The World War II Collection

by Lord, Walter;

  Just to the left of the East Lanes were the 5th Borderers. Now across the canal in strength, the enemy smashed at them too. If they collapsed, the 2nd Coldstream, to their left, would be hit next. An officer from the Borderers hurried over to Major McCorquodale’s command post to warn that his battalion was exhausted and about to withdraw.

  “I order you to stay put and fight it out,” the Major answered.

  “You cannot do that. I have overriding orders from my colonel to withdraw when I think fit.”

  McCorquodale saw no point in arguing: “You see that big poplar tree on the road with the white milestone beside it? The moment you or any of your men go back beyond that tree, we will shoot you.”

  The officer again protested, but the Major had had enough. “Get back or I will shoot you now and send one of my officers to take command.”

  The Borderer officer went off, and McCorquodale turned to Langley, standing nearby: “Get a rifle. Sights at 250. You will shoot to kill the moment he passes that tree. Are you clear?”

  McCorquodale picked up a rifle himself, and the two Coldstreamers sat waiting, guns trained on the tree. Soon the Borderer officer reappeared near the tree with two of his men. They paused, then the officer moved on past McCorquodale’s deadline. Two rifles cracked at the same instant. The officer fell, and Langley never knew which one of them got him.

  Such measures weren’t enough. The 5th Borderers fell back, leaving the Coldstream’s flank wide open. Jimmy Langley’s fortified cottage soon came under fire. The afternoon turned into a jumble of disconnected incidents: knocking out a German gun with the much-despised Boyes antitank rifle … washing down a delicious chicken stew with white wine … using the Bren guns in the attic to set three German lorries on fire, blocking the canal road for precious minutes. At one point an old lady appeared from nowhere, begging for shelter. Langley told her to go to hell; then, overcome by remorse, he put her in a back room where he thought she might be safe.

  Another time he went to the battalion command post to see how McCorquodale was getting along. The Major was lying beside his trench, apparently hit. “I am tired, so very tired,” he told Langley. Then, “Get back to the cottage, and carry on.”

  By now the Germans had occupied a house across the canal from Langley’s place, and the firing grew more intense than ever. In the attic one of the Bren guns conked out, and Langley ordered the other downstairs. It would be more useful there, if the enemy tried to swim the canal and rush the cottage. Langley himself stayed in the attic, sniping with a rifle.

  Suddenly a crash … a shower of tiles and beams … a blast of heat that bowled Langley over. In the choking dust he heard a small voice say, “I’ve been hit”—then realized that the voice was his own.

  It didn’t hurt yet, but his left arm was useless. A medical orderly appeared, slapped on a dressing, and began bandaging his head. So that had been hit too. He was gently carried down from the attic, put into a wheelbarrow, and trundled to the rear—one of the few Coldstreamers small enough to make an exit this way.

  By now it was dark, and the battle tapered off. Firmly established across the canal, Kuechler’s infantry settled down for the night. Resumption of the “systematic attack” could wait until morning. The British began quietly pulling back to the sea. It was all very precise: each battalion took along its Bren guns and Boyes antitank rifles. The 2nd Hampshires marched by their commander, closed up in three’s, rifles at the slope. Most positions were abandoned by 10:00 p.m.

  As the gunners of the 53rd Field Regiment marched cross-country toward Dunkirk, a sharp challenge broke the silence of the night, followed by a blaze of rifle fire. French troops, moving into defensive positions along the network of waterways that laced the area, had mistaken them for Germans.

  No one was hit; the mix-up was soon straightened out; and the British gunners continued on their way, but with new respect for their ally. These Frenchmen were all business. Part of the 32nd Infantry Division, they had escaped with their corps commander, the feisty General de la Laurencie, from the German trap at Lille. Together with the local garrison troops of the Secteur Fortifié des Flandres, they were now taking over the center of the perimeter from the retiring BEF.

  At the same time, the French 12th Division, which had also escaped from Lille, was moving into the old fortifications that lined the Belgian frontier. Dug in here, they would cover the eastern flank of the new shortened defense line. Since General Beaufrère’s 68th Division had always defended the west flank, the entire perimeter was now manned by the French.

