‘Not lucky enough,’ said Spears. ‘We’re still behind enemy lines.’
There was silence for a moment as the platoon digested this piece of news.
‘I’m sorry, boys,’ said Spears eventually.
‘Where do you reckon we are, Sarge?’ said McLaren. ‘How many miles have we done tonight?
‘About three. I think that makes us about fifteen miles south of Dunkirk,’ he said.
‘Not so far, then,’ said Hebden.
‘No. We should get there tomorrow night.’
‘If only it didn’t get light so damn early,’ said McLaren, ‘we could have pushed on through tonight.’
‘Come on,’ said Spears. ‘We’re almost within shouting distance. Let’s keep going.’
They trudged on. The ground was flat and easy to walk over, but there were also innumerable dykes and streams, which had to be crossed. None of them remained dry, their feet swelled, and even Spears was beginning to feel sore with blisters. His arm also hurt like hell. On top of that, there was the lack of food. All of them were struggling. Hunger was severely affecting their energy levels. It made them less spry when crossing the dykes, and more likely to fall in the water. It made it harder to keep spirits up, even when they were now so close.
As they tramped on, Spears came to a decision. They needed to try to find a farmhouse where they could stop until the following evening. A farmhouse with some food. A farmhouse with some hay they could stuff into their boots to help dry them. A farmhouse where they could rest and get some strength back before the final stretch to the port. It would be a risk, of course, but it was going to be a risk hiding in a wood too. Although he had no real idea what was going on, it was clear the Germans were closing in around the port. The closer they got to Dunkirk, the more enemy there would be. And the more there were, the harder it would be to hide. A Frenchman’s barn was as good a place to hole up as any.
It was nearing three thirty in the morning when he spotted the farmhouse. Since his escape from the German artillery column, the cloud had been gradually clearing, and now the moon was high and bright, revealing a lone farmstead, not so very different from the one they had occupied at Oxelaëre. He paused them all for a moment at the edge of a field beside a farm track. The air smelled fresh and crisp, as he looked around. There was a village a couple of miles to the north-east and another about the same distance to the west – he could see the spires of their respective churches outlined darkly against the sky, but no obvious road linking the two, just the rough track in front of them.
‘What are you thinking, Sarge?’ asked McLaren.
Spears explained. ‘I’m going to go forward and have a dekko at the farm. If I see any sign of Jerries I’ll beat it, but just in case something happens to me I want you to lie low then keep heading north and try to find somewhere else to lie up.’
‘Sarge,’ said Hawke. ‘Let me go and look. You’ve got your arm.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I’ll go. If anything, the wound will help.’ He turned to McLaren. ‘Sid – you’re in charge until I get back. If you think something’s wrong, get going, all right?’
‘Yes, Sarge,’ said McLaren.
‘Good.’
‘Here’s hoping,’ added McLaren.
Spears left behind his tin hat once again and turned on to the track, his feet scrunching loudly on the stone, then headed up the lane to the farm. He could see no obvious vehicle tracks on the dusty ground, but as he neared the farm he began to walk more slowly, more cautiously. With no sign of life in the yard, he gently stepped forward, skirting round the edge of one of the outbuildings towards the house. Suddenly something jumped on to the low barn roof and then down in front of him and he reeled backwards with a start, only to see a cat scamper across the moonlit yard.
Cursing, Spears now approached the front door of the house. For a moment, he stood there, listening. Not a thing stirred. With his good hand, he pulled the revolver from his belt and cocked it, then knocked on the door, cringing at the sound, which seemed to resound clearly around the entire farm.
Spears waited, then eventually heard movement from inside. A lamp was lit – he could see it flickering through the windows to the side – and then he heard footsteps. Spears breathed in deeply, offering a silent prayer that whoever it was who opened the door would be friendly.
Another light flickered from within, and Spears heard muffled talking. Then a bolt was drawn, a lock turned and at last the front door opened.
28
THE HAYLOFT
A middle-aged man, with short, greying hair, squinted at Spears, a shotgun at his hip, and wearing trousers hastily pulled on over his nightshirt.
