Voices: Now or Never

by Bali Rai

“Stuff honour,” said Private Smith. “That nonsense just gets you killed. Come on!”

  25

  We waded out until the water was at our shoulders. Sid kept his arms aloft the entire time, flashing his torch on and off. We must have stood like that for forty minutes or longer, but none of the rowing boats were drawn to us. Yet, we were not deterred. Other men were being rescued, and we would simply have to wait our turn.

  “The batteries will die before they come,” Sid complained.

  “If your arms are tired,” I said through chattering teeth, “I could hold the torch instead?”

  The water was cold and briny, and occasionally a surge would cause it to enter our mouths. I ended up with seaweed and other stuff in my hair and on my face. A light mist had settled over us, too, and it made things more difficult.

  “Wait!” said Sid.

  He turned his torch to full beam. I heard splashes, perhaps thirty yards away. And then saw three flashes of light.

  “Over here!” Sid yelled. “This way!”

  He grinned at me.

  “Yes!” he said. “This is it, Khan!”

  A white dinghy appeared, steered by a lone rower.

  “Are you there?” he called out.

  “Here!” Sid and I shouted in unison. “We’re here!”

  The man turned his light towards us and we were momentarily blinded.

  “I’ve got you,” he shouted back. “Hang on!”

  Sid looked at me with a grimace.

  “Hang on?” he said. “What does he think we’ve been doing?”

  Sid babbled on, perhaps overwhelmed at the thought of being rescued. I was not so positive. After my two previous experiences, I held my emotions in check. This time, I would wait until we reached English soil before truly believing again.

  The dinghy seemed to take an age to reach us, but once it did, the man was only too pleased to help us aboard. However, he was very young and dressed in civilian clothes, and not what we had expected.

  “Hello lads!” he said. “Connor Bridges at your service.”

  “Private Khan,” I replied. “Delighted to meet you.”

  “Sid from Tooting,” said Private Smith. “It’s cold!”

  Connor grinned.

  “Glad to see your sense of humour ain’t failed,” he told Sid.

  “You don’t look like Navy,” Sid replied. “Where’s your uniform?”

  The young man removed his cloth cap and chuckled.

  “Ain’t got one,” he said. “I’m a fisherman, from Margate.”

  “So, what the hell are you doing here?” asked Sid. He looked amazed.

  Connor shrugged.

  “My dad heard they needed boats for the evacuation, so we came to help,” he explained. “There’s me, Dad and my Uncle Pat. We’ve done one trip already. Thought we’d try again.”

  “You’re evacuating men?” I said. “As civilians?”

  He looked at me and nodded.

  “You ain’t the same as ’im,” he said, nodding towards Sid. “Where you from then?”

  “India,” I replied. “My unit evacuated the day before yesterday and I was left behind.”

  “India?”

  “Yes,” I told him.

  “Blimey,” he said. “There’s a Hindu gentleman does palm readings on the pier, but I’ve never spoken to him. You’re the first proper Indian I’ve ever met. You a soldier?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m with the Royal Indian Army Service Corps.”

  “Oh right,” the lad said. “Like, helpin’ out?”

  “Something like that,” said Sid. “How big is your old man’s boat?”

  “Big enough,” said Connor, with a certain pride. “We took fifteen blokes back earlier. It was a bit tight, but we made it.”

  “That’ll do us!” Sid told him. “How many more men you taking?”

  “I can take a few more,” Connor told us. “But not many.”

  He rowed on, rescuing five more men from the water, and then he turned around.

  “This dinghy is for six,” he explained. “I can’t risk it.”

  “How long to the boat?” asked Sid.

  “Fifteen minutes at most,” said Connor. “We’re just off the shallows.”

  “And how many men on board already?” Sid added.

  “Dunno,” he said. “Depends on how many Uncle Pat finds.”

  He checked a small compass by torchlight, before steering the dinghy in the right direction. Sid and another soldier lit the way using their torches. Time slowed yet again, but without the threat of German planes I was far more relaxed. Eventually, we closed in on the fishing boat. It was tiny and crammed with men and was battered and worn. Connor’s father helped us aboard before giving me a funny look. He was a big man and reminded me of Milligan. His face was weathered, and his left hand was missing its little finger.

