by Alan Pearce
‘Your best bet, Padre, is to stay on this road and head for Bergues. Try and stay clear of the town centre and then make your way to Dunkirk. Facilities have been laid on to take everyone back home. But do not stray beyond the perimeter. It’s like a funnel, wide at the top around Bergues and narrowing to a point at Dunkirk port.’
It was also about a day’s solid march to the coast and few in the Padre’s party felt up to it. They had stepped away from the main road, seeking shelter from the rain beneath a large oak tree. The sergeant had gone off to investigate an upturned ambulance in the centre of the next field. As the Padre looked up, he saw him returning with what appeared to be a large cardboard box in his arms.
‘Well, here’s a turn up for the books, Father.’ He dropped the box at his feet and a dozen or more tins of Heinz baked beans tumbled into the mud.
The Padre stared in disbelief. ‘Manna from Heaven!’ he proclaimed, and then asked: ‘But how is it that nobody else found them?’
‘Well, without going into details,’ said the sergeant, a little sheepishly. ‘I would say it was because this here case was buried beneath about ten bodies, and I don’t suppose many people felt like delving around in there. It’s enough to ruin any man’s appetite.’
‘Not mine,’ thought the Padre. Baked beans on hot buttered toast had always been a Saturday afternoon favourite at Stony Stratford. ‘Let’s gather some twigs and light a fire.’
11:05 Tuesday 28 May 1940.
Outskirts of Les Moeres, near Bray Dunes, France
‘Oh, no,’ thought Miller. ‘Just what I bloody need.’ He brought the motorcycle to a rapid halt, forcing the military policeman to jump back suddenly.
‘When I say stop, you bloody stop, will you? And switch that bike off.’
‘Whatever you say, sarg. What’s the problem?’
‘The problem is, I want you to get off your bike and start walking.’
‘No can do, sarg. Gotta make my way to HQ. I’m a DR.’
‘Let’s see your despatches then.’
‘Well, I ain’t got any now, ‘ave I? I’ve delivered them all. I’m going back for more.’
‘You’re no more a despatch rider than I’m Gracie Fields.’
‘Oh, come on, sarg! Give us a break.’
‘Look, chum! You’ve got precisely two seconds to get off that bike and dump it in the field.’ The redcap rested a hand on his holster.
‘Dump it?’
‘For Christ’s sake! Do you think I’ve got all bloody day? Just take a look around you.’ Miller did not need to bother. He had been looking at dumped vehicles for the best part of the morning.
‘All right, what’s the drill?’
‘The drill is you take that bike into the field and you disable it. In fact, best set fire to it.’
Miller reluctantly dragged the Norton across the ditch. The motorcycle seemed enormously heavy as he tried to wheel it along the muddy field. He picked a vacant spot and let the bike topple onto its side.
Miller groaned, reluctant to waste yet another bullet from his dwindling stock. He slipped the Thompson from across his back and set it to single shot, and then pulled the bolt. He stepped away and pointed the weapon at the petrol tank.
The Thompson kicked back and Miller was surprised to see that he had placed a neat hole in the centre of the tank. Fuel trickled out. He reached into his pocket for his lighter. Suddenly he stopped and looked around. The ground was littered with folded sheets of paper. He bent down and picked one up, twisting the end to form a spill. Once the damp paper finally ignited, there was a sudden whoosh as the petrol burst into blue flames. Miller lingered close to enjoy the heat. His uniform was soaked and he was chilled to the bone after countless hours on the road. He unfolded one of the damp sheets and saw a map, along with arrows indicating the apparent German encirclement.
British Soldiers! Look at this map: it gives your true situation! Your troops are entirely surrounded – stop fighting! Put down your arms!
Miller gathered up a handful. If he could dry them, they would make excellent toilet paper. He slipped them into the side pocket of his trousers and made his way back to the road.
‘Hey, sarg! Where are we on this map, then?’
‘Let’s have a look, lad. All right, the last town you passed, that was Les Moeres. There’s an airfield coming up here on your right. Stick on this road and it will bring you to a place called Bray Dunes.’
