Dunkirk Spirit Part 7

'Please.'

Margaret thrust the tray into the arms of an airman and rushed off.

In the years to come, when the corporal remembered back, he would be able to pinpoint the very moment when his feelings towards beetroot changed.

'Smashing!' he told Margaret.

There was also a problem with water in the hospital train that sat in the siding. Due to an oversight when the carriages had been converted, there were no facilities in the galley for heating water. The solution was to run a flexible hose from the engine so the nurses aboard could adequately tend to the dressings.

Unfortunately, the pipe that ran the length of the train also added considerably to the temperature. Although the sun was struggling to break free of the clouds, the temperature outside on the platform had risen along with the humidity. Inside the train it was becoming unbearable, especially so for those stretcher cases that lay on the bottom racks, closest to the pipe. The pipe was also a hindrance to the WVS women who picked their way along the corridors pa.s.sing out drinks and cakes and cigarettes.

Margaret stooped down and placed her tray of cakes on the floor. The corridor was so narrow that her tray was immediately in the way of anyone who tried to pa.s.s along, and many did so. Each WVS member had been a.s.signed to either trays of tea, or cake, or chocolate. In addition, the nurses worked their way gradually among the patients, and stretcher-bearers continued to bring more men aboard.

Margaret leaned closer to a wounded airman, the rear-gunner from a Defiant. 'Would you like a slice of cake, or a scone?'

'I'd love a nice cup of tea, mum.' He voiced croaked. There was dried spittle around his lips. 'I've got a mouth like the bottom of a budgie cage.'

'Mrs Arnold! Can we have a cup of tea down here please, for the airman?'

'Oh, gosh! You'll just have to wait, Mrs Carmichael. I'm on my last cup now. I'll be back in a minute.'

'I'll leave you a piece of cake. Shall I put it here on your blanket?'

'If you want.' He struggled to hold up his hands. They were both heavily bandaged. 'But I don't know how I'm gonna get it in my mouth, though.' The airman laughed.

'Oh, you poor boy!' Margaret felt a lump rise in her throat.

'No, mum.' He smiled. 'I'm lucky. I'm here, aren't I? G.o.d bless you.'

10:33 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Bergues Road, near Poperinge, Belgium It's the Soldiers of the Queen, my lads, Who've been my lads, who've seen my lads, In the fight for England's glory, lads, When we've had to show them what we mean The Padre was feeling less than one hundred percent. He also had a tune stuck in his head. But, as the Padre well knew, there was both good and bad to most situations. So, while the tune may have been irritating by its unrelenting repet.i.tion, it also helped to carry him along the road.

In common with many of those around him, he had not slept in days and he had not eaten since breakfast on Sunday, aside from a few squares of Kendal mint cake that the Major had discovered in one of his pockets. The Padre's mind was wandering. It did not help that he had a mild eating disorder. It had begun in Australia with a dose of hepat.i.tis, the ostensible reason for his return home. Now, if he went longer than six hours between meals, his head would spin and his bowels would turn to water. The sensation as he marched along the road was one of dream-like detachment. Stars swam before his eyes and he had a nasty metallic taste in his mouth. Still he plodded on.

He was also deeply disturbed and shaken by the execution of the white-faced captain. Try as he might, the young Guards officer would not be swayed. Even so, it had proved impossible to get the man to stand against the wall. He had screamed and cried and he had tried to bite and scratch. In the end, Private Samson had been obliged to render him quiet with a hefty slam from his Lee Enfield. Then, as he lay on the ground, curled up and cringing, Sergeant Harris had put a round into the top of his head. The Padre felt sick at the recollection, and at his share of the blame.

All the world had heard it, wondered why we sang, And some have learn'd the reason why; But we're forgetting it, and we're letting it Fade away and gradually die.

As a boy, his Uncle Henry had sung popular tunes of the Boer War in a powerful baritone. He had a clear image of himself in shorts and knee-length socks, marching around the garden at Stony Stratford with a paper hat and a popgun while his uncle belted out Victorian patriotic songs.

Now, thirty years later, on the road to Bergues, Captain Thomas Charlesworth, Army chaplain 4th cla.s.s, was letting his mind drift to comforting images of the past. So smartly did the Coldstream Guards march, that the Padre could easily imagine he had joined a parade and, to his subconscious mind, the tune seemed a perfect accompaniment.

