Once they reached the outskirts of Dunkirk, the carriers were stopped on numerous occasions, but the wounded Sergeant made sure Alexander wasn’t questioned too much. At the last checkpoint, an officious Military Policeman insisted civilians weren’t allowed to proceed further, but the men closed ranks around Alexander's Bren carrier and forced the man to back off, much to the delight of other watching squaddies, some of whom had obviously been on the receiving end of the man’s arrogance. Not wishing to take on a bunch of well-armed, angry-looking soldiers over one civilian, he grudgingly let Alexander through, pretending that was his intention all along. After this, it took a further two hours for the carriers to reach their destination, a series of hastily erected medical tents displaying large red crosses on their canvas roofs, surrounded outside by rows of the less badly wounded.
Alexander helped the Sergeant off and carried him in his arms to the entrance, where a tired yet still smart-looking nurse took over, sending them towards a triage area for assessment. It wasn’t long before a young looking Doctor came over and examined the wound, his white coat already smeared with old blood and indeterminable stains of some kind. His hands were clean, however, and he quickly assessed how badly hurt the Sergeant was.
“You are a lucky man, Sergeant. Shrapnel you say? Well, it’s opened the skin on your belly down to the muscle and must hurt like hell, but it didn’t penetrate further nor puncture your guts. I’ll get an orderly to stitch you up. Apart from a nasty looking scar to boast about, you’ll live to fight another day.” He looked at Alexander. “Do you know how much morphine he’s had?”
“I’ve only had one ampule,” interrupted the Sergeant, “about three hours ago. No need for more, Doctor, I want to keep my wits about me.”
The Doctor nodded, pleased he wouldn’t need to use any more of his dwindling stock of medicines than he needed to. At another end of the tent, a large flap opened and in poured around a dozen soldiers, carrying their bloodied and bleeding comrades, shouting for help. The Doctor patted the Sergeants' shoulder, then rushed off, but not before sending an orderly over to stitch him up. It didn’t take long and, with his belly tightly strapped and padded with clean cloth, Sergeant Streeton called Alexander and his Corporals over for instructions.
“Corporal Fletcher, detail the walking wounded to stay here with me and assign sufficient men to act as stretcher bearers for the others that can’t move about on their own. Once done, the rest of you need to get yourselves over to the Mole outside of the harbour or try your luck on the beaches.”
The Corporal looked as though he would argue about leaving, so Streeton interrupted him.
“This isn't a debating society, Corporal, do as your told and get the able-bodied men away and onto those boats. Don’t worry, we’ll all meet up again at the barracks in a week or so, you'll see.” He extended his hand and the Corporal took it, shaking it briefly. A quick nod and he was off, leaving Alexander alone with the Sergeant.
“Now I know my guts won’t be falling out anytime soon, once the boys get here, let’s try and get ourselves on board one of those ships. Excuse me, Miss,” he called out to a passing nurse, “What’s the procedure for getting the wounded out of here and onto a boat?”
The nurse stopped for a moment and looked at them both before speaking, her eyes staying on Alexander's face for an instant too long, making him feel uncomfortable. He was beginning to realise Vimes had been right and that his skin colour and height were making him stand out in this group. Looking around, he couldn’t see anyone else like him.
“Those too badly injured to be moved will stay here for the Germans, the rest of you will need to try and get on one of the boats. You can get in the wounded queue now or wait until morning to try your luck, the stretchers should get you near the front without too much trouble,” and with that she was off, hurrying over towards where the latest wounded were being shepherded in.
It wasn’t long before the walking wounded from the rest of the Company turned up and together they made for the end of a long queue that they could see snaked out over the bridge and along a long, dirty white wooden jetty which jutted out at the harbours exit. German planes continued to bomb the beaches at intervals, concentrating on the large ships that were docked in the harbour itself or alongside the jetty.
