Dunkirk Spirit

by Alan Pearce

  ‘Umm. I see.’

  ‘And he’s pulled the pin out. It could all turn rather nasty.’

  ‘Lead me to him.’

  When the Padre reached the third floor landing he saw several men on their hands and knees struggling to crawl away, their eyes white with alarm. One man wrapped in blood-stained bandages dragged himself painfully across the floor. The Padre stepped carefully around him. In the far corner of the room and lying on a straw-filled palliasse lay a man in a crudely-fashioned neck brace. He stared up at the ceiling, a tortured expression on his face and a hand grenade held tightly to his chest. The Padre approached carefully and lowered himself to the floor. He had seen the man before and had tried to engage him in conversation. He had not even opened his eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ said the Padre softly. ‘Can you hear me? I am a chaplain.’

  He looked at the man. The tears which continued to trickle from his eyes had cut a furrow through the dirt on his face.

  ‘I thought you might like to say a prayer together.’

  Without moving his head, the man turned his eyes. They focused briefly on the Padre and then he screwed them both tightly shut. A large tear ran down and settled in his ear. The Padre looked around. Four other men remained in the room, too far gone to remove themselves. One man had pulled his palliasse over his head in a futile attempt to shield himself from the anticipated blast.

  ‘You have something in your hand,’ the Padre said.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Do you mind if I take it?’

  ‘Mmm. Mmm.’

  ‘I don’t know very much about weapons,’ admitted the Padre. ‘But I do know you have to be very careful with those things.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  The Padre looked at the man’s other hand. A small wire ring was looped through his forefinger. A bent pin hung loose.

  ‘I think we should put the pin back, don’t you?’

  ‘Mmm’

  ‘Are you able to do it?’

  ‘Mmm. Mmm.’

  ‘Would you like me to have a go?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  The Padre had never received any formal infantry training and the weapons that the men carried had always made him feel ill at ease. A curious tingle flushed across his scalp as tiny molecules of cold sweat broke out beneath the helmet. He took a deep breath through his mouth and slowly stretched out his hand. His heart began to pound in his ears. His hand hovered over the grenade. Despite the residue of dried blood and grime, the man’s knuckles shone an ivory white through the skin. The Padre lay his hand gently on top.

  ‘It’s not a good thing, you know, to keep weapons here in a hospital,’ the Padre told him. His voice was soft and tender. ‘The Germans could be here any time now. And they will kill us all if they find that here.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You must think of your friends. You don’t want to hurt them, do you?’

  ‘Mmm. Mmm.’

  The Padre gave the man’s hand a very gentle squeeze. It was as cold as stone. ‘Can I take it from you now?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  The Padre’s head began to swim. The first trickle of sweat was running from the band of his helmet and into his stubble. He moved his other hand very slowly. ‘I am just going to take the pin,’ he told him. ‘Relax.’ The ring slipped off the finger.

  ‘Umm,’ said the Padre. ‘Umm.’ He did not know what to do next. He looked around the room. Nobody was in a fit state to help or even offer advice. He had a terrible urge to be sick. His bowels had long since turned to water and he fought hard to keep his body in check.

  ‘I think the pin is bent.’ He retained a firm grip over the hand clutching the grenade, and leant closer, his face just inches from the man’s. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Don’t let go the lever.’ The words came out of the man as a hiss, as if bypassing the vocal cords. Another tear trickled from his eye. ‘I didn’t mean to cause no trouble.’

  ‘What were you thinking?’ asked the Padre. His fingers found the smooth metal of the lever. ‘Were you planning to take the German army with you?’

  ‘Mmm. Mmm.’ He turned his eyes towards the Padre. ‘I just, I just don’t want to go on, see? I’ve ‘ad enough.’

  ‘Don’t give up. There is always hope. The Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.’

  ‘And what about the Jerries, eh? What they gonna do when they take a look at me?’ He squeezed his eyes tightly shut again. ‘They won’t be sending me to convalesce in Baden-Baden, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Umm.’ The Padre used both hands now. ‘Point taken.’ He cupped the bomb carefully with one and edged his fingers beneath the man’s tight grip until he found himself clasping down on the lever.

