Maggie Bright (31 page)

“I hope my world is saved, too,” Smudge murmured. “I’ve got a girl.”

“Me too,” said Murray. “My ma. Ain’t no one to take care of her but me.”

“There’s Clare,” said William. “And Father Fitzpatrick.”

“Clare, you think? She’d do that?”

“Well, you are family.”

Murray looked ahead. Breeze ruffled his black hair.

Smudge rose, looking aft, and said in awe, “Will you look at that?”

They turned and saw three boats trailing behind. Now a fourth joined, and then the armed tug
 
—five.

Murray grabbed the binoculars. “Six! Seven . . . eight. Our pulling tug’s coming. She made it, she’s bringin’ up the rear
 
—nine!” He let out a wild whoop. “They got some of us, but not all! There’s spit in your eye, Adolf!”

Murray waved widely at the boats following behind, and received many waves in return. One boat sounded its horn, and others echoed. One rang a bell.

The three men looked at each other, laughing.

Murray shoved the binoculars back in place and ran for the bow.
He climbed into the bowsprit and anchored his feet, then stood tall, shouting and waving fisted arms.

William and Smudge laughed, and then William couldn’t resist, he veered the helm in a quick move to port, quartering the waves to send a drenching spray over Murray. The crazy young man only whooped all the more.

Let him whoop, William thought. He can do it for me. I do
not
whoop.

But I am beginning not to mind those who do.

Maggie Bright
bashed on, chasing lethal birds and leading the way to Dunkirk.

“FREELY WE SERVE
because we freely love.”

Jamie watched the shoreline, head in his hands.

Milton sat beside him, the others ranged about behind. It was a few hours past dawn, and all dawn did was illuminate everything they didn’t want to see. Jamie had always associated dawn with hope, but the light showed only hopelessness. It showed thousands of men who were nothing but fish in a barrel. It showed the heartbreaking efforts of rescuers with such little return on their costly investment.

For some reason the bombers were late this morning, but not the strafers. They came and went in endless lethal rhythm, spitting off mad, gleeful bursts to end lives with no cost at all to themselves. What a contrast: great effort from the rescuers to save few lives; little effort from the enemy to end many.

He hadn’t seen the
Lizzie Rose
. He had no idea if this was good or bad.

“It didn’t hurt at first, the new window to my soul,” said Baylor, who had woken at dawn, cheery and with better coloring in his face. He’d spoken of nothing but his wound since waking. “It was the shock, I suppose. I was blown right off my feet. All I perceived was
great pressure
, and then all went numb. It’s not numb now. I can’t move an inch without pain. I do hope it leaves a decent scar. Did anyone see? Something permanent must show for this misery.”

“You won’t have to worry about that,” said Balantine.

“Curtis, what’s that goo in your hair?” said Griggs, who couldn’t manage to say anything without sounding disgusted, insulted, or revolted.

“French pomade. It does stink,” Curtis admitted. “Smelled better in the bottle. At least this perfume is nice. Got it for my girl.”

“Yes? And where did you get that?” Balantine’s tone had an edge.

“Same shop I got a nice boules set for my parents,” said Griggs, and his tone had a nasty smile. “Spoils of war, Balantine.”

“Except that the French are not our enemy,” Balantine snapped.

“They’re foreign,” Griggs said. “Same difference.”

“It’s theft.”

“Germans are gonna come take it,” said Curtis. “Why not us?”

“At last, some logic.” Griggs shook his canteen. “Anyone have any water left?”

“I think Milton’s got some,” Curtis said.

From the corner of his eye Jamie saw Griggs reach for Milton’s canteen. “Leave it,” Jamie growled, and snatched the canteen. He shoved it into Milton’s hands.

“If he’s not drinking it, someone else might,” Griggs complained, though he withdrew.

What difference did it make if Jamie watched for the
Lizzie Rose
? He couldn’t save his father no matter what he did. He’d blow up before his eyes, like another civilian boat had done since he and Milton sat watch. Two men sat the oars in a rowboat that had
launched from a beamy craft standing out a hundred yards. They came on like heroes for the lorry jetty, and then a plane came strafing, and all went to chaos as men dove or tumbled from the jetty. When the plane pulled off, the rowboat and the two men were gone, shot to mush and kindling.

His dad would go up in a fireworks display featuring the
Lizzie Rose
. Or he’d continue to load and run them out, over and over like the others, and have a heart attack because he was old.

He was sick to death of watching innocent people die with nothing he could do about it. A sweat broke on his neck.

