That might work, he thought. And with that thought came a renewed energy to make it all happen. Thatcher set himself forward now, his strokes becoming stronger as he cut through the waves. He was surprised at how much progress he was making. But when a wave lifted him higher than before, he managed to get a glimpse of the land and his heart sank when he saw how far off it was.
Miles.
He’d have to swim miles before he reached the sandy shoreline.
And his strength ebbed then with that realization. It was too far. Thatcher was a fit man, but he’d never swum that far before. And with night coming on, there was no way to keep his bearing without getting lost. The darkness combined with the temperature of the water would surely kill him before the sun could make its return appearance tomorrow morning.
Thatcher stopped swimming then because his ears had picked something up over the crashing waves around him. Something out of time with the natural rhythm of the sea and the wind.
A motor.
More specifically, a boat’s motor. Thatcher stopped swimming and bobbed about trying to get a fix on its position. There were still fishing boats that plied these waters even with the threat of the Germans always a factor. Perhaps one of them was on its way home.
“Help!”
Thatcher’s voice broke from his throat and lifted into the air. Again and again he shouted as the din of the motor grew ever louder. Thatcher bobbed in the waves being lifted up and then smashed down as he continued to shout. This would be his only chance, he realized. If the boat kept going on its way, then he was a dead man for sure.
He took one last gulp of air and then let out the loudest shout that he had ever given in his life. “HELP ME!”
The motor was even louder now and then he heard a loud horn honk in the distance. A light swept across the waves and then blissfully came to rest right on Thatcher himself.
He was saved.
CHAPTER 9
As he bobbed in the water transfixed by the light, he could make out the shape of a large ship about two hundred yards away. There was shouting on the upper deck and he heard several of the crew readying a smaller boat to lower into the water so they could reach Thatcher. As he treaded water, Thatcher considered his good fortune. He had been facing a firing squad this morning, then plucked out of that fate, only to find himself drafted for an assignment he wanted nothing to do with.
His opinion on the war was that it was an unfortunate evil but it was also one that didn’t affect him personally. If Hewitt had been charged with destroying a mysterious German ship, then let him go and find the damned thing. Thatcher wanted to get on with his life, away from the reality of war.
But even still, he’d later found himself in aerial combat, shooting down Nazi bombers and fighters before being shot down himself. His chute had almost not opened and Thatcher could have easily drowned in the English Channel. Now, he was about to be rescued once more from an early death and he was beside himself with the thought of the opportunity that lay before him.
The chance to disappear and start life anew was almost intoxicating to him.
The smaller boat touched down on the water and Thatcher heard a motor spark to life as it plowed through the surf and headed his way. He waited until it was close and then lifted his arms as several of the crew dragged him out of the water and onto the boat. Thatcher flopped heavily among the benches and felt the hard wood beneath him for the first time in several hours.
A face peered closer to his. “Blood hell, mate. Where’d you fall out of the sky from?”
Thatcher smirked. “Truer words were never spoken.”
“Bloke’s a pilot,” said another crew member. “Jerries must’ve shot his plane down.”
“Not a pilot,” said Thatcher. “Just an unfortunate passenger.” He glanced around. “Does anyone have any water?”
One of the crew put a canteen to his mouth and Thatcher sucked the cold water down, feeling it revitalize him as he did so. He pulled it away and exhaled with a long sigh. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“Least we can do seeing how you lot keep shooting down the bad guys,” said the first crew member. “But let’s get you back aboard the ship and into dry clothes. Looks like those are a bit water-logged for sure. A few more minutes and you likely wouldn’t have been able to keep your head above water any longer.”
“You’re not joking,” said Thatcher. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He was exhausted.
He felt the smaller boat kick up and then spin about heading back toward the ship. The crew attached the lines and it was then plucked out of the water by the winches manned by other crews. Thatcher was only dimly aware of this because by the time he was hoisted aboard, he had passed out. Several pairs of hands carried him gently out of the smaller rescue craft and through the corridors of the ship to a cabin where a doctor quickly looked him over and pronounced he was in good health despite his marathon bathing session in the Channel. Then he was tucked away in bed and left to sleep.
When Thatcher regained his senses and woke, it was nearly twelve hours later. He opened his eyes and for a moment forgot where he was and assumed this was the after life. But then vague memories came back to him. Being carried, having his uniform stripped off and being immersed in warm water to heat his core before being tucked away to sleep.
He rubbed his eyes and took in the room. It was small and tidy but comfortable nonetheless. He spotted a proper set of clothes laid out for him and judging from their look, they were of decent quality.
Thatcher was also aware that his stomach was grumbling for food and the gnawing sensation drove him to forsake the comforts of laying in bed for a little while longer. He got up, aware that he didn’t smell like the English Channel anymore, which was nice. He dressed, smoothed his hair back using the mirror, and checked himself over.
Not bad Thatcher, old boy, he thought. Almost looking rather sporty again. He smirked and then slid on the pair of shoes that had been left before opening his cabin door. He took note of the number — six — and then walked down the corridor, hoping to make his way out into the fresh air.
When he stepped out onto the deck, he noted the skies overhead were still gray and foreboding, as if a storm was coming on. Despite the fact that he felt a few drops of rain, Thatcher stood by the rail and inhaled deeply, tasting the salt air but not minding it this time since he wasn’t floating in the stuff. He looked down at the water and shook his head. Not this time, he thought.
“Good morning, sir.”
He turned and saw a crew member standing there. Thatcher smiled. “It is indeed a good morning, thank you.”
“I’m Geoff. Captain apologizes for not having a proper uniform for you, but says the clothes that were in the cabin ought to fit you.”
Thatcher patted himself. “They do indeed.”
Geoff grinned. “Captain would like a word with you if you’ve got a moment.”
“Absolutely,” said Thatcher. “Lead on.”
Geoff led Thatcher through the corridors and up several flights of steps until they at last came to the bridge. Geoff stepped inside and stood at attention. “Sir, the pilot from last night.”
Thatcher stepped onto the bridge and found himself being appraised by the captain, a man of maybe sixty who had deep lines running across his face and a neatly-trimmed beard that gave him a squared off jaw. His eyes were sharp and Thatcher could tell that this man would brook no dissent from his crew.
He stepped forward and held out his hand. “I’m Captain Adamson. Pleasure to meet you.”
Thatcher found his grip hard and firm. “I can’t thank you enough for rescuing me, sir. A little while longer and it would have been my bloated carcass pulled out of the water.”