Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘Marrow!’ he gasped. He struggled to find a foothold. ‘Captain Marrow. Commanding to your right there.’ He pointed to the boundary of the Guards’ sector by the bridge and to his own area of responsibility on the other side of the road.

  Sandy and Peter both tapped their helmets nonchalantly.

  ‘The Germans are massing for an attack on the bridgehead.’ It looked as if his eyes might bulge out of his head.

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter. ‘Isn’t that the point?’

  ‘My men are exhausted.’ The captain, who was shorter than the guardsmen, was obliged to hop up and down to keep his chin above water. ‘We’ve been at it solid since last Friday. The one before last, actually. And I see no other alternative but to pull back.’

  ‘Really?’ enquired Peter.

  The officer gave a resigned grin and sank up to his nose. He lifted his head. ‘I propose we withdraw while the going’s still good.’

  ‘Do you, by George?’ Peter turned to Sandy and they both adopted perplexed faces. He turned back to Captain Marrow. ‘I order you to stay put and fight it out.’

  ‘You cannot do that.’ The captain jumped high in the water. ‘I have over-riding orders from my colonel to withdraw when I think fit.’

  The two Guards officers looked at each other again. There was a trace of a smirk on their lips. ‘You see that big poplar tree on the road,’ asked Peter as he pointed. ‘With the white mile stone beside it?’

  ‘What of it?’

  Peter applied a sour, spiteful tone. ‘Because the moment you or any of your men go back beyond that tree we will shoot you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be bloody ridiculous!’

  Peter coughed twice and widened his eyes. ‘Get back now, captain, or I will shot you here.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘And I shall send one of my officers to take over your command.’

  The captain’s face went white with rage. His nostrils flared as he sucked in air. But he was lost for words. He shook his head repeatedly and finally launched himself out of the water with some difficulty. He hesitated for a moment as if he had more to say on the matter and then he ran back to his position, water erupting at his heels.

  ‘Lucas,’ said Peter softly. ‘Lend me your rifle will you.’ He turned to Sandy at the Bren. ‘Sights at two-fifty. Single shot, and shoot to kill if he passes that tree. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  12:00 Saturday 1 June 1940.

  RAF Biggin Hill, Kent

  Ginger looked at the coins in his hand. He was going to call his mum. He had protected her with his lies about harmlessly patrolling the coast and it had reached the point where he had virtually nothing ever to say. Now, despite the residual hangover, he was bursting with joy and wanting to share his victory against the Heinkel bomber. He sensed movement behind him and turned to see a clerical sergeant.

  ‘Group Captain Nugent’s compliments, sir. But he would like to see you in his office straight away.’

  Ginger pocketed the coins. One more Nazi down and he could rightfully call himself an ace. There was a spring in his step. He stopped before the station commander’s door and gave a jaunty double tap.

  ‘Come in!’

  ‘Ah, Steele,’ announced Groupie.

  ‘Wood,’ corrected Bonzo. The squadron leader stood by the window, his hands behind his back and a scowl on his face. ‘His name is Wood, sir.’

  Groupie shook his head and crossed out a line on his notepad. He looked back up at Ginger. ‘So,’ he said. ‘I hope you have a good explanation.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Bonzo stepped forward. ‘Make it bloody good,’ he announced.

  Ginger was puzzled. ‘Sir?’ he asked again.

  Bonzo exploded. ‘Don’t play the dumb beggar with me, you little tyke!’

  Ginger felt suddenly faint.

  ‘What in God’s name d’you think you’re playing at?’ Bonzo was apoplectic with rage. ‘Holding back and not engaging!’

  ‘I’m shocked, I really am,’ announced Groupie.

  ‘I have a good mind to mark you down as a damn waverer.’ Bonzo glared at Ginger. ‘Look at you! Your bloody hands are shaking!’

  Groupie coughed. ‘Now look here,’ he said. ‘If you don’t think you’re up to the job, you only have to say so. It’s simple enough to arrange a transfer to the paint shop or whatever.’

