by Bodie Thoene
Josie laughed for the first time in days. “It” seemed no fuller than last time, but she agreed that it was a most wonderful beard and that he was certainly doing well at his post.
And they were waved through cheerfully.
Paul, looking anything but cheerful, was in his office when Josie knocked at the door. He was on the telephone to Gort’s BEF headquarters. He patiently discussed the importance of evacuating the wounded because there were new casualties arriving each hour. There were no more beds and only a few hundred cadets to defend the perimeter if the Germans should make their swing toward the coast.
Juliette, clutching the doll, stood at Josie’s side. With Yacov still sound asleep in her arms, Josie waited until Paul replaced the handset with a frustrated clatter before she spoke.
It took a moment for Paul to register who she was. Then, “Josephine?” He rose quickly to embrace her.
She began to cry now as the dam of emotion finally burst. She leaned against him, and he patted her back in a clumsy attempt to comfort, like he was patting the neck of a good horse after a grueling race. Dear Paul.
“I was going to Ostend. . . . Andre sent me. . . . Juliette and the baby . . . the train was . . . oh, Paul!”
“Yes, ma chèrie. All the way from Brussels you have walked?” He asked this in English and then led her to a chair.
Taking the hand of Juliette, he knelt before her and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “And you are very pretty, Mam’zelle Juliette.” He lapsed back into French.
She was ragged and dirty, but the eyes of Andre in miniature gravely considered him. “How do you know my name, Monsieur?” she asked.
“It is a name that fits someone so beautiful, and you are the most beautiful little girl I have seen in a very long time.” He laughed as poor Josie continued to weep with relief. “I will kiss your hand, chèrie.”
He did so, which brought a slight smile to the child’s lips. Her face was smudged with grime.
“My name is Paul, and you are quite safe now. I have a chocolate in my desk. I was saving it for someone so beautiful as you are. Would you like it?”
She nodded eagerly. The ordeal was finished.
“I will see that you are well cared for here at my school. And soon we will see you to Paris.”
***
73 Squadron had experienced so many combat losses by the nineteenth of May that David was made Acting Flight Leader of B flight. But he led a unit that consisted of only four Hurricanes. Even worse, the other three pilots were all new replacements, with only limited combat experience.
Jimmy Small was American, like David. Tay Churchman was Australian, and Jeffrey Cameron was a Scot. Small had once attacked a Heinkel off the Thames estuary. Of the other two, Churchman had only seen German aircraft from a distance. Cameron had never see one at all, only pictures.
Cameron had not even expected to stay in France. He was a ferry pilot, bringing over one of the preciously allotted replacement fighters. Simpson, now the squadron leader, pressed him into service as a combat flier.
“Do you like that Hurricane you brought us?” Simpson asked as Cameron was invited for a drink in the squadron mess.
“Yes, Squadron Leader. It’s a fine machine.”
“Any problems to speak of?”
“None. I would say that it is in tip-top shape.”
“You had better hope you’re right, my lad, because as of right now, it’s yours. Tinman, meet your new pilot.”
Despite Cameron’s protest, David’s only discussion with Simpson involved seeing that Advanced Striking Force HQ was notified. “You heard the same story I did,” David warned, “about the ferry pilot who got recruited into Number 1 Squadron and was sent up that same afternoon.”
“What about him? What happened?” Cameron broke in.
David exchanged glances with Simpson. “He bought it in the first engagement,” David explained. “But no one could remember his name, and since he had not been properly enrolled, well . . .”
“Don’t worry, lad,” Simpson reassured the Scot. “I’ll see to it that you are properly listed as one of us.”
Cameron still looked worried an hour later when the squadron was scrambled to provide cover for a mission of Blenheims. The British bombers were attacking the German advance at the crossing of the Oise Canal. The intent was to protect the French town of Le Cateau.
Because of the inexperience of his flight, David was to fly high cover only. They would assist if A flight got in trouble and then retreat to a high vantage point.
