by David Leroy
The roads were clogged with all sorts of abandoned trucks and cars. As the truck turned a corner just after Fontaine-Milon, heading next to Angers, Marc never expected to see a group of elephants moving down the road. The truck slowly maneuvered around the herd as it marched along with the circus members, encircled by hundreds of refugees.
“What the bloody fuck,” Allen murmured.
“I, I cannot …” Marc then stopped and looked toward the sky. Others then started to turn and look in all directions for the source of the sound.
Five bears walked in a line, each linked to the other. Behind the bears, a few families followed who did not appear to be with the circus. Back further from the bears were two horse-drawn carriages with several lions in them. And then there were the towering elephants that were mixed in between the bears, lions, and other refugees. Mahouts guided their elephants down the road. The elephants seemed to hold the space for the group with a stately consciousness.
Everyone seemed to be connected and lead by them as they walked with a certain determination and careful grace. The expressions upon their faces seemed to mirror the exact somberness of the refugees. Walkers would part for the elephants as the circus made its way down the crowded road. Then everyone began to scatter from the road in every imaginable direction, though no one seemed to know exactly from which direction the sound of the planes was coming.
“Get out! Take cover!” the driver yelled. Marc looked for Allen when he hit the ground. Then he looked at the others running to find a spot to hide. He turned, and just then, a Russian sun bear slammed Marc to the ground, pushing the air out of his lungs, as it ran over him and into the woods.
Within a few minutes, two elephants laid dead. The bears ran in every direction. One of the horse-drawn lion carriages had overturned and had crushed a boy, maybe six years old, and his father.
Marc rolled over on the ground and tried to find his breath. They must have thought those elephants were trucks, he thought to himself, because there could be no other reason to fire upon a traveling circus.
One of the truck’s engine compartments hissed with the steam of the shot-up radiator. Marc huddled next to the soldier, who trembled violently. The Dutch girl sobbed and shook her mother.
“Can it be fixed?” Allen asked the officer as they opened the truck’s hood.
“I think so. It’s just a hose and we have some tape,” he said as he pulled a kit out of the truck’s cab.
Galway, Ireland
June 14, 1940
SS George Washington, At Dock.
Nigel sat at the bar of the SS George Washington where it was stopped in Galway, Ireland, to take on more passengers.
“Need another, friend?” the bartender asked.
“Pass. I have had enough. Do you need anything?” Nigel asked.
“On the house, friend, captain’s orders.”
Nigel left the bar on the aft boat deck. He walked to the rail overlooking the stern section of the ship. Sailors struggled with hoisting rafts up over the rail from the dock. On the other side, three rafts were stacked upon one another, lashed down to the deck.
As he walked forward along the deck, he passed a small group of workers with the ship’s engineer. Nigel stopped on the deck and looked back to see what they were working on. The hatch to a service panel had been removed, and cables ran from the panel up over the deck to the top of the roof.
“We need an 80-amp fuse,” he overheard. The engineer walked past him toward the forward decks to get the fuse.
Nigel looked up and saw the large flood lamps lashed down on the roof that pointed up toward an enormous American flag stretched between the ship’s two funnels. Inside, people moved all about the cabins with luggage in tow.
“Sir, we need you to move to the lounge. Everyone in your cabin will be staying there. Here is your cot number, and if you can remove your luggage, please,” the steward asked him as he reached the cabin.
“What is this about?” Nigel asked.
“We are taking on more, and many are children, so, we need the cabins. I am sorry,” the steward said and then left.
On reaching the main deck foyer, Nigel saw the line of new passengers boarding the ship. On one side, life jackets were stacked clear up the wall. Nigel stared as each family member was given a life jacket, and instructed on how to put it on.
In the lounge, Nigel put his small package of emergency clothes he was able to get from the Red Cross under his cot. All of the furniture had been moved to the center of the room and stacked. He spied another pile of life jackets in one corner, along with blankets.
Nigel made his way through the crowds of new passengers in the writing room, smoking room and library. “May I have a Scotch, please?” he asked the bartender.
“Where you from?” the bartender asked.
“Paris, well, America, but have been in Paris for the past year.”
“When did you leave Paris?”
“End of May, I think. Maybe it was early June? I don’t really remember.”
“You really should have a double.”
Out of habit, Nigel reached for his wallet in his jacket. But then he realized he was not wearing a jacket, because he had given it to the girl who had been hit by the truck. The bartender waved his hand, reminding Nigel that the drinks were on the house, but his mind only focused on the girl’s head.
“Scotch again?” the bartender asked. Another crewman came in with more cases of alcohol.
“More supplies, and should be enough. We have another 852 now aboard, maybe more,” the crewman said to the bartender.
“Yes, please, a double,” Nigel said.
June 14, 1940
Outside Nantes, France
The truck pulled into town. One of the officers got out and moved to the back of the truck. “You chaps, come with me.”
Marc and Allen climbed out and said, “What are we doing?”
The town was deserted, the streets completely empty.
