Dunkirk Spirit Part 54

'Sure?' The sergeant held himself in check. He never allowed question sessions in his own platoon. 'It ain't your ruddy place to be sure of anything!' He looked across at Sampson and they both exchanged a glance. 'Leave that to the officers! Your place, my lad, is to keep your head down until all the bits and pieces settle. You will then hear a whistle. At that point, I want to hear you come rus.h.i.+ng out, roaring like a load of b.l.o.o.d.y whirling Dervishes. Mr Mackenzie-Knox will be leading us. It's all very simple.'

The explosion was louder than anything anyone in the Second Battalion had ever heard. The only negative factor was that the Renault had begun to veer off as it chugged across the flooded field on its final fifty yards. The tiny tracked vehicle, appearing to have a mind of its own, turned suddenly to the left, closer to the ca.n.a.l and to the bridgehead than antic.i.p.ated. It even seemed that it might topple into the trench. Lucas stood poised with the plunger clasped in his hands. But then it turned again. It rose up the camber and tilted directly towards the numerous Germans who, moments before, had been strolling along the road as if on peacetime manoeuvres.

Lucas depressed the plunger. There was that unsettling thought that it might not work. Then he knew that it had. In the half-second or so before he ducked down, he saw the little armoured tractor plough into the air, blasting the tall trees aside and raising tons of water and earth. Even with his head below the trench, the shockwave was such that it appeared to loosen all of his earwax. It was almost thirty seconds before Lucas recovered his senses.

Sandy was quicker off the mark. He pressed himself hard against the side of the trench, antic.i.p.ating the blast. When it came, it so took him by surprise that he blew involuntarily on the whistle clasped in his mouth. There was only the briefest hesitation and then the twenty or so Guardsmen sprang out of the trench and tore up to the road.

The first thing they noticed, aside from the odd bits that continued to fall out of the sky, were not dead or contorted Germans but multifarious parts of them. A vast crater steamed at the edge of the road. A brick-red sea of blood covered the glistening cobbles. Even more blood hung suspended in miniscule droplets in the thick air. n.o.body wanted to breathe. The combination of expended Amatol, vaporised water, smoke, dust, stones, flesh and bones produced a fog of its own. For the Guards, there was suddenly nothing left to do.

'Down!' called Sandy. The Guardsmen rolled into cover. And then, within the s.p.a.ce of one minute, the German artillery started anew.

21:04 Sat.u.r.day 1 June 1940.

The Black Horse, Biggin Hill, Kent

About half an hour ago, the Air Ministry announced that aircraft of the Royal Air Force Coastal Command had carried out further successful attacks on the oil storage depots at Rotterdam. Aircraft of Bomber Command also carried out successful attacks on port facilities at Ostend. Other operations were flown in support of the B.E.F. In the area of Dunkirk, itself, British fighter pilots yesterday shot down fifty-six German bombers and fighters. Of these, forty-two were seen to crash into the sea. In the same area today, Fighter Command confirmed that forty enemy aircraft had been destroyed. In addition, a further thirty-three were severely damaged. Thirteen of our pilots are reported missing.

'b.a.l.l.s!'

The publican gave a dismissive shake of his head. 'You don't want to mind him, sir.' He tapped his temple with a stubby finger. 'A touch of sh.e.l.l shock, if you ask me. He got back on Tuesday. And he's a lot calmer now, I can tell you.'

'Should I offer him a drink?' asked Ginger. He shook his own head, dismissing the idea the very instant it left his lips.

'Not today, though, sir. He's been here since opening time.'

Ginger stood upright and took a lengthy sip of his pint. He had drunk so much tea that his mouth had gone furry. Now only beer could help. He listened along in silence to the rest of the news. The latest French communique on the improved situation at Dunkirk caused an explosion of derisory laughter from the soldier in the corner. It was then that he caught the man's eye. Ginger raised his gla.s.s. He could not hear what the man was saying but he could see that he was agitated.

Ginger sipped again and wondered if it were possible for his day to deteriorate further. A couple of older men were trying their best to keep the soldier seated. One cracked a joke but the soldier was refusing to laugh. Ginger lent back against the bar. Churchill and Attlee had returned from Paris.

The meeting gave full proof that the Governments of Britain and France and their peoples are more than ever implacably resolved to pursue their present struggle in the closest possible concord until complete victory is a.s.sured.

'b.a.l.l.s!'

'Same again, sir?'

'Please.' Ginger pushed his gla.s.s across. The news came to an end and the noise level in the saloon bar rose suddenly. He pa.s.sed a few coins across and smiled at the publican. Ginger rarely used this pub. It was rather too gloomy. There were others closer to the aerodrome.

