by Alan Pearce
‘Down!’ called Sandy. The Guardsmen rolled into cover. And then, within the space of one minute, the German artillery started anew.
21:04 Saturday 1 June 1940.
The Black Horse, Biggin Hill, Kent
About half an hour ago, the Air Ministry announced that aircraft of the Royal Air Force Coastal Command had carried out further successful attacks on the oil storage depots at Rotterdam. Aircraft of Bomber Command also carried out successful attacks on port facilities at Ostend. Other operations were flown in support of the B.E.F. In the area of Dunkirk, itself, British fighter pilots yesterday shot down fifty-six German bombers and fighters. Of these, forty-two were seen to crash into the sea. In the same area today, Fighter Command confirmed that forty enemy aircraft had been destroyed. In addition, a further thirty-three were severely damaged. Thirteen of our pilots are reported missing.
‘Balls!’
The publican gave a dismissive shake of his head. ‘You don’t want to mind him, sir.’ He tapped his temple with a stubby finger. ‘A touch of shell shock, if you ask me. He got back on Tuesday. And he’s a lot calmer now, I can tell you.’
‘Should I offer him a drink?’ asked Ginger. He shook his own head, dismissing the idea the very instant it left his lips.
‘Not today, though, sir. He’s been here since opening time.’
Ginger stood upright and took a lengthy sip of his pint. He had drunk so much tea that his mouth had gone furry. Now only beer could help. He listened along in silence to the rest of the news. The latest French communiqué on the improved situation at Dunkirk caused an explosion of derisory laughter from the soldier in the corner. It was then that he caught the man’s eye. Ginger raised his glass. He could not hear what the man was saying but he could see that he was agitated.
Ginger sipped again and wondered if it were possible for his day to deteriorate further. A couple of older men were trying their best to keep the soldier seated. One cracked a joke but the soldier was refusing to laugh. Ginger lent back against the bar. Churchill and Attlee had returned from Paris.
The meeting gave full proof that the Governments of Britain and France and their peoples are more than ever implacably resolved to pursue their present struggle in the closest possible concord until complete victory is assured.
‘Balls!’
‘Same again, sir?’
‘Please.’ Ginger pushed his glass across. The news came to an end and the noise level in the saloon bar rose suddenly. He passed a few coins across and smiled at the publican. Ginger rarely used this pub. It was rather too gloomy. There were others closer to the aerodrome.
‘Pilot, sir?’ The publican nodded to the wings above Ginger’s breast pocket.
Ginger wanted to sneer but smiled acknowledgement instead.
‘Must be nice.’
‘What?’
‘Flying. Must be nice.’
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ Ginger raised his glass and sipped.
The publican placed both elbows on the counter. He looked quickly to either side before he asked, ‘Have you, um..?’
It appeared that he might not complete the sentence. ‘Have you, um… Have you been over there, like?’
Ginger allowed a small sideways smile. He tried not to mock. ‘Mmmm.’
‘The way I see it,’ declared the publican, bending upright. ‘We’ve been let down again by our allies.’ He nodded his head towards the wireless on the shelf behind. Nobody was paying any attention to the soft tones of the American Commentary. ‘Is it like they say?’
An elderly man nursing a tiny half pint mug edged closer.
‘It is,’ agreed Ginger. ‘And it isn’t. But I’m not really supposed to talk shop.’
‘They say the English always lose the first battle.’ The elderly man was now an inch or two below Ginger’s shoulder. He had a single frosted lens in his thick glasses and he spoke in a rich Kent accent. ‘And I do think this has been a good shock for us in some ways.’
‘Ain’t that the truth,’ agreed the publican.
‘It will make the government sit up and take notice over our supplies.’ The old man made to sip from his mug but pulled himself short. ‘And not before time. Mr Churchill’s been saying so all along.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed the publican.
‘And it’s going to make a lot of people in this country realise we shan’t win the war unless we buckle to and look out.’
