by Tracy Groot
“Milton?” Jamie said, looking about.
“Over here,” called Baylor. “Look, I’m vertical. Griggs and Milton have actually allowed me to stand.”
Milton said, “To the end persisting—”
“Safe arrive.” They looked in surprise at Curtis, who looked surprised himself.
“Oh dear,” Baylor said, his face gone pale. “I rather liked being horizontal. . . .”
“Oh, be a soldier,” said Griggs. “We can’t let anyone see you’re stretcher material, you moron.” His shoulder was under one of Baylor’s arms, Milton under the other with his arm securely about Baylor’s waist.
Balantine watched Baylor closely. “All right? Easy does it, lads. Take it slow.”
Jamie rubbed his face awake, got to his feet, and grabbed his knapsack. He grabbed Milton’s, too, and fell in.
As they came down from the dunes, it felt as though they’d fallen into their old retreat formation, Balantine out front and watching, the rest following behind. The only difference was that Griggs walked with Baylor and Milton, and Jamie walked with Curtis.
“Step carefully here, there’s a drop-off.” Balantine looked over his shoulder. “How’s he doing?”
“Griggs, you can let me walk,” Baylor complained. “I’m not even walking. You just wanted to be close to me.”
“You’re right. Easier to vomit on you.”
Jamie chuckled. Baylor was caught, somehow fittingly, between the man he liked least and the man he liked best—between Griggs, the born soldier who would’ve fit well with his old unit, and Milton, the locked-up and poetical and strange. One strong man and one wounded man, supporting another.
The three moved carefully along. Milton had to be on automatic pilot, drawing upon reserves made of stuff Jamie couldn’t imagine. Stuff he hoped was in him, too.
“I would like to have served under you, Captain Jacobs,” Jamie suddenly said aloud.
Milton’s head lifted a little. He’d heard, he understood, and Jamie just didn’t care when Griggs said, “I am going to vomit.”
It was far better up on the dunes. Here, the six were not the onlookers but part of the great seaweed continent, wide open to the skies.
Here on the flat beaches, there was no cover. Here the bombs fell heaviest, closer to the ships where the bombers concentrated their payloads. Here there was no burrowing in the sand—and since the sand was harder packed, the bombs created far more havoc.
They had just found a place to fall out, had just tossed down knapsacks and got Baylor settled in, when a naval rating came up to their group of fifty.
“Any 2nd Grenadiers?” he called. “Is there someone here from the 2nd Grenadiers artillery?”
“Over here!” Balantine raised his hand.
Strange, to remember everyone came from different units.
“Come with me. Any more of you?”
“Six of us!” said Balantine. The man waited until Griggs and Milton got Baylor back up, then beckoned them to follow. They headed for the eastern mole in the harbor.
Balantine turned and mouthed, “You’re all from the 2nd Grenadiers. Got it?”
The eastern breakwater of Dunkirk harbor was not built to hold thousands of men. It was flimsy and in some parts bombed, yet things were found to plug bombed holes, with duckboard laid over that, and so by some miracle in the incessant pounding it had taken over the past few days, it held.
The six followed the naval rating past hundreds of men, maybe a thousand, until they were on the quay itself, until they were on the flimsy breakwater where the wind came stronger and the waves tossed up water, until they stood next to a destroyer with rope ladders down the side and seamen up at top, calling down encouragement to men crawling up. The six glanced at each other, not understanding their luck, until a middle-aged man rushed forward.
“Balantine!” The man thrust out his hand. “Donnelly thought he saw you!”
“Captain Wellard!” Balantine’s face livened with joy, and he shook his hand heartily. “Good to see you, sir!”
Again, strange to feel this small separation from Balantine, to see him know someone that Jamie didn’t.
“The same, the same! Come, half our unit is aboard and below. Follow me.”
“Get moving, men!” An embarkation officer waved them on. “All the way to the end if you’re for the end. Let’s not bottleneck!”
“That’s us, we’re the ship at the end of the mole.”
