Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  Down on the beach some clown was blasting away at his section with an anti-aircraft gun. He winced for a brief second as he flew over the rapid puffs of grey smoke. And then he was past Bray and over Zuydcoote, looking at the outskirts of a large town.

  ‘This is Red Leader. Red Leader. La Panne coming up now.’

  Ginger eased back on the throttle and watched as both Red Two and Three almost overtook him.

  ‘Easy lads! You know what to look for. Stay tight!’

  He began to veer inland. Again he was tempted to ease back on the throttle despite the risk of ground fire. His eyes scoured the flat countryside. A balloon, he thought, should be an easy thing to pick out. Way in the distance, obscured by the fast flowing clouds, was a large barn or warehouse. Ginger lent forward in his harness and squinted his eyes. Could that be it?

  ‘Red Leader!’ called out Red Three at just that moment. ‘This is Red Three. Red Three. I think I see it! Big fat balloon!’

  ‘Looks like a giant barn?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Yep!’ confirmed Red Three.

  ‘Er! Hello!’ Peeky Beaky squawked across the static. ‘Hello! There’s, urgh, there’s something coming really bloody fast this way. On my side!’

  Ginger turned his head quickly. Spitfire, he wondered? It was flying out from the sea towards the land at very low level. He was on the verge of saying as much, and of giving Red Two a dressing down for incorrect R/T procedure, when he recognized it for what it was.

  He could also see the balloon clearly now. The ground vanished beneath his wings at breakneck speed. His altimeter read seven-hundred-feet. The balloon was being pulled rapidly back down. Inside Ginger’s head, his mind played out an imaginary scene. He imagined the observer waving his arms frantically as Red Section came tearing towards him. He was probably shitting himself and hollering at those on the ground to move like blitzen. Ginger’s heartbeat throbbed through his tight fingers as he gripped the stick and willed his Hurricane on.

  The Messerschmitt Me109 was upon them. Ginger’s mind whirled like a mechanical apparatus. What to do? If he broke the section, they would never reform in time. He braced himself for impact.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ screamed Peeky Beaky. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ The Hurricane on Ginger’s port wing pulled instantly upward and away, leaving odd bits and pieces tumbling and turning in its place. The Me109’s nose cannon blazed yellow fire as it tore through.

  Ginger shuddered. The rounds ripped into his tail fin, knocking him off course.

  ‘Shit! Shit, shit!’ continued to scream Red Two. He had left his microphone open.

  ‘Red Two. Red Two. Reform you bastard!’ Now Ginger was screaming.

  ‘Muum-mee!’ screamed Peeky Beaky, ahead of a large crack of static and then silence.

  With his port side now bare, Ginger looked across at Red Three. He was lagging behind and the distance between them growing by the second. The Germans had almost succeeded in pulling the observation balloon back to the ground. Then the sky erupted around him.

  His first thought was that he had flown into the side of a hill. He slammed forward in his harness and clipped his head painfully against the glass. The cockpit went oddly dark. Ginger pushed his Hurricane’s nose down and burst into the clear, away from the exploding shells. The balloon, looking like a large muddy ball, was being pulled down into a clearing. Ginger struggled to bring the sights to bear and then pressed his thumb against the fire control button, giving a quick burst. He appeared to be looking almost directly down upon it. He pressed again and squeezed with his thumb. The elderly Hurricane stuttered.

  The sky was exploding all around Ginger. There had been virtually no hope of hitting the balloon; at best he might have hit somebody on the ground. The target was now three or more miles behind. In one movement, he tugged back on the stick and stabbed the rudder pedal. He pushed the throttle to its limit and his Hurricane soared upward and away. Ginger glanced quickly to both sides.

  Red Two? Had he fallen prey to the Messerschmitt? There was no sign of him. Ginger was now at eight thousand feet and turning in a tight circle, looking down at the ground. A huge ball of fire spread half way across the copse of trees. The fear in his stomach was transforming itself into an iron fist.

  ‘Peeky Beaky, you bloody twat!’

  He swooped down for a closer look at the wreckage and then the anti-aircraft fire broke out anew, forcing him to tug back and climb. As he came around for his second circuit at a safer altitude, Ginger noticed Red Three turning hard inland, both black smoke and white glycol fumes merging into one vast billowing grey cloud.

