Better to jump or be swept away?
The decision was made for him. There he was in the freezing water, no dog near him, struggling hard to get clear of the wreck and out of reach of the ship’s eddy, the tidal wave which drags everything with it when a vessel goes down. The men had discussed this at length during those interminable hours of waiting on the beach. They had been told that in the event of sinking they were to get away as far as they could from their ship as soon as possible.
Striking out, he swam hard for a minute or so in a shower of metal, splinters, planks, and pieces of H.M.S. Wakeful. The oil, spreading rapidly, was making a smear on the water, and covering the spot where seconds before a destroyer with a full crew and five hundred and fifty soldiers had been afloat. Now it was merely a circle of foam and dirty water, sprinkled with bodies and an occasional uplifted arm. Here and there cries resounded in the clear atmosphere.
A choked voice reached him.
“Sarge... Sarge....”
He shook the water from his face. Fingers was clinging to a plank a few yards behind him. He appeared to be the only survivor nearby. A powerful swimmer, the Sergeant reached his side in several strokes. The man’s life belt had been blown off in the explosion, his uniform was cut and ragged, and he was clinging insecurely to the plank.
“Put this on, Fingers.”
“No... no.... I can’t take it....”
Exasperated, the Sergeant worried the knots of his life belt, now tight and wet, finally undid them, and shoved it over. “Put it on,” he ordered.
Holding the plank with one hand, Fingers had trouble getting into the life belt and needed help. Both men were numb with cold, shocked from the explosion, and badly shaken. The Sergeant tried to look around. They were over a mile from shore. Some survivors were clinging to the roof of a floating deckhouse some distance off. Otherwise no life, just a few bodies floating in life belts.
Then he observed a bulkhead blown from the destroyer coming toward them. It was large enough for both. With difficulty he climbed upon the slippery surface, while Fingers paddled toward it.
“Save that plank! We need it.”
Even with the life belt, Fingers had no intention of letting go the plank. He handed it up, but hoisting him aboard was a problem. The compact, stocky soldier, wringing wet in his heavy uniform, was hard to handle. It took all the strength of the Sergeant before Fingers finally lay there gasping in the sun.
Ships were steaming on the horizon, none seemed nearby. Far to their left, a German shore battery was firing steadily, and he could see the gun flashes, the occasional spurts of water as the shells hit the sea. Their raft was in what he knew was the famous Mardyck Bank, well mined and within artillery range. Consequently most of the rescue fleet were standing out to sea.
Their only hope for surviving was, therefore, getting somehow to land.
Using the plank as a paddle, he pushed the bulkhead clumsily through the water. The strong incoming tide helped. They made progress. Before long Fingers reacted. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, examined his scratches and bruises, removed his torn blouse and wrung it out. Finally he took the paddle from the Sergeant and went to work.
Several miles along the coast to the right were some red-roofed houses. Directly ahead was what seemed to be a sandy beach. Luckily the bulkhead was too small to be noticed. If the batteries or machine-gun posts along the cliffs did not observe them, they might make it.
The wind blew strongly. Despite their efforts and the exercise of paddling, they were cold. The bulkhead was hard to navigate, yet slowly they made headway. There was no movement from the cliff. They were getting in unobserved.
Ahead was a shingle beach, with a rise half covered by shrubs and low bushes whipped by the sea winds. At last their craft clunked on the rubble. They jumped into water waist high. The apparently sandy shingle proved to be mostly rocks of every size, large and small, difficult to get over in their stockinged feet. Several times they slipped and fell, bruising their legs and thighs.
Reaching the underbrush halfway up the cliff, they came to a protected and sunny ledge, well screened from above. Slowly they took off their wet garments, feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun. The Sergeant glanced at his watch. It had stopped at 10:55. That must have been when they hit the water.
Fingers, exhausted by the final struggle in the sea, turned over and was instantly asleep.
“Here, man, you mustn’t go to sleep; you won’t be able to move if you sleep like that.” And he began to knead the arms, legs, and body of the other soldier.
