Authors: Murdo Morrison
Today the beach was cluttered with the detritus of war. At the first good vantage point they stopped in unison, awed into silence by the panorama of men and abandoned trucks that stretched for over ten miles to the Belgian border. Now Tierney understood the predicament faced by the Major and the other officers in trying to mount an evacuation.
Until brought up close to it, Tierney had not comprehended the full extent of the problem. Before him were thousands of men, with more arriving. His hope and the tenuous grasp on optimism that he had tried hard to maintain began to slip away.
It was not just the fate of his men that hung in the balance. He could see that the very future of the country was at stake. In scarcely two weeks the Germans had pushed them to the sea.
If they could not get these men, the heart of the professional army, away, then what? With the war scarcely begun it was already hard to be optimistic about the future.
Tierney pushed these thoughts aside. He did not want to harbor any emotion that might nurture a defeatist attitude in his crew. They went forward onto the sands. Tierney looked for a place where they might camp. After that, he would have to establish contact with whoever was in command of the evacuation. As for food, and water, he could only hope that the army had supplies and were willing to help his men.
They found an open patch of beach up near the dunes. Charlie and Harry sat down on the sand. “God, ah could use a fag an’ a cup o’ tea,” Charlie complained.
“Dae ye no’ still have the wan ah gave ye this morning?” Harry asked.
Remembering, Charlie reached up to his ear. His face brightened when he found the cigarette still safely tucked away. “Weel, that takes care o’ the fag, but ah wonder where we’re gaun tae find tea oot here.”
“Are youse people looking for tea?” The voice came from behind a nearby dune.
The speaker stuck his head up over the grass. “Hullaw therr.” Charlie recognized the soldier who had hailed him earlier in the day. He had a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth and looked as perfectly at ease as if he was lounging on the beach at Troon. “If it’s tea youse want get yersel’s ower here.” Harry and Charlie looked at each other and got up. Now they could see a group of soldiers sitting around a small fire made from driftwood. Billie cans of water were heating on its edge. “Jist park yer arses right there, lads, the watter’s nearly biling.”
Charlie and Harry looked around the group of soldiers. They were a hard looking bunch.
Tough as nails the lot o’ them
, Harry would have said. Behind the grim faces, Harry could detect other emotions. Disgust more than defeat he guessed. These were men who didn’t like to be pushed around. Even with their backs to the sea these were not the types to give an inch.
The Glasgow man went around the group. He introduced a tall man with burly shoulders and arms. “That’s Billie McLeod, a teuchter from Mallaig.” The man nodded pleasantly, apparently not offended by the use of that slighting term of the Lowlands for the Highlander. Beside him sat a man of shorter stature with a scarred face whose centerpiece was a nose that had been broken at least once. “Billy McNulty, another Glesca man, frae Brigton.” McNulty inclined his head, squinting from the sudden back draft of smoke from his cigarette.”
Ah widnae like tae run intae him on a dark night, if he wisna on ma side
, Charlie thought. The last member of the group was a dark haired man of middle height and wiry build. “Dick Holdsworth, frae Newcastle.” Their host stuck his thumb at his chest. “An’ then there’s yours truly, Jimmie Donnelly.”
“So sailor laddies, you’re no’ army,” Donnelly said. “Whit are youse people daeing here?”
Charlie explained the circumstances that had brought them to this point. “The captain’s gaun aff tae see whit he can find oot and maybe try tae find some grub and watter tae.”
“Ach, dinnae you worry yer heids aboot that,” Jimmie told him. “We’ll see yer ok.”
“But where are ye gaun tae get enough tae feed the crowd o’ us?” Harry asked.
Jimmie put his finger alongside his nose. “Ask me no questions an’ ah’ll tell ye no lies.”
Ah well
, Charlie thought,
my first impression of him was the right one
. Here was a man who would know all the angles about how to survive. Back in Maryhill, Charlie would have had little time for a flyboy like this. He hated spivs and black marketers and their kind. True, he wasn’t above bending the rules a bit himself. But he was fundamentally an honest man who had no time for those who felt they were entitled to whatever was going. Charlie was also a pragmatist. He realized that he and his crew were outsiders who didn’t know how things worked here. Jimmie and his pals could be very important in keeping them alive and eventually getting them off this beach.
