WC02 - Never Surrender (33 page)

So they demanded still more. Now it was that the boats should take a larger number of Frenchmen. More political nonsense. How many times had he told them that every Frenchman put in a boat meant one more Englishman left behind? The French had the whole of France to creep back into, so why had they squashed into Dunkirk? He'd even had to offer the French an equal share of the eastern mole, and all they'd done was protest that the mole was a French mole and what business did he have in offering them anything that was already theirs. To hell with it. If they were so keen on their wretched mole, why hadn't they expended a little more effort in defending it?

God, it was such a mess. Everything he'd worked for in his life lay in ruins. He didn't know what would pain him more, other men's condemnation or their pity. As events battered him ever more mercilessly, he clung to the instincts that had made him what he was: a brave soldier. He was going to get his men back or as many men as he could. And while that happened, he was going to show them that he, at least, had not deserted them. He was going to stay right where he was, do his duty as best he knew how, until they were all on board. Then he would be the last Englishman home.

The beach marshals in charge of the evacuation weren't having any of it. "No French. French have their own ships," Don and Claude were told, but no one could tell them where. It wasn't anyone's job to know. And it wasn't the job of the English to evacuate any but their own.

"And no bloody dogs."

That decided it for them. There was an armada out there, but they wouldn't be allowed to use it, not together. They had to find their own boat.

Boats, boats, everywhere they looked there were boats. Many of them were upturned and semi-submerged and more with each passing hour as the wind came in from the sea and the surf began to rise. Some had been riddled with bullet holes or smashed in collisions, others simply capsized and abandoned. It became clear to them why so many had been abandoned when they tried righting one of the waterlogged boats. It couldn't be done. Claude's ankle was still weak, Don's arm useless, and it wasn't long before they were soaked and dejected from their repeated forays into the sea. Every time they tried, they were knocked down, either by the waves or by the boat they were trying to catch, and every time they hauled themselves back up the beach they used up a little more of their strength. Turning over a capsized boat, even a small one, was simply beyond them. But they had to continue trying; there was no other way.

It was the surf that came to their aid in the end, washing close to shore an upturned lifeboat that had probably done duty on an excursion ship. It was small enough for them to turn upright, although it took several attempts. Then they had to bale it out and drag their prize painfully to the shore. Claude had twisted his ankle once more with the effort, but tried to disguise the fact until he collapsed as soon as the lifeboat grounded on the sand.

Winston fussed around them, trying to lick their faces. They were both in desperate need of a rest. They lay panting on the beach, coughing up salt water.

"I preferred the wine," Claude gasped, choking.

"We should get some help. I can't row, and anyway we've got nothing to row with," Don spluttered in reply. "The boat might take six or eight."

"Ten, I hope," they heard a voice reply.

They looked up to see a captain of a Guards unit standing over them.

"What do you mean?" Claude demanded, heaving himself up. He saw that there were other soldiers standing behind the captain, all still in full combat gear, expressionless, clean shaven, and armed.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to requisition this boat," the captain explained.

"No, sir, you're not. This is our boat. Find your own."

"I think we have," the captain offered, dryly.

"You bloody can't!" Don snapped.

"You don't understand. I already have."

"But why?"

"Why? Because I outrank you. Because you are French, and you' he examined Don's borrowed uniform: catering corps 'are some sort of cook. We are Guards, and I'm afraid His Majesty needs us rather more than he needs you right now. So you can regard this as a direct order."

"Gone deaf, sir," Don muttered, shaking his head, 'must've got water in the ear. Anyway, you don't have any paddles."

"Oh, but we do."

The guardsmen behind the captain indicated the butts of their rifles, then slowly turned them so the muzzles were pointing directly at Don and Claude. Winston began growling.

"Seems I have all the arguments on my side," the captain said. "We are also ten, you are two, and I think the boat will just about manage ten out to the ships." He looked at Don. "We could try to squeeze one more Englishman in, if you'd like," he added.

"Go to hell."

