Dunkirk Spirit Part 62

'Like what?' asked Soapy.

'How about, The Boy stood on the burning deck?' suggested Cragg. 'That should go down well!'

'The what?'

'I'll teach you,' announced Cragg. 'Repeat after me.' He smiled patiently. 'The boy stood on the burning deck, his lips all a quiver. He gave a cough; his leg fell off and floated down the river! Ha, ha!'

'That's not the right words.' Nipper took his eyes away from the sky and gave Cragg an askance look.

'And it ain't very long, is it?' Soapy shook his head. 'I can't just say that!'

'You have to do a little dance as well,' added Cragg.

'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, do I!'

Cameron's bells clattered out the alarm and the ship began an aggressive turn to port. 'Here we go,' announced Nipper. 'Saved by the bell!'

Cragg braced himself inside the harness. They watched the sky. The ship's starboard side began to lift high out of the water and soon Cragg's crew could see two Stukas hurrying away.

'b.a.l.l.s!' spat Cragg in disgust.

From somewhere out of view HMS Shikari opened up with her anti-aircraft defences. First came the steam hammer thud of her two-pounders and then the staccato pom-pom, pom-pom of her 20mm guns.

'Some blokes have all fun,' declared Cragg.

In time, the hospital ship Paris came into view. In her livery of bright white and red cross, the former cross-Channel steamer looked strangely vulnerable in the wide expanse of blue sea. She sat low in the water, tossing gently on the swell, her engines dead and not a light to be seen.

'What's wrong with her, then?' asked Soapy. 'I don't see any smoke or anything.'

Cameron drew closer and began to slowly circle the small steamer. Figures could be made out on the foredeck.

'I think they're lowering the boats,' gasped Soapy. He cupped his hands beneath the brim of his helmet and squinted across the bright water. Those with good eyes or binoculars saw two of the three derricks on the starboard side slowly crank the lifeboats down. Cragg and Nipper kept their eyes in the sky, constantly turning their heads and barely daring to breathe. The ship's bells died away and silence settled over the sea.

Now Cragg whispered. 'They're be back. b.l.o.o.d.y sitting duck, or what?'

Both Soapy and Nipper nodded and swallowed. Their throats suddenly dry.

Nipper tore his eyes away from the sky and s.n.a.t.c.hed a quick glance at the hospital ship. One of the two lifeboats was already on its way. He saw the glint of the oars. He flicked his head back to the sky. Cameron continued her cruise around the ship, everybody's senses running on over-drive. And then her engines increased their revs and the destroyer began to tear away.

'What now?' asked Cragg of no one in particular. They felt the ship vibrate through the soles of their feet. The warm evening breeze brushed gently across their faces.

'We ain't leaving her, are we?' asked Soapy, looking back.

'What's it b.l.o.o.d.y look like?' asked Cragg.

19:30 Sunday 2 June 1940.

12th Casualty Clearing Station, Chapeau Rouge, Dunkirk 'I have some good news and some bad news,' announced the Padre. He stood bareheaded; his helmet held out before him as if in supplication. On Major Newman's instructions he had gathered all the orderlies in the cellar and he held every man's attention. 'Which would you like first?'

'What's the good news, sir?'

The Padre was obliged to pause while the French 75mm guns blasted out another salvo. The air pressure in the dank cellar rose alarmingly and dust and tiny fragments filled the air. He pulled himself upright and shook his head, shaking free some of the dust. 'The good news is that there are two hospital ships on their way to us right now.'

'And what's the bad news, sir?'

'Some of you will have to stay behind.'

The cellar filled with the men's groans. Pockets of quick conversation broke out.

'Umm,' called the Padre for attention. 'Umm. There are many here who are simply too badly hurt to be moved. Major Newman has instructed me to tell you that, with approximately three hundred such cases, thirty of you gentlemen will have to stay.'

Now the room fell silent.

'How many of the officers are staying, sir?'

'Three officers will remain behind. Those are the rules, apparently.'

