Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  By the bulletin’s end, the toast was cold and untouched. They both turned to look at one another again. Margaret spoke first.

  ‘They have fallen back to the coast.’ She held her hand to her chin in amazement. ‘No talk of counter-attacks this time.’

  ‘I think it’s getting serious, ma’am.’

  ‘Well,’ said Margaret, thinking to herself. ‘At least we won’t have to operate under a cloak of secrecy any more, and we can ask all sorts of other people for supplies now.’

  ‘It means the Germans are even closer, ma’am.’

  ‘We will have to bake more scones,’ added Margaret. ‘I could try to find a recipe for cake that doesn’t require eggs or butter...’

  ‘If there’s a battle raging at the French coast, then that’s less than thirty miles away. They could be here in no time.’

  ‘Vicky! Now that’s just defeatist talk.’ Margaret flushed with anger. ‘You heard what they said - carried out with great skill and daring.’ Margaret’s mind was elsewhere, back on the platform at Snowdown Station. ‘Defeatist!’ she spoke aloud. ‘Or Fifth Column?’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Vicky. ‘I was born here. What do you mean?’

  ‘No, no,’ stuttered Margaret. ‘Not you. Somebody else.’ She drifted away again into her thoughts, remembering. ‘If we don’t have our Army back here in one piece then I don’t see how we can carry on.’

  ‘My thoughts entirely, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, Vicky! That’s just the sort of talk the Fifth Column are spreading about. There is no possible way our Army…’ she paused again, uncertain herself. ‘I knew there was something not quite right about her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She was too tall for starters, and a figure that would put those German women with their hoops and ribbons to shame.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Those German women you keep seeing on the newsreels,’ Margaret explained curtly. ‘All physical fitness and short skirts. And that’s a made-up name. It’s not a proper Christian name. Just like those Nazi’s with their make-believe Nordic gods.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kitty!’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘Who else?’

  Day Six

  00:17 Friday 31 May 1940.

  Bray Dunes, France

  I have been asked to give a brief talk today to help quell one of the most monstrous accusations made by the German propaganda machine and to lay to rest certain rumours that may have been circulating. In the first instance, there is absolutely no truth in the fantastic libel that the British Army is fleeing the battlefield in France in disorder. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. As an old soldier, it falls upon me to explain why. In all the various manoeuvres expected of an army, none is more complicated than a fighting retreat, especially so when a re-embarkation is required at the end of it. Such operations require tremendous skill, courage and discipline. In the case of the B.E.F., this problem has been compounded by the fact that many of the troops are for the most part awaiting re-embarkation from open beaches where there is no ready opportunity for concealment. It is, however, a tribute to all four of our Services – Navy, Army, Air Force and Merchant Navy – and to the unparallel cooperation between them that the operation is preceding in such a professional manner. In addition, the cooperation with our French allies has, simply put, been astounding. With that in mind, there can certainly be no question of the British Expeditionary Force running away from its enemies.

  That was Brigadier-General P.J.K. Osmont-Petremol, V.C., ending our programmes for today.

  ‘Which would you like first, the good news or the bad news?’

  ‘Is there any good news?’

  ‘No, not a lot,’ admitted Captain Howson.

  ‘Then best save it ‘till last,’ suggested Commander Babbington.

  Binky had been catching forty winks in the back of the Bren gun carrier. Now his eyes refused to focus. He struggled to pull open the lids while Captain Howson continued. But what the captain had to say awoke Binky with a start.

  ‘…so the general consensus is that it would be undesirable for all the naval personnel to embark in the final rush. That said, you had better pack off half your team for an early bath.’

  ‘You mean today, sir?’

  ‘I mean this morning, Commander. As soon as you can sort it out. High tide’s what? Oh-five-thirty?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, get them off then. That youngster of yours…’

  ‘Midshipman Hockley.’

  ‘Yes, get him off.’ The captain paused. ‘Obviously, you are more than welcome to come off yourself. I shall be moving offshore to the Ankh to direct things from there…but I would prefer it if you could hang on a bit longer.’

