Someone else came into the barn, called the men out and they all headed back into the yard.
‘Sorry,’ whispered Matherson. ‘Cramp. The pain was terrible.’
‘Shh!’ said Spears.
For a further half hour they heard the men chatting out in the yard. Smells of cooking wafted up into the barn, which made Hawke’s stomach groan with renewed hunger. Still no one spoke, and no one dared move. Hawke’s backside was aching and he desperately wanted to move but he remained sitting there rigidly, as did the rest of them. He wondered about Spears. The sergeant did not look well. The perspiration was getting worse, while the colour had drained from his normally tanned and healthy-looking face.
Eventually, about an hour after they had first arrived, engines started up again, shouts rang out around the yard and with a revving of engines and the grinding of gears they drove back out of the yard and rumbled away down the track.
‘Thank God,’ said McLaren, grimacing as he stood up. He looked at Matherson. ‘Blimey, you nearly blew it, didn’t you? What a time to get cramp. And you being a medic an’ all.’
‘I thought you did well to keep it under control,’ said Hebden.
Matherson shook his head. ‘That was terrible,’ he said. ‘Honestly, I thought I was going to blow it for you all.’
Hawke turned to Spears. ‘Are you all right, Sarge?’
‘I’m fine,’ muttered Spears, wiping his brow.
‘Why do you think that German stopped? I was certain he was going to look around the bales and find us.’
‘I think he was scared,’ said Spears. ‘You’re always frightened about what you don’t know. He must have known there was something behind the barricade – maybe he even guessed – but maybe he was scared to find out.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, we got away with it.’
‘Maybe the nightingale was a good omen after all,’ said Hebden.
Spears smiled weakly. ‘Maybe.’
A few minutes later, Batiste clambered up the ladder with his teenage son.
‘I’ll be glad when you men are on your way,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘That was a bad hour.’
‘What did they want?’ asked McLaren.
‘Nothing. They were a bit lost. They wanted to buy some food and to stop and eat.’
‘I’m sorry we have not been able to pay for ours,’ said Spears.
‘No matter.’
‘They found something in the barn,’ said Hawke. ‘We heard them pulling it out.’
‘A bicycle,’ said Batiste. ‘But then they left it.’ He turned to Spears. ‘My wife has that poultice ready. Will you let her look at your arm?’
Spears glanced at Matherson, then nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll come down now.’
Despite the poultice, Spears’s condition did not improve. Throughout the rest of the afternoon he remained feverish. Matherson insisted the sergeant try to sleep and so he did, although fitfully. The hours passed slowly. Hawke knew they could not leave until nightfall, but it did not stop him feeling increasingly impatient to get going, and he quickly tired of playing cards. He cleaned his rifle twice, thought about writing his journal, then put pen and paper away again, and glanced across at Spears. The sergeant was asleep – Matherson had said that was the best thing Spears could do. To the north, the guns had barely let up all day. Hawke worried that they’d reach Dunkirk only to find they were too late, that the evacuation was over and the port in enemy hands.
At six, Batiste brought them some more bread and cheese, although less than before. He was not used to feeding such numbers, he explained, but was giving them all that he could. Hawke ate his portion wondering when they might next see any food. He was still hungry when he licked the last breadcrumbs from his hand.
Finally, as darkness began to fall, they began putting their kit back together. Drummond struggled to get his boots back on.
‘My feet are still swollen,’ he said.
‘You’ve got trench foot,’ Matherson told him. ‘It’s not severe, but that’s what it is.’
‘Well, it hurts enough,’ complained Drummond. He took out his clasp knife and cut slits along the sides of his boots. ‘It’s the only way I’m going to get them back on.’
‘Let’s hope we don’t run into too many more canals and dykes,’ said McLaren.
A little before half past nine, they were all back down in the yard and bidding Batiste goodbye.
‘Thank you,’ said Spears. ‘Really, we can’t thank you enough.’
‘Bon chance,’ said Batiste. ‘Good luck. One day come back and kick these Boches back out of France.’
