Chapter 27: Death comes to Dunkirk
Just about everything was going wrong.
The Germans were proving to be an enemy that the French could not contain, leaving their British allies in an extremely compromised position. Retreat was the only way out for the Expeditionary Force, as it was clear that trying to fight on would be a futile attempt at best. In reality, if they continued then Hitler would gain the chance to snatch control of Europe forever, catching both fellow superpowers out and overpowering them. High Command knew that they would need to fight another day, barricading Fortress Britannia against the threat, utilising the Royal Navy's clear control of the seas. Getting back to Britain from their entrenched positions was a problem though, as their opponents showed no signs of slowing down.
Failures to foresee the advance of the German Army allowed it to achieve such success, the surprise attack through the Ardennes being a major advantage. As the allied leaders tried to respond to the multiple pronged attack, Churchill and his newly formed government knew that they needed to get their men out fast because the French and Belgians were failing to hold any German advance it seemed. There was also the attitude of the French Political leaders in Paris, who only days into the campaign, decided that there was no hope of victory. Lacking the nerve to attempt to see out the attacks and hold a position, papers were already being burned in the capital, the expectation that the Germans would be upon them in weeks. There was also another problem that forced Churchill into action, one which his military commanders found out to their horror. The French were not only failing, but failing whilst having no men in reserve, having committed absolutely all of their units to fend off the Germans. There were still units down near the border with Italy, but they were required to combat the expected advance of the Italian Army. The Expeditionary force needed to be evacuated quickly.
To undertake a successful evacuation, resources from across the country were being thrown at getting their men out safely. The non-essential personnel were already back across the Channel, having been ordered to leave before the mass arrival of soldiers who were hastily retreating towards the ports and the main point in the line, Dunkirk. With the longest sand beach in the whole of Europe, it could accommodate the mass withdrawal of the troops, with fortifications to help delay the Germans whilst the evacuation occurred. The Navy were ready in the Channel to protect the evacuation, though it was not the Kriegsmarine that they feared the most, their presence being more of a deterrent for the German Navy. It was the Luftwaffe who could really turn it into a slaughter, with their bombing raids having proven successful in the short struggle for Poland. The Royal Air Force and Fleet Air Arm were mobilised against the threat too, but all of the Commanders knew that it would be an intense and closely fought battle to keep casualties to a minimum.
As the orders came to make the retreat to the port, Calais was under a ferocious German attack. An inexperienced garrison attempted to hold off the rampaging Panzer Divisions, whilst taking heavy losses. The sting was at least drawn from Dunkirk somewhat but at the cost of many lives. Whilst Calais was surrounded and fighting on, a lot of the men that were being ordered back to Dunkirk were still hundreds of miles away from the port. Whilst the retreat was already steadily taking place anyway, the first swarms of men approaching Dunkirk by the twenty-fifth, the more advanced units tasked with holding the Germans at bay were placed in incredible danger. Withdraw too quickly and their opponents could potentially advance as quickly as they retreated, threatening their comrades further down the line of retreat. Yet if they held their positions for too long where others could not, the risk of being encircled and forced to surrender would be high. Especially as the French forces began to crumble around them, the rear guards of the British Expeditionary Force were beginning to be faced with the prospects of spending the duration of the war in Prisoner of War camps.
The Canal line between Saint-Omer and La Bassée was one of the rear guards in place to slow the Nazi war machine. Having bolted up from the Ardennes, dispatching anyone who tried to stop them, the Germans found themselves on the southern bank of the Canal line. The fighting began properly around first light on the twenty fourth, when the bridge at Essars became the vocal point of the Germans attempts to get across to the other side where the Allies desperately fell back. A minor victory took place later that morning, when a motorised column found the now destroyed bridge preventing them from getting across. As the German Motorcyclists stopped, forming into a mass huddle, a platoon of the Royal Irish Fusiliers revealed their presence on the opposite bank, cutting the German column to ribbons with mortar and machine gun fire, as well as firing anything else that they could get their hands on. The spooked Germans ran, allowing some respite for the platoon who'd gamely fought them off in a move reminiscent of the long grass manoeuvre of the British Army at Waterloo.
Part of that platoon was Lance-Corporal John-Paul O'Reilly. He'd never thought he'd ever find himself fighting in a war, like many men, but the call was one he answered without hesitation the September before. He knew he needed to do his bit, even if England was an enemy in many ways, he was smart enough to realise that a greater one loomed on the horizon in the form of the Nazi's. Politics was never really his strong point, nor did he care to read too much into the policies of the Nazi's, yet he could tell that they were a bad bunch. The way they'd easily expanded their territories under the guise of appeasement told him all he needed to know and when they invaded Poland, their devious nature abhorred him. He knew he wasn't the only lad from Derry that thought the same way. They didn't end up in the same regiment, but on the same day he'd signed up, Johnny Kells also signed up too. Johnny knew that David Donnelly left the city to join the war effort, along with the city's very only English fella, James Maguire. They were men that knew what needed to be done.
The Royal Irish Fusiliers were latecomers to the party, joining up with the rest of their brigade at only the beginning of May. Having undergone intense training in order to get up to scratch with the correct techniques in the field, only a few days went by before the Germans began the invasion of France and the Low Countries. Having been away from the very front lines during the early stages, they waited whilst the mess of a defence began to fall apart ahead of them. They were still conducting training exercises around their headquarters in France when French soldiers began to appear on the horizon, running away from the front lines where they found themselves unable to prevent collapse. Training was quickly brought to a halt when it became clear that the fresh brigade would be deployed along the section of the canal. At first the officers told the men that a new front line was being established across their position due to the line further up being undefendable, but the reality was that as divisions rushed past them, they weren't rushing to other parts of the line to defend it. They were rushing for Dunkirk and evacuation.
The Faughs, as the regiment was more commonly known by, were assigned the tasks of blowing the bridges once their Allies were safely across them. Barges were also destroyed to prevent the Germans using them for passage, with the men burning them, aided by some French soldiers who'd elected to stay and help defend the section. Along the line, other units were doing the same thing to prevent easy German passage, forcing them to have to build temporary bridges across whilst the Allies could escape further into the open country behind them. The Faughs' successes in blowing the bridges was noted, especially the one at Essars which they used to their advantage later on. However, the short-term success was indeed only that. The Germans might have been initially baulked by the thought of charging into the storm of Irish fire around the destroyed bridge at Essars but it did not stop them from trying elsewhere. All along the Canal line, the Germans attempted to force the Faughs and other units into retreat. The Irishmen held firm though, despite the casualties beginning to pile up from the evening of the twenty fourth into the twenty fifth. Their main problem came from other units failing to contain the German probes. In some areas, they were beginning to make it across to the Northern bank, an imminent risk to the withdrawal of those like the Faughs, who were actually inflicting considerable losses upon the enemy.
During a lull in the action around the early afternoon of the twenty-fifth, John-Paul was able to finally get a few hours' sleep. He hadn't slept for three or four nights, kept awake by either the fighting that never seemed to stop or the cries of the injured men that they were unable to evacuate. He'd watched a couple of those who he was close to in the Regiment die before his very eyes, one to shrapnel and the other to a bullet wound in the lungs. The lack of sleep combined with the grief began to tell on him, his eyes stinging from having to focus on an enemy that was now moving stealthily. He was a Private when they left their previous headquarters to march down to the Canal line, having earned a promotion after his own actions in the German massacre of the previous day. It was his quick thinking that stopped his officer from opening fire once the first motorcycles came into view, convincing him to wait until they could see more of their attackers before slicing into them with accurate fire. Promoted on the spot, he was sat behind the front during the late afternoon, sewing the new rank onto his uniform.
