Free Silence Over Dunkerque by John R. Tunis Page B

starboard side of H.M.S. Wakeful. The dog, still panting, was tucked under his legs, half hidden from the bridge and the Captain directly above. Near the Sergeant was Fingers leaning on the rail, completely exhausted, and around in the throng was the rest of the squad. The long journey’s end was near.
    The destroyer, her signal rights winking furiously at another warship far out to sea, was moving through a kind of maritime graveyard. Masts stuck from the water, the bows and sterns of vessels of every sort showed where they had been torpedoed or bombed. Beyond were more wrecks, testimony also to the accurate gunfire from the shore or the constant attacks of the German air force. On the bridge, the Captain, with binoculars to his forehead, leaned over the rail. The First Officer behind him talked into a tube that connected with the engine room below.
    The destroyer’s speed slackened. From above the Sergeant could hear their voices.
    “Hard-a-port.”
    “Hard-a-port.”
    “Half speed, four... five... two....”
    “Half speed, four... five... two....”
    A bell jangled somewhere inside the vessel. The Sergeant glanced at his watch. Throughout the long hours of waiting on the sandy beach, he had resolved never to look at the time. It was hard to stand in line hours on end; to know you had stood four hours and a half didn’t help. So not glancing at his watch was a kind of test of character. Now that they were away from Dunkerque and disaster, and had been saved from capture and a German prison camp, he could do so.
    It was 10:40 of the most lovely spring morning imaginable.
    “Look at those porpoises,” said a man, leaning over the rail.
    The Sergeant looked out to sea. Several small black humps were bobbing up and down in the water. A lookout from high up somewhere shouted down something. The Sergeant noticed the ship was almost standing still.
    He watched the black humps, some not more than twenty yards away. They were covered with nasty black horns. Good God, he thought, we’re in a mine field.
    The Captain with his binoculars must have seen them for some time. Bells rang inside the ship. He was being cautious, gently feeling his way through the dangerous waters, hardly moving. At this point a sailor, carrying an enormous teapot in one hand and a pile of thick white china mugs under his arm, worked his way through the maze of soldiers on deck. He neared their group and poured out a cup of the muddy-looking liquid. The dog, smelling the odor, looked up, her eyes expectant. Sergeant Williams, who had sat back upon the anchor, rose and stretched out his hand. Perhaps this gesture saved his life. As he did so, a shock of unbelievable violence rocked the ship.
    It cut short his breath. He looked quickly around. How amazing the number of things one can do in ten seconds. There was time to snap together his life belt, kick off his shoes, and think about the dog. He reached down, trying to pick up the huge animal in his arms.
    Better to jump or be swept away?
    The decision was made for him. There he was in the freezing water, no dog near him, struggling hard to get clear of the wreck and out of reach of the ship’s eddy, the tidal wave which drags everything with it when a vessel goes down. The men had discussed this at length during those interminable hours of waiting on the beach. They had been told that in the event of sinking they were to get away as far as they could from their ship as soon as possible.
    Striking out, he swam hard for a minute or so in a shower of metal, splinters, planks, and pieces of H.M.S. Wakeful. The oil, spreading rapidly, was making a smear on the water, and covering the spot where seconds before a destroyer with a full crew and five hundred and fifty soldiers had been afloat. Now it was merely a circle of foam and dirty water, sprinkled with bodies and an occasional uplifted arm. Here and there cries resounded in the clear atmosphere.
    A choked voice reached him.
    “Sarge... Sarge....”
    He