The Wartime Matchmakers, page 23
“That’s why we need to strive every day to make it fair.” Hetty didn’t want anyone else telling her she couldn’t help, that she couldn’t do anything. “I want to help. I need to help, and I can’t sit about and stitch blankets for hospitals or sort food. I need something more . . .”
At this, Charles’s face turned pensive.
“What?” Hetty noticed the shift in him.
“There may be a way, but I fear your father might kill me if . . . and if anything were to happen to you, I’d kill myself. If you were any other woman, I would not even consider it. Hell, I feel like a damned villain for even thinking about it.”
“What? Tell me?” The wildness inside Hetty began to stir, like a wind that traversed continents—ever restless, ever nameless.
“Our men, the British Expeditionary Forces, are retreating to Dunkirk, a small town on the coast of France, as we speak.”
“Dunkirk . . . Wait, that’s where Major Taylor was headed.” Fear seized her heart, its icy claws sinking deep.
“The Germans are closing in; the French couldn’t keep them out. Even now, the forces are divided. It will be a miracle if we can get even the smallest numbers of our troops safely to the beaches for evacuation. We’re going to lose thousands of men. Possibly hundreds of thousands.”
Hundreds of thousands. The terrible number echoed in her mind. She knew what that number meant, but picturing each single life lost as part of those thousands . . . it was unbearable.
“They have to rescue those men. They—”
“The cabinet has been fighting for several days. Ironside, our Chief of the Imperial General Staff thinks Dunkirk could be a trap. Major-General Dewing thinks the BEF ought to fight their way to Somme. But the forces are scattered. Reports are coming in, and it’s clear that even the French and Belgian countrysides are in chaos. The cabinet finally worked up a plan for the twenty-seven-mile stretch of coast between Ostend and Dunkirk as the best bet for evacuation. But they’re still fighting over the logistics. The admiral of the fleet thinks they only need a handful of naval vessels for the evacuation.”
Charles sipped his scotch and cleared his throat. “An RAF group captain, some fellow named Goddard, well, he simply challenged the admiral himself. He told the admiral that the handful of boats selected to help the troops weren’t enough. He said, ‘You must send not only Channel packets, but pleasure steamers, coasters, fishing boats, lifeboats, yachts, motorboats, everything that can cross the Channel.’ He was so overwrought that he had to excuse himself from the meeting for a time. I think the RAF has a better sense of what we’re up against than the Admiralty.”
Hetty’s mind was spinning. “And they need every boat?”
“Every boat that’s seaworthy,” Charles said.
She clenched her scotch glass so tight her knuckles were alabaster. “Including your yacht.”
“Including my yacht,” he agreed. “I’m leaving in two days to get her out of the boatyard. I should be able to find an engineer and a sailor or two who can aid me in the crossing. I don’t want any engine trouble stranding us halfway across the Channel. Not when we’ll be slowed down and vulnerable with troops on board. We can’t afford to lose anyone.”
The fine hairs rose on Hetty’s neck. “No, we can’t. Very well, I accept.” She threw back the rest of her drink, the burn of the scotch waking all of her senses.
Charles set his drink aside on a nearby table, his gaze locking with hers. “Accept what?” he asked.
“The mission. You would never have told me this if you didn’t expect me to come with you.”
“I couldn’t stop you if I tried, could I?” he asked, his voice soft and low.
“No one can stop me.” Her voice was hard. The wildness inside her began to hum a battle hymn. They would get to Dunkirk, and God save anyone who got in their way.
The Marriage Bureau was going to war.
CHAPTER 19
May 29, 1940
Hetty called Cunningham House early in the morning. A weary Mrs. Harrow answered the phone. Hetty’s stomach knotted as she tried not to think about what she was getting ready to do. She had her hair pulled back in a band at the nape of her neck and wore comfortable trousers and a blue sweater, along with a pair of work boots that she had broken in ages ago. It was the best “rescue the BEF” outfit she could devise that would keep her warm and mobile while working on the boat.
