“IF YOU’VE NEVER SEEN any Germans, here they are.” The announcement sounded strangely calm and detached to Edmond Perron, a minor Dunkirk official who had fled the blazing city with his family. The Perrons had found shelter on the farm of M. Wasel at Cappelle-la-Grande, a couple of miles to the south. As the fighting surged toward them, the Wasels and their guests retired to the stable for added protection. Now it was 3:00 p.m., June 3, and M. Wasel was peeking through the stable door and issuing bulletins on what he saw.
M. Perron peered out, too. Men in green uniforms covered the plain to the south—running … lying down … getting up … crouching … always advancing. But they did not come to the Wasel farm. Reaching its edge, they veered to the left to get around a water-filled ditch, then continued north toward Dunkirk.
General Lieutenant Christian Hansen’s X Corps was closing in from the south. By 3:30 the 61st Division had passed the Wasel farm and occupied Cappelle itself. By evening the 18th Division, advancing from the southeast, had Fort Louis, an ancient landmark about a mile south of the port. Stukas helped reduce another little fort two miles to the east.
The French were also crumbling farther east. Colonel Menon’s 37th Infantry were finally overwhelmed at Teteghem. By this time his 1st Battalion was down to 50 men. One machine gunner was working two guns, feeding them with scraps of ammunition picked up on the ground. Held up the better part of two days, the battered victors joined the other German units now converging on the port.
General Fagalde threw in everything he had left: the last of the 32nd Division … the coastal defense troops of the Secteur Fortifié des Flandres … the remains of the 21st Division Training Centre … his own Gardes Mobiles. Somehow he stopped them, although machine-gun bullets were now clipping the trees of suburban Rosendaël.
The end seemed very near to Sergeant Bill Knight of the Royal Engineers, who had somehow missed getting away with the last of the BEF. Now he was holed up in a cellar in Rosendaël with four other men from his unit. They had a truck, arms, plenty of food, but the German firing was so heavy that Knight felt they could never get to the harbor, even assuming the evacuation was still on.
The little party was pretty much resigned to surrender when two Belgian civilians, who had also taken cover in the cellar, began talking about slipping through the lines to their farms near the village of Spycker. Listening to them, an idea suddenly occurred to Knight: they might be cut off from the harbor, but why not go the other way? Why not slip through the encircling German Army and rejoin the Allies on the Somme?
A deal was quickly struck. Knight would give the Belgians transportation, if they would show him the little lanes and cow paths that might get them through the enemy lines unnoticed. Knight felt sure that the Germans were sticking to the main roads, and once through the cordon, it wouldn’t be too hard to reach the Somme.
They set off at dusk, June 3, bouncing along the back streets that led southwest out of town. All night they continued driving, guided by the Belgians and by a road map picked up at a garage they passed.
Dawn on the 4th found them near Spycker. Here they dropped the two Belgians, and after a few final instructions continued heading southwest. They still used back roads, and when even these seemed dangerous, they lay low for a while in a field. Toward evening they had a lucky break. A German convoy appeared along the road, made up entirely of captured vehicles. They fell in behind, becoming the tail end of the convoy.
They made 20 to 25 miles this way, with only one narrow escape. A German motorcycle was escorting the convoy, and at one point it dropped back to make sure that none of the trucks were missing. Feeling that it would be just as jarring to find one truck too many, Knight slowed down, dropping far enough behind the convoy to appear to be no part of it. When the motorcycle returned to its regular position up front, Knight closed up again.
Wednesday, June 5, and the truck at last reached the Somme at Ailly. Here the British party had another break: a bridge still stood intact. It was not a highway bridge—just a cattle crossing—but it would do. Knight barreled across it into Allied lines.
No one else at Dunkirk was that enterprising. One and all believed that June 3 would be the last night, and at Bastion 32 the mood was heavy with gloom. There was no more fresh water; the medics had run out of bandages; communications were failing. “Enemy is reaching the outskirts,” ran Abrial’s last message, sent at 3:25 p.m. “I am having the codes burned, except for the M Code.”
