Уильям Николсон - Motherland

It’s Ed Avenell. Larry watches him with a smile. He even attempts to greet him, ‘Eddy!’, as if he’s passing in a London street, but he makes no sound. Larry is pleased to have found a friend in this strange place. His eyes follow him.

He sees him pick up another wounded man and carry him down to the water’s edge. Slowly it enters Larry’s fuddled mind that the assault force is now withdrawing. He sees Ed return up the beach, still unharmed, and gather up a third wounded man.

It’s the way he walks that strikes Larry. He walks with his head held high, in a straight line, briskly but with no sense of hurry. And he never stops. While others stream for the boats, and load them to the point of sinking in their desperation to escape that deadly beach, Ed simply delivers his load and walks back up again.

Well, then, thinks Larry. That’s how it’s done.

He stumbles to his feet, and looks down towards the water-line. Every hundred yards or so boats lie with their noses grounded in the sand. Beyond them dozens of boats are coming in or going out, some circling to pick up survivors in the water. The batteries on the cliffs maintain their relentless barrage, now directed at the landing craft, their shells sending up great showers of water as they land between the boats.

Better get going, thinks Larry.

He sets off down the beach, just as he has seen Ed do. A rattle of gunfire, the wind of passing bullets, and suddenly he’s running. His boots feel heavy, he stumbles on the pebbles, wrenching one ankle. Careless of the pain, possessed by terror, he runs onto the strip of wet sand. Now he feels as if his boots don’t even touch the ground, he’s flying. He hears a man shout, it’s a stretcher bearer standing there with a stretcher at his feet. His other stretcher bearer lies dead on the beach.

‘Give me a hand here!’

Larry runs on, powerless to arrest his flight. He sees a landing craft ahead, its ramp raised for sailing. He runs into the water, feeling its sudden chill. He reaches the craft, clings to its side, pressing himself to the steel plates, sobbing. The craft moves, rocked by a wave, settles back onto the sand bar, and then rocks again. Larry crouches low in the water by its side, as if the bullets won’t find him if they can’t see him. He has hold of a rope dangling over the craft’s side in a long loop. A young boy comes lurching through the water and grabs another loop of rope, but as he does so the boat swings away out to sea and the rope is jerked from his hand. He lowers his arms and stands still, waist deep in water, watching the craft move away.

Larry, clinging tight, is carried out into deep water. His hands are now numb with cold. He loops the rope round his arm so he won’t be cast adrift. Others clinging to ropes like him now climb up the flat steel side and onto the deck. Larry tries to climb, but all he has is the rope, and he lacks the strength for the pull to the top. Then he feels his reaching hand clasped from above, and he begins to rise. At the same time a hand below locks onto one of his legs, and drags him down again. He kicks violently, and the hand lets him go. Up he rises again, and so at last is pulled floundering onto the deck.

He lies gasping, exhausted, his cheek pressed to the cold steel plates. He feels the juddering of the engine as the boat pulls away from the shore, away from the nightmare of the beach. His gaze takes in the hold below, which is packed tight with wounded men. They seem to be standing knee-deep in water. As he watches, the water rises, up to their waists. The water is red. And still the water rises.

Now he becomes aware of commotion all round him.

‘Jump, lads! Jump in the water! Swim for it!’

The craft is sinking. The bow end of the boat is dipping lower and lower. The wounded men are scrambling out of the bloody water now filling the hold.

Larry jumps with the rest. Bobbing in the water, kept afloat by his Mae West, he looks towards the beach. It’s barely yards away. He’s still in the danger zone. A plop in the water nearby is followed by a gushing explosion that buries him in seawater, and leaves him choking. The men who had been bobbing on that spot are gone. Here and there tin hats float on the water.

Another landing craft is now circling towards the throng of men in the water. Larry paddles to its sides and takes his place in the crowd attempting to board. One by one they’re hauled up onto the deck. When Larry’s turn comes he hears a series of sharp pinging sounds and feels a sudden sting in his buttock. At the same time strong hands are hauling him up and over the side. Helpless to control his exhausted body he topples over the edge and slithers down into the hold seven feet below. He lands on men already packed there, and almost at once becomes himself a cushion for the next man to fall. The sharp pinging sounds continue above.

Voices are shouting. ‘Lighten ship! We’re too low in the water! Lighten ship!’

Men throw up their tin hats, out of the hold. They pull off boots, tunics, trousers. They throw out water bottles and webbing. The craft is under way now, its deck almost flush with the water.

Larry is in his underclothes, surrounded by men in their underclothes. Someone passes him a cigarette, but his fingers are numb, and he hasn’t enough breath left to smoke it.

‘You take it.’ He passes it on. ‘I’ll have one later.’

Half a mile out from shore the landing craft is made fast to a big ship and the wounded are taken aboard. Larry is limping as he follows the others across the main deck. A tap on his shoulder and a voice says, ‘Wardroom’s down the companionway, Lieutenant.’ His legs buckle as he descends the ladder, and he feels himself helped to a chair. A blanket is wrapped round him, and a glass of brandy thrust into his hands.

‘Rough out there,’ says the steward.

Larry nods, and sips his brandy.

‘The MO’ll take a look at you when he can.’

‘Nothing serious,’ says Larry. ‘What ship am I on?’

‘You’re on the Calpe ,’ says the steward. ‘You’re on the command ship.’

Another wounded man calls out, ‘Say, could you send down a jug or something?’

‘Right away,’ says the steward.

The wardroom is packed with wounded officers, some on the couches, some on the floor, some seated at the mess table, their heads resting on their arms. No one speaks. A sickbay attendant appears with a white enamel jug. The wounded man pees into it, making a bell-like ringing sound. After that the jug makes the rounds.

A naval officer comes down to tell them the MO will be with them as soon as he can, but there are so many emergency cases in the sickbay.

‘How long before we’re home?’ one man asks.

‘Once we get under way,’ says the officer, ‘we’ll be back in two hours. But I don’t think we’ll be leaving until every man’s off the beach.’

‘So where are we now?’

‘Dieppe,’ comes the reply.

Here below decks the battle feels far away, but for the ceaseless sound of the big guns. They know the ship’s under attack from the air because they hear the heavy-calibre ack-acks followed by the clatter of the Oerlikons and then the roar of the bombers passing overhead. Then the guns reverse order, the light rattle chasing the retreating planes, and the heavy pompom-pom of the 4.7 guns taking the long shots.

The steward brings food: ship’s biscuits and tins of sardines. The medical officer comes at last, blinking with exhaustion. His head sways from side to side as he speaks.

‘Hey, doc, you need a drink.’

‘Yes, I expect I do.’

But he doesn’t drink, he makes his round of the wounded officers. When he gets to Larry, Larry says, ‘Don’t bother with me. It’s nothing.’ But he looks anyway.