Dunkirk Spirit Part 46

'Just before first light. Why?'

'But we were told it was all over,' argued Clive.

'Yeah, well,' said the man in the Guernsey sweater. 'Today was supposed to be the last day. We were all told that.'

'So?' asked Barry.

'So, apparently it ain't over yet. There's loads of blokes still there.'

Clive looked at Barry and both their sorely depressed sprits rose. Their spirits had continued to sink since leaving the Admiralty Pier. Then had begun what appeared to be a fruitless search for a pub that was not overflowing into the street. The White Horse, arguably the oldest pub in Dover, had by its position high on Castle Hill, deterred many of the officers who roamed the town in search of alcohol. The saloon bar, however, was still packed to overflowing with unwashed lieutenants, captains, majors, and two full colonels.

'What ain't happening,' said the man. 'Is that they ain't sending over the really big ships again, not in daylight anyway, not after what the Luftwaffe did today. They're sending over the smaller craft again. Boats like ours.'

'What sort of boat is that?' asked Clive.

'The Marchioness,' he said proudly. 'One of the loveliest boats on the river.'

'Can we buy you a drink?' asked Clive.

'Well, that's very kind of you, sir. Mild 'n' bitter, please.'

'Mine's a Ba.s.s,' said another man in an oil-stained smock.

Clive eventually caught the barman's eye and four pints were soon placed on the counter.

'What's it like over there?' asked Barry.

Both men exhaled and raised their eyes to the yellow stained ceiling.

'What's the worst thing you can imagine?' asked the man in the sweater.

Barry pondered for a moment. 'Going to the dentist,' he finally declared.

Both men laughed.

'Did you ever go to Sunday school?'

Barry nodded even though he had never had any formal religious instruction.

'Well, it's like those pictures of h.e.l.l,' the man told him. 'Only worse!'

'Worse?' asked Barry.

'Yeah,' said the man in the smock. Barry peered with difficulty though the fug of the bar. If Dover ever held a Popeye look-alike contest, then this man was certainly in with a chance. 'You reporters?' the man suddenly asked, swinging his jaw back in line.

Now it was Barry and Clive's turn to laugh. 'No, civil servants.'

'Gawd blimey! So, why you so interested, then? This ain't official is it?'

Barry and Clive looked at one another. 'We were hoping to go over,' announced Clive. 'Lend a hand, you know.'

'Why?'

'Why not?'

'Phew! You must be off your rockers!'

'You've been,' stated Clive. 'And we want to go.'

'Yeah, but we were pressed into twenty-eight days service in the Navy,' laughed Popeye.

'Pressed?' queried Clive.

'Well,' chuffed the man, jutting out his substantial jaw. 'Rather we were made an offer we could 'ardly refuse.'

'Anyway,' explained Barry, pressing on. 'We already work for the government so there won't be any need for red tape or any of that rot.'

Ding! Ding! 'Last orders, gentlemen, please!' called the barman.

The two old salts raised their gla.s.ses and took lengthy gulps. 'Over 'ere!' called the man in the sweater.

'Let me get these,' said Barry, draining his own gla.s.s and reaching into his pocket. He jabbed his elbow into something hard, sending an unpleasant rippling sensation up his funny bone.

'Oh, excuse me,' smiled a young second lieutenant with a cigarette in his mouth. 'Bren gun,' he explained as he hoisted a thick canvas strap back up his shoulder. 'Not the sort of thing you can leave in the umbrella stand. Ha, ha!'

'D'you wanna come then?' asked Popeye, nudging Barry, his tone only slightly less than incredulous.

'What do you think?' asked Clive.

'Make mine a whisky, then,' he announced.

'Me, too,' said the man in the sweater.

'Same again,' called Barry across the bar. 'And four large whiskies, please.'

'Well, thank you, sir! That's very decent of you. So,' he marvelled. 'You want to come over, do you?'

Barry and Clive both nodded.

