by Alan Pearce
Another ten had now placed their sandbags in the back of the Bedford and staggered precariously in a line on top of the trucks, ready to take their turn. Inside ten minutes and the launch was away, pressed down under the weight of fifty men.
‘Only another two hundred thousand,’ said Binky to himself. ‘Next ten men!’
‘Any more for the Skylark? Any more for the…’ Dibbens cut himself short. ‘What?’ he asked. He looked again at Commander Babbington. Everybody was staring out to sea. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder. A warship of some kind was tearing towards the beach, and more specifically towards his jetty. She sounded her siren, chilling his blood.
‘Have they gone stark-staring mad, or something?’ he asked himself. He began to take steps back up the beach. Commander Babbington came and stood by his side. ‘Have they lost control, do you suppose?’ Dibbens asked.
The Commander did not answer immediately. He watched as the minesweeper raced towards them. ‘She must be making a good sixteen knots,’ he said to himself.
‘What’s that?’ asked Dibbens.
‘About sixteen knots!’ called back the commander.
‘It’s going to crash into my bloody jetty!’ exclaimed Dibbens. He continued to step back up the beach, leaving Binky alone to marvel at the water’s edge. Just when it seemed that the jetty was doomed, the minesweeper spun her wheel. Even with the noise of the naval barrage and the incoming rounds, Binky heard her keel scrape along the bottom. Dibbens was put in mind of a high-speed train running into the buffers. The ship continued to scream and groan. She glided through the sand and finally came to a halt. For a few seconds, it was unclear which way should would lean. Eventually, she gave another mournful groan and lurched towards the beach.
Commander Babbington let go his breath. He waited until Dibbens had stepped up beside him. ‘Well, you can’t say the Navy isn’t efficient.’
‘You call that efficient!’
‘It’s not quiet what I expected, but she will certainly do the job.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Dibbens. ‘It’s colossal! It’ll never float off!’
‘About seven hundred tons,’ estimated Binky.
‘But what’s the bloody point?’
‘To form a lee, of course, and aid embarkation,’ explained Binky.
Dibbens shook his head, confused.
‘To act as a barrier. To stop the waves. It’s working already. See?’
14:25 Friday 31 May 1940.
Off Koksijde-Bad, Belgium
HMS Hemera had anchored as close to the beach as she dared and sufficiently beyond range of the German batteries at Nieuport. Both Charlie Lavender and Captain D’Arcy watched her with a growing sense of hope. She appeared to lie directly in their path. And then she opened fire with her twin fifteen-inch guns. Even at that distance, something approaching two nautical miles, the blast was nearly sufficient to burst all four of their eardrums.
‘Oh, no!’ groaned Charlie when their hearing had returned. ‘You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you?’ He pulled the fob watch from his waistcoat and noted the time.
‘No, no!’ D’Arcy shook his head. ‘No! They will surely see us before then.’
‘You reckon, do you? Just looked at her.’
HMS Hemera, an Erebus-class monitor, was something of a monster. She had the bows and stern of a battleship but not much between, except a tall conning tower, a single funnel, and one humongous gun turret. As Charlie studied her, he had the impression of a giant armoured crab with one mighty claw.
‘It’s all a question of timing,’ tried to explain D’Arcy. ‘It all depends on her rate of fire.’
‘And if we happen to time it wrong, and we’re anywhere near those giant guns when they go off, you know what will happen don’t you?’
D’Arcy could not keep his eyes off the monitor. ‘Well, for starters, it will suck the air out of our lungs,’ the artillery captain explained. ‘Collapsing them. The capillaries will expand...’
‘And burst our brains,’ added Charlie. ‘I’ve seen what big guns can do. I know all about concussion. I’ve seen blokes with blood squirting out of their eyes and ear’oles. Look at her! There ain’t a single person on deck. They’re all tucked away below and their ears stuffed with cotton wool.’
‘We should try to signal, anyway,’ said D’Arcy. ‘And you’re sure there’s no way we can steer this thing?’
Charlie just huffed.
‘What have we got to signal with?’ asked Captain D’Arcy.
