by Lee Jackson
Another silence ensued, and then Dowding said, “They’re not completely defenseless, you know. That’s a good complement of destroyers we have there and they all have anti-aircraft munitions, including the troop carriers.” A heavy silence followed, then he broke it by continuing. “Don’t worry, when they come across the Channel, their destroyer screen will be augmented with submarines.”
Chagrinned, Crockatt said, “I understand, sir. I promised I’d try.”
“And you did. Just one word of advice, my friend. Don’t stray too far out of your lane.”
Crockatt chuckled as he stroked his brow with one index finger. “Hmph. I gave almost that exact same advice to our young lieutenant last week. In any event, thanks for taking the call. Cheers.”
19
Saint-Nazaire, France
Lance clambered up one of the heavy rope ladders draped intermittently over the rail along the ship’s length down to the water. To his left and right, soldiers struggled in the rough mesh to keep a handhold and not lose their footholds. Below him, Horton climbed and waited in concert with Lance’s progress. Occasionally, a soldier would fall and was quickly fished from the waters, but the troops made steady progress. Soon, both Lance and Horton stood on the ship’s wooden deck.
A Royal Navy sailor added their names, ranks, and identification numbers to a list and handed them a card directing them to their sleeping and eating areas. He then pointed them toward an outside set of steel stairs.
“If you go there now,” he said, “you might get a hot meal and lemonade. But hurry.” He gestured to indicate the multitude of boats still streaming toward the Lancastria. “As you can see, thousands more are on their way.”
“Jolly good,” Horton enthused. “I’m ready for that.” Then he jerked his head skyward as yet another Stuka raced over his head. Seconds later, it banked and descended, lining up on a group of small boats clustered together.
Its machine guns opened up, their terrible noise like rolling thunder accompanying the rain of tracers launched against the boats. Anti-aircraft guns aboard the destroyers and large troop ships engaged the fighters, and all around, soldiers raised their rifles and fired.
They were ineffectual. The Stuka closed the distance, racing only feet above sea level toward its quarry.
In fascination, Lance watched, unable to avert his eyes. Because of the distance, he could make out no details, but none were needed. He heard the sound of the Stuka’s machine guns and saw pieces of things fly into the sky, dark figures fall into the water, and a red stain coat the sea’s surface.
Meanwhile, the Stuka rolled on, climbed high at a distance, and then circled, its new target obvious. The Lancastria.
The German pilot held his fire until he had leveled out roughly fifty feet above the roiling sea. When he flew within effective range, he unleashed a barrage of lead at the men climbing the ladders and those already hunkered on the decks.
Lance grabbed Horton and pushed into a space below the steel staircase. The protection was inadequate but better than none, and they covered their ears against the roar of gunfire and thunks of bullets against the ship’s steel walls. The smell of death rose in their nostrils.
Overhead, another Stuka attacked, and then another, following in the path of the leader, taking out small boats and circling to turn its guns on the Lancastria. Then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the sky was clear.
Lance surveyed the deck. “We were lucky,” he muttered to Horton. “Those were dive bombers. They must have been at the end of their run and out of heavy ammo.”
The cries of the wounded sounded in agonized clamor. Medics and volunteers scurried to provide first aid and drag injured soldiers to greater safety. Lance and Horton joined in. Meanwhile, the flow of soldiers to the ship continued relentlessly.
When, an hour later, the two companions finally stumbled through the crowds filling the decks, lobbies, corridors, and cabins onto an open deck near the stern, they found the space packed with more exhausted soldiers sitting on every available surface. It had been turned into an eating area. Crewmembers dispensed lemonade.
Drinks in hand, Lance and Horton wedged next to each other against an outer wall. Horton looked around, taking in the mass of men crowded together. “Well, Sergeant,” he grunted, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, and his legs tucked up tightly to make room for others, “next stop, home.”
