‘God damn,’ Murdoch commented.
‘Doesn’t look too good,’ Ian said as he shared their meagre dinner.
‘Seems there’s quite a show going on in Dunkirk,’ Murdoch said. Indeed they could see and hear the constant air battles over the port, now only a few miles distant, as the Luftwaffe tried to destroy the navy ships coming in to the harbour. ‘But they’re getting men off.’
‘Not the rearguard,’ Ian said. He was thinking of Annaliese — and the son he had never seen: Ian Mackinder the Third.
‘Well...’ but Murdoch had little cheer to offer. He was going to be a prisoner of war after all. Paul would shrug and think: Damned fool.
But until then, he would fight, and fight. It was the only thing he did really well, he thought ruefully. And it would help to avenge Jennie. He could not understand why the full weight of the German armour was not being thrown against them; for all the feeling that machine for machine, and man for man, his people had proved they were as good as the Germans, he knew that the enemy could now bring an immense superiority to bear. But the only attacks were by infantry units, easily driven off, and designed, he felt sure, just to keep them moving back rather than to destroy them. That was apparently being left to the Luftwaffe.
He lost track of days. It had been Thursday, 23 May, when he had seen Gort. The Belgian surrender was actually not announced until the following Tuesday, and was immediately repudiated by the Government, but it took effect just the same. The following day Lord Gort came up to see them for the last time.
‘How’s it going?’ Murdoch asked.
‘Touch and go. We’ve got more than sixty thousand men out, but it’s costing. Three destroyers, and fifteen other vessels, so far. Mind you, they’re coming from all over the place. I have never seen so many ships. You name it, yachts, trawlers, anything that floats. Murdoch, I’ve been ordered to leave.’
‘Well, of course. We can’t risk the commanding general being taken prisoner.’
‘Quite. I have orders to take you with me.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Murdoch, you are senior to me, in terms of service. You are also our most famous fighting soldier. More famous than ever now. The Government can’t risk you, either, being taken prisoner.’
‘Are you going to arrest me?’
‘I’m tempted, believe me. But I am instructed to inform you that if you do not leave now, as of this moment you are retired and are a civilian.’
Murdoch grinned at him. ‘Well, that’s that. You certainly can’t offer an itinerant civilian a place on your plane.’ He held out his hand. ‘Godspeed.’
Gort squeezed the fingers. ‘Murdoch! Why? You have a wife and family. And enough fame to last five men five lifetimes.’
‘This is my regiment, Johnnie. You don’t really expect me to walk away from them when they’re up against it.’
‘No,’ Gort said. He saluted. ‘Godspeed, General.’
*
That night they were instructed to fall back again. They had now crossed the Lys, and the thunder of the guns from Dunkirk were continuous. The Germans were now in Ostend, as well as Lille and Ypres; news came that Calais had fallen. But still there was no all-out assault on the British rearguards. The brigade held their positions for another twenty-four hours, but early on Friday morning they were visited by Major-General Harold Alexander, who had taken command of the evacuation.
‘You have done your duty, gentlemen,’ he told Brigadier Rostron. Now it’s time for you to get to the beaches. Make sure every tank and every piece of equipment is destroyed, and then pull out. The route is marked by MPs.’
They stared at him. ‘Destroy our tanks?’ Murdoch asked.
‘Yes, General Mackinder, sir. They cannot be taken off, only men can be saved. And your equipment must not be left in any shape which can be utilized by the Germans. I will expect the brigade to be on the beach by tomorrow morning.’
His command car bounced away, and Murdoch stared at his officers in consternation.
‘That’s it, then,’ Ian said. ‘We are licked. We no longer exist as a unit.’
‘They’ll give us new tanks, in England,’ Fergus said.
‘When we get there,’ Rostron commented.
‘If,’ Ian growled.
‘We have orders,’ Murdoch told them. ‘So we carry them out.’
