There she sat, haggard and decrepit, silently mourning an inactive life of posturing pride and predominance. As mid-day approached the once hordes of engrossed historians began to dwindle, leaving behind the tiring few whom curiosity had bettered. Across the room an aged voice broke the tranquility, welcoming a family of apparent French origin into the room. The senile man of whom the voice belonged began his well rehearsed tragic tale to his agog assemblage, attentively hanging on to his every word. Bored of hearing her life replayed, she was drawn to her audience. A lady stood tired, eyes wandering through the room, crawling across the weathered exhibit before her. Each crack and crevice pined for a bygone life, each sign of wear and tear sighed in woeful reminiscence. Nearby the mysterious father and son gazed under bushy eyebrows at the greying curator, their dark minstrel eyes sparkling like a champagne glass polished to perfection.
* * *
Waves bellowed a deep melody, crashing and attacking her frail body showing no remorse. Uniformed men tumbled on board any vessels they could, weak in overwhelming emotion. The injured cried out on the beaches, knowing rescue from a little boat to the destroyers was the difference between life and death. Healthy men aided the wounded, the burned, the unrecognisable. Each man knew, for many of the soldiers this was the end. A death in vain. In vain for Britain and her allied forces. In vain for families. In vain for every friend, every colleague, every passer-by in the street. For every widow and every father-less child. For every heart that would be ripped from its seams, stabbed, smashed and broken into millions of pieces which could never be put back the same again. For every mother that would wake up each day to enjoy those five seconds of oblivious harmony before the pain once again returns, to plague her every action. Every sibling to wipe away that single tear rolling down their cheek. Every injured survivor cursed with a physical reminder of The Battle of Dunkirk.
Her sails cracked and slapped in the fierce gale, a sheet of white whispering to the cold vast expanse above of sheer nothingness. Black velvet enveloped the earth, littered with pinholes revealing the light from heaven. The thundering sounds of gunfire tore through the air, the echo of cars backfiring and corks erupting from champagne bottles. Rumbles of shock waves tore through the thick air from boats bursting with flames. The Luftwaffe were hawks, circling their prey awaiting their next meal. Waves relentlessly battered her sides as she furiously fought through the angry monster to the destroyer for another time. Her labouring skipper battled against the unforgiving wind, deafening the ears of those who longed for shelter and serenity. "Father!" the young boy exclaimed, as the last soldier wearisomely climbed the rope net hung from the destroyer's gunwale. "We need to go back father, there are hundreds more men on the beaches waiting for rescue!" Willie turned to his son, yanking at her billowing main sail. "She can't take it no more son, she's beat." James stumbled across the deck towards his father, gesturing in earnest to the vast stretch of beach overflowing with hungry, exhausted soldiers awaiting an uncertain rescue. The beach was a battle field and a cemetery all rolled into one, blood staining the yellow sands whom had only ever seen the stains of fruit juice. "We have no choice! Please Father, for our country" James begged, his eyes pleading in desperation. The bearded fisherman grudgingly hauled at the tiller, returning to the desperate men wading in the icy waters for rescue.
* * *
Cloudless blue skies reflected in the harbour's murky waters, the glowing sun bouncing off the quaint fishing boats docked. Colour cascaded off kaleidoscopic fishing boats. Vibrant. Vivid. Vivacious. She gently swayed in the summer breeze, enviously watching tugboats to cargo-ships pouring in and out the harbour in condescending superiority. Her immaculate, beaming sapphire blue paint shone bright. She longed to be out on the open waters, adventuring and exploring the never ending, desolate expanse of the unknown. The pier seemed to widen as a heavy-set man dressed in a crease-less three piece suit sauntered towards her, followed closely by a father and excited child. The balding businessman ran his eyes over the all too familiar vessel before turning on a polished heel to face his potential client. He grunted, "This fishing boat was built a year past, of May 1937. She is just under 15 feet long and is named 'Tamzine' after a eighteen-year-old wife of a sailing skipper who was drowned off the Isles of Scilly in an shipwreck. She was built in Margate and is clinker-built. My asking price is respectable enough, if you are you interested Mr Stringman." He droned, monotonously. Willie glanced over to his son, gleefully immersed in the busy harbour. His eyes sparkled delightfully at his view, contently observing the sailors and shipbuilders working away.
