Cassel was barely twenty miles from Dunkirk, and we should have made it sooner. Only, the roads were now packed with local civilians, and fellow troops from the British Expeditionary Force – thousands and thousands of them. Abandoned and ruined vehicles lined the route, yet more evidence of our retreat. As we slowly progressed, I saw evidence of bombs and many casualties. Here and there, medics tried to help soldiers and civilians, but many were beyond saving.
Elsewhere, we saw ragged and scared locals, bewildered by the turn of events. I sensed an air of shock and dismay, and perhaps anger comparable to that we’d experienced on leaving Marseille. Many cast suspicious glances our way, and on one occasion, a boy threw stones at us. I could not fault their sense of betrayal, but I could not condone it either. We were losing the fight, and we had to try and save ourselves. Perhaps return to fight another day.
I thought back to my childhood, and my school days. I had changed schools, to one that better suited my parents’ aspirations for my future. Two local boys, both older, took an instant dislike to me. I had been eight years old then, and the bullies terrified and tormented me. One evening, I cried in front of my grandfather, and he took me in his arms.
“What’s the matter, child?” he asked.
He was a bear of a man, with a barrel-chest and huge arms and hands. But his eyes remained soft, at least in my presence, and he had never raised his voice to me. He preferred patience and explanation to physical punishment, unlike my parents. Looking back, I wondered if his distaste for violence stemmed from his experiences of war.
I told him of the bullies, and he shook his head.
“You are weak, Fazal,” he told me. “Your arms are too skinny and your legs scrawny. We must build you up, if you are to defeat these boys.”
Only, I did not want to defeat them. I only wished for them to leave me in peace. But my grandfather was not to be denied. He began to train me: running and gymnastics, and basic self-defence and boxing skills. In the meantime, he explained that there was no shame in walking away from a fight.
“You must weigh the odds,” he told me. “If they are not in your favour, you run away and await your time. It will come–”
However, the first time I ran, I was ridiculed as a weakling by my schoolmates. I gained a reputation for being spineless, and this only encouraged the bullies. But, I remembered my grandfather’s advice, putting up with the bullying and derision for two entire school years. In that time, I grew stronger and more determined, but I did not let it show.
Finally, I was ready to confront the boys – Mohammed and Nazir –and they had no inkling of my new-found strength. I felt older and more confident, too, and ready to take on anything.
One afternoon, they accosted me as school finished. We were made to wear shorts, as English schoolboys did, and caps too. Nazir grabbed my cap in a crowded yard and threw it into the air. Meanwhile, Mohammed tried to pull down my shorts. The other boys egged them on, and I grew angry.
“Please don’t,” I asked them. “I do not wish to fight you.”
Nazir mimicked my words.
“Look at the girl!” Mohammed added. “Shall we dress you in women’s clothes and make you dance?”
I shook my head.
“I do not wish to fight you,” I said again.
Only, neither bully was willing to listen. Without warning, I punched Nazir on the nose, and he let out a cry and began to wail. The other boys grew instantly silent, staring at me in disbelief. Mohammed moved to strike me, but I stepped aside and placed him in an armlock, shoving him headfirst into a hedge. When I let go, he sprang to his feet and came again.
I swept his legs away and he landed on his backside, his humiliation complete.
“Please,” I repeated a third time. “I do not wish to fight.”
And with that, I picked up my cap and my school bag, and walked away. Neither boy bothered me again, and my reputation amongst my schoolmates improved dramatically. When I told my grandfather, he ruffled my hair, but also issued a warning.
“Don’t become a bully yourself,” he said. “Ego and pride are enemies of decency. You stood your ground, and that is wonderful. But only fight if you must. Fighting should always be the very last resort.”
Now, I found myself remembering my grandfather’s words once more. And I let go of any shame or humiliation I was feeling. Ego and pride would not help me to survive. Running away would.
The first air assault occurred moments later, and I was not ready for it, Daydreaming had left me exposed. The sudden droning of hornet-like Stukas snapped me to my senses.
“ENEMY PLANES!” yelled someone behind me.
The bullets came thick and fast, as the fighters swept low and raked the road with machine gun fire. Several civilians and soldiers fell, and I darted left, pulling my mules with me. They did not hesitate, and we bounded into the treeline. All around me others followed, screaming and wailing, and trying to escape with their lives. On the road, the Stukas made a second pass, higher this time, and dropped their payloads. Three separate explosions knocked me from my feet, and reduced visibility to almost nothing. The air was thick with smoke and dust and pierced by the cries of the wounded.
Shell-shocked and deafened, I crawled forwards, and tried to get my bearings. As the smoke began to clear a little, I saw a little girl, no more than five or six, lying motionless and bloody on the ground. Her mother lay close by, eyes wide open and life gone. I called out for a medic, but none appeared, so I tended to the child myself. She was unconscious but breathing and had only a flesh wound. I sat up, removed my jacket and covered her mother, lest the girl awaken and see her lying dead.
It took until nightfall for us to assess our losses, and again, we were lucky. Not a single member of the company nor any animal had been hurt, most of them making cover well before the Stukas closed in. Civilian casualties, on the other hand, were great because many of the locals had hidden under and behind carts and motorised vehicles. The carnage was sickening, and as more soldiers arrived on the scene, we began the sorry task of removing the dead and leaving the wounded by the roadside.
“We must move on,” Captain Ashdown insisted. “Those are my orders. We cannot risk being caught.”
When some of the men complained, the captain held his temper. He looked as sad as the rest of us, and just as guilty.
“I cannot accept this,” said Mush as we found each other. “It is shameful to leave them.”
“But we must,” I told him, even though I agreed with every word.
“We will answer for this,” he replied. “On the Day of Judgement.”
I turned away, unable to offer any response.
And so, under cover of darkness, we left the injured civilians behind, and my spirits fell once more. Never had our motto of Hukam Hai felt hollower.