Silence Over Dunkerque (17 page)

“I’d blow his brains out if it was me. Where d’you suppose he hid that knife on us?” And he reached for the knife beside his leg.

“In the side of his flying boot. I saw him reach, but he was on me before I could slug him. Well trained, these Germans, I must say.” He leaned over the dog, still growling, her paws on the gunwale. “Good job, Candy, you saved us that time, lassie. Good thing we brought you along, too. He might have knocked me out, grabbed the gun, and invited us to row him back to France.”

“The bloody swine. I’ve a mind to let him swim for it. Serve him right, too.”

Already the German in his heavy flying suit was having trouble keeping afloat. There was fear in his eyes as he watched the men debate his fate.

“Can’t do that, Fingers. He’d soon drown if we left him. Besides, he has a duty to escape same as we have. Wouldn’t we have killed a German sentry over there to get away? Of course. We’d have tried the same thing. Anyhow, I intend to be rowed into Dover Harbor by a German officer, and land with a prisoner of war. Something to remember the trip by, eh?”

They leaned over together and managed to get the exhausted German aboard. The Sergeant tossed the knife into the water and kept the pistol handy. Once the German was seated with the oar in his hand, the Sergeant fondled the Luger from the seat astern.

“Now, my friend, just for that, you’ll do all the rowing, not half. It will take us a lot longer, but maybe it will take some of the fight out of you, too. Anyhow, it will be a pleasure for a British sergeant to be rowed ashore by a German Luftwaffe major.”

Naturally the enemy flyer hadn’t the least idea what he meant. So the Sergeant pointed to the other oar and said in a tone of command that was unmistakable, “Get a move on, mister.”

The flyer, passive, subdued, thankful to be still alive, sat dripping on the bench as Fingers moved to the stern beside the Sergeant. There was a rent in the German’s trousers, and blood was oozing slowly from a wound in his side. He glanced down at it, then at the two facing him.

“We’ll fix that on arrival, my friend. Sooner you get us to Dover Harbor, better for all concerned.
Verstehe?”

He understood. Best of all he understood the Luger and the tone of the Sergeant’s voice, the tone of a man used to giving orders and being obeyed. With a look of hatred, he picked up both oars and went to work. At their feet in the stern, the Airedale sat watching, intense, growling at the German officer.

The Sergeant leaned back. He found he was trembling all over. It had been a near thing, a very near thing, but they were all right now. His feet at this moment touched something underneath their seat. He picked it up. It was a carefully tied package, wrapped in newspaper.

“Time for breakfast. Why not have some food? Too bad we’ve only enough for the two of us and the dog.”

T
HERE WERE THREE HOURS
of rough, tough handling for the German major before the Airedale rose, tail wagging, and began to sniff the land smells. For her it was an adventure in a strange country. Yet so long as she stayed with the Sergeant she was content.

They began to make the Dover breakwater. The hands of the German were now raw and bloody like everyone else’s in the dory. Already they had been hailed by a destroyer flotilla moving seaward and by a patrol of corvettes returning from a night sweep. Finally, near port, they were overtaken by a convoy with escort ships. But the Sergeant waved them all off. He wanted to return with help from no one but their prisoner.

There it was before them. Dover! The castle high on the hill, where it had stood since
A.D.
50, was said to be the oldest building in England. There were many balloons flying overhead, but no obvious destruction to town or harbor installations. After nine months of war, three weeks of fighting, and several more escaping from Dunkerque, Sergeant Williams was returning to Dover. Best of all, he was returning with a German officer as his prisoner.

Signal flags waggled furiously from a standard at the end of the Admiralty Pier. As they reached hailing distance, a naval officer, followed by a squad of marines with Bren guns, came out to the end of the jetty. The guns were pointed ominously down at them. It was, thought the Sergeant, a curious kind of welcome committee and a strange reception home. However, he realized they both appeared to be French fishermen, with a German in uniform rowing them painfully up to the pier, so obviously they were suspect. The naval officer yelled down through a megaphone, saying something he did not understand.

As the dory drew in close, the Sergeant rose, saluted, and called up, “Sergeant Williams and Private Brown, Second Wilts, escaping from France,
sir,
with a German prisoner.”

The officer above peered down at them. Then a marine descended a narrow flight of steps cut into the masonry, while the others above, the machine guns still pointed toward the dory, stood ready. As they came in, the Sergeant went forward and took the painter.

