When they entered, Crockatt and Paul were already seated. Paul looked grave. With them was a soldier, a boy really, one who looked like he had aged rapidly and recently. His skin was darkened, more unwashed than tanned, but he looked fit, if undernourished. He sucked in his breath when his eyes landed on Jeremy.
Crockatt rose and showed Jeremy and Claire to their seats, and then took his own. “You know, of course, that a number of our stranded chaps made their way overland through southern France and Spain to try to get on boats coming to England.”
Jeremy and Claire nodded.
“Is this about Lance?” Claire broke in, her eyes wide with anxiety. “Is he dead?”
“Maybe not,” Crockatt replied. He introduced the third man. “This is Corporal Derek Horton. He is among the first of those who arrived on our shores via that route. They arrived yesterday. We put out word that we wanted to interview any who made their way home, to get the details of how they did it. It’s pertinent to rescuing more.”
“I want to know about our brother,” Claire interrupted again.
“He’s the best man I’ve ever known,” Horton broke in, his voice rough. Speaking obviously took effort. “He’s a real leader, he is.”
He leaned back with a faint smile. “Would you believe that when we got to Saint-Nazaire, a bunch of soldiers were raiding a train full of liquor. He set it on fire so they wouldn’t get too drunk to get themselves to the docks to be rescued.”
Jeremy stared at him, stunned. “I was there. I saw that fire.” He put his hand to his face. “We were so close. I didn’t know he’d done that.”
Horton sighed. “That was him.” He paused and shook his head. Then he alternated his eyes between the siblings. “I wish I had some good news for you.”
“Is he dead then?” Jeremy asked.
“I wish I knew.” He told Lance’s story from the time the two had met northeast of Dunkirk to their rescue after the Lancastria went down.
“You were on the Lancastria?” Jeremy jumped from his chair in disbelief. He sank back down, numb with the realization of how narrowly they had missed each other, twice.
“Yeah, we were there.” Horton resumed his story, telling how he and Lance had found a staff sergeant by the name of Kenyon and his friend struggling in the water.
“Kenyon? Are you serious? Is he a demolitions specialist?”
“He is.”
“I met him in Marseille last week. He was with a Frenchman called Pierre and a woman—Elena. He must have recognized me.”
“I’m sure he did.” He glanced at Paul. “The three of you are dead ringers for each other.” He smiled at Claire. “You too, Mum, if you were a bloke.”
He chuckled at his own joke and went on, “I’m glad to know Kenyon and Pierre got away. Elena, too. She’s a nice lady.” He told of François leading them across France and of his death from a Stuka attack, and he explained the mission they had undertaken with the French resistance. “We succeeded. We blew up those fuel tanks, but then while we made our getaway, we got stopped by a German panzer sitting in the middle of the road with a squad of infantry soldiers. The last time I saw Lance, I was lying in a ditch, and he was being marched away by the Germans.”
He closed his eyes. “I love your brother. I wouldn’t be here but for him, and others might have made it home because of him.” He opened his eyes again and gazed at each of the siblings. “I hate to be the one to tell you, and I hate to put it this way, but if Lance is alive, he’s a prisoner of war on his way to Germany.” Then he grinned. “If I know your brother, he’s giving ’em hell and trying to escape right now, as we speak.” He glanced up and made eye contact with each of the siblings. “One thing I can say.” His eyes probed each of their faces. “He loved you dearly. Each of you. And your parents. He was very devoted to your family and your Sark Island.”
On the other side of the conference table, Claire broke down sobbing, letting tears run freely. Paul and Jeremy sat quietly, their heads bowed, shoulders drooping. Crockatt looked away as though to avoid intruding on private moments. For a few minutes, no one spoke. Horton dropped his hands into his lap and hunched forward in his chair, looking helpless. “I’m sorry,” he said glumly. “I was never any good at manners.”
“Oh, no!” Claire said. She wiped her eyes on a handkerchief, stood, and hurried around the table to hug him. “You’ve suffered a great deal,” she whispered between barely controlled sobs, “and you cared for our brother. How can we do anything but love you? You’re welcome with our family anytime.”
Crockatt excused himself, stating that he would interview Horton further later, and Vivian brought in sandwiches. The group lingered in the conference room, eager for any detail about Lance, and Horton obliged. Then, after bidding farewell, Jeremy and Claire rode the train back to Stony Stratford together. They took a first-class compartment so they could be alone in their grief, riding in silence for most of the trip, tending to their separate thoughts. Paul had work still to do at his office and promised he would be there later and bring Horton along.
When the train was well out of London and into the countryside, Claire said, “I’m so glad we came. That Corporal Horton is a wonderful person. We must stay in touch with him. He is family now.”
“Agreed,” Jeremy replied. “He gave all the credit to Lance, but I get the feeling that he deserves a lot of it too. I hope someday we can hear the full story with the two of them together.”
Claire nodded and wiped
