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Tommaso looked again at the surrounding cliffs while checking his lines. It was an excellent cover deep in the shadows of an inlet hidden from passing boats. The skiff was under an overhanging rock with just a foot or two of clearance—the sun’s reflection would not cast shadows to be seen from above. He moved around the inside by crawling. It was difficult for his six-foot frame.
He arrived at the island just before dawn and luckily spotted the entrance to this small inlet.
In the past, Tommaso would sail the French coast with his father. He assumed La Ciotat was just northwest of the island where he was hiding. He sat back on the fishing nets to eat a chocolate bar as he checked the mast laying next to him for any signs of wear. He knew he had been lucky so far; he yawned. His lost night was catching up with him he fell asleep.
Tommaso awoke to the rumbling sound of an engine echoing off the cliff walls. At first, he thought another boat was inside the inlet, but then he remembered the channel’s opening was too small for a large vessel.
He stayed low in the boat, crawling forward to peer over the bow. He could see a German E–Boat S–100 class outside the cove.
He knew this craft was no ordinary patrol boat. It was heavily armed and quick, reaching speeds up to 43 knots. This monster could sink a battleship.
He could see part of the name on the transom—the boat rolled in the swells, he could see another E—Boat.
He heard a radio speaker above him. He rolled over on his back to look up through a crack in the rocks. Towards the front of the inlet were a group of men in German uniforms with flags. One man blocked his view of something that looked like a tripod. The big man moved. “It’s a movie camera.”
He rolled over again; looking out at the opening of the inlet, he could now see the two boats floating side by side. He turned over again to see the men on the cliff edge. One man was bent over the camera—the other was standing with two flags held above his head. Tommaso thought. It must be a signal for the boats below.
“They’re filming a movie, but why?” Then it came to him. “Of course. Mussolini did it all the time. Theaters would run his propaganda film’s day and night. That man was so egotistical.”
He bumped his head against the rock ceiling above. “Ouch! He murmured, blasted backwash from those E—boats.”
He suddenly realized the danger he was in. “Damn, the prop backwash surge will shatter the skiff.” He scrambled to untie the lines. “I got to get the hell out from under this rock!”
Rolling over on his back, clawing at the rock above, he slowly pushed the skiff clear.
“Easy now, I need to move slowly.” The boat bumped the walls as he pushed further into the inlet. “Thank God for the noise of those engines, but what now?”
Then there was a roar from the two boats. The backwash waves came quickly into the inlet, lifting the little skiff high up the wall. Tommaso secured a line to a jagged rock sticking out to keep the boat from bouncing over to the wall on the other side. His hands were bleeding as he fended off the wall to stop the skiff from hitting hard.
The waves settled as he looked up. From his position, he could only see the cameraman. He slowly pushed the boat back toward the rock overhang. Then he stopped. The roar of the engines was returning. He waited as they shot past the entrance in a victory lap for the cameraman. This time the waves were fewer, settling quickly.
He maneuvered his little craft under the rock again by lying on his back stopping below the tiny opening where he could look up to see the cameraman.
They were laughing, talking louder; the shoot must have been a success. Tommaso was hoping they would leave soon. He was holding the boat in place with his feet braced against the rock ceiling, pushing down with his back wedged against the seat. He shifted his head slightly to the left, hoping to see better—then froze.
Two men were looking down into the canyon in his direction, smoking, pointing at something. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. The big guy flipped his cigarette down into the inlet before walking out of his line of sight. The other kept looking but turned when the other two walked by; hopefully, they were leaving.
Tommaso waited until his legs trembled from exhaustion. Then he let go of his hold on the boat, struggling to re-tie the lines. His cut fingers were swollen by the time he finished.
Again, using fishing nets for a bed, Tommaso closed his eyes, thinking about his options.
“Sailing into La Ciotat to find my documents is not possible. Going on to Spain is my only choice, but what about those E-boats? “He fell into an exhausted sleep thinking about them.