At 4:00 p.m. Admiral Ramsay’s rescue fleet started out again. As before, the plan called for the big ships—the destroyers, the Channel steamers, the largest paddlers—to concentrate on the eastern mole. But this time the naval berthing party would be greatly strengthened. Commander Herbert James Buchanan would be in charge; four officers, fifty seamen, and several signalmen would be on hand. Four French officers were added to provide better communication. With luck, Ramsay hoped that 14,000 troops would be lifted off the mole between 10:30 p.m. and 2:30 a.m.
The minesweepers, skoots, and smaller paddle steamers would concentrate on the west pier, a shorter jetty just across from the mole, where crowds of French soldiers had waited in vain the previous night. This smaller flotilla should be able to take off another 5,000 men. The little ships—there were still scores of launches, motorboats, and small craft about—would again probe deep into the harbor where the larger vessels couldn’t go. They would ferry the troops they found to the gunboat Locust, waiting just outside the port.
The ever-growing fleet of French trawlers and fishing smacks would take care of the Quai Félix Faure, cover the outer mole all the way west, and make a final check of Malo beach. These French boats were late arrivals, but now seemed to be everywhere.
All understood that this really would be the last night, and Ramsay tried to make sure of it with a strongly worded telegram to the Admiralty:
After nine days of operations of a nature unprecedented in naval warfare, which followed on two weeks of intense strain, commanding officers, officers, and ships’ companies are at the end of their tether. … If, therefore, evacuation has to be continued after tonight, I would emphasize in the strongest possible manner that fresh forces should be used for these operations, and any consequent delay in their execution should be accepted.
It was true, but hard to tell from the jaunty procession of vessels that once again streamed across the Channel. The destroyer Whitshed pulled out, her harmonica band playing on the foredeck. The cabin cruiser Mermaiden was manned by a sub-lieutenant, a stoker, an RAF gunner on leave, and a white-haired old gentleman who normally helped take care of Horatio Nelson’s flagship Victory in Portsmouth. The motor launch Marlborough had lost her two solicitors—they only had the weekend off—but she boasted two equally dapper replacements: a retired colonel and an invalided army officer, said to be a crack shot with a Lewis gun.
The destroyer Malcolm looked especially dashing, with her officers dressed in their monkey jackets for the festive evening that never came off. The tug Sun IV, towing fourteen launches, was still skippered by Mr. Alexander, president of the tugboat company. The MTB 102, again carrying Admiral Wake-Walker, now sported a real admiral’s flag—made from a red-striped dish cloth.
Wake-Walker arrived off the eastern mole at 10:00 p.m. and was relieved to find that tonight plenty of French troops were waiting. But once again the wind and the tide were against him, and he couldn’t get alongside. When the Whitshed appeared at 10:20 with Commander Buchanan’s berthing party, she had no better luck. The other ships too were unable to land, and a huge traffic jam built up at the entrance to the harbor.
Nearly an hour passed before Wake-Walker managed to get some lines ashore, and the berthing party was able to move into action. By 11:00 loading operations were under way, but a whole hour had been lost. What had been planned for four hours would have to be done in three.
Fortunately the Luftwaffe had turned its attention to Paris, and there was little shelling tonight. Many of the guns too had gone south, and Kuechler’s advance was so close that his artillery were leery of hitting their own infantry. On the mole the British berthing party could hear machine-gun fire in the town itself. “Vite, vite,” a sailor shouted as the poilus tumbled aboard the Malcolm, “Vite, God damn it, VITE!”
Admiral Taylor’s flotilla of small craft headed deeper into the harbor, to the Quai Félix Faure. The Admiral himself had gone ahead in the War Department’s fast boat Marlborough to organize the loading. He understood there would be thousands of French waiting, but when he arrived, he found the quay deserted. Finally 300 to 400 French marines turned up and announced there was nobody else.