Lance exhaled. He looked across the faces of anxious men, some in obvious shock, some attempting humor, some already exaggerating war stories. Holding up crossed fingers, he grunted, “Let’s hope.”
Jacques’ little boat plied the waters of Saint-Nazaire, struggling under a load of soldiers that challenged its capacity. Jeremy estimated that the trip would take roughly thirty minutes.
The putter of the engine mixed with the rush of wind, the slapping of water against the hull, and the scattered yells of men giving directions, all punctuated by the cries of seagulls. The smell of the sea combined with lingering gunpowder, the odor of unbathed, sweaty men, and the boat’s exhaust.
The Lancastria loomed larger and larger as they approached, and then a speck appeared high in the sky. The whine of a distant aircraft engine descended in tone to a low, throaty growl as the speck enlarged to a dot, morphed into a Stuka, dipped its nose toward the Lancastria, and closed the distance. It flew low over the ship, dropping further until it was barely above the waves and lined up on a group of boats close together.
Jeremy watched in horror as the fighter let loose volleys of lead, erupting its targets in flying chunks of wood and human body parts that splashed into a crimson stain on the frothing sea. When the pilot had finished his run, he turned his aircraft’s nose skyward, climbed until the plane was again a bare spot on a blue sky, and then circled, the drone of its engine following it.
From across the water, Jeremy heard cries for help, saw arms and legs thrashing, and witnessed the last moments of men who disappeared under the surface, not to be seen again. In shock, he turned to Jacques.
“We must help the survivors.”
Jacques shook his head grimly. “We can’t. We’re already overloaded. This boat will founder and sink.” He searched Jeremy’s despairing face. “I’ll circle back after I drop you and the others off and save as many as I can.”
Before Jeremy could respond, the pitch of the Stuka’s engine caught their attention. The fighter-bomber flew low over the ocean again, somewhat higher than its first run, and lined up on the center of the Lancastria.
As if in a bad dream, the plane cut loose its deadly stream of molten lead at the ship. Bodies spilled over the rails. Men fell from the rope ladders, arms and legs flailing, but soundless from the distance between the Lancastria and Jacques’ small boat.
Nausea welled in Jeremy’s throat. He fought it off with deep breaths, and his mind slowed to a surreal vision of all that surrounded him. Behind him, the other men in the boat railed against the Stuka, shaking their fists and rifles and hurling empty threats into the sky.
“You bastard!”
“I hope you burn in hell.”
“Meet me face-to-face and fight like a man, swine.”
Then, before the soldiers had quieted down, the rumble of more fighter-bombers joined the cacophony, and two more planes descended and followed the exact path of their leader. They attacked ships, small boats, and soldiers along the shore or in the water, any targets within the spray of their murderous machine guns.
Jacques whirled and glanced at the shore and then the Lancastria, calculating relative odds of getting to either location. He grasped the throttle and found it already full open. On instinct, he cut the motor and turned the boat, abruptly slowing its forward movement to keep it from running into the machine gun fire.
Seconds later, bullets sprayed the water where the boat would have been but for Jacques’ fast action. The plane hurtled past, headed toward the ship, its guns already spilling tracers.
Like a man possessed, Jacques cranked the engine
to life and opened the throttle. “Which way?” he called to Jeremy. “Ship or shore? They’ll be back.”
Jeremy turned to look at the grim faces still turned to the sky, following the Stukas’ flight. “We’re sitting ducks either way,” he called back. “Our best shot of getting back to England is on that ship.”
“We were told to watch for you,” the young officer listing names and ranks told Jeremy when he finally boarded and showed the strips of ribbon on his wrist. “You are to be escorted to the bridge. Captain Sharp will speak with you there, and then you’ll go to the forward dining room for the passage to England.” He gestured to a sailor who indicated for Jeremy to follow him.
Startled, Jeremy complied. I guess Jacques must be tied into British intelligence. He had hardly had a chance to bid the Frenchman farewell, and now he worried about whether or not Jacques would reach shore and his apartment safely.
