Dunkirk Spirit Part 9

'Come on, young fellow. It's our only hope.' He ducked under.

Archie stood paralysed. He shook his head. He then felt a hefty slam in his right shoulder and he toppled forward, his head cracking hard against a willow. The second and third shots he heard. As he lay motionless in the gra.s.s, he somehow knew that both bullets had hit the captain. Archie held his breath and then heard the squelching sound of a trooper's boots running back through the mud towards the barn.

Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven.

Bill lay on the floor of the barn. Two men had already toppled on top of him. Someone was reciting the Lord's Prayer in a feeble, high voice.

Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespa.s.ses, as we forgive them that trespa.s.s against us. And lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from evil.

Bill wondered how the man could even manage to speak. Another grenade came tumbling in and, again, Bill turned his face away. He felt the bodies above him jerk in the blast and hot air seemed to draw his own breath from out of his screaming lungs. Despite the smoke, he had a terrific sensation of clarity. His brain managed to pick out the individual screams, and the laughter outside the barn. He had already witnessed two of the sergeants sacrifice their own lives by diving on to the grenades as they were tossed inside. The first man had been lifted into the air by the blast. Shrapnel had then torn into his own chin. He could feel the blood soaking into the straw and forming a puddle beneath his ear.

After a minute or so, the Germans began calling in through the door.

'Rouse! Fnf!' Bill lay very still. Incredibly, there were still men inside the barn who appeared uninjured. He heard a man climb to his feet. He stood upright and spoke to no one in particular: 'Well, if you've got to go, you've got to go,' he said flatly.

Other men pulled themselves up. Bill stared in disbelief as five men stepped carefully around the bodies of their dead and injured colleagues and walked back out into the rain.

A chill grew within Bill as listened to the commands outside. 'Ein, zwei, drei, vier, fnf.' At each word, a number of shots rang out and there was a sodden thump as a man fell to the ground. There was also more wild laughter. When the first five men were dead, the Germans called for five more.

'Come on, lads. Let's get this over with, shall we? I, for one, can't suffer this a moment longer.'

Now Bill found himself on his feet. He looked again for Archie. He had not seen him enter the barn. There was hope for him at least. He felt no more emotions. He steadied himself against a supporting beam. His other hand rose up to his chin and he touched it far sooner than he expected. His chin, or rather his jaw, appeared to be hanging loose.

'Right! That's it. What's the b.l.o.o.d.y point, anyway?' Bill Griffin, a twenty year old former warehouseman and keen angler, walked outside and joined the others.

16:00 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Windmill Field Cottage, Aylesham, Kent Margaret turned and closed the front door. She dropped the basket at her feet, placed her umbrella upright in a lead-lined tray, and hung her mackintosh on the hallstand. And then she sighed. There was something about an empty house. Even dear little, quiet Vicky could fill the house simply by being there. It was as if human warmth soaked into the walls and permeated the entire building. An empty house was something sad.

On sunny days before the blackout curtains, the stained gla.s.s above the front door sent delightful beams of blue and amber light shafting along the hall. On dank, dreary days such as this, the hall was deeply depressing, dark and overwhelmingly brown. There was a mild smell of damp. As soon as there was a dry day, she would give the house a good airing.

Margaret, by rights, should have felt elated. Today had been a day to top all days. She had won ringing endors.e.m.e.nts for her new jam and she had, for the very first time, felt that she was actually doing something for the war effort. To be sure, she had worked extremely hard ensuring comfortable homes for the London evacuees. She had even welcomed some into her own home. The thought made Margaret halt in the hallway.

One and a half million people had been evacuated in the first week of war. Margaret had a large, comfortable home to offer. It was a house that longed for life. It was sad, therefore, that she had chosen so badly. Deirdre, a twenty-one-year-old evacuee from London's deprived Deptford, had one boy, aged five, and a sickly girl, aged two. Deirdre had been a pretty little thing and Margaret had initially thought that she was no more than fifteen or sixteen and that the toddlers in tow had been her own siblings. She had not even noticed that the girl was three months pregnant with her third.

Margaret had heard Dennis talk occasionally of the vermin in the trenches but she had never imagined that people in this day and age could live in such an intolerable state. She had not noticed the red flee bites until she tried to undress the children and bathe them in front of the kitchen range. It was also immediately apparent that the children were not used to bathing. Margaret wondered if they had ever seen hot water. From their conversations, it was clear that Deirdre did not even own a kettle. How she had managed at home in London, Margaret shuddered to think.

