May 15th. Twenty kilometers from Dunkirk.
The column moves through the Belgian forests like a wounded animal—slow, bleeding, aware that predators are circling. Two hundred soldiers when we started yesterday. Maybe one-fifty now. The number shrinks with every German air attack, every ambush, every man who simply can't walk another step.
I'm near the middle of the column with Jakub, Harris limping beside us, MacLeod somewhere behind. The forest provides cover from aircraft but makes us vulnerable to ground attack. Every shadow could hide German infantry. Every sound could be the prelude to ambush.
"I hate forests," Harris mutters. "Give me open ground any day. At least then you can see death coming."
"In open ground, aircraft kill you," Jakub points out.
"At least it's fast. Forests make you paranoid. Every tree could have a sniper. Every bush could hide a machine gun nest."
"So assume they all do. That's how you survive."
"That's how you go crazy."
"In war, sometimes they're the same thing."
The captain at the column's head signals halt. Everyone drops, weapons ready, scanning the trees.
A scout returns from ahead, speaks urgently to the captain. I can't hear the words but I can read the body language: bad news.
The captain addresses the column: "German patrol ahead. Maybe twenty soldiers. Blocking the direct route to Dunkirk. We can try to fight through or detour east through thicker forest."
"How far is the detour?" someone asks.
"Five kilometers. Maybe two hours. But it's rougher terrain and we don't know if Germans control that sector."
"Fighting through twenty Germans is suicide," Harris says. "We're exhausted, low on ammunition, and outnumbered."
"Detouring means more time exposed. More chances for air attack or another ambush." The captain checks his map. "We vote. Fight or detour?"
The vote is nearly unanimous: detour.
We turn east, leaving the clear path for unknown dangers in deeper forest.
---
The terrain gets worse immediately.
Thicker underbrush. Steeper hills. Ground sodden from recent rain, making every step a struggle. Harris's wounded leg slows him. Others are limping from blisters, exhaustion, injuries that never had time to heal properly.
We're maybe an hour into the detour when the Stukas find us.
The sound comes first—that distinctive scream of diving aircraft. Then bombs falling, explosions ripping through trees, shrapnel flying everywhere.
"SCATTER!" the captain shouts.
The column disintegrates. Everyone running for cover, dispersing into the forest, survival instinct overriding unit cohesion.
I dive behind a fallen log, Jakub beside me. Explosions march through the forest like giant footsteps. Trees shatter. Men scream. The world is noise and chaos and the smell of cordite.
Then the aircraft pass, engines fading, and silence crashes down.
I raise my head. "You hit?"
"No. You?"
"I'm fine." I scan the area. "Harris? MacLeod?"
No answer.
The forest is scattered with debris—broken trees, crater impacts, equipment torn apart. Soldiers slowly emerging from cover, calling for their units, trying to reassemble.
The captain is dead. Half his torso gone from a direct hit. The scout who reported the German patrol is dead too. And maybe a dozen others—hard to count in the chaos.
"Reform!" someone shouts. A sergeant, taking command by default. "Everyone to me! We need to keep moving!"
The remaining soldiers—maybe ninety now—cluster around the sergeant. I don't see Harris or MacLeod in the group.
"Did anyone see Harris?" I call out. "British sergeant, leg wound?"
"Saw him go east during the bombing," someone replies. "Maybe two hundred meters that way."
"MacLeod?"
"Don't know. Sorry."
The sergeant is organizing the column, accounting for survivors, preparing to move. "We can't wait long. Germans will have heard the bombing. They'll be moving to investigate. Everyone we can find in five minutes comes with us. Everyone else..." He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.
"I'm going to find them," I tell Jakub.
"We're going to find them," he corrects. "You don't leave people behind. I know that about you."
"Sergeant won't wait."
"Then we catch up." Jakub checks his rifle. "Five minutes. If we don't find them, we return and join the column before it's gone."
We move east, calling quietly for Harris and MacLeod, weapons ready, listening for German voices or movement.
---
We find Harris first.
He's pinned under a fallen tree—not crushed, but trapped. Leg wound reopened, bleeding fresh. Conscious and aware but stuck.
