Dunkirk Spirit Part 12

'Some of 'em are,' said Miller. He drained the rest of his gla.s.s and pushed it back across the counter.

'Same again?' asked Harold.

'Please,' said Miller. 'What time's last orders?'

'Last orders!' said Maud, laughing. 'Hear him! You don't have to worry about that down here, love. Not in the country. n.o.body cares about that.'

'Are you hungry, lad?' asked Harold.

'Starving.' He had finished the last of his bread and cheese on the boat.

'Hang on a tick,' said the publican, slipping through the side door and disappearing.

''Ere! You fixed for anywhere to stay, love?' asked Maud, sliding up.

Miller shook his head.

Maud smiled and winked, and then Greta spoke: 'Ain't you worried those n.a.z.is will come here, then?'

'Not while I got this beside me,' said Miller, leaning down and tapping the barrel of his Thompson.

'Cor! That's a big gun, ain't it?' declared Maud. 'It's like the ones those gangers on the pictures have.' She giggled nervously.

'That's right,' said Miller proudly. 'It's a Thompson sub-machinegun, made in the USA. Same thing as James Cagney has.'

'Really!' exclaimed Maud. 'And have you killed many Germans with it?'

'Now, that,' said Miller. 'That's not easy to talk about.'

'Don't you go asking him awkward questions, Maud,' said Harold stepping back behind the bar. 'The poor fellers probably had it up to here killing Germans.' He slid a plate in front of Miller. 'There's nothing hot, I'm afraid. Hope you like pork pie.'

'Love it,' said Miller.

'Here, fancy a pickled egg to go with it?' Harold twisted the top off the jar.

'Please,' said Miller.

'That's the last of the bread, too. But it was fresh this morning. And those tomatoes are from the garden. First of the season.'

'Thanks,' said Miller. 'It's the first square meal I've had in I don't know how long.' He sliced into the pie, sc.r.a.pping on a little mustard, and filled his mouth. He smiled broadly as he munched.

'Was it tough over there?' asked Maud. She lowered her voice and leant closer to Miller.

He swallowed, took a quick sip of beer, and nodded, looking her in the eyes. 'It's about as tough as you could imagine.'

'But it will all come right in the end, though, won't it?' asked Harold, leaning closer, too.

Miller tried not to scoff. 'Let's say it's a bit of a shambles over there. Someone told me today that the Belgians had surrendered. Is that true?'

'Yes. It was on the news,' said Harold. 'It's shameful. Him chucking in the towel like that and his army wanting to fight on. The Belgian government's in a right pickle.'

'They ain't the only ones,' said Miller.

'But it's a stra-te-gic withdrawal? asked Ron. 'Everyone pulling back in good order?'

'Well, maybe it is in some places,' said Miller. 'But where I was in Dunkirk and further along the beaches things were in a right two-and-eight. You got n.a.z.i aircraft bombing the...bombing all over the place. Not a sign of the blooming RAF. The Navy's only got a handful of rubbishy old boats...'

'The Navy?' queried Harold. 'How do you mean, rubbishy old boats? We've got the finest navy in the world.'

'Yeah, we have,' said Miller. 'But they ain't at Dunkirk. I'm not saying the Royal Navy's rubbish they done me a good turn today. All I'm saying is that they ain't there where they're needed. That's all.'

'It's just like the last war,' put in Ron again. 'It was a right b.l.o.o.d.y mess at the start. But once the civilians started getting into the Army and taking things over once they outnumbered all those b.l.o.o.d.y stupid Colonel Blimp types - then things got better. Things have got to get bad before they get better. Stands to reason.'

'We'll muddle through,' said Maud. 'We always do.'

'I don't think muddling's going to be enough this time,' said Miller, chewing on the piecrust. 'Not with what I've seen. Them n.a.z.i are organised. It's the national characteristic of the blooming Germans, ain't it?'

