Dunkirk Spirit Part 55

'I think I've been shot.' Peter's tone was indignant.

'Where?'

'In the neck. Either that or I've got a nasty throat infection.'

'Does it hurt?'

'Not as such. But I do feel so very tired suddenly.'

Sandy began to feel in the dark with his hands. He touched gingerly at Peter's throat. Although his own hands we already soaking wet and the fingertips white and puffy from days spent in the water, he found the blood easily. It ran in a sticky flow from a point above the adjutant's collar. Sandy lowered Peter down. There came a series of splashes and then Sergeant Harris and Lucas we kneeling beside the two officers.

'I'll carry him, sur,' announced the sergeant.

'Actually, I think I'll sit this one out, if you don't mind,' said Peter softly. 'I feel so very tired. Not surprisingly really when you think about it, but rotten timing all the same.'

Sandy continued to press hard against the wound but the black fluid could not be slowed. It ran in warm rivulets down his sleeves and seemed to settle uncomfortably around the elbows of his battledress. Sandy turned to look at the sergeant. His training and instincts were both at one. He shook his head.

'I'm so sorry Peter,' he said.

'That's perfectly all right, old boy,' smiled Peter. 'I think I shall shut my eyes for a little while. You had best take the flask.'

Sandy took his hands away from the gaping wound and slipped Peter's helmet off. He placed it tenderly beneath his friend's head and then found himself washing his hands in the murky water of the flooded field.

Lucas raised himself to one knee and nudged Sergeant Harris with his elbow. Both men exchanged a quick glance and began to take steps backwards.

'Come on, sur,' hissed Sergeant Harris. Sandy nodded and raised himself to his feet. Lucas was the next to go down. The bullet that hit him did so square in the centre of his face. He jerked back like a dog on a leash and then collapsed with a loud splash into the water.

Sandy's knees gave way and he found himself shaking violently. An uncomfortable sensation settled in the back of his own neck. Every miniscule hair on his body stood on end. The bullet that then hit him tore through his left elbow, shattering the various connecting bones, and propelling his forearm forward in mimicry of a n.a.z.i salute, and then he plunged face down into the water.

Sergeant Harris let rip with the Bren.

When you're lying wounded on Afghanistan's planes, And the women come out to cut out what remains, Just roll on your rifle and blow out your brains And go to your G.o.d like a soldier.

'I think the lieutenant's singing, sarn't,' whispered Guardsman Samson.

'That's poetry, that is,' huffed Sergeant Harris. 'He does like his Kipling and Tennyson. It don't make him any lighter, though.'

The two guardsmen had reached a main road and their feet were now out of the water.

'Put him down for a tick then, sarn't. I know I could do with a breather.'

Both men lowered Sandy gently down beside a tree. Sergeant Harris stood upright and stretched his back, feeling individual discs crack with the relief.

'How far d'you reckon, then?' asked Samson, chewing on a miraculously dry biscuit earlier hidden in his helmet.

'Five miles maybe,' suggested Sergeant Harris, not entirely sure himself.

'Six.' Sandy stirred. The searing pain in the remains of his arm had been sending him in and out of consciousness.

'Thought you was asleep, sur,' said the sergeant.

'Well, you can't carry me all that way, can you man?'

'I could give it a fair shot, sur. Besides, we might strike lucky and get you a lift, sur.'

'Well, make sure it's not on a d.a.m.n panzer if you do.'

'He's out cold again now,' marvelled Samson peering down. 'Did somebody say something about a flask?'

'You can take that hopeful grin off your ugly mug. He's gonna want that for medicinal purposes when the shock wears off.'

'Wot! No brandy! Not even a tiny nip, build up our strength like...'

'Shush!' hissed the sergeant. 'That's a truck! Hear it?' He waved an arm. 'Get the lieutenant off the road and you keep out of sight.'

'What if it's a Jerry?'

'Well, it's fifty-fifty either way and there's only one way to find out.'

