A Day at the Beach ...

Wounded British soldiers evacuated from Dunkirk make their way up the gangplank from a destroyer at Dover, 31 May 1940.
(Source)

Billy was nursing a twisted ankle, he had hurt himself during a brief fire fight with the Germans as they had fallen back into Dunkirk itself.

"Seriously mate, you fell off a bloody sidewalk?" Sergeant Major Cornwell had a big grin on his face.

"Well, in my defense Sar'nt Major, the bloody Jerries were shooting at me and I was in a bit of a fecking hurry to get out of the line of fire!" Though Lance Corporal Billy Wallace was glad to be reunited with the Sergeant Major, he wasn't all that thrilled at their current predicament.

"So we're to wade out to that line of lorries, climb up, then make our way along to the end, in the hopes that one of those weekend sailors will pick us up and take us back to Blighty¹?" Billy asked.

"Yes laddie, that's the plan - lock, stock, and barrel."

Billy looked at the man skeptically until Private Teddy Fraser nudged him and nodded at the sky, "Huns in the bloody sun, Corp."

Sure enough, Billy saw them at the same time the screams from the sirens mounted on the landing gear reached his ears. To the south there was a full squadron of Ju-87 Stuka dive bombers roaring down in their characteristic steep dive.

"Cover lads, I think they're heading further down the beach, but you never know." Billy tried to burrow deeper into the sand dune they were sheltering against.

Leutnant Horst von Schwartz-Waldberg held his crate steady as he settled on a small ship, maybe a corvette he thought. As always, the nearly 90° dive towards the ground exhilarated him, it was moments like this that ...

"Herr Leutnant! Englische Jäger!²" Von Schwartz-Waldberg's gunner, Klaus Schulze, shouted out as he began to fire on the English aircraft behind and above.

"Scheiße!" Von Schwartz-Waldberg barked as he aborted his dive, pulling desperately while kicking in rudder to hopefully throw off the enemy's aim.

The pilot heard a grunt, then a sob over the intercom at the same time he felt the aircraft shuddering as it was hit multiple times by enemy gunfire. He was sure that Schulze had been hit, but he had no time to think about that as he felt the controls suddenly go slack. Something was seriously wrong.

Von Schwartz-Waldberg chopped the throttle as he muttered "Perhaps if I ..."

"Die you arsehole!" Private Jock McMillan screamed as he watched the German aircraft slam into the water mere yards offshore.

"Finally, the bloody RAF is getting stuck in!" Private Malcolm Bain yelled as he pounded Alfie Morris on the back.

"Jesus, settle yerself lad, it ain't the Cup Final and there's more of the bleeding bastards coming in!" Private Morris barked as he knocked Bain's arm away. Morris pointed at a flight of German twin engined bombers sweeping in from the north.

Even as they watched the approaching bombers, the attacking Stukas were breaking in all directions as an entire flight of Hawker Hurricanes flashed through the German formation. At least three other Germans were smoking and two were in flames, struggling to escape the onslaught of the British fighters.

"Red Leader, Red Three, traffic at your two o'clock"

Squadron Leader Lionel Jeffries was already aware of the approaching enemy formation, he had spotted them seconds after splashing one of the bent-winged Nazis into the Channel. "Right-oh, Blue Flight, stay on the Stukas, Red Flight with me, let's get that incoming trade!"

Cornwell was watching the steady approach of the German formation, though a flight of Hurricanes had streaked through, downing one and damaging two of the approaching He-111 bombers, the rest came on without wavering.

"Heads down lads, things are about to get a bit dicey." Cornwell announced.

The first string of bombs fell just inside the town, back from the beaches, the second seemed to be marching straight down the beach in their direction.

"We're in the shite now boys!" Malcolm Bain yelled before his voice was drowned out by the exploding German bombs.

When the smoke and the dust had settled, Billy checked on his squad. Connor McGuire was swearing a blue streak as he held onto his left calf, "F**kers hit me Corp!"

"Robby, bind that up, ye're gonna live Connor, stop yer crying." Billy looked around, something made him look up. There was a man under a parachute, slowly swinging his way down to the ground.

"Heads up, might be a Jerry. Might be one of ours." Cornwell had his rifle at the ready. He needn't have worried though as he watched a party of French infantry move down onto the beach, all watching the parachutist.

"Can you see who he belongs to Corp?" McGuire's attention was no longer on his wounded leg.

As the British infantrymen watched, the parachutist freed himself from his harness and then stood up, his hands in the air.

"Guess he's a Hun." Billy offered.

A shot rang out as a Frenchman, he looked like an officer, walked up to the German airman and without a word shot the man in the face.

"Yup, that's a Hun." Billy sat back. He'd seen enough death by now that nothing shocked him anymore, not even the summary execution of a German airman.

"Guess he should have stayed in his kite." Connor said.

"Guess so." Sergeant Major Cornwell said. "Now lads, someone help McGuire, let's get down to that line of lorries. I'd rather not spend another night in France."

"Right lads, on your feet. Bain, Morris, give Connor a hand. Let's go!" Billy had the odd thought that in happier times, Dunkirk would be a nice place to visit. As he got to his feet, the pain in his ankle reminded him that they weren't out of it just yet.

¹ Informal term for Britain/England. In common use during WWI and WWII by the soldiers of the United Kingdom. Also in military slang a "blighty" was a wound serious enough to require evacuation back to the UK but non-life threatening.

² Lieutenant! English fighters!