to collect mussels and winkles clinging to the rocks and stones as we went by. These were considered quite a delicacy by many people. At the high tide mark, the beach rose steeply away from the rocky pools and the sand became dark reddish-brown in colour. In rough weather and particularly during the January gales, this part of the beach was often strewn with all kinds of bric-a-brac.
The wind had been very strong and blustery during one of these January days. By nightfall, it had strengthened and soon reached gale force. Neither of us had much sleep that night as the full force of the gale pounded on the bungalow on the open hillside. The doors rattled and the driving rain slashed at the windows all night long. By morning, the storm had blown itself out.
After breakfast, my mother and I dressed up warmly and ventured down to the beach for some exercise and to look at the turbulent waves. On our arrival, we saw the high-tide mark scattered with large white boulder-like objects. Walking up to one of them with curiosity, we poked it with our fingers. It gave way to the touch, leaving our fingers covered with a sticky waxy substance. It was a huge lump of pure bees’ wax. According to the law, no one was allowed to remove anything of value from the beach without the permission of the local Coastguard. He duly examined the washed-up cargo and decided that it was not good enough to salvage. The news spread quickly around the village and the local people came to claim their share of these heavy sticky lumps thrown up by the sea. Some pieces were acquired and taken home by car by their new owners. Most people took their salvaged wax home in wheelbarrows, on the backs of bicycles, or in sacks slung over their shoulders, and some hardy types just dragged their loads in bundles behind them. My mother and aunt each claimed a lump, but it was a family effort to drag them home. There, we scraped the sand and gravel from the outside. Then, we mixed the wax with paraffin to make furniture and floor polish, which lasted us for the rest of the war years.
A week later, an even more interesting cargo from a torpedoed ship washed up on to the shore. During our regular walk, we found dozens of tea chests lying on the beach after the tide had receded. These large strong wooden chests, lined with very heavy aluminium foil, had been thrown up on the shore in an almost undamaged condition. Once again, the people in the village soon heard of the new find. This was a particularly popular cargo as we were severely rationed for tea and, for a nation of tea drinkers, it would be especially valuable. Again, we had to wait for the Coastguard to give his O.K. before we were permitted to return to the beach with all the jars and containers we could carry to fill up with this valuable find. By discarding the first couple of inches of tea from around the outer edge of a chest, we found that the bulk of the tea had not been affected by sea water. Some chests had not been broken at all. The tea we drank for a long time afterwards was not quite as good as the ration we paid for, but it was a real windfall in a time of shortage.
Early in 1940, Pett became a bustling little community as the population grew with the arrival of the Army. A large number of engineers were sent to install defences and booby traps against a more than probable invasion of our shores. Thousands of Romney Marsh sheep, whose breed was named after the pastures on which they fed, were evacuated. Gaps were blown in the sea dykes, which had been constructed just above the high-water mark. These ran for many miles in an easterly direction along the coast line. The dykes protected the below sea-level grazing lands which were spread out for miles behind them. Within days, the fields were completely flooded a mile or more back to the cliff line of a much earlier age. The beaches above the high-tide mark were mined and covered with myriads of coils of barbed wire. Where there were obvious gaps open to the sea, the Army installed ugly concrete tank traps. From then on, we were denied the use of the beach, and visitors were forbidden to travel within ten miles of the coast.
After an eerie peace, events began to happen. Hitler's army invaded and occupied Norway and Denmark in April 1940. The following month on May 10, the Germans burst through the frontiers of Belgium and Holland, neither of which had any choice but to capitulate to the invading forces a few days later. The enemy continued to sweep across France at an alarming speed. On May 19, almost all British operational aircraft which had been stationed on French soil, were recalled to England to continue the fight from our own airfields, and, by May 30, the evacuation of Dunkirk had begun.
THE SUMMER AND AUTUMN OF 1940
During that time, we civilians never missed the BBC news every evening, but each day's news was worse than the day before. On the night of May 24, we could see clearly the searchlights at Boulogne on the other side of the Channel, as they played and cris-crossed in the sky, in their attempt to light up the German bomber force overhead. For two nights, we watched the play of searchlight beams, as they pierced the darkness above the raging fires that burned beneath them. When we went to bed, it was only with difficulty that we slept, owing to the crumps and vibrations that filtered across the sea bed and through the pillow to our ears, as the bombs exploded and the guns fired in the French port. On the third night, all was dark and quiet; Boulogne had fallen to the enemy.
Within the next few days, our own Armed Forces, which had fought alongside the French, had been cornered and surrounded in the area of Dunkirk with their backs to the sea. Their only hope of escape was by Allied shipping capable of picking them up from the open beaches. During the time of waiting, the troops were continually dive-bombed and machine-gunned as hundreds of thousands of men huddled together helplessly on the open beaches, hoping for a safe passage across the English Channel back to England.
In the meantime, as we listened to the BBC news, an unexpected request was broadcast over the radio. It was an appeal to captains of small ships, motor boats, fishing boats, pleasure craft, in fact to owners of any vessel that was capable of sailing under its own power. These men were asked to report to the appropriate local authorities immediately.
Next day, my uncle and I were scanning for convoys on the horizon through his telescope, which, on its tripod, resided permanently, protected by the roofed verandah of his house, but we were looking in the wrong place. There was little need for the telescope; from our hilltop view we saw, not far from the shore, a very large Armada of very small ships passing by in an easterly direction on its way towards Dover. On a calm sea, this panorama of little boats of all shapes, sizes, and descriptions proceeded in an orderly fashion, each spaced one from another, appropriately distanced and staggered about eight to ten abreast in a continuous stream. On the seaward side, small Naval vessels were going back and forth at a greater speed, presumably to monitor and protect the fleet of tiny craft. The bow of each little ship was set stoically towards the east as the flotilla sailed throughout the day.
During the next morning, little boats, presumably from more distant harbours and resorts, made their way in smaller numbers. They followed in the same direction as they were probably headed for Dover, one of the rallying point for small ships. On the third day, the expanse of sea was once again blue and sparkling, but deserted. The small craft, having arrived at their destination, were refuelled and their captains were briefed. The fine weather continued to hold and the sea remained calm, something extremely rare in the English Channel. On May 30th, the evacuation of Dunkirk began. The small ships made the forty mile trip across the open sea to Dunkirk. They were among the first vessels to pick up the members of the stranded British Expeditionary Force, and any other Allied men in uniform who wished to escape captivity. The crews of these little boats braved the dive-bombing, shelling and machine-gunning, as they hovered a few feet from the crowded beaches, while waiting for the men to wade out to their boats. From there, the overladen vessels would transfer the men to the larger ships waiting for them in deeper waters. The little boats then returned to the beaches to pick up more passengers, and, if necessary, taking them all the way back to Dover when the large transports were already overcrowded.
Over a period of four days, under constant air attacks from the enemy and with minimal protection from our few overworked fighters, these little ships returned again and again to the Dunkirk inferno, until all survivors on the beaches had been picked up and taken to the safety of the land that was soon to be known as the "Island Fortress". Between May 30th and June 4th, over 335,000 men were rescued, but nearly all their equipment had to be abandoned. Our fighter aircraft, already grossly outnumbered by the Luftwaffe, were pathetically low in numbers. The spirit of the British people, however, was that of thankfulness and cheerfulness, despite our being the only country in Europe (apart from a few neutrals) that