‘And where’s Dunkirk? I was told to head there.’
‘Yeah, well. Dunkirk’s a problem. You see that smoke over there? That’s Dunkirk. We’re steering everyone towards the beaches to the east. So head for Bray Dunes.’
Miller walked slowly towards the cluster of buildings and caught the scent of the distant ozone of the sea. There were men walking equally slowly all around him. He wondered if their trousers were itching as much as his own. Judging by their appearance, most of the men were on the edge of exhaustion and the rubbing seams of their uniforms were probably secondary to their other worries.
Bray Dunes had, until very recently, been a fashionable resort. Now it was a ghost town. The miles of sandy beaches and the wildlife of the dunes had provided a convenient natural attraction. The small main street that led down to the sea one hundred yards away was now covered in sand. Here, too, vehicles lay abandoned. A civilian bus, with both the passenger and driver’s doors hanging open, had been run up on the curb and into the doorway of a baker’s shop. Miller felt his stomach wince at the thought of food. He walked closer and peered through the broken window. Glass littered the empty display cases. He slipped the Thompson off his shoulder and used the butt to break the rest of the glass before hoisting himself into the shop. The flour that appeared to coat every surface put Miller in mind of Christmas. The small cash box had already been rifled and the wooden trays that once held row upon row of baguettes were strewn across the floor. He pushed his way across the clutter and stepped into the back of the shop.
He turned quickly to the single tap above the sink and twisted the handle. Water trickled out and Miller leaned his head to catch it in his mouth. But then it stopped. He stood upright and shook the pipe. He turned the handle the other way. But still no more water. He slammed it with the Thompson and then he began upturning all the furniture in a fit of rage. He kicked open the back door and walked to the privy. Here, too, the tap only produced a few drops before drying up.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ said Miller aloud. He leaned his back against the wall of the outhouse and allowed himself to slide down to the ground with a thump. He had just taken off his helmet and was running his fingers through his hair when he was startled to see a small face looking at him from across the fence.
‘Bonjour,’ called Miller, composing himself. ‘Comment allez-vous?’
‘Are you English?’ asked the man.
‘Yeah, I’m English,’ answered Miller. ‘What of it?’
‘Are the Bosche here yet?’
‘I bloody hope not.’
The man crooked his finger, indicating that Miller should follow him.
The man and his elderly wife occupied a tiny four-room cottage that backed on to the bakers. They ushered him politely into a stuffy living room. Miller felt curiously out of place in his wet and now tatty uniform and was not sure where to put himself. Mud from the flooded field still caked his boots. He looked at the marks on the carpet.
‘No, no. Do not worry,’ said the man, also looking down. ‘Would you like to rest a while? Perhaps you would like tea, or perhaps some wine?’
Miller smiled weakly. ‘Got any water?’
The man returned from the kitchen with a jug and a glass, his wife followed bearing a large plate in her hands.
‘Here, please,’ said Miller. ‘Let me help you.’ He took the plate, fearing she might drop it, and looked eagerly at the crusty white rolls. There were still warm. The woman returned with a small pot of jam and a knob of butter on a saucer.
‘Please,’ said the man. He
pulled a chair away from the table and indicated that Miller should sit down.
‘Merci. Merci beaucoup,’ said Miller, gladly. He partially drained the jug and sat back momentarily to let the water settle in his empty stomach. It was then that the woman launched into a lengthy burst of French. Miller’s grasp of the language was minimal and he was lost within seconds. He turned towards the old man and shook his head.
‘My wife, she says you are very much like our son. He is in the army, also.’
‘The French army?’ asked Miller.
‘Of course, yes, the French army. We have not seen our Thierry since the start of the year and we have had no letter for almost three weeks. Please, eat.’
‘Thanks.’
‘He is a fighting soldier like you,’ claimed the man. He pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘I see that you still carry your gun. So many others have thrown their guns aside.’ He smiled as he appraised Miller. ‘My wife says you must be a brave soldier with such a big gun.’
