Silence Over Dunkerque (12 page)

The old sergeant, who wore the ribbons of the First War, continued. “Now it stands to reason a chap like that isn’t going to let himself be picked up by the Jerries. Not half likely. So don’t give up, whatever happens. Besides, he may be at some other port. He’s a keen soldier, is George Williams.”

Then he observed the twins watching at her side, openmouthed. “These your lads, missis?”

Richard and Ronny spoke up with pride. It helped them to hear this veteran, who knew their father, talk about him as a soldier. “Yes, sir,” they said.

“They’ve been to Dunkerque, too,” interjected Mrs. Williams. “Quite without my permission, I assure you. They went over in just a small motorboat with a neighbor of ours, never saying a word to me. I can tell you I was frightened when I found out they’d gone. Why, they might easily have been killed.” But she did not mange to conceal the satisfaction she felt that they were the sons of a soldier. “They didn’t find their father, but they brought back—how many was it, boys?”

“Six dead, twelve wounded, and fourteen other ranks from the beaches,” both said simultaneously.

“Well, well, think of that! Your father will be proud of you. And you should be proud of him, missis. Good luck, then.” The veteran raised his thick white china mug, into which she had just poured the muddy-looking tea. “And good luck to us all. Remember, George Williams will be back. Now you mark my words.”

It cheered the family enormously. They needed cheering. For the third of June passed, the fourth, and it was the afternoon of the fifth. The avalanche of battered troops from the battered vessels had trickled away. Now the only ships entering port were towed by patrol boats, or small craft that limped in on disabled engines. Still no word from the Sergeant.

A friendly port official in blue approached them. “I really shouldn’t wait any more if I were you, Mrs. Williams. We have word now that the evacuation ended last night.” He knew she had been on duty almost steadily for over a week, and perceived her exhaustion. With a kindly hand on her arm, he walked slowly along down the pier, the twins following. “Mustn’t take on, now. George Williams is not the man to cop it. He’ll be in some camp upcountry, most probably. You’ll no doubt find word from him when you get home.”

Her instinct was to stay on those piers, watching, as long as a single damaged vessel struggled into the harbor. But she could see the evacuation had finished. Now nothing was coming in. Details of troops were already cleaning up the mess on the docks, Red Cross workers were folding up the trestle tables, where only a few hours previously hundreds of starved soldiers had lined up for their first food in days. The barriers that held back the people of the town were down. They, too, had given up hope and gone home. No use staying on.

She knew he was right, and yet somehow she hated to leave. It was almost like desertion. However, she allowed the port official to lead her gently toward the end of the pier, toward the road up home.

“Mind you let me know if you have any news. Any word at all, understand?”

Whether her husband was killed, drowned, a prisoner of war, or perhaps left on the beaches with his men to defend the last hours of the embarkation, she wanted to know.

“Indeed we shall, Mrs. Williams. Now get yourself some rest. You too, lads.”

They said good-by, and went off the pier. Hawkers were leaning against the wall. They had done a great deal of business selling shoulder flashes with the initials,
B.E.F.,
on them. Tired and exhausted as the troops were, they felt proud, not disgraced, and there was a rush to buy those initials. Now there were no longer any customers.

Everything in town seemed so normal, everything along St. Martin’s Hill was the same as yesterday, as the week before, as a month ago. Yet everything was different. Daddy hadn’t returned from Dunkerque.

The house was their last hope. None of them spoke as they came up into the Folkestone Road and began the climb toward home. But all three prayed for a miracle. Maybe he was there, waiting. Or possibly Penny would meet them, waving a telegram that said he was at Deal or Ramsgate.

They had been on their feet for days and days and were shattered by all they had seen and lived through. Yet their steps quickened as they came up the hill toward the Priory Station. Who knew? Perhaps he was safe at some camp in the Midlands, waiting only leave to rejoin them. The three came round the turn. Up ahead was the brick house.

Sure enough, Penelope was sitting on the steps. She rose as she saw them coming eagerly toward her. No shaggy brown-and-black dog came bouncing down to greet them. No tall, erect soldier stood there with Penny’s hand in his. She was alone.

