by Alan Pearce
‘Yeah, and to exploit the surfs.’
‘I don’t suppose the lieutenant’s family have surfs any more. No even in Scotland.’
Samson scooped more muddy soil up with the spade and tossed it over the side. ‘All the better if I’ve got a shiny knight leading me into battle.’ Samson laughed, exposing the gaps in his front teeth. ‘Or a knight in bedroom slippers!’
‘Too right, lad. You won’t find officers like ‘em in other – ordinary - regiments. You just got to look at types like the lieutenant. It’s a different world. They pack ‘em off to boarding school when they’re no more than nippers. They don’t get no love from their parents. They have cold showers every morning before their cross-country run. Then they’re leaning Latin and Greek all day. Learning how the Romans ran their empire so they can learn how to run this one.’ Sergeant Harris finished straightening out the strip of leather and placed it back inside his boot. ‘And when they’re not doing that, they’re playing hard sports like rugby and hockey. A lot tougher than your beloved soccer.’
‘’Ere! Hang on!’
‘And when they ain’t doing that, they’re riding around chasing foxes or playing polo. What’s that all about then? That’s practicing to be cavalry, that’s what. Those blokes are born and bred for war. It would be a crying shame if they ever missed one.’
He slipped his boot back on and then grimaced. He slipped the boot off again and tossed away the leather. ‘Bloody good job for us that Mad Scotch Bob survived the last war to have a son. So many others didn’t. They’re a dying breed.’
‘Yeah. And a lot of blokes from round my way never came back neither.’
‘Ain’t that the truth! Fucking Jerries!’ Sergeant Harris spat into the trench beside Samson and laced up his boot. ‘I’d say you were done down there, lad. Give us one of your fags and let’s take a quick breather. Then you can go and cut some more corn.’
Both men sat on the lip of the trench, dangling their legs inside and admiring their handiwork. Over to their right, just three hundred yards away, countless French troops were trudging slowly across the bridge.
‘Look at those wankers, sarn’t! You wouldn’t want to be in a Frog outfit.’
‘Some of ‘em are all right but that lot there obviously ain’t. They look done in.’
‘Hey! Look, sarn’t! They’re chucking their rifles into the bloomin’ canal. Now I’ve seen it all.’
Sandy was also watching the French poilus as they made their way across the bridge. He had wandered over to see how No.1 Company was doing. He stopped to rest at the edge of the frontline trench, taking the weight off his feet.
‘Hello, Nigel!’ he called. ‘How did your foraging party get on? Find anything interesting?’
‘We got this Lewis gun,’ declared Nigel. The gun had been stripped and lay in pieces on a sheet of tarpaulin. Now he and a sergeant were putting it back together again. ‘And a Bren, quite a bit of ammo, and two whole cases of Mills bombs. How about you?’
‘I’m still waiting for my lot to get back,’ said Sandy. ‘I say, when you’ve finished here, why not come over to the cottage for a glass of sherry?’
‘Thanks very much. How very civilised!’ Nigel straightened up from the Lewis gun and looked back to the cottage. ‘I would not want to be in there, though, when the Bosche turn up. Once they know you’re in there, they’ll blow it to pieces.’
‘Yes, quite likely,’ said Sandy. ‘But I discussed that with Peter and we were both of the same opinion. The chances are that they will attack the line first, rather than systematically destroy every building just in case it’s a strongpoint.’
‘Your choice, Sandy.’
‘Anyway, we can always vacate as soon as things get too hot.’
‘I suppose so.’ Both officers turned to look back at the bridge, and Nigel spoke again. ‘Just because they are under our protection now, they think the war’s over. Look at all those rifles going in the drink.’
‘Don’t let them throw anything useful away, will you?’
‘They haven’t got anything useful. Just rifles as far as I can see. I stopped some of them a while ago and asked them what they thought they were doing. They just shrugged their shoulders in that irritating Gallic way and said that the war was lost already.’
‘Cheek!’
‘They said the sooner they could surrender without being shot, the better. The officers are the worst. One blighter called me a stupid fool to go on fighting.’
