by Bali Rai
Only, that was not entirely true. And I would learn as much once we finally reached Dunkirk itself.
I left Baba and the others untethered by a thick oak tree. They stood still for a moment, and then began to walk towards me.
“No, no,” I told them. “This is where your journey ends, brothers. Stay.”
But they were mules, not dogs, and they did not listen to my command. Instead, they formed a line, with Baba at its head, and did what they always did.
“Please!” I said, placing my forehead against Baba’s warm and prickly snout. “We cannot take you, my friends. I am sorry.”
A civilian family happened to trudge past. A father, a mother and two young sons, each of them weighed down with all that was left of their possessions. I gestured to the mules.
“Take them!” I said.
The father, short and strong, and with a red face, gave me a quizzical look.
“Je ne comprends pas,” he said, and again, I understood without knowing the words.
“They are yours,” I said, gesturing to the mules.
“What is?” asked the mother in heavily accented English. She stood three inches taller than her husband, her face worn by stress and fear. One of her boys held onto her dress and eyed me with fascination.
I took Baba’s rope and led my friend to her.
“Please,” I said, handing her the rope. “He is yours.”
I pointed to Baba, and then to the women.
“Yours, madam…”
Suddenly she understood, and her features exploded with gratitude.
“Oh, merci, monsieur!” she said to me. “Merci!”
I shrugged and patted Baba on his snout.
“Goodbye friend,” I whispered, and in my head I was addressing my grandfather too. “Perhaps we will meet again, down the road somewhere?”
As I left them there, Baba stood and brayed silently, and my heart broke. I wiped away tears and plodded back to the main road.
10
Dunkirk was decimated. I do not know what I expected, but what we found was a vision from Hell. Thousands of troops walked two abreast, towards the coast. A snaking line of ragged and malnourished soldiers and support staff, all of them anxiously awaiting an unknown fate, every face weathered and filthy.
In the distance, I heard guns. German troops were shelling the area all around us, which meant that they were closer than I had feared. Captain Ashdown had said our force was a quarter of a million strong. Were all of us caught here, I wondered. Outflanked and trapped by an enemy that seemed relentless and advanced with lightning speed? With our backs to the sea, were we simply awaiting the finality of death’s touch?
“Jesus Christ!” Captain Morrow exclaimed. “This is insanity!”
Captain Ashdown merely shrugged.
“Let’s just get on,” he insisted.
The road we marched along was dotted with fallen comrades and civilians. To our left was a single-storey row of warehouses, bombed out and smouldering. To the right, and further along, a senior British officer urged everyone forward.
“Keep those spirits up, chaps!” he said. “Soon be over!”
His uniform was pristine – not a single mark upon it. I wondered if he had seen any action at all and doubted it. He looked like he’d stepped from an officer’s club in Bombay.
“Come along now!”
As we approached him, he raised an eyebrow and called Captains Ashdown and Morrow across. Behind him, sat the ruins of a military truck. It had fallen to one side, its tarpaulin load cover burnt away, revealing only a charred frame. A couple of soldiers were dragging bodies clear, rags tied over their mouths and noses. More casualties lay around the vehicle, covered in jackets and blankets.
“Can you see them, brother?” Mush asked beside me. “So many dead.”
Sadiq was with us, and he pointed towards a taller building on the left. It had also been bombed, the windows blown out. Thick grey smoke poured from the roofline.
“This was recent,” said Sadiq. “Keep your wits about you. We have no weapons and no cover. We are an easy target for the Germans.”
I turned to check on Captain Ashdown and found him remonstrating with the senior officer.
“What now?” I asked.
“Huh?” said Mush.
I pointed in the captain’s direction.
“Who knows what they talk about?” Mush replied. “Just more white men deciding our future for us.”
“Captain Ashdown is as Indian as any of us,” I said. “He is not like some of the others.”
Both Mush and Sadiq shook their heads.
