The Approaches to Dunkirk

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Sergent Auguste Gérard watched as yet another column of British infantry marched past his position. They were heading for the coast, no doubt hoping to be rescued by their navy. Meanwhile, Gérard and his men were dug in, waiting for the Germans.

After the rush into Belgium, it seemed that all they had done since the German attack was dig in and wait, only to be ordered to fall back once again. Gérard was beginning to wonder if they would ever get the chance to actually fire their weapons at the Boche, or would they once again be ordered back before that could happen.

As the last Englishman, an officer, passed the position, he called out, "Les Allemands sont juste derrière nous, sergent. Bonne chance et vive la France!¹" The man then waved and vanished down the road with his men.

Gérard grunted and tossed his cigarette down, crushing the smoldering butt with his boot heel, he said, "Alright my boys, get ready. Maybe we'll actually get to kill the Boche today."

Fahnenjunker-Unteroffizier Jürgen von Lüttwitz marched at the side of the road, watching his squad as the dusty column walked down yet another dusty French road. The men looked tired, but were in good spirits, after all, it seemed as though they were winning the war against France in less than a month. Their fathers and grandfathers had fought the French for four long years and couldn't make them quit, now they were doing it in weeks.

Jürgen looked up as another flight of aircraft passed by overhead on their way to the coast. It had taken far too long for the orders to come down authorizing them to reconnoiter the area ahead of them. The day before they had crossed a canal via a pipe bridge, as Schütze Karl Wachsmuth termed it.

They had found evidence that someone had been there, from the empty ration tins Jürgen guessed they were English. But they had withdrawn, in a hurry from the looks of things.

"I guess they didn't want to entertain us, "Obergefreiter Sepp Wittman said as he looked around. "Do you think the rumor is true, Uffz?"

Jürgen shook his head, he too had heard that the Führer wished to spare the British Army. He didn't think it likely. But he had heard that the British were queuing up along the beaches at Dunkirk, waiting for a miracle to come across the Channel and save them.

For now, his job was to press on to the town of Dunkirk itself, then report back.

Gérard considered himself lucky, he had two FM 24/29 machine guns available to him, with ample ammunition. His men were well emplaced, some, along with one of the FM24/29s were emplaced in a substantial building which overlooked the approach road into town. The others had dug in along another of the many canals which crisscrossed the region. He had gone forward to check their position, they were practically invisible to someone approaching from the south along the road from Bergues.

He had eleven men, seven from his own squad (including himself) and four more he had picked up as stragglers. They had been separated from their parent battalion but were still keen to fight.

As Gérard studied the approaches to his position through his field glasses, he wondered at the irony of all this. His regiment had a long and storied history stretching back to the Bourbon kings of France. The unit's colors had battle honors from Napoléon's time and from the Great War. This very regiment had fought the Germans many times, and had always been the victors, now it appeared that that streak was coming to an end.

He had joined the regiment as a callow youth of seventeen years in the summer of 1917. He had seen combat on the Western Front, as had his two older brothers, both of whom had died in the service of France during that war. At the ripe old age of forty he had been ready to leave the army, but when the Germans went into Poland, he stayed. He had no wife, his parents were still alive, but he had no real reason to leave the army. It had been his whole life, why leave when le Patrie² needed him?

"Sergent! Someone is coming! To the left, near that copse." It had been young Soldat Pierre Jacquemoud who had called out. The lad has very good eyes, Gérard thought as he turned his field glasses in that direction.

Sure enough, infantry, German infantry.

"Look alive fellows, the Boche are coming to visit!"

Jürgen was running and staying as low as he could. There were buildings ahead and unless he was totally lost, that was the edge of Dunkirk ahead. He had one of the MG 34s set up to provide covering fire. But in what direction he wasn't sure. He assumed that the enemy would be covering the road, so he intended to advance along the side of that road, through the fields adjacent.

He had four men with him, one of the MG 34 teams and two riflemen. He felt naked and exposed out here, but they needed to get closer if their reconnaissance was to be of any use.

"Johannes! Set the gun up next to that milestone. Wolf, Christoph, with me!"

He had seen a slight rise in the ground ahead which would provide both cover and a good line of sight down the road and into the town. He heard a crack as a bullet passed his ear, then a scream. As he dove for cover he looked back, Schütze Wolf Gessler was down, both hands trying desperately to keep his intestines from spilling out as he screamed in agony.

Gérard was furious. He had hoped to let the Germans get even closer before opening fire, but one of the younger lads couldn't wait and had fired his rifle. To Gérard's surprise, one of the Germans had gone down hard, and from the way he was writhing about, he was seriously wounded.

"Open fire! Open fire!" was the only order Gérard could give which made any sense. The game was up, the Germans knew they were here. Time to make them pay, if they could.

Jürgen's instinct was to go to Gessler's assistance, but he had sixteen other men to worry about. Hopefully the Sanitäter could get to Gessler. When he heard his assistant squad leader's MG 34 begin to fire, he put his mind back on the task at hand.

"Christoph, stay here, cover the flank. I'm going to bring up Sepp and the rest of the guys."

"Jawohl!"

Jürgen was on his belly, crawling back to the side of the road opposite where he'd left Sepp and the other gun. "Sepp!"

"Right here! I've sent some of the boys out to the right, having them work their way up to that Frenchie position. There's an irrigation ditch, should keep 'em safe for a hundred meters or so. Put some flanking fire on those bastards. Who got hit?" Wittman yelled all of that in a continuous stream, hardly pausing for breath.

"Gessler's down, where's the Sani?"

"He's trying to get to him. Stay where you are, I'm sending a man over to you!"

Schütze Helmut Schneider lost his helmet as he dashed across the road to Jürgen. "Damn it!" was all he said.

Jürgen nodded at him and said, "Follow me."

Gérard hissed between his teeth as he saw the German make a dash across the road. Man must lead a charmed life he thought to himself. He'd already lost three men to the fire of those thrice-damned German machine guns, their rate of fire was unholy to say the least.

"François! Why are you not firing?" Gérard was trying to make his way to Soldat François Chapuis who was manning one of the FM 24/29s. As he jumped into the position, he saw the young soldier working the action.

"It's jammed!" the young soldier yelled out, as he moved to get a better grip, Chapuis' helmet flew off, along with part of his head.

"Merde!" Gérard gasped as he pulled the dead man away from the gun. He quickly got it back into battery. Rather than grab one of the conscripts to man the gun, he stayed at the weapon himself.

A burst of fire ripped along the lip of the trench, throwing dirt and small rocks into Gérard's face, nearly blinding him. He looked to his left quickly, somehow the damned Boche had gotten men onto his flank. Another few meters and the position would be enfiladed. It was time to pull back.

Working their way forward, Jürgen's men reached the abandoned French position. The French had left their dead behind, a couple of blood trails leading away from the hastily dug trench told Jürgen that they had at least gotten their wounded away.

He sent a runner back to let Leutnant Acker know that they were on the edge of the town of Dunkirk. As he began to clean his own weapon of the dust and grit which had gotten into it, Obergefreiter Willi Baumann, the Sanitäter came up to him, shaking his head when he caught Jürgen's eye.

"Gessler?"

"Yes, Uffz, he's dead, there was nothing I could do for him."

"Scheiße!" was all Jürgen could offer as the young soldier's epitaph.

¹ The Germans are right behind us, Sergeant. Good luck and long live France!

² The Fatherland (French)