Dunkirk: The Men They Left Behind (29 page)

On the first day of the evacuation over 12,000 troops were evacuated and during the night vast amounts of stores were removed from the port, with the RAF patrolling the skies above. Yet in the days that followed the situation in St Nazaire became increasingly fraught, first as the French surrender was announced and then as visits by the Luftwaffe became increasingly frequent. As queues of anxious soldiers snaked their way along the quaysides – looking desperately out to sea for the small boats ferrying men out to the larger ships offshore – they were besieged by civilians hoping to secure a place for themselves on whatever vessel might be leaving.

Though this evacuation saved large numbers from death or captivity, there were other activities that were less heroic and were subsequently swept under the carpet, for they hardly showed the British Army in a positive light. One of those who later recorded his disgust at the behaviour of some of the soldiers was Sergeant S.D. Coates, an instructor from the army’s Small Arms School. It was not until more than sixty years had passed that he wrote of his experiences, believing it was a shameful episode of which he was not very proud and one which he believed should not be given much publicity.

Having left Chanzy barracks near Le Mans, Coates eventually reached the holiday resort of Pornichet, outside St Nazaire. There, attempts were made to organize the assembled stragglers into ad hoc battalions, with Coates put in charge of a platoon. On 15 June they were told to leave the camp as it was being evacuated. Coates soon became disillusioned with the behaviour of the British troops following the announcement of their impending departure: ‘large numbers rampaged through the camp, looting the NAAFI stores and anything else to hand and respirators were being discarded from their haversacks to make room for looted cigarettes, beer etc. It was a scene I had not imagined possible. I was appalled and disgusted.’
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At another depot near St Nazaire the soldiers discovered a train carrying cases of spirits, including army issue rum. Soon gangs of drunken men were seen running riot through the camp. It seemed their frustration with the defeat, retreat and chaos of the BEF was firing their fury. Angered by the failure to provide transport home, the mood of the drunks – mostly still fully armed – seemed set to get violent. It was only the quick thinking of one soldier that prevented a complete breakdown of discipline. Seeing an officer failing to control the crowds, he suggested they should set fire to the straw that had been used to pack the spirits in the wagons. The resulting fire spread quickly, consuming the first wagon then spreading to its neighbours. It had the desired effect of driving the drunks away from the spirits but had one unexpected result. The fire caught a wagon being used to transport ammunition, that soon began exploding, sending bullets whizzing across the railway yards, driving back the crowds.

The following day they marched to St Nazaire, the warm weather soon resulting in the column leaving greatcoats, blankets, equipment, helmets and even rifles in their wake. French civilians scavenged at the roadsides, picking up whatever the troops abandoned. A few, Coates included, marched in full kit. Exhausted, he kept marching, preferring the exertion of carrying the kit rather than the shame of abandoning it.

At St Nazaire the weather was glorious, with civilians strolling around watching as the troops queued to be ferried out by destroyers to the waiting passenger ships, the
Georgic
and HMT
Lancastria.
Despite how close salvation seemed to be, Coates continued to be shocked by the behaviour of the soldiers. As the air was rent by the noise of explosions, he watched the queuing troops flee in panic, knocking aside civilians as they ran for safety. Waiting for transit out to the
Georgic,
Coates watched as one woman was pushed aside and her child’s pram was sent crashing to the ground. He also saw British soldiers cowering on the malodorous floor of a urinal: ‘I think then I was almost ashamed of the uniform I wore.’
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From 5 a.m. on Monday the 17th, British troops began to load into the
Lancastria.
Among them was Charles Raybould, a corporal in the 2nd Sherwood Foresters. The Foresters had fought a desperate fifty-mile rearguard action, in which soldiers had abandoned their cumbersome belongings, such as greatcoats and blankets, leaving behind anything that weighed them down and delayed their flight. All they cared about was clinging on desperately to their weapons and ammunition, knowing they might be called to fight at any time. As they retreated it seemed that discipline had begun to disappear, with soldiers calling their NCOs by their Christian names and vice versa. One corporal was spotted irreverently saluting a pig as it trotted past the marching men. Men were answering back to the NCOs and, it seemed to Raybould, had started to display a civilian outlook as they realized they were getting closer to home.

