Dover Beach

by Leslie Thomas

The others shook their heads. ‘No, sir!’ bellowed Hunt.

  ‘No, sir!’ they shouted back. The shouts reverberated. Dunphy, wearing battledress, came into the building. His nose wrinkled at the smell. He strode to the group.

  ‘This NCO can’t swim,’ Hunt said. He pointed to Ardley like an accusation. ‘Is he needed?’

  Ardley’s eyes lit hopefully but Dunphy said: ‘Essential, sergeant-major. He’s the demolition-team leader.’

  ‘And he can’t swim. He can blow things up but he can’t swim.’

  ‘I didn’t know that he couldn’t, sir.’

  ‘Nobody ever asked me, staff,’ said Ardley to Dunphy.

  Hunt wrinkled his forehead as if he were planning a battle. ‘He’s got to learn quick.’

  Decisively he turned about and went through a door marked ‘Latrines and Dressing Room’, returning quickly clutching a huge pair of white-and-red, partly inflated water-wings. ‘With these,’ he beamed. The bulbous floats were rubber and they dangled like a dead body over his arm.

  He held a foot pump in his right hand and quickly attached it to the water-wings. ‘Found on the beach,’ he said as he began to press with his foot. He spoke directly to Dunphy. ‘I do a turn at the camp concerts,’ he said. ‘And I use this. Like a prop. The colonel loves it, pisses hisself.’

  The white-and-red rubber balloons were soon inflated and he detached the pump. His bullying bluster had now calmed and he seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘Right, lad,’ he pointed to Ardley. ‘Get ’em on.’

  Ardley glanced at the others, then at Dunphy who gave him a nod. He struggled into the huge appendages and Jenkins stepped forward and helped him adjust the straps.

  Hunt said: ‘Stand to attention, corporal.’

  Ardley did so, his back to the water.

  ‘Swimming lesson number one,’ barked the sergeant-major assuming his unpleasant tone. ‘Enter the water.’

  As he said it he gave Ardley a powerful push which sent him tumbling into the foul pool. The other soldiers stood dumbstruck. Ardley hit the green surface and plunged below it until the water-wings brought him up. He was spitting water and croaking. ‘Well done, corporal!’ cried Hunt. ‘First-ruddy-rate!’

  Then the right side of the contraption let off a small fart and air began to emit. The helpless Ardley turned over in the water with his face half below the surface, his arms and legs splashing in panic.

  ‘He’s drowning!’ shouted Jenkins. ‘He’s going to drown!’

  To everyone’s astonishment the small Welshman leaped into the pool and grasped Ardley. Sproston and Tugwell followed him, and Dunphy, in his uniform, went in with them. Hunt was shouting encouragement from the side, urging them on. ‘Operate as a team!’ he bellowed. ‘Teamwork!’

  He continued shouting but no one heard or cared. Between them they managed to get the big soldier to the side and lever him from the water. Dunphy climbed out first and began to drag Ardley’s arms. He half-turned and said in his soft Irish voice: ‘Could you lend a hand here, sir?’

  The warrant-officer took a surprised step back but then, on a thought, went to Dunphy’s aid. Between them and the men in the water they pulled Ardley clear and he lay on the cold edge of the pool, coughing water. The other men were doubled up, coughing, spitting and shivering.

  Hunt said solidly: ‘He’ll never learn like that.’

  Ardley sat up holding his ribs, his face angry. Then Jenkins said: ‘I’ll teach him to swim. He taught me to read, he did. I’ll teach him in no time.’

  Hunt stared at the small man. The others did also. Hunt said: ‘You’re good at it, are you, Taffy?’

  ‘Welsh schools champion, Cold Knap, Barry Island,’ Jenkins said. Without adding to the statement he dived cleanly into the murky pool and while they all watched amazed he tore up the middle to the other end, performed a racing turn and ploughed his way back. He climbed from the water in one movement.

  ‘All right,’ said Hunt. ‘You teach him.’

  ‘But not in there, sir,’ said Jenkins. He pointed accusingly at the bath. The water ran from his short, muscled torso. ‘A week swallowing that muck and anybody would be in the fever hospital.’

  ‘There’s a pool at Maidstone,’ said Hunt almost humbly. ‘You could have transport there and back. But he’s got to learn in ten days no matter how long it takes.’

