We surrendered at dawn.
Sergeant Collins had hastily constructed a white flag from an old pillowcase we found in a bedroom and attached it to the stock of his Lee Enfield rifle. He poked it out of an upstairs window and waved it slowly, till the firing fell silent.
That was it, then. We were done. We’d lasted 18 hours; nowhere near our target of 2 days, but we’d done what we could. Besides we were out of ammunition, and we’d lost half the platoon. And even those that remained all had injuries.
It wasn’t a consensus decision but that was what the chain of command was for. Jones was the most rebellious voice – he didn’t want to be taken prisoner. Didn’t trust the Germans.
“What are they going to do,” he argued. “Just let us be? We’ve killed all their mates and they’re not gonna do nothing in return?”
“Calm yourself, Jones” said the sergeant wearily. “There’s the Geneva Convention that they’ve got to stick to. We’re prisoners, we do have rights.”
“You’re mad” Jones retorted angrily. “Who’s here to check what they are gonna do? They can come up to us and shoot us in the head, and no-one will know. No different to if they were twenty feet away.”
“We’ve got no bullets left anyway” George reminded him. “We’re down to bayonets and our bare hands. Not sure we’ll get very far.”
“Well fuck that,” said Jones. “If they’re going to kill me, I’d rather do it myself.” And with that, he put his rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The sound reverberated around the room as we watched, slack jawed with shock. I won’t go into detail for you. Watching a man shoot his brains out is not an edifying sight. But then at least he didn’t have to sit out the rest of the war in a camp like we did.
Or as most of us did. Of the 32 of us in our platoon that remained behind covering the rearguard action for the battalion, only 9 were left by the point we surrendered. And of those, only 4 of made it through to 1945 until our camp was liberated.
Four. Just four. Dysentery, hunger. They killed as many as the Germans.
When people ask me what I did in the war, it didn’t really consist of much. Six months of training, landed in France, walked to Belgium, then hastily beat a retreat to Dunkirk. That brief period of 18 hours was the only fighting I saw. After that I was a prisoner.
Often, I think back to what Jones did sometimes, after all that I saw during that time. Would it have been easier to shoot myself? Did I need to go through all the suffering?
I reckon I had it easier than most, and when I heard about the St Palais massacre, where the company from the 2nd Norfolks were mown down in cold blood after surrendering, well, I think we got lucky.
That’s how war goes, you see. It’s all about luck.
Bullets hit other people. Bombs go off where you’re not. The men you’re fighting play by the rules. And if you’re really lucky, you’ll find a dirty white pillowcase that you will get you out of a hopeless situation.