by Alan Pearce
‘Shush!’ hissed the sergeant. ‘That’s a truck! Hear it?’ He waved an arm. ‘Get the lieutenant off the road and you keep out of sight.’
‘What if it’s a Jerry?’
‘Well, it’s fifty-fifty either way and there’s only one way to find out.’
Sergeant Harris had less than five seconds to decide if the vehicle was friendly or not. He stepped into the middle of the road and cocked back the Bren. The driver, friend or foe, seemed determined to carry on regardless. The sergeant braced the wooden butt against his side and fired a quick burst high above the cab. The truck, an RAF quad, screeched to a halt. Sergeant Harris found himself holding his breath.
‘What the fuck!’ screamed a voice from behind the windshield. ‘Get out of the fucking way. We’re in a hurry!’
‘Ain’t we all, sunshine,’ said Sergeant Harris. He kept the Bren pointing firmly into the cab as he walked up. ‘I reckon you’ve got room for one more, don’t you?’
‘Look sarg,’ started the driver, a small corporal with Italian features. ‘They’re packed like fucking sardines in there.’ He gestured with his thumb. ‘And I ain’t got…’
‘Then someone’s got to get out and walk,’ snarled Sergeant Harris. ‘I’ve got a seriously wounded officer and I want him taking to an aid station.’
To underline his point, Sergeant Harris lifted the Bren towards the sky and let off a short burst. The sound reverberated off the few surrounding walls and the corporal jerked involuntarily. The sergeant then jabbed the machine gun through the open side window and pressed the hot muzzle to the man’s cheek.
‘So either you get out or one of your friends does, I ain’t fussy.’ Sergeant Harris called over his shoulder. ‘Samson! Bring the lieutenant here, now.’ The other Guardsman stepped from the bushes.
‘And I want to see your pay book, corporal,’ said Sergeant Harris, his Bren still pressing into the man’s hollow cheek. ‘’Cos if my lieutenant don’t make it back home in one piece, I’m gonna come looking for you, see?’
He took a step away from the cab and lowered the Bren. ‘And you and I, Samson, had better get a ruddy move on.’
Day Eight
03:40 Sunday 2 June 1940.
East Mole, Dunkirk, France
‘Company…company…Halt!’
Sergeant Harris slammed down hard on the cobbles with the iron-shod heel of his boot and the butt of his Bren. For the two men constituting the remainder of No.3 Company, Second Battalion, Coldstream Guards, it was not a very impressive show. However, the RN commander charged with instilling order was sufficiently impressed by their parade ground bull and sheer front to give them more than the customary brush off.
‘We’re trying to locate our battalion or the Brigade of Guards, sur,’ Harris told him.
The officer let out a long blast of air from pursed lips and shook his head. ‘A lot of the rearguard got off last night,’ he told them. ‘So perhaps they have gone home already.’
‘What do you recommend then, sur?’ asked the sergeant.
The officer puffed again. ‘I would suggest that you get home yourselves, only you’ve missed the boat. The last one left ten minutes ago.’
‘I see, sur. When’s the next one.’
‘Now that, I simply can’t say.’ The commander turned to the east where a dull orange glow illuminated the headland. ‘The sun will be up in an hour but there’s to be no more daylight lifts.’ Now he sucked in air. ‘Not after yesterday. Far too costly.’
‘I see, sur.’
‘Your best bet, lads, is to go join a queue somewhere and we shall try to sort you out as soon as we can.’
‘I understand, sur.’
Guardsman Samson coughed.
‘And just one more thing, sur,’ continued the sergeant. ‘Did many wounded get off last night? We’re concerned about our company commander.’
‘Depends how badly he was wounded. If he was walking wounded there’s a good chance he did get off. Stretcher cases,’ he paused and shook his head. ‘They take up too much room.’
‘And if I were looking for a wounded officer, sur, where’s the best place to start?’
‘Take your pick, sergeant. As far as I’ve seen, they are crammed into almost every nook and cranny.’ He stopped then. ‘Look, I must press on now. But take my advice. Try to get out of here as soon as there’s a chance.’
