Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  Lucas cupped the light in his hand and let Sandy bend down. ‘Well, we’ve got our own now, sir.’

  ‘Lucas,’ whispered the lieutenant. ‘What do you make of that?’ He budged aside and let Lucas peer through the gap in the roof.

  ‘I’d say it was a lot of people, sir.’ He dropped back and gave Sandy a quizzical look.

  ‘So would I.’ Sandy turned and hissed across at the other Bren team. ‘Set your sights to seven hundred. And wait for the word!’

  Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox pressed his cheek to the cold wooden stock and peered along the sights into the mist. ‘If it’s what I think it is,’ he whispered. ‘They’ve done this sort of thing before.’

  ‘What sort of thing’s that, sir?’

  ‘Human shields,’ sneered the lieutenant. ‘Pass me the field glasses.’

  He wiped the damp lenses and brought them into focus. ‘They really are!’ he exclaimed. ‘They really are the most perfect shits sometimes.’

  ‘You’re not going to use the Bren are you, sir?’

  Sandy shook his head. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Pass me that SMLE. Let’s pick the bastards off.’

  05:45 Saturday 1June 1940.

  Bray Dunes, France

  In medical terms, dehydration is generally classified as mild, moderate or severe. The symptoms can include persistent fatigue, muscle weakness or cramps, headaches, dizziness, nausea, confusion, and increased heart rate. Archie Marley had all of these. He also had sticky mucous membranes in the mouth and a constant desire to pee even though his body had nothing left to give. In medical terms, Archie was a moderate case. Severe cases invariably die. Dehydration also produces another symptom: an all-encompassing tension that seeps through every fibre of the body. It can build to such a pitch that the victim has an overwhelming desire to scream. Archie had this too.

  There were other factors affecting the state of his mind, including such an overwhelming anger based on failure and self-hate that it threatened to engulf him. He was thinking about home and he was thinking about the reception he might receive. He had been fooling himself into thinking that one scruffy little terrier would help mollify Grace. He tried to visualise the scene. He would arrive at the doorstep, ring the bell, and there would first be a gasp of pleasure and then shock and then bewilderment. Grace, her mother and father, would obviously be pleased to see him but then the questions would follow. ‘Where’s Bill?’ would be the first. How could he explain that? He certainly would never be able to describe the manner of Bill’s death, nor would he be able to explain his own survival. Should he hand over the dog at that point, or wait until later?

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Archie! He was your best friend! What on earth were you thinking?’

  Archie had no answers. At least Bill had a family who would miss him. No one would miss Archie, least of all his own parents. Archie had a massive lump in his throat and he wished that he were dead. Dying, in the present circumstances, should have been easy. All he had to do was stay put and let the Germans take care of the rest. But even that did not seem like much of an option. He was impatient and edgy and he wanted to make a move, any move.

  And what kind of joke army was this? The men all around him were shagged out and useless. And why did they all have to run away? What kinds of generals were leading them? The Army’s stores were going up in flames and it made no sense. Why had they not rallied and launched a counter-attack? He knew the answer. They all did. England had grown soft with complacency while the Germans, harbouring their bitter hatred, had grown strong. Even his unit’s own antiquated two-pounders had proven next to useless. The shells had simply bounced off the German turrets. It had been like one of those dreams where the bullets dribble out of the barrel of a gun. They were all useless, every last one of them. As for himself, he had been given a chance to fight back, but what had he done? He could have taken one good swing at that runt of a flatnose Nazi bastard and then he could have pulled the pin on his grenade. They were all going to die anyway. The desire to scream overwhelmed him. He stood still and took a series of deep rasping breaths.

  Fucking useless! Fucking useless! The words kept revolving around inside his head.

  Although his head was far from clear, he knew with a certainty that Grace would never be able to forgive him. One small kiss and a cuddle and his mind had turned it into an epic love affair. Who was he trying to kid? She would hate him forever. He found it difficult to swallow. He took another deep breath and felt it catch in his constricted throat. A stiff drink might help but sleep would be more beneficial. Both were as remote as walking on the moon or catching a boat home.

