The last of the “little ships of Dunkirk” had left the French coast behind. With hundreds of thousands of men having been evacuated, it was headed for England’s shores along with its sister ships. The final soldiers huddled on board, saved by the skin of their teeth and by the clemency of providence. One of them, John, was furious at the retreat. He had left his helmet on the beach, and placed his hand over his hair as it was buffeted by the wind. He looked out over the stormy sky as claps of thunder shook the horizon, as lightning sliced the sky and illuminated the host of little boats. The clouds of black smoke from Dunkirk’s burning petroleum reservoirs rose up into the sky like an indelible scar of the Third Reich’s power, a permanent mark of the British Army’s resistance. John clenched his fists. He wanted to return to the battlefield. The operation was a defeat, and it pained him to retreat from the German army. He was ashamed. But he had no choice; Churchill’s orders had been to “Evacuate the entire expeditionary force!” The cloud of black smoke grew thicker, and the last soldier ran his hand over his worried brow. He missed his helmet, and had the strange sensation of having suddenly become a civilian again, here aboard this boat borrowed from merchants to save the troops. Here, sailing over the lazy waves of the channel, far from the blood and the explosions and bodies scattered on the beach. But he would become a man again. After all, he was still alive. The Germans may have won this battle, but the English defeat at Dunkirk had produced a victory of another sort. The war was not over. Thousands of British soldiers would live to fight another day thanks to the merchant ships. They had at least succeeded in fleeing, and when they returned...but would John return? Would he die on the coast of France, shot down like a dog before he had reached dry land? Dunkirk disappeared into the rain. The town seemed awash with blood. The last soldier let the raindrops trickle down his face. He was safe, and in a few hours he would return to Britain a hero.
On the English coast, the little ships of Dunkirk were mooring. The soldiers stepped down onto the docks, proud to have escaped from the Third Reich’s army. The defeat was a victory, in a way. The last of the little ships was now only a few hundred meters from the English coast. The last soldier looked back at the infinite sea, as the sun set over the horizon. Yesterday, he had fought in Dunkirk. Today, he was back in England. He ran his hand through his hair with a tear in his eye. The little merchant vessel landed, and the last soldier stepped onto British soil to the applause of the gathered crowd.
One day, he would return; he would go back to save France!
Alan Alfredo Geday
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