Making his way forward, Jeremy observed from the Lancastria’s fine lines and quality fixtures that at one time it must have been a passenger cruiser, now pressed into military service. However, seemingly every surface of its tables, chairs, divans, stairs, or the decks themselves were occupied by soldiers; yet as Jeremy glanced over the rail, hundreds more waited to climb aboard.
“How many people are on this ship?” he asked as they struggled through the crowd.
The sailor shook his head. “I don’t know. It was designed for seventeen hundred passengers plus three hundred crewmen.” He took a deep breath. “We stopped counting at six thousand.” After navigating through a series of crowded decks, companionways, stairs, and ladders, they entered through a door marked “Bridge.”
The noise and atmosphere changed decidedly when the door closed behind them, with only a few officers working quietly. Captain Sharp stood near the ship’s port side, watching as far below yet more men climbed aboard. The bridge crew spoke quietly while poring over charts in front of the ship’s wheel and spread along the windshield that spanned the vessel.
Beyond the glass, a gray panorama of troop ships, Royal Navy destroyers, and small boats ranged across the water. The destroyers and many of the smaller vessels ferried soldiers to the larger ones and returned for more. Others that had already filled to capacity lingered farther out, awaiting the naval escort that would provide a defensive shield as the entire fleet convoyed to England. Above them hung a dirty veil of smoke, fed by burning fuel-oil of listing and half-sunken boats destroyed by enemy bombing. Already, a dark film splotched much of the estuary’s surface.
The sailor, with Jeremy, approached the captain and made introductions. Sharp was a burly man with dark hair and a jovial countenance weighed down with responsibility. The seaman retreated to a corner of the bridge and waited.
“I’m glad you arrived in one piece,” Sharp said, glancing out at the sky. “I received a message telling me to be sure you arrive in England safely. That’s almost all I know.”
Jeremy did his best to hide his surprise.
“The rest of it is to inform you of a directive coming from high command. When we land in England, you are to report to the director of MI-9. I don’t have a location for you, but I presume that’s in London. Your unit is informed. Perhaps someone there can help find it. I’m sorry I don’t have more details.”
“I understand, sir. No problem.”
Sharp gestured at the scene below. “I won’t be able to spend more time with you. The last ferry just arrived, and we’ll be sailing within the hour.”
“I’ll get out of your way, sir. The ship is a bit crowded.”
The captain scoffed. “When we arrived last night, the French pilot who steered us in told me that I had placed a noose around my neck.” He closed his eyes momentarily and sighed. “Fleet command signaled that we were free to sail hours ago, but—” He stopped talking a moment and exhaled heavily. “We would have had to go across the Channel on our own. No submarine protection, no air cover. So, I made the decision to wait, and meanwhile, more soldiers climbed aboard.” He smiled bleakly. “You know, they say that changing the name of a ship brings it bad luck.”
“No, sir, I didn’t know that.”
Sharp gazed about, taking in the details of the bridge. “This vessel was originally christened the RMS Tyrrhenia, but American passengers had difficulty pronouncing the name. Cunard Line changed it to Lancastria.” He closed his eyes again and shook his head while rocking slightly on his heels. “I hope I made the right decision.”
Sharp appeared to Jeremy to be a man alone, despite his staff. He was affable, kindly, and professional, but now labored under the pressure of potential life-and-death consequences of decisions already made. The captain started to turn away, but Jeremy stopped him with a question.
“If you don’t mind, sir, can you tell me the names of the other ships out there?”
Sharp let his head roll back in thought. “Well let’s see, there’s this one, the Lancastria; then there’s the Havelock, the Duchess of York, the Georgic, the Highlander, the Vanoc.” He pointed to a ship about a mile away. “That’s the Oronsay. It was hit by aircraft this morning but remains seaworthy.”
An officer called to him from across the bridge.
