“We can’t take any more,” the captain bellowed over his loudspeaker. “We’ll sink.” He turned the boat toward the open seas.
While Lance continued to search the dark waters, Horton stepped away, threw his head back, and breathed in deeply. “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing Lance’s shoulder. “It’s just you and me now. We’ve got to get in those queues.”
The bombing that night was horrific. The Junker bombers, flying in fast and furious amid roars of engines and ear-shattering explosions, delivered their payloads indiscriminately, centered on the port. Soldiers scrambled. Many cast aside concern for others in desperate attempts to save themselves. They collided with each other and the hopeful civilians among them.
Watching the bedlam with nowhere to seek shelter, Lance and Horton held their ground. Seeing a soldier push a woman aside to take her place in a questionable shelter, Horton shook his head and went to cover the woman with his own body.
When the planes had departed and the smoke had cleared, the cries of the wounded and the stench of spent explosives and burning flesh filled the air. Lance and Horton helped carry wounded people for triage and corpses for burial. Then they once again headed for the queues.
17
Sometime during the night, a fleet of vessels arrived and anchored roughly ten miles off the coast. Included among them were large troop ships that had been requisitioned by the Royal Navy and converted from cruise liners, as well as destroyers and a flotilla of yachts and small, seaworthy boats. The destroyers and smaller boats were to be used to ferry evacuating soldiers to the ships, and when all were full, they would take on their own load of evacuees, and the entire fleet would convoy back to England.
Lance and Horton hunched together to weather the rest of the night. At dawn, the ferries began their rounds, and then the Stuka fighters descended amidst their deathly staccatos. They, in turn, received the full anger of every available weapon, to include Ack-ack guns, Brens, and thousands of Lee-Enfield rifles.
Discipline strained against the onslaught. Despite the regalia of proud units including the Royal Engineers, the Pioneer Corps, and the Royal Army Ordnance Corp, an ominous sense pervaded that a tiny spark could generate a mentality of “every man for himself,” brought on during the night by the Junkers bombing.
As the day wore on, and irrespective of the rain of fire from the sky, the lines of men moved forward into the ferries and onto the waiting ships. Finally, early in the afternoon, Lance and Horton joined a group of men transported across the expanse of ocean to board the HMT Lancastria.
From the apartment window, Jeremy, Nicolas, and Jacques watched the huge numbers of soldiers ferried across the water. Early in the afternoon, Jacques stood.
“Time to leave,” he announced. “The ships will be sailing soon.”
“How am I getting aboard? Surely, we can’t just walk out and be at the front of the line?”
“You’re expected. That’s all I can say. We’ll help as many soldiers as we can get to the ship. Don’t forget that we all face the Stukas.”
Jeremy nodded as he turned to Nicolas. “What will you do now?”
Nicolas stood from the kitchen table with a dismal look. “I’ll miss my friend, my brother—”
Jeremy chuckled. “Your brother, the fool.”
Nicolas laughed. “You were a natural for the part.” His expression turned serious. “The Germans will be here within days. I’ve agreed with Jacques to go inland. It should be safe to travel for a while, and we’ll go south to Marseille. It’s a city like no other, and the Germans will think twice before trying to subdue it. A healthy resistance will grow there, I’m sure of it, and since Jacques is already in touch with British intelligence, renewing contact from there should not be difficult.” He grinned. “You didn’t think you’d be rid of me so easily. If you do your part in London, we’ll be in touch. Remember, I have Amélie’s interest to protect.”
“Ha! You never give up, do you?”
“I never do, and neither should you. I know you are right for each other.”
Jeremy felt his eyes grow moist and his throat constrict, and for the space of moments, the three were silent. Then Nicolas exclaimed, “You must go.” He grasped Jeremy’s shoulders. “Be safe, my brother. We’ll see you when this war is won.”
“Thank you,” Jeremy said hoarsely. “For everything.” He pressed a slip of paper into Nicolas’ hand. “For Amélie.”
Nicolas chuckled. “Ah, so I am to be your Cyrano after all, at least in making the delivery.”
With no other words exchanged, Jacques crossed rapidly to the door and held it open as Jeremy strode through. The two hurried down the stairs and then to the back of the building. Another set of stairs took them down to a boathouse on the waterfront.
Inside, Jacques boarded a small powered vessel. Before embarking, he tied three strands of material to the flag mast, one green, one yellow, and one red. Then he tied three identical ones to Jeremy.
“Show them to the receiving officer when you board the ship.” Minutes later, he steered his boat along the shore to the lines of soldiers waiting to be ferried out.
Jeremy watched as a group scrambled aboard with mixed expressions of relief, anxiety, and wariness, all glancing at the sky for Stukas. Jacques turned his vessel out to sea, throttled up the engine, and steered toward the largest ship, the HMT Lancastria.
18
MI-9 Headquarters
London, England
Lieutenant Paul Littlefield once again paid a visit to Major Norman Crockatt in Room 424 of the old Metropole Hotel. The major noticed that the young officer, although always respectful,
