RICKY AND RONNY stood on the afterdeck of Shropshire Lass, frightened yet fascinated. The smoke from the burning city, thick, black, reaching to the heavens, was the same dark cloud their mother was anxiously watching that moment from the Shakespeare Cliff in Dover. In front of the twins the packed masses of khaki along the beach began to break and run in every direction as a fighter sweep of Nazi planes descended, so low the faces of the pilots peering over the sides were visible.
The lead plane dropped a stick of bombs that hit a huge glass-enclosed structure on the promenade, evidently a casino. It blew up with a roar. Bricks, pieces of glass, and fragments of stone and wood rose into the sky. Another bomb fell harmless in wet sand, and another in the sea, closer to Shropshire Lass.
This was war. They began to understand. Never had the twins been so terrified. Fear conquered them, paralyzed them completely. They wanted to run, to jump into the water, to hide in the crowded cabin below, yet they were unable to move. Glued to the deck, they watched the stick of bombs skip across the water at a speed they had never imagined.
Nor was there time to take cover, if indeed there had been any cover available. There was not even time to hit the deck. A bomb struck the water thirty feet away, sending up a huge burst and rocking Shropshire Lass violently. Another, twenty feet beyond them, tossed the boat again. Her frame shuddered, groaned, protested, slapped the sea, pitched everyone around.
The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds. It was in those few seconds they learned the meaning of war. They had not known until then, nor in fact had the Chief.
“Now then, lads....” His voice trembled. It helped to observe how frightened he was also. “Now then, let’s have those last men aboard and get out of here.”
A French fishing dory, with the name Corsaire II, was tied alongside, transporting wounded from the shore. She bumped and banged her side as the explosions tossed the two boats angrily. The bunks on Shropshire Lass were full below, the floor of the cabin, not taken up by the water tank, covered with helpless soldiers. Others were in the cockpit, many with dirty homemade bandages about their legs and arms. Nobody said a word, yet the twins knew most of them were in pain.
Soon Shropshire Lass, which had twelve life preservers and was capable of packing in ten or a dozen persons, had twenty on board. More were still coming over the side. Finally Corsaire II cast off. The brave Frenchmen rowing her put out their oars and headed back to shore.
Up came the anchor, the engines started, while the twins handed out water, biscuits, dried figs, and chocolate to the men. For most of them it was their first drink and food in days; they were all quietly grateful.
But the boat was dangerously low in the water. So they crept cautiously through the wrecks on both sides, then outside past the big French destroyer, which was cut in two, both parts beached parallel to the shore. They overtook another French warship, limping slowly along under its own power. Now Shrosphire Lass was leaving the burning city behind. Running along the Mardyck Bank, they turned west, following the coast at a distance, for the Chief had been ordered not to take the direct route across, which would lead them into the middle of a British mine field. He stood beside the wheel, stopping now and then to peer over the side, watching the water ahead closely. Many half-submerged wrecks showed how dangerous the region was.
Moving with care, he placed the twins well up forward, one on each side, to warn him of floating mines ahead. A British destroyer, looking large, safe, heavily armed fore and aft, gradually overtook them, her signal lamps winking from the bridge. The Chief watched attentively with his glasses.
“One... nought... four.... We’re on the correct course. So far. What is that, the Worcester?”
The twins, who knew every warship that came into Dover Harbor, spoke up quickly. “No sir, it’s the Wakeful.” The destroyer, a large L 91 on her bows, was packed with khaki. Many of the troops waved securely at the small boat, now bucking the eddy from the larger vessel. The Chief fell into line astern.
“I’d like to keep in touch with her through here. We aren’t too far off the coast, and those antiaircraft batteries look comfortable.”
But the destroyer had the speed, and with Shropshire Lass loaded as she was, it was barely possible to get more than six knots from her. So the Wakeful moved ahead, and was soon a mile or more in front. The Chief, watching her signals, kept his glasses pretty continually on the warship’s bridge.
Suddenly everything was blotted out from his vision by an enormous waterspout ahead. An explosion followed immediately that shook Shropshire Lass, far to the rear as she was. The whole thing was a matter of seconds. When the smoke cleared, there was no destroyer to be seen, only a lot of debris in the eddying water, oil spreading rapidly, and a few survivors here and there, arms stretching from the sea.