Dunkirk Spirit Part 3

'Oh, I don't know,' thought Charlie. 'Road to Singapore.' But then came the b.l.o.o.d.y trains again. The shed shook. 'How much?'

'Mr Tough said day rate, plus a half, and your train fare back tonight.'

Charlie Lavender plucked his cap and oilskin off the nail on the door, grabbed his gasmask, and lifted back the twine.

Charlie stuck the toes of his boots over the edge of the quay at Kingston Gas Company Wharf and looked down on Phoebe. Not even the day-trippers who travelled between Richmond and Hampton Court could describe her as lovely although, at eighty feet in length and with a displacement of fifty tons, she was roomy enough. To most eyes there was something not quiet right about her lines. Her hull of pitched pine on oak - was long, low and sleek, with a sharp bow that could slice through the waves had she not been limited by the speed restrictions of the Upper Thames. Her superstructure was cluttered and ungainly and her single funnel rose amidships through an upper deck that could only have been added as an afterthought.

But there had been a time when she had turned heads although that was long ago, in the early days of the Great War, when she had been commissioned as a fast submarine chaser. But even her crew then had found her argumentative and flighty. Her narrow beam, at just fifteen foot, had made her difficult to handle in the swell of the Channel and no more of her line were ever built. Rotting in the Naval dockyard at Chatham, she had been purchased for just 100 and converted by Tough Brothers Boatyard to work as a summer pleasure cruiser and licensed to carry three-hundred-andfifty holidaymakers. If boats could ever be described as miserable, then Phoebe was miserable indeed.

'I'll be surprised if she makes it to Southend.' Charlie knitted his untamed eyebrows as he turned to the two Sea Cadets who were to make up his crew. 'Looks to me like the mooring lines are the only things keeping her afloat.'

The boys laughed nervously and glanced at each other. The Upper Thames was one thing but the Thames Estuary with its notorious currents and swells was another matter entirely.

Charlie bent at the knees and dropped down onto her lower deck. He surfaced twenty minutes later to the soft pulse of Phoebe's Th.o.r.n.ycroft engine. Clouds of exhaust fumes filled the wharf and mingled with the early morning mist lingering over the river.

08:15 Monday 27 May 1940.

Mauleon's Farm, near Le Cornet Malo, France Ratman Miller awoke to find himself in a barn. The artillery fire and other a.s.sorted noises had been slowly invading his dreams. To a sleeping mind it was not an unpleasant sound. It more resembled an expensive firework display than a pitch battle two villages away. Eventually, the realisation did hit him and he sat bolt upright and craned his ear in the general direction of the fighting. Instinctively, his hand reached down to the small leather pouch tied at his waist and nestling neatly inside his underpants. He felt rea.s.sured as his fingers touched the outline of the various watches and jewellery. He reached next for his webbing array and pulled out the metal water bottle. Miller sipped at the muddy water and pondered his next move. It had been a black, cloudy night with intermittent showers, and he had no idea of his surroundings.

Having dropped down from his perch near the roof, Miller hoisted up the heavy Thompson sub-machine gun and peered out of the barn. He was beginning to wonder if the Thompson had been a good idea. It was not service issue but somebody's private purchase. Now it belonged to Miller and his shoulders were red-raw with lugging it around. At over eleven pounds with a full clip, it was substantially heavier and infinitely more c.u.mbersome than his own Lee Enfield rifle. On the plus side, it had awesome firepower and, should he succeed in getting it back home, there were plenty of people willing to pay for a Tommy gun, especially one with four spare clips of ammunition.

Two goats stood in the centre of the farmyard with their busy heads buried in a wheelbarrow. Beneath the sound of gunfire he could hear cows mooing as if in pain. The place was deserted. He flicked forward the safety catch, c.o.c.ked the bolt, and set the weapon to full automatic. He then dashed along the side of the barn and came running up against the door of the farmhouse.

'Bonjour,' called Miller in a convincing French accent between breaths. His heart was beating fast. He tried the door handle and cautiously entered. It was a homely if somewhat cluttered kitchen that he found himself in. It would have been even more homely had the range still been alight and the flowers on the large wooden table not been so wilted. Beside the flowers stood a wicker basket containing thickly sliced dark bread, and beside that stood a large earthenware pot. He lifted the lid and the rich, familiar aroma forced his stomach to contract with hunger. Inside, as he probed with a spoon, Miller could see chicken bones and flesh, and hearty chunks of carrot and potato. He bent down and sniffed experimentally and then he dabbed his tongue to the tip of the spoon. He pulled up a chair and began to make extensive inroads into the stew, and then he stopped.

