After Dunkirk

the gunfire. It showed little damage from a passing army, the fields were lush green, and water was nearby. As they had moved into position, they came across a narrow irrigation canal, drank their fill, and washed off their filthy bodies and uniforms.
Just after dark, they moved in closer to the farm and set up a perimeter on the east side of the house. The dogs barked again, a maddening howl that immediately warned their owner that they were serious. Fortunately, they were tied up.
The farmer lumbered out onto the small covered porch, rifle in hand, silhouetted against the light above his head and that of an interior lamp spilling out behind him. Lance and Horton crouched below in shadows on either side of the entry.
“Psst,” Horton called. “Here,” he said in French, just above a whisper. “I’m English.”
On the other side of the porch, Lance watched, ready to spring if the farmer raised the rifle toward Horton. At first, the man seemed confused, or at least startled, perhaps torn in deciding what he should do.
“I’m English,” Horton called again. “I’m hungry. I need food.”
Lance held his breath, but then the farmer edged over to Horton’s side of the porch and looked into the darkness. Horton stood, his arms spread at shoulder height, his hands empty. “I need food,” he said again, and then, sweeping his arm toward the dark fields, he added, “We need food.”
The farmer stood silently. He was big and wore brown rough-cut trousers with suspenders over a soiled white shirt. He stared at Horton without speaking for a full minute. Then he lowered the barrel of his weapon and beckoned.
“Come, come,” he said. “We have to get you out of sight. How many are you?”
“Nine.”
The man stopped in his tracks and turned to Horton. “Nine?”
Horton nodded.
The farmer looked again into the darkness. Then he pointed to a barn barely visible against the night sky. “Take your men there. I will meet you.” One of the dogs barked. “I’ll get them to be quiet.”
Fifteen minutes later, the farmer, Alain Coste, watched as nine hungry men devoured all the bread, cheese, and cold cuts he could muster on short notice. “My wife is making stew,” he told Horton,” but that will take a while longer.” He also brought out fruit juice and water.
“You must remain quiet,” he said, his large eyes worried over a bulbous nose and bushy mustache.
“We understand,” Horton told him. “We won’t stay long. Maybe a day to rest up and get some strength back. We’re headed for Switzerland or Spain, to get home.”
“And then you come back to fight les Boches?” Coste queried dubiously.
Horton chuckled. “Of course. If we don’t, we’ll be fighting them in London.”
“Ah, bien sur,” Coste remarked. “You rest. My friends will help, but please, don’t do anything to endanger my family.”
Lance had remained in the background, content to let Horton take the lead with the kindly farmer. Now he stepped forward and said in French, “You have my word, and thank you for your help.” He extended his hand. Coste alternated his eyes between Lance and Horton. Then he took Lance’s hand in both of his own and shook it.
At first light, the farmer entered the barn and beckoned to Lance and Horton.
“You can’t stay here,” he said, his eyes wide. “The Germans are coming this way, and they are searching every house and barn.” He pulled a large cloth bag from over his shoulder. “There’s bread, fruit, cheese, and meat in here.” Looking around at the gaunt men gathering around him, he added, “It’s not much for so many, but maybe it will hold you up a while.” Handing the bag to Horton, he reached across and grabbed Lance with both hands. “Listen to me. There is a port south of Dunkirk where the British are still picking up soldiers. If you can get there, you might have a chance, but you must hurry.”
Lance stared at him, not quite comprehending. “More evacuations? Are you sure?”
Coste heaved a sigh. “Nothing is certain anymore, but I spoke on the telephone with a friend in Veules-les-Roses.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, then handed it to Lance. “My truck is broken down, or I would try to take you myself, but I’ve sketched a map.” He indicated the paper. “Go back to that irrigation ditch. Follow it south, where it joins a spring that feeds it. Follow it upstream to a wooded area. On the other side is another farm. The owner is a close friend. He’ll take you, but you must do exactly as he says. He’s prepared his truck with a false floor on the bed. It’ll be tight, but you all should fit, and he’ll cover it with hay and a load of vegetables. The Germans are setting up checkpoints, but he knows how to avoid them. He should have you there in a few hours.”
For the first time in days, real hope flooded Lance’s senses. Overcome with emotion, he leaned over and hugged Coste. “Thank you,” he choked. “We can never repay you enough.”
Nodding, Coste grasped Lance’s upper arms. “You came to fight for France. That is enough. Now go. Hurry.”
Lance told his men what Coste had said. As they prepared to leave, one by one, they expressed their gratitude. The farmer shook off the compliments, but then took Lance aside one more time.
“Don’t trust all Frenchmen,” he said gravely. “Some sympathize with the Nazis.”
Startled, Lance could only stare. “How will we know—”
“Trust only the people our friends introduce to you. Avoid the rest. I wish I could instruct you better, but there’s no time. You must leave, now.”

6
Two days later, June 10
London, England
Lieutenant Paul Littlefield hurried up the front steps of the requisitioned Metropole Hotel situated between Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place near the center of town. The trappings of the once gracious old building made no impression on him, most of its fine ballrooms and