by Alan Pearce
‘No, sir.’
‘No, of course you don’t. An operation like this could do a man’s career no end of good. Who wants to be stuck on the Atlantic convoys forever? Not you.’
‘No, sir.’
‘I suppose you’ve got another crew requisition as long as your arm, eh?’
‘No, sir.’ The Skipper smiled despite the fatigue. ‘Actually, we didn’t lose anybody this time, although both our new whalers and the cutter were smashed up.’
‘Well, that’s some good news I suppose.’ The captain appeared distracted. ‘And I dare say we need good news right now.’ He pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘Push them, Teddy! Push them! We all know what they’re like. And come back and see me when you’re ready. Keep them on their toes! Eh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the Skipper. ‘But there’s just one more thing.’ Both men downed the last of their brandies and pulled back their chairs. ‘My navigation officer, sir. Burnell. Have you had any word of him?’
‘Burnell?’ The Captain turned aside and took on a studied look. ‘Burnell? Right,’ he announced. ‘I’m with you. That young chap. You lost him somewhere.’
‘We last saw him on the Mole, sir.’
‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, telegram time, I guess.’
‘Perhaps I could use a telephone here, sir?’
The Captain lifted his braided cap from the hat stand and edged his way towards the door. ‘Yes, of course. Look here, Teddy I must rush.’
He held open the door for the Skipper and ushered him out. ‘Why don’t you go have a look at the charts? Catch up on what’s happening.’
‘Hello, sir,’ said Lieutenant Langley, the chartroom duty officer. He had a concerned and puzzled look on his face. ‘It’s Commander Bishop, isn’t it?’ He held his hand out to the Skipper. ‘It’s very nice to see you again, sir. But, to be honest, we didn’t expect you back. Coffee?’
The Skipper nodded acceptance and followed the young officer over to the urn. He had just returned from an abortive and tough trip, but not from the grave. He wore his own puzzled expression as he accepted the tepid mug.
‘To be frank, sir, when we got your signal we thought you’d had it.’
‘Had it?’
The lieutenant excused himself and stepped over to the nearest desk to consult the message spike. He returned after a moment. ‘Here it is, sir. Received eleven-thirty this morning.’ He handed the signal form over.
‘No, this isn’t right,’ said the Skipper. ‘We signalled “we are under fire”. It says here “on fire”.’
‘And that’s what we thought, sir.’ Langley gave a nervous laugh. ‘The shore batteries are now in German hands but, obviously, you know that.’ He laughed again. ‘In fact, we’ve just had a report in that a French torpedo boat, the Bourrasque, has coped one off Nieuport.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ huffed the Skipper. ‘But I’ve barely seen any French boats. I’m surprised the batteries could even find one!’
‘Well, sir. I agree their contribution has so far been negligible but you will be pleased to hear that fifteen French vessels are now involved, including two destroyers and several torpedo boats and trawlers. Which is just as well given the new deadline.’
‘The big pickup is tomorrow night, I understand.’
‘Yes, sir. And it’s keeping us very busy. In fact, we’ve not had a bad day so far. Not so many losses and quiet a few troops lifted off the Mole. The beaches have been a bit of a damp squib but that’s fog for you, swings and roundabouts. You will be going back, of course, sir?’
‘We are under repair now.’ The Skipper sipped his coffee. ‘Tomorrow night.’
‘Well, as long as you get there by midnight. We’re hoping to lift off the rearguard before oh-three-hundred on Saturday.’
‘How many do they estimate?’
‘Four thousand, sir.’
‘That doesn’t sound very much.’
‘That’s the plan, sir. Plus the RN beach parties, if not a bit sooner. We shall have to see how it goes.’
‘Then, in that case, you had better resurrect Cameron from her premature grave.’ The Skipper raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, of course, sir.’ The lieutenant bent down and picked up the graveyard bin. ‘Perhaps you would like to do the honours, sir.’ He passed the bin forward.
