Dunkirk Spirit Part 6

Both men, and the majority of those a.s.sembled around them, were staring out to sea. HMS Cameron continued to illuminate the night sky. Alongside, two steam drifters were racing away, having each off-loaded around fifty men. Now they were keen to beat a retreat before the lone Messerschmitt swept in for another burst of cannon fire.

'Here comes the number one now, sir.' Silhouetted against the destroyer's blazing guns, three small boats were making their way to the sh.o.r.e. 'I'm amazed he found us again, sir,' said the chief. 'We can't very well show a light or that n.a.z.i plane will have us, too. Excuse me, sir.' He stepped closer to the sh.o.r.e and began to wade out. 'Ahoy there! Cameron. This way, sir.'

The RN sh.o.r.e party ran to the water's edge and turned to face the waiting troops with bayonets levelled. Within a moment, the large form of Lieutenant Commander Hubbard wadded ash.o.r.e. Binky met him on the sand.

'Well, I don't envy you your job,' Gordon told him straight out. 'You must have drawn the short straw!' He turned away from the sight of Cameron and looked behind Binky to the a.s.sembled squaddies. 'I've no idea how many men there are here, but you'll have a better idea come first light. You're also be a better target for the Luftwaffe. Either way, there must be thousands and d.a.m.n few boats to lift them off. It'll be rather like trying to drain a swimming pool with a fountain pen.'

'Yes, well put,' said Binky. 'And what a hopeless place to try and embark troops!'

'Well, I guess that's your problem now, sir,' Gordon told him. 'We have to be out of here as soon as I can load up. Dover told us to be under weigh by oh-three-thirty. They also said tonight would be the last chance to save the BEF. It came as rather a surprise, I must admit.'

'It will be even more of a surprise to this lot,' said Binky, indicating the growing body of men. 'In any event, my orders are to stay here until evacuation becomes impossible. We were thinking twenty-four hours at the most. But that, I suppose, all depends on the rearguard.' He shook his head, looking away from Gordon, and almost whispered: 'I don't relish winding up in the bag.' Binky delved into his coat pockets for a pen and paper. 'Perhaps you could pa.s.s a message back for me?'

'Yes, of course. Glad to. For the Admiralty, is it?'

'Actually, no. I would be very grateful if you could telephone my wife. Here's her number.' Binky looked at the luminous dial of his watch. 'If you could call her as soon as you get back, I would be very grateful. I was due home today on the ten-thirty-two from Waterloo. She's planning to pick me up from the station.'

06:55 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Windmill Field Cottage, Aylesham, Kent Margaret, in the manner of her late husband Dennis, was a firm proponent of the old adage 'early to bed, early to rise'. Vicky, on the other hand, had little choice in the matter. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and then turned the egg timer and laid two slices of bread on the top of the range to toast. The telephone rang in the hall.

'I'll watch the eggs,' said Margaret, rising from the kitchen table where she had been fiddling with the dial of the wireless. 'But find out who it is. Why would anyone consider making a telephone call before breakfast?'

Vicky trotted smartly back from the chilly hallway and stood close to the range. 'It's that Mrs Roberts from the WVS. She says it's very important, Mrs C.'

Margaret felt her heart drop. She had joined the Women's Voluntary Service at the outbreak of war the previous September and it had not proved to be all that she had hoped for. For the past four months, she had been engaged cataloguing some rather lowbrow books for a mobile library. Before that she had collected clothes for Polish refugees and made an awe-inspiring number of sandwiches for the Darby and Joan Club in Dover. But then she remembered the children and the latest evacuation and she picked up the receiver with a greater sense of hope.

'Mrs Carmichael, I must apologise for calling you at such an unearthly hour but it is rather important, as I think you will agree.'

'Oh, Mrs Roberts, it's no problem at all. I'm always up early. Always have been. Is it about the children?'

'No, it's not. It's something rather different, I'm afraid. I dare say you have been listening to the news. It's such a worry, what's going on over in France and Belgium. There are more than twenty boys from the village over there. But it seems they need our help...with refreshments.'

'Refreshments, Mrs Roberts?'

'Yes. They are bringing some exhausted men back from the front. And they have asked us if we can help.'

