Dover Beach

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘That’s what I thought, sir. How touchy it is, I don’t know. I’ve sent for the disposal squad, but it could go up any second.’

  Cartwright surveyed the unmoving crowd. ‘We’ve got to get these people out of the way at once,’ he said. There was a group of helmeted policemen. He called over to them.

  A sergeant detached himself and strode over. He was sucking his teeth. ‘What can we do, sir?’

  ‘Get rid of these people. There’s an unexploded bomb.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said the policeman. He gave his teeth another suck.

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Sharply he turned towards the wrecked house, a pyramid of debris, with the engineers sergeant following him. ‘Let’s have a look,’ he said. ‘What’s your name, sergeant?’

  ‘Dunphy, sir.’ Then, as if an explanation were required: ‘I’m Irish.’

  ‘I’ll remember it.’

  They had reached the edge of the wreckage and the air was thick with a smell of cement and explosives. A single doorpost seemed to be holding up a twenty-foot pyramid. There was still the shattered remnant of the door and a few feet of exposed passage. Fearfully Cartwright stepped in. At once he heard a child cry, but not urgently, a lulling sound. An inch at a time he eased away a plaster wall still hung together by flowered wallpaper and went, one small step following another, along the passage. ‘Where is it?’ he asked Dunphy. ‘This bomb?’

  ‘Right ahead, round the corner, sir.’ They stepped gingerly. ‘There.’

  Cartwright felt himself go pale. The bomb was standing on end, like a hot-water tank, two of its fins and half its body visible. ‘It’s ticking,’ he whispered.

  ‘I hear it, sir.’

  Like a reminder they heard the whimper of the child. Cartwright realised they had no tools. As if reading his thought the sergeant said: ‘Best with our hands. Less disturbance.’

  They advanced along the corridor, the smell filling their noses. Much had caved in but there was still a narrow way. In their path was a bicycle propped against the wall. As Cartwright moved it its bell rang and they jumped. ‘I’ll try not to do that again,’ he said.

  ‘I’d appreciate it, sir.’

  It was ten feet but it seemed ten miles. With every inch they were more aware of the bomb. They could even see the number on its side. Dunphy produced a torch because the way had turned at another angle and it was suddenly dark. With a huge shock Cartwright saw a little girl in a dirt-covered red dress lying and not moving, almost at his feet. He beckoned the sergeant on and they tenderly stepped over her. ‘God bless her,’ whispered Dunphy. They removed rafters and bricks as they went, as painstakingly, as slowly, as they could. They had made a space when they came across another dead child, sitting in a high chair, with a dish of food coated with dust and blood. Cartwright choked and he heard Dunphy grunt. Then came the cry again.

  ‘That way,’ whispered the sergeant. ‘Shine the torch, sir.’

  ‘You’ve got the torch.’

  ‘So I have.’

  Dunphy pointed the beam in the direction of the sound, now silenced. They moved forward with extreme caution. The ticking of the bomb was succinct, like a clock in an empty house. No tock, only the tick.

  In the wavering light of the torch he could see the sergeant’s face sheened with sweat. Sweat was dripping from his own chin. With minute care Dunphy eased a thick wooden beam aside, standing back as a fall of plaster followed. It diminished and stopped. They edged forward again, their heads bowed, and shuffled sideways into what had been a room. A cry came from the darkest corner and the torchlight lit up a crouching figure, looking no bigger than a cat, hiding in the bottom cupboard of a dresser. Some of the plates were still in place on the shelves. ‘We’re here, love,’ said Dunphy.

  Cartwright said: ‘We’ll take you to your mother. Don’t be frightened.’

  The girl clutched a dust-covered rag doll. For a moment the ticking of the bomb seemed to have ceased. ‘Come on, lovey,’ said the sergeant. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Margaret Meadows,’ recited the girl with childish formality. ‘I’m four and a half. This is my golly.’

  ‘Let’s get you out of here,’ said the sergeant. He handed the torch to Cartwright and in its light lifted the little girl in one movement. ‘All mucky, I am,’ she said. The soldier turned in the confined space and handed the small body to Cartwright. His face pressed over her, he began, an inch at a time, to back out, Dunphy inching after him. They reached the bomb.

  ‘What’s that thing?’ asked the girl.

