Lucette woke and sat up on her mat of burlap. “What’s happening?”
Jimmie, his adrenaline surging, peeked through the doorway. A clacking of steel plates emanated from the road. “Tanks.”
Ruth stashed the map and electric torch into the medical bag. “Are they French?”
Jimmie squinted, and his eyes locked on the silhouette of a Panzer—identifiable by its short-barreled, howitzer-like main gun. Within seconds, another tank emerged from the darkness and rumbled over the dirt road.
Jimmie turned. “German.”
Ruth and Lucette darted to a window that faced the river.
Jimmie, remaining at the door, hoped that the enemy tanks would pass them by and continue their route. But as the lead tank neared the mill, it came to a stop and its steel hatch opened. A commander, wearing a radio headset over his cap, stood and waved his arms at the approaching tank.
Damn it. Jimmie shuffled to them and whispered, “They’re stopping.”
Lucette unlocked the window that faced the river. She tried lifting the sash, but it didn’t move. “It’s stuck,” she breathed.
Jimmie and Ruth joined Lucette in trying to open the window, but its wood was severely warped from years of water damage and the sash remained frozen.
Guttural voices came from outside.
Hairs rose on the back of Jimmie’s neck. He slipped his weapon from his tunic and motioned for them to break the glass and flee to the river.
Ruth shook her head and pointed to a hinged wood panel—the size of a hay bale—near the axle to the waterwheel. She undid a hook latch and opened the board, revealing a service opening to the waterwheel.
Jimmie faced the front door and raised his weapon.
Lucette scurried through the hole, feet first, and climbed onto the waterwheel.
Men’s laughter grew.
Jimmie looked at Ruth and motioned to the opening.
Ruth, carrying the bag with their things, crawled through the hole and onto the waterwheel. She handed the bag to Lucette, who climbed down the paddles and lowered herself into the water.
Jimmie stashed his weapon into his tunic and sat. He scooched on his bottom and placed his feet on a wooden paddle of the waterwheel. Using his good arm and both legs, he clambered down the structure. On the next to last paddle, his boots slipped on a thick film of algae, and he grabbed the metal rail to keep from falling. As he dangled with one hand, he fought to regain his footing and banged his shoulder against the wheel. A piercing pang shot through his arm.
Ruth and Lucette, each submerged to their neck, reached up and clasped his ankles.
Jimmie, with their help, regained his foothold. He descended the last paddle and slipped into the frigid water as the mill’s front door screeched open.
Jackboots clacked over the wood floor of the mill. Light flashed from the window above them.
They floated to a large mound of logs, branches, and driftwood that was lodged against the waterwheel and prevented it from spinning. They dropped under the water, worked their way inside the interior of the debris, and poked up their faces to breathe.
Jimmie’s sling tangled on a branch. He pulled it free and peered upward through their hiding nest.
A German soldier stuck his head out of the service opening and scanned the waterwheel with an electric torch.
They submerged their bodies.
Light flickered over the surface of the river. Jimmie, his open eyes burning from the silt-filled water, watched a beam flash directly above them. As his oxygen dwindled, his lungs began to heave, and he fought to stay submerged. His pulse pounded inside his eardrums. A minute later, the light vanished.
They rose to the surface and silently drew in air. Voices of men, speaking German, filtered through the mill.
Jimmie, his body temperature plummeting, worked his way out of the debris. His soaked flight suit and boots weighted his body like a lead blanket. He huddled together with Ruth and Lucette, and they allowed the river to sweep them away. But as they floated downstream, three more Panzers rumbled past them and stopped eighty meters away near a bend in the river. They labored to get to shore, but the current was too strong. With no other choice, they treaded water to stay afloat and relented to the river’s flow.
Jimmie, his strength depleted, strained to keep his mouth and nose above the surface.
Ruth clasped his tunic and tried to lift his head.
Using his good arm, he pulled her close and prayed that they’d pass the Panzers without being detected.
CHAPTER 19
PARIS, FRANCE—MAY 16, 1940
Newly elected prime minister Winston Churchill exited a British military plane and walked toward one of two black Peugeot limousines that were parked near a hangar. He flew to Paris to attend an emergency meeting of the Anglo-French Supreme War Council and was accompanied by General Hastings “Pug” Ismay, Air Marshal Joubert de la Ferté, and Sir John Dill, vice-chief of the Imperial General Staff.
Churchill and Ismay—a whip-smart, brutally honest general whom Churchill selected as his chief military assistant—got into the back seat of the closest limousine while the rest of the delegation climbed into the other vehicle. As the chauffeurs drove them away from the airfield, Churchill slipped a cigar from his pocket and lit it. He puffed, filling the limousine with the smell of burnt tobacco, and listened to Ismay—a tall, broad-chested military man with meaty jowls and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache—provide his recommendations for the meeting.
Six days earlier, when Germany launched their invasion of France, Neville Chamberlain was replaced as prime minister by Churchill. Chamberlain had lost the confidence of respected members of the Conservative Party, who criticized his overall conduct of the war and, more specifically, his handling of Norway, which was on the verge of capitulating to the German invasion. Chamberlain was also unsuccessful with forming a coalition with the Labour Party, which declared that they would not serve under his leadership, although they did agree to accept another Conservative leader. The candidate pool for Chamberlain’s successor was minuscule—Winston Churchill and Lord Halifax, the Foreign Secretary. Chamberlain preferred Lord Halifax but the man was reluctant to serve as prime minister. Therefore, Chamberlain went to Buckingham Palace where he resigned and requested the king to summon Churchill.
Despite being Chamberlain’s second choice as a successor, Churchill held no resentment. He was grateful that Chamberlain took full responsibility for naval failures in Scandinavia rather than assign blame to him, given the fact that the operation was under his leadership as First Lord of the Admiralty. In the end, Chamberlain’s selfless act paved a path for Churchill to fulfill his destiny of becoming prime minister.
I was born to be a warrior, Churchill had thought, standing before the House of Commons for his inaugural speech. I’ve spent my entire life preparing for this moment—to lead the British people to victory in its war against tyranny.
Churchill had no time to get acclimated to the role of prime minister. He assembled his military staff and declared that he would direct the fight from the Cabinet War Rooms, an underground bunker located deep beneath the Treasury building in the Whitehall area of Westminster. He expected Britain’s battles in France and Belgium to be long and arduous, like the Great War. But his view began to change when—on his fifth day in office—he was awoken by a call from French Prime Minister Paul Reynaud.
