by Lee Jackson
Sitting unobtrusively in shadows with parliamentary aides, Paul listened to the man he had watched from a distance since he was a child. Gruff and bombastic, the prime minister’s portly figure, receding hair, plump cheeks, and signature cigar had never been far from the public eye even during the years that he had been banished from authority.
Paul had no idea why his own presence had been mandated. Director Menzies had called him into his office with no notice and directed him to attend, instructed him on how to gain access to the parliamentary chamber, and told him where to sit. No report was required. Paul was to attend, and that was that.
He caught Churchill’s phrase about prisoners of war, and his mind went to Lance. Where are you, brother? He sighed and returned his attention to the speech. The atmosphere set the stage for a grand soliloquy, and Paul wondered how long he could stay focused on the words. Menzies might not have required a report, but he won’t be amused if I don’t have something substantive to say about it.
“Hitler is now sprawled over Europe,” Churchill continued. “Our offensive springs are being slowly compressed, and we must resolutely and methodically prepare ourselves for the campaigns of 1941 and 1942. Two or three years are not a long time, even in our short, precarious lives. They are nothing in the history of the nation, and when we are doing the finest thing in the world and have the honor to be the sole champion of the liberties of all Europe, we must not grudge these years, or weary as we toil and struggle through them. It does not follow that our energies in future years will be exclusively confined to defending ourselves and our possessions.”
In spite of himself, Paul’s mind wandered, prompted by the prime minister’s reference to “possessions.” Momentarily, anger rose as he thought of his parents on Sark Island, left to German occupation without a fight. Images flashed through his mind of great Atlantic waves crashing against tall cliffs, of wide fields, and his stately home. He pictured his mother and father sitting together in front of an empty fireplace in their drawing room, contemplating how best to contend with the unwelcome Nazi guests thrust upon them.
The resonant, grave voice once more brought him back to the present. “The road to victory may not be so long as we expect. But we have no right to count upon this. Be it long or short, rough or smooth, we mean to reach our journey's end.”
The prime minister delved into an articulate summary of the war’s progress. Paul disciplined himself to listen even though his mind and body would have preferred to be elsewhere. However, his ears pricked up when the subject turned to the pilots who fought in the skies over Britain.
“The gratitude of every home in our Island, in our Empire, and indeed throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the World War by their prowess and their devotion.”
And then Winston Churchill uttered words that burned into Paul’s psyche, ones that Joel had mentioned two days earlier, and that Paul vowed to remember forever.
“Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”
Paul caught his breath, pride welling in his chest for the membership of his youngest brother, Jeremy, in such a rarified group that included the American “Eagles” who had soared and fought over Britain. He thought of Claire and her associates, whose work at Bletchley Park contributed incalculably to anticipating the time, place, and nature of attacks.
“And here I sit,” he muttered, “in safety, with hands tied.” Then he almost chuckled out loud. “What will I tell my grandchildren when they ask how I spent the war? ‘Oh, I hid out in the House of Commons.’” Nevertheless, he felt humbled and grateful for the prime minister’s words.
The sonorous voice continued. “All hearts go out to the fighter pilots, whose brilliant actions we see with our own eyes day after day; but we must never forget that all the time, night after night, month after month, our bomber squadrons travel far into Germany, find their targets in the darkness by the highest navigational skill, aim their attacks, often under the heaviest fire, often with serious loss, with deliberate careful discrimination, and inflict shattering blows upon the whole of the technical and war-making structure of the Nazi power.”
Churchill spoke for a full half hour in more prosaic language about practical considerations in prosecuting the war, making plain his desire for an alliance with the United States that would not only support the effort with military materiel, but also would lead at some point before desperation to joint combat operations.
Paul listened dutifully, but his mind reverted repeatedly to the single sentence that had elicited his visceral pride in his youngest brother. Jeremy is one of “The Few.”
38
September 7, 1940
London, England
“The major wanted to see me?” Claire asked, smiling at Vivian across the desk.
“He’s waiting in the conference room,” Vivian said pleasantly. She rose from her seat and came around the desk. “Come along, I’ll take you.”
She led down the hall to a room that Claire knew well, for here was where Major Crockatt and Paul had introduced her and Jeremy to Derek Horton, the corporal who had been with their brother when Lance was captured. The memory flashed through her mind, and she wondered fleetingly how Horton was doing.
When they entered, the major stood, as did a young woman sitting across from him. She was small and pretty, with auburn hair and honey-colored eyes, and when she saw Claire, she gasped and brought her hand over her mouth, fighting back tears.
Puzzled, Claire watched the woman, unsure whether to be alarmed or compassionate.
“Claire, this is Amélie Boulier, the young lady your brother is so taken with.”
Claire’s eyes brightened in surprise, and she rushed around the table to embrace Amélie. “You saved his life. I am so happy to meet you. How did you get here?”
Amélie returned her warm hug. “You look so much like Jeremy,” she whispered.