  ‘Got it?’ asked the man.

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Don’t let go the lever.’

  The Padre sucked in air rapidly.

  ‘I never thought it would come to this.’ The man made a prolonged rasping noise and cleared his throat. ‘I don’t suppose anyone really thinks they’re gonna die, do they?’

  ‘I think that we all have to face up to the inevitable.’

  ‘You might laugh,’ groaned the man. ‘But I had the sense that I was bloody immortal until last week. Really! But then all my mates started to get killed. And the wounds! Christ! I never imagined you could see a bloke, especially one you know, turned inside out. People’s guts hanging from ruddy trees. Legs like minced beef.’ He struggled to compose himself. ‘I tell yer, you get to think about stuff like that when you’re lying ‘ere. It’s not what I expected at all.’

  The Padre sighed. As far as he was concerned, Army life was proving one big epiphany.

  ‘If I’d been a dog, they’d ‘ave put me down by now,’ explained the man. ‘I didn’t mean no harm. I only wanted it for myself.’

  The Reverend Thomas Charlesworth raised himself up on his knees. In his hands he clasped the heavy Mills bomb, its destructive power enough to shred every man in the room twice over. Sweat now poured in a veritable torrent from inside his helmet. The first hint of cramp began to dull his fingers. Despite the oppressive damp heat of the room he felt chilled to his core.

  ‘I’ll go find one of the orderlies.’ He tried hard to smile at the man as he stood on unsteady feet. ‘We will come back and give you an injection.’

  ‘More bloody duck weed, Padre!’ Sandy nodded down the length of his prostrate body to the tiny flecks of emerald green. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Fine,’ said the Padre. He settled himself down on the steps. ‘Just fine.’

  ‘What was he trying to do, get everyone killed?’

  ‘No, just himself.’

  ‘Should have let him’ declared Sandy. ‘I’d have shut the door and left him to it!’

  He chuffed. ‘What did you do, put the pin back in?’

  The Padre shook his head. ‘I had to throw it in the pond.’

  ‘Hence all the bloody duckweed, eh?’

  ‘In a nutshell.’ The Padre smiled.

  ‘Then I think you’ve earned a drink, Padre. There’s a flask in my trouser pocket. Can you get it?’

  The Padre retrieved the flask and unfastened the top. He lent forward and gently lifted the young lieutenant’s head.

  ‘No, you first, Padre.’

  ‘Umm, it’s not really my cup of tea. It gives me a headache. Oh my, this is a beautiful flask!’

  ‘It belonged to my friend Peter. Lovely chap; he got the DSO in the last war. Just have the one sip. Come on, Padre. You’ve earned it.’

  The Reverend Thomas Charlesworth had few moral objections to alcohol; he simply did not enjoy the taste. He sniffed the top.

  ‘Bottoms up!’ he declared, upending the flask. He stopped and jerked back suddenly, his eyes wide open. He let his tongue travel across his lips. ‘I say! What is this?’

  ‘Knowing Peter, it’s the finest cognac.’

  ‘It’s lovely!’ The Padre raised the flask again. ‘May
I?’

  ‘Of course. But don’t get a taste for it. Not now.’

  13:40 Monday 3 June 1940.

  Snowdown Station, Southern Railways, Kent

  ‘What, that chap there? The one done up like an Egyptian mummy? What makes you think he’s French? He’s got British Army boots on and gaiters.’

  ‘Because he has a handful of snails.’

  ‘Snails?’

  ‘And they don’t look at all appetising.’ Margaret screwed up her face.

  ‘Is he eating them raw?’ asked Major Featherstonehaugh. ‘Surely not?’ He wore a snappy three-piece tweed suit, every inch the squire. His military bearing, tanned face and solid frame had not been lost on the other women of the WVS who manned the platform. At a trim fourteen-and-a-half stone, the Major cut an impressive figure.

  ‘No,’ said Margaret. ‘He doesn’t want anything. And he won’t speak a word.’

  The Major let out a deep sigh. There was no point speaking French to the fellow. ‘He’s obviously one of ours and very likely a little doolally t’boot. Why don’t you just shunt him off on the next train?’