‘Take your pick,’ said Charlie. ‘You could wave your vest or I could wave my trousers.’
‘But no signal lanterns, nothing like that?’
Charlie huffed again.
‘Are you a praying man?’ asked D’Arcy.
‘Naw!’ exclaimed Charlie. ‘I tried it once and it never worked. How about you?’
D’Arcy gave a tight-lipped smile and looked heavenward, hedging his bets.
‘Shall I top the pot?’ asked Charlie.
‘I think you better had,’ said D’Arcy.
HMS Hemera fired her guns at precisely five-minute intervals. Her crew had been trained to accomplish a rate of two rounds per gun per minute but there was no particular urgency about her task. The men in her conning tower were awaiting further instructions from the Fleet Air Arm Hudson flying somewhere over the German lines and from her observer who also had to plot the fall of several other naval guns. Thames Lighter X217 continued to drift closer.
It was when Captain D’Arcy was helping himself to the tin of powered milk that he hit upon the idea of using the lid as a signal mirror. He pulled himself upright and looked into the sky. The sun had momentarily vanished behind a cloud but it promised to reappear soon. He rubbed the lid against his damp PT shorts and held it in readiness.
Dit, dit, dit. Dah, dah, dah. Dit, dit, dit. Captain D’Arcy mouthed the Morse code aloud in preparation. He imagined the light reflecting off the monitor’s conning tower. This was going to work. He was certain.
‘You’re wasting your bloomin’ time,’ said Charlie. ‘They’ve probably set that thing to automatic and they’re sitting down to tea and cucumber sandwiches right now.’
D’Arcy took his eyes away from the cloud. ‘Has anyone ever accused you of being optimistic?’ he asked.
Charlie gave him a sideways look and curled his lip. He strolled along the narrow deck and stood to watch X213 follow a quarter mile behind. He dipped into his pocket and pulled out his tobacco pouch. He was just licking the paper when he glanced back up into the sky. A tightly packed group of aircraft was heading out towards them. Charlie called over his shoulder. ‘Oy, ‘arsy! Do you think those are ours or Jerry’s?’
D’Arcy looked up into the sky above the French coast. ‘We were told to shoot anything below one-thousand feet,’ he called to Charlie. ‘To be on the safe side.’
Charlie scratched the back of his neck and continued to look up. ‘I was told if they’re painted black and white underneath, then their ours.’
‘Well, give them another minute or two and we might be able to tell. Do you have any weapons on board?’
Charlie huffed again. ‘Blow me!’ he exclaimed. ‘You youngsters today, you want it all. Steering gear, engines…’
‘Sails.’
‘Sails,’ confirmed Charlie. ‘Signal lanterns, and now you want a pop-gun.’
‘In a nutshell!’
‘Suppose you want a roll up, as well?’
‘I never say no.’
Charlie stepped back and handed the cigarette to D’Arcy. ‘And I suppose you want a light, too?’
‘Please.’
Charlie struck a match and then looked at his watch. ‘One-minute-forty-five seconds,’ he announced.
Charlie Lavender pulled himself to the side of the barge and vomited. Although the monitor was only slightly less than half a mile away, the blast from her guns tore at their insides, putting abnormal pressure on their internal organs and disrupting their centr
al nervous systems. Both men had been careful not to lie on the deck but to crouch instead. The Thames Lighter, with a hold capacity of 150 tons, acted as a giant sound box, amplifying the blast and vibrating with a shocking intensity. Captain D’Arcy waited for the vibrations to subside and then collapsed onto the deck clutching his head.
The bombers had turned off, heading towards the east and the mass of vessels in Dunkirk roads. They could relax on that score. Eventually, Charlie pulled himself to his feet. He tried to roll a cigarette but his hands were damp with perspiration and the tips of his fingers tingled.
He spat over the side and then pulled the watch from his pocket. The flecks of white spittle sat still on the surface of the sea while the barge drifted on. By his estimate, they should be directly beneath the big guns in just over three minutes.
‘Three minutes to the next one,’ he told D’Arcy. ‘We couldn’t have timed it any worse.’
