Dunkirk Crescendo

by Bodie Thoene

  “Listen to me! Madame Hilaire—the Anteater! She sucked us out the window of the Garlic, but . . . she is afraid of the siren!”

  “Je comprends, Jerome, But now—”

  “Listen!” Jerome interrupted again. “When the siren goes, it is the only sound Madame Hilaire can hear. She is frightened of it. She and the Thief run away to the shelter, because they are afraid of the bombs from the Boche that might drop on the Garlic. But there they stay all night, and we all get on the Garlic and . . .”

  “The boat. You mean . . . the boat? Who told you this?” The response of Rose was no longer patronizing, no longer soothing.

  “Oui, Madame Rose. The Voice! I have heard it! We must get up now and be ready for the air-raid siren!”

  ***

  Rose Smith was a sailor and the daughter of a sailor. How many times as a girl had she shoved off from the California coast to sail to Pelican Cove for a picnic on Santa Cruz Island?

  What was the wide and gentle River Seine compared to Pacific winds and Channel currents and dolphins jumping in a bow wave?

  It all made perfect sense, Rose said to Josie.

  Of course God did not answer their transportation prayer with automobiles, because there was only one driver. God did not send a zeppelin or the Pan Am clipper, because no one knew how to fly.

  But Rose could handle a boat. It was a perfectly logical miracle—a miracle even though it was logical.

  They were all ready when the air-raid siren wailed into the blackness of the Paris night. The doors of the carriage gates swung back. Guided by the five brothers, Jerome, and a very intense little rat, the wheels of the chairs clattered over the cobblestones. A baby, bundles, little girls, and little boys hurried across the deserted Place St. Michel as the shrieking alert warned anyone left in Paris to take cover.

  Then the high, long whine stopped. There was a sudden and eerie silence as the nineteen souls in need of a miracle turned onto Quai des Grand Augustins. Footsteps and panting breaths were loud in their ears as they rushed past the locked boxes of the booksellers’ stalls. Only the stars illuminated the dark surface of the Seine. Paris seemed like a ghost town.

  And then in the distance came the deep bass drone of the Dornier engines approaching from the east. Far beyond the heart of Paris searchlights popped on, throwing wide and beautiful beams of light skyward. Then the staccato cracking of antiaircraft fire was added to this terrible and wonderful concerto. The whistle of bombs followed, then the drumroll of explosions as the Renault factory exploded to create a false dawn on the far horizon.

  “Do not look back,” Rose warned the troop. Heads snapped forward as if by looking they would turn to salt like the wife of Lot fleeing the destruction of Sodom.

  The statue of King Henri on Pont Neuf glowed a hellish orange in the reflected light. The surface of the Seine seemed to be on fire. The crack of antiaircraft guns rolled toward them. Great pillars of light swept above their heads, and the crescendo of battle increased all around.

  Steep stone steps led down to Quai de Conti, where the Garlic was moored. With the help of the five brothers, Rose, Josie, and Lewinski carried the wheelchairs down one at a time as the air trembled and the sound of battle rolled over them like thunder. Marie guided Juliette down the hatch. Jerome carried baby Yacov into the hold and deposited him inside a coil of thick rope. Yacov wailed a protest, but he was safe unless the boat took a hit.

  The Dorniers were directly overhead! Across the river a building on the Right Bank exploded in a geyser of flame and debris. Eardrums compressed painfully.

  Jerome clambered belowdecks and cranked the engine. A true miracle! It started willingly.

  Taking the helm, Rose called for the lines to be cast off.

  They had recaptured the Garlic!

  Jerome, Papillon on his shoulder, struck a Napoleonic pose at the bow as the péniche shuddered, coughed, and slipped away from the quai to glide away from the ancient stones of Pont Neuf.

  29

  A Radical Twist

  At dawn the following morning Andre noted with satisfaction that another day of cloud cover would keep the Luftwaffe at bay. The tide was out, and at Dunkirk Harbor that meant a drop of fifteen feet. There were not enough ladders to accommodate the queue and keep the embarkation moving, so Andre walked halfway down the column and singled out a group of French infantrymen.

