Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘You’re the one with the funny accent.’

  ‘Sod off.’

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ Groupie bounded into the room and trotted smartly up to the rostrum. ‘Sorry for the delay but we were just waiting for the weather report to come in. I might as well start there.’ He turned and pinned a map to the board. A series of wonky circles indicated low pressure.

  ‘Rain and low cloud. That’s basically what we can expect until about lunchtime when we are faithfully promised that the skies will clear. There will, of course, be some cumulus, and the temperature is on the up, with a fresh and persistent north wind.’ He turned from the map back towards the podium, resting his elbows and leaning his lanky frame forward.

  ‘Ectualleh, we’re told that the weather will improve generally in the coming days, and the forecast for the weekend is looking good. When I say good, that of course means good for the Luftwaffe, too, which brings me to my next point.’ He tweaked his moustache. ‘From now on, whenever possible, we will not be flying as a single squadron, but at wing strength. In simple terms, that means we will be joined on our sweeps by three or four other squadrons. They will invariably be a mixed bunch – Spits and Defiants and other Hurries. This should help, in part, to combat the larger German formations.’ He stood upright and tugged at the hem of his tailored tunic.

  ‘Our squadron is not scheduled for take off until about mid-morning. The dawn patrol today will be provided by the Hornchurch squadrons – flying at wing strength. Once again, our area of operation is to be Dunkirk and the approaches. Do not stray too far in-land, no matter what the temptation. Judging by previous days, this one promises to be busy, too. You will have Spits providing high cover on watch for fighters. You will be joined by the Defiants at medium height to deal with the bombers.’

  Groupie then read out a series of Air Ministry announcement, and clapped his hands together.

  ‘That is all for now, gentlemen. Please remain in your flying kit and do not stray too far from the assembly area. Good luck, chaps, and good hunting.’

  There was a mass shuffling of chairs and feet. Above the din Groupie called out: ‘Flight Lieutenant Clouston. I would like a word with you in my office, if you please.’ He beckoned for Red Section leader to come over.

  04:15 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

  Bergues, France

  There was a cold, bitter anger in Archie Marley’s heart as he sat brooding in a corner of the cell. The captain was clearly round the bend. In fact, everybody in this town seemed as if they were on the edge of cracking. Archie’s head ached with a sickening intensity, a tight band that gripped the entire right side of his skull. Now that he was no longer on the move, his wounds had tightened again, producing an appalling throb that pulsated in time with his heartbeat. His thirst continued to torment him to the point of insanity. Outside the cell, the morning chorus had sprung up with the first faint glow of the false dawn. Occasionally, a heavy machine gun chattered like a mad frog somewhere in the distance.

  After his first hour in the cell, unable to sleep with the prospect of a dawn firing squad, he had explored his surroundings. It hadn’t taken him very long. Now, with the first faint glow of daylight, he could see his confines slowly taking shape. The cell was no more than ten feet in length and six foot wide. High up on the wall behind his head, a barred grating slowly emitted the light. On the opposite wall, over the door, Archie could just make out the shape of a large roughly hewn crucifix.

  Archie wondered about having another cigarette. As an unexpected bonus, he had discovered a packet of Sweet Caporals inside the greatcoat. The French tobacco had a dark, acrid tang and he knew that another one would only make his mouth taste worse. Archie dipped into his pocket and pulled the crumpled packet out. He fumbled again for the book of matches. As he placed the cigarette in his mouth, he noticed that his hands were trembling. With care, he struck the match. It fizzled momentarily, emitting a bluish flare that hurt his eyes. Archie sucked in gratefully, holding the smoke long and hard in his lungs, before exhaling with a grimace. He coughed, sending a series of sharp painful bursts throughout his body.

  ‘Christ! And they say smoking’s a comfort,’ thought Archie. He sucked again, holding the smoke in briefly this time. He needed to pee again. Fear and tension, he had discovered, made heavy demands on his bladder. There was no toilet in the cell. The cell was its own toilet. Now his head was spinning as the nicotine reached his brain and minuscule lights played before his eyes. Archie lent his head forward and breathed in deeply. If they gave him a blindfold and a last cigarette he might even choke to death before they could shoot him.

