Dunkirk Spirit Part 37

Another fifty men moved off and Archie's group shuffled forward. They waited now at the edge of a small iron bridge. They waited at a crouch. The sh.e.l.ls had moved closer. One had landed in the sea a few hundred yards away beside a fortified bunker and the falling water had soaked every man in Archie's group. Now the sh.e.l.ls were playing havoc behind a small artificial hill and the earth was trembling beneath their feet. Archie looked up the line and then turned and looked back. Thousands of men knelt beside the ca.n.a.l.

'Right! Next lot!' screamed another naval officer, motioning with his arm like a fast bowler.

Archie pulled himself to his feet and held Toto tight to his chest.

'Not long now, Toto,' he whispered. And then he was running at a crouch. His boots skidded on the wet iron around the edge of the bridge but he recovered and raced on, his head down, his shoulders hunched forward. The Mole curved at first and then appeared to run on forever. The sea was a dark slate grey beneath the smoke-filled skies.

As he ran on he noticed the masts and funnels of s.h.i.+ps protruding out of the water. A rusty and dented steamer lay moored against the seaward side of the Mole. Behind her, Archie could make out a larger vessel. Small boats had tied up on the other side. In some cases they stretched out seven or eight abreast, with those nearest the Mole lowest in the water.

The men around him bunched up and slowed to a halt. Archie shuffled forward until he reached the gaping hole in the middle of the Mole. Four small and wobbly planks had been placed across the gap and the cold sea could be seen slos.h.i.+ng against the supports way below. Archie gulped. He felt hands pus.h.i.+ng him in the back. He shuffled forward unsteadily. Then his turn came. A naval rating stood on the other side holding his outstretched hand towards him.

'Come on! We ain't got all bleedin' day!'

Archie felt another hand push him hard from behind and it upset his balance just as he made his mind up to step out onto the planks. Then his foot slipped. He toppled forward and landed with a thump and the splintering of timbers, square along the length of the plank. The rating gabbed Archie under the arm and tugged viciously, drawing him across the bridge. Archie could not stand up at first so he crawled over to one side and peered into the bag. Toto's wet nose brushed against his hand. He then felt the tongue rasp against his fingers.

'Close call that time,' Archie told him, letting him lick his hand for comfort. He looked up and watched the men leap and bound across the rickety planks. They charged on up the Mole. Archie rose to his feet and joined them. By the time he reached the steamer she had already slipped her moorings and was edging slowly out past the wrecks. Next was an ancient liner of the cross Channel sort. The men bunched up again as they reached her sides. Yet more planks were stretched out from the Mole down onto the deck below. The tide was now at its lowest ebb and it was a serious drop down to the s.h.i.+p. Archie hesitated again. He stepped back and allowed other men to stagger across and slide down onto the deck.

A rating stood beside the gangplank directing men aboard. He grabbed Archie by the shoulder and squeezed hard on his wound. Archie saw stars. His knees began to give way. The rating grabbed hold of his other shoulder and thrust him forward. Archie's feet fell away from beneath him and he slid down onto the deck. Then another rating tugged at him, pulling him to his feet and propelling him down the companionway. He tried to catch a look at Toto and now held the bag high at the top of his chest. He could feel Toto's warm body inside. Another bunch of men and this time he felt himself being swept along on the tide as they pulled their way inside the s.h.i.+p and clattered down the iron steps into the darkness.

Eventually, Archie found himself amongst a press of men in a small cabin. He lifted the bag higher so Toto would not be crushed and whispered: 'Safe and sound now, Toto.'

Every face in the room registered the sudden change in air pressure. The s.h.i.+p appeared to lift up out of the water and come cras.h.i.+ng down again. The men in the cabin all looked at one another, their eyes darting from side to side.

'Was that us?' asked one.

'Dunno,' answered another.

'Well, do you think we should stay here, or what?'

'Dunno.'

There came another explosion and this time the s.h.i.+p only rose a few feet before settling back down. Again the men cast anxious looks at one another.

'I'll just go and see what's up,' called out a chap near the door.

A strange silence settled over the s.h.i.+p and then the sound of a large thump.

'I think we're off,' said a tall officer wearing a monocle.