"Looking good, O'Reilly".
Looking up, he saw his best mate in the platoon, Private Flynn, walking over to him. They were a little way off the front line, able to move around freely without the risk of being shot at by the Germans on the other side of the canal.
"Ach, I'm not sure I deserve it Robbie". He replied, chuckling.
"Don't deserve it?" His friend questioned. "Ye masterminded about the only fuckin' success this army has had recently".
Rumours spread quicker than the Germans, the men being well aware of how poorly the campaign was going. They knew the officers were lying to them about it being a new front from the very moment the words left the officers lips. It changed little though. The men of the Royal Irish Fusiliers were putting themselves in the way of the marauding German troops to try to save their comrades who were frantically retreating in search of the coast and the awaiting ships… without question.
"We're pretty fucked aren't we?" Flynn asked.
"Don't ask me. I have about as much of an idea as you do". John-Paul responded in a huff. "I can't say I wanted this when I signed up".
"Neither did I. But that's life John-Paul".
"Aye yer right there Robbie. I would have liked to have been nearer to the coast though. I get the feeling that we aren't goin' to be goin' home".
"Don't say that!"
Private Flynn admonished him, though it couldn't change how John-Paul felt about the situation. Even if they were to break ranks and run now, the chance of being caught up to by the rapidly moving Panzer divisions put fear into him. In terms of planning, the Germans were miles ahead of their army or the French, able to mobilise easily thanks to their thoroughly well-devised plans.
"I don't suppose ye know any German, do ye?"
"Achtung…". Robbie replied immediately, before searching his brain for more. "… and that's about it".
"Well I don't know if that'll help at a camp".
"Oh for fuck's sake John-Paul. Yer deluded if ye think they can beat us, so ye are. Sure, we might have to retreat but we'll make it home safe".
"Ye have a lot of faith Robbie…".
"Aye I do. Call me an idiot but I do".
He wouldn't call his best friend an idiot, but he would challenge his faith. Their situation was dire, it did not take a genius to figure it out. A man of vast motivation would struggle to maintain his bright outlook under the circumstances they were in. Despite being next to a canal, their water supply was becoming extremely low. The original provisions that they set out with were already gone as well, having to scavenge the little food that they were eating from local farmers, who were told to run to avoid being caught up in the bloodshed. Scraps of hard bread were the fuel that powered the Royal Irish Fusiliers, a disgusting diet that none of them would ever wish another man to have to feast upon.
"It could be worse I suppose". John-Paul mused. "Did I ever tell ye about this girl that I knew back home?"
"Yer Ciara?" Flynn questioned, brow raised. "Aye ye've mentioned her".
"No not Ciara. There's this other girl back home that was really helpful, like. She used to sew up me shirts for me if they got a wee bit damaged or anything".
"She used to sew yer shirts? That's a bit of shite story John-Paul…".
Rolling his eyes, John-Paul's mind turned to the girl in question. With James away fighting, he assumed that Erin would probably be an emotional wreck back in Derry. She was perhaps the most irritating young woman that he knew, the way she attached herself to him out of a belief they were friends, really grating him for some time. She attached herself to James too, he knew, feeling sorry for the poor Englishman that he was the unlucky fella having to keep her happy. It was a bullet dodged for him as Ciara was beginning to grow suspicious of the mouthy blonde, having heard through friends that he'd kissed her on the cheek. An innocent kiss he thought nothing of at the time, Ciara ended up forcing him to apologise to her about it, embarrassing her by dropping down to the lowly Quinn girl's level to thank her.
"No not for the sewing of the shirts. She writes poetry, so she does and one day I was at this bakery back home when she saw me. I'd only popped in for a cream horn, so I had, but I ended up getting her latest writings in me ears…".
"Is she any good?"
John-Paul's eyes widened for half a second, before remembering that Robbie wasn't a native of Derry like him, therefore unaware of the poetic sentiments of Erin Quinn.
"She's the worst poet that's ever lived…". He explained. "… I've listened to some shite in my time, usually from some of the lads at the pub after a couple too many, but her poetry is something else…".
"Jaysus… it must be shite if yer reactin' like that".
Putting down the needle and thread having finished the job, John-Paul nodded his head at his best friend's words. Like everybody else, other than James, he couldn't stand Erin's poetry. He could barely stand her if he was honest, yet her presence would be manageable if she didn't believe herself to be the next William Shakespeare. Although he wasn't a man for writing himself, John-Paul had always thought Shakespeare would turn in his grave if he could hear her butchery of the English language that he shaped so significantly.
"Trust me Robbie…". He laughed as he rose from where he was sat. "… ye only have to hear it once to know ye never want to hear it again!"
The two of them crouched down as they neared the front lines again, passing the old farmhouse that was located a few hundred metres behind the line. They weren't going straight up to the front line just yet, savouring the final few minutes of rest they were getting before being allocated to their positions once more. Taking a sip of water from their canteens, the two shook them, finding to their joint despair that there was little left.
"Ye know, if they gave us some water, I might consider surrenderin'…".
"Christ don't say that Robbie…". He hissed in return. "… if the Sergeant catches ye sayin' that he'll offer ye up as a target for those Kraut bastards".
Realising that the Lance-Corporal was correct, Private Flynn ceased any further talk of surrendering. Whilst John-Paul knew he was joking, well aware that surrendering would be the last thing on a dogged Robbie's mind, speaking the words gave away their sense of hopelessness. Should the French have planned for a more modern war, where tactics were not the same as the golden days of the typical field battle or even the trench warfare of the Great War, then they would not have been placed into such a diabolical situation. The initial attacks that the Expeditionary Force made, truly gave the German Commanders something to think about in Belgium, fiercely opposing the divisions that attempted to break through there. The forested hills of the Ardennes were their friend though. Should it have been their regiment and the rest of the Expeditionary Force that were stationed on the lines that ran parallel to the region, the idea was entertained in his mind that they would have beaten back the advance or at the very least stopped it in its tracks.
"I bet yer Ciara's thinkin' about ye". Robbie smiled at him. "I hope my Katherine is thinking of me".
"I'm sure she is". John-Paul chuckled. "We owe it to them to get back safely".
"I know we do".
The pair of smiling Irishmen couldn't help but grin when they thought of their girls at home. Robbie's Katherine was pregnant with their second child before he'd left, a baby that would have no doubt been born already. He was looking forward to going home to meet them when they finally escaped their French hell. For John-Paul, there was no baby waiting for him at home, but Ciara would be. He wanted to have a baby with her as soon as he could get leave to return to Derry, a plan they'd briefly discussed at the tail end of the previous summer. Marriage would also have to come into the equation, as Ciara's parents were fiercely religious, her father being one of the most devoted Catholics he knew. He was part of a group of men that John-Paul found uneasy to get along with, Sean Devlin being another of those men.
"Ye know, I…".
BOOM
Robbie didn't get to finish his sentence, as the two men were sent scrambling for cover at the crashing sound of mortar fire suddenly pummelling their positions from across the other side. The pause in hostilities was over, combat resuming as the sun's strength began to wane with the early evening on the horizon. John-Paul immediately picked up his rifle but did not dare leave their cover until the barrage came to an end. Screams began a few seconds later as one of their fellow Irishman's legs were taken clean off, whilst another's body became a messy bed of shrapnel, blood and flapping skin.
