DUNKERQUE after the second attack by torpedo planes from the ARK ROYAL. Abreast No. 2 turret can be seen the hole caused by the explosion of depth charges carried by the TERRE NEUVE, sunk alongside the battleship.
MERS-EL-KEBIR, JULY 3, 1940. The battleship STRASBOURG underway within seconds after the first British salvo. The super-destroyer in foreground is getting underway.
TORPEDO PLANES from the ARK ROYAL attacking the DUNKERQUE at dawn on July 6, 1940.
MERS-EL-KEBIR HARBOR during the battle on July 3, 1940. In the foreground is seen the super-destroyer MAGADOR after being struck in the stern and set on fire by a large shell.
Finally, acknowledgment should be made of the services of the three mail steamers, Côte d’Argent, Newhaven, and Rouen, which between them transported almost 12,000 men during the evacuation.
At last, on May 31, there arrived the horde of small fishing craft which had been requisitioned. Admiral Landriau had established control stations in the Dover roadstead and was sending to Dunkirk everything that arrived. Needless to say, the trips were made under the least orthodox methods of navigation. There were insufficient charts—compasses were lacking—courses were mainly set by following the ship ahead. It was easy enough proceeding to Dunkirk, for the lofty columns of flame and smoke were visible from miles away. But the return trip was less easy, and many boats missed the mouth of the Thames altogether.
Also, there were engine failures. Thus, the motor of the little Jacqueline positively refused to function after arrival at Dover. Never mind—its crew of three sailors from the destroyer Triomphant set off boldly for Dunkirk under sail, and returned the same way, bringing off 33 men.
In all, 48 ships brought back 9,967 men on May 31. On the 1st of June, 38 craft brought off 7,483. Forty-three ships had actually started out, but five were sunk off Dunkirk, including the Foudroyant, last survivor of Porzamparc’s flotilla,77 and three sweepers sunk by the Luftwaffe. On the 2nd of June, 43 ships evacuated 6,177 men, and on the 3rd in a last go, with both Navies vying with each other, 63 ships brought off 10,248.
Captain Urvoy de Porzamparc, well known and very popular in the Navy, commanded the 2nd Flotilla, based on Brest, which consisted of 12 destroyers of the Cyclone class (1,500 tons). Of the 9 placed under the orders of Admiral, North, 5 were sunk and 4 damaged. Only the Ouragan, undergoing repairs at Brest, and the Boulonnais and Brestois, sent to Norway and then to the Mediterranean, were absent from this battle.
It was scarcely hoped to continue the evacuation as late as the night of June 3. The enemy was already nearing the inner defenses of Dunkirk. Admiral Abrial was burning his codes. But from Dover the English and French were preparing one final coup in force. When Admiral Abrial left his headquarters in Bastion 32, to view the last embarkations from on board a MTB, a tremendous activity was taking place in the harbor of Dunkirk. For the moment the sky was clear of enemy aircraft, but the furor of the land battle was increasing minute by minute. In an uproar of sirens the torpedo boats maneuvered at full speed—went alongside, took on their loads without making fast, and backed full away in brief minutes—crossed each other and sheered off in a whirlpool. The final miracle of Dunkirk is that there were not more collisions that night. Only one serious collision occurred, and even then, thanks to the fog, the ships succeeded in getting away to sea. The last loss of Operation Dynamo was the French minesweeper Emile Deschamps, which on the morning of June 4 blew up on a magnetic mine within sight of the North Foreland. Of the 500 men aboard, only 100 or so were rescued.88
Note by Jacques Mordal: Among them I was fortunate to find myself with Lieutenant Jacquelin de la Porte de Vaux, one of my shipmates in the Jaguar, sunk 15 days before. The Emile Deschamps went down in a few seconds, taking with her a great many of our sailors, as well as a number of the survivors of the Jaguar. But, as in all tragedies, this event had its lighter side. After I had surfaced and recovered my breath, I heard myself being hailed by de la Porte de Vaux with, “Hello, Hello! Let’s sing!” And he began singing “The Song of Departure (“Le Chant du Départ”), one of our most famous military marches. I was picked up by the British sloop Albury; I do not remember the ship which picked up de la Porte de Vaux. But it so happened that the same ambulance carried us both to the first aid station at Margate. En route I was strongly reproached by him for not having sung while in the water, “as all sailors with their hearts in the right place must do in such circumstances.” I had been in no more of a mood to sing patriotic songs than my clothing could be said to give me a martial appearance. In fact, I was covered by a single blanket, which I felt sliding off me while I was being carried by a big devil of an Englishman toward a group of nurses who were attending the wounded. An indignant “Shocking!” coming from the lips of a blushing young nurse finally conveyed to me the fact that the said blanket and I had parted company. It so happened that I was repatriated to France shortly afterward, while de la Porte de Vaux was still in a hospital in England at the time of the armistice between France and Germany. I continued to serve in what became known as the “Vichy Navy,” while he joined the Free French Naval Forces. The reverse could just as well have happened; and astute is he who will tell me what my feelings would have been if I had been in my comrade’s place. Meeting unexpectedly one evening in Paris after the liberation, we fell into each other’s arms, calling each other “You dirty Vichyite!” and “You dirty De Gaulliste!” Then we ran together to the nearest bar to swap reminiscences. We almost left our whole month’s pay there!
Plans had been made to save everybody, but the dispositions taken to embark the defenders of Dunkirk were defeated by the sudden appearance of thousands of men, coming from no one knows where. Out of caves, out of shell and bomb holes, came disarmed men, forming small human streams converging toward the jetty and joining together to form a huge, impressive human river almost congealed on the spot. With all approaches to the jetty blocked, the real last ditch defenders looked on in silence from a distance and saw the last embarkation leave the quay and the last ships clear the harbor. The night paled and the early dawn rose over an empty sea from which no further help could be expected.
And thus the bravest remained in the hands of the enemy. In all, there were from 35,000 to 40,000 prisoners, but 215,000 British troops and 123,000 French had been snatched from the hands of the enemy. Of the total, the French Navy had evacuated 44,352 men landed in England, 3,936 sent directly to Le Havre or Cherbourg, and the passengers of a few transports who were not counted. The total was in the neighborhood of 50,000.
The French Army Command was naturally in a great hurry to recover the use of the troops of the Armies of the North evacuated to England, as well as those waiting in Scotland or returned from Norway. The French Admiralty therefore set in motion, even during the evacuation, a continuous shuttle of transports, mostly French, between the English ports and Cherbourg and Brest. By June 9 one hundred thousand men had been repatriated without a single loss. At any other time the escorting of so many transports across the Channel with means primarily French would have been considered quite a feat; in view of what was taking place at Dunkirk, it received scarcely any attention at all.
In addition to the evacuation, one last duty had been left to the defenders of Dunkirk—to make the port useless to the enemy thereafter. Despite repeated orders from Admiral, North, the British had begun to bottle up the port with blockships on the night of June 2; the following night the work was completed, this time in agreement with the French. The hulks of four sunken ships, each over 100 meters in length, blocked the inner