The liner groaned deep from within and appeared to move. She began to heel gently to one side. Everybody waited for her to righten and begin pulling away from the Mole, but she continued to heel over.

'Oh, s.h.i.+t!' exclaimed Archie Marley.

11:50 Friday 31 May 1940.

Off La Panne, Belgium A lot of consciences were being wrestled aboard Phoebe.

'What do you mean, he was only sixteen?'

'Well, I can't make it any plainer, can I?' asked Charlie. 'He was sixteen and he was going to be seventeen, apparently.'

'And that makes it better does it?' asked Sub-Lieutenant Burnell.

'No...'

'Well, how did he get to sign up? Did you have anything to do with it?'

Charlie removed his gla.s.ses and began rubbing the lenses with his fingers. He appeared to hesitate. 'I may have somehow given the impression that he was a tad older...'

'Oh, really?'

'Come on!' said Charlie. 'There's been underaged blokes in every army since the dawn of time.'

'Is this some kind of excuse?' asked Burnell.

'It was the same in the last war,' continued Charlie. 'We had three chaps in our company that should've been in school. One was just fourteen, poor little blighter. As soon as he saw the state of the trenches he wanted to go home to his mum. But, obviously, they wouldn't let him.'

'So what happened?'

'He drowned in the mud that same week.'

'Well, thanks for sharing that with me,' said Burnell. 'That really has put my mind at rest.'

Charlie nodded and looked back out to sea. Phoebe continued to creep towards the distant sh.o.r.e, trying as best she could to retrace her steps. In the last two hours she had retrieved five Frenchmen from the water, and this had added another twist to Tom's already wracked conscience. He knelt in the bows, calling Ted's name every few seconds and alternately sucking through his runny nose. The Frenchmen had been glad to clamber back aboard Phoebe, having been sent flying with Tom's erratic steering. They were now down in the galley and preparing breakfast for everybody aboard. Knowing all this, and believing that he might also have sent Ted flying, made Tom hurt deep inside. He also knew, although he was refusing to think it, that the zigzagged driving had saved the rest of the five hundred or so men aboard. But Tom's mind was not as clear as it might have been. And it was on this point that Charlie's conscience was a tad wracked.

When Phoebe had taken on supplies at Gravesend she had also taken onboard one quart of medicinal brandy and this Charlie had been administering to Tom for the last two hours. He had also been self-medicating.

'So what do we do with him?' asked Charlie, his face flus.h.i.+ng.

'Tom?' asked Burnell.

Charlie nodded and adjusted his gla.s.ses.

'We pack him off with the next load.'

'Suppose he won't go.'

'Course he'll d.a.m.n well go!' Burnell turned to look at Charlie. The knitted brows and the livid burn gave him a menacing air, and Charlie felt himself take an involuntary step back. 'I'm not having two dead juveniles on my b.l.o.o.d.y hands.'

'He's old enough to get married,' put in Charlie in defence.

'But not to vote, or drink in a pub, or put five bob on a horse.'

'Even so,' said Charlie. 'We should give him the choice. He might even want to stay now and see this through. Besides, he won't be in any hurry to get home, not with all the explaining he'll 'ave to do.'

The smell of fried food, the long-awaited breakfast, came wafting up from the galley, making the two men's stomach's rumble.

'Actually,' countered Burnell, briefly distracted. 'I was going to suggest that you took him back home...and that you broke the news to Ted's parents.'

'What?' exclaimed Charlie. 'Not me! Not bloomin' likely!'

'The poor sods!' said Burnell with barely a whisper.

The Stukas had found fresh prey about half a mile distant. Two black machines, like evil pre-historic birds, were swooping down on a small coastal tug, a beautiful coal-fired vessel from the turn of the century; and, enc.u.mbered by three dumb barges, she was proving an easy target.

'Give us a look,' said Charlie, untangling the binoculars from around Burnell's neck. He adjusted the focus to suit his tired eyes and p.r.o.nounced, 'Thames lighters! I musta spent more time on them than I 'ave on dry land.' He dropped the gla.s.ses, letting them hang around his own neck, and turned back to the sub-lieutenant. 'Now that's just the job for loading troops off these beaches.'

