Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Burnell.

  ‘It’s Ted,’ stuttered Tom. ‘He’s…’

  ‘He ain’t ‘ere,’ said Charlie.

  11:35 Friday 31 May 1940.

  Dunkirk, France

  By the time Archie Marley had sunk seven beers, little Toto had become his new best friend. The chance to rest and let off steam had been just the tonic he needed. It was a glimpse again of the real world. After a bit of a knee’s up and a singsong he felt almost invigorated. He could also see more plus points to returning home.

  He continued to rub Toto’s tummy. The little dog lay on his back with all four legs spread out. Archie wondered about himself sometimes. He had been a coward in wanting to avoid Bill’s family. If anyone should break the news, it really should be he. He placed the beer bottle to his lips and imagined that he was kissing Grace again on the step.

  The party had now died down, although the signallers continued to work their way through the beer and wine. One man strummed a small four-stringed guitar while another swayed around the room like a Turkish dancer, a wine bottle in each hand.

  ‘Come on, Wally!’ he called suddenly. ‘We don’t want nothing maudlin. Give us a proper tune I can dance to.’

  The man with the ukulele smiled.

  I’ve just been on my holidays to Blackpool by the sea

  Although I’m feeling mighty fit, my feet are troubling me

  I’ve queued for hours and hours but I must say it was grand

  To get as near as half a mile to several miles of sand

  The signallers climbed as one to their feet and began to link arms. Archie pulled himself up, clutching Toto like a baby. He tucked him inside the gasmask bag, leaving his head to stick out, and sauntered onto the dance floor.

  On Blackpool prom on Saturday, the women looked simply grand…

  ‘What the bloody ‘ell’s going on ‘ere then?’ A chief petty officer stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips. Other sailors stood behind him.

  ‘Hello sailor!’

  ‘Out!’ shouted the chief. ‘Out! Outside at the double!’

  ‘Trust the bloomin’ Navy…’

  Archie squinted in the daylight and tugged the gasmask bag closer. Hundreds of men, British and French, were making their way up the street. The town was in ruins. Smoke and dust lingered in the air and the boom of artillery reverberated off the remaining walls. Archie stepped forward and joined the crowd. The broken glass that appeared to cover the entire surface of the road cracked like fresh snow and ice beneath their feet. In time, they approached the docks. The men stared in silence at the smouldering wreckage.

  ‘I see you brought a packed lunch, then,’ said a fusilier beside him. The man looked down at Toto who stared with equal wonder at the devastation of the port. He smiled at the dog. ‘You thinking of taking him back?’

  Archie pulled Toto even closer to his breast and asked: ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘No,’ said the fusilier. ‘Don’t take it wrong. I was just asking, that’s all. You might be able to get him on the boat all right but they’re going to want a health certificate or something when you get to England. They might not let you keep him. That’s what I was thinking. He’s got a lively little face, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Archie. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘You want to keep him out of sight. Sling your helmet over the bag. That’ll cover him up, and keep him safe.’ The fusilier smiled. ‘I always wanted a dog,’ he declared. ‘Couldn’t have one when I was a nipper ‘cos we didn’t have the space and now me and the misses we’ve got a flat. Very nice flat it is, too. But not the sort of place to keep a dog. My wife has a cat.’

  ‘Never did like cats,’ admitted Archie.

  ‘Technically, they’re vermin, you know. In the eyes of the law, that is.’

  The long line of men had reached the bank of a deep canal and they halted. On the other side could be seen the sea. Thick black smoke hung low, filling their lungs with each breath. Shells continued to land on the port a mile or so now to the east. A naval officer was marching up the line, counting off heads. Each time that he counted fifty, he halted and used his arms to physically divide the men. It was nearly five full minutes before he reached Archie. The fusilier gave him a nudge and Archie swung the bag around to the back. Toto sat still, hidden beneath the helmet. The officer cut the crowd with his arms and moved on, wagging a finger at each man and counting aloud.

