The Cavendon Luck

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  The hospital ships were also floating out there, and were clearly marked with large red crosses. Not that this emblem prevented the Luftwaffe from bombing them on a regular basis. Most of the patients on board were killed along with doctors, nurses, and the crews. British casualties in all the services had been enormous. Such a lot of lives had been lost, it was heartbreaking.

  Charlie was aware that the losses had been caused by torpedoes from U-boats and submarines, as well as the planes, and the fighting in the trenches. Unfortunately the Royal Air Force had been badly decimated. After losing their last airbase at Merville in France, they now had to cross the Channel, which took much more flying time. But they were a good match for the Stukas.

  This was a most deadly war, one being fought on the land, on the sea, and in the air, and against a vile and evil man and his violent regime, the Third Reich. Charlie understood they must win it at all costs.

  “Let’s walk down to the mole,” Joe suggested, referring to the Dunkirk jetty. “I know someone who works for Vice Admiral William Wake-Walker, and he’s often taking a stroll at this time. His name’s Major Jack Remmington, and he’s a mine of information.”

  “I know of the admiral but never met him,” Charlie said. “He’s in charge of directing shipping off Dunkirk, but I don’t know of Major Remmington.”

  “I think we can pick up some bits and pieces, useful stuff, if he’s around,” Joe answered.

  “Let’s go and look for him,” Kenny interjected. “I’d like to know if we’re really leaving tonight. You never know, they might have got us mixed up with the Grenadier Guards—”

  “Let’s not forget our motto, Nulli Secundus. Second to None,” Charlie said. “We’ll be on a ship, you’ll see … don’t be such a doubting Thomas, Kenny. Be like me, an optimistic Oliver.”

  “I’ve never heard of that particular saying,” Kenny said.

  Charlie just laughed.

  * * *

  Joe Wortley had been right. Major Remmington was on the jetty, smoking a cigarette and gazing out to sea. He turned around when he heard the men walking along the mole, and his face lit up when he saw Joe.

  After they had greeted each other warmly, Joe introduced his companions. “This is Captain Charlie Stanton and Lieutenant Kenny Bourne. Coldstreamers like me. We came out for a last look at Dunkirk. Hopefully we’re leaving tonight.”

  Remmington nodded. “I believe you are—” He suddenly broke off, all of his attention directed at the sea.

  “Well, I never thought I’d see this! I can hardly believe it!” Remmington exclaimed. “Oh my God, what a wonderful sight … for sore eyes. For any eyes. It’s like a miracle.”

  “What are you talking about, sir?” Joe asked, sounding perplexed.

  “Out there. Look out there, Sergeant.”

  Joe followed the major’s gaze. So did Charlie and Kenny, and they all caught their breath and uttered exclamations of surprise and puzzlement.

  “It’s like a little armada,” Kenny said, his surprise lingering.

  “A little mighty armada, more like,” Charlie announced.

  Major Remmington nodded, then smiled hugely. “They listened to Admiral Ramsay’s appeal. He asked them to come. He said, ‘Come and help our boys get off the beaches. Come and rescue them. They’re stranded in Dunkirk.’ And they have come. To get the boys off the beaches … the citizens of England, civilians, ordinary men heard the admiral’s call and responded.”

  The major straightened up. “It’s them … they’re the great in the name Great Britain … the people. Our people.” He saluted the small craft coming toward them slowly, and so did the other three men.

  Charlie said, “I can’t believe the craft I’m seeing. Motor yachts, launches, fishing boats, pleasure steamers, canoes, ferries, barges from the canals, dinghies, even lifeboats. It truly is a mighty armada of little boats. What a beautiful sight.”

  “And they’ll come to the mole. They can sail in easily, into the shallows. Whereas the big ships can’t. And they’ll soon be filled with our troops, and they’ll be towed out by tugs … out to the ships that will carry them home to safety,” Major Remmington said.