‘There’s one now,’ said Sandy. ‘He looks a decent sort. Let’s go and have a chat to him.’
The officers climbed out of the trench and stood beside the road.
‘Bon après-midi, chef de bataillon. Êtes-vous venu loin?’
The French officer, the equivalent rank to a major, answered the question by nodding his head, indicating that he had come a long way. ‘Too far,’ he said in good English, returning the officers’ salutes.
‘Can I offer you something to drink, sir?’ asked Nigel.
‘Water?’
‘There’s no drinking water, sir. But I can offer you a glass of wine or perhaps a Belgian beer.’
‘I will take the Belgian beer, if you please. May I sit down?’
They introduced themselves while Nigel’s batman prized the tops off three bottles and passed them around.
‘It is a mess,’ said the chef de bataillon once he had taken a lengthy swallow. ‘Do you know how long it takes for a message from headquarters to reach my unit in the field?’ he asked suddenly.
‘How long, sir?’ asked Sandy. ‘An hour or so? Cigarette?’
‘Thank you. It takes twenty-four hours, at best. Forty-eight, if I want to send a message back. I ask myself where is all the correct equipment? Why do we not have wireless communication?’
Sandy and Nigel shook their heads. Nigel lent forward and lit the Frenchman’s cigarette.
‘Why must we, in this day and age, rely on telephones?’ he continued. ‘And the telephones, of course, they do not work with the first artillery barrage. The lines are cut. Then we must send messages by hand.’
Sandy and Nigel nodded in agreement.
‘I am certain,’ he said, exhaling. ‘That we have as many tanks as the Germans do. Our tanks are the best in the world. But how do we deploy them?’
Sandy and Nigel shook their heads.
‘We treat them like they are pillboxes. We put one in this field here, another in the next field. And while we do this, the Bosche are using the phalanx tactics of the ancient Spartans. They drive all their tanks in one giant phalanx, and how can we stop them? Last year France manufactured many thousands of anti-tank weapons. But where are they? Are they with my men in the field? No, they all go for export. It is like a bad joke.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear it, sir,’ said Nigel, trying to look apropriately sympthatic. ‘But we are all in the same boat. And talking of boats, what are your plans, sir?’
‘Plans, yes. If we have any!’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘We must make our way to the coast. From there were can all join together and form a bridgehead. We can continue the fight from there.’ He drained off the last of his beer and stood up.
‘Well, I wouldn’t let your men throw their rifles away in that case,’ offered Sandy. ‘You might need them later.’
‘They are not my men, lieutenant. Look at them! They are old men – reservists. My men are dead.’ He pointed back to the road and a small group of stationery soldiers in tan greatcoats and grey helmets. They looked despondent but still retained their weapons, including a Chatellerault light-machine gun.
‘That is all that is left of my men. Just twenty men to show for an entire regiment. Good day, gentlemen.’
‘Well, he was a jolly chap?’ huffed Nigel as soon as the French officer was out of earshot.
‘He’s going to be even jollier when he gets to the coast,’ confirmed Sandy. ‘I don’t suppose he has any idea we’re evacuating the BEF.’
‘No,’ agree
d Nigel. ‘I dare say not.’ He stopped suddenly and looked along the bridge. In the middle of the French troops chugged a Renault tracked vehicle.
‘Oh, what now? What are those bloody provosts up to?’ demanded Nigel. ‘They know not to allow any vehicles across. What is that? Some kind of armoured tractor?’
‘Rather looks like it,’ confirmed Sandy. ‘Hang on a moment,’ he exclaimed. ‘I think I know that driver.’
The Renault Type UE had room for just two seated passengers. Their heads poked out of two half-domes on the top of the hull.
‘Hey!’ called Sandy, flagging the vehicle down. ‘What on earth have you got there, man?’
‘What haven’t I got, sir?’ called Lucas, his face beaming. ‘That’s the question, sir.’
15:45 Wednesday 29 May 1940.
Bray Dunes, France
‘I was thinking,’ pondered Lieutenant Harold Dibbens, a former Scotland Yard detective. ‘What they need here is a pier or jetty.’
