Dunkirk Spirit Part 34

'Sir?'

'And you can have one for me.'

'What?' exclaimed Dibbens. 'We're getting out of here?'

'You are'

'Oh, thank you G.o.d!'

'We had a deal,' explained Binky. 'Finish the jetty and then you and your men can be first off.'

Dibbens, his face and uniform coated in black engine oil, beamed merrily. 'What's the drill, sir?'

'I'm moving out half of my party just after first light. We have room in the whaler for seven more. I would ask that you arrange for someone to take over here. Find some pioneers and a junior officer, whatever. Show them the ropes and be ready to try out your mark two jetty at high tide.'

'And you, sir?'

'My orders are to stick around a bit longer. You never know, perhaps I'll be back for last orders tonight.'

'I'll get one in for you if you like, sir.'

Binky laughed. 'But no ice.'

04:30 Friday 31 May 1940.

Archcliffe Road, Dover, Kent Tomato Bill was so-called because he usually sold tomatoes. He also sold oranges when available but n.o.body ever called him Orange Bill. It just didn't sound right. He was up early today on a new venture. He bent forward over the ARP stirrup-pump and continued to spray water over the gra.s.s. Tomato Bill was methodical. He painstakingly saturated one small area at a time before moving on to the next.

Dover's famed white cliffs offered unparalleled views across the Channel. On clear days it was often possible to see the French coast. There was no finer view of the sea in all England and the crowds were expected to arrive at first light.

In the back of Tomato Bill's van were hundreds of flattened cardboard boxes and wooden orange crates. At sixpence for a sheet of cardboard and one-and-six for a wooden box, Bill would ensure that the onlookers could sit comfortably on the wet gra.s.s.

Kitty stood studying him from a distance. Unable to sleep, she had decided to watch the dawn from the cliff tops. A faint red glow to the east was spreading slowly from beneath the horizon, and the sound and smell of a thousand maritime engines drifted up on the fresh breeze. On the other side of the Channel an army sat trapped. Kitty pulled her raincoat tight around the collar.

Her M-O report of the previous night was already inside the post box at the hotel and it showed a sudden swing in public opinion. The line that had predominated earlier, best expressed by the M60C fishmonger who feared the worst, was in the descendent, while the views like those of the F55B at Snowdown Station, who would never countenance defeat, were in the majority.

Kitty's report had been ent.i.tled The Cat is out of the Bag and it focused on the sudden s.h.i.+ft in opinion that came with the Nine O'clock News.

There is a ma.s.sive sense of relief that we are finally allowed to know what is going on. There is a feeling of trust that had been missing before. The unease that came with the rumours and the return of so many wounded soldiers, plus the constant fear of invasion and desire to flee the coast, has been transformed. It was possible to see it within the people around the lounge, turning individual As, Bs and Cs into a single body with a single purpose.

The change was most immediately apparent in the men. They usually sit listening to the wireless with either att.i.tudes of keen attention or with heads down towards the floor. The majority smoke feverishly. When we all realised that our Army had its back to the sea, and was now fighting for its life, then everything that has been hidden until now suddenly came into focus. Heads began to lift and people looked around the lounge gauging the reactions of others. Many were nodding their heads as if there was now a mutual understanding.

The att.i.tude hardened when the announcer came on later with a War Office communique about our last stand at Calais. This seemed to come as an even greater shock. Calais is about the same size as Dunkirk and probably no harder to defend. The realisation that our boys there fought to the last man, refusing to surrender, sent an electrical charge throughout the lounge. The men all sprang upright and a.s.sumed postures of defiance, from jutting jaws to clenched fists. A tide of belligerence swelled the room and I felt the hairs tingle at the nape of my neck. Now everybody was looking at everybody else. The F55B at Snowdown is certainly not alone in her ultimate faith in the professionalism of our Fighting Men. 'Thank G.o.d for the Royal Navy' was a regular cry around the room. I sense a blossoming unity as people's anger builds against the n.a.z.is. There is a new att.i.tude of seriousness and of purpose. I also experience a new wave of hope. The Germans are not just invading other people's countries. They are threatening us and killing our men and that makes it deeply personal now.

04:45 Friday 31 May 1940.

RAF Biggin Hill, Kent

Ginger closed the door to Groupie's office quietly. His head was in a spin. His first thought was to telephone his mum but it was far too early. He would not be able to call her now until the evening. He wondered what she would say. She would obviously be very happy at first and even rather proud but then she would wonder why.

'But that's very soon to be promoted, isn't it?' she might ask. She would then go quiet and think of the casualties and of how young men of promise advanced fast in war.

