Dunkirk Spirit Part 44

'Three?'

'Three, yeah. One of the blokes down the pub, I told him that once and he couldn't believe it. I had to take him back to the house and show him.'

'He was amazed, right?'

'Yeah.'

'Did you invite him in for dinner then?'

'What do you think?'

'I think all this talk about food is making me hungry,' confessed Samson. 'D'you mind if I pop back and get another tin of MacConochie's?'

'No, you stay put for a tick,' said Sergeant Harris. 'There's something about those cows I'm not happy with.'

They both looked across the ca.n.a.l. The cows stood shoulder-deep in young green corn, quietly revelling in their good fortune. They kept their heads down and seemed deeply content.

'What's wrong with 'em, then?'

'They're jumpy. Well, some of them are.' The sergeant pointed off to the right, in the direction of the tall church spire at Warhem. 'Watch those ones off to the right.'

They both waited a while and then the sergeant exclaimed, 'See!'

'Yeah, I see,' confirmed Samson. 'Maybe it's got a tick up its a.r.s.e.'

'Or maybe some Jerries are creeping through the corn and sneaking up on us.'

'D'you want me to go get the lieutenant?' asked Samson.

'Or the MacConochie's more like,' hissed the sergeant.

'Well, if I'm goin' to the cottage there ain't no harm in grabbing myself a tin or two, is there?'

'Just hold on,' said Sergeant Harris again. A few minutes pa.s.sed while they watched the cows chew the heads off the young corn. Another cow jerked suddenly as it stepped forward. 'There! See that?'

'Shall I get the lieutenant?'

'Yeah. Quick as you can.'

'Perhaps it's flies,' suggested Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox. 'They can make horses bad tempered.'

He scratched his head and thought for a moment. The wise thing to do, especially given their surplus of ammunition, would be to spray the field with machinegun fire. But, having already shot one innocent cow this campaign, he was reluctant to dispatch any others.

'See that, sur!' hissed Sergeant Harris. 'Something spooked it.'

'Okay,' agreed Sandy. 'Let's let off a mortar round over to the right there.'

The sergeant scurried off through the trench system to the rear of the cottage and told the crew where to point their sixty-mil. There came a brief hollow pop and then the mortar soared over their heads and landed in the field. Sandy watched the earth erupt and tried to take in as broad a scene as possible. Several cows standing near the epicentre of the blast were knocked sideways. A handful more stampeded for a few yards but those furthest from the blast simply turned their heads and continued to munch the corn.

'Samson!'

'Sir!'

'Lets have a couple of bursts in that general area.'

Samson c.o.c.ked the Bren and pressed the stock to his cheek. He squeezed the trigger and the gun clattered, scything the young corn in two neat arcs.

'There you go, sur,' called Sergeant Harris. 'What's that sticking up out of the ground? Looks like somebody's arm.'

'Stand to!' shouted Sandy, quickly looking up and down the line. 'Sampson! Same range. Fifty yards, left and right.'

The Bren clattered again until the magazine was empty. Sampson quickly recharged the gun. 'Again, sir?'

'Again.'

Suddenly a man was up and running. Samson tore a line through the corn with the Bren and brought the German down.

'Mortar!' bellowed Sandy. 'Six rounds, rapid fire. And spread 'em!'

Two Lewis guns from Nigel's company to their right burst into action followed by the regular crack of rifle fire. Sandy's mortar crew lobbed their rounds in a beautifully executed pattern to either side of the herd. The few cows left standing suddenly realised their predicament and began tearing off through the green corn in the general direction of the distant tree line.

'Mortar!' bellowed Sandy. 'Another six rounds, rapid fire. In the centre!'

Now German infantry were up and running and following the cows. The guardsmen of companies one, two and three opened up with their Lee Enfields, Brens and Lewis guns. Those Germans who chose to run were quickly scythed like the corn.

And then it only took three minutes for the German gunners to train their artillery pieces on the British side of the Bergues-Hondschoote Ca.n.a.l.

'Sergeant!'

'Sur!'

'Go find Perkins. He's the fastest runner in the company. We'd better tell brigade about this.'

'Begging your pardon, sur. But Perkins is dead.'

'Dead?'

'Copped it from a sniper this morning.'

'I thought that was Parkins,' said Sandy.

'No, it was Perkins, sur.'

'So who's the fastest runner, sergeant?'

'Well, I am, sur.'

'Well, I can't spare you, can I?'

'Let's send a small bloke, sur. Less of a target.'

'Right you are,' shouted Sandy above the din of the incoming rounds. 'Just let me sharpen my pencil and I'll scribble a note.'

21:10 Friday 31 May 1940.

Off Koksijde-Bad, Belgium 'I reckon we should hang on a bit longer,' sniffed Charlie Lavender.

Captain D'Arcy shook his head.

In truth, there would be no time that suited Charlie. As a life-long Thames lighterman he had a morbid dread of entering any kind of water. Only twice in his career had he been obliged to swim in London's hopelessly polluted river and both times he had required a stomach pump. The water lapping beside their lighter was so foully polluted that by comparison the River Thames resembled a clear mountain stream.

Captain D'Arcy looked to the wrecked trawler beside them. In the last hour they had slipped further down her riddled sides as the tide pulled away from the beach. He turned back towards Charlie and pointed at the deck beneath their feet.

'What draft is this boat?' he asked.

