Dunkirk Spirit Part 13

'So you speak German, then?' he scoffed loudly.

'What?' laughingly exclaimed Archie, but the captain jerked his hand up for silence.

'You are wearing a French uniform but you don't speak French. You do, however, speak German. Some people might see that as strange.' He sprang forward suddenly, as if he had been propelled by a spring, pushing his face close to Archie, who had no time to utter a defence. The officer snapped: 'Why have you got an M on your forehead?'

'I had morphine earlier, sir.'

'Morphine?' his tone incredulous.

'Yes, sir.'

'And, if I am not mistaken, you have been drinking?'

'Well, just a bit, sir. Look, it's a long story...'

'Shut up!' screamed the officer. 'Why aren't you with your unit?'

'My unit got smashed up, sir. We were...'

'What unit?'

'Two-ten Battery, Worcestershire Yeomanry, 53rd Anti-Tank Regiment, Royal Artillery. Sir.'

'Territorials?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well,' said the captain, compressing his brow to produce a wrinkled bulldog expression. 'Even if I do choose to believe you, you are in serious trouble. Very serious trouble. I could have you shot this instant.'

He sat back in his chair, sucking and exhaling nervously on his cigarette. 'It seems to me that you are some kind of dope fiend, a drunkard and a deserter.' He paused, staring into s.p.a.ce. 'That's three Ds.' He laughed strangely as if he had discovered hidden meaning in the chance collection of words. 'Perhaps I should add dastardly.' He stood up suddenly.

'Sergeant!'

The sergeant snapped to attention.

'Throw this one in the cells, too. Major Dodds can deal with him in the morning.'

02:05 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

Les Cinq Chemins, France Major Featherstonehaugh looked again at his feet. He would have a stiff word with the people at Church's when he got back. These boots were a disgrace. Although it was difficult to see clearly inside the interior of the school corridor, he had no difficulty tracing the blisters around the base of each heel, nor the inflamed pink sores that marked out each of his toes. He was too tired to sleep. But even that seemed ridiculous. How could anyone be too tired to sleep? Either way, the major was wide-awake. There was something about the smell of the white spirit that was troubling him. The Irish sergeant had procured a bottle of the clear fluid for him soon after arriving at the school.

'Now, you rub that into your feet, sir, and you'll see the difference in the morning,' the sergeant had told him. 'It's no way as good as turps, to be sure, but it's just the stuff for toughening up the feet.'

When the major had first unscrewed the top off the bottle, he had inexplicably experienced a momentary surge of elation. And, at the time, he didn't know why. But, as he lay curled up in the corner trying to sleep, and periodically rubbing his feet, the answer was slowly dawning on him. White spirit was the smell of fresh paintwork; the smell of decorators' brushes left in jam jars. The smell of the nursery. It was the smell the nursery had taken on when his mother had gone into hospital. Here was the reason for the excitement: the thrill of his mother bringing back a baby brother or and this wasn't quiet so conceivable a little sister. But his mother had not come back from the hospital and there had been no new brother or sister. And it was then, at that point when he was just six years old, that the cosy comfort of his life had been destroyed.

The father, who had once so regularly bounced young Featherstonehaugh on his knee, became dark and moody and quick to snap. There were no more fireside cuddles, no more picnics on the lawn, nor country rides in the Rover. Young Featherstonehaugh had been packed off to boarding school and, thereafter, rarely invited back home, not even for Christmas. He would watch the changing seasons with ever growing expectation, seeing the leaves fall away from the trees that lined the approach to the school, knowing that winter was to bring another Christmas but no letter inviting him home. And then, in time, he began to enjoy those Christmases at the school; shared with other boys who parents lived too far away. And the worse the weather, the better the Christmas. Long snug afternoons in the shared common room, with roaring fires, toasted m.u.f.fins and crumpets, and tales of far-away lands, exotic hill stations, burning deserts, glistening jungles, and naked native girls bathing in the streams.

Young Featherstonehaugh decided there and then that he would travel. His first thoughts were to become an explorer but, on closer inspection, there seemed so few places left to explore. He could be a planter, sitting on a veranda while the little black boys did all the work. That, too, with time, seemed less likely and, finally, he had resolved to join the Army.