He sat with the rest of his men, far back in the dunes, taking in the view. Over to the west, Dunkirk lay shrouded in thick smoke. The wind coming off the Channel pushed the heavy black clouds inland, exposing the seaward side of town to the full attention of the Luftwaffe. Dozens of vessels, from destroyers to paddle steamers, cruised off the shore, two miles or more from the beach. It was a vision of hell and the lieutenant’s group were duly impressed.
‘I’m sure the Navy have already thought of that, sir,’ said Sergeant Norris, drawing circles in the sand with the tip of his finger.
‘No, but I’m thinking of a very different kind of jetty.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but it would take ages to build a jetty. You’ve got to drive piles into the sand. Where’s all the materials going to come from?’
‘No, not that kind of jetty.’
‘What then, sir? String boats together, you mean?’
‘No. If they had the boats I dare say they would be using them already to ferry those men out to the ships.’
‘Well, what then, sir?’ The sergeant was in desperate need of sleep and had a tendency to sound irritable. The lieutenant ignored it.
‘I was thinking a jetty of trucks?’ he explained.
‘Trucks? How would that work, then?’ Sergeant Norris looked up.
‘Well for starters, there are more trucks around here than any other single commodity. Correct?’
‘Correct, sir.’
‘There is your material, man.’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘We need to find out what time’s low tide,’ he announced. ‘Then we drive the trucks out as far as they will go and lash them together. We’ll probably have to weigh them down with sand or something. That way, the men could clamber out to the boats as they tie up to the jetty.’
‘Go on, sir.’
‘If you look,’ said the officer, pointing out to sea. ‘Almost all the larger vessels are standing off about a mile or more from the shore. It must be a very small gradient here. That’s why they can’t come nearer.’ He dipped his arm and pointed closer in. ‘Look at those chaps down in the water there. They must be about two hundred yards out and yet the water’s only up to their chests. We could push a truck jetty further out than that. The small boats could come in and the men could just hop on board.’
‘Well, yeah, sir. It sounds like a very good idea to me. But don’t you think someone already thought of it, and had to drop it for some reason?’
‘Probably not. The best ideas are almost always the simple ones, and the least obvious. It’s elementary, my dear sergeant.’
‘You see that Bren gun carrier down there, sir?’
‘What of it?’
‘There’s a bloke down there in a gabardine mac, standing in the middle of all those sailors. Look at the way he’s waving his arms around. I bet he’s in charge. Why don’t you go and have a chat to him about it, sir?’
‘I think I will. I’ll do just that.’
‘Lieutenant Dibbens, hundred-and-second Provost Company, sir.’
‘Yes, what is it?’ asked Binky, returning the salute and eying the military policeman up and down.
‘I’ve had an idea how to build a jetty here. It will take just three minutes to explain it to you, sir.’ The lieutenant looked hopefully into Binky’s face.
‘Do you have a cigarette?’ asked Binky.
‘Yes, sir.’ He reached into his pocket and slid open a packet of Ships’ Woodbines.
‘Then fire away.’
‘Yes, I like it,’ announced Binky some minutes later, dropping his butt to the sand and squashing it with the toe of his shoe. ‘I’m only worried that your chaps in their enthusiasm haven’t destroyed all the lorries for miles around.’
‘Leave that one to me, sir. What time is low tide?’
‘Twenty-one-thirty,’ said Binky. ‘That gives you five hours to make a start.’
‘Plenty of time, sir.’
‘I shall have to leave it to you to organise things. Gather up the necessary men and such. I can’t possibly spare a soul.’
‘No problem, sir.’ He turned around and indicated the almost countless thousands of troops gathered along the beach and up into the dunes. ‘There must be some sappers or navvies amongst this lot somewhere. I’ll find them.’
Binky grinned. ‘Do you know lieutenant; this may just be the answer. Just look at that damn surf. Every boat we try to bring in just broaches.’
‘I really think it will work, sir. There’s just one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That when it’s finished, my men and all those who helped build it can get off first.’
‘Well, that seems fair to me.’
