Into the Iron Shadows, page 29
“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.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Miles became aware of the smell first. It was a smell he recognized, but caught in the throes of a hazy state of semi-consciousness, he couldn’t quite remember why. Where did he remember it from? Was it at Oxford? On the farm in York, perhaps? No. This smell had nothing to do with the country. It was from somewhere else. Somewhere busy and crowded. What was it?
The haziness was dissipating now, and he slowly became aware of something dripping down his face. He lifted his arm to wipe it away, frowning when his arm wouldn’t move.
All at once, the darkness disappeared as a shock went through his body. He saw the beach again, coming towards him much too fast. His propellers sputtered and then stopped.
Good Lord, he had crashed!
His heart started pounding and his skin went hot, then cold, with the recollection. Pain flooded his body with the memory, throbbing in every muscle and making him inhale sharply. Miles forced his eyes open, squinting against the blinding sunlight. He was still in the cockpit, buckled into his seat. His head had fallen forward and hit the instrument panel, trapping one arm between his body and the door. His other arm seemed to be hanging at an odd angle and Miles frowned, lifting his head. Blood was smeared across the instrument panel, but that wasn’t what made him suck in his breath again. It was the excruciating pain shooting down his arm and, as he sat up, he realized that it was hanging at an odd angle because he couldn’t move it at all. The muscles weren’t working; they were screaming with pain instead. Lifting his left arm, he gingerly felt his right wrist, then started working his way up the arm. He must have broken it in the crash. Well, if I walk away from this with no more than a broken arm, I’ll call that a perfect landing.
He reached his shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as fire shot through his shoulder and neck. His arm wasn’t broken. His shoulder was dislocated. Gasping in pain, he reached for the buckles to unstrap himself with his left hand. He had to try to get his shoulder back in, but he had no idea how. The only other time this had happened, he’d been fourteen and playing rugby at Eaton. One of the coaches had done it on the sideline and he’d gone back into the game. He was a long way from Eaton now.
Miles had just finished unbuckling himself when he suddenly recognized the smell that had been filling his nostrils since he woke up. His eyes flew to the right wing, a wave of fear crashing over him. Gasoline! The smell was burning gasoline! Smoke was still pouring out of the engine and he looked at his gauges. They were all in the red, and the temperature needle had buried itself.
“Bugger!”
Miles fumbled with the canopy, trying to get it open with only one hand. As he did, the smell in the cockpit suddenly changed, turning almost acrid. Flames appeared on the wing, and Miles swore, pushing on the canopy with all his strength, his eyes on the orange flames licking around the wing and towards the cockpit.
Sheer panic gave him strength and the cracked canopy suddenly gave way, sliding back. A rush of salt air and heavy smoke surged into the cockpit, making his eyes burn and water. The smoke filled his lungs, making him choke and cough, but Miles ignored it and opened the half door next to him, standing to climb out. His limp arm hung useless as he scrambled onto the wing just as the flames reached the other side of the cockpit.
He leapt off the wing to land in the sand heavily, stumbling as he did so. Behind him, he heard a loud pop and then an ungodly creak that sounded as if the entire Spitfire was breaking in half. Miles spun around to see that the flames had already engulfed the entire cockpit, spreading faster than he would have ever dreamt possible.
Holding his useless arm against his stomach with his good one, Miles turned and ran, willing his flying boots to not get stuck in the sand. Hearing a small explosion behind him, he forced himself to go faster, putting as much distance between himself and the burning airplane as possible. Suddenly, a deafening explosion caused him to stumble forward. Turning, he watched as a ball of flame shot towards the sky before settling back to consume the entire aircraft.
He stared at the burning wreckage of his Spitfire through streaming eyes, his heart thumping against his chest and his blood pounding in his ears. Numbness stole over him and Miles couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight. He had just barely got out. Another few seconds, and he would be charred along with his plane. A few precious seconds was all that had saved his life.
“Hallo!! Hallo!! Jij daar!”
The sound of yelling made it through the noise of the roaring fire and Miles turned around in confusion to see two soldiers running towards him, their rifles pointed at him. He held up his good arm, his bad one hanging at an impossible angle at his side. He recognized the language as Dutch, but he had no idea what they were yelling as they ran towards him.
“I’m English,” he called in French, hoping they could understand him. “Do you speak French?”
“Oui,” one of them said, drawing up before him, panting. “We speak French.”
“I’m an English pilot,” Miles said, eyeing the rifles, then the uniforms. They were Belgian soldiers. “I just crashed on the beach.”
