Fleeing France

by Alan Hlad

Genres: World War II; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Inspired by real wartime events, including the evacuation of Dunkirk and the sinking of RMS Lancastria—one of the most harrowing disasters in British maritime history—this is a riveting, superbly researched slice of historical fiction, and a timeless story of strength and sacrifice. Will appeal to fans of Beneath a Scarlet Sky and Eternal.

France, 1939: A talented singer, Ruth Lacroix has left Maine to live with her aunt and uncle, dreaming of performing at the Casino de Paris. But with the outbreak of war, and the heartbreaking news that her cousin has been killed by German forces, that goal is supplanted by another—to support France in any way she can.

Though Ruth has never driven a vehicle larger than the tractor on her parents’ farm, she joins a friend in enlisting as a driver for the French ambulance corps. On their way to transfer injured soldiers to Dunkirk for evacuation, they encounter Jimmie, a British Royal Air Force pilot with No. 73 Squadron RAF, who has bailed out of his burning plane. As Dunkirk falls, blocking off the route to the northern coast, word spreads of a daring Allied plan to rescue the remaining troops and civilians from ports in western France: code name Operation Aerial.

Over two hazardous weeks, Ruth and Jimmie will journey hundreds of miles together, helping other refugees as they rush to reach the sea before they are overtaken by the Germany army. But all their courage and resilience offer no certainty in wartime, when a single stroke of luck, or a split-second decision, can mean the difference between life and death . . .

Release date: July 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Nine days after France and Britain declared war on Germany for invading Poland, Ruth Lacroix—a twenty-year-old American nightclub singer—entered a crowded dressing room of a cabaret named Bal Tabarin. Music, coming from the orchestra that was warming the crowd, resonated through the backstage changing area. Female dancers put on can-can dresses layered with colorful ruffles and frills, and Ruth slipped into a sleek black evening gown. The entertainers—crammed inside the room with costume designers, make-up artists, and hair stylists—were preparing for the evening show.

“You’re giving Parisians an escape from their worries of war,” Ruth said to her friend Lucette, a statuesque dancer with toffee-blond hair.

Lucette’s eyes filled with gratitude. “You are, too.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” Ruth said, “but we both know that patrons are here for dancers, not singers.”

“Clientele adore you.”

“Merci,” Ruth said.

“I wish I had a dulcet voice like you.”

“Would you like me to teach you to sing?”

“Oui,” Lucette said. “That would be lovely.”

Ruth slipped a faux diamond bracelet over her wrist. “With a few lessons, you’ll be warbling like a goldfinch for France’s victory celebration.”

Lucette smiled and buckled the ankle straps of her high-heeled shoes.

Bal Tabarin—home of the French can-can—was a palatial cabaret on Rue Victor-Massé in the 9th arrondissement of Paris. The lounge, large enough to seat a few hundred guests, was a towering space with an elevated parquet floor stage that jutted into the audience like an oversize runway for fashion models. Well-dressed patrons, who were seated at small tables covered with fine linen, sipped champagne and cocktails while being entertained by dancers. Each of the performances, which had elaborate themes and costume designs, were separated by brief intermissions of music and song. Bal Tabarin attracted some of Paris’s best dancers, many of whom had attended ballet academies. Unlike the other performers, who’d been trained by professionals to develop their artistry, Ruth had learned to sing by listening to records on a wind-up gramophone.

Prior to arriving in Paris in 1937, Ruth lived at her parents’ apple orchard on the outskirts of Lewiston, Maine. She was the only child of Sarah, a Parisian Jew, and Charles, an American Protestant. Her parents had met during the Great War, when her father, a soldier with the American Expeditionary Force, was stationed on the western front. Sarah—a volunteer nurse at a French Red Cross field hospital—had dressed a shell splinter wound to Charles’s shoulder. During his recovery, the two became friends and soon fell in love. After the war, they were married in a civil ceremony and set sail for the United States to create a life on the Lacroix family apple orchard. A month shy of their first wedding anniversary, Sarah gave birth to Ruth, a six-pound-two-ounce baby girl.