HMS Hemera sat rigid at anchor, impassive as Gibraltar. A flowing bow-wave had been painted down her side to foster the illusion of great speed when, in fact, she could only manage a maximum of twelve knots. On any other occasion, Charlie would have enjoyed the joke.
‘We could swim for it,’ suggested D’Arcy.
‘Same problem,’ said Charlie. ‘We’d still be caught in the current and dragged under her guns. If you’ll pardon my French, I think we’re fucked.’
D’Arcy continued to flash the lid at the monster’s conning tower. ‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Wake up you dozy blighters!’
HMS Hemera poured out a filthy cloud of grey smoke from her single stack. It swirled around her conning tower and then drifted away over the twin guns. Each time they were fired, the smoke was sucked into a vortex and blasted away from the ship. As X217 drew closer, both men craned their necks to look up the lofty sides. Charlie no longer needed to look at his watch. He was counting the seconds off in his head. His spine went suddenly rigid. The monster ship came alive and Charlie thought that his heart had stopped. First there was a mechanical whirl and then a clatter of anchor chains. One giant anchor, itself an equal weight to their barge, broke the surface and rose, dripping water and weed.
‘Ahoy!’ shouted Charlie. ‘Ahoy!’ They were now directly beneath the towering blunt bows. Inside the ship came the clang of many bells. D’Arcy tapped Charlie on the shoulder and pointed up into the sky.
15:57 Friday 31May 1940.
Bergues-Hondschoote Canal, France
‘Steady on, man! What on earth are you playing at?’
‘We’re taking ground fire,’ responded the pilot of the Lysander. ‘Just a little evasive action, sir.’
‘Right you are,’ said General Gort, VC, the BEF commander. He gripped the underside of his seat tightly. ‘At least it shows they are on the ball, eh?’
The general peered back out of the window at the flat fields below. He studied the glistening network of canals and committed to memory the last line of defence. He relaxed his grip and pulled back his sleeve, revealing his watch. ‘Now let’s swing back so I can take one last look at the beaches.’
‘Well, of course it’s no bloody good like this,’ shouted Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox. ‘The damn thing’s set to six hundred yards. That aeroplane must be only a thousand feet up.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Sampson. ‘But that’s the range across the canal, sir. I wasn’t expecting to go shooting at any aircraft, sir.’
‘Then why is the blasted thing on an anti-aircraft mounting? Answer me that!’ Samson stood mute. ‘That was a bloody good opportunity absolutely wasted!’
Sandy stepped away from the Bren. Pain shot through both feet and he wanted to curse aloud. Instead, he bit his lip and hobbled back down the trench, the water now up to his ankles. He turned as a car approached, tooting its horn. Sandy climbed onto a firestep and watched it drive up.
‘No, why would I want tea?’ asked Peter, the adjutant, once he reached the cottage. ‘When I’ve got these?’ He pulled two bottles of sherry from his bag. ‘And this,’ he added, producing a bottle of scotch.
‘Lucas! Go rustle up some glasses.’
‘Paris goblets all right, sir?’
‘They’ll have to do,’ said Sandy accepting. He steered Peter over to the kitchen table and they both sat down.
‘I thought we might save the whisky ‘till later,’ announced Peter. ‘Hope that’s all right with you. It’s just that we might be glad of it then.’
Sandy pushed forward the glasses and watched while Peter uncorked the sherry and poured a generous measure of the ruby-coloured wine.
‘So, it’s all been very quiet here, then?’ asked Peter after their second sip.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sandy. ‘Bergues is still having the living daylights knocked out of it, as you can hear, but no sign of any attack yet.’
‘Not even a probe?’ asked Peter.
‘Not here at any rate,’ said Sandy. ‘The odd sniper fire, that’s all. But we dealt with them.’ He paused. ‘Oh, yes. Those chaps to our right were busy about an hour ago. But I didn’t hear anything coming their way.’ He took another sip and looked across the table. ‘What do you suppose is keeping them?’
‘Testing the line, probably. Looking for weak spots, perhaps. But I thought they would have made more of a concerted effort by now.’
