A Nameless Soldier Remembers the Dunkirk Evacuation

The Historical details and quotes are drawn from eyewitness accounts and expert analyses of the Dunkirk evacuation, including veterans’ testimonies, official records, and academic research on Operation Dynamo. These sources document the chaotic retreat, the organization of the evacuation, the involvement of civilian “little ships,” and the experiences of soldiers on the beaches and at sea. The blending of first-hand recollections with factual data aims to present an accurate yet vivid narrative of the events between 26 May and 4 June 1940.

I. Retreat into Chaos

I remember the choking dust on the roads of France and the jumbled retreat before we even knew we were retreating. In May 1940, everything was confusion. Our British Expeditionary Force (BEF) had raced into Belgium to meet the German onslaught, only to be outflanked and pushed back toward the sea.

Rumors swirled that the Belgians had surrendered and the French lines had collapsed. We were ill-prepared for this kind of warfare, still training to fight from trenches while German tanks roamed freely across the countryside.

In the chaos, my unit became separated from the brigade. We drove for hours with no orders, no maps, “ignorance reigned supreme,” as one officer later admitted. At one crossroads the military police waved us one way, then another – until suddenly there was no one ahead of us to follow. “None of us had any idea where we were supposed to be going,” I heard a lance-corporal confess, and that’s exactly what we all felt. The truth was we were lost in more ways than one.

As days blurred, our small band scavenged to survive. Once we found an abandoned quartermaster’s truck and tore into crates of tinned bully beef – our first meal in three days. We stripped off our grimy uniforms right there on the roadside to pull on fresh shirts and underwear from the stores, a brief moment of blissful relief.

But the respite was fleeting. Soon we were back on the move, eyes and ears straining for any hint of direction. Sometimes we fell in with other stragglers, or got snippets of news from local refugees trudging west with hollow eyes and bundles of belongings.

They were “moving sadly and forlornly and there was nothing we could do to help them,” one of our men noted of those despairing civilians.

The roads grew more congested the closer we got to the Channel. Wrecked vehicles, broken artillery, and the debris of a routed army littered our path. Every distant boom or low-flying aircraft set nerves on edge.

We felt utterly cut off – backs to the wall, with the enemy closing in fast. Little did we know, our only hope now lay in a port city none of us had ever seen: Dunkirk.

II. Operation Dynamo Begins

By late May, word filtered down that we were surrounded near the coast. The names of towns fell like dominoes. Boulogne was lost on the 25th, Calais fell on the 26th – Dunkirk was the last haven left.

Trapped with the sea at our backs and the German army pressing in, we finally understood the dire stakes: either escape by sea or be annihilated or captured.

In London and Dover, planners were scrambling to save the BEF. The Royal Navy hastily organized Operation Dynamo, a mission to evacuate the stranded Allied armies.

We had no inkling at the time, but Vice Admiral Bertram Ramsay and his staff were coordinating the whole effort from secret tunnels beneath Dover Castle. Ramsay had gathered “hundreds of merchant marine boats, fishing boats, pleasure craft, yachts, and lifeboats” – anything that could float – to send to our rescue.

Warships alone wouldn’t be enough; the shallow beaches meant big ships couldn’t reach us, so smaller boats would have to ferry men out to the larger vessels offshore. It was an insane, improvised plan – the kind the British military would never try unless things were truly desperate.

In fact, many of us on the ground doubted any rescue could reach us in time. We simply dug in and waited, doing whatever we could to delay the enemy.

On the perimeter, Allied troops – especially the French – fought bravely to buy time. I later learned that French units, alongside a handful of British, formed a rearguard that held a shrinking line around Dunkirk against all odds.

They defended canal lines and fought pitched battles in the outskirts while we waited on the beaches. Every hour they held out meant more lives saved.

To the east of us, the Belgian Army had already surrendered on 28 May, opening a gap that had to be filled quickly. Major-General Harold Alexander took charge of a last-ditch British rearguard, but by 1 June his 4,000 remaining men were evacuated in the night.

After that, it was largely the French who stood and bled for us. An estimated 35–40,000 French soldiers made a final stand, holding off the Germans until the very end and allowing the “miracle of Dunkirk” to happen.

Most of those brave souls were eventually overwhelmed and taken prisoner on 4 June when their ammunition and options ran out.

At the time, hunkered down in the sand, I only knew that distant gunfire echoed from the direction of Dunkirk town and that someone was still fighting the enemy while we waited to be taken off.

We silently thanked those unseen heroes, even as we feared we might soon join them in making the ultimate sacrifice.

III. Stranded on the Beaches of Dunkirk

Dunkirk. Even before I saw it, I could smell it – a bitter mix of saltwater and smoke.

