Leaves Before the Storm

by Angela Arney

  But tonight, his last night in England after being briefed for the expeditionary force he was accompanying to France, he had the evening to himself and was meeting Adam. Trust Adam to manage to wangle a weekend’s leave in London, and also manage to borrow a friend’s flat near Admiralty Arch. He’d told Henry it was the last word in luxury and had invited Henry to stay as well, instead of staying in the officers’ mess at Millbank. They’d arranged to meet at a new officers’ club in Chelsea.

  Walking along the embankment Henry could hear the Thames but could only just make out the bridges across it. He found the club, a tall white house with a discreet shaded lamp by a door at the bottom of steps down from the pavement.

  Once inside Henry saw Adam at once. He was holding court as usual. For a moment Henry felt irritated. Once Adam had an audience he was always loath to let it go, and he’d been looking forward to a quiet evening’s chat. Adam saw him and waved. The club was crowded with officers from all three services, making it difficult for Henry to weave his way through them towards Adam.

  ‘This is Henry,’ said Adam. ‘He’s off to France tomorrow to patch people up after they’ve finished beating up the Jerries. Buy him a drink, someone; he needs cheering up.’

  Someone thrust a brimming pint glass into Henry’s hand. ‘Don’t broadcast the fact that I’m going to France, it’s supposed to be a secret,’ said Henry.

  Adam made a face. ‘We’re all on the same side in here,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry so much.’

  A honky-tonk piano began playing and the assembled company started singing. Henry began to wish he’d taken the train back to Folly House and the peace of Hampshire, which was what he knew he should have done. But too late now, he was here, and Adam was in party mood. He seemed to have a formed a close friendship with the naval officer at his side. Henry noticed that the man, whom Adam had introduced as ‘Mike, works on minesweepers you know,’ hung on Adam’s every word. As the evening wore on more and more alcohol was consumed by everyone, Henry began to feel bad-tempered; he didn’t want to drink himself into oblivion, not when he had to be up at the crack of dawn and take charge of a unit of men.

  There was a lull in the piano-playing and Henry took the opportunity to have a quiet word with Adam. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time we went back to the flat? I’ve got a long day ahead of me tomorrow, and God knows when I’ll next sleep in a bed again.’

  ‘Eat drink and be merry,’ laughed Adam, ‘for tomorrow we die.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ slurred his new friend Mike. He flopped across the bar, and fumbled in his pockets, then produced a set of keys. ‘Here, go on, you two,’ he said. ‘Use my room here in the club. You don’t need to go back to the flat.’ He winked at Henry. ‘Adam already knows where it is, don’t you?’

  ‘Shush,’ said Adam, and laughed. ‘You’ll get us into trouble.’

  Henry stared at both of them. He didn’t want to think what he was thinking; he picked up his kitbag and slung the heavy canvas across his shoulder. ‘Perhaps I’ll go back to my room at Millbank,’ he said. ‘Goodnight.’

  He turned and fought his way through the throng of bodies towards the exit. Once outside he ran up the steps and stood outside, breathing in the cool air. What a fool Adam was getting mixed up with a man like that.

  There was a touch on his shoulder. It was Adam. He was smiling and jangling the keys in his hand. ‘Why run away? Let’s go upstairs. You know you want to.’ He slid his arm round Henry’s shoulder.

  Henry flinched away. ‘Don’t be stupid. What’s the bloody game? You’ve had too much to drink. I’m not a homosexual, Adam, and I didn’t think you were either.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Henry, don’t be so stuffy. I’ve always been AC DC. I’m the same as you, except you’ve never had the courage to admit it. Come on, come with me and let’s make a proper man of you. You don’t know what you’re missing.’ He reached out and grasped Henry’s arm again.

  Snatching his arm away Henry turned on him with fury. ‘I am not, never have been, and never will be a homosexual. It’s against the law. Surely you know that?’

