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To France with the BEF

My father, Arthur Lees, was a regular soldier in the Royal Engineers. He had joined in January 1938, and in October 1939, a month after World War Two started, he was sent to France with the British Expeditionary Force (BEF).

When the German invasion commenced, his unit fought a rear-guard action by blowing bridges and so on as the British Army retreated through Belgium and France to the French coast.

Wounded 35km from Dunkirk

Having escaped unscathed through many actions during the retreat, my father was wounded and seriously injured at Nieuport in Belgium. He was approximately 35km from Dunkirk when a mortise bomb landed near him, inflicting shrapnel wounds to his head, back, both arms and left leg.

Somehow he made it to the beaches of Dunkirk, where he received medical attention. Considered too severely wounded to survive, he was placed in an area where the dead or dying were left to the care of the Germans. His identity papers were removed and sent back to England so relatives could be informed of his demise.

A friend in deed

My father’s pal (I believe his name was W. Wright) would not accept that he was past help. Presumably with some assistance, he moved my father on his stretcher to a part of the beach where the wounded were waiting their turn to be evacuated. From there, my father was taken on his stretcher to the pier and loaded on to a Lowestoft fishing boat that was helping with the evacuation.

While being moved my father regained consciousness. Becoming aware that his arms were lying crossed on his chest — an indication that someone was dying — he flung out his arms in protest, only to receive a further bullet wound through his wrist.

The kindness of strangers

He was transferred from the fishing boat to a destroyer, which he always said was the last to leave the beaches. The ship was carrying the wounded, as most of the able-bodied men by then had been evacuated.

As he lay on the deck, close to an anti-aircraft gun, the destroyer manoeuvred to escape an air attack. Spent shell cases from an adjacent gun fell around him. The naval gunner, seeing his plight, removed his own helmet and laid it over my father’s bandaged head, telling him he needed it more than him.

An unknown soldier

The destroyer made it safely back to Dover, and, in due course, my father was transferred to the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC) Hospital at Ashridge, Berkhamsted, Hertfordshire. There he underwent open brain surgery to remove shrapnel.

Having been separated from his pal, and with no identity papers, the hospital did not know initially who he was. It was only when his condition improved that they were able to find out.

Listed as killed in action

In the meantime my father had been listed as killed in action. There was notification from the War Office of his death, dated 11July1940. A telegram had been sent to his parents. My grandparents began to mourn the loss of their son.

Just a short time later, however, a local police constable, having received a phone call from Ashridge Hospital, called at their house. He broke the news to them that their son was alive after all.

Watching the Battle of Britain

My father spent many months in hospital. He said there was many a day he lay in bed watching the Battle of Britain in the sky above him, too ill to be moved to the safety of the bomb shelters.

Against the odds, he recovered from his wounds but was not fit to return to active duty. He was discharged from Ashridge on 5 May 1941 and in July 1942 admitted to Queen Mary’s Hospital in Roehampton for further medical treatment.

Proud to have served

My father spent the remainder of the war, and a few years subsequently, working as a coast guard. It was ill health that finally required him to become a disabled war pensioner.

In spite of sacrificing his health and fitness at the age of 21 in the service of his country, my father never complained or felt sorry for himself. He remained proud that he had served his country until the day he died in March 1992.

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