Dunkirk Spirit Part 51

'That's a nice one,' said Clive. He pointed towards a sleek twenty-fix foot sloop-rigged yacht. 'I'd like one like that.'

'Expensive business,' cautioned Barry. 'Stick to rowing, old man. It's cheaper.'

They both stood in silence for a while, leaning against the stern rail and marvelling at the flotilla. 'Where have they all come from?' asked Clive. The question was largely rhetorical.

Barry answered anyway. 'From as far up as the Wash, I should imagine.' He shook his head in admiration. 'Someone's done a b.l.o.o.d.y good job organising all this.'

'Well, that's one way of looking at it,' offered Clive. He rubbed his moustache. 'You might just as easily ask why can't the Navy do the job? Or why is there even a need for all these little ships in the first place.'

'Good point,' agreed Barry. 'It's obviously another colossal b.a.l.l.s-up.'

'Of the first magnitude.'

'Someone's bound to get a knighthood or a peerage.'

'Yes, I shouldn't wonder.' Both men laughed. 'But they will find a way of calling it a triumph,' insisted Clive. 'They won't have any choice.'

Barry nodded agreement.

'I can just see it now,' smiled Clive. 'The kind of happy ending that makes us feel we're all in this together. Until the bitter end.' He spread his hands as if unfolding a headline: 'Civilians rescue Army.'

'Can't use the word rescue, old boy,' pointed out Barry. 'It smacks of disaster or failure.'

Clive pondered for a moment. 'The Miracle of the Little Ships,' he announced with a flourish.

'Oh, very good! You should be a poet,' agreed Barry. 'Or work for the Ministry of Information.' They both chuckled at the appalling prospect. 'But that's just what we do need,' added Barry. 'A miracle.'

'Or just the belief in one,' put in Clive.

'Same thing, really, I suppose,' mused Barry.

'That's a nice one, too,' said Clive, pointing off towards a pretty cabin cruiser. They both looked and wondered how much nicer life would be with weekends and holidays afloat. The Marchioness continued under tow. Their own tiny flotilla had just altered course on the penultimate leg of Route X, the fastest of the swept channels running straight from the Goodwin Sands. In half an hour they would turn again and start hugging the French coast until they reached Dunkirk.

They already had an inkling of what lay in store. The smoke had been visible all the way across the Channel from the moment of dawn. Now they could see that it was not just one huge fire that filled the sky but hundreds of smaller pyres that rose up like black fingers probing a remaining portion of the night. Barry and Clive stepped over to the port side for a better view of the coast. An old tramp steamer was heading up Route X towards them. She, too, sent out a thick cloud of black smoke.

Clive opened his cigarette case and offered one to Barry. The Marchioness was making a good ten knots. They turned and shielded themselves from the breeze.

'I bet she's seen a few sea miles,' offered Barry looking back. The steamer was fast approaching.

'She could do with a good lick of paint.' Clive squinted.

By the time they had flicked their cigarette-b.u.t.ts overboard, the steamer was nearly alongside. Popeye lent over the edge of the wheelhouse and cupped his hands to his mouth. They could see that her decks were packed with the dark figures of men.

'Are there any more left?' shouted Popeye. The two vessels drew alongside at a combined speed of twenty-five knots.

'Blooming thousands!' came the reply.

Popeye caught sight of Barry and Clive and shouted down to them. 'Oy! You two! Time to get stoking. We're gonna need a good head of steam when we slip the tow.'

Barry tapped his forelock. 'Aye, aye, captain!'

Clive continued to watch the tramp steamer. She cast a beautiful white wake on the china blue sea. He let his arm drop to his side.

'Funny they didn't wave,' he told Barry.

11:00 Sat.u.r.day 1 June 1940.

Bergues-Hondschoote Ca.n.a.l, France The day was proving to be as lovely as the forecasters had predicted with only a few scattered and wispy clouds floating across the otherwise clear sky. The smell of summer was finally in the air. But there were other smells, too, and the few men of the Second Battalion, Coldstream Guards, were far from warm. They shivered and shuddered in their deluged trenches. There were other reasons to shudder. Although each guardsman was a crack shot, a number of dead French civilians lay with the dead Germans in the flooded field across the ca.n.a.l. The men floated facedown while the women floated face-up and they all lay entangled in the trampled corn.

The Guard's burst of activity had lasted little more than five minutes. Now the fighting could be heard from various points along the line. Sandy's sector was quiet and his mouth was bone dry.

