Chapter Text
“State not, ‘he nobly lived, or otherwise failed or succeeded.’ Friend, just say, ‘he tried.’”
June 3rd, 1940
The gun barrel pushing into his lower back is as irritating as the mutters of hushed German around him. He should have listened better as a child when his father had encouraged him to learn some of the language. He can’t even shrug off his life vest without them yelling and forcing his hands back to his head.
Farrier stares at the dried mud under his feet as they walk, losing feeling in his arms. There’s pressure behind his eyes. It had built up back on the sand, staring into the burning remains of his Spitfire.
Which is worse: the loss of his plane, or his inevitable capture? It’s impossible to decide. He may not even make it more than a few hundred yards before they decide he’s not worth the effort and put a bullet in his head.
They keep stealing glances at him as if they think he’s going to try something. What they think Farrier can do against four armed soldiers is beyond him, but he’s proud of their wariness.
It may be because he’s a pilot. It may be respect, or contempt. Maybe they’re annoyed they couldn’t get their hands on his kite. Whatever the case, he wears the day’s victories on his sleeve and walks with a confident stride. He’s done his duty. He can be content with that.
The only thing that truly bothers him is that he’s far from home and any promise of seeing it again. Who knows how long it will be before he can return to his mother or his mates back in London or the squadron. Or Collins...
He made it out, he must have.
Farrier’s pace slows too much as his thoughts wander, and he’s shoved hard from behind. He only just manages to keep his footing, and glares at the soldier over his shoulder. The gun waves in his face in a silent threat.
Their path takes them inland down a narrow dirt road lined with scraggly trees and hedgerows. Rifles and military packs lie scattered around them. Helmets, coats, even burned vehicles and scuttled artillery. All abandoned.
Just like his Spitfire, left on the sand, sent off in a flaming pyre. She’ll be nothing more than ash and charred metal by now.
Goodnight, sweet chariot.
The far-off fields were once pastures, filling the air with the stench of sodden rot and cow pies and mulch. The fencing along the road cracks and splinters in places. What’s left of the livestock—a few cows and sheep—roam across their path, wandering in the fading light. Many more lie dead and decaying in the grass amidst shell holes, done in by shrapnel and bullets.
Not far to the west is Dunkirk, and his fading promise of rescue. He had glided over those silent streets and colourful buildings, admiring the almost peaceful beauty of her crisis. With no sounds of engines or gunfire, it was a quiet moment between him and the world.
A sight like that—a feeling like that—is what reminds him why he yearns to fly; the infatuation that separates him from the men on the ground who will never taste the skies.
The town must have been a wonder before all this. What kinds of people had walked those streets and fields unperturbed by war? He may have visited sometime to find out. The beaches would be serene without the strewn armaments and equipment and bodies. So many innocent men, women, and children had lived here. Many are now fleeing for their lives. Too many never got the chance.
Farrier’s stare burns into the back of the head of the German leading him.
They walk with the fading sunset at their backs, painting everything in fiery gold and orange. Where the sky turns dark, the stars start to peak out from the encroaching night. On the breeze is the burning stink of the oil fields, mixed with the smell of fuel and ozone and sweat rolling off him. Farrier’s view of the fields disappears behind the trailing tree line. Overhead, arcing branches create a shadowy, claustrophobic tunnel of trunks and hedges. A cage of a different kind.
Something moves up ahead, within the shrubs. Or at least it’s possible. It’s so fast and so subtle he’s left peering into the dark wondering if he’s already going mad.
His captors don’t notice. The two ahead are even chuckling about something between them.
Farrier doesn’t make a sound or let his eyes linger too long on the trees. Maybe he’s being too hopeful.
No, there’s another flash of movement. He’s sure of it this time.
