by Alan Pearce
‘It’s all down to shapes,’ he explained. ‘A triangle means good fortune, but a square means you need to be cautious, and a circle that’s great success.’
‘So what do you see?’
‘Squares,’ said Charlie.
‘And what about those?’ asked D’Arcy. ‘It looks like a load of ants.’
‘Well, ants ain’t good. They’re trouble.’
‘What would constitute a good sign, then?’
‘Grapes. That’s happiness.’
‘Perhaps they aren’t ants. Perhaps they’re grapes.’
‘That’s not the way about it.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘You have to see these things as a whole. Squint your eyes and now what does it look like?’
‘Actually, it looks a bit like a boat; like Noah’s Ark.’
‘Well, that’s good. Boats mean a visit, particularly from a friend.’
‘I think we should leave it there,’ said D’Arcy, standing up. ‘On a hopeful note.’ He stretched out his arms and yawned. ‘How much longer?’
‘’Till when?’ asked Charlie.
‘Until low tide,’ insisted D’Arcy.
‘For Heaven’s sake!’ Charlie exhaled, showing his irritation. ‘Give it a rest, will yer! You won’t make it come ‘round any sooner if you keep asking.’
‘Have we got any playing cards?’ asked D’Arcy.
‘No we ‘aven’t and, before you ask, we don’t have any chess sets, draughts boards, snakes ‘n’ ladders or tiddly bloody winks.’
Beside the barge and towering above them was the wreck of an armed French trawler. Her steam funnel, painted yellow and black, had been ripped apart like the skin of a banana. Charlie had thoroughly searched the boat, finding nothing more than a bag of tart green apples and a bottle of calvados. At Captain D’Arcy’s suggestion they had scratched marks on the label and divided the bottle into portions to be consumed, not immediately as Charlie had suggested, but hourly until the tide should drop sufficiently for them to wade ashore. It was a way of passing the time.
‘What time is it now?’ He turned and shouted at Charlie.
‘What?’
‘I said, what time is it now?’
‘’Alf five.’
With the monitor gone, now cruising the horizon in company with a destroyer, the coast with its fires and billowing smoke had the air of a forlorn and lonely land, charred and smouldering. The distant explosions beat out a warning to trespassers like jungle drums.
‘Fancy another cuppa, ‘arsy?’ shouted Charlie.
‘What?’
Charlie waved the teapot. ‘I said d’you want another?’
‘Oh, why not?’
19:45 Friday 31 May 1940.
RAF Biggin Hill, Kent
‘Hello, Simon,’ said Ginger.
‘Oh, hello,’ said his kid brother, lacking all enthusiasm.
‘How are things?’
‘Don’t ask!’ said Simon. ‘Dad’s in a terrible mood.’
‘Why?’
‘He has to finish the Anderson shelter or he’ll get into trouble.’
‘I thought he did it ages ago.’
‘No,’ said Simon. ‘He dug the hole, then said his back hurt and it’s been sitting there ever since, filling with water.’
‘I’m sure you must be a big help to him,’ said Ginger, smiling.
‘You bet! I’ve been bailing the blooming thing out since I came home from school. I wish I was in the RAF. Have you killed any Germans yet?’
‘Hundreds!’
‘Liar!’
‘Is Mum there?’
‘I’ll go get her. And think of me working my fingers to the bone to keep this family safe.’
‘I will.’
‘Neil, darling! How are you?’
Ginger tried to answer but his mother was too quick for him.
‘Are you getting enough to eat? And dressing warm enough? I’m told it can get very cold up there.’
‘Mum! Please! I’m twenty years old. I know how to dress myself.’
‘I am so glad you are not flying bombers,’ she told him. ‘They talked about it on the news. Attacking enemy aerodromes. And they said some of our planes are still missing. Their poor mothers.’
‘Mum, I told you. I’m lucky. I’m just patrolling the coast. Nothing ever happens.’
‘And they said nearly eighty Germans had been shot down. I’m so glad you’re not doing that sort of thing.’
Ginger was in danger of running out of conversation. ‘I’ve one bit of news, mum. I’m now flying in the squadron leader’s section. I’m their new Blue Three.’