“I must go,” he told Jeremy. “I couldn’t possibly name all the ships off the top of my head, but between the troop carriers and the destroyers, that’s roughly thirty ships. Why do you ask?”
“I want a feel for the effort to rescue our men. Thank you, sir.”
“Ah, good point. Farewell. I hope to see you in better times.”
Jeremy regarded the captain with compassion, his own senses still numb from the brutal attack on Jacques’ boat less than an hour earlier. They shook hands, and Jeremy departed with the sailor, who took him to the forward dining room.
On entering, Jeremy saw that it still contained vestiges of the years it plied the ocean as a luxury liner, displayed in polished wooden tables, artistic murals, and mosaic floors. Now, it too was filled with exhausted men, sitting or standing in whatever small space they had carved out. However, on looking around, Jeremy saw that most men in the room were commissioned officers and senior non-commissioned officers.
No one spoke to him as he entered, and the orderly excused himself and returned to his duties. Looking around, he noticed that a line had formed leading to tubs with bottles of lemonade. He found the back of the line and waited patiently as it moved forward. Not feeling conversational, he stared blankly into nowhere with his hands in his pockets, only moving when the queue did.
Reflecting back, he could hardly grasp all that had happened in the nine days that had passed since he buried himself in the sand. The events of the past few weeks had gone beyond surreal, challenging his sanity.
How did I go from one day building airfields to the next becoming an untrained infantryman in the thick of combat and looking desperately for rescue from Dunkirk? His mind went to Ferrand and his daughters and the risks they had taken to save him and provide him sanctuary. As an image of Amélie flashed through his mind, he inhaled, and his chest seemed to burn.
This time, the memories could not linger, replaced involuntarily with those of the cries of toddlers and mothers separated from each other among hordes of refugees; of families pushing carts holding cherished heirlooms or loved ones too young or old to walk; of packs of dogs and scavengers fighting over carrion, some of it farm animals, some human, some even children; of the mass tramp of a population of millions fleeing south in hopes of finding a safer place; of discarded personal treasures heaped along the roadways for lack of remaining strength to carry them. And then, the brutal attacks by Stukas. The replayed images seared his brain.
The admonition of Nicolas and Jacques echoed again and again, summarized in Jacques’ passionate exhortation delivered at the point of a jabbing finger: “You tell them in London that we must win this war. We have no choice, and we free French will fight with or without England.”
Looking around at the beleaguered men crowded into this erstwhile elega
nt dining room, Jeremy lowered his head. “I’ll tell them,” he whispered. “In London, I’ll make bloody sure they hear you.”
“Eh? What’s that?” a major at Jeremy’s elbow inquired. “Did you say something to me?”
“Sorry, sir,” Jeremy replied, startled. “I was talking to myself.”
“Yes, well, be careful of that.” The major cast a doleful look around the room. “A lot of us might be doing the same thing before all of this is over.” He smiled with a kindly twinkle in his tired eyes. “Buck up. You’ll be all right, and you’ll soon be home.” He nudged Jeremy’s arm and pointed.
Jeremy looked to where the major indicated, through a door leading into a smaller room, and was surprised at what he saw. Inside, men and women in civilian clothes huddled together. Children at their feet clung to them.
“Who are they?” he asked. “What are they doing here?” He fought down sudden anger at the conditions wrought on innocents.
“Embassy staff and their families,” the major replied. “I was an attaché there. We brought them down last night.”
“God help us,” Jeremy murmured as the line proceeded.
Abruptly, from beyond the steel walls and ceiling, the sound of thundering engines grew in intensity. People looked nervously about. Then the ship’s sirens wailed.
“Hold tight, old boy,” the major said. “We’re in for another volley.”
No sooner had he spoken than a scorching blast knocked him and Jeremy onto the floor. People screamed, women’s and children’s frightened cries heard above the din. Smoke and the smell of exploded munitions filled the room. Tables and chairs flew through the air, hitting victims with deadly force.
