Camp

By the time the boat docked, it was almost dark.

Loran was pushed down the gangway by the people behind him. His feet touched the concrete of the dock, his legs buckled, and he almost fell. Someone steadied him, then quickly let go. No one spoke. The entire ship was silent, save for the sound of waves crashing against the dock and the distant clamor of cheers or cries.

He stood on the dock and glanced back.

The sea was gray. The ship was turning back to pick up the next group of people. Further away, in the direction of Dunkirk, the sky was stained dark red with gunpowder smoke, like a wound that would never heal.

"Keep going." Someone shouted, speaking French with a northern accent. "Keep going, don't stop, there's a car waiting for you."

Lorraine followed the crowd. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people, covered in mud and blood, moved slowly across the dock. No one spoke; only the dull, dragging sound of boots on the concrete, like a funeral procession.

A row of men in British military uniforms stood on the dock. They held notebooks and pens, registering names one by one. "Name? Unit number? Where did you withdraw from?" The questions were asked in English, and a translator repeated them in French. The answers were given in very soft voices, as if afraid of disturbing something.

When it was Loran's turn, the translator glanced at him. Loran didn't know what he looked like, but he could guess from the translator's eyes. The bandages wrapped around his shoulders were black, a mixture of blood and mud, drying and then getting wet again. His face was also black, only his eyes remained their original color.

"Name?"

"Mark Lorraine".

"force?"

"The 55th Division"

The translator paused, then looked up at him. The 55th Division, the 55th Division from Sedan. The translator opened his mouth, as if to ask something, but ultimately just lowered his head and made a note in his notebook.

"Where did they evacuate from?"

Loran was silent for two seconds.

"Stone."

The translator's pen stopped moving.

He looked up again, and this time his gaze towards Loran was different. It wasn't just pity; there was something else he couldn't quite put his finger on—perhaps awe, perhaps confusion, perhaps the feeling of wanting to ask, "How are you still alive?" but not daring to ask it aloud.

A British officer nearby leaned over and asked a few questions in English. The translator replied in French, "He said to get on that vehicle over there, directly to the camp in Orpington."

Loran nodded and continued walking forward.

At the end of the dock stood a row of military trucks, their green canvas tarps still running. Soldiers climbed into the back of the trucks and squeezed in, one after another. No one fought or pushed; they just sat there silently, like a flock of sheep herded together.

Loran squeezed into a carriage and sat down against the wall. The carriage was packed with people, most of them like him, covered in mud, exhausted, their eyes fixed on their boots or the carriage floor, no one looking at anyone else.

The truck started moving. The roar of the engine drowned out all other sounds.

Loran closed his eyes.

He wasn't thinking about anything. His mind was completely blank, with only a buzzing sound in his ears. He didn't know where he was going, what he could still do, or what he was. He just closed his eyes, swaying with the bumps of the car, like a lifeless object.

I don't know how much time passed before the truck stopped.

Someone shouted, "We've arrived! Get off!"

Loran opened her eyes and jumped off the bus with the crowd.

Outside was a grassy field surrounded by barbed wire, with British soldiers standing at the entrance. Rows of tents stretched from the wire fence into the distance, like a white wave. Some people walked between the tents, some squatted on the ground smoking, and some leaned against the tents, lost in thought. No one spoke. The entire camp was as quiet as a giant tomb.

Lorraine was taken to a registration desk, filled out several forms, received a numbered card, and was then led to a tent.

"Number 47," said the soldier who led him, pointing to the tent's canvas before turning and walking away.

Loran lifted the tarpaulin.

Eight cots were crammed into the tent, with only enough space between them to squeeze through sideways. Seven men were already there, some lying down, some sitting, and some leaning against the headboard smoking. When he entered, no one looked up, and no one spoke.

He found the last empty bed, put the cloth bundle under the pillow, and lay down.

A dim light was constantly on at the top of the tent. There were footsteps outside, and occasionally people would speak, but then it would quickly fall silent again.

Lying on the bed next to him was a man in his thirties with an old scar on his face, staring blankly at the tent ceiling. He felt Loran watching him, turned his head, and glanced at Loran.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"The 55th Division"

The man nodded and said nothing more.

After a while, he spoke again: "How many people were evacuated?"

Lorraine shook her head: "I don't know."

The man was silent for a few seconds, then chuckled softly. There was no joy in that laugh, only something indescribable.

"I'm from the Ninth Division," he said. "I retreated from Lille. Our division is gone."

Loran did not speak.

The man stopped talking and stared blankly at the tent top again.

The tent remained quiet for a long time. The only sounds were breathing, the creaking of someone turning over, and occasional distant noises.

Loran closed his eyes.

