After Dunkirk

by Lee Jackson

  Briefly recalling the strenuous hike of days they had just completed, Lance shot him a skeptical glance and turned swiftly to Toby and Tickner. “Go. Now. Jump. You might not get another chance.”

  Wide-eyed, the two soldiers returned his gaze.

  “Go,” he ordered. “You don’t have time to think it through. I’ll see you in Piccadilly.”

  With that, Toby and Tickner leaped. Lance and Horton watched. They were horrified to see that many soldiers missed the deck and plunged into the water. Some on board managed to rescue several, but a few soldiers still wearing full kits sank below the surface and did not rise again. Amid the writhing figures, the tossing boat, and swirling waters, Lance lost sight of Toby and Tickner and could not see if they had completed the jump safely.

  “We can’t take any more,” the captain bellowed over his loudspeaker. “We’ll sink.” He turned the boat toward the open seas.

  While Lance continued to search the dark waters, Horton stepped away, threw his head back, and breathed in deeply. “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing Lance’s shoulder. “It’s just you and me now. We’ve got to get in those queues.”

  The bombing that night was horrific. The Junker bombers, flying in fast and furious amid roars of engines and ear-shattering explosions, delivered their payloads indiscriminately, centered on the port. Soldiers scrambled. Many cast aside concern for others in desperate attempts to save themselves. They collided with each other and the hopeful civilians among them.

  Watching the bedlam with nowhere to seek shelter, Lance and Horton held their ground. Seeing a soldier push a woman aside to take her place in a questionable shelter, Horton shook his head and went to cover the woman with his own body.

  When the planes had departed and the smoke had cleared, the cries of the wounded and the stench of spent explosives and burning flesh filled the air. Lance and Horton helped carry wounded people for triage and corpses for burial. Then they once again headed for the queues.

  17

  Sometime during the night, a fleet of vessels arrived and anchored roughly ten miles off the coast. Included among them were large troop ships that had been requisitioned by the Royal Navy and converted from cruise liners, as well as destroyers and a flotilla of yachts and small, seaworthy boats. The destroyers and smaller boats were to be used to ferry evacuating soldiers to the ships, and when all were full, they would take on their own load of evacuees, and the entire fleet would convoy back to England.

  Lance and Horton hunched together to weather the rest of the night. At dawn, the ferries began their rounds, and then the Stuka fighters descended amidst their deathly staccatos. They, in turn, received the full anger of every available weapon, to include Ack-ack guns, Brens, and thousands of Lee-Enfield rifles.

  Discipline strained against the onslaught. Despite the regalia of proud units including the Royal Engineers, the Pioneer Corps, and the Royal Army Ordnance Corp, an ominous sense pervaded that a tiny spark could generate a mentality of “every man for himself,” brought on during the night by the Junkers bombing.

  As the day wore on, and irrespective of the rain of fire from the sky, the lines of men moved forward into the ferries and onto the waiting ships. Finally, early in the afternoon, Lance and Horton joined a group of men transported across the expanse of ocean to board the HMT Lancastria.

  From the apartment window, Jeremy, Nicolas, and Jacques watched the huge numbers of soldiers ferried across the water. Early in the afternoon, Jacques stood.

  “Time to leave,” he announced. “The ships will be sailing soon.”

  “How am I getting aboard? Surely, we can’t just walk out and be at the front of the line?”

  “You’re expected. That’s all I can say. We’ll help as many soldiers as we can get to the ship. Don’t forget that we all face the Stukas.”

  Jeremy nodded as he turned to Nicolas. “What will you do now?”

  Nicolas stood from the kitchen table with a dismal look. “I’ll miss my friend, my brother—”

  Jeremy chuckled. “Your brother, the fool.”

  Nicolas laughed. “You were a natural for the part.” His expression turned serious. “The Germans will be here within days. I’ve agreed with Jacques to go inland. It should be safe to travel for a while, and we’ll go south to Marseille. It’s a city like no other, and the Germans will think twice before trying to subdue it. A healthy resistance will grow there, I’m sure of it, and since Jacques is already in touch with British intelligence, renewing contact from there should not be difficult.” He grinned. “You didn’t think you’d be rid of me so easily. If you do your part in London, we’ll be in touch. Remember, I have Amélie’s interest to protect.”

