“No, sir, I didn’t know that.”
Sharp gazed about, taking in the details of the bridge. “This vessel was originally christened the RMS Tyrrhenia, but American passengers had difficulty pronouncing the name. Cunard Line changed it to Lancastria.” He closed his eyes again and shook his head while rocking slightly on his heels. “I hope I made the right decision.”
Sharp appeared to Jeremy to be a man alone, despite his staff. He was affable, kindly, and professional, but now labored under the pressure of potential life-and-death consequences of decisions already made. The captain started to turn away, but Jeremy stopped him with a question.
“If you don’t mind, sir, can you tell me the names of the other ships out there?”
Sharp let his head roll back in thought. “Well let’s see, there’s this one, the Lancastria; then there’s the Havelock, the Duchess of York, the Georgic, the Highlander, the Vanoc.” He pointed to a ship about a mile away. “That’s the Oronsay. It was hit by aircraft this morning but remains seaworthy.”
An officer called to him from across the bridge.
“I must go,” he told Jeremy. “I couldn’t possibly name all the ships off the top of my head, but between the troop carriers and the destroyers, that’s roughly thirty ships. Why do you ask?”
“I want a feel for the effort to rescue our men. Thank you, sir.”
“Ah, good point. Farewell. I hope to see you in better times.”
Jeremy regarded the captain with compassion, his own senses still numb from the brutal attack on Jacques’ boat less than an hour earlier. They shook hands, and Jeremy departed with the sailor, who took him to the forward dining room.
On entering, Jeremy saw that it still contained vestiges of the years it plied the ocean as a luxury liner, displayed in polished wooden tables, artistic murals, and mosaic floors. Now, it too was filled with exhausted men, sitting or standing in whatever small space they had carved out. However, on looking around, Jeremy saw that most men in the room were commissioned officers and senior non-commissioned officers.
No one spoke to him as he entered, and the orderly excused himself and returned to his duties. Looking around, he noticed that a line had formed leading to tubs with bottles of lemonade. He found the back of the line and waited patiently as it moved forward. Not feeling conversational, he stared blankly into nowhere with his hands in his pockets, only moving when the queue did.
Reflecting back, he could hardly grasp all that had happened in the nine days that had passed since he buried himself in the sand. The events of the past few weeks had gone beyond surreal, challenging his sanity.
How did I go from one day building airfields to the next becoming an untrained infantryman in the thick of combat and looking desperately for rescue from Dunkirk? His mind went to Ferrand and his daughters and the risks they had taken to save him and provide him sanctuary. As an image of Amélie flashed through his mind, he inhaled, and his chest seemed to burn.
This time, the memories could not linger, replaced involuntarily with those of the cries of toddlers and mothers separated from each other among hordes of refugees; of families pushing carts holding cherished heirlooms or loved ones too young or old to walk; of packs of dogs and scavengers fighting over carrion, some of it farm animals, some human, some even children; of the mass tramp of a population of millions fleeing south in hopes of finding a safer place; of discarded personal treasures heaped along the roadways for lack of remaining strength to carry them. And then, the brutal attacks by Stukas. The replayed images seared his brain.
The admonition of Nicolas and Jacques echoed again and again, summarized in Jacques’ passionate exhortation delivered at the point of a jabbing finger: “You tell them in London that we must win this war. We have no choice, and we free French will fight with or without England.”
Looking around at the beleaguered men crowded into this erstwhile elegant dining room, Jeremy lowered his head. “I’ll tell them,” he whispered. “In London, I’ll make bloody sure they hear you.”
“Eh? What’s that?” a major at Jeremy’s elbow inquired. “Did you say something to me?”
“Sorry, sir,” Jeremy replied, startled. “I was talking to myself.”
“Yes, well, be careful of that.” The major cast a doleful look around the room. “A lot of us might be doing the same thing before all of this is over.” He smiled with a kindly twinkle in his tired eyes. “Buck up. You’ll be all right, and you’ll soon be home.” He nudged Jeremy’s arm and pointed.
Jeremy looked to where the major indicated, through a door leading into a smaller room, and was surprised at what he saw. Inside, men and women in civilian clothes huddled together. Children at their feet clung to them.
“Who are they?” he asked. “What are they doing here?” He fought down sudden anger at the conditions wrought on innocents.
“Embassy staff and their families,” the major replied. “I was an attaché there. We brought them down last night.”
“God help us,” Jeremy murmured as the line proceeded.
Abruptly, from beyond the steel walls and ceiling, the sound of thundering engines grew in intensity. People looked nervously about. Then the ship’s sirens wailed.
“Hold tight, old boy,” the major said. “We’re in for another volley.”
No sooner had he spoken than a scorching blast knocked him and Jeremy onto the floor. People screamed, women’s and children’s frightened cries heard above the din. Smoke and the smell of exploded munitions filled the room. Tables and chairs flew through the air, hitting victims with deadly force.
Stunned, Jeremy struggled to his knees. Below him, lying still on the floor, was the major, his eyes staring vacantly. Panting heavily, Jeremy checked for a pulse on the man’s neck. He found none.
The children.
The thought came to Jeremy with
