Free Silence Over Dunkerque by John R. Tunis Page A

Admiralty Pier, between the stone breakwaters, and into the inner harbor.
    A fleet of motor torpedo boats of the Dover patrol, signal flags flying from the wireless masts, came in behind, men on deck waving to pals ashore. Except for these warships, only a handful of small, slower vessels with troops aboard were limping in. As they came into the Granville Basin the Chief went forward with a megaphone in his hand. There was a touch of pride when he hailed a naval officer standing on the stone pier.
    “Shropshire Lass from Dover, with six dead, fourteen wounded, and twelve men, taken off at Dunkerque.”
    Immediately they tied up, and stretcher-bearers from the St. John Ambulance Corps, men as exhausted and weary as the troops aboard, came on to unload the wounded.
    “You boys better scamper home. I expect your mother will have something to say to you. Mind, I’m telling her you’ve been great, a real help, lads, on top all the way, and I thank you. So get moving, and make what peace you can with yer ma. She’ll be angry with you no doubt.”
    Day was coming, clear and cloudless. It was light as they reached the end of the pier where Red Cross workers had set up tables and were handing out buns and tea. The woman behind the table was fresh and clean, in a white uniform with a Red Cross on her arm. As the boys ate and drank, they realized their condition—shorts dirty and torn, sweaters stained and soaked, legs scratched and bloody. They had not washed for two days, and looked it.
    “You boys been over there?” asked the Red Cross lady. “My goodness, wasn’t that brave of you! Does your mother know it? I expect she’ll give you what for.”
    They realized this far better than she did. Despite their fatigue, the picture of their worried parent made them in no hurry to get home. They ate and drank slowly, finally thanking the Red Cross lady, and started up the back path toward home.
    The path, worn and used, ran along the sea, skirting the edge of the cliff. It rose higher, and at one point they paused, exhausted. The sea was bright and sparkling with whitecaps. Calais, a town on the French shore some eighteen miles opposite, was plainly visible. Far to the left was Dunkerque, the thick smoke now a mere smudge on the horizon.
    No planes roared overhead pointed to France. There was no rumble of thunder from the far shore. No convoys were leaving the port, no warships getting steam up below. Silence hung over Dunkerque.
    They turned, worked along the side of the chalky cliff, and so into the Folkestone Road. Before long the Priory Railroad Station was visible, and they could see their own house. As they neared it, Penelope, in a clean dress, rose from the steps. Her hand went to her mouth as they came closer.
    “Oooh...” she said. “Oooh, you better watch out, you better look sharp, you two! Mother’s near worried to death about you... what with Daddy’s not returning and all.”
    They stood there, speechless. Before leaving they had been certain the cool and competent soldier who was their father, sure of himself and his men, would get out of France. Others had, of course he would also. If anyone could make it, he would. Now it was all different. They had been there, under attack, seen Dunkerque and death, watched the bombs fall. They understood now.
    “Father... hasn’t come back?”
    “No, he hasn’t. Another thing. Candy was killed, run over by an army lorry in town. And Mother’s sick, worrying.”
    Neither of the twins heard her finish. Father dead? Or at least a prisoner of war. Poor old Candy run over by a lorry. Maybe if they had stayed home, she would never have gone downtown, probably looking for them. The twins wept as they went up the steps of the house together.

PART III
MADAME BONNET

CHAPTER 15
    T HAT BEAUTIFUL J UNE MORNING , the sky a deep blue, the water sparkling, the outline of the nearby French coast crisp and clear, Sergeant Williams was seated uncomfortably on an anchor lashed to the