“This is not a good sign. Do you think the Germans might already have come through?” Allen asked the officer.
They went to a restaurant and the doors were shut, but there was someone inside. The officer pounded on the door. “Open up! BEF here.” The man came to the door and opened it for him.
“We are looking for food. I have several thousand francs. I have a few children in the back who need something to eat, and several men and women,” but the man then pretended not to speak English and, even as Allen spoke perfect French, he ignored them.
“Wait here, I’ll be right back,” Allen said and then went to the back of the truck. “Sister, I need you,” he said to Sister Clayton.
“Will you talk to him, please?” Allen asked her as they walked up to the restaurateur.
“We need food, sir, not just for us but for the little ones. Don’t you believe in helping others as Christ helped you?” she said in a supremely cool tone.
The man crumbled under the weight of her lecture and would not look her in the eye. He brought them back into the rear of the restaurant, and they collected some supplies.
“What’s in there?” the officer pointed to the door of the large walk-in refrigerator.
“More stores if we need them. Want to see?” the owner said, smiling.
“Yes. Do you have any milk?” he asked as the man opened the door.
Marc and Allen stood in shock and the officer said, “What the bloody fuck is this?” the British Officer said to Allen. Marc’s entire face dropped, and Sister Clayton grabbed the cross that lay upon her chest.
“The Germans eat off the fat of the land. When they come, they are going to take everything. We are not shooting dogs just to keep the streets clean. We are going to need something to eat as well,” he said, as if the answer was obvious.
Inside the freezer, lined up on all three sides upon the shelves were the corpses of dogs of all breeds, many clearly pets.
“I have not had time to skin them yet, but if you need one,” the man sai
d.
“Let’s go. We’ll pass on the dogs,” the officer said quickly.
The man shut the door and stood in the back room as the officer, Marc, Allen, and Sister Clayton returned to the trucks.
June 14, 1940
Paris, near midnight
The streets were totally clear. Ambassador Bullitt rehearsed in his mind his words. This was a bitter cup for him now. The trains had stopped. Had it not been for a chance call from Switzerland to the embassy, the Germans would have been shelling the city by now. Instead the night was silent, except for a few lookers.
A single car drove out to meet the Germans. “We are kind of winging this, you know. There is nothing in the diplomatic handbook for such things,” Bullitt said to his driver. Bullitt shook the officer’s hand and then assured him, along with the acting police chief of Paris, that the city was open, and there would be no resistance. No traffic moved in or out of Paris that night.
“Can you recommend a hotel?” the officer asked. Bullitt was not prepared for this question. The police chief wondered if it was a joke.
“There are many. You can take the best, I am sure,” said the police chief, deciding that the officer was immensely serious.
“There is an excellent hotel just across from the embassy on the Place de la Concorde,” Bullitt said next.
“Excellent. Please take us there,” the officer said.
June 14, 1940
Between Savenay and Saint-Nazaire, France
Marc lay in the back of the truck with the others from the YMCA, along with some British soldiers and a few employees of a Belgian aircraft company. It was about 1 a.m. and though they had been traveling for hours, they were not yet ready to bed for the night. And they were not alone. All along the valley road were others still on the move. Everyone seemed to be going someplace, anyplace, wherever they could get in a hurry, with a great determination.
“I am really looking forward to getting out of France. When I get home, I am going to go straight to Elizabeth’s house and spend the night. I have not been able to write her for two weeks. She probably thinks I am dead,” Allen said to Marc.
Marc stirred from his self-loathing mood. He played over and over in his head the number of times he could’ve left France. He resented himself for staying too long, just for Marie. He even doubted the sincerity of the promise of engagement.
“How long have you been together?” Marc asked.
“Two years now,” Allen said, looking up at the stars.
Marc could see his mother, father and sister in his mind’s eye. Sadness washed over him as he remembered how Marie had promised to make him dinner this night.
“I am twenty-one, now,” Marc said, more as an afterthought.
“Really? Well, cheers to that, my friend. Bet you will never forget this birthday, will you?” Allen said.
“No, I don’t believe I will,” Marc said as they drove toward Saint-Nazaire. “Marie and I are engaged,” he then said.
“What? When? You never said anything,” Allen said, looking directly at Marc.
“I know. It is just a promise for after the war. We were not going to tell anyone,” Marc said next. “It probably means nothing.”
The truck then pulled off the road and the officer driving it said, “Let’s sack down for the night, but someplace off the road away from the truck just in case.”
“Marc, don’t say that,” Allen said, surprised by his friend’s attitude. “You’ve been in a mood for a while now. Are you stewing?”
“What do you mean?” Marc said as he climbed from the truck. He and Allen began walking away from the road with the others.
“You’ve been in a mood since the bear hit you,” Allen said cautiously. “You think too much.”
“What does that mean? The little shit knocked the wind out of me, Allen.”
“That little shit rides a motorcycle, Marc.” Marc turned toward Allen. “While you were analyzing the entire situation, trying to make the best decision, that bear knew it needed to run for its life.”
