Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘Is that your statement?’ he asked, smiling to himself.

  ‘Is it likely to be read out in court?’ she asked.

  The policeman kept his face blank.

  ‘Because if it is, I’d like to see the judge’s face.’ Kitty laughed; a gentle sound like the tinkling of bells. She dropped her voice and took on an authoritative tone. ‘And the accused,’ she grimaced. ‘When presented with the evidence said, and I quote, “It’s a fair cop, gov’ner. I’m the one what dunnit!”’ She sat back and crossed her long legs again. ‘You would be laughed out of court, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it!’

  ‘I don’t smoke a pipe,’ said the detective. ‘And I don’t even need to charge you. Not under the Emergency Powers Act.’ He placed both palms on the desk and made to stand up. ‘I can keep you here just as long as it pleases me.’

  He pulled himself up from the chair and gave Kitty a painfully hard cold stare. He stepped around the desk and peered down at her with eyes grey and sharp. One fist lay nestled in the palm of his hand. ‘Now,’ he smiled, heavy with menace. ‘If you will be so kind, please de-code that page.’

  ‘All right,’ announced Kitty suddenly. ‘I am prepared to make a deal.’

  The policeman’s face lit up. ‘That’s better.’ He returned to his chair and sat down.

  ‘I will de-code that page if I can have a cup of tea,’ smiled Kitty. ‘And some biscuits.’

  07:35 Saturday 1 June 1940.

  Bray, France

  Join the German Army and see the world.

  Join the British Army and see the next.

  The cheerful greeting had been sloshed in green paint across one of the few remaining walls on the seafront at Bray. The Padre shook his head and turned to look at the beach. There were significant differences between the beach at La Panne, the scene of his rescue, and the beach here at Bray. For one thing, the Germans had not been directing hoards of dive-bombers onto the beach at La Panne. That beach had been deserted. This one held countless disorganised and demoralised men. The carnage beggared all belief.

  The growing warmth of the sun was burning off pockets of mist and now ships and boats could be seen scattered out to the horizon. Closer to shore, small vessels rode in and out on the gentle waves. The Padre snapped his jaw back shut and tried to swallow. The eruptions out to sea each resembled tall black trees. They held their shape for a second or two and then collapsed back down in a cloud of hissing steam. Small puffs of grey smoke drifted guiltily away. Remarkably, flocks of white seagulls braved the Luftwaffe to scoop up tasty tidbits and screech their delight. It was all too much to take in.

  The Padre simply did not know where to start, or even what starting might entail. Would Saint Cyril be as perplexed as he? He looked across the beach. A number of men were lying flat on their backs, taking pot shots up at the Stukas. A shell or bomb ploughed into the sand close to the water’s edge. First it resembled a poplar and then an elm. An earlier shell crater held about half-a-dozen men. And then the penny finally dropped. He jumped down off the seafront and ran towards the crater. He would do his job; plain and simple.

  ‘Good morning, chaps!’ The Padre peered down into the crater. ‘Got room for one more?’

  The soldiers budged tighter together. ‘Room for a little one, sir,’ smiled a corporal. ‘Better hop in quick!’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ The Padre sat down and adjusted his tin hat to give himself a moment’s thought, and then asked, ‘So, how are you chaps getting along?’

  The corporal tightened his mouth. ‘Well, all right, sir. Just looking forward to getting home now, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. Are you getting anything to eat or drink?’

  ‘No, not exactly, sir. It’s been a bit of a shambles really. Not quite what we’re use to.’

  ‘No, probably not.’

  ‘Perhaps you could say a prayer for us, sir,’ offered a stocky Welshman.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Delighted. Anything in particular?’

  ‘The Lord’s Prayer would do just fine, sir,’ said the Welshman.

  Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from evil. Amen.

  ‘Amen!’ chorused the soldiers.

  ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ nodded the Welshman. ‘That was very nice.’

  ‘Very comforting, sir,’ offered another Welshman.

  ‘Glad I could help.’ The Padre felt awkward and decided to stand up. ‘Good luck to you all.’

  ‘And you, sir.’

  ‘I must press on. No peace for the wicked! Ha, ha!’