'What, you don't think they'll really invade us, do you?' asked Harold, his elbows back on the bar.

'Put it this way,' said Miller. 'When I left, they were right behind me.'

The two women at the bar shrieked again.

Day Four.

00:17 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

New Cross Gate, South London.

It may well be that by the employment of methods which did not exist in previous wars, the Germans may be able to land in Great Britain some thousands of their troops. Yet do not imagine that a virile and unbending race of forty-five million people will for long allow some thousands of the enemy to remain upon our sh.o.r.es. The whole country will rise as a man to resist such invasion and, whatever confusion or destruction may momentarily occur, the ultimate issue is beyond doubt. Thank you and good evening.

That was Mr Harold Nicholson, Parliamentary Secretary to the Ministry of Information, ending our service for today.

Kitty turned and switched off the wireless, cutting the National Anthem dead. She stood back and examined her suitcase. There was room for more, but would she really need anything else? She still had to carry her large shoulder bag and raincoat as well as the c.u.mbersome gasmask. The last thing she needed was a heavy suitcase. Each and every item had first been laid out on the bed and then neatly rolled to save s.p.a.ce. The contents of the case now resembled a linen and cashmere jigsaw. All that remained were her hairbrush and makeup and her undies, which were still drying on the back of the chair. She turned to the dresser and slid down onto the stool, automatically taking the hairbrush in hand and working to untangle the tight copper-gold locks. There was something about the damp English air that turned her curls into awkward knots that snagged with each stroke of the brush. She stopped to concentrate on one difficult knot, pulling away a tangled ma.s.s of hair with satisfaction before resuming her laboured strokes.

As she did so, Kitty glanced down at her mother's airmail envelope and felt the brief pang of guilt again. It was rare for her mother to splash out on airmail postage, preferring the slow economy of surface mail to carry her news and questions. Kitty tried not to think about the contents and gave her hair a hard, vicious downward stroke that made her wince. She did not want to return home, not yet at least, and certainly not now that life had suddenly taken an interesting turn.

To be in England at this time was like being at the centre of a marvellous adventure, the stuff of a schoolgirl's dreams. There was the glamour and excitement, as well as the eye-catching uniforms. Her natural repulsion at the thought of war, and all the horrors and upsets it could bring, was tempered now by an eagerness to be part of it all. The cutting from the Strait's Times with the bland headline Britain prepares for invasion was hardly news to her, surrounded as she was by the daily reminders of war, albeit one at a distance. Why on earth would she want to return home just now? It was not something she could explain to her parents and leave them feeling comfortable. Even if people did take the threat of invasion seriously, n.o.body expected the Germans to actually win. That would be unthinkable.

She stopped and slipped the letter from its thin envelope. The second page that began: We are perfectly safe out here and who would ever invade us? stared back at her. She read on for the umpteenth time. Your father is very worried about you. Perhaps you really should think about cutting your studies short. Miss Griff says you could always have a full-time job at Tanglin or even one at the main school in Singapore. They are very short-handed now that so many families are preferring to educate their children here.

Kitty had yet to tell her parents that her studies had long since been forgotten and that she now had an interesting and rewarding occupation. She resumed her strokes and thought back to her parent's house amid the overwhelming lush greenery of Malaya's Cameron Highlands. She paused to visualise her friends at the Tanglin School, the cool mornings in cla.s.s, the blistering afternoons reading on the veranda, and all the dizzy excitement of the popular hill resort in the months before monsoon. In truth, she missed so much of it. She found herself breathing deeply, seeking out the remembered warm night smells of jasmine and frangipani. London, by contrast, was as monochrome as the yearly newsreels of the Lord's Mayor Show and, as such, the bleak greyness of the city had come as no surprise. Although the only greenery in her life currently consisted of a muddy patch of gra.s.s and a dozen or more stunted trees in nearby Fordham Park, she loved the strangeness and vibrancy of the bustling capital. London, too, had its own unique smells, as exotic to her as the rich scent of frangipani would be to any of her new neighbours. Her particular favourite among London smells could be found at any of the city's main line railway stations. The combined aroma of the ancient soot, fresh coal smoke and hot engine oil set her pulse racing. It reminded Kitty of her arrival the previous spring and the thrill of setting foot in the heart of Empire for the very first time. But it was a smell that always left her a trifle apprehensive.

