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Came the dawn. Out on our front was the sea, and the coastline was a sandy shore. The sun rose quite fast, our friend the spotter was up above us out of range of any weapons we had and the gun flashes from the 88's were visible. It was possible to count the seconds to the shells exploding overhead. The age of miracles had arrived as the cooks' truck had found us and we all got a mug of 'gunfire' (army slang for early morning cup of tea!) and a sandwich. As the earth was so soft it followed that our tea and sandwiches were liberally peppered with dirt flying around from the explosions. As we hadn't eaten for some time a bit of dirt went down just as well as anything else. Arthur was still moaning about the 'smashing funk 'oles we had to leave behind, wot we couldn't carry'. Our Transport had been parked behind the hill but the spotter plane plus first class shots on the 88's soon rendered most of it into scrap. Amazingly, there were very few casualties on our front. We were in full view of the Panzer Division in front of us and we reckoned that they were waiting to cut us off from the coast.

About 11am the top brass and red flashes gave the order, to evacuate the position and make for Dunkirk. Voices were heard to say "Never 'eard of it!" But as is always the way, somebody had heard of it so we played follow-my-leader until the Stukas started bombing the roads when 'arty, Arfer and I broke off across country. Harry was our Sergeant, and as such was allowed a map and a watch! First we studied the map. Nobody knew where we were so couldn't work out a route. However, we came to a cornfield the same time as some more Stukas, and whilst emulating an ostrich, I saw a signpost with 'Poperinghe' on it, and thereafter we knew where we were going, we thought!

The weather was really great, the sun was shining and the obscenity of dive-bombers bombing and machine gunning the crowded roads was unbelievable. It was not the troops but the nannies and granddads with their little 'uns and what few bits of their homes they were able to carry, in prams, on bikes or carts. One horse drawn cart was overloaded. The horse was hit by bullets and collapsed, falling down the slight incline by the road taking the cart with it. H, A and I with some other troops tried to get the people off the road but panic, like fire, spreads so fast that when we managed to get a few off the road the next plane to fly over (ours or theirs) panicked them again, and back on the road they came. We gave up after a while and made our way across country. It was pretty open; fields under cultivation but at least the Stukas followed the obvious target, the packed road.

Whilst I remember events, time had no meaning. It was day or it was night, but apart from the occasional rest we just kept going. We came to a small wood and decided to have a rest there in the shade but when we reached the edge of the trees we saw an artillery battery sighting up their guns on the road where some Jerry tanks had arrived. The battery sergeant major got us lugging boxes of ammo up to the guns (25 pounders) after which he laid on a mug of 'char' for us before sending us on our way. Not before time as those Mk IVs looked too close for (our) comfort.

I'm never sure just how long it took to get to Bray Dunes, but en route we found what was probably a gardener's hut so we decided to take a break. When we got inside we found three semi-sober French poilu's (soldiers to you) imbibing wine from their water bottles. It was not too long before we were celebrating the Entente Cordiale. We even finished up singing the National Anthems of our countries. One of the bottles had cognac in it, and after supping red wine in t'others it went down just like disinfectant.

Later on, 'arty said it was time to join the war again, so off we went. Keeping to the field we headed towards Dunkirk, now visible from a distance by virtue of the oily smoke climbing up into the sky. In the event we were unable to enter the town as it was flattened and what still remained inflammable was burning away like bonfire night. The fuel storage tanks had been burning since the first raid and were still going strong. Mid-way between Dunkirk and La Panne were the Bray Dunes, rather similar to Camber Sands, only more of 'em. There was a hospital there, and as we neared the beaches our beloved friends the Redcaps (Military Police) were steering us on to various sections of the beach. Once we'd settled down and drawn breath and a fag we started scratching 'oles again. Stukas were paying us a visit again and like ostriches we buried our nuts in the sand and hoped for the best. It seemed that the ammo they were dropping was AP, or anti-personnel, which consisted of a bunch of small bombs of about 41bs; they were smothered to a great degree by the sand but getting a bum full of sand, albeit forcefully, was a sight better than the same area (the only bit visible).

We were by this time a mite tired, dirty, hungry, thirsty and very foot sore. Remember that we were the foot sloggers of the army and marching in our sleep was all part of our training, or so the sergeant said. No grub about, or water; some of the troops had been into the few buildings around scrounging whatever they could. Sorry to say, some of them found cognac and spirits, the results of which did nothing for morale.

'Drummy' Wash the Drum/Major was a big feller, with a most military bearing. Trouble was, he stuttered. It seemed to become more noticeable if he got excited, and it was most amusing to listen to him bawling someone out in a calm and unexcited manner.On the beach, whilst awaiting a conveyance to a Blighty bound ship, the Stuka dive-bombers had a field day. There was very little peace and quiet to be had. We, those of us who still had rifles and ammo, poked the barrels upwards, pulled the trigger and hoped for the best. Drummy had a Bren. He could be heard effing and blinding in a most polite way (I don't think!) and he didn't stutter once.