His father, upon hearing the news when young Featherstonehaugh was fifteen years old, was at first delighted and then, swiftly, annoyed. Supporting a son in the Army was no inexpensive affair. A top regiment was out of the question on cost alone, and the son was not bright enough for the artillery or engineers. An Indian regiment would be unthinkable and so a county regiment had to suffice. Young Featherstonehaugh would have to work much harder to reach the required entry levels and he would also have to shed considerable weight too. He had entered his tubby phase in his second year at school when, after constant pleading, his father had finally increased his pocket money to such a level that he could purchase liberally at the tuck shop and village stores. So had begun a period of personal indulgence that only subsided when he had his goal clear in mind.

With the help of the gym master, young Featherstonehaugh began a strenuous personal fitness programme. He even discovered a love of cross-country running and, by his final year, was representing the school in county championships.

His father had failed to attend the pa.s.sing out parade at Sandhurst in 1913 so young Featherstonehaugh had sent him a photograph. And so, on August 24, 1914, the youngest subaltern of the Cheshire Regiment found himself commanding a rifle platoon at the close of the battle of Mons where, together with the remains of the rest of the 1st battalion, he was left exposed to the attack of two German Army Corps at a village called Audregnies. The regiment's heroic stand saved that earlier British Expeditionary Force from disaster not so many miles from where he now lay. But the young subaltern, who had won the respect of his men and received a mention in dispatches, joined nearly eight hundred other members of the battalion on the casualty list. In addition to the shrapnel wounds in his lower back, he had other, deeper, wounds and, no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to utter a single word without violent stuttering for the best part of fourteen months. His father, in a rare moment of parental pride, had travelled up by train to the hospital in Scotland but had found it equally difficult to speak as they both sat mute in the manicured grounds. That was the last time he saw his father.

On his return to France, Lieutenant Featherstonehaugh soon became Captain Featherstonehaugh but he no longer commanded troops in the field. Seconded to Headquarters, the young, painfully thin officer discovered his talent for logistics. He loved working out transportation tables, ensuring that the forces a.s.signed to his care arrived at the right place at the right time, along with their equipment, stores, ammunition, and comforts. He loved filling in the forms and awaiting the arrival of his chosen stores. He could then count and prod the boxes, crates and bundles with personal pride, the smooth motion of Britain's most powerful army running like clockwork with the stroke of a pen or flourish of a rubber stamp. He had never been happier nor commanded so many friends. He even managed, at no personal gain to himself, to ensure steady supplies of Scotch whisky to those officers of his battalion who needed it most, hunkering down in the rat-infested dug-outs along the front; men who were steadily consuming a bottle a day, or more.

But then came peacetime with the Armistice and the miserable posting of both regular battalions to Ireland. And with it, returned the weight. By the time the 1st battalion was posted to Central India in 1922, Captain Featherstonehaugh weighed in at fourteen-and-a-half stone and his uniforms had to be specially made. It was fortunate that, with the death of his father, he could now afford expensive tailors and hand-made shoes. By 1939, the now Major Featherstonehaugh weighed eighteen-stone and, while the 1st battalion moved on to the Sudan, he was posted home on medical grounds and ordered to do something about his growing girth. By September of that year, and the outbreak of war, the major had dropped to seventeen-stone and been transferred out of the regiment and into the Royal Army Service Corp.

Major Featherstonehaugh shifted his b.u.t.tocks and tried to make himself comfortable. There was still a lot of rubble lying on the floor, despite the pioneer's best efforts. Once his feet had toughened, the major knew that he would be all right again. If he could walk unaided, then he would be in a better position to gain the men's respect. The Padre, who was proving to be something of a bossy boots, had seemed to a.s.sume temporary command of this small unit. That would never do. He wondered what had come over the fellow. He wasn't very military at all. He seemed to have no respect for the chain of command. There was said to be a dark shadow hanging over him, some black mark. He had been in Australia. He had heard that much in the mess. Something about being kicked out of the country. Perhaps, wondered the major, he had been defrocked. It would not surprise him. The fellow was probably a d.a.m.n communist. But then, wondered the Major, could you have communist Christians? He would have to look into it.

