“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-gunbullets 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 hislimit? 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.
