His men had little strength left, so he allowed them to stretch out while he and Fingers kept watch. The only movement was the flow of stragglers going north. A few French soldiers in a farm cart went by, flogging a weary horse, then some wounded staggering courageously along, a handful of R.A.F. ground troops in a small lorry that coughed and sputtered and stalled every quarter mile. The enemy? Nobody had seen the Germans, nobody knew their location; but everyone felt sure they were near at hand.
Most amazing to the Sergeant were the rumors. Every group that passed had a new rumor—the Panzers had broken through and were behind them, the Russians had entered the war, the Americans had sent planes over, the Germans had taken Paris, a revolution had broken out in Berlin. You listened, nodded, but believed only what you could see yourself, which in that grim, gray dawn was not a great deal.
It was six, it was seven. Planes with the black cross flew overhead. The men woke instinctively and dived for cover, but the planes passed along. The mist ended, the drizzle ceased, the sun appeared. Still no sign of the rumble of the German Panzers or any enemy advance detachment. The steady flow of Allied troops ended.
Then an idea came to the Sergeant. He took a soldier south along the road about ten feet. There he had the man loosen the surface of the pavement, dig a wide, shallow hole, and fill it with dirt. It looked exactly as if a land mine had been buried there.
Hardly had he returned to the post when the sentinel on duty called his attention to something far off on the horizon. Down the flat, straight highway was a tiny cloud of dust. It moved.
The Sergeant woke the tired men, posted them on each side of the road, got the Bren gun pointed to cover the highway from the south. The cloud of dust was approaching rapidly. Through a pair of glasses loaned him by the officers, he saw it was an automobile, possibly a staff car. But was it German or British?
“Most probably officers,” he remarked to Fingers. “They’re riding.”
“Most likely lost, too, so far out front. Only they may be ours and far to the rear.”
The car came closer. It was going at about fifty miles an hour, and as it approached they could see it held Germans. When the driver came near the crossroads with the signposts dead ahead, he slowed down, glancing anxiously to right and left. All at once he observed the raised dirt surface in the road directly ahead. His brakes squealed. He stopped the car two feet away.
It was a big, shiny Mercedes torpedo with the top down, and two impressive-looking officers in the rear. They glanced ahead anxiously, handed a machine gun to the driver who remained in the car. Then they rose and stepped out. There they stood, a respectable distance from the low pile of dirt on the road. For a minute they looked at it irresolutely.
“Let ’em have it, Jacky,” said the Sergeant in a low tone.
The machine gun barked, the two officers dropped lifeless to the ground. Terrified, the man in the front seat of the Mercedes raised his arms, waving frantically as his machine gun fell to the floor. Obviously he had no wish to die.
The patrol started forward together, rifles ready.
“Hold on, lads. Here, Tommy, you cover that man with the Bren gun. Then two of you go and bring him here. Be sure he doesn’t reach down for that gun.”
Handing over his glasses to the sentinel who was watching the horizon, the Sergeant went over to the car. But the German had no fight left. With his officers lying bleeding on the ground, he obeyed with pleasure the order to get out. One British soldier reached in and took the gun.
The Sergeant ransacked the car. In the rear was a Schmeisser pistol and a locked brief case with German army insignia in gilt letters. While one soldier covered the driver, the Sergeant smashed the lock of the brief case with a heavy stone and yanked out the papers inside. He stood there, gaping at them. Stamped in red ink in large letters on every page was one word.
Geheim. Secret.
Although he knew little German, he realized these documents were important. There was a number in red on the first page, No. 12. It appeared to be one of a number of copies prepared for the German General Staff. A glance told him this was the final plan for the invasion of France and Belgium, circulated solely among the high command.
Instantly he realized what a mistake he had made in killing these men instead of trying to capture them, for they were highly placed staff officers, generals, probably. He rolled one man over and extracted his papers. The dead officer was the Oberst Schwerin u. Prittwitz, attached to the staff of General Guderian, commander of the Nineteenth Panzer Corps, for whose headquarters he was evidently searching. The other was a Hauptmann von Hoth, decorated with the Iron Cross from the First World War.