  ‘Keep your head down, sir!’

  In the next crater the Padre delivered a shortened version of the Holy Communion to some Anglicans from the Suffolk Regiment, and then several more Lord’s Prayers to the odds and sods in various depressions. Eventually, he found a group of atheists from the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry.

  ‘But why would any god allow this sort of thing to happen?’ The boy was no more than eighteen.

  ‘You’re placing the blame in the wrong place,’ said the Padre. ‘Why should people blame God when the fault is on man’s side?’

  ‘Well, it ain’t my doin’,’ said the boy.

  ‘But perhaps it is,’ suggested the Padre. ‘This sort of thing, as you put it,’ he waved an arm above the lip of the crater. ‘Is because people have neglected God. They have ignored him and even despised him.’

  The boy shrugged.

  ‘And that is why this evil has come upon the world.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘God has given man freewill, and if man chooses to thwart God’s will and goes his own selfish and sinful way, then how can man blame God for the mess he had made in God’s world?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said the boy. The others shook their heads.

  The Padre had better luck with the admin platoon from the Inniskilling Dragoon Guards. They huddled beside a burnt lorry in a scooped out depression in the sand. He gave one Lord’s Prayer and a shortened Holy Communion as well as answering questions on the edibility of the razor clams that littered this section of beach.

  In time, the Padre gravitated towards the truck jetty and began looking around for somebody in charge. He settled upon Commander Babbington RN. The Commander was giving a running commentary while peering through a very large pair of binoculars.

  ‘Christ! That was damn close!’ shouted Binky. ‘God in Heaven! What are those blasted gunners playing at? They couldn’t hit a flaming barn door. Jesus! Given ‘em more lead!’

  The Commander was stepping sideways like a crab, watching as the destroyer Keith zigzagged and blasted at the Stukas.

  ‘God damn it!’ he swore as Keith disappeared behind the immovable hulk of HMS Devonia, the grounded minesweeper, and momentarily out of view.

  ‘Oh, excuse me,’ said the Padre. He stepped aside and rubbed at his still deadened arm.

  ‘Watch where you’re going,’ warned Commander Babbington. He tried to shuffle past but the Padre was eager to gain his attention.

  ‘But I was,’ said the Padre. ‘I was wondering…’

  The Commander looked at the Padre’s three pips and then at the dog collar. ‘No exceptions! Sorry about that. You will have to join the queue like the rest of ‘em.’

  ‘Actually,’ began the Padre.

  ‘You will have to excuse me.’ Binky tried to step aside. He would now have to trot to the far side of Devonia if he wanted to witness the outcome of Keith versus the dive-bombers.

  ‘Actually, I don’t want to leave. I was wondering if there were anything in particular that I could do to help.’

  ‘What?’ asked Binky. He hesitated on the spot, unsure whether to humour the man because he was a man of God or dismiss him as a blasted fool. He pointed to an untidy heap not fifty yards away. ‘Well,
you can say some words over the dead if you like. That should keep you busy.’

  The Commander then turned up the beach and bellowed. ‘Mr Hockley! Let’s get rid of these bodies now, shall we? This chaplain here wants to lend a hand. Excuse me!’

  09:00 Saturday 1 June 1940.

  Off Mardyck, France

  ‘That’s a nice one,’ said Clive. He pointed towards a sleek twenty-fix foot sloop-rigged yacht. ‘I’d like one like that.’

  ‘Expensive business,’ cautioned Barry. ‘Stick to rowing, old man. It’s cheaper.’

  They both stood in silence for a while, leaning against the stern rail and marvelling at the flotilla. ‘Where have they all come from?’ asked Clive. The question was largely rhetorical.

  Barry answered anyway. ‘From as far up as the Wash, I should imagine.’ He shook his head in admiration. ‘Someone’s done a bloody good job organising all this.’

  ‘Well, that’s one way of looking at it,’ offered Clive. He rubbed his moustache. ‘You might just as easily ask why can’t the Navy do the job? Or why is there even a need for all these little ships in the first place.’

  ‘Good point,’ agreed Barry. ‘It’s obviously another colossal balls-up.’

  ‘Of the first magnitude.’

