The enemy renewed their attack shortly after eight o'clock. More mortars had been brought up and the enemy's approach was in part masked by a barrage of shells aimed towards the canal. Miraculously, they all missed the crumbling remains of the farmhouse, and because many landed in the canal or the waterlogged fields behind, their effect was significantly reduced. Nonetheless, more enemy troops than ever were now working their way forward, some attempting to bring anti-tank guns with them, but the Boys, on the first floor now, and some sniping from Tanner knocked them out. Suddenly, a platoon-scale attack burst out on the canal road to their left - the men had clearly managed to creep along the adjoining track - but Sykes had spotted them and got most of them with his Bren. It was the weapon's last gasp: the firing pin had completely worn away.
'We need another,' said Tanner. 'Billy,' he turned to Ellis, 'find the lieutenant and get another Bren up here.'
Ellis turned to go, but as he did so a bullet caught him in the shoulder. 'I'm hit!' he cried, and fell to the floor.
'Christ, Billy,' said Tanner, beside him. 'Stan - and you, Kay,' he said to Kershaw, 'get him out of here and fetch a Bren.' He ripped out two packets of field dressings. The bullet had gone clean through Ellis's shoulder, but although he was bleeding profusely and his face was ghostly white, he was breathing regularly. 'You'll be all right, Billy,' said Tanner, pulling open the young man's battle-blouse and pressing the dressings to his wound. 'It's missed your lung. Brave lad. Someone give me another field dressing.' Sykes handed him a pack and he wrapped it round Ellis's shoulder and under his armpit, then tied it in a tight knot.
'Sorry, Sarge,' mumbled Ellis, and passed out.
Tanner left him and returned to the window. More men were crawling through the corn, so all he could see were the tops of their helmets and the green stalks moving. Another Spandau was firing at the house now, lines of tracer arcing slowly, then seemingly accelerating as they smacked into the walls. The burst stopped, and Tanner poked his head around the edge of the window. More lines of tracer pumped towards the house, but this time he had the machine-gun marked. It was by a willow next to the track to the left. A hundred and eighty yards, he reckoned.
'Mac!' he called.
'Sarge?'
'I need you to fire a burst at eleven o'clock, a hundred and eighty yards away. There's a Spandau by a willow tree,' he said, as he adjusted his scope and pulled back the bolt.
'Got it, Sarge.'
'On three - one, two, now!'
Swinging around to the window, his rifle butt already into his shoulder, he found his target, aimed, fired, and saw the man behind the weapon slump forward. A second shot, and another machine-gun crew had been silenced.
Sykes and Kershaw returned - with another Bren - but by now ammunition was running critically low. Tanner glanced at his watch and was astonished to see that it was nearly nine. Where had the time gone? Mortars continued to crash towards their positions. He wondered what was going on elsewhere - whether the Coldstreams were holding their part of the line - or those either side of them, for that matter. The light was fading, although the sky above was still clear, and away to their right, the last tip of the sun, deep orange, cast its rays across the flooded fields and canal. Tanner cursed the lack of cloud: it would have been almost dark now, had there been the low grey skies of a few days before.
He fired another magazine from his rifle, then turned to see a lone box of twelve Bren magazines. He delved into his pouches and discovered he had just twenty rounds, plus ten tracer rounds. 'Is that all we've got left?' he called.
'Yes, Sarge,' said Kershaw.
'Well, get downstairs iggery and find some bloody more.'
He continued firing but when Kershaw got back, ten minutes later, he was empty-handed. 'That's it, Sarge,' he said. 'Mr Peploe says there's no more spare boxes left.'
'Bollocks,' muttered Tanner. Outside, the light was fading fast, but the enemy continued to press forward.
'Sarge!' called Sykes. 'Look. Two o'clock. They're reaching the vehicles.'
Tanner strained his eyes into the gloom. German troops were hurrying to the edge of the road now. Some were hit by fire from the canal, but many more were reaching the cover of the abandoned British vehicles.
