Dunkirk Spirit Part 29

Archie brought the binoculars into focus and made a quick sweep of the building. A broad Flemish roof, bowed somewhat in the middle, accounted for a good two-thirds of the barn. A wide set of doors, open and leaning on their hinges, filled the centre. Archie took his time working the lenses along each side of the barn and then back again across the red roof.

'Can't see anything,' he declared eventually.

'Like I say, lad, it's a bit like fis.h.i.+ng. You can't expect a bite first cast. Let's just take our time.'

Some time pa.s.sed and finally Buck spoke again. 'I don't see anything cooking here. But give it another ten minutes. We've all the time in the world.'

'You must be on to a good number with this,' put in Archie.

'Oh, aye. I'm me own boss. I can fill my days as I will.'

'How often do you have to report in?'

'Since we've been here, I don't usually bother unless something's happening or else I run out of f.a.gs or grub. And then it's just a matter of finding Captain Medcalf and filling him in. He likes to keep scores!'

'Scores?' asked Archie.

'Aye, he's a funny bloke, off his rocker even. But he lets me do my own thing, so I can't complain. But don't ever let him catch you malarkin' about. He can be right cratchy when he wants.'

Archie had no doubts. 'I thought he was going to have me shot,' he explained.

'Oh, aye. He does that,' declared Buck. The tail end of his sentence drifted away to a whisper. 'By eck! He's a crafty b.u.g.g.e.r. See top of yon barn?'

'Hmm!'

'And see what looks like a plant or something growing out of the tiles?'

'Hmm!'

'Well, I reckon that's a sniperscope.'

'Sniperscope?'

'Yeah, like a periscope, same thing.'

'Really?' asked Archie in wonder. 'How can you be sure?'

'I can't,' explained Buck. 'Call it instinct if you like.'

'What range do you make that?' asked Archie sliding his rifle forward.

'Seven hundred and fifty yards.'

Archie adjusted his sights.

'I use the football field principle,' continued Buck, unbidden. 'You say to yourself, one football field would be as far as that big tree beyond the moat. Then you work out the next hundred yards and so forth.'

'Right.'

'Thing is,' explained Buck. 'It can all be very deceptive. For instance, objects with a regular outline like that barn there will appear closer then objects with irregular outlines like a clump of trees.'

'Really?'

'Oh, yes. And if the sun is behind a target it will seem further away than it really is and the opposite if the sun is behind you.'

'Do they teach you that stuff?'

'Some of it. Most of it I've figured out for myself.' Buck lowered his rifle and rubbed his eyes slowly. 'This b.l.o.o.d.y smoke is fair ruining my eyes.' He began to crawl backwards. 'Let's get on the roof and have a look from there.'

'Well, we timed that badly,' declared Buck as they clambered for a foothold on the slippery roof. An artillery sh.e.l.l had just soared over the top of the htel de ville to crash into the wall of a house at the far end of the square. A heavy grey plume of dust and smoke drifted up the side of the house to slowly merge with the clouds. Buck stretched out his arms and pulled himself up onto the next level of the hipped roof. He struggled to bring his legs up and then turned to offer Archie a helping hand.

'You want to get rid of that greatcoat,' he suggested.

'I'm rather attached to it,' said Archie, thinking of the blood that had seeped through the bandages and into the coat's lining. Archie heaved himself up and landed heavily on his left side, pus.h.i.+ng the minute shrapnel splinters deeper into his flesh. He lay still for a moment, wis.h.i.+ng the pain away, wis.h.i.+ng against hope, his eyes watering despite his dehydrated state.

Buck turned and slithered across the tiles, halting behind a chimneybreast. He indicated for Archie to position himself behind the other. Buck peered through his scope and Archie re-focused the binoculars. They both stared at the plant until their eyes began to play tricks.

'What d'you reckon?' hissed Buck.

'Looks like a plant to me.'

'Then you have a scout about with the bins and I'll watch the roof,' he suggested. Another artillery round tore over their heads, tugging at the air around them. It landed beyond the square. Neither Archie nor Buck turned to look. Another sh.e.l.l whistled by to their right, prompting the chimney to groan.

'You don't think they've seen us,' called Archie in a low voice.

'Naw! Doubt it. It takes them a while to signal back and forth...hang on!'

Buck drew breath through the gap in his teeth, issuing an eerie note. He squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped back against his shoulder and he slipped quickly away from the chimneybreast. Archie slide back down to join him out of sight by the guttering.

