by Alan Pearce
It had been a good day, so far. One of the best. Ginger did not feel sick about sending the Heinkel to its doom nor did he add its five-man crew to his score. He was well ahead of the game, providing value for money and, therefore, unlikely to find himself transferred to admin. He gripped the stick tightly in both hands. A quick flick to the right and his starboard wing pointed directly down to the beach. He could almost make out individual startled faces as he tore along. Another flick and the racing sand was above his head. Two more flicks and he was level again. Ginger pushed the throttle forward and soared up and away.
‘Ha, ha, ha!’
13:05 Friday 31 May 1940.
Off La Panne, Belgium
‘You cocky little sod!’ bellowed Charlie Lavender. He thought to wave his fist after the soaring Hurricane but he couldn’t be bothered. ‘Aerobatics, my arse! Why ain’t you out shooting Stukas?’
Charlie had just topped the pot for another cup. He stood on the step outside the tiny crew quarters on Thames lighter X217. He had watched the Hurricane come tearing along the beach. He had his eyes on it before Bray Dunes where it had performed the victory roll. He stepped back inside and gave the teapot a shake. The handle was hot but Charlie did not mind. He poured the dark fluid into the mug and then heaped in a spoonful of powered milk and two of sugar. He stepped outside quickly, stirring as he did so, and looking up into the sky. By his estimate, the bombers arrived every half an hour. They were ignoring Dunkirk’s town and port and concentrating on the vessels off shore. Mercifully, there were none now off La Panne. He was, however, drifting up the Belgian coast, away from Dunkirk, as were the other two lighters, X213 and X149.
Phoebe was taking her time. He sipped his tea and studied the coastline. The huge pillar of black smoke at Dunkirk gave him a good indication of his drift. Other, smaller pillars of smoke and fire rose at intervals along the shore. The beach at La Panne, once a popular holiday resort, had several small bonfires burning. It was now largely deserted as the Germans nibbled away at the western flank of the perimeter. A ragged line of lorries, similar to the one at Bray, ran out into the water. With the aid of Burnell’s binoculars, Charlie could just make out the small figures that clambered from one vehicle to the next. An RNLI lifeboat could be seen holding off from the makeshift jetty.
He looked up into the sky again. The Stukas had left him a trifle edgy. Charlie swirled the last of his tea around the mug and then drained it in a gulp. He took his eyes away from the sky to examine the tealeaves. His wife, Lil, had a friend who could read the leaves. He had seen her do it often enough, and using the tea he had provided for the house. He wondered what she might predict. A long sea voyage, perhaps. Maybe he would meet new friends. It was a load of old cobblers, anyway. Charlie wondered if he should have another cup. He decided to relieve himself first.
He stepped across the narrow deck and unbuttoned his flies. X149 drifted about a quarter of a mile away, leading them along the Belgian coast. He noticed a man splashing in the water.
‘Well, he must be a bloomin’ good swimmer,’ thought Charlie. They were at least two miles from the beach. ‘Oy!’ he called out. ‘Fancy a nice cup of tea?’
The man called back and waved but Charlie could not make out the words. He was about to wave himself when he realised that he had been intent on other matters. He gave himself a shake and fastened back the buttons.
Charlie folded his arms and waited. He looked down at the sea. The deck of the barge towered above the water. Even if the man could swim the extra quarter mile, he would find it neigh impossible to pull himself up the steep sides. Charlie sat down and unlaced his boots. He placed them carefully on the deck and then stood to unbutton his trousers. His pants had been clean on last Sunday so he had no cause for undue embarrassment. He delved into the pockets and pulled out his handkerchief, which he had not realised was even there, and then lifted out all the small change. He placed these together with his wallet inside his boots. He then lay down flat on the deck.
‘Grab these!’ called Charlie. He held one leg of his trousers and dangled the other above the water. The man splashed about to raise himself up, treading water furiously. He struggled and then caught hold with one hand.