‘Oui?’ he said, then seeing Spears’s uniform said, ‘Vous êtes Anglais. You are British.’
‘Yes,’ said Spears. ‘We have come from Cassel. We’re trying to get to Dunkirk, but we need help.’
The man eyed him suspiciously. ‘What kind of help?’
‘I have thirteen men. We have not eaten for two days. We need some food and somewhere to hide during the day.’
‘Les Allemands,’ he said, ‘they are everywhere now. Attacking Dunkirk.’
‘I know,’ said Spears. ‘But with your help we can still reach safety.’
The farmer sighed and rubbed his eyes. Behind the door, out of view, Spears heard a woman’s voice. The Frenchman turned to her and spoke rapidly, then turned back to him and rubbed his chin, then sighed heavily again.
‘Where are les autres? Your men?’ He had lowered the shotgun and now took a step out into the yard and looked around.
‘A little way back. Waiting for me on the track.’
‘D’accord,’ he nodded. ‘All right. But not in the house. I have a barn. You can hide there. We will bring you some food.’
‘Thank you,’ said Spears, relief coursing through him. ‘My name is Sergeant Tom Spears. We are from the King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers.’ He held out his hand and the farmer took it and gripped it firmly.
‘Gaston Batiste.’ His wife now appeared, a small, pretty woman, younger than Batiste. ‘My wife, Lucie,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ Spears said again. ‘Merci beaucoup.’
‘We do not like the Germans,’ said Batiste. ‘My wife lost her father at Verdun, and I lost my brother. The last war destroyed this part of France. All because of those stupid Boches, and encore, here they are all over again.’ He spat the word Boches. ‘If you get your men, I will meet you here in the yard.’
The men were all cheered by Spears’s news, and followed him back to the yard where Batiste was waiting for them.
‘Come with me,’ he said, carrying a paraffin lamp. He led them to a barn on the far side of the yard. Old farming machinery and several carts filled the ground floor, but covering half the building was a hayloft with a rickety wooden ladder leading to it. From the old beams hung ropes and chains, while the roof struts sagged from age and the weight of the tiles.
‘Up there,’ said Batiste. ‘The men will be well hidden and can use the hay. There is still enough from last year. We will create a kind of wall with the bales, a barricade of hay, and the men can hide behind it. From below or even from the ladder, it will just look like a solid stack of hay and straw.’ He glanced at Spears’s arm. ‘Will you be able to make it up the ladder?’
‘Yes – I’ve still one good arm.’
Batiste nodded. ‘Good. I will see to the food, then when you have eaten you and I will talk. You will want to know about the Boches, yes?’
The thought of food and rest and chance to dry their sodden feet and legs had lifted the spirits of them all. Once in the hayloft, they had eagerly begun pulling off their boots and stuffing them with dry hay, and laying out their wet socks.
It was dark up there, only a faint, milky light coming through a small rectangular open window at the end of the barn, yet once their eyes became accustomed even this gave th
em just enough to see by. Sitting against the barn’s wall next to Hebden and Drummond, Hawke took a small handful of hay and rubbed it over his feet as though it were a towel. Suddenly released from the wet, warm encasement of his socks and boots, his feet were massaged by the dry dust and gentle scratch of the stalks. He had never before realized that such a simple thing could cause so much soothing pleasure.
Beside him, Hebden breathed in deeply and sighed contentedly. ‘Ahh,’ he said, ‘that’s the smell of home. Dust and hay and wood. I’m going to sleep well here.’
‘Especially if there’s something in our bellies,’ agreed Drummond. ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat anything, even frogs’ legs.’
‘Even snails,’ added Hebden.
‘Do they really eat those things in France?’ asked Hawke.
‘So they say. Fried in garlic.’ Hebden grinned. ‘I’d even put up with bad breath I’m so hungry.’
‘You’ve already got bad breath,’ retorted Drummond. ‘When did you last use any tooth powder?’
