As he gasped and retched, doubled up, his hands on his knees, he heard catcalls and whistles from the men, then a sharp, ‘Hey!’
Looking up, dabbing the sick and spittle from his chin, he saw an officer from the 13th/18th Hussars striding towards him.
‘What the devil do you think you’re playing at?’ snapped the captain.
‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ mumbled Hawke.
‘If you’re ill, go and see the MO. Don’t vomit all over my machines.’
Hawke saw the captain’s small black moustache bristle.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Hawke said again, conscious of the laughter of his fellow Rangers behind him. He raised himself, dabbed his mouth again with his sleeve and saluted.
‘Bit young, aren’t you, to be playing at soldiers?’
‘Wanted to do my duty, sir,’ said Hawke. The smell of the vomit wafted unpleasantly under his nose.
The captain now turned as another soldier approached. Hawke followed his gaze and saw Spears walking towards them.
‘I’m very sorry about this, sir,’ said Spears, snapping to attention and saluting. ‘I’ll make sure Private Hawke here clears it up and that it never happens again.’
‘Hm,’ said the captain. ‘Well, make sure it doesn’t. And I suggest you try getting men not boys into the Rangers in future.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Spears.
‘All right. No great harm done, I suppose. Carry on.’ He turned and left them.
Spears glared at Hawke. ‘What the hell did you go and do that for? Are you ill?’
Hawke shook his head.
‘Or was that all too much for you back there?’
Hawke looked down.
‘It was, wasn’t it?’ Spears chuckled mirthlessly. ‘For God’s sake. That captain was right.’
‘I’m really sorry, Tom.’
‘It’s not Tom,’ snarled Spears, prodding a finger into his chest, ‘it’s Sergeant Spears to you, Private. Now get some water and clear this up.’
Spears left him, and for a moment Hawke stood where he was, too miserable to move. Tom Spears had been one of the main reasons Hawke had joined up. He had liked him immediately, from the moment his older sister, Maddie, had brought him home for the first time – nearly a year ago. He had thought Spears had liked him too, but now it was as though the sergeant could hardly bear to speak to him. Hawke could not understand it. He tried to swallow the hurt he felt, the tears he knew were not far away. He’d felt humiliated earlier, but this was far worse. He wondered how he would ever be able to look at the others again. Miserably, he took out his water bottle and poured it over the vomit, dispersing it between the cobbles, then hurried to a water trough beneath one of the square’s buildings to refill.
Hawke had barely reached it when a loud boom rang out from the south followed by the express whistle and whine of an incoming shell. The effect was instant. Men shouted out and a split second later they were all flat on the ground as the shell detonated a few hundred yards to the west of them, followed by the crash of falling stone and timber. A moment later, another shell hurtled over, this time beyond them.
Hawke scrambled to his feet and hurried over to the others, now up and crouching against the walls of the buildings to the south of the square. Orders were being barked: they were to fall in quickly. Engines were starting up; a despatch rider roared into the square. Hawke saw Major Strickland talking urgently to one of the Macforce staff officers and pointing south, then looking at a map. Around him, food and stoves were being hastily packed away as a further shell screamed over, this time closer, and landing just beyond them next to a house near the crest of the hill. As it collapsed with a deafening roar, smoke and dust rolled into the air.
Hawke stood beside Drummond and Hebden against the edge of a long stone building, helmet down over his eyes, rifle in his hand, as Lieutenant Farrish and Sergeant Spears hurried towards the platoon.
‘Sorry Jerry’s cut short our breakfast, chaps,’ said Farrish, ‘but it seems he’s a little bit closer than we thought. There’s not a lot of us here and I know we haven’t had much chance to prepare our defences but that can’t be helped. We need to get moving quickly and do the best we can to keep the enemy at bay.’ He glanced around at the men and, apparently satisfied that they had all been listening, continued. ‘The Battalion is going to defend the town from the south, which is the direction from which Jerry’s approaching. A and C Companies are going to start digging in just to the south of the ramparts, which I’ve been told are right behind this building here, and they run all along the southern edge of the town.’
A loud boom rang out from behind them to the north, making them all instinctively flinch, followed almost immediately by a second blast.
