Snapshots of War
Michael Gouda
Part 1
Thursday 30th May 1940
Private Bert Salter, stinking to high heaven - though not as yet up there, who hadn't taken off his boots for three days or his uniform for a week, tramped down the gully to the sea. "Smell the ozone," his mother used to say. He'd been smelling it for some time now - it reminded him of the seaside at home.
Everything else was foreign, the long straight roads bordered by their lines of tall poplar trees - you never saw anything like that back in England - nor the houses with their shutters on the outside of the windows. Behind him the sound of gunfire - German gunfire of course though he - in the three weeks he had been in France - hadn't even fired a shot. The Maginot Line would hold them back, they had been told. The French had every confidence in that string of antiquated defences and then the tanks of Hitler's Panzer divisions had swept through and round them as if they had been made from cardboard. The Maginot Line had crumbled, the French army had crumbled and now here the British Expeditionary Force was running away - an organised withdrawal, they called it but to Bert it was fucking running away.
"And what happens when we get to the sea?" he asked the soldier who walked alongside him. Not from his unit, not anyone he knew - but then they were all mixed up - a complete fucking cock-up. Even the officers who had given the orders to retreat were strangers.
"Do we fucking have to swim home?"
The other man didn't answer. A younger man - perhaps in his twenties but looking as exhausted as Bert felt, his eyes red-rimmed under thick carrot-coloured eyebrows, red hair curling from under a forage cap, his feet stumbling, rifle trailing in the dirt, uniform stained and crumpled.
"Any idea where we are, mate?" asked Bert.
"Town called Dunkirk, I heard." His voice had a strange accent, one Bert couldn't quite place, the words enunciated carefully, almost pedantically.
The gully opened out into a broad expanse of sand and there ahead of them was the sea, picture-postcard blue with silver flecks in the perfect late Spring weather. Bert remembered similar views at the seaside from his youth. Days out at Brighton though it was pebbles there and of course a pier instead of the mole. He looked around. Here there were just a few houses off the shoreline, and the long grey stone wall built well out into the sea to protect a harbour basin, then nearer the dunes with their tall spiked grasses and finally the sand. There didn't seem to be anywhere to go so he sat down amidst the tussocks of marram grass. The other soldier sat next to him and fished out a packet of five Woodbines from his blouse pocket. He offered them.
"Gotta light?" he asked.
"Better than them fucking French Gauloises fags," Bert said puffing contentedly after an initial cough as the raw smoke sandpapered his throat.
More and more soldiers arrived down the gully. Some were wounded. One had a bandage round his eyes and was being led by a friend. Some wore their waterproof capes, one a greatcoat, another seemed to have lost his tunic and was just wearing a vest, sweat-stained under the armpits. They formed a ragged if companionable group, sitting there in the sand dunes, tin hats off, faces upturned to the warm sunshine, fags offered and received, all contentedly smoking.
"You men!" A curt voice suddenly reminded them where and what they were. A Captain appeared. Bert had never seen him before. "Put your helmets on and start digging," he ordered. "You're all exposed here and we may have to spend some time before we get off." He marched on, erect, soldierly, sure that his orders would be carried out - though there was a dark dirt patch in the centre of his tunic and a tear in his trousers just below the right knee.
"Now we're building fucking sand castles," said Bert, as soon as the officer was out of earshot.
His friend smiled, the skin around his light brown eyes, wrinkling. It made him look oddly young and attractive.
A couple of the other men started a desultory excavation but the sand was dry and fine and fell back into the hole almost as soon as it was dug. They soon gave up and squatted down again. Digging seemed a pointless occupation.
"How far is it?" asked Bert. He didn't say to where but hardly needed to.
"About fifty miles," said his friend nodding out to sea.
"Christ I can't swim that far."
There was a sudden roar in the air above them, a demented howl as a Messerschmitt appeared from over the hillocks behind and banked sharply left to fly along the beach. They watched as if it was a bit of entertainment. Then Punch and Judy changed to the chatter of machine guns and spurts of sand flew up in two parallel paths. A man further down the beach, seeing the tracks making for him, tried to get out of the way, his face turned upwards, but was overtaken and fell, twitching.
The plane disappeared up the beach, guns still firing. The officer, a Captain in the Royal Artillery, returned. "Haven't you dug yourselves in yet?" he asked. "Get that man." He pointed to the body lying face down. arms stretched out as if sun-bathing with all his clothes on.
Bert and his new-found friend went over to look. "Is he badly hurt?" called the officer.
"He's dead, sir," said Bert.
"Are you sure?"
"He's got no head, sir."
The officer joined them and looked down. "Pull him out of sight behind one of the dunes," he said, "and then dig yourselves a trench. That bastard will be back."
