Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘How many hours on hurries?’ he asked.

  ‘Four,’ announced Beeky, looking fairly confident.

  ‘Four?’

  ‘And on trainers?’ asked Ginger in wonder.

  ‘Oh, the usual,’ said Beeky.

  ‘Have you fired the guns?’

  ‘Yes, but just the once, to sight up the Brownings.’

  ‘Great.’ Ginger slide open the Players, taking one for himself and tossing the open packet onto the table.

  ‘Just my luck to get here for the last day, hey!’ Peeky Beeky shook his head regretfully and reached across the table towards the packet.

  Spotted Dick picked up his lighter and neatly flipped open the top, spinning the wheel and producing an elegant blue flame in one swift moment. He used his other hand to simultaneously wrestle a Players from the packet and then slipped it between his puffy lips. He looked across at Ginger, holding out the lighter.

  ‘When we’ve finished these,’ said Ginger, watching the smoke from all three cigarettes rise towards the roof of the hut. ‘Go see Sergeant Merrill and have your guns sighted for one-hundred-and-twenty yards.’

  ‘That’s a bit close isn’t it?’ asked the sergeant.

  Ginger drew hard on his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs. He exhaled a vast cloud upwards. ‘It’s the only way.’ He pointed his cigarette at the boy. ‘Get in close. Watch the target grow inside your sights and then, just when the wings with the Nazi crosses fit neatly into the slot, you fire. But not before.’

  Peeky Beeky began to look paler still. Ginger felt sick.

  ‘You are taking on a heavy burden,’ Groupie had told him only ten minutes before. ‘You will now be leading men into battle and their lives will be in your hands.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ginger had replied, barely able to take the enormity of his new-found responsibility onboard.

  ‘You did well on your last few sweeps. A very commendable bag, ectualleh. But keep it up. And make sure you do. We have no room for waverers on this squadron.’

  05:45 Friday 31 May 1940.

  Bray Dunes, France

  Bray Beach situation report 05:30 – Condition on beaches now serious owing to freshening on-shore wind and heavy surf. Air attacks resumed at dawn. Only very small numbers being embarked. Shortage of pulling boats. Those here now aground, capsized, damaged or floating abandoned. Growing number of wrecks proving hazardous at high tide. Under present conditions any large scale embarkation from beaches quite impracticable. Only hope now via Dunkirk. Request large ship be beached at Bray to form a lee and aid embarkation. Cmd. H. H. Babbington, RN.

  ‘This other letter,’ said Commander Babbington. ‘Is to go to my wife.’ He handed across more folded sheets torn from his pocket diary and wondered if he were doing the right thing. His earlier attempts, repeatedly played out in draft form in his head, had tended towards the melodramatic. Binky had struggled to hit the right tone.

  Dearest Babs, they have asked a few of us to stick around and help out a bit longer. It is impossible to say when I shall be home but every likelihood that you will see me after the weekend. Should I be delayed, you should know about the last of the savings. There is a signed cheque made out to cash for £100 inside Roosevelt’s “The Naval War of 1812” in my study. You will also find a letter for Gertie there too. These are all the things I should have said to her in person before she went off to college. I want her to know that I have always loved her despite our ups and downs. You should know that I have always loved you too and will continue to do so for as long as I remain on this Earth. I am sorry that I have been so low of late. Waiting for a role in this war that does not involve a desk has strained my patience to the limit at times as has the bank and the other bloodsuckers. I know I have not been myself and I am deeply sorry. If it seems that I shall be some time, please go and see my old friend Adm. Wake-Walker at the Admiralty. His number is in my address book. There will also be the question of continuing pay should I be obliged to stay on here, which will help. And if the worst comes to the worse, sell the farm. Give Trudy a pat on the head and a juicy bone from me. Hoping to see you next week. I will telephone if I can from the club. Binky.

  ‘I have scribbled the address on the back,’ said Binky. ‘Perhaps you could put it in an envelope and get it off in the first post. Are you all set now?’

  ‘Yes, all set, sir.’ The young midshipman looked grim as he nodded his head.

