by Lee Jackson
Savage appeared to be an unassuming man, exerting quiet authority. His height was hard to tell in his sitting position, but he appeared to be of medium build and had dark, well-groomed hair over a broad forehead, deep-set eyes, and a narrow chin.
“How’s the boy?” he asked when Jeremy approached him.
“Sleeping. Thank you, sir. You were very kind to offer your quarters. How’s your leg?”
“It’ll hold. I’m chock full of local anesthetics, but I can still steer the boat. I’ll be all right long enough to get to port and get this leg seen to.”
Jeremy glanced down at the compass. “With that?” he asked, incredulous.
Savage chuckled. “That’s all they had not so long ago.” His brow furrowed. “Are you that boy’s father?”
“No, sir. He was orphaned yesterday. His father was on embassy staff.” Jeremy bit his lip as images of Eva’s leap flitted through his head. “He was killed in the explosion. His mother jumped with us—” His eyes watered, and his mouth quivered. “She never came up,” he said in a raspy whisper. “I don’t know what happened to her.”
“Steady, lad,” Savage said compassionately. He studied Jeremy. “What’s your rank?”
“Second lieutenant,” Jeremy replied, composing himself. “I’m an engineer.”
“How did you come to be on the Lancastria? I’d like to hear your story.”
“It’s a long one, sir.”
“We’ve got time. We’re on course, the weather’s good, and I’ll be sitting right here.”
Jeremy told him of his assignment building airfields in northern France and then finding himself in combat, of his despair at Dunkirk and being rescued by a remarkable French family, and then the tremulous journey across France with Nicolas and meeting up with Jacques.
The captain listened intently. “What are those ribbons on your arm?”
Jeremy looked at his wrist in surprise. He had all but forgotten them. Their colors had faded, but the strips remained tied and intact. He told the captain their purpose.
“Jacques and Nicolas put more faith in me than I warranted,” he said. “British intelligence doesn’t know me from Adam, and the message I carry is one they already know—that the French people will fight.”
Savage grimaced as sudden pain jabbed his leg. He clamped his jaw, closed his eyes, and rested a moment. His first officer, standing nearby, stepped in closer.
Savage opened his eyes and waved him away. “Perhaps your comrades saw more in you than you think,” he told Jeremy. “Be that as it may, all our ships’ captains in Saint-Nazaire were told to be on the lookout for you. The loop’s been closed, and someone in intelligence knows about you, at least generally. Nothing’s lost by your talking with them. You might throw some light on an aspect they hadn’t perceived. All of intelligence is a guessing game anyway.”
He put his hand to his chin and rubbed it while he thought. “What will you do with the boy? They’ll probably take him from you at the port.”
A fleeting memory of his last moments with Eva seared through Jeremy’s mind again. “And put him in an orphanage? That can’t happen. I promised I would protect him with my life.” His retort was stronger than he intended. “Sorry, sir.”
The captain chuckled and waved away the apology. “Your passion is what your friends saw. Your tenacity. By all rights, you should be dead by now.”
He mulled a moment. “The authorities will want to put him with his own family, if they can be located.”
“I’d want the same thing. But given wartime circumstances, he’s just as likely to wallow in an institution until someone gets around to finding out where he belongs.”
“And you’d do what with him?”
“My sister lives in London. She’s a kindhearted soul who loves children. I know she’ll take Timmy until his family is found. I’d do that myself, but I’m sure I’ll be ordered back into the war.”
Savage agreed and pursed his lips. “Perhaps I can help.”
Startled, Jeremy asked, “How?”
The captain smiled as he put his thoughts together. “Maritime law grants a ship’s captain a lot of authority on the high seas.” He half-closed his eyes. “Especially in wartime.” He called to his first officer, who stepped over sharply.
“Draft a document for my signature. It needs to identify one Jeremy Littlefield and Timothy—” He pivoted his attention to Jeremy. “Do we know his last name?”
