Ruth sat up and sucked in air. She looked to the sky and her eyes were drawn to three RAF Hurricane fighters in pursuit of the Stukas, which had pulled out of their dive and veered away.
People cheered from the roadway.
Jimmie raised his good arm above his head and shouted, “Get them!”
A wave of relief rolled over Ruth. She stood and helped Aline to her feet. “Are you okay?”
“I am,” Aline said.
Ruth turned to Jimmie. “Do you recognize them?”
Jimmie placed a hand over his eyes to shield the sun. “They might be with my squadron, the Seventy-Three, or perhaps with Number One Squadron. I can’t tell for sure.”
Lucette walked toward Jimmie and pressed her palms together. “Dieu merci.”
While Jimmie, Lucette, and Aline watched the planes disappear on the horizon, Ruth approached Pierre, who was standing alone in thigh-high weeds.
“Are you okay?” Ruth asked.
Pierre turned to her. His face was pale, and sweat clung to his forehead and wispy, gray hair. His beret was clutched like a rag in his left hand. In the other, he held an open medicine bottle.
She froze.
“I—I failed to put the cap on before we ran away,” Pierre said, his voice frail. He looked out over the vast, overgrown field. “They’re all gone.”
CHAPTER 33
BELLÊME, FRANCE—JUNE 11, 1940
Jimmie and his group entered a small town of approximately a thousand residents, given the number and size of structures. Stores and businesses were shuttered and most of the town’s people appeared to have fled. The population of the town, however, had grown five-fold with refugees who were making their way to southern areas of France. Jimmie’s legs were tired, and his arm ached inside his plaster cast. He adjusted the sling, rubbing the skin on his neck raw, and slogged through a congested cobblestone street.
Ruth looked at Pierre, who was shuffling along while holding her elbow. “Do you want to stop?”
“Non,” Pierre said, his voice hoarse.
“You should rest, Grandpapa,” Aline said, following close behind with Lucette.
“A little further, my little cabbage,” Pierre said.
Jimmie felt conflicted. He admired Pierre’s determination, but he also worried that he was overexerting himself. He decided to walk a few more minutes, and then make an excuse that he needed to stop to drink water. But his plans changed when they neared a stone building with a sign that read PHARMACIE.
Jimmie’s pulse rate quickened. “There,” he said, pointing.
“Thank goodness,” Ruth said.
Aline scurried to her grandpapa. “We can get you médecine.”
Pierre raised his head to the sign and his eyes brightened.
The group made their way to the sidewalk and climbed three stone steps to the entrance of the building. But Jimmie’s hope sank at the sight of a broken storefront window and an open front door. He entered the pharmacy, his boots crunching over shattered glass, to find it had been ransacked. Most of the shelves were empty, and behind a service counter was an apothecary cabinet, its drawers missing or ajar.
“Oh, no,” Lucette said, staring at the mess.
Aline slumped her shoulders. “What happened?”
“Looters,” Ruth said.
Pierre slowly stepped over shards of glass. “Forgive me,” he whispered to himself, as if he were ashamed of trespassing. He walked behind the service counter and examined a shelf with large cork-top jars, some of which were toppled and broken on the floor. One by one, he went through the apothecary cabinet’s remaining drawers and turned to the group.
“Any luck?” Ruth asked.
Pierre shook his head.
A knot formed in Jimmie’s stomach.
Pierre approached his granddaughter.
Aline’s bottom lip quivered. “Why would people steal?”
“They’re afraid that there will be nothing left.” Pierre placed a hand on his granddaughter’s shoulder and smiled. “It’s all right. There will be more towns and pharmacies on our journey.”
Aline nodded.
Lucette hooked her arm around Pierre’s elbow and walked him outside. Jimmie, Ruth, and Aline followed them and, together, they rejoined the stream of refugees flowing through the town.
After the near Stuka attack, Jimmie and the group had scoured the overgrown, weed-covered field in search of Pierre’s nitroglycerin pills. They’d crawled on their hands and knees, exploring the bug-infested, thick undergrowth, until the sun set and it became too dark to see. But even in bright sunlight, the thigh-high, dense foliage made it nearly impossible to find Lilliputian-size tablets. In all, two pills were recovered—both by Aline, who found them near the original spot where they fled the enemy planes. And Pierre, who’d strained himself in the search, needed to take one of the salvaged pills to alleviate a pain running through his chest.
They, as well as countless refugees, had slept the night under a forest canopy that stretched along the roadside. They’d woken before sunrise, eaten a breakfast of sliced turnips and stale bread, and commenced their slog through the countryside. Within an hour of walking, Pierre began to wince and, minutes later, slipped the last pill under his tongue—out of sight of Aline, who was walking ahead of the pack. Jimmie insisted to Pierre that he needed to stop and rest, but Pierre declined, claiming that he was feeling well enough to walk. So, Jimmie bartered some of their food in exchange for Pierre to ride in a peddler’s cart that held a kindergarten-age boy on a small mattress. Pierre was reluctant to accept the ride, but relented when Aline implored him to get in. For six kilometers, Jimmie—using his good arm—helped a man to push Pierre and the boy in the cart. The ride for Pierre ended at an intersection, where the owner of the peddler’s cart took an inland route toward Le Mans.