Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘Here,’ said Kitty. ‘You look like you could do with a cuppa yourself.’ She held the tea towards Margaret, who smiled wearily and gripped the enamel mug carefully to avoid burning her fingers.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Margaret. ‘You’ve been a God-send, I must say.’

  ‘No,’ laughed Kitty. ‘Thank you. Thank you for the opportunity to help out. I wish I could put my feet up though. They’re killing me.’

  Margaret steered Kitty out to the station’s small car park and they both sat on a low wall.

  ‘I am sorry but I don’t even know your name,’ said Margaret.

  Kitty smiled and slipped the shoes from her feet, twisting the toes in delicious agony. ‘Just call me Kitty,’ she said. ‘Everybody does.’

  ‘Well, my name is Mrs Carmichael. I would say that everybody calls me Margaret but they don’t seem to. We are all rather formal here, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, I shall call you Margaret, if I may.’

  Margaret smiled and turned to sip her tea. She stopped and lifted her head. ‘I think I can hear the buses now,’ she announced.

  ‘With the wounded boys?’ asked Kitty.

  Margaret nodded and raised a hand to adjust her brimmed hat. ‘I hope you are not squeamish, Kitty.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Some of these boys are not a pretty sight. But it’s their spirit that amazes me,’ marvelled Margaret. ‘You never hear them complain.’

  ‘It’s a wonder, when you think what must be going on over there.’ Kitty slipped out a Black Cat.

  ‘Yes, it is a worry but things have a way of working out.’ Margaret shook her head at the proffered packet.

  ‘I wonder sometimes.’ Kitty sat poised with the cigarette inches from her lips. ‘I also wonder how much of what we hear on the wireless and in the papers is actually true.’

  She flicked the lighter and inhaled, blowing the smoke up into the air. ‘I just hope we can get everyone back safe and sound. The future will be bleak if we don’t.’

  Margaret pulled herself upright and looked across at Kitty. ‘But not all of them, surely?’ She laughed a little nervously. ‘Surely you mean just the wounded boys and those that need a rest? The Army has to stay in France and beat back the Germans.’

  ‘Do you think that’s likely?’ asked Kitty, flicking ash.

  ‘Yes, of course. Don’t you?’ Margaret felt the hackles rise at the nape of her neck. She resisted the urge to pat her hair.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Kitty. ‘I wonder if it isn’t more serious than that. Perhaps the best move now is to get our boys all back home, to defend these islands when the invasion comes.’

  ‘Invasion? I think you are being a little premature there…’

  ‘It’s got to come,’ said Kitty with emphasis. ‘And if we don’t have our Army back here in one piece then I don’t see how we can carry on.’

  ‘Well, I must say that is one view,’ said Margaret. ‘But not one that is commonly held. You sound as if you do not have any faith or confidence.’

  She looked Kitty directly in the eye. ‘When you look at any atlas and you see how much of the world is pink, the sheer size of our Empire, how could you or anyone possibly imagine that the Germans could defeat our Army over in France?’ The tone came out perhaps a little too indignant but Margaret was not feeling comfortable with the conversation.

  ‘It’s just something worth thinking about,’ said Kitty. ‘That’s all.’

  Margaret was shaking her head as she stood up. ‘Here come the buses now. Let’s leave the men with the stretchers to their job, shall we?’

  The stretcher-bearers at Snowdown Station were all volunteers. News had spread fast around the villages of Aylesham and Adisham, and many of the local shops and businesses were closed for much of the day. The local Saint John’s Ambulance Brigade were also on hand to help with the stretchers and to administer tea and soft drinks to those lying prostrate. In addition to the growing number of village women, several nurses were busy along the length of the platform. First aiders from the local Civil Defence posts in the area, in turn, assisted them. It was fortunate that the hospital train was expected to arrive within the next fifteen minutes or else there would be scant room on the tiny platform.

  ‘Stand back there,’ called a stretcher-bearer to Kitty. She stepped back and allowed the men space to lower their patient. Kitty knelt down and looked into the man’s eyes, an M30C. The lids appeared to flutter. In addition to the bandages that covered the top half of his head, the man wore an anxious expression. He tried to sit up and look around. His eyes blinked feverishly.

