The Promise
Dunkirk, June 3rd 1940
“Timmy, I will find you. I promise you. I swear it. I’ll find you. I’ll come for you.”
Jordi grabbed Timothée by his collar and pulled him close as the bombs continued to drop around them, the sound deafening.
“Listen.” He pushed him away, then shook him, pulled him close again, trying to make out the eyes of the one he loved so much, but now in the dark, covered in mud, it was nearly impossible.
“Listen. Don’t die. Do you hear me? You have to survive. Just don't die. Stay alive and I will find you!”
Timothée felt the words more than he could hear them. Jordi’s voice was clouded and choked by the constant ringing in his ears. But he knew anyway. He knew in his heart, even without hearing them.
Another bomb fell. Then another, and another, lighting up the night sky like the fireworks he had only ever seen on television in black and white on the Fourth of July in America. If he survived this hellhole, he was determined to see them for himself.
He would look up at the sparkling sky lit by fireworks, not bombs, but devastatingly beautiful fireworks, and he would watch them while sipping cold lemonade with ice and inhaling the smoky smell of grilled burgers, steaks and hamburgers sizzling on the grill instead of the burned skin and flesh of corpse sprawled over fields and streets. Yes, he thought, looking up at the sky again, this would have been beautiful if it hadn’t been so tragic.
The attacks did not stop. The air was filled with the shrieking of German Stuka bombers looking for human targets, like seagulls screeching over an ocean at low tide, looking for fish.
The battle of Dunkirk had turned into a never-ending ordeal. The battleground inescapable, it's soldiers hopeless and doomed. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days, days into years, years into decades, decades into a lifetime, and inevitably, into death.
The Germans had advanced so quickly through Belgium and France leaving them cut off from the rest of the country. Life was no longer as it had been. Gone were the glories of the 1920s along with the hopes and dreams that had blossomed in the young men coming of age. Gone were the exuberant nights in the smoky jazz bars of Paris. The evenings spent with friends discussing surrealism and modernism. A hot topic of discussion. How easy and simple life had been then, he thought, so carefree.
Now the world was at war. The French Army and the British Expeditionary Force, along with the Belgian forces, had been pushed back to the coast. They were trapped. Escape had become as good as impossible. Dunkirk, the last viable point of escape, an inescapable death trap.
Another bomb detonated in the immediate vicinity. The darkness of the cruel, never-ending night was once again illuminated by a ball of red-orange light, more Stukas, more screams and worsening cries.
There were so many fallen soldiers. The wounded writhed in pain, and their deafening screams of fear and suffering were impossible to ignore. Their mangled bodies were strewn across the beach like fallen chess pieces. Limbs were scattered throughout the sand. Arms, legs, hands, and feet. He had to vomit, even though he hadn’t eaten in days. The sight of all these lifeless corpses washed ashore by the surf was more than he could bear.
Was this the same place he had come to swim before? Was this the same beach where he had lain in the sun, warmed his skin, bathed in the cool water, and splashed around carefree with Jordi? It couldn’t be.
He didn’t need to see it to know that his comrades, lucky to be alive, were looking for functioning weapons, water in the canisters of the fallen to quench their unbearable thirst, shoes without missing soles, and helmets that still offered some protection. They were searching for anything that would allow them to survive just one more day. It was terrifying, but there was no time for fear. The Germans showed no mercy. Life became a matter of survival. Instinct ruled. Nothing else.
“I’ll find you!”
The constant detonations had deafened Timothée’s ears. Jordi’s words were nothing more than a muffled hiss. He nodded anyway. A silent promise. A declaration of love in a time of war. Of forbidden love. Unacceptable to society, let alone the military. It was a love between two young men desperately trying to hold on to their convictions. They believed that their love would get them through. They clung to their devotion as their only reason to survive.
They looked at each other. Their eyes met briefly. There was no time for a long farewell. Jordi had to return to his unit—if there were any men left—to care for, but he himself had soldiers who depended on his leadership.
Another detonation. Jordi pushed his companion to the ground, shielding him with his own body. Their faces were dirty and covered in mud. Blood, sweat, and fear soaked their uniforms.
He pressed his rifle to his chest and barked through the commotion around them, “I will find you! I will always find you. No matter where, no matter how. I will find you, Timmy! I love you. Don’t you ever forget that, do you hear me? Don’t!”
He shook him again, then kissed him. Jordi would never normally dare to do that, except when they were alone. But now, it didn’t matter. Their future was uncertain; they might both be dead by sunrise.
Jordi pulled Timothée close, began to sob, and kissed him repeatedly while cupping his dirty face. He thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than Timothée’s face in that very moment. Jordi nodded one last time. Then, clinging to his battered Mark III helmet for at least some shelter from the constant hail of bullets and bombs, he began to run. After a few seconds, he disappeared into the vastness of the night, swallowed by the darkness. As Timothée stared after him, he knew—he just knew—he felt it in every cell of his body: They would never see each other again. Neither of them would survive the night.