  “Take those axes,” he said, pointing out a bin of firefighting equipment on the quai. “I want you to chop down every telegraph pole you can find in thirty minutes and bring them back here. Bring the wire too.”

  “What’s in it for us?” a poilu grumbled.

  “You will go to the head of the line,” Andre promised.

  Soon the west end of Dunkirk Harbor rang with the sound of axes, as if it were a lumber camp. As each pair of men returned with a pole, one end was placed on the deck of a waiting ship. The top was secured to the pilings of the jetty with a loop of wire.

  Beginning with the ax wielders, the row of evacuees moved twice as fast. The poilus slid down to the decks below, each taking a turn at the bottom steadying the device for the next man.

  Andre heard a whistling noise, and a fountain of water geysered up. There were still no planes overhead in the dark cloud mass. No Stukas screamed toward the docks, no Heinkels clustered to drop their payloads. What had caused the explosion?

  It took a second blast that turned a wooden-hulled trawler into matchsticks before Andre figured it out: These were the incoming shells of the German artillery just west of the city. The Wehrmacht advance had indeed crept close enough to bombard the harbor. The respite from attack was over.

  “Hurry!” Andre demanded. “Move, move!”

  Another shell hit the center of the causeway. A dozen men were flung into the water. A gap in the mole ten feet wide now opened above the swirling water.

  Once again Andre organized a working party. “Bring back all the planks you can find. Drag them out of the rubble or chop them loose from buildings if you have to. Collect any doors you find also . . . anything to bridge the gap!”

  Through the shelling the line kept inching forward. All the men realized that no safety would be found by turning back. The only hope lay in escaping from the punished ruins of Dunkirk altogether.

  When the artillery barrage stopped after an hour, Andre found that he could continue directing traffic and still think about other things. It wasn’t that good a discovery. He began to worry about Juliette and Josie. And through the day, something else nagged at the back of his mind.

  In the afternoon, he was relieved by the First Army colonel who had helped organize the withdrawal. “You have done a magnificent job, Chardon. Why the Boche gave us this chance, we may never know. Heaven help those on the receiving end of the panzers now. I would rather be here than face what they are facing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you not heard? Some of the panzers have turned around after hammering Lille. They are now facing south, ready to invade the rest of France.”

  There it was, out in the open at last. Escaping from Dunkirk was not the final answer; the war still continued. Even if Andre lived to flee to England, his war was not done. The secret of Enigma was still vital; Lewinski had to be rescued before Paris was surrounded.

  Andre would have to leave with General Gort, if only to return at once to Paris for a different sort of evacuation. The future of France might depend on it.

  ***

  It took three tries for David Meyer and Badger Cross to actually enter the fortifications of Dunkirk after they reached the city. The first two approaches had been heavily damaged by German bombs, and the bridges over which the roads passed had been knocked out. The highways were blocked with burning vehicles and the wreckage of earlier attacks.

  In contrast to the unorganized, moblike nature of the retreat toward the coast, the aspect of the third entry was businesslike. Despite the brown haze and the spreading black cloud from the burning oil tanks, the entrance
had an orderly, confident appearance. The perimeter was strung with miles of barbed wire, and the gate was flanked by a pair of sandbagged machine-gun nests.

  But giving the lie to this stalwart bearing was a steady stream of civilians who were leaving the city against the flow of British soldiers. To David, the whole scene had an air of unreality, like the fragments of a symbolic but confusing dream. A military policeman stopped all incoming groups and directed the senior officer of each footsore band to the building housing the embarkation officer.

  When David and Badger reached the roadblock, the police sergeant looked them over and hummed to himself. “We have no regular RAF organization here. My advice to you is to ask embarkation if you can hook on to another regiment. Straight ahead, second left. Big brick building with a queue of men straight out the door, I should imagine. Good luck.”

  The line waiting for the officer in charge of the evacuation not only ran out the door but halfway down the block. There was much shuffling in place and speculation about what was happening, but no real forward progress. It was like being back in school and being told to line up without being told why.

