by Tracy Groot
“Just when I start to think you’re all right, I remember you’re not.” Jamie sat up and looked around. They had fallen out with a group of about fifty men, and they were still in the dunes, a few hundred yards up from the surf. “What time is it?”
“We’re maybe an hour or so from dawn,” said Balantine, the red glow of a cigarette to show where he sat. “Bombing should start anytime. Griggs, you ought to try and get some sleep yourself.”
“I don’t need sleep,” said Griggs. “No more than loony bin. Besides, who can sleep in this? Only Elliott and Curtis. Oh, and Baylor, ’cause he’s half-dead anyway.”
“That isn’t very nice.”
“How about you, Balantine? Have you slept?” Jamie asked.
“Some.”
“He doesn’t trust me,” Griggs said.
“Funny—I actually do.”
Milton sat beside Baylor, studying the sky, twisting his wedding ring. Baylor was sleeping. “How is he?” Jamie asked.
“I don’t know.” The red glow intensified for a moment. “He’s quiet. Has been for hours. Captain Jacobs checks him now and again. I don’t dare check the bandage. He needs stitches, lots. Likely a lot of other repair work. Can’t get home soon enough.”
Jamie chuckled. He rubbed sand from the back of his neck. “Last time I had someone do some stitching for me, it was at gunpoint. Seems like forever ago.”
“I heard of a French doctor and his wife who work the beaches, sunup to sundown. Maybe we can find them, come daylight.”
“In hundreds of thousands of men,” Griggs said. “Good luck.”
“We can try. What else have we got to do?”
“Sure, you can try—and if you do, there’ll be a bloody queue.”
Jamie got up, brushed off sand, and rubbed away the grainy crust from the edges of his mouth. He stood and stretched, taking in the sight and sound of the ocean. He couldn’t see much, just a white line of washing surf at the beach. He took a drink from his canteen—cold tea that Curtis and Griggs had managed to beg off an aid worker in town—and went over to drop down beside Milton.
“What do you say, Milty? How went the night?” He gave him a nudge. “How about you and Balantine fix us breakfast? I’ll take hot tea, eggs, bacon, sausages, and a plate of toast high as my armpit. Jam, butter . . .”
Milton’s bandage gave off a white-lavender glow in the darkness. He continued to gaze at the sky and move his wedding ring. He had the vague, lost look again. Maybe it was simply fatigue, but with head wounds, who knew? Jamie found himself thinking to God, What in him is dark, illumine; what is low, raise and support.
Jamie gave him another nudge. “You’ll be all right, Milty. Not long now. When the sun comes up, you’ll see England from here. You can point out where your wife is.”
He looked about. To the west, a refinery still burned on the outskirts of Dunkirk, still casting up oily black billows and an occasional furnace blast of fire. The razed town itself smoldered in hazy pockets of red and orange, the sporadic sound of a tumbling wall or a muffled explosion coming from everywhere. The sound of the sea was comforting, but not the pitiful sounds of the wounded. Medics and naval personnel moved about. Down at the harbor, large ships still loaded at the flimsy eastern breakwater, and very small ones loaded at the beaches, from lorry jetties or the sand itself.
“They’re really making a difference, those little ships,” Balantine commented. “I counted a hundred and twenty-seven men taken off in the last hour from several different small craft. That’s only what I could make out—maybe lots more than that. They all come back for more.”
“A hundred and twenty-seven in an hour. Not much,” said Griggs. “We need another pier like that.” He nodded at the harbor.
“Ask the hundred and twenty-seven if it’s not much,” said Balantine.
“Where are Baylor’s glasses?” Jamie asked, when his eyes had finally accustomed to the dimness. “He didn’t lose them in the shooting, did he? Haven’t seen them since.”
“Might have done.” Balantine continued to watch the beach. “Strange thing to be waiting for rescue.”
Jamie scanned the shores, and at first, a thing perplexed him: in the dark seaweed continent of men came the glow of thousands of orderly pinpricks of orange, like stationary fireflies. It took Jamie a moment to realize those pinpricks were cigarettes.
