DUNKIRK, FRANCE
WEDNESDAY, MAY 29, 1940
“The sun shall soon set over the beaches of Dunkirk, but the day is not done.” BBC correspondent Hugh Collingwood stood outside the mobile recording van on the sand of those beaches. “Through my microphone you may hear the deep retort of artillery as the brave men of the British Expeditionary Force and the French First Army hold back the Nazi forces. You may hear the hollow boom of our antiaircraft guns. You may hear the growling engines of dozens of ships and boats. But you will not hear the sound of panic. Of despair. Of dismay.”
Inside the open back door of the van, Hugh’s recording engineer, Tom Young, gave Hugh a thumbs-up and adjusted a knob. Young had wanted to make the recording in the van with its better acoustics, but Hugh craved the realism and immediacy of recording outside.
“The men of the BEF may be tired,” Hugh said. A gray sky hung low over the gray sea, and hundreds of soldiers stood in long, snaking queues over the battered beach. “They may be bloodied. But they are not defeated. Some have described this force as having their backs to the sea. On the contrary, they face the sea. They face England. Thanks to the gallant men of the Royal Navy, thanks to the rugged fishermen and intrepid yachtsmen who have piloted their craft across the Channel to Dunkirk—thanks to them, the men of the BEF face a future fighting once more for the land they love.
“The day is not done. The day is just beginning. This is Hugh Collingwood reporting from Dunkirk for the BBC.”
“That’s all, Collie,” Young said. “The battery died, and that’s the last of our petrol.”
Across the sand, François Jouveau approached wearing a buttoned-up gray overcoat and a British tin pan helmet like the one Hugh wore.
“Say, Young,” Hugh said. “Pretend we’re still recording. That’s a good chap.”
Then Hugh spoke into his dead microphone. “I would like to introduce Monsieur François Jouveau of Radio-Paris. Monsieur Jouveau, would you please join me?”
Jouveau’s small dark eyes widened, and he shook his head, not in refusal but in disbelief.
Hugh beckoned him closer. “Monsieur Jouveau and I followed the Allied forces into Belgium. Please tell the listeners in Britain what you see here at Dunkirk.”
Jouveau lifted his narrow chin, and one corner of his mouth rose. “The BBC will not allow my words.”
“I should like to hear them.”
Jouveau swept his gaze over the beach. “What I see here at Dunkerque is the British army fleeing the battlefield as the French army defends their perimeter. I see British ships refusing to evacuate French soldiers, only British. I see the English leaving the French to defend France alone, despite every assurance that we are Allies.”
Jouveau’s charges would raise a furor in England, with good cause. If Young were actually recording, the BBC would snip every word out of the metal disc. But Hugh gave a sympathetic nod. “Do go on.”
“For what purpose?” Jouveau shrugged. “Young isn’t recording.”
A smile twitched on Hugh’s dry lips. “Just having some sport.”
“As usual.”
“Say, Young.” Hugh leaned into the van. “I’d like to slip as many recorded discs into our knapsacks as possible.” Days had passed since he’d been able to telephone a story to London.
“Good. This last disc will be ready soon.”
“Any items on the smaller side we could rescue?”
“I’m afraid not.” Young removed his headphones and smoothed his ring of graying hair. The BBC would be furious at the loss of their expensive equipment, but if the BEF couldn’t transport tanks and artillery, they certainly wouldn’t evacuate a recording van.
“She has served well, the valiant maiden.” Hugh patted the van’s door. “Now, shall we find some grub?”
The three men worked their way along the back of the beach behind the queues. As civilians, they belonged at the end of the queue.
Booms rose from the sea and the land.
“Ack-ack.” Young cursed the Germans and their Stuka dive-bombers. Three Luftwaffe air raids had struck Dunkirk since dawn.
Once again, Stukas screamed, diving close to shore, targeting ships.
“Watch out!” Jouveau pointed to the west.
Four Messerschmitts zipped down the beach, directly toward them.
Hugh threw himself down and clamped his helmet over the back of his head and neck. Grains of sand dug into his cheeks and nose.
The fighter planes’ engines built to a fever pitch, machine-gun bullets thumped into the sand, and a rush of wind buffeted Hugh’s overcoat and trousers.
Then the fighters roared down the beach.
Hugh’s breath spilled onto the sand. But no blood.
Behind him, Jouveau groaned. “I—I’ve been shot.”
“Oh no.” Hugh rushed to his friend. Red bloomed on Jouveau’s trouser leg above the knee. “Orderly! Orderly!”
“No use.” In the queue, a Tommy pushed himself back to his feet. “They’re all at the field dressing station. Too many wounded.”
Hugh’s mind raced. He needed to stop the bleeding, but with what?
“Pardon me, old chap.” He worked his fingers into the bloody hole in Jouveau’s trousers and ripped the fabric. “Young, remove his shoe.”
While Young did so, Hugh tore the trouser leg all the way around. Then he slipped it off and tied it around the wound. “This isn’t the best of bandages, but it must suffice.”
Grimacing, Jouveau nodded his approval.
Young squatted beside him and wrapped Jouveau’s right arm around his shoulders. “Can you stand?”
