Metal Birds

Chapter 28: Dunkirk

Dunkirk, France, May 24 - June 3, 1940

He felt miserable. And guilty, and tired, and confused. But he knew he shouldn't be thinking that way. Even then, the faces around him were blurred slightly with his worry, and his face was often contorted into something moody and upset.

Two days, and Francis still wasn't there.

"Fool's taking his time." He tried to reassure himself. "He'll come... he has to."

Arthur was wrong to say that to himself, and he knew it, but he didn't know what else to do. The prospect of France being lost was a tremendously overwhelming one. He was overwhelmed. It was the simplest way to put it, watching as the day before men snuck small things, this and that, alcohol, cigarettes, looking for relief. It was vain when none of it could effect him, at least not in the amount they had. And even though he was tempted to accept each concerned offer, he refused, because he knew he would become desperate for some sort of relief.

Any relief.

That's what he'd decided it was now. A search for relief. His existence was nothing more than a blind search of relief, and he knew this assumption was blind, but he still assumed it. He found himself patting his breast pocket earlier, in search of a relief, in search of the tiny Bible he had been given so long ago. But the words felt like blocks of ice to his eyes and mind, flicking through each page for an answer he couldn't seem to locate.

Francis wasn't there. They were surrounded.

They were doomed.

Two days after he woke up in Dunkirk, word arrived that one of the towns to the South, Arras, had been attacked. The scramble to prepare for an invasion rose quickly. Weapons were distributed to those who could stand, and men were stationed along the outskirts of the town. The townsfolk became fearful.

By the time noon had begun to tide over, planes were spotted, and the attack began. They began by attacking encampments, while foot soldiers began to come from South and Southeast. The troops at Dunkirk hadn't had a lot of time to prepare, the haphazard mix of Belgian, French, Polish and English forces scrambling to get themselves in order.

Arthur found himself manning the aerial defenses. Sometimes, on the rarest of occasions that a man parachuted, they'd have him fly up to shoot them. Unless they surrendered. Which was never, it seemed. If he came in close, they seemed eager to take the opportunity to shoot at him.

He didn't fly close. He didn't dare fly too close, he didn't want to see their faces, so he aimed as he flew low and attempted to avoid the few planes who dared strafe the place. He could always see when the blood splattered along the underside of the parachute when he aimed right, and he did his best to turn away before the gnawing sensation of battle overwhelmed him.

Arthur wasn't sure what to think about it. He was overwhelmed with adrenaline, and he could hear and see and feel everything, the whisks of passing bullets, the shouts of those who hadn't made it to cover on time, the colors of brown and grey and peach and dull green now vibrant to him. He could see every small bit of cloud, every bit of sea foam, every pebble, and he could hear each gunshot and each whisper of wind.

It felt very much like a mirage might, at least, to him.

Arthur found himself living in a haze. Load your gun every morning, try to get up before the Germans did so they didn't get you off guard. Make sure you had everything you needed on your person, because there was a chance that it might get blown up, or looted. Only eat when you couldn't hear anyone shooting. That in itself was a challenge, everyone was firing something, throwing something, or sending something catapulting into the town of Dunkirk.