WW2

Chapter 2: Dunkirk

John felt the energy quickly drain from his body. Every step further exhausting lungs, fuelling the fire in his chest, pulling the stitch along his side. He dropped his rifle long ago; it would only drag him down. Too many enemies, too little bullets.

He turned the corner of the road and sprinted to one of the houses nearby, grabbing a rock off the floor as he did so. Faint gunshots echoed through the streets.

With a strong throw, the window smashed, sending shards of glass into the house. He climbed in, cutting his hand in the process. He couldn't adequately lick his wounds; they were right behind him. Instead, he opted to grab whatever rag he could find and placed it on his hand as he bolted out the back door and into the nice little rear garden.

Jumping over the fence, he landed on the side of the road: couldn't stop to breathe, couldn't stop the check his surroundings. He just ran. He had to make it to the coast.

He turned a corner and halted in his tracks. He spotted 4 German soldiers, and they spotted him too. One shouted at the others, and they all fired at the man. He dived behind a stone wall, the rag flying off as he did so. Bits of rock crumbled beside him. He drew his pistol and took a deep breath, trying to control his breathing. But he could not keep a level head and uncontrollably hyperventilated.

Blood leaked from his hand. Blood leaked from his leg. 'Fuck'. Luckily the bullet merely scrapped the skin. Went through no bone nor muscle. He didn't think he was lucky.

The 4 soldiers turned into 7; they began to approach his position.

He froze in panic. The enemy screamed. Bursts of shots rippled the air, followed by more screaming and, silence.

He poked his head from the wall, pistol aimed at the man who had just killed 7 soldiers. He lowered his gun, muttering a thank you under a soft set of tears. A man in uniform, he couldn't tell what country. Maybe Belgium he thought. He was in the centre of 7 dead Germans, unfazed and... with a soft smile.

"Dat was een close call nee?" He spoke.

Still recovering, John stuttered, "Wh-I don't understand."

"Umm, close call, no?"

"Yeah," He rubbed his eyes, "The bastards still got me in the leg though," He chuckled.

"Juels," He walked closer and offered a handshake.

"John," he returned the gesture, "Thank you. I thank you, y-you saved my life."

Juels could only nod, his grin turning into a full smile.

"Where's your platoon?" John asked.

"Sorry ik begrijp het niet." Juels replied.

"I don't speak... do you speak a bit of English?"

"Bit."

"Friends, your friends, where are they?"

"Oh, uhh, far away. You, go, there," He pointed in the direction he was first heading towards. The coastline. "Boat is..." He emphasised the direction he pointed at, "Planes bad. Very bad."

John nodded, understanding his message. It was what every soul was going towards. Or at least he thought. "Are you not coming?"

"No. Ik ben niet zoals een gewone soldaat zoals jij," He smiled.

Confused, John nodded and thanked him again. They parted ways, John panting as he slowly regained his breath. Stukas flew overhead, heading for the beach as other planes returned to rearm and refuel.

Juels jogged past a corner to a half-destroyed building; climbing his way, he jumped and scaled to another taller building with a 360 view of the surrounding area. He felt the air brush against his face, a nice cool breeze.