I WOKE up in a hammock in the middle of a funfair wondering where I was that lovely May morning. Nearby, my 15-year-old son Joe and other Ramsgate boatmen were preparing for a normal day’s work.

But it was a bit of a mystery why we had suddenly been told, the day before, to “kip” at the funfair, instead of going home as usual.

And I wondered even more when an Admiralty messenger arrived, as we were unloading mail from a foreign ship, and warned us: “Stand by for a special job after lunch. Have your boat at the east pier.”

We were told to lay in extra fuel, although we were going to be towed out.

There was a tug out front with a Naval Commander on board, and four or five drifters, each of them making ready to tow a boat like ours.

“Take as much drinking water as you can,” someone said.

Another puzzle. The Navy boys brought us stacks of tinned corned beef, biscuits and cocoa, so I knew now we must be going on a long trip. But no one told us where.

The next thing they produced properly foxed us … a batch of ladders.

Along with the mystery was the suspense. It was now four hours since the “stand by” order, and I sent Joe briefly back to his mother, telling her that we might not be home that night.

Then, at 4.30, we got the signal, and the “mystery” trip started. The tug led the way, the drifters left the harbour with our 23 ton boat, and others like her, in their wake.

The tug led us steadily on, until it grew dark, and the Kent coast had vanished.

Finally, well past midnight, we anchored near a destroyer. In the distance there were heavy rumblings. Yet our “patch” of sea seemed still and quiet and, a bit tired, we wondered what the next day would bring.

It was not until dawn broke that we had an inkling of the mission we were on. For, on the beach, barely 150 yards away, there were thousands of khaki-clad soldiers.

They were waiting, helpless, starving, bewildered, for our little convoy to take them home.

My boat, the New Brittanic, is licensed to carry 120 passengers. But the tug sent out a row-boat, we threw those ladders across; and, in half an hour or so, about 200 tired, hungry men made us look like a floating sardine can.

We gave them all the food we had — then transferred them to the destroyer.

Again and again, we ferried survivors to the waiting warship, and we saw screaming bombers dive so low you could pick out their swastikas.

Our rescue operation lasted two long days.

Then, in the early hours of Friday, May 31, 1940, we rounded the Goodwins and anchored back in Ramsgate.

We were home safe. And, thanks to our boat, so were nearly 3,000 soldiers.

– WALTER READ, as told to Bill Evans

That was one man’s view of the miracle of Dunkirk, 25 years ago this week. Monday’s edition of All Our Yesterdays will show film of those history-making days between May 27 and June 4, 1940, when 299 British warships and 420 other vessels brought off 335,490 officers and men, despite constant enemy attacks. Here now is another man’s view of the great life-saving operation

… but first — ‘Find the boats’

THE finding of the little ships for the Dunkirk armada is one of the little-known sides of the story.

The operation was code-named Dynamo — and caught up in it was Mr. Ian Christie, now landlord of The Oak at Surbiton, Surrey.

He told me: “I was working for a boat firm at Teddington when, one May evening, I — and others — were summoned to the private office.

“We were handed a list of river craft to be commandeered immediately, and told it was top secret. There wasn’t written authority for seizure, but we were not to take ‘No’ for an answer.

“We started at Maidenhead and worked downstream. I was amazed how smoothly it went. Some people were aghast — but no one argued about giving their boat. No one asked for authority. We stripped the boats bare, took them to the assembly point, formed a convoy of up to 30 craft and started for our destination, Sheerness.

“At Gravesend, we stopped to pick up iron rations. At Sheerness, the Navy took over, and we went back by train to Teddington to assemble another convoy. It went on, round the clock, for about 15 days. I think I made eight journeys. The round trip took about two days.”

During this time Mr. Christie received three sets of call-up papers — but was told to ignore them until Operation Dynamo was completed. “It is that important,” he was told.

Mr. Christie continued his story: “The most extraordinary thing about the whole operation was the way people just gave up their boats.

“There was a wonderful spirit from everyone. One man left a bottle of whisky on the cabin table with a note: ‘To the future commander of the Scheda — best of luck, and may he have as good a time as I have had!’

“But one ship I took — the Barona – broke my heart. The owner had just finished painting her. She looked spanking new.

“Sometime later, I saw her off Brightlingsea — burnt out. I could have cried my eyes out. But it was nothing to do with Dunkirk.

“I learned that the crew had started to make a cup of tea and were then called away suddenly. They left the gas on — and she blew up.”

– RICHARD POLLOCK