Now, as they ran through final inspection, her eyes met his. She gave a slight nod. She seemed poised, yet behind the dark eyes, he saw or imagined a hint of fear.
“Here’s your map,” the sergeant said to Jeremy.
“It’s a night jump,” Crockatt continued.
“Sir, it’s really all right,” Jeremy said. “I practiced a few landings in the mockups in a dark barn. I know what to do. Keep my eyes on the horizon, roll as soon as my feet touch the ground.”
“Here’s your compass,” the sergeant went on, despite the interruptions.
“They’ve selected a fairly narrow field for the drop zone,” Crockatt interjected, “but it’s long and the prevailing winds blow along its length. You’ll come out of the plane on a static line, so your chute will open automatically. Get your bearings as quickly as possible, then steer to the center of the field. Did they teach you how to do that?”
Jeremy nodded. He treated the attention with bemusement. “And they taught me how to use the toggles to crab back and forth so I don’t overshoot the field.”
Watching from the side, Paul was both somber and amused. He found Crockatt’s mother-hen-like care for his brother and his teammates heartwarming and reassuring.
“Your torch,” the sergeant said. “I’ll put it in this coat pocket. Don’t forget it. You’ll need it as soon as you’re on the ground. Now, would you please empty your pockets?”
Jeremy complied, finding a one shilling coin as he did so.
“I’ll take that,” the sergeant said. He handed Jeremy a wad of banknotes. “And here are your French francs. That’s carrying money. We’ll drop three equipment cylinders with your team. They contain rifles, ammunition, foodstuffs, and more money. Now we need to check the tags on your clothing. Mustn’t have any British ones.”
Jeremy waited patiently while the sergeant checked. “You’re good, sir. All French tags.”
“I say,” Paul remarked to Crockatt, “these chaps are very thorough.”
“We want our people back in one piece,” the major said. To Jeremy’s relief, he went to check on the other team members.
“Here are your French identity papers and your Webley M1907 6.35-mm pocket pistol,” the sergeant went on. “Mind you, it’s loaded. Let me have your British ID.”
Jeremy looked at the man dumbly, and then smirked. “Mine was lost on the Lancastria,” he said. “I haven’t been in England long enough to get a new one.”
The sergeant gave him a searching look but continued to go through the various items, including emergency rations, extra rations, and first aid bandages. As he did, he quizzed Jeremy on his cover story. At one point, he lifted his head in concern. “Sir, you seem to be unsure of crucial details.”
Jeremy chuckled. “I am, Sergeant. I just learned them today. But no worries, if worse comes to worst, I’m versed at playing the fool.”
The non-com shot him a look that was both perplexed and skeptical, but he let the matter ride. Next, he held up a worn wine cork, complete with a purplish-red end. “Inside this are your lethal pills.”
He slid back a small cover on one side to reveal a hollowed-out interior. When he turned it over, two small tablets rolled into his hand. “You’ve been briefed on these?” He arched his eyebrows. Jeremy nodded.
Aircraft engines spinning up to power sounded through the small farmhouse. Jeremy looked around anxiously for Paul.
His brother had the expression of a deer caught in a bright light, frozen. He broke his trance and hurried over to Jeremy, throwing his arms around him. “Come back to us, brother,” he muttered. “You’ve been gone far too long.”
“I’ll be back,” Jeremy said. “Take care of Timmy and give my love to Claire. Keep trying to get to Mum and Dad and keep an eye out for Lance.”
Paul hesitated, but then blurted in a whisper, “Claire thinks you’re head over heels for the French girl. Don’t let personal feelings get either of you killed.”
Jeremy chuckled and squeezed his brother’s neck. “I must be more transparent than I thought. I’ll keep your advice in mind. I probably won’t even see her.”
Paul stepped back and eyed him skeptically. “Don’t try to pretend that she’s not a big reason you’re so keen on going back.”
Jeremy stood still, his eyes in a faraway place. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he admitted, “but if I’m honest with myself, she’s in the mix. The last I heard, though, she’s safely away from Dunkirk. It’s her father that’s in the soup, and I owe him.”
“But you’re keeping the preservation of the Boulier network uppermost in your mind, right?”
“Of course.”
Paul looked skeptical, but he made no further comment. The two of them joined the team heading toward the back door with the sending-off party.
Behind the farmhouse, the pastures had been turned into aircraft parking areas and rutted runways. The group piled into a car with their parachutes and equipment packs and drove through the myriad aircraft parked in long lines.
On a nearby taxiway, silhouetted against a twilight horizon, a big plane squatted, its rear turret prominent on its back, its gun barrels still visible against the sky, and its propellers spinning while its engines roared. Two additional gun barrels protruded from the glass nose that gleamed dully in the fading twilight.
The car stopped parallel to the airplane. Behind the wing, a round hatch just large enough for a person to fit through opened within the tri-colored roundel of the Royal Air Force logo painted on the bomber’s side.
The crew emerged through the opening and dropped to the ground. Crockatt introduced them. Then he drew Jeremy and his comrades around him while Paul stood close by. “Try to get some sleep on the way over,” he said. “You’ll need it.” He shook hands with each of them and helped them climb aboard.
Five minutes later, Crockatt and Paul stood side by side as the big bomber taxied down the runway, turned into the wind, and revved
