We lost fifteen animals, mostly mules and a few horses, several tents, and much equipment, but not a single man. In itself, that was amazing, but when I saw how close we’d come, I was flabbergasted. One of the four bombs had hit the ground about thirty yards from the nearest men. And not a single one was seriously hurt. There were some minor cuts and grazes, but that was all.
“We have been blessed this day,” Sadiq exclaimed. “Inshallah, we will escape this with our lives.”
Many of my comrades were checking their animals, and the rest cleared debris and rubble. The officers were huddled together as dusk fell, and I decided to walk by and listen to their conversation. I worried that they might shout as I approached, but they were too busy discussing something called Operation Dynamo.
“Stands to reason,” Sergeant Buckingham said. “That’s why they sent us north.”
“No,” Captain Ashdown replied. “Our original mission was to supply the defensive lines, to try and stop the German advance through Belgium.”
“I agree,” said Captain Morrow. “This is purely about circumstances. London has made this call on the hoof, and no mistake.”
“Well,” said Buckingham, “let’s not complain. I’m all for it.”
“But there’s nearly a quarter of a million men in France,” said Captain Ashdown. “How in the name of God can we evacuate them all? The Jerries are right on our tail and won’t just sit by and watch our escape.”
As they went on, I pretended to look for something through a pile of rubble, and then watched as they finished their meeting. Captain Ashdown spotted me and came across.
“Private Khan,” he said in a sombre tone. “I hope you weren’t eavesdropping.”
“No, sir,” I lied. “I was merely…”
“Oh, never mind,” said Ashdown. “You’ll find out soon enough. Was the mess tent hit?”
“No, sir,” I told him. “It is intact.”
“Good,” said the Captain. “Can you organise food for every man, within the next hour or so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And is there enough for tomorrow too?”
“There is more than enough,” I explained.
“Excellent,” he replied. “I’m awaiting orders, but it looks as though we’re moving out. I want everyone on standby to leave within an hour of the order. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Private?”
“Sir…?”
“I like you,” said Captain Ashdown. “You’re a decent chap and hardworking. But don’t ever lie to me again. It’s insubordinate and will serve you no good.”
“Yes, sir!”
I felt sheepish as he left, but I deserved it. Captain Ashdown was loyal and fair, and I had no right to lie to him.
Mush, Sadiq and I gathered our company, alongside Sergeants Buckingham and Davis’s. The men were served quickly, and ate quickly, as darkness drew in. No one commented on the chicken, not even Buckingham, because there was no mood for it. And no time, either. After supper, we worked by torch and candlelight, gathering our belongings and remaining equipment, and getting ready to decamp.
Most of the tents came down, leaving only a few into which most of the men were crammed. Not that we slept. We were too fearful of another bombing, and too apprehensive of the order to leave. None of us were map readers, but we knew that we’d almost reached the north-eastern coast of France. How could we push further, without reaching the sea? And once there, our backs to the Channel, we’d be sitting ducks for the Germans.
I recalled the word evacuate from the officers meeting I’d spied on and wondered what that meant. Where would we go? The only logical step would be east, into Northern Belgium, and into battle. Or west perhaps, and away from the German lines. The alternative was retreat to England, but that made no sense at all. It was a ridiculous notion. I grew fearful then, realising that we might be making a last stand at the coast, faced with a greater enemy, whose firepower and numbers outstripped our own. Two to one, Sid Smith had told me. I couldn’t help but think that our end was in sight.
And that thought sent shivers of dread coursing through my body.
In the morning, I heard a commotion, close to the chateau entrance. There was shouting at first, and then a whistle, followed by the sound of vehicles and at least one motorbike. Fearing the worst, and without a weapon, I armed myself with a hoof pick. It was short but had a sharp spike, and if any German came close enough, it would make a good weapon.
Only, I need not have worried. As I edged closer, I saw Captain Ashdown shaking hands with another British officer, one I had never seen before. The two men exchanged pleasantries, and then the gates opened, and five vehicles entered the compound. They parked side by side and about twenty or so weary-looking troops jumped out. They were wide-eyed and dirty, and immediately asked for water and bread. Captain Morrow called to me.
“Private Khan,” he said. “Any of that chicken left?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Then gather some others and make sure these soldiers are fed,” he ordered. “They’ve been fighting Jerry down the road.”
I nodded and assembled some of my comrades at the mess. We poured the food into bowls, sliced bread, and served it all with butter and water. The soldiers were 8th Battalion Worcestershire Regiment, and most of them seemed friendly as they plodded into the mess. I took charge, making sure each was given a fair share of food, before dishing up for the officers.
“Really good of you, Private,” said their captain, whose name was Haywood. “And rather spicy, too. Very agreeable.”
I left them to it, standing by the entrance. To my left, several of my fellow muleteers were talking in Punjabi, our native tongue. Eventually, a white soldier took exception.
“Here, here!” he called. “Let’s not be having that! Speak English!”
A couple of his friends agreed, but my comrades ignored his request.
“I said speak English!” he insisted. “You foreigners!”
He had dark hair, shaved close to his scalp, and his uniform was thick with dried mud. I glanced at Captain Ashdown, who consulted with Haywood, before coming over.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked the argumentative soldier.
“No, sir,” the soldier replied. “I just want to know what they’re talking about.”
“And why is that your concern?” asked Captain Ashdown.
“Because we’re not in India, sir,” the man replied, smirking at his friends.
Captain Ashdown sighed.
“Nor is this England,” he pointed out, “and yet, here we are, and not a French sentence to be had.”
“I don’t speak French,” the man replied. “We didn’t all get schooled, sir.”
By now, the entire mess had tuned in, including my fellow muleteers.
“I am not responsible for your misfortune,” Captain Ashdown told him. “But, I am responsible for my men. They have travelled thousands of miles to help our cause, and I will not see them disrespected. Is that clear, Private?”
The man bowed his head, his pale skin turning scarlet about the cheeks.
“Private?”
“Yes, sir,” he sheepishly replied.
“Excellent,” said Captain Ashdown. “Now finish your supper and get some rest. We’ve some hard days ahead of us and must stick together. No matter where we were born or schooled.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Private,” he added. “Should you smirk at me again, I shall recommend you for dishonourable discharge. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!”