  “Ha! You never give up, do you?”

  “I never do, and neither should you. I know you are right for each other.”

  Jeremy felt his eyes grow moist and his throat constrict, and for the space of moments, the three were silent. Then Nicolas exclaimed, “You must go.” He grasped Jeremy’s shoulders. “Be safe, my brother. We’ll see you when this war is won.”

  “Thank you,” Jeremy said hoarsely. “For everything.” He pressed a slip of paper into Nicolas’ hand. “For Amélie.”

  Nicolas chuckled. “Ah, so I am to be your Cyrano after all, at least in making the delivery.”

  With no other words exchanged, Jacques crossed rapidly to the door and held it open as Jeremy strode through. The two hurried down the stairs and then to the back of the building. Another set of stairs took them down to a boathouse on the waterfront.

  Inside, Jacques boarded a small powered vessel. Before embarking, he tied three strands of material to the flag mast, one green, one yellow, and one red. Then he tied three identical ones to Jeremy.

  “Show them to the receiving officer when you board the ship.” Minutes later, he steered his boat along the shore to the lines of soldiers waiting to be ferried out.

  Jeremy watched as a group scrambled aboard with mixed expressions of relief, anxiety, and wariness, all glancing at the sky for Stukas. Jacques turned his vessel out to sea, throttled up the engine, and steered toward the largest ship, the HMT Lancastria.

  18

  MI-9 Headquarters

  London, England

  Lieutenant Paul Littlefield once again paid a visit to Major Norman Crockatt in Room 424 of the old Metropole Hotel. The major noticed that the young officer, although always respectful, carried personal anxiety like a calling card.

  “Nothing yet?” he asked as Paul stood in front of his desk.

  Paul shook his head while fingering his service cap. “Nothing, sir. I was hoping you had something.”

  Crockatt scrutinized him as he stretched back in his chair. “You don’t give up easily, I’ll say that for you.”

  “They’re my brothers, sir, and we’ve had no word of them in over a week.”

  “Nothing from the troops evacuated at Dunkirk?”

  “Not so far. The units are still trying to sort out who arrived home and who was left behind.”

  “It’s not even been two weeks. Give it some time.”

  “Give it some time?” The intensity of Paul’s sharp retort surprised them both. He glanced down at his cap. “Sorry, sir.” Then he looked up with an expression just short of defiance. “Within the last two weeks, Dunkirk fell, the Germans paraded into Paris, the French government fled and appointed a new head of state, and three hundred thousand of our troops arrived to a hero’s welcome after an astounding defeat.”

  Crockatt sat forward. “I’d be careful what you say, Lieutenant.” His tone was stern, but his face revealed compassion. “You apparently missed Mr. Churchill’s speech. He claimed no victory. You can’t blame people for being happy about the return of so many of our fighters. Why did you come to see me?”

  Paul took his time to respond. “I hoped your group had heard something.”

  “Is that all? You haven’t accepted my offer to transfer over here.”

  Paul hesitated. “Sorry, sir. I’m
not understanding all the machinations going on at the national level. I rather hoped that you could shed some light.”

  Crockatt leaned back again in his chair and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Paul, who declined. “So, you needed someone to talk to.” He gestured for the lieutenant to take a seat. “Why not your own boss?”

  “It’s not that easy. In MI-6, I’m one among thousands.”

  Crockatt chuckled. “And here we have a flatter, shallower organization. You can get to the top man more easily. Is that it?”

  Paul nodded sheepishly. “I’m trying to understand, sir, why we gave up the fight so easily. Why did we evacuate so readily? More importantly, why did we leave so many behind without a shred of support and call the whole operation a victory.” His eyes flashed. “We’ve deserted soldiers in port after port along the French Atlantic coast. Do we even know how many are still over there, scared for their lives, feeling abandoned, trying to survive? I don’t feel victorious.”

