Between 26 May and 4 June 1940, some 850 small ships sailed to Dunkirk to evacuate over 300,000 Allied soldiers. Naval ratings crewed most of the vessels involved in Operation Dynamo, but a few boat owners, unwilling to let the Navy take charge, took their own yachts to France. This book is a work of fiction inspired by those brave men.
My paternal Haley ancestors inspired the characters of Hariph, Martha, and the extended Brodrick family. They appeared briefly in my debut novel, Plagued. Born in Witney in 1890, Hariph Haley worked as a cycle maker. In his early twenties, he moved to Plymouth, where he became a motorcycle mechanic and met Martha, an actress. During the Great War, Hariph joined the Navy as armourer’s crew. By 1940, he was working in Plymouth as a car park attendant. To the best of my knowledge, he was not involved in the Dunkirk evacuation, but his skills as a mechanic and his seafaring experience would have been useful.
Although Thomas and Mary Haley adopted a baby girl in 1939, she was born to an unmarried mother on the Isle of Wight. The story of May, Kathleen, and Martha is fictional, but adoptions within families were commonplace.
Bert, George and the extended Porter/Scorey family are fictional characters who appeared in my Between the Wars Saga. Research into their Romani heritage came from many sources. www.newforestromanygypsytraveller.co.uk, www.travellerstimes.org.uk, and Glenda Bailey-Mershon and her book Eve’s Garden were a great help, as were several dictionaries of English Romani words. I hope I have done the Romani people justice, and I apologise for any mistakes.
The fictional character, Cadge/Arthur, also appeared as an antagonist in the Between the Wars Saga and demanded a chance to set the record straight in this book.
Denis Shiel, my maternal grandmother’s second husband, inspired Denis Kavanagh. Born in Dublin in 1897, Denis Shiel joined the Royal Marines in 1914 and never returned to Ireland. He may have been at Antwerp in 1914 and Gallipoli in 1915. His story is based on an amalgamation of first-hand accounts from sources such as the National Archives, Imperial War Museum, www.royalmarineshistory.com, and www.eyewitnesstohistory.com. I am also indebted to fellow author, Catherine Morrison, for reading an early draft to make sure I hadn’t overdone his Irishness. I highly recommend her novels, Waiting For Saturday, Recovering Alice and The Hook, and trust her judgment.
My research included many books, websites and blogs about the Dunkirk evacuation, but the blog, www.dunkirk1940.org, was a great help. John Grehan’s wonderful book, Dunkirk: Nine Days That Saved An Army, proved invaluable. It provided a wealth of first-hand accounts and vivid details to help me set the scene and imagine the world I’d thrown my characters into.
Information about the little ships came from many sources, but www.endeavourtrust.blogspot.com was especially helpful. Throughout the book, I have done my best to use accurate nautical terms and descriptions of the ships, and spent hours perusing yachting website and blogs for research, but I am no sailor. If you are, I hope you will forgive me for any errors.
The swinging song Martha sings to May is one I sang myself as a child. It comes from the Robert Louis Stevenson poem The Swing in A Child’s Garden of Verses, one of my favourite childhood books.
Researching the hospital in Dover, I discovered Lorraine Sencicle’s wonderful blog www.doverhistorian.com, and learned about Gertrude Tolland and the Buckland Hospital. None of this made it into the book, but it helped the world-building. I have tried to portray Bert and Arthur’s injuries as accurately as I can, based on many medical articles of the time from sources such as the National Library of Medicine.
This book exists thanks to encouragement from wonderful readers who took the time to contact me or leave reviews of my first series of novels. You will never understand how much your kind words mean. Thanks, too, to Aleks Kruz and Hayley Yates of Hangar47, who provided the technical know-how. Last, but definitely not least, I have to thank my long-suffering husband, Dave Keates, for his patience in listening to the story, believing in me, and giving his feedback. As he was once a shipbuilder his input was vital. This tale is a tribute to all those involved in the miracle of Dunkirk. They proved that with bravery, self-sacrifice and a little luck, it really is possible to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
Copyright © 2023 Marie Keates
All rights reserved. ISBN: 979-8-8614-9237-9
1 – Sunday 26 May 1940
Grace ran through the long grass, laughing. Her dress fluttered behind her, the sheer fabric leaving nothing to the imagination. Not that George needed to imagine the gentle curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts or the secret place at the angle of her thighs reserved only for him. He knew every inch of her body better than his own — from the mole on her right shoulder to the tiny heart-shaped birthmark above her little toe. He smiled and tried to run after her. The air felt as if it had turned to liquid. His limbs pushed against it, but he made no progress. She stopped and looked back. Her golden brown hair blew across her face and hid the features he loved so dearly — the cheeky grin, the button nose, and those smiling eyes. The wind rippled the poppy-twined grass. Red petals floated into the air, or were they drops of blood? The quiet birdsong grew louder and more insistent. Now it sounded like the distant chatter of machine guns.
