“You’re a fool,” he said. “Even if the army accepts you, the war will be settled by winter and you’ll be back here begging for a job.”
“I’m grateful for the chance to perform at Bal Tabarin,” Ruth said, plucking her purse from a table. “But it’s time for me to put the needs of France ahead of my own endeavors.”
“Me too,” Lucette said.
Ruth froze.
Fermin furrowed his brow. “You’re not going anywhere, Lucette.”
Ruth turned to her friend. “Please don’t lose your job over me.”
Lucette tucked her blouse into her skirt and raised her chin to Fermin. “I’m joining the fight.”
He pointed at the door. “Out!”
Ruth and Lucette grabbed their things and left Bal Tabarin. They walked alone through the dark streets of Paris, its once glittering lights eradicated by the threat of Luftwaffe air raids.
“You’re the best dancer in the show,” Ruth said. “Why did you quit?”
“I feel the same way you do,” she said. “Every night, I lie awake thinking about Paul and the sacrifice he made by joining a tank battalion. It’s about time I do more for France than entertain wealthy patrons with my legs.”
“Paul would be proud of you.”
Lucette smiled. “Do you really think so?”
“I know so.”
They walked, their shoes clacking over the sidewalk, and discussed plans to inform their families and visit the army recruiting office. Reaching the Pont d’Arcole bridge, they stopped and peered to the Seine.
“Do you remember telling me that you would teach me to sing?” Lucette asked.
“I do, and I intend to keep that promise.”
Lucette clasped her arms. “May I ask another favor of you before we go to the recruiting office?”
“Of course.”
“Can you teach me to drive?”
CHAPTER 6
ROUVRES-EN-WOËVRE, FRANCE—OCTOBER 14, 1939
Jimmie, eager to begin his mock dogfight, adjusted the control stick of his aircraft to maintain his position in the No. 73 Squadron’s Vic formation. He looked through the side of his cockpit window at Benny, a twenty-one-year-old Yorkshireman whose boyish, freckled face was hidden by his oxygen mask.
Benny raised a gloved hand.
Jimmie returned the gesture and peered to the horizon. In the distance was the Étain-Rouvres Air Base, distinguishable by the long earthen runways carved into a lush, green field. It was located adjacent to the village of Rouvres-en-Woëvre, near Verdun and the borders with Belgium, Luxembourg, and Germany. He imagined Luftwaffe squadrons, patrolling German air space, less than sixty miles away. We’ll be in the thick of it if a real battle erupts. He buried his thoughts and patted his flight jacket pocket, which contained Piglet.
For the past month, Jimmie and the pilots of No. 73 Squadron performed patrols to cover ships that disembarked BEF troops at Cherbourg. During that time, the squadron had no encounters with enemy aircraft and, due to horrid weather conditions, the pilots were grounded for nearly two weeks. Jimmie had hoped for more flight time in his new Hurricane, but the downtime had given him a chance to get to know his fellow pilots and ground crew.
During the torrential downpours, most of the pilots hunkered in their bunks to read books or write letters to their families, while others went to the mess hall to play cards. But three days into the squadron’s grounding, Cobber—who’d grown increasingly restless—approached Jimmie and asked, “Want to be on my team for a game of sevens?” Jimmie, not wanting to disappoint his section leader, accepted the offer. He’d assumed that Cobber was referring to a card game. It turned out to be seven-a-side rugby.
Cobber, despite the inclement weather, had recruited enough pilots and ground crewmen to form two teams. For nearly three hours, the men played like schoolboys on a showery holiday break. Jimmie didn’t mind getting muddied and bruised. Nor did it bother him that Gord—who’d stood under an umbrella as a spectator on the sideline—jeered Jimmie about his Piglet getting wet. He’d failed to score points for his team, but he’d taken blow after blow to his body, and he’d insisted on remaining in the match, even after receiving a swollen eye and bloody nose. I have much to prove in the sky, Jimmie had thought, his boots squelching through the muck. But for now, I can show my mettle on the ground. His grit on the rugby field had earned his squadron’s respect, Jimmie believed, given that Cobber and Fanny—as well as Horace, who’d chipped a tooth in the match—bought him pints of ale to celebrate their victory. For the first time since his arrival in France, he felt like a member of the 73.
At the end of September, his squadron moved to an airfield near Saint-Omer. But soon after arriving at the new base, the No. 73 Squadron was given orders to deploy to Rouvres, where they would be attached to the Advanced Air Striking Force (AASF), which consisted of several squadrons of Fairey Battles, single-engine light bombers. The Fairey Battle was considered by most pilots to be inferior to a German Messerschmitt Bf 109. Although it had the same high-performance Rolls-Royce Merlin engine that powered Jimmie’s Hawker Hurricane, the Fairey Battle was nearly one hundred miles per hour slower than the Messerschmitt due to the weight of its three-men crew and bomb load. They’re assigning us to be bodyguards for the Battles, Jimmie had thought after hearing the news of his squadron’s deployment. Without the protection of Hurricanes, the Battles could be decimated by Luftwaffe fighters.
The radio speaker crackled inside Jimmie’s helmet.
“Green Two, Green Three,” Cobber’s voice said, “we’ll circle the perimeter. After the other sections land, we’ll begin our drill.”
“Wilco,” Jimmie said. He checked his control panel and tightened his grip on the stick.
The Hurricane squadron was comprised of four sections—Red, Yellow, Blue, and Green. Cobber—call sign Green One—was the leader of Green Section and responsible for two wingmen—Benny, Green Two; and Jimmie, Green Three. Prior to their departure, Cobber was granted permission by the squadron leader to conduct a dogfight exercise to allow Jimmie an opportunity to practice his aerial combat skills. Despite being singled out amongst his peers, who would no doubt be observing the exercise from the ground, Jimmie was glad to have more flight drills.
Green Section circled the airfield at seven thousand feet while the rest of the No. 73 Squadron took turns landing at Étain-Rouvres Air Base. Most of the ground crew, including Horace, had left a day before the pilots to establish the squadron’s base, and they were watching the planes land on the runway. In addition to French aircraft and a few hangars, the mostly grass-covered airfield was lined with parked Fairey Battles and a pole with a British flag.
The last Hurricane landed, leaving the three pilots of Green Section alone in the air.
“Tally-ho!” Cobber’s voice boomed through the radio in Jimmie’s helmet.
Jimmie’s heart rate quickened. “Wilco—tally-ho!”
Cobber’s Hurricane slewed to the right and accelerated.
Jimmie pushed the throttle. The plane’s engine roared. He banked hard right and pulled back on the stick, fighting to get Cobber’s plane within his ring sight. A massive G-force pressed his body into his seat, yet he pulled back harder on the stick. As he began to black out from the blood rushing from his head, he eased off on the throttle.
Cobber’s aircraft continued the sharp turn. He leveled off and rolled his aircraft into a nosedive.
