Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘Actually, he’s my new wingman,’ huffed Bonzo.

  ‘Really?’ Godfrey creased his brow. ‘You like to live dangerously.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  Godfrey puffed. ‘I don’t know why we tolerate them. I’m sure he would be a dab hand with a spanner or with a paintbrush, but he’s patently out of place here. Don’t you agree?’

  Squadron Leader Nigel Saunders peered into his mug. The leaves clung to the sides in a broad clockwise spiral. He lifted his head and gave Godfrey an indifferent look.

  ‘Moral fibre?’ Godfrey huffed. ‘Just look at his hands! They’re shaking! No backbone! Rather you than me, old boy.’

  ‘I’ve decided to name him Pleb,’ announced Bonzo. He spoke as if he we engaged in a separate conversation.

  Godfrey laughed. ‘Why bother?’ He scooped up the remains of his egg yoke with a corner of toast. ‘I bet you three to one he doesn’t last the day.’

  ‘A fiver?’ asked Bonzo.

  ‘Make it a tenner, if you like.’

  ‘No, let’s say five.’ Bonzo pushed back his chair and rose from the trestle table. ‘I’m not having much luck lately.’

  04:15 Saturday 1 June 1940.

  Off Dunkirk, France

  Epiphany. The word had been at the forefront of the Reverend Thomas Charlesworth’s consciousness from the very instant he opened his eyes. He had not been dreaming of the manifestation of the divine nature of Jesus, so why was the word uppermost in his mind?

  There had been another Epiphany when he had been six years old. She had been seven and coolly aloof. She had been pretty, too, and she had always treated him with distain. Sadly, Thomas had not been an especially attractive child. His hair had been brown and wiry, forever refusing to lie down, and his skin had taken well to the African sun. But the ungainly stride of one too tall and the thick milk bottle glasses had ruined what might have been seen as a robust exterior.

  Although neither of his parents could be described as attractive, their story was romantic all the same. They had met on the P&O liner taking them to Cape Town. They had sat at the same table and together they had walked countless miles around the second-class decks. They were both newly qualified teachers and bound for the Eastern Transvaal, bursting with purpose and longing to do good. His father had proposed and been accepted before they ever glimpsed Table Mountain. But the romance had faded when they had been assigned, along with the ninety-eight other teachers aboard, to the British concentration camps that housed the wives, mothers and children of the Boer commandoes. Their letters home detailing the horrors of the camps had been dismissed as hysterical and they had been labelled locally as troublemakers. After twelve months they had been obliged to move north to Rhodesia and to the outskirts of the booming town of Bulawayo.

  A lot happened to young Thomas in his sixth year. For his birthday, his parents had taken a four-day holiday and they had travelled on the railway to Victoria Falls. He had fallen instantly in love with trains. He loved the smell, the speed, the ornate brass fittings and wood panelling. He had also travelled by train to Cape Town and there he had experienced the first of what he took to be signals from the Divine. It had been the year of his first love but Epiphany had been a lesson in the unobtainable, dying of blackwater fever just three days before her eighth birthday. And then, two months after Epiphany’s demise, his own parents had been hacked to death by a group of disaffected Matabele youths.

  Life in England came as a shook to young Thomas. His school days were not especially happy or unhappy. His aunt and uncle in Stony Stratford loved him dearly but they limited his visits to the school holidays just the same. In this way, he learnt to keep himself to himself, devoting his time to his studies and to the school choir. And then, at the age of twelve, Thomas experienced a true epiphany when he discovered his calling to the church. There had been no burning bush, just the realisation that he had been put on Earth for a purpose. He would follow the example of Saint Cyril of Alexandria, whose own parents had died at an early age, by henceforth protecting the defenceless and comforting the oppressed.

  There was another epiphany waiting to strike the Padre. He had eaten every last crumb of the fried egg sandwich and he had even found a few sips of the whisky and soda to be refreshing. But the steward’s words had haunted him as he slept. Get that down yer, and then have a good kip. I’m sure you’ve earned it.