To begin with, they made steady progress, and after a couple of hours were, Spears reckoned, nearing the Bergues-Furnes Canal that Batiste had mentioned and marked on the map, but as they were about to cross a road, they heard vehicles approaching, and quickly ducked into a ditch behind a row of poplars. Moments later, a column of heavy artillery, the guns towed by trucks, rumbled past them, the lorries’ headlights reduced to dim, narrow slits.
‘There go the big boys,’ whispered Hebden as the last one passed.
‘It’s not over yet, then,’ said McLaren.
They crossed the road, walking on, keeping to hedgerows or the numerous long lines of poplars wherever they could. Reaching a track, Spears halted them again.
‘What is it, Sarge?’ said McLaren.
‘Shh!’ hissed Spears. ‘Listen.’
They all listened and then faintly, on the breeze, they could hear voices. Enemy voices.
‘All right,’ said Spears, Batiste’s map in his hand. ‘We’re going to rest here a bit.’
‘Shouldn’t we keep going, Sarge?’ asked McLaren. Hawke was thinking the same. He wondered whether it was Spears who needed the rest. The moon suddenly emerged from behind a cloud, bathing the surrounding countryside in that strange, milky monochrome light that was now so familiar.
‘Look,’ said Spears, ‘a mile or so to our left is the village of Warhem. You can see the church. And away to our right is Honschoote. That means the canal is no more than half a mile up ahead. We’re nearly there.’
‘Then the sooner we get over, the better,’ said McLaren.
‘Just listen, Sid,’ said Spears. ‘This area is teeming with Jerries. If we wait an hour or so, there’s a greater chance that most of them will be kipping by then.’ He nodded in the direction of the voices. ‘You don’t really want to walk through that lot, do you?’
Hawke smiled to himself, relieved. Spears was all right after all. As usual, he was just thinking more clearly than any of the rest of them.
They crouched down on the bank of the narrow dyke that ran northwards towards the canal. Up ahead, the horizon glowed a faint orange. At first Hawke could not understand what was causing the glow, but then he realized it was Dunkirk, burning. He swallowed hard and realized how right Spears was to be cautious. They might be close, but there was much that could still go wrong.
It was nearing one o’clock in the morning when Spears told them they should get moving again.
‘But get rid of any excess kit,’ he told them. ‘You don’t need entrenching tools now, or enamel mugs, or half the stuff we’ve been lugging around in our packs. Let’s make our lives easier, and discard anything we don’t need – anything that may chink or knock together and give the game away.’
They spent a few minutes lightening their loads. Hawke took off his entire pack, which included his gas cape, greatcoat, housewife, mug, gas-mask bag, as well as his entrenching tool. All that was left round his waist was his pack and sword bayonet – his water bottle he put in his half-empty haversack. He rolled his shoulders, glad to discover how much lighter they now felt.
They set off again, crossing the track and moving forward in single file, hugging the bank of the dyke, until it veered off to their left. Ahead there was now a stretch of open fields, with no trees and no hedgerows. Spears signa
lled to them to spread out. Hawke was next to Spears on the far right of the platoon, but as he looked across towards the others he saw the upper halves of their bodies were all clearly silhouetted against the moonlit sky. He was wondering whether he should point this out when Spears signalled to them to crouch. Immediately, the others all disappeared from view.
It was difficult crouching and walking like that, but at least the soil beneath them was soft after the recent rain. Hawke could barely hear either Spears on his right or Drummond to his left as they carefully moved forward over the field. On the horizon, the glow of fire seemed to be getting closer and Hawke felt his hopes rise.
Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks. He’d been looking around him, but had just glanced at the ground and not a yard in front he realized there was a slit trench with two men curled up inside, snoring very gently.
Hawke breathed deeply, gripped his rifle tightly, then stepped across to Spears.
‘There’s a Jerry slit trench just there,’ he whispered.
‘All right,’ hissed Spears, ‘let’s just keep walking.’
Hawke kept moving forward, putting down each foot carefully in front of him, his heart hammering in his chest, expecting any number of enemy troops to suddenly wake and start firing.