“I must.”
Hugh ducked under Jouveau’s left arm, and he and Young helped the Frenchman up.
Jouveau groaned, and his face twisted. “I saw an aid station by the pier.”
The pier—more properly, the mole—where poisonous black smoke spewed from the hulks of ships bombed earlier in the day.
Hugh fought back a shudder and forged ahead, as fast as he could bearing half Jouveau’s weight and with sand miring each step.
The queue of soldiers parted at their approach, and concerned Tommies pointed toward the field dressing station.
Hugh’s breath came harder, but was he approaching his limit? He readjusted his grip on Jouveau’s wrist and waist. He refused to let his weakness bring harm to his friend.
“Almost . . . there.” Close to fifty years of age, Young huffed even harder than Hugh.
The acrid smell of burning oil and hot metal snaked into Hugh’s nostrils and lungs. His chest tightened a notch. “Not now,” he muttered.
Ambulances parked by the mole, and orderlies carried stretchers onto a paddle steamer while the queue of soldiers waited their turn.
Near the base of the mole stood tents marked with the red cross.
Hugh shouldered his way into a tent. “My friend has been shot.”
“Right this way.” An orderly ushered them inside. “You’re civilians?”
“Correspondents.” A wheeze entered Hugh’s voice. He winced as he and Young lowered Jouveau to the designated cot.
A medical officer strode over. “Patient’s name?”
“François Jouveau,” Hugh said.
The medical officer’s eyebrows rose. “He’s French?”
“Yes, sir.” Hugh stretched tall and drilled his gaze into the doctor. “He’s a correspondent. You will be able to treat him.”
“Of course.”
The medical officer untied Hugh’s bandage and examined Jouveau’s leg. “It looks like the bullet went through. Orderly, clean and bandage the wound, then take him to X-ray.”
“Yes, sir.”
The medical officer smiled down at Jouveau. “You’re a lucky man. This wound qualifies you for evacuation. You should be ready to leave tomorrow morning.”
Hugh and Young exchanged a relieved look. But the tightening in Hugh’s chest increased, and each breath fought its way in, fought its way out.
Young tipped Jouveau a salute. “See you on the other side of the Channel.”
“Thank you, my friends.” Jouveau raised a shaky hand. “Au revoir.”
Young turned to Hugh. “Let’s scrounge up some supper.”
Hugh’s breath threatened a revealing whistle. He needed medicine and he needed privacy. He pulled the notepad from his overcoat pocket. “I’ll stay and get another story. I’ll meet you at the van later.”
Young chuckled and departed.
As soon as the tent flap closed behind Young, Hugh spun to the medical officer. “Excuse me, sir. I’m having an asthmatic attack. May I please have some epinephrine?”
“You have asthma?” The medical officer practically pushed Hugh down to a cot. “What in heaven’s name are you doing on a battlefield?”
“I’m a correspondent.” Hugh opened his overcoat.
The medical officer burrowed his stethoscope under Hugh’s suit jacket. “I hear the wheeze. With your condition, you should know better. You don’t belong here.”
Hugh stiffened. If he let his condition dictate his life, he’d never go anywhere.
The medical officer straightened up. “Orderly, administer epinephrine, then put this man directly onto the next ship.”
“No, sir.” Hugh fought to keep his voice strong. “Correspondents have lowest priority. I won’t take the place—”
“You’re as lucky as your French friend. Luckier, in fact. Next ship.” He marched away.
Hugh groaned, shrugged off his jacket, and rolled up his shirtsleeve for the injection. How could he board that ship while soldiers remained on the beach? While stories remained on the beach?
Soon the blessed medicine warmed his veins and relaxed his airways, and air flowed freely once again.
“Do you feel better now?” The orderly spoke to Hugh as if he were a child. Or an invalid.
This was why Hugh concealed his asthma. As his tutor, George Baldwin, had said, “If you don’t want to be treated as an invalid, don’t allow anyone to see you as one.”
Hugh pulled on his jacket. “I feel quite all right. Simply smashing. Thank you.” He stood, tossed his coat over his shoulder, and headed for the exit.
“Excuse me, sir. I’ll take you to the boat now.”
Hugh sent the orderly a smile. “Right after I retrieve my kit.”
“No kit allowed, sir.” The orderly took Hugh’s arm in his beefy grip. “Right this way.”
He couldn’t let this happen. If captured by the Germans, Hugh would be interned in a posh hotel and probably repatriated to England. But if the soldiers were captured, they’d be imprisoned for the duration of the war. And Britain needed them. Hugh intended to be the last man off the beach—and when he left, he’d carry a knapsack full of recording discs and notes.
The orderly marched Hugh to the base of the mole, where soldiers inched onto the rocky pier beside a large paddle steamer bearing the name of Crested Eagle on the prow.
The orderly parked Hugh in a gap in the queue and addressed a burly soldier. “Don’t let this man leave. Make sure he gets on the boat. Medical orders.” He gave Hugh a warning look and headed back toward the field dressing station.
“Medical orders?” The soldier wrinkled his dirty nose. “You don’t look wounded. You look like a lazy dodger.”
