大象传媒

The personal recollections, 65 years on, of my father鈥檚 involvement as a civilian, in the evacuation from Dunkirk at the end of May, 1940.

My name is John Osborne, and I live in Cheadle Hulme, about 9 miles south of Manchester. In passing, I would like to say that this is a fine part of our country in which to live 鈥� but that is another story.

One of my sons, Richard now lives in Appledore. I have sent him my recollections, 65 years on, of my involvement, as a civilian, in the evacuation from Dunkirk at the end of May 1940. After such a long passage of time since the actual event, my recollections are now, inevitably, embellished by what I have read over the years, and also, probably, by a few imaginative inventions of my own as well.

I would like to commence with some general background information, much of which has definite relevance to the main subject, which is to follow. I was born in 1918 at North Cray, near to Sidcup, where I lived until 1957, when my work took me to the Manchester area.

On leaving school in 1034 I went to work with John Knight Limited, the then famous soap manufacturers with such brand names as Family Health and Knights Castille toilet soaps, Royal Primrose and Hustler washing soap and Shavallo shaving products. This company has long since been absorbed into the Unilever empire. Their works and offices, the Royal Primrose Soap Works, were in East London, at Silvertown, E.16, which is on the North bank of the Thames, roughly opposite to Blackheath (where the Royal Observatory used to be situated before being moved to Herstmonceux in Sussex), between Woolwich, where is the Royal Military Academy, and Greenwich, with the Royal Naval College and famous painted hall.

To get to work at Silvertown from Sidcup, I had to cross the Thames, either under or over. In those days there was a pedestrian tunnel under the river at Woolwich and a road route through the Blackwall Tunnel. However, I often used the Woolwich Free Ferry, which transported pedestrians and vehicles over to North Woolwich in a few minutes. Whenever I made this short journey across the river I was always interested to watch the river craft plying to and fro, and I particularly remember the Sun class of tugs, which were always busy on that stretch on the tideway.

In the years before the war, I, with my cousin and some of his friends, usually spent our summer holidays sailing and boating, so we gained a basic experience of simple seamanship and boat handling. I well remember Sunday, 3rd September 1939, the day war was officially declared. We were all in church listening, on my portable radio, to the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, making his statement to the nation. There was a large congregation and, as soon as the Prime Minister finished speaking, our minister closed the service and we set off to walk home. On the way, the air-raid sirens sounded off for the first time, and everyone expected bombs to start raining down. It was, of course, a false alarm, but a good foretaste of what was to follow in the times ahead, but that again, is another story.

The next day, Monday, 4th September, a friend and I drove to Chatham on his motorbike, a 350cc ohv Rudge, to offer our services as volunteers in the Royal navy. We were surprised, and a little disappointed, to find that the only volunteers who were being accepted immediately would be enlisted as cooks. That was not our idea of fighting a war, although we were both to discover in very different active service circumstances, to what extent cooks and stewards could improve or mar life afloat, so we returned home to await our 鈥渃all-up鈥� papers, which we did not think would be long delayed.

Most of those studying with me at Captain O.M.Watts鈥� School had sailing boat experience and were hoping to enter the Royal Navy soon as R.N.V.R. Officers, so we were not particularly surprised to be told, when we arrived for lectures on Thursday, 30th May 1940, that the Admiralty wanted to see us all and we were to report to the P.L.A. Building, and not the Admiralty, but there was a war on. Our lectures were suspended and, as I was expecting to be interviewed with a view to being granted an R.N.V.R. Commission in the Royal Navy, I went home and smartened myself up, putting on my best suit and collecting my last school reports, examination certificates, and references.

When we reported to the P.L.A. Building later in the day as instructed there was no evidence of selection interviews being conducted; instead, a large crowd of us was ushered into a hall and told to 鈥減ay attention鈥�. An announcement was being made by a Naval Officer that a secret, and probably dangerous, operation was being mounted, which called for the short-term services of anyone, of any age, with some basic knowledge of small boats and boat handling. It was not possible, at that stage, for any more details to be given, we were told, but anyone who did not wish to participate was free to withdraw. I do not recall that anyone did so. We were permitted to contact our families to tell them that we might be away for a few days 鈥渙n a dangerous mission鈥�.