  As the mighty little armada drew closer, Charlie was so moved by the sight, the meaning behind this extraordinary action, he choked up. Filled with emotion, he was unable to speak for a few moments.

  Eventually, he said in a quiet tone, “These ordinary people left England immediately when they were called, and all they had were their mighty hearts and anything that sailed. And sail they did. Right into this hellfire that is Dunkirk. They will rescue us boys on the beaches, and they will be heroes, each and every one. But they’ll brush off our accolades and our thanks. They’ll simply smile modestly and say they just did the right thing.”

  * * *

  Later that night, around seven o’clock, the First Battalion and Second Battalion of the Coldstream Guards marched to the mole, where they were to be ferried from the Dunkirk jetty out to the big ships.

  As they passed one of the beaches, Charlie and Kenny were astounded by the number of soldiers from other regiments waiting there. Quiet, orderly, patient. Just standing in long lines. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. For their turn. Exhausted, battle-scarred, and hopeful.

  “That queue must be five miles long,” Charlie muttered to Kenny, who did not reply. He could only wonder how the Royal Navy and the little boats would be able to move and save them all.

  * * *

  Major Remmington and a number of naval officers were waiting on the mole, and quickly explained to the first troops to come up how they would commence the evacuation.

  Already docked at the jetty was a whaler and one of the civilian armada boats, a motor launch manned by the owner, an accountant from Dover, and two of his sailing friends. The launch was named The Flying Dutchman.

  “This is what’s going to happen,” Remmington announced in a clear, loud voice to the soldiers. “The Flying Dutchman launch will attach to a whaler and pull it in as close to the jetty as is safe. Men will get into the whaler and the launch, The Flying Dutchman, will then pull the whaler out to sea to the big ships. The launch will return to pick up more men. But in the meantime, as the first men are leaving, another armada boat will soon arrive attached to a whaler, and do the same thing. It’s a kind of relay service, and it’s worked well since we started at five.”

  Remmington grimaced. “Well, we did have one accident earlier, when a whaler overturned, because it was choppy and windy. But since then, it’s been a smooth operation. The weather’s improved. No wind and the sea is calm.”

  Group after group of Coldstream Guards went off in the whaler and launch, in an orderly manner, and after an hour Charlie’s platoon, along with Charlie and Kenny, went down into the whaler and launch. Joe Wortley and another platoon would follow right behind in another whaler when it arrived.

  Once they were away from the jetty and out to sea, Charlie looked back at Dunkirk and shook his head sadly. The town was fiercely burning, the air thick with acrid smoke; there was the smell of diesel oil, cordite, and another strange smell he couldn’t quite define. When he asked Kenny, who was sitting next to him in the launch, what the weird smell was, Kenny whispered, “Blood. Gallons of it from the dead and the dying.”

  Kenny turned his head, looked over the edge of the launch. “All of them are floating around us. Look at the sea, it’s red with blood.”

  Charlie did so and was stunned. He had been concentrating on Dunkirk going up in flames, looking ahead, not down into the water. A sense of immense anguish gripped him as he saw all these British soldiers floating everywhere, and understood then why the launch was moving at a certain pace, not quite as fast as he had expected. The cries of the wounded and dying men made his heart clench with sorrow. What a waste.

  A moment later he was ducking down as the Luftwaffe planes swept in, machine-gunning the little armada boats and in the distance the big ships.

  As the planes drew closer to The Flying Dut
chman, Charlie shouted to Kenny and his men, “Stay down! The bloody Jerries are bombing the destroyers. And our men climbing the nets on the sides of the ships. And us, too.”

  Several explosions rocked the whaler and the launch, but doggedly the three civilian men ploughed on undeterred, determined to carry out as many rescues as possible.

  Charlie knew that earlier that week, on May 29, the Germans had targeted ten British ships, five in the harbor. Three big raids had put seven out of action. The damage and carnage were enormous.