  ‘You just stay nice and still,’ purred Kitty. ‘What do you want? What can I get you?’

  ‘I’d love a fag, miss.’ The man licked his lips.

  Kitty dipped into her shoulder bag and pulled out one of the tins. She inserted a fingernail and flipped open the lid, placing a cigarette tenderly in the man’s mouth. Kitty caressed the lighter in her hand while she watched the man exhale.

  ‘What else can I get you?’ she asked.

  ‘How about a nice cup of tea?’

  Kitty turned her head and called towards the table. ‘Mrs Arnold! Can we have a cup of tea down here please, for this young man?’

  ‘Coming right up!’

  She looked back down at the man. He wore no uniform. His chest was bare beneath the course Army blanket. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘You must be my Magic Jeanie!’

  Kitty smiled.

  ‘I’d like to be home in my own bed. Can you manage that?’

  ‘Not immediately,’ said Kitty. ‘But soon enough, I promise. But is there anything else in the interim?’ She smiled.

  ‘Yeah, miss. I’d love it if my pal was here, with me.’

  ‘Did he come on the same bus as you?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, he did. Pat Parker is his name. Tall bloke with receding hair. He’s got a funny sort of mouth.’

  ‘Is he on a stretcher, too?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no, miss. He can walk about.’

  ‘You hold on here. What’s your name?’

  ‘Reg. Reg Wardle. We’re in the same mob together, the Royal Berkshires. I’d be really grateful, miss.’

  Kitty pulled herself to her feet. The first dozen or so stretcher cases lay on the platform, each man’s feet pointing towards the rails and the coal sidings beyond. The walking wounded crowded around the trestle table or stood in small groups accepting refreshments, all vying with one another to see who could get the most. They joked and laughed.

  ‘Is there a Pat Parker here?’ she called out above the chatter. ‘Pat Parker?’

  ‘Who wants him?’ asked a short M25C with his arm in a sling and a sausage roll in his mouth.

  ‘Are you Pat?’

  ‘No, I think he’s over here.’ He swallowed and cocked his head, steering Kitty along. ‘Pat, you jammy git! Look what I got for yer.’ He stood back and introduced Kitty.

  Pat sat with a gaping jaw.

  ‘Hello,’ said Kitty. ‘I have found your friend. Reg Wardle?’

  ‘Reg? Yeah! Where is he?’

  Kitty led the way.

  ‘Here he is,’ she announced with a beaming smile, looking down at the bandaged head. Pat Parker peered around her shoulder.

  ‘Wotchya, Blinky!’

  ‘Wotchya Gobby!’ He tilted his head on the stretcher to see Kitty better. ‘We call him Gobby on account of the fact that he can’t shut his mouth. He was born like it.’ Reg blinked at Kitty and Pat gapped.

  ‘Can you sit up a bit?’ asked Kitty of a dashing young pilot. He smiled and nodded. Kitty placed her hand tenderly to cradle his head and held the glass to his lips. ‘Here it comes,’ she said.

  The pilot gulped back the lemonade while Kitty gently tilted the glass, making sure than none spilt and ran down his chin. The man paused and took a deep breath. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘For the moment.’ Kitty lowered his head back down onto the green wire stretcher.

  ‘You’ve got a lovely
voice,’ he sighed. ‘I feel like I’ve died and gone to Heaven!’

  ‘But without the dying,’ put in Kitty. ‘I suppose it was tough over there?’

  ‘It’s harder for the chaps down on the ground. It’s chaos, it really is. I was lucky to get off. I’d been waiting since Monday. What day is it now?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Thursday,’ said Kitty. ‘And it looks like the sun might come out a bit later.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Are you a pilot?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I was until Monday. Now I don’t know what I am. Do you think I’ll be blind forever?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s probably just the shock.’ Kitty lifted her hand and gently stroked his brow, brushing his blonde hair away from the matted bandage. ‘These things wear off. Really they do.’

  ‘Hope so!’

  ‘What planes do you fly?’

  ‘Defiants.’