‘How we gonna find him in this lot, then?’ asked Samson.
They continued to march up a side street. French soldiers lay huddled in doorways, their ubiquitous kit strewn before them. Artillery slammed into the nearby docks. As they turned a corner, a large number of British wounded lay pressed up against a wall. A cloud of dust bellowed up the street, sending with it small items of tumbling masonry. The two Guardsmen stepped back and waited for the dust to settle.
‘Bugger this,’ announced Samson. ‘I thought there might be a bloody NAAFI wagon.’ He spat brick dust from his lips. ‘I’d shag my granny for a tin of MacConochie’s.’
‘And I’d shag your granddad if I thought it would help any.’
‘Well, he copped it at Passchendaele in fourteen, so at least he’s local.’ Samson showed his blackened teeth.
‘I’ll try and look him up later then.’ Sergeant Harris hoisted the Bren up his shoulder and jerked his head. ‘Come on, lad.’
They turned the corner again and examined the line of wounded men. ‘Anyone here from the Guards?’ called Sergeant Harris. ‘Anyone here from the Guards?’
They stepped along the line looking for the red shoulder flashes of the brigade. ‘Up Guards and at ‘em!’ bellowed the sergeant.
‘Yeah, can’t credit it, really. There I was, waiting my turn on the beach like and then suddenly, boom! My bloody hand’s gone!’ The Grenadier Guardsman held up the stump.
‘Does it hurt?’ asked Samson.
‘What d’you bloody think?’ asked the Grenadier. ‘It hurts like a bastard! Funny thing is, though, it didn’t bleed any. Came clean off. In fact, it looks a bit like a rolled belly of pork.’
‘Yum!’ nodded Samson. ‘So, you been here long?’
‘Got here last night. You haven’t got a snout, have you?’
Samson shook his head.
‘Christ!’ the Grenadier suddenly exclaimed. ‘Last night, eh? D’you see that shambles?’
Samson nodded.
‘You got Frog civvies still pouring out of Dunkirk. You got other Frogs and our blokes trying to get in.’ The Grenadier chuckled to himself. ‘Oh, and get this, we tried at the pier first and the bloody Frogs they wouldn’t even leave when they got the chance. No,’ he shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t get on without all their bloody kit and then they wouldn’t leave until all their mates were there. Fucking dog’s dinner! Talking of which, you haven’t got any grub have you?’
Samson shook his head, sadly.
‘And then our lot gone and got mixed up in the middle of it and I got separated. I only hope I can get a boat out from here. What d’you reckon?’
‘There’s no more boats,’ said Sergeant Harris flatly. ‘There might be some back tonight, but not during the day.’
‘Well, fucking Fritz will be here by then. That’s if they don’t get tangled up in the bloody traffic.’ He paused to blow cool air across his stump. ‘So what are your plans then, sarn’t? How about trying to find a boat of our own?’
Sergeant Harris nodded but his mind seemed elsewhere.
‘Anything that floats really,’ continued the Grenadier. ‘I’d like to get home and put this into some warm vinegar water.’ He lifted the bandaged stump.
‘Home?’ queried the sergeant. ‘Who wants to go home? And miss a bloody good opportunity like this?’
The Grenadier looked across at Samson, who parted his dusty lips in response and spat between his boots. Sergeant Harris stood up. ‘And let’s find you a revolver, sunshine.’
04:45 Sunday 2 June 1940.
Malo Beach, France
‘Actually, I think
I’ll sit this one out, if you don’t mind. I feel so very tired.’
‘Don’t be so wet, Sandy. It’s only eight miles around the loch,’ chivvied Badger. ‘We’ve bags of time before tea. There’s coconut cake.’
‘Hello, sir. You still here?’ asked the RAMC sergeant.
‘I’m afraid so,’ admitted Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox, opening his eyes. ‘I just could not stand up. No energy left.’
‘You’ve lost a lot of blood, sir.’
‘No stretchers allowed, they said.’
‘Well, you haven’t got a stretcher now, sir. But that ain’t gonna make it any easier to get you off.’
‘Well, what can you do?’
