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Evelyn knelt beside the stream and cupped her hands in the water, scooping it up and splashing it over her face. The cold water felt wonderful and she quickly repeated the motion, closing her eyes in pleasure.
“How is it? Cold?” Josephine asked, kneeling beside her and handing her a cloth to dry her face.
“It’s lovely,” Evelyn replied, taking the cloth and mopping the water off her face.
“After two days in the car, I think anything would be lovely.” Josephine leaned down and scooped up water, splashing it over her face. “Oh! That is wonderful!”
Evelyn laughed and shoved her arms into the stream, washing her hands and forearms with the cool water. They had passed Bourges that morning, placing them about halfway to their destination. No matter what route they tried, they met the same columns of refugees, all fleeing south to escape the German divisions. While they were clogging the roads, Allied troops were trying to go north to aid in the fight at the ports. The streams of refugees made it slow going for everyone, and Evelyn was resigned to the fact that they would be inching their way to Bordeaux. The only comfort she had was that the newspapers were filled with reports and photographs of lines of people pouring south. Bill had to be aware of the situation, and she was sure he was arranging transportation accordingly.
At least, she hoped he was.
“Oh, I needed that!” Josephine exclaimed, wiping off her face and arms. “I felt like I was covered in a film of dirt.”
“So did I. Thankfully we don’t look like it.” Evelyn picked up one of the pottery jugs they’d brought with them and leaned forward to immerse it in the stream, filling it. “I hope this will be enough water to last us.”
“We’ll come to another stream soon enough. We’re in the middle of the country. Water is the least of our concerns.” Josephine picked up the second jug. “When we go back to the car, I’ll tell Finn to come and rinse off. It will do him a world of good. He’s getting more and more bad-tempered with every kilometer.”
“He’s worried that we won’t reach Bordeaux in time.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I’m sure they realize the situation,” Evelyn said, setting her pitcher on the grass and sitting back on her heels. “It’s in all the newspapers, and I know Bill is getting regular reports every day. He must know that it will take some time to get there.”
Josephine finished filling her jug and took a deep breath, looking around. The stream ran through a small clearing surrounded by centuries-old trees. It was some distance from the road, offering a false sense of seclusion and safety from the reality around them.
“I could sit here all day,” she breathed. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Evelyn smiled and closed her eyes, allowing the sun to bathe her face in warmth. “Mmm.”
“Perhaps we can talk Finn into staying long enough to eat lunch. We could sit here for an hour, drink some wine, and pretend that we’re on a picnic.”
Evelyn opened her eyes. “I think it would take a lot to convince him to stop that long,” she said with a sigh. “He’s determined to keep moving.”
“He acts as though he has the Devil himself behind him.” Josephine pursed her lips and then shook her head. “I suppose we do.”
“At least we’re putting some distance between us, for now, at least.”
“It’s only a matter of time before they turn towards Paris.”
Evelyn looked at Josephine sharply, catching the note of sadness in her voice. Her friend was staring across the stream and into the trees, a strange look on her face.
“You know, I never really believed that this would happen,” she said slowly, her eyes transfixed on something unseen. “When the war began, I thought it was all a grand adventure. I was able to leave home and go to different places, living a life that I’d only ever dreamt of, full of excitement and new experiences. Of course I knew the danger. How could I not? I heard stories from contacts who came over the border from Germany. They warned of what was coming. They told us of the evil that had taken hold of their country. But I never truly thought that it would come to France.”
“You thought it would remain in Germany.”
“Yes.”
“I think we all hoped it would remain there,” Evelyn said in a low voice. “I know I did. I’ve said all along that we needed to be ready if the war came, but I think deep down I didn’t believe that it would happen.”
“And now it has.” Josephine turned her head and Evelyn saw the anguish in her gray eyes. “Will France ever be the same again? Even if we’re able to stop them now, today, look at what has already been lost. And our government is doing nothing. They give us no direction. They fill their broadcasts with empty words of hope when we can clearly see that there is none. Our generals have failed us! Our government has failed us.”
A deep hollow ache filled Evelyn as she nodded in agreement. Everything Josephine said was true. After spending two days on a road crowded with women, children, old men and infants, all displaced and left with nowhere to go, she was coming to the realization that this wasn’t just a war of territory. It was a war of power. The Germans wanted power over every man, woman, and child, and would destroy them to get it. She’d gazed into the eyes of the old French men and women on the road, and had seen their resignation. They had lived through one war, only to be thrown into the middle of another one. Everything they owned was with them, and they had nowhere to go. They were on the road and moving south for only one reason: hope.
“Hope.” Evelyn’s voice came out stronger than she expected.
“Pardon?”
“Hope. That’s what you must hold on to. It’s why all these people are on the road. They’re clinging to the hope that they can build a new life away from their homes, away from everything they’ve known. It’s that hope that will pull France through this. She may not be the same, but she will still be France.”
Josephine was silent for a long time, then she slowly nodded.
