Dunkirk Crescendo (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  The crump of bombs falling in the distance joined the clamor of the alert. The bass-voiced bells of the cathedral across the park were harmonized by the tenor accent of those at the Church of St. Jacques around the corner.

  Mac was already under the table, cradling his precious stack of Eva’s letters. “Get down!” he urged the obese man who was still standing, cursing the waiter, and mopping his trousers with his napkin. Other early diners appeared to be more concerned with looking foolish than being protected.

  “Surely this hotel cannot be threatened,” remarked a tall, aristocratic woman who had not budged from her tea. She sounded as though the Germans had a better sense of social propriety than to bomb the second-best hotel in Brussels.

  “Get down!” Mac said again as he crawled away from the windows and toward the kitchen entrance. “The Boche may be hitting the airport, but their aim is not always perfect!”

  As if to punctuate his words, the antiaircraft guns on top of the nearby Palais du Comte began their rhythmic pulse. A second later the drone of airplanes was heard and then the whistle of bombs.

  The first explosion in the downtown area hit a building only three blocks away. The sound of the detonation was followed by a rushing wind, and the plate glass facing the blast blew in. Shards from the broken windows scattered across the dining-room floor, and the concussion knocked down an entire shelf of stemware with a crash that was the loudest noise of all.

  Mac scooted across the tile and into the kitchen, where he discovered stairs leading down to a basement pantry. He sprinted to the shelter, finding it already populated with the cook, waiters, and dishwashers. Right behind Mac came the heavy man, the society woman, and the rest of the breakfast guests.

  “I hope you turned off the stove,” Mac said to the cook. “I do not want you to burn my chop.” Then addressing the assembled group he added, “Ladies and gentlemen, say good-bye to the Phony War.”

  ***

  Was it a nightmare? Once again the too-familiar dreams of Warsaw returned to trouble Josie’s sleep. She struggled against the images of carnage; then she sat bolt upright in her bed, eyes wide.

  It was not the drone of Heinkel engines that tore her from a sound sleep at the French Embassy in Brussels but the wail of little Yacov Lubetkin. This was no dream!

  Like Josie, the baby had heard the rumbling before. It was followed by the undulating scream of air-raid sirens and the distant whine as a stick of bombs was released. Finally the dull crumps rattled the windows and jingled the prisms on the lamp shade like sleigh bells.

  Juliette, asleep on a little bed on the far side of the room, miraculously did not stir. Josie grabbed Yacov and held him close to her. In spite of the clamor in the streets, she sat on the edge of the bed and rocked him in an attempt to calm him. Did he feel her trembling?

  Shouts of other occupants of the embassy sounded up and down the corridor. She could hear the patter of bare feet on the polished wood floors.

  “L’Allemand attaque!The Germans are attacking!”

  There followed a light, yet frantic, knock at her door. Paralyzed, she could not force herself to answer or call out. Yacov, red-faced, was blue about the lips because the force of his sobs kept him from drawing a deep breath. He pushed against her as if in instinct of flight. To hide. To shut out the terrible sounds! What must this tiny person have witnessed in Poland?

  He would not be comforted. Juliette did not wake up. Unable to move, Josie sat with the baby in her arms.

  A long, long whistle and a deafening explosion nearly shook the windows from the frames. The knocking was drowned out. The door flew open. Andre, barefoot and with only his trousers on, stumbled in as plaster dust fell from the ceiling. He picked up Juliette as a bomb pierced the roof of a three-story building across the park. The walls puffed out, hung in midair for an instant, then spewed glass and wood and stone and people into the manicured lawn of the little park.

  Juliette screamed and buried her face in Andre’s neck. He grabbed Josie by the arm and jerked her to her feet. “To the cellar!” he shouted over the roar of Heinkels and explosions.

  Then Josie’s every nerve awakened. She grabbed her robe and dashed out the door with Andre as the bedroom window shattered from the force of a bomb at the center of the block. They reached the cellar and slammed the door shut.