Sykes left his Bren and rolled over towards 'Tanner. 'Go on, then, Sarge, now's the time.'
'Hold on a moment longer,' said Tanner. At the side of the window he brought his rifle to his shoulder and peered through the scope until he spotted the first pack of gelignite resting on the near-side wheel arch of an abandoned Morris Commercial truck. He swept along the row of vehicles, making sure he could see each of the prepared jelly bombs. Emptying his magazine, he replaced it with two clips of tracer he'd prepared earlier and pressed them down into the breech.
'There's more reaching them, Sarge,' hissed Sykes.
'All right.' He turned to Bell. 'Tinker, go down and find Mr Peploe. Tell him to make sure everyone gives whatever they've got the moment the jelly bombs blow. You've got less than a minute, so iggery.'
'Yes, Sarge,' said Bell, disappearing down the stairs.
'Stan,' continued Tanner, 'get back to the Bren and be ready to fire. Mac!' he called. 'Be ready to open up when I say. Boys,' he added, turning to Chambers and Kershaw, 'get whatever grenades you can and go downstairs. When I tell you to throw, hurl 'em across the canal.'
Tanner aimed his rifle at the furthest of the jelly bombs, then fired. As the first exploded, he swept his rifle past several others, and fired again. Another blast erupted, detonating the charges in the vehicles at either side. Tanner moved along the line to the first jelly bomb and fired again, hitting the gelignite, which exploded immediately. In the space of five seconds, the vehicles along an eighty-yard front were a cascading tumble of flame and oily black smoke.
'Fire those Brens now!' shouted Tanner, to McAllister and Sykes. He picked up his German MP35, squatted by the window and fired off four of his remaining magazines. 'Now grenades!'
A devastating wave of explosives and bullets poured across the canal. Tanner fired at any figure he could see through the rapidly descending dusk. The Brens continued, with short, sharp bursts of fire. By the road, vehicles burned and men screamed. A blazing man staggered towards the canal but was shot before he reached the water. Tanner continued to fire. His shoulder ached, and a blister was swelling on his trigger finger. His throat was as dry as sand, his nostrils burning from the acid stench of cordite.
Sykes's Bren stopped, then McAllister's. Tanner delved into his pouch - just two clips left.
'I'm done, Sarge,' said Sykes. 'That's it. No more.'
All along the line, the firing lessened as though every soldier had released their last rounds at precisely the same time. Overhead, a flurry of artillery shells screamed, but apart from the still burning vehicles and the occasional mortar shell, the front was strangely quiet. Tanner strained his eyes, staring across the canal to the fields and tracks beyond. The poplars and willows stood dark now against the last glimmer of light. 'Where are they?' he said. 'Where are the bastards?' And then against the glow of the burning trucks, he saw several figures moving - in the direction they had come. The enemy was falling back.
Tanner let himself slide to the floor. It was 2145. Fifteen more minutes and they could leave this bloody place. He closed his eyes, then felt for his water-bottle. There were only a few drops in it, which he swallowed, savouring the soothing fluid as it trickled down his throat.
'Sarge!' said a voice, and there was Chambers. 'We're going! We're falling back to the beaches!'
At a little after five thirty a.m. on Sunday, 2 June, Squadron Leader Charlie Lyell was leading B Flight on their first patrol of the day over Dunkirk. Since the weather had improved, the bulk of the evacuation had taken place during the night and for the past two days fighter patrols had been concentrated at dawn and dusk when Allied shipping was either approaching or leaving Dunkirk. Even at first light, it was easy enough to see the port almost from the moment their Hur
ricanes rose into the sky - or, rather, the huge plume of smoke that stood permanently above it. This morning, however, a haze hung over the Channel, shielding the vast expanse of northern France and Belgium that could normally be seen stretching away from them as they approached the French coast.
Still, the smoke was a useful visual marker. Over the Channel, Lyell had led his six aircraft up to eighteen thousand feet, heading north-east to avoid the worst of the glare from the rising sun, then turned inland before heading back west with the sun behind them.
