Dunkirk Spirit Part 53

RN Sick Quarters, Dover, Kent 'Next!' The nurse turned over a new sheet on his pad. 'Name, rank, unit, and serial number?'

'F-f-featherstonehaugh. D-D-D. M-m-major. N-n-number T-t-two S-s-supply...'

'Hang on, not so fast!' The nurse looked up at the Major. 'F-a-n-s-h-a-w?'

'No,' smiled the Major. 'F-e-a-t-h-e-r-s-t-o-n-e-h-a-u-g-h.'

'Hang on a minute, sir.' The nurse climbed off his stool and walked out of the room.

'Sorry to bother you, sir,' he said to the doctor. 'But can you come and have a look? We've got a right one 'ere.'

'h.e.l.lo,' smiled the doctor. He lowered himself onto the stool and lent forward in a friendly, open fashion. 'Your name is Fanshaw, I understand? Major Fanshaw?'

'T-t-that's me,' smiled the Major.

The doctor creased his brow. 'I'm sure you've been through h.e.l.l and back. I have some inkling of what it's like over there, you know.' He smiled again. 'Can you say Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peppers?'

The Major shook his head.

'Have you had this stutter long?'

'W-w-what s-s-stutter?'

'I see,' said the doctor. 'And what is that in your hand? Can I see it please?'

The Major opened his hand but hugged it protectively in his lap.

'A golliwog,' marvelled the doctor. 'Is he your friend?'

'W-w-what?' laughed the Major. 'N-n-no! I seem to have l-l-lost my friend.'

'And who's he, sir?' asked the nurse. 'Baba the Elephant?'

'M-m-my f-f-friend is the R-r-reverend T-t-thomas C-c-charlesworth, an Army C-c-chaplain.'

'And were you in his care, sir?'

'Care?' The Major lost his stutter. 'He's a b.l.o.o.d.y captain! And a d.a.m.ned socialist, to boot!' His face turned red. 'I lost him on the boat coming back. Vanished!' The Major snapped his fingers. 'Just like that!'

'I understand.' The doctor kept his smile and rose from the stool. 'Excuse me a moment, won't you?'

'The golliwog's a dead give-a-way, sir,' confirmed the nurse in the corridor.

'Yes. Try and get what details you can,' suggested the doctor. 'And give him the usual treatment for now.'

'Yes, sir.'

'We can't waste valuable surgical time on all these ruddy jittery cases. If he's still funny in the morning, shunt him up to Canterbury will you? And mark him down for radiant heat cages and blood transfusions.'

'Here you are, sir,' smiled another nurse. He held a tray in his hands and bent down to place it on the Major's lap. 'Bangers and mash with loads of fried onions and lashings of gravy. Just what the doctor ordered! Ha, ha!'

'G-g-got any m-m-mustard?' asked the Major.

'M-m-mustard's off!'

The Major enjoyed the sausages but some d.a.m.n incompetent had left the skins on the onions and a few papery pieces of the outer layer became lodged in his teeth. He worked at them with a fingernail. What he wanted now was a b.l.o.o.d.y good stiff drink and somewhere to put his feet up.

'Time for your bath now, sir.'

'B-b-bath! I don't want a b.l.o.o.d.y b-b-bath now!

As it happens, the Major thoroughly enjoyed his bath. He slipped out of his tattered uniform and briefly into a dressing gown. The attendant used a special key to pour steaming hot water into the bath and then explained in considerable detail how to work the cold tap. The Major luxuriated for almost half-an-hour. He was just beginning to drift off when the door flew open and yet another nurse stood holding a towel.

'Out you come now, sir. Before you catch a chill.'

'T-t-thank you.' The Major felt like a pig in clover. He was then led down a series of corridors and into a small room reserved for officers.

'In you hop, sir.'

'Any c-c-chance of a d-d-drink?' asked the Major.

'As it happens, sir, I've got one for you right here.' He produced a small paper cup containing a bromide solution. 'You get that down you, sir.'

'Y-y-yuck!' exclaimed the Major.

'Get a good night's sleep, sir, and you'll be as right as rain in the morning!'

16:05 Sat.u.r.day 1 June 1940.

Bergues-Hondschoote Ca.n.a.l, France

'It's not worth it,' shouted Sandy above the din.

The Germans had over-run the position previously held by Captain Marrow's northern regiment and now the Guards were flanked to the west. The road to Dunkirk lay virtually open. Peter had first sent Angus and his reserve company to lend Nigel a hand by the bridge and now he sent Sandy to see what was going on. Nigel was grey with fatigue and fretting over the loss of one of his Lewis guns.

