Silence Over Dunkerque (6 page)

There they stood, the little group of Second Wilts and the dog, looking hopefully out to sea. The cloud bank overhead at least held off the bombing planes, but the weather was cold and grim; a thick fog hung over the water, which kept the larger boats invisible from shore. A few, just a handful of small craft, were transporting troops out to the destroyers, the Channel steamers, the mine sweepers, and hospital ships in the thickness beyond.

They reached Bray-Dunes that evening, and when they got there the lines of waiting soldiers, eight abreast, stretched far into the icy ocean. Silent they stood, motionless in misery. The embarkation number S33 meant nothing in the general confusion. A naval officer knew no such number. It must be meant for the mole at Dunkerque, he observed.

“You chaps better go back down there, unless you’d like to take your chances at the end of one of these lines.”

Up and down the beach stretched the everlasting files. At the rate they were moving, the Sergeant figured his men would be weeks, not days, getting out to a ship. All the time they could hear the thunder of guns in the distance, as the Panzers kept closing the ring, drawing closer to the burning city.

Then the Sergeant, peering out to sea through the mist, noticed a curious fact. Small boats carrying men to the ships were not returned to the shore. Their crews, in haste to escape, simply clambered aboard the larger vessels and set the small ones adrift. The smaller boats floated on the incoming tide, eventually beaching, where a fight for possession invariably took place. Half a dozen craft could be seen, empty, bobbing in the gentle swell several hundred yards offshore.

An idea came to him.

Where they stood was a somewhat unfrequented part of the crowded beach. Most of the troops were in the interminable files farther along. Around stood only his detachment and the dog. Stripping to his shorts, he waded into the frigid water. It hurt his ankles.

As he went in, the dog followed. She came out a few feet, then dug in her paws and retreated, barking.

The Sergeant stepped ahead. The water was so cold that he had to dive under immediately. The chill stabbed him, numbed him, took away his breath. He dug in as hard as he could for the nearest boat. Usually the water felt warmer as he exercised; not the North Sea late in May. Faintly he could hear the bark of the Airedale from the beach.

By the time he reached the boat, he was congealed. Climbing aboard, which had seemed so simple from the shore, was difficult. The gunwale was high in the water. From the stern the boat sloped away, so it was impossible to reach the deck. He grew colder as he swam around, searching for a rope, a ladder, anything to hang on to.

There was nothing. He tried to push the boat to shore, but it was far too heavy.

Feeling his strength giving out, he reached up one hand for the gunwale and made a desperate effort. The boat tipped toward him. He lunged with all his strength, got two arms over the side. There he hung for a moment, panting. Finally, with a last pull, he yanked his body inside, and lay there exhausted.

Those short, sharp barks came clearly across the water from the beach. He sat up. The dog, tired as she was, raced up and down along the water’s edge, frantic at their separation.

He stood up and investigated the boat. It was about thirty-two feet, with a small Leyland motor, probably useless. The cabin had lockers, and there were biscuits and chocolate in them that somebody had overlooked. He turned to the engine, set the choke, pulled the starter. The motor took hold immediately. The noise of that coughing motor was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

Throwing in the clutch, he turned the wheel gently. The boat responded, moving slowly toward the beach. The barking of the dog and the cheers of his men came toward him. He could see them waving their hands.

He drew nearer. Not knowing the depth, he shut the motor off short of the beach. Suddenly he realized the sands that had been empty when he walked into the ocean were crowded with troops, who seemed to appear from nowhere. Worse, he was soon surrounded by men waist-high in water. Ugly, unshaven, hard faces stood beside the motor boat. Several held Bren guns pointed at him. Their meaning was plain.

“Hop it, chappie. This is ours!”

He looked at his men beside the water’s edge, despair on every face, then at the Bren gun muzzles, at the ruffians in British uniform, determined and relentless. There he was, alone and half naked in the boat.

Hastily he glanced about for a naval liaison officer, for a military policeman, for someone of authority to whom he could speak. Officers were nowhere visible. Only desperate, ruthless men surrounding the boat, their guns pointed at him. He started to appeal for places for his few men, when he noticed a man with a gun standing a few feet out in the water. He was holding off the Wilts on the beach.

