Dunkirk Spirit Part 16

'And Commander Fisher?' asked the Skipper, the concern on his face apparent.

'A friend of yours?'

The Skipper nodded.

'He floated clear of the bridge when Wakeful went down. b.l.o.o.d.y amazing, really.'

'So, he's all right, then?'

'Not entirely. Let me continue. Commander Fisher was picked up by Comfort. There was a lot of confusion. It's still not really clear. But Comfort was then rammed by Lydd, cutting her in half.'

'Oh, my G.o.d!'

'Commander Fisher then found himself in the water again. Unfortunately, Lydd thought she'd rammed an E-boat or something and then opened fire on the survivors.'

'Oh, my G.o.d!'

'Fisher was lucky. d.a.m.n lucky. It doesn't seem that anyone else survived. And he had to swim around until about oh-five-hundred when he was picked up by a Norwegian freighter.'

'Where is he know?'

'In hospital.'

'Thank G.o.d for that!'

'Are you going back now, sir?' asked the lieutenant.

'In a couple of hours,' said the Skipper warily.

'Well, best of luck then, sir.'

13:59 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

RAF Biggin Hill, Kent That was Joe Loss and his Band from Clifton Parish Hall, Bristol. Before we join our programmes for schools with Making Music, just a reminder that in forty minutes we have another programme in our series Junior English, with a dramatised ballad of Robin Hood. And then, at five-twenty as usual, we have another edition of The Children's Hour. Today it's Pooh and Christopher Robin.

Ginger stood up and walked away from the wireless. There was something very depressing about Schools Programming. There was also something very depressing about the day. The low pressure and the thick low clouds only added to the gloom. Ginger stepped out onto the gra.s.s and lit another cigarette. He looked across the aerodrome to the Spitfires of No.41 Squadron. The heavy weather had forced them to land at Biggin Hill, unable to locate Hornchurch in the poor visibility after their uneventful sweep across the Channel. Ginger had joined several of the pilots for tea in the canteen, experiencing a guilty twinge of relief at the prospect of remaining on the ground. But now the skies had begun to clear. Each time a telephone rang every man on Ginger's squadron would visibly stiffen, ears p.r.i.c.ked for the gong.

Clouston was leaning against the wall of the radio hut, his chin cupped in one hand, the other arm folded across his chest, as he stared at the ground. Poor b.u.g.g.e.r, thought Ginger. Clouston wasn't going to say so, but he had obviously been chewed out by Groupie. It had begun with numerous snide remarks about Red Section's low scores. Since joining the Auxiliary squadron, his section had only accounted for one German spotter plane and a probable Dornier Do17. And then there was Monday's loss of the original Red Three. Ginger had disliked the chap at first sight, with his sour turned-up lips of a sullen school bully and the endless reciting of unspeakable s.h.a.ggy dog stories and blue jokes. The dislike had been mutual. His loss, however, had hit Ginger strangely, bringing home, as it did, certain realities.

The fact that Clouston had actually returned from the meeting with Groupie was a positive sign. Stories were flying around the aerodrome of pilots called into meetings, never to be seen again. Clouston was one of the most experienced flyers at Biggin Hill. Ten years as a bush pilot in the Northwest Territories had taught him tricks that could never be learnt in books. The problem had been one of luck. On each sweep, they had been overwhelmingly outnumbered. Success had been counted not in the n.a.z.i planes shot down but in reaching the aerodrome again in one piece.

Groupie had, no doubt, been given a ticking off himself from higher up and had looked for someone to take it out on. There was no real possibility of Clouston being marked down as a "waverer", but he could be transferred out of the squadron and into admin for the duration. The boys from Hornchurch had related an alarming story of a green pilot from 616 Squadron, operating out of Rochford, who had, apparently, refused to climb inside his aircraft. He had collapsed to the ground in a fit of tears. The MO, seeing what was happening, had then marched across the airfield and dragged the man to his feet.

'And then,' one of the Hornchurch pilots had said. 'He gave him a terrific punch and a few well chosen words and they had no further trouble from the fellow.'

Ginger lit another cigarette straight from the b.u.t.t of the last. When he had joined the Volunteer Reserve, war had seemed like a big game. He had spent more time fantasising about his uniform and the girls he could pull than he had about the realities of aerial combat. Why hadn't Biggles ever needed a restorative punch from the MO? He had probably never vomited into his c.o.c.kpit with fear, either.

Ginger was wondering whether he should have a go at cheering up Clouston when his heart stopped at the sound of the gong.