'Well, I'm b.u.g.g.e.red if I'm letting the German's have it,' Nigel explained. No.1 Company had been obliged to give a little ground and now the Germans were moving up to fill the void.

'Leave it!' hollered Sandy, but it was too late. Nigel hoisted himself out of the trench and ran at a crouch towards the bridge. He did not get very far. He sank to his knees, grasping both hands to his side. He resembled a marathon runner whose body could take no more. The Lewis gun was only a few yards away. He tried to get back on his feet. Water erupted in tiny spurts all around him. He pulled himself up and staggered forward. And then he stopped.

'Nigel!' The Guards were putting up a steady fire on the Germans' position.

Guardsman Stowe was next out of the trench. He tore across the flooded field, ran a few yards, and suddenly dived down. The water erupted around him. Sandy felt sick as he watched. Slowly, Guardsman Stowe lifted himself up onto his elbows and began to crawl forward. The water calmed down as the Germans withheld their fire. Sandy's teeth ached with the tension. Now Stowe climbed to his feet. He ran the last few yards and hit the water with a splash. The Germans waited until he clasped Nigel in a fireman's lift. They watched him adjust the weight and then, just as he was turning back to the British lines, they brought him down. The look on Stowe's face summed up all their feelings. The Guards might have a reputation for not taking prisoners but even they had their limits.

'b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!' screamed Angus. Sandy looked at him. 'I know,' said Angus. He shook his head. 'We should fall back now.'

'Stay put.' Sandy was as grey as the rest of them. 'I'll go tell Peter.'

'Is your flask full?' asked Peter as soon as he had been apprised of the situation. Sandy shook his head. 'Well, take mine and make Angus drink all of it.'

Sandy slipped the leather-bound flask into his pocket. 'If he won't,' glared Peter, 'or still talks of retiring, you are to shoot him and take command of the company. Is that clear?'

Sandy nodded. He wanted to empty the flask himself.

'They are not to retire!'

'Present from Peter.' Sandy held out the flask. 'Best drink it all,' he told Angus. Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox had a strange look in his eye. Angus complied. He offered Sandy the last few sips.

'Is this how you imagined it?' asked Angus. He was shivering violently, the water lapping at the knot of his tie.

'Funnily enough,' smiled Sandy. 'It all feels rather unreal, like I'm in a Kipling poem.'

'Oh, yes? W-w-which one?'

Sandy turned to look at the men. He never liked to recite poetry in front of them. He lowered his voice. 'If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white, Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: So take open order, lie down, and sit tight, And wait for supports like a soldier.'

'Point taken.' It was difficult to tell if Angus were nodding his head or simply shaking. 'Although I'd like to know where the supports are coming from.' He looked skyward for a moment, as if consulting some long forgotten library in his mind. 'A scrimmage in a border station, A canter down some dark defile, Two thousand pounds of education, Drops to a ten-rupee jezail.'

'Or a ten mark Mauser.'

'Same difference really.'

There was one form of support but it was not doing much good. Somewhere to their rear, beyond the coast and a little distance out to sea, the Royal Navy was doing its best to halt the German advance. Certain key positions, such as crossroads and bridgeheads, had been plotted on charts. Now naval sh.e.l.ls came crashing down into the flooded field behind them. To those that bothered to look, it resembled the photographs of Jutland they had all seen in their schoolbooks 'Fat lot of good that's doing,' thought Lucas. He was waiting for his lieutenant to return. He looked along the trench towards the bridge. It was proving increasingly difficult to peer above the parapet. A withering fire tore overhead. Soon it would stop but then more infantry would try to come splashing ash.o.r.e.

Sandy had still not returned. The suppressing fire came to a stop. Lucas strained for sound. Heavy grunts and powerful, steady strokes.

'Up Guards!' Sergeant Harris bellowed from further down the line. Lucas ran a thumb across the blade of his bayonet and felt his heart pound inside his chest. For the briefest instant, he had an image of his dad, medieval mace in hand. 'And at 'em!'

Lucas launched himself off the fire step, rolling briefly through the water on the lip of the trench, and then he lunged forward. He thrust the bayonet into the first man he saw and screamed the way he had been trained. The blade grinded, steel on bone. Lucas took his eyes away and looked directly into the German's startled face. He tugged back but failed to free the bayonet. The German held a paddle in one hand, high above his head. The shock of the chest wound had left him momentarily frozen. Lucas tugged viciously again. The eighteen-inch blade had wedged solid in the ribcage. He jerked the trigger and blasted the man backwards and into the water.