"SIR! SIR!" He could just hear a man shouting for one of the officers.
"SIR! THEY'RE BEHIND US".
Looking back to where they'd come from, the disheartening sight of the grey uniforms of the enemy homed into view. The neighbouring units must have broken and run, the only explanation for the sudden appearance of the German soldiers from behind them. The route out was not completely cut off, but holding their positions appeared to be unfeasible.
"We can hide in the farmhouse!" Robbie suggested.
"NO!" John-Paul shouted at him. "They might not find us if we do, but it is a hell of a long walk to Spain to get out once we're clear. No Robbie, we stand and fight".
A fighting withdrawal would be the course of action to take, with the officers coming to the same conclusion as John-Paul when their rear was threatened. Over the next few hours, the men of the Royal Irish Fusiliers would become involved in bloody fighting, some of it hand to hand, all with the intention of getting back to the coast alive.
Casualties were inevitable.
They mounted up throughout the night.
For anyone with an overview of the positions, the British Expeditionary Force's precarious one became more so as every second ticked by. The march of the Nazi war machine was irresistible, with safety only to be found on the other side of the English Channel.
Getting to that side remained a problem.
Night fell upon Derry.
News was yet to be released about what was happening in France, but at the mass that evening, Father Peter asked everyone to pray for the soldiers who were in a dire position in France. The comments sent shockwaves through the rows of churchgoers, some of whom had children engaged in the battle. The Government were reluctant to release the news of the disastrous campaign and ongoing retreat to ensure that Europe did not fall. Radio's that were tuned in ready to hear the latest, received no update of the impending evacuation from Dunkirk or any other news about anything related to fighting in France. Censorship was not an action that the government particularly wanted to take at all, but it was necessary to be able to keep the peace.
If people knew the truth… morale would sink faster than the ships that would be bombed trying to rescue the soldiers.
Battles might have been breaking out all over France, but there were still battles to be fought on the home front too. Battles that the men of the church needed to conduct in order to maintain the decency within the city. Sins would always be committed, as if they weren't, there would be no need for confessions. There were sins that could be forgiven easily when it came to confessing them to the Father, who would send them on their way with the need to say only a couple of Our Fathers to complete the punishment. However, there were another set of sins that couldn't be broken. These were the sins that affected the day to day lives of those who would commit them as well as the standing of the church that they represented.
Molly O'Keefe was one of those foolish enough to sin.
Her sins would not be forgiven either. Most of Derry reacted poorly to the news that she was a homosexual, with many not wishing to even walk on the same street as her family. She'd brought shame to the name by not following the natural order of life and liking men like she should. The couple of weeks following the news spreading were hell for her, with absolutely nowhere to turn and no one to turn to. Her parents allowed her to stay at the family home but were restricting the time she would spend out of it. Her job in one of the shirt factories, not the same one as Erin, Michelle and Clare, was one of the only trips she was allowed to make other than the odd walk later in the evening when very few people would be around. The main reason for the restriction was for her own safety, as she couldn't trust her fellow citizens of Derry not to take matters to extreme lengths. Whilst her efforts in the context of the war were still appreciated at work, Molly was forced to work on her own throughout the day, with only the boss ever speaking to her. Nobody wanted to associate with the wee dyke, as she was now being known.
The O'Keefe family were still welcomed at church by Father Peter, but Molly no longer went with them. If she was with them then they would no doubt have been hounded out of the church, forced to take their sinner away with them. They were not bad people as everyone in the city knew, but their daughter was going against the teachings of the bible. It simply wouldn't do for the Godfearing churchgoers who would never stray so far from the bounds of the holy book. Within the church there were some, a certain young Devlin included, that were of the same preference when it came to who they loved, now living in fear that they would be next. The next girl or in some cases boy, to be castigated by the previously hospitable community that loved them. A community could very quickly turn on their own flock when armed with knowledge of loving the incorrect sexuality though, as Molly O'Keefe was finding out.
However, there were some within the church who wished to help her. Whilst she'd done wrong and was punished accordingly by the unrelenting community, the Father and some of the most devout Catholics understood that she required help rather than to be pushed away. Pushing her away may have solved the immediate disgust from being present at church and around the city, but it did not solve the issue that was Molly's sexuality. An option existed to help the poor wee girl, an option which the Father was keen to put across to the family, though he did not know how to broach it with them. Turning to his most devout churchgoers for an answer, a group of five men suggested a way that he personally did not approve of himself but would allow for them to attempt.
That is why the five men found themselves trudging through the dark streets of Derry that night, in the direction of the O'Keefe house. It was getting on for ten o'clock as the house came into view at the end of the long street they'd walked down. The leader of the five was Thomas, Ciara's father, whose eyes burned with a fiery resolve. When he'd found out about Molly O'Keefe he nearly smashed the glass that he was holding in rage, furious that she'd fallen to the dark temptation of homosexuality. The pull of the disgusting way of life had never managed to get a hold on him nor did he ever understand how people could be that way, leaving him with an incredible lack of understanding in the feelings of those who did.
Another of the five men was Sean Devlin.
Terrified that Clare's lack of a fella would cause suspicions to be raised about her, all the while unawares that the suspicions would be cutting close to the truth, he wanted to be able to help the young O'Keefe girl. He knew the family going back some years, having worked with Ronan for a short while at one of his old jobs back when he was younger. Although Clare never really found a friendship with Moira, their daughter that was Clare's age, there were no quarrels between them either. Molly being outed as a homosexual disappointed him more than anything, the fall to temptation being one he could not accept. Though like Father Peter, he believed that the church held the responsibility to bring her back to the light as her sins could be forgiven in time if the devilish trait could be removed from within her. They would then act as if nothing ever happened, seeing her go on to start a family with a lucky man at a later date, sins atoned for.
Approaching the door, the five men couldn't see any lights on within the house. It was entirely possible that all of the occupants were asleep after long days at work, but they would have to be woken. Father Peter remained at the church, but he was ready to perform his duties for the Lord in order to return Molly O'Keefe to the correct path of life that lay ahead of her.
"RONAN!" Thomas shouted.
Initially there was no response, although they could hear footsteps from inside the house along with whispered voices.
"Paddy… Billy… go round the back". Their ringleader ordered. "She can't escape from us".
Nodding their heads, the two men took off around the side of the house, climbing the fence that blocked their way into the O'Keefe's back garden. Their back door led out right to where the two men positioned themselves, preventing any hopes of the unfortunate young woman being able to dart out into the night. Though neither her nor the men who were trying to round her up were present upon the utterance, Michelle Mallon was proven correct. She should have run while she still had the chance to. Time would never be favourable to a young woman in her position, the hatred and misunderstanding of the Catholic Church closing in rapidly. If she'd have ran earlier then she would have given herself the opportunity to live a new life somewhere else, away in the country where the sins could be buried, the slate wiped clean. It would have had to have been far away from Derry, but it wouldn't have been out of the question had she acted. But she didn't act. Now the price was about to be paid.
"RONAN!"