A shape huddles near the tree line on their left, partially obscured by the hedgerows. It disturbs the bushes, drawing the attention of the German on Farrier’s right, and he calls out to the group. A meaty hand on Farrier’s shoulder jerks him to a stop with the gun still poised against his spine. He keeps his hands by his head and waits, motionless but alert. It’s unnervingly silent except for the pounding in his ears.
One of the Germans lifts his gun up, his finger hovering dangerously close to the trigger. He wanders towards the trees, hesitating where they grow dark and dense. Leaves and twigs crackle underfoot. Then he stops, gun ready at his shoulder as he searches the bushes.
He yells, and Farrier flinches.
Up the path the hedges rustle, drawing the attention of the whole group forward. Farrier spots the shape of a person rushing across the road right before one of the Germans shouts and raises his weapon.
A single gunshot, loud as a thunder crash. Blood splatters across Farrier’s jacket. He stumbles back as one of his captors falls dead at his feet.
There’s more shouting, more gunshots as weapons point towards the trees. Shots burst from the darkness from what feels like all sides. The German at Farrier’s back releases his grip to lift his own rifle. In that split second Farrier takes the chance to run, with no time to think twice about what’s happening or why.
The world is nothing but shouting and blurred shapes and gunfire. Farrier hurries to the side of the road and hits the ground, curling up between the fat roots of a tree. He keeps his head low, heart battering against his ribs. His thoughts are too flurried to think about anything but survival.
He’s used to the rattle of bullets, but there’s no shell of a fuselage to protect him this time. No guns to fire back. He’s vulnerable, without any illusion of invincibility.
He curls into his precarious haven, tensing with every burst of fire. If he were the praying type, he’d be doing just that, begging those shots don’t find their mark in him.
In the fading twilight his captors fall dead one by one. They scream and yell, firing their guns haphazardly, before they’re riddled with lead. Faces freeze in contorted fear and surprise, staring at him where they lie in their own blood. Their guns are nothing more than useless toys set loose from their hands.
Then it goes quiet. Everything stops with the fading echo of those final shots, and Farrier is left stranded alone in the dark. He slowly disentangles himself from the knot of tree roots and sits up. His boots skid along dried mud and blood, his hands shaking as he grips the bark hard enough to scar his gauntlets.
Four soldiers emerge from the bushes, guns tight in hand as they scope over the dead bodies of Farrier’s captors. He sits and stares at the scene, hardly registering anything but the racing of his heart.
Death is not new to him. But seeing it up close—seeing the bodies, the faces—is something else. It’s easier in the air, where a pilot can convince himself he’s firing at a machine instead of a person. But there’s no sympathy on the ground.
As he stands, there’s movement to his right. He glances up just as the butt of a rifle cracks against the side of his head. Pain explodes through his skull, the broken skin already oozing blood. He stumbles gracelessly back to the ground with four guns pointed in his face. His saviours crowd around him, all yelling over each other in a language he can’t make out through his sudden dizziness.
Head throbbing, Farrier spits dirt from his mouth and rolls onto his back. He stares up at these men, all wide-eyed and sweat-stained. Their uniforms aren’t German, nor are they British, but he recognizes the shoulder flashes. He puts his hands up in a weary show of surrender, keeps tight-lipped, and waits for one of these strangers to speak.
A younger man, with a dirt-smudged face and a bullet graze across his arm, lowers his gun and kneels. Their eyes meet, and he gives Farrier a curious once-over, pulling at the lapel of his Irvin jacket before releasing him again.
“Anglais?”
Ah, that much he understands.
It would almost be laughable, if not for the pounding in his head.
“Anglais,” Farrier repeats breathlessly. “English. Anglais.”
The guns are gone from his face immediately.
The Frenchman kneeling over him offers a hand and pulls Farrier back to his feet. The movement brings another wave of dizziness and pain, and he groans. He wipes at the blood dripping down into his eye, prodding at the tender spot over his brow. These boys have a mean swing, he’ll give them that.
