The Brother

There wasn't a lot of time left. The train was going to leave soon, and as many British servicemen as it was going to be moving, the station platform was filled with young men in uniform, with older men saying their goodbyes, with younger brothers saying final farewells of their own. There was none of the cheering and shouting that had accompanied the outbreak of the Great War in 1914. As Britain mobilized her forces for war, the mood was one of grim resolve, of "Let's get this over with." War had not been officially declared between the British Empire and Germany, but everyone knew it was just a matter of time.

When Germany invaded Poland on 1 September 1939, His Majesty's government, at the direction of the Prime Minister, issued an ultimatum ordering the Greater German Reich to cease all offensive military operations within 48 hours or suffer the consequences.

Peter Dawson remembered the mood at home when the news of war breaking out was broadcast on the wireless. He remembered that Dad had been grim, sure that this would be neither quick nor easy. "We all thought that in the last war," he said. "Anyone who thinks this one'll be any better- they'll find out soon enough."

James, on the other hand, had been relieved, if anything. After years of military buildup by Germany, after years of sitting and watching that man Hitler become a greater and greater menace while the British government did nothing, the outbreak of war was a change of pace and policy. With all the efforts of the appeasement factions having failed, with Chamberlain's own attempts to make a deal with Herr Hitler having proven a complete waste of time, now the situation was clear. James didn't entertain for a minute the idea that anything would come of the ultimatum.

"The Nazis won't listen," James predicted. "Hitler won't listen. Why should he? Took until Poland got kicked in the bollocks for Chamberlain to realize he had any."

"James," Dad had said in a warning tone.

"It's true, Dad," James said defensively.

"No reason for that kind of language."

"Yes, Dad." The tall, handsome RAF flight lieutenant lowered his head slightly in apology.

"What's going to happen?" George, the boy who was always visiting the Dawson house on any excuse or none, had asked anxiously. He was always looking up to James and Peter, trying to impress them.

"I don't know," James said. "But at least now we get to do something."

That was yesterday. Only yesterday. Just another day previous, 31 August, Europe and the world had still been at peace. Forty-eight hours ago. It seemed like a whole other life.

Peter wasn't sure how to feel about this. No. 1 Squadron, Royal Air Force, the oldest of the RAF's squadrons, was to be deployed across the Channel to the Continent. James would be flying his Hawker Hurricane fighter alongside all his mates in No. 1 Squadron, and as swiftly as Germany was moving, Peter knew it would not be long before James' squadron engaged the enemy. He just wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about that.

Despite looking similar enough, James and Peter only had so much in common. James was quite good at a great many things. Deckhand and fisherman, dock-worker and sailor, Royal Air Force College cadet and fighter pilot, football player and swimmer, runner and scholar. James excelled at those things and then some. He was very, very good at many things, yes, but he was also very, very aware of it.

His letters home had become a little windy and vainglorious, and his steady reading of Shakespeare was definitely not helping matters there. James was good enough at football that it seemed like no one could beat him, and any team he played on rarely lost. If they did, his nerve and skill ensured that they always went down fighting, making the other side pay for the victory. Before James had finished at the Duke of York's Royal Military School, the staff and students there had begun to speculate that he might one day play for England. He was that good.

When he was home, James devoted more of his time to talking to Dad. He'd been getting more serious about that in the past months, and had insisted on running Dad and Peter through the drills of evading a strafing attack by an enemy aircraft on the rare times he was able to join them out on the Moonstone. George had been fascinated and amazed at how well James demonstrated every aspect of the necessary maneuvers, how he described just how an enemy pilot would pick out a flight path when he came in to attack.

Peter had paid attention, and Dad certainly had as well. Hopefully they'd never need to use any of that knowledge, but it had been good of James to try and pass that on. However, it still left the fact that James and Peter hadn't really talked all that much in years. There was always something else going on. Always some other piece of business for James to get to first.

So why did he feel tense and worried? Why, after years of being made nigh-invisible by the shining light cast by James E.R. Dawson, did Peter find himself worrying that James might not come back?

It was hard to make any sense of it. Peter hoped the war would end quickly and James would come home and it could all get sorted out then. But, deep down, he had a sense that this would not end easily or quickly. James, brave and skilled, would not shy away from danger when he crossed over to the Continent, and the enemy would be creating danger aplenty. No small number of chances waited for a man too brave to run away or hide to get himself killed. Peter didn't think James was stupid or foolhardy, not really. But he knew James would probably refuse any chance he got to save his own skin if it meant turning down a chance to stand up for someone else.

The Luftwaffe was supposed to be damn near invincible. Didn't James know that? Didn't he know that the bloody fools in the RAF's Fighter Command might as well have been ordering him to his death?