“Here, mate, give us a hand,” he said, tossing the rope to the marine. “And look after this chap. We picked him up swimming in the Channel last night, and he has a nasty wound in his side.”

When they finally reached the top, the officer lined them up, even the exhausted German, faint and weak from loss of blood. They were a strange trio—the flyer in a smart Luftwaffe uniform, between two French fishermen in smocks and greasy coveralls, with berets on their heads, and wearing wooden sabots. The naval lieutenant accepted the Luger from the Sergeant and listened to his story. He looked with attention at their army pay books, which each man had concealed in an inner pocket.

“I’m sure you chaps are perfectly all right, but you must go through Security; everyone does, British or foreign. Corporal, march that officer under guard to the hospital immediately.”

So, clattering along the stone pier in their sabots, closely followed by the Airedale, the strange pair were taken to the Security Office.

Two hours later, after a bath and a shave, clad in new Army-issue boots and uniforms, the two soldiers strode up the streets of Dover, the dog as usual at the heels of the Sergeant. With a thirty-day leave in their hands, they went past the sentries at the gates and so into the town, where Fingers was to spend the night with the Sergeant before taking the London train.

Big posters on the walls greeted them:
In Case of Invasion, Stay Put.

“They’re not going to have the mess on the roads they had over in France.”

“That’s certain,” replied the Sergeant. “Folks will have to stay home and take it.”

Along Stansgate Street, to Biggin Street, then up St. Martin’s Hill. Free men, they were, walking like it, too, not slouching past in queer French costumes, unable to look anyone in the face or tell friend from foe. They strode along, heads up, hearts rejoicing. Even the dog, interested in the new smells and strange surroundings, seemed to feel their lack of anxiety. She knew the pressure load was off, so she stayed less close to the heels of the Sergeant and sniffed at the strange dogs, at the odors, on the way.

It was different from France. There, defeat and occupation. Here, resoluteness and determination. In fact, never had England seemed so wonderful to the Sergeant, so familiar, as on that sunny July morning. The shops on the streets, the names and places he had known since a boy, even the traffic policemen, holding up white-gauntleted arms on the corners, were solid and reassuring.

On the Folkestone Road, the Williams twins mounted their bikes. Despite what they had seen, they still hoped their father’s ability and courage would get him out of the disaster at Dunkerque. So they went downhill that morning to find out at the docks whether any casuals had reported in during the night. Coasting along, they reached St. Martin’s Hill, when suddenly Ricky saw a familiar figure on the sidewalk across the street. His bike squealed loudly as he slowed up.

“Ronny! Look! Over there, just ahead on the other side.”

The boys drew up beside the curb. It was an Airedale.

“Candy!” shrieked Ronny, without thinking. It was an involuntary cry, because he knew it wasn’t his dog.

At that exact moment, the animal, who had been sniffing the new smells along the sides of the stores, suddenly lost the Sergeant momentarily in the throng of passers-by—the soldiers who were strolling along off duty, the women with market bags, holding their kids by the hand. Candy heard her name being called across the street and, bewildered by the crowd, looked around to find the Sergeant. Then, not seeing him, she plunged into the traffic.

The boys sat on their bikes, openmouthed, watching. “Candy!” shouted Ronny again. He felt sure she would be hit and killed by some passing car. “Here, Candy!” he shouted, as she worked toward them. Obviously it couldn’t be Candy. And yet....

Dodging ancient taxis, missing by inches an army lorry that was careening down the road, almost upsetting an elderly lady on an old bicycle with a basket of food strapped to its handle bars, she ducked, stopped short, twisted, and edged toward them through the traffic. Finally she reached their side, her tail wagging violently.

It wasn’t Candy. Of course not—it couldn’t be. Yet there she was, jumping up and down, responding to her name. Ronny leaned over toward her as she stood on the curb at his side and, extending his arm, he snapped his fingers.

“Shake hands, Candy, shake hands.”

Sure enough, she responded as always, her tail thumping, her left paw rising to meet his outstretched hand.

Then he looked around and across the street. A tall figure in the freshly pressed uniform of a sergeant—thin, gaunt, yet familiar—was walking toward them. With authority he slowed the traffic by holding up the palm of his hand. Slowly he came toward the boys and the dog on the other curb.

Sergeant Edward Henry George Williams, of the Second Battalion, the Wiltshire Regiment, was home at last.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1940, renewed 1968 by Lucy R. Tunis

cover design by Milan Bozic

978-1-4532-2117-4

This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media

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