Ginger quickly tested his breaks again and then gave the throttle a gentle burst. The Hurricane taxied forward with suppressed power. He released his Sutton harness and pulled himself up higher off his bucket seat; resting both feet on top of the rudder bars for a better view. He lined himself up with Clouston ahead and dropped back down onto the seat, tightening his harness and bringing the Hurricane to a halt across wind at the take off point.

The engine was running at a throaty one thousand rpm. He felt the power run throughout the aircraft. She was more eager than he to rejoin her natural element. Ginger ran through his final checks and then opened the throttle steadily. Too much throttle and he would have to compensate with lots of rudder, and then he might look like an amateur. Gradually, he opened the throttle wide and a sudden thrill ran through his belly. His fear, as the wheels b.u.mped free of the ground, turned to something like exhilaration. He gave the stick a gentle squeeze forward as the Hurricane tried to climb prematurely. Wheels up and away. Ginger drew into position alongside Red Three and watched Clouston up ahead waggle his wings playfully and disappear into the cloud.

'This is Yellow Leader. Yellow Leader. Bandits! Bandits at twelve-o'clock.'

'Roger that!' replied Bonzo. 'Tally-ho!'

The wing began to split up into smaller units as each picked a target out of the rapidly looming Messerschmitts. It was a point of pride and principle among the pilots of the RAF never to swerve first when attacking head-on. It was up to the Germans to do that or else join them in a fiery death. Ginger pulled closer to Clouston, dipping his wings first up and then down as he scanned the sky. Ahead of him the Messerschmitts were growing with appalling speed. What only a second earlier had been an indistinct dot in the sky, now was a clearly recognisable twin-engined fighter. Red Leader edged to starboard, drawing his intended opponent into his sights.

Ginger watched as Clouston's Hurricane stuttered in the air, its forward speed suddenly reduced by a sharp burst of the eight Brownings. The German broke off, climbing directly into Ginger's path. His thumb squeezed down hard on the fire b.u.t.ton. He gave no thoughts to his sights. His own Hurricane's speed was checked and then released as he slipped his thumb aside. Small black objects tumbled through the sky, pa.s.sing to either side of Ginger's c.o.c.kpit. He had scored a hit, but not one that would bring the Me110 down. Ginger struggled to breathe. He could feel his heart pounding through his fingers as he pulled hard right on the stick, trying to cling as close to Clouston as he could.

The elderly Hurricane began to lag again and he watched the distance grow from Red Section. They had just swept past Calais, heading back to Dunkirk, when they had chanced upon the Messerschmitts. Ginger glanced down to his altimeter and noticed they were high at twenty thousand feet. There came an indistinct crackle of static through his headphones. Clouston was not turning as expected back to the Messerschmitts but dropping into a steep dive.

Ginger's Hurricane liked to dive. He felt the controls tighten beneath his hands and feet. He was gaining on Red Section and beginning to draw almost level with Red Three when he saw Clouston's intended target. A staffel of Stuka dive-bombers down at about five thousand feet were peeling off for a bomb run. Red Section gained with fantastic speed as they dived onto the sinister black aircraft. As the Germans peeled away, so they presented their wings to the Hurricanes, their pilots busy picking out their targets on the ground, the rear-gunners more concerned with their sphincter muscles.

As they continued to fall, so they turned onto their backs before commencing their ninety-degree dive. It was then that Clouston brought Red Section to within five hundred yards of the Germans. Red Leader fired off a quick burst clipping the wing of the first bomber in the string. The second Stuka received a full blast directly across its bomb racks. Ginger found himself swerving his Hurricane aggressively through a cl.u.s.ter of twirling metal and gla.s.s fragments. Now, just a fraction of a second behind and to the left of Clouston, Ginger found another descending Stuka directly in his line of sight. He fired again. The Stuka could not have been more than one hundred yards in front of him. His vision filled with grey smoke. There was a hefty clunk and something impacted with his port wing. Before the second was out, Ginger was back in clear sky.

He tugged the stick, pulling the Hurricane up into a tight spiral. As he did so, he rocked from side to side, searching. As he completed his circle, Ginger saw the effects of the section's attack. One Stuka had already crashed into the sea, a series of white circles erupting across the grey surface. A second Stuka was spinning out of control. Ginger dived and followed it down, watching with ghoulish fascination as it exploded in a ball of orange flame, hitting a quay in the centre of the harbour and tumbling in a thousand pieces of flaming wreckage until the remains collided with a crane. He pulled back on the stick, increasing the throttle. He decided to remain low and make the most of the top cover from the oil refinery smoke. He turned sharply and headed out to sea. He felt a ghastly primal elation. 'Ha, ha, ha! Burn in h.e.l.l you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' He was aware that he was shouting or, more accurately, laughing.

