Silence Over Dunkerque by John R. Tunis Read Free Book Online Page A

milling around in uniform.
    There they stood, the little group of Second Wilts and the dog, looking hopefully out to sea. The cloud bank overhead at least held off the bombing planes, but the weather was cold and grim; a thick fog hung over the water, which kept the larger boats invisible from shore. A few, just a handful of small craft, were transporting troops out to the destroyers, the Channel steamers, the mine sweepers, and hospital ships in the thickness beyond.
    They reached Bray-Dunes that evening, and when they got there the lines of waiting soldiers, eight abreast, stretched far into the icy ocean. Silent they stood, motionless in misery. The embarkation number S33 meant nothing in the general confusion. A naval officer knew no such number. It must be meant for the mole at Dunkerque, he observed.
    “You chaps better go back down there, unless you’d like to take your chances at the end of one of these lines.”
    Up and down the beach stretched the everlasting files. At the rate they were moving, the Sergeant figured his men would be weeks, not days, getting out to a ship. All the time they could hear the thunder of guns in the distance, as the Panzers kept closing the ring, drawing closer to the burning city.
    Then the Sergeant, peering out to sea through the mist, noticed a curious fact. Small boats carrying men to the ships were not returned to the shore. Their crews, in haste to escape, simply clambered aboard the larger vessels and set the small ones adrift. The smaller boats floated on the incoming tide, eventually beaching, where a fight for possession invariably took place. Half a dozen craft could be seen, empty, bobbing in the gentle swell several hundred yards offshore.
    An idea came to him.
    Where they stood was a somewhat unfrequented part of the crowded beach. Most of the troops were in the interminable files farther along. Around stood only his detachment and the dog. Stripping to his shorts, he waded into the frigid water. It hurt his ankles.
    As he went in, the dog followed. She came out a few feet, then dug in her paws and retreated, barking.
    The Sergeant stepped ahead. The water was so cold that he had to dive under immediately. The chill stabbed him, numbed him, took away his breath. He dug in as hard as he could for the nearest boat. Usually the water felt warmer as he exercised; not the North Sea late in May. Faintly he could hear the bark of the Airedale from the beach.
    By the time he reached the boat, he was congealed. Climbing aboard, which had seemed so simple from the shore, was difficult. The gunwale was high in the water. From the stern the boat sloped away, so it was impossible to reach the deck. He grew colder as he swam around, searching for a rope, a ladder, anything to hang on to.
    There was nothing. He tried to push the boat to shore, but it was far too heavy.
    Feeling his strength giving out, he reached up one hand for the gunwale and made a desperate effort. The boat tipped toward him. He lunged with all his strength, got two arms over the side. There he hung for a moment, panting. Finally, with a last pull, he yanked his body inside, and lay there exhausted.
    Those short, sharp barks came clearly across the water from the beach. He sat up. The dog, tired as she was, raced up and down along the water’s edge, frantic at their separation.
    He stood up and investigated the boat. It was about thirty-two feet, with a small Leyland motor, probably useless. The cabin had lockers, and there were biscuits and chocolate in them that somebody had overlooked. He turned to the engine, set the choke, pulled the starter. The motor took hold immediately. The noise of that coughing motor was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
    Throwing in the clutch, he turned the wheel gently. The boat responded, moving slowly toward the beach. The barking of the dog and the cheers of his men came toward him. He could see them waving their hands.
    He drew nearer. Not knowing the depth, he shut the motor