After Dunkirk

by Lee Jackson

  “You’re a survivor,” Lance replied. “You’d have made it.”

  “Maybe, but you’re the one who got us moving, found food and shelter, and led us through all the crap to the coast.”

  “Thanks.” Lance started to speak, but instead laid his head on his hand while clinging to the board. “All the death…”

  Horton’s reply was immediate and forceful. “Don’t you start thinking that way, Sergeant. You reminded the rest of us that we are still soldiers in His Majesty’s Army. You rousted us from the shock of what we’d seen and done. You bloody well brought that medic back from the walking dead and revived him into a functioning soldier.”

  He looked to see if anything he had said registered on Lance. Seeing no change, he went on.

  “That German pilot killed François,” he said, “just like he massacred all those soldiers and civilians and scattered our mates at the train station. For all we know, all five of them could still be alive. Some might already be back in England, and they would have you to thank.”

  Lance lifted his head far enough to speak. “I hear you, Corporal. Thanks for the kind words, but that man back there… When I pushed him away, I knew he would drown.”

  “What choice did you have?” Horton retorted vehemently. “If the situation had been reversed where he was the swimmer and you climbed on him, he’d have done the same thing. I’ll bet identical scenarios played out hundreds of times today.” He slid next to Lance and grasped the back of his neck. “Listen to me. We’re going to get back to England or die trying, but we’re not going to give up because we had a moment of self-pity. You’re still a soldier with a mission, Sergeant.”

  Lance remained silent. Horton slid back a little farther on the plank.

  Minutes passed. Then Lance lifted his head. “You’re right, Corporal. Thank you.” He reached his free hand across to Horton, then laughed. “My mother always said that she was brought up without the luxury of feeling sorry for herself. You just reminded me of that.”

  More time passed, the sun beating down against the cold north-Atlantic water. Horton raised his head. “Sergeant, what are you going to do after the war?”

  Lance laughed involuntarily, almost frenzied. “Corporal, I haven’t given it much thought. But why are we being so formal, and what are you going to do after the war?”

  Horton snickered. “Just pulling a morale check,” he croaked. “It’s good to see that we’re getting less formal. The first name’s Derek.” He thought a moment. “Let’s see. After the war, I think I’ll go live in Texas. I’ve heard it’s warm and green and beautiful. I heard that Texans call it, ‘Texas, by God,’ and people who move there have a saying.” He dropped his voice, his head bobbing back and forth as he quoted, “‘I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.’ That’s the kind of place I want to live in.”

  “Texas? What will you do there?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Horton forced a laugh and wry grin. “I ought to be good for something. Mopping floors or peeling potatoes, maybe.”

  Without replying, Lance suddenly raised his head as high as he could. “Look over there,” he said. “Those blokes look like they could use some help.”

  Horton turned to where Lance pointed. Two men bobbed in the water, only their heads visible. One of them appeared to be holding onto something just below the surface while supporting the other.

  Lance and Horton paddled as best they could and slowly approached them. “Grab the end of this,” Lance rasped. “There’s room.”

  The man grasping the submerged object let it go and grabbed the board, pulling his companion with him. “Too weak,” he gasped, indicating his friend. “Hurt.”

  The strain of holding the injured man had sapped his rescuer’s strength.

  Unclasping his life preserver, Horton said, “Here, give him this.” He struggled out of the vest. Together, the three of them managed to get it around the unconscious man. For an indeterminate time, they rotated Lance’s Mae West between them and took turns holding onto the injured man, continuing to float, with little conversation.

  At some point, Horton’s curiosity piqued. “What were you holding onto?”

  “Don’t know,” the man replied in a scratchy voice. “A piece of wreckage that floated and got waterlogged.”

  “What do we call you?” Lance asked.

  “Kenyon.”

  “What happened to your friend?”

