by Tracy Groot
Did you see the prayers kick things out of the way?
Did you see them make the English Channel smooth?
Did you see them hold men to heartbreaking tasks, which is love disguised as duty?
Only love can bring men home looking as they did. Though of course, men would have none of that—calling it love.
Did you see the prayers seep down and make them strong, hold them together, help them do things they thought they never could?
Cecil had a front-row seat to all the marvelous things.
She took a newspaper article from her sweater pocket and unfolded it. “Listen to this. It’s Churchill, the new prime minister. Yes, the same Churchill. Winston. It’s from his Parliament address, a few days ago.” She scanned the article for the bits Cecil would find most interesting. “Yes, here. This is what I heard on the BBC. Wasn’t Churchill himself, but the fellow did him credit. Listen: ‘Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or falter. We shall go on to the end.’”
Her throat tightened. She blinked quickly.
“‘We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and the oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island—’”
Pause.
“‘We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets; we shall—’”
Pause. Rapid blinking. She rested the paper in her lap.
She thought of her student, Danny Morgan, already back to the fight. She thought of Jamie Elliott, son of that man, off to some camp in the north. She thought of Clare’s detective inspector, who went down to enlist with the Royal Navy the day after he woke up. Murray Vance had enlisted, too.
She cleared her throat and resumed.
“‘We shall never surrender. And if, which I do not for a moment believe—’ nor I, Cecil—‘this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.’”
She gave a hard glance toward America. “Did you hear that? Wake up, thou that sleepest.”
Wake and pray. Wake and fight.
The paper rested in her lap until she noticed, folded it, and slipped it into her pocket.
“There’s more, Cecil, but I’ll finish with this: Winston called the Dunkirk operation ‘a miracle of deliverance.’ He also warned us, because of so many lunatic gadflies going about like drunk orangutans, that we must not regard this rescue as some sort of victory, as wars are not won by evacuations. Some think it’s done. They think they can go back to normal. There is no going back. It isn’t done. It’s only begun. Dear me—I do wonder what you see, from your glorious vantage.”
Then she jabbed her finger to the south, and said severely, “You! You shatterer. You shall not prevail!” And she slowly smiled a smile, which she knew to the shatterer was a chilling smile indeed. “Not when people pray.”
She rose and took up her shoes, gave a last long look at the end of a lovely day, and strolled barefoot back to the Anderson shelter.
You are sixty-seven, retired, and with a great deal to do, for the war is not yet won.
It has only begun.
Experience history like never before with more great fiction from
Tracy Groot
“We are rebels, are we not? Then let us rebel against what is not us.”
Their dangerous plan could change the tides of war.
Turn the page for an exciting excerpt from Flame of Resistance.
www.tyndalefiction.com
THE SUN CAME warm through the plexishield. The shield squeaked as Tom wiped a patch of condensation. He was no good with words, and he didn’t have to be. Plenty of aviators said it for him. One talked of slipping the surly bonds of earth, and of sun-split clouds. Another spoke of rarefied splendor. “Untrespassed sanctity” was a favorite, and those were the words he’d use to tell the folks.
Untrespassed sanctity, he’d say of the English Channel, and of the gut-thrum of his aircraft, of the daily sorties to France, and his placement in the V. It never got old. It was untrespassed. Maybe not invincible, but so far, on his watch, untrespassed.
I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I—
“Angel flight, this is lead.” Captain Fitz finally broke radio silence. “Rolling in.”
The five Thunderbolts approached the target area, flying in lovely V formation. Tom would ransack his vocabulary for a different word than lovely if talking with the guys, but the new guy from Molesworth stayed on his wing pretty as pie. Someday he’d like to hear a liberated Frenchman say, There I was, getting beat up by a Nazi; we look up and see this lovely V . . .
“One and two, take targets on the right. Three and four—”
“Captain! We got movement—”
Antiair flak slammed her belly, blew a hole in the front of the cowling. Tom barely knew he was hit before oil pressure plummeted. “Mayday—this is Angel three. I’m hit! I’m hit.”
“Angel three, can you make it back?”
“Pressure gauge says no, flight lead. I’m going in.”
“Copy. We’ll cap the area.” Then, “Good luck, Tom.”
“Good luck, Cab,” another echoed.
“Guts and glory, Cabby,” called another.
Bullets stitched the plane as he peeled off the target. Smoke filled the cockpit, burnt oil singed his nostrils. She was flagging the second she was hit, but he gripped the stick and pulled back to get as much height as he could before bailing.