The sheer scale of the city daunted her. She had felt glued to the pavement as she stepped out of the station and into the busy street. Each district was confusing in its own right. Many were to be avoided. As a general rule of thumb she knew that to travel through the east of the city was to court disaster, that the north was dull, endless and overcrowded, the west desirable, and the south slightly less so. The centre, of course, was fun but the journey back at night never felt safe. New Cross Gate in the southeast, with its small workshops, printing presses and uninspired street markets, had a warm neighbourly feel during the day but, with the setting of the street lamps, it would take on a sinister aspect.

Although this gave Kitty greater opportunity to study at her lodgings each night, she had found it virtually impossible to settle to her studies. All thoughts of training as a teacher had vanished within the first few months of arrival. Goldsmith's College, with its daunting sooty red brick facade and dim corridors that smelt of paint, had almost suffocated Kitty. Her fellow students had depressed her with their over-worked enthusiasm for Karl Marx and worker's rights. Worse still, she had discovered an absolute loathing for school children, or more particularly, for the inner city's smaller pasty-faced children with their blotchy red impetigo sores and runny noses.

'Urgh!' thought Kitty. She shuddered and resumed brus.h.i.+ng her hair. Once again, she would be concerning herself with children over the next few days but this time it would be different. A surge of excitement rushed through her body. Kitty felt fully at the centre of events.

Ma.s.s-Observation, or M-O to those who worked there, was just four years old but already it was becoming a respected inst.i.tution. It was the herald of a new age, a modern scientific world that promised enlightenment through observation. Kitty first heard of the organisation when she picked up a discarded copy of the Daily Sketch in a Lyons Corner House. Inside, one of the founders, Tom Harrison, had set out what he called "an anthropology of ourselves", a method of obtaining a deeper understanding of the nation by studying every tiny detail of its daily life. M-O challenged the claims of the Press to represent the views of ordinary people and, by its unique blend of anthropology, sociology and psychoa.n.a.lysis, endeavoured to tap a deeper level of human consciousness in the British social character. Here lay the roots of a more scientific socialism, and Kitty had been bowled over by the concept.

She had begun as an unpaid contributor, keeping a weekly diary of her days and her observations along the way. She could see how, even at the lowest level, such diaries would be of immense value to sociologists of the future writing of the twentieth century. On a practical and current level, housewives' diaries could help architects design better homes, and comments on a Sunday would show the Church where it was failing. It could even help social workers improve the conditions of the working cla.s.ses. Her own diaries of college life had been prolific and detailed. She had spent most of her time in cla.s.s writing character studies of her fellow students and had ignored the course work that bored her senseless.

Such diligence had brought her to the attention of the young, upper cla.s.s, male intellectuals who steered M-O. A full-time job offer had followed and now Kitty was about to embark on her first field trip. Her brief was to turn her keen ear to the thoughts and feelings of those involved in the children's evacuation of the south coast. To do this, she had selected Dover as her starting point. Kitty had yet to visit the English seaside and she felt a delicious glow of antic.i.p.ation at the thought.

She examined the brush and pulled free a large clump of tangled hair. Kitty swivelled on her stool and looked towards the bedside table and the clock. She had plenty of time to grab a fair night's sleep before making her way to Charing Cross station for the eight-oh-five. Kitty stood up, slipped quickly out of her dressing gown, letting it drop to the floor, and hopped into bed. She double checked the alarm clock and then reached up to turn off the light.

