by Alan Pearce
‘You!’ shouted Bonzo. ‘Whatever your bloody name is. Don’t just stand there with your finger up your arse. Go grab a Mae West and a chute and get out there!’
‘But I’m stood down, sir!’
‘Well, I’m standing you up!’
‘I’ve got a broken nose, sir.’
‘Then breathe through your bloody mouth, man!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bonzo paused in the doorway, sensing history in the making. ‘England confides that every man will do his duty!’ he declared. ‘And that includes you, too, you little sod!’
16:15 Sunday 2 June 1940.
12th Casualty Clearing Station, Chapeau Rouge, Dunkirk
‘Back a bit! Back a bit! Hold it there!’
The rear door of the ambulance swung open and Major Newman, the surgeon in charge, peered quickly into the gloom. He stepped back and allowed the orderlies to pull the stretchers from their racks. It was then that he noticed the Padre.
‘Hello, there!’ he called. ‘Have you come to lend a hand?’
‘Umm,’ said the Padre. ‘Umm. Yes. I have brought you a patient. He’s in a bad way, I am afraid.’
‘Let’s have a look at him then, shall we?’ Major Newman bent down and cast a quick eye over Sandy. ‘Yes, that does look a bit unpleasant. Let’s try and make him comfortable first. I’ll come and take a proper look just as soon as we can get through the badly wounded.’
With that, he nodded to an orderly and Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox was carried up the steps and through the large doors into Chapeau Rouge.
‘Well, I’ll certainly try, sir. But as you can see, we’re all rushed off our feet.’
‘If you could just let me have some water then,’ suggested the Padre. ‘I could try to clean the wound myself.’
The orderly laughed. ‘I wish, Padre. We’ve hardly got any real water. What we have got comes from a pump down in the basement and that’s a funny green-black colour.’
‘Some Iodine, perhaps?’
‘Sorry, Padre.’ The orderly shook his head.
‘Well, I take my hat off you,’ said the Padre. ‘I really do not know how you manage.’
‘I could tell you, Padre. We’re not trained for this, you know. Only a few months ago I was down the pits,’ he explained. ‘I got just four months training, and that was mostly changing beds and giving out urinals. It don’t prepare you for the likes of this.’
‘No, I imagine not,’ marvelled the Padre. ‘Perhaps I could help.’
‘Sure. You probably won’t do much harm, anyways.’
‘What would you like me to do?’
‘Well, as you’re here, you could do a few Last Rites. I imagine you know the drill by now.’ He led the way.
The orderly walked with a practiced step through the tightly packed rows of wounded men. Every so often he stopped to examine a man’s label and wounds.
‘Here’s another one for you, Padre,’ he called. The orderly knelt down and pulled a large syringe from his shoulder bag. ‘Here you go, chum,’ he said tenderly, rolling up the man’s sleeve. ‘This’ll help. And we got a priest for you, too.’ He nodded to the Padre, who took a deep breath through his mouth. ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord…’
The orderly wiped the needle and dropped the syringe back into his bag. He watched the Padre genuflect just as the man slipped peacefully away.
‘That really is amazing,’ said the Padre. ‘That’s the sixth man now that I have given the Last Rites to and all of them have passed on within minutes. You must have a special gift. And you were only a coal miner, you say?’
‘That’s right, Padre.’ The orderly sounded proud. ‘From Birmingham.’
‘Well, I do think you should give serious consideration to training as a doctor. There cannot be many Harley Street specialists that could predict death as timely as you.’
‘Well, they could, actually, Padre. If they had one of these.’ The orderly held up the syringe.
The Padre shook his head. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘I give ‘em morphine. Sends them on their way nice and peaceful.’
The Padre clasped a hand to his mouth. His knees were turning to jelly.
‘Are you all right, Padre?’ asked the orderly. ‘Only Major Newman’s trying to catch your attention. I think he wants you for something.’
‘It’s got to come off,’ explained Major Newman. ‘It’s gone a bit nasty. In fact, there’s not much left to save in any case.’
‘I see,’ said the Padre. ‘What would you like me to do?’
‘Well, that’s very decent of you. We could certainly find something. Is he a particular friend of yours?’
