Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  The barber shrugged. ‘And soon it will be your turn.’ He selected a pair of scissors and a comb. ‘The Germans are far-sighted.’ He dragged the comb through Binky’s hair, scratching the scalp. ‘They want one big united Europe with Berlin as its heart, as the Romans had Rome. We will have some upset at first but it will soon settle down. People will have to accept the facts. That is human nature.’

  The barber kept up a steady wheezing. He snipped gently. ‘Of course we hate the bloody Bosche. But then we hate lots of things. I hate the old men who made such a mess of the last war. I hate the fact that they are now in charge again. It is life. What can you do?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ agreed Binky. ‘A little more off the sides, please.’

  ‘And what of you, monsieur? You wear no uniform, but you have a gun and a metal hat.’

  ‘And a dog.’

  ‘Yes, and a dog. You English are eccentrics. What is he, a souvenir of France?’

  ‘Of sorts.’ The barber was beginning to raise Binky’s hackles. He cleared his throat and caught the man’s eye in the mirror. ‘Do not make the mistake of dismissing us just yet. We will be back, mark my words.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ The barber gave a mighty wheeze and looked briefly as if he might not recover. ‘How will you be back?’ he asked finally. ‘With this army I see here?’

  Binky watched him shake his head. ‘You, too, will accept the Germans.’ He laughed. ‘After all, your entire Royal Family, they are Germans and you love them! Pah! And what about this Battenberg fellow? Now he is Mountbatten but he is still German. You will find it even easier than us French to adapt. You and the Germans, you are like cousins.’

  ‘One big happy family, eh?’

  ‘Whatever happy means! Look at it this way, monsieur, for hundreds upon hundreds of years, we French and you English we were like cat and dog. We fought all the time. And then you were friends with the Germans. Today, or perhaps it was yesterday, you were friends with France. Tomorrow with the Germans again. Who knows?’

  He brushed behind Binky’s ears and around the collar. ‘Voila, monsieur!’

  Binky stood up and allowed the wheezing barber to whip away the linen bib. He examined himself in the mirror.

  ‘You are like a new man, monsieur. All spick and span! And ready to meet your family!’

  15:10 Monday 3 June 1940.

  HM Dockyard, Dover, Kent

  ‘This blasted tie!’ Commander Edward Bishop was on the verge of spitting blood. ‘Frank!’

  Francisco slid back the door and poked his head inside the tiny cabin. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Give us a hand with this blasted tie, will you?’

  ‘Turn and face the mirror please, sir.’ Francisco gently clasped the Skipper’s shoulders and pointed him in the right direction. Francisco was on the short side and Commander Bishop was tall. He stretched up on tiptoes and grasped both ends of the bow tie. ‘You are going to look very smart, sir. This is my favourite uniform, the dress uniform. But why do they call them monkey suits, sir?’

  ‘Monkey suits?’ The Skipper considered. ‘You must have them in Gib, Frank. Organ grinders with a little monkey all dressed up to the nines. You must have seen them.’

  ‘Yes, I think I know what you mean, sir. Very smart.’ Francisco tugged on the knot, moving it up and down like a steering wheel. ‘There you go, sir.’

  ‘How is everything going up there?’ asked the Skipper, turning back round.

  ‘Uh, fine, sir.’

  ‘Bunting? Is that up yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The bunting’s all up.’

  The Skipper lowered his voice. ‘Has that gin come aboard yet?’

  ‘Uh, yes, sir. Chef’s got it put away for you.’

  The Skipper tugged at his lapels and sucked in his belly. ‘How do I look? The belle of the ball?’

  ‘Pardon, sir?’

  ‘How do I look, Frank?’

  ‘Much smarter than any monkey, sir.’

  ‘I shall take that as a compliment.’ He nodded, dismissing his steward.

  ‘Just one think, sir,’ said Frank. ‘The yeoman just handed me this for you.’

  Commander Edward Bishop looked with horror at the small buff envelope. ‘Fetch Commander Hubbard to me immediately. Go now, Frank.’

  The Skipper sat down heavily on his bunk and stared at the envelope.

  Knock, knock!

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Come in, Gordon. Pour us both a stiff one, will you?’ He nodded to his cabinet containing the bottles of Canadian whisky.

