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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Jenny Christian of the 2nd Air Division Memorial Library on behalf of Stan Baines and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

On the 1 September 1939 I received notice to report to the Local Drill Hall for military duty at 0900 hrs and from that moment on I became a regular soldier and was confined to the Drill Hall.

After a spell of training we began our travels. Our first port of call was Bury, Lancs. billeted in an old mill. Our next home was in Bolton to join the 53rd Field Regt. R.A. I was part of a section of signalmen; there was thirty of us and we became attached to this artillery regiment for the purpose of keeping in communication with all units of the division to which we became a part.

One morning at 5 am it was all stations go. We marched through Bolton to the railway station and boarded a train. No one knew our destination and we eventually found ourselves at Alnmouth in Northumberland. We soon nicknamed it ‘Windy Corner’. We were billeted in empty houses.

Out training continued. The regiment received their guns, we our wireless sets and field telephones and to all intents and purposes were ready to enter field of conflict. After a few months we found ourselves in France landing at Cherbourg and in convoy through the towns of Layal and St. Denis to our destination, a small village called Lambersart near Lille. For a while we enjoyed a quiet time visiting the local establishments for a drink. With frequent visits to the nightlife in Lille dancing in the Square this brief spell of heaven was soon to end as Hitler had decided to launch his ‘Blitzkrieg’

We were called into action. We left our cosy billet and proceeded in convoy to an unknown destination. We were about to face the might of the German onslaught. Our convoy was soon attacked by German fighter-bombers. The road was soon a shambles and filled by civilians trying to escape the bombs, machine guns and shellfire. Our progress was very slow; civilians were cluttering the roads with families with young children carrying their belongings in all sorts of conveyances – prams, handcarts, wheelbarrows. A large furniture lorry brought down one of our lines causing havoc to our efforts to keep in communication with other units in the division. What a shambles; every now and then we were forced to take shelter in the ditches at the side of the road already occupied by civilian men, women and children.

With death and destruction all around we slowly progressed to the position we were trying to hold with artillery fire. Our guns were peashooters compared to the German guns. At last we pulled into a farm, our designated position, and made our Headquarters.

On our way we had lost one despatch rider and passed another convoy travelling towards Dunkirk. Little did we know that we would be heading in the same direction the next day.

I set about organising a meal and a mug of tea and the Padre, who had a radio, was listening to Lord Haw-Haw who was saying that the B.E.F. in France were doomed to defeat and would be lucky to escape alive. We of course laughed it off as propaganda but within a few minutes a burst of machine gun fire rattled on the tin roof and from that moment all hell was let loose and the order came ‘destroy everything’. I reluctantly kicked over the stew I had been preparing and went round the farmyard with the Signal Sergeant to kill all the stock on the farm; not a very pleasant task with very little time. The others had been immobilising the vehicles and equipment just keeping one vehicle to escape in.

Armed with just our rifles we piled on board a truck. A bit crowded we made slits in the canvas sides and poked our rifles through but we were due for a shock. We hadn’t gone very far when we were stopped at a crossroads by a military policeman and told to drive the vehicle into a field and get out and walk as the vehicle had to be destroyed. All our rations were in it so it was ‘goodbye’ to all we possessed; kit and all.

We formed up and started to march towards the French coast. I noticed a sign saying it was 17 kilometres to Dunkirk and it was getting dark. It was decided to call a halt so we wandered into a field where vehicles were being set fire to by the military police. I got my head down with my greatcoat as a blanket but didn’t get any sleep as the blazing vehicles must have had some ammunition in them as this kept exploding and we could see tracer bullets flying through the air in all directions.

As soon as it was light we decided to get moving. I discarded my greatcoat as it was an encumbrance. I needed to travel light and it was quite warm, and after a journey full of a series of ducking and diving and our group getting less and less it was now every man for himself.

I found myself on the beach of De Panne, Belgium where we were asked to remove our webbing which they were using to tie the planks on top of vehicles which were being driven into the sea to form a sort of pier to get the wounded off. I decided to make my own way along the coast towards Dunkirk. A pall of smoke was visible above the town. Travelling on we eventually found our way to Bray Dunes within a few miles of Dunkirk. All this time we were being dive bombed and strafed by Stukas. We were all queuing at the waters edge and dashing back into the dunes to avoid the strafing.

Another day had passed. Darkness and still no chance of rescue. We tried to get some sleep in the sand dunes. Cold, wet and hungry dawn arrived. Down to the waters edge again hoping for a boat; eventually the Navy came to our rescue by towing behind a motorboat a string of rowing boats
which they released to float towards the beach. There was a mad scramble to grab one and I managed to climb aboard one with a load of others and struggled to row out to one of the naval ships waiting to pick us up.

We managed after a struggle to reach a minesweeper, the ‘HMS Glenhaven’. They had huge scramble nets over the sides. Grabbing a rung I climbed up and fell over the side on to the deck exhausted. I was helped to my feet by a Naval Rating and told to go below where I was given a hot drink. I felt a little better.

We now had a fifty fifty chance to reach England. Once they had rescued as many as they could it was full steam ahead to the nearest port after running the gauntlet of bombers. Our nightmare still continued. I prayed that we would make it.

What a relief when we reached the port of Harwich to be welcomed with tea, and sandwiches provided by W.R.V.S. Heavens, we had made it! We then boarded a train to South Wigston and marched form the station to Glen Parva barracks. We were cheered by the people who had lined the road and treated like heroes. I certainly didn’t feel very heroic – cold, wet and very bedraggled.

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