Dunkirk Spirit Part 60

'What do you believe?' asked Sandy.

'Actually, I have been telling everyone to have faith; that our rescuers will return tonight.' The Padre's face was pained. 'But there's still the question of the Germans. They might be here any minute.'

'So what do you suggest?' asked Sandy. 'I really would like someone to take a look at me. I don't feel at all right.'

'Well, I have asked around and I am told that there is a casualty clearing station quite near here. Would you like me to take you there?'

Sandy nodded. 'Okay,' he agreed. 'Especially if you don't think anyone's coming back for us.'

'Well, I did not quite say that!' said the Padre. He placed a hand on the lieutenant's forehead. He was out cold.

15:10 Sunday 2 June 1940.

HM Dockyard, Dover, Kent Knock, knock.

'Who's there?'

'It's me, sir.'

'Come in, Gordon.' The Skipper raised himself up on his bunk and rubbed his eyes. 'What time is it?' he asked.

'Just gone fifteen hundred, sir. I thought you might like a cup of coffee.'

'Oh, good man,' sighed the Skipper. He flopped back heavily on the bed. 'Why did you let me sleep so long?' he asked.

'Thought you might need it, sir. Everything's under control.'

'Tell me'

'Well,' said Gordon. 'We have been doing what maintenance we can on the engines but they are screaming out for a proper service. The tanks have all been topped off and we are back to a full compliment of stores and ordnance.'

'And the men?'

'Morale is high, sir. But they are all as knackered as the s.h.i.+p. Everyone's now had their first hot meal in days. I've set a harbour watch, and everyone else is sleeping.'

'Fine.' The Skipper lent across to his locker and picked up the coffee. 'I was thinking, Number One. Now this is all over, we should give a party for the crew. Nothing too stiff, except the drinks, ha, ha!'

'I think that would be an excellent idea, sir.' Gordon smiled. 'When shall we hold it?'

'Tomorrow night, I think. Best to wait until we've been officially stood down.' He sipped the hot coffee. 'But after Admiral Ramsay's call yesterday for one last effort, I can't see us going back.'

'Actually, sir,' said Gordon. 'This just arrived.' He held out a sealed buff envelope.

'You read it will you, Number One.' The Skipper swung his legs off the bunk and wiggled his toes. 'Haven't quite got my eyes open yet.'

Gordon tore at the envelope and slipped out a single sheet. 'It's from the Vice-Admiral, Dover, sir.'

The Skipper groaned. 'And what does it say?'

'Brace yourself, sir,' said Gordon, pulling a taut face. It says, The final evacuation is staged for tonight, and the nation looks to the Navy to see this through.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous! Read on.'

'I want every s.h.i.+p to report as soon as possible whether she is fit to meet the call which has been made on our courage and endurance.' Gordon looked at the Skipper. 'Rather puts the kybosh on our party!'

The Skipper stood up and rubbed at his eyes again. 'Not necessarily.'

'What do you want to reply, sir?'

The Skipper next ran his fingers through his hair and creased his brow.

'I think you should give it the Nelson touch, sir,' Gordon told him.

The Skipper smiled. 'Yes, indeed. Signal Ready, Aye, Ready.'

'Very good, sir.'

15:45 Sunday 2 June 1940.

RAF Biggin Hill, Kent There is to be a change to our scheduled programmes tonight. At nine-pm, just before the evening news, the Secretary of State for War, the Right Honourable Anthony Eden, M.P., will be in the studio to give a special talk about the great battle currently raging in Flanders. The talk will also be relayed direct to the United States of America. But now it is time for the Reverend Hugh Martin, the managing Director of the Student Christian Movement Press, with his own talk on the meaning of Sunday in Wartime.

'Give me strength!' thought Ginger. It was not his place to switch off the wireless. He looked again at the clock. The taxi would be here in fifteen minutes to take him to the station. At least Groupie had been kind enough to write on his records that he was being returned to his home squadron as surplus to requirements. It would be hard enough explaining to his Mum the facial injuries. He would put them down to a training accident. He could blame the n.a.z.is for the rest.

He looked at the clock again. The dreary words of the Reverend Martin had a soporific effect. He would be glad to get on his way. He knew his own squadron would drill him for information but at least he was still left with the one official kill, the tiny German spotter plane.

Ginger snapped out of his daze at the sound of the gong. His heart was suddenly beating fast. He stood up and walked quickly towards the window. Through the tape, out on the field, the ground crews were firing up the engines. The squadron had taken several losses that morning. Only a handful of Hurricanes remained. He felt sick. He looked across to the clock. Outside in the corridor he could hear feet running at speed. The gong continued to clatter. Then the door burst open.

'You!' shouted Bonzo. 'Whatever your b.l.o.o.d.y name is. Don't just stand there with your finger up your a.r.s.e. Go grab a Mae West and a chute and get out there!'

'But I'm stood down, sir!'

'Well, I'm standing you up!'

'I've got a broken nose, sir.'

'Then breathe through your b.l.o.o.d.y mouth, man!'

'Yes, sir.'

Bonzo paused in the doorway, sensing history in the making. 'England confides that every man will do his duty!' he declared. 'And that includes you, too, you little sod!'

16:15 Sunday 2 June 1940.

12th Casualty Clearing Station, Chapeau Rouge, Dunkirk 'Back a bit! Back a bit! Hold it there!'