Both she and Vicky had fussed for days, ensuring that the two spare upstairs rooms were welcoming and cosy. She had imagined long walks in the surrounding woods and fields, showing the underprivileged urban children the wonders of the countryside. She could help them with their reading and teach them to cook.

'What, no bleeding cinema? Are you kiddin'?' Deirdre had demanded. 'Dover? How b.l.o.o.d.y far's Dover, then? What, only four sodding trains a day? You're havin' me on!'

Some seven months after the start of the war and more than one million evacuees returned to their homes. Deirdre had been one of them. 'They ain't bleedin' bombing London, are they? Why should I stay 'ere?' Margaret had watched her stomp up the garden path with the toddlers looking back, confused. The canteen of silver desert cutlery had left with her.

Margaret had wanted children of her own. But Dennis on his return from the war had not been interested. Perhaps it was just as well. If Margaret had had a boy, he might be of fighting age now himself. He might have been like one of the poor boys on the platform. She would fret too much. She missed Dennis. She needed a man to talk to. She needed someone with whom she could discuss the war and politics. The world, she knew, was in a serious mess. It was a form of ma.s.s neurosis. There was widespread poverty, drug entertainment, and the ugly and unplanned side of industrialism. There were the advertis.e.m.e.nts in your face at every turn, the Americanisation of thought through films, music and newspapers. There was a lack of education, and too much independent thinking. And then there was the war that n.o.body seemed to want but was here just the same. How could the politicians have allowed another mighty conflict to start so soon after the last? The war that had so slowly killed her husband. She never had any faith in Neville Chamberlain, the former lord major of Birmingham, and now they had a political maverick in Winston Churchill. At the time of the Munich Crisis, when they had teetered on the brink of war, she had attempted to engage some of the village women in discussion at the church social.

'Don't talk to me about Hitler!' she had been told. 'It'll be time enough to think about politics when the air raids start. You're like my hubby. He's actually taken to reading newspapers. Stupid I call it.'

Margaret automatically placed her hand on top of the range when she entered the kitchen. She stooped and picked up the coalscuttle and then knocked open the fire door. She raked the embers and looked up at the kitchen clock. Vicky would be back soon. She was trying to buy fresh fish in Dover. Mr Wibble, the cat, bleated outside the kitchen door. He had an irritating habit of scratching the paint away.

When Margaret opened the door and looked down, she went cold. Two spindly legs and a portion of red breast were hanging from Mr Wibble's mouth.

'Oh, you bad, bad cat!' Margaret grabbed him swiftly by the neck. Mr Wibble's brief moment of triumph dissolved instantly in a look of confusion. 'Open your mouth.'

She prized with her fingers and plucked the bird free. Its feathers were unruffled. She could see he had died quickly. It was entirely her fault. The little robin had been her friend for three years. He had liked Margaret from the start. Each morning, usually around nine, he would peck against the kitchen window and Margaret would dip a crust in some warm tea and place it on the ledge. Now he was dead. If only she had played with Mr Wibble. Each morning she threw his ball repeatedly, bouncing it along the hall, until he became tired and went to sleep. Today she had not done so. She should blame Herr Hitler, too.

Margaret was not given to crying. In fact, she had not cried for many years. But, suddenly, came the sobs, deep and painful. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and the warm tears ran down her cheeks. She breathed in deeply. There was the sensation of drowning, her soul saturated in woe. Just then she heard the key turn in the lock. She picked herself up off the doorstep and placed the robin tenderly on the kitchen table before rus.h.i.+ng to the sink and was.h.i.+ng her face.

'Ooh, ooh, Mrs C,' called Vicky from the hallway. 'You won't believe what's happening in Dover!'

16:15 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Outskirts of Wormhout, France It took Archie Marley a long while to come to. His first conscious thought was for water. His thirst was intolerable; an intense pain far worse than that in his shoulder or down his entire left side. His second conscious thought was for Bill. Then it all came flooding back. He opened his eyes with difficulty and found himself crumpled up on the gra.s.s with one half of his face in the stagnant water of the pond. He could not move. He sensed that his right shoulder was somehow twisted at an odd angle. He tried to roll slowly onto his other side but found that, when touched, the shrapnel wounds produced scalding hot stabbing vibrations. He wanted to scream. He lay like that for some while longer, drifting in and out of nightmares, imagined and real.

