Clara didn’t know how far they were from the beach, and she didn’t dare ask. Hugo and André led her through the dark and deserted streets of Dunkirk.
As they scrambled over rubble, pressed themselves into doorways during moments of uncertainty and darted through and around destroyed buildings to avoid patrols and snipers, Clara had never felt more vulnerable. The constant threat of unseen enemies made every shadow potentially deadly.
The men maintained a steady jog and Clara struggled to keep pace. They had to stop several times to wait for her to catch up, their impatience barely concealed.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she whispered when they paused for the fourth time, her breath coming in short gasps.
Both men’s eyebrows nearly disappeared beneath their caps and, in any other circumstance, their shocked expressions would have been comical. ‘I’m fine though,’ she quickly reassured them as concern replaced surprise on their faces. ‘I just can’t run so fast.’ She hoped they understood her limited French.
Apparently they did. Instead of jogging, they adopted a brisk walk that Clara could manage without losing her breath completely.
Finally, they came to a halt at a street corner, pressing their bodies back against what had once been a restaurant.
‘This is the most dangerous part,’ Hugo said quietly. ‘See that boarded entrance over there?’ He gestured towards the opposite side of the road where a high wall ran the length of the street, broken only by a makeshift barrier of wooden planks. ‘We have to get through there without getting shot.’
Clara’s throat dried. She wanted to ask if there was another route, but it was a pointless question. If there were a safer way, they would obviously take it. She nodded instead. ‘D’accord.’
‘You stay between us,’ Hugo continued. ‘Keep close.’ His eyes dropped to her feet. ‘Take off your shoes. Run barefoot. The heels will make too much noise on the road.’
Clara slipped off her shoes without argument, gripping one tightly in each hand.
‘On three,’ Hugo said, exchanging a meaningful look with André. ‘Un. Deux. Trois.’
Immediately, Hugo broke cover and sprinted across the road. Clara didn’t hesitate. She followed, her bare feet silent across the road as she raced after him. A shot cracked through the early morning air behind them. She kept running. Someone groaned, followed by a heavy thud. Every instinct screamed at her to look back, but before she could turn, Hugo’s hand seized her arm and yanked her towards the boarded entrance, which swung open at his touch.
Another shot shattered the plaster beside her head. Clara yelped but pushed through into the narrow alleyway beyond. Hugo scurried in after her.
‘André?’ Clara gasped, looking back towards the entrance with growing dread.
Before Hugo could answer, André came tumbling through the gap, blood seeping from his shoulder. Clara’s medical training took over instantly. ‘Let me look at that wound,’ she said firmly.
‘Not now. Later,’ Hugo replied. ‘We have to keep moving.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve had worse,’ said André with a grin.
Clara hurried to put her shoes back on and catch up with the men as they made their way down the alleyway, only to stop dead in her tracks at the end. Ahead of her, she could see the flicker of flames against the sky, smell the acrid mix of fuel and smoke and hear something that made her heart race. Voices. Hundreds of voices calling out, talking, shouting orders in English, French, Dutch.
They had made it. They were at Dunkirk’s beach.
But Clara quickly realised that reaching the beach was only part of her escape. She still had to get across the Channel. As she stepped onto the sand, she was stunned by what lay before her. Thousands of soldiers stretched along the shoreline like a vast, dark carpet. Men stood in orderly queues that snaked from the dunes down to the water’s edge, some waist-deep in the surf, all waiting with grim patience for their turn to board the small boats shuttling back and forth to larger ships anchored offshore. The beach was littered with abandoned equipment, helmets, rifles, vehicles, while overhead the orange glow of burning oil tanks painted everything there was in a hellish light. Despite the massive scale of the evacuation, there was an eerie discipline to it all, punctuated only by the distant rumble of artillery and the occasional drone of aircraft engines overhead.
She followed Hugo and André down onto the beach, weaving between clusters of exhausted soldiers and the occasional civilian clutching precious belongings. Soon they were standing before someone who clearly held authority – a British officer with tired eyes and salt-stained uniform.
Clara hung back as Hugo spoke rapidly to the officer in broken English gesturing towards her several times. A tense debate ensued and for several agonising minutes, Clara was certain she would be turned away. But then the officer raised his hand and beckoned her forward.
‘And you are?’
‘R-Rose Hartwell,’ she stammered remembering to use her sister’s identity. She held out her papers to him. ‘British nurse. Evacuated from Lille but I got separated from my colleagues in the chaos.’
The officer studied first her papers and then her with weary scepticism ‘You’re very lucky to make it here then, I’d say. Most of the medical staff went out hours ago. But we’re desperately short-handed and, frankly, I’m not interested in how you got here, you’re here. We could use someone with your skills.’ He nodded towards a group of soldiers wading out into the sea towards a small boat, between them several wounded walking soldiers and two on stretchers. ‘I’ve got five wounded men going out on that vessel. You’ll accompany them and provide medical assistance during the crossing.’ He called to a young soldier nearby. ‘Take Nurse Hartwell down to Sergeant Harris. She’s to go with the wounded.’
‘This way, miss,’ the soldier said, already moving towards the shoreline.
Clara turned quickly to Hugo and André. ‘Please let me at least check your wound first—’
‘We’ll see to him,’ the officer interrupted curtly. ‘It’s now or never for you, Nurse. The tide won’t wait.’
Hugo nodded at Clara with understanding in his eyes and André tipped his cap at her. Another abrupt farewell. One with no time for proper words, no chances to express her gratitude properly. Just like with Friedrich at the border, just like with Rose in the courtyard, she was being swept away by forces beyond her control.