Thomas thumped the door for the second time, calling out for Molly's father to come to it. The footsteps grew louder before, half a second later, the front door began to slowly open to reveal the teary-eyed face of Ronan O'Keefe behind it. He refused to open the door fully, only leaving himself enough room to be able to see who'd come to disturb him at such a late hour. Not that he didn't know already. He'd been waiting for them to come for some days, the Sheriff's of the church marching to their home in order to lasso the errant daughter that still lived within its walls.
"Ronan, we're here to help…". Thomas spoke softly once the door was opened further. "… ye've done nothin' wrong as a parent, we all understand that. We don't want to see a good man and a good parent like yerself bein' shunned by the rest of the community".
"I know what ye want Thomas…". He choked out.
"You know that it's the only way".
Ronan's eyes clamped shut in a wince. If he wanted his daughter to be able to continue to live with them and for their standing to return to what it was, then it was the only way. If he handed her over to the group of men, then they would return her the following morning a changed young woman. A young woman who would only hold feelings for those of the opposite sex again. Over many years, other young men and women in Derry were dragged off to church in the night to face the same procedure, all of them coming back cleansed. It was, indeed, the only way.
"I… I…". Ronan stammered.
"Ronan…". Sean took over from Thomas. "… I know that this is difficult for ye, but Molly is diseased. Ye wouldn't stop her goin' to the doctor if she had anything wrong with her physically, so why stop her from seeking help for her spiritual health?"
Ronan's heart was torn open, hearing Sean's description of homosexuality as a disease. The bible taught them all that it was wrong, a teaching that Ronan understood, but to call it a disease was not something he could agree with. He didn't want to hear his daughter referred to as some form of plague carrying peasant that could infect others by simply only wishing to love those of the same sex as her.
"She's my daughter…". He cried softly, opening the door a little more.
"This is difficult Ronan, but ye've been a brilliant father to all of yer children, so ye have. This is not yer fault, Molly has been tempted by the devil himself". Thomas tried to sympathise.
"Thomas is right, Ronan". Sean agreed with his friend. "Ye couldn't foresee the devil taking an interest in yer Molly, but ye can help to stop him. Give her to us, ye know she won't come to any harm".
Whether she would come to any harm or not was up for debate, Sean not being entirely honest in his statement. Those who'd been cleansed before didn't always come back without some form of punishment inflicted on them, mostly mental though sometimes there were accompanying bruises. The church would do whatever it had to in order to release the devil from within those who were infected by his dark sins; if it meant raising a hand to a young woman then so be it.
Faced with an impossible decision, the biggest one of his entire life, Ronan couldn't find it within himself to stand up to the men. Inside the house, knowing that their escape route out of the rear of the property was cut off, Molly and her mother were sobbing.
"Can I… can I have a minute with her please?" He timidly enquired.
"Of course ye can". Thomas reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. "Take as long as ye need".
Confident that Molly O'Keefe could not escape their grasp, the three men at the front of the house relaxed for a minute. Sean called their two friends back from around the rear, knowing that the O'Keefe's wouldn't change their minds and run now. Ronan looked to have made his choice, or as their minds told them, the correct choice. The eventual couple of minutes went by quietly, the still of the Derry night providing them with a peaceful backdrop from the less than peaceful scenario that they were in. The O'Keefe's lived a little way away from any neighbours, allowing for them to conduct the business at hand without being gawked at by others. Though any would likely be on their side, many did not know of the extreme measures that they would deploy to counteract the despicable spread of homosexuality.
"Molly… love… I'm sorry…".
"NO DADDY!"
Her shouts filled their ears as inside the house, Ronan was dragging his poor daughter towards the front door. The whole process was killing him but what choice did he have? Their family would forever be blacklisted by the community unless Molly either left or renounced her devious ways. The latter was preferred to the former.
As the door came open, Molly fixed her eyes on the five men that she saw as abductors. They'd come to her home that evening to steal her away from the life that she wanted to live. A life that they could not allow her to.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" She screamed.
Recognising the men made it worse. They were the harshest, most bible abiding citizens in all of Derry. They would not treat her fairly.
"Gag her". Thomas said to one of the others.
"WHAT!" Ronan reared up.
"Ronan we can't have her screamin' all the way to church!".
A stronger man would have punched Thomas in the face. Confronted with almost a unit of perceived angels though, it would only lower his standing if he was to defend his daughter's love for women in front of them. He painfully accepted having to watch his daughter be gagged by the men so that she would stop yelling out into the night to cause a scene.
"Come on Molly, we're taking ye to the Father. He's goin' to help ye".
Sean's voice carried a despicable element of caring within it. They cared for the girl in their own way, wanting her to be the good model Catholic that she should have been rather than the sinning dyke that she'd been outed as. If they cared for her in the way that she wanted to be cared for though, they'd leave her alone to experience the life that she wished for, hopefully finding herself another woman with the same dreams and expectations. They couldn't do that though, clouded by the literal word of the Lord that was perhaps taken too literally.
The door of the O'Keefe house shut behind her, the grieving Ronan sinking to his knees on the other side of the door as his wife joined him. They'd done everything that was possible for their daughter… it should never have come to this…
Her mouth might have been gagged, but Molly's feet were planted.
"Molly… come on, we're trying to help!" Sean insisted. "This is for yer own good!"
Her muffled shouts could not be understood, but Sean was sure he'd heard a certain word beginning with F being roared from beneath the gag. Four of the men, Sean included, were contented with attempting to persuade her through diplomatic means. Thomas decided differently. Without uttering a word to any of them he suddenly picked her up and placed her over his shoulder. She struck him with as many punches and kicks as she could muster but he was unmoved. The others were shaken by his direct action, not expecting it to occur yet none of them attempted to stop him as it would have been counterproductive. Molly O'Keefe would be going to see Father Peter that night whether she liked it or not.
"Sean Devlin, is that you?"
The unmistakable voice of another of God's servants pierced the gloom of the night.
Sister Michael.
The dry but quick-witted Sister was well respected within the community, schooling the children to a standard that no parent could be dissatisfied with. All five men held her in high regard, showing as much by pausing where they were stood at the bottom of the path that led to the O'Keefe's front door.
"Sister… has Father Peter sent ye?" Paddy asked.
"Why would Father Peter have sent me?" She asked, curious but with a knowing look. "And what are ye doing with Miss O'Keefe there?"
Thomas instantly allowed the girl to stand up on her own two feet, though he and Sean held her tightly to stop her from running. Molly shivered, her legs shaking like those of a newly born calf. Watching the men out of her narrowed eyes, Sister Michael knew exactly what was going on without having to ask. Ever since she'd saw the five men walking together a half hour or so earlier, she'd known where their precise destination would be, planning to speak with them on their way back from the O'Keefe's but finding herself drawn to the house to meet them earlier.
"We are takin' wee Molly here to him". Thomas told her. "We're gettin' her cured of the devil that put the dyke into her".
Taken aback by his choice of words, Sister Michael shifted slightly. She knew what the five men were, and with some of them, their dark secrets. Upon hearing the moral position that Thomas was taking, it made her sick to the stomach that they were going to do what she assumed. She too knew about the so-called "curing", that Father Peter offered from the effect it had on those who'd been put through it before. She wasn't prepared to let Molly O'Keefe become the next broken young person she was required to rehabilitate.
"Let me ask you something…". She began. "… what do you think people are going to think when they see five men walking through the dark streets, one of them with a gagged woman over their shoulder?"
"Sister…". Thomas's voice was almost condescending. "… we are doing god's work".