Charlie tugged, turning on the deck for purchase. He heard the trousers tear. Just then the man’s free hand clasped the gunwale. Charlie pulled himself upright and grabbed the wrist. ‘Up you come, chum!’ He heaved and the man sprawled on the narrow deck. He coughed and spluttered and managed to get out the words, ‘Thank you.’
‘I hope you’re handy with a needle and thread,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s the only pair I’ve got.’
‘What?’
‘D’you fancy a cuppa? There’s one in the pot.’
‘Please,’ gasped the man.
‘This is the best cup of tea I think I have ever tasted,’ exclaimed the man.
‘I thought I’d best make a fresh one,’ smiled Charlie. ‘There’s nothing like the first one out of the pot. How you doing with those trousers?’
‘Nearly finished.’ He nipped the thread with his teeth and held the trousers up for inspection. ‘Not exactly Savile Row, but they should keep you decent. Any more tea?’
‘Help yourself.’ Charlie climbed back into his trousers and examined the stitching. The left leg was now a good three inches shorter than the right but they would do. The man helped himself from the pot beside him, wincing as he scalded his fingers. He spooned in powered milk and extra sugar. He looked up as he stirred. Charlie was scratching his head beneath the helmet. ‘I don’t suppose you were doing a cross-Channel swim,’ said Charlie. ‘So what brings you here?’
The man rested his tea on the deck and made to stand up. Charlie waved him back down. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Captain D’Arcy, Royal Artillery.’ They shook hands. ‘Yes. I saw your boats from the beach and I said to myself that’s just what we need to get off and get back home.’ He smiled at Charlie and sipped again at his tea.
‘You must be a strong swimmer, then?’ suggested Charlie.
‘Well, thank you. Not bad. We have a big lake at home.’
‘Really?’ asked Charlie. ‘D’you smoke?’
‘Do I?’
He held out his tobacco pouch. ‘Just rollies, I’m afraid. D’you know how?’
Captain D’Arcy shook his head. So did Charlie.
‘Anyway,’ continued the officer. ‘I would be most grateful if you could take me back to the beach.’ He struggled to his feet and looked at the shore, swaying on tingling toes. ‘Somewhere over there, I think.’
‘Where?’ asked Charlie, licking the cigarette paper.
‘Well, it can’t be far. I swam it after all. Do you see that line of trucks in the water?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, not quite as far as that. Somewhere to the left a bit.’
‘So, why d’you want to go back?’ asked Charlie, handing over the neatly rolled cigarette.
‘My men are there,’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s why I swam out. So you could come and pick us all up.’
‘Really? Have you had a look around you?’ Charlie struck a match and the captain sucked in gratefully. He nearly coughed and then looked Charlie straight in the eye.
‘Pardon?’ he asked.
‘I mean,’ said Charlie, waving an arm. ‘Can you see any steering gear, for instance?’
‘No,’ replied the captain uncertainly.
‘Do you see an engine?’ asked Charlie.
‘No.’
‘Did you think this was a ship of some kind?’
‘Well, yes. I did, actually.’
‘And do you see over there?’ asked Charlie, pointing off to the east.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we ain’t got any means of steering. There’s no engine…’
‘Sails?’
‘No, no sails. This is a barge, or to be more accurate an eighty-three foot Thames lighter. It’s usually pulled about by tugs or allowed to glide with the current up or down river. Can
you still see that line of lorries in the water?’
The captain looked along the coast. ‘No, I can’t. That’s damn strange, isn’t it?’
‘Not so strange,’ explained Charlie. ‘When you think we’re drifting with the tide. And over there, that’s Nieuport and that’s where the Jerries have got hold of the French shore batteries.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’ exclaimed Captain D’Arcy.
‘Yeah,’ said Charlie Lavender. ‘I bet you wish you ‘adn’t bothered now.’
13:50 Friday 31 May 1940.
Malo Beach, France
Situated on the east side of Dunkirk is the pleasant, nineteenth-century seaside suburb of Malo-les-Bains. Shops, restaurants, kiosks and amusements of all kinds line the front. Toto took the opportunity to stretch his legs. He did not, however, stray too far from Archie. Most of the seafront amusements had been blown to pieces by repeated bombing and shelling. Rubble lay in heaps across the promenade and acrid smoke billowed from the numerous piles of burning equipment and abandoned vehicles. The beach itself was thick with men.
