Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘That’s probably why the refugees have dried up,’ offered Sandy. He felt in his pocket for the whistle.

  The senior RE officer who had placed the charges on the bridge walked up and joined them. ‘About time to let her blow, then. Don’t you think?’

  Sandy nodded and the rain that had been collecting on his helmet dropped in one big mass in front of his eyes. He placed his whistle to his lips and in no time the two Bren gun crews were scrambling across to join them.

  The bridge gave a satisfyingly loud bang. Debris continued to drop for nearly one minute. Tiny pieces tinkled on Sandy’s helmet. He was sufficiently far removed from the danger zone, crouched in a trench with the two other officers.

  ‘Oh, nice one!’ said the junior of the two, enviously.

  The senior officer looked proudly at the rubble. The dead cow, now deflated, drifted off down the canal.

  17:32 Sunday 26 May 1940.

  RAF Biggin Hill, Kent

  Ginger’s head was splitting. He reached into his flying suit and pulled out two half-crowns and a three-penny bit and proffered them to the taxi driver.

  ‘There’s no charge. Really, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you. Are you sure?’ The driver nodded so Ginger thrust forward one of the coins. ‘At least have a drink on me.’

  ‘I’ll drink to your health, sir. I’ll do that.’

  Ginger tugged the parachute from the taxi and walked slowly through the puddles up to the main gate. A faint red light glowed within the guardhouse. It was the only light to be seen on the base.

  The ground crews stood in a series of anxious knots just inside the main hanger. On dryer days they would have waited beside the control tower but now they were sheltering from the driving rain. It would soon be dusk and they were casting regular glances into the darkening sky. Ginger’s own rigger and fitter had given him up many hours before, after the costly first sortie of the day. They were now down the pub and bitching about their lost aircraft.

  There was no one in the briefing room and the mess was deserted, aside from LAC Williams who stood behind the bar polishing glasses. Ginger declined the offer of a whisky and walked towards his quarters. After a quick wash and a change into suitable clothes for the mess, he made his way to the canteen and downed two cups of tea in succession. His head was beginning to feel better.

  He was wiping the remains of his egg, chips and beans with a slice of buttered bread.

  ‘Ah, so you have returned. Welcome back, Steele.’

  ‘It’s Wood, sir, Neil Wood.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow. Neil would what?’

  ‘No, I’m Pilot Officer Wood, sir.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, yes,’ said Group Captain Nugent. ‘I remember. From the Midlands aren’t you? Liverpool or somewhere.’ The lanky officer’s right eye twitched and his moustache followed suit.

  ‘Solihull, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well, whatever. Better come and have a debrief.’

  Ginger stepped through the blackout curtain and made his way to the control tower. Blue Section came in first. Then came Green, White, the remains of Yellow, and finally the two survivors of his own Red Section. He recognised the Canadian, Clouston. His friend taxied across the grass.

  ‘Oh, bugger! Did I miss the Six O’clock News?’ Squadron Leader Nigel Saunders, or Bonzo to his friends, sauntered into the mess. He seemed disappointed to see Ginger.

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir. There wasn’t much today.’

  ‘Well, fill us in. Fill us in.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Ginger. He tried not to appear nervous. ‘General Ironside is the new Commander-in-Chief, Home Forces. No new developments on the BEF front, but loads of RAF stuff, sir.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Successful bombing raids on Germany and Belgium and France.’

  ‘And Fighter Command?’

  ‘Well, they said it was a quiet day, sir. Over forty Huns shot down with the loss of four of ours.’

  Bonzo sniffed with contempt. ‘What else?’

  ‘That’s it really, sir. Oh, they’re evacuating all the kids from the South coast.’

  LAC Williams hovered. ‘Yes, my usual please, Williams,’ said the Squadron Leader. ‘How about you?’ He nodded towards Ginger’s half-consumed pint glass.

  ‘I’m fine, sir. Thanks.’

  There was an awkward silence and they both sat listening to the wireless. The Rendezvous Players were performing their antics from All Saint’s Parish Hall in Bristol.