‘Ah, good,’ smiled Farrish. ‘That’s our chaps. So, as you see, we’ve got some artillery support.’
‘What about B Company, sir?’ asked McLaren.
‘Mr Farrish is coming to that, Corporal,’ said Spears.
‘Yes, thank you, sergeant,’ said Farrish. ‘We’re going to be the first line of defence.’ There was another groan from the men.
‘Why are we always picking the short straw at the moment, sir?’ said McLaren.
‘Some would consider it an honour, Corporal,’ replied Farrish. Like the rest, the lieutenant was a young man, only twenty-three, something his light brown moustache could not hide.
‘Some might, sir,’ grumbled McLaren, ‘but I can’t think who.’
‘That’s enough, Mac,’ said Spears.’
Farrish cleared his throat. ‘Well, this is what we’ve been given and we must make the best of it. Now, intelligence on the enemy’s strength and dispositions is a bit shaky, so we’re to probe forward and see what we can see, so to speak.’ He held up a map, stroked his chin, then said, ‘There are two villages near the foot of the hill, Bavinchove and Oxelaëre. Fifth Platoon is going to go to Bavinchove, we’re going to Oxelaëre and Seventh Platoon is going to cover the Hazebrouck road. Any questions? McLaren, any other thoughts you’d like to share?’
‘No, sir. Thank you, sir,’ muttered the corporal. The others remained silent.
‘Good,’ said Farrish, ‘then let’s get going.’
Hawke felt Spears grab his arm.
‘Sir?’ said Spears, shoving Hawke towards the lieutenant. ‘I’m wondering whether Private Hawke should remain here, sir. He’s not well.’
Farrish looked up and down at Hawke. ‘Looks all right to me. Are you ill, Private?’
‘I was a bit, sir, but I’m fine now, sir,’ mumbled Hawke.
Farrish smiled. ‘Good man.’ He clapped Hawke on the shoulder. ‘It’s right that you worry about the men, Spears, but just now we’re going to need every man we’ve got.’
‘Men, yes, sir, but I’m not so sure about boys.’
‘Come on, Spears,’ replied Farrish, smiling ruefully, ‘we haven’t really got time to worry about that now.’
They hurried on, jogging down a narrow alleyway that led down to the ramparts the lieutenant had mentioned a moment before. Through men already frantically digging in, they ran on, down the terraced slopes, and joined a track that led through woods towards a cluster of farm buildings, houses and a church.
No one spoke much, chests heaving from running in full marching order, and, Hawke guessed, with the thoughts of what was to come swirling around their heads. As they emerged through the woods and saw the village ahead of them, he was conscious of Spears running beside him.
‘I’m sorry about what happened earlier,’ said Hawke. ‘Really I am.’
‘Forget it,’ growled Spears. ‘Mr Farrish is right. We haven’t got time to worry about it. After all, we’ve got to try and stop the whole bleedin’ German advance – and with only about six hundred men, a handful of guns and tanks, and a limited amount of ammo.’ He turned to Hawke as they ran. ‘We haven’t got a prayer, Johnny boy, not a bleedin’ pr
ayer.’ He shook his head. ‘You wanted to see some action – well, you’re going to get it now. You’re going to get it now all right.’
3
THE DOGFIGHT
Pilot Officer Archie Jackson was amazed by how little time it had taken to cross the Channel. That morning, 629 Squadron had taken off from Northolt, landed a short while later at Rochford on the south Essex coast, refuelled, then soon after taken off again. From there they had climbed up to fifteen thousand feet, the whole of the Thames Estuary, Kent and southern England spread before them looking green and way smaller than it could possibly be imagined from the ground. Then the CO had led them in formation – four flights of three beautifully maintained tight vics – out over the Channel.
Even with England just behind them he had been able to see the continent stretching endlessly beyond, but then they had flown into some cloud and the bright morning light had changed into that strange milky glow and all sense of speed had stopped. Then the cloud thinned once more, the huge power of the Spitfire obvious again as the knife-like wings scythed through wisps of white.
