Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  This was like no hospital he had ever visited. It more resembled a macabre production line where the sick, wounded and dying came through its doors to be patched and processed. But, unlike any sane factory, nothing came out the other end. The products littered the grass, waiting for a collection that might never come.

  The Padre knelt down and looked at one of the men on the floor. In the normal course of events, in a life that could once have been considered ordinary, men with both legs blown off at the knee might be expected to scream and wail their misery. Not so here. Their Christ-like suffering put them closer to God than even the brightest of stained glass.

  ‘Hello,’ smiled the Padre. ‘Would you like to say a short prayer together?’

  The man had difficulty opening his eyes, and when he did the pain was apparent. ‘Please.’

  ‘Is there anything in particular?’

  ‘I’m not really sure. I never stopped to give religion much thought. Not until now, that is.’ He tried to laugh but it caught in his throat. ‘I used to flippin’ hate Sunday school.’

  ‘And so did I,’ lied the Padre. ‘But we can all find peace and strength through prayer.’

  ‘What do you suggest, then?’ asked the man. He had a faded red M painted on his forehead.

  ‘I think that there is a lot of strength to be found in the psalms,’ the Padre told him. ‘They were written, you see, in the days of the Old Testament, another time of great troubles.’ He smiled kindly. ‘There is always a psalm to suit the moment. Only a few minutes ago, I was thinking of number 27.’

  ‘Let’s have that one then, sir.’ He gritted his teeth.

  The Padre smiled and took the man’s hand. ‘Though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear; though war break out against me, even then will I be confident.’

  ‘Do you find that helps then, sir?’ The man did not sound convinced.

  ‘Very much.’ The Padre gave the man’s hand a gentle squeeze.

  ‘And you’re confident, are you, sir?’

  The Padre held the man’s gaze. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What of exactly, sir?’

  The Padre’s heart beat a little faster.

  The man shut his eyes for a moment and took a slow, deep breath. ‘Are you confident of going home?’

  ‘I have faith. I have faith in England and faith in the Royal Navy.’

  ‘I wish I ‘ad.’ The man nodded and winced. ‘Do they have proper anaesthetics in there?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course they do.’ The Padre felt the cold sweat break out again from his hairline. He let go of the man’s hand, letting it rest on the stone floor.

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that, sir, ‘cos I just pray I don’t wake up again. You got a psalm for that?’

  ‘We heard the Jerries aren’t taking prisoners, sir,’ said a man from the Ox and Bucks Light Infantry, one of several suffering shrapnel wounds. The men lay together in a corner.

  ‘Well, I would not believe everything you hear.’ The Padre attempted a thin smile. ‘Truth is always the first casualty of war, you know.’

  ‘We heard they were putting blokes up against the nearest wall,’ said a lance corporal with bandaged legs. ‘And shooting ‘em in cold blood, Padre.’

  ‘Umm,’ murmured the Padre. ‘You just have to cast your mind back to the last war. All those rumours of German atrocities.’ He shook his head. ‘Pure propaganda.’

  ‘Not the way my old man used to tell it,’ put in a weasel-faced private.

  ‘They’re moving so fast that they ain’t got time to look after prisoners,’ explained another man. He wore no clothes and had a piece of sacking to cover his decency. ‘What’s gonna happen when they get here, d’you reckon?’ he asked.

  ‘Umm. That really should not be an issue,’ began the Padre.

  ‘I reckon they’ll toss grenades in and then finish us off with bayonets.’

  ‘Good Heavens! No!’

  ‘We thought you might say a few words, sir,’ said the man who had started the conversation. ‘Something to help us feel more at peace, you know, when the time comes, sir.’

  ‘Ah, Padre! Just the chap,’ called Major Newman. He cocked his head for the Padre to follow him outside. ‘You don’t speak French, do you?’

  ‘Umm, not above ordering egg and chips,’ he admitted. ‘Why?’

  ‘Bloody Frogs are planning a last stand here. Look!’

  More 75mm guns were now in place. An officer was bellowing into a field telephone. Another man led a team of artillery horses past the steps.

  ‘Won’t they protect us?’ he asked, innocently.

