Dunkirk: The Men They Left Behind (30 page)

Looking down into the water, Sweeney could see hundreds of heads bobbing up and down, some being struck by the chairs and tables being hurled through the air, ostensibly to save them. Men were seen sinking under the surface, never to appear again. It seemed that the chaos of the situation had engulfed Sweeney. The air was filled by the hissing of steam escaping through pipes, the banging of the anti-aircraft guns and the screams of the soldiers. For Sweeney this was a pivotal moment in his war:There are times in one’s life, when stock must be taken; when one weighs up what has been accomplished; when one dreams of future achievements. One searches for the meaning of life. For me, this was one of those moments. I pondered; I wondered. I wondered why innocent women, children and old folk had to endure the privations and sufferings of total war . . . My whole life seemed to scuttle by in a flash. I asked myself whether this was my last day on earth. Alas! I arrived at no solutions at all.
¹²

All he knew was that he needed to get into the water to escape the sinking liner. Watching as men jumped, some sinking into the depths and others bobbing back to the surface, he realized he was not alone. Others were hesitating, each man wrapped up in his own personal whirl of emotions. Around him some men began singing – mainly popular military songs – that were soon taken up by the mass of soldiers still on board the stricken ship. It was now or never. Sweeney removed his jacket and boots, hiding his jacket in the desperate hope that the boat might not sink and that he might be able to retrieve it later. Than came the moment of truth.

Unable to wait any longer, he ran towards the rails and jumped, hoping to get as far away as possible from the ship’s side. His efforts were wasted and instead he slid down the steel sheets of the ship’s side plating towards the water. As he slid he could feel the rough, rusty metal scratching at his naked back. He came to a halt on the casing of the propeller shaft, where he soon realized he was not alone. Around him were a number of soldiers – some fully clothed, arguing that their uniforms would keep them warm in the water, others naked, fearing that the heavy serge uniforms would drag them under. Still some forty feet above the waves, the men solved their dilemma in the soldier’s favourite way – they lit cigarettes. The group sat there smoking and contemplating their dilemma until the ship suddenly lurched. Abandoning their cigarettes, the men began throwing themselves into the water. Sweeney, forgetting his modesty, tore off his trousers and jumped: ‘When I hit the water, I seemed to go down and down for an eternity . . . I extended my arms upwards. I held my breath till the lungs seemed near to bursting. And I finally, when I popped out of the water, I seemed to keep on rising. Then I plopped. I jerked my arms like paddles. I tried floating on my back . . . a voice close by screeched in terror, “I can’t swim!” “Neither can I!” I screamed back in equal terror.’
¹³

One man tried to hold on to him, pulling him under. All he could do was to fight the man off, battling with him until the petrified soldier slid beneath the water. It was a frantic time; survival was all that mattered. This was the perfect time to learn to swim and Sweeney kicked and swung his arms, desperate to reach a plank to which four men were already clinging.

Watching these scenes was Charles Raybould. He saw the final men leaping to safety just moments before the
Lancastria
sank beneath the waters. Beneath him he could feel the ominous dragging current of the water pulling him towards the sinking ship, threatening to drag him under with it. As they watched their comrades dragged beneath the waters, Raybould and the survivors around him wept openly, realizing just how close they had been to sharing their fate.

Kicking away from the wreck, Joe Sweeney reached the dubious safety of the floating plank, which was his only hope of salvation. One man was already lying across it, making it harder for the others to hold on. For a full seven hours he refused to move. Another soldier was holding on with one arm, his free arm supporting a third man who was in obvious pain. The fourth soldier remained until he spotted a destroyer and, telling the others he was a strong swimmer, he struck off towards it. The naked men were all covered in oil from the now sunken ship. Around them were live men without lifejackets who were desperately trying to stay afloat. Elsewhere were dead men wearing lifejackets, whose lifeless corpses bobbed along on the waves. Later it was discovered that many of these had jumped from the decks wearing their lifejackets and broken their necks upon hitting the water.

