by Alan Pearce
Buck turned and slithered across the tiles, halting behind a chimneybreast. He indicated for Archie to position himself behind the other. Buck peered through his scope and Archie re-focused the binoculars. They both stared at the plant until their eyes began to play tricks.
‘What d’you reckon?’ hissed Buck.
‘Looks like a plant to me.’
‘Then you have a scout about with the bins and I’ll watch the roof,’ he suggested. Another artillery round tore over their heads, tugging at the air around them. It landed beyond the square. Neither Archie nor Buck turned to look. Another shell whistled by to their right, prompting the chimney to groan.
‘You don’t think they’ve seen us,’ called Archie in a low voice.
‘Naw! Doubt it. It takes them a while to signal back and forth…hang on!’
Buck drew breath through the gap in his teeth, issuing an eerie note. He squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped back against his shoulder and he slipped quickly away from the chimneybreast. Archie slide back down to join him out of sight by the guttering.
‘That’s one in the eye for Hitler,’ pronounced Buck, recharging the rifle.
‘You got him in the eye?’ exclaimed Archie.
‘No, but I got him in the scope!’ Buck laughed. ‘He’ll have to go get another one or else stick his head up next time.’ He grinned and held out his hand. ‘Good teamwork, lad.’
But as Archie leant forward to shake Buck by the hand he felt the tiles beneath him crack and give way. Buck made a grab for his hand but by then Archie had already dropped through the gap in the roof.
‘What did I say about malarkin’?’ asked Buck. He held his sides and looked up at Archie.
‘It’s not fucking funny!’ Archie winced with the searing pain.
‘Well, you’re hooked good and proper,’ explained Buck. ‘You’ll have to wiggle out of that greatcoat. There’s a beam all the way through the collar.’
‘It’s not fucking funny!’
‘You look like a kipper hung up to smoke!’
‘Let me stand on your shoulders and I’ll try and undo the coat.’
Buck sucked in air and tried not to smile. He stepped up beneath Archie and took his weight. ‘Come on, lad. Don’t hang about!’
‘Very funny.’ The pain was making Archie feel sick. He worked to free the large buttons. ‘Help me down,’ he called eventually, and Buck lowered him gently to the floor. Archie wobbled on his feet and then crumpled in a heap.
‘Fuck me, lad!’ Buck stared at Archie. ‘I thought for one minute you’d been making your own underwear.’ He stared with disbelief at the stained and rumpled bandages wrapped across Archie’s chest and shoulder. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you say something?’
‘Oh, come on!’ said Archie, struggling into an upright position. ‘You know the drill. I ain’t going to complain, am I? It’s not on to grumble.’
‘Grumble?’ asked Buck, astonished. ‘Grumble is what you do when you get bully beef everyday. You’ve got every right to complain.’ He bent forward and examined Archie’s shoulder. ‘What happened here?’ he asked.
‘Bullet,’ said Archie. ‘But it went straight through, no broken bones. The MO said I was very lucky.’
‘Gerr off! You call that lucky?’ Buck whistled involuntarily. ‘Your sharp shooting days are over, my lad. I think you’re earned your ticket home.’
‘Oh, no!’ spluttered Archie. The bitter anger rose in his throat like bile. ‘That’s the last thing I bloody want.’
15:30 Thursday 30 May 1940.
Snowdown Station, Southern Railways, Kent
‘Five minutes everyone!’ called the stationmaster, his rosy cheeks glowing with the effort. ‘The train has just left Shepherd’s Well.’ He stood on the platform’s edge, rocking backwards and forwards on the soles of his polished shoes.
‘There’s no butter or marg on these scones,’ called out Mrs Hannaford in alarm.
‘Then just serve them as they are,’ called back Margaret. She raised her hand and tucked back an errant strand of hair, pushing it inside the brimmed hat. She let out her breath and looked around her. Mrs Hannaford had the scones under control, if not the butter. Mrs Arnold was busy laying out the freshly washed teacups on trays along the trestle table, and Mrs Roberts was in the ladies having another funny turn.
