Island Redoubt Page 8

  The RSM, his blackthorn stick under his arm, took control of the soldiers streaming onto the road, quelling panic, restoring calm, soothing battered nerves. As shells whistled overhead and decimated the German attack, the Colonel, putting on a show of defiance strode about, as if shell proof, stiffening his men’s resolve. Officers and NCOs began to follow suit and an orderly withdrawal began. A drone from on high had the men swivelling their heads to check the sky. A squadron of Blenheims escorted by Spitfires was heading east - a cheering reminder that the British could still take the offensive. But they would not see the battle in which this attacking force was all but destroyed by two squadrons of Messerschmitts patrolling over Lille.

  ‘By the front quick march! Left, right, left, right, left, right, lefffttt!’, shouted the RSM over the sound of battle. Everywhere men picked up the step and shouldered their arms.

  ‘Let’s have a bit of swagger, gentlemen!’, shouted the CO, developing the theme. ‘We’re not beaten!’ The RSM stopped and tapped out the rhythm with the metal tip of his cane pounding the tarmacked road.

  ‘Left, right, left, right, left, right, lefffttt! Keep it going! Heads up!’ And as they marched the sound of battle got more and more distant. Those men who had been shaken by the bloody fighting regained their nerve and spirit. They could and would fight another day.

  The Road to Dunkirk

  They joined what became an exodus but each of them was shocked at the scale of the withdrawal. To actually see hundreds of thousands of men heading in one direction and with one purpose was quite staggering. They were no longer marching in step or as a battalion, the CO having decided that smaller groups of men would more easily complete the journey. Initially, they were a company, then a platoon but Horsley-Palmer decided that even that large a grouping was impracticable. It hadn't quite become every man for himself but it wasn't too far removed either. He had gone off with two of his brother officers and their sergeant had gone off with the SQMS, hoping that two men would make the dash to the coast more quickly.

  Now they were just a section with Ernie, newly promoted to corporal, in charge. Tommy Martin was now an acting lance-corporal and had a stripe attached to his arm by means of two safety pins taken from a medical box.

  ‘Don’t let it go to your head, Tommy. You’re still just a little shoite as far as we’re concerned’, said Tony with all the warmth and admiration he could muster - that is to say, none. Tommy paid him no heed but used his new power rarely and with discretion….although he was secretly pleased with himself.

  The road led them to Hazebrouck and then to Wormhout but each junction was manned by unhappy looking MPs who no doubt wished that they were on their way to the coast as well. However, they kept their heads, if not their sense of humour and unsmilingly pointed the soldiers in the right direction. In truth those soldiers had to do no more than follow the thousands of men in front but the MPs kept to their posts.

  For their part the Luftwaffe made attempt after attempt to destroy the columns of men but each time they took to the skies above Dunkirk Spitfires and Hurricanes were on hand to pounce, sending the opportunist attackers plunging to the ground or heading at speed back to base. Not every interception ended in this way of course and Sam watched with sadness as on several occasions British fighters fell burning to the ground. Rarely did a parachute appear from these burning tombs as they plummeted earthwards. Those who envied the pilots their glamorous status were now able to witness the other, less palatable side to their job.

  A more effective impediment than the Luftwaffe came in the form of refugees who wearily clogged the roads and moved pitifully slowly. Although the soldiers generally maintained their discipline there were times when the unfortunate refugees received a less than generous response from their intended saviours.

  The fields surrounding the town were by now littered with dead livestock and horses but also in many places tanks, trucks and guns. These were mostly British but some French as well. They sat lifeless, abandoned, destroyed by their crews or by the Luftwaffe. There had come a realisation that many of the British tanks were nothing more than a liability, lacking armour and firepower. The trucks were never going to get back to Britain either; better to abandon them and walk.

  At first the retreating men from countless battalions and regiments, stared disbelievingly at the wanton destruction that marked their way. They marched through the ruins of a great army - the one they had always been told was the best in the world; the one, in fact, which had beaten the Germans in 1918. And yet now it seemed to be a gigantic, sprawling, dismembered, smoking ruin.

