Dunkirk Spirit Part 22

He called again from the bows: 'Where's Dunkirk?'

An officer pushed his way through the men in the water and stood below Phoebe's sharp bows as they rocked gently in the swell. 'Dunkirk?' he asked. 'The port, do you mean?'

'Yes, the port,' shouted Burnell.

'The port is that way,' he waved his arm back down along the beach. 'You said something about a jetty?' he asked.

'Some chaps are building a jetty with trucks,' answered Burnell. 'We're looking for that.'

'I've no idea, I'm afraid,' replied the officer. 'I'm very sorry. I've been here two days now and I haven't seen a jetty, only miles of b.l.o.o.d.y sand. Any chance of a lift, though?'

'I'm sorry,' called back Burnell. 'If you can find the jetty we will gladly take you off. But thanks awfully.'

'Hey!' shouted the officer.

Burnell waved to Tom and Phoebe began to pull away from the sh.o.r.e.

'Hey! Don't leave us here, you b.u.g.g.e.r!' shouted the officer. 'Hey! Come back!'

Burnell turned from the bow and began to step back towards the bridge when the bullet whizzed past his ear. He did not even hear the shot. Tom had and he pushed down hard on the lever and Phoebe reversed sharply, the whirling propeller lifted briefly clear of the sea by an incoming wave.

'I actually felt that!' said Burnell, rubbing the side of his head after clambering up to the bridge. He looked at Tom. 'Pull us out a bit and let's keep creeping up the coast.'

'What the...?' exclaimed Ted, balanced in the bows. There came an almighty crunch and a rending of timbers and metal, and Phoebe came to a sudden stop. Tom quickly raised the throttle to the neutral position and looked across at Burnell, horror written on his face. Phoebe yawed to one side, her stern drifting towards the beach.

'I never...I never saw a thing!' Tom looked like he might cry.

'Hard a-port and bring us forward a bit,' snapped Burnell. He called out to Ted. 'What is it?'

'It's a lorry, sir. We've knocked a ruddy lorry over!'

'That will be the jetty, then,' declared Charlie, rasping the stubble on his chin.

06:30 Thursday 30 May 1940.

Near West Cappel, France 'Now which way?' wondered the Padre. He spoke to himself, although the words were said aloud. The Major had stopped once more to pick poppies and this, set against the overwhelming desire to push on, made something snap inside the Padre's head. He snapped at the Major. 'Don't pick poppies!' There was an edge of hysteria in his voice. 'Why bother? They just die!'

'All flowers d-d-die when you p-p-pick them,' pointed out the Major, looking up. He had a dreamy, far-away expression.

'Yes, but wild poppies wilt instantly. You have taken one of the most beautiful flowers in G.o.d's creation and you are killing them by the dozen.'

The Major pulled himself upright and stood looking at the poppies in his hand. He raised them to his nose and sniffed deeply.

'And don't sniff them!' The Padre almost raised his voice. 'They give you nose bleeds.'

The Major looked up from the flowers, leaving traces of pollen on his moustache. He slipped one into his lapel and turned towards the crossroads.

'W-w-which w-w-way now?' he asked.

The rising sun was hidden deep behind the heavy clouds and a low carpet of mist covered the fields. To either side of the road, the young green corn raised their heads above the ghostly ground. The Padre studied the German surrender map again.

'They must be in a b-b-bad way if they c-c-can stoop to such low p-p-propaganda,' declared the Major, looking over the Padre's shoulder. He read aloud in a comic German accent: 'Look at zis map: it gives your true s-s-situation! What utter p-p-piffle!' he declared. He puffed loudly.

'Yes, as you keep saying,' hissed the Padre. The Major had made the same remark every time the Padre had pulled the paper from his pocket to help get their bearings. 'But is it right or is it left?' Again he spoke mostly to himself.

'We should toss a c-c-coin,' declared the Major. 'That's the best way to make a d-d-decision.'

'Do you have a c-c-coin?' The Padre's voice reflected his deep weariness.

The Major patted his pockets. 'No, not a s-s-sous!' He laughed.

'No, and nor do I,' declared the Padre. 'We go through this every time.'

'Do you have a w-w-watch?' asked the Major. This was a new twist.

'Yes,' replied the Padre, an edge of caution in his voice.

'And does it have a s-s-second hand?' asked the Major.

'Yes,' replied the Padre.

'Then c-c-cover the w-w-watch. D-d-don't look at it.' The Major shuffled from foot to foot, a boyish excitement in his face. 'Now, if the s-s-second hand is on the right, we should g-g-go to the right. If it is on the l-l-left...'

'All right!' The Padre stretched back his sleeve and looked down. The hand pointed to the right.

