by John Harris
“Thank God, thank God,” he was murmuring to himself in a desperate repetition. “Thank God.” I don’t know what was going through his mind but I suspect he was grateful that it was all over at last and the bogey he’d been dodging for years had been brought out into the daylight. I watched him as he fumbled with his cigarette. I could have been so proud of him if I’d only had the chance, but there wasn’t much about Old Boxer to admire.
He sat still for a moment and his clumsy, fuddled thoughts seemed to be trudging past like shuffling, grey old men, his tormented eyes showing the agony in his mind.
“God damn the booze!” he said aloud, and he fished in his overcoat pocket. He drew out a bottle of rum and took a swig at it. Something ugly was trying to get through to the surface, something cold and mean and dark, and it showed in his face. I saw him thrust it away out of his mind as plainly as if he’d actually warded it off.
He shuddered suddenly, and I realised he was afraid of the job in front of us and the bloodiness of the question mark that lay just over the horizon. Like a dying man clinging to life, he was shrinking at the thought of death and pain. He was afraid, I knew, afraid so that his inside was queasy at the thought of it, so afraid he’d had to drink himself silly to get aboard at all. It was the booze that had unmanned him and he knew it as well as I did. Once he’d been strong, but now he was rotten with a moral as well as a physical fear. And I knew then that behind his boastfulness and strength and size there’d always been this weakness.
It had destroyed his ship and his career and his whole life. It had prevented him from marrying Ma and destroyed her, too, furious and bitter that Old Boxer – a glittering, magnificent figure he must have been in those days – had not stood by her. No wonder he hated Dig. Inside Dig’s slight figure and behind his shy nature there was solid, slogging courage. There must have been, the way he’d looked after Ma across the years and never complained.
Old Boxer drew in his breath sharply and seemed to gather himself, as though he were trying to forget his fear. He’d forgotten it before, he was telling himself furiously, forgotten all manner of things, forgotten bitterness, dislike, tenderness, everything, even his own son, taking refuge in booze.
His hand strayed again to the bottle in his pocket but stopped half-way as Yorky’s voice at the hatch cover called him.
“Come on, ’Orace,” it said. “Play the bleeden game. We’ve ’ad our turn. Now it’s yourn.”
Old Boxer sighed deeply and dragged himself on to his unsteady legs, his face drawn and gaunt, and pulled himself as though he were a heavy load up the companionway to the sunlight.
Five
Dover shone brightly in the early morning sunshine when we shut down and lay drifting in the slight swell that was running. The harbour was crowded with craft already. There were tugs, drifters, destroyers, sloops, motor-boats; fishing-boats, eel-boats, Dutch schuits, mudhoppers, dumb barges, and every kind of rowing-boat and pulling-boat imaginable. Outside, in the waters of the Channel, hundreds more small craft were moored alongside the anchored bigger vessels, their holiday paint gay in the sunshine.
We’d halted overnight at Pompey to cool our engines and give the crews some rest, and the boats waiting at Pompey had moved on ahead of us to Dover and Ramsgate. The following morning we’d set off again for the hub of the adventure.
Even as we watched, destroyers whooped their way among the crowded vessels and dashed across the Channel in the direction of the sun, setting the moored boats rolling and bobbing and bouncing against each other in the wash. And, as fast as they went, more vessels were returning – in a stream that had never stopped since the operation had started days before. Out of the sun they came, like tiny dots on the shining surface of the water that glistened in the morning light. There were men aboard them who’d marched hundreds of miles, fighting on the way, and stopped on the beaches of Dunkirk and fought again. They were dusty and dishevelled, their faces black with oil and coal-dust and smoke, their eyes bloodshot with weariness, but they still managed to wave as they moved past us and now and then they even raised a cheer. In great masses they came, crowding the decks of the destroyers and the troopships, seeming almost to swamp the small vessels as they curtseyed in the swell.
I watched them pass in a grim, pathetic, heroic stream. Our own little flotilla, that had set out from Wiggins’ wharf, had dwindled already. Some of them were adrift long before Pompey rose out of the horizon. More had broken down the following day. The last of them was just chugging up to us and shutting off its spluttering, overheated engine so that the flotilla was silent and we’d only the lap of the waves against the hulls and the slap of the halyards against the masts for company.
