Voices: Now or Never

by Bali Rai

  “No!” I said. “I will defend myself and my comrades.”

  “If they wanted us to fight,” said Mush, “they would have armed us! Instead, we stand around like goats awaiting a pack of wolves.”

  I searched the area for more of my company but did not see anyone.

  “Where’s everyone else?” I asked.

  “Taking cover,” said Mush. “Just like we should be doing.”

  He grabbed my arm and dragged me away, as behind us another huge blast rocked the docks.

  15

  Calm descended as dusk fell. I sat on a hotel lobby floor, my back to a wall. I had been dozing, drifting in and out of a recurrent dream. I’d been back in my village, just south of Rawalpindi, herding water buffalo towards a drinking hole. Despite my not being one, in the dream, I had become a farmer’s son. The sun was high, and lunchtime was upon us, but I still had many tasks to complete. I was thirsty and hungry, and longed for some shade.

  The buffalo moved as one, each leading the other, drawn to the water’s edge. They called out and jostled for position but worked as a team. Each knew every other’s role and they were all able to take a drink. As I watched them, my grandfather approached me. Only he was younger and looked more like my father. He sat beside me and offered me tea, and I was confused because there was no tea.

  “You can survive anything, as long as you have a cup of tea,” he told me.

  “I don’t understand,” I replied.

  “Of course not,” he said. “Now, on the way back, we need to be ruthless with these dumb animals.”

  “Ruthless?”

  My grandfather nodded.

  “There’s not enough for all of them,” he told me.

  “Enough of what?” I asked.

  “Stop talking,” he said, producing a cup of tea and sipping from it.

  I looked around but could not work out where the tea had come from.

  “You must pay attention, my son. Orders are orders.”

  “But…”

  “You see the large ones?” he said, pointing towards the herd. “They are useful. We will allow them.”

  “Baba, please!” I replied. “You’re not making sense.”

  “Listen!” he snapped. “Pick out the weakest. They are useless. We cannot take them.”

  “But they are part of the herd,” I said. “Each buffalo has a role to play.”

  My grandfather looked to the west and shook his head.

  “No,” he replied. “Not today. There’s a storm coming, Fazal, and we must save ourselves.”

  I turned to the west but saw nothing on the horizon, and my grandfather slurped irritatingly at his tea – something he abhorred in others.

  “But, where is the storm?” I asked.

  He cupped an ear and cocked his head to one side.

  “Listen…” he told me. “You can hear them…”

  Almost immediately, the buzzing began. A black cloud appeared in the distance. It drew near at astonishing speed, and I saw that it was made up of hornets. Thousands and thousands of angry hornets. I sprang to my feet and rushed towards the water, but my grandfather did not follow. Instead, he sat there and began to laugh.

  “No point rushing into the water,” he shouted, as the hornets swarmed all around him. “The water cannot save you…”

  I awoke with a start, my entire body drenched in sweat, and cried out,

  “They’re coming!”

  A few of the men stirred, but none woke up. Night had fallen, and apart from occasional voices from outside, there was a welcome and surprising hush. The darkness protected us from further German air raids and gave us time to rest. I stood carefully, trying not to disturb anyone, and made my way outside, stepping over countless sleeping men. Trying to forget my dream.

  On the beaches, it was chilly and breezy. I saw the light of many small fires and men huddled together to keep warm. I wondered if the Germans saw them too, as they waited outside Dunkirk, ready to strike at sunrise. I heard a few shouts of “put them out” but saw very little adherence to that order. Like me, many of the troops seemed resigned to Fate. We would either make it onto a ship and be rescued or die in the attempt. Those were our only options.

  I decided to take a walk, my dream still resonating, and tried to work out what my grandfather had been telling me. But the more I considered it, the less I could comprehend. As I turned off the coastal road, I saw a group of women huddled next to an ambulance. They were nurses, and when they saw me approaching, they smiled.

  “Get some rest, Private,” said one of them.