As he cleared the harbour, Ginger looked down at his fuel gauge and estimated another seven minutes over the area. His heart threatened to burst. Sweat saturated his clothes. He turned and decided to take a quick run up the beach to the east of Dunkirk. But then, coming towards him, was another Hurricane. It trailed two fine clouds of white glycol and was aiming for a belly-landing on the beach. As their paths crossed, Ginger noticed the large white letters painted on the fuselage. The new Red Three had failed to last the day.

15:05 Wednesday 29 May 1940.

Bergues-Hondschoote Ca.n.a.l, France 'Right! You're turn now,' huffed Sergeant Harris, pulling himself from the trench and tossing the spade towards Guardsman Samson. The trenches along No. 3 Company's position had now been deepened, revetted, and laid with young corn from the fields to give a firmer footing. The soil was soft and easy with no rocks or chalk but it was still backbreaking work, especially on an empty stomach and no tea at any price.

'So what d'you reckon our chances are then, sarn't?' asked Samson.

'You heard the officer. What's your problem?' The sergeant sat down and began unlacing one of his boots.

'Well, d'you think they're serious? All this "fight to the last man" stuff?'

'Yeah. They're serious enough. But you never know. There's always a chance we'll get off.' He gave Samson a twisted smile.

'So how'd you see the odds, then? Five-to-one? Three-to-one? Evens?'

'Hard to rightly say. It all depends.' He slipped his boot off with obvious relief and began feeling around inside.

'On what?'

'On whether the Germans decide to give up now, or not. Whether they think they've got enough already, what with Holland, Luxemburg, Belgium and half of b.l.o.o.d.y France.'

'D'you think that's likely?' asked Samson, looking up and resting on his spade.

'No. No even remotely. And who told you to stop? We're here, lad, because we're here.'

'And the lieutenant? What about his b.u.g.g.e.red up feet?'

'He's all right. I'll lay you five-to-one, even ten-to-one, that you won't see young Mr Mackenzie-Knox give up so easy, not if I'm any judge.' Sergeant Harris pulled a lengthy piece of twisted and sodden leather from the instep of the boot and examined it closely. 'You take his father, Mad Scotch Bob...'

'Yeah, I know all about him.' Samson slipped in the slushy mud of the trench and struggled to right himself.

Every guardsman in the brigade and beyond knew of Mad Scotch Bob, so called because of his utter disregard for personal safety; so much so, that he always carried a rolled-up umbrella into battle. He also carried a revolver but that was for shooting the prisoners and the wounded. His greatest moment of triumph had come during the Third Battle of Ypres at the closing stages of the last war when he had stabbed a German officer in the eye with the sharpened tip of his brolly. This would not have been so remarkable had he not, just two minutes earlier, found his right hand neatly severed at the wrist. According to legend, he had carelessly tucked the remainder of his arm in his pocket before picking up the umbrella in his left hand and continuing the a.s.sault on the German trenches.

'What, like father, like son, d'you mean? I ain't sure I want a madman for a CO.' Samson stopped briefly to wipe his brow and then bent down again.

'They make the best officers,' declared the sergeant with pride. 'There's more to being a proper gentleman than knowing what knife and fork to use.'

The sergeant tried to stretch the leather back into shape. He looked down at Samson. 'You've just got to look at history, I suppose. Blokes like him, in another age, would have been your knights in shining armour.'

'What? Give over, sarn't!' laughed Samson. 'Knights in shiny armour?'

'Yeah, sure. His people would have been the barons in other times. They thought nothing of going over to France and knocking the Frogs on the head at Agincourt, or joining the crusades. It's their only real purpose in life.'

'Yeah, and to exploit the surfs.'

'I don't suppose the lieutenant's family have surfs any more. No even in Scotland.'

Samson scooped more muddy soil up with the spade and tossed it over the side. 'All the better if I've got a shiny knight leading me into battle.' Samson laughed, exposing the gaps in his front teeth. 'Or a knight in bedroom slippers!'

'Too right, lad. You won't find officers like 'em in other ordinary - regiments. You just got to look at types like the lieutenant. It's a different world. They pack 'em off to boarding school when they're no more than nippers. They don't get no love from their parents. They have cold showers every morning before their cross-country run. Then they're leaning Latin and Greek all day. Learning how the Romans ran their empire so they can learn how to run this one.' Sergeant Harris finished straightening out the strip of leather and placed it back inside his boot. 'And when they're not doing that, they're playing hard sports like rugby and hockey. A lot tougher than your beloved soccer.'

''Ere! Hang on!'