This, together with the rest of the events of the past few days, was not entirely clear. At the forefront of his mind was the need to reach the coast and get inside the bridgehead. The pioneers and the Padre would surely be a.s.signed a boat home but the major would have his own role to play. He couldn't organise the defence but he could work in the background to help keep this army in fighting order.

The major wiggled about, trying to make himself comfortable. This time there was a lump inside his battledress tunic. He popped open the top b.u.t.tons and reached inside. To his astonishment, he discovered a golliwog. He held it close to his nose and breathed deeply. It smelt of childhood; of warm milk and freshly washed hair. He remembered brushing his mother's freshly washed hair in front of the dressing table. He stopped suddenly, pulling the golliwog away from his nose for clearer inspection. Where had he found the thing? He thought about it for a while and then he remembered. It had been lying there on the ground, on the Estaires road. He remembered a little girl, no more than four or five. The golliwog had been in her hands.

b.l.o.o.d.y strange, thought the major. How the h.e.l.l did it get here?

The Padre lay beside him. Now he was turning over in his sleep. The major studied him for a moment and then realised that the Padre was staring back at him.

'Ah, P-Padre,' said the Major. 'I wa-wa-was wa-wa-wanting a wo-wo-word.'

04:08 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

RAF Biggin Hill, Kent Ginger held the mug of coffee uncertainly in his hands. There were strict instructions that no beverages were to be taken into the Ops Room but it was one of the many rules that the majority of pilots on the squadron tended to ignore. He bent down, placed the mug carefully on the floor between his feet, and reached into his flying suit for the packet of Players. There was no restriction on smoking.

After the first awkward weeks, Ginger was now thoroughly enjoying the habit. It was such a surprisingly useful social prop, as well as a comfort. It helped fill awkward moments when he was left standing alone in the mess. It aided his concentration when he struggled over the written combat reports each time he returned from a sweep. And, as the squadron sat in the a.s.sembly area waiting for the gong to strike, he would smoke cigarettes by the dozen, no matter how dry his mouth.

The first cigarette of each day was enjoyed in bed before his feet ever touched the thin woollen rug on the even thinner cold linoleum floor. That cigarette, the most important of them all, would help pull him together. The nicotine, coursing through his veins, would drag him from the confused tangle of dreams that haunted each and every night. Getting to sleep was rarely a problem. No matter what time of day came stand-down, Ginger was always able to nod off, either in a chair or, preferably, in his cot of a bed. As a rule, he would sleep like a baby until some time after midnight. From then onwards, he would awake regularly, finding his pillow ice-cold with sweat.

Each time he would flip the pillow over and try to focus on the luminous Baby Ben alarm clock beside the bed. Three hours to go. Two hours to go. Oh, G.o.d! Only one more b.l.o.o.d.y hour. And each time he would sink down again into the disturbed dreams. Of these, he had two recurring themes. The first was fairly obvious, considering all that had happened since joining the Auxiliary squadron. That first dream involved the engine cutting out. At the moment of realisation, blood would drain from his head, sweat would pour. He would stare at the control panel. The dials would each be shattered. He would look down to the foaming breakers below and see smiling bathers in brightly coloured costumes waving up at him. His brain, as it struggled to estimate his position and flying time to the English side of the Channel, would feel as if it had been stuffed with damp cotton wool. The other dream had Ginger flying through a thick white cloud, flames igniting his flying suit, licking against his gloved fingers, scorching his face, and the c.o.c.kpit canopy jammed.

Ginger bent forward and picked up his coffee. It was luke-warm and it tasted of mud but the caffeine in combination with the nicotine had a rousing effect. He looked to the other side of Clouston at the new Red Three. The original Red Three had been shot down on the last sweep. Clouston had apparently watched him plummet like a stone into a row of terraced houses just outside Zuydcoote. Ginger nodded politely and raised his mug. He was just a kid, thought Ginger. A spotty kid who probably wouldn't survive the day.

Clouston gave Ginger a playful nudge. 'Cor, blimey, gov'nor! I ain't got me oily rags. Give us one of yours, mate!'

'That's an appalling c.o.c.kney accent,' sneered Ginger.

'That's an English accent,' explained Clouston, leaning forward to take a light off Ginger's b.u.t.t.

