Into the Iron Shadows, page 31
“That’s undoubtedly what the Germans are counting on. Do you think they can do it?”
“Evacuate the troops? I have no idea. I do know that if there is any possibility at all of getting just a handful off, they’ll try. Aside from wanting to save the men’s lives, Churchill knows how important that army is to the defense of England, not to mention the morale of the country.”
“I can’t imagine how they’ll do it. The Luftwaffe will bomb anything that tries to move near the coast.”
Evelyn pressed her lips together, a pair of sparkling green eyes coming into her mind’s eye. Her chest tightened, but she resolutely pushed the sudden feeling of anxiety aside.
“The RAF will send their fighters,” she said in a low voice. “The French coast is within their range. They’ll take on the Luftwaffe in the air while the navy tries to extract the troops.”
Finn glanced at her. “And do you think the RAF is a match for the Luftwaffe?”
She swallowed, her mouth dry. “I certainly hope so. It’s the best defense England’s got at the moment.”
“Then, for all of our sakes, I hope they are,” he said grimly. He looked at his watch. “It’s just past eight. We should be on our way.”
Evelyn folded the paper and nodded, standing. “Yes. Let’s go and find Café Rosa. If nothing else, I’m looking forward to a coffee and a pastry.”
Finn stood and picked up his bag, swinging it over his shoulder. He reached for her suitcase but she waved his hand away.
“I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own bag,” she said with a smile. “Thank you, but I can manage.”
He shook his head. “It’s that attitude that will get you caught by the Germans,” he informed her as they started up the street. “They don’t like women who are independent.”
“I’ll remember that if I ever find myself in their company,” she retorted.
“God willing, you never will.”
Henry pressed the bell once more, then stepped back on the front step to look up at the house. It was in the center of a row of attached homes in a modest neighborhood. It looked deserted, but so did many of the houses. This was a working neighborhood. Mid-morning in the middle of the week meant that most inhabitants were at work. He’d rung the bell several times and had waited more than a few minutes. Clearly there was no one home. Turning away, he stepped off the stoop. He would have to try back again later this evening. Perhaps he would have better luck then.
He was just turning to walk up the sidewalk when he felt someone watching him. Turning his head sharply, he caught sight of a face peering through the curtains of the window next door. Changing his direction, he waved and motioned to the door. The woman hesitated, then nodded before the curtain swung back into place. Henry walked towards the neighbor’s door, arriving just as it opened to reveal an older woman wearing an apron over a well-worn day dress.
“Yes?”
“Pardon my intrusion. I wonder if you could tell me who lives next door?” Henry asked, smiling his most charming smile and removing his hat. “I’ve tried ringing the bell, but there’s no answer.”
“Well that’s because no one lives there,” the woman said with a shrug. “There was a couple, but the husband went away with the army last September when the war started.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Oh yes. It was Decoux. Pierre Decoux. He was a very nice young man, and his wife was very sweet. She used to come and help me with my ironing.”
“Used to? Did she go to stay with family when her husband went away?”
The woman shook her head. “Oh no. She stayed here. She worked as a nurse, you see, at the hospital.”
“Ah, of course.”
“What business do you have with them?” she asked, tilting her head. “You don’t look like a tradesman.”
“No, I’m not. I represent her father’s estate. In Switzerland.”
“Oh! I see!” The woman’s face cleared. “Yes, you look like a banker.”
Henry raised an eyebrow, momentarily at a loss for words. He could honestly say that he had never been told that he resembled a banker.
“Do you know where I can find Madame Decoux?” he asked, finding his voice again.
“Well, you can’t.”
“Pardon?”
“You can’t find her. She’s dead.”
Henry stared at her. “Dead?”
“Yes. She caught pneumonia. I’m afraid she wasn’t in very good health to begin with, the poor woman. Once her husband left, she simply refused to eat very much.” The woman shook her head sadly. “It was very sad. She just faded away, and then when she fell ill, well...” She shrugged. “It was too much for her.”
He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “When was this?”
“Oh, about six months ago now.”
Henry inclined his head slightly. “Thank you. I had no idea.”
“I wish I could have given you better news.”
“It’s quite all right. Thank you for your time.”
Henry turned away and went down the steps as the door closed behind him. His mind was spinning and, as he turned to walk up the street, his hand clenched. Isabelle Decoux had died six months ago?
Then who the bloody hell had gone to the house in Blasenflue? And what did they do there?
Miles got off his bicycle and stared around him. He had crossed the border with little difficulty and had followed the signs until he came upon a group of French soldiers. They had directed him the rest of the way, telling him to follow the road straight into Dunkirk and to take cover if any airplanes came along. As he rode away from them, he heard one remark that it was a miracle he’d got through at all on a bicycle.
He’d had a few scary moments, it was true. All around him, not half a mile from the road, he could hear the sounds of big guns firing. The battle waged along the perimeter that both the French and English soldiers had established, and they were fighting fiercely to keep the Germans beyond that perimeter while the evacuation effort was underway on the shore. He had come through near the coast, and the German artillery hadn’t been able to advance that far, thank God. Yet, hearing the remark, Miles realized just how lucky he had been. If he had landed south of the beach rather than north, it could have been an entirely different experience. And he may not have made it at all.