“This is not our fight,” said Sadiq. “This is about one white man fighting with another, and both have enslaved people just like us. Wake up, boy!”
But that was too simplistic, and I told them so.
“That may be true,” I replied, “but we must still defend ourselves and our country. Do you think Hitler will stop at Europe? He has signed an agreement with the Japanese Emperor, and if we are not careful, they will overrun India too.”
“But that means nothing here!” said Sadiq. “We are not defending India. We are thousands of miles away, running like frightened dogs!”
I thought of my grandfather and his words.
“We will fight another day,” I told them. “There is no shame in running to survive. What good are we to anyone if we die?”
I looked Mush in the eyes, hoping he’d remember what he said about surviving for the sake of his wife and children.
“Weasel words,” said Sadiq. “This is what happens if you spend your time speaking in English with your masters.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly angered.
“You have become confused, boy,” Sadiq continued. “You think you are special to them, because of your language skills.”
“No,” I countered. “You are mistaken.”
Sadiq sneered, and in that moment, he reminded me of Sergeant Buckingham – full of rage and hatred. Perhaps the war had already beaten both of them.
“You are no better than us!” Sadiq spat.
“But, I don’t think of myself that way!” I insisted.
“Then why do you parrot Captain Ashdown?” he asked. “Repeating the same tired old lies about this shameful retreat?”
I shook my head.
“Because the Captain is right,” I told him. “Because unless we run, we will die. It is called pragmatism, Sadiq.”
“It is cowardice,” Sadiq quickly replied. “And you, you are a white man’s tool and nothing more…”
I turned away, stung by his accusations and angered too. This was no time to argue amongst ourselves. We needed to stick together. Anything less would see us facing dire consequences.
“I wish the two of you would shut your mouths!” Mush told us. “Whining like children. Who cares about right and wrong now? Let us deal with what Allah has put before us.”
Sadiq lit a cigarette and turned away from us.
“Imbecile!” said Mush. “And you, why did you antagonise the fool?”
I shrugged.
“Because I am not what he says,” I replied. “And because I learned long ago that bullies must never be allowed to prosper.”
“Oh, be quiet!” said Mush. “As if we haven’t enough to contend with.”
A while later, Captain Ashdown told us to rest. We stood in a once pretty square, one side of it completely flattened. A dry fountain stood at the centre, surrounded by stone steps. Some soldiers were resting there, one of them having interlocked three rifles, so that they stood facing upwards without falling. He lay on his back, using his pack for a pillow and reading an English newspaper. Beside him, several of his colleagues napped. A lone officer sat ten yards from them, dipping his razor into a tin cup and shaving his cheeks whilst looking at a compact mirror.
“Looks like we’ve arrived then,” said Mush. “Let’s see what happens now.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Mush
smoothed his moustache, as we sat on the steps of a once grand hotel, its frontage tattered and ruined, and contents long since looted.
“Look around,” he told me. “Can you sense any urgency? Is there any sort of plan here?”
He was right. No one seemed to be in absolute command. No one was going around the troops, organising and issuing orders. We had found ourselves in a lull, in the dreaded doldrums that I had read of in my favourite pirate stories as child. There was no wind in our sails, and no course for us to navigate. We were becalmed, and it felt strange and unreal.
And, as my pirate stories had taught me, even when becalmed, storms were never very far away.
11
My mother’s best friend was a Sikh. A woman whose family lived beside ours. On Sunday mornings, the two of them would bake paratha together – thick or doubled chapattis stuffed with spiced onions and potatoes, or various fresh herbs. Our families would gather at each house alternately, where my grandfather and his counterpart, Mr Singh, would share stories of the Great War and their time in Europe.
The table would be laden with piles of fresh butter, paratha, tangy yoghurt and pickles of all kinds, and spicy, sugary tea made from water buffalo milk. Most Sundays I would be awakened by the aroma, and my stomach would ache until I took my first bite. I’d join my neighbours’ children, and we would feast until our bellies came close to bursting. Then we’d lie down and chatter or read stories until we had digested enough to play outdoors.
