by Lee Jackson
Amélie ignored her, fixing her attention on the second man now standing on the opposite side of the car. He was the right height, the right breadth across the shoulders…
He gazed at the house. Light from the porch flashed across his face.
Amélie gasped and headed for the stairs. Calm yourself. Be dignified. You can’t look like a schoolgirl who’s lost her head. Then, tossing restraint aside, she let out a subdued shriek and ran headlong down the stairs.
When she arrived at the door, Chantal was already hugging Jeremy while Horton looked on from the side. Amélie flew across the courtyard, flung her arms around Jeremy’s neck, and pressed her lips against his. Tears ran down her face. When she finally pulled back, she murmured, “I can’t believe you’re here.”
Standing apart, Maurice introduced Horton to Fourcade. “Jeremy brought him along to be your liaison with London,” he said. “He speaks French.”
The three of them watched in amusement as Jeremy and Amélie clung to each other. “Jeremy didn’t tell me he was coming to see his girlfriend,” Horton remarked. “I’d have asked him to fix me up.”
Fourcade laughed and escorted Horton onto the veranda, where he spotted two men at the table. When they turned into the light, he stood stock still, staring. His face trembled as he fought off emotion. Then he bounded toward them and threw his arms around their necks, pulling their heads together.
Startled, Fourcade said, “You know each other?”
For a few moments, no one spoke, and then Horton turned to her. “This man saved my life,” he said, indicating one of them. “Pierre rescued us from the ocean.”
“This man saved mine,” the other man chimed in, indicating Horton. “Him and Lance Littlefield. I thought I had only minutes left when they floated by on their plank.”
Horton stepped back. “Pierre and Kenyon,” he remarked. “How good to see you.”
“What about Lance?” Kenyon asked. “Did he make it?”
“He was captured,” Horton replied grimly. “His family got word that he’s in one of those POW marches, but they haven’t heard anything official through Red Cross.”
They stood in silent contemplation.
“Food is on the table,” Fourcade said, breaking the mood. “Let’s go over there.”
Maurice, Jeremy, and the Boulier sisters emerged onto the terrace. Pierre and Kenyon went to greet them. “We thought you must be related to Lance when you were here last time,” Kenyon told Jeremy, “but we didn’t want to say anything because we didn’t know if Lance was alive or dead. Horton was with us at Saint-Nazaire. He just told us you received word that your brother is alive.”
“That’s what we hear,” Jeremy said, his arm around Amélie. “We’re hopeful.”
“This is like a family reunion,” Horton exclaimed, “right in the middle of a war.” He turned to Pierre. “You look as scroungy as ever. How’d you happen by here?”
Pierre clapped him on the shoulder. “You look like you could use a stiff drink.” He guided Horton to a bar in the corner of the terrace. Kenyon joined them. “Madame Fourcade’s group is the one that put us on the mission in Saint-Nazaire. When the Germans overran that area, we came here. This is our sanctuary.” He poured three glasses of cognac. “We’ll tell you the whole story, and we want to hear yours.”
“We’re not supposed to talk about what the other person is doing,” Amélie said, brushing a loose hair from Jeremy’s forehead. “They think we’ll worry about each other too much.”
“They’re right,” Jeremy replied, “although I don’t know how I could think about you more. You’re on my mind every second of every day.”
Amélie turned to look into his eyes. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you; I love you; I love you.” She sighed. “Now that’s settled, we’ll have to get on with this war.”
Jeremy kissed her and glanced self-consciously at the group gathered around the table at the opposite end of the veranda. No one seemed to pay them any attention.
“It’s a sad, strange time.” He leaned back and put his arm around her waist while she rested her head on his shoulder. “We have to look ahead for better times.”
They lingered long into the night. One by one, the others retired, leaving Jeremy and Amélie alone. When they finally kissed goodnight, Amélie clung to him.
“Always remember that no matter where or how far apart we are, I love you,” she whispered. “And when we are together, we must enjoy the moments.”
