Читать книгу Arts to Intelligence - Doreen Galvin - Страница 4

During that time, we civilians never missed the BBC news every evening, but each day's news was worse than the day before. On the night of May 24, we could see clearly the searchlights at Boulogne on the other side of the Channel, as they played and cris-crossed in the sky, in their attempt to light up the German bomber force overhead. For two nights, we watched the play of searchlight beams, as they pierced the darkness above the raging fires that burned beneath them. When we went to bed, it was only with difficulty that we slept, owing to the crumps and vibrations that filtered across the sea bed and through the pillow to our ears, as the bombs exploded and the guns fired in the French port. On the third night, all was dark and quiet; Boulogne had fallen to the enemy.

Within the next few days, our own Armed Forces, which had fought alongside the French, had been cornered and surrounded in the area of Dunkirk with their backs to the sea. Their only hope of escape was by Allied shipping capable of picking them up from the open beaches. During the time of waiting, the troops were continually dive-bombed and machine-gunned as hundreds of thousands of men huddled together helplessly on the open beaches, hoping for a safe passage across the English Channel back to England.

In the meantime, as we listened to the BBC news, an unexpected request was broadcast over the radio. It was an appeal to captains of small ships, motor boats, fishing boats, pleasure craft, in fact to owners of any vessel that was capable of sailing under its own power. These men were asked to report to the appropriate local authorities immediately.

Next day, my uncle and I were scanning for convoys on the horizon through his telescope, which, on its tripod, resided permanently, protected by the roofed verandah of his house, but we were looking in the wrong place. There was little need for the telescope; from our hilltop view we saw, not far from the shore, a very large Armada of very small ships passing by in an easterly direction on its way towards Dover. On a calm sea, this panorama of little boats of all shapes, sizes, and descriptions proceeded in an orderly fashion, each spaced one from another, appropriately distanced and staggered about eight to ten abreast in a continuous stream. On the seaward side, small Naval vessels were going back and forth at a greater speed, presumably to monitor and protect the fleet of tiny craft. The bow of each little ship was set stoically towards the east as the flotilla sailed throughout the day.

During the next morning, little boats, presumably from more distant harbours and resorts, made their way in smaller numbers. They followed in the same direction as they were probably headed for Dover, one of the rallying point for small ships. On the third day, the expanse of sea was once again blue and sparkling, but deserted. The small craft, having arrived at their destination, were refuelled and their captains were briefed. The fine weather continued to hold and the sea remained calm, something extremely rare in the English Channel. On May 30^th, the evacuation of Dunkirk began. The small ships made the forty mile trip across the open sea to Dunkirk. They were among the first vessels to pick up the members of the stranded British Expeditionary Force, and any other Allied men in uniform who wished to escape captivity. The crews of these little boats braved the dive-bombing, shelling and machine-gunning, as they hovered a few feet from the crowded beaches, while waiting for the men to wade out to their boats. From there, the overladen vessels would transfer the men to the larger ships waiting for them in deeper waters. The little boats then returned to the beaches to pick up more passengers, and, if necessary, taking them all the way back to Dover when the large transports were already overcrowded.

Over a period of four days, under constant air attacks from the enemy and with minimal protection from our few overworked fighters, these little ships returned again and again to the Dunkirk inferno, until all survivors on the beaches had been picked up and taken to the safety of the land that was soon to be known as the "Island Fortress". Between May 30th and June 4th, over 335,000 men were rescued, but nearly all their equipment had to be abandoned. Our fighter aircraft, already grossly outnumbered by the Luftwaffe, were pathetically low in numbers. The spirit of the British people, however, was that of thankfulness and cheerfulness, despite our being the only country in Europe (apart from a few neutrals) that was still free from Nazi occupation.

Our spirits were high but, we civilians had little or no knowledge concerning the strategies of warfare. Many of us thought that the invasion was imminent, and, as we lived beside a probable landing beach, we began to wonder what we could do to help, or if not help, at least not hinder our own troops. My mother and I came up with one practical idea only. We would put all our cans and bottled foods in waterproof bags, and bury them in the "manure hole" deep under the rotting leaves and grass cuttings in the vegetable garden. In this way, if we were forced to house the enemy, we would not have to feed them! In retrospect, I realize that it is doubtful if we, or our house, would have survived had we been invaded, but, at the time, ignorance was bliss, and our uninformed minds helped us through an otherwise frightening situation.