  It was hard to believe that only yesterday, May 31, Winston Churchill had emotionally told the Allied Supreme War Council that the remaining British divisions would form the rear guard so that the French could escape. Since then there had been, bit by bit, a complete turn-around. Instead of the British acting as rear guard for the French, the French were now acting as rear guard for the British.

  Later the French would charge that the switch was yet another trick by “perfidious Albion.” Actually, the British weren’t all that pleased by the arrangement. They had little faith left in their ally. As the 5th Green Howards pulled back through the French guarding the new defense line along the Belgian border, Lieutenant-Colonel W. E. Bush collected his company officers and paid a courtesy call on the local French commander. The real purpose was not to cement Allied unity, but to see whether the French were up to the job. They turned out to be first-rate troops under a first-rate officer.

  These French had their first test on the afternoon of the 1st, as Kuechler’s “systematic attack” cautiously approached from the east. General Janssen’s 12th Division stopped the Germans cold.

  All the way west it was the same story. The Germans had some armor here—the only tanks that hadn’t gone south—but General Beaufrère’s artillery, firing over open sights, managed to hold the line.

  Covered by the French, the remaining British units converged on Dunkirk all through the night of June 1–2. As the 6th Durham Light Infantry trudged through the ruined suburb of Rosendaël, the steady crunch of the men’s boots on broken glass reminded Captain John Austin of marching over hard ice crystals on a cold winter’s day. It was a black, moonless night, but the way was lit by burning buildings and the flash of exploding shells. The German infantry might be taking the night off, but not their artillery. The DLI’s hunched low, as against a storm, their steel helmets gleaming from the light of the flames.

  Admiral Ramsay’s ships were already waiting for them. Lifting operations were to run from 9:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m. but when the first destroyer reached the mole, few of the troops had arrived from the perimeter. Those who came down from Bray-Dunes were mostly huddled in the houses and hotels along the beach promenade, seeking cover from the rain of shells.

  Commander E. R. Condor couldn’t see anybody at all when he brought the destroyer Whitshed alongside the mole soon after dark. Just smoke, flames, and a few dogs sniffing around. Spotting a bicycle lying on the walkway, Condor mounted it and pedaled toward shore looking for somebody to rescue. Eventually he found some poilus, and then some Tommies near the base of the mole. He sent them all out, along with a few other troops who now began to appear.

  At 10:30 p.m. Major Allan Adair led out the 3rd Grenadier Guards, still carrying their Bren guns; they boarded the Channel steamer Newhaven … at 11:00 hundreds of French joined the crowd, and for a while the troops moved out four abreast—unconsciously symbolizing the troubled alliance … at 12:00 the gunners of the 99th Field Regiment marched out to the destroyer Winchelsea. Occasional shells prodded them along. “I’ve been hit,” the man next to Sergeant E. C. Webb quietly remarked, dropping out of line.

  “Hand out the wounded” … “Lay out the dead” … “Wounded to the front” … “Watch the hole.” The sailors of the shore party kept up a running stream of orders and directions as they guided the troops along. An effort was made to keep a lane open for the stretcher bearers, but there was no time for the dead. They were sim
ply pushed off the mole onto the pilings below.

  It was after midnight when the 1st/6th East Surreys finally reached the mole. There was a long queue now, and the wait stretched into hours. The mole itself was so packed that the line barely moved, and the East Surreys were still inching forward when word came at 2:00 a.m. that the last two ships of the night were alongside—a big paddle steamer, and just ahead of her a destroyer. It was almost 3:00 by the time the East Surreys reached the paddle steamer. Deciding there was no time to lose, the battalion commander Colonel Armstrong quickly divided his men in two, sent the first half up ahead to the destroyer, and ordered the rear-guard half to go aboard the steamer. A few East Surreys were still waiting to embark, when the cry went up, “No more!” Armstrong emphatically pushed the last men down the gangway, then slid down himself as the vessel cast off.

