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May 29th
5am
“Tally ho! Four o’clock!”
Miles pulled his gaze from the cloud cover above him and looked down to his right. There, far below them, was a group of Dornier 17s. After one more searching glance for their escort, he broke right and dove down with the others to attack the light bombers. They had arrived over Dunkirk only moments before, armed with the knowledge that there had already been several reports of bombing in and around Dunkirk overnight and into this morning. Their briefing before leaving England had been short and clear: stop the bastards any way possible.
As he dove down towards the group of bombers, Miles glanced up behind him again. Where there were bombers, there were fighters. Yet he hadn’t seen any.
“Does anyone see their escort?” he asked into his radio.
“Not a thing,” Rob answered cheerfully. “Take aim!”
“Watch for them,” Mother warned. “They’re here somewhere.”
Miles picked out a bomber on the end and pressed the firing button on his steering column as he zoomed towards it. He released the button and cut to the right as the gunners returned fire, coming around to approach from behind.
“Got one!” Chris cried as one of the bombers fell out of formation, smoke pouring from the right engine. “It’s easier than shooting pigeons at Coney Island!”
Miles’ grin at the excitement in his voice was short lived. As he flew up behind his target, the gunners returned fire again and he rolled into a dive to avoid it. Coming up beneath the tail, he blinked and refocused on the left fuselage. It wouldn’t get any more picture perfect than that. He was in perfect position to take out the engine, and he pressed the button on the column. His aircraft shuddered as the guns in his wings let loose, and he watched in confusion as the bullets streamed past the engine, missing completely.
“Damn!”
He broke away and arched up to come around again, scowling. That was a perfect shot! The engine was right in the center of his sight mounted on the dash. How the hell had he missed?
As Miles looped around to take another crack it, the answer hit him like a gut punch. He’d been too close to the bomber. His guns were calibrated for 450 yards. He’d been much, much closer. He grit his teeth and repositioned himself further away, avoiding the return fire easily. Trying to shoot from that distance was ridiculous, but he swung in and tried to get the bomber positioned in his cross-hairs once again.
“Miles! Three o’clock!” Rob suddenly cried, just as Miles pressed the button on his column.
At the same time that his bullets tore into the right side engine of the Dornier, Miles felt his Spitfire jerk violently to the left, and the airplane shuddered, sending painful vibrations up his arms from the control stick. Black smoke began pouring out of his nose and Miles automatically pulled left, breaking away from the bombers.
“I’m hit,” he announced, surprised at how calm his voice sounded. “All gauges are functioning. I’m making for home.”
“Save me some tea,” Chris said.
“Red Three, escort him back,” Mother commanded. “Keep the bastards off of him.”
“Roger that, Red One,” Rob said, appearing off Miles’ right wing a moment later. Miles looked over to find him examining his plane as they flew towards the Channel. “You’re hit near your fuel tank,” he told him, “and in the wing.”
Miles looked at his fuel gauge and let out a low curse. “I’m losing fuel,” he said grimly. “Rudder is working, but the coolant needle is rising. He must have hit the radiator as well. Damn!”
Miles checked his other gauges and a dull feeling of shock went through him. It had really happened. He’d been hit, and his Spitfire wasn’t going to get him back to England. He began taking stock of all the instruments, noting how long he had before he was out of fuel or the engine overheated.
“I won’t make it back. I’m losing fuel too quickly. I’ll take her down and see if I can set her in the water,” he said, looking over at Rob. Then he stiffened at the sight of two 109s diving towards them. “Fighters! One o’clock!”
“I’ll take care of them,” Rob said, breaking right. “Get your kite down. Do try not to die, won’t you? I’d hate to explain it to Evie.”
Miles choked on a laugh as he pushed his stick forward. “I’ll do my best, Rob. Thanks!”
He looked up in time to see Rob disappear into the clouds above, drawing the two fighters away from him. Taking a deep breath, Miles turned his attention back to his instruments. He should be over water by now. He could try to do as he’d said and land in the drink without killing himself, or he could turn back inland and try to put her down on a beach. He was losing fuel rapidly, but he thought he should have enough to make it to land.
He came out of the low clouds and blinked at the sudden glare of early morning sunlight glistening off the waves of the Channel. To his right, he saw the coast. Taking another look at the choppy waves below, Miles swallowed. He was a good pilot, but he didn’t know if he was that good. If he tried to land on the water, and he dipped a wing one way or another, he ran the risk of the airplane breaking up before he could get out of the cockpit. A sudden image of Evelyn flashed across his mind and Miles clenched his jaw, turning his nose towards the shoreline. He would take his chances over land.