Farrier investigates the faces of his saviours. They’re young, too young, faces full of shock and bodies plagued by exhaustion. One of them brandishes a German gun rather than his own, and they’re stripped of most of their gear, barring a few packs.
They’re evacuating, then; what’s left of the rearguard trying to outrun the Germans. Or they’re deserters; this doesn’t look to be a strategic retreat for the four of them. It doesn’t matter either way.
One of the men with stubble and a scar on his cheek holds out his hand. Farrier doesn’t take it right away, eyeing it with a quirk of his brow, until the man nods his head towards the distance.
“Nous quittons cet endroit. Pour Dunkerque. Tu viendras?”
That may be the best thing Farrier has heard all day, even if he only half understands it.
They shake hands as he’s pulled to his feet. He leaves his convoy of captors dead in the road and follows his unwitting rescuers towards escape.
It’s a slow, tense trek through the trees and across the open fields. They cut through the terrain, so deep in the countryside it’s difficult to remember there’s any civilization here at all. The town is nothing but a distant temptation.
The road leads away from the bluffs, and the man in the lead with the cheek scar waves for them to move off into the grass. They leave behind their footprints in the dried mud and continue in silence. The night deepens with every step, but the darkness makes it easier to move about unseen.
The warm weight of Farrier’s flight gear is a welcome comfort as the temperature continues to drop. His stomach protests without the satisfaction of food.
At a crossing they stop and stoop low. One of the troupe wanders ahead down the road alone while the rest kneel in the grass and wait. The anxiety roots deeper. It’s far more exposed than Farrier’s comfortable with, more so even than when he flew out that afternoon.
After a few minutes spent counting every agonising second, their scout reappears through the night like a ghost and waves them onward.
The five of them come across a small cottage. A barn sits on the property, long abandoned and little more than a couple of cattle stalls. The smell of rot and cowpies is awful and lingers in Farrier’s nose worse than petrol. But it’s a safe place, and the group slips inside.
Straw slips underfoot, the musty smell worsening once they’re inside. They opt to sit against the wall nearest the door, left ajar to allow the breeze through, and a solid shaft of light.
The man with the cheek wound hugs his rifle tight and sits closest to their escape with his legs tucked up, coiled and ready to spring. Determination has burned in his eyes all night, but his white-knuckled grip hasn’t let up at all.
“Avez-vous faim?”
Farrier startles as the boy with the smudged face sits down next to him. He’s holding out a few small biscuits. They’re crumbled, but Farrier feels the sharp pull of hunger pains, so he takes them with a grateful nod. They’re bland and stale, but it’s all he’s got—his stomach will forgive him.
The kid offers him his near-empty canteen as well. Despite the desert in his throat, Farrier only takes a few small sips before handing it back to the boy. These men have already done enough for him.
“Dix minutes. Ensuite, nous irons,” the man near the door says.
With a deep breath, Farrier slumps down into the damp hay, stretching out his sore muscles, working out the crick in his neck. It’s not going to be a restful break for any of them.
The quiet kid doesn’t even sit. Instead, he leans his stolen German rifle by a stall and sparks up a cigarette using the sole of his boot. The smoke seems to do wonders for his nerves, but it doesn’t mask the stench of cattle.
In the distance, a machine gun bursts to life. The sound echoes louder than thunder in the silence, and every man in the barn jumps. The cigarette is stomped out and guns shouldered. Farrier climbs to his feet. It’s coming somewhere from Dunkirk; they’re walking right into it. But they’ve no choice. It’s their only way out.
The gunfire fades, its last echoes carried off on the wind. Whether it’s been ten minutes, Farrier doesn’t know, but the man with the cheek wound calls for them to move out. No one argues.
They leave behind the rancid smell and musty hay and false security of the barn and head back out onto the road. Back towards the town, and firelight, and the smoke billowing from the oil fields.
