by John Harris
Not very far from where Horndorff was quietly drowning, Scharroo and Marie-Josephine were still pursuing Marie-Josephine’s idea of getting a boat to England. A morning of bombing and shelling had scared the wits out of Scharroo, but Marie-Josephine seemed to have become obsessed by her idea to the point of indifference to danger.
‘For God’s sake,’ Scharroo grated as they spat out grit and clawed the sand from their clothes after the violence of the last terrifying attack, ‘you still don’t have that crazy idea, do you?’
‘But of course!’ She looked at him as though startled by the question.
He pointed at the ship lying in the roadstead surrounded by smoke and steam, and at the wreckage where Vital had disappeared. ‘You see what they’re doing to them?’
‘Not all of them. Some they do not hit. We must ask.’
It seemed that the first essential to getting out of Dunkirk was a permit to board one of the ships but when they found the embarkation office, the man in charge stared at them as though they were mad.
‘For whom?’ he asked.
‘Me,’ Scharroo said. ‘And the girl.’
‘And neither of you are English?’
‘Right. I’m American. She’s–’
The officer interrupted. ‘Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do just now than issue permits to people who want to make day-trips to England.’ He flinched as a bomb landed nearby. ‘We’re trying to evacuate a bloody army.’
They walked slowly back to the beach. Though no one seemed to want them, no one questioned them either. The evacuation was so extraordinary it never seemed to occur to anyone to wonder how they came to be there, and they moved to a pier made of lorries. A naval officer was about to help Marie-Josephine into a boat when he looked up.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he said.
‘She’s trying to get to England,’ Scharroo said.
‘So are a lot of other people. And who are you, come to that?’
‘Walter Scharroo. American. UAP.’
‘Sorry. Can’t take you.’
‘Take her then.’ Scharroo was beginning to wish he’d never seen Marie-Josephine by this time.
‘She’s a civilian. My job’s to take these chaps back.’
The argument continued as the other soldiers pushed past them. When the boat was full, it pulled away and they were left standing on the pier. The men behind them didn’t seem to resent them and Scharroo had the impression that, as far as they were concerned, they could have gone and welcome.
It was late afternoon when they tried again. They’d left it for some time, hoping the climate would change, and by this time they were both hungry. For a long time they moved about the beach, until they found a young officer organising a fresh queue. Seeing a new point of organisation, other soldiers were running to join it and Scharroo grabbed Marie-Josephine’s hand and dragged her after them.
As they waited, the officer moved along the line, studying each man. At Scharroo and Marie-Josephine he stopped.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he asked.
‘To England,’ Scharroo said.
‘Oh, are you?’ The officer looked tired to the point of numbness and his nerves were clearly on edge. ‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’ he asked.
‘Name’s Scharroo.’
‘British?’
‘American.’
‘Sorry.’
As he turned away, Scharroo caught his arm. ‘The girl’s not American.’
The officer turned. His eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep and he seemed almost out on his feet.
‘British?’
‘French.’
‘Sorry.’
‘For God’s sake–’ Scharroo’s frustration and anger burst out ‘–the goddam French have been fighting for you!’
The officer stared at him coldly. ‘I thought we’d been fighting for them,’ he said.
Scharroo turned away and pushed Marie-Josephine from the queue. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘The bastards are running so fast you can’t see ’em for dust.’
Moving further along the beach, they came to a group of French soldiers arguing loudly. A British soldier watching them sneered.
‘The bastards tried to rush the boats,’ he said.
The Frenchmen seemed to take a different view, and one of their officers, staring out to sea, his face twisted with bitterness, explained. ‘They do not understand that some of these men have never seen a ship before in their lives,’ he said. ‘They come from the Jura and the Midi and the Alps and the Dordogne. What do they know about climbing into boats?’ He gestured angrily. ‘One would think their precious boats were made of paper, they are so afraid of them turning over.’
The signal about Vital’s end arrived in Dover late in the afternoon.
‘It’s going to become harder than ever now, sir,’ the SOO said. ‘Bray Dunes is under shellfire now.’