Margaret looked down the track. The rails were vibrating, sending a number of rooks clamouring and heralding the arrival of yet another troop train. Other women from the village and beyond were lining up to take trays. Margaret squeezed in and lifted up a heavy platter of sandwiches. She tilted her head to see what was inside. Already the tomato was soaking through the thin slices, curling the edges and exposing the waxy cheese within.
The engine approached the station. Heads and arms stretched themselves out of the windows like tentacles in search of refreshments. Margaret stepped forward with the others and watched as the train reduced speed. She found herself holding her breath. She looked quickly at the men as each carriage moved by. In their eagerness for food and drink many of the faces, otherwise blackened, worn and troubled, broke into smiles. Margaret felt her mouth part in a broad smile of her own. But only the mouths smiled. The eyes were tired and refused to play along. Now the men were calling out to the women. Above the noise of the rocking carriages and the calls and the whistles, the stationmaster boomed out: ‘Eight minutes! We have just eight minutes to feed the multitude.’ The wheels screeched to a halt.
‘Excuse me.’
Margaret turned quickly, off balance. ‘Yes?’ she asked, a hint of impatience. She had already singled out her compartment. ‘If you have brought the glasses, can you please take them into the waiting room.’ She tilted her head along the platform. ‘We are very busy right now.’
‘Glasses?’ asked Kitty.
‘Yes, the glasses! I take it you are from the pub.’ Margaret gave her a quizzical look and took another step towards the train.
‘No, I’m not from the pub,’ explained Kitty, smiling and keeping up. ‘I just wondered if I could help out.’ She continued to smile.
Margaret thrust the platter of curling sandwiches straight into her arms. ‘Take these but don’t let the men in just one carriage grab them all. Move down the platform offering just a few to each compartment.’ Margaret looked away as the women held their trays up to the open windows and the tentacles. ‘Can you manage that?’
But Kitty had already gone. Margaret trotted back to the table and took a newly poured tray of tea.
Kitty’s skills as a hostess were well developed, having been honed over many years at family garden parties. As the only girl among four boys, it had been Kitty who had assumed the role of deputy hostess, floating among the elegant guests with silver trays of tropical delicacies.
‘Why don’t you come with us, luv?’ The grinning soldier patted the carriage door suggestively. ‘Honeymoon special!’ He and others laughed.
‘You wouldn’t get me in there with you lot,’ smiled Kitty, puffing out her chest. ‘Not for all the tea in China! Have a sandwich.’
Dozens of grubby hands reached out through the window. Many were cut and grazed. She looked at their dirty faces as they fought and scrambled to pull the sandwiches inside the carriage. Kitty lowered the tray back out of reach.
‘That’s enough for you lot,’ she laughed and stepped quickly to the next carriage door. She looked down at the tray. Few entire sandwiches remained. Scattered triangular slices of curling bread and isolated slithers of pale tomato littered the platter. Kitty hesitated, shrugged and then stepped up, presenting the tray again. A man in a string vest with tattoos across his entire chest, an obvious M40C, spread a fat hand across the tray and scooped up as much as he could. He forced the sandwich elements into his mouth and winked at Kitty.
‘What’s it like over there?’ she asked quickly, allowing another soldier to gather up the last few crumbs.
‘Didn’t stop raining,’ said the soldier with the crumbs. ‘Today was th
e first dry day we had and, would you believe it, we had to come home!’
Kitty tried to laugh. ‘Was it terrible?’ she asked.
‘Put it this way.’ He wiped a few crumbs from the side of his mouth. ‘I won’t be going back next year!’
Kitty’s next tray held enamel mugs of ginger beer.
‘Oy! You clumsy sod! You’re splashing the lady!’
She stepped back allowing the tidal wave of ginger beer to roll off the front of the tray and down onto the platform, splashing her shoes.
‘That’s all right, lads,’ she joked. ‘It’s not my Sunday best.’
She lifted the tray again and allowed the men to help themselves.
‘Let’s have those mugs back!’ she called, looking into the carriage. A few men were soundly asleep, oblivious to the commotion around them. ‘Have you finished with those mugs yet?’ She stepped back and mugs poured out of the window in a precarious heap onto her tray.
‘Have some fags, luv!’ offered a tanned M20C. He tossed down two flat tins.‘Shouldn’t we be giving things to you, not the other way round?’ she smiled back.