He had also discovered a serious design flaw with the new Army trousers. Inside, where the cotton pockets were st.i.tched to the seams, a sharp thread akin to wire rubbed at each inner thigh. He had tried hitching up the trousers but that had only extended the area of injury. Now, as he marched, he did so bow-legged. Most of the British troops, with the exception of the Guards who were gaining distance and disappearing up the road, had a similar comic stride.

And when we say we've always won, And when they ask us how it's done, We'll proudly point to ev'ry one Of England's Soldiers of the Queen The large body of men who had attached themselves to him at Poperinge were far more fortunate, clad as they were in loose denim overalls. When the Padre had joined the Army, he had simply a.s.sumed that all the soldiers were there to fight. He had no conception of the pioneers, the Army's road builders and construction workers; navvies in uniform.

The Padre slowed down and turned back towards them. There were now more than twenty men making up his party. On the plus side, the pioneers had been happy to take responsibility for the Major. His constant twittering did not seem to bother them. It certainly did not drive them to the point of possible murder, as it had earlier driven the Padre, un-Christian as it was.

As the Padre stopped to let the pioneers catch up, he took in his surroundings. The now familiar roadside debris, the miserable refugees, the palpable sense of defeat; all contributed to the uneasy state of his mind. He had halted level with a group of Belgian soldiers. They sat in the ditch that ran beside the road, pa.s.sing around a gallon jug of rum.

'Good morning, Father! Come and have a drink,' called one of the men, but the last thing the Padre needed was more alcohol. The bottle of beer that the Irish sergeant had given him after the execution had gone straight to his head while doing nothing to relieve his intense thirst. He shook his head and smiled. His lips seemed to crack as he did so.

'Come on! Have a drink, Father.'

'No. Really. Thank you very much. I'm just waiting for my friends.'

'Why bother? All is lost. Come and join us. Have a drink and then you have no worries, eh?'

He tried to smile again and turned to face back down the road. The Major looked in a bad way. His face was redder than usual and he had even greater difficulty breathing. His battledress was unb.u.t.toned, exposing the braces beneath. One arm was draped around Boland's shoulders, the other around the Irish sergeant. He was still droning on, despite it all.

'Well, he don't sound much my like my father, sir,' said the sergeant. 'At least yours was fair. Mine was always in clink and when he came home, we always ran away. He liked taking the belt to us too much, sir, when he'd had a few. Buckle end.' He winked out of one piggy eye. 'Come on. Lift your feet up, sir, here's the Padre.'

They all turned as a staff Humber with motorcycle outrider picked its way slowly through the throng. A small red flag of the 1st Guards Brigade fluttered from the bonnet. It drove past and the horn tooted as it drew level with the steadily marching Guards ahead. Within a moment, the rotund form of Brigadier Merton Beckwith-Smith pulled itself from the car and strode towards the wheelbarrow at the head of the group. The Padre wondered what was up. He had decided that his best move, in the light of few other options, was to follow the Guards on their march to the coast. He dragged his aching feet and walked towards the little group.

'Marvellous news, Sandy,' the brigadier's voice could be heard far along the road. 'The best ever!'

The young lieutenant raised himself out of the barrow and stood to attention with the rest of the men. Becky motioned him back towards the car and the Padre was able to hear every word.

'Actually,' he told him. 'I've got some good news and some bad news. Which would you like first?'

'Let's start with the bad news first, sir,' said Sandy, steadying himself against the bonnet.

'Right you are,' said Becky. 'King Leopold of the Belgians has surrendered. And the Belgian Army has thrown in the towel. This means that our left flank is exposed. It's fair to say that the situation is now serious. The Germans reached Nieuport early this morning.'

'And the good news, sir?' asked Sandy.

'Indeed! It is splendid, absolutely splendid.' Judging by the brigadier's face, the war might have been over in the allies favour, but it was not to prove the case. 'We have been given the supreme honour of being the final rearguard.'

'Yes, sir,' said the lieutenant.

'Well, come on then, Sandy. Tell your men. Tell them the good news.'

'I think it would be better coming from you, sir.'

They were now on the outskirts of Houtkerque, out of defeated Belgium and back into France. Without the Guards to set the pace, there seemed little point in cracking on. The Padre sat with his head in his hands and pondered the young lieutenant's parting words. He tried to visualise the funnel as the officer had described it.

'Your best bet, Padre, is to stay on this road and head for Bergues. Try and stay clear of the town centre and then make your way to Dunkirk. Facilities have been laid on to take everyone back home. But do not stray beyond the perimeter. It's like a funnel, wide at the top around Bergues and narrowing to a point at Dunkirk port.'

