Dunkirk Spirit Part 41

Oh, why-y are we wait-ing?

Oh, why-y are we wait-ing?

Oh, why-y are we wait-ing,

Oh, why, why, why?

16:29 Friday 31 May 1940.

Archcliffe Road, Dover, Kent And just a reminder for those of you contemplating a journey by road this weekend that the familiar yellow motor-cycles and side-cars of the Automobile a.s.sociation will not be visible any longer. This is because they are being painted with camouflage so they can perform any duties required of them by the Military Authorities. It should be stressed that the A.A. patrols will still be on the roads and carrying out their normal functions. All wireless receiving apparatus, however, must be removed from motor vehicles, whether laid up or on the road, by no later than this Sunday. And now the news in Welsh.

'I say, would you care to join me, miss?' asked an M55B, tipping his hat. 'I have a box, you know.'

'Very grand,' said Kitty, stepping over. 'Just like the opera.'

'It's not very grand at all, I am afraid,' he said laughing. 'But it will stop you getting a wet behind and you can't beat this for a view.' He moved to one side and took Kitty's arm as she lowered herself down. 'I can't understand it,' he said. 'The last rain I remember was on Wednesday.'

He looked down at the portable wireless and frowned. 'Why they can't have their own station, I don't know.'

'Who?' asked Kitty.

'The Welsh,' he declared. 'Utterly impregnable language. Can't understand a word of it.'

'How about Norwegian?' she asked.

'Yes,' agreed the man. 'That's another one.'

'I suppose they have to know what's going on, too.'

'Yes, you're right of course,' he agreed. 'We'll have the news in French next. I wonder sometimes. I really do.'

'Do you live in Dover?' asked Kitty.

'Oh, you really must excuse me!' The M55B, who had yet to sit down, extended a hand. 'Captain Charles Rowling. Retired, of course.'

'Kitty,' she declared. 'Retired from what?'

'Oh, the Army, you know. Got my commission in the last show. Seemed a shame to drop it really. It's been awfully good for business.' He sat down close beside Kitty and reached into his pocket. 'My card.'

'Austin Motor Cars,' said Kitty. She nodded her chin as if impressed.

'Yes,' said the M55B. 'Yes.' He paused for such a long time that Kitty was just about to break the silence when he continued. 'Yes. I have the local dealership. I only wish I'd got out last year when I had the chance.'

Kitty leant forward, encouraging him on.

'n.o.body buys new cars any more.'

'No, I guess not.'

'Bang went all the service contracts. All my best mechanics have been called up. I'm left with the rubbish, not that there's even a call for them these days.' He looked at his shoes and bent forward to remove a blade of wet gra.s.s. 'Most of the cars I sold in the last ten years are up on blocks for the duration.'

'So what will you do?'

'Do?' he asked. 'I suppose I had better get back into uniform. But just my luck and the war will be over before I get my chance again.'

'What do you think to all this?' Kitty waved her arm, encompa.s.sing the crowd on the cliff, the regular processions of boats, the lace-like vapour trails in the sky, and the boom of big guns all the way from France.

'I couldn't say,' he shook his head sorrowfully. 'Not in polite language anyway.' He smiled tightly. 'It is a mess, that much is obvious. But I look at it this way, G.o.d created England an island and not without good reason. And thank G.o.d for the Royal Navy. Plenty have tried but none have succeeded since the Normans. I don't think this strutting Austrian corporal can manage it any better than that Corsican corporal. And he got his Waterloo.' He paused again for some time before he next spoke. 'This is a bit like Waterloo,' he claimed.

'How do you mean?'

'Well, you know,' he said. 'In the last century, and before that, people would pack their picnic baskets, ride off to a suitable vantage point and have a grandstand view of the battle.'

'Yes, I have read about that,' said Kitty, wishing for some sandwiches and a flask of hot tea. 'Did you ever imagine you would be sitting on a hill in England watching a war unfold?'

'Never!'

'But can we continue on our own?' asked Kitty. 'If France falls?'

'We're better off on our own!' He seemed to give Kitty a quizzical glance. 'Just look at all the useless allies we've had throughout history. There's no point naming them all.' He shook his head from side to side. 'Each time we would have done better on our own.'

'And will we continue the fight?'

'I don't see any other alternative.' Now he looked a trifle indignant. 'Can you imagine?' he asked. 'Jackboots tramping through the country lanes of England? SS on every street corner and no more British Bobbies on the beat? It doesn't bare thinking about.'