  “You one of ours?” he asked in a gruff voice.

  “He is,” Sid said on my behalf. “Indian Corps. Why, is that a problem?”

  Connor’s dad shook his head.

  “No, friend,” he said. “Just wondered. I’m Danny Bridges. Pleased to have you aboard.”

  He pointed at his brother.

  “That’s Pat,” he told us. “He’s got jumpers and blankets, and tea somewhere. Might be a few biscuits too. We’re setting off now, so we should be in Dover soon enough.”

  I looked up at him.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” I said.

  “It’s no bother,” Danny replied. “It’s my duty, Private. Hold tight though, the sea’s a bit choppy tonight.”

  Sid and I sat together on the tiny crowded deck, as the little boat bobbed along, taking us to safety. The other rescued men sat close by, and we shared a few jokes. No one pointed out my ethnic origin, nor cared that I was service corps and not combat ready. We were all one, shattered and thirsty, relieved and hungry, heading to the English mainland.

  In the end, the short journey was uneventful, almost serene, which was both welcome and surprising considering what had gone before. We had been through hell together, all of us with stories to tell, yet I wondered whether mine would be heard.

  I had begun my journey with high hopes and naïve ideas of honour and duty. Dreams of following in my beloved Baba’s footsteps, earning glory through service, and experiencing the camaraderie and loyalty of military life. The child in me had even yearned for medals and perhaps a touch of recognition.

  But my time in France had put paid to that innocence. For the first time, I had learned of my place in the pecking order of British India. I was one place above my unfortunate mules. Almost as bestial in the eyes of my supposed masters, almost as expendable. Almost as voiceless.

  Yet, as we said goodbye to Connor and his family, and disembarked at Dover’s Eastern Pier, I was not once deemed an outsider, nor lower than my peers. I was treated with compassion and warmth by the Bridges, and then the ordinary folk of the town, and given my share of sandwiches and tea. This reception warmed my heart, and something dawned on me. Everyday people like Connor and his family, and those in Dover, were no different to me, nor the regular soldiers with whom I shared the journey ‘home’. We were the cannon fodder that Sid had spoken of on our first meeting. Lillian’s pawns, being shunted around a board with no thought for our lives. Above us, on a social hierarchy they had created, sat senior officers and politicians, kings and emperors. They made the orders and we were expected to follow. The colour of our faces, the gods to whom we bowed, the food we ate or did not eat – none of that meant anything. We were the same.

  Later, Sid and I, separated from our own units, watched as those in regiments marched off together towards Dover Marine train station.

  “Not for me,” he said as he watched them leave. “I’m done with this hell.”

  “You will not return to your regiment?” I asked.

  “Probably,” he said after some thought. “But only because they’ll court martial me if I don’t. Besides, after the fiasco we
’ve just experienced, they’ll be enlisting men, never mind allowing them to decommission.”

  “So, what will you do?” I asked.

  “Who knows, friend?” he replied. “Right now, I want a pint of ale, a bath and a bed.”

  We sat a while longer, just watching the world go by. The sense of tranquillity and lack of danger was as welcome as it was unusual. A group of young women stopped when they saw us, handing out packets of cigarettes, chocolate and more sandwiches. Sid engaged in idle chat with them, grinning at me every few moments. Then an older woman appeared, pushing a small, two-wheeled cart. She opened it and took out two bottles.

  “It’s only mild,” she told us, “but you look like you could use it.”

  I began to tell her that I didn’t drink, but Sid elbowed me in the ribs.

  “What my Indian brother means,” said Sid, “is that he can’t drink it now. He’s got a train to catch.”

  “Oh, rest a while,” said the woman. “The bleedin’ army can wait.”

  Sid took both bottles, putting one aside, and opening the other by holding it against the metal edge of a wooden box and pushing down with some force. The ale gushed out in an eruption of light brown froth. He placed the bottle to his lips and drank quickly.