  As they closed in on the coast they came across more and more trucks, these having been driven as far as was practicable before being fired or sabotaged. But still some things worked. AA guns dotted the area manned by crews still willing to take on the enemy and sometimes, though rarely, win. And British fighters still swept the skies, cleansing them of German intruders.

  ‘And supposing’ we do get to the coast, Ernie, what then? How are this number of men going to get home?’

  ‘God knows, but what else can we do?’, said Ernie reasonably.

  ‘We’ll end up swimmin’ it’, said Sam.

  ‘Well I might just swim back to Dublin’, joked Tony. Ronnie tried to visualise the journey he would have to make and shook his head in what might have been genuine confusion.

  They tramped for hours. Their boots pounded out a rhythm that kept them involuntarily in step and each man had his own thoughts or his own catalogue of popular songs going on in his head as he tried to keep monotony at bay. They were proving that could still do route marches just like the old timers talked about and that they were as tough and disciplined as any British soldiers that went before them. They had nothing to be ashamed of, even in defeat, and allowing for tiredness and fear, each man could hold his head high.

  The soldiers still had their rifles and some ammunition - they could still fight and would do - but not without practical difficulties. Taken away from the pride and innate discipline of their own regiments there was less to bind the men together as a fighting unit should it prove to be necessary. Some other RSM was not the same as their RSM. Another Lieutenant-Colonel was of the same rank but not of the same worth as their commanding officer. They witnessed instances of gross insubordination and they also saw NCOs and officers looking the other way as men gave in to panic.

  Now was not the time to sort these men out into an army again - that would come later. There were, of course, deserters filling the serried ranks of soldiers marching on Dunkirk. For now the Army was less of a cohesive force and more of a river of humanity flowing towards one spot and with one purpose. They had to get back to Britain, put that stretch of water between them and their enemies. They had to get more men and more equipment and they had to learn how to fight differently but with the same determination that they had already shown.

  They passed through villages, largely deserted. Some older people had remained, resigned to fate. In one, south of Dunkirk, they saw a French soldier skulking in a back garden, furtive yet seemingly defiant too. He was unarmed but still in his uniform, having escaped from the Germans who were a little too dismissive of their prisoners.

  Ernie’s section passed through another undistinguished village and sheltered inside a house as Messerschmitts and Stukas swept overhead. Machine gun bullets glanced off walls, dislodged brick, chewed wood and the crump of bombs razed humble dwellings to the ground. The men tried to hug the floor, hoping for the best and when the danger seemed to have passed they uncurled themselves like woodland animals coming out of hibernation. It was then that they realised that they had not been alone. A lieutenant and a corporal (or more correctly, a bombardier) rose from the debris-strewn floor like two wraiths and immediately launched into an argument. The section looked on aghast, the two soldiers locked in a private dispute which continued now that the immediate danger had passed. They acted as if there were no witnesses present.

  ‘I’m not fucki
ng going out there, sir.’

  ‘I am ordering you to go out there, bombardier.’

  ‘What’s the fucking point?’, wailed the NCO. ‘I can do it from in here. In fact I can do it better from in here.’

  ‘Out!’, screamed the officer. His hand hovered around his pistol belt as if he was in a quick draw competition. The tips of his fingers nervously touched the butt of his Webley revolver.

  ‘I’ll get fucking killed out there. I can see what I need to see from in here! If I am dead I can’t direct the artillery, can I?’ The bombardier took his helmet off and threw it on the floor in absolute frustration. ‘I fucking volunteered for this job! And now you come along, talking out of your arse.’

  ‘I’ll have you court-martialled.’

  ‘Fine. Now, piss off.’

  For the first time the two antagonists seemed to notice the open-mouthed fusiliers.

  ‘Corporal arrest this man.’

  Ernie shook his head.

