Occasionally, he turned around to Jeremy and asked, “Mummy?” When he did, the men in the compartment became quiet, staring distantly, their faces reflecting the horrors they had seen.
After more hours than they could count, the train finally crawled into Paddington Station in London. Jeremy waited until the train was fairly empty before leaving. Then, holding Timmy with one arm, he made his way to a bench near the main street exit and waited.
An hour went by. Jeremy worried that he might have given the first officer the wrong number. Thankful for Captain Savage’s kind thoughtfulness in providing him with funds, he found his way to a food vendor and bought a sandwich and other items to make sure that his change included coins. The rest of the money, he put in his pocket.
Timmy had become heavy. The exhausted child slept for the most part, but intermittently woke up, whimpered, and then fell back to sleep. Wearily, carrying the child, Jeremy made his way to a phone booth, dropped in the right coins, dialed the number, and waited. His call went unanswered.
29
Saint-Nazaire, France
Kenyon held back his dismay when Pierre showed him some of the stash of explosives he had stolen. He turned to Lance.
“We’re not going to do much damage with that,” he said. “Those are blasting caps. The fuel tank walls are thick and strong. With what Pierre has there, we might dent one of them, but we’re not even going to create a leak, much less blow up a whole tank.”
Lance interpreted.
“We have dynamite,” Pierre said. “I need to know if that is the right kind of explosive and how much we need.” His voice took on urgency. “The Boches will be here soon. We don’t have much time.”
“You’ll need a plunger and wire too.”
“Yes, we have it. All of it.”
Lance’s head swiveled back and forth as he translated between them.
“I can get everything you need,” Pierre said. “The security men at the storage place are with us, but the engineer who oversees demolition projects is a Pétain supporter, meaning a Nazi sympathizer. We can’t trust him. That’s why we need you.”
“If I could interject,” Horton said. “You don’t want that stuff falling into Hun hands any more than you want them to get the fuel. I know enough to be dangerous, but as I understand dynamite, it’s stable. So, why don’t you get it all. Take all of it. Divide it up and store it in cellars, barns, and wherever the temperature and humidity conditions are good, and where you can keep it secure.”
Pierre listened intently. His eyes glistened. “We are thinking alike, my friend,” he responded, “but if we are going to blow any storage tanks, I think we have tonight, and maybe tomorrow night at the latest.”
Lance translated the discussion for Kenyon who held up a cautioning hand. “Horton is partially right. Dynamite is nitroglycerine-based with additives and a special clay to make it less sensitive to shock. It becomes unstable with age. Your men can handle it safely as long as they are careful. Is it fairly new?”
Horton relayed the question, and Pierre assured him that the dynamite was new.
“We don’t use it in combat operations anymore,” Kenyon continued, “because flying bullets will ignite it. If there’s a firefight while we’re setting it…” He left the sentence unfinished.
Pierre’s eyes flashed between Kenyon and Lance as he listened to the translation. “I understand,” he said in English with a heavy accent.
“Then get that dynamite with all the other equipment,” Kenyon said. “Take me to the staging area with photos and a sketch map of the tanks you want to blow. We’ll plan from there.” He looked up at the sun’s position in the sky. “It’s already mid-afternoon. How far are the oil tanks and how soon can you get the dynamite to me?”
Horton relayed Kenyon’s thoughts and Pierre’s response. “They have five trucks loaded. They’ll send four to be stored and bring one to you at the staging area. You can take as much as you need, and they’ll stockpile the rest. They can have that done in an hour. Pierre has a question, though. These tanks are filled with oil that is already refined for fuel. So, they will make a bigger bang. Correct?”
Kenyon grinned at Pierre and nodded. “You’re exactly right.”
Pierre beamed in satisfaction.
The operation could not have gone smoother. Fearful of the imminent invasion by German troops, many residents had already fled. Others stayed in their houses. When Pierre and five other companions along with Lance, Horton, and Kenyon drove to the fuel depot in a car and the small truck, the roads were clear. At the site, the security guards offered only token resistance, and otherwise faded into the night.
Twelve fuel tanks, each a hundred feet in diameter, clustered together in a section of the refinery. Two more larger tanks stood nearby. Kenyon surveyed them, comparing them against the photos and the sketch map Pierre had drawn. He beckoned Pierre. Lance joined them to translate. A bright half-moon hung in the sky.
“Listen carefully,” Kenyon told Pierre through Lance. “Nobody’s shooting at us tonight, so we’re going to take our time and do it right. You won’t want to do this under a bright moon when the Germans are here. Your men have their loads and equipment. Tell them to place them just like we practiced this evening, and then run the wires back to the gate. I’ll check each one, and when everyone is safely away, I’ll show you how to detonate. You’ll do the honors.”
Pierre nodded eagerly as he listened to Lance, his eyes flashing back to Kenyon. “We’re ready,” he said.
An hour later, the entire group met back at the vehicles. Kenyon guided Pierre through the steps to connect all the wires. The young resistance fighter pushed the plunger handle down.
The massive explosion rocked the ground and shot flames high in the sky. Frozen in fascination, the men stood watching the inferno until Kenyon grabbed