  ‘It’s a boiler,’ Cartwright said.

  ‘It’s ticking.’

  ‘It’s a ticking boiler.’

  The men could scarcely breathe for fear. The air was still loaded. When they were closest to the bomb Cartwright said quietly: ‘Sergeant, I’m going to sneeze.’

  ‘Count to twenty,’ suggested the little girl in his arms. Dunphy somehow wriggled around his side and pressed a filthy finger below Cartwright’s nose. The sensation receded and Cartwright nodded his thanks. Daylight appeared at the end of the wreckage and they made towards it. First Cartwright with the child, then Dunphy reached the open air. They staggered into the sunlight, into the cleared space before the house. A policeman and a fireman were first to them. The little girl was lifted from Cartwright’s arms and, as though she had been a great weight, he fell forward on his knees. Dunphy helped him up.

  The crowd had been pushed back two hundred yards but they were still there and people began to clap and cheer. ‘They’ll set the fucking bomb off,’ grunted the sergeant. A policeman with a megaphone shouted: ‘Silence! Shut up, everybody!’

  ‘Christ, now that’s bound to set it off,’ moaned Dunphy. He ran forward almost dragging Cartwright with him. They had reached what remained of the off-licence when the bomb-disposal squad arrived in two platoon trucks. A Wolseley police car followed them.

  A woman in a pinafore got out of the police car and stumbled towards the man holding the child. Sobbing, she took the girl and embraced her so fiercely that the dust fell from her clothes.

  ‘The others,’ she mumbled through her tears. ‘The other kids. We left them with a girl. Their mum and dad are on the way.’

  The child began to wriggle and cry. Her mother kissed her roughly. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’ Guiltily she turned to face the policeman, Cartwright and Dunphy. ‘We only went down to the cliffs to see the excitement.’ She began sobbing again. ‘And then all this upset happens.’

  The words came crackling: ‘Toby . . . Toby . . . Hendry . . . Toby Hendry . . . Are you receiving me? . . . Are you receiving me? . . . Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Yes . . . Yes . . . Receiving you now loud and clear. Didn’t before. Mayday, mayday . . .’

  ‘What’s the ruddy mayday about? Where are you?’

  ‘Christ knows . . . Up in the sky somewhere . . . I’m buggered, boss . . .’

  ‘Where are you, for God’s sake?’

  ‘The instruments are buggered as well . . . and the steering. It’s all up the creek, sir. I can climb and I can lose height. But she won’t turn corners. I’m at about four thousand, heading due east, for Holland I expect. I’m still over the sea and the juice is running low.’

  ‘You’ll have to ditch, Toby, or end up in a prison camp.’

  ‘Are there any nice prison camps?’

  ‘And soon by the sound of it. Try and come down where you can be retrieved.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll start taking her down now.’

  ‘Toby.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Listen now. Remember there are rescue buoys. A whole line of them below where I think you are now. Brandy, blankets, everything there, old boy.’

  ‘I hope I can locate one of them. Tell Lewis I’m sorry I ditched his plane.’

  ‘Lewis won’t mind. He’s no longer with us.’

  Hendry closed his eyes and said nothing but: ‘Here goes,’ to himself. He put the nose of the Spitfire down keeping the
angle shallow. The sea reflected the pleasing afternoon light. All the ships and the smoke and the battle had gone, far behind him now. The sea looked empty. There was plenty of room. He took off his flying boots.

  It was no use trying to spot the rescue buoys. But, when the plane was at only five hundred feet, he saw one ahead, unmistakable, brightly coloured, bouncing like a toy in the mild waves. He cheered wildly, then braced himself. He released his body straps and inflated his Mae West.

  The plane smacked down on its belly. The force of the impact threw him against the roof of the cockpit so that he found the release handle for the canopy first time. He pulled at it while the plane bounced and banged over the water’s surface and he was crying out.

  He cut the engine but there was no need – a cloud of obliterating steam told him it had done the job itself. There was no fire. He thanked God. The plane skidded for fifty more yards then settled quietly. It floated, rocking gently, waiting to sink. Shouting with relief he climbed through the open cockpit roof and tumbled into the sea. The water hit him coldly but no more than a hundred yards away he saw the capsule of the rescue buoy.

