We waded out until the water was at our shoulders. Sid kept his arms aloft the entire time, flashing his torch on and off. We must have stood like that for forty minutes or longer, but none of the rowing boats were drawn to us. Yet, we were not deterred. Other men were being rescued, and we would simply have to wait our turn.
“The batteries will die before they come,” Sid complained.
“If your arms are tired,” I said through chattering teeth, “I could hold the torch instead?”
The water was cold and briny, and occasionally a surge would cause it to enter our mouths. I ended up with seaweed and other stuff in my hair and on my face. A light mist had settled over us, too, and it made things more difficult.
“Wait!” said Sid.
He turned his torch to full beam. I heard splashes, perhaps thirty yards away. And then saw three flashes of light.
“Over here!” Sid yelled. “This way!”
He grinned at me.
“Yes!” he said. “This is it, Khan!”
A white dinghy appeared, steered by a lone rower.
“Are you there?” he called out.
“Here!” Sid and I shouted in unison. “We’re here!”
The man turned his light towards us and we were momentarily blinded.
“I’ve got you,” he shouted back. “Hang on!”
Sid looked at me with a grimace.
“Hang on?” he said. “What does he think we’ve been doing?”
Sid babbled on, perhaps overwhelmed at the thought of being rescued. I was not so positive. After my two previous experiences, I held my emotions in check. This time, I would wait until we reached English soil before truly believing again.
The dinghy seemed to take an age to reach us, but once it did, the man was only too pleased to help us aboard. However, he was very young and dressed in civilian clothes, and not what we had expected.
“Hello lads!” he said. “Connor Bridges at your service.”
“Private Khan,” I replied. “Delighted to meet you.”
“Sid from Tooting,” said Private Smith. “It’s cold!”
Connor grinned.
“Glad to see your sense of humour ain’t failed,” he told Sid.
“You don’t look like Navy,” Sid replied. “Where’s your uniform?”
The young man removed his cloth cap and chuckled.
“Ain’t got one,” he said. “I’m a fisherman, from Margate.”
“So, what the hell are you doing here?” asked Sid. He looked amazed.
Connor shrugged.
“My dad heard they needed boats for the evacuation, so we came to help,” he explained. “There’s me, Dad and my Uncle Pat. We’ve done one trip already. Thought we’d try again.”
“You’re evacuating men?” I said. “As civilians?”
He looked at me and nodded.
“You ain’t the same as ’im,” he said, nodding towards Sid. “Where you from then?”
“India,” I replied. “My unit evacuated the day before yesterday and I was left behind.”
“India?”
“Yes,” I told him.
“Blimey,” he said. “There’s a Hindu gentleman does palm readings on the pier, but I’ve never spoken to him. You’re the first proper Indian I’ve ever met. You a soldier?”
“No,” I said. “I’m with the Royal Indian Army Service Corps.”
“Oh right,” the lad said. “Like, helpin’ out?”
“Something like that,” said Sid. “How big is your old man’s boat?”
“Big enough,” said Connor, with a certain pride. “We took fifteen blokes back earlier. It was a bit tight, but we made it.”
“That’ll do us!” Sid told him. “How many more men you taking?”
“I can take a few more,” Connor told us. “But not many.”
He rowed on, rescuing five more men from the water, and then he turned around.
“This dinghy is for six,” he explained. “I can’t risk it.”
“How long to the boat?” asked Sid.
“Fifteen minutes at most,” said Connor. “We’re just off the shallows.”
“And how many men on board already?” Sid added.
“Dunno,” he said. “Depends on how many Uncle Pat finds.”
He checked a small compass by torchlight, before steering the dinghy in the right direction. Sid and another soldier lit the way using their torches. Time slowed yet again, but without the threat of German planes I was far more relaxed. Eventually, we closed in on the fishing boat. It was tiny and crammed with men and was battered and worn. Connor’s father helped us aboard before giving me a funny look. He was a big man and reminded me of Milligan. His face was weathered, and his left hand was missing its little finger.
“You one of ours?” he asked in a gruff voice.
“He is,” Sid said on my behalf. “Indian Corps. Why, is that a problem?”
Connor’s dad shook his head.
“No, friend,” he said. “Just wondered. I’m Danny Bridges. Pleased to have you aboard.”
He pointed at his brother.
“That’s Pat,” he told us. “He’s got jumpers and blankets, and tea somewhere. Might be a few biscuits too. We’re setting off now, so we should be in Dover soon enough.”
I looked up at him.
“Thank you for your kindness,” I said.
“It’s no bother,” Danny replied. “It’s my duty, Private. Hold tight though, the sea’s a bit choppy tonight.”
Sid and I sat together on the tiny crowded deck, as the little boat bobbed along, taking us to safety. The other rescued men sat close by, and we shared a few jokes. No one pointed out my ethnic origin, nor cared that I was service corps and not combat ready. We were all one, shattered and thirsty, relieved and hungry, heading to the English mainland.
In the end, the short journey was uneventful, almost serene, which was both welcome and surprising considering what had gone before. We had been through hell together, all of us with stories to tell, yet I wondered whether mine would be heard.
