After Dunkirk

by Lee Jackson

  “We must go,” he yelled above the roar while gesturing vigorously. “The police! Les gendarmes!”

  Pierre nodded and called to his comrades. Lance and Horton already waited in the car.

  Returning to the staging area, the men were ebullient. They entered a barn on the property amid cheers and yells.

  Kenyon quieted them. “Listen to me,” he told them. “A triumph feels great, but this is going to be a long war. You can’t celebrate out in the open. That could kill you.”

  Lance translated. The men stared, but nodded acceptance. Then they broke into quiet smiles and exchanged slaps on the back.

  “What about tomorrow night?” Pierre asked.

  “As my American cousins would say,” Lance broke in, “that’s a whole new ball game. The Germans will push harder to get here, and local authorities will watch for sabotage activity. Let’s spend tonight planning and tomorrow rehearsing your approach and escape routes. Do you have more men?”

  “Of course,” Pierre responded, “and many more coming.”

  “Good. Then early in the morning, send some out to reconnoiter the route and set up signals in case the raid needs to be aborted. You don’t want to go rolling around a curve and find a new German checkpoint. Do you have the next targets selected?”

  “They’re on the same compound, but farther down the river. The distance between tomorrow night’s targets and the fuel-tanks we hit tonight is about a kilometer, and they are bigger.”

  “How many?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  Lance whistled. “You don’t think small, do you, Pierre. You should bring more men. You need at least ten.” He explained the discussion to Kenyon.

  “They’ll operate in two-man teams,” Kenyon said. “Put each of the ones who were with us tonight with a new one. I won’t have time to check all the wiring and placement, so they’ll have to do it right the first time.”

  “We have to assume that we’ll be opposed,” Lance added, “but tomorrow night will still probably be our best opportunity for a long time.”

  After Lance had translated for Pierre and the conversation wound down, Kenyon turned to Lance with a thoughtful look. “May I speak to you privately?”

  Surprised, Lance regarded him. Gone were the vacant eyes, replaced by intelligence, sharpness. A night of sleep, good food, and a mission had done wonders for him, and he seemed to have momentarily buried his grief for his lost friend.

  The two ambled a distance away.

  “I’ll be blunt,” Kenyon began. “I don’t know what your plans are, but I’m staying here.” His no-nonsense tone indicated that his decision was final.

  “I see,” was all Lance could think to say immediately. He spread his feet apart and faced Kenyon with folded arms. “Have you thought this through? Horton and I are headed out to Spain right after this next operation.”

  “I know, and that’s why I’m telling you now.” Kenyon’s brow furrowed. “I came here to fight a war. The last order I received was, ‘every man for himself.’ That was from my commanding officer.”

  “Well, I can’t order you—”

  Kenyon broke into a laugh. “Of course, you can’t order me. What’s your rank?”

  “Sergeant.”

  “And I made staff sergeant last week.”

  Taken aback, Lance blinked. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

  “Because I was in a daze, and you were doing such a good job. Look, our country, or at least our government, seems to have abandoned us—”

  “I refuse to believe that,” Lance interrupted, his voice rising. “Did you see all those ships in the harbor, all those boats going back and forth under fire to rescue us? The same was true at all those ports we bypassed on our way here. We might lack air power, but Churchill gave us what he had.”

  Kenyon accepted Lance’s view reluctantly. “You make a good point, but right now, it’s neither here nor there.” He squinted through the half-light at the Frenchmen grouped together. “I’m just as likely to get killed trying to get out of the country, and I can do some good here. I can train these men to be effective. With the amount of dynamite they stole, we can wreak havoc on the Germans, and we can find more explosives.” His expression fell and he looked away. “Maybe then…” His head dropped and his voice broke. After a moment’s silence, he continued in a harder, anguished tone. “Maybe then my chum won’t have died in vain.”

  Planning the operation for the following night proved much more difficult. The French police patrolled in force, inhibiting surveillance. News of the previous night’s strike had spread through the countryside, but it had not been the only one. Other clusters of armed opposition had formed and carried out similar raids with varying results at the urging of the fledgling central resistance group in Marseille.

  During the course of the day, anxious citizens had called in sightings of German formations moving south, securing supply lines, fuel depots, food storage units, railroads and stations, communications centers, and other key assets.

  Pierre’s intended target was located along the Loire River on the north side of the estuary. Surveillance had established that no German forces had yet been seen in close proximity, but police presence was heavy, prodded by the Pétain government.

  “We can go by boat,” Pierre said.

  Lance and Horton kept a running translation between Kenyon and Pierre.

  “The Loire River current is strong,” Kenyon objected. “Going upstream on the return trip could be troublesome. Crossing the river would keep you exposed, and you might find a hostile reception on the other side.”

  “What if we go in by boat and out by car or truck?” Pierre asked. “We can have our partisans waiting on the far side of the depot to pick us up.” He produced a sketch map.

  “That looks like a long quay,” Horton interjected. “And there’s no cover or concealment.” He studied the sketch. “What’s the distance from the river to the first target? Is that an open field?”

  “About half a kilometer,” Pierre replied. “And yes, that’s an open field.”

  “How far from the first target to the last one?”

