Dunkirk Spirit Part 65

'The Germans, the good ones and the bad ones, mostly believe they are right. The average man and woman on the street, the man on the Dresden omnibus, they may not agree with everything Herr Hitler does, no more than we do with Mr Churchill, and they probably loath that appalling Doctor Goebbels, but the majority do believe that their country is back on its feet again, despite being a victim of an international conspiracy, Jewish or otherwise.'

'And are we part of that conspiracy?'

'We knocked them to their knees, young lady, but we did not help them back up.'

'And this is our just deserts?' asked Kitty. 'Germany's deserved victory over her tormenters?'

'A victory, without doubt. The same way that we are already seeing it.'

'Both sides claiming victory?'

'Why not?'

'And each will turn it into their own myth? Is that it?' asked Kitty. 'And if enough people believe in it, it will come true?'

'Precisely.'

'But how do you make them believe these myths in the first place, when they have the evidence of their own eyes?'

'You do not have to.' The old lady caressed the diminishing aniseed ball with her tongue. 'Because not only do they want to believe in the myth, they need to believe.'

'But many people, myself included,' scoffed Kitty. 'Would just see it as unrealistic. They should face reality.'

'And that, my dear, is the whole point. Of course, it is unrealistic. If it were otherwise what future would we have?'

13:15 Monday 3 June 1940.

12th Casualty Clearing Station, Chapeau Rouge, Dunkirk 'You smoked the last one earlier,' explained the Padre.

'Oh!' Sandy looked disappointed. 'What are you going to do now, Padre? For Holy Communion, I mean?'

'Jam,' explained the Padre. 'I give them a spoonful of jam.'

'What kind of jam?'

'Blackberry and apple. I found several tins in the stores.'

'Anything savoury?'

'Not a sausage.'

Sandy winked at the Padre and opened his mouth like a baby bird. The Padre delved into his gasmask bag and soon produced a one-pound tin and a desert spoon.

'Say, ah!'

'Ah!' Sandy smacked his lips. 'We used to get given loads of blackberry and apple when I was at school. Absolutely hated the stuff! But that,' he smiled. 'That hit the spot.' He opened his mouth again but the Padre shook his head.

'I see much work ahead of me,' he explained.

'I'm going to escape the first chance I get,' said Sandy.

'Really? Do you think that's wise?'

Sandy offered a resigned smile. He was finding facial expressions less taxing than talking.

'And what about your arm?' The Padre creased his brow. 'a.s.suming all goes well, the Germans will no doubt keep a very close eye on us. You will stand out like a sore thumb.'

'Perhaps not, Padre. I may even be able to use it to my advantage. Either way, it's my duty to escape. You can come with me if you like.'

'Umm,' hesitated the Padre. 'No thank you.'

'You won't find it easy, you know. If it's anything like the last one, you may be in for a miserable time of it.'

'I have money,' the Padre declared. 'That will help a little?'

'How much?'

'Umm, about ninety pounds.'

Sandy whistled. 'Francs or Sterling?'

'Both.'

The lieutenant protruded his lower lip and looked thoughtful. 'Why are you carrying so much money around with you?'

'Widows and orphans,' he explained. 'We had a fund.'

'Well, we are all orphans now, Padre. Keep it out of sight, won't you?'

'Excuse me, Padre!' One of the three remaining doctors hovered on the steps. 'I wonder if you could help.' A nervous-looking orderly peered around his shoulder, chewing his lip.

The Padre lifted himself up. 'We have a slight problem,' the doctor told him. 'One of the head-wounds has gone off his rocker. Trouble is he has a Mills bomb.'

'Umm. I see.'

'And he's pulled the pin out. It could all turn rather nasty.'

'Lead me to him.'

When the Padre reached the third floor landing he saw several men on their hands and knees struggling to crawl away, their eyes white with alarm. One man wrapped in blood-stained bandages dragged himself painfully across the floor. The Padre stepped carefully around him. In the far corner of the room and lying on a straw-filled pallia.s.se lay a man in a crudely-fashioned neck brace. He stared up at the ceiling, a tortured expression on his face and a hand grenade held tightly to his chest. The Padre approached carefully and lowered himself to the floor. He had seen the man before and had tried to engage him in conversation. He had not even opened his eyes.

'h.e.l.lo,' said the Padre softly. 'Can you hear me? I am a chaplain.'

He looked at the man. The tears which continued to trickle from his eyes had cut a furrow through the dirt on his face.

'I thought you might like to say a prayer together.'

Without moving his head, the man turned his eyes. They focused briefly on the Padre and then he screwed them both tightly shut. A large tear ran down and settled in his ear. The Padre looked around. Four other men remained in the room, too far gone to remove themselves. One man had pulled his pallia.s.se over his head in a futile attempt to shield himself from the antic.i.p.ated blast.

'You have something in your hand,' the Padre said.

'Mmm.'

