Dunkirk

by James Holland

  Spears turned to Jackson. ‘How are you feeling, sir?’

  ‘I’ve got a hell of a headache,’ said Jackson. ‘But otherwise I’m all right. I can’t quite believe I’m alive at all, to be honest.’

  ‘That spin looked nasty,’ said Hebden. ‘We all saw it.’

  ‘I was terrified,’ admitted Jackson, then brightened. ‘Did you see my 109?’

  Hebden grinned. ‘Yes, sir. We all cheered.’

  ‘Did you?’ Jackson smiled now. ‘It was my first combat sortie. Got two, though.’

  ‘Well done, sir,’ said Spears. Another burst of machine-gun fire, but shorter this time.

  ‘Those Germans,’ said Hawke now, ‘did you get them, Sarge?’

  ‘I thought I had,’ said Spears. ‘But it seems I may have left one for you.’

  Hawke said nothing. His face was close to the ground again and he breathed in the smell of damp earth once more. A good smell, but all he could think about was the man he had just killed: a young man, probably only a few years older than himself, the body flung backwards.

  ‘Seems you were right, Sarge,’ said Hebden. ‘Those Jerries have stopped firing.’

  ‘Shh!’ said Spears, turning his ear towards the woods. ‘Listen.’

  Hawke did so. He could hear voices from the wood, indistinct, and then the revving of engines and once again the squeaking of tank tracks.

  ‘The attack?’ said Hebden.

  ‘I don’t think we should hang around to find out,’ said Spears. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He looked at the others. ‘I’ll go first. If I don’t get hit in twenty yards, then you all follow, all right?’

  He pushed himself up on to his feet, crouched a moment, listening, then set off, running with his body as low as possible through the young wheat. Hawke watched, chest thumping, barely daring to breathe, waiting for the sound of machine-gun fire to tear the air apart once more.

  But none came. And now Spears was turning and beckoning them to follow. Hebden first, then Jackson, and then, with another deep breath, Hawke was on his feet and running, running through the wheat, along the line of the hedge, the farmhouse getting closer with every yard.

  ‘What on earth is Jerry playing at?’ said McLaren from their vantage point in the windmill. ‘I swear that squeaking of tank tracks is getting further away.’

  ‘It seemed like it was getting closer when we were pegging it back here, didn’t it, Johnny?’ said Hebden.

  Hawke was sitting on a dusty pile of hessian grain sacks at the far side of the windmill. After the surge of adrenalin, he now felt exhausted. The lack of sleep, the arrival at Cassel, throwing up, then the rescue of Jackson – it was incredible to think so much had already happened that day and yet it was not even noon.

  ‘I was just running, Bert,’ said Hawke. ‘I was thinking more about those Spandaus opening up again and praying they wouldn’t.’ He rubbed his eyes, then closed them.

  ‘Ah, the boy’s tired himself out,’ said McLaren.

  Hawke opened his eyes again and sat up. ‘Sorry, Corp,’ he said, blinking.

  McLaren waved a hand at him. ‘Only joking – go on, you get a bit of shut-eye, Johnny. I still haven’t the foggiest what Jerry’s playing at, but I don’t reckon that attack is coming any time soon.’

  When he awoke, Hawke could smell wafts of cooking drifting up from outside in the yard, and noticed how quiet it was. The shelling had stopped.

  ‘You’re awake, then,’ said Chalkie White, manning the Bren from the windmill’s window.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘Oh, about an hour. You should go and get some grub.’

  Hawke staggered down the steps into the yard. A number of small stoves had been set up, several men crouched and standing around them.

  ‘Johnny,’ called out Drummond.

  Hawke looked and saw Drummond, Hebden and Ibbotson standing around a Primus to one side of the windmill’s base.

  ‘There’s a brew for you here and some bully beef,’ said Drummond as Hawke wandered over. ‘You must be starved after chucking up that last lot.’

  ‘I am,’ Hawke admitted. He took off his tin helmet and ran his hand through his hair. It felt tangled and dirty, but then again they were all dirty. The last time he’d washed himself was when they’d first got to the River Scarpe to the west of Arras. When had that been? The nineteenth – five days ago. Five days! It seemed like a lifetime already. They’d been hot and filthy when they’d arrived at that river. For nine days they had done nothing but move – up to the front along roads clogged with refugees and troops.

