Jimmie reattached his mask. “Green Three—my Hurricane’s fuselage took a hit from ground fire. Except for wind whistling through holes, the aircraft is handling properly.”
“Well done, lads,” Cobber said. “Our work is done for today. Let’s go home.”
Jimmie placed a gloved hand over his pocket that contained Piglet. You were right, Nora. He’s quite a lucky fellow. Feeling fortunate to be alive, he banked his plane and joined his wingmen on their flight back to base.
Green Section landed and parked their Hurricanes in a grass-covered field, where the entire squadron, both pilots and ground crew, were waiting to greet them. They climbed out of their planes to cheers, handshakes, and congratulatory pats on their backs. A few of the pilots hoisted Cobber onto their shoulders to celebrate him as the pilot with first aerial victory of the war for No. 73 Squadron.
Horace, his coverall stained with oil, approached Jimmie. “Splendid job, sir.”
“I appreciate it, but Cobber deserves all the credit. He’s the best pilot I’ve ever met.” Jimmie stuck his hand through one of three punctures in the linen covering of his Hurricane’s fuselage. “Sorry about the holes.”
“Like I said—there’s nothing I can’t fix.” Horace slipped his cap from his head. “I’m glad you made it back.”
“Me too,” Jimmie said. “How about you and some of the ground crew join me for a pint tonight? I’m buying.”
“With pleasure.”
Jimmie joined the pilots in the mess hall where Cobber was encouraged by the men to describe the fight with the German bomber. The pilots had heard the news from either Hank, Fanny, or Gord, who’d listened to the dogfight over the radio in the command tent, but they wanted to hear Cobber’s firsthand account of the victory. For several minutes, Cobber relayed what took place on the mission—leaving out the detour over the Saarland—and how he, Benny, and Jimmie intercepted the German bomber that was on a reconnaissance mission over France. The pilots listened intently to Cobber’s story, except for Gord, who sat alone at a far table puffing his pipe.
Jimmie was relieved to learn from Hank that no French citizens were injured in the small village of Lubey, where the enemy aircraft crashed. While he was glad to have won in battle, mixed emotions swirled inside him. He was proud to defend Europe from Hitler’s forces that had ravaged eastern Europe, but he also felt pity for the German crew who were killed. They might be forced to fight for the Luftwaffe. Their loved ones will surely be heartbroken—like our families would be if we were killed. Despite his resolve to fight for freedom, he hoped that he would never forget that aerial victories would entail the loss of human life.
CHAPTER 8
PARIS, FRANCE—NOVEMBER 10, 1939
Ruth’s anticipation grew as she and Lucette approached a palatial stone building that held the French Army’s recruiting office. According to newspaper and radio reports, the army was seeking hundreds of women to serve as civilian volunteers in auxiliary ambulance sections, which would be attached to the army in the field. Adjacent to the complex was a parking lot that contained a fleet of parked military vehicles, including a dozen olive-colored ambulance trucks with a large, red cross emblem on their sides.
Lucette stopped near that entrance and turned to Ruth. “Merci.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “For what?”
“For teaching me how to drive, and for not giving up on me when I failed my first driver’s examination.”
“We are in this together,” Ruth said. “Remember?”
Lucette nodded.
It had been over a month since Ruth and Lucette had quit their jobs at Bal Tabarin. During this time, Ruth obtained her French driver’s license and taught her friend how to operate an old bakery truck that was owned by a close friend of Uncle Julian. Ruth had expected that Lucette—a long-legged, physically coordinated dancer—would easily learn to drive a vehicle, but she struggled with using the clutch and often stalled the engine when shifting gears. Also, Lucette had difficulty using the side mirrors to judge the distance from objects to the rear and passenger side of the truck. It had taken weeks of practice for Lucette to become comfortable with driving the large vehicle in the narrow streets of Le Marais.
During Lucette’s initial driver’s examination, she backed into a yellow-painted garbage can that was used as a marker for parallel parking. She failed the test and was not permitted to retake the exam for a minimum of two weeks. Lucette felt defeated, but Ruth encouraged her that, with a bit more practice, she could pass the test. Lucette continued to work on her driving skills with Ruth providing instruction from the passenger seat. After more time behind the wheel, Lucette’s confidence grew and she eventually passed her driver’s examination.
Lucette clasped her arms. “I’ve only had my license for a few days. Do you think they might reject me?”
“Non,” Ruth said. “You have nothing to worry about. The army is in dire need of women volunteers for their ambulance units. You have a valid driver’s license, you’re eager to serve France—” She glanced at the street. “And I don’t see any rubbish bins that you could back into if they decide to test you.”
Lucette chuckled. “That’s good to know.”
Ruth placed a hand on her friend’s arm. “Ready?”
“Oui.”
They entered the building and traveled to a large meeting hall on the third floor where a few dozen women were seated on long wooden benches as they waited their turn to be called to the front of the room to be interviewed by a man and woman who were wearing military uniforms. They signed in with a bespectacled female receptionist by placing their names on a piece of paper, and they were given a pencil and two-page application that was affixed to a clipboard. As Ruth and Lucette scribbled answers on their questionnaires, the names of women were intermittently called. After a brief interview by the two-person panel, each candidate either went to a staging area at the far end of the room, or left the building.
“They’re not taking everyone,” Lucette said as a young, teary-eyed woman walked toward the stairs.
“They’ll take us,” Ruth said.
After forty minutes of waiting, the receptionist ran her finger down her list and said, “Lucette Soulier!”
Lucette straightened her spine.
“Merde,” Ruth whispered.
Lucette smiled, appearing grateful to hear the customary expletive to wish a dancer good luck. She rose from her seat and went to the interview table.
Ruth fidgeted with her pencil. As she waited for Lucette to finish her interview, her mind drifted to her family. After resigning from her nightclub job, she spent most evenings and weekends with Aunt Colette and Uncle Julian. They went for long walks along the river Seine, and she cooked dinner for them, usually onion or vegetable soup with baguettes. During their meals they took turns telling fond stories of Marceau. Their togetherness had helped deaden their grief, although Ruth believed there would always remain a small void in each of their hearts. Also, the time away from work had given her a chance to communicate with her parents, through telegrams and letters, to explain why she’d placed her dream of singing on hold to support the fight for France.
Ruth removed a recent telegram from her purse and read it for the second time.
Dear Ruth,
We respect your decision to join the war, like we once did when we were young. We pray that you will remain safe in the pursuit of Europe’s freedom. We are proud of you.
Love,
Maman and Dad
Ruth, feeling encouraged, squeezed the paper—extremely thin and almost transparent—between her fingers. She’d expected her parents, especially her father who incessantly worried about her, to continue their pleas for her to come home. She was surprised by their latest communication and believed that they’d finally come to terms with her not leaving France. Although she would join the fight, with or without the approval of her parents, she was grateful for their blessing. She slipped the telegram back into her purse and reviewed her answers on the application.