'This is Mongoose Leader,' he said, speaking over the R/T, 'make sure you all keep your eyes peeled.'
He had been back for more than a week. From Arras, he had been given a ride to Lille-Seclin and from there passage in a Blenheim to England. Then he'd got a lift to London and caught a train to Manston. His return had been marked by a sensational night in the pub, in which his pilots had made it touchingly clear that they were very pleased to see him come back from the dead. After two more days - spent hanging around the airfield with a bandage round his head - the MO had given him the all- clear to fly. A brand-new Hurricane had arrived, which he had immediately claimed as his own, and with 'LO-Z' painted on the fuselage, he had been back in the air leading the squadron once more.
He had returned a better pilot and squadron leader. Being shot down had taught him valuable lessons, and during that long journey to Arras he had had time to think. It had dawned on him that while there were some very talented pilots among the Luftwaffe, those in the RAF could be every bit as good. It was just that some of the tactics and formations that had been drummed into them were not necessarily the best way to fight a war in the air. Prescribed formation attacks didn't work because the targets always moved; nor did flying wingtip to wingtip make sense because the pilots were spending so much time concentrating on keeping formation that they couldn't see when the enemy was bearing down on them. And to hit an enemy aircraft, you had to get in close - as close as you dared. Last, and this he had learned from Sergeant Tanner, surprise was the best form of attack. With the sun behind them and plenty of height, it was possible to knock anything out of the sky.
On his first sortie back in charge, Lyell had ordered his vics to spread out more, and above cloud level he had made a point of leading his squadron high enough to position themselves with the sun behind them. When they had spotted a formation of enemy bombers approaching Dunkirk from the east, they had swooped down on them, in no particular attack formation but with Lyell leading, and had opened fire. Within seconds they had shot down two Heinkels and one probable.
Since then, the squadron had claimed a further seventeen enemy aircraft and Lyell had four confirmed kills to his name. Just one more and he'd be an ace. An ace! It was ludicrous, really. What did it matter who shot down what, so long as they were knocked out of the sky? But he did care: personal pride made him want it but, more than that, he felt it was important that, as commanding officer, he should be seen to show the way.
He wondered how many men were left in France. It had been a miracle that such an extraordinary number appeared to have been lifted and he liked to think that the RAF had played no small part in that success. There had been reports of fights in Ramsgate between returning soldiers and Manston airmen on account of the RAF's poor showing, but that was nonsense. Anyone doubting it had only to climb above the smoke and cloud where they would have seen a very different story. When Lyell had been shot down, he had been keenly aware of how outnumbered they had been. The men on the ground had grumbled that the Luftwaffe had ruled the skies, and during those few days with the Yorkshire Rangers, Lyell had understood why they had felt that way; if he was honest, he had barely seen an Allied plane himself. Over Dunkirk, however, it had been different. Not only 632 Squadron, but many other RAF fighter squadrons had fought well. It was as though they had all been forced to learn quickly and were now reaping the benefits.
Now they flew back towards the coast, the rising sun bursting high above the haze below. Above, the deep blue canopy was clear and promising. Lyell turned his head: behind, ahead, below, behind, ahead, below.
A glint caught his eye, below, off his port wing, and then he saw them clearly: three formations of four twin- engine bombers, a squadron of a dozen Junkers 88s, probably flying around ten thousand feet, heading unmistakably towards the column of smoke rising high above Dunkirk.
'This is Mongoose Leader,' he said. 'A dozen bandits, ten o'clock, angels ten.'
He gunned his throttle and turned so that he could follow them dead ahead.
'Spread out, boys,' he added. 'Don't want to make too big a target. Keep your eyes peeled behind you, but I'm going to take us down to make the most of the sun.'
He watched the altimeter fall as the enemy bombers grew larger. On the Junkers flew, apparently oblivious of the six fighters stalking them. They were now half a mile away and just two thousand feet below. Lyell pressed on, glancing at the rest of the flight, their two vics now nicely spread.
