by Alan Pearce
‘I’m sorry to say that there are a couple of Northern regiments to either side of us. No one you have ever heard of. We will obviously have to provide the backbone of the defence here. Intelligence tells us that the Jerries are assembling pontoon-bridging kit in this area. Nigel!’
‘Sir?’
‘You will probably have to decide when to blow the bridge. There are considerable numbers of troops – our lot and French – still making their way across. The aim is to let as many of them in as possible, with a view to embarking them off to England via Dunkirk. As to refugees, there’s not a lot we can do. Please try and discourage them as best you can. But, otherwise, keep your eyes peeled for fifth column infiltrators. Oh, yes, another thing. For those of you who don’t know, Ypres, Ostend, and Lille are now in German hands, and it looks like you can probably add Calais to that list, too.’
‘Bang goes my reservation for dinner,’ called Simon.
‘Yes, as to supplies,’ Peter raised his hands to quell the noise. ‘We won’t be getting any deliveries, I’m afraid. So you will have to live off the land. But you will find rich pickings. On the other side of the canal are more dumped lorries than you can point a stick at. I suggest that each company organises its own foraging party. As to food and water, good luck. Under no circumstances should anyone attempt to drink the water in the canal. In some places it is starting to resemble dead German soup. And do not try boiling it. There will be no fires, of course. And, if your men must smoke, please ensure that they do it out of direct sight - mine and the Germans.’
Peter coughed for attention. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘They are flooding all the fields between here and the coast. Big sea dykes, apparently. That will, of course, raise the water table somewhat, so your feet are likely to get a bit wet.’
Peter placed his hands on his hips and set his jaw. ‘Make no mistake, gentlemen. This is a last round, last man scenario. Make sure the men are au fait with the situation. You might like to tell them that the Navy got off around seventeen thousand men yesterday. You can explain the arithmetic to them. There will be a full inspection at ten-hundred-hours, and I want to see everybody clean-shaven. I think that is all for now. Any questions?’
‘Who’s going to win the war, sir?’
‘We are! Right! Let’s take this opportunity to synchronise watches. In fifteen seconds, I will make it oh-seven-hundred-fifty-hours-precisely…’
07:50 Wednesday 29 May 1940.
Charing Cross Station, London
‘Is this seat taken?’
‘No, it’s all yours, dear.’
‘Thanks,’ said Kitty, pulling herself into the tiny compartment and sliding shut the corridor door.
A plump man sitting next to the one remaining seat in the carriage looked up - momentarily annoyed - but when he saw Kitty he smiled and stood up quickly.
‘Here you are, miss. Let me help you with that.’ He lifted Kitty’s case up onto the rack and indicated the seat.
Kitty smiled her thanks and handed the man her raincoat, which he placed carefully on top of the case. The carriage was stiflingly hot already.
‘Got far to go?’ asked the man, middle-aged with a shiny face, as they both sat down. Kitty was squeezed in between the two largest people in the carriage. As a general rule, she preferred to travel facing the engine. She wiggled to make space.
‘Dover,’ announced Kitty.
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Family business,’ said Kitty. ‘I’m trying to locate my sister,’ she lied.
The man nodded, unsure whether to continue the conversation or stretch it out over the journey.
‘It’s very stuffy in here,’ said Kitty, indicating the blinds.
‘Birds must be kept down,’ stated the man, as if signifying something obvious.
‘I beg your pardon.’ Kitty shook her head.
‘The blinds, miss. See what some wag has written.’ He pointed to the sign pasted above the carriage door. Kitty turned her head to look.
‘Birds-must-be-kept-down,’ she read aloud. Someone had erased the word blinds and substituted birds. It was not funny at all.
‘Very funny,’ she said, straining a smile.
‘Yes, you see some good ones today,’ chuckled the man. ‘I wish I’d thought of that.’
Kitty looked bemused beneath the smile.
‘Wot? No bananas?’ the man chuckled again. ‘Very amusing, some chaps!’
Kitty continued to look bemused.
‘Wot?’ said the man. ‘You’ve not seen Mr Chad?’
