Dunkirk Spirit Part 8

'How old is your boy?' he asked.

'I know what you think.' The man looked across at his wife and smiled. 'Our Thierry came to us late in life. We had given up all hope. But miracles, they do happen sometimes.'

The woman turned to look into Miller's eyes. Her smile came from thin, strained lips, and then she looked back towards her husband.

'I'm sure he'll be all right.' Miller thought to mention the French troops he had seen along the road, suggesting that their boy might be home soon, but the thought of the despondent poilus only increased the sense of hopelessness. Finally, he looked at his watch and pulled back his chair. He pointed towards his now dry uniform with a smile of resignation.

'Must you leave? Please, you may sleep here if you wish,' the man implored, but Miller shook his head. 'But you can stay as long as you want. Really.'

'Look, thanks,' said Miller. 'But the Germans won't thank you for letting a British soldier live in your house.' He slung the Thomson over his shoulder and walked towards the door.

'Merci. Merci beaucoup,' said Miller as he stood in their tiny garden. A large ginger cat was rubbing itself up against his leg. He forced a smile and then shook the man's paper-like hand. The old woman stepped closer to hug Miller in her thin arms and planted a firm kiss on each cheek. She then thrust a grease-proof package containing bread and cheese into his hands. Wiping back a tear, she turned to walk into the house, but Miller caught her by the elbow. He was unsure why, but he slipped his hand down into the leather pouch until his fingers settled on the cameo broach.

'C'est pour vous, maman.'

The promenade ran along the beach. There was a six-foot drop to the sand below. To either side were dunes. Ahead of this the soft, flat sand ran down to the sea, some two-hundred yards away. There were not just thousands of khaki-clad figures, but many thousands. Miller strained to take in the scene. Down by the surf, a line of men, perhaps eight deep, stretched out into the sea. Miller felt puzzled. Just one very small boat rocked unsteadily at the head of the line. One by one, men clambered slowly aboard. The boat could surely hold no more than thirty men at most. It seemed ridiculous. Out to sea, an elderly wars.h.i.+p ran in zig-zags through the water. Plumes of grey foam rose from the sea some distance from the s.h.i.+p. Miller then became aware of the bombers high above, tossing down tiny black dots at the pitifully few boats off the sh.o.r.e.

Miller laughed to himself. 'How the f.u.c.k do they think they're going to get this lot off ?' He shook his head. Just beneath the promenade, in the shelter of an upturned lorry, a group of men were actually kneeling down and praying. Some were even crying openly.

Miller leaned over the wooden rail of the promenade. 'w.a.n.kers!' he shouted, and carefully aimed a large glob of spit down onto one of the up-turned faces of the congregation below.

13:20 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Bray Dunes, France 'What do you think you're doing?' asked Binky, looking down at the young mids.h.i.+pman. 'Come on. Get up.' He extended a hand. 'You really are going to have to implant this firmly in your head. You must stay on your feet. That way you can keep your eye on them when they come in. It's perfectly safe.'

Commander Babbington stood firm as the second Me110 came charging across the beach at no more than fifty feet. Cannon sh.e.l.ls tore through the sand in a neat row two hundred yards away. The next second, it had gone. 'Now, if you had been lying on the ground, you would be in a state of perpetual fear, wouldn't you? You wouldn't know if it was going to hit you or not. Dive by all means, if you think it's coming your way, but it does get sand on your uniform and it does nothing for your composure.'

He brushed the youngster down. The uniform was soaked by the drizzle and the fine sand proved difficult to budge. Binky gave up and looked out to sea where two Dutch schuitjes were closing to the sh.o.r.e.

'Thank you very much, sir. I'm really sorry but I must admit it does feel like the right thing to do, to hit the deck, sir.'

'Well, at least you are not running around like a madman.' They both watched as the troops along the beach recovered. Some sat with no apparent concern, as they had during the attack, but the vast majority were dusting themselves down and returning to the various huddled ma.s.ses that lined the sh.o.r.e in expectation of rescue.