'That's one in the eye for Hitler,' p.r.o.nounced Buck, recharging the rifle.

'You got him in the eye?' exclaimed Archie.

'No, but I got him in the scope!' Buck laughed. 'He'll have to go get another one or else stick his head up next time.' He grinned and held out his hand. 'Good teamwork, lad.'

But as Archie leant forward to shake Buck by the hand he felt the tiles beneath him crack and give way. Buck made a grab for his hand but by then Archie had already dropped through the gap in the roof.

'What did I say about malarkin'?' asked Buck. He held his sides and looked up at Archie.

'It's not f.u.c.king funny!' Archie winced with the searing pain.

'Well, you're hooked good and proper,' explained Buck. 'You'll have to wiggle out of that greatcoat. There's a beam all the way through the collar.'

'It's not f.u.c.king funny!'

'You look like a kipper hung up to smoke!'

'Let me stand on your shoulders and I'll try and undo the coat.'

Buck sucked in air and tried not to smile. He stepped up beneath Archie and took his weight. 'Come on, lad. Don't hang about!'

'Very funny.' The pain was making Archie feel sick. He worked to free the large b.u.t.tons. 'Help me down,' he called eventually, and Buck lowered him gently to the floor. Archie wobbled on his feet and then crumpled in a heap.

'f.u.c.k me, lad!' Buck stared at Archie. 'I thought for one minute you'd been making your own underwear.' He stared with disbelief at the stained and rumpled bandages wrapped across Archie's chest and shoulder. 'Why the f.u.c.k didn't you say something?'

'Oh, come on!' said Archie, struggling into an upright position. 'You know the drill. I ain't going to complain, am I? It's not on to grumble.'

'Grumble?' asked Buck, astonished. 'Grumble is what you do when you get bully beef everyday. You've got every right to complain.' He bent forward and examined Archie's shoulder. 'What happened here?' he asked.

'Bullet,' said Archie. 'But it went straight through, no broken bones. The MO said I was very lucky.'

'Gerr off! You call that lucky?' Buck whistled involuntarily. 'Your sharp shooting days are over, my lad. I think you're earned your ticket home.'

'Oh, no!' spluttered Archie. The bitter anger rose in his throat like bile. 'That's the last thing I b.l.o.o.d.y want.'

15:30 Thursday 30 May 1940.

Snowdown Station, Southern Railways, Kent 'Five minutes everyone!' called the stationmaster, his rosy cheeks glowing with the effort. 'The train has just left Shepherd's Well.' He stood on the platform's edge, rocking backwards and forwards on the soles of his polished shoes.

'There's no b.u.t.ter or marg on these scones,' called out Mrs Hannaford in alarm.

'Then just serve them as they are,' called back Margaret. She raised her hand and tucked back an errant strand of hair, pus.h.i.+ng it inside the brimmed hat. She let out her breath and looked around her. Mrs Hannaford had the scones under control, if not the b.u.t.ter. Mrs Arnold was busy laying out the freshly washed teacups on trays along the trestle table, and Mrs Roberts was in the ladies having another funny turn.

Margaret looked down the track. The rails were vibrating, sending a number of rooks clamouring and heralding the arrival of yet another troop train. Other women from the village and beyond were lining up to take trays. Margaret squeezed in and lifted up a heavy platter of sandwiches. She tilted her head to see what was inside. Already the tomato was soaking through the thin slices, curling the edges and exposing the waxy cheese within.

The engine approached the station. Heads and arms stretched themselves out of the windows like tentacles in search of refreshments. Margaret stepped forward with the others and watched as the train reduced speed. She found herself holding her breath. She looked quickly at the men as each carriage moved by. In their eagerness for food and drink many of the faces, otherwise blackened, worn and troubled, broke into smiles. Margaret felt her mouth part in a broad smile of her own. But only the mouths smiled. The eyes were tired and refused to play along. Now the men were calling out to the women. Above the noise of the rocking carriages and the calls and the whistles, the stationmaster boomed out: 'Eight minutes! We have just eight minutes to feed the mult.i.tude.' The wheels screeched to a halt.

'Excuse me.'

Margaret turned quickly, off balance. 'Yes?' she asked, a hint of impatience. She had already singled out her compartment. 'If you have brought the gla.s.ses, can you please take them into the waiting room.' She tilted her head along the platform. 'We are very busy right now.'

'Gla.s.ses?' asked Kitty.