"I think I'll be the judge of that. And for the record, ye look like rapists".
The men were shocked by her description. She was meant to be on their side, disgusted by the dyke that they were transporting to be cleansed of her sins. Instead, she was berating them for what they were doing.
"Si-".
"Wise up, Thomas. Yer a grown man! This matter is a sensitive one that should be dealt with by those who hold rank in the church, not a mob of self-righteous vigilante's like yerselves. Now go on now, leave this to me".
Briefly contemplating putting up an argument, a final glare from Sister Michael told the five of them that they were better off going home. After all, she was a nun, and to a certain extent was correct in what she was saying. Cleansing Molly O'Keefe required those with an even closer relationship to God to oversee the process in their place. Sean would skulk back home to the awaiting Geraldine, who he'd argued with again before heading out with the rest of them. He'd narrowly avoided having to strike her for her insolence, only interrupted by Clare wanting him to hear her perform on the piano. His job was done for the night at least, Sister Michael being the one to take care of the problem that was Molly O'Keefe.
As the men left, the gag was still applied to Molly's mouth. Her garbled sounds were pleas for the Sister to remove it, though the Nun waited until the men were out of sight before doing so.
"Sister…". Molly cried once the gag was removed, falling into her arms.
"You're alright Molly. You're safe with me now, you aren't goin' to church tonight I assure ye. Father Peter's a right prick, so he is".
Although caught off guard by the Sister's tongue, Molly allowed herself to relax in her grasp knowing that Sister Michael wouldn't let her go. Her father, who'd watched on from the window of their front room, ran out to join them, wife in tow. Their Molly was saved from the ordeal by one of those who should have overseen her being sent to it. They would have to ask the reasons from the Sister another time though, as the matter at hand still need to be sorted out. Sadly, life could not go on as normal for Molly O'Keefe anymore.
Her card was marked.
Every single update from France that came the way of 815 Naval Air Squadron, via Headquarters, was depressing. Good news wasn't just short, it was non-existent. As the Priests were reporting to their parishioners, the situation was dire. The Expeditionary Force put up a fight but as the French and Belgians began to throw their arms up in surrender, it became clear that their time on the continent was at an end. The difficulties in getting them back across the stretch of water were ongoing, the little privately owned ships having to come to the aid of the men. Civilians with vessels of their own were becoming heroes by the hour, answering the call just as stoutly as the men who'd gone to fight in France had months before. Some of them wouldn't be coming back either as the Luftwaffe didn't care whether the ships were civilian or military. They would bomb them.
For the 815, there was relative peace, however. HQ's orders were to only patrol the areas on the approaches to Southampton and Portsmouth, staying far clear of the evacuation lines of the French ports. With the heightened attention on Dunkirk though, Lieutenant Commander Borrett was constantly in contact with HQ to await new ones. With the situation unfolding as it was, it wouldn't be unusual to find new sets of orders coming through at all times of the day, although immediate orders at night seemed unlikely. The Royal Air Force was providing the bulk of the air cover for the evacuations, the Spitfires and Hurricanes keeping the German bombers at bay the best they could whilst having to fight off the accompanying ME 109's.
In the early afternoon of the twenty ninth, James was out with the men, looking at a maintenance problem with one of the Swordfish. An officer didn't have to lend a hand to the men, but upon request by the maintenance crew, James was getting his back into it. They trusted him more than anyone to be able to assist and being the gentleman that he was, he was never going to refuse them. He was underneath the aircraft when he felt a tapping at his leg, from the boot of one of the airmen that was stood by the plane. A second tap prompted him to stop what he was doing, crawling out from beneath the belly to see why he was required.
"Lieutenant Commander Borrett, Sir".
Using his hands as a pivot on the floor, James raised himself to a standing position in order to properly address his commanding officer. Borrett wore a determined look on his face, which James immediately recognised as one that indicated that new orders had arrived from HQ.
"Sir!" The all greeted him as he got closer.
Saluting in return to the men, Borrett's eyes fixed on his second in command, stood there in his grubby uniform. It was not the stereotypical look that befitted an officer, although Lieutenant James Maguire was no ordinary officer. Borrett never could bring himself to question James' often unorthodox methods, willing to accept that his uniqueness was an asset to the Fleet Air Arm rather than a liability.
"Gentlemen, get to your aircraft, we fly in fifteen minutes!"
A cheer erupted from the gaggle of men around the Lieutenant Commander, as well as all of the other men in the hangar once they heard the order. The order was irregular, away from the usual time spot where they would conduct patrols or convoy escorts. The men were all aware of what was going on in France from the consistent rumours passed between squadrons. For once, the rumours were all completely true, however instead of disheartening them, the news only emboldened their resolve. They were aching for a scrap with the Germans, even if it would be to cover the retreat of their colleagues on the ground in Dunkirk. In the entire squadron, James was the only man to have seen a German fighter in the air, seeing three and destroying them all whilst testing out a new prototype of the Supermarine Spitfire. The Swordfish were yet to be tested by any of them.
"Not you, Lieutenant Maguire". Borrett held up his hand to stop him.
Perplexed, James took two paces backwards to position himself in front of the commanding officer again. He studied the man, watching as his brows remained tightly concentrated, leaving nothing for the Lieutenant to find upon the search. On a good day, Borrett would give away absolutely nothing emotionally and it appeared that it was one of those days.
"Our orders".
The smile, complimented by the now relaxed demeanour of the Lieutenant Commander, allowed for James to take a sigh of relief. He'd been on the harsher end of Borrett's verbal lashings a couple of times, prepared for yet another one that would rather inconveniently be in front of the men. The orders that were passed down from HQ were the discussion point though, orders which Borrett spent the best part of fifteen minutes understanding on the phone. They were clear enough in his eyes, but the finer details were still needed in order for the mission to be a success. Details which he wrote down quickly in order to not forget them.
"We are to lay mines outside some of the Dutch Harbours…".
James almost ignored the rest of what Lieutenant Commander Borrett had to say. He was disgusted.
Mining.
Although the job of mining the entrances to enemy occupied harbours was one of necessity in the hopes that they would be able to destroy warships with them, to James, it was the wholly wrong thing to be doing. They needed to be out over the German Army, bombing their positions to cover the withdrawal from the beaches, not finding themselves hundreds of miles to the north, dodging flak to drop mines which would more than likely be picked up by minesweepers anyway.
"Now…". Borrett continued. "… I propose that we split the squadron in half. I will lead the Northern half to cover Ijmuiden and Amsterdam. I want you to lead your half to cover Rotterdam and on your way out, Brouwershaven".
"Mining?" James finally plucked up the courage to question the order.
"Yes Lieutenant Maguire, mining".
James might have believed that his question was well disguised, but Borrett saw straight through him. He didn't enjoy the tone of voice from the Lieutenant, one of almost offence of being asked to mine the entrances to the harbours, rather than anything more daring. Both men knew that he was more than capable to commit the more daring actions, but there were orders to be fulfilled and more than just James to consider. There wasn't another pilot in the squadron who could do what he could, therefore making him the one who would need to compromise in accepting the less daring challenge.
"With respect, Sir, mining will make little difference to the efforts of getting our men home safely".
"That is not for you to decide Lieutenant!" Borrett raised his voice. "I do not expect you to question me on these matters, especially not here!"
