Dunkirk Spirit
By Alan Pearce
Copyright 2011 e-eye digital editions
Smashwords Edition
ISBN: 978-1-4581-1078-7
I wonder how many of you feel as I do about this great battle and evacuation of Dunkirk. The news of it came as a series of surprises and shocks, followed by equally astonishing new waves of hope. What strikes me about it is how typically English it is. Nothing, I feel, could be more English both in its beginning and its end, its folly and its grandeur.
J.B. Priestley, BBC Radio, June 5, 1940
Day One
06:57 Sunday 26 May 1940.
A Seaside Resort in Southern England
That was the Morning Prayer from Bristol, read by Doctor Simon Welch. Just a reminder before our first bulletin of news that later this morning at nine-twenty-five you can hear a special service from the City Temple here in London to mark today as the Day of National Prayer. The service will be read by the Reverend Leslie Weatherhead.
It was promising to be a fairly typical summer Sunday morning. The sky was leaden and low, the clouds racing towards the shore, and rain expected. But from her bedroom window on the third floor of a dilapidated Victorian seafront guesthouse Agnes saw something unexpected.
‘’Ere, love! You want to take a look at this.’ She turned to her husband who sat perched on the edge of the bed, his ear pressed to the wireless.
‘Shush, woman! Can’t you see the news is coming up?’
‘Well, if you ask me, it looks like there’s some news coming up, right out here.’
What Agnes saw was a lone Hurricane, a single-seater fighter, trailing clouds of white glycol fumes and flying soundlessly and at considerable speed just a few feet above the sea. And it was heading, if not directly for their guesthouse, then certainly for the beach below.
Inside the cockpit, Pilot Officer Neil Wood, with 260 hours’ flying time, was struggling with basic geometry. Having glided without power for the last fourteen minutes, he had hoped to retain sufficient altitude to skim over the rooftops and bring his damaged fighter down in the rolling fields behind the town. Unfortunately, with most of his instruments dead, including the altimeter, he had been obliged to estimate his height by looking out of the oil-flecked cockpit window at the waves below. Now he would have to drop swiftly and attempt a landing on the beach or else plough into one of the top floors of the sad-looking guesthouses that lined the seafront.
He adjusted the flaps to reduce speed. The Hurricane’s nose came up slightly in response, reducing his forward vision. With his speed now at less than one hundred miles an hour, the plane was preparing to stall. He cast a quick glance out of the cockpit to either side, and pulled back slowly on the spade-like control stick. The Hurricane began to settle backwards. He glanced again down at the waves, now just a foot or so beneath his wing. Instinctively, he checked his useless air speed indicator and then pushed the flaps fully down. He tugged urgently on the stick, pulling it back towards his chest, and braced for a tail-first landing.
He would never decide which was the most frightening: the spine-damaging vibration or the awesome sound of the Hurricane crashing through the waves and continuing on up the beach; thousands of egg-sized pebbles flying in all directions and the wooden propeller splintering as the aircraft ripped a deep furrow into the beach. It finally came to a stop, but first it spun sharply to the left like a stunt motorcycle and sent a further shower of stones and sand high up onto the promenade just six feet beyond the wingtip.
‘Fuck my boots!’ exclaimed the young Pilot Officer. It was a curious expression and one that he had picked up in the mess of his temporary squadron. He flopped back into his seat with overwhelming relief, having been thrown hard in his harness towards the instrument panel. Slowly he released his hands from their fierce grip on the stick. He flexed his fingers experimentally. He then flicked a lever and slid the canopy cover backwards, jettisoning the side flap. Next, he unfastened his harness, oxygen lead and radio plug, and then hopped out smartly, using the port wing as a springboard to launch himself onto the beach. He pulled his gloves off and tucked them under one arm.
A small audience looked down in amazement from the railings above. The young pilot took a bow. He then turned; suddenly interested to know where the Me109 had scored hits. He examined the engine cover first. A cannon shell had blown two valves away and punctured one of the glycol pipes where it joined the cylinders. This would explain the sudden rise in engine temperature before the pistons and block finally locked solid a few miles off the French coast. There were also several machine gun bullet-holes along the length of the fuselage. One had torn through the canvas skin just behind his seat. That would explain the huge bang when the oxygen bottle exploded. And that, in turn, would explain the high-pitched ringing tone in his right ear.
He didn’t hear the man approach.
‘Stick ‘em up and no funny business!’ The man jabbed viciously with a long wooden pole. It had a curved hook at the top, the kind used to pull down shop awnings. It knocked Neil in the small of the back. He turned suddenly.
‘Don’t you even think about it, you Nazi bastard! Got your comeuppance, good and proper. Now put your hands in the air or you’ll look like a bloody German sausage on a stick.’
‘German? German?’ queried the officer, indignant. ‘I’m not a bloody German.’ He reached up to his chin and slid off the leather flying helmet, goggles and oxygen mask. In the circumstances it was a foolish mistake.
‘Look how blonde he is! Just like those Nazis on the newsreels. Give us a goosestep, luv.’ A middle-aged woman in tight curls and a faded floral dress with stiff white apron had made her way down from the promenade. A small crowd followed in her wake.
Normally, he would have been happy to find himself described as blonde. Whilst he and his mother had always considered his hair to be fair, Neil had been plagued throughout his childhood and now into the RAF with the unfortunate nickname of Ginger. He was convinced that it was an effect of low-wattage light bulbs.
‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’m a Pilot Officer - Neil Wood of the Royal Air Force.’ And it hurt him to add: ‘People call me Ginger, not Blondie!’
‘That’s a laugh, ain’t it?’ The apron woman turned to gather support from the growing crowd. ‘He’s got a black uniform like those SS blokes, he’s blonde and he’s…’
‘And he’s gorgeous!’ Somebody else, a young married mother with her own blonde locks, called out from the back. ‘If all them Nazis look like him, they can come and…ouch!’ She received a sharp jab in the ribs from her own mother who stood beside her.
‘Eh! This ain’t right. He’s not got a RAF uniform on.’ A small boy of about ten years of age and wearing a home-knitted grey sleeve-less pullover had pushed his way to the front. He had a pudding basin haircut and he was tugging on Ginger’s left trouser leg. ‘The RAF blokes wear blue. Everyone knows that. Only Nazis wear black.’