  Archie still had his head between his knees when he heard the distant ragged boom of massed artillery fire. He turned his head suddenly, craning up towards the grating. There was an instant and alarming change in air pressure. Instinct and training: Archie hit the floor hard. A terrible screaming filled the air. Archie found himself scratching with his nails into the compacted dirt of the floor. It was as if a giant steam locomotive were plummeting down through space, crashing earthward with such force that it tore the air with a powerful moan. An instant of silence and then an explosion. Not an explosion of sound but an explosion of infinite force that seemed to rip apart the very fabric of the world around him. The entire planet was disintegrating in a shaft of brilliant white light. Archie felt himself flung into the air and slammed down again, and then a sensation of rolling repeatedly in a cloud of choking dust. A high-pitched and continuous scream like a thousand factory whistles inside his head. Archie was screaming, too, at the very top of his lungs. More shells came down but this time not so close. Archie gasped for breath, sucking in dust and grit. Another coughing fit and then he curled up in a tight foetal ball on the floor.

  After the first pause in the barrage, came the sound of hobnailed boots stampeding up the corridor outside his cell. A continuous series of shouts and screams echoed back off the stone walls. Archie pulled himself to his feet, balancing against the wall of his cell. He staggered towards the door but found he did not have the strength to either call out or to bang for help. After a few moments, the footsteps stopped but the shouts and screams continued. The artillery was falling closer again. A curious sound as if someone were sucking backwards through a flute, a compressed ghostly wail, filled the air. No doubt the German spotters had got the range of the town’s fortified walls and were working now to reduce them to rubble. As Archie lay flat again, feeling the vibrations transmitted through the earth and into his chest, he found himself somehow drawing strength from the power erupting around him. The cold anger came back into his heart and slowly he pulled himself to his feet.

  Outside in the corridor men were continuing to scream and shout. Now there was another noise. Keys were being turned in locks. The shouting grew in intensity. Archie stood back from the door and waited. He looked down to his hand and was surprised to see that he was still holding the cigarette. He sucked on it and found that it had gone out. He reached into his pocket again and unfolded the book of matches. His hands did not shake. By the time the guard reached the door of his cell, he was sucking the last out of the butt. The heavy key turned in the lock. There was a brief commotion as they struggled to pull the door open, and then a sergeant in full battledress and coated in grey dust stood before him.

  ‘Who have we got here, then?’ he consulted a clipboard. ‘Gunner Marley. Royal Artillery. Drunk and disorderly. And desertion. You-are-a-bad-boy.’ He took a step into the frame of the door and looked Archie directly in the eye. ‘Are you prepared to give your parole and stand and fight like a proper soldier?’ He almost screamed the last word.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Sure,’ stuttered Archie, pulling himself straight and coming to attention. ‘Yes, sergeant!’ The thought had crossed his mind that they might shoot him in his cell. He felt elated.

  ‘Right! Up the passageway, that way, at the double.’ The sergeant grabbed Archie by the collar and dragged him out. ‘In the guardroom at the end, grab a rif
le and some ammo, and stay put until someone tells you what to do.’

  As Archie scampered up the passageway, the sergeant called out: ‘And, if you fucking run for it pal, I’ll be the first to shoot you in the back.’

  Why would I do that? Just let me at them, thought Archie.

  The men in the guardroom were mostly hard nuts, bruisers, and downright awkward sods. A corporal of the Loyals was handing out rifles. Archie waited his turn and took the Lee Enfield, giving it a quick examination as he stepped towards the ammunition boxes on the floor and gathered up four full bandoliers.

  ‘Right, you!’ shouted the corporal, seeing Archie closest to him. ‘And you.’ He indicated a heavy-set man with a low forehead and jutting jaw. ‘Grab two ammo cases. You can take them to the top of the belfry.’ He pointed the way. ‘And give them to the young gentleman you see there, Lieutenant Prescott, with my compliments. And then come right back here and find me. Move it!’