  The surf that the Commander had detailed in his report was threatening to upset the now reinforced truck jetty. Huge rolling waves between four and six feet high were breaking in a grey wash over the few visible lorries. The vehicles swayed and groaned with each surge of the tide. As each wave pulled back out so it tugged with it thick clouds of black motor oil that coated the surface as far as the eye could see. The men wrestling with the whaler and up to their waists in water were already coasted in a shiny black film. Binky watched as a six-footer lifted the bows of the whaler clear of the sea and very nearly had her over.

  ‘Well, come on then,’ said Binky. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’ He placed a hand on the youngster’s shoulder and steered him down to the water’s edge. He then held out his hand. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  Binky turned to look for the tall chief petty officer. He lay prone across the cab of one of the far lorries, gripping the whaler’s bowline firmly in his hands and holding her tight to the jetty as she tossed with the swell. A filthy grey wave washed over him and Binky kept his eyes fixed on the spot until the chief reappeared with the receding foam. To Binky’s tired eyes he had the appearance of a sleek seal basking in the waves. He turned next to see Dibbens, equally black but largely dry, standing to one side. He held his hand out to the commander.

  ‘All the best then, sir,’ he smiled.

  ‘Good luck to you, lieutenant, and God’s speed.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ said Dibbens, forever the policeman. ‘There’s some dodgy looking characters starting to hang about now. It doesn’t take an egghead to work out that we’re off out of here and leaving them in the lurch. I think they’re going to make a rush for the boat.’

  Binky nodded. He had his eye on the growing press of men around the jetty. The most orderly of the troops had already been packed off to Dunkirk and now the men on the beaches were made up of the latecomers and the leaderless, and many were at their wit’s end. Dibbens gave Binky’s hand a final squeeze and then let go.

  Commander Babbington turned lastly to the senior rating, a young petty officer. ‘Now,’ he said.

  ‘Fix…bayonets!’ roared the PO. There came the clatter of steel on steel as the equally oily ratings snapped the eighteen-inch blades to their rifles. ‘Level…arms!’ The remaining men of the shore party thrust their bayonets forward and glared at the soldiers, their backs to the sea and the departing whaler. Binky stepped aside and watched as Dibbens slipped from the top of a lorry and down into the whaler. He landed with a thump and appeared to wince.

  The chief waited until the boat lifted with the swell and then, still holding the line tightly in both hands, hopped neatly down. The whaler was drawn out to sea by the receding wave and all looked for a moment as if things might go well. The young midshipman sat in the stern, steering with an oar owing to the lack of a rudder. The other mismatched oars were unshipped and began to claw hesitantly through the water. However, the next wave, backed by a growing north-westerly, began to topple at the tip of its crest and came crashing down with force into the whaler, pushing her beneath the surface, and swamping her in a fraction of a second. The men that manned her oars were sent sprawling off their thwarts.

  The very next wave lifted her briefly and dropped her down square onto the duckboards that lined the top of the jetty. It was then that the whaler toppled over, spilling her crew and passengers into the oily black surf. The whaler, now having turned turtle, rose with the next incoming wave and crashed down again onto the jetty. To those on the shore watching, it seemed unlikely that such a small boat could do so
much damage to a heavy Renault truck. But the truck had now torn away from the one immediately in front and began a painfully slow sideways descent into the water, narrowly avoiding the whaler but catching one of Dibben’s party squarely beneath. He vanished under the oil.

  In time, the men began to reach the shore. Binky stepped into the swell and helped tug the chief up onto the sand. The armed guard, knowing now that no one would attempt to seize the whaler, quickly slung their rifles across their backs and waded out into the water to pull their mates ashore.

  ‘Damn and blast!’ spat Dibbens with rage. He dragged himself above the waterline and turned, landing with a thump on his behind. ‘Damn and blast!’

  Hours of backbreaking toil and the jetty was useless in the heavy swell. The former Scotland Yard detective wanted to cry.

  06:00 Friday 31 May 1940.

  12th Casualty Clearing Station, Chapeau Rouge, Dunkirk

  Archie Marley awoke refreshed after nearly six hours of sleep. But he had awoken with a start and his heart thumped fit to burst.