Ginger examined his dark RAF flying suit beneath the hand-painted yellow lifejacket. His clothes were soaked through with perspiration. A heavy .45 Colt automatic protruded from his shoulder holster. His home squadron, based in the Midlands, had favoured black overalls. They could easily have chosen white from the varied air force stocks. Ginger had to admit that there could be an element of confusion. He also realised that it would be no help to unbutton the damp cotton overalls and show his uniform beneath. Aside from his flying boots, the only piece of identifiable RAF kit were his grey-blue trousers, but it would take ages to undo all the buttons, and it would not look dignified. He also wore a standard white roll-neck sweater but most people thought of RAF pilots, especially the dashing fighter crews, as wearing fur-lined Irvin leather flying jackets and sporting handlebar moustaches. They had seen them weekly on the Pathé newsreels. But Ginger could only produce facial hair about once a week and then, being fair, the faint whiskers were barely noticeable.
‘And that ain’t no Spitfire, neither,’ said the kid, keen to keep up the momentum and his place at the head of the crowd.
‘No, it’s not a bloody Spitfire! Nobody said it was. It’s a Hurricane for your information, and those are bloody RAF markings. Twit!’ Ginger felt his face flushing. ‘You’re not very bright, are you sonny?’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, mister,’ the kid shouted back. ‘RAF markings don’t have yellow round ‘em. They’re red, white and blue. Everyone knows that.’ The crowd murmured agreement.
‘Oh, my God!’ said Ginger, exasperated. ‘It’s a new thing.’ He wondered why he was bothering to explain. ‘They’ve just added a bright yellow ring on the outside. It’s supposed to make the markings easier to identify.’
‘Yeah, right,’ explained the kid. Just then a uniformed policeman made his way across the beach. His step was measured and high, careful to avoid scuffing his brightly polished boots.
‘Bit of a bumpy landing that, sir. Are you all right?’ He cast a quick professional glance over Ginger, who nodded, and then turned to the crowd. ‘Now move along. Nothing else to see here. And let’s give this gentleman some breathing space, shall we?’ He spread his arms and the crowd fell back. He turned to Ginger, who tried to look grateful but only felt frustration.
‘I’ll just wait for my colleague to catch up and then we’ll take you down the station. You can have a nice cup of tea and then you can call your squadron.’
Ginger smiled. His mouth was bone dry. That tea sounded like a wonderful idea.
07:30 Sunday 26 May 1940.
Outskirts of Armentieres, near Lille, France.
‘Move your fucking arse!’ shouted Corporal Miller at the straggling line of Belgian refugees that blocked his path. He stabbed the accelerator of the quad truck and then jabbed the break as a warning that he was prepared to push his way through. A tall man in a grey overcoat and matching beret pushed with renewed vigour on the handle of his cart. Miller slipped the clutch and edged around to overtake.
The Service Corp depot had been situated in just about the daftest place possible. When it rained, which it had done for much of the winter, the main field that acted as the accommodation area became a vast lake that drew water from all the fields surrounding. The lorries, crates, boxes and containers remained relatively dry but, when the water turned to ice, it proved virtually impossible to move any of the stores up the faint incline that led to the main road. Now, by May, the field was awash in thick, slippery mud and it reminded many of the old hands of the surrounding Flanders fields of just twenty-two years before.
Miller used the mud to bring the truck to a slithering halt beside the Chaplain’s tent in an isolated corner of the depot. He pulled the key from the ignition and used his tongue to flick the cigarette-butt spinning. It landed near the feet of the Reverend Thomas Charlesworth, known simply as the Padre, an Army Captain and 4th Class Chaplain, temporarily attached to Number Two Supply Reserve Depot, Royal Army Service Corp, Lille. The Padre’s feet were encased in plastic galoshes. His Aunt Maud had chosen them from the Woolworth’s in Stony Stratford. She had been given the choice of either transparent pale blue or pale pink. She had decided that the pink was a better match for her nephew’s dull brown uniform. The Reverend Thomas Charlesworth only cared about keeping his feet dry. Miller thought the Padre looked like a pansy.
‘Where have you been?’ he demanded. A fine drizzle was beginning to coat the Padre’s weathered face. He opened his mouth to offer further chastisement but was interrupted by the hasty approach on foot of Major Featherstonehaugh, whose name was actually pronounced as Fanshaw. He was also known to one and all as a waste of space. He was breathing heavily and his face was red.
During the long winter months the men had held an unofficial “Guess the Major’s Weight” competition. The winning entry had been guessed correctly at eighteen-stone-eight-pounds. The winner had been Corporal Miller. He, in turn, was not known by the usual nickname of Dusty for men of that surname but as Ratman due to the sharp, rodent-like features of his face. The men, if asked about Miller, would say you could always judge a book by its cover.
‘Morning, Padre,’ puffed the Major. ‘I suppose you heard the news this morning?’
The Padre nodded. Everybody listened to the news.
‘They said the Frogs are inflicting heavy casualties on the Huns on all fronts. That’s bloody good news, isn’t it?’ He paused for breath. ‘But some of the chaps have just come back from Lille and they said you could hear the fighting in the distance, which means they can’t be far from here.’
‘There’s loads more activity on the roads, too, sir.’ Miller spoke up, even though it wasn’t his place. ‘And loads of bloody Flems all over the shop.’
Both the Padre and the Major turned and looked down at the corporal with distain. ‘Should you be standing here, doing nothing?’ asked the Padre. ‘We’ve Devine Service to sort out and this one’s rather important, at eleven-hundred-hours. So, chop, chop, Miller.’ Miller saluted like a guardsman and then slunk away to get a cup of tea and a wad from the NAAFI wagon.
The Padre took the Major by the arm and steered him inside the bell-tent. Unlike other officers of junior rank, the Padre was allowed his own private quarters. The Major, who shared his tent with a major in the intelligence section, eyed the dank and musty space enviously. The tent’s centrepiece was a Napoleonic-era campaign chest in dark mahogany and reinforced with sturdy lead bindings. There was a matching folding chair and camp bed. These were family heirlooms and on loan from his uncle in Stony Stratford.