Taking all the papers and documents they carried, he kicked himself for making a bad mistake. Then, as it was getting along toward eight o’clock, and the brief case and documents were surely important, he decided to move on.
“Come along, lads, let’s get cracking. We’ll have two cars now, and even room for a few of those poor wounded chaps. Just tie that man’s hands, in case.”
With three men from the squad, the German was placed in the British weapons’ carrier. Then the Sergeant took the wheel of the Mercedes, and with Fingers driving the other car, they rode north to rejoin their regiment.
CHAPTER 8
HIGH IN THE HEAVENS, squadrons of Dorniers and Messerschmitts flew toward Dunkerque and its helpless port. The long lines of men trudging toward the city cursed the R.A.F. as the planes of the Luftwaffe moved majestically to their target, unimpeded and free. Far, far away the bombs fell. Already Sergeant Williams and his men could see thick columns of black smoke rising on the horizon ahead. It was the oil reservoirs of the seaport burning furiously, set in flames by the bombers’ steady aiming. As the planes droned overhead, a few men automatically rushed to the poplars beside the road, and flopped down. But the enemy passed over, seeking easier game.
Behind, somewhere in the rear, came explosions as British engineers blew bridges in the face of the advancing Panzers. Hungry, thirsty, dirty, and unshaven, the column moved along the narrow road, the meadows on both sides flooded. Somewhere, someone had opened the sluice gates of the ocean, and the North Sea was covering everything, flooding the low-lying fields, preventing an onrush of tanks except by the main highways. At each crossroads sat a detachment of French with 75’s entrenched, waiting, watching the British troops move toward the sea. There was a look of scorn on their faces as the troops passed.
The flood of refugees had mostly ceased, yet farmers and their families still passed along the road, not knowing where they were going, or really caring, simply anxious to get away from Dunkerque and the bombed, flaming town. Two riders on a tandem bicycle had a long pole over their shoulders with a bundle on each end. A young woman skated past on roller skates, making better progress than anyone. Soon the regiment caught up with a group of kids in short trousers, about eight or ten years old, evidently from some school. They were seated beside the road on their knapsacks; their faces wore a famished and bewildered look.
“Where are you boys going?” asked the Sergeant. They simply shook their heads. They had no idea where they were going or where they were. They were leaderless, abandoned, on the move like millions of others, merely imitating their elders.
The nearer to Dunkerque, the slower. The long column moved, stopped, waited, moved a mile, and then was held up. At last they reached the small town of Bergues where a large road sign told them: Dunkerque 9K.
Nine kilometers, six miles, to go. They shifted their rifles and slogged along. Bergues was the typical French town with the usual cobblestoned main street, Maximum Vitesse, 20K, a grand square with a cathedral, an épicerie, a tabac, and a station-service, or gas station, all closed with shutters down. The clock above the hôtel de ville was stopped, piles of garbage stood on the streets uncollected, doors flapped open and shut in the winds. For some reason Bergues had escaped bombing, but the town was empty. On the stone walls of the big church, there was eloquent and obvio
us testimony to the disaster of a nation. Scribbled in chalk upon the walls were messages of hope and despair.
LOST: a girl of 8 named Gabrielle. Kindly inform her parents, M. and Mme. Garde at 45 Cours Bouton, Calais.
M. and Mme. Lacaze of Laon are at 2, rue de Passac, Gravelines.
Lt. Alain Michel of the 27 Bat’ Chasseurs Alpins is still with his regiment.
An elderly woman, leaning on a cane on the narrow sidewalk of the town, watched the passing column.
“Ah, c’est de la misère!” she groaned. It was indeed, the misery of a people at war.
The old lady seemed to be almost the only person left in town, though the place was intact, and even the tower of the cathedral, in which stood a British sentry with glasses at his eyes, was untouched. As they went through the winding streets, afoot, for the squad car and the Mercedes were filled with wounded now, and the captured papers had been duly turned over to a staff officer, the man next to the Sergeant spoke up.
“Looka that tyke there, look at him, Sergeant.”