I had begun my journey with high hopes and naïve ideas of honour and duty. Dreams of following in my beloved Baba’s footsteps, earning glory through service, and experiencing the camaraderie and loyalty of military life. The child in me had even yearned for medals and perhaps a touch of recognition.
But my time in France had put paid to that innocence. For the first time, I had learned of my place in the pecking order of British India. I was one place above my unfortunate mules. Almost as bestial in the eyes of my supposed masters, almost as expendable. Almost as voiceless.
Yet, as we said goodbye to Connor and his family, and disembarked at Dover’s Eastern Pier, I was not once deemed an outsider, nor lower than my peers. I was treated with compassion and warmth by the Bridges, and then the ordinary folk of the town, and given my share of sandwiches and tea. This reception warmed my heart, and something dawned on me. Everyday people like Connor and his family, and those in Dover, were no different to me, nor the regular soldiers with whom I shared the journey ‘home’. We were the cannon fodder that Sid had spoken of on our first meeting. Lillian’s pawns, being shunted around a board with no thought for our lives. Above us, on a social hierarchy they had created, sat senior officers and politicians, kings and emperors. They made the orders and we were expected to follow. The colour of our faces, the gods to whom we bowed, the food we ate or did not eat – none of that meant anything. We were the same.
Later, Sid and I, separated from our own units, watched as those in regiments marched off together towards Dover Marine train station.
“Not for me,” he said as he watched them leave. “I’m done with this hell.”
“You will not return to your regiment?” I asked.
“Probably,” he said after some thought. “But only because they’ll court martial me if I don’t. Besides, after the fiasco we’ve just experienced, they’ll be enlisting men, never mind allowing them to decommission.”
“So, what will you do?” I asked.
“Who knows, friend?” he replied. “Right now, I want a pint of ale, a bath and a bed.”
We sat a while longer, just watching the world go by. The sense of tranquillity and lack of danger was as welcome as it was unusual. A group of young women stopped when they saw us, handing out packets of cigarettes, chocolate and more sandwiches. Sid engaged in idle chat with them, grinning at me every few moments. Then an older woman appeared, pushing a small, two-wheeled cart. She opened it and took out two bottles.
“It’s only mild,” she told us, “but you look like you could use it.”
I began to tell her that I didn’t drink, but Sid elbowed me in the ribs.
“What my Indian brother means,” said Sid, “is that he can’t drink it now. He’s got a train to catch.”
“Oh, rest a while,” said the woman. “The bleedin’ army can wait.”
Sid took both bottles, putting one aside, and opening the other by holding it against the metal edge of a wooden box and pushing down with some force. The ale gushed out in an eruption of light brown froth. He placed the bottle to his lips and drank quickly.
“I needed that,” he said, blowing out his cheeks and belching. “You want some?”
“I cannot,” I reminded him.
“You sure?” he said, pretending to look around. “No one’s watching.”
I looked at the bottle and thought of Baba and the stories he’d told me. The things he had seen and done that would scandalise our neighbours. But I was my own man now, and I did not want to drink.
“I’m sure,” I said.
We heard footsteps approaching, alongside a tapping sound. A senior officer, walking with a cane, despite having no limp. He carried a clipboard in his other hand.
“What are you chaps doing?” he asked.
Sid smiled.
“Not dying, sir,” he replied. “Despite the government’s best efforts.”
The officer raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll let that go for today, Private,” he replied. “But only once. You need to get yourselves to Dover Marine and find trains to your barracks.”
I shook my head.
“But I do not know where my company went, sir,” I said. “I was separated from them.”
The officer nodded.
“RIASC?” he said.
“Yes, sir.” He checked his records, flipping through a few sheets.
“Company 32, under Captain John Ashdown,” he told me. “Aldershot barracks.”
He turned to Sid.
“What about you, Private?”
Sid grinned.
“Don’t worry about it, me old mucker,” he said. “I know exactly where I’m going.”
The officer shrugged and walked away, tap-tap-tapping his cane.
“Where will you go?” I asked.
“Oh, I reckon they can wait,” said Sid. “I’m off home to see me old mother. Why don’t you come along?”
I shook my head and thought of seeing Mush once again.
“I cannot,” I told him. “Hukum Hai.”
At Dover Marine, Sid’s train to London arrived first. He turned and held out his hand.
“Been a pleasure, Fazal,” he said.
I took his hand and placed my other on his shoulder.
“I owe you a debt of gratitude,” I told him. “It will remain with me until I die.”
“Well,” said Sid, “if you’re ever in Tooting Broadway, look me up. Sidney Smith of Himley Road. Everyone knows me.”
“And, if you’re ever in Rawalpindi…” I began.
“Oh, behave yourself, mate!” he joked, before growing serious. “Take care, Fazal. You’ve been a good friend.”
“You too, Sid,” I replied. “I would not be here without you.”
My train arrived ten minutes later and was packed to the rafters. I found a spot beside some engineers who were drunk and boisterous, and having lots of fun. And, as the train chugged away from Dover, I closed my eyes and dreamt of home.