  “I needed that,” he said, blowing out his cheeks and belching. “You want some?”

  “I cannot,” I reminded him.

  “You sure?” he said, pretending to look around. “No one’s watching.”

  I looked at the bottle and thought of Baba and the stories he’d told me. The things he had seen and done that would scandalise our neighbours. But I was my own man now, and I did not want to drink.

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  We heard footsteps approaching, alongside a tapping sound. A senior officer, walking with a cane, despite having no limp. He carried a clipboard in his other hand.

  “What are you chaps doing?” he asked.

  Sid smiled.

  “Not dying, sir,” he replied. “Despite the government’s best efforts.”

  The officer raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ll let that go for today, Private,” he replied. “But only once. You need to get yourselves to Dover Marine and find trains to your barracks.”

  I shook my head.

  “But I do not know where my company went, sir,” I said. “I was separated from them.”

  The officer nodded.

  “RIASC?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” He checked his records, flipping through a few sheets.

  “Company 32, under Captain John Ashdown,” he told me. “Aldershot barracks.”

  He turned to Sid.

  “What about you, Private?”

  Sid grinned.

  “Don’t worry about it, me old mucker,” he said. “I know exactly where I’m going.”

  The officer shrugged and walked away, tap-tap-tapping his cane.

  “Where will you go?” I asked.

  “Oh, I reckon they can wait,” said Sid. “I’m off home to see me old mother. Why don’t you come along?”

  I shook my head and thought of seeing Mush once again.

  “I cannot,” I told him. “Hukum Hai.”

  At Dover Marine, Sid’s train to London arrived first. He turned and held out his hand.

  “Been a pleasure, Fazal,” he said.

  I took his hand and placed my other on his shoulder.

  “I owe you a debt of gratitude,” I told him. “It will remain with me until I die.”

  “Well,” said Sid, “if you’re ever in Tooting Broadway, look me up. Sidney Smith of Himley Road. Everyone knows me.”

  I nodded.

  “And, if you’re ever in Rawalpindi…” I began.

  “Oh, behave yourself, mate!” he joked, before growing serious. “Take care, Fazal. You’ve been a good friend.”

  “You too, Sid,” I replied. “I would not be here without you.”

  My train arrived ten minutes later and was packed to the rafters. I found a spot beside some engineers who were drunk and boisterous, and having lots of fun. And, as the train chugged away from Dover, I closed my eyes and dreamt of home.

  EPILOGUE

  March 1944

  I had run away before dawn, and I returned at the same time. The lane was silent, the carriage driver I’d hired in Rawalpindi having departed. A stray dog foraged amongst some bushes and I heard the reassuring buzz of insects. The sound of home. It was warm and humid, a welcome relief after years of dull and cold weather.

  At the gates of my family home, I hesitated. I was unsure of the welcome that awaited, and whether it would be a welcome at all. Perhaps my years away had hardened my parents against me. Perhaps their anger would override their relief at finding out that I had survived. I had considered writing to them many, many times since Dunkirk, yet had not done so once. I don’t know if the cause was shame or pride, but something prevented it.

  After saying goodbye to Sid Smith, I re-joined Company 32 in Aldershot, before we were sent north to a place called Ashbourne in Derbyshire. We stayed for many months, Mush and I, even enjoying a visit from King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, before moving on again. We next found ourselves in Brecon, Wales, with new animals and new tasks. The new mules retained their voice boxes, and often their braying became grating. Each time one of them cried out, I thought of my silent comrades and how they had been left behind.

  Not once did we return to the battlefront, even though we trained just in case the order came. It was a relief after France, but soon the calm and the endless repetition of duties made me homesick. I had come to Europe to find glory, not to become a glorified herder of animals.

  Then Mush fell ill with pneumonia and died. In my backpack was a grainy photograph, taken and developed for me by a kind local newspaperman. It showed nine grey headstones, each inscribed in Urdu and English, set against a darker grey wall and surrounded by snow-flecked grass. The one to the forefront read “Mushtaq Ahmed” and gave details of his service and the date of his passing – October 19th, 1942. I vowed to deliver it to Mush’s family, should I ever make it back to India.

