Dunkirk Spirit Part 11

As Gordon looked through his binoculars, he noticed the Heinkel's wheels suddenly drop down from their bay. A gunner in the underbelly had his finger glued to the trigger and a long line of curving red tracer swept back from the aircraft like a fine, fiery tail. Smoke gushed jet black from the port engine and the Heinkel heeled onto its side before plummeting, nose-first into the sea. Cameron's crew and the thousand soaking soldiers screamed with the violent delight of a cup-winning crowd.

'And that,' said Flight Sergeant Whitman to himself. 'Makes two, then.'

'The diver reports a bent rudder, sir.'

'Oh, no! Really?'

'Really, sir,' replied Gordon. 'There's no chance of a dry dock but the yard reckon they can straighten it out enough.'

'How long?'

'Twenty four hours, sir'.

'Make it twelve,' suggested the Skipper.

'I'll see what I can do, sir.'

'Your c.o.xswain is here to see you, sir,' announced Burnell, stepping up next.

'Oh, yes,' said the Skipper. 'Chief! Come and have a chat.' They strolled to a corner of the bridge.

'Thank you, sir,' said the chief petty officer, an old-timer who should have been safely ash.o.r.e on a forty year pension had it not been for the war.

'How are the men taking it, chief?'

'They're in very good heart, sir. There's only one thing that scares 'em.'

'What's that?'

'The depth charges. Couldn't we get rid of 'em, sir?'

The Skipper laughed. 'Oh, G.o.d! The convoy. I had forgotten all about that.' He placed his hand on the chief's shoulder, warmly. 'Yes, yes, of course,' he said. 'That would lighten us by some twenty tons.'

'Yes, sir,' said the chief. 'And if just one of 'em got hit, sir, it would blow the boat in half. And we've got one hundred and twelve of 'em, sir, just sitting up there at the stern.'

21:30 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Near Bergues, France Archie Marley knew there was something seriously wrong the moment he woke up. The fact that the ambulance lay at an awkward angle was one sign. Another was the screaming. Archie also knew that he had been sick in his sleep. He could taste the vomit in his mouth. His head pounded, as did the wounds all down his left side. The air was thick and fetid.

'Mummy!' screamed somebody in the darkness.

'Water!' screamed somebody else.

Archie had been awake now for roughly thirty minutes. During that time he had been struggling with the reef knot that bound the bandages to his chair. With his right arm in a sling and his left stiff with swelling beneath the tight bandages, his fingers had struggled with the knot until they were numb. He squeezed his hand into a fist and felt the knuckles crack. He flexed the fingers back and forth, trying to get the blood back into circulation. And then he tugged again at the knot until finally it slipped undone.

Archie struggled up off the jump seat and fumbled in the dark for the door handle. In his right-hand trouser pocket were a pack of matches. But he could not get his hand inside. Why the ambulance was at such an angle and the whereabouts of the crew were both mysteries. He ran his hand across the cold metal and traced the outline of the back windows.

'Help!' he shouted as he pounded on the door. 'Help!'

'Hey, you, soldier. Can you get me some water?' a voice called out from one of the racks.

'I'm trying...' Archie's voice croaked. 'I'm trying to get this b.l.o.o.d.y back door open.'

'It's locked from the outside,' said the voice. 'There's a bar that comes down. It clamps the double doors shut.'

'So, how do we get out, then?'

'How do I know, soldier? I can't even feel my hands or my feet. I think I might even be blind. Try banging on the door.'

Archie banged again until he became dizzy and then he let his knees buckle painfully beneath him and he slid down. He rested his head against the cold metal of the door and sobbed quietly. Some time pa.s.sed before he found himself toppling out into the road. He landed with a thump. 'Ooooh,' moaned Archie.

'f.u.c.kin' h.e.l.l! Get a whiff of it in there!' said a voice above him.

''Ere! You all right, mate?' asked another voice.

'Well, I'm better now, thanks,' said Archie. 'Can you help me up?'

'Christ! You're in a f.u.c.king state. What happened to you?'

'I dunno. Last thing I know, I was being strapped into that ambulance. Perhaps we crashed. I dunno. Can you help the blokes inside?'

'How many in there?'

'A lot,' answered Archie.

'All right,' said one of the men. There were about ten soldiers, light infantry, and in comparative good order. Two of them steadied Archie and led him away. With eyes grown used to the dark of the ambulance, he picked out the scene around him: a long straight road with tall poplar trees and much of the usual debris, from discarded handcarts to dead horses and abandoned cars. Only a trickle of people picked their way along. In the distance a car horn hooted. As it approached, a few of the soldiers stepped out into the centre of the road and flagged it down.