As they lined up along the quays, Raybould was struck by the feeling that it would soon be a case of ‘every man for himself’. With discipline at best strained, and with soldiers from all manner of units – in particular, the Pioneer Corps, Royal Army Ordnance Corps and Royal Engineers – packing the port, it seemed that chaos was waiting to sweep the area. When one corporal tried to get Bren gunners to set up their guns in anticipation of an attack from the air, the men ignored his orders and openly threatened to dump him into the harbour. Despite such open insolence, every time enemy aircraft appeared above the town all manner of weapons opened up at them. Ack-ack guns fired rapid bursts into the skies, with the explosions of their shells accompanied by the steady thudding of Bren guns and the rattle of rifle fire. Exhausted infantrymen frantically filled magazines with their remaining rounds, passing them to the hard-pressed Bren gunners.

The scenes were watched by Fred Goddard:It was like a miniature Dunkirk – all hell was let loose. The Stukas had got it to themselves – there were no English planes anywhere. We made for this ship but the Stukas were dive bombing and they got it just before we got to it. A Stuka dived down. I thought he was going to crash on to the ship but he pulled up and dropped his bombs. One of those I saw go straight down the funnel. There was a terrible explosion. I’d never seen anything like it – the ship went straight down so quick. But as we came back from where the ship sunk we spotted a ‘coaler’. The skipper had a loudhailer and he said he was coming in but he wasn’t going to tie up. But if anyone wanted to they could jump on board as he went past! So Bill and me jumped – it was quite a long way down. There were about forty men on the deck of this boat. The captain couldn’t take any more. Some men that jumped from the harbour missed the deck. One or two we managed to pull on board, but the rest just sank straight down. The skipper told us, ‘I can’t take any more men. Don’t pull anybody else out.’ These days people forget anything else had happened after Dunkirk.

Goddard was one of the lucky ones; he had made it safely to the port and found a boat that had avoided the attentions of the Luftwaffe. Others were not so fortunate. At St Nazaire the hopeful troops soon became embroiled in one of the greatest maritime disasters of the entire war. Despite the bombing, the queues at St Nazaire gradually moved forward, the men making their way slowly towards the boats waiting to ferry them to safety. Joe Sweeney was one of the servicemen who, along with 200 other men, arrived at the HMT
Lancastria
by tug. Upon boarding he was pleasantly surprised by the orderly nature of the arrangements that had been made for the soldiers. He gave his name, rank and number to a waiting seaman and in return received a card allocating him to sleeping quarters and telling him when to go for meals. In total, the sailors handed out almost 6,000 of these cards. The
Lancastria
had once been a liner with the prestigious Cunard company. As a result, the comfort offered in the saloons and restaurants was in stark contrast to the conditions the troops had experienced in the weeks retreating across France. The luckier ones found themselves in the First Class dining rooms, at tables laid with crisp white linen and gleaming glasses and water jugs, as they sat down to a meal of sausages, mashed potatoes and coffee. Yet it was little more than an illusion of civilization and they were soon reminded of the reality of their situation.

In the mid-afternoon the
Lancastria
was subjected to a vicious aerial assault. German planes machine-gunned the decks, sending troops running for cover while bombers aimed their deadly cargo on the easy target of the large liner. Some of the soldiers were ordered on to the decks, armed with their rifles, to fire on the attacking planes. Their brave efforts were wasted as the bombers soon gained the upper hand.

RAF Sergeant Wally Hewitt had just made his way on to the decks when the planes began to target the
Lancastria.
He took cover as a bomber appeared above them:The gunners on board turned their fire on it. While they were firing another bomber dived down from the rear. There was a rush of men for cover. I was knocked on to my knees in the doorway I was near. I did not see the plane but knew it had dived low as the bomb’s whistle lasted only about three seconds. It was followed by a terrific crash and then a series of roars from down below. A sheet of flame seemed to strike me in the face. I was lifted up then crashed down again. I was stunned for a minute. I then forced my way clear of a number of bodies that were on me.
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Having bandaged his wounded brow and aided a soldier with a broken shoulder – whom he lowered into the sea – Hewitt found a lifebelt and swam off from the already submerged deck.