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks it is. Is that how I speak?'

'No,' said Clouston. 'You're more like Truuble a' mill, m.u.t.h.e.r.'

'You think I speak like that?' asked Ginger, staggered.

'Yeah, sort of.'

'And what about this lot? These toffs?' asked Ginger, indicating the majority of those in the room.

'Ectualleh,' said Clouston, pitching his voice at the back of his throat and out through his nose in fair imitation of Groupie. 'I tend to avoid the hoy-paloy.'

'And what about you?' asked Ginger. 'What about your own accent? And you say eh? at the end of virtually every word...'

'Eh?'

'Say "out and about",' suggested Ginger.

'Ooot 'n aboot.'

'See?'

'See what?'

'You're the one with the funny accent.'

'Sod off.'

'Good morning, gentlemen.' Groupie bounded into the room and trotted smartly up to the rostrum. 'Sorry for the delay but we were just waiting for the weather report to come in. I might as well start there.' He turned and pinned a map to the board. A series of wonky circles indicated low pressure.

'Rain and low cloud. That's basically what we can expect until about lunchtime when we are faithfully promised that the skies will clear. There will, of course, be some c.u.mulus, and the temperature is on the up, with a fresh and persistent north wind.' He turned from the map back towards the podium, resting his elbows and leaning his lanky frame forward.

'Ectualleh, we're told that the weather will improve generally in the coming days, and the forecast for the weekend is looking good. When I say good, that of course means good for the Luftwaffe, too, which brings me to my next point.' He tweaked his moustache. 'From now on, whenever possible, we will not be flying as a single squadron, but at wing strength. In simple terms, that means we will be joined on our sweeps by three or four other squadrons. They will invariably be a mixed bunch Spits and Defiants and other Hurries. This should help, in part, to combat the larger German formations.' He stood upright and tugged at the hem of his tailored tunic.

'Our squadron is not scheduled for take off until about mid-morning. The dawn patrol today will be provided by the Hornchurch squadrons flying at wing strength. Once again, our area of operation is to be Dunkirk and the approaches. Do not stray too far in-land, no matter what the temptation. Judging by previous days, this one promises to be busy, too. You will have Spits providing high cover on watch for fighters. You will be joined by the Defiants at medium height to deal with the bombers.'

Groupie then read out a series of Air Ministry announcement, and clapped his hands together.

'That is all for now, gentlemen. Please remain in your flying kit and do not stray too far from the a.s.sembly area. Good luck, chaps, and good hunting.'

There was a ma.s.s shuffling of chairs and feet. Above the din Groupie called out: 'Flight Lieutenant Clouston. I would like a word with you in my office, if you please.' He beckoned for Red Section leader to come over.

04:15 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

Bergues, France There was a cold, bitter anger in Archie Marley's heart as he sat brooding in a corner of the cell. The captain was clearly round the bend. In fact, everybody in this town seemed as if they were on the edge of cracking. Archie's head ached with a sickening intensity, a tight band that gripped the entire right side of his skull. Now that he was no longer on the move, his wounds had tightened again, producing an appalling throb that pulsated in time with his heartbeat. His thirst continued to torment him to the point of insanity. Outside the cell, the morning chorus had sprung up with the first faint glow of the false dawn. Occasionally, a heavy machine gun chattered like a mad frog somewhere in the distance.

After his first hour in the cell, unable to sleep with the prospect of a dawn firing squad, he had explored his surroundings. It hadn't taken him very long. Now, with the first faint glow of daylight, he could see his confines slowly taking shape. The cell was no more than ten feet in length and six foot wide. High up on the wall behind his head, a barred grating slowly emitted the light. On the opposite wall, over the door, Archie could just make out the shape of a large roughly hewn crucifix.

Archie wondered about having another cigarette. As an unexpected bonus, he had discovered a packet of Sweet Caporals inside the greatcoat. The French tobacco had a dark, acrid tang and he knew that another one would only make his mouth taste worse. Archie dipped into his pocket and pulled the crumpled packet out. He fumbled again for the book of matches. As he placed the cigarette in his mouth, he noticed that his hands were trembling. With care, he struck the match. It fizzled momentarily, emitting a bluish flare that hurt his eyes. Archie sucked in gratefully, holding the smoke long and hard in his lungs, before exhaling with a grimace. He coughed, sending a series of sharp painful bursts throughout his body.