  What had he earned for himself? He had done virtually nothing in the pastoral line save saying a few comforting words here or there and noting the locations of the dead for the War Graves Commission. He had failed to save the white-faced captain or the people at the bridge. On the plus side, he had helped the Major and twenty odd pioneers make their escape to the coast and into the comparative safety of a minesweeper. But any resourceful chap would have done the same. He was a failure. Was there a purpose to his existence after all? Like pieces on a chessboard, had God placed him here for a reason? But what next? Back to the routine of barrack life, organising lotteries and Vaudeville reviews, helping the men cope with their wives’ affairs, and the misery of stiff church parades.

  The Padre pulled himself off the bunk and stretched painfully. He had fallen asleep on one arm and now it hung useless at his side. He rubbed vigorously at his bicep and peered through the small porthole. Outside all was dark. He cupped his hands to the glass and leant forward. He did not expect to see much. Dover and the other south coast ports would be under blackout precautions. He listened to the steady drone of the ship’s engine. And then, not unlike a bolt from Heaven, the tableau of Dunkirk was illuminated for the briefest second.

  04:40 Saturday 1 June 1940.

  RAF Biggin Hill, Kent

  Ginger dropped back down into his seat, pulling the straps tight on the Sutton harness. He wiggling around on top of the bulky parachute but could not get comfortable. His jaws ached. He unclamped them and worked his tongue around the dry gums. Immediately after struggling aboard, he had switched on the oxygen, taking quick gulps to quell his racing heart. He sat now at the takeoff point, looking down at the vibrating control panel. The sequence of last minute checks would come to him automatically but he ran through them twice just in case. Ahead, Blue One opened his throttle and jabbed gently on the rudder. Quickly he gained speed and bumped across the grass, vanishing into the mist.

  Ginger returned Blue Two’s curt nod and gripped the throttle with his left hand. His own Hurricane required more throttle than most. He eased off the brake and applied full power. Although there appeared a real danger than something inside his head might burst, Ginger was eager to get off the ground. His engine roared. His tail wheel lifted clear. He cast another quick glace at Blue Two; the bumps increased and then they were away.

  He let out a sigh of relief and sucked deeply on the oxygen. Blue Two’s undercarriage was coming up. Ginger tugged on the gated lever to his right. It refused to budge. Urgently, he fumbled with his fingers, finding the safety guard still in place, and wanting to kick himself. He needed to make a good show of it. He winced inwardly and applied a strong, steady pressure upwards on the lever. Ginger’s Hurricane lurched violently down as he inadvertently knocked the control column. He tugged back on the stick, avoiding a nasty close shave with Blue Two, but sparking a stream of colourful abuse across the static. More oxygen. He tried to steady his heart.

  Within a few minutes Blue Section had reached its allotted altitude. Blue Two snapped another quick glace across at Ginger and nudged his aircraft swiftly aside, warning him to keep his distance. Ginger tried to concentrate. Switch to main tanks. Reduce revs. And trim for level flight. They settled down to a comfortable two hundred miles per hour.

  The French coast lay barely visible below the dawn. From eight thousand feet, the three-squadron wing had a preview of the glorious summer’s day ahead. They turned hard to port and Ginger, who clung precariously on the starboard edge of the flight, soon found himself falling behind.

  ‘Blue Three, Blue Three. This is Blue Leader. Bl
ue Leader. Stay tight man! I shalln’t tell you again.’

  ‘Roger Blue Leader.’

  ‘I’ll just have Bunny here shoot you down!’ laughed Bonzo.

  ‘But you’d lose a fiver!’ snapped Blue Two. He tilted his wing and appeared to look back at Ginger.

  Pilot Officer Neil Wood watched the rest of the wing disappear into the thick cloud above the burning refinery. Down below he could see the Mole approaching. Black smoke belched from one of the Luftwaffe’s first victims of the day. As he soared over, he cast quick glances down at the ant-like creatures that scurried across the fragile pier. The sea had calmed down overnight and now only thin lines of white surf could be seen breaking from about a mile off the shore. He flew quickly above Malo Beach. Ahead he could see a large grey naval vessel lying like a stranded whale with the waves stretching out to reclaim her. Suddenly grey puffs of anti-aircraft fire burst out below. Sparks were flying from several points on the beached minesweeper. Ginger stabbed on his right rudder pedal and pulled sharply away, aiming inland and struggling for altitude.