  ‘Against the law!’ Adam mimicked Henry’s voice. ‘It’s against the natural order of things to deny your true feelings. You love me, surely you know that; not that milk-faced girl you’re married to. It’s always been you for me. Always. Ever since that day we hid in the showers at school after rugger. I still remember your lovely long white thighs. I wanted you then, and I want you now.’ He lunged forward and tried to fling his arms around Henry’s neck.

  Without stopping to think Henry swung his heavy kitbag around and hit Adam full square on, felling him with one blow. Adam started groaning. Switching on his pocket torch Henry bent over him. There was blood pouring from Adam’s nose, but apart from that he appeared all right.

  ‘Go and get your friend Mike to mop you up.’ He could hardly speak because of his anger, the words were spat out. ‘I never want to see you again.’ Flinging his kitbag over his shoulder he marched back towards Millbank.

  ‘I love you, you bloody fool,’ Adam’s voice echoed along the empty street, bouncing eerily off the Embankment wall. ‘Don’t think you can get away from me. I need you, and you need me.’

  When he arrived at Millbank Henry had two large whiskies in the officers’ mess before going up to his room. He couldn’t sleep; the scene with Adam replayed in his head over and over again, and he knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life. How could he have been so blind? Did other people know? Did they think they were a pair of … he could hardly bring himself to even think the word homosexual.

  At last he fell asleep thinking about Megan. He needed to cling on to thoughts of her. She was his reality. She was his wife. He made up his mind to telephone her in the morning to say goodbye and tell her how much he loved her.

  Dunkirk – The Beaches June 1940

  England, and any other life they’d ever had was on another planet as far as Henry and his men were concerned. They were bogged down in the ghastly mess that was war. They had seen horrors they had never imagined existed before they came to France. Seen men turned from civilized human beings into rabid animals.

  Now, Henry realized the inevitable, they would have to leave their vehicles. It was too dangerous and slow to continue trying to use the lumbering noisy trucks which fell down potholes and bomb craters every few yards, quite apart from the fact that they were running out of fuel. They were fleeing France and were, for the moment, just ahead of the enemy on the roads. He gave the order to abandon the vehicles. Only a whispered command, for who knew who might be there lurking in the surrounding fields and ditches in the dark? He felt as if he was in a terrible nightmare, it was surreal, but there was no waking from it. He knew that. What was he, Henry Lockwood, a surgeon, doing leading a band of men through the darkness towards a beach on the northern coast of France? He was a doctor, not a commander of men. But fate had dictated that he should lead. He was the only officer in the little unit he was with who was still alive. The men needed an officer; they looked to him for reassurance and safety.

  Henry looked around. There was a murky canal to their left, and although it was dark he could see jagged shapes lying in the water. Other units had jettisoned their vehicles there before seeking refuge on the beaches.

  ‘Get rid of these.’ He tapped the sides of their two trucks, knowing they needed to leave the narrow road clear for other army units coming along behind them, and also to prevent the enemy from being able to put their vehicles to use.

  The men set to work with a will, smashing their vehicles up with whatever they could lay their hands on, before rolling them over and into the canal where they slid partially below the water’s surface with a dull, sucking sound.

  ‘Shall I call the roll, sir?’ Corporal Taylor, his medical orderly and ever-present shadow, was by his side.

  As soon as Henry had assumed leadership, Corporal Taylor had assumed the role of sergeant. No one complained, no one cared. All they wanted
was to get the hell out of France. Henry knew that. It was a sentiment he shared. As part of the ill-fated British Expeditionary Force into France all any of them wanted was to get home. For a split second Henry felt angry. What a waste of lives this expedition had been. Bad planning and appalling back-up had sacrificed more than half the men in his unit. His momentary spurt of anger gave him the strength to go on. Somehow he had to get these men through the next village, down the dunes and on to the beach and then, he hoped, on to a boat to safety.

  ‘Yes, call the roll,’ he said, ‘and be quick about it.’

  It was a weird scene: the men forming up along the roadside, Corporal Taylor ticking their names off his list by torchlight, the answers being whispered back from the darkness. All were present and Henry gave the order to march forward. They crossed a small bridge spanning the canal and entered a village on the other side. Henry had no idea of its name and didn’t care. They were going in the right direction towards Dunkirk, the sea and salvation.

