大象传媒

My father-in-law died last year. He did not have a good war and rarely spoke of it. His experiences affected him deeply and I am sure contributed to his mental and emotional ill heath later in life. I never heard him tell this story; I assembled it from bits and pieces told to me by my wife and mother-in-law. I wrote it for a creative writing class. Although it reads like a piece of fiction everything is true. George is my father-in-law. Mary is my wife. My only addition is the last sentence.

A Quick Dip

A hot summer's day, 1958. Breezeless. Still. Shimmering light. The whole beach dozing after a lunch of sandwiches, crisps and lemonade. Mary, sitting in the shade of the parasol, hugs her knees. Wriggling her toes in the sand, she searches around for signs of activity. The summer sun, high in the sky, has stopped the world.

Mary's father rises from his slumber, runs to the sea, and before she can even unlock her arms from around her knees is swimming with strong, easy strokes towards the moored wooden platform in the middle of the bay. Mary stares, transfixed. She has never seen him swim before, she has always assumed that he could not: he has always kept away from the sea. He would join in with their beach games but never join them in the water, no matter how much they cajoled.

He reaches the platform, holds on to it briefly, and then turns and is swimming back as strongly and as easily as he went out.

Dunkirk 1940. The German Army has swept all before them, the British Expeditionary Forces forced to retreat until there is nothing but sea at their backs. Everyone knows of the miracle that was the millpond sea, of the flotilla of small boats that crossed the channel, of the rescue of the stranded troops. It is part of our history - our heritage - this story. But what of the terrible carnage that happened on those beaches; of the men who didn't return? Why is this not remembered? Of George's battalion, he was one of few survivors. He left the bodies of many of his comrades on that beach. Have they been forgotten? George did not forget: their faces came to him in the night for many years.

The small boats come but cannot sail right up to the beach. The survivors have to wade and swim under gunfire to the boats. George is a good swimmer. In an act of heroism, unrecognised by commendation or medal, and of which he rarely speaks, he swims time and time again from shore to boat with the wounded. He swims to the point of exhaustion. On his last trip he carries his best friend, badly wounded and delirious. As he reaches to within an arm's length of the boat he adjusts his grip to pass his friend up to willing hands and they both briefly go under the waves. Barely conscious of his surroundings, the wounded man panics and thrashes wildly. George fights to hold him but does not have the strength. He is left swimming in the empty sea holding only the familiar beret in his hand.

Mary watches her father swim back to the shore and walk up the beach to their island of shade. The seawater must have stung his eyes for, as he sits down, she sees tears rolling down his face.

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