  Ginger reached the outskirts of Nieuport and turned back for another patrol above the beach at nine thousand feet. The oxygen was doing wonders to clear his head. He was hoping he might cadge a spare bottle from stores when he noticed more anti-aircraft fire. He eased back slightly on the throttle and strained with his eyes. The few clouds that shrouded the sun cast long shadows over the land. And there they were. From out of the shadows flew a whole swarm of Heinkel 111s down at around five thousand feet and flying on the edge of the night. Ginger had the sun behind him and a clear field. The words Glorious First popped into his head. He had no idea what they meant but they seemed somehow appropriate. Ginger pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go and tipped his Hurricane into her favourite fighting stance, the near vertical dive.

  It felt like a joyous release. It was how he imagined medicinal bloodletting to feel; as if anger, frustration and all the other pent up emotions had blown apart one at a time and in tune with the explosive clicks transmitted through his thumb from the fire control button. He watched the rounds rip across the wing of one Heinkel then briefly through its body and into yet another Nazi bomber. He released his thumb and pulled up and away.

  The German flight had broken apart. One was busy dumping its bombs harmlessly out to sea, another trailed a thick cloud of white vapour and was slowly turning onto its back. Ginger swerved hard over and followed it down. There was no one else in sight. The bomber now flew with its sky blue belly facing the slightly darker azure sky. First one tiny figure appeared from the side and then other. They fell away below Ginger’s wings. He was aiming his sights for the tender underbelly. He watched the distance recede. His thumb itched; the rest of his body was numb. The tail came into his sights. He squeezed. The rounds tore through the thin metal, gutting the Heinkel like a fish. Ginger now pulled his Hurricane into a sheer vertical climb and broke to starboard at four thousand feet. The bomber, he suddenly realised, was tumbling down and would very likely crash onto a warship five miles or so from the shore.

  More oxygen. Ginger tried to steady his heart.

  05:15 Saturday 1 June 1940.

  Bergues-Hondschoote Canal, France

  Lucas shuffled his backside and tried to get comfortable. His bum had gone numb on the cold stone floor. The rum ration was a great comfort, of course, and so was the knowledge that he was high and dry while the rest of the company stood shivering in cold water. The flood from the broken dykes had progressed during the night. Now in the first faint glow of dawn he could see that it had consumed the canal and spread deep into the German lines.

  The men of No.3 Company, Second Battalion, Coldstream Guards had experienced another sleepless night. First, the water had lapped at their gaiters before slowly rising up each chilled body until it reached the lip of their trench. From there it had spilled over into the cornfields, giving them the appearance of lush reed beds. To keep their heads above water, the men were forced to stand on their carefully constructed fire steps, one foot above the muddy bottom. Hasty, makeshift parapets had been constructed during the night to give them some cover but to everyone concerned the canal bank, now a foot or so underwater, seemed an untenable position to defend.

  Lucas had known from the start that he was on to a good number with the lieutenant. His bum might be numb but at least it was dry. A man could learn a lot by observing the right officers, and Lucas had always taken every opportunity to better himself. He shifted his buttocks again and caught the eye of Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox. The two men sat side by side: Sandy with the Bren and Lucas as his number two.

  ‘Permission to smoke, sir?’ asked Lucas.

  Sandy nodded. He appeared deep in thought.

  Lucas dipped into his pouch and pulled out a tin of Gold Leaf. He paused to crack his knuckles. Despite the fingerless mittens, his hands were numb. The air smelt cool and fresh. All the signs pointed to a lovely day, including the low-lying mist hugging the calm grey water. He shivered and prized open the lid, leaning to offer one to his lieutenant. Sandy shook his head.