‘You were Red Two before,’ she reminded him. ‘That’s not a demotion is it?’
‘Hardly, mum. It’s an honour to be the squadron leader’s wingman. You should be proud.’
‘I am. I am. But it’s all a bit confusing really. You’re still a pilot officer, aren’t you?’
‘I’m still a pilot officer, mum. It doesn’t mean I have to be a sergeant again.’
‘Well, I’m very proud. You clever boy!’
Ginger felt a horrible rush of emotions and he suddenly craved a cigarette. He also wanted a whisky. Just as soon as he put the telephone down he was going to get hammered. He corrected himself. Just as soon as he put the telephone down he was going to do the right thing and call Peeky Beaky’s parents to break the news of his fiery death. After that he would call Spotted Dick’s widower father and give him the good news that his only son was in all probability a prisoner of war. After that he would get hammered.
‘How’s Gran?’ he asked.
‘Oh, don’t ask!’ His mum lowered her voice and he imagined her cupping a hand around the mouthpiece. ‘She’s developed this really funny thing about shoes.’
‘Shoes?’
‘She’s been all through the wardrobe and her boxes in the loft. You know how much stuff she brought with her. I had no idea she had so many shoes!’
‘Give them to the refugees,’ suggested Ginger.
‘Well, I would,’ confided his mum. ‘She says not one single pair fits! But they do! They all fit perfectly.’
‘Really?’
‘She dragged me all around town yesterday looking for a pair that did fit.’
‘And?’
‘And there wasn’t a single pair she liked. Sometimes,’ said Ginger’s mum. ‘Sometimes…’ She left the threat hanging as she always did. Ginger wondered just what she might ever do if pushed hard enough. She could hardly send Gran to her room. She already believed that the neighbours were tunnelling beneath the floorboards.
‘Take her to see Doctor Stewart again,’ he suggested.
‘I don’t know why I bother. I really don’t. She’s got a cabinet full of medicines and pills but she never takes them.’
‘Mum!’ interrupted Ginger. ‘They’re calling us to a briefing now. I’ll try and call you tomorrow.’
‘It is Wood, isn’t it?’ asked Bonzo, the squadron leader, knitting his brows. ‘Groupie keeps getting you confused with some chap called Steele.’
‘Can’t imagine why,’ said Ginger.
‘I was looking for him everywhere.’ Bonzo cracked a narrow smile, sending the waxed points of his moustache upwards like two blonde semaphore flags. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to say welcome to my section. I know you had a spot of bother today. It happens to us all. That’s why I need a new wingman, of course.’
Bonzo hesitated. The words dead man’s shoes flashed before his eyes. ‘Where was I?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Oh, yes. Go see Sergeant Merrill and get your guns sighted to four hundred yards. I like to biff ‘em as soon as I can.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And I demand that my wingmen stay tight. I want to be able to see you out of the corner of my eye.’ He halted to remove a piece of lint from his shoulder. ‘And I like to keep radio chatter to a minimum. I heard your Red Section today. You were like a lot of silly schoolboys. I won’t have any of that.’
‘No, sir.’
&nbs
p; ‘Anyway, I just wanted to come over and say welcome to Blue Section.’
Ginger nodded and turned back to the bar.
‘Another whisky, please Williams.’ He slid forward his glass.
‘Is that another large one, sir?’
20:45 Friday 31May 1940.
Bergues-Hondschoote Canal, France
‘I really hate this time of day,’ confided Guardsman Samson.
‘Yeah, why?’ asked Sergeant Harris.
‘Well, it’s like when I was a kid.’ He popped half a biscuit into his mouth and crunched away, using the few good teeth he retained at the back of his mouth. ‘I’d be playing in the street. It would just be getting dark. Next thing, me mum’s standing on the step, her arms folded so I know she’s in a bad mood, and I’ve got to go to bed. I really hated that!’
‘Never bothered me,’ the sergeant told him. ‘Now, my favourite time is about five-o’clock when the sun’s just going down. Have you noticed how all the colours seem stronger somehow?’