  Another fifty men moved off and Archie’s group shuffled forward. They waited now at the edge of a small iron bridge. They waited at a crouch. The shells had moved closer. One had landed in the sea a few hundred yards away beside a fortified bunker and the falling water had soaked every man in Archie’s group. Now the shells were playing havoc behind a small artificial hill and the earth was trembling beneath their feet. Archie looked up the line and then turned and looked back. Thousands of men knelt beside the canal.

  ‘Right! Next lot!’ screamed another naval officer, motioning with his arm like a fast bowler.

  Archie pulled himself to his feet and held Toto tight to his chest.

  ‘Not long now, Toto,’ he whispered. And then he was running at a crouch. His boots skidded on the wet iron around the edge of the bridge but he recovered and raced on, his head down, his shoulders hunched forward. The Mole curved at first and then appeared to run on forever. The sea was a dark slate grey beneath the smoke-filled skies.

  As he ran on he noticed the masts and funnels of ships protruding out of the water. A rusty and dented steamer lay moored against the seaward side of the Mole. Behind her, Archie could make out a larger vessel. Small boats had tied up on the other side. In some cases they stretched out seven or eight abreast, with those nearest the Mole lowest in the water.

  The men around him bunched up and slowed to a halt. Archie shuffled forward until he reached the gaping hole in the middle of the Mole. Four small and wobbly planks had been placed across the gap and the cold sea could be seen sloshing against the supports way below. Archie gulped. He felt hands pushing him in the back. He shuffled forward unsteadily. Then his turn came. A naval rating stood on the other side holding his outstretched hand towards him.

  ‘Come on! We ain’t got all bleedin’ day!’

  Archie felt another hand push him hard from behind and it upset his balance just as he made his mind up to step out onto the planks. Then his foot slipped. He toppled forward and landed with a thump and the splintering of timbers, square along the length of the plank. The rating gabbed Archie under the arm and tugged viciously, drawing him across the bridge. Archie could not stand up at first so he crawled over to one side and peered into the bag. Toto’s wet nose brushed against his hand. He then felt the tongue rasp against his fingers.

  ‘Close call that time,’ Archie told him, letting him lick his hand for comfort. He looked up and watched the men leap and bound across the rickety planks. They charged on up the Mole. Archie rose to his feet and joined them. By the time he reached the steamer she had already slipped her moorings and was edging slowly out past the wrecks. Next was an ancient liner of the cross Channel sort. The men bunched up again as they reached her sides. Yet more planks were stretched out from the Mole down onto the deck below. The tide was now at its lowest ebb and it was a serious drop down to the ship. Archie hesitated again. He stepped back and allowed other men to stagger across and slide down onto the deck.

  A rating stood beside the gangplank directing men aboard. He grabbed Archie by the shoulder and squeezed hard on his wound. Archie saw stars. His knees began to give way. The rating grabbed hold of his other shoulder and thrust him forward. Archie’s feet fell away from beneath him and he slid down onto the deck. Then another rating tugged at him, pulling him to his feet and propelling him down the companionway. He tried to catch a look at Toto and now held the bag high at the top of his chest. He could feel Toto’s warm body inside. Another bunch of men and this time he felt himself being swept along on the tide as they pul
led their way inside the ship and clattered down the iron steps into the darkness.

  Eventually, Archie found himself amongst a press of men in a small cabin. He lifted the bag higher so Toto would not be crushed and whispered: ‘Safe and sound now, Toto.’

  Every face in the room registered the sudden change in air pressure. The ship appeared to lift up out of the water and come crashing down again. The men in the cabin all looked at one another, their eyes darting from side to side.

  ‘Was that us?’ asked one.

  ‘Dunno,’ answered another.

  ‘Well, do you think we should stay here, or what?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  There came another explosion and this time the ship only rose a few feet before settling back down. Again the men cast anxious looks at one another.

  ‘I’ll just go and see what’s up,’ called out a chap near the door.

  A strange silence settled over the ship and then the sound of a large thump.

  ‘I think we’re off,’ said a tall officer wearing a monocle.