'Pilot, sir?' The publican nodded to the wings above Ginger's breast pocket.

Ginger wanted to sneer but smiled acknowledgement instead.

'Must be nice.'

'What?'

'Flying. Must be nice.'

'Yes. Yes, it is.' Ginger raised his gla.s.s and sipped.

The publican placed both elbows on the counter. He looked quickly to either side before he asked, 'Have you, um..?'

It appeared that he might not complete the sentence. 'Have you, um... Have you been over there, like?'

Ginger allowed a small sideways smile. He tried not to mock. 'Mmmm.'

'The way I see it,' declared the publican, bending upright. 'We've been let down again by our allies.' He nodded his head towards the wireless on the shelf behind. n.o.body was paying any attention to the soft tones of the American Commentary. 'Is it like they say?'

An elderly man nursing a tiny half pint mug edged closer.

'It is,' agreed Ginger. 'And it isn't. But I'm not really supposed to talk shop.'

'They say the English always lose the first battle.' The elderly man was now an inch or two below Ginger's shoulder. He had a single frosted lens in his thick gla.s.ses and he spoke in a rich Kent accent. 'And I do think this has been a good shock for us in some ways.'

'Ain't that the truth,' agreed the publican.

'It will make the government sit up and take notice over our supplies.' The old man made to sip from his mug but pulled himself short. 'And not before time. Mr Churchill's been saying so all along.'

'Yeah,' agreed the publican.

'And it's going to make a lot of people in this country realise we shan't win the war unless we buckle to and look out.'

'Things will have to change,' confirmed the publican. 'There's been too much slacking 'till now.'

'And we shall all have ch.o.r.es.' The old man looked at Ginger and winked his clear eye mysteriously.

'What ch.o.r.es?' asked Ginger.

'Well, that's very kind of you, young sir,' said the old man. 'Mine's a mild, if you please. And, if you could manage a pint, I'd say G.o.d bless yer.'

The publican stretched for a pint mug but stood still behind the bar. 'We've got to admit it's been a terrible blow,' he announced. His lower lip protruded, giving him a boyish sullen air. 'But a lot of people here needed something like that. Don't you agree?' He began to pull the pint.

'They won't talk so easily about beating Hitler now,' put in the old man.

'Right,' agreed the publican. He placed the foaming mug on the bar and raised his eyebrows towards Ginger. 'We used to think that he beat the Polish army quickly, but see what he's done in the West! But you'll see. Our boys will be back again and it'll be a different story next time. Don't you think?'

Ginger would have answered but he was pushed rudely from behind. He turned quickly to see the agitated soldier. Ginger winced at the stale beer fumes. He could also smell cheese on the man's breath.

'So where was you then, eh?' The soldier was swaying slightly from side to side. He was so close that Ginger could see layers of dry skin flaking off his face. 'You upper cla.s.s t.w.a.t!' Spittle hit Ginger's face. 'I know you ruddy lot. Think you're G.o.d's gift!' He turned and looked around the bar.

'Clifford! Give it a rest will yer?' One of the older men placed a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.

'So, where was you then?'

Ginger held up his hands as if in surrender. He tried to smile. He wished somebody would take the man away because he had an awful desire to nut him. 'Biff!' thought Ginger. He imagined the soldier collapsing to the floor, clutching a broken nose and crying for his mum. He turned and looked over his shoulder to the publican for support.

'This gentleman's been there, too, you know.' The publican now held his hands up, exhibiting his stubby fingers in a gesture of peace. 'I'll tell you what,' he announced. 'Have a small one for the road, on the house.' He turned and looked at the older man. 'And you, Lionel, why don't you make sure Clifford gets home all right? We all know what he's been through. I'm sure he's had his fill of fighting.'

'Fighting his way to the front of the queue, more like.' Ginger was not entirely sure why he uttered the words. As a means of silencing the room, it had an immediate effect.

'Come outside and say that!' shouted Clifford.

'Now, now!' The publican had a powerful voice. 'You know very well this chap here's an officer and he can't be fighting with common soldiers.'

The thought had not even occurred to Ginger.

A very large man wearing a grey farm smock stepped out of the shadows. 'Then come outside and say it to me, you toffee-nosed git!'

21:25 Sat.u.r.day 1 June 1940.

Bray Dunes, France Commander Babbington gathered his team around the Bren gun carrier. He waited a while until he had everyone's attention. Most were looking out to sea, watching German parachute flares illuminate the scene offsh.o.r.e. Each flare, burning a startling white that hurt the eyes, took a full fifteen minutes to fall from two thousand feet. There was a sense of relief as each one eventually sizzled into the sea.

Binky gave an involuntary shudder and b.u.t.toned up his mackintosh.

