Dunkirk Spirit Part 58

'That would be a life-saver,' she smiled. 'I'm exhausted already and we've got a long day ahead of us, to who knows where.'

'And we have cake and squash for the little ones.'

'You haven't got any boiled sweets, have you? We have a long way to go and I don't want to give the little ones any squash.'

08:50 Sunday 2 June 1940.

Malo Beach, France The Reverend Thomas Charlesworth had every right to feel troubled. He sat on the sand with his knees drawn up to his chin. The tide was on the ebb and the morning sun was rapidly drying the sand, turning it from a burnished white gold to a dull muddy brown. The devastation all around, the sense of abandonment, and the feeling that he had somehow upset the crusty old Commander were preventing him from thinking about the matter at hand.

For one thing, he wondered if he were responsible for the Commander wandering off in the first place. In time, the Padre had wandered off himself, leaving the search party amid the rubble, until finally coming to rest at Malo and in close sight of the burning refinery. The pillar of black cloud now rose vertically from the oil tanks, unhindered by any breeze on this fine summer's morning. He would unquestionably quote Exodus, Chapter 13, Verse 21.

He was also pondering the Commander's parting words. The Reverend Charlesworth had certainly done much to help his fellow man. 'I have.' The thought had an unpleasant edge to it, a rather shrill sound. Sad to say, G.o.d and his mysterious ways had thwarted almost all of his earlier plans. New South Wales had only been one of a peculiar string of personal disasters. The Suffragette-style protest backfired so miserably that the Church wasted no time finding him pa.s.sage on the first out-bound vessel. Australia's indigenous population would have to fend for themselves and there would never be a humane Aboriginal orphanage.

The Reverend Charlesworth had always convinced himself that he was being steered towards a specific goal. He looked up from his tattered and sodden boots and forced himself to concentrate. He would hold Divine Service this very morning and it would be the most inspirational service of his career. Everybody along this beach is here for a purpose, he thought. But what is G.o.d's? If He required sacrifice, there were ample texts the Reverend Charlesworth could draw upon.

'h.e.l.lo,' said the Padre. 'I am holding Divine Service at eleven o'clock this morning. Over there.' He pointed back to the promenade. 'I so hope you can attend.'

'D'you think they'll come back, sir?' asked a man from the Sherwood Foresters.

'Who?'

'The boats, sir! D'you think they'll come back tonight?'

'Well,' the Padre hesitated. 'Umm. I certainly hope so. I'm rather banking on it, actually.'

'You don't think the Jerries will get here first then, sir?'

'Well, I'm in no position to say really.' The Padre resisted the urge to scratch his head and kept his hands clasped in front of him. 'They don't tell me what's going on any more than they tell you.' He rocked up and down on his toes nervously.

'We were at the front of the queue, sir. Up to our blooming necks in water. Only five blokes in front of me. They said another boat would come back for us but it didn't.'

'Well, I am very sorry.'

'But d'you think they'll let us have a place back at the front of the queue, sir? A lot of the lads are worried that they won't get off.'

'All I can say is that you must have faith. England is not going to leave us all in the lurch, now is it? We must all have faith.'

'D'you do requests, sir?'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, hymns, sir. Me and the lads are very partial to Immortal, Invisible.'

'Hopefully, we won't be here, Padre. You are more than welcome to come with us.' The spotty lieutenant from the Duke of Wellington's Regiment pointed to a rusting and apparently crippled barge some distance out. 'I can't guarantee we will even get there. Heck! I can't even guarantee she'll float!'

'Well, you seem to have your work cut out, lieutenant. I can only wish you the best of luck.'

'We don't think it's wise, waiting for the Navy to show up tonight,' said the lieutenant without emotion. 'I reckon the Huns will be here any minute.' He lent forward, conspiratorially, and whispered into the Padre's ear. 'Don't look now, Padre, but I think we're being followed! Ha! Ha!'

'I haven't stopped praying, Padre. I prayed and prayed and prayed, and being just newly married two months ago, I been thinking of my wife.'

'There is a lot of power in prayer.' The Padre smiled and placed a tender hand on the sergeant's shoulder.

'If I get through this, Padre, I'll be able to say I been to h.e.l.l and back.' There were tears in the man's eyes. 'I only hope I get to go to Heaven when I die.'

'Well, let us hope you don't find out just yet. And please pa.s.s it on to your friends.' The Padre turned and pointed to the prom. 'Over there at eleven o'clock.' He froze. 'Oh, dear me!'

Perhaps it was the fine summer weather or the knowledge that they all had the day off. For an instant, the Padre was reminded of his school trips to the seaside, the crowds and the amus.e.m.e.nts. He saw the deckchairs arranged along the front and the white flesh of men eager to catch the morning sun. Down on the sand, well in excess of twenty-two men were charging in a h.o.a.rd behind a small brown ball.