  ‘Someone’s bound to get a knighthood or a peerage.’

  ‘Yes, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Both men laughed. ‘But they will find a way of calling it a triumph,’ insisted Clive. ‘They won’t have any choice.’

  Barry nodded agreement.

  ‘I can just see it now,’ smiled Clive. ‘The kind of happy ending that makes us feel we’re all in this together. Until the bitter end.’ He spread his hands as if unfolding a headline: ‘Civilians rescue Army.’

  ‘Can’t use the word rescue, old boy,’ pointed out Barry. ‘It smacks of disaster or failure.’

  Clive pondered for a moment. ‘The Miracle of the Little Ships,’ he announced with a flourish.

  ‘Oh, very good! You should be a poet,’ agreed Barry. ‘Or work for the Ministry of Information.’ They both chuckled at the appalling prospect. ‘But that’s just what we do need,’ added Barry. ‘A miracle.’

  ‘Or just the belief in one,’ put in Clive.

  ‘Same thing, really, I suppose,’ mused Barry.

  ‘That’s a nice one, too,’ said Clive, pointing off towards a pretty cabin cruiser. They both looked and wondered how much nicer life would be with weekends and holidays afloat. The Marchioness continued under tow. Their own tiny flotilla had just altered course on the penultimate leg of Route X, the fastest of the swept channels running straight from the Goodwin Sands. In half an hour they would turn again and start hugging the French coast until they reached Dunkirk.

  They already had an inkling of what lay in store. The smoke had been visible all the way across the Channel from the moment of dawn. Now they could see that it was not just one huge fire that filled the sky but hundreds of smaller pyres that rose up like black fingers probing a remaining portion of the night. Barry and Clive stepped over to the port side for a better view of the coast. An old tramp steamer was heading up Route X towards them. She, too, sent out a thick cloud of black smoke.

  Clive opened his cigarette case and offered one to Barry. The Marchioness was making a good ten knots. They turned and shielded themselves from the breeze.

  ‘I bet she’s seen a few sea miles,’ offered Barry looking back. The steamer was fast approaching.

  ‘She could do with a good lick of paint.’ Clive squinted.

  By the time they had flicked their cigarette-butts overboard, the steamer was nearly alongside. Popeye lent over the edge of the wheelhouse and cupped his hands to his mouth. They could see that her decks were packed with the dark figures of men.

  ‘Are there any more left?’ shouted Popeye. The two vessels drew alongside at a combined speed of twenty-five knots.

  ‘Blooming thousands!’ came the reply.

  Popeye caught sight of Barry and Clive and shouted down to them. ‘Oy! You two! Time to get stoking. We’re gonna need a good head of steam when we slip the tow.’

  Barry tapped his forelock. ‘Aye, aye, captain!’

  Clive continued to watch the tramp steamer. She cast a beautiful white wake on the china blue sea. He let his arm drop to his side.

  ‘Funny they didn’t wave,’ he told Barry.

  11:00 Saturday 1 June 1940.

  Bergues-Hondschoote Canal, France

  The day was proving to be as lovely as the forecasters had predicted with only a few scattered and wispy clouds floating across the otherwise clear sky. The smell of summer was finally in the air. But there were other smells, too, and the few men of the Second Battalion, Coldstream Guards, were far from warm. They shivered and shuddered in their deluged trenches. There were other reasons to shudder. Although each guardsman was a crack shot, a number of dead French civilians lay with the dead Germans in the flooded field across the canal. The men floated facedown while the women floated face-up and they all lay entangled in the trampled corn.

  The Guard’s burst of activity had lasted little more than five minutes. Now the fighting could be heard from various points along the line. Sandy’s sector was quiet and his mouth was bone dry.

  ‘Be a good chap and open this will you?’ He lifted a bottle of unlabelled white wine from the bucket beside his Bren and passed it across to Lucas. Sandy continued to stare out of the gap in the tiles. He heard a brief crack as Lucas sliced the top off the bottle with a single slash of his bayonet.

  ‘Did you want a glass, sir?’

