“What’s your squadron number?”
“Seventy-Three.”
The pilot turned and shouted, “Charlie!”
A man smoking a cigarette and wearing an RAF pilot uniform peeked around a group of soldiers and raised his eyebrows.
“Is the Seventy-Three Squadron’s ground crew on board?” Peter asked.
Charlie nodded.
Jimmie’s eyes turned wide. “Where?”
Charlie plucked the cigarette from his mouth. “Down in the hull.”
“Are you sure?” Jimmie asked.
“Yes,” Charlie said. “They were on the pier with us. All ground crews were ordered to go down into the holds.” He took a drag and returned to chatting with soldiers.
Jimmie looked at Peter. “I’m surprised I didn’t see them at the harbor.”
“You wouldn’t have seen them there,” Peter said. “The ground crews embarked from a pier in the estuary—upriver from the harbor.”
Jimmie nodded.
“We came in with our ground crew late last night,” Peter said. “Most of the RAF pilots have flown their kites back home, and their ground crews were ordered to make their way to Saint-Nazaire for transport.”
“How many ground crew are here?” Jimmie asked.
Peter scratched his head. “About eight hundred.”
Jimmie imagined the men, crammed together in the hold of the ship, and tension spread through his body.
Ruth placed a hand on Jimmie’s arm. “I’m glad the men in your squadron made it out.”
“Me too,” he said, his voice drab.
“Cheer up, mate,” Peter said. “You’ll see them when we get to England.”
Jimmie nodded, despite a knot in the pit of his stomach.
Peter took a sip from his whisky bottle and left to join his copilot.
Jimmie leaned his head over the rail and peered down at the sea, lapping against the hull of the ship.
“What’s wrong?” Ruth asked.
“Do you remember me telling you that my dad is a shipyard engineer?”
“Yes.”
“Before I left for service, he told me that if I ever ended up on a transport ship, to never allow myself to be placed in the hull.”
“Why?”
“He said that there would be no chance of getting out if the ship was struck by a torpedo.”
Ruth swallowed. “They’re going to be okay, and so will we.”
Jimmie glanced at the troops, many of whom were celebrating as if they were already safe at home. “The soldier on the tug said that the Luftwaffe dropped floating mines. A mine can sink a ship as easily as a torpedo.”
She clasped his fingers.
An image of Horace, whistling as he worked on a Hurricane engine, flashed in Jimmie’s brain. “I have friends down there. I need to tell them to go to a deck above the waterline.”
“I’ll come with you.”
He shook his head. “There’s no reason for both of us to leave.”
She squeezed his hand. “Please, we should stick together.”
“I’ll be all right,” he said. “Troops are still boarding the ship. I’ll be down and back before we set sail.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He kissed her on the lips and hugged her tight, all the while never wanting to let her go. Before he changed his mind, he slipped away and weaved through the crowd.
A disquietude churned inside Jimmie as he descended a stairway clogged with a multitude of men who were working their way topside. He exited the stairwell and maneuvered his way, squeezing through hordes of people, to a dining room with an Italianate ceiling and ivory-colored columns. The tables were filled and there were long queues with soldiers waiting to receive chocolate bars, cups of tea, and slices of bread with marmalade. He weaved through the dense crowd, traveled down a narrow interior corridor, and searched for a passable stairway to the bowel of the ship.