  As they passed by skeletal walls of bombed buildings, shadows flitted in and out of broken windows and doorways. Henry guessed they were stray inhabitants cut off by the fighting; having to survive in whatever shelter they could find, and probably looters too, on the lookout for anything saleable in the ruins.

  He thought of Folly House. It would be slumbering now in peaceful darkness. In his mind’s eye he could see the thin veil of mist creeping across the fields and between the trees. The only movements would be Silas Moon’s cows, gently blowing through their nostrils into the damp night air and munching on the soft spring grass. East End and the New Forest were a world away from this god-forsaken spot and he longed to be there. For a split second he allowed himself to remember the ordered chaos of Bertha’s kitchen on baking day; a favourite place of his as a child. But the moment flew, and he concentrated on the narrow road ahead filled with trudging, despondent troops.

  Once through the village their road merged with another, and they began to meet groups of men coming from different directions but all marching the same route towards the coast and Dunkirk. Every now and then a voice would call out.

  ‘Is that you, Bill?’

  ‘It’s B Company here, sir.’

  ‘Fred, over this way. Come on, mate.’

  ‘Keep together lads.’

  ‘You can do it. Not far to go.’

  It was difficult keeping together in the darkness as more and more men swelled the ranks of marching soldiers, all orderly, none pushing or shoving, but all desperate to get to the beaches.

  Henry and Corporal Taylor managed to keep their men together. As they entered the dunes the sand rose like dark elephantine humps making the gloom seem even more impenetrable. Every second or so explosions lit up the sky, silhouetting the twisted shapes of abandoned vehicles half sunk in the sand. It was difficult to walk, but somehow they did, slipping and sliding knee-deep in sand towards the angry red glare in the sky, which they knew was Dunkirk. The place they had been ordered to get to.

  ‘Not much fun is it, sir,’ grunted Corporal Taylor, struggling up a steep incline beside Henry. ‘I prefer Margate.’

  Henry paused a moment on the summit. He could see their destination now. Dunkirk was in sight. He could see the gaunt skeletons of what had once been the fashionable, sought-after promenade of hotels and houses, now all worthless shells. The whole sea-front was one long tongue of flame, orange smoke pouring skywards disappearing into blackness. The fires of hell, like a medieval painting thought Henry. ‘No, not much fun,’ he replied, suddenly thinking of Adam and his declaration that they would have adventures once they went to war. Adam and his fun! The thought of their last encounter still caused him to wince mentally with pain. But there was no time to think now. All he needed to think about was hanging on to life, for himself and his men.

  Behind them the men followed wearily to the top of the dunes, over the straggly clumps of marram grass at the top and then down towards the beach below. There was no talking. Everyone was too exhausted to waste what little breath they had left.

  Henry could see the tide was out, and he could just about see that there were dark masses of soldiers moving in an orderly fashion towards the sea. Once in the water the men formed black lines, looking like so many breakwaters in the darkness. They were waiting patiently, waist-deep in the water, for their turn to be loaded into small boats and then on to the waiting warships and larger vessels out in deep water.

  Henry tried to find their field regiment, which they were supposed to link up with, but the heavy shelling began crashing down masonry from the promenade on to their heads. ‘We’ll go down on to the beach,’ he told his men. ‘It will be safer there.’

  But down on the beach it was no safer. Small aircraft were flying overhead strafing the men on the beach with machine-gun fire. Shells were exploding everywhere as they stepped across dead and dying men, some of whom, Henry could tell from the stench, had been lying there for days. He, who had seen many deaths in his career as a doctor, had never before felt the evil of it. But now, with death surrounding him on all sides, he felt as if it were a physical being, trying to claw at them all, dragging them down to join the mutilated flesh lying rotting on the beach.

  A wounded man called out. ‘Sir,’ and reached out towards Henry in the gloom.

  One look and Henry could see there was no hope for him. Half his body was missing. ‘Are you thirsty?’ he said, kneeling beside the man

  ‘Sir, we must keep going,’ Corporal Taylor’s agitated voice cut in.