  The liner groaned deep from within and appeared to move. She began to heel gently to one side. Everybody waited for her to righten and begin pulling away from the Mole, but she continued to heel over.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ exclaimed Archie Marley.

  11:50 Friday 31 May 1940.

  Off La Panne, Belgium

  A lot of consciences were being wrestled aboard Phoebe.

  ‘What do you mean, he was only sixteen?’

  ‘Well, I can’t make it any plainer, can I?’ asked Charlie. ‘He was sixteen and he was going to be seventeen, apparently.’

  ‘And that makes it better does it?’ asked Sub-Lieutenant Burnell.

  ‘No…’

  ‘Well, how did he get to sign up? Did you have anything to do with it?’

  Charlie removed his glasses and began rubbing the lenses with his fingers. He appeared to hesitate. ‘I may have somehow given the impression that he was a tad older…’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Come on!’ said Charlie. ‘There’s been underaged blokes in every army since the dawn of time.’

  ‘Is this some kind of excuse?’ asked Burnell.

  ‘It was the same in the last war,’ continued Charlie. ‘We had three chaps in our company that should’ve been in school. One was just fourteen, poor little blighter. As soon as he saw the state of the trenches he wanted to go home to his mum. But, obviously, they wouldn’t let him.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He drowned in the mud that same week.’

  ‘Well, thanks for sharing that with me,’ said Burnell. ‘That really has put my mind at rest.’

  Charlie nodded and looked back out to sea. Phoebe continued to creep towards the distant shore, trying as best she could to retrace her steps. In the last two hours she had retrieved five Frenchmen from the water, and this had added another twist to Tom’s already wracked conscience. He knelt in the bows, calling Ted’s name every few seconds and alternately sucking through his runny nose. The Frenchmen had been glad to clamber back aboard Phoebe, having been sent flying with Tom’s erratic steering. They were now down in the galley and preparing breakfast for everybody aboard. Knowing all this, and believing that he might also have sent Ted flying, made Tom hurt deep inside. He also knew, although he was refusing to think it, that the zigzagged driving had saved the rest of the five hundred or so men aboard. But Tom’s mind was not as clear as it might have been. And it was on this point that Charlie’s conscience was a tad wracked.

  When Phoebe had taken on supplies at Gravesend she had also taken onboard one quart of medicinal brandy and this Charlie had been administering to Tom for the last two hours. He had also been self-medicating.

  ‘So what do we do with him?’ asked Charlie, his face flushing.

  ‘Tom?’ asked Burnell.

  Charlie nodded and adjusted his glasses.

  ‘We pack him off with the next load.’

  ‘Suppose he won’t go.’

  ‘Course he’ll damn well go!’ Burnell turned to look at Charlie. The knitted brows and the livid burn gave him a menacing air, and Charlie felt himself take an involuntary step back. ‘I’m not having two dead juveniles on my bloody hands.’

  ‘He’s old enough to get married,’ put in Charlie in defence.

  ‘But not to vote, or drink in a pub, or put five bob on a horse.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Charlie. ‘We should give him the choice. He might even want to stay now and see this through. Besides, he won’t be in any hurry to get home, not with all the explaining he’ll ‘ave to do.’

  The smell of fried food, the long-awaited breakfast, came wafting up from the galley, making the two men’s stomach’s rumble.

  ‘Actually,’ countered Burnell, briefly distracted. ‘I was going to suggest that you took him back home…and that you broke the news to Ted’s parents.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Charlie. ‘Not me! Not bloomin’ likely!’

  ‘The poor sods!’ said Burnell with barely a whisper.

  The Stukas had found fresh prey about half a mile distant. Two black machines, like evil pre-historic birds, were swooping down on a small coastal tug, a beautiful coal-fired vessel from the turn of the century; and, encumbered by three dumb barges, she was proving an easy target.

  ‘Give us a look,’ said Charlie, untangling the binoculars from around Burnell’s neck. He adjusted the focus to suit his tired eyes and pronounced, ‘Thames lighters! I musta spent more time on them than I ‘ave on dry land.’ He dropped the glasses, letting them hang around his own neck, and turned back to the sub-lieutenant. ‘Now that’s just the job for loading troops off these beaches.’

