Dover Beach

by Leslie Thomas

  Giselle’s father spoke to Cartwright who said: ‘There is also somebody important he wants us to meet.’

  The colonel said: ‘It’s probably the bloody local mayor.’

  ‘The man is here,’ said Cartwright after another sentence from the Frenchman. ‘He’s in that room.’

  Giselle said: ‘It was my room.’

  Her mother, who was still dabbing her eyes, almost gabbled: ‘Your cousins Elianne and Marie in Cherbourg are both well. Your old Uncle Gaston in Lille is dead.’

  ‘I am sad for Uncle Gaston.’

  Stelling had moved towards the room. Cautiously he opened the door and saw a thickset man with wild, black hair and a straggling moustache sitting upright in the bed. He was wearing striped pyjamas and drinking calvados.

  Cartwright followed Stelling into the room, then Giselle. ‘It is only Henri from the village,’ she said.

  The man politely said: ‘Ma’m’selle,’ and she went out. Henri offered the two British officers the stained calvados bottle but they declined.

  ‘You have some information,’ said Cartwright in French.

  ‘A little,’ said Henri. ‘You have come to blow up the guns, I understand.’

  Cartwright translated, but Stelling had got the gist. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Every bugger knows.’

  Then the man said: ‘One gun, number two, is in its cave so you cannot reach that. Number one is on the little railway bridge. It is stuck there because two trusted French railway workers, who have been helping the occupation forces with their maintenance, these men have not finished some work on the tracks that lead to the first cave. They have been very slow. So the gun is still there, on the bridge. Tomorrow the tracks will be in place again and the gun will move. That is all I want to tell you.’ He raised the grisly bottle.

  They returned to the main room to wait. Staff Sergeant Dunphy returned from the barn in twenty minutes. ‘That’s done, sir,’ he said to Stelling. ‘Everything is in order: detonators, timers, leads and explosives. My squad is ready to move.’

  Stelling said: ‘In that case everybody is. Let’s get on with it.’

  Giselle kissed her father and mother. Stelling said: ‘I want you to stay here until we return.’

  ‘I wish to come,’ she said firmly. ‘That was the general’s plan for me.’

  ‘Insubordination,’ he sighed. ‘All right, come.’

  ‘It is difficult, the way is not straight. I will show you. There is only one place where you can see into the valley, the ravine.’

  They were leaving the room when she saw the photograph which Dunphy had dislodged on the dresser. It was of her father and two German soldiers posing with a British fighter pilot in a field. ‘Oh, my God. Toby,’ she breathed. She swiftly turned to her mother. ‘Mama, it is amazing. It is my Toby.’

  ‘We have to go,’ said Stelling.

  From her childhood she knew another concealed way among the rocks and stunted trees, and she easily found it in the dark. The commando sergeant, Wilson, led the way with Colonel Stelling behind him and then Giselle with Cartwright who had kept his revolver in its holster.

  They were silent, scarcely breathing, careful with each step along the narrow way. Giselle could hardly believe that big men could move so secretly. Dunphy and his squad were last but one in the line, bearing their wires and explosives. The final commando kept looking over his shoulder.

  It was not far, about half a mile, until Giselle tapped Stelling on the arm and indicated that they should change direction. In the dungarees, her hair pulled below a beret and her face blackened, she looked like a thin man. They went the way she indicated until the path flattened out on to a ridge. She pointed again and Sergeant Wilson, like a man investigating the lair of an animal, parted the rough scrub growth in front of him and, with a sense of achievement, they looked down on the great gun.

  It was in the deep, rocky depression, its outline like a dark finger, with illumination from four dim lights at ground level. They could see four sentries wandering disconsolately around its base, two of them marked by the red pinpoints of half-concealed cigarettes. The gun was projecting directly out to sea through a gap dug out of the coastal hill, and was standing on the short bridge over a deep natural declivity. Dunphy was pleased. He crawled to Stelling’s side. ‘We’ll blow the bridge okay,’ he said. ‘That will do for the gun. We need to have the guards dealt with first.’

  The officer nodded. ‘What about the other gun?’

  ‘We can’t do that, sir.’