‘Take ‘em, luv. We’ve got bloomin’ ‘undreds!’
A whistle blew sharply further down the platform and Kitty stood away from the edge. There was no time to talk.
‘Stand away there!’ called the stationmaster. He blew his whistle again, puffing out his red cheeks. ‘Stand away there!’
‘What’s it like over there?’ The wheels gave a tired groan and Kitty moved up the platform, keeping pace with the departing train. Cups continued to fly out of the windows. The soldiers waved goodbye. The M20C continued to lean out of the compartment. Thick brown hair hung from his dislodged fringe, covering one eye. He shook his head and gave a wan smile. The train picked up speed and soon the guard’s van had disappeared up the track and around the bend. Kitty and the others stood still, an awful flat feeling descending along the platform.
‘They will hang on to the bloomin’ cups,’ exclaimed Rose, breaking the spell.
Kitty stooped to help gather cups and other receptacles from the platform. She filled her tray to capacity and returned to the trestle table, pocketing the cigarettes.
‘Thank you,’ said Margaret, stepping alongside. ‘It’s a madhouse sometimes,’ she explained.
‘Is it always this busy?’ asked Kitty.
Margaret nodded and drew Kitty aside. ‘How long can you stay?’ she asked.
‘I’ve got all day…’
‘Then you can lend a hand over here.’ She led Kitty to the far end of the table where several women lent forward arranging food. ‘You butter the bread and I’ll find something to put inside.’
Kitty picked up the knife and began to butter the pile of cut bread that lay before her. Margaret returned with a catering sized tin of corned beef and a large jar of homemade piccalily.
‘Not so thick,’ she scalded.
‘Bread ‘n’ scrape?’ answered Kitty.
Margaret smiled. ‘We have to make a little go a long way.’
‘It’s making me so hungry,’ declared Kitty after scraping away the excess butter from ten slices. ‘I don’t know about a little. It looks like a lot of food to me!’
Margaret laughed. ‘Oh, if only! We have all had to raid our pantries. We have also had to beg, borrow and steal.’ She paused and looked at the front of Kitty’s neat navy two-piece. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve spilt something down your front.’
‘Ginger beer,’ explained Kitty.
‘Well, you just hold on there, dear.’ Margaret turned and looked for one of the many dishcloths. ‘If it doesn’t stain,’ she explained as she wiped, ‘it will at least leave a tidemark and you don’t want that.’
She ran the cloth over the contours of Kitty’s breasts and suddenly felt her face flush. She stepped back, tossing the dishcloth onto the trestle table and quickly wiping her hands on a tea towel.
‘That is so much better, thank you,’ said Kitty, happy to resume her buttering. ‘You were telling me about all this food.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Margaret explained. ‘Yes. We have had to go around all the shops asking for food and sweets and cigarettes. Everything really. The ironmonger donated his entire stock and the tobacconist has been a perfect darling.’
Margaret halted in her tracks again. ‘But this is all supposed to be terribly hush-hush.’ She looked Kitty in the eye. ‘How did you hear about it?’ she asked, knitting her brows.
‘Oh,’ said Kitty, wiping away butter and still looking down. ‘People are talking about it.’
‘Are they?’
‘Well.’ Kitty felt herself hesitating on the edge of a lie. She looked back at Margaret. ‘When I came down by train yesterday I saw loads of soldiers at Ashford. And they all looked in a really bad way. Not like this lot just now. These chaps looked more like a load of old coalminers on an excursion.’
‘Then you wait.’ Margaret tightened her lips. ‘The hospital train is coming back this afternoon and that will break your heart, no matter how big it is.’
15:50 Thursday 30 May 1940.
Port Admiral’s Office, Dover, Kent
‘Well, you may say that, sir, but I don’t see you on the list,’ announced the young lieutenant with the strawberry birthmark. He folded the binder shut and looked vaguely satisfied.
The Skipper felt his temples pulsate. He tapped his toe impatiently and tried not to stare at the broad pink patch across the young officer’s face. He mouthed the word slowly: ‘Cameron. Would you like me to spell it?’
