“Did our chaps make it back on the train?” Lance moaned. He had curled up against the corner of the last car, and his mind had begun to clear.
“I saw only four. Us,” Horton replied while gesturing toward Tickner and Toby. “The others might be in the forward cars ahead. I don’t know.” He lowered his face close to Lance’s. “You got your bell rung from that first bomb blast, so you rest easy and let me do the thinking for a while.” Then he turned and called out to everyone in close proximity, “Hey, can you give us some room? This bloke’s hurt. He needs air.”
Lance grasped his arm. “It’s all right. There is no room.” He closed his eyes, and an image of François’ last seconds framed in his mind. “François didn’t—” He could not finish the sentence.
“I know,” Horton said. “I saw.” He remained squatting next to Lance. “I suggest we stay on the train and get as close to Saint-Nazaire as possible. We might want to jump off short of there to avoid being targets again.”
Toby hovered on Lance’s other side. “You have to lie flat,” he cajoled, “get those feet elevated, and stay awake.” While Toby and Tickner shoved against other soldiers to carve out space, Horton took his own helmet and placed it under Lance’s ankles. Tickner put a field jacket under Lance’s head as the train chugged toward Saint-Nazaire.
16
June 16, 1940
Saint-Nazaire, France
Lance and his remaining three comrades rambled into the tumultuous conditions in the port city. Despite the grueling challenges faced on their flight from Dunkirk, they viewed the seemingly complete breakdown of military discipline with mouths agape.
The train had stopped well outside of Saint-Nazaire. On the walk in, the group had passed field after field of British military gear, most now destroyed by its users for lack of space aboard ships to transport it and to prevent its use by the enemy. Among the equipment were brand-new battle tanks, trucks, field artillery guns, and every sort of supply an army would need to fight. They lay, battered, disabled, and rendered useless, by order of higher command.
They passed a field artillery officer protesting his orders to demolish his guns. His face red, his eyes bulging, he thundered at a superior officer delivering the order, “I did not drag those Bofors over four hundred miles just to demolish them.”
“I can direct you in writing, if you’d like,” came the patient response.
With a disgusted glare, the officer set about to comply.
Lance, still weakened but recovering, regained his position as leader of the group, to which Horton readily submitted. “Stay together and let’s get to the waterfront,” Lance said. They continued on, sometimes being passed by soldiers who ignored orders to abandon motorcycles and rode them into town. All around combatants broke into stores and dumped their respirators and other combat necessities to make room for pilfered cigarettes, beer, and other items.
While passing a supply depot next to a railway, a horde of unruly soldiers looted train cars filled with cases of liquor. Within minutes, men ran wild-eyed through the streets, pouring bottles of spirits down their gullets.
Looking closer, Lance saw that many of the liquor cases had been lined with straw as packing material. “Let’s go,” he ordered. “Set fire to those cars. It’s either that, or this crowd will turn into a drunken brawl. They’ll be incapable of being evacuated.”
“Blimey,” Horton exclaimed, whirling on Lance. “Do what?” But then a mischievous twinkle crossed his eyes, and he grinned. “I’m morally opposed to burning perfectly good booze,” he intoned, “but that fire should be blinding.”
Minutes later, flames leaped high in the sky and spread to the other cars. As bottles heated up, they burst, their alcoholic content further fueling the fire. Then the last car caught fire. Unexpectedly, exploding ammunition sent shockwaves through the air, and people ran for their lives. Driven back, the crowd could only watch in dismay.
Lance observed, emotionless. “Avoid the drunks and the listless. We’re going home, and we won’t wait around to be captured.”
They pushed through the crowds to the port, noticing groups of civilians mingling with troops, hoping to be included among the evacuees. As dusk settled to darkness, they arrived at the waterfront. The atmosphere was less raucous but still filled with stress. The four men pressed on toward the queues of soldiers already lined up for passage to the hoped-for waiting ships.
Then a coaler out on the water steered toward the dock. The captain called over a loudspeaker, “I’m coming in. I won’t tie up. Anyone wanting a ride can jump aboard as I pass. Then I’m headed to Plymouth.”
Anxious men pressed against the edge of the pier. The drop to where the boat would pass was a good distance. As the coaler closed in parallel to the dock, men jumped to its deck and rolled before climbing to their feet. Others fell into the buffering arms of comrades. It continued past and quickly filled with more men leaping to their hoped-for escape.
Lance caught Horton’s eye. “You go,” he said. “Take the others with you.”
“Why not you?”
“Too many privates need a lift. Go on.”
Horton looked askance. “Can’t,” he replied. “My ankle’s barely healed. It won’t take the fall.”
Briefly recalling the strenuous hike of days they had just completed, Lance shot him a skeptical glance and turned swiftly to Toby and Tickner. “Go. Now. Jump. You might not get another chance.”
Wide-eyed, the two soldiers returned his gaze.
“Go,” he ordered. “You don’t have time to think it through. I’ll see you in Piccadilly.”
With that, Toby and Tickner leaped. Lance and Horton watched. They were horrified to see that many soldiers missed
