Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘Do what you can for the wounded,’ he said. ‘Check the quiet ones first. We are going to have to sort out some kind of first aid station here and we are going to need some men to bury this lot.’

  ‘Not our blokes, sir, surely?’ asked the chief. ‘Shall I get some of the brown jobs to do it?’

  ‘If you can.’ Binky gave a wan smile. ‘You may have to point a bayonet at them first. I’ve never seen such rabble. And where are their officers?’

  No one bothered to reply. The shock of seeing the British Army in the midst of a rout was a powerfully sobering sight, especially an army that had run into a metaphorical brick wall.

  ‘So, what do we do now, sir?’ asked the midshipman.

  ‘Well, to be perfectly frank, I haven’t a clue. For all I know, these may be the last boats we will get.’ Commander Babbington looked out to sea and then at his watch. He thought for a moment and then plucked a cigarette from the case and gave it a double tap. ‘If we do not get a reply to our signals, say in three hours, I will send you back off to Dunkirk for instructions.’

  ‘I could go now, if you like, sir.’

  ‘Hold your horses.’ Binky tugged at his arm, and turned to look back out to sea. ‘Those schuitjes are coming in here. Go fetch the Aldis lamp.’

  The beach party formed a protective screen and Binky wadded reluctantly out into the water. He stopped when the waves reached his knees.

  ‘Ahoy there,’ he called. ‘If you could drop anchor where you are, we will bring the men out to you. How many can you take?’

  ‘I’d be very happy to oblige, sir, but we’ve got to unload first.’

  ‘Unload? Unload what?’

  ‘Ammunition. Rather a lot of it!’

  Binky had sent three messages via the destroyers off the beach. None had requested ammunition. His pressing need was for more small craft and, when it came to supplies, he had stressed the urgent need for water, not to mention food, if only for the beach party. Ammunition would be an insane liability.

  ‘Well, I don’t bloody want it,’ called Binky. ‘Go out away and dump it over the side.’

  ‘I can’t dump it, sir.’ The young officer looked incredulous. ‘We’ve come all the way from Ramsgate with it and that wasn’t easy, what with all the Stukas and other nasties. What are they going to say when I tell them I dumped it all?’

  ‘Well, don’t tell them,’ suggested Binky. ‘I’m not having God-knows how many tons of ammunition sitting here.’

  ‘You’ll have to sign for it first, sir.’

  ‘Young man, just get it out of here and I will gladly sign anything you wish.’ Binky turned and wadded back to the beach.

  13:45 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

  River Sale, Wormhout, France

  ‘Oh, shit!’ exclaimed Archie Marley as he scrambled to the top of the bank.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t swim. You know I can’t bloody swim.’

  ‘Look, I’ll help you. You can hang on to me. It ain’t that far.’

  ‘I’m not doing it. I’m not getting in there.’ Archie’s heart was beating fast and his breath came in tight bursts.

  They stood on the bank of the River Sale, a nondescript little river but a serious obstacle to a non-swimmer. The rain was heavy now. It blurred out the flat countryside and dampened down the sound of fighting.

  ‘Have it your own way.’ Bill Griffin sank to the ground and looked away from his friend. Not only was it his fault that his friend could not swim but he had been reminded of it countless times since he had pushed Archie into the Grand Union Canal at the age of six. The image was still clear in his mind fourteen years on. Archie had sunk like a stone, with no apparent effort to help himself. Fortunately, a nearby fisherman had probed with his roach pole and finally lifted little Archie out of the water, dripping like a drowned rat. That, together with the stomach pump at the local hospital, had left an indelible mark on his friend.

  ‘I’m sorry. I really can’t,’ said Archie again. ‘Look, there’s some trees up there. Let’s get out of this bloody rain.’

  Bill pulled himself up with the aid of his rifle. They both looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘How many fags you got left?’ asked Bill.

  ‘I still got half a tin.’

  ‘Well, come on then. I’m gagging for one. Let’s get under those trees and have a think.’ Bill looked at his friend and shook his head in resignation.