Of course, as soon as the news of the evacuation from Dunkirk was made public, everyone knew that we were involved in some capacity or other. We were then told in general terms that a large fleet of small boats was being assembled to go across the Channel to lift soldiers from the beaches to the east of Dunkirk Harbour. We were taken by coach to Tilbury. Remember that we were all still civilians. We arrived at Tilbury later, still Thursday, 30th May, and were 鈥渟igned on鈥� as Merchant Service Deck-hands, and issued with regulation steel helmets (tin hats). I still have mine as a memento. We still did not know what our role in the operation was to be. I was in a party who were taken to the quayside where, alongside, was a large number of ships鈥� lifeboats, the traditional type carried by all ocean-going passenger liners pre-war and each at least 30ft. long overall. We were determined to man these lifeboats in crews of about seven hands in each. (A hand is a seagoing term from the days of sail for a sailor who was reckoned to use one hand for himself, and one hand to do his work). The lifeboats, with their crews on board, were then formed into 鈥渢rots鈥� (a trot is a line of small boats secured one behind, or astern of, the other, ready for towing) of four or five boats, and taken in tow by a tug. Ours was Sun Tug IV, which I used to see from Woolwich Ferry on the way to work. The tug towed two trots alongside each other, so the helmsman had to steer in order to keep clear of boats in the line alongside, and avoid colliding when under way.

By this time it was quite late in the evening and it was dark when we set off, so we were told, for Southend Pier to take on provisions. We arrived there, without incident, at about 01.30 on Friday morning. We were issued with basic provisions of bread and tinned meat. We then set off for Ramsgate, where we received our final orders and set sail again, this time for a midnight rendez-vous off the Dunkirk beaches! During the passage the tug crew regularly sent buckets (literally) of tea down the line of boats in tow. We were the end boat in our line so, by the time the bucket of tea reached us, the little that was left was cold and diluted with sea water.

The precise timetable of events over the next 24 hours is, after all these years, no longer reliable. Our route to Dunkirk was by no means direct, as we had to keep to swept channels, free of mine danger. In any case, there were so many craft of all shapes and sizes making for the same destination that we needed just to follow the fleet. My vivid and lasting impression of the operation at this stage is of a calm, flat sea covered with an armada of assorted ships and boats. This is well described by Norman Gelb in his book 鈥淒unkirk 鈥� The Incredible Escape鈥�. This was published in 1990 and is based on detailed research of Allied and German records. He writes, and I quote, 鈥淎n extraordinary explosion of activity was taking place on the beaches as Well. A vast flotilla of small boats, far more than had been there before, appeared off the coast. The methodical work of the Admiralty鈥檚 Small Vessels Pool and the requisitioning teams Ramsey (Vice Admiral R.N.) had sent out was proving its worth. It was an extraordinary sight. All manner of small and medium craft appeared 鈥� barges, train ferries, car ferries, passenger ferries, RAF launches, fishing smacks, tugs, motor powered lifeboats, oar propelled lifeboats (that was us), wherries, eel-boats, picket boats, seaplane tenders. There were yachts and pleasure vessels of all kinds; some very expensive craft, some modest do-it-yourself conversions of ships鈥� lifeboats. There were Thames River excursion launches with rows of slatted seats, and even a Thames River fire float.

They came from Portsmouth, Newhaven, Sheerness, Tilbury, Gravesend, Ramsgate, from all England鈥檚 southern and south-eastern coasts, from ports big and small, from shipping towns and yachting harbours. Some from up river had never been in the open sea before. They were manned by volunteers, men who, without being given details, had been told that they and their vessels were urgently needed to bring soldiers home from France. Most were experienced sailors 鈥� professional or otherwise 鈥� but many were fledglings who knew nothing about maritime hazards. Had the weather been bad, some would not have risked going; neither their experience nor their craft, would have been up to it. Some mariners would for ever be convinced that the extraordinary, uncharacteristic calm which ruled the sea during most of the ten days of Dunkirk, permitted the evacuation to proceed, - 鈥榯he water was like a mill pond鈥� 鈥� was literally sent because 鈥楪od had work for the British nation to do鈥欌�� End of quote from Norman Gelb.