Changing his view to look around them, James noticed that all of the men were nervously glancing over to the arguing senior officers, not wishing to be accused of listening in and not wanting to miss whatever was said either. The close attentions of the men were not a concern for James though, as he was determined to get his point across to the Lieutenant Commander.
"We have a duty to the men in Dunkirk, Sir! We cannot do our duty if we are stuck on a pointless folly in Dutch waters!" James shouted back.
"LIEUTENANT!" Borrett roared. "Are you threatening to disobey a direct order from headquarters!?"
"Headquarters are ineffective, Sir! There is an immediate threat to life that we must attend to. I will not jeopardise men's lives to complete a mining exercise! The Navy are already providing a presence to deter any German ships from entering our waters and the channels are already mined, it serves no purpose!"
"YOU OBEY ORDERS, LIEUTENANT MAGUIRE! Have you spent so much time fraternising with the men this morning, that you have forgotten your place!?"
The two were furious, neither showing any signs of backing down. James never gave the Lieutenant Commander any trouble, so the latter's anger came more from the shock of finding the usually united young man questioning the orders that he was putting across to him. At the same time, James could not countenance Borrett's disregard for the morally correct action to be ignored in favour of orders that he surely knew were pointless. The Swordfish might not have been able to assist the Spitfires and Hurricanes, but it could fly low to strike the fast-moving Germans who would soon be threatening to break into the city of Dunkirk itself. That was what James wanted to do.
"I respectfully decline the order to mine the harbours, Sir. I am going to Dunkirk to do my duty if you will not do yours". He spoke calmly but assuredly.
"I WILL HAVE YOU COURT MARTIALLED! YOU WILL BE FINISHED IF YOU DO NOT CARRY OUT YOUR ORDERS!"
With a glowing red face, combustion appeared to be the most likely move by the Lieutenant Commander. He'd never been more outraged about anything in his life than his second in command's refusal to execute their orders. James might have been the finest pilot he'd ever seen but he was not above the law when it came to dereliction of duty. Failing to mine the harbours at Rotterdam and Brouwershaven would be an offence that would have to be reported, with severe consequences on the Lieutenant's career. The stern Lieutenant Commander saw another opportunity though, coming to the realisation that James would not be the only person affected by his refusal to accept orders.
"Even if you did refuse, and you did go to France, you would have to send another man down with you. Not one man here would risk a court-martial to let the hotshot Lieutenant have another day of glory to show off his combat prowess".
A ton of bricks came down on James' head. Of course, he would need to have a spotter come gunner for the excursion to Dunkirk, unable to do it all on his own. Without the spotter he stood little chance of being able to position the Swordfish correctly as well as being vulnerable to enemy attack without an airman to man the gun. Sweat began to manifest around his forehead, the young man suddenly being in the wrong, balancing catastrophic consequences for his own career.
"Why don't we ask them…".
On the front foot, ready to completely ruin the career of a young man he'd up until a few minutes prior considered to be the most talented officer in the Fleet Air Arm, Borrett pushed his belief further. He knew that James was more popular amongst them than he was, as the aura of the Lieutenant shone brighter than any searchlight in operation. The men would need to think of their careers too, which allowed him to be confident that the young Lieutenant's farcical mutiny would be over incredibly quickly.
"Is there any man willing to risk their own career, put their family back home into financial difficulty and have their name read out in shame to fly with this man!?"
The silence in the proceeding couple of seconds nearly broke James. The men who he showed such great loyalty too were putting themselves first. A part of his conscience told him that they were doing the right thing by not joining him, not having to then live with the guilt of destroying another man's reputation. The other, slightly smaller part told him that the loyalty he'd shown them was wasted as the airmen along with his fellow pilots would only seek to survive rather than to proactively attend to their duty.
It almost did break him. But only almost…
"I AM!"
The voice did not belong in the main hangar. It did not belong around the whole camp or local area either. It did not even belong in England.
It belonged in Derry.
David.
The voice was familiar to James, too familiar. Before he'd even turned to follow the direction that the noise came from, he was aware that his best friend in the whole world was back.
Rising like a phoenix from the grief that consumed him just a few short weeks before, David Donnelly strode towards the Lieutenant. Lieutenant Commander Borrett, who was not expecting the returning Airman, stood silently with his jaw hanging open. From the overflowing anger that was reaching its peak, he was suspended in disbelief at the arrival of a man he never thought he would ever see again. One who he should never have seen again. Airman Donnelly was no longer required to perform active service for the Kingdom. Borrett had even signed the discharge papers himself after he'd left to return to the Emerald Isle. The power in the conversation slanted back in favour of the brash young Lieutenant, who couldn't hide his grin.
James didn't care that most of the squadron was watching, running over to David to almost jump into an embrace with him. If not for their clearly different looks, an outsider would have mistaken them for brothers upon viewing their joyous reunion. In fact, they were brothers. Not by blood, but by their own creed of life which the two lived by, adhering to in every aspect from love to duty.
"David… W-What are you doing here?" James stammered the enquiry as he pulled away.
"Sure I can't be watchin' yer skinny English arse from back home, can I?"
Breaking out into an overriding laughter, James embraced his best friend again. He didn't care what the men would have to say about his blatant favouritism towards David anymore. They knew that the two were the best of friends, so if any of them were shocked by them hugging then it would be their own fault for not paying attention previously. David joined in with the laughter at his own words, distinctly aware of what just his presence in the hangar was doing for his best friend. The James of the letter that was sent to Erin was gone, replaced with the vibrant, outgoing James that he knew and loved. That was before they'd even got to the fighting any Germans together.
"Mister Donnelly!"
Borrett didn't shout but raised his voice enough for the whole hangar to know that he wasn't addressing David sociably even if he did not give him the rank he'd previously held.
"Sir!" David stood to attention, dropping the suitcase he was carrying to the floor.
"There is no need to address me as Sir, you are no longer a serving member of this squadron. I have no idea why you were allowed into this base, but I would kindly ask you to leave this instant".
"I am a member of this squadron, Sir. I've re-enlisted".
The stunned Borrett faced the hushed voices of the rest of the squadron around him. He'd been contradicted and made to look like a fool by the Irishman, who stood expressionless next to the equally expressionless Lieutenant Maguire. With the initiative on his side, David continued before Borrett could re-gather his thoughts.
"And Sir, I would be willing to fly with James into the very gates of hell if he asked me to. I don't know what exactly is goin' on, but I can guess that James wants to get himself over to help our boys in France".
"What do you know about that!?" The Lieutenant Commander demanded.
"Ye think the public are stupid, Sir? We all know our boys need to get back here to have any chance of survival. To do it successfully then they need men like James in the skies above them because without the Lieutenant here, we don't stand a chance against the Germans. If he says he's going to France, he's going to France, Sir, and I am going with him!"
Riled, frustrated and ultimately furious, Lieutenant Commander Borrett had to remind himself internally about his own conduct before replying to the lowly Airman. He'd spoken up directly against his commanding officer, as well as the orders that now applied to him too as a member of the squadron. He could have got the military police to arrest the rude Irishman there and then. There was time for the court martial though. His main concern was getting out to the Dutch harbours in order to complete the very mission that the two men stood in front of him were refusing to. Any further delays would result in him being in as much trouble as his mutinous men would be.
"Fine. Go to France, make yourselves bloody heroes if you have to, but when you get back the two of you will be spending the foreseeable future in prison, with no contact with your loved ones! Is it really worth that!?"
