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Authors: Beryl Matthews
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surviving. Very little, he guessed. From the determined look on his face he was obviously going to stay until all his men were safe.
Knowing there was nothing else they could do, Will started the engine and headed out to sea.
It didn’t take them long to realise that Doug wasn’t the only casualty of the attack. They were taking on water. Again Alan came to the rescue by organising the men, and the tin hats were used to bail out the boat. It wasn’t too bad, but these men were exhausted, and Will didn’t think they would be able to keep it up all the way back.
‘We’ll get it fixed,’ Alan told Doug. And, taking one man with him, he began tracking down the leak.
Doug joined Will at the wheel, his face pinched with pain, but a smile on his face. ‘We’ll be all right, lad. I don’t think the damage is bad.’
‘To you or the boat?’ he asked dryly.
‘Both.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But this is the last trip this poor old boat will be able to make, unless we can get her patched up.’
Will glanced at him in amazement. ‘The only place you’re going is to hospital.’
‘I guess you’re right.’ He pulled a face and gripped his arm. ‘But I hate leaving those men behind.’
‘There are other boats here, and more arriving all thetime.’ Alan stood beside them, wiping his hands. ‘You’ve done enough. I know this isn’t your first trip because I saw you before. We found a leak and have plugged it. With luck it will hold until we get back.’
The water had stopped coming in and the men spread out, trying to catch some sleep. With Doug navigating and Will at the wheel, they made it safely back to Dover. The men were immediately taken care of and Doug whisked off in an ambulance.
Exhaustion hit Will suddenly, and all he wanted to do was find a bed and sleep, but he shook off his tiredness. He had a story to write.
Pulling a notebook and pencil out of his pocket, he wandered the dock, talking to soldiers, sailors, relief workers and medical staff. He lost track of time completely, and it was only when his book was filled up that he thought about making his way back to London.
The journey back was just a haze. Will remembered being on a train crowded with soldiers, but not much else. Almost as if he was in a dream, he walked through the doors of his newspaper and into the newsroom, making straight for his desk.
‘Will!’ The chief rushed up to him. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Dunkirk,’ he muttered, pulling the typewriter towards him and rolling in a sheet of paper.
‘You’ve got blood all over you. Are you hurt?’
He shook his head. ‘It isn’t mine.’
‘Good.’ The chief studied the boy typing away like mad.He was dirty, with lines of fatigue around his eyes, and without a shirt under his jacket.
Ted called Charlie over to him, and spoke quietly. ‘Get him tea and sandwiches, and then as soon as he’s finished, clean him up and take him home. He’s been gone for three days and I don’t want his family to see him in this state.’
Then the chief turned, faced the room and shouted, ‘Hold the front page!’
Chapter Eight
The last convoy had been a nightmare, and Bob didn’t think he would ever be able to forget the horror of ships exploding as the torpedoes hit them. He drew in a deep breath as the scenes flashed through his mind in vivid colour. And when that tanker had gone up in flames … well, it was just as if all hell had descended upon them. The merchant seamen were well aware of the danger, but they didn’t hesitate to go to sea time and time again, knowing that the cargoes they carried were vital to the survival of this country.
Hoisting his kitbag more firmly on his shoulder, Bob turned into his road, looking forward to a few days at home. Perhaps the peace and normality of being with family and friends would help. As he thought about this he realised that his perception of normal didn’t exist any more. France had fallen.
Bob reached his gate and
Knowing there was nothing else they could do, Will started the engine and headed out to sea.
It didn’t take them long to realise that Doug wasn’t the only casualty of the attack. They were taking on water. Again Alan came to the rescue by organising the men, and the tin hats were used to bail out the boat. It wasn’t too bad, but these men were exhausted, and Will didn’t think they would be able to keep it up all the way back.
‘We’ll get it fixed,’ Alan told Doug. And, taking one man with him, he began tracking down the leak.
Doug joined Will at the wheel, his face pinched with pain, but a smile on his face. ‘We’ll be all right, lad. I don’t think the damage is bad.’
‘To you or the boat?’ he asked dryly.
‘Both.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But this is the last trip this poor old boat will be able to make, unless we can get her patched up.’
Will glanced at him in amazement. ‘The only place you’re going is to hospital.’
‘I guess you’re right.’ He pulled a face and gripped his arm. ‘But I hate leaving those men behind.’
‘There are other boats here, and more arriving all thetime.’ Alan stood beside them, wiping his hands. ‘You’ve done enough. I know this isn’t your first trip because I saw you before. We found a leak and have plugged it. With luck it will hold until we get back.’
The water had stopped coming in and the men spread out, trying to catch some sleep. With Doug navigating and Will at the wheel, they made it safely back to Dover. The men were immediately taken care of and Doug whisked off in an ambulance.
Exhaustion hit Will suddenly, and all he wanted to do was find a bed and sleep, but he shook off his tiredness. He had a story to write.
Pulling a notebook and pencil out of his pocket, he wandered the dock, talking to soldiers, sailors, relief workers and medical staff. He lost track of time completely, and it was only when his book was filled up that he thought about making his way back to London.
The journey back was just a haze. Will remembered being on a train crowded with soldiers, but not much else. Almost as if he was in a dream, he walked through the doors of his newspaper and into the newsroom, making straight for his desk.
‘Will!’ The chief rushed up to him. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Dunkirk,’ he muttered, pulling the typewriter towards him and rolling in a sheet of paper.
‘You’ve got blood all over you. Are you hurt?’
He shook his head. ‘It isn’t mine.’
‘Good.’ The chief studied the boy typing away like mad.He was dirty, with lines of fatigue around his eyes, and without a shirt under his jacket.
Ted called Charlie over to him, and spoke quietly. ‘Get him tea and sandwiches, and then as soon as he’s finished, clean him up and take him home. He’s been gone for three days and I don’t want his family to see him in this state.’
Then the chief turned, faced the room and shouted, ‘Hold the front page!’
Chapter Eight
The last convoy had been a nightmare, and Bob didn’t think he would ever be able to forget the horror of ships exploding as the torpedoes hit them. He drew in a deep breath as the scenes flashed through his mind in vivid colour. And when that tanker had gone up in flames … well, it was just as if all hell had descended upon them. The merchant seamen were well aware of the danger, but they didn’t hesitate to go to sea time and time again, knowing that the cargoes they carried were vital to the survival of this country.
Hoisting his kitbag more firmly on his shoulder, Bob turned into his road, looking forward to a few days at home. Perhaps the peace and normality of being with family and friends would help. As he thought about this he realised that his perception of normal didn’t exist any more. France had fallen.
Bob reached his gate and
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