'Yes, I dare say the Luftwaffe are having exactly the same thoughts,' said Burnell, wincing as he followed the course of the next black bomb. The last Stuka in the staffel was pulling back into a steep climb and the bomb was falling, as if flicked from a slingshot, down towards the tug. It landed on the prow and erupted like a volcano, sending s.h.i.+p's timbers and body parts high into the air in a tumbling cloud of grey smoke. Both Burnell and Charlie watched the debris fall slowly back down, causing the sea to erupt across a two hundred yard radius.

Phoebe turned and charged towards the scene. Charlie gripped the wheel tight in one hand, heeling her over. His eyes were torn between the sinking tug and the busy sky above. His other hand rested on the throttle, the smooth wooden k.n.o.b nestled comfortably in the palm. He eased back, allowing Phoebe to glide alongside the outer barge. The tug was nose down. Men, three at most, were splas.h.i.+ng in the water, feverish b.r.e.a.s.t.strokes and fixed white eyes, making their way towards the cruiser. Charlie gave a gentle nudge back on the throttle and Phoebe came to a dead stop in the water. Two Frenchmen, not engrossed in breakfast, hung off Phoebe's starboard rail, preparing to help pull the men from the water as they themselves had been pulled just hours before.

Charlie kept his eyes on the tug. She was going down and she would sink very soon. His eyes followed the course of her thick stern cable that connected to the three barges in tow. It would need to slipped in the next minute or two or else, with the weight of the tug below, it would draw the tarred rope so taut no hacksaw could ever cut through.

Charlie nudged Burnell in the side. 'You take over a mo',' he called, turning quickly and dropping down to the deck. Burnell watched perplexed as Charlie lifted his legs over the rail and stood poised ready to jump. He judged his moment with the swell and landed down on the tug's aft deck, already a foot or so beneath the waves. He moved with incredibly hast to the bollard that held the cable fast. One foot on the stern rail and a mighty heave, and the distance from the nearest barge lessened. Charlie slipped off the cable, tossing it into the water, and climbed onto the rail. He waited for the next rise and then leapt across, landing like a practiced acrobat on the slender deck of the outer barge. He turned around and waved frantically back at Phoebe, as if to say 'b.u.g.g.e.r off, and don't hang about'.

Burnell looked away from Charlie. More sinister black creatures were circling above. His hand moved automatically to the throttle. He turned and looked back at Charlie. He was now jumping from the first barge onto the next, slipping the cables from each and allowing them to drift away on their own and so present less of a target. Burnell closed his fingers around the wooden k.n.o.b, getting its feel and easing it upward. A vibration ran the length of the cruiser. Phoebe was argumentative and flighty and, with so much power from her Th.o.r.n.ycroft engine, she would be difficult to handle even in a mild swell. Burnell looked back at Charlie. 'Go, go, go,' he seemed to be shouting. Burnell winced again. He had never scored well in small boat handling. He tightened his grip on the throttle, and then felt a nudge in his side.

'Come on, budge over, sir,' said Tom. 'You do your job, I'll do mine. We'll come back for him.'

11:59 Friday 31 May 1940.

Snowdown Station, Southern Railways, Kent You have been listening to the second in our series of Questions of Empire. That was The Indian Peasant and the District Officer by Sir Edward Blunt, K.C.I.E. We now have a sequence of music programmes. At one-fifteen we go over to Colston Hall in Bristol for the Lunch Hour Concert and before that, at twelve-thirty, more Harp Quintets from All Saint's Parish Hall. But first, thirty minutes of bra.s.s band favourites from the Glasgow Corporation Gas Department Band.

Margaret wondered whose bright idea it was to connect the wireless to the station's Tannoy system. The bra.s.s band gave the platform an incongruous carnival atmosphere, at odds with the electric tension of the crowd. The harp quintets might even tip everyone into a depressing spiral. This would never do. She picked her way through the mult.i.tude, seeking out the stationmaster.

Margaret could not decide if it were a good thing that so many people had turned up. She pushed her way around the trestle table. It was good that there was now no shortage of refreshments, cakes, sandwiches, or scones. But everybody was getting in everybody else's way, and on each other's nerves. There was no order any more. The station's small car park had earlier filled with people, making it difficult for the buses to unload their wounded. Now, thanks largely to the a.s.sistance of the local Boy Scouts, a path had been cleared and the spectators ushered behind the white fence that ran the length of the platform.