  ‘What’s up, sir?’ Gordon poured a double finger into both glasses.

  The Skipper made a gesture with his hand, indicating more. And then he waved the envelope. Gordon continued to pour.

  ‘This is a general signal from the Vice-Admiral that has been passed to us,’ the Skipper told him. ‘It points out that the evacuation of the BEF had only been made possible by the very gallant rear-guard action fought by a French division. It says that the majority of these Frenchmen are anxious to come to England, rather than face who knows how long in an internment camp. And the admiral asks that every ship that can possibly manage it should make just one more trip. He wants to know if we are up for it, Number One.’

  ‘It’s not the party invitation one would hope for, sir.’

  ‘And not one we can easily refuse.’

  ‘What are you going to signal, sir?’

  ‘Clear the lower deck and assemble the ship’s company.’ The Skipper stood up and tugged again at his lapels. ‘We are going to put this one to the vote.’

  I had hoped and believed that last night would see us through but the French who were covering the retirement of the British rear-guard had to repel a strong German attack and so were unable to send their troops to the pier in time to be embarked. We cannot leave our Allies in the lurch and I must call on all officers and men to let the world see that we never let down our Ally.

  ‘Those are the words of Admiral Ramsay,’ said Commander Bishop gravely. ‘He wants to know whether we can make the trip or not.’

  The Skipper looked at the faces in front of him. He could put a name to every one. He smiled. ‘I know old Cameron is sorely battered. She has chips off both props, a damn great hole in the port bow, and only just above the waterline. Her compass is still on the blink and I know you are all well nigh exhausted.’

  He let the men voice their agreement. ‘What is being asked here is something that has never been asked of the Royal Navy before, because there has never been an operation like this before.’

  The Skipper looked for reactions and found few. He nodded. ‘We have already accomplished nine trips and some might say we would be pushing our luck if we tried any more. Cameron’s engines and boilers have been run to death, she’s badly in need of a thoroughgoing overhaul, and they might break down or blow up at any moment. And yet, I feel that if we do not accept this invitation, if we were to say No, we could never hold up our heads again. And I think in many ways we would be letting the old girl down. She’s nearing the end of her useful life and she has an unblemished record.’

  The Skipper looked proudly at his men. ‘I think we ought to go, chaps. What do you say?’

  When the roar on the lower deck died away, Commander Edward Bishop turned to his First Officer and said, ‘Signal: Cameron can do!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  22:50 Monday 3 June 1940.

  Dunkirk, France

  The gulls were trying their hardest to out-screech the sirens of the French destroyer. The larger sounds of artillery had long since died away. With the Germans now into the streets, the sharper report of mortars, machine-guns and rifles crackled like a forest fire. High above the burning docks, almost prehistoric in silhouette, the seabirds swarmed in their thousands, tricked by the light into singeing their feathers in the flames.

  ‘Hold her steady, Number One.’

  ‘Steady!’

  HMS Cameron, an aging Scotts-class destroyer, rode uncomf
ortably a cable’s length from the harbour entrance. The sea, now turned choppy by the fresh easterly wind, was on the ebb.

  ‘No one said it was going to be easy, sir,’ observed Gordon.

  The Skipper did not bother to reply.

  The turbulent waters, red with the glow of the port, highlighted the myriad and motley boats of the French armada. The yells, screams and sirens carried easily across the water. This was chaos on a grand scale.

  ‘Still no reply to our signal, sir,’ called the yeoman.

  ‘Keep her steady, Number One.’

  ‘Steady it is, sir.’

  ‘Finally, eh!’ beamed Rear-Admiral Wake-Walker. ‘Wonderful to see you, old boy! You look bloody well considering.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean to stand you up, you know.’

  Binky beamed back and clasped the hand. ‘Not a problem. I got your invitation.’

  The admiral laughed aloud. ‘Someone said you’d gone walkabout.’

  ‘Shopping and sightseeing,’ smiled the Commander. The admiral gave his arm an affectionate squeeze and steered him up the East Mole.

  ‘Talking of invitations,’ said the admiral. ‘It was a rather dismal party last night. Hardly anybody turned up.’