  Little Toto was just as thirsty and as hungry as Archie and he, too, had developed a certain irritability. In some ways, Toto’s experience was slightly worse than Archie’s. He was being driven progressively mad by the butcher’s shop smell that seeped out of Archie’s shoulder and side, and it made him rather snappy. Several times during the night Archie had been obliged to use force to keep the dog from sniffing all too eagerly at his wounds.

  To pacify Toto, Archie had been collecting snails from the dunes and feeding them to him one at a time. He looked into the palm of his hand and counted seven snails. He now faced a minor problem. Another complaint common among the soldiers on the beach was diarrhoea and this limited where a person could sit. Archie looked down towards the beach. A chill sea mist hung over the steady lines of gentle rolling surf. The tide was coming back in but would ships follow in its wake? Even if they did, he could never bare the tension of endless hours of waiting.

  Archie knelt down and crushed a snail between his thumb and forefinger. He carefully prized free the meaty interior and held out his hand. Toto gulped back the snail and looked for more. Archie then wiped the sticky goo on his trousers and straightened up. He looked down at the beach and dropped the remaining snails into his trouser pocket for later. Even walking was difficult. With an effort that seemed to drain his final resources, Archie Marley, and Toto in train, made his way carefully down the winding path to the beach.

  ‘Hey, you! Soldier! What unit are you with?’

  The question was meaningless. Archie shook his head.

  Midshipman William Hockley peered at Archie’s bandages. The brown stains were turning grey. ‘Look,’ he said kindly. Both young men were of similar age. ‘You can’t just wander around, you know. You’ll get in the way.’ He steered Archie towards the Bren gun carrier.

  ‘Chief!’ called Hockley. ‘I’ve found another stray. Fit this one in will you?’

  There was a plentiful supply of fresh snails in the dunes where the walking wounded had been assembled and Toto was now content. He rested his head on Archie’s boot and appeared to be chasing rabbits in his sleep. Archie studied the dandelions and the small purple flowers that grew among the course grass. He plucked at a dandelion with his fingertips, casting the petals aside.

  ‘Shouldn’t pick dandelions, mate,’ offered a man with a head wound. ‘Makes you piss the bed.’ He laughed.

  ‘Probably the least of his worries,’ laughed a man with two burnt hands. ‘And you don’t want to advertise that dog. They won’t let him on board.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the head wound. ‘They’re supposed to shoot the dogs. Standing orders. But who’s got the heart for it?’ he asked.

  ‘Same with the horses,’ said the man with the hands. ‘We saw that Frog artillery team yesterday, remember? They were supposed to shoot the horses but they just let ‘em go. I always feel sorry for the animals. Look at how many horses died in the last war.’

  ‘It’s all the farm animals I feel sorry for.’ The man adjusted his bandage, keeping it away from his eye. ‘There’s no one to milk the poor cows. To hear ‘em cry like that fair makes my skin crawl.’

  ‘Bleedin’ Nazis,’ said the hand man.

  ‘Bleedin’ generals, more like. You don’t expect a shambles like this! Okay,’ he argued. ‘We’re all right now. Now we’re organised. But the rest of it,
it’s a muckin’ fuddle. I just want to go home and put me feet up in front of the fire.’

  ‘If Hitler will let you.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said the head wound. ‘And that’s the question. What happens now? We’re hardly in a position of strength. We might have to accept whatever terms they offer us.’

  ‘I reckon we can get a favourable armistice.’ The man lifted his bandaged hands for emphasis. ‘We can promise to pull our blokes out of Europe, and let the Germans have a free run of it, if they let us keep the Empire.’

  ‘But they ain’t gonna want something for nothing, are they? They’re gonna want something in return.’

  ‘What, like give ‘em the Navy, d’you mean? If we did that there’d be nothing on earth to stop them. That would be asking too much.’

  ‘What d’you reckon, then?’ asked the bandaged head man, nudging Archie’s boot with his own and jarring little Toto awake. The dog opened his eyes and glared at the man like an angry teddy bear. He wiggled further up Archie’s leg, but Archie just sat mute.