Archie stood on the front and looked around him. Toto scampered up and pressed against his leg. To his left, the sky was black. Out to sea, dozens of vessels from large transports to tiny dinghies. And long lines of men. They began almost directly below Archie and stretched far and wide, as if following some invisible maze around the beach and out into the sea. Archie looked further along the coast. It was the same story as far as his eyes could see.
‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers!’ Archie knelt down and scooped Toto up in his arms. ‘This is another fine mess,’ he told him. ‘Out of the frying pan and into the bloody fire.’
He paused then, running low on pat phrases, and simply stared out to sea. He felt sick. The grounding of the ancient liner had closed one exit. In time, he had returned to the canal but had flinched at joining the back of a queue now numbering into the tens of thousands. Someone had suggested he try the beaches. Malo was the first of the resorts. He decided to walk on.
The scene barely changed over the next three miles. Archie shook his head and halted. He dropped Toto gently down and then went and sat on the seawall; letting his legs dangle over the side. The black cloud over Dunkirk was now receding into the distance but the scene all along the beach remained much the same. His eyes followed the start of the nearest line and traced its jagged progress. Those at the front of the queue stood up to their necks in water. The waves were breaking a long way out and the men were bracing themselves for each swell, standing five or six abreast. Archie shuddered. His mouth felt dry; fur coated his teeth and gums. ‘Come on, boy,’ he called. ‘You thirsty?’
Toto showed his pink tongue. Archie gave his canteen a shake and pulled out the cork. He took a slow sip, letting the warm water run all around his mouth before allowing it to trickle down his throat.
‘Down boy!’ Archie pushed the dog away from his shoulder wound. He cupped his hand and poured a little in. Toto quickly lapped it up and looked for more. ‘That’s it for now, boy. There’s not much left.’ He rubbed Toto behind one ear. ‘Hungry?’
Toto showed his pink tongue and quivered.
‘Just biscuits now, Toto.’
Archie was just about to light a cigarette when the first salvo of shells flew over his head. Instinctively, he pulled himself low and anticipated the explosions. The shells landed in a line abreast about two miles out to sea. Three grey waterspouts reached up into the sky and slowly began to dissolve. Somewhere, a long way behind him, he heard a dull roar like thunder. Archie counted the seconds off in his head and then the shells were soaring over again. Once more they landed in line, three abreast, sending up further grey eruptions. They were closer to the shore this time. He could hear the water hiss as it fell back down. He lit his cigarette and counted.
The next salvo fell a little short of a darting corvette. For an instant the mountain of water that rose from the sea obscured her from view. Then she was showing her stern and making a small but growing cloud of thick white smoke to hide her small flotilla of pleasure craft.
‘Well, Toto,’ asked Archie. ‘Do you think the Germans will let me keep you in the prison camp?’
Toto looked undecided.
‘They might eat you,’ he suggested, assuming a wicked witch voice. ‘Make you into sausages.’
Toto seemed to shrink in size. Archie winced as another salvo tore across. Then, an instant before the brief pause that heralds the explosion, the sand in front of his face erupted. He felt scalding heat, and then nothing else.
When he did regain consciousness he was blind. He lifted his hands to his face and was surprised to find himself touching a hardened crust. He dragged his fingers across his eyes and felt the crust crumble away. After rubbing feverishly for some time he could see moderately well out of his right eye but barely out of his left. He continued to rub. His teeth grated on sand and his head throbbed. ‘Toto!’ he thought. He called aloud. ‘Toto! Toto!’
Archie tried to pull more grit from his eyes. Everything was blurred. He fumbled for his gasmask bag and pulled out the canteen. He gave it another shake and winced. He could either drink it or use it to clear his eyes. Archie poured the water into the palm of his hand. Toto quickly lapped it up and looked for more.
