Ride Out The Storm (29 page)

This wasn’t at all how he’d expected war to be. The drawings in the magazines he’d read had never shown men being blown to pieces so small that no trace of them could be found, had never shown them run down by their own ships, had indicated nothing of the terror or the weariness of exhausted and wounded men. They’d never explained that blood could stain a deck so that it was impossible to get rid of it with the deck scrubber, or how an injured man screamed when he was flung down by the swing of the boat. They’d never conveyed the stink that was drifting off the stranded ships, a compound of burning wood and burning flesh and putrefaction that filled the nostrils and was almost possible to taste. No, this wasn’t a bit how he’d imagined war.

It wasn’t how Scharroo had visualised it either.

He and Marie-Josephine had spent the night clutching each other for warmth in a hole in the sand dunes. As daylight came, Scharroo had released himself gently and sat up stiffly. A moment later Marie-Josephine stirred and, as she sat up, too, Scharroo ran a hand over the stubble on his chin and offered her a cigarette. She was dark-eyed with tiredness and her face was pale, but the fastidiousness in her nature drove her to find a comb in her pocket and automatically drag it through her hair.

‘It’s time we were going,’ Scharroo said.

Eddies of breeze were coiling wisps of black smoke down towards the sand, and Scharroo could smell an acrid smell of burning which was touched with the scent of pine trees that he remembered from his youth. Marie-Josephine was peering narrowed-eyed towards the sea and for a while he stood watching her. She’d dropped the stained cream coat to the sand and stood straight and slim and small, the breeze blowing her hair about her face, her thin flowered dress flattened against her figure and legs. He said nothing, enjoying the lull in the bombing, with the luxurious feeling of safety and the sight of a pretty girl among all the misery and terror. He studied her fresh-complexioned face for the hundredth time, the large evasive eyes that were sometimes sullen and sometimes as hard as agate with determination. Behind the gamin there was a rapidly maturing woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

Marie-Josephine was looking worried, however, and at last her problem burst out of her. Her chin lifted and she swung round to face him. ‘I think I will go to England,’ she said.

Scharroo flung down his cigarette. ‘England, for Christ’s sake! Why? The war’s going to end soon.’

Marie-Josephine shook her head, quite certain in her mind that he was wrong. France had been down before but she’d always recovered and, with true Gallic arrogance, the girl couldn’t believe that God would permit such barbarians as the Germans to conquer a nation as cultured, as noble, as intelligent, as gallant as the French.

‘I think not,’ she said.

She gestured at the wreckage-littered beach. Ships were appearing now and dozens of small boats were moving between them and the patient queues of men like beetles on a pond. ‘They do not go to all this trouble if they wish to surrender, I think,’ she pointed out.

What she said made sense. Scharroo had never had much time for the British but the effort that was being made to remove their army clearly didn’t seem to indicate any immediate intention to give in.

‘I do not wish to remain in a defeated country,’ Marie-Josephine went on. ‘In my town, all was occupied by the Germans in 1914. It is occupied in 1870 also. I do not think I wish to live like that.’

Scharroo frowned. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said. ‘If the British go on fighting, the war might go on for years, for ever. You’ll never come back.’

She shrugged. She was more peasant than she thought and possessed a peasant’s straight-thinking contempt for vacillation. ‘Perhaps that is better than to be ruled by Germans. I will encourage someone to take me with them.’

Scharroo stared towards the sea and the hurrying boats. At that moment the destroyers’ guns began to fire and he saw small puff-balls of smoke appear in the sky near a group of glittering dots that he knew were aeroplanes.

‘By God,’ he shouted, as they started to run for the dunes, ‘you’ll be lucky.’

Luck was what Stoos needed, too, just then.

It was not his idea of military glory to sit in his tent awaiting a court martial. He’d had to wait though the whole of the previous interminable day, watching the machines taking off and landing, their crews strained and silent now with exhaustion. Schultze and von Ahlefeld had failed to return and that morning Dziecielski had returned wounded, his gunner dead in his seat.