“Mrs. Harrow, it’s Hetty. It’s rather urgent. Can you wake Lizzie up?”
“What on earth for, dearie?”
“Please, Mrs. Harrow. It’s an emergency,” Hetty begged her. She twisted the cable of the phone between her fingers, anxiously waiting for her friend. She didn’t have much time if she was to meet Charles at the boatyard. Despite his assurances he would wait, she couldn’t risk that he might sail off without her.
“Hold on, let me fetch her.”
Hetty held her breath until Elizabeth answered the phone. Her tone was a little breathless, as though she’d been running.
“Hetty? What’s the matter, Mrs. Harrow said it was an emergency.”
“I don’t have much time. Charles and I are leaving for France.”
“France? Hetty, what are you—?”
“The Royal Navy needs every boat, even yachts like Charles’s since his has a motor, to rescue our forces at Dunkirk. Thousands of men are stranded there, men like Major Taylor. We must save as many as we can, and I won’t let Charles go alone.”
There was a long silence before Elizabeth finally spoke up, her voice shaky with emotion. “Be careful, won’t you?”
“You know me, darling,” Hetty teased in a bravado-filled voice. “I’ll have the Germans running in fear. But you must keep the bureau running while I’m gone.”
“Of course. I’ll return to London at once, and Eva can stay at Cunningham House.”
“Thank you.” Hetty closed her eyes and pressed her head to the wall as she cradled the phone against her ear.
“You’ll call me the moment you’re both safe, won’t you?”
“Yes, you’ll be my first call. I’m not telling my parents. If I don’t . . .” Hetty refused to give voice to dark what-ifs.
“I’ll tell them,” Elizabeth promised. “Take care.”
Hetty could hear all the words left unsaid, and she wished she was speaking to Elizabeth in person so she could embrace her friend. Despite what some might think, such a display of sentiment was not a weakness but a strength. If anything, it embodied everything they were fighting for—the ability to care for one another.
“Thank you, Elizabeth.” She placed the phone in the cradle and collected her keys, then turned off the lights of her flat. She took one last look around before she closed the door and hurried down to the street to flag a cab.
The cab dropped her off at Charles’s boatyard, and she found him waiting in a large queue of men who slowly proceeded into the boatyard. There had to be more than a hundred and fifty men there.
“There you are.” Charles pulled her into his arms, kissing her hard before letting go. She immediately missed his warmth. He wore trousers and a fisherman’s sweater and managed to look just as comfortable in those clothes as he did in his bespoke suits. Her attention shifted back to the situation around them.
“What’s our plan?” she asked.
“Word’s gotten out. Someone from the Admiralty called the Royal Ocean Racing Club, and every yachtsman for miles showed up. We are to take our ships to Sheerness and then on to Ramsgate. There we will meet a commodore and his crew, who will check our ship over. We have to be deemed seaworthy before they’ll allow us to cross the Channel.”
Over the next hour, the boatyard filled with lightermen, dockworkers, deckhands, and bargemen. The ship owners worked with the waterfront crews, setting boat after boat into the water and preparing them to sail. Hetty kept quiet, ignoring the frequent looks of confusion as she was the only woman there. When it came their turn, she and Charles got his yacht out into the water, with the help of a lithe yet muscled Italian sailor named Angelo Santoro and a blond-haired young marine engineer, Harold Dowdy, both of whom had volunteered to come on their boat for the rescue mission.
Santoro had been on many different ships, and at the age of thirty-four, he was well seasoned for the mission. Harold was far younger at only twenty-three, but he knew his way around almost every type of marine engine, and he promised Charles he wouldn’t let them down. He could man the helm as well, should the need arise. Charles was happy to take them aboard, and so was Hetty. They’d need as much help as they could find.
They sailed the yacht toward Sheerness, following in the wake of the boats ahead of them. The harbor on the Thames was bustling. Ships filled every bit of water as far as the eye could see. Charles put his yacht in line with other similar vessels, and after an hour, they were boarded by a crew for inspection.