'What kind of refreshments?'

'Well, tea, I suppose. Tea and cakes, and biscuits. Sandwiches, too. How soon can you make your way to Snowdown Station? The railways are arranging special trains to take the soldiers to the West Country.'

'In no time. But do you want me to bring anything?' Margaret strained to control her enthusiasm.

'Oh, yes! That's just what we do need. You will have to raid your pantry, I'm afraid. And especially some of your excellent jam. It will be perfect for sandwiches for the poor boys. Oh, and one important thing.' Mrs Roberts lowered her voice. 'Do not say anything about this to anyone. Careless talk, and all that.'

When Margaret returned to the kitchen, Vicky was busy placing the eggs in their cups. She had also correctly tuned in the wireless. The announcer was reading out a complicated list of dates for National Service registration. Although Margaret's mind was elsewhere, she took in all the details. The men who will register on June twenty-second will be those not already registered by that date who were born between January the first nineteen-ten and June twenty-second nineteen-twenty, both dates inclusive.

'Have I missed much?' asked Margaret, patting down her hair.

'They said the Germans are advancing but that our blokes are putting up stiff resistance, ma'am.' Vicky fingered her toast. 'There was a shocking story about the n.a.z.is murdering refugees and they said His Majesty has been touring RAF stations.'

'Is that all?'

'I think so,' said Vicky, trying to remember. 'Oh, they said something about cotton imports and the Canadians raising more men and things.'

Margaret returned to her thoughts and walked to the open door of the pantry. She could spare four jars of her experimental beetroot and orange but only two of the popular blackberry and apple. She reached up for the one-pound tin of tea and called over her shoulder. 'Vicky, can you get the large basket, please? The market basket.'

'What, now Mrs C? The eggs will get cold and the toast will be no good. Come and eat while it's still warm, ma'am.'

'Vicky, dear,' said Margaret. 'The eggs can wait. Don't you know there's a war on?'

'Where would you like these?' The question was posed by one of the village women. She held out a tray of scones but Margaret was unsure.

'Can't you put them on the trestle table, dear?' she asked.

'There's no room. They said ask you.'

About ten people were busily occupied along the length of the platform. The focus of attention was a long wooden table, the centrepiece of which was the largest teapot that Margaret had ever seen. s.p.a.ce was the issue. Cups, mugs, and paper picnic plates covered the surface. On the floor stood several crates containing bottles of R. Whites' lemonade, as well as some Ben Shaw's original dandelion and burdock. There were tins of biscuits and tin pails and kettles, slabs of cake on trays, and neatly stacked bars of Cadbury's chocolate. One woman was unloading more tea towels and dishcloths from her shopping basket.

A number of people, seeking a focal point of order, had a.s.sumed that Margaret was in charge, and it was easy to see why. Very few members of the WVS could afford the entire uniform so most contented themselves with an armband at the very least. Others opted for either an enamel b.u.t.ton pin or, at very best, the official brimmed hat. Margaret had all three in addition to the calf-length green uniform dress. She tried to think quickly.

'Why not put them in the waiting room, Mrs Arnold?' Margaret wondered how the woman had had sufficient time to bake so many scones. She, herself, had barely had time to pack a basket and cycle to the station.

'Now, what's happening here?' asked Mrs Roberts beneath her brimmed hat. She appeared fl.u.s.tered. 'Mrs Arnold, why not put those in the waiting room for the time being? We need to keep the table clear for the cups.' She turned towards Margaret and looked down to the basket at her feet. She seemed a little disappointed.

'h.e.l.lo, Mrs Roberts,' began Margaret. 'I've brought six large jars of jam, some tea, biscuits, and a one-pound loaf...'

'Oh, dear! I don't know if we are going to have anything like enough.' She wrung the tea towel in her hands. 'The men will be arriving at nine-thirty by bus and we are expected to feed them as well as give them tea, you know. Well, it will have to do. You can take them over to Mrs Hannaford and then you can lend a hand with the sandwiches. But best not be too generous with the jam! Mmm?'

