Evening star. [volume], January 11, 1942, Page 16, Image 85

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
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BLACK STAB
Heroes Or The Fish Met
Bombs, bullets, mines can't
frighten Britain's refugees
from across the Channel
The little French fishing boat was loung
ing home under sail with the season’s
best catch of lobsters when the black
Domier came round the comer of a cloud,
and dived on them. The first blast of bullets
missed clean and ripped up the choppy sea
on the starboard bow. The plane banked and
turned, but instead of coming back for a
second go, the pilot put her nose up, and took
her away.
The fishermen, who had thrown themselves
flat, got to their feet, ready to duck, appre
hensive of some trick. Then they saw the other
aircraft — a big Catalina of the British coastal
patrol service — and they knew why the Nazi
plane had not come back. Domier 115’s don’t
like the big, heavily-armed “cats.”
And so I had rescued langouste for supper in
the inn that night, and Pierre, skipper of the
boat, downed two bottles of my burgundy in
toasts to “la ncUrirt.” We might have been
supping in a Breton fishing village. Actually
we were in a blacked-out inn in a little port
“somewhere in England.” But on a day when
the fishing fleet is riding at anchor in the little
stone harbor, the blue-and-yellow-bloused
fishermen patching sails, coiling lines, mend
ing nets, and tinkering with Diesel engines,
the women clumping over the cobbles, the
children running around, you might easily
imagine yourself in le Treport or Painpol.
On Iwmm Ahead ml Hltla*
The presence on Britain’s coasts of French
*?<! 5 WC* rf <V»
sagas of the war. About 2,000 of the fisher
folk from the opposite shore have found refuge
on the English side since the Nazis overran
their countries, and are now helping to keep
the British in sea food. Most set out just a
jump ahead of the Nazi invader. Some were
sunk by U-boats or planes in the Channel.
Some got over with all their equipment; others
with none, engines out of action, sails per
forated, and corks plugging up bullet holes
below the water Line.
Ordinarily, the British wouldn’t have wel
comed a new addition to the fishing industry,
which has been declining for years. But the
navy has made heavy demands on trawlers,
and hundreds of Englishmen who would nor
mally be fishing are mine-sweeping and hunt
ing “tin fish.” Air-raiders have taken their
toll of the fishing force left. And fish can ease
the strain on Britain’s food supply.
So the refugees and their boats were wel
come enough. But they had to be settled and
re-equipped; this took time and money.
American dollars helped — dollars raised by
the "Refugees of England'* organization
headed by the Honourable Mrs. Jack Craw
shay, with J. B. Priestley and Somerset
Maugham (himself a refugee from his Riviera
home) helping, and the Countess of Abingdon
heading the American committee. The fisher
refugees would have had a lean time but for
this help.
It was a good investment. They’re as ready
as the local fishermen to brave mines, bombs
and bullets. What's more, they have been
able to teach the natives a thing or two about
fishing.
Tricks cf tkc Trad*
For instance, in one fishing port the weather
was rough and the British hadn’t been out in
weeks. One morning, to the astonishment of
the natives, the Belgians put to sea. What did
the ’’furriners” think they’d catch? It wasn’t
fishing weather. The fish had all cleared out
to parts unknown.
But the newcomers had spotted something
the natives hadn’t seen — because they’d
never looked for it. They were sprats, quite
dose inshore, a huge shoal of them. Sprats
never had been a catch in those waters. The
Flemish nets took in the shining little fish
until the boats were loaded to the gunwales.
The villagers gaped when they came back and
spilled the silver flood on the quayside.
In another fishing village there were some
unhappy Bretons. They wanted to fish, but
everything was against them. They had en
gine troubles, and no bait Winter was bn
route, and the British fishers, an easier-going
V* ‘W. *K» b*d s.'r«>9dv stnred
away their lines.
Then the Belgians up the coast sent word
they had made a good catch of squib. The
Bretons bought it for bait, went out and came
back with fine catches of cod, plaice, turbot
and sole. The natives were a bit shamefaced
when authorities suggested they change their
habits and emulate the more enterprising
Bretons.
The new settlers live in little houses on the
beach rim, mostly, but their tang and color
permeate the neighborhood. They’re great
toast drinkers, these Bretons and Belgians.
They drink to the weather, to a good catch,
and to the coastal-command flying boats that
keep a weather eye on them in the fishing
fields. They don't drink to "after the war’’;
it’s always “aprls la ticloire,” when they will
joyfully set their sails for home — in a
boche-free land.
— C. Patrick Thompson