Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘Come on, sir. Sit yourself down here. Catch your breath and tell us what happened?’

  ‘Thank you, sergeant. Thank you very much.’ The Padre cleared his throat. ‘I was looking for some water. And then a captain, a British Army captain, took a pot shot at me. I won’t repeat what he said. But it looked to me like he was looting. I caught him red-handed, rummaging through someone’s desk.’

  ‘Looting’s a capital offence, sir,’ said the brawny sergeant. The Padre could smell beer on his breath. ‘I’ll go get some of the lads, sir. Do you feel up to showing me where you found him, sir?’

  The Padre nodded. He brushed more dust away and straightened his uniform. The sergeant returned. This time he held a pickaxe handle that appeared little larger than a rounders bat in his hand. They followed the Padre back into the building.

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud! What is your bloody problem?’ The captain held a small leather case in one hand, the revolver in the other. He had been walking back down the first floor corridor when the Padre met him at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Out of my way.’ He tried to push his way past, but the sergeant stepped quickly forward to block the way. The captain’s face grew whiter still. But, before he could raise the pistol, one of the men, equally burly, grabbed the captain in a bear hug from behind, pinning his arms to the side. Suddenly, the pistol rang out and the captain’s face turned instantly red. His eyes screwed themselves tightly shut and he bellowed, a long agonised scream. The sergeant stepped back and watched as a small puddle of blood spread from the captain’s foot.

  ‘Well, that will bloody teach you, won’t it now?’ offered the sergeant. ‘Boland, Lynch! Escort this officer out of the building. Let’s find some redcaps.’

  There were no military police when the Padre and his now extensive party stepped back out into the street.

  ‘How dare you? I am an officer,’ protested the captain between gasps. ‘I’ll have you all courts marshalled!’

  ‘Now why don’t you be shutting your trap, sir?’ The sergeant pressed his face close to the captain’s. At the same time, his boot came down hard on the officer’s bloody foot. ‘That’s one way of saying mind your step, sir.’ But the captain was no longer listening, consumed as he was in a world of pain. Boland and Lynch dragged him towards the crossroads.

  ‘Here’s an officer, sir,’ called the sergeant, taking the Padre by the arm. Propped up on the back of a derelict Bren gun carrier, Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox was studying his route card.

  ‘The turn off to Bergues should be somewhere up here on the right. Let the men have five minutes more, sergeant, and then we shall see if we can find it. Oh, and can we try and find a pillow or something? That wheelbarrow will be the death of me.’ He looked up to see a curious delegation making its way towards him.

  ‘And you witnessed all this, did you, Padre?’ he asked in confirmation some minutes later. ‘You would swear to this in court?’

  The Padre nodded.

  ‘Well, this is a clear-cut case of looting and attempted murder. Sergeant Harris?’

  ‘Sur!’

  ‘Take Samson with you and shoot this fellow. Get his paybook. That courtyard there is as good a place as any.’ He turned to Lucas and called for his wheelbarrow.

  ‘But, but…you can’t shoot him?’ exclaimed the Padre. ‘He must be taken back to England for courts martial. This is barbaric!’

  ‘This is war, Padre,’ Sandy told him. ‘I haven’t got the luxury of carting prisoners all over the place, not even our own. It’s in the book. Clear procedure. You better come along and bear witness. You can also say Last Rites, or whatever it is you do.’

  09:55 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

  Snowdown Station, Southern Railways, Kent

  In the years to come, whenever Margaret felt inclined to grumble or grouse, she would think back to the men at Snowdown Station and she would place her finger to her lips and refrain. Although there had been an element of chaos, and even towards the end a desperate shortage of refreshments, it seemed remarkable how smoothly the first day had progressed. Many of the problems had been basic. For some reason, the emergency doors at the back of the Green Line buses had been locked shut. Not even the drivers had spare keys. This was not so much a problem for the walking wounded as it was for the stretcher cases.