  The rest of my time in Britain passed through a haze of duty, training exercises and many tears. Captain Ashdown was gone, having been disciplined for breaking the order at Dunkirk. Mush was gone too, his dreams of a better life for his family dashed in the cruellest of circumstances. Imagine surviving the hell of Dunkirk, only to be undone by wet and cold weather in a strange country so far from home? Each time I thought of my dear friend, my heart broke.

  Finally, in January 1944, what was left of Force K6 was disbanded and ordered back to India. I was eager to leave, despite having met many wonderful British people. My thoughts turned back to my own country, and to my family. I had embarked on a great adventure but learned many harsh and soul-destroying lessons. I did not find the glory I craved. I did not feel that I had followed in Baba’s footsteps. My nightmares were filled with senseless and brutal deaths, and the horrors of Dunkirk. Mostly they involved the incessant and pitiless droning of those Stukas.

  I heard a lock being undone, a latch being lifted. As the tall wooden gates swung open, my heart thumped inside my chest and my stomach churned. My parents stood before me, weeping, their faces showing only relief.

  “You have come home, son,” said my mother, holding out her hand.

  I took it and nodded.

  “Yes, mother,” I replied. “I am home now. It was my duty to return. Hukum Hai.”

  My Mother nodded and led me inside, as my father closed the gates behind me.

  AUTHOR NOTE

  In 2005, I began to research the role of Indian soldiers during both world wars. Being of Indian heritage, I knew that India had participated, but I was shocked to discover the true extent of that role. That early research resulted in a novel called City of Ghosts, published in 2009. But my interest in the role of India in the world wars did not end there. The more I read, the more I discovered, the more frustrated I became.


  Born and schooled in England, I wanted to know why I had never been taught about the brave service of so-called “empire soldiers” – from India, the Caribbean, Africa and many other places. Where were the memorials, the plaques, the photographs and the film footage? More importantly, where was mention of these brave men and women when Remembrance Day came each year?

  The British Armed Forces have always remembered and celebrated the role of non-white personnel. The Imperial War Museum, in particular, took a lead in highlighting the roles of these people. However, there was little shown in the media and even resistance from some people who claimed that the role of non-white troops was overblown, a result of “political correctness”, and in some cases, made up.

  Fast forward to 2017, when the film Dunkirk released, and a furore began. Some argued that the film ignored the role of non-white service personnel. Others claimed that there weren’t any non-white participants. The latter is entirely untrue. There were many non-white personnel at Dunkirk – specifically members of the Royal Indian Army Service Corps (RIASC). These predominantly Muslim personnel were mule corps, or muleteers, responsible for supplying the lines and transporting resources across France during the vicious winter of 1939 into 1940. They performed a difficult and vital task, whilst many thousands of miles from home, for an Empire that had taken their lands and their rights. Then, in May 1940, they were sent to Dunkirk – only to be betrayed.

  One man, their British officer, ignored a shameful order to leave non-military personnel behind at Dunkirk. His name was Captain John Ashdown (father of British politician, Paddy Ashdown) and alongside his muleteers, he is an unsung hero of World War Two. Fluent in Urdu and Punjabi and with a deep love for India, John ensured that his personnel were evacuated. He was court-martialled for his brave and honourable actions – although that ruling was later rescinded – and his heroic service has remained widely unknown. I hope that my story will help to change that and am grateful to John’s son Mark Ashdown for providing greater detail about his father.

  What of the muleteers after Dunkirk? Well, most were initially stationed in Derbyshire, where the King and Queen paid them a visit. From there, they were sent to various parts of the UK, and most did not take part in military action again. Sadly, some died, and were buried in cemeteries across Wales and Scotland, in particular. You can still visit their headstones today. All in all, approximately one thousand non-white personnel were evacuated from Dunkirk, although their mules were not so fortunate.