  ‘I,’ stuttered Ginger. ‘I really…’

  ‘God in Heaven!’ shouted Bonzo. ‘You held back the entire way over. Bunny had to nursemaid you across the Channel. You can’t even fly in a fucking straight line. And the very moment we move in to engage, you’re gone!’

  Ginger wanted to point out the shortcomings of his elderly Hurricane. But it was pointless. Sweat was breaking out on his brow and his hands were certainly shaking.

  ‘And then, to top it all, you go and put in a false claim!’ Bonzo spun on his heels and turned to look out of the taped-up window. He was clenching his fists.

  ‘Have you any idea,’ asked Groupie, ‘just what an awkward position you’re putting us all in?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The Navy rightly laid claim to that Heinkel and have the damage to show for it.’

  ‘But, sir.’

  ‘Shut up!’ screamed Bonzo.

  Group Captain Nugent exuded a calmer exterior. ‘You say you shot down one Heinkel and damaged another at oh-five-fifteen-hundred hours. Correct?’

  Ginger nodded. The urge for tea and a cigarette nearly overwhelmed him.

  ‘About five miles off Bray?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, the bloody Navy have put in the same claim,’ seethed Bonzo. ‘I know you’re sort,’ he insisted. ‘You’re yellow as a canary. You hold back and won’t engage. You see some ruddy destroyer down a bomber and you claim it for yourself! That is so fucking despicable!’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Don’t but me, you little sod!’

  Groupie cleared his throat and sat upright. ‘And at this point, too,’ he shook his head sadly. ‘When the whole world is watching the RAF. You know what this means, don’t you?

  Ginger shook his own head.

  ‘It means we’re going to have to have a damn good squint at your earlier claims. That’s what it means. And how’s that going to look?’ he demanded. ‘When we have to modify our tally?’

  ‘Because of your bloody Munchausen claims!’ barked Bonzo.

  ‘Do you have anything to say?’ Groupie’s tone was cold.

  Ginger was taking short, sharp breaths of air. The room was beginning to spin and sweat was now pouring out of his hairline. He wanted to sit down.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ exploded Bonzo. ‘It’s like talking to a fucking waxworks dummy!’ He slammed one fist into the palm of his hand and took a dangerous step forward. ‘You people!’ he declared. ‘You have no place in officer’s uniform!’ Flecks of white spittle coated his thick lips. ‘That’s it! I’ve had more than enough. I’m standing you down!’

  12:29 Saturday 1 June 1940.

  Snowdown Station, Southern Railways, Kent

  All day yesterday, large numbers of people gathered throughout Southern England to show their appreciation of the Services involved in this great feat to bring our soldiers safely home. Many lined the beaches and cliff-tops all along the coast to witness an amazing variety of ships of all sizes and kinds travelling to and fro across the water. Such a rousing welcome is understandable, especially for men who – although tired and hungry – remain in magnificent fighting spirit, ready to go back at the drop of a hat to fight an enemy so brutal as to crush innocent civilians beneath the tracks of his tanks. But this sort of enthusiasm needs to be tempered. It is all well and good to wave and cheer but care must be taken to avoid delaying the rapid transportation of troops from port to railway station. Help can best be expressed by assisting the members of the Women’s Voluntary Services with supplies of food, tea and cigarettes so they can hand these to our soldiers as they march forward.


  That was The Honourable Sir St-John Belfair-Small K.G., K.T., K.P.

  ‘Tell ‘em we ain’t got no foreign muck!’ insisted Rose. She made a sharp double tut sound. ‘What’s wrong with meat-paste sandwiches anyhow?’

  Margaret got a grip on herself before she answered. ‘They don’t seem to like them. It’s not what they are used to. Why can’t we offer them corned beef?’ she asked.

  ‘Corned beef’s off!’

  ‘Cheese and tomato?’

  ‘They don’t like the cheese.’

  ‘In that case,’ insisted Margaret. ‘Offer them some scones. And give them coffee. They are from Africa, after all, where the coffee comes from. That will make them feel at home.’

  Rose’s top lip curled up in disgust until it touched the tip of her nose. She turned aside in search of the coffee and chicory essence.