‘Not a lot, actually, sir.’
‘The question was rhetorical,’ admitted Sandy. ‘But you’ve been very kind. Thank you.’
‘I’m gonna have another scout round for some morphine, sir. I’ll try and get you something to drink, as well.’
‘Please. I’m very thirsty.’
‘Digby tells me you’re going down to the regiment on Sunday. I’m sorry I shalln’t be here to see you off. I have to go over to Oban and sit on that damn committee again. I shalln’t be back until the middle of next week.’
Sandy accepted the brandy from his father and settled into the armchair. He watched as his father unscrewed the pirate hook from the end of his arm and attached an ivory cigar holder.
‘When I went off to the Cape, your grandfather gave me some very sound advice.’
‘Sir?’
‘The trick, you see, is to take everything in your stride. Do absolutely everything that’s asked of you, my boy, but never think about it too deeply. And never try to intellectualise it. It can only get you in trouble.’
‘I’ll remember that, sir.’
‘And do try to come back in one piece. This family has the rotten habit of leaving bits of themselves behind. Pass that lighter, will you?’
‘Hello! I say, do you smoke?’
‘Yes, sometimes,’ admitted Sandy, turning his head to the sound of the disembodied voice. ‘Socially.’
‘Well, I have some Players in my top pocket. I can’t actually reach them myself. Would you mind?’
‘Not at all.’ Sandy’s left arm was strapped tightly to a splint and lay immobile down his side, so it was fortunate that the man lay to his right. He slowly lifted his right hand off the sand and flexed the fingers. It was hard to tell if the hand were black with grime or with decay. Few fingernails remained entire. Every knuckle was split and swollen.
‘Captain Havercroft, Royal Engineers,’ announced the man.
‘Mackenzie-Knox. Lieutenant. Coldstream Guards.’
‘How’d you do?’
Sandy struggled for several minutes to free the button on the captain’s battledress. In time he extracted a small silver cigarette case. The effort exhausted him.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Lucas. ‘Here’s your tea. Your bath has just been drawn. It’s a fine morning. And the Germans invaded France, Belgium and Holland at dawn. Major Woodward has cancelled today’s training programme and there’ll be a meeting of all officers and platoon commanders at oh-eight-hundred in the company office. Sir!’
‘Thank you Lucas,’ said Sandy.
‘It’s Teddy, as it happens,’ wheezed the captain. ‘Like the bear! Ha, ha!’
‘I think we have a problem, Teddy.’
‘Really? What’s that, old chap?’
‘I need two hands to open this cigarette case.’
The captain huffed, setting off a coughing fit. It took him a while to get the words out. ‘Ah, well, that’s an engineering problem. My department.’
His lungs rasped as he struggled to draw in air. ‘Let me think about it for a while.’ He continued wheezing and then asked, ‘If you could be anywhere right now, where would it be?’
Sandy chuckled. ‘In a big, gleaming white hospital with lots of pretty nurses!’
‘No, no,’ said the captain. ‘Aside from all that, if you could choose to be anywhere? Where would it be?’
‘Home, I suppose,’ mused Sandy.
‘Where’s home?’
‘Loch Katrine, just outside Oban. Do you know it?’
‘No, I’ve never been up that way. I have been a few times to Glenrothes, for the grouse. Jolly good fun!’
‘Hello, Badger! You’ve been busy.’
His brother smiled. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, looking a tad bashful. ‘Sometimes, I don’t seem to know when to stop. Not thinking again. Just getting on with it.’ He clutched seven or eight brace in his arms.
‘Who’s going to eat all those?’ demanded Sandy. ‘You could feed the five-thousand!’
‘Ah, well,’ smiled Badger. ‘Not my concern. That’s somebody else’s problem.’
‘Pass me back that case, will you,’ asked the captain. His hand flapped in agitation by his side. ‘Any brothers or sisters?’
‘Yes, one of each. My brother Digby is six years older than me and my sister Elspeth is twenty-three. I’m the baby of the family.’
‘What is she like? Pretty?’
‘We don’t actually talk about her any more, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh no? Why’s that?’