‘In Cassel,’ said Hebden. ‘I used some then, which I bet is more than can be said for you.’ He cupped his hands under his nose and breathed heavily. ‘I think I’m all right.’
Hawke did the same, but all he could smell was the musty, sweaty odour of his clothes. ‘I can’t wait to be clean again,’ he said. ‘When I joined up, it was all about looking as clean as a whistle, with shiny buttons and boots you could see your face in. I never thought that I’d ever be this filthy as a soldier.’
‘Filthy with swollen feet and lice,’ said Drummond. ‘At this rate, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to kick a football again. My ruddy feet are knackered.’
‘A few hours off from those boots will make a big difference,’ said Hebden. ‘Keep rubbing them with hay.’
Batiste brought them cheese and apples, and ham and some cider, as well as bread, gratefully taken by the men and brought back up to the hayloft.
‘Ah,’ sighed Hebden, biting into an apple. ‘I really would have eaten frog’s legs, but this is much better. I honestly don’t think I have ever tasted a finer meal.’
‘Me neither,’ agreed Hawke. It was not the largest meal he had ever eaten, but he still felt full. It made him realize just how little they had eaten in the past few days. His stomach had shrunk. He thought of home and his mother. ‘You’ve got hollow legs the amount you eat, Johnny,’ she used to say, and then there would always be the same last word: ‘You’re a growing lad. You’ll be big, just like your father.’ Hawke smiled to himself. Drummond passed him the earthenware jar of cider and he drank thirstily. The cider had a rough, sharp taste, but was delicious.
‘Good, isn’t it?’ said Hebden.
Hawke nodded, took another gulp and in doing so lifted the jar too much, and sweet cider ran down his chin and on to his battledress.
Hebden smiled. ‘It’s strong stuff. It’ll put hairs on your chest, Johnny.’
Hawke passed on the flagon, then suddenly felt overcome with fatigue.
‘I don’t know about that,’ he said to Hebden, ‘but it’s certainly made me sleepy.’ He lay down on the wooden floor, his greatcoat behind his head.
‘Ahhh,’ said Drummond. ‘Little Johnny’s had too much cider.’
‘He’s only a kid,’ laughed Hebden. ‘A tank killer, maybe, but still just a little kid.’
Ignoring them, Hawke smiled to himself, closed his eyes and in moments was fast asleep.
Dawn was breaking as Spears descended the ladder. Like the others, he felt better for the food, but his wound was shooting stabs of pain through his body, and exhaustion was beginning to consume him like a wave. Staggering across the yard, he paused and listened. To the north, he heard the faint dull thud of guns – or was it bombs falling? Above the distant sound of war, however, there was birdsong – a dawn chorus bursting with life.
Inside the house, Batiste led him to the farmhouse kitchen, where the range had already been lit. His wife, he explained, had returned to bed. ‘But she will take a look at your wound shortly,’ he said, taking up a bottle of Calvados from the dresser and pouring two glasses.
‘We have a medic with us,’ said Spears. ‘He has stitched and bandaged it. Although sometimes I think a glass of this is the best medicine.’
Batiste smiled. ‘I understand. But my wife will make you a poultice. You should let her help.’
‘Thank you – and again for all your help.’
Batiste raised a hand. It’s nothing.
‘You said you have information,’ said Spears.
‘Only what I have picked up or heard on the radio.’ He sighed. ‘France is finished, and the British are evacuating, but you know that much.’
‘Are they still evacuating?’
‘Oui. British and French troops were flooding through here a few days ago but now it is only the Boches. Our troops have been holding a line around Dunkirk behind the Bergues-Furnes Canal. That has been the front line, but more and more German troops are moving up. You must be quick.’
‘We can’t move again until dark.’
‘I know. But you must get there tomorrow night. Rest here then hurry. You have a map?’
Spears took it out, embarrassed by its large scale.
‘Pah!’ said Batiste. ‘This is no good. I will find you a better one, and show you a route away from the roads.’ He drained his glass. ‘And now let us sleep.’
