Dunkirk Spirit Part 25

'Well, I'm not sure either, sir. But there's bound to be plenty of men around who do. Someone must have gone to gunnery school.'

'Ammunition?'

'A whole truck-full, sir.'

'Then bring it down,' said Binky. 'And let's play with it.'

As Commander Babbington turned to walk back down, he saw Lieutenant Dibbens walking back up. He was black with oil. Over-large dispatch rider's gauntlets covered each hand. The tide was now at its lowest ebb and the men of Dibben's company were up to their waists in the murky water, struggling to lash a new line of lorries to the remains of the first.

'Happy birthday, lieutenant,' called Binky.

'What-ho!' called back Dibbens. 'But it's not my birthday.' He wondered what was up.

'That's a shame.' Binky halted and waited for Dibbens. 'I got you a present, anyway.'

'Present?' He smiled but knitted his eyebrows. 'What kind of present?'

'Just what you always wanted.' Binky chuckled.

'Like what?'

'Like a Bofers gun.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really. Do you know how to use one?'

'Not as yet, but I am sure we can figure it out.'

The Quad rattled down towards them and came to a sudden halt. The driver leaned out of the window. 'Bofers gun for a Commander Babbington. Where would you like it?'

Binky looked over at Dibbens and raised his eyebrows.

'Bring it over here, will you?' called the provost. 'Do we get the Quad, too?' he asked.

'Yes, sir,' called the driver. 'The whole shooting match, ha, ha!'

'Have you got a manual?' asked Dibbens.

'You're be lucky, sir,' answered the driver. He shunted the vehicle further along until he was in danger of knocking Binky's Bren gun carrier. And then he hopped out of the cab. 'Do you want to set it up here, sir?'

'Please,' said Dibbens.

'Well, it's pretty heavy, sir. Two-and-a-half tons at least. We'll need a few willing hands.' He bent down and disconnected the anti-aircraft gun from the truck's tow bar. He straitened up and turned to Commander Babbington.

'Umm. I was told, sir, that you might give me a lift home...for bringing the gun here, sir.'

Binky smiled. He had promised no end of lifts so far and one more would make little difference. 'Just help us set it up, corporal, and we shall see what we can do.'

'This here is a closed-jaw breech ring with a vertically sliding block.'

'Oh, yes.'

'It's recoil-operated and can be set to single shot or automatic. Cartridges are loaded in clips of four into this auto-loader here, and the empty cases come out down this chute at the front.'

'Where's the trigger, then?'

'No trigger, sir. Not as such. You use this foot-pedal here.'

'And how do you aim it, then?'

'Well, sir. In an ideal world you need a predictor control.'

'What's that then?'

'Well, it's a great big b.l.o.o.d.y thing, sir, the size of a dog kennel. It works out the target's course and speed as well as the projectile's direction and velocity. But I don't see one here.'

'So what do we do?'

'Deflection shooting, sir. The trick is to aim in front of the intended target and let it fly straight into the sh.e.l.ls.'

'And what are they? Proximity fuses?'

'Not as such, sir. These are direct-action fuses, designed to detonate on impact.'

'So you have to actually hit the b.u.g.g.e.r square on, then?'

'Correct, sir.'

'Well, that doesn't sound very easy.'

''Fraid not, sir.'

Lieutenant Harold Dibbens and the men of his 102nd Provost Company keen to take a break from the jetty - stood and watched as the chief petty officer talked them through the drill. All were eager to try the thing out, but few could be bothered to go through the instructions.

'Let's give it a go, then,' suggested Dibbens.

'All right, sir,' said the chief. He pulled a clip of 40mm rounds from the case and dropped them into the auto-loader. 'You set the range here, sir, and twiddle this thing for elevation.' He spun a small wheel and the barrel of the Bofers rose into the sky.

'd.a.m.n typical, really,' exclaimed Dibbens. 'Just when you want one, there's no Stukas anywhere in sight.'

'We could fire a couple of rounds out to sea, sir.' The chief nodded in the direction of the fading mist.

'All right,' said Dibbens. 'But let me have a go.' He climbed into the seat. 'I press my foot down here, yes?'

Before the chief could answer, Dibben's foot slammed down and the Bofers burst into life, four rapid rounds shattering the relative still of the morning.

'Yes, yes, oh, yes!' Dibbens face beamed with excitement. The weeks of tension burst like a bubble. 'I want something to shoot at,' he beamed excitedly.

'Well, hang on a mo', sir,' said the chief. 'There'll be another n.a.z.i plane along in a minute.'

Dibbens sighed. 'I can't be doing with that,' he thought. 'Let's point it at something. Lower the barrel and swing me over to the right.'

The scratch gun crew spun the wheels and the Bofers turned smoothly.

'Take that you b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' said Dibbens to himself. He squinted down the barrel. 'Just a bit more to the right, please.'

Phoebe, high and dry on the sand with a giant rent across her bows, lay squarely in his sights.

'Bang, bang, bang, bang!' he said.

'They're pointing that big gun at us, sir,' said Ted. 'You should never point a gun, even if it's not loaded.'

'Did you learn that in the cadets?' asked Burnell.

Ted nodded.