Miller laughed. ‘Well, I won’t say I haven’t seen my share of fighting. The last few days have been pure hell.’ He turned eagerly to his plate, smeared butter thickly across the crust, and took a huge bite. ‘You say your son is a soldier?’ he asked between mouthfuls, feigning interest. ‘Is he here, in France?’
‘Yes, he must be in France, or perhaps he is in Belgique. We both worry because he is with a famous infanterie regiment. He must be the same age as you.’ They both watched intently as Miller spooned jam onto another roll. ‘We listen to the wireless and they say our armies fight gloriously on all fronts, but how can you believe them? Look at what is happening here. Your English army, it goes.’
‘So I’m told,’ said Miller.
For the next few hours, while his clothes dried on the stove, the couple showed Miller hundreds of photographs. They also plied him with cognac and slices of hard cheese and dried dates. The son, in his opinion, looked nothing like him. He had rather a monkey face and a stupid grin. There was no doubting his parents, however. The couple had obviously been together so long that they now resembled each other. Their little round faces stared intently at his.
‘How old is your boy?’ he asked.
‘I know what you think.’ The man looked across at his wife and smiled. ‘Our Thierry came to us late in life. We had given up all hope. But miracles, they do happen sometimes.’
The woman turned to look into Miller’s eyes. Her smile came from thin, strained lips, and then she looked back towards her husband.
‘I’m sure he’ll be all right.’ Miller thought to mention the French troops he had seen along the road, suggesting that their boy might be home soon, but the thought of the despondent poilus only increased the sense of hopelessness. Finally, he looked at his watch and pulled back his chair. He pointed towards his now dry uniform with a smile of resignation.
‘Must you leave? Please, you may sleep here if you wish,’ the man implored, but Miller shook his head. ‘But you can stay as long as you want. Really.’
‘Look, thanks,’ said Miller. ‘But the Germans won’t thank you for letting a British soldier live in your house.’ He slung the Thomson over his shoulder and walked towards the door.
‘Merci. Merci beaucoup,’ said Miller as he stood in their tiny garden. A large ginger cat was rubbing itself up against his leg. He forced a smile and then shook the man’s paper-like hand. The old woman stepped closer to hug Miller in her thin arms and planted a firm kiss on each cheek. She then thrust a grease-proof package containing bread and cheese into his hands. Wiping back a tear, she turned to walk into the house, but Miller caught her by the elbow. He was unsure why, but he slipped his hand down into the leather pouch until his fingers settled on the cameo broach.
‘C'est pour vous, maman.’
The promenade ran along the beach. There was a six-foot drop to the sand below. To either side were dunes. Ahead of this the soft, flat sand ran down to the sea, some two-hundred yards away. There were not just thousands of khaki-clad figures, but many thousands. Miller strained to take in the scene. Down by the surf, a line of men, perhaps eight deep, stretched out into the sea. Miller felt puzzled. Just one very small boat rocked unsteadily at the head of the line. One by one, men clambered slowly aboard. The boat could surely hold no more than thirty men at most. It seemed ridiculous. Out to sea, an elderly warship ran in zig-zags through the water. Plumes of grey foam rose from the sea some distance from the ship. Miller then became aware of the bombers high above, tossing down tiny black dots at the pitifully few boats off the shore.
Miller laughed to himself. ‘How the fuck do they think they’re going to get this lot off ?’ He shook his head. Just beneath the promenade, in the shelter of an upturned lorry, a group of men were actually kneeling down and praying. Some were even crying openly.
Miller leaned over the wooden rail of the promenade. ‘Wankers!’ he shouted, and carefully aimed a large glob of spit down onto one of the up-turned faces of the congregation below.
13:20 Tuesday 28 May 1940.
Bray Dunes, France
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asked Binky, looking down at the young midshipman. ‘Come on. Get up.’ He extended a hand. ‘You really are going to have to implant this firmly in your head. You must stay on your feet. That way you can keep your eye on them when they come in. It’s perfectly safe.’
Commander Babbington stood firm as the second Me110 came charging across the beach at no more than fifty feet. Cannon shells tore through the sand in a neat row two hundred yards away. The next second, it had gone. ‘Now, if you had been lying on the ground, you would be in a state of perpetual fear, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t know if it was going to hit you or not. Dive by all means, if you think it’s coming your way, but it does get sand on your uniform and it does nothing for your composure.’