Ruth’s musicality came naturally. She could sing in perfect pitch by the time she reached kindergarten and, throughout her school-age years, her parents fostered her ardor for music by buying her a secondhand gramophone and loads of jazz records. She was a steadfast member of school and community choirs, even though she was dissatisfied that the repertoire was usually limited to folk songs. It’s not that Ruth had an aversion to tunes of Americana, but their lyrics and melodies didn’t feed her heart like jazz, swing, and big band music. Lewiston lacked jazz vocal teachers, so Ruth developed her craft by modeling her style, timbre, and vibrato to recordings by the likes of Ruth Etting, Ella Fitzgerald, Ethel Waters, and Lucienne Boyer. In her free time, she performed duets with the voices of famous singers flowing from her gramophone. However, much of her practice was a cappella—without instrumental accompaniment—while she completed chores of harvesting apples, making cider, pruning trees, and driving the farm tractor. She cherished her private rehearsals, but her fondest memories were of entertaining her parents, hunkered on the living room sofa with their family dog, a black Labrador retriever named Moxie.

“Magnifique!” her mother had cheered as Ruth finished singing a rendition of Billie Holiday’s “What a Little Moonlight Can Do.”

“Bravo!” Dad shouted, fending off Moxie’s wagging tail.

Ruth’s chest swelled with pride. She relished how music could bring people joy, and she knew, deep down, what she would do for the rest of her life.

Ruth’s father—a pragmatic man by nature—encouraged her to attend nearby Bates College to obtain a teaching degree. But Bates, as well as every other university in the country, didn’t have a curriculum for jazz studies. Besides, Ruth wanted to entertain for a living and the best way to make a go of a singing career, she believed, was to live in a big city with a thriving music scene. Places like New York, New Orleans, Los Angeles, Kansas City, and Chicago would have been fine choices, but ever since her first visit to Paris she aspired to perform at the Casino de Paris.

At seventeen years of age, Ruth made a three-week trip with her mom to Paris to visit her mother’s sister. She’d forged a close relationship with her aunt Colette, uncle Julian, and cousin Marceau through the exchange of letters and family photographs. Also, she’d developed a sibling-like bond with Marceau, who spent most summers working on her parents’ apple orchard. During their visit to Paris, Colette and her mother surprised Ruth by taking her to a show starring Lucienne Boyer, a famous Parisian singer, at the Casino de Paris. Boyer, in addition to being well known in France, was quite popular in the United States, given that she had made many recordings with Columbia Records. Ruth had never been to an esteemed music hall, nor had she attended a live performance by a prominent singer. Ruth’s exhilaration soared through Boyer’s performance, and she imagined what it might feel like to be onstage, singing emotionally infused songs to a vast audience. And while Boyer took bows for her standing ovation, Sarah—as if she could sense her daughter’s yearning—leaned to Ruth and said, “Follow your heart, ma chérie—I believe in you.”

Ruth, her eyes filled with tears of happiness, applauded until her hands ached.

Upon returning home to Lewiston, Ruth, with the support of her mother, informed Dad of her aspiration to someday perform at the Casino de Paris, and that she planned to move to France to live with Aunt Colette. Charles was stunned by the news. But after much time and discussion—and Ruth explaining to her father that the Casino de Paris was a prestigious music hall, not a gambling house—he eventually accepted her decision.

After high school graduation, Ruth worked as a waitress and labored on the orchard through the fall harvest to earn money. She purchased a third-class ticket on board the SS Champlain, sailed from New York to Le Havre, France, and moved into Aunt Colette’s and Uncle Julian’s apartment in Le Marais, a Jewish neighborhood in the 4th arrondissement of Paris. Julian was a doctor and Colette was a nurse, and they worked together at Saint-Antoine Hospital. Her aunt and uncle, a sweet and benevolent couple, gave Ruth a spare room next to her cousin Marceau, who was studying chemistry at the University of Paris. Ruth adored her Parisian family, especially Marceau, whom she’d grown fond of when he selflessly worked a summer school break on her parents’ orchard while her father recovered from an appendectomy. To Ruth, Marceau was more like a brother than a cousin. He looked after her like an older sibling by showing her around Paris, including the safest routes to and from the 9th arrondissement, where many of the music halls and theaters were located.

The first year in Paris had been difficult for Ruth. She failed three auditions at the Casino de Paris, and she had trouble landing singing gigs, except for an unpaid part in musical theater. Some of her rejections had little to do with her vocal capability, considering that more than one casting director had informed her that they were seeking a tall female singer with a voluptuous physique. Ruth—a slender, five-foot-two-inch woman with wavy auburn hair and childlike dimples on her cheeks—buried her resentment and resolved to continue with auditions. Eventually, she’d thought, exiting a theater stage, I’ll earn a role based on my singing, not the size of my cleavage.