  Even those with legs or arms in plaster casts or splints found it difficult to exit the buses. They had to be carefully manhandled along the centre isle and helped painfully down the three steps at the front. From Margaret’s vantage point, she saw many a man wince with pain but never heard a single protest. It was remarkable, too, how those that helped with the wounded did so with such tenderness and patience. To a casual observer, it might have seemed that the volunteers had been doing this work all their lives.

  As soon as the men were off the bus, those that could rushed towards the buffet in search of tea and soft drinks. Margaret, whose job it was to pass around slices of cake and scones, found herself with little to do initially and was able to stand back and observe. There were soldiers, sailors and airmen from numerous nationalities crowding around the trestle table. Some, like the French sailors, wore exotic red pom-poms on their round blue caps. Others were dressed in the strange pantomime uniforms of colonial Zouaves, Spahis and fez-topped Moroccans. There were many that wore no clothes but draped blankets around their shoulders or their waists. Many had civilian jackets and trousers. Many more stood barefoot on the ashfelt.

  ‘Madam, I really must ask you to stop your ladies using the gent’s toilet!’ The stationmaster, a short, rosy-cheeked man, had marched up to Margaret.

  ‘The gents? Why would they want to use the gentlemen’s toilet?’ asked Margaret, bemused.

  ‘Because there’s no tap in the ladies,’ he answered.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Margaret. She turned to find Mrs Roberts but she was busy gathering up used cups. Margaret watched her hand a tray-full to Rose with the red and callused hands who, in turn, placed them in a washtub and skilfully ran a dishcloth over each before handing them to another women for drying and recycling.

  ‘Then I suggest you delegate one of your porters to fill the buckets for us.’

  ‘Look, madam. As well as your lot, I’ve got all the regular trains coming through here, same as always, plus a load of troop trains to deal with. And there are plenty of gentlemen who wish to use the conveniences, begging your pardon. It’s not right to have ladies coming in and out while the men are doing, are…you know.’

  As if on cue, there was another call for water. Two village ladies had been placed in charge of the tea. One managed the two kettles balanced on spirit stoves while the other made sure the pot was kept constantly topped. The teapot was so heavy once filled that it would have taken two women at least to lift it. Instead, the pot was tilted on its base and the tea allowed to pour out like a dark, amber waterfall. Already, the tablecloth was saturated.

  Margaret slipped away from the stationmaster and looked around at the men. Aside from those in bandages and otherwise bloody, the scene resembled a jovial village fête.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Margaret. She stood before a handsome young man with fair hair in an open greatcoat. ‘This is going to sound rather silly, I’m afraid. But can I borrow you for a moment?’

  Margaret stood proudly back and watched as tin pails, brimming to the rim, were lined up before the spirit stoves. As she looked down, there was a rush of hands for the scones on her tray.

  ‘I say! Thank you very much.’ A middle-aged corporal smiled. Crumbs covered his chin, lodged in the stubble. ‘Did you make these?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Margaret. ‘Are they nice?’ She had wondered herself. The scones had not risen very well.

  ‘Mmm! I’ll say!’

  ‘Would you like any jam on them?’

  ‘Please.’

  Margaret thrust the tray into the arms of an airman and rushed off.

  In the years to come, when the corporal remembered back, he would be
able to pinpoint the very moment when his feelings towards beetroot changed.

  ‘Smashing!’ he told Margaret.

  There was also a problem with water in the hospital train that sat in the siding. Due to an oversight when the carriages had been converted, there were no facilities in the galley for heating water. The solution was to run a flexible hose from the engine so the nurses aboard could adequately tend to the dressings.

  Unfortunately, the pipe that ran the length of the train also added considerably to the temperature. Although the sun was struggling to break free of the clouds, the temperature outside on the platform had risen along with the humidity. Inside the train it was becoming unbearable, especially so for those stretcher cases that lay on the bottom racks, closest to the pipe. The pipe was also a hindrance to the WVS women who picked their way along the corridors passing out drinks and cakes and cigarettes.

