WC02 - Never Surrender (11 page)

Henry Chichester was in his early forties. Secure job, steady income, and extremely well turned out for a man who'd been without a wife for so long. He took pride in his appearance and in the tidiness of the life around him; it was his way of showing that he could survive perfectly well on his own. Sadly for him, he failed to understand that it was precisely these qualities that attracted so many women to his congregation.

They brought their troubles to him, believing he would understand. Some of their difficulties were philosophical -was it a sin to instruct children to lie if strangers asked them for directions? Some were purely theological should they pray for the souls of German dead? But mostly they were intensely personal. A young parishioner had turned up at his door that morning, sobbing in distress and wanting to know whether she would be condemned if she gave herself to her boyfriend before he went off to war. The vicar had offered her a cup of tea, a clean handkerchief and a homily about how it would be wrong to put aside personal morality simply because of the war. It seemed to help.

Later that morning, a sad-eyed pensioner had taken the wedding ring from her finger and pressed it into his hand, begging him to make sure it would be used for the war effort. She'd heard that German women were giving up their wedding bands, and she wanted to do her bit. He had pressed it back upon her. If that was the practice in Germany, he told her, it was the best reason he could think for an Englishwoman not to do anything of the sort. That, too, had helped.

With every word of comfort, the reputation of the Reverend Chichester rose in the eyes of his parishioners. It left him feeling a fraud. He made most of it up. God knew what the answers were to their questions, but he didn't. How could he talk to others about the wickedness of lies, when he wouldn't own up to the truth about his own son? He praised others for maintaining their moral codes, yet that was precisely what he had condemned Don for. The certainties in his life had gone, and what was left was obscured in clouds of spiritual dust.

He couldn't find sanctuary even in his church. He'd had another visitor that morning, a man from the War Office with a large paper file and a considerably smaller map of Dover, who had announced that he was requisitioning the tower of St. Ignatius for use as an observatory. They were going to watch for enemy parachutists. Chichester had enquired whether this was wise since St. Ignatius was the only tall building in the area that didn't have a telephone, but the man from the ministry was adamant, warning that he could have Chichester arrested if he caused difficulties, vicar or no vicar. Chichester responded that the lack of a telephone would be more likely to cause the difficulties, and left it at that. Perhaps he'd ask for a good peal of the bells at the weekend, just to ensure that those above the belfry were awake.

Even those wretched maps of the battlefield in The Times had begun causing trouble. He'd pinned the latest one up in the porch that morning. Still no fronts marked on it; in fact, it contained very little information at all. To the untrained eye they all looked the same. Except the Reverend Chichester noticed that the map, day by day, was moving ever farther westward.

Convoy. The dictionary talked about an escort designed for honour, guidance or protection. If that were so, the 6th no longer seemed to merit the term. They had moved back, even beyond the defensive works the BEF had spent so many months constructing, but it had done nothing to halt the tide of withdrawal. They had begun the day based at a chateau, had moved back to a small brewery at Laventie and were now on the move for the third time that day. The order and discipline that Don had associated with a life in the army had broken down with astonishing speed they had lost all contact with the Casualty Clearing Station and had no idea where it had been moved. The station was supposed to assess the injured and hand them on for treatment, but now the 6th had to carry the wounded with them, crammed into the back of the ambulances. Many were too badly injured to make it. They were left behind with large red crosses pinned on their uniforms.

The number of casualties had begun to grow. Belgians, French, a few British, many civilians. The Luftwaffe was attacking indiscriminately, firing at ambulances, women, children, farm stock anything to increase the mayhem and slow down the retreat. There could only be one point to this: the panzers weren't far behind.

The BBC announced that Brussels was not threatened -news that would have come as a shock to the grieving owner of the circus. And if Brussels wasn't being threatened, how was it that Don could hear the din of battle around Tournai, thirty miles further west?

