Dunkirk Spirit Part 2

Ginger wondered why Clouston was so readily accepted by this squadron of toffs. Perhaps it was because he was a colonial and, thus, exempt from the prevailing cla.s.s system. There were two main reasons why Ginger had not been accepted. Until a few short months before, he had been a sergeant pilot. This made him feel like a slum-dwelling scholarship boy at a great public school. It also felt as if he had mistakenly wandered into the sixth form common room. He was the youngest person on the squadron by ten years. So haughty and distant were the other pilots that Ginger could barely comprehend their lofty world, nor wish to.

To enter an Auxiliary Air Force squadron, such as the one Ginger now found himself attached to, had required a sizable income before the war and a keen interest in fox hunting and other n.o.b sports. Auxiliary squadrons were seen as the RAF's equivalent of the Army's territorial regiments, with the exception that membership was often by invitation only. It was not uncommon for potential applicants to be invited to lunch and plied with copious quant.i.ties of alcohol to see if they let slip their veneer of gentlemen. It was a well know fact that Auxiliaries were gentlemen pretending to be officers, while Regulars were officers pretending to be gentlemen. Volunteer Reserves were said to be neither.

Ginger had joined the Reserves early the previous year for the free flying lessons. By the time he had 200 hours under his belt he had been given the opportunity of a short, temporary attachment to a Regular RAF squadron. He had liked it so much that he had transferred in March and been promoted to Pilot Officer, the lowest rung on the commissioned ladder. Ginger was only too well aware of the other reason why he had not been accepted. He was not expected to survive very long.

Ginger decided to telephone his mum.

'Neil, my boy! Your Mum will be thrilled.' Ginger's dad, a county council surveyor, was proud as Punch of his son, a grammar school boy, now an officer and a fighter pilot.

'Neil, darling!' His mother grabbed the receiver. 'How are you? Are you looking after yourself? Are you getting enough to eat, and enough sleep?'

'Mum, I'm fine. Just a bit tired. We're up fairly early each day. They keep me on my toes.'

'Simon's down the Cubs,' she told him. 'They had a big parade today. He'll be so sorry to have missed you. And thanks for that photo. You look so handsome in your uniform. Simon took it to school on Friday. He said the boys in his cla.s.s finally believed him, that his big brother's a Hurricane pilot. He wants one of you in your aeroplane next time.'

Ginger didn't like to worry his parents unnecessarily. 'I had a day out at the seaside today,' he told his mum. 'Weather wasn't up to much, though. But I got a good long sleep on the train back.'

'That's great, darling. The weather's pretty poor up here, too. Gran's rheumatism has been playing up.'

They skimmed the surface of their comparative lives for a few minutes more, and then Ginger made his excuses and replaced the receiver. He strolled back to the mess, hoping to nab Clouston and dissect the morning's events. A crowd had formed around the sofa where another pilot held court.

'No, I never saw the blighter that bounced me. I'd just given a Dornier a five-second burst when there was this b.l.o.o.d.y big bang. Next thing I know, I'm coming down like a d.a.m.n meteorite. I pulled back the stick and closed the flaps and wham! I came hurtling down in this field, right in the middle of a load of b.l.o.o.d.y sheep. And do you know what? The d.a.m.n farmer had the cheek to try and charge me for the ones that got squashed. I told him to send the bill to the RAF.'

Everyone laughed. Ginger moved towards the bar. 'Another pint, please.' He pulled a Player's from the packet and lit the end. He was still trying to get used to the habit and withheld a cough. He recognised the speaker. He had been shot down over France on Ginger's first ever sortie, and presumed lost. Now he was sitting back on the sofa, a large whisky in hand and still wearing his Irvin, contrary to mess regulations. They obviously made an exception for returning heroes. Clouston sat perched on the arm of a chair, a pint in his hand. He winked at Ginger.

'But how did you get back, that's what I want to know?' somebody asked.

'Well, that's not the half of it.' The man's name was Frank somebody, but people were calling him Tiger. He held the pre-war record for the fastest flight across the British Isles, north to south, but Ginger didn't know that.

'I had the Devil's own job.' He raised his hand for silence. 'You would not believe what I saw. Those b.l.o.o.d.y Huns! They are deliberately mowing down the refugees to clog the roads and prevent any counter attack. It was just awful. I got a lift from some pongos in a lorry. Then the Ju87s swooped down. There were arms and legs all over the place. Headless bodies, bodiless heads!'

The speaker curled his lip and then lowered his voice. 'We came across a little boy. He can't have been much older than six, or so. He'd had both his legs blown off and his head was terribly burnt. I think he was blind. And you know what one of the men did?'

No one answered. The mess was silent.

