Such were Corporal Broadbent, Sergeant Young and the Tillyer family.
Broadbent, almost unconscious in the water, was rescued by a small craft and then transferred to the JOHN HOLT, still completely naked — when a newspaperman's camera clicked. He arrived in Plymouth three days later, still without a stitch of clothes on and bemoaning only the fact that he hadn't a pocket to carry the cigarettes he had been given, to find himself famous, and with his picture, the symbol of the disaster of the LANCASTRIA, published in newspapers all over the world.
Sergeant Young had found himself clinging to an orange box, one of ten who depended on the same flimsy support. When he was rescued by a French trawler four hours later, only three were left — the other seven had slipped off one by one as their strength failed. He was landed at a convent hospital, nursed by Mrs Joan Rodes — later famous as 'The Angel of St Nazaire' — given a French sailor's uniform, transferred to a military hospital and there told by a German officer that he was a prisoner of war and would be shot if he tried to run away. Sergeant Young didn't quite run away — along with some others he commandeered a Red Cross van, made his way to the coast and was picked up by the destroyer PUNJABI.
The Tillyers probably spent even longer than Young in the water — their memories are understandably vague on this point. All that Mrs Tillyer can clearly remember is that a soldier gave up his own piece of wood to which he was clinging to give young Jacqueline every chance possible, and that she kept calling 'Baby here', 'Baby here' so often, and so insistently, that she says Jacqueline took up the cry as though it were a game. ' "Baby here", she kept crying after me, until she grew too weak to say it any more.'
But the cries were heard and rescue came — a lifeboat from the destroyer HIGHLANDER. Neither Mr Tillyer, now a departmental manager with Fairey Aviation in London, nor his wife were, eventually, any the worse for their shocking appearance.
Neither apparently was baby Jacqueline, for the tiny two-year-old who cried 'Baby here, 'Baby here', in the oil-covered waters of Quiberon Bay eighteen long years ago was married on the 5th of July of this year.
McCrimmon and the Blue Moonstones
The wind was blowing offshore from the native quarter, so that breathing, up-town, was only a matter of tolerable difficulty. Night, if not peace, had fallen over the city. The hour was late and all honest citizens were at home, asleep. The streets of Alexandria were thronged.
The scene was typically Eastern. Uncounted thousands were strenuously engaged in their legitimate pursuits of boot-blacking, pocket-picking and the retailing of every conceivable article rigorously proscribed by Egyptian law. But, for the most part, the bulk of the crowds wandered aimlessly, purposelessly around. Some went one way, some another; but whichever way they went, they went only because they happened to be going that way.
But one there was who, although among them, was clearly not of them — one who hastened briskly along, whose every step betrayed the man of action, whose face held that calm set born of fixed determination, whose eye held the bright gleam born of high resolve and, possibly, too much gin. McCrimmon, Able Seaman, torpedoman aboard His Majesty's Ship ILARA, proud possessor of two badges, a distinguished name and a remarkable set of moral principles, had an urgent appointment which would brook no delay.
HMS ILARA had arrived back in Alexandria, from the Aegean, only that morning, with a large section of her after-funnel missing — the souvenir of a slight estrangement which had arisen between her and the 9.5 German batteries on Milos. McCrimmon, ruthlessly sacrificing his normal afternoon sleep, had hied him ashore immediately after dinner and sought out a certain Mr McCrimmon, a third, or it may have been fourth cousin of his. Mr McCrimmon was a dockyard worker, or, more precisely, one who was paid for being present in the dockyard at certain stated times. He was not due to go home for almost two years yet. He had newly come, it appeared, into the possession of certain valuable information, and, blood — however diluted — being thicker than water, he had, after due deliberation and several brandies, parted with this to his cousin. The latter had maintained throughout an attitude of detached boredom which had deceived no one.
The information, in brief, was this. He, Mr McCrimmon, had learned, through a devious but reliable channel, of a certain native ashore who had rather a fine set of semi-precious stones. That they were not family heirlooms or otherwise legally come by, Mr McCrimmon was quite sure; but that was irrelevant. What was relevant was the fact that their current owner was prepared to sell them at a fantastically low price. They would fetch several times that amount in the inflated home market. Would his cousin, whom he trusted above all men and who was due to go home shortly, carry out this transaction for him and forward fifty per cent of the proceeds?
His cousin would, and 'tis thus we find him striding through the crowded streets, looking neither to the left nor to the right, automatically cuffing all such boot-blacks as came within range and pausing only occasionally, with a muttered curse, to study proffered works of art, by old masters and others, then hastening along again.
His appointment, as mentioned, would brook no delay. He had already delayed long enough in a saloon down by the Bourse, slaking his thirst and playing poker with three Armenians and a Cypriot. McCrimmon had done very well out of the game, and might have been there yet, had not some inquisitive bystander seen fit to comment, in terms of loud admiration, upon the exquisite delicacy of the workmanship whereby the backs of the cards were painted in fifty-two different patterns. When an impromptu court of enquiry was set up to investigate the ownership of the cards, McCrimmon had left. He had not even stayed to collect his winnings, a recollection which caused him to grind his teeth from time to time as his feet spurned the dust of the Saad Zaghoul.
Arriving at the further end of this, the main street of the city, he turned left and disappeared into one of the several ornate restaurant cum dance-hall establishments clustered around Ramleh Station. Briskly saluting the commissionaire, whom he took for a rear-admiral, McCrimmon passed within the portals, tightened his grip on hat and coat as he went by the hat-check counter and looked around the vestibule. It was empty. The jewel merchant had not yet arrived.
Leaving a few words of instruction and a still fewer number of piastres with the receptionist, McCrimmon vanished within the restaurant. He chose a table where he could observe the cabaret without undue strain to the eyes and seated himself. Removing the 'Reserved' card on the table, he handed it, with a grandiloquent gesture, to a passing waiter, along with his order for refreshments. The waiter, convinced that he was dealing with yet another exiled king in disguise, bowed low and moved off.
McCrimmon bent a supercilious eye around the restaurant. It was in no way different from a score of others he knew — the same plush settees, curtained alcoves, brass rails, minute dancing-floor, tired palms and even more tired string orchestra.