There were few men in the crowds but many women, often with young children. As each troop train pulled in, they would call out their free wares from behind the fence. Now they waited and chatted, with baskets on the ground by their feet, while their children played tag up and down the station approach. There were numerous hampers with bottles of fizzy drinks or big jugs of homemade cordials. Many had the foresight to bring jam jars. These stood in neat rows, regularly s.p.a.ced along the downtrodden and littered gra.s.s, glowing yellow for lemonade and orange for squash. When the troops did arrive, few in the crowd waved or cheered. There was no bunting to festoon the station. They simply held up jam jars and plates of sandwiches and looked anxiously at the faces of the men, willing and hoping.

Mrs Hannaford, who worked part-time at the Post Office, had with some foresight, collected together all of the unsold postcards. These had been supplemented with telegram forms and packing labels, and handed out to the troops. With pencils and borrowed pens they scribbled names, addresses and the brief words, "I'm safe!" There was no question that the GPO would deliver them all, and free of charge.

Margaret continued to push her way politely through the crowd. With his s.h.i.+ny black helmet towering above most of the heads, she noticed the special constable of the village, an elderly police clerk called out of retirement and into uniform for the first time in his life. He was a little deaf and not one of the brightest.

'Constable Goodman!' she called, waving to attract his attention. She continued to push her way through. She tugged at his sleeve and gave him a knowing look. He winced inwardly. Another tug on the sleeve and she succeeded in steering him out into the car park. 'Constable,' she announced in a measured tone. 'You really must try and keep people off the platform who have no right to be there. It is making our job extremely difficult.'

Constable Goodman stood braced. 'I'll see what I can do, madam.' He looked across the crowd, willing a disturbance that required his intervention. There seemed little chance. He turned back and looked at Margaret. 'But there's only me here at present and I can't be everywhere at once.'

Margaret looked furtively around and then reached up on her toes to whisper into the policeman's ear. 'Did you have a chance to look into that other matter?' she asked.

'Other matter?' he thought aloud for a second or two. 'Yes, why of course.' His voice boomed out. 'You did well to report it. Anything, or anyone suspicious, you just give us another call.'

It was Margaret's turn to wince. This was supposed to be a confidential matter and not something to compete with a bra.s.s band. She stepped back and looked again around the crowd. 'Perhaps,' she said, resuming her earlier tone. 'You could let me know if there is an outcome.'

Margaret turned hurriedly away. She knew most of the women by sight and many by name. She even knew whose children belonged to whom and what the husbands did for a living. There were other women who Margaret did not know. They had travelled from surrounding villages and towns. And all had a vested interest in the safe return of the British Expeditionary Force. Aylesham alone had provided the equivalent of a full platoon. She pushed her way back through the station to the platform and stood uncertain for a moment. There was now so much food and so many willing helpers that little remained for her to do. She turned and strolled beside the fence, nodding to acquaintances here and there and catching the flow of talk.

Margaret nodded to Mrs Davis whose son had already made it back safely. She stood beside Mrs Somerville from the Co-Op, who had also received good news. Margaret had watched them meet in the car park. She felt relieved as she saw their eyes sparkle as they told of the letters they had received. She had watched their heads draw closer as they read their messages of relief aloud. But it had also made Margaret's heart ache to think of the other mothers who would soon be getting other letters and telegrams; then the brightness of their eyes would dim and never s.h.i.+ne so brightly again.

When the crowds of women had arrived, they all asked much the same questions, wanting to know of husbands and sons, brothers and cousins, nephews and uncles, and whether they had arrived back in England yet. Margaret had heard of letters received and of still more so anxiously waited for. She wondered how many soldiers were still in France and how many would be left behind.

She recognised another face in the crowd and stepped up to say h.e.l.lo. Mrs Winters gave her a brief nod back and continued with her story.

'So, my friend Beryl,' she explained. 'Her husband's just got back and he's in hospital in north London of all places. He hasn't got any wounds, apparently, but he's lying flat on his back in bed just the same. Beryl said the look in his eyes was absolutely dreadful.'

'Really?' asked Margaret.