A muffled boom drew his attention to the far eastern perimeter.
“How close are they?” he asked.
“Closer,” said Balantine. “I talked to a naval lieutenant a while ago. Up till now their shells have fallen short. Not anymore. On the far east end of the beach, we saw a shell land on one of the little ships. At first we thought it escaped any major damage, and all of a sudden it burst into flames. It had just loaded.” The cigarette glow deepened. No one spoke for a moment.
“They’ve been shelling at night?”
“Some.”
“We really are cut off,” Jamie said, hardly believing the words.
“Good and true.”
“We still don’t know how big their army is,” Jamie said.
“I think we have an idea,” said Balantine, “if they could rout numbers like this. I’m still trying to work out how it happened so fast.”
“I’m still trying to work out how we’ll face those at home,” said Jamie.
It was a stinging admission.
Griggs laughed. “You think we’ll make it home?” He jerked this thumb to the perimeter. “Can’t you hear that? It’s coming from the west now. We’re surrounded. We barely have ammunition to hold them back, and even what we do have, how long will it last? Panzers should be here anytime, and if they don’t get us, then ho lads, just wait ’til dawn—bombers back in force.”
“Well, we mustn’t panic,” said Balantine.
“I’m not panicking,” Griggs snapped. “I hate the bloody uselessness. I hate being rescued. If I die in battle, so be it. But let it be battle—not this. Not chased, and surrounded, and so bloody helpless and useless.”
Tactfully, no one brought up the gun Griggs himself had made useless.
“Try to think of it this way, Griggs: we’re not being rescued—we’re just all in it together. Civilians and military.” Balantine’s tone took on a heartening cadence. “They’re getting us home so we can fight again. That’s it; that’s all. We’re in it together.”
If it didn’t make Griggs feel better, it helped Jamie.
Then Jamie suddenly sat up straight, staring down to the beaches in the predawn dimness. He got to his feet.
“What is it?” asked Balantine. He put out the cigarette in the sand, and joined Jamie.
It couldn’t be. It was dark, very hard to see—it was impossible.
Yet . . .
“I swear I’m seeing things. Only—look, do you see that boat straight out from here? To the left of—whatever it is, with the ladder sticking out. See the man on its deck?”
“No.”
“There.”
Balantine looked down the length of his arm.
“That’s Minor Roberts.”
“Who?”
Jamie lowered his arm, a grin rising, a flush of delight. “It’s Minor Roberts! I’d know him anywhere! I’d know that old tub of his blind! He’s lived in it all my life, at my dad’s boatyard. Took me down to Evelyn’s for a beer before I shipped out. Good old Minor!” He shook his head, incredulous. “What’s he doing here? That lunky old river barge, it’s never been to the—”
And the next thought took his breath.
“Elliott?”
If Minor Roberts was here, it meant his dad was too.
“Elliott, what’s the matter?”
He turned to Balantine. He could hardly get the words out, they came so thick.
“The shelled boat you saw—was it a fishing trawler, was her name Lizzie Rose?” When Balantine shrugged and shook his head helplessly, he stared down to the beaches. “He would’ve come with Minor. My dad’s here, in this. Wha
t am I gonna do?”
“Easy, Elliott,” said Balantine. “It’ll be all right.”
“It won’t be all right!” Jamie bellowed.
He realized that up until now all had been well with him, all the rotten things they’d come through, the death they’d seen, losing his mates, losing others on the way—all had been well because what mattered most was safe at home in England. Before his eyes, he’d lose everything.
Fear, panic, madness swirled. Jamie stumbled a few steps forward.
Was he gone already, while Jamie slept? Did he die right there, within shouting distance?
The captain was at his side, words at his ear. “God towards thee hath done his part—do thine.” Of course he came for you, Jamie. It’s what fathers do. Let him do his part—do yours.
He clutched his head. “I can’t lose him!”
“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” Think clearly. Don’t panic. And come—sit with me. We’ll watch for him, and if we see him, why, we’ll run on down and shout, “Well done.”
Jamie pressed his face in the crook of his arm until hard breathing subsided.