  ‘No chance, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No chance. Just get out of here, sir. You need a doctor.’ He turned to Tommy. ‘Let’s get them out of here.’ The infantrymen trooped out, bemused and confused. ‘I think that’s what you call ‘battle fatigue’, perhaps’, said the NCO.

  On the first of June they passed through a ring of French and British defences surrounding the port of Dunkirk. The defenders scowled at them, each knowing that his fate was likely to be very different to that of whom they were defending. They crouched behind Vickers guns, their belts of ammo hanging ready to be fed into the gun’s mechanism and deal death to their enemies. The ancient narrow streets were guarded by the ubiquitous two-pounder anti-tank gun tucked in behind sand bags or other makeshift defences, including beds, carts and vans. Basements had been put into use as flimsy pill boxes and here and there the muzzle of a Bren or a Lee Enfield could be seen.

  As they strode into the town an air battle could be heard but not seen through the narrow vista allowed to them from the closed streets. They hoped that the RAF was gaining the upper hand. Now and again smoke would drift across and darken the sky, like God's hand passing over. As they emerged onto the seafront the men felt compelled to look back at Dunkirk. Smoke billowed blackly from a dozen fires wounding the old town. Church spires stood defiantly as if their Christian message held the power to repel those who came behind them. They came to the dunes and sat down gratefully.

  ‘Make yourselves comfy lads. You’ve got a wait but we’ll get you off the dunes.’ The leading seaman who spoke these words seemed confident and cheery even. He wore his normal uniform with puttees and a naval greatcoat with khaki webbing over the top. He carried a Lee Enfield and the name of his ship was missing from his hat band - only the letters HMS appeared there.

  ‘So what’s your job, then mate?’, asked Ernie.

  ‘Just organisin’ the troops for evacuation. I would say you’ll be off the beach sometime tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’, said Sam. ‘The fuckin’ Jerries are over there’, he said pointing back at the town.

  ‘They’ve been over there for days now. Just hope they stay there.’

  ‘How many soldiers have got off?’, asked Ronnie.

  ‘Thousands. You should have seen it yesterday. This beach was packed.’

  Sam looked at the beach - it still seemed packed to him. The sailor followed his gaze.

  ‘Much worse than this’, he said, nodding his head, sagely. ‘Much worse.’

  ‘There’s thousands behind us’, said Bill.

  ‘Well, with any luck you’ll get off before them. Gotta go. New arrivals.’ And with that he strode across the dunes to a group of TA Highlanders who had all but collapsed onto the sand. The leading seaman began his spiel all over again.

  ‘Would you just look at that’, said Ernie. Like the rest of them he was awed at the sight of so many men concentrated in one spot. The beach was like a great picnic area. There were khaki uniforms for as far as the eye could see, interspersed with the blue of the RAF and French Army green. From the edge of the beach, lines of men waited in the freezing waters for boats to pluck them to safety and either transfer them to a larger craft or to take them straight home. Men stood with their rifles aloft and the Navy, aided by sundry officers and Military Police tried to maintain discipline. They particularly frowned upon soldiers who attempted to ditch their weapons.

  Little boats to’ed and fro’ed, busy hands pulling freezing and exhausted men from the sea. Ernie let out a long sigh.

  ‘Lookin’ at all that makes me think we’ll be bloody lucky to get off tomorrow.’

  ‘Or ever’, added Tony with an uncharacteristic gloomy tone.

  Beyond the small craft sat the proud destroyers of the Royal Navy and a motley but vast array of merchantmen. The destroyers began firing heavenwards, pre-warned of a Stuka attack. The dive-bombers fell upon the vulnerable craft, releasing bombs that, on this occasion, straddled but didn’t hit any target. A squadron of Hurricanes scorched into view tearing at the Stukas as they tried to make it back inland. A cheer rose from the beach as one German aircraft began to blaze and another trailed smoke.

  ‘Bastards’, spat Tony with considerable venom. The others nodded but when the little duel was finished they were left with their own thoughts of home. As night drew in it got cold and they huddled together, drawing their uniform collars and cuffs tight against their skin.