'Cher dieu! What is it now?' asked the man in the driver's seat.

A soldier bent down and looked into the back. Two men in sports jackets nodded h.e.l.lo.

'Can you take some wounded in your car?' asked the soldier.

'Of course,' said one of the men in the back. He lent forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder who, in turn, lent across and pushed open the front pa.s.senger door. The soldier helped Archie inside and gently closed the door. Archie suddenly felt himself pushed back in the seat as the driver accelerated. With a blast of the horn, and a series of violent turns of the wheel, the car sped on up the road.

'Aren't you going to take any more?' asked Archie, trying to turn round in his seat.

'More? No, no more,' said the man.

Archie turned and watched as the car sped on. The driver was going far too fast, especially so as he had no lights and the road, although not seriously congested, did present numerous obstacles.

'Where are you going?' asked Archie, not turning around, his eyes fixed on the road.

'To Paris,' said the man again. 'We are going to Paris.'

'I think you will find that a bit difficult,' suggested Archie.

'We are golf professionals,' said the man rather implausibly. He offered no further explanation.

After a short while, the driver began rummaging around in the foot well, causing the car to swerve violently. He then turned and stretched his arm out into the back, feeling for something on the floor. Archie braced himself as the car gained speed. One wheel left the road and there were a series of short, violent b.u.mps before the driver placed both hands back on the wheel and the car straightened up. He reached back again and this time produced a bottle, pulling the cork from the top with his teeth and spitting it out of the open window. He took a lengthy gulp and pa.s.sed the bottle to Archie.

His thirst was still intense and he needed something to take the taste of vomit away. He sniffed cautiously at the unfamiliar clear spirit and tipped the bottle back. As the fluid entered his mouth, it instantly cut away at the dry crust that coated his palette, giving momentary relief. But, as it touched the back of his throat, so it scalded. Archie choked and went into a coughing spasm that multiplied the pain of his wounds ten-fold. The man laughed and grabbed the bottle back.

Archie turned painfully in his seat and looked back at the two men. Both were soundly asleep. The one who had done all the talking clutched a small attache case in his lap. As Archie turned back, the driver tossed the bottle out of the window and began searching with one arm behind his seat again.

'Venez sur mes pet.i.ts cheris. O tes-vous?'

Archie's prayers were answered shortly after when the car came to a rapid halt. A group of French soldiers blocked the road. Their rifles pointed directly at the driver. Archie's door was yanked open and a hairy fist grabbed hold of his sling and tugged. He was dragged out onto the road and lay on the wet surface. An officer stepped up and barked a series of quick questions. The driver now appeared seriously unwell and began to slide down the side of the car. He was roughly shoved back into place. He began to slide again. The officer snapped a few words and the soldiers let the driver slip down into a heap. He turned and demanded to see some papers. The two men, who were also wearing plus-four trousers and golfing shoes, delved into their pockets and produced a small card each. The officer reached into a pocket and produced an electric torch and examined them closely. He asked a series of questions and received a few hesitant replies. He turned to one of the soldiers and said, 'Let the Tommy go. I will speak with the driver when he sobers up and shoot these two. They are spies!'

All this was lost on Archie, who did not speak French, but he saw the look of horror on the two men's faces and he watched as they raised their hands in protest. But, before he could even take in the scene, both men were pinned to the car by a bayonett to the chest. There were two sharp reports and the men dropped. One was still protesting. The officer reached into his leather holster and produced a silver Le Matt revolver. He fiddled with it for a moment and then put a round into the man's forehead. He turned and fired another shot into the back of the other's head. The driver continued to lay still. The officer turned to Archie, replacing the sh.e.l.ls in his revolver as he spoke.

'They were spies. I have orders to shoot all fifth columists.'

'Spies?' declared Archie, stunned. 'But how could you tell?'

'There are many ways to tell,' he said. 'But we have been told to watch out for all priests, nuns and sportsmen. They are fifth columnists and they are here to distrupt the situation behind our lines. You should be more careful in your travelling companions.'

'Too right,' answered Archie.

'I will have my men give you some food and something to drink. You may rest a while but you cannot stay. The Bosche will attack again at dawn. You must make your way to Dunkerque.'

'Where's that, then?' asked Archie.

The officer turned and pointed into the distance. A broad red glow lit up the night sky. 'There is Dunkerque,' he announced. 'You must be like the Israelites.'

'The Israelites?' quiered Archie.

