Jacques stared into her eyes. The waiter brought his food, breaking the moment.
“All right,” Jacques said when the waiter had left. “Let’s enjoy this evening. I have a place for you to stay tonight, and we’ll talk more tomorrow.”
27
Three days earlier, June 17
Saint-Nazaire, France
Jeremy struggled to lift little Timmy into the waiting arms of the rescuers on a small motor launch. For two hours he had held the toddler on a floating piece of wooden wreckage. It was large enough to hold the child, but too small to provide much room for Jeremy to grasp, and so he had treaded water much of the time while working hard to keep Timmy’s squirming body perched on the chunk of wreckage. His trousers and boots weighed him down and sapped his strength.
When Timmy was safely aboard, strangers’ arms grasped Jeremy under his shoulders and lifted him into the boat. He sprawled on the floor between the other survivors’ ankles and feet until two men helped him recline on the wooden bench built into the side of the boat. One of them brought Timmy to him wrapped in a blanket. “His mother?” the man asked.
Jeremy shook his head. He tried to speak but, overcome with emotion, he could not. He held Timmy close.
“There, there,” the man said, “let’s see to the two of you. Maybe we’ll still find her.” He pointed across an expanse of ocean. “Do you see that ship? That’s the Oronsay. We’re taking you there. You’ll be in England tomorrow.”
Jeremy nodded. That’s what I thought when I boarded the Lancastria.
The sailor patted Timmy. “Your boy looks healthy enough. I think he’ll make it just fine.”
The boat’s motor revved up, and they started toward the big vessel. Jeremy raised his head and looked around, realizing that the launch was loaded beyond capacity with other rescued soldiers. His mind drifted. Images of his leap off the ship with Eva plagued him. He had held Timmy close, cupping his hand over the child’s mouth and pinching his nose on the descent to keep the force of entry from driving water into the boy’s lungs. They made a clean plunge into the ocean, and Jeremy had swum back to the surface swiftly with the boy safely in his arms. Timmy had shrieked in terror on breaking into the air, but he had not swallowed much water, if any at all.
Jeremy had looked wildly about for Eva, but she did not appear. Now, their leap replayed again and again in his mind. Eva had leapt at the same time Jeremy did, with her arms held close to her body. What happened to her? Did she hit someone? Did someone jump in on top of her?
Her last words haunted him: “Just take care of Timmy.”
“With my life,” he had replied. Now, as the launch plowed through the waves, Jeremy closed his eyes, dropped his head forward, and squeezed the boy.
They arrived at the Oronsay. Jeremy waited numbly until crewmembers had helped the others board the ship before coming for him and Timmy. When at last they were on the undulating deck, Jeremy stumbled along, carrying the boy. Seeing the toddler in his arms, men in their path moved out of the way and nudged others to make room.
Soon the two were inside, out of the weather. Jeremy nestled on the floor with Timmy in a corner by a bulkhead. Kindhearted soldiers brought him lemonade and sandwiches.
No sooner had he settled in than the ship’s sirens blared. Seconds later, the drone of aircraft added to the warning of approaching bombers.
Jeremy’s nerves froze. He squirmed around, facing into the bulkhead, and bent over to cover Timmy with his upper body. Other soldiers, seeing what he did, leaned over him against the wall to provide a further protective shield for the little boy.
Timmy cried furiously. Falling bombs whistled. A thunderous explosion rocked the ship.
For an indeterminate span of time, Jeremy held his position, rocking gently to quiet Timmy while visions of his earlier ordeal played non-stop in his head. Then, the men who had sheltered them straightened up.
“All clear,” one of them said. “The bridge took a hit and the captain is wounded, but we’re not sinking.”
Jeremy raised his eyes wearily to meet those of the speaker and held up a hand in thanks. The soldier grasped it and shook it.
“The engine is good,” the man said. “The steering was damaged, but the crew is putting together a work-around, so we should be all right for the time being.” He reached down and patted Timmy’s back. “How’s the lad?”
Jeremy nodded without speaking.
“Well, you’ll be in England tomorrow.”
28
Plymouth, England
The HMT Oronsay tied up at a dock in mid-afternoon after a nerve-wracking voyage from Saint-Nazaire. The room that housed the charts, steering, and wireless had been destroyed, and the captain, Norman Savage, had broken his leg when the bomb hit, but with first aid treatment by good medics, and with his pocket compass, a sextant, and a sketch map, he steered his ship home.
News of the little boy and the soldier who saved him had reached the captain during the night, and he invited them to make the crossing in his quarters so that the child could sleep. Crewmembers brought clothes for Jeremy, some makeshift diapers and a bit of milk and bread for Timmy. The toddler no longer cried, but he clung to Jeremy until finally he fell into deep, exhausted sleep.
Jeremy waited a few minutes, then flipped off the lights and stepped across a narrow corridor into the bridge, closing the door softly behind him. Captain Savage sat in his chair behind the ship’s wheel with his injured leg propped up, his compass and sextant on his lap, studying his sketch map. His bridge crew went about their tasks.
Savage appeared to be an unassuming man, exerting quiet authority.
