After Dunkirk

away ahead of the Nazi onslaught. High in the skies, British Hurricane and German Stuka fighters left vapor trails as they dueled, some spiraling downward amid black smoke to crash in the ocean.
The ragged British and French armies had completed an evacuation out to sea four days ago, and then the Wehrmacht had hurled its might at their rearguard north and east of Dunkirk, mercilessly slaughtering any who continued to oppose them, and taking prisoner or executing those who surrendered. As far as Jeremy knew, he was the last of his unit still alive and free. Driven ahead of the blitzkrieg wrought against him and his comrades, he had crawled in the shallow runoff gullies between the dunes on the sides of the low hills and berms down to the beach.
Now, Jeremy slowly, cautiously let out his breath and took in another as he fought panic. To his left, not fifty meters away, a British soldier, mouth gaping, eyes staring, lay sprawled on a low embankment while seagulls wheeled and screeched overhead and then plunged to feast on carrion.
A gut-wrenching cry broke above the breeze beyond a dune to Jeremy’s left. The soldiers above him uttered startled, muffled exclamations and took off at a run, almost stepping on Jeremy’s face and causing more sand to cascade in on him.
He dared not move, and he held his breath. From a distance he heard further shouting and sharp commands. He inched one hand up to wipe the sand from his eyes and peered out in time to see another British soldier being clubbed with rifle butts, hauled to his feet, and led away a broken, wretched man.
All day, Jeremy lay where he was, exhausted, daring to move only his eyes as he searched the horizon for any hope of rescue while resigning himself to the notion that none would come. He was alone. And then, as the sun dipped in the western sky, and despite himself, he slept.
When Jeremy opened his eyes, dawn had broken. Far up the beach, hordes of German soldiers systematically moved among the long lines of abandoned war machines and equipment, searching for and hauling off anything that might be useful. They worked their way down the shore steadily, relentlessly, toward him.
Too tired to be afraid, Jeremy dropped his head into the crook of his elbow, feeling the stubble of five days’ growth of beard pressing against his bare arm. He snickered involuntarily. What would the ol’ man think if he saw me now? Then he remembered the last time he had seen his commanding officer; the man had been face-down in a pool of blood and muddy water.
Jeremy pushed his body against the wall of his hiding place and wedged his face around to scan the beach in the opposite direction. It was empty of men and equipment but provided no cover. Along the edge of the break that marked the joining of sand to the low rise of land, dark seaweed and detritus gathered, thrown up by breaking waves, and Jeremy studied the shallow gullies where rainwater ran down to the sea, the same ones that had covered his escape to the beach. They snaked toward higher ground and at the top, more cover and concealment.
Famished and thirsty, Jeremy glanced toward the enemy soldiers continuing their search of military equipment. I can’t stay here. He took another look at his only possible direction of escape, and began a long, slow crawl to the northeast.
Amélie Boulier scanned the beach below her house. For days she had watched in disbelief as the huge army of British and French soldiers gathered by the hundreds of thousands in endless formations stretching along the shore toward Dunkirk, their vehicles and large war machines parked in long rows. Then, two weeks ago, boats of every description had appeared along the coast, some ferrying back and forth between warships and other larger crafts, while overhead, aircraft from Göring’s squadrons strafed and bombed the soldiers huddled below.
After nine days of steadily emptying the beach, the flotilla disappeared, leaving mounds of waste, the lingering smell of armies struggling to the death, and the moan of wind whipping through the ghostly lines of abandoned equipment.
On the second day after the boats had disappeared from the coast, Amélie had ventured onto the road above it with her younger sister, Chantal. Until then, they had remained sequestered in their home. Situated at the northern extremity of the beach, the cottage was beyond the periphery of furious combat yet close enough to see, hear, and feel its fearsome power. Despite its proximity to battle, the house remained the safest place for the family to shelter, relegating its members to the windows to watch the epic events revealed just beyond their garden gate.
On this first outing, they were aghast at the enormous size of the area trampled by the escaping armies, smoke still rising from the vast number of war machines. Here and there, seagulls and other scavengers fought over clumps that must be the remains of unfortunate men cut down by machine gun fire from the sky in their last desperate scramble over the remaining yards to be rescued.
As Amélie and Chantal walked along the row of burned-out shops along the beachfront at the base of destroyed apartment and office buildings, they ran into friends and acquaintances, each with expressions of disbelief at what they saw in the tragic panorama before them. They greeted each other gravely, mixing the joy of encountering friends safe and well with sorrow for the death and devastation that had come to pass and dread for what must surely lie ahead. Then, the sound of guns and small arms fire had sent everyone hurrying back to their shelters to bide through the further annihilation of the city by the advancing German army.
Guns pounded, and soldiers scurried and bled and died. From their home, the Bouliers had no view of the destruction south and east of them where lay ancient cathedrals, parks, municipal