Although her aunt and uncle didn’t charge for room and board, Ruth didn’t feel right about accepting charity, so she waited tables at a brasserie to earn money to contribute toward rent and groceries. She auditioned, anywhere there were openings, and last autumn she landed a job as a cabaret singer at Bal Tabarin. She was elated, despite that the role paid little and would be limited to singing short pieces during dance intermissions. Things were looking up, Ruth believed. But soon after she began performing at Bal Tabarin, Hitler’s drums of war began to beat.

Early in the year, the Nazi leader proclaimed in his Reichstag speech that European Jews would be exterminated if war erupted, sending a wave of fear and outrage through France. Soon after, the German military invaded and occupied Czechoslovakia, and thousands of young Parisian men, including her cousin Marceau, enlisted in the French Army. The city of Paris issued gas masks to civilians. Ruth’s parents urged her to return home, but she declined, reassuring them through letters that she would be safe in Paris, like it was during the Great War.

The sound of music and clacking of high-heeled shoes grew from Bal Tabarin’s stage.

A stout, middle-aged man named Serge, who was the show’s stage manager, entered the dressing room and removed a cigarette from his lips. “Ruth, you’re on in two minutes.”

Ruth nodded. She applied red lipstick and made her way to a backstage curtain. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. The can-can music stopped, the audience cheered, and dancers exited the stage.

“Good luck,” Lucette said, brushing past Ruth.

Ruth smiled.

As clapping faded, a barrel-chested emcee wearing a tuxedo and top hat walked onto the stage. “Mesdames et messieurs! I give you Bal Tabarin’s international, Franco-American songstress—Ruth Lacroix!”

The music conductor waved his baton, striking up the orchestra. The audience applauded and the emcee left the stage.

Ruth, her adrenaline surging, gracefully walked to a standing microphone. A scent of stale champagne and cigarette smoke filled her nose. Applause dwindled away and was replaced by a tender musical introduction, composed of a clarinet, xylophone, violin, and muted trumpet. She gazed over the crowd, most of whom were affluent, older men and women. The young men have gone to war, she thought, conjuring the mood of the piece. She drew a breath and sang the first verse of “J’attendrai” (“I will wait”).

The song, inspired by the Humming Chorus of Puccini’s opera Madame Butterfly, was a new addition to her repertoire. The lyrics of the piece depicted the yearning for a beloved to return home. Nearly every Parisian had a friend, darling, or family member who’d gone away to war, and Ruth—determined to give patrons hope of reuniting with loved ones—had convinced the show director to include the piece in her performance. As she progressed through the heartfelt lyrics, the faces of guests turned somber. Several women dabbed tears from their eyes with handkerchiefs. And as she finished the song, the crowd rose to their feet and applauded.

“Vive la France!” a man shouted.

Cheers erupted from the audience. The clapping grew louder.

A wave of pride surged through Ruth. She took a bow and left the stage.

Two hours later, after the dancers performed a patriotic finale in which they wore military-style uniforms with shiny metal helmets, the show ended with a standing ovation. The curtain closed and the dancers, as well as Ruth, made their way to the dressing room where they hung up their costumes, washed makeup from their faces, and changed into casual attire. Long after the patrons had left, Ruth and Lucette exited the Bal Tabarin to a dark Rue Victor-Massé with few pedestrians. The streetlights of Paris had been turned off as a measure against potential Luftwaffe air raids. Under a starlit sky, they walked together on the way to their apartments.

“I enjoyed your new song,” Lucette said, her shoes clicking over the sidewalk. “You lifted the spirit of the crowd.”

“Merci,” Ruth said.

“Pierre should allow you to sing it for each show until our men come home.”

Ruth smiled, feeling grateful for her friend’s kind words. She buttoned her coat and turned her thoughts to Lucette’s fiancé, who’d joined the French Army’s 503rd Combat Tank Regiment. “How’s Paul?”

“I received a letter from him yesterday,” Lucette said. “He’s well, and he informed me that there have been little, if any, skirmishes at the front. He thinks it’s because most of the German military is focused on combating Poland.”

Ruth felt horrible for the Polish people, struggling to survive Hitler’s onslaught.

“Paul believes that the Maginot Line will deter any invasion by Germany.”

“My uncle Julian told me the same thing,” Ruth said, envisioning the massive concrete fortification along the French border. “He thinks that it’s impenetrable to attack.”

Lucette slowed her pace and clasped her arms. “Some of the dancers say that the war isn’t real, and that it will all be settled soon. Even so, I can’t stop worrying about Paul.”

“I feel the same way about my cousin, Marceau.” Ruth placed a hand on Lucette’s shoulder. “We must have faith that the war will end, and they’ll come home.”