'Come on. You're not thinking,' said Miller to himself. 'Make sure the place is clear first.' He scooped in another large mouthful and rose from the table, picking up the Thompson and walking slowly to the foot of the stairs. He tried the first rung and then the second and then, slower still, climbed up. There were two bedrooms, one obviously that of a young girl, and another room used to store junk. The main bedroom was in a moderate state of disarray with the bedclothes half tumbled to the floor. Miller stepped in and walked up to the dresser and the gaudy bra.s.s box on top.

's.h.i.t,' said Miller as he lifted the lid. 'It's all s.h.i.t.' And then he noticed an antique cameo broach. His years in orphanages, Bridewells and reform schools had left him with the ability to appraise jewellery in a flash. He slipped it into the leather pouch and made his way to the landing. Outside, to the back of the house, he could hear movement. It was very faint but it was consistent. Miller felt his heart leap to his throat. He edged close to the tiny window that overlooked the back of the house. It seemed at first glance as if a large, naked fat man were on his hands and knees. Miller adjusted his position for a better view and watched as a large pig tugged at something just outside the kitchen door. He crept quietly down and then slowly opened the back door. The chicken stew rose violently up his throat. He tried to clamp his teeth shut but only succeeded in forcing the vomit out through his nose. Miller turned rapidly away and coughed repeatedly until his stomach was empty.

The pig, a mottled old brute, was tugging and tearing at the arm of a young girl who, in turn, lay beneath the protective cover of her mother's body. The bones as far as the elbow were exposed. The father, if that's who the man was, sat hunched down on his knees, his shattered head touching the ground like a Moslem at prayer. Judging by the waxy grey pallor of their skin, the family had been laying dead for at least two days. The pig turned its head towards him with a low, menacing grunt.

The Thompson clattered explosively in Miller's arms and about ten rounds tore through the pig. For a moment, the creature looked surprised and then it disintegrated before his eyes.

'f.u.c.king 'ell!' said Miller.

Back at the kitchen table, with the stew pushed to one side, Miller drank red wine straight from the bottle. There were plenty more in a rack on the dresser and Miller felt he would need them all. He was drawing hard on his cigarette when he had his second shock of the morning. Through the open door, three men charged at speed. Miller found his legs trapped under the table as he struggled to get up. He toppled backwards and the sergeant jumped forward to tower above him, a long bayonet poised inches from Miller's throat.

'Who the f.u.c.k are you?' demanded the sergeant, who was short and burly, with a neck like a bulldog. 'Was that you? That gunfire we just heard?'

Miller nodded from his position on the floor.

'You little c.u.n.t! What had those people done to you?' He pulled the rifle back, preparing to strike.

'No! No!' screamed Miller. 'They've been dead days. It was the pig. It was eating them!'

'What? Oh, for Christ's sake!' He stepped back and gave the prostrated corporal s.p.a.ce. 'Get up.'

'He's right, sarn't,' called one of the men. 'The pig's in a right mess, but nice an' pump. Shall we take it back with us?'

'No, I don't think so,' said the sergeant. 'If it'd been feeding on acorns, that'd be another matter. Go have a hunt round. See what else we can grab.' He turned back to Miller and demanded to see his paybook.

'If he's fifth column, then course he'd have a paybook, same as he'd have a British uniform on, wouldn't he?' pointed out the soldier who lingered by the door.

'I ain't fifth column. I just got separated from my unit, that's all,' offered Miller.

The sergeant turned towards his companion. 'Yeah, I suppose you're right, Grene. Can't be too careful. Let's quiz him.' He scratched the back of his neck for a moment and then asked, 'Who won the last FA Cup, then?'

Miller looked blank.

'Portsmouth,' announced Private Grene, still by the door. 'Everyone knows that! Portsmouth four, Wolverhampton Wanderers one.'

'Who's asking you, you daft b.a.s.t.a.r.d? It's this bloke we're quizzing.'