After a moment, he nodded. The two sat on the crest of the dune.
Griggs watched Elliott and the captain. He watched Balantine standing like a sentry behind them. He unscrewed his canteen and took a sip.
May 31, 1940. Or is it June 1.
From: A Barn in Dover
To: The London Hospital
Whitechapel Road
Whitechapel
Room number unknown. Please deliver to: Clare Childs, she who recently underwent a partial spleen-ectomy.
My Dear Clare,
There is much to tell and little time to tell it for the need is ghastly great; and for the first time I curse the fact that I am 67. My body, I have discovered in this test of tests, is inhabited by a spirit who thinks it is 27. I am weary, and appalled by this treasonous fact. I feel the day in my spine.
I shall explain.
I arrived at the Dover train station not by rail, as the entire railway system has been commandeered. Our men are being received in Ramsgate and Dover, where they are revitalized by extremely necessary stopgap measures, and then shuttled off to all parts of England. They arrive at the harbor shipload by shipload, boat by boat, in every condition you can think, bodies as well as boats. One ship literally sank in the harbor as men disembarked. What heights of exaltation to watch men dive into the water to save others! I wept aloud. We all did.
Some ships come in blackened and burning. Some, without a scratch. Every time one comes, anyone present rejoices aloud, as angels do when a sinner comes home. I am part of something never before seen in England, perhaps never to be seen again, acutely aware of the historicity, and it is marvelous to behold. We are free with expression and feelings. We weep, we rejoice, we encourage, we pray, and we do so freely, and there is a wide-open place for it.
At present I am in a barn, tucked in a corner and guilty for taking time to write this, but my feet must rest if I am to soldier on. A farmer has put up wooden planks for tables, and we endlessly make sandwiches from endless loaves of bread made by housewives and ladies’ societies and schools and churches. We cut cheese and ham, we spread butter. The food comes from everywhere. A timid young lady with a child on her hip came bearing a basket of boiled eggs. For all of the acts of generosity I have seen, this one touched me most. She set it down, and left, and I watched her go, a sweet patriot of England, a deed unthanked and unsung and unseen but by me, who shall remember it always. Of all that my Cecil has seen, looking down, at this I am sure he wept. Indeed I whispered, “Did you see what I know has moved heaven?”
Oh, what a state the boys are in—one so dazed, I put a roll in his hand and he did not know what to do with it—and oh, what pulling together on their behalf. What love from strangers for strangers, but we find after all that we are family. (Do not mind the spots on this page; they shall be dried and wrinkled by the time you read this. Forgive bits of illegibility.) Our poor boys are famished and dehydrated. Some are wounded, previously or during what must have been a frightful passage home. They have not slept since only God knows when, and some fall asleep drinking tea. They bear the mark of one who has passed through a night of terrors, grateful it is over though not quite believing it.
Did you hear the news of the Grafton and the Wakeful? They were two of our destroyers, en route to Dover from Dunkirk, and they were lost, lost, only two days ago. (Or was it three? I am bemused.) 700 souls. 700, my dear! It is believed the ships were torpedoed by U-boats, a bit unclear at present. 700 souls, and I hope to God one of them is not Private Jamie Elliott, son of that man.
I find that I want a teakettle at times. It is a weakness, I fear, this desire to seize a kettle and shriek.
A situational snapshot: When a boat comes in, we greet it. We escort men to a stopgap place—a cinema, a church, a factory—and feed them whatever we have on hand: sausage rolls, meat pies, biscuits, cakes, bread, boiled eggs, along with great quantities of tea, coffee, milk, hot cocoa. Then the lads “fall out” as they are, often asleep with food in hand, and we women push them bodily into lines, and remove their battered equipment, hats, and boots, and socks. Their feet are in a pitiable state, and the socks are soaked with blood; we take the socks outside to wash them, and bring them back to lay over their boots to dry.
Some women weep when we wash the socks, and I let them weep for me; some of us are fated to show a strong face, and thus inspire others to constancy and courage. Dear Lord, how hard it is at times, when I scrub the blood from my nail beds.