"Something's bothering you, Peter," Dad remarked.

"I'm fine, Dad."

"That's what you want me to think, son. But we both know different."

"Let him be, Dad," James said. "Everyone's on edge."

"Maybe Hitler'll stop 'cos Chamberlain told him to," George piped up speculatively. "Maybe there'll be peace."

James gave a short, sharp bark of laughter, drawing some curious looks from some soldiers nearby, who were probably wondering if the Royal Air Force officer wasn't a bit mad. "George," James said, "Chamberlain let Hitler go on like he was doing for years. He's only acting now because Hitler forced him to. Left him no choice but to fight." His voice turned bitter and angry. "Tosser'd probably sell us all up the bloody river in five minutes if he thought it'd give him another chance to proclaim 'Peace in our time.'"

"He's still your boss, James," Dad said.

"Don't remind me, Dad," James replied. He sighed. "I'll follow my orders and that's that. Not like I have a choice."

"Will it really go on all that long?" George asked. "I mean, what if it ends real fast and a lot of people don't get to fight?"

James smiled, shaking his head, and glanced down at the dark-haired youth. "Anyone you know worried the war's gonna end too fast, George?"

"Um, no. But-"

The tall, blond officer set a hand on George's shoulder. "Don't worry, George. I think you'll get to have all the war you want."

"I don't like this," Peter said suddenly. "Couldn't we have avoided this?"

"I'm sure we could have, Peter," Dad replied. "But that's not how it happened."

A train conductor came pushing through the crowd, calling directions as he went. Officers were to go to the first three cars, enlisted men to the others. He noticed James and said, "You'd better get a move on, Flight Lieutenant. I've word the RAF is keen to get going. Best not miss this train and get left behind."

"Yes, sir," James said, reacting as if a higher-ranking officer had spoken to him. He started to walk towards the steps on one of the forward cars, but stopped and turned back. The moment they'd all been stalling on, trying to avoid, was coming. No, it was here. The train's whistle blew, signaling it was preparing to leave. All at once, James' restrained manner faded around the edges, and he showed real concern as he looked at his father.

"Son," Dad said, holding out his hand.

"Dad," James replied, taking it.

"I'll come back, Dad," James said, his voice strong with emotion, with conviction. "I'll be back. I promise."

"I know you will, James," Dad said. "Don't go and try to be a hero. Just do your job and leave it there."

"Yes, Dad," James said. "I will, Dad."

A private passing by bumped into the group then, and as he did so knocked James' bag strap off his shoulder. The duffel fell to the ground, and the private tripped, the ID card and ticket he'd been holding tumbling out of his hands.

The young man scrambled up to his feet. "Oh, sorry about that, flyboy." Then his eyes came up and he noticed the insignia of an officer. "S-sir. Sorry, sir."

The soldier was the same age as Peter, it looked like- maybe two years younger than James. And yet the two were far apart in rank and occupation. Army private and Air Force officer, infantryman and flyer. And yet they were both set to board the same train, bound to get them going towards the same ultimate destination- to go fight in the same war.

But James was not in the mood to go berating anybody. Certainly not today, not now. He just smiled to show it was all right, and said, "Nothing to worry about, Private-" James glanced down at the identification card and ticket that George picked up and handed to him- "Thomas Benson. Hope you get some rest on the train ride. It's likely the last we'll be getting in a long while."

"Yes, sir," Private Benson answered. Even though all was officially forgiven, he looked nervous. Maybe he was nervous about bumping into an officer of another service along with his family- hardly an auspicious way to start the war. Maybe he was worried James would act as if all was well now and then turn up later, bent on ruining his career. Or maybe he was just worried. James handed him his papers and bag back, wished him good luck, and the private quickly disappeared into the crowd, clearly relieved.

The brief distraction over, James turned and looked at his brother. For the first time in years, the elder son seemed to genuinely notice his brother, and Peter thought he saw some kind of look in James' eyes. Regret, remorse- for overlooking his brother for so many years, maybe, for always being too busy to pay him much attention? James had seemed so fond of himself that Peter had gotten rather used to assuming that was who he was.

"Keep that promise to Dad," Peter said tersely, and held out his hand. James took it, and Peter said it again. "Keep it. You've given your word now."

"I will," James repeated, surprised at the strength in Peter's voice.

"I won't forgive you if you lie to us."

"Peter-" James said, and here he hesitated. James swallowed and looked away, and when he looked back, Peter saw something in his eyes. It was something he'd never expected or believed he'd see in James, never imagined he'd see from him. Sterling, tough, dependable, honest brave and true. That was how James had always appeared, the way he'd always presented himself.

