Churchill rolled his cigar between his fingers. “I expect the secret army to subvert the enemy.”
“I’m quite certain it will.”
An unwavering determination pumped through Churchill’s veins. He tamped out his cigar and looked at Ismay. “We’re at a crossroads, Pug,” he said, using his nickname.
Ismay’s faced turned solemn.
“We have chosen the path of resistance,” Churchill said. “Along our arduous journey to freedom, the British people will endure immense suffering and sacrifice. Nevertheless, we shall carry on the fight and—in the end—we will achieve victory and liberate Europe from the menace of tyranny.”
“Indeed, we will,” Ismay said.
Churchill bid him farewell, left the conference room, and walked toward his destiny.
CHAPTER 56
LONDON, ENGLAND—SEPTEMBER 11, 1940
At dawn, the last wave of German air attacks stopped and Ruth, who was sitting on the ground next to Lucette, peered up at the masonry ceiling of the Liverpool Street Underground station. A siren gave the all-clear signal, a long deafening drone that stirred the occupants of the shelter. People stretched their arms and rubbed sleep from their eyes. A gradual crescendo of whispers turned to normal voices as citizens—who spent the night in the tube station—gathered their blankets, pillows, and bags.
Ruth stood, smoothed her blue skirt and tunic of her Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF) uniform, and helped Lucette to her feet.
“Merci,” Lucette said.
“Get any sleep?” Ruth asked.
“A little.” Lucette adjusted the belt around the tunic of her WAAF uniform.
“How’s the leg?”
“Stiff. It’ll improve once I walk a bit.”
Lucette’s shrapnel wound had healed, but chronic stiffness and pain remained in her knee, and she sometimes limped after spending too much time on her feet. Ruth felt bad for her friend, but Lucette never complained or showed self-pity, despite that her career as a dancer was likely over.
Ruth glanced at her watch. “Go to the flat and get an hour of rest. I’ll check on Aline and meet you at the airfield for our shift.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“She’d like to see you, too, but I got more sleep than you, and we are likely to spend the night again in the tube.” Ruth placed a hand on her shoulder. “How about you stop by to see her after our shift?”
Lucette rubbed her eyes, surrounded in dark circles. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
They left the underground station to a roar of fire brigades and an acrid smell of burning wood and petrol. Down the street, firemen—covered in sweat and soot—sprayed water onto a storefront that was engulfed in flames. Ruth, her heartbeat racing, parted ways from Lucette and made her way through the East End of London, marred with scores of smoke plumes rising into the morning sky.
For the past four nights, the Luftwaffe had raided London with tons of high-explosive bombs. An ashen haze would dissipate throughout the day as fire brigades valiantly battled raging fires. But night would bring another wave of bombing and more destruction, driving Londoners to burrow into underground shelters like moles, only to emerge each morning to learn what remained of their beloved city.
In early July, Ruth and Lucette arrived in London and reunited with Aline. But the director of the orphanage—an elderly woman with thick, wire-like gray hair named Mrs. Webb—declined Ruth’s request to release Aline into her foster care on the basis that Ruth was neither a relative nor a British citizen. “Aline will be well taken care of at Dankworth Hall,” the director had said, sitting behind a large wooden desk. “After the war, she’ll be sent back to France and returned to her father, assuming he is alive.” Ruth felt shattered, but she remained determined to protect Aline. After a lengthy discussion, Ruth convinced Mrs. Webb to permit her and Lucette to have visits with Aline under the supervision of the staff at Dankworth Hall.
They had left the orphanage and enlisted in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. Their first choice would have been an ambulance corps, but Lucette was worried that the duties of an ambulance driver might be too strenuous for her leg. Rather than split up, they joined the WAAF together. After a week of training at RAF West Drayton, they were each assigned the role of a parachute packer at RAF Croydon and provided living arrangements at a requisitioned flat in Spitalfields.
At a huge hangar with low-hanging bright lights, they worked eight-hour shifts in teams around the clock, carefully packing parachutes on long tables that resembled elevated bowling lanes. On a wall was a large, hand-painted sign that read, An Airman’s Life Relies on Each Parachute You Pack. It was tedious and skillful work, and Ruth took great pride in knowing that she was doing something to protect downed pilots and crewmen. But she felt strange to be distanced from the battlegrounds of France, and she continued to grieve from the death of Jimmie. Fueled by heartbreak and patriotism, she aspired to do more to make a difference in the fight.
Soon after Ruth began her duties, RAF Croydon was attacked in the first significant air raid on the area of London. Two hangars, an armory, and forty aircraft were destroyed, resulting in six deaths—five airmen and a female telephone operator. Fortunately, the hangar that contained Ruth and forty WAAF parachute packers was spared in the raid. She’d expected that the Luftwaffe would continue to target RAF airfields, but things changed when—four days ago—an armada of German aircraft bombarded London, killing hundreds of innocent civilians. And for the next three consecutive nights, waves of German bombs rained down on the city.
Twenty minutes after leaving the Liverpool Street Underground station, Ruth arrived at Dankworth Hall, a three-story Georgian-style house with a wrought-iron front gate. She drew a deep breath and exhaled, feeling relieved to find the building unscathed. Inside, she greeted an orphanage worker named Marjorie, who left and traveled up a staircase to retrieve Aline.
Ruth sat in the entrance hall on a wood bench that looked like a section of a pew that was salvaged from an old church. A moment later, the sound of footsteps grew from above.
Aline’s eyes brightened as she came down the stairs. She ran to Ruth and wrapped her arms around her.
Ruth squeezed her tight. “How are you?”
“Better, now that you’re here.”
Ruth smiled and released her. “Did you spend the night in a shelter?”
“Oui. Tilbury Shelter.”
An image of the colossal warehouse with railway viaducts flashed in Ruth’s mind. It had been the Commercial Road Goods Depot, but it now served as the East End’s largest bomb shelter. “What was it like?”
“It’s crowded and smells bad. There are thousands of people, lying side by side, and no washrooms.” Aline sat on the bench beside her. “Did you find a shelter?”
“A tube station with Lucette. She wanted to be here, but I insisted that she get some rest before going to work. She’s going to stop by to see you after our shift.”
Aline nodded.
A group of children between the ages of six and ten scurried down the steps and entered a hallway.