“This will be our legacy,” she said in a low voice. “This is why I’m now Jeannine Renaud. I will continue to stand and fight, and oppose the Nazi tyranny when it comes, so that France can be France once more.”
“Aux armes, citoyens; Formez vos bataillons; Marchons, marchons!” Evelyn quoted soberly.
Josephine looked at her, startled, then a shining smile broke over her face. “La Marseillaise. Vive la France!”
Evelyn was just opening her mouth to repeat the phrase when the air was suddenly filled with a low sound that grew rapidly in both pitch and volume. Her heart stopped, then thudded heavily against her ribs as fear shot through her. She looked at Josephine to find her eyes widening and the color draining from her face. They turned as one to look up behind them.
“What are they?” Josephine asked, staring at black specks diving out of the sky.
“Stukas!” Evelyn cried, jumping to her feet and grabbing her jug. “Quick! The trees!”
The awful noise got louder, sounding just like an air raid siren as the small, deadly dive bombers descended, aiming for the road clogged with people and vehicles. Evelyn looked up as they reached the cover of the old trees just as the first one dropped its bombs before pulling out of his dive, leveling out just above tree level. She squeezed her eyes shut, dropping down to a crouch and leaning against a thick trunk. Branches thick with leaves hid the sight of the bombers, leaving only the ability to listen. The bomb exploded, echoing through the countryside and causing the ground to shake. Evelyn gasped, her heart pounding and her breath coming fast. Opening her eyes, she looked at Josephine beside her in terror. They stared at each other, listening to another explosion as another bomb hit the road. The branches above them trembled, and then, they heard something even worse.
Ratta-tatta-ratta-tatta!
Evelyn sucked in her breath, dropping the jug and covering her mouth to hold in her scream. They weren’t just bombing the road crowded with refugees. They were shooting it!
RAF Horsham
“Come on, Yank! We don’t have all bloody night, y’know,” Slippy exclaimed. “It’s your go!”
Miles sipped his lager and watched as Chris finished lighting his cigarette before ambling over to take the three darts Slippy was holding out. Most of the squadron was gathered in the officer’s recreation room and, because they were English and drinking, a game of darts had been started. Chris, as the only one who hadn’t been throwing darts since he was in short pants, was taking his fair share of ribbing in stride.
“Try to actually hit the board,” Mother drawled, lifting his pint.
Chris stood at the line, his cigarette hanging out of his mouth and his tie half undone, peering at the board.
“Where am I aiming?” he asked, drawing a few guffaws.
“In the middle!”
“Good Lord, we’re finished,” Rob mourned, glancing at Miles. “You were right to sit this one out, Miles. Tell me again why I took the Yank?”
Miles didn’t answer as Chris lined up his shot and then released his first dart. His eyebrows soared into his forehead and he looked at Rob with a grin.
“You were saying?” he asked.
“Bloody hell!” Slippy cried. “He’s hit a bulls-eye!”
“Beginners luck,” Chris announced, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and blowing out smoke. He turned to set it in an ashtray before going back to the line. “I won’t do it again.”
“Do it as many times as you like, old boy!” Rob said.
His next dart landed in the black a few inches from center and Miles chuckled.
“Never played in your life? Bollocks!” Mother said, shaking his head.
“No, I really never have,” Chris protested. “But I can shoot a running jack rabbit at fifty yards.”
“Rabbits? What’ve they got to do with darts?” Slippy demanded.
“It means he has a good eye,” Mother retorted. “Get your head out of your arse.”
Chris’ third dart landed a double, drawing a loud groan from Mother and whoop from Rob.
“Never doubted you, Yank,” he chortled. “Not for a moment.”
“You really should have known better,” Miles told him. “There’s a reason he’s got two confirmed Me 109s.”
“So do you.”
“And you refuse to play against me in darts.”
“Lacey!” A voice called from the doorway.
Miles turned around and looked at their CO in surprise. “Yes, sir?”
“I’d like a word, please. Sorry to interrupt.”
“Oh, that’s all right, sir.” Miles gulped down the last few sips of his lager and set the empty pint down. “I’m not playing.”
He walked across the room to join Squadron Leader Boyd Ashmore, their CO, at the door. Ashmore was a stocky man of medium height who looked more suited to boxing than flying. He had been a star boxer at Oxford, but when he discovered flying, that was the end of the fighting. He was one of the best pilots Miles had ever seen, and one of the best commanding officers, and Miles had immense respect for him.
“Is everything all right, sir?” he asked.
“Tickety-boo. I just want a quick word.”
Ashmore led him out of the recreation room and across the hallway to the door leading outside. Once they’d stepped out into the fresh, night air, he threw his shoulders back and inhaled.
“Gorgeous night.” He looked around and shook his head. “Wouldn’t know there was a war on, would you?”
“No, sir.”
“I understand there’s a pool on with the ground crews on who will end up with the most confirmed enemy kills,” Ashmore said, turning and beginning to walk along the gravel road.
“So I’ve been told.”
“You and the American are leading. Did you know?”