And then there it was: Dunkirk and the French coast, a huge column of thick, rolling smoke rising high into the sky, obscuring much of the town and beaches below. In fact, the smoke was so high it had dispersed into a kind of dark shroud that seemed to lie just beneath them.
‘My God,’ muttered Jackson to himself, and he felt his heart lurch and then begin to hammer once more in his chest. He was nineteen, had joined the squadron just a month before, and the only war he’d seen so far was what they showed on the newsreels at the cinema; and now here was the evidence of it, stark and real. But what were you expecting? he asked himself. After all, the men from 74 Squadron at Rochford had already been over several times, and had warned them of the smoke at Dunkirk – the oil depots there had apparently been hit several times already by the Luftwaffe – but somehow he felt unprepared for what he now saw: a vivid marker that he was on a combat sortie, after months of training and then sitting on his backside waiting for things to happen. For so long he had been champing at the bit, itching to have a crack at the enemy, but now that that moment was almost upon him, he felt consumed by an urge to flip his Spit on its side, bank hard and head for home.
Crossing the coast, Jackson heard Squadron Leader Dix, the CO, say over the R/T, ‘Keep your eyes peeled, chaps.’
Jackson craned his neck, glad to feel the soft silk of his new scarf brushing against his neck rather than the tight buttoned shirt and tie he had always worn up until now. He’d bought the scarf only the day before, in London. It was bright orange and at first he had thought it rather dashing. Now he was not so sure. The other pilots had ribbed him mercilessly, and although he was glad of it he determined that when he next had a chance he would buy a more sober-coloured one: navy blue, perhaps, or maroon.
He was still looking around keenly when suddenly he saw them, a dark formation of he guessed around thirty Stukas, and above them the same number of fighters, twin-engine Messerschmitt 110s.
‘There!’ he shouted out, ‘below us!’ Then remembering he was supposed to use the correct code added, ‘Bandits, angels twelve!’ Already he could see the Stukas beginning their dives, peeling off one after the other.
‘Roger, I see them,’ crackled Dix. ‘Red and Yellow sections head straight for the Stukas, Blue and Green go for the fighters. Number One Attack, go!’
Jackson dropped into line astern behind Blue One, his section leader, Sergeant Dennis Cotton, then saw the CO peel off and dive down, leading Red and Yellow Sections. Following Dennis, he pushed the stick forward and to the right, and felt his body thrust back into his bucket seat as the engine whined louder and the Spitfire hurtled down. Fifteen thousand feet to just twelve in a matter of seconds, the Messerschmitts suddenly looming larger so that he could now clearly see their grey mottled camouflage and the stark black crosses on the wings. It seemed unreal, and for a moment Jackson felt as though he were somehow not himself at all, but a spectator watching the scene unfold. He glanced at his speedometer – almost four hundred miles per hour! – and eased the stick back towards him.
The enemy fighters appeared not to have seen them yet and Jackson felt a surge of adrenalin – although his heart was still pounding, his earlier fear had gone, replaced by excitement, ecstasy even. Flicking off the gun safety catch, he held his thumb poised. Dennis, he saw, had picked out a 110 on the right of the formation, but Jackson decided to go for one in the middle and carefully lined himself up. He was gaining on the Messerschmitt. Wait, he told himself. Let him fill the gunsight. He was now just seven hundred yards away and still rapidly closing, but that was not yet close enough. Four hundred yards was the prescribed distance, but he had never forgotten what his instructor had told him at flying school – that a fighter pilot should always get as close as he possibly could before firing. Jackson had listened to that advice – Mick Channon had been an ace in the last war.
Six hundred yards, five hundred, and then the formation spotted that they were about to come under attack. The Messerschmitt in front of him began to weave then bank to port and at the same time the rear gunner opened fire. Jackson saw orange sparks of tracer arcing towards him, slowly it seemed, but then suddenly they seemed to flash wide past him.
‘He’s firing at me!’ Jackson said out loud. He opened the boost, felt the Spitfire surge forward as he swept across the sky, the Messerschmitt still in his gunsight. Four hundred yards, three hundred, two hundred and fifty. Now! Jackson pressed his thumb down on the tiny red button. A long burst of his eight Browning machine guns and the Spitfire shuddered from the recoil, jolting Jackson in his seat. The Messerschmitt ahead seemed to wobble and now within just two hundred yards, the 110 huge and close, Jackson opened fire again, his mouth set in a determined grimace as he did so. The return fire stopped immediately and he saw from his own lines of tracer that he had raked the fuselage.
