After Dunkirk

by Lee Jackson

  Deliberately, he recalled having left home, saying goodbye to his mother and father, his trip to northern England for training, and then the short hop to France. There, he had enjoyed his time in the British Army as an engineer, building roads and airfields in anticipation of the expected war, until the Germans had attacked rapidly and fiercely, driving the BEF and the French 10th Army south to Dunkirk. He had been among thousands of non-combatants thrown into the fray to provide rearguard protection for the evacuating troops, with only cursory training, under the command of the 51st (Highland) Infantry Division.

  For ten days, he had heard reports of boats coming and going from the Dunkirk beaches, and wondered, with his comrades, when their turn would come. Then, an unexplainable lull in the battle had persisted for four days. Two nights later, field artillery shells whistled through the air, and then shocked the senses amid concussive explosions that threw dirt skyward with body parts and war machines fragmented into distorted pieces.

  As he sat in the dark cellar below the barn, images he had witnessed entered his mind unbidden, and then trailed to his rescue by the bent little man and his daughter.

  Then the cycle of recollections started again as he forced himself to cease thinking of Amélie by redirecting his thoughts to home, and when he had left, and how he had come to France, and then Dunkirk and when he was rescued by Ferrand and his beautiful daughter. He found the cycle uncontrollable and relentless.

  Am I in love? He immediately derided himself. I’ve known Amélie barely two days. What do I know of her? He answered his own question. Only that she’s strong, brave, daring, beautiful, and I can’t get her out of my mind.

  Undeniably, he had an overpowering emotional attachment to her, as he did to her father and younger sister. As I should, from gratitude. In the dark, he dropped his head. I’ll probably never see them again. He put Amélie out of his mind once more and started the cycle of remembrance yet again.

  Before dawn, sleepless, he heard soft tapping on the ceiling, and then the trapdoor lifted. The shadow of a bowed figure resembling Ferrand Boulier appeared and beckoned to him. Apprehensively, Jeremy climbed the stairs and looked into a face very similar to Ferrand’s.

  “I’m Claude,” the man said in French, “Ferrand’s brother. He says you speak our language.” He handed Jeremy a paper sack. “Food.”

  Then he opened another sketch map. “We’re here.” He indicated a point on the map representing the barn. “You’re going here.” He moved his finger to another place on the paper. “I’m sorry to be so abrupt, but time is short.”

  Jeremy nodded without replying.

  Claude nudged his arm and pulled another, larger bag from behind him. “Here are clothes for you.”

  Jeremy pulled back. “If the Germans catch me in those, they’ll shoot me as a spy.” With both hands, he mimicked the act of shooting a pistol.

  Claude grasped Jeremy’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “They don’t need a reason,” he said slowly. “They’ll shoot if they see this.” He grabbed Jeremy’s uniform sleeve to make his point and stuffed the bag of clothes in Jeremy’s hands. “Your chances are better if you wear these, but you must be alert.”

  Jeremy took the clothes with lingering doubts.

  “My son will be here in an hour,” Claude said. “He has papers. You’ll play a fool. You won’t talk.”

  “A fool?” Jeremy echoed while examining the map.

  Claude circled his finger around his temple, the universal gesture for “crazy.”

  “I’m crazy.” Jeremy chuckled. “You’re not the brightest man I’ve ever met either.” Despite his good nature, his pique showed.

  Claude shook his head patiently. “Nicolas will explain. He’s my son.”

  Understanding dawned on Jeremy. “I see. I’ll act crazy.” He laughed. “I can do that.”

  Claude looked relieved. “Eat and get dressed. We’ll burn your uniform. When Nicolas gets here, he’ll take you to the next destination.”

  “The next?”

  “He’ll explain.”

  Jeremy nodded and gathered the items Claude had brought. Before descending back into the room below, he reached over and grasped Claude’s hand. “Merci.”

  An hour later, Jeremy heard another soft tap on the trapdoor. When it opened, a younger, bigger version of Claude appeared. As Jeremy ascended, the man reached a hand down to help him up the final stairs.

  “I am Nicolas,” he said. “We must hurry.” He grinned. “You’re the fool?”