“What do we do, Sarge?” asked one of the men, his arm in a sling, looking nervously at the queue, dark sky and the occasional flash of an explosion. All eye’s turned to the Sergeant.
“It’s late, I’m tired and need to rest, so let’s try and get some sleep away from here. It’s too much of a prime target for my liking.” He pointed over to the low dunes that ran along the beach. “Over there. They should provide some cover and we aren’t too far away and can come back at first light.”
With that, the men slowly made their way over to the dunes and settled down, some digging themselves deeper into the sand with their entrenching spades, acknowledging the other soldiers nearby who had the same idea and were already camped, having arrived there first. Tins of food were handed around and the men ate the contents cold, not wishing to draw attention to themselves from the planes that still flew above, by lighting even a small fire. Sleep would normally have been impossible due to the constant artillery shells, but these men were both veterans and dog-tired, so sleep came relatively easily to them. Alexander was too worked up and despite his best efforts, found sleep elusive, so asked Vimes for help, drifting slowly away as his companion changed his brain waves.
With Alexander finally asleep, Vimes kept a silent watch via the two drones, which continued to send information to him, below the level of Alexander’s consciousness.
The next morning came early, signalled by the arrival of several flights of Stuka dive-bombers which attacked the boats sitting in the harbour that had continued to take on men all through the night. Vimes reported that under cover of darkness the Germans had again moved closer and it would not be long before the harbour and everyone in it would be in real danger of being overrun by them. Alexander had slept well towards the end of the night, the soft sand having moulded and supported his body, so was feeling fresh. Despite Vimes help, he’d awoken several times during the night due to the sound of nearby explosions and had watched parachute flares dropping down slowly out of the clouds, illuminating the beaches for the Germans to attack. Fortunately, the thick smoke helped in obscuring where they had chosen to spend the night. He noticed the wind had changed from the previous day and instead of blowing in off the sea, was coming from the burning town and large oil tanks, bringing clouds of dark smoke that stung his eyes and throat, at times obscuring anything further than fifty yards away. Already, Sergeant Streeton was wide awake and despite his painful stomach wound, was organising his remaining men. Several of the less seriously wounded had already been out scouting for supplies, one coming back with a metal can containing water which was shared around. Alexander declined, as he had his own supply. Rummaging around in his pack, he brought out two ration bars and shared one with the Sergeant, who at first, tentatively accepted it, mumbling something about foreign food, before sniffing the bar and trying a little, then finishing it off quickly.
“That’s an unusual taste, Alexander, what is it?” he asked, not sure that he wanted to know. He’d heard about the French eating frogs legs and snails so part of him wished he hadn’t asked.
“Just something they give us pilots, “ Alexander replied, deciding that a half truth was better than an outright lie. “When shall we head to the mole?”
“Right after the lads have had a bite to eat. It’s still early and through the smoke I can see several ships heading in, although how they will dock with all this muck in the air I don’t know.” He tried moving and gently patted his stomach, “I’m feeling a lot better than yesterday.”
Alexander counted the number of large ships moored alongside the mole. Six so far, with several more he could see coming in through the smoke that had drifted far out to sea. The decks of the already moored sh
ips were awash with tired looking, dishevelled men, many of them sporting hastily bandaged wounds. A distant shout went up and the deck guns opened fire, joined by an occasional rifle crack from the beach, as a number of the Stuka planes appeared again, shrieking as they dropped down towards the moored ships. He watched as the first Stuka pulled up, it’s bomb dropping straight down, only to miss both mole and ship by twenty yards, the plume of dark and muddy water it threw up raining down on the decks and men, soaking them through. Several fists were raised, but the majority were too tired to do anything other than shuffle forward as the crews on board tried to hurry them on.
An hour later found their small group at the mole, having joined the queue a hundred yards back. By now, two further ships had moored alongside it, joining the others and were rapidly filling, the grateful men now moving much faster to the comparative safety of the big ships. Alexander watched as a large fighting ship, which the Sergeant had told him was a Destroyer, slid gracefully past and into the harbour, it’s wake eventually sending small waves crashing alongside the mole.