As I opened my eyes, I could almost smell and taste those Sunday mornings, now so far away that they felt like another lifetime. Mush dozed beside me, dribbling onto his round-necked, buttoned collar. We can’t have slept long but it was enough for me to dream of home comforts. As I sat up, Mush began to stir and then opened his eyes.
“I’ve been dreaming of mangoes,” he sleepily told me. “Big, fat, juicy mangoes dripping like presents from Paradise.”
I grinned.
“Parathas for me,” I told him. “Sunday mornings and parathas.”
He sat too and gestured towards the white soldiers.
“I wonder what they miss?” he said.
“Who knows?” I replied. “But they are just like us. No more or less men than us.”
I thought about Sadiq’s cruel words earlier.
“Do you think I’m as Sadiq said?” I asked.
Mush shook his head.
“You are simply different,” he replied. “And why not? We can’t all be the same, with the same ideas about the world. I just want to go home. I don’t care who or what we fight for, or why. I just want to see Rawalpindi again.”
“Me too,” I told him. “But I also want to visit England, and to see more of France too.”
Mush grimaced at the idea.
“England, yes,” he said. “But I have had enough of France for now. Perhaps, when this is over, I will return to see more. All France has given me is fear and anxiety, and nightmares.”
Several pockets of fellow muleteers surrounded us, all of them either napping, or busy chatting and waiting for something to unfold. The British soldiers did the same, killing time, waiting for orders from somewhere.
“Have you seen Captain Ashdown?” asked Mush.
“How?” I asked. “I’ve been asleep, just like you.”
“I wonder where he has gone?” said Mush. “Perhaps the officers have better places to be – warm and dry with tea and cake, perhaps?”
“We should try and find some food,” I told him. “Maybe some of the shops have supplies.”
We stood and dusted ourselves down, before setting off around the square. Every building lay deserted, with soldiers and civilians lying everywhere, or sitting and playing with dice and cards, or reading books and newspapers. Some of the British greeted us with warmth, and I returned their kindness, but many others scowled as Mush and I passed them by. Some drank from wine bottles and tankards, and the air seemed tense with restlessness. Tables and chairs had been overturned, and windows smashed with rocks, rather than blown out by explosions.
“Ey up!” shouted one skinny young man from outside a bakery. “It’s Gunga Din and his servant, lads!”
I did not understand the insult, only that it was one, and Mush began to bristle in anger.
“Look at him,” he said, clenching his massive fists. “Skin and bones, and those wretched teeth. I should slap him until he cries!”
“No,” I said. “We are outnumbered. Besides, he is just one fool. Ignore him.”
It soon became clear that the shops had been emptied of anything useful. There was no food, no water, nor any other basics like soap or toothpaste, or razors even.
“Have we got anything at all?” asked Mush.
I found a lump of hardtack biscuit and a stick of sugar candy in my pocket.
“I was saving these,” I told him. “But you are free to have them.”
As Mush took my offerings, we turned off the square, past some scared civilians, and into a narrow and cobbled lane. Further along, a young boy saw us approaching and smiled.
“Hello soldiers,” he said in a thick French accent. “You have something for me?”
“No, boy,” I told him. “We are looking for food and water.”
The boy pulled a face, said something in French and ran off, eager to find more soldiers no doubt.
“Shall we go back?” asked Mush. “This is pointless.”
“We’re just sitting around,” I told him. “Let’s explore a little.”
We continued walking around the lanes that led from the square, but always within sight of it. At some point an order would come, and I wanted to be ready. We passed many little doorways, and more empty shops and cafes, and then happened upon a bar where several British soldiers were sitting, drinking.
“Have a drink, lads!” said one of them. “The Frenchies won’t be needing it. Just help yourselves – we have!”