  The admirals in Dover and London decided the remaining ships had to be pulled out to protect them. But they were returned to action swiftly, in order to speed up the evacuation.

  Today was May 31. Now he remembered that the rescue was supposed to end by June 1. Tomorrow. Would they all make it?

  * * *

  Unexpectedly the Luftwaffe raid ended and the planes flew off. The Flying Dutchman increased its speed at once and it pulled farther out to sea, away from all the dead bodies, the massive wreckage, and the sinking British ships.

  Once The Flying Dutchman arrived at a destroyer with nets flung over the sides for the men to climb, Charlie felt a rush of relief. All of his platoon were in good shape physically, if somewhat tired. He knew they would make it up the nets without too much difficulty.

  Charlie was pleased when he saw Kenny and his platoon scrambling up the sides of the destroyer. He went to join them. Charlie jumped forward, off the whaler, and landed on the nets, clung to them with both hands. Finding his balance, he began to climb up the side of the ship, going as fast as he could; he was in better shape than he thought.

  Then it happened. Luftwaffe planes returned and were circling back in toward the destroyer and the machine guns started firing at the soldiers on the nets. Easy targets.

  Charlie knew he had been hit in both legs. He felt the thud of the bullets penetrating them and then the pain. He pulled himself up the nets with his hands as best he could; his legs were now useless. At one moment, he stopped to catch his breath before moving on, and unexpectedly saw the face of a sailor looking down at him in concern.

  “Having problems, mate?” the sailor shouted.

  “It’s my legs. They’re wounded. Useless.”

  “Try to keep moving up. I’ll get some help. We’ll have to pull the nets up and you with them. Just hang on.”

  Most of the men who had been in front of Charlie were now off his section of the nets. He was alone. He made an effort to glance down, and did so with some difficulty. Thankfully there were no other soldiers below him, which meant the weight on the nets was lessened.

  Suddenly the sailor was back with seven members of his crew. “Grip the nets hard,” the sailor shouted. “We’re going to drag up this section of the nets. They’re heavy.”

  Charlie was beginning to feel weak; he knew he was in danger of falling off. Or bleeding to death. Nonetheless, he hung on, gripping the nets. He closed his eyes and prayed.

  Eight strong sailors got the nets moving and slowly they pulled them up to the ship’s rail. Finally two sailors were able to grab Charlie and get him onto the deck.

  “We did it!” one of the sailors exclaimed.

  “Thanks,” Charlie muttered in a weak voice. “Captain Charlie Stanton, Coldstream Guards…” After uttering these few words he lost consciousness.

  Within seconds medics were surrounding him, lifting him onto a stretcher. One of the doctors said, “His trousers are soaking wet with blood. Let’s get him down to the operating room.”

  LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY

  Land of Hope and Glory, Mother of the Free,

  How shall we extol thee, who are born of thee?

  Wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set;

  God who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet,

  God who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.

  —the Finale of Elgar’s Coronation Ode to music derived from the Pomp and Circumstance March, op. 39, No. 1 in D major

  Fifty

  Operation Dynamo, code name for the evacuation of Dunkirk, ended on June 4, 1940.

  Almost four hundred thousand English and French soldiers had been rescued from the beaches in France. The success of the operation was mainly due to the Royal Navy and the 222 ships they had used, plus the daring little armada operated by brave civilians, which numbered over eight hundred vessels of all types. It was soon considered to be the greatest evacuation of troops in history.

  That same day Winston Churchill spoke to the House of Commons and the nation. At first he told them they must be very careful not to assign to this deliverance the attributes of a victory. “Wars are not won by evacuation,” he said.

  Moments later his great gift of oratory flowed forth in full force, when he uttered the noblest words, perhaps his greatest, which would live on in history.

  “We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.”

  Churchill’s words always inspired and reassured the British people. There might be naysayers in the establishment who did not like him, but the people loved him, had long put their faith in him. He gave them courage and reinforced their steadfastness with his mighty words.