‘Well, if I were to tell you, that would be talking about her wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, I see what you’re saying, old chap.’
‘Elspeth won’t be coming up for the holidays.’
‘Oh, really?’ asked Sandy, feigning disinterest.
‘No, she’s umm,’ his mother hesitated. She was a woman of few words, most of which were confined to the cultivation of orchids. ‘No, your sister is going to take a little rest. The doctors say her studies have exhausted her. Too much thinking. And now she needs lots of peace and quiet.’
‘Are they going to lock her up again?’ asked Sandy, tucking into a Victoria sponge.
‘A piece of cake, old chap.’ The captain tapped the open cigarette case against the side of Sandy’s leg. He felt with his hand and extracted one of the Players.
‘Bit exposed here, don’t you think?’ The captain turned his head towards the young lieutenant as another shower of hot sand dropped from the dark sky. ‘And I think we have another problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t have a light,’ he laughed. ‘Do you?’
05:00 Sunday 2 June 1940.
Bray Dunes, France
‘More tea, Padre?’ asked Midshipman Hockley.
‘Yes, please. If you think we have time.’
Commander Hector Babbington, RN retired,visibly shuddered. The plan of departure had been clearly explained. There was a good hour yet before his team need make their way to the Mole. The Padre could then please himself. He rose up off the sand and went to lean against the Bren gun carrier.
‘I must say, this has been a very rewarding experience,’ announced the Padre.
‘What has?’ Binky felt the hackles rise on his neck.
‘Seeing you chaps all pulling together,’ smiled the Padre. ‘And to see people helping their fellow man unselfishly.’
‘Does it restore your faith, then?’ Binky sank down on the fender.
‘My faith does not need restoring. I like to think that, come what may, my faith will remain unshakable.’
‘That must be very comforting for you,’ said the Commander.
A few uncomfortable seconds passed until finally Hockley felt obliged to break the silence. ‘More stew, Padre?’ he asked.
‘Ah, no thank you, but I must say this MacConochie’s really is surprisingly good,’ he announced. ‘What is in it, do you suppose?’
Binky, who was searching for a cigarette amid his many pockets, groaned aloud. ‘Meat and veg.’ He enounced the words slowly and shook his head. MacConochie’s, together with bully beef, was the mainstay of the Tommy’s diet and yet the damn Padre acted as if he had never tasted it before. ‘Oh, for a stiff one!’ thought Binky. If he truly existed, God would conjure up something to
drink in the next thirty minutes or else he might do the Padre a serious mischief.
‘I wonder what the Germans have to eat?’ asked the Padre, keen to fill the silence. ‘Sausages, I suppose.’
‘Belgian babies,’ laughed Hockley.
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed the Padre. ‘We should never make the mistake of thinking the Germans are monsters, simply because they are on the other side. They are men of flesh and blood, much the same as us.’
‘Do you really believe that?’ asked Hockley. He paused while the Germans delivered a timely shell into one of the houses on the seafront. ‘I mean, this is the second war they’ve started. They are surely intrinsically different. A very war-like people.’
‘And the British are not?’ asked the Padre.
‘Well, no,’ said Hockley, taken aback. ‘At least we don’t go around invading other people.’
‘Not currently, but we certainly have in the past.’
‘But that was all for a good cause,’ explained the young midshipman. ‘If you are referring to the Empire, we have enlightened and advanced countless peoples less civilised than ourselves.’
Now the Padre shuddered.
‘And just look at the atrocities the Germans perpetrated in the last war.’ Hockley rested his mug on the sand. ‘Crucifying prisoners and raping defenceless women. You wouldn’t catch the British doing that!’
‘Oh no?’ asked the Padre. Despite the dim light of dawn his face appeared to visibly whiten. ‘I beg to take issue with you. You just have to ask yourself why there are so many half-casts in Africa. You don’t suppose the native girls voluntarily gave themselves, do you?’
‘Well, I thought they did, sir.’ Hockley narrowed his brows and cast a quick glance at the Commander. ‘I have a cousin who was in Cape Town a couple of years back and he said he had to beat them off with a stick.’