  ‘Oy! You ‘ad yer anti-tetanus injection?’

  Archie could not remember. He shook his head.

  A large syringe of the type suitable for horses was thrust suddenly into his right arm and a thick grey fluid pumped inside. The man wiped the needle on a cloth and turned without speaking to the next patient lying in line.

  Archie lay back and studied the sky. On his chest, and clutched tightly in his hands, was Buck’s gasmask bag. Inside were forty-eight Player’s Navy Cut and two tins of Fray Bentos and several packets of biscuits. There was also a canteen of water. Archie loosened the straps and looked furtively around him. He lifted himself up on his good elbow, pulled the cork and sipped gratefully at the cool water, pondering his next move.

  On the plus side, he was now likely to get his wounds re-dressed and might even be given some painkillers. With a little more rest and a square meal or two, he would be ready to rejoin the fray. Men like him would probably be sorted into scratch units and sent back inland. But, on the down side, he felt - despite the invigorating sleep - emotionally and physically shattered and devoid of all energy.

  He pulled the cigarettes from the bag and prized off the lid. Again he looked furtively around him. He flicked the top of the lighter that Buck had also given him and inhaled deeply. On the other hand, if he were evacuated to England he could recover in a hospital, get fit again and carry on the fight at a later date. But the down side of returning home was the inevitable reunion with Bill’s mum, dad and sister, and that was something he could not face. He blew the smoke out of his lungs and then coughed.

  Archie decided to sit up. He sat in a neglected garden beneath the shade of a broad oak tree. The early morning light was beginning to shaft through the tall bushes at the edge of the garden, twinkling through the leaves and casting a watery haze across the grounds. To his left stood a vast Victorian house with a dull red cupola that resembled a policeman’s helmet. Every window appeared broken and many of the shutters had been torn from their hinges. At least two hundred men lay stretched out across the garden; a few orderlies stepping among them, tending and selecting.

  Archie finished his cigarette, grinding the butt into the earth with his fingers. He took a deep breath and stood up. He swayed at first. The blood seemed slow in reaching his head but after a few seconds he had his body under control and began to walk towards the house.

  The first thing he noticed after climbing the front steps and entered the spacious hallway were the bluebottles. They buzzed everywhere. One fat fly collided with Archie’s head and he jerked back involuntarily. The second thing he noticed was the smell, a combination of ether and a rich meat stew left to simmer too long, a stew that was ripe with putrefaction and decay. He stepped back urgently and teetered on the steps casting his eyes across the garden and struggling to control the bitter fluid that rapidly filled his mouth. Archie turned and spat over the edge of the steps. Gunner Marley took a pace forward and placed himself carefully down onto the first step. He lowered his head between his knees and drew deeply through his nose. His heart was beating ninety to the dozen.

  Inside the hallway he had seen countless broken bodies strewn across the floor and perched on every step of the ornate sweeping staircase. He thought of Bill’s own mangled body lying beside the barn. He opened his eyes to chase the image away and then thought of Bill’s sister Grace; sweet, lovely, graceful Grace.

  ‘You all right chum?’ asked a plump orderly. His sleeves were rolled as far as they would go up his reddened arms, and he cast a shadow across Archie.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose,’ huffed Archie. He spat again and then asked, ‘How’d you stand it in there?’

  ‘What, inside there, you mean?’ The orderly smirked.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Archie. ‘How can you breath?’

  ‘Oh, I do it through my mouth.’ He smiled broadly.

  ‘And how can I get to see a doctor?’ asked Archie.

  ‘You’ll be lucky, chum.’ The man straightened up and looked back inside the house. ‘They’ve got more important cases than yours to worry about.’ He laughed, somewhat bitterly, and then asked, ‘What’s your problem then?’

  Archie huffed again as the orderly dropped to his knees and looked first at the brown stain on his shoulder. ‘What happened here?’ he asked.

  ‘Bullet,’ stated Archie. ‘Went right through, never touched a bone, clean as a whistle.’

  The orderly leant forward further still and sniffed at the wound. ‘Yeah, it’s all right,’ he pronounced. ‘Smells fine. And what’s all this?’ he pointed now to the bandages that ran down Archie’s entire left side and disappeared beneath the tattered trousers.