  ‘Oh, those new marvellous fighters!’ Kitty exclaimed. ‘They say they are absolutely wonderful. Sometimes I wish I were a man. I would so love to fly a Defiant.’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ he said flatly. ‘We just aren’t a match for the German machines. There were production problems from the very start. We’re slower than the Hurricane and we’re not as manoeuvrable as the Me-one-oh-nines or one-one-ohs. We can’t even depress the guns below horizontal or fire to the front.’

  ‘Ah! There you are,’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘I wonder if you could lend a hand over here. We are running low on water.’

  20:30 Thursday 30 May 1940.

  RAF Biggin Hill, Kent

  ‘Hey! Look who’s here, eh!’ exclaimed Clouston. After a day of low pressure and heavy cloud, it was now a warm, sultry evening and the last swifts of the day were racing home above the rolling Kent countryside. Both Clouston and Ginger were stepping out of the front gate of the base and on their way to the pub. ‘What is his name?’

  ‘I called him the new Red Three. I never took in his name.’

  ‘No, nor did I,’ confessed Clouston. ‘Hello there!’ he called out and waved an arm. Red Three was leaning into the window of the taxi, shaking the driver by the hand. He turned and looked up the path as the two pilots approached.

  ‘Hello,’ he called without enthusiasm.

  Clouston and Ginger stepped up and pumped his hand and patted him on the back.

  ‘Well, this is a turn up for the books, eh?’ said Clouston, genuinely smiling. ‘We’d given you up for lost. We even put in for a replacement.’

  ‘I saw you crash on the beach,’ said Ginger. ‘I circled round for a bit but didn’t see you get out. I don’t suppose you saw me.’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’ Red Three shook his head. ‘I was too busy getting clear of the kite in case she blew up.’

  ‘I saw the flames,’ said Ginger.

  Red Three nodded. ‘That was my doing, actually. I put a round into the petrol tank and set fire to her. Seemed such a waste.’

  ‘Well, four new Hurries arrived this evening. I’m sure they’ll let you have a hand-me-down,’ said Clouston. ‘We’re just off down the pub. Fancy a pint?’

  ‘I had better report in and make a phone call,’ said Red Three. ‘Although I could really use a stiff drink.’

  ‘Just swing by the ops room and let them know you’re here. Groupie has gone up to town and won’t be back till late.’

  ‘What’s that noise?’ asked Red Three.

  ‘Birthday party for Bonzo,’ explained Ginger. ‘That’s why we’re going down the pub.’

  ‘Give me five minutes to change…’

  ‘That is a nasty shiner,’ said Ginger leaning forward. The lids around Red Three’s eye were purple, inflamed and puffy and his lips appeared swollen.

  Red Three shook his head. The lighting was poor in the smoky bar and he had hoped not to discuss it.

  ‘Did you hurt yourself when you landed, eh?’ asked Clouston, concerned.

  ‘No.’ He spat the word out and looked as if he might leave it at that so Ginger and Clouston continued to lean forward, examining his face closer still. ‘Some damn squaddie lumped me. All right?’

  ‘Lumped you? What for?’ asked Ginger smirking broadly.

  ‘For being in the RAF, actually.’ He curled his lip and sipped his whisky and soda, swirling the remainder around the bottom of the glass.

  ‘What?’ they both asked.

  ‘We are not exactly popular over there. Does that come as news to you?’

  They both nodded in confirmation.

  ‘They are calling the RAF “Rare as Fairies”.’

  ‘Rare as fairies? Get away!’ Ginger’s smirk looked a little less sure.

  ‘Because they say we are not doing anything…’

  ‘We were grounded all day because of the weather…’

  ‘No, not just today! Not doing anything generally.’ Red Three finished his drink with a flourish. ‘Take my advice, if you have to crash land, do it behind German lines. I’m sure you’ll get a better reception.’

  ‘I just don’t believe it,’ exclaimed Clouston. ‘How can they say we’re not doing anything? We’re flying at wing strength now. Admittedly, we’re still heavily outnumbered but, for Christ’s sake man, look at the losses we’re taking!’

  ‘There’s no point telling the squaddies that. They think every plane in the sky is a Messerschmidt or a Junkers. Some Navy chap with a face like a frazzled steak told me an alarming story about how a destroyer he knew shot down one of our Defiants.’