The Skipper scooped up a handful of paper flags and began casting them back into the depths. Finally one flag lay in the palm of his hand. He straightened out the edges and then stepped across to the chart. A pretty Wren moved aside as Commander Bishop lent forward and stabbed the pin firmly into Dover harbour.
‘Never cast aspersions upon the waters,’ said the Skipper. But, somehow, just as he was about to wink at the Wren, something in her expression told him he had got it slightly wrong. ‘Is there a telephone I can use?’ he asked quickly.
‘Hello, Bayswater eight-two-four,’ said the voice at the other end of the line.
‘Mrs Burnell?’ he asked.
‘Mrs Burnell? No. She lives next door but one. Would you like me to fetch her?’
‘Please,’ said the Skipper. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘My name is Bishop of HMS Cameron.’ And then as an afterthought: ‘Royal Navy.’
‘I’ll be two ticks…’
The Skipper heard a click as the telephone was placed on a sideboard and then another sound as the front door was pulled quickly open. He could hear a clock chiming the quarter hour and a dog barking. He drummed his fingers on the desk and realised suddenly that, whilst he had been dreading this telephone call, he had failed to think through what he might say. Butterflies were swirling in his stomach when he heard a commotion at the other end and then another voice.’
‘Hello. This is Mrs Burnell speaking.’ The voice was full of concern.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Burnell. My name is Bishop. I am…’ he paused having forgotten Burnell’s first name. He knew it began with a K but had never had cause to use it. ‘Um. I’m Keith’s captain…’
‘Kenny d’you mean? D’you mean Kenny?’
‘Yes, Kenny. I am sorry. It’s been a terribly long day. Um, congratulations by the way.’
‘Congratulations? What for?’
‘Um, on getting married…’
‘Oh, you want Daisy. I’m his mum. And why can’t he come to the telephone? Poor Daisy’s been worried sick.’
‘You mean, you have heard?’
‘Heard? No, we haven’t heard anything. That’s the trouble. Poor Daisy was taken into hospital last night. She came over all hot in the afternoon. The doctor took one look at her and rushed her off to Saint Mary’s. She hasn’t lost it, but they say she has to keep still and not go galloping about. It was touch and go, and her with just…’ She hesitated. ‘Well, a long time to go. How’s she going to sit still all that time?’
‘I am very sorry to hear it. Please give her my best…’
‘I’d rather Kenny called. It’s all well and good getting his friends to call up but why can’t he pick up the telephone or write a letter? It’s not much to ask. Mrs Carter. This is her telephone. Mrs Carter’s boy, Sammy, he’s in the Army and he writes every few days. And there’s fighting going on over there. It’s true, she hasn’t heard for a few days but there’s trouble with the post apparently. You tell Kenny to think about his poor Daisy. And his poor mum. Do you want the number of the hospital?’
‘Please,’ said the Skipper, keen to hang up.
16:50 Thursday 30 May 1940.
Off Bray Dunes, France
‘Hey, you! Soldier! Are you up the duff or is that a dog in your greatcoat?’ shouted Sub-Lieutenant Kenneth Burnell.
The soldier pulled aside and tried to hide himself in the crowd on Phoebe’s deck.
‘Hey, I’m talking to you!’ He spun the soldier around. A tiny black nose on a small white face poked out of the man�
��s coat. One ear was bent over, exposing a veined pink interior. Burnell narrowed his brows and stared into two big watery brown eyes. The man gripped both collars and tried to pull them across. The puppy yelped.
‘Come on!’ bellowed Burnell, holding out his hand. ‘You know the rules. You were told on the beach, no bloody animals or kit. Now chuck it over the side!’
‘Oh, sir, sir! Please! You can’t. He’s our lucky mascot.’ The soldier was panic-stricken. ‘He’s been looking after us all the way from Belgium. Have a heart, sir. Please!’ Other soldiers pressed forward and began to make their views known.
‘That dog is taking up space…’ Burnell wondered why he was wasting valuable time. There were probably more than two-dozen dogs aboard, hidden amongst the four hundred or so soldiers.