Samson made an mmm sound as he delved with a finger to remove a solid wad of compressed biscuit from a gap between his molars.
‘We’d be coming up to the end of the day. The whole countryside would be bathed in that golden light. The birds would be twittering and you could smell the warm corn and watch it sway in the breeze, like the sea or something.’
‘And then you’d be off down the pub.’
The sergeant gave a gentle laugh. ‘Yeah, down the pub. Work up an appetite, not that I didn’t have one anyway. Sink a couple of jars and stroll home to dinner.’
‘Your misses a good cook?’ asked Samson.
‘I was thinking of my mum, actually,’ said Sergeant Harris. ‘My misses couldn’t cook for toffee.’ He looked sad for a moment and then resumed his thread. ‘But my mum, she was a good cook. Nothing in the fancy line, mind you. Just good English grub.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well,’ mused Sergeant Harris. ‘Sundays we always had a roast of some kind, depending on what was to be had. Maybe a chicken or maybe a rabbit, or a nice belly of pork…’
‘What sort of trimmings?’
‘We always had three veg, not counting potatoes, of course.’
‘Three?’
‘Three, yeah. One of the blokes down the pub, I told him that once and he couldn’t believe it. I had to take him back to the house and show him.’
‘He was amazed, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you invite him in for dinner then?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think all this talk about food is making me hungry,’ confessed Samson. ‘D’you mind if I pop back and get another tin of MacConochie’s?’
‘No, you stay put for a tick,’ said Sergeant Harris. ‘There’s something about those cows I’m not happy with.’
They both looked across the canal. The cows stood shoulder-deep in young green corn, quietly revelling in their good fortune. They kept their heads down and seemed deeply content.
‘What’s wrong with ‘em, then?’
‘They’re jumpy. Well, some of them are.’ The sergeant pointed off to the right, in the direction of the tall church spire at Warhem. ‘Watch those ones off to the right.’
They both waited a while and then the sergeant exclaimed, ‘See!’
‘Yeah, I see,’ confirmed Samson. ‘Maybe it’s got a tick up its arse.’
‘Or maybe some Jerries are creeping through the corn and sneaking up on us.’
‘D’you want me to go get the lieutenant?’ asked Samson.
‘Or the MacConochie’s more like,’ hissed the sergeant.
‘Well, if I’m goin’ to the cottage there ain’t no harm in grabbing myself a tin or two, is there?’
‘Just hold on,’ said Sergeant Harris again. A few minutes passed while they watched the cows chew the heads off the young corn. Another cow jerked suddenly as it stepped forward. ‘There! See that?’
‘Shall I get the lieutenant?’
‘Yeah. Quick as you can.’
‘Perhaps it’s flies,’ suggested Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox. ‘They can make horses bad tempered.’
He scratched his head and thought for a moment. The wise thing to do, especially given their surplus of ammunition, would be to spray the field with machinegun fire. But, having already shot one innocent cow this campaign, he was reluctant to dispatch any others.
‘See that, sur!’ hissed Sergeant Harris. ‘Something spooked it.’
‘Okay,’ agreed Sandy. ‘Let’s let off a mortar round over to the right there.’
The sergeant scurried off through the trench system to the rear of the cottage and told the crew where to point their sixty-mil. There came a brief hollow pop and then the mortar soared over their heads and landed in the field. Sandy watched the earth erupt and tried to take in as broad a scene as possible. Several cows standing near the epicentre of the blast were knocked sideways. A handful more stampeded for a few yards but those furthest from the blast simply turned their heads and continued to munch the corn.
‘Samson!’
‘Sir!’
‘Lets have a couple of bursts in that general area.’
Samson cocked the Bren and pressed the stock to his cheek. He squeezed the trigger and the gun clattered, scything the young corn in two neat arcs.
‘There you go, sur,’ called Sergeant Harris. ‘What’s that sticking up out of the ground? Looks like somebody’s arm.’
‘Stand to!’ shouted Sandy, quickly looking up and down the line. ‘Sampson! Same range. Fifty yards, left and right.’