  “That’s me,” Jeremy confirmed.

  “Let’s go.” Nicolas led him rapidly across the barn to a flatbed truck laden with hay. “You sit in the passenger seat. When we see Germans, don’t speak. I’m your brother. You’re sick in the head. Foam at the mouth. I’ll carry your papers and show them if needed. I’ll do all the talking. If someone talks to you, you grin, like this.”

  He plastered his face with a crazed grin and let his head flop around, seemingly out of control. “You understand?”

  With that, they boarded the truck and drove out of the barn, down a driveway, and onto the street. When they had gone a short distance, Jeremy asked again, “Where are we going?”

  “To my cousin’s farm, southeast of Dunkirk. Tomorrow, you’ll go to Paris.”

  Jeremy’s reaction was immediate. “Paris? The Germans just took that city. They’ll have soldiers everywhere.”

  “Not everywhere, my friend. Think. Here they have many soldiers controlling fewer people. There they have millions of people but not so many soldiers by comparison, and we French hate them. You’ll go to some friends. They’ll help get you through France and Spain, to Gibraltar. Then you’ll get on a boat to England.”

  Jeremy regarded him in astonishment. “You’ll help me that much? Why?”

  “We’re at war together,” Nicolas replied. “Tell them in England how we helped.”

  They approached a German checkpoint. Without hesitation, Nicolas pulled to a stop in the line of vehicles waiting to have documents inspected. Taking on the attitude of a bored driver, Nicolas put a reed of straw between his teeth and leaned against the corner of the truck’s cab.

  “Remember, you’re a fool,” he said. “I’ll show your papers. When the guards talk to you, smile big, let your head go like this.” He wobbled his own again.

  “I get it,” Jeremy said. He let his jaw go slack, his eyes vacant, and his head loll about loosely. Despite his demeanor, his heart beat wildly as their truck approached the checkpoint. The vehicle ahead of them slid into place next to the German sentries who inspected thoroughly, taking time to read through identification documents, scrutinize passengers, and go through the trunk.

  Then it was Nicolas and Jeremy’s turn. Nicolas straightened in his seat while retaining his bored attitude. When he pulled up by the soldiers, Jeremy let his head roll in the direction of the guard on his side of the vehicle. He opened his mouth in an absurd grin and let loose an unearthly guffaw.

  On the other side of the cab, Nicolas yelled something unintelligible, then reached across and slapped Jeremy’s face while apologizing to the soldier. Then he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out papers for himself and Jeremy, and handed them to the respective sentries. Meanwhile, Jeremy closed his mouth, letting saliva form in bubbles on his lips and drip down his shirt. He lolled his head and grinned again.

  Disgusted, the sentry on his side of the truck backed away. Moments later, the other one waved them through.

  “We did it.” Nicolas laughed as they drove away. “Now we’ll go on backroads that I know, and they don’t.”

  Jeremy sank back in his seat, and for the first time in many days, he relaxed completely. “Where did my papers come from?”

  Wide grain fields rolled by, green and swaying in a gentle breeze. The sun had risen against a blue sky, and now that Jeremy felt safe to observe, he watched birds flitting between trees and cows grazing in their pastures with the occasional horse. For the first time in his recent past
, his immediate world seemed at peace, the war far away.

  “My Uncle Ferrand is an artist. He made your papers.”

  Jeremy’s head jerked around. Momentarily, he stared at Nicolas in amazement. “He forged my documents?”

  “Yes.” Nicolas tapped his head. “He’s very smart. He knows how to do things. But…” He shrugged. “The papers were not hard. They were my brother’s. He altered them.” As he spoke, his face became sad. “My brother was the same age as you. He suffered a brain injury in an automobile accident. He died two years later.”

  Horrified, Jeremy said, “I am so sorry.”

  Nicolas clapped Jeremy’s shoulder. “Eh, not your fault. That’s life. Today, you’re my brother, and tomorrow. Forever.” He laughed.

  As they rumbled on in silence, Jeremy’s mind again returned to home, and then the battle and the killing fields, and then came around inevitably to Amélie.

