Dunkirk

by James Holland

  He sighed and briefly closed his eyes, but then with a splutter and a cough his engine died and Jackson was left gliding. After the constant deafening roar of the engine, there was now a startling silence, save for the wind whistling through the cockpit.

  ‘Damn it!’ he exclaimed again. Where on earth was he? Away to his left he could still faintly see the coast, but was that Allied or enemy land below? He glanced at his altimeter – eight hundred feet, too low to bail out.

  The Spitfire was losing height steadily. For several moments he sat there, unable to think clearly, but then realized there was only one option. He would have to crash-land somewhere. Sweat ran down his neck and his back. His free hand was shaking. Five hundred feet, the ground getting ever closer. To the north, he saw a town on a high promontory that stood out from the largely flat surrounding countryside, but before it the ground looked level enough. If he could just find a big enough field … but his sense of scale and proportion was warped by the height he was at. Below there were a couple of villages and then further to the south puffs of smoke – guns? – and suddenly a renewed sense of dread swept over him as he realized that even if he did survive he would probably find himself in the middle of a battle.

  ‘Please God,’ he said aloud, ‘if you’re out there. Help me.’ Banking the Spitfire, he lowered the flaps, praying he’d judged it correctly. Just three hundred feet now, the village away beneath his port wing, but there was a field, a lush grass field, and about as flat as he could hope for. At one end was a wood, and to the left a thick hedge and a barn, but it looked to be long enough. He hoped it was long enough.

  He pressed down the undercarriage lever, but nothing happened. The hydraulics must have been damaged. He cursed, but there was nothing for it: a belly-landing it would have to be. Checking the buckle on his Sutton harness and tightening the straps, he watched the ground loom towards him. Moments earlier he had thought he would die, then he’d thought he’d been spared. Now he wondered whether he would die after all, or be horribly maimed for life, or shot at the moment he clambered from his stricken aircraft. Over some trees, a hedge, grass rushing towards, and then CRACK …

  4

  THE RESCUE

  Private Hawke and the men of 1 Section had watched Pilot Officer Jackson’s dogfight in the skies above them from their position on an old farm at the southern edge of the village of Oxelaëre. Corporal McLaren had been following the action through his binoculars, standing at the window in the clapper-board windmill, which stood beside the barn, and providing a breathless commentary. They had all cheered when the Me 109 had plummeted into the ground a couple of miles away, and had then watched in silence as the Spitfire screamed out of the sky in a horrific spin. But then it had miraculously pulled level in the nick of time, although as it approached a field up ahead of them even McLaren had stopped talking, instead watching open-mouthed as it drifted down, its undercarriage still up.

  And then with a loud crash it hit the ground, slewed and eventually came to a halt.

  ‘He’s alive!’ called out McLaren a few moments later. ‘He just moved his arm.’ But then the pilot remained still, motionless, refusing to unstrap himself and get out.

  ‘What’s he doing, Corporal?’ asked Farrish, hurrying from one of the barns across the yard to the windmill.

  ‘I can’t see, sir. He doesn’t seem to be doing anything.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  McLaren strained to see. ‘I don’t think so, sir. Maybe he’s injured. Or concussed or something.’

  Lieutenant Farrish stood where he was a moment, then took a few steps up the wooden staircase that led into the windmill. Since they’d arrived at the farmstead a little under an hour earlier, more enemy artillery shells had been fired towards the town behind them, but in the last half hour mortar rounds had been directed towards the village and even towards the farm itself from the wood beyond. The roof of the main house had been hit. From the same direction, vehicles had been heard – the telltale squeak of tank tracks, the revving of engines. The enemy was not very far away – not very far at all. An attack was surely only a matter of time, and the Spitfire stood right between the two forces, between their small defensive position around the farm and the enemy massing in the woods beyond.

  ‘Has he moved again, Corporal?’ called out Farrish.

  ‘Not that I can see, sir,’ McLaren replied.