  ‘What? Protect us! You must be joking! They’ll have the Germans on to us in a flash. Counter-battery fire and then tanks and infantry! That bloody colonel professes not to understand a damn word I say.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Padre.

  ‘Anyway, that’s not why I wanted you,’ explained the major. ‘I was wondering if you could help with something else.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘There are two hospital ships on their way now. There isn’t much time. They have to be out of here by nightfall. But it means we can evacuate this post.’

  The Padre let out a deep sigh. ‘That’s wonderful news!’ he exclaimed. ‘And what would you like me to do?’

  ‘Padre, I would like you to organise a lottery.’

  19:05 Sunday 2 June 1940.

  W Buoy, Route X, approaching Dunkirk

  ‘We’re putting a bit of a spurt on!’ declared Leading Seaman Stewart Cragg.

  HMS Cameron, in company with the destroyer Shikari, cut a straight white line on the surface of the sea. Her lookouts held a buoy in sight, marking the start of the Outer Ruytingen bank and the entrance through the treacherous shallows; and by rights she should be reducing speed. Instinctively, the three-man crew of the starboard 20mm anti-aircraft gun returned their gaze to the sky.

  There was something playing on Soapy’s mind. ‘But what d’you mean, I’ll have to do a turn?’ he asked.

  ‘Everyone has to do a turn at a party,’ insisted Nipper.

  ‘What sing, you mean?’

  ‘Sing or recite something.’

  ‘I can’t sing a note.’ Soapy had an edge of panic in his voice. As a new member of the ship’s company he had yet to experience a jolly aboard and, as an orphan, he had thus far been spared the necessity of doing a turn. ‘And I don’t know any songs!’

  ‘Course you must know some bloody songs,’ insisted Cragg, sneering. ‘Knees Up Mother Brown. For Christ’s sake! Roll out the Barrel. Everyone knows those.’

  ‘But I don’t know all the words.’

  ‘Give me strength!’ huffed Cragg. ‘Didn’t they teach you nothing at that approved school?’

  ‘It wasn’t an approved school. It was an orphanage. A Catholic orphanage. We only did hymns.’

  ‘Well, we don’t want one of those, do we? We’ll all want to slash our bloomin’ wrists!’

  ‘Can’t you recite something?’ asked Nipper.

  ‘Like what?’ asked Soapy.

  ‘How about, The Boy stood on the burning deck?’ suggested Cragg. ‘That should go down well!’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘I’ll teach you,’ announced Cragg. ‘Repeat after me.’ He smiled patiently. ‘The boy stood on the burning deck, his lips all a quiver. He gave a cough; his leg fell off and floated down the river! Ha, ha!’

  ‘That’s not the right words.’ Nipper took his eyes away from the sky and gave Cragg an askance look.

  ‘And it ain’t very long, is it?’ Soapy shook his head. ‘I can’t just say that!’

  ‘You have to do a little dance as well,’ added Cragg.

  ‘Bollocks, do I!’

  Cameron’s bells clattered out the alarm and the ship began an aggressive turn to port. ‘Here we go,’ announced Nipper. ‘Saved by the bell!’

  Cragg braced himself inside the harness. They watched the sky. The ship’s starboard side began to lift high out of the water and so
on Cragg’s crew could see two Stukas hurrying away.

  ‘Balls!’ spat Cragg in disgust.

  From somewhere out of view HMS Shikari opened up with her anti-aircraft defences. First came the steam hammer thud of her two-pounders and then the staccato pom-pom, pom-pom of her 20mm guns.

  ‘Some blokes have all fun,’ declared Cragg.

  In time, the hospital ship Paris came into view. In her livery of bright white and red cross, the former cross-Channel steamer looked strangely vulnerable in the wide expanse of blue sea. She sat low in the water, tossing gently on the swell, her engines dead and not a light to be seen.

  ‘What’s wrong with her, then?’ asked Soapy. ‘I don’t see any smoke or anything.’

  Cameron drew closer and began to slowly circle the small steamer. Figures could be made out on the foredeck.