T
HE ENTIRE DOG POPULATION
of the city of Calais appeared to be circulating about that house in Coulogne.

There were small dogs, large dogs, brown, white, black, and in between; poodles, terriers of every kind, boxers, shepherds, collies, and animals best described as plain dog. By the mysterious manner in which beasts communicate, word had passed around the dog world of the wrecked and ruined town that on the outskirts was a friendly voice and a place of refuge for a lost animal.

Curiously, notwithstanding their numbers, variety, and size, no fights or squabbles were taking place. They seemed to be leaving all fighting to the human race. Dogs sat placidly on the stone steps, lay on the tiny grass plot before the brick house, slept along the gravel path to the rear, or stretched out in the kennels whose doors were wide open. Two pails of water and a smaller bucket were on the ground, several dogs were drinking, proof that someone inside was caring for them.

The girl hesitated as they came near the house.

“Très dangereux ici. Dangereux! Compris?”

They understood only too well. As the caravan approached the house, the Airedale rose, her nose sniffling violently, and raised herself off the sack of clothes, leaning forward, not quite knowing what to expect.

Beside the little iron gate was a sign on a post.
Marcel Dupont, Médecin-vétérinaire.

At this moment the door opened and an old man with a white coat, over which was an apron, appeared with two pans. He had a wisp of a beard, and could not have weighed one hundred pounds. At his advent every dog instantly stood. He walked down the stone steps, the animals scattering, placed the flat trays on the ground. Both were immediately surrounded by hungry dogs, yet there was no fighting, pushing, or snarling. Those unable to eat sat in the rear waiting, their tails wagging in anticipation.

Then the little old man saw the strange caravan of household goods and the young girl. He snatched off his glasses, threw open his arms.

“Ah, Gisèle.”

“Grandpére,”
she screamed, rushing in and throwing herself into his arms. They embraced, kissing each other on both cheeks several times, and it was evident the old man had real affection for the child. With communications cut for ten days, neither knew whether the other had survived the bombings and destruction of town and country.

They burst into voluble French, most of which was lost on the two Britishers.

“What on earth is she saying, Sarge?”

“Well, she’s telling the old man that her father is... a prisoner of war in a German
Stalag
... that her brothers... haven’t been heard from.... After that, I don’t know. I fell off the bus at the next turn.”

Then the old man noticed them. She said something to him, talking intently, while he looked solemnly at the two men in smocks and wide trousers. To a German non-com they were French fishermen; not to the veterinary. The eyes of the girl twinkled as she told their story. Then she became serious, and each Englishman realized that although she was a young girl, she was aged in grief and sorrow. The Sergeant realized she was telling about her mother, and how she herself had run away to save the two English soldiers.

The old gentleman stepped toward them. His gesture was grave and courteous. He put out his hands, thin, worn, aged by toil. But when they took the hands of the Englishmen they were warm and friendly. His head went to one side, the little beard on his chin waggled.

“Ici
...
dangereux
...
très dangereux! Allemands partout.”
He extended his arms to indicate the whole region, shaking his head to indicate that with Germans all around, to take them into his home endangered his life and those living there. He shrugged his shoulders. He wanted to help. But... there was nothing he dared do.

Then the girl took over. She stamped her foot. She tossed her head, the braids whirled about her neck.

“Ah, non, alors....”
She wasn’t so much pleading for them as for the honor of her grandfather, for France. The two men watched, wondering whether he would turn them away to sleep in the adjoining fields, or leave them to escape as best they could.

Now the words poured out. She attacked the old man with vehemence; she was her mother’s daughter. She was also a Girl Scout. Either they were going in, and he was to help them, or she would go off with them into the woods and help them herself.

“Eh....” The little old man held out his hands. He was beaten. Turning, he beckoned, and with the Sergeant pushing the cart they followed him, entering the yard and going along a pebbly driveway beside the brick house. Half a dozen dogs scampered from their path.