As my group emerged from the dunes onto the beaches east of the town, an astonishing sight unfolded. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers were already there, spread along miles of sand in long lines reaching down to the gentle surf.

The city of Dunkirk itself was ablaze behind us. Thick, black smoke from bombed oil tanks billowed 15,000 feet into the sky, casting a dark pall over the entire area. It was like an apocalyptic twilight in the middle of the day.

The sand was pockmarked with craters and strewn with discarded equipment. Wreckage of lorries and bits of wrecked boats lay half-submerged at the tide line. And still more men kept arriving from the inland chaos, exhausted and wide-eyed.

We found a British officer organizing new arrivals, and he directed us where to fall in. Stay with your unit, wait your turn – that was the order. Somehow, amid the collapse of an army, discipline held.

Stragglers were re-forming into companies and battalions as if on parade. I saw men who hadn’t slept in days straighten their backs and line up in neat ranks on the sand. The sight was surreal: a battle-weary army queuing as if for a ferry.

Every hour more troops would trudge out of the dunes and join the queues. The wide beach meant large ships couldn’t come in close, so we watched as soldiers waded into the shallows, boots around their necks, heading for small boats.

Some Royal Engineers were laboring to improve the process – at low tide they drove trucks and jeeps out onto the exposed mudflats, improvising jetties by lining vehicles in a row and linking them with wooden planks. These makeshift piers allowed men to walk farther out before plunging into the waves towards rescue craft.

I clambered onto one of these half-submerged lorry piers myself at one point, helping lads who were up to their armpits in water pass along a rope. Beyond the surf, a handful of dinghies and motor launches shuttled back and forth. Farther out to sea, dark shapes of Royal Navy destroyers waited to take us on.

The evacuation of Dunkirk was in full swing, but it felt agonizingly slow. We queued for the better part of two days.

“They had gone sleepless. They had been without food and water. Yet they kept ranks as they came down the beaches, and they obeyed commands,” an officer observed of the astonishing discipline on the dunes.

That obedience was tested whenever the enemy was overhead.

When German planes buzzed the beach, panic rippled through the lines. Stuka dive-bombers would appear suddenly with a scream like an angry hornet before releasing their bombs. Everyone would scatter for cover, diving into the sand or under trucks as fountains of sand and fire erupted down the shoreline.

The din was beyond anything I’d known – the whistle of falling shells, the thump of bombs, the rattle of machine guns, and the crump of AA guns trying to hit the attackers. We shouted ourselves hoarse over the cacophony; later many of us would recall developing a raspy “Dunkirk throat” from yelling against the endless noise.

When the air raids passed, we emerged shaken, ears ringing, hearts pounding – but miraculously, most of us were still alive.

We’d dust ourselves off, reform the queues, and even reclaim our spots in line as best we could. There was a strange British civility in that: men who had just been blown off their feet politely returning to where they’d been waiting, as if in a queue for tea.

I saw a few instances of panic – soldiers splashing out of turn toward a boat – but armed naval ratings barked them back in line, and once even had to threaten a few with pistols to restore order. For the most part, an almost unnatural calm prevailed on the beaches.

Of course, the bombings and strafing did take a toll. I will never forget stumbling past the charred wreckage of a beached ship and finding dozens of bodies, covered with sheets of tarpaulin, laid out in the sand.

The stretcher bearers worked ceaselessly, and the field medics did what they could with scant supplies. Every so often, a stick of bombs would land directly in a packed section of beach, leaving a horror of torn bodies that made us sick to witness.

“The corpses of mutilated soldiers lay everywhere and the smell of burning flesh was nauseating,” one eyewitness wrote of those moments – and he did not exaggerate (Hilary Heptinstall, personal account).

Yet even such terror failed to break the spirit of the men. We were cornered but not beaten. A strange mood hung in the air – a mix of dread and hope.

At night, Dunkirk’s shoreline was an eerie place. The fires from the town cast a flickering orange glow on low clouds and the omnipresent column of black smoke.

Occasionally a German flare or tracer would illuminate the beach, triggering a ripple of anxiety. But the Luftwaffe generally left us alone at night, and we could at least breathe easier in the darkness.

I spent one night curled in a sand dune, using my life belt as a pillow. Sleep was fleeting and shallow. All around, I heard the murmured prayers of young men.

Some wept quietly, thinking of family back home, or of fallen friends. I confess, I pressed my face into my sleeve and prayed harder than I ever had in my life:

“Please God, let us go, get us out, get us out of this mess back to England.”

Many of us shared that simple plea. The hours until dawn felt infinite. In the dark, each minute of waiting tested our resolve.

We knew the Germans were closing the ring around us tighter by the day. Would the Navy really get us all out in time?

We had no choice but to trust and endure.