  ‘Red Three. Red Three. This is Red Leader!’

  Away in the distance, the Messerschmitt, no more than a black dot, was charging back for a second stab. Ginger eased off the throttle and drew level with the flaming Hurricane. Between the bursts of thick black smoke that obscured the canopy, Ginger could see that Spotted Dick had ripped off his oxygen mask and was now struggling to release the canopy.

  ‘Turn upside down!’ screamed Ginger. ‘Turn, turn!’ He waved with his hands, gripping the stick between his knees. ‘Come on, you stupid sod!’

  Ahead of him and the Messerschmitt grew by the second. Ginger tugged at the stick, drawing the German fighter into his sights. He held his breath and squeezed hard with his stomach muscles. He gave a short burst a brief second before the Me109 flew into his cross hairs. Red tracer poured from both of his wings. Ginger screamed. He felt the deadened clicks as the button beneath his thumb fired on empty and the Messerschmitt climbed away. Right! That’s It! Tears welled in his eyes. You are going to die! He turned his Hurricane and picked out the Messerschmitt as it closed in for another sweep. Ginger aimed straight for the German fighter. Death or glory. Let’s play chicken.

  The Messerschmitt held on to the very last second and then broke and turned sharply away. Ginger jerked at the stick and tried to clip the German’s tail with his wing. He was buffeted by turbulence and found himself knocked hard to starboard. Red Three was down at about one thousand feet and turning slowly onto his back. Ginger swerved to pursue, looking for the Messerschmitt as it too turned and headed back towards them. The canopy fell away from Red Three’s Hurricane. Ginger pulled his throttle back, coughing on the edge of a stall, and watched as Spotted Dick came tumbling out, turning and turning and turning. Ginger could see the Messerschmitt, its wings at a forty-five degree angle, aiming for them both. An explosion of white against the green countryside and the parachute burst open. Ginger pushed the starboard pedal flat on the deck and tugged his wallowing Hurricane back towards the Messerschmitt. Red Three’s canopy had failed to fully deploy and it swung from side to side like an unstable fairground ride.

  The Messerschmitt was aiming straight for the tiny figure swinging beneath. Ginger pressed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth, feeling dry flesh against dry flesh. He tugged hard on the stick and aimed directly into the path of the Me109.

  17:00 Friday 31 May 1940.

  Zuydcoote Beach, France

  By the time the waves began to reach their waists, Archie Marley had resigned himself to a POW camp.

  ‘What d’you keep saying “oh, shit” for?’ asked Corporal Larkin.

  ‘’Cos I can’t bloody swim, can I?’ Archie’s bloodshot eyes seemed to be bulging out of his head. ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’

  ‘Well, you ain’t got to swim far, have you? I mean, you just need to bounce up and down on the bottom a bit; to keep your head above water.’ The corporal gave him a wry smile. ‘Anyway, I’ll give you a hand. Don’t you worry.’

  The steam trawler had departed, laden with nearly three hundred men. She had been followed by an east-coast cockleboat that had lifted nearly two hundred and fifty. Now a river cruiser had pulled into place at the end of the line. A bright banner ran along one side proclaiming Guinness is Good for You. The cruiser rose on an incoming wave and drove hard up on the sand.

  ‘Not long now,’ said the man behind again. ‘I reckon a
nother twenty minutes or so and we’ll be away. We’ll get on this one, mark my words.’

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Archie lifted the gasmask bag with Toto hidden inside. The dark brown wave washed up his chest and slapped under his chin. A shiver ran down his spine.

  ‘Come on!’ encouraged the corporal. ‘Stand on tiptoes!’

  The wave washed over Archie’s head and suddenly he wanted to scream. He squeezed his eyes tight and imagined Bill lying mangled beside the barn. He searched deep inside for strength. He thought of Grace on the step. He tried to remember the smell of her hair. Another wave hit him full in the face and by reflex Archie opened his eyes and gasped for breath. The oil on the surface stung. He was choking.

  ‘Come on you big girl’s blouse!’ shouted Corporal Larkin. ‘Cough it up. It might be a gold watch!’