  “Your cousins also helped me. I can never repay the kindness of your family.”

  “You owe us nothing,” Nicolas replied. “But you can help. You tell the people in England what we did. Not just my family. Many people are helping to get you home. You spread the word that we are free French. We’ll fight. We’ll resist.” His voice had taken on a grim note, and he glanced at Jeremy. “You tell them.”

  A short silence ensued, and then Nicolas grinned. “You like my cousin, Amélie?”

  Startled, his cheeks flushing crimson, Jeremy turned to Nicolas. “Of course,” he stuttered, “she saved my life. Chantal too, and your Uncle Ferrand.”

  Nicolas beamed wider and shook a crooked finger at Jeremy. “Yes, but you like Amélie. Why not? She’s good-looking.” Glancing at the road, he made a corrective maneuver. “You think she’s pretty?” Then he leaned toward Jeremy and whispered conspiratorially, “I can tell you; she likes you.”

  Jeremy’s heart skipped a beat, his throat caught, and he felt suddenly, involuntarily exultant, not missing the irony under the present conditions.

  “You like her,” Nicolas went on. “I see it. Your face is red like a tomato.” He laughed uproariously.

  In spite of himself, Jeremy laughed along. “Did she say that?”

  “She didn’t say anything. But I’m her closest cousin. We’re the same age. I know her. She changed when she met you. She grew up.”

  “We’re in a war,” Jeremy said soberly. “She saw awful things. She had not met or even seen me up close when she risked her life, and that was not even three days ago.”

  “You’re right. She’ll help anyone. But”—Nicolas wagged a finger in the air— “she worries about you. I saw her last night. She’s very worried about you. I could see it.”

  Feeling overwhelmed with unfamiliar emotion, Jeremy locked his eyes on the road and remained silent. “I’ll probably never see her again,” he muttered.

  “Why?” Nicolas bellowed with genuine concern. “We’ll win this war. You know where we live. You’ll be back.” He clapped Jeremy’s shoulder again. “We’re brothers. When you come again, you’ll see that you and Amélie like each other.” He set his jaw firmly. “I see it.” Then he looked across at Jeremy. “Write her a note. I’ll give it to her.”

  Jeremy exhaled. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  Nicolas let loose a peal of laughter. “Don’t worry. I’ll write it for you. I’ll be your Cyrano de Bergerac.”

  8

  Two days later, June 15

  A road northwest of Paris

  Jeremy trundled along in the small farm truck on the outskirts of Paris with Nicolas at the wheel, trying to blend in while pressing ahead of a mass of humanity that clogged the roads, some in horse-drawn wagons, cars, and trucks of every description, and many on bicycles, all fleeing the German juggernaut. The two men had escaped Dunkirk by heading southeast for roughly forty miles to Hazebrouck, then turning south on tiny backroads through Béthune and Arras. At Roissy-en-France, a town north of Paris, Nicolas changed course again, and instead of going into Paris, they headed west to skirt the city.

  They had expected to encounter refugees streaming to sanctuary, but the vastness of the fleeing throng boggled their minds. Now, the truck labored under a load of people that had climbed on unbidden, displacing the bales of hay as more and more men, women, and children clambered aboard to continue their desperate journeys.

  Nicolas had shed his jovial countenance, and he glanced worriedly at the fuel and temperature gauges and then through his rearview mirror at the traumatized passengers on the truck bed. They left behind a torn countryside. Some villages had been flattened to rubble while others were untouched but abandoned except for the roiling, unending throngs of a terrified populace in search of safer ground.

  Fathers pushed makeshift carts with elderly parents clutching precious mementos, mothers struggled with baby carriages laden with necessary articles heaped over crying youngsters, and older siblings struggled to keep up. Already, as whole families and communities pushed south, discarded items no longer deemed crucial to survival lined the roads along with abandoned vehicles that had encountered mechanical difficulties or simply run out of gas. Among the waste were bodies of unfortunates too old, weak, or young to continue who had slumped where they last stood or had been trampled.

