STILL A LIVELY PORT
For if the picturesque landmarks have disappeared, Dunkirk has by no means lost its sea prestige. It is the third port of France, and though its position is singularly exposed it is largely through its harbor that the British Army has been revictualed since the beginning of the war. This renders still more remarkable the fact that not one ship has been lost between Dunkirk and the English port of clearing. One does not appreciate at first glance all that this implies. It means for one thing that some one must sit tight at Dunkirk. Traffic by sea has gone on uninterruptedly and until recently has been quite that of normal times. Now, owing to the recent restrictions on imports and exports, it is greatly reduced, though still regular. The sailings and dockings take place on schedule time.
One of those largely responsible for the order of the port is the Consular Agent of the United States, M. Morel, also President of the Chamber of Commerce of Dunkirk. His house, a mere skeleton, has long since been abandoned for the superior comforts and safety of the cellar. Attached to the jamb of the almost equally ruined office building his small sign in black and gold makes a brave showing. The front of the building had been largely torn away and with it a part of the roof. Looking up one saw a dizzy arrangement of laths and rafters, suggestive of the underside of a heap of jackstraws. But the staircase was firm and led to a small back room, where a bright fire burned and where business was transacted as usual; not only the business of the port, for while I was there an American Red Cross doctor and a bevy of nurses came in to have their passports renewed.
Another home which I had the privilege of entering, that of Commandant Boultheel, had been more fortunate, for it stood as yet untouched by disaster. Here in an atmosphere of warm charm, a serene and gracious hostess dispensed hospitality to her friends. Pewter and old china on the walls and a great fire of logs dispelled the depression of the outside world. Around the table were men of war and men of the world, who represented the finest qualities of the French. Among them was a valiant Préfet du Nord, who had spent ten months as hostage in a German prison, using his time to study English and reread Horace. In fact, I felt, as I had on the train, that the further I got from Paris the nearer I came to the heart of France.
A glimpse of "cave life" I had in the pharmacie maintained by the Sisters of the Sacré Coeur in the basement of the Hôtel de Ville, where it had been temporarily installed by the city, its own quarters being untenable. This was a large space lighted by electricity and crowded with bottles and jars, bundles of herbs and bandages, and made cheerful by the bright faces of the sisters. In another portion of the cellar they sleep, living entirely underground.
Families are large in Dunkirk, and children troop unconcernedly to and fro between home and school. To them the nightly flight to the casemate is no longer a wild adventure.
BUSINESS UNDER DIFFICULTIES
The business part of the town has not the sad aspect of the residence streets, for it is full of life. The decrepit shops, half boarded up, many of them resembling a face with a bandage over one eye, are doing a lively business. With the demands of a large floating population of two armies, Dunkirk is not suffering commercially. Department stores, book shops, shoe stores, provision shops of all kinds, make the most of a short day. Oranges, figs, dates, nuts, and conserved food of all kinds are much in evidence, also warm clothing, blankets, boots, and novels. The restaurant of the Hôtel Chapeau Rouge was filled with French and English officers, and an excellent meal was served much as it would be in Paris. At 4:30 everything is closed. Lights are extinguished, windows and doors are sealed with their householders behind them, unless the latter are among those who seek the comparative safety of the suburbs at nightfall. For though the entire surrounding country is subject to bombardment, the town is the centre of attack. In the twilight of the unlighted streets scarce a footfall is heard. Only the occasional rumble of a heavy cannon shakes the air. Behind the wall of darkness pulses a full life undismayed by the terrors of the approaching night or the possibilities of the tomorrow.
A STAG AT BAY
In the heart of the forest I once saw a stag leading his herd to the shelter of a rock in the rush of an oncoming storm. Having urged them into crouching positions around him, he turned and with a simple gesture lifted his head to the storm. There was that in his attitude which compelled reverence. One mentally saluted, though one might think "poor, silly beast, in what way could he mitigate the lash of the tempest?" But instinctively he had obeyed the highest for which he had been created, the protection of the weak. And his calm presence caught away all panic from those around him. Often while in Dunkirk this scene came back to me, recalled by the simple matter-of-courseness with which these brave men and equally brave women stayed on because it was the place for them to be.