“She’s been here since early last month,” Crockatt interjected. “She’s training to be one of our operatives.”
Claire let go of Amélie and whirled on him. “Are you mad? Hasn’t she and her family been through enough?” She turned to Amélie. “You have a younger sister, don’t you? Chantal?” She faced the major again. “Who’s looking out for her? And how’s their father?”
“It’s all right,” Amélie cut in. “I wanted to do this. Chantal is being well taken care of in Marseille. She’s in no danger for the moment, and my father continues the fight in northern France because he feels he must.” She read Claire’s look of confusion. “If we don’t join in the fight against les Boches, we will lose our minds.”
“She’s nearly halfway through her training,” Crockatt said, “and she’s doing exceptionally well. By the way, she’s a piano player, like you—"
“I thought we couldn’t send women into war zones,” Claire interrupted, alternating a stare between the major and Amélie. “And you’re certainly not going to make a radio operator out of her. That’s the most dangerous job there is on one of your teams. Both Paul and Jeremy told me that.”
“Technically, she came here from her own country,” Crockatt replied. “We’re training her at the request of a recognized Resistance group, and we’ll return her there, so we’re not sending her. As for whether or not she’ll be a radio operator, the request was to train her as a courier and teach her Morse code and to operate the radio so she can help out in a pinch.”
Claire sat down and leaned her head in her arms, then closed her eyes and shook her head. “This is madness. Sheer, utter madness.”
“You’re angry with me—” Amélie started saying, sitting next to Claire.
“No, no. I mean it’s madness what we’re all having to face because of that lunatic in Berlin. You in particular.” She raised earnest eyes to meet Amélie’s. “Jeremy told me how you went out into a storm to sav
e him. He loves you, and I could not love you more if I had known you all my life.” She leaned forward and hugged Amélie again.
“As I mentioned,” Crockatt said, “she’s been doing very well. She’s worked hard in training, never complains, and came over understanding that she would not be able to see Jeremy for security reasons. He’s being kept rather busy, so she couldn’t see him now anyway.”
“That’s true,” Claire said. “I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
Amélie sniffed. “We must win this war.”
“I thought at least we should put her in touch with your family,” Crockatt said. He arched his brows and intensified his gaze, as if to convey a message.
“Of course,” Claire replied. “I would have been furious if you hadn’t.”
“I explained to her that you spend your full time caring for Timmy. She didn’t know about him.”
Claire tilted her head slightly and narrowed her eyes to convey to Crockatt that she understood his caution. She knows nothing of Bletchley.
“I was surprised to hear about the boy,” Amélie said. “Jeremy never mentioned him, either time he came back to Marseille.”
“He’s modest,” Claire said. “He would have had to tell you about the rescue and caring for the child.” She turned to Crockatt. “How long do I get to keep Amélie? You can’t bring me in here to meet her and expect me to just walk away after a few minutes.”
“Of course not,” he said gruffly. “How about if you have her back by this evening? Will that be all right?”
Claire glared at him. “How about tomorrow evening?”
He smiled grimly and nodded.
“What shall we do?” Claire said as they emerged onto the street.
“Thank you,” Amélie said. “The training is intense. I was ready for a break.”
“What are they teaching you?” Claire guided Amélie down the street. “Let’s get some lunch, shall we? You can tell me all about your training, and we can figure out how to spend the afternoon from there.” She put an arm around Amélie’s shoulders and squeezed. “This is such a nice surprise. I must remember to thank the major properly.”
“They’re teaching me to be a spy.”
“Excuse me?”
“You asked what they’re teaching me. I’m training to be a spy, a saboteur, and a helper for escaping pilots and soldiers. My father’s network is set up for escapees. I’m learning to code and decode, and how to set up surveillance and avoid being followed. They’re teaching me to build bombs and set demolitions, how to parachute, and how to kill a dozen ways—”
“Isn’t that scary?”
Amélie shrugged. “What happened to us at Dunkirk was scary,” she said matter-of-factly. “Seeing my sister almost raped by a German soldier and being with millions of our countrymen fleeing the Nazis when we escaped to the south of France. That was scary. Now, we do what we must.”
“I admire you so much. Your courage—”
“I’m nothing to admire,” Amélie said. “I’m scared all the time. I do what I do out of fear of going insane.”
“And because you love your family,” Claire said softly, “and your country. You’ll even sacrifice being with Jeremy for that, and it’s obvious how much you love him.”
Amélie’s lips quivered as tears rimmed her eyes. She fought them back and set her jaw.
They entered a shopping area and Amélie marveled at the bustle despite the visible evidence of war preparations, with signs pointing to bomb shelters, their entrances buttressed by sandbags, and home defense wardens looking officious in their uniforms and helmets, their whistles at the ready.
“Your people are brave,” Amélie said. “You go on about life even though Hitler is bombing your port cities and ships, and your fighters are in the air all the time dogfighting with the Luftwaffe right over your heads.”