‘Look here,’ he told the Major. ‘A word to the wise.’ He neglected to add ‘sir’. ‘I think it’s a lot more serious than that. I just heard that the Germans took Ghent and Courtrai yesterday and have now reached Calais.’
‘My God!’ stuttered the Major. ‘Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of it. Are you sure of your sources, Padre?’
‘As sure as anyone can be.’
‘My, God! Well, I’d better go and get things in order.’ He turned to leave. ‘Gosh, I’m a nit sometimes,’ he declared as he bent to exit the tent. ‘Jolly well forgot what it was I came here to tell you about.’
‘Yes?’ asked the Padre.
‘There’s another damn fifth column scare on. There’s a bunch of priest fellows being held down at the guardhouse. Probably German parachutists, if you ask me. But thought it best you come along and check their bona fides. We don’t want any more incidents with genuine nuns and whatnot being shot by mistake.’
10:25 Sunday 26 May 1940.
St. Peter’s Church, Aylesham, Kent
Pray for all who serve in the Allied
forces by sea and land and air
Pray for peoples invaded and
oppressed; for the wounded and for prisoners
Remember before God
the fallen, and those who mourn their loss
’O Lord, let Thy mercy be shewed
upon us
As we do put our trust in Thee
’O God the Father of Heaven
Have
mercy upon us
There was a general chorus of Amen and the Reverend A.L. Bartlett closed the book, slipped the glasses to the end of his nose, and looked down upon his congregation. It was a good turnout. He hoped it would be reflected in the size of the collection. He could hardly believe his luck when His Majesty had announced on the wireless that this Sunday would be a Day of National Prayer. A full house indeed.
‘It is no mere territorial conquest that our enemies are seeking,’ the King had said with a trace of a stutter. ‘It is the overthrow, complete and final, of this Empire and of everything for which it stands: and after that, the conquest of the world.’
The Reverend coughed for emphasis. ‘Now, I have been asked to make a special announcement.’ He paused and looked around the congregation. ‘I have been asked by the local authorities to inform you that all school children are to be evacuated from coastal areas and nearby towns.’ He paused for the news to sink in. ‘Next Sunday. One week today.’ An audible sense of alarm rose from the congregation.
‘Now, the evacuation plans centre principally around the East and South Eastern towns on or near the coast, so you must take advantage of the arrangements to send your own children to safer districts in the Midlands and Wales. Registration will be opened immediately at the Town Hall and should be completed by lunchtime this coming Wednesday. That’s the twenty-ninth.
‘For additional details, Mr Maurice Healy, the Minister for Health, I’m told, is to give a talk on the subject tonight, after the Nine-O’clock News. I need not stress that it is of vital importance that parents register their children without delay. Otherwise they risked being left behind! Now, if you would turn to page number thirty-three in your hymnbook, Eternal Father, Strong to Save.’
Rose had hoped to get to the front of the queue for the reverend. Instead that awful Carmichael woman had beaten her to it. She watched as the woman droned on. Anyone could see that the reverend was keen to get away. Whilst the majority of the parishioners shuffled past, with nods and thank-yous, a small line was building up behind Rose. All were impatient and many sought advice. There was a lot of pent up passion and many would go home to their Sunday lunches with tight lips and little appetite.
‘Bloody stupid, stuck up cow,’ thought Rose. ‘Can’t she see she’s holding up the queue?’ She made a double ‘tut’ sound, loud enough to hear, and hugged her handbag closer to her chest. Rose’s hands were callused and red and the knuckles swollen and painful. There was going to be more rain, she could tell. She cast her eyes over Mrs Carmichael, who had gained weight since the Scouts’ bring-and-buy sale. ‘Bloody stupid, stuck up, fat cow.’ Rose was known for mumbling under her breath.
‘Well, thank you very much, Reverend. Please call around any day in the week and collect them.’ Mrs Carmichael let go of the vicar’s hand. She turned to give Rose a cold nod and stepped out into the grey morning light and the wet pavements.
Although she would never show it, Mrs Margaret Carmichael was annoyed. With such an important event as the children’s evacuation, she had expected, at the very least, to be informed beforehand. She had been one of the main organisers when the first of the London evacuees were brought down in September the previous year to escape the bombs that had yet to fall. She had taken the dishevelled children door-to-door, seeking homes for them. She had organised winter clothing, and she had arranged the successful, although boisterous, Christmas party at the Snowdown Colliery Social Club. Now, with the growing fear of invasion, the children were on the move again, along with the villagers’ own, and she struggled to accept the fact that she had not been one of the first to know. It was unthinkable. She felt a deep onrush of irritation.
She walked through the town’s deserted market place and cast a glance at the bleak cement-fronted houses on either side. Her own house – tastefully early Victorian and detached - was just a short walk away. When she had arrived in the village just after the end of the Great War, there had been no village to speak of. Her husband, Dennis, had taken the position of colliery under-manager and had purchased the house outright. By the time Dennis took early retirement in 1926 the first foundations of the new town had been laid. And, just as the first of the new miners had moved in, Dennis had finally succumbed to the wracking cough from lungs slowly dissolving from the gas of the trenches. Margaret had been left alone and obliged, after a lengthy period of mournful isolation, to carve herself a role in the new community. The newfound desire to take control, to steer her life without Dennis, had led to an equal desire to steer the new town and to carve herself a role within it. She decided to go to the Town Hall personally, just as soon as she had had a cup of tea.
The telephone was already ringing when she put her key in the front door. Vicky, as per the usual instructions, answered the device in a clipped accent. ‘Mrs Carmichael’s residence. Vicky, the maid, speaking.’
Margaret placed her umbrella in the stand and turned quickly to the hall mirror to straighten her hair. She also gave her mackintosh a quick tug to straighten the lines. It was with a tone of ‘just as I expected’ that she took the receiver from Vicky and said: ‘Mrs Carmichael speaking. Who is this, please?’
