"I'm glad," Freddy whispered softly. "I'm glad it was not too late."
"Gosh, me too," Dave mumbled, and tried to say more but the words wouldn't come.
And so the three of them: two boys and the General stood there with their faces turned toward England while the boat cut through the dawn-greyed swells and the light fog. And then after a long time the fog lifted and they saw it there ahead.
"Dover!" Freddy said in a choked voice, and tears trickled down his cheeks. "The chalk cliffs of Dover. England!"
"Yes, the chalk cliffs of Dover, and England," General Caldwell murmured huskily. "We've taken a pretty bad beating, but it's far from being all over. We may even take some more beatings. Perhaps several of them. But in the end we will win. We must win, for there will always be an England. Always!"
Three days after the world-thrilling evacuation of Dunkirk, Dave Dawson sat in the living-room of Freddy Farmer's house in Baker Street in London. Freddy was there, of course, and so was his dad. And so was Dave's father. Within an hour after touching English soil the British War Office had contacted Dave's dad in Paris where he had gone hoping to pick up the trail of his missing son. And, now, the four of them were waiting because of a phone call from General Caldwell. A phone call stating that the Chief of Staff was on his way there, and for them all please to wait.
"Boy, I wish he'd get here!" Dave exclaimed for the umpteenth time.
"He didn't say why he wanted to see us?" Freddy asked his father for the umpteenth time, too.
"No, Freddy," the senior Farmer replied patiently. "He didn't say a word about it."