‘Perhaps tonight, sir.’
‘Actually,’ said Peter. ‘We are rather hoping that they might hold off until dawn. The Jerries have never been much for night fighting, really. And if that is the case,’ he hesitated and looked directly at Sandy. ‘If that is the case, then keep your fingers crossed.’
‘How’s that?’
‘I might just be giving the order to pull out tonight, around twenty-two-hundred hours, hopefully.’
‘Is that pull out or pull back, sir?’
‘Out. That’s what we are hoping. I’ll get a message to you as soon as I can. You will then be required to pull back to Dunkirk. The Navy have set up some jetty or something. I think they called it a mole. I shall have all the details for you. There will be ships waiting to take us all off.’
‘Well, in that case, sir, perhaps I could offer you something to eat. We’ve got all this food here and it will only have to be destroyed. We can hardly eat it all or carry it with us.’
‘What have you got?’ asked Peter. He shut his eyes briefly and felt the hollowness of his stomach.
‘Of the fresh stuff, I can offer you an excellent chicken Provencal soup. If you like garlic, that is. Lucas is a little heavy handed with the stuff.’
‘What else is in it?’ asked Peter. ‘Not that I mind one way or the other. I am so hungry I could eat a horse.’
‘Fortunately, no horses.’ Sandy curled his lip. ‘It’s mostly chicken, tomatoes, potatoes, various other veg and pulses, and white wine, of course.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Peter. ‘Lucas!’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Just bringing it back up to the boil now, sir,’ called Lucas from the kitchen.
‘Jolly good,’ said Peter. ‘More sherry?’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ announced Sergeant Harris. ‘But there’s been what you might call a development. You might want to come and have a look, sur.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Peter.
A large herd of cream-coloured cows had wandered into the field on the opposite bank. They stood and stared across at Number Three Company with large brown accusing eyes.
‘I thought the Jerries might use ‘em as cover, sur. So’s they can creep up on us,’ said Sergeant Harris.
‘Good thinking, sergeant,’ said Sandy.
‘Good opportunity for using up some of your surplus ammunition,’ suggested Peter.
Sandy looked aghast. ‘Not shoot them, you mean?’ he asked. ‘The stench is bad enough here already.’
Peter looked momentarily undecided. ‘No,’ he said, hesitating. ‘I mean to scare them off. Fire over their heads.’
‘Sergeant,’ called Sandy. ‘You h
eard the officer. Let’s see what Sampson can do with that Bren of his.’
‘Very strange creatures, cows,’ confirmed Peter a few minutes later. ‘If I were to go across there and wave my arms about and shout, they would be running back across that field before you could say Jack Robinson. But fire a Bren gun over their heads and they just stand there like lemons.’
‘All the intelligence has been bred out of them,’ explained Sandy. ‘You can’t imagine a herd of deer standing there like that.’
‘D’you want me to shoot a couple, sir?’ asked Samson. ‘Spell it out for them, like?’
Sandy shook his head. ‘Brens are not part of the natural predatory landscape for cows,’ he explained, suddenly appearing to know something of these mysterious creatures. ‘Give them half-an-hour. Perhaps they will wander off.’
‘Right you are, sur,’ confirmed Sergeant Harris.
‘Just keep me posted,’ said Sandy.
16:10 Friday 31 May 1940.
Zuydcoote Beach, France
‘Oy! Archie Marley!’
He looked up from the shell crater.
‘Oy! Over here!’
Archie rubbed his eyes and looked around him. Everything was a blur. The seawater inside the crater stung his eyes but at least it was moderately clean and not contaminated with marine fuel oil. He drew the backs of both hands across his eyes and struggled to focus. The tide was marching back up the beach and a long line of men stood in static procession, preparing to meet the rolling waves. Archie wiped yet more grit away and examined the line. Somebody, no more than one hundred yards away, was waving his arms. The voice was familiar.
‘Archie! What the fuck happened to you?’
‘Oh, no you don’t! You ain’t bloody queue jumping. Not while I’m ‘ere you ain’t. I been standing ‘ere since yesterday afternoon!’