  The smoke and the terrified cries of the servant girls were all something Josie remembered too well. It was all happening again, she thought as the masonry walls of the cellar cracked and swayed, and a curtain of dust covered the crouched occupants.

  “The war is finally here!” A pale, dark-eyed secretary laughed hysterically. “The waiting is finished!”

  ***

  It was eight in the morning, and the leading elements of Seventh Panzer were already fifteen miles inside Belgium. The resistance had not been light; it had been nonexistent. Despite the enormous buildup of German forces, or perhaps because of it, the expected opposition by the Belgian troops had failed to materialize.

  Horst stood in the hatch of his Kfz 231—a fast, agile, six-wheeled armored car. The morning sun was warm on the back of his neck and the day had a pleasant feel. Below him the radio crackled to life, and a moment later Sergeant Fiske called up to him, “Major, Captain Grühn reports a group of men with weapons at the highway intersection in Pepinster, about a half mile from his present position. He wants to know if he should open fire.”

  “Ask him if the men have bicycles.”

  Fiske knew better than to dispute his commander’s questions, no matter how odd they might sound. He relayed the inquiry, then said, “Grühn says yes, all have bicycles.”

  “Tell him to advance without firing—cautiously, of course. If the cyclists neither shoot nor flee, then they are ours.”

  So this much of the plan had worked completely. For several days before the launch of the invasion force, groups of German “tourists” had cycled peacefully into Luxembourg, Holland, and here in Belgium. Since dawn this morning they had been holding key intersections in advance of the Panzergruppen.

  Horst saluted the infiltrators as his command vehicle rolled through Pepinster. The men threw off their civilian clothing and, now wearing Wehrmacht uniforms, stood proudly at attention. One of them waved a red Baedeker’s guidebook at Horst and grinned.

  The Belgian civilians, awakening on an ordinary market day, looked at the parade of motorcycles and armored cars with astonishment. Horst studied a group of women and children standing near a table displaying strawberries. They huddled together in a frightened knot, intimidated by the German onslaught and not knowing what to expect.

  “Pull up in the market square,” Horst ordered.

  He got on the loudspeaker and in his most authoritative tone issued an announcement: “Attention! All civilians are warned that this city is a military target. It will be bombed. You have one hour to gather your belongings and depart to the west. Do not disregard this warning; we do not wish to harm you, but leaving is your only chance for safety.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, like a frozen frame in a newsreel, then pandemonium. Mothers screamed and snatched up small children, who an instant before had been playing in the dusty street. Larger children were dragged away by their wrists or herded into houses with sharp words and slaps.

  Doors slammed shut and the street was deserted—a conjuring trick. The citizens of Pepinster began to reappear almost at once, bearing precious things and loading them into wagons and wheelbarrows.

  Sergeant Fiske tugged on Horst’s pant leg. “Begging the major’s pardon. Do we have the authority to order an air strike on a purely civilian target?”

  “No.” Horst shook his head. “But if they believe me, Fiske, and flood the roads across the border in France, preventing the Allies from counterattacking, perhaps it will save their town from being bombed for real.”

  ***

  The early morning wedding between Miss Bremmer, the English nurse from Jersey, and Jules Sully, the chemistry prof
essor, took place in the chapel of the Ecole de Cavalerie.

  Father François Perrin, the priest from the village of Lys, conducted the ceremony. The cadets provided the honor guard. Sepp, Gaston, and Raymond led the troop in a military salute.

  The marriage had the same effect, Paul Chardon thought, as some ancient royal union of children from warring nations. Here at the Ecole de Cavalerie, at least, France and England were finally friends!

  Blessed event.

  There was a lovely reception in the gardens, which were blooming with red roses. It was attended by the British Expeditionary Force medical staff from the surrounding countryside, as well as by French cavalry officers.

  Paul, surrounded by Sepp, Gaston, Raymond, and six other cadets, was discussing the possibility that there could be a negotiated peace if the Phony War rocked along many more months. All of the cadets were outraged at the thought of such a thing.