  ‘I think they’re lowering the boats,’ gasped Soapy. He cupped his hands beneath the brim of his helmet and squinted across the bright water. Those with good eyes or binoculars saw two of the three derricks on the starboard side slowly crank the lifeboats down. Cragg and Nipper kept their eyes in the sky, constantly turning their heads and barely daring to breathe. The ship’s bells died away and silence settled over the sea.

  Now Cragg whispered. ‘They’re be back. Bloody sitting duck, or what?’

  Both Soapy and Nipper nodded and swallowed. Their throats suddenly dry.

  Nipper tore his eyes away from the sky and snatched a quick glance at the hospital ship. One of the two lifeboats was already on its way. He saw the glint of the oars. He flicked his head back to the sky. Cameron continued her cruise around the ship, everybody’s senses running on over-drive. And then her engines increased their revs and the destroyer began to tear away.

  ‘What now?’ asked Cragg of no one in particular. They felt the ship vibrate through the soles of their feet. The warm evening breeze brushed gently across their faces.

  ‘We ain’t leaving her, are we?’ asked Soapy, looking back.

  ‘What’s it bloody look like?’ asked Cragg.

  19:30 Sunday 2 June 1940.

  12th Casualty Clearing Station, Chapeau Rouge, Dunkirk

  ‘I have some good news and some bad news,’ announced the Padre. He stood bareheaded; his helmet held out before him as if in supplication. On Major Newman’s instructions he had gathered all the orderlies in the cellar and he held every man’s attention. ‘Which would you like first?’

  ‘What’s the good news, sir?’

  The Padre was obliged to pause while the French 75mm guns blasted out another salvo. The air pressure in the dank cellar rose alarmingly and dust and tiny fragments filled the air. He pulled himself upright and shook his head, shaking free some of the dust. ‘The good news is that there are two hospital ships on their way to us right now.’

  ‘And what’s the bad news, sir?’

  ‘Some of you will have to stay behind.’

  The cellar filled with the men’s groans. Pockets of quick conversation broke out.

  ‘Umm,’ called the Padre for attention. ‘Umm. There are many here who are simply too badly hurt to be moved. Major Newman has instructed me to tell you that, with approximately three hundred such cases, thirty of you gentlemen will have to stay.’

  Now the room fell silent.

  ‘How many of the officers are staying, sir?’

  ‘Three officers will remain behind. Those are the rules, apparently.’

  ‘And what about the Jerries, sir? Who’s rules are they following?’

  The Padre tried not to umm. ‘I think we should assume that they will abide by the rules of the Geneva Convention.’ He lent forward and peered over the top of his thick glasses. ‘And under those rules, I am told, you can expect as medical personnel to be repatriated home at the first opportunity and will not be considered as prisoners of war.’

  The Padre looked at the men’s faces. Most were blank. A few had shut their eyes and rocked unsteady on their feet. ‘I have held a few lotteries in my time,’ he admitted. ‘But none as poignant as this. As I am sure you are aware, this will mean certain capture.’

  The Padre felt a shiver run down his own spine. He paused, imagining the men from the Ox and Bucks Light Infantry huddled in a corner and waiting for the cold steel. He looked around the room. ‘I have in my helmet one hundred and twenty pieces of paper. Just thirty of them are marked with an X.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘I dare say I do not have to explain the rest. So, gentlemen, please. Who would like to be first?’

  ‘Thank you very much for that, Padre,’ smiled Major Newman. ‘Rotten business.’

  Both men stood on the steps. Three large Bedfords had reversed into the grounds. A swarm of men gathered around each. It was painful to watch. Men who would otherwise be lying sedated in intensive care were hobbling across the grass. One man, short of crutches, hopped painfully, supported by a coal hammer and a garden rake tucked under an arm.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ the Padre suddenly exclaimed. He placed a hand to his mouth. ‘The young lieutenant!’

  ‘God, no! Far too ill, I’m afraid.’ The major quickly shook his head at the Padre and creased his brow. ‘And what with those feet! No chance. He’s damn lucky I’ve not had them off, too.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ exclaimed the Padre.

  ‘He lost so much blood,’ continued Major Newman. ‘I don’t want to move him now, not after that operation. But no use crying over spilt milk. He’ll be in good hands.’

