Totally exhausted, Alf George made his way along the Mole, (or pier), at Dunkirk, and looked down. Tied alongside was a paddle steamer which before the War had taken day trippers along the River Medway and across to Southend.

Clutching a Bren gun, Alf clambered down and was directed towards the saloon where he sat down on a bench and fell almost instantly asleep.

“I had joined the Territorial Army in 1937 when I was 18,” he told me at his home in Ashford. “When war was declared, I straight away left my job making medicines, and set off to join my unit.

“I was in the Royal Artillery, part of a five-man team that operated a two pounder anti-tank gun.”

Within a couple of months, they were headed across the Channel to Cherbourg. From there Alf took the wheel of the 15 hundredweight Morris gun tractor bound for Lambersart, near Lille. But in an accident, he cut his thumb to the bone, so could no longer drive. He became a gun loader instead.

“When the Germans broke through into Belgium, we moved straight up to the Albert Canal,” he said. “Our first action was when we were machine gunned by these biplanes. They were either German or possibly Belgians mistaking us for Germans.

“Before long we were moving on again. We stopped off in an orchard, and were machine gunned by aircraft again. This time they were definitely Germans. One of the chaps fired off a Bren gun at them and then ran off. I picked up the gun to have a go, and there were others firing.

“As one plane went by it burst into smoke. So, one of us must have hit it. I don’t know if it was me or not.

“One day our officer came up for our regular morning briefing and said: ‘I have some bad news. The Germans have come round the back of us, and they have reached the coast. We are cut off.’ So we headed back through Lille and kept going.

“Eventually we came to Vimy Ridge and could see the Canadian Memorial from the First World War. The whole road was taken up with refugees, moving very slowly. They didn’t have cars, just horses and oxen.

“German planes came down again and machine-gunned civilians, dropping a few bombs as well. An infantryman, who had attached himself to us, had an anti-tank rifle. This was a powerful gun with a one-inch calibre and a violent kick. He fired it at the planes and ended up flat on his back.

“We came to Petit Vimy and put the gun in a churchyard. I was sitting behind it when I heard a crack, then a whoosh and a thud behind me. It must have been a sniper having a go at me. I reckon that bullet came within six inches from the side of my head.

“We went back into Belgium. There were smashed up vehicles on either side of the road. The officer told us we were fighting a rearguard action. ‘We are going into action one last time. You will either be killed or taken prisoner,’ he said.

“We moved up the road to La Panne. Shells were passing over us the whole time. A woman came out of one of the houses and said: ‘They are taking you off. Can you take my little daughter?’ She pleaded with us, but we couldn’t take her.

“As the infantry moved back, we moved back to give them cover. Outside the houses you could see wounded on stretchers. Some were dead. We dismounted from our vehicle and had a half-mile march to the beach.

“There we hid in the dunes. Because we were rearguard we were among the last. There were no long queues on the beach and no boats, apart from those that were wrecked. We watched the dive bombers attacking men on the beach. Machine guns were going all the time.

“Eventually our officer said: ‘Right we’re going to march to the other end of the beach, where we’ll be told what to do.’ There were about 15 of us. On the way the sergeant told a man to pick up an abandoned rifle. He did so and there was part of a hand still attached to it. He dropped it immediately. A bit further on I picked up a Bren gun.

“We got to the Mole. There were stretchers all along it. We were given a tin of bully beef and a packet of hard biscuits to share between five of us. We had been without food for about two days. Neither had we slept nor had a shave. We were beyond caring really.

“Then I looked down and saw this little paddle steamer.”

Alf was woken from his sleep by shellfire but soon drifted back again. Next time he woke he noticed that the saloon, which had been virtually empty when he boarded, was now full of men. Stretchers bearing wounded filled the floorspace.

The ship’s engine rumbled into life, and she set off across the Channel. Next time Alf woke it was to hear the rattle of the anchor chain. It was daylight. Someone looking out of a window called out: “That’s Margate over there.”

Medway Queen was soon underway again. Fears that they were off back to France were allayed when she entered Ramsgate Harbour. “We came out through a door by the paddle box,” said Alf. “At the end of the pier people were cheering.

“We were loaded onto a train and given all the sandwiches and cakes we could eat, and someone came along with a tea urn. I don’t know what happened to that tin of bully beef.

“Eventually we arrived at Lancaster. I still had the Bren gun I picked up on the beach.”