'Yes, it is in the Bible. Be like the Israelites and follow the pillar of fire.'

22:25 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Pride of Kent, Staplehurst, Kent 'Well, even so, that air raid alarm put the wind up me today, I can tell you.' Harold the publican raised his elbows back off the bar and stood upright. 'I've never heard such gunfire. And all those planes in the sky!' He stretched to place two gla.s.ses back in the rack above his head. 'And we can expect a lot more of it. Mark my words.'

'Oh, I b.l.o.o.d.y hope not,' said Ron, an old regular. 'Not now my pullets have just come on to lay.'

Even for a Tuesday night, the pub was unusually quiet. A few people had stopped by to listen to the Nine O'clock News, but many of the regulars had preferred to listen in the privacy of their own homes.

'It's not the bombing that worries me, it's those parachutists,' said Maud. She laughed nervously. As an evacuee herself, the war had already become personal. 'They come dressed as all sorts of things, you know.' She looked at the other two customers and nodded her head to underline her point. She liked the village and the pub, but the locals were often slow on the uptake. 'They just sort of come down and shoot you before you know it. They come down in open s.p.a.ce...machine guns and everything.'

'And they won't want us women a bit,' put in Greta. She eyed her port and lemon and then took a small sip, lifting the gla.s.s with a frail hand.

'Don't you worry, mum,' said Ron. 'They won't come here,' he shook his head. 'They want stra-te-gic positions.'

'Well,' said Maud, patting her hair. 'I heard they land in British uniforms with a bicycle on their backs which they put together and then peddle off to damage military objectives.'

'How could we tell 'em apart, then, if they come in British uniforms?' asked Greta. She looked down at her now empty gla.s.s.

'That's easy,' said Ron. 'We'd know as soon as they wanted food. They don't eat the same stuff as us. Or,' he added. 'If they were hanging around. People would want to know why they weren't going on parade. Wouldn't they?'

'Well, Hitler boasted he'd land troops in England before the end of June,' put in Maud.

'If one landed near me,' Harold laughed and switched to a sinister theatrical voice. 'I'd follow him and slit his throat.'

Both women shrieked.

It was at this moment that Corporal Miller pushed his way through the double blackout curtains and stepped into the bar. They shrieked again.

'Christ!' declared Harold. 'Did you just parachute in, or what?'

'No, I came by boat, actually,' said Miller. 'And I just got off the train. It was sitting in the station for ages and I wondered if there was a pub around here.'

'Come in, then. What are you having, lad? Are you one of the lot back from France?'

'A pint of best,' said Miller. 'And, yes. I'm just back from France, and mighty glad to be home.'

The small group around the bar edged aside and Ron pulled up a stool for Miller. 'Here you are, corporal. Take the weight off your feet.'

'You've just come back from France?' marvelled Maud.

'Just back. I was in Dunkirk this evening. What did they say on the news?'

'Not a lot,' said Harold. 'They said we're buying valuable time to strengthen the Somme but they said things were grave. It's all very worrying.'

Miller watched as the publican made the final half pull and topped off the pint.

'This is my first pint this year,' declared Miller. 'In fact, it's my first pint in nearly a year. No counting that foreign beer, of course.'

Ron asked: 'Still got plenty of vin blanc out there?'

Miller drained the first half of the gla.s.s and paused. 'Yes, we've been living on champagne in Dunkirk.'

'Champagne?' asked Maud, impressed.

'It's all we got. You daren't touch the water, specially in the villages.'

'I never touched a drop of champagne when I was in France,' put in Ron. 'We couldn't afford it.' He looked away, his mind drifting back to the wine-soaked estaminets of the last war. 'The Tommies still popular out there, I suppose?' he asked, grinning.

'Oh, yes. We didn't have to pay for much.' Miller laughed.

'The Belgians are a mingy lot, don't I know,' said Ron. 'They wouldn't let us have water in Belgium in the last war. Took the handles off the pumps.'

'n.o.body wants to hear about you and the last war.' Maud interjected. 'We want to hear what this chap's got to say.' She smiled at Miller, her maternal instincts welling at such a bedraggled figure. 'How d'you get all that blood over your face, dear?' she asked.

'Blood?' Miller put his hand to his head. He had removed the ma.s.s of borrowed bandages on the boat, but congealed patches still adhered to his face giving him the appearance of an unbowed prize-fighter, bantamweight.

'Fighting the SS,' Miller told her and then paused, letting the statement hang in the air.

'The SS?' asked Maud, even more impressed. 'When you see 'em on the newsreels, they look like giants, them blokes. Great big blonde giants.'