‘Yes, I think I have,’ said Kitty. ‘With the big nose. Chalked on walls and places?’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said the man. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, miss, you have rather an unusual accent. I can’t seem to place it.’
‘Well, my family were originally from Scotland, but I was born and brought up in Malaya.’
‘Malaya?’ said the man, impressed. ‘Very exotic. Nice and hot, I suppose.’
‘Yes, very hot, sometimes,’ laughed Kitty.
‘And lots of nig-nogs, I suppose,’ said the women sitting directly in front of her. She was knitting a scarf. On her lap sat balls of wool in burnt orange, chocolate brown and yellow.
‘Well, Malays, actually,’ said Kitty. ‘And Indians and Chinese, too. It’s a very mixed society.’
‘How’d you get on with all that foreign food, then?’ asked the woman.
‘Well, I don’t suppose it seems foreign to me.’
‘What sort of things d’you eat, then?’
‘All sorts of things. Roast beef, pork chops, chicken soup. The usual sort of things.’
‘Wot nothing exotic?’ asked the man, chuckling.
‘Well, yes.’ Kitty was now feeling peeved at all the attention. ‘There’s fish head curry. That’s one of my favourites.’
‘Ergh! Fish heads! We give fish heads to cats here, dear. And curry? That’s that hot stuff, ain’t it?’
‘Yes. It’s lovely,’ said Kitty. ‘It covers the taste of the rotting meat.’ The carriage grew quiet suddenly and Kitty, unable to look out of the window, reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out her pencil and pad. She surreptitiously looked at each passenger in turn and attempted to sum them up in M-O terms.
The man who had helped her with the case was around fifty years old and middle class. That would make him an M50B. The woman with the knitting was working class and a good fifteen years younger, so could be described as F35C. Sitting next to Kitty, to the right, sat a large woman who smelt faintly of Spam. Kitty leant forward and looked up towards her case, catching a quick glance at the woman’s face as she did so: F50B.
Opposite her, another woman, elderly with an expensive fur-trimmed coat and reading The Greek Myths by Robert Graves: F75A. To left of the woman with the knitting, sat an M30B, a Civil Service type engrossed in the Daily Telegraph. The remaining two seats by the window were occupied by an M55A working on papers from a briefcase and an M30C in dull brown battledress and reading the Daily Mirror. Kitty crossed her legs and began working on character sketches.
In time came the sound of a whistle outside on the platform. A few remaining doors slammed and then the train jerked briefly as they began to pull out of the station. Kitty felt her heart stir again as the train picked up momentum. She was annoyed about the blinds and mourned the view outside the window.
The door slid open suddenly, making Kitty jump. ‘Tickets, please.’
‘Is it strictly necessary to keep the blinds down?’ asked Kitty of the inspector after a moment.
‘It’s for your own protection, ma’am.’
‘But, surely, it’s for the blackout. It won’t make any difference in the daylight.’
‘Madam, I don’t make the rules. I just obey them.’
‘It’s to protect us from splinters of glass,’ said the M55A by the window. ‘In air-raids.’
‘Are we expecting any air-raids?’ asked Kitty.
‘In a war, we can expect anything,’ added the M55A.
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‘What time do we arrive in Dover?’ Kitty turned and looked up at the inspector as he examined and clipped the F75A’s ticket.
‘Dover Priory, or Dover Western Docks?’
‘Dover Priory.’
‘It’s hard to say, madam. Yesterday, we didn’t arrive until gone two.’
‘Two?’ exclaimed the F35C with the knitting. ‘I’m meeting my husband for lunch.’
‘What can I say? There’s loads more traffic on the line. Military transports, and all.’ He stood in the doorway, poised to slide back the door. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’ He slammed it shut.
‘You don’t read about them in the papers, but there’s loads of air-raids,’ said the F35C amid a clatter of needles. ‘They dropped two bombs on us the other day, near Deal. They didn’t give the signal then. It wasn’t in the papers. None of it! Our planes went up and you could see and hear the machineguns – the bullets were coming down on the roof afterwards.’