As he came over the coast and turned north, looking for a stretch of beach where he could put it down, Miles glanced at his instruments again. Shaking his head, his gut clenched. Needles were in the red, both for fuel and engine temperature, and the whole airplane was shaking violently now, the engine sputtering. Struggling to keep the wings up and steady, Miles felt his hands begin to tremble. It was taking all his arm strength to keep the Spitfire level, and he knew he didn’t have much time. He had to get it down.
Spotting a clear, straight stretch of sand, he steered towards it, sweat beading on his forehead. As he descended, the sun beat into the cockpit, briefly blinding him. Miles squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, trying to focus on the white strip below. Suddenly, there was a violent jerk and his propellers sputtered, then began missing rotation until, with a less violent shudder, they stopped altogether.
Miles worked the rudders, trying to keep the nose up and the wings level as his airplane coasted towards the beach. The sudden silence was the loudest and most terrifying sound he’d ever heard, and as he lowered the landing gear, Miles realized that he was completely alone. There was no ground crew below to rush out with the fire hoses, nor any fellow pilots to help him out of the stricken airplane. His survival depended entirely on him.
Sweat poured down his face, and his heart was pounding as he watched the sand getting closer. He was going too fast, but had no way to control it without his engine. All he could do was keep her as steady and level as possible.
And pray.
There was no thought for anything except fighting to keep the wings even as the ground rushed up to meet the Spitfire. There was no thought of Evelyn, or his parents, or even the rest of the squadron still battling above. There was no thought for anything except to land, and to survive.
The impact came all at once, stopping his rapid descent with a bone-jarring crash. His wheels hit the wet sand near the water and stuck, the forward momentum sending the nose of the plane into the sand. Miles felt the air get sucked out of his lungs as his body flew forward, driving against his restraints. He saw his instrument panel, and then a flash of blinding light.
And everything went black.
Outside Saint-Émilion, France
Evelyn sipped her water and stared out over the river. The sky had lightened and the sun was just beginning to cast streaks across the rippling waves. They had arrived in Saint-Émilion late last night. After skirting the city, Finn had stopped near the river, too tired to continue. Josephine had suggested they stay there for the night, and in the morning get breakfast in the city. After some discussion, he’d agreed.
Evelyn glanced back at the car. He was still asleep in the driver’s seat, his head resting on his folded up jacket against the window.
“He’s still sleeping?” Josephine asked, joining her.
Evelyn nodded. “Yes.”
Josephine stretched and looked over the water. “We’ll be in Bordeaux by late morning,” she said, pulling out a cigarette. “There shouldn’t be any delays between here and there. Once we turned towards Saint-Émilion, we left most of the refugees behind. I think everyone is going as far away as they can.”
“Thank goodness for that.” Evelyn finished drinking her water and shook the remaining drops out of the earthenware mug. “I’m looking forward to a coffee and something other than cold potatoes.”
Josephine chuckled. “I agree. We’re far enough away from the fighting now; the cafés will be open. I don’t know what they’ll think of us, with our rumpled clothing, but I don’t really care, do you?”
“Not a bit.”
They were quiet for a moment, watching the waves and enjoying the soft morning breeze, then Josephine sighed.
“It’s surreal to think that further north buildings are being ripped apart by bombs, and all hell is breaking loose,” she said. “Look at how quiet and peaceful it is! No bomber formations flying overhead. Nothing to interrupt the dawn, or the start of a perfect day.”
Evelyn was silent, thinking of the news headlines they had seen yesterday when they left the crowded road and went through a small village. Belgium had surrendered. France and England were on their own now, and the Germans were driving them all to the beaches. There would be nowhere for the troops to go. All those men, trapped on the beaches in northern France, with no escape. She could only imagine the horror and chaos as the German troops bombarded them.
“How long will France hold on now that Belgium has surrendered?” she murmured. “Soon it will not be so peaceful, even here.”
“I know. They will take Paris, and then it will be over. And then the real war will begin for us.”
Evelyn glanced at her. “The real war?”
“Yes. Not the one between armies, but the one between soldiers and civilians.”
A shudder went through her and Evelyn turned her gaze back to the calm waves of the Dordogne River. Once again, she was preparing to leave while her friend was preparing to remain behind and fight. How many times would she have to do this? Say goodbye to friends, knowing that they were about to enter hell?
“Will you come into Bordeaux with us?” she asked after a moment.