14:00 Friday 31 May 1940.
Bray Dunes, France.
‘I think you had better take this, sir.’ Midshipman Hockley handed a helmet to Commander Babbington.
‘Thank you,’ said Binky. He examined the tin hat and noticed three silver stripes denoting a commander’s rank. ‘What’s this?’
‘Sir?’
‘Did you do this?’
Hockley smiled. ‘Yes, sir. I cut the silver foil from a packet of cigarettes into three strips and then I used a sixpence as a template for the ring at the top.’
‘And how did you stick them on?’
‘Well, sir. This is the cleaver part. I used the oil from a tin of sardines.’
Binky sniffed his new helmet and then slipped it on, tucking the chinstrap tight. The ground shook beneath them as another artillery shell hit the beach. He shut his eyes, allowing the hot sand to blow across his face. ‘Well timed,’ he told the midshipman.
‘Don’t mention it, sir.’
Commander Babbington waited for the third shell to land and then pulled himself to his feet. A T-Class destroyer was coming very close inshore. She swung her wheel fifteen degrees to starboard and drew level with the shore. Three bright flashes and three puffs of smoke and then he heard the boom of her four-inch guns and the screech as the shells flew overhead. He watched the sequence repeated again and again and wondered what chance they had of knocking out the German guns. One vessel overshadowed them all. The Royal Navy had only a handful of monitors, giant floating gun platforms left over from the Great War, and one of these was anchored off La Panne and letting rip with her two enormous fifteen-inch guns.
‘Well, that should cheer the men up, sir,’ shouted Hockley. He held his fingers in his ears.
‘What?’ asked Binky. His hearing was already seriously impaired by the dull ringing tone inside his head. Now the boom of the naval barrage raised the pressure to bursting point.
‘I said that should cheer the men up, sir,’ shouted Hockley again. ‘To see the Navy fighting back!’
Binky nodded and looked towards Lieutenant Dibbens who knelt at the water’s edge. He had his eyes on a snow-white seaplane tender. One of his men was pushing her away from the jetty with a long boat hook as she reared with the incoming surf. Dibbens turned back to Commander Babbington and waved.
‘Next ten men!’ called the Commander.
The chief steered them towards Dibbens. The redcap now stood, hands on hips, with encouraging advice on how best to climb to the top of the lorry and how to proceed from there. The ten men moved with difficulty across the wet duckboards, each one’s progress hampered by Dibben’s insistence that they carry a half-hundredweight sandbag. Some opted to sling the sandbag across
one shoulder while others gripped them in both arms. Anyone who dropped a sandbag was required to go back and fill another.
‘Come on! Look lively!’ shouted Sergeant Norris, his number two. He stood braced at the end of the visible pier, waves washing around his ankles and a much-coveted Bergmann machine pistol cradled in one arm.
‘Stop bloody dawdling,’ he hollered. ‘And anyone who drops one gets this!’ He waved the gun above his head like a Zulu.
‘I thought we only had to go back and fill another?’ asked one of the ten men. He had reached the sergeant. ‘Where shall I shove this?’ he asked, adjusting the sandbag on his shoulder.
‘I could tell you,’ said Norris. ‘But I’ll show you.’ He pointed down to the Bedford beneath his feet. ‘Shove it through the cab window. Come on, man! Bend down. You’re going to have to get a little bit wet.’
A small coal-fired launch, the next in line, rode the waves a few yards from the jetty. Sergeant Norris directed the last bag into the cab and then signalled the launch to come in.
‘Steady!’ He bellowed. ‘Hold it there!’ He turned to the men. ‘Now jump!’ They looked at him for a moment, uncertain if he were pulling their legs or not. They decided not and the first man took a deep breath and jumped across. His hands both caught hold of the gunwale but his feet, having no purchase, slipped into the sea and he dropped back, giving his chin a nasty crack. He was quickly tugged aboard. The other crewmen stretched out their arms to the soldiers and tugged them across. One by one the men leapt over; a few slipped and had to be pulled out of the water but none were crushed against the side of the truck jetty.