Shocked by the suddenness of the incident, they managed to dig a sort of shallow ditch using their hands and their rifle butts, shoring up the sides with some bits of wood flotsam they found along the high water mark. They huddled into it as the sun sank away to their left. The officer had not reappeared again nor had the plane though the gunfire from inland sounded nearer, flashes lighting the sky that the sun had left. Someone lit a fire and started a brew, taking water from a small stream that dribbled its way towards the sea. There was no milk but they had some sugar to sweeten the drink.
"Christ, I'm hungry," complained Bert. "Me fucking stomach thinks me throat's cut."
His friend looked round then surreptitiously fished around in his breast pocket. "Chocolate," he whispered, "Red Cross parcel. I've saved it for emergencies. I would say this is one of those." He split the bar carefully into two and handed Bert half.
Bert broke off the tiny squares, one by one. The sweetness melted over his tongue. He savoured the taste, trying to make it last as long as he could. They sat side by side while the dusk turned to night and the stars came out. There was no moon and the only other lights were the red embers of their cigarettes. The guns ceased.
"You married?" asked the soldier.
"You bet," said Bert. "Two kids as well, girl and a boy."
The other sighed. "You'll be seeing them soon."
Bert was about to ask after the other's family when the man suddenly stirred. "I'm going for a swim," he said. He stood and started to take off his uniform, the blancoed belt and webbing, tunic, slipping the braces down, undoing his boots, pulling off his socks. Bert could just about make out the movements through the darkness. His own body felt sticky and unpleasant and the thought of the cool sea was irresistible.
Together, wearing just the baggy Army-issue underpants, and carrying the rest of their clothes and their rifles, they went down the water-furrowed sand avoiding groups of men identifiable by their own cigarettes to where the wavelets broke on the shore. Something out there, whether fish or the sea itself, threw up small patches of phosphorescence, silvery-green in the darkness. Bert paused at the brink, his toes in the water, then stripped off his pants so that, naked except for his identity tags - red to be buried with him, green to be sent home - he waded in. Beside him he could see the white shape of his friend and they started to race each other, the water slowing them down, building up resistance against their legs. Deeper so that the waves surged against their groins, the cold making them gasp. Bert flung himself down and felt the water close over his head.
He emerged panting, breathless, laughing. He could see no one and then a shape broke the surface near to him, clutched at his waist, pulling him down. They were like kids, wrestling, trying to duck each other. Their bodies brushed together and Bert could feel the other's warmth. Arms and legs wrapped round him and he squirmed, trying to escape but enjoying the contact and when the other broke away, he launched his own offensive.
Suddenly they realised they were not alone. Others had followed, tempted by the sea and like a school of white porpoises, bodies leapt and cavorted, splashed and shouted. For a while Bert and his friend played until, suddenly feeling cold, Bert shouted. "I'm fucking frozen. Let's get out."
No towel of course and it was difficult to find their piles of clothing. For a moment Bert wondered what would happen if their clothes had been removed and, if, when dawn came, they would all be discovered, naked on the shore. But they found them - or found some certainly, brushed off the wetness from their bodies with their hands and put the clothes on, shivering.
The ditch they had dug, they could not locate so found a deserted patch amongst the tufts of marram grass above the high-water mark. and lay down. Bert felt clean for the first time for some weeks though he knew the salt would feel sticky when it eventually dried. He shivered.
His new friend moved closer and put his arms round him. For a moment Bert tensed but then relaxed, welcoming the warmth of the body wrapped around him. It was ages since he'd last felt the heat of a human body beside him, a breath against his neck, arms holding him. He was almost tempted to turn so that they could be face to face but he realised that in that case his erection would be obvious to the other so he lay as he was.
Friday 31st May 1940
When Bert woke up in dawn light he was alone - or rather of course not alone for the beach was full of soldiers, some still sprawling in exhausted sleep, some perhaps just arrived and squatting down amongst the dunes, some standing perhaps fearful that if they allowed their weary bodies to lie down, they would never be able to get up again. The guns started. The dull crump crump of the heavy howitzers contrasted with the sharp snap of rifles and an occasional stuttering rhythm of a machine gun.
But his friend of yesterday was nowhere to be seen and Bert felt strangely deserted. What was worse perhaps was that he had not even learned his name. Now perhaps he never would. He tried to straighten his uniform but it felt odd, too tight under the armpits, and his trousers were too short though of course the puttees would hide this. For a moment he couldn't understand what had happened but then realised that the clothes he - and his friend - had picked up after bathing last night - must have belonged to someone else. Not that it mattered really. The ones Bert now wore - though slightly too small - smelled marginally fresher than his own and he rather pitied the soldier who had been left his...
Over the brow of the hillock came the Captain, the same one as had been busy with them last night. Now he was accompanied by an R.A.S.C. Sergeant.
"Have you got your men together, Corporal?" he asked as he came past Bert.