  ‘You’re that new replacement chap aren’t you?’ He seemed to see Ginger for the first time. ‘Thought we lost you this morning.’

  ‘My engine seized, sir. I got a cannon shell in the cylinders but managed to bring her back to…’

  ‘Buffy, you bastard!’ Bonzo swivelled in his chair. ‘You owe me a drink for that one-oh-nine on your tail.’

  ‘Fuck off! I had him banged to rights from the first.’

  The mess started to fill up as the rest of the squadron, having washed and changed, strolled loudly in. Clouston nodded to Ginger but was waylaid at the bar.

  Ginger wondered why Clouston was so readily accepted by this squadron of toffs. Perhaps it was because he was a colonial and, thus, exempt from the prevailing class system. There were two main reasons why Ginger had not been accepted. Until a few short months before, he had been a sergeant pilot. This made him feel like a slum-dwelling scholarship boy at a great public school. It also felt as if he had mistakenly wandered into the sixth form common room. He was the youngest person on the squadron by ten years. So haughty and distant were the other pilots that Ginger could barely comprehend their lofty world, nor wish to.

  To enter an Auxiliary Air Force squadron, such as the one Ginger now found himself attached to, had required a sizable income before the war and a keen interest in fox hunting and other nob sports. Auxiliary squadrons were seen as the RAF’s equivalent of the Army’s territorial regiments, with the exception that membership was often by invitation only. It was not uncommon for potential applicants to be invited to lunch and plied with copious quantities of alcohol to see if they let slip their veneer of gentlemen. It was a well know fact that Auxiliaries were gentlemen pretending to be officers, while Regulars were officers pretending to be gentlemen. Volunteer Reserves were said to be neither.

  Ginger had joined the Reserves early the previous year for the free flying lessons. By the time he had 200 hours under his belt he had been given the opportunity of a short, temporary attachment to a Regular RAF squadron. He had liked it so much that he had transferred in March and been promoted to Pilot Officer, the lowest rung on the commissioned ladder. Ginger was only too well aware of the other reason why he had not been accepted. He was not expected to survive very long.

  Ginger decided to telephone his mum.

  ‘Neil, my boy! Your Mum will be thrilled.’ Ginger’s dad, a county council surveyor, was proud as Punch of his son, a grammar school boy, now an officer and a fighter pilot.

  ‘Neil, darling!’ His mother grabbed the receiver. ‘How are you? Are you looking after yourself? Are you getting enough to eat, and enough sleep?’

  ‘Mum, I’m fine. Just a bit tired. We’re up fairly early each day. They keep me on my toes.’

  ‘Simon’s down the Cubs,’ she told him. ‘They had a big parade today. He’ll be so sorry to have missed you. And thanks for that photo. You look so handsome in your uniform. Simon took it to school on Friday. He said the boys in his class finally believed him, that his big brother’s a Hurricane pilot. He wants one of you in your aeroplane next time.’

  Ginger didn’t like to worry his parents unnecessarily. ‘I had a day out at the seaside today,’ he told his mum. ‘Weather wasn’t up to much, though. But I got a good long sleep on the train back.’

  ‘That’s great, darling. The weather’s pretty poor up here, too. Gran’s rheumatism has been playing up.’

  They skimmed the surface of their comparative lives for a few minutes mo
re, and then Ginger made his excuses and replaced the receiver. He strolled back to the mess, hoping to nab Clouston and dissect the morning’s events. A crowd had formed around the sofa where another pilot held court.

  ‘No, I never saw the blighter that bounced me. I’d just given a Dornier a five-second burst when there was this bloody big bang. Next thing I know, I’m coming down like a damn meteorite. I pulled back the stick and closed the flaps and wham! I came hurtling down in this field, right in the middle of a load of bloody sheep. And do you know what? The damn farmer had the cheek to try and charge me for the ones that got squashed. I told him to send the bill to the RAF.’