Marc sat on the ground with the others gathering to bed down for the night. Allen looked closely at Marc. “Are you feeling okay?”
Marc looked up, tears in his eyes. He laughed to himself and said, “I can’t even ride a motorcycle. You’re right, Allen,” he continued laughing while others looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “The bear did put me in a bad mood.”
“He needs some rest,” Sister Clayton said as she passed with the little Belgian boy and his sister and their two dogs. “He is going slaphappy from the strain.”
Chapter 19
June 15, 1940
Saint-Nazaire, France
After breaking camp that morning, the group drove the last few miles into the port of Saint-Nazaire. Marc studied the soldiers marching on the road as the truck passed them.
“I thought, Allen, that most left at Dunkirk,” Marc asked.
“These are the support troops, and other units not cut off at Dunkirk.”
“But, over the radio, they said everyone.”
“Of course they did,” Allen said, and then looked over the side toward Saint Nazaire in the distance. The truck crested the hill, and Allen saw thousands of men in front of him amassing in fields around the port city.
“Where are you coming from?” the officer said as they stopped on the road just outside the city.
“Nantes,” the driver replied.
“Any Germans yet?” the officer sounded more like the guard of a camp.
“None on the ground, but in the air we had quite a few close calls.”
“Drive down over there and put the truck in drive, before you get out,” the soldier said.
All along the road by the beach, soldiers were taking trucks and driving them into the open sea. Marc watched the odd carnival of men shouting as they drove the trucks and lorries into the surf.
“Are we siphoning the petrol?” Allen asked.
“No need. I am nearly empty, anyway,” the officer said.
“All out back here,” Allen called to the front.
“Oh hey, and there you go, my lady.” The officer then jumped from the truck as it drove down the beach into the surf. Just fifty yards away, another truck drove toward the sea. And all along the shore in front of them were trucks and vehicles either sticking out of the ocean, or buried in the sand from the previous high tide.
Marc could not help but be captivated by the scene. As they walked toward the port, hundreds of trucks and cars laid abandoned. Many had open hoods and it was clear that they’d been sabotaged. A large bonfire soared into the sky as quartermasters burned supplies that were to be left behind. Along the town and docks, the city was overtaken with scores of fleeing soldiers and refugees.
“Sister, I think we are best heading back to stay with the other men near the airway,” Allen said to Sister Clayton.
“The children cannot sleep out in the open. I’m sure the local church can put us up. Even if we have to sleep on a floor, it is better to be inside,” she protested.
“Well, you could be right, but Marc and I are going to go back and hang close to the soldiers, because when word comes it is time to get on a ship, we need to be with them,” Allen said.
“We are not going to be far, but stay in the town and I am sure we will find you in the morning,” Sister Clayton said as they separated that day.
It was early yet, and the men pouring into the airfield looked like a ragtag of souls. Marc and Allen ended up walking back into the port and even taking in a movie to help the time pass. Air raid sirens made their calls and a plane dived in on the port, but nothing terribly serious happened that day. Throughout the night, sleeping out in the open with the other men of the BEF, Marc and Allen noticed the constant flow of new men arriving at all hours.
It was the afternoon of the following day that ships came into port. Marc and Allen rushed with the soldiers of the airfield down to the port, looking for the other members of their convoy from Paris. Long li
nes formed as boats took the men out to the ships. A hospital ship arrived and offered to take men aboard if they abandoned their gear, but they refused.
“Should I go look for them?” Marc asked Allen.
“It really is not that important. They are going to catch a ship by the same dock we are on. It is not as if there are fifty ways to get out of here. They might have got out to a ship even before we made our way down here,” Allen said, while waiting in the line.
“You’re right. I never thought about that,” Marc said. He watched more men pile into the lines down at the port.
At ten that night, the port master shut down the line. “The lights will draw the planes! Shut off those lights!” he yelled as he passed the lines.
It started to rain, and Marc and Allen crowded under the eave of a building with a group of soldiers. Several men ran over to the barrels, and used a tarp to create a small refuge from the soaking.
“Wherever Sister Clayton and the others found to stay, I sure hope it’s dry,” Allen complained to Marc. Marc pulled at Allen’s coat and pointed toward the wine barrels.
“Let’s get over by the wine. At least if they’re hit by a raid, we can get drunk as we die,” Marc joked. They made their way over to find a dry spot to sleep for the night.
“Boys, time to muster up to the dock,” the shouts came at four in the morning.
“Holy Mother of God, one bullet, Allen, and we’d be done for,” Marc said, amazed at just how stupid he’d been to not pay better attention. The barrels were not wine but paraffin.
After joining a long line of soldiers, Marc and Allen finally boarded the fifth trawler to take the men out to one of the evacuation ships. Marc looked out to a single-stack liner as the small vessel took them out over the bay. It was about five decks high with a sweeping profile. The funnel was dark grayish black, the portholes blacked out with paint.
“I feel bad, Allen, that we’re separated now from the others,” Marc said as he looked up the side of the ship.