“We saw you come down,” the other soldier said, lowering his weapon. “Are you hurt?”
“My shoulder. I think it’s dislocated.”
The soldier nodded and slung his rifle over his shoulder. “Come. I can put it back in.”
“What?” Miles stared at him in apprehension. “How?”
The other man laughed at the look on his face. “It is all right. He is a medic. But let’s get away from the fire and off the beach. I do not trust the Germans. That will draw their attention.”
He turned to lead them across the sand to the dunes.
“Germans? There are troops nearby?” Miles asked in alarm, following. He looked at the medic walking beside him. “Where are we?”
“This is Saint-Idesbald. You are south of Ostend,” he said. “There are German troops everywhere, but what my friend meant is that they are bombing everywhere. If they see the burning, they will come and bomb here. We must move away from it.” He frowned. “Your head is also hurt, not just your shoulder.”
Miles lifted his hand to touch the blood on his face. “I’d forgotten. I hit my head when I landed.”
“I will do what I can, but my supplies are limited. My name is Antoine.”
“Miles.” Miles held out his good hand to have it gripped in a surprisingly firm shake.
“That is Raf,” Antoine added, nodding to the man ahead of them.
Raf waved a hand in acknowledgement, never turning his head.
“There is a port in Ostend, isn’t there?” Miles asked as they made their way over the dune. “How long will it take to get there?”
“To Ostend?” Antoine stared at him. “No. You do not want to go to Ostend. The Germans have overrun the city. You don’t want to go that way.”
“South,” Raf said over his shoulder. “You want to go south.”
They reached the top of the dune and Miles saw a road below. He grit his teeth in pain, holding his arm as they half slid, half jogged down the side of the dune until they reached the solid ground.
“What’s south?” he asked, short of breath from the pain.
“France,” came the dry answer. “You are about seven kilometers from the border. If you go to France, you can try for Dunkirk.”
Miles couldn’t stop himself from letting out a laugh.
“This is funny?”
“I was flying over Dunkirk when I was shot,” he explained. “We’re trying to keep the bombers and fighters away from the beach.”
Both soldiers nodded knowingly.
“Then you already know that is your only chance of getting back to your squadron,” Raf said, stopping and turning to look at him. “Belgium is lost, and France will fall soon as well. That is your only hope.”
Miles nodded and looked down the road. “This way?” he asked, pointing.
Raf nodded. “This road goes along the coast to the border. Once there, just follow the other soldiers.”
“But first, let me fix your shoulder,” Antoine said. “And I will clean the gash on your head.”
“Be quick,” Raf warned. “We must catch up with the others.”
Antoine nodded, waving away the warning. “Yes, yes. I will be quick.”
Miles swallowed and allowed the man to ease his Mae West over his head, gritting his teeth as his shoulder was jarred in the process.
“Thank you. I do appreciate this.”
“We must take your flight jacket off. Here. I will help. It will hurt.”
Antoine helped ease the heavy leather coat off Miles’ shoulders. He was as careful as possible, but Miles sucked in his breath and felt dizzy with the pain just the same.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, drawing a short laugh from the medic.
“You’re doing much better than the last man I had with a dislocation. He was screaming bloody murder and fainted dead away,” he informed him, laying the jacket over the Mae West on the ground. He eyed Miles’ uniform jacket and shook his head. “That has to go as well. Do you need a minute, or shall we continue?”
Miles grit his teeth and shook his head. “Let’s get it over with.”
Antoine helped him off with his uniform jacket, then nodded.
“I can do it now. You are very lucky these are your only injuries,” Antoine said, moving in front of him and lifting his forearm until it was parallel to the ground. “Try to relax.”
Despite his gentle touch, pain was already streaking down Miles’ arm when the medic rotated his forearm away from his body. Keeping one hand on his arm, Antoine moved his other to his bicep and began to rotate his upper arm away from his torso. Without warning, the joint popped back into place. Miles let out an exclamation before clamping his teeth shut just in time to stop from screaming in pain.
“There. It is done. That was not so bad, right?” Antoine moved in front of him again and produced a cloth from his pouch at his side. He began dabbing at Miles’ forehead while Miles sucked in his breath, pain still throbbing through his arm and shoulder. “This looks worse than it is. It’s not deep. I will clean it. I have no more bandages, but perhaps we can use your tie?”
“My tie?” Miles repeated, appalled. “I’d rather bleed to death, thank you very much.”
Antoine shrugged, undisturbed. “You’re not likely to bleed to death. Have it your way.”