“A scar would’ve been nicer on my arm. It’s hard to display an abdomen scar.”

“I can’t stand it
 
—go soak your head in the surf,” Griggs said to Curtis.

“The palpable obscure,” Milton was saying.

“I’m going to look for food and water,” Jamie said, getting quickly to his feet. Griggs tossed over his canteen, Curtis doing the same. He took Milton’s and slung it over his shoulder, then Baylor’s and Balantine’s.

“Curtis, you go with him,” said Balantine.

“I’m going alone!” He was sick to death of them all.

“Mind our position,” Balantine called after. When Jamie didn’t respond, he called, “Elliott?”

Jamie just kept walking.

Were Lieutenant Dunn and Kearnsey and Drake somewhere down in that seaweed continent? Or did they get it in a ditch like those little girls, or on a transport stuffed with men heading home at last, only to go up in a geyser of oil and debris not a hundred yards out of port?

He passed a soldier sitting on a wooden crate, peeling bloody socks from his feet. He passed an old Frenchman with a mole-dotted and age-spotted face slumped over a cabinet, blue eyes shocked, lower half of his body nonexistent.

Soldiers and civilians roamed the ruined town of Dunkirk, singly or in groups, scavenging for food or water, poking about in piles, pocketing things. Some men likely wandered about as he, thinking to escape carnage on the beaches only to find it here. He passed a collection of soldiers who prayed in a group, led by a short man in a black frock coat with a red sash draped about his shoulders. Jamie hesitated, watching them. The sight made him feel a very small bit better, and he moved on.

“Keep calm, and stay under cover as much as possible,” a naval officer was telling a group of terrified French civilians huddled in the entrance of a church. Jamie wondered if they understood a word. The man had gold stripes, brass buttons, and authority. Maybe that was all they needed for now.

“Not an unbroken pane of glass anywhere,” said someone at his side. “Can you believe all this?”

It was the man he’d seen on the beach yesterday, the naval officer in charge. Couldn’t remember his name. He wore a hat with
SNO
taped to the front
 
—
Senior Naval Officer
, Jamie supposed. He walked briskly, and Jamie picked up pace to keep stride.

“No, sir,” Jamie said. “Never seen such destruction.”

“None of us have.”

“Do you think there’s enough time to get everyone away? Lot of men on that beach.” Jamie raised his head at the sound of faint rumbling, like distant thunder. Was it artillery? Was it bombs? Panzers?

“How close are they, sir?”

“Very close now.” The officer smiled wryly. “I’d say this is all getting a bit personal, wouldn’t you?”

“How long have you been here, sir?”

“Came over on the twenty-seventh. No idea what day it is now.”

“Nor I.”

“What about you, then, soldier? When did you get here?” He nodded at Jamie’s canteens. “Arrive with your unit?”

“Came in yesterday. I’m on a run for food and water.”

“Well, there’s no food to be had unless you can glean some from the pickings, but you can try for water around the corner, up to the left on Rue Jean Bart. There’s a wonderful old Frenchman sharing out water from an in-sink well in his kitchen. You can’t miss the queue. But don’t get locked into conversation with him; you’ll be there all day.”

“I don’t know French.”

“He knows English
 
—or thinks he does. Well, this is my stop
 
—carry on, soldier. Next time I see you, let it be Dover.” He gave a little salute, along with a smile and nod, and turned off the path to an apartment building, where an iron rail led down several steps to a door. A few naval personnel came trotting up the steps. Must be headquarters for the evacuation.

“Good luck, sir,” Jamie called, again feeling a small bit better.

Perhaps he’d just needed to leave the beach for a time. Thoughts about his father didn’t press so hard, and it was nice not to see men under fire.

He took a few wrong turns, but at last tracked down Rue Jean Bart and the house of the Frenchman with the inside well. The queue went all the way down the street and attracted those who came on the double to see what was worth queuing for. By the time it was Jamie’s turn to fill the canteens, at least an hour had passed.

An elderly little man received his guests at the pump at his kitchen sink, gesturing widely every time the next man appeared in line, displaying in one elegant and graceful motion the sink, the pump, and his willingness to share. Contrary to what the naval officer had told him, the little Frenchman didn’t say a word. Perhaps he was talked out.

Jamie filled the canteens, nodded to the man with a “Thank you, sir. Cheers,” and slipped through the press of men back outdoors.

He was trying to arrange the canteens around his neck and over his shoulders, when someone called out, “Elliott?”