‘I have no doubt,’ put in the Spam-smelling F50B. She leant forward in her seat, turning her head both ways and addressing the carriage. ‘And you know, they were over the West Riding the other day and dropped some bombs. They dropped them in fields.’
‘That was on the news,’ put in the soldier by the window, the M30C.
‘Yes, they told you that,’ admitted the F50B. ‘But they also bombed Catterick – that’s an aerodrome, do you know? Yes, they bombed that but there wasn’t anything in the papers about it!’ She stopped herself suddenly and sat upright, placing her hand to her mouth. ‘Here, I wonder if I’m giving any secrets away?’
She turned to the soldier. ‘I think you’re all right, but what about you, funny accent and all?’ She stared directly at Kitty, looking at her notepad as she did so. The woman was crushing her and Kitty struggled to free her arm. It was beginning to feel numb. Kitty raised it into the air, stretching open the palm to let the blood back in. The F50B reeled back as if in horror.
‘Eh! That’s not the salute to give here. That’s like a Nazi salute.’
‘What?’ asked Kitty, turning to stare at the woman. ‘You were crushing my arm.’
‘Well, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to sit there.’
‘All the trains are crowded these days,’ said the soldier, trying to calm the atmosphere.
‘And they smell,’ said Kitty, fuming. ‘Of Spam!’ She gave the woman a hard stare. ‘Isn’t anyone else hot in here?’
‘Hot’s nice, after where I’ve been.’ The soldier pulled his shoulders back, letting everyone see the stripes on his arm.
‘So, where have you been, then?’ asked the Spam F50B. ‘Not in France?’
‘No, in Norway. And when I say cold, I mean really cold.’
‘Oh, it must have been terrible,’ put in the knitting F35C. ‘At least, they’re pretty rotten shots those Germans.’
‘Well, I’ve seen them do some pretty marvellous bombing these past months. And I’m glad to be back now, I can tell you.’
‘You on leave then?’ asked the F35C, clicking away.
‘Just forty-eight hours. My wife and the kiddie were evacuated down to Folkestone somewhere. I’m trying to find ‘em. I wrote several times but I ain’t had no reply.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find ‘em, love,’ said the F35C. ‘I’ve just taken my children to Wales. I’m going to miss them.’
‘Oh, you do. I evacuated mine the day before the war was declared,’ announced Spam F50B.
‘Was that this war or the last?’ asked Kitty.
‘Oh, my! The cheek of it!’ She sat back heavily in her seat and puffed herself up, increasing the pressure on Kitty. ‘This war, young lady. This war.’ The carriage grew quiet again.
‘What are you knitting?’ Kitty leant forward, addressing the F35C.
‘It’s a scarf for my hubby,’ she laughed.
‘It’s very long,’ said Kitty, laughing, too.
‘It’ll be even longer if we don’t get in till two!’ she laughed again. ‘My old
man’s in the Navy. I’ve knitted him a sweater, too. Would you like to see?’
Kitty nodded, and the woman bent down to a shopping basket between her feet.
‘Do you think he’ll like the colours?’ she asked Kitty.
‘It’s a…it’s very bright,’ suggested Kitty. ‘Very colourful, and it matches the scarf.’
‘It’s not too colourful, d’you think? Being in the Navy, wearing blue all the time, I thought he’d like something with a bit of colour. Now you’ve got me worried.’
‘It’s lovely,’ said Kitty. ‘He’ll love it all the more because you made it for him.’
‘Good clothes are important,’ she told Kitty. ‘Just look at all them refugees.’ The F35C put down her knitting. ‘They come over in any old rags and things and next morning they’re strolling about, well dressed, as if they owned the place. It makes you think that only the ones with money got out.’
‘There’s all sorts,’ said the F50B pressing against Kitty, trying to regain her dignity. ‘But these Polish refugees, and the Czechs, it’s not as if they make any effort to fit in. All those strange words, with lots of Zs and things. They haven’t a hope of fitting in. Sooner they go home, the better.’
‘And now it’s all French and Belgians.’ The F35C resumed her knitting and then paused to count the stitches. ‘Now, I’ve gone and dropped one! At least they’re more like us. The nice ones are anyway. And lots of ‘em speak English.’