  ‘Nice cup of tea, sir?’ Two steaming mugs appeared out of the darkness.

  ‘Oh, thank you, chief.’ Binky passed one over to the captain. ‘Mind your fingers, sir. It’s hot.’

  Both officers blew into their mugs, anticipating the welcome brew. The captain took an experimental sip and then continued. ‘The noose is closing by the minute. The troops are in such a state that prolonged resistance is out of the question. As it is, I’m told German artillery is likely to start hitting the beaches pretty soon.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘The beach at La Panne is now being wound down. That means you can expect the troops there to begin passing through your sector any time.’ He sipped again at the tea. ‘Move as many of ‘em on to Dunkirk as you can, to the Mole. We really are going to have to pull out all the stops in what little time is left. The bulk must be lifted before midnight and then the rearguard in the early hours.’

  ‘Do you want me to stay ‘till then?’

  ‘No. As soon as the shells start landing, I want you and the rest of your party out of here. Is that understood?’

  ‘Perfectly. And the good news?’

  ‘Yes, I was building up to that. First, there is some good news…for the French, that is.’

  ‘For the French?’ Binky watched the captain over the steaming brim of his mug. He sipped cautiously

  ‘Yes. From now on they must be lifted off in equal numbers. One of theirs for every one of ours.’

  ‘What?’ The urge to spit out the tea was overwhelming.

  The captain shook his head. ‘This one comes straight from the top. Winnie wants to keep Paris sweet and not give them cause to complain later. So there you have it.’

  Years of service life had conditioned Commander Babbington never to question orders. He kept his mouth shut.

  ‘I know what you are thinking,’ said the captain. ‘A bit of a spanner in the works, eh? How are you going to lift off twice as many men now?’

  ‘In a nutshell, sir,’ agreed Binky.

  The captain sucked in air and exposed his teeth. ‘Ours is not to reason why, old boy.’

  ‘So they will be lending a hand then?’

  ‘Who? The French?’ The captain huffed and continued straight on. ‘I wish I could say yes. Very good tea, by the way. To be honest, we have had no firm information from the French at all. We don’t know the nature or the extent of the seaborne transport they will be offering. We don’t even know what plans they have for the defence of the perimeter or when to expect their final troops or even how many.’

  ‘And any good news for us?’

  ‘Well, the met forecast is actually looking good. Apparently, they feared that a storm brewing in the Atlantic might come this way. Mercifully, it’s turned northwards up the west coast of Ireland, with only the rough edges touching the Straits. Now it seems there’s a big band of high pressure moving in and that should settle down this wind and make embarkation easier.’

  ‘How about cloud cover?’

  ‘Not looking good.’ He sucked in more air. ‘Clear skies possibly.’

  ‘And that’s the good news, sir?’

  ‘There’s more. There’s an armada of small vessels heading our way sometime this morning.’

  ‘Thank
heavens for that!’

  ‘How’s the jetty now?’ asked Captain Howson.

  ‘All done, sir.’

  ‘Well, thank you for the tea.’ He drained off the mug and held it out to Binky. He smiled, his teeth catching the reflected glow from the refineries up the coast. ‘I’ll see you back in England. At the club, perhaps.’

  ‘Yes, at the club. Perhaps,’ said Binky.

  ‘Thanks for the tea, chief,’ said Binky handing back the mugs. ‘No sign of any rum yet?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Not a trace.’ The chief lifted his head, indicating the dunes far behind. ‘If there’d been any, that lot would have got to it first, sir.’

  ‘Well, I have some good news for you,’ announced Binky. ‘You can have a drink at home this evening.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘And you can have one for me.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘Captain Howson has our marching orders. I have to get half our party away at high tide.’

  ‘And the rest, sir?’

  ‘That decision is down to me.’

  ‘Well, if it’s all the same, sir, I’d rather stay.’