  And then came Sister Mitchell. She had not spoken three words to Paul except of necessity since that cold night in the stable some months before. She had attempted to convince Paul not to approve the marriage of Miss Bremmer and Jules Sully. She had claimed it was not fitting. Now she raised her champagne glass slightly and gave an almost Gallic shrug to indicate that he had been right and she wrong.

  It was gratifying. As she approached, the cadets murmured, bowed stiffly, and dispersed. Paul supposed that they were afraid of being rounded up to collect the dirty dishes or help the caterers distribute hors d’oeuvres.

  Paul was left to face her alone.

  “A lovely wedding, don’t you think, Captain Chardon?”

  “If one likes weddings. Which I do.” He sipped his champagne.

  “So do I.” She raised her chin as if to challenge him to dispute her.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Only a cold, unfeeling individual with antiseptic in her veins could—”

  She stopped his jibe with a hand on his sleeve. “Please, Captain. There is no person with whom I have so enjoyed conflict as you. Animosity between us has been quite . . . stimulating. However . . .”

  “I see what you mean. Something exciting to think about during the long, lonely hours in the empty and sterile CCS?”

  “Something like that.” She looked past him to where the happy couple was being congratulated by the cadets. “I was wrong. About a lot of things. I wanted to apologize.”

  “In that case”—he raised his glass in salute—“I will tell you something I wanted to say since the first moment I saw you.”

  She grimaced. “It sounds terrible.”

  “Yes. Terrible, only because you do not let anyone say it to you.”

  “Then say it.”

  “All right. You are beautiful.”

  She laughed and put her hand self-consciously to the top button of her uniform.

  “You are beautiful,” he continued, “and—” he leaned close to her and inhaled—“today you smell like Chanel.”

  “Borrowed.”

  “You should have a bottle for yourself. It is much better than camphor.”

  “I suppose I should say thank you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” She lowered her eyes shyly. “Is that all?”

  “No. Some months ago I considered asking you to dinner. But I was afraid you would inspect the kitchen of the restaurant and scrub the cook before we ate. So I did not ask.”

  “If I promise to behave myself?” A smile twinkled in her eyes.

  “Then we should be friends,” he announced. “Or we should dine together at least once to see if it is possible for one so English and one so French to remain civil for an entire evening. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case I must ask you if you possess anything to wear besides the scarlet cloak. I am a bit intimidated by it, you know.”

  Abigail Mitchell’s response was interrupted by a sudden droning overhead. All the military personnel ran outside to watch as the sky darkened with flight after flight of German bombers.

  11

  Targets of Opportunity

  The fanlight window above the door of the French Embassy lay shattered across the sidewalk as Josie and Andre loaded luggage and children into the Citroën. Juliette was frantic about her grandfather in Luxembourg. The Nazis were coming. Were they not the same men who had taken her mother away?

  Andre assured her that Monsieur Snow was likely on his way to Paris. But she must go to England and be safe and happy when he came. This comforted her. Clutching her doll tightly, she did not cry. But Josie thought there had never been such sad and knowing eyes in a child.

  Except for broken windows and the bellied-out building across the square, there was very little damage evident in the streets of Brussels. Red Cross ambulances clanged by, heading in the direction of the airport. For the moment there was no news of the North Train Station. Had it escaped the raid unharmed? Would the train to the Channel still be running?

  Josie secretly hoped that the train would be delayed or canceled altogether. She wanted to go back to Paris with Andre when he left this morning.

  But that was not to be. North Station was untouched by German bombs or stray Belgian antiaircraft fire. It resounded with the babble of confusion as panicked citizens pushed toward the green train that chuffed impatiently at the siding.

  Andre carried Juliette on his shoulders, safely above the crush. He parted the sea of bodies ahead of Josie by using a suitcase as a shield. Coming at last to the open door of a second-class car, he held other people back and jerked a frightened French poilu from his seat.

