by Bodie Thoene
“You can’t mean it!” Pert backed up against a bulkhead.
“Try me!” Andre growled.
“What’s this, Cap’n?” called the Belle’s mate. “What’s up then?”
“Do whatever he says!” ordered Pert in a squeaky voice. “He’s a crazy man!”
The Bristol Belle reversed course, heading out to sea and rounding the harbor entrance to the west. Captain Pert’s fearful glances alternated between his navigation, the western horizon where the Germany artillery lay, and the .38-caliber Webley revolver in Andre’s hand.
By the time the Belle had steamed around to the other breakwater, a line of men from Blanchard’s First Army stretched down its length. They made the Belle fast to the pilings and began an orderly filling of all the available space. Andre noticed with satisfaction that when given the opportunity—and orders in their own language—the poilus were as manageable as the Tommies.
Many of the embarking troops paused beside Captain Pert as they passed down the gangplank. Snatching off their helmets, they shook Pert’s hand and fervently proclaimed, “Merci, merci! Que le bon Dieu vous benisse!”
Even the heart of the apprehensive captain was touched. Five hundred men crammed aboard the upper and lower decks, and the iron railings were crowded with poilus perched on them. Pert stared at the bleak faces of the men left standing on the quai and muttered, “Tell ’em we’ll be back, soon as we can.”
When Andre had repeated this assurance, Pert ordered the hands to cast off, and the steamer put about for Dover. “S’pose you’ll make the crossing with this lot,” the captain said.
Andre shook his head. “Take me alongside her.” He pointed to the low form of the open-decked river steamer Princess Louise, steaming in lazy circles off the tip of the estuary.
“Make sure you keep your pistol handy,” whispered Pert as Andre prepared to leap to the Princess. “I know her master. He’s a mean ’un.”
***
Mac climbed the flight of concrete stairs that led up from the Embankment to the Savoy Hotel in London. At the corner, where the steep alleyway met the Strand, was the public house called the Coal Hole.
It was a two-story establishment. Upstairs, in a room full of round tables, the office workers and clerks gathered in their starched shirts and ties. Downstairs—a dark, snug chamber of exposed beams and wooden stools—was the retreat of the men with blue sleeves rolled up above mammoth forearms. It was to the lower compact space that Mac directed his steps.
John Galway was standing under the grimy bowl of a wall lamp. He had a pint of Guinness in one fist and was driving home a point with the other. “I tell ye, the Italians are just waiting to stab France in the back. Mark me words.” He sloshed dark brown fluid over his listener as he gestured with the wrong hand. “If they think they can do it without risk, those Fascisti and their goggle-eyed, lantern-jawed toad of a leader will be over the Brenner Pass quick as you can say Musselleeeni.”
Mac grinned. “Il Duce says ‘Italian honor is not for sale . . . ask me about a lease!’ Talking politics again, Mr. Galway? I thought Annie said it was bad for your blood pressure.”
“Ah, McGrath. Right you are, but a pint is a sovereign remedy to keep things level,” Galway observed. “Join me?”
Mac and John Galway were soon in a corner of the Coal Hole, each with a fresh pint in hand. “What do you hear from Trevor?” Mac asked.
“Not much. Intrepid has been on convoy duty. I did get a curious call from him last evenin’ from Portsmouth.”
“Curious how?”
“Couldn’t say much on it, but he told me, ‘Da, somethin’ is brewin’. Don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from me for a while.’ Then he rang off.”
Mac pondered Trevor’s words for a time. “What do you think it means?”
Galway leaned close to Mac, though there were no nearby drinkers. “I think it ties up with a uniformed bloke who came around my boat, Wairakei, this mornin’. Said he was from the Small Vessel Authority, or some such.”
“What did he want?”
“Wairakei is requisitioned. Wouldn’t say what for, with everyone bein’ so tight-gobbed these days, but he said to get her down to Ramsgate by tonight. Fact is, I’m here fortifyin’ myself for the voyage just before shovin’ off. Care to join us?”