He pointed to a house where through the open door could be seen the usual signs of flight and disorder—a table full of unwashed dishes, an unmade bed, pictures hanging at angles on the walls, open drawers in the rooms. On the stone step was seated a handsome brown-and-black dog, evidently abandoned by its family. Its eyes were a deep brown, and in them was all the loneliness and sorrow of the surrounding, senseless world. The dog sat, half leaning against the side of the door, perplexed, wondering, head turning from side to side, seeking in the passing throng a friendly voice or face.
Several men in the line spoke to the dog as they moved past; a few, touched by the tragic expression of the animal, gave its head a pat, then passed along. Most of them had seen far too many such lost creatures; besides, they had their own troubles.
As the Sergeant approached, the dog’s left paw rose, half pleading, half in greeting. The moment the dog raised its paw, he stood still. “Why... that’s my Candy. I have a dog at home exactly the same. She does the same thing when she’s worried. Look at those brown eyes, Fingers. I’d think they belonged to Candy.”
“What kind of a dog is it, Sarge?”
“An Airedale.” He leaned over and stroked her shaggy brown mane, well combed and sleek. A dog that had been loved. Her tail thumped violently on the stone step. How long had it been, he wondered, since anyone had stroked her head affectionately and with understanding? Dogs, the Sergeant knew, need affection more than food.
“She’s the image of my Candy. I believe I’d have trouble telling them apart.” He leaned down and took the dog’s raised paw in his hand. “Yes, that’s a trick of Candy’s, too! Poor girl. Wicked it is, to leave animals like that. Children and pets, they get the worst of war. Well, old girl, not much I can do for you....”
He shifted his rifle and gave her one final pat on the head. This was enough. Many passing troops had called out to her or even spoken in a friendly tone, but this man had taken the trouble to stop; she felt his understanding and love. His voice was different, more intimate and warmer than the others.
Consequently, as the Sergeant scurried back to reach his place in the lines, she jumped up immediately, tail wagging, and ran along too.
Dogs were everywhere these days, on all sides, wandering lost in the fields, creeping with tails down among the burned-out houses in the ruined villages, scuttling in terror from the roaring vehicles on the roads. But many had attached themselves to the men of the British line, and more than one soldier had a mutt in a knapsack slung on his back.
However, this was a large animal, pretty heavy to carry.
“Go home, girlie, go home!” The Sergeant pointed back.
She understood immediately, sat on her haunches, and looked up at him with those big brown eyes, at the same time lifting her left paw in mute appeal. Look, pal, surely you, too, wouldn’t leave me, would you?
He stood there perplexed. One might easily smuggle a small fox terrier aboard ship hidden in a greatcoat, but not an animal this size.
Yet those wide, sad eyes affected him. “Very well, lass, come along. You’ll not be worse off than you are now.”
The tail of the dog thumped furiously on the dusty cobblestones. She rose and trotted along contentedly by his side.
The few remaining miles to Dunkerque were not easy. Traffic increased; the crowd of soldiers from every unit and from three nations grew. Finally they reached the edge of the canal on the outskirts of the ancient city, where British ordnance men were destroying every vehicle that passed to prevent them falling into German hands. Cars, lorries, tractors were either shoved into the canal or ruined. On one side soldiers were banging at radiators with sledge hammers, on the other, slashing tires or whacking engines to bits.
Just ahead was a schoolhouse, a low, one-story brick structure, peppered with bullet holes. A British medical officer came out and stood on the steps. His uniform was torn and ragged, but he wore a necktie and was cleanly shaved.
“Anyone here speak French? Can anyone speak French?” he called to the passing files.
Waiting a minute and seeing nobody volunteer, the Sergeant stepped forward and saluted. The dog, who had not left his heels, came along, squatting at his side.
“Good, Sergeant, come this way.” They entered the schoolhouse, the animal shoving the officer aside to be certain of staying close to her new friend. Within was a large schoolroom from which the desks had been removed. It was strewn with mattresses. On the mattresses lay several dozen small children, sobbing, all looking up through their tears with frightened eyes. Each wore a metal tag with a number around the neck. Hovering over them was a stout, tear-stained Frenchwoman in a Red Cross uniform.