They hurried along, passing two vessels tied up on the left, loading with men. Captain Wellard glanced back at the men following Balantine. His delight came down a bit. “Where’s Grayling? Where’s Portman?”
“Gone, sir.”
Any remaining delight disappeared, and his face took on a look Jamie was beginning to associate with Dunkirk. “Very sorry to hear it. The others?”
“Don’t know, sir. We were separated when the line broke through. These are my men, sir.” Balantine glanced back, taking them all in.
“Move it along!” a naval man called.
“She’s about to cast off,” said Wellard. “We must hurry.”
They passed six smaller craft docked and loading on the left, two rows of three abreast. Men clambered over the first two as a bridge to get to the last. How did they manage to navigate past those harbor wrecks? Some wrecks were partially submerged with bow or stern stuck in the air, some visible just feet below the surface. Jamie stared at the six boats as he passed. They must have very shallow drafts and skippers of incredible skill and luck. Lizzie Rose was not among them.
“Come on, men, move it!”
“Incoming!” someone cried.
“I hate that word,” Griggs said, refitting himself under Baylor’s arm. He said to Milton, “Look, you’re slowing us down! I’ve got him. Elliott, see to him.”
They hurried along the mole for the end destroyer, but the beckoning men on the ship’s deck suddenly disappeared as they dove for cover.
“Incoming!”
“Come on, men!” Balantine bellowed.
A high, whistling whine, a deadened second, and then a blinding flash, a concussive implosion . . .
Jamie fumbled for clarity, tried to get up, tried to get up . . .
. . . and a concert of destruction fell upon the breakwater.
A blinding deluge of shrapnel and water and foaming debris. You clear yourself, coughing, only to see lancing streaks and wheeling planes, only to see falling rectangles meet pier, ships, men, and sea, and the concert of destruction starts over again.
You clear yourself, coughing, get yourself up.
Jamie, back on his feet, reaching for Milton next to him. Griggs stumbling forward with Baylor, Balantine shoving Curtis forward, shouting them all on.
A rectangle fell, met the destroyer at the end of the mole. A great explosion, and then a groaning shriek of steel—the pier shuddered and buckled where the ship ground against it, crushing men caught on the rope ladder between.
The rush for the ship ceased. Jamie stood horrified, but not Griggs.
Griggs swung Baylor to the left, pushed him down into the first boat in a line of three tied to the pier. He reached for Milton next, pushed him down next to Baylor and turned for Balantine and Curtis, shouting them over. Balantine pulled a staring Curtis from the sight of the destroyer, which now listed heavily starboard and, engines roaring, metal shrieking, stern deck flaming, began to pull away from the mole.
Balantine shoved Curtis toward Griggs, then reached into a pile of men for Captain Wellard. Jamie came to help, and between them they dragged the dazed and bleeding man toward the boat where Griggs shoved off other men trying to board, some into the water, some into the next boat over.
A plane came strafing low, buzzing the curve of the breakwater.
Balantine collapsed with his captain, buckling Jamie’s knees, taking Jamie down.
A cry from Milton, and he climbed over men in the boat, past Griggs, who tried and failed to catch him back, past frantic men surging f
orward to come aboard. Griggs vanished, shouting, beneath them.
The Junkers 88 peeled off from the breakwater, soared in a roaring climb and came about in a smooth banking turn.
Balantine, get up, get up. Jamie shook him.
The Junkers 88 angled in and lined up low for another breakwater pass.
“Balantine!”
But Balantine was dead, beside his dead captain.
Milton came for Jamie, pulled him away from Balantine. He shouted something, but Jamie couldn’t hear over the roar of the oncoming Junkers. Milton righted Jamie’s helmet, seized his arm, and turned for the boat.
The plane roared strafing past, bullets rattling through the man-clad pier.
Milton went down, Jamie beside his captain.
Griggs fought through the frenzied press, shouting back for Curtis to mind Baylor. He used oncoming men to pull himself onto the pier, pulling some into the water, shoving others aside to get to where Elliott and Milton had gone down.
Balantine was gone; he’d seen that from the boat, gave him no more than a swift glance.