'Do you mind if I take it?'

'Mmm. Mmm.'

'I don't know very much about weapons,' admitted the Padre. 'But I do know you have to be very careful with those things.'

'Mmm.'

The Padre looked at the man's other hand. A small wire ring was looped through his forefinger. A bent pin hung loose.

'I think we should put the pin back, don't you?'

'Mmm'

'Are you able to do it?'

'Mmm. Mmm.'

'Would you like me to have a go?'

'Mmm.'

The Padre had never received any formal infantry training and the weapons that the men carried had always made him feel ill at ease. A curious tingle flushed across his scalp as tiny molecules of cold sweat broke out beneath the helmet. He took a deep breath through his mouth and slowly stretched out his hand. His heart began to pound in his ears. His hand hovered over the grenade. Despite the residue of dried blood and grime, the man's knuckles shone an ivory white through the skin. The Padre lay his hand gently on top.

'It's not a good thing, you know, to keep weapons here in a hospital,' the Padre told him. His voice was soft and tender. 'The Germans could be here any time now. And they will kill us all if they find that here.'

'Mmm.'

'You must think of your friends. You don't want to hurt them, do you?'

'Mmm. Mmm.'

The Padre gave the man's hand a very gentle squeeze. It was as cold as stone. 'Can I take it from you now?'

'Mmm.'

The Padre's head began to swim. The first trickle of sweat was running from the band of his helmet and into his stubble. He moved his other hand very slowly. 'I am just going to take the pin,' he told him. 'Relax.' The ring slipped off the finger.

'Umm,' said the Padre. 'Umm.' He did not know what to do next. He looked around the room. n.o.body was in a fit state to help or even offer advice. He had a terrible urge to be sick. His bowels had long since turned to water and he fought hard to keep his body in check.

'I think the pin is bent.' He retained a firm grip over the hand clutching the grenade, and leant closer, his face just inches from the man's. 'What do I do?'

'Don't let go the lever.' The words came out of the man as a hiss, as if bypa.s.sing the vocal cords. Another tear trickled from his eye. 'I didn't mean to cause no trouble.'

'What were you thinking?' asked the Padre. His fingers found the smooth metal of the lever. 'Were you planning to take the German army with you?'

'Mmm. Mmm.' He turned his eyes towards the Padre. 'I just, I just don't want to go on, see? I've 'ad enough.'

'Don't give up. There is always hope. The Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.'

'And what about the Jerries, eh? What they gonna do when they take a look at me?' He squeezed his eyes tightly shut again. 'They won't be sending me to convalesce in Baden-Baden, that's for sure.'

'Umm.' The Padre used both hands now. 'Point taken.' He cupped the bomb carefully with one and edged his fingers beneath the man's tight grip until he found himself clasping down on the lever.

'Got it?' asked the man.

'Got it.'

'Don't let go the lever.'

The Padre sucked in air rapidly.

'I never thought it would come to this.' The man made a prolonged rasping noise and cleared his throat. 'I don't suppose anyone really thinks they're gonna die, do they?'

'I think that we all have to face up to the inevitable.'

'You might laugh,' groaned the man. 'But I had the sense that I was b.l.o.o.d.y immortal until last week. Really! But then all my mates started to get killed. And the wounds! Christ! I never imagined you could see a bloke, especially one you know, turned inside out. People's guts hanging from ruddy trees. Legs like minced beef.' He struggled to compose himself. 'I tell yer, you get to think about stuff like that when you're lying 'ere. It's not what I expected at all.'

The Padre sighed. As far as he was concerned, Army life was proving one big epiphany.

'If I'd been a dog, they'd 'ave put me down by now,' explained the man. 'I didn't mean no harm. I only wanted it for myself.'

The Reverend Thomas Charlesworth raised himself up on his knees. In his hands he clasped the heavy Mills bomb, its destructive power enough to shred every man in the room twice over. Sweat now poured in a veritable torrent from inside his helmet. The first hint of cramp began to dull his fingers. Despite the oppressive damp heat of the room he felt chilled to his core.

'I'll go find one of the orderlies.' He tried hard to smile at the man as he stood on unsteady feet. 'We will come back and give you an injection.'

'More b.l.o.o.d.y duck weed, Padre!' Sandy nodded down the length of his prostrate body to the tiny flecks of emerald green. 'How did you get on?'

'Fine,' said the Padre. He settled himself down on the steps. 'Just fine.'

'What was he trying to do, get everyone killed?'

'No, just himself.'

'Should have let him' declared Sandy. 'I'd have shut the door and left him to it!'

He chuffed. 'What did you do, put the pin back in?'

The Padre shook his head. 'I had to throw it in the pond.'

'Hence all the b.l.o.o.d.y duckweed, eh?'

'In a nutsh.e.l.l.' The Padre smiled.

'Then I think you've earned a drink, Padre. There's a flask in my trouser pocket. Can you get it?'