After Dunkirk

by Lee Jackson

  She held her hand out with the unspoken message.

  After an uncomfortable silence, Maass reached for it and kissed it without a word.

  “Now,” Marian asked in German, “what can I do for you?”

  Many hours later, a physically and emotionally spent Marian collapsed on the sofa in the upstairs lounge.

  “You were brilliant,” Stephen said, “and you were absolutely right about their observance of protocol. They can’t help themselves.”

  “We can thank Benito Mussolini for the idea,” she replied. “He forced German visitors to be announced and walk past the grandeur of his surroundings, to approach him across a long, huge office.

  “I knew we were winning when I heard them dusting off their boots at the front door. That showed they intended to treat us with respect.

  “Besides, Germany wouldn’t send their combat-seasoned leaders to oversee our tiny island. Lanz is an aristocrat. He’s here burnishing his reputation without putting himself in real danger. He’ll never be at the front. We’ll play on that, at least for as long as it works. Now that I know whom I’m dealing with, I’ll research his background. I’m sure we have acquaintances in common. We might even share ancestry.”

  The servant girl appeared at the top of the stairs and interrupted the conversation. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” she said. “The operator of the boat from Guernsey came by while you spoke with the Germans. He had a piece of mail for you.”

  She hesitated before handing the envelope to Marian. “He wanted to slip this to Mr. Carré to bring to you, but the German officers were a bit agitated and in a hurry. The letter arrived yesterday in Guernsey. He said to tell you that there won’t be any more mail coming from or through the British mainland.”

  Marian took the letter, and the servant departed. It had been postmarked in France. When she opened the envelope, she saw that the message inside was scrawled on dirty, wrinkled paper. Scanning to the signature line, she brought her hand to her mouth and gasped. “It’s from Lance.”

  Stephen bolted across the room and hovered at her shoulder as she read aloud.

  “Dearest Family, I’m alive. I hope Jeremy got out all right. I’m a POW, on a forced march with thousands of British and French soldiers—no, tens of thousands—to Germany. The French people have been good to us. They line the roads and slip or throw us food and give us water when they can, but the guards are a sadistic lot and push them away when they see that happening.

  This note has our address on it, so maybe it’ll get sent on. If you are reading it, we owe a debt of kindness to a stranger on a street in a town somewhere in France east of Saint-Nazaire.

  I think of you always. Mum, I know I was a handful. I wish I could have done better. Dad, I think of all the cliff-climbing and ball-kicking we did. I miss my brothers and sister so much. Thinking of my family sustains me.

  I’ll try to get a Red Cross message to you when I reach a destination.

  I love you all dearly, Lance”

  Marian Littlefield, Dame of Sark, clutched the letter to her breast and sobbed.

  56

  Marseille, France

  Madame Fourcade welcomed Jeremy, Nicolas, Ferrand, and Anna to her rented villa to the northeast of Marseille. Jacques had stayed in the north to fill in until Jeremy’s replacement arrived.

  “We can’t do this often,” Fourcade said, “but getting together to see the faces of friends who go in harm’s way warms my heart.” They sat around a table on a large covered veranda. The city sprawled below them, and the blue Mediterranean glimmered in the warm air.

  Fourcade put her arm around Anna. “You were so brave,” she told the old lady, who still peered about with apprehension.

  “It was nothing,” Anna replied in a high-pitched voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t have to do much acting.” She pointed at her brother-in-law sitting across from her. “Ferrand’s cousin looks so much like him that at first I thought it was him, and my anger with the Germans is real.”

  “Well, we lost a valuable asset when you left that battalion headquarters.”

  “Not so valuable,” Anna replied, waving a hand. “Bergmann’s gone. He was the only one who learned about me. The Germans don’t check much on the invisible people who do their cleaning. Someone will take my place and get even better information.”

  “Well, you did an incredible thing,” Fourcade said. “That information about Meier’s hostility to the Nazis might have long-term value. I’ll get word up the channels.”

  “I must go back,” Ferrand cut in. “I only came to bring Anna.”

  “I have to go too,” Nicolas interrupted. “I have to be with my father in this fight.”

  “Ferrand, you need to rest,” Fourcade said firmly. “I just met you, so I won’t take too many liberties, but you should lie low, take a breather, eat”—she shoved a plate of meat and potatoes his way— “and get your strength back. You’ve been under killer pressure for a long time. If you go back, we need you in top condition. Nicolas and his father can stand in for you until the team leader from London arrives in a few days.

  “As for you.” She turned her attention to Nicolas. “You’ll have our full support. You did a marvelous job getting Jeremy across France and then back up to Dunkirk with the team. Jacques too. You both proved your worth. Let us know how we can help.”

  Nicolas beamed, bowing his head in appreciation.

  “Would it be possible to see my daughters?” Ferrand cut in again. “I understand they are somewhere in this area.”

  Fourcade’s expression melted to one of compassion. She smiled. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  Jeremy had been sitting facing into a breeze, enjoying the chatter and the ambience. His heart skipped a beat at Ferrand’s request and again at Fourcade’s response.