  Clumsily he began to swim towards it. The plane was gurgling behind him as it sank. He lifted his head to see how far he had to go and realised with a shock that the capsule was already occupied. The side flap was down and framed not just a frightened face but also the muzzle of a gun.

  ‘Hands oop!’ called a high and nervous voice. ‘Hands oop.’

  Hendry attempted to tread water. His life jacket felt like a hindrance. ‘I’ll sink!’ he shouted back. ‘You born twat!’ He spat salty water.

  The man lowered the weapon. ‘Okay, okay,’ he called. ‘Komm, komm.’

  Hendry reached the side of the capsule. The man had put down the gun and now reached over to assist him. Water cascaded from the British airman as he rolled into the aperture. He lay front down on the floor, gasping. The other man, who was also wet through, studied him and eventually helped him to turn over and into a crouching position. Hendry fell back on to the seat opposite. He was still breathless but he held out his hand and said: ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Bitte.’ The man now produced the gun again and repeated: ‘Hands oop.’

  Hendry sighed. ‘Don’t be a twit, Fritz. We’re three miles off the English coast and this is a British rescue buoy. You’re the prisoner. That gun is waterlogged anyway. It won’t work.’

  The other man turned the revolver towards himself and peered down the muzzle. ‘Kaputt,’ he agreed.

  ‘Haven’t you found the brandy?’ Hendry leaned behind him and opened a small locker. There was also a signal pistol which he brought out and pointed.

  ‘This would make a hole in you, old boy. A big hole.’ He translated: ‘Grosser hole.’

  ‘Ja, ja,’ said the man agreeably. He held out a hand and Hendry shook it, saying: ‘Toby Hendry, Royal Air Force.’

  ‘Hans Hubert, Luftwaffe,’ said the other man with a defeated sigh. He had a long face, streaked with oil. ‘Please – what is “born twat”? What is “twit”?’

  ‘Brandy,’ said Hendry ignoring the question. ‘There’s brandy in here.’ He continued to rummage in the locker. ‘Blimey, and a game of draughts. And writing paper and pencils. They’ve thought of everything.’ He pulled out the bottle. ‘There’s enough here for two,’ he said. ‘They’ve even put in a little cup.’ He took the cup and handed it to the German, filling it with spirit in the next movement. He took a swig from the bottle himself and felt it burn down his inside. He lifted it in a toast and the German lifted his glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Hans Oop,’ laughed Hendry. ‘That’s a good name.’

  Through the morning and into the long afternoon, lying in the long grass above the town, the three boys had grumpily witnessed the widespread Channel battle. Armed with their catapults, bows and arrows with metal points, and a new meat knife which Boot had lifted from the refugee hostel kitchen, they felt thwarted, left out.

  They had witnessed the distant fight unfold, like a film at the Plaza. Their catapult fingers were itching and they aimed hopelessly at the remote aircraft attacking the ships and fired a few frustrated ball-bearings at passing gulls.

  ‘Can’t even hit a bleedin’ bird,’ complained Spots. ‘We’re just wasting ammo.’

  The others did not disagree. ‘We’re after bigger stuff than seagulls,’ grunted Harold unconvincingly. ‘Messerschmitts.’

  When the three German aircraft turned inland and dropped their bombs on the houses and the off-licence in Dover they jumped up and down in a ditch, daring the raiders to turn towards them. Just once.

  Then, when the action was receding and they were ready to go down to see what damage the bombs had done, they suddenly saw an aeroplane coming low towards them. It was losing height and trailing smoke. They almost choked with excitement. ‘It’s a Jerry!’ shouted Harold standing up and throwing his arms wide as if to greet it. ‘Let’s get ’im!’

  Wobbling only a little the plane could not have presented a better target. At no more than two hundred feet it roared towards them. Harold shouted: ‘Shoot ’im down!’ and three loaded catapults swung towards the aircraft’s fuselage. It was right above their heads. They could see the face of the pilot. ‘Fire!’ shouted Harold and all three unleashed their elastic-powered missiles.

  The Messerschmitt flew on. ‘Got him! Direct hit! We got him!’ They shouted in glee leaping out of the ditch and back in again. Then they stopped jumping and looked inland. A spiral of smoke was rising above the hedges three fields away.