But they were enough, considering the size of Taylor’s little ships. Most held fewer than 40 at a time. The Mermaiden was so crowded the helmsman couldn’t see to steer. Directions had to be shouted over a babble of French voices.
As Taylor loaded the last of the marines, a German machine gun began chattering less than half a mile away. No more time to lose. Packing a final load into the Marlborough, he shoved off around 2:00 a.m. on the 4th. Dodging one of the many small craft darting about the harbor, Marlborough scraped over some fallen masonry and lost both her propellers and rudder. She was finally towed home by the large yacht Gulzar, piloted by a Dominican monk.
Mishaps multiplied. Nobody really knew the port, and the only light was from the flames consuming the waterfront. The Portsmouth Admiral’s barge ran into a pile of rubble and was abandoned… .The trawler Kingfisher was rammed by a French fishing boat… The minesweeper Kellet ran aground against the western breakwater. A tug towed her off, but she was too badly damaged to be of further use. Wake-Walker sent her home empty—one of only two ships not used this last hectic night.
The Admiral himself nipped about the harbor in MTB 102, busily juggling his fleet. The Quai Félix Faure was cleared … the eastern mole was under control … but the short jetty just west of the mole was a problem. The whole French 32nd Infantry Division seemed to be converging on it. At 1:45 a.m. Wake-Walker guided over a large transport, then the packet Royal Sovereign to help lift the crowd.
On the jetty, Commander Troup landed from the War Department’s boat Swallow, took one look at the confusion, and appointed himself pier master. His chief problem was the usual one: the French troops refused to be separated from their units. Enlisting the help of a French staff officer, Captain le Comte de Chartier de Sadomy, Troup urged the poilus to forget their organization. In two hours they would all meet again in England. Take any boat. They seemed to understand: the big Tynwald came alongside, loaded 4,000 men in half an hour.
2:00 a.m., June 4, two small French torpedo boats, VTB 21 and VTB 26, rumbled out of the harbor. Admiral Abrial and General Fagalde were leaving with their staffs. Behind them the massive steel doors of Bastion 32 now lay open and unguarded. Inside there was only a clutter of smashed coding machines and burnt-out candles.
2:25, gunboat Locust, stationed off the harbor mouth, received her last load of troops from Admiral Taylor’s little ships. Her skipper, Lieutenant-Commander Costobadie, had done his duty, and it must have been a temptation to run for Dover. But he still had room; so he went instead to the eastern mole and topped off with another 100 men. Finally satisfied that Locust could hold no more, he headed for home.
2:30, the last French ships, a convoy of trawlers commanded by Ensign Bottex, emerged from the innermost part of the harbor. Packed with troops fresh from the fighting, he too turned toward Dover.
2:40, “heartened by bagpipes playing us out,” the destroyer Malcolm slipped her lines at the eastern mole. Twenty minutes later the last destroyer of all, Express, left with a full load, including Commander Buchanan’s berthing party.
3:00, French troops still crowded the short jetty just west of the mole. Commander Troup had been loading transports all night, but the jetty continued to fill up with new arrivals. Now the last big transport had gone, and Troup was waiting for a motorboat assigned to pick up himself, General Lucas of the French 32nd Division, and the general’s staff at 3:00. The minutes ticked by, but no sign of the. boat—not surprising on a night like this when a thousand things could go wrong.
Troup was beginning to worry, when at 3:05 the War Department’s boat Pigeon happened by. She was miraculously empty, making a final swing through the harbor. Troup hailed her, and Sub-Lieutenant C. A. Gabbett-Mullhallen brought his craft alongside.
A thousand French soldiers stood at attention four deep, as General Lucas prepared to leave. Clearly they would be left behind—no longer a chance of escape—yet not a man broke ranks. They remained motionless, the light from the flames playing off their steel helmets.