  She was tall, with brown hair tied in a bun and wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Her expression was friendly and warm, and she seemed to be a similar age to my mother. She held a tin cup of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  “I cannot sleep,” I told her. “Bad dreams.”

  “Seems silly doesn’t it?” she replied. “That in the midst of this waking nightmare, we can still have bad dreams. You’d think the human imagination could not dream up worse than this.”

  “You would,” I told her. “I am Fazal Khan, Company 32, Royal Indian Army Service Corps.”

  The woman held out a hand.

  “Lillian,” she said. “Nurse. Your English is very good.”

  “I learned at school,” I told her. “In Punjab.”

  A cloud passed across her face – perhaps some sad memory – and then she smiled again.

  “I knew a boy from Punjab once,” she said. “He was a Sikh. But that was many years ago, when I was a young nurse. He was brought to Brighton Pavilion during 1915. There were many injured Indians there.”

  “My grandfather also,” I told her. “He was injured at the Somme.”

  “A ghastly business,” she replied. “We thought it could never happen again, and yet here we are.”

  “I do not understand this war,” I admitted. “Why one empire fights another, when both look the same.”

  Nurse Lillian shook her head.

  “Me neither,” she replied. “But that is not our concern, Fazal. We are only pawns in their game and must obey.”

  The other three nurses began to drain their cups and stub out their cigarettes. When Lillian saw them, she sighed.

  “Back to work,” she told me. “No rest for the wicked and all that.”

  “This boy,” I asked, “that you knew in Brighton?”

  Lillian shrugged.

  “Oh,” she said. “He died, I think. I lost contact with him.”

  “You remember him, however?”

  Lillian nodded.

  “He was hard to forget,” she told me. “But enough of that. See you around, Private Khan. Or perhaps not, hey?”

  “I do not understand.”

  Lillian sighed.

  “I’m a nurse, son,” she explained. “If I see you again, you’ll probably be injured or worse.”

  “Ah,” I said. “How silly of me.”

  I walked around in circles for some time, until dawn began to break across the eastern horizon. I had not prayed for some while, so I decided to read Fujr, which is the morning prayer. I strolled down to the sea and began to wash my face, arms, hands and feet. The salty water was cold and gave me a shock, but I did not stop. Although my uniform was unclean, I decided to continue. In any other circumstance, dirty clothes for prayer were forbidden. But I could not afford to become fussy. And I needed the solemnity and reassurance that praying would bring.

  Turning to the east, I raised my hands to my shoulders, palms flat and facing outwards, and began to pray.

  16

  On my return to the damaged hotel, I found Mush and Sadiq drinking tea outside. Their uniforms were as crumpled as mine, and both looked dreadful – exhausted and disillusioned.

  “Where did that come from?” I asked.

  “Captain Ashdown,” said Sadiq. “I’m surprised you were not first in line.”

  I ignored his jibe, turning to Mush instead.

  “Any news on our depart
ure?”

  Mush shrugged.

  “Nothing but tea and a few bars of chocolate,” he replied. “Here, I saved you some.”

  He handed me three small bars of chocolate and a cup. I ate first, polishing off two bars in an instant, before taking my time drinking. The tea was warm and sugary, and very comforting. It added to my mood, already calmed by my walk and my prayer.

  “I’m not sure we can stand another assault like yesterday,” said Mush. “We were lucky.”

  “Did we lose any men?”

  Mush shook his head.

  “That’s what I meant by lucky,” he told me. “It is a miracle.”

  Captain Ashdown stood by the bank that led down to the sand, using field glasses to view the port area. The sunken destroyer blocked one part of the harbour, but the other two had returned and been joined by several smaller vessels. The troops were streaming towards the dock once more, and even without help, I could see that the evacuation continued. It was only a matter of time before the Germans resumed their attack.