'Oh, yeah! Right, sarn't! Sorry,' said Grene, chewing on the bread. 'Ask him a cricket one.'

'I don't know nothing about cricket.' Miller sounded a little panicky.

'Well, ask him a tennis one, then,' suggested Private Grene.

'Like what?'

'Ask him who won the men's championship at Wimbledon last year.'

'Ok, who did?'

'I don't know nothing about sport.' Miller looked confused and apologetic. 'I ain't never been to a cricket or tennis match in me life.'

'It was Bobby Riggs, and the women's champion was Alice Marble. Nice legs!' Grene liked all sports.

'Look,' suggested Miller. 'Ask me a general knowledge question or an entertainment one.'

'All right,' said the sergeant, warming to the idea. 'What was the last film you saw?'

'The Masked Phantom at the Hammersmith Odeon.'

'That's the one with Boots the Wonder Dog, ain't it? b.l.o.o.d.y dog can start cars and bust people out of gaol.' Grene scoffed. 'It was a load of old b.o.l.l.o.c.ks!' They both looked back towards Miller.

'Well, it ain't my fault. I didn't make the b.l.o.o.d.y film, I only watched it. But it did have Betty Burgess in it, even though she can't act for toffee.'

'Nice legs, though,' offered Grene.

'You still standing here?' asked the sergeant. 'Go make yourself useful, Grene. Grab some of that wine for starters.' He turned back towards Miller, who was busy lighting a cigarette. 'You'd better grab your gear and come with us. Thanks.' He took the cigarette that Miller handed him.

'Who are you blokes, anyway, sergeant?' asked Corporal Miller, pulling himself straight and adjusting his uniform.

'Royal Norfolks.' He pointed back out of the door. 'See that smoke over there? Well, there's another farm there. That's where we're holed up. It's called Le Paradis and that's a joke! We been having a b.l.o.o.d.y tough time with the SS. f.u.c.king fanatics if ever I saw 'em.' The sergeant took a quick swig of Miller's wine. 'The major sent us off to try and rustle up some more ammo and grub. We're running low on everything.' He wiped his mouth and made to leave. 'We'd better take you back to battalion HQ.'

He motioned for Miller to grab his Tommy gun. 'You got any spare ammo for that thing? 'Cos you're gonna need it, chum.'

09:14 Monday 27 May 1940.

RAF Biggin Hill, Kent 'I am sorry to bring you all back here to the ops' room, gentlemen,' announced Groupie, otherwise known as Group Captain Nugent. 'But the good news is that the Met boys say this cloud should vanish, or at least drift off somewhere else, by noon.'

There was no audible reaction from the pilots seated casually before him, so he went on to discus surface pressure a.n.a.lysis and cloud ceiling predictions. 'So, just to recap, your sole role today is to patrol the beaches and approaches of Dunkirk at around five to six-thousand feet. Spits will provide cover upstairs at twenty thousand. Once again, gentlemen, let me remind you that you are not to concern yourselves with any ground targets. Air cover is your sole responsibility, and we've had a special request that you have a good go at any Stukas you encounter.

Groupie tweaked playfully at his moustache 'And lastly, let us not forget that once you reach the French coast you only have thirty minutes over the beaches.' His cold grey eyes fixed on Ginger who sat at the back of the room. 'So, keep a watch on your fuel. Any problems in that line, do remember to make for RAF Manston. It's our nearest base to Dunkirk and they are all geared up to expect visitors during this bash. That is all for now. 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, who consulted a clipboard, called out: 'Pilot Officer Wood. I would like a word with you, if you please.' He beckoned for Ginger to come over.

Ginger did not know whether to laugh or cry. The Hurricane, which had just been wheeled out of the hanger by a seemingly uneasy ground crew, had a worn, washed out appearance. He watched as the men placed chocks beneath the wheels and tied down the tail wheel. Ginger began his checks. The tyres, although light on tread, were fully inflated with no obvious tears. Next he tested every detachable panel to ensure that it was locked tight, paying special attention to the hexagonal gun bay doors. It was not uncommon to find odd items of kit inside, from spanners to underwear. The air intake was clear and so was the radiator cowling. Ginger moved on.

'Sign this please, sir.' Sergeant Merrill, an ill-looking man in his forties with a cast in his right eye, handed Ginger the clipboard. 'All signed out as serviceable, sir,' said Merrill with little conviction. He glanced away from the aircraft and let his good eye wander towards the control tower and the twirling grey clouds above.

