no mine,’ announced one after a while.

  ‘Raft,’ pronounced another.

  ‘There’s some men on a raft, sir,’ called Francisco. ‘Approaching the starboard bow.’

  The telegraph bell on the bridge clanged in answer and Cameron reduced speed. The scrambling net was released over the side and several seamen clambered down.

  Francisco climbed up onto a scuttle and looked over the side. A homemade raft of wood and oil drums knocked against the side of the ship.

  ‘Mind the paintwork, chum!’ called a seaman from the water’s edge. ‘Easy now. Grab the line.’

  A rope was tossed across and the men on the raft made a leap for it, almost upsetting their fragile craft. They looked up at Cameron’s tall grey sides with staring white eyes and gaping soundless mouths.

  ‘Come on now. One at a time,’ called the seaman, swinging off the netting and reaching down into the raft. ‘Give us yer hand, chum!’ He pulled the first man across into the welcoming arms of other seamen. Quickly he was guided up the side. He landed with a thump on the deck and struggled to his feet, coming quickly to attention.

  ‘Capitaine Benicoeur of the hundred-and-thirty-second Régiment D'Artillerie Côtière, at your service, sir.’ The officer looked unsteady as he reached forward and shook the Skipper’s hand.

  ‘From the shore batteries?’ asked the Skipper.

  The man nodded. They both turned as other men were manhandled onto the deck.

  ‘Get these men some dry clothes,’ said the Skipper to the rating beside him. ‘And take this officer and any other officers to my cabin. Make them comfortable.’

  The Skipper smiled at the capitaine. ‘You will have to excuse me, I’m afraid. We’re trying to navigate our way through these sand banks without a compass. Damn tricky really. You haven’t seen any mines have you?’

  ‘Sea mines?’ asked the French officer. ‘Oh, yes! But they are not ours. They float free. From the Bosche I believe.’

  The Skipper nodded wearily. ‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘You say you are from the shore batteries?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. We made our escape during the night. We could not spike all the guns, I am sorry to say. There was no time but we sabotaged many of the shells.’ The Frenchman looked up at Cameron’s two tall funnels. ‘Those things, those chimneys, they look like the graters of cheese.’

  The Skipper looked perplexed for a moment and then he laughed. ‘Oh, yes! Cheese graters! Very good. I must remember that.’ He smiled for the second time that day. ‘And if those were your shells, Capitaine, then I can only thank you.’

  ‘Buoy off the port bow, sir.’

  ‘That must be the number seven Outer Ruytingen buoy,’ said Gordon to himself, his finger tracing a line across the chart and the edge of a sandbank. ‘Let’s hope so.’ He waited until the sound of the bell drew level with the ship and then he called again into the pipes. ‘Port fifteen!’
<
br />   ‘Port fifteen it is, sir.’

  Gordon lifted the sextant back to the sky only to see the sun fade behind the heavy cloud. ‘Can it get any worse?’ he asked himself.

  ‘Ah, chief,’ said the Skipper, turning to the bridge ladder. ‘How are the repairs coming along?’

  ‘I’m really sorry to say this, sir. But I must report that a shell splinter has penetrated our main fuel tank.’

  ‘We’re losing fuel, you mean?’

  ‘We are, sir. But that’s not the half of it. Water’s pouring into the tank, sir. Contaminating the lot. We can’t use it, sir.’

  ‘And the other tank?’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine. We’ve enough to get home, sir.’

  ‘So be it,’ said the Skipper slowly. ‘Think you can manage it, Number One?’

  Gordon tried to smile.

  12:30 Thursday 30 May 1940.

  West Cappel, France

  ‘More crackling, Major?’

  ‘Oh, I really d-d-don’t think I can m-m-manage any m-m-more.’ The Major placed both hands over his distended belly and sighed with pleasure.

  ‘Another spud, then, sir?’

  He shook his head but eyed the crackling, undecided.

  ‘Go on, sir,’ said Boland, pushing it closer. ‘It’s the last piece, sir. You know you want it.’

  ‘W-w-well, if you insist.’ The Major stretched out and took the crispy pork in his hand. He turned to the Padre.

  ‘I say, P-p-padre. W-w-wake up! Last p-p-piece of crackling!’

  The Padre waved the pork away and struggled to open his eyes. ‘Oh, my God!’ He looked around him. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half t-t-twelve, P-p-padre.’

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed, struggling to rise to his feet. His head felt heavy and his mouth sour. ‘Is there any water?’ he asked, raising a hand to his temple.

  ‘S-s-sorry, old boy. And we’ve f-f-finished the last of the Corton Charlemagne. Just très ordinaire, but p-p-plenty of it. Actually, it’s not too b-b-bad.’