  ‘Yes, I dare say the Luftwaffe are having exactly the same thoughts,’ said Burnell, wincing as he followed the course of the next black bomb. The last Stuka in the staffel was pulling back into a steep climb and the bomb was falling, as if flicked from a slingshot, down towards the tug. It landed on the prow and erupted like a volcano, sending ship’s timbers and body parts high into the air in a tumbling cloud of grey smoke. Both Burnell and Charlie watched the debris fall slowly back down, causing the sea to erupt across a two hundred yard radius.

  Phoebe turned and charged towards the scene. Charlie gripped the wheel tight in one hand, heeling her over. His eyes were torn between the sinking tug and the busy sky above. His other hand rested on the throttle, the smooth wooden knob nestled comfortably in the palm. He eased back, allowing Phoebe to glide alongside the outer barge. The tug was nose down. Men, three at most, were splashing in the water, feverish breaststrokes and fixed white eyes, making their way towards the cruiser. Charlie gave a gentle nudge back on the throttle and Phoebe came to a dead stop in the water. Two Frenchmen, not engrossed in breakfast, hung off Phoebe’s starboard rail, preparing to help pull the men from the water as they themselves had been pulled just hours before.

  Charlie kept his eyes on the tug. She was going down and she would sink very soon. His eyes followed the course of her thick stern cable that connected to the three barges in tow. It would need to slipped in the next minute or two or else, with the weight of the tug below, it would draw the tarred rope so taut no hacksaw could ever cut through.

  Charlie nudged Burnell in the side. ‘You take over a mo’,’ he called, turning quickly and dropping down to the deck. Burnell watched perplexed as Charlie lifted his legs over the rail and stood poised ready to jump. He judged his moment with the swell and landed down on the tug’s aft deck, already a foot or so beneath the waves. He moved with incredibly hast to the bollard that held the cable fast. One foot on the stern rail and a mighty heave, and the distance from the nearest barge lessened. Charlie slipped off the cable, tossing it into the water, and climbed onto the rail. He waited for the next rise and then leapt across, landing like a practiced acrobat on the slender deck of the outer barge. He turned around and waved frantically back at Phoebe, as if to say ‘bugger off, and don’t hang about’.

 
; Burnell looked away from Charlie. More sinister black creatures were circling above. His hand moved automatically to the throttle. He turned and looked back at Charlie. He was now jumping from the first barge onto the next, slipping the cables from each and allowing them to drift away on their own and so present less of a target. Burnell closed his fingers around the wooden knob, getting its feel and easing it upward. A vibration ran the length of the cruiser. Phoebe was argumentative and flighty and, with so much power from her Thornycroft engine, she would be difficult to handle even in a mild swell. Burnell looked back at Charlie. ‘Go, go, go,’ he seemed to be shouting. Burnell winced again. He had never scored well in small boat handling. He tightened his grip on the throttle, and then felt a nudge in his side.

  ‘Come on, budge over, sir,’ said Tom. ‘You do your job, I’ll do mine. We’ll come back for him.’

  11:59 Friday 31 May 1940.

  Snowdown Station, Southern Railways, Kent

  You have been listening to the second in our series of Questions of Empire. That was The Indian Peasant and the District Officer by Sir Edward Blunt, K.C.I.E. We now have a sequence of music programmes. At one-fifteen we go over to Colston Hall in Bristol for the Lunch Hour Concert and before that, at twelve-thirty, more Harp Quintets from All Saint’s Parish Hall. But first, thirty minutes of brass band favourites from the Glasgow Corporation Gas Department Band.

  Margaret wondered whose bright idea it was to connect the wireless to the station’s Tannoy system. The brass band gave the platform an incongruous carnival atmosphere, at odds with the electric tension of the crowd. The harp quintets might even tip everyone into a depressing spiral. This would never do. She picked her way through the multitude, seeking out the stationmaster.