When he next awoke, he did so with a start. There was a m.u.f.fled rasp as a frog croaked a few feet from his head. It was imperative that he find Bill. He moved his head and slowly let the pond water trickle into the side of his mouth. Archie nearly choked but then he groaned with relief. He tilted his head further and took lengthy gulps. He curled his legs up under him and struggled to a kneeling position. The captain lay entangled in the reeds, one arm pointing towards the sky and a look of puzzled wonder on his face. Blood tainted the water around him.

Archie coughed and struggled to compose himself. He lifted one knee and climbed to his feet, s.h.i.+vering with cold. As he did so, he held his breath and strained to listen. His head was spinning. The rain had turned to a fine drizzle and there was the distant boom of artillery. He could hear a blackbird in one of the trees above his head. He looked down at his dislocated shoulder. There was an exit wound the size of a half-crown, high at the top. It no longer bled, but glistened an unhealthy pink.

The severity of his own wounds paled somewhat when he reached the barn. Bodies in British uniform lay scattered in individual heaps. A very large number lay alongside the barn, beside a small path. Archie wobbled uncertainly on his feet as he looked down at the men. Their faces showed remarkably few traces of fear or horror. Many, aside from the wounds to their chests, lay as if asleep. From inside the barn, came a steady tapping sound. Archie turned and limped to the doorway. Inside, just to his left, a man sat propped against the wall. As Archie's eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he realised that the man was gripping a .303 round tightly between his fingers and pressing it against his head. In his other hand, he attempted to hammer away at the bullet with a rifle clip. He was trying to detonate the bullet. Although he had failed so far, Archie could see that he had managed to drive the point of the bullet about three-quarters of an inch into his forehead. Another man, on seeing Archie, began to beat his fists on the ground as if in a childish rage. Both his legs ended above the knee in the tattered remains of his trousers. And then he screamed: 'Shoot me! Shoot me!'

There were plenty more, equally grotesque scenes inside the barn, but Archie turned hurriedly away. He knew he was going to faint again and, before he could bend down, he was unconscious.

Archie Marley had no idea how much time had pa.s.sed before he stumbled into the despatch rider. He recognised the throb of the Norton long before he saw it. He lay now on a green wire stretcher outside a small bell tent inside the perimeter of a British artillery battery, and the medical officer was leaning over him.

'Do you think you can walk?' he asked. 'It's much better if you can. You will have a much better chance of getting off.'

'I could try,' suggested Archie. 'I don't see why not, sir. I must have walked blooming miles before I got a ride.'

'That's the spirit, old boy,' said the MO. 'Look, we've got an ambulance going back in a mo'. If you could step aboard, we could prop you upright in a corner. There's just room.'

'Sure, sir,' said Archie. The officer supported his back and helped him up.

Archie's left leg was stiff but he could bend it at the knee and there was no pain in his feet. His right arm hung in a broad white sling across his chest. The officer steadied him and smiled.

'It's a bit of a b.u.mpy ride, I'm afraid. I could give you something if you want; something to take the pain away.'

'If you think I'm going to complain about that, sir, you're wrong. I'll take anything you got. The stronger the better.'

He was helped up the back steps of the field ambulance and propped up on a folding seat by the door. Inside, eight racks of stretchers lined either side. Thirty-two feet, many bandaged, some bare, stared back at him. The officer secured him to the seat with two triangular bandages tied together.

'There you are. Nice and comfy now,' said the MO. 'It may be a long ride, so this will help you get a little sleep.'

He rubbed the edge of a small white cloth across a patch on Archie's now-reset shoulder and then he jabbed lightly with a syringe.

Archie had a sudden thought. He had simply no idea where the barn was. The officer had promised to send medics to sort things out but Archie had not yet told them where to find it. He felt panic. Who would help those poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds now? More importantly, how then would they ever find Bill's body? The sight of Bill, the lower half of his face ripped away and two bullet holes in the chest and another in his groin, had tipped Archie to the point of hysteria. Only the thought that he would ensure Bill a proper burial had helped to salve his wracked conscience.

'Bill,' Archie told the MO. But then a curiously familiar warmth rushed through his body. He had a sense that everything was suddenly perfect, absolutely perfect, serene, and dream-like.

The officer dabbed his index finger into a patch of blood on the ambulance floor and marked a perfect M on Archie's nodding forehead. And then he turned and clamped shut the door.