'I say,' he wanted to say. 'I am holding Divine Service there!'

10:20 Sunday 2 June 1940.

Granville Dock, Dover, Kent 'As scrambled eggs go, these are surprisingly good,' marvelled Clive. 'I thought Navy tucker was all hardtack and salt horse! Are you going to eat that sausage?'

'Help yourself, old boy. I'm done in.'

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

'Take the train, I suppose.'

'May take a long time.'

'Best head off soon then.'

'You don't think it's worth hanging on for a bit?' asked Clive. 'See if they do need us again tonight?'

'Not very likely, is it?'

Clive shook his head.

'And, besides,' added Barry. 'We had better be back at our desks tomorrow morning.'

They looked across at the wall clock. Both felt glued to their seats.

'If they did need us again,' pondered Clive. 'There'll be trains all through the night and we can change when we get back to the office.'

Both men nodded and then fell silent. Clive sliced into the sausage and Barry sipped his tea.

'Do you think,' asked Barry. 'That many chaps will have been left behind?' He tapped his shooting jacket in search of a cigarette.

'Hard to say, old boy.' Clive dabbed at his lips with the serviette. 'But I'm sure we got the lion's share.'

Barry nodded. 'Doesn't seem right, though, does it?'

'What?'

'Leaving those chaps behind. You saw them in the water.'

'I bet there's a lot of chaps still relying on the likes of us,' considered Clive.

'Don't rub it in, old boy.' Barry exhaled sharply.

Both men were quiet again until Barry put in with, 'Bit more strenuous than Hendon, eh?'

'Feeling your age, old boy?'

'I'm feeling Methuselah's age.'

'Perhaps we should grab forty winks back on the boat. Give it an hour or two and see what happens.'

'Tempting,' agreed Barry.

'h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo!' Clive looked up. 'There's old Popeye!' He nodded his head towards the door of the canteen and waved. 'Ahoy there, shipmate!'

'That's it! That really was the last run.' Popeye plonked himself down hard on the bench. 'No one's going back again, not into that nightmare!'

'Really?' asked Barry. 'How do you know?'

'Just got it from official sources,' winked the old seadog.

'Who?' asked Clive.

Popeye helped himself to a slice of toast from Barry's plate and gnawed a corner. 'I was just talking to some sailor with gold b.u.t.tons on his sleeves,' he announced. 'And he said they've got thousands of blokes already, so now they're calling it quits.'

'Really?' exclaimed Clive.

'Yeah,' huffed Popeye. 'And anyway, he told me the Navy made its' mind up yesterday. Last night was the final one and, personally, I can't say I'm sorry.'

Barry felt half inclined to agree. 'No point hanging about, then.'

'Not really,' agreed Clive. 'Not if it's all over.'

'd.a.m.n shame to leave people behind, though.'

Clive swallowed the last of the sausage and felt it lodge in his throat. He nodded agreement.

'And what about the Poilus?' asked Barry. 'What about them?'

Clive looked pained.

'The way I see it,' said Popeye. 'If the Frogs are now holding the line, there won't be time to pick any of 'em up!' He looked over at the clock. 'The Jerries will probably be on the beach already.'

Clive sucked in air dramatically and stood up. 'Well, in that case,' he announced. 'A little more scramble egg is in order.'

10:40 Sunday 2 June 1940.

Bray, France Commander Hector Babbington was having an unpleasant dream. He struggled to pull his eyes open and the dark, ruined cellar came into focus. 'b.u.g.g.e.r!' swore Binky. He sipped at the champagne and quickly shut his eyes again. He had been dreaming of the past and of a listing sickbay, his ankles awash in red seawater and the flickering yellow lights overhead. He shivered.

Little Sago stopped what he was doing and turned to look at the Commander. The dog was tired, hungry and thirsty, and the Commander's lap looked inviting.

'h.e.l.lo, Sago,' smiled the Commander softly. He ran a hand through the dog's matted fur, keeping his eyes closed. 'Was I talking in my sleep?' he asked the dog. 'I do that, apparently. And why are you all wet?'

The Commander felt the dog with both hands. Then, his eyes still closed, he brought them up to his face and sniffed. 'Oh, b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous!' he exclaimed. 'Here I am trapped in a cellar. I have a particular thing about confined s.p.a.ces; the Germans might be here any d.a.m.n minute, and my only companion is a little terrier that's been rolling in raw sewage. b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous!'

