Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  Margaret could not decide if it were a good thing that so many people had turned up. She pushed her way around the trestle table. It was good that there was now no shortage of refreshments, cakes, sandwiches, or scones. But everybody was getting in everybody else’s way, and on each other’s nerves. There was no order any more. The station’s small car park had earlier filled with people, making it difficult for the buses to unload their wounded. Now, thanks largely to the assistance of the local Boy Scouts, a path had been cleared and the spectators ushered behind the white fence that ran the length of the platform.

  There were few men in the crowds but many women, often with young children. As each troop train pulled in, they would call out their free wares from behind the fence. Now they waited and chatted, with baskets on the ground by their feet, while their children played tag up and down the station approach. There were numerous hampers with bottles of fizzy drinks or big jugs of homemade cordials. Many had the foresight to bring jam jars. These stood in neat rows, regularly spaced along the downtrodden and littered grass, glowing yellow for lemonade and orange for squash. When the troops did arrive, few in the crowd waved or cheered. There was no bunting to festoon the station. They simply held up jam jars and plates of sandwiches and looked anxiously at the faces of the men, willing and hoping.

  Mrs Hannaford, who worked part-time at the Post Office, had with some foresight, collected together all of the unsold postcards. These had been supplemented with telegram forms and packing labels, and handed out to the troops. With pencils and borrowed pens they scribbled names, addresses and the brief words, “I’m safe!” There was no question that the GPO would deliver them all, and free of charge.

  Margaret continued to push her way politely through the crowd. With his shiny black helmet towering above most of the heads, she noticed the special constable of the village, an elderly police clerk called out of retirement and into uniform for the first time in his life. He was a little deaf and not one of the brightest.

  ‘Constable Goodman!’ she called, waving to attract his attention. She continued to push her way through. She tugged at his sleeve and gave him a knowing look. He winced inwardly. Another tug on the sleeve and she succeeded in steering him out into the car park. ‘Constable,’ she announced in a measured tone. ‘You really must try and keep people off the platform who have no right to be there. It is making our job extremely difficult.’

  Constable Goodman stood braced. ‘I’ll see what I can do, madam.’ He looked across the crowd, willing a disturbance that required his intervention. There seemed little chance. He turned back and looked at Margaret. ‘But there’s only me here at present and I can’t be everywhere at once.’

  Margaret looked furtively around and then reached up on her toes to whisper into the policeman’s ear. ‘Did you have a chance to look into that other matter?’ she asked.

  ‘Other matter?’ he thought aloud for a second or two. ‘Yes, why of course.’ His voice boomed out. ‘You did well to report it. Anything, or anyone suspicious, you just give us another call.’

  It was Margaret’s turn to wince. This was supposed to be a confidential matter and not something to compete with a brass band. She stepped back and looked again around the crowd. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, resuming her earlier tone. ‘You could let me know if there is an outcome.’

  Margaret turned hurriedly away. She knew most of the women by sight and many by name. She even knew whose children belonged to whom and what the husbands did for a living. There were other women who Margaret did not know. They had travelled from surrounding villages and towns. And all had a vested interest in the safe return of the British Expeditionary Force. Aylesham alone had provided the equivalent of a full platoon. She pushed her way back through the station to the platform and stood uncertain for a moment. There was now so much food and so many willing helpers that little remained for her to do. She turned and strolled beside the fence, nodding to acquaintances here and there and catching the flow of talk.

  Margaret nodded to Mrs Davis whose son had already made it back safely. She stood beside Mrs Somerville from the Co-Op, who had also received good news. Margaret had watched them meet in the car park. She felt relieved as she saw their eyes sparkle as they told of the letters they had received. She had watched their heads draw closer as they read their messages of relief aloud. But it had also made Margaret’s heart ache to think of the other mothers who would soon be getting other letters and telegrams; then the brightness of their eyes would dim and never shine so brightly again.

  When the crowds of women had arrived, they all asked much the same questions, wanting to know of husbands and sons, brothers and cousins, nephews and uncles, and whether they had arrived back in England yet. Margaret had heard of letters received and of still more so anxiously waited for. She wondered how many soldiers were still in France and how many would be left behind.

  She recognised another face in the crowd and stepped up to say hello. Mrs Winters gave her a brief nod back and continued with her story.