Even as the sound died away, though, the naval launch which had been leading us roared to life again and hurried in a circle round towards us, like an excited terrier with a bone in its teeth.
“’Ello!” Yorky, scarlet in the face, was resting his elbows on the cover of the engine-room hatch, taking in great gulps of air, his fat bottom jamming up the hatchway through which the fumes of hot oil and petrol seeped. He was idly squeezing a tune out of his concertina, but he squinted keenly at the naval vessel as she approached. “’E’s coming this way,” he said. “Now the party’s goin’ to start.”
Old Boxer was lighting a cigarette with trembling hands that were not entirely caused by the chilliness of the morning air or the exhaustion we all felt. As he watched the launch draw closer his eyes were dull with apprehension.
“It’s the booze,” I could hear him saying fiercely to himself. “It’s the booze.” And his itching fingers felt for the bottle in his pocket.
The spirit seemed to warm him and took the tremble out of his hands. He watched the launch shut down her engines, her bows sinking into the water as the way went off her.
The lieutenant-commander was bawling at us through a megaphone: “Thanks a lot. Stand by for a naval crew to come aboard. A tender will take you ashore.”
“You go chase yourself up a shutter!” Yorky shouted back in a furious explosion of anger that almost lifted him out of the hatchway. “We ’aven’t brought this old cow all this way just to let you lot take ’er over. You can’t go off like that.”
“Sorry,” the officer shouted. “Those are the instructions.”
“Well, you know what you can do wi’ ’em.” Yorky’s voice was threatening as he flourished his concertina. “Just you let one of them bell-bottomed bastards of yourn put ’is foot aboard of ’ere, an’ ’e’ll get it straight in the kisser with this ’ere squeeze-box.”
The commander had fallen silent and seemed to be thinking fast.
“We’re a crew of bloody sailors aboard of ’ere, mate,” Yorky was shouting, his face red with indignation. “There’s none of yer queenie weekend yachtsmen among us lot. We’ve sailed big ships and little ’uns, an’ we’ll make rings round you if you’d like to see us.”
The commander was grinning now.
“Who’s in command?” he was shouting. “You?”
“No. ’Im.” Yorky indicated me with his thumb. “’E’s got ’is mate’s ticket so yer needn’t bloody worry. An’ if you’ve got a better engineer aboard of that old wash-tub of yourn than me I’d like to see ’im.”
The commander was silent for a while, then he shouted back: “All right. I’ll report it to the Senior Naval Officer. If he objects you’ll still have to go ashore.”
“’E’d better not!” Yorky yelled. “You’ll ’ave a job catching us else. These is fast engines, mate, an’ they won’t break down while I’m in charge of ’em.”
The launch crew were grinning now and the officer laughed. “OK,” he shouted. “There’s a petrol tanker over there…” He flung out a gold-ringed arm. “Fill your tanks and take on rations and water from the ship lying astern of her. They’ll give you everything you need. Stay alongside her till you’re wanted. You’ll be going across under tow – if you’re going at all.”
“We’ll be going, mat
e!” Yorky shouted. “Don’t you worrit!”
The officer waved. “That’s all. Understood?”
I waved back, then the launch’s engine roared to life again, and her bow rose as she shot ahead to the next boat in the line.
“OK, Yorky,” I said. “You got your way. Get below. I’m going to start up.”
Yorky grinned. “Don’t mind me, Jess. I’m all for the Navy boys, reelly.”
I saw Old Boxer flash him a look as he dodged below.
I took the wheel, still watching Old Boxer, who was sitting on a fender forrard. His face was grey and haggard, and his eyes were tormented with something that was more than weariness.
We lay alongside the stern of the supply ship through the hot summer day, lifting on the heave of the pale, oil-slicked sea; smoking and drinking mugs of strong tea brewed by Yorky; from time to time picking up snatches of news from the forecaste wireless of the supply ship.