“No, sir.”
“All right. Put down ‘Surname Unknown.’ The document should say that the lieutenant is appointed on my authority to be Timmy’s legal guardian. Do you understand?”
The first officer jotted the information on a notepad. “Anything else?”
“Throw in a sentence stating that the document is good until the boy’s rightful family is found and accepts guardianship. Include a list of legal references long enough to befuddle the smuggest bureaucrat. In particular, quote maritime law in war. If you don’t have enough relevant sources, throw some in even if they don’t apply.”
The officer smiled and departed, notes in hand.
Jeremy watched him go and then turned to the captain in amazement. “Is that legal? Will it hold up after we disembark?”
Savage chuckled and shrugged off another jab of pain. “Who knows? I’ve never seen a situation like this, and I don’t know anyone who has. We can only try.” His face took on a conspiratorial quality, one that he obviously enjoyed.
He beckoned Jeremy closer. “Listen, when the ship arrives, you’ll wait here and leave with me. I’ll push my weight around. They’ll think twice about trying to stop me.” He grinned. “Especially with this leg.”
“Sir, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“Taking care of that child is thanks enough. Now go and check his diaper or something. I need to get back to running this ship.” He reached down to pick up his compass and checked the heading.
When they disembarked at Plymouth, Jeremy was not sure what reception he had expected for the soldiers on the Oronsay, but he thought the one they received was a far cry from what they deserved. Holding Timothy in his arms, he watched from the bridge.
No band played. No crowds of jubilant citizens cheered returning heroes. Instead, customs and immigration officials met the first ones a few yards from the ship.
From his vantage, Jeremy could not hear what took place, but actions plainly revealed a developing hostile situation. The soldiers had surged forward in a mass, their thrill obvious in the jauntiness of their strides. They had stopped short when the officials appeared in a line in front of them. Men pointed, shoving started, and a roar of angry voices arose that could be heard from the bridge. Items flew through the air, hurled at the port officials, and soldiers pushed past them through the gates into the town.
Jeremy’s view shifted to the wrought iron fences on either side of the gates. Quiet crowds had gathered there, pressing their faces against the rails, staring into the port.
The first officer came to stand behind Jeremy. “That’s a sad lot there,” he said, indicating the people at the fence. “Every time we disembark with our soldiers coming home from France, they’re there searching every face. They hold pictures up and beg to know if anyone has seen their loved ones.” He shook his head sadly. “If you stood here long enough, you’d see some wonderful reunions, but I guarantee that when you leave, your heart will be wrenched out by the grief of those still wondering what happened to the ones still missing.”
He took a deep breath. “It’s time to go. The captain wants to take advantage of the uproar outside to get you through. He’s waiting below in a wheelchair. He figures if you walk close to him, with the mood of the soldiers, you’re not likely to be stopped.” He handed Jeremy an envelope. “In here is the document you need, all nicely signed and sealed. I hope it does the trick.”
They started off, then the first officer paused. “Oh, one thing. Let me have your sister’s contact information. We’ll call her so she can
meet you at the London station.”
Jeremy’s head lolled back and forth with the clackety-clack of the train headed for London. As Captain Savage had anticipated, they had pushed past port authorities with no difficulty. One customs officer had peered intently at Jeremy and Timmy, but a stern look from the captain had been enough to dissuade him from further action.
They had passed through the gate where family members waited. Jeremy had witnessed the deep anguish of those still searching, and he had seen the joy of hoped-for reunions.
Once through the gate, Savage had bidden Jeremy and Timmy farewell. “My first officer will see to it that you get on the train. He’s off getting food and things for Timmy. Best of luck.” He had then motioned abruptly for his orderly to proceed pushing the wheelchair, and the two of them reversed course to return to the ship.
Now dozing on the train, a cry from Timmy awakened Jeremy. Exhausted from constant motion despite sleeping soundly on the ship, Jeremy guessed that the little boy must be famished and took out some biscuits the first officer had bought. Sure enough, the toddler grabbed for them and munched blithely.