Ginger signed for the Hurricane, stepped up onto the wing and hopped inside. Like all fighter aircraft, this one had its own peculiar smell. Aside from the reek of fuel and glycol, there was an undertone of Brylcreem, pipe tobacco and vomit. She was also the oldest on the base. She was so old in fact that she had wooden wings, as had the prototypes, unlike the more modern fighters of the rest of the squadron.

His c.o.c.kpit checks over, Ginger opened the throttle about half-an-inch, looked again to see that the propeller was clear, and then depressed the starter b.u.t.ton. The Hurricane spluttered, coughed and then roared into life. He increased the revs until the oil pressure gauge showed forty-five-pounds per square inch and then adjusted the pitch control. Clouds of exhaust fumes blew back from the aircraft and, caught by the wind, swirled skywards to join the c.u.mulus clouds.

'More tea, Ginger?' asked Clouston, Red Section Leader. Ginger was undecided but took the mug from the tray anyway and settled back into the wicker chair.

'Look at it this way,' offered Clouston, who had no nickname. 'If she's old, she must be lucky, or else she wouldn't be old, eh?' He winked from above his mug. 'Anyway, you've always got a parachute. I don't see your problem.' Clouston, as an experienced floatplane pilot, had rarely had the luxury of a parachute.

Most of the squadron sat quiet. One couple played backgammon, a few flicked through the papers, but the majority had their eyes trained on the sky and the slowly dissipating clouds.

Clouston returned to his views on tactics. The RAF may have done wonders to procure new, single wing fighters in the last year or more, but it had done nothing to update its tactics. A typical fighter squadron of twelve aircraft would fly in four sections of three, known as Vs or Vics. This formation had been decided upon, not because it offered the best tactical advantage, but because it was said to look 'pretty' from the ground. The two wingmen in each section were particularly vulnerable to the prowling Luftwaffe fighters who, themselves, flew in mutually supportive groups of two. It put the RAF's younger, inexperienced pilots at a severe disadvantage.

'But all that goes by-the-by,' said Clouston, 'once you get into a dogfight. Then it's virtually everyman for himself.' He perched on the edge of his chair and a.s.sumed the posture of an oriental dancer, his hands floating through the air.

'The thing to do is get in close, real close, watching the target grow inside your sight. And then, just when the wings with the n.a.z.i crosses fit neatly into the slot, you fire. That would be about two hundred yards. A piece of p.i.s.s.'

'Tingle, ling!' went the telephone and every head turned towards the clerk who manned the a.s.sembly area desk. Before he had time to bang the gong that had been borrowed from a Bournemouth guesthouse, all twelve men of the squadron ran whopping and catcalling at the double across the gra.s.s. Ginger felt the tea slosh around inside as he sped towards his Hurricane.

Within minutes the squadron reached cruising alt.i.tude. Ginger switched from the reserve to main fuel tank and glanced down at his airspeed. Red Section took up the rear of the gaggle of fighters, which was just as well. The elderly Hurricane was doing a good job keeping up with Clouston and Red Three but the controls felt slack and he had difficulty preventing the aircraft from spontaneously climbing or diving. He tried to relax the firm grip on the stick and wiggle his fingers. It was remarkable how the almost overwhelming sense of dread and doom that haunted him on the ground would lift once he was airborne. But the tension remained. Twenty minutes to target, thirty over the beaches and approaches, and another twenty minutes back. Ginger hoped he would be able to hold on that long.

He looked down at the tiny white lines on the surface of the sea. Each line had a small black dot at its head and all were moving towards the French coast. On Ginger's last trip, a post-dawn sweep over the beaches between Dunkirk and Calais, there had been far fewer vessels but they had been much larger. They had included the white hospital ships and the impressed cross-Channel steamers. These dots were smaller. The thick black smoke from the oil storage tanks at Dunkirk acted as a beacon for seaman and aviator alike. He studied the pattern of the smoke as an indicator of the wind.

As the coast grew closer, the squadron began a slow turn to port, aiming for a point beyond and behind the smoking harbour. There was a burst of static in his headphones.

'This is Blue Leader. Blue Leader. ME-one-one-ohs at two-o'clock.'

