‘Can you help us?’ Tilly asked. ‘We missed the last boat back to England. God knows how long it will be until the British soldiers come back.’
‘Are you a nurse?’ Celine said.
‘I am. I’m also an ambulance driver,’ Tilly replied.
‘Then you can be of help to us. We can’t guarantee to get you home, but we can keep you safe until you can re-join your unit.’
Chapter 22
Just before dawn on the same day, Tilly missed the boat home to England; Ronnie’s squadron were scrambled from their base in Eastleigh Airport. It was only his second sortie across the Channel and his stomach churned as he ran across the tarmac, securing his helmet in place as he ran. When he reached the runway, his plane was ready and waiting. He climbed onboard and started the engine. The propeller eventually fired into action and he taxied down the runway. Ronnie was flying in a formation of three. His squadron leader was as about as experienced as they come and Ronnie trusted him to keep his team out of trouble. They flew across the Channel just as the sun was coming up and Ronnie looked down to see the coastline recede and the sparkling early morning light on the water open up before him. Their mission was to protect the flotilla of small boats that were embarking for Dunkirk.
Ronnie, Charlie and Frank, the squadron leader, were in constant communication during the flight across the water. They made up the ‘B’ flight. ‘A’ Flight were airborne just ahead of them and would lead the sortie. It was Ronnie who spotted the Messerschmitt honing in on the ‘A’ flight and radioed the warning. The plane came down from above them and was firing its guns, hitting the two wingmen, whose planes were hit and began to lose height. Ronnie’s quick reactions saved the pilot of the lead aircraft but a sudden burst of shock at witnessing the two planes spiral down, taking the pilots to their deaths, made Ronnie momentarily lose concentration. He pictured himself in their place. It could have been him.
The surviving pilot from ‘A’ flight joined their team and they progressed without interruption until they reached the French coast. They opened fire on two Messerschmitts who were strafing the gathering soldiers on the beach, and forseveral minutes their dog fight sliced through the air above the stranded troops. Ronnie was concentrating on getting the upper hand and keeping above the two enemy planes. He momentarily lost vision when the sun appeared from behind a cloud and flashed across his field of vision. In that moment, another Messerschmitt came out of nowhere and by the time Charlie radioed a warning, it was too late. Ronnie’s plane was hit on the tail and the side. As soon as he felt the impact of the gunfire, Ronnie heard the engine stutter and falter. He checked his control panel. The loss of pressure on the fuel gauge showed that the petrol tank had been hit. He was rapidly losing height and he had to make a quick decision. There was no time to waste. Bailing out was his only option. He struggled with the controls of the Spitfire, trying to get it on an even keel and stop it from going into a spin. All the time, he was travelling deeper into France and away from his colleagues. Not that it mattered. Once he was on the ground, he would be on his own.
Ronnie’s brain sifted the information and training he had been given on how to abandon his aircraft if he was hit. No amount of theory and mock-ups could prepare him for what was happening now, though. What must he remember to do? Losing height. Would the canopy open? Could he bail in time? The ground came up to meet him. Would the parachute open? His mind raced while his fingers grappled with the catch. He’d heard stories of how pilots were burned alive because they couldn’t release the catch. He ripped off his oxygen mask and gulped in the choking air. Smoke filled the cockpit. He released his harness and tried to stand. The weight of the parachute under him seemed to drag him back down and struggle as he might, he couldn’t seem to raise his body high enough to drag himself through the canopy opening. The ground became the horizon and the sky became the ground. Time catapulted him forwardswhile his body held him back. Would he be able to escape before his plane hit the ground?
Eventually, he dragged himself out and onto the wing. He had to jump now. This was the moment that he placed his trust in the parachute packers, who held his life in their hands. He launched himself off the wing and pulled the ripcord. He held his breath and closed his eyes in silent prayer. If there was a time to believe, it was now. One moment he was tumbling through the air and the next it felt as if his arms were being pulled out of their sockets. He was yanked into an upright position and felt his descent slowing. He was floating. Below him the patchwork of fields appeared and disappeared through the cloud cover. He could see a few farm buildings, but no sign of a town. That was good. Less chance of being picked up by the enemy, perhaps?
The fuselage of his ruined plane span down. He was alone in the sky. Would anyone have seen his plane go down? He felt a swathe of relief course through his body. He was alive. His progress through the air had slowed to the point where he could see what was below him. Trees. Was this a good thing or a bad thing? The trees would give him cover, but at the same time they presented their own problems. Visions of his body hanging from his parachute coursed through his mind. There was nothing he could do. He had no control over where he landed. His hope was that a German patrol had not spotted him.
The canopy of the trees brushed his feet and, before he knew it, he was tangled in the branches. His feet dangled. Thank God he wasn’t too far from the ground. Once he’d recovered from the fall, he pressed the release button and tumbled to the ground. He landed badly on his shoulder and winced at the pain. He couldn’t remain here for long. He turned and dragged the parachute out of the tree. He stowed it in the undergrowth and started to walk. He hoped he was headed in the right direction for the farmhouse he had spotted on his way down. Butwould they help him? Not all French farmers were amenable to sheltering the partisans. There were severe penalties for hiding them. They would be risking their own lives to save his. He wouldn’t blame them if they refused and told him to move on.
After about ten minutes, Ronnie reached the edge of the trees. There was an open field between him and the farmhouse. It was the end of May and the crop was only just beginning to grow. There was very little cover between him and the farmhouse. What to do? To remain in the woodland, out of view until the cover of darkness, or take the chance and cross the field? He couldn’t see any road, but that didn’t mean that the German army wasn’t in the area. He stood for a while assessing the situation. The field was edged by a hedge and there would be more cover close to that than setting out across an open field. He would chance that. He moved slowly towards the house, scanning the field for any sign of troops. Nothing — he was lucky.