  Fucking useless. Fucking useless.

  06:30 Saturday 1 June 1940.

  Kent County Constabulary, Dover

  Kitty had no watch. It had been taken into safe keeping along with her cigarettes, lighters and floral gums. In fact, she only had the clothes that she was wearing, minus her belt and shoelaces. Her stomach, however, was as accurate as any clock and she knew it would soon be time for breakfast.

  Her cell was cold and she hugged the thin grey blanket tightly around her shoulders. More than breakfast, she wanted a nice cup of tea. Her mouth was dry and stale with apprehension. Outside in the street, she could hear the distant clatter of a horse and cart. Some time passed and then she heard heavy footsteps in the corridor, a jangle of keys and the clunk of a lock.

  ‘So, miss. Your name, date of birth, and address, please.’

  Kitty sighed. ‘I gave all that to the sergeant last night. Is this strictly necessary?’

  ‘Just answer the questions, please miss,’ sighed the detective in turn, an M55B with a well-bred but weathered face. He might have been a gentleman farmer who practiced the pugilist arts for his own amusement.

  ‘Karen Edith MacDonal,’ said Kitty without emotion. ‘No D.’

  ‘No D,’ he repeated as he wrote.

  ‘Seventeen-ten-nineteen.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Do you mean the hotel in which I am now staying or do you mean my home address?’

  ‘Home address, please. We know about the Central Hotel,’ offered the detective.

  ‘Thirty-four Arbuthnot Road, New Cross Gate, London.’

  ‘Married or single?’

  ‘Single.’

  ‘Occupation?’

  ‘Observer.’

  ‘Observer?’ He seemed taken aback. ‘And what exactly do you observe?’

  ‘Everything and anything,’ smiled Kitty. Her smile came automatically, a basic nervous reaction. She sat back and crossed her legs.

  ‘Who for?’ he asked. ‘The Abwehr or the Sicherheitsdienst?’

  ‘Pardon!’ she laughed.

  ‘I’m glad I amuse you. But I can assure you that this is no laughing matter.’

  ‘Look.’ Kitty leant forward and placed her elbows on the desk. She presented a clear, earnest face. ‘Am I in trouble, or something? Is this serious?’

  ‘Serious?’ He chuffed. ‘Yes, miss, it is serious. Very serious indeed.’

  Kitty sat back in her chair. ‘Actually, I work for M-O.’

  ‘M-O?’ He mused the initials aloud and then shook his head.

  ‘Mass-Observation. The social research organisation,’ she explained. ‘You can buy their books at W.H. Smiths and all good newsagents.’

  The detective leant to one side and consulted a file before retrieving a small envelope. He pulled out a letter. Please offer the bearer all help and assistance in pursuance of her enquiries on behalf of Mass-Observation. He held the paper up to the light and examined the letterhead.

  ‘You can telephone them if you don’t believe me,’ suggested Kitty.

  ‘Do they work Saturdays?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not usually.’ Kitty’s smile dropped away. She shuddered inwardly at the thought of more time in the cell. She could not stay here until Monday. On top of that, she had to observe the children’s’ evacuation the very next day. ‘But you could try to get hold of Mr Thomas Harrison. I know he’s giving a talk in Guildford tonight... ’

  ‘You weren’t born in England, were you miss?’

  ‘My national registration identity card is right in front of you.’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘Tapah, Cameron Highlands, Malaya.’

  ‘And your parents were English?’

  ‘With a name like MacDonal?’ she asked. ‘They were…they are Scottish.’

  ‘Scottish? Not Irish, then?’

  ‘Scottish.’

  ‘Have you ever been to Ireland, miss?’

  ‘You need a permit these days. But I’m told it’s very nice. I’ve always wanted to go.’

  ‘That’s what they all say, miss. Have you applied for a permit?’

  ‘No, why would I?’

  ‘Do you have any hobbies, miss?’

  ‘Hobbies?’

  ‘Like train spotting or an interest in aeroplanes. Things like that, perhaps?’