"Dover first, I think."

Don struggled to his feet, trying to stand as tall as he could and to hide the tremor in his legs and voice. "You'll have to get rid of me first."

"Don't be a fool."

"Better than being a coward. Sir."

"Then first, I think just to show intent we'll get rid of that awful yapping mongrel." The captain had a revolver in his hand. He was pointing it straight at Winston, but suddenly Don was in his way.

"No! You have the bloody boat. I'll keep the dog."

And that was the end of it. Soon the guards were gone, paddling slowly out to sea, the captain in the prow, beating time with the butt of his revolver.

"He's my dog, Englishman," Claude muttered, as they watched the guards drift away. "I kill you before I let you have him."

"When we get back to Dover, Frenchie, there's a wonderful pub called the George and Dragon. I'll take you there for a pint. Then I'll play you at darts to see who keeps Winston."

"Darts? What is darts?"

"A sort of flying game."

"Then I accept the challenge, on condition that I don't have to drink any of your English beer."

They continued to watch the backs of the guards as the boat disappeared across the water. Don and the Frenchman were too exhausted to move, even when the Luftwaffe returned, transforming the beaches once more into a cauldron of noise and disorder. The German pilots were back with their commander's encouragement still ringing in their ears, determined to make up for time lost to the mists. Out above the sea, a Heinkel dropped a string of bombs. They tumbled out of the bomb bay, then caught the air and began to swoop, one by one, almost gracefully, to the sea below, where they sent up great spouts of water. One spout of water seemed darker than the rest. It was the bomb that hit the guards' boat full on, and by the time the volcanic sea had finally settled, there was nothing to be seen but a few stray pieces of wreckage.

"Now I know there is a God," Claude whispered.

FOURTEEN

Churchill watched events unfolding with an extraordinary lack of grace. His fate and that of the war effort was being decided through happenings over which he had no control. He could do nothing but wait and he was desperately unpractised in the art of patience.

So when he heard the news of Gort's decision to stay, his immediate response was to jump to his feet in exasperation. The effect, as Colville was later to admit, was frankly awe-inspiring, since he was in his bath at the time.

"Useless! Useless!" the old man roared, rising like Poseidon, casting the waters aside and flooding the floor. "What bloody good will it do us if our most senior military commander sits on his rump waiting for the Boche to arrive? Isn't it enough that they've won the battle without handing them a trophy to drag back through the streets of Berlin?"

"I think he feels it is his duty." "This isn't the Titanic! He will come home!" Colville, who was still uncertain about the wisdom of briefing a Prime Minister in the bath, held out a towel and a load of comfort. "But Ramsay's worked miracles. The numbers he's getting back are rising every day."

Churchill scrabbled around under his armpit. "But how many of them are French, Jock?"

As they both knew, no more than a few thousand Frenchmen had been brought back, a trickle compared to the English stream.

"Why does it matter so?" Colville pressed.

"Where were you this afternoon when their Prime Minister telephoned to suggest that the British were running back home and leaving his men to carry the can? At lunch, I suppose. And Monsieur Reynaud is a brave man, so much better than those terrible defeatists who surround him."

"If you remember, Prime Minister, you sent me to get a fresh supply of your cigars from St. James's. I didn't have time for lunch."

Churchill cast aside both towel and complaint. "Jock, you must understand, it matters so very much that we are not seen to be fighting just for England. France will fall soon, I fear sooner, if they feel we are betraying them and then we shall be alone. But we cannot win this war on our own, Jock. So even after France falls, we must hope that it will rise up again, along with all the other oppressed nations of Europe, until Hitler and his hordes have been swept into hell. We're not fighting for ourselves in this war but for the whole of humanity. If we lose, it will be the end of everything not just of England but of civilization, of history itself. That is why we must go on to the end, no matter what it takes, and never give in. Never, never, never!"

"So," Colville began, anxious as ever to bring the old man's romanticism to its point, 'you want more Frenchmen lifted from the beaches."