'Well, look,' he said. 'We're short of one man and we could certainly use another pair of hands, too.' He stopped and lent across the bar, waving frantically. 'Give us four more whiskies, will you?' he called. 'Singles, though, mind you.' He turned back to Barry and Clive. 'Best tank up. Dutch courage and all that!' He lowered his voice. 'And best hang on to the gla.s.ses. There's a lot of thirsty blokes over there.'

'So what d'you reckon, then?' asked the man in the sweater. They stood on the end of the quay, swaying slightly and looking down at an open-topped Thames cruiser.

'Ur, lovely!' p.r.o.nounced Clive. 'So, what happens then?' he asked. 'You have to sail her all the way over to France?'

'No, no,' exclaimed the man. 'We're get a tow. A tug will tow us out to a point off the beaches. Then we're hoping that the smaller boats will row the blokes out to us. I say hope 'cos today there weren't hardly any rowing boats and, even if there were, it was too rough for 'em. What we don't wanna do is beach her. It's b.l.o.o.d.y neigh impossible getting her off again. You'll see what I mean in the morning. There's boats run aground all along the beach...'

'Making 'em perfect targets for the Luftwaffe,' added Popeye.

'Anyway,' said the man again. He turned and gestured towards Popeye. 'We ought to introduce ourselves. This here is Stan...'

'And this 'ere is Wanda,' said Popeye, jabbing his thumb towards the man in the sweater.

Again, Barry and Clive looked at one another out of the corner of their eyes.

'We call him Wanda,' explained Popeye. 'On account of he's got the wanderl.u.s.t. Huh!' He made a small moronic laugh. 'You're lucky to see him!'

'Merchant Navy,' explained Wanda. 'But I had enough of that lark.'

'Barry,' said Barry.

'Clive.' They shook hands.

'Good job we got some offies,' laughed Wanda, jangling the beer bottles. 'She's coal-fired,' he explained. 'Really b.l.o.o.d.y fast, as it happens, which is just as well. What you blokes can do is keep up a good head of steam for us. Anyway, let's hop aboard and I'll find a bottle opener.'

22:45 Friday 31 May 1940.

La Panne Beach, Belgium 'Well, first off,' said Charlie. 'That's no yacht. That's a cutter.'

'What's the difference?' asked the Padre.

Charlie did not bother to reply. He walked slowly around the boat looking for damage.

'And what's wrong with it?' asked the Padre. 'Why is it just lying here?'

'I'll tell you,' said Charlie. 'Come here.' The boat lay on its side, its sails half buried in the sand. 'See that?' he asked. 'Well, that's the keel or drop-board, or rather that's where it ought to be. And I'll tell you what happened.'

'What?'

'She capsized. You need to drop the keel when you're under sail or else it's just gonna topple over.' Charlie cupped his chin in his hand and rasped the stubble. 'Aside from that, she looks fine.' He turned to the Padre. 'How many of your lot are there?'

'Well,' said the Padre. 'Twenty-five in all, but twenty-six if you count the Major twice.'

'Then she'll do just fine,' announced Charlie. He popped a finger into his mouth and held it up, sensing the breeze. 'Not much wind, but then there wouldn't be. But there's enough to get us away. Now,' he said. 'Go get everybody down 'ere and let's get this boat righted. Let's see if we can't drag her down to the water.'

For the first time in many days, possibly weeks, the Padre had a smile on his face. He had been in a sailing boat once before and he was smiling at the memory. He sat now squeezed tight in the prow, one hand over the side and feeling the spray run cool through his fingers. He avoided looking back at the coast and he let his mind wander. Although he knew virtually nothing about boats, and even less about the sea, both had played integral parts in his life.

He had been six years old when his parents had taken the train down from Bulawayo to Cape Town to visit the magnificent dockyard church with its beautiful stained gla.s.s windows. He had never felt closer to G.o.d than he had then, watching the brilliant rainbow of light dance upon the altar. Then there had been the tour of Simon's Town naval base and a trip around the bay in a yacht and the porpoises that played in her wake.

