Clydesiders at War

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m sure everybody in Springburn felt terrible about that.’

  ‘No’ everybody, hen. Erchie telt me some ignorant rascals had broke their shop windows.’

  ‘That’s awful. As if the poor souls haven’t enough to worry them.’

  ‘Aye, ah know. An’ them wi’ a son in the army. Ah wonder how he’ll feel when he finds out his mammy an’ daddy have been interned.’

  Teresa filled the kettle and put it on the fire. ‘You’d think the authorities would have better things to do than arrest a decent Italian couple like that.’

  ‘Aye, it’s a bloody disgrace. Dear knows when ah’ll get a decent ice cream wafer again.’

  13

  Belgium had been overrun. Now France was being battered into submission. The British army was retreating, trying to make for the sea, and it had been like walking through hell. Villages and towns were bombed. The terrible stench of death and smoke from burning lorries hung over everything. Injured horses struggling to stand up had to be finished off with rifles. For a time, in order to get past the slow moving civilians, soldiers took to the fields and so when the German aircraft attacked, it was mostly the refugees they hit. Horses, carts, and people were being blown to bits, pieces flying everywhere.

  Now the army was trapped in a narrow strip of land that was choked with refugees. Malcy and many of his fellow soldiers, including Joe and Pete, kept taking cover in the nearest ditch but there was always somebody shouting, ‘Get a move on. Get a move on. That way. Keep moving.’

  German aircraft swooped and dived from the brilliant blue of the French sky. Machine guns chattered and plumes of earth made their deadly progress along the road until they met the churning mass of humanity. Men, women and children huddled together, while at the same time desperately trying to keep moving along. Some were pushing bicycles heaped with belongings, some shuffled along carrying loads on their backs, others were pushing hand carts. There were innumerable horses and carts all piled high with family possessions. Children plodded along at the side of the road, old people collapsed with exhaustion and others struggled to lift them on top of a cart.

  Malcy felt sick as he watched machine gun bullets rake over the lines of helpless, terrified people. He didn’t know where the refugees were going. He doubted if they knew themselves, but they were moving in the opposite direction from the army who were retreating to Dunkirk. Already Malcy, Joe, Pete and the others had trudged for miles across country until they were in a kind of trance, dazed with fatigue caused by lack of sleep. Their faces were taut with exhaustion and fear, the soles of their boots had completely worn through and their feet were bleeding. They could only hobble very slowly and painfully. The broken flesh absorbed the dust of the road, forming a skin that cracked and recracked as they trudged on, leaving tiny crimson flowers on the grey dust as they passed.

  While they were in the ditch, Malcy said, ‘By God, if I ever get back home to Glasgow, I’ll count my blessings. Just to be back in that place’ll be enough for me. I won’t care about bloody money, or anything else. Just to get back to Glasgow in one piece, that’s all I ask.’

  ‘Me too,’ Pete agreed, ‘and see if Bridget starts wittering on about her precious china tea cups or stupid ornaments, I’ll break them over her empty head.’

  ‘Fuckin’ right,’ Joe fervently agreed. ‘See Euphemia and her fuckin’ floor polish! I’ll tell her where to shove it.’

  Malcy wanted to laugh but hadn’t the energy. He kept fading into a hazy dream world. The only thing that saved him from floating into complete unconsciousness was the agonising pain in his feet. Once again, during a lull in the bombing and shooting, they struggled from the ditch onto the road and followed other ragged soldiers. As they got nearer to Dunkirk, they saw more and more discarded equipment cluttering either side of the road.

  Eventually they were forced to walk in single file. They shambled painfully across two canal bridges and at last came out on the dunes.

  ‘Christ!’ Malcy said. ‘What chance to you think we’ve got here?’

  All the sea front buildings had been bombed and miles of white sand in both directions were littered with abandoned vehicles like huge, dead insects. The bodies of soldiers lay scattered around and vast numbers of troops were huddled in the dunes, while queues snaked over the sand. German fighters were strafing the beaches, seemingly unmolested by the RAF, and every now and again the queues of soldiers scattered as the Messerschmitts flew low over the top of them.