Charles Raybould watched as a fellow survivor began swimming for the shore, then, realizing his strength had deserted him, the man waved goodbye and dived beneath the waves, never to be seen again. With an officer by his side, Raybould managed to get hold of a floating board, only to lose sight of the officer after a German fighter strafed the waters around them. Despite the thousands of men in the sea, most of the survivors were struck by how few men seemed to be around them. In reality there were lifeboats, rafts, rescue boats and other ships in the waters – some of which were prevented from assisting the survivors since they were too busy attempting to fight off enemy aircraft. Yet the men in the water seemed hardly aware of their presence.

Alone in the water, Charles Raybould’s thoughts turned to his comrades who had been lost in the sinking. There was the mate he had seen jump from the decks in full marching order, surely knowing that, encumbered by so much kit, he would sink straight beneath the waves. In his loneliness he began to think of giving up, accepting his fate, and drifting off into a damning sleep. He was saved by a voice coming across the water as a soldier swam to his side to join him holding on to the life-saving plank of wood. Another man tried to join them, before he too disappeared beneath the waves.

Eventually salvation came. At first Raybould and his comrade watched as a ship approached, only to see it blown up by bombs from the German aircraft. Eventually, just as it seemed they would never be saved, another ship approached: ‘Soon a grey sleek destroyer came into view . . . HMS
Havelock;
bold and British mistress of the waves; Rule Britannia. An insignia of safety and protection.’
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Charles Raybould was safe. However, there were plenty more for whom rescue seemed almost unthinkable. Still hanging on to his own plank, Joe Sweeney saw the plight of the man who was supporting the injured soldier. The strain was obviously weakening him and so Sweeney offered to help. For the next few hours they took turns to keep him afloat. As night approached they realized the chances of surviving through the hours of darkness were small. With the light fading and the waves beginning to rise, it was clear that rescue – if it were to come at all – must come soon: ‘In the creeping darkness, we could only see one tiny boat. By then we had given up all hope of being spotted. It took time before we realized that this insignificant craft was getting nearer and nearer. Salvation seemed to be coming closer.’
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Soon the boat came alongside them and ropes were lowered to pull the injured man on board. Using his last ounce of strength, Sweeney eventually slithered over the side on to the lifeboat.

For several hours the crew of what was one of only two of the
Lancastria’
s own lifeboats to escape from the stricken ship had searched the waters for survivors. Time after time they had filled up, taken the survivors to a larger craft, then rowed off to look for more of the desperate men as they swam or trod water. Yet, by the time they rescued Sweeney, their energy had sapped away. No longer able to row, and with the pitiful naked survivors unable to offer any assistance, the boat was left to ride the waves in the hope that they might soon meet another craft. They were lucky; eventually they were picked up by a French fishing boat and taken back to St Nazaire. The four soldiers who walked ashore were just a handful of the 2,000 survivors – out of around 6,000 who had been ready to set sail earlier that day. It was a sobering end to a day that had seen the French government request an armistice.

The situation in St Nazaire was now even more confusing. With the loss of the
Lancastria
many of the remaining troops were convinced the end was near and that no more ships would be coming for them. Some accepted the inevitable and settled down to drink themselves into oblivion and wait until they were taken prisoner. Others decided to leave the port in the hope of finding a boat elsewhere. Some even acquired transport, took to the roads and began the journey towards neutral Spain.

One group who left St Nazaire reached a nearby harbour, whose name none was later able to remember. The situation was far removed from that they had left behind them. There were no German planes in the skies above them, there were smartly dressed British officers organizing the loading of troops into an old steamer. There were even military policemen checking the identification of every man boarding the ship. There were also refugees attempting to secure a passage, including a group of Jewish families. A British officer stood firm, refusing to allow anyone except Britons or Allied military personnel on to the boat. One of the Jewish families made an offer to the British officers. They were willing to pay a soldier £1,000 to marry their daughter and take her to safety. They even had a rabbi on hand to carry out the ceremony. A British officer soon put a stop to the plan. He explained that no British soldier could legally marry without his CO’s permission.