The little station bustled with activity. Snowdown was beautifully manicured but rather small. Hanging baskets draped bright red geraniums, and a snow-white picket fence ran the length of the platform, providing an oasis of bright colour in contrast to the grey coal sidings that stretched out from the other side of the track. The sidings and the large shunting yard leading to the colliery were the reasons why Snowdown had been selected as an a.s.sembly point for the troop and hospital trains coming out of Dover.

'Ah, more jam. Excellent!' said Mrs Hannaford, a thin, finicky women with bad skin who worked part-time at the Post Office. 'What's this? Beetroot and orange? Ergh! Is it a savoury, or what?'

'No, it's jam,' pointed out Margaret, somewhat peeved. 'Hold it up to the light. Look at that wonderful ruby colour. It tastes a little like plum but with a deeper, richer taste. The orange gives it a sharp edge, just a hint of marmalade.'

'Well, I'll put it to one side, in case we run out of strawberry. Only four boiled eggs? They won't go very far.'

'Well, slice them up and put them in the sandwiches, Mrs Hannaford,' said Margaret. 'What is that? Pte?'

'It's liver sausage. Can't very well have liver sausage and boiled egg. What a suggestion!'

07:55 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Poperinge, Belgium 'I'm sorry, Padre. But I'm f.a.gged out. I'm going to have to sit down again.' Major Featherstonehaugh sat himself heavily on the running board of a dumped lorry. He had lost his helmet somewhere along the way and dabbed at his head with the snuff handkerchief.

The Padre nodded and looked around. They were nearing the end of the town's suburbs and close now to the centre de ville. Tangled tram wires lay strewn across the broad street like black webs ensnarling the abandoned cars, lorries and other vehicles. Few of the buildings retained any windows. Amid the disarray, throngs of soldiers and civilians continued to trudge, automatically stepping over the masonry and other impediments. Since entering the town, the Padre had been aware of a growing sense of lawlessness. The Belgian troops appeared to have given up all hope. Those that bothered to walk dragged their legs as if inebriated. Most had discarded their leather pouches and belts along with their rifles, and they left their greatcoats open to flap carelessly around their legs. Only the helmets that protected them against the steady rain set them apart from the civilians. The French poilus seemed in only marginally better shape but they nearly all carried rifles along with large bundles, boxes and sacks.

'I'm going to try and find some water,' announced the Padre.

'I can't budge,' puffed the Major. 'These d.a.m.n boots seem to have shrunk. I can't understand it. They were made by Church's, you know.' He worked to untangle the laces.

The Padre's own pink galoshes had fairly disintegrated over the miles and now only sc.r.a.ps of tattered plastic hung around the base of his gaiters and over the sodden Army boots. They had been forced to abandon their lorry amid the tangle of dead refugees on the Estaires road as no one in the convoy could bring themselves to drive over the mess. Instead, the Padre and, to a lesser extent, the Major had picked their way through the bodies as carefully as they could. They had discovered fairly early on the futility of attempting to offer first aid. All of the injuries that took their attention were of such magnitude that no amount of cotton gauze and lint could ever help. The Major had turned uncharacteristically quiet since taking to foot, his monologues now reduced to short and seemingly pointless reminiscences of his father. It was now obvious to the Padre that the Major had been bullied not only as a boy but also long into later life by his father, and that he had been deeply attached to his late mother.

'He was strict. Yes, he was strict. But he was fair,' the Major had repeatedly blurted out. 'Yes, he was a fair man. G.o.d rest his soul.'

'I'm going to look for water,' announced the Padre again. 'Don't wander off.'

'What in these d.a.m.n boots?'

The Padre turned to study his surrounding before setting off away from the main road. He stepped down a side street, at the end of which stood a large red brick building. He walked through an arch bearing the sign Brouwerij Van Eecke and found himself in a s.p.a.cious covered courtyard. Men in khaki uniforms lay or sat propped up against the walls. Others stood or sat in groups. The ground lay strewn with broken brown bottles. n.o.body paid the Padre any attention.