Also on board the
Lancastria
was Charles Raybould, whose own luck had sufficed during the Luftwaffe’s attacks on the port. He and his mates were given tickets allocating them space in a saloon at the front of the ship. The relief they felt as they settled down in expectation of returning home did not last long. Raybould was standing in a queue to get a drink of lemonade when a bomb struck: ‘A lightning infra-red blast skittled us like ninepins. I felt as if a very large blow lamp had been held at my head. Half-conscious I forced my trembling legs over inert bodies, groaing bodies . . . my tortured lungs were shrivelling fast in the oxygenless air . . .’
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The searing blast left Raybould in no doubt that the situation was desperate and he immediately began to look for a way out: ‘men were babbling snatches of prayer like frightened children in the dark. Dying voices called the names of their loved ones. Men became animals, fighting and snarling towards the small aperture of light which would feed and cool their dying but burning lungs . . . Screams came up from a large crater which could be seen in the light.’
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Those on the decks were stunned by the bombs. One dazed soldier recalled how he could feel debris crashing down on to his steel helmet. As the noise subsided he raised his head but could see little but a red-hot glow that pierced through the clouds of smoke and dust. Within seconds he moved backwards, away from the heat, and noticed crowds of soldiers jumping overboard. The soldier, though badly burned, realized there was no time to waste and joined the jumping men.

At the stern the situation was very different from these chaotic scenes at the epicentre of the blast. As the bomb struck, Joe Sweeney didn’t even realize what had happened. To him it seemed like another close shave. Then suddenly the ship lurched to port. This was an obvious signal that something was wrong and he decided to leave the saloon where he had previously bedded down. The corridors were packed with soldiers, all attempting to reach the decks with rifles still slung over their shoulders and packs firmly on their backs. As the crowds attempted to find their way through the narrow corridors, the lights went out and the air was filled with the shouts of frightened men. Again the ship lurched, this time to starboard. Water began to flow into the corridors, sending the men charging towards the port escape routes. Sweeney, spotting an opening in the crowds, dashed up the starboard stairs but was soon followed by others who had also sensed an opportunity to escape.

Charles Raybould was lucky; there was no hesitation from the men at the front of the boat who had so narrowly escaped the bomb’s ferocious blast. Nor was there any delay as they made their way to the decks. Realizing the ship was doomed, soldiers began stripping off their uniforms and diving overboard. Elsewhere he noticed a young padre descending into the depths of the ship, telling those who tried to stop him that he had to do God’s work. Men watched in disbelief, realizing it was suicide to go down into the chaos below. While the padre was gripped by faith, others abandoned all hope. Knowing the ship was sinking, one non-swimmer shot himself rather than facing a slow death by drowning.

Raybould joined the crowds who had decided to risk the waters in hope of swimming away before the
Lancastria
slipped beneath the waves. Diving overboard, he hit the water and screamed in pain. The bomb blast had torn his hair from his scalp, blistering the skin. Now the salt water seared his wounds, leaving him in agony. Accompanied by a sailor, he swam for safety, urged on by his companion telling him they needed to get as far from the ship as possible or else they would be dragged down as the ship went under. Reaching a safe distance, he watched as crowds of soldiers continued to leave the stricken ship. As he bobbed in the waves, he could see small figures still clinging to the immense steel sides of the ship. Other survivors watched in admiration as a Bren gunner continued firing at the attacking aircraft in the final moments before the
Lancastria
disappeared below the surface.

One of those who found himself clinging on to the
Lancastria
was Joe Sweeney. Along with hundreds of others, Sweeney had reached the relative safety of the deck. No longer trapped below decks, Sweeney faced another terrifying dilemma – he did not know how to swim. Initially he was not unduly concerned, believing that the ship’s demise would be a lengthy process. However, it was sinking rapidly by the prow, with the stern beginning to rise from the water. He had to act quickly or be trapped as the rising stern made jumping increasingly dangerous. Around him he noticed men throwing anything that could float into the water, in hope that there would be something to hold on to once they had dived overboard.