“Jerry’s bombing the hospital ships,” they said. “Three destroyers gone in less than an hour. Jerry reckons we’ll never get the rest of the boys away.”
“’E’s right an’ all,” Yorky commented dryly. “If we sit on our behinds ’ere all day we’ll never get nobody off.”
“’Old yer water, mate,” one of the ship’s crew said, “your turn’ll come.”
Yorky muttered something to himself and went on peeling potatoes, assisted by Dig and Old Boxer. I watched the three of them, all older than I, all different: Yorky, aggressively sure of himself and his engines, anxious to get into the turmoil across the narrow strip of water. Dig, quietly confident and unafraid, doing menial tasks with a friendly willingness, certain he’d never see the week out but determined to do his job properly until the end came. Old Boxer, grey-faced and sullen-looking, his hands fumbling and unsteady, uneasy as he heard the news.
I found I still couldn’t think of him as my father, and it came as a shock over and over again as I realised this untidy bedraggled old man with the wispy hair and the grey stubble of beard was responsible for my birth, had held Ma in his arms and made love to her. There was little to recommend either of them, I thought: Ma, thwarted and angry and selfish because she was saddled with a child she hadn’t wanted and a husband she didn’t love; and Old Boxer, defiant always, unsure of himself, aggressive and sardonic, taking refuge in bitterness and drink as he grew older till he’d become just another piece of port flotsam, cared for by nobody, tormented by warring emotions and angry thoughts.
He’d shown a pathetic enthusiasm for the boat at first, touching familiar objects with trembling fingers, remembering his youth, I suppose, when he’d had a boat of his own. But always somewhere in the recesses of his mind there seemed to be an unhappy uncertainty that came from fear, from years of drunkenness that had soured the spirit in him and taken away his courage.
But he was obviously shamed by Dig’s quiet confidence and Yorky’s tearing desire to get into the thick of it, for he hadn’t suggested shirking the adventure, and did his few jobs as we waited with a silent, dull heaviness.
All day we bobbed and bumped alongside the supply vessel, the passing ships bouncing us against its steel sides and setting the mat of small craft that surrounded us weaving and dancing. Overhead, there was the continuous roar of aeroplanes.
And past us, backwards and forwards, all day long, went the poignant procession of little ships.
First went the destroyers and the troopships, then the Sues and the Three Brothers and the Two Sisters, little boats that had registrations that went from the Wash to Poole, their crews the men who’d stood in peace time on the harbour wall shouting: “Any more for the Skylark? One shilling round the lighthouse.” With them went the huge tows of small craft, yachts and cobles and launches, and the pulling dinghies and whalers. Despite their humble duty they’d a grandeur, a dignity that day that wasn’t marred by their scarred paint-work and their unpolished brass. Those little boats were taking part in history.
When they came back – and they came back as fast as others went out – they were crammed to the gunwales with the dun-coloured masses of troops. The destroyers came in fast, heeling over under the numbers they had aboard. Behind them came the lumbering troopships and the schuits and the fishing-vessels and the tugs. And all of them – like the destroyers – hadn’t a spare inch of deck space where there wasn’t a haggard, red-eyed soldier. Some of them even came in with the swaddies baling with their steel helmets and their hands. But they came and stood by ready to go again.
Some of them were limping badly, their decks splintered by bullets and the dead lying sprawled in corners, their planks leaking from the shock of bombs, their fuel pipes fractured by explosions and engines off their bearers. There wasn’t much cheering now and not much excitement.
The sun was shining brilliantly and the scene was like a regatta but for the absence of laughter. There were few signs, apart from the scarred boats and the hurry of the traffic, of the tremendous adventure that was taking place twenty miles away. Occasionally the rumble of cannon and the harsh chatter of the destroyers’ anti-aircraft guns hammering away at a too-adventurous German ’plane set the glass rattling in the wheelhouse window.
During the afternoon an RAF launch came alongside us, and we passed over sacks of spuds and tins of bully and helped to refuel her while her exhausted crew dragged at cigarettes and sank mugs of tea.
