Dunkirk Spirit Part 27

The Reverend Thomas Charlesworth stood outside the church, gazing up at the steeple, and toying with the notion of climbing to the belfry and getting his bearings. His stomach grumbled and he dismissed the idea. He cast his eyes around him.

Most of the doors in the street had been kicked in and the insides thoroughly searched by the pioneers. He needed water desperately but that was the second item on his list. He walked as quickly as he could along the narrow street, casting glances down each and every alleyway. Eventually, he stopped and looked furtively in both directions. He stepped quickly down the alley, peering into the back yards as he went. Eventually he spotted a privy and pushed open the gate.

Some minutes later, considerably relieved but bashful at the lack of running water, the Padre stood in the tiny garden. A few stunted and limp green tomatoes draped from a vine. The Padre tugged one free and rubbed it against his tunic. He sniffed the tomato and the smell instantly transported him back to the garden at Stony Stratford and memories of the first of the summer fruit and vegetables. He slipped it into his mouth whole and popped it against his palette. The juice filled his mouth. He held it there briefly and then let it trickle down his throat. He was savouring the last tomato when he noticed the removal van.

Pickfords of Adlington, Manchester. British and Continental Removals. The Padre slipped off his tin hat and scratched his head.

'Well that's rather peculiar,' he said to himself, smiling. British and Continental Removals.

He looked up at the overcast sky. 'For those who seek shall find Him, and those who find Him shall praise Him. Oh, thank you G.o.d!'

12:48 Thursday 30 May 1940.

HM Treasury, Horse Guards Road, London 'Are you coming to lunch?' asked Barry, poking his head around the door.

'Try and stop me,' smiled Clive. He picked the bookmark off the desk and slipped it into the spine of the heavy directory, slamming it shut. 'Do I need my raincoat?' he asked.

'No leave it,' said Barry. 'Hurry up. I've got something I want to ask you.'

'Come on then. Spit it out!' Clive took the gin from Barry's hands and they turned to sit at a table. 'You really are the man of mystery today.'

'What are you doing this weekend?' asked Barry. He sat forward, an eager expression on his face.

'Well,' said Clive, rubbing his moustache. 'Julia and I have to go over to the Patterson's for dinner on Sat.u.r.day. We had hoped to get out to the country but you know what Patterson is like.' He sipped the gin and tonic. 'Wot! No lemon! What is the world coming to?'

'And then?' asked Barry.

'Well, on Sunday, as we're in town, down to Richmond for a spot of rowing.'

'How d'you fancy rowing somewhere else?' asked Barry.

'What, Putney you mean?'

'No. Further a field.'

'Not Greenwich, surely!'

'How about Dunkirk?'

'Dunkirk!' Clive quickly lowered his voice. 'Are you crazy? The whole d.a.m.n BEF is...'

'Yes, yes,' insisted Barry. 'That's the whole point.'

Clive stared at Barry and whispered. 'Look, old man,' he said, knitting his eyebrows. 'Do you know what's going on over there?'

'Of course I know!' smiled Barry.

'I don't mean the d.a.m.n rubbish you read in the papers...'

'Of course I know. The whole department is alive with talk.' Barry turned his head and looked around the bar. 'We could go down tomorrow night after work, hitch a lift across the Channel, and make ourselves generally useful. We could be back in the office on Monday morning. What d'you say?'

'Tell me you are not serious, old man.'

'We can catch the five-thirty-eight from Victoria.' Barry raised his gla.s.s and grinned. 'Bottom's up!'

'But not ours, I hope!'

13:55 Thursday 30 May 1940.

Outskirts of Warhem, France The Royal Automobile Club, popularly known as the R.A.C., is to put its entire organisation at the disposal of the Home Defence authorities. The Club in common with the Automobile a.s.sociation, known as the A.A. is to make available hundreds of telephone boxes, vehicle patrols, and branch offices around the country. It is also reported that signposts, which may be of a.s.sistance to the enemy should he invade this country, are being removed. The work was put in hand yesterday.

'Stop the van!' called the Padre.

'Oh, n-n-not again!' stuttered the Major.