There sat the Sergeant by the tiller, helpless and rather absurd.

“Quick now, chappie! Hop it.”

They meant business. To escape themselves they were quite prepared to shoot down a comrade. So, gently, he put his hands on the gunwale and leaped into the icy water. With a few steps he was standing beside his own men on the beach.

The dog, burrowing through the hastily collected crowd watching the scene, leaped upon him as he reached the sand.

“W
OUNDED FIRST! WOUNDED FIRST!
Get back there, you men. Stand back. The wounded go first.”

From the bridge of the destroyer beside the mole, a naval officer with a megaphone in one hand gave orders to the troops trying to board.

Somehow the Sergeant had bullied and commanded those exhausted men to trudge back the six miles of sand to Dunkerque, where, so they were assured, a destroyer was taking off all casual troops. Now they felt that burning sensation behind the eyes, which comes from lack of sleep, and the utter weariness, which made every step seem like lifting a hundred pounds. Through the long night they had stumbled slowly along the beach, each one holding the shoulder of the man in front so as not to lose touch. Once they passed an officer standing waist-deep in water, signaling with a torch when a boat came in, so none would be upset by the rush of men. When he flashed, twenty men stepped forward. The Sergeant tried to get his men aboard, but was told to go down to the Dunkerque mole. As dawn broke, they reached the burning town, its shattered pier sticking out into the water. Sure enough, a destroyer was waiting.

Although they could hardly believe it, the ship had steam up and was apparently soon leaving. There it was before them, not cruising slowly out to sea, but close at hand beside the mole. The mole itself was smashed and broken by bombs and by recent shelling, for the Germans were getting into the outskirts of town, but planking had been laid across the damaged parts, and the wounded were even then being carried aboard the waiting vessel. It was a happy and hopeful sight after those long hours of danger, to see that long, slim, graceful ship, reassuring with its powerful armament pointing toward the sky, guns of all kinds fore and aft. On the bow was its number, L 91. The Sergeant knew it was H.M.S.
Wakeful.

From the tail of the waiting lines on the beach the Sergeant and his little band could watch the wounded taken aboard, a process that seemed everlasting. All the while continual orders came down from the officer with the megaphone leaning over the bridge.

“Stand back there, you men, stand back! Wounded first. The wounded embark first. Anyone attempting to get aboard before the wounded will be shot immediately. Wounded come on first.”

As they stood watching, there was a shout, a land of commotion in the files, the noise of men’s voices, and a soldier, evidently crazed by the incessant bombing, left his place in line, unable to hold out any longer. Waving his arms and shouting, he dashed onto the pier, past the stretcher-bearers with their burdens, and leaping from plank to plank, raced for the destroyer. As he reached it, he started to jump from the pier to the deck of the ship, despite the restraining arms of several officers standing alongside.

Shaking them off, he leaped into the air. A single shot rang out. The soldier toppled over backward into the water, clutching his stomach. Around his body the ocean crimsoned rapidly. Above, the voice of the naval officer continued in the same monotonous tone.

“Walking wounded only. Walking wounded next aboard. Anyone else embarking will be shot immediately. Walking wounded next....”

It grew lighter, and after a while the mist vanished. Now the wounded were all aboard, and the long lines of troops stretching back up the wide beach began to move. Inch by inch, foot by foot, with a slowness that for the Sergeant and his men was almost unendurable, they edged down toward the cracked masonry of the mole, to safety, to freedom, to the warship, and the open sea. And to home and England waiting beyond.

As they moved forward the dog moved with them. Thinking about his men and himself, the Sergeant had forgotten the Airedale, who had never left his heels through the long dark night. Although many small, nondescript French dogs peered out here and there in the line from a soldier’s knapsack or from the top of a burlap sack carried over a man’s shoulder, this dog, he knew, would never be allowed on that destroyer. Not if she were the dog of the Commander in Chief.