  Jenkins faced him. ‘He’ll learn. In ten days he’ll be able to swim the Channel.’

  Hunt looked thoughtful and said: ‘He might have to.’

  It was dusk when Dunphy marched towards the commanding officer’s office; he went alone around the square, eyeing three distant platoons of soldiers still drilling. The harsh orders echoed through the dimness. He strode out smartly. You never knew who was watching. But for all his years in the army he had always thought marching by yourself seemed ridiculous.

  ‘One of your men couldn’t swim, I understand,’ said the commanding officer mildly from behind his wooden desk. His name was Stelling and below his colonel’s pips, crossing over his arm in an arc, was the word ‘Commandos’, the unit formed in June at Churchill’s insistence for aggressive action on the Continent, from which the British had just fled in disarray. On the upper sleeve were the eagle, anchor and tommy-gun of Combined Operations. ‘Why couldn’t he swim?’

  ‘He tells me they never asked at the basic training unit, Catterick Camp, sir,’ said Dunphy. ‘I’ve only been with these boys since they arrived in Dover. I should have enquired myself, I suppose, about the swimming, but all I was concerned about was that they knew how to handle explosives.’

  ‘And he does?’

  ‘Top class, sir. All the squad are, all four. One of them is teaching him to swim.’

  ‘Good, excellent,’ responded Stelling but quietly. He looked weary. ‘And you have to keep this particular squad together, that’s essential?’

  ‘They’re a team, sir.’ He was standing before the desk.

  Stelling sighed and waved him towards a round leather chair. ‘Sit down, staff. I’m played out. I need a drink, d’you want one?’ Dunphy took off his beret and sat down. No officer had ever asked him to have a drink. ‘I’ve got a drop of the Irish stuff here,’ said the colonel. He opened a drawer and brought out two clouded tumblers, and then a half-empty bottle. He poured two drinks and they raised the glasses. ‘Where are you from?’ asked the officer.

  ‘County Kerry, sir. Nearby Dingle.’

  A brief smile touched Stelling’s mouth. He took a drink. ‘I know it well. When I was a boy we used to go down to the peninsula in the summer holidays. My father loved boats and islands. From the house we rented you could see the Great Blasket Island.’

  Dunphy said: ‘I’ve been across to the Blaskets many times, though not for a few years. When I was growing up the men would row me across in their currachs. I was always soaking wet.’

  ‘Christ, I wish I were there now,’ said Stelling sincerely. ‘Just for the peace of the place.’

  ‘It must be just the same, sir,’ said the staff sergeant. ‘The islands and the sea and the seabirds . . .’

  ‘Shitting on your head,’ said the officer.

  ‘It’s a long time for me,’ said Dunphy. ‘I don’t have close family there any longer. I’ve been in the British army since 1932, in India and the Persian Gulf.’

  ‘This dump ought to strike a chord then. Jesus, fancy having an Indian barracks here.’

  They had finished their whiskey. Dunphy stood and Stelling said seriously: ‘I’ve tried to make the NAAFI a bit more homely, if that is possible. I’ve indented for a gramophone and some records, dance music and so forth, and two table-tennis bats. Oh, and a ball.’

  ‘I think that will be appreciated.’ Dunphy hesitated. ‘Do you mind if I make a request, sir?’

  ‘Not at all, staff.’

  ‘My lads are pretty fit. They’ve spent most of the last three months digging and drilling, or on exercises. But they’re technicians. They’re not assault troops. If one of them breaks an a
rm or a leg going over these obstacle courses here we’d have trouble doing our own job. It would be hard to operate. Each man depends on the others.’

  ‘I realise that. You want us to cut out the rough stuff?’

  ‘Parade-ground drill, physical training . . . swimming . . . are fine but charging over ropes and barrels and brick walls and dodging thunderflashes, like your assault troops do, might put one of them out for good.’

  ‘And then we’re buggered.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If a commando breaks his neck there’s always another to take his place, but not your lads.’

  ‘As I say, they fit in together.’

  Stelling stood. ‘That’s a reasonable suggestion, staff. As long as I don’t find them loafing around the NAAFI listening to the gramophone.’

  ‘They won’t be doing that, sir. There’s plenty of technical exercises.’

  ‘Blowing things up. Maybe you could blow up the NAAFI.’

  Dunphy decided to ask. ‘I realise that everything is secret. But is there any notion what we’re going to do? I think my boys would like to know.’