For a heartbeat Griggs stood over Milton and Elliott, then quickly knelt to check. Milton was gone. He checked Elliott, whose helmet bore a new bullet crease—Elliott’s eyes fluttered, and Griggs hauled him up.
“WHAT SHIP IS THIS?” said a man close by. “I want to know the name of the ship that will carry me home.”
“You’re on the HMS Wolsey, mate,” said a cheerful seaman. “She’s an old girl and she’s taken a beatin’. Might have to sit the next dance out, but she’s done us proud.”
Hundreds of soldiers covered every inch of the Wolsey’s deck. They sat on railings and ammunition lockers, they packed in tight, right up to the swivel line of the gun turrets. Many slept on each other, while others watched the skies for enemy action. Some kept to themselves, some swapped stories of perilous escapes.
They were two hours out from Dunkirk, no one in pursuit. Nothing exploding. All quiet.
Baylor was wedged between Griggs and Jamie. Curtis sat nearby.
They were no longer six. They were four.
None had spoken since coming aboard, since the little ship that Griggs had commandeered had ferried them out to a river barge, which then took them to the Wolsey, standing off a mile out. Griggs kept them together when a medic wanted to take Baylor below. Griggs made sure they all got a share of the tea that came around in helmets. Griggs repacked Baylor’s dressing.
“It’s all wrong,” Baylor said, voice soft, face stricken.
“I just wanted to get him home,” Jamie whispered.
He nearly did. Duty so nearly accomplished. He failed, and he’d never know anything more about this man. Never know the unit he came from, never have a sound conversation, never raise mugs in the pub. Captain Jacobs died in the Milton box.
“He wanted you to get home, and he did it,” said Griggs. “You were his mission, Elliott. Don’t take it from him.”
Jamie pulled his helmet low.
God towards thee hath done his part—do thine.
Jamie’s part was to get home. Why wasn’t it Milton’s part to live?
Why Milton, and why Balantine? Why not men who meant nothing to him? Why not Curtis, who seemed to fill a blank spot, as if he were just along for the ride? He glared at Curtis, but Curtis was silently crying, tears running down his face as he gazed south to Dunkirk.
“Balantine led from the front.” Baylor’s face was white and empty. “Somehow, Milton led from the back. The two who kept us together are gone.”
“I have something for you,” Jamie heard himself say.
He dug into the captain’s rucksack and came up with Paradise Lost.
It was the one thing in the world he wanted for his own, and he knew with all his heart Milton would’ve wanted it for him, and for a moment he gripped it hard. Then he handed it to Baylor, who took the book, turned it over in his hands, and looked off to sea, bleak as Curtis. At the moment it didn’t mean anything more than anything else.
It wasn’t any different from what Jamie felt. But he knew what the captain would do if he were here. He’d speak Milton.
What in us is dark, illumine. There’s a lot of dark.
“Baylor. I’m going to open a pub when this war is over.” He bit his lip, waited it out. “A man can come in who’s down on his luck, get a meal for free.”
And the vision came before him, illumined, illumined . . . illumined by the soft yellow glow of the great fireplace, details like Jamie had never seen.
“There’s a great fireplace, with a mantel made of an old barn beam. A beautiful wireless, top of the line, is at the end of the counter. On the wireless is King George, and I can hear him. He’s telling how a mighty force came back with Lord Gort, whipped Hitler and all his men. I see you across the room, Baylor, whole and strong. I see Griggs and Curtis, and we’re lifting our mugs. For Milton, for Balantine, and for Grayling. For two little girls I saw in a ditch. For all the men Milton lost. And for his wife, who lost him.”
He could see it in the golden glow of the fireplace and knew it was a true vision because the glow touched his heart and the pain lessened.
Baylor looked at the book. Turned it over in his hands.
“You should call it Milton’s Men,” Griggs said.
Jamie liked the sound of it. Then he looked at each one of them earnestly. “You have to be there. It’s not some dream. It’s real. You have to be there, every one, or I’ll find you and kick your arses.”
“I’ll be there,” said Curtis, wiping beneath his nose.