  Margaret stooped down and placed her tray of cakes on the floor. The corridor was so narrow that her tray was immediately in the way of anyone who tried to pass along, and many did so. Each WVS member had been assigned to either trays of tea, or cake, or chocolate. In addition, the nurses worked their way gradually among the patients, and stretcher-bearers continued to bring more men aboard.

  Margaret leaned closer to a wounded airman, the rear-gunner from a Defiant. ‘Would you like a slice of cake, or a scone?’

  ‘I’d love a nice cup of tea, mum.’ He voiced croaked. There was dried spittle around his lips. ‘I’ve got a mouth like the bottom of a budgie cage.’

  ‘Mrs Arnold! Can we have a cup of tea down here please, for the airman?’

  ‘Oh, gosh! You’ll just have to wait, Mrs Carmichael. I’m on my last cup now. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘I’ll leave you a piece of cake. Shall I put it here on your blanket?’

  ‘If you want.’ He struggled to hold up his hands. They were both heavily bandaged. ‘But I don’t know how I’m gonna get it in my mouth, though.’ The airman laughed.

  ‘Oh, you poor boy!’ Margaret felt a lump rise in her throat.

  ‘No, mum.’ He smiled. ‘I’m lucky. I’m here, aren’t I? God bless you.’

  10:33 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

  Bergues Road, near Poperinge, Belgium

  It's the Soldiers of the Queen, my lads,

  Who've been my lads, who've seen my lads,

  In the fight for England's glory, lads,

  When we've had to show them what we mean

  The Padre was feeling less than one hundred percent. He also had a tune stuck in his head. But, as the Padre well knew, there was both good and bad to most situations. So, while the tune may have been irritating by its unrelenting repetition, it also helped to carry him along the road.

  In common with many of those around him, he had not slept in days and he had not eaten since breakfast on Sunday, aside from a few squares of Kendal mint cake that the Major had discovered in one of his pockets. The Padre’s mind was wandering. It did not help that he had a mild eating disorder. It had begun in Australia with a dose of hepatitis, the ostensible reason for his return home. Now, if he went longer than six hours between meals, his head would spin and his bowels would turn to water. The sensation as he marched along the road was one of dream-like detachment. Stars swam before his eyes and he had a nasty metallic taste in his mouth. Still he plodded on.

  He was also deeply disturbed and shaken by the execution of the white-faced captain. Try as he might, the young Guards officer would not be swayed. Even so, it had proved impossible to get the man to stand against the wall. He had screamed and cried and he had tried to bite and scratch. In the end, Private Samson had been obliged to render him quiet with a hefty slam from his Lee Enfield. Then, as he lay on the ground, curled up and cringing, Sergeant Harris had put a round into the top of his head. The Padre felt sick at the recollection, and at his share of the blame.

  All the world had heard it, wondered why we sang,

  And some have learn'd the reason why;

  But we're forgetting it, and we're letting it

  Fade away and gradually die.

  As a boy, his Uncle Henry had sung popular tunes of the Boer War in a powerful baritone. He had a clear image of himself in shorts and knee-length socks, marching around the garden at Stony Stratford with a paper hat and a popgun while his uncle belted out Victorian patriotic songs.

  Now, thirty years later, on the road to Bergues, Captain Thomas Charlesworth, Army chaplain 4th class, was letting his mind drift to comforting images of the past. So smartly did the Coldstream Guards march, that the Padre could easily imagine he had joined a parade and, to his subconscious mind, the tune seemed a perfect accompaniment.

  He had also discovered a serious design flaw with the new Army trousers. Inside, where the cotton pockets were stitched to the seams, a sharp thread akin to wire rubbed at each inner thigh. He had tried hitching up the trousers but that had only extended the area of injury. Now, as he marched, he did so bow-legged. Most of the British troops, with the exception of the Guards who were gaining distance and disappearing up the road, had a similar comic stride.

