by Tracy Groot
“It’s every man for himself together,” said Jamie.
“Well, that makes sense then,” said Baylor, and even Griggs chuckled.
Baylor looked at the sky, and pushed up his glasses. “You get the feeling if we just get to England, it’s all over. We’re safe, everyone’s safe. We’ll go back to living our lives just as they were before this bloody war started.”
“It won’t be over. We won’t be safe.”
“Yes, I know. You don’t have to take everything so literally, Griggs.”
“Why is life given, to be thus wrested from us?”
“Poetry,” Griggs complained. He let the Bren slide from one shoulder and slung it to the other. “Why couldn’t Call of the Wild be the last book he read? Now there’s a book. Read it in school.”
“Probably the last time you touched one,” said Baylor.
“Milton has a point, don’t you think?” Balantine said over his shoulder. He walked in front, where he usually did, without Grayling on his right. It put their minds on Milton’s words, and no one answered.
Would the group dwindle yet again before they reached home? Jamie stiff-armed the thought. Every man for himself was an order, and if it was a desperate order, the last one they would hear, it was a directive and the directive somehow gave comfort: Get to Dunkirk, get home.
Do not think of Grayling, and Lieutenant Dunn, and Kearnsey, and Drake. Get to Dunkirk. Get home.
“They God’s image did not reverence in themselves. What thou livest, live well.”
“We are a world apart, aren’t we, Captain?” said Baylor in admiring wonder to Milton. “I wish you’d come deliver a lecture at university. Just as you are.”
“Ratty head wound and all,” said Jamie.
“Yes, he can prattle on to all your incredibly smart friends and you can all have a jolly celebration of your incredible wits while the rest of us fight Hitler,” Griggs said.
“Be not diffident of wisdom, she deserts thee not, if thou dismiss her not.” Milton not only half looked over his shoulder to address Griggs, he had a small smile on his face.
Baylor caught it, and stared at Jamie, incredulous. “Did you see that?”
Jamie grinned. “I did.”
“He actually smiled! I think he’s starting to know what’s going on.”
Jamie thought of last night, and the uncanny way Milton had studied the sky. Did he know what was going on?
“Well done, Milty,” said Baylor. “Keep at it. I should say, Captain Jacobs. Right? Jacobs?” He said the word a little louder as if hoping to jog something. Then, “What’s wrong, Milty?”
For the captain had stopped, staring. They looked to where he did.
A black expanse covered the distant northwest sky, as if a great patch of thundercloud had broken from a stormscape to hover in one place.
“What in the world is that?” said Baylor.
“It’s no thundercloud,” said Jamie.
“It’s smoke,” said Griggs. “Oil smoke. I know there’s a refinery on the coast.”
Balantine held up his hand. “Shh, listen—do you hear it?” He turned to look at them.
Faint but unmistakable came the sound of distant gunfire.
“Don’t tell me that’s Dunkirk,” Baylor groaned.
They listened hard, and at one particular sound all exchanged glances.
“That’s not just gunfire,” said Balantine. “The Germans are bombing. Come on, lads. Let’s go.”
Gripping guns, reshouldering their packs, picking up the pace they headed for the oil-black expanse.
“What are we walking into?” Baylor wondered.
“I guess we’ll find out,” said Jamie, swallowing down a bulge of fear.
He watched Milton as they went. The captain kept his eyes on the blackened sky, fingers twisting the ring.
Not long now, mate. We’ll keep those bombs off. We’ll get you home to her.
It was late afternoon when they approached Dunkirk from the south, walking fanned out, guns at the ready and Milton in the middle, the only one without a gun.
They had left the fields and took to a road for faster going. The closer they got to the city, the more the road began to fill with refugees. Days ago the British Army had moved with a flow of Belgian and French refugees heading west; they now threaded into the town against an unabated stream of civilians heading—on this particular road—south.
As the men approached the city, signs of war met every glance.