'Roger that!' said Bonzo. 'Climb to ten. Tally-ho!'

Ginger watched as the Hurricanes ahead of him turned gently now to starboard and then climbed sharply to intercept the German two-seater fighters somewhere in the distance. Ginger could not see his adversaries. They, too, had no doubt spotted the RAF planes and had steered into one of the thick banks of cloud. The squadron turned sharper still to starboard and Ginger found himself falling behind, unable to turn as easily as the other Hurricanes. His plane seemed to wallow and linger. He pushed the throttle forward a touch and felt the fighter give a momentary pause before it gained speed and alt.i.tude.

There was another burst of static but this time the words were indistinct. Suddenly, the squadron broke up into four separate Vics. More static.

'Red Two. Red Two. This is Red Leader. Stop playing the giddy goat and catch up, man!'

'Red Leader. Red Leader,' stuttered Ginger into his microphone. 'This is Red Two. Red Two. Wilco.'

He pushed on the throttle again and the powerful Merlin engine gave a brief cough. Ginger felt his movement through the air checked momentarily before the Hurricane sped on faster still. The other two members of Red Section were now some feet below and turning hard to port. Ginger turned to intercept. He was simultaneously aware of both a dark shadow flitting over his c.o.c.kpit and the impact of one or more machinegun rounds. .h.i.tting his starboard wing. He tugged urgently on the stick and sent his Hurricane down into a sharp port spiral. Pulling back and levelling out, he saw the distant outline of the twin-engine fighter. The German pilot was now turning hard to port himself and apparently aiming for a second sweep at Ginger.

The controls of the Hurricane appeared to tighten as Ginger increased speed. He was aiming his fighter head-on for the Me110. He watched the German grow with astonishing speed as he struggled to place him within his gun sight. Ginger depressed the fire control and let loose a short, single-second burst. The Me110 was banking away, presenting its underbelly. Ginger adjusted his controls to follow but the engine gave another cough and again he felt his motion through the air checked. He moved his thumb reluctantly away from the deadly b.u.t.ton.

Another burst of machinegun fire and his Hurricane dipped violently to port as more rounds slammed into his wing, tearing through the fabric and exiting somewhere near the wheel bay. This time he pushed the throttle so far forward that he almost broke through the restraining wire. The Hurricane climbed rapidly as he strained to pull the stick back. Ginger swivelled his head, scanning the sky. Vapour trails criss-crossed thousands of feet above. Small harmless-looking dots weaved across the sky. There was no telling friend from foe at such speeds and distance. The Hurricane pulled of its own accord to starboard and Ginger let the plane have its way. He arced gracefully backwards and upwards in a half loop. Two Me110s were turning, too. Within seconds they had positioned themselves on his tail and were moving in for the kill. Ginger struggled for more alt.i.tude. The engine coughed again and, again, more rounds slammed into his wing. The billowing safety of a c.u.mulus cloud wrapped itself around Ginger's Hurricane and instantly his world turned white. He pushed the spade-like control stick violently forward and felt himself lift up within his harness and off the parachute that cushioned his seat. The Hurricane nosed down.

Through the soft white clouds quick bursts of black engine exhaust washed across his c.o.c.kpit. Petrol and glycol poured from the vents and streaked across the gla.s.s. In an instant, Ginger burst free of the cloud and turned sharply to starboard, bringing the sea into view directly beneath him, some two thousand feet away. He levelled out and struggled once more to gain alt.i.tude. As he rose, he scoured the sky. There were vapour trials miles above. He s.n.a.t.c.hed a glance down to his control panel and the fuel contents gauge. There was enough for five minutes more over Dunkirk and then he would have to head directly home. He continued to gain alt.i.tude and, at the same time, adjusted his course to take him back towards the huge smoke plume that indicated the port. The headphones came to life with static.

'Red Two. Red Two. This is Red Leader. Glad to see you're still here, just where we left you, eh?'

'Red Leader. Red Leader. This is Red Two.' Ginger struggled for words, any words. He spotted his section about one thousand feet above.

'Red Two. Red Two. Catch up now and let's head for home.'