“Us? Is Annie going, too?”
“Aye, and Trevor’s great duff beast of a Saint Bernard as well. Goin’ up agin Annie when her mind is set . . .” Galway pretended to shudder. “I’d druther swim the Channel with both hands tied behind me back!”
Mac thought quickly. “Do I have time to run for my camera?”
“Finish your drink first,” Galway said. “Then welcome aboard.”
Less than an hour later Mac canned the clutter of his boardinghouse room, then scooped up his camera bag, a rain slicker, and a photograph of Eva grinning in the midst of her refugee students at the school in Bettws-y-Coed, Wales.
He had intended to take the train to Wales in the morning. He meant to surprise her, sweep her off her feet, and marry her all in the same day.
Life together would have to wait a bit longer.
“Just live, Mac,” she had told him the day he had asked her to marry him. It now seemed so long ago.
Mac glanced at his reflection in the mirror and shuddered as a thought flashed through his mind. What if he did not survive the journey? What if he didn’t come back to sweep her off her feet and carry her off into the sunset?
He wanted to speak to her. Tell her how he felt. Just in case . . . just in case.
There were only three telephones in the Welsh village of Bettws-y-Coed . . . no way to contact her.
He dashed down the stairs and rang the London TENS office, hoping John Murphy was there to answer the call. Mac could trust Murphy to tell Eva. Murphy was a man of fine words. He would know how to put it so Eva would know how much Mac loved her . . . if Mac never came back.
One ring, two, three.
A female voice answered in slightly accented English, “TENS London. How may I help you?”
Was it Eva on the other end of the line?
Mac stammered, “M-Murphy. I need to talk to John Murphy. This is—” he paused—“Eva?”
“Yes. This is . . . Eva. Mac?”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Are you in London?”
“Mac? Darling?”
“Are you here?” he asked again.
“We heard you were coming back from France. Murphy sent a wire. I came here. I was going to surprise you! Oh, Mac! Where are you? Where?”
“Eva! I can’t talk. Can’t stay. I called Murphy so he could tell you. I didn’t think I could reach you in Wales. I’m going out on a rescue ship. Crossing the Channel. Back to France.”
“When?”
“Now. On a little ship called Wairakei with Trevor Galway’s father. You remember Trevor?”
“Yes. Yes. But why? Oh, Mac!”
“I was coming to Wales in the morning to marry you. But then this . . . this . . . so I wanted to tell Murphy to tell you . . . that if . . . I mean when I get back . . . when I’m back here . . . let’s not wait another day.”
Eva was crying. He knew it though she wasn’t some noisy sobbing dame. He just knew she was crying—not because he was here, not because he was leaving without seeing her, but because she loved him.
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Mac. I would ask you not to do anything too courageous if you love me . . . but it would be against your nature to heed such a request. And so . . . my darling Mac . . . please . . . live . . . come home to me. Please.”
28
Surprising Modes of Conveyance
The air of the meeting at French Admiral Abrial’s headquarters was less than cordial, even icy. The atmosphere was not helped by the surroundings: Bastion 32 was a windowless concrete bunker. Its chilled walls dripped with condensed moisture. About half the time the power supply failed, leaving a candlelit interior that could have been a dungeon.
The French officers, Admiral Abrial and General Fagalde, were aghast.
“It will mean thousands of French soldiers abandoned to the Germans,” Fagalde protested.
Alexander shrugged as if it were no concern of his. “There are French destroyers lifting French soldiers; are there not?”
Abrial looked to a bone-weary Andre to answer the question.
“The Siroco is still operating,” Andre admitted. “But the Bourrasque hit a mine on her way to Dover. She’s gone.”
Alexander still looked as if the matter were no further concern of his.
Abrial and Fagalde exchanged glances, each evidently hoping that the other would have some persuasive argument to be used with the British.