  The Padre nodded sadly. ‘I did suspect as much.’ He felt surprisingly serene. ‘And what about you, major?’ he asked.

  ‘Seventeen medical officers and I draw the shortest straw! Such is life. Anyway, it may not be for long.’

  ‘All over by Christmas?’ asked the Padre, curling a lip.

  ‘Who knows,’ smiled the major. ‘Perhaps we’ll have to move a few borders around. Give them back their colonies, whatever. I can’t see this one lasting like the last. Nobody’s got the stomach for the long haul any more.’

  ‘Let’s hope you are right,’ nodded the Padre. He went to chew his lip and very nearly bit it through as the French let off another salvo in the garden. Both men winced. ‘What should I tell him?’ he asked.

  There were two possible answers running through Major Newman’s mind; the one kind, the other professional. ‘Huns aside,’ he said. ‘Tell him he has a twenty percent chance of survival.’

  ‘Really?’ asked the Padre.

  ‘Well,’ said the major. ‘Not exactly. His chances are better than that, but I know his type. Assuming he gets some medical treatment he should be all right and then, of course, he’ll give up trying. But tell him his chances are slim and he’ll fight like a demon.’

  The Padre smiled. He ran his fingers through his damp hair and slipped the helmet back on.

  ‘I simply cannot thank you enough,’ smiled Sandy. ‘I just wish my arm wouldn’t itch so damn much.’

  The Padre felt uncomfortable again. He looked at the bandaged stump. The arm ended just above the elbow. An awful thought occurred. Did he have to break the news?

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Sandy. ‘I know they took my ruddy arm off.’ He shook his head and pressed a dry tongue to his cheek. ‘But I can actually feel my fingers wiggle. Imagine that! I can even snap my finger and thumb, only I can’t hear it.’

  ‘Well, at least they left you enough to tuck your evening paper under.’ The Padre had to look away.

  ‘My sister will be glad,’ Sandy told the Padre.

  He shook his head, a blank expression.

  ‘Won’t be able to play the bagpipes again, you see,’ Sandy explained.

  ‘Nor the piano,’ added the Padre.

  ‘Every cloud, hey?’ Sandy smiled. ‘Oh!’ he added suddenly. ‘I have some good news, Padre! There are two hospital ships coming to get us.’

  20:05 Sunday 2 June 1940.

  W Buoy, Route X, approaching Dunkirk

  ‘That should do for now!’ Barry straightened up and looked at the dial.
He drew the back of his hand across his brow and then wiped away the stinging sweat that ran into his eyes.

  Clive tossed his shovel back onto the coal heap and flopped down against the bulkhead. Inside the Marchioness’s cramped boiler room came the sound of waves lapping steadily against her sides.

  ‘I should think another half hour,’ said Clive, looking at his watch. He examined his nails and wondered if he would ever get them clean again. The Marchioness now had a full head of steam in readiness for her arrival at the coast and Clive was almost regretting staying on for the extra scrambled eggs. He could be at home with his feet up and Julia mixing extravagant cocktails while they listened to the wireless. Instead, he sipped at a bottle of warm beer and tried to catch his breath. Up above, they could hear a faint commotion as someone ran the length of the boat.

  ‘Oy! We’re slipping our tow in a mo’. Popeye’s face peered through the hatchway.

  ‘Already?’ asked Barry.

  Popeye nodded his chin and eyed the beer bottles. ‘Someone’s gone and got themselves in a pickle. We’ve got to go sort it out.’

  ‘What sort of pickle?’ asked Clive.

  ‘How should I bloomin’ know? They don’t tell me nothing!’ Popeye’s head disappeared.

  Barry’s face was ashen. ‘You don’t want to go up there,’ he said. ‘It might upset you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Clive lent on his shovel and narrowed his brows.

  ‘At least down here you don’t have to watch those damn dive bombers.’ He lit a cigarette.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Barry blew out a vast cloud of smoke. ‘A big boat, all painted white with a red cross.’ He sucked on the cigarette again. ‘Dead in the water. Lifeboats all over the place.’ He exhaled. ‘And bombs dropping everywhere.’