It was also about a day's solid march to the coast and few in the Padre's party felt up to it. They had stepped away from the main road, seeking shelter from the rain beneath a large oak tree. The sergeant had gone off to investigate an upturned ambulance in the centre of the next field. As the Padre looked up, he saw him returning with what appeared to be a large cardboard box in his arms.

'Well, here's a turn up for the books, Father.' He dropped the box at his feet and a dozen or more tins of Heinz baked beans tumbled into the mud.

The Padre stared in disbelief. 'Manna from Heaven!' he proclaimed, and then asked: 'But how is it that n.o.body else found them?'

'Well, without going into details,' said the sergeant, a little sheepishly. 'I would say it was because this here case was buried beneath about ten bodies, and I don't suppose many people felt like delving around in there. It's enough to ruin any man's appet.i.te.'

'Not mine,' thought the Padre. Baked beans on hot b.u.t.tered toast had always been a Sat.u.r.day afternoon favourite at Stony Stratford. 'Let's gather some twigs and light a fire.'

11:05 Tuesday 28 May 1940.

Outskirts of Les Moeres, near Bray Dunes, France 'Oh, no,' thought Miller. 'Just what I b.l.o.o.d.y need.' He brought the motorcycle to a rapid halt, forcing the military policeman to jump back suddenly.

'When I say stop, you b.l.o.o.d.y stop, will you? And switch that bike off.'

'Whatever you say, sarg. What's the problem?'

'The problem is, I want you to get off your bike and start walking.'

'No can do, sarg. Gotta make my way to HQ. I'm a DR.'

'Let's see your despatches then.'

'Well, I ain't got any now, 'ave I? I've delivered them all. I'm going back for more.'

'You're no more a despatch rider than I'm Gracie Fields.'

'Oh, come on, sarg! Give us a break.'

'Look, chum! You've got precisely two seconds to get off that bike and dump it in the field.' The redcap rested a hand on his holster.

'Dump it?'

'For Christ's sake! Do you think I've got all b.l.o.o.d.y day? Just take a look around you.' Miller did not need to bother. He had been looking at dumped vehicles for the best part of the morning.

'All right, what's the drill?'

'The drill is you take that bike into the field and you disable it. In fact, best set fire to it.'

Miller reluctantly dragged the Norton across the ditch. The motorcycle seemed enormously heavy as he tried to wheel it along the muddy field. He picked a vacant spot and let the bike topple onto its side.

Miller groaned, reluctant to waste yet another bullet from his dwindling stock. He slipped the Thompson from across his back and set it to single shot, and then pulled the bolt. He stepped away and pointed the weapon at the petrol tank.

The Thompson kicked back and Miller was surprised to see that he had placed a neat hole in the centre of the tank. Fuel trickled out. He reached into his pocket for his lighter. Suddenly he stopped and looked around. The ground was littered with folded sheets of paper. He bent down and picked one up, twisting the end to form a spill. Once the damp paper finally ignited, there was a sudden whoosh as the petrol burst into blue flames. Miller lingered close to enjoy the heat. His uniform was soaked and he was chilled to the bone after countless hours on the road. He unfolded one of the damp sheets and saw a map, along with arrows indicating the apparent German encirclement.

British Soldiers! Look at this map: it gives your true situation! Your troops are entirely surrounded stop fighting! Put down your arms!

Miller gathered up a handful. If he could dry them, they would make excellent toilet paper. He slipped them into the side pocket of his trousers and made his way back to the road.

'Hey, sarg! Where are we on this map, then?'

'Let's have a look, lad. All right, the last town you pa.s.sed, that was Les Moeres. There's an airfield coming up here on your right. Stick on this road and it will bring you to a place called Bray Dunes.'

'And where's Dunkirk? I was told to head there.'

'Yeah, well. Dunkirk's a problem. You see that smoke over there? That's Dunkirk. We're steering everyone towards the beaches to the east. So head for Bray Dunes.'

Miller walked slowly towards the cl.u.s.ter of buildings and caught the scent of the distant ozone of the sea. There were men walking equally slowly all around him. He wondered if their trousers were itching as much as his own. Judging by their appearance, most of the men were on the edge of exhaustion and the rubbing seams of their uniforms were probably secondary to their other worries.