'Be a good chap and open this will you?' He lifted a bottle of unlabelled white wine from the bucket beside his Bren and pa.s.sed it across to Lucas. Sandy continued to stare out of the gap in the tiles. He heard a brief crack as Lucas sliced the top off the bottle with a single slash of his bayonet.

'Did you want a gla.s.s, sir?'

One of the Lewis guns from Nigel's No.1 Company rattled off a dozen or so rounds. Then came small arms fire. Sandy swung the Bren towards the remains of the bridge and adjusted his sights. He let out two short bursts. Lucas dropped the bottle back in the bucket and readied himself with another thirty-round magazine. Now the second Bren in the roof was joining in. Individual Germans could be seen advancing along the line of houses on the other side of the ca.n.a.l. The activity had suddenly swung back to their sector.

In time, the inevitable happened. The Germans moved up an artillery piece and pointed it towards the cottage. Both Sandy and others opened fire. The gun's barrel recoiled amid a puff of thick grey smoke but nothing else happened.

'Change!' Sandy unclipped the empty magazine and threw it over his shoulder. Lucas locked the next one in place but, before Sandy could pull back the bolt, the artillery piece fired again and then there was an awful crash. A brightly lit object, sparkling like a Brock's firework, ricocheted around the attic and finally came to rest at the foot of the brick chimney stack. One glance was enough. An incendiary anti-tank sh.e.l.l fizzled and spluttered.

'Out!' screamed Sandy. 'Everybody out!'

The guards tumbled down the stairs, Brens and rifles cradled in their arms. They came splashing out of the kitchen door and dived headfirst into the communications trench that led to Angus's No.4 Company in reserve. Sandy, who was the last out, eventually surfaced, struggling for breath. He fumbled with his tender feet for the fire step. The Bren was in danger of dragging him down. He had just managed to get a painful foothold when a powerful explosion filled the cottage. Smoke and dust sparkling with chards of crockery and gla.s.s burst out of every exit. Sandy took a deep breath and ducked down. Bits and pieces from the cottage came tumbling down, sending tiny fountains into the air. Sandy jerked suddenly, sensing movement to his rear.

'Just out for my const.i.tutional!' Peter, the adjutant, pulled himself up to Sandy with a b.r.e.a.s.t.stroke.

'Well, they say swimming is the best all-round exercise.' Sandy pressed himself up against the edge of the submerged trench, giving Peter room to drop his feet.

'I say, you're very lucky,' chuffed Peter. He tried to catch his breath.

'That's more than lucky!'

'That's not the half of it.' Peter cackled. 'The first round skimmed your roof by inches. Saw it myself! It landed back there and gave Angus a rather nasty shock. Thought I'd better come and let you know.'

'Thanks.' Sandy hoisted the Bren out of the water and, with a little help from Lucas, wiped clear the gun's vitals before positioning it on the lip of the trench. The barrel was only just above the water.

'I heard the most wonderful interview on the wireless,' announced Peter.

Sandy fired off a few rounds and they moved quickly before the Germans could respond. They advanced back towards the cottage. 'Some chap with a real gawd blimey accent was telling how he'd held back the advancing Germans virtually singled-handed.'

'I wish I'd heard it.' Sandy fired another burst and they moved on again.

'Oh, you would have loved it! To hear him talk, you'd think he was the last man out of Dunkirk with the n.a.z.is snapping at his heels.'

'Did they actually say he was the last man out?' Sandy gave Peter his full attention.

'No, no,' laughed Peter. 'He was one for the dramatics. Probably part of ENSA and probably the best performance he ever gave.'

'Good for him,' said Sandy, sighting the Bren. He could see flashes from the German muzzles.

'Anyway,' sighed Peter. 'The evacuation is still going on. And more lifts are coming.'

Sandy fired again and they shifted their position until they reached the kitchen door. 'And, get this,' added Peter. He was treading water. 'There's a virtual armada of pleasure craft and the like.'

'Good,' laughed Sandy. 'I would like to think that there was a point to all this.'

'Oh, come on!' Peter applied a happy, baffled face. 'You're having the time of your life!'

Sandy looked at him.

'Yes, you are,' insisted Peter. He found the fire step and caught his breath. 'This is the ultimate game. Man against man. No finer sport!'

An officer from the northern regiment to their right came running across the cornfield. He drew a little fire from a German machinegun and the water erupted all around him. As he reached No.3 Company's forward trench he pinched his nose between finger and thumb and plunged in. It seemed some time before he broke the surface again.