  ‘So, my friend Beryl,’ she explained. ‘Her husband’s just got back and he’s in hospital in north London of all places. He hasn’t got any wounds, apparently, but he’s lying flat on his back in bed just the same. Beryl said the look in his eyes was absolutely dreadful.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘He didn’t even speak to her,’ continued Mrs Winters. Her own husband, a farm labourer and odd job man, was a corporal in the local Territorial force. ‘Not once!’ she exclaimed. ‘He just lay there, staring up at the ceiling.’

  ‘Well,’ said the other woman from nearby Adisham. Her husband scratched a living breeding chickens and growing vegetables year round. ‘There’s a young chap that lives across the lane from us. Lives with his mother. Very nice chap, very quite. And he got back from Flanders on Tuesday and his nerves had all gone to pieces. He wouldn’t even take his tin helmet off.’

  ‘I’m afraid a lot of them will be like that,’ said Mrs Winters. ‘They won’t be able to stand up to that sort of thing again.’

  ‘They’re not the same when they come home, are they?’ insisted the woman from Adisham. ‘I don’t know how long they’ll be able to survive a proper war.’

  Margaret had had enough. She cleared her throat. She knew all about shell shock. Her own Dennis had returned from the trenches with a terrible stutter.

  ‘There were many such cases in the last war. It’s the modern world,’ she explained. ‘Everything is industrialised, even war now. It takes a very special kind of man to survive that.’

  ‘They can’t!’ spat Mrs Winters.

  ‘Yes they can!’ insisted Margaret. ‘And I will tell you this.’ She looked at them each in turn. ‘For every case of shattered nerves, there are other men – extraordinary men - who can take it, men who will take anything you can throw at them.’

  ‘Well, let’s ruddy hope so,’ said Mrs Winters. ‘I wouldn’t want to rely on the likes of Beryl’s old man.’ She looked now at Margaret. ‘Frankly, I just wonder where all this is going to end.’

  ‘How on Earth can you have any doubt?’ Margaret’s face flushed and she felt her hackles rise.

  ‘Five minutes everyone!’ called the stationmaster, his cheeks glowing red. ‘The train has just left Shepherd’s Well.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Margaret. ‘Excuse me, won’t you?’

  12:25 Friday 31 May 1940.

  Above the Goodwin Sands, English Channel

  Ginger had a particular attitude towards death. He had not lived long enough to fully appreciate life’s value. Clouston, with his earthy Canadian views on mortality, had helped shape Ginger’s current perspective. To be told to think that you are already dead, and that everything else is a bonus, is a sobering thought.

  ‘You have one task, eh. You were born for this moment. You are going out there and you are going to shoot down as many Germans as you can.’ Clouston had been very clear on this point. ‘If you die in the process, it don’t matter a jot.’
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  He had stared hard into Ginger’s eyes. ‘How many have you shot down, eh?’ he asked, knowing full well. Ginger thought about it now. First, there had been that Henschel spotter plane and then certainly one Stuka; potentially four men killed. At the time of Clouston’s questioning, there had been just the Henschel, a pilot and rear-gunner.

  ‘So you are already ahead of the game. You have justified all the time, training and cash that the British tax payer has invested in you. Correct?’

  Ginger had nodded and sipped at his tea. ‘If you die tomorrow you have justified your own existence and provided value for money for the Exchequer. What’s your problem?’

  ‘Why should I have a problem?’ asked Ginger, studying his nicotine-stained fingers. He wondered if his mum would feel the same. That conversation was as long ago as four days. Now, as Acting Flying Officer Wood and Red Section Leader, he looked down from ten thousand feet at the sea below. That, too, was sobering. Many years ago he had seen a pictorial spread of the Cowes Yacht Race. The photographs had been taken from the air. To gain such a perspective on the world had been one of the spurs in Ginger’s flying career. He looked down again and marvelled.

  They did not tell Ginger or his RAF colleagues very much. He had flown over the beaches and approaches and a little way in land, and he had seen the disaster of the BEF unfolding. He did not need to be told much more. Even so, he could not stop himself wondering about all the many hundreds, or possibly thousands, of small boats that cut trails across the blue sea below.