For the moment he was noncommittal. “That’s very decent o’ ye lads, but ah’ll need tae talk it ower wi the captain first.”
At that Jimmie’s manner changed abruptly. “Ah dinna want any high mucky mucks oan mah back, ye hear, or ye’ll no’ be welcome here.” A growl came from Billy McNulty that Charlie took as a rather ominous chorus of agreement.
Charlie made a simmer down gesture with his hands. “It’s no’ like that, Jimmie. The captain’s a guid man and he’ll no’ make trouble fer ye. But ah canna start coming up with grub without an explanation, noo can ah?”
Jimmie appeared to calm down a bit. “Well, jist get the message, if ye want oor help keep us oot o’ it. Dae ye get it?”
Charlie nodded. He and Harry went back over the dune to join their shipmates.
It was late in the afternoon when the captain returned. He gathered the men around to tell them what he had learned. “It’s like this,” he said. “They have sent over a naval officer, a Captain Tennant I am told, from Dover, to organize the evacuation. He has his work cut out for him, I am afraid. They’ve managed to get some men off from the East Pier but they don’t think they can get enough out from there to get the job done. It really isn’t designed for loading or unloading, and the tidal range is causing real problems.”
“So whit aboot all the men on the beach?” Harry asked. “Whit are they gaun tae dae wi’ them?”
“Well that’s another problem,” Tierney explained. He was exhausted but maintained control over his tone and manner. Tierney wanted to give his men a realistic assessment without breaking their spirit. It was a tough line to walk. “The water off the beach is shallow for quite a distance,” he continued. There isn’t enough draught to bring large ships close in to the beach. I hear talk that they are rounding up a lot of small craft on the other side that can. We’ll know more by tomorrow.”
As the men dispersed, Charlie came over to Tierney. “Can ah have a word wi’ ye Captain?”
“Of course Charlie, what’s on your mind?”
Charlie explained about his newly found army pals and their offer of assistance.
“I don’t think I like the sound of this,” Tierney said.
“Ah know, Captain, but it disnae look like we hae a lot o’ choice. Were ye able tae turn up anything yersel’?”
Tierney’s expression softened. He shook his head. “No, you have me there Charlie. I didn’t have much luck, just a lot of double talk.”
“Well, there ye are then Captain. Ah don’t think we should look a gift horse in the mooth, if ye see whit ah mean? Wi’ a’ this gaun on, ah canna see the high heid yins in the army gie’n a toss fer a bunch o’ merchant seamen. Can you?”
“Well, to be fair, they do have their hands full, Charlie. But the fact remains we need the food and water, so you’re right, I don’t think we can be too fussy about where it comes from. See what you can manage but be discreet.”
Charlie nodded. “Ah’ll talk tae the army lads an’ see whit ah can arrange.”
Once they were sure of Charlie’s intentions the army men were as good as their word. While the supply would prove to be sporadic, with little variety, there was enough to keep them going. As far as Charlie was concerned the best thing about it was that he had access to a plentiful supply of tea.
Settling down for his first night on the sands, it occurred to Charlie that things could be a lot worse. At least they had a bite to eat and tea to warm them. He thought about the pure blind chance that had brought him up beside a Partick man who was helping him now seemingly on the basis that they were both from the same city.
Aye, but not just any city
, Charlie thought as he drifted off. When he slept he dreamed he was walking with Mary down New City Road towards St. George’s Cross on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
The dunes proved to be a more comfortable spot than Charlie had expected. He would change his mind on that topic later. For the moment, he had found a hollow that sheltered him from the sea breezes. In the morning, still deeply asleep, he was experiencing a Sunday morning before the war. Mary was bustling around the kitchen, the air filled with the pleasant aroma of her homemade scones. She had just picked up the kettle from the hearth to pour the hot water into the waiting teapot when Charlie abruptly awoke. He looked at the sky, momentarily dazed and disoriented. By the second explosion he was wide-awake. He raised himself on one elbow and peered over the grass that fringed the depression where he lay.