I was about to explain that we were Muslims but stopped short. Something in the demeanour of these men, and the condition of the bar itself made me wary.
“Let’s go,” I said to Mush.
“Why?” he asked.
“Look at the building,” I told him. “They’ve smashed the door in and looted it. And there is an unconscious civilian on the floor, just inside the entrance.”
Mush nodded when he saw what I had seen.
“This is not right,” I continued. “We should not be looting from our allies – certainly not civilians. We are supposed to be helping them.”
Mush nodded again.
“Agreed,” he said. “Let’s go.”
As we hurried away, I heard raucous laughter and then glass breaking and wood splintering.
“What are those idiots doing?” said Mush, as we re-entered the square.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I don’t want any part of it.”
Moments later, a group of officers and soldiers appeared and ran down the lane we had just left. I heard shouting and yelling, whistles blowing and more barked orders. I had witnessed several riots in Rawalpindi, and this felt the same.
“Right, men!” I heard Captain Morrow call. “Fall in at once!”
As we assembled, more officers and a French military police unit ran towards the trouble, truncheons drawn and whistles at the ready.
“This will end badly,” said Mush. “You wait and see.”
12
We reassembled in the square. In all, we were still four hundred strong, having miraculously lost no men on our travels. Companies 25 and 29 were also heading to Dunkirk, so I’d learned, and I wondered how they had fared since Marseille. Only one company from Force K-6 was not being evacuated. Company 22 had been redeployed to the Saar region instead, to help with the fight against the Germans, and I felt a pang of guilt when I thought of them engaged in battle whilst we fled.
Captain Ashdown appeared with Sergeant Buckingham and seemed shaken. His face was paler and his expression sombre, as though he had received bad news from Comm
and. Buckingham was the exact opposite, cheery and nonchalant despite our predicament. I struggled to understand why they showed such opposing moods.
“We will have orders very soon,” Captain Ashdown told us. “Until then, and in light of events nearby, we’re relocating to an area called Malo-les-Bains, just east of the town itself. We move out in five minutes.”
Someone called out to say that we were thirsty and hungry, and Sergeant Buckingham grew enraged.
“SILENCE!” he yelled. “INSUBORDINATION WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!”
I turned to Mush and whispered.
“He is always well lubricated,” I joked, and Mush smiled.
“Brother,” he said, “I bet he has alcohol coursing through his veins.”
Captain Ashdown held up a hand.
“I appreciate your hardship,” he told us. “I will arrange for some supplies soon. Until then salvage what you can, and drink and eat sparingly. It’s going to be a tough ride from here.”
Captain Morrow approached and whispered something in Ashdown’s ear, and then the two men seemed to argue. Yet again, I knew we were being kept in the dark. Something had happened whilst we were resting in the square, and I wanted to know what it was. Only, who could I ask?
A short while later, we filed out of the square and down another ruined street full of smouldering vehicles and bomb-damaged buildings. Here and there, frightened civilians appeared from doorways, but we did not stop for them. Besides, what could we offer them? We were as much refugees as they.
“HALT!” called Sergeant Buckingham. “Supply vehicles coming through!”
We stepped aside, allowing the trucks to pass by; two of them, both carrying oil drums. They reached a crossroads ahead of us and came to a stop. From somewhere to my left, anti-aircraft guns began to pound, and whistles were blown across the town. Suddenly, I heard engines droning, drawing in as we stood in the open.
“COVER!” I yelled before any of the officers could react.
Then I shouted again, only this time in Punjabi. The company scattered, taking refuge in already-destroyed buildings, as a German Heinkel bomber and two Stukas appeared to the north-east. The smaller Stukas were mobile and rapid and soon upon us, their machine guns strafing us with a seemingly unending round of bullets. I grabbed Mush and we made it inside a café, just as the ground we’d been standing on was torn apart. Several civilians attempted to dash across the street but were mown down by a truck. The driver slammed on his breaks but all too late, and he was killed by a direct hit.