“Oui.” Lucette blinked her eyes, as if she were fighting back tears.

For the remainder of their walk, they discussed nothing of the war. They spoke in English, allowing Lucette to practice her excellent language skills, and they talked about Ruth’s offer, partly in jest, to give her singing lessons. Reaching the 4th arrondissement, the pair said goodbye. Lucette crossed the Pont d’Arcole bridge over the Seine River toward her apartment in the Latin Quarter, and Ruth continued her path through Le Marais.

Minutes later, Ruth entered a narrow, Lutetian limestone building next to a Jewish bakery. She climbed the stairs, the weathered floorboards creaking under her weight, to a third-floor landing. As she removed her key, her eyes were drawn to a glimmer of light from under the apartment door. They’re awake, Ruth thought, feeling excited to tell Aunt Colette and Uncle Julian about her performance. She entered the apartment, hung up her coat and purse, and then went to the kitchen and froze.

Colette and Julian—with red, swollen eyes and disheveled, gray hair—rose from their seats at the table.

Ruth swallowed. “What’s wrong?”

Tears fell from Colette’s cheeks. “Marceau is dead.”

Ruth stepped back. “Non—he can’t be!”

Julian’s lips quivered and he began to cry.

Colette, her hand trembling, pointed to a torn envelope and piece of paper on the table.

Ruth shuffled forward, and her breath stalled in her lungs as the words of the telegram came into focus.

A wave of nausea rose from Ruth’s stomach, producing the urge to vomit. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she crumpled to the floor.

Colette and Julian kneeled and wrapped their arms around her. Ruth sobbed. Together, they wept until no more tears could be shed.

Fifteen thousand feet above the English Channel, Flying Officer James “Jimmie” Quill of the Royal Air Force (RAF) peered through the cockpit glass of his Hawker Hurricane, a British single-seater monoplane fighter aircraft. Ahead and below his plane, a Blenheim bomber squadron was flying in a tight, Vic formation. The drone of propellers filled Jimmie’s ears, and a mix of patriotism and disquietude stirred inside his chest. He was serving as an escort for the bombers of the Air Component of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) that were being deployed to France to support British and French armies. But, after accompanying the bombers to their airfield, Jimmie wasn’t returning home. He was going to war.

Jimmie—a tall, hazel-eyed twenty-five-year-old son of a shipbuilder from Portsmouth—had been given orders to report to his new post with the No. 73 Squadron, a unit of Hawker Hurricane fighter pilots that arrived in France earlier in the week. Unlike the other pilots of No. 73 Squadron, who were experienced and had flown together for quite some time, Jimmie was a raw recruit. Two weeks ago, he finished his advanced training on fighters at RAF Tern Hill in Shropshire. Although he had graduated near the top of his class, he was far from an adept aviator.

Prior to advanced training, Jimmie flew a Gloster Gladiator, an obsolete biplane fighter that was no match for a German Messerschmitt. The RAF expected the new Hurricane to be a more formidable opponent, given its light weight, maneuverability, and one-thousand-horsepower Rolls-Royce engine that could produce a top speed of 340 mph. Additionally, the Hurricane was heavily armed with eight .303-inch Browning machine guns, four in each wing. Jimmie, despite his rigorous training, was still getting acclimated to wearing a flying helmet with a radio set, as well as having his nose and mouth covered by an oxygen mask that contained a microphone. Also, the space of the cockpit was quite narrow, especially for a broad-shouldered man like Jimmie, and each time he turned to examine his surroundings, his arms brushed the sides of the compartment. He hoped that, with additional flight time, the Hurricane would begin to feel like an extension of his mind and limbs. But training was over, and gaining expertise in the Hurricane would likely need to be acquired in combat.

An hour after departing RAF Digby in Lincolnshire, England, Jimmie’s adrenaline surged at the sight of the earth’s crust that rose from the sea. As he gazed at the rugged Normandy coastline, the radio speaker crackled inside his helmet.

“Welcome to France,” the bomber squadron leader’s voice said.

Jimmie drew a deep breath and exhaled. He reached into the interior pocket of his flight jacket and patted his good luck charm—a small, tattered stuffed Piglet—which was a gift from his sister, Nora.

Minutes later, the squadron reached the Le Havre-Octeville Airport and was given permission to land. Jimmie circled the perimeter while the Blenheim bombers took turns touching down on an earthen runway. After the bombers safely landed, Jimmie lined his sights on the strip of smooth ground. He adjusted the control stick and cut back on the throttle, decreasing the airspeed. The pointers on the altimeter gradually lowered until the wheels of his Hurricane touched the ground.

