Pierre slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and glanced over the room. “Perhaps you could draw a few pictures for them. You’re a gifted artist, like your maman. I bet they would enjoy having a few drawings to brighten up their apartment. What do you think?”
“I could try to make a picture of the duck pond that Maman liked to paint.”
“Magnifique!” Pierre reached behind Aline’s ear and, using his sleight of hand, produced a coin.
Aline grinned. “You must perform your magic for them.”
“I will.” He helped her into a seat and served breakfast.
Jimmie chewed a bite of egg, rich and well salted, and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. His energy began to grow, and with it came a deep admiration for Pierre. He wished that someday he’d be fortunate enough to have his own family, and if he ever became a grandfather, he hoped he would be as good of one as Pierre.
They silently ate their meal and Jimmie’s mind drifted to the looming threat of the Germans capturing Paris. He felt helpless with a broken arm that rendered him unable to fly, yet he was determined to do everything he could to combat the enemy. He glanced at Pierre and Aline, collecting bits of oily bread with their forks. I may be powerless to fight the Luftwaffe, but I won’t give up the battle to protect them. He sipped coffee and resolved to persuade Pierre to go with him to the coast, and to find a way to get him and Aline on a ship to freedom.
CHAPTER 29
LONDON, ENGLAND—JUNE 4, 1940
On the morning that the German Army hoisted swastika flags on the docks at Dunkirk, Prime Minister Winston Churchill was working at his bedroom desk in the underground Cabinet War Rooms. Using a fountain pen and stationery, he toiled away at drafting a speech to give to the House of Commons of the Parliament. The purpose of his address was twofold—to allay the euphoric public response to the evacuation from Dunkirk, and to pledge to never surrender. He wrote, revised, and revised again, all the while carefully choosing words to inform and inspire the minds and hearts of the British people.
A knock came from the door.
“Come in,” he said with his eyes focused on his draft.
General Ismay entered. “Good day, sir.” He glanced at Churchill’s paper, covered in cursive handwriting with a multitude of changes and deletions. “I see that you’re preparing for your address. Shall I return later?”
“No,” Churchill said, scrawling on his stationery. “I was about to summon you. Please sit.”
Ismay removed his military cap and sat in a green upholstered chair next to the desk.
Churchill ceased writing, examined his work, and frowned. “A great number of our citizens are of the opinion that the evacuation at Dunkirk is a victory. Wars cannot be won by evacuations.”
“I agree, sir,” Ismay said. “Britons are desperate for good news. Since the start of the war, Europe has endured little more than fear and devastation from the Germany military. Over the past week, we achieved an unprecedented feat, using both military and civilian vessels, to save most of our army. It has given our people hope.”
“Indeed,” Churchill said. “However, they must know that we suffered an immense military disaster, and they need to be apprised of a possible invasion attempt by that barbaric dictator’s military, without raising doubt that we will—in the end—be victorious.”
“Point taken, sir,” Ismay said. “I’m quite confident that you will find the proper words to do so.”
Eventually. Churchill raised his eyes from his draft. “I assume that Vice Admiral Ramsay has briefed you on the results of the Dunkirk evacuation.”
“He has, sir.” Ismay shifted in his seat. “As we expected, Dunkirk has fallen.”
“When?”
“An hour ago.” Ismay folded his arms. “The Royal Navy estimates that over thirty thousand French troops didn’t make it out and were captured.”
Churchill rolled his pen between his fingers. “Do you have an analysis on the number of evacuees?”
Ismay removed a note from his pocket. “A rough count is three hundred and thirty-eight thousand troops—two hundred fifteen thousand are British, and one hundred twenty-three thousand are French. Included in the tally are several hundred unarmed mule handlers from the Royal Indian Army Service Corps.”
Churchill nodded. “How many BEF casualties?”
“We’re still working to confirm numbers of soldiers who were either killed, wounded, missing, or taken prisoner.”
“An estimate will suffice,” Churchill said.
Ismay adjusted his tunic, tightly fitted over his broad chest. “It will likely be over sixty thousand casualties, sir.”
Churchill put down his pen and rubbed his forehead. “Tell me the tally on lost weaponry and supplies.”
“Most of our equipment was destroyed or abandoned.” Ismay flipped over his piece of paper and viewed a list. “We lost over two thousand antiaircraft guns and antitank guns, sixty thousand motorized vehicles, seventy thousand long tons of ammunition, four hundred thousand long tons of supplies, and one hundred sixty thousand long tons of petrol.”
The Germans will use the undestroyed weapons and supplies against us. Anger burned inside Churchill yet his appearance remained composed.
“Also,” Ismay said, “approximately two hundred British and Allied sea craft were sunk, including the six Royal Navy destroyers, which you already know about.”
He retrieved a cigar from a box on his desk and lit it. He took a long drag, bringing smoke into his lungs and steadying his nerves. “What about the RAF?”
“We lost over one hundred and forty aircraft. No word on the number of pilots and crew who perished.” Ismay put away his note. “The RAF indicates that we shot down an equal or slightly higher number of German planes.”
Churchill flicked ash into a bronze cigar tray. “Our air victories will be meaningless if we fail to evacuate the remaining troops who are stranded in France. We need the full force of our military to defend our island.”
Ismay nodded.
Churchill swiveled his chair and looked at a map of Europe that was posted on the wall behind his desk. “Do you have an update on the plans to evacuate the remaining Allied troops?”
“I do.” Ismay gestured to the map. “If I may, sir.”
“By all means.”