'Gentlemen,' he began. 'We have been given a number of deadlines for the end of this operation but I can tell you that we are now approaching the finale.'

'Halleluiah!' muttered someone from the back.

'My sentiments, too.' The Commander smiled. 'It seems like a lifetime ago but when this operation began I was told we would be lucky to get off as many as forty five thousand. You will be pleased to know that, as of this time yesterday, we have rescued something in the order of two hundred thousand men. And if that isn't a miracle, I don't know what is. There is now only a handful left and our operation here is coming to an end.'

'Halleluiah!' Now several men chorused.

'We are now, as you might say, into extra time. As of this afternoon, the last remaining route out of here, Route X, came under fire of the German guns. You will have noticed that today, in terms of s.h.i.+pping, has been fairly disastrous. And, as such, there will be no more daylight lifts. Therefore, we must pull out all the stops tonight. Lieutenant Dibbens!'

'Sir?'

'I would like to see all your party out of here by oh-two-hundred at the latest.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Mr Hockley.'

'Sir?'

'Select three ratings. We shall hang on 'till oh-seven-hundred and embark via MTB from the Mole.'

'Yes, sir.'

The chief petty officer coughed.

'And Chief,' added Binky. He paused briefly to let the sand settle from an exploding artillery sh.e.l.l. 'If you would be so good as to distribute any remaining supplies, but please leave us enough for breakfast in the morning.'

'Am I invited to breakfast, too, sir?'

'Actually, no. I would like you to escort the lieutenant's party out of here.'

'Yes, sir.' The chief did not hide his disappointment.

'If I am any judge, this is going to be our busiest night yet. And the plan is this.' Binky could barely hear himself think above the incoming artillery. 'Move on as many as you can to the Mole. I want no more than one thousand here at any one time. We're told we can expect a sizable number of French troops. On our side, there's still a scratch force from First Corp to lift off and, of course, the rearguard. French troops will be holding the line in rear of ours. Our rearguard will be pa.s.sing through sometime around midnight. From then on it's all down to the French.'

'And who will be lifting them off, sir?' asked the Padre.

'If there are any plans to lift them off,' sighed the commander. 'They have not been communicated to me. This beach is being wound down tonight and any subsequent lifts will be from Dunkirk proper. As I said, there have been a number of deadlines already. I'm not saying this is the final night but, with the French holding the line, don't be surprised if the curtain comes down anytime.'

23:15 Sat.u.r.day 1 June 1940.

Bergues-Hondschoote Ca.n.a.l, France 'h.e.l.lo, sir! Am I glad to see you?' Sandy's teeth shone white through the grime on his face.

'I told you to keep your fingers crossed, old boy,' whispered Peter. 'And here I am, come to escort you home!' He rolled reluctantly into the trench. It took him a moment for his feet to find the fire step beneath the dark, cold water. 'I have your marching orders. Admittedly, twenty-fours later than envisaged, but better late than never, eh?'

'Actually, I hadn't expected to see you at all,' admitted Sandy.

'Snap!' The adjutant grinned and reached inside his tunic for a flask. 'Did you manage to get my other flask back off Angus, by the way?'

The young lieutenant shook his head.

'Shame,' nodded Peter. 'Family legend has it that my great-great-grandfather took it off a dead cha.s.seur at Waterloo.'

'And now some Prussian can say he got it off a dead Guardsman in Flanders.'

Peter shrugged. 'What goes around comes around, I suppose.' He pa.s.sed the flask to Sandy.

'Finders keepers, and all that.' Sandy took a lengthy swallow.

'But I'll have that one back, thank you very much.' Peter took another sip and dropped the flask into his pocket. 'So,' he suddenly asked. 'How many men can you muster?'

'Just what you see here.' Sandy turned and nodded his head along the trench.

Peter peered into the darkness. 'h.e.l.lo Lucas! Any chance of a cuppa?'

'Only if you brought your own cup, sir. We seem to be running behind on the was.h.i.+ng up.'

'Well, never mind. We can all have a nice cup of tea when we get home.' His eyes strained to pick out seven or eight other figures in the dark. He turned back to Sandy. 'Becky is satisfied that we have fulfilled our commitment so, if this is all you've got, I suggest we imitate Beau Geste and slip away in the night. The Jerries can discover we've gone in the morning.'

'And then what, sir?'

'We fall back through the French lines and then make our way to Dunkirk. But we had better get our skates on if we want to see Knightsbridge again, this side of the next armistice.'

'Then what are we waiting for, sir?'

'Peter! Are you all right?' asked Sandy, suddenly. The adjutant fell to his knees. The two officers had only waded a dozen or so yards from the last section of communication trench.