‘No, I do understand, sir.’ The officer exhaled quietly and stretched across his desk. ‘Hold on a minute please…’ There was a brief pause while he lifted the telephone from its cradle and pressed buttons.
‘Hello, sir…I have a Commander Bishop of Cameron here…Yes…That’s right, Cameron…yes, really...I understand…sir.’
The Skipper was studying the albino hairs on the man’s eyebrow when he suddenly replaced the receiver and lifted his head. He gave the Skipper a tired look. ‘The captain says he will see you now, sir. But don’t keep him long, he has an appointment at sixteen-hundred.’
‘Teddy!’ exclaimed the captain, pulling himself from behind his desk. ‘This calls for a celebration! Come and plonk yourself down and tell me everything.’
The Skipper shook hands and accepted the chair. He placed a thin buff folder on the desk in front of him. ‘This is my preliminary report, sir.’ He settled back and tried to sink into the hard seat. He watched as the captain rummaged through his desk drawers, finally producing a bottle of South African brandy. He rummaged a little more and then picked up the telephone.
‘Manners. Try and rustle up a couple of brandy glasses will you, there’s a good fellow.’ He picked the report off the desk and adjusted his glasses. His chair creaked as he sat back. ‘I see,’ he muttered. ‘Ah ha…yes…’
The Skipper, feeling the fleeting nightmare of old school days, cast his eyes around the spacious office. The windows were closed and criss-crossed with packing tape. The room had the musty odour of biscuits, like an old man’s bedroom. He looked at the solid oak desk with its untidy papers and the remains of breakfast balancing precariously on the edge of the plate. The thought of scrambled egg and toast made his stomach rumble. The Skipper looked towards the centre of the room where an antique globe sat on a pedestal. On the far wall, rows of books from official histories and almanacs, to box files of requisitions and audits. He sighed in despair.
The captain turned another page. The Skipper pulled back his chair and walked towards the chart. A new row of blue celluloid pins indicated the recently captured shore batteries between Calais and Gravelines. Other blue pins ran from the east of Dunkirk to a point beyond Nieuport and off the edge of the chart. The Skipper cast a quick glance at the captain, who continued engrossed in the report, and then traced his finger along the final dog’s leg of Route Z where it hugged the French coast. The acrid tang of disturbed ozone returned to his nostril
s. A sudden shudder rippled across the base of his spine. Just then there was a tap at the door and Manners with the strawberry mark entered the room.
‘Best I could do, sir.’ Manners placed two ornate teacups with matching saucers on the desk in front of the captain and walked back out of the door, ignoring the breakfast things. The Skipper stepped back to his chair and sat down, reaching for the brandy bottle. His arm was half way across the desk when he stopped and tilted the desk calendar to look at the date. ‘30 May. Thursday.’ He pulled the cork from the bottle and filled both cups to the brim. The captain continued engrossed in the report.
This being a Thursday, the Royal Navy had a specific toast. The Skipper raised his cup off the saucer and tapped it against the captain’s.
‘A bloody war,’ he announced.
The captain lifted his cup without looking away from the report and replied: ‘Or a sickly season.’
Both took a mouthful of the sweet brandy and replaced the cups on their saucers. The captain continued with the report while the Skipper studied the ceiling. Eventually, the captain leant forward in his chair and placed the report back on his desk. He scribbled a hasty note and then turned his full attention to Commander Bishop.
‘Well, not much to show for it.’ He looked the Skipper in the eye, as if expecting an explanation, but continued on before he could receive one. ‘Are they serious? Twenty-four hours?’
‘Afraid so, sir.’
‘The war will be bloody over before you know it.’ He sipped his brandy with a sharp flick of his wrist.
‘But when you think we took over twenty hits and the de-gaussing system’s shot right through, and two holes beneath the waterline, not to mention patching up the main tank...’
‘Yes, yes. I see all that.’ The captain spun in his chair, first towards the wall chart and then towards the patched windows. He swung back with a creak. ‘Frankly, it couldn’t have happened at a worse time. We’re pushed to the limit right now. And the yard…damn the yard!’ He sipped again at the brandy. ‘Look, Teddy! Just keep on their case will you? This whole show is tipped to end tomorrow night, and you don’t want to miss that, do you?’