He stepped carefully past one group and made his way down an alleyway until he came to a door. He tried the handle and stepped inside. A long tiled corridor ran the length of the building. Sheets of office paper lay scattered in puddles along the floor. The Padre tried each door in turn and peered inside but failed to find any water. He was half way up the staircase when he heard a single shot call out. He paused, and thought momentarily of going back down again, but then pressed on. The sound came from halfway down the corridor. Again he tried the doors, more cautiously this time, until he found one that lay ajar. A British Army captain with his back to the door was struggling with the lock of a roll top desk. He stepped back, aiming the revolver for a second time. There was a loud crack and the wood splintered. The officer turned the pistol in his hand to hammer away. Suddenly, the desk rolled open and the Padre felt himself compelled to ask: 'Excuse me, but I was looking for some water.'

The officer turned, his face white with surprise and anger. 'Shove off! Get out of here!'

He levelled the revolver towards the Padre and suddenly plaster dust from the doorway showered his head. The room reverberated with the blast. 'b.u.g.g.e.r off!'

The Padre turned and walked rapidly back along the hall towards the stairs.

' Jesus, Mary and Holy Saint Joseph! You look like you seen a ghost, sir.'

'No. I'm all right. It's nothing really,' replied the Padre. He slipped the helmet off and wiped a sleeve across his brow.

'Tell us, Father, please. What was it?' The man spoke with a strong Irish accent. At first glance, he appeared even more frightening than the white-faced captain. He lent forward and began to brush the dust off the Padre's tunic with hands like bunches of bananas. The Padre, however, found the kindly, pig-like eyes that shone out from his craggy face rather rea.s.suring and he began to relax.

'Come on, sir. Sit yourself down here. Catch your breath and tell us what happened?'

'Thank you, sergeant. Thank you very much.' The Padre cleared his throat. 'I was looking for some water. And then a captain, a British Army captain, took a pot shot at me. I won't repeat what he said. But it looked to me like he was looting. I caught him red-handed, rummaging through someone's desk.'

'Looting's a capital offence, sir,' said the brawny sergeant. The Padre could smell beer on his breath. 'I'll go get some of the lads, sir. Do you feel up to showing me where you found him, sir?'

The Padre nodded. He brushed more dust away and straightened his uniform. The sergeant returned. This time he held a pickaxe handle that appeared little larger than a rounders bat in his hand. They followed the Padre back into the building.

'Oh, for crying out loud! What is your b.l.o.o.d.y problem?' The captain held a small leather case in one hand, the revolver in the other. He had been walking back down the first floor corridor when the Padre met him at the top of the stairs.

'Out of my way.' He tried to push his way past, but the sergeant stepped quickly forward to block the way. The captain's face grew whiter still. But, before he could raise the pistol, one of the men, equally burly, grabbed the captain in a bear hug from behind, pinning his arms to the side. Suddenly, the pistol rang out and the captain's face turned instantly red. His eyes screwed themselves tightly shut and he bellowed, a long agonised scream. The sergeant stepped back and watched as a small puddle of blood spread from the captain's foot.

'Well, that will b.l.o.o.d.y teach you, won't it now?' offered the sergeant. 'Boland, Lynch! Escort this officer out of the building. Let's find some redcaps.'

There were no military police when the Padre and his now extensive party stepped back out into the street.

'How dare you? I am an officer,' protested the captain between gasps. 'I'll have you all courts marshalled!'

'Now why don't you be shutting your trap, sir?' The sergeant pressed his face close to the captain's. At the same time, his boot came down hard on the officer's b.l.o.o.d.y foot. 'That's one way of saying mind your step, sir.' But the captain was no longer listening, consumed as he was in a world of pain. Boland and Lynch dragged him towards the crossroads.

'Here's an officer, sir,' called the sergeant, taking the Padre by the arm. Propped up on the back of a derelict Bren gun carrier, Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox was studying his route card.

'The turn off to Bergues should be somewhere up here on the right. Let the men have five minutes more, sergeant, and then we shall see if we can find it. Oh, and can we try and find a pillow or something? That wheelbarrow will be the death of me.' He looked up to see a curious delegation making its way towards him.

'And you witnessed all this, did you, Padre?' he asked in confirmation some minutes later. 'You would swear to this in court?'

The Padre nodded.

'Well, this is a clear-cut case of looting and attempted murder. Sergeant Harris?'

'Sur!'