The Medical Corps manual he'd trained with was no bloody use. It had nothing about how to deal with confusion and chaos. Don found himself doing whatever was required -tearing up sheets for bandages, boiling tools for the surgeons, disposing of the waste bits of war. He even had to start foraging for food a NAAFI truck had driven past shortly after dawn, throwing out a little food and some cartons of cigarettes, but it hadn't stopped and they'd had nothing since.

While they were at the brewery there had been a shout for medical tubing, something to keep airways open; he'd found some rubber tubing that was being used as a drip hose from one of the vats. It had done the job, in extremis. Most things seemed to be in extremis.

And so they moved on, but always back, until they arrived in Le Doulieu, a hamlet that consisted of no more than two farms and some outbuildings. It was getting late, too dark and too dangerous to go on, and they were all exhausted. It would have to do.

The stench as he opened the doors of the ambulance was indescribable. Twelve injured men strapped inside a vehicle designed for four. Something trickled onto Don's boots. The men were carried to the outhouses.

Don was astonished- at how primitive French farms could be, yet it would have to do, and within minutes the kitchen had been turned into an operating theatre with water being brought to the boil and the table scrubbed and ready for surgery.

A patient was brought in, a young French soldier. Two orderlies held him down on the table as the surgeon cut away his uniform and began working on his legs.

Most of these patients, Don knew, would have to be left behind, spoils of war for the advancing Wehrmacht. And then what would happen to them? For the thousandth time he wondered what it would be like to face an enemy with a loaded rifle; for the thousandth time he heard his father calling him a coward. Inside, part of him wanted it to happen, for the Germans to catch up with them, so that at last he might know who was right.

He had sworn to the Tribunal that he was not a coward, that he would do his duty, that he would not run. He wasn't certain of it, of course, couldn't be, not until the time came. Yet all around him the British army was running.

He was shaken from his thoughts by the cry of impotence that came from the surgeon as he threw his scalpel into the kitchen sink. For a moment his head bent wearily over his patient, as if accepting defeat, then he turned upon Don, his eyes filled with anger and awe at the mess God could make of His Creation.

"Hurry. Go out to the woodshed. There's got to be one. While there's time, fetch me a saw."

"We always seem to have a drink in our hands," Butler commented, greeting his friend.

"I, for one, need it," Channon responded. His cheeks were flushed. He was in full evening dress, as was his colleague. "Felt like death most of the day. Temperature of a hundred and three."

"You should be in bed," Butler replied.

"My dear Rab, we may all be going to die very soon. Personally I'd rather go down beneath a streptococcal virus with a glass of champagne in my paw than at the end of a German bayonet."

The bar of the Savoy was beginning to fill with the evening crush. "Cometh the crisis, cometh the crowd," the barman had intoned as he'd polished fresh glasses. Money was being spent while it still had some value. The dining room was already overflowing and Channon had needed to part with a substantial tip in order to reserve a table.

"Pity you were laid low," Butler muttered, his eyes scanning the evening tide. "You missed the fun."

"Where?"

"At Downing Street. My summons came today."

"Oh, dear. Had to happen, I suppose." Channon's face fell. He was an exceedingly rich and inexhaustible socialite, yet he treasured his role as Butler's parliamentary aide; they were fastened together by ambition and would sink together, too.

Butler picked up the tale. "It was brief. To the point. He sat there with a wet cigar between his lips, relighting it with the aid of something that resembled a Bunsen burner. Terrible eyes I remember the eyes. Old. Worn out. I had to say I was feeling rather privileged that he'd brought me all the way over there to do it personally Jock tells me most of the others have been sacked by telephone."

"Damned rude."

"What else do you expect from this gang? Anyway, he started by telling me how much he appreciated the subtlety and skill with which I handled difficult questions in the House." Butler paused to raise an eyebrow in greeting at a passing acquaintance; it really was growing uncomfortably crowded. "Said much the same thing during the India debates when we first clashed all those years ago. Accused me of being able to take any position on any matter and hold it in all sincerity for so long as I was expressing it. Suggested I should be a lawyer."

"He accused you of insincerity?" Chips was incredulous. "I hope you put him in his place."