‘Things will have to change,’ confirmed the publican. ‘There’s been too much slacking ‘till now.’
‘And we shall all have chores.’ The old man looked at Ginger and winked his clear eye mysteriously.
‘What chores?’ asked Ginger.
‘Well, that’s very kind of you, young sir,’ said the old man. ‘Mine’s a mild, if you please. And, if you could manage a pint, I’d say God bless yer.’
The publican stretched for a pint mug but stood still behind the bar. ‘We’ve got to admit it’s been a terrible blow,’ he announced. His lower lip protruded, giving him a boyish sullen air. ‘But a lot of people here needed something like that. Don’t you agree?’ He began to pull the pint.
‘They won’t talk so easily about beating Hitler now,’ put in the old man.
‘Right,’ agreed the publican. He placed the foaming mug on the bar and raised his eyebrows towards Ginger. ‘We used to think that he beat the Polish army quickly, but see what he’s done in the West! But you’ll see. Our boys will be back again and it’ll be a different story next time. Don’t you think?’
Ginger would have answered but he was pushed rudely from behind. He turned quickly to see the agitated soldier. Ginger winced at the stale beer fumes. He could also smell cheese on the man’s breath.
‘So where was you then, eh?’ The soldier was swaying slightly from side to side. He was so close that Ginger could see layers of dry skin flaking off his face. ‘You upper class twat!’ Spittle hit Ginger’s face. ‘I know you ruddy lot. Think you’re God’s gift!’ He turned and looked around the bar.
‘Clifford! Give it a rest will yer?’ One of the older men placed a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.
‘So, where was you then?’
Ginger held up his hands as if in surrender. He tried to smile. He wished somebody would take the man away because he had an awful desire to nut him. ‘Biff!’ thought Ginger. He imagined the soldier collapsing to the floor, clutching a broken nose and crying for his mum. He turned and looked over his shoulder to the publican for support.
‘This gentleman’s been there, too, you know.’ The publican now held his hands up, exhibiting his stubby fingers in a gesture of peace. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he announced. ‘Have a small one for the road, on the house.’ He turned and looked at the older man. ‘And you, Lionel, why don’t you make sure Clifford gets home all right? We all know what he’s been through. I’m sure he’s had his fill of fighting.’
‘Fighting his way to the front of the queue, more like.’ Ginger was not entirely sure why he uttered the words. As a means of silencing the room, it had an immediate effect.
‘Come outside and say that!’ shouted Clifford.
‘Now, now!’ The publican had a powerful voice. ‘You know very well this chap here’s an officer and he can’t be fighting with common soldiers.’
The thought had not even occurred to Ginger.
A very large man wearing a grey farm smock stepped out of the shadows. ‘Then come outside and say it to me, you toffee-nosed git!’
21:25 Saturday 1 June 1940.
Bray Dunes, France
Commander Babbington gathered his team around the Bren gun carrier. He waited a while until he had everyone’s attention. Most were looking out to sea, watching German parachute flares illuminate the scene offshore. Each flare, burning a startling white that hurt the eyes, took a full fifteen minutes to fall from two thousand feet. There was a sense of relief as each one eventually sizzled into the sea.
Binky gave an involuntary shudder and buttoned up his m
ackintosh.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘We have been given a number of deadlines for the end of this operation but I can tell you that we are now approaching the finale.’
‘Halleluiah!’ muttered someone from the back.
‘My sentiments, too.’ The Commander smiled. ‘It seems like a lifetime ago but when this operation began I was told we would be lucky to get off as many as forty five thousand. You will be pleased to know that, as of this time yesterday, we have rescued something in the order of two hundred thousand men. And if that isn’t a miracle, I don’t know what is. There is now only a handful left and our operation here is coming to an end.’
‘Halleluiah!’ Now several men chorused.