'Yes, the gla.s.ses! I take it you are from the pub.' Margaret gave her a quizzical look and took another step towards the train.

'No, I'm not from the pub,' explained Kitty, smiling and keeping up. 'I just wondered if I could help out.' She continued to smile.

Margaret thrust the platter of curling sandwiches straight into her arms. 'Take these but don't let the men in just one carriage grab them all. Move down the platform offering just a few to each compartment.' Margaret looked away as the women held their trays up to the open windows and the tentacles. 'Can you manage that?'

But Kitty had already gone. Margaret trotted back to the table and took a newly poured tray of tea.

Kitty's skills as a hostess were well developed, having been honed over many years at family garden parties. As the only girl among four boys, it had been Kitty who had a.s.sumed the role of deputy hostess, floating among the elegant guests with silver trays of tropical delicacies.

'Why don't you come with us, luv?' The grinning soldier patted the carriage door suggestively. 'Honeymoon special!' He and others laughed.

'You wouldn't get me in there with you lot,' smiled Kitty, puffing out her chest. 'Not for all the tea in China! Have a sandwich.'

Dozens of grubby hands reached out through the window. Many were cut and grazed. She looked at their dirty faces as they fought and scrambled to pull the sandwiches inside the carriage. Kitty lowered the tray back out of reach.

'That's enough for you lot,' she laughed and stepped quickly to the next carriage door. She looked down at the tray. Few entire sandwiches remained. Scattered triangular slices of curling bread and isolated slithers of pale tomato littered the platter. Kitty hesitated, shrugged and then stepped up, presenting the tray again. A man in a string vest with tattoos across his entire chest, an obvious M40C, spread a fat hand across the tray and scooped up as much as he could. He forced the sandwich elements into his mouth and winked at Kitty.

'What's it like over there?' she asked quickly, allowing another soldier to gather up the last few crumbs.

'Didn't stop raining,' said the soldier with the crumbs. 'Today was the first dry day we had and, would you believe it, we had to come home!'

Kitty tried to laugh. 'Was it terrible?' she asked.

'Put it this way.' He wiped a few crumbs from the side of his mouth. 'I won't be going back next year!'

Kitty's next tray held enamel mugs of ginger beer.

'Oy! You clumsy sod! You're splas.h.i.+ng the lady!'

She stepped back allowing the tidal wave of ginger beer to roll off the front of the tray and down onto the platform, splas.h.i.+ng her shoes.

'That's all right, lads,' she joked. 'It's not my Sunday best.'

She lifted the tray again and allowed the men to help themselves.

'Let's have those mugs back!' she called, looking into the carriage. A few men were soundly asleep, oblivious to the commotion around them. 'Have you finished with those mugs yet?' She stepped back and mugs poured out of the window in a precarious heap onto her tray.

'Have some f.a.gs, luv!' offered a tanned M20C. He tossed down two flat tins.'Shouldn't we be giving things to you, not the other way round?' she smiled back.

'Take 'em, luv. We've got bloomin' 'undreds!'

A whistle blew sharply further down the platform and Kitty stood away from the edge. There was no time to talk.

'Stand away there!' called the stationmaster. He blew his whistle again, puffing out his red cheeks. 'Stand away there!'

'What's it like over there?' The wheels gave a tired groan and Kitty moved up the platform, keeping pace with the departing train. Cups continued to fly out of the windows. The soldiers waved goodbye. The M20C continued to lean out of the compartment. Thick brown hair hung from his dislodged fringe, covering one eye. He shook his head and gave a wan smile. The train picked up speed and soon the guard's van had disappeared up the track and around the bend. Kitty and the others stood still, an awful flat feeling descending along the platform.

'They will hang on to the bloomin' cups,' exclaimed Rose, breaking the spell.

Kitty stooped to help gather cups and other receptacles from the platform. She filled her tray to capacity and returned to the trestle table, pocketing the cigarettes.

'Thank you,' said Margaret, stepping alongside. 'It's a madhouse sometimes,' she explained.

'Is it always this busy?' asked Kitty.

Margaret nodded and drew Kitty aside. 'How long can you stay?' she asked.

'I've got all day...'

'Then you can lend a hand over here.' She led Kitty to the far end of the table where several women lent forward arranging food. 'You b.u.t.ter the bread and I'll find something to put inside.'

Kitty picked up the knife and began to b.u.t.ter the pile of cut bread that lay before her. Margaret returned with a catering sized tin of corned beef and a large jar of homemade piccalily.

'Not so thick,' she scalded.