Other soldiers had packed into the train compartment but left enough room for Jeremy to handle Timmy in relative comfort. Most fell asleep, bunched together, with no space between them. The corridor was just as packed, as was the whole train. Those by open windows sometimes reached out to feel the air and see the countryside. Despite weariness, whether awake or asleep, most wore weary smiles.
If they conversed, they spoke of the horrors they had endured or their disbelief at being on British soil. Jeremy heard snippets:
“That bullet struck so close it left a rip in my shirt.”
“My mate went down, right next to me.”
“A French family fed us. They let us stay in the barn.”
“I thought I’d never make it on that ship.”
“I was sure the bombers would get us.”
Jeremy’s ears perked up at one particular conversation.
“What was with those customs chaps?” one soldier asked. “I was far back in the crowd, so I couldn’t hear. I started throwing things when everyone else did.”
“I was right up front,” another replied. “I saw and heard the whole mess. They wanted us to prove that we had a right to be in England. How’re we supposed to do that when we came over to the Oronsay from the Lancastria in our skivvies or worse, not to mention what happened to us in France? And then customs treats us like we don’t belong. You’d think our government wanted us to stay there.”
Expressions of disgust and resentment followed. Then, the soldier who had made the latter comment turned and stared at Jeremy.
“Hey, you’re the bloke who saved that baby from the Lancastria. The story spread all over the Oronsay. Is that him? How did you get to keep him?”
Jeremy smiled. “I’m his legal guardian.”
Until then, he had not thought again about the envelope that the first officer had given him. Now he pulled it out of his pocket and opened it. Inside, he saw the folded document and was astonished to see several ten-pound sterling notes attached to it.
Another smaller scrap of paper was folded over them, containing a short message from Captain Savage.
You’ll need this to get home and get Timmy settled.
Take good care of him. He represents everything we fight for.
Jeremy dropped his head against the back of his seat. His mouth fell open, and he exhaled in disbelief. His mind still whirling, he extracted the document. It was on Oronsay’s ornate letterhead, and as the captain had instructed, it cited multiple legal references authorizing him to confer on Jeremy the legal guardianship of Timmy, signed Captain Norman Savage.
The train moved at a snail’s pace with soldiers intermittently sleeping and conversing. Jeremy had to change Timmy’s diaper several times. The soldiers smiled benevolently during those events and helped discard the waste out the window. Some cooed at Timmy and played with him. Much to Jeremy’s surprise, Timmy played back, raising his hands to them and laughing as only a small child can. He lifted spirits.
Occasionally, he turned around to Jeremy and asked, “Mummy?” When he did, the men in the compartment became quiet, staring distantly, their faces reflecting the horrors they had seen.
After more hours than they could count, the train finally crawled into Paddington Station in London. Jeremy waited until the train was fairly empty before leaving. Then, holding Timmy with one arm, he made his way to a bench near the main street exit and waited.
An hour went by. Jeremy worried that he might have given the first officer the wrong number. Thankful for Captain Savage’s kind thoughtfulness in providing him with funds, he found his way to a food vendor and bought a sandwich and other items to make sure that his change included coins. The rest of the money, he put in his pocket.
Timmy had become heavy. The exhausted child slept for the most part, but intermittently woke up, whimpered, and then fell back to sleep. Wearily, carrying the child, Jeremy made his way to a phone booth, dropped in the right coins, dialed the number, and waited. His call went unanswered.
29
Saint-Nazaire, France
Kenyon held back his dismay when Pierre showed him some of the stash of explosives he had stolen. He turned to Lance.
“We’re not going to do much damage with that,” he said. “Those are blasting caps. The fuel tank walls are thick and strong. With what Pierre has there, we might dent one of them, but we’re not even going to create a leak, much less blow up a whole tank.”
Lance interpreted.