With just ten men under his command, Binky had been fighting a losing battle all morning to encourage the troops to stay in the relative cover of the dunes. Up until now, it had made little difference. Only a handful of boats were available to take the men out to the two waiting destroyers and Binky was filling them as fast as he could. Now the ragged cl.u.s.ters of men were proving tempting targets for the Luftwaffe.

'Watch those dive-bombers,' said Binky. A Stuka broke away from the encircling pack and swooped down from three thousand feet, aiming at the beached wreck of a French trawler further along the strand. 'Now, obviously, there is no point hitting the deck, as you call it.'

They watched as the Stuka pulled back up from its steep dive and saw the black dot of the bomb fall away. The siren screamed in anger, chilling the blood. The bomb landed in the sea with an almighty splash, close enough to the trawler to cause damage. The second Stuka was already on its downward swoop at a ninety-degree angle, much closer this time to Binky's scattered beach party.

'How about now, sir?' asked the mids.h.i.+pman, his eyes fixed on the aircraft.

'No, wait. See, it's going to fall just over there.' Even Binky clenched his teeth as the black bomb plummeted down and the siren's scream grew louder. 'Wait,' said Binky. The explosion sent a vast conical shower of sand into the air. Hot air and sand blasted across their faces.

'See how the sand absorbs the blast?' said Binky. 'You can really let them fall quiet close before they will do you any harm.'

'How about this one?'

'Yes, that looks a little too close for comfort. I think now would be a good time...' They both buried their faces in the sand before the sentence could be completed. The earth seemed to lift from under them. Through tightly screwed eyes, Binky saw a burst of bright colour and became aware of a searing pain inside his head. Hot sand by the ton came cras.h.i.+ng down. And then there was silence of sorts. A high-pitched tone screeched through Binky's head. He was just aware of the m.u.f.fled sound of the Stukas' sirens and of the jarring of the earth as more bombs continued to fall. He lay still and waited.

Binky pulled himself from the sand, poised on his hands and knees. He spat repeatedly to clear his mouth and then sat himself upright. One man, no more than three feet away, was screaming like a distressed horse, in long braying bursts. Sand, like fine smoke particles, floated through the air. Binky used one hand to steady himself on the sand and turned to look around him. Other men, similarly dazed, were pulling themselves out of the ground. A number more were obviously dead, judging by their contortions. He pinched his nose and blew hard. A startling sound, akin to a whistle, came out of his left ear and suddenly his hearing returned. Binky struggled to his feet and looked for the youngster. He sat upright, no more than two feet away, legs stretched out before him, and vigorously shaking his handkerchief.

'I've got sand in my eyes, sir,' announced the mids.h.i.+pman, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his face. He blew his nose. 'My mum always said the best way to get a piece of grit out of your eye was to blow your nose. Seems funny that, doesn't it, sir? I can't say it's working in this case.' He squinted and allowed the Commander to help him to his feet.

'Well, I've got the general idea now, sir. Thank you,' he said, dabbing at his eyes. 'It's quite exhilarating, really.'

The beach party's senior rating, a tall chief petty officer, made his way towards them. 'All present and correct, sir. No damage to speak of. Not to our lot, anyway.'

'Very good, chief,' said Commander Babbington. He looked at the wounded men scattered around them. The screamer was still hollering his head off. The man sat bolt upright, supporting an arm that ended at the elbow. Others were less fortunate.

'Do what you can for the wounded,' he said. 'Check the quiet ones first. We are going to have to sort out some kind of first aid station here and we are going to need some men to bury this lot.'

'Not our blokes, sir, surely?' asked the chief. 'Shall I get some of the brown jobs to do it?'

'If you can.' Binky gave a wan smile. 'You may have to point a bayonet at them first. I've never seen such rabble. And where are their officers?'

No one bothered to reply. The shock of seeing the British Army in the midst of a rout was a powerfully sobering sight, especially an army that had run into a metaphorical brick wall.

'So, what do we do now, sir?' asked the mids.h.i.+pman.

'Well, to be perfectly frank, I haven't a clue. For all I know, these may be the last boats we will get.' Commander Babbington looked out to sea and then at his watch. He thought for a moment and then plucked a cigarette from the case and gave it a double tap. 'If we do not get a reply to our signals, say in three hours, I will send you back off to Dunkirk for instructions.'