  Stelling sniffed. ‘So would I, staff. It’s going to be an amphibious operation, that’s for sure. And being in this country’s situation, cornered, there’s not many places it could be, although we could try and invade Norway again, I suppose. It didn’t work last year, but we could give it another go – if we’re completely mad. Other than that I haven’t been informed. It will be a small job. The top brass will tell me when they’re ready and then I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Staff, I’ll tell you one thing. We’re not going to Honolulu.’

  Dunphy put on his beret and came to attention to salute. He went out into the dripping evening. The commandos were still drilling, their feet banging on the wet square. He went to the billet. Jenkins was on his bed reading the Bible. Ardley came from the latrines.

  ‘It’s a terrible place, sarge,’ said Jenkins unconvincingly. ‘Those council baths.’

  Ardley said: ‘A nightmare.’

  ‘How are the swimming lessons?’

  ‘I can do breast-stroke,’ said Ardley. ‘With only one leg on the bottom.’

  Tugwell and Sproston came through the billet door, the rain running from their steel helmets. ‘Christ, staff, we’re done in,’ puffed Tugwell. He saw that Jenkins was reading the Bible. ‘What’s that for, Welshy? Reckon you’re going to die?’

  ‘Easy to read, the Bible is,’ said Jenkins. ‘Most of it is short words. Hath, hath not, unto, pass.’

  ‘What about crucifixion?’ suggested Sproston. ‘That’s buggered you.’

  ‘Not got that far yet. I’m still on the Book of Ex-o-dus.’

  The two began to peel off their wet clothes. Tugwell asked them: ‘Any crumpet at the baths?’

  Dunphy interrupted: ‘I’ve got some good news.’

  ‘We’re going home?’ suggested Jenkins dropping the Bible on the floor.

  ‘No. But I’ve persuaded the CO to cut out the assault courses in our case. It’s all right for his commandos but we’re technicians. Anyway, he agreed.’

  ‘Christ, that’s good,’ said Sproston. ‘Did he tell you anything else, staff? Like what we’re on, what we’re supposed to be doing?’

  ‘I expect he knows but he says he doesn’t,’ said Dunphy. ‘We’re going somewhere. I’ll tell you what my guess is.’

  There was silence. Every face was on his. ‘My guess is that it’s right across the Channel. Us and those commandos. I reckon they want us to blow up those big Jerry guns.’

  No one said anything. Slowly Jenkins picked up the Bible from the floor. Dunphy added: ‘There was one other piece of good news. The colonel is getting a gramophone and some records for the NAAFI.’

  ‘That’s great,’ sighed Ardley. ‘That’s bloody well great.’

  At seven thirty on a chill morning Tugwell and Sproston were running on the spot, shivering in shorts and vests. Staff Sergeant Dunphy was in the misty distance going through a drill alongside a squad of commando non-commissioned officers. Ardley and Jenkins gratefully crept into the fifteen-hundredweight truck.

  ‘Sod that for a game of soldiers,’ muttered Jenkins surveying the parade-ground once they were in the back. ‘Thank God you can’t swim.’

  They passed other squads as the driver headed for the gates. Rifle fire was echoing from a distant range. ‘This place is busy,’ suggested Ardley to the driver.

  ‘Not so busy as the real thing, mate,’ he replied.

  The municipal baths in Maidstone were damp and run down but they entered happily. There was a café and they went in there and had a coffee and a cake each. ‘Good skive,’ said Jenkins. ‘I can teach you in a week.’

  ‘There’s a telephone box outside,’ muttered Ardley. ‘I could ring Rose.’

  ‘I’ll go and get changed while you’re at it,’ said Jenkins. ‘Don’t be too long. There’s a copper walking up and down. I’ve spotted ’im. Suspicious buggers, coppers.’

  The telephone box was piled on three sides with sandbags and the door glass was crossed with safety tape, so if he lowered his head only a few inches he was invisible. He put two pennies in the slot and waited. Rose answered.

  ‘Oh, darling . . . I was worried to death.’

  ‘Sorry. They won’t let us out of the camp and there’s no phone box inside. I love you.’

  ‘And I love you. When will I see you?’

  ‘Don’t know. We should be finished here in two weeks. It’s just another army course. Something to keep us busy. And then we’ll probably go back to Dover.’