The Padre nodded. ‘It feels like we have known each other a very long time. I feel,’ he hesitated. ‘I feel a special responsibility for him. He will be all right, won’t he?’
‘I have to get that arm off quick. It smells horribly cheesy. You best come with me.’
The operating theatre was in a large room on the ground floor. There was no glass left in the windows so the frames had been nailed shut, casting the room into a deep gloom. The only light came from a truck headlight running on a long length of wire through the window to a truck parked just outside.
‘Perhaps you could hold the light, Padre,’ suggested Major Newman. ‘That’s right, nice and high but step a little closer will you.’
‘Shouldn’t I scrub up or something?’ asked the Padre. The lieutenant was out cold on the table and barely breathing.
‘Yes, very funny,’ laughed the major. ‘Come a bit closer, come on. That’s right. Scalpel. ’
‘Scalpel,’ repeated a nurse, slapping the blade onto the open palm.
Major Newman drew a line with the scalpel a few inches above Sandy’s elbow. ‘Clamp’
‘Clamp,’ repeated the nurse.
‘Saw,’ called the major. ‘Can you hold that light still?’
The Padre was busy taking deep breaths. The rich smell of ether and fresh flowing blood were proving too much.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ exclaimed Major Newman. ‘Can somebody pick up that damn lamp? I can feel blood going everywhere!’
16:45 Sunday 2 June 1940.
Port Admiral’s Office, Dover, Kent
‘You can go straight in, sir,’ said the officer with the strawberry birthmark.
Commander Edward Bishop RN slipped off his cap, tucked it firmly under his arm and knocked.
‘Come in! Ah, Teddy, just the man! Once more unto the fray, dear boy, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Excellent! Excellent!’ announced the captain, standing up and beaming brightly. ‘You timed that perfectly.’ He cocked his head. ‘Come with me.’
‘There doesn’t seem to be much happening,’ observed the Skipper.
The captain smiled. ‘Thought you might say that. But don’t be fooled. It’s all set to kick off any minute.’
The Skipper stepped up to the chart and examined the midway point on Route X. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Paris!’ announced the captain. He noticed the mild confusion on the Skipper’s face. ‘No, not the French capital, ha, ha! The hospital ship.’
‘All on her own, sir?’
‘Well,’ pondered the captain. ‘In retrospect maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. There’s so many wounded backed up on the other side, you see. So it was decided that, what with no daylight lifts, two hospital ships could occupy the berths without detriment to the operation.’
‘Isn’t that a bit risky?’
‘Mmm,’ considered the captain. ‘We did send out a warning signal en clair, hoping the Germans would respect the Geneva Convention.’
‘Well, let’s keep our fingers crossed then, sir.’
‘Bit late now,’ said the captain. ‘The poor old Worthing was bombed and machine gunned at fourteen-thirty. She’s being towed back now. That just leaves Paris.’
‘And what are all those broken matches?’ asked the S
kipper. He stood on the Dover side of the huge chart and pointed down into the harbour.
‘Those are all the little ships,’ declared the captain. ‘We don’t have enough regular pieces. Anyway, let me explain the plan. All these matches are due to go off…’ He stopped to chuckle briefly and then looked up at the wall clock. ‘In less than five minutes. One big massed descent, you see.’
‘I see, sir. But isn’t that just going to add to the congestion the other side?’
‘Not really,’ explained the captain. ‘They are all going to be moving at their own speed. That’ll pace ‘em out.’
‘And what about us, sir?’
‘Yes, I was coming to that. In all, thirteen destroyers have been detailed to arrive at Dunkirk at intervals of half-an-hour, beginning twenty-one-hundred.’
The Skipper was visibly impressed.
‘And groups of minesweepers,’ he declared. ‘This really is the big one.’ He tapped at various points along the south coast. ‘From Margate, Sheerness, Dover and Harwich, plus an untold number of other ships, tugs, scoots, drifters, and whatnot.’
‘I thought we had got most of the troops last night, sir. How many more are you expecting?’
‘Well, good question, Teddy. We think there’s something in the order of just six-thousand of our chaps left. Not counting the wounded, obviously. But then there’s the French, you see.’ He sucked in air through clenched teeth. ‘Conservatively, we’re thinking about sixty-thousand.’