  ‘Let me have a look,’ said Farrish, climbing two more steps and taking out his own field glasses. From the open windmill door at the top of the wooden steps, Hawke strained his eyes to see any flicker of movement from the Spitfire. It stood, he guessed, about six hundred yards away – not in the field immediately in front of them, but in the one beyond, in the far corner.

  ‘Well, we can’t just leave him,’ muttered Farrish. He stroked his chin again, and then he added, as though thinking aloud, ‘and yet it’s not going to be easy getting him out with Jerry over there.’

  Hearing this, Hawke called down, ‘I’ll go, sir. I’ll go and get him.’

  Next to him, Hebden and Drummond looked at him in horror, but already Farrish had turned and now looked up at him. ‘You, Private? But I thought you were ill?’

  McLaren grinned. ‘I think that was dead Frenchmen and bully beef hash not quite mixing for Private Hawke, sir.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Farrish.

  ‘I’m fine now, sir. I’d like to volunteer, sir.’

  ‘Johnny,’ hissed Drummond, ‘what are you thinking? Don’t you know you never volunteer for anything?’

  Hawke ignored him. ‘Sir, please let me go and get him.’

  Farrish nodded. ‘All right, well done, Hawke. You’ll need a couple of others, though.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Hebden, standing beside Hawke at the windmill’s door.

  Behind him, Hawke heard Drummond sigh.

  ‘And me, sir,’ said Drummond. ‘I’ll go too.’

  ‘No,’ said a voice, and Hawke turned to see Spears striding across the yard. ‘I’ve done a similar kind of thing before, sir. I’ll go. Me and two others, preferably men with experience.’ He shot a glance at Hawke.

  ‘All right, Spears, you can lead, but take Hawke and Hebden – they put their hands up first.’

  Spears looked as though he were about to protest, then scratched his brow, sighed and said, ‘Very good, sir. Hawke and Hebden it is.’

  He called them down, shooting another angry glance at Hawke, and with a stick quickly drew a rough map in the dirt. ‘I think we can get to the field the aircraft’s in without being spotted. Here’s where we are,’ he said, marking the small rectangular outline of the farm. ‘We can crawl through the wheat in the field in front of us, then make the most of the hedges. At least he’s in the corner of the field, and beyond it looks to me like a small brook that cuts back across the front of the wood. There’s quite a lot of cover along it – some willows and shrubs and tall grass.’

  Farrish nodded. ‘All right. And we’ll get the Brens to cover you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, although I’ll take one of them.’

  ‘If you think you need it.’

  ‘Hopefully not, sir. But you never know.’ He threw away the stick. ‘Take your packs off,’ he said to Hawke and Hebden as he quickly headed up the steps of the windmill. ‘Webbing and ammo stays, but otherwise we want to be carrying as little as possible.’

  Hawke nodded and began fumbling at the canvas straps and buckles.

  ‘And make it snappy,’ added Spears as he took the Bren from Ibbotson. ‘We need to get that bloke out as quickly as we can.’ He hurried back down the steps, thrusting two curved Bren magazines at Hawke.

  Drummond took Hawke’s pack from him. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  Hawke nodded, took a deep breath and, clutching his rifle in his hand, followed Hebden and Spears out of the gate at the side of the farm.

  Half crouching, half running, they crossed a track and step
ped into the young, dark green corn and long grass at the edge of the field. Droplets of water from the previous night’s rain clung to the shoots, which then brushed off on to the serge of their battledress.

  Two mortar shells whined over and Hawke flinched. They landed wide of the farm, but then an artillery shell followed, screeching through the air and up to the town behind them, exploding with a dull crash.

  Spears glanced back. ‘Come on. Let’s keep going,’ he muttered.

  By continuing to half run in a crouch they managed to reach the far end of the first field. Spears stopped and raised a hand, cocked his head and listened, then set off again. Some of the shrubs and young trees dividing the two fields were high enough for them to stretch up and run freely, but as they neared the Spitfire, there was a gap of around thirty yards where there was no hedge or trees at all. Spears halted them again. For a moment they all listened. There was birdsong nearby and several crickets, but otherwise the air was strangely still.