  ‘But not so tonight.’ Commander Babbington struggled to take in the scene. Countless small boats and their crews fought to come alongside. They squeezed their way between the destroyers Whitshed and Sabre and the personnel ship Autocarrier, and they called out like crazed fishmongers to the throngs of Poilus who lined the pier. ‘They’re making up for it now.’

  ‘It’s like a bloody madhouse! Look at ‘em! Look over there! That bloody boat is going full astern, not looking where she’s going! Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Open your eyes, dimwit!’ called out the admiral. ‘And look at that one coming full on, not a care in the world. I despair!’

  They continued to push their way along the Mole through the press of troops, many clutching mattresses and heavy bundles, until the admiral spotted a French naval officer in full dress uniform. ‘Captain de Revoir!’ he called, adding in an aside to Binky, ‘The French Naval Attaché.’

  ‘Captain! This really is impossible! All these small boats, they’re clogging the whole place up. How the hell am I supposed to get my destroyers in or out, eh?’

  ‘But it is not just the French boats,’ insisted the attaché, touching his cap. ‘I have seen your own little boats here, too, and Belgian boats, also.’

  ‘Captain! We have a very small window.’ The admiral turned on his famous glare. ‘We must be out of here, Germans aside, in under four hours at the very, very latest. And this pier has been clearly earmarked for the personnel vessels, the destroyers and paddle minesweepers. Everything else, and that includes all these bloody trawlers and whatnot, are to use the inner harbour.’

  ‘But I say again, sir. These are not just our boats. I will signal for them to pull out but you must signal to your boats also.’

  ‘Agreed,’ snapped the admiral. ‘And where is General Lucas?’ The admiral pulled back his braided sleeve and tapped his wristwatch. ‘We will never be able to evacuate his whole division in time if this carries on.’

  ‘He will be here soon, sir.’

  ‘He’d better be, and I want him and his division here at the East Mole.’ He jabbed a finger at the rickety boards beneath their feet.

  ‘I agree, admiral.’ The captain came to stiff attention and knocked off a quick salute.

  The admiral took Binky aside. ‘Between you and me, old boy, there’s virtually no ammunition left. The rear-guard will have to throw rocks at the Huns soon! I sent off a signal asking for some light stuff, but never heard a word. It’s all a bit tense, I can tell you.’

  He turned with a jerk and caught the eye of his yeoman. ‘Flash off a general signal, will you? Get everybody out of here and into the bloody inner harbour!’

  ‘Signal from the Mole, sir.’

  ‘What’s it say?’

  ‘It’s a bit ambiguous, sir. It would appear that they are asking us to use the inner harbour.’

  ‘We haven’t been in there before have we, Number One?’

  ‘No, sir. We never fancied it, not after the first day. And it’s a bit tight getting in.’

  ‘Better do as we’re told,’ said the Skipper. ‘Take us in, please.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  HMS Cameron cruised slowly through the busy waters. The easterly wind caught hold of the rich black smoke from the refinery and pulled in across the surface like a ghostly blanket. The lookouts saw the flickering light catch on the protruding funnels and upper works, and they saw their razor bows slicing the dark fog aside.

  ‘Drop the revs a bit, Number One.’

  Gordon lent to the pipe. ‘Dead slow ahead.’

  ‘Wreck off the port bow!’ called a lookout.

  ‘Wheelhouse,’ called Gordon. ‘Starboard five.’

  ‘Shit!’ shouted someone from the front of the ship as a heavy coaster was seen to swing across Cameron’s bows. ‘Vessel ahead!’ screamed the same voice.

  ‘Hard astern! Hard astern!’ shouted Gordon. He waited for the crunch of impact while Cameron’s twin propellers tore at the water. He gripped the rail as she came to a halt and then suddenly began to surge back.

  ‘Wreck off the starboard bow!’ called another lookout.

  ‘Midships!’ called Gordon. ‘All stop!’ He turned to the Skipper, his forehead glistening. ‘This is impossible, sir. What do I do? I can’t even run them down! We already have a gapping great hole in our side.’