  ‘I don’t suppose that there’s anywhere to get food’, said Tony.

  ‘I’ve not seen anything’, replied Sam. ‘Maybe we’ll get something on the boat tomorrow.’ Tony looked at him with disbelief on his face.

  ‘Aye, maybe. On the boat.’ He spoke distractedly looking out to sea and with no belief that they would find themselves on any boat tomorrow or the day after.

  An army officer with a megaphone summoned recently arrived NCOs and officers to his presence. Various weary souls made their way over in the gloom and listened as he told them that they had to maintain their men’s discipline and morale and also move down the beach, nearer to the water’s edge. He talked with confidence, hoping to inspire.

  ‘Right lads’, said Ernie upon his return. There’s no grub unless you brought it with you but they’re going to try to get some chocolate and urns of tea organised. We need to move down the beach to allow the newest arrivals to take over the dunes. They have lots of boats and ships coming tomorrow and we need to be ready…. from the morning…. to move if a ship turns up. He said that we could be waiting all day and maybe all night, though. Don’t think of ditching your rifles or equipment - it could mean you not getting on at all.’ He looked at his section. They listened intently, trustingly, just as they had listened to Yewell. He was quite touched at their faith in him. ‘I think the last bit’s an idle threat but we’re going to keep our rifles anyway, no matter what. Agreed?’ The soldiers nodded their heads. ‘Right let’s move down and try to get some kip.’

  They found a patch of beach and huddled together as night closed in. Around them the air was pricked by the orange glow of cigarettes. Men discussed the future, sometimes in whispers as if afraid to disturb their neighbours and sometimes with disconcerting loudness. They couldn’t hide their presence from the Germans by keeping their voices low. They knew precisely where they were and no amount of whispering could hide them - but most men wanted to sleep. Every now and again and unseen voice would urge them to move forward and they would gather their kit, shuffle forward and sit. They did this several times during the night but as dawn broke they were disappointed to see how far to the rear they still were. A huge expanse of sand still lay between them and relative safety. Thousands of disconsolate and careworn soldiers still had to be found places on ships before it was their turn.

  ‘Did you sleep much?, asked Tony

  ‘A bit but I was so cold it feels as if I was awake all night.’ Sam beckoned the other man closer. ‘Do you see who’s behind us?’

  ‘No’, said Tony. He made no attempt to see wh
o it was.

  ‘Well, have a look, eejit.’

  Tony propped himself up on one elbow to peer behind him.

  ‘Fuck me. Greenhalgh, our illustrious adj. He’s having a good war, isn’t he?’

  Captain Greenhalgh seemed to have teamed up with a foppish looking cavalry officer of his acquaintance. Each appeared to have a small supply of champagne and posh chocolates in fancy boxes. Greenhalgh noticed O’Keefe but tried to pay no attention to him, grasping his champagne bottle by the neck and taking a nonchalant swig. He was acting out the role of archetypal cad with an ease that spoke of his experience in that role. O’Keefe was having none of it.

  ‘Hello, sir’, he called out, with a faux-friendly wave. Ernie reprimanded him.

  ‘Sit down for fuck’s sake, Tony.’

  ‘I want some chocolate, Ernie’, he replied reasonably. Greenhalgh was studiously ignoring the big Irishman. ‘Sir!’ he called again. ‘Captain Greenhalgh! It’s Fusilier O’Keefe. How are ya doin’?’ He was enjoying the officer’s discomfiture. The adjutant could no longer ignore him.

  ‘I’m fine O’Keefe. Nice to see you made it’, he said with forced pleasantness.

  ‘Aye, of course, sir’, muttered Tommy Martin, beneath his breath. Naturally Tony wasn’t finished.

  ‘Nice chocolate is it, sir?’ The officer struggled to think of a witty riposte that would bring this unwelcome conversation to an end. Sadly, he was fresh out of witty rejoinders. ‘Can we have some? Please. Sir.’ Greenhalgh simply turned away and said something to his companion who bellowed and shoved another chocolate into his mouth.