  ‘Whose idea was it to join the bloody Territorials, anyway?’ he asked as they clomped along the sodden bank. Bill’s personal preference had been for the Royal Navy but, because of the swimming issue, they had let the idea drop and eventually signed up for the Worcestershire Yeomanry. They had both fallen in love with the battalion’s powerful anti-tank guns. It was a crying shame, now push had come to shove, that they had only managed to fire off five rounds before being told to abandon their position. But, then, they had only ever been issued with seven rounds and they had used the last two to spike their two-pounder. It was all a right bloody shambles.

  The willow that draped across the bank offered a surprising amount of protection from the rain: a cosy wigwam away from the realities of war. Both boys dropped to the ground and Archie delved inside his small pack for the tin of Gold Leaf.

  ‘Got a light?’ asked Archie, wiping his fingers and prizing off the lid.

  Bill spun the wheel of his lighter and they both sat back, inhaling gratefully.

  ‘I’d kill for a nice cuppa,’ exclaimed Archie. He tried for a smoke ring but failed.

  ‘How about a nip?’

  ‘Or a nip,’ suggested Archie.

  Bill pulled the canteen of rum from his pack.

  ‘It’s a bit strong, that stuff,’ said Archie. ‘It would go great with orange squash.’

  ‘I could dilute it with some rainwater, if you like.’

  Archie nodded and Bill leant forward to catch a steady stream as it ran off one of the outer branches.

  ‘Here! Listen!’ he said. ‘I think we might get a lift if we’re lucky.’ He nodded in the direction of the road, from where the sound came.

  ‘Have we got any tanks?’ asked Archie after a moment’s pause. ‘I mean, have you seen any British tanks since we’ve been here?’

  ‘Not many. Why?’

  ‘Because I’m wondering if that’s one of ours. Shit! Get down. Quick!’

  Two grey half-tracks pulled themselves out of the sunken lane that intersected the road beside them. Both boys lay as flat as they could. About forty men, as tall as guardsmen, and wearing spotted camouflage smocks, spread out from the armoured vehicles and took up position at the intersection. One of the men, an officer or an NCO, made a series of quick hand-gestures and four men detached themselves and ran bent double towards the trees. Archie and Bill looked at each other, and then nodded. They pulled themselves slowly to their feet, leaving their rifles on the ground. They raised their hands high above their heads and waited. The Germans appeared momentarily startled as the two British soldiers stood in front of them. They raised their rifles and one of the Germans shouted out a command. He ran forward and immediately slammed the butt of his rifle into Bill’s stomach. As Archie stepped involuntarily back, the German lashed out with a boot and kicked Archie’s feet from under him. Both boys lay in the mud beside the willow.

  The German who had knocked them both down shouted back towards the first half-track and it rumbled forward in a cloud of exhaust and a series of brief jerky movements. It seemed for a moment that the Germans were intent on crushing them both to death. A small man, not dressed in camouflage but in a regular field grey tunic, jumped down from the back and stood above the boys. He pulled an automatic pistol from his belt and indicated that they should stand up. Compared to the other Germans, this man appeared something of a runt. His helmet was too large and his uniform ill fitting. He was considerably older than the rest and his flat nose, obviously broken many years before, together with gaps in his front teeth, gave him a curious feral
appearance. He pulled at Bill’s collar and dragged him to his feet.

  As the Germans gathered around them, both boys noticed the white insignia on their collars and helmets – twin lightening strokes of the Waffen-SS. The words Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler were stitched in Gothic script around one man’s cuffs. Both boys gulped. They had read the newspapers and knew of the atrocities in Poland. There was a rush as the storm troopers began to strip the boys. Their helmets were knocked off. Hands tore at their webbing and stripped the tunics from their backs. Even their identity discs were ripped off. They stood there in just their vests, trousers and boots.

  Flatnose spoke. ‘What units?’ he screamed. ‘Where your headquarters?’ He slapped Bill across the face with the flat of his hand. ‘How many soldiers with you? Where your artillery?’

