She’s brave and committed to her duties, he thought, but a journey from here to the Channel will likely be impossible.
A crack of gunfire resounded through the countryside.
Jimmie tried to straighten his swollen fingers, sending a twinge through his arm. “How about we see how things go tonight and decide what to do at dawn?”
Lucette nodded.
“Okay,” Ruth said, folding the map. “There’s nothing more that we can do for now. Let’s get some rest. We can take turns with one of us remaining awake. I’ll take the first shift on lookout.”
“I don’t mind staying on watch,” Jimmie said.
Ruth shook her head. “You need to sit back and prop up your arm, otherwise the swelling will get worse and we don’t want to risk having to reset your fracture.”
“Very well,” he said, reluctantly. “But I insist on taking a shift.”
Ruth nodded.
Lucette turned off the electric torch, and they climbed the ladder to the first floor. Moonlight, coming through a shattered window, cast inky shadows over the mill. Once their eyes grew acclimated to the darkness, they placed burlap sacks on the floor to create sleeping mats. Ruth sat on the ground and peered through the front door, which was slightly open, while Jimmie and Lucette settled onto individual mats.
Jimmie lay on his back and elevated his splinted arm by propping it on his chest with the padding of his folded flight jacket. The throbbing in his wrist and hand gradually softened. He took a deep inhale, bringing in a dank odor of mildewed burlap. Soon, his mind drifted to the members of No. 73 Squadron, and he prayed that Fanny had safely bailed out of his downed Hurricane and made it back to the airfield. He thought of Lucette and hoped that her fiancé was among the French tank battalions that were not destroyed. Most of all, he worried about the innocent French civilians who were under siege, and the British people whose country would likely be the next target in Hitler’s quest to conquer Europe.
Jimmie glanced at Ruth, standing watch by the entrance. Canadian? American? He was grateful for her decisiveness to set his arm, and he wondered, although briefly, about her motivation to join the ambulance corps. He closed his eyes and vowed to recover from his injury and return to the battles in the sky. Instead of sleeping, he listened to explosions, trying to estimate the distance from the enemy.
CHAPTER 18
SIGNY-L’ABBAYE, FRANCE—MAY 15, 1940
Jimmie, his arm aching, slowly sat up and looked to a window that faced the river. The sound of bombs and gunfire had stopped, and the night air was silent, except for babbles of water against the mill’s broken waterwheel. He glanced at his watch, worn on his good wrist. Ruth has been on lookout for over two hours. He placed his flight jacket over his shoulder and stood, being careful not to move his splinted arm or to disturb Lucette, who was sleeping on an adjacent bed of burlap. He crept to Ruth and sat on the ground beside her.
“I thought you were going to wake us,” he said, his voice soft.
“Lucette needs some shut-eye,” she said. “She hasn’t slept for nearly two days. And you need to take it easy.”
“I’ll prop up my arm while I keep watch,” he said. “You must be knackered. Go and get some rest, and I’ll take over for a while.”
She shook her head, then peered outside through the slightly opened door. “I can’t sleep knowing that they’re out there—somewhere.”
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“No.”
He touched his sling. “You did a good job with setting my arm. The splint feels sturdy.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “Most of the credit should go to Lucette. Without her height and strength to apply traction to your arm, I wouldn’t have been able to set the broken bone.”
A memory of Lucette, pulling his wrist while pushing his underarm with her heel, flashed in his mind. “I’m grateful to both of you.”
She nodded. “How’s the pain?”
“It’s manageable,” Jimmie said, downplaying the ache in his wrist. He adjusted his sling, rubbing the skin on the back of his neck. “Based on your English dialect, I’m thinking that you might be Canadian.”
“Close,” she said. “I’m American—born and raised in Lewiston, Maine, not far from the border with Canada. How about you?”
“Portsmouth, England.” He looked at her. “I thought the United States Neutrality Act restricted its citizens from serving in the war.”
“It does,” she said, “but I came to France before the war started.”
“To join the French Army?”
“No, and don’t let my uniform fool you. I’m not an enlisted member of the army, I’m a civilian volunteer.”
“I see.”
“Actually,” she said, turning to him, “I moved to Paris to pursue a singing career.”
He straightened his back. “What type of music?”
“Mostly cabaret—but my passion is jazz, swing, and big band music.”
“Sounds brilliant.” He raised his eyes to the dark ceiling. “My sister, Nora, is quite fond of American jazz. She has a Duke Ellington record—its grooves are worn out from being overplayed. American recordings are expensive to replace, so she taped a coin to her gramophone’s stylus to keep the needle from skipping.”
“Nora sounds like a clever girl—and she has good taste in music.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you know the name of the song?”
He rubbed his chin, covered with stubble. “Something with St. Louis in the title.”