'And what about the Jerries, sir? Who's rules are they following?'

The Padre tried not to umm. 'I think we should a.s.sume that they will abide by the rules of the Geneva Convention.' He lent forward and peered over the top of his thick gla.s.ses. 'And under those rules, I am told, you can expect as medical personnel to be repatriated home at the first opportunity and will not be considered as prisoners of war.'

The Padre looked at the men's faces. Most were blank. A few had shut their eyes and rocked unsteady on their feet. 'I have held a few lotteries in my time,' he admitted. 'But none as poignant as this. As I am sure you are aware, this will mean certain capture.'

The Padre felt a shiver run down his own spine. He paused, imagining the men from the Ox and Bucks Light Infantry huddled in a corner and waiting for the cold steel. He looked around the room. 'I have in my helmet one hundred and twenty pieces of paper. Just thirty of them are marked with an X.' He stretched out his hand. 'I dare say I do not have to explain the rest. So, gentlemen, please. Who would like to be first?'

'Thank you very much for that, Padre,' smiled Major Newman. 'Rotten business.'

Both men stood on the steps. Three large Bedfords had reversed into the grounds. A swarm of men gathered around each. It was painful to watch. Men who would otherwise be lying sedated in intensive care were hobbling across the gra.s.s. One man, short of crutches, hopped painfully, supported by a coal hammer and a garden rake tucked under an arm.

'Oh my goodness!' the Padre suddenly exclaimed. He placed a hand to his mouth. 'The young lieutenant!'

'G.o.d, no! Far too ill, I'm afraid.' The major quickly shook his head at the Padre and creased his brow. 'And what with those feet! No chance. He's d.a.m.n lucky I've not had them off, too.'

'Oh, dear!' exclaimed the Padre.

'He lost so much blood,' continued Major Newman. 'I don't want to move him now, not after that operation. But no use crying over spilt milk. He'll be in good hands.'

The Padre nodded sadly. 'I did suspect as much.' He felt surprisingly serene. 'And what about you, major?' he asked.

'Seventeen medical officers and I draw the shortest straw! Such is life. Anyway, it may not be for long.'

'All over by Christmas?' asked the Padre, curling a lip.

'Who knows,' smiled the major. 'Perhaps we'll have to move a few borders around. Give them back their colonies, whatever. I can't see this one lasting like the last. n.o.body's got the stomach for the long haul any more.'

'Let's hope you are right,' nodded the Padre. He went to chew his lip and very nearly bit it through as the French let off another salvo in the garden. Both men winced. 'What should I tell him?' he asked.

There were two possible answers running through Major Newman's mind; the one kind, the other professional. 'Huns aside,' he said. 'Tell him he has a twenty percent chance of survival.'

'Really?' asked the Padre.

'Well,' said the major. 'Not exactly. His chances are better than that, but I know his type. a.s.suming he gets some medical treatment he should be all right and then, of course, he'll give up trying. But tell him his chances are slim and he'll fight like a demon.'

The Padre smiled. He ran his fingers through his damp hair and slipped the helmet back on.

'I simply cannot thank you enough,' smiled Sandy. 'I just wish my arm wouldn't itch so d.a.m.n much.'

The Padre felt uncomfortable again. He looked at the bandaged stump. The arm ended just above the elbow. An awful thought occurred. Did he have to break the news?

'Yes, yes,' said Sandy. 'I know they took my ruddy arm off.' He shook his head and pressed a dry tongue to his cheek. 'But I can actually feel my fingers wiggle. Imagine that! I can even snap my finger and thumb, only I can't hear it.'

'Well, at least they left you enough to tuck your evening paper under.' The Padre had to look away.

'My sister will be glad,' Sandy told the Padre.

He shook his head, a blank expression.

'Won't be able to play the bagpipes again, you see,' Sandy explained.

'Nor the piano,' added the Padre.

'Every cloud, hey?' Sandy smiled. 'Oh!' he added suddenly. 'I have some good news, Padre! There are two hospital ships coming to get us.'