“Ouch! That hurts there... go easy, Sarge... go easy now... that leg is tender.”
The Sergeant paid no attention. Kneeling in the yellow gorse bushes, he went to work on Fingers like a professional, bringing warmth back to his body. And to his own, also.
CHAPTER 16
DESPITE THE PRICKLY GORSE and the pebbles underneath them, they slept huddled closely together for warmth all that night and well into the next morning. It was their first long sleep in weeks. They needed it.
Stiff, cold, hungry, the Sergeant finally managed to rouse himself and sit up. Nothing had changed. Same blue sea, same brisk wind off the water, same wrecks with spars sticking up in the ocean, same French and British warships steaming far out on the reaches of the Mardyck Bank. He poked Fingers, who groaned, turned over, yawned, half stood. Slowly they climbed into their still damp uniforms, trying to get energy enough to rise. The Sergeant sank back a moment to the ground, his hands behind his head.
As he did so, he realized someone was watching from above. “Someone’s watching us.”
Above on an open rock was a young girl. Evidently she had only just seen them. Her blue eyes were wide open as she gazed down.
Perhaps thirteen or fourteen, she wore a khaki skirt to her knees, a blouse of a lighter shade of khaki with sleeves above the elbows, and a knotted scarf around her neck of the same color. Her hair was light, brushed back from a wide forehead, and parted on one side, with braids around her neck. There was a gap between her front teeth. Her expression was serious, yet obviously there was no fear in her.
The Sergeant rose, trying to smile. Smiling with a five days’ growth of stubble was difficult.
“Anglais!” he called up. “Anglais. From the bateau... out there....” He pointed to the water. “Mined. Boum! Boum!” He turned and made the motion of swimming ashore.
Their damp clothes, their matted hair, their general appearance was testimony to the truth of all this. But she did not move. She remained transfixed, a slight frown on her face, obviously trying to make up her mind. Suddenly from the road above came the sound of army boots on concrete, and a harsh command in a guttural tone.
“Rechts... links... rechts....”
Then voices, all young, burst out together in a full-throated song. “Wir... fahren gegen England....”
It was more than a song, it was a paean of triumph, a victory march shouted by the victors, confident in themselves and their leaders. Poland, then France, taken in two weeks, next England would fall to the German forces. They were marching against England, the only enemy the Nazis had not yet beaten.
The effect on the two British soldiers was immediate. At the sound of the first command they dropped to the ground, crawled into the gorse, and lay flat. Stretched among the low bushes on the cliff, they listened to the stomping and singing die away down the macadam highway abutting the sea. If the girl above had any hesitation about the strange creatures who at first seemed like men from another world, her doubts vanished. Her mind was made up. Their instant reaction to the Germans on the highway convinced her as nothing else could. These men fleeing were friends and allies. Those marching troops were invaders and enemies of her country.
The girl came down the cliff, smiling. She said something, beckoned, and led them, slipping and sliding, up to the top. Far down the road the sound of the Germans was vanishing in the distance. Following her, they peered cautiously around. There was a brick farmhouse
, a stable, and a few houses some half a mile away. She led them toward the barn, where she slid back a creaking door. She motioned them toward a ladder up to a loft, filled with fresh, clean hay. They climbed up and lay down. The girl banged the door to.
They settled down, stretching out in the hay, by far the most comfortable thing they had lain upon for weeks.
“So far, so good,” said Fingers. “But you claim to speak French. Why didn’t you ask for some grub, Sarge?”
“She may want to wait a bit. I was fearful at first she’d turn us in. Lots of ’em have, y’know.”
They waited and the wait was worthwhile. In half an hour the girl was back with an enormous tray, which she carried with difficulty. On it was an enormous omelette, tumblers of fresh milk, a couple of long, slender loaves of bread, homemade. There were two cigarettes and one match.
Fingers nearly fell down the ladder in his hurry to take the tray.