'Thought so,' said Burnell.

'Eh! Keep your bloomin' hand still, will you!' Charlie pulled a nail from between his lips and raised the hammer. 'I told 'em she was as rotten as a pear, and I weren't kiddin'.' He banged the nail through the plank and called to Tom on the other side.

'All right, flatten that one down, too.' There came a series of taps from inside Phoebe's hull while Tom hammered the nail flat.

'Right! Let's have a look at that.' Charlie Lavender lifted himself up off the sand. He stepped back to admire his handiwork and stretched to relieve his aching spine. His oilskin coat had been neatly tacked over the hole on Phoebe's bow and the frame nailed into place.

'Pa.s.s us a plank,' he said to Ted. He bent down and held his hand out, popping the nails into his mouth. But Ted was distracted as were most of the men on this part of the beach. The burst from the Bofers had drawn a small crowd from the dunes. Now a fight had broken out.

'Oy! Give us a plank!' mumbled Charlie. He turned around, and then spat the nails onto the sand. He climbed again to his feet and stood and watched. About two-dozen soldiers were hollering and shouting in a rapidly growing scrum.

'What's up with them?' he asked Burnell.

Burnell did not answer. He stared across the sand towards the crowd. Men were shouting, some louder than others.

'Don't you talk back to me, you little s.h.i.+t!'

'Let's drown the f.u.c.ker!'

'Take that, Nancy boy!'

The focus of their attention was knocked to the ground and now the boots began to lash out. Burnell was half way across when there came the sharp report of a pistol shot. He ran the rest of the way. The crowd parted. Burnell's eyes were drawn to two men on the sand. One, a young RAF pilot in an Irvin and yellow Mae West, sat propped up on one elbow. His other hand was outstretched and waving a Webley .32 automatic. The other man lay curled up on his side clutching his knee. Blood seeped from between his fingers and was quickly absorbed by the sand.

'Stand back! Stand back!' shouted Burnell, stepping up and pus.h.i.+ng men aside. He looked down at the soldier. Tears poured from his eyes and his lips were stretched back, exposing his black receding gums. The pilot quickly pulled himself to his feet and pointed his pistol across the crowd.

'All right! What's all this about?' Burnell demanded of the pilot. 'And put that b.l.o.o.d.y thing down!'

The pilot struggled for breath. He spat blood from his mouth and Burnell noticed the start of a nasty s.h.i.+ner around his left eye.

'I think you had better ask them,' the boy declared. His face was sallow, accentuating the adolescent red spots.

Burnell looked around the crowd. He stopped when he saw a sergeant. 'You, man! You should know better than to let this sort of thing happen. What's it all about then?'

'Well, sir,' stuttered the sergeant. He clutched his rifle to his side. 'Some of the blokes thought this fly-boy was jumping the queue, sir. We've been here days, sir. And some of the boys I think took exception to this one pus.h.i.+ng in.'

'And what do you have to say?' Burnell turned back to the pilot.

'Oh, really!' The boy scoffed and cast his head around. 'I mean. There's not even a queue here, is there? I heard that ack-ack go off. I was just looking for someone in charge, that's all.'

'He's a murderer, that's what he is!' shouted an unhelpful voice from the crowd.

'And they think they're G.o.d's gift. b.l.o.o.d.y RAF!'

'Rare As Fairies!'

The men laughed.

'Pipe down!' called Burnell. He stepped towards the pilot and took the pistol from his hand. 'Defiants?' he asked, thinking back to the unfortunate incident on Cameron.

The boy shook his head. 'Hurricanes.'

'Somebody go fetch a medic,' called Burnell over his shoulder. The crowd continued to give off a dangerous vibration. 'Go on!' n.o.body moved. Now Burnell felt the ugly mood welling around him.

'He's asking for it now!'

A powerful man pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He wore no jacket, just a stained white singlet from the waist up. He stepped towards to the pilot and jutted out his jaw. 'You piece of s.h.i.+t!' He spat directly at the pilot and turned swiftly to glare at Burnell.

'You leave him to us. Why don't you run along, sailor-boy?' He took a swift step forward, forcing Burnell to step back.

'Go on. f.u.c.k off! Leave him to us.'

Burnell looked down to the pistol in his hand. The hammer was back and ready to fire again. We swallowed painfully.

'Yeah? Just try it!' declared the bruiser. 'Who do you think you are, anyway? The Phantom of the f.u.c.king Opera!'

Burnell smelt the bruiser's foul breath and slowly raised the small pistol level with the man's groin. He had no idea what would happen next.

'h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo! What's going on here, then?' boomed Lieutenant Dibbens. He pushed his way into the centre of the crowd and took in the scene within an instant.

'Oh, I might have guessed,' he said, looking at Burnell and the pistol in his hand. 'Scored another home goal have we, sonny-boy?'

Burnell winced inwardly. He took a deep breath and slipped the pistol into his pocket.

'Come on,' he said, turning to the pilot and stepping past the military policeman.

'Not so fast, sub-lieutenant.' Dibbens spun on his heels and looked around. 'I want to know what went on here first.'

'It's that RAF bloke. He started it.'

'Tried to push in, he did.'