  ‘Right,’ whispered Spears. ‘We’re going to have to crawl here. We’ll cut into the wheat for a few yards then get on our hands and knees. All right?’

  Hawke nodded. His mouth was dry and the nausea in his stomach had returned.

  Spears was off, and Hawke followed closely, with Hebden behind. Light, loose soil, freshly dampened by the rain, stuck to Hawke’s battledress, while water from the wheat clung to him as he slithered through the field. A rich, earthy smell filled his nose, clearing the stench of death and smoke that had been with him ever since Dead Horse Corner.

  They had nearly crossed the gap in the hedge, when from the woods, now just three hundred yards away, came a sudden and deafening eruption of mortar and machine-gun fire. Hawke pressed his face into the ground as mortars fizzed over towards the village and bullets zipped through trees and hedgerows away to their left, branches snapping as they did so.

  His heart pounding, he looked up and saw Spears already through the wheat and now beside a small oak at the corner of the field, frantically urging him and Hebden on. Wide-eyed, his mouth as dry as chalk, Hawke scrambled forward.

  ‘What were you waiting for?’ hissed Spears as more bursts of machine-gun fire sputtered from the woods.

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ said Hawke. ‘I wasn’t expecting it.’

  ‘Use your loaf,’ said Spears. ‘They’re firing either side of us. Now stay here a moment.’

  The Spitfire was now only twenty yards away, just the other side of the trees and hedge in the field beyond, but Spears moved to the left of the oak tree then, crawling on his belly, seemed to peer towards the brook and the wood beyond.

  ‘What the hell’s ’e doing?’ asked Hebden, leaning towards Hawke’s ear so he could be heard above the din.

  Hawke shrugged, but then saw Spears inch back and scurry over to them again.

  ‘As I thought,’ he said. ‘They’ve sent a patrol out to get our man. There’s five of them that I can see. They’re approaching the brook now.’ There was a moment’s pause in the firing and a short distance away Hawke heard voices – German voices.

  The enemy, he thought. Actual Germans. He tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Hebden, worry etched across his face.

  ‘Keep our heads. There are a number of young willows at the edge of the brook which partially cover the Spitfire from the wood. When I give the signal, I want you to go straight through the gap here, at its edge, and get him out.’

  ‘But won’t they see us?’ asked Hebden.

  ‘Just do it,’ snarled Spears.

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Hawke.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. Just go and get him and bring him back here. Go – now!’

  Hawke felt his whole body tightening. There was sweat running down the side of his face, but he was not hot. He was vaguely conscious of Spears heading towards the brook with the Bren, and then he was running himself, his body low, round the edge of the hedge, waiting for a bullet to strike and knock him down. Across the grass, his mind churning with the sound of whining mortars and the chatter of machine-gun fire, and up on to the wing of the Spitfire, his studded boot clattering on the metal. Fumbling fingers felt for the catch on the half door at the side of the cockpit and to his relief it dropped open. The pilot had his eyes closed and there was a trickle of blood running from his forehead down his nose, but then he groaned and Hawke was now aware of Hebden beside him.

  ‘Come on, Johnny boy,’ said Hebden, his voice breathless, ‘let’s get him out quick.’

  ‘There’s so many straps,’ said Hawke, panic beginning to grip him.

  Hebden yanked the radio and oxygen leads and pulled them clear as Hawke found the clip of the pilot’s harness. With a click, it unfastened.

  ‘He’s free!’ Hawke exclaimed. Pulling the straps off the pilot’s arms, they grabbed his shoulders and heaved him over the small door, Hawke slipping and staggering backwards as the man’s weight fell clear. The pilot groaned again, and then, at that moment, a burst of machine-gun fire rang out close at hand, a man screamed and Hawke momentarily froze.

  Another burst, but while Hawke was amazed to find himself still alive Hebden had hoisted the pilot over his shoulder and was turning and running back to the gap in the hedge. Hawke turned to follow but, in another brief silence in the gunfire, heard a sound and turning towards the brook saw a German scrambling through the tall reeds. Without thinking, Hawke drew his rifle to his shoulder and pulled back the bolt. His finger hovered over the trigger as he looked at the man. The soldier had a young face too, but, seeing Hawke, instinctively brought his own rifle into his shoulder as he crouched there on the stream’s bank.