  After standing for two hours, David saw a major come out and walk down the row of men. Every dozen paces he stopped and repeated the same message, like a schoolmaster instructing new pupils in the rules of behavior. “The embarkation officer cannot possibly get to you in the next four or five hours. I suggest that you stay close about this area but come back this afternoon.”

  “What about rations? medical care?” David asked.

  The major shrugged. “Catch as catch can, I suppose. Off you go. Jerry has been pounding us pretty regular, so you don’t want to be caught out in the street.”

  “Flaming army,” Cross muttered as David led him away toward a hotel at the end of the block. “Exactly why I joined the air force!”

  A portly Belgian man with a ring of keys that appeared to weigh five pounds stood outside an inn named the Pelican. Having located the one key he sought, he locked the front door and turned to leave.

  David stopped him. “Is it possible to get a meal, or a room, or both?”

  The man shook his head with a chuckle, jingling the cluster of keys like sleigh bells. Then he paused and, as if the absurdity of the request was too great to stand, guffawed. He laughed until tears came, then pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his eyes. “There is no one left. The cook, the maids, the desk clerk. All have gone. And now I am leaving, too.”

  “Can’t we at least buy some food from you?”

  The Pelican’s proprietor gave a negative reply, then stopped and stared at the increasing number of soldiers wandering up and down the street. He turned, studied the glass panels of the door, and laughed again. “What am I thinking?” he said, striking his forehead with his palm. “Go in, gentlemen, and thank you for your courtesy. Make free with what you find . . . better you than the Boche. Bonne chance. Good luck!” With that he unlocked the door again and rode off on a bicycle toward the highway.

  ***

  The men boarding Intrepid along Dunkirk jetty double-timed over the plank walkway and swung smartly aboard the destroyer. Trevor smiled as he supervised the loading; it was going so well that they might shave another thirty minutes from the next round-trip.

  It was almost time to cast off. Eight rows of men were crammed into the deck space between the rail and the ship’s superstructure. Stained and bestubbled, they all still wore their helmets and sported smiles of relief.

  Trevor signaled the bridge to get under way, and the drum of Intrepid’s engines increased in pitch. The lines were dropped, and the destroyer swung away from the mole.

  Glancing around the deck, Trevor noted an exchange between the lookout from his perch on the funnel and the sailor manning the multibarreled Bofors gun just below. The lookout was pointing upward. A single twin-engined shape cruised slowly past, not attacking or hurrying, but loafing along as if on a tour of inspection. A reconnaissance mission, without a doubt. Trevor knew exactly what would get reported:

  Weather clearing. Many men and ships concentrated along jetties. No enemy fighter opposition. Very little antiaircraft fire.

  Silently Trevor urged his ship to greater speed—to get clear of the mass of boats moving around the evacuation area, to get out where there was room to maneuver. But it was already too late. Winging in from half the points of the compass was wave after wave of German bombers—Dorniers and Stukas, even some Trevor did not recognize.

  The alarm gong pealed, and the smiles froze on the faces of the evacuees. The Bofors gunner tilted his weapon skyward, and its rhythmic pounding tore away the last sense of the day’s haven from attack.

  Clear of the harbor mouth, Intrepid began a series of high-speed turns, designed to make her harder to hit. Not so lucky were the vessels still berthed at the mole. The Grenade took a hit aft, and another bomb struck a fuel tank. The ship burst into flames. The Calvi, a trawler, received a bomb amidships and sank right beside the other two boats to which she was still tied.

  Intrepid’s antiaircraft fire was weaving a curtain of black puffs of explosions in the sky over her. A plunging Stuka released its load of destruction, missing the prow of the destroyer by a scant hundred yards. The dive-bomber pilot then returned to his chosen prey, machine guns blazing.

  As if sensing what would happen, Trevor was already moving forward toward the antiaircraft position. He was close enough to be spattered with blood when the Bofors gunner was ripped up by slugs from the strafing run. Trevor grabbed the curved handles of the weapon as the dead man slid out of the harness.

