After Dunkirk

had to stop to think. “It’s in the middle of the country, in North Yorkshire. It’s a tiny place.”
“Is it beautiful?”
A slow smile crossed the soldier’s face. He nodded. “It is. Just a stop in the road, really, but I grew up there.”
Lance clasped his shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“Private Tobias Stewart.”
“What does your mother call you?”
“Toby.”
“Toby it is, then. Do you want to go home, Toby?”
The young soldier nodded, and Lance saw a spark in his eyes and slight color appearing in his slack jaw.
“I’m going home, Toby,” Lance said. “If you’d like to come with me, would you please stand and wait for me over there?” Lance pointed to where he had begun speaking.
With excruciating effort, Toby climbed to his feet and ambled to the place Lance had indicated. He stood on unsteady feet, but Lance saw that he had set his jaw.
Lance sought the soldier who had witnessed the massacre with the hand grenades. Before Lance had even kneeled in front of him, the man struggled to his feet.
“I’m Private Ian Chapman, Sergeant, and I’m from Hoylake in Merseyside on the west coast. I’m going with you.” He made his way across to stand with Toby.
Lance turned to a third soldier who, without prompting, used his rifle to help himself to his feet. “Corporal Derek Horton. I’m ready.” Using the weapon as a crutch, he limped over to Toby and Ian.
Watching him, Lance called after him, “Corporal Horton, what’s wrong with your leg?”
Horton turned and, looking sheepish, he replied, “It’s nothing, Sergeant. I sprained it jumping into a ditch.” He grinned through mud-streaked lips. “That was better than munching on incoming artillery.”
Lance managed a slight smile and turned to face those still seated. His attention fell on the medic sitting alone and apart, his eyes almost vacant. Lance moved over and sat down beside him.
For a moment he said nothing. The medic did not look up.
“We’re going home,” Lance said gently. “Would you like to come with us?”
The medic did not stir.
“What does your mother call you?”
No response.
Feeling his own despair rising, Lance looked around. Horton, Chapman, and Toby stood together awkwardly, Horton still leaning on his rifle.
Forcing his aching muscles, Lance stood up and looked about. The battle had long since moved past them and they were no longer within earshot of enemy soldiers. He glanced at those remaining seated and then back at the trio waiting for him.
Suddenly, he summoned all the energy he could muster and yelled as loud as his weakened condition allowed, “Medic! Medic!”
Startled, the soldier at his feet looked up, eyes wide, and whirled around, searching.
Lance reached down and grabbed his collar. “Over there,” he called, pointing at Horton. “That man has a wounded leg. He needs you. Now!”
He yanked on the medic’s collar again. “What’s your name?”
The man looked confused.
“There’s a soldier over there who needs first aid. Do your job. Help him.”
The medic looked slowly over toward Horton and started rising to his feet. Lance reached down and helped him. “What’s your name?” he asked again.
“T-Tickner,” the medic stammered. “Private Kenneth Tickner.”
“Well, Private Tickner, take care of Corporal Horton, and get ready to go with us.”
Now standing on shaky legs, Tickner looked into Lance’s face. Then he turned to Horton and stumbled toward him.
Lance shifted his attention to the remainder of the group. They regarded him with expressions ranging from gaping to startled. Some started the painful climb to their feet. Then, without another word, the entire group got up and clustered around Lance, awaiting his direction.
“Good,” he said. “From here until we get home, we are each other’s closest friends.” He made his next statement to the medic. “Private Tickner, you’ve got a big job ahead of you. We have a long way to go, and you have to keep everyone healthy.” He then addressed the full group. “Get acquainted. Learn each other’s names and backgrounds. First order of business — we’re going to find food and clean water.” He looked around at the haggard faces staring back at him with traces of hope. “And then we’re going home.”

5
“Do any of you speak French?” Lance asked.
Horton raised his hand. “Enough to get along.”
“Good. I’m fluent. Between the two of us, we should have it in hand. Now listen carefully. There are”—he did a quick head count—“nine of us, and we might pick up more. The French are not our enemies. They probably feel worse than we do. This is their country that’s been savaged. We need to make contact with locals who would give us shelter and food. We’ll have to take every precaution, so we don’t walk ourselves into capture, but we need to take fast action while we still have a smidgeon of strength left.”
“What’s your plan?” Horton asked, looking around at the anxious faces.
Lance told them.
At dusk, the loosely formed squad of men crept into position around a solitary farmhouse. Dogs barked, but the soldiers paid them no heed.
A man walked out onto the porch and looked about, but seeing nothing, he called to his dogs to be quiet and re-entered the house.
The soldiers had watched from a distance all day. A few laborers had shown up for work and then left in late afternoon. A woman hung clothes in the backyard, but aside from them, they saw no one else.
The guns of the previous days had fallen quiet, the Germans had marched their prisoners of war away, and the area where Lance’s group sought refuge had seen only light fighting. It was dormant. Lance was sure that more German soldiers would pour into the area, but at present the army was preoccupied with gaining control of Dunkirk, cleaning up the battlefield, removing their own dead and wounded, and moving the POWs. Those activities provided time for him to act.
They had moved in the dark to surveil this farmhouse, choosing it after much discussion regarding what each soldier had seen while fleeing from the battlefield. This particular farm was isolated, well away from