IV. The Little Ships and Last Boats Out

Morning arrived with a dreary drizzle and a low mist on the water. We blinked up at the grey sky to see RAF fighters streaking above for the first time in days. A cheer went up from groups down the beach – the Royal Air Force was finally there!

(In truth, the RAF had been fighting ferociously in the skies for days, but often far inland or high above the clouds where we couldn’t see them. They downed over 300 enemy aircraft during the evacuation, yet on the ground we had felt abandoned, not realizing those pilots were our unseen guardians.)

That morning, however, we saw them: sleek Spitfires engaging German bombers in distant dogfights. It gave us a surge of hope.

As the day cleared, someone shouted and pointed out to sea. Ships – dozens of them – on the horizon!

Through my binoculars I spotted an astonishing medley of vessels heading our way. There were naval destroyers and minesweepers, as expected, but among them I could make out smaller craft: trawlers, tugs, fishing schooners, pleasure yachts, even what looked like Thames river ferries.

The “little ships of Dunkirk” had arrived. These were the civilian boats called into service, manned by Navy personnel or by their own skippers who had volunteered for this dangerous voyage. It was an incredible sight – an armada of civilian courage sailing into the war zone.

One of the soldiers near me, a private from the Royal Sussex, grinned and said, “We’re saved now, lads.”

I wasn’t so sure; the Luftwaffe was still active and the U-boats too. Yet as I watched those little boats threading among the larger ships, my heart lifted.

Around midday my section was finally ordered to move – our turn had come to try for a boat. We marched down to the water’s edge. Ahead of us, men were up to their waists in the waves, wading towards a small paddle steamer that had come in as far as it dared.

The scene was chaotic: naval ratings in boats were yelling and gesturing, “Come on, lads! One at a time!” I took a deep breath and plunged in, cold water biting through my uniform.

For a terrifying few seconds I was flailing – the slope fell away and I had to swim. Then a strong hand grabbed my collar and hauled me over the gunwale of a packed launch.

I found myself pressed in among other drenched Tommies. The launch ferried us a few hundred yards offshore to a waiting ship – a civilian yacht bobbing in the chop, of all things. Its gleaming white hull and polished wood decks looked absurdly small to be in this warzone.

We clambered aboard as gingerly as we could. The crew – a mix of Royal Navy sailors and a wiry older man at the wheel – helped us in. I squeezed onto the deck, shoulder-to-shoulder with other evacuees.

Only later would I learn that the boat that picked us up was the Sundowner, a 58-foot motor yacht owned and captained by Charles Lightoller – yes, the same Lightoller who had survived the Titanic disaster in 1912.

The 66-year-old Lightoller had sailed his personal yacht to Dunkirk with his son to aid the rescue. Finding the piers at Dunkirk in ruins or too high for a small boat, he had sidled up to a Royal Navy destroyer (HMS Worcester) and taken on troops directly from its decks.

They crammed 130 men onto Sundowner – a boat designed for maybe 20 – before turning back to England. I believe I was among those 130, though packed so tight I couldn’t even tell how many were aboard.

We were literally elbow-to-elbow, soaked and shivering, but never happier to be crammed like sardines.

As Sundowner pulled away, I had one last glimpse of the Dunkirk beaches. Fires burned along the shore. Wrecked vehicles and abandoned gear lay scattered, and thousands of men were still waiting their turn.

Among them I could make out French soldiers in their distinctive helmets, holding the line to the very end. I felt a wrench of guilt at leaving them behind, but we could only pray that more ships would come back for them the next night.

The little yacht’s engine groaned as we pushed to sea. Almost immediately, the Stukas appeared again, drawn to the congestion of ships.

Within minutes, columns of water erupted around us as bombs splashed perilously close. One bomb hit a nearby transport, sending up a geyser and causing screams to echo over the water.

Our skipper Lightoller (though I didn’t know his name then) zig-zagged expertly to make us a harder target. Up on the bow, a couple of our lads had manned a Lewis gun on a makeshift mount.

When a German Me 109 fighter swooped low, they opened up with rattling bursts, tracers arcing into the sky. I had a fleeting vision of the Dunkirk film in my head – it felt just like a movie scene, too dramatic to be real.

Incredibly, one of those bursts found its mark. We watched a German plane jerk upward and then spiral down into the sea amid a cheer from every boat in the vicinity.

I will admit, our cheer was callous given the loss of life – but in war, seeing the enemy vanquished, even momentarily, was an undeniable relief.

After that, the Luftwaffe left us alone. The little ships and naval vessels continued their life-and-death ballet.

I saw a minesweeper overloaded with men, and a French destroyer with smoke pouring from it, yet still picking up evacuees. Sundowner finally cleared the danger zone and met up with a larger convoy of departing ships.