Any way, at some time after dark we arrived off the beaches at the east of Dunkirk. Only small vessels with relatively shallow draught could approach nearer than 12 miles from the shore. Our tug was able to get quite close before we were cast off and left to our own devices to row to the beach and pick up some soldiers who were patiently waiting by their thousands, continually under bomb and shell fire. Six of the crew rowed an oar each and one steered. The troops were very well disciplined, just waiting in long columns, hoping to be taken off. They were all deadbeat, having had a terrible time fighting their way to the beaches. We were able to get right to the sandy beach and took on board about 30 soldiers. They were 鈥渢ravelling light鈥�, having discarded most of their equipment. We rowed away from the shore and took our 鈥減assengers鈥� to the nearest craft lying off-shore that we could find, a tug, a trawler, anything that could risk coming in so close. We returned to the beach, probably a different section, because as soon as we approached a crowd of French soldiers, with all their equipment, rushed into the water and climbed on board before we had a chance to turn the boat round heading back out to sea and, as the tide was falling, we became stuck on the sand. With great difficulty we persuaded the Frenchmen to get out of the boat and we were then able to turn it round and prevent it broaching to (getting broadside onto the sea). At one time I was almost up to my neck in the water holding the bow of the boat pointed out to seawards 鈥� I was still in my Sunday suit!!! We transferred the load to one of the waiting crafts and made one or two more trips before deciding dawn was approaching and it was our turn to make the return journey and get on the way before daylight.

Through all this time we were so occupied with what we were doing that we were hardly aware of all the other activity going on all around us. It is always like this 鈥渋naction鈥�: there were aircraft overhead, friendly, and foe, all the time, continual bombardment of the town and harbour, and on the beach, by the Germans. Ships being sunk and survivors rescued, and all around the town and harbour of Dunkirk fires were blazing; a heavy pall of black smoke hung over it all. From much further off shore, British warships were bombarding the German positions.

We eventually left the beaches just before dawn on Saturday, 1st June. I spent most of the return journey in the engine-room of our craft trying to get warm and dry. When we reached England again, we had to lie offshore before being taken to Ramsgate by tenders; everything was very well organised and, seemingly, under control. Administrative formalities were completed and we were 鈥渟igned off鈥�. I received 拢5 as compensation for the damage to my suit. I managed, somehow, to get a lift back to Tower Bridge pier in a launch and, having unsuccessfully tried to sell my story to the Daily Express, I eventually arrived back home in Sidcup at about 05.30 on Sunday morning with the help of a lift in a newspaper van.

Now a further quote from Norman Gelb 鈥� 鈥淎t14.23 that afternoon (Wednesday, 5th June) the Admiralty in London officially announced 鈥極peration Dynamo now completed鈥�. The official War Office communiqu茅 said 鈥榯he outstanding success of this operation, which must rank as one of the most difficult operations of war ever undertaken, has been due to the magnificent fighting qualities of the Allied troops; their calmness and discipline in the worst conditions; to the devotion of the Allied navies; and to the gallantry of the RAF. Although our losses have been considerable, they are small in comparison with those which in a few days ago seemed inevitable鈥�. On the last day of Dynamo, 26,175 troops, almost all French, had been ferried to England from Dunkirk. The final total evacuated, including those lifted off in the days just before the Operation Dynamo was launched, was 364,628, including 224,686 British. Within days, many of the French troops would return to France to try in vain to help stem the total conquest of their nation by Hitler鈥檚 armies. But, to the immense relief of Churchill, the high command in London, and the people of Britain, the British army, so nearly lost, was home.鈥� It was reported that 887 craft took part in the evacuation, which certainly was something of a miracle.

As a postscript may I add that, by the time I had successfully gained my Yachtmasters鈥� (Coastal) Certificate, the regulations had been changed and I was required, after all, to serve as an Ordinary Seaman RN before being considered for a commission. After basic training, as an Ord.Sea., I was drafted to a cruiser, HMS Southampton (HMS Belfast, which is now berthed on the Thames near London Bridge as a museum, is a sister ship of the same class). We went to the Mediterranean, where we were in action with the Italian Fleet, then made an interesting journey through the Suez Canal to East Africa, and back to the Mediterranean to support relief convoys to Malta. There we were sunk as a result of a German Stuka dive-bombing on 11th January 1941.

I, obviously, survived, and took a passage back to the UK in a Dutch trooper, MV Christaan Huygens. I was eventually commissioned as a Ty.Sub.Lieut. RNVR in August 1941, and was appointed to HMS Loosestrife, a Flower Class Corvette, as Anti-submarine Control Officer. I was promoted to Lieut. On 1st January 1943 and appointed to HMS Trent, a River Class Frigate. In both ships we carried out convoy escort duties in the North Atlantic, and in HMS Trent in the Indian Ocean, operating between Aden, Bombay and Columbo. We also formed part of the escort of the invasion to Sicily in July 1943. I was demobilised and returned to civilian employment in March, 1946, having received 拢101.10s as War Gratuity and Post War credits of Wages!