Dunkirk Spirit Part 32

'You must be my Magic Jeanie!'

Kitty smiled.

'I'd like to be home in my own bed. Can you manage that?'

'Not immediately,' said Kitty. 'But soon enough, I promise. But is there anything else in the interim?' She smiled.

'Yeah, miss. I'd love it if my pal was here, with me.'

'Did he come on the same bus as you?'

'Yeah, yeah, he did. Pat Parker is his name. Tall bloke with receding hair. He's got a funny sort of mouth.'

'Is he on a stretcher, too?' she asked.

'No, no, miss. He can walk about.'

'You hold on here. What's your name?'

'Reg. Reg Wardle. We're in the same mob together, the Royal Berks.h.i.+res. I'd be really grateful, miss.'

Kitty pulled herself to her feet. The first dozen or so stretcher cases lay on the platform, each man's feet pointing towards the rails and the coal sidings beyond. The walking wounded crowded around the trestle table or stood in small groups accepting refreshments, all vying with one another to see who could get the most. They joked and laughed.

'Is there a Pat Parker here?' she called out above the chatter. 'Pat Parker?'

'Who wants him?' asked a short M25C with his arm in a sling and a sausage roll in his mouth.

'Are you Pat?'

'No, I think he's over here.' He swallowed and c.o.c.ked his head, steering Kitty along. 'Pat, you jammy git! Look what I got for yer.' He stood back and introduced Kitty.

Pat sat with a gaping jaw.

'h.e.l.lo,' said Kitty. 'I have found your friend. Reg Wardle?'

'Reg? Yeah! Where is he?'

Kitty led the way.

'Here he is,' she announced with a beaming smile, looking down at the bandaged head. Pat Parker peered around her shoulder.

'Wotchya, Blinky!'

'Wotchya Gobby!' He tilted his head on the stretcher to see Kitty better. 'We call him Gobby on account of the fact that he can't shut his mouth. He was born like it.' Reg blinked at Kitty and Pat gapped.

'Can you sit up a bit?' asked Kitty of a das.h.i.+ng young pilot. He smiled and nodded. Kitty placed her hand tenderly to cradle his head and held the gla.s.s to his lips. 'Here it comes,' she said.

The pilot gulped back the lemonade while Kitty gently tilted the gla.s.s, making sure than none spilt and ran down his chin. The man paused and took a deep breath. 'Enough,' he said. 'For the moment.' Kitty lowered his head back down onto the green wire stretcher.

'You've got a lovely voice,' he sighed. 'I feel like I've died and gone to Heaven!'

'But without the dying,' put in Kitty. 'I suppose it was tough over there?'

'It's harder for the chaps down on the ground. It's chaos, it really is. I was lucky to get off. I'd been waiting since Monday. What day is it now?' he asked.

'It's Thursday,' said Kitty. 'And it looks like the sun might come out a bit later.'

'That's nice.'

'Are you a pilot?' she asked.

'Well, I was until Monday. Now I don't know what I am. Do you think I'll be blind forever?'

'No, of course not. It's probably just the shock.' Kitty lifted her hand and gently stroked his brow, brus.h.i.+ng his blonde hair away from the matted bandage. 'These things wear off. Really they do.'

'Hope so!'

'What planes do you fly?'

'Defiants.'

'Oh, those new marvellous fighters!' Kitty exclaimed. 'They say they are absolutely wonderful. Sometimes I wish I were a man. I would so love to fly a Defiant.'

'You wouldn't,' he said flatly. 'We just aren't a match for the German machines. There were production problems from the very start. We're slower than the Hurricane and we're not as manoeuvrable as the Me-one-oh-nines or one-one-ohs. We can't even depress the guns below horizontal or fire to the front.'

'Ah! There you are,' exclaimed Margaret. 'I wonder if you could lend a hand over here. We are running low on water.'

20:30 Thursday 30 May 1940.

RAF Biggin Hill, Kent 'Hey! Look who's here, eh!' exclaimed Clouston. After a day of low pressure and heavy cloud, it was now a warm, sultry evening and the last swifts of the day were racing home above the rolling Kent countryside. Both Clouston and Ginger were stepping out of the front gate of the base and on their way to the pub. 'What is his name?'

'I called him the new Red Three. I never took in his name.'

'No, nor did I,' confessed Clouston. 'h.e.l.lo there!' he called out and waved an arm. Red Three was leaning into the window of the taxi, shaking the driver by the hand. He turned and looked up the path as the two pilots approached.

'h.e.l.lo,' he called without enthusiasm.

Clouston and Ginger stepped up and pumped his hand and patted him on the back.

'Well, this is a turn up for the books, eh?' said Clouston, genuinely smiling. 'We'd given you up for lost. We even put in for a replacement.'

'I saw you crash on the beach,' said Ginger. 'I circled round for a bit but didn't see you get out. I don't suppose you saw me.'

'No. No, I didn't.' Red Three shook his head. 'I was too busy getting clear of the kite in case she blew up.'

'I saw the flames,' said Ginger.

Red Three nodded. 'That was my doing, actually. I put a round into the petrol tank and set fire to her. Seemed such a waste.'