"About time," he says through gritted teeth. "Thought you'd left me."
"Never." Jakub and I assess the tree. Heavy, but manageable with leverage. "This is going to hurt."
"Everything hurts. Do it."
We find a branch to use as lever. Count of three. The tree shifts enough for Harris to drag himself free. His leg is bad—blood soaking through bandages, movement limited—but he can walk with support.
"MacLeod?" he asks.
"Don't know. We have maybe two minutes before the column leaves without us."
"Then we find him fast."
We push deeper into the forest, calling MacLeod's name, racing against time and the certainty that staying separated in German-held territory is death.
Then I hear it: a groan. West of our position, maybe fifty meters.
We find MacLeod in a crater. Blast must have thrown him—he's disoriented, bloody, but alive. Shoulder wound reopened, same as Harris's leg. Between the two of them, they have maybe one functional soldier's worth of mobility.
"Can you walk?" I ask.
"Can I walk or can I walk quickly?"
"Either."
"Barely."
"Good enough. We need to move now."
We head back toward where the column should be. Supporting Harris and MacLeod, weapons ready, moving as fast as injuries allow.
The forest is quiet. Too quiet.
We reach the assembly point.
The column is gone.
---
"Shit," Harris breathes.
The sergeant kept his word—five minutes, then move. We took seven. The column left without us.
Tracks show they continued east, deeper into forest, staying off main paths. Following them is possible but not easy with two wounded men.
"We catch up," I say. "Move fast as we can. Stay on their trail."
"Rio, they've got maybe five minutes head start and they're moving faster than we can," Jakub says. "We won't catch them before nightfall."
"Then we move at night."
"Through German-held forest, in darkness, with two wounded men?" Harris shakes his head. "That's suicide."
"Staying here is also suicide. Germans will sweep this area. They know Allied soldiers are scattered here. We have to keep moving." I check my rifle. "I'm not leaving you behind. Either of you. We move together or we don't move at all."
Harris and MacLeod exchange looks.
"You're stubborn," Harris says.
"I've been told."
"Fine. We follow the column. But if Germans catch us, we go down fighting. No surrender. No camps."
"Agreed."
We start moving.
---
The forest grows darker as evening approaches.
Following the column's trail becomes harder—disturbed ground, broken branches, but nothing obvious. And we're slower than them, weighted down by injuries and exhaustion.
"We're not going to catch them before dark," Jakub says quietly.
"I know."
"So what's the actual plan?"
"Keep heading east toward Dunkirk. Twenty kilometers still, maybe less. If we can reach the coast, we find the evacuation. With or without the column."
"Twenty kilometers in one night?"
"We've done harder."
"We weren't carrying two wounded men in Warsaw."
"We also weren't being hunted by the entire German army in Warsaw. Different challenges." I help Harris over a fallen log. "We keep moving. We stay quiet. We avoid Germans. We reach the coast. Simple."
"Simple," Jakub repeats. "You keep using that word. I don't think you know what it means."
Despite everything, I almost laugh.
---
Night falls completely.
We move by moonlight filtered through trees—enough to see major obstacles, not enough to move quickly. Every sound makes us freeze. Every shadow could be German patrol.
Harris's leg is worse. He's trying not to show it, but the limp is pronounced now, the pain visible in every step.
"We need to rest," I say.
"We need to keep moving."
"You're bleeding through the bandage. If we don't stop and treat it, you'll pass out from blood loss."
"Then I pass out moving forward, not sitting still."
"Harris—"
"I've survived this long by being stubborn, son. Not about to change now." He keeps walking, leaning heavily on Jakub. "Coast is maybe fifteen kilometers. We can make it by dawn if we don't stop."
MacLeod isn't arguing. He's conserving energy, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Smart.
We push on through darkness.
---
We're maybe ten kilometers from the coast when we hear voices.
German. Close. Maybe fifty meters ahead.
We freeze. Harris and MacLeod can't run. Can barely walk quietly. If Germans spot us, we're done.
I signal: Hide. Silence.
We slip off the trail into thicker underbrush. Harris bites back a groan as movement jars his leg. MacLeod moves more smoothly, using his good arm to pull himself into cover.