7
“Wake up, lover boy.” Horton stood over Jeremy. “We got to wrassle us up some chow.” He spoke in a low voice and forced drawl. “Maurice is taking us to see that Frenchie.”
Jeremy rolled over, covered his head with a pillow, and groaned. “What’s with the Western drawl. It’s too early in the morning, and I’m sure you’re doing it wrong.”
“Well that’s a bloody sorry thing to say,” Horton sniffed. “I’m wounded. Didn’t I tell ya. When this war’s over, I’m moving to Texas. I’m practicin’ the lingo now.” He tugged at Jeremy’s pillow. “You still got to get up. Our ride’s waitin’.”
Thirty minutes later, disheveled, still wiping sleep from his eyes, and sipping from a mug of dark, French-roast coffee, Jeremy clambered into the passenger seat of Maurice’s delivery van.
“Look at you,” Horton chided in playful disgust. “Sometime today, you’ll have to wipe that silly smile off your face, get Amélie off your mind, and get down to business.” He slid into the back of the van with Kenyon and Pierre.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be all right. Lead away.”
Maurice shot Jeremy a dubious look from the driver’s seat. “I need you awake and alert,” he scolded as they drove away. “We’re meeting with four career French naval officers who find themselves unemployed. They are not happy. Henri Schaerrer arranged the meeting with Fourcade. He’s a very nice fellow, usually smiles easily, but this war has turned his world upside down.”
Jeremy sat up straight, opened his eyes wider, and breathed deeply. “I’ll be ready. What else can you tell me?”
“Not much. I haven’t met the others. Fourcade is very fond of Henri. She says he’s one of the most naturally pleasant people she’s ever met. He’s Swiss.” He laughed. “He grew up reading about the ocean and always wanted to go to sea, but”—he shrugged—“Switzerland has no navy, so he came to France and joined ours.”
Jeremy watched the sights go by and shoved aside the pleasant memory of last evening with Amélie. They drove outside the city a few miles, turned into the gates of a farm, and pulled in front of the main house.
Henri Schaerrer stood at the top of the stairs. He was tall, dark-haired, and slim, and he had a friendly smile and warm eyes shadowed by concern. Maurice made introductions, and Henri led the way into a dining room, explaining as he went that the farm belonged to friends who had fled to America. “They allowed me to stay here rent free,” he said, “and I maintain it for them. They’re Jewish, and, well—” He shrugged and shot a hard glance at Jeremy. “Given that I am now without a job, the arrangement worked out for me.”
Three men sitting at the dining table stood to be introduced. “These are my friends, also former military officers,” Henri said. “They help keep up the farm.” He introduced them, and on presenting the last of them, Henri said, “This is Phillippe Boutron. He was the watch officer aboard the Bretagne when the British blew it to hell at Mers-el-Kébir.”
Wearing an inscrutable expression, Phillippe said nothing beyond normal courtesies and took his seat. His companions did likewise.
When everyone was settled, Henri started the meeting, speaking in French. “I know your story and who you are,” he told Jeremy. “Hérisson—we only use her codename here—told me in detail. I know why you’re here.” He glanced around at the rest of Jeremy’s group.
“I know about each of you except this man.” He addressed Corporal Horton directly. “But given that Maurice brought you, we’ll assume you belong.”
“He was with us at Saint-Nazaire,” Pierre added.
Henri studied Horton a moment longer. “Good,” he said, then addressed the full group. “Personally, I’m willing to work with the Resistance, but Hérisson wants me to convince my fellow former officers to join as well.” His eyes flashed. “Bluntly, I’m angry at what Churchill did to our navy.” He breathed hard as he enunciated the words. “He killed one thousand three hundred of our men, and that was only two weeks ago.”
His jaw tightened as he brought his anger under control. “A lot of our comrades would rather fight the British.” He paused to read Jeremy’s expression. “But they have no weapons, and we won’t fight with the Germans.”
While he spoke, Horton translated quietly for Kenyon, the only person in the room who was not fluent in French. “Don’t worry,” Kenyon whispered. “I’ve picked up some French, and Pierre is teaching me. If I miss something, you can fill me in later.”
