“Hold up,” Jimmie called, upon reaching a village.
A gray-bearded man tugged on reins and the mule slowed the wagon to a stop.
Jimmie thanked the man for the ride, and then he, Ruth, and Lucette helped Pierre out of the wagon.
Aline jumped out and put on her backpack.
They walked to a calm stream, which resembled a shallow canal, that ran through the center of the village. They put down their bags and took off their socks and shoes. While Pierre rested under the shade of a willow tree, the others filled canteens, drank water, and soaked their aching feet in the cool stream.
Jimmie and Ruth approached Pierre, who was resting on his back with an arm over his eyes.
“We brought you some water,” Ruth said.
Pierre stirred and raised his head.
Jimmie helped him to sit up and Ruth handed him a canteen.
Pierre took a few gulps. Water dribbled down his gray-stubbled chin. “Merci.”
“How about something to eat?” Jimmie asked.
“I will in a little while,” Pierre said.
Ruth wiggled her bare toes. “The stream feels good. Would you like to soak your feet?”
“Oui, after a short nap.” Pierre settled on his back and peered upward at the drooping willow branches.
Ruth poured water from the canteen onto a handkerchief, squeezed out excess water, and placed it on Pierre’s forehead.
“Bless you.” A soft smile formed on his face and he closed his eyes.
Jimmie and Ruth returned to the edge of the stream, where Lucette and Aline were drying their feet in the sun. As Ruth retrieved a bag with food, a clack of boots grew from the road.
Jimmie perked his head and turned.
A dozen men in weathered French Army uniforms stepped from the road and shuffled down to the waterway, fifteen meters upstream from Jimmie and the others. The soldiers, their faces unshaven and dirty, crouched at the stream and guzzled handfuls of water.
Lucette’s eyes turned wide. “Oh, my.”
“I’m going to talk with them,” Jimmie said.
“I’ll join you,” Ruth said.
Lucette clasped her arms. “Me too.”
Ruth glanced at Pierre, sleeping under the tree, and turned to Aline. “How about joining your grandpapa?”
“Non,” Aline said. “I’m coming with you.”
“All right,” Ruth said, reluctantly, “but stay behind me.”
The group, cautious and barefooted, made their way upstream to the soldiers.
“Salut,” Jimmie said, approaching.
A young man, no more than twenty years old, splashed water onto his face and turned. He paused, eyeing Jimmie’s sling and RAF tunic. “Shot down?”
Jimmie nodded.
The soldier looked at Ruth and Lucette. “Ambulance corps?”
“Oui,” Ruth said. “But we no longer have an ambulance to drive. We’re on foot, like you.”
The other soldiers, hollow-eyed with disheveled uniforms, glanced their way but made no effort to join their comrade.
“Can you tell us what is happening?” Jimmie asked.
“Much of the defenses along the Seine have fallen,” the soldier said. “We were ordered to retreat to the coast for an evacuation across the Channel.”
“Where?” Ruth asked.
“Saint-Nazaire.” The soldier wiped his sweat-covered forehead with his sleeve. “Are you headed there, too?”
“We are now,” Ruth said.
“Is that in Brittany, near the Loire estuary?” Jimmie asked.
“It is,” the soldier said.