17:30 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Dunkirk, France Here is a message from Mr Ernest Bevin, the Minister for Labour: 'Everyone, I am sure, will understand that in the present grave emergency, production must not be interrupted by holiday periods, especially those for several days at a time, which are customary in certain parts of the country during the summer months. The Government, therefore, ask workers and employers to cancel all such holidays for the time being and to await further guidance on the subject, which will be given as soon as the situation permits. Every minute spent on production now is vital to the defence of the country and your homes. Thank you.'

There is a smell peculiar to soldiers en-ma.s.s, particularly those that have not washed for several days. It is a smell akin to a damp rag that has been left over long in a bucket. Miller was familiar with the smell but not with this level of intensity. He could also smell fear. He hesitated before scrambling inside the cellar. A powerful explosion in the next block sent the cornice of a building toppling down into the street. Miller watched the masonry tumble in slow motion, and then he slid down the steps and dived quickly inside.

''Ere! That's my b.l.o.o.d.y foot! Get off you clumsy b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' Miller's first thought was to clump the man on the head with the b.u.t.t of his Thompson but he thought better of it.

'All right, all right! Keep ruddy your hair on,' Miller shouted back to the man on the floor. 'a.r.s.ehole,' he added, gripping the Thompson with both hands, just in case, and stepping out of the way. There were many other smells in the cellar; chief amongst them was one of excrement. The other overriding reek was of wet animals, in particular wet dogs.

There was a short wooooo sound as a bomb dropped close by. There was a pause and then an almighty explosion. A cloud of grey dust blew in through the doorway and Miller dropped down, squatting on his haunches. The amber flash of the explosion briefly illuminated the room. He had no means of estimating the numbers but it beat anything he had seen on the London Underground, even in the worst of rush hours.

'What's it like outside, mate?' asked a voice at his side.

'Well, it's still b.l.o.o.d.y raining, if that's what you mean,' replied Miller.

'Last time I come here, then! Call this the sunny-b.l.o.o.d.y-seaside? It ain't stopped raining all week!'

'How long you been in here, then?' asked Miller The man huffed. 'Now you're asking,' he said. 'Couple of days, easy. Hey, you an officer?'

'Do I sound like an officer?' asked Miller in return.

'No, I guess not. Just wondering.' He budged up. 'Oh, I see your stripes now, corp.'

'What d'you want an officer for?' asked Miller, squeezing in beside him.

'Well, we can't stay in here for b.l.o.o.d.y ever, can we? Someone's got to sort things out.' He huffed again. 'Some Navy blokes came by a couple of days ago and took away the walking wounded. They said they'd be back to get us. They were waiting for boats, but they ain't come back since. Fancy a drink?'

Miller fumbled for the heavy bottle.

'Watch how you pour it back,' warned the man. 'It's champagne. It bubbles up all over the place.'

Miller took the bottle in his hand and tipped it back slowly.

'Cor! Yeah!' said Miller, wiping his mouth and chin. 'See what you mean. I could get the taste for this stuff.' And then, not wis.h.i.+ng to sound unworldly, he added: 'I've had champagne before, you know, but never like this. Always in gla.s.ses.'

'Well, don't you worry about that. There's plenty more.'

Miller's eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom and fug. The man leaned closer and smiled. 'So, here you are,' he said. 'In France, all expenses paid by HM Government, and you're drinking champagne by the sea. Things ain't so bad, after all.' He chuckled, and Miller found himself laughing, too.

'Some of these blokes don't look too happy about it, though,' declared Miller, straining to see around the vast cellar. One man near the door was making a terrified noise like a baboon. 'Ergh, ergh, ergh!' As well as the general hubbub, there were sounds of crying, whimpering, praying, and a few drunken snores. Way off in the corner, a man with a strong Durham accent screamed out: 'Get that f.o.o.king thing away from me!'

'You hungry, corp?' asked the man beside him.

'Yeah, starving.' Miller had not touched his bread and cheese yet.

'Have some of this, then.' He held forth a small gla.s.s jar with a screw-top lid. He prized the top off and handed the jar to Miller.

'What's this then?' he asked.

'It says mouse de foi gras,' he said grandly. 'Some kind of meat paste. Try it.'

Miller sniffed and then cautiously slipped a finger into the jar. It had a strange, slimy texture.

