“It was,” she said. “Sometime, we’ll spend the entire day in bed.”
He smiled, feeling his body flood with warmth. He pulled her close. “I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”
She nuzzled to him. “That would be lovely.”
He lowered his cheek to her hair. He felt the softness of her skin next to his, spawning images of their night together.
She glided her fingers over his neck.
His skin tingled.
She looked up, and their eyes met.
Jimmie drew close, his breath stalling, and gently kissed her lips. He felt her arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him tight.
She eased back and glided her fingers over his stubbled face. “We should go.”
He nodded, and she slipped away.
They put on their clothes and, not knowing when they would acquire more potable water, they drank heavily from the spigot. Jimmie gathered Ruth’s bag and they climbed out of the window to a full moon that illuminated the coast of Brittany. The echoes of gunfire were gone, and the sound of crashing waves filled the cool, predawn air. They located the earthen path and headed toward town, leaving their interlude of bliss behind.
An intense yearning to be with Ruth grew inside him. Since the war began, he’d felt little more than anguish, but Ruth had awakened his heart. She’d given him warmth, affection, and—most of all—hope. But upon reaching England, he and Ruth would go their separate ways. He would report to the RAF and, once his arm was healed, he would return to the air war, most likely to defend the coast of Britain against the Luftwaffe. Ruth, he believed, would first make certain that Aline was cared for, and then she’d volunteer to serve in a branch of the armed forces, perhaps as an ambulance driver for Britain’s Auxiliary Territorial Service. Regardless of which service Ruth pursued, he knew that she would continue to fight until the war was won.
France was nearing its defeat to Nazi Germany and Hitler would, in all probability, focus the full fury of his military upon Britain. Even if the country could muster the means to fend off a German invasion, it might take years, Jimmie believed, for the Allies to mount a counteroffensive to liberate France. During this time, he and Ruth would remain apart. And given the casualty rate of fighter pilots, the likelihood of surviving a long, drawn-out war was bleak. He prayed that he’d find a way to beat the odds and reunite with Ruth.
They reached Saint-Nazaire before dawn, and the town was bustling with soldiers and refugees who were making their way to the waterfront. The streets were strewn with masses of discarded uniforms, and hundreds of rifles were propped against walls like abandoned walking sticks. Several burned-out military vehicles, including a dispatch motorcycle, blocked an intersection, which required them to take a detour on a side street. Jimmie had assumed that the ruined vehicles were a result of the previous day’s Luftwaffe raids, until they encountered a BEF driver dousing his lorry with petrol.
Jimmie and Ruth stopped.
The soldier lit a match and tossed it into the driver’s compartment of the lorry, engulfing it in flames. He turned, his eyes locked on Jimmie and Ruth, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Orders to destroy what we can’t remove.”
Jimmie nodded. A smell of burnt petrol stung his nostrils.
The soldier darted down the street and disappeared around a corner.
Ruth clasped Jimmie’s arm, and they continued their walk through the town.
At the harbor, countless soldiers and refugees were gathered in long lines at the piers. Thousands more were huddled in groups around the seawall.
“I don’t see any ships,” Ruth said.
Jimmie scanned the dark harbor, its water calm and empty of vessels. “They’ll be here.”
“The number of evacuees has grown,” she said.
Muscles tensed in Jimmie’s shoulders, and he wondered, although briefly, if there would be enough ships to save them all. He buried his angst and turned to her. “How about we get in line?”
“Okay.”
They traveled to the last pier, which appeared to be slightly less crowded than the others, and stood behind a group of BEF soldiers, some of whom were hunkered on the ground with their heads in their hands. Several meters away, two chaplains—in khaki uniforms with clerical collars—sat on a stack of luggage and sobbed.
Ruth leaned to him.
He put down Ruth’s bag and held her hand. “It’s going to be all right.”
She squeezed his fingers.
“Soon, we’ll be in England.”
“We will,” she said, as if repeating an affirmation.
For an hour, they stood in line while new arrivals of soldiers and refugees flooded into the harbor. The lines grew to immense length, forcing people to wait in town.
Shortly before sunrise, a ship horn sounded in the distance.
Heads of evacuees turned toward the water.
A cacophony of horns sounded from off the coast and the opposite side of the estuary. Cheers boomed from the crowd, and hundreds of soldiers waved their arms.
“We’re going home!” a man shouted.
Tears of happiness welled up in Ruth’s eyes.
Thank God. Jimmie wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
Over the next forty minutes, scores of vessels—a mix of small destroyers, tugs, fishing boats, and leisure craft—entered the harbor and docked along the piers. Soldiers and refugees loaded onto the vessels, which took turns departing the harbor for the ocean.
“Are the tiny boats going to cross the Atlantic?” Ruth asked.
