Operation Dynamo

© 2014 ROB CLARKE. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/12/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3822-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3821-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014950317

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

In late May 1940, the German armed forces rolled over Western Europe with such surprising speed and power that the British and French armies were forced into a series of retreats. The Germans chased the withdrawing armies to the northern tip of France, right into the coastal town of Dunkirk. The Allies were trapped. The armies of Britain and France were all that stood in the way of a complete German route of Europe. Their situation was desperate.

Britain’s Prime Minister Winston Churchill did the only thing he could short of surrender. Ignoring any temptation to minimise the critical nature of the situation, Churchill appealed to the boat owners of England to deploy any able vessel to assist in the evacuation of the Allied Armies from Dunkirk. Tugs, ferries, fishing boats, yachts, and dinghies were dispatched in the rescue effort dubbed Operation Dynamo. From May 27th to June 4th, 215 000 British soldiers were transported from the coast of France home to England.

CHAPTER ONE

M ichael had acquired the habit of jamming on the rear brake of his bike so he could skid sideways when he stopped. It provided a slight thrill and was, he thought, a demonstration of skill and panache. Today, however, Michael allowed his bicycle to roll to a stop. He was exhausted.

He had been pedaling at a brisk pace for almost an hour before he finally reached his destination – the top of a rise that looked down onto a long flat plain. Michael had discovered the place on an outing with his friend Alfred a month earlier. Alfred had since moved inland so Michael was left to revisit the place by himself. It wasn’t the plain itself that was of interest; it was what was in it that drew him so far from home.

When he and Alfred discovered the place the first time, there were three Spitfire fighter planes sitting on a long natural runway. Both boys yelled Spitfires and raced down the hill on their bicycles onto the tarmac to have a closer look. They kept a respectful distance from the airplanes and circled them on their bicycles as if airborne themselves. This was a source of spectacular excitement. Alfred said bloody marvellous and Michael echoed bloody marvellous. The planes were clean but not new. Their short exhaust pipes from the Merlin engines had blackened the sides of the planes adding to their ominous look. The machine gun ports in the wing were blackened as well. These aircraft had seen combat. The boys were able to absorb some of the thrill of battle just looking at these small details.

But that day had started as a leisurely pedal through the countryside – discovering the valley and the fighter planes was an unexpected surprise. It was late in the day so they felt compelled to head home, expecting to return for a closer look at their next opportunity. They had gone a distance far beyond what their parents would have permitted that day.

Unfortunately for both boys, Alfred was sent inland shortly afterwards. Michael decided to make the return trip alone. He did not have permission to be so far from home. Michael’s mother was pulling his leash shorter and shorter as the war went on. Occasionally, news would break that a German plane had been shot down over England prompting Michael and his friends to scour the countryside in hopes of capturing the enemy. But, the same stories of desperate enemy airmen made Michael’s mother less and less willing to let him wander about.

Michael planned to move quickly to the landing strip and back before his mother noticed he was gone. His efforts paid off. On this day, there were no Spitfires but something almost as interesting. A massive bomber sat in the middle of the valley. Michael rested his legs for a few minutes admiring the great airplane from a distance. Then with a sweeping kick of his leg, he launched his bicycle down the hill toward the plane. As he neared the massive aircraft, Michael slid off his bicycle allowing it to fall on its side into the dirt as he jogged ahead of it. He normally took better care of his bike but at that moment his only thought was of the behemoth in front of him.

Michael found fighter planes to be far more exciting that bombers but the sheer size of this plane drew him. He shaded his eyes from the sun to take in the height and breadth of the fuselage. He then made another thrilling discovery: the rear gunner’s turret. The machine gun, complete with a long belt of bullets, could be seen plainly from where Michael stood. The gun and its bullets were larger than anything Michael had imagined. The glass bubble that enclosed the gunner’s station was like a gigantic fishbowl.

As he stepped toward the back of the plane, a man appeared suddenly out from behind the back wheel. Michael was startled and before he had a chance to get a good look at him, the man had closed the distance between them and shoved Michael violently backwards. He landed hard on his back. He rolled over onto all fours and then got onto his feet only to have the man shove him down again. As Michael struggled to get to his feet again, the man kicked him in the backside sending him face first into the dirt.

Michael had been kicked in the backside before this – what boy hadn’t been kicked by his chums while roughhousing? But this was a kick unlike anything he had experienced before. It rattled his spine all the way from his tailbone to the back of his neck. Michael had the sudden sensation that his teeth had been knocked loose. He rolled onto his back and realized he had dirt in his mouth.