Sergeant Harris had less than five seconds to decide if the vehicle was friendly or not. He stepped into the middle of the road and c.o.c.ked back the Bren. The driver, friend or foe, seemed determined to carry on regardless. The sergeant braced the wooden b.u.t.t against his side and fired a quick burst high above the cab. The truck, an RAF quad, screeched to a halt. Sergeant Harris found himself holding his breath.

'What the f.u.c.k!' screamed a voice from behind the windshield. 'Get out of the f.u.c.king way. We're in a hurry!'

'Ain't we all, sunshine,' said Sergeant Harris. He kept the Bren pointing firmly into the cab as he walked up. 'I reckon you've got room for one more, don't you?'

'Look sarg,' started the driver, a small corporal with Italian features. 'They're packed like f.u.c.king sardines in there.' He gestured with his thumb. 'And I ain't got...'

'Then someone's got to get out and walk,' snarled Sergeant Harris. 'I've got a seriously wounded officer and I want him taking to an aid station.'

To underline his point, Sergeant Harris lifted the Bren towards the sky and let off a short burst. The sound reverberated off the few surrounding walls and the corporal jerked involuntarily. The sergeant then jabbed the machine gun through the open side window and pressed the hot muzzle to the man's cheek.

'So either you get out or one of your friends does, I ain't fussy.' Sergeant Harris called over his shoulder. 'Samson! Bring the lieutenant here, now.' The other Guardsman stepped from the bushes.

'And I want to see your pay book, corporal,' said Sergeant Harris, his Bren still pressing into the man's hollow cheek. ''Cos if my lieutenant don't make it back home in one piece, I'm gonna come looking for you, see?'

He took a step away from the cab and lowered the Bren. 'And you and I, Samson, had better get a ruddy move on.'

Day Eight.

03:40 Sunday 2 June 1940.

East Mole, Dunkirk, France.

'Company...company...Halt!'

Sergeant Harris slammed down hard on the cobbles with the iron-shod heel of his boot and the b.u.t.t of his Bren. For the two men const.i.tuting the remainder of No.3 Company, Second Battalion, Coldstream Guards, it was not a very impressive show. However, the RN commander charged with instilling order was sufficiently impressed by their parade ground bull and sheer front to give them more than the customary brush off.

'We're trying to locate our battalion or the Brigade of Guards, sur,' Harris told him.

The officer let out a long blast of air from pursed lips and shook his head. 'A lot of the rearguard got off last night,' he told them. 'So perhaps they have gone home already.'

'What do you recommend then, sur?' asked the sergeant.

The officer puffed again. 'I would suggest that you get home yourselves, only you've missed the boat. The last one left ten minutes ago.'

'I see, sur. When's the next one.'

'Now that, I simply can't say.' The commander turned to the east where a dull orange glow illuminated the headland. 'The sun will be up in an hour but there's to be no more daylight lifts.' Now he sucked in air. 'Not after yesterday. Far too costly.'

'I see, sur.'

'Your best bet, lads, is to go join a queue somewhere and we shall try to sort you out as soon as we can.'

'I understand, sur.'

Guardsman Samson coughed.

'And just one more thing, sur,' continued the sergeant. 'Did many wounded get off last night? We're concerned about our company commander.'

'Depends how badly he was wounded. If he was walking wounded there's a good chance he did get off. Stretcher cases,' he paused and shook his head. 'They take up too much room.'

'And if I were looking for a wounded officer, sur, where's the best place to start?'

'Take your pick, sergeant. As far as I've seen, they are crammed into almost every nook and cranny.' He stopped then. 'Look, I must press on now. But take my advice. Try to get out of here as soon as there's a chance.'

'How we gonna find him in this lot, then?' asked Samson.

