Chagrinned, Crockatt said, “I understand, sir. I promised I’d try.”
“And you did. Just one word of advice, my friend. Don’t stray too far out of your lane.”
Crockatt chuckled as he stroked his brow with one index finger. “Hmph. I gave almost that exact same advice to our young lieutenant last week. In any event, thanks for taking the call. Cheers.”
19
Saint-Nazaire, France
Lance clambered up one of the heavy rope ladders draped intermittently over the rail along the ship’s length down to the water. To his left and right, soldiers struggled in the rough mesh to keep a handhold and not lose their footholds. Below him, Horton climbed and waited in concert with Lance’s progress. Occasionally, a soldier would fall and was quickly fished from the waters, but the troops made steady progress. Soon, both Lance and Horton stood on the ship’s wooden deck.
A Royal Navy sailor added their names, ranks, and identification numbers to a list and handed them a card directing them to their sleeping and eating areas. He then pointed them toward an outside set of steel stairs.
“If you go there now,” he said, “you might get a hot meal and lemonade. But hurry.” He gestured to indicate the multitude of boats still streaming toward the Lancastria. “As you can see, thousands more are on their way.”
“Jolly good,” Horton enthused. “I’m ready for that.” Then he jerked his head skyward as yet another Stuka raced over his head. Seconds later, it banked and descended, lining up on a group of small boats clustered together.
Its machine guns opened up, their terrible noise like rolling thunder accompanying the rain of tracers launched against the boats. Anti-aircraft guns aboard the destroyers and large troop ships engaged the fighters, and all around, soldiers raised their rifles and fired.
They were ineffectual. The Stuka closed the distance, racing only feet above sea level toward its quarry.
In fascination, Lance watched, unable to avert his eyes. Because of the distance, he could make out no details, but none were needed. He heard the sound of the Stuka’s machine guns and saw pieces of things fly into the sky, dark figures fall into the water, and a red stain coat the sea’s surface.
Meanwhile, the Stuka rolled on, climbed high at a distance, and then circled, its new target obvious. The Lancastria.
The German pilot held his fire until he had leveled out roughly fifty feet above the roiling sea. When he flew within effective range, he unleashed a barrage of lead at the men climbing the ladders and those already hunkered on the decks.
Lance grabbed Horton and pushed into a space below the steel staircase. The protection was inadequate but better than none, and they covered their ears against the roar of gunfire and thunks of bullets against the ship’s steel walls. The smell of death rose in their nostrils.
Overhead, another Stuka attacked, and then another, following in the path of the leader, taking out small boats and circling to turn its guns on the Lancastria. Then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the sky was clear.
Lance surveyed the deck. “We were lucky,” he muttered to Horton. “Those were dive bombers. They must have been at the end of their run and out of heavy ammo.”
The cries of the wounded sounded in agonized clamor. Medics and volunteers scurried to provide first aid and drag injured soldiers to greater safety. Lance and Horton joined in. Meanwhile, the flow of soldiers to the ship continued relentlessly.
When, an hour later, the two companions finally stumbled through the crowds filling the decks, lobbies, corridors, and cabins onto an open deck near the stern, they found the space packed with more exhausted soldiers sitting on every available surface. It had been turned into an eating area. Crewmembers dispensed lemonade.
Drinks in hand, Lance and Horton wedged next to each other against an outer wall. Horton looked around, taking in the mass of men crowded together. “Well, Sergeant,” he grunted, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, and his legs tucked up tightly to make room for others, “next stop, home.”
Lance exhaled. He looked across the faces of anxious men, some in obvious shock, some attempting humor, some already exaggerating war stories. Holding up crossed fingers, he grunted, “Let’s hope.”
Jacques’ little boat plied the waters of Saint-Nazaire, struggling under a load of soldiers that challenged its capacity. Jeremy estimated that the trip would take roughly thirty minutes.
The putter of the engine mixed with the rush of wind, the slapping of water against the hull, and the scattered yells of men giving directions, all punctuated by the cries of seagulls. The smell of the sea combined with lingering gunpowder, the odor of unbathed, sweaty men, and the boat’s exhaust.
The Lancastria loomed larger and larger as they approached, and then a speck appeared high in the sky. The whine of a distant aircraft engine descended in tone to a low, throaty growl as the speck enlarged to a dot, morphed into a Stuka, dipped its nose toward the Lancastria, and closed the distance. It flew low over the ship, dropping further until it was barely above the waves and lined up on a group of boats close together.
Jeremy watched in horror as the fighter let loose volleys of lead, erupting its targets in flying chunks of wood and human body parts that splashed into a crimson stain on the frothing sea. When the pilot had finished his run, he turned his aircraft’s nose skyward, climbed until the plane was again a bare spot on a blue sky, and then circled, the drone of its engine following it.
From across the water, Jeremy heard cries for help, saw arms and legs thrashing, and witnessed the last moments of men who disappeared under the surface, not to be seen again. In shock, he turned to Jacques.
“We must help the survivors.”
Jacques shook his head grimly. “We can’t. We’re already overloaded. This boat will founder and sink.”