He tried for a look at the ground but couldn’t see through the smoke. Where was he? Too charmed by rarefied splendor and the alignment of his wingman to—
“Normandy,” Tom coughed. Northeastern Normandy.
Flak exploded and pinged, black patches pockmarked the sky, and as Tom gained altitude, he heard a conversation in the debrief room.
Then Cabby got hit, and that was it, the whole ground opened up on us.
You capped the area . . .
Stayed as long as we could, sir, but it was too hot.
Where was he in Normandy? Caen? Cabourg? Maybe he could—
But the old girl jerked, leveled, and he had no hope of circling back to bail in the sea.
Why do you call him Cabby?
He looks like he jumped outta the womb hollering, “Heil Hitler,” but didn’t like us calling him Kraut. So we called him Cabbage.
We called him Cabbage.
I ain’t dead yet, fellas. I am, however, about to reacquaint myself with the surly bonds of earth.
He waved off smoke, snatched the picture of his little brother, and shoved it down his collar. He jettisoned the cowling, and the plexishield broke from the plane in a whumpf, popping his ears, sucking his breath.
There were two ways to bail from a P-47 Thunderbolt. Tilt the plane and let it drop you out, or, in what Tom felt was a more stylish way to go, just stand up, rise into the slipstream, let it carry you away . . .
A Note from the Author
In the midst of our defeat, glory came to the island people, united and unconquerable; and the tale of the Dunkirk beaches will shine in whatever records are preserved of our affairs.
WINSTON CHURCHILL
The evacuation of Dunkirk shines as the greatest military rescue in history. Approximately 340,000 men were saved from certain death or imprisonment by the Herculean efforts of many.
Yet what of those left behind?
Many British and Allied soldiers paid a heavy price to buy time for others to make it home. They defended the retreat by protecting the ever-shrinking corridor to Dunkirk, often f
ighting down to the last man and bullet until they were killed or taken captive. Thousands of these defenders died. Forty thousand spent five years in captivity.
Forty thousand.
One of these men was John Borland.
John Borland was a Cameron Highlander serving with the 51st Highland Division. He never reached Dunkirk but was forced to hold the line further west. . . . As he was marched away to five years of captivity, Mr. Borland spotted a scrap of paper blowing across his path. He has it still. “It was a biblical text, with the words ‘Don’t give up’ scrawled in pencil, probably by the man who’d dropped it. Those words stayed with me through my time in the POW camps.” [Borland was asked,] had he ever given up? The answer was unequivocal: “Never.”
ROBERT HALL, BBC News UK, May 28, 2010
Let this shine, too.
Authors of historical fiction often face conundrums in deciding what words to use for sensitive topics or conditions. I faced such a dilemma in identifying the disability of the young German boy, Erich von Wechsler. I chose to use the contemporary name for his condition, Down syndrome, although at the time he would have been described as a mongoloid. I wanted to make sure readers understood, and I did not want to risk giving offense over what has become, in our society, an offensive term. This condition was specific to the T-4 program; I wanted you to be as astonished as I was when you learned children like him were being experimented on and euthanized.
I have also played with the time line in giving Clare a Revised Standard Version of the Bible, although this version was not published until 1946. Its specific wording of Nahum 2:1 fit perfectly into the image I wanted to develop. I hope careful readers will forgive my artistic license.
Many books are available on the story of Dunkirk. Some of my own favorites include Richard Collier’s classic, The Sands of Dunkirk, and The Miracle of Dunkirk by Walter Lord. For an in-depth study of the withdrawal of the BEF, check out Dunkirk: Retreat to Victory by Major General Julian Thompson.
Acknowledgments
WRITERS ARE HAUNTED by the thought that they may forget to thank someone who has contributed to a book in some powerhouse way—and even small ways are powerhouse. I hope I have forgotten no one. If I have, dinner is on me, next time I see you. (Wait, that sounds fun; maybe I should forget someone on purpose.)
I am indebted to the following folk for the gracious and multitudinous ways they contributed to this book. They did things like: loaned a pile of WWII newspapers, gave a tour of the MTB-102, gave tours of privately owned craft registered with the Association of Dunkirk Little Ships, loaned a cottage in which to hole up and write, read the manuscript, steered me in good directions, and answered endless questions. They are: Neil Barber, Alan and Margaret Childs, Susan and Nigel Cole, Terry Crowdy, Alison Hodgson, Melissa Huisman, Alan Jackson, Debbie King, Don Pearson, Trevor and Alison Phillips, Aaron Smith, Elena Studebaker, and Robert John Tough.
