The smell of smoke still lingered in the air.
Erich von Zehntner stood at the shattered edge of Dunkirk's harbor wall, his posture rigid beneath the weight of his officer's overcoat.
A cold wind whipped off the Channel, carrying with it the scent of brine, gunpowder, and the faint, acrid memory of war.
Behind him, the ruins of the town stretched in bleak silence, church steeples collapsed, windows shattered, homes cratered by artillery and air strikes.
And in the streets, the civilians watched.
Eyes, too many of them.
From broken windows, behind shuttered storefronts, from the makeshift soup lines now managed under the Triune Red Cross banners.
Men, women, children... all of them staring.
None of them smiling. Some too afraid to speak.
Others too proud to look away. All of them radiating one of two things:
Fear. Or hatred.
Erich had seen that look before.
In Barcelona, and Catalonia, In the mountain villages of the Pyrenees.
