The aircraft noise died down, but everyone still cried and prayed and pleaded to live.
Bas never finished the wordthree.
Aleida forced herself to stand, to walk. Numb.
Sebastiaan Martens, a powerful man with powerful friends, lay by his expensive car, his limbs at grotesque angles, his eyes dull as ancient pewter.
So much red.
Aleida had wanted him dead. Now it had happened.
But now, how could she find her son?
2
DUNKIRK, FRANCE
WEDNESDAY, MAY29, 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 thisforce 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 snipevery 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?”