20:05 Sunday 2 June 1940.

W Buoy, Route X, approaching Dunkirk 'That should do for now!' Barry straightened up and looked at the dial. He drew the back of his hand across his brow and then wiped away the stinging sweat that ran into his eyes.

Clive tossed his shovel back onto the coal heap and flopped down against the bulkhead. Inside the Marchioness's cramped boiler room came the sound of waves lapping steadily against her sides.

'I should think another half hour,' said Clive, looking at his watch. He examined his nails and wondered if he would ever get them clean again. The Marchioness now had a full head of steam in readiness for her arrival at the coast and Clive was almost regretting staying on for the extra scrambled eggs. He could be at home with his feet up and Julia mixing extravagant c.o.c.ktails while they listened to the wireless. Instead, he sipped at a bottle of warm beer and tried to catch his breath. Up above, they could hear a faint commotion as someone ran the length of the boat.

'Oy! We're slipping our tow in a mo'. Popeye's face peered through the hatchway.

'Already?' asked Barry.

Popeye nodded his chin and eyed the beer bottles. 'Someone's gone and got themselves in a pickle. We've got to go sort it out.'

'What sort of pickle?' asked Clive.

'How should I bloomin' know? They don't tell me nothing!' Popeye's head disappeared.

Barry's face was ashen. 'You don't want to go up there,' he said. 'It might upset you.'

'Don't be ridiculous!' Clive lent on his shovel and narrowed his brows.

'At least down here you don't have to watch those d.a.m.n dive bombers.' He lit a cigarette.

'What's happening?'

Barry blew out a vast cloud of smoke. 'A big boat, all painted white with a red cross.' He sucked on the cigarette again. 'Dead in the water. Lifeboats all over the place.' He exhaled. 'And bombs dropping everywhere.'

'Yes, I wondered about the commotion,' said Clive. 'Those sirens show a s.a.d.i.s.tic streak, if you want my opinion. Anybody hurt?'

'Hurt?' Barry choked. 'Well, let's put it this way: the dive bombers are having a field day.'

'What are we doing?' asked Clive.

'Circling around her, basically. And dodging the bombs. The captain, apparently, wants to go down with his ship.'

'Which ship? Not ours!'

'No! The white one!'

'Really?'

'Well, he won't leave her. Popeye reckons that the nurses have taken to the lifeboats and the crew are staying on board.'

'Nurses?' Clive handed Barry the shovel Clive gripped the rail firmly with both hands as the Marchioness heeled hard over. Instinctively, his head sank down deep into his shoulders as he braced for the explosion. He wondered if the siren were on the bomb or on the aircraft, or even both. The sound chilled the blood, leaving him feeling horribly exposed. A dull roar filled the air. The entire boat rose up and seemed to tingle; the force communicated through the soles of his feet and hands, and then came a shocking hiss as the water erupted into the sky some distance behind. Clive kept his head tight within the safety of his shoulders as the icy seawater collapsed with force all around him. He spat to clear the salt from his lips and wiped vigorously at his eyes. A heavy vapour filled the air, rich in iodine, dead fish and ozone. It caught in his throat and he began to cough, so forcefully that he felt momentarily in danger of vomiting. It seemed a lifetime before he could focus again on the white ship and the tiny boats scattered about.

Another Stuka dropped through the sky like a giant screaming cormorant. The bomb continued to wail as the aircraft pulled sharply skyward. Clive gritted his teeth and followed its progress. The Luftwaffe evidently preferred the slow-moving lifeboats to the swifter rescue craft that ploughed erratically through the waves. The bomb, resembling the tiny point of a broken pencil, began to tumble before it hit the water. Clive's eyes squeezed shut of their own fruition as the surface exploded. He struggled to pull them open, keen to see if the lifeboat had survived.