When Hawke awoke, bright sunlight was pouring through the window and between cracks in the tiles above, casting sharp beams of light in which many dust particles lazily swirled. He was lying alone on the wooden floorboards and felt momentarily confused until he saw the mound of hay and straw sheaves and realized that the rest of the men must be sleeping out of sight behind it.
To the north he could hear the guns but a little way away he could hear something else – something that had somehow caused him to wake. Engines. Vehicle engines.
Hastily getting to his feet he hurried round the side of the wall of straw and hay and saw the men all fast asleep. Seeing Spears, he crouched down beside him.
‘Sarge! Sarge! Wake up!’
Spears rolled his head, then opened his eyes. Hawke saw there were beads of perspiration on his forehead.
‘What is it?’ he murmured.
‘I can hear vehicles.’
Spears eased himself up, wincing with pain. ‘All right. Wake the rest.’
The others were already stirring, yawning and rubbing eyes, but then as sound of vehicles drew closer any vestiges of sleep vanished and they became instantly alert.
‘Everyone – keep behind this barricade and don’t say a word,’ said Spears. ‘A single cough will give us away.’
Hawke sat down beside Spears, leaning against the back wall of the barn and staring at the wall of bales in front of them. Outside, what sounded like a motorcycle and a heavy truck were pulling into the yard.
The engines were cut, then a few orders barked. Sounds of men clambering from the truck, boots heavy on the yard. Hawke hardly dared breathe. He suddenly wondered whether they had left any prints from their own boots – but it had been dark and he had no idea whether they had or not.
Now he could hear Batiste. He strained to hear. What was the tone of his voice, of the conversation between him and the Germans? He couldn’t tell. Hawke glanced around at the others. Fletcher and White looked scared, eyes blinking repeatedly. Hebden was biting at a fingernail, Drummond sitting with his head lowered and eyes closed. Spears stared straight ahead, but, Hawke saw, the beads of perspiration still pricked his brow and upper lip.
The great wooden door of the barn was pushed open, the ageing hinges creaking loudly, and Hawke flinched. A fly was buzzing around them and then it settled on his face, tickling him. He desperately wanted to whisk it away but did not dare to. Then it moved, flying off, its wings buzzing noisily.
Several Germans were talking, then one laugh
ed. Now they were moving something – yanking something heavy and muttering with the strain. So they’re not looking for us, Hawke thought to himself, but then they heard someone climbing the ladder. No, thought Hawke, please no. And he felt a bead of sweat on his own head, running down his temple and on to his cheek. Again, he had an overwhelming urge to move and wipe it away, but he just sat there, rigid, his heart hammering, desperately trying not to move a single muscle.
A thump as the soldier clambered on to the hayloft, then steps across the wooden floorboards. He spoke something, then took a few more steps. He was just a couple of yards away now. Hawke closed his eyes. Surely this was it. For a moment – just a brief moment – there was silence, absolute silence. Then the fly buzzed somewhere and the floorboards creaked as the soldier shifted his weight.
‘Es gibt hier nichts – nur ein paar Heuballen,’ he called down to his comrades. And then he stepped back towards the ladder and Hawke heard him clamber on and begin to climb back down, but then Matherson suddenly clenched his teeth in agony and began rubbing his leg. Spears glared at him as the floorboards creaked again. On the ladder, the soldier stopped and, once again, Hawke froze. Across from him, Matherson was still gripping his leg, his face contorted with pain.
Stop moving! Please stop moving! Hawke wanted to shout.
The ladder creaked as the German began climbing back up towards the hayloft. No! thought Hawke. No! Steps back across the floorboards, slow, steady. Cautious.
Hawke held his breath, and prayed.
29
THE CANAL
Seconds passed. Matherson was still struggling, his face red with the effort of keeping pain under control, but then suddenly he relaxed, breathed out silently and closed his eyes with relief. Behind their makeshift barricade of hay and straw bales, the floorboards creaked again and then they heard the German step backwards, and clamber back on to the ladder. One of his comrades called up to him, but he replied, ‘Es war nichts,’ and continued on down the ladder.
Dunkirk Page 25