Lucas and his staff walked to the edge of the pier, turned, clicked their heels, and gave the men a final salute. Then the officers turned again and made the long climb down the ladder to the waiting boat. Troup followed, and at 3:20 Sub-Lieutenant Gabbett-Mullhallen gunned his engines, quickly moving out of the harbor.
As these last ships left Dunkirk, they met a strange procession creeping in. Destroyer Shikari was in the lead. Following her were three ancient freighters, and flanking them were two speedboats, MTB 107 and MA/SB 10. Captain Dangerfield was once again trying to bottle up the harbor by sinking block ships across the entrance. As the little flotilla moved into position, they were buffeted by the bow waves of the last ships racing out. Lieutenant John Cameron, skipper of the MTB 107, pondered the trick of fate that had brought him, “a settled barrister of 40,” to be an actor in this awesome drama.
Suddenly an explosion. Enemy planes had apparently mined the channel—a parting present from the Luftwaffe. The first did no damage, but a second exploded under the leading block ship Gourko, sinking her almost instantly. As the two speedboats fished the survivors out of the water, the remaining block ships steamed on. But now there were only two of them, and the job would be that much harder.
While the block ships edged deeper into the harbor, Shikari paid a final visit to the eastern mole. It had been nearly empty when Express left, but now it was beginning to fill up again. Some 400 French troops tumbled aboard, including General Barthélémy, commanding the Dunkirk garrison. At 3:20 Shikari finally cast off—the last British warship to leave Dunkirk.
But not the last British vessel. Occasional motorboats were still slipping out, as Captain Dangerfield’s two block ships reached the designated spot. With helms hard over, they attempted to line up at right angles to the Channel, but once again the tide and current were too strong. As on the previous night, the attempt was largely a failure. Hovering nearby, MA/SB 10 picked up the crews.
Dawn was now breaking, and Lieutenant Cameron decided to take MTB 107 in for one last look at the harbor. For nine days the port had been a bedlam of exploding bombs and shells, the thunder of artillery, the hammering of antiaircraft guns, the crash of falling masonry; now suddenly it was a graveyard—the wrecks of sunken ships … abandoned guns … empty ruins … silent masses of French troops waiting hopelessly on the pierheads and the eastern mole. There was nothing a single, small motorboat could do; sadly, Cameron turned for home. “The whole scene,” he later recalled, “was filled with a sense of finality and death; the curtain was ringing down on a great tragedy.”
But there were still Englishmen in Dunkirk, some of them very much alive. Lieutenant Jimmy Langley, left behind because the wounded took up too much room in the boats, now lay on a stretcher at the 12th Casualty Clearing Station near the outskirts of town. The station—really a field hospital—occupied a huge Victorian house in the suburb of Rosendaël. Capped by an odd-looking cupola with a pointed red roof, the place was appropriately called the Chapeau Rouge.
The wounded had long ago filled up all the rooms in the house, then overflowed into the halls and even the grand staircase. Now they were being put into tents in the surrounding gardens. A French field hospital also lay on the grounds, adding to the crowd of casualties. The total number varied from day to day, but on June 3 there were about 265 British wounded at Chapeau Rouge.
Tending them were a number of medical officers and orderlies. They were there as the result of a curious but most fateful lottery. Even before the decision to leave behind the wounded, it had been clear that some would not be able to go. They were simply too badly hurt to be moved. To take care of them, orders had come down that one medical officer and 10 orderlies must be left behind for every 100 casualties. Since there were 200 to 300 wounded, this meant 3 officers and 30 orderlies would have to stay.
How to choose? Colonel Pank, the Station’s commanding officer, decided that the fairest course was to draw lots, and at 2:00 p.m. on June 1 the staff gathered for what was bound to be a very tense occasion. Two separate lotteries were held—one among the 17 medical officers, the other among the 120 orderlies.