  The smell of the dead mixed with that of unwashed bodies and their waste, filling the air, as did the cries of anguished mothers and toddlers separated from each other by the press of the struggling crowds. As Jeremy and Nicolas slowly progressed, they passed farms with animals standing in barnyards, some waiting to be fed or milked, not perceiving that their owners had abandoned them. Some poor beasts sprawled on the ground with bloated bellies, their carcasses growing ripe under the spring sun, and already, packs of dogs ran loose, devouring food where they could find it, including corpses of any type that they encountered.

  Although at first the two companions were stoic, the depraved scenes bore down on them. Nicolas fought to maintain his composure, but Jeremy saw that often his mouth quivered, and he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. He viewed the horrors numbly, willing his mind to see past the most horrendous scenes, unable to fathom the depths of depravity that could lead to such conditions.

  “Six million,” Nicolas muttered. “I talked to my cousin last night. He told me that six million people fled Paris ahead of the German invasion, with everyone going this same direction.” The truck barely moved, inching along within the exhausted masses tramping alongside them.

  Edging through the ruined countryside northwest of Paris, they saw a dark cloud hanging over the “City of Lights.” Nicolas nudged Jeremy and pointed at clumps of dead birds alongside the roads. “My cousin said that when the Germans entered the city, the smoke and dust were so thick that it suffocated the birds. The people of Paris burned garbage and fuel to create dark clouds so that German bombers could not see and destroy our national treasures.” He stopped and glanced in the direction of the city center. “If not for the smoke, we’d be able to see the Eiffel Tower from here.” He surveyed the teeming thousands snaking over the landscape. “We’re fortunate. Most of the people have already gone before us. The air has thinned out.”

  Jeremy reached over and grasped his shoulder. “Go home,” he said. “You have your own family to see to. I’ll make my way to Marseille. In this crowd, I’ll pass for just another refugee. The Nazis will need weeks to put up all the checkpoints for population control, France still has an army in the south, and your navy is intact.”

  “The French army,” Nicolas grunted with disgust. “It was useless. Totally useless. The government escaped to Tours without resisting at all. And why hasn’t our navy been active against the Germans? It’s been sitting in port somewhere in North Africa.” He stepped on the brake lightly, bringing the truck to a halt as an old man bumped into it with vacant eyes, oblivious to what he had just done.

  As Nicolas waited for a few inches of road to clear ahead of him, he turned to Jeremy. “If we dare hope to get our country back, the Frenc
h people will have to do it.” His voice took on an urgency edged with hopelessness. “My cousin and I talked late into the night. We agreed that my job now is to get you home with the message that the French people will not give up our country without a fight.”

  “Is that why you’re taking me farther south instead of into Paris? I thought that someone else would take me to the next contact, and so on until I got to Marseille, and then to Gibraltar to get on a boat.”

  Nicolas gestured toward the crowds with his chin. “We need help, and soon. The message you carry is more urgent. Our people are organizing to sabotage, get intelligence, and help soldiers like you escape France so they can rejoin the fight, but we need contact in England.” He sighed and leaned his head against the back wall of the truck’s cab.

  Jeremy blew out the air in his cheeks. “What’s the plan now, for me?”

  Nicolas closed his eyes momentarily. “We’re going to put you in greater danger, my brother.” He opened his eyes and turned to look directly at Jeremy. “You can say no, and I’ll take you on to Marseille. Otherwise”—he inhaled sharply—“we have to get in front of this crowd and head west before the Germans get much farther south along the coast. There are ports to the west where boats are still able to leave. Not many are trying because the German U-boats patrol there, but if you can make it across the Channel, that will be the quickest way of getting you home to England.”

  Jeremy sat quietly, contemplating the implicit request. Having grown up on a tiny island in the often stormy and ferocious waters separating France and England, he knew intimately how furious Mother Nature could be there. With the added danger of German U-boats and fighter planes on the prowl, he understood in an instant the alternatives being offered, the equivalent of choosing to play between the paws of a hungry lion or slapping its mouth and hoping either way to emerge alive.

  The sun had sunk to their right, casting its rays inside the cab. Nicolas raised his palm to block them so he could study Jeremy’s face.