“I wonder what it’s like on the beaches,” Griggs said grimly, staring at a kitchen with no walls as they passed. Crumbled masonry half covered a stove. A woman picking through the debris with a full apron straightened, nearly fell, regained her footing, and noticed them. She was covered with plaster dust.
The German bombs had created massive havoc. They passed too many dead civilians to count—men, women, and children. It looked as though they were not given the chance to flee. On the outskirts they saw the still-smoking rubble of homes, barns, livestock, and as they came into the city proper, saw caved-in apartment buildings, churches, shops, restaurants. Barking dogs were everywhere.
“Halt! Who goes there?” someone shouted.
Balantine’s hands came up. “British!”
“Say something else!”
“I’m starving and my feet are killing me!”
“I’ve got blisters on my blisters,” Baylor added.
“Have you got any water?” Jamie asked.
The speaker emerged from around the corner of a half-bombed brick building. A few bricks tumbled down as he came out. “All right, all right—go on, then. Straight ahead to the beaches. They’ll put you in groups of fifty.”
“How bad is it?” The men gathered around him.
“How bad is what? Which part?” He took off his helmet and wiped his face, put the helmet back on. Looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. “They’re bombing the beaches to bloody pieces while the navy tries to take us off. They’re bombing the navy, too, entire route to Dover, far as we can see.” He pulled off his helmet again, squinted inside, shook it, replaced it. “As for our brothers who haven’t arrived yet, there’s one ever-shrinking corridor, and you were on it. This is it, lads—the end of the line. We’re bloody surrounded. So I’d say it’s bad everywhere. Last bus filled with civilian refugees just left. You should’ve seen the push to get on it, it was absolutely mobbed. I’ve no idea where the driver thinks he’s headed. Any way he goes, he’ll run into Germans.”
“How close are they?”
“Close enough that the Jerries aren’t bombing inland anymore—might hit their own men. They’re mostly bombing the beaches. Communication’s been cut off, and a patrol’s been sent west to judge how far they’ve come, but they haven’t returned. They’re on all sides, east, south, and west.” He pointed grimly at the sky. “And up there.”
The six looked at one another. “We could’ve come right through ’em,” said Baylor.
“Might have done. Many have. And wait till you see the queues on the beach, it’ll fair take your breath away. But there’s order for all that, even in the bombing. Captain Tennant of the navy’s in charge, and thank God for him—it’s chaos now, but you should’ve been here a few days ago.”
“What day is it?” said Baylor.
“No idea.”
“What about the town?” asked Griggs, looking around. “Are we supposed to defend it?”
The soldier shook his head. “That’s all sorted. Just get to the beaches, find a place to fall out in the dunes, and they’ll assign you into groups to approach the mole. Ships are coming alongside the mole to take the men off, but the going is precious slow for the amount of men on the beaches. It’s just a waiting game now. Wait, and dodge.”
“Dodge . . . ,” said Baylor, not liking the sound of it.
He shrugged. “Bullets and bombs.”
“Any food around?” asked Balantine. “Haven’t eaten for days; we’re done in.”
“Y
ou and everyone else. There’s only what you can scrounge, and the town’s pretty much picked over. Supply lines can’t get to us. Wait.” He looked left, and whistled. “Murphy! Bring some of those pilchards. He found a cache of pilchards this morning in the basement of a grocer. Don’t know how everyone else missed it. He’s got an uncanny knack for finding things.”
A private came at a trot, carrying a lumpy cloth sack.
He nodded at them and said cheerily, “Hullo, boys! Welcome to Dunkirk. Glad you made it. We’ve only some nasty pilchards in tomato sauce as part of your welcoming ceremony, but . . .”
“Grateful for anything you’ve got,” said Balantine.
The private handed out a flat tin to every man, then dug in the sack and produced a larger tin. “Plums. It’s auntie food, but it’s food. Share it out.” He tossed it to Curtis.
“Enjoy yourselves!” He left at a trot.
“Cheers, mate! Thanks, mate!” the squad called.
“All right, get going,” said the first soldier, motioning on with his head. “And be prepared for dodging—today’s bombing started early this afternoon and hasn’t stopped. They usually let off a bit at dusk, but they make up for it in the morning. Good luck.”