  The 5th Green Howards were halfway down the mole at 3:00. They had spent most of the night coming down from Bray-Dunes. It was only six miles, but the sand, the darkness, their utter weariness all slowed them down, and they took nearly five hours to make the march. Now, mixed in with other British units and a great horde of French, they slowly moved along the walkway, with frequent stops that nobody could explain. It was during one of these halts when the word came down, “No more boats tonight. Clear the mole!”

  Bitterly disappointed, the Green Howards turned back, only to run headlong into other troops who hadn’t gotten the word yet. For a while there was much pushing and shoving, and all movement came to a standstill. At this point a salvo of German shells landed squarely on the base of the mole, mowing down scores of men.

  If Commander Clouston had been on hand, things might have gone more smoothly, but he had returned to Dover for the night. He had served as pier master for five days and nights without a break—had sent off over 100,000 men—now he wanted to confer with Ramsay about the last, climactic stage of the evacuation, and perhaps get a good night’s sleep.

  While the destroyers and Channel steamers lifted troops off the mole, Ramsay’s plan called for the minesweepers and smaller paddle-wheelers to work the beach just to the east, going as far as Malo-les-Bains. Thousands of British and French soldiers stood in three or four queues curling into the sea as far as a man could wade. Gunner F. Noon of the 53rd Field Regiment waited for two full hours, while the water crept over his ankles … his knees … his waist … and up to his neck. Then, as the first trace of dawn streaked the eastern sky, somebody shouted, “No more! The ships will return tonight!”

  The 2nd Coldstream Guards was another unit to reach the harbor late. After their long stand on the canal, the men were bone-tired, but they still had their Brens. As they moved down the paved promenade at Malo-les-Bains, they marched in perfect step, arms swinging. Most of the waiting troops watched in awe and admiration, but not all. “I’ll bet that’s the bloody Guards,” called a caustic voice in the dark. “Try marching on tiptoes!”

  One Coldstreamer who wasn’t late was Lieutenant Jimmy Langley. Groggy from his wounds, he was vaguely aware of being trundled from the battlefield by wheelbarrow and loaded into an ambulance. The ride was one of those stop-and-go affairs that seem to take forever. He still felt no pain, but he was thirsty and dreadfully uncomfortable. Blood kept dripping onto his face from the man above him.

  At last the ambulance stopped, and Langley’s stretcher was lifted out. “This way,” somebody said. “The beach is 200 yards ahead of you.”

  The stretcher party reached the water’s edge. A ship’s lifeboat lay waiting, rubbing gently against the sand. An officer in a naval greatcoat came over and asked Langley, “Can you get off your stretcher?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry, we cannot take you. Your stretcher would occupy the places of four men. Orders are, only those who can stand or sit up.”

  Langley said nothing. It was hard to be turned back after coming so close, but he understood. The stretcher bearers picked him up and carried him, still silent, back to the ambulance.

  About this time another Coldstreamer, Sergeant L.H.T. Court, joined one of the queues on the beach. Attached to 1st Guards Brigade HQ, he was carrying the brigade war diary, an imposing volume inscribed on a stack of Army Forms C 2118. As he slowly moved forward into the sea, Court found his mind absorbed by three things: his bride of less than a year; his brother, just killed in Belgium; and the mountain of Forms C 2118 he was trying to save.

  As the water reached his chest, he once again thought about his young wife. They had no children yet, and if he didn’t return she’d have nothing to remember him by. This lugubrious thought was interrupted by his sudden discovery that some of the Forms C 2118 were floating away. A good headquarters man to the end, he put aside all else, and frantically splashed around retrieving his files.

  Eventually Court neared the front of the queue, where a naval launch was ferrying men to a larger vessel further out. Then, at 3:00 a.m. a voice called out from the launch that this was the last trip, but added that there would be another boat later on. Court continued waiting, but no other boat ever came. Some of the men turned back toward the shore, but Court and a few others waded over to a grounded fishing smack lying nearby. He was hauled aboard, still clutching the brigade war diary.

  The tide was coming in, and around 4:30 the boat began to move. By now some 90 to 100 men were aboard, most of them packed in the hold where the fish were normally put. A few knowledgeable hands hoisted the sails, and a course was set for England. But there was no wind, and nearly twelve hours later they were still only a mile and a half from Dunkirk. At this point a passing destroyer picked them up, including Court and the lovingly preserved papers.

