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DUNKIRK SPIRIT

Robert Stones writes on the 60th anniversary of the Dunkirk evacuation

On May 10th, 1940, the invasion of Belgium started. That morning we were having an outdoor kit inspection in the beautiful May sunshine. During the proceedings a despatch rider made his way to the Orderly Room, obviously, as we realised later, carrying the news of the invasion.

By early evening, we were packed, vehicles loaded and on our way north to confront the enemy in real warfare.

Our unit, the 1st Battalion Coldstream Guards, part of the British Expeditionary Force, drove up to Louvain on the Belgian border. On our way we were subjected to a number of air raids including machine gun attacks. As the driver of H.Q. Company ammunition truck, I was glad not to have received a direct hit.

Needless to say, we were a poor match against the might of a well-equipped enemy and after a very severe and bloody battle, we were forced to withdraw. We made our way south again. The few days had seemed like years.

We drove under the cover of darkness without lights. By daylight my eyes felt as though they would explode. We lost count of the hours and days, and had little rest before the Germans were on our tail.

During this dreadful and dangerous journey, we saw thousands of refugees fleeing the Germans with whatever belongings they could manage on carts, bicycles, old prams or just shoulders. I saw innocent old men and women, children and babies mown down by low-flying aircraft. Many fell and never moved again. The stench was everywhere.

Eventually we arrived some miles — as I now know — from Dunkirk. Our unit managed a couple of days rest in slit trenches which we dug. It’s surprising the comfort you can find in a trench when your body is so weary.

We were finally told that an evacuation plan had been prepared. We were to be picked up from the beaches and taken to England. It sounded wonderful.

We arrived in the early hours expecting to see ships waiting. But when daylight came all we could see were miles of sand and sea. We settled down, where we could, to just wait. Food and water were in very short supply. We did not have long to wait before hearing the sound of aircraft. All hell let loose with the inclusion of the German artillery and the eerie sound of Stuka dive bombers.

During the next two or three days, ships started to appear. Men began to scramble to get aboard. The larger vessels deployed smaller craft to pick up survivors and a number of the boats were almost capsized as men, up to their necks in water, made desperate efforts to get aboard. And so the chaos continued.

Eventually, along with a few of my mates, I managed to get aboard a Dutch ship manned by the Royal Navy — God bless ‘em.

As we took on more survivors, we witnessed a destroyer, loaded with troops, bombed and sunk.

Some of the survivors were brought aboard our vessel. The sight of these poor men was dreadful. Some were covered in oil, some blinded, and some dying. We did our best with what we had to help them. It was a sorry, distressing sight, one I shall never forget. In fact, I shed a few tears.

It seemed the Germans had not forgotten us. We had an escort of Stuka dive bombers. They had no opposition because of the shortage of RAF fighter planes. Our brave RAF brothers were in no way to blame.

My reason for writing this account, is to give, on behalf of all who were rescued, our greatest gratitude and thanks. Thanks to all the brave sailors who came for us, especially the very, very brave people who sailed the small boats, many civilians, and many of them never to return.

How so many of us were rescued, amongst all the chaos and death, I shall never, ever know.

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