There was a horrible silence on the beach. Harold looked at the land behind him and saw the black fug of smoke that rose, oily and thick, a portent of what was to come. He turned his back to it and stared at the grey churning sea. In the awful quiet, unable to see the smoke and only water and sand in front of him he could almost convince himself that everything was fine. He closed his eyes and sighed. Then there was a muffled pop, answered by a dozen sharp responses and he snapped back to reality. Gunfire. If he could hear it then they didn't have long. He tore himself away from the spot where he had rooted himself and hurried to the pier and the waiting rowboat.
There would not many of them. Just him a few other staff from the embassy who had stayed to help him gather up the last of any paperwork and destroy them as necessary, and the contingent of British and American soldiers who had guided them safely out of Paris and up to Normandy where they were only a hop skip and a jump to Blighty. Harold found himself something of a spare part as he watched the rowboats being loaded up with suitcases and duffel bags. Standing watching the soldiers, his mind wandered as he thought back to how they had got into this situation.
He didn’t like to blame friends for his misfortune, but it was the Americans’ fault. They had been the ones to insist on promoting Vichyists, and after de Gaulle had gone off in a huff, the ball was entirely in their court. Churchill had to like the new situation in Algiers or lump it. Of course, the Yanks had been entirely ignorant of the impact that had in France itself. Giraud had no interest in the Resistance and the feeling was entirely mutual. The Resistance had taken the initiative and left the Provisional Government and the Allies high and dry. His failure had led to this moment. The French government was fleeing south back to Algiers where Petain’s National Revolution still festered and he was fleeing north. The other ambassadors had managed to escape relatively untouched, but he was of special interest in the French. If he fell into their hands, it would make excellent propaganda for Villon’s Commune. Hence the soldier’s urgency in getting him out of the country.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and realised they were ready to depart. A battleship was waiting just off shore, but couldn’t risk coming too close. FFIs had seized control of the French Navy and were fiercely defending their waters. The rowboats was exposed but would avoid their attention for now. An American soldier was trying to steer him toward the boat but he brushed the hand off and turned so he was looking back toward France. He knelt in the wet sand and kissed the shoreline.
‘Sir, have you lost something?’ asked the American. Harold rose, brushing the sand particles from his trousers.
‘Yes. I rather think I have.’ He replied sadly and stepped onto the boat.