After Dunkirk

But let’s face facts: war is led by generals and managed by bureaucrats. Anywhere you find generals and bureaucrats, you find turf wars. We’ll have both types of people with MI-5 and MI-6. Of that I have no doubt.”
“There could be another player in the mix soon,” Paul said.
Crockatt’s head jerked backward in surprise. “How so?”
Having second thoughts about divulging what he knew, Paul chose his words carefully. “Mind you, this is only rumor at this point. I’ve seen nothing official yet.”
Eyes taking on a steely expression, Crockatt scrutinized Paul. “You’ve piqued my interest,” he said, a note of command entering his voice. “Go on.”
“Yes, sir. Rumor is that Churchill is contemplating a new element to train and assist partisans in the occupied countries in carrying out acts of sabotage directly. It’s to be titled the Special Operations Executive.”
“I’d heard,” Crockatt replied brusquely. As he spoke, he rose from behind the desk, ambled to its front, and leaned against it with his legs spread out and arms folded across his chest.
Alarmed by his demeanor, Paul was at a loss for words, finally managing after an interlude of heavy silence to say, “I’ve heard rumors, but nothing definite.” Another uneasy moment passed, and then Paul asked, “Did I cross a line, sir?”
Crockatt heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m disturbed that the information about the SOE has reached you. At this point, it was to be known only at senior levels.”
Paul felt blood rise in his cheeks. “Sir, I’m an intelligence officer. I work in the section that runs foreign agents. My job is to keep my eyes and ears open, my mouth shut, and to add two and two. I apologize if I’ve said too much.”
Crockatt eyed him momentarily and then broke into a half-smile. “Of course, and you are a good intelligence officer.” He circled back to the other side of his desk and sat down, then leaned back with his hands clasped behind his neck and inhaled deeply. “What have you heard about the German resistance?”
Keeping in mind Crockatt’s earlier manner, Paul hesitated.
The major spoke to set him at ease. “I suppose you’ve heard of attempts by senior members inside the German military and regime to contact British officials in hopes of negotiating an armistice. Such a move would require toppling Hitler in a coup.”
“I’d heard,” Paul said cautiously, “but nothing beyond what you just said.”
Crockatt remained quiet, scrutinizing him. “We’re still building this organization,” he said at last. “I’d like to transfer you here.” He searched Paul’s face for a reaction.
Paul remained impassive.
“You might get advance news of your brothers’ whereabouts,” Crockatt continued, “or, who knows? You might help one or both of them escape back to England.”

7
Late at night, June 13
Dunkirk, France
Jeremy had left the Boulier house with a great sense of loss. Following the sketch map Ferrand had penciled, he first hid in the shed a few houses down the alley until darkness descended. Then he moved through ruined backstreets and rubble, clinging to shadows, headed to a particular address Ferrand had indicated.
Progress was slow, with only enough light from a sliver of moon and an occasional working streetlight that silhouetted the landmarks he was to follow: the shells of bombed-out homes, churches, and schools.
Alert to crossing paths with German patrols, he stumbled over wreckage and debris, counting streets and alleys and feeling for the waypoints Ferrand had specified, while the stench of damp, scorched ruins spoiled the air.
After two hours, he entered an undamaged barn and found a hay-covered entrance to an underground room indicated on the map. Then he descended into its darkness, closed the trapdoor, and waited on the cold floor. Unable to sleep, his mind wandered to the events that had brought him to Dunkirk, and Amélie.
Despite the gloom, he imagined her honey-colored eyes, her soft skin, her full lips, the auburn highlights of her dark hair, and her slight figure. He heard the music of her laughter and recalled the directness of her conversation and the courage of her actions.
Don’t get carried away, he warned himself. We’re still at war.
Deliberately, he recalled having left home, saying goodbye to his mother and father, his trip to northern England for training, and then the short hop to France. There, he had enjoyed his time in the British Army as an engineer, building roads and airfields in anticipation of the expected war, until the Germans had attacked rapidly and fiercely, driving the BEF and the French 10th Army south to Dunkirk. He had been among thousands of non-combatants thrown into the fray to provide rearguard protection for the evacuating troops, with only cursory training, under the command of the 51st (Highland) Infantry Division.
For ten days, he had heard reports of boats coming and going from the Dunkirk beaches, and wondered, with his comrades, when their turn would come. Then, an unexplainable lull in the battle had persisted for four days. Two nights later, field artillery shells whistled through the air, and then shocked the senses amid concussive explosions that threw dirt skyward with body parts and war machines fragmented into distorted pieces.
As he sat in the dark cellar below the barn, images he had witnessed entered his mind unbidden, and then trailed to his rescue by the bent little man and his daughter.
Then the cycle of recollections started again as he forced himself to cease thinking of Amélie by redirecting his thoughts to home, and when he had left, and how he had come to France, and then Dunkirk and when he was rescued by Ferrand and his beautiful daughter. He found the cycle uncontrollable and relentless.
Am I in love? He immediately derided himself. I’ve known Amélie barely two days. What do I know of her? He answered his own question. Only that she’s strong, brave, daring, beautiful, and I can’t get her out of my mind.
Undeniably, he had an overpowering emotional attachment to her, as he did to her father and younger sister. As I should,