The rear door of the ambulance swung open and Major Newman, the surgeon in charge, peered quickly into the gloom. He stepped back and allowed the orderlies to pull the stretchers from their racks. It was then that he noticed the Padre.

'h.e.l.lo, there!' he called. 'Have you come to lend a hand?'

'Umm,' said the Padre. 'Umm. Yes. I have brought you a patient. He's in a bad way, I am afraid.'

'Let's have a look at him then, shall we?' Major Newman bent down and cast a quick eye over Sandy. 'Yes, that does look a bit unpleasant. Let's try and make him comfortable first. I'll come and take a proper look just as soon as we can get through the badly wounded.'

With that, he nodded to an orderly and Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox was carried up the steps and through the large doors into Chapeau Rouge.

'Well, I'll certainly try, sir. But as you can see, we're all rushed off our feet.'

'If you could just let me have some water then,' suggested the Padre. 'I could try to clean the wound myself.'

The orderly laughed. 'I wish, Padre. We've hardly got any real water. What we have got comes from a pump down in the bas.e.m.e.nt and that's a funny green-black colour.'

'Some Iodine, perhaps?'

'Sorry, Padre.' The orderly shook his head.

'Well, I take my hat off you,' said the Padre. 'I really do not know how you manage.'

'I could tell you, Padre. We're not trained for this, you know. Only a few months ago I was down the pits,' he explained. 'I got just four months training, and that was mostly changing beds and giving out urinals. It don't prepare you for the likes of this.'

'No, I imagine not,' marvelled the Padre. 'Perhaps I could help.'

'Sure. You probably won't do much harm, anyways.'

'What would you like me to do?'

'Well, as you're here, you could do a few Last Rites. I imagine you know the drill by now.' He led the way.

The orderly walked with a practiced step through the tightly packed rows of wounded men. Every so often he stopped to examine a man's label and wounds.

'Here's another one for you, Padre,' he called. The orderly knelt down and pulled a large syringe from his shoulder bag. 'Here you go, chum,' he said tenderly, rolling up the man's sleeve. 'This'll help. And we got a priest for you, too.' He nodded to the Padre, who took a deep breath through his mouth. 'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord...'

The orderly wiped the needle and dropped the syringe back into his bag. He watched the Padre genuflect just as the man slipped peacefully away.

'That really is amazing,' said the Padre. 'That's the sixth man now that I have given the Last Rites to and all of them have pa.s.sed on within minutes. You must have a special gift. And you were only a coal miner, you say?'

'That's right, Padre.' The orderly sounded proud. 'From Birmingham.'

'Well, I do think you should give serious consideration to training as a doctor. There cannot be many Harley Street specialists that could predict death as timely as you.'

'Well, they could, actually, Padre. If they had one of these.' The orderly held up the syringe.

The Padre shook his head. 'I don't follow.'

'I give 'em morphine. Sends them on their way nice and peaceful.'

The Padre clasped a hand to his mouth. His knees were turning to jelly.

'Are you all right, Padre?' asked the orderly. 'Only Major Newman's trying to catch your attention. I think he wants you for something.'

'It's got to come off,' explained Major Newman. 'It's gone a bit nasty. In fact, there's not much left to save in any case.'

'I see,' said the Padre. 'What would you like me to do?'

'Well, that's very decent of you. We could certainly find something. Is he a particular friend of yours?'

The Padre nodded. 'It feels like we have known each other a very long time. I feel,' he hesitated. 'I feel a special responsibility for him. He will be all right, won't he?'

'I have to get that arm off quick. It smells horribly cheesy. You best come with me.'

The operating theatre was in a large room on the ground floor. There was no gla.s.s left in the windows so the frames had been nailed shut, casting the room into a deep gloom. The only light came from a truck headlight running on a long length of wire through the window to a truck parked just outside.

'Perhaps you could hold the light, Padre,' suggested Major Newman. 'That's right, nice and high but step a little closer will you.'

'Shouldn't I scrub up or something?' asked the Padre. The lieutenant was out cold on the table and barely breathing.

'Yes, very funny,' laughed the major. 'Come a bit closer, come on. That's right. Scalpel. '

'Scalpel,' repeated a nurse, slapping the blade onto the open palm.

Major Newman drew a line with the scalpel a few inches above Sandy's elbow. 'Clamp'

'Clamp,' repeated the nurse.

'Saw,' called the major. 'Can you hold that light still?'

The Padre was busy taking deep breaths. The rich smell of ether and fresh flowing blood were proving too much.

'Oh, for Christ's sake!' exclaimed Major Newman. 'Can somebody pick up that d.a.m.n lamp? I can feel blood going everywhere!'

16:45 Sunday 2 June 1940.

Port Admiral's Office, Dover, Kent 'You can go straight in, sir,' said the officer with the strawberry birthmark.

Commander Edward Bishop RN slipped off his cap, tucked it firmly under his arm and knocked.

'Come in! Ah, Teddy, just the man! Once more unto the fray, dear boy, eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Excellent! Excellent!' announced the captain, standing up and beaming brightly. 'You timed that perfectly.' He c.o.c.ked his head. 'Come with me.'

'There doesn't seem to be much happening,' observed the Skipper.

The captain smiled. 'Thought you might say that. But don't be fooled. It's all set to kick off any minute.'

The Skipper stepped up to the chart and examined the midway point on Route X. 'What's that?' he asked.

'Paris!' announced the captain. He noticed the mild confusion on the Skipper's face. 'No, not the French capital, ha, ha! The hospital s.h.i.+p.'