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Authors: John R. Tunis
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against magnetic mines, y’understand?”
The twins glanced over the fleet hastily. Fully half the convoy pitching and tossing in that swell had no yellow stripe, including Shropshire Lass. The danger of mines was something about which they had never thought; suddenly they became sober.
Overhead a squadron of Spits, returning from Dunkerque, droned high in the heavens. They passed directly overhead; one, the twins noticed, had an engine missing. Before long it fell back, lost distance, began to smoke. It slowly came down near the fleet, lower and lower, until it struck the sea with an explosion a few miles distant.
Soon the parachute of the pilot could be seen. The other planes of the squadron had vanished, but he was descending in safety near the flotilla. Suddenly from the haze above appeared a Dornier with an iron cross visible on its wings. The antiaircraft guns of the protecting destroyers on each side of the fleet opened up, but they had to be careful not to hit the pilot parachuting to sea. The Nazi dived, the parachute crumpled, a black figure dropped like a stone into the water. The German plane soared back into the heavens and was lost to sight.
Now the twins understood. This wasn’t a picnic; it was war.
CHAPTER 13
R ICKY AND R ONNY stood on the afterdeck of Shropshire Lass, frightened yet fascinated. The smoke from the burning city, thick, black, reaching to the heavens, was the same dark cloud their mother was anxiously watching that moment from the Shakespeare Cliff in Dover. In front of the twins the packed masses of khaki along the beach began to break and run in every direction as a fighter sweep of Nazi planes descended, so low the faces of the pilots peering over the sides were visible.
The lead plane dropped a stick of bombs that hit a huge glass-enclosed structure on the promenade, evidently a casino. It blew up with a roar. Bricks, pieces of glass, and fragments of stone and wood rose into the sky. Another bomb fell harmless in wet sand, and another in the sea, closer to Shropshire Lass.
This was war. They began to understand. Never had the twins been so terrified. Fear conquered them, paralyzed them completely. They wanted to run, to jump into the water, to hide in the crowded cabin below, yet they were unable to move. Glued to the deck, they watched the stick of bombs skip across the water at a speed they had never imagined.
Nor was there time to take cover, if indeed there had been any cover available. There was not even time to hit the deck. A bomb struck the water thirty feet away, sending up a huge burst and rocking Shropshire Lass violently. Another, twenty feet beyond them, tossed the boat again. Her frame shuddered, groaned, protested, slapped the sea, pitched everyone around.
The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds. It was in those few seconds they learned the meaning of war. They had not known until then, nor in fact had the Chief.
“Now then, lads....” His voice trembled. It helped to observe how frightened he was also. “Now then, let’s have those last men aboard and get out of here.”
A French fishing dory, with the name Corsaire II, was tied alongside, transporting wounded from the shore. She bumped and banged her side as the explosions tossed the two boats angrily. The bunks on Shropshire Lass were full below, the floor of the cabin, not taken up by the water tank, covered with helpless soldiers. Others were in the cockpit, many with dirty homemade bandages about their legs and arms. Nobody said a word, yet the twins knew most of them were in pain.
Soon Shropshire Lass, which had twelve life preservers and was capable of packing in ten or a dozen persons, had twenty on board. More were still coming over the side. Finally Corsaire II cast off. The brave Frenchmen rowing her put out their oars and headed back to shore.
Up came the anchor, the engines started, while the twins handed out water, biscuits, dried figs, and chocolate to the men. For most of them it
The twins glanced over the fleet hastily. Fully half the convoy pitching and tossing in that swell had no yellow stripe, including Shropshire Lass. The danger of mines was something about which they had never thought; suddenly they became sober.
Overhead a squadron of Spits, returning from Dunkerque, droned high in the heavens. They passed directly overhead; one, the twins noticed, had an engine missing. Before long it fell back, lost distance, began to smoke. It slowly came down near the fleet, lower and lower, until it struck the sea with an explosion a few miles distant.
Soon the parachute of the pilot could be seen. The other planes of the squadron had vanished, but he was descending in safety near the flotilla. Suddenly from the haze above appeared a Dornier with an iron cross visible on its wings. The antiaircraft guns of the protecting destroyers on each side of the fleet opened up, but they had to be careful not to hit the pilot parachuting to sea. The Nazi dived, the parachute crumpled, a black figure dropped like a stone into the water. The German plane soared back into the heavens and was lost to sight.
Now the twins understood. This wasn’t a picnic; it was war.
CHAPTER 13
R ICKY AND R ONNY stood on the afterdeck of Shropshire Lass, frightened yet fascinated. The smoke from the burning city, thick, black, reaching to the heavens, was the same dark cloud their mother was anxiously watching that moment from the Shakespeare Cliff in Dover. In front of the twins the packed masses of khaki along the beach began to break and run in every direction as a fighter sweep of Nazi planes descended, so low the faces of the pilots peering over the sides were visible.
The lead plane dropped a stick of bombs that hit a huge glass-enclosed structure on the promenade, evidently a casino. It blew up with a roar. Bricks, pieces of glass, and fragments of stone and wood rose into the sky. Another bomb fell harmless in wet sand, and another in the sea, closer to Shropshire Lass.
This was war. They began to understand. Never had the twins been so terrified. Fear conquered them, paralyzed them completely. They wanted to run, to jump into the water, to hide in the crowded cabin below, yet they were unable to move. Glued to the deck, they watched the stick of bombs skip across the water at a speed they had never imagined.
Nor was there time to take cover, if indeed there had been any cover available. There was not even time to hit the deck. A bomb struck the water thirty feet away, sending up a huge burst and rocking Shropshire Lass violently. Another, twenty feet beyond them, tossed the boat again. Her frame shuddered, groaned, protested, slapped the sea, pitched everyone around.
The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds. It was in those few seconds they learned the meaning of war. They had not known until then, nor in fact had the Chief.
“Now then, lads....” His voice trembled. It helped to observe how frightened he was also. “Now then, let’s have those last men aboard and get out of here.”
A French fishing dory, with the name Corsaire II, was tied alongside, transporting wounded from the shore. She bumped and banged her side as the explosions tossed the two boats angrily. The bunks on Shropshire Lass were full below, the floor of the cabin, not taken up by the water tank, covered with helpless soldiers. Others were in the cockpit, many with dirty homemade bandages about their legs and arms. Nobody said a word, yet the twins knew most of them were in pain.
Soon Shropshire Lass, which had twelve life preservers and was capable of packing in ten or a dozen persons, had twenty on board. More were still coming over the side. Finally Corsaire II cast off. The brave Frenchmen rowing her put out their oars and headed back to shore.
Up came the anchor, the engines started, while the twins handed out water, biscuits, dried figs, and chocolate to the men. For most of them it
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