'He didn't even speak to her,' continued Mrs Winters. Her own husband, a farm labourer and odd job man, was a corporal in the local Territorial force. 'Not once!' she exclaimed. 'He just lay there, staring up at the ceiling.'

'Well,' said the other woman from nearby Adisham. Her husband scratched a living breeding chickens and growing vegetables year round. 'There's a young chap that lives across the lane from us. Lives with his mother. Very nice chap, very quite. And he got back from Flanders on Tuesday and his nerves had all gone to pieces. He wouldn't even take his tin helmet off.'

'I'm afraid a lot of them will be like that,' said Mrs Winters. 'They won't be able to stand up to that sort of thing again.'

'They're not the same when they come home, are they?' insisted the woman from Adisham. 'I don't know how long they'll be able to survive a proper war.'

Margaret had had enough. She cleared her throat. She knew all about sh.e.l.l shock. Her own Dennis had returned from the trenches with a terrible stutter.

'There were many such cases in the last war. It's the modern world,' she explained. 'Everything is industrialised, even war now. It takes a very special kind of man to survive that.'

'They can't!' spat Mrs Winters.

'Yes they can!' insisted Margaret. 'And I will tell you this.' She looked at them each in turn. 'For every case of shattered nerves, there are other men extraordinary men - who can take it, men who will take anything you can throw at them.'

'Well, let's ruddy hope so,' said Mrs Winters. 'I wouldn't want to rely on the likes of Beryl's old man.' She looked now at Margaret. 'Frankly, I just wonder where all this is going to end.'

'How on Earth can you have any doubt?' Margaret's face flushed and she felt her hackles rise.

'Five minutes everyone!' called the stationmaster, his cheeks glowing red. 'The train has just left Shepherd's Well.'

'Ah!' said Margaret. 'Excuse me, won't you?'

12:25 Friday 31 May 1940.

Above the Goodwin Sands, English Channel Ginger had a particular att.i.tude towards death. He had not lived long enough to fully appreciate life's value. Clouston, with his earthy Canadian views on mortality, had helped shape Ginger's current perspective. To be told to think that you are already dead, and that everything else is a bonus, is a sobering thought.

'You have one task, eh. You were born for this moment. You are going out there and you are going to shoot down as many Germans as you can.' Clouston had been very clear on this point. 'If you die in the process, it don't matter a jot.'

He had stared hard into Ginger's eyes. 'How many have you shot down, eh?' he asked, knowing full well. Ginger thought about it now. First, there had been that Henschel spotter plane and then certainly one Stuka; potentially four men killed. At the time of Clouston's questioning, there had been just the Henschel, a pilot and rear-gunner.

'So you are already ahead of the game. You have justified all the time, training and cash that the British tax payer has invested in you. Correct?'

Ginger had nodded and sipped at his tea. 'If you die tomorrow you have justified your own existence and provided value for money for the Exchequer. What's your problem?'

'Why should I have a problem?' asked Ginger, studying his nicotine-stained fingers. He wondered if his mum would feel the same. That conversation was as long ago as four days. Now, as Acting Flying Officer Wood and Red Section Leader, he looked down from ten thousand feet at the sea below. That, too, was sobering. Many years ago he had seen a pictorial spread of the Cowes Yacht Race. The photographs had been taken from the air. To gain such a perspective on the world had been one of the spurs in Ginger's flying career. He looked down again and marvelled.

They did not tell Ginger or his RAF colleagues very much. He had flown over the beaches and approaches and a little way in land, and he had seen the disaster of the BEF unfolding. He did not need to be told much more. Even so, he could not stop himself wondering about all the many hundreds, or possibly thousands, of small boats that cut trails across the blue sea below.

Ginger stared across at his wingmen. They, too, seemed to be marvelling at all the boats below. Their own squadron had been joined on this medium alt.i.tude anti-bomber sweep by high-flying Spitfires from Hornchurch and a squadron of Defiants out of Duxford. Ginger completed another search of the sky and looked back down at the boats. From ten thousand feet there was not a lot to see. It was as if a series of combs were being dragged across the water.

He began to search the sky again. They were drawing closer to the coast, aiming for a point off La Panne, when somebody up ahead noticed the black clouds of AA.