Jimmie looked at the runway, covered in holes the size of automobiles. “Not anytime soon.”
“Mon Dieu,” Lucette said, stepping forward. “Where have they gone?”
“To another base, most likely to the south. Perhaps the Villeneuve-les-Vertus Aerodrome, or the airfield in Gaye.”
“How far?” Ruth asked.
“Vertus is fifty kilometers away. Gaye is about seventy-five.”
Ruth folded her arms. “But you don’t know for certain if they are there.”
Jimmie shook his head. He approached the group, their eyes filled with uncertainty. “I’m sorry. You came here because of me.”
“It’s not your fault,” Ruth said. “We all agreed to come here.”
Aline leaned to her grandpapa.
Pierre placed a hand on Aline’s shoulder and looked at Jimmie. “We’re farther away from the German tanks than when we started—and for that, I am grateful.”
Jimmie nodded, even though he felt like he’d failed them. He glanced at a dull red glow on the horizon. “There’s barely any light left. We should stay here until morning. I’m going to look around the area to see if I can find any abandoned supplies or fuel.”
“I’ll join you.” Ruth went to the ambulance and returned with the electric torch.
While Lucette, Pierre, and Aline remained at the ambulance, Jimmie and Ruth explored the airfield. First, Jimmie led Ruth to the burned remains of a Hawker Hurricane.
“It might be best if I take a look first,” Jimmie said.
“Okay.” She handed him the electric torch.
Jimmie flipped the switch and was surprised that it still worked after being soaked in river water. As he approached the remains of the Hurricane, a stench of burnt wood and aviation fuel penetrated his nostrils. He peeked into what was left of the cockpit and was relieved to find no remains of a pilot. At the tail, which was partially scorched, he shined a beam over the RAF markings. A chill drifted down his spine. “It’s Benny’s.”
“Who?”
“A fellow wingman—and a friend.” An image of the Yorkshireman’s boyish, freckled face flashed in Jimmie’s head.
“Is he—” Ruth swallowed.
“No. He’s not here.”
“Thank goodness.”
“It looks like Benny’s Hurricane was destroyed before he could get it into the air.”
Jimmie dreaded checking the planes, but he was compelled by his sense of duty to search for fallen airmen. For several minutes, he checked the cockpits and fuselages of the remaining destroyed aircraft, all of which were either French bombers or British Fairey Battles, and he was comforted to find no corpses. Afterward, he and Ruth scoured the area of the hangar for anything of use, but it had taken a direct hit from a bomb and everything was destroyed, either by the explosion or the ensuing fire. Refusing to give up their search for supplies, they made their way to a shed near the entrance to the airfield. Inside, they discovered old tires, an assortment of old propellers, a toolbox, and a rusty metal fuel canister.
Jimmie picked up the canister by its handle and felt its weight. “It’s half full.” He unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. “It’s petrol, but it smells a bit sour and might be old.”
“Our fuel gauge reads empty,” Ruth said, “so it won’t make much difference if the petrol is bad. Let’s try it.”
Jimmie carried the canister out of the shed and walked with Ruth toward the ambulance. His injured arm jostled in the sling, sending a sharp pang through his wrist. He grimaced.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, fighting back the pain.
“May I carry it?”
“There’s no need.”
Ruth stepped in front of him and stopped.
Jimmie’s eyebrows rose and he halted, the fuel sloshing inside the canister.
“I know that you’re capable of lugging that gas can,” she said, “but you’re in pain and there’s no reason to refuse my help when you’re at risk of reinjuring a broken bone.” She extended her arm. “Give it to me.”
He gave her the canister and paused, looking into her eyes. “I didn’t mean to offend you. My insistence with carrying the load was my way of trying to fix things. Contrary to my stubbornness, I am quite obliged to you for your help.”
The lines on Ruth’s face softened. “You’re welcome, and no apology needed.”
At the ambulance, they poured the petrol into the tank, slightly raising the needle on the fuel gauge. They test started the engine and it idled normally, except for a few, intermittent sputters. Afterward, they prepared a sparse meal of raw potatoes and beetroot, and one of the tins of meat that was looted from a farm. Pierre recited a blessing and they ate in dark silence.
While everyone hunkered onto bunks in the ambulance for the night, Jimmie sat guard under an oak tree, perched on a hill that overlooked the airfield. As he leaned his back against the tree, his mind flashed to the letter he’d written to Nora. He wondered when the RAF would inform his family that he’d been shot down and was missing in action, and he hoped that he would find the No. 73 Squadron before the news was dispatched.
An hour into his watch, he heard approaching footsteps and reached for his revolver.
“Where are you?” Ruth’s voice asked from the darkness.
He relaxed. “Over here—under a tree.”