The Skipper whistled.
‘But not that many will be requiring lifts, of course. They’ll be too busy holding back the Bosche.’
‘Of course,’ agreed the Skipper.
‘You’re to sail at eighteen-forty-five, in company with Shikari. So, good luck!’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Oh, and don’t worry if you hear any loud bangs when you get there,’ chuffed the captain. ‘Demolition parties are blowing up all the lock gates.’
18:20 Sunday 2 June 1940.
Approaching Dunkirk Harbour, France
Pilot Officer Neil Wood, the new White Three, took a deep breath, enjoying the undertone of Brylcreem, pipe tobacco and even the vomit. He squeezed the spade-like control stick affectionately in his hands. At six thousand feet there was no need for piped oxygen, which was just as well. His entire face ached from the rain of fists outside the pub. Now the heavy rubber mask, when strapped tight, induced stars to swim before his eyes. Static crackled in his ears.
Way up ahead, Bonzo rocked his wings as an order to close up. Ginger could see the Stukas now, about four miles away, heading out to sea and towards the armada.
‘This is Blue Leader. Blue Leader. White Section guard our rear, will you? Everybody else into line astern, please.’
Ginger felt the delicious glow of anticipation. White Leader dropped his speed. Ginger followed suit. His thumb began to itch. An anti-aircraft barrage burst out below, forcing the leading three Stukas to peel off, abandoning their attack. Almost immediately, Blue Leader locked onto the tail of the leading Ju87. Two short bursts and his victim went into a right-hand spiral. A third burst followed. Ginger could not tear his eyes away. At less than seventy-five yards Bonzo set the Stuka on fire. Ginger nudged his stick and pulled himself up tight alongside White Two as they went into a sharp turn to port. Below, Bonzo’s Stuka hit the sea, sending a shower of white across the silvery blue.
‘White Section stick close to me!’
Three Stukas had continued to press home their attack and were now pulling up from their dive. White Leader led his section down. Ginger’s instrument panel began to vibrate. He clenched his teeth. They were in danger of overshooting their targets. Ginger eased back. A burst of grey broke out just yards ahead of White Two and then, for the briefest instant, Ginger saw the glass-domed cockpit of a Stuka. A golden spray poured from the rear-gunner. Ginger squeezed down hard on the fire control button. The elderly Hurricane seemed to pause in space. He tugged violently at the stick and turned hard away. He swerved again, narrowly missing a Spitfire that had got caught up in the melee. Ginger remembered to breathe. He could feel his heart lodged somewhere in his throat. It was now every man for himself.
He pushed forward the throttle and sought altitude. Away from his section, he felt horribly exposed. He shivered and scanned the sky as he climbed. White vapour trails criss-crossed high above. He nudged the stick, narrowly avoiding the dark shadow of a solitary wing on its way to earth. Now he needed oxygen. He snatched his hand away from the throttle and pressed the rubber mask to his face, sucking urgently. He took a deep gulp and flicked his head to the right. Another Spitfire ploughed past him, a huge stream of white glycol fanning out from its cowling. Ginger pulled to starboard, letting the mask flop to his chest. He took one quick look down at the plummeting Spitfire and then turned his head to look up through the cockpit glass. An Me109 roared past so close that Ginger clearly saw the tail wheel only inches away.
Now he was pulling as hard as he could on the stick, one foot flat on the floor. The Hurricane turned tightly in pursuit. Again he forgot to breathe. A minor adjustment on the stick, and then another, and then the Messerschmitt was briefly in his sights. His thumb hovered over the button. Another nudge on the stick and the German eased into Ginger’s crosshairs. His Hurricane stuttered as he put a quick burst into the Nazi’s starboard wing, shattering the aileron into flying black fragments. The German dropped sharply out of sight, leaving Ginger in hot pursuit of the disintegrating Spitfire. He pulled back as hard as he could and again sought altitude. The Messerschmitt had vanished. Now he glanced down at the panel and the fuel contents gauge. ‘Bags of time,’ thought Ginger. He clasped the oxygen mask in his hand and sucked urgently, trying to quell his racing heart.