He brushed the youngster down. The uniform was soaked by the drizzle and the fine sand proved difficult to budge. Binky gave up and looked out to sea where two Dutch schuitjes were closing to the shore.
‘Thank you very much, sir. I’m really sorry but I must admit it does feel like the right thing to do, to hit the deck, sir.’
‘Well, at least you are not running around like a madman.’ They both watched as the troops along the beach recovered. Some sat with no apparent concern, as they had during the attack, but the vast majority were dusting themselves down and returning to the various huddled masses that lined the shore in expectation of rescue.
With just ten men under his command, Binky had been fighting a losing battle all morning to encourage the troops to stay in the relative cover of the dunes. Up until now, it had made little difference. Only a handful of boats were available to take the men out to the two waiting destroyers and Binky was filling them as fast as he could. Now the ragged clusters of men were proving tempting targets for the Luftwaffe.
‘Watch those dive-bombers,’ said Binky. A Stuka broke away from the encircling pack and swooped down from three thousand feet, aiming at the beached wreck of a French trawler further along the strand. ‘Now, obviously, there is no point hitting the deck, as you call it.’
They watched as the Stuka pulled back up from its steep dive and saw the black dot of the bomb fall away. The siren screamed in anger, chilling the blood. The bomb landed in the sea with an almighty splash, close enough to the trawler to cause damage. The second Stuka was already on its downward swoop at a ninety-degree angle, much closer this time to Binky’s scattered beach party.
‘How about now, sir?’ asked the midshipman, his eyes fixed on the aircraft.
‘No, wait. See, it’s going to fall just over there.’ Even Binky clenched his teeth as the black bomb plummeted down and the siren’s scream grew louder. ‘Wait,’ said Binky. The explosion sent a vast conical shower of sand into the air. Hot air and sand blasted across their faces.
‘See how the sand absorbs the blast?’ said Binky. ‘You can really let them fall quiet close before they will do you any harm.’
‘How about this one?’
‘Yes, that looks a little too close for comfort. I think now would be a good time…’ They both buried their faces in the sand before the sentence could be completed. The earth seemed to lift from under them. Through tightly screwed eyes, Binky saw a burst of bright colour and became aware of a searing pain inside his head. Hot sand by the ton came crashing down. And then there was silence of sorts. A high-pitched tone screeched through Binky’s head. He was just aware of the muffled sound of the Stukas’ sirens and of the jarring of the earth as more bombs continued to fall. He lay still and waited.
Binky pulled himself from the sand, poised on his hands and knees. He spat repeatedly to clear his mouth and then sat himself upright. One man, no more than three feet away, was screaming like a distressed horse, in long braying bursts. Sand, like fine smoke particles, floated through the air. Binky used one hand to steady himself on the sand and turned to look around him. Other men, similarly dazed, were pulling themselves out of the ground. A number more were obviously dead, judging by their contortions. He pinched his nose and blew hard. A startling sound, akin to a whistle, came out of his left ear and suddenly his hearing returned. Binky struggled to his feet and looked for the youngster. He sat upright, no more than two feet away, legs stretched out before him, and vigorously shaking his handkerchief.
‘I’ve got sand in my eyes, sir,’ announced the midshipman, screwing up his face. He blew his nose. ‘My mum always said the best way to get a piece of grit out of your eye was to blow your nose. Seems funny that, doesn’t it, sir? I can’t say it’s working in this case.’ He squinted and allowed the Commander to help him to his feet.
‘Well, I’ve got the general idea now, sir. Thank you,’ he said, dabbing at his eyes. ‘It’s quite exhilarating, really.’
The beach party’s senior rating, a tall chief petty officer, made his way towards them. ‘All present and correct, sir. No damage to speak of. Not to our lot, anyway.’
‘Very good, chief,’ said Commander Babbington. He looked at the wounded men scattered around them. The screamer was still hollering his head off. The man sat bolt upright, supporting an arm that ended at the elbow. Others were less fortunate.