The voices get closer. Flashlight beams cutting through darkness. Patrol. Maybe six soldiers, sweeping the forest for stragglers like us.
They pass within twenty meters.
We don't breathe. Don't move. The medallion burns cold against my chest—warning or just normal temperature, impossible to tell.
One soldier stops. Shines his light in our direction. Says something in German I don't quite catch.
Another soldier responds. Laughs. They keep moving.
The voices fade. The flashlights disappear. We're alone again.
"Too close," Harris whispers.
"They'll be back," Jakub says. "Sweeping patterns mean they're searching systematically. They'll loop around, cover the same ground again."
"Then we need to be gone before they do."
We move.
---
Three hours before dawn, we reach the forest edge.
Beyond the trees: open ground. Fields. And in the distance, maybe three kilometers away, the glow of fires and the sound of artillery.
Dunkirk.
"We made it," MacLeod breathes.
"We made it to the last three kilometers," I correct. "That's open ground. No cover. If German patrol spots us—"
"We're dead anyway if we stay here," Harris interrupts. "At least out there, we're moving toward evacuation. In here, we're just waiting to be found."
He's right.
"We cross at first light," I decide. "Darkness is too dangerous—we'd walk into German positions blind. But right at dawn, when visibility is low but not zero. Move fast. Don't stop for anything."
"And if we're spotted?"
"Run. Fight if we have to. But the goal is the beach. Nothing else matters."
We settle in to wait for dawn, weapons ready, exhausted beyond measure but knowing rest isn't an option.
Jakub sits beside me, checking his rifle for the thousandth time.
"Rio?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not leaving them. For staying when the column left."
"You would've done the same."
"Probably. But you did it." He pauses. "You're a good person. Stubborn and obsessed and probably insane. But good."
"High praise."
"Best I can manage when I'm this tired." He looks toward Dunkirk's glow. "Tomorrow, we reach the beach. Then what?"
"Then we get on a boat. Sail to England. Figure out what's next from there."
"And Monarch? Fletcher? The conspiracy?"
"Still there. Still needs exposing. But first we survive." I touch the medallion through my shirt. "Evidence is hidden. Distributed. Even if something happens to us, the truth survives. That has to be enough for now."
"Has to be," he agrees.
We sit in silence, watching darkness fade to grey, waiting for the moment we can run toward salvation or death—whichever Dunkirk offers.
---
Dawn breaks grey and cold.
We prepare to cross open ground—check weapons, secure equipment, help Harris and MacLeod to their feet.
"Ready?" I ask.
"No," Harris says. "But let's do it anyway."
We step out of the forest into open ground.
The field stretches before us, exposed and dangerous. In the distance, Dunkirk burns. And somewhere between here and there, German soldiers are waiting to kill us.
"Stay together," I say. "Stay quiet. Move fast."
We run.
Well, Jakub and I run. Harris and MacLeod do the best they can—limping jog that's more determination than speed.
The field seems endless. Every meter exposed. Every second expecting gunfire.
But none comes.
We're halfway across when we see them.
More Allied soldiers. Maybe twenty, emerging from a different section of forest, heading the same direction. They see us, wave, and we converge—safety in numbers, desperation making us allies.
A lieutenant among them takes charge. "Everyone's heading for the beach. Word is boats are evacuating. If we can reach the coast, we can get out."
"How far?" Harris gasps.
"Maybe two kilometers. Maybe less." The lieutenant checks the group—forty soldiers now, combination of scattered units. "We move together. Faster that way. Safer that way."
We form up. Begin moving toward Dunkirk in the growing dawn light.
And ahead, finally visible, the sea.
Grey water under grey sky. And on the beaches, thousands of soldiers waiting in long lines stretching into the water, reaching toward boats that look impossibly small against the vastness of the Channel.
"We made it," Jakub says.
"We reached the beach," I correct. "Getting off it is a different problem."
But for now, it's enough.
We're at Dunkirk.
We're alive.
And somewhere in those thousands of waiting soldiers, there's hope.
However fragile. However desperate.
However unlikely.
Hope.