FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH G312

 FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH

Dunkirk is a small port on the northern coast of France. It lies close to Belgium. Before 1940, the town was not widely known. But since that time, it has entered Britain's history in the story of an almost miraculous escape.

In the summer of 1940, Hitler ordered his armies to attack in the West. The Germans drove forward and on the 10th of May they invaded Holland and Belgium. Thousands of tanks and trucks moved forward. They were supported by large numbers of planes. Dive-bombers blasted advanced positions and strong-points. fighters flew at treetop level, firing cannons and machine-guns at lines of trans-port. Troops were dropped or landed by gliders behind the defenders.

The British Expeditionary Force had been in France since the end of 1939. Shortly after the war began, British soldiers were transported across the English Channel to fight beside their French allies. When the German invasion of Belgium took place in May 1940, British forces moved into that country to help the Belgians.

But the German battle plan had been well prepared. A few days later, the German armies launched blows at the French defences around Sedan. Soon they broke through. They moved with a speed which bewildered the defenders. tanks and armoured cars thrust deep behind the French lines.

The British forces had to fall back quickly, but suddenly they found their retreat cut off. They were surrounded on the open beaches of Dunkirk.

In Britain there was deep gloom. The strength and success of the German advance had surprised everybody. The French Army was being mashed. The British Expeditionary Force seemed to be trapped at Dunkirk. Perhaps a few men would escape, but it seemed as if the majority would have to surrender. The blow would be so heavy that Britain might have to ask for peace.

Then the miracle began.

No one knows exactly how it began, how word was spread, but somehow the message was passed that Englishmen were trapped and dying on the beaches of France and that other Englishmen must go to take them off those beaches. Small boats were needed, anything that could float and move under its own power—life-boats, tugs, fishing boats, pleasure boats. Large and small, new and old, wide and narrow, fast and slow, they moved down to the shore. The "crews" were made up of bankers and doctors, taxi drivers and sportsmen, old longshoremen and very young boys, engineers and fishermen. There were fresh-faced young Sea Scouts and old men with white hair blowing in the wind. Some were poor, with not even a raincoat to protect them from the weather, others were owners of great wealth and property. A few had machine guns, some had rifles and old hunting-guns, but most had nothing but their own brave hearts.

Off they went at sundown on May 26, more than a thousand boats in all. It was a miracle that so many had been able to come together at one place at one time, and even more miraculous that crews had been found for them. But now came the strangest part of the miracle. The English Channel, ordinarily one of the roughest places in the world—no place at all for a small boat— suddenly became calm and flat. The little boats went out into a calm night, headed for the French coast, where anxious British soldiers were waiting. Coming up behind them were warships and gunboats.

Suddenly out of the night dozens of flares were dropped over Dunkirk by German bombers. They lit up a terrible scene: wrecked and burning ships everywhere, thousands of British soldiers standing deep in the water holding their weapons over their heads, hundreds of thousands more in lines on the beaches. Through it all moved the little boats coming to the rescue.

The planes came in to attack. But the people on the little boats fought back, firing rifles and old guns as the dive-bombers screamed down. Bombs exploded everywhere. Through it all, the little boats continued to move in to the beach and began taking aboard the soldiers.

Those who were there will never forget the long lines of tired men staggering across the beach, falling into the little boats, while others, caught where they stood, died among the bombs and bullets.

The amazing thing was the lack of panic. There was no mad rush for boats. The men moved slowly forward, neck deep in the water, with their officers guiding them. As those in front were dragged aboard the boats, those in the rear moved up, until at last it was their turn to be pulled up over the side.

Boats that had never carried more than a dozen people at a time were now carrying sixty or more. Somehow they backed off the beach, remained floating, took their loads out to the larger ships waiting offshore and then returned to the beach for more men.

German guns and German planes rained down bombs, shells, and bullets until the little boats seemed to be moving through a sea of fire. The Germans were closing in for the kill. Still the little boats went about their business. moving steadily through the water.

All through the long hours, the work went on. The old men and boys who made up the crews kept pulling the men aboard, made the wounded as comfortable as possible, took them out to the larger ships, then returned for more. No matter how many times they made the trip, there were still more men, waiting to be rescued.

And then at long last, on the morning of June 4, with the fires growing pale against the daylight and the dive-bombers sweeping in for the kill, the job was done; the beach was empty of life. The “fleet” turned and started home to England.

It had been hoped that some 30,000 men might be rescued. What the little boats actually did was to take off 335,000 men, the best of the British army. Although their heavy equipment was lost, the men were saved.

Britain had suffered a defeat, but thanks to the courage and skill of those who manned the boats, the British army was ready to fight again, with what is now called the “Dunkirk Spirit.”