‘They’re shooting us down like rooks,’ he’d said as they’d lifted him from the cockpit.

Stoos had spent the morning alone, eating alone, waiting alone. He couldn’t drag himself away from the aeroplanes and went to watch every time they took off and landed. In the mess tent he sat in silence, preferring not to answer questions, and no one bothered him as they swallowed their cold hock and French wine and grabbed what food they could cram into their mouths before the next call came.

Dawn had arrived with mist in the fields, so that the trees stood out like ghostly shapes and the stark lines of the Stukas had been softened into blurred bat shapes. His feet in the dewy grass, Stoos stared at the sky. He could hear aeroplanes droning overhead towards the beaches from the German border or further to the south where the knuckled hills of the Somme protruded from the mist.

As he stood with his hands in his pockets, brooding, an engine started up, rising to a scream as the mechanic revved it against the brakes. The sound made Stoos shudder with anticipation, then his shoulders slumped again as he realised it didn’t concern him. He lit a cigarette, one of the English ones they’d captured, drew a few puffs and then threw it away. As he did so, he became aware of his gunner, Wunsche, standing behind him.

‘Will they let us fly, Herr Leutnant?’ he asked.

Stoos shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I don’t know. I have been grounded.’ As Wunsche vanished, Stoos wandered disconsolately towards the hangar. D/6980 was standing outside, the mist beading the cockpit cover.

Hamcke was by the entrance watching him, and Stoos forced himself to ignore him and walked round the machine, starting at the tail as he’d been taught, checking the fuselage, flaps, ailerons and lights. After a while, unable to resist the temptation, he climbed on to the wing and eventually into the cockpit, and sat there, the sun on his neck, deep in thought, thinking of Warsaw and Rotterdam and the roads from Brussels. The dive had never ceased to thrill him.

He became aware of Hamcke standing on the wing alongside him. He was endeavouring to put things right, trying to allow for the fact that, like himself, Stoos was over-tired and affected by the strain of the campaign.

‘She’s all right now, Herr Leutnant,’ he said. ‘She’s ready for testing.’

Stoos turned his head and eyed Hamcke coldly. ‘At the moment, Hamcke,’ he said, ‘I’m not on the flying roster. As you well know.’

Hamcke flinched as though he’d been struck again and climbed off the wing. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘someone’ll have to do it. Everything we’ve got’s going to be needed before we’re finished.’

It was a feeling that was echoed by the men on the other side as well, and particularly by the admiral at Dover.

With the news of yet another destroyer lost in the first hours of the morning, came the information that several personnel ships which had left England during the night had vanished entirely in the darkness, and the admiral dared not risk any more of them to crowd the narrows until he knew where they were.

‘We’d better suspend sailings until we learn a little more,’ he said.

The SOO glanced at a list in his hand. ‘Perhaps the position’s not as bad as it seems, sir,’ he suggested.

The admiral frowned. ‘We can’t take any chances. What about the French? Are they co-operating?’

‘I understand they’re arriving on the beaches and the mole in increasing numbers. The formal instruction that they’re to be given equal opportunity with our chaps has arrived from London. During the night, though, there was heavy mine-laying from the air and
Vimy
reported seeing a submarine off the Goodwins.’

The admiral made no comment and the SOO went on. There’s one other thing, sir. These batteries they’ve set up near Gravelines – Mardyck, it’s believed – they’re only four miles away now and they have the range of all ships coming out of the harbour area. They’ve been engaged, of course, but it’s not known with how much success.’

The admiral took a turn up and down the room. ‘I breakfasted with General Brooke,’ he said. ‘He thought we’d have to continue for a few more days.’

The SOO raised his eyebrows. ‘It’ll be difficult, sir.’