"Well, I was about to, prepared to hit him straight back over the boundary, when he bowled me something of a googly. Said he wanted me to continue at the Foreign Office."

"What?"

"Yes. Took me aback for a moment, too. But the fact is, dear Chips, you and I are still in business."

Chips struggled to compose himself as delight squeezed alongside his confusion.

"So I asked him. Why? Point blank. In all honesty I was too startled to be subtle. And d'you know what he said? Because, although we have had our differences'

"I should say so!"

'- I had once asked him to my private residence."

"I never have."

"And that is why, dear Chips, I am His Majesty's Minister for Foreign Affairs and you .. . are not." The lips wobbled; it looked like the slightest of smirks.

"Is that the price of a position in this new Government: a lamb cutlet and a bottle of claret?"

"Apparently. Must admit, I feel as though I've been accosted by a passing bank robber and had a ten-pound note thrust into my hand."

"I don't know whether to laugh or burst with misery."

"Neither do I. But I suppose we shall potter along for a while longer." At this point his attentions were drawn to the other side of the bar. "Ah, there's Jock. Inexcusably late. And not dressed for dinner."

Colville was forcing his way through to where they were standing, launching hurried apologies both for his unpunc-tuality and for the fact that he would be unable to join them for the evening.

"Won't Winston let you come out to play?"

"It's .. . it's just awful," Colville spluttered through the champagne that Channon thrust towards him. He appeared greatly distracted. "It all started happening just after you'd left."

"What started happening?" Butler enquired gently, trying to hide his irritation that he wasn't fully in the picture. It wasn't the first time; Churchill never entirely trusted the Foreign Office.

Colville took a conspiratorial breath, trying to ensure they couldn't be overheard. "Panic. Or something close to it. It seems that Brussels has gone. Antwerp is about to fall. And the panzers are only a hundred miles from Paris."

"Oh, my poor Paris," Chips cried, his face once again growing fevered. He'd spent much of his peripatetic youth in the French capital, an education that had left him with a taste for most French vices, except those relating to women.

"Winston's flown there this afternoon," Colville added.

"Searching for excuses."

"I don't think we can blame Winston," Colville countered.

"But fault has to find its home, Jock. He will be blamed -blamed for what is beginning to look like the greatest military disaster of all time." Suddenly Butler stiffened. "Which is why he reappointed me and the others. So that we can all share in the responsibility. Had nothing to do with lamb cutlets, after all."

"Lamb cutlets?" Colville muttered, but Butler swept his question aside.

"Tell me, Jock, has Winston heard back from Mr. Roosevelt?"

Colville's eyes fell. "Usual story. All support short of actual help, I'm afraid."

"Of course. Joe Kennedy had said it would be what was his phrase? - "all smiles but no sausage"."

"So what are we to do?" Channon demanded, an anxious hand on Butler's sleeve.

"Have you ever read Mein Kampf?" the Minister enquired.

"You're kidding."

"Terrible tome, but .. . Hates the Jews, of course, and the Russians. French, too, because of the humiliations they inflicted after the last war. Yet he seems almost to have a soft spot for the English. He talks about a division of the spoils. To us the Empire, and for him the rest of Europe. Something along those lines."

"Why would he do that?"

"A sense of Aryan togetherness, perhaps. A desire for a new world order, with us controlling the seas and keeping the natives quiet while he does' the most fractional of pauses 'whatever it is he wishes to do on the continent. It's all set out in his book."

"Judging by the last few days he seems rather to have changed his mind," Colville interjected.

"Really? I'm not sure, Jock. It's just that we haven't tried. And never will, so long as Winston's in charge."

"But what do we do?" Chips demanded yet again.

"Do, my dear Chips?" Butler muttered, his lips quivering in surprise. "Isn't it obvious? We do a deal."

FIVE

Don hadn't thought it possible to fall asleep standing up. But he had, in broad sunlight, against the wall of the barn with a cigarette between his lips. He hadn't woken until his legs had collapsed beneath him.