Jeremy started to speak, but Henri raised a hand to stop him. “Please don’t say you know how I feel.”
“Fair enough,” Jeremy said. “Do you mind if I tell you how I felt?”
“If you mean about all of your heroics, I know them. I know similar stories about dozens of my friends. It’s a war. Soldiers have to do heroic things. Or die.”
“I mean can I tell you how I felt? Not what I did.”
Henri leaned back noncommittally. “We’ll listen.” He glanced around at his friends, who nodded assent.
Jeremy began. “First I must discuss what happened in terms of the legality of the attack. My bosses briefed me before coming here and instructed me to explain.”
Henri shifted impatiently. “I have no stamina for legal jargon.”
“I’m no attorney, so I don’t know how to talk that way. I have two points.”
“Go on.” Henri narrowed his eyes with skepticism.
“There’s a section under the Law of Naval Warfare that allows ships of a neutral country to be fired upon if they are under the control of a third country that is belligerent to the attacking country.”
“True, but Vichy France—that’s what we call what’s left of France— is technically neutral. It still owns our navy, and the fleet was in a neutral port.”
“No argument. But the armistice with Germany required that France decommission its fleet and anchor it in ports designated by Germany. France complied, citing the agreement. That means that the fleet operated at the order of and under the control of the Nazis.”
Henri stared at Jeremy, his eyes betraying uncertainty, but he remained unconvinced. “You didn’t destroy the navies of Poland, the Netherlands, Belgium, Norway, Greece, or Yugoslavia when Germany took over those countries.”
Jeremy spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Those navies sailed away, some to England, some to America. They kept their ships out of German hands. That option was offered to the Vichy government through Admiral Gensoul. He refused.”
Seconds ticked away. Finally, Henri took a deep breath, reluctant acceptance evident in his expression. “Go on.”
Jeremy took a moment to reorient his thoughts. “At Dunkirk,” he began, “I was scared. Terrified. I had come to France as an engineer, to build things. Suddenly, I was thrown in to provide protection so that the professional soldiers could escape to sea. Then I was separated from my unit. I went for days without food and drank water from potholes. I felt abandoned by my country.”
He looked steadily into Henri’s eyes. “While we fought on the ground, we saw our fighters overhead spinning around in the skies, leaving vapor trails. But we had too few, and they provided us no support or protection. Untrained, under-armed, and leaderless, separated from our units, we crawled on our bellies trying not to get shot by German panzers and their field artillery, and always we heard the whistles of the bombs raining down on us. And our dead lay all around us.”
“I get the picture,” Henri said.
“I hated the Germans.” Jeremy leveled his eyes with Henri’s. “But I hated the French more.”
Henri drew back. “I’m Swiss.” He pointed at his friends. “But they’re French.”
“I know, and you served France in uniform. We were surrounded and pinned down because your French leaders had analyzed the situation completely wrong, relied on that Maginot Line, and had not developed the arms, tactics, or strategy to meet the German blitzkrieg despite years of Hitler advertising his intentions. Because of French blundering, I was about to be killed. At least that’s the way I saw things then.”
Henri started to protest, but Jeremy held up a hand. “Let me finish.”
Henri nodded.
Jeremy made sure he had eye contact before continuing. “I hated my own government just as much.”
Henri scooted his chair and leaned forward, eyes intent.
“When Churchill’s predecessor, Neville Chamberlain, traveled to Berlin to meet with Herr Adolf,” Jeremy went on, “that was the first capitulation, or so I saw things.” He took a moment to gather his next thoughts. “Our countries are democracies. We have to persuade each other to get things done. Hitler lied to the world repeatedly while building his military in secret. He sought no one’s permission. No one believed that such evil exists. The last war was supposed to end all that, making the world safe for democracy. But he invaded those countries you mentioned, fiercely and cruelly.”
“We know all of that,” Henri said stiffly. “We don’t need a lecture.”
