After Dunkirk

by Lee Jackson

  Six hours later, the truck stopped, and they sensed being inside a building. Soon, they heard the hay and vegetables being removed from above them, and then the farmer raised the false floor. With a finger over pursed lips, he cautioned them to silence and pointed to the back of what they now saw was a huge barn. Another man stood near a door and beckoned to them. He was old and thin and wore a straw hat and friendly smile, but he also did not speak. Lance, Horton, Toby, Kenny, and the rest of the men filed past him quietly. Both Frenchmen followed.

  “We’ll bring food,” the farmer told Lance. “Then you’ll sleep. Tonight, you’ll walk many miles.”

  “Are you coming with us?”

  “No. A friend will take you. His name is François.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Veules-les-Roses,” the man replied. “It is on the coast two hundred kilometers southwest of Dunkirk, and the British Navy has been taking soldiers on its ships there. We are only thirty kilometers away now, but there is much fighting in between. The Germans have the roads blocked, so going by truck is too dangerous. François knows how to get there on foot, and he will take you in.”

  Sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out, Lance leaned back on one arm and massaged his forehead. “That must be dangerous for him.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” the farmer replied, “but this is our fight. You sleep now. When you wake up, François will be here, and you will go.”

  François had been as good as the farmer had predicted. His skin was very white, and he wore a black beret over perpetually wide eyes, and although very young, his age seemed indeterminate. Lance guessed he was in his early twenties, and although on the chunky side, he moved rapidly and tirelessly. He seemed to be someone who could be easily underestimated.

  Through the dead of night over unseen trails, François had led them on a twelve-hour hike through back alleys, over fields, and through forests. The men held onto each other’s shoulders in the dark so as not to be separated. During the day, they skirted villages, staying as deep in forests as possible. François scouted ahead to ensure safe passage until they emerged on the cliffs above the Atlantic coast and maneuvered to where they had sight of their objective.

  As they neared the town, François suddenly ducked to the ground and signaled for the others to do the same. His eyes widening further, he brought his finger over his lips and moved carefully back the way they had come. Lance and his men followed.

  Having reached a safe distance, François whispered, “Les Boches are on the cliffs on both sides of the port. When I was here before, they were only on the north side.”

  With a sinking heart, Lance had asked if there was a place where he could observe more closely. His youthful zeal undiminished, François nodded, and while the squad waited, he took Lance to a place where they could see the waterfront with its groynes stretching into the sea.

  “Never give up hope,” François said on seeing Lance’s downcast expression. “We’ll go to Le Havre. They are taking soldiers out to sea there too.”

  For several minutes, the weight of leading eight men to safety in a fierce war immobilized Lance. Finally, he muttered, “What about Dieppe? Isn’t it much closer?”

  François shook his head. “It is closer, but there is nothing there now. It’s dead. Le Havre is the closest point for evacuation. I will take you there.” He forced a grin. “It’s only seventy kilometers.”

  On the second night of the trek, while moving through the forest with no visibility and guided only by a compass, they heard others moving in the same direction, toward the coast. Only a few feet away, men called to each other in the crisp, modulated tones of the German language. In the darkness they were invisible.

  Lance’s men froze in place. When the immediate danger had passed, they turned their direction southward.

  In the early morning hours, one of the men spotted a lone French tank. Approaching it, they found it deserted yet in full working order, complete with fuel and ammunition. Wasting no time, they mounted it, and with five men sitting out on its hull, proceeded toward Le Havre.

  Several miles along their route, a French officer stepped into their path. “What are you doing with a French tank?” he demanded.

  Lance hopped down from the turret and related how they had come across it. Although expressing surprise, the officer accepted his account. “I could use your help,” he said, and explained that he intended to establish a rearguard action on the south bank of the Seine.

  Lance agreed, and after crossing a bridge, his ragged squad helped blow it with tank rounds and then set up firing positions. No sooner had they completed their preparations than German infantry appeared on the opposite bank in trucks.

  Lance’s thrown-together unit targeted the lorries as they appeared, and then fired on groups of German soldiers descending to the riverbank. The melee lasted an hour, with more enemy troops pouring down the opposite side, bringing up armor, and launching pontoon boats filled with infantry.

  The rearguard began to give way, with French soldiers streaming past Lance’s position. “Time to go?” Horton called above the din.

  Grim-faced, Lance took stock of his men’s position and the approaching enemy and nodded. With a sweep of his hand, Horton signaled for their comrades to regroup on the tank, and once again they headed for the coast. They drove until they ran out of fuel, and then set out again on foot.

  At dawn on the third day, having walked the forests and across fields to avoid more German troops and the mass of refugees that clogged the roads, Lance’s small group rested in a wooded glade while François went to learn about the current situation from locals.

  “That French officer was a bloody good fighter,” Horton observed. “He gave it all he had.”

  “He was outgunned,” Lance agreed.

  When François returned, his face was grim.

  “Le Havre has fallen,” he reported. “The last evacuation took place a few days ago. Cherbourg too, which is the next port. The British landed troops there that had evacuated from Le Havre. They were supposed to join fresh Canadian units headed into battle, but the Canadians retreated the same day. The Nazis already occupy Cherbourg.” He grunted. “I saw a military policeman directing traffic. Unfortunately, he was German.”