When Ronnie reached a barn, he sheltered inside. Two horses were stabled at one end. Just through an opening at the far end of the barn, he could see an animal trough. A searing thirst took over his body and he peered outside to make sure no one was about. He scooped some water into his mouth and gulped it down. He listened to hear any voices. Where were the owners? Should he make himself known to them or just look for some food and move on? He decided to stay out of sight for a while and lay down between some bales of hay stored in the corner of the barn. Physical and emotional exhaustion from the crash overtook him and he fell asleep. A blessed release.
When he came to, the sun was already low in the sky. He had no idea of the time. He could hear the sound of a tractor engine being turned off and voices calling to each other. Ronnie was still unsure about how to approach the farm owners, but the growling in the pit of his stomach and a raging thirst madehim realise that he would have to show his face sooner or later. He was lying on his back, watching dust motes floating through the air, when he heard someone enter the barn. A child’s voice calling the chickens.Chuck,chuck,chuck. The sound was much the same in French as in English. Ronnie lifted himself up onto one elbow and could see the chickens pecking around in the dust. The boy came into view and started poking around in the loose hay and straw for stray eggs. The basket over his arm looked weighty enough to have gathered a few already. Ronnie lay still. It was only a matter of time before . . . Then he was there, standing in front of him. The boy froze and let out a gasp.
Ronnie instinctively raised his arms in the air in a calming gesture. ‘Ami,’ he said. One of the very few French words he knew. Thank God Tilly had shown off about how many French words she knew. Sometimes her competitiveness came in useful. Ronnie smiled in the hope that this international form of language spoke to the boy. He started to rise and the boy immediately took flight, shouting as he went. Now he had raised the alarm, there was no point in Ronnie trying to hide. They would either accept and help him, or drive him away. Ronnie’s fate was in their hands.
It was only a matter of minutes before two adults and a young teenage girl ran to the boy’s aid and the family all entered the barn together. The man had a shotgun pointed in Ronnie’s direction. For several minutes they all looked at each other. The man passed the shotgun to his wife and indicated she should point it at Ronnie. Then he came slowly forwards and demonstrated that Ronnie should hold his hands in the air. He checked all over Ronnie’s body to see if he had any weapons secreted on him. When he was satisfied, he poked Ronnie in the back and pushed him towards the door of the barn. He took back the shotgun and marched Ronnie before them into the farm kitchen. He indicated that he should sit in a wooden chair at thetable. They spoke to each other and sent the children to fetch some rope which they then used to tie Ronnie to the chair, but they let him keep his hands free.
Ronnie looked around the kitchen. It was not unlike the kitchen in Micklewell with a range and a dresser for holding crockery. There was a deep butler sink and above his head, a rack laden with drying herbs. The strong smell in the air Ronnie identified as garlic and, through an open pantry door, he could see rows of jars and preserves. The woman and the girl moved around the kitchen and brought him some water. The boy sat close to his father and just stared at him. Ronnie thought him to be not much older than Anthony. He had been clearly shaken by his encounter with a stranger. The mother and daughter placed a plate of bread and a chunk of strange-smelling cheese in front of him. They then produced a slice of boiled ham and some cold, cooked potatoes. The food had been cut up into manageable pieces so that he could eat it with his fingers. He wolfed the food down, all the time nodding and smiling at them and saying thank you. The woman brewed some coffee and, when he’d finished eating, placed it on the table. He lifted the cup. The coffee was black and bitter-tasting, but Ronnie did not want to seem ungrateful and drank it down. He wondered what they were going to do with him.
The farmer tied Ronnie’s hands up and the family sat down and stared at him. After a while, the farmer gave the shotgun back to his wife and spoke to the children. He left the room and Ronnie heard an engine start up. It seemed like an age that he was away. Ronnie’s bindings around his wrists were tight and his feet were beginning to get pins and needles. He shifted a little in his chair and the woman immediately gripped the gun tighter. Ronnie wasn’t sure if she knew how to use it properly and he didn’t want to scare her into firing it inadvertently. Hewas getting desperate to urinate and hoped the farmer would get back soon from wherever he’d gone.
When the kitchen door finally opened, the farmer appeared with another man. The two men conversed and then the visitor walked towards Ronnie. He spoke to Ronnie in impressive English.
‘You are a pilot?’ the man asked, his moustache moving fluidly around his upper lip as he spoke.
‘Yes,’ Ronnie replied. ‘Spitfire pilot. Shot down . . . in the woods . . . not far from here. Please, thank the family for the food. Can you help me?’
The man looked at him sympathetically and Ronnie hoped the answer would be yes.
‘I was over Dunkirk, for the evacuation. You know? Dunkirk.’
‘We know,’ the man replied. ‘You English are leaving us.’
Ronnie sensed that the English were not going to be popular by abandoning them. Why should they help him when the English were running away?
‘Could I use the toilet?’ Ronnie said while he was waiting for a reply.
The visitor turned and said to the farmer, ‘Il a besion les toilettes.’
His bindings were untied and the farmer accompanied him outside to a wooden shed with a wide wooden toilet seat. He closed the door and Ronnie felt a sense of relief as he urinated. They returned to the kitchen, where he washed his hands and found the children preparing for bed. The husband and wife talked with the visitor, and Ronnie tried to detect on their faces whether they were going to let him stay and help him or cast him out to fend for himself.
‘You can be here for one night, then you must go,’ the visitor said. ‘I can help. I’m with the Resistance. Tomorrow morning . . . at dawn.’ The visitor shook Ronnie’s hand and said, ‘Jean.’