Vicky lingered within earshot. Any day now she expected to hear about her application to join the WAAF, the women’s auxiliary air force. A posting to Singapore or some such exotic place where the boys would appreciate a nice fresh-faced English girl. The smart blue uniform, tightly belted at the waist, had been the deciding factor.
‘Yes, I have already had most of the details,’ said Mrs Carmichael in her own clipped accent.
11:18 Sunday 26 May 1940.
No. 2 Supply Reserve Depot, RASC, near Lille.
Despite their brilliant colouring, golden orioles are often difficult to see. They favour the tops of the trees and their markings of yellow and black provide a perfect camouflage amongst the foliage, especially on a sunny day. Although the skies were overcast, the Padre could only hear the glorious fluting call of the male. Somewhere in the distance he thought he could detect the answering cat-like squalling of a receptive female.
‘Don’t you think you ought to give it up as a bad lot, sir?’ asked Miller. ‘Don’t look like anyone’s going to attend now. If you ask me, they’ve all got a dose of the bloody wind up. Begging your pardon, sir.’
The Padre was inclined to agree. Two depressed-looking clerks constituted the only congregation. The Major, faithful to the Church as ever, sat on his own to one side, dabbing his nose with a large spotted snuff handkerchief.
The depot had been a hive of activity in the early morning but now it was quiet as the grave. Smoke from numerous small fires drifted in the distance. Only the birdsong and the leaves rustling in the trees kept at bay an overwhelming sensation of brooding doom.
The harsh puttering of a Bren gun carrier approaching from the tree line made everyone turn their heads. They waited for it to arrive.
Major Hewitt, the Headquarters Company commander, raised himself from the front seat of the tiny tank-like vehicle and waved urgently. It described a half-circle in front of the Padre and Miller before stopping in the mud.
‘Bloody hell, Padre! You still here?’ Hewitt stayed inside the open vehicle. ‘HQ says we’ve got to pull back towards Cassel. You should have been on your way two hours ago.’
‘What?’ exclaimed the Padre. ‘Nobody told me! And Cassel? That’s miles back. It’s halfway to the blinking coast. What’s the point in that?’
‘My, God!’ exclaimed the Major, who had shuffled over to the Bren gun carrier. ‘So you were right then, Padre. The bloody Huns have got the run of us. Some damn fool is going to find his head on the block for this one.’ He made a small ‘puff’ sound to show his indignation.
‘Better burn this lot, Padre.’ Hewitt waved his arm in the direction of the drumhead altar and the rows of folding benches.
‘Really? All of it?’ asked the Padre.
‘The whole bloody lot! Can’t let the enemy get hold of it.’
‘What? The prayer books, too?’
‘Especially those, Padre. If they fell into Nazi hands there’s no telling what they might do with them!’ He turned to Corporal Miller. ‘And you had better help the Padre pack up and then grab your rifle and make your way to the football field, pronto. Sergeant Warner is dealing with stragglers. He’ll tell you what to do.’
He nodded to the two clerks, including them. ‘And I am out of here. Got fish to fry, Padre. Can’t hang about. See you in Cassel, if we make it that far. Try the Hotel Faidherbe. Damn fine chops, if I remember rightly.’
With that, Major Hewitt tapped his driver twice on the helmet, saluted, and tore through the mud back to the tree line. The second Bren gunner on the anti-aircraft mount turned and waved a blank farewell.
‘Well, that’s us up shit creek without a canoe, if I’m any judge,’ said Major Featherstonehaugh.
The Padre turned and faced the altar. How was he supposed to destroy this lot? He considered praying for guidance, and then announced, ‘I think this would be a good moment for us all to pray.’ He knelt facing the altar and sensed that the tiny congregation behind him had done the same.
‘Dear Lord! Let us go forward to whatever lies before us with courage, fortitude and hope.’ The words came to him as if by divine inspiration. ‘The forces of evil may rage furiously, as the psalmist says, but, thank God, they cannot be triumphant.’ He clasped the Bible tightly to his chest and opened his eyes. ‘The Lord God omnipotent reigneth and one day His will will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Keep smiling and be cheerful, live close to God for underneath are the everlasting arms.’
‘Amen!’ said the Major. The Padre raised himself up and turned. The two men stood alone in the field.
‘Jolly good of you to give me a lift like this, Padre.’ They both looked out of the windscreen at the vast flock of sheep blocking the way. The Major sniffed again into his hankie. They had left the main route to Bethune, having found the road hopelessly clogged with refugees and with an alarming number of despondent French soldiers. They were now halted in a convoy of five British Army lorries down a narrow side road with the intention of reaching Estaires before nightfall.
‘It was a tough decision – not staying behind with the rearguard, and all, but well, you know, I’d make an easy target for some Hun.’ The Major had only stopped talking to pause for breath since leaving the depot three hours earlier. ‘Anyway, my skills are more in the logistics line, don’t you know.’
The Padre made another non-committal ‘mmm’ sound as he had to each rise in the Major’s inflection, indicating the end of a question or a statement requiring confirmation. But the Padre could only think of two things. He was dreading seeing his aunt and uncle in Stony Stratford again. How was he going to explain the loss of the antique campaign chest and accompanying accoutrements? That was one problem. Another was what to do next.
The Padre’s military experience had been minimal. He had just managed to get into the Army at the tail end of the Great War, aged eighteen. But he had spent his entire service as a private reconditioning artillery pieces at Woolwich. He cast his mind back to the Bishop of Guildford, John Macmillan, and the awkward meeting on his return after five years in Australia.
‘You are a round peg in a square hole,’ the Bishop had told him. It was clear that his clerical superior was pleased with the description if not with the Reverend Charlesworth. ‘You are obviously a man of action. So here’s an idea for you.’ He went on to describe the excellent work that needed doing in the armed forces with war now a certainty.
‘So shall I take it that you will place your name on the Regular Army Reserve of Officers? There’s a desperate shortage of chaplains, you know.’
That had led to a simple medical and then a posting to the 1st Infantry Division, where he had been placed in charge of the officers’ mess. It was inappropriate preparation.
Suddenly, ahead of them, crews were jumping out of their lorries. They stumbled and fought they way through the bleating sheep and pushed themselves urgently on to the high grassy bank beneath the trees. The Padre and the Major both looked at each other for a moment and then did the same.
