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Authors: Glenice Crossland
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paused, head in hands, unable to go on. How the hell could he be expected to write such a letter? They should never have made each other such
a promise. Yet he knew if the boot had been on the other foot Tom would have kept his word and written to Robert’s parents.
He would make it easy for them, distort the truth; in fact it would have to be a bloody great barefaced lie. He began to tremble as another panic attack began.
He covered his ears as he heard once again the sound of Messerschmitts above him, and saw again in his mind’s eye the Hurricane as it came down at what must have been about three hundred
miles an hour. He smelled again the blood of the young pilot, whose head had been completely severed by a piece of propeller blade.
Robert cried out in agony at the memory. He could hear Tom’s voice again, singing as they drove towards the Dunkirk road, trying to shut out the sound of divebombers overhead. He tried
again to write, something to soften the news, but all he could think of was the truck suddenly caught by the Jerries, the shells shooting through the roof within inches of their heads, the
whistling of MG bullets and a hand grenade which seemed to come suddenly from underneath. The panic to abandon truck, only to find themselves prisoners, completely surrounded by tanks and armoured
vehicles, unable to do anything for Tom and Jocky Johnson still trapped inside the blazing truck.
It was the French who had given the prisoners the chance to escape to a nearby ditch, by opening fire on the Jerries. Robert had stayed knee deep in water for what seemed like hours until it was
safe to return to the truck, only to find it completely burned out. He had sheltered, soaked to the skin, in a wood near Dunkirk, watching as sixty or seventy bombers worked at finishing off what
was left of the docks, and then he joined the mass of men thronging the beaches, shuffling slowly forward, carrying injured and dying covered by greatcoats. Shell-shocked men wandered about,
wondering what on earth they were doing there; others, dispirited by the surrender of the Belgians, marched half asleep, following the crowd.
Robert started to write again, but the rows of words before his eyes became rows of men, long organised rows, silently waiting, moving gradually towards the calm dark water’s edge, and
then into it.
The panic came again. He couldn’t swim; the water was chin high. Petrified, he moved on. Soon he would be out of this bloody world, soon he would be with Tom and Jocky Johnson – then
suddenly he was heaved upwards into the boat, and he heard again the cry of, ‘That’s enough. Another boat’s on its way, lads. Keep yer chins up.’
He was sweating now and wanted to vomit as he relived again the rise and fall of the small boat, and then the relief as sleep overcame him and the ship carried them home.
He would write the letter another day; he was too tired tonight. Robert sank into another sleep, a fitful sleep in which another nightmare awaited him.
Mary knew something was wrong as they cycled down the lane. Mr Downing was leaning on the gate with an arm round his wife, and the boys were sitting on the wall swinging their
legs in a woebegone manner.
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Bessie. ‘Don’t tell me they’ve lost Honeysuckle. She seemed much better last night. I hope to God it isn’t foot and mouth. Me dad thought it
might be.’
‘What’s up, Mam?’ Lucy asked anxiously.
Mrs Downing handed her a letter, breaking into sobs as she did so. Mary suddenly realised it was about Tom. Her hair seemed to stand away from her scalp and she felt cold, despite the warm
evening.
Lucy read the letter aloud slowly.
Darlington, June 1940
Dear Mr and Mrs Downing,
I suppose by now you will have heard the news from the War Office, but being Tom’s best mate from the day we both joined up I always promised Tom if anything should happen I would
write to you.
First of all I would like to reassure you that Tom
a promise. Yet he knew if the boot had been on the other foot Tom would have kept his word and written to Robert’s parents.
He would make it easy for them, distort the truth; in fact it would have to be a bloody great barefaced lie. He began to tremble as another panic attack began.
He covered his ears as he heard once again the sound of Messerschmitts above him, and saw again in his mind’s eye the Hurricane as it came down at what must have been about three hundred
miles an hour. He smelled again the blood of the young pilot, whose head had been completely severed by a piece of propeller blade.
Robert cried out in agony at the memory. He could hear Tom’s voice again, singing as they drove towards the Dunkirk road, trying to shut out the sound of divebombers overhead. He tried
again to write, something to soften the news, but all he could think of was the truck suddenly caught by the Jerries, the shells shooting through the roof within inches of their heads, the
whistling of MG bullets and a hand grenade which seemed to come suddenly from underneath. The panic to abandon truck, only to find themselves prisoners, completely surrounded by tanks and armoured
vehicles, unable to do anything for Tom and Jocky Johnson still trapped inside the blazing truck.
It was the French who had given the prisoners the chance to escape to a nearby ditch, by opening fire on the Jerries. Robert had stayed knee deep in water for what seemed like hours until it was
safe to return to the truck, only to find it completely burned out. He had sheltered, soaked to the skin, in a wood near Dunkirk, watching as sixty or seventy bombers worked at finishing off what
was left of the docks, and then he joined the mass of men thronging the beaches, shuffling slowly forward, carrying injured and dying covered by greatcoats. Shell-shocked men wandered about,
wondering what on earth they were doing there; others, dispirited by the surrender of the Belgians, marched half asleep, following the crowd.
Robert started to write again, but the rows of words before his eyes became rows of men, long organised rows, silently waiting, moving gradually towards the calm dark water’s edge, and
then into it.
The panic came again. He couldn’t swim; the water was chin high. Petrified, he moved on. Soon he would be out of this bloody world, soon he would be with Tom and Jocky Johnson – then
suddenly he was heaved upwards into the boat, and he heard again the cry of, ‘That’s enough. Another boat’s on its way, lads. Keep yer chins up.’
He was sweating now and wanted to vomit as he relived again the rise and fall of the small boat, and then the relief as sleep overcame him and the ship carried them home.
He would write the letter another day; he was too tired tonight. Robert sank into another sleep, a fitful sleep in which another nightmare awaited him.
Mary knew something was wrong as they cycled down the lane. Mr Downing was leaning on the gate with an arm round his wife, and the boys were sitting on the wall swinging their
legs in a woebegone manner.
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Bessie. ‘Don’t tell me they’ve lost Honeysuckle. She seemed much better last night. I hope to God it isn’t foot and mouth. Me dad thought it
might be.’
‘What’s up, Mam?’ Lucy asked anxiously.
Mrs Downing handed her a letter, breaking into sobs as she did so. Mary suddenly realised it was about Tom. Her hair seemed to stand away from her scalp and she felt cold, despite the warm
evening.
Lucy read the letter aloud slowly.
Darlington, June 1940
Dear Mr and Mrs Downing,
I suppose by now you will have heard the news from the War Office, but being Tom’s best mate from the day we both joined up I always promised Tom if anything should happen I would
write to you.
First of all I would like to reassure you that Tom
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