  ‘Come on,’ panted Harold. ‘Let’s get there first.’

  Their bikes were no use so they left them and rushed and fell over the stile opposite, charging across a stubbled field, over another fence and on to where the thickening smoke was rising. They reached the hedge of the third field, halted and peered through.

  The plane was sprawled in the middle, smoke drifting from its body.

  ‘Look,’ whispered Spots wide-eyed. ‘He’s sitting over there.’

  The German pilot was squatting cross-legged at the side of the field three hundred yards from the aircraft. He was puffing at a cigar.

  ‘L . . . L . . . Let’s capture him,’ stammered Harold. ‘Take him prisoner.’

  The other two regarded him tentatively. ‘Be better to wait until somebody turns up,’ suggested Boot. ‘The army or somebody.’

  ‘And let them get the glory?’ muttered Harold narrowing his eyes towards the distant man. ‘Come on. Let’s capture him. Go around the side of the hedge. He’s probably armed.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Spots. ‘We could be in trouble.’

  ‘Come on,’ ordered Harold. ‘Or I’m going to get a medal by myself.’

  He set off, creeping along the fringe of the hawthorn hedge. After a moment the doubtful Boot followed him and then, reluctantly, Spots. ‘Keep your weapons loaded,’ whispered Harold.

  It took them only five minutes. They dropped behind cover scarcely twenty yards from the quietly puffing pilot, and Harold lifted his catapult. ‘I’m going to let him ’ave it,’ he said. The others raised their catapults also.

  Then the pilot waved his cigar easily towards them. ‘Kamerad,’ he called mildly. ‘Prisoner of war.’

  ‘We’ve captured him,’ whispered Harold. ‘By ourselves.’ They lowered the catapults.

  They approached the man an inch at a time. He encouraged them with a flapping hand. When they were only feet away he invited them to sit on the grass, patting the field in invitation. His aeroplane was burning three hundred yards away, amiably as a garden fire. The German’s cigar was long. They stared at it. ‘Cigarette?’ he invited.

  He produced a packet from the pocket of his flying jacket. ‘France,’ he said offering them around. Each boy accepted one and he produced a lighter and lit them. None of them spoke. The Messerschmitt was mildly shaken by two explosions, as if it were coughing. ‘Bang,’ said the pilot.

  They saw the police car arrive
at the end of the field and three men stand and stare towards them. ‘It’s that copper bloke,’ said Harold. ‘Cotton.’

  The German pilot nodded as if he thought he might know him and repeated: ‘Cotton.’

  Cotton stood with the others at the far edge of the meadow, the burning plane at its middle. They could clearly see the four sitting figures at the other extreme and the points of light that were the cigarettes and the German’s cigar.

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Cotton. ‘Now I’ve seen everything.’

  By nine o’clock that evening the fighting was finished; most people had gone home, the smoke had drifted away and the convoy was continuing stoically west. It would be a warm night with a warm moon.

  The sea had maintained its summer rhythm, rolling beneath the Channel moonbeams. Everywhere had become quiet.

  In Dover the hospital was busy as were Mr Palfrey and the other undertakers. But there was a dance at the British Legion Club, and another at the Maison Dieu dance hall, two cinemas were open, and at the Hippodrome theatre a lady called Chesty Peploe, billed as the possessor of ‘Britain’s Biggest Bosoms’, revolved on a glittering tub under smoky lights. Many people had been afraid that day but it was the law which petrified Chesty: she was not permitted to move, even to twitch. At the same performance was a duet, a married couple who often bickered during their love songs. There was also a comedian who joked about Hitler’s impotence, and a man who should have had a pigeon act; his pigeons had been humanely released during the bombing and had not returned, so instead he recited a monologue.

  The unexploded bomb remained trapped below what was left of the houses a mile away and the spectators who had gone especially to view the debris that evening were kept at a distance. Others enjoyed the evening sun on the promenade and on the cliffs, listening to the muted sea and feeling the balm of the evening air.

  Frank Cotton drove his small car up the slope to the hospital. Nancy was waiting for him on the steps. In her uniform she looked small and hunched and he could see she was exhausted.

  ‘I want to go home,’ she said as soon as she got into the car. He kissed her on the cheek. ‘This is the fourth coat I’ve had to put on today.’