The driver veered the ambulance off the road. Tires crunched over dry leaves and fallen limbs. The vehicle slowed to a stop, the driver turned off the engine, and the women got out and opened the rear doors.
“Hurry,” Ruth said, plucking a medical kit from the rear of the ambulance.
A pang pierced through his wrist and forearm as he climbed out of the ambulance. He clasped his arm to his stomach and scanned the surroundings. The vehicle was parked in a lush thicket, concealing the front and sides. Beyond the rear of the ambulance was a dirt road that led to a small river and a stone building, which appeared to be an abandoned water mill. “Where are we?”
“Signy-l’Abbaye,” Lucette said, placing a map and an electric torch on the ground.
An explosion reverberated over the rural landscape.
“Why did we stop?” Jimmie asked.
“The French Army is nowhere in sight,” Ruth said. “There are German tanks ahead of us, and the ones behind us are gaining ground. I think we’re surrounded.”
“Are there any routes we can take to avoid them?” he asked.
“Non,” Ruth said. “We’re going to hide and let them pass us by.” She darted from the roadside and joined Lucette by pulling branches and ferns from the undergrowth and placing them against the back of the ambulance.
Ruddy hell—we have no choice but to dig in. Using his good arm, he helped rip away foliage and placed it over the ambulance until it was completely concealed.
He followed them to a two-story stone mill that had not been used in decades, given the broken windowpanes and the motionless waterwheel that was clogged with logs and mounds of driftwood. Despite the mill not being in use, the entrance was locked. Jimmie kicked the door—stinging the nerves in his arm—but it didn’t budge. It took several more blows, all more painful than the first, for the lock to break.
Inside the place was empty, save a wooden crate, a large stone grain wheel covered in dust and cobwebs, and stacks of musty burlap sacks.
Jimmie, his faced drenched with sweat, turned and faced them. “Thank you for saving me. My name is Jimmie.”
“I’m Ruth.” She gestured with her hand. “This is Lucette. We’re drivers with the ambulance corps of the French Army.”
“My French isn’t the best,” Jimmie said. “But I can speak it if you wish.”
“No need,” Lucette said. “I’m fluent in English.”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Ruth said. “We saw your plane being shot down and weren’t sure if you got out.”
“I almost didn’t.” A memory of using his arm as a pry bar flashed in his brain. He placed a hand over the opposite sleeve of his flight jacket. “I fractured a bone while dislodging my cockpit canopy to bail out.”
Ruth placed the medical kit on the floor and approached him. “Let’s see your arm.”
Jimmie unzipped his flight jacket and, with her help, carefully removed it. He unbuttoned his sleeve and slid it over his elbow to reveal an acorn-size bulge—below the wrist—on the thumb side of his forearm.
Ruth gently examined his arm and ran a finger over the protuberance. “It’s definitely a fracture.”
Lucette leaned in. “It’s fortunate that the skin isn’t broken. It looks like it could possibly be fixed without surgery.”
“Oui.” Ruth looked at Jimmie. “We’re out of morphine, so it’s going to hurt when we set it.”
Jimmie shifted his weight. “Perhaps we should make sure that we are safe before treating my arm.”
Ruth shook her head. “It’s best that we stabilize your injury while we have the chance.”
“She’s right,” Lucette said. “And with German tanks storming over the countryside, it might take days to escape from the area and reach a doctor.”
He stared at the bulge on his arm, from where a gnawing pain spread through his wrist and fingers. I can’t very well leave it like this. “All right.”
Jimmie, following Ruth’s instruction, sat on the ground and leaned his back against the wall. The cold stone penetrated through his flight suit, sending a chill through his body.
“You’re taller than me,” Ruth said to Lucette. “It might be best that you apply the tension to his arm while I try to set it.”
“I agree.” Lucette sat on the floor facing him.
“Have you set many broken bones?” Jimmie asked.
“Non,” Ruth said, kneeling beside him. “You’re our first.”
He swallowed. “Are you sure that you’re up to this?”
Ruth nodded.
“We’ve seen medics do it,” Lucette said.
His pulse quickened. “Very well—let’s do this.”
“Lucette is going to apply traction to your arm,” Ruth said, “and I’m going to work the bone back into place.”
Lucette removed her shoes, gently clasped the hand of Jimmie’s injured arm, and then placed a foot to his armpit.
Ruth looked into his eyes. “Ready?”
He took a deep breath. “Ready.”