Clive took a deep breath. The lifeboat had been swamped by the falling wall of solid water. No oars glistened in the fading red glow of the sun and few heads showed themselves above the gunwales. In a short span of time the tiny boat began to sink below the waves. Now Clive could see a handful of people clamouring to the raised prow. One by one they dropped slowly into the water.

A third black Stuka came tearing down through the sky. The siren cut deep into his head. Two bursts of bright yellow erupted from its wings and the water around the sinking lifeboat began to fray. He relaxed his knees as the Marchioness climbed a particularly tall wave and came ploughing down the other side. Dark green water washed quickly across the deck, soaking his feet and sending a further shiver down his spine. He looked back out to sea. The lifeboat had gone. He searched for the bobbing heads. The Marchioness now altered course and took him closer.

There were three heads. For an instant they disappeared below the waves. Clive made out three people huddled tightly together; the one in the centre struggling to support the others. Another siren filled the air. Clive searched the sky high above. And then, out of the corner of his eye, a Stuka came racing along, just feet above the surface. The monster tipped its wings playfully and gave a prolonged burst of yellow fire. Clive turned quickly to the bobbing heads. The sea erupted in a long line of dancing fountains. Again the Marchioness climbed a tall wave and came sliding down the other side. More cold water, more chills down the spine. The Stuka began to pull sharply up and away. He let out his breath. The three people still clung together. 'There is a G.o.d. There is a G.o.d.' The words ran through Clive's mind at the same speed as the Stuka's bullets. He watched the three in the water. And then he watched the water erupt again as the rear-gunner let out a parting burst. The Marchioness, closer now, climbed another wave and he lost sight of the swimmers. When they climbed the next wave, Clive saw just one swimmer thrashing through the water towards them, both arms working like paddlewheels.

Clive fell deeply, instantly and inconveniently in love. The sole survivor of the lifeboat had red hair, was in her early twenties, and spoke with a wonderfully soft Edinburgh accent, as smooth as cream and a perfect compliment to her complexion.

Clive quickly slipped off his tweed jacket and draped it around her quivering shoulders. Popeye held her by the waist as they lowered her to the wooden deck.

'The rotters!' she sobbed. 'The rotten s.h.i.ts!' Clive struggled not to clasp her tightly in his arms. 'Those poor wee girls! What had they done?' She turned her large green eyes full on Clive and looked imploringly into his own. In that instant, his heart stopped. How could anybody take such lovely creatures out of this world? He took her hand, noticing the absence of any ring, and gave it a gentle squeeze before repeatedly stroking his fingers over hers. They were cold and wet and as small as a child's.

'Cigarette?' he asked, his voice croaking.

She nodded and smiled.

Clive reluctantly let go of the hand and lent forward. 'Excuse me.' He tapped at the pockets of his jacket mindful of her curves beneath until he found the tin of Wills Gold Flake. He lit two and placed one between her red lips.

'd.a.m.n!' thought Clive. 'd.a.m.n! d.a.m.n! d.a.m.n!'

20:30 Sunday 2 June 1940.

Bray, France Commander Hector Babbington held the Webley .38 in his hands. Lesser men, having spent ten hours confronting their greatest fear, might have blown their brains out by now. The Commander was still undecided. Only two bottles of Mot remained: one he was fully prepared to drink in any case; the other he had initially reserved to take home to Babs.

He snapped the revolver shut and opened his eyes. Up above, the sun was slowly setting and the few beams of light that entered the cellar were fading to grey as they traversed the fallen lintels and shattered masonry. If he was going to do it, he would wait until dark. He picked up the penultimate bottle and peeled away the thin foil.

There was also the question of how. In films, people wanting to blow their brains out often place the barrel to their temple. This method takes a very steady hand if the intention is to do it first shot. A more practical method is to point the pistol up into the soft fleshy part beneath the chin and allow the bullet to enter the brain that way. He could, of course, place the barrel in his mouth and point up through the pallet. But the more he thought about this last method, the more he could visualise himself; his face in death stretched into a tortuous mask. He did not want to look like Edward Munch's The Scream. And should he keep his helmet on or take it off?