‘What about Gort? Is he off yet?’
‘Yes, sir. I understand he’s aboard Hebe.’
The admiral was silent for a moment. ‘Dunkirk thinks it won’t be possible to hold the perimeter after midnight on the first,’ he said.
‘And the evacuation of the rear-guard, sir?’
The admiral looked up. ‘Postponed until dawn on the second.’
By this time Hinze’s shells were dropping regularly on the beaches. The streams of ships, big and small, kept coming, however, and the wind had diminished a little, the surf had died down again, and the makeshift piers were beginning to pay dividends. As darkness approached, the whole horizon was dotted with small craft, moving in a maze of wreckage and zig-zagging to dodge the explosions. They were manned by every kind of crew imaginable, RASC cadets, naval officers, masters of Sea Scout troops, parsons, old men wearing carpet slippers. Tugs pulled crippled ships or tows of small boats full of rescued men to put them aboard the personnel ships. Trawlers jammed men into cabins, fish holds, wheelhouses, and decks, and more were crammed among the coal dust in barges that had only recently been carrying fuel to London power stations.
Among them, Daisy chugged steadily backwards and forwards from the beach, Kenny Pepper beyond words at the awe of it all. Despite the noise and weariness, he was impressed by the sheer stark courage about him, and amazed at the admiration and affection he felt for Gilbert and Ernie Williams. From the day they’d taken him under their wing, rough, foul-mouthed, kindly men who’d chivvied and jeered at him, he’d never considered they could be brave but now he’d seen them proving it, and it dawned on him that nobility was something that came to men of all classes.
By this time he’d grown indifferent to things which forty-eight hours before would have turned his heart over, and as they stopped for a moment to draw breath, Gilbert Williams shoved his head out of the wheelhouse.
‘Tea, Kenny,’ he called. ‘Better give old Sy a mugful while you’re at it.’
‘I was going to.’ Brought up on tales of heroism, Kenny was surprised that he could feel compassion for cowardice. ‘He can’t help it.’
Gilbert nodded. ‘Make it quick, son, or them bloody Jerries’ll be back afore we’ve drunk it.’
It was more than likely because it had suddenly occurred to Alfred Stoos that he was sitting on the ground, D/6980 was sitting on the ground and Wunsche was sitting on the ground, and there was work to do.
‘She needs testing,’ Hamcke had said of D/6980.
Very well, Stoos decided, he would test her.
Allerton had spent most of the day lying on the beach. The sinking of Vital had left him drained of energy and he’d sprawled as though dead on the sand. No one had gone near him because they’d assumed he was just another of the drowned silent bodies that littered the shoreline. The tide had fallen away from him and eventually his clothes had dried, but still he hadn’t moved. It was only when the tide had returned and the chilly water had lapped at his legs that he awakened.
He had no idea what time it was, or even which day. There was no one about h
im he knew. Nearby, a soldier was lying on the sand, horribly burned, the only indication that he was alive the slow movements of his hands. There was nothing Allerton could do and he staggered past him towards the dunes. All he wanted was safety – not the safety of England, just the safety of dry land where the sea couldn’t snatch him under.
Where he finally sank to the sand again, a man in the coloured forage cap of a cavalry regiment was digging a hole with an empty corned beef tin. He looked up but went on digging, and Allerton went to sleep again. His mind had stopped working. A safety valve had lifted and his brain, as well as his limbs, had gone limp.
When he woke the sun was still shining, but it was low now above the horizon and the cavalryman alongside him lay head-down half-inside his hole. The dry sand, stirred by the breeze, was slipping down in little rivulets from the lip, gradually burying his head and shoulders and disturbing the flies encrusted on the blood on his jacket and the edge of the corned beef can he’d been using.
Then Allerton became aware of the stink again. It was like a slaughterhouse and, scrambling to his feet, he moved out of the dunes and into the town, numbed, stupefied, and devoid of emotion.