'It's not a boat! It's a barge or lighter.'

'Whatever,' exclaimed the artillery officer. He sighed deeply. Just talking to Charlie made him feel tired. 'What draft is this Thames lighter?'

'Oh, so you're getting all nautical now, are yer?' Charlie glared at D'Arcy. 'Ten minutes ago you were calling it the front of the boat, now you seem to know all the proper nautical terms!'

D'Arcy turned aside. He could tell Charlie was tense. 'You can swim, I take it?' he asked suddenly, turning back.

'Course I can b.l.o.o.d.y swim,' shouted Charlie. He paused. 'I just don't fancy it, that's all.'

'Right,' said D'Arcy. 'And I don't fancy being bombed by the Luftwaffe in the morning.'

Charlie pulled out his watch and tried to see the face in the dark. 'Let's give it half-an-hour,' he suggested.

'No,' said D'Arcy. He tried to sound emphatic. 'No! We're going now.'

Charlie made a lengthy humming noise.

'We won't have to swim far. A couple of hundred yards, or something like that. Then we can wade the rest of the way. Compared to my swim out to you, it will be a b.l.o.o.d.y doddle.'

'Let's just have a quick cuppa first,' suggested Charlie. 'Who knows when we're get another.'

'All right! All right!' D'Arcy wanted to dive straight off the side. 'Just one more and then we're off. Yes?'

Charlie tied the laces of his boots together and slipped them around his neck. His tobacco was safe inside a waterproof sealskin pouch and he was ready to go. The heavy cable had already been hoisted over the side. Now D'Arcy slipped one leg around the rope and lay ready to slide down.

'You are coming?' he asked.

'I'm comin', I'm comin'. Keep your hair on!'

'Well, here I go,' said D'Arcy. He loosened his grip and began to slide down the rope and into the black water. Charlie heard a subdued splash and a quiet gasp. 'Come on in!' called the captain breathlessly from somewhere below. 'The water's lovely!'

'Like 'ell is it!' Charlie gripped the rope and lowered himself down. He paused for a moment when his feet entered the water but he took a deep breath and carried on. When the water reached his armpits he let go of the rope and dropped down with a splash.

'Yeah, lovely!' confirmed Charlie. He took another deep breath and launched into a powerful b.r.e.a.s.t.stroke. Captain D'Arcy swung out with a front crawl.

Charlie's mood was little better when he reached the sh.o.r.e. Somewhere in their wade back he had trodden on a sharp object. It might have been surprising if he had not. The result, however, was a nasty gash along the instep of his right foot. Once clear of the foul water he dropped down onto the sand and examined the damage.

'It's only a flesh wound,' p.r.o.nounced D'Arcy, looking down and peering in the near dark.

'Course it's a bloomin' flesh wound!' spat Charlie. 'What else could it be, eh?' He tilted his head up towards the captain. 'A wood wound? Or a cheese wound? Course it's a bloomin' flesh wound, I'm made of bloomin' flesh, ain't I!'

'What I mean is,' began Captain D'Arcy. He stopped. Why bother explaining anything? He ran his fingers backwards through his hair, expelling the oily water until it ran in rivulets down his back. The night was cold and he brought his elbows back close to his side and wrapped his arms around his chest. 'How about one of your rollies before we press on?' he asked, trying for a cheerful grin.

'How about you...' Charlie stopped himself. 'How about you take this hankie.' He leant onto one b.u.t.tock and fumbled in his pocket for the wet handkerchief. 'And wrap my foot up. But no funny knots. I want to get my boots back on.'

'D'you smell roast lamb?' asked D'Arcy. He stopped and lifted his nose into the air, sniffing like a demented bloodhound.

'Like Sunday lunch,' agreed Charlie. 'But with a kind of burnt petrol smell mixed in there somewhere.'

'That's it,' agreed D'Arcy. 'This way.'

'So where is your boat now?' asked the Padre.

'It's not a boat,' explained Captain D'Arcy. 'It's a barge or Thames lighter.'

'Yes, yes,' said the Padre, anxious to keep the desperate hast out of his voice. 'But is it damaged in any way?'

'No, it's perfectly seaworthy,' explained D'Arcy.

'Wonderful!'

'It just doesn't have a motor.'

'Or any sails,' put in Charlie. He picked with a fingernail at his front teeth to dislodge a gristly piece of spit roast lamb.

'Or any steering gear,' added D'Arcy.

'So,' asked the Padre. 'It's not much use then, is it?'

'None at all,' said Charlie.

'That's why we are here,' explained D'Arcy. 'Actually, I'm trying to locate my men. You haven't seen them by any chance, have you? C Troop, Twenty-fourth Field Regiment, Royal Artillery.'

'What do they look like?' asked the Padre, experiencing a peculiar urge to giggle.

'Well,' began D'Arcy. He paused. 'Are you pulling my leg?' he asked.

'You shall have to excuse me,' said the Padre, shaking his head. 'I'm starting to feel a little bit drained by all this. Perhaps it's the effects of a full stomach. I don't know. I'm very sorry.'

He shifted on the sand and cast an arm across the vast expanse of beach hidden in the night. Only the skeletal sides of a Citroen lorry reflected back the glow from the fire. 'They have all gone,' he announced. Now the desperation began to creep back into his voice. 'Gone. Vanished. Disappeared.'

'What?' exclaimed D'Arcy. 'You mean we are the last ones left?'