00:45 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

Bray Dunes, France Commander Babbington stood at the water's edge watching the tide roll its way laboriously up the beach. In another three hours it would be high water and the surf that had been building slowly promised to become a serious menace to the evacuation. Somehow, during the night, he had developed a curious and annoying double vision. He moved his hand slowly before his eyes and watched as a ghostly shadow followed its path. It was as if a second, under-developed film had been badly overlaid onto the first. Binky screwed his eyes tightly shut, and then forced them fully open with effort.

The bodies in the surf, turning and rolling with each incoming wave like performers in a macabre ballet, left him both sickened and deeply saddened. The bodies were primarily those of British sailors, victims of the night's costly losses somewhere out to sea, where the occasional bright flash continued to illuminate the horizon: further victims of the Luftwaffe, the mines, and the torpedoes of n.a.z.i submarines and E-boats. The commander stretched his face, opening his eyes wider still as if trying to pull himself from a bad dream, and wondered if he were wasting his time filling up the boats only to have them sunk with German efficiency as soon as they cleared the sh.o.r.e.

Throughout the night, a small number of vessels had crept towards the beach. The largest in recent hours has been the destroyer Wakeful. She had taken off several hundred men but it had taken Binky most of the night to load the whalers and cutters, and it had been gutting to watch her sail away, leaving countless thousands disappointed on the sh.o.r.e. The antic.i.p.ated deadline had now come and gone. At any moment he expected to see the first German troops march onto the beach.

'Oh, G.o.d!' he groaned aloud. 'I could use a stiff drink!' He ran his tongue around his teeth, repelled at the furry surface of the enamel. A shot of brandy or even a tot of rum would rinse the stale taste away. He was tired, hungry, thirsty and despondent. He was also running low on cigarettes. He turned and made his way up the beach, his once-bright shoes sucking in the soft wet sand.

'Sir,' called the mids.h.i.+pman as Binky strolled with difficulty back to the Bren gun carrier. The Commander lowered himself gratefully onto one of the front fenders, letting the vehicle take his weight.

'Sir,' called the mids.h.i.+pman again. 'You better look at this, sir.' He pointed to the promenade several hundred yards away and at the dark forms ma.s.sing along the front. Binky raised himself up and pulled the field gla.s.ses from their case.

'Oh, dear!' said Binky, flatly.

'Is it the Germans, sir?'

'No. It's the French. That's probably just as bad.'

'How do you mean, sir?'

'Well, it all depends who they are.' Binky lowered the gla.s.ses and looked at the mids.h.i.+pman. 'If they are the odds and sods, that's one thing. But if they are the rearguard,' he said patiently. 'Then it begs the question of who is manning the west flank of the perimeter.'

'Oh, I see, sir,' said the youngster. 'Do you mind if I have a look, sir?' he reached for the gla.s.ses. 'They've got loads of kit. Heavens! Bicycles! Loads of bicycles.'

'Go find me something to drink will you?' said Binky. 'Something stiff.'

01:30 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

Bergues, France It seemed to Archie Marley as if he were walking down a deep and mysterious tunnel, through a mist of burning rubber, diesel exhaust and wood smoke. In all, he was functioning remarkably well considering the events of the past twenty-four hours. A chance to rest and fill his belly with a warm pork stew and the best part of a pint of red wine had helped set him on his way. He had discarded his sling when he had taken the offer of a French greatcoat and the clunky Berthier rifle.

Although his shoulder throbbed, the sensation was lost in the general aches and pains of a long solitary march. Even the shrapnel wounds down his left side had eased comparatively. He let the greatcoat flap as he continued to trudge up the road, allowing the cool night air to waft against the heat of his wounds. He had found his stride now and, unless there were further complications, he felt he could manage the remaining six or so miles to the coast.

