Heronfield Page 5

  With fuel running low and magazines still half full of ammunition, B Flight turned for home and landed at Hornchurch without further incident.

  They were just downing their first pint in the officers’ mess when Flight Lieutenant Reynolds walked in. His shock of blond, almost white, hair was responsible for his nickname of Polar Bear, or sometimes just Bear. When David first met the Canadian, he had thought him a little too old for a fighter pilot, already thirty, yet he had soon come to respect the man’s superb flying skills and excellent marksmanship. With an aggressive flair for leadership that was going to be very useful in the months ahead, Reynolds was proving a popular squadron leader with his men.

  Although a born leader, his manner was quiet. As he approached the bar, he carried himself with an air of confident authority, and the strong face broke into a broad grin.

  "Well lads, look at this!" He held out a flimsy piece of paper as he spoke. "It's from Dowding, the C in C Fighter Command, to all you brave lads of No. 74 Squadron. Apparently we’re considered to have put in a magnificent performance, and are ordered to retire to RAF Leconfield to rest, and try to find a few Spitfires that are not full of holes!"

  "When do we leave?" Ted Browne’s face was wreathed in smiles. The last few days had been exhausting, and he felt desperately in need of a rest.

  "First thing in the morning."

  There was a whoop of joy and a rush to the bar.

  “Although the Expeditionary Force has been defeated, this is not the end of the war.” Browne took a long draught from his glass. “Hitler is sure to try to invade England next, and we’ll be ready to push his Luftwaffe back where it belongs. He won’t have the upper hand for long.”

  “Right, lad. And Leconfield will give us a chance to prepare for what’s ahead.” Bear looked grim. “Let’s not kid ourselves, we’ve got a difficult few months in front of us.”

  David stared glumly into his half-finished pint.

  "It's a shame Martin won't be coming. His mum lives up in Yorkshire, you know."

  Reynolds laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  "We all know how close you were, David. We miss him too. God alone knows how many of us will go down before this is all over, but we have to try to put it all behind us. What we must do now is concentrate on defeating Hitler. The grieving will come later."

  David emptied his glass, and caught the barman’s eye to ask for another.

  "I suppose so. But right now I'm just wondering what I'm going to tell his mum."

  8

  It was their third night on the beach. Behind them, the buildings of Dunkirk were still burning fiercely, but far from being a problem this actually helped the evacuation. By day, the huge roiling clouds of black smoke hid the beaches from the ever-threatening Stukas, and at night the fires lit up the quays, or what was left of them, making it a little less dangerous for the lucky ones who were embarking. Tony looked around at the now familiar scene. The beach seemed to him like a field of fireflies as each soldier sat quietly smoking, waiting for the slow process of reaching the ships to be over at last. He huddled deeper into the dead man’s greatcoat, glad now that he had it, for the wind coming in from the sea was cold, and the lack of food made him feel its keenness even more.

  "I'll be glad to get back home, where it’s warm and my clothes aren’t full of sand."

  Jim gave a weary, understanding smile.

  "I know what you mean." He looked up the beach, back towards the burning buildings, almost unable to comprehend the huge numbers of men behind them. "Still, we've come a long way down the beach, and we’ll get off long before those poor blighters behind us."

  Tony turned towards the sea. It was difficult to see the water for the number of small boats bobbing upon it, and the men wading out waist-deep to reach them. Some of the smaller boats were ferrying soldiers out to those whose draught was too deep to allow them to come close into shore, and then coming back for more, time after time after time. Tony was still surprised by the orderliness of the evacuation. For two days now they had moved with agonizing slowness towards their only hope of escape from either death or imprisonment, yet there had been no fighting, no attempt to get there ahead of those who had been waiting longer. It made him feel proud to be British.

  "With a bit of luck we should be able to get away tomorrow."

  Jim nodded.

  "As long as the Germans don't get here first."

  With that depressing thought in mind, Tony lay down on the beach, shuffling to find a comfortable position before finally falling asleep to dream of Heronfield, before the war.

  9

  Sarah woke slowly to the whispering of her name.

  "Sarah! Sarah! Come on. Get up. We have to be on duty in half an hour."

  Sarah opened her eyes. “Oh, it's you, Jane." She stretched tiredly and sat up. "Can you get me a cup of tea while I'm dressing?"

  "It's on its way." Jane smiled, turned and left the room which the two girls shared. Yesterday had been their first full day of caring for the wounded, and they had not left the wards until well after midnight. It was now half past six in the morning and Sarah had to be on her ward by seven o'clock. She washed quickly, and was in her uniform adjusting her cap when Jane returned with the promised cup of tea.

  "Thanks. That should wake me up!" She sipped the scalding liquid, then yawned “I’m exhausted after yesterday; I never thought we’d have to work that hard.” She shook her head sadly. “I thought we’d be dealing with one or two new patients each day, but there seemed to be no end to the number of poor men they brought in. It’s sad, but after a few hours I was so tired that their condition didn’t seem to worry me anymore. The sight of dirt and blood and gangrenous flesh all came to feel part of normal life.” She shuddered. “I hope I’m not going to become immune to suffering. I don’t want to lose all feeling for others, but I was glad that I couldn’t feel anything. They made me so sad, so much pain and suffering. I wanted to heal them all and comfort them all, but there was so little I could do.”