*
They couldn’t take any of the ammunition either, so they destroyed their own tanks by gunfire, taking turns at shooting into the abandoned vehicles. It was good, heartbreaking practice. The German infantry joined in, no doubt supposing that a battle had mysteriously broken out amongst the retreating Allies, and a few shells were sent off in their direction. But by evening every tank in the brigade was a burned-out ruin. Murdoch could only reflect that it was a saving grace they were not still horse cavalry: to have had to destroy the entire brigade’s mounts would have been just about psychologically impossible.
They set off for the beach, a long column of dispirited men. Rostron led, with Murdoch at his shoulder, and Ian behind him. The squadron commanders each marched with their men. They followed the road, first marching for an hour then stopping for ten minutes. Each man carried only a rifle and haversack — there was precious little food in the haversack.
By dawn they were within sight of the sea, and a sight which none of them could ever have envisaged in their wildest nightmares. The surface of the water, fortunately calm, was covered with boats of, as Gort had said, every size and description, some lying off, others close to the shore. Towards the boats columns of khaki-clad men were wading, up to as deep as their shoulders, to be hauled on board. Other columns waited patiently on the beach. To the left the rooftops and spires of Dunkirk could be seen, surrounded by smoke and flames; larger ships were constantly entering and leaving through the breakwaters.
Overhead was a continuous swirl of planes and vapour trails, both German and British. But the battle wasn’t only going on overhead. Whenever allowed to do so, the Germans were swooping over the beaches and strafing or bombing the waiting troops. The scattered corpses and the occasional burned-out trawler or yacht testified to their accuracy. Yet the men on the beach and the small boats on the sea gave no sign of being under attack, proceeded about their work with a massive calm.
There was a military police sergeant waiting for them. ‘You’ll keep your people in the dunes, sir, if you will,’ he said. ‘Until we’re ready for them. Beach is a little restricted at the moment.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t want to make it easy for Jerry, do we?’
Murdoch looked up at the Messerschmitts, some of them hardly a hundred feet up, it seemed. ‘Can we pot those fellows?’ he asked. ‘Just to pass the time.’
‘Why not, sir. Sir?’ The man saw Murdoch’s shoulder straps. ‘Sir!’
‘Forget it,’ Murdoch told him. ‘I’m a civilian.’
*
They crouched amongst the dunes, but still presented a target, several hundred men. The Messerschmitts swooped low over them, and the dragoons opened up with their rifles. It was like 1918 all over again, only worse. The Messerschmitts were far faster and more heavily armed than the old Fokkers, and while none were hit their screaming cannon tore great holes in the sand and grass, and in men.
‘It’s sheer bloody murder,’ Rostron growled. ‘We might as well be on the beach.’
The officers and medical staff crawled around the men, keeping up morale as best they could, tending the wounded, praying for either darkness or orders. It was a bitter business, being shot at and not being able effectively to reply, and Murdoch could understand some of the panic which had set in amongst the French troops earlier in the campaign. The morale of even the Westerns suffered, their misery exacerbated by the scream of the Stukas and their shortage of rations. By midday they were out of water and soon after that of food as well.
Murdoch found Corporal Manly-Smith. ‘We showed them what we could do, sir,’ the boy said.
‘We did, Bert. And we’ll show them a
gain. Your mother would be proud.’
‘What a bloody way to end a war,’ Ian remarked as he and his father and Fergus sat together, waiting to be hit: there was no further shelter to be had.
‘This isn’t the end,’ Murdoch told him. ‘This is just the beginning.’
*
At last, at four thirty, the MP returned. ‘Time to move off, sir,’ he said cheerfully. The lines of men on the beach didn’t look any the less, but the numbers sprawled on the sand had grown.
‘Let’s go,’ Rostron said, waving his arm. The dragoons got to their feet, carrying their wounded. Some thirty remained lying amidst the dunes.
They made their way down the beach, grateful for a temporary lull in the air attack; the Germans seemed to be refuelling. But if the dunes had been bad, the beach was worse. There was no wind, and the evacuation had now been going on for some four days, with no time to bury the dead or dig latrines.
‘God,’ Fergus remarked. ‘Have you ever smelt anything like it?’
‘Yes,’ Murdoch told him. ‘In the trenches, in 1915.’
The MP was marching in front of them, down the slope towards the sea, where they were to join an already existing line of men. They took their places behind these, the officers moving back to the rear of their own column, to urge the men on and make sure there were no stragglers.