'No, not that!' The Padre's face took on a sour expression as he looked away and stared through the windscreen towards the crossroads and the fast-flowing stream of refugees. 'How are we going to get through that lot?' he asked.

'Just try and stop me,' muttered Pioneer Lynch. He rammed the van back into gear and jerked forward. As the van entered the crossroads, Lynch slammed the ball of his hand down on the horn and kept it there. He edged forward into the traffic stream, the refugees tugging their prams and pushcarts quickly out of the way.

The Padre, who sat nearest to the door, leaned out of the window and studied the refugees.

'At least there are no dive-bombers this time,' he observed looking up. Major Featherstonehaugh sniffed into his hankie and closed his mind to the thought.

'Bonjour,' called the Padre to the limit of his French. 'O allez-vous?' The refugees ignored him. The Major leaned across, pressing his heavy bulk onto the Padre and squeezing him tight up against the door.

'Bonne journee, jeune dam. O allez-vous?' he called, smiling down to a young mother, babe-in-arms.

She turned her head up, surprised, and pulled the baby closer to her breast. 'N'importe o! Loin des Allemands.'

The Major pulled himself back up and nestled into his seat. 'She s-s-says she is g-g-going anywhere. Anywhere away from the G-g-germans.'

'Are they near here, do you suppose?' asked the Padre.

'P-p-probably,' stated the Major.

'Well, ask them if they have seen the Germans! They seem to be in a terrible hurry.'

The Major sighed and pulled himself over the Padre again, pressing down hard on his queasy stomach. He stretched out of the window and called back to the young mother.

'Les Allemands sont-ils pres d'ici, Madame?'

'Courrions-nous s'ils n'etaient pas?' she shouted back.

The Major lifted away from the window and dropped back heavily into his seat.

'What did she say?' asked the Padre.

'W-w-well, she asked me a q-q-question, actually,' stated the Major. He turned and stared out of the windscreen.

'Well, what did she ask you?'

'She asked w-w-why would she be running if the G-g-germans weren't right b-b-behind her. Good point.'

'Oh, Heavens!' exclaimed the Padre. He leant across and looked imploringly at Lynch. 'Can't you go any faster?'

'Faster is it, father? Only one moment ago you was imploring me to go easy. Is it faster you want now?' He jabbed the horn and pressed down on the accelerator. The heavy van surged forward knocking the packed refugees from its path amid a series of clunks and yells.

'Stop! Stop!' hollered the Padre. 'For G.o.d's sake, man, have mercy! You can't drive right over them!'

'Well, make your mind up, father, why don't you.' Lynch turned to look at the Major, his foot still pressing down on the accelerator. 'And what do you say, sir. We shouldn't hang about, should we now?'

'N-n-no,' stuttered the Major. 'B-b-best press on.'

The Padre peered through his fingers, his hands clasped to his face. The refugees ahead, seeing the unstoppable progress of the van, were diving urgently out of the way, leaving a littered and narrow path ahead of them. Lynch changed up a gear.

'I wish I'd brought my Eye-Spy book,' huffed Guardsman Stowe of No.1 Company, Second Battalion, Coldstream Guards.

'What is it now, then?' asked the corporal.

'Pickfords removal van. The only thing I haven't seen is a milk float.'

The corporal looked again at his watch. 'Right last one! Dump it over there. And then we're out of here. At the double.'

The two guardsmen marched forward and flagged down the van. The corporal stepped up to the cab. 'End of the line, chum. Everybody out and run her into that ditch there!' He checked himself and stepped back, saluting and smiling. 'Oh, good afternoon, Padre. Didn't see you there. Everybody's got to get out, I'm afraid, sir. No vehicles beyond this point.'

'Really, corporal?' asked the Padre from his seat. 'Can't you make an exception in this case? We are in a tearing hurry.'

'Aren't we all, Padre? But orders is orders and besides you're going to have to run pretty fast to get over that bridge in time.'

'Run? How do you mean?'

'We're blowing the bridge, Padre.' He looked at his watch. 'You've got precisely twelve minutes, so you'd better not hang about.'

