“I expect that you’ll be briefed by British intelligence and prepared for the meeting,” Chamberlain said.
“Of course.”
“And Winston—”
“Yes, sir.”
“I should have listened to you.”
Churchill picked up his cigar stub and rolled it between his fingers. Ashes fell to the floor.
“My appeasement of Nazi Germany to avoid war has been futile,” Chamberlain said, his voice filled with regret. “Due to my obstinance, we’ve wasted time and resources that could have gone to preparing the country for war. It was foolish of me to insist that most of the RAF’s operations consisted of airborne leaflet dropping over German towns. The propaganda did little, or nothing, to educate the German people about their tyrant dictator.”
“Your intentions were admirable, sir.”
“Perhaps,” Chamberlain said. “But you were right, Winston. There is no reasoning with Hitler.”
The prime minister ended the call. Churchill rose from his desk and went to his map. He inserted pins, marking the location of German troops in Norway and Denmark, and silently vowed to find the means to replace them with Allied forces.
PART 2
THE INVASION
CHAPTER 11
SAINT-QUENTIN, FRANCE—MAY 10, 1940
Ruth put on her uniform, left her room, and descended the stairs to the boardinghouse’s communal kitchen. She found Lucette, who was seated at a table and having a breakfast of toasted baguette with butter. A smell of burnt oak emanated from the woodstove.
“I made coffee,” Lucette said, pointing to a pot on the stove.
“Merci.” Ruth poured a cup and took a sip, lukewarm with an astringent sour taste. She winced.
“I should have warned you,” Lucette said. “It tastes like turpentine.”
Ruth swirled her coffee. “It’s not that bad.”
Lucette smiled. “Liar.”
“Where is everyone?” Ruth asked, referring to the eight other women in their ambulance corps unit who resided at the boardinghouse.
“They left a few minutes ago.”
Ruth glanced at her wristwatch. “We should get to work.”
“We have some time, and you need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Sit.” Lucette patted a chair beside her.
Ruth sat.
Lucette slid a plate with a baguette to her. “Try some butter. It softens the dryness of the bread, and it cuts the bitterness of the coffee.”
Ruth picked up a knife and scooped butter from a dish. As she spread it over her baguette, the knife slipped from her fingers and clanged onto the table. Using a napkin, she wiped the buttery mess from the table.
“You look a bit tired this morning,” Lucette said.
“I didn’t sleep well.”
Lucette took a drink of coffee. “Another bad dream?”
Ruth nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
After the death of Claude, Ruth was plagued with night terrors. In predawn hours, she’d awakened—gasping for air with the sensation of being suffocated. With visions of a bloody necktie-tourniquet still reeling in her head, she’d hunkered at a writing desk to study road maps for shortcuts to and from the Maginot Line. The only remedy to keep the nightmares at bay, it seemed, was to bury herself in work.
Lucette set aside her cup. “It’s not your fault that he died,” she said, as if she could read her friend’s thoughts.
Ruth nodded, despite an ache of guilt that gnawed at her conscience. An army medic, as well as two nurses, had told her that there was nothing more she could have done for a man with a severed radial artery, but she still felt horrible.
“Last night, I saw a letter to you from Paul on the foyer table,” Ruth said, eager to change the subject. “How is he?”
Lucette’s eyes brightened. “He receives his leave next month, and he’s coming here to see me.”
Ruth smiled. “That’s grand news. I’m happy for you.”