The airport was primarily used as a French military airbase. It contained a large fleet of planes, most of which were outdated French aircraft. Much like Britain, France had been militarily complacent in the decades after the Great War, and the country had been scrambling over the past year to modernize its air force. At the far end of the field were canvas tents and aircraft of the RAF, identifiable by their painted roundel symbols. He taxied his plane to a squadron of parked Hurricanes on a grass-covered area and cut the engine. He unbuckled his harness, slid open the canopy, and climbed out of his aircraft.

A bespectacled RAF ground crewman, wearing a blue coverall and cap, approached Jimmie and saluted him. “Good day, sir.”

Jimmie returned the salute and extended his hand. “Flying Officer Jimmie Quill.”

The man shook Jimmie’s hand. “I’m Corporal Horace Yates, your fitter.”

A “fitter” was a technician who was responsible for aircraft engines, as well as loads of other mechanical parts. Although each of the ground crew—including “riggers” who fueled the aircraft, and “armorers” who loaded weapons—performed important roles, a cracking “fitter” could be the difference between life and death for a pilot.

“Where do you call home?” Jimmie asked.

“Southampton, sir.”

Jimmie grinned. “We’re almost neighbors. I was born and raised in Portsmouth.”

“My wife, Daisy, and I were married in Portsmouth Cathedral.”

“It’s a grand church, and a short walk from my childhood home,” Jimmie said. “Do you and Daisy have children?”

Horace’s eyes brightened. “A six-month-old girl named Olive.” He removed a small photograph from a breast pocket of his coverall and showed it to Jimmie.

“She’s a darling,” Jimmie said, peering at an image of a chubby-cheeked infant wearing a lace dress and bonnet.

“She takes after her mum.” Horace put away the picture. “Do you have a wife and children, sir?”

“Not as fortunate as you, I’m afraid.” Jimmie placed a hand on the wing of his Hurricane. “Until the war is over, I’m devoted to my bird.”

Horace chuckled. “Of course, sir.”

“You’re welcome to call me Jimmie when we’re not in the presence of officers.”

“Will do.” He pointed to a large tent with a British flag. “The squadron leader is expecting you.”

“There’s a duffel bag stowed away in the plane,” Jimmie said. “I’ll get it after I meet with him.”

“No need. I’ll have it placed in your barracks.” Horace slid his cap from his head, revealing a receding brown hairline. “When you were landing, I noticed an oil streak on the belly of your Hurricane. I’ll check over the engine to make sure there’s not a leak. Also, the stain clashes with the camouflage and you might be spotted by the Luftwaffe. I’ll have the aircraft touched up with some fresh paint.”

“Thanks, Horace.”

Jimmie made his way to the squadron leader’s tent, its canvas flap door tied open. He stopped at the entrance and saluted a group of four RAF officers who were inside, standing around a table with a map. “Flying Officer Jimmie Quill reporting for duty, sir.”

“At ease.” A thin-framed officer with pale skin and chapped lips approached Jimmie and shook his hand. “I’m Squadron Leader Hank More. Welcome to Seventy-Three Squadron.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jimmie said.

Hank gestured to a mustached, pipe-smoking pilot, who was wearing a red, paisley ascot that was neatly tied around his neck and tucked into his tunic. “Flying Officer Gord Fernsby.”

“Good day,” Jimmie said.

Gord, his face stoic, gave a nod and puffed on his pipe.

An acrid scent of burnt tobacco penetrated Jimmie’s nose.

Hank pointed to a pilot with a round, boyish face and unkempt, thick brown hair. “Flying Officer Newell Orton—his nickname is Fanny.”

“Welcome.” Fanny shook Jimmie’s hand.

Hank gestured to the last pilot. “Flying Officer Edgar Kain.”

“Everyone calls me Cobber,” the pilot said with a New Zealand accent. He had dark brown hair, parted down the middle but slightly off center, and dark circles surrounded his eyes, like someone who suffered from insomnia. He approached Jimmie and shook his hand.

“It’s good to meet you,” Jimmie said.

Hank slipped a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “Gord, Fanny, and Cobber are section leaders—each is responsible for two wingmen. They were about to provide me with their recommendations on your section leader assignment.”

Jimmie shifted his weight. “Would you prefer privacy, sir?”

“No,” Hank said. “In the Seventy-Three Squadron, we don’t keep secrets and I expect my men to speak their piece—including you.”

