Dunkirk Spirit Part 59

'Yes, yes,' nodded the Padre. 'I was just wondering how to start the ball rolling, so to speak.'

'Let's have a hymn then, sir,' said the man. 'How about Immortal, Invisible?'

'Yes, jolly good idea,' he agreed. 'Umm. Where do you suppose we should hold it?'

'On the steps, sir,' declared the man. 'Perfect, really. We'll stand behind you and be the choir, like.'

The Sherwood Foresters had fine voices and they took deep delight in belting out their favourites. The curiosity value was enough to begin drawing the crowds and it was not long before the Padre found himself addressing a vast and seemingly receptive audience. The majority gave their undivided attention, many having dropped to their knees, and it was only the continuing antics of a few Royal Dragoon Guards on motorbikes that caused him to raise his voice louder than he liked. Even the Stukas, for now, had departed the scene and the skies surrounding the tall pillar of black smoke remained largely clear.

Not since the church in Cape Town and the glorious stained gla.s.s had the Padre felt so fully in tune with G.o.d. He now also felt in tune with his fellow man. The last line of Abide With Me died away and he took a deep breath. This, he knew, was his big moment.

'I am reminded,' he said. 'Of the Israelites and their struggle to flee the evil Pharaoh. G.o.d gave Mosses a sign and they saw that G.o.d would lead them to the Promised Land.' The Padre pointed into the sky. He had them eating out of his hand. 'We, too, have been given our sign.' Every face turned upwards to see the black cloud rising above the refinery.

'G.o.d is giving us a message. He is saying that we shall not be forsaken so long as we have faith. If we really want G.o.d's guidance and help in this time of stress and anxiety, if we are to triumph over the evils that threaten us, we must humble ourselves before Him. The power and might of Britain can be of no avail without the help and blessing of Almighty G.o.d.'

'Amen!' called someone in the crowd.

'The sign that we have been given is of Biblical proportions,' he told them. 'It has led us all here and it will lead our rescuers back to carry us away.'

The Reverend Thomas Charlesworth, Army Chaplain 4th Cla.s.s, lifted his arms to the Heavens. 'Remember the lines of Exodus!' He found himself smiling broadly, his heart fit to burst. And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of cloud to lead them along the way, and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, that they might travel by day and by night.

'Praise the Lord!' called another voice from the crowd. 'But closed all day Sunday! Ha, ha.'

12.45 Sunday 2 June 1940.

Snowdown Station, Southern Railways, Kent Mrs Roberts, the ostensible leader of the local WVS, was making a rare appearance on the platform. 'Where is everybody?' she asked Margaret. For the past week, she had kept herself to herself inside the ladies' waiting room, having, it was said, more funny turns than Tommy Handley. She twisted a fresh tea towel in her hands. 'You don't think it's all over, do you?'

Margaret narrowed her eyes.

'For all we know, the next train may be full of Germans!' Mrs Roberts lifted the tea towel and pressed it to her lips.

Margaret took a deep breath. It was true that the station had fallen unnaturally quiet since the last of the children had been sent on their way. Many of the local women had then wandered off with their jars of lemonade and home-made wares to the larger towns, leaving Snowdown feeling forlorn and forgotten. Even the stationmaster was at a loss to explain the lull. In the past hour, only one unscheduled train had pa.s.sed through. The men who stopped briefly for tea and cakes were not the orderly and exhausted troops of the past two days but several dozen jittery cases en-route to Canterbury. Margaret and her helpers had found it difficult to prevent the patients, many in dressing gowns, from leaving the train and wandering around the platform and car park.

'And the noise!' Mrs Roberts' voice was m.u.f.fled behind the tea towel. She raised her wide eyes heavenwards, indicating the rumble of fire. 'It's louder than ever!'

'I would imagine,' said Margaret. 'That the RAF are bombing the Germans. If you remember the last war, one could hear the big barrages as clear as day.'

'Don't you sense something in the air?' asked Mrs Roberts, now composing herself. 'Something...' She struggled for the right word. 'Something tangible?'

'Perhaps there will be a storm,' began Margaret.

Mrs Roberts chewed her lip. 'Not that kind of storm.'

'You know what they say,' said Margaret. 'One sunny day and a thunderstorm makes an English summer.'