“Me, too,” said Baylor, gazing at the book.
“Then we have to promise to stay alive,” said Jamie. “We’ll be in Dover soon. We’ll get split up. We may not see each other for the whole of the war. I live in Bexley-on-the-Thames, up from Teddington Locks. That’s where Milton’s Men will be. Find me at Elliott’s Boatyard, if the pub’s not built yet. Now look me in the eye and give me a promise to come.”
“I promise,” Baylor said.
“Promise,” Curtis whispered.
Griggs was silent.
“Griggs,” Jamie prompted.
“I’ll not make a promise I can’t keep,” said Griggs. He looked Jamie straight on. “But if I’m alive . . . I’ll be there.”
Jamie put his head back and closed his eyes, and when he awoke, he was in Dover.
NINETEEN.
Nineteen little worlds saved.
Then ninety, and did William ever imagine to see the ketch take on so many? There on out he stopped trying for a precise count. It was impossible.
Then twenty—bombs came heavy on that one, they had to leave fast.
Eighty.
Ninety.
Twenty—another survivor pickup not five minutes back from the destroyer, when one of the Dutch scoots sank.
A day passed. Two days. On went Maggie Bright and her crew without pause.
Bombs fell, planes came strafing, magnetic mines blew holes in steel hulls, and all throughout this hell called war, the English Channel remained uncommonly calm. Little ships motored about less hampered by its usual chop, saving time, using less fuel. Maybe William did believe in God. He certainly believed in Mrs. Shrewsbury.
Ninety.
Seventy.
Seventy.
William carved the number of each ferried load on a piece of console trim. Clare wouldn’t mind, not this record of Maggie’s exploits.
They took on fuel and rations and water. At each load delivered, William wanted to crawl up the nets with the soldiers, he wanted to be done, he wanted out. He could summon neither hatred nor hope to keep going. He felt nothing at all. He simply wanted it to end and would not mind if a bomb answered all.
Did he ever imagine that one day, he would grow adept at timing the fall of an object the size of a suitcase, at knowing exactly when to lay her over hard to port or starboard, depending on the waves and the feel of the wind?
Forty.
Fifty.
&n
bsp; He had nothing left, and he knew it, yet he sat in the chair and motored round wrecks, said “Oops” if he glanced off another boat, or if another glanced off them. The crew of three could no longer speak, not to one another, not to oncoming or off-going men. Their eyes were red and grainy, their feet swollen; their bruises and small abrasions, numerous. Sea salt crusted their skin and stiffened their hair.
Smudge and Murray had the worst of it, hauling men in, pushing men up, jumping in the water if one fell. They loaded only from the lorry jetties now, to conserve strength in order to keep going at all. When they left a destroyer after delivering a load of men, Smudge and Murray lay down wherever they stood, in whatever the soldiers had left behind—oil, blood, vomit. They were asleep in seconds.
William helped when he dared leave the helm, usually when tied to a destroyer. But back and forth along the routes or at the lorry jetties or the pier in the harbor, he had all he could do to make sure Maggie didn’t run aground or hit other craft. He had a fending pole at his side, had to use it ceaselessly.
Clare, how are you healing? Hmm? All the infection go bye-bye?
Mrs. Shrewsbury, pray.
I cannot lose her, you see, she who will circumnavigate the world. She who holds high a picture.
By the by, I have nothing left. Pray.
You have your job, I have mine. Did I say that, or did you?
Eighty.
Ninety.
One hundred twenty. A bit tender on that one.
Ninety.
He watched his hands make the knife carve this last number onto the console. He watched his hands withdraw the knife, fold the knife, slip the knife into his pocket, because doing things like watching one’s hands kept one’s mind in step with one’s body, and this was important when one was losing one’s mind. Yet he’d barely had time to be satisfied with the accomplishment of pocketing one’s knife when shouts came from above, shouts from the men on the destroyer they had tied to, they were shouting down something dire, dear me, something important, he was to do something, they were frantic, they were waving him forward—he watched his hand move to power her up, but Maggie crashed into the destroyer.