  It was then that Cameron, continuing her backward course, collided with something in the dark. Rather than knocking the vessel out of the way, the destroyer appeared to rise momentarily out of the water. Gordon, along with everyone else on the bridge, held his breath. There came the sound of splintering wood and Cameron bobbed back on the level. Gordon leant to the pipes. ‘Slow ahead both. Steer starboard five.’

  He caught sight of the entrance. Gently he steered Cameron between the two dead beacons that marked the tips of East and West Piers.

  ‘Let’s have a little light on the subject,’ called the Skipper. He tapped a seaman on the back and one of the powerful bridge spotlights snapped on, illuminating the black water. The stark light travelled along the side of the pier searching for a gap large enough to accommodate a destroyer. Masts and spars, suddenly in the spotlight, protruded as if from a drowned forest, along with assorted debris and a few heads that bobbed in the water. The destroyer glided on.

  She glided on until the worst thing that was possible happened. A shocking tearing sound rose up from beneath Cameron’s bows: a grinding noise akin to a heavy safe being dragged across a very long concrete floor; and it seemed that it might never stop. Gordon gripped tight on the rail as the fifteen hundred ton destroyer began to lift out of the water.

  ‘Shit!’ Gordon could only just speak. He could not swallow.

  ‘Cutter approaching, sir!’

  Gordon raced to the port wing of the bridge and looked down. A naval cutter puttered towards them.

  ‘Ahoy, Cameron!’

  ‘Ahoy to you, too!’

  ‘Well there!’ called the voice. ‘You seem to have got yourself in a bit of a pickle.’

  ‘You could say that,’ answered Gordon.

  ‘We’re going to have a tug pull you off.’

  ‘Thank you. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘You can do us a favour,’ continued the voice.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The admiral wants to use you as a blockship. We’ll tow you down to the New Lock gates and you can scuttle her there!’

  ‘Scuttle her!’ The Skipper, who now stood beside Gordon, felt as if he were floating free of his body. A loud humming noise filled his ears.

  Gordon looked over the side. The officer stood balancing in the cutter’s bows, his hands raised to his mouth. ‘Leave a skeleton crew. I’ll send a couple of schuitjes over. Then abandon ship!’

  Day Ten


  02:40 Tuesday 4 June 1940.

  Dunkirk, France

  ‘As soon as she’s off, chief, I need to know if she’ll float. I need to know immediately.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ The elderly chief slid sprightly down the ladder and Gordon leant over the port wing of the bridge. The tug sounded her horn.

  ‘Here we go.’

  First there came a groan as the tug’s hawsers took up the tension, and then came the grinding sound; every bit as shocking as the first time. Even the dimmest of minds could imagine the damage being done to Cameron’s hull. It made the teeth ache. And then, far sooner than expected, the destroyer’s bows dropped down into the water with a mighty splash. She bobbed back up.

  ‘Engines!’ Gordon gripped the pipe. ‘Dead slow astern both.’

  HMS Cameron slid cautiously away from the wreck.

  ‘All stop!’

  ‘Sir!’ The chief called from below, his head poking out of a hatch. He gave the thumbs up.

  ‘Slip the tow!’ bellowed Gordon.

  ‘Number One?’ The Skipper spun on his heels and glared at his First Officer, a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

  ‘Engines: Half ahead starboard. Wheelhouse: port five. All stop!’ Cameron began to glide very slowly towards the Mole. A tight press of French troops stretched almost a mile to the shore. They looked on in anticipation.

  ‘What the blazes? Number One?’ The Skipper had a very creased brow.

  ‘Ah,’ said Gordon. ‘We seem to be drifting to the pier. I can’t seem to stop her, sir.’

  Cameron’s bows nudged against the Mole. She had barely come to a halt when the first of the Poilus began to jump aboard. Gordon turned to the Skipper and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Yes, very good, Number One. But it might be said that we were disobeying the admiral’s orders. Mmm?’

  ‘I thought our orders were to come and get the French, sir. Surely we should stick to the plan where possible. Mmm?’

  ‘We’ll leave the niceties ‘till later, Number One. In the meantime, I suppose we had better carry on.’ The Skipper stepped across the bridge and watched the French soldiers as they streamed aboard like harvest ants, each and every one carrying an eiderdown on his back as well as other impediments. The chief’s head showed itself at the top of the bridge ladder.