  A French door behind them suddenly flew open. Amélie and Chantal burst onto the veranda, arms outstretched. They ran to their father, who had half-risen from his seat when he saw them. They buried him in hugs and kisses. Chantal jumped up and down in excitement like the young girl she still was.

  Amélie had her arms around her father, her face on his shoulder, swaying with him. She glanced up, saw Jeremy, and their eyes met. She sucked in her breath and her cheeks flushed scarlet.

  “Jeremy!” She pulled away from her father, rushed to him, and threw her arms around his neck. “We thought you were dead.”

  Hearing her sister, Chantal jerked her head around to see Jeremy, and then she too ran to embrace him.

  “Was that you who parachuted in the other night? I was there. I helped the woman.”

  “Brigitte?”

  “Yes, Brigitte. I looked right at you when I went to help her, but in the dark, I couldn’t see that was you.”

  Fourcade watched the reunion with amused interest. Maurice walked out onto the patio and took a seat next to her. “Sorry I was late,” he said. “We ran into trouble on the way over.”

  Fourcade shot him a look of alarm.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, grinning. “This was of the mundane type. A vegetable truck spilled its load all over the road.”

  She looked dubious.

  “Not mine.” Maurice laughed. “But we had to wait until the road cleared.” He looked across the gathering, locking in on the girls still hovering over Jeremy. “Their father is not the only one they’re happy to see.”

  “I noticed.”

  While they observed, Chantal broke away to welcome Nicolas, her Aunt Anna, and then her father again. Amélie and Jeremy remained where they were, standing, talking, their hands touching. Ferrand watched with a contented smile.

  “Is it my imagination, or do I see some chemistry there?” Fourcade asked.

  Maurice laughed quietly. “They’re in love. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  Two more men walked onto the patio with another woman. They had dark complexions, but one man spoke only English, and the other only French. The woman spoke both languages. They did a double
take on seeing Jeremy, but he did not notice them. Fourcade introduced them quietly to Maurice.

  “This is Kenyon, Pierre, and Elena,” she said in French. “They blew up the tanks in Saint-Nazaire.”

  “Impressive,” Maurice said. “Welcome. We’re glad to have your expertise.”

  Elena translated for Kenyon’s benefit, and Fourcade noted with amusement the way she flashed her eyes at him. We might be sensing more magic in the air.

  Kenyon gestured toward Jeremy. “Who is that man?”

  “His name is Jeremy Littlefield,” Fourcade replied. “He was brought over a few days ago from England to put a team in place. He’s leaving tonight, by submarine. We have a boat taking him out to the rendezvous. Do you know him?”

  “No, but we had a chap with us at Saint-Nazaire with that surname. He saved my life when the Lancastria went down. That man looks enough like him to be his brother. Unfortunately, we lost him.” He peered more closely at Jeremy. “The mission went off all right, but everyone in his getaway car disappeared. We don’t know if they were captured or killed.”

  “Oh, that’s depressing,” Fourcade said. “I wouldn’t tell him. Not now. Whether he is or isn’t your friend’s brother, Jeremy deserves to enjoy this evening.”

  Late in the afternoon, Jeremy and Amélie finally had a chance to be alone among the villa’s gardens. They walked hand in hand through the lanes, admiring the flowers and the beauty of the scenery.

  “This is so much better than the last time we saw each other,” Amélie said. “I thought we would never again see something resembling normalcy.”

  “Your family risked so much to save me,” Jeremy said. “Your father is an amazing man. I haven’t stopped thinking of any of you since Dunkirk.” A shadow crossed his face. “Unfortunately, this is going to be a long war.”

  “Shh.” Amélie turned in front of him and raised one delicate finger across his lips. “We must enjoy the good moments.” Then she kissed him lightly. “Everyone says we’re in love.”

  “Are we?” Jeremy asked.

  They resumed walking along the path. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t,” Amélie replied. “We met under such intense moments. You’re a good man. A wonderful man. And brave. I know what you did to save my father. Whatever debt you might feel you owe us is paid. We’re even. I think about you every waking moment, but is that love, or is that worry? Would I feel differently if we had met under other circumstances? What about you, are you in love?”

  Jeremy stopped in the middle of the path. He locked his fingers behind his head, stretched, and breathed in deeply. Finally, he chuckled, and took Amélie’s hand again.

  “I’ve had the same thoughts,” he said. “Do I love you, or am I infatuated with a beautiful girl who faced such danger to save me? Would I feel differently if I had met you at a party, or at a library, or in a store. I don’t know.” They resumed ambling through the flower garden, enjoying the fragrance.

  “Do you really have to go tonight?”

  “I’m afraid I must. That’s the bargain I made for British intelligence to support this mission. I have to go back for training.”

  “To do what?”

  “I’m not sure, but if I were to guess, I’d say it is to do what I just did, except to learn to do it better.”

  “Then you’ll be back?”

  “Maybe. But one thing I can tell you for sure. I’ll come to find you when this war is over, no matter how long it takes.”

  Amélie circled in front of him again, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him, gently at first, and then with passionate energy. “I believe you,” she murmured. “Are we being too logical about our feelings?” She kissed him again.

