Almost the Last Post of all for the old men of Dunkirk

THE WHITE-WHISKERED Royal Navy veteran, both sides of his chest heavy with medals, shook uncontrollably with grief while still standing to attention. A young woman silently passed him paper handkerchiefs.

Behind him the row of standard-bearers struggled with the strong wind blowing off the sea, which rattled surrounding flagpoles and whipped the grey water into angry breakers.

"Look at that," said another old man when the Last Post and the two minutes' silence had passed. "If it had been like that then, we should never have got off."

Blazer badges showed that all were proud members of the Dunkirk Veterans Association (DVA) on their annual pilgrimage to the beaches from which they were plucked in 1940. The remembrance service at the Allied War Memorial yesterday was just the most moving part of a traditional weekend of events, which includes parades, civic receptions and plenty of practised socialising.

Always a mixture of sadness for the "boys who were left behind" and a good time with old comrades, this year's event has a special poignancy. Advancing age among members and dwindling numbers means that the association is being wound up, and next year's 60th anniversary celebrations will be the last.

Opinion among the 300 or so veterans who made it this year was divided between those who want to keep going "to the last man" and those who would rather march out with dignity. The figures speak for themselves. The association was founded in 1953 and at one time had 20,000 members. Now it stands at only about 6,000.

Major Tom Averill, 82, was a Royal Artillery officer in 1940, and is the DVA Battalion Commander who led the veterans' march-past yesterday morning. He agrees with the executive's decision, confirmed in March, that the time has come to call an honourable halt on 30 June next year.

"When we came out of Dunkirk it was to fight again. We thought it was a victory, although it wasn't recognised as such," he said. "When we have finished here, it will be almost the same feeling. We will bow out with glory."

The association is run on a totally voluntary basis, and its officials must have been veterans from the beaches. As soldiers were then only allowed overseas at the age of 19, it means the youngest will be 80 next year. That the parade was still able to march with such precision is an achievement itself. Many others lean on their walking sticks and watch with pride.

Elsewhere, however, there is an element of good-humoured mutiny developing in the ranks. With a slight change of name and redesigned badges, a number of individual association branches are determined to return under their own steam in future years.

Laurence Stubbs, 79, is chairman of the Sandbach branch in Cheshire, and has mastered computer technology to the extent that he has a new logo already loaded up and only awaiting a final vote by his members. He thinks that the special, almost mythical, nature of Dunkirk - where 230,000 allied troops were rescued against all odds - means that it should continue to be commemorated for as long as possible. "It was a real miracle. I don't think the Government thought we would get away. All those thousands of men," he said. "Of course, we have to come back."

Harry Nolan, 78, and also a veteran of the Cheshire Regiment, said his Birkenhead branch will also continue to visit after next year. If for no other reason, it will mean that the extraordinary stories of all these men will continue to be told.

Laurence tells of being ordered to make for Dunkirk when Hitler's army came to a sudden stop right in front of their position, giving a brief opportunity for escape - every man for himself. He and two mates finally got to a beach north of the town to find lines of men from "every regiment in the world" queuing right down to the water's edge, all having to drop flat or run to the sand dunes when German aircraft came over to strafe them. "One time there was this noise like a machine-gun and everybody went down. Then we looked up and it was a Frenchman coming along the beach with a motorbike and sidecar," he said. "It was a real laugh."

He finally escaped in a collapsible canvas boat, normally used for building pontoon bridges, which got him to a ship waiting out in deep water.

A veteran from a different regiment, who even now does not want his name associated with the story, told of how he and two friends were taking cover in a ditch on the way to Dunkirk when a staff car full of "brass hats" pulled up and officers went into a nearby building. The enterprising trio stole the car. "Well, they did say every man for himself," he laughed. Later he took part in the Normandy campaign, the liberation of Brussels and the British armoured thrust into the Netherlands.

Then there are the very unfunny Dunkirk stories, such as that of Harry Nolan, who was told three times that his battalion was about to be surrounded by the advancing Germans and admits to being terrified. He was 19 at the time.

After being withdrawn from one heavy spell of fighting in Belgium, he sat in a wood, took out a picture of his mother and burst into tears. "The sergeant asked me what was the matter. I said I was not going to see my mother again," said Harry. "He took the picture off me and said he would give it me back when we got home. He did, but it was before we left, and while I got away he got taken prisoner, poor fellow."

Back in England, Harry spent 16 weeks in hospital suffering from shellshock. Despite his cheery disposition, he still receives occasional treatment for his mental scars.

But he'll be coming back until 2006, when his current passport runs out.

"I don't think I'll be bothering after that," he said, winking.