  There were others, too, who weren’t inclined to wait eighteen hours for the Royal Navy to come back the following night. Thirty-six men of the 1st Duke of Wellington’s Regiment took over a sailing barge appropriately called the Iron Duke. Colonel L. C. Griffith-Williams salvaged another stranded barge, loaded it with artillerymen, and set off for Britain. He knew nothing about navigation, but he found a child’s atlas and a toy compass aboard. That would be enough. When a patrol boat later intercepted them, they were heading for Germany.

  While the more adventuresome improvised ways to escape, most of the troops trudged back to the shore to wait out the eighteen hours. They passed the time in a variety of ways. It was now Sunday, June 2, and some men joined a chaplain celebrating Holy Communion on the beach at Malo-les-Bains. Ted Harvey, a fisherman stranded when his motor launch conked out, joined an impromptu soccer game. The 4th/7th Royal Dragoon Guards enjoyed motorcycle races in the sand and bet on which waterfront building would be hit by the next German shell.

  But the most important game was to stay alive. Most of the waiting troops crowded into any place that seemed to offer the faintest hope of shelter. One group settled down in the shattered hulk of the French destroyer l’Adroit, lying just off Malo. Wrecked though she was, her twisted steel seemed to offer a measure of security. Others picked an old watchtower left over from Napoleon’s time; its thick stone walls also seemed to promise safety.

  Others packed the cellars of nearby buildings. The remnants of the 53rd Field Regiment chose the Café des Fleurs—flimsy, but it was right on the plage. Headquarters of the 5th Green Howards was established at 22 rue Gambetta, a comfortable house about a block from the beach. Here the battalion also adopted a stray poilu, who made right for the kitchen. True to the great tradition of his country, he soon produced a superb stew of beef and wine. Promptly christened “Alphonse,” he was made an honorary member of the battalion and from now on sported a British tin hat.

  The 5th Green Howards offered something very rare at Dunkirk: a sizable body of organized troops, complete with their own officers and accustomed to working together. Recalling the chaos at the mole when the loading stopped the previous dawn, the battalion commander Lieutenant-Colonel W. E. Bush decided the Green Howards had a useful role to play during the coming night, June 2–3. They woul
d form a cordon to control the traffic and insure an orderly flow of men to the ships as they arrived. Four officers and 100 men should be enough to do the job. Those selected would, of course, be last off and might very well be left behind. The officers drew lots for the honor.

  Plans for the evening were moving ahead at Dover loo. Early in the morning Admiral Wake-Walker came over by MTB from Dunkirk. After a couple hours’ rest, he attended a joint naval and military conference in the Dynamo Room. No one knew how many troops were left to be evacuated, but Wake-Walker gave an educated guess of 5,000 British and anywhere from 30,000 to 40,000 French.

  Fortunately there were plenty of ships on hand. The suspension of daylight evacuation made it possible to collect virtually the whole fleet at Dover and the other southeast ports. Ramsay planned to use this vast concentration for what he called a “massed descent” on Dunkirk harbor. All troops to leave from Dunkirk itself; no more lifting from the beaches. Embarkation to start at 9:00 p.m. and continue until 3:00 a.m. Staggered sailings to insure a steady flow of ships. Three or four vessels to be alongside the mole continuously. Slow vessels to start first; fast ones later, to keep the flow even.

  Captain Denny argued that the plan was too complicated—it would only result in confusion. It would be better simply to send everything over, and let the men on the spot work the details out. But most of the staff felt the scheme was worth trying.

  As finally worked out, the plan provided for enough large ships to lift 37,000 men, plus whatever number might be picked up by the small craft that continued to ply across the Channel. In addition, the French would be using their own ships to lift troops from the beach just east of the mole, and from the west pier in the outer harbor. That should finish the job, and at 10:52 a.m., June 2, Ramsay signaled his whole command:

  The final evacuation is staged for tonight, and the Nation looks to the Navy to see this through. I want every ship to report as soon as possible whether she is fit and ready to meet the call which has been made on our courage and endurance.