“We have dynamite,” Pierre said. “I need to know if that is the right kind of explosive and how much we need.” His voice took on urgency. “The Boches will be here soon. We don’t have much time.”
“You’ll need a plunger and wire too.”
“Yes, we have it. All of it.”
Lance’s head swiveled back and forth as he translated between them.
“I can get everything you need,” Pierre said. “The security men at the storage place are with us, but the engineer who oversees demolition projects is a Pétain supporter, meaning a Nazi sympathizer. We can’t trust him. That’s why we need you.”
“If I could interject,” Horton said. “You don’t want that stuff falling into Hun hands any more than you want them to get the fuel. I know enough to be dangerous, but as I understand dynamite, it’s stable. So, why don’t you get it all. Take all of it. Divide it up and store it in cellars, barns, and wherever the temperature and humidity conditions are good, and where you can keep it secure.”
Pierre listened intently. His eyes glistened. “We are thinking alike, my friend,” he responded, “but if we are going to blow any storage tanks, I think we have tonight, and maybe tomorrow night at the latest.”
Lance translated the discussion for Kenyon who held up a cautioning hand. “Horton is partially right. Dynamite is nitroglycerine-based with additives and a special clay to make it less sensitive to shock. It becomes unstable with age. Your men can handle it safely as long as they are careful. Is it fairly new?”
Horton relayed the question, and Pierre assured him that the dynamite was new.
“We don’t use it in combat operations anymore,” Kenyon continued, “because flying bullets will ignite it. If there’s a firefight while we’re setting it…” He left the sentence unfinished.
Pierre’s eyes flashed between Kenyon and Lance as he listened to the translation. “I understand,” he said in English with a heavy accent.
“Then get that dynamite with all the other equipment,” Kenyon said. “Take me to the staging area with photos and a sketch map of the tanks you want to blow. We’ll plan from there.” He looked up at the sun’s position in the sky. “It’s already mid-afternoon. How far are the oil tanks and how soon can you get the dynamite to me?”
Horton relayed Kenyon’s thoughts and Pierre’s response. “They have five trucks loaded. They’ll send four to be stored and bring on
e to you at the staging area. You can take as much as you need, and they’ll stockpile the rest. They can have that done in an hour. Pierre has a question, though. These tanks are filled with oil that is already refined for fuel. So, they will make a bigger bang. Correct?”
Kenyon grinned at Pierre and nodded. “You’re exactly right.”
Pierre beamed in satisfaction.
The operation could not have gone smoother. Fearful of the imminent invasion by German troops, many residents had already fled. Others stayed in their houses. When Pierre and five other companions along with Lance, Horton, and Kenyon drove to the fuel depot in a car and the small truck, the roads were clear. At the site, the security guards offered only token resistance, and otherwise faded into the night.
Twelve fuel tanks, each a hundred feet in diameter, clustered together in a section of the refinery. Two more larger tanks stood nearby. Kenyon surveyed them, comparing them against the photos and the sketch map Pierre had drawn. He beckoned Pierre. Lance joined them to translate. A bright half-moon hung in the sky.
“Listen carefully,” Kenyon told Pierre through Lance. “Nobody’s shooting at us tonight, so we’re going to take our time and do it right. You won’t want to do this under a bright moon when the Germans are here. Your men have their loads and equipment. Tell them to place them just like we practiced this evening, and then run the wires back to the gate. I’ll check each one, and when everyone is safely away, I’ll show you how to detonate. You’ll do the honors.”
Pierre nodded eagerly as he listened to Lance, his eyes flashing back to Kenyon. “We’re ready,” he said.
An hour later, the entire group met back at the vehicles. Kenyon guided Pierre through the steps to connect all the wires. The young resistance fighter pushed the plunger handle down.
The massive explosion rocked the ground and shot flames high in the sky. Frozen in fascination, the men stood watching the inferno until Kenyon grabbed Pierre.