“You’ll be all right,” David told Cameron. “You fly on my wing and keep an eye on six o’clock and you’ll do fine.”
What else was there to say? Even experienced pilots like Hewitt and Cross had bought it. It was a fact of war.
Orbiting at twenty thousand feet, the squadron saw neither Blenheims nor enemies for almost an hour. “Stood up again,” Simpson broadcast on the R/T. “Pack it in, chaps. Let’s head for home.”
Clouds extended down to ten thousand feet, and it was while passing a gap in a pair of the towering columns of white mist that Simpson spotted the formation of bombers at last. There were twenty of them, heading east, and they were flying below the base of the clouds.
The whole squadron dove to form up on the bombers, but when the maneuver was only halfway completed, Simpson announced a change. “Correction,” he radioed calmly. “Those are Heinkels, not Blenheims, and they seem to be unescorted. Tallyho, chaps.”
Simpson ordered a formation that swept the Hurricanes back in a diagonal line from Simpson at the leading left-hand end of the line. Because there were no German fighters around, David’s flight joined in the attack.
The squadron pounced on the HE-111s and caught them unaware. The first pass sent one Heinkel breaking out of formation and spiraling downward. Another was left slowly losing altitude with one dead engine. None of the Hurricanes were hit.
But on the second attack, the Germans changed tactics. The V formations of bombers fought as units, rather than as individual ships. They concentrated their fire on one Hurricane at a time. As the leader, Simpson drew an especially large share of tracers. He shot down another HE-111; then white smoke began trailing from his airplane.
“Rotten luck,” David heard him say. “Caught one in the engine coolant somewhere.”
“Can you make it back?” David radioed.
“Don’t think so. Engine’s overheating. I’ll try to make Le Cateau.”
The squadron had racked up three definite kills and possibly five when they broke off the attack and headed for home. David was now leading both flights, and he intended for them to stay with Simpson until reaching the nearby airfield.
“There it is, and none too soon,” Simpson radioed. “I’ll rejoin you just as soon as I can. Simpson out.”
From the formation altitude at ten thousand feet, David watched his friend’s gentle descent toward Le Cateau. It looked smooth until Simpson’s Hurricane reached five thousand feet, when black puffs of flak began to appear all around him.
“Pull the override and get out of there,” David demanded over the R/T.
“It’s no good,” Simpson responded. “No power. Get the chicks home safely, will you, Tinman?”
A cluster of four bursts of antiaircraft fire erupted directly in front of Simpson. Pieces of his engine cowling and canopy flew off as if the Hurricane were shedding. Then the airframe shattered completely, raining fragments of the British fighter over the airfield of Le Cateau.
When David got the rest of the squadron back to base, he reported the downed Heinkels and Simpson’s death. “How could those French gunners be so stupid?” he asked angrily.
“Don’t blame the French,” he was told. “The Germans were already across the canal and captured Le Cateau before you ever got there.”
19
Refugees at Gare du Nord
Josephine was at least clean when she stepped from the train at Gare du Nord. That was more than co
uld be said for the masses of refugees who had accompanied her and the children on their journey.
Josie remembered how empty and gloomy the station had been when she had returned to Paris last fall. A few ragged porters. Old women in felt slippers pushing wide brooms across clean, uncluttered floors . . .
It was instantly clear that Paris had been changed to the very core after only a little more than one week of war. The great station resounded with suffering. Dutch and Belgians and French—so many tragic and innocent faces. Faces reflecting confusion and bitterness and loss and rage and weariness now filled the cavernous hall of departure.
Thousands slept beside their baggage on the once-spotless floors. Quaking old grandparents with parchment skin watched over small children. Mothers rested or stared blankly at the gilt clock face as if it could tell them what the next hours would bring. Where were the fathers? And where were the sons?
