Aline approached Ruth and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Please don’t go.”
She stroked the girl’s hair. “I need to leave. There are people that need my help. My aunt and uncle will help care for you and your grandpapa.” She gave her a hug and looked at Pierre. “Do you remember the route to the air raid shelter?”
“I do,” Pierre said. “Merci, for everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I need to go, too,” Jimmie said, looking at Pierre, “but I’ll stop back here after I check in at the embassy.”
Pierre nodded.
He and Ruth left the apartment and descended the stairs. They exited the building and faced each other.
“I’m sorry that I will not be walking you to the embassy,” she said, “and that you didn’t get something to eat.”
“It’s all right.” He gently touched her shoulder.
She leaned into him.
He wrapped his arms around her and lowered his cheek to her hair. “I was hoping for a long goodbye.”
“Me too.” She squeezed him tight.
“Please—be careful.”
She nodded. “Promise me you’ll be safe.”
“I will.”
“Adieu.” She relaxed her embrace and slipped away.
Jimmie felt torn as he watched her disappear into a crowd. His heart urged him to run after her and never let her go. But his mind told him otherwise. We’re at war. Our people and countries come first, and we each have our duties to uphold. He fought back his emotions and made his way toward the central area of the city, all the while hoping to reach the embassy before another wave of German bombing.
* * *
An hour after leaving Le Marais and asking several residents for directions, Jimmie arrived at the British Embassy. The entrance was absent of sentries, and he walked into a towering foyer—covered in black-and-white tiles that created a checkerboard pattern—where several men in black suits were lugging away stacks of cardboard boxes. A huge pile of papers and government documents covered an unattended receptionist desk.
Oh, no, Jimmie thought. They’re evacuating. He approached a stout, middle-aged man who was carrying a box. “Excuse me, sir. I’m an RAF pilot, and I’m looking for someone who might be able to help me to reconnect with my squadron.”
The man stopped, and his eyes narrowed in on Jimmie’s sling. “Were you shot down?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you need medical attention?”
“No, sir. I’d like to get word to the Seventy-Three Squadron on my position, and receive instruction on where to report.”
The man put down his box and wiped sweat from his forehead. “At the moment, things are quite chaotic and there’s little the embassy can do for you. Due to the bombing, much of the staff has yet to return to work, and others are in emergency meetings. I recommend that you report to a French military base in Paris to seek direction, or you could come back to the embassy tomorrow.”
Jimmie furrowed his brow. “With all due respect, sir, there might not be a tomorrow.”
The man stepped back, as if he were poked in the chest. “I’m sorry. I regret that I have nothing more to offer. Good luck to you, young man.” He picked up his box and walked down a corridor.
Jimmie, feeling frustrated, glanced at a British flag that was displayed at the entrance, and he wondered how many days the embassy would remain in operation. He exited the building and walked along the sidewalk.
A clacking of shoes on the pavement came from behind him. He paused and turned.
A young, bespectacled man, wearing a gray suit, ran to him. “Pardon me,” he said with an English accent. “I was inside the embassy and overheard your conversation.”
Jimmie nodded. “Any chance you could point me in the direction of the nearest air base?”
The man glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure he was out of earshot. “There is little chance of reaching your squadron. The RAF is in the process of relocating their forces to airfields, farther south of the enemy.”
“I’m aware,” Jimmie said. “After I was shot down, I returned to my airfield and found it abandoned.”
The man removed his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief. “The BEF troops at Dunkirk are being evacuated across the Channel. There weren’t enough military vessels, so Churchill requisitioned every available civilian boat in England.” He slipped his glasses on his face and looked at Jimmie. “They are trying to save our bloody army with a flotilla of fishing boats and leisure yachts.”
Jimmie’s eyes widened.
“Dunkirk will soon be captured by the Germans, and they’ll turn their Panzers to the south. The French don’t have the troops to stop them. In a week, perhaps two, Paris will fall.”
Hairs rose on the back of Jimmie’s neck. “How do you know this?”
“I’m an interpreter,” the man said. “I sit in on the Anglo-French Supreme War Council meetings that are held in Paris. I’m privy to Allied military strategy and intelligence.”
Jimmie swallowed. “Surely, you’re sworn to secrecy. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you might get killed by trying to search for an RAF squadron that will, in short order, be flown back to Britain. I can’t, in good conscience, sit idle and allow that to happen.” He ran a hand over his hair. “In the coming months, we’ll need pilots, like you, to defend British airspace and to keep the Germans from storming our shores.”