A soldier trotted over from across the street, tilting his head as he came near, as if not quite sure . . . then stopped in his tracks.

“It
is
you! I don’t believe it!” The man grabbed his shoulders and shook him silly, jostling canteens. “Where have you been? Drake! Get over here! You won’t believe it!”

Jamie stared, but couldn’t get words out, couldn’t make true what was too good to be. He finally whispered, “Kearnsey.”

Drake came walking up, shaking his head, a huge smile on his good-natured face. “I
don’t
believe it! We were just talking about you!” He threw his arms around Jamie for a fierce moment, and then stood him back to look him up and down. “Where have you been, old man?”

And just like that all fell away, everything squalid and wrong.

Jamie could breathe again, first time in forever. “I was commandeered. Making my way here ever since, and looking for you sods along the way.”

“Dunn sent Avery after you, but HQ was overrun,” said Kearnsey, pushing up his helmet. “We figured you’d bought it right there or got swept along with their retreat.”

“I was ordered to escort a wounded captain to Dunkirk. We threw in with another lot. Where’s Lieutenant Dunn?”

“Saving our spot in the queue. A medic is working on him. He’s had a bullet in his foot for three days, didn’t even know. Isn’t that just Dunn? He was limping and brushed it off as sore feet, till Foster asked what was leaking from his boot. Come on, man, he’ll be over the moon to see you! Blamed himself for days when we lost you.”

He fell into step with them, felt like he was floating.

“I can’t
believe
it!” Kearnsey laughed joyously, and pounded Jamie on the back. “Thought we’d lost you for true.”

“Dunn was a wreck,” Drake put in.

“He wasn’t a
wreck
, and he’d punch you for saying that, but he
was
angry.”

“He’s always angry,” Jamie said, grinning. “How is everyone? How’s Avery and Foster?”

Kearnsey and Drake exchanged swift looks. Then Kearnsey said, subdued, “Avery’s gone. We woke up one day to a German patrol. They didn’t know we were there, and we might’ve got away, but a squad of Belgian soldiers came tramping through. All of a sudden there was a firefight, and . . . we were caught in the middle. Lost Cates and Scotty in that one, too. That was a bad day, our worst. It was the day after we lost you.” He brightened a little. “But everyone else is intact, more or less. Except for Dunn’s foot, and Foster caught a bullet in the shoulder but it’s not too bad, and then of course
 
—” He looked over slyly at Drake.

“Oh, shut it!” Drake said. Then, grudgingly, “Got a nasty case of . . .”

Kearnsey put a finger to his ear. “Yes? Didn’t quite catch that.”

“Diarrhea.” He glared at Kearnsey. “It isn’t funny. You should have it, you wouldn’t be laughing. It’s bloody inconvenient, especially at night.”

“How long have you been here?” Jamie asked.

“Four endless days, and we are starving to
death
. I am not joking. I’m just short of eating boot leather.”

“And we’re sick and tired of being bombed,” said Kearnsey. “Can’t believe we’re almost
used
to it. Do you know, I can actually sleep through it? Here, here’s a present: a tin of asparagus. An old grandmother just gave us a sack load. From what we could make out, she was looking for soldiers who were
worthy
of it.”

“Convinced her we were angels.”

“How in the world did you manage that?” said Jamie, grinning. He pocketed the tin.

“No idea,” said Drake, and they laughed. “We ate two tins each and drank every drop of the tin water
 
—and we’re not telling the others.”

“How long have you been here?” said Kearnsey.

“Got in yesterday.”

“Well, you’re in luck. Our number’s almost up. We’ll be out of here today, maybe early this afternoon.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re almost to the front of the line, man!” Drake whacked him on the back. “It’s bangers and mash by sundown!”

“You’ll join us, of course,” Kearnsey added.

“Or steak and kidney pie . . . pork pie . . .”

“My mother’s apple and blackberry crumble . . .”

“You’re killing me. Stop it. I’m burping asparagus juice.”

“If I join you, isn’t that queue jumping?” Jamie said slowly.

“No, they want to keep units together if they can, keep things easier to sort back in Dover. Lieutenant Dunn will tell them you’re with us.” Drake gave him a little push. “Anything could happen now, and I just wouldn’t care. I owe God something, as I made a few entreaties on your behalf. I can’t remember what.”

“Your life in his service, I think,” said Kearnsey.

“I’m sure it was much more reasonable than that. A box of Weetabix. A parakeet.”