  Ginger stared across at his wingmen. They, too, seemed to be marvelling at all the boats below. Their own squadron had been joined on this medium altitude anti-bomber sweep by high-flying Spitfires from Hornchurch and a squadron of Defiants out of Duxford. Ginger completed another search of the sky and looked back down at the boats. From ten thousand feet there was not a lot to see. It was as if a series of combs were being dragged across the water.

  He began to search the sky again. They were drawing closer to the coast, aiming for a point off La Panne, when somebody up ahead noticed the black clouds of AA.

  ‘Red Leader. Red Leader. This is Blue Leader. Blue Leader. Over.’

  ‘This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Over,’ called Ginger across the static.

  ‘Red Leader. Go deal with those Stukas down there, will you? They’re bothering one of our minesweepers.’

  ‘Roger, Blue Leader. Wilco.’

  Ginger pulled back on the stick and allowed his elderly Hurricane to climb. He looked quickly to each side, seeing that the rest of his section was on the ball. They were. He continued to pull up and then he dropped away, pointing his port wing at the sea, and plummeting down much like the Stukas below.

  The minesweeper Devonia cut a zigzagged wake in slow motion. Two giant circles, like milky white puddles on a tablecloth, marked the sea to either side of her. A second Stuka adjusted its angle of approach and peeled down for the dive. Ginger watched the first Stuka pulling back up. He had a choice. The climbing Stuka was easy. The second, now lining up for the kill, much harder. Ginger peeled away to starboard. His scalp tingled with the vibrations. The dials were blurred. He cut a quick glance to either side, catching a glimpse of Red Two and Three. He was gaining on the diving Stuka.

  ‘Five hundred yards,’ calculated Ginger. ‘Come on! Come on!’ Four hundred yards and the Stuka was pointing at a ninety degree angle to the sea. Three hundred yards. Ginger squeezed hard on the fire control button and his Hurricane stuttered. He pulled back just a fraction and fired again. Puffs of grey smoke erupted around the Stuka’s tail. Something black fell away. Suddenly the Stuka’s lengthy canopy shattered just as the pilot was releasing his bombs. Ginger clearly saw the tiny orange sparks as .303 rounds from Red Two hammered into the glass and struts. The Stuka could not pull up from its dive. The machine tilted slightly to starboard and began to spin. Before it could turn a full circle, it hit the sea. Ginger was already pulling back up and searching for more. Red Two pulled dangerously close and Ginger tugged quickly, pulling his own Hurricane away. Now Red Three was pulling back to avoid a collision. They fell into place and then the section soared up towards the clouds.

  ‘Red Two. Red Two. Bloody well done, man. Capital shooting!’ called Ginger.

  ‘Really?’ called back Peeky Beaky ‘Was that me?’

  ‘Red Three? It wasn’t you, was it?’ asked Ginger looking back over his right shoulder.

  ‘Not me. I couldn’t get a clear shot.’

  ‘And it wasn’t me,’ said Ginger. ‘I just clipped his tail. So that one’s all yours, Peeky Beaky.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Beginner’s luck, I assure you!’

  Without forward guns, the RAF’s new Boulton-Paul Defiant had few defensive manoeuvres available to it. The most effective tactic had been copied from the wagon trains of the Wild West and African veldt. As Red Section climbed, it saw the Defiants from Duxford pulling into a defensive circle. This way, the rear guns of one could cover the other behind, and so on. Ginger looked up. Above the Defiants, and beyond the few swirling Hurricanes, another circle was brewing. In all, there were nearly seventy Me109s, fast, effective, single-seater fighters, battle proven over Spain and Poland, and outclassing the Defiants in all respects.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ whispered Ginger. He continued to climb. Even higher above the Me109s, fine vapour trails weaved beyond the clouds as the Hornchurch Spitfires tackled twin-engined Me110s. As rescuing cavalry, they were too few, too far and too pre-occupied. Ginger had also been aware of movement down to the southeast. The clouds parted and a score of Heinkel bombers could be seen approaching the coast at low-level.

  ‘This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Stick tight and follow me.’

  Ginger looked again at his altimeter. It registered thirteen thousand feet and was falling fast. The sun, thin as it was, poked through the clouds. He had the sun to his back and a clear field. Red Section moved inland.