‘Just keep going,’ whispered Spears beside him.
‘Yes,’ he replied. On they went, one foot after the other, Hawke offering silent prayers, his body tense. He wondered whether any of the others had seen similar enemy positions. Somewhere there had to be picquets – or perhaps those two men had been the picquets, but had fallen asleep on their watch … Hawke glanced back into the inky darkness. Away to his left he could still see Warhem outlined faintly against the sky. Where was the canal? he wondered It couldn’t be far now. His back was aching from crouching and then someone stumbled, the sound of the man falling forward painfully loud in the otherwise still night air. Again, Hawke froze, his body tensed for the worst, but there was nothing. No sound of waking Germans, no cocking of rifles or machine guns. And then there they were: at the road beside the canal and, beyond, the canal itself, still and silvery in the moonlight.
For a moment they stood together on the canal’s bank, looking down at the water.
‘So how do we get across?’ whispered McLaren. ‘All the bridges will be blown.’
‘We’ll have to swim,’ said Spears. ‘Is there anyone who can’t swim?’
‘I can’t,’ said Matherson.
‘Nor can I,’ said Merryweather.
‘You can’t swim, Sarge,’ said McLaren.
‘Course I can,’ snapped Spears. ‘It’s only a few yards.’
‘Look!’ said Hawke, pointing to the far bank. ‘Isn’t that a boat?’ He stood at the water’s edge, peering towards the other side.
‘I think it is,’ said Spears. ‘Whether it’s water-worthy is another matter, though.’
‘Let me swim over and have a look,’ said McLaren.
‘Yes, all right,’ agreed Spears.
McLaren stripped and then slipped into the water. Hawke watched him as he carefully swam the fifteen yards that separated the two banks. It was hard to see clearly, but he heard McLaren clamber into the boat. A few minutes later, he slipped back into the water and once halfway across could be seen, one arm bringing the small dinghy safely across.
‘No oars, I’m afraid,’ he said, treading water beside the little vessel. ‘It looked half submerged when I got to it, but although there’s a bit of water in the bottom I think it’s all right.’
‘Good work, Sid,’ said Spears, then turning to the others said, ‘Right, those who can swim, get your kit into the boat and get swimming. Merryweather and Matherson, you can get your ride once we’ve got the rest across.’ He kneeled down beside McLaren. ‘Happy to make a couple more trips, Sid?’
‘Yes, Sarge,’ said McLaren, then said, ‘Sarge, take the boat.’
‘You should, Sergeant,’ said Matherson. ‘It’s not worth getting that wound infected with dirty water.’
‘All right,’ said Spears. ‘But we need to be quick here. It’ll be dawn before we know it.’
‘What’s it like in, Sid?’ asked Hebden, as he took off his belt and webbing. ‘Is it freezing?’
‘Nah, it’s lovely.’
Hawke stripped down to his underwear then slid down the bank and eased himself into the water. His feet sank into soft, silty mud and for a moment he felt a flash of panic, but as he lunged forward, his feet moved free and he was swimming, the water icy cold but invigorating after the long days without washing and wearing an increasingly filthy uniform. On the far side, his feet once again sank into the soft mud, but then he thought it would be better to help McLaren, so he remained in the water as the rifles and webbing and stinking uniforms were passed back on to dry land.
Five minutes later, and with Merryweather, Matherson and Spears safely brought across, Hawke clambered on to the bank, shivering but strangely refreshed. Away to the east, dawn was once again breaking, the first hint of morning light turning the horizon a faint grey.
As Hawke dried himself down with his shirt, then began putting his battledress back on, he recoiled at the itchiness of the serge against his still wet skin, and at the grime and filth engrained in the wool. The men stood on the bank, forcing raw and swollen feet back into heavy boots, hoisting webbing over their shoulders and clipping belts together. A thin light was spreading over the flat countryside, so that features that had been hidden a few moments before were now revealing themselves.
‘My God,’ said McLaren, looking back at the road on the far side. ‘Look at that.’