'Christ! And they say smoking's a comfort,' thought Archie. He sucked again, holding the smoke in briefly this time. He needed to pee again. Fear and tension, he had discovered, made heavy demands on his bladder. There was no toilet in the cell. The cell was its own toilet. Now his head was spinning as the nicotine reached his brain and minuscule lights played before his eyes. Archie lent his head forward and breathed in deeply. If they gave him a blindfold and a last cigarette he might even choke to death before they could shoot him.

Archie still had his head between his knees when he heard the distant ragged boom of ma.s.sed artillery fire. He turned his head suddenly, craning up towards the grating. There was an instant and alarming change in air pressure. Instinct and training: Archie hit the floor hard. A terrible screaming filled the air. Archie found himself scratching with his nails into the compacted dirt of the floor. It was as if a giant steam locomotive were plummeting down through s.p.a.ce, crashing earthward with such force that it tore the air with a powerful moan. An instant of silence and then an explosion. Not an explosion of sound but an explosion of infinite force that seemed to rip apart the very fabric of the world around him. The entire planet was disintegrating in a shaft of brilliant white light. Archie felt himself flung into the air and slammed down again, and then a sensation of rolling repeatedly in a cloud of choking dust. A high-pitched and continuous scream like a thousand factory whistles inside his head. Archie was screaming, too, at the very top of his lungs. More sh.e.l.ls came down but this time not so close. Archie gasped for breath, sucking in dust and grit. Another coughing fit and then he curled up in a tight foetal ball on the floor.

After the first pause in the barrage, came the sound of hobnailed boots stampeding up the corridor outside his cell. A continuous series of shouts and screams echoed back off the stone walls. Archie pulled himself to his feet, balancing against the wall of his cell. He staggered towards the door but found he did not have the strength to either call out or to bang for help. After a few moments, the footsteps stopped but the shouts and screams continued. The artillery was falling closer again. A curious sound as if someone were sucking backwards through a flute, a compressed ghostly wail, filled the air. No doubt the German spotters had got the range of the town's fortified walls and were working now to reduce them to rubble. As Archie lay flat again, feeling the vibrations transmitted through the earth and into his chest, he found himself somehow drawing strength from the power erupting around him. The cold anger came back into his heart and slowly he pulled himself to his feet.

Outside in the corridor men were continuing to scream and shout. Now there was another noise. Keys were being turned in locks. The shouting grew in intensity. Archie stood back from the door and waited. He looked down to his hand and was surprised to see that he was still holding the cigarette. He sucked on it and found that it had gone out. He reached into his pocket again and unfolded the book of matches. His hands did not shake. By the time the guard reached the door of his cell, he was sucking the last out of the b.u.t.t. The heavy key turned in the lock. There was a brief commotion as they struggled to pull the door open, and then a sergeant in full battledress and coated in grey dust stood before him.

'Who have we got here, then?' he consulted a clipboard. 'Gunner Marley. Royal Artillery. Drunk and disorderly. And desertion. You-are-a-bad-boy.' He took a step into the frame of the door and looked Archie directly in the eye. 'Are you prepared to give your parole and stand and fight like a proper soldier?' He almost screamed the last word.

'Yeah, yeah. Sure,' stuttered Archie, pulling himself straight and coming to attention. 'Yes, sergeant!' The thought had crossed his mind that they might shoot him in his cell. He felt elated.

'Right! Up the pa.s.sageway, that way, at the double.' The sergeant grabbed Archie by the collar and dragged him out. 'In the guardroom at the end, grab a rifle and some ammo, and stay put until someone tells you what to do.'

As Archie scampered up the pa.s.sageway, the sergeant called out: 'And, if you f.u.c.king run for it pal, I'll be the first to shoot you in the back.'

Why would I do that? Just let me at them, thought Archie.

The men in the guardroom were mostly hard nuts, bruisers, and downright awkward sods. A corporal of the Loyals was handing out rifles. Archie waited his turn and took the Lee Enfield, giving it a quick examination as he stepped towards the ammunition boxes on the floor and gathered up four full bandoliers.