‘It’s a deal then, sir.’ The lieutenant shook Binky’s hand.
‘Just one more thing, lieutenant,’ said Binky. ‘Could you possibly spare another cigarette?’
‘Take a couple of packets, sir. My men liberated about ten-thousand from the NAAFI yesterday.’
16:00 Wednesday 29 May 1940.
Dover Priory Station, Kent
‘This is the Priory now, love,’ said the F35C. She had been jabbering solidly since Ashford and the donation of her knitting.
Kitty thanked her and waited for the train to slow down. Then she stood to retrieve her case and raincoat. The M50B was already on his feet.
‘There you go, miss,’ he said. ‘I hope you find your sister.’ He pulled Kitty’s case from the rack and placed it on the floor between their feet. He looked back up and glanced quickly into Kitty’s eyes as he handed her the raincoat. He had a sincere look when he said, ‘You be careful, my dear. There’s something in the air.’ He nodded conspiratorially and shuffled to take his place behind the other passengers alighting.
‘This train terminates here!’ called a stark voice from the platform. ‘All change!’
‘What?’ exclaimed the F35C. ‘Five ruddy hours late! And now we ain’t going all the way. My ol’ man’s probably got the right hump with me now!’
Kitty followed the M50B out on to the platform. She walked a few steps and then placed her case down. She could sense an uneasy atmosphere immediately. Two military policemen standing beside the chocolate machine were staring at her. They started at her legs, paused at her breasts, and then drilled suspicious looks into her eyes, before returning to her breasts again, and then turning their heads hastily away. Kitty paused for thought and reached inside her shoulder bag for the compact. She flipped open the lid and lightly dusted the face powder over her cheeks. The same sensation that she had felt on arrival in London returned now. But this time there was no pleasurable anticipation. That had dissolved back at Ashford. Kitty replaced the compact, lifted up her bag, and walked slowly towards the two redcaps.
‘Hello,’ said Kitty, looking the one with the stripes directly in the eyes. He pulled himself erect and struggled to keep his eyes on hers. He gave up after a moment and focused somewhere around her mouth. ‘I wonder if you can help me?’ she asked, smiling and showing two n
eat rows of white teeth.
‘I’ll try, miss.’
‘Can you recommend an hotel, or a guest house, perhaps?’
‘Hotel? You’re be lucky!’
‘All the hotels are booked solid, miss,’ announced the other redcap. ‘But you might just get a B’n’B if you’re lucky.’
‘A B’n’B?’ queried Kitty. She pronounced it slowly.
‘Bed and breakfast, miss,’ he said, turning his eyes towards the corporal quizzically.
‘Can I ask the purpose of your journey, miss?’ asked the corporal.
Kitty hesitated but only briefly. She preferred to keep things simple. ‘I’m trying to locate my sister,’ she lied again.
‘What? You’ve lost your sister?’ asked the corporal, spacing out each word.
‘No,’ said Kitty, feeling the sudden strain. ‘She was evacuated. She’s going to be evacuated again. I want to find her first. Is there a problem?’
‘That depends, miss. Can I see your Identity Card, please.’
Kitty dropped her case to the ground and tilted her head to one side as she looked again directly into the corporal’s eyes. She pulled her purse from the shoulder bag and produced the buff coloured card.
‘All right, miss. Move along,’ said the corporal, handing the card back.
‘And can you recommend an hotel?’ asked Kitty innocently.
‘No, miss. We ain’t tour guides! Now move along!’
‘I am very sorry,’ said an elderly man a few seconds later. ‘But did I hear you ask for a B’n’B?’
‘That’s right,’ replied Kitty. ‘Nothing expensive, but clean, and pleasant.’
‘There used to be loads.’ He removed his cap and scratched his head. ‘Especially down along Marine Parade and Waterloo Crescent. But most of them have shut up now. Don’t matter that there’s people crying out for accommodation. They’re more worried about their own skins. Packed up and gone away, most of them.’ He made a small huffing sound as he looked at Kitty. ‘But you might try the Central Hotel. It’s more for the travelling gentlemen, but it clean and pleasant, as you put it.’