'He pulled out his revolver and shot the kid in the head. Right in front of me! "It's the kindest thing, sir," he said. The poor fellow was crying his eyes out.'

'My G.o.d! Those people are s.h.i.ts.' Bonzo spoke.

'I'll tell you; down on the ground it's a different story.' Tiger sneered into his tumbler. 'You can say goodbye to chivalry and all that rot as far as I'm concerned. From now on the gloves are off. I'm fighting a total war. No mercy.'

Ginger stubbed out his cigarette and wondered if anybody else felt as frightened and as sick as he did.

23:15 Sunday 26 May 1940.

Southern Railways, Dover Commander Hector Babbington, RN retired, Binky to his friends, tried to look out of the window of the train. He scratched at the black paint covering the gla.s.s but failed to see a station sign. He wanted to get out at Dover Priory, just a short walk from the Castle and headquarters of Operation Dynamo. If he missed his stop, he would find himself in the Western Docks with a difficult walk back up the hill. The train was made up of small, individual London suburban carriages known as dog boxes. More evidence of confusion on the wartime railways. There was no connecting corridor and no d.a.m.n buffet.

There was another of those irritating Billy Brown of London Town posters, this one drawing attention to the blackout precautions: I trust you'll pardon my correction, this stuff is here for your protection.' Beneath the sign, some wag had written: 'We thank you for the information, but we can't see the b.l.o.o.d.y station.

'Here, here!' said Binky.

'I beg your pardon?' asked the man opposite.

'I was just wondering which station that was. I want to get out at Dover Priory.'

'That was Dover Priory,' said the man helpfully, adding: 'The previous stop was Kearsney. You have to count the stops from Canterbury. Dover Priory is number seven, I'm afraid.'

'Oh, b.a.l.l.s!' said Binky.

Despite the blackout precautions, the scale of the confusion at the docks was clear. A small convoy of commandeered Green Line buses sped past him towards the Admiralty Pier, just two hundred yards away. Two military policemen wearing red caps waved their nightsticks and blew whistles. There were ships of a variety of shapes and sizes moored double and triple abreast the quayside. Many looked like they had taken damage. In front of the vessels, on the hard, hundreds of ragged men stood or sat. A number more shuffled down the gangplank of a paddle steamer. Many wore grubby bandages around their heads, arms or legs. The few remaining helmets glittered in the rain. Several men were weeping openly.

'Right, come on, come on.' A young RNR officer was dividing up the a.s.sembled men. 'Walking wounded into the buses, please. Everybody else, make your way to the station. There's a train just pulled in and it will take you to safety.'

Binky walked slowly towards the men. Beneath his mackintosh he still wore the dinner jacket for his supper engagement with Admiral Wake-Walker. By rights, he should be tucking into a leathery steak right now. Instead, he clutched a canvas bag containing a steel helmet, a belt and canvas holster, and a Webley revolver, and the words of the Admiralty duty officer continued to reverberate in his ears. 'The whole thing's a shambles, a b.l.o.o.d.y rout. The Army is bottled up in the area around Dunkirk where they're forming a defensive perimeter. They're fighting fierce rearguard actions on all fronts as we speak.'

'Surely not?' Binky had asked. 'The entire Expeditionary Force, cut off?

'The whole shooting match, if you're excuse the pun. Actually, the best guess is that the Navy can lift off about forty-five-thousand.'

'But there's something in the order of three-hundred-thousand men over there!'

'Yes, well. We'll be lucky to get twenty thousand off, frankly. The Admiralty reckon we have just two days to do it in. By then, of course, the evacuation will probably be terminated by enemy action.'

Binky stood frozen to the spot. The laconic duty officer had painted a bleak picture but not one this bleak. The Commander drew a sharp breath. 'If this is the British Expeditionary Force, the cream of our Army, then G.o.d help us all.'

Day Two.

04:35 Monday 27 May 1940.

Somewhere on the Escaut Ca.n.a.l, Belgium.

Here is an announcement from the War Office. The Telegraph Service to the British Expeditionary Force in France has been suspended, along with certain curtailments to the Postal Service. This step has been taken because of the present heavy military traffic. The public are notified, therefore, that no telegrams may be sent to the B.E.F., and that Post Offices have instructions to refuse parcels, packets, and registered letters, and all letters over two-ounces in weight. Postal deliveries from members of the B.E.F. are also likely to be reduced in number for the time being.

'I don't know how you can see to write.'

'Well, I ain't got much to write about.'

'Why you bothering, then?'

'It's my last will and testament.'

'Oh, yeah? Well, be sure to leave me your ammo, mate.'

