Thomas chuckled at this, for they both knew it was false optimism. The war would drag on at least until ’42. The Huns weren’t going to lie down at the first sniff of defeat, that was for sure.
The next morning, with a northwesterly