But you mustn’t think all is sodden and weepy! Dear me, it is not the case. There is great laughter, and good chaos, and all manner of joking, with a blanket of jubilant relief upon all, and sometimes unexpected delight. Just hear what happened this morning: I led a stupefied group of five or six to a spot in the barn, filled their hands with food and their heads with soothing declarations of comfort, and I was about to run off for the next lot, when one of them said, quite surprised:
“It’s not the Shrew, is it?”
I discovered beneath the grime and the stubble, “Danny Morgan!” I thoroughly sized him up and said, “Well, you’ve gone and made something of yourself. There’s a pleasant surprise. Your parents must be shocked.”
Said he with a bonny grin: “It’s the Shrew, all right. Lads! My teacher from West Kirby!”
Oh, it was grand.
How good it is to be here.
There is a banner hanging in the barn. I’ve seen many like it in town, and I am told they line the rails so the boys can see them on their way home. There are many versions, and this one says: WELL DONE, BEF! Well, I happened to overhear one of them as he stood staring at the banner. Said he, quite loudly, and with angry surprise: “Well done? What have we bloody done?”
It provoked me to quick thought.
You see, I saw it all in a moment, the curious reason why some looked so deeply dejected and even fearful as they came upon land, as if waiting for the back hand of a looming nasty old nanny.
I immediately went to this fellow’s side. Said I: “Well, you have bloody well come home, and you will bloody well go back, so that banner is bloody good enough for me and for everyone else. We are bloody glad you are home, and if our gladness erupts in ways that you think are bloody inappropriate, then you must bear with us for a time as bloody old well-meaning fools.” Now note: you are well accustomed to the fact that in my day-to-day discourse, I refrain from common language. I felt compelled to its use so that this young man, by the juxtaposition of vulgar commonality and my serene aged countenance, would be startled into a better state of mind. It was a tactical move, and worked splendidly. The lad smiled most brilliantly, threw an arm around me, and said, “Thank you, mum.” I said, “Welcome home, boy. I’m glad you’re here.” (Drat the spots. Forgive them.)
A destroyer is in. I am wanted. Must go.
Bemused with f
atigue and having the time of my life, yours affectionately,
The Shrew
P.S. I do hope all is well. Please mend quickly.
P.P.S. There you are in all your ordinary living, and you are called upon to do something marvelous.
P.P.P.S. Do I not see answered prayers before my eyes, in every sense that prayers can be answered? To a great degree, we are the answer, in hurried organization, in every sandwich made, every cup of tea thrust into a weary hand—so pray, my dear, pray. Pray for our sustaining, pray for theirs. Pray to kick things out of the way and get this army home, for it works; before my eyes it works. Don’t mind the spots. Must go. Loads love. Shrew.
Clare folded the letter.
Acutely aware of the historicity. Marvelous to behold.
Well.
I’m not beholding historicity. I’m not in a barn; I’m not welcoming them home. I’m not called upon to do something marvelous. I’m not even boiling eggs. Here I rot, “like a dead daisy!”
She snatched a pillow and hurled it at the vase of wilting daisies. It sailed off the table and crashed to the floor. She pulled another pillow over her face, and burst into tears. I’m not taking care of the Shrew! I’m not convincing a soldier of his worth! Worst of all, I am not sailing Maggie to fetch them! She rots at her berth, same as I!
“I can’t even get up to clean a mess I’ve made,” she wailed, and sobbed like a child.
She heard the sound of broken glass scraped together.
“It’s all right, I’ve got it,” came a pleasant voice.
She froze.
She pulled aside the pillow and didn’t see anyone. Tried to sit up, couldn’t. She hadn’t had a look under the bandages yet, but good heavens, the incision on her stomach felt a foot wide.
“Hello?”
“Good to see you again, Miss Childs. I hear you’re doing much better.” Father Fitzpatrick rose from the end of the bed and waved a fistful of wilted daisies. “They make a nice little broom.” He looked about and spotted a trash bin.
While he finished cleaning up the mess, she hastily cleaned herself up, snatching tissues, wiping her face, blowing her nose.