  Crockatt blew smoke out and lowered his voice. “Having your two brothers missing doesn’t help.” He puffed on his cigarette and cast a sidelong glance at Paul. “You seem to know a lot of things you’re not supposed to.”

  “I dig for information, sir. I can’t just let my brothers disappear.”

  The two sat in silence. Then, Paul blurted, “Why did Churchill abandon all those soldiers in France? I did hear his grand speech you mentioned about the spirit of Dunkirk and what a success that operation was. The evacuated soldiers were feted as heroes, but we left tens of thousands behind, maybe hundreds of thousands. The press isn’t telling that part of the story. I’m not alone in worrying about family members left over there.”

  He looked to Crockatt as though he had more to say, so the major remained quiet.

  “We’ve had more boats arrive from other beaches since the flotilla returned from Dunkirk. The later returning soldiers aren’t being treated like heroes. Some of them had not eaten in a week. Some were still in shock from all they’d seen and experienced. They fought to allow our main force to leave. We abandoned them, and when they made their way home, we treated them like pesky vermin.”

  “How do you know all of this?”

  “Because whenever I hear of another boat coming in, I go to the docks. I stand with mothers, sons, daughters, fathers. Just like them, I peer into every face, hoping against hope that I’ll see Jeremy or Lance. And just like those family members, I hold out pictures of my brothers, praying that someone had seen them. Then, when the procession of half-alive men passes by after being mistreated by port officials checking their papers and questioning their right to be in England, I see the shoulders of those waiting family members droop, and they leave in anguish with tears running down their faces, just like I do.”

  Silence.

  Crockatt extinguished the stub of his cigarette in an ashtray. “I can’t offer much comfort,” he said quietly, “but let me ask you a question.” He waited until Paul’s eyes met his own. “What do you think the prime minister should have done differently?”

  Paul took in a deep breath. “I know, I know. He didn’t put the troops in France, and he warned the country and that cowardly parliament for years about the danger Germany presented. They laughed at him. But Dunkirk happened on his watch.”

  “Agreed. No argument. But how would he have defended our homeland if almost our entire army was imprisoned in Germany? He had to get a fighting force home, and in the process, he handed the British people something we’ve needed for a long time, something to celebrate, the spirit of Dunkirk.”

  “I understand that, sir.” Paul sounded haunted. “But why not support those who remained behind? Why mistreat those who got home later?”

  Crockatt arched his brows. “I don’t have a good answer for your second question. I suppose the worry is that spies could infiltrate with escaping troops.

  “With regard to your first question, we give the soldiers still in France whatever support we have available; but unlike Hitler and against Churchill’s advice, we did not build up our bomber forces between wars. We send over warships and flotillas of boats manned by civilian volunteers, and our fighters provide cover as much as possible. Many of the pilots in those planes pay with their lives. For that matter, so do a lot of the crews on those ships and boats. I’d call that support.”

  Crockatt took a minute to study Paul’s face with curiosity. “What caused you to come in here, now, to have this conversation?”

  “Sir?”

  “Why did you come here today? Why not yesterday, or the day you first went to the docks, or tomorrow?”

  Paul was at a loss for words. He sat silently. Neither man knew where the conversation would lead.

  “You’re a good intelligence officer, Lieutenant. You put things together and you keep them to yourself, for the most part.” He added the latter comment with a touch of irony and the ghost of a smile. “I have the honor of being your excepted audience. I gather you’ve heard about the operation at Saint-Nazaire today?”

  Paul hesitated, and then nodded.

  “You’re hoping your brothers are there.”

  Paul drew back, closing his eyes and sighing. “I don’t know.” Looking up again, he continued hurriedly, “I don’t want to be wishy-washy, but I’ve followed the success of each evacuation operation. We brought home a lot of our comrades, but we lost huge numbers of them too. The results at Veules-les-Roses were mixed at best. Cherbourg was a disaster, but at Brest, there was little German resistance. The difference appears to be how much support the air forces provided.”