There was no time to reload. He swung the b.u.t.t of his Lee Enfield, catching another German on the chin. Individual details became lost. A red mist obscured his vision. He lashed out with b.u.t.t and blade. He only stopped when somebody grabbed hold of his webbing array and pulled him back down into the trench. Sandy was lucky to avoid the bayonet thrust as Lucas broke the surface.

'Woo there, boy!' Lucas had the look of a rabid ape but the lieutenant spoke as if he were calming a startled horse. 'Easy now! Easy.' He placed both hands on Lucas's shoulders and stared hard into his eyes. Lucas shook violently.

'Sur!' came a shout.

Sandy turned to see Sergeant Harris thrashing through the water towards him.

'Sur! Number One Company's falling back on us!'

'What!'

'Officer and both sergeants all dead, sur!'

18:20 Sat.u.r.day 1 June 1940.

Bergues-Hondschoote Ca.n.a.l, France I have been asked several times over the past few days to explain why our current defence line around Dunkirk has been christened the Corunna Line. So, here goes: In eighteen-oh-eight Sir John Moore marched his army into Spain to fight another European tyrant - Napoleon. Although outnumbered, and with no a.s.sistance from his ineffectual Spanish allies, he withdrew hundreds of miles to the coast and to the port of Corunna. There he turned his army around and, although mortally wounded, General Moore succeeded in beating off the French long enough to safely embark his army. The rest, as you know, is history and Napoleon met his Waterloo. I am glad to say that the commander of our current army, Lord Gort, is now safely back in England and has even been received at Buckingham Palace today by the King who conferred on him the G.C.B. This, of course, is a measure of the success of the current operation. And, if you think that the similitude with Corunna and Napoleon stops there, think again. Take a look at the slogans our returning soldiers have chalked on the carriages of their trains. "Look out Hitler! We haven't finished with you yet!"

That was General Sir William Carr, First Viscount Beresford, G.C.B. G.C.H.

'Haven't you finished yet?' enquired Sandy.

Lucas heaved the last slab of Amatol into the storage box at the rear of the Renault Type UE. He bent upright on his knees and looked at his lieutenant. 'How we gonna set it off, sir?''Yes, good point.' Sandy shunted up close beside Lucas. The curious French armoured carrier was well hidden beneath piles of brush behind the cottage but German snipers were on the alert. There was only one feasible solution. The Royal Engineers had left nearly one thousand yards of fuse wire, together with a box of detonators, a plunger, and seven yard-long slabs of Amatol. 'We'll treat it like a bridge,' Sandy declared. 'A kind of moving bridge.'

'Only who's gonna move it, sir?'

'Ah,' mused Sandy. 'I was thinking, given that you know how to drive the thing, that you might have a go yourself.'

'I see, sir.'

'You obviously don't have to stay to the last minute, as it were.' Sandy laughed. 'Just hop out as soon as you think fit.'

'Well, don't under-estimate the risks, Lucas,' warned Sandy.

'I wouldn't, sir.'

'Well, very good.'

'I was thinking, though, sir.' Lucas ran a hand down his face. 'All I've got to do is put it into second gear and make sure the throttle stays open.'

'Yes.'

'I could just point it at the Jerries and let it do its own thing. I could then press the plunger and blow it up when it gets there.'

'Mmm,' agreed Sandy. 'But are you sure it will stay in a straight line?'

'Yes, sir. It was a right b.i.t.c.h to turn. Begging your pardon.' 'All right.' Sandy raised himself onto his knees and began crimping the fuse wire to half-a-dozen detonators. He turned to Lucas. 'You unravel the other end of that wire. No knots, mind you.'

'So, what's the plan then, sarn't?' asked Guardsman Sampson.

'Right,' said Sergeant Harris. 'Us lot here,' he looked at the twenty or so guardsmen, 'We have got to make our way up the trench, back towards the bridge. But it's a question of timing.' He exposed his top row of teeth and sucked in air. 'That funny Frog tank thing, that is now packed with enough Amatol to blow up the Clifton suspension bridge. Plus loads of broken gla.s.s, spent cartridge cases and G.o.d-knows-what else.'

Sampson chuckled.

'We,' continued Sergeant Harris, 'have got to follow about fifty yards behind the thing, staying in the trench, and keeping our heads well down.'

'And then?' asked Sampson.

'And then, just as soon as it reaches the German line, then bang-b.l.o.o.d.y-bang! The Jerries won't know what hit them!'

'Um,' interjected another Guardsman from Nigel's original company. 'Are we sure this is gonna work?'