  Kenyon put his head down on the board with a forlorn look. “People tossed tables and chairs and anything that would float into the water from the ship. A table smashed into him. It shattered his shoulder, and I think he has internal injuries. Maybe a concussion too.”

  They lapsed back into silence, and as the sun coursed down to the horizon, the temperature dropped. Cold permeated to their toes. Dusk came, and they knew that their injured comrade would likely not survive the night.

  Then, in the twilight, a French fishing boat plowing the waves back to Saint-Nazaire pulled alongside. The fisherman helped them into the vessel and gave them warm coffee and blankets. The injured man lay still but breathed. Kenyon poured life-giving water down his throat and covered him.

  “We’re from the same village.” he said. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. “We grew up together. We enlisted together.”

  No one spoke for an extended time as the fishing boat continued its journey to port. Then, Horton stretched out in a corner and pulled his blanket over him.

  “No British breakfast in the morning,” he grunted. He shot Lance a broken smile and fell asleep.

  Nicolas had been at the apartment window when the Junkers commenced their attack, the unmistakable rumble of their engines announcing their intentions. He watched in horror the attack on the ships at least ten miles out, but still identified for what they were by their distinctive shapes. When the assault was finished, he saw billowing smoke rising from a large ship, the black smudge of oil on the ocean’s surface, and huge clusters of tiny dots that must be people bobbing in the ocean, spreading away from each other, and drifting farther out to sea while small boats plowed the waves to rescue them. Over the next thirty minutes, the burning ship’s bow leaned into the water, its stern raised, and then it slipped below the surface.

  Nicolas rushed to the quays still filled with milling soldiers. He searched relentlessly until he saw Jacques’ boat limp in, overflowing with bedraggled victims of the Stukas’ earlier strafing run. Wading into the water, Nicolas helped the men onto the shore.

  “I’m going back out,” Jacques called. “Thousands of people are in the water.”

  Without a word, Nicolas jumped aboard. Grim-faced, Jacques throttled up, and the boat navigated out toward the fleet.

  “Did you see which ship went down?” Nicolas asked.

  Jacques did not respond at first. Then he closed his eyes and nodded. “It was the Lancastria,” he said, sniffing as his eyes moistened. He wiped them with the backs of his fists. “She was the largest ship. That’s where I took Jeremy.”

  22

  The little French fishing vessel puttered into the port at Saint-Nazaire. Horton had slept soundly, only stirring when the boat hit a stiff wave. Lance had dozed in and out, keeping an eye on the injured man. Kenyon had tried to stay awake to take care of his friend but had finally collapsed, exhausted. Lance was touched by the man’s compassion and that of the fisherman.

  As they pulled alongside a dock, Horton opened his eyes, rubbed them, and looked about. Lance reached across and nudged Kenyon, who came to with a start.

  “We’re back in port,” Lance said. “We’ll help you with your mate. There must be a hospital where we can take him. Even if the Germans arrive, they’re bound by the Geneva Convention to provide him medical care.”

  Kenyon nodded grimly while fighting back a yawn. Stretching, he bent over his friend. Then he dropped his head, bent further to embrace him, and wept quietly, his chest heaving with constrained sobs. The body was stiff, warmth leaving it.


  After tying up the boat, the fisherman set about offloading his catch. When he saw Kenyon’s grief, he climbed into the boat and took him by the shoulders.

  “I’ll take care of the burial,” he said in French. “Tell me his name. You must go before the Boches arrive.” He produced a piece of paper and a pen.

  Kenyon looked up, anguished, not comprehending.

  “Thank you,” Lance cut in. For the first time, he had a chance to really see the fisherman. He was young, probably in his late twenties, with a rugged, windswept look and a lithe build. His complexion, eyes, and hair were dark, and his expression was one of quiet determination.

  Lance returned his attention to the dead man and covered the body with a blanket. He took the pen and paper and nudged Kenyon’s arm. “What was his name?”