'There's a church over there,' announced the Irish sergeant, stepping up. He stopped beside them and nodded across the field directly in front. A sharp church steeple stood out through the mist. The sergeant reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offering one to the Major.

'Sure, we might as well go straight across the fields,' he announced. 'It can't be more than a mile or two, and we might even find something to eat in the village.' He struck a match and lit the Major's cigarette, and then his own. 'But let's wait for the lads to catch up first.'

The tiny town of West Cappel is notable for the ancient church of Saint Sylvestre and the seventeenth century Flemish organ within. The Padre, the Major and the twenty-strong party of pioneers stood on the gra.s.s in front of the church, looking up.

'Here is the c-c-church, and here is the s-s-steeple,' said the Major, slowly. 'Open the door but where are the p-p-people?'

'Sure they'll be on the road, along with all them other refugees, sir,' said the sergeant. He stepped away and turned around to examine the tiny town. A row of shabby terraced houses ran away to their right. The only imposing building, aside from the church, was the Marie's office in front of them. A dog was c.o.c.king its leg up against the side of an abandoned car. Both front doors hung open. The only other movement in the street came from a large grey pig that pushed its snout along the gutter beside the graveyard.

'There's no petrol in this car,' called Lynch from the street. 'Shall I grab the pig?'

'Good plan,' called the sergeant. 'But best get something to tie its leg first. That'll be a runner and a squealer, too.'

'We really ought to be pushing on,' announced the Padre. 'I can't imagine there is much here.'

'I tell you what, father,' said the sergeant, stepping back and placing an arm around the Padre's shoulder. 'Why don't you be having a look around the church, say a prayer or two, and me and the lads will try and rustle up some breakfast. We might even find something for the thirst.'

The Padre licked his dry lips and felt his stomach rumble. His bowels had long ago turned to water. Now they were empty.

'All right,' he said. 'Just half-an-hour, no more.' He looked at his watch. 'It's now coming up to seven. Let's all meet back here at half-past.' He looked at the sergeant and asked: 'What time do you have now?'

'It's coming up to seven, father,' he declared.

'But you only know that because I just told you so.'

'Yes, that's correct, father.'

'Do you have a watch?'

'Oh, no, father, and nor do any of the lads.'

'All right,' said the Padre. His head felt light and he needed to sit down. 'Just don't be long, that's all. I shall see you all back here...' He hesitated. 'Just come back soon.' With that, he spun around and pushed open the church doors.

At the far end of the church, towering above the altar, rose five columns of organ pipes. The Padre stopped in his tracks and marvelled. The Major shuffled up and halted too.

'Sylvester was one of the first non-martyrs honoured as a saint,' declared the Padre, not bothering to look at the Major. 'He served as bishop of Rome in the fourth century and played an active part in the fight against the Arian Heresy and the Donatist schism.'

'R-r-really,' said the Major. 'It's also a j-j-jolly fine French b-b-beer, if that isn't a c-c-contradiction in terms.' He stepped past the Padre and plonked himself down in the first row of pews. 'C-c-can you give us a t-t-tune, P-p-padre? I know you can p-p-play.'

The Padre hesitated. He was out of practice and this was rather a daunting organ, as organs go. He made his way up the aisle and paused briefly before the altar, dipping down and genuflecting. He then stepped eagerly towards the organ.

'C to C with a short first octave,' called out the Padre. 'And thirteen stops. There aren't many like this left.'

'Give us T-t-toccata and F-f-fugue in A Major.' He chuckled loudly. 'In A Major, g-g-get it?' His chuckle turned to a wheeze and soon he was coughing. The Padre waited for the attack to subside and then he called out.

'Only if you man the pumps.' The Padre chuckled now as he ran his fingers across the keys. 'You pump and I shall play.' He called back over his shoulder. 'Do you know how to work the bellows?'

'Oh, y-y-yes,' replied the Major, pulling himself out of the pew and walking up. 'I k-k-know all about that.'

The Major tucked himself into the alcove and began to pump. The Padre sat upright on the stool and stretched out his fingers. He shut his eyes and the familiar opening bars filled the church with celestial sound.

'Do you smell something?' asked the Padre.

'It smells like b-b-burning flesh,' answered the Major. The toccata and fugue had been cut short by the Major's lack of puff and they now stood again outside the church, the Padre looking at his watch.

'What could be keeping them?'

'I s-s-suggest that we g-g-go find out. Follow our n-n-noses, so to speak.'

The pioneers stood gathered around a fire. An enormous puddle of blood stretched across the cobbled street.

'W-w-what have we got here, then?' asked the Major.

'Pig, sir.'

