Chapter 44
chapter
Cherbourg, France
“This is the best food ever.” Sitting up in his cot in the US Army hospital, Charlie closed his eyes in pure bliss.
“It’s just beef broth.” Wearing a waist-length olive drab jacket and matching trousers, Lt. Norma Kincaid set her hands on her hips and laughed. “In all my years, I’ve never had a patient who loved hospital food.”
“You’ve never had a patient from Jersey.” Ivy sat in a chair at Charlie’s bedside, wearing a similar outfit, loaned to her by the nursing sisters—no, nurses in American English.
“Only four ounces of meat a week, you said?” Norma’s eyes stretched wide.
“Every other week.” Charlie sipped more beef broth. “In meatless weeks, we have two ounces of butter.”
“But only when meat and butter are available.” For the first time in four years, Ivy’s stomach felt full.
“Wait till I tell the folks back home, grumbling about twenty-eight ounces a week,” Norma said.
Charlie took a large spoonful of broth.
“Do be careful,” Ivy said. “You aren’t used to rich food, and you’ve been very sick.”
“Not anymore.” Charlie glanced up to the glass bottle hanging by his bed. “The BBC said this new penicillin was a wonder drug. They were correct.”
“No kidding.” Norma adjusted the rubber tubing that poured the medicine into Charlie’s veins every four hours around the clock.
“It’s saved countless lives since D-day.
If the boys survive long enough to get to the hospital, we have a good chance of saving them.
Even crazy boys playing hide-and-seek with German beach patrols. ” She winked at Charlie.
He winked back and grinned.
Ivy smiled at her brother’s good cheer, but tears threatened. Captain Reed, the American medical officer, said her brother had arrived just in time. After two fretful days, Charlie had rallied. As soon as he was stable, he’d be sent to a hospital in England to complete his recovery.
After American Army officers had questioned Ivy, they’d sent her to Cherbourg to be questioned by the British.
Since nothing in her story or papers aroused suspicion, they’d allowed her to stay with Charlie so she could accompany him to England.
The nurses welcomed her to their quarters and begged for her stories.
But every story reminded her of Gerrit, and she’d heard no word about him or Bernardus since they were transported from the beach in separate lorries.
At least she’d been able to send telegrams to Mum, telling of the escape and of Charlie’s progress. Soon she might have a response.
“Excuse me, Dr. Picot?” Captain Reed approached with a civilian in a dark gray overcoat, and he beckoned to her. “May I have a word?”
“Yes, sir.” Ivy joined the two men.
Captain Reed gestured to the civilian. “This is Hugh Collingwood with the BBC. Mr. Collingwood, this is Dr. Ivy Picot.”
The radio correspondent had golden-brown hair and a bright smile, and Ivy shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And I you.”
“Mr. Collingwood would like to interview you and your brother.”
“With your permission,” Mr. Collingwood said. “I’m broadcasting a story about escapes from the Channel Islands. The evacuees in England are eager for stories from home, and what I’ve heard of your story is quite intriguing.”
Ivy glanced back at Charlie, who peered with interest at the newcomer. “I don’t know. We have family and friends who listen to the BBC at great risk. Even owning a wireless set is cause for imprisonment.”
“They might be reassured by news of your escape,” Mr. Collingwood said with concern in his voice. “But if it places them in danger . . .”
Ivy turned back. “We can be discreet. We have four years of experience.”
“Very well,” Mr. Collingwood said. “I’ll ask preliminary questions now, and we’ll record afterward. If you’d like anything removed from the recording, let me know.”
“Thank you.” After Captain Reed departed, Ivy led the correspondent to Charlie’s bedside. “Mr. Collingwood, this is my brother, Charles Picot. Charlie, this is Hugh Colling—”
“Of the BBC! I’ve heard you—” Charlie’s eyes stretched wide in alarm.
Mr. Collingwood pulled up a chair. “It’s quite all right, Mr. Picot. It’s no longer illegal for you to listen to the BBC.”
“Mr. Collingwood would like to interview us,” Ivy said.
Charlie grinned. “Smashing.”
Mr. Collingwood pulled a notepad from his coat pocket. “I was told five of you escaped.”
“Yes.” Charlie handed his tray to Norma. “Three weeks ago, I tried to escape with three school chums, but a German patrol shot me.”
“Oh dear.”
Charlie patted his side and winced. “I managed to hide whilst my friends escaped.”
“He developed an infection.” Ivy cut in before Charlie could mention Dr. Tipton or the family that sheltered him. “We haven’t the medications in Jersey to treat him, so we arranged for his escape.”
Mr. Collingwood scribbled on his notepad. “You accompanied him to care for him, Dr. Picot?”
“That wasn’t the original . . .” Grief pinged at her heart.
She could still see the rage in Fern’s eyes.
But telling that story would publicly implicate and humiliate her sister, and she wanted to keep the path of reconciliation open, should Fern ever choose to walk it.
Ivy swallowed. “Yes, I accompanied him.”
“With three other men?” Mr. Collingwood said.
“One was a stranger to us,” Ivy said, “but the other two are good friends.”
“The best.” Charlie gave a firm nod. “Gerrit van der Zee and Bernardus Kroon.”
Mr. Collingwood jerked his head up from his notes. “Gerrit van der Zee? From the Netherlands?”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie’s eyes lit up. “Gerrit and Bernardus are in the resistance, and they joined Organisation Todt so they could draw maps of German fortifications. Gerrit traced them on silk in secret ink, and we sewed the maps inside my jacket. I was their courier. I worked on a ship and took the maps to my resistance contact in Saint-Malo. I can say that now that Saint-Malo is liberated, yes?”
Ivy’s head swam at the speed of Charlie’s speech. “I think so.”
Mr. Collingwood hadn’t written a word. He kept gaping at Charlie. “Gerrit van der Zee? Did he ever mention cousins named Aleida and Cilla?”
Now Ivy gaped. “Why, yes. How did you . . .”
Mr. Collingwood sat back with a giant grin. “Aleida happens to be my wife. She and Cilla will be overjoyed. They’ve been quite worried about Gerrit.”
“Cilla?” Ivy frowned. “Gerrit said she’d died.”
“Cilla? Heavens, no. Aleida and I dined with her and her husband not a fortnight ago.”
Ivy and Charlie exchanged looks of wonder. Wouldn’t Gerrit be thrilled to learn Cilla was alive—and both she and Aleida were safe in England?
The correspondent’s grin broadened, and he laughed. “Where’s Gerrit? I simply must meet him. And what a fantastic story.”
Ivy gripped her hands in her lap. “Perhaps too fantastic. I’m concerned the Allies might not believe them. I haven’t heard a word about him or Bernardus since we landed. I have no idea where they are.”
“But it’s all true.” Charlie sat forward, then grunted, pressed his hand to his side, and leaned back. “Gerrit and Bernardus are heroes of the best sort. I owe my life to them. The Allies must believe them. They simply must.”
Mr. Collingwood’s gaze swept between Charlie and Ivy, his expression graver with each sweep, and he tucked his notepad into his pocket. “It’s routine for refugees to be questioned by security and immigration to prevent German spies from entering Britain. I’ll make inquiries for you.”
“Thank you.” Ivy gave him a grateful smile. If only inquiries could prove Gerrit’s loyalty.