Chapter 21

Full Steam Ahead

I stood on the deck of SS Lutitia, straining to pick out the rest of the convoy: seventy ships, dark, grainy forms in the distance on all sides. A huge plume of spray burst into the air up ahead with a whoosh. The destroyers were dropping depth chargers as they swept for German U-boats. We sailed from Gibraltar at dusk, blackout regulations in force, the lights of Spain winking as we slipped by. It was a curious thing spending the night at sea, I thought, especially with no light at all, because you couldn’t tell where the ocean ended, and the sky began. Everything merged into one inky blot. I was lucky to be on this ship as there were so many Allied refugees waiting in line, including the Maltese wives of British officers, all desperate to sail to Britain.

The Spanish authorities had released me and my fellow evaders from the jail in Besalu after a few days. Satisfied with their inquiries, they provided me with a lovely hotel room after charging me with illegally entering Spain and fining me one thousand British pounds. I raised an eyebrow at that. Having contacted the British Consul, they took care of things from then.

Reaching Gibraltar was like a momentous exhale, elation promptly smothered by emptiness. I could scarcely believe I’d soon be in England, safe, yet the thought of life without Henri was too painful, and in the confines of my hotel room, I wept until my chest ached and my voice grew hoarse. Outside, I clenched my jaw and forced a smile. I was lucky to be alive and had no right to be miserable. The only choice was to go on. So, while I waited for news of my passage to England, I spent my days at the Rock Hotel, reading the daily newspapers and getting pissed. What else was there to do?

The RAF had launched a daring raid on German dams, using bouncing bombs. How ingenious! The very thought of it sent a shiver down my spine. How utterly fearless those brave young men must have been. Meanwhile, the Allies were driving Rommel and his troops back in Africa. From my seat on the terrace, I’d squinted at the hazy African coastline far across the sea, trying to picture the raging battles.

I’d sent a coded message to Henri via a friend, telling him I was on my way to England. I closed my eyes for a moment, raised my chin while savouring the damp, cool sea air, a refreshing breeze. As I stood, the ship bumped along, riding over waves in a turbulent ocean, and I realised I was alone. How long had it been since I’d kissed Henri goodbye? Questions like that raised their sorry flags in my mind as I clawed desperately for the answers as if it was vital to remember. And it was vital and dear to me while I summoned his image, my eyes misting over, a growing sinking feeling inside. My throat constricted, chest tight. Please, Lord, let Henri be on his way. It wasn’t safe to stay. How long before the Germans arrested him? I bit my lip, ground my nails into the palms of my hands.

For three years I’d been a part of something important, helping the war effort, and now I questioned what had been the point? My life lay in tatters, finished, and somehow, I had to pick up the pieces. For the first time in a while, I felt wretched, on the verge of breaking down as anger, fear, and self-pity collided and crashed into one. The life I’d built was over. Faces flashed in my mind, and one stood out from the rest. Captain Garrow. I’d contact him when I reached England. I blew out a breath. One step at a time, Nancy.