  Pierre exhaled. “Another kilometer. Our drivers can meet us on an east-west road past the most northern fuel storage tank.” He pulled out a roadmap and spread it on a table, pointing out the features he had mentioned. “That road intersects with a dirt one cutting north across a farm. Several villages are near the other end.” He pointed them out. “We can hide in the towns until things quiet down; or once past them, the country is wide open with farms.”

  Kenyon scrutinized both maps. He pointed to three storage tanks in a row near the bottom of the sketch. “We’ll wire these.” He gathered his thoughts and then pointed to a group of four tanks to the east. “We won’t touch these.”

  As Pierre started to protest after Lance translated, Kenyon held up a hand. “Hear me out. They’re too far from the rest and away from our direction of travel.” He indicated a group of fourteen tanks in two lines running to the northeast. “As soon as we have these wired, we’ll blow the first three. That will bring security to that location and keep them busy. Then we’ll wire these last eight to the north and blow the group of fourteen. Once we’re safely in our getaway cars, we’ll blow the last ones. Does that make sense?”

  Pierre looked dismayed as Lance translated and hovered his hand over the group of four fuel tanks that would be left untouched.

  Kenyon read his thoughts. “Don’t be greedy,” he said with humor. “Blowing those is a needless risk.” He straightened up. “This fight just became real for you. You’re in it now. Some of your men could die tonight.” He locked eyes with Pierre. “You could die. We’ve got to mitigate risk, get in, blow what we can, and get out. That’s how you’re going to be around for the next operation and the one after that…” He waved his hand in a circular motion to indicate a continuing string of missions.

  “I understand,” Pierre responded after Lance had translated. “We should
go very early in the morning when the fishing boats head out to sea. We’ll be among them, and then divert to the quay by the depot.”

  Kenyon considered that. “We need at least two hours of darkness.”

  “I’ll get some of my fisherman friends to start their day early.”

  “You might need to overpower some guards and cut some phone lines.”

  “We can do that.”

  30

  Two hours before dawn just over twenty-four hours later, a fishing boat belonging to a friend of Pierre’s navigated into the current upstream of the fuel depot and held steady. Lance, Horton, Kenyon, Pierre, and the five partisan fighters of the first night’s mission crouched behind the wheelhouse with three additional men and two women. The vessel was soon joined by a fleet of fishing boats that took up positions around the first one, all of them with their running lights on. They started downstream.

  Lance had observed the partisan group of men and women as they had rehearsed during the day, and he was pleased with what he saw. Several men, like Pierre, made their livelihoods by navigating the waves daily as fishermen. The others were farmers who regularly worked the fields. All were lean and physically fit; the women too. He didn’t know how the latter related to the men, and he chose not to inquire. All wore looks of zeal tempered by a realization that the war had come to them.

  Having women present and participating in combat operations made Lance uneasy. Doing so had never before occurred to him, and he did not like the idea. Pierre explained their role, and the women were eager to do their part, so Lance accepted the decision to include them without further objection. His uneasiness persisted, but he was gratified that one of them spoke broken English.

  Her name was Elena. She was small and curvaceous, having been chosen partly for those attributes. Her blue eyes over a ready smile would brighten any room, but she was also strong and athletic, her blonde hair currently held in place against the wind by a tight scarf. The other woman enjoyed similar characteristics but did not speak English.

  The moon had begun its ascent and cast its reflection on the dark water, further illuminating the boats. The fuel depot came into view, and for the first time, Lance saw that the huge tanks were set well back from the water’s edge. A seawall of sorts, built from stacked stones, ran for several hundred feet along the bank. The field behind lay wide open with no cover or concealment all the way to the dimly lit storage tanks. Two guardhouses stood close to each end of the quay.

  Lance’s heart pounded harder.

  When they had navigated a quarter of the bulkhead’s length abreast of it, the boat’s owner choked the engine. It sputtered. He pointed the vessel toward the quay and manipulated the choke enough to power it there. Then he doused the motor.

  The men crouched on the dark deck below the sides of the boat. Elena jumped out. The fisherman tossed her a rope. She tied it off and started up the bank to a gravel utility road that paralleled the river.

  A door slammed on one of the guardhouses. Peering out of the darkness, Lance watched as Elena spoke with a sentry. They headed for the guardhouse. The other woman jumped from the boat, climbed the bank, and started toward the opposite end.

  Two of Pierre’s men slid over the side of the boat onto the bank. Crouching low and staying close to the water, they moved swiftly in opposite directions.

  Meanwhile, the women had entered the guardhouses at their respective ends of the service road. Pierre’s two men reached positions just below them. After the women disappeared inside, the men crept up the short, shallow grade. Arriving in front of their separate doors simultaneously, they jerked them open. Inside, they were met with the same scene: the women bent over the unconscious guards who had succumbed to the effects of chloroform applied by charming women ostensibly seeking help.

  Working together quickly, the men and women cut the phone wires and headed back to the fishing vessel. Even before they arrived, the rest of the men piled out and dispersed, carrying their equipment, which included an aggregate of fifty-six sticks of dynamite. As soon as they were offloaded, the fisherman headed out to sea.