Andre thought about his day’s piracy and how effective his use of the pistol had been, though he had never been forced to fire it. Perhaps it was time for coercion on a grander scale. “Is it not true that all the defenses of Dunkirk are now manned by French troops?”
Fagalde, whose men had defended the line of the Aa canal, nodded. “It will be so after tonight, when General Laurencie’s 32nd Infantry and the 68th Division are all in place.”
“And if they were to surrender to avoid needless bloodshed, what would that do to the remaining evacuation?”
Alexander sat bolt upright in his chair. “Extortion!” he shouted.
Abrial grinned at Andre and then coolly remarked to the British contingent, “Call it what you will, gentlemen. The fact remains that if, from this moment forward, French troops are not evacuated in equal number with English and the evacuation extended as much as possible, we will be forced to seek the best terms we can from the Germans.”
“All right,” Alexander grudgingly acknowledged. “You have us over a barrel. We will allot future transportation fifty-fifty, to continue as long as possible. Provided,” he verbally underlined, “provided the French perform the rearguard duty as planned.”
***
Andre worked into the afternoon at his improvised evacuation station on the western mole. The official change in British policy was not yet widely known, but even so, more ships were making their way to the line of French troops.
There were setbacks, of course. Siroco, a French destroyer, was packed with men and on course for Dover when she was torpedoed. She might have still survived to deliver her cargo of frightened men, but a passing German bomber finished her off.
It was nothing Andre could even think about. He steadied the stream moving down the plank walkway and waved the new steamers, ferries, trawlers, and passenger launches into position as each ship filled and moved away.
***
At three in the afternoon the torrent of refugees pouring across the bridges into Lys slowed to a trickle. Gaston had been busy all morning directing traffic and gathering what information he could. He was told that the Germans were no more than ten miles away. They would reach the valley of the Lys by tonight.
At one point an open-topped car loaded with men in French uniforms arrived at this checkpoint. Gaston demanded to see their papers. “Get out of our way, puppet,” the fat, swarthy driver sneered. “Stay and play toy soldier if you want, but leave us alone!” The deserter revved up the engine as if to run Gaston down.
Gaston snapped his fingers. From behind the shelter of a pile of sandbags, the snout of an antitank gun rolled forward to poke through a gap in the barricade. It pointed straight at the grill of the car. “Come ahead,” Gaston said calmly.
The driver and the eight men stuffed in the seats lifted their hands into view.
“I thought so.” Gaston yanked open the door. He dragged the driver out on the pavement by the scruff of his neck. “We shoot traitors here. Or perhaps you would like to volunteer to aid with the defenses?”
The men hastily nodded their willingness to be of service. “Excellent!” Gaston said. “Lieutenant Beaufort, escort these new recruits to Captain Chardon. He has a number of empty sacks that need to be turned into sandbags!”
***
It was quiet at No. 5 Rue de la Huchette tonight. Too quiet. The tiny remnant had taken refuge behind the gate and slid the iron bolt in place. Yet still, Josie felt the approach of Evil.
How to get out of Paris?
Rose believed in lists.
Seven special children:
Five in wheelchairs, two on crutches
Five Austrian brothers
Jerome and Marie Jardin
Josephine, Lewinski, Juliette, and Yacov
“And a partridge in a pear tree,” Madame Rose said as she added her name to the column. She glanced up at Josie, who sat in the dim glow of a single candle. “That makes nineteen of us altogether. Even two automobiles will not be enough. I can’t drive anyway.”
“Neither can Lewinski.” Josie ran a hand over her aching head. Even if there were three vehicles, she was the only driver. A truck perhaps? An unused troop lorry? Why not ask for the Pan Am clipper or a zeppelin?
“What we need is a transportation prayer.” Rose scratched possible modes of conveyance on the list to submit to God. She included everything from a troop lorry to an airplane. “The Lord approves of common sense. And when common sense fails, then there is some other course we are meant to sail.”
