Dunkirk: holding the line under the bombs

29 May 1940. For days now you have been falling back toward the sea with the British Expeditionary Force, under a sky that the Luftwaffe contests yard by yard. Behind you, the pocket is closing; ahead, the grey Channel and, offshore, the silhouettes of the destroyers and steamers come to fetch the army. You are on the beach at Bray-Dunes, one of those long stretches of pale sand that run between Malo and La Panne, strewn with smoking wrecks and abandoned equipment.

The problem is one of geography as much as of the enemy: the beach is flat, the water creeps up with maddening slowness, and the large ships cannot come close to shore. Only small craft ply back and forth, gathering the men by the handful to carry them out to the vessels anchored far off. The Stukas come back in waves, and every row of motionless men becomes a target. The beach officers, pistol sometimes in hand, struggle to keep order in a human tide that needs only a pretext to break.

You have sand up to your ankles, the cold water rising, and behind you thousands of men pressing toward the same slim hope of getting aboard. Every hour counts, every decision stakes your life and perhaps the lives of others. You must decide in an instant.