“Eggs! Not powdered eggs, real eggs!”
“Coffee! Fresh coffee!”
“And cigarettes. I can use one. My first cigarette since we reached Dunkerque.”
The girl stood below, watching them wolf the food. She tossed her braids and said slowly, “I regret... there is no butter... none since Gravelines fell. The Germans have taken it all.” She spoke so distinctly the Sergeant understood every word. “They are around everywhere, so you must stay here. The barn may be searched any time. But regard your clothes, they are all torn. I’ll see what my father and brother left in the house.”
While they devoured their first hot meal in weeks, she went to the house and returned with an armful of heavy clothing. There were warm, knitted wool socks, rough underwear, wide blue trousers, and a kind of fisherman’s blouse for each man. The blouse, which had a V neck and slipped over the head, was warm.
Climbing halfway up the ladder she took the tray from which everything had been eaten. The men retired into the hay and tossed down their soggy garments. “I shall bury these,” said the girl. “Stay well in the back there.” Then she removed the ladder and hauled it outside. They could hear her leaning it against the rear of the barn, leaving a small one beside a post just below them.
The two soldiers, full of food, warm in their heavy fishermen’s clothes, settled back in contentment. Covering themselves with hay, each man turned over and was asleep immediately.
The banging of the door startled them. The noise had an unpleasant sound. Even worse was the one word that brought them to their senses.
“For... mee... dable!”
In the light from the doorway stood a middle-aged woman in black, with a market basket on one arm, evidently the mother of the girl. She tossed her head, put down the loaded basket and, arms on her hips, looked up, repeating, “Formidable.”
She continued in an angry tone, scolding the girl and waving a finger at the amazed Britishers. Then, with no warning, she clipped the child on the side of the face. The girl did not blench before the storm, or cry. She merely stood her ground, saying nothing.
Pouring out French phrases in a kind of raging torrent, the woman came halfway up the ladder, addressing the two Englishmen with fury. All the animosity of the French peasant for strangers, even for those who lived in the next village, became apparent to them. Only snatches and occasional words were intelligible to the Sergeant, but he understood quite enough. The English, she claimed, had trapped the French into fighting Germany. Then they had done nothing. Always French breasts, she screamed, must sustain the attack. Ten British divisions mobilized against ninety French ones. Ah no, in effect, it was too much! It was formidable. As for them, it was dangerous to be there, and they must leave the next morning without fail.
“Sans faute... sans faute... sans faute...” she shouted up at them, repeating the phrase over and over.
Descending, she grasped the girl by one ear and shoved her brutally outside. Then picking up her market basket, she slammed the door shut, leaving them dazed and bewildered up in the loft in the hay.
“Nice lady. What on earth put her back up?”
“Just wants us out. She says the Germans are shooting anyone hiding escaped British soldiers. That we must leave tomorrow.”
“Think it’s true?”
“Most likely. I wonder if the girl realized it, too.”
“That she did,” answered Fingers with conviction.
They turned back again into the hay. It was the Sergeant, accustomed to responsibility for his men, who woke up. His sleep was deep, yet his inner self told him danger was at hand. He half rose, rubbing his eyes, trying to remember where he was. The barn was black. Then from outside came thick Teutonic voices and the sound of the Frenchwoman crying. It took him a few seconds to understand, then the situation was plain. Five feet away Fingers was snoring gently but audibly. The Sergeant kicked at him hard, struck his thigh. Fingers turned over restlessly.
Below a light flashed and flickered across the interior as the sliding door banged open. Boots stomped upon the wooden planks. Then the small ladder was dragged to the loft and a soldier in a helmet climbed up. A torch flashed around and over the hay. He realized the man could get his shoulders above the edge but couldn’t hoist himself up. By taking the longer ladder back of the barn, the little girl had perhaps saved them.
But would he see them through the covering of hay? Would he search the place closely? Would Fingers start snoring that persistent, half-muted snore? Caught by a snore! Or, perhaps—the Sergeant had heard of such incidents—the enemy might set fire to the barn on that cliff overlooking the Mardyck Bank.