‘Keep him! I hope he pisses himself!’ Burnell pulled himself out of the throng and struggled towards the rail. Thick black clouds from the refineries at Dunkirk lay heavy above the beaches. Beneath, a long line of men stretched out towards him. The tide was already on the ebb and Phoebe had floated free. Now she was in danger of grounding again under the sheer weight of men and dogs. Burnell turned his head and shouted above the din to the bridge.
‘Charlie! Charlie! Get us out of here. We can’t take any more.’
Charlie responded by clanging the bell and putting Phoebe into a slow but determined reverse. She began to pull away from the ragged line in the water. Burnell looked at their faces and had to turn away. So many were now standing on the beach that, in places, the dark patches of people seemed to writhe like a single living entity. Other lines of men ran out into the water but few boats were lying in the offing to take them away. He looked over to the truck jetty and saw Dibbens waving a farewell. Burnell turned and shoved his way through the crowd towards the bridge.
‘I was thinking, Charlie. On your way back, why don’t you try and catch hold of some of these boats that are drifting about and put them ashore.’
‘Yeah, all right. Ain’t you coming back with us then?’
‘I really shouldn’t, you know.’ Burnell watched the bow wave and breathed deeply, clearing his lungs of smoke and death. ‘My duty is to get back to my ship as soon as possible. I don’t really have a valid excuse any more.’ He continued to look out to sea.
‘Well, I’m sorry about that. I am.’
‘You never know,’ offered Burnell. ‘You might even meet up with Mr Elliot again. That would be nice for you.’
Charlie huffed. ‘You would think a young bloke like that would have a better sense of balance.’
‘These things happen, Charlie. Especially in time of war.’
‘How about that one then?’ asked Charlie.
‘Yeah, good choice,’ said Burnell. ‘Corvette. Kingfisher, probably. Now I don’t have any excuse.’ He nodded and Charlie turned the wheel on a course to intercept the bulky grey silhouette. Burnell turned to the young pilot. His face had not regained any colour since the upset on the beach. As Phoebe tore through the water, the wind pulled back his hair exposing more adolescent spots on the broad forehead. Burnell placed a hand on his shoulder and pointed off towards the corvette.
‘Here’s a good one for you,’ called Burnell. ‘Nice and dependable,’
The pilot turned his head and nodded. He smiled. ‘Look,’ he said into Burnell’s ear. ‘Look, I didn’t get a chance to say thank you for what happened earlier…’
‘Think nothing of it,’ called back Burnell over the noise of the wind and roaring engine. Phoebe glided with power and grace across the grey sea, setting his pulse racing. ‘All in a day’s work for the Royal Navy.’ He smiled broadly and felt the skin crack down the side of his face. His eyes began to water.
‘Well, thanks anyway.’ The pilot was studying the corvette as she drew nearer.
‘What will you do when you get back?’ asked Burnell.
‘Call the squadron. I don’t suppose they will send a car down for me. So I shall have to make my own way back to Biggin Hill. If I can get a train, I’m told the taxis don’t charge us from the station any more.’
‘That’s handy.’
‘It is if you get shot down a lot and manage to make your way home.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Burnell. ‘Anyway, I’m coming with you. I’m needed at the Admiralty, you know.’
‘Excuse me, sir. Sorry to butt in.’
‘What is it?’
‘My name is Burnell, sir. Of Cameron. I got separated yesterday and wondered if you could give me a lift back to Dover, please.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, sub. But we’re off to Southampton. Nothing to stop you getting a train, though.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The first officer looked away and stepped quickly to the starboard wing of the bridge. A cargo net bursting with five-gallon water kegs was aiming for a point on Phoebe’s foredeck. Charlie was bellowing orders in a voice that carried clear to the busy bridge. The officer turned back to Burnell.
‘Cameron, did you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you were separated yesterday?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I have some bad news for you, I’m afraid. I’d say sit down but, as you can see, there isn’t enough space to swing a cat up here.’ He smiled apologetically and then chewed his lip briefly before resuming. ‘Cameron was last reported on fire off Gravelines this morning. She was caught in the crossfire from the shore batteries. I’m very sorry.’