'I could go now, if you like, sir.'

'Hold your horses.' Binky tugged at his arm, and turned to look back out to sea. 'Those schuitjes are coming in here. Go fetch the Aldis lamp.'

The beach party formed a protective screen and Binky wadded reluctantly out into the water. He stopped when the waves reached his knees.

'Ahoy there,' he called. 'If you could drop anchor where you are, we will bring the men out to you. How many can you take?'

'I'd be very happy to oblige, sir, but we've got to unload first.'

'Unload? Unload what?'

'Ammunition. Rather a lot of it!'

Binky had sent three messages via the destroyers off the beach. None had requested ammunition. His pressing need was for more small craft and, when it came to supplies, he had stressed the urgent need for water, not to mention food, if only for the beach party. Ammunition would be an insane liability.

'Well, I don't b.l.o.o.d.y want it,' called Binky. 'Go out away and dump it over the side.'

'I can't dump it, sir.' The young officer looked incredulous. 'We've come all the way from Ramsgate with it and that wasn't easy, what with all the Stukas and other nasties. What are they going to say when I tell them I dumped it all?'

'Well, don't tell them,' suggested Binky. 'I'm not having G.o.d-knows how many tons of ammunition sitting here.'

'You'll have to sign for it first, sir.'

'Young man, just get it out of here and I will gladly sign anything you wish.' Binky turned and wadded back to the beach.

13:45 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

River Sale, Wormhout, France 'Oh, s.h.i.+t!' exclaimed Archie Marley as he scrambled to the top of the bank.

'What?'

'I can't swim. You know I can't b.l.o.o.d.y swim.'

'Look, I'll help you. You can hang on to me. It ain't that far.'

'I'm not doing it. I'm not getting in there.' Archie's heart was beating fast and his breath came in tight bursts.

They stood on the bank of the River Sale, a nondescript little river but a serious obstacle to a non-swimmer. The rain was heavy now. It blurred out the flat countryside and dampened down the sound of fighting.

'Have it your own way.' Bill Griffin sank to the ground and looked away from his friend. Not only was it his fault that his friend could not swim but he had been reminded of it countless times since he had pushed Archie into the Grand Union Ca.n.a.l at the age of six. The image was still clear in his mind fourteen years on. Archie had sunk like a stone, with no apparent effort to help himself. Fortunately, a nearby fisherman had probed with his roach pole and finally lifted little Archie out of the water, dripping like a drowned rat. That, together with the stomach pump at the local hospital, had left an indelible mark on his friend.

'I'm sorry. I really can't,' said Archie again. 'Look, there's some trees up there. Let's get out of this b.l.o.o.d.y rain.'

Bill pulled himself up with the aid of his rifle. They both looked at each other and laughed.

'How many f.a.gs you got left?' asked Bill.

'I still got half a tin.'

'Well, come on then. I'm gagging for one. Let's get under those trees and have a think.' Bill looked at his friend and shook his head in resignation.

'Whose idea was it to join the b.l.o.o.d.y Territorials, anyway?' he asked as they clomped along the sodden bank. Bill's personal preference had been for the Royal Navy but, because of the swimming issue, they had let the idea drop and eventually signed up for the Worcesters.h.i.+re Yeomanry. They had both fallen in love with the battalion's powerful anti-tank guns. It was a crying shame, now push had come to shove, that they had only managed to fire off five rounds before being told to abandon their position. But, then, they had only ever been issued with seven rounds and they had used the last two to spike their two-pounder. It was all a right b.l.o.o.d.y shambles.

The willow that draped across the bank offered a surprising amount of protection from the rain: a cosy wigwam away from the realities of war. Both boys dropped to the ground and Archie delved inside his small pack for the tin of Gold Leaf.

'Got a light?' asked Archie, wiping his fingers and prizing off the lid.

Bill spun the wheel of his lighter and they both sat back, inhaling gratefully.

'I'd kill for a nice cuppa,' exclaimed Archie. He tried for a smoke ring but failed.

'How about a nip?'

'Or a nip,' suggested Archie.

Bill pulled the canteen of rum from his pack.