  Two lorry-loads of French soldiers had been deposited at the station. They were not physically wounded and there was no one to explain their arrival. They quickly made a beeline for the trestle table and they quickly appeared disappointed. Some of the soldiers seemed content to tuck into the curious sandwichs anglais but those from the French African colonies seemed reluctant to experiment.

  Margaret had watched as one dark-skinned man in a fez sniffed gingerly at the meat-paste. He peeled back one layer of bread and sniffed again. Finally, he took a small bite and worked the mixture around his mouth, a look of curiosity on his face. He then made to spit but noticed Margaret out of the corner of his eye. He pretended to cough and spat the paste into his hand. Slowly, so no one would notice, he let it drop to the platform. He then sampled the tea and wished he had not.

  Margaret felt duty bound to assist the Allies and she was in a quandary. What did they eat? She suspected they ate rice or some kind of crushed maize mixed into a paste. There was no time to make a large enough rice pudding. If only someone spoke French.

  ‘Dieu dans le ciel! Ces l'essai anglais sont-ils de nous empoisonner?’

  A tall soldier in a loosely tied turban smiled at Margaret. He had a wicked glint in his eye and a magnificent moustache. Margaret smiled back.

  ‘We are just getting you some scones,’ she explained, careful to enounce her words both clearly and slowly.

  ‘Merci.’ The man grinned and appeared to be appraising Margaret’s WVS uniform. He let his eyes wander from her brimmed hat slowly down to her ankles and then back up again. Margaret felt a long-forgotten tingle. She took a sharp breath and nodded her head. ‘And some jam,’ she added quickly before turning away.

  13:00 Saturday 1 June 1940.

  Bergues-Hondschoote Canal, France

  A barrage of incoming artillery is usually a good indication that a ground assault is about to commence. For the Guards lining the canal there was hardly any need for further commands. Sergeant Harris peered at his watch.

  ‘Dead on one!’ he announced. ‘Bloody Germans! I could set this watch by them.’ He looked at the lads in the trench and smiled. ‘And now it’s our turn.’

  The very last artillery shell slammed into the far side of the bridgehead earlier commanded by Captain Marrow. German tanks and half-tracks were edging their way cautiously between the rows of houses that led to the shattered bridge. One by one they began to put down suppressing fire on the British line. Nigel’s No.1 Company bore the brunt.

  ‘Hold your fire, lads!’ barked Sergeant Harris

  From behind the houses, and from the middle of the flooded road, dozens of black inflatable boats came tearing out. Each held around half-a-dozen men and they all paddled with such a frenzy that it was obvious their lives depended upon it. Even so, they seemed to take an age to reach the mid-way point. Guardsman Sampson shared the Germans’ anxiety.

  He continued to hold his breath. He had one man locked in his sights. Suddenly the water erupted all around the leading boat and Sampson squeezed the trigger. The Lee Enfield jumped pleasantly in his arms. He pulled back the bolt, ejecting the spent case, and chambered another round. It was impossible to see if he had hit his target. Little remained of the leading boat, bar the drifting debris and the thrashing dying. Sampson edged his rifle over to the left and chose another target. He lined the bead on one man’s breastbone and squeezed again. By the time he had chambered another round that boat, too, drifted in tatters. The Lewis and Bren guns from No.1 Company tore systematically through the leading wave of German infantry. And then the tanks began to open fire with their main guns.

  Sampson edged further along the trench. He swam on his back with his rifle clear of the water. The tank shells were tearing up the elevated ground around the bridgehead. Sampson watched one man on the other side dash between two houses. He sucked in air and steadied his rifle and waited.

  Bang!

  The second man hesitated, appearing uncertain, and then collapsed. Sampson had a new round chambered and he waited, wondering if another Jerry might chance it. Now more boats were speeding out from behind the houses as the second wave tried their luck. Tracer tore red across the canal and sent the water dancing where Nigel’s company lay in wait.

  Bang!

  Sampson picked off another German and turned his attention back to the rubber boats. His own company’s Brens now burst into action. Sampson edged a few feet back towards the cottage and then turned to marvel. He wished he still had his Bren. Sergeant Harris had commandeered it to spray a German recon patrol and had then refused to give it back. The boats erupted in the water. They appeared like living creatures plunged into hot fat. They contorted, shrivelled and died. And then the artillery started again.