  They had been in reserve, kicking their heels for a couple of days somewhere to the west of Brussels while either side of the British front the Belgians and French had begun to crumble. Suddenly they were ordered into their trucks and back they went again, this time along roads even thicker with men and civilians. It had been chaos. Hawke had never realized how quickly the order and efficiency of an army could disintegrate.

  On the morning of 19 May, they had reached the Scarpe to the east of Arras. It had been a Sunday, not that days of the week made any difference to anything. They had dug in – making two and three-man slit trenches back from the banks of the river, digging out the dark clay soil with their entrenching tools: short, wooden handles with a detachable head with a pick one side and a shovel the other. They were convenient and easy to carry, but, as Hawke had discovered, were too small, and the moment too much effort was made, the iron head might fly off. It had been hard work, but eventually, in the evening and with no sign of the enemy, they had been allowed to strip off and jump in the river.

  As Hawke passed his mess tin and mug, he glanced at his hands. They were dark with grime – a mixture of sweat, mud and oil; his fingernails were chipped, with black lines underneath. When he’d joined up, he had thought only of excitement and glory. In the stories he’d been told, in the books he’d read, no one had mentioned how exhausting it was fighting a war, or how filthy a soldier became. Or that it wasn’t really very glamorous at all.

  Hawke took a mouthful of warm bully beef hash, then a gulp of hot, sweet tea and felt his strength returning immediately. A bit of food and some sugar – he’d needed it.

  ‘That feel a bit better, Johnny?’ grinned Hebden.

  Hawke smiled and nodded. ‘I didn’t realize how hungry I was.’

  ‘Just don’t think of those dead horses, now,’ said Drummond.

  ‘He wouldn’t have done if you’d kept your trap shut, Charlie!’ said Ibbotson.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Hawke. ‘Honestly. I’m fine now.’

  ‘And don’t go and think of that Jerry you shot either,’ said Drummond. Ibbotson cuffed him round the back of the head.

  ‘Ow!’ said Drummond. ‘What did I say?’ He was laughing.

  ‘Leave the poor kid alone,’ said Ibbotson. ‘At least he’s shot a bleedin’ Jerry, which is more than can be said for you.’

  Hawke smiled and caught Hebden’s eye, who winked at him.

  ‘I’m only having a laugh with you, Johnny,’ said Drummond. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  Hawke nodded, and tried to put the image of the falling man out of his mind. He did not want to think of the German lying there, sprawled out, dead, while he was still alive, joking and eating his lunch.

  ‘Have you nearly finished?’ It was Sergeant Spears. Hawke turned and saw him stride towards them.

  ‘Hebden, Drummond and you, Hawke, finish your tiffin and then I want you to take Pilot Officer Jackson up to Battalion Headquarters.’

  ‘Do we have to, Sarge?’ asked Hebden. ‘I’d have thought Johnny and me had done our bit this morning.’

  ‘Yes, Bert, you do. Battalion might want to ask you and Hawke some things about what you saw out there.’

  ‘Sarge, what’s going on?’ asked Ibbotson. ‘I don’t understand what Jerry’s playing at.
’

  ‘You and me the same, then, Jack,’ said Spears. ‘Looks like he’s fallen back.’

  ‘But why? I was bracing myself for an almighty scrap and now ’e’s scarpered. It doesn’t make sense.’

  Spears smiled. ‘You sound almost disappointed, Jack.’

  ‘Seriously, though, Sarge,’ said Ibbotson, ‘what do you think they’re up to?’

  Spears shrugged. ‘Dunno. Perhaps they’re preparing to attack from a different approach. Or maybe they’ve only fallen back a short way. Perhaps what we came up against this morning was just their forward units, and they’re waiting for more to catch up. Does it matter? The point is we thought we were in for it, and now they’ve given us a breather – a breather that gives us a chance to prepare some better defences.’

  ‘Gives us a chance for some kip, more like,’ said Hebden.

  ‘We need to keep on our toes here, Bert, not go to sleep,’ retorted Spears. ‘Until we know what Jerry’s up to, we’ve got to stay alert. If it’s still quiet later, we’ll send out some patrols. That’ll give us a clearer picture.’