  Everyone laughed. Ginger moved towards the bar. ‘Another pint, please.’ He pulled a Player’s from the packet and lit the end. He was still trying to get used to the habit and withheld a cough. He recognised the speaker. He had been shot down over France on Ginger’s first ever sortie, and presumed lost. Now he was sitting back on the sofa, a large whisky in hand and still wearing his Irvin, contrary to mess regulations. They obviously made an exception for returning heroes. Clouston sat perched on the arm of a chair, a pint in his hand. He winked at Ginger.

  ‘But how did you get back, that’s what I want to know?’ somebody asked.

  ‘Well, that’s not the half of it.’ The man’s name was Frank somebody, but people were calling him Tiger. He held the pre-war record for the fastest flight across the British Isles, north to south, but Ginger didn’t know that.

  ‘I had the Devil’s own job.’ He raised his hand for silence. ‘You would not believe what I saw. Those bloody Huns! They are deliberately mowing down the refugees to clog the roads and prevent any counter attack. It was just awful. I got a lift from some pongos in a lorry. Then the Ju87s swooped down. There were arms and legs all over the place. Headless bodies, bodiless heads!’

  The speaker curled his lip and then lowered his voice. ‘We came across a little boy. He can’t have been much older than six, or so. He’d had both his legs blown off and his head was terribly burnt. I think he was blind. And you know what one of the men did?’

  No one answered. The mess was silent.

  ‘He pulled out his revolver and shot the kid in the head. Right in front of me! “It’s the kindest thing, sir,” he said. The poor fellow was crying his eyes out.’

  ‘My God! Those people are shits.’ Bonzo spoke.

  ‘I’ll tell you; down on the ground it’s a different story.’ Tiger sneered into his tumbler. ‘You can say goodbye to chivalry and all that rot as far as I’m concerned. From now on the gloves are off. I’m fighting a total war. No mercy.’

  Ginger stubbed out his cigarette and wondered if anybody else felt as frightened and as sick as he did.

  23:15 Sunday 26 May 1940.

  Southern Railways, Dover

  Commander Hector Babbington, RN retired, Binky to his friends, tried to look out of the window of the train. He scratched at the black paint covering the glass but failed to see a station sign. He wanted to get out at Dover Priory, just a short walk from the Castle and headquarters of Operation Dynamo. If he missed his stop, he would find himself in the Western Docks with a difficult walk back up the hill. The train was made up of small, individual London suburban carriages known as dog boxes. More evidence of confusion on the wartime railways. There was no connecting corridor and no damn buffet.

  There was another of those irritating Billy Brown of London Town posters, this one drawing attention to the blackout precautions: I trust you'll pardon my correction, this stuff is here for your protection.’ Beneath the sign, some wag had written: ‘We thank you for the information, but we can't see the bloody station.

  ‘Here, here!’ said Binky.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ asked the man opposite.

  ‘I was just wondering which station that was. I want to get out at Dover Priory.’

  ‘That was Dover Priory,’ said the man helpfully, adding: ‘The previous stop was Kearsney. You have to count the stops from Canterbury. Dover Priory is number seven, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, balls!’ said Binky.

  Despite the blackout precautions, the scale of the confusion at the docks was clear. A small convoy of commandeered Green Line buses sped past him towards the Admiralty Pier, just two hundred yards away. Two military policemen wearing red caps waved their nightsticks and blew whistles. There were ships of a variety of shapes and sizes moored double and triple abreast the quayside. Many looked like they had taken damage. In front of the vessels, on the hard, hundreds of ragged men stood or sat. A number more shuffled down the gangplank of a paddle steamer. Many wore grubby bandages around their heads, arms or legs. The few remaining helmets glittered in the rain. Several men were weeping openly.

  ‘Right, come on, come on.’ A young RNR officer was dividing up the assembled men. ‘Walking wounded into the buses, please. Everybody else, make your way to the station. There’s a train just pulled in and it will take you to safety.’

  Binky walked slowly towards the men. Beneath his mackintosh he still wore the dinner jacket for his supper engagement with Admiral Wake-Walker. By rights, he should be tucking into a leathery steak right now. Instead, he clutched a canvas bag containing a steel helmet, a belt and canvas holster, and a Webley revolver, and the words of the Admiralty duty officer continued to reverberate in his ears. ‘The whole thing’s a shambles, a bloody rout. The Army is bottled up in the area around Dunkirk where they’re forming a defensive perimeter. They’re fighting fierce rearguard actions on all fronts as we speak.’