‘You really should go first, Sir Murdoch,’ Rostron said, and grinned. ‘You don’t want to forget you’re a civilian.’
‘That means I’m doubly expendable,’ Murdoch said.
He stood between Ian and Fergus, watched General Alexander stamping across the sand towards them. ‘Won’t be long now, Sir Murdoch,’ he said. ‘I imagine you’ll be glad to get home.’
‘Why, yes,’ Murdoch said. ‘I’ll see you there, I hope.’
‘So do I,’ Alexander said debonairly, and marched off to speak with the next column. Poor devil, Murdoch thought; as commander of the evacuation he would have to be the last man on the beach.
They listened to the drone of the planes returning. The men looked up, and one or two left the ranks.
‘Steady there, lads,’ Rostron called. ‘This is your only way out.’
Murdoch felt an odd sensation, looked down, and realized he was up to his ankles in gentle surf. The column actually was moving, although it hardly seemed obvious.
‘Oh, Christ,’ Fergus muttered, and he looked along the beach. A Messerschmitt was flying low, strafing. The sand erupted to either side of the bullets, as if a giant drill was coming towards them. The dragoons watched it, and the plane passed not more than fifty feet over their heads. Its cannon had cut a neat swathe through the column, and five men were lying in the shallow water. One was alternately screaming and choking.
Stretcher-bearers hurried forward; two of the casualties were only wounded.
‘Sheer bloody murder,’ Ian growled, echoing Rostron.
They were up to their knees, and then another aircraft was swooping low. Now the water itself was leaping as though under the impact of heavy rain. Murdoch watched it coming closer. One never hears the bullet which kills one. The oldest essential piece of knowledge in the business. But one can watch it coming. He felt no pain, just a sudden deadness in one of his legs, and then a shortness of breath and he was under the water.
Hands grabbed him and brought him back to the surface, and he realized he was in Ian’s arms. ‘Okay, Dad, okay,’ Ian said.
Murdoch rested on his son’s shoulder, put his legs down. One had no feeling and he nearly fell again, and Fergus caught his other arm. He watched the water around him discolouring with blood. But now they were nearly up to one of the boats, and hands were helping the men in front of them on board. ‘Get on,’ he told Fergus. ‘I’ll be all right.’
‘Yes,’ Ian told his younger brother. ‘Get on.’
‘We’ll get on together,’ Fergus said. They were against the boat now, and he was being drawn up. He turned to reach down. ‘Give me your hands, Dad.’
‘Sorry, soldier,’ said the fisherman. ‘We’re full.’ There were men lying or sitting on every inch of deck.
‘But...that man is wounded,’ Fergus shouted.
‘So are a lot of the chaps on board,’ the fisherman said. ‘There’ll be another boat along in a minute.’
The engine was already growling and the propeller turning. Murdoch saw Fergus making ready to jump back into the sea. ‘Don’t be a chump,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll be all right. Stay with your men.’
Fergus hesitated, and the trawler drew away.
‘Let’s hope he’s quick,’ Ian said. ‘The next bloke.’
Murdoch agreed; there was an awful lot of blood in the water. Talk about stuck pigs, he thought.
There were more men behind them now, waiting patiently. ‘Looks like you’re hurt, mate,’ one of them said.
‘Yes,’ Ian and Murdoch said together.
‘Here he comes,’ said another, and they saw a once sleek fifty-foot motor cruiser approaching. A Messerschmitt saw it too, and came screaming down, but its bullets missed on this occasion and then the yacht was up to them.
‘Let’s hurry,’ said the man in a blue jacket and white yachting cap. ‘That chappie may come back.’
‘Take the General,’ Ian gasped.
There were three men on board the yacht. Two of them grasped Murdoch’s arms, while Ian and another man pushed from underneath, and they got him on deck.
‘Bandages,’ said the skipper. ‘He’s hurt.’
‘So’s this one,’ said the soldier, and Ian was passed up. Murdoch sat up, to look from the rent in his trousers through which blood was seeping to the mass of blood that was Ian’s tunic. His heart constricted, and he reached for his son’s hand.