  And when we say we've always won,

  And when they ask us how it's done,

  We'll proudly point to ev'ry one

  Of England's Soldiers of the Queen

  The large body of men who had attached themselves to him at Poperinge were far more fortunate, clad as they were in loose denim overalls. When the Padre had joined the Army, he had simply assumed that all the soldiers were there to fight. He had no conception of the pioneers, the Army’s road builders and construction workers; navvies in uniform.

  The Padre slowed down and turned back towards them. There were now more than twenty men making up his party. On the plus side, the pioneers had been happy to take responsibility for the Major. His constant twittering did not seem to bother them. It certainly did not drive them to the point of possible murder, as it had earlier driven the Padre, un-Christian as it was.

  As the Padre stopped to let the pioneers catch up, he took in his surroundings. The now familiar roadside debris, the miserable refugees, the palpable sense of defeat; all contributed to the uneasy state of his mind. He had halted level with a group of Belgian soldiers. They sat in the ditch that ran beside the road, passing around a gallon jug of rum.

  ‘Good morning, Father! Come and have a drink,’ called one of the men, but the last thing the Padre needed was more alcohol. The bottle of beer that the Irish sergeant had given him after the execution had gone straight to his head while doing nothing to relieve his intense thirst. He shook his head and smiled. His lips seemed to crack as he did so.

  ‘Come on! Have a drink, Father.’

  ‘No. Really. Thank you very much. I’m just waiting for my friends.’

  ‘Why bother? All is lost. Come and join us. Have a drink and then you have no worries, eh?’

  He tried to smile again and turned to face back down the road. The Major looked in a bad way. His face was redder than usual and he had even greater difficulty breathing. His battledress was unbuttoned, exposing the braces beneath. One arm was draped around Boland’s shoulders, the other around the Irish sergeant. He was still droning on, despite it all.

  ‘Well, he don’t sound much my like my father, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘At least yours was fair. Mine was always in clink and when he came home, we always ran away. He liked taking the belt to us too much, sir, when he’d had a few. Buckle end.’ He winked out of one piggy eye. ‘Come on. Lift your feet up, sir, here’s the Padre.’

  They all turned as a staff Humber with motorcycle outrider picked its way slowly through the throng. A small red flag of the 1st Guards Brigade fluttered from the bonnet. It drove past and the horn tooted as it drew level with the steadily marching Guards ahead. Within a moment, the rotund form of Brigadier Merton Beckwith-Smith pulled itself from the car and strode towards the wheelbarrow at the head of the group. The Padre wondered what was up. He had decided that his best move, in the lig
ht of few other options, was to follow the Guards on their march to the coast. He dragged his aching feet and walked towards the little group.

  ‘Marvellous news, Sandy,’ the brigadier’s voice could be heard far along the road. ‘The best ever!’

  The young lieutenant raised himself out of the barrow and stood to attention with the rest of the men. Becky motioned him back towards the car and the Padre was able to hear every word.

  ‘Actually,’ he told him. ‘I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which would you like first?’

  ‘Let’s start with the bad news first, sir,’ said Sandy, steadying himself against the bonnet.

  ‘Right you are,’ said Becky. ‘King Leopold of the Belgians has surrendered. And the Belgian Army has thrown in the towel. This means that our left flank is exposed. It’s fair to say that the situation is now serious. The Germans reached Nieuport early this morning.’

  ‘And the good news, sir?’ asked Sandy.

  ‘Indeed! It is splendid, absolutely splendid.’ Judging by the brigadier’s face, the war might have been over in the allies favour, but it was not to prove the case. ‘We have been given the supreme honour of being the final rearguard.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the lieutenant.

  ‘Well, come on then, Sandy. Tell your men. Tell them the good news.’

  ‘I think it would be better coming from you, sir.’

  They were now on the outskirts of Houtkerque, out of defeated Belgium and back into France. Without the Guards to set the pace, there seemed little point in cracking on. The Padre sat with his head in his hands and pondered the young lieutenant’s parting words. He tried to visualise the funnel as the officer had described it.