  Hebden turned to Hawke and prodded him. ‘And no more volunteering, Johnny, all right?’

  Soon after, Hawke, Hebden and Drummond set off with Jackson, back up the hill to Cassel. The pilot had had his head bandaged, although he still needed stitches for the gash in his forehead.

  ‘How are you feeling now, sir?’ Hawke asked him.

  ‘All right, thanks. I mean, the head still throbs a bit, but otherwise I don’t feel too bad, all things considered. A bit of food helped, and the whisky and sweet tea.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve never had so much sugar in my tea before, nor condensed milk, but actually it’s rather good, isn’t it?’

  ‘The army couldn’t function without it, sir,’ said Hebden. ‘I reckon we’ll be all right here, just so long as the tea ration gets through.’

  It was by now a clear, early summer’s day, with just a few white cotton wool clouds floating through an otherwise deep blue sky. It was warm too, and as they climbed the track towards the town Hawke’s battledress began to steam as the last of the damp in his wool uniform evaporated.

  ‘Look at me!’ said Hawke. ‘I wish we had more comfortable uniforms. A bit of silk would be good.’

  Jackson grinned. ‘This is my own, though,’ he said, fingering the orange silk scarf round his neck, ‘although I’m wondering whether it might have brought me bad luck. I’m thinking of changing it.’

  ‘Or good luck,’ said Hebden. ‘You’re alive aren’t you?’

  ‘In any case,’ said Hawke, ‘silk is much nicer than serge.’

  ‘So is fine wool,’ added Drummond.

  ‘I’ve always thought these uniforms were pretty bad,’ laughed Jackson, patting his blue service jacket, ‘but I must admit that serge looks horribly hot for weather like this.’ He still wore his Mae West life jacket, but he was now carrying his heavy sheepskin flying jacket and leather flying helmet over his other arm.

  ‘It’s good in winter, though, sir,’ said Hebden. ‘It was perishing cold this past winter out here, I can tell you. We were glad for some thick wool then.’

  ‘We could have done with a few jackets like yours, sir,’ added Drummond. ‘One lad in our section got frostbite in his toes and fingers. You never saw anything like it. They went blue then purple. The MO took one look and packed him off to hospital. Apparently they took some of his toes off.’

  ‘Really?’ said Hawke.

  ‘Yes. Amputated them. And all because he got too cold.’ Drummond shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t believe it now, would you?’

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Hawke.

  Hebden shrugged. ‘Back in Blighty, I suppose. Why do you think we needed you, Johnny? We lost a few good men over the winter – to the cold, to accidents. All sorts.’

  ‘Well, I take my hat off to you,’ said Jackson. ‘I don’t think I’m really cut out for being a soldier. I prefer flying.’

  ‘Even after today?’ asked Hebden.

  ‘I admit it was terrifying, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but I can promise you that flying is the most exhilarating experience you could imagine. And especially in a Spitfire. The speed and power of the thing is incredible, and it’s such a beauty too – a real thoroughbred. On my first flight, I couldn’t stop grinning. I thought I could die a happy man after that – although obviously I’d rather not.’

  ‘I’d love to fly,’ said Hawke. ‘The world must look an amazing place from up there.’

  ‘Oh, it does,’ said Jackson.

  ‘You wouldn’t get me up in one of those things,’ said Drummond. ‘No chance. I prefer being on my own two feet. I don’t like heights anyway.’

  Jackson laughed.

  ‘What, sir?’ said Drummond. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jackson, ‘but you’ve got to admit it’s strange: you face danger every day being a soldier and you don’t turn a hair, and yet you’ve a fear of flying.’

  Drummond looked sheepish. ‘I don’t like the sea, neither, sir. Suppose I must be a bit of a landlubber, that’s all.’

  They were quiet for a moment and then Hawke said, ‘What are they saying back home, sir? About what’s going on over here, I mean?’

  ‘I think everyone’s a bit shaken up, to be honest,’ said Jackson. ‘No one can believe it’s all going so badly wrong. The papers are blaming the French.’