By midday, they had moved halfway towards embarkation and the frequency of airborne attacks had increased, as had artillery shells coming from inland and the German’s advancing front-line. His drones showed that many more soldiers had arrived during the night and the queues all along the beaches had increased, making Alexander grateful they joined theirs when they had. It looked to him as though the entire British Army was now camped out on these narrow beaches. By now, Alexander was getting used to the sudden appearance of the German bombers overhead and only paid attention when he heard the sirens wail as the Stukas began their dive or when the sound of a falling stick of bombs got too close. There was something unnerving about hearing explosions getting closer and closer, seeing the water spouts stitch their way to his position as the bombs exploded, knowing there was nothing he could do to save himself. He realised his nerves were beginning to fray and he wondered how these men around him managed to cope, especially the Sergeant, who never complained and always had a cheery word or two for anyone that needed it. Time seemed to pass slowly for them all, the only highlight being when a ship departed with its precious cargo and was replaced with another of the seemingly inexhaustible supply coming from England. Seeing one depart was a strange, bittersweet experience for Alexander. Part of him was happy for the soldiers, yet this was tinged with resentment and anger that he and the others had been left behind. These feelings were all new to him and he struggled to reconcile them with anything in his sheltered experience of life.
“You’re being unusually quiet, Vimes, what’s got into you lately?” he asked his companion, the response taking longer than usual to come through.
“I’ve nothing to add, Adam. These are dangerous times for you and unless I have something useful to add, I think it’s best if I keep quiet. Is there anything you specifically wanted to talk about? he asked.
“Never mind, just keep a look out for any bombers that get too close,” and with that, Alexander left Vimes alone, still a little puzzled by his silence.
Time dragged along until mid-afternoon, when Vimes warned him of a large number of bombers coming towards the ships lined up alongside the mole and in the harbour. Unbidden, a thought flashed through his mind about something Hiro had once said to him during a training lesson, “Remember Alexander, if you can see the enemy then they can see you.” Standing on the wooden mole, close to the hulking targets of the ships as they took on soldiers and unable to move, he felt extremely vulnerable and exposed.
Within a short space of time, the shipboard gunners saw the bombers for themselves and began throwing into the sky a curtain of shells, bright tracers guiding their aim. Black puffball explosions began blossoming in the sky above, beautiful to look at at this distance but nonetheless deadly at close range. Ignoring the fire, the bombers began to make their final approach, lining themselves up towards the harbour, mole, and moored ships. He watched the bombs fall, slowly at first then seemingly speeding up as they neared, several passing overhead in a blur. Looking behind him, Alexander watched as a bomb seemed to fall into one of the two funnels of a Destroyer moored alongside the dock, resulting in a large explosion deep in her bowels. Several more landed on or near the ship, and even from this distance, it was obvious to Alexander she was in trouble. Using a drone he zoomed in on the stricken ship, noticing the large letter H and number 86 painted below the superstructure. Near the bow he spotted what he was looking for; the ship’s name, HMS Grenade. On board, men were trying to put out the fires while others were casting off, letting the ship move away from the dock and out into the harbour, not wanting to risk her sinking and blocking a valuable docking space.
Elsewhere, the Stuka bombers were strafing and bombing the beaches in between searching for larger, more valuable targets to hit. Alexander's nerves had begun fraying the previous day, what with the constant shelling and strafing and he was worried about losing his composure. Just how the Sergeant managed it and still had the presence of mind to look after the men under his command, was a mystery to Alexander and worthy of his utmost respect.