French Boy Scouts provided some order to the chaos. They helped people off the trains and stacked bicycles and issued claim checks for so many thousands that the true owners of the cycles would never be found. Bicycles overflowed the check rooms and lined the walls to tower over the clusters of refugees who had grown together like little villages becoming one vast city.
There were Red Cross stations at either end of the Gare. Long queues were formed for the bathing and dressing of blistered feet and the patching of wounds and the feeding of the multitudes.
There, in the eye of the storm, was Madame Rose Smith, washing the bloody feet of an old peasant woman while she instructed a young, wealthy Parisian volunteer with soft hands to go out and find nipples for the baby bottles and bring back diapers, too.
Josie caught her eye and waved, pointing at Yacov, who gaped wide-eyed at the confusion around him. Madame Rose gave her the same thumbs-up sign Josie had seen among the soldiers at the front.
“Come by later,” Rose mouthed. There was too much going on to stop even for a minute, so Josie headed for the exit of Gare du Nord and the taxi stand.
Once again Josie had no luggage. She carried Yacov on her hip. Juliette, her little fingers hooked in Josie’s belt, trailed along. No children were allowed in Foyer International, so Paul had given Josie the key to the Chardon house on Quai d’Anjou. No doubt Andre would be off somewhere with all the other men of his age. They were all somewhere else.
The taxis were also gone. They had been confiscated by the army, it was explained, on the same day that Paris had been declared a part of the Zone des Armees.
So they rode the train to Notre Dame Station, the closest metro to the Chardon house. Hoping that Andre would miraculously be home, Josie decided to knock first.
The flustered face of Colonel Gustave Bertrand appeared at the door. “Josephine!” He seemed startled by her appearance. “We thought you were in London!”
“As Chamberlain said, I missed the bus, Colonel Bertrand. Now, will you let me in or must I stand here in the hot sun until the Germans come?”
Flustered, he stepped aside. “Andre is gone off to the front, wherever that may be. The servants have gone south. I have to get to Vignolles. You must stay with Lewinski for the sake of France!” Not waiting for her to reply, he hurriedly scrawled out his private telephone number and gave it to her. “Keep him in the house until I come for him.”
“But when will Andre be back?”
“Who can say?”
“When will you—”
“I will telephone. You are leaving Paris as well then?” He glanced at the children, as if it was no surprise she had two little ones in tow. “There are strays everywhere in the city these days,” his expression seemed to say. “The Boche will begin bombing soon; we are certain of it. Most of Paris is sending the children away. You might want to think of doing the same . . . wherever they come from, they will be better off elsewhere. Get them on a train if you can.” He down up the stairs to Lewinski, “Madame Josephine Marlow is here to stay with you, Lewinski!”
“Good!” Lewinski shouted up. “Finally a red rose to look at instead of a croaking toad!”
Bertrand grimaced. It was clear the two men did not get along. “Too much! Too much! He is a madman! Good luck, Josephine.” And then he was gone without explanation or apology.
***
Jerome Jardin and the five Goldblatt brothers, Jewish refugees from Austria, were not Boy Scouts, yet they were given Red Cross armbands by Madame Rose, and they worked hard at the bicycle racks in Gare du Nord.
Blue-uniformed gendarmes swung their nightsticks and walked casually among the refugees as if they were strolling through the Tuileries gardens. But the station was no garden. It did not smell of flowers. The gendarmes were checking and rechecking the papers of all the refugees because clever Hitler had sent in many fifth columnists with them, it was rumored.
Jerome felt sorry for the refugees. Even on his worst day he had not been as bad off as these pitiful creatures. It had occurred to him many times that he could steal one of the better bicycles and get out of Paris.
Eleven-year-old Georg, the eldest of the brothers, said as much out loud. “You know, we could each steal one of these bicycles and pedal off to the south of France.”
Jerome surprised himself with his reply. “Madame Rose would not like it.”
“So what?” Georg tossed another tagged bike on the heap.
