Dunkirk Spirit Part 30

'Bread 'n' sc.r.a.pe?' answered Kitty.

Margaret smiled. 'We have to make a little go a long way.'

'It's making me so hungry,' declared Kitty after sc.r.a.ping away the excess b.u.t.ter from ten slices. 'I don't know about a little. It looks like a lot of food to me!'

Margaret laughed. 'Oh, if only! We have all had to raid our pantries. We have also had to beg, borrow and steal.' She paused and looked at the front of Kitty's neat navy two-piece. 'Oh,' she exclaimed. 'You've spilt something down your front.'

'Ginger beer,' explained Kitty.

'Well, you just hold on there, dear.' Margaret turned and looked for one of the many dishcloths. 'If it doesn't stain,' she explained as she wiped, 'it will at least leave a tidemark and you don't want that.'

She ran the cloth over the contours of Kitty's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and suddenly felt her face flush. She stepped back, tossing the dishcloth onto the trestle table and quickly wiping her hands on a tea towel.

'That is so much better, thank you,' said Kitty, happy to resume her b.u.t.tering. 'You were telling me about all this food.'

'Oh, yes,' Margaret explained. 'Yes. We have had to go around all the shops asking for food and sweets and cigarettes. Everything really. The ironmonger donated his entire stock and the tobacconist has been a perfect darling.'

Margaret halted in her tracks again. 'But this is all supposed to be terribly hush-hush.' She looked Kitty in the eye. 'How did you hear about it?' she asked, knitting her brows.

'Oh,' said Kitty, wiping away b.u.t.ter and still looking down. 'People are talking about it.'

'Are they?'

'Well.' Kitty felt herself hesitating on the edge of a lie. She looked back at Margaret. 'When I came down by train yesterday I saw loads of soldiers at Ashford. And they all looked in a really bad way. Not like this lot just now. These chaps looked more like a load of old coalminers on an excursion.'

'Then you wait.' Margaret tightened her lips. 'The hospital train is coming back this afternoon and that will break your heart, no matter how big it is.'

15:50 Thursday 30 May 1940.

Port Admiral's Office, Dover, Kent 'Well, you may say that, sir, but I don't see you on the list,' announced the young lieutenant with the strawberry birthmark. He folded the binder shut and looked vaguely satisfied.

The Skipper felt his temples pulsate. He tapped his toe impatiently and tried not to stare at the broad pink patch across the young officer's face. He mouthed the word slowly: 'Cameron. Would you like me to spell it?'

'No, I do understand, sir.' The officer exhaled quietly and stretched across his desk. 'Hold on a minute please...' There was a brief pause while he lifted the telephone from its cradle and pressed b.u.t.tons.

'h.e.l.lo, sir...I have a Commander Bishop of Cameron here...Yes...That's right, Cameron...yes, really...I understand...sir.'

The Skipper was studying the albino hairs on the man's eyebrow when he suddenly replaced the receiver and lifted his head. He gave the Skipper a tired look. 'The captain says he will see you now, sir. But don't keep him long, he has an appointment at sixteen-hundred.'

'Teddy!' exclaimed the captain, pulling himself from behind his desk. 'This calls for a celebration! Come and plonk yourself down and tell me everything.'

The Skipper shook hands and accepted the chair. He placed a thin buff folder on the desk in front of him. 'This is my preliminary report, sir.' He settled back and tried to sink into the hard seat. He watched as the captain rummaged through his desk drawers, finally producing a bottle of South African brandy. He rummaged a little more and then picked up the telephone.

'Manners. Try and rustle up a couple of brandy gla.s.ses will you, there's a good fellow.' He picked the report off the desk and adjusted his gla.s.ses. His chair creaked as he sat back. 'I see,' he muttered. 'Ah ha...yes...'

The Skipper, feeling the fleeting nightmare of old school days, cast his eyes around the s.p.a.cious office. The windows were closed and criss-crossed with packing tape. The room had the musty odour of biscuits, like an old man's bedroom. He looked at the solid oak desk with its untidy papers and the remains of breakfast balancing precariously on the edge of the plate. The thought of scrambled egg and toast made his stomach rumble. The Skipper looked towards the centre of the room where an antique globe sat on a pedestal. On the far wall, rows of books from official histories and almanacs, to box files of requisitions and audits. He sighed in despair.

The captain turned another page. The Skipper pulled back his chair and walked towards the chart. A new row of blue celluloid pins indicated the recently captured sh.o.r.e batteries between Calais and Gravelines. Other blue pins ran from the east of Dunkirk to a point beyond Nieuport and off the edge of the chart. The Skipper cast a quick glance at the captain, who continued engrossed in the report, and then traced his finger along the final dog's leg of Route Z where it hugged the French coast. The acrid tang of disturbed ozone returned to his nostrils. A sudden shudder rippled across the base of his spine. Just then there was a tap at the door and Manners with the strawberry mark entered the room.