He looked up to find a man in a British uniform looking down on him. The man wound up to kick him again but Michael scuttled away on all fours like a crab. The man then screamed at him, What do you think you’re doing?

Michael stammered, I was just… but he didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

You were just what? the man screamed again and wound up to kick Michael again. Michael instinctually retreated backwards again and this time found himself right under the plane’s fuselage. Michael scuttled a few more feet backwards so that he was on the other side of the plane. The man pursued him, not underneath the plane but around the back. After a momentary hesitation, Michael rolled back again under the fuselage and ran toward his bike. The man reached the opposite side of the plane in time to see Michael’s feet race away in the opposite direction.

Michael reached his bike, swung it around and mounted it with all the speed and agility he could muster. He stood up on his pedals accelerating as fast as he could. He heard the man’s feet pounding close behind. It sounded like he was gaining on Michael. He had the vivid sensation of a hand about to grab him. He was nearing the halfway point up the hill but the steepness of the hill was robbing him of the speed he desperately needed. Just then Michael’s left foot slipped off the pedal. His shin smashed into the sprocket and the bicycle veered to the left. Michael overcorrected his steering and swerved right. He was very nearly pitched off the bike entirely but he managed to regain control just before falling. He had his feet back on the pedals but the bike was now virtually stopped so he needed to put his foot on the ground. Once he was fully upright he kicked off and bore down on his pedals again. Again he had the sensation of a hand about to grab him. He pedaled so strenuously that his bicycle teetered dramatically left and right as he pumped. Finally, Michael could hear the footsteps behind him slow and then fade away. He kept up his pace for a few more strokes and then eased up himself. His legs felt like they were on fire but he continued pedalling away from danger. As his head cleared he could hear the man yelling at him, bloody spy!

When it registered, Michael gave an involuntary laugh. The man called him a spy. It seemed absurd to consider a boy on a bicycle a spy.

The day was ruined by some over zealous soldier keeping away would-be spies. The encounter happened so quickly; Michael realized that he never got a close look at the man’s face. Within a few moments, Michael became aware of a throbbing sensation in his left shin. He rolled to a stop and pulled up his pant leg. His shin had a swelling lump with an inch long gash in the middle of it. Blood was trickling down his leg. It was painful but not serious.

Resentment, exhaustion, and self-pity occupied him on the journey back home. At one point, Michael stopped to rest in front of a store with a large façade and an antique sign that said Tillman’s. The shop had a large front window and Michael could see his reflection in the glass. His face was red and puffy. His hair was askew and he had a great deal of dirt around his mouth and right cheek. He used his sleeve to wipe his face. As he looked at his reflection, he was struck with the realization that maybe he did look old enough to be a spy. The sweat on his face and the unkempt look of his hair made him appear older. This revelation did not make him hate the brutal soldier any less.

He would not reveal any of the day’s events to his mother. If his mother noticed any of his bruises, Michael would say that he fell off his bike.

CHAPTER TWO

P hilip Denby had been with the British Expeditionary Force for a year. He had been away in the fields of France for eight months with only rare and brief relief. The Denby family had a tradition of military service though they never considered themselves career officers. Philip’s father, Reg, had fought and died heroically in France in the Great War twenty-four years earlier. Prior to the war, the Denby family had been relatively prosperous fishermen – the large house that Philip and Jean lived in was bought through Reg Denby’s fishing fortunes. But, Philip was only a young man when his father died and with no one to teach him the fishing trade, Philip chose another career path – that of an accountant in his hometown of Tidesend near Dover. Philip was the town clerk and accountant – a position that furnished him with both modest means and respectability. They still had Philip’s father’s fishing boat though it was very old now and had fallen into disrepair. The Denby home looked onto the English Channel. The boat had been pulled up onto the beach within sight of the Denby house and for the last few years been used as a playhouse for Michael – Philip and Jean’s only child.

Michael had spent hours playing in the boat. At first it was a pirate ship. Then it became a war ship. Jean Denby scolded her son when he played war – always grimly warning him of how both his grandparents died on the same day in the Great War. Jean’s father and Philip’s father died in World War I but there was no evidence that they died on the same day. No one knew where the story of the coinciding deaths originated but Jean Denby held on to the story with pride and related it often with convincing drama. Jean’s dislike for warfare was not entirely shared by her husband. He was quick to point out that the Denby military history could be traced back to the Battle of Waterloo.

Amidst the many family photographs that decorated the Denby home were pictures of both Jean and Philip’s fathers in their army