Chapter 14 Chapter Thirteen

Although Turner felt embarrassed, he was determined.He put his arms on the shoulders of the two corporals, and they staggered forward together. "Remember, left foot, sir," said Nettle, "do you want me to stab your foot with a bayonet?" "Thank you very much. I shall not trouble you." As they crossed the bridge, Turner bowed his head so he wouldn't have to see the menacing look in the sergeant's eye, but he could still feel the glare.Suddenly, he heard a roaring order: "Hey, you! Stop!" Just behind Turner, a poor guy was pulled out, he will help stop the massacre that will happen in two or three days At that moment the last British Expeditionary Force soldier squeezed into the cabin.When Turner lowered his head, he did indeed see a long black barge passing under the bridge, heading towards Filner, Belgium.The boatman sat at the tiller, smoking his pipe, and staring blankly ahead.Ten miles behind, Dunkirk was ablaze and blazing.Ahead of him, on the bow, two boys were hunched over an upside-down bicycle, presumably mending a tire.A row of laundry—including several women's underwear—hangs outside to dry.The cabin smelled of burnt onions and garlic.Turner and the corporal crossed the bridge and walked past the whitewashed rocks that are now a remnant of the training camp and all the red tape.In the company office, the phone rang loudly.

Mace muttered under his breath, "Just give me a good fucking limp and walk until those guys can't see us." However, as far as the eye could see, the area within a radius of several miles was flat and vast, and it was unobstructed. Besides, no one knew which direction the sergeant would look, and they were unwilling to turn around to check.After walking for half an hour, they sat on a rusty planter and watched a group of remnants pass by.At this time, they decided to mix in with the soldiers who were complete strangers, so that Turner's wound would suddenly heal without attracting the attention of the officers.Many of the soldiers in the procession were dejected and very angry that they had crossed the canal without seeing the beach.They all seemed to think the plan had gone awry.Turner knew from the map that they still had seven miles to go, so when they resumed the road, it was extremely difficult and depressing, and it was the most bleak and dull part of the day.The vastness and uniformity of the land made their march seem futile and fruitless.Although the sun shone through the thick clouds in the second half of the day, it was unusually warm at this time.They saw aircraft circling high above the distant port drop a barrage of bombs.To make matters worse, there was also a group of Stuka bombers bombing indiscriminately over the beach they were going to.They overtook a group of wounded soldiers who were sitting on the side of the road, unable to walk any longer, begging for help or begging for a sip of water like beggars.Other wounded were disheartened, lying numb and hopeless on the edge of the trench.Ambulances are supposed to come here from the defense belt and make regular trips to the beach.Since they have time to paint the stones white, they must have time to arrange these things.no water.They had finished their wine, and now their mouths were parched and intolerable.I didn't bring any medicine with me.What can I expect them to do? I can barely walk around, so do I expect them to carry a dozen people on my back?

On a sudden whim, Corporal Nettle sat down in the middle of the road, took off his boots, and flung them into the field.He said angrily that he hated the damn boots more than he hated all the damn Germans.The blisters on his feet were so painful that he would rather throw the nasty boots aside. "But you've got a long way to go in your socks to get to England," said Turner, and went into the field to look for boots, when suddenly he felt strangely dizzy.He found one boot without much trouble, but the other took some trouble.At last he found it lying in a patch of grass, and near the grass there was something dark, which looked like a piece of black fur, which seemed to move, or pulsate, as he approached.Suddenly, a group of blowflies buzzed angrily and dispersed, revealing the rotting corpse below.Turner held his breath, grabbed his boots, and fled in a panic.The flies flew back to the corpse, and everything was quiet again.

After much coaxing and talking, Nettle finally took the boots, tied them together, and hung them around his neck.He claimed it was all for Turner's sake. Turner was troubled when he was sober.The wound was nothing, though it ached like hell with every step; nor the bombers circling and diving over the beaches, miles to the north.It was his mood that troubled him.Every once in a while, something disappears.The day-to-day norms that kept him going, tedious as they were and reminded him of where he was in his own story, were no longer working.He woke up from all kinds of beautiful dreams in the past, only in such dreams he had some thoughts, but he didn't know who these thoughts belonged to.He has no sense of responsibility, no memory of the past, no idea of ​​the future; where he is going or what he is going to do, he has no idea, and he doesn't want to find out.He just found himself muddled and muddling along.