“It’s the dive-bombers are the worst,” they said. “Come down at you like bloody banshees, they do. And the din. Gawd!”
“Look out for the stuff in the water when you get across,” someone else joined in. “There’s floating grass-lines and old rope and wreckage all over the show. Keep one eye aft, or before you know where you are you’ll have a couple of fathoms of rope round your props.”
Then, swallowing the last of their tea, they cast off and hurried away to pick up naval officers and carry them back to the inferno of Dunkirk.
Even as she left, it seemed, the naval launch arrived and the commander was shouting at us through a megaphone.
“Stand by!” he was yelling.
“We’ve been bloody well standin’ by all the ruddy day,” Yorky screamed back. “Soft as a prozzy at a christenin’. My behind’s all swole up with sittin’ on it.”
The commander grinned. “OK. OK,” he said. “Your turn’s come. An hour or two from now you’ll wish you were still standing by.”
It was still daylight when we set off, heading eastwards and south to where the fading sunshine fell. We were a hybrid bunch, four miles of us, most of us under tow, with the accompanying destroyers and sloops whooping up and down like yelping dogs. There were Thames barges loaded with ammunition and stores and water for the famished and exhausted troops on the beaches, motor-boats, fishing-boats and tugs, and holiday launches on whose brasses the last of the light winked.
The evening sky had a blue-green glow, I remember, but long before dusk we saw a great pall of smoke in it, hanging over the darkening sea. It was the funeral pyre of dying Dunkirk, and we could hear the mutter of battle now. All the time, passing us in the opposite direction, were boats going home, singly and in groups, at speed or with spluttering engines, all crammed with that brown mass of troops, every inch of deck and cabin space filled with men.
Gradually the pall of smoke on the horizon merged into the night that lifted out of the sea and we could see the glow at its base where the fires burned among the debris of the town. As the sky grew blacker we could hear calls and curses from boats near us, in darkness that was broken only by the glimmer ahead and the shaded stern lights. There was a curious sense of unreality about the whole proceedings and it had been heightened by the donging of a church clock as we left, coming clear and distinct on the wind across the water to us.
As we approached our destination a change came over us. There was a nervous tension in the air and no one talked. Old Boxer was silent and motionless, huddled on a fender aft, struggling with his courage. I left Dig at the wheel to let me know when the sign
al to cast off the tow came, and went past Old Boxer along the boat for a last check-up.
“You all right?” I asked him sharply.
“Yes,” he said, without looking at me. “A bit of sickness. I’ll be OK. Just leave me alone, for God’s sake.”
I moved away. Not since leaving harbour had either of us made any reference to our relationship.
In the engine-room Yorky was sitting on a margarine box between the two engines, picking out a tune on his concertina. His parcel of belongings, burst as usual, was jammed into the top of a tool-box and drips from a leaking oilcan made a greasy smear on the brown paper.
He smiled as I appeared. “Fancy a tune, cock?” he asked. “‘Shenandoah’? Or ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush’, or summat?”
I grinned. “Engines all right?” I asked.
“Never been better, love. Shipshape as you like. You needn’t worry about them, kid. Only a six-inch shell’ll stop ’em once they’re started.”
“We’re going in in the dark,” I pointed out.
“I’ll be all right, love,” he smiled, and there was an affection in his tones that touched me. “You’re in good ’ands. And if anythink ’appens I’ll be up that there ladder like a rat up a drain.”
He paused and frowned, puzzled, as I stood with one foot on the companionway. “’Orace, Jess? Is ’e all right? The booze’s got ’im proper this time. Ain’t never seed ’im so bad.”
“He’s all right,” I lied. “Think he’s got the wind-up a bit. He’ll sort himself out when the time comes.”
“Just fancy! Wind-up. Once there wasn’t anything could frighten ’im.” Yorky’s voice was full of wonder. “Just makes you realise what booze can do for you.”
Back on deck I glanced towards the shore. There were still fires in the port area of Dunkirk and wrecks lay in the roads and off the beaches. Behind them were the blazing oil-tanks, the cause of that pall of smoke we’d seen. You could feel the heat of them even where we were.