But the emotion had taken him, carrying him beyond the point of caution. "No, not just more. I want an equal number. From now on we must march arm-in-arm with any man who wishes to continue the fight." He clasped his hands together in front of him. "One Englishman, one Frenchman. Together. Bras-dessus, bras-des sous

It was a ridiculous suggestion. They might have only another day at most for the evacuation. Anyway, it would all be over by the time new instructions were sent, so Colville decided not to argue. The bathwater was seeping through the welts of his shoes, and in the morning the old man would be more modestly dressed and, hopefully, more moderately inclined. His sudden passion for the French was confusing -after all, this was the man who had sent squadrons of phantom fighters to their aid and who had danced a jig for joy when the panzers turned away from Dunkirk and towards Paris.

Colville made a mental note. No more briefings in the bath. Next time he would wait for the water and the old man's passions to cool.

But, as he was to discover, Churchill meant almost every word.

Henry Chichester had become a welcome figure around the port of Dover in recent days. In a town overflowing with uniforms of every colour and condition, the simplicity of his clerical collar stood out. Dover heaved with people, and with pain, and he wandered slowly though it all, giving comfort where he could. As they stumbled from their ships or passed him on stretchers, gaunt-eyed men reached out to touch him and looked to him for leadership; they couldn't know that Henry Chichester was so riddled with doubt that he no longer knew in which direction he was heading.

A cancer began to spread through the port. Those who were about to leave for Dunkirk saw the condition of those who were returning, and despaired. Many had been pulled not just from the beaches but from burning wrecks or oil-choked waters. With every day of the ordeal in and around Dunkirk, the conditions had grown worse and the chances of any ship coming back unscathed grown smaller. There had been another great raid from the air the Luftwaffe claimed thirty-one British ships sunk in a single day. Many others had only just made it back to port, listing, sinking. Some returned with gaping holes in their sides stuffed with mattresses, others with superstructures almost burnt to the deck, but an ever larger number were not coming back at all.

Mutiny was not a term that the port authorities chose to use, but it was becoming noticeable that there was a growing reluctance amongst many civilian crews to sail back towards the inferno. Engines began mysteriously to break down, vessels began to run aground, filters became blocked, valves somehow twisted, bodies grew sick. Even life boatmen who had risked their lives to save others on countless occasions began to draw back; facing death was one thing, facing Dunkirk entirely another.

Ramsay had no time to parley or to prevaricate. He sent armed guards and naval crews aboard to stiffen resolve. His time was running out. The ships had to sail, even at the point of a line of bayonets.

On all sides, Henry Chichester's presence was welcomed: by those sailors struck feeble by fear, and by officers who hoped that his words would achieve what a brandished revolver might not. But it was getting more difficult.

An Isle of Man packet steamer wasn't sailing. Trouble on board. Angry voices drifting across the dock; a confrontation on the gangway between crewmen trying to clamber down and a harassed young naval sub-lieutenant standing in their way, backed by a squad of rifles. He tried to reason, but the beaches had no reason, so he tried to threaten, but they all said they would rather die in England than die over there.

Henry Chichester stood at the bottom of the gangway and raised his voice. "Hear, O Israel, ye approach this day unto battle against your enemies: let not your hearts faint, fear not, and do not tremble, neither be ye terrified because of them; for the Lord your God is he that goeth with you, to fight for you against your enemies, to save you."

They all looked towards him. It was a grime-smeared young stoker who found his voice first.

"What good is God?" he demanded angrily. "He ain't coming with us. And neither are you."

It wasn't the first time his faith had been questioned, but he no longer had any glib answers. What good is God? Henry Chichester no longer knew. He couldn't answer for the Almighty any longer, but only for one man.

"I shall come with you," he replied, and began to force his path up the gangway.

"Sir, you can't," the young officer objected, uncertain. "Do you know how to sail?"

"I can set an anchor and coil a rope as well as any man," he replied. "Anyway, have you got a better way of getting this ship to sail?"