Dunkirk had once been a graveyard of pride.
Now it was a city of scaffolds and new scaffolding dreams, steel rising where fire had once fallen, cranes like skeletal fingers combing the skyline.
The Channel breeze rolled inland carrying salt, diesel, and the faint echo of hammers.
All around, the bones of war were being buried under concrete and reborn as monuments to peace.
Captain Erich von Zehntner stood at the edge of the promenade, his black gloves folded behind his back, wind stirring the hem of his greatcoat.
His boots clicked softly as he moved along the damp stone walkway, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the English coastline was a ghostly blur.
German destroyers and supply vessels dotted the gray water, heading westward in measured columns, relief ships bringing fuel, food, and bureaucracy to the remnants of the British Commonwealth.
Behind him, Dunkirk breathed. Rebuilt. Obedient.
Order reigned here.
Children played football in the newly cleared courtyards.
