Little Ships

Like the American general, Douglas MacArthur, I had returned. The fog of old age could not stem the memories that rose in my mind, like the tides on a beach south of Dunkirk almost seventy years ago. I experienced a lifetime in those few weeks they called the miracle of Dunkirk.

I sighed, looking out at the moored boats. "Little ships." That's what the English called them. Almost a thousand boats, many of them small pleasure craft, played out a drama that not only saved the lives of thousands of French and English troops, but breathed a resolve into those who remained to resist the Germans. I survived those harrowing early days thanks to help from an unlikely place.

My name is Henri Gagnier, and my family owned a hotel in Dunkirk. My father said it was the best one around. As the fighting neared our town, we prepared for the inevitable conflict. No longer did my parents hope we might ride out the onslaught of the German military. It rolled over farms and cities crushing everything in its path.

My father thought Dunkirk might be spared for its strategic value to the Germans. But he didn't consider the tenacity of the retreating French and British soldiers fighting for survival--a survival that brought them to that beach near Dunkirk. The Allies made the Germans pay dearly for each meter of French soil they bought.

The German guns began shelling our city in early May, killing almost a thousand civilians while inflicting heavy damage on the Allies trying to hold the city. My mother and sister were lost in that shelling. I came across my sister bleeding in the rubble of the market. Searching for his family, my father found me slumped over her lifeless body, exhausted from trying to free her from the beam that trapped her. She died in my arms. I never saw my mother again.

Miraculously, our hotel survived, Then I was orphaned three days later when a Kraut sympathizer hoping to garner favor with the advancing German High Command shot my father in the back. I learned how to hide and survive.

I met the lads on the first of June. Four of them. Englishmen. Boys, really. Their leader was nineteen, the youngest sixteen. The youngest one never made it home.

I sat down on a bench facing the Channel; it had been a long time since I'd thought of those boys. Folding my hands over my cane, I lay my forehead on them and closed my eyes. The sight of those boats in the harbor were fixed in my mind. Once again, I was nine and running for my life.

* * *

Boom! My world crashed in on me as the dust seeped around the doors of the cupboard I was sleeping in. Through cracks in the wood I could see terrible flashes of light from the explosions that rocked my hiding place. I pushed at a door to get out.

Nothing! It wouldn't budge--something must have fallen against the doors. I was trapped. My instincts told me to trust no one, but I had to get out of this building before I was crushed. I started screaming.

"M’aidez! S'il vous plait!"

The noise outside was deafening. No one would ever hear my cries amid the explosions and the falling debris.

"Over here." I heard a voice and grasped at it with all my will.

"Je suis encore là!" I screamed.

The voices were muffled and unintelligible. Something scraped against my cupboard door. I started coughing again from the dust. Huddling down, I covered my mouth with my shirt. Finally the door opened and I stared out at four English soldiers, afraid to move.

The tallest one extended his hand to me. "Come here." He looked at one who seemed not much older than I, and nodded toward me.

"Viens ici. Nous n'allons pas vous faire mal," that one said, adding they wouldn't hurt me.

I took his hand, scrambling out of my would-be coffin. The world around us exploded again; the Englishman shielded me from falling debris.

"We have to get outa here," he yelled, picking me up and running for the door with the others close behind.

It was still dark, and the flashes from the shelling turned the night to day for a few seconds like some macabre circus show. Safety lay beyond a large courtyard. The rat-tat-tat of a machine gun forced us to the ground behind a jagged wall. I looked up at the faces of my saviours--they were as frightened as I was. In that moment I found some measure of comfort. I tugged at the sleeve of the man holding me.

"I ... know ... a place," I said, as the words came to mind slowly. My father tried to teach me English, but I always had other things on my mind than such lessons. "Allons nous!" I beckoned them to follow me.

We crawled to a small building behind our hotel. Under that shed was a small bunker my father had built for our family. It was never used. Stocked with dried foods and supplies, it was a five-star hotel to these tired lads. The only thing missing was fresh water.

"Je m'appel Owen. Comment vous appelez-vous?" the youngest asked me.

"Je suis Henri. I speak English ... a little."

"Henri, I'm Owen. This is Corporal ... uh, Clint," pointing at their leader. "And George ... and Alfred. We're English troops trying to find our unit. We were cut off," he added, unnecessarily.

"I see many boats taking soldiers away from the beach," I said. "Each day more troops come to the beach and wait. I do not understand why the Germans do not attack them."

"Neither do we," Clint said. "But we're thankful they don't."

"Do you speak German?" I asked.

"Owen does," Clint said. "Our young friend is quite the linguist." I paused, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar words. He added, "Never mind. Why?"

"This was my family's hotel before the Germans took it. Their Commander stays here. He has many meetings. I can show you a way to listen to them."

Everyone started talking at once. I only caught bits and pieces of the conversations.

"... too dangerous."

"Could be ... chance ... men."

"Best ... warning ..."

Finally, Clint raised his hand. "There are still thousands of troops that need time to get away. We might learn something to help that effort. We have to take the chance."

