Nicolas rushed to the quays still filled with milling soldiers. He searched relentlessly until he saw Jacques’ boat limp in, overflowing with bedraggled victims of the Stukas’ earlier strafing run. Wading into the water, Nicolas helped the men onto the shore.
“I’m going back out,” Jacques called. “Thousands of people are in the water.”
Without a word, Nicolas jumped aboard. Grim-faced, Jacques throttled up, and the boat navigated out toward the fleet.
“Did you see which ship went down?” Nicolas asked.
Jacques did not respond at first. Then he closed his eyes and nodded. “It was the Lancastria,” he said, sniffing as his eyes moistened. He wiped them with the backs of his fists. “She was the largest ship. That’s where I took Jeremy.”
22
The little French fishing vessel puttered into the port at Saint-Nazaire. Horton had slept soundly, only stirring when the boat hit a stiff wave. Lance had dozed in and out, keeping an eye on the injured man. Kenyon had tried to stay awake to take care of his friend but had finally collapsed, exhausted. Lance was touched by the man’s compassion and that of the fisherman.
As they pulled alongside a dock, Horton opened his eyes, rubbed them, and looked about. Lance reached across and nudged Kenyon, who came to with a start.
“We’re back in port,” Lance said. “We’ll help you with your mate. There must be a hospital where we can take him. Even if the Germans arrive, they’re bound by the Geneva Convention to provide him medical care.”
Kenyon nodded grimly while fighting back a yawn. Stretching, he bent over his friend. Then he dropped his head, bent further to embrace him, and wept quietly, his chest heaving with constrained sobs. The body was stiff, warmth leaving it.
After tying up the boat, the fisherman set about offloading his catch. When he saw Kenyon’s grief, he climbed into the boat and took him by the shoulders.
“I’ll take care of the burial,” he said in French. “Tell me his name. You must go before the Boches arrive.” He produced a piece of paper and a pen.
Kenyon looked up, anguished, not comprehending.
“Thank you,” Lance cut in. For the first time, he had a chance to really see the fisherman. He was young, probably in his late twenties, with a rugged, windswept look and a lithe build. His complexion, eyes, and hair were dark, and his expression was one of quiet determination.
Lance returned his attention to the dead man and covered the body with a blanket. He took the pen and paper and nudged Kenyon’s arm. “What was his name?”
After being prodded a second time, Kenyon muttered a response. Lance wrote it down, coaxed other pertinent information, and handed the note back to the fisherman. Then, streaked with oil and blood, and wearing only their underwear, the three trudged toward the town.
“You know we’re not dressed for polite society,” Horton quipped, his grim face belying his humor.
“We’re short on options,” Lance replied. “Maybe someone in town will give us some old garments.”
Watching them go, the fisherman looked chagrined. He called to them. “Wait.”
They stopped and turned.
“You’re tired and hungry. You need clothes and shoes. I’ll take you to my house but let me get my fish on ice first.”
Gratefully, they reversed course.
“I am Pierre.” He saw Kenyon’s lingering glance at his friend’s body. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take good care of him.” He swept a hand toward the town. “The whole town will take care of him and honor him. We appreciate you.”
23
Before dawn, Pierre awakened Lance. “I must go do the fishing. You and your friends stay here and rest. You need your strength.”
“We don’t want to put you or your family in danger.”
Pierre shook his head. “I need time to talk with you. Don’t worry about my family. I sent them to Marseille. Later, I might go too. I don’t think the Boches will go there. The city culture is too independent, and they know it. Everyone knows it. They are still a few days away from here, so you won’t be disturbed.”
Lance consented.
“Tell Kenyon that his friend’s body is at my church. The priest will make sure he has a proper burial.” Lance thanked him, and Pierre left for the waterfront.
Although small, the house was comfortable. The three British guests made themselves at home for most of the day. Then, wearing clothes that Pierre had scavenged from friends and neighbors, they wandered into town in mid-afternoon to get a sense of current conditions.
The atmosphere had changed radically from before their transfer to the Lancastria the previous day. Gone were the hordes of soldiers, replaced by groups of twos and threes with markedly different attitudes. Some had apparently accepted as inevitable that they would be captured. They just waited. Of those, some sat staring blankly, and some had drunk themselves into stupors.
Some huddled together discussing their plight in terms of the reality on the ground. A few of them intended to continue along the coast in search of any other ports where a rescue from the sea might occur. The rest planned to strike out overland for Spain. Entirely absent was a vestige of central command or authority. Moreover, a sense pervaded that hostility would meet any attempt to assert authority.
As Lance gazed about, he was struck by another aspect. Saint-Nazaire was beautiful, with quaint, ancient streets and small shops. If the wrecked hulls of ships and small boats were overlooked, the ocean views were breathtaking, and the citizenry was generally friendly despite the ravages resulting from involuntarily hosting an army almost gone rogue. No one has the state of mind or time to appreciate