Some weeks later I met him in Hastings, we were both on leave and he told me that 'those bloody Stukas' nearly cured his stutter. To move on, after we were withdrawn from the El Alamein action we were guarding POWs. Whilst on this duty we were selected to escort some 100 prisoners to the military prison at Abbasia in Egypt: It was a train journey of some two hours; the blokes we were escorting were deserters, thieves, rogues and altogether a nasty lot, who had been court-martialled and sentenced. I think it may have been planned very well as there was no British service man in our group, only the escort. On arrival at the prison the officer in charge lined us up outside the massive gates and then thumped on the door whereupon a little grill opened and a face appeared. Yeah, it was Drummy's face. We had to stay in the nearby barracks overnight and Drummy came over to our bunks and escorted us to the NAAFI where he bought the Cinque Ports boys a beer. His stutter came back, sad to say, and as may be imagined, there were many suggestions about the availability of a few Stukas to cure him again.

The next period is a bit hazy, as it was daylight when I woke up. Arthur and Harry came to about the same time and we decided to see if we could find any of our units. About mid-afternoon we still hadn't seen anyone so we joined the queue to get out to the ships. There were small boats of all descriptions, and several rowing boats floating around with no one in them so After and I went out and grabbed one. We pulled it in by the lifeline around it and whilst 'any sorted out the 'eroes who thought they'd jump the queue, Arthur and I held the oars until 'arry gave the OK. The three of us then jumped on the gunwale (pronounced gunnel), handed the two oars to the blokes nearest the rowlocks (pronounced -rollicks -what a surprise they got!) and off we went. Did a few circles until Harry sorted out the oarsmen? Then we headed for a twin funnelled paddle steamer.

On the way we heard a muffled shout, "Help us up mate" and there hanging on the boat line was a cap with the RAOC badge, the top of the pack, FSMO (Full Service Marching Order) bobbing up and down in the drink. As Arfer and I were sitting on the gunwale facing the rear, we were able to put one arm each under his armpits but it became obvious he'd lost his marbles, cos he was wearing the whole damned issue. Apart from the fact that FSMO when correctly packed weighs 401bs, this one was also waterlogged and as we couldn't lift the bloke and his kit, out came two knives, Signallers, for the use of, and adrift went one released pack with sundry other accoutrements. We got the hope of the RAOC halfway aboard but due to previous passengers, there was no room for the rest of him so the surplus had to stay in the drink whilst we hung on to him. I tell no lie! He said " My RSM'II kill me for losing my kit, You'll have to pay for it." Arfer did his dirty grin bit and said" on three, let 'im go!" We saw him up the ladder to the deck of the paddle steamer and that was that. I wonder what happened to the idiot? Either made him an officer or a politician I reckon.

The ship was manned by the Navy, and as we got on deck there was a Petty Officer telling us to dump our rifles and any other kit, to make maximum room for people. Having carted and cleaned our rifles for so long, it was very surprising how easy it was to remove the bolt then sling 'er over the side! We did not normally treat our best friend like that.

I think the sailors were filling the ship up from the keel up and we found ourselves sitting on the companionway between middle and upper decks. We were so cramped it was wuss than being a sardine; after a short while we heard the engines start and the vibrations seemed to wake up the cooks. How they managed it I'll never know but a couple of sailors came round with a pail full of cocoa, Navy style, and a bully-beef sandwich about half a fathom thick. Boy, I can still taste it even now! Then I fell asleep.

I woke up later and at the bottom of the stairs was a toilet cum bathroom. Arthur had disappeared but came back saying a bloke had a razor which he was letting people, (idiots like us) have a shave. I managed to wiggle my way to the wash basin, scrounged the razor and scraped my five/six day growth off. I do not recommend shaving in seawater with a razor that has been used about 499 times! Back to my little space on the stairs, I fell asleep again. Unfortunately I had my leg tucked under me, with dire results as will be seen later.

The ship had a terrible list to port which was not helped by orders over the Tannoy to 'Keep to port'. We saw the sun come up and just after reached Ramsgate. Being good signallers we could read the Navy instructions to us so we weren't surprised when the ship made a wide circle into the quay, starb'd side to the landing pier. After a bit of frigging about the gangways were run out and guess what? We dis-embarked. Because I'd slept on my leg I was suffering an acute bout of cramp and was limping, hanging on to Arthur's arm. As we made our way along the quay we could see a bloody great hole just below the paddle cover, and had the ship been on an even keel it would have been shipping water. The skipper had completed four trips, and got that hole on the second!

There were doctors and nurses sorting out the sick, lame and lazy, and some massive matron tried to grab me for her sunbeam. It took us quite a while to convince her that I was OK. Then as we passed some tables, a mug of tea, a couple of sandwiches and a packet of coffin nails were handed to us before being bundled on a train.

We didn't know or care where we were going, I kept nodding off, and in between looking out of the window only to see flags in open windows, women waving and cheering. I thought perhaps we'd won the war and nobody had told us! But I have to admit once more that I spent most of the time on that train asleep. We eventually arrived at Derby station, where we de-trained. Outside the station a convoy of lorries waited to take us to a camp some two miles away. Naturally, to prove I was a hero, I fell base over apex, aftermath of my cramp. Did all right though as Arthur and I did the journey in an officer's Utility. Much more comfy.

Once signed in the camp, all our identification was needed, we were shown into huts with real beds and from then on we were left alone to sleep, eat and laze around. The weather was still marvellous and lots of us lay outside on the grass enjoying the rest. Rolls Royce had a factory nearby where the Merlin engines for Spits and Mossie planes were 'run up' on the benches. Pity somebody didn't tell us about it though as without any doubt at all Roger Bannister would never had been the first to do the FOUR-MINUTE MILE. We would've.

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