Have I killed a man? he thought, but then a puff of dark smoke came from the enemy aircraft and it banked to the right and stalled, and for a split heart-stopping second, Jackson thought he was going to collide with it. Instinctively, he ducked his head – not that it would do him any good – as his Spitfire flashed past a huge grey wing, missing it by what seemed like only inches.
Boy, that was close, thought Jackson, gasping heavily, his chest hammering. But he’d shot down an enemy plane – his first combat sortie and he’d scored already! A wave of exhilaration consumed him, and he glanced around and saw a Stuka diving down away to his right, a long stream of smoke following behind. Jackson banked and began to climb once more, thinking he should try to rejoin the fray, but he was amazed by how far away they already seemed – distant specks towards the coast. He watched another plane dropping from the sky – another Stuka he thought, and so pulled back on the stick and began to climb towards them.
Orange flashes whipped past his cockpit and he heard machine-gun fire crackling in his ears. Momentary panic gripped him as he frantically looked behind him – but there was nothing. Then a moment later he saw two Messerschmitts diving at him from the north, and more tracer curling towards him. And these were not twin-engine 110s, but single-engine fighters, Me 109s.
Jackson cursed, the words of the station commander at Northolt ringing in his ears: ‘Watch your back!’ he’d said, which was precisely what Jackson had forgotten to do. Another piece of advice now came to him, the words of Mick Channon: ‘Always turn in towards your attacker.’
His breathing heavy, his heart hammering, Jackson now did so, and felt his harness cut into his shoulders and his goggles slip down from his helmet, partially covering his eyes. Frantically, he pushed them back, and saw he was now heading straight for one of his attackers. He pressed down on the gun-button, the Spitfire jerked, and to his utter amazement the Messerschmitt belched a gush of black smoke and dropped out of the sky. Jackson quickly glanced around again, only to see a third 109, this time attacking from the rig
ht.
‘Oh my God!’ he said out loud as more tracer hurtled past him. There was a clatter, the Spitfire jolted and he saw a line of bullet holes across the wing, but his machine still seemed to be flying all right.
A Messerschmitt now thundered over him, its pale underside streaked with oil, the black crosses vividly clear, the wash of its passage jerking his Spitfire with sudden turbulence. But no sooner had it gone than more tracer whipped past him. Jackson banked again, as tightly as he dared, and felt himself pressed hard into his seat, his vision blurring and greying, yet as he emerged from the turn, sweat now pouring down his face, he glanced in his mirror and saw the 109 still doggedly on his tail.
‘Damn it! Damn it!’ exclaimed Jackson. More tracer curled towards him, and Jackson flung his Spitfire one way then another, radio static and chatter still crackling in his ears, the horizon sliding back and forth. Frantically, he kept glancing back but no matter what he did the Messerschmitt still kept on his tail. Jackson felt helpless, unsure what he should do, but then there was an ear-splitting crack, and the Spitfire jolted.
‘Christ!’ whispered Jackson. Where had he been hit? Another punch as a cannon shell tore into his plane, so hard it was like a giant fist ramming into him. Smoke now burst from the engine and flooded into the cockpit. His Spitfire was knocked upside down and he was spinning, the control column limp in his hands. He was falling out of the sky, his plane out of control and smoke billowing behind him, the sky and the ground spiralling, his altimeter spinning backwards too fast to read. I’m going to die, he thought to himself.
A moment later the control column hit his leg and, clutching it once more, Jackson felt the stick respond after all. Pushing it forward and applying the left rudder hard, he was amazed the Spitfire miraculously recovered from the spin. He gasped and opened the canopy so that the smoke whipped out. Wiping his brow, he pulled off his oxygen mask, pushed his flying helmet back off his forehead and glanced upwards. Two 109s were still circling, but they were several thousand feet above him.
Dunkirk Page 3