"Henri," he said, looking at me. "Can you get Owen and me inside?”

I nodded.

He continued, "George, find us more ammo--we're getting pretty low. And maybe some grenades. Don't forget water." He winked at them. He didn't have to tell them to be careful. "We go after dark."

I made my first real friends during those long hours of waiting. Clint and George were really brothers, and they'd all grown up together in a small town called Lancashire. Clint enlisted. The others couldn't stand to be left behind and lied about their ages, following two days later. Their enthusiasm and encouragement of each other earned them a spot in the same unit, a unit later decimated by the Germans in northern France. They soon found themselves cut off and alone. Hearing of the evacuations, they were trying to reach the beach.

Ours became a true friendship forged of the universal and common bond against evil. In those few hours, I learned to trust again.

About eight-thirty, the lads embraced each other, and departed. Holding my breath, I opened the basement door slowly, worried that the rusty hinges would creak and give us away. Relief flooded through me as I led Clint and Owen up the back staircase to a small room on the other side of the main dining room. Through a small hole we could see several high-ranking German officers arguing over some maps spread across the table. Owen listened intently.

Even in the dim light, we could see Owen's face turn ashen. After a few minutes, he turned and whispered, "They're planning to attack the retreating forces in the morning. They've moved their Infantry forces in from the surrounding towns. Apparently, they're unable to commit their Armour units--I don't understand why not. But the Luftwaffe will begin the attack."

"Bloody hell," Clint said. "We've no time to notify anyone much less plan any defenses."

"Why don't we kill them?" I asked.

Clint looked at me as if I were daft.

"He's right," Owen said. "That's a Division Commander in there, perhaps a few Brigade commanders. The orders haven't gone out yet."

"Cut off their head, huh?" Clint said, an idea forming. "Probably won't have a better chance than this. I have two grenades and one full clip. What about you?"

"I have almost two clips and one grenade. I'm sure the others have a few more," he whispered, his excitement growing. "You know that room will be heavily guarded. What should we do?"

"I only count two guards in the room, and I suspect the door is locked from the inside. If we can take out those two, and keep anyone from unlocking that door, we might have a chance. But we'll need George and Alfred."

Clint turned to me. "Henri, go see if they've returned and bring them here.

I ran without answering.

Several minutes later Clint explained his plan to the others. "Remember, the officers have pistols. It's still four against ten. But we have the element of surprise ... and the knowledge if this fails, many of our friends will be killed. Grenades first--George, the left; Alfred, right; Owen, the far side. I'll go for the center. Take nothing for granted--down is not dead. All set?"

Each man nodded.

He said to me, "Open the panel in the wall on my mark. Then get back!" I nodded.

"Positions! ... Now," he whispered.

I triggered the mechanism and four grenades were lobbed into the room before the panel was fully opened. We hit the floor just as....

Ka-boom! ... Boom ... Boom. Boom!

Smoke billowed over us. I'd never heard such screaming. Though they couldn't see into the dining room, the lads fired blindly hoping to hit anyone still on their feet.

"Aim toward the door," yelled Clint. "Don't let them unlock it."

After a few minutes the smoke and dust started to settle, though the acrid smell of gunpowder remained heavy in the air. As visibility improved, Clint saw that no one was standing. He heard muffled shouts on the other side of the door and knew it wouldn't be long before they broke in.

"Hurry. We haven't much time," Clint said. "Check each man."

Quickly they moved into the room, removing the weapons and checking for pulses. I helped also, picking up pieces of the maps. I saw movement, and froze. A German officer had raised his pistol toward me.

Owen must have seen the movement--he leaped toward me just as the officer fired. I saw his body arch and heard his cry as he fell against me. George emptied his clip into the German and rushed over to Owen.

"Is ... Hen-ri ... okay?" Owen wheezed as blood bubbled from his mouth.

"Yes, Owen, he's right here. ... Clint!"

I knelt down beside Owen, asking, "Pourquoi?" I started crying.

"I couldn't ... let him ... shoot ... you." Owen coughed, his body jerking in George's arms. He took my hand. "H-help ... them get to ... the beach." He smiled weakly and exhaled one last time.

"Damn it to hell!" Clint swore. "Everyone, back to the passageway." He took lamp oil, poured it all over the table and maps, placed the remaining grenades on it and lit the oil. They escaped from the house just as the grenades exploded; the entire house was soon engulfed in flames.

Three hours later, they joined one of the English units waiting to be evacuated, and reported the meeting and resulting firefight. Hasty preparations were made for the defense of an attack that never came.

The lads tried to get me to come with them. I said I had to stay and fight for my family ... and for Owen.

"I will never forget you, mes amis."

* * *

A boat horn shattered my reverie, and the dust that hung in my mind from the rubbled buildings cleared. I lifted my head and coughed sympathetically as I pushed those memories from my mind. I hobbled slowly to the shore, and looked wistfully past the boats toward England.

"I have not forgotten you."

Word Count: 2089 words

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