‘Gort’s people seem to think we might manage.’ The admiral gestured. ‘We’ll move what’s left of the small craft from Ramsgate to make their main effort after midnight tonight. I think if we proceed on the same lines we’ve got a fair chance of success.’ He paused. ‘I hope so,’ he ended.

Hatton hoped so, too.

With daylight, his uneasiness had increased.
Vital
was built for speed and was light and fragile. Her side plating was astonishingly thin yet Hough had slammed her against the pier as though she were a tough old ferry reinforced with rubbing strakes.

Among the men now waiting were several stretcher cases. ‘Sorry about these chaps,’ the piermaster called across to Hatton. ‘But we can’t get them aboard from the beaches, and orders have been given to leave ’em. After these, you’re only to pick up unwounded who’ll be able to fight again. There’s no room and no time for the others.’

He saw Hatton staring at him, worried by the instructions. ‘It’s the only intelligent thing to do,’ he explained. ‘It’s bloody awful for them, I know, but we’ve no alternative.’

He took off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair. He looked exhausted and gratefully accepted the tot of rum Hough’s steward brought down for him. ‘Look, for God’s sake,’ he said to Hatton as he left. ‘Ask your captain to make a signal to Dover that we can take as many ships in here as they can send. They’re
still
going to the beaches and, because of that, so are the men.’

Hatton himself carried the signal to the radio cabin and heard the cheep-cheep of the set as it was sent off. Back on the bridge, Hough was looking worried. The piermaster was right. The supply of men moving along the mole was already dwindling.

‘You’re the expert, Hatton,’ he said. ‘Nip along there and see if you can round up any more.’

His flesh crawling, Hatton moved warily into the town. There was a monument at the shore end of the mole where the shells were bursting with terrifying regularity, but the ruined buildings nearby seemed to have emptied and he stood alone on the littered pavé, his feet among the abandoned packs and steel helmets that were strewn among the pulverised bricks and scattered tiles.

‘Any more for the
Skylark
?’
he yelled.

Three or four men appeared and he directed them to the pier, but no one else came, and he reported back to the ship.

‘They must all be on the beach, sir,’ he said.

Hough cursed. ‘Damnation! All right, let’s go. Number One, grab all the boats you can see and get them to feed the troops to us. Nothing’s to hold us up. Understand?’

Among the boats
Vital
’s
first lieutenant called on the loud hailer was
Daisy.

The whalers that had been feeding soldiers to her seemed to have disappeared, and in the end Gilbert Williams had decided to go into the shallows himself. All around them were other boats, their engines drumming, their exhausts like pale feathers against the water, and as
Daisy
nosed up to a queue of soldiers, the men surged forward, desperate to get aboard. Several disappeared from sight and failed to reappear. There was no struggle, as though in the extremities of exhaustion there was nothing left to give, and Kenny saw a man he was reaching out for simply sink out of sight, his agonised eyes beneath the helmet vanishing as he made no attempt to save himself.

For a moment, he stared at the ripples on the surface of the water. Then he came to life with a jerk, aware of dozens of hands grasping the side of the boat, clinging desperately to what seemed like a rock in their distress. He reached down and grasped one. With the weight of water in the man’s clothes it was impossible to haul him aboard.

Ernie Williams joined him and the man flopped on the deck like a stranded fish before dragging himself to his knees and crawling aft.

‘There’s a bunch of wounded on a pier just over there,’ an officer pointed out.

The pier was made from lorries and trucks and there was considerable difficulty with the lifting swell and the crowded conditions on
Daisy
’s
decks, and Gilbert Williams was beginning to watch the lightening sky nervously. ‘Get them fellers aboard,’ he kept saying. ‘Get ’em aboard quick!’

As they headed towards
Vital,
they passed a group in a rubber dinghy paddling with the butts of their rifles.

‘Give us a hand, mate,’ one of them croaked. ‘We’re sinking!’

‘You’re doing better than you think.’ Gilbert shouted back. ‘Save your breath for baling.’

‘What’ll we bale with?’