  ‘What destroyer?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say, but he did say they’ve had no up-to-date recognition charts. He says they were shooting at anything and everything in the sky at first.’

  ‘Well, I can confirm that,’ said Clouston. ‘So who thumped you then, eh?’

  ‘Actually, more than one bloke.’ Red Three smiled now. ‘I landed near that big jetty…’

  ‘The East Mole,’ said Ginger.

  ‘There were some ships tying up there and I tried to get a lift back but some bloody jumped up Territorial major, probably a bloody bank clerk in civvy street, pushed me in the chest and said his men had priority. Told me to get back to the end of the queue. Didn’t matter that I’d been shuffling in the damn queue for more than an hour. When I protested, and told him I needed to get back, he gave me a load of abuse and shoved me again.

  ‘Should have shoved him back.’

  ‘Well, I did and that’s when his bloody soldiers started having a go. I made my excuses and left.’

  ‘Well, that’s going to be a nasty black eye in the morning.’

  ‘I got that later,’ explained Red Three.

  ‘Later?’

  ‘On the beaches. I gave up with the Mole and thought I’d try my luck further along but then this gang of bloody thugs set upon me. That’s how I got the eye. And that’s when this Navy chap helped pull me out. The only time I got a warm reception was on the train home.’

  ‘How’s that then?’ asked Ginger, draining his pint.

  ‘Well, there’s a load of Women’s Institute types handing out cups of tea and cream buns at some of the stations. The people on the train were marvellous, too. One chap gave me two cigars. I got a Bulldog Drummond thriller and dozens of cigarettes. One woman even tried to press a bobble hat on me. Bloody awful thing.’

  ‘Bet you’re glad to be back?’

  Red Three sighed deeply. ‘Up to a point.’ He rocked his empty glass back and forth on the table. ‘What have you chaps been up to?’

  ‘Oh, us? Well, not a lot, as it happens,’ explained Clouston, rising from his stool and gathering their glasses for another round. ‘We’ve just been sitting around and dozing, reading the papers, drinking tea. Usual sort of thing really.’

  20:56 Thursday 30 May 1940.

  Windmill Field Cottage, Aylesham, Kent

  Vicky placed four slices of bread on the range to toast and then lifted the steaming kettle. She warmed the pot and tipped four heaped teaspoons of tea inside. Margaret
continued to fiddle with the wireless. The Thursday play was just reaching its dramatic conclusion. A short burst of static followed and then the hint of far-away Morse code and then a distorted brass band. Vicky stiffened as Margaret brought the wireless back to its original station.

  At the same time tomorrow you can hear Minuet to Waltz. And later this evening at nine-forty-five there is the second episode in our series of Arabian Nightmares - the Enchanted Horse, from Redland Park Hall in Bristol.

  Vicky placed the teapot on the kitchen table and slipped the cosy on top. Next, she placed the toast in its rack. She stiffened again as Margaret continued to fiddle with the dial.

  ‘Here we are, ma’am,’ said Vicky, laying a plate before Margaret.

  ‘Shush!’ warned Margaret. ‘It’s time for the News.’

  They both sat in silence through the headlines and then the announcer hesitated momentarily as if he had been obliged to adlib. They turned to look at one another.

  I have just been handed this statement from the Ministry of Information: In view of the increased German pressure on their northern and southern flanks, the B.E.F. and the French forces in the north have been forced to fall back towards the coast where a battle is now raging. This operation has been carried out with great skill and daring. The troops not immediately engaged have been evacuated with the assistance of the Royal Navy. This operation has proceeded with success and numbers of troops have already reached this country.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ exclaimed Vicky. ‘It’s happening!’

  The withdrawal and evacuations have been screened by the R.A.F. who have been constantly engaged with the enemy. Over seventy enemy aircraft were destroyed and many others damaged yesterday on this front. One squadron of the new Defiant fighter planes destroyed in two sorties thirty-seven of the enemy without loss to themselves.

  They both exhaled simultaneously and sipped their tea while the announcer resumed his prepared script, telling of the loss of the destroyers Grafton, Grenade and Wakeful, and the arrest of the Borough Surveyor of Guildford.