  Malcy and the others joined the nearest queue. Despite British and French ships being sunk, the evacuation went on. The next day, more small boats appeared manned by fishermen, lifeboatmen and almost anybody else with any experience of handling boats. There were pleasure craft that without doubt had never ventured anywhere near as far from home. They had certainly never crossed the Channel before. Nor had many of the civilian volunteers who were manning them.

  The next day the sea was flat calm with a dense sea fog and the bigger ships were hardly troubled by the Luftwaffe, while the smaller craft were busy trying to lift men off the beaches.

  Malcy and the others were still in a long queue that stretched across the beach and into the sea. They had waited for endless hours, trying to ignore the floating corpses that gently nudged the waiting boats as if, even in death, they were trying to escape the beaches of Dunkirk. Ahead of him, Malcy saw a small boat coming in. A crowd of men all tried to clamber aboard on one side and tipped the boat over. It was a scene that Malcy had already witnessed many times that day. As these desperate, overladen soldiers sank beneath the waves, other small boats, all with soldiers cramming the decks, headed out to sea. After their terrible experiences on the beaches, the exhausted survivors were just glad to be moving out into deeper water and the relative safety of the bigger ships

  Malcy, Joe and Pete eventually found themselves wading out neck-deep into the sea, before being pulled on board one of the smaller craft. In no time they were being transferred onto a British destroyer and were on their way across the Channel.

  As soon as they were safely on board, most of the men collapsed. Malcy lay on the deck, unable to cope with the enormous relief he felt. He was ashamed of the tears flooding down over his face and salting his lips, but he couldn’t stop them.

  He knew the ship could be bombed. Messerschmitt 110 fighter bombers and the dreaded Stuka dive bombers were still flashing about in the sky. Joe crawled alongside him. ‘It’s OK, mate. We’re going to make it. Glasgow here we come.’

  Malcy heard himself give a feeble laugh. ‘Aye, right.’ He could barely make out Joe’s rugged, dirt-streaked face topped with lank, black hair. A vague recollection came to him of Joe helping him, half dragging him, along the road towards Dunkirk. He remembered too a man lying by the side of the road. Both of his legs had been blown off. He had been blinded in one eye and he was slowly dying in agony. Joe had killed him—shot him through the back of the head. Nobody else could bring themselves to do it.

  Pete joined them. He was dragging himself along the deck on his hands and knees. ‘See when I get back. The first thing I’ll have is a double Johnny Walker.’

  ‘They’ll maybe no’ have any, Pete. It’s England, no’ Scotland, we’re goin’ to.’

  ‘Och, every civilised country has Johnny Walker.’

  ‘That’s right, but as I said, it’s England they’re takin’ us to.’

  Malcy managed a weak laugh. ‘Watch what you’re saying, Joe. Some of these English sailors might chuck us overboard.’

  ‘We’ll surely get some leave after this,’ Joe said. ‘Then it’s Glasgow here we come, eh?’

  ‘Aye.’ Malcy took a deep determined breath in an effort to stop another gush of tears. He had no one to go back to. Still, as long as he got back. There was always the Gourlays. They had never blamed him for Charlotte’s death. On the contrary, they had shown him nothing but sympathy. Even Wincey had been all right in the end. He clung to the thought of Springburn and the Gourlays�
�� house on the Balgrayhill.

  ‘I’ll get in touch with the Gourlays,’ he said out loud.

  Joe said, ‘The very thing. And if you can’t go there, Malcy, you can always come to my place.’

  Pete joined in. ‘You’ll be welcome to stay with me and Bridget.’

  ‘Great, thanks. But I expect the Gourlays will want to put me up for a wee while anyway.’

  It was then that Joe shouted, ‘My God, look at that.’ The air to the east was seething with German aircraft—bombers, with their fighter escort high above them. They watched as dive bombers peeled off towards the evacuation fleet and the hundreds of smaller civilian boats. The destroyer they were on tore through the water at full speed, trying to evade the Stukas attacking it from different directions.

  ‘Oh no,’ Malcy thought, ‘please God, no.’