  Bill cracked a wry smile. ‘Name, rank and number. That’s all you’re getting from us, pal,’ he said. Then he made to speak again but Flatnose slammed the butt of his pistol down onto Bill’s nose. It burst like a ripe fruit and his knees buckled from beneath him. Flatnose turned to Archie.

  ‘How many more damn British here?’ Flecks of spit sprayed into Archie’s face and he stepped back. Flatnose lashed out again and the pistol caught Archie a glancing blow on the side of his head. He stumbled back further. No orders were given but the SS went mad en-mass. Archie stumbled again as a large fist slammed into his right ear. He went down and then the boots lashed out.

  ‘You British bastards!’ screamed Flatnose. He grabbed a handful of Archie’s hair and dragged him to his feet. Another fist slammed into his mouth. He tasted the blood. Flatnose then pushed him hard up against the trunk of the tree. He made a sickening sound and breathed heavily through his nose. A huge quantity of green snot landed in Archie’s face. Flatnose stooped and bent down, pulling a stick grenade from the top of his jackboot. He waved it in Archie’s face.

  ‘Yeah. You do that, fuck-face, and you’ll go with me!’ Archie shouted back. Bill was still receiving a good kick-in from the other storm troopers. Archie felt his blood boil. He drew his hand across his face to wipe away the phlegm and then screwed both fists into hard tight balls. He was saved by a sudden commotion.

  A 15cwt officer’s truck came tearing along the riverside road. The Germans ran back and the truck came to a screaming halt as the second half-track turned into its path. One of the SS stepped forward and marched up to the cab. Inside, Archie could see two men. One, an officer, raised his hands above his head and called out. The German pulled open the door and the officer slid along the seat and tried to step out. With no word of command, there was a sharp burst of automatic fire as the German sprayed his Bergmann sub-machine gun, knocking both men back into their seats. Archie stood horror-stricken. He thought he was going to faint. As he watched, the troopers burst into spontaneous applause. They laughed and clapped as if they had just witnessed a comedy act. The trooper with the Bergmann laughed, too, and called back to his friends. He stepped to the back of the truck and reached inside. He knelt to unscrew the cap of a petrol can and then began sloshing the fuel inside the cab and over the rest of the truck. He struck a match and the truck burst into flames.

  Just when Archie thought things could not get any worse, another British lorry came hurtling up the road. This time the SS troopers stepped out in front of it and fired several rounds into the windshield. The Bedford began to skid and looked for a moment as if it might topple on to its side. Instead, it came on until it crashed with force into the back of the burning truck, sending out a cloud of orange sparks. The troopers surrounded the lorry and a shot was fired into the cab. From the back, a small, middle-aged British soldier was dragged out. His hands reached up to stop his glasses slipping off his nose. The German noticed what appeared to be a watch chain hanging from his tunic pocket and made a grab for it. The man’s hands came down in a protective gesture and then the German went insane. He stepped back, thrust the barrel of his rifle directly against the man’s heart, and pulled the trigger. The man bounced back against the lorry and then toppled forward like a felled tree, a blank expression on his face. The German bent down and pulled the watch from the pocket. He held it to his ear, nodded and laughed. He then began doing a crazy Red Indian war dance while his comrades clapped and cheered.

  ‘Woo, woo, woo,’ called the German with glee. Archie’s legs buckled beneath him and he slid to the ground beside Bill. They both looked at each other’s bloodstained faces.

  ‘D’you fancy a swim, now?’ asked Bill.

  Archie laughed, but it was without humour.

  ‘Where they taking us, sir?’ Archie spoke to a captain wearing the shoulder flash of the Warwicks. He was the only officer in the group of about ninety British prisoners. The SS troopers were herding them across a field of young potato plants, in the direction of a small, ramshackle barn.

  ‘I’m not sure, lad. Perhaps they are going to let us shelter from this rain. Let’s hope. Chin up!’