He wiped both hands on his mackintosh and picked up the champagne. 'You have been a busy little boy, haven't you? Anyone would think you had been looking for rabbits.'

Binky lifted the Mot to his lips. 'Been digging for rabbits, have you?' He stopped in his tracks, almost choking. The wine spilt in a torrent down the front of his coat. Then he opened his eyes, one first and then the other, and slowly he pulled himself from under the oak rack. 'Where are the rabbits?' he asked in the silly tone reserved for dogs. 'Where are the rabbits?'

The tunnel that Sago showed the Commander was sufficiently wide for a rabbit and even for a slim Cairn terrier but not for a corpulent Commander fast approaching fifty.

'Well, who's a clever lad, then?' he asked. 'Can you get outside, old boy?'

In the dim light, Sago appeared to nod. He turned and quickly squeezed his way through, lying low on his belly and kicking vigorously with his hind legs. The dog disappeared for a moment and then he returned, wetter than ever.

'Well, I never,' smiled the Commander. He sipped again at the champagne and then delved into his coat pockets for a pen and paper. 'Perhaps you could pa.s.s on a message?'

Sago looked at the Commander, confusion written across his furry little face.

'Yes, I know this is b.l.o.o.d.y ridiculous,' Binky told him. 'How are you ever going to get anyone to read it?' He sipped again. 'I don't even know the b.l.o.o.d.y address of this place!' He laughed. 'Aside from the fact that it had a poster of a tart on the wall. Ha! Ha!'

Sago continued to give the Commander his full attention. Binky scribbled a lengthy note.

'Do dogs like champagne, Sago? I truly hope so.' The Commander slipped off his dented helmet and poured in the foaming wine. 'Because I want you to come back for some more. Loads of lovely champagne, Sago!'

11:15 Sunday 2 June 1940.

Malo Beach, France 'And forgive us our trespa.s.ses, as we forgive them that trespa.s.s against us.' The Padre mouthed the words silently and tried afresh to take onboard their meaning. 'And how long does a rotten football match take to finish?' he asked himself. His head felt light and he needed to sit down.

Once again, the Padre felt he was wading through treacle. He had always struggled to control the waves of annoyance that regularly swept over him. The soldiers had the comfort of a good d.a.m.n and blast and, while that was denied him, at least aloud, he did have the comfort of the psalms. There was the currently apt number 69, for instance: I stick fast in the mire where no ground is. But more than any, he regularly ran the words of Psalm 57 through his mind: I cry out to G.o.d Most High, to G.o.d who will fulfil his purpose for me.

A new wave of irritation boiled up from his spleen as several grown men rushed past, each furiously working their legs inside a brightly-coloured children's pedal car. The common touch did not come naturally to the Reverend Thomas Charlesworth and he was fully aware of this. If it had, he might have found a means of using their frolics to draw the crowds for his somewhat delayed Devine Service. Again, frustration rose.

Deep down, he knew that his role was flawed. The men generally resented his presence and often seemed embarra.s.sed. They certainly resented the monotonous and compulsory church parades. When push had come to shove, and the Germans had invaded Belgium less than a month before, he had been unable to inspire the men to go forth and smite their enemy. Instead he had been limited to number 91 Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night: nor for the arrow that flieth by day.

He knew that he was not alone in his failure to connect with the men, especially when so many of his fellow Church of England chaplains sprang from the middle cla.s.ses and naturally drew closer to the officers than to the other ranks. It was all so much easier for the Catholics, he thought. Their chaplains came from the working cla.s.s and they had a far more receptive audience. The C of Es, on the other hand, had little else but to organise the lotteries and cinema shows, their conversations with the men limited to the weather and minor aspects of their welfare.

All this weighed heavily on his troubled soul. He raised his eyes to the Heavens and returned to number 57. He will send help from Heaven to save me, rescuing me from those who are out to get me.

The Padre had been looking out to the empty blue sea. It glittered invitingly all the way to England. All around the beach men had striped to what remained of their underwear and were occupied sunbathing, studiously ignoring the Stukas above. A few continued to blast away with whatever was at hand, lying flat on their backs and yelling colourful abuse. He watched as one man offered donkey rides along the promenade. Could he not use that beast of burden as a symbol of Christ's struggle? The Padre took a deep breath of resolve and pulled himself up the wooden rail and onto the prom.

On closer inspection, the animal turned out not to be a donkey but an old carthorse and the inspiration that had struck him a moment before now evaporated. He was on the verge of knocking the whole thing on the head when the small band of Sherwood Foresters stepped up.

'h.e.l.lo, sir!' said the man cheerfully. 'We haven't missed it, have we?'

'Missed what?' asked the Padre.

'The service, sir. We thought you said eleven-hundred-hours.'