They pass from countryside into city streets, and moonlight brings it all to life with an eerie, silver glow. Splintered shop signs and brickwork. Doorways of homes riddled by bullets, shattered windows, chewed up gardens, toppled sandbag barricades. Like the rest of the country, torn apart by war and littered with the remains of the armies of men who’ve passed through.
Papers blow through the streets like confetti on the wind. Farrier catches one under his boot. He scoops up the dirty, ripped page, squinting in the dark at the bright red and white image of the French coast. Fat black arrows close in on Dunkirk.
We Surround You, it reads.
With a clenched jaw, he crumples it up and tosses it away.
There’s no telling how far behind the line they are now; how little of France is left to capture. The worst case would be to find Dunkirk’s port overrun, with no way out.
This place is a ghost town. They keep a slow pace, hidden in the shadows, hardly making a sound. The Frenchmen don’t speak much to each other along the way, or to Farrier. He wouldn’t understand much of it anyways, and he isn’t in the mood for talking.
Up the main street they make short sprints from one side to the other, pressed into the shadows, gripping tight to their guns. The pounding in Farrier’s head matches the rhythm of his heart. When he prods at his wound, his glove still comes away tinged with blood.
The quiet Frenchman—the one who hit him, he suspects—holds out a dirtied bandage from his field kit with an apologetic look.
Farrier waves it off. “Save it for something serious.”
Whether the man understands or not, he doesn’t offer again.
More than once one of the men shoves Farrier to the ground or pulls him to a stop at the slightest movement or noise. The first few times it’s an inconsequential sound—an unassuming animal that’s crossed their path. But the fourth time, they hear voices from somewhere in the town. It’s followed by a burst of gunfire and shouting. It sounds French and a way’s off, reverberating around the deserted streets.
One by one the group jumps a fence into a garden, trading the thump of pavement for the squelch of mud. They scurry through several backyards, uprooting flowerbeds and shrubs in their haste. A pot shatters under one man’s hasty footfall. A misstep sends Farrier stumbling, the stone under his boot rolling and causing his knee to twist. He bites hard against the pain and continues with a slight limp.
They come to rest against wooden fencing, halted by the clattering of guns in the streets. It sounds far off and yet terrifyingly close. They wait with hands white-knuckled around guns and fingers close to the triggers. Crouched practically on top of each other, their heavy breathing and chattering teeth are unbearably loud.
Canfield once urged Farrier on the importance of having a sidearm, especially as a pilot. Like the old days. This may be the first time he’s cursed his own stubbornness as he reaches for a non-existent pistol at his side.
Stuck waiting for silence once more, Farrier watches the men with him. The moon’s silver stare becomes their sole illumination, revealing both the fear and exhaustion in their faces. What must they be thinking, listening to their countrymen hold a crumbling line of defence? They are fleeing their home, forced to leave her to her fate.
To them, Farrier is a failure: some cocksure pilot as trapped and useless against the German war machine as the rest of them. Proof England hasn’t done enough. They don’t know what he’s done, and they may not even care.
In the end, it doesn’t matter. Whatever their opinions may be is not his concern. All Farrier needs to worry about is getting home.
As soon as the noise dies down, they’re moving again. Farrier fights through the pain in his knee to keep up. With the slow pace and the constant start and stop, the night drags on for an eternity. The moon climbs over their heads by the time the stuffy air fills with the smell of the sea. The ebb and flow of waves against the shore reaches Farrier’s ears.
The roads give way to the crunch of sand and grass of the bluffs, and a cool sea breeze strikes his face. They breach the northern edge of the town. The beach stretches from horizon to horizon, bombarded by the black swell of the Channel.
They pass through a makeshift casualty clearing station. All that remains are fabric tents and canvas tarpaulin and empty tables. The sand has turned to a muddy, bloody slough under the boots of thousands of men. Stretchers and bandages and empty med kits lie tossed about, some torn apart by shrapnel. Farrier doesn’t stop to think about any of it.