‘You would think that a group of dark lorries would stand out like a sore thumb, surrounded by all these white sheep,’ said the Padre.
They huddled close to the ground watching a second gruppe of Ju87s fly overhead at two thousand feet and disappear behind the trees. The black shapes were heading in the direction of the main road, the destination of the tiny convoy. They were all standing up, brushing bits of grass off their uniforms and looking sheepish themselves, when they heard the eerie sound of the Stukas’ sirens. Next came the sound of explosions and of machine-guns. It would be another hour before they would see the result of the Luftwaffe’s handiwork. And nothing in anyone’s previous experience could prepare them for what they saw.
Major Featherstonehaugh crouched on his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. He rocked slowly backwards and forwards and appeared to be hugging something tight to his breast. The Padre stood motionless, a look of abject horror on his face. How could he ever describe a scene like this to Aunty Maud and Uncle Henry? How could he ever tell anyone?
Dead people lay all about the road. Hundreds of them. Only here and there was there any evidence of life and what life there was appeared hideously mutilated. The length of the tree-lined boulevard was a mass of smoking debris, dead animals, twisted carts, burning cars and twisted people. The trees had been shorn of their leaves and now pieces of human meat hung from the branches. Bile rushed again into his throat. He quickly bent forward as the blood drained from his head and swirling stars filled his eyes. The Padre took a series of deep breaths and pulled himself erect. The next time he was asked if there were really a God he would wonder himself.
16:29 Sunday 26 May 1940.
Somewhere on the Escaut Canal, Belgium.
That was ‘Widder Patten Speaks her Mind’, a short story written for broadcasting by S.L. Bensusan and read by the author. Now, before we hand over to Dudley Beavan at the organ of the Granada, Cheam, here is a public service announcement on behalf of the War Office. Twelve bore shotgun cartridges are wanted for distribution to Local Defence Volunteers. The Commander-in-Chief Home Forces requests all people who have these cartridges to hand in as many of them as possible to the nearest police station.
Brigadier Merton Beckwith-Smith, commanding the First Guards Brigade, and known affectionately as Becky, was a self-proclaimed expert on the Ju87 Stuka dive-bomber and he was always ready with helpful advice.
‘Stand up to them. Shoot at them with a Bren gun from the shoulder,’ he told the perplexed gun crew as they stood to rigid attention beside their wet trench. ‘Take them high like a high pheasant. Give them plenty of lead and remember, five pounds to any man who brings one down. I have already paid out ten pounds.’
The Brigadier waved his swagger stick by way of salute. ‘And good luck.’
He turned to Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox, an affable young Coldstream Guards officer, and took him gently by the arm, away from the men.
‘Keep your eyes open, Sandy.’ He smiled kindly at his subordinate and wondered if he would see the fellow in the morning. ‘Our reconnaissance bods think the Jerries will try to break through somewhere in this sector. The Belgians are on the verge of cracking and the French don’t seem to know whether they’re coming or going.’ He winked; the traces of a wicked grin reflected in his red eyes. ‘In the meantime, Jerry has had time to lick his wounds, refuel his panzers and generally get his show back on the road. I’m entrusting you with this bridge, Sandy. It’s up to us now to stop them. And they must be stopped here. I know I can count on you.’ The Brigadier turned now towards the adjutant.
‘Peter, here, will give you all the details. I must pop along and see how Jumbo’s doing.’
The staff Humber roared off.
‘Right,’ said Peter. ‘That RE chap has finished his work on the bridge. But you will give the order to blow it the moment you see fit. There’s a party of engineers on the other side. Make sure you give them a chance to get back first. Three smart toots on the whistle. Do not, repeat, do not let the Bosche get hold of this bridge. All clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, if there are no more questions, I’ll give Sergeant Harris his instructions.’ The sergeant, who was already standing to attention, called out, ‘Sur!’ in a voice loud enough to be heard either side of the canal.
‘Sergeant, do you have a revolver?’
‘No, sir. Just a rifle, sir.’
‘Mmm,’ said the adjutant. ‘Well, make sure it’s loaded and listen carefully. The very instant Mr Mackenzie-Knox attempts to sit or lie down, you are to shoot him. Do you understand?’
The sergeant patently did not understand and he hesitated before shouting, ‘Sur!’
‘Just a minute, Peter,’ put in Sandy hastily. ‘Surely…’
‘Shut up, Sandy. Look, we are all dog-tired. I don’t known when I last had a proper sleep longer than three minutes and you look twice as knackered as I do. The instant you stop to sit down, you’re going to nod off. So, sergeant, repeat my instructions.’
‘I’m to shoot Mr Mackenzie-Knox the very instant he sits or lies down, sur.’
‘Right, if I find Mr Mackenzie-Knox alive and asleep when I next come by, you will know what to expect. Good luck!’
For the rest of the afternoon, nobody in 11 Platoon dared sit down. Sandy was even cautious about approaching walls or trees too closely in case Sergeant Harris thought he might lean against them. He had sited two Bren guns on the opposite bank, either side of the ancient stone bridge, and issued instructions that the refugees were to be screened carefully before letting them across one at a time. Special attention was to be given to anyone dressed as a priest or nun.
The tide of fleeing Belgian civilians had been fairly constant for much of the day. But, by late afternoon, the numbers began to dwindle and Sandy, totally fed up with watching them stagger across the canal, thought to write to his brother.
‘I’m only leaning my papers on the tailgate, Sergeant,’ said Sandy as he cautiously approached the 15cwt officer’s truck. The Sergeant nodded his approval and lowered the rifle. Sandy sucked the nib of his pen and wondered what he could write about. His brother, Digby, was known as Badger because he was always trying to persuade people to do things, like come and play tennis, or walk around the loch. He had a hush-hush job at the British Embassy in Buenos Aires where, no doubt, he organised numerous bridge and croquet parties.