  ‘Shrapnel from a Jerry potato masher.’

  ‘Well, you’re lucky then.’ The orderly placed a hand on the stone steps to ease his weight. He seemed cheerful. ‘If it had been one of our Mills bombs it would have blown you to smithereens. Those Jerry grenades, they’re all blast and no shrapnel.’

  ‘Well, it don’t bloody feel like it,’ announced Archie, looking up and narrowing his eyes.

  ‘They’ve only got tiny little splinters!’ the orderly laughed. ‘Although they’re still a bugger to pull out.’

  ‘Can you change the dressings?’ asked Archie hopefully.

  ‘I could,’ agreed the orderly. ‘But those bandages look like they’ve been on there quite a while. They’re gonna need soaking off, and that’s the problem. We can’t spare the water. Tough luck, chum.’

  The orderly stood upright. ‘Your best bet is to get yourself down to the harbour. There was talk of a hospital ship some time ago.’ He rubbed his eyes, taking time to wipe the sleep from the corners. ‘And wounded blokes, they’ve got priority, so long as they can walk. You should count your blessings.’

  ‘How’s that?’ asked Archie. He noticed then that the orderly had brought with him a spade and a large galvanised pail.

  ‘Because you can walk, chum. There’s plenty here who can’t, and won’t even come Judgement Day.’

  The orderly picked up the pail. Two amputated feet showed their soles to the sky, giving the curious impression that someone had dived inside. He winked at Archie Marley and skipped off down the steps swinging the spade.

  06:35 Friday 31 May 1940.

  Bray Dunes, France

  ‘Are you all set now?’

  ‘Yes, all set, sir.’ The young midshipman looked very grim as he nodded his head.

  ‘Come on then,’ said Binky, steering the youngster back to the breaking surf. The whaler now bobbed out to sea some distance from the truck jetty, and the armed members of the remaining shore party stood waste deep in murky water holding her as steady as possible in the continuing breakers. The tide was on the ebb and it was hoped that the drag might help pull the whaler away from the shore.

  ‘Wish us luck, sir,’ said the midshipman, offering his hand.

  ‘I wish you more than that,’ smiled Binky. ‘In you get.’

&nb
sp; The young midshipman gritted his teeth and stepped into the water. Thick brown scum rolled up the damp sand, pulling with it odd items of floating kit and the occasional dead man. He edged his way through the water and hauled himself with difficulty over the stern. The whaler rose with the next wave and the men struggled to hold her steady.

  More men were making their way past Commander Babbington and towards the whaler. A trickle turned into a torrent and soon the shore party were overwhelmed. Binky watched as one of his seamen shoved a soldier hard, knocking him backwards into the water. Now a scuffle began and fists flew. The whaler, without the help of the sailors to steady her, began to wash back towards the beach, cresting on a giant wave that appeared to run the length of the strand. Binky watched its’ effect as it travelled along the shore, washing against the wrecks, rolling further on, and then pulling back to reveal more dead men high and dry on the sand.

  The young midshipman was standing in the stern and swinging his oar, catching a soldier high on the head and knocking him back below the waves. Other men, both sailors and soldiers, were now tumbling and falling back beneath the surface as the waves continued their march towards the beach. Binky had not been aware of the artillery shells that had now begun to fall in the wheat fields far behind the dunes. Their hollow screams and detonations were lost in the general hubbub of the noisy beach. Stukas had been pounding the seafront to the west since first light and there was the constant rattle of anti-aircraft defences both from the distant destroyers and the gun emplacements around the port.

  The shell that landed in the water, therefore, took him by complete surprise. He failed to see the explosion or the vast conical spout of water that rose into the sky. Binky first felt a huge shockwave lift him off his feet and carry him back away from the water’s edge to deposit him in a heap on the sand. He lost his colour vision and the scene before his eyes juddered like the film on a cranky projector. There was no soundtrack. He watched the water fall in silence, sending dark black objects with it, and all crashing around him. The sea itself, where once jet-black, was now a bubbling grey caldron. A thick mist hung in the air.