Bert looked round to see whom he was talking to, but there was no one near. "What's your name?" The Captain was obviously talking to him.
"Salter, sir."
"Well, Corporal Salter, get some groups of men together. March 'em down to the sea."
"To the sea, sir?" said Bert. Could it be that they were actually going to have to swim?
"Look out there, Corporal," said the Sergeant, beer-belly, deep-voiced. He pointed down the beach and Bert saw, across the sea, well over the horizon, coming in, a flotilla of boats but not the sort you'd expect in time of war, transports of every description. He could make out a large merchant ship, its funnel belching dirty black smoke, a channel ferry, deck high out of the water and painted white so that it gleamed in the sunshine. Around them bobbed the fresh clean sails of what looked like private yachts and the dirty grey of fishing smacks. Low down in the water was the long flat shape of a coal barge, pulled by a tug, bows cutting through the waves.
"Fucking 'ell !" said Bert, forgetting where he was.
"Watch your language, Corporal," said the officer. Bert couldn't understand why he was calling him Corporal until suddenly he caught sight of the double chevrons on his arm. So he had swapped clothes with an NCO. Probably a chargeable offence but it couldn't be helped. He pulled himself together and tried to act like a Corporal.
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It was just the sight of all them boats."
"Ships, Corporal - but yes it's a brave sight. Now help the Sergeant organise the men into groups of twenty or so. March them down to the shoreline and get them ready to embark. Those ships won't want to hang about once they get here."
He walked off and the Sergeant remained behind to say, "Just get the groups down to the shore and ready to board."
"Got any food, Sarge?"
"Not till you get back to Blighty." He strode off.
"Thought the RASC were supposed to provide provisions," Bert muttered. For a moment he considered stripping off the tunic with its incriminating stripes but then decided it might be to his advantage to keep his promotion - at least for the present. He walked over to a group of soldiers lounging in the sand.
"OK, you lot. You're first for the boats. Get down to the shoreline. Quick as you like." To his surprise they obeyed though it might have been the prospect of rescue that inspired them rather than his order.
All down the beach he could see the rabble of despondent soldiery being organised into small groups, being marched down to the sea where the small boats got gradually closer. They seemed agonisingly slow whereas the gunfire from inland grew steadily louder and closer.
A small motor cruiser, used more probably to the Norfolk Broads rather than the North Sea, roared into hailing distance and cut its engine. A man in the cockpit, bald-headed and bearded, dressed incongruously in naval uniform shouted, "You'll have to wade out. I can't get any closer without grounding. I can take fifteen men, twenty at a pinch."
Bert waved. "Into the water," he said. "Quick as you can."
A young soldier looking about sixteen years old hardly older than his own son, William, stared at him with scared eyes. "I can't swim, Corp," he said.
"You don't have to. It probably isn't that deep." All the same he grabbed the boy by the arm and strode with him into the sea. It was flat calm and the sand sloped gradually so that they were some way out before the water was even up to their waists. Twenty yards further out the launch bobbed in the swell with the man - must have been well over sixty, thought Bert - beckoned encouragingly.
At that moment, as if they knew that their hemmed-in prisoners were escaping, two Heinkel 88s swept through the sky with screams of outraged protest. The calm sea and the bright sunshine made the ships and the men in the water and along the shoreline perfect targets for their bombs and machine gun fire.
The ground under their feet gave way and Bert and the boy were suddenly plunged into deep water. The boy started struggling, arms wildly flailing and Bert himself knew a moment of panic as his sodden clothes pulled him down and the youth's violence restricted his swimming. His head bobbed to the surface and he shouted to him to stay quiet or he'd drown them both. Just ahead the boat's side was almost in reach. The planes roared overhead and the boy quietened. The man in the sailor's uniform held out a pole of some sort to them.
"Grab hold," said Bert before his mouth was filled with salt water. The boy though seemed not to hear. He was heavy in Bert's arms and his face was down in the water. In his back were two dark ragged holes and the water around pulsed red.
"Oh Christ," said Bert and let him go. The body wallowed once or twice before disappearing sluggishly below the waves.
Now the other men had caught up and were pulling at the sides of the boat, trying to haul themselves out. "Take it easy, lads," said the man. "You'll have her over. One at a time."
One soldier clambered aboard and helped the old man to get the others in, Bert pushing from underneath. They filled the cabin, sat on the gunwales all around, legs hanging over the side. The boat rode low in the water.
"Are you going back for some more, Corporal?" asked the man.
Fuck that for a game of soldiers, thought Bert and hoisted himself over the side. He thought for a moment that the man looked disapproving but he said nothing, turned back to the controls and started the engine. More German planes flew over as they wove their way through the boats and the plumes of spray of bombs exploding all around them, heading toward England.