At first, the dull, muffled sound of mortar fire was terrifying. Followed with machine gun fire, and then periods of silence, the boom of the guns startled him each time they thudded from the distance. The enemy was so close, and yet he couldn’t see them. He could only hear them. Miles wondered what was worse, then quickly decided that seeing them would be much, much worse. He had no rifle, no ammunition. Nothing to use to defend himself, or the town towards which he cycled, aside from his pistol. He could only pray that the troops manning the perimeter would be able to hold them at bay.
When he approached the town, he was shocked at the rubble lining the roads. The Luftwaffe had done their part, and many of the outer buildings leading into the town were reduced to huge mounds of brick and stone. Coupled with the charred remains of military vehicles and downed power lines, huge black plumes of smoke rose in thick columns from the town. Dunkirk was burning, and Miles had the unholy feeling that he was riding into Hell.
And then, suddenly, he was in Hell. Inside the town, some streets were destroyed, and others were intact. Soldiers were posted at the outer corners with artillery, taking cover behind protective sandbag walls, crumbling stone garden walls, wooden houses, and anything else they could find. In the narrow streets, the smell of death hung on the air heavily and Miles tightened his lips. Wounded soldiers were making their way through the town towards a building that had been turned into a military hospital, but others had not been as fortunate.
Miles tore his gaze away from the body of a French soldier, half covered by a mound of rubble. Leaning the bicycle up against a low wall, he turned and followed a group of soldiers through the street towards the beach. As they drew closer to the shore, Miles began to get whiffs of salt air, and a breeze made its way into the street, pushing the stench of war behind him.
They went down a narrow road between two rows of what were once brightly colored houses, now covered with soot and grime, emerging onto a road running parallel with the coast. Miles stopped and stared, a mix of relief and astonishment washing over him. There, on the other side of the road, dunes rose and fell until they met the flat sand that stretched some distance until it met the English Channel. It was a large beach, but what held him transfixed were the rows upon rows of soldiers lining the length and breadth of the sand. Thousands of men stood in orderly columns, snaking down to the edge of the water, waiting for a miracle. Behind them, in the dunes, thousands more were sitting in groups, exhausted and waiting for their turn. There were soldiers everywhere, packing into the dunes and onto the beach, with more joining them every minute. He didn’t think he’d ever seen so many men in uniform in one place, and they were all exhausted and battle-weary. How they had made it here was immaterial. They were here now and, as one, they were waiting for the chance to leave these shores.
Taking a deep breath, Miles fought down an onslaught of emotion that he didn’t recognize, nor could even put a name to. His hands began to shake, but he ignored it, crossing the road and stepping onto the sand. He made his way through the dunes, drawing only an occasional curious look. These men were too tired to notice a downed pilot walking among them, if they noticed him at all.
Reaching the beach, he went forward, wondering where on earth he should go or what he should do. All the columns were so neatly organized that there was clearly a system in place, but he had no idea what that system might be.
“Watch yourself, mate!”
A surprisingly British voice called behind him and Miles turned to see four English infantrymen coming towards him bearing a stretcher. The man lying on the stretcher had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head and another one wrapped around a bloody stump where his arm used to be. Miles moved out of their way, nodding to them as they passed. The man on the stretcher looked at him and Miles felt a shock go through him at the realization that he was awake and completely lucid.
The party passed on, heading towards a column of soldiers waiting on the beach, and Miles swallowed, looking around again. Suddenly, he felt very alone, and very uncertain. He felt as though he didn’t belong here. These men had been in the worst of battle, fighting the Germans face to face. They were the real soldiers. He felt like an imposter.
“You there!” A voice called. “Ho! You there!”
Miles turned to his right and found a tall officer staring at him from several yards away. He looked behind him quickly, but the man yelled again.
“Yes, I mean you!”
Miles walked towards him, squinting in the sunlight. He was a Major in the British Expeditionary Forces according to his uniform coat, and he was motioning Miles to hurry.
“You look lost, son,” he said without ceremony as Miles drew closer. “Where did you come from?”
Miles choked back a laugh and pointed up. The Major chuckled.
“I’m Major Runnemede. Where did you come down?”
“In Belgium. Saint-Idesbald. I’m Flying Officer Miles Lacey, of 66 Squadron.” Miles introduced himself. “I was attacking a formation of Dorniers when I was shot.”
“Lacey...Lacey...you’re not old Edward Lacey’s boy, are you?”
Miles stared at him, stunned. “Why, yes, sir. But how do you know?”
“Good Lord, your father told me his son had taken up flying,” Major Runnemede exclaimed, holding out his hand. “Never imagined I’d have cause to run into you like this! Pleasure to meet you, my boy. Your father and I were at school together, you know. We’re members of the same club in London. Fancy running into you on this god-forsaken stretch of hell.”
Miles shook his head, a tired grin crossing his face as he shook his hand. “I’m very glad to meet you, sir. If I make it home, I’ll be sure to send my father your regards.”