  Intrepid made a tight turn away from the dive of the Stuka, which rolled and pulled up after its run. Trevor’s aim led the German plane as it climbed, painting a ladder of black smudges of flak directly in its path.

  No more than five seconds of this duel took place before the dive-bomber and the shell bursts tried to occupy the same space. The tail of the plane shattered, and it flipped over in the air and fell that way. The fractured canopy of the cockpit led the plunge into the sea.

  Captain Vian subscribed to the theory that lightning never struck twice in the same spot. As bomber after bomber unloaded sticks of explosives, Vian ordered the destroyer steered toward each towering fountain of water that erupted.

  A bomb burst directly alongside Intrepid as she made yet another radical twist. It was a miss, but shrapnel from the casing showered the deck with steel splinters. Forty men in the tightly packed front rank were wounded or killed, unknowingly protecting those behind them.

  ***

  There were no provisions remaining in the kitchen of the Hotel Pelican. Unwashed dishes were stacked in the sink. A half-full bottle of wine sat on the counter beside the enormous old-fashioned gas stove.

  David took a whiff of the bottle, sipped the contents gingerly, then passed it to Badger. “Go easy. That may be all we get for a while.”

  Badger tasted the sour stuff and shuddered. “Why is it the Frogs can’t brew a decent ale? What I’d give for a pint of Newcastle Brown and a ploughman’s lunch.”

  Badger had been conjuring visions of food for days. Strawberries and cream for his birthday. Steak-and-kidney pie at The Green Man pub. A pint of beer. Scones. Marmalade. He spoke of common fare with the nostalgia of a condemned man thinking of his last meal before being hanged. Badger had stopped believing that he would ever touch the shores of England again. The lifelong tradition of strawberries on his birthday was sure to be broken. Badger was convinced that this was the omen of his impending death. So strong was this morbid conviction that David began to believe it as well.

  Strawberries likewise had become an obsession for David. As Badger downed the wine and spoke wistfully of home, David tore through the cupboards, praying that even a spoonful of strawberries remained in the bottom of a pot of jam somewhere. No luck.

  David stared dejectedly at an empty hutch. On the top shelf behind a pewter teapot he spotted what appeared to be the molding of a door.
“Hold on, Badger.” David repositioned him beside the stove. “I think I’ve found something.”

  At that, he tipped the hutch forward, sending it crashing down across the flagstones. Bits of pottery shattered and sprayed the room like shrapnel.

  Badger jumped and shouted, thinking that a bomb had fallen.

  Instead there was a door opening to a flight of steps that led down to the cellar. After a moment’s exploration, David returned and led Badger into the basement pantry.

  A round of cheese was soon divided by David’s jackknife, and this was washed down with the remains of the red wine. Cross sat on a sack of onions. Though awkward with his gauze-wrapped hands, he ate and drank while David continued examining the cupboards and wine racks. Champagne. White wines with German labels. Napoleon brandies. Red Bordeaux of fantastic vintages. But all of this seemed of small consequence compared to the absence of strawberries.

  There was, however, one crate containing tins of sardines. David stuffed his pockets full and snatched two bottles of brandy off the shelf. His arm was throbbing. This seemed the most logical medication for his pain.

  “No strawberries, Badger. But guess what I found—”

  Badger’s guess was interrupted by the arrival of twenty dusty soldiers who gratefully tramped into the cellar as if they had located the Promised Land. David shoved his discovery into his tunic.

  “’Scuse us for barging in, mates,” said a corporal, “but the Hun is fixing to paste Dunkirk right good and proper. We was hunting a good place to go to ground, and it looks like we got it. Care to share your provisions?”

  The first bombs rained down on the city before the corporal and his men had settled themselves. But with an elaborate air of unconcern, the noncom knocked the tops off of twenty-one champagne bottles. As the earth rolled, the beams creaked, and dirt filtered down from the floor above, the corporal proposed a toast. “Your very good health.”