Seven hundred yards, six hundred, five hundred, and then just five hundred feet below them. Behind, the sun glinted off the Perspex of his Hurricane's canopy. Lyell flicked off the safety catch on the stick, then said, 'Tally ho, tally ho,' and pushing the control column forward, dived below the lead formation and, at less than two hundred yards, opened fire. The Hurricane's frame juddered as the eight Brownings spat bullets, and long lines of tracer hurtled towards the leading Junkers, streaking across the fuselage, over one wing and hitting the port- side engine, which burst into flame. Immediately, the rest of the formation broke up but not before the other five Hurricanes had torn into them. Lyell flew underneath his Junkers and banked to the left, aping the stricken bomber, which had tried to climb but was now diving towards the haze.
Glancing around to check that the skies were clear, he flipped over the aircraft and followed his Junkers. It was not good practice, he knew, but he wanted to make sure: if it disappeared from view still flying, however badly, the best he could hope for was a probable - and that wouldn't make him an ace. Only a confirmed kill would do. A wave of exhilaration swept over him. And then he was through the haze, flying over the beaches of Dunkirk. Directly in front of him was the crippled Junkers. 'Got you!' he muttered, with satisfaction.
At twenty-five minutes to six in the morning, the Isle of Man ferry Manxman was slipping away from the east pier at Dunkirk, crammed with a hundred and seventy-seven, including most of the surviving members of the 1st
Battalion, the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers. Footsore and exhausted, they had reached the port just before midnight and had discovered the pier heaving with men. Four destroyers and a steamer had arrived and lifted a large number of the remaining men but at three a.m., as the Rangers had neared the front of the queue, they had been told by a naval officer there would be no more ships until the following evening.
As dawn broke, 'Tanner had seen the scale of the devastation once more. Abandoned vehicles littered the port area beside the mole and all along the beaches as far as the eye could see. Half-sunk ships stood out of the sea. An oily stench filled the air as the dark-green water lapped lazily at the pier's struts. But compared with two days before, the small number of men still wandering the beaches was nothing short of a miracle. The crowds had almost all gone, most presumably taken back to England. Tanner saw two short lines of men waiting at Malo-les-Bains but otherwise the port and the beaches seemed eerily empty. Had all those men really gone home? It seemed too incredible to be true.
'They had returned to the end of the pier, and the men had collapsed onto the ground, smoking or sleeping almost instantly, while those still left to lead them decided what they should do until nightfall. Then salvation had arrived. A small ferry had come into view, and as it eventually drew alongside the pier, the Rangers realized they had been rewarded for waiting at the foot of the mole. Trudging forward along the wooden walkway, they had numbly boarded the little ship.
Tanner and the rest of D Company had made their way to the bac
k. Two more men had been killed in the last attack by the enemy and a further three wounded.
No one knew what had happened to Hepworth and the others who had gone with the carriers, but Peploe insisted that the remaining wounded would be taken to England; with makeshift stretchers, the men had enabled him to keep his word. Nineteen men, Verity included, were all that remained of D Company. Only sixteen still stood.
'Well,' said Sykes, as the ship slipped its moorings, 'we made it.'
'We've still got to get across the Channel, Stan,' said Tanner, exhaling a cloud of tobacco smoke. At that moment they heard the clatter of machine-guns above the haze. 'Bloody hell,' said Tanner. 'That's what comes of counting your sodding chickens.'
Suddenly a Junkers broke through the cloud. It was only a few hundred feet above them and astonishingly large, the black crosses and streaks of oil on the underside of the wings vivid. The port engine was on fire and the second was spluttering as though on its last gasp. A moment later a Hurricane burst into view and opened fire at less than a hundred yards' range. Immediately there was a loud crack, a burst of smoke and the second engine caught fire. The bomber whined and, amid gasps from the watching men, plunged into the sea. From beneath the waves they heard the mournful creak of tearing metal. The men cheered.
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