Dunkirk Spirit Part 68

First there came a groan as the tug's hawsers took up the tension, and then came the grinding sound; every bit as shocking as the first time. Even the dimmest of minds could imagine the damage being done to Cameron's hull. It made the teeth ache. And then, far sooner than expected, the destroyer's bows dropped down into the water with a mighty splash. She bobbed back up.

'Engines!' Gordon gripped the pipe. 'Dead slow astern both.'

HMS Cameron slid cautiously away from the wreck.

'All stop!'

'Sir!' The chief called from below, his head poking out of a hatch. He gave the thumbs up.

'Slip the tow!' bellowed Gordon.

'Number One?' The Skipper spun on his heels and glared at his First Officer, a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

'Engines: Half ahead starboard. Wheelhouse: port five. All stop!' Cameron began to glide very slowly towards the Mole. A tight press of French troops stretched almost a mile to the sh.o.r.e. They looked on in antic.i.p.ation.

'What the blazes? Number One?' The Skipper had a very creased brow.

'Ah,' said Gordon. 'We seem to be drifting to the pier. I can't seem to stop her, sir.'

Cameron's bows nudged against the Mole. She had barely come to a halt when the first of the Poilus began to jump aboard. Gordon turned to the Skipper and shrugged his shoulders.

'Yes, very good, Number One. But it might be said that we were disobeying the admiral's orders. Mmm?'

'I thought our orders were to come and get the French, sir. Surely we should stick to the plan where possible. Mmm?'

'We'll leave the niceties 'till later, Number One. In the meantime, I suppose we had better carry on.' The Skipper stepped across the bridge and watched the French soldiers as they streamed aboard like harvest ants, each and every one carrying an eiderdown on his back as well as other impediments. The chief's head showed itself at the top of the bridge ladder.

'Ah, chief!' smiled Commander Bishop. 'Get them down below and shove as many of 'em astern as you can.' He turned to Gordon. 'Best keep our bows as high as possible. Carry on, chief!'

'Just one thing, sir. They don't understand a b.l.o.o.d.y word I'm saying. How d'yer tell these 'ere Froggies to get a move on, sir?'

'That's easy,' said the Skipper. He thought for a moment. 'Depechez-vous. Pa.s.sez a bas! Pa.s.sez vite!'

'I can't remember all that, sir. It's a bit of a mouthful!'

'Oh, just say pa.s.sez vite. They'll understand. And point a lot.'

The chief nodded and slipped directly down the rungs of the ladder, landing with a thump on the deck. 'Pawsay veet! Pawsay veet! Dunno what it means, but pawsay f.u.c.king veet! Move your Froggy a.r.s.es!'

'Do you know, I clean forgot, Number One.'

'Forgot what, sir?'

'We'd lined up young Flood for the party tonight. The piper.'

'Yes, sir. What of it?'

'Get him up here! Let's have a tune. Something stirring!'

'How about The Black Bear, sir?'

'For starters, Number One.' The Skipper continued to watch the men pour across his destroyer's bows. He felt very happy. 'You see that chap there?' He pointed below. 'I know his face.'

'That's Commander Babbington. He used to lecture at Dartmouth.'

'Yes, I know him. Got the VC at Jutland. Ask him up here, will you?'

Commander Hector Babbington pulled himself with effort up to the bridge. He clutched the champagne tightly in one hand and carried his mackintosh over his shoulder. Little Sago waited until he had a clear run and then bounded up behind. The first thing the Commander noticed were the monkey suits and then the bunting.

'Having a party?' he asked.

The Skipper held out his hand. 'You must have got our invitation. Black tie! Ha, ha! And that's a very nice Tuxedo.'

Binky smiled. 'Dinner jacket. Americans have Tuxedos.'

'There was no need to bring a bottle, sir!' Gordon stepped up, saluting. 'We have plenty of booze in!'

'Then I'll take this home to my wife,' smiled the Commander. He hesitated. 'Oh, I hope you don't mind but I brought a friend.' He smiled down to the spruce little terrier.

'He's a funny little thing, isn't he?' smiled the Skipper. 'He looks a bit familiar, too. What's his name?'

'Sago,' announced Binky.

'Really? That reminds me of a joke.' The Skipper smiled. 'How do you start a milk pudding race?'

n.o.body seemed to know.

'Say Go! Ha, ha!'

'We'd better go now, sir,' called the chief. 'Any more and we'll be below the waterline!'

'Number One.' The Skipper nodded.

Bright red tracer rounds were bouncing off a nearby building and sending a shower of slow-motion sparks into the sky. Even the mortars had fallen silent. HMS Cameron edged tentatively away from the East Mole. The troops who had stood pressed there nearly an hour before had been sucked aboard like a sponge. Just three men could be seen now. They kept a firm grip on the man in their middle and raced along the wooden pier.