Burnell felt the blood rush from his head. Somewhere beneath the burnt skin an engorged vein beat in alarm. He knees began to buckle. The first lieutenant stepped quickly forward and held Burnell in his arms.
‘I’m all right, sir. Sorry about that.’ Burnell stepped back and balanced successfully. He took another deep breath. ‘Bit of a shock, as you can imagine.’ He breathed out and continued. ‘Well, in that case, there’s not a lot of point my rushing back really.’
He looked over the side to see Charlie shaking a fist at the hapless derrick crew. He held onto the rail for support as he turned around to look at the other officer.
‘If it’s all the same to you, sir. I might just as well rejoin my new crew. There’s still a lot of unfinished business.’
17:30 Thursday 30 May 1940.
Snowdown Station, Southern Railways, Kent
“Having seen the tragic events unfold in Holland, I can only stress the importance of continued precautions in this country against the Fifth Column. The main danger is the German or Austrian man or woman who is too clever to be found out. I hate to have to say it, but I find it my duty: you must be careful how, at this moment, you put complete trust in any person of German or Austrian connections. People noticing anything sinister should communicate with the police direct, giving the facts from personal observation.”
That was Sir Nevile Bland, the British Minister just returned from Holland. And one final announcement: householders who received Anderson Air Raid Shelters, but who have not erected them and covered them properly with earth, are required to do so before next Tuesday week, June the eleventh. Failure to obey this order may lead to substantial penalties and also to the loss of the shelter.
‘I say, they’ve set up a buffet here! I’m gasping. How about you?’
‘Do you think we have time?’
‘Time to grab a bottle of lemonade, I’d say. You keep the door open, I shall be back in a flash.’
The man almost flew out of the carriage door and sped across the platform to the trestle table. He drove a hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a shilling. ‘I’ll have a bottle of Ben Shaw’s dandelion and burdock, please.’ He held out the coin.
‘What?’ exclaimed Rose.
‘A bottle of dandelion and burdock, please.’ He smiled hopefully and yet felt as if he were hovering on the edge of disappointment. ‘I tried to get a cup of tea at Dover Priory,’ he explained. ‘But the buffet had sold out. Imagine!’ He showed his teeth as he grinned.
‘We ain’t sell
ing the drinks. They’re for the soldiers.’
‘Soldiers?’
‘Yes, the soldiers coming back from France…’
‘Really?’
‘I’m sorry, but can I help you?’ asked Margaret, her arms full with a tray of glasses from the pub.
The man sucked in air and looked nervously back towards the train and then to Margaret. ‘I was just trying to buy something to drink. But this…this woman here said they are reserved for the soldiers coming back from France.’ He smiled hopefully again. ‘You can keep the change. I don’t mind at all.’
Margaret gave Rose a hard stare and turned back to the man. ‘I am going to have to ask you to keep what you have seen here a secret,’ said Margaret sternly. ‘You must not mention this to anyone. Now you had better hurry or you will miss your train.’
The stationmaster was stepping briskly up the platform towards the open door. ‘Shut that door now! Stand away please.’
The man tottered hesitantly, torn between pleading for a drink on the basis that he had served in the last war, or running back empty-handed and dry-mouthed to the train. He chose the later and turned sharply. He raised his arm into the air and called out as he ran: ‘Hold that train.’ He jumped aboard, the door slammed and the stationmaster blew his whistle. The 17:15 Dover to London Victoria pulled out of the station.
‘Really, Rose!’ scalded Margaret. ‘You know better than that.’
‘Well, what am I supposed to tell ‘em, then?’
‘Tell them it’s a private party…’ began Margaret.
‘What, at a railway station? That don’t make no sense.’
‘Well, don’t tell them anything. Tell them to mind their own business.’
‘Ten minutes everyone!’ called the stationmaster, his rosy cheeks glowing with the effort. ‘The next troop transport has just pulled into Shepherd’s Well.’