GUEST EDITORIAL
By CHARLES L. TODD

One question has puzzled me for over a year now � and I�m sure it has bothered a great many other Dunkirkers. The question is this: Just what is it about our town that makes people say the things they do about it? Why do ambassadors, foreign consuls, columnists, radio announcers, and all kinds of people from every walk of life get that blissful, far-away look on their faces whenever the name Dunkirk is mentioned? What gets into tough journalists and newspapermen like Quentin Reynolds and Meyer Berger when they get up here in Dunkirk? And why does that word "miracle" keep coming up?

I thought about that the other day when I stepped off the train from New York and looked around at the familiar landmarks I have known since I was a small boy. Certainly, there is nothing �miraculous� in the view one gets of Dunkirk, standing on the New York Central platform. I wondered, for example, how Meyer Berger felt when he arrived two weeks ago to do his story for the New York Times � the story called �The Miracle of Dunkirk.� Did his editor call him in beforehand and [say,] �Look, Meyer, I think you can squeeze a story out of this town up near Buffalo � you know the one that�s been sending all the stuff to France, Poland and Italy?� And did Meyer say, �Good Lord, Boss, can�t you ever send me to Atlantic City?� Was his train late? Had he been up all night? Did he wish his paper had never heard of Dunkirk?

I don�t know how Meyer felt, but I have heard other reporters react that way before they got to work on their Dunkirk stories. The one thing I do know about Meyer Berger, however, is that he can spot a �phony� a mile off. There was nothing phony in his story about Dunkirk. Somewhere between the railroad station and the rest of Dunkirk, something happened � and that �something� rang true. People say that Meyer didn�t take many notes. Maybe it was something like the story Meyer did four years ago. He didn�t take many notes then either.

That story took place on Pier 90, North River, in New York City. Berger was one of some 50 reporters from all over the nation who had been specially cleared by the war department to witness one of the greatest troop embarkations in all history � on board the Queen Mary. As public relations officer, I was supposed to see that these reporters saw enough � but not too much. They hounded me with impossible questions; they complained of �too much red tape� � all, that is, except Meyer. He stood there, a little apart from the rest, watching the strained, mask-like faces of the men as they waited for boarding orders. One boy�s pack slipped a little. Meyer went over and helped him straighten it. Then I noticed that Meyer was embarrassed because he was weeping, and that he wasn�t taking any notes. I asked if I could help with his story, but there was nothing a public relations officer could tell him.

Three days later, I read Berger�s story in the Times. It was one of the great stories, the kind you remember. It was the story of people. There was no mention of the figures we had given out. There was nothing about the number of doughnuts served that night, or the elaborate ritual of embarkation. It was the story of the faces of those men; the weariness, the resignation, and the heroic effort to choke back fear.

The common denominator of both of these stories � Dunkirk and the embarkation � was people. That�s why Meyer Berger did so well with them. They don�t have to be famous or exceptional people � and I�m sure no Dunkirker would claim either of those. But in both cases, they were people enlisted in a cause that was bigger than any one, or all of them. And they were behaving as people sometimes do, simply, but with dignity and a certain greatness. That, I am sure, is the �miracle� which Meyer Berger and all the rest have found in Dunkirk.

Much as we sometimes dislike the word, all these stories which keep appearing come under the heading of �publicity� for Dunkirk. There is no doubt about it, through the old advertising formula of constant repetition, Dunkirk, like many a popular brand, is now known from coast to coast. For example, last week two small stories appeared in the New York Times and Tribune about Locust Valley, Long Island, a town which has just adopted Ste. Mere Eglise in France. In both cases, the reporter saved time and space by using the phrase �following the pattern established by Dunkirk, N.Y.� In other words, the reporter simply assumed that everybody knew what happened in Dunkirk. From a purely Chamber of Commerce point of view, that reaction on the part of two great newspapers is worth a hundred thousand pamphlets. As for the rest of us, at least we aren�t so inclined to say, �Oh, I come from up near Buffalo� any more.

Incidentally, I wonder how many heard Drew Pearson reporting from Paris on Sunday night? Discussing the arrival of the Friendship supplies, Mr. Pearson pointed out that the Communist representatives in the French government were forced to go along with the resolution calling for a vote of thanks to this country for its contributions to the Friendship train. If they hadn�t, he pointed out, the delegates wouldn�t have been safe on the streets of Paris. Those Communist signatures must have caused some nail-chewing in Moscow where every effort is being made to discredit the value of American assistance at this time. Dunkirk, and all America, should remember that, in many cases, European Communism is only skin deep. Put a little warm clothing over the skin and some food under it and the Moscow propaganda factories have to start paying over-time.

24 December 1947
The Dunkirk Observer