A little before dawn the train drew into the black station of Dunkirk, through whose roofing the sky showed dimly in spots where air-raid shells had spattered. The silent crowd jostled through the darkness, the soldiers separating themselves from it at the military exit. Inside, only a ray from a dark lantern, held by the officer who scanned the passports one by one, made a spot of light among the overlapping shadows. The wind sighed through the draughty place, the snow entered freely, the floor was sloppy with mud. Outside in the empty square not a vehicle, not a porter, in sight. The street cars had stopped running.
My hotel lay beyond the centre of the town. In the driving storm, through unknown streets, I knew it would be foolish to attempt to find it. An officer passed and to him I appealed. "To the right, in the middle of the square," he said, with outstretched arm, "is the Lion de Flandre. If they can't put you up there, come back and we will see."
Not a point of light indicated the identity of the Lion de Flandre. On nearer approach all the houses appeared boarded up, as though long since abandoned. In the middle of the square was an oblong hump, like the roofed-over foundation of a demolished building. I learned later that this was a public refuge built for the inhabitants of the section.
HOTEL IN DANGER ZONE
As I turned irresolutely in the direction of the dark façades, the silhouette of a man in casque and puttees passed across the snow. A crack of light gleamed from a hidden doorway, and through it he disappeared. I followed hard after him and stepped into a lighted room full of smoke and soldiers, a man's place, with sand-strewn floor and bottles conspicuously in evidence. Nevertheless, the comfortable woman behind the bar received me without surprise. A room she could give me, but as for food, that was a different matter. The boches had the habit of coming at about dinner time, and it had become a nuisance to abandon the untasted meal every night and to dive into the cave—it really had! So she had given up trying to have anything hot at night and let the fires go out at 6. But if I would like a sandwich and some beer—?
After the long, starved journey this was not alluring.
"Not a cup of tea with the sandwich?" I pleaded. A collaborator was called, a plump, dark woman, and after a hurried conference I was asked to wait in the room behind the café. Nothing could be more dismal than this compartment. It was high for its floor space, like a deep box with a lid, and had no outside windows, being wedged between the café and the kitchen. The ornate glass divisions were gone or clinging in fragments, the walls pierced in many places, the plaster down. A tiny point of gas burned high above the table.
They were very good to me, these warbound women, one of whom, I discovered, had an ulcerated tooth, the other two little boys captive in Belgium.
FIRST NIGHT'S EXPERIENCES
In a short time a small bit of steak and a potato cut in quarters and fried were placed before me, and simultaneously a large black dog with wistful eyes but determined manner stationed himself at my side. The steak was followed by a chilly little salad, bread and cheese, and more butter than I had seen for many a month in Paris—and a cup of tea which, for its grateful warmth, I drank without challenge.