Maggie Bright (33 page)

BALANTINE EMPTIED THE
last drops of his canteen into his mouth and screwed the cap back on. “Look how often they’re running groups down to the beach, not just the harbor. It really is going faster. We may be off by tomorrow. I thought we’d be here for a week.”

“We’d never last that long,” said Griggs, a bit muffled, from beneath his helmet. He lay stretched out with his hands behind his head.

“The little boats are really making a difference,” said Balantine.

“Yes, you’ve said that before,” said Griggs. “About fifty times.”

“Do you sail?” Jamie asked Balantine.

“No.” He studied the small craft on the waters. “I’ve just never seen anything like this.”

“It is inspiring,” said Baylor sweetly, and then his tone went acid. “That is, it
would
be, if anyone would lift me up to
see
.”

“No,” they all said, and Balantine added patiently, for the fiftieth time, “You’ve got to save it for the journey home.”

Twilight was not far off. It would be the second night the men passed on the beaches. The Cointreau and its bearer had long gone, leaving Baylor out of sorts.

“Well, I can
prepare
for it, can’t I, with a nice bit of exercise to get me up and looking around? Can’t see a bloody thing except your arses or faces when planes fly over
 
—so I can’t even see planes! My one bit of entertainment, gone.”

“Yes, you’re missing a lot,” Griggs said into his helmet.

“I wish you all would leave me alone!” Baylor’s tone went forlorn. “Don’t you understand? If any one of you is hit because of me . . .”

“Bit of luck about them bombs, eh?” said Balantine. “Just like the bloke said. Unless they hit you direct, they don’t do to us what they do to . . .” He nodded to the sea.

“Does anyone have a toothpick?” said Curtis.

“What is there to pick?”

“I want to be ready. I have a gap between two molars.”

Idle chatter helped drown the cries of the dying and the wounded, some of those very close by; it helped distract from hunger and thirst. It helped turn a blind eye to sights that would ordinarily send them running to help or running for help; instead, great hulking ships exploded into concussive infernos they could feel, and men bobbed in the water, choking on oil and petrol if they were alive to choke at all, and here they sat chatting idly, clinging to any bit of sanity they could with talk of the cinema, and home cooking, and girls, and toothpicks.

“Curtis, why do you bite your nails?” Baylor said, back to his peevish tone. Curtis shrugged, and continued nibbling his pinky nail. “I can understand tobacco, or too many profiteroles. And for the first time in my life I understand alcohol. But what sort of actual pleasure could you possibly derive from biting your nails?”

Curtis shrugged and nibbled.

“I want my Cointreau,” Baylor said plaintively.

“I wish you had it,” said Griggs. “I like you better drunk.”

“If ever I have a postwar party, you are not invited, Griggs,” said Baylor. “I shall invite Elliott, and Balantine, and Captain Jacobs, and even Curtis, but your invitation will
not
arrive.”

“Thank God for small favors.”

“What do you mean, ‘even’ Curtis?” asked Curtis.

“I
genuinely
dislike you, Griggs. I’ve been taught I can never say
hate
, I can never
hate
another human being, but oh, the day I discovered I could
dislike
them.”

“Let’s keep it civil, shall we?” said Balantine, and employed his usual trick of distraction. “Elliott, what will you do after the war?”

“Open a pub.”

“Will you serve Cointreau?” asked Baylor hopefully.

“If it’s good. It’s got to be good, not like that other French swill. I’ll serve Jenner’s, Bass
 
—”

“My mum says they’re taxing beer,” Curtis said indignantly.

“
 
—and Guinness. I’ll have a state-of-the-art wireless where
 
—”

“You and I will look at each other across the room, and we’ll lift our mugs. I think you quote Milton because your heart is broken, mate, not your head.”

It took a moment to realize it was Milton.

A riot of goosebumps rose on Jamie’s arms and raced into his neck.

Griggs lifted his helmet to squint at Milton. “Was that you, loony bin?”

“It was,” said Baylor in hushed amazement. “I was looking right at him.”

“It’s what I said to him,” Jamie said slowly, sitting up. “I was telling him about my pub. . . .”

Captain Jacobs took no notice. He watched the sea, idly twisting his wedding ring.

“I told him the little girls we saw would be avenged. I said we’d be back in force, and Hitler would get his. I said we’d lift our mugs to each other . . .”

The five men watched Milton closely, but he performed no more verbal acrobatics. He twisted the wedding ring and watched the sea, his expression the same as ever, one that managed to be watchful and pensive and vacant at the same time.

Griggs lowered his helmet, and Curtis went back to his nail.

Maybe the others could go back to business as usual, but not Jamie.

You’re in there. You’re not a Milton box; you’re a man. You’re my friend.

“We
will
lift our mugs to each other,” said Baylor, the only other still eyeing Milton.

We
will
get you out of here, Captain Jacobs. We’ll see you right.

The Stukas and the Heinkels came, and with them their bombs, and all got up as a matter of course to stand shelter over Baylor, while Baylor cursed them away.

“Elliott! How can he possibly sleep in this? Elliott
 
—wake up.”