  You’ve got to do it, Hawke told himself, but something held him back, and then he saw the German draw the bolt of his Mauser and Hawke felt his finger press against the cold metal of the trigger and then squeeze.

  The rifle cracked, the butt of the rifle thumped into his shoulder and the German was flung backwards into the reeds.

  Hawke watched, stunned, then sped towards the gap in the hedge.

  Spears was waiting for him and, grabbing him, thrust a grenade into his hand. ‘Quick!’ he said. ‘Chuck it at the Spit.’

  Spears pulled the pin from one he was holding and hurled it towards the plane, then threw a second. Moments later they exploded in turn, but neither were close enough to the engine to make it catch fire.

  ‘Damn it,’ cursed Spears, ‘I’m going to have to place one of them in it.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Hawke, his grenade in his hand. It was heavy, heavier than a cricket ball. Taking careful aim, he took a deep breath and then threw it. The dark lump of iron and explosive flew through the air and Hawke watched, not daring to breathe, as it landed directly in the cockpit. A second later, it exploded and immediately the Spitfire erupted into flames as the fuel tank caught fire. In moments, the whole aircraft and engine cowling was engulfed, thick, black smoke billowing upwards.

  ‘Good shot,’ said Spears, wiping his brow.

  Hawke staggered backwards, gazing at the burning Spitfire. He felt strange and lightheaded, as though he were somehow looking down on the scene, not part of it at all.

  I just killed a man, he thought. It seemed unbelievable – one moment the German had been alive, raising his rifle, the next moment – bang – and he was gone. It had been so easy. Hawke felt for his water bottle and, taking it from his waist, pulled at the cork. His hand was shaking violently.

  Next to Hawke, at the edge of the hedge, Hebden had placed the pilot on the ground and was squatting down beside him, catching his breath.

  ‘I thought we were going to be goners then, Sarge,’ he said. ‘What happened to that Jerry patrol? And what were you firing at Johnny?’

  Hawke was about to reply, when suddenly the mortaring stopped and machine-gun fire rang out once more, this time the bullets zipping through just above them.

  ‘
Down!’ shouted Spears as twigs and branches snapped and fell, and bullets hissed and zipped just above their heads.

  Pilot Officer Jackson groaned and opened his eyes.

  ‘Where am I?’ he said, grimacing, then touched his face. ‘My head.’

  ‘You’re in no-man’s-land, sir,’ said Spears. More bullets fizzed above them.

  ‘How are we ever going to get back, Sarge?’ asked Hebden. ‘We’re completely pinned down.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Hebden,’ said Spears, raising his head slightly. ‘I’m really not sure.’

  5

  PULLING BACK

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Jackson. ‘I just saw a field. I was only thinking of getting down without killing myself, not getting stuck in no-man’s-land. And now I’ve damn well gone and put you all in danger.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said Hebden, ‘at least we’ve missed out on being shelled. Those big guns have been hammering Cassel while we’ve been out here and they’ve been mortaring the village where the rest of the lads are.’

  Jackson smiled weakly, but Spears rolled a few yards into the field, raised himself up and then looked around and back towards the farm, as though making mental calculations.

  ‘What are you thinking, Sarge?’ asked Hebden.

  Spears put his finger to his mouth, indicating to him to be quiet, then waved the others over towards him. Jackson looked around anxiously then crawled over, followed by Hawke and Hebden.

  ‘The oak and those willows give a bit of cover just here,’ said Spears in a quiet voice as they joined him, ‘and the smoke is hiding us completely. They won’t keep firing at nothing forever. So long as they don’t attack out of the woods, I reckon we might just be all right. We’ll wait here a minute and see if those Jerries decide to quieten down.’ Another burst of machine-gun fire spat out, but then it was quiet once more, the only sound the still-burning plane.