'Tastes a bit funny, don't it?' Miller was not sure. He dripped his finger in again and had another try. 'No! Not for me, thank you. I've had some foreign muck in my time but that's the worse yet.' Miller screwed his face up and tried to sc.r.a.pe the stuff off his tongue with his front teeth.

'Shame,' said the man. 'There's f.u.c.king tons of it in here. But little n.i.g.g.e.r, here, he loves it. Don't you, boy?'

Miller looked down and noticed for the first time a small black dog curled up in the man's lap. The man waved the jar under the dog's nose and it looked up, attentively. The man scooped some foi gras out with his fingers and allowed the dog to lap it off with its tongue.

'There's a good boy,' he said, smiling. 'I love dogs. Always had dogs. My dad used to breed whippets years ago. But some c.u.n.t n.o.bbled 'em all. Put chopped up clock springs in their meat. Christ! If you think it's messy in here, you should have seen that!'

'What you going to do with him, then?'

'Take him home, of course. If I can.'

'So, d'you think those Navy blokes will come back?'

'Your guess, mate,' said the man. 'But all the cellars round here are the same. There's f.u.c.king thousands of blokes waiting to get out. They can hardly leave us all here, can they?'

Miller wondered. He looked down again at the dog. It was rocking rhythmically back and forth.

'Is he all right?' asked Miller.

''What? Oh, f.u.c.k!' The man made a quick grab for the dog, lifting it off his lap. But it was too late. Immediately after the choking noise came the foi gras.

'Right. That's f.u.c.king it!' declared Miller, standing rapidly up and jumping out of the way. He had never liked dogs. 'Watch he don't get seasick, too, then,' declared Miller. 'I'm out of here. I'll take my chances up there. And thanks for the drink.'

The man had been right about the other cellars. They were all equally packed and some, those that contained the wounded, smelt infinitely worse. Artillery sh.e.l.ls were continuing to fall on the town, sending shockwaves along the streets and through the narrow pa.s.sageways. Over to the west, sticks of bombs were falling with shuddering regularity. Miller decided to walk north, in the direction of the sea. The heavy grey smoke gave Dunkirk's devastated streets a surreal newsreel quality in the thin afternoon light. Clouds of dust wafted through the air. In addition to the debris, bodies lay scattered. In a doorway to his left, a group of three, possibly four, people lay huddled, their arms reaching around those beside them. Their faces were caked in fine grey dust, with darker patches where blood had soaked through. Bella Lugosi instead of British Gaumont.

In time, he reached a group of men sitting in the open. Some of the dead looked better.

'That leg looks a bit nasty, don't it?' said Miller, squatting down and shaking a bandaged solder. 'Are you awake? Are you all right?' Miller looked around him. He was one street back from the East Pier and hundreds of wounded lay or sat propped up on the pavement. A handful of medics fussed along the line.

'Let's take a closer look shall we?' Miller carefully unravelled the bandage that stretched from the man's knee to his ankle. The wound appeared to be primarily a second-degree burn but with a deep laceration through the top of the calf muscle. A broad scab was already forming. He tugged as gently as he could to free the bandage from the congealed purple ma.s.s.

'You should let the air get to that. You don't want to wrap burns up. That's how they fester.' Miller sniffed at the bandage. Aside from the meaty smell of blood there was no obvious putrefaction.

'Oy! What you playing at?' One of the medics glared down at Miller. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow and dried blood coated his forearms.

'Just checking on my mate, that's all.' Miller leaned up from his kneeling position and rested a hand on the wounded man's forehead. 'You're all right, ain't you, Kev? We'll soon have you back home, don't you worry.' He turned to look back up at the medic and asked: 'You got any fresh bandages, mate?'

The man bent down and looked at the wound. 'That's the least of his worries. And you shouldn't have taken the bandage off.' He gave Miller a hard stare. 'It's the stomach wound that's the problem. Can he walk?'

'No, not really.'

'Pity. We're sending a batch of walking wounded out in minute, as soon as we get the signal. You're mate's just going to have to wait a little while. I'll let you know.' He straightened up slowly. 'And don't give him anything to drink, see?' With that he dragged himself back up the line, looking for those that might be able to walk out, against those that would stay.

Miller picked his moment and scampered quickly off, concealing the b.l.o.o.d.y bandages in his hands. Another blast some distance away gave him the opportunity to duck into a shop doorway. He tucked himself into a corner and dropped to the ground, slipping his helmet off as he did so.