  As Captain Morrow joined Ashdown, I made my way towards them, through the massed ranks of Company 32. Ushering greetings to several comrades, I was asked all sorts of questions. Having no answers for any of them, I passed by quickly with a few shrugs and shakes of the head.

  “You must know something?” said one of them, about twenty yards from where the captain stood.

  “No, friend,” I told the man. “There have been no orders yet. Have patience.”

  “How can I be patient?” the man asked me. “We have waited and waited for news.”

  I didn’t know what to say, and as I walked away, the officers made their way down to the sand and began a guarded conversation. I got as close as possible, shielded by other men heading towards the port and a disabled supply truck. And, despite the crowds, I managed to hear some of their conversation.

  “I will not leave these men behind,” said Captain Ashdown.

  “But the orders are clear,” Captain Morrow replied. “We cannot disobey them.”

  Captain Ashdown was enraged, his face red and expression stern.

  “These men have been loyal servants since India,” he said. “Imagine the impact our betrayal will have over there. We brought them here in good faith. We cannot leave them to the Germans. That would be immoral!”

  My heart sank as he spoke, and I realised why we had been left sitting around: command had told Captain Ashdown to leave us behind.

  “They are not front-line personnel!” Captain Morrow continued. “For God’s sake, John, they aren’t even armed!”

  “They supply the lines,” Captain Ashdown retaliated. “They keep the combat troops armed and fed. It was bad enough leaving behind the mules. I will not allow this!”

  Captain Morrow took Ashdown’s arm.

  “Look,” he added. “I agree with you. But we cannot disobey an order. The consequences will be grave. I have to think of my career.”

  “Then you may turn away,” Captain Ashdown told him. “Blame it on me. What good is my career with these poor souls on my conscience?”

  “I cannot be a part of this,” Morrow told him.

  “Fine,” said Captain Ashdown. “When the top brass holds us to account, I will shoulder the blame.”

  Captain Morrow nodded and walked away. As he did so, I returned to Mush and Sadiq, my heart heavy with anger and sadness. How could they contemplate abandoning us? We were four hundred souls. Four hundred sons and husbands, and fathers and brothers. We had come halfway across the Earth to help them, to serve a country and King that had yoked our people. Without a murmur of public protest, we had taken their orders and their insults, and survived the harshest of conditions, and for what? To be cast aside like worthless animals. Like the poor mules we’d left before entering Dunkirk.

  Is that all we were worth to them? Is that all we meant? My mind raced, and my heart pounded faster, and I considered what I should do next. I wanted to run and hide and leave the madness of the evacuation behind. I felt ashamed and embarrassed of my desire to join up, my zeal in serving the British Army, my pride in our now meaningless motto.

  “Hukum Hai?” I whispered to myself. “What about your duty to us, you scoundrels!”

  “What is wrong?” Mush asked me.

  I looked into his eyes, and the rage inside me turned to tears.

  “Dear brother,” he said. “Whatever has happened to you?”

  I took him aside.

  “Walk with me,” I said. “I have news.”

  We wandered away, back into the broken and battered hotel. A beam had fallen through the lobby, crushing the front desk. The walls were charred from fire damage and smoke, and the stairwell blocked by fallen masonry and wood. Evidence of our shelter lay all around – chocolate wrappers, bandages browned with dirt and dried blood, and the smell of a hundred unwashed and weary men huddled together in a space built for a third of that number.

  “They want to leave us behind,” I eventually said.

  “Who?”

  “The people in charge.”

  I knew the ranks of these men in command. I could even picture them, in their medal-laden, pristine uniforms, with impeccable manners and cups of tea. Yet, I could not imagine how such cultured and educated beings could have so little heart and so few morals. I had met starving beggars with more generous hearts.

  “How can you know this?” a shocked Mush asked me. “This is impossible!”

  I shook my head.

  “No,” I replied. “I am certain. Captain Ashdown has refused to follow his orders. Captain Morrow and he were arguing on the beach. I eavesdropped on their conversation. There is no mistake.”