Some distance down the beach he saw crowds of men running this way and that. They reminded Charlie of flocks of birds or a swarm of bees. He looked up to the dark, threatening silhouettes of planes against the bright morning sky. One swooped down to release its cargo of bombs.
Those fucking bastards
, he thought.
Those fucking cowardly bastards are bombing helpless men on the beach
. And for the first time in his life he felt a burning rage of hate spread through him.
The bombs struck the beach in the midst of one of the moving throngs of men, throwing bodies in great arcs to land limp and destroyed on the sand.
More planes descended, preceded by spurts of sand that danced on the beach. A running man went down, cut through with bullets. Charlie’s fury consumed him like a furnace. He wished he had a way to fight back. A sudden, sharp crack brought his head round to see Billy McNulty, rifle in hand. He worked its bolt to place a new round in the chamber.
“Whit guid will that dae?” Charlie asked. “We need something bigger.”
"Maybe, maybe,” Billy said, sighting the rifle. “But this is aw ah’ve goat an’ maybe ah’ll get lucky and hit wan o’ these shites.” Billy fired the rifle. Puffs of sand approached them. Charlie grabbed Billy by the feet and pulled him down beside him. Billy let out a great howl of protest and tried to hit Charlie in the face.
“Wid ye stop that ye stupid nyaff,” Charlie cried out. “Ah’m trying to save your useless arse. Whit guid will it dae if ye end up deid?”
Bullets kicked up sand along the ridge making them duck. “Christ,” Billy cried out. “Ah wis nearly a gonner then.”
Aye
, Charlie thought,
ye want the world to think you’re a hard man but ye can still shite in your pants just like the rest of us
. For a moment Billy had shown himself to be vulnerable. Charlie had heard the tremor in his voice that betrayed his inner self. The revelation awakened in him a sense of their common humanity.
Billy blew out a long breath. “If it wisnae fer you ah’d be deid.”
It was his way of saying thanks, Charlie thought. An angry scowl returned to Billy’s face. “Ah jist wish ah had something tae fight back wi.”
“Aye, we’re sitting ducks oot here right enough,” Charlie agreed. A thought struck him. “We better see tae the others.”
Billy looked at him. “God, aye, ye’re right.”
They peered over the rim of their hollow. The beach was a scene of chaos. Little islands of corpses were scattered about. The survivors were getting up. Some ran to fallen comrades, others bent over bodies. Death had come in seemingly random patterns. A foot here, a few inches there, had made all the difference between life and death.
Charlie and Billy rose to their feet and looked around. Harry’s head popped up from behind a patch of grass. “Thank God ye’re OK Charlie.”
“Aye an’ yersel?” Charlie asked.
“Ah’m OK,” Harry replied. He got up and dusted the sand from his clothes.
Jimmie emerged. “Those fucking German swines. Ah’d like tae meet wan o’ them for jist five minutes,” he said. The other army men appeared. Judging by their grousing, they were all right.
Harry’s face twisted into a mask of disgust and horror. “Whit is it, Harry?” Charlie cried. He scrambled across the sand and stopped at the crumpled figure of Tam McBain. The man lay on his back. Blood streamed from three ragged holes in his chest. They knelt beside him, helpless in the face of such terrible injuries. Before they could utter even a word of comfort, Tam’s eyes lost sentience. They saw his being slip away, the totality of his life as fragile as the wisps of smoke that still hung over the beach.
Tam was the only casualty. No one else sustained as much as a scratch. Charlie found it hard to set aside his sense of loss. When Tam had joined the ship just a few months before, they had discovered that they lived a few streets apart in Maryhill. A gregarious man, Charlie had drawn Tam into his circle of friends and acquaintances, ignoring Tam’s natural reserve that made him hang back and gravitate to the edge of groups. Tam had warmed to Charlie’s unorthodox personality. Saturday afternoons would find them cheering on Partick Thistle at Firhill and sharing a drink after the game.
Charlie had become a welcome guest at Tam’s house. As Tam’s wife Nessie had said on more than one occasion, “Charlie’s aye welcome in this hoose. He brings ye oot o’ yersel’.”