Sandy wondered if he should tell Badger about the cow he had shot that morning. A small herd had approached the opposite bank just after dawn and had made the most frightful noise. The men had all agreed that they needed milking, having been abandoned by their owners several days prior, but none of the men knew how to do it. One of the cows had then slipped down the bank but, because of the mud, had been unable to get back up again. It had then spent about two hours feverishly swimming from one bank to the other, mooing at the top of its voice. Sandy had finally snapped and grabbed his rifle. The cow was now wedged against one of the bridge supports and had been swelling throughout the day. Sandy decided that he wouldn’t write about the cow.
He wanted to tell Badger about the events of the past few days, especially the fact that he hadn’t had a proper wash since the middle of the previous week. That had been his last hot meal, too. And, because of the total shortage of reliable drinking water, he wanted to tell how he had been obliged to shave in champagne for the officers’ conference the previous evening. Then there was the endless marching from one place to another. The holes they had dug and then not used before pulling back yet again. And the total lack of sleep. During the winter he had queried the need to practice so many rearguard and withdrawal exercises.
‘We always start a war with a major retreat – Corunna, Mons – to name just two,’ Major Stephenson, Battalion intelligence officer and history buff, had told him. ‘What makes you think it will be any different this time?’
He could hardly write to his brother about that. Sandy put the top back on his pen and stepped cautiously away from the truck.
The day was beginning to draw in, the rain had picked up again, and the Royal Engineers had reached the far bank. Their officer, a fresh-faced lieutenant, waited until all his men were across, and then ran at the double. Sandy met him by the roadside. ‘Nice day for it,’ said the newcomer, pausing briefly for breath. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but you might want to think about getting your blokes back to this side pretty soon. We’ve been hearing Jerry armour for the last hour or more.’
‘That’s probably why the refugees have dried up,’ offered Sandy. He felt in his pocket for the whistle.
The senior RE officer who had placed the charges on the bridge walked up and joined them. ‘About time to let her blow, then. Don’t you think?’
Sandy nodded and the rain that had been collecting on his helmet dropped in one big mass in front of his eyes. He placed his whistle to his lips and in no time the two Bren gun crews were scrambling across to join them.
The bridge gave a satisfyingly loud bang. Debris continued to drop for nearly one minute. Tiny pieces tinkled on Sandy’s helmet. He was sufficiently far removed from the danger zone, crouched in a trench with the two other officers.
‘Oh, nice one!’ said the junior of the two, enviously.
The senior officer looked proudly at the rubble. The dead cow, now deflated, drifted off down the canal.
17:32 Sunday 26 May 1940.
RAF Biggin Hill, Kent
Ginger’s head was splitting. He reached into his flying suit and pulled out two half-crowns and a three-penny bit and proffered them to the taxi driver.
‘There’s no charge. Really, sir.’
‘Well, that’s very kind of you. Are you sure?’ The driver nodded so Ginger thrust forward one of the coins. ‘At least have a drink on me.’
‘I’ll drink to your health, sir. I’ll do that.’
Ginger tugged the parachute from the taxi and walked slowly through the puddles up to the main gate. A faint red light glowed within the guardhouse. It was the only light to be seen on the base.
The ground crews stood in a series of anxious knots just inside the main hanger. On dryer days they would have waited beside the control tower but now they were sheltering from the driving rain. It would soon be dusk and they were casting regular glances into the darkening sky. Ginger’s own rigger and fitter had given him up many hours before, after the costly first sortie of the day. They were now down the pub and bitching about their lost aircraft.
There was no one in the briefing room and the mess was deserted, aside from LAC Williams who stood behind the bar polishing glasses. Ginger declined the offer of a whisky and walked towards his quarters. After a quick wash and a change into suitable clothes for the mess, he made his way to the canteen and downed two cups of tea in succession. His head was beginning to feel better.
He was wiping the remains of his egg, chips and beans with a slice of buttered bread.
‘Ah, so you have returned. Welcome back, Steele.’
‘It’s Wood, sir, Neil Wood.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow. Neil would what?’
‘No, I’m Pilot Officer Wood, sir.’
‘Oh, yes, yes, yes,’ said Group Captain Nugent. ‘I remember. From the Midlands aren’t you? Liverpool or somewhere.’ The lanky officer’s right eye twitched and his moustache followed suit.
‘Solihull, sir.’
‘Yes, well, whatever. Better come and have a debrief.’
Ginger stepped through the blackout curtain and made his way to the control tower. Blue Section came in first. Then came Green, White, the remains of Yellow, and finally the two survivors of his own Red Section. He recognised the Canadian, Clouston. His friend taxied across the grass.
‘Oh, bugger! Did I miss the Six O’clock News?’ Squadron Leader Nigel Saunders, or Bonzo to his friends, sauntered into the mess. He seemed disappointed to see Ginger.
‘I’m afraid so, sir. There wasn’t much today.’
‘Well, fill us in. Fill us in.’
‘Let’s see,’ said Ginger. He tried not to appear nervous. ‘General Ironside is the new Commander-in-Chief, Home Forces. No new developments on the BEF front, but loads of RAF stuff, sir.’
‘Such as?’
‘Successful bombing raids on Germany and Belgium and France.’
‘And Fighter Command?’
‘Well, they said it was a quiet day, sir. Over forty Huns shot down with the loss of four of ours.’
Bonzo sniffed with contempt. ‘What else?’
‘That’s it really, sir. Oh, they’re evacuating all the kids from the South coast.’
LAC Williams hovered. ‘Yes, my usual please, Williams,’ said the Squadron Leader. ‘How about you?’ He nodded towards Ginger’s half-consumed pint glass.
‘I’m fine, sir. Thanks.’
There was an awkward silence and they both sat listening to the wireless. The Rendezvous Players were performing their antics from All Saint’s Parish Hall in Bristol.
‘You’re that new replacement chap aren’t you?’ He seemed to see Ginger for the first time. ‘Thought we lost you this morning.’
‘My engine seized, sir. I got a cannon shell in the cylinders but managed to bring her back to…’
‘Buffy, you bastard!’ Bonzo swivelled in his chair. ‘You owe me a drink for that one-oh-nine on your tail.’
‘Fuck off! I had him banged to rights from the first.’
The mess started to fill up as the rest of the squadron, having washed and changed, strolled loudly in. Clouston nodded to Ginger but was waylaid at the bar.