  ‘With good reason,’ said Hebden. ‘We’ve barely fired a shot, have we, lads?’ He looked at Drummond and Hawke in turn. ‘We march all the way up to the Dendre, just as we’d agreed with the Frogs and the Belgians, and then, before we know it, they’re in full retreat. We’ve got to keep our line with them intact, so then we have to withdraw too. I haven’t a bleedin’ clue what happened on their fronts, but it doesn’t seem to me like they put up much of a fight. Ever since then it’s been one rumour after another, but I know what we’ve seen with our own eyes, and I can tell you, sir, it’s not been pretty.’

  ‘It’s been chaos, sir,’ added Drummond, ‘absolute chaos. You never saw anything like it. Those Frogs have been a disgrace. Discipline gone to pot, the roads clogged with refugees. No one seems to know their backside from their elbow.’

  ‘No one tells us anything, sir,’ continued Hebden. ‘We’re only blinkin’ soldiers after all – but it’s not looking good, is it? Jerry’s to the north and the south. He’s trapped us. I just hope you can get out of here and back home before it’s too late.’

  Jackson sighed and adjusted the bandage round his head. ‘It’s incredible, isn’t it? And here we are, walking up a track and there’s barely a sound, except the birds in the trees. You can hardly believe it.’ He paused and looked back. Out in the field beyond Oxelaëre, the remains of his Spitfire were still smouldering. ‘You know, everyone at home thinks the Germans are going to invade Britain at any moment. They’ve formed Local Defence Volunteers to watch out for German parachutists.’

  ‘Local what?’ asked Hebden. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Farmers, old men, anyone really. Anyone not already serving. They man road blocks and keep a lookout for anyone suspicious – Fifth Columnists, that sort of thing. We got stopped the other night by a load of them. We were on our way back from the pub and all a bit boozed up, I suppose, and we were told to halt and get out of the car. They had shotguns and old rifles and demanded to see our papers. The CO got a bit shirty with them, to be honest.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Hebden. ‘I’d no idea. We haven’t really heard much from home, you see. There’s been no post since all this kicked off.’

  ‘Bert’s a farmer,’ said Hawke.

  ‘Really?’ said Jackson. ‘Then why are you out here?’

  ‘Thought I’d do my bit, sir,’ he said. ‘My old man’s still running in any case. They can manage without me for a bit.’

  ‘I take my hat off to you,’ said Jackson. ‘
Really.’

  They were now nearing Battalion lines on the southern ramparts of the town. Soldiers were busily digging in and building barricades, but, as they passed through, a subaltern from A Company offered to take them to Battalion Headquarters. Stepping along the old ramparts, they then turned up a narrow street and under an archway – once an old town gate – and followed the road back to Grand Place. There on the corner stood a brick building, crooked with age. It had large iron numbers nailed into the brickwork above the second-floor windows that made up the date ‘1631’.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the lieutenant, leading them round the side of the building to where a sentry snapped to attention. ‘As of three hours ago, our latest Battalion HQ.’

  Inside, clerks were already hammering away at typewriters on makeshift trestle tables, while in one room a staff officer was talking loudly and slowly into a field telephone.

  ‘Do-you-know-the-latest-enemy-positions?’ he said, then muttered under his breath, ‘Ruddy Frogs, why can’t they speak English like the rest of us?’

  Hawke looked around, fascinated by the speed with which the Battalion had occupied this old building. The A Company lieutenant left them with a wave and a ‘cheerio’ and so they stood waiting on creaking wooden floorboards in the hallway listening to the movement of people and chairs on the floor above, and to the continuing hammer of typewriters. After a few minutes another staff officer appeared. He looked older, with greying hair and moustache, and had a pipe wedged into the side of his mouth.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, pulling out his matches to light his pipe, then looked up and saw Jackson. ‘Ah, yes, of course, the pilot. Saw you get one of the Huns.’ He held out his hand. ‘Major Carter,’ he said. ‘I’m the adj around here.’ He then glanced at the other three.

  Jackson shook his hand. ‘Two of the men here rescued me from my Spit, sir,’ said Jackson, ‘and between them killed a number of Jerries.’

  ‘Ah, good show,’ said Carter.

  Hebden cleared his throat. ‘We were told you might want to speak with us, sir.’

  ‘Yes, absolutely, absolutely.’ He looked at his watch, then glanced back into the room. ‘Let me just speak with the colonel and I’ll be right back.’