Hours on the telephone over the last several days had brought no answers. Everyone was leaving or already gone. If some acquaintance had a vehicle, it was already packed or there was no petrol to be had. Madame Rose prayed with the same fervent faith with which Sister Angeline had prayed in the cellar of the Cathedral of St. John in Warsaw that last night. Josie hoped the two women wouldn’t have the same end.
“We need a true miracle, Josephine.” Madame Rose’s words were not fearful but simply a statement of fact. “You know what will happen to the special children if the Nazis lay hold of them. Their fate will be the same as that of the Austrians, my little sons of Abraham. And your little ones as well. It is a fearful thing, this total war of Hitler’s—what it does to children.” She shook her head sadly. “They’ve made war on the apple of God’s eye, my dear girl. Pity the German nation. They have made war on heaven, and heaven will not be silent forever.”
But heaven was silent tonight, Josie thought glumly as she stood out beneath the star-flecked sky over the courtyard.
The children were asleep now in the corner room of the ground floor where beams and joists and supports were the strongest.
“Just in case,” Rose said.
The windows were open. The scent of flowers was on the air. Crickets chirped and the cicadas hummed. But there was no word from heaven.
***
Gaston’s lieutenant was out of breath when he arrived across the bridge to deliver his message. “Captain Gaston,” he said, panting, “tanks approaching the far side of the river!” It was dark, and no further refugees had crossed the bridge in several hours.
Gaston and Sepp, who had been arguing over who owned the right to place the last of the school’s machine guns, stared at each other and then ran over to the island.
Crouching behind the sandbag barricade, Gaston squinted through a gap. Sure enough, two armored vehicles were driving along the riverbank, nearly to the junction with the road to Lys.
“Prepare to fire,” Gaston said to the gun crew, even though he could see that the piece was already loaded and aimed at the center of the span. “Wait for my signal,” he added.
The first of the machines hesitated at the crossing, as if the driver suspected something amiss. The two vehicles circled the end of the structure like a pair of dogs sniffing out a scent. Then the lead machine turned onto the road and started across.
/> “Steady,” Gaston cautioned, even though his own voice cracked as it had done when he was four years younger. “Wait till he gets halfway over.”
“Gaston!” Paul Chardon’s voice said sharply.
“Captain!” Sepp answered for his intense friend. “You are just in time to see us fire the first shot for the honor of the school!”
“Just in time to save you from a bad mistake,” Paul clarified. “Did neither of you notice that the vehicle you are about to destroy is a Hotchkiss tank and is one of ours?”
Paul seized a tricolor flag and waved it over the barricade. A moment later, the hatch of the lead tank popped open. The tank commander waved back; then the two machines rumbled forward across the bridge.
***
Josie sat alone for a long time listening, hoping. Rose came out into the courtyard sometime after midnight and sat beside her. They gazed up through the patterns of empty clotheslines without speaking.
And then, from the open window of the corner room, a small voice piped, “Mon dieu! It is the Anteater!”
“Jerome.” Rose shrugged. “Another nightmare.” She got up to see him.
Jerome croaked distinctly. “Hey, Henri! The Anteater. The siren. The Garlic. The Garlic! Henri, we have to tell Madame Rose!”
Josie smiled at the muddled nonsense of Jerome’s dream. Other children moaned with irritation at being awakened.
Rose slipped inside quietly. Her whisper drifted out through the open window. “Jerome, mon petit pêche, you are dreaming again. . . .”
The boy’s reply boomed as if he were shouting across a wide field. “Not a dream! I heard a Voice in the siren, Madame Rose.”
“There is no siren, Jerome. Very quiet tonight. Peaceful. You see?”
“Wake everyone up!” he insisted. “We have to be ready! The siren will go, and then we will leave!”
“No, no, Jerome. Only a dream, little one. You must go back to sleep. Shall I sing—?”