In each case all the names were put in a hat, and appropriately enough an English bowler was found in the cellar and used for this purpose. The rule was “first out, first to go”; the last names drawn would be those left behind. The Church of England chaplain drew for the enlisted men; the Catholic padre, Father Cockie O’Shea, drew for the officers.
Major Philip Newman, Chief of Surgery, listened to the drawing in agonized silence as the names were read out. Ten … twelve … thirteen, and still his name remained in the hat. As it turned out, he had good reason to fear: he was number seventeen of seventeen.
Later that afternoon a farewell service was held in the cupola. At the end Father O’Shea took Newman by the hand and gave him his crucifix. “This will see you home,” the padre said.
One of those who stayed took no part at all in the lottery. Private W.B.A. Gaze was strictly a volunteer. An auctioneer and appraiser in peacetime, Gaze had been a machine gunner with a motor maintenance unit until the great retreat. Separated from his outfit, he had taken over an ambulance abandoned by its regular driver and was now a fixture at 12th CCS. The other men might know more about medicine, but he had skills of his own that came in handy at a time like this. He was a born scrounger, could fix anything, and had even located a new well, when Chapeau Rouge was running out of water. Major Newman regarded him as an “honorary member” of the unit, and Gaze reciprocated—of course he wasn’t going to leave.
Most of the staff pulled out on the night of June 1. The 2nd was largely spent making futile trips to and from the docks, as false reports circulated that a hospital ship had arrived. That night a dispatch rider roared up with the news that walking wounded could be evacuated, if brought to the eastern mole. This last chance of escape was seized by many men who, under any normal definition, were stretcher cases. They rose from their cots and limped, hobbled, even crawled to the waiting trucks. One man used a pair of crutches made from a coal hammer and a garden rake.
June 3 was a day of waiting. The French troops were falling back, and Newman’s main job was to keep them from occupying the house and using it for a last stand. A large red cross, made from strips of cloth, had been laid out on the lawn; the Luftwaffe had so far respected it; and Newman wanted to keep things that way. The French commandant seemed to understand. He didn’t occupy the house, but he did continue digging on the grounds. Occasional shells began falling on the garden.
At dusk the French began pulling out, retiring still further into Dunkirk, and it was clear to everyone at Chapeau Rouge that the next visitors would be German. When, was anybody’s guess, but the white German “victory rockets” were getting close.
While the wounded lay quietly on their cots and stretchers, the staff gathered in the basement of the house for a last dinner. They ate the best food they could find, topped off by some excellent red wine from the Chapeau Rouge cellar. Someone produced a concertina, but no one had the heart to sing.
Upstairs, Major Newman sought out a wounded German pilot named Helmut, who had been shot down and brought in several days earlier. It was clear to both that the roles of captor and captive were about to be reversed, but neither made much of it. What Newman did want was a crash course in German, to be used when the enemy arrived. Patiently Helmut taught him phrases like Rotes Kreuz and Nichts Schiessen—“Red Cross” … “Don’t shoot.”
By midnight, June 3–4, the last French defenders had retired toward the docks, and there was nothing to do but keep waiting. As a sort of reception committee, Newman posted two enlisted men by the gate. An officer was stationed on the porch outside the front door. They had orders to call him as soon as the first Germans appeared. Then he laid out a clean uniform for the surrender and curled up on the stone floor of the kitchen for a few hours’ sleep.
On the front steps Jimmy Langley lay on a stretcher just outside the front door. It was so hot and sticky—and the flies were so bad—he had asked to be moved into the open. He too was waiting, and even as he waited, he began thinking about what might happen next. He was a Coldstream Guards officer, and in the last war, the Coldstream were not known for taking prisoners. Had that reputation carried over? If so, there seemed a good chance that the Germans would pay him back in kind. He finally had a couple of orderlies carry his stretcher to a spot near the gate and set it down there. If he was going to be killed, he might as well get it over with.