Back in St Nazaire, men continued to find a passage home. Still naked, and unconcerned about his nudity, shipwreck survivor Joe Sweeney headed towards a bar. What he saw before him seemed to characterize the chaos of the BEF’s final days in France: ‘I felt I had entered the anteroom to Hades. The bar and eating areas were chock-a-block with troops. Most were standing, packs still on backs, rifles still slung. Some sang; some shouted; some screeched; some swore. Of course, all were drinking. They were drowning their sorrows . . . All were well aware that the morrow would settle their fates, up to heaven, down to hell, home to Britain or to “lagers” in Deutschland.’
¹⁶

In the back room of the bar he met the owner, who gave him some cigarettes and a half-bottle of brandy, then sent him on his way. He met a teenage girl who kindly went to fetch clothes for him, handing him a flannel shirt and a pair of riding breeches that belonged to her brother. In this curious apparel, that he had to tear open to get to fit him, he was directed towards the harbour by an officer of the Royal Navy, who advised him there might still be a chance of getting home. Eventually he was able to board a collier, and the next day he arrived safely in Plymouth. As he finally left the boat, he was struck by the contrast between his own ridiculous outfit and the splendour of the band of the Royal Marines who were playing at the quayside. He also realized that the assembled crowds were laughing and clapping at his comical appearance. Sweeney was not alone in reaching England in a pitiful state – nearly all of the survivors of the
Lancastria
’s sinking disembarked barefoot.

Outside Falmouth, the boat Fred Goddard was sailing on ran aground, having to be pulled off to refloat and reach the harbour. Goddard and the rest of the soldiers on board weren’t worried; all they were cared about was that they were home. The journey had been scary, sitting on the deck: ‘So it was a relief to see the coastline of Britain – but it wasn’t a relief a few days later when I was back in camp and saw the physical instructor. He started getting us back into shape! You can imagine what shape we were in after that march. It took a month to get us fit again. Then they sent us straight out to Egypt!’

Sergeant Coates, the small-arms instructor who had been so appalled by the behaviour of the British soldiers around St Nazaire, recalled arriving at Liverpool and watching a perfectly turned-out section of Guards arrive at the quayside to take some of the British soldiers into detention. The reaction from the troops was immediate. From the deck of the
Georgic
, which had been at St Nazaire at the same time as the ill-fated
Lancastria
, they began pelting the Guardsmen with whatever came to hand – bottles, tins and all types of rubbish. Under the hail of missiles the Guards were forced to retreat. Such encounters with officialdom were not unusual; some soldiers even reported not being allowed to disembark until Customs and Excise officers had checked them. Fred Goddard remembered hearing soldiers shouting and swearing at the customs man who seemed embarrassed once he discovered where the troops had come from.

Despite the dreadful scenes in St Nazaire when the
Lancastria
went down, her fate had not marked the end of the story. Evacuations from the port continued throughout the next day with 23,000 soldiers sailing for Plymouth on the morning of the 18th. News of more troops converging on the port meant further boats had to be rushed there to take away anyone left, with 2,000 Polish soldiers leaving later on the 18th. That day also saw the departure of some 10,000 soldiers from the nearby French naval base of La Pallice. The next day a further 4,000 Polish troops were also rescued from the base. Despite the French surrender the Royal Navy continued to send craft in search of stragglers, finding more Czechs and Poles in the days that followed. The final troopship sailed on 25 June – twenty-one days after the Dunkirk evacuation had drawn to a close. Operation Aerial had seen a total of 144,171 British and nearly 50,000 Allied soldiers evacuated from France.

As the soldiers arrived back home, there was little time to celebrate their return; instead they were hastily packed off to camps across the country to rejoin their units. For some it was a strange time, arriving back at empty barracks that had once housed comrades who had been killed, wounded or were simply, like so many thousands, missing. One battalion that had formed part of Beauforce recorded just one officer and twenty-six other ranks returning after the campaign. In the days that followed the arrival home there was a terrible realization among some of the returning units that many of their comrades had been lost when the
Lancastria
had sunk. The gunners of the 17th Field Regiment realized that the first groups to depart from Nantes must have been on board the stricken liner when she went under.