“You’re a survivor,” Lance replied. “You’d have made it.”
“Maybe, but you’re the one who got us moving, found food and shelter, and led us through all the crap to the coast.”
“Thanks.” Lance started to speak, but instead laid his head on his hand while clinging to the board. “All the death…”
Horton’s reply was immediate and forceful. “Don’t you start thinking that way, Sergeant. You reminded the rest of us that we are still soldiers in His Majesty’s Army. You rousted us from the shock of what we’d seen and done. You bloody well brought that medic back from the walking dead and revived him into a functioning soldier.”
He looked to see if anything he had said registered on Lance. Seeing no change, he went on.
“That German pilot killed François,” he said, “just like he massacred all those soldiers and civilians and scattered our mates at the train station. For all we know, all five of them could still be alive. Some might already be back in England, and they would have you to thank.”
Lance lifted his head far enough to speak. “I hear you, Corporal. Thanks for the kind words, but that man back there… When I pushed him away, I knew he would drown.”
“What choice did you have?” Horton retorted vehemently. “If the situation had been reversed where he was the swimmer and you climbed on him, he’d have done the same thing. I’ll bet identical scenarios played out hundreds of times today.” He slid next to Lance and grasped the back of his neck. “Listen to me. We’re going to get back to England or die trying, but we’re not going to give up because we had a moment of self-pity. You’re still a soldier with a mission, Sergeant.”
Lance remained silent. Horton slid back a little farther on the plank.
Minutes passed. Then Lance lifted his head. “You’re right, Corporal. Thank you.” He reached his free hand across to Horton, then laughed. “My mother always said that she was brought up without the luxury of feeling sorry for herself. You just reminded me of that.”
More time passed, the sun beating down against the cold north-Atlantic water. Horton raised his head. “Sergeant, what are you going to do after the war?”
Lance laughed involuntarily, almost frenzied. “Corporal, I haven’t given it much thought. But why are we being so formal, and what are you going to do after the war?”
Horton snickered. “Just pulling a morale check,” he croaked. “It’s good to see that we’re getting less formal. The first name’s Derek.” He thought a moment. “Let’s see. After the war, I think I’ll go live in Texas. I’ve heard it’s warm and green and beautiful. I heard that Texans call it, ‘Texas, by God,’ and people who move there have a saying.” He dropped his voice, his head bobbing back and forth as he quoted, “‘I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.’ That’s the kind of place I want to live in.”
“Texas? What will you do there?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Horton forced a laugh and wry grin. “I ought to be good for something. Mopping floors or peeling potatoes, maybe.”
Without replying, Lance suddenly raised his head as high as he could. “Look over there,” he said. “Those blokes look like they could use some help.”
Horton turned to where Lance pointed. Two men bobbed in the water, only their heads visible. One of them appeared to be holding onto something just below the surface while supporting the other.
Lance and Horton paddled as best they could and slowly approached them. “Grab the end of this,” Lance rasped. “There’s room.”
The man grasping the submerged object let it go and grabbed the board, pulling his companion with him. “Too weak,” he gasped, indicating his friend. “Hurt.”
The strain of holding the injured man had sapped his rescuer’s strength.
Unclasping his life preserver, Horton said, “Here, give him this.” He struggled out of the vest. Together, the three of them managed to get it around the unconscious man. For an indeterminate time, they rotated Lance’s Mae West between them and took turns holding onto the injured man, continuing to float, with little conversation.
At some point, Horton’s curiosity piqued. “What were you holding onto?”
“Don’t know,” the man replied in a scratchy voice. “A piece of wreckage that floated and got waterlogged.”
“What do we call you?” Lance asked.
“Kenyon.”
“What happened to your friend?”
Kenyon put his head down on the board with a forlorn look. “People tossed tables and chairs and anything that would float into the water from the ship. A table smashed into him. It shattered his shoulder, and I think he has internal injuries. Maybe a concussion too.”
They lapsed back into silence, and as the sun coursed down to the horizon, the temperature dropped. Cold permeated to their toes. Dusk came, and they knew that their injured comrade would likely not survive the night.
Then, in the twilight, a French fishing boat plowing the waves back to Saint-Nazaire pulled alongside. The fisherman helped them into the vessel and gave them warm coffee and blankets. The injured man lay still but breathed. Kenyon poured life-giving water down his throat and covered him.
“We’re from the same village.” he said. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. “We grew up together. We enlisted together.”
No one spoke for an extended time as the fishing boat continued its journey to port. Then, Horton stretched out in a corner and pulled his blanket over him.
“No British breakfast in the morning,” he grunted. He shot Lance a broken smile and fell asleep.
Nicolas had been at the apartment window when the Junkers commenced their attack, the unmistakable rumble of their engines announcing their intentions. He watched in horror the attack on the ships at least ten miles out, but still identified for what they were by their distinctive shapes. When the assault was finished, he saw billowing smoke rising from a large ship,