  After being prodded a second time, Kenyon muttered a response. Lance wrote it down, coaxed other pertinent information, and handed the note back to the fisherman. Then, streaked with oil and blood, and wearing only their underwear, the three trudged toward the town.

  “You know we’re not dressed for polite society,” Horton quipped, his grim face belying his humor.

  “We’re short on options,” Lance replied. “Maybe someone in town will give us some old garments.”

  Watching them go, the fisherman looked chagrined. He called to them. “Wait.”

  They stopped and turned.

  “You’re tired and hungry. You need clothes and shoes. I’ll take you to my house but let me get my fish on ice first.”

  Gratefully, they reversed course.

  “I am Pierre.” He saw Kenyon’s lingering glance at his friend’s body. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take good care of him.” He swept a hand toward the town. “The whole town will take care of him and honor him. We appreciate you.”

  23

  Before dawn, Pierre awakened Lance. “I must go do the fishing. You and your friends stay here and rest. You need your strength.”

  “We don’t want to put you or your family in danger.”

  Pierre shook his head. “I need time to talk with you. Don’t worry about my family. I sent them to Marseille. Later, I might go too. I don’t think the Boches will go there. The city culture is too independent, and they know it. Everyone knows it. They are still a few days away from here, so you won’t be disturbed.”

  Lance consented.

  “Tell Kenyon that his friend’s body is at my church. The priest will make sure he has a proper burial.” Lance thanked him, and Pierre left for the waterfront.

  Although small, the house was comfortable. The three British guests made themselves at home for most of the day. Then, wearing clothes that Pierre had scavenged from friends and neighbors, they wandered into town in mid-afternoon to get a sense of current conditions.

  The atmosphere had changed radically from before their transfer to the Lancastria the previous day. Gone were the hordes of soldiers, replaced by groups of twos and threes with markedly different attitudes. Some had apparently accepted as inevitable that they would be captured. They just waited. Of those, some sat staring blankly, and some had drunk themselves into stupors.

  Some huddled together discussing their plight in terms of the reality on the ground. A few of them intended to continue along the coast in search of any other ports where a rescue from the sea might occur. The rest planned to strike out overland for Spain. Entirely absent was a vestige of central command or authority. Moreover, a sense pervaded that hostility would meet any attempt to assert authority.

  As Lance gazed about, he was struck by another aspect. Saint-Nazaire was beautiful, with quaint, ancient streets and small shops. If the wrecked hulls of ships and small boats were overlooked, the ocean views were breathtaking, and the citizenry was generally friendly despite the ravages resulting from involuntarily hosting an army almost gone rogue. No one has the state of mind or time to appreciate what’s here.

  Horton interrupted his thoughts. “What do you think we should do?”

  “Pierre wants to speak with us tonight. I want to hear what he has to say.”

  Horton agreed. He turned to Kenyon, who was following them much like a puppy attaches to any friendly soul after losing its mother. “What about you?”

  Kenyon didn’t respond, instead staring around almost trancelike.

  Horton repeated his question.

  “Oh, sorry,” Kenyon said. “Whatever the two of you think.”

  They gathered in the living room that night. Pierre looked furtive as he opened the conversation. “I told you that Marseille is very independent. All kinds of people are attracted there. It isn’t like Paris. If the Boches come, the fighting will be hard.”

  He looked around to ensure he was understood. Horton interpreted quietly for Kenyon. “A resistance organization started there even before the war,” Pierre went on. “Its leaders were sure that the Maginot Line would fail, and that Germany would occupy a large part of France. They based their conclusions on the facts that the Maginot was incomplete, and that Germany based its military doctrine on striking hard, fast, and not stopping. The blitzkrieg. They didn’t think the Maginot or the French air forces would save us or that the French army could defeat them.

  “The leaders are in Marseille recruiting fighters. I have friends there who have already joined the resistance. They received a message three days ago from British intelligence asking if groups along the coast could blow up fuel-oil depots to keep them out of German hands. My friends called me yesterday before I went out on the boat.”