  Stelling agreed: ‘It would take an army.’

  Dunphy went back to his men. He kept, almost affectionately, touching the wires and explosives they were carrying, hoping to God they had got the connections right. They did not see the commandos detach themselves from the party on the ridge and they were only faintly aware of some activity around the gun. A pinpoint of light shone fractionally. Stelling appeared alongside the engineers. Again he nodded and patted Dunphy on the arm. Still at a crouch they moved from their concealment, and laden with equipment picked their way an inch at a time down the ravine.

  The commandos were still around the gun, with four dead German sentries spread almost in a pattern on the ground. ‘Evening,’ one of the raiders whispered and Dunphy grunted.

  It took only fifteen minutes. They crawled secretly like busy spiders over the supports of the prefabricated bridge. Their days, hours, months of practice made it work.

  Dunphy remained on the ground and checked every connection, every length of wire, the timer and the secondary timer, in case the first did not work, and finally the packs of explosives, fixed to the legs of the bridge. Nothing, he kept telling himself, could go wrong. Nothing. He could hear his men’s breathing, which worried him. He kept looking around for the Germans. The commandos were still in position. He began to feel they might be able to get away with it.

  When everything was in place he checked again. Ardley, Jenkins, Tugwell and Sproston each gave him a nod of their blackened faces in turn. When he hoped he was satisfied he jerked his head and they moved off almost casually the way they had come.

  There were only two commandos and the sergeant left on the ridge above the gun. The four who had dealt so silently with the guards followed the engineers up the slope. Giselle and Cartwright had been ordered to go back towards the house. The five engineers followed and outside the farmhouse joined up with Colonel Stelling.

  Now they had to wait. ‘Any second now, sir,’ confirmed Dunphy to Stelling, hoping to God it was. He had his watch face close to his own. Ardley also watched his watch, and the others watched him. The minute went. And then another. Dunphy dared not look towards Stelling.

  Ardley said: ‘The timer, staff. I’ll go back.’

  ‘We’ll go back,’ said Dunphy to Stelling.

  The moment after he had said it there came a huge crack of an explosion; the ground rattled under their feet, a gust of air hit them and the sky lit up from the direction of the gun. The engineers whooped exultantly. Dunphy said: ‘A bit late, that’s all.’

  Stelling said: ‘Retire in good order, no broken legs, please.’ He saw Giselle’s movement towards her father’s front door and said tensely to Cartwright: ‘No time for goodbyes.’

  Cartwright said: ‘Giselle, you must come.’

  ‘I am coming,’ Giselle said quietly. She looked back just once. They could hear her dog and it abruptly shot from the house and began prancing and barking about their feet. Giselle saw the sergeant move to silence it but Stelling said: ‘Leave it, Wilson. A few yaps are not going to make a difference now. Let’s get going.’

  With the colonel and his sergeant at the front they began to move, spaced out and swiftly but with great care, along the fringe of the road towards the path that would lead them back to the beach. The dog followed Giselle obediently now making no sound. Cartwright ushered her on. They had almost reached the entrance to the descending path to the beach when a sudden searchlight streaked towards them, fixing some of the men in its
beam. They dropped out of sight. A burst of automatic fire came from the road and they saw a vehicle loaded with men coming towards them. There were more soldiers panting along the road. Sergeant Wilson dropped to one knee and in the same movement fired his tommy-gun extinguishing the light with the first burst.

  ‘Move!’ shouted Stelling. They descended the path like a rabble, half-falling, getting up, cursing. Cartwright, protecting Giselle with his arm, let some of the men go past. A moment later, from below, came their returning bursts of fire.

  Giselle was gasping. ‘Nearly there,’ said Cartwright trying to keep her steady. ‘When we get there, run fast for the boat. If there’s no boat, swim.’

  She fell and he tugged her upright. Soldiers were rushing by. They could hear the sergeant bellowing orders through the trees. Abruptly they felt the sand; they were out on the beach.

  The dinghy was against the tide line, just discernible in the first of the dawn. Cartwright hurried Giselle forwards staggering over the sand. They were both gasping. There was a sudden hard crackle of firing from above them. He pushed her flat.