  One day he might still open a little restaurant. He had a natural gift for the culinary arts. His mother had been a magician in the kitchen, feeding a large family on next to nothing but turning out tasty dinners just the same. With the ground floor now flooded and the kitchen out of commission he no longer had to think about breakfast, lunch or dinner, and his mind was free to wander.

  He had joined the Guards because they were the best and because there was no work. It was a case of making the best, as he put it, of a second best situation. Not that he considered the Guards to be second to anyone but given the choice he would have preferred to carve his own way in the world. He had the layout of his restaurant all set in his mind. Blackheath he decided long ago would be a perfect location. Somewhere on the edge of the village overlooking the rolling expanse of grass and facing the tall spire of the church. But all his hopes had turned to dust before he ever put a down payment on the tables and the chairs. The thirties had been the kiss of death to the independent businessman.

  Sylvia, his intended, had fancied herself behind the till but she had seen the writing on the wall. She had married a fishmonger instead and had tried to break the news as gently as she could. ‘You’re always safe with fish,’ she explained. ‘There’ll always be a fishmonger on every high street.’

  You needed to be practical in the thirties. What a crock of shit, he thought. And now look at it! Nobody had joined the Army expecting to fight another war in Europe. They had expected brown knees and the healthy outdoor activities of the North West Frontier Province, bashing the odd Pathan on the head and bathing in cool mountain streams. He had never expected to kill Jerries and especially not in the way his dad had done, wielding a homemade medieval mace on freelance trench raids and selling the souvenirs on the side. His dad had been a right bastard before the Great War. He was an even bigger bastard when he returned home with only one leg. It was a different Army today. Lucas was very proud of the lads, especially the few who now remained. They were tough, solid, no-nonsense blokes and they all took professional pride in their work.

  Light was beginning to seep into the attic. He breathed in the heady vapour of the rum and took another small sip, pushing the treacly liquid around his mouth and slowly letting it trickle down his throat. He bent forward and cupped his hand around the lighter. Thank God for small comforts, he thought.

  Inside his head, Lucas was writing a serial letter home to his mum and sisters. He had begun the letter as part of his New Year resolutions but had yet to commit anything to paper. He might describe the preparations for the Guards’ last stand. It was no turreted castle, but rather a poky little attic crammed with years of discarded family rubbish. Several empty beer crates and other boxes had been pressed into service to build protective nests for the two Brens. By carefully removing a few of the roof tiles, the gunners had excellent observation and it seemed highly unlikely that an
y flash from their muzzles would be seen from across the canal.

  Romance apart, the attic did have a number of drawbacks. Neither the roof nor the walls appeared strong enough to offer any protection from enemy fire and there was only one exit out, down a partially demolished flight of stairs. But there were some nice touches. Beside each Bren, for instance, there was a bucket of water that served the dual purpose of both cooling the overheated barrels and of keeping chilled a number of bottles of beer and wine. They would all be needed later in the day. Lucas looked across at Sandy and smiled to himself. There was always a certain savoir-faire to the lieutenant’s arrangements and that never ceased to impress him.

  Lucas had a glow in his belly. The rum was one factor but there was another. He enjoyed being part of an elite. He had always come near the top at school but nobody ever offered him a scholarship. Few men get their chance to play a part in history. The Regiment had taught him that. And now here he was facing a modern day Agincourt or Waterloo. It gave him a thrill. Perhaps there would be no restaurant in the future. Perhaps there would be no future. But he would be more than proud to halt the Nazis here. He could be that rare thing: a man making a positive mark on a negative world.

  He continued to study the lieutenant. He was mouthing words silently. Perhaps he was saying a prayer. Sandy sensed Lucas looking at him.

  ‘The day of the game dawned fine,’ he announced with a grin.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘The Glorious First of June,’ he explained.

  Lucas shook his head.

  ‘Just some old poem.’ Sandy smiled. ‘About bashing the French. I’ll have that cigarette now.’

  Lucas plucked the tin off the floor.

  ‘For some reason I was thinking of school. It’s funny the stuff they drum into your head. I always liked the battles best.’