'Really!' exclaimed the Major, peering into the stack of burning straw. 'I have always t-t-taken the k-k-keenest interest in animal h-h-husbandry.'

'We're just burning off the hair now, sir. When that's done we can give her a good sc.r.a.pe and we're almost there.'

'That's a pig!' exclaimed the Padre, stepping up. He looked down at the small fire and could clearly see the outline of the pig. 'You can't possibly be cooking it like that!'

'Oh, no, father.' The Irish sergeant laughed. 'Jeezoz! What a thought!' The others joined in. 'We're just at cleaning the outsides. But the ears will be ready in two ticks, should you want one.'

'Oh, gosh! No thank you.' The Padre turned his head aside. He was not overly squeamish. He had seen plenty worse in the Outback but the smell of the burning pig reminded him of crematoriums. 'How long is this going to take to cook?'

'Don't you be worrying, father. No time at all, once we brush off all the burnt skin and hair. And then it's just a matter of heaving her onto a table of some kind. We thought we might use that door over there.' He gestured towards the nearest house. 'Then it's going to take about three goes to flush out all the blood, although I haven't a clue what we'll use for water. We really can't waste the head, so that's got to come off. Then we slit off the hide and rip off the fat. And then we can start the butchering.'

'But how long is all this going to take?' The Padre resisted the urge to look at his watch.

'Hard to say, father. It depends what bits you might be wanting now. I'll grant you, it might take a while but a fine roast pork joint with plenty of crackling is well worth the wait. And that reminds me.'

The Irish sergeant called across to the Major. 'h.e.l.lo, sir! We've found some wine. Looks like it might be of the expensive sort, so we saved you a couple of bottles.'

'Well, I'll be b-b-b.u.g.g.e.red!' exclaimed the Major, rotating the bottle lovingly in his hands. 'Corton Charlemagne twenty-nine. Never a f-f-finer vintage.' He turned towards the Padre. 'I say, do you like w-w-white Burgundies? This has great d-d-depth and b-b-breadth.' But the Padre had already walked off.

07:44 Thursday 30 May 1940.

Bergues, France

Before we join Bobby Pagan with more modern melodies for the theatre organ, here is a brief commentary from a Senior Serving Officer who has just returned from the Western Front: 'A Very good morning to you all. I would like to pay a brief tribute to the men of the B.E.F. and to their French allies who are putting up a magnificent performance over in France. Your Expeditionary Force, virtually encircled through no fault of its own, has put up a show of which the whole Empire is proud. Although ceaselessly attacked on their two flanks, from the east and the west, they are disputing every inch of ground to the enemy, and clinging to their ground and counter-attacking with as much stubbornness as bravery.

'The French Navy, in defending the ports and lines of communication, is lending them powerful support. Under the command of Admiral Abrial, with a large number of ships, it is engaged in supplying the fortified camp of Dunkirk and the troops in it, in cooperation with French aircraft that are perpetually in action.

'On land, too, French forces have displayed superb bravery. The courage of their tank crews in hurtling their machines at the enemy is beyond praise. There has not been a single engagement in which they have not triumphed. Together, our armies are maintaining a struggle of exceptional intensity and showing in these grave circ.u.mstances indomitable resolution. The B.E.F. has displayed a level of leadership, efficiency and gallantry rarely equalled in the annals of the British Army.

'There now remains only one thing to do and I say it to you all in the name of the B.E.F. work as you have never worked before and see that the new armies we are now raising are more than adequately equipped so that they may worthily continue the great work which those lads have done, and are doing, over in France. Thank you.'

'What a load of old cobblers!'

'What d'you know about it, then?'

'I know a lot more than you give me credit for.' The private examined his fingernails, working away the dirt with a pocket-knife. 'So, answer me this,' he asked, waving the knife. 'If we're supposed to be clinging to our ground, and even counter attacking, then how come we're here? This time last week, we were in Lille.'

'Well, it's not for us to say, is it? Armies are always marching backwards and forwards.'

'Yeah! And they're sh.e.l.ling the s.h.i.t out of us and I don't see much heading in their direction.'

'Oh, how do I know?' The other private turned aside.

'So, what d'you say?' The burly private leaned towards Archie Marley. 'You must 'ave some ideas.'

'I reckon it's a b.l.o.o.d.y shambles, that's what I reckon.' Archie sat with his back to the wall, his knees up to his chin. He stared directly ahead, looking out of a loophole in the far wall. It had been a long and cold night. He had come off guard an hour ago but could not sleep. His entire left side pulsed, and he felt sick both in his wounds and in his stomach. The sh.e.l.ls had just resumed after several hours of respite.

'I just wish they would give us something to eat,' said Archie.