  Using maneuver tactics practiced the previous day, the group of thirteen, including the two women, moved swiftly across the field. Ten minutes later, they arrived at the bases of the first set of three tanks. While six fighters moved into the shadows on the opposite side to set their charges, the remainder continued north to the field of fourteen tanks.

  They worked rapidly and methodically. When the first charges were finished, those teams uncoiled thin wires from spools as they headed toward the larger set of tanks. Arriving there, they ran the wires to the northwesternmost corner, carefully joined them together, and set them down. Then they moved out to affix dynamite sticks to the remaining tanks in the larger set.

  When all wires had been run to the designated corner of the field and the teams were accounted for, Pierre, under Kenyon’s watchful eye, attached the wires to the plunger.

  “Make sure you give us ten minutes,” Lance said.

  Pierre nodded. Sweat poured down his face and he breathed heavily. While he and Kenyon prepared, Lance, Horton, and the other nine men continued on to the third field, unspooling wire as they went.

  Next to Pierre, Kenyon watched the minutes tick away. When the time was reached, he signaled.

  Kenyon checked the connections and gave a thumbs-up.

  Pierre took a deep breath, turned the handle, and pushed. Without waiting to see the result, the two men took off at a full run to rejoin their comrades.

  The explosion ripped the night. The ground shook. Flames leaped into the sky.

  In the distance, sirens blared. Cars raced with bright headlights along a curved road that skirted diagonally along the depot’s eastern edge, to the site of the three tanks now jetting flames high into the night sky.

  Kenyon and Pierre arrived at the third field and sprinted to their designated targets. Now the full, undivided team worked on the eight remaining tanks, setting the charges and stringing wires to the northern boundary. Seven minutes later, they converged.

  Once again, Pierre leaned over a plunger, twisted it, and thrust it down. Another explosion rocked the ground and lit up the sky. The full blast dwarfed the one of the night before, the roar of flames casting infernal heat in all directions and generating its own wind. The smell of burning fuel seared the nostrils and filled the lungs, leaving an acrid taste on the tongue.

  Still running wire from the third field, the group continued north to a road crossing from east to west. They approached a stand of trees on a curve.

  While Pierre connected the last wires to the plunger, three Citroens emerged from the trees, flashing dimmed parking lights. They pulled alongside the group.

  Three men and Elena piled through the back door of the first car while the other woman took the front seat. The car took off, crunching gravel.

  Two men entered the second vehicle, one of them taking the front, while Lance and Horton waited by the rear doors on either side of it. Two others crawled into the back of the third car.

  One more time, with Kenyon standing next to him, Pierre pushed the handle down. One more time, the earth shook, and a cauldron turned night into day.

  Lance and Horton dived into the waiting Citroen. Its tires spun as it raced away.

  Kenyon and Pierre ran for the third automobile. No sooner had they closed the doors than it took off, taking a different route than either of the first two.

  Lance turned in his seat, straining to see that the third car had escaped. The small rear window prevented him from seeing it. He faced forward again, leaned his head against the back of the seat, and exhaled.

  Next to him, the partisan fighter stirred. Lance looked at him. The man smiled broadly and nodded. “Merci,” he said. “We could not have done this without you and your friends.”

  In the left rear seat, Horton grinned. “I’d say that went well.”

  The eastern horizon showed the first signs of dawn with a fine glimmering li
ne of red stretching across the horizon. Then, golden fingers shot into the sky and spread as the little car turned toward a village. By the time they passed through it and headed west toward the staging area, full daylight revealed the early morning beauty of the countryside. The grass along the roadside gleamed with dew.

  Whether because of fatigue or spent emotional energy, no one spoke, the driver content to wend his way through the curves in the road in silence. They came to a place where trees on both sides created a canopy, almost like a tunnel.

  For a second, Lance’s eyes closed, and in that flash of time, he saw his beloved Sark Island, with its wide, flat fields perched on steep cliffs rising three hundred and fifty feet above the sea. Images of his parents appeared so real, joined by those of Paul and Jeremy, and his sister, Claire. A lump formed in his throat with the realization that he missed them more than he had ever thought possible.

  He felt the car rounding a curve and then slowing. He opened his eyes. The driver brought the vehicle to a full stop.

  There, where the canopy broke not two hundred feet away, a German panzer blocked their path, its long, thin main gun pointing to one side. Immediately, dark uniformed soldiers emerged from behind it, rifles held waist high. They broke into a trot toward the Citroen.

  The driver panicked. He ground the gears trying to get into reverse, but then he popped the clutch. The engine stalled.

  The turret on the tank rotated. Its barrel dropped, lining up on the car. Its engine roared, and it rolled toward them.

  On his side of the car, Lance threw the door open and dived into the road. The French partisan followed, as did the passenger in the front seat.

  The tank fired a warning shot over the roof. The German foot soldiers stopped, lifted their rifles to their shoulders, and took aim.

  Lying flat on his stomach in the road, Lance raised his hands in the air. The two partisans followed suit, and then all three struggled to their feet.

  The Citroen driver, seeing their surrender, put both hands out the window. Then carefully, he opened the door and stepped out, leaving it wide open in front of him.