  The firing paused and he shouted: ‘Get to the boat!’

  She ran, then realised she was running without him. Looking behind she saw that he was doubled up in the sand. She sobbed loudly and went back towards him. He waved her towards the boat but she tried to pull him to his feet.

  Two of the commandos ran to them and lifted Cartwright bodily. ‘We’ll not leave you, sir,’ said one. They stood for a moment and one pointed his tommy-gun at random towards the dark head of the cliffs. But the other pulled him back. ‘They’ll pick us out.’

  They carried Cartwright again and with Giselle staggered towards the dinghy. There were two men and the sailor with the paddle already in the boat. They heaved Cartwright in and almost threw Giselle over the side after him. One of the commandos picked up a second paddle and they splashed towards the lurking outline of the bigger vessel.

  Dunphy with his four men got to the waterline. Behind them the remaining commandos were keeping up a fire on the upper ground and the direction of the downward path. Giselle’s dog was running around the beach barking.

  ‘We missed the boat,’ groaned Dunphy. ‘Dump everything and swim.’ He caught sight of Ardley’s face. ‘Just as well you learned.’

  ‘Just swim like you did in the baths,’ said Jenkins. ‘I’ll be with you.’

  At that moment they came under fire from a new direction, from the raised ground to their left. Another searchlight flew across them.

  ‘Come on, boys!’ shouted Dunphy. He pulled off his equipment in three movements, dropping it and his rifle on to the sand. They all did the same. As they stood the Germans did not have a full field of fire but as they plunged into the cold sea the enemy could see them at once. Bullets chopped up the water.

  Ardley flung his arms in sheer terror. He tried to tell himself: ‘Big strokes, long strokes.’ He could hear the bullets splashing into the surface. To his amazement he made it to the side of the RAF boat. ‘I’m here!’ he gasped. ‘Help me, help me.’

  Two sailors hauled him from the water and he flopped on to the metal deck, trying to breathe, being sick on his chest. Dunphy was the next over the side and then Tugwell and then Sproston. But no Jenkins.

  The dinghy had turned and made for the shore again. It took aboard some of the commandoes. Others began to swim. When the boat was halfway back to the larger vessel it slowed and the men pulled something heavy from the sea.

  ‘Welshy? Where is he? Where’s Welshy, for Christ’s sake?’ asked Ardley wildly.

  The men crowded to the side, searching the indistinct water. The dinghy was approaching the boat.

  ‘Welshy!’ Ardley shouted. The others joined in. ‘Welshy! Welshy!’

  There was no response. Ardley fell back on to the deck. ‘Oh Christ, Welshy.’

  ‘Move aside, boys,’ said one of the sailors. ‘Let the others get off the boat.’

  ‘Maybe they rescued our lad,’ said Dunphy.

  They waited until the men climbed from the boat. Something was splashing behind them. ‘Welshy,’ said Tugwell but it was Giselle’s dog. The sailors pulled it from the water.

  Colonel Stelling was on the deck. His sergeant was missing. Ardley was weeping. The dog stood soaked and wagging its tail.

  ‘Your chap was dead in the water,’ said one of the men from the dinghy to Dunphy. They brought out Jenkins’s soaked body.

  ‘Oh Christ, no,’ mumbled Ardley. ‘Welshy.’

  Stelling said: ‘My sergeant is somewhere back there. And two men.’

  There was a big explosion in the water fifty yards from the bow. Instow shouted forward from the bridge: ‘I’m casting off, sir.’

  ‘I’m not leaving them,’ answered Stelling. Another shell landed in the water.

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ insisted Instow. Another shell exploded alongside. The boat rocked violently. Instow was now in command.

  ‘Get going then!’ Stelling shouted back. ‘We’ll have to leave them.’ He collapsed to his knees on the deck. ‘The Huns will look after them. They’re very sporting like that.’ He closed his eyes with exhaustion. ‘I’m too bloody old for this, staff,’ he whispered to Dunphy.

  They carried Cartwright below to a cabin as the vessel began to move. The throaty engines sounded. A naval orderly looked briefly at him and said: ‘We’ll get him to hospital in no time.’