  ‘You’re married aren’t you, chief?’

  ‘Twenty-two years, sir.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Three daughters and one grand-daughter.’

  ‘And you get on well with them?’ Binky had not spoken with his own daughter for nearly two years and it troubled him deeply.

  ‘Yes, sir, of course. I love ‘em dearly, sir.’

  ‘Then you go home to them.’

  ‘Who shall I take with me, sir?’

  ‘Just leave me the pick of the litter, you take the rest.’

  ‘And Mr Hockley, sir?’

  ‘Especially, Mr Hockley. I want you to carry him out if necessary. Where is he now?’

  ‘Last I saw, he was playing with the soldiers up on the front. D’you want me to go get him, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Binky. ‘I could do with the exercise.’

  ‘Ah, lieutenant!’ called Binky as he made his way up the beach. Dibbens sat propped against his Bofers gun, a cigarette in one hand, a mug of tea in the other. He made to stand up.

  ‘Stay put,’ said the commander stepping up. He paused and placed his hands on his hips, drawing lengthy breaths. ‘Don’t suppose you managed to locate any rum or brandy or whatnot?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I can offer you a cuppa?’

  ‘Not just now.’ Binky sat down beside Lieutenant Dibbens. ‘I have some good news for you.’ He accepted a cigarette. ‘You can have a drink at home this evening.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘And you can have one for me.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Dibbens. ‘We’re getting out of here?’

  ‘You are’

  ‘Oh, thank you God!’

  ‘We had a deal,’ explained Binky. ‘Finish the jetty and then you and your men can be first off.’

  Dibbens, his face and uniform coated in black engine oil, beamed merrily. ‘What’s the drill, sir?’

  ‘I’m moving out half of my party just after first light. We have room in the whaler for seven more. I would ask that you arrange for someone to take over here. Find some pioneers and a junior officer, whatever. Show them the ropes and be ready to try out your mark two jetty at high tide.’

  ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘My orders are to stick around a bit longer. You never know, perhaps I’ll be back for last orders tonight.’

  ‘I’ll get one in for you if you like, sir.’

  Binky laughed. ‘But no ice.’

  04:30 Friday 31 May 1940.

  Archcliffe Road, Dover, Kent

  Tomato Bill was so-called because he usually sold tomatoes. He also sold oranges when available but nobody ever called him Orange Bill. It just didn’t sound right. He was up early today on a new venture. He bent forward over the ARP stirrup-pump and continued to spray water over the grass. Tomato Bill was methodical. He painstakingly saturated one small area at a time before moving on to the next.

  Dover’s famed white cliffs offered unparalleled views across the Channel. On clear days it was often possible to see the French coast. There was no finer view of the sea in all England and the crowds were expected to arrive at first light.

  In the back of Tomato Bill’s van were hundreds of flattened cardboard boxes and wooden orange crates. At sixpence for a sheet of cardboard and one-and-six for a wooden box, Bill would ensure that the onlookers could sit comfortably on the wet grass.

  Kitty stood studying him from a distance. Unable to sleep, she had decided to watch the dawn from the cliff tops. A faint red glow to the east was spreading slowly from beneath the horizon, and the sound and smell of a thousand maritime engines drifted up on the fresh breeze. On the other side of the Channel an army sat trapped. Kitty pulled her raincoat tight around the collar.

  Her M-O report of the previous night was already inside the post box at the hotel and it showed a sudden swing in public opinion. The line that had predominated earlier, best expressed by the M60C fishmonger who feared the worst, was in the descendent, while the views like those of the F55B at Snowdown Station, who would never countenance defeat, were in the majority.

  Kitty’s report had been entitled The Cat is out of the Bag and it focused on the sudden shift in opinion that came with the Nine O’clock News.

  There is a massive sense of relief that we are finally allowed to know what is going on. There is a feeling of trust that had been missing before. The unease that came with the rumours and the return of so many wounded soldiers, plus the constant fear of invasion and desire to flee the coast, has been transformed. It was possible to see it within the people around the lounge, turning individual As, Bs and Cs into a single body with a single purpose.