'Best I could do, sir.' Manners placed two ornate teacups with matching saucers on the desk in front of the captain and walked back out of the door, ignoring the breakfast things. The Skipper stepped back to his chair and sat down, reaching for the brandy bottle. His arm was half way across the desk when he stopped and tilted the desk calendar to look at the date. '30 May. Thursday.' He pulled the cork from the bottle and filled both cups to the brim. The captain continued engrossed in the report.

This being a Thursday, the Royal Navy had a specific toast. The Skipper raised his cup off the saucer and tapped it against the captain's.

'A b.l.o.o.d.y war,' he announced.

The captain lifted his cup without looking away from the report and replied: 'Or a sickly season.'

Both took a mouthful of the sweet brandy and replaced the cups on their saucers. The captain continued with the report while the Skipper studied the ceiling. Eventually, the captain leant forward in his chair and placed the report back on his desk. He scribbled a hasty note and then turned his full attention to Commander Bishop.

'Well, not much to show for it.' He looked the Skipper in the eye, as if expecting an explanation, but continued on before he could receive one. 'Are they serious? Twenty-four hours?'

'Afraid so, sir.'

'The war will be b.l.o.o.d.y over before you know it.' He sipped his brandy with a sharp flick of his wrist.

'But when you think we took over twenty hits and the de-gaussing system's shot right through, and two holes beneath the waterline, not to mention patching up the main tank...'

'Yes, yes. I see all that.' The captain spun in his chair, first towards the wall chart and then towards the patched windows. He swung back with a creak. 'Frankly, it couldn't have happened at a worse time. We're pushed to the limit right now. And the yard...d.a.m.n the yard!' He sipped again at the brandy. 'Look, Teddy! Just keep on their case will you? This whole show is tipped to end tomorrow night, and you don't want to miss that, do you?'

'No, sir.'

'No, of course you don't. An operation like this could do a man's career no end of good. Who wants to be stuck on the Atlantic convoys forever? Not you.'

'No, sir.'

'I suppose you've got another crew requisition as long as your arm, eh?'

'No, sir.' The Skipper smiled despite the fatigue. 'Actually, we didn't lose anybody this time, although both our new whalers and the cutter were smashed up.'

'Well, that's some good news I suppose.' The captain appeared distracted. 'And I dare say we need good news right now.' He pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. 'Push them, Teddy! Push them! We all know what they're like. And come back and see me when you're ready. Keep them on their toes! Eh?'

'Yes, sir,' said the Skipper. 'But there's just one more thing.' Both men downed the last of their brandies and pulled back their chairs. 'My navigation officer, sir. Burnell. Have you had any word of him?'

'Burnell?' The Captain turned aside and took on a studied look. 'Burnell? Right,' he announced. 'I'm with you. That young chap. You lost him somewhere.'

'We last saw him on the Mole, sir.'

'And you haven't seen him since?'

'No, sir.'

'Well, telegram time, I guess.'

'Perhaps I could use a telephone here, sir?'

The Captain lifted his braided cap from the hat stand and edged his way towards the door. 'Yes, of course. Look here, Teddy I must rush.'

He held open the door for the Skipper and ushered him out. 'Why don't you go have a look at the charts? Catch up on what's happening.'

'h.e.l.lo, sir,' said Lieutenant Langley, the chartroom duty officer. He had a concerned and puzzled look on his face. 'It's Commander Bishop, isn't it?' He held his hand out to the Skipper. 'It's very nice to see you again, sir. But, to be honest, we didn't expect you back. Coffee?'

The Skipper nodded acceptance and followed the young officer over to the urn. He had just returned from an abortive and tough trip, but not from the grave. He wore his own puzzled expression as he accepted the tepid mug.

'To be frank, sir, when we got your signal we thought you'd had it.'

'Had it?'

The lieutenant excused himself and stepped over to the nearest desk to consult the message spike. He returned after a moment. 'Here it is, sir. Received eleven-thirty this morning.' He handed the signal form over.

'No, this isn't right,' said the Skipper. 'We signalled "we are under fire". It says here "on fire".'

'And that's what we thought, sir.' Langley gave a nervous laugh. 'The sh.o.r.e batteries are now in German hands but, obviously, you know that.' He laughed again. 'In fact, we've just had a report in that a French torpedo boat, the Bourrasque, has coped one off Nieuport.'

'I'm sorry to hear it,' huffed the Skipper. 'But I've barely seen any French boats. I'm surprised the batteries could even find one!'