  ‘Because he looks so sad,’ explained Margaret. ‘He’s a good-looking boy or he would be after a hot bath and a shave. I bet there’s a mother somewhere frantic with worry.’

  ‘D’you collect waifs and strays?’ asked the Major, chuckling.

  ‘Only the handsome ones.’ Margaret felt her face flush instantly. She chuckled, too. ‘Rose!’ she turned to the trestle table. ‘Two cups of tea please.’

  ‘There, there,’ whispered Margaret. ‘Put your head on my shoulder.’

  The young soldier did as he was told.

  ‘It’s all right to cry, you know,’ Margaret told him. ‘Really. There’s no shame in it. Get the emotions out. You will feel better, I promise.’

  Archie Marley sniffed at first. Margaret felt the sobs start deep within his chest. He gasped for air and then burst into tears, an uncontrollable flood that left a lengthy watermark across her breast. She ached deep inside and felt a lump grow in her throat. ‘Your poor mother,’ she thought. ‘And you poor, poor boy. What have you been through?’

  Archie took a deep breath. He kept his cheek pressed to Margaret’s bosom. He would never move again. He would stay here, held tight to a warm, soft breast, his hair gently stroked. And then he cried again; this time without sound, just a series of wracking convulsions.

  ‘You poor darling,’ Margaret told him. ‘If I had a son he would be just your age now. And if I were your mother I would be so happy to know that you were back safe and sound.’ Margaret had to blink quickly to halt the tears that were in danger of brimming. She breathed deeply, lifting Archie’s head several inches higher. He knew he could not stay like this for ever. He pulled himself upright.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Margaret. She dived into her sleeve for a hanky and quickly pressed it into Archie’s hand.

  ‘That sounds like a trumpet!’ Margaret told him, laughing.

  Archie made the sound again. He wiped the sodden handkerchief across his nose and rubbed quickly at his red eyes. He looked at Margaret and laughed for the first time in a week.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I must look like a right ‘un!’

  ‘Like a hero,’ smiled Margaret, her eyes glinting. She shook her head. ‘Like a hero back from the war and you have been in the wars, haven’t you?’ She sat upright and held Archie’s shoulders. ‘What will your poor mother say?’

  Archie huffed. ‘She won’t say a thing. I probably won’t even bother to go round and see her.’

  ‘Pardon? Oh, you must. She will be worried sick.’

  ‘No she won’t.’ Archie sneered. ‘I’ve only got one real family and it’s not even mine anymore. I can’t go back there.’

  ‘Why on Earth not? What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Archie told her.

  ‘Sip your tea,’ Margaret told him. She stretched out for the mug and pressed it into his hands. ‘And tell me all about it.’

  ‘No, I absolutely forbid it!’ said Margaret, clearly agitated. ‘You only have one life and I will not see you throw it away. One gets so few opportunities in life for real love.’ She shook him by the shoulders and then wished she hadn’t, seeing the obvious pain in his eyes.

  ‘Life is too short and who can say what tomorrow will bring? My husband and I loved each other so deeply that I often felt it as a physical pain. Every morning and every night we said I love you.’

  She was shaking her head. Margaret’s eyes were closed. She held Archie Marley’s hand in her own and was squeezing a little too tight. ‘You mustn’t stop fighting now,’ she told him. ‘You go back to Grace. You knock on that door. Tell them about Bill. Tell them straight away. But don’t think they could ever reject you. And tell that girl you love her. Grasp the nettle! And tell her every morning and every night, because you may not have a tomorrow.’

  14:35 Monday 3 June 1940.

  Dunkirk, France

  Commander Babbington smelt the horses a long time before he saw them. They lay where he had left them, attracting flies in a tangled heap down a narrow cul-de-sac. At least two of the horses had been hastily butchered, their buttocks hacked off, and the flesh now purple and dry.

  Broken glass crunched underfoot. The smell of bonfires filled the air. He sidestepped the telegraph wires and masonry until he stood facing the barber’s shop. Instinctively, his hand was drawn to his chin. He rasped the stubble and examined his reflection. And then he froze. He stepped closer to the glass and peered inside.

