Ruth locked eyes with Lucette, several tables away. She held up the key and mouthed, “I tried.”
Lucette smiled, then focused her attention to folding a parachute.
Ruth loaded the lorry with packed harnesses and got behind the wheel. She started the engine, released the clutch, and the vehicle moved forward. As she drove across the airfield, mixed emotions swirled inside her. It felt refreshing to be released from the confinement of the production line, but the sensation of the wheel in her hands reminded her of racing to hospitals in an ambulance filled with maimed men.
At the opposite end of the airfield, she parked in front of a hangar, where rows of British fighters and bombers were being outfitted with ammunition. She got out of the lorry and paused to watch a military passenger plane land on a runway, taxi to the hangar, and cut its engines. A smell of expelled aviation fuel penetrated her nose. As she opened the back of the lorry, several French aviators and a British Army officer exited the aircraft.
Ruth unloaded a harness and carried it to the hangar, where she placed it in a bin. Upon exiting the building, she approached two of the French aviators who were smoking cigarettes.
“Bonjour. D’où venez-vous?” Ruth asked.
“Magnifique! Une française!” one of the pilots said, his voice filled with delight.
The British officer, several yards away, leaned his back against the side of the hangar and lit a cigarette.
Ruth chatted with the French airmen, one from Lyon and the other from Rouen. They’d bailed out of their fighter planes in an air battle near Nantes, but by the time they reached the coast, the naval evacuations from France were over. So, they made their way to southern France, Spain, and eventually Portugal, where they boarded a ship for Britain. They arrived by plane in London to join the Free French Air Forces stationed in England.
Ruth wished them good luck and returned to the lorry. The French pilots, who appeared grateful for her interest in them, helped her finish unloading the packed parachutes and said farewell.
Ruth approached the driver’s door.
“Pardon me,” a deep voice said.
Ruth turned and faced the British military officer, holding a half-smoked cigarette. He was clean-shaven, in his early thirties, and athletically fit, like a rower for a crew team.
“My name is George. I overheard your conversation. Are you French?”
“American.”
The officer raised his brow. “Your French is impeccable. I thought it was your native language.”
“Thanks. My mother was born in France. We spoke French at home.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was living in Paris when the war started,” she said, feeling an urgency to return to her duties. “I came to England on an evacuation ship.”
He took a drag of his cigarette. “What were you doing in Paris?”
She crossed her arms. “If you’re trying to get me to go on a date, I’m not interested. I need to get back to work.”
He chuckled. “I’m not interested in a date. I’m happily married and have two lovely children. I’m simply curious, and if you should get in trouble for being tardy, I will gladly tell your supervisor that I was responsible for your delay.”
Ruth shifted her weight. “All right.”
For several minutes, she told him about leaving her job as a cabaret singer in Paris to volunteer as driver for the ambulance corps of the French Army. He asked questions, prompting her to tell him about her exposure to combat on the front lines, the exodus to Paris and to Saint-Nazaire, and her evacuation to England—leaving out the disaster of the Lancastria.
“Impressive.” He flicked ash from his cigarette. “And now you’re a driver for the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force.”
She shook her head. “Parachute packer.”
“It’s not as dangerous and daring as what you did in France. How do you like your current duties?”
“It’s important work,” she said.
“It is,” he said, “but you didn’t answer my question.”
“I really need to go,” she said.
A black sedan approached and stopped a few feet away.
“I need to leave, too, but hold on a second.” He went to the sedan and retrieved a piece of paper and pen from the driver. He placed the paper on the roof of the vehicle and scribbled.
Tension spread through her neck and shoulders.
He returned and handed her the paper, which contained a name, Nicolas Bodington, and a telephone number.
“Who’s this?”
“A friend,” he said. “He’s seeking candidates for a special role. I think you might be well suited for it. Tell him George sent you.”
She looked at him. “You didn’t mention what you do for the military, George.”
“Intelligence.” He tipped his cap and got into the back seat of the sedan.
Ruth, feeling dumbfounded, watched the automobile leave the airfield. She tucked the paper into a pocket of her uniform and got into the driver’s seat of the lorry. She gripped the wheel to steady her nerves, started the engine, and sped away.
CHAPTER 58