The Bren clattered again until the magazine was empty. Sampson quickly recharged the gun. ‘Again, sir?’
‘Again.’
Suddenly a man was up and running. Samson tore a line through the corn with the Bren and brought the German down.
‘Mortar!’ bellowed Sandy. ‘Six rounds, rapid fire. And spread ‘em!’
Two Lewis guns from Nigel’s company to their right burst into action followed by the regular crack of rifle fire. Sandy’s mortar crew lobbed their rounds in a beautifully executed pattern to either side of the herd. The few cows left standing suddenly realised their predicament and began tearing off through the green corn in the general direction of the distant tree line.
‘Mortar!’ bellowed Sandy. ‘Another six rounds, rapid fire. In the centre!’
Now German infantry were up and running and following the cows. The guardsmen of companies one, two and three opened up with their Lee Enfields, Brens and Lewis guns. Those Germans who chose to run were quickly scythed like the corn.
And then it only took three minutes for the German gunners to train their artillery pieces on the British side of the Bergues-Hondschoote Canal.
‘Sergeant!’
‘Sur!’
‘Go find Perkins. He’s the fastest runner in the company. We’d better tell brigade about this.’
‘Begging your pardon, sur. But Perkins is dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Copped it from a sniper this morning.’
‘I thought that was Parkins,’ said Sandy.
‘No, it was Perkins, sur.’
‘So who’s the fastest runner, sergeant?’
‘Well, I am, sur.’
‘Well, I can’t spare you, can I?’
‘Let’s send a small bloke, sur. Less of a target.’
‘Right you are,’ shouted Sandy above the din of the incoming rounds. ‘Just let me sharpen my pencil and I’ll scribble a note.’
21:10 Friday 31 May 1940.
Off Koksijde-Bad, Belgium
‘I reckon we should hang on a bit longer,’ sniffed Charlie Lavender.
Captain D’Arcy shook his head.
In truth, there would be no time that suited Charlie. As a life-long Thames lighterman he had a morbid dread of entering any kind of water. Only twice in his career had he been obliged to swim in London’s hopelessly polluted river and both times he had required a st
omach pump. The water lapping beside their lighter was so foully polluted that by comparison the River Thames resembled a clear mountain stream.
Captain D’Arcy looked to the wrecked trawler beside them. In the last hour they had slipped further down her riddled sides as the tide pulled away from the beach. He turned back towards Charlie and pointed at the deck beneath their feet.
‘What draft is this boat?’ he asked.
‘It’s not a boat! It’s a barge or lighter.’
‘Whatever,’ exclaimed the artillery officer. He sighed deeply. Just talking to Charlie made him feel tired. ‘What draft is this Thames lighter?’
‘Oh, so you’re getting all nautical now, are yer?’ Charlie glared at D’Arcy. ‘Ten minutes ago you were calling it the front of the boat, now you seem to know all the proper nautical terms!’
D’Arcy turned aside. He could tell Charlie was tense. ‘You can swim, I take it?’ he asked suddenly, turning back.
‘Course I can bloody swim,’ shouted Charlie. He paused. ‘I just don’t fancy it, that’s all.’
‘Right,’ said D’Arcy. ‘And I don’t fancy being bombed by the Luftwaffe in the morning.’
Charlie pulled out his watch and tried to see the face in the dark. ‘Let’s give it half-an-hour,’ he suggested.
‘No,’ said D’Arcy. He tried to sound emphatic. ‘No! We’re going now.’
Charlie made a lengthy humming noise.
‘We won’t have to swim far. A couple of hundred yards, or something like that. Then we can wade the rest of the way. Compared to my swim out to you, it will be a bloody doddle.’
‘Let’s just have a quick cuppa first,’ suggested Charlie. ‘Who knows when we’re get another.’
‘All right! All right!’ D’Arcy wanted to dive straight off the side. ‘Just one more and then we’re off. Yes?’
Charlie tied the laces of his boots together and slipped them around his neck. His tobacco was safe inside a waterproof sealskin pouch and he was ready to go. The heavy cable had already been hoisted over the side. Now D’Arcy slipped one leg around the rope and lay ready to slide down.