  Lance looked around at his men’s gaunt faces. They appeared tired but not defeated, in healthier states of mind than when they first gathered on the outskirts of Dunkirk. The generosity of their French hosts had filled their bellies, and despite their arduous journey, they were in hardened physical condition.

  “Where to now and how far?” he asked François.

  “We could try for Brest. The Royal Navy has been picking up soldiers there. But that’s four days away on foot. We’d have to travel west, and the Germans are moving down along the coast very rapidly. I think if we go south to Saint-Nazaire, we’ll have a better chance. It’s only three days away on foot.”

  Lance snorted. “Why wouldn’t the Germans go there first?”

  François shrugged. “I’m taking a guess. They’re working their way along the coast to secure the ports. If they continue that way, they’ll take Brest first. Saint-Nazaire is farther south. I suggest that we go straight there and bypass Brest.” As he spoke, his wide, youthful eyes locked on Lance. “I could be wrong.”

  Once again noting that François was someone who could be misjudged, Lance smiled wearily. “You’ve kept us safe so far,” he said. “Lead on.”

  They hiked, avoiding main roads and the ever-growing mass of refugees heading south. The first part of the journey was more arduous as they climbed grades to as high as fifteen hundred meters before the land gently sloped downward again. François invariably sought routes that contoured the steepest rises. When they ran out of food, he left them to rest in wooded areas, and returned with sufficient loaves and meat to take them through the next leg of their journey, courtesy of the local population. As they proceeded, Lance noticed that François too had trimmed down and taken on a
more weathered countenance, but his youthful enthusiasm remained undimmed.

  “Are you planning on going all the way with us?” he asked François at one point during a rest stop.

  “It is my duty,” François replied while chomping on a sandwich of French bread and cheese. “You came to help us. I can do no less.”

  “What about your parents, your family? Won’t they be worried? You’ve spent a lot of time with us.”

  For the first time, a fleeting look of desolation crossed François’ face. “I have no parents,” he said. “My father was killed in the last war when I was an infant. My mother died before I knew her. I was raised by relatives. I do this for them. We cannot allow the Germans to take over our country.” Defiant eagerness returned to his eyes. “My cousins know I can take care of myself.”

  Eventually, they approached the small town of Sautron, northwest of Nantes. It lay on the rail line to Saint-Nazaire. When François suggested they take the train for the rest of the trip, Lance reacted skeptically.

  “Are we trying to get ourselves caught?” he demanded with more passion than intended.

  “It will be all right,” François responded, heedless of Lance’s vehemence, crediting it to fatigue. “Thousands of British soldiers are riding the train.” He grasped Lance’s arm. “The sooner you get to Saint-Nazaire, the better chance you have of getting on a boat.”

  They approached the train station cautiously, with François walking along the platform first, followed by Lance, and then Horton and the rest of the squad. British and French troops crowded the station. The other seven men in Lance’s group sidled along the platform, keeping a healthy distance from each other and feeling exposed in their worn and dirty British uniforms.

  When the train rolled in, Lance and his men could not believe their eyes. It moved slowly enough that with minimal effort, anyone could sprint to get on it at any time. British and French soldiers filled the cars, sat on the roofs, and occupied every square inch of available space. Only disembarking French civilians made room enough for Lance’s squad to clamber on.

  “Try to keep together,” he called as they struggled for free space, but his words were lost in the screech of steel on steel, the rumble of train cars, and the toot of the whistle as the engine struggled under its mammoth load.

  When he had secured a foothold on the bottom step of one of the cars, Lance glanced around. Horton perched above him on the top stair and shot him a grin. Toby had made it farther inside the same car, but Lance could see none of his other comrades.

  He heard his name called from the platform, and while still holding onto his place, he turned to see François running alongside.

  “It seems I will leave you now,” François called. “No room.” He panted as he ran to keep up. “Remember, Saint-Nazaire. Go to Saint-Nazaire. I hope to see you again in happier days.”

  “Where will you go?” Lance yelled back.

  “Marseille,” François replied. “The resistance is forming there. Vive la France! Vive la Résistance!”

  He fell back as the train puffed out of the station. Lance waved, a sense of loss overcoming him. “Vive la France,” he called back. “Vive François.”

  Then, as François fell back, a new sound filled the air: the low growl of German Stukas on the prowl. They had found a favorite target, an almost stationary train in a station filled with enemy troops.

  The fighters descended, machine guns cut loose, and François’ chest exploded. He went down in a bloody heap. Soldiers jumped from the train and ran for cover while the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire raked them, followed by deafening explosions.

  Almost frozen in horror, Lance reacted to screams around him and dove to the ground, nearly sprawling on his face. He felt a hand grasp his collar and jerk him upright, and he turned to find Horton beside him, dragging him to cover.

  Minutes later, the attack was over, with bloody corpses strewn about. The train had not stopped, and now with much of its load discarded, it had picked up speed. The chaos of moments before reversed, with soldiers running to jump back on.

