Charlie hunched his shoulders. “I wanted to run, but that’s the worst thing to do. I stayed another fifteen minutes, praying harder than I’ve ever prayed in my life, and then left. The man in the hat followed me.”
“Oh no. Charlie.”
The boy’s cheeks worked, no longer spotted by blemishes, but still smooth with youth. “I know what to do. I walked at my usual speed, ate lunch at my usual café, strolled back to the docks, never looked back at him. He left me alone halfway through lunch.”
“The jacket? Where is it?” The diagram they’d scheduled to send this week was for a giant observation tower under construction at Batterie Lothringen. Since the tower was the first of its kind and the design was unique to the Channel Islands, delivering the diagram to the Allies was essential.
“Marie works in the harbormaster’s office. I gave the jacket to her, said I’d ripped it, asked her to mend it. They know what that means.”
Now a young girl had the diagram, and Gerrit huffed out a breath. “What next?”
“When I return, I pick up my mending. They’ll inform me of my new procedures.” His cheeks kept working, paler than usual.
“It isn’t too late,” Gerrit said. “You can stop at any time. We’ll understand.”
Charlie gripped his elbows, not quite hugging himself. “Soldiers on the front can’t quit when they have a close call. Why should I?”
Because he was too young to be a soldier, too special to die young, too beloved by his family.
And not one of those arguments would hold sway.
“I must do this.” Charlie’s voice strengthened. “I’ve been praying all day. I know I must.”
Noise built around Gerrit and inside him, engines throbbing, objections shouting, and conviction sizzling like molten steel hitting air. “I know. We all must do this.”
Charlie wrenched his gaze to the sky.
The throbbing engines, the shouts. Crewmen scrambled around the deck, up to the antiaircraft gun mounted on top of the cabin. High above, engines whined.
“Oh no,” Charlie said. “Another air raid.”
“Another?”
“Don’t tell my sisters.” Charlie grabbed Gerrit’s arm and dashed to the cabin. “Take cover. Get low.”
Inside the cabin, dozens of men crouched on the deck, and Gerrit and Charlie joined them.
Through a porthole, Gerrit saw three fighter planes diving, each with two propellers spinning. The British Royal Air Force.
Part of him wanted to cheer for the RAF. And part of him wanted to scream at the pilots to spare this boat, these men.
Gunfire crackled from on top of the cabin roof.
“Gerrit! Get down.” Charlie tugged at his sleeve.
He obeyed, bowing his body around his satchel, around what might be the only insulin bound for Jersey.
“Not this boat, Lord,” he muttered. “Not today.”
The plane engines and gunfire built to a fever pitch, then faded.
No screams. No shouts. The boat and the men aboard had survived. As had the insulin.
At least this prayer, on behalf of Ivy’s patients, the Lord had answered.
chapter
19
