Dear Benito Mussolini,
Churchill paused, the tip of the pen seeping ink through the stationery. As a drone of propellers thrummed in his ears, he conjured words that he hoped would dissuade the Italian dictator from joining the war in support of Hitler.
CHAPTER 20
SIGNY-L’ABBAYE, FRANCE—MAY 16, 1940
Ruth’s damp clothes clung to her body as she crawled on her hands and knees through a dense thicket. Thorns pricked her scalp and cheeks. She pushed on for several meters to a clearing, where she peeked around a bush and scanned the countryside. It was long after daybreak and the sun was hidden by gray clouds. A boom of tank guns came from a few kilometers west of their location, and echoes of machine gun and artillery fire came from the north, east, and south. There was no sign of French troops and, beyond the hills in all directions, smoke plumes rose to the sky.
“The Panzers are gone,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “But we remain surrounded.”
Lucette and Jimmie labored their way out of the underbrush and joined her.
The night before, they had floated past the Panzer tanks without being detected, but the strong river current pushed them at least a kilometer away from where they’d stashed the ambulance. Exhausted, cold, and fearing they would be spotted, they spent the night huddled together in the undergrowth as they fought off hypothermia and waited for the Panzers to leave the area. At dawn, they heard the engines of the German tanks rumble to life and resume their assault over the French countryside, but they remained hidden until they were certain the area was safe.
“Where now?” Lucette asked, clutching the medical bag.
“We try to make it to the ambulance,” Ruth said.
“I agree.” Jimmie brushed briars from his sling. “From there, we can determine if the roads are passable.”
Lucette nodded.
Ruth, who had experience with hiking in rugged areas of Maine, led them through the forest that bordered the river. They did not speak and were careful with their path, avoiding areas of fallen branches that could snap under their feet. Instead, they chose routes near conifers so the sounds of their footsteps would be softened by fallen pine needles. Twenty minutes into their trek, the forest opened to a small, solitary farm that bordered the river. They hid behind a cluster of oak trees and surveilled a slate-roofed cottage, absent of vehicles or livestock. Minutes passed and they observed no movement.
“What do you think?” Jimmie whispered.
“I say we check it out,” Ruth said.
“Me too,” Lucette said. “There might be some fuel. We won’t get far on what we have in the ambulance.”
“Stay here.” Jimmie slipped his weapon from his jacket. “I’ll signal if it’s safe.”
“I’ll go,” Ruth said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“I got this,” he said. “I have a bad wing but my legs are good. I won’t be long.”
“Be careful,” Ruth said.
“I will.” He crept down a wooded slope, crouched down, and scurried to the house.
Ruth’s heart rate quickened.
Jimmie skulked around the cottage and peeked through each of the first-floor windows. He paused, placing an ear to the front door, and entered.
Ruth pressed her hands together.
“He’s going to be all right,” Lucette whispered.
She nodded.
A moment later, Jimmie emerged from the cottage and waved an arm.
Thank goodness. Ruth’s tension eased.
She and Lucette darted down the hill to the cottage and went inside. The place was sparsely decorated with antique furniture and the air smelled faintly of vinegar, as if the cottage had been recently cleaned. They found Jimmie in the dining room, standing beside a large oak table with four place settings, a basket of bread, a dish of butter, two jars of jam, a metal coffee pot, and a ceramic pitcher of milk. On a wall was a framed photograph of a young couple and three curly-haired children—two girls and one boy.
Ruth looked at a plate that contained a jam-covered piece of bread with a small bite mark, which she presumed to be from a child. A wave of sadness washed over her.
“They left in a hurry.” Lucette lifted the coffeepot. “It’s full.”
“We should eat something,” Jimmie said.
“It doesn’t feel right,” Ruth said. “It’s not our food.”
“I doubt that they will return soon.” Lucette plucked a piece of bread and lathered it with butter. “We shouldn’t let it go to waste, and we need our strength.”
Ruth took a bite of bread, and a smidge of guilt gnawed at her conscience, despite knowing that they had little choice but to consume the nourishment. She silently gave thanks for the food and hoped that the family was safe and far away from German tanks.
They devoured the bread and drank the coffee, cold and bitter, but left the milk due to its sour smell. In the kitchen, they collected a baguette, handfuls of potatoes and beetroot, tins of meat, and tossed the items into a pillowcase that they took from a bed. They scoured the cottage and barn for weapons and fuel but found none. With their bellies full and their energy renewed, they fled the farm.
A half hour later, they found the ambulance as they had left it. They removed the camouflage of foliage and poured in the last of the fuel from a can in the back of the vehicle.
Lucette unfolded the map, soggy and warped from the river. “Let’s decide which route to take.”
“We have orders to go west to Dunkirk,” Ruth said.
“And I’m required to return to my airfield,” Jimmie said, “which is south of our location.”