Dunkirk Spirit Part 64

The French gunners timed their departure to near perfection. A damp, woody smell began to fill the air. Disturbed by the horses' hooves, it lay trapped by the mist that clung to the ground and glistened on the faces of the wounded men. Through the trees above, the sun could be seen struggling to burn free of the thin clouds. It would have been the start to a very lovely summer's morning had it not been for the artillery rounds that began to seek out their prey. The last French limber cantered through the torn gates and clattered away just as another sh.e.l.l found the ornamental pond.

Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox, who lay on a stretcher on the steps, found himself splattered with bits of duckweed.

'Padre?' he asked.

The Reverend Charlesworth looked down at the young lieutenant. There was a little more colour in his cheeks today. 'Yes?'

'You know when you give Holy Communion?'

'Yes.'

'And you know how at the end, instead of putting a wafer in each man's mouth, you've been popping a cigarette between their lips?'

'Umm.' The Padre laughed. 'They expect something, you see.'

'It's a nice touch, Padre. Just the sort of thing the men would like.'

'Do you think so?' he asked. 'I hit on the idea when I was at the beach. The Military Police were most obliging and gave me several cartons. I had eaten all the wafers.'

'Perhaps,' asked Sandy. 'I could pa.s.s on the Holy Communion and just receive the sacrament?'

'I usually do a shortened version. Would you like to hear that?'

'Just the cigarette will do fine.' Sandy smiled.

The Padre delved into his gasmask bag and pulled out a slim packet of Ship's Woodbines. He lit the end of one and sucked in gingerly, then quickly exhaled. 'They are a bit strong!'

'Why didn't you go when you had the chance?' Sandy asked suddenly. He worked the cigarette around his lips until he found a comfortable position. The sharp tobacco injected life into him. He felt his heart race. 'It wasn't because of me, I hope.'

The Padre continued to look at the lieutenant. 'Smoking is such a comfort, isn't it?'

Sandy nodded.

'It's the same in my line of work. I have seen men smoke these past few weeks who had never smoked before in their lives. But come a crisis, and they all want one.'

'And they all want G.o.d,' sighed Sandy. He focused on the lengthening ash. 'I take your point, Padre. But wouldn't you be just as much help back home? After all, we don't know what we're letting ourselves in for here.'

'I had an epiphany.' The Padre adopted a thin, resigned smile. 'I had a chance to get away earlier,' he explained. 'And the thought utterly depressed me.'

'Seriously?'

'Mmm,' confirmed the Padre. 'Don't you ever feel that you have a purpose in life, something above and beyond the daily grind? A reason for being, as the French say.'

'I'd like to achieve something,' considered Sandy. He took on a thoughtful expression. 'But I don't really mind what it is. I just don't want a dull life. One thing I can't stand is a bore. If I'm going to tell stories they're going to be d.a.m.n interesting.'

The Padre chuckled. 'Did you lose your arm in the war, Daddy?'

'Just that sort of thing,' declared Sandy. They both laughed. 'd.a.m.n sight more interesting than the time I lost my library card!'

The Padre winced. A German sh.e.l.l ploughed straight into the far end of the garden, sending up a considerable amount of black soil and debris. 'Oh, I really hope not!' he declared, standing up. 'We filled fresh graves there last night! It's going to make life very unpleasant for those men over there.' He trotted down the steps. 'I had better go and see.'

09:03 Monday 3 June 1940.

HM Treasury, Horse Guards Road, London 'Good morning, Mr Winters!'

'Good morning, girls!'

'Did you have a nice weekend, Mr Winters?'

'Yes, a little different but nice all the same, thank you Jane.'

'Didn't go messing about in boats as per usual?'

'Yes and no,' said Clive.

'Nice cup of tea, Mr Winters?'

'Please Molly.'

'Two ticks. Kettle's boiling.'

'What's in your paper today, Jane?' Clive propped one b.u.t.tock onto the desk and looked down. Miss Mullis held a soft spot in her heart for her boss. He was kind and considerate and always charming. Miss Mullis, however, was generally known as Plain Jane because of her uncanny resemblance to a boiled egg.

'I was just reading the horoscopes,' she told him. A playful smile broke out on her pale lips. 'Would you like to hear yours, Mr Winters?'

Clive smiled.

'You're Venus,' she told him. 'Birthday May the ninth.'

Clive nodded.

She gave him a knowingly look. 'Morning spent brooding over business problems,' she told him. 'Afternoon outlook more frivolous; you go pleasure-seeking in spite of yourself!'

Clive creased his brow. 'It says that?' he asked.

'In black and white.'

'I don't have any appointments this afternoon, do I?' he asked.

'No, Mr Winters. Nothing until Wednesday at eleven. Finance Committee in Room thirteen.'

'I would not want to fall foul of the stars,' he told her. 'Besides, there are some things I need to look up. I might knock off early.'

'Very well, Mr Winters. Mondays are never good days, are they? You want to hear my horoscope?'

'What's it say?' he grinned.

'The Moon,' she declared. 'Slow-motion day. Don't tackle anything that matters. Sort out last week's muddles.' She giggled.

'Does it really say that?' Clive shook his head.

'See for yourself, Mr Winters.' Jane folded back the page and slid the newspaper across. 'I always find the Daily Sketch to be highly accurate.'

