Before Jeremy could respond, the pitch of the Stuka’s engine caught their attention. The fighter-bomber flew low over the ocean again, somewhat higher than its first run, and lined up on the center of the Lancastria.
As if in a bad dream, the plane cut loose its deadly stream of molten lead at the ship. Bodies spilled over the rails. Men fell from the rope ladders, arms and legs flailing, but soundless from the distance between the Lancastria and Jacques’ small boat.
Nausea welled in Jeremy’s throat. He fought it off with deep breaths, and his mind slowed to a surreal vision of all that surrounded him. Behind him, the other men in the boat railed against the Stuka, shaking their fists and rifles and hurling empty threats into the sky.
“You bastard!”
“I hope you burn in hell.”
“Meet me face-to-face and fight like a man, swine.”
Then, before the soldiers had quieted down, the rumble of more fighter-bombers joined the cacophony, and two more planes descended and followed the exact path of their leader. They attacked ships, small boats, and soldiers along the shore or in the water, any targets within the spray of their murderous machine guns.
Jacques whirled and glanced at the shore and then the Lancastria, calculating relative odds of getting to either location. He grasped the throttle and found it already full open. On instinct, he cut the motor and turned the boat, abruptly slowing its forward movement to keep it from running into the machine gun fire.
Seconds later, bullets sprayed the water where the boat would have been but for Jacques’ fast action. The plane hurtled past, headed toward the ship, its guns already spilling tracers.
Like a man possessed, Jacques cranked the engine to life and opened the throttle. “Which way?” he called to Jeremy. “Ship or shore? They’ll be back.”
Jeremy turned to look at the grim faces still turned to the sky, following the Stukas’ flight. “We’re sitting ducks either way,” he called back. “Our best shot of getting back to England is on that ship.”
“We were told to watch for you,” the young officer listing names and ranks told Jeremy when he finally boarded and showed the strips of ribbon on his wrist. “You are to be escorted to the bridge. Captain Sharp will speak with you there, and then you’ll go to the forward dining room for the passage to England.” He gestured to a sailor who indicated for Jeremy to follow him.
Startled, Jeremy complied. I guess Jacques must be tied into British intelligence. He had hardly had a chance to bid the Frenchman farewell, and now he worried about whether or not Jacques would reach shore and his apartment safely.
Making his way forward, Jeremy observed from the Lancastria’s fine lines and quality fixtures that at one time it must have been a passenger cruiser, now pressed into military service. However, seemingly every surface of its tables, chairs, divans, stairs, or the decks themselves were occupied by soldiers; yet as Jeremy glanced over the rail, hundreds more waited to climb aboard.
“How many people are on this ship?” he asked as they struggled through the crowd.
The sailor shook his head. “I don’t know. It was designed for seventeen hundred passengers plus three hundred crewmen.” He took a deep breath. “We stopped counting at six thousand.” After navigating through a series of crowded decks, companionways, stairs, and ladders, they entered through a door marked “Bridge.”
The noise and atmosphere changed decidedly when the door closed behind them, with only a few officers working quietly. Captain Sharp stood near the ship’s port side, watching as far below yet more men climbed aboard. The bridge crew spoke quietly while poring over charts in front of the ship’s wheel and spread along the windshield that spanned the vessel.
Beyond the glass, a gray panorama of troop ships, Royal Navy destroyers, and small boats ranged across the water. The destroyers and many of the smaller vessels ferried soldiers to the larger ones and returned for more. Others that had already filled to capacity lingered farther out, awaiting the naval escort that would provide a defensive shield as the entire fleet convoyed to England. Above them hung a dirty veil of smoke, fed by burning fuel-oil of listing and half-sunken boats destroyed by enemy bombing. Already, a dark film splotched much of the estuary’s surface.
The sailor, with Jeremy, approached the captain and made introductions. Sharp was a burly man with dark hair and a jovial countenance weighed down with responsibility. The seaman retreated to a corner of the bridge and waited.
“I’m glad you arrived in one piece,” Sharp said, glancing out at the sky. “I received a message telling me to be sure you arrive in England safely. That’s almost all I know.”
Jeremy did his best to hide his surprise.
“The rest of it is to inform you of a directive coming from high command. When we land in England, you are to report to the director of MI-9. I don’t have a location for you, but I presume that’s in London. Your unit is informed. Perhaps someone there can help find it. I’m sorry I don’t have more details.”
“I understand, sir. No problem.”
Sharp gestured at the scene below. “I won’t be able to spend more time with you. The last ferry just arrived, and we’ll be sailing within the hour.”
“I’ll get out of your way, sir. The ship is a bit crowded.”
The captain scoffed. “When we arrived last night, the French pilot who steered us in told me that I had placed a noose around my neck.” He closed his eyes momentarily and sighed. “Fleet command signaled that we were free to sail hours ago, but—” He stopped talking a moment and exhaled heavily. “We would have had to go across the Channel on our own. No submarine protection, no air cover. So, I made the decision to wait, and meanwhile, more