  Once Josie and her charges were safely seated, Andre gave the man a shake and threw him from the train. “The war is in the opposite direction,” Andre called harshly. “French deserters will be shot!”

  The soldier scrambled to his feet and, the instant Andre turned back to Josie, skittered off into the packed crowd.

  The train whistle shrilled. Andre stooped to kiss Josie.

  “You always were good at controlling riots in train stations.” She touched his cheek and tried to smile up at him. “The first time I ever saw you . . .”

  “Be safe. Remember I love you,” he replied, kissing her again. Then to Juliette, lodged between Josie and a hefty gray-haired woman with a green parakeet in a cage, he said, “Well, Juliette, I hope we will meet again very soon.”

  “Oui, Monsieur.” She nodded. “Maman used to say I have your eyes, Monsieur Chardon. Your eyes are so very sad when they look at me.”

  “It is only because . . .” He could hardly speak. “My eyes long to look at you always because you are so beautiful.”

  She smiled shyly at his compliment.

  “But you see, Juliette, sometimes we cannot have everything we wish. And so I am sad,” he concluded.

  The child threw her arms around his neck and embraced him. “Tell my grandpapa when you see him in Paris I am having a very exciting time. I have never been to England. Tell him I will see him soon.”

  “I will do that, ma chèrie.”

  The whistle shrilled a second time. The shout of the conductor sounded over the racket. Andre squeezed Juliette’s hand one last time, then backed out of the car and slammed the door. He watched as the train chugged slowly out of the station.

  ***

  Andre’s black Citroën rounded a curve at high speed. Blitzkrieg had released the terrors of war on the population of western Europe, but everyone experienced the horror in a little different form.

  Now that Josie and Juliette were safely headed out of harm’s way, Andre’s panic was one of failed duty. He had put his personal concerns above his obligation to France, if only briefly. Richard Lewinski was alone in Paris. Lewinski, who might hold the key to unraveling the German plans and stopping the Wehrmacht steamroller.

  Pressing harder on the accelerator, Andre raced out of Brussels toward Lys and the cavalry school. There was still one more personal duty that could not be ignored. He wanted to see Paul, to tell him that it was past time to get
the boys away.

  He was within fifteen kilometers of the town when the first flight of Heinkels went over. A squadron of twenty of the stubby, twin-engined planes passed overhead, followed by another group of twenty. Andre ignored them. He suspected that their target was in fact Armentieres, just ahead of him on the road, but there was something he could do about that. He veered to the east to take a country lane around the town, planning to regain the main highway after he had passed the zone of the bombing.

  Topping a hill, he could see smoke rising ahead, though he was still too far away to hear the thunder of the bombs. A flight of French Morane fighters streaked into view from the south, climbing to intercept the German bombers.

  Not able to help himself, since the show was right in front of him, Andre’s eyes flicked upward. His attention was drawn to the aerial combat; then he glanced quickly back to negotiate the curves of the narrow, two-lane road.

  The overhead display got more interesting by the minute. A cloud of tiny black dots that were airplanes at a very high altitude began dropping out of the sky. Suddenly the blue canopy was filled with white streaks as ME-109s engaged the Moranes.

  A French fighter, streaming black smoke, dove away from the battle. A parachute popped open, the canopy rocking as the pilot floated earthward. Two more 109s circled another Morane. A wing was torn from the French warplane, and the crippled fuselage spun crazily out of control.

  Andre’s eyes snapped back to the roadway just in time to avoid crashing into an oncoming convoy of trucks. The three-quarter-ton army vehicle in the lead was well over the center, leaving a tiny space on Andre’s side. He jerked the steering wheel hard to the right. The wheels of the Citroën dropped onto the shoulder of the road, spurting gravel from under the tires. The rear of the car fishtailed, heading toward the ditch.

  Jerking the car back to the left, Andre overcorrected the skid. For an instant it seemed that the auto would straighten out, but the sideways momentum of the slide was too much for it to hold the road.