  The stone staircase that hugged the belfry’s round walls seemed to lead forever upward. He had the sensation that he was pulling himself slowly up out of a deep well. The stairwell was dark with just the faintest grey light shining down from above. The ape-like pioneer took the lead, dragging the heavy wooden boxes by the rope handles. Every few feet he would stop, letting the weight fall back on to Archie. He would then drop the boxes down, letting Archie take all their weight.

  ‘Fuckin’ Army! Jeezoz, what the fuck’s in t’ese things?’

  ‘Ammunition,’ Archie told him.

  ‘Fuckin’ Army,’ he said again, grabbing up the ropes in his ham-like hands and continuing on. With each step he jerked at the boxes, dragging Archie off balance. This continued for several steps and then he stopped again.

  ‘Can’t we just take one good long run at it?’ suggested Archie. ‘Stopping and starting like this is doing me in.’

  ‘Oh, sweet Jeezoz in Heaven! You wouldn’t know whether to shit or go blind! How long you bin in the Army, then, sunny boy?’ asked the ape.

  ‘Not long, why?’ Archie was struggling for breath and the sweat was pouring again from his forehead.

  ‘’Cos you don’t wanna be rushing round, just ‘cos some cunt says so.’ He spat in disgust at the Army and at Archie’s naivety.

  By the time they reached the belfry, Archie’s arms were shaking like jelly. The ape let both boxes drop to the floor with two heavy thuds and Archie tried to stand upright. Tears filled his eyes. His bandages beneath the greatcoat were saturated in sweat. He attempted to measure his breath in the smoke-filled breeze and tried not to pass out.

  ‘Oh, thanks a lot,’ said the lieutenant, with a hint of sarcasm. ‘I thought you were bringing up water. We’ve got loads of ammo already.’ He indicated the cases stacked inside the tiny belfry. A sergeant manning a Bren gun gave Archie a wink.

  ‘Well, you can bring water next time.’ The officer stood up and turned to Archie, laying his sharpshooter’s rifle aside. ‘I shouldn’t want you to have a wasted journey. You might as well enjoy the view while you’re here.’ They surveyed the scene. ‘It was built in the seventh century, this tower,’ he told Archie. ‘Unfortunately, it burnt down – not very reassuring – and they repaired it in the fourteenth century. You can see for miles.’

  Archie was facing south, inland, and most of his view was obscured by thick black smoke which billowed from almost every building below. Artillery shells were landing without order across the town, sending sudden defused bursts of yellow and orange light in waves beneath the smoke. The tower seemed to rock with each blast.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ exclaimed Archie.

  ‘No, no,’ said the lieutenant, impatiently. ‘No. Look this way.’ He pointed to the north, and to the coast. An even thicker cloud of black smoke filled the sky several hundred feet above the belfry. Between the two layers of smoke, a thin line of grey sea stretched out to a blurred horizon.

  ‘That’s England, just over there,’ the officer told him. ‘On a clear day they say you can see the white cliffs of Dover. Poor visibility today, however.’

  ‘Is that how we’re going to get home, sir?’ asked Archie.

  ‘Home?’ queried the officer. ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’ He led Archie back to the south balcony. ‘Down there, lad, somewhere the other side of that canal, is the entire German army. And, just as soon as the shelling stops, they are planning to come and pay us a visit.’

  The officer grinned, placed his hands on his hips, and stared into the distance. ‘Our job is to stop them here. If we don’t, then those chaps down there on the beach and messing about in those boats won’t be going home, or anywhere.’

  He turned and faced Archie. He had a Clark Gable moustache and bright blue eyes. ‘You’ve missed the boat, my boy, so you had better make the most of it. This town has been under siege throughout history. It has taken on the English, the Austrians and the Spanish in its time. Now it’s the Huns. And you’re here to stop them. It’s what being in the Army is all about!’ The lieutenant grinned like a maniac. ‘I don’t suppose you signed up just for the soccer and the nice country walks!’

  ‘Fuckin’ Army,’ muttered the ape quietly behind Archie’s shoulder.