Willie thought back nostalgically to James' most recent birthday, his eighth, in which he was given a small wooden toy boat painted brightly, detailed with portholes and funnels. James had become so completely captivated by the fascinating object and spoke of nothing else. His excitement not only encouraged his father's lifelong wish to own a boat, but also quenched his hesitations. Willie jumped as the man cleared his throat irritably. The business man stood grave, scrutinising under cold grey eyes wrapped in dark bags. He pulled a neatly ironed handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his perspiring receding hairline, impatient to be out of the sun's glare. "Done." Willie Stringman muttered, stepping forward to meet his companion's clammy hand. The business man shook hands gratefully, and waddled away with briefcase in hand.
* * *
The harsh night sky was beginning to clear allowing a cynical sun to creep over the horizon, reflecting gently off the calming sea. She propelled wearily through the waves, faintly hearing the distant roars of enraged gunfire and explosions behind her and English soil almost in sight. Her loyal skipper collapsed on her wooden deck, the horrors of the past days ringing in his mind. The beaches strewn with corpses of the innocent. The deafening echo of gunshots ripping into ships and soldiers alike. The three soldiers sat in melancholy union, each man forlornly listening to the whistling wind, impatient for the peaceful safeguard of dry land. "Pass tha blankit will ya" drawled the shivering soldier, gesturing towards the young boy bailing out the boat. Tall in stature and a face dented with laughter lines that hadn't been used in a while, a British man with steely blue eyes sat woeful, surrounded by tatters of a former uniform. James stopped hastily and threw the woollen blanket towards him and watched as he received it gratefully. Opposite him sat a silent French soldier gazing sorrowfully out into the channel, where a war ship was slowly sinking, flames pouring out the crumbling sides. "What is your name?" the British soldier asked slowly in a demeaning manner. A confused expression momentarily crossed the Frenchman's face before he gently replied, 'Dubois. Je m'appelle Dubois." His head swivelled abruptly at the unexpected sniff of the second British soldier sat next to him, who cradled his wounded arm wrapped clumsily in blood-soaked wraps of linen. The soldier's face crinkled in pain as he lifted his good arm upwards to push back the blonde mop of hair hanging over his forehead, dirty with grime. His face was dark with filth and week-old stubble, creating deceptive shadows which hid his years.
* * *
The feeble curator brought his story to a close, ready to bid his polite listeners goodbye. To his surprise the French family had remained captive throughout his performance, unlike so many of his audiences over the years who had failed to hide their boredom. The father and son admired the protagonist's antique beauty as her story was told, imagining her in a different life, from a different perspective. She was not just a decrepit mass of wood, oh no. She was so much more. Underneath she had a story, a story that if untold, would cease to exist. This family could see this, her beauty, and had some connection to this vessel that the old museum-worker could not fathom. The withered man crept forward, leaning heavily on his wooden walking stick. "Might I ask before you leave... who I have been talking to?" He directed towards the father of the family, as they headed towards the door. "John Dubois. My grandfather was evacuated from Dunkirk on this fishing boat." He replied placidly, before disappearing with his family from the room.
* * *
The stench of civilisation hit the five men like a brick, as England became almost in arm's reach. Willie cried out deliriously as she surged into Dover harbour groaning in exhaustion and relief. Happiness spread across the soldier's faces, relief and exhilaration filling each pore on their body. The three men clamoured up as she docked, looking around at the harbour filled with soldiers disembarking boats euphorically. The sun shone brightly as it knew today was a day to be remembered. A day that would be held in the memories of many for years to come. Boats off all sizes waltzed into the docks greeted by the tremendous uproar and cheers of excited soldiers, glad to have escaped alive. Locals greeted the heroic soldiers with generous supplies of tea and sandwiches for the ravenous men while women's eyes pricked as they struggled to hold back tears of relief. The smell of success enveloped the harbour, feeding off each overjoyed sailor, soldier and citizen present. Happiness that only a man on the brink of death could feel. Soldiers of all nationalities bombarded Dover docks, exuding a sense of success which filled the air joyously. Injured yet smiling men embarked on trains ready to depart, leaving behind the sorrow and suffering on the beaches and boats of Dunkirk.
