“Oui,” Aline said.
Pierre nodded. He bent over and sucked in air.
Jimmie turned and was relieved to see Ruth and Lucette—their uniforms wet and muddy—rising from the ditch. As he prepared for the Stuka to make another pass, the German pilot veered his aircraft away and flew out of sight.
“Thank goodness,” Ruth said.
Jimmie, his wrist throbbing, leaned his back against the slope and exhaled.
Aline released his hand and brushed a clump of mud from his sling.
Pierre raised his head. “I’m thankful for what you did for her, and me.”
Jimmie nodded.
The group climbed out of the ditch and walked, their soaked feet squelching in their shoes, to the ambulance. The hood, roof, and the rear doors were covered with holes the size of walnuts. The windshield was shattered and beneath the vehicle was a large puddle of fluid.
Ruth opened the hood and frowned. “The radiator looks like Swiss cheese.”
“Can it be fixed?” Lucette asked.
“Non.” Ruth examined the engine block, battery, and fuel line, all of which were intact. “It might run, but we won’t get far.”
“It’s worth a try.” Lucette brushed mud from her uniform. “Each kilometer we ride is one less that we have to walk.”
Ruth nodded. “Let’s get on the road before more enemy planes show up.”
Pierre and Aline climbed into the back of the ambulance, and Lucette began to clear away broken glass from the driver and passenger seats.
Ruth approached Jimmie, whose sling was spattered with mud. “Is your arm okay?”
“Yes, thanks to your splint.” He glanced at a bullet hole in the red cross emblem of the ambulance. Anger grew inside him. “What kind of pilot would open machine gun fire on an ambulance and innocent people?”
“The Luftwaffe kind—it’s not the first time our ambulance has been a target.” Ruth squeezed water from her wool skirt. “Have you made your decision on whether to join us?”
A choice roiled inside him. His brain told him that he should search for his squadron, but his heart told him otherwise. He looked into her eyes and said, “You’re right. We should stick together.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “Sit up front with me and Lucette. We might need your weapon.”
He nodded.
The vehicle successfully started and they drove away from the airfield. But within five minutes, the needle on the engine’s temperature gauge pointed to the red, and the smell of burning oil filled the cabin. Ruth turned off the engine for twenty minutes to allow the engine to cool down, and then continued their journey for a few more kilometers, until they reached a main route toward Paris. The road was jam-packed with thousands of French citizens, forcing the vehicle to move at a slow rate of speed.
Soon, smoke began to spew from under the hood. The vehicle shuddered and the engine seized. They gathered their things, abandoned the ambulance, and joined the growing exodus of refugees heading south in search of freedom.
PART 3
THE EXODUS
CHAPTER 24
LONDON, ENGLAND—MAY 20, 1940
On the day that German tanks reached the English Channel, Prime Minister Winston Churchill entered the Cabinet War Rooms, deep below the streets of Westminster. His polished black shoes clacked over the concrete floor as he traveled down a dimly lighted, claustrophobic corridor to where two armed sentries stood guard by an open steel door.
The sentries snapped to attention and saluted.
Churchill, without breaking his stride, touched the brim of his hat and entered the Cabinet Room to find his chief military advisor, General Ismay, looking at a map on the far wall.
A sentry closed the door, clinking against its metal frame.
Ismay turned. “Hello, Prime Minister.”
“Good day, General.” Churchill put down his hat on a table and approached him. “You’ve received the intelligence briefing, I presume.”
“I have, sir.” Ismay clasped his hands behind his back, tightening his military tunic over his broad chest. “Shall we begin, or do you wish to wait for the remaining Chiefs of Staff to join us?”
“We will begin.” Churchill removed a cigar from his suit jacket. “I did not summon the others. I would like to discuss recent developments and our course of action with you before calling a meeting.”
“Of course, sir.”
Churchill lit his cigar and puffed on the tip, filling his mouth with the taste of tobacco smoke. He stood beside Ismay and peered at the map, marked with colored pins to depict Axis and Allied troops. His eyes locked on a cluster of black pins, representing German tanks, at the coast of France. Ire swelled inside him yet his composed demeanor remained unwavering.
“Three days ago, when Antwerp and Brussels fell,” Ismay said, “the Allies retreated to the coastline of France.” He pointed to the map. “Most are in Dunkirk—six miles from the Belgium border.”
Churchill rolled his cigar between his fingers, and ash fell to the floor.
“The Germans captured Abbeville,” Ismay said, “and their tanks have reached the Somme River where it meets the Channel. The British and French armies have their backs to the sea, and they’re trapped on three sides by the Germans.”