“I believe it’s been mentioned once or twice,” Miles said dryly. “Every time I come back, my ground sergeant asks for an update.”
Ashmore chuckled. “If it keeps them in good spirits, it’s all to the good. I want to make it clear, however, that I don’t want you hunting out the bastards just to keep your numbers up.”
Miles frowned. “Of course not, sir.”
Ashmore glanced at him and sighed. “I don’t for a moment think that you would be so careless, but the wing commander got wind of it and asked me to have this conversation with both of you. He’s worried about losing pilots. We have precious few as it is.”
“I understand, sir. You don’t need to worry about me, and I don’t think you need to worry about Chris, either. He’s not as much of a cowboy as Mother would lead you to believe.”
Ashmore waved his hand impatiently. “I’m aware of that. He’s a fantastic flier. I’m lucky to have him. And you.”
Miles raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Thank you, sir.”
“There’s something I want to discuss with you, Miles. I’ve already spoken to Mother, and the rest of the squadron will be briefed first thing in the morning, but I want to talk to you personally.” He clasped his hands behind his back and looked up at the sky as they walked. “The prime minister has hatched a scheme to evacuate as many of the soldiers trapped at Dunkirk as possible. It’s damn near impossible to get them all, but he’s determined to try. He’s calling it Operation Dynamo, and he’s sending over anything that can float to get them. It’s going to be hell. The Germans know they’re there, and once they realize what’s happening, they’ll send in the Luftwaffe to stop it.”
Miles was silent, waiting for him continue. He should have guessed that Churchill wouldn’t leave thousands of men trapped in France. But a full evacuation? It would take weeks!
“In truth, it would take weeks to get that many soldiers out of France,” Ashmore continued, unconsciously echoing his thoughts. “But we don’t have weeks. So Churchill is ordering that they get as many as possible in the few days we do have. They’re sending everything. I wasn’t joking when I said anything that can float is being sent over. They’re even requisitioning private vessels. Fighter Command will be giving full air support to the evacuation.”
“When?”
“We start tomorrow.”
Miles inhaled sharply, a strange mix of exhilaration and nervous excitement rushing through him.
“I’m telling you all this because we’re bound to run into heavy opposition. The last thing Jerry wants is for us to rescue even a portion of our Expeditionary Force. Right now, if France falls, we won’t have an army to speak of that can oppose him. If we manage to pull this off, we’ll live to fight another day, and I can assure you that Hitler does not want that.” Ashmore glanced at him and cleared his throat. “This next bit will not be in the briefing tomorrow, so I’m trusting that you’ll keep it to yourself.”
Miles raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Of course, sir.”
“We’re dreadfully outnumbered. There is no hope of matching the Jerries fighter for fighter. They outnumber us three to one in fighters alone. We’ll be flying multiple sorties a day just to try to keep pace. The plan is to try to have two squadrons over Dunkirk at all times, but even so, it’ll be a hell of a scrap.”
“Yes, I know the numbers, sir.”
Ashmore looked at him in surprise. “You do?”
He nodded, shrugging sheepishly. “Things like that get around, sir. We all know what we’re up against.”
“Yes, well, there you are, then.” Ashmore shook his head. “We’re going to lose pilots. It’s inevitable. Fighter Command is hoping the losses won’t be substantial, but given the amount of planes and pilots we’ve lost over France so far...”
“I understand, sir.”
“I know Perry’s loss was a blow to the others. According to Chris’ account of the battle, you tried to get over to help.”
“I did, but I was tied up with a couple of 109s,” Miles said soberly. “I wasn’t in time.”
“You did the right thing. Always take care of your own kite first. The other pilots aren’t your responsibility, you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. The point is that the others look up to you. You’re a natural leader. I’ve been asked to forward a list to HQ of pilots whom I deem capable to take over in the event of losses. More specifically, the loss of flight and squadron leaders. I’ve given your name.”
“Sir?” Miles stopped and stared at him. “I don’t understand. Mother is the flight leader.”
“Yes, and now you’re next in line.” Ashmore shrugged and gave him a twisted smile. “The realities of war, my boy. Everyone must have a successor. You’ve been bumped to the top of the ladder.”
“I don’t know what to say to that,” Miles admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose I should say thank you, but I’m not sure that would be appropriate.”
Ashmore let out a laugh. “It wouldn’t be inappropriate. No one’s dead yet.”
Miles grinned sheepishly. “I suppose not. Then, thank you.”
“No need to thank me. You’re a terrific pilot and a strong leader. The others like you and, more importantly, they respect you. They’ll follow you anywhere. That’s the sign of a good leader.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, how long was the list that you sent to HQ?”
“Three names in the entire squadron. If we lose more than that in quick succession, then I’m afraid 66 Squadron is in real trouble. God willing we won’t lose any.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do me a favor, will you?”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Don’t get yourself killed over Dunkirk.”
Miles nodded, his lips curving into a wry smile. “I’ll do my best not to.”