“That would be stealing,” Jerome said. He felt himself pale at such unexpected words, for how many times had he done just that?
“Who would know?” Georg put his hands on his hips.
“God.” The Name just blurted out! No stopping it! He had definitely been around Madame Rose too long!
Georg wiped his nose on the back of his hand and gave a slight snarl. He looked very tough. Jerome thought that it was too bad the Germans did not like Jews because Georg would have made such a fierce soldier. They had missed a good thing, those Nazis.
“Well, well! God, is it?” Georg picked up a bicycle off the vast heap. “You see this? The Nazis melted down all the bikes in Austria after they came so they could make them into bombs! Ha! So what do you think those Stukas are dropping on our heads now?”
“Bicycles?” Jerome chirped. An amazing thought.
“My bike, to be exact! You think we should leave them any more to drop and kill people?”
“Probably not. If you put it that way.”
Georg whistled long and loud and made a boom sound. “Gears and spokes and handlebars! Ker-pow! It is immoral!”
Georg was talking himself and his brothers into taking those potential bombs and defusing them by riding off to the Riviera. They might all have done so if it had not been for the sudden wailing that erupted from the young woman holding a baby not far from the stack.
A gendarme was speaking quietly to her, trying very hard to take the baby. “But the child is dead, Madame,” the policeman pleaded.
“No!” she wailed. “You cannot take him! You must not take my baby!”
It was a pitiful sight. Others gathered around and tried to talk her into giving up the dead child. She insisted he was not dead. But Jerome could see plainly that he was. Very gray. Very still. His tiny arm hung awkwardly from the blanket.
Now the mother kicked out at the officer. She drew a knife and held it to her own heart. He stepped back. It was very sad. The five brothers forgot all about the temptations at their fingertips.
“Poor thing,” whispered Georg. “Poor lady.”
“Get Madame Rose,” Jerome said. And he and the brothers ran the length of the terminal to fetch her.
With a grave expression, Madame Rose left her station. Like she was marching to war, she came with the boys to the scene of the tragic confrontation.
Somehow the crowd of onlookers knew at her approach that she was someone who could help. They parted for her instantly.
She turned on them all and growled, “Get back to your own business! All of you!”
What fierce and angry eyes she had. Even though there was no business f
or anyone in Gare du Nord to get back to, they all pretended to have other things to do.
Jerome and Georg and the brothers returned to the bicycles. They fussed with the hubs and observed the scene through the spokes.
Madame Rose stuck her lower lip out and waved her hands as though she were shooing away a bunch of dogs. And then she turned and knelt before the wild-eyed woman. But at a distance.
Jerome could not hear what the old woman said, but all the gruffness melted away. Now she was the Madame Rose who rocked the little children to sleep and told angel stories to the ones frightened in the dark.
The fear on the frantic face of the mother melted. She looked at her dead child.
Grief!
She looked at Madame Rose.
Help me!
Madame Rose stretched out her square and calloused hand. She shook her head and looked up toward heaven.
Could it be?
The mother touched the infant’s cheek. She buried her face against the tiny body.
Madame Rose, on her knees, came close enough to put her big, strong arms around the mother. The woman leaned against her just like the children at No. 5 Rue de la Huchette did. She sobbed and sobbed, and Madame Rose let her cry as long as she wanted.
It was a long time. And then it was over.
Jerome read the lips of the young woman as she passed the child to Madame Rose.
“Take him then. He belongs to God.”
***
Lord Gort, commander of the British Expeditionary Force in France, tightened his thin lips into a disapproving line. The visit of Colonel Andre Chardon was an interruption.
Even in the pale, early morning light of the twentieth of May, Gort was already hard at work. All around him on the floor of his headquarters were discarded maps of Northern France. Each was marked with troop movements and enemy positions; each had become outdated and useless in a matter of hours. The speed of the German Lightning War made the concept of a static front line obsolete.