The soldier started back from where he came, but Griggs called out, “What kind of bombs?” It was a question that would never have occurred to Jamie.
“Well, there, we’re in a bit of luck as far as the beaches go—penetration bombs. There’s no survival with scatter bombs, but many of the p-bombs don’t explode ’til they’re deep in the sand. They haven’t figured that out yet. We’ll take what we can get, right, lads? Still—look sharp. They take us out with direct hits, and you’ll get thrown if—” He looked past them and brought up his gun. “Halt! Who goes there?”
“Friends! British!”
“Say some more!”
“Come on,” Balantine said to the five. “Let’s find a spot to fall out and eat, then head for the beaches. Whatever we do, we stay together.”
“Every man for himself together,” said Baylor, and all fell in behind Balantine.
They passed the remains of a bombed transport, and then a caved-in café with a café table on the path that was completely untouched, checkered tablecloth and white cups and a white porcelain pot still on it. It was coated with dust.
“Look at that,” said Baylor. “Only wants a little French waiter next to it.”
Everywhere, the crumbly dust of bombed and smoldering buildings, and everywhere, glass crunching under their boots.
Dust hung like fog, and permeated the city. Orange bursts of fire flashed in the haze, and sounds and smells and vibrations increased as they moved ahead. They could smell cordite, and salt, and fish from the sea, and they could now see the flash of explosions ahead, though they couldn’t tell if the explosions were on land or sea. Planes overhead wheeled and dove, strafing and releasing oblong bombs; the last bomb from a peeling-off bomber fell very close, not a hundred yards away on the other side of a brick wall—it buckled the wall, and the concussive wave sent them stumbling. They heard a groan of steel and then a terrific crash, and all about them rained fine debris.
“Oh, this is fun,” said Baylor, coughing.
“My mother told me to run from things like this,” said Jamie.
“From this specifically?”
“Yes.” He coughed and wiped his eyes. “Took me aside one day and said, ‘Jamie, me lad, if ever Dunkirk is bombed and you’re heading straight for it, divert.’”
“Smart woman, your mum,” said Balantine, trying to breathe through his sleeve. “Come on, boys, keep moving.”
“I thought we were going to eat,” said Curtis. “I could chew right through the tin.”
“There’s a spot just ahead, over there. Stop!” Balantine yelled.
Milton halted, and Jamie ran into him.
They came upon . . . at first, Jamie wasn’t sure.
Helmets and guns and mangled chrome in a storefront doorway; bodies and parts of bodies, blood and viscera, bricks, and empty boots, and dust-coated rucksacks, all tumbled together in a still, gruesome mishmash, the sight itself a ghastly storefront display. Blood ran from beneath the mess, different flows joining into one, running down the street until it slowed, congealing with the dust.
Griggs went to his haunches beside a body, touching skin. “Not long ago.”
“Lads must’ve taken shelter here,” said Balantine, taking off his helmet.
“God, have mercy,” Baylor murmured. “How many are there?”
“Can’t tell,” said Griggs.
“Oh, this is nothing,” a soldier told them, passing by with several others. Some had bulging sacks over their shoulders. One carried, of all things, a gramophone. “Wait till you get to the beaches.”
One corpse stared from half-lidded blue eyes, his mouth askew from a shard of chrome through his cheek. The sight transfixed Jamie.
“Milton?” said Baylor. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s gone crackers,” said an awestruck Curtis.
“He’s already crackers,” said Griggs, rising.
“Not like this,” said Curtis, horrified.
It was hard to say, exactly, what Milton was doing.
Trying to match body parts to corpses was a good guess.
He worked feverishly in the mangled pile before Jamie could pull himself from a momentarily appalled state.
“Milton! What are you doing? Stop that!” He put a hand on his arm, but Milton threw it off and continued his frenzied activity. “Captain Jacobs!”
It had no effect. Milton turned over a body and tried to match a severed arm to it. Jamie grabbed hold of his shoulder, and once again Milton threw him off.