Clive lifted himself off the edge of the desk and accepted the cup of tea and two gingernuts from Molly. 'I am sure you make them up yourself.'

'Oh, Mr Winters! What a thought!'

Clive turned to leave just as the telephone rang. He hovered in the doorway.

Jane held the receiver to her tiny ear. 'It's for you, Mr Winters. A Scots lady; won't give her name.'

'I'll take it in my office,' Clive told her.

11:29 Monday 3 June 1940.

Central Hotel, Dover, Kent Before we join Mrs Atkinson with another edition of A.R.P. for Housewives, the Minister for Home Security, Sir John Anderson, has issued a statement following yesterday's evacuation of children from east and south-east England. People continuing to live in those areas are advised to remain quietly at their posts and to carry on with their normal duties. Further instructions will be issued to the civilian population when any special action of them is required. At present, their duty is to carry on.

'Room twenty-three?' asked the receptionist. 'But there are two colonels in there.'

'There can't be!' Kitty took a deep breath. 'That's my room.'

He consulted the register. 'Well, I'm sorry, miss. We thought you'd gone.' He nodded towards the officers crowding the lobby. 'As you can see, there's a crying need for rooms. We could hardly leave it vacant. And you owe us five shillings.'

'I'll take another.'

He shook his head. 'There aren't any.'

'What am I to do?' she demanded.

He shrugged and stood impa.s.sive.

'What about my things?'

'They'll be in the storeroom, miss. I'll send a boy.' He slapped a hand down on the counter and despatched a bellboy. 'Five shillings please.'

'I say, am I right? Are you looking for a room?'

'I beg your pardon?' asked Kitty, stepping back. Her face was a little flushed from all the attention. She looked the young officer up and down: an M20B with golden stubble.

'Don't get me wrong,' he said quickly. 'I'm not trying it on. It's just that I am getting the train back later and you can have my room if you like.'

'Oh,' she smiled. 'That's awfully kind of you. But I don't think I shall hang on much longer myself. You haven't got a light, have you?'

'Yes, somewhere.' He patted his pockets. 'Here, hold this will you?' He handed across a crumpled newspaper. 'Here you are.'

Kitty accepted the light and blew a cloud of smoke high into the air. 'Have you finished with this?' she asked.

'I've read every word twice and I've even cut out the fifty pound crossword, ha, ha!'

The front page was taken up with a photograph of smiling men wearing battle bowlers on the deck of a small ship. Four-Fifths of B.E.F. Are Safe Official.

Down in the bottom right-hand corner beside a Cadbury's Bourn-Vita advertis.e.m.e.nt For Sound Sleep & Steady Nerves was the tiny photograph of a tiny girl clutching a teddy from inside a railway carriage. A Spell In The Country Story & Pictures Page Ten.

'Hawksley! The swine!'

'What's that?' asked the young officer.

'Nothing,' said Kitty, curtly. She read on: At a small and immaculate railway station somewhere in Kent I watched as a train containing about 700 soldiers coming home from Flanders was standing at the next platform to one containing 750 children who were being evacuated. These soldiers had seen the relentless air gunning of refugees, women, and children in France. The sight of these youngsters, most of them under seven, cheering and singing as if they were going on holiday, so moved many of the men - hoping soon to be reunited with their own families - that they broke down and wept.

'So did Jesus,' thought Kitty.

'I could not find any cough candy. I hope you like aniseed b.a.l.l.s.'

The old lady pulled out a small white paper bag of her own and showed the contents.

'Ah, aniseed b.a.l.l.s!' smiled Kitty.

'I was not exactly spoilt for choice,' smiled back the F80A. She tapped her gla.s.ses. 'I was just catching up on the news,' she explained.

'You will need good gla.s.ses then,' laughed Kitty. 'To read between the lines.'

'Do you know, young lady, but up until the last war people used the expression It must be true I read it in the newspaper. You have heard the expression?' she asked.

'Of course,' said Kitty.

'But not of late, I'll be bound.'

'No,' she laughed. 'And I haven't seen too many cheering crowds either.'

'And what have you seen, my dear?'

'Not a lot,' she sighed. 'But I have seen rather a lot of battered and exhausted men. It's a powerful sight and it sets off lots of emotions. I just feel sorry that the papers can't report that. But I can understand why they do what they do. I only worry that by exaggerating everything so much, aren't we in danger of falsifying history? Of creating a myth, if you like?'

'Perhaps it is a necessary myth.' The old lady popped another aniseed ball into her mouth. It rattled against her teeth. 'People have always protected themselves with myths, my dear. As a child you had your fairies and dragons. Even the n.o.ble Greeks had their one-eyed monsters and golden fleeces.'A smile played across the old lady's lips. 'Here is a question for you: are the Germans, as a people, good or bad?'

'Well, they're bad. Not all of them, obviously, but the ones who started the war; they are.'

'And do you think the Germans see themselves as bad?' she asked. 'Do they wake up each morning and rejoice in serving evil?'

'No, probably not.' Kitty looked away and began toying with the lighter and unlit cigarette in her hands.

'How did the war start?' asked the old lady suddenly.

'Germany invaded Poland, of course.'

Now she tutted. 'Ask a German schoolchild and he will say the Poles attacked Germany first. Did you know that?'

'Sort of.'