  Crockatt pursed his lips and nodded. “I see what you mean, but I don’t know what can be done about it. We’re still building up our air capability.” He gave Paul another studious glance. “Why should that concern you today in particular?”

  Paul drew a deep breath. “Because a convoy of transport ships, destroyers, and another flotilla of small private boats are at Saint-Nazaire now, being loaded with tens of thousands of soldiers. I believe it’s called Operation Aerial. The Luftwaffe rules the sky there. Without support from the air, our ships are sitting ducks, and so are the soldiers we’re trying to bring home.” He stared directly into Crockatt’s eyes.

  “I see,” the major said. “I don’t know what can be done on that score from this office. You know, I’m familiar with the support that is there now, and it’s formidable. I can’t discuss it with you, but Britannia still rules the waves, and that’s all I’ll say on the matter.” He let the moment ride, and then changed the subject. “Have you given any more thought to transferring over here? The offer is still open.”

  “I have, sir, but I’ve made no decision.”

  “Please do give it consideration. You’ve developed a keen concern about our soldiers caught behind enemy lines, and our mission is to help precisely those men.”

  Paul sensed that the conversation was ending and stood to leave. “Thank you. You’ve been most courteous.” He headed toward the door, then paused and turned back. “If you have any influence at all, perhaps you could call one of the higher powers to direct air cover for those ships.”

  Taken aback a bit, Crockatt arched his eyebrows and smiled. “I’m afraid you’ve overestimated my power, but I’ll try.”

  Paul nodded his appreciation and departed.

  As soon as Paul had left the office, Crockatt summoned his secretary. “Get Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding on the secure line for me, would you, please?” He stood, rocking on his feet, deep in thought.

  “Will that be all, sir?” the secretary asked.

  “No,” he said, pulling himself back to the present. “Do an inquiry for me. Call down to the unit of Second Lieutenant Jeremy Littlefield. I believe he is from Sark in the Channel Isles. I think he deployed to France with one of those engineer units building infrastructure during the Phoney War, and that he went missing in action at Dunkirk. I want to know which unit he was with, and if he shows up, I want him here at first opportunity. If I need to spea
k to his commanding officer, I’ll be happy to do so.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Do the same for Corporal Lance Littlefield, and please stay on it.”

  “Right, and I’ll put that call through straightaway.”

  When Crockatt answered the phone an hour later, he recognized Dowding’s thin, high-pitched voice and clipped manner of speaking.

  “You must want something, Norman. We haven’t spoken in some time.” Dowding’s notorious irascibility marked his stern tone. “What can I do for you?”

  “Yes. Well there has been a war on, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

  “And neither of us has time to joust, even in jest. What’s on your mind?”

  Crockatt related his conversation with Paul regarding the ships at Saint-Nazaire and their lack of air support.

  When he finished, Dowding sighed tiredly. “That lieutenant deduces too much, but he’s exactly right. The truth is the fighters are spread thin on higher priority targets.”

  “With all due respect, sir, what priority could be higher than covering the escape of tens of thousands of men who’ve already given far beyond what could be expected?”

  A short silence ensued. “We’ve been friends a long time, Norman, but what you imply with that question toes close to the line. Besides the three hundred and thirty thousand men we brought out of Dunkirk, we have since rescued at least another one hundred and twenty thousand more. We’ve not been negligent.”

  “So, these men at Saint-Nazaire represent a small fraction of the whole and should thus be considered expendable?”

  Dowding’s response was terse, bordering on exasperation. “Nothing disastrous has happened to any of those boats. One was fired on from the air this morning, but no major damage was done. At least we’ve received no reports in that regard. You’re browbeating me about a calamity that hasn’t occurred. We just don’t have any fighters to spare, as I’m sure you already know.” He paused a moment and softened his tone. “I wish I could do more, but I just don’t have the assets. Even if I could divert some, it’s too late in the day. They wouldn’t arrive at Saint-Nazaire in time.”