Kitty tried to broach the subject tactfully. 'But can we prevent it?' she asked. 'Have you seen the condition that some of these poor boys are in? So many nervous cases.'

'I know. I know,' said the M55B. 'It was the same in the last war. I wonder if all wars have the same effect on men, or is it just this industrial age? Do you suppose the Spartans at Thermopolis were cursed with speech impediments or adopted crazy shuffling gaits?'

'Perhaps it affects everyone differently,' she suggested.

'Officers stutter and the men go dumb,' he explained. He could see that Kitty did not follow his drift so he continued. 'Cla.s.s difference, my dear. It was most apparent in the last show. Those officers who were affected, and there were many of them, often they developed a terrible stutter; couldn't get so much as a single word out. But the men, well, they just lost the power of speech.'

'My goodness,' exclaimed Kitty. 'I had no idea. I just thought they were frightened of loud bangs and things.'

'Oh, yes,' he said. 'It was quite common.'

'So what did they do? How did they cure them?'

'Well, the officers, those that were embarra.s.sing, they put them all up in big country houses. I don't really know what went on there. Most of them still stuttered when they came home.'

'That's terrible. And what about the men?'

'Electrical shock therapy,' he explained. 'You strap them to a chair and place a powerful electrical charge at the back of their throats...'

'Oh, no! Did it work?'

'Not first time, obviously. After about twenty or thirty times it seemed to have some effect.' He examined another piece of gra.s.s and twirled it between his fingers. 'We had a lot of them delivered to our battalion in seventeen but they just started doing it again. Hopeless, really.'

'Well, that's my point,' explained Kitty. 'Can we continue the fight when so many of our men are,' she struggled for the right word. 'Are like that? Having suffered so much, I mean.'

'They're not all like that!' He almost laughed at Kitty. 'There will be chaps down there on those boats who are raring to go back and have another bash at the Hun. Stands to reason. Anyway,' he said. 'It's not like that anymore. Medical science has progressed.'

'Hurray for that!'

'Bromide! That's what they give them. And you have to catch them quick, in the early stages before it has a chance to develop and take hold.'

'Bromide?'

'Amazing stuff, apparently. Give them a good dose of bromide, a hot bath, a hot meal, and a good night's sleep, and they're right as rain the next day.' He smiled at Kitty. 'That's the thing with the modern world. On one hand the boffins find new and more efficient ways of waging war, and on the other you have the scientists coming up with ways of combating it.'

'Well, that's a relief,' exclaimed Kitty. 'And what about our leaders? What do you think of Mr Churchill?'

'Well, he's just the man!' The M55B tossed the blade of gra.s.s away and jutted out his jaw. 'Mr Chamberlain, he wasn't the sort of chap to deal with the likes of Herr Hitler.'

The retired captain pulled himself upright and placed his thumbs in his waistcoat. 'You ask, What is our policy?' His screwed his face tight and dropped his voice by several octaves. 'It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that G.o.d can give us: to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpa.s.sed in the dark lamentable catalogue of human crime.'

'Oh, bravo!' exclaimed Kitty. 'You should be on the stage, or the wireless!'

'You ask, What is our aim?' The M55B continued to Kitty's dismay. 'I can answer with one word: Victory - victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory there is no survival.'

16:40 Friday 31 May 1940.

Approaching Dunkirk, France 'Shooting down balloons! How hard can that be?'

Ginger wondered again. He looked to either side at Red Two and Red Three as they pa.s.sed through the thin cloud. He would think about turning in a moment. The sun was sliding slowly down the sky to the west. He would need to keep it behind his back, which in turn limited the alt.i.tude at which he could fly. Black dots, like flies around a corpse, swirled above the burning harbour and over the vessels out to sea.

'This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Stay close now and keep your eyes peeled!'

Ginger turned his Hurricane gently to port. He would have to count the coastal towns carefully until they neared La Panne. Somewhere, slightly further to the east and somewhat inland near Nieuport, the Germans had set up an observation balloon and Red Section had been tasked with shooting it down.