Safer now in the clutches of his section, Ginger's mind returned with some force to his bladder. Twenty minutes to Biggin Hill, thirteen if he diverted to Manston. There was no way he could wait that long. His hand reached down to release his Sutton harness, then the parachute straps. His eyes swept the sky again. He struggled with the lower b.u.t.tons on his overalls and then found his trouser flies. Fear does strange things to men's anatomy. Ginger's fingers fished around inside his underpants but failed to find what they were looking for. The pain and the urgency had increased now tenfold. And then he caught hold of the tip and pulled himself free. He edged forward in his tiny seat and let the relief flow from within him.

'Red Two. Red Two. Stay in formation. What the h.e.l.l are you playing at?'

'Having a b.l.o.o.d.y pee. Can't a bloke have any privacy? Red Two out!'

15:10 Monday 27 May 1940.

Creton's Farm, Le Paradis, France 'Hey! You! Corporal! Stop skulking behind that b.l.o.o.d.y wall and go rustle up some ammo. Move!'

Miller wiped the sweat from his eyes and rose to his knees reluctantly. 'Out of the b.l.o.o.d.y fire,' he thought. He ran at the crouch, zigzagging away from the barn and towards the outbuildings near the back of the farm. He slid to a halt beside another wall and tugged at the body lying mangled in front of him. With a heave, he turned it on to its back and then delved into the man's front pouches. Five clips. Miller thrust them into his own pouches and then paused. Nice watch. He let out a deep breath. If he didn't get out of here soon, he would be dead meat, too. And there was plenty of that. The Norfolks had started out with one thousand men in the battalion. Now they were down to just one hundred and defending an area of the line over five thousand yards long.

The Germans in this sector were not having a good day, either. The Royal Scots on the right flank had taken a heavy toll on the slowly advancing Waffen-SS with sharpshooters and mortars. Now there were signs that the Germans were slipping through to encircle the remnants of the Norfolk battalion. Miller lifted himself up and then paused while an incoming sh.e.l.l detonated a few yards away. Then, he was up and running towards the communications trench. Inside, Captain Gordon, who appeared to be the only officer surviving, pulled back his revolver and let Miller dive in.

'I found five clips, sir.' Miller gasped between short breaths. The captain quickly handed them around.

'I say, you're fast on your feet, aren't you?' He gave the small corporal a quick appraisal. 'You're not one of our lot, are you?'

'No, sir. RASC. Thought I'd lend a hand, sir.'

'Well, very good of you, corporal. That's the spirit!' The officer paused for a moment. 'Actually, you could be even more helpful in delivering a message.'

'Yes, sir,' said Miller. 'Happy to oblige.'

The village of Le Cornet Malo burned in the distance, and the fields leading to Creton's farm were littered with the dead. The captain pulled open his map case and pointed.

'Look. We are here. On the Rue du Paradis. That smoke over there is Cornet Malo. Your best bet is to slip off down here.' He pointed to a trail running due west. 'Brigade HQ should be here.' The captain rummaged around inside his map case. 'Oh, d.a.m.n! My pencil's broken. Look, get to Brigade HQ and tell them we need reinforcements, urgently. Tell them we are virtually out of ammunition oh, and water. Lots of water, please. Tell them we probably can't hold on much longer. A couple of hours at most. Now off you go, and good luck.'

As an afterthought, just as Miller was preparing to slip back out of the trench, the captain asked, 'You wouldn't want to leave us that Tommy gun, would you?'

'I'd rather not, sir. I don't know what's out there. I might need it.'

'Yes, I guess you are right. Just a thought.' The captain tapped the barrel of the Webley revolver to his helmet in salute. 'Run like the wind, corporal.'

The Norton 500 Army despatch rider's model was an excellent motorcycle. It was also ideal for negotiating country roads clogged with refugees and the debris of war. There had been no sign of any Brigade HQ, or of any kind of HQ. All Miller could find was chaos. He slowed to weave past a carthorse, crushed inside its harness. His back wheel slid momentarily in the dark puddle of blood. Beside the road to either side were British and French army lorries. They hung at awkward angles, dipping down into the ditches or laying drunkenly on their sides. All along the road trudged an endless procession of grey-coloured civilians. Some sat despondently beside the road, casting blank expressions into the ground. Miller sounded the bike's siren and the refugees jumped back urgently, horror-stricken at the sudden noise. They cleared an immediate path and Miller tapped the bike up a gear and opened the throttle.