He thought he would think about many things. About Stoney, Ramirez, Lefevere, and all those who would never return. But his mind was blank, empty of everything. Only a gray, white void, like the sea at Dunkirk.

He fell asleep.

The days that followed were of unknown duration to Loran.

Outside the tents, British soldiers would assemble every morning by blowing whistles, and then be given bread, water, and a soup so thin you could see the bottom. Some lined up to get it, some didn't, and some who did just dumped it on the ground. Nobody cared. The British soldiers stood by watching, their faces showing a bewildered expression.

Loran went to collect it every day. He didn't know why he should, he just felt he should. The bread was hard, chewing like wood. The soup was bland, tasting like water. He ate it all, swallowed it, then went back to his tent, lay down, and stared blankly.

He slowly memorized the faces of the men in the tent, but didn't know their names. The scarred-faced man was called "from Lille," a younger one was called "Artilleryman," and an older one was called "Saving Engineer." They spoke occasionally, but mostly remained silent.

One day, an artilleryman suddenly asked, "So, what do you think of France now?"

No one answered.

The sapper took a drag of his cigarette and said slowly, "I don't know. The British don't allow us to listen to the radio."

Lille snorted, "What are you afraid we'll hear if you won't let us listen?"

Silence again.

Lorraine lay there, listening to them talk. He found himself feeling nothing. Hearing the word "France" stirred no emotion within him. It was like hearing the name of a strange place, something completely unrelated to him.

He didn't know if this was normal. All he knew was that right now he didn't want to think about anything, wouldn't think about anything, and dared not think about anything.

A few more days passed.

That morning, Lorraine was awakened by a commotion. It wasn't the usual noise; it was the kind of noise where many people were shouting, running, and yelling.

He sat up, and the others in the tent sat up too. They looked at each other, but no one spoke.

Lille was the first to stand up, lift the tent flap, and go outside. Lorraine followed behind him.

A large crowd had already gathered in the open space outside. Everyone was facing the same direction: the wooden building in the middle of the camp. That was the British officer's office, and several British soldiers stood at the door, holding guns, but not pointing them at the crowd.

The window of the wooden house was open, and a voice came from inside. It was French, coming from a radio.

"...I declare to the French people that we must cease fighting. I have already requested an armistice from Germany..."

Loran stood on the periphery of the crowd, listening to the voice.

It was an old, trembling voice, choked with sobs.

Philippe Pétain. Marshal of France. Hero of Verdun. Current Prime Minister of France.

"...In order to alleviate the suffering of the French people, and to preserve the flame of France, I have made this painful decision..."

Someone in the crowd shouted, "What is he saying?"

Someone shouted, "Surrender? He's saying he's surrendering?"

Someone shouted, "Shut up! Let me listen!"

The radio continued playing. Loran listened to the words, word by word, but his mind was blank.

Ceasefire. Surrender. Stop fighting.

What is France?

Then what are we?

The radio stopped. Utter silence.

Then someone cried. Not a quiet sob, but a howl like a wild animal, the kind of cry that comes from holding back something for a long time. A middle-aged soldier squatted on the ground, his hands covering his head, his whole body trembling.

People started cursing. They cursed Pétain, the Germans, the British, everyone—the words were very harsh.

Some people stood still, not moving, just staring at their boots.

Some people turned and left, going back to their tents, back to their cots, and continued to lie there.

Loran stood there, listening to the sounds—crying, cursing, and silence. He suddenly remembered something: in Stoney, on the last day, the Germans sent someone to persuade him to surrender.

Ramirez shot and killed the man who had raised the white flag. He said, "Surrender? I don't know how to spell that word."

Now, France has surrendered.

That night, no one slept in the camp.

Some people were gathered together drinking, the alcohol they'd gotten from who-knows-where. Others were singing old songs: "La Marseillaise," "From the Rhine," "On the Retreat." They sang terribly, off-key, forgetting the lyrics.

People were fighting, and the British soldiers pulled them apart, but the fighting started again, and they were pulled apart again.

Someone sat on the grass, looking at the stars in the sky, without saying a word.

Loran sat outside the tent, leaning against the tent frame, watching the people. Lille sat next to him, smoking one cigarette after another.

"What are you planning to do?" Lille asked suddenly.

Loran didn't speak.

Lille looked at him, then turned away.

"I want to go back," he said. "Back to France. My wife is there. My son is just two years old, and I haven't seen him yet."

Lorraine recalled Lefebvre, who died with a photograph of his mother in his arms, muttering, "My mother is waiting for me to come back."

"What are we going back for?" I heard myself ask. My voice was hoarse, as if I hadn't spoken in a long time.

Lille paused for a moment, then slowly said, "I don't know. I just want to go back."

In the distance, someone was singing "La Marseillaise." When they reached the line "The motherland is in danger," they suddenly stopped, and no one continued.

