by David Leroy
Each one grabbed the bike handles to pull themselves over, and as they did, they’d accidently pull the bike’s bell. “Bling-ging, bling-ging, bling-ging,” went the bell each time a soldier climbed over the rail onto the side of the ship’s plates. The sound of its cheerful, childlike tone made Marc think of what a delightful afternoon it would be for a bike ride on the side of a ship.
Chapter 21
Allen struggled to keep his balance inside the dark room as he waited to get through the porthole.
“Get back!” the man yelled.
Just then, the light went out through the porthole and water began to rush inside.
Sister Clayton made her way aft, coming upon a man stripping out of his trousers and shirt, dropping his drawers as he prepared to jump over the side of the ship. He turned and looked at her with embarrassment.
“This is no time for modesty,” she said as she started to pull off her hat. The ship then lurched, throwing both of them against the rail. They floated away from the rail as the ocean came up and over it.
On the side of the ship, Marc could see a group of lifeboats that had made it free. Around the ship, he saw bobbing heads of men, and sometimes women, in the sea. “Who would lash a life vest on a dead man?” Marc pondered.
In the distance, Marc saw the cruiser that earlier had been ferrying troops as it approached the now-overturned Lancastria. But, just then, another plane dived down upon the swimmers and fired into the sea. The plane dropped some kind of bomb on the struggling soldiers.
Marc looked down the plates of the hull, toward a large crack. Through the gaping hole, oil spilled from the ship. He scanned how far the oil slick extended over the sea, and then saw that some of this oil had caught on fire. Marc watched as one man swam through the oil, trying to get out of it, as his hair caught fire. He screamed before disappearing into the black sea.
“Hand … hand…” he heard to his right. Marc looked and no one was there.
“Down here,” he heard. He looked and there was a man in porthole calling for his hand. He helped him up and out. Another man was behind the first.
“Hurry!” he said. “Hurry!” The man he’d just helped from the porthole yelled down inside the ship, as he tried to help his buddy escape. Marc saw the water now rising up from the ship’s submerged bow. He started to walk backwards along the side of the plates and then turned toward the aft. The propellers jetted out of the sea. Marc could see men climbing over the railings near the aft section, and up on the now-jutting propeller shaft.
“Do you want to live?” a British officer asked Marc. He snapped out of what felt like a heavy state of sleep.
“Yes,” Marc pulled the words out of himself.
“Then strip out of those clothes. They are just going to pull you down,” the officer barked to him, and pointed to others just behind Marc. Marc felt like the words had passed through him, as he struggled to focus amidst the panic.
All along the side of the ship, men busted through portholes and called for help to climb out. When the water reached the open portholes, Marc heard the shouts and screams of men inside the ship.
Marc took off his boots, shirt and trousers. The officer in front of him now stood fully naked. Others were stripping down, some naked, and some just no trousers on. Other men appeared like they expected to walk off the ship and across the ocean on some magical bridge. They were in full dress, and with heavy kitbags on their backs. Somehow they seemed unable to save their own lives; the idea of letting go of equipment was grounds for court martial.
The ocean continued to climb the side of the ship. The cruiser had moved away a bit from the scene to avoid the planes diving from above.
Marc slipped out of his underwear and got done folding his clothing. He stacked it neatly on the side of the ship, as if he were just going for a swim and was going to come back later to dress for dinner.
“Are you ready?” the officer called over the yelling to Marc.
“For what?” Marc thought the words first and then had to force himself to say them.
“To jump into the sea. We need to get away from the ship so it does not pull us down,” the officer yelled.
Just then, across the sea of broken bodies, lifeboats, and shouting men, coming from within busted-out portholes came a chorus of rowdy British men singing out “Roll out the Barrel.” They perched themselves along the protruding starboard side propeller shaft. The voices seemed to be disconnected from the scene. Marc looked out upon a dark sea of oil mixed with swimmers, bodies, smoke, and broken lifeboats.
“There will always be an England,” came ringing out from a single voice of a steward. He sat along the outside part of the railing near the aft of the ship.
The water surged along the ship’s side. Marc saw men climbing out from various portholes. Just ten feet from him, the glass snapped as another person deep inside the ship attempted to break free. There was a man, not thirty feet away, who could not get out of the porthole. He was stuck. Another soldier hit him on the head to knock him out so he would not suffer as he drowned.
“Do you want to live, son?” the officer asked again in a sharp tone.
Shots rang out behind them to the aft. Two officers had taken out their revolvers and then shot each other. Both Marc and the officer looked in the direction of the gunfire. Marc’s eye caught another soldier who appeared to be a high-ranking officer. He perched himself near the propeller and stood as calm as could be, smoking a cigarette and looking out over the ocean as if he were at the beach for the day.
Marc looked back at the naked man in front of him and away from the scene all around him. He took a deep breath and focused his mind, trying to block it all out.
“Yes, ready,” he said, as if he were speaking through a wall of glass.
“Let’s go, then,” the officer said as he dived into the sea.
Marc walked to the side, just on the edge of the keel, and decided to jump instead of dive. As he leaped from the ship, Marc plunged into the cold, oily water and, as it caved over his head, an odd thought occurred to him. That rabbit doesn’t stand a chance.
