“We’ll bring food,” the farmer told Lance. “Then you’ll sleep. Tonight, you’ll walk many miles.”
“Are you coming with us?”
“No. A friend will take you. His name is François.”
“Where are we going?”
“Veules-les-Roses,” the man replied. “It is on the coast two hundred kilometers southwest of Dunkirk, and the British Navy has been taking soldiers on its ships there. We are only thirty kilometers away now, but there is much fighting in between. The Germans have the roads blocked, so going by truck is too dangerous. François knows how to get there on foot, and he will take you in.”
Sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out, Lance leaned back on one arm and massaged his forehead. “That must be dangerous for him.”
“Oui, monsieur,” the farmer replied, “but this is our fight. You sleep now. When you wake up, François will be here, and you will go.”
François had been as good as the farmer had predicted. His skin was very white, and he wore a black beret over perpetually wide eyes, and although very young, his age seemed indeterminate. Lance guessed he was in his early twenties, and although on the chunky side, he moved rapidly and tirelessly. He seemed to be someone who could be easily underestimated.
Through the dead of night over unseen trails, François had led them on a twelve-hour hike through back alleys, over fields, and through forests. The men held onto each other’s shoulders in the dark so as not to be separated. During the day, they skirted villages, staying as deep in forests as possible. François scouted ahead to ensure safe passage until they emerged on the cliffs above the Atlantic coast and maneuvered to where they had sight of their objective.
As they neared the town, François suddenly ducked to the ground and signaled for the others to do the same. His eyes widening further, he brought his finger over his lips and moved carefully back the way they had come. Lance and his men followed.
Having reached a safe distance, François whispered, “Les Boches are on the cliffs on both sides of the port. When I was here before, they were only on the north side.”
With a sinking heart, Lance had asked if there was a place where he could observe more closely. His youthful zeal undiminished, François nodded, and while the squad waited, he took Lance to a place where they could see the waterfront with its groynes stretching into the sea.
“Never give up hope,” François said on seeing Lance’s downcast expression. “We’ll go to Le Havre. They are taking soldiers out to sea there too.”
For several minutes, the weight of leading eight men to safety in a fierce war immobilized Lance. Finally, he muttered, “What about Dieppe? Isn’t it much closer?”
François shook his head. “It is closer, but there is nothing there now. It’s dead. Le Havre is the closest point for evacuation. I will take you there.” He forced a grin. “It’s only seventy kilometers.”
On the second night of the trek, while moving through the forest with no visibility and guided only by a compass, they heard others moving in the same direction, toward the coast. Only a few feet away, men called to each other in the crisp, modulated tones of the German language. In the darkness they were invisible.
Lance’s men froze in place. When the immediate danger had passed, they turned their direction southward.
In the early morning hours, one of the men spotted a lone French tank. Approaching it, they found it deserted yet in full working order, complete with fuel and ammunition. Wasting no time, they mounted it, and with five men sitting out on its hull, proceeded toward Le Havre.
Several miles along their route, a French officer stepped into their path. “What are you doing with a French tank?” he demanded.
Lance hopped down from the turret and related how they had come across it. Although expressing surprise, the officer accepted his account. “I could use your help,” he said, and explained that he intended to establish a rearguard action on the south bank of the Seine.
Lance agreed, and after crossing a bridge, his ragged squad helped blow it with tank rounds and then set up firing positions. No sooner had they completed their preparations than German infantry appeared on the opposite bank in trucks.
Lance’s thrown-together unit targeted the lorries as they appeared, and then fired on groups of German soldiers descending to the riverbank. The melee lasted an hour, with more enemy troops pouring down the opposite side, bringing up armor, and launching pontoon boats filled with infantry.
The rearguard began to give way, with French soldiers streaming past Lance’s position. “Time to go?” Horton called above the din.
Grim-faced, Lance took stock of his men’s position and the approaching enemy and nodded. With a sweep of his hand, Horton signaled for their comrades to regroup on the tank, and once again they headed for the coast. They drove until they ran out of fuel, and then set out again on foot.
At dawn on the third day, having walked the forests and across fields to avoid more German troops and the mass of refugees that clogged the roads, Lance’s small group rested in a wooded glade while François went to learn about the current situation from locals.
“That French officer was a bloody good fighter,” Horton observed. “He gave it all he had.”
“He was outgunned,” Lance agreed.
When François returned, his face was grim.
“Le Havre has fallen,” he reported. “The last evacuation took place a few days ago. Cherbourg too, which is the next port. The British landed troops there that had evacuated from Le Havre. They were supposed to join fresh Canadian units headed into battle, but the Canadians retreated the same day. The Nazis already occupy Cherbourg.” He grunted. “I saw a military policeman directing traffic. Unfortunately, he was German.”
Lance looked around at his men’s gaunt faces. They appeared tired but not defeated, in healthier