The coastline of France receded behind us. Men began to sag and even laugh with giddy relief. I found a spot to sit, dangling my legs over the side. My boots were gone – lost to the channel waves – but I didn’t care.

The sun broke through as afternoon turned to evening. I felt warmth on my face for the first time in days. My eyelids grew heavy. I hadn’t truly slept since before the evacuation began.

Around me, dozens of soldiers were slumped against each other or the rails, many fast asleep despite being drenched and cramped. I fought to keep my eyes open, not wanting to miss a second of our journey home.

But at some point I drifted off in exhaustion.

I awoke to a hand shaking my shoulder. “There it is, mate – England!” a voice said.

Blinking and groggy, I sat up. And there on the horizon, glowing in the dawn light, were the White Cliffs of Dover.

I can’t adequately describe the emotion of that moment. A Lance-Corporal next to me had tears streaming down his grime-caked cheeks. Another lad simply kept whispering, “Home… home.”

As the Sundowner chugged into the harbor at Ramsgate, the atmosphere among us was electric. One British soldier later described it perfectly:

“From hell to heaven was how the feeling was, you felt like a miracle had happened.”

That was exactly it – we had been delivered from hell, against all odds.

Stepping onto English soil again, some men kissed the ground. Civilians on the docks handed out tea, bread, and even pints of beer with cheerful smiles.

I’ll never forget one elderly lady who insisted on hugging every single filthy, soaked soldier that stumbled off the boats. She hugged me like my own mother would have.

Only hours earlier I had been prepared to die on a foreign beach, and now here I was, embraced by a stranger on a quayside in England. It felt, indeed, like a miracle.

V. For Victory

In the years since 1940, I have often returned in my mind to that beach at Dunkirk.

I was a nameless soldier in a vast, defeated army, waiting for the end – and then I was part of a stunning rescue that defied all logic.

History has plenty to say about Dunkirk: the strategy, the mistakes, the heroism. Academically, one can analyze how the “Dunkirk evacuation” galvanized British resolve or how Operation Dynamo was planned in those claustrophobic Dover tunnels.

But in my heart, Dunkirk will always be a collection of sensory memories and feelings: the gritty taste of sand in my teeth after a bomb blast; the sight of black oil-fire smoke tumbling across a blood-red sunset; the sound of countless young men praying in unison under a moonless sky.

I remember the bitter despair of thinking we were utterly forsaken – and the euphoria when the “miracle of Dunkirk” materialized in the form of a little boat or a friendly plane overhead.

It’s been said that Dunkirk was a disaster turned into triumph, and that’s true. But for me, it was also deeply personal. It was the moment I truly understood the value of hope and solidarity.

Every detail of that evacuation remains vivid.

The face of the French sentry who waved our group through the last checkpoint onto the beach – he stayed behind. The gentle courtesy of soldiers queuing under fire, refusing to abandon their comrades.

The courage of an unknown pilot who roared past in a Spitfire, waggling his wings to let us know we were not alone. The selflessness of ordinary boatmen like Lightoller who risked everything to bring strangers home.

These are the images that linger in my dreams.

I often think back to the prayer I whispered on those cold dunes: a simple plea to survive. It feels almost unreal that it was answered.

As our nameless soldier’s story – my story – shows, Dunkirk was more than an operation; it was a testament to resilience in the face of utter despair.

WWII soldier stories are often about great battles, but this one was about a great escape. We traveled from the brink of doom back to the green shores of home, carried by faith, by fellowship, and by the steady hands of both soldiers and civilians.

In the final scene of my memory, I see myself on the deck of that destroyer at Dover, surrounded by a sea of weary faces.

A cup of hot, sweet tea is thrust into my dirty hands by a kindly volunteer. I gaze up at the towering white cliffs, which just hours before had been only a desperate dream.

And I recall a line I overheard from an evacuee standing next to me as we arrived:

“To see those cliffs… it was the most fantastic sight. From hell to heaven – a miracle.”

In that moment, a clever callback of fate brought us full circle, from chaos to salvation.

Dunkirk began as our darkest hour, but it ended as an enduring story of victory in hope.

Years later, I remain humbled to have been a witness to the miracle of Dunkirk, and I carry its lesson always:

Even in the worst of times, hope and courage can turn the tide.

Sources: Imperial War Museum – Oral History Collection. “Forgotten Voices of Dunkirk” (Imperial War Museum / Max Arthur). Imperial War Museum – Lloyd, Cyril (Royal Sussex oral history). Winston Churchill’s “We Shall Fight on the Beaches” Speech. “Their Finest Hour” – Churchill (Internet History Sourcebook). Dunkirk and the Battlefield Gothic (PDF). BBC: Christopher Nolan’s “Dunkirk” and its narrative technique.