'It's a bit strong, that stuff,' said Archie. 'It would go great with orange squash.'

'I could dilute it with some rainwater, if you like.'

Archie nodded and Bill leant forward to catch a steady stream as it ran off one of the outer branches.

'Here! Listen!' he said. 'I think we might get a lift if we're lucky.' He nodded in the direction of the road, from where the sound came.

'Have we got any tanks?' asked Archie after a moment's pause. 'I mean, have you seen any British tanks since we've been here?'

'Not many. Why?'

'Because I'm wondering if that's one of ours. s.h.i.+t! Get down. Quick!'

Two grey half-tracks pulled themselves out of the sunken lane that intersected the road beside them. Both boys lay as flat as they could. About forty men, as tall as guardsmen, and wearing spotted camouflage smocks, spread out from the armoured vehicles and took up position at the intersection. One of the men, an officer or an NCO, made a series of quick hand-gestures and four men detached themselves and ran bent double towards the trees. Archie and Bill looked at each other, and then nodded. They pulled themselves slowly to their feet, leaving their rifles on the ground. They raised their hands high above their heads and waited. The Germans appeared momentarily startled as the two British soldiers stood in front of them. They raised their rifles and one of the Germans shouted out a command. He ran forward and immediately slammed the b.u.t.t of his rifle into Bill's stomach. As Archie stepped involuntarily back, the German lashed out with a boot and kicked Archie's feet from under him. Both boys lay in the mud beside the willow.

The German who had knocked them both down shouted back towards the first half-track and it rumbled forward in a cloud of exhaust and a series of brief jerky movements. It seemed for a moment that the Germans were intent on crus.h.i.+ng them both to death. A small man, not dressed in camouflage but in a regular field grey tunic, jumped down from the back and stood above the boys. He pulled an automatic pistol from his belt and indicated that they should stand up. Compared to the other Germans, this man appeared something of a runt. His helmet was too large and his uniform ill fitting. He was considerably older than the rest and his flat nose, obviously broken many years before, together with gaps in his front teeth, gave him a curious feral appearance. He pulled at Bill's collar and dragged him to his feet.

As the Germans gathered around them, both boys noticed the white insignia on their collars and helmets twin lightening strokes of the Waffen-SS. The words Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler were st.i.tched in Gothic script around one man's cuffs. Both boys gulped. They had read the newspapers and knew of the atrocities in Poland. There was a rush as the storm troopers began to strip the boys. Their helmets were knocked off. Hands tore at their webbing and stripped the tunics from their backs. Even their ident.i.ty discs were ripped off. They stood there in just their vests, trousers and boots.

Flatnose spoke. 'What units?' he screamed. 'Where your headquarters?' He slapped Bill across the face with the flat of his hand. 'How many soldiers with you? Where your artillery?'

Bill cracked a wry smile. 'Name, rank and number. That's all you're getting from us, pal,' he said. Then he made to speak again but Flatnose slammed the b.u.t.t of his pistol down onto Bill's nose. It burst like a ripe fruit and his knees buckled from beneath him. Flatnose turned to Archie.

'How many more d.a.m.n British here?' Flecks of spit sprayed into Archie's face and he stepped back. Flatnose lashed out again and the pistol caught Archie a glancing blow on the side of his head. He stumbled back further. No orders were given but the SS went mad en-ma.s.s. Archie stumbled again as a large fist slammed into his right ear. He went down and then the boots lashed out.

'You British b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!' screamed Flatnose. He grabbed a handful of Archie's hair and dragged him to his feet. Another fist slammed into his mouth. He tasted the blood. Flatnose then pushed him hard up against the trunk of the tree. He made a sickening sound and breathed heavily through his nose. A huge quant.i.ty of green snot landed in Archie's face. Flatnose stooped and bent down, pulling a stick grenade from the top of his jackboot. He waved it in Archie's face.

'Yeah. You do that, f.u.c.k-face, and you'll go with me!' Archie shouted back. Bill was still receiving a good kick-in from the other storm troopers. Archie felt his blood boil. He drew his hand across his face to wipe away the phlegm and then screwed both fists into hard tight b.a.l.l.s. He was saved by a sudden commotion.

