Every bit of space on the Lancastria was filled with weary soldiers and refugees. People slept on floors, played cards, or conversed with comrades or family members. The cabins—once used to accommodate posh travelers—were packed with dirty soldiers who were washing and shaving. Jimmie, while squeezing by an open cabin door, caught a glimpse of a man soaking in a tub with water the color of mud. He located a stairway and descended, but found the base of the stairs blocked with soldiers who were moving trunks of equipment. He backtracked, turned onto an adjacent corridor, and traveled to the opposite side of the ship. Eventually, he found a usable stairway that led to the lower decks.
Forty minutes after he’d left Ruth, he stepped down through an open, water-tight hatch in the floor, and descended stairs to the hull of the ship. The dimly lit space of the cargo hold, surrounded in steel, reminded Jimmie of a mortuary. It was packed with RAF ground crewmen, who were standing or sitting in tight groups. The temperature was hot, given its proximity to the engine room, and the air reeked of sweat and cigarette smoke.
“Seventy-Three!” Jimmie shouted, squeezing by a group of men. “Anyone here with the Seventy-Three!”
A ground crewman pointed. “Four compartments that way.”
“Thanks!” Jimmie’s hope rose as he pressed forward. The ship hasn’t moved. There’s plenty of time.
He crossed through two compartments, both of which he accessed by spinning a wheel to unlock a bulkhead door. As he maneuvered by a group of men hunkered on the ground and playing cards, a familiar voice shouted from across the cargo bay.
“Jimmie!” Horace darted past servicemen, nearly knocking a man over who was drinking from a canteen, and hugged him. “You’re alive!”
Jimmie’s spirit soared. He embraced his friend and patted him on the back. “Indeed, I am.”
Horace slipped away, removed his glasses, and wiped his eyes. “I’m gobsmacked. We thought you bought it.”
“Escaped with a broken arm,” Jimmie said, showing him his cast. “An ambulance driver named Ruth saved me. She’s on the ship’s main deck, and I’m excited for you to meet her.”
“Excellent,” Horace said, grinning. He slipped on his glasses. “I’m so happy you’re all right. The others will be chuffed to bits to see you.”
“Me too,” Jimmie said. “Where are they?”
“A few compartments ahead. I was on my way to find some food.”
Jimmie nodded. “I saw Fanny bail out before I was shot down. How is he?”
“He suffered burns to his hands and was sent to a hospital in England to recover. I heard that he’s doing well and should return to service in a few weeks.”
“Brilliant,” Jimmie said. “While I was trying to find the squadron, I came across the burned-out remains of Benny’s Hurricane at the airfield in Reims. Is he all right?”
“He is,” Horace said. “His parked Hurricane was destroyed in a raid. He was issued another one, and he’s scheduled to fly out of France today with the other pilots of the squadron.”
Thank goodness.
“We were constantly on the move,” Horace said. “The advancing Panzers and Luftwaffe raids forced us to change airfields eight times—our last location was in Nantes.”
Jimmie nodded. “How’s Cobber?”
The color drained from Horace’s face. “He’s dead.”
“Oh, God.” Jimmie felt like he was punched in the gut. He leaned against a steel bulkhead and lowered his head.
“I’m sorry.” Horace placed a hand on Jimmie’s shoulder. “I know how much you looked up to him. Cobber thought of you as a brother. He was quite distressed after you were shot down.”
An image of Cobber—laughing as he splashed through the mud like a schoolboy while playing rugby in a downpour—flashed in Jimmie’s brain. He clenched his hands, sending a pang through the wrist of his partially healed arm. “I can’t believe it.”
Horace nodded.
“He was the best fighter pilot of the lot. Everyone thought of him as invincible—that there wasn’t a German aviator capable of getting the best of him in a dogfight.”
Horace slipped his hand from Jimmie’s shoulder. “Cobber wasn’t shot down.”
He furrowed his brow. “What happened?”
“It was an accident.” Horace paused, shifting his weight, as if he was reluctant to relive the tragedy. “Cobber refused to rest, flying sortie after sortie. He shot down seventeen enemy aircraft, but the strain of battle took its toll on him. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and—about ten days ago—he was ordered to return to England to rest.”
Jimmie felt sick to his stomach.
“The pilots and ground crew had gathered at the airfield in Échemines to say their farewells to Cobber. He departed in his Hurricane, but instead of flying straightaway, he performed low-level aerobatics to raise the spirit of the men.”
Oh, no.
“On his third pass of performing flick rolls, he miscalculated his altitude and hit the ground.” Horace swallowed. “Cobber was ejected from his cockpit and killed instantly.”
“Bloody hell,” Jimmie breathed. A mix of heartbreak and anger twisted inside him. “It’s so damn senseless.”
Horace rubbed his eyes and nodded.
“Did we lose any others?” Jimmie asked.
For several minutes, Horace filled him in on the welfare of the men in the squadron, including two fallen pilots who were shot down days before Cobber’s death.
Jimmie drew a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Time to go home, Horace.”
“It is, indeed.”
Jimmie buried his heartache, lowered his voice, and told him about his father’s advice to avoid transport in the hull of a ship. “As a precaution, you and the ground crewmen should get to a higher deck.”