  Whatever the Germans intended, it was clear that they had little regard for the wounded among their prisoners. Those that stumbled or fell as they dragged themselves across the muddy field were bayoneted where they lay. Archie turned to look once more and felt a rifle butt slam into his hip.

  ‘Rouse! Rouse!’ snarled the SS trooper.

  He staggered under the blow but managed to stay on his feet. Ahead of him, the first group of prisoners were being herded into the barn. He could see Bill among them. As they drew closer, he heard the officer mutter under his breath. Then, incredibly, the officer turned to one of the SS and spoke.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘But you can’t expect to get us all in that barn. There is insufficient room for the wounded to lie down. It’s plainly ridiculous.’

  Another German stepped up. At first he seemed to smile at the captain but his lips soon turned to a sneer. He spoke with a hint of an American accent.

  ‘Yellow Englishman, ha! There will be plenty of room where you are going.’ With that, he bent down and pulled a stick grenade from the top of his boot. He jerked his head towards the captain and Archie, who both lingered outside the barn door, indicating that they, too, should step inside. He tugged at a wire at the bottom of the wooden handle and lobbed the grenade along the floor. Other troopers were doing the same.

  With the first explosion, the Germans stepped back, away from the showering fragments. Archie felt the left side of his body turn instantly ice-cold. The blast knocked him directly into the arms of the captain. The next thing he knew, the captain’s hands had seized him and he was being dragged away from the barn and towards a clump of trees some two hundred yards away.

  As they broke through the trees, the fields opened out flat ahead of them. Directly at their feet, a small stagnant pond offered the only cover. The captain dived straight in. He broke the surface and turned back to Archie.

  ‘Come on, young fellow. It’s our only hope.’ He ducked under.

  Archie stood paralysed. He shook his head. He then felt a hefty slam in his right shoulder and he toppled forward, his head cracking hard against a willow. The second and third shots he heard. As he lay motionless in the grass, he somehow knew that both bullets had hit the captain. Archie held his breath and then heard the squelching sound of a trooper’s boots running back through the mud towards the barn.

  Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven.

  Bill lay on the floor of the barn. Two men had already toppled on top of him. Someone was reciting the Lord’s Prayer in a feeble, high voice.

  Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from evil.

  Bill wondered how the man could even manage to speak. Another grenade came tumbling in and, again, Bill turned his face away. He felt the bodies above him jerk in the blast and hot air seemed to draw his own breath from out of his screaming lungs. Despite the smoke, he ha
d a terrific sensation of clarity. His brain managed to pick out the individual screams, and the laughter outside the barn. He had already witnessed two of the sergeants sacrifice their own lives by diving on to the grenades as they were tossed inside. The first man had been lifted into the air by the blast. Shrapnel had then torn into his own chin. He could feel the blood soaking into the straw and forming a puddle beneath his ear.

  After a minute or so, the Germans began calling in through the door.

  ‘Rouse! Fünf!’ Bill lay very still. Incredibly, there were still men inside the barn who appeared uninjured. He heard a man climb to his feet. He stood upright and spoke to no one in particular: ‘Well, if you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go,’ he said flatly.

  Other men pulled themselves up. Bill stared in disbelief as five men stepped carefully around the bodies of their dead and injured colleagues and walked back out into the rain.

  A chill grew within Bill as listened to the commands outside. ‘Ein, zwei, drei, vier, fünf.’ At each word, a number of shots rang out and there was a sodden thump as a man fell to the ground. There was also more wild laughter. When the first five men were dead, the Germans called for five more.

  ‘Come on, lads. Let’s get this over with, shall we? I, for one, can’t suffer this a moment longer.’

  Now Bill found himself on his feet. He looked again for Archie. He had not seen him enter the barn. There was hope for him at least. He felt no more emotions. He steadied himself against a supporting beam. His other hand rose up to his chin and he touched it far sooner than he expected. His chin, or rather his jaw, appeared to be hanging loose.

  ‘Right! That’s it. What’s the bloody point, anyway?’ Bill Griffin, a twenty year old former warehouseman and keen angler, walked outside and joined the others.