He pulled open the cab door and stepped back. The Padre dropped down and the Major edged himself along the seat until his legs dangled out of the cab.

'I do not understand the urgency, corporal. I thought the Germans were some way behind us.'

'You see that field over there, Padre, and that line of trees?'

'Yes.'

'Well, that's where the Germans are.'

'Oh my gosh! That close! Then we must have driven right past them.'

'Right through them, more like.' The corporal laughed. 'There's German armour and infantry building up all along this line. How you could have missed them, I don't know.'

The corporal signalled to Lynch. 'Into that ditch, as fast as you can!'

Lynch put the van into gear and charged forward. It travelled all of ten feet, only to halt suddenly and come crashing down onto its side. There came a series of shouts from the back and then the rear doors burst open.

'Are we there now?' asked the Irish sergeant clambering out. He stood and brushed down his overalls and looked around him. The other pioneers climbed up the ditch and joined the tide of men, women and children.

'Switch the motor back on,' called Stowe to Lynch who still sat in the cab. 'That's right, switch it back on!' The engine barked and then revved loudly. Lynch climbed out of the cab as Stowe stepped up. The guardsman brought the rifle to his hip and pulled back the bolt, firing a round into the radiator.

'To seize the engine, Padre,' explained the corporal.

'Oh,' exclaimed the Padre, looking on as Stowe moved along the van jabbing his bayonet into the tyres.

'This is the bit I like best,' Stowe called back over his shoulder. He jabbed again and the heavy van shuddered and slid further down into the ditch like an expiring dinosaur.

'b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell!' exclaimed the corporal looking around him. 'How many of you lot are there?'

'Just don't ask,' shuddered the Padre. He watched as the pioneers began to get lost in the swirling torrent of refugees.

'Right! Everybody out! Come on!' shouted the corporal, grabbing the Padre by the crook of his arm and preparing to pull him away. 'Last one to the bridge is a dead man!'

'About time too, corporal!' shouted Nigel. 'I told you to be back five minutes ago!'

The corporal dropped down from the road and into the trench. He saluted and waved for the Padre and the Major to follow him. 'Sorry, sir. Just found a group of pioneers and a chaplain, sir.'

'All right, corporal! Take them along the trench to the cottage out of harm's way.' The pioneers dropped down into the trench and began to file past one-by-one. Captain The Honourable Nigel Prendergast-Taylor looked at his watch. He raised himself above the trench and called at the top of his voice. 'Ready mortar?'

'Sir!'

Nigel pushed the last pioneer past him and tried to run along the trench. He squeezed past and arrived at the back of the cottage, quickly raising himself up on a fire-step and looking back towards the bridge. Refugees, like ants from a disturbed nest, poured across and continued running along the road beside them.

'Red first,' called Nigel, looking down at the mortar crew. 'And I want it placed on the road about five yards back from the bridge. Can you handle that?'

'Yes, sir,' said the guardsman, the mortar round poised in his hand above the tube. 'Now, sir?'

'Now!'

The mortar made a deep double pop sound and the sh.e.l.l flew across the ca.n.a.l, describing a tight arch. It landed on the roof of a house on the opposite bank and then tumbled down into the road. A thick cloud of vermillion signal smoke spilled out and upwards, engulfing the stream of people trying to clamber across the bridge.

'Now white!' called Nigel. 'Fire!'

Another round soared into the air and landed directly on the southern side of the bridge, and still the refugees poured across.

'Oh, for G.o.d's sake! Can't they take the hint?' exclaimed Nigel. 'Sergeant!' he called. 'Fire a burst over their heads.'

The Bren burst into life.

'And blue!' he called, his voice showing traces of frustration. 'Fire!'

Another round whizzed upward and landed with a dull thud directly in the centre of the bridge. The three clouds of smoke red, white, and blue - merged into one and rose slowly into the still air.

'Another burst, sergeant!' Nigel rubbed his hand across his smooth chin and looked down at his watch. 'Okay! That's it. Time's up!' He dropped back down and began to wind the lever on a small wooden box. Wires ran from two terminals across the bank and into the tall gra.s.s.