  Her friend, already in full uniform, rubbed her tired eyes.

  "I know what you mean. Those men had been waiting for so long for help, and what we could do for them just seemed like a drop in the ocean." Her face was serious. "By the looks of things we must have been defeated in France, which means that the Germans will be trying to invade us next. I'm scared."

  Sarah nodded. "So am I. If those poor men who were brought here yesterday are anything to go by, we can't have much of an army left." They left their room and made their way down to their wards while they were talking. "Seeing them made me glad that Joe was found unfit." She stopped and turned to face her friend. "I suppose that sounds terribly unpatriotic of me."

  "No." Jane's voice was understanding. "It’s only natural to want someone you love to be safe, and it's not as though Joe isn't doing his bit. He's still working in the aircraft factory isn't he?"

  Sarah nodded. "As soon as I get some more leave, I’ll be going home to see him."

  They walked the few remaining paces to the head of the stairs, where Jane went up and Sarah continued along to her ward. She pushed the door open as the clock in the hall downstairs began to strike seven. As Sarah entered and looked around she let out a deep breath she had not realised she had been holding. All the mess, smell and confusion of the day before was gone, to be replaced by an orderly, if small, ward in what had once been the nursery of Heronfield House. During their first few hectic days converting the old country house into a hospital, she had helped to clear this room, making sure that everything that was not needed for convalescing soldiers, including many toys that had not been played with for years, was boxed and stored in the stables for the duration of the war. She wondered what Sir Michael Kemshall’s children would think of their old nursery if they saw it now. Would they even recognise it?

  To the left of the door, Sister Freeman was arranging a sheaf of notes on a small desk. She looked up as Sarah entered.

  "Ah, Miss Porter
. Will you get the patients’ teas for them, please; then we'll freshen them up for breakfast."

  "Yes, Sister." Sarah left the room and went down to the kitchen where the tea trolley was ready and waiting.

  The hospital which had been established at Heronfield relied heavily on the work of the VADs. Sarah had anticipated that it would be a calm, quiet environment with the convalescing soldiers, but the unexpected influx of untreated evacuees from Dunkirk had left a controlled business-like atmosphere about the place that was unexpected, though strangely invigorating. The one doctor assigned to the hospital, Dr. Henry Millard, was able to perform some operations, although his main task was to see that wounds healed cleanly when the men were sent for convalescence after a period in a more specialised hospital. The unexpected arrivals of the previous day had left him rushed off his feet, and two local doctors had been called in to help treat the wounded. The Senior Nursing Officer, Sister Freeman, was wondering how she would manage with just five nurses to aid her in the medical work of changing dressings, administering medication and re-habilitating amputees. She was thankful for the VADs who would carry out the remainder of the work, washing the patients, issuing bed-pans, bringing up food and drink, cleaning the wards and any other work which she deemed necessary. So it was that Sarah passed a busy morning, first bringing tea for the patients then washing them and preparing them for Dr. Millard's rounds. While he assessed the patients, with the aid of Sister Freeman and a nurse, Sarah thankfully took a quick break for breakfast before providing breakfast for her charges and washing the floor. It was after eleven o'clock before she was able to put her duties aside and spend some time talking quietly with the patients.

  The first soldier she had helped into the ward the previous day was in the bed nearest the door and so she spoke to him first.

  "Hello. How are you today?"

  The young man turned haunted eyes towards her, his hands clutching convulsively at the sheets as a nod of his head directed her gaze to the cage which held the bedclothes high above his wounds.

  "How do you think I'm feeling? How's a man like me supposed to go about getting a job with only one leg?" His words were bitter and angry.

  Sarah did not know what to say, so said nothing, just laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. The soldier turned his face away, ignoring the hand that tried to soothe him.

  "I don't need your sympathy, miss,” he said at last. "Just leave me alone for now."

  Sarah nodded. "All right, but I'll be back to see you later." She moved on to the next bed. The occupant had fresh clean bandages over his eyes, and she recognised him as one of the patients she had prepared for Dr. Millard the previous day.

  "Hello. Can I sit and talk with you?"

  The head turned towards her. "Yes, please. It's rather lonely not being able to see. Can you tell me where I am?"

  Sarah smiled. "Of course. You're at Heronfield House. It's the home of Sir Michael Kemshall, but he's allowing us to use it as a hospital. This ward was once his children's nursery, and there are now twelve beds in it, all occupied."

  The soldier was silent for a moment. "What's your name?" he finally asked.

  "Sarah. What's yours?"

  "Bob." He sighed. "Your voice sounds a bit like my girl’s. Her name is Brenda, and she's waiting for me at home." He reached up to touch the bandages, which swathed the top half of his head. "They say I've lost the sight completely in one eye, and may only be able to see light and shade with the other. I wonder if Brenda will still want to wait for me when she knows?"