“Please do! Feels like years since I’ve seen him. Well, so they shot you down, did they?” The Major shook his head. “The bastards have been making passes all morning. They’re responsible for that mess over there,” he added, nodding behind Miles.
Miles turned to look and sucked in his breath. Soldiers were piling bodies along the edge of what looked like a large trench dug into the sand.
“Not a pretty sight, is it?” The Major asked, watching Miles’ face.
“No, sir.”
“I hope you got one of the bastards before you went down.”
“I did, actually.”
“Good! Glad to hear it. I suppose you’re trying to get back to your squadron.” Major Runnemede turned and started walking along the sand, motioning for Miles to join him. “How did you find us?”
“Two Belgian soldiers helped me. They came along as my kite exploded, as a matter of fact.”
“Good Lord, it actually exploded?”
“Yes, sir. I climbed out just in time. They fixed me up and pointed me in the right direction.” Miles scratched his neck. “I’m glad they found me. I would have gone north to Ostend.”
“You wouldn’t have had an easy time of it there. The Germans have taken Ostend.”
“So they told me.”
“This place will be overrun soon enough,” the Major said, shaking his head. “You’re lucky you got here when you did. I don’t know how long we can hold them, if the truth were known. Long enough to get all these boys out, I hope.”
Miles turned his head, distracted by the sound of a truck motor. Seeing him look, the Major followed his gaze and chuckled.
“Ah. That’s our morale builder. He’s been at it for the past hour or more.”
Miles watched, transfixed, as an army truck rumbled along the sand. What looked like cartons of cigarettes were being tossed out to the soldiers waiting in the columns on the beach.
“Are those—“
“Cigarettes? Yes. Craven A, to be precise. I had a few packs off him myself. Not my brand, you understand, but I’ll take what I can get.”
“Where on earth did he get them?”
“God only knows! He seems to have an endless supply of the things.” Major Runnemede paused to watch the truck for a moment. “He’s keeping the men’s spirits up. That’s all I care about.”
Over the sound of the waves and the engine, Miles heard a disconcertingly cheerful voice yelling out of the window as the cartons went flying into waiting hands.
“Here we are lads! All free and with the complements of NAAFI!”
Miles burst out laughing and waved to the truck. “Bloody marvelous!” he called, still laughing.
The man driving saw him and beeped his horn before tossing a carton towards them. Major Runnemede watched as Miles ran forward to pick up the cigarettes. He waited while Miles tore it open, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, before throwing the carton towards the nearest group of soldiers in the dunes. A soldier jumped up to grab it, his curly hair in disarray as the ocean breeze whipped at it. Miles watched him turn to his unit, a huge grin on his face, before he started passing the cigarettes out.
“Good Lord, he doesn’t look old enough to be out of school,” he said, turning back to the Major. “Did you see him?”
“Aye. You’d be surprised how young some of these lads are.”
Miles thought of young Perry and shook his head, a heavy feeling settling onto his chest.
“We had a young pilot come through the squadron. He died over Calais.” He looked at the columns of soldiers on the beach, then back at the dunes. “I have to get back to my squadron so I can get back up there,” he said grimly. “All of these men are sitting targets out here.”
The major glanced at him. “Yes. Well, get in a line and hopefully you’ll be on your way soon.”
“What line?”
“If I were you, I’d go to that far pier. They’re loading onto destroyers there. These other columns are being picked up by smaller craft that can come in to get them, or wading out to meet the larger ones. The waters are too shallow for the ships, you see.” Major Runnemede paused and looked out over the beach. “They’re carrying them out to those larger ships out there.” He pointed on the horizon. “The bloody Stukas are taking aim at those smaller boats, as well as the cruisers. One of the destroyers will be faster than those small ones, and it has bigger guns. Make your way over there and join the line. One should be coming along any time now.”
Miles nodded. “What happens when it’s filled?”
“It leaves and another one comes.” Major Runnemede pulled out a pair of binoculars and held them to his eyes. “Yes. That’s The Grafton there. She’s just begun boarding.” He lowered the binoculars. “If you hurry, you might make this run. If not, wait for the next one.”
Miles saluted him. “Thank you, sir.”
Major Runnemede returned the salute, then held out his hand. “Get back to your squadron, Lacey, and then come back over here and give ‘em hell.”
Miles grinned and nodded. “Yes, sir!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Café Rosa was located on a corner of Rue Josephine and a narrow lane. Its entrance curved across the corner of the old stone building with glass windows on either side, giving an almost panoramic view of the world outside. Evelyn inhaled deeply as they stepped through the door, basking in the familiar smell of freshly baked pastries mixed with the heavy aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.
“Doesn’t that smell wonderful?” she asked Finn.
“Indeed.”
They walked to the counter where a man stood wearing an apron over his trousers and collared shirt. He wasn’t a tall man, and was very lean with dark hair and a mustache that he kept neatly trimmed. What he lacked in stature, however, he more than made up for in charisma.
“Welcome to Café Rosa,” he said cheerfully, eyeing their cases. “I see you’ve just arrived in Bordeaux. Welcome!”
