The Miracle of Dunkirk

by Walter Lord

By the evening of the 25th there were doubts even at OKW, normally a faithful echo of the Fuehrer’s voice. Colonel Lieutenant Bernard von Lossberg, a young staff officer, buttonholed General Jodl and reminded him of the old German military maxim, Never let up on a defeated enemy. Jodl mildly brushed aside the advice, explaining, “The war is won; all that is left is to finish it. It’s not worth sacrificing a single tank, if we can do it more cheaply by using the Luftwaffe.”

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The Stukas had an implacable ferocity all their own. No target seemed too small. Corporal Bob Hadnett, a dispatch rider with the 48th Division, was riding his motorcycle along an exposed stretch of road when a single Stuka spotted him. Machine guns blazing, it made two passes, but missed both times as Hadnett weaved wildly from side to side on the road. Still after him, the Stuka climbed, peeled off, and dived straight at him. Again it missed, and this time the pilot misjudged his dive. He tried to pull out too late and plunged into the road just ahead, exploding in a ball of fire. Hadnett turned off the road into a field, smoked a cigarette, and carried on.

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LIEUTENANT IAN COX, FIRST Lieutenant of the destroyer Malcolm, could hardly believe his eyes. There, coming over the horizon toward him, was a mass of dots that filled the sea. The Malcolm was bringing her third load of troops back to Dover. The dots were all heading the other way—toward Dunkirk. It was Thursday evening, the 30th of May. As he watched, the dots materialized into vessels. Here and there were respectable steamers, like the Portsmouth-Isle of Wight car ferry, but mostly they were little ships of every conceivable type—fishing smacks … drifters … excursion boats … glittering white yachts … mud-spattered hoppers … open motor launches … tugs towing ship’s lifeboats … Thames sailing barges with their distinctive brown sails … cabin cruisers, their bright work gleaming … dredges, trawlers, and rust-streaked scows … the Admiral Superintendent’s barge from Portsmouth with its fancy tassels and rope-work. Cox felt a sudden surge of pride. Being here was no longer just a duty; it was an honor and a privilege. Turning to a somewhat startled chief boatswain’s mate standing beside him, he burst into the Saint Crispin’s Day passage from Shakespeare’s Henry V: And Gentlemen in England, now abed Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here. The efforts of the Small Vessels Pool and the Ministry of Shipping were at last paying off. The trickle of little ships that began in Tough’s boatyard was turning into a deluge. There was still no public announcement of the evacuat...

Neither Fernald nor Homan liked the prospect of moving from navigational theory to practice so abruptly, but they couldn’t see any graceful way out; so they volunteered. Captain Watts told them to grab what gear they could and report immediately to the Port of London Authority down by the Tower. Fernald rushed back to his flat, picked up an old pea jacket, and hurried down to Tower Hill, as directed. Most of the others were already there. Some didn’t even have time to change their clothes and were still wearing the cutaways and striped trousers of the City. Stockbroker Raphael de Sola, however, was resplendent in the jacket of the Royal London Yacht Club, blue trousers to match, a visored cap, and a greatcoat worthy of the First Sea Lord of the Admiralty.

“Partage—bras-dessus, bras-dessous!”

The curious bond that sometimes exists between enemies at the front is rarely felt in the rear.

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But the significance of Dunkirk went far beyond such practical considerations. The rescue electrified the people of Britain, welded them together, gave them a sense of purpose that the war had previously lacked. Treaty obligations are all very well, but they don’t inspire men to great deeds. “Home” does, and this is what Britain was fighting for now. The very sense of being alone was exhilarating. The story was told of the foreigner who asked whether his English friend was discouraged by the successive collapse of Poland, Denmark, Norway, the Lowlands, and now France. “Of course not,” came the stout-hearted reply. “We’re in the finals and we’re playing at home.”

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