There had also been the long sea voyage to Sydney and the brief stop again at Cape Town. There had been Miss Julia Shaw on her journey south in search of a husband, and the endless promenading around the deck. He wondered how different his life might have been had he proposed to her, as he intended, one warm star-filled night. The words had eluded him then and he had resigned himself to the belief that he had been struck dumb for a purpose. Miss Julia Shaw would have withered and died in that depressing cattle town in Queensland. How would she have reacted to the snotty nosed aboriginal children with their curious blond hair and nutrient deficiencies? She would have turned him down flat had she known. Miss Julia Shaw was in search of a rich husband and not one devoted to the downtrodden and the poor. His smile had faded now. Australia had been a nightmare, a land of anger, frustration, injustice and, finally, ignominy.

'Oy! Your Holiness!' called Charlie from the tiller. 'If you ain't using that tin hat for any other purpose than to keep your head warm, then why not try baling with it?'

'There's no need to keep addressing me as Your Holiness,' called back the Reverend Thomas Charlesworth. 'I'm not the Pope!'

'I don't care if you're our Saviour Lord Jesus Christ,' called back Charlie. 'But if you don't help the others bail out, you can try your hand at walking on water!'

'Holy Mary Mother of G.o.d! D'yer see that?'

The Padre lifted his head and saw the Irish sergeant's jaw hanging frozen in a brief flash of brilliant white light. Then they all heard the explosion, a dull boom that stretched out and filled the night.

'Over this way!' shouted the Padre. He pointed off to the left. 'What in blue blazes was that?'

'Sea mine, probably,' suggested Charlie. 'There's loads of 'em, apparently.'

'Well, aren't you going to do anything?' asked the Padre.

'Like what?'

'We must go and help them! We must search for survivors.'

'And where we gonna put 'em? Eh? You want to give up your seat?'

'Oh, this is ridiculous,' shouted the Padre. 'I order you to go that way and look for survivors!'

'Order me?' laughed Charlie. 'Aside from bein' Your Holiness, who d'you think you are?'

'I am an Army captain, I'll have you know. And,' he turned and looked down at the huddled and sleeping ma.s.s of the Major. 'Given that the artillery captain opted to stay on sh.o.r.e, I am the most senior officer present and conscious!'

'Have it your own way,' said Charlie. 'Your Holiness!' He pushed out the tiller and loosened the mainsheets.

The explosion had attracted a number of other vessels and the small naval cutter was slow in reaching the scene. By the time they arrived, most of the living had been plucked from the water. All that remained was to prod at the debris and the dead with the cutter's single oar in search of any remaining life.

'Perhaps we can get a tow?' suggested the Padre. 'You said yourself, you don't know the way home.'

'Yeah, all right,' nodded Charlie. 'I'd like to put my feet up, too.' He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed at the top of his lungs. 'Ahoy! Ahoy, there!' The burning port, now several miles behind them, could still cast enough light to pick out a few of the small vessels that circled the wreck site. Charlie was quiet for a moment as he studied the slender outline of one boat as she turned side on.

'Ahoy! Phoebe! Phoebe! Over 'ere!'

There was a moment's pause. 'Charlie?'

'No, it's Pope Pius the bleedin' Twelfth!' he shouted back. 'Course it's me, you daft b.u.g.g.e.r!

'Charlie!'

'Yeah, right! What bloomin' kept yer?'

'And the motor's not been running right,' explained Sub-Lieutenant Burnell.

'No, I can hear it!' said Charlie. 'Have you been fiddling with the mixture?'

Burnell laughed. 'I've been fiddling with everything. What we mustn't do is switch off. I only just managed to start her with the crank last time. Just about burst my arm!'

'So, what's the plan, then?' asked Charlie.

'Home, James!' smiled Burnell. 'I've had more than enough for one day! More than enough to last a lifetime! Some b.l.o.o.d.y awful captain commandeered us all afternoon; had us running messages back and forth. He only left us in peace when the engine cut.'

'Well, we can't tow this lot all the way back.' Charlie withheld a yawn. They both stood on Phoebe's low bridge, looking at the small cutter in tow. 'I told that Padre, I don't know how many times now. I told him to hold that tiller straight. Useless!'