  ‘This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Remember what I said. Wait ‘till we get in close. And I want you each to pick a target. I’ll go for the leader.’

  ‘Roger!’ confirmed Red Two and Three in turn.

  Ginger held his breath and watched the distance close between him and his prey. He had sighted up the Heinkel 111 and still not been seen. Beneath his skin, every muscle strained with the tension. He was entering a world of slow motion. He nudged the stick down and the Hurricane tipped forward. Then it began. The Heinkel 111’s gunner in the roof sent a shower of sparks curving in front of him. Ginger nudged the stick a fraction and then squeezed on his trigger. He held his shot for four seconds and watched as the rounds found their target. The glass dome above the pilot shattered first. Then, like an explosive sewing machine, Ginger drilled his way along the length of the bomber. He swerved violently to port to avoid the debris and another Heinkel 111 that had flown into his path. Again, he squeezed down on the trigger and his Hurricane stuttered and appeared to hang in the air. More bursts of grey smoke and showering fragments of glass. Ginger tipped down on his starboard wing and swerved away. He cast his head across the sky and pulled back for a broad sweep of the scene. The bombers had dispersed, heading in all directions. His first Heinkel fell as bits and pieces. The largest single item was the port wing and Daimler-Benz engine. It tumbled like a clumsy sycamore leaf towards the earth. The second Heinkel, now miles back inland and not worth the chase, cast a thin black smoke trail as it arched away and raced for home. There was no sign of Red Two or Red Three.

  ‘This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Red Section where the hell are you?’

  He looked next at his fuel gauge and calculated ten more minutes before he need head home. He looked again. ‘How can that be?’ Ginger wondered. He tapped it quickly with gloved knuckles, having expected to find the needle registering empty after a ten-minute dogfight that had, in reality, only lasted ten seconds. He spotted the Defiants’ diminishing circle a long way above and pulled into a steep climb. Vapour trails continued to lace the sky beyond the white
clouds. As he climbed, he saw an Me109 fall through the centre of the circle and spin down, black smoke billowing from the engine. Ginger watched the plane as the pilot struggled to pull level and out of the spin. It seemed that the pilot was going to regain control and Ginger altered course towards the Messerschmitt. Suddenly, the plane was on its back and the canopy falling away. The black dot of the pilot tumbled out of his cockpit and rolled head over heels through the air. Ginger kept his Hurricane on course towards the falling pilot. A burst of white exploded above the small figure and then the canopy inflated. Ginger watched the pilot, his legs splayed, swinging back and forth beneath the parachute, and heading towards the sea. He pushed forward on the throttle and resumed his climb.

  The Defiants’ protective laager was tattered and torn with gaping holes where the planes of the Duxford squadron had been. Ginger soared up on the outside. Another Me109 was swooping down from a near vertical. He tilted the Hurricane onto its side and tried to line up his guns so the Messerschmitt might charge directly into his rounds. He squeezed the trigger and caught a quick flash of sparks as he clipped a small area of fuselage. The Me109 continued to dive. One particular Defiant, realising that it was to be the next target, pulled suddenly away from the circle. From his cockpit, Ginger could not see clearly what happened next. But the Defiant, as it pulled up and away, collided with another. Within an instant, both planes were tumbling through space, bits of wings and canopies and other items tumbling, too. One Defiant had regained control, albeit briefly. Ginger could see an entire two sections of its port wing missing. It turned and headed away. Ginger scanned the sky as he flew in a circle around the remaining Defiants. Below two parachute canopies had blossomed open and were drifting out to sea.

  Ginger looked at his fuel gauge. Now it was time to head for home. He was not overly worried about Red Two or Three. It was common to lose one another in a melee. He had not seen them crash and that was a good sign. Ginger suddenly had a wicked thought. He looked down, realising that he was now slightly to the west of Dunkirk. The thick oily smoke from the refineries drifted inland, resembling a vast black awning covering the route to the coast. The beaches to the east ran like a broad yellow ribbon beside the sea. Ginger dropped down and lined up for the beach. Out to sea, dozens of small vessels stood off the shore. Indistinguishable black dots now transformed themselves into lines of men and stacks of burning equipment. The altimeter read seven hundred feet.