“Here’s my point: you hated Great Britain and I hated France, but our common enemy is Germany. A very kind French family rescued me, hid me, fed me, and got me home at risk to their own lives. Along the way, I encountered the fighting spirit of the French people. Two strong Resistance fighters insisted that I, of all people, get to British intelligence and impress on them the will of the French population, the real France, to fight for their country and take it back.”
The room was silent for a few moments except for the quiet whisperings of Horton translating for Kenyon and the murmured discussion between the Frenchmen at the end of the table.
“May I say something?” Kenyon broke in, speaking in English. “My friend Horton can translate.” He turned to Henri. “I could have gone back to England the same way Horton did. Maybe I would have been killed trying. Who knows? But I stayed because this man”—he indicated Pierre—“was about to take some French patriots to blow up things with dynamite, and they had no clue how to do it.
“I saw fight in them that I wanted to be part of. I’m a demolitions expert. I knew I could help. So I stayed, and I’ll be here as long as Pierre wants me to, or until my government orders me home.”
Sitting behind him and listening to Horton’s translation, Pierre reached forward and clapped him on the shoulder. “You are always my friend, my brother,” he declared, standing. He turned to the others. “This man had just lost his best friend to the war when he helped us. They were together on a ship that went down under German bombs at Saint-Nazaire. He’s a hero to me.”
Silence descended on the room. Henri stirred as if to speak.
Jeremy held up a hand. “Bear with me one more moment. What happened to your navy in Algeria was terrible.” He made eye contact with Phillippe Boutron.
“I can’t describe it in favorable terms. But what choice did we have? Can you imagine what Great Britain, Vichy France, and the world would have faced if your navy had combined with the German navy under Nazi control?” He shook his head, looked directly at Henri, and then pointed at Phillippe. “He might right now have been sitting on the Bretagne, being ordered by a German officer to lob shells from its big guns on the ports along England’s east coast, and we could not stop them.”
At the far end of the table, Phillippe slapped a hand on the table and stood. “This man is exactly right,” he said. “We should have scuttled our own fleet. I told my commander that was the honorable thing to do. Now we must fight to liberat
e France.” He turned to Henri. “I’m angry about Mers-el-Kébir—but I’m angry with our government and commanders. They left the British no alternative.” He took a breath. “I will fight with the Resistance. I know you feel that way too, Henri. We’ll fight together.”
Without waiting for a response, he walked across the room to a cabinet and brought back a tray with a bottle of Courvoisier and nine crystal brandy glasses.
“We celebrate,” he called out as he poured the cognac. “We are all together in this, yes? France is our country, and we won’t let les Boches take it away.” He squinted in turn at Henri and each of his other companions. His expression changed to impatience when he perceived that his enthusiasm was not returned. “Let’s go,” he bellowed, holding up his glass. “We must do this thing. Vive la France! Vive la Resistance!”
Henri gazed at Phillippe without speaking. The other two Frenchmen also sat silently. They exchanged glances between each other and with Henri but refrained from making eye contact with Phillippe.
“What is it?” Henri demanded, on the verge of disgust. “We can’t hesitate now. The war is on. Every day the Nazis cement their hold on France.”
“And the British navy killed thirteen hundred of our comrades,” one of the men said. “How can we ignore that?” He faced Jeremy and gestured at him dismissively. “This man tells his sad story and we’re supposed to forget Mers-el-Kébir? When will it be expedient for the British to turn on us again?”
“There are other aspects to consider,” Henri said.
“What aspects,” Phillippe said angrily. “If we don’t fight, we lose.”
“Patience, my friend,” Henri said. “We’re on the same side.”
The room fell silent. Jeremy listened and watched with a sinking heart.
“Vichy France is not just what the Nazis left to us in Europe,” Henri said. “It also owns the French colonies that cover most of Africa and other parts of the world. They consider themselves French too.
“What happened at Mers-el-Kébir will have long-term consequences for Britain. Frenchmen will remember the men who died there, and at whose hands. A price will be paid somewhere, someday; we won’t know where or when.”