'We're expanding the squadron every day, Mum,' he would lie. 'More and more planes, more and more men.' He would not mention the empty seats each morning in the ops room. He could not explain the sudden disappearance of Clouston because he did not know why himself. Had he been pushed or had he jumped? Groupie's explanation sounded rather lame. If Clouston had been called to a new posting he would surely have had time to say goodbye. The RAF trained its pilots to attack the enemy head-on but they had to watch their backs with equal vigilance.

'Excuse me, sir.' Ginger turned at the voice. 'Are you Flying Officer Wood?'

'Umm, yes.'

A young sergeant pilot held out his hand. 'Then I'm your new wingman, sir,' he announced.

'Really?' Ginger gave a weak smile. He looked at the stripes on the man's arms. His mouth felt very dry. 'Come and have a cup of tea, then. There's a lot to tell you.'

'Well, congratulations old chap or should I call you sir from now on?' Red Three hovered beside the table.

'Sir will do just fine,' said Ginger. He pulled his chair aside to make room. 'Have you met our new Red Two?' He pointed to the sergeant pilot across the table, the first ever on the squadron. The boy stood up.

'Please to meet you.' Both young men spoke at the same time and then sat down awkwardly.

'So what shall we call you?' asked Ginger after a moment. 'What did they call you at school?'

The sergeant hesitated. He was about nineteen, short and equally as pale as the other Red Section wingman. He sniffed. 'Beeky,' he announced meekly. 'They called me Beeky.' He looked down at the table and cringed, wondering why he had not said something glamorous.

'Beeky,' they both laughed.

'Well, actually, they used to call me Peeky Beeky.' Again he cringed and wondered.

'Because you always look so peeky, Beaky?'

'Basically...'

'Well, Peeky Beeky meet Spotted d.i.c.k.' Ginger laughed aloud. Red Three with the black eye and the adolescent pimples winced at his new name and quickly turned the spotlight back on Peeky Beeky.

'How many hours on hurries?' he asked.

'Four,' announced Beeky, looking fairly confident.

'Four?'

'And on trainers?' asked Ginger in wonder.

'Oh, the usual,' said Beeky.

'Have you fired the guns?'

'Yes, but just the once, to sight up the Brownings.'

'Great.' Ginger slide open the Players, taking one for himself and tossing the open packet onto the table.

'Just my luck to get here for the last day, hey!' Peeky Beeky shook his head regretfully and reached across the table towards the packet.

Spotted d.i.c.k picked up his lighter and neatly flipped open the top, spinning the wheel and producing an elegant blue flame in one swift moment. He used his other hand to simultaneously wrestle a Players from the packet and then slipped it between his puffy lips. He looked across at Ginger, holding out the lighter.

'When we've finished these,' said Ginger, watching the smoke from all three cigarettes rise towards the roof of the hut. 'Go see Sergeant Merrill and have your guns sighted for one-hundred-and-twenty yards.'

'That's a bit close isn't it?' asked the sergeant.

Ginger drew hard on his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs. He exhaled a vast cloud upwards. 'It's the only way.' He pointed his cigarette at the boy. 'Get in close. Watch the target grow inside your sights and then, just when the wings with the n.a.z.i crosses fit neatly into the slot, you fire. But not before.'

Peeky Beeky began to look paler still. Ginger felt sick.

'You are taking on a heavy burden,' Groupie had told him only ten minutes before. 'You will now be leading men into battle and their lives will be in your hands.'

'Yes, sir,' Ginger had replied, barely able to take the enormity of his new-found responsibility onboard.

'You did well on your last few sweeps. A very commendable bag, ectualleh. But keep it up. And make sure you do. We have no room for waverers on this squadron.'

05:45 Friday 31 May 1940.

Bray Dunes, France Bray Beach situation report 05:30 Condition on beaches now serious owing to freshening on-sh.o.r.e wind and heavy surf. Air attacks resumed at dawn. Only very small numbers being embarked. Shortage of pulling boats. Those here now aground, capsized, damaged or floating abandoned. Growing number of wrecks proving hazardous at high tide. Under present conditions any large scale embarkation from beaches quite impracticable. Only hope now via Dunkirk. Request large s.h.i.+p be beached at Bray to form a lee and aid embarkation. Cmd. H. H. Babbington, RN.

'This other letter,' said Commander Babbington. 'Is to go to my wife.' He handed across more folded sheets torn from his pocket diary and wondered if he were doing the right thing. His earlier attempts, repeatedly played out in draft form in his head, had tended towards the melodramatic. Binky had struggled to hit the right tone.