'Marrow!' he gasped. He struggled to find a foothold. 'Captain Marrow. Commanding to your right there.' He pointed to the boundary of the Guards' sector by the bridge and to his own area of responsibility on the other side of the road.

Sandy and Peter both tapped their helmets nonchalantly.

'The Germans are ma.s.sing for an attack on the bridgehead.' It looked as if his eyes might bulge out of his head.

'Yes,' said Peter. 'Isn't that the point?'

'My men are exhausted.' The captain, who was shorter than the guardsmen, was obliged to hop up and down to keep his chin above water. 'We've been at it solid since last Friday. The one before last, actually. And I see no other alternative but to pull back.'

'Really?' enquired Peter.

The officer gave a resigned grin and sank up to his nose. He lifted his head. 'I propose we withdraw while the going's still good.'

'Do you, by George?' Peter turned to Sandy and they both adopted perplexed faces. He turned back to Captain Marrow. 'I order you to stay put and fight it out.'

'You cannot do that.' The captain jumped high in the water. 'I have over-riding orders from my colonel to withdraw when I think fit.'

The two Guards officers looked at each other again. There was a trace of a smirk on their lips. 'You see that big poplar tree on the road,' asked Peter as he pointed. 'With the white mile stone beside it?'

'What of it?'

Peter applied a sour, spiteful tone. 'Because the moment you or any of your men go back beyond that tree we will shoot you.'

'Oh, don't be b.l.o.o.d.y ridiculous!'

Peter coughed twice and widened his eyes. 'Get back now, captain, or I will shot you here.'

'What!'

'And I shall send one of my officers to take over your command.'

The captain's face went white with rage. His nostrils flared as he sucked in air. But he was lost for words. He shook his head repeatedly and finally launched himself out of the water with some difficulty. He hesitated for a moment as if he had more to say on the matter and then he ran back to his position, water erupting at his heels.

'Lucas,' said Peter softly. 'Lend me your rifle will you.' He turned to Sandy at the Bren. 'Sights at two-fifty. Single shot, and shoot to kill if he pa.s.ses that tree. Is that clear?'

'Yes.'

12:00 Sat.u.r.day 1 June 1940.

RAF Biggin Hill, Kent Ginger looked at the coins in his hand. He was going to call his mum. He had protected her with his lies about harmlessly patrolling the coast and it had reached the point where he had virtually nothing ever to say. Now, despite the residual hangover, he was bursting with joy and wanting to share his victory against the Heinkel bomber. He sensed movement behind him and turned to see a clerical sergeant.

'Group Captain Nugent's compliments, sir. But he would like to see you in his office straight away.'

Ginger pocketed the coins. One more n.a.z.i down and he could rightfully call himself an ace. There was a spring in his step. He stopped before the station commander's door and gave a jaunty double tap.

'Come in!'

'Ah, Steele,' announced Groupie.

'Wood,' corrected Bonzo. The squadron leader stood by the window, his hands behind his back and a scowl on his face. 'His name is Wood, sir.'

Groupie shook his head and crossed out a line on his notepad. He looked back up at Ginger. 'So,' he said. 'I hope you have a good explanation.'

'Sir?'

Bonzo stepped forward. 'Make it b.l.o.o.d.y good,' he announced.

Ginger was puzzled. 'Sir?' he asked again.

Bonzo exploded. 'Don't play the dumb beggar with me, you little tyke!'

Ginger felt suddenly faint.

'What in G.o.d's name d'you think you're playing at?' Bonzo was apoplectic with rage. 'Holding back and not engaging!'

'I'm shocked, I really am,' announced Groupie.

'I have a good mind to mark you down as a d.a.m.n waverer.' Bonzo glared at Ginger. 'Look at you! Your b.l.o.o.d.y hands are shaking!'

Groupie coughed. 'Now look here,' he said. 'If you don't think you're up to the job, you only have to say so. It's simple enough to arrange a transfer to the paint shop or whatever.'

'I,' stuttered Ginger. 'I really...'

'G.o.d in Heaven!' shouted Bonzo. 'You held back the entire way over. Bunny had to nursemaid you across the Channel. You can't even fly in a f.u.c.king straight line. And the very moment we move in to engage, you're gone!'

Ginger wanted to point out the shortcomings of his elderly Hurricane. But it was pointless. Sweat was breaking out on his brow and his hands were certainly shaking.

'And then, to top it all, you go and put in a false claim!' Bonzo spun on his heels and turned to look out of the taped-up window. He was clenching his fists.

'Have you any idea,' asked Groupie, 'just what an awkward position you're putting us all in?'