Hawke turned and saw that a little further up the road towards Warhem there was a seemingly endless line of abandoned and wrecked vehicles.
‘Blimey,’ muttered Drummond. ‘And they’re all British. That’s our kit. It’s all been abandoned.’
‘But where are the lads defending this stretch of the canal?’ asked Hebden. ‘I thought this was the front line?’
Hawke immediately looked to Spears for the answer.
‘Where’s the sarge?’ he said.
‘I’m here,’ murmured Spears, and Hawke looked down and saw that the figure shivering on the ground beside him was the sergeant.
‘Sarge?’ he said, crouching down.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he said.
‘You’re shivering, Sarge,’ he said, then remembered that Spears had not swum across but had been ferried in the dinghy.
‘Yes, I know that, thank you,’ he snapped, then, with shaking hands, delved into his battledress and pulled out his hip flask. Fumbling with the lid, he cursed, then brought it to his lips. He gasped. ‘Damn it, I’m cold.’
‘What’s up with the sergeant?’ said Matherson, now standing over both of them.
‘Nothing,’ snarled Spears, shakily getting himself to his feet. ‘I don’t know what you’re all standing around for. Are you waiting to be shot?’
‘Just getting our kit together, Sarge,’ said McLaren, a hint of indignation in his voice.
‘We need to get moving,’ muttered Spears. ‘Time is running out.’ The banks of the canal were raised, but behind, as the ground dropped away, many of the fields appeared to be flooded. A short distance to their right, emerging spectrally in the dim early dawn light, there was a badly damaged farmhouse and, beyond that, the remains of a blown bridge. Leading from the bridge was a road, raised either side of the flooded fields.
‘There,’ said Spears.
They headed round the back of the farm, stumbling past abandoned slit trenches strewn with empty ammunition boxes, discarded tins of food, cigarette boxes and even several tin helmets. They saw the roof of the farmhouse had suffered several hits, while half on the road lay a knocked-out carrier.
Hawke remembered Hebden’s unanswered question: if the canal marked the Dunkirk perimeter, then where were all the defenders? He was a
bout to ask Spears when from behind them a machine gun suddenly chattered, and bullets fizzed over their heads.
‘Quick!’ said Spears, urging them all on. ‘Keep your heads down and keep running!’
Hawke ran. Bullets continued to fizz and whip over their heads, but a thin mist had risen from the flooded fields and, glancing back, Hawke saw the farmhouse and the canal melt away. The shooting stopped and, gasping, the men stopped.
‘Thank God,’ said McLaren. ‘Another close escape. The sarge was right – we got over that canal in the nick of time.’
‘Where is the sarge?’ said Hawke, frantically looking around him.
‘Oh no,’ said McLaren. ‘Where the hell is he?’
‘Tom,’ mouthed Hawke to himself. ‘Where are you, Tom?’
30
DUNKIRK
Hawke hurried back a few yards and saw, faintly through the mist, a prostrate figure lying on the road.
‘No!’ he said out loud, and ran towards him. Reaching him, he crouched down and turned him over.
‘Careful, Johnny,’ said a voice, and he glanced up to see Hebden and McLaren standing over him, and Drummond and Matherson running towards them. ‘We’re almost in view again here – look!’
But Hawke just stared down at Spears. ‘Sarge! Sarge!’ he said, shaking him by the collar.
‘Mind out,’ said Matherson, squatting down beside him. He pressed his fingers to Spears’s neck. ‘He’s still breathing.’
‘He’s got a hip flask,’ said Hawke.
‘Then get it out,’ snapped Matherson.
Hawke delved into Spears’s jacket and pulled out the battered silver flask, then, having unscrewed the lid, put it to Spears’s lips. The brandy ran down his chin, but then Spears spluttered, his head lolled and slowly his eyes flickered open.
‘Sarge!’ said Hawke. ‘Wake up!’
‘Arghh,’ muttered Spears. ‘My head.’ Beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead again, as he tried to lift himself up on his elbows.
‘Steady,’ said Matherson as Spears dropped back down again.
Dunkirk Page 26