  ‘Yes, go on. Get the men into line and into the water. Don’t wait.’

  ‘But sir—’

  ‘Go, goddamn you,’ shouted Henry, and, kneeling beside the dying man, held his water bottle to his lips. ‘Drink,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll feel better.’

  ‘I’m cold.’ The man shivered violently.

  Henry took off his jacket, and wrapped the man’s dying remains in it.

  ‘Sir, you must come now.’ Corporal Taylor ran back, more agitated than ever.

  ‘I said go. Look out for the men.’

  Corporal Taylor hesitated for a split second, then ran down the beach. Henry put the water bottle to the man’s lips once more.

  The water spilled from his mouth, running in rivulets down his chin. ‘Don’t leave me,’ he whispered.

  ‘I won’t,’ replied Henry.

  That was the last thing he remembered. After that was blackness.

  Everyone was talking about the disaster at Dunkirk. The government was trying to persuade everyone that a glorious victory was snatched from the jaws of defeat. But people knew the truth. The Germans had driven the British and French into the sea and many lives had been lost. Men and women all over Britain lay awake at night praying that their sons and husbands were not among the hundreds machine-gunned down on the beaches of Dunkirk.

  Megan was among them. She had heard nothing for weeks. Had Henry been at Dunkirk? No one knew and everyone at Folly House prayed that somehow word would come that he had survived.

  It seemed a lifetime since Henry had been at Folly House, and since he’d left for France Megan had heard just once. In an obviously hastily written letter from somewhere in France – it had been censored – he’d said he’d just eaten some delicious Camembert, which that day made even war seem bearable. He’d also said that he’d managed to visit the farmhouse in Normandy where he’d once spent a summer camping holiday with friends from school. Megan had written back, care of the battalion headquarters, hoping that somehow it would reach him. Then, like everyone else, she concentrated on the jobs in hand. For East End it was the annual summer fête held at Folly House.

  Lavinia was dead against holding the fête. ‘There’s a war on,’ she kept saying.

  But war or no war, the village fête committee decided that they’d have a fête and it would be as good, if not better, than in previous years. As the chatelaine of Folly House it was inevitable that Megan became heavily involved.

  Lavinia
changed her mind when she found that no one was taking any notice of her. Now she was in danger of taking over the whole event.

  As for Megan, she worked from dawn till dusk, and early on the morning of the fête, when she looked out into the garden, she knew it was going to be a lovely day. The sun was rising, spreading long fingers of golden light across the lawn; the dew sparkled like diamonds, and the pink climbing roses that framed her bedroom window filled her nostrils with a heady perfume. She could see the tide was out and the beach and mudflats glistened in the distance; beyond them, shimmering against the skyline, were the blue hills of the Isle of Wight.

  Megan ran downstairs, suddenly feeling light-hearted and happy. Of course Henry would be all right. He knew how to care for himself because he was a doctor and he’d know what to do even if he did get hurt. She didn’t allow the thought that he might get killed even to enter her head. After a very quick breakfast she went out into the garden, still munching on a piece of toast. George Jones and Silas Moon and some older men from the village were already there, setting up the stalls and the big marquee.

  The Women’s Institute had a stall and were there, filling it with eggless fruitcakes and sugar-free jam. ‘Goodness only knows what everything will taste like,’ Lavinia had said to Megan. ‘I do like things to be made in the traditional way. I know we’ve got this wretched rationing, but surely they could have saved up some of their butter and sugar, and everyone has got a chicken or two to provide eggs.’

  ‘People need the small amount of butter and sugar they get on ration,’ Megan pointed out. ‘They haven’t much to spare for fête cakes.’

  Lavinia had sighed. ‘Yes, I do know that, dear. But nothing tastes the same these days. It’s like that dreadful Camp coffee Bertha will insist on serving up for breakfast.’

  Megan didn’t reply because she actually rather liked the Camp coffee. It had always been drunk at the vicarage because it was much cheaper, so when beans disappeared she hadn’t really missed them,