Claire glanced at her furtively. Does she know what Jeremy is doing? “We have nowhere to run,” she said. “If we did, we might have as many refugees as France did.”
“Maybe. Our government betrayed us, and now it relaxes in the Vichy resort while Pétain acts more and more like Hitler himself. You know he’s clamping down on Jews? And Hitler is forcing French people out of northern France to make room for German settlements.”
“I didn’t know those things,” Claire said. “How unspeakably cruel and sad.”
“We have a friend, Jacques,” Amélie went on. “He helped Jeremy. He’s in the north with my father now, but he’s Jewish and always having to look over his shoulder. He has to be extra careful because there are even people in the Resistance who hate Jews and might betray him.”
“That’s terrible,” Claire replied. “Believe me, we have our own anti-Semites. Anyway, Jeremy mentioned Jacques. If you see him again, please tell him that I hope we meet someday so I can thank him for helping my little brother.”
They stopped at a café. After the waiter took their order, Claire said, “We must talk about something more pleasant and think of something to do to lift our spirits. We’re close to Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, and other sites people like to see.
We can run by those and take the tube to Canary Wharf. It’s fun there and most tourists don’t know about it—not that we have many of those these days.”
“I have no money.”
“I have a little,” Claire said, laughing. “You’re my guest. At least, we can look in store windows and wander the aisles of the department stores. Is there anything in particular you’d like to do?”
Amélie nodded. “If it’s possible, I’d like to meet Timmy.”
“Would you?” Claire exclaimed, surprised. “Of course. How silly of me not to think of it. If you hadn’t saved Jeremy, Timmy might not even be here.”
“It’s not that,” Amélie replied. She sniffed and her lips quivered. “If I can’t see Jeremy, I’d like to at least be close to the people and things he loves, even if for a short while. I would not like to think that I never got to meet Timmy, especially being this close.”
Claire’s own eyes misted as she regarded Amélie. “You really do love Jeremy.”
Amélie wiped her eyes with a napkin and looked around. “Is it always this hot at this time of year?” Her face had turned deep red.
Claire smiled. “It is unseasonably hot, but also rather pleasant.” She looked around at Londoners enjoying the weather: mothers pushed prams, boys ran along the sidewalks, serious-faced men went about their business. “It’s hard to think there’s a war on.” She took a different conversational direction. “Jeremy said you like to play Chopin.”
“True.”
“I like his music too. I have a piano in the living room. We can play around with it together, if you like. I’ll tell you what, when we finish here, we’ll see where our legs take us. Then we’ll plan on boarding the train around four or five o’clock and be home for dinner. That’ll give us time to be with Timmy before he goes to bed, and we can spend all day with him tomorrow until I have to bring you back. I’ll try to reach Paul and get him to come by if he can.” She frowned. “Unfortunately, we can’t get to Jeremy right now. He’ll be upset to learn he missed you.”
Amélie nodded. “That sounds good. I understand about Jeremy.” The waiter brought their food.
Three hours later, after taking in the sights, they entered a department store near Canary Wharf. “London is so beautiful,” Amélie said. Then she added wistfully, “Dunkirk was beautiful. So many ancient buildings with great architecture, and parks. We lived right above the beach.” A haunted, hollow tone muted her voice. “All gone.”
“It’ll be beautiful again,” Claire said, taking her arm. “You’ll see.”
Twenty miles to the northwest, Captain Joel Peters glanced from the clock showing nearly 1600 hours to the map table on the control room floor inside the Fighter Command bunker at Bentley Priory. Worry crossed his face.
On the map, large numbers of the small plastic markers had appeared inland over France. As he watched, a gre
at number of the pieces had been swapped for rectangles, signifying that the radar experts on the floor had ruled out duplicate reports of the same formation. Further, they identified all aircraft on the map as enemy.
The filter room seemed dichotomously quiet and humming with busy voices. But the atmosphere was one which told of growing anxiety as plotters, analysts, and sector controllers coped with more rectangular markers than ever before. The visceral sense descended on them of the enormous destructive power droning their way.
The formation had grown to unbelievable proportions, adding up to a thousand aircraft winging toward England. Joel did quick math in his head. They span twenty miles across and forty miles back. That’s eight hundred square miles. He imagined the dark shadow and deep roar that must accompany them on the Channel’s surface.
While watching their progress, he reflected on what had happened two weeks ago when the Luftwaffe had conducted daylight raids on August 24. As they had done before, bombers had headed toward RAF airfields and dropped their lethal loads. However, visibility around London had been unfavorable, and one of them had dropped its volatile cargo on the civilian population of the capital city.
Analysts believed that the event had been accidental due to navigational errors resulting from the weather. Hitler had not previously bombed the population in London, although he had done so wantonly in Poland and had hit civilians living around Britain’s port cities. Aside from that one bomb run, all targets that day and before, as in the time since then, had been airfields, ships, factories, and ports; so, the drop on London, they reasoned, had been inadvertent.