They continued to march up a side street. French soldiers lay huddled in doorways, their ubiquitous kit strewn before them. Artillery slammed into the nearby docks. As they turned a corner, a large number of British wounded lay pressed up against a wall. A cloud of dust bellowed up the street, sending with it small items of tumbling masonry. The two Guardsmen stepped back and waited for the dust to settle.

'b.u.g.g.e.r this,' announced Samson. 'I thought there might be a b.l.o.o.d.y NAAFI wagon.' He spat brick dust from his lips. 'I'd s.h.a.g my granny for a tin of MacConochie's.'

'And I'd s.h.a.g your granddad if I thought it would help any.'

'Well, he copped it at Pa.s.schendaele in fourteen, so at least he's local.' Samson showed his blackened teeth.

'I'll try and look him up later then.' Sergeant Harris hoisted the Bren up his shoulder and jerked his head. 'Come on, lad.'

They turned the corner again and examined the line of wounded men. 'Anyone here from the Guards?' called Sergeant Harris. 'Anyone here from the Guards?'

They stepped along the line looking for the red shoulder flashes of the brigade. 'Up Guards and at 'em!' bellowed the sergeant.

'Yeah, can't credit it, really. There I was, waiting my turn on the beach like and then suddenly, boom! My b.l.o.o.d.y hand's gone!' The Grenadier Guardsman held up the stump.

'Does it hurt?' asked Samson.

'What d'you b.l.o.o.d.y think?' asked the Grenadier. 'It hurts like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Funny thing is, though, it didn't bleed any. Came clean off. In fact, it looks a bit like a rolled belly of pork.'

'Yum!' nodded Samson. 'So, you been here long?'

'Got here last night. You haven't got a snout, have you?'

Samson shook his head.

'Christ!' the Grenadier suddenly exclaimed. 'Last night, eh? D'you see that shambles?'

Samson nodded.

'You got Frog civvies still pouring out of Dunkirk. You got other Frogs and our blokes trying to get in.' The Grenadier chuckled to himself. 'Oh, and get this, we tried at the pier first and the b.l.o.o.d.y Frogs they wouldn't even leave when they got the chance. No,' he shook his head. 'They wouldn't get on without all their b.l.o.o.d.y kit and then they wouldn't leave until all their mates were there. f.u.c.king dog's dinner! Talking of which, you haven't got any grub have you?'

Samson shook his head, sadly.

'And then our lot gone and got mixed up in the middle of it and I got separated. I only hope I can get a boat out from here. What d'you reckon?'

'There's no more boats,' said Sergeant Harris flatly. 'There might be some back tonight, but not during the day.'

'Well, f.u.c.king Fritz will be here by then. That's if they don't get tangled up in the b.l.o.o.d.y traffic.' He paused to blow cool air across his stump. 'So what are your plans then, sarn't? How about trying to find a boat of our own?'

Sergeant Harris nodded but his mind seemed elsewhere.

'Anything that floats really,' continued the Grenadier. 'I'd like to get home and put this into some warm vinegar water.' He lifted the bandaged stump.

'Home?' queried the sergeant. 'Who wants to go home? And miss a b.l.o.o.d.y good opportunity like this?'

The Grenadier looked across at Samson, who parted his dusty lips in response and spat between his boots. Sergeant Harris stood up. 'And let's find you a revolver, sunshine.'

04:45 Sunday 2 June 1940.

Malo Beach, France 'Actually, I think I'll sit this one out, if you don't mind. I feel so very tired.'

'Don't be so wet, Sandy. It's only eight miles around the loch,' chivvied Badger. 'We've bags of time before tea. There's coconut cake.'

'h.e.l.lo, sir. You still here?' asked the RAMC sergeant.

'I'm afraid so,' admitted Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox, opening his eyes. 'I just could not stand up. No energy left.'

'You've lost a lot of blood, sir.'

'No stretchers allowed, they said.'

'Well, you haven't got a stretcher now, sir. But that ain't gonna make it any easier to get you off.'

'Well, what can you do?'

'Not a lot, actually, sir.'