  One of the Lewis guns from Nigel’s No.1 Company rattled off a dozen or so rounds. Then came small arms fire. Sandy swung the Bren towards the remains of the bridge and adjusted his sights. He let out two short bursts. Lucas dropped the bottle back in the bucket and readied himself with another thirty-round magazine. Now the second Bren in the roof was joining in. Individual Germans could be seen advancing along the line of houses on the other side of the canal. The activity had suddenly swung back to their sector.

  In time, the inevitable happened. The Germans moved up an artillery piece and pointed it towards the cottage. Both Sandy and others opened fire. The gun’s barrel recoiled amid a puff of thick grey smoke but nothing else happened.

  ‘Change!’ Sandy unclipped the empty magazine and threw it over his shoulder. Lucas locked the next one in place but, before Sandy could pull back the bolt, the artillery piece fired again and then there was an awful crash. A brightly lit object, sparkling like a Brock’s firework, ricocheted around the attic and finally came to rest at the foot of the brick chimney stack. One glance was enough. An incendiary anti-tank shell fizzled and spluttered.

  ‘Out!’ screamed Sandy. ‘Everybody out!’

  The guards tumbled down the stairs, Brens and rifles cradled in their arms. They came splashing out of the kitchen door and dived headfirst into the communications trench that led to Angus’s No.4 Company in reserve. Sandy, who was the last out, eventually surfaced, struggling for breath. He fumbled with his tender feet for the fire step. The Bren was in danger of dragging him down. He had just managed to get a painful foothold when a powerful explosion filled the cottage. Smoke and dust sparkling with chards of crockery and glass burst out of every exit. Sandy took a deep breath and ducked down. Bits and pieces from the cottage came tumbling down, sending tiny fountains into the air. Sandy jerked suddenly, sensing movement to his rear.

  ‘Just out for my constitutional!’ Peter, the adjutant, pulled himself up to Sandy with a breaststroke.

  ‘Well, they say swimming is the best all-round exercise.’ Sandy pressed himself up against the edge of the submerged trench, giving Peter room to drop his feet.

  ‘I say, you’re very lucky,’ chuffed Peter. He tried to catch his breath.

  ‘That’s more than lucky!’

  ‘That’s not the half of it.’ Peter cackled. ‘The first round skimmed your roof by inches. Saw it myself! It landed back there and gave Angus a rather na
sty shock. Thought I’d better come and let you know.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Sandy hoisted the Bren out of the water and, with a little help from Lucas, wiped clear the gun’s vitals before positioning it on the lip of the trench. The barrel was only just above the water.

  ‘I heard the most wonderful interview on the wireless,’ announced Peter.

  Sandy fired off a few rounds and they moved quickly before the Germans could respond. They advanced back towards the cottage. ‘Some chap with a real gawd blimey accent was telling how he’d held back the advancing Germans virtually singled-handed.’

  ‘I wish I’d heard it.’ Sandy fired another burst and they moved on again.

  ‘Oh, you would have loved it! To hear him talk, you’d think he was the last man out of Dunkirk with the Nazis snapping at his heels.’

  ‘Did they actually say he was the last man out?’ Sandy gave Peter his full attention.

  ‘No, no,’ laughed Peter. ‘He was one for the dramatics. Probably part of ENSA and probably the best performance he ever gave.’

  ‘Good for him,’ said Sandy, sighting the Bren. He could see flashes from the German muzzles.

  ‘Anyway,’ sighed Peter. ‘The evacuation is still going on. And more lifts are coming.’

  Sandy fired again and they shifted their position until they reached the kitchen door. ‘And, get this,’ added Peter. He was treading water. ‘There’s a virtual armada of pleasure craft and the like.’

  ‘Good,’ laughed Sandy. ‘I would like to think that there was a point to all this.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ Peter applied a happy, baffled face. ‘You’re having the time of your life!’

  Sandy looked at him.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ insisted Peter. He found the fire step and caught his breath. ‘This is the ultimate game. Man against man. No finer sport!’

  An officer from the northern regiment to their right came running across the cornfield. He drew a little fire from a German machinegun and the water erupted all around him. As he reached No.3 Company’s forward trench he pinched his nose between finger and thumb and plunged in. It seemed some time before he broke the surface again.