  The change was most immediately apparent in the men. They usually sit listening to the wireless with either attitudes of keen attention or with heads down towards the floor. The majority smoke feverishly. When we all realised that our Army had its back to the sea, and was now fighting for its life, then everything that has been hidden until now suddenly came into focus. Heads began to lift and people looked around the lounge gauging the reactions of others. Many were nodding their heads as if there was now a mutual understanding.

  The attitude hardened when the announcer came on later with a War Office communiqué about our last stand at Calais. This seemed to come as an even greater shock. Calais is about the same size as Dunkirk and probably no harder to defend. The realisation that our boys there fought to the last man, refusing to surrender, sent an electrical charge throughout the lounge. The men all sprang upright and assumed postures of defiance, from jutting jaws to clenched fists. A tide of belligerence swelled the room and I felt the hairs tingle at the nape of my neck. Now everybody was looking at everybody else. The F55B at Snowdown is certainly not alone in her ultimate faith in the professionalism of our Fighting Men. ‘Thank God for the Royal Navy’ was a regular cry around the room. I sense a blossoming unity as people’s anger builds against the Nazis. There is a new attitude of seriousness and of purpose. I also experience a new wave of hope. The Germans are not just invading other people’s countries. They are threatening us and killing our men and that makes it deeply personal now.

  04:45 Friday 31 May 1940.

  RAF Biggin Hill, Kent

  Ginger closed the door to Groupie’s office quietly. His head was in a spin. His first thought was to telephone his mum but it was far too early. He would not be able to call her now until the evening. He wondered what she would say. She would obviously be very happy at first and even rather proud but then she would wonder why.

  ‘But that’s very soon to be promoted, isn’t it?’ she might ask. She would then go quiet and think of the casualties and of how young men of promise advanced fast in war.

  ‘We’re expanding the squadron every day, Mum,’ he would lie. ‘More and more planes, more and more men.’ He would not mention the empty seat
s each morning in the ops room. He could not explain the sudden disappearance of Clouston because he did not know why himself. Had he been pushed or had he jumped? Groupie’s explanation sounded rather lame. If Clouston had been called to a new posting he would surely have had time to say goodbye. The RAF trained its pilots to attack the enemy head-on but they had to watch their backs with equal vigilance.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Ginger turned at the voice. ‘Are you Flying Officer Wood?’

  ‘Umm, yes.’

  A young sergeant pilot held out his hand. ‘Then I’m your new wingman, sir,’ he announced.

  ‘Really?’ Ginger gave a weak smile. He looked at the stripes on the man’s arms. His mouth felt very dry. ‘Come and have a cup of tea, then. There’s a lot to tell you.’

  ‘Well, congratulations old chap or should I call you sir from now on?’ Red Three hovered beside the table.

  ‘Sir will do just fine,’ said Ginger. He pulled his chair aside to make room. ‘Have you met our new Red Two?’ He pointed to the sergeant pilot across the table, the first ever on the squadron. The boy stood up.

  ‘Please to meet you.’ Both young men spoke at the same time and then sat down awkwardly.

  ‘So what shall we call you?’ asked Ginger after a moment. ‘What did they call you at school?’

  The sergeant hesitated. He was about nineteen, short and equally as pale as the other Red Section wingman. He sniffed. ‘Beeky,’ he announced meekly. ‘They called me Beeky.’ He looked down at the table and cringed, wondering why he had not said something glamorous.

  ‘Beeky,’ they both laughed.

  ‘Well, actually, they used to call me Peeky Beeky.’ Again he cringed and wondered.

  ‘Because you always look so peeky, Beaky?’

  ‘Basically…’

  ‘Well, Peeky Beeky meet Spotted Dick.’ Ginger laughed aloud. Red Three with the black eye and the adolescent pimples winced at his new name and quickly turned the spotlight back on Peeky Beeky.