大象传媒

I was called up in 1939 and I joined the sixth battalion Lincolnshire regt.
I particularly remember a time in 1940 in Dunkerque. Emerging from the ruins of the town, and from various hideouts on the sands, swarms of military personnel were congregating on the beach. Within half an hour there must have been several thousand forming themselves into groups along the entire beach. Eventually the Royal Artillery officer suggested 1 should try to find my own unit. This seemed a daunting task. Men were spread out in each direction as far as the eye could see. It was therefore with reluctance that 1 set off from this comfortable and safe dugout towards the nearest group, some 400 yards away. It was fortuitous that 1 left when 1 did, for 1 hadn't walked 50 yards when a German plane came sweeping over, and as 1 flung myself to the ground, a bomb scored a direct hit on the dugout which 1 had just vacated. 1 saw the corrugated sheeting that had been sheltering me over the past few hours blown to pieces and scatter in all directions. 1 felt guilty in not going back to see what had happened to those two men, but I'm sure 1 couldn't have done anything for them had 1 done so. No doubt the rest of their troop would have investigated. 1 plodded down towards the beach and approached the nearest group. On the perimeter of the group was a chap digging himself a trench. His dress suggested that he was from a Scottish regiment, but incredible as it may seem, out of that vast number of troops on the beach, this man was none other than my pal George Greenfield. 1 could not believe my eyes, nor my good fortune. Somewhere along the line George had lost his trousers and had found himself a Highlander's kilt to wear.

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