Telephone wires hung in dangling loops among the fallen masonry but nearby he could hear laughter and saw a man on a lorry tossing out cartons of cigarettes as he drove post. A machine-gun was chattering away on his left and he heard another answer it, and then a group of light infantrymen in full equipment went by, heading for the beaches in their quick high step, led by a man playing a fife. They were singing.
Ten men went to walk, walk along the sand dunes.
Ten men, nine men, eight men, seven men, six men,
five men, four men, three men, two men, one man
and his dog walked along the sand dunes.
A group of officers standing in a garden, eating biscuits and bully beef, took pity on him. They were dirty, stained and red-eyed with sleeplessness but they were still part of a unit.
‘What happened, old boy?’ one of them asked, staring at Allertons swollen mouth and scarecrow appearance.
‘I was on a destroyer,’ Allerton explained. ‘It was hit by a bomb. What time is it?’
They told him and he rubbed his hand over his features. ‘I’ve lost a day somewhere,’ he said.
They gave him a cigarette and a small square of corned beef on a biscuit tasting of diesel oil. ‘All we can spare, I’m afraid. Sorry we’ve nothing to drink. We had a touch of gin but it’s all gone now.’
The sun was only just above the horizon now and the Stukas seemed to have disappeared. Groups of soldiers were strolling about the beach, bored with waiting. Offshore, Vital’s stern was still sticking out of the water, the bronze propellers catching the sun.
As he lifted his head, Horndorff realised he was lying with his feet still in the water but that his head was clear. At first, because he felt so much at peace with the world and his last thoughts had been concerned with dying, he was certain he was dead. Then he realised where he was and lifted his head to stare into the sun. There were groups of soldiers standing in the water, their boots in their hands, their helmets on the back of their heads. Higher up the beach he could see a lorry blazing and a few men drinking out of tin mugs round a Bofors gun which was cocked towards the sky. Nobody took any notice of him and it occurred to him he was free to go where he liked.
Slowly, still exhausted, he dragged himself on to all fours, chilled despite the sunshine. Then he turned his head and saw Conybeare.
He was sitting down, his figure stretching a long shadow on the sand. He was wearing stockings but had lost the clumsy boots. His tunic with its wings lay alongside him and he looked like a small boy on the beach for the day, but in his hand he still held the Luger and Horndorff was staring straight into the muzzle.
‘We nearly didn’t make it,’ Conybeare said.
Horndorff’s eyes blazed and then he realised what Conybeare meant.
‘You saved me?’ he said.
Conybeare nodded. ‘Good swimmer,’ he said.
‘Is there anything you’re not good at?’ Horndorff asked bitterly.
Conybeare shrugged. ‘Good at most things,’ he said. ‘Got here pretty quickly. Knew what you’d do. Walked up and down the tide line waiting for you.
Still on his hands and knees, his clothes damp against his big body, Horndorff stared at Conybeare, his expression full of loathing.
‘You saved me,’ he said. ‘You saved my life?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why?’ The word was almost a screech. ‘Why? Why?’
Sitting in a garden in the southern suburbs of the town, Sievewright wondered at his own blind faith. He’d long since decided that too much was happening for him to get involved and had decided to wait for darkness before attempting to move on.
He’d found the garden at the back of a big house that had been burnt out. The grass and the flowers were covered with flakes of soot and fragments of charred wood, but it was surrounded by a high wall and there were larches and laurel and cedars in it that had kept the heat of the sun from him. He’d chosen it deliberately because, seeing the black puppy with him, the provost sergeant on duty outside the town had advised him to get rid of it.
‘The bloody place’s full of dogs,’ he said. ‘All going potty with the bangs. They’re having to shoot ’em on the quayside.’
In the time since he’d picked up the animal, Sievewright had grown attached to it. The idea of seeing it destroyed was just too much for him, and he sat now with his back to a tree, sharing his last biscuit with it. It squatted in front of him watching him as he broke fragments off and passed them across.
He was hungry but in no way dispirited. It was already dark and soon, with a bit of luck, he told himself, he could go and find a ship.