A 15cwt officer's truck came tearing along the riverside road. The Germans ran back and the truck came to a screaming halt as the second half-track turned into its path. One of the SS stepped forward and marched up to the cab. Inside, Archie could see two men. One, an officer, raised his hands above his head and called out. The German pulled open the door and the officer slid along the seat and tried to step out. With no word of command, there was a sharp burst of automatic fire as the German sprayed his Bergmann sub-machine gun, knocking both men back into their seats. Archie stood horror-stricken. He thought he was going to faint. As he watched, the troopers burst into spontaneous applause. They laughed and clapped as if they had just witnessed a comedy act. The trooper with the Bergmann laughed, too, and called back to his friends. He stepped to the back of the truck and reached inside. He knelt to unscrew the cap of a petrol can and then began slos.h.i.+ng the fuel inside the cab and over the rest of the truck. He struck a match and the truck burst into flames.

Just when Archie thought things could not get any worse, another British lorry came hurtling up the road. This time the SS troopers stepped out in front of it and fired several rounds into the winds.h.i.+eld. The Bedford began to skid and looked for a moment as if it might topple on to its side. Instead, it came on until it crashed with force into the back of the burning truck, sending out a cloud of orange sparks. The troopers surrounded the lorry and a shot was fired into the cab. From the back, a small, middle-aged British soldier was dragged out. His hands reached up to stop his gla.s.ses slipping off his nose. The German noticed what appeared to be a watch chain hanging from his tunic pocket and made a grab for it. The man's hands came down in a protective gesture and then the German went insane. He stepped back, thrust the barrel of his rifle directly against the man's heart, and pulled the trigger. The man bounced back against the lorry and then toppled forward like a felled tree, a blank expression on his face. The German bent down and pulled the watch from the pocket. He held it to his ear, nodded and laughed. He then began doing a crazy Red Indian war dance while his comrades clapped and cheered.

'Woo, woo, woo,' called the German with glee. Archie's legs buckled beneath him and he slid to the ground beside Bill. They both looked at each other's bloodstained faces.

'D'you fancy a swim, now?' asked Bill.

Archie laughed, but it was without humour.

'Where they taking us, sir?' Archie spoke to a captain wearing the shoulder flash of the Warwicks. He was the only officer in the group of about ninety British prisoners. The SS troopers were herding them across a field of young potato plants, in the direction of a small, ramshackle barn.

'I'm not sure, lad. Perhaps they are going to let us shelter from this rain. Let's hope. Chin up!'

Whatever the Germans intended, it was clear that they had little regard for the wounded among their prisoners. Those that stumbled or fell as they dragged themselves across the muddy field were bayoneted where they lay. Archie turned to look once more and felt a rifle b.u.t.t slam into his hip.

'Rouse! Rouse!' snarled the SS trooper.

He staggered under the blow but managed to stay on his feet. Ahead of him, the first group of prisoners were being herded into the barn. He could see Bill among them. As they drew closer, he heard the officer mutter under his breath. Then, incredibly, the officer turned to one of the SS and spoke.

'I'm very sorry,' he said. 'But you can't expect to get us all in that barn. There is insufficient room for the wounded to lie down. It's plainly ridiculous.'

Another German stepped up. At first he seemed to smile at the captain but his lips soon turned to a sneer. He spoke with a hint of an American accent.

'Yellow Englishman, ha! There will be plenty of room where you are going.' With that, he bent down and pulled a stick grenade from the top of his boot. He jerked his head towards the captain and Archie, who both lingered outside the barn door, indicating that they, too, should step inside. He tugged at a wire at the bottom of the wooden handle and lobbed the grenade along the floor. Other troopers were doing the same.

With the first explosion, the Germans stepped back, away from the showering fragments. Archie felt the left side of his body turn instantly ice-cold. The blast knocked him directly into the arms of the captain. The next thing he knew, the captain's hands had seized him and he was being dragged away from the barn and towards a clump of trees some two hundred yards away.

As they broke through the trees, the fields opened out flat ahead of them. Directly at their feet, a small stagnant pond offered the only cover. The captain dived straight in. He broke the surface and turned back to Archie.