'And when they ain't doing that, they're riding around chasing foxes or playing polo. What's that all about then? That's practicing to be cavalry, that's what. Those blokes are born and bred for war. It would be a crying shame if they ever missed one.'

He slipped his boot back on and then grimaced. He slipped the boot off again and tossed away the leather. 'b.l.o.o.d.y good job for us that Mad Scotch Bob survived the last war to have a son. So many others didn't. They're a dying breed.'

'Yeah. And a lot of blokes from round my way never came back neither.'

'Ain't that the truth! f.u.c.king Jerries!' Sergeant Harris spat into the trench beside Samson and laced up his boot. 'I'd say you were done down there, lad. Give us one of your f.a.gs and let's take a quick breather. Then you can go and cut some more corn.'

Both men sat on the lip of the trench, dangling their legs inside and admiring their handiwork. Over to their right, just three hundred yards away, countless French troops were trudging slowly across the bridge.

'Look at those w.a.n.kers, sarn't! You wouldn't want to be in a Frog outfit.'

'Some of 'em are all right but that lot there obviously ain't. They look done in.'

'Hey! Look, sarn't! They're chucking their rifles into the bloomin' ca.n.a.l. Now I've seen it all.'

Sandy was also watching the French poilus as they made their way across the bridge. He had wandered over to see how No.1 Company was doing. He stopped to rest at the edge of the frontline trench, taking the weight off his feet.

'h.e.l.lo, Nigel!' he called. 'How did your foraging party get on? Find anything interesting?'

'We got this Lewis gun,' declared Nigel. The gun had been stripped and lay in pieces on a sheet of tarpaulin. Now he and a sergeant were putting it back together again. 'And a Bren, quite a bit of ammo, and two whole cases of Mills bombs. How about you?'

'I'm still waiting for my lot to get back,' said Sandy. 'I say, when you've finished here, why not come over to the cottage for a gla.s.s of sherry?'

'Thanks very much. How very civilised!' Nigel straightened up from the Lewis gun and looked back to the cottage. 'I would not want to be in there, though, when the Bosche turn up. Once they know you're in there, they'll blow it to pieces.'

'Yes, quite likely,' said Sandy. 'But I discussed that with Peter and we were both of the same opinion. The chances are that they will attack the line first, rather than systematically destroy every building just in case it's a strongpoint.'

'Your choice, Sandy.'

'Anyway, we can always vacate as soon as things get too hot.'

'I suppose so.' Both officers turned to look back at the bridge, and Nigel spoke again. 'Just because they are under our protection now, they think the war's over. Look at all those rifles going in the drink.'

'Don't let them throw anything useful away, will you?'

'They haven't got anything useful. Just rifles as far as I can see. I stopped some of them a while ago and asked them what they thought they were doing. They just shrugged their shoulders in that irritating Gallic way and said that the war was lost already.'

'Cheek!'

'They said the sooner they could surrender without being shot, the better. The officers are the worst. One blighter called me a stupid fool to go on fighting.'

'There's one now,' said Sandy. 'He looks a decent sort. Let's go and have a chat to him.'

The officers climbed out of the trench and stood beside the road.

'Bon apres-midi, chef de bataillon. tes-vous venu loin?'

The French officer, the equivalent rank to a major, answered the question by nodding his head, indicating that he had come a long way. 'Too far,' he said in good English, returning the officers' salutes.

'Can I offer you something to drink, sir?' asked Nigel.

'Water?'

'There's no drinking water, sir. But I can offer you a gla.s.s of wine or perhaps a Belgian beer.'

'I will take the Belgian beer, if you please. May I sit down?'

They introduced themselves while Nigel's batman prized the tops off three bottles and pa.s.sed them around.

'It is a mess,' said the chef de bataillon once he had taken a lengthy swallow. 'Do you know how long it takes for a message from headquarters to reach my unit in the field?' he asked suddenly.

'How long, sir?' asked Sandy. 'An hour or so? Cigarette?'

'Thank you. It takes twenty-four hours, at best. Forty-eight, if I want to send a message back. I ask myself where is all the correct equipment? Why do we not have wireless communication?'

Sandy and Nigel shook their heads. Nigel lent forward and lit the Frenchman's cigarette.

'Why must we, in this day and age, rely on telephones?' he continued. 'And the telephones, of course, they do not work with the first artillery barrage. The lines are cut. Then we must send messages by hand.'

Sandy and Nigel nodded in agreement.

'I am certain,' he said, exhaling. 'That we have as many tanks as the Germans do. Our tanks are the best in the world. But how do we deploy them?'

Sandy and Nigel shook their heads.