  Jeremy’s whole being seemed about to burst. He held Amélie tightly, returning her kisses until he felt almost incapable of catching his breath.

  She leaned back slightly, her eyes looking into his. “I love you,” she said.

  Jeremy reached back, unclasped both of her hands from around his neck, and held them in front of him, cupping them with his own. Then he put his right palm flat over his chest, cupped it again, and pressed it between hers. “I’ll leave my heart right here,” he murmured, “where it belongs.”

  Epilogue

  Nine days later – July 12, 1940

  London, England

  Around nine o’clock in the morning, Jeremy heard the phone ring in the apartment he shared with Claire and Timmy. His sister had already left for work.

  His return trip from Marseille via the sea had taken several days. On arriving back in London, he found that Claire had moved to a guest house on an estate near Stony Stratford, a village nine miles from Bletchley, arranged by Crockatt. The MI-6 head, Menzies, had been uncomfortable with the former living arrangement. An alternative had been sought.

  The new place allowed Claire to be close to work at Bletchley as well as near Timmy whenever Jeremy had to be away. The nanny had a private room too, and the house had a nursery with plenty of space for Timmy to play indoors and outdoors.

  The middle-aged couple who owned the estate were only too happy to help out. The request coming from a military intelligence officer made them feel like they were doing something important for the war effort, and they loved having Timmy around.

  The reunion with the child had been joyous. On first seeing Jeremy, the toddler had looked confused. Then he let out an excited shriek, clapped his hands, and burst into happy cries. He ran and locked his arms around his guardian’s neck. Jeremy lifted him into the air and pressed the boy’s cheek against his own. “Ah, I’ve missed you.”

  The little boy gazed into his eyes, then looked around questioningly. “Mummy?”

  Jeremy buried his head between Timmy’s cheek and shoulder, smothering a grief-filled gasp. Claire and Paul stood watching nearby, holding in check their desire to hear as many details as he was allowed to share.

  “Did you see Amélie?” Claire had teased when they finally settled down to talk. She poked his ribs.

  “I did,” Jeremy replied, fighting her off. A smile had broken across his face in spite of his best effort. “All right,” he said, “I’ll admit it. We’re fond of each other.”

  “Just fond?”

  “I won’t go any further on that subject now.” He laughed, then his expression had become serious. “She and her sister and father are together in Marseille for the time being, and that is still a relatively safe place.”

  “You’ll see her again, little brother, in better times,” Claire said. She circled behind him and snuggled her head against his back. “I believe that.”

  Jeremy had diverted his attention to Paul. “Any news on Lance?”

  When Paul shook his head, Jeremy asked, “Do we know how Mum and Dad are doing?”

  “Red Cross messages are finally getting through,” Paul replied. “I let them know you’re safe. They’ll be thrilled to hear that.” A note had arrived from them indicating that they were doing well under the circumstances. Given that the communiqués were confined to twenty-eight words and subject to censorship, the siblings could not expect to learn much about conditions on the island. One phrase was cryptic and concerning though: “Pray for Lance, that he can persevere.”

  Paul had informed Jeremy sadly that the Germans now occupied all of the English Channel Islands. “We sent reconnaissance patrols to both Guernsey and Sark, but the operations got muffed up. Some of our soldiers were killed. We got nothing.”

  Jeremy sighed heavily. “What about Timmy? Any news of his relatives?”

  “The Foreign Office thinks they might have found some grandparents living in India,” Paul said. “Apparently, the father was an only child who was educated and joined the foreign service from the Far East. They haven’t learned anything of Eva yet.”

  Jeremy was not displeased, but immediately felt guilty for being selfish. “Surely, they must have a record of whom to contact for emergencies.”

  “If the father was injured or killed, they were to cont
act Eva.”

  “Oh. I see the difficulty,” Jeremy replied gravely. “Well,” he went on with a subdued smile, “until his relations are found, he’ll just stay with us.” He had plopped on the floor next to Timmy and wrestled with him until the child squealed with laughter.

  That had been a week ago. Jeremy had spent the following week resting up, playing with Timmy, and thinking of Amélie. Now that she and her family were safe in Marseilles with Fourcade and Maurice, he finally felt free to let his feelings about her roam without dread. But it’s going to be a long war.

  The phone rang again. Jeremy was not expecting any calls this morning.

  Paul was on the other end of the line. “Could you come in to Major Crockatt’s office.” His voice sounded urgent. “Can you make it by eleven o’clock?”

  When Jeremy pressed for a reason, Paul’s voice broke, and he insisted, “Just please get here, quickly.”

  Getting dressed and taking the train into London took two hours, and that was without taking time to see Timmy. When Jeremy arrived at the headquarters, he was startled to bump into Claire at the entrance. She was as surprised as he was, and her face was equally serious. “You were called too?” he asked.

  Claire nodded. “Any idea what this is about?”

  “None.”

  They made their way through the various security checkpoints and arrived at Vivian’s desk. She greeted them warmly but with an air of reserve, and instead of taking them into the major’s office, she ushered them down a hall to a conference room.

  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.”