On June 10th, Italy invaded Southern France through the Alps and, on June 22nd, France accepted an armistice and hostilities ceased there three days later. The Nazis occupied France and, after negotiations, Vichy France in the south was allowed a puppet government.

The British civilians, though jubilant from the "success" of Dunkirk, were confused and did not know what to think or what they should do next. We needed a leader to guide and put the facts of the situation before us. The next day, the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, who had recently formed a new coalition War Cabinet, spoke to the nation on the radio through the House of Commons, using his resolute and powerful rhetoric. It was, I think, his greatest morale-raising speech of the war. He concluded by saying the now famous words:

"...We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the new world, with all its power and might steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old."

From the most influential to the least important, Britons no longer needed to be told how to think or act; we knew exactly what was expected of us. We all needed to pitch in and do our best, however great or humble our part - there was no room or time for despair. Those inspiring words renewed our determination despite the almost impossible odds piled up against us.

Until the middle of August, life was reasonably peaceful at Pett. There was, however, one “fly in the ointment" with which everyone seemed to cope rather well. A German JU-88 light bomber flew over our area with such regularity that the people of the village were able to plan their day around the intruder's routine. Several mornings a week, the aircraft made landfall at low altitude about 11 a.m. It would fly inland along our valley, machine-gunning the local bus, cars or anything or anyone that moved, and then disappear over the hill near Fairlight Church, drop its bombs on Hastings, and retreat out to sea again. The time never varied and the Junkers could have been an easy prey, but our own fighters were too busy elsewhere to be spared for a lone raider. We learnt to stay indoors from about 10.45 a.m. until either the Junkers had passed by, or we were certain that it would not appear that morning. For the rest of the day, we felt quite safe.

Another incident seemed amusing to us at the time. The Army, encamped in the village, used to play football regularly in a large field opposite our home on the other side of the valley. The game, which they played in the morning, was usually in progress when the Junkers flew in. At the first sound of aircraft engines, the players would run for the protection of the thick hedge surrounding the meadow and hide beneath the bushes. The pilot of the enemy aircraft, seeing no activity there, would continue on his way in search of other prey. When the raider was safely out of range, the players emerged from their scattered hiding places to finish the game.

This way of life continued until the middle of August. So far, we had been spared an invasion. The sea proved to be a good ally. Then the enemy made its first massed air attack over the north-east of England and consequently suffered many losses - the Battle of Britain had begun. These raids were followed quickly by the bombing of RDF (radar) stations and airfields across the country. The next day the Luftwaffe concentrated on airfields alone in an attempt to cripple the RAF, the strategy being the preliminary to an invasion by sea. We had still not grasped the seriousness of the situation. On August 16th, more than 1,700 German bombers and fighters penetrated our air defences. One day during this period, we saw large concentrations of JU-52's (troop-carrying aircraft), passing just east of our village above the Romney Marshes on their way to London. We had to wait until we listened to the BBC news that evening to learn that the invasion had not started. The aircraft had been carrying bombs, not troops. I think we all slept better than usual that night.

After a lull due to a few days of poor weather, Pett suddenly found itself in the centre of the battle zone again as formations of German aircraft passed overhead, only to be split up by our Hurricanes and Spitfires. Enemy squadrons flew in droves above us, and dog-fights became regular occurrences overhead as our fighters, warned by radar, met them at the coast. During the beginning of this prolonged battle from August 24th. to September 6th, over a thousand German aircraft penetrated our island daily. Our fighters, vastly inferior in numbers, were usually in the air twice in a day, the pilots landing to refuel, only to take off again to continue the fight.