  Archie coughed some more. He looked at the gasmask bag. He had tried to hold it high above his head, away from the filthy waves, but it was soaked through nonetheless. He jumped up off the sandy bottom as the next wave rolled in. Ahead of him now were just three men. The cruiser stayed fixed on the sand. Another man was tugged up over the side and now there were just two men in front of him. He pulled himself with difficulty into the lee of the boat and watched as the next wave covered the men’s heads.

  Archie looked up and grasped the hand that reached down towards him. He kicked with his feet and clambered up the side and then flopped down onto the deck. He rolled to one side, keeping Toto safe in his arms. Eventually, Archie sat upright and looked around him. The men on deck looked as relieved as he himself felt. He was breathing hard and his head was starting to spin. Over the side and the long line of men seemed to stretch back for miles. Smoke billowed from points all along the coast. Shells were exploding out to sea. Archie Marley suddenly felt extremely tired. He shut his eyes and rested his head on his knees.

  ‘Right, you! Over you go!’

  ‘What?’ mumbled Archie Marley from the depths of sleep.

  ‘I ain’t gonna bleedin’ argue. We’re overloaded. You gotta get off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Over the side now. Before I chuck yer!’ The man reached down and grabbed Archie by the shoulders. ‘Too late!’ Another man grabbed his legs and before he was fully conscious, Archie Marley was over the side and sinking under several feet of water. It was not until he was waist deep again that he could fully catch his breath. He stood still against an incoming wave and lifted Toto out of the water. Inside the bag, the little dog lay curled up, frightened, wet and bewildered. Archie waded through the water, back to the queue.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t, pal! You ain’t getting’ in ‘ere! You go back to the end of the line, sonny boy.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ exclaimed Archie. He felt a terrible lump in his throat. He struggled to speak, so desperately did he want to sob. ‘You saw what happened! I was at the end of the bloody queue there!’ He pointed out to sea. The cruiser was still wedged hard on the sand and more men were being ejected over the side.

  ‘And now you got to go right back to the beginning again,’ snarled a bombardier. ‘Just like snakes ‘n’ ladders. Now go on, bugger off!’

  Oh, why are we wa-ai-ting,

  So fuck-ing long.

  Why are we wait-ing,

  Could be fornicating,

  Oh, why-y are we wait-ing?

  Oh, why-y are we wait-ing?

  Oh, why-y are we wait-ing,

  So fucking long!

  17:25 Friday 31 May 1940.

  East of La Panne Beach, Belgium

  ‘W-w-where is everybody then?’

  Major Featherstonehaugh was the last of the party to climb the dunes. He nudged his way through the pioneers and looked out across the littered beach. The tide had brought the waves close to their feet but hundreds of vehicles and other debris were still visible. ‘If I didn’t know better,’ puffed the Major. ‘I’d say we’ve missed the bloody boat.’

  ‘What makes you think you do know better?’ snapped the Reverend Thomas Charlesworth.

  The Major turned and gave the Padre a look. The man was on the verge of cracking, that much was obvious. The blow to his head had probably done more damage than was immediately apparent. The Major wondered for a moment whether he should bother to reply. And, having given it due thought, he decided not to. Instead, he edged his way down the dunes and wandered up to the water’s edge.

  ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, with pleasure. ‘C-c-come and try this, P-p-padre,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘C-c-come and soak your feet.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I can almost see the s-s-steam coming off them!’

  ‘That water’s filthy!’ The Padre bit his tongue. For some time now he had felt himself to be on the edge of nervous exhaustion. Now, with the discovery that the beach was deserted, he truly wanted to scream. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked out to sea. ‘Who’s eyes are better than mine?’ he inquired.

  ‘Sure the man with the best ever eyes is young Sheridan,’ declared the Irish sergeant. ‘The man’s a wonder!’

  ‘All right,’ said the Padre. ‘What sort of ship is that over there?’ He pointed further along the coast.

  ‘Oh, I can’t see that, father,’ said the sergeant. ‘It’s too far away.’

  The Padre bit his tongue again and held in his breath while he counted to ten. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘But what does Sheridan make of it?’ He cast his head around for the man.