'Take Samson with you and shoot this fellow. Get his paybook. That courtyard there is as good a place as any.' He turned to Lucas and called for his wheelbarrow.

'But, but...you can't shoot him?' exclaimed the Padre. 'He must be taken back to England for courts martial. This is barbaric!'

'This is war, Padre,' Sandy told him. 'I haven't got the luxury of carting prisoners all over the place, not even our own. It's in the book. Clear procedure. You better come along and bear witness. You can also say Last Rites, or whatever it is you do.'

09:55 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Snowdown Station, Southern Railways, Kent In the years to come, whenever Margaret felt inclined to grumble or grouse, she would think back to the men at Snowdown Station and she would place her finger to her lips and refrain. Although there had been an element of chaos, and even towards the end a desperate shortage of refreshments, it seemed remarkable how smoothly the first day had progressed. Many of the problems had been basic. For some reason, the emergency doors at the back of the Green Line buses had been locked shut. Not even the drivers had spare keys. This was not so much a problem for the walking wounded as it was for the stretcher cases.

Even those with legs or arms in plaster casts or splints found it difficult to exit the buses. They had to be carefully manhandled along the centre isle and helped painfully down the three steps at the front. From Margaret's vantage point, she saw many a man wince with pain but never heard a single protest. It was remarkable, too, how those that helped with the wounded did so with such tenderness and patience. To a casual observer, it might have seemed that the volunteers had been doing this work all their lives.

As soon as the men were off the bus, those that could rushed towards the buffet in search of tea and soft drinks. Margaret, whose job it was to pa.s.s around slices of cake and scones, found herself with little to do initially and was able to stand back and observe. There were soldiers, sailors and airmen from numerous nationalities crowding around the trestle table. Some, like the French sailors, wore exotic red pom-poms on their round blue caps. Others were dressed in the strange pantomime uniforms of colonial Zouaves, Spahis and fez-topped Moroccans. There were many that wore no clothes but draped blankets around their shoulders or their waists. Many had civilian jackets and trousers. Many more stood barefoot on the ashfelt.

'Madam, I really must ask you to stop your ladies using the gent's toilet!' The stationmaster, a short, rosy-cheeked man, had marched up to Margaret.

'The gents? Why would they want to use the gentlemen's toilet?' asked Margaret, bemused.

'Because there's no tap in the ladies,' he answered.

'Oh, yes,' said Margaret. She turned to find Mrs Roberts but she was busy gathering up used cups. Margaret watched her hand a tray-full to Rose with the red and callused hands who, in turn, placed them in a washtub and skilfully ran a dishcloth over each before handing them to another women for drying and recycling.

'Then I suggest you delegate one of your porters to fill the buckets for us.'

'Look, madam. As well as your lot, I've got all the regular trains coming through here, same as always, plus a load of troop trains to deal with. And there are plenty of gentlemen who wish to use the conveniences, begging your pardon. It's not right to have ladies coming in and out while the men are doing, are...you know.'

As if on cue, there was another call for water. Two village ladies had been placed in charge of the tea. One managed the two kettles balanced on spirit stoves while the other made sure the pot was kept constantly topped. The teapot was so heavy once filled that it would have taken two women at least to lift it. Instead, the pot was tilted on its base and the tea allowed to pour out like a dark, amber waterfall. Already, the tablecloth was saturated.

Margaret slipped away from the stationmaster and looked around at the men. Aside from those in bandages and otherwise b.l.o.o.d.y, the scene resembled a jovial village fte.

'Excuse me,' said Margaret. She stood before a handsome young man with fair hair in an open greatcoat. 'This is going to sound rather silly, I'm afraid. But can I borrow you for a moment?'

Margaret stood proudly back and watched as tin pails, br.i.m.m.i.n.g to the rim, were lined up before the spirit stoves. As she looked down, there was a rush of hands for the scones on her tray.

'I say! Thank you very much.' A middle-aged corporal smiled. Crumbs covered his chin, lodged in the stubble. 'Did you make these?'

'Oh, no,' said Margaret. 'Are they nice?' She had wondered herself. The scones had not risen very well.

'Mmm! I'll say!'

'Would you like any jam on them?'