“I will take you into the city, but then I will leave you. It’s best that no one remembers seeing us together. We’ll find the café, and I’ll leave you within walking distance.”
“If you’d rather leave us outside the city, we can find our way,” Evelyn said. “You don’t have to take us all the way in.”
Josephine smiled and shook her head. “No. I said I would see you to Bordeaux, not to just outside. Besides, I don’t think anyone will look twice at a woman dropping off two people in the middle of the city. It’s only if I stay with you that it will become dangerous for me.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll find somewhere to stay for the night, have a hot bath, and sleep,” Josephine said promptly. “And then, tomorrow, I will decide where to look for work. I may come back here,” she added, looking around. “I prefer to be outside of the cities. I find I can breathe easier.”
“I pray you find work and a place to live quickly,” Evelyn said, linking her arm through Josephine’s and squeezing. “I will forever be grateful for your company and help this past week.”
“I will forever be grateful that you did the driving so that I only had to read the map,” Josephine replied with a grin.
Evelyn laughed and turned to look at the car. “We should wake Finn. It’s getting late.”
Josephine nodded and the two women started walking back to the car.
“I will miss you, Evelyn,” she said suddenly. “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve called you by your name since Strasbourg? Each time we meet, you’re using a different one!”
“I appreciate your discretion,” Evelyn said with a laugh.
“I wonder who you will be the next time I see you? Giselle, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.” Evelyn’s smile faded. They were speaking as if they would definitely see each other again, and yet they were both aware that they may not. “I will miss you too, Josephine.”
“Ah, don’t forget, it’s Jeannine now!” Josephine said with a wink. Then she sobered and stopped, turning to face her. “Promise me that you will get back to England,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “Promise me that you will continue to fight for us, even when we can no longer fight for ourselves.”
Evelyn met her gaze and saw her own fear and uncertainty reflected in the gray eyes staring back at her. They had no idea what was in their future, or if they even had a future. The attack on the road had driven home the realization that it only took a minute for everything to end. If one of them failed, the other would continue for as long as they could. And, hopefully, one day they would see an end to the iron storm consuming Europe. Until then, all they could do was fight.
“I promise.”
Henry walked through the train station towards the entrance to the street. Before leaving Paris, he’d learned everything he could about the old farmer’s daughter. After contacting an associate in the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, he’d been able to determine that the woman’s name was Isabelle Decoux. It had been three more days before his associate had been able to provide a current address.
As he’d expected, his office in London had approved a few days for him to say goodbye to France. Their only stipulation was that he had to be back in London by the beginning of June. He had plenty of time. Even waiting three days for an address hadn’t dampened his mood. Henry was on the trail of someone who might lead to the package Ainsworth had smuggled out of Austria. He would be able to deliver on his promise to Berlin at last.
Stepping out onto the street, he looked around and turned to walk up the pavement. He would find a café, order a coffee, and see if there was someone who could point him in the right direction. The sun was shining, the breeze was gentle, and it was going to be a good morning. Women hurried along the pavement with him, doing their morning shopping, and cars moved along the road as if it were a normal Wednesday on any normal week. He marveled at the difference between this city and the one he’d just left. The only traffic in the streets of Paris these days were cars and trucks piled high with cases, boxes, and furniture, leaving the city. There was the occasional taxi, but even those had dwindled over the past three days. The city was virtually deserted now, until you reached the train station. Then it seemed as if all the remaining residents of Paris were crammed onto the platforms, waiting for another train to carry them away. The trains were constantly running at full capacity as citizens continued to flee the capital.
Of course, it was bound to happen. Once the Germans broke through at Sedan, the panic had begun. The people of Paris knew that the Nazis were coming, despite their government’s assurances that they would win the battle for France. Henry shook his head. The citizens of Paris had more sense than their government. What they didn’t realize was that there was nowhere they could go. The German armies would win the battle, and take Paris, and then take France. No matter where all these refugees landed, in the end, they would be under German control. It was inevitable.
Spying a café across the road, Henry went to the corner and waited for the light to change. Once he’d had a coffee and perhaps a pastry, he would find Isabelle Decoux. He’d already decided that he would present himself as an old associate of her father’s. He knew enough about the farmer to be able to converse believably about him, and perhaps gain her trust as an old friend of the family. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get her talking about the old homestead. And, of course, then he would soon learn why she had gone back, and what, if anything, she’d brought away.
In a few hours, he would know if Ainsworth had left anything behind in Blasenflue.