In this way, he and his companions walked for three hours and finally arrived at the east boundary of the resort.They walked along streets littered with broken brick and glass, where children played and watched soldiers go by.Nettle had put on his boots, but left them loose and unlaced.At this moment, a lieutenant of the Dorset Front Regiment suddenly and unnoticed popped out of the basement of a municipal building, which is now used as the headquarters.The lieutenant was round-shouldered but lean, with a ginger mustache on his expressionless face.With self-righteous steps, he quickly walked towards them with his briefcase in his hands.When he came in front of him, Turner and the others gave a military salute respectfully.But he was disgusted and ordered Nettle to tie his shoelaces immediately, or he would be sent to court.

Nettle had to obey the order and squatted down to tie his shoelaces, when the lieutenant cursed: "You are so fucking shameful, man." Turner, who is both dreaming and waking, has no scruples.He wished he could shoot the lieutenant through the chest.It's better for everyone.There is no need to discuss it in advance.Thinking about it, he reached for his gun, but his gun was missing—he couldn't remember where he had left it—while the lieutenant walked away. After walking on the broken glass on the street for a while, the road under their feet suddenly turned into a spun ground, and there was no sound at all when they stepped on it.They climbed up the small sand dunes, and the sea was still invisible, but they could already hear the crashing of the waves and inhale the salty air.The taste of holiday.They abandoned the path, climbed to the commanding heights by stepping on the grass on the dunes, and stood quietly for a few minutes.The breeze from the English Channel is fresh and moist, refreshing.It felt like the sudden rise and fall of body temperature in a faint.

Turner thought he was hopeless—until he saw this beach.He had thought that the army spirit, the spirit that allowed soldiers to paint stone white even in the face of total annihilation, would be all the rage.He did his best to maintain order in the chaotic march before him, and he was basically done: Supreme commanders and army chiefs sitting at improvised desks, clichéd official approvals and summaries of official documents, used to separate moored ships The ropes, the bluffing sergeants, the dreary soldiers lining up around the portable mess room.Almost all personal enthusiasm is gone.These days, he has been walking and walking towards the beach, but he doesn't know it in his heart.But the real beach, which he and the corporals were looking at at this moment, was only a variant of the beaches of the past: defeated, that was the end.Apparently, they finally saw it at this time-this is the scene of a chaotic and disorderly retreat when there is no way out.In an instant, he adjusted his mentality.He saw tens of thousands of people, maybe 10,000 to 20,000, or more, scattered on the vast beach, which looked like grains scattered on the black sand from a distance.However, there were no other ships except a whaling ship in the distance that was overturned and drifted with the waves.The tide was out and it was almost a mile from the shore.No boats docked on the long breakwater.He blinked, and looked into the distance again.The man-made breakwater stretches long, six to eight yards deep, at knee level, then waist level, and finally shoulder level, rising slowly.It stretched five hundred yards forward in the shallow bay.They waited, but there was still nothing on the sea, except for the billowing smoke rising from the junction of water and sky-flames from ships hit by air raids.Nothing reaches this shore in hours.But they still wore their helmets and stood silently facing the horizon, raising their rifles to the waves.Looking up, they are calm and composed.

These people are only a small part of the whole army.Most people wander aimlessly on the beach.A small group of soldiers surrounds soldiers wounded in a recent Stuka dive-bombing air raid.Six horses pulling cannons flocked and galloped along the coast, aimlessly and rampant like people.Several soldiers were trying to turn the capsized whaling ship upright.Some soldiers took off their clothes and prepared to swim in the sea.On the east side, there is a football game in progress.From the same direction came faintly the faint voice of a hymn sung in chorus, which flickered in and out and faded away.Farther away from the football game, only a few official activities can be seen vaguely.On the coast, trucks were lined up neatly and connected with chains to form a temporary embankment.More trucks were driven away from the coast.Near the beach, soldiers scooped up sand with helmets and dug foxholes.In a low dune, near where Turner and the corporal stood, several soldiers had dug their own neat holes for cover.They lay in the hole and looked out.They look like groundhogs, Turner couldn't help thinking.At this time, most of the officers and soldiers were still wandering aimlessly on the beach, as if they were residents of an Italian town while walking.They don't know why they want to join this huge queue, but they don't want to leave the beach, maybe when the boat suddenly appears.