'I think we're being hailed, sir,' called a lookout.

Gordon turned to the Skipper. 'Room for three little ones, sir?'

'If we must.'

'All stop!' Gordon stepped quickly to the lip of the bridge. 'Perkins!'

'Sir!'

'Can you get a line across to those chaps?'

'If they can catch it, sir.'

'Make it so.'

'Who were they?' asked the Skipper above the noise of the bagpipes. The destroyer edged her way towards Route X and home.

'A couple of Guards, sir. A Coldstreamer and a Grenadier with a Jerry prisoner. An SS obersturmbannfuehrer or some such thing.'

'Good heavens! I'm glad we stopped then.'

'So am I, sir,' smiled Gordon. 'One's a gnarled old sergeant and the other one's only got one hand!'

06:00 Tuesday 4 June 1940.

12th Casualty Clearing Station, Chapeau Rouge, Dunkirk The very last sh.e.l.l to land at the 12th Casualty Clearing station came tearing soundlessly out of the sky to hit the granite steps. The only warning came from the two previous sh.e.l.ls that landed in the grounds. By some quirk of fate, none of the shrapnel nor flying rock hit Lieutenant Alexander Mackenzie-Knox but it did succeed in blowing the main door off its hinges. Sandy could do little else but lie there and wait, and ward off the flies.

'They're here! They're here!' The Padre ran up the steps. He stopped to look at the recently arrived rubble and at the thick dust that covered the lieutenant. 'They are coming up the road now! What shall we do?'

'Wait.'

The men of the small German section that wended its way up the drive were every bit as exhausted as everybody else. They reeled with fatigue. Caked with dust and unshaven, two of them sank to the ground as they halted at the foot of the steps. Sandy was surprised by the simplicity of their equipment: two small pouches, a gasmask, water bottle and machine-gun belts draped around their necks. The officer, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, swayed on his feet. His eyes were red and he looked fit to commit murder. Sandy pointed to the Red Cross flag flying over the house.

'Ask him what he wants.' The Padre tore his eyes away and looked to Sandy.

'War sie woollen?' asked the young lieutenant.

The German laughed. He looked around at the grounds and at the rubble and slipped his rifle from his shoulder. He jerked back his head. 'Marmaladen.'

'Ask him if he would like jam instead,' asked the Padre.

'Same difference to the Germans,' said Sandy. 'Give him yours!'

The Padre delved into his gasmask bag and found the sticky one-pound jar of blackberry and apple. He also produced the spoon. The German laughed again; this time with humour.

The Padre handed across the jam and joined in, rather nervously.

'I think you may have saved the day there, Padre,' whispered Sandy in an aside. 'I thought he was going to do us all in for moment.' And then he laughed; rather a lot.

21:46 Tuesday 4 June 1940.

Windmill Field Cottage, Aylesham, Kent.

You have been listening to Dominion Commentary from South Africa with Morris Broughton. Coming up we have two programmes this evening from Bristol. At ten-thirty we go over to Clifton Parish Hall for Jack Payne and his Band. But first from Redland Park Hall a new play adapted for broadcasting by Martyn C. Webster Tell Her The Truth.

Margaret fiddled with blackout curtains. She had spent the previous thirty minutes fiddling with the dial of the wireless.

'It's still light outside,' she said. 'I do so love the summer evenings. We should sit outside tomorrow if it's nice.'

She moved towards the Welsh dresser and began to rearrange the willow pattern plates. 'I can't help thinking that this is going to be a wonderful summer. And I do think that this is just the tonic we needed. Somehow we lost our way after the last war. Don't you think?'

Margaret adjusted a photograph, turning the frame towards the window. 'It's brought people together in a way that I never should have thought possible. It's very easy to lose sight of who we are.'

She turned and faced the centre of the room. 'But it's such a shame that we need a war to do it.' Margaret folded her arms lightly and rubbed a hand along her sleeve. 'Do you know,' she said. 'I simply cannot remember the last time I felt like this?'

'Like what, Mrs C?'

'Useful. A part of something. A real purpose.' Margaret smiled. 'I also feel excited. I know that's wrong. I know people are going to die. But isn't it better to have a life that means something? Rather than live a life by proxy, listening to nonsense like this on the wireless?'

'Common adversity brings out the best in people. That's what they say.'

'That's right. And I don't think you should keep calling me Mrs C. Not any more. We are all in this together. Call me Margaret.'

'It also brings people together, Margaret.'

'And we shall be sorry when it's all over.' She took a deep breath and tightened her arms. 'We need the challenge. Let the Germans do their worst!'

'That's the spirit! We're in the final now and we're playing at home!'

'Precisely.' Margaret smiled. 'Shall I put the kettle on? We can have a nice cup of tea and think about bed.'

'Oh, rather,' chuffed the Major.

THE END.