‘We are now, as you might say, into extra time. As of this afternoon, the last remaining route out of here, Route X, came under fire of the German guns. You will have noticed that today, in terms of shipping, has been fairly disastrous. And, as such, there will be no more daylight lifts. Therefore, we must pull out all the stops tonight. Lieutenant Dibbens!’
‘Sir?’
‘I would like to see all your party out of here by oh-two-hundred at the latest.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mr Hockley.’
‘Sir?’
‘Select three ratings. We shall hang on ‘till oh-seven-hundred and embark via MTB from the Mole.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The chief petty officer coughed.
‘And Chief,’ added Binky. He paused briefly to let the sand settle from an exploding artillery shell. ‘If you would be so good as to distribute any remaining supplies, but please leave us enough for breakfast in the morning.’
‘Am I invited to breakfast, too, sir?’
‘Actually, no. I would like you to escort the lieutenant’s party out of here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The chief did not hide his disappointment.
‘If I am any judge, this is going to be our busiest night yet. And the plan is this.’ Binky could barely hear himself think above the incoming artillery. ‘Move on as many as you can to the Mole. I want no more than one thousand here at any one time. We’re told we can expect a sizable number of French troops. On our side, there’s still a scratch force from First Corp to lift off and, of course, the rearguard. French troops will be holding the line in rear of ours. Our rearguard will be passing through sometime around midnight. From then on it’s all down to the French.’
‘And who will be lifting them off, sir?’ asked the Padre.
‘If there are any plans to lift them off,’ sighed the commander. ‘They have not been communicated to me. This beach is being wound down tonight and any subsequent lifts will be from Dunkirk proper. As I said, there have been a number of deadlines already. I’m not saying this is the final night but, with the French holding the line, don’t be surprised if the curtain comes down anytime.’
23:15 Saturday 1 June 1940.
Bergues-Hondschoote Canal, France
‘Hello, sir! Am I glad to see you?’ Sandy’s teeth shone white through the grime on his face.
‘I told you to keep your fingers crossed, old boy,’ whispered Peter. ‘And here I am, come to escort you home!’ He rolled reluctantly into the trench. It took him a moment for his feet to find the fire step beneath the dark, cold water. ‘I have your marching orders. Admittedly, twenty-fours later than envisaged, but better late than never, eh?’
‘Actually, I hadn’t expected to see you at all,’ admitted Sandy.
‘Snap!’ The adjutant grinned and reached inside his tunic for a flask. ‘Did you manage to get my other flask back off Angus, by the way?’
The young lieutenant shook his head.
‘Shame,’ nodded Peter. ‘Family legend has it that my great-great-grandfather took it off a dead chasseur at Waterloo.’
‘And now some Prussian can say he got it off a dead Guardsman in Flanders.’
Peter shrugged. ‘What goes around comes around, I suppose.’ He passed the flask to Sandy.
‘Finders keepers, and all that.’ Sandy took a lengthy swallow.
‘But I’ll have that one back, thank you very much.’ Peter took another sip and dropped the flask into his pocket. ‘So,’ he suddenly asked. ‘How many men can you muster?’
‘Just what you see here.’ Sandy turned and nodded his head along the trench.
Peter peered into the darkness. ‘Hello Lucas! Any chance of a cuppa?’
‘Only if you brought your own cup, sir. We seem to be running behind on the washing up.’
‘Well, never mind. We can all have a nice cup of tea when we get home.’ His eyes strained to pick out seven or eight other figures in the dark. He turned back to Sandy. ‘Becky is satisfied that we have fulfilled our commitment so, if this is all you’ve got, I suggest we imitate Beau Geste and slip away in the night. The Jerries can discover we’ve gone in the morning.’
‘And then what, sir?’
‘We fall back through the French lines and then make our way to Dunkirk. But we had better get our skates on if we want to see Knightsbridge again, this side of the next armistice.’
‘Then what are we waiting for, sir?’