  Sarah's eyes pricked with unshed tears as she took his hand in hers. "I'm sure she'll still want you. I've got a man of my own, his name’s Joe. I know that if this happened to him I wouldn't love him any less. I would just want to care for him to show him how much I love him."

  "I don't want Brenda's pity."

  "She won't pity you Bob, but you’ll have to be careful not to confuse her love and concern for you with pity. It's probably self-pity you'll be feeling, and only seeing others’ feelings as a reflection of that. It's you, the person inside, that Brenda loves, not just your body."

  He squeezed her hand tightly. "You're a good girl. Your Joe is a really lucky man." He took a deep breath, as though to prepare himself for some ordeal, then he spoke again, his voice shaky. "Could you write a letter for me, please? To Brenda? She must be worried, and I think she really ought to hear about this from me."

  Sarah nodded, then realising that he could not see her gesture, she spoke, her voice choking with emotion.

  "Of course I'll write for you. Just hang on while I get some paper and a pen."

  As she made her way to the desk by the door, she glanced out of the window into the gardens and stopped when she saw a figure standing motionless, gazing south towards the Channel and distant France. There was a world of loneliness in his stance, as though part of him was missing, and his heart and mind were reaching out in an attempt to draw that part back to himself, and make him whole once more. It was Sir Michael Kemshall, and she recalled from the previous day that his son was still in France. Her heart went out to the man as she sent up a swift, silent prayer that his son would soon be safely home.

  10

  The relentless intensive bombing by German planes had destroyed most of the quays at the port of Dunkirk, leaving only 'the mole’, one of the two breakwaters which surrounded the harbour, for the larger ships to tie up against. From what Tony could see, the mole was about two thirds of a mile long, its main bulk constructed of rock, whilst most of the upper surface was boarded over with timber. A protective railing had been placed on both sides to prevent people falling into the icy water. It was not wide. Men could not walk along it more than three abreast, but it was their only way out to the larger ships which could not come close inshore. From a distance its surface was a dark seething mass of men.

  As the hours passed slowly by, Tony saw that the water rose fifteen feet at high tide, so that the men merely had to cross makeshift bridges from the mole to board their escape vessels. At low tide they jumped down onto the heaving decks below, careless of danger to life and limb, only wanting to be away from the beaches at last. The line of men, three abreast, stretched back along the full length of the mole and then across the beach like the sinuous curves of a snake. They were gaunt, unshaven, expressionless with exhaustion. Many supported comrades who no longer had the strength to stand alone. When the Stukas came in there was nowhere to hide. Men just lay down on the boards and watched bullets splatter across the harbour towards them, praying that this time they would escape. The Stukas bombed the waiting ships whenever they could dive below the heavy pall of smoke which hung permanently above the harbour, and the water was full of burning wrecks, which made the task of evacuating the beaches even more treacherous.

  Although thousands of men made their way out along the mole, Tony could see that the vast majority of the stranded army had no such aid to reaching the ships, and would have to leave the beach directly into the water. Tony, Jim and Phillips were amongst that group, and he envied those who were close to the mole and able to board without entering the cold waters of the Channel, which would draw all heat swiftly and surely from their bodies. Too long in the water could be almost as fatal as waiting on the beach for the next German attack. Evening was drawing in, and soon their fourth night on the beaches would begin. Thankfully they knew that it would be their last. Now only three or four men stood between them and the water’s edge; one of the boats out there, one of the ones which they could now see, would take them away from this living hell and back to the rolling green hills of England. As the light faded on the evening of June 2nd, the Stukas came in for one final attack. Tony pointed out towards the mole as the planes screamed in a shallow dive. Many soldiers were lying down to avoid the bullets, while those nearer to the ships continued to leap aboard.

  "That trawler’s low in the water." Tony watched as the boat pulled away into the narrow channel of water leading out to the open sea. "It looks as
though she might go over." As he spoke bombs began to fall and, although none of them hit the trawler, the huge shock waves caught her broadside, lifting her and slowly but inexorably pushing the overloaded ship onto her side. The screams and cries of the soldiers, who now found themselves struggling for their lives in the cold water, were drowned by the roar of Stukas and the evil chattering of machine guns. Many of the men trying to escape the sinking trawler were dragged from the water onto an already dangerously overloaded yacht, which rolled heavily in the swell for a moment before taking a direct hit from a bomb. The mast was hurled high into the air, along with flailing bodies and burning sails. When the smoke cleared, wreckage was still falling - a spar, planks of wood, a tattered strip of burning sail fluttering in the wind.

  "The poor devils." Phillips crossed himself as he spoke.

  Tony was thankful that night was falling fast, forcing the Stukas to withdraw, although the beach itself was not left in darkness. The burning port behind them and the dozens of ships afire ahead of them cast an eerie glow on the scene. A small pleasure cruiser appeared out of the smoke, bobbing on the waves in indecent parody of its peacetime duties. A cheerful sounding voice called out from the wheelhouse.