  ‘Sheridan, father? Well, he’s still in County Cavan, so he is. He must be eighty years old!’ The sergeant laughed and the other pioneers within earshot joined in too. ‘Best eyes of any man or beast, to be sure.’ The Irish sergeant confirmed as much with a firm nod towards the Padre. ‘But let’s ask Connelly.’

  ‘Well, it is big, it is,’ confirmed Connelly in time. ‘But I think it’s going away.’ He cupped both hands in front of one eye, like a child’s make-believe telescope. ‘As to precisely what manner of ship it is, I wouldn’t like to say.’

  ‘But is it a warship?’ asked the Padre.

  ‘Oh, aye, it is that. It’s the strangest looking thing I ever set eyes upon.’

  ‘But in what way is it strange?’ asked the Padre.

  ‘Well, it’s not an easy thing to put into words.’

  ‘Try,’ suggested the Padre.

  ‘Well, for starters,’ said Connelly. ‘It is both a bit big and a bit small, in that it seems to have one enormous gun-like thing sticking out the front. But the rest of the ship, well, it’s not so big really.’

  The Padre shook his head and hoped Connelly might elaborate.

  ‘It makes me think of a little feller I saw at the Ballinasloe horse fair.’ Connelly lowered his hands and broke into a broad smile. ‘Little dwarf chap he was but with bloody ridiculous big hands, like two giant bicycle wheels. Have you ever seen him, father?’

  The Padre tried to keep his expression blank.

  ‘He’d be bloody good at that tennis lark, so he would.’ Connelly rubbed his eye.

  ‘We need to make contact,’ said the Padre, trying to erase the image from his mind.

  ‘How about a signal fire?’ suggested Connelly. He cast around the wreckage in the dunes. ‘We have all the makings and the way of lighting it.’

  The Padre stepped away and looked in the opposite direction up the coast. A vast black cloud rose from the headland, ten miles or more to the west. Other fires stretched up to the sky at almost every point between. Was he the only one left in possession of his faculties? The Major had never been right in the head and these Irish pioneers, they just did not seem to grasp the urgency of the situation nor fully appreciate the dire straights they were in. His stomach rumbled as he pictured them rounding up sheep next and roasting them in the sand dunes.

  ‘We could build a raft, or some such thing,’ suggested the sergeant. ‘Sure the lads they’re all good with their hands.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ The Padre let out his breath and felt his shoulders sag with relief. ‘How long would it take to build a r
aft?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, now father,’ cautioned the sergeant. ‘That would be a bit like asking how long’s a piece of string.’

  17:35 Friday 31 May 1940.

  Off Koksijde-Bad, Belgium

  ‘What? You can read tealeaves, can you?’ asked Captain D’Arcy.

  ‘There ain’t nothing to it,’ confirmed Charlie. He lent forward and looked into the captain’s mug. ‘First thing,’ shouted Charlie, as they were both a bit deaf. ‘First thing, you need to drink a bit more but leave a little tea in the bottom.’ He waited while D’Arcy did as told. ‘Now,’ he instructed. ‘Hold the mug in your left hand. Give it a good swirl around clockwise, three times.’

  Like this?’ asked D’Arcy.

  ‘Now place your right hand over the mug and give it another swirl. We want to leave ‘em all around the sides. Right,’ said Charlie. ‘Give it to me.’

  Aside from the occasional glance into the sky, Charlie studied the leaves with painstaking diligence. He made sure to hum and har and to conjure up an air of great sage and wisdom. He waited for D’Arcy to say something and then instantly cut him short with an imperious eyebrow.

  ‘Tut, tut, tut!’ Charlie looked back inside the mug. He drew air in sharply through clenched teeth.

  ‘What?’ demanded D’Arcy. ‘What do you see?’ His original scepticism had been replaced with suspicious concern.

  ‘Well,’ said Charlie finally. ‘The fact that all the leaves have fallen in a clear clockwise spiral indicates that something will happen soon.’

  ‘Something?’ asked D’Arcy. ‘You surprise me.’

  ‘You have to see it like this.’ Charlie pointed a blackened finger into the mug. ‘You take the top of the spiral, here. That’s your in-sti-gating event and all other subsequent events are what will follow. So now we have to determine just what will happen.’

  ‘Please.’