George opened his eyes and saw the underside of the lorry bathed in the pink dawn light. Much as he wished he could close them again and get back to dreaming about his wife, they had supplies to load. He’d just set up the primus stove to make tea when Mick crawled from beneath the lorry, screwed up his face, pushed his hands through the sandy waves of his hair and stared towards the east. The rattle of artillery definitely sounded closer. George couldn’t tell if it was enemy fire or British. None of the Service Corps men were privy to such information, and no one would be likely to enlighten them. For the last three weeks, they’d known nothing but loading and unloading lorries and the drive back and forth between Belgium and France. Each trip was shorter than the one before, but none of them mentioned it. They did as they were told – no questions asked. Retreat and defeat didn’t enter their heads.
The water bubbled in the mess tin. Mick passed George a smoke and cast enquiring eyes at a smattering of small pink-gold clouds on the horizon. At least the weather looked good. Things could have been far worse. Sleeping under a lorry wouldn’t have been much fun if it had snowed like it did that Easter in Arras when Dad lost his toes.
Since they landed in France at the end of September, everything reminded George of Dad and his war. As the line of lorries crept towards the Belgian border, the road signs were a litany of names Dad, Tom, and Joe mentioned over a few beers in the Prince of Wales on a Friday night. When they passed through Caen, Le Havre, Amiens and Arras, where Dad saw the snow turn red with his blood, George pined for home and those happy Fridays in the pub. He had written to Dad saying he’d keep an eye out for lost toes and bring them home if he found them. They weren’t supposed to give away where they were in their letters. The censor blanked out place names, but mentioning toes would tell Dad all he needed to know.
When the tea had brewed, he passed a mug to Mick and sat on the ground with his back resting against the truck wheel to drink his. It may have been hot and wet, but it couldn’t hold a candle to drinking from his favourite cup in front of the fire at home. Still, they never ran short of food, drink or cigarettes here, and they had plenty of petrol for the stove. He couldn’t really complain, but he missed home terribly, especially after Grace wrote to tell him about the baby. The idea of becoming a father made him long for home more than ever.
He sighed and wondered for the millionth time if he’d done the right thing joining the Service Corps. Last spring, when they’d called up all the young, single men, he’d been glad to be married and pushing twenty-seven. Dad said this call-up was only the beginning.
‘If it goes on long enough, the buggers will even try conscripting the likes of me, lad.’
Dad had been expecting another war for five years or more. He said it was better to volunteer than wait until they conscripted you.
‘I made that mistake last time, nipper,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to end up a poor bloody infantryman like I did. If you jump before you’re pushed, you can pick and choose where you go. Maybe Tom or Harry’s boys will put a word in with the Air Force for you. If you train as a cook like them, you’ll always get first dibs on the grub.’
George didn’t fancy flying or being a cook. He liked nothing better than going out on Dad’s yacht, so the Navy appealed to him. Then Harry said he’d spent the whole of the last war in the bowels of a ship with barely a sight of daylight. In the end, he joined the Service Corps. He’d been driving around in lorries shifting furniture with Percy, Frank and Stanley since he left school, so it should be a doddle, and Dad said it would keep him out of the action. They’d all expected Stanley to do the same, but he’d opted for the Royal Artillery instead. Maybe it was the sensible choice because he was still in England manning anti-aircraft guns on the east coast. He said that staring at the sky, waiting for something to happen was boring. George would have taken boredom in England over excitement in France any day. Not that there was much to excite him here.
They’d spent the first six months in Neuville St Vaast twiddling their thumbs. The villagers were friendly, and the billets were more comfortable than the Great War trenches Dad talked about. They amused themselves with games of cricket and football and a visit to the war memorial near Vimy Ridge. What an impressive thing — imposing towers of pale limestone, poignant sculptures and views across the quiet fields where so many men had died. It would have fascinated Dad, but he said he’d sooner poke a stick in his eye than set foot in France again. George had an idea he’d feel the same way by the end of this war.
While George sat staring into space and thinking of home, Mick went around the other three lorries, giving the men under them a gentle prod with his boot to wake them. The supplies wouldn’t load themselves. By the time they’d finished their tea and cigarettes, the sun was above the horizon.
Mick had risen to his feet, muttering, ‘I suppose we should show willing,’ when George saw a cloud of dust approaching fast from the east.
The unmistakable sound of a Royal Enfield engine accompanied the dust cloud. Before long, a motorcycle messenger squealed to a halt beside the quartet of lorries.
‘Message from the sergeant.’ The young, panicked-looking private passed an envelope to George, the most senior man present. ‘You need to get out of here fast, lads. Fritz is on the way. You’re to smash up everything you’re not taking with you — vehicles too — and head for the coast toot suite. Every man for himself.’
As soon as he’d gone, Mick looked at George and scratched his chin. ‘How the bloody hell are we supposed to smash up lorries?’
‘I suppose we could remove the plugs and rip out the ignitions.’ George suggested. ‘Then, when it turns out to be something and nothing, we can fix them quick-smart.’
‘We could pour petrol on them and set them on fire.’ Archie’s eyes lit up at the prospect.