Chapter 22
Spring, 1942
Paris, France
Torquette arranged the drapes in just the right way. She had done this so often, it was natural. Her faced wore heavy the signs of age for being relatively young. The teakettle screamed in the kitchen. She removed the kettle from the stove and there came a knock at the door.
“Bonjour, R,” she said with a welcome smile in her voice. R removed his coat and hung it near the door.
“Bonjour. You look well today,” he responded. “Do you need any help?” He towered over her, but was not quite as tall as her husband. His face was unreadable and his head was full of thick, black hair.
“Can you set up the table?” she asked, and returned to the kitchen.
“But, of course.” He got out the chairs and the deck of cards. Beside each of the four chairs, he placed a small pad and pencil.
Dr. Jackson came through the door in silence. He put his jacket up straight away and retreated to a back bedroom.
“Where is Philip?” he asked.
“He is out with his friends.”
“Later I need to speak with him.” The clock chimed four, and a few minutes later came another knock on the door.
“Bonjour, Marc,” Torquette answered the door in a very warm, inviting voice.
“Bonjour, my sweet. How are you today?” Marc said. He hung his jacket and put down his bag. She brought out the cups and poured into each of them some tea, and then placed in the center of the table a modest bowl of blueberries. The men then sat and Marc passed out the cards to each of them as they waited for the tea to cool.
R spoke next. “Someday I will learn this game,” he smirked.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little optimistic there?” Torquette glanced toward Dr. Jackson.
“I hope never to learn this game. It reminds me how little I can remember,” Dr. Jackson sai
d with a grumpy tone.
“I have made this game as simple as I can for you. You don’t have to play. You just keep score and I tell you the numbers and place the pegs in the holes,” Marc proclaimed as he passed out the cards. “What more can I do?”
“We appreciate you, Marc, for all you do. Without you, we would have no mystery in our lives, such as watching a game of cribbage, where supposedly we are winning but have no idea how or why,” Torquette responded with a smile.
“It would be rather funny if we should ever need this game,” R said, laughing quietly.
“How is that?” Dr. Jackson asked.
“They will spend six months trying to figure out our code. They will pore over this board and convince themselves that each peg and every hole are a part of a greater sum,” R elaborated as he popped two blueberries into his mouth.
“You’re right, R. Marc, where is the railing from the ship?” Dr. Jackson asked.
“I nearly forgot the board,” Marc then reached into his bag and pulled out the hand-carved wooden cribbage board and placed it on the table.
June 17, 1940
Saint-Nazaire, France
After a few seconds, Marc made his way to the surface and, due to the oil, was careful about opening his eyes. His body cringed in the cold water. All around him, men swam in every direction, but he lost sight of the officer.
“Over here!” Marc heard, turned and saw the officer swimming toward him. “We need to move out of here! We are too close.”
Behind them, Marc could still hear the chorus of voices near the aft starboard propeller shaft. “Roll out the barrel and we’ll have a barrel of fun! Roll out the barrel, the barrel … and we will …”
“Lifebelt! I need a lifebelt!” called another soldier.
“The planes are coming back!” another voice called out in pain.
“I will call soon, soon, don’t worry,” a man mumbled to himself as Marc swam by.
“Can you swim?” he heard a panicked voice behind him.
“Ah! Ouch! These damn plates are hot,” said another as he ran down the side of the ship.
“Baby, baby, I have your baby, mother. He is safe and out of the water,” Marc heard about twenty yards away.
The Pekingese dog that was tied up at the hatch door when Marc came aboard swam in front of him, holding its head out of the water.
The officer and Marc got to an oar of a lifeboat and held on. Just then, the roar of a plane could be heard as it came in on the crowd of swimmers. Marc looked back at the ship and saw the water rising along the side and spray coming from the open, smashed portholes. The dressed officer at the back stood smoking his cigarette, as if nothing were wrong.
Stu, stu, stu, Marc heard the approaching plane’s guns. A string of spurts came up out of the water, through the crowd of swimmers over a lifeboat. Marc saw two slumped down and another felled into the water, and then a stream of spray came straight toward the officer and him.
Marc dived down just before the spurts arrived and then came back up to the oar. He cleared his eyes of the oil.
“Are you all right?” Marc asked. “Are you all right, sir?” Marc saw a perfect hole in the officer’s forehead as he fell backwards from the oar into the sea. He took the oar and started to swim away.
Spring 1942
Paris, France
“You’re right, it is brilliant. It is not just a game, but a secret and a little mystery,” Torquette chimed in with a small chuckle.
Marc froze inside. He didn’t like the little chat about the board, but knew he needed to let them have their fun. His stomach churned with anxiety to get them off the topic of the railing.
“I am telling you. They would send the board to Hitler himself and proclaim they have cracked the resistance in Paris,” R said boldly, in a bragging tone.
“Let’s hope it never gets to that,” Marc said in a measured voice. R looked at Marc and then his eyes glanced down at his cards.