Yet there she was at his heels, trusting, confident, as only a pet can be, a dog that obviously had known only love and affection all her life, a family dog, not a hunting dog, gentle and understanding, an animal for children, big, clumsy, affectionate. And helpless. What to do?

There was time to take her back up the beach in the dunes, shoot her with his revolver, and resume his place in line. The Sergeant had proved himself a brave man those weeks, yet he was not brave enough for this task. That soldier, who never questioned an order or ever failed in his duty under fire, could not obey the command his common sense gave him. One glance down at her trustful brown eyes, looking up at him with confidence, was sufficient to kill reason and common sense. She was too near him, too much a part of him. Together, side by side, they had endured the machine-gunning from the low-flying planes, fought through the suffocating smoke of the burning town, crouched closely on the sands at Bray-Dunes as the 155 mm. shells from the German batteries at Nieuwport sputtered and burst around them.

Kill her he could not.

Ever so slowly at first, then faster, the troops urged on by the destroyer officers moved toward the pier. Next, under orders they broke into a tired trot along the stone mole, jumping upon the planks joining the destroyed portions. Always the Airedale kept close to the heels of the Sergeant. Soon the head of the line was jumping onto the decks of the destroyer.

“Can’t take that dog, Sergeant! No dogs allowed on board,” a naval officer yelled at him.

His men were leaping down one by one, Fingers last of all. The Sergeant followed and naturally the dog followed him. She recognized no naval officer’s right to separate her from someone she loved.

“Toss her back,” said the officer in blue uniform to a sailor. “Heave her back up there.”

Two husky naval ratings reached for her as she scrambled after the Sergeant, who was pushed over to the port side of the ship by the swarm of men coming aboard after him. One sailor caught her by the tail. She let out a piteous yelp. Over his shoulder the Sergeant saw the sailors grab her and half shove, half throw her up to the pier above. He turned away, trying to lose himself in that mass of packed troops on deck.

Immediately from above came piercing, protesting barks, hoarse and frantic. They cut into the Sergeant’s heart. War is for madmen, not for children and animals, he thought.

She raced along the pier above, back and forth, her furiously pleading barks ringing in his ears. Had she not been so close, depended on him so much, most of all had she not been so like his Candy in Dover, he would not have ached as he did that moment. Cursing himself for lacking the courage to shoot the dog upon the beach, he tried to turn away.

Destroyers didn’t tie to the mole, so as to be able to leave quickly in case of a bombing raid, and sailors at each end held the ship to the pier with hooks, just one rope tied loosely around a bollard. There were few men to come aboard now, and he knew the destroyer was ready to leave. Then he realized the dog’s barking had ceased. Knowing her, he felt sure she had a plan.

Gently, slowly, the engines shuddered, turned over, took hold, and the ship began to edge slightly away from the pier. The two naval officers had left the gangplank, the sailors were ready to shove it away. From the mole an officer in khaki called out, “Fourth Division... anyone from the Fourth Division....”

That dog, with her dog’s perception, had seen the naval officers leave the ship’s side. She ran back and forth, silent, watching. The Sergeant stood waiting, watching her.

Above, on the mole, the Airedale gathered speed, raced along beside the ship, and with a sudden burst of energy leaped from the pier over the heads of the men lining the rails. She hit a soldier in the back and sent him knocking against his comrades. He turned, angry, ready to fight, but by this time she had twisted and edged through the crowd to find her Sergeant.

“Down, girl... down... here... get down... down...” he said, as she attempted to leap up on him.

The engines below were revolving, the ship slowly separating from the pier. One or two stragglers rushed out and jumped into the arms of the men on deck. The destroyer gathered momentum. Soon it was edging away from the dock, backing into the Channel, avoiding the wrecks in the harbor, spars and masts showing where ships had been bombed by the Luftwaffe.

The sun had come out, the early morning light of a beautiful summer day shed a kind of magic over the waters. The sea was flat, the thick black smoke from the burning refinery made a lovely pattern along the shore line. That smoke, reaching to the heavens, was the smoke Mrs. Williams and the twins had been watching earlier from the Shakespeare Cliff in Dover.

They were going home. At last. They were going home, all of them, even the dog.