Down below, rich clouds of smoke were rising in gentle plumes from the wrecked docks of Dunkirk. The sky, which only seconds before had been swarming with aircraft, was now devoid of life. He continued to climb. The vapour trails laced the sky miles above. Ginger looked at his altimeter and eased out of the climb. It was then that he felt the cannon rounds tear into his own port aileron.
He dropped the mask and pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go. With his other hand, he forced the stick over to the right until it pressed hard against his thigh. Stars returned to his eyes. He felt the blood drain from his head. A sharp surge of anger took its place. ‘Where are you, you bastard? Where are you?’
Ginger’s Hurricane was doing what she loved best. The needle topped three-hundred miles an hour before it blurred out of focus. Down she went. He tipped the stick gently to the right and entered a controlled spiral. And there was the Messerschmitt pulling out of a plume of black smoke and seeking height. Ginger let off a quick burst at once. He positioned the crosshairs again and tilted his Hurricane to intercept.
‘Brrrrrrrrrr,’ snarled his eight Brownings.
Ginger did not see the Stuka that came soaring up towards him. He was just as surprised to see its’ twin forward machine guns burst into life. By the time all this registered on his brain, several rounds had already passed through his aircraft. One round had blown the boost gauge clear off the control panel. Another round had shattered on impact with a hydraulic flap and now a fragment was lodged in Ginger’s right knee. Ginger could only see red. He panicked and simultaneously tugged back on the stick while apply all his strength to the throttle. Up she climbed.
Ginger was surprised to find that he had bitten through his tongue. The sharp, metallic taste filled his mouth. His head was swimming. The Hurricane was climbing and Ginger fumbled for the oxygen. Then his Hurricane stuttered. The engine briefly cut and Ginger felt his heart do the same. Then, just as suddenly, the Merlin burst back into life. He levelled out at around ten thousand feet, his heart beating hard against his ribcage. And then everything seemed to stop. The engine cut again. Ginger scanned the sky and sucked hard on the oxygen. One thought flashed through his mind: What will I tell Mum? It was only when he let the mask drop free th
at he noticed the smoke. Thin grey at first, it soon turned jet back and filled the cockpit. He saw a sudden flash through the smoke, accompanied by a loud bang, and then he felt the first of the flames. They licked around his ankles, slowing charring his best uniform trousers. Ginger knew he had no alternative. He pulled the stick hard to the right and the elderly Hurricane settled uncomfortably onto her back. He adjusted the flaps and reached across to grasp the canopy lever. He hands felt as if they were on fire. He continued to fumble with the catch. Suddenly there was another loud bang and within an instant the thick black smoke was driven from the canopy as icy, cold air blasted in. Ginger knocked open the side flap. He tugged at the lip of the canopy, finding just enough space for his fingers. He tugged again and then it was gone. Ginger felt with his hands. He unfastened his oxygen lead, radio plug and harness. He barely had time to push away with his feet before he was caught by the slipstream and sent tumbling through space.
18:45 Sunday 2 June 1940.
12th Casualty Clearing Station, Chapeau Rouge, Dunkirk
The Reverend Thomas Charlesworth sat on the steps, his knees drawn up to his chin. The fact that a French 75mm gun crew were setting up in the grounds of the clearing station did not seem to register. He watched without interest as the seven-man crew hastily dug shallow trenches in the overgrown grass and fastened down their heavy field gun.
He shivered and a trickle of cold sweat escaped from his hairline. He felt its progress down to his jaw where it finally halted in the stubble. The Padre slipped off his helmet and ran one hand through his hair. More cold sweat sat at the roots. The helmet, when he placed it back on his head, felt cold and clammy and he shivered again.
He had seen hell and he was sickened to his soul.
He took another deep breath and then stood up. The men lying around in the hallway and up the stairs were those in line for the operating theatre. He shuddered as a bluebottle buzzed close to his ear. He now took shallow breaths through his mouth, tasting the putrefaction on his tongue. The waves of annoyance and frustration that had been his constant companion were transforming themselves subtly into a dull ache. Now he did not feel quite so alone. Others, notably the frenetic doctors and orderlies, were suffering the same impotence.