  The ear-splitting shriek of the Stuka filled their world. Then they saw the dark cruciform shape of the plane flash past the bridge. Everything now seemed to be happening in slow motion. A huge yellow bomb tumbled from its rack under the fuselage of the bomber. Another bomb scored a direct hit on the side of the ship. Water cascaded over the deck, the ship shuddered and slowly started to lean further and further, the deck canting over at a steep angle. Yet another bomb exploded with shattering force deep within the ship. On the signal deck, the coxswain bellowed, ‘Abandon ship!’

  Pete said, ‘Oh Christ. Jesus Christ.’

  Malcy tried to struggle up.

  Joe said, ‘There’s a ship coming alongside. Come on, boys, we’ve still got a chance.’

  Ships were sinking all around. They could see other destroyers going down. But they weren’t quick enough to get onto the ship that had come alongside. Anyway, one of the sailors shouted that they were only taking wounded on board. As they watched the ship move away, they saw a bomb go straight down its funnel and blow the whole vessel sky high. When the smoke cleared, they saw the crew of that ship were now in the water, along with survivors from several other ships—men who only moments earlier they had been trying to save.

  Everywhere, men were floundering around in the oil-covered water, screaming and yelling. A couple of sailors cut a life raft clear and Joe, Malcy and Pete were lowered into it. The sailors—who were wearing cork life jackets—jumped into the water, hung onto the sides of the raft and paddled slowly away from the sinking destroyer. Only a few minutes later, two Messerschmitts swooped down straight at them. Bullets and cannon shells tore through the water, killing the two sailors in an instant. As their bodies floated aimlessly away, the three soldiers huddled together in the bottom of the raft.

  Malcy opened his eyes for a second, only to see the fighters turning once more, closing in for the kill. ‘Oh no,’ he thought. ‘Oh please, God, no.’

  14

  Virginia had invited the Gourlays, more to please Wincey than anything else. She didn’t mind Teresa, or Erchie, or Granny. But the girls were a bit tiresome. It was arranged they would come for afternoon tea on Sunday. As it turned out, Granny couldn’t come and Erchie had to stay and look after her, so it was just Teresa, the Gourlay girls, and Wincey.

  Florence and the twins looked as if they were wearing brand new outfits. Wincey looked very smart too, but business-like in her black suit and crisp white blouse. Florence’s tip-tilted face was framed by an off-the-face halo hat. Her dark blue coat and paler blue dress had square padded shoulders. The twins each wore an ensemble of skirt, jacket and coat.

  They were shown into the sitting room. It was a comfortable room with an Axminster carpet and gold covered chairs and sofas. Tasselled curtains draped the tall windows.

  Florence and the twins gasped in undisguised admiration.

  ‘Do sit down and make yourselves at home,’ Virginia told everyone.

  Nicholas appeared for a few minutes to say hello, then excused himself. He had to go out to tend his vegetable garden. The back garden at Kirklee Terrace had become a blessing. Vegetables, like everything else, were scarce, some were unobtainable, and the government were telling people to grow their own wherever possible.

  A tea trolley was set ready and Virginia began pouring the tea. ‘It gets so irritating, doesn’t it?’ she said to Teresa. ‘So many government posters and pamphlets telling us what we must or must not do. The other day, on my way to the hospital, I spotted forty-eight posters telling people things like “Eat wholemeal bread”, “Don’t waste food”, “Keep your children in the country”.

  ‘Well, I’d have second thoughts about that after what happened to Mrs McGregor’s youngest. Thank you, dear,’ Teresa said.

  ‘Oh, I know. Wincey told me. Wasn’t that awful?’

  Florence said, neatly crossing her legs, ‘I saw one poster which told you how to help build a plane and to fall in with the fire bomb fighters, whatever that meant.’

  ‘And of course,’ Virginia sighed, ‘newspapers, magazines and the wireless are endless founts of wisdom. I keep thinking, when will it ever end? I sometimes feel quite worn out with it all—so many regulations and instructions.’

  Wincey helped Virginia by passing round a plate of sandwiches.

  ‘How do you manage this big house, dear,’ Teresa asked, ‘and you out working?’

  ‘I miss my housekeeper but I’m lucky. At least I’ve got a cleaning lady. She’s elderly and only comes in for two hours a week but she does manage to do the washing and ironing. And she runs the carpet sweeper over the carpets.’