“Don’t you see?” said Baylor in horrified awe. “He’s trying to save his unit. He’s trying to . . . put them back together. In his mind.”
Milton gazed about for body parts, picking them up, testing them out, discarding and trying again. If he hadn’t already unraveled, he did so now, and it shocked Jamie to inaction. Just when they thought he was getting better, just when he gave his name . . .
“My God, what do we do?” Baylor put his hands on his head. “How would the psychiatrists deal with this? Anything we do could have dire repercussions!”
“Oh, sod this.” Griggs stepped over the mouth-skewed corpse and picked his way through to Milton. He grabbed a handful of Milton’s jacket, twisting it into his grip, then dragged him backward, bumping over debris and the corpse out into the street, well clear of the macabre mess, where he threw him off with more force than needed.
Baylor followed, saying, “Freud would say he’s undergoing—”
“Shut it, Baylor!” Jamie went to Milton and warily went to a knee, waiting first to see if he would pull away at the hand on his shoulder, then checking under his bandage when he didn’t. “Hope you haven’t buggered those stitches.”
“Who—me or him?” said Griggs, lighting up a cigarette.
“Both of you!” Jamie shouted.
Milton sat, breathing hard. He made no move to get back to the bombed men, but that face—maybe Jamie expected what he saw in the moonlit bedroom, just haggard misery. This was something else. Milton’s face was utterly blank.
Jamie tilted his head up. He pushed up the eyelids to look into his eyes. Patted his cheeks. “Come on, what’s the matter with you? Wake up.” It was like Milton wasn’t even there.
He never thought he’d want to see that misery again. This blankness was far worse. He let him go, and looked to the sea. Wait till they got to the beaches, the man said? How bad was it? What would Milton do then?
“Will you stop making this so hard?” Jamie all but shouted. “What am I supposed to do, blindfold you on that beach?” After a moment, with less heat, “Come on. Up we go.” Baylor went to the other side and helped get him up.
“Did you notice, the whole time he was about that horrible business he didn’t quote any Milton?” Baylor said an hour later, pushi
ng up his glasses. “Hasn’t since. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“I just want to get him home. I want to be done with him.” He’ll be hers, then.
They’d found a spot to fall out and eat pilchards and plums before they got to the beach, a relatively rubble-free bus stop at a street corner, and Balantine even found a tin of Carnation milk that must have fallen from the sack of someone on a foraging spree. They shared it around.
“This tastes absolutely smashing,” said Baylor with his mouth full, passing the tin. “And I hate milk and fish.”
“Then you haven’t had pilchards the way my mother makes ’em,” said Balantine, wiping his mouth. “She serves them in a mash, spread on toast. Salt, pepper, herbs. Brilliant.”
“Sounds disgusting,” said Griggs, who couldn’t bear to go without being contrary for long.
Tired as they were, no one could sit, except for Milton and for Jamie who sat beside him, making him eat. The men watched soldiers and civilians hurrying about in different directions, and listened for the Stukas.
“Make an awful noise when they dive,” Balantine commented, gazing under his hand toward the beach.
“I believe he’s suffered a setback,” said Baylor, watching Milton. “He was doing much better earlier.”
“Baylor, would you just—?” The fact that Jamie refrained from finishing the sentence was apology enough for his earlier eruption. He was used to telling Griggs to shut up, but not Baylor.
“Sorry.”
Jamie tossed aside Milton’s empty tin, and got up to stand beside Baylor.
“I’m worried about the beaches,” he said, low enough so the others couldn’t hear. “We’re heading into nothing good, and I don’t know what will happen to him. I don’t know how he’ll react. I wish we could . . . drug him or something. Have you got anything like that?”
“No. But don’t worry, I’ll help you with him. There’s something about him, isn’t there?”
Sometimes he wished Baylor didn’t say things so openly. But he was glad someone else felt it. “Yeah,” he said.
“I want to read Paradise Lost again, with completely new eyes. It says something about epic poetry, don’t you think? It takes things out of our hearts.”
