“True.” The other day, the Americans had taken the port ofCherbourg at the northern tip of the Cotentin Peninsula. Would they now drive south toward Saint-Malo?
Still no sign that the Allies were coming to the Channel Islands. Surely they wouldn’t bypass the islands—their own soil, their own people.
Yet that soil was covered by the heaviest defenses on the Atlantic Wall, and those people would be endangered in battle. The British had abandoned the islands in 1940 due to the lack of strategic value. Would the Germans come to the same conclusion and evacuate their troops? Or follow the dictates of the military commander of the Channel Islands and fight to the last man?
If the Allies even came.
A frown tugged at Gerrit’s lips. If they never came, his work was for nothing. All those maps, all those diagrams—a waste of silk and secret ink and lives risked.
Loaded with OT men, the cargo ship rumbled away from the pier and into the gray bay in the gray evening.
A cool breeze buffeted his face, and Gerrit closed his eyes and prayed. He had no control over any aspect of his life right now—probably never did. He had to trust God with the results, trust God to protect Ivy and Charlie and Bernardus and the Jounys, because he couldn’t—probably never could.
His breath stilled, and a strange sense of peace filled him. On Sunday, the rector had preached from Habakkuk: “Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation.”
Gerrit prayed out his own version. Even if he were marched all the way to Berlin. Even if he were never exonerated. Even if he never saw Ivy again. Even if he died—even if executed as a traitor—yet he would rejoice in the Lord.
“Oh, Lord,” he whispered into the wind. “Show me how.”
A murmur swept the deck, built to cries.
Gerrit’s eyes flew open. Low over the water, a large aircraft approached the far side of the ship, propellers spinning in four shiny discs. Twin projectiles plummeted from the plane’s wings and slapped the water, and the bomber roared past over the ship.
“Torpedoes!”
With wild faces, men surged to Gerrit’s side of the ship. Some scrambled over the rails and into the water.
Gerrit stared down into the gray waves. Stay on a ship about to be torpedoed? Or swim to safety? To an escape even?
His left hand stretched and coiled once. He had no time to deliberate, and he looped the strap of his duffel over his head and vaulted over the rail.
Cool water slapped the breath out of him, rushed over his head. He paddled to the surface, gulped in air, and swam hard for shore. His duffel served as a brake, but he’d ditch it only if necessary.
More splashes in the water, and a dozen men swam alongside him.
A shuddering crash.
Gerrit glanced over his shoulder.
The cargo ship lurched to one side but didn’t explode.
Riedel leaned over the rail, his broad face frantic.“I can’t swim,van der Zee!I can’t swim.”
Gerrit paused and treaded water. He was a strong swimmer, but could he save another man? How could he not try?
“Stay there, Riedel,” he yelled. “You’re safer on board. If the boat sinks, I’ll help you.”
“Yes, stay there.” Ernst Schmeling treaded water not far from Gerrit, his wet hair glistening silver. “Patrol boats are coming.”
Two small vessels zipped through the bay toward the cargo ship.
“Swim to shore, van der Zee.” Schmeling paddled toward land. “The patrol boats will rescue our men.”
Gerrit raised one hand to Riedel in farewell, then swam toward the beach, his breath coming hard, shuddering in the cold.
He couldn’t escape from OT, even now, not with Schmeling and a dozen others in sight.
But he’d have another day in Jersey.