Mrs Roberts gave Margaret a quizzical look. 'Can't you see what's happening, Mrs Carmichael?' she asked. 'It's as clear as the nose on your face.'

Margaret felt a mixture of confusion and irritation.

'We are going to stay with my husband's sister in Crew,' explained Mrs Roberts.

Margaret was taken aback. Despite the sun, she went cold. She felt the acid in her stomach. For days now, a curious sensation had been growing within her, largely unnoticed in the mad rush of it all. The emotion had reached a peak earlier that morning with the evacuation of the children. Now she was left feeling flat and tearful. She had rarely felt so alone.

'Oh, really?' she asked. Her mind wandered and she found herself wondering what Dennis would have recommended. Stay here and stick it out, Margy. No blasted Hun is going to push us around, hey?

'Just until things settle down a bit,' continued Mrs Roberts. 'My husband is convinced it will all be over by Christmas.'

'Didn't they say that last time?' asked Margaret. She had spent three Christmases alone, knitting winter warmers and packing blackberry and apple jam in parcels. She wanted to cry. Margaret Carmichael opened her mouth but could think of nothing else to say. She swallowed heavily and turned away.

'I simply cannot understand a word they are saying!' Mrs Arnold was indignant. 'I studied French at school as a girl but it's no help now, I'm afraid.'

Margaret shook her head.

'I just wish they would not keep asking so many questions,' continued Mrs Arnold. 'What is it, do you think, that they want?'

Snowdown's doldrums had ended with the unheralded arrival of two busloads of middle-aged French reservists. They made a rapid beeline for the trestle table and quickly tucked in. Now they were sated and many felt the desire to know what would happen next. They bombarded the women of the WVS with rapid, unintelligible questions.

'Isn't that one of those mental cases from earlier?' asked Mrs Arnold, not caring that she was pointing.

Margaret looked along the platform to where a middle-aged man in a dressing gown was engaged in deep conversation with a growing knot of French soldiers. 'He must have slipped through the net.'

'He seems to be speaking French,' nodded Margaret. She looked at the man. The French were laughing at one of his jokes. She decided to walk over.

'Excuse me,' she asked, smiling. 'Shouldn't you be on your way to Canterbury now?'

'C-C-Canterbury? No, I d-d-don't think so!'

'Were you not on that last train?' she asked.

'Oh,' the Major drew out the word as if groaning. 'Yes, I s-s-suppose I was. Just couldn't s-s-stand it in there. Half those chaps were doolally.'

Margaret smiled. 'Doolally? That's an Indian word, isn't it?'

'M-m-means they're off their r-r-rockers!' The Major laughed.

'Yes, I know.'

'I'm afraid it's all been a bit too much for some c-c-chaps.' The Major continued to laugh.

'And you speak French?' asked Margaret. 'What were you talking about?'

'Well, they want to k-k-know what's h-h-happening. Only n-n-natural. They also want to write letters home but I told 'em it w-w-wasn't such a good idea.'

'Really?' asked Margaret. 'I would have though it would be a jolly good idea. They could put their families' minds at rest with just a few lines.'

The Major shook his head. 'How d-d-do we know the blasted Huns aren't sleeping in these f-f-fellow's beds already, hey?' He huffed. 'If they were to write home, it could lead to r-r-reprisals, especially if the Gestapo think these fellows are f-f-fighting on.'

Margaret began to feel deeply uncomfortable. 'Well, surely they will all be fighting on? You don't mean France is giving up too, do you?'

The Major huffed again. 'Not for me to say, is it?' He turned his head. 'These p-p-poor blighters all want to g-g-go home. They are scared stiff of exile here what with the n.a.z.is ravaging their womenfolk and livestock.' He stopped and appraised Margaret. 'That's a very lovely b-b-brooch,' he told her.

Margaret looked down to the cameo pinned to her breast and tried to smile. 'My husband gave that to me before he went off to war,' she told him.

'W-w-which war?'

'The war to end all wars.' Margaret gave a sad laugh.

'And did he not come back?'

'Yes, yes,' she told him. 'He did. But the experience changed him.'

'War c-c-changes a man.'

'Has it changed you?' she asked.

'Good Heavens! No! It's been my way of life so long, I wouldn't know any other.' The Major began to look for his handkerchief. He found the golliwog and quickly thrust it back into the pocket.