“Yes, sir,” Jimmie said, feeling a bit surprised by the squadron leader’s candidness, as well as his willingness to accept counsel from his men.

Hank took a drag and turned to Gord. “Tell me your thoughts.”

“It might be best to assign him to me,” Gord said, pointing at Jimmie with his pipe. “The lad will need a regimented section leader to break him from his cuddly toy.”

Jimmie looked down to find Piglet’s head peeking from his flight jacket. His face turned warm. He tucked Piglet away and said, “It’s a good luck piece.”

“Perhaps you should consider a charm more becoming of a fighter pilot,” Gord said in a demeaning tone of voice.

Maybe he’s testing me, Jimmie thought, remaining poised.

The squadron leader turned to Cobber. “What’s your recommendation?”

“Assign him to me,” Cobber said. “The vacancy is with my section, so adding Jimmie would be less disruptive to the squadron.”

Gord adjusted his ascot. “Are you sure that you’re the best mentor for a new pilot?”

“What do you mean by that?” Cobber asked.

“You’ve lost a wingman,” Gord said, “and you’ve been disciplined—on more than one occasion—for performing aerobatic stunts at too low an altitude.”

Jimmie’s shoulder muscles tensed.

“What happened to Taylor was an accident,” Cobber said.

Gord smoothed his mustache. “Of course.”

“Enough,” Hank said. He flicked ash from his cigarette. “Fanny, I haven’t heard from you.”

Fanny clasped his hands behind his back. “I have a few thoughts, sir. First, pilots are a superstitious lot. Most of us have good luck charms, and I don’t view a cuddly toy as any different than a St. Christopher medallion, rabbit’s foot, horseshoe, or a lucky ascot.”

Gord furrowed his brow.

“Second, we haven’t seen action,” Fanny said. “Our missions have been to escort ships and aircraft on their route across the Channel, and many of the French pilots are saying that this isn’t a bona fide war, and that a peace agreement will be signed before any major confrontation. Jimmie should have more than adequate time to get acclimated to our squadron before—”

“I was asking for your recommendation,” Hank interrupted, “not a bloody speech.”

“Yes, sir,” Fanny said. “I suggest that Cobber take Jimmie as a wingman.”

Hank took a long drag on his cigarette, as if he was contemplating the options, and blew smoke through his nose. “He’s yours, Cobber.”

“Yes, sir,” Cobber said.

Hank dropped his cigarette and ground it under his boot. “Dismissed.”

The pilots filed out of the tent. Gord walked away, and Cobber and Fanny accompanied Jimmie to his barracks, where his duffel bag had been placed on a cot. For several minutes, the three chatted while Jimmie stowed away his things in a metal locker at the foot of his bed. He learned that Fanny was from Warwick, England, and that he loved to play pinochle. Cobber was born in Hastings, New Zealand, and, unlike Fanny, who preferred a gentlemanly game of cards, he enjoyed a physical match of rugby.

“To fit in around here,” Cobber said, “you’ll need to gain the trust of the pilots and prove your worth as an aviator.”

“Of course,” Jimmie said.

“We’re scheduled to conduct a patrol this afternoon over the Cherbourg Peninsula,” Cobber said. “It’ll give you a chance to show me and the men what you’re made of.”

Apprehension swelled in Jimmie’s chest. “I look forward to it.” He unzipped his flight jacket and placed Piglet into the foot locker.

“What’s the story behind your good luck charm?” Fanny asked.

An image of Jimmie’s younger sister—laboring to walk with steel braces strapped to her legs—flashed in his head. “My sister, Nora, was stricken with polio as a child. She was quite fond of the children’s book Winnie-the-Pooh. That stuffed Piglet comforted her through dreadful times, and she thought it might do the same for me.”

“I cannot begin to imagine what she went through,” Cobber said, his voice turned somber. “How is she doing?”

“Better,” Jimmie said. “She’s able to walk when she wears leg braces.”

He patted Jimmie on the shoulder. “Never mind what Gord said about a cuddly toy. You’ve got a proper good luck charm, mate.”

“Indeed,” Fanny said.

Jimmie closed the lid on the trunk. Feeling comfortable to speak his thoughts, he looked at Cobber and asked, “Do you mind telling me about what happened to the pilot named Taylor?”

“Were you told anything when you received orders for your post?” Cobber asked.

“Only that my assignment would fill a vacant position with the Seventy-Three Squadron.”

Cobber drew a breath and rubbed the side of his neck. “Me and two wingmen—Taylor and Benny—were. . .