  The first white signal rocket tore into the sky. It reached its zenith and then turned to tumble slowly back down.

  ‘They’re across,’ announced Peter. ‘And hats off to ‘em!’

  Both Simon from No.2 Company and Angus from No.4 had individually made their way to the wrecked cottage on the pretext of seeing if Peter and Sandy were still all right. Peter called for drinks and Lucas searched through the rubble until he found a whole case of untouched Bouzeron ’32.

  ‘I can see why this stuff was untouched,’ laughed Angus.

  ‘Quiet a nettly nose,’ put in Simon.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Sandy. ‘But somehow masked by a curious cardboard flavour. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Put some cassis in it,’ said Peter. ‘Lucas?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. But the cassis has ‘ad it.’

  ‘Cassis is off!’ laughed Simon.

  ‘Wot! No cassis?’ chimed Angus.

  ‘Let’s have a toast,’ said Peter suddenly. ‘To a very determined and competent opponent!’

  The Guards officers echoed the toast and raised their glasses. Only one of them would survive the day.

  14:15 Saturday 1 June 1940.

  Bray Dunes, France

  ‘Hello,’ said Binky. ‘You’re a funny little fellow, aren’t you?’

  He bent down and scratched the little grey Cairn terrier behind one ear. The dog sat upright on its hind legs, holding out its paws. It looked very familiar.

  Commander Babbington tried to think why. ‘I know,’ he chuckled. ‘You’re like the dog in that bloody awful picture my wife wants to drag me to.’

  He tried to think back. There were supposed to be loads of peculiar dwarfs marching up some yellow road and making the most awful din. He had heard them on the wireless. The whole thing promised to be embarrassing in the extreme.

  ‘Sago!’ he announced and then scratched his head. Was that was his name? ‘Sago. Sago.’

  The dog suddenly filled with excitement, his own little head bobbed up and down in apparent confirmation.

  ‘Well, Sago,’ declared the Commander. ‘What am I going to do with you? I can’t take you home. Trudy will have you for dinner.’ His own red setter had a voracious appetite.

  ‘D’you want me to shoot him for your, sir?’ asked Midshipman Hockley. He patted his canvas holster.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Joke, sir.’ Hockley cracked a si
ck smile. ‘Joke.’

  ‘So I should think,’ said Binky.

  ‘Seriously, though, sir,’ asked Hockley. ‘What are you going to do with him?’

  ‘Feed him,’ declared Binky. ‘The poor mite’s just skin and bone.’ He bent down and scooped up Sago. ‘Oh, you’re like a sack of feathers, aren’t you?’

  Sago stuck out his tongue. He let his ears flop and gave a pathetic smile.

  In the space of a few hours the Luftwaffe caused almost as much damage to shipping as it had in all the previous seven days. The glorious weather was proving disastrous. In addition to the troops, Commander Babbington and his team had to find lifts for all the stranded seamen and that raised tempers among the soldiers. Many had been waiting as long as four days. It was hot work and, for the first time in seven days, Commander Babbington removed his mackintosh.

  ‘I say, sir! Very dapper!’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ exclaimed Binky.

  Henry Poole & Co of Savile Row had made the exquisitely tailored dinner jacket in 1930. It had been a perfect fit then and it still hung very well on the Commander. He also wore a black tie and stiff-winged collar. Midshipman Hockley stared at the Commander’s impressive array of dress medals.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ said Binky again. ‘Dinner with Wake-Walker.’

  ‘I think it looks very smart, sir,’ said Hockley. ‘You’re without doubt the best dressed man on the beach.’

  ‘I should change,’ began Binky. ‘Bugger and damn!’

  ‘No, sir! Keep it on. That’ll show up the pongos! Just slip your webbing back on, sir, and it’ll look just like a uniform anyway, what with the helmet, sir.’

  ‘I think it’s very becoming,’ said the Padre. ‘A gentleman always looks at his best in a Tuxedo. Marvellous!’