Ginger wondered why Clouston was so readily accepted by this squadron of toffs. Perhaps it was because he was a colonial and, thus, exempt from the prevailing class system. There were two main reasons why Ginger had not been accepted. Until a few short months before, he had been a sergeant pilot. This made him feel like a slum-dwelling scholarship boy at a great public school. It also felt as if he had mistakenly wandered into the sixth form common room. He was the youngest person on the squadron by ten years. So haughty and distant were the other pilots that Ginger could barely comprehend their lofty world, nor wish to.
To enter an Auxiliary Air Force squadron, such as the one Ginger now found himself attached to, had required a sizable income before the war and a keen interest in fox hunting and other nob sports. Auxiliary squadrons were seen as the RAF’s equivalent of the Army’s territorial regiments, with the exception that membership was often by invitation only. It was not uncommon for potential applicants to be invited to lunch and plied with copious quantities of alcohol to see if they let slip their veneer of gentlemen. It was a well know fact that Auxiliaries were gentlemen pretending to be officers, while Regulars were officers pretending to be gentlemen. Volunteer Reserves were said to be neither.
Ginger had joined the Reserves early the previous year for the free flying lessons. By the time he had 200 hours under his belt he had been given the opportunity of a short, temporary attachment to a Regular RAF squadron. He had liked it so much that he had transferred in March and been promoted to Pilot Officer, the lowest rung on the commissioned ladder. Ginger was only too well aware of the other reason why he had not been accepted. He was not expected to survive very long.
Ginger decided to telephone his mum.
‘Neil, my boy! Your Mum will be thrilled.’ Ginger’s dad, a county council surveyor, was proud as Punch of his son, a grammar school boy, now an officer and a fighter pilot.
‘Neil, darling!’ His mother grabbed the receiver. ‘How are you? Are you looking after yourself? Are you getting enough to eat, and enough sleep?’
‘Mum, I’m fine. Just a bit tired. We’re up fairly early each day. They keep me on my toes.’
‘Simon’s down the Cubs,’ she told him. ‘They had a big parade today. He’ll be so sorry to have missed you. And thanks for that photo. You look so handsome in your uniform. Simon took it to school on Friday. He said the boys in his class finally believed him, that his big brother’s a Hurricane pilot. He wants one of you in your aeroplane next time.’
Ginger didn’t like to worry his parents unnecessarily. ‘I had a day out at the seaside today,’ he told his mum. ‘Weather wasn’t up to much, though. But I got a good long sleep on the train back.’
‘That’s great, darling. The weather’s pretty poor up here, too. Gran’s rheumatism has been playing up.’
They skimmed the surface of their comparative lives for a few minutes more, and then Ginger made his excuses and replaced the receiver. He strolled back to the mess, hoping to nab Clouston and dissect the morning’s events. A crowd had formed around the sofa where another pilot held court.
‘No, I never saw the blighter that bounced me. I’d just given a Dornier a five-second burst when there was this bloody big bang. Next thing I know, I’m coming down like a damn meteorite. I pulled back the stick and closed the flaps and wham! I came hurtling down in this field, right in the middle of a load of bloody sheep. And do you know what? The damn farmer had the cheek to try and charge me for the ones that got squashed. I told him to send the bill to the RAF.’
Everyone laughed. Ginger moved towards the bar. ‘Another pint, please.’ He pulled a Player’s from the packet and lit the end. He was still trying to get used to the habit and withheld a cough. He recognised the speaker. He had been shot down over France on Ginger’s first ever sortie, and presumed lost. Now he was sitting back on the sofa, a large whisky in hand and still wearing his Irvin, contrary to mess regulations. They obviously made an exception for returning heroes. Clouston sat perched on the arm of a chair, a pint in his hand. He winked at Ginger.
‘But how did you get back, that’s what I want to know?’ somebody asked.
‘Well, that’s not the half of it.’ The man’s name was Frank somebody, but people were calling him Tiger. He held the pre-war record for the fastest flight across the British Isles, north to south, but Ginger didn’t know that.
‘I had the Devil’s own job.’ He raised his hand for silence. ‘You would not believe what I saw. Those bloody Huns! They are deliberately mowing down the refugees to clog the roads and prevent any counter attack. It was just awful. I got a lift from some pongos in a lorry. Then the Ju87s swooped down. There were arms and legs all over the place. Headless bodies, bodiless heads!’
The speaker curled his lip and then lowered his voice. ‘We came across a little boy. He can’t have been much older than six, or so. He’d had both his legs blown off and his head was terribly burnt. I think he was blind. And you know what one of the men did?’
No one answered. The mess was silent.
‘He pulled out his revolver and shot the kid in the head. Right in front of me! “It’s the kindest thing, sir,” he said. The poor fellow was crying his eyes out.’
‘My God! Those people are shits.’ Bonzo spoke.
‘I’ll tell you; down on the ground it’s a different story.’ Tiger sneered into his tumbler. ‘You can say goodbye to chivalry and all that rot as far as I’m concerned. From now on the gloves are off. I’m fighting a total war. No mercy.’
Ginger stubbed out his cigarette and wondered if anybody else felt as frightened and as sick as he did.
23:15 Sunday 26 May 1940.
Southern Railways, Dover
Commander Hector Babbington, RN retired, Binky to his friends, tried to look out of the window of the train. He scratched at the black paint covering the glass but failed to see a station sign. He wanted to get out at Dover Priory, just a short walk from the Castle and headquarters of Operation Dynamo. If he missed his stop, he would find himself in the Western Docks with a difficult walk back up the hill. The train was made up of small, individual London suburban carriages known as dog boxes. More evidence of confusion on the wartime railways. There was no connecting corridor and no damn buffet.
There was another of those irritating Billy Brown of London Town posters, this one drawing attention to the blackout precautions: I trust you'll pardon my correction, this stuff is here for your protection.’ Beneath the sign, some wag had written: ‘We thank you for the information, but we can't see the bloody station.
‘Here, here!’ said Binky.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked the man opposite.
‘I was just wondering which station that was. I want to get out at Dover Priory.’