At that moment something flashed in the light. The German, leaning up, had shoved a bayonet through the hay, poking, pushing, searching close to Fingers’ outstretched leg. If pinked, he would wake up and shout. The Sergeant under the hay found he was shivering.
Clump... clump... clump.... The helmet went down. The torch flashed now over the floor of the barn, into the pen with the cow. Through a wide crack in the boards he could see the Germans poking around in the corners behind rusty farm machinery that hadn’t been touched for years.
Thanks to that child they were saved—momentarily. Had she left that ladder there, the soldier would have climbed up and found them huddled in the hay. Then a voice came from below. “Alles gut... niemand, Herr Oberst....” They slammed the sliding door shut, and the woman’s voice could be heard sputtering French at them. The German patrol marched out and down the road, their heels clicking and pounding on the pavement. It was the sinister tramp of an enemy, of an army of occupation. Although the Sergeant hated the Frenchwoman, he understood her fears well enough.
Now everything was black, silent. Save for a snore. Fingers moved again, again came that gentle snore. He had slept through it all.
CHAPTER 17
THE DOOR SLID BACK. There stood the girl’s mother in her Sunday black, a market basket of eggs over one arm and a small knitted sack of vegetables in the other hand. Evidently she was going to town, probably Gravelines, to sell or exchange them for other produce. She climbed halfway up the ladder and let them have it all over again, from the beginning.
Fingers, who had been drowsy despite the bright morning outside, sat up, rubbing his eyes. He yawned and stretched, which did not improve Madame’s temper in the least.
No, the English were not good soldiers, she declared. Only the French and Germans made soldiers. England had deceived them, she had sent no planes to help our Army of the Air. And anyway, it was always French breasts who had to take it.
“Toujours les poitrines françaises... tou-jours....”
Shaking a finger, she warned them they must leave that morning. She would be back in the afternoon; if they were still in the barn, she would inform the German authorities. Never would she go through what had happened the night before, never, no, never....
She flounced out, slamming the door in place.
“What’s biting her now?—What’s the chinwag mean?”
“I didn’t get it all. But I got enough. Sam
e things as yesterday; it’s all England’s fault. And she wants us to leave, right away.”
“You and your French,” said Fingers, who had a real British contempt for anyone trying to speak a foreign language.
“Yes, and a good thing, too. Where would we be if I didn’t understand a little?”
“Right where we are now. Funny, I don’t get a word of the lingo. I used to talk to the waitress in that estaminet last winter, but this woman speaks too fast.”
“You aren’t used to it, that’s all.”
“All right. But where do we go from here?”
That was indeed the question. He said nothing, and sat thinking. The coastal region was alive with Germans. If they could get to Paris, or south toward Spain, perhaps....
The door slid back cautiously, light appeared as the sunshine came into the darkened barn, and below stood the girl, beckoning. Was she going to hide them somewhere else on the farm?
No, for she had on a straw hat and was obviously going somewhere, because she carried a small suitcase in one hand. They descended and, stepping outside, saw a farm cart, with two handles, that stood perhaps four feet from the ground. It was wide, about six feet square, with planks along three sides, and rode on two large iron wheels. It turned out to be perfectly balanced. The Britishers had seen hundreds of them during the retreat, each stacked high with bedding and household goods of every kind.
The girl handed each one an identity card. Both were made out in the name of Bonnet, one for Michel, probably the girl’s father, the other for Jean-Paul, evidently her brother. As she gave them over she explained in slow, precise French.
“We go to Calais. Calais. To my grandfather. He does not hate the English, ah, no!” She seemed to be apologizing for the bitterness of her mother. “This card is for you, M’sieur the Sergeant. The other is for your friend.”
Fingers understood. He looked at his small identity card. “Yes, and if they ask me questions? You talk the lingo, I can’t.”
Silence Over Dunkerque Page 7