On the left is the resort of Bredence, where nicely decorated cafes and small shops rent out beach chairs and bicycles in normal times.In the circular park, the lawn is neatly manicured, there is a bandstand in the middle, and a carousel painted in red, white and blue.Against such a beautiful environment, another group of more carefree people have squatted down.The soldiers had already opened the café themselves, and they were sitting at tables outside, getting drunk, shouting and laughing.Some people rode bicycles, chasing and fighting along the sidewalk that was vomited in a mess.A group of drunks were lying on the lawn near the bandstand, sleeping soundly.There was a man alone lying on a towel, basking in the sun.He was wearing drawers, and his shoulders and legs were patchy with tan—pink and white like a serving of strawberry and vanilla ice cream.

It is not difficult to choose between the modes of suffering of the sea, the beach, and the promenade.The two corporals had walked away.Thirst alone is enough to make them decide to leave.They scouted their way down the dunes over sandy lawns strewn with bottle shards.As they walked around the rowdy tables, Turner caught sight of a navy approaching along the boardwalk and stopped to watch.There were five of them in total, two officers and three ordinary soldiers.Dressed in bright white, blue and gold military uniforms, the team was shimmering and eye-catching.There is no pretense.They were all straight and serious, with revolvers in their belts.They walked past the group of soldiers in field uniforms, with dirty faces, decadent and melancholy, looking left and right as they walked, as if they were counting the number of people.An officer also recorded something in the folder from time to time.They walk towards the beach.Turner watched them drift away until his figure disappeared into the distance.Suddenly, a childish feeling of abandonment rose from the bottom of my heart.

He followed Mais and Nettle into the first bar on Coastal Avenue, where there was a lot of noise, smog, and a stench.Two small trunks on the counter were open and full of cigarettes—but there was nothing to drink.The shelves sit side by side with the frosted mirror behind the counter, which is empty.Everyone around laughed loudly at the sight of Turner bending over behind the counter and searching around.Everyone new here has done it.The group of drunken people outside had already drank their wine.Turner pushed through the crowd and squeezed into a small kitchen in the back.The kitchen was dilapidated and the taps were dry.There is a urinal outside with boxes of empty bottles stacked beside it.A dog pushed a can of empty sardines across a concrete floor, trying to stick its tongue in.Turner had to go back to the bar, and heard the harsh noise inside again.There is no electricity, just dim sunlight that seems to have stained the beer, even though there is a shortage of beer here.Although there was nothing to drink in the bar, it was still packed.People came in one after another, disappointed because they couldn't find anything to drink, and didn't bother to leave, so they had to smoke free cigarettes to taste the traces of drinking here not long ago.The vending machine hangs empty on the wall, crumbling, and the bottles that were originally upside down in it have long been swept away.The sticky concrete floor exudes the slightly sour-sweet smell of drinks.The noise, crowds, and damp air reeking of tobacco temporarily sate their nostalgia for the pubs of their hometown, where they spent many good Saturday nights.This is Sandstone Station, and Saucherhall Street, and anywhere in between. Turner couldn't make up his mind what to do in the midst of the din.It takes a lot of effort to fight your way through the crowd.From the few words and phrases in the surrounding conversations, I know that several ships have been here yesterday, and maybe a few more ships will come here tomorrow.Standing on tiptoe at the kitchen door, he shrugged resignedly at the two corporals on the opposite side of the crowd, signaling that they were out of luck.Nettle shook his head in the direction of the door, and they began to move closer.It is a good thing to have wine, but now they want to drink more.They slowly squeezed their way through the crowd and finally joined, but at this moment the way to the door was blocked.A large crowd surrounded the door, their backs forming an impregnable and airtight wall, enclosing a man in the middle. The man must have been short—less than five feet six—for Turner could see only the back of his head through the wall. Someone yelled, "Answer the bastard's question, little one." "Yes, answer quickly." "Hey, glossy hair cream guy, where were you?" "Where were you when they killed my companion?" A mouthful of saliva was spit on the back of the man's head, and flowed down the head to behind his ears.Turner walked around the wall, trying to see what happened.He saw first the gray-blue jacket, and then the silent look of terror on the man's face.He was short and stocky, and wore glasses with thick, cloudy lenses that exaggerated his frightened gaze.He looked like an archivist, perhaps a telephone operator in a long-defunct command.But in fact he is a British Royal Air Force, shouldering the duties of a soldier.He turned slowly and stared at the circle of interrogators.He didn't answer their questions, and he didn't intend to deny that it was his fault that the Fire and the Hurricane didn't reach the beach.He held his hat tightly with his right hand, and his joints were trembling slightly.An artilleryman standing by the door gave him a shove from behind, and he staggered into the chest of a soldier who casually punched him on the head and beat him again. go back.There were applause from all around.Everyone has suffered enough, and now of course someone has to pay for it.