´óÏó´«Ã½

This story has been written onto the ´óÏó´«Ã½ People’s War site by Callington U3A — Meg Bassett — on behalf of Mr A M Wilkie, my deceased uncle, who donated his memoirs to me.

(After working on defences on the Belgian-French border, the order came to move ‘closer to the sea’. However, the convoy’s transport was requisitioned). The next morning four groups of 60 men slogged south, along the refugee-crowded French roads. After many weary hours of marching I read a crooked sign which bore the legend ‘Dunkerque’ — we had made it. Tons of rubble filled the streets while the stench of burning rubber from burnt out vehicles was overpowering. Over all was the smell of death and destruction and the fear of another attack from the air. Suddenly a squadron of Stukas was overhead, guns blazing, and our company scattered in all directions as self-preservation replaced discipline. From that moment on we ceased to be soldiers — just very frightened individuals in a foreign land. I scrambled through the streets, slipping on broken glass from shattered shop windows, dodging running soldiers everywhere (some were stealing articles from glassless store windows, quite a few were blind-drunk, yelling obscenities.) Lakes of filthy water from bursting water mains soaked the terrified runners, while the air was foul with gas and cordite. Dead bodies in their ghastly reality lay frozen in agony. I must have walked for miles, shouting my company number, until I came to two cellars, one with coal and the other, amazingly, filled with cases of Vichy water. I drank my fill, ate emergency rations salvaged from an overturned ambulance, wrapped myself in my greatcoat, and with my gas cape as a pillow, fell asleep, despite my fear that German paratroopers would land. I had never been trained to fire my rifle.

The next day, sore from my bed of coals, I trudged along the deserted street when suddenly I heard British voices chanting ‘The Navy’s on the beach — the Navy’s on the beach’. I joined the undisciplined rabble, led by a huge bearded sailor, carrying a Bren gun. Dunkirk beach was an unforgettable sight, with miles of sand littered with wrecked vehicles of all types and above all, hundreds of dead men. An RASC sergeant appeared and suggested we moved nearer the mole, which ran out into the sea, where a destroyer was moored. German squadrons, headed out to sea, began dive-bombing the naval forces. Three figures on the mole were stationary now — a bearded naval officer, with two naval ratings. He looked down at us, cowering in the sand, and demanded ‘Any officers?’. No reply, so ‘Any NCOs?’. Again, no reply so he continued ‘Right, first fifty men form up a line.’ Then, turning to one of the ratings beside him, ordered ‘The first man that moves without my order, shoot him’. Then, head erect, shoulders back, he ordered ‘Follow me!’. The mole had been bombed and a steel railway line bridged the gap. I slung my rifle across my shoulders to retain my balance and straddled my way across — the commander walked across with perfect balance! Once on board, and relieved of my kit, I found a spot to rest and fell asleep instantly. Later, the towering white cliffs of Dover brought cheers from all. Looking at the crowds of silent spectators lining the dock — girls in their summer dresses, young men in blazers and cricket flannels, compared to our bearded faces and stained torn uniforms - appeared like visions from another planet. We disembarked and while we were being herded into line, the long, lean destroyer, with her gallant skipper on the bridge, was departing to save more men of the BEF.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.