  “But…”

  Mush was shaken. His face grew paler and he struggled to find words. We stood silently for a while, before he spoke again.

  “Those treacherous dogs!” he growled. “I want to tear them apart!”

  “But we can’t,” I said. “We can’t do anything. We will have to trust in Captain Ashdown. He is a good man.”

  Mush snorted.

  “One good man in a nest of a thousand snakes!”

  “There are plenty more good people amongst them,” I replied.

  “Pah!” he said. “Imagine a choice between us and their own people. Imagine us trying to board a ship, taking the place of the white people behind us. Would they be so welcoming then?”

  “Perhaps some of them,” I replied.

  “We have been given our answer, Fazal,” said Mush. “We have been shown our true worth. So, tell me, why should we continue to listen to their orders and do their bidding?”

  “Because Captain Ashdown will save us,” I replied. “And, as of this moment, he is our only hope. Without him, we will be left to the Germans.”

  Mush did not seem convinced.

  “What choice do we have?” I added. “It’s either evacuation to England or capture and possible death.”

  I was right, and that realisation hurt both of us. My faith in my role had been torn to shreds. My trust in the kindness and decency of others ended. It seemed I had reached a point of no return.

  17

  That day brought almost continuous German bombardment. From nine in the morning, until dusk fell just after seven, their campaign was merciless and relentless. Perhaps a hundred planes took part in the raids, in intervals of twenty minutes, exhausting and almost breaking the will of our forces. Or perhaps I would be better saying their forces, for the divide between British and Indian had been made clear to us. Our lowly rank absolutely undeniable. By day’s end, everything had changed. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  “Where the hell is the RAF?” Captain Morrow yelled, as the second wave of German planes appeared on the horizon.

  “They must be tied up,” Sergeant Buckingham replied. “There can be no other explanation.”

  “Tied up?” asked Sergeant Davis. “What in God’s name is more important than this?”

  The officers had gathered next to a mou
nd of rubble that had once been a seafront café. Only one wall remained, the rest blown apart by a bomb. Captain Morrow held a map and pointed to parts of it.

  I was openly listening to every word, no longer concerned about being seen. No longer concerned about their opinion of me. However, the officers paid me no mind, perhaps because the area was so crowded. Perhaps because, like me, they no longer cared either.

  “The Germans have sunk a destroyer here,” said Captain Morrow, tapping the map that flapped about on the wind. “The wreckage has blocked access into the harbour at this point.”

  “Meaning fewer ships can reach the docks,” said Sergeant Davis. “So fewer men can be saved.”

  “They must have a contingency,” Sergeant Buckingham replied. “After all, they must have assumed the Germans would attack. We’re sitting ducks.”

  Captain Morrow shook his head.

  “I’ve given up second guessing Command,” he told them. “It’s utterly pointless.”

  “What about the Indians?” Buckingham added. “Has Captain Ashdown seen sense yet?”

  “No,” said Captain Morrow. “And I doubt he’ll change his mind.”

  Sergeant Buckingham sneered.

  “Must be rather confusing,” he said. “Being English and growing up over there. He’s forgotten which side he’s on.”

  “Enough!” said Morrow. “You may keep your opinions to yourself, Buckingham. I will not listen to them. John Ashdown is a fine soldier and one of the most loyal you will ever find. Do not insult him!”

  “Sir!” said Buckingham, his face flushed with humiliation.

  “And it’s not over there, as you put it,” Morrow added. “India is part of our Empire and we are sworn to defend it. Those men are with us.”

  A wave of Stukas appeared from the south, banking towards the port, but letting loose a few bullets as they passed us. Diving for cover, I caught my knee against some rubble and winced in pain. When the Stukas had passed, I sat up to find Sergeant Davis lying dead.

  “GET A MEDIC!” Captain Morrow pointlessly screamed.

  There was no saving the sergeant, but a passing ambulance stopped anyway, and a couple of nurses jumped out. They tended to Davis, but not for very long.