  The barber, who had been flicking through his stack of tired magazines, instantly pulled himself to his feet and beckoned the Commander. He moved quickly to open the door and stood aside. ‘Bonjour monsieur. Veuillez entrer.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Entrez. Entrez!’

  ‘Ah, thank you,’ smiled back Binky. He allowed the man to take his helmet, webbing, and mackintosh, which he hung on a rack before motioning for the Commander to take his seat. It was then that he noticed little Sago. The dog, equally baffled as Binky, hesitated in the doorway.

  ‘A little dog!’ exclaimed the barber. ‘Is he with you, monsieur?’

  ‘Yes,’ declared Binky. He studied his own reflection in the mirror: a week’s worth of stubble and grime, bloodshot eyes sunk deep into his skull, and the sparse grey hair flattened to his head.

  The barber affixed a sheet of soft white linen around Binky’s neck and studied the Commander. ‘I suggest a shave, a shampoo and rinse, and then a trim.’

  ‘Perfect!’

  ‘A complete wash and brush up, monsieur.’

  ‘For me or the dog?’ asked Binky.

  ‘For both, if you wish, monsieur.’

  ‘Then make it so,’ smiled Binky. ‘Nice and short at the sides, but leave as much as you can on top. And a thorough shampoo for my little friend.’

  ‘Monsieur, water is the problem, of course. I have a little water but I do not have hot water. Is that acceptable?’

  Binky laughed. ‘I don’t even have an appointment! I’m not going to complain.’

  ‘An appointment is not necessary. Today is a slow day.’

  ‘So I imagine.’

  ‘It will, of course, get more busy later.’

  ‘Are you expecting customers?’

  The barber who had a curiously large lump on his head, an obvious tumour, spoke with a painful wheeze. ‘Of course! Of course! The Germans will arrive soon. One cannot always choose one’s customers, but their hair grows just as fast as everyone else’s. They will need haircuts, too. Excuse me.’ He left the room to fill a jug.

  ‘Aren’t you worried?’ called Binky over his shoulder.

  ‘No,’ called the man. He walked back into the room and began to pour water into the sink. ‘We barbers, we are neutral. We are like the bakers. Everybody needs bread and everybody needs to have his hair cut. Even in a world on fire, these things are necessities. Please.’

  He held the back of Binky’s neck an
d drew him closer to the sink. ‘It is cold, I must warn you.’

  Binky luxuriated in the sensation. The barber applied a little liquid soap and began a vigorous massage. A rush of endorphins flowed through the Commander’s heart. After the second rinse and back upright in the chair, he asked, ‘Where did you learn English?’

  ‘On the White Star Line, monsieur.’ He rubbed the towel briskly with firm fingers.

  ‘A good life?’ asked Binky.

  ‘If you cut ladies’ hair, it is a very good life.’ They both chuckled.

  The barber turned to whip up some lather, allowing Binky to study the giant tumour. Fine wispy hairs struggled to cover the flaking pink lump.

  ‘And the Germans?’ asked Binky, again. ‘What about your family? You must be scared.’

  ‘About what?’ He lathered the Commander’s face. ‘That they will destroy the town? I do not think so. It is destroyed enough already.’

  Binky watched the man test the cutthroat razor with his thumb. Satisfied, he lent forward and stretched the skin tight around Binky’s hairline. Scrape, scrape went the blade. ‘What more can they do? And, besides, they will want to live here now. Things will improve.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so. I was born near Epinal. During the last war it was under the Germans. Things were not so bad. All right, they were bad for everyone. That is war. But I think they were no more bad than they were here.’ He examined Binky’s head from several directions.

  ‘And what about the British?’ asked Binky. ‘How do you feel about us leaving?’

  ‘You abandon us, monsieur. You abandon France to her fate and you save your own necks. Hold still, please.’

  The blade took delicate strokes around the Commander’s pronounced Adam’s apple. ‘Oh, really?’ asked Binky when he had finished. The barber wiped away the excess foam from his ears, nodding satisfaction. ‘But Britain, with just one small army here, you could never expect us to save France.’