Dearest Babs, they have asked a few of us to stick around and help out a bit longer. It is impossible to say when I shall be home but every likelihood that you will see me after the weekend. Should I be delayed, you should know about the last of the savings. There is a signed cheque made out to cash for 100 inside Roosevelt's "The Naval War of 1812" in my study. You will also find a letter for Gertie there too. These are all the things I should have said to her in person before she went off to college. I want her to know that I have always loved her despite our ups and downs. You should know that I have always loved you too and will continue to do so for as long as I remain on this Earth. I am sorry that I have been so low of late. Waiting for a role in this war that does not involve a desk has strained my patience to the limit at times as has the bank and the other bloodsuckers. I know I have not been myself and I am deeply sorry. If it seems that I shall be some time, please go and see my old friend Adm. Wake-Walker at the Admiralty. His number is in my address book. There will also be the question of continuing pay should I be obliged to stay on here, which will help. And if the worst comes to the worse, sell the farm. Give Trudy a pat on the head and a juicy bone from me. Hoping to see you next week. I will telephone if I can from the club. Binky.

'I have scribbled the address on the back,' said Binky. 'Perhaps you could put it in an envelope and get it off in the first post. Are you all set now?'

'Yes, all set, sir.' The young mids.h.i.+pman looked grim as he nodded his head.

The surf that the Commander had detailed in his report was threatening to upset the now reinforced truck jetty. Huge rolling waves between four and six feet high were breaking in a grey wash over the few visible lorries. The vehicles swayed and groaned with each surge of the tide. As each wave pulled back out so it tugged with it thick clouds of black motor oil that coated the surface as far as the eye could see. The men wrestling with the whaler and up to their waists in water were already coasted in a s.h.i.+ny black film. Binky watched as a six-footer lifted the bows of the whaler clear of the sea and very nearly had her over.

'Well, come on then,' said Binky. 'Let's get you out of here.' He placed a hand on the youngster's shoulder and steered him down to the water's edge. He then held out his hand. 'Good luck,' he said.

Binky turned to look for the tall chief petty officer. He lay p.r.o.ne across the cab of one of the far lorries, gripping the whaler's bowline firmly in his hands and holding her tight to the jetty as she tossed with the swell. A filthy grey wave washed over him and Binky kept his eyes fixed on the spot until the chief reappeared with the receding foam. To Binky's tired eyes he had the appearance of a sleek seal basking in the waves. He turned next to see Dibbens, equally black but largely dry, standing to one side. He held his hand out to the commander.

'All the best then, sir,' he smiled.

'Good luck to you, lieutenant, and G.o.d's speed.'

'Just one thing,' said Dibbens, forever the policeman. 'There's some dodgy looking characters starting to hang about now. It doesn't take an egghead to work out that we're off out of here and leaving them in the lurch. I think they're going to make a rush for the boat.'

Binky nodded. He had his eye on the growing press of men around the jetty. The most orderly of the troops had already been packed off to Dunkirk and now the men on the beaches were made up of the latecomers and the leaderless, and many were at their wit's end. Dibbens gave Binky's hand a final squeeze and then let go.

Commander Babbington turned lastly to the senior rating, a young petty officer. 'Now,' he said.

'Fix...bayonets!' roared the PO. There came the clatter of steel on steel as the equally oily ratings snapped the eighteen-inch blades to their rifles. 'Level...arms!' The remaining men of the sh.o.r.e party thrust their bayonets forward and glared at the soldiers, their backs to the sea and the departing whaler. Binky stepped aside and watched as Dibbens slipped from the top of a lorry and down into the whaler. He landed with a thump and appeared to wince.

The chief waited until the boat lifted with the swell and then, still holding the line tightly in both hands, hopped neatly down. The whaler was drawn out to sea by the receding wave and all looked for a moment as if things might go well. The young mids.h.i.+pman sat in the stern, steering with an oar owing to the lack of a rudder. The other mismatched oars were uns.h.i.+pped and began to claw hesitantly through the water. However, the next wave, backed by a growing north-westerly, began to topple at the tip of its crest and came cras.h.i.+ng down with force into the whaler, pus.h.i.+ng her beneath the surface, and swamping her in a fraction of a second. The men that manned her oars were sent sprawling off their thwarts.