Dawn would soon be breaking through the heavy cloud and the weather was on the mend, not that the men of the rearguard, in this instance 11 Platoon, No.3 Company, 2nd Battalion, Coldstream Guards, could have gotten much wetter. It had been a cold night, and it had been quiet. But now, for the last half hour or more, small sounds of movement could be heard from the far bank.

'What's that noise?'

'What noise?'

'I dunno.'

'Sounds like a wireless to me.' Both men strained to listen. 'Probably that sod Chalky trying to find the sports results. If that b.u.g.g.e.r tells me one more time about his try out for Spurs I'm gonna stab him!'

'No, shush! That noise. Sounds like splashing in the water.' Both men quietly slipped forward the safety catches on their rifles and peered apprehensively over the ca.n.a.l bank.

'It's Mr Mackenzie-Knox. Didn't expect him to come back so near the bridge.'

'Who goes there?' demanded the other guardsman, for forms sake, from the lip of the bank.

'It's me. Your platoon commander.'

'What's the pa.s.sword?'

'c.o.c.k-up.'

'Right you are, sir. Advance and be recognised.'

'I can hardly advance without a hand up, can I?' The men tugged and Sandy slithered quickly over the bank and plopped like a wet fish into their trench. He gasped for breath. 'Sergeant Harris and the others are right behind me. Give them a hand, Carter. You, too, Samson.'

Within minutes, Sandy was slipping out of his wet shirt and PT shorts and rubbing his hair vigorously with a blanket. 'Hurry up with that tea, Lucas. And put plenty of rum in it. I don't think I'm ever going to get warm again!'

'There's half a mug of rum in there, sir. And nice and sweet, too. Best drink it while it's hot.' His batman pa.s.sed the mug over and Sandy gripped it with both hands, smelling the rich, fruity smell of sugar cane.

'You should have taken a bar of soap with you, sir,' offered Lucas. 'You ain't gonna get all that black stuff off your face otherwise, what with virtually no fit water and all.'

Sandy smeared the burnt cork with the edge of the blanket to no discernable effect. There was a cough at the door and Peter, the adjutant, jumped quickly in.

'No, don't get up, Sandy. Don't get up.' He slipped off his helmet and handed it to Lucas. 'Timed that rather well, didn't I? That tea smells delicious.' He turned towards Sandy with a smile and asked: 'What do you have for me?'

'Plenty, sir. Those RE chaps were right. There's loads of German armour building up about half a mile back from the bridge.' Sandy sucked on a cigarette, and Peter noticed his hand quaver as he pointed out positions on the hand-drawn map. 'I couldn't see any bridge-laying kit from where I was but they do seem to have ma.s.sed a lot of infantry in the side roads, and in the fields. We skirted off to the north a bit and found the same story there. Armour backed up and waiting, with troops in reserve.'

'Any idea what outfits?' asked Peter.

'No, couldn't say, sir. We could hear them but we couldn't get close enough to see regimental flashes. And no chance of a prisoner, sir. It's hard moving quietly across that ground'

'All right. Well done then. It seems to fit a familiar pattern all along this stretch of the line, so I had better pop off and tell Becky the good news.'

Peter stood to leave and looked down at Sandy, a black and white minstrel on the brink of exhaustion. 'Better not get any shut-eye, old boy. Looks like we're all going to have a busy day ahead of us. It'll be dawn in a mo', and then we might see some fun and games.' With that, he downed his tea in a single gulp, slipped the helmet back on his head and opened the door. 'Toodle pip!'

Sandy was savouring the warm glow of the rum in his belly, having just laced up his boots and attached the gaiters, when a series of single shots rang out from the bank.

'Sounds like our lot, sir,' said Lucas, helpfully. 'Do you want me to go and have a look, sir?'

'No, I'd better go and see what's up.' Sandy opened the back door of the cottage and dropped down into the communications trench, little more than a wet ditch that linked the makeshift network of defence positions of his platoon.

'What the h.e.l.l are you shooting at, Samson?' asked Sandy once he had slithered back to the bank.

'There's a Jerry's head, sir. Keeps popping up over there by that clump of weeds by the bridge. Look! There it is again.' Samson let off another round and there was a distinct clink as the bullet scored a direct hit. There was also a burst of laughter from the German side of the ca.n.a.l.

'I got 'im, sir. You saw that. But the blighter's back up again. Shall I give him another one, sir?' Sandy nodded and the rifle rang out. Another clink and another burst of laughter.

'I think they're having a joke with us, sir.' Samson looked disappointed. 'I read a book once about some blokes in the last war and they stuck helmets on bayonets and took bets on the Jerry's accuracy. Good laugh, that, sir. Perhaps that's what they're doing with us. Having a d.a.m.n good laugh. What do you reckon, sir?'