In all, there were now ten ships lined up alongside the mole and within a few yards the little unit to which he was unofficially attached would be boarding a medium sized, two-funneled ship called Royal Daffodil, a strange name for something caught up in such a hellish environment. On reaching the head of the line, her crew helped as Alexander and Corporal Hills carried the Sergeant on his stretcher over a rickety gangplank and onto the wooden deck where others directed them to somewhere they could rest. Carrying the stretcher, they were directed along the superstructure to a doorway leading down into the ship. Despite the press of bodies already on board, room was made for their stretcher and each of them was handed a tin mug of sweet, steaming hot tea.
Not resting for a moment, Sergeant Streeton told both Alexander and Hills to go back up on deck and make sure the rest of the men had safely boarded, then come back and report. Despite the crush of bodies, it didn’t take too long for them to locate everyone as they had all sensibly decided to stick close to each other and had found themselves a good position on the ship’s white observation deck. Hills went off to report back to the Sergeant and Alexander took the chance to look back, across towards the beach where they had spent the night. The space they had occupied was now taken with more soldiers, many of them French and looking just as despondent as the British.
He looked left, over across towards the harbour. Several ships were on fire and the seriously damaged HMS Grenade was being towed out of the harbour by a smaller, yet powerful looking boat obviously rigged for fishing. Although his sight was blocked by the harbour and plumes of dense, black smoke, Alexander used one of his drones to get an overview, it’s sensors cutting through any obstruction. For at least a mile in each direction, all that could be seen were thick crowds of men and abandoned machinery lining the roads into the town and on the beaches. Numerous shipwrecks of different sizes could be seen close to the shore, with several beached on the sand and usefully providing cover for quite a few soldiers who were sheltering from the merciless Stukas by huddling alongside their hulls. Looking further afield, he could see the British and French defensive lines, stubbornly holding out against the German war machine, buying their comrades time to escape, no doubt often at the expense of their own lives or freedom.
Such selfless bravery seemed a glorious expression of the human spirit to Alexander, yet at the same time, the sheer waste and ultimate futility of it all weighed heavily on his sense of what was right. The extreme contradictions in behaviour he had witnessed in just two days were hard for him to reconcile with anything he’d previously experienced, leaving him to question everything he thought he knew about humanity and filling him with a greater appreciation of how his father had managed to keep the Empire peaceful.
A shouted, “More of the bastards heading this way,” from someone on the other side of the ship, brought Alexander's attention back to the here and n
ow. Six Stukas had appeared out of the smoke, obviously heading towards their position. A Destroyer was steaming out of the harbour channel at full speed, throwing up a white wake as it’s bow cut through the water, heading towards the approaching planes. Alexander saw, then heard the small guns dotted around her deck open fire and cheered along with everyone else when one of the planes flipped over and arced down, oily smoke trailing behind before it smacked into the sea and disintegrated without exploding. The remaining planes continued on, beginning their horrid shriek as they descended. From his position on deck, it looked as though two had aimed themselves directly at him and Alexander felt his sidearm twitch as a large part of him wanted to fire at the descending planes, his body sending out mixed messages to the weapon.
“Steady, Alex,” the calming voice of Vimes spoke in his head, a gentle wave of calm flowing through him as Vimes steadied his nerves. “They’ll miss this boat. I’ve calculated the trajectory.”
Seconds later, the bombs were released and exploded not far from the ship, throwing up large waterspouts of dirty brown water and mud from the harbour bottom. The gentle vibration under his feet began to grow and Alexander could hear orders for the crew to cast off and prepare for sailing. Not long afterwards, the prow began to swing out and the deck vibrations increased as the Captain moved his ship slowly away from the Mole and waiting men, not wanting the backwash to make their lives any more miserable than they were now by soaking them. Two minutes later and the ship was far enough away for the Captain to increase speed, the vibrations increasing along with a gentle swaying motion that wasn’t noticeable when moored. In the distance, Alexander watched as the bombed Destroyer, being towed by the smaller ship, wallowed without control, fires burning uncontrollably and parts of the hull glowing a dull red from the fires inside her.
Imperium: Revelation: Book Two in the Imperium Trilogy Page 18