  Kitty’s lip curled involuntarily and she creased her brow. She shook her head.

  ‘Cast your mind back, if you would, to the events of Thursday this week.’

  She tried and failed. Each day seemed to run into the next.

  ‘Why, for example, would your social research organisation be interested in the production difficulties of the new Defiant fighter aircraft?’

  ‘They would not.’

  ‘Or its fire capabilities?’ He hummed.

  ‘I really,’ stuttered Kitty. Her face was beginning to flush. ‘I really don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘How’s your sister, miss? Did you find her?’

  Kitty laughed, exposing her unease. ‘I don’t have a sister,’ she admitted. ‘Just four brothers.’

  ‘I see,’ said the detective. He started a new page in his notebook and then he picked up Kitty’s identity card. ‘Visible distinguishing marks.’ He looked across the desk and stared at her breasts. The interrogation room was just as cold as her cell and the detective could clearly see the outline of her nipples through the starched white blouse. She folded her arms.

  ‘Do you like outdoor sports, miss?’

  ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

  The detective sighed deeply before leaning down to the floor and producing a large brown paper bag. He upended it like a sack of potatoes directly onto the desk in front of Kitty, and then he began to fish with his fingers through the former contents of her large shoulder bag.

  ‘Why would anyone need eleven cigarette lighters?’ He sat back in his chair, folding his arms. He pursed his lips and tilted his head.

  ‘Eleven!’ Kitty tried not to smirk. ‘Is that what all this is about?’ She relaxed and lent forward. ‘If Mr Hawksley wants his lighter back he can have it. I must have picked it up by mistake.’

  ‘And the other ten?’

  Kitty shrugged her shoulders. ‘I find things.’

  ‘You observe everything and anything and you find things?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kitty stretched out the word.

  ‘And you write things, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘Secret, coded things.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  The detective made a casual hand gesture and the constable beside the door slipped out of the room. He then pulled several sheets of paper from the file and placed them before Kitty.

  ‘Well, those are my notes,’ she laughed nervously. ‘My notes for M-O.’

  ‘Your coded notes.’

  ‘Well, it’s not really a code. It’s a kind of shorthand.’

  ‘Shorthand is it?’

  T
he door then opened and a thickset policewoman, an F35C with acne scars, stepped up to the desk and came to attention. The detective spoke.

  ‘Proudlock here is a graduate of the Pitman Secretarial College.’ He slid the papers across the desk. Before the policewoman bent down to examine them, she turned her head and examined Miss Karen MacDonal. An unpleasant shudder ran down Kitty’s spine and she quickly uncrossed her legs and refolded her arms.

  ‘That’s not any kind of shorthand that I’ve ever seen, sir,’ proclaimed Proudlock coming back to attention.

  ‘And what do you make of it?’ asked the detective, looking up.

  ‘I’d say it was code, sir. A secret code.’

  ‘Thank you very much Proudlock. That will be all.’

  He turned his attention back to Kitty and tilted his head again. ‘It would be best, of course,’ he said softly, ‘if you were to cooperate. It might save a lot of unpleasantness.’

  Kitty tried to match his stare but she knew her face was flushing a fresh pink.

  He slid a single crumpled sheet across, together with a large notepad and freshly sharpened pencil. ‘You can begin,’ he said, ‘by de-coding this page.’

  Kitty sat back and crossed her legs again. She puffed out her chest. ‘You are barking up the wrong tree, I am afraid.’ She tutted and tilted her own head. ‘I have not been charged with anything have I?’

  The detective made a dismissive gesture with both hands.

  ‘And I know my rights. Either you charge me or I shall go back to my hotel and you will be hearing from my organisation’s solicitors.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to make a statement…’ He let the offer hang loose in the air.

  ‘What kind of statement?’

  ‘An admission of your activities will do for starters. Then we can move on to the details.’

  ‘All right,’ smiled Kitty. She leant forward and laid her hands on the table. ‘It’s a fair cop, gov’ner. I’m the one what dunnit!’ She stared him straight in the face. ‘How’s that?’