  Lance and Horton stared at him. “Do you mean French soldiers?” Horton asked.

  “No.” Pierre shook his head. “I mean ordinary citizens who do not accept that Germany will steal our country. We are Free French. We are ready to fight.”

  Lance cut in. “What do you want from us?”

  “We have explosives. We stole them from a construction company. And there are many petrol storage tanks here because this is a significant port. But we don’t know how to place or ignite the dynamite without being killed. We need help for that.”

  While Lance stared transfixed and absorbed Pierre’s implied request, his mind flew through the horrifying images of the past two weeks. Meeting Pierre’s request for help could put him through similar circumstances yet again.

  For several moments he sat in silence, reminding himself of the French people’s kindness and generosity toward him and his comrades. Refusing to assist could consign the French to further suffering and would also be shameful.

  “I’d love to help,” he said quietly, “but I’m an infantryman. My knowledge of explosives is minimal. I could look at what you’ve got and see what I can do.” As he spoke, he saw that Pierre’s eyes clouded with disappointment bordering on desperation. Lance turned to Horton. “Any ideas?”

  Horton pursed his lips. “I wish I had some.” He shook his head and grinned. “I probably know enough to make sure we get killed, but I’ll do what I can.”

  “The three of us ought to be able to figure it out,” Lance said. He turned to Pierre. “Let’s see what you have.”

  Kenyon had sat quietly, listening to Horton’s translation without saying a word. Now, he placed a tentative hand on the table. “I could help. I’m a demolitions specialist.”

  Lance and Horton swung around to face him. “You are?” they said in unison.

  “Are you up to it?” Lance asked. “You’ve been through a rough time.”

  “No rougher than yours.”

  “But you just lost your friend.”

  “You’ve lost mates too.” He gestured across at Pierre. “Without him, the three of us we would be dead, and he’s been very decent about caring for my chum’s body. Pierre is ready to fight for his country. I’m a soldier. I can’t turn away.”

  Lance translated. Pierre’s eyes flashed, he leaped up, circled the table, grabbed Kenyon and kissed him on the forehead. Then he bear-hugged Lance and Horton.

  “Listen to me,” Lance said after a
moment of celebration. “We’ll need British uniforms. If we’re captured in these clothes you gave us, we’ll be shot as spies.”

  Pierre’s face turned serious, and he locked eyes with Lance. “I understand,” he said. “Do you understand that we will probably take them from dead soldiers?”

  Lance exhaled slowly and nodded. “We’ll need sidearms too, with bullets.”

  Pierre held his gaze a moment longer. “Then it shall be done.”

  24

  Dardilly, France

  For the first two nights after the Boulier sisters had left their father, they traveled on back roads with their Uncle Claude, sometimes with people they did not know, and slept in cellars and barns during the day. Then, having cleared the southern line of the German advance, they moved more openly and rapidly, avoiding the mass of people heading south.

  Amélie bore a hollow sensation of having abandoned Ferrand. Chantal sometimes seemed barely conscious, taking little interest in her surroundings or the goings-on of other people, sitting in submissive resignation as they rumbled along in vehicles, lapsing into dazed half-sleep when they were not traveling. Always, she clutched the frame of the family photo. Amélie watched over her worriedly, taking care that she ate and keeping her clean and warm.

  After a week, they reached the town of Dardilly, a rural community northwest of Lyon situated among three valleys bounded by towering mountains. In spite of herself, Amélie could not help admiring the natural beauty that surrounded her, the green sweep of hillside fields and the grand vista of distant mountains.

  Then, as they drove the final few miles to their destination, she reflected on her conversation with Uncle Claude on the night of their flight from Dunkirk.

  “Where are we being taken?” she asked.

  At first, Claude had appeared not to have heard her, preoccupied either with driving through the night or the worries of his brother’s resistance efforts. Amélie repeated the question.