Calm descended as dusk fell. I sat on a hotel lobby floor, my back to a wall. I had been dozing, drifting in and out of a recurrent dream. I’d been back in my village, just south of Rawalpindi, herding water buffalo towards a drinking hole. Despite my not being one, in the dream, I had become a farmer’s son. The sun was high, and lunchtime was upon us, but I still had many tasks to complete. I was thirsty and hungry, and longed for some shade.
The buffalo moved as one, each leading the other, drawn to the water’s edge. They called out and jostled for position but worked as a team. Each knew every other’s role and they were all able to take a drink. As I watched them, my grandfather approached me. Only he was younger and looked more like my father. He sat beside me and offered me tea, and I was confused because there was no tea.
“You can survive anything, as long as you have a cup of tea,” he told me.
“I don’t understand,” I replied.
“Of course not,” he said. “Now, on the way back, we need to be ruthless with these dumb animals.”
“Ruthless?”
My grandfather nodded.
“There’s not enough for all of them,” he told me.
“Enough of what?” I asked.
“Stop talking,” he said, producing a cup of tea and sipping from it.
I looked around but could not work out where the tea had come from.
“You must pay attention, my son. Orders are orders.”
“But…”
“You see the large ones?” he said, pointing towards the herd. “They are useful. We will allow them.”
“Baba, please!” I replied. “You’re not making sense.”
“Listen!” he snapped. “Pick out the weakest. They are useless. We cannot take them.”
“But they are part of the herd,” I said. “Each buffalo has a role to play.”
My grandfather looked to the west and shook his head.
“No,” he replied. “Not today. There’s a storm coming, Fazal, and we must save ourselves.”
I turned to the west but saw nothing on the horizon, and my grandfather slurped irritatingly at his tea – something he abhorred in others.
“But, where is the storm?” I asked.
He cupped an ear and cocked his head to one side.
“Listen…” he told me. “You can hear them…”
Almost immediately, the buzzing began. A black cloud appeared in the distance. It drew near at astonishing speed, and I saw that it was made up of hornets. Thousands and thousands of angry hornets. I sprang to my feet and rushed towards the water, but my grandfather did not follow. Instead, he sat there and began to laugh.
“No point rushing into the water,” he shouted, as the hornets swarmed all around him. “The water cannot save you…”
I awoke with a start, my entire body drenched in sweat, and cried out,
“They’re coming!”
A few of the men stirred, but none woke up. Night had fallen, and apart from occasional voices from outside, there was a welcome and surprising hush. The darkness protected us from further German air raids and gave us time to rest. I stood carefully, trying not to disturb anyone, and made my way outside, stepping over countless sleeping men. Trying to forget my dream.
On the beaches, it was chilly and breezy. I saw the light of many small fires and men huddled together to keep warm. I wondered if the Germans saw them too, as they waited outside Dunkirk, ready to strike at sunrise. I heard a few shouts of “put them out” but saw very little adherence to that order. Like me, many of the troops seemed resigned to Fate. We would either make it onto a ship and be rescued or die in the attempt. Those were our only options.
I decided to take a walk, my dream still resonating, and tried to work out what my grandfather had been telling me. But the more I considered it, the less I could comprehend. As I turned off the coastal road, I saw a group of women huddled next to an ambulance. They were nurses, and when they saw me approaching, they smiled.
“Get some rest, Private,” said one of them.
She was tall, with brown hair tied in a bun and wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Her expression was friendly and warm, and she seemed to be a similar age to my mother. She held a tin cup of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
“I cannot sleep,” I told her. “Bad dreams.”
“Seems silly doesn’t it?” she replied. “That in the midst of this waking nightmare, we can still have bad dreams. You’d think the human imagination could not dream up worse than this.”
“You would,” I told her. “I am Fazal Khan, Company 32, Royal Indian Army Service Corps.”
The woman held out a hand.
“Lillian,” she said. “Nurse. Your English is very good.”
“I learned at school,” I told her. “In Punjab.”
A cloud passed across her face – perhaps some sad memory – and then she smiled again.
“I knew a boy from Punjab once,” she said. “He was a Sikh. But that was many years ago, when I was a young nurse. He was brought to Brighton Pavilion during 1915. There were many injured Indians there.”
“My grandfather also,” I told her. “He was injured at the Somme.”
“A ghastly business,” she replied. “We thought it could never happen again, and yet here we are.”
“I do not understand this war,” I admitted. “Why one empire fights another, when both look the same.”
Nurse Lillian shook her head.
“Me neither,” she replied. “But that is not our concern, Fazal. We are only pawns in their game and must obey.”
The other three nurses began to drain their cups and stub out their cigarettes. When Lillian saw them, she sighed.
“Back to work,” she told me. “No rest for the wicked and all that.”
“This boy,” I asked, “that you knew in Brighton?”
Lillian shrugged.
“Oh,” she said. “He died, I think. I lost contact with him.”
“You remember him, however?”
Lillian nodded.
“He was hard to forget,” she told me. “But enough of that. See you around, Private Khan. Or perhaps not, hey?”
“I do not understand.”
Lillian sighed.
“I’m a nurse, son,” she explained. “If I see you again, you’ll probably be injured or worse.”
“Ah,” I said. “How silly of me.”
I walked around in circles for some time, until dawn began to break across the eastern horizon. I had not prayed for some while, so I decided to read Fujr, which is the morning prayer. I strolled down to the sea and began to wash my face, arms, hands and feet. The salty water was cold and gave me a shock, but I did not stop. Although my uniform was unclean, I decided to continue. In any other circumstance, dirty clothes for prayer were forbidden. But I could not afford to become fussy. And I needed the solemnity and reassurance that praying would bring.
Turning to the east, I raised my hands to my shoulders, palms flat and facing outwards, and began to pray.