'Without that balloon, the Germans won't so easily target the ships off the coast.' Groupie's briefing had been short, sharp and to the point, with just a little dig at rival squadrons. 'Hornchurch and Tangmere have both had a go but, apparently, the d.a.m.n thing keeps dropping out of sight, only to pop up again the moment they have gone. So the plan is this: Blue Section will go in at sixteen-thirty. That should give them enough time to wind it down and back up again, ready for Red Section at sixteen-forty-five. If that fails, Green will come in next at seventeen-hundred and White at seventeen-fifteen. Now, timing is crucial. Do not on any account allow yourselves to be distracted, no matter what the temptation. I don't care if Goring himself is piloting a Stuka and he's sitting plumb in your sights; and if you get a Messerschmitt on your tail, just try to shake it off. Do not indulge in any dog fighting, not until after that balloon has been burst.'

'Red Leader. Red Leader. This is Red Three!'

Ginger turned his head and looked back at the trailing Hurricane. Spotted d.i.c.k was so busy watching something off in the distance that he had drifted away from the section. 'Bandits! Bandits at three-o'clock!'

'This is Red Leader. Red Leader. Yes, I know Red Three, thank you very much. Just let me know if anything takes an interest in us. And stay close!'

'Roger! Wilco!' called Red Three.

Ginger looked at his altimeter. He was now a little under three thousand feet and turning towards the sandy strip of beach that ran all along the coast. He looked below at the hundreds of small boats either arriving or departing. Inland, and the roads were clogged like thick black arteries. It was impossible to take in the magnitude of it all. Ginger never allowed himself to think too far ahead. He was content to get through one day at a time and he said a little prayer to that effect each night. But he could not stop himself wondering where this was all leading. Perhaps, if he lived that long, he would not need to cross the Channel next week, because the dogfights would be taking place over the fields of Kent.

High above soared a vic of Spitfires, their elliptical wings easily identifiable. Vapour trails cut across the powder blue sky. He dropped down to two thousand feet when Bray Dunes came into view and then a curious wave of embarra.s.sment washed over him. That victory roll this morning; that was a really stupid thing to do, he thought. It smacked of bad luck.

The usual fear that he felt on the ground was, rather unusually, creeping back into his stomach and his mouth was dry. He made a quick sweep of the sky and checked that his vic was holding together.

Down on the beach some clown was blasting away at his section with an anti-aircraft gun. He winced for a brief second as he flew over the rapid puffs of grey smoke. And then he was past Bray and over Zuydcoote, looking at the outskirts of a large town.

'This is Red Leader. Red Leader. La Panne coming up now.'

Ginger eased back on the throttle and watched as both Red Two and Three almost overtook him.

'Easy lads! You know what to look for. Stay tight!'

He began to veer inland. Again he was tempted to ease back on the throttle despite the risk of ground fire. His eyes scoured the flat countryside. A balloon, he thought, should be an easy thing to pick out. Way in the distance, obscured by the fast flowing clouds, was a large barn or warehouse. Ginger lent forward in his harness and squinted his eyes. Could that be it?

'Red Leader!' called out Red Three at just that moment. 'This is Red Three. Red Three. I think I see it! Big fat balloon!'

'Looks like a giant barn?' asked Ginger.

'Yep!' confirmed Red Three.

'Er! h.e.l.lo!' Peeky Beaky squawked across the static. 'h.e.l.lo! There's, urgh, there's something coming really b.l.o.o.d.y fast this way. On my side!'

Ginger turned his head quickly. Spitfire, he wondered? It was flying out from the sea towards the land at very low level. He was on the verge of saying as much, and of giving Red Two a dressing down for incorrect R/T procedure, when he recognized it for what it was.

He could also see the balloon clearly now. The ground vanished beneath his wings at breakneck speed. His altimeter read seven-hundred-feet. The balloon was being pulled rapidly back down. Inside Ginger's head, his mind played out an imaginary scene. He imagined the observer waving his arms frantically as Red Section came tearing towards him. He was probably s.h.i.tting himself and hollering at those on the ground to move like blitzen. Ginger's heartbeat throbbed through his tight fingers as he gripped the stick and willed his Hurricane on.

The Messerschmitt Me109 was upon them. Ginger's mind whirled like a mechanical apparatus. What to do? If he broke the section, they would never reform in time. He braced himself for impact.

'Oh, s.h.i.t!' screamed Peeky Beaky. 's.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t!' The Hurricane on Ginger's port wing pulled instantly upward and away, leaving odd bits and pieces tumbling and turning in its place. The Me109's nose cannon blazed yellow fire as it tore through.

Ginger shuddered. The rounds ripped into his tail fin, knocking him off course.

's.h.i.t! s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t!' continued to scream Red Two. He had left his microphone open.

'Red Two. Red Two. Reform you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' Now Ginger was screaming.