Bray Dunes had, until very recently, been a fashionable resort. Now it was a ghost town. The miles of sandy beaches and the wildlife of the dunes had provided a convenient natural attraction. The small main street that led down to the sea one hundred yards away was now covered in sand. Here, too, vehicles lay abandoned. A civilian bus, with both the pa.s.senger and driver's doors hanging open, had been run up on the curb and into the doorway of a baker's shop. Miller felt his stomach wince at the thought of food. He walked closer and peered through the broken window. Gla.s.s littered the empty display cases. He slipped the Thompson off his shoulder and used the b.u.t.t to break the rest of the gla.s.s before hoisting himself into the shop. The flour that appeared to coat every surface put Miller in mind of Christmas. The small cash box had already been rifled and the wooden trays that once held row upon row of baguettes were strewn across the floor. He pushed his way across the clutter and stepped into the back of the shop.

He turned quickly to the single tap above the sink and twisted the handle. Water trickled out and Miller leaned his head to catch it in his mouth. But then it stopped. He stood upright and shook the pipe. He turned the handle the other way. But still no more water. He slammed it with the Thompson and then he began upturning all the furniture in a fit of rage. He kicked open the back door and walked to the privy. Here, too, the tap only produced a few drops before drying up.

'Oh, for f.u.c.k's sake!' said Miller aloud. He leaned his back against the wall of the outhouse and allowed himself to slide down to the ground with a thump. He had just taken off his helmet and was running his fingers through his hair when he was startled to see a small face looking at him from across the fence.

'Bonjour,' called Miller, composing himself. 'Comment allez-vous?'

'Are you English?' asked the man.

'Yeah, I'm English,' answered Miller. 'What of it?'

'Are the Bosche here yet?'

'I b.l.o.o.d.y hope not.'

The man crooked his finger, indicating that Miller should follow him.

The man and his elderly wife occupied a tiny four-room cottage that backed on to the bakers. They ushered him politely into a stuffy living room. Miller felt curiously out of place in his wet and now tatty uniform and was not sure where to put himself. Mud from the flooded field still caked his boots. He looked at the marks on the carpet.

'No, no. Do not worry,' said the man, also looking down. 'Would you like to rest a while? Perhaps you would like tea, or perhaps some wine?'

Miller smiled weakly. 'Got any water?'

The man returned from the kitchen with a jug and a gla.s.s, his wife followed bearing a large plate in her hands.

'Here, please,' said Miller. 'Let me help you.' He took the plate, fearing she might drop it, and looked eagerly at the crusty white rolls. There were still warm. The woman returned with a small pot of jam and a k.n.o.b of b.u.t.ter on a saucer.

'Please,' said the man. He pulled a chair away from the table and indicated that Miller should sit down.

'Merci. Merci beaucoup,' said Miller, gladly. He partially drained the jug and sat back momentarily to let the water settle in his empty stomach. It was then that the woman launched into a lengthy burst of French. Miller's grasp of the language was minimal and he was lost within seconds. He turned towards the old man and shook his head.

'My wife, she says you are very much like our son. He is in the army, also.'

'The French army?' asked Miller.

'Of course, yes, the French army. We have not seen our Thierry since the start of the year and we have had no letter for almost three weeks. Please, eat.'

'Thanks.'

'He is a fighting soldier like you,' claimed the man. He pulled up a chair and sat down. 'I see that you still carry your gun. So many others have thrown their guns aside.' He smiled as he appraised Miller. 'My wife says you must be a brave soldier with such a big gun.'

Miller laughed. 'Well, I won't say I haven't seen my share of fighting. The last few days have been pure h.e.l.l.' He turned eagerly to his plate, smeared b.u.t.ter thickly across the crust, and took a huge bite. 'You say your son is a soldier?' he asked between mouthfuls, feigning interest. 'Is he here, in France?'

'Yes, he must be in France, or perhaps he is in Belgique. We both worry because he is with a famous infanterie regiment. He must be the same age as you.' They both watched intently as Miller spooned jam onto another roll. 'We listen to the wireless and they say our armies fight gloriously on all fronts, but how can you believe them? Look at what is happening here. Your English army, it goes.'

'So I'm told,' said Miller.

For the next few hours, while his clothes dried on the stove, the couple showed Miller hundreds of photographs. They also plied him with cognac and slices of hard cheese and dried dates. The son, in his opinion, looked nothing like him. He had rather a monkey face and a stupid grin. There was no doubting his parents, however. The couple had obviously been together so long that they now resembled each other. Their little round faces stared intently at his.