‘You do what you want, mate,’ Mick said. ‘I’m more interested in getting my arse out of here than worrying about what we leave for the Germans.’
They made a half-hearted attempt to disable the spare lorries. Then, while a gleeful Archie, his black hair still tangled from sleep, poured petrol over everything and struck a match, the rest of the men loaded jerry cans, food, cigarettes and themselves into the remaining lorry.
‘I swear Archie is a secret arsonist,’ George muttered as they set off. It seemed such a waste to burn serviceable lorries and equipment. It would break Dad’s heart to see it. He made his living recycling old stuff no one else wanted. Well, that and mending old boats.
‘Head for the coast is a tad vague,’ Mick said as they turned onto the main road. ‘Which bit of coast do you think it meant?’
‘Search me,’ George rubbed at the stubble on his chin and wished they’d had time for breakfast and a shave. ‘I’m only a lowly Lance Corporal. No one tells me anything. Head towards Armentieres. Hopefully, we won’t be the only ones, and someone else will know what’s what.’
They’d barely been on the road for five minutes when they met a long queue of vehicles, lorries, cars, motorbikes, horses and carts, and families on foot carrying bundles of their possessions. All were going in the same direction. Whatever caused all the alarm it had spread like wildfire.
‘With any luck, whoever’s at the front has more of a clue than we do about where we’re heading and why,’ Mick laughed and pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘I bet those buggers in the back are eating all the food. I’m starved.’
‘I expect it’s just a storm in a teacup, and we’ll be shifting supplies again in no time,’ George said. ‘Best make the most of it and enjoy the ride.’ They were moving at a snail’s pace now. George took a cigarette, lit it, and wondered if they’d be quicker walking. He didn’t care where they were going or how long it would take. They were on the move, and there’d be no supplies to load into lorries today. After all the slog and boredom, it felt like an adventure.
2 – Monday 27 May 1940
Hariph’s heart sank when he saw Martha driving his Wolseley up Notte Street towards the car park. She didn’t enjoy driving, and she’d never waste precious petrol on unnecessary journeys or bother him at work in the middle of the morning unless something was wrong. He thought of Leonard. Was his son in trouble? In February, when he went back to sea, he’d been certain they’d be returning to the North Atlantic, but from his last letter, it sounded as if he was in the Mediterranean now. Had the Germans torpedoed Hermes? Even if they had, a leading aircraft fitter was likely to be on deck with a good chance of surviving. Experiences from the last war crowded his mind, alarms wailing, men running along shadowy metal corridors, climbing ladders and stairs, lifeboats dropping into the dark sea. He shuddered and shook his head. Martha stopped beside his little kiosk. Her raven curls might have a touch of grey now, but her coal-black eyes still made his heart beat faster. They were full of concern, but not the distress he’d have expected if the worst had happened to their boy.
‘Bert telephoned,’ she said through the car window. ‘He said he needs to speak to you urgently. Frank got a call from a boatyard in Teddington. Apparently, the Ministry of Shipping are commandeering small ships to evacuate the troops from France. It’s hardly life and death, but you know Bert. He was insistent.’
‘He said it was coming.’ Hariph blew out a relieved breath. This he could cope with — the other thing, not so much. ‘He rang me after the announcement on the BBC. He said the Admiralty wouldn’t ask boat owners for their details unless they planned to requisition vessels if things turned bad over there. Then he said, if they took Sybil II, they’d have to take him as well because he’d sooner set her on fire than let some Navy idiot loose on her.’
‘And I suppose this means you’ll be going with him, even though you are an ex-Navy idiot with grey hair and a beard to match?’ Martha raised one precisely plucked eyebrow.
The look on her face said she disapproved, but she wouldn’t try to stop him. She’d never been a clingy or domineering woman, and he loved her all the more for it.
‘His lad’s out there, Martha. If Terence or Leonard needed to be rescued, he’d go with me,’ he said. ‘Besides, he needs a mechanic in case anything goes wrong. He hasn’t a clue about engines and a lone channel crossing is madness, especially now. We can take turns to sleep.’
‘Surely he doesn’t actually believe he’ll find George, does he? There are hundreds of thousands of men in France, Riph. It would be easier to find a needle in a haystack than one soldier amongst so many.’
‘He’s convinced he will. You know Bert, there’s no point arguing with him. In the end, every one of those lads is someone’s son, and we have to do all we can to bring them home. Hopefully, some other ship will rescue George. Anyway, let me tell Curly he’ll be alone for the next few days. He knew it was on the cards because I spoke to him as soon as Bert rang. Then you can take me home to get my stuff together.’
‘If you think you’re going to drive a hundred and fifty-odd miles from Plymouth to Southampton and then get on a ship and sail to France, you’ve got another think coming, Hariph Brodrick,’ Martha raised an eyebrow. ‘We can share the driving.’
‘What about Kathleen and Edith? We can’t leave them all alone.’
‘They’re not little girls any more, Riph. I’m sure they’ll manage just fine.’ ‘We’ll talk about it on the way home.’ He kissed her through the car window, took off his cap and ticket machine and went in search of his boss.
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