'Right, you!' shouted the corporal, seeing Archie closest to him. 'And you.' He indicated a heavy-set man with a low forehead and jutting jaw. 'Grab two ammo cases. You can take them to the top of the belfry.' He pointed the way. 'And give them to the young gentleman you see there, Lieutenant Prescott, with my compliments. And then come right back here and find me. Move it!'

The stone staircase that hugged the belfry's round walls seemed to lead forever upward. He had the sensation that he was pulling himself slowly up out of a deep well. The stairwell was dark with just the faintest grey light shining down from above. The ape-like pioneer took the lead, dragging the heavy wooden boxes by the rope handles. Every few feet he would stop, letting the weight fall back on to Archie. He would then drop the boxes down, letting Archie take all their weight.

'f.u.c.kin' Army! Jeezoz, what the f.u.c.k's in t'ese things?'

'Ammunition,' Archie told him.

'f.u.c.kin' Army,' he said again, grabbing up the ropes in his ham-like hands and continuing on. With each step he jerked at the boxes, dragging Archie off balance. This continued for several steps and then he stopped again.

'Can't we just take one good long run at it?' suggested Archie. 'Stopping and starting like this is doing me in.'

'Oh, sweet Jeezoz in Heaven! You wouldn't know whether to s.h.i.t or go blind! How long you bin in the Army, then, sunny boy?' asked the ape.

'Not long, why?' Archie was struggling for breath and the sweat was pouring again from his forehead.

''Cos you don't wanna be rushing round, just 'cos some c.u.n.t says so.' He spat in disgust at the Army and at Archie's naivety.

By the time they reached the belfry, Archie's arms were shaking like jelly. The ape let both boxes drop to the floor with two heavy thuds and Archie tried to stand upright. Tears filled his eyes. His bandages beneath the greatcoat were saturated in sweat. He attempted to measure his breath in the smoke-filled breeze and tried not to pa.s.s out.

'Oh, thanks a lot,' said the lieutenant, with a hint of sarcasm. 'I thought you were bringing up water. We've got loads of ammo already.' He indicated the cases stacked inside the tiny belfry. A sergeant manning a Bren gun gave Archie a wink.

'Well, you can bring water next time.' The officer stood up and turned to Archie, laying his sharpshooter's rifle aside. 'I shouldn't want you to have a wasted journey. You might as well enjoy the view while you're here.' They surveyed the scene. 'It was built in the seventh century, this tower,' he told Archie. 'Unfortunately, it burnt down not very rea.s.suring and they repaired it in the fourteenth century. You can see for miles.'

Archie was facing south, inland, and most of his view was obscured by thick black smoke which billowed from almost every building below. Artillery sh.e.l.ls were landing without order across the town, sending sudden defused bursts of yellow and orange light in waves beneath the smoke. The tower seemed to rock with each blast.

'It's amazing,' exclaimed Archie.

'No, no,' said the lieutenant, impatiently. 'No. Look this way.' He pointed to the north, and to the coast. An even thicker cloud of black smoke filled the sky several hundred feet above the belfry. Between the two layers of smoke, a thin line of grey sea stretched out to a blurred horizon.

'That's England, just over there,' the officer told him. 'On a clear day they say you can see the white cliffs of Dover. Poor visibility today, however.'

'Is that how we're going to get home, sir?' asked Archie.

'Home?' queried the officer. 'I wouldn't count on it.' He led Archie back to the south balcony. 'Down there, lad, somewhere the other side of that ca.n.a.l, is the entire German army. And, just as soon as the sh.e.l.ling stops, they are planning to come and pay us a visit.'

The officer grinned, placed his hands on his hips, and stared into the distance. 'Our job is to stop them here. If we don't, then those chaps down there on the beach and messing about in those boats won't be going home, or anywhere.'

He turned and faced Archie. He had a Clark Gable moustache and bright blue eyes. 'You've missed the boat, my boy, so you had better make the most of it. This town has been under siege throughout history. It has taken on the English, the Austrians and the Spanish in its time. Now it's the Huns. And you're here to stop them. It's what being in the Army is all about!' The lieutenant grinned like a maniac. 'I don't suppose you signed up just for the soccer and the nice country walks!'