Early in September, the East End of London was set ablaze. The climax of the Battle of Britain came on September 15th. The attacks trailed off to some degree by the end of the month. During these days, we spent much of our time staying close to our air raid shelter watching the dog-fights above us, often diving into the dugout with great speed. On one such occasion, when the battles overhead seemed to have dwindled to almost nothing, we were chatting over the fence to our good friends and neighbours, the Watsons and their two teen-aged sons. We were relating to each other the events we had seen during the afternoon, when suddenly we were deafened by a tremendous roar. We looked upwards towards the laneway near the brow of the hill and, in a split second, we had all thrown ourselves flat on the ground, as a Messerschmitt 110 skimmed just above the garage roof, just missing the 50 ft TV aerial on the garage roof, pointing down towards the valley and the sea beyond. The noise of machine-guns filled the air. I covered my neck with my hands, and then glanced quickly from one side to the other as a shadow passed over me. There, on either side, I saw an aircraft wing with a big black cross near its tip. It could not have been more than fifty feet above me. As I was about to rise from the grass and dust, another aircraft followed at almost as low an altitude. This time it was a Spitfire chasing the Messerschmitt, the pilot pumping lead into the foe as he followed him. After the Spitfire had passed over us, one head came up after another as each of us ventured to rise above ground level. We wanted to witness the end of the chase.

Mrs. Watson, who had thrown herself flat on the garden path under some small trees, slowly staggered to her feet. There she stood defiantly, her hair smothered in twigs and leaves, her knees showing a tinge of pink, protruding through two huge holes in her stockings - a dishevelled, indignant but smiling survivor.

The Spitfire continued to follow the Me-110, forcing it lower and lower until it plunged into the sea in a column of water and spray. The Spit. circled, and then flew back towards our valley. As it passed over us, its wings swayed gently from side to side in a "Victory Roll”. We all waved our arms enthusiastically. My uncle shook his white handkerchief with a flourish, as the Spitfire headed inland towards its home base, probably for the second time that day. This pilot could still look forward to another tomorrow.

That day had been a rough one. Earlier, we had watched the air battles from a distance, where we had a panoramic view from the road at the top of Chick Hill. Much of the fighting had taken place above Winchelsea and Rye, about five to ten miles away. These two ancient and historical towns, two of the five Cinque Ports, were built on isolated hills, which rose above the expanse of the flat meadow and marshlands around them.

During one period of that day, the waves of enemy bombers were so numerous that our fighters, trying to break up their close formations, were engaged mostly in single dog fights with the enemy fighters attempting to protect the bombers. Within less than fifteen minutes, we witnessed seven fighters being shot down - too far away to identify whether they were friend or foe. Each aircraft plummeted towards the earth, followed by a ribbon of black smoke trailing behind it, before it exploded in a ball of flame on contact with the ground. Above, several white parachutes showed up clearly against the blue sky as they floated down slowly and gracefully, each supporting a small black figure below it. They drifted down quietly between the on-going dog-fights and cross-fire. We hoped that they would live, either to fight again on the morrow, or to spend the rest of the war as prisoners.

Looking back on these events makes me wonder how we could have cheered at the downing of a pilot and his aircraft as it fell into the sea. Yet, when one sums up the alternative, it seemed a natural reaction. Had the Messerschmitt not been destroyed, it would have continued on its way to London, protecting the enemy, dropping bombs on the city. So many more people would have died and others would have been injured or rendered homeless. When we were fighting against tremendous odds to preserve our freedom, there was no alternative. As it was, on that day London received a heavy concentration of bombs, and the RAF fighting force was nearing the end of its ability to fight back.

It was at that critical time when our air defences were almost exhausted that the Nazis suddenly changed their tactics. Night bombing began and our days became relatively quiet. But we at Pett paid for it by seldom enjoying an uninterrupted night's sleep. From July 10th. to the end of September, the German Luftwaffe lost 1,400 aircraft over Britain. By October 12th, the German invasion plans were shelved but that was something we did not know for many years afterwards. In the middle of October, my mother and I were pressured by the local police to vacate our home due to the possibility of invasion. We left for St. Albans to stay on a temporary basis with a friend of my mother's. Six weeks later, when the invasion had not materialized, we returned to Pett to take our chance with all the rest of the coastal residents, and to continue our lives where we had left off.