  “Let’s go,” Horton yelled in Lance’s face, but only a strange buzzing sounded in his ears. He gazed about, dizzy, and sensed another set of arms supporting him on his other side. The medic, Kenny Tickner, had wrapped an arm about Lance’s back. Together, he and Horton dragged Lance toward the train, while a fourth man, Toby Stewart, the soldier who had survived the machine-gunning of his comrades at Le Paradis, cleared the way.

  “Did our chaps make it back on the train?” Lance moaned. He had curled up against the corner of the last car, and his mind had begun to clear.

  “I saw only four. Us,” Horton replied while gesturing toward Tickner and Toby. “The others might be in the forward cars ahead. I don’t know.” He lowered his face close to Lance’s. “You got your bell rung from that first bomb blast, so you rest easy and let me do the thinking for a while.” Then he turned and called out to everyone in close proximity, “Hey, can you give us some room? This bloke’s hurt. He needs air.”

  Lance grasped his arm. “It’s all right. There is no room.” He closed his eyes, and an image of François’ last seconds framed in his mind. “François didn’t—” He could not finish the sentence.

  “I know,” Horton said. “I saw.” He remained squatting next to Lance. “I suggest we stay on the train and get as close to Saint-Nazaire as possible. We might want to jump off short of there to avoid being targets again.”

  Toby hovered on Lance’s other side. “You have to lie flat,” he cajoled, “get those feet elevated, and stay awake.” While Toby and Tickner shoved against other soldiers to carve out space, Horton took his own helmet and placed it under Lance’s ankles. Tickner put a field jacket under Lance’s head as the train chugged toward Saint-Nazaire.

  16

  June 16, 1940

  Saint-Nazaire, France

  Lance and his remaining three comrades rambled into the tumultuous conditions in the port city. Despite the grueling challenges faced on their flight from Dunkirk, they viewed the seemingly complete breakdown of military discipline with mouths agape.

  The train had stopped well outside of Saint-Nazaire. On the walk in, the group had passed field after field of British military gear, most now destroyed by its users for lack of space aboard ships to transport it and to prevent its use by the enemy. Among the equipment were brand-new battle tanks, trucks, field artillery guns, and every sort of supply an army would need to fight. They lay, battered, disabled, and rendered useless, by order of higher command.

  They passed a field artillery officer protesting his orders to demolish his guns. His face red, his eyes bulging, he thundered at a superior officer delivering the order, “I did not drag those Bofors over four hundred miles just to demolish them.”

  “I can direct you in writing, if you’d like,” came the patient response.

  With a disgusted glare, the officer set about to comply.

  Lance, still weakened but recovering, regained his position as leader of the group, to which Horton readily submitted. “Stay together and let’s get to the waterfront,” Lance said. They continued on, sometimes being passed by soldiers who ignored orders to abandon motorcycles and rode them into town. All around combatants broke into stores and dumped their respirators and other combat necessities to make room for pilfered cigarettes, beer, and other items.

  While passing a supply depot next to a railway, a horde of unruly soldiers looted train cars filled with cases of liquor. Within minutes, men ran wild-eyed through the streets, pouring bottles of spirits down their gullets.

  Looking closer, Lance saw that many of the liquor cases had been lined with straw as packing material. “Let’s go,” he ordered. “Set fire to those cars. It’s either that, or this crowd will turn into a drunken brawl. They’ll be incapable of being evacuated.”

  “Blimey,” Horton exclaimed, whirling on Lance. “Do what?” But then a mischievous twinkle crossed his eyes, and he grinned. “I’m moral
ly opposed to burning perfectly good booze,” he intoned, “but that fire should be blinding.”

  Minutes later, flames leaped high in the sky and spread to the other cars. As bottles heated up, they burst, their alcoholic content further fueling the fire. Then the last car caught fire. Unexpectedly, exploding ammunition sent shockwaves through the air, and people ran for their lives. Driven back, the crowd could only watch in dismay.

  Lance observed, emotionless. “Avoid the drunks and the listless. We’re going home, and we won’t wait around to be captured.”

  They pushed through the crowds to the port, noticing groups of civilians mingling with troops, hoping to be included among the evacuees. As dusk settled to darkness, they arrived at the waterfront. The atmosphere was less raucous but still filled with stress. The four men pressed on toward the queues of soldiers already lined up for passage to the hoped-for waiting ships.

  Then a coaler out on the water steered toward the dock. The captain called over a loudspeaker, “I’m coming in. I won’t tie up. Anyone wanting a ride can jump aboard as I pass. Then I’m headed to Plymouth.”

  Anxious men pressed against the edge of the pier. The drop to where the boat would pass was a good distance. As the coaler closed in parallel to the dock, men jumped to its deck and rolled before climbing to their feet. Others fell into the buffering arms of comrades. It continued past and quickly filled with more men leaping to their hoped-for escape.

  Lance caught Horton’s eye. “You go,” he said. “Take the others with you.”

  “Why not you?”

  “Too many privates need a lift. Go on.”

  Horton looked askance. “Can’t,” he replied. “My ankle’s barely healed. It won’t take the fall.”