A young man wearing a naval lieutenant’s uniform asked as he held up a clipboard to take down their information, “Who is the vessel’s commander? And what is your vessel’s name?”
Charles stepped forward. “I am the captain, sir. Charles Humphrey. This is the Henrietta.”
“And who are your crew?” The man’s gaze landed on Hetty, who had straightened up and looked at Charles when he’d said the name of the ship. The last time they’d been on the boat, she hadn’t seen a name painted on it and hadn’t thought once about what it was called. She couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been named after her.
“This is Angelo Santoro and Harold Dowdy.” The two men nodded at the lieutenant respectfully. “Santoro’s an experienced sailor, and Dowdy’s a marine engineer.”
The officer nodded at Hetty. “And her?”
“Hetty Byron,” Hetty said, raising her chin a little as she met the lieutenant’s stare.
“Ma’am,” the officer began, a scolding tone in his voice, “you should stay here—”
Hetty fixed him with her most baleful expression. “Lieutenant, you are wasting valuable time. Feel free to contact Brigadier Byron about me, but for God’s sake, do not tell me to leave.”
The officer blushed, and without another word, he and his crew proceeded to check the vessel’s engine and cabin.
“Will we need weapons, sir?” Angelo asked the lieutenant.
“You might, but unfortunately, we don’t have any to give. The escort vessels will take what few Lewis machine guns we have.” The officer gave them all a sad smile. “Be careful of enemy aircraft. That will be the biggest danger to you.”
When the inspection was done, the officer shook Charles’s hand. “Proceed to Ramsgate to top off your fuel. We’ll have provisions loaded on board, and you’ll be assigned to a convoy. Do not lose your convoy if you need navigation assistance. It’s the only way you won’t get lost. Godspeed to you all.”
The officer and his crew disembarked, and Charles turned his boat toward Ramsgate.
Hetty, Charles, and the others were quiet the entire twenty-eight nautical miles to Ramsgate. She imagined the others were lost in their own thoughts and worries, just as she was.
When they arrived, the port was teaming with vessels, everything from large merchant ships to little tugs, steamer paddleboats and sailboats with motors. Someone more critical might have turned away the smallest of the boats, but not today. Every vessel, no matter the size, held the weight of Britain’s future on its decks.
As they refueled the yacht, stories began drifting back to them from other boat crews shouting across the water.
Men trapped on the beaches . . . Pinned down by German bombers . . . Terrifying . . . Ships sunk by bombers . . . Tens of thousands in need of rescue . . . More than we ever imagined . . .
“We’re full up, Mr. Humphrey,” Angelo said as the fuel ship moved away from the yacht. A tugboat came toward them.
“You the Henrietta?” a grizzled fisherman called out.
“Yes, sir!” Charles hollered back.
“Catch these and follow me. We’re adding you to my convoy and heading out.” The fisherman tossed a bundle onto the deck.
Harold retrieved the bag and opened it up to show a pocket tide table and a navigation chart with dozens of routes mapped in red, all headed toward Dunkirk. The yacht followed the tugboat called the Auntie May out of the port and joined several other vessels that had gathered together.
The Auntie May led the way out across the Channel, six boats following in its wake, two of which were naval escorts. Hetty joined Charles at the helm and slipped her hand in his as he held it out. Their fingers locked as they both looked toward the distant horizon in the direction of France.
Elizabeth couldn’t get back to sleep after Hetty’s early call. She grabbed her dressing gown and wrapped it around herself before slipping her feet into her slippers and making the long walk from her bedchamber to the kitchen. She found the housekeeper up and brewing tea.
“What was all that about, dearie?” Mrs. Harrow asked. She was also in her dressing gown, her hair bound up in a colorful scarf.
Elizabeth sank into a chair at the little table in the kitchen. “Hetty is on a boat headed for the coast of France. Our forces are having to evacuate, and they need every ship to help. She’s gone with a friend of ours, Mr. Humphrey.”
Mrs. Harrow’s gaze widened. “Miss Byron’s heading into danger?”