I had enjoyed a year as a full-time student at the Hastings School of Art & Architecture, but now I took my work there only one day a week for criticism. The other four days were filled creatively at home - at least that was the theory. The School had been condemned as an unsafe building in the event of an air raid, so the number of students was kept to a minimum at any one time. It was just another typical day when I took the bus to Hastings and made my way to the school with my portfolio under my arm. I walked past the doors of the Public Library on the main floor, and went up the wide stone stairs to the School of Art situated above it. As I climbed up the steps, I guessed that the staircase would probably be the only part of the structure to survive in the event of a hit, or a near-hit, by an enemy raider. It was an old building and contained a kiln for firing ceramics and several heavy printing presses on the upper floors. As usual, there would be very few people at the school today, for we represented one-fifth of the registered students, each attending, as we did, only once a week. Some of the boys from the architectural and art departments had already joined the armed services, so our numbers grew smaller. In general, it promised to be a rather dull and uninspiring day.

After the first class of the morning, with my creativity flagging, I joined two friends and we left to visit our favorite coffee shop. Our spirits revived immediately as we stepped out from the badly lit classroom into the sunlight, and breathed the fresh sea air - for the intersection on our right was only two minutes walk from the sea front. As we began strolling along the short road ahead, the tall buildings on either side restricted our vision to a narrow strip of sky above, until we reached the wide main shopping street of the town. We chatted with each other cheerfully, catching up on the week’s news. Suddenly, something diverted our attention. We glanced up and saw the silhouette of a Ju-88 dive-bomber coming straight at us. It was only a short distance away and just above the rooftops. A moment later, everything was being sprayed with cannon shells; the noise deafening in the confined space of our narrow street. Having just passed the local baker’s shop, the only shop on the street, we turned back hastily towards it and, one after the other, dashed through the door, and did not stop running until we had reached the far wall of the bakery. The girl behind the counter looked surprised at our sudden entry, for it had taken her a few seconds longer to realize what was happening outside. She was then, I think, quite glad to have our company. We waited until the shooting had stopped, and the sound of the aircraft engines had faded away. It was only then that the air raid siren began to wail. After the warning undulations had stopped and all was quiet, we thanked the shop assistant for temporary refuge. Then, cautiously, we went to the door, peered through the window and ventured outside once more. A moment later, we heard the noise of the returning raider. It had flown out to sea and back again, and was once more completing a circuit as it lined up for a repeat performance. We all turned round and ran like hares back to the bake shop, and burst through the door just as the shells began to ricochet off the walls of the buildings on either side of us. Breathlessly, we apologized profusely for our second uninvited entry, but we need not have bothered. The noise outside drowned out our voices, and she could not hear a word until the bomber had flown past us, up the main street and was on its way out to sea again.

This time, we waited longer until we were fairly sure that the Junkers would not return. All at once, we burst into a four-way discussion, in which we made some personal comments about the German Luftwaffe and what we thought of it! It was now, when all was quiet again, that my friends and I felt very embarrassed at having, more or less, taken over the bake shop. We each bought a cake that we did not particularly want and thanked the girl again for her hospitality. As we came out again into the street, we threw our caution to the winds as we noticed small pieces of knarled metal scattered on the ground around us. We ran all over the place, picking up souvenirs, scooping the still-warm silvery shrapnel into our hands. It was time for the next class, so, minus our coffee and with a cake in one hand and a fistful of shrapnel in the other, we turned in the direction of the Art School.

Over fifty years later, I showed the early part of this manuscript to Tony, one of the sons of the Watson family who lived next door, but higher up the hill. I asked if he had any comments or additions to make - he made just two. Referring to the German raider that used to fly regularly at low level up our valley, he said, “From our garden, we could look down on the German aircraft - we could even see the pilot in the cockpit.” The other observation, I quote from his letter of April 16, 1996, “I do remember I was at Pett at the time of the Dunkirk evacuation and remember that the miracle was in the calm sea. It was rarely like a mill pond and then only for a short while, but for three days there was scarcely a ripple so that even a rowing boat could cross to France and back. Those who knew the Channel could not believe it could be so calm for so long and thought it must be the hand of God.”

By now, I had become increasingly disenamoured with being a sitting duck, feeling useless and helpless beneath the unpredictable activity from the skies and of the threat from invasion. I wanted to be able to do something useful and decided to “join up”.