‘That was Dover Priory,’ said the man helpfully, adding: ‘The previous stop was Kearsney. You have to count the stops from Canterbury. Dover Priory is number seven, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, balls!’ said Binky.
Despite the blackout precautions, the scale of the confusion at the docks was clear. A small convoy of commandeered Green Line buses sped past him towards the Admiralty Pier, just two hundred yards away. Two military policemen wearing red caps waved their nightsticks and blew whistles. There were ships of a variety of shapes and sizes moored double and triple abreast the quayside. Many looked like they had taken damage. In front of the vessels, on the hard, hundreds of ragged men stood or sat. A number more shuffled down the gangplank of a paddle steamer. Many wore grubby bandages around their heads, arms or legs. The few remaining helmets glittered in the rain. Several men were weeping openly.
‘Right, come on, come on.’ A young RNR officer was dividing up the assembled men. ‘Walking wounded into the buses, please. Everybody else, make your way to the station. There’s a train just pulled in and it will take you to safety.’
Binky walked slowly towards the men. Beneath his mackintosh he still wore the dinner jacket for his supper engagement with Admiral Wake-Walker. By rights, he should be tucking into a leathery steak right now. Instead, he clutched a canvas bag containing a steel helmet, a belt and canvas holster, and a Webley revolver, and the words of the Admiralty duty officer continued to reverberate in his ears. ‘The whole thing’s a shambles, a bloody rout. The Army is bottled up in the area around Dunkirk where they’re forming a defensive perimeter. They’re fighting fierce rearguard actions on all fronts as we speak.’
‘Surely not?’ Binky had asked. ‘The entire Expeditionary Force, cut off?
‘The whole shooting match, if you’re excuse the pun. Actually, the best guess is that the Navy can lift off about forty-five-thousand.’
‘But there’s something in the order of three-hundred-thousand men over there!’
‘Yes, well. We’ll be lucky to get twenty thousand off, frankly. The Admiralty reckon we have just two days to do it in. By then, of course, the evacuation will probably be terminated by enemy action.’
Binky stood frozen to the spot. The laconic duty officer had painted a bleak picture but not one this bleak. The Commander drew a sharp breath. ‘If this is the British Expeditionary Force, the cream of our Army, then God help us all.’
Day Two
04:35 Monday 27 May 1940.
Somewhere on the Escaut Canal, Belgium
Here is an announcement from the War Office. The Telegraph Service to the British Expeditionary Force in France has been suspended, along with certain curtailments to the Postal Service. This step has been taken because of the present heavy military traffic. The public are notified, therefore, that no telegrams may be sent to the B.E.F., and that Post Offices have instructions to refuse parcels, packets, and registered letters, and all letters over two-ounces in weight. Postal deliveries from members of the B.E.F. are also likely to be reduced in number for the time being.
‘I don’t know how you can see to write.’
‘Well, I ain’t got much to write about.’
‘Why you bothering, then?’
‘It’s my last will and testament.’
‘Oh, yeah? Well, be sure to leave me your ammo, mate.’
Dawn would soon be breaking through the heavy cloud and the weather was on the mend, not that the men of the rearguard, in this instance 11 Platoon, No.3 Company, 2nd Battalion, Coldstream Guards, could have gotten much wetter. It had been a cold night, and it had been quiet. But now, for the last half hour or more, small sounds of movement could be heard from the far bank.
‘What’s that noise?’
‘What noise?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Sounds like a wireless to me.’ Both men strained to listen. ‘Probably that sod Chalky trying to find the sports results. If that bugger tells me one more time about his try out for Spurs I’m gonna stab him!’
‘No, shush! That noise. Sounds like splashing in the water.’ Both men quietly slipped forward the safety catches on their rifles and peered apprehensively over the canal bank.
‘It’s Mr Mackenzie-Knox. Didn’t expect him to come back so near the bridge.’
‘Who goes there?’ demanded the other guardsman, for forms sake, from the lip of the bank.
‘It’s me. Your platoon commander.’
‘What’s the password?’
‘Cock-up.’
‘Right you are, sir. Advance and be recognised.’
‘I can hardly advance without a hand up, can I?’ The men tugged and Sandy slithered quickly over the bank and plopped like a wet fish into their trench. He gasped for breath. ‘Sergeant Harris and the others are right behind me. Give them a hand, Carter. You, too, Samson.’
Within minutes, Sandy was slipping out of his wet shirt and PT shorts and rubbing his hair vigorously with a blanket. ‘Hurry up with that tea, Lucas. And put plenty of rum in it. I don’t think I’m ever going to get warm again!’
‘There’s half a mug of rum in there, sir. And nice and sweet, too. Best drink it while it’s hot.’ His batman passed the mug over and Sandy gripped it with both hands, smelling the rich, fruity smell of sugar cane.
‘You should have taken a bar of soap with you, sir,’ offered Lucas. ‘You ain’t gonna get all that black stuff off your face otherwise, what with virtually no fit water and all.’
Sandy smeared the burnt cork with the edge of the blanket to no discernable effect. There was a cough at the door and Peter, the adjutant, jumped quickly in.
‘No, don’t get up, Sandy. Don’t get up.’ He slipped off his helmet and handed it to Lucas. ‘Timed that rather well, didn’t I? That tea smells delicious.’ He turned towards Sandy with a smile and asked: ‘What do you have for me?’
‘Plenty, sir. Those RE chaps were right. There’s loads of German armour building up about half a mile back from the bridge.’ Sandy sucked on a cigarette, and Peter noticed his hand quaver as he pointed out positions on the hand-drawn map. ‘I couldn’t see any bridge-laying kit from where I was but they do seem to have massed a lot of infantry in the side roads, and in the fields. We skirted off to the north a bit and found the same story there. Armour backed up and waiting, with troops in reserve.’
‘Any idea what outfits?’ asked Peter.
‘No, couldn’t say, sir. We could hear them but we couldn’t get close enough to see regimental flashes. And no chance of a prisoner, sir. It’s hard moving quietly across that ground’
‘All right. Well done then. It seems to fit a familiar pattern all along this stretch of the line, so I had better pop off and tell Becky the good news.’