After Dunkirk

in whatever escapade her brothers dreamed up. Adventurous in her own right, she was the artistically inclined member of the family, loving the piano and gifted on any instrument she picked up. She had been accepted into the Royal Academy of Music in London two years earlier and had lived there ever since.
Lance was the third in line and had joined the army for reasons completely different from Paul’s. He had always sought adventure, shirking studies while in school, and as a result, his prospects for advancing scholastically were dim. That bothered him not in the least but inflamed his mother. Not that she would ever show it.
He had enlisted as war clouds gathered, only informing his parents the night before shipping out. He had relished the training, earned quick promotion into the non-commissioned officer ranks for his natural leadership abilities, and looked forward to engaging the Hun in combat.
Then there was sweet Jeremy, the baby of the family, a perfect blend of his older siblings. Jeremy was fun-loving but always respectful. He was studious and a gifted athlete, and while he enjoyed joining in Lance’s adventures, he never initiated them or pushed the limit. Having always been good with numbers, his choice of an engineering degree surprised no one. The shock had come when he had volunteered for service in the army to build infrastructure in France in anticipation of war with Germany.
Lance closed his eyes and let his chin drop to his chest. I hope Jeremy got out.
Picturing his siblings was not difficult: they were images of each other with only those slight differences that family and friends used to distinguish between them. They were above medium height and build with variations of musculature dependent on their physical activity, meaning that Paul was thinner and softer than his brothers, athletically capable, but more inclined to study. Lance was rock-hard. Jeremy was, well, Jeremy, as physically talented as Lance but giving more time to his numbers than to following the physical regimen of his more rambunctious middle brother. As for Claire, despite the hours she spent practicing music, she spent almost an equal amount of time roughhousing with her brothers.
Despite the differences between the siblings while growing up, they wrestled and boxed with their stepfather and each other, spent hours climbing among the cliffs on the shoreline, or played with a ball of some sort on the flat ground of their island home. They were each other’s best friends, and they idolized their stepfather.
Paul and Claire had brown eyes, their brothers both had green. All four had straight noses, dirty-blond hair, and firm jaws.
Their mother had her own peculiar warmth. It seldom expressed itself in long hugs or high blandishments, but she was always there, standing aside with a smile more detectable in her eyes than on her lips. She was at once apart from them and yet with them, and always doing small things that made life good—baking favorite desserts, bringing home a new board game, or just being there and helping when they worked through problems.
Thinking about his mother now, an overpowering ache welled within Lance’s chest and he felt tears spilling down his cheeks, a recently frequent occurrence. Glancing up, he saw that some of the men noticed. He coughed and wiped his eyes.
Without quite knowing why, he climbed to his feet. His impulse had been to rise abruptly, but he found the effort slowed by exhausted muscles and painful joints. On finally standing upright, his legs wobbled beneath him, and he found himself at a loss for words. He reminded himself that he was the senior man present and opened his mouth to speak.
The sound that emerged was almost unrecognizable, a weak, unintelligible croak. He coughed to clear his throat and tried again, hearing his voice barely above a whisper. Looking about, he saw that he had gained the detached attention of the soldiers, their weary eyes, sagging skin, and drooping shoulders a testament to the deprivations they endured.
Lance sucked on his tongue to pull whatever moisture he could muster into his mouth to wet his throat. Then, he tried for a third time to address the small group.
“Chaps, we’re in a pickle.” He tried to grin but saw that his attempt at humor had bombed. “No help is coming.”
Several of the men closed their eyes, and their heads dropped further. Some turned away. Lance saw that he had only plunged them into deeper desolation.
He straightened his back as best he could and tried to put force in his voice. “We are British soldiers,” he said. “We have a mission. Our job now is to evade capture and get home.”
Several of the men raised their eyes to meet his, some with a stray ray of hope, some with deep skepticism.
“Just how are we going to do that, Sergeant?” one asked, his tone thick with sarcasm.
“I don’t know,” Lance admitted, “but we bloody hell won’t do it by sitting in a circle with our jaws in the dirt.” Feeling a slight rush of energy from unknown reserves, he continued. “We are soldiers of His Majesty’s Army, and as the senior member present, I will ask you to please speak to me and your fellow soldiers with respect.”
By their startled faces, Lance knew he had at least dented their senses. “The first thing we are going to do is get to know each other,” he continued. “Right now, all of you, get on your feet. That’s an order.”
No one moved. Some turned away.
Lance scanned the weary faces. Then he walked over to the soldier who had seen his comrades machine-gunned at Le Paradis. Despite his own shaky legs, he squatted in front of the man, really still a boy. “Where are you from?” he asked gently.
The lad raised his eyes as if unsure that he was the person being addressed. “Aysgarth, sir. I mean, Sergeant.”
Gratified that the soldier could still comprehend and respond, Lance pressed him. “Where is that?”
“It’s…” The soldier started to reply and then