"Our country needs us". James replied, puffing his chest out defiantly. "Any price is worth paying".
Growling, the Lieutenant Commander relented in the knowledge that he would get the last laugh that evening when he reported the two men to HQ. The golden boy of the Fleet Air Arm would cease to exist when dawn broke on the thirtieth day of May, the service purged of a gallant officer who'd led himself astray by the thought of glory. Only a foolish man would have believed James and David were attempting to become heroic men, whose names would live on through myth and legend. For the two friends, their actions were only ones of honour and pride in their fellow comrades in the Army and Navy below them that were attempting to prevent one of the greatest military disasters that Britain had ever seen. Better men than them were giving their lives to stop the Nazi's; it was the least they could do.
With the need to get ready for take-off, the two were silent except for when they needed to speak to check the aircraft was ready. Conveniently, James' Swordfish was already fitted with bombs instead of mines, with no time having to be wasted to allow for the ground crew to change them over. The rest of the squadron departed whilst they were still preparing. Junior Lieutenant Allen, soon to be Lieutenant Allen in Borrett's eyes, took over from James in commanding the southern half of the mining exercise. In order to get to the Dutch harbour entrances, they would have to fly around the evacuation ongoing at the port of Dunkirk. Once they were safely up into the skies, the Lieutenant Commander made sure that his men would not take after Lieutenant Maguire by ordering them to keep a close formation until they separated nearer to their targets.
Eventually, James and David were ready for take-off. For the first time in just over a month, the longest month of their lives if they were honest, they were back flying together. A duo that as of yet were untested in their role. An eye-opening introduction would be on the cards for the Irishman, who was yet to experience any true combat at all during his time in service. From his seat at the rear, David was contented that he was in safe hands though. After the North Sea dogfight, James' eye was in for a battle. Success already tasted, he was better prepared the second time around, albeit with a whole different set of variables. It was a slower aircraft, vulnerable to German fighters and facing a target below it rather than around or above it. Yet the Swordfish's greatest advantage was the pilot. The best pilot Britain could muster, the ace above all aces.
"France then… Sister Michael would kill us…".
Following the prolonged silence that lasted well into the crossing of the channel, David spoke down the radio to create an atmosphere both men sorely missed. The brilliant chats between the two friends whilst they cruised through the clouds in their fabric covered warbird.
"And not just her…". James chuckled back. "How are Orla and little Marie, then".
In the excitement of meeting again, arguing with the Lieutenant Commander and getting themselves ready for the flight, he'd forgotten to ask after the two. He'd often thought of David being able to spend as much time with them as he wanted, the two parents cooing over their little one who they'd hold between them. Orla would be a fantastic mother, a belief he'd quickly developed after spending only short amounts of time with her. Despite their brief encounters, as was the same with the rest of the girls, he'd felt like he'd known her for a lifetime already.
"Ach, they're well, so they are. Little Marie can't talk yet but I reckon she's lookin' forward to meetin' her Uncle James".
"Uncle James. I think the title suits me".
Chuckling in response on the radio, David was glad that he'd had that reaction to the title bestowed on him. The idea didn't come from him. Orla first suggested the usage of it back at home one night when the two cuddled up watching Marie sleep. The heroic Uncle James who could fly planes to keep them all safe. There were endless bedtime story possibilities for when she was a wee bit older.
"Why did you really come back, David?"
James wanted to know the real reason. As much as it was amusing earlier in the day when David replied to explain his presence, it was not a serious answer. There was likely some truth in it, as he couldn't really keep James safe from back home in the McCool household in Derry… but there was more to it than that. There had to be more to it than just that. David wasn't a particularly good liar either, the Englishman also being able to tell by the tone of his voice before that there was further reasoning that was as of yet unsaid.
"The letter James". His friend replied honestly. "Gerry gave it to me to read and… well ye sounded so depressed that I couldn't just leave things be mate. Yer always the one motivatin' everyone else. I couldn't let ye get miserable when I knew fighting with ye made ye, and still makes ye, happy. We're a team James and I've done my grievin'… it's time to get on with the war".
"But what about Orla? I suspect she wasn't pleased?" James asked with a slight dismay.
"She encouraged it!"
Orla encouraging her husband to leave her and their daughter behind to fight again was unexpected knowledge hoisted onto the young pilot. He anticipated David telling him that his name was one spoken harshly about by her for taking her fella away from her once more. However, knowing Orla to be free-spirited with her heart in the right place, a full gasp did not drop from his lips. It was not entirely ridiculous to know that she would want her David to fight on the front lines again.
"I spoke with her about it after I read the letter…". He elaborated to the Englishman. "… she wanted me to do the right thing. I guess seeing Erin so upset helped push me back too…".
Hand off the controls, it soon came to rest on his heart. James could feel it shattering because he'd unintentionally upset his beloved. The letter came about from his own fears and worries, writing to Erin as she was the only person who understood him well enough emotionally to be able to write back a letter of reassurance. David telling him that the opposite effect occurred tore into the young man cruelly.
"I've upset her…". The forlorn voice filled the radio.
"She's worried about ye James. Christ, I was when I read then this and it's not like we're feckin' intimate. She loves you so much mate".
Tears began to creep into the corners of his eyes. Despite upsetting her, she still loved him. She would always love him he hoped, but to hear it from David who'd seen her as recently as earlier as that morning was incredibly special.
"I love her t-".
His declaration of love would have to wait though, as the clouds around them broke to reveal a scene of complete and utter chaos. They'd flown fairly low in them, in the hopes of avoiding any lurking German fighters, who unbeknownst to them, were back at their own airfields refuelling at the time. The wide stretch of beach in front of them was akin to peeling away the top layers of an ants' nest. Soldiers were packed in like sardines along it, some in a long queue on the harbour mole's where a few of the ships were waiting to transport them back to England. They couldn't see the Germans yet, but from gazing upon the positions of their own men, both of them knew it would be a slaughter should the tanks get through. Nazi Germany held an incredible chance to knock both heavyweights of Western Europe out cold, ending the war within a year of it starting. James and David were two of the men that were making their stand, determined to ensure that the British Army would live to fight another day.
"My god…".
"Christ almighty…".
The responses from both James and David were equal in shock. What was happening in Dunkirk they knew to be desperate, but the dire scene presented to them sent chills down their spines. It didn't take the smartest person in the world to know that they were flying into a pivotal moment in the balance of power in not only Europe, but the rest of the world. Their obsolete yet mighty Swordfish could potentially be a deciding factor in which way the evacuation would go. Every little helped when it came to keeping the Germans at bay, whether it be a soldier in the city itself or the men of the Navy and the ordinary men of Southern England in their private vessels.
"What's the plan, Lieutenant".
From the tone of his voice, he could tell that David was smirking behind him. Secretly, David was buzzing to be able to address James as his officer as well as his friend again.
"There will be tank columns a few miles outside of the city itself. We have one shot at them because I wouldn't fancy our chances on a second run".
"Right. And how do we find them?"
"Trust me David, I can smell them".
The most bizarre statement fell from James' lips. Perhaps even more bizarrely, David did not question his logic. If James thought that he knew where the tank column would be then there was a very good chance James would be correct. The English fella also finally had a crewman that he could fully trust behind him, who wouldn't press him to explain why he believed he knew where the tanks would be. Instinct told him where, along with a rather valuable map of the area around Dunkirk, which he kept in his lap. Before they could get to the tanks though, a flyover of the beachhead would at least allow the troops below to be able to cheer for an aircraft belonging to their own side instead of having to dive out the way of a strafing ME 109.