‘Peter! Are you all right?’ asked Sandy, suddenly. The adjutant fell to his knees. The two officers had only waded a dozen or so yards from the last section of communication trench.
‘I think I’ve been shot.’ Peter’s tone was indignant.
‘Where?’
‘In the neck. Either that or I’ve got a nasty throat infection.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Not as such. But I do feel so very tired suddenly.’
Sandy began to feel in the dark with his hands. He touched gingerly at Peter’s throat. Although his own hands we already soaking wet and the fingertips white and puffy from days spent in the water, he found the blood easily. It ran in a sticky flow from a point above the adjutant’s collar. Sandy lowered Peter down. There came a series of splashes and then Sergeant Harris and Lucas we kneeling beside the two officers.
‘I’ll carry him, sur,’ announced the sergeant.
‘Actually, I think I’ll sit this one out, if you don’t mind,’ said Peter softly. ‘I feel so very tired. Not surprisingly really when you think about it, but rotten timing all the same.’
Sandy continued to press hard against the wound but the black fluid could not be slowed. It ran in warm rivulets down his sleeves and seemed to settle uncomfortably around the elbows of his battledress. Sandy turned to look at the sergeant. His training and instincts were both at one. He shook his head.
‘I’m so sorry Peter,’ he said.
‘That’s perfectly all right, old boy,’ smiled Peter. ‘I think I shall shut my eyes for a little while. You had best take the flask.’
Sandy took his hands away from the gaping wound and slipped Peter’s helmet off. He placed it tenderly beneath his friend’s head and then found himself washing his hands in the murky water of the flooded field.
Lucas raised himself to one knee and nudged Sergeant Harris with his elbow. Both men exchanged a quick glance and began to take steps backwards.
‘Come on, sur,’ hissed Sergeant Harris. Sandy nodded and raised himself to his feet. Lucas was the next to go down. The bullet that hit him did so square in the centre of his face. He jerked back like a dog on a leash and then collapsed with a loud splash into the water.
Sandy’s knees gave way and he found himself shaking violently. An uncomfortable sensation settled in the back of his own neck. Every miniscule hair on his body stood on end. The bullet that then hit him tore through his left elbow, shattering the various connecting bones, and propelling his forearm forward in mimicry of a Nazi salute, and then he plunged face down into the water.
Sergeant Harris let rip with the Bren.
When you’re lying wounded on Afghanistan’s planes,
And the women come out to cut out what remains,
Just roll on your rifle and blow out your brains
And go to your god like
a soldier.
‘I think the lieutenant’s singing, sarn’t,’ whispered Guardsman Samson.
‘That’s poetry, that is,’ huffed Sergeant Harris. ‘He does like his Kipling and Tennyson. It don’t make him any lighter, though.’
The two guardsmen had reached a main road and their feet were now out of the water.
‘Put him down for a tick then, sarn’t. I know I could do with a breather.’
Both men lowered Sandy gently down beside a tree. Sergeant Harris stood upright and stretched his back, feeling individual discs crack with the relief.
‘How far d’you reckon, then?’ asked Samson, chewing on a miraculously dry biscuit earlier hidden in his helmet.
‘Five miles maybe,’ suggested Sergeant Harris, not entirely sure himself.
‘Six.’ Sandy stirred. The searing pain in the remains of his arm had been sending him in and out of consciousness.
‘Thought you was asleep, sur,’ said the sergeant.
‘Well, you can’t carry me all that way, can you man?’
‘I could give it a fair shot, sur. Besides, we might strike lucky and get you a lift, sur.’
‘Well, make sure it’s not on a damn panzer if you do.’
‘He’s out cold again now,’ marvelled Samson peering down. ‘Did somebody say something about a flask?’
‘You can take that hopeful grin off your ugly mug. He’s gonna want that for medicinal purposes when the shock wears off.’
‘Wot! No brandy! Not even a tiny nip, build up our strength like…’