“Voilà!”
He pointed out a kind of stable with a dirt floor next to the kennels. An ancient Renault with a sloping hood was parked inside, the tires flat. Evidently it had not been used since the war began eight months before. Dogs were under this car, around it, in it. The Sergeant shoved the cart into the shelter, let the handles drop with relief, and hauled the Airedale cautiously to the ground. Some of the natives came over and began smelling her.

They tramped inside, the Airedale at the heels of the Sergeant. They were in a large, tiled kitchen with a sink piled with dirty dishes, an iron range on which a soup was bubbling, and a dozen shining pots and pans, that had apparently not been used for some time, hanging above. There was nobody there.

The adjoining room had once been a dining room; now it had been made over as a kind of vet’s office and surgery combined. It contained a cabinet with instruments, an operating table, a most insufficient electric light, a bench. It was neither modern, up-to-date, nor sanitary, with dirty rags and bandages in a heap on the floor, and a sink with a single faucet of cold water in the corner.

At the side, against a pile of cloths, was a fox terrier, completely bound up around his middle.

The old man leaned down, stroked him, knelt, and looked carefully at his eyes. Then he beckoned the two Englishmen.

They followed him into the next room and up a steep flight of stairs. In the front of the house was a living room with dingy lace curtains at the windows. The whole place was grimy with dust.

The furnishings of this room reminded the Sergeant of something he had observed since coming to France. Scratch a Frenchman and you at once uncover a soldier, because every male in France able to walk had served or was serving in the armies of the Republic. Once, it appeared, the aged veterinarian had been a soldier like everyone else. Evidence was the pair of crossed sabers over the fireplace, a Berber assagai, or African spear, suspended from the ceiling. On the wall was a faded kepi, a kind of hat with a cloth hanging down behind to protect the neck of the wearer from the desert sun. The old man’s medals were in a frame over the fireplace—the green and red of the
Croix de guerre,
the red of the
Légion d’Honneur,
and the
Médaille Militaire,
the highest of all French combat decorations.

This myopic little man hardly looked like a war hero, but there was the proof around the room. Besides, the Sergeant knew that the most unlikely human beings did the most unbelievable things sometimes when put to the test. Meanwhile their host wasted no time. His one desire was to hide them as soon as possible.

Outside could be heard the tramp of boots and harsh, guttural commands. Glancing from the window, the Sergeant saw a patrol tromp past, the men calling to the dogs in the front yard.

Going into a small passageway at the rear, the veterinary stepped on a chair, and after considerable pushing, lifted a trap door. Quite obviously the place had been unused for years.

“Montez. Vite.”
Get up. Quick.

This was no easy task, especially from the chair, as it almost meant chinning oneself. The Sergeant pushed Fingers up, and Fingers pulled on the Sergeant, though it took all the strength they had to make it. The old man below put his finger to his lips and, standing on the chair, slammed the trap door into place.

From below came the sharp, protesting bark of the dog. Having found her people, she did not intend to be separated again. They could hear the old doctor and the girl trying to drag her downstairs. Her paws scuffed the floor, her whining and groaning were audible in the dark attic.

“Well, one thing certain. She’s got plenty of pals here. Wish we had,” said Fingers.

“We have, lad, just remember that. These people are risking their lives to take us in now. We may be allies and all that, but we’re strangers. Would we do as much for a couple of Frenchies if the Germans occupied England? I wonder. Anyway, the dog’s all right. She won’t run away.”

“I only wish we could,” said Fingers.

T
HEY HAD BEEN
three days in the house of the veterinary now, and thanks to the girl and the old man, it almost began to seem like home. That morning she sat on the arm of the Sergeant’s chair, in the big sun-streaked kitchen with the red-tiled floor, exactly as Penny often did in their kitchen at home. She began to question him about his life and his family.

“Tell me more about your children.”

“I did. There are three. Two boys, fifteen....” He was unable to recall the French word for twins. “Two boys just the same age. The same age, you understand?”

“Ah!”
she threw back her head, and as she did so the gap between her teeth was exposed.
“Ah, jumeaux.”