He’d dreamed of his old dog Toby, who wore Milton’s bandage and seemed ready to say something wise.

Balantine stood over him. “They’re moving us down to the beach.” He nudged Jamie with his boot. “Upsadaisy.”

Jamie sat up and looked about. Everything was dove gray. The air was damp and chilly. “What time is it?” he asked hoarsely.

“Dunno,” said Curtis. “It’s early.”

“The night’s gone?”

“Wish I could sleep like you,” said Balantine. “That’s one way out of this nightmare.”

“Not if you dream that your old dead dog is about to speak Milton and mean it.” He looked down at the harbor. “We’re loading, then?” The other men in their loose group of fifty were gathering up their gear.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” Balantine shouldered his knapsack. “We’re not moving to the harbor itself, but we are moving closer.”

“Milton?” Jamie said, looking about.

“Over here,” called Baylor. “Look, I’m vertical. Griggs and Milton have actually allowed me to
stand
.”

Milton said, “To the end persisting
 
—”

“Safe arrive.” They looked in surprise at Curtis, who looked surprised himself.

“Oh dear,” Baylor said, his face gone pale. “I rather liked being horizontal. . . .”

“Oh, be a soldier,” said Griggs. “We can’t let anyone see you’re stretcher material, you moron.” His shoulder was under one of Baylor’s arms, Milton under the other with his arm securely about Baylor’s waist.

Balantine watched Baylor closely. “All right? Easy does it, lads. Take it slow.”

Jamie rubbed his face awake, got to his feet, and grabbed his knapsack. He grabbed Milton’s, too, and fell in.

As they came down from the dunes, it felt as though they’d fallen into their old retreat formation, Balantine out front and watching, the rest following behind. The only difference was that Griggs walked with Baylor and Milton, and Jamie walked with Curtis.

“Step carefully here, there’s a drop-off.” Balantine looked over his shoulder. “How’s he doing?”

“Griggs, you can let me walk,” Baylor complained. “I’m not even walking. You just wanted to be close to me.”

“You’re right. Easier to vomit on you.”

Jamie chuckled. Baylor was caught, somehow fittingly, between the man he liked least and the man he liked best
 
—between Griggs, the born soldier who would’ve fit well with his old unit, and Milton, the locked-up and poetical and strange. One strong man and one wounded man, supporting another.

The three moved carefully along. Milton had to be on automatic pilot, drawing upon reserves made of stuff Jamie couldn’t imagine. Stuff he hoped was in him, too.

“I would like to have served under you, Captain Jacobs,” Jamie suddenly said aloud.

Milton’s head lifted a little. He’d heard, he understood, and Jamie just didn’t care when Griggs said, “I
am
going to vomit.”

It was far better up on the dunes. Here, the six were not the onlookers but part of the great seaweed continent, wide open to the skies.

Here on the flat beaches, there was no cover. Here the bombs fell heaviest, closer to the ships where the bombers concentrated their payloads. Here there was no burrowing in the sand
 
—and since the sand was harder packed, the bombs created far more havoc.

They had just found a place to fall out, had just tossed down knapsacks and got Baylor settled in, when a naval rating came up to their group of fifty.

“Any 2nd Grenadiers?” he called. “Is there someone here from the 2nd Grenadiers artillery?”

“Over here!” Balantine raised his hand.

Strange, to remember everyone came from different units.

“Come with me. Any more of you?”

“Six of us!” said Balantine. The man waited until Griggs and Milton got Baylor back up, then beckoned them to follow. They headed for the eastern mole in the harbor.

Balantine turned and mouthed, “You’re all from the 2nd Grenadiers. Got it?”

The eastern breakwater of Dunkirk harbor was not built to hold thousands of men. It was flimsy and in some parts bombed, yet things were found to plug bombed holes, with duckboard laid over
that, and so by some miracle in the incessant pounding it had taken over the past few days, it held.

The six followed the naval rating past hundreds of men, maybe a thousand, until they were on the quay itself, until they were on the flimsy breakwater where the wind came stronger and the waves tossed up water, until they stood next to a destroyer with rope ladders down the side and seamen up at top, calling down encouragement to men crawling up. The six glanced at each other, not understanding their luck, until a middle-aged man rushed forward.

“Balantine!” The man thrust out his hand. “Donnelly thought he saw you!”

“Captain Wellard!” Balantine’s face livened with joy, and he shook his hand heartily. “Good to see you, sir!”

Again, strange to feel this small separation from Balantine, to see him know someone that Jamie didn’t.

“The same, the same! Come, half our unit is aboard and below. Follow me.”

“Get moving, men!” An embarkation officer waved them on. “All the way to the end if you’re for the end. Let’s not bottleneck!”

“That’s us, we’re the ship at the end of the mole.”

They hurried along, passing two vessels tied up on the left, loading with men. Captain Wellard glanced back at the men following Balantine. His delight came down a bit. “Where’s Grayling? Where’s Portman?”

“Gone, sir.”

Any remaining delight disappeared, and his face took on a look Jamie was beginning to associate with Dunkirk. “Very sorry to hear it. The others?”