'Why are you wearing a dressing gown?'

'Oh, g-g-good q-q-question. They took my uniform away to be c-c-cleaned, although I must admit it had got awfully t-t-tatty and a b-b-bit b-b-baggy.' He patted his belly. 'I seem to have lost quite a l-l-lot of weight. Not a b-b-bad thing, as it happens.'

Now Margaret appraised the Major. 'Do you know?' she said. 'I may just have some clothes that will fit you.'

14:00 Sunday 2 June 1940.

Malo Beach, France The Reverend Thomas Charlesworth had every reason to continue feeling troubled. So desperately had he wanted to be alone that he was soon drawn to the vast line of bodies lain out in the shadow of the promenade. If G.o.d had a purpose for him, then He was being even more mysterious than usual.

If only he had been blessed with the common touch, then he might have rescued the Devine Service from the hecklers and not watched it degenerate into vaudeville. His big build-up had been ruined. Only the Sherwood Foresters had saved the day by launching into the ever popular Jerusalem, while he had been left speechless. The sight of so many Allied dead only added to the heavy cloak of depression that now weighed his shoulders down. He side-stepped along the line of bodies.

'Now that is very strange,' said the Padre quietly to himself. There was something so very familiar about the slippers protruding from a blanket. Had he not himself owned a pair with green and blue squares on a black background with red and white piping? He did not think so. He pulled his hands together in prayer.

I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

The words had pa.s.sed his lips so often that his mind was now free to travel. It therefore took him a moment or two before the m.u.f.fled voice registered.

'I say, you haven't got a light have you?'

The Padre felt his heart miss a beat.

'I'm not dead yet,' said the voice. 'And if you don't have a light, do you at least have something to drink?'

The Padre pulled back the blanket.

'Oh, my G.o.d! It's you again,' sighed Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox. 'You're like the proverbial bad penny.' He struggled to keep his sunken eyes open. 'Are you following me?' he asked.

'Oh, my goodness!' exclaimed the Padre, putting a hand to his mouth. His heart beat ninety to the dozen. 'You're not dead! But you look awful! Why are you here? What happened?'

Sandy tried to laugh. 'I put it down the war. A lot of accidents seem to happen.'

'You have noticed that, too, have you?' asked the Padre. He smiled down at the young Coldstream Guards officer and the depression suddenly lifted away. 'I shall go and find you something to drink. Wait here.'

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

'You don't think it tastes of petrol a bit?' asked the Padre.

'Hadn't noticed.' Sandy sipped gratefully at the dark sweet tea. He coughed a little and the Padre held the mug still. 'Christ! I needed that! Oh, I'm sorry, Padre.'

'For what?'

'For taking the Lord's name in vain.'

'But you didn't. You thanked both Christ and the Lord.'

'I want to thank you.'

A lump rose into the Padre's throat and he felt suddenly awkward. 'It's a small world, isn't it?'

'I wish it were even smaller,' groaned Sandy. 'Then it wouldn't be so far to home.'

The Padre just smiled.

'Do you believe what you were saying just then?' asked Sandy.

'How do you mean?'

'About believing in G.o.d and never dying.'

'Oh, yes. Totally.'

'But I've always been led to believe in Him and I'm going to die.'

'No you're not.'

'The captain beside me, he probably believed in G.o.d and he's dead.'

'Physically he may be. But there is life after death, you know, the ever-lasting life.'

'But I don't want to leave this one yet.' The lieutenant's eyes shone a startling white. 'It makes me feel b.l.o.o.d.y angry, frankly. I don't feel that I've achieved anything at all.'

'Well, I won't let you die.' The Padre nodded decisively. 'I am going to look after you,' he declared. 'And the first thing we have to do is find you a doctor.'

'I really do need to be in hospital,' agreed Sandy. 'I keep fading in and out, like a cheap wireless. No energy.'

The Padre hesitated. 'The trouble is, I simply do not know what's for the best.' He held out the mug and Sandy sipped again. 'Do I try and find a doctor or do I take you to one?'

'I was in a queue,' said Sandy. 'I shouldn't want to lose my place.'

The Padre looked along the line of dead and swallowed heavily. 'I just wish there was some clear instruction. They say the Navy's coming back tonight but n.o.body here seems to believe it.'