From overhead the bombers could be heard approaching.
“Allemands, Allemands,” shrieked the children in unison, burying their heads in their arms. They had heard nothing but enemy planes, because the Allied Air Force had been drained from the skies by the superior numbers of the Luftwaffe. Explosions rocked the building. Dust fell from the old plastered ceiling. The children cowered on the mattresses, gasping with fright.
Instantly the Red Cross lady seized the Sergeant by the arm. Her grip was so intense her fingers pinched him. Words poured from her lips, it was a fervid torrent of sound, so fast he understood only half what she was trying to say. These were... children from the suburbs... of Lille and Tourcoing... she was taking them to safety in an ambulance... headed for Paris. But the army had turned her back. The Germans had cut across France to the sea and blocked every road.
“Their mothers entrusted them to me, M’sieur Sergeant... each with a number, and each number tallied with a number of my list. In the bombing at Bailleul, I lost my pocketbook with the list. What shall I do? Many of them don’t know where they lived; a few don’t even know their names. They haven’t eaten for two days. Please ask the Major to get me some food for them... anything... make him help me.”
Her terrified tone immediately communicated itself to the children. They burst out crying louder than ever. Next to the Sergeant the dog sat on her haunches, looking up at him, plainly distressed.
The Sergeant tried to console the lady, but in the crisis his French suddenly became insufficient. Strange that he could be so voluble alone in a room with his friend, the curé of Vaudables, but here, in this emergency, before those scared children, he was speechless. He spoke to the medical officer, knowing the army was eating hard biscuits, drinking tea made from boiled canal water. The Major listened, shook his head. Like the Sergeant, he had seen men living by scrounging from the packs of dead buddies along the roadside.
“What shall I do? What shall I do?” she cried.
“Tell the lady we shall help her all we can. It won’t be much. I’ve a small hospital supply under guard at an empty store down the road. Perhaps I can send her something from there, and a few medical supplies. We’ll give her a dozen cans of condensed milk, anyway.”
The woman understood, thanked him, and
followed the two soldiers and the dog to the door, wringing her hands, still appealing. Merci, M’sieur le majeur, merci pour les enfants....”
As they stepped into the bright sunlight once more, the Sergeant observed that the passing column was motionless. The men were standing, rifles on the ground, eyes lifted toward the sky. A shout arose, then another, louder. One rifleman took off his helmet and waved it in the air.
High in the heavens a squadron of Hurricanes was diving straight down into an enormous mass of German Dorniers. The ratio seemed about thirty to one. There was a frightful dogfight, planes separated all over the sky, and from below the men could distinguish the sound of dozens of machine guns in action. Suddenly a plane with a black cross on the wings fluttered down out of control, then another swerved, fell into the sea, and blew up. Still another German swooped gently to earth, smoking. The Hurries, their banks of eight machine guns all out, were taking a toll. The enemy formation broke off and, disorganized, soared into a cloud bank.
The Hurricanes, one trailing smoke behind, turned due west and vanished in the summer haze.
CHAPTER 9
IN THE CONFUSION of the retreat, they never caught up with their unit. The Fifth Division was moved to the left of the front to defend a portion of the circle, ever decreasing, around Dunkerque, so contact with them was never again established. After their stand at the crossroads when they captured the Mercedes, they were on their own, with the Sergeant, the senior non-com, in command.
The test of leadership comes when an army retreats. For ten days they had been retreating, fighting rear-guard actions by day without air support, marching grimly toward the sea at night. You ate what you carried, or what you could scrounge along the road. All the time he was absorbed in the business of holding this remnant of his men together. He felt sure that once they reached the coast the Royal Navy would take them home; “the dark-blue jobs,” as they called the Navy, would get them safely back. Here at Dunkerque there would be order and discipline, superior officers who would take over his responsibilities. Because of this, he began to think of home. Throughout the retreat he was a soldier; as a soldier, he had shut his family from his mind; but at last, with safety ahead, he began to think of the house on the Folkestone Road, the twins watching troops disembark from the Admiralty Pier at Dover, their dog beside them.
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