“So, there is someone I know who has been asking questions. The time has come to bring this up. His name is Georges. He is young, well, in fact, very young,” R paused, with an odd look on his face, then said, “I think he is seventeen years old. I have known him for a while, several years, in fact, and he works with the group called the Sons of Liberty.” Dr. Jackson looked into Marc’s eyes with doubt about the direction of the conversation. “They produce papers for information’s sake and distribute them. Defense de la France is the name of their track,” R finished.
“Papers are not something we can do, R. You know that by now,” Dr. Jackson said dismissively.
“Yes, I know, of course. I think it is reckless work as well, and if they should ever get caught, I am sure it would not be a happy ending.” Torquette looked pensively at the drapes. “But here is why I am bringing him up. They want to help with downed birdies,” R’s voice focused.
“Birdies?” Torquette snapped back, bewildered.
“I’ve never told him about what I am doing, but I think he knows by intuition that I am not giving tours of Paris. He asked me if I knew anyone with contacts in Paris with the ‘birdies.’”
“Do you trust him?” Marc asked R. It was odd but he had relaxed some after talking about real risks rather than imaginary heroism.
“Yes, I trust him and I know several of their group. They are cautious and careful. I don’t think we are dealing with another Vidal situation.” Marc had not heard about this now for over a year and cringed at the name. He’d pushed that memory to the back of his mind. Torquette looked again toward the window, and Dr. Jackson looked down at the board, taking in everything R told them.
“We need to take it slow, and careful. What has this Georges proposed?” Dr. Jackson then asked.
“Nothing yet. I told him that I have no idea how to help him. You know that I am completely dumb to such matters.” R shrugged his shoulders and smirked as he glanced at Marc.
“And what do you think? Do you think they can take them?” Marc asked next.
“Birdies and birdhouses are no easy thing, but we need the help. Think on it and let me know. And don’t worry, I am far more out on a limb than you, my friends,” R said to them.
“That’s it?” Torquette pushed him for more.
“Yes. They want to help. And frankly, I need the help and so will we all in time. It is not as if there are fewer air raids. If we are going to keep helping, we are going to need to secure some more resources,” R said.
“How many are in their group?” Marc asked.
“Quite a few. I’m not sure. They are careful, very careful. The Sons of Liberty are not a fly-by-night group of kids marking up the Metro after dark.”
Dr. Jackson then lowered his eyes toward the table as R continued. “They have multiple operations and cells and, from what I understand, much of it is compartmentalized so if one part is compromised, it does not compromise the whole.” He sipped his tea.
“Well, what is the next step?” Dr. Jackson asked as he took out a peg on the board and moved it forward toward Marc. “Is that okay, Marc?”
“Yes, of course. You may move a peg,” he said, smiling. “But I’m not sure about handoffs to ambitious kids just yet,” Marc said next.
“I think the next step is to meet with him. We can do it here or elsewhere. I think they are very trustworthy and can follow instructions.” R continued to sell the plan while he focused on Marc.
“Just one!” Torquette said. “We cannot have a bunch of new cribbage players all at once. It will draw attention. We don’t want to attract the wrong type of players,” she said, and then took a sip of her tea and nibbled a few blueberries.
“You said he is young,” Dr. Jackson asked.
“Yes, seventeen, but looks even younger,” R confirmed.
“Philip can bring him then,” Dr. Jackson said. Torquette glanced at him, surprised. “It is perfect. They’ll just think they’re boys,” Dr. Jackson finished. Torquette frowned but didn’t protest further.
“Al
l right, I will make the arrangements. By the way, is that one ready yet?” R asked Dr. Jackson.
“Not quite yet, but soon. I’ll need a nest for this birdie, but he is still recovering right now,” Dr. Jackson said.
“I’ll see about gathering some twigs and string then,” R said with a joking smile.
“Don’t forget your scores,” Marc told them as he finished his tea.
“Oh yes, let’s not forget. Everyone put down some meaningless numbers,” Torquette said after carefully taking away the bowl of precious berries.
Marc took the board from the center of the table and placed it back into his bag.
June 17, 1940
Saint Nazaire, France
“May I?” a swimmer asked politely as he came over.
“Yes, but just the end,” Marc said with a nod. The older man took hold of the other end of the trunk.
“They should be coming back in soon,” the man said in an upper-class British accent.
“The Germans?” Marc asked.
“No, the cruisers. They were coming over but then turned around. It will not be long now until they come back in to pick us up,” the man said with a voice of entitlement.
Marc looked again out over the sea but lost track of time. Sure enough, a cruiser came back in to pick up some of the swimmers, but it was too far away and on the other side of the large, burning oil slick. There was no way he could swim through it and live. When he looked back, the man was gone. Did he drown or did he swim away, Marc wondered, but then took an interest in another man.
A dead soldier wearing a lifebelt floated past Marc. Marc left the trunk and swam toward the man who appeared to be fully dressed in his battle gear, a full kitbag still with him. The helmet chinstrap had cut a deep gash into his chin.
Marc struggled to get the cork lifebelt from the dead soldier. He pulled him down a bit and held him close, and was finally able to untie the belt. The man’s face, nothing but a blank stare, then fell back from Marc and into the sea. The soldier sank quickly into the water with all the weight of his clothes and gear pulling him down.