  An aristocrat, as the grandson of the Duke of Marlborough, he might be, but he had the common touch. And he understood that all-conquering spirit bred in the bone of the British, and he reached out to that, and encouraged it.

  The Inghams and the Swanns had long understood that only Churchill could bring the country to victory. Knowing that he was at the helm of their government made them feel more secure than anyone else ever could.

  Diedre, in particular, knew what a brilliant man he was, recognized that he had enormous vision. For years he had seen the threat of Hitler and the Third Reich, and nobody would listen. Now they did. Only he could save Western civilization from the barbaric evil of the Nazis; William felt the same way as she did.

  Her thoughts went to the prime minister now as she stared at the piece of paper Tony Jenkins had just handed her. It said: Seelöwe also fly. In June. And that was it. Staring at Tony, she said, “Seelöwe is the German word for sea lion. ‘Sea lion also fly. In June.’” She frowned, then exclaimed, “‘German will fly. In June.’ It’s a warning. We’re going to be invaded anytime now.” She glanced at the calendar on her desk. It was Thursday, June 6. “Where did this come from?”

  “Our contact in the Vatican. I’m absolutely certain it’s from Canaris.”

  “So am I.” Diedre rose up, and walked across her office. “Let’s go and see William.”

  A moment later William was reading the message and instantly agreed with them. “I’d better go right over to see the PM. He has to know about this. Although I do believe, with his enormous foresight, he’s expecting the Wehrmacht to invade us at any moment. He’s been pushing Lord Beaverbrook to improve the production of planes and ships, and working endlessly to prepare the country.”

  “Actually Beaverbrook’s been rather good,” Tony interjected. “Planes are being made faster.”

  “I’d better check that I can see the PM.” William picked up the phone. Diedre sat down in a chair; Tony excused himself and disappeared.

  After William had spoken to someone he knew in the prime minister’s office, he stood up. “I am to go. Now.” He smiled at her. “Canaris will forever be my hero, and I know you’ll agree with me that he is brave.”

  “I do indeed. He’s been extraordinary. He’s always endeavored to give us some time to properly prepare for bad events about to happen.”

  They left the room together. William kissed her on the cheek, and said, “See you shortly.”

  Returning to her own office, Diedre
sat down at her desk and thought about Wilhelm Canaris, head of Abwehr, German military intelligence, his hatred of Hitler and the Third Reich. He was truly risking everything by helping the British, as were many of his colleagues and a number of German generals, those who also believed Hitler was ruining Germany beyond reparation.

  She thought of the terrifying attack on Poland last September, almost a year ago now. The Polish people had been taken totally by surprise when their skies were blackened by the Luftwaffe planes, hundreds of them, and their streets demolished by the German Panzer divisions. Poland had been utterly destroyed in less than three weeks. Most of its citizens slaughtered, its Catholic Church crushed, and all of its clergy murdered in cold blood. There was no such thing as a Catholic priest left in Poland. When Hitler had declared, “We do not want any other God but Germany,” he had meant it. Gone, too, were the aristocracy, intelligentsia, everyone of any talent in every field of endeavor, anyone of any caliber.

  That’s why we declared war on Germany, Diedre now thought. Some good it did. They would be next. She knew Canaris had been so stunned, horrified, and sickened by what he himself had witnessed in Poland, he had become physically ill. And his hatred of Hitler had grown and grown …

  There was a light knock on the door, and Tony came in. “I’ve remembered something,” he said. “Do you have a minute?”

  She nodded. “I was just thinking about what happened in Poland last September, and the way Hitler had all of the Catholic priests killed and the Catholic Church totally destroyed. No wonder the Vatican is so anti-Nazi.”

  “I agree with you; not many people know that, though. When I was in Spain recently, Valiant made an offhand remark. He said that when the cardinals selected Pacelli to be pope, they had chosen the candidate who was the best politician, and a clever statesman. Because that was what they needed in this day and age.”