  ‘Thank God for that. I miss you. So does Pomerse. And Spatchcock. Please come back soon.’

  ‘I managed to get to this phone,’ he said. He paused: ‘I’m learning to swim, Rose.’

  She half-shouted, half-laughed. ‘Swim? Can’t you swim?’

  Trying not to sound offended, he said: ‘Never learned. I was scared you were going to duck me in that pond the other day.’

  ‘But you’re learning now,’ she said suspicion coming into her voice. ‘Why? Why now?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be able to swim in the army. In case . . . well, it’s a way to keep us occupied. I’m with Welshy. He’s a champion swimmer and he’s teaching me. It gets us out of camp. We’ve just had a coffee and a cake.’

  He half-turned and saw a shadow outside the kiosk, an unmistakable shape with a domed helmet. ‘I’ve got to go, love,’ he said. Then his time was finished. ‘The pips are going anyway.’

  ‘Bye, darling,’ she said before she was cut off. She meant to say: ‘We’re going to have a baby.’ But there was no time.

  He went back into the municipal baths. It seemed tropical after the October street. Jenkins was already in the water, swimming with an arrogant grace, strange in a little man. He was being watched by a thin ginger male and a group of schoolchildren.

  Jenkins turned at the far end of the pool and cruised powerfully back to where Ardley was standing. ‘All right? Did you get through?’

  ‘Yes, I think I’ll desert.’

  ‘They’ll only drag you back, boy. Put you in the bloody glasshouse. Get your togs off and let’s get on with it.’

  The thin ginger man shuffled towards them. He had crumpled clothes and a wan face. ‘I hope you’re not going to be taking up the whole swimming bath,’ he said. ‘This is booked for Maidstone Middle School. Ten until eleven.’

  ‘This end is booked by the War Office,’ answered Ardley before turning towards the dressing rooms.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ confirmed Jenkins from the water. ‘Part of the struggle against the Nazis.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ sniffed, almost sneered, the man. ‘In what cause, may I ask?’

  ‘The army. You know, the brown jobs who are going to have to save your skin.’

  The man took on a remote look. ‘I don’t agree with armies,’ he said.

  ‘You’d probably agree with the Ge
rman army,’ said Jenkins. ‘Argue with them and you’re dead.’

  ‘The children need to use this pool.’

  ‘We need the shallow end for special antisubmarine exercises,’ said the deadpan Jenkins. ‘Keep your kids to the rest of it.’

  ‘They can all swim,’ the teacher said loftily. ‘They eschew the shallow end.’

  He shuffled away. ‘What does “eschew” mean when it’s at home?’ Jenkins asked Ardley when he returned.

  ‘No idea,’ said Ardley. He lowered himself into the mild water. ‘Ask him.’

  ‘I’m not asking that conchie cunt.’ He climbed from the bath, went to a lifebelt lettered ‘Maidstone Council’ and took it from its hook on the wall. ‘We’ll use this today.’ He dropped it into the water and followed it. ‘Get your head and shoulders through the ’ole and we’ll do the frog legs. Once we’ve got arms and legs right we’ll try them together.’

  The ginger teacher had gone into the changing room and reappeared in a pair of long bathing trunks. Two dozen schoolchildren, their noise amplified by the cavernous roof, came rushing to the side at the far end. ‘Stop! Stop!’ squeaked the schoolmaster whereupon half the children jumped into the pool. When he had eventually got their attention, he said: ‘You must not go to the shallow end, because that man is learning to swim.’

  ‘For his country!’ Jenkins bawled back.

  His vivid Welsh voice caused silence at the other end of the baths. Then some of the children, twelve-year-olds with sagging woollen swimming costumes, advanced with curiosity towards the two soldiers. They watched as Ardley struggled through the water encased by the lifebelt.

  One boy shouted: ‘It’s a hippopotamus! Look, it’s a hippopotamus!’

  The girls began to squeal and jump on the wet tiled side. They pointed and hooted as Ardley splashed haplessly to the other side. ‘Hippo! Hippo!’

  Jenkins climbed from the pool and steadily approached the teacher. ‘Get these kids away or I’ll bloody throw you in the water.’ He reached and caught hold of the sparse red hairs on the man’s chest.

  What colour the teacher had ebbed away. ‘Don’t touch my hairs,’ he said. ‘I’ve been off sick.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Jenkins.