  ‘Your hall, of course, doesn’t need a carpet. Marble,’ Florence’s voice dropped with awe, ‘like a palace. I do admire this carpet, Mrs Cartwright. What a beautiful rich colour! And so soft under foot. I have a very nice carpet in my front room. Not as expensive as this one, no doubt, but very nice all the same. You must come and visit Eddie and me. Come one evening for supper so that Eddie would be in.’

  ‘That would be very nice. Thank you, Florence, and please, just call me Virginia.’

  ‘Virginia.’ Florence put her cup and saucer back on the trolley and immediately fumbled in her handbag. ‘Let’s consult our diaries and make a date.’

  Teresa looked embarrassed. ‘For goodness sake, Florence,’

  Wincey said. ‘At least give Mother time to finish her tea.’

  ‘Oh.’ Florence looked disappointed. ‘Oh, all right then.’

  Euphemia said, ‘Bridget and I live in Dumbarton Road. Just room and kitchens, but I believe you once lived in a room and kitchen, so you’ll know it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve got ours very nice. Our front room has a carpet as well.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Bridget earnestly nodded. ‘Hers is more reddish and mine is more bluey, although it does have some red in it.’

  Virginia tried to look interested.

  ‘And,’ Bridget went on proudly, ‘I’ve got a lovely china tea set.’

  Florence said, ‘I think you’ll like my art deco table wear. Genuine art deco,’ she repeated the phrase in order to make absolutely sure that Virginia understood the importance of it.

  Virginia managed to appear suitably impressed.

  ‘Have a fruit scone,’ Wincey urged, knowing that Florence would be too lady-like to speak with her mouth full.

  Teresa said, ‘Did you bake the scones yourself, Virginia?’

  ‘Oh no, I’ve barely enough time these days to cook dinner, far less bake anything. Especially after having to wait in endless queues. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘Oh, I do, I do, dear, but it’s the shortage of cigarettes that’s upsetting Erchie. He always enjoyed his Woodbine so much. I feel really sorry for him. He get so nervy without his smoke.’

  ‘I’m quite friendly with our local newsagent. I’ll try to get an occasional packet from him, and Erchie will be welcome to it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s awfully kind of you, Virginia, and I know it’ll cheer Erchie up.’

  Wincey said, ‘Robert has started to smoke. He gets them issued from the Navy. He’ll probably get rum as well—but I think that’s only when they’re a
t sea.’

  ‘Does he like it?’ Euphemia asked.

  ‘What? The rum?’

  ‘No, silly, the Navy.’

  ‘I think so, but he doesn’t talk much about it and we haven’t been seeing so much of each other lately. He’s been posted down south somewhere. Robert says things are going from bad to worse in France, and as many ships as possible are needed to go across the Channel. But he’s not supposed to talk about it, or even say where he’s going, so I don’t know exactly what’s happening.’

  Virginia sighed. ‘Nicholas says our troops are retreating and trying to make for the coast. It’s turning into a very dangerous situation. If the Germans reach the coast, what’s to prevent them coming over here?’

  ‘Oh!’ Bridget’s plump face tightened with anxiety. ‘I hope Pete’s all right.’

  ‘And my Joe,’ Euphemia said.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they will be, dear,’ Teresa comforted. ‘As far as I understand it, the battle’s over. Our lads can’t hold the Germans back any longer—they’re just trying to get away now. They’ll be home soon. That’s why extra ships are needed—to bring our boys safely back home.’

  ‘Do you really think so, Mammy?’ In her anxiety Euphemia forgot to use the more polite ‘Mother’. ‘They’ll come back safe?’

  ‘Of course, dear. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  Virginia felt guilty at upsetting the girls. At the same time, it seemed a bit foolish of them to be hiding their heads in the sand, or in their precious houses. The war news was not good. It didn’t look as if everything was going to be all right at all. Richard had recently been moved to an RAF station down south, and she felt increasingly anxious about him. In a way, she was glad that she had such a lot to do. It kept her from thinking too much about Richard and the danger he was in. Eventually Teresa said, ‘Let me help you with the washing up, Virginia.’