Thanks also to Kathy Helmers and Meredith Smith at Creative Trust, dear friends and Core Competencies. Thanks to the talented team at Tyndale, with whom it was an honor once more to create something good. And thanks to my husband, Jack, an implacable encourager and the only man on earth capable of putting up with me. I don’t know how you do it. I’m glad you do.
Finally, I wish to thank my best-friend-cum-research-assistant, Tami Huitsing, who ran off with me to England and France and did the following: took a million photographs, offered invaluable suggestions, tramped all over kingdom come with never a complaint, prevented me from killing a taxi driver, sampled endless tastes of sticky toffee pudding once I’d discovered it, and endured my often-graceless ADD-on-steroids personality for the entire trip with magnificent aplomb. Many best friends have done nobly. You leave them in your sparkling dust.
About the Author
TRACY GROOT is the author of The Brother’s Keeper; Stones of My Accusers; Madman, a Christy Award–winning novel that received a starred Publishers Weekly review; Flame of Resistance, also a Christy Award winner; and most recently The Sentinels of Andersonville.
She loves books, movies, knitting, travel, exceptional coffee, dark-chocolate sea foam, and licorice allsorts. She lives with her husband, Jack, in a Michigan home where stacks of books must be navigated to get anywhere, and if she yet lives at the reading of these words, she is likely at work on her next historical novel.
For more information about Tracy and her books, visit www.tracygroot.com.
Discussion Questions
How much did you know about the “Miracle of Dunkirk” before reading this book? Did the book pique your interest to learn more about this historic event or other aspects of World War II?
When Murray finds Father Fitz in jail, he is quite angry with him for leaving his wife and newborn child. “If you won’t take care of them, savin’ the world don’t matter. It’s lost already if a man can’t take care of his own.” Do you agree with Murray’s statement, that taking care of our own families is our most important priority? Does knowing what Father Fitz’s mission was—trying to stop Hitler’s atrocities—affect your answer? If so, how do we determine which causes are important enough to risk neglecting or endangering our loved ones?
Calling the nation to a day of prayer—even in the officially Christian nation of Britain—strikes some of the characters as unusual. Do you think political leaders have the right or obligation to ask their citizens to pray? Has this changed in the last century?
William Percy asks Mrs. Shrewsbury how prayer works, and her answer is, “I’m not sure how it works. I can say what I believe it does. I believe prayer kicks things out of the way. I believe it does so to make room for a better outcome. I believe prayer illuminates our paths so we can see more clearly, choose our way more wisely.” What do you think of her answer? How would you answer William’s question?
William isn’t sure he believes in God, but he believes in Mrs. Shrewsbury and the power of her prayers. When have other people held you up in prayer, even if you weren’t sure you believed in praying for yourself? How has that impacted your life?
Clare receives the unexpected news that the man who bequeathed Maggie Bright to her was her birth father, and that Murray is her half brother. What did you think of her reaction to this news? Have you ever learned something that changed your perception of yourself? How do you think this revelation plays into the story? How important is it?
Jamie Elliott is given a mission that seems impossible—getting a critically wounded man, who is essentially unable to communicate, to safety. And he is faithful to the mission, even when he is told that wounded men are to be left to fend for themselves. How would you have responded to such an assignment? Do you think Jamie’s choices and actions are realistic? What do they say about the kind of person Jamie is?
What did you think of Captain Jacobs, “Milton”? Did you find him amusing? Annoying? Did you feel sorry for him or for those tasked with caring for him? Have you ever had to care for someone with a physical or mental disability? What are some of the challenges and rewards of such a role?
In the final rescue before Maggie Bright sinks, William loses track of time and is shocked when the others tell him he spent an hour working to save people. Have you ever been in a crisis situation where time seems to slow down? Why do you think that happens? How is it that people can find hidden reserves of strength to do what should be physically impossible?
The end of this book is just the beginning of the story of World War II. How do you think each of the main characters will spend the duration of the war? What will happen to Clare and William? Murray and Father Fitz? Mrs. Shrewsbury? Will Jamie ever open his pub? Will his former comrades meet there? If you were to imagine a sequel to this story, what would be its focus?
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