All Clear

“The secret project to decode the Nazis’ coded messages,” he said.

“Oh.” Brenda turned to her husband. “I thought you said the American forces were what won the war.”

Bob had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“There were all kinds of things that won the war,” Bob said. “Radar and the atom bomb and Hitler’s deciding to invade Russia—”

“And the evacuation from Dunkirk,” Calvin said, “and the Battle of Britain, and the way Londoners stood up to the Blitz—”

Brenda beamed at him. “You’re obviously as big a fan of World War Two as my husband is.”

A fan. Of World War II. “Actually, I’m a journalist,” he said. “I’m here to cover the opening of the Blitz exhibit.”

“Really?” she said. “Our daughter Stephanie teaches journalism. You’d be perfect for each other. Are you married?”

“Brenda,” her husband said. “It’s none of our business—”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said. “Are you?”

He shook his head.

“Girlfriend?”

“Not yet.”

“You see?” she said, turning triumphantly to her husband and then back to him. “How old are you? Thirty?”

“Brenda! This young man is not interested in—”

“Stephanie’s twenty-six,” she said. “She teaches at—”

“Let’s go look at the tank,” Bob said, and took her arm.

“It’s raining—” she began.

“It’s stopped,” Bob said firmly.

“Oh, all right,” she said, starting down the steps, and then said to Calvin, “Would you mind taking our picture in front of the tank?”

She handed him her camera, and he went down with them and took their picture in front of the anti-aircraft gun and the boat. “The Lily Maid,” she said. “It’s not a very warlike name, is it?”

“They didn’t know they were going into a war,” Bob said impatiently. “Did they, Calvin?”

No, he thought. They didn’t know they were going into a war.

We didn’t know where we were going, so we just scribbled little notes and flung them out at stations as we passed.

—SERGEANT MAJOR MARTIN MCLANE,

RECALLING HIS ARRIVAL HOME

FROM DUNKIRK

Dover—April 1944

“KANSAS!” COMMANDER HAROLD BAWLED IN ERNEST’S EAR, hugging him and pounding him on the back. “I can’t believe it’s you!” And for the space of perhaps thirty seconds, Ernest wondered if he could convince him he was mistaken—if his two-day stubble and Cornish accent might create just enough doubt that he could look bewildered and say, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ve confused me with someone else.”

But it was too late. The Commander had already seen the look on his face when he’d realized this was the Lady Jane. And now what the hell was he going to do?

If the Commander told Lady Bracknell …

He suddenly remembered Bracknell saying, “Algernon specifically requested you for this delivery.” Tensing already knows I know the Commander, he thought.

That’s why he sent me. But how had he known that? And what was the Commander—

“What are you doing here, Kansas?” Commander Harold was saying.

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? I thought the Lady Jane had been sunk at Dunkirk—”

“Sunk?” he bellowed, outraged. “The Lady Jane?”

Jesus, the sailor up on deck will hear him, he thought. “Shouldn’t we—” he cautioned, pointing at the hatch.

“You’re right, lad,” the Commander said, and waded over to the hatch, reached up, and pulled the trapdoor shut. “You should know nothing can sink the Lady Jane, not even a Nazi U-boat.”

“But then what happened? Where’s Jonathan?” he said, almost afraid to ask. “Did he make it back?”

“Make it back?” the Commander bellowed, surprised. “Why, you saw him up there on deck not five minutes ago.” He tipped the hatch open and shouted,

“Jonathan! Get down here!”

“Aye, aye, Captain Doolittle,” a man’s voice said, and the sailor came down the ladder, still carrying the wrench and saying reprovingly, “Grandfather, you’re not supposed to call me Jonathan. My name’s Alfred—” He stopped when he saw Ernest, looking uneasily at him. His hand tightened on the wrench.

This can’t possibly be Jonathan, Ernest thought, staring at the tall, broad-shouldered sailor. He’s a grown man.

“Sorry, Captain Doolittle,” Jonathan said. “I didn’t know you had company.”

“Stop that Captain Doolittle nonsense,” the Commander said. “Can’t you see who this is? It’s Mike Davis!”

He may not even remember me, Ernest thought. It’s been four years.

“You know,” the Commander prompted. “Kansas!”

“Oh, my goodness!” Jonathan exclaimed, shifting the wrench to his other fist so he could shake hands. “Mr. Davis!” He was beaming. “This is wonderful!”

“Wonderful” was the word, all right. They were alive. His unfouling the propeller hadn’t got them killed. Especially Jonathan—the Commander had known what he was getting into when he took off for Dunkirk, but Jonathan hadn’t. He’d been just a kid.