"I say, old man! Hear that? It's Leugenboom firing! I can't stand 15-inch shells on the docks this morning—let's get up and dress!"
After a while we borrow an assorted collection of naval garments, and at last climb on to the deck. It is a glorious sunny morning, and we lie in the middle of a little flotilla of neat grey-painted motor-launches lying side by side up to the tall stone wall of one of the docks. I can find no naval officer to thank, so walk from boat to boat till we reach the little iron ladder set in the quay-side, which we crawl up with difficulty till we are on the hot stone above. We start walking into Dunkerque, the back gunlayer in socked feet; myself with bare head, hair over my eyes, and back stooped in pain.
It is a strange walk. We are amidst civilisation, as it were, and people look curiously at us. I stop a naval car. The driver pulls up with evident reluctance.
"We are two naval flying officers—have just come down out to sea off Ostend—we are not well—can you give us a lift?"
"No, sir! Ration car!" In goes the clutch, away moves the car and its smart, rather contemptuous driver.
I stop another car. Again in an unfamiliar voice I begin my recitation—
"We are two naval flying officers—have just ..."
"Sorry, sir—got to fetch the mails!"
No one will help us. No car will give us assistance, though we are obviously in trouble. Too far away from these people is war for them to realise that from war's greatest menace we have just escaped.
We go into the French police office at the docks. There by the kindly uniformed officials we are courteously treated. They, at least, make an attempt to telephone through to our squadron.