'Well, four new Hurries arrived this evening. I'm sure they'll let you have a hand-me-down,' said Clouston. 'We're just off down the pub. Fancy a pint?'

'I had better report in and make a phone call,' said Red Three. 'Although I could really use a stiff drink.'

'Just swing by the ops room and let them know you're here. Groupie has gone up to town and won't be back till late.'

'What's that noise?' asked Red Three.

'Birthday party for Bonzo,' explained Ginger. 'That's why we're going down the pub.'

'Give me five minutes to change...'

'That is a nasty s.h.i.+ner,' said Ginger leaning forward. The lids around Red Three's eye were purple, inflamed and puffy and his lips appeared swollen.

Red Three shook his head. The lighting was poor in the smoky bar and he had hoped not to discuss it.

'Did you hurt yourself when you landed, eh?' asked Clouston, concerned.

'No.' He spat the word out and looked as if he might leave it at that so Ginger and Clouston continued to lean forward, examining his face closer still. 'Some d.a.m.n squaddie lumped me. All right?'

'Lumped you? What for?' asked Ginger smirking broadly.

'For being in the RAF, actually.' He curled his lip and sipped his whisky and soda, swirling the remainder around the bottom of the gla.s.s.

'What?' they both asked.

'We are not exactly popular over there. Does that come as news to you?'

They both nodded in confirmation.

'They are calling the RAF "Rare as Fairies".'

'Rare as fairies? Get away!' Ginger's smirk looked a little less sure.

'Because they say we are not doing anything...'

'We were grounded all day because of the weather...'

'No, not just today! Not doing anything generally.' Red Three finished his drink with a flourish. 'Take my advice, if you have to crash land, do it behind German lines. I'm sure you'll get a better reception.'

'I just don't believe it,' exclaimed Clouston. 'How can they say we're not doing anything? We're flying at wing strength now. Admittedly, we're still heavily outnumbered but, for Christ's sake man, look at the losses we're taking!'

'There's no point telling the squaddies that. They think every plane in the sky is a Messerschmidt or a Junkers. Some Navy chap with a face like a frazzled steak told me an alarming story about how a destroyer he knew shot down one of our Defiants.'

'What destroyer?'

'He wouldn't say, but he did say they've had no up-to-date recognition charts. He says they were shooting at anything and everything in the sky at first.'

'Well, I can confirm that,' said Clouston. 'So who thumped you then, eh?'

'Actually, more than one bloke.' Red Three smiled now. 'I landed near that big jetty...'

'The East Mole,' said Ginger.

'There were some s.h.i.+ps tying up there and I tried to get a lift back but some b.l.o.o.d.y jumped up Territorial major, probably a b.l.o.o.d.y bank clerk in civvy street, pushed me in the chest and said his men had priority. Told me to get back to the end of the queue. Didn't matter that I'd been shuffling in the d.a.m.n queue for more than an hour. When I protested, and told him I needed to get back, he gave me a load of abuse and shoved me again.

'Should have shoved him back.'

'Well, I did and that's when his b.l.o.o.d.y soldiers started having a go. I made my excuses and left.'

'Well, that's going to be a nasty black eye in the morning.'

'I got that later,' explained Red Three.

'Later?'

'On the beaches. I gave up with the Mole and thought I'd try my luck further along but then this gang of b.l.o.o.d.y thugs set upon me. That's how I got the eye. And that's when this Navy chap helped pull me out. The only time I got a warm reception was on the train home.'

'How's that then?' asked Ginger, draining his pint.

'Well, there's a load of Women's Inst.i.tute types handing out cups of tea and cream buns at some of the stations. The people on the train were marvellous, too. One chap gave me two cigars. I got a Bulldog Drummond thriller and dozens of cigarettes. One woman even tried to press a bobble hat on me. b.l.o.o.d.y awful thing.'

'Bet you're glad to be back?'

Red Three sighed deeply. 'Up to a point.' He rocked his empty gla.s.s back and forth on the table. 'What have you chaps been up to?'

'Oh, us? Well, not a lot, as it happens,' explained Clouston, rising from his stool and gathering their gla.s.ses for another round. 'We've just been sitting around and dozing, reading the papers, drinking tea. Usual sort of thing really.'

20:56 Thursday 30 May 1940.

Windmill Field Cottage, Aylesham, Kent

Vicky placed four slices of bread on the range to toast and then lifted the steaming kettle. She warmed the pot and tipped four heaped teaspoons of tea inside. Margaret continued to fiddle with the wireless. The Thursday play was just reaching its dramatic conclusion. A short burst of static followed and then the hint of far-away Morse code and then a distorted bra.s.s band. Vicky stiffened as Margaret brought the wireless back to its original station.

At the same time tomorrow you can hear Minuet to Waltz. And later this evening at nine-forty-five there is the second episode in our series of Arabian Nightmares - the Enchanted Horse, from Redland Park Hall in Bristol.

Vicky placed the teapot on the kitchen table and slipped the cosy on top. Next, she placed the toast in its rack. She stiffened again as Margaret continued to fiddle with the dial.

'Here we are, ma'am,' said Vicky, laying a plate before Margaret.

'Shus.h.!.+' warned Margaret. 'It's time for the News.'