‘Bloody cold, once you’re out of the water,’ Ian said, and died.
*
‘Oh, Murdoch,’ Lee said. ‘Oh, Murdoch!’
He smiled at her from the hospital bed. ‘I made a right cock-up of everything, didn’t I?’
She wore black, and even her make-up couldn’t hide the tear stains or the dark shadows. ‘You fought like Murdoch Mackinder. All the papers are full of how you defeated that German armoured column.’ She sighed. ‘And Ian fought like your son.’
‘Fergus?’
‘Fergus is fine. But feeling so guilty at having left you.’
‘Neither of us realized Ian had been shot too,’ Murdoch said. ‘I am so proud of those boys. How is Annaliese taking it?’
‘Remarkably well. She keeps looking at young Ian, as though she can see his father. The odd thing is, he looks just like you. I have a suspicion she’s actually suffering from shock. But I guess she’ll get over it.’
I wonder, Murdoch thought. Problems ahead. But when were there no problems ahead? ‘We’ll have to tell her both her parents are dead.’
‘Both?’ Lee frowned at him.
Murdoch told her.
‘Holy Jesus,’ she said. ‘When that gets in the papers...“British general kills German general in duel”...’
‘It’s not going to get into the papers,’ Murdoch told her.
‘That would be a betrayal of young Paul.’
‘Um. He stood by and watched his mother shot.’
‘I know. I think he was confused, and dominated by his father. And he’s a Nazi. But he’s courageous, and he’s honest. And he saved my life.’
‘And for that, I’ll always love him. I guess you have reason to be proud of all your sons. I’ve heard from Harry.’
‘Brother or son?’
‘Son.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Murdoch, he’s joined the United States Army.’
Murdoch turned his head.
‘Fact,’ she said, and squeezed his hand. ‘He is a Mackinder, after all.’
‘A doughboy,’ Murdoch said. But he grinned. ‘I’ll write him.’
‘Oh, Murdoch, will you? I’d be so happy.’
Sister came in. ‘I’m afraid your husband will really have to
rest now, Lady Mackinder.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Lee got up, hesitated, flushed. ‘I saw young Bert,’ she said. ‘He’s on leave down in the village. I’m terribly sorry about Jennie.’
‘So am I. About everything.’
She gazed at him. ‘I loved that girl, Murdoch. Did you?’
He looked into her eyes. ‘I think I probably did.’ He found her fingers again. ‘An old man’s madness. Can you forgive me?’
She kissed him. ‘I wanted it to happen, I think. For both your sakes. I...I didn’t want her to die.’
‘Neither did I,’ Murdoch said. Neither of them, he thought.
*
It was not every day the Prime Minister visited a hospital; Sister was in a panic of straightening sheets, and patients.
‘Are you comfortable?’ Churchill asked.
‘I was, until it was learned you were coming,’ Murdoch said.
‘How long are you going to be here?’
‘Another week.’
‘And then there’ll be convalescence,’ Churchill remarked.
‘Yes. But not too long. The thigh was really only gashed by the bullet.’
‘Good. We need you, Murdoch.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re giving me a command?’
‘Of what?’ Churchill asked. ‘Oh, everyone is calling Dunkirk a miracle. So it was, a miracle of guts and hard work. But it was also one of the most resounding defeats ever suffered by the British army. We got off more than three hundred thousand men, two thirds of them British, the rest French and Belgian. But we left all our equipment behind.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ Murdoch said. ‘But those men are battle hardened, Winston. They know we can lick the Nazis, given the equipment.’
‘So do I. But we have to gather the equipment. That’s going to take a long time. Meanwhile, Hitler is master of Europe. You’ll have heard France has surrendered?’
‘I heard,’ Murdoch said. ‘It’s us against the field now, is it?’
‘It was like that against Bonaparte, and we won. We have our ideas. We can’t let that man sleep easy, Murdoch. I can’t put an army into the field against him, right now, but I can certainly prick him as often as possible. And there are sufficient people in the occupied countries who want to help us to do that. Will you take command of that operation?’
The Command Page 45