A fishing boat alongside them received a direct hit, scattering wreckage and bodies but the evacuation continued and would do for the next two days and nights under a persistent and deadly bombardment until eventually a sea fog rolled in and provided a sort of protection.
But Bert Salter arrived in Britain safely.
Wednesday 24th July 1940
The countries had gone down like ninepins to the bowling ball of German aggression - Poland, Denmark, Norway, Holland, Belgium, France - and there were those citizens of these invaded countries who wanted to escape. Consequently for a while there was a continuing if at times intermittent influx of boats of all sorts across the Channel bearing refugees. Some didn't make it - or at least were only washed up as bodies - others arrived to be greeted by the Local Defence Volunteers - soon to be called the Home Guard - and taken to the Police Station for interrogation - after all you couldn't be too careful.
On the 19th June a rowing boat pushed its bow into the soft sands at the base of the white cliffs of Dover and a young man dressed in blue fisherman's gear got out - somewhat unsteadily - he claimed he hadn't eaten for three days, and was promptly arrested by 78 year old General Sir Francis Horrocks who was in charge of the LDV platoon in the area.
Piet Kees was escorted to the Police station and there seen by Inspector Harold Burns.
Inspector Burns took down the young man's details. His nationality was Dutch, city of origin, Amsterdam, but he had been studying at the Sorbonne in Paris at the time of the German occupation. For some weeks after, he had kept a low profile, avoiding as far as possible, any contact with Germans. He feared that if he registered with the authorities he would be shipped back to Holland which would have made his escape even more difficult. Eventually with the help of a French Maquis group, he decided to try to make the hazardous journey from Paris to the coast and then to cross the Channel.
His arrival was reported to the appropriate authorities and eventually a file with his details arrived on the desk of a junior MI5 officer, Headquarters in Wormwood Scrubs. 'Check family name with Amsterdam contact', he scrawled in one margin and further down the page, 'Check French Maquis, code name 'Roland' re: escape from Paris'.
Five weeks to the day after he had landed, Piet Kees was ushered into the small, windowless room. He had been in custody the whole time. His eyes took in the scene. A desk with a lamp on it, two straight-back wooden chairs, one behind the desk, the other in front. Nothing on the cream-painted walls. A man sat in the chair behind the desk. He had a crown on his epaulettes which meant he was a Major, thought Piet.
The man, blond hair. slicked down either side of a straight parting, gesticulated with his hand to the other chair. Piet sat. He longed for a cigarette, hadn't had one for more than a week.
"My name is George Carlisle," said the Major then added, "Major George Carlisle. Of course 'Major' isn't part of my name. It is a title, specifically my Army rank." He had an educated Oxbridge accent and a pleasant, if rather horse-shaped face. He looked at Piet for a while and then opened a buff coloured folder in front of him. looking at the papers inside carefully, as if for the first time. Surely he must know what was in them, thought Piet.
"You are Piet Kees," said the Major. "26 years old. Dutch. Born in Amsterdam."
Piet wasn't sure whether he was making statements or asking questions but he nodded anyway.
"What is your date of birth?"
"23rd October 1913," said Piet.
"Only child?"
"Yes, sir. My father was killed during the first War. I do not even remember seeing him. My mother never married again."
"Tell me about your education."
Piet told his story, growing up in Amsterdam between the wars, his school days then how his mother had scrimped and saved from her job as schoolteacher to send him to University at Leiden and then afterwards to the Sorbonne in Paris.
"You were there in Paris when the Germans occupied France?"
"I have told this already," said Piet.
"How did you get to know the French Maquis, Roland?"
"I met him soon after I arrived in Paris in 1939. We became friends, drank together in the bars, discussed politics. He hated the Germans. We were very close."
The Major looked at him thoughtfully. "You know he has been captured by the Nazis. Probably been tortured and executed."
Piet was quiet. "I did not know."
"Your mother is not at her address in Amsterdam. Roland cannot corroborate your story. There is no proof to your tale. We think you could be a spy. We think you have been sent over here by the Abwehr in Paris."
"No, it is not true."
"Do you know the punishment for spies in time of war in England?"
Piet felt the blood drain from his face.
"We hang them," said the Major calmly.
There was a silence.
"How did you lose your front tooth?"
Piet was for a moment confused. He had not expected that question. "Er... I lost it in a fight, sir."
"Tell me about it."
"It was just a student disagreement. Too much to drink. We fell out over something. I can't even remember what."
"So you didn't register with the German Occupation in Paris."
"No. I felt that if I did, my chances of escaping to England would be very slim."
The Major took out a piece of paper from the folder. "Why did you not tell us that you were arrested in Paris on the 25th May and taken to the Abwehr counter-espionage Headquarters in the Rue Véronique where you were kept there for four days?"
Piet's consternation was obvious in his face.
Major Carlisle smiled but it was hardly a friendly one.
End of Part 1