The very next wave lifted her briefly and dropped her down square onto the duckboards that lined the top of the jetty. It was then that the whaler toppled over, spilling her crew and pa.s.sengers into the oily black surf. The whaler, now having turned turtle, rose with the next incoming wave and crashed down again onto the jetty. To those on the sh.o.r.e watching, it seemed unlikely that such a small boat could do so much damage to a heavy Renault truck. But the truck had now torn away from the one immediately in front and began a painfully slow sideways descent into the water, narrowly avoiding the whaler but catching one of Dibben's party squarely beneath. He vanished under the oil.

In time, the men began to reach the sh.o.r.e. Binky stepped into the swell and helped tug the chief up onto the sand. The armed guard, knowing now that no one would attempt to seize the whaler, quickly slung their rifles across their backs and waded out into the water to pull their mates ash.o.r.e.

'd.a.m.n and blast!' spat Dibbens with rage. He dragged himself above the waterline and turned, landing with a thump on his behind. 'd.a.m.n and blast!'

Hours of backbreaking toil and the jetty was useless in the heavy swell. The former Scotland Yard detective wanted to cry.

06:00 Friday 31 May 1940.

12th Casualty Clearing Station, Chapeau Rouge, Dunkirk Archie Marley awoke refreshed after nearly six hours of sleep. But he had awoken with a start and his heart thumped fit to burst.

'Oy! You 'ad yer anti-teta.n.u.s injection?'

Archie could not remember. He shook his head.

A large syringe of the type suitable for horses was thrust suddenly into his right arm and a thick grey fluid pumped inside. The man wiped the needle on a cloth and turned without speaking to the next patient lying in line.

Archie lay back and studied the sky. On his chest, and clutched tightly in his hands, was Buck's gasmask bag. Inside were forty-eight Player's Navy Cut and two tins of Fray Bentos and several packets of biscuits. There was also a canteen of water. Archie loosened the straps and looked furtively around him. He lifted himself up on his good elbow, pulled the cork and sipped gratefully at the cool water, pondering his next move.

On the plus side, he was now likely to get his wounds re-dressed and might even be given some painkillers. With a little more rest and a square meal or two, he would be ready to rejoin the fray. Men like him would probably be sorted into scratch units and sent back inland. But, on the down side, he felt - despite the invigorating sleep - emotionally and physically shattered and devoid of all energy.

He pulled the cigarettes from the bag and prized off the lid. Again he looked furtively around him. He flicked the top of the lighter that Buck had also given him and inhaled deeply. On the other hand, if he were evacuated to England he could recover in a hospital, get fit again and carry on the fight at a later date. But the down side of returning home was the inevitable reunion with Bill's mum, dad and sister, and that was something he could not face. He blew the smoke out of his lungs and then coughed.

Archie decided to sit up. He sat in a neglected garden beneath the shade of a broad oak tree. The early morning light was beginning to shaft through the tall bushes at the edge of the garden, twinkling through the leaves and casting a watery haze across the grounds. To his left stood a vast Victorian house with a dull red cupola that resembled a policeman's helmet. Every window appeared broken and many of the shutters had been torn from their hinges. At least two hundred men lay stretched out across the garden; a few orderlies stepping among them, tending and selecting.

Archie finished his cigarette, grinding the b.u.t.t into the earth with his fingers. He took a deep breath and stood up. He swayed at first. The blood seemed slow in reaching his head but after a few seconds he had his body under control and began to walk towards the house.

The first thing he noticed after climbing the front steps and entered the s.p.a.cious hallway were the bluebottles. They buzzed everywhere. One fat fly collided with Archie's head and he jerked back involuntarily. The second thing he noticed was the smell, a combination of ether and a rich meat stew left to simmer too long, a stew that was ripe with putrefaction and decay. He stepped back urgently and teetered on the steps casting his eyes across the garden and struggling to control the bitter fluid that rapidly filled his mouth. Archie turned and spat over the edge of the steps. Gunner Marley took a pace forward and placed himself carefully down onto the first step. He lowered his head between his knees and drew deeply through his nose. His heart was beating ninety to the dozen.

Inside the hallway he had seen countless broken bodies strewn across the floor and perched on every step of the ornate sweeping staircase. He thought of Bill's own mangled body lying beside the barn. He opened his eyes to chase the image away and then thought of Bill's sister Grace; sweet, lovely, graceful Grace.

'You all right chum?' asked a plump orderly. His sleeves were rolled as far as they would go up his reddened arms, and he cast a shadow across Archie.

'Yeah, I suppose,' huffed Archie. He spat again and then asked, 'How'd you stand it in there?'

'What, inside there, you mean?' The orderly smirked.

'Yeah,' said Archie. 'How can you breath?'

'Oh, I do it through my mouth.' He smiled broadly.

'And how can I get to see a doctor?' asked Archie.