The second day, the third day, and the fourth day.

Days passed. The camp dwindled in number. Some were taken away by the British army, told they were to continue fighting. Others were sent away, told they were to return to France.

Many more people stayed here, waiting, not knowing what to wait for, feeling utterly lost; they couldn't even speak English.

The radio broadcast daily news. German troops entered Paris. The French government was in Bordeaux. An armistice was signed. France was divided into occupied and free zones. Pétain became head of state.

Each message was like a stone thrown into stagnant water. Some were angry, some were desperate, and some were numb. Most people said nothing more, just collected their bread and soup each day, lay back in their tents, and stared blankly.

Loran was the same. Every day he would collect his bread and soup, lie back in his tent, and space out. The wound on his shoulder slowly healed; after several bandage changes, new flesh grew, causing itchy discomfort. He scratched the itchy spots, thinking, "This body is still alive."

He didn't know what he was doing. Alive? Dead? Or waiting for something?

That afternoon, Loran lay in the tent as usual, staring blankly at the tent top.

Suddenly, a commotion arose outside. It wasn't the usual commotion; people were running and shouting, and there was something very strange about their voices.

Lille rushed into the tent.

"Get up!" he shouted. "The radio! Someone's talking on the radio!"

Loran looked at him but didn't move.

Lille came over, grabbed him, and dragged him outside.

"There's a French general! In London! He says he wants to keep fighting!"

He dragged Loran out of the tent and towards the wooden house. The entrance was already crowded with people, three or four deep, all craning their necks to look through the window. The window was open, and the sound of a radio came through, crackling and intermittently static, but the man's voice pierced through all the noise, each word striking a chord in everyone's ears:

"...France lost the battle, but not the war..."

Loran stood on the periphery of the crowd, listening to the voice.

It was an unfamiliar voice, one he had never heard before. But there was something in that voice, something he hadn't heard in a long time. It wasn't anger, despair, or numbness. It was something else entirely.

"...Because this is a world war. One day, France will win back its freedom..."

Someone in the crowd whispered, "Who's talking?"

No one answered.

The sound from the radio continued, growing clearer and stronger:

"...I, General de Gaulle, am now in London, and I appeal to all French officers and soldiers still in French territory or who may come to England to contact me. Whatever happens, the flame of French resistance should not be extinguished, nor will it be extinguished..."

The sound stopped.

A silence.

Then someone spoke. An old soldier standing in the front row, his face etched with wrinkles, several World War I medals hanging on his uniform, opened his mouth, his voice very soft, as if talking to himself:

"There are still people who haven't surrendered..."

This statement is like a pebble thrown into stagnant water.

People started talking, discussing, and arguing in the crowd. Some asked, "Who is de Gaulle?" Some shook their heads and said, "I don't know." Some shouted, "Who cares who he is? He said he wants to keep fighting!"

Loran stood still, motionless.

He heard that voice echoing in his mind again and again: "The flame of French resistance should not be extinguished, nor will it be extinguished."

resistance.

This word was like a needle, piercing his brain, which had been numb for a long time.

He glanced down at the cloth bag at his waist. Boucher's photograph, Ramirez's pipe, Lefebvre's letters home. Those people, those who fell in Stoney, they had resisted.

They didn't know when the war would end, or whether victory would come. They only knew one thing: that was France, and they had to hold it.

Now, France has surrendered.

But they did not surrender.

Lorraine looked up at the window. The radio was silent, but the person's voice still echoed in the air, like an invisible hand stirring something.

The man from Lille stood beside him, looking at him with an indescribable look in his eyes.

"Did you hear me?" Lille asked.

Loran nodded.

Lille paused for a moment, then asked, "Do you think what he said is true?"

Loran did not answer.

He just stood there, watching the crowd disperse, watching the sky darken, and watching the lights in the tents come on one by one.

That night, he did not return to the tent.

He sat on the grass until dawn.

The next morning, Lorraine did something.

He found the British officer in charge of registration at the camp and asked in broken English, "I'm looking for someone."

The British officer looked at him, paused for a moment, and asked, "Who are you looking for?"

"A French general," Lorrain said, "Charles de Gaulle."

The British officer raised an eyebrow. He looked at Lorraine for a long time, then nodded.

"Wait."

In the afternoon, a jeep pulled into the camp. A man in civilian clothes, in his forties, with thinning hair and the pallor typical of someone who sits in an office all day, got out. He walked up to Loran and looked him up and down.

"Lieutenant Loran?"

"Yes."

The man nodded: "Come with me."

Lorraine stood up and followed him to the jeep.

The man from Lille stood at the tent entrance, looking at him. The two men exchanged a glance, but neither spoke.

The jeep started up, drove out of the camp, and onto a road leading to London.