Behind Sievewright, at close on midnight, Lance-Corporal Gow and his little detachment of British and French soldiers were approaching the town. As they’d moved back after their action by the canal, they’d picked up an abandoned lorry, but while they were still crowing their delight it had dawned on them that the lorry was abandoned because the Germans to the east had somehow managed to filter past; an artillery detachment had expertly bracketed a bend in the road they were on and were hitting everything that tried to move towards the dumping area on the edge of the perimeter. In the distance four trucks were burning, and about them were men of the Wiltshire Regiment trying to make up their minds how to tackle the problem.
‘Well, we cannae stay here,’ Gow had pointed out firmly.
Gibbering with fear, trying to screw himself up to the exquisite agony of daring that he’d never have managed without Gow scowling beside him, Noble had driven the lorry at full speed down the road, fully expecting every moment to be his last until, thirty yards from the bend, Gow had screamed at him – ‘Brake!’ Even as he had slammed the lorry to a standstill, he heard the whistle of shells and saw flashes and mushrooming clouds of dust and smoke in front.
‘Now, mon,’ Gow screeched. ‘Full speed!’
His heart in his mouth, Noble had jammed the accelerator down and they’d gone round the corner on two wheels, their nostrils full of the smell of cordite from the smoke still drifting across it. As they’d headed into the next straight he’d heard the crash of shells behind them, and he’d climbed out by the dumping area on shaking legs.
‘Gow,’ he’d said. ‘I’m frightened. You frighten me.’
Now, as they approached the town, the roads were scored with shell-holes and strewn with broken glass, and occasionally in the flames they saw a rat move.
Men were still working in the vast car parks, destroying the vehicles. Occasionally a shell burst and the fragments hissed down, but the work of destruction never stopped. Artificers were attaching 50-yard lengths of signal wire to the trigger levers of their guns. Cordite bags were being taken out of the cartridge cases and their contents scattered, so that if an advancing German – trying for a quiet smoke – tossed away an unwar
y match, he’d be surrounded in an instant sheet of flame. Men were trudging to the canal with 25-pound shells and loading their last vehicles with dial sights, clinometers and director heads. Only the Bren gunners and the Boyes riflemen kept their weapons.
As Gow and his men tramped past, a gunner picked up a shell, took the fuse cap off and slid it carefully down the muzzle to the breech. Warily, he placed another in the breech with the charge.
‘Look out, they’re going to press the tit,’ a sergeant warned and, as they headed for the ditch, an officer pulled the signal wire attached to the trigger. When they lifted their heads the gun was scrap.
They were all hungry and tired now and Private Angelet was asleep on his feet, putting one foot automatically in front of the other, his eyes open but unconscious of what went on around him. Lije Noble, limping heavily now, also craved sleep but was still uncertain which was worse, being hungry and tired or having Lance-Corporal Gow pounce on him. Only Gow and Chouteau seemed untouched by weariness. For most of the march back, they’d argued in an extraordinary Anglo-French jargon of their own devising which was the better unit, the Foreign Legion or the Brigade of Guards. So far honours seemed to be about even.
Apart from the few gunners trailing behind them the roads to Dunkirk seemed deserted now. Summer lightning flashed along the horizon where guns were still firing, and ahead was only the dreadful beacon of the dying town. The road was strewn with the wreckage of the retreat and occasionally there were stray flashes and explosions.
As they passed through Rosendael, sergeants were calling names in rasping whispers as though the Germans might hear. Skeleton walls like the ruins of some bygone civilisation reared on either side of them but the only sound was the crunching of glass under their boots, like the crackling of ice in winter. The darkness was peopled by shapeless muffled figures, and occasionally mysterious shadows appeared in doorways or from round corners – stray inhabitants, a few looters, perhaps an occasional fifth columnist. Names were still being shouted – ‘That A Company, 5th Warwicks?’ – ‘Alf, where are you?’ – ‘This way, George’ – as the British fragments of the rear-guard filtered back. The road was narrow, and a lorry-load of French troops trying to force their way past came within an ace of being shot to pieces as half a dozen tired and furious men had their rifles at the driver’s throat in a moment.
