They continued forward and were met by two stewards in white uniforms with shiny, brass buttons. To Jimmie, they looked like cruise line staff who remained on as crew after the government requisitioned the vessel.
“Keep moving!” one of the stewards shouted.
Troops, packed close together, shuffled ahead.
As Jimmie neared a steward, he glanced at the man’s clipboard, which held papers with tally marks. “How many on board?”
“I’m not sure,” the steward said. “We stopped counting at six thousand.”
Ruth’s eyes widened. “How many passengers does she normally hold?”
The steward rubbed the back of his neck. “Thirteen hundred.”
Good Lord, Jimmie thought. It’s terribly over capacity, but what choice does the military have? Soldiers who are left behind will likely be killed or captured. Jimmie set aside his concern and clasped Ruth’s hand. Together, they shuffled to a stairway that led to the upper and lower decks.
“Down below!” a Royal Navy midshipman shouted, directing troops.
Angst pricked at Jimmie’s gut. He held tight to Ruth’s hand. “Follow me.”
She nodded.
At the stairway, Jimmie bypassed the midshipman and traveled up the steps.
“Down below, sir!” the midshipman called. “There’s no room above!”
Jimmie ignored the man’s directive, made his way with Ruth to the next deck, and weaved into a crowd of soldiers.
“Why did you do that?” Ruth asked.
“It’s safer on top.”
He led Ruth upward, squeezing through stairways packed with troops, until they reached the main deck. They worked their way through the crowd, a mix of servicemen and refugees, and claimed a spot at the railing.
Ruth raised her nose and took in deep breaths.
“Better?”
“Much.”
Jimmie smiled. He looked over the rail and inhaled sea air.
“Hello, mate!” a man’s voice boomed.
Jimmie turned.
A young man in an RAF pilot uniform approached him. He wore a tied-together pair of boots—each holding a bottle of whisky—around his neck.
Jimmie grinned and shook the man’s hand. “It’s smashing to see another pilot. I’m Jimmie.”
“Peter.”
“This is Ruth,” Jimmie said, gesturing.
“Pleasure,” Peter said.
Ruth shook his hand.
Peter lifted a half-empty bottle of whisky from a boot. “Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you,” Ruth said.
Jimmie shook his head. “Maybe later.”
The pilot glanced at Jimmie’s cast. “How did you injure the wing?”
“I broke a bone while bailing out of my Hurricane.”
Peter nodded. “Two days ago, our Blenheim was shot down by a Messerschmitt 109. My copilot, Charlie, and I were able to bail out, but our gunner bought it.”
“I’m sorry,” Jimmie said.
“Thanks.”
“What was his name?” Jimmie asked.
“Manny. Everyone liked him.” Peter raised the whisky bottle and took a swig, as if to pay tribute to his fallen airman. “Did you come in with your ground crew?”
“No,” Jimmie said. “I haven’t seen my unit in weeks.”