One of the French soldiers picks something off a body left prone on a table. There’s the silver flash of a watch before it’s gone in the man’s pocket. He pushes on, shooting Farrier a pointed look as they cross each other. Neither says a word, understood or not.
Dunkirk’s last defences and sinister emptiness fall behind them as they push out of her shadow and into the open. Exhausted breaths become deep relieved sighs and hearty inhales of fresh air. Farrier comes to a stop and finally sheds the tension from his shoulders, wiping sweat from his brow.
Open beach, open sky, open water. He’s out.
His eyes fall upon the mess littering the sand. It’s like the roads but worse; a graveyard of helmets and pieces of uniforms and weapons. Shell holes and piles of earth and foxholes dug into dunes make it difficult to navigate. One of his companions nearly trips over a wireless radio, shot up and half-buried. The sea is already devouring remnants of makeshift piers. Footprints pattern the ground a million times over. Discarded gear, bloody bandages, even a rifle that’s been field stripped and abandoned. Haversacks litter their contents on the ground, leaving everything but food and canteens.
Farrier doesn’t stop to search what remains. He won’t stoop to going through a man’s things, especially when he can’t know whether the owner is dead or alive.
What makes him falter are the bodies. Many lay mauled in pools of their own blood or scattered in sick red stains across the beach. Rows of blanket-covered dead lie abandoned, prepared for a procession they’ll never see. There will be no funerals for these men. Those the tide hasn’t washed away are harassed by indifferent birds or interred in tombs of sand.
Dismembered limbs and tatters of uniforms and helmets are all that’s left of some unfortunate souls. Farrier passes a cluster of stretchers and the bodies of their carriers. Bloody red crosses and SB armbands join the dead. One medic is flung over the perished bodies of the others in a futile attempt to protect them from attack.
Farrier had flown over this beach. Yet he couldn’t comprehend it all—what it was he’d been defending. What it is he’d been too late to save. The reports back home paled in comparison to the reality.
The body of an infantryman lies in his path, half in a crater; a near-direct hit by a dive bomber. Despite how his mind screams to keep moving, to get off the sand and go, Farrier slows to a stop.
The man is missing a leg. The bone sticks out from the stub, a horrid white spear surrounded by decaying skin. Blood pools and splatters around his body. Farrier may as well be disturbing a grave as he drops to one knee and rolls the man’s body onto his back.
It’s awful; there’s not the usual give of flesh and muscle under his hand. The body is rigid and non-compliant, like handling a doll. The man’s torso and abdomen are ripped to shreds. Flayed organs pour out onto the ground. There’s shrapnel embedded all over what’s left of his body. His ribs are a fractured, concave mess, turning the lungs into pulverised, deflated sacs. One eviscerated forearm hangs by a few strips of sinew and skin at the elbow.
Farrier stares, silent. If a pilot is lucky, he never has to see this up close—he’ll never have to see the worst ways combat can ravage a person. To think, the mutilation the human body can endure; the horrors people can inflict on one another.
When his father had told him stories from the last war, he could never conjure the worst of the images as a child. He’d stopped trying as he’d grown older for the sake of his sanity—or because the ignorance made it easier to get by. He will remember it now. Just as the sea and the sand will remember.
It’s difficult to stop staring at what remains of this soldier—this boy, based on what’s left of his face. If Farrier had anything left, or if he was still fresh-faced, he may have been sick at the sight.
But he’s a little shaken at best, numb all over, too exhausted for words or pity. For this man, or any of the others lying dead on the sand or floating off with the tide.
If I should die, think only this of me: that there’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever England…
A hand lands on Farrier’s shoulder. He lets the dead man lie and looks up at the dirt-smudged Frenchman who’s come back for him. His expression is unreadable, but his fingers curl into Farrier’s jacket.
“Allons-y, l'Anglais,” he says gently.
Farrier nods, and with mild protest from his knee, climbs back to his feet. He pushes on, leaving the men of his home resting in foreign sand.