“It seems so. If anyone could get out of it, it’s Hetty, but well, if the BEF are retreating, what does that say about the Germans? It . . .” Elizabeth swallowed and tried to control her fear for her friend. It was impossible.
“The best we can do for her is to pray and go about our day,” Mrs. Harrow suggested.
“Yes, you’re right. I need to return to London soon, but I want Eva and Marcus to stay here with you. Will you look after them for me?”
“Of course.”
Elizabeth accepted the cup of tea the housekeeper held out to her, and then she ate a quick breakfast of toast and eggs before she went up to dress. She met the colonel on the stairs.
“Good morning, Colonel,” she greeted as she brushed her auburn hair back from her face. It was always a bit wild in the morning until she had a chance to comb through it.
“Morning,” he grunted and passed by her, but after she took a few more steps, she halted.
“Colonel? Where exactly is Dunkirk?” She turned around at the same time as he did at the bottom of the stairs.
“Dunkirk?”
“Yes, in France.”
“I know where it is, but why do you ask?” the older gentleman replied.
She paused, but only for a moment. “I heard the BEF are attempting to evacuate from there.” She came back down the steps. “One of my clients, a major, left for France only a month ago. And my friend and business partner, Hetty Byron, Brigadier Byron’s daughter, is on a boat now headed for Dunkirk to help in the rescue. I’m terribly anxious about her going.”
The colonel must have seen how shaken she was, because he let out an oath that made Elizabeth blush.
“Come with me.” He headed for the library on the ground floor and turned on a few lamps, then dug around in a wooden chest of drawers that contained all sorts of odds and ends from his travels.
He retrieved a large map that had been folded up ages ago. Rather than put the map on one of the reading tables, he took it into the kitchen. When he caught sight of Mrs. Harrow, he made a growling demand for coffee while he unfolded the map.
“Oi! Watch out for your breakfast, now, or you’ll wreck the table!” Mrs. Harrow swooped in to rescue a plate of bacon and a rack of toast she’d set down earlier for the Colonel.
The colonel spread the map out on the now clear table and picked up a nearby knife, pointing to a place on the map.
“This is the border between Belgium and France.” He traced the map along the coast, moving inland. “And here is Dunkirk, just southwest of the border.”
Elizabeth leaned over, peering at the map.
“You said the men are evacuating by boat?” he asked, his tone quiet.
“Yes. Hetty said they needed every boat they could find.”
“The Royal Navy must be busy elsewhere, no doubt dealing with U-boats in the Atlantic.” He stroked his chin, staring at the map as if it would reveal its secrets if he glared at it long enough.
“What sort of boat is she on?” he asked.
“A pleasure yacht.” Elizabeth described Charles’s ship.
“They’ll be damned lucky if they don’t sink. That sort of ship won’t have a strong enough hull. One good spray of bullets from the Luftwaffe and they’ll be done for.”
Elizabeth gasped, and the colonel looked up apologetically. “That being said,” he admitted softly, “the Luftwaffe will probably focus on the beaches. That’s where the majority of the men will be. Tiny boats on an ever-moving sea are much harder targets. The biggest danger your friend’s ship will face is when they’re trying to board troops. If there are any wharfs or docks, German planes will try to bomb them. And the men themselves will be a danger . . . They could swarm a ship in desperation and capsize it.”
“Sounds like we’d better pray for fog,” Mrs. Harrow interrupted as she set a poached egg in front of the colonel and a cup of coffee. “Lots of fog.”
The colonel turned a thoughtful gaze to the housekeeper and accepted the coffee she handed him with a quiet thank you, to which Mrs. Harrow nodded back respectfully.
Elizabeth stared at the map and the tiny black dot with the name Dunkirk next to it and shivered. If there was any goodness left in the world, it would come from all those little English boats and the hearts of the people sailing them into danger.
“Be safe, Hetty,” she whispered. “Come back home.”
The smoke on the horizon was the first thing Hetty saw as the coast of France came into view. She rushed to the railing and stared toward the column of black clouds that rose up into the clear sky.