Grumbles rolled down the line.
Hugh let a mischievous grin rise, and he whipped out his notepad. “What I am is a BBC correspondent using a ruse to get a story—and a correspondent determined not to board this ship.”
“BBC?” The burly soldier frowned. “Your voice sounds familiar.”
“Hollingsworth?” his buddy said.
“Collingwood!” The burly soldier thrust a thick finger in the air. “Hugh Collingwood.”
“Right you are.” Hugh slipped out of the queue on the far side of the field dressing station. “What is your regiment? What is the first thing you plan to do back in Old Blighty?”
The soldiers’ faces lit up, and stories flew. Hugh transcribed their answers, thanked them, and edged down the queue, asking questions, fielding answers, and increasing his distance from the large gray ship threatening to haul him away.
“Hughie?” A voice rose from farther back in the queue.
Hugh tensed. Only one person in the world used that horrific nickname. Even his parents had been persuaded to abandon it.
With a forced smile, he turned to face his brother. “Captain Cecil Collingwood. Fancy seeing you here.”
Cecil marched toward him, sand pluming behind his boots. He wore battle dress, dirt and smoke smudged his face, and his muscular frame looked thinner than usual. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Hugh gestured with his notepad. “Reporting from the front.”
Cecil glowered down at him, reminding Hugh how illness had stunted his growth, at least by Collingwood standards. “But your health. You’ll have an attack. You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m fine.” Hugh softened his mouth and his thoughts. “But how are you? How’s your unit? The fighting has been beastly.”
“It has.” Something dark washed through Cecil’s hazel eyes, the same shade as Hugh’s. “We boarded a destroyer this morning, but it was sunk in an air raid. Everyone survived, thank goodness, and now we’re boarding yet another ship.”
Hugh’s pen moved to the pad as if magnetized, but he restrained himself.
“You haven’t answered my question.” Cecil had inherited Mother’s doggedness. “Whatever possessed you to come to a battlefield?”
“To inform the people of England of the brave exploits of your unit and—”
“Stop it.” Cecil’s lip twitched. “This isn’t a game, a lark for bored gentry. This is war.”
“And I’m reporting on it.”
“You’re thirty years old now. Isn’t it time you found a more fitting position? Perhaps take Uncle Elliott’s seat in Parliament.”
“Take it?” Hugh arched an eyebrow. “Only death could pry him from his seat. Even then, even if I convinced his constituency to elect me, I wouldn’t want it. Besides, isn’t it the job of the second son to be irresponsible and a trifle scandalous?”
A smile flickered under Cecil’s quite responsible mustache. “Of all the jobs for you to take seriously.”
Hugh pressed his notepad over his heart. “Anything to elevate my dear brother’s star in the family constellation.”
“It’ll take more than a rakish brother if Joan and I don’t produce an heir.”
Hugh managed not to roll his eyes at the antiquated notion—because a sad wistfulness emanated from his brother. Cecil and Joan had been married eight years.
“Then what are you waiting for, old chap?” Hugh knifed his hand toward the Crested Eagle. “Board that ship and fulfill your familial duty.”
Cecil’s smile hinted at the shy little boy he’d once been. Then his face turned serious. “Get on the first ship you can. Understood?”
With a flourish and a click of his heels, Hugh saluted. “Yes, sir!”
Cecil marched off after his unit, and Hugh ambled along the shore, where the receding tide had left the sand flat and dark and firm.
His brother’s tall form headed down the mole and up the gangplank. He stopped, silhouetted against the gray sky, and waved.
After Hugh waved back, Cecil stepped onto the ship, and men swung away the gangplank.
Hugh’s heart stuttered. If he’d followed medical orders and boarded that steamer, Cecil would have been left behind.
He sat on the sand, in no mood to find dinner or return to the van.
A lark for bored gentry, Cecil had said.
His shoulders bowed, and his heart bent low.
He flipped open his notepad. Scattered notes told of soldiers plucking cheer and courage from the cauldron of defeat. Hugh would write the story and record it in London, exactly the sort of broadcast that the BBC desired most, that the British people desired most.
Their approval would have to do.
With a sigh, Hugh stood and brushed damp sand from his coat. The Crested Eagle had already sailed partway across the harbor.
He trudged over the beach, nudging detritus with his toe. Dozens of shoes from men who had waded out to fishing boats and yachts and barges. Kit bags. Rifles. Tins of bully beef. All spoke of an army escaping with naught but their lives.
Booms rose in the distance, and the racket built, closer and closer. Yellow flashed on the ships in the harbor as their guns opened up.
For the fifth time that day, Hugh threw himself to the sand and covered his head.
A terrific explosion at sea.
Hugh twisted his head toward the water. A fireball roiled over a large ship.
Please, not Cecil’s.
Hugh sucked in a breath and pushed up to his knees. “Not Cecil’s ship. Please no.”
A starburst of metal and flame and black, black smoke.
“No!” Hugh staggered to his feet and plowed down to the water, into the water. Frigid. Up to his waist. “Cecil! Cecil!”
Icy water tugged at Hugh’s trousers, his coat, his heart, and he suddenly felt very alone.