To either side, a remarkable number of derelict lorries lined the road. There had been considerable military detritus ever since he and Bill had been forced to abandon their position, but now there was barely a gap between the dumped vehicles. Many lay at a uniform angle, propped up against the hedge that lined the right-hand side of the road. To his left, the trucks appeared to have been neatly parked, nose down in the ditch, at right angles to the main road. The wall of lorries, creating the tunnel sensation, now obscured the flat, open countryside of Flanders, hidden at any rate beneath the blank, overcast night sky. The glow of the pillar of fire loomed directly ahead. Archie kept his head down, watching the ground in front of his feet.

'Oy! You! Froggy! Hold it right there!' came a sudden call out of the darkness.

Archie slowed and reluctantly stopped, casting his head to either side in search of the voice. Who was calling who Froggy?

'Stop there, will you?' called the voice again, a distinct Lancas.h.i.+re tw.a.n.g. Now a man stepped out of the shadows. Archie noted the rifle pointing at his belly and stood as still as he could, wavering slightly with the effort of balancing. His face flushed and sweat ran in cool rivulets down his cheeks.

'Drop that rifle, and stay put. Now put your arms in the air.' Archie complied as best he could, given the restriction of his bandages, and watched, baffled, while the man turned and called over his shoulder: 'c.u.mmings! c.u.mmings! Where are you? I need a translator here, p.r.o.nto.'

A small man in full kit came trotting up, carrying his rifle at the trail.

''Ere I am, sarg. What it is?'

'Ask this Frog bleeder who he is and where he thinks he's going.'

c.u.mmings stepped out of the dark and approached Archie cautiously, levelling his rifle as he did so.

'Bonjour,' he said hesitently. 'Quel est votre nom et o vous va?'

'I don't speak French,' said Archie flatly.

'He don't speak French, sarg,' called c.u.mmings without looking back. Archy heard a click as the translator flicked off his safety catch.

At the end of the tunnel of trucks stood the 17th century walled town of Bergues, its high sloping ramparts just visible in the faint red glow of the sky. As Archie pa.s.sed through the fortified gate, flanked either side by an armed guard, thoughts of King Arthur and Camelot came to mind. The sensation of a Dark Age citadel was reinforced as the guard steered him through the narrow unlit streets. Within the city walls yet more evidence of an army in chaos greeted Archie. Only a few of the many weary soldiers, their eyes often sunken and blank, bothered to stare at the escort. One group of men cl.u.s.tered around a watchman's brazier; the church walls behind flickering like a giant and sinister medieval puppet show. The escort dragged Archie up seven short steps and stopped. A rifle b.u.t.t was slammed twice against the face of a solid wooden door and moments later it was pulled slowly open with a tired rasp. Archie was shoved rudely inside and steered down a corridor so dark that twice the escorts tripped on unseen obstacles. Another door was pulled open and an officer poked his head out.

'Right! Bring him in here,' said the officer, a captain of the Loyal Regiment. He stepped back into a large candle-lit room. 'Sit there.' He gave Archie a hard look and indicated a chair opposite the desk. 'And put your hands on the table where I can see them.' He stepped briskly behind the desk and sat down.

'Right. First things first,' said the captain, looking up from a slip of notepaper. 'Let's see your paybook.'

'I don't have it any more, sir.'

'You don't have your paybook?'

'No, sir.'

'Ok, let me see your BEF ident.i.ty card.'

Archie shook his head and gave a wan smile.

'So, let me see your ident.i.ty discs.'

'I don't have those either, now. Sir.'

'Right. So, let's get this straight. You don't have a paybook. You don't have a BEF ID card. You don't have your ident.i.ty discs. You claim to be British and yet you are wearing a French uniform.' The officer sat back and folded his arms.

'It's not actually a uniform, sir. It's just a greatcoat.'

'I think I will be the judge of that,' snapped the captain, springing upright in his chair. He reached for his cigarette case and helped himself. Then, as if by afterthought, he held the open case towards Archie.

'Wurde sie mgen eine zigarette?' he asked nonchantly.

Archie moved his hand forward just as the captain s.n.a.t.c.hed the case away.