A deep foreboding swelled within Jimmie. “If you were me, what would you do?”
“I’d leave Paris and travel south to the coast,” he said. “The British Admiralty is working on plans for more evacuation of British and French troops—as well as ground crews of the RAF—that are unable to reach Dunkirk.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know for certain,” the man said. “But I heard senior British military leaders of the council discuss several potential evacuation points in Brittany, including Brest and the Loire estuary. They also mentioned other locations, as far south as Saint-Jean-de-Luz on the Basque coast.”
Good God. We’re giving up the fight for France. He felt sick to his stomach. “What will you do?”
“I will remain here to destroy any material that could be of value to the Germans. Eventually, the embassy will close and I’ll get to one of the evacuation ports—hopefully before Hitler’s Panzers do.”
Jimmie’s mind raced as he tried to absorb the man’s story. He didn’t want to believe the claims, but—deep in his gut—he believed the man’s words to be true. He extended his arm. “Thank you. I’m Flying Officer Jimmie Quill.”
“Nigel,” he said, as if reluctant to reveal his full name. He shook Jimmie’s hand. “Godspeed.”
“And you.”
Nigel turned, jogged down the sidewalk, and entered the embassy.
Jimmie, shaken by the man’s revelation, made his way out of the 8th arrondissement. He walked along the River Seine with a view of the Eiffel Tower, its wrought-iron lattice structure pointed to a sky marred with smoke. He imagined Wehrmacht troops, their jackboots clacking as they marched over the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, and a Nazi swastika flag on the Arc de Triomphe. Ire grew inside him. Despite Nigel’s warning and the grim outcome for Paris, he had no plan to leave the city until he informed Pierre and Ruth’s family.
The sun gradually set as he walked on his route toward Le Marais. Most of the citizens had gone to their apartments or an underground shelter for the night, and fire trucks raced over barren streets to the west side of the city, where fires continued to rage. A light wind, drifting through the streets, reeked of charred wood and expelled explosive.
At a small park, a group of old men—wearing tarnished tin helmets from the Great War—were stacking sandbags around an antiaircraft gun that had been placed next to a children’s swing set. A frail, bow-legged man struggled to lift a bag of sand, and Jimmie came to his aid. Using one arm, he helped the man to load sandbag after sandbag, even though a barricade would be futile in slowing the German Army.
CHAPTER 28
PARIS, FRANCE—JUNE 4, 1940
Jimmie woke to the smell of brewed coffee and fried egg. He rose from a sofa in the living room of Ruth’s aunt and uncle’s apartment and peeked out the window. Below, the street was empty except for a group of women and children, who were carrying blankets and pillows as they walked on the sidewalk. They slept in a bomb shelter. He hoped that yesterday’s German air raid missed their targets and there were no casualties, but he knew that would not be the case, given the roar of fire trucks and ambulances that had lasted through much of the night. Hitler intends to break the will of the French by bombing communities and sending fear through the population. He flexed the hand of his injured arm, and he pledged to himself that he would return to the fight.
Jimmie shook away his thoughts and entered the kitchen to find Pierre, standing in front of the stove. Eggs sizzled in an iron skillet.
Pierre, holding a spatula, turned to Jimmie. “Bonjour. I made us breakfast.”
“Smells good.”
“I’m not much of a cook,” Pierre said, “but I can assure you that it’ll taste better than the pickled onions and radishes we’ve been eating on the road.”
“Indeed.” He rubbed thick stubble on his face. “Did Ruth’s aunt and uncle come home last night?”
Pierre shook his head. “Have a seat. We’ll have coffee while we wait for Aline to wake.”
Jimmie sat at a table. His mind drifted to Ruth, and he hoped that the ambulance corps deployed her someplace that would give her an escape route to the coast.
Late last evening, Jimmie arrived at the apartment. Pierre and Aline were asleep, and Ruth’s aunt and uncle had yet to come home from the hospital. Hungry and exhausted, he ate a hunk of a stale baguette that he found in the kitchen and fell asleep on the sofa.
“Here,” Pierre said, placing a cup of coffee in front of Jimmie.
He took a sip, acidic and bitter.
“What do you think?”
“It’s splendid. Thank you.”
Pierre grinned. He poured himself a cup and sat across from him.
Jimmie’s mind flashed to his discussion with the interpreter. “I have news on the war from my visit to the embassy.”
Pierre took a gulp of coffee. “Good, I hope.”
“It’s not, I’m afraid.”
Pierre frowned.
For several minutes, Jimmie told him about what he’d learned from the interpreter—the BEF evacuation across the Channel, the lack of French troops to defend Paris, and a supposed operation to save military personnel who are left stranded in France after the evacuation at Dunkirk.
“Mon Dieu.” Lines formed on Pierre’s forehead. “Are you certain the man’s information is accurate?”
“His words rang true. He claimed that his role as an embassy interpreter provided him with direct access to conversations between senior British and French leaders of the Anglo-French Supreme War Council.”
Pierre clasped his hands with his elbows on the table. “What are you going to do?”
“Eventually, I’ll head south to find a way across the Channel, but I won’t leave until I’ve exhausted efforts to locate Ruth and Lucette to inform them about what I know. Also, I want to speak with Ruth’s aunt and uncle about the news.”
Pierre nodded.
“In the meantime, I will make a visit to Orly Air Base, on the south side of Paris. There’s no RAF there, as far as I know, but I have an obligation to try to get word to my squadron.” Jimmie shifted in his seat and looked at Pierre. “Will you stay in Paris?”