'I think you might be right, Samson. Best not rise to their bait. But keep a sharp lookout.'

More rounds cracked off from down the line as another helmet popped up two hundred yards away. Sandy crawled hastily on his hands and knees along the trench, hissing out 'cease fire' as he went. The battledress that Lucas had carefully cleaned and dried while he was on his recce was now soaked through and muddy again. Sandy plopped himself up against the wall of the trench and looked at his watch. He had barely pulled back his sleeve before he felt, rather than heard, the air part inches from his head. Zip went an incoming round again and Sandy ducked quickly down.

He was making his way back rapidly along the bottom of the trench when a voice called out from the other side.

'Is anyone there? I've got a wounded man here and I'm not much good at this swimming lark.'

Before Sandy could pull himself to his knees, four members of his platoon who had risen to the call, buckled over as a machinegun on the far bank fired a concerted burst into them. Two of the men toppled forward, headfirst into the ca.n.a.l.

'Stay put everyone!' Sandy shouted out the command but there was little need. n.o.body wanted to move now. 'Do not return...' He failed to complete his sentence before a returning burst of fire from the Bren gun concealed deep in the roof of the cottage cut him off. 'Cease fire! Cease fire, Eleven Platoon. Don't give your positions away.'

There were a series of hissing sounds in the air as first one artillery round, and then another, and another, and another, sailed over to land in the field behind the cottage knocking the few remaining horses to the ground in a cacophony of shrieks and explosions. Sandy pressed his face into the mud of the trench. He slid his hands up beneath his helmet to cover his ears and opened his mouth to reduce the pressure inside his skull. For nearly twenty minutes the sh.e.l.ls rained down. Then, just as he was savouring the silence, there came a call from further down the trenches.

'Sir, sir! You better come and have a look at this.' Sandy raised himself onto his knees and peered cautiously over the top. On the far bank three groups of Germans were walking casually across the field towards the ca.n.a.l. Each group carried a stretcher draped in a Red Cross flag. The men halted by the far bank and dropped their loads.

'Hold your fire,' called out Sandy in a perfect parade ground voice. He studied the men on the far bank. They were the first Germans he had actually seen in daylight. It took him a moment to work out what was going on. Then, what had appeared to be a groundsheet suddenly began to swell at alarming speed to emerge as a fully inflated black rubber a.s.sault boat. Two more were rapidly inflated and then began a mad scramble as the Germans pushed them over the bank. Before the first man had stepped inside, the Bren gunner in the roof opened fire again. The results were devastating.

Sandy suddenly felt a chill run down his back. The air took on a surprising clarity and he finally shook off the sensation that he was just playing games as he had countless times on Salisbury Plain. Somehow, in the s.p.a.ce of a few minutes, he had been propelled into a desperately real and nightmarish world where the word rearguard had new meaning; a world from which there could be no return.

07:01 Monday 27 May 1940.

Council Allotments, Teddington, Middles.e.x Charlie Lavender pressed the portable receiver to his good ear and grimaced as the fourth train in twenty minutes sped by on the up-line beside his shed. The French were putting up a valiant struggle on the Somme and inflicting heavy losses on the Germans. He might not be able to hear it very well, but at least the news was encouraging.

Not that he was actually very interested in the news. He had done his bit in the last war and had the shrapnel in his b.u.t.tocks to prove it. This new war held little interest for him. These days, Charlie had a morning ritual that he performed daily in his shed. Today he would listen to Bing Time, a programme of gramophone records by the singer Bing Crosby, including two promised numbers from the new film Road to Singapore. He would then take deep delight in the matronly voice that sang out the physical exercise routines on Up in the Morning Early, a programme aimed at younger women. His exertions over, without ever stirring from his chair, he would then put the kettle on and make a pot of tea and listen to the various musical programmes that took him up to lunchtime. By then, his legs would start to ache, so he would venture out of his shed and cycle over to the Gloucester Arms in Kingston for a couple of pints and, today being a Monday, a nice, solid shepherd's pie. There was a gentle tap at the door.

'Charlie, I wasn't sure I'd find you here.' The shed door opened a crack, held back by a length of twine.

'What do you mean, you daft b.u.g.g.e.r? I'm always in me b.l.o.o.d.y shed.'

'Mr Tough's got a job for you, if you want it.'

'What kind of job?' Charlie's voice often held a tone of scornful resentment, as it did now.'

'He wants you to take Phoebe down to Southend, or maybe even Sheerness. It ain't clear.'

'Southend! What's he want her down there for?'

'Like I say, it ain't clear, but best guess is it's got something to do with the kid's evacuation.'