  ‘I’ll stay with him,’ said Giselle. She found she had a tumbler of whisky in her hand. She had never tried whisky. She choked but took another drink.

  In fifteen minutes they were out in the Channel, the dawn just breaking. Colonel Stelling came to the bridge. ‘Well, we blew one gun,’ he said. ‘But I’ve lost three of my men. One of the engineers is dead and the liaison officer’s got a hole in himself.’

  Instow said: ‘The girl got back.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ Stelling was drinking from a tumbler. ‘It’s madness the elementary mistakes you can make.’

  ‘Like what?’ Instow felt guilty he had remained on the boat.

  ‘The Huns turning up like that, right after the explosion. Minutes. They couldn’t have moved as quickly as that. They were already on the way.’

  ‘They’d been alerted.’

  ‘By us,’ sighed Stelling. ‘There was a guard post on top of the cliff, but away from the place where we went ashore – a couple of dopey sentries settled in for the night and listening to dance music on a gramophone. I sent two men to deal with them and they did. But . . . I know what happened.’ He paused. ‘The gramophone came to the end of the record. When it eventually sank in that no dance music was sounding the other Krauts went to have a look and found their dead mates. That’s when they sounded the alarm. And they just caught us, dammit.’

  He stood wearily. ‘We all learn,’ he said. ‘Eventually.’

  They stretched Cartwright on a bunk in the middle of the vessel. He drifted in and out of consciousness. Giselle remained with him, sitting on a stool, with her dog asleep beside her.

  Cartwright stirred as they were nearing the end of the journey. ‘My orders were to look after you,’ he said to Giselle, regarding her distantly. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I am safe,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You will soon be in the hospital. I will visit you.’

  ‘How long now?’ he asked.

  She stood and looked from the forward porthole. ‘It is not far,’ she said. ‘We are just now going into Dover, into the harbour. I can see the beach.’

  ‘Dover Beach,’ he whispered. She was holding his hand and she felt it go still.

  As usual, word swiftly spread about the town that something was happening at the port and a knot of people began to gather to see what they could see. Once again, Cotton wondered at their gloomy curiosity. There were two ambulances and other military vehicles on the dock. It was daylight now.

  An army officer strode purposefully towards him and he abruptly realised it was the major who had come to
visit him and Nancy two evenings before. ‘So sorry about your house, sergeant,’ he said as if he meant it. ‘Damn nuisance. But they’ll probably move you to a manor house or somewhere. Some of these requisitioned properties are rather grand.’

  Cotton said: ‘We don’t want a manor house.’

  ‘No. Well, exactly.’ The officer began to sidle away. ‘Or they may change their minds. They often do that.’

  He went off at his important little pace. Cotton disdainfully watched him go. Then his attention was caught by an old perambulator, being pushed along the pavement across from the quay, its front wheel wobbling. Harold Barker was sitting in the pram with his two everyday companions pushing behind. Cotton crossed the road. Harold called an order: ‘Vehicle patrol, halt!’

  Cotton surveyed the pram. ‘What’s this then, lads?’

  ‘Transport,’ said Harold. ‘It gets us around quicker.’

  ‘Us pushing and ’im sitting there,’ said Spots.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Boot.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Found it. Up London Road way,’ said Harold glancing at the others.

  ‘It was nobody’s,’ said Spots.

  ‘No baby in it,’ confirmed Boot.

  Cotton looked over his shoulder towards the entrance to the harbour. The low, vague shape of a boat was approaching. Harold asked: ‘What’s going on, sarge?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ answered Cotton truthfully. ‘Something is.’

  Boot said abruptly: ‘I been a victim of the Nazis again. When those shells landed last week they thought I was dead.’

  ‘They nearly got us,’ said Harold. ‘Knocked us over.’

  Cotton was not sure whether to believe them. ‘There was only one slight casualty, wasn’t there?’

  ‘That was me,’ said Boot determinedly. ‘Blood all over. Unconscious.’

  ‘For two minutes,’ said Spots grumpily.

  ‘But you’re all right now?’ asked Cotton.

  ‘It was the second time the Nazis tried to get me,’ answered Boot.