The soldiers’ dazed expressions all looked the same, numbed by shock and fear. And shame. Armies were supposed to fight, not retreat. It isn’t your fault, Audrey wanted to tell them. No one ever dreamed the Nazis would be so powerful. Or that the combined armies of Europe would be unable to stop them.
“Welcome home,” she repeated again and again to hundreds of murmured thanks.
“Is that blood on your face?” Eve asked a soldier as he reached for a piece of toast. “Do you need medical attention?”
He absently wiped his cheek. “The blood isn’t mine. It’s my mate’s. They bombed the beach and we had no place to hide. Men were blown to bits all around me. Guess I’m one of the lucky ones.”
“Ever hear the screaming sound the Nazi dive-bombers make?” the young man beside him asked.
“No, I—I . . .”
“It sounds like a siren coming down out of the sky. They dove straight at us with their load of bombs. I kept thinking, This is it. I’m done for now.”
“Right, and just when we’re thanking God for not being hit, back they’d come to have another go at us.”
Audrey didn’t hurry the men along, letting them talk, unloading their horror. Some of the men were shell-shocked, staring straight ahead as they walked past the refreshments, trembling like palsied men. Some needed help to hold the cup of tea and lift it to their lips.
“Where are you from?” Audrey asked to put them at ease. They named places she’d never heard of.
“I felt like a sitting duck,” she heard a soldier telling Eve. She was much better at getting them to talk. “Our destroyers couldn’t get close to shore, so they used smaller ships to ferry us out to them.” That was probably what Audrey’s boat would be used for. Many of these working-class men would be boarding a boat like hers for the first time.
“They had this long pier-like thing that stretched out into the water,” another soldier said, “and we all lined up, waiting for a ship to pull alongside it so we could board. I was next in line when they told me no more room. I watched the ship move away, carrying my mates and leaving me behind. . . . Then, out of nowhere—boom! A Nazi plane got through and bombed the ship. I stood there watching it burn and sink, smoke boiling up, men jumping off into the water.” His voice broke and he started to weep. “It might have been me!”
Eve shoved her kettle into Audrey’s hands and pulled the soldier into her arms to let him cry. It was such a natural thing for her to do, so like Eve—and so foreign to Audrey. It wasn’t that she felt no compassion for the man—his story brought tears to her eyes. But she’d never experienced warmth or consolation for her own tears and had no idea how to offer it to a stranger. Eve had once comforted her with a handful of strawberries.
The soldier thanked Eve and wiped his smudged face. He moved on. Audrey pasted on a smile and served the next soldier and the next as airplanes droned overhead and the sounds of battle rumbled in the distance.
Eve had looked into the faces of thousands of men, served hundreds of cups of tea, but hadn’t seen the face she was searching for. Late that afternoon, she and Audrey became separated, so after emptying the last drop from her kettle, Eve went to find her. Audrey wasn’t cut out for this work, physically or emotionally. She had a tender, sensitive heart, which she guarded behind an icy wall. But when Eve finally found Audrey, she was speaking to a group of French soldiers in their language. “We’re rescuing their soldiers, too,” she told Eve. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Yes, and I’m glad to see your fancy education is finally being put to good use.” Eve was relieved when Audrey laughed.
“I never imagined that speaking French would prove useful.”
“My kettle is empty again. Let’s go back to the church.”
“I’ve looked everywhere for Alfie,” Audrey said as they walked, “but I haven’t seen him.”
“Neither have I. But I have to believe that he’s here somewhere.”
“Let’s stop by the dock where we left the boat,” Audrey said. “I want to see if it’s back.” They pushed through the crowd of soldiers lining the shore and found the old seaman from last night standing outside his shack. There was no sign of the Rosamunde—or of any other boats, for that matter.
“Heard you ladies might be looking for a ride back to Folkestone,” the man said as they approached. “There’s a fellow here who can take you in his lorry.”