For years Peter had convinced himself that wasn't how it really was, that James was just the most self-glorifying bloke in the Empire. But somewhere along the way he must've started to believe the myth himself, because Peter could not believe the simple and unmistakably human thing he was seeing now.

James was scared.

The train whistle blew again, and the conductors renewed hollering at the remaining men in uniform to hurry up, hurry up, get on the train, we've got places to be.

The look quickly passed from James' expression, and he shouldered his bag with renewed determination. "Take care of yourself, Peter," James said respectfully, this time holding out his hand first. Peter took it, and they shook hands. James then headed to board the train, and George called out, "But what about me?"

"A moment, please!" James called as he got aboard, and already some of his usual cocky, overconfident manner was returning. The man was reasserting the myth, protecting his image once more. James disappeared a few moments, then came back into view as he took up the last few square inches of space by one of the windows. He stuck his head out, and took off his blue officer's hat. Taking a moment to gauge the distance, James threw it to George, who just managed to catch it.

"Should you really be giving away pieces of your uniform, James?" Dad asked.

"I'll get another one, Dad!" James replied easily, with a light-hearted, easy tone that said he didn't have a care in the world.

With another blast of the whistle and a lot of huffing and puffing, the engine began to move. Slowly, very slowly, it started to roll out of the station. The windows of the train were all down on one side, and it seemed as if every man aboard was at one, waving and calling out farewells to loved ones.

"Come on, cheer up, you lot!" James called out. "I'll be fine! I promise! I'll even leave some so George can get his chance to show Jerry the what-for!"

"Look after yourself," Peter and Dad half-shouted at the same time, now having to raise their voices and be heard over the sound of the engine. A moment later George said it, too.

James laughed and grinned. "When have I ever done otherwise?"

The steam locomotive's chuffing grew louder as it picked up speed, and James contented himself with waving from inside the train until he was out of sight. Scared though he was, James was determined to look the part assure everyone that everything would be fine. As the train sped out of the station, Peter looked at one of the station's clocks. Beside him George held onto the Royal Air Force dress hat, holding it as if he could not bear to let it go.

Just after ten in the morning. They had gotten up, eaten breakfast, gone over to the station, and James had boarded his train. Peter focused on remembering James, on remembering every detail of his appearance, of his uniform. How talented he was and how hard he had worked as a boy so he could be an aviator as a man. Peter spent the next several hours remembering those few pleasant days, here and there, where James had actually found time for his brother, and how he'd seemed to really enjoy being a kind of mentor to troubled, uncertain George over the past few years.

More than anything else, though, Peter resolved to remember James' brief admission that, underneath the talent and daring and chivalry, beneath the bombast and the glory-seeking, James was human. That he felt fear and worried about things just like anyone else. Peter resolved to remember that confirmation of humanity in his brother. To not forget that James E.R. Dawson cared and maybe just didn't know quite how to show it to Peter, even if he was able to show it to Dad. It might be important to recall those things about James, Peter reasoned. And as it turned out, he was right.

That morning of 2 September, 1939 was the last time Peter ever saw him.

A/N: 9-4-2017. My third "Dunkirk" story and the seventh for this website. As the person who asked for the "Dunkirk" fandom to be created, I am glad to see the attention it has gotten. I have never seen a war movie that impressed me more. There are others that have a bigger, more strategic-level scale. It can be hard to compare this one to epics like "A Bridge Too Far" and "Patton."

But the point of "Dunkirk" was not to upstage those films, or to be the same kind of work of art as they are. The point, I believe, was to tell a story- a work of fiction, yes, but one based closely on and dealing directly with events that actually happened. And that Nolan was definitely successful with.

A few remarks on some things. "Thomas Benson" is the first and last name designated for "Tommy" by HuffleSnuffler. HS also came up with the first name and the two middle initials for Peter Dawson's older brother.

The character of Mr. Dawson, and his unseen older son, are based off Charles Lightoller, second officer aboard the RMS Titanic and a Royal Navy officer in World War I. Lightoller's personal boat Sundowner was requisitioned by the Royal Navy to assist in the troop evacuations at Dunkirk, and Lightoller decided to take her out and do it himself. Together with one of his sons and a young Sea Scout, Lightoller brought back 130 servicemen on a boat licensed to carry 21 passengers. He also evaded gunfire from a strafing German plane on the way back, using a technique taught to him by his youngest son, who was in the Royal Air Force and died during a bombing raid over Wilhemshaven, on September 4, 1939, three days into the war and one day after Britain's declaration of war against Germany on September 3.

I used the date format of Day/Month/Year in the story itself since that is the customary format in the United Kingdom.