'Well, sir. I agree their contribution has so far been negligible but you will be pleased to hear that fifteen French vessels are now involved, including two destroyers and several torpedo boats and trawlers. Which is just as well given the new deadline.'

'The big pickup is tomorrow night, I understand.'

'Yes, sir. And it's keeping us very busy. In fact, we've not had a bad day so far. Not so many losses and quiet a few troops lifted off the Mole. The beaches have been a bit of a damp squib but that's fog for you, swings and roundabouts. You will be going back, of course, sir?'

'We are under repair now.' The Skipper sipped his coffee. 'Tomorrow night.'

'Well, as long as you get there by midnight. We're hoping to lift off the rearguard before oh-three-hundred on Sat.u.r.day.'

'How many do they estimate?'

'Four thousand, sir.'

'That doesn't sound very much.'

'That's the plan, sir. Plus the RN beach parties, if not a bit sooner. We shall have to see how it goes.'

'Then, in that case, you had better resurrect Cameron from her premature grave.' The Skipper raised an eyebrow.

'Yes, of course, sir.' The lieutenant bent down and picked up the graveyard bin. 'Perhaps you would like to do the honours, sir.' He pa.s.sed the bin forward.

The Skipper scooped up a handful of paper flags and began casting them back into the depths. Finally one flag lay in the palm of his hand. He straightened out the edges and then stepped across to the chart. A pretty Wren moved aside as Commander Bishop lent forward and stabbed the pin firmly into Dover harbour.

'Never cast aspersions upon the waters,' said the Skipper. But, somehow, just as he was about to wink at the Wren, something in her expression told him he had got it slightly wrong. 'Is there a telephone I can use?' he asked quickly.

'h.e.l.lo, Bayswater eight-two-four,' said the voice at the other end of the line.

'Mrs Burnell?' he asked.

'Mrs Burnell? No. She lives next door but one. Would you like me to fetch her?'

'Please,' said the Skipper. 'If you don't mind.'

'Who shall I say is calling?'

'My name is Bishop of HMS Cameron.' And then as an afterthought: 'Royal Navy.'

'I'll be two ticks...'

The Skipper heard a click as the telephone was placed on a sideboard and then another sound as the front door was pulled quickly open. He could hear a clock chiming the quarter hour and a dog barking. He drummed his fingers on the desk and realised suddenly that, whilst he had been dreading this telephone call, he had failed to think through what he might say. b.u.t.terflies were swirling in his stomach when he heard a commotion at the other end and then another voice.'

'h.e.l.lo. This is Mrs Burnell speaking.' The voice was full of concern.

'Good afternoon, Mrs Burnell. My name is Bishop. I am...' he paused having forgotten Burnell's first name. He knew it began with a K but had never had cause to use it. 'Um. I'm Keith's captain...'

'Kenny d'you mean? D'you mean Kenny?'

'Yes, Kenny. I am sorry. It's been a terribly long day. Um, congratulations by the way.'

'Congratulations? What for?'

'Um, on getting married...'

'Oh, you want Daisy. I'm his mum. And why can't he come to the telephone? Poor Daisy's been worried sick.'

'You mean, you have heard?'

'Heard? No, we haven't heard anything. That's the trouble. Poor Daisy was taken into hospital last night. She came over all hot in the afternoon. The doctor took one look at her and rushed her off to Saint Mary's. She hasn't lost it, but they say she has to keep still and not go galloping about. It was touch and go, and her with just...' She hesitated. 'Well, a long time to go. How's she going to sit still all that time?'

'I am very sorry to hear it. Please give her my best...'

'I'd rather Kenny called. It's all well and good getting his friends to call up but why can't he pick up the telephone or write a letter? It's not much to ask. Mrs Carter. This is her telephone. Mrs Carter's boy, Sammy, he's in the Army and he writes every few days. And there's fighting going on over there. It's true, she hasn't heard for a few days but there's trouble with the post apparently. You tell Kenny to think about his poor Daisy. And his poor mum. Do you want the number of the hospital?'

'Please,' said the Skipper, keen to hang up.

16:50 Thursday 30 May 1940.

Off Bray Dunes, France

'Hey, you! Soldier! Are you up the duff or is that a dog in your greatcoat?' shouted Sub-Lieutenant Kenneth Burnell.

The soldier pulled aside and tried to hide himself in the crowd on Phoebe's deck.

'Hey, I'm talking to you!' He spun the soldier around. A tiny black nose on a small white face poked out of the man's coat. One ear was bent over, exposing a veined pink interior. Burnell narrowed his brows and stared into two big watery brown eyes. The man gripped both collars and tried to pull them across. The puppy yelped.