‘There’ll be even more, now,’ offered the soldier. ‘Things don’t look too good in France. They said on the wireless this morning that the French are holding back a big advance along the River Lys.’
‘At least our blokes are giving those Jerries a good hammering,’ stated the knitter. She turned to the soldier. ‘I suppose you’re be going out there next?’
‘I couldn’t say, misses, but I guess it’s more than likely.’ He laid down his paper and pulled himself upright. Every one in the compartment looked his way.
‘What a right mess they’re making of it out there,’ he declared. ‘It didn’t help that those ruddy Belgians – pardon my French - that those ruddy Belgians wouldn’t let us in before this whole thing kicked off.’
He became suddenly animated and waved his hands around. ‘If the British Expeditionary Force had been allowed into Belgium and could have set up proper defences, then the Germans would never have got through. There’s no way! We could have held ‘em the same place we did in the last war. And now what’s happening?’
He looked from one passenger to the next. ‘I’ll tell you. We had to rush into Belgium to help them out the moment the Germans invaded. And we found we couldn’t hold ‘em back, could we? Especially with the Belgians surrendering like they did, and now we’ve had to pull back into France. At least we’ve got proper defences there.’ He shook his head, and picked his paper back off his lap. ‘Yeah, I imagine I’ll be going over there soon enough.’
‘Good for you.’ The F75A in furs spoke for the first time and returned to her book.
Kitty stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said turning with a smile to the M50B beside her. He reached up and slid open the door and Kitty stepped out into the corridor. She walked to the end of the carriage and began scribbling urgently into her notepad. She had a good memory and tried to recapture the conversations as best she could. After a few minutes, Kitty looked up. A dozen or so people stood in the corridor. Two men were standing beside the exit, the window pulled down and the blind drawn up. They both blew smoke out of the window as they chatted.
‘Excuse me,’ said Kitty with a smile. ‘But do you have a light?’
Both men fumbled in their pockets and simultaneously placed a flickering lighter before Kitty’s cigarette. She looked from one to the other briefly and then took a light from the man furthest from the window. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s so stuffy in those compartments, you don’t really want to smoke.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ s
aid the man who gave her a light, an M25B.
‘Nothing like fresh air,’ said the other, an M30B. ‘Please,’ he said, moving aside and letting Kitty lean against the window.
‘Nice weather,’ she said.
‘For the ducks, maybe,’ said the M25B. ‘On your holidays?’ he asked.
‘Who takes holidays, these days?’ asked Kitty in return. ‘I’m looking up some family in Dover.’
‘Well, don’t stay long will you,’ he offered.
‘Pardon,’ she asked. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘You’re find Dover a bit busy at the moment…’
The other man gave his friend a hard look, which softened as he turned quickly to Kitty.
‘What he means is,’ said the M30B. ‘There’s a lot of military preparations on in Dover at the moment. Troops being moved back and forth. That sort of thing. Not a nice place for a young lady travelling on her own. Oh, look!’ he said suddenly. ‘We’re coming into Ashford.’
The train began to slow down and Kitty put her head out of the window. The ground beside the track was strewn with paper. There were post cards, cigarette packets, ice cream cartons, as well as bottles and drinking vessels of all kinds. There were also thousands of squashed tin cups. As the train continued to slow, kitty noticed orange peel everywhere. Stranger still were bits of military equipment. There was a belt, a rain sheet, even a bayonet. ‘That’s very odd,’ thought Kitty as the train pulled into the platform.
‘Open the blinds, now,’ called Kitty, rushing back into the compartment. ‘Trust me. You will want to see this!’
The soldier took one look at Kitty and reached forward for the strap. The blind clattered noisily and then every one in the compartment could see out of the window.
‘That’s a troop train back from France,’ declared Kitty. ‘Who would believe it? Just look at the state of them!’
‘That must be a hospital train,’ stated the M55A.
‘But they look like Kentucky minstrels,’ declared the F75A, squeezing close to the window. ‘And a lot of them do not seem to have any clothes on. Oh my goodness!’ She turned away, shielding her eyes.