  ‘Surely not?’ Binky had asked. ‘The entire Expeditionary Force, cut off?

  ‘The whole shooting match, if you’re excuse the pun. Actually, the best guess is that the Navy can lift off about forty-five-thousand.’

  ‘But there’s something in the order of three-hundred-thousand men over there!’

  ‘Yes, well. We’ll be lucky to get twenty thousand off, frankly. The Admiralty reckon we have just two days to do it in. By then, of course, the evacuation will probably be terminated by enemy action.’

  Binky stood frozen to the spot. The laconic duty officer had painted a bleak picture but not one this bleak. The Commander drew a sharp breath. ‘If this is the British Expeditionary Force, the cream of our Army, then God help us all.’

  Day Two

  04:35 Monday 27 May 1940.

  Somewhere on the Escaut Canal, Belgium

  Here is an announcement from the War Office. The Telegraph Service to the British Expeditionary Force in France has been suspended, along with certain curtailments to the Postal Service. This step has been taken because of the present heavy military traffic. The public are notified, therefore, that no telegrams may be sent to the B.E.F., and that Post Offices have instructions to refuse parcels, packets, and registered letters, and all letters over two-ounces in weight. Postal deliveries from members of the B.E.F. are also likely to be reduced in number for the time being.

  ‘I don’t know how you can see to write.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t got much to write about.’

  ‘Why you bothering, then?’

  ‘It’s my last will and testament.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Well, be sure to leave me your ammo, mate.’

  Dawn would soon be breaking through the heavy cloud and the weather was on the mend, not that the men of the rearguard, in this instance 11 Platoon, No.3 Company, 2nd Battalion, Coldstream Guards, could have gotten much wetter. It had been a cold night, and it had been quiet. But now, for the last half hour or more, small sounds of movement could be heard from the far bank.

  ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘What noise?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Sounds like a wireless to me.’ Both men strained to listen. ‘Probably that sod Chalky trying to find the sports results. If that bugger tells me one more time about his try out for Spurs I’m gonna stab him!’

  ‘No, shush! That noise. Sounds like splashing in the water.’ Both men quietly slipped forward the safet
y catches on their rifles and peered apprehensively over the canal bank.

  ‘It’s Mr Mackenzie-Knox. Didn’t expect him to come back so near the bridge.’

  ‘Who goes there?’ demanded the other guardsman, for forms sake, from the lip of the bank.

  ‘It’s me. Your platoon commander.’

  ‘What’s the password?’

  ‘Cock-up.’

  ‘Right you are, sir. Advance and be recognised.’

  ‘I can hardly advance without a hand up, can I?’ The men tugged and Sandy slithered quickly over the bank and plopped like a wet fish into their trench. He gasped for breath. ‘Sergeant Harris and the others are right behind me. Give them a hand, Carter. You, too, Samson.’

  Within minutes, Sandy was slipping out of his wet shirt and PT shorts and rubbing his hair vigorously with a blanket. ‘Hurry up with that tea, Lucas. And put plenty of rum in it. I don’t think I’m ever going to get warm again!’

  ‘There’s half a mug of rum in there, sir. And nice and sweet, too. Best drink it while it’s hot.’ His batman passed the mug over and Sandy gripped it with both hands, smelling the rich, fruity smell of sugar cane.

  ‘You should have taken a bar of soap with you, sir,’ offered Lucas. ‘You ain’t gonna get all that black stuff off your face otherwise, what with virtually no fit water and all.’

  Sandy smeared the burnt cork with the edge of the blanket to no discernable effect. There was a cough at the door and Peter, the adjutant, jumped quickly in.

  ‘No, don’t get up, Sandy. Don’t get up.’ He slipped off his helmet and handed it to Lucas. ‘Timed that rather well, didn’t I? That tea smells delicious.’ He turned towards Sandy with a smile and asked: ‘What do you have for me?’