Snatches of honest English, mingled with French, filtered in from the café, where the fire was not quite extinct and where beer was served until 9 o'clock. Before that hour I was fumbling upstairs guided by the patronne, who carried a two-inch stub of candle between her fingers. "This is the way to the cave," she explained, pointing to a doorway under the stairs. "In case of an alarm you have only to rush down there. There will be a light burning at the entrance." Passing through the hallway she indicated the spot where a man had recently been killed. "If he had stayed where he was, at the table where you have just eaten, Madame, he would have been all right, but as he ran to the refuge a bomb exploded outside in the square, burst open the front door, traversed the length of the corridor, passed through the kitchen wall and into the garden beyond. But you can rest assured that nothing will happen tonight, Madame," continued the patronne, who seemed as familiar with the habits of Gothas as a farmer's wife is with those of fowls—"Not in this wind, oh, no!"
After that first night I groped my way alone to bed, the candle stub having come to an end, feeling my way along the pitch dark passageways to the room with the linoleum mat, the room which had not known fire for three years and a half, whose paneless windows were boarded up, the one room in the house which had not lost a ceiling or floor or whose walls were not clipped through with shells. The regular inmates of the hotel slept nightly in the cellar. It saved time and was warmer.
Notwithstanding the reassurances of the patronne I confess to going to bed with half my clothes on. But under the wing of the storm Dunkirk slept tranquilly for three successive nights. Of course, there was always the soft bum-bum of the cannon on the northern horizon, strange tremors shook the bed, and the night was full of weird sounds, the rattling skeletons of dead houses.
BRAVE LITTLE DUNKIRK
Like an arm held up to protect the face, the coast between Calais and Dunkirk bears the brunt of storm from the North Sea. A dark sea, sombre and brooding, girdled by lowering clouds; on the snow-driven plain a few detached towers, etched as though in sepia against the gray sky and rising abruptly above the low line of roof—this is Dunkirk on a Winter's day. A homely little town with a deep fringe of docks and waterways on its seaward side and a girdle of fortifications built by Vauban encircling the rest. The whole set in a ring of dark water which fills the moat. It is thoroughly Flemish in character, and, seen from the water, must resemble a city on a delft tile. The moral attitude of the town has always been one of robust activity. Even its patron saints are among the most industrious and enterprising in the calendar—notably St. Eloi, who brought Christianity to the Dunkerquois and to whom the original Dunkirk (church on the dunes) was dedicated.
All the history of the town is tinged with a vigor which has blown in to it from the sea. Here the crusading ships of Baldwin of Flanders, and later those of St. Louis of France, were fitted out. After the momentous marriage of Marie of Burgundy had thrown the city for a time under the dominion of Spain it played a brilliant part in the game of the period—piracy.
The quaint tower on the quay—called Lugenhaer, the Liar—was used at that epoch to give false signals to ships at sea. But it dates from a much earlier period, and was one of twenty-eight towers with which Baldwin of Flanders bound together the wall with which he surrounded the city. The Liar and the belfry of the recently ruined Cathedral of St. Eloi were the only interesting architectural bits left in Dunkirk. The thirteenth century tower, dark and strong at its base, rises to a great height, flowering into restrained tracery at the top and shepherding under its shadow the heart of the town, which lies below it. This is the lodestone. Toward it I turned after leaving the battered hotel that first morning at Dunkirk.
A photograph, full of human interest, showing Americans, headed by a regimental band, marching to the front in France (American Official Photograph)