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Authors: John R. Tunis
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was their first drink and food in days; they were all quietly grateful.
But the boat was dangerously low in the water. So they crept cautiously through the wrecks on both sides, then outside past the big French destroyer, which was cut in two, both parts beached parallel to the shore. They overtook another French warship, limping slowly along under its own power. Now Shrosphire Lass was leaving the burning city behind. Running along the Mardyck Bank, they turned west, following the coast at a distance, for the Chief had been ordered not to take the direct route across, which would lead them into the middle of a British mine field. He stood beside the wheel, stopping now and then to peer over the side, watching the water ahead closely. Many half-submerged wrecks showed how dangerous the region was.
Moving with care, he placed the twins well up forward, one on each side, to warn him of floating mines ahead. A British destroyer, looking large, safe, heavily armed fore and aft, gradually overtook them, her signal lamps winking from the bridge. The Chief watched attentively with his glasses.
“One... nought... four.... We’re on the correct course. So far. What is that, the Worcester?”
The twins, who knew every warship that came into Dover Harbor, spoke up quickly. “No sir, it’s the Wakeful.” The destroyer, a large L 91 on her bows, was packed with khaki. Many of the troops waved securely at the small boat, now bucking the eddy from the larger vessel. The Chief fell into line astern.
“I’d like to keep in touch with her through here. We aren’t too far off the coast, and those antiaircraft batteries look comfortable.”
But the destroyer had the speed, and with Shropshire Lass loaded as she was, it was barely possible to get more than six knots from her. So the Wakeful moved ahead, and was soon a mile or more in front. The Chief, watching her signals, kept his glasses pretty continually on the warship’s bridge.
Suddenly everything was blotted out from his vision by an enormous waterspout ahead. An explosion followed immediately that shook Shropshire Lass, far to the rear as she was. The whole thing was a matter of seconds. When the smoke cleared, there was no destroyer to be seen, only a lot of debris in the eddying water, oil spreading rapidly, and a few survivors here and there, arms stretching from the sea.
CHAPTER 14
T HE C HANNEL FOG , the famous fog, thick, solid, impenetrable, smothered them. Shropshire Lass lay helpless in the light swell. The engine, protesting against the shaking it had received from the continual bombing and those near misses, had stopped. It was late afternoon. Nobody had the faintest idea where they were.
While Mr. Bennet, in a sweater, his cap shoved back on his head, worked on the engine with the help of Ronny and a Yorkshire garage mechanic, who had been a driver in the Army Service Corps, Ricky had the more disagreeable task of trying to make the wounded more comfortable. One, a non-com, hit in both arms, was in great pain and trying hard not to faint, as his field dressing was changed.
“Your luck didn’t hold, mate, did it?” said Ricky.
“What with the things that happened over in Dunkerque, I guess I’m in luck to have made this boat. Anything else? No, unless you have a spot of that tea left.”
Another soldier, lying on deck with a bad leg wound, explained that he had been given an injection of morphine and mustn’t be given any more at present. His eyes were clouded. They must have been touched by burning fumes from a near miss of a shell, and he was afraid of blindness if they weren’t washed out. Despite his pain he was conscious, and made no complaint, waiting patiently until Ricky could wash his eyes.
Not all of them. Now they were nearing safety at last, some who had endured so much for so long broke down. They started to murmur. Several were unable to endure their pain any more. Twisted on deck or cramped up in the cabin below, they moaned in agony.
But the boat was dangerously low in the water. So they crept cautiously through the wrecks on both sides, then outside past the big French destroyer, which was cut in two, both parts beached parallel to the shore. They overtook another French warship, limping slowly along under its own power. Now Shrosphire Lass was leaving the burning city behind. Running along the Mardyck Bank, they turned west, following the coast at a distance, for the Chief had been ordered not to take the direct route across, which would lead them into the middle of a British mine field. He stood beside the wheel, stopping now and then to peer over the side, watching the water ahead closely. Many half-submerged wrecks showed how dangerous the region was.
Moving with care, he placed the twins well up forward, one on each side, to warn him of floating mines ahead. A British destroyer, looking large, safe, heavily armed fore and aft, gradually overtook them, her signal lamps winking from the bridge. The Chief watched attentively with his glasses.
“One... nought... four.... We’re on the correct course. So far. What is that, the Worcester?”
The twins, who knew every warship that came into Dover Harbor, spoke up quickly. “No sir, it’s the Wakeful.” The destroyer, a large L 91 on her bows, was packed with khaki. Many of the troops waved securely at the small boat, now bucking the eddy from the larger vessel. The Chief fell into line astern.
“I’d like to keep in touch with her through here. We aren’t too far off the coast, and those antiaircraft batteries look comfortable.”
But the destroyer had the speed, and with Shropshire Lass loaded as she was, it was barely possible to get more than six knots from her. So the Wakeful moved ahead, and was soon a mile or more in front. The Chief, watching her signals, kept his glasses pretty continually on the warship’s bridge.
Suddenly everything was blotted out from his vision by an enormous waterspout ahead. An explosion followed immediately that shook Shropshire Lass, far to the rear as she was. The whole thing was a matter of seconds. When the smoke cleared, there was no destroyer to be seen, only a lot of debris in the eddying water, oil spreading rapidly, and a few survivors here and there, arms stretching from the sea.
CHAPTER 14
T HE C HANNEL FOG , the famous fog, thick, solid, impenetrable, smothered them. Shropshire Lass lay helpless in the light swell. The engine, protesting against the shaking it had received from the continual bombing and those near misses, had stopped. It was late afternoon. Nobody had the faintest idea where they were.
While Mr. Bennet, in a sweater, his cap shoved back on his head, worked on the engine with the help of Ronny and a Yorkshire garage mechanic, who had been a driver in the Army Service Corps, Ricky had the more disagreeable task of trying to make the wounded more comfortable. One, a non-com, hit in both arms, was in great pain and trying hard not to faint, as his field dressing was changed.
“Your luck didn’t hold, mate, did it?” said Ricky.
“What with the things that happened over in Dunkerque, I guess I’m in luck to have made this boat. Anything else? No, unless you have a spot of that tea left.”
Another soldier, lying on deck with a bad leg wound, explained that he had been given an injection of morphine and mustn’t be given any more at present. His eyes were clouded. They must have been touched by burning fumes from a near miss of a shell, and he was afraid of blindness if they weren’t washed out. Despite his pain he was conscious, and made no complaint, waiting patiently until Ricky could wash his eyes.
Not all of them. Now they were nearing safety at last, some who had endured so much for so long broke down. They started to murmur. Several were unable to endure their pain any more. Twisted on deck or cramped up in the cabin below, they moaned in agony.
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