  07:30 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

  Bergues-Hondschoote Canal, France

  ‘Officers’ conference! Officers’ conference!’ bellowed Colour Sergeant Collingswood from outside the barn. ‘Gentlemen, please!’

  ‘Right, this is it,’ thought Sandy, pulling himself to his feet. Lucas stretched out both hands to steady him and then stood back.

  ‘How’s that feel, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Good,’ replied Sandy. ‘It feels good. Those tablets are working.’ He took a tentative step forward. Lucas stretched out again to catch him but Sandy raised his hand to hold him back. ‘It really is fine.’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘I just need to get the momentum.’ With that, Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox hobbled up the road. He turned and called back to Sergeant Harris. ‘Tell the men, fifteen minutes, no more.’

  Eleven Platoon had arrived at the rendezvous thirty minutes earlier and had been happy to find the remainder of the battalion stretched out in a narrow dirt road, surrounded either side by fields of tall green corn. Since then, Sandy had been examined by the medical officer and told, in no uncertain terms, to mark himself down hors de combat and catch the next ambulance going north.

  ‘What, and miss the party?’ Sandy had looked momentarily startled. ‘Are you joking, Duncan?’

  ‘I’m deadly serious. You may have remarkable powers of healing, but it won’t stop your feet turning black with gangrene. You need proper hospital treatment.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ Sandy scoffed. ‘I’m not going to be running around. I’ll be able to take it easy. Just give me a nice damp trench and a Lewis gun and I’ll be fine.’

  Duncan tilted his head to one side and gave Sandy a long, hard stare. He looked down briefly to finish the last knot, and then lifted himself upright.

  ‘Take these,’ he said, pulling a small dark bottle from his bag. ‘Take two now. And then two more every six hours. Do not swallow them! These have to be placed beneath the tongue, and left to dissolve slowly.’

  ‘What happens if I swallow them?’

  ‘You’re probably have a heart attack.’

  Sandy’s heart was pounding now, as he struggled towards the barn. But with each step, walking became a little easier.

  ‘Ah, Sandy, old boy! Good of you to join us.’ Peter placed an arm in a fatherly fashion around Sandy’s shoulders, considerably adding to the pressure on his feet. He steered him into the barn.

  ‘How are the old feet then? Better now?’

  ‘Much, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘That’s good, because I’m giving you Number Three Company.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We are a bit short-handed as you know and now with your lot, the company can only scratch together thirty-seven men.’

  ‘Just thirty-seven, sir? That’s around one
-third…’

  ‘Yes, I know. A heavy butcher’s bill. Look, plonk yourself down here. I have to take the class.’

  ‘Gentlemen! A very good morning to you,’ announced Peter walking to the centre of the barn and hopping onto a raised platform at the back.

  ‘Boo! Hiss!’

  ‘Get him off!’

  ‘Yes, and I’m glad to see you, too! But I am glad to see that you made it. Our task now, as many of you know, is to provide rearguard support.’ He craned his head towards the open barn door. ‘Bergues, as you no doubt can hear, is getting a pounding as we speak and can probably expect a ground assault any time. When that happens, gentlemen, we can expect pressure on our sector here.’

  ‘Just how wide is our sector?’

  ‘Wide enough! Just over a thousand yards. Nigel!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Number One Company will be responsible for blowing the bridge.’ Peter smiled.

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. There are two engineer chaps down there now. They will show you what they have done, and what you will need to do.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sandy!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘You will take Number Three Company and man the next slot in the line to the left. Your area of responsibility comes complete with its own detached and desirable cottage.’

  ‘Really? Thank you, sir.’

  ‘No mod-cons, I’m afraid, but it does come with a very capacious attic and three spacious downstairs rooms, offering superb views over the fields, both towards the sea and inland. Ideal for conversion to a holiday home. Get your bids in quick! Simon!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’re next with Number Two Company to the left of Sandy. Headquarters will be based about four hundred yards back from the cottage. Angus!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Your Number Four Company is with me there in reserve.’

  ‘Sir.’