As they approached low across the sea, the cheers began to drown out the sound of the propellors. Men who were being set upon constantly by the Germans, dying in groups on the clustered beach, could finally have a sight they wanted to see. It might have only been a solitary Swordfish but it was a sign of hope for the weary Expeditionary Force who only wanted to go home. Little did they know that the pilot they were placing their hope in could give them more than just that. Seeing the heart-breaking sight of honourable men giving their lives with the escape back to the safety of Britain so close by, a fire lit within the often-tepid Englishman. In truth it was already. Witnessing the plight of his comrades merely made the solitary flame a savagely burning fire of determination… the determination to find a tank column and give them one hell of a thrashing.
"COME ON BOYSSSSSSSSS!"
David roared his encouragement in the direction of the same men that cheered them on as they flew overhead. The resolve burned within him too. Twenty-four hours earlier he was holding his little Marie in his arms with a heavy heart, knowing that it would be the last time he saw her for a while. A shock to the system it might have been but in both places, David felt as if he was in the right place at the time of asking. He wouldn't always be present for Marie, though he would always be fighting her cause wherever he may be. Father, husband, friend and Airman, he was prepared to mix all four if that was what it took to keep his family safe.
As soon as the beach was cleared, along with the town which was already showing significant signs of damage from the constant attentions of the German bombers, James angled them ever so slightly to the South East. His rationale took him to believing that on the outskirts of a town called Bourbourg, a column of tanks would be readying themselves to push on. Though he held no knowledge of it, the line around Bourbourg was pushed back outside of the city by miles in the direction of Dunkirk. Retreating to a safer line put distance between the Expeditionary Force, as well as the numerous French units still engaged alongside them, and the Germans, who were yet to capitalise with a forward thrust. Passing over the exhausted rear guard, who shouted encouragement at the solitary biplane in the sky, they looked closely for anything on the horizon, even if it was just infantry.
"THERE!"
David shouted down the radio as he spotted their targets a couple of miles up ahead. The brain of James Maguire worked wonders again.
A complete shot in the dark it might have been, but he'd found his Panzer Column.
Already flying very low over the front lines, James descended even further to almost cut the grass of the massive open field, joining it at one end whilst the Panzers massed at the other. Packed in together for reasons that he could not fathom, the target was too tempting for a pilot of his calibre. However, the slow moving, low-flying stringbag did have an additional problem to contend with. Flying at the height they were, the guns of the Panzers could fire at them too and from a mile out, they would be in range of the main turrets of the German tanks. Across the other side of the field, the Panzer crews spotted the old grandfather clock of a biplane approaching them, training it in their sights immediately. They didn't even bother to move out of a cluster, knowing that they would easily be able to down the almost ancient opponent coming to face them.
"I think they're laughing at us James!" David shouted down the radio. "BASTARDS!"
"Just keep your eyes peeled David". A scarily calm James replied. "They will not be laughing in a minute".
With no one else in the air to fight or any infantry to engage with at ground level, David's focus was on James' approach. He began to call instructions down the radio, trying to help his best friend position the aircraft for the perfect strike and getaway. With six bombs, three under each wing, it would have to be a precise shot to destroy any of the tanks, as well as a clean getaway so that the impact of the explosives detonating didn't take them down too. If any pilot in Britain could pull off the million in one shot that was being lined up, it was going to be Lieutenant James Maguire.
Coming within a mile of the Panzers, the eight that they could see open fired almost simultaneously. Most of the shots were either too low or wide except the very last one. One of the German gunners had held off for an extra half a second, which told, as the piping hot round whizzed through the thin gap in the wing struts close to the cockpit.
"Fuckin' hell!" David bellowed. "I could feel the heat from that one!"
The close call did not deter James. He didn't even hear David's shouting, his focus concentrated upon the Germans who were rushing to reload to get another shot at the relentlessly progressing biplane. When they'd all failed to bring down the plane on their first salvo's, nerves suddenly shot into the minds of all of the crews. With pride at stake, they were determined not to allow a solitary old torpedo bomber to get a shot at them. On the other hand, however, legitimate fear came into the equation that played on every single man's mind. Whoever was at the controls of the old aircraft held a lot more nerve than any of them, or perhaps was just far more stupid, brave whichever way they looked at it.
When the second round of shots similarly failed, all of them firing too low, they knew their chance to bring the Swordfish down was over. James, closing to within a few hundred metres, having ascended more over the previous four hundred metres or so, levelled out ready. When he'd reflected on his dogfight at the beginning of the month, his conscience took a battering from the thoughts that families would be without the loved one he'd sent to the bottom of the body of water to their eternal rest. This time though, his conscience was far clearer. The men of the Panzer Column were prepared to slaughter their comrades where they stood on the beach should the need arise for it. They still fired upon the retreating men too, David noticing the corpses in the field as he did. As he'd predicted himself, the Panzer crews were no longer laughing. They couldn't even move, frozen in terror.
They thought they were taking on two complete fools in a conked-out old plane who must have been carrying a death wish.
At no point did they bargain for the two complete fools to be the finest combination of men that the whole of the United Kingdom could throw at them. Friends, brothers, gentlemen and above all, damn fine aviators.
The Panzers were sitting ducks.
With the mathematics of pulling up out of the way complete in his head, James's thumb came to rest over the bomb release trigger. If any of the Panzer crews cared to look up high enough to get a view of his face, they would have been met with one that told of a fury that even biblical wouldn't do justice for as a description. David confirmed that they were lined up perfectly, the final piece of the puzzle in place.
"Goodnight Vienna".
James's thumb pressed down on the trigger as he coolly spoke the deathly insult.
Pulling up sharply, a capability well within the Swordfish's range, they avoided being destroyed by their own bombs as all six smashed into the wall of tanks at the end of the field. Luck was on their side as the Germans never moved, making it far easier for them to get a resounding success but ultimately the crews were foolish. Underestimating an enemy for perceiving a weakness that was in fact a great strength, would be the grave mistake for every single man of the front of the column. Detonating, with some of the bombs directly hitting the tanks, all eight Panzers at the end of the field were blown to smithereens.
The impact still jolted the aircraft, but James held onto the climb expertly, slowing beginning to level them back out once they'd wheeled round at an acceptable height to avoid any fire from further down the column.
"WOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" The Englishman almost screamed into the air.
"ALL TARGETS DESTROYED! David looked back at the smoking Panzers. "YOU FUCKIN' LEGEND JAMES!"
Shuffling forward, David slapped his friend on the shoulder. James brought one hand up to clutch his friend's, thanking him for brilliantly supporting their quite frankly suicidal attack run on the Germans. He would never have had enough confidence to take on the Panzers without David spotting behind him. Many questions would need to be asked about home, about whether it was right that David was even there, but in the moment, flying back over the beaches of Dunkirk to the cheers of the reinvigorated troops waiting to be evacuated from them, it didn't matter. The two of them were doing their bit to keep Britain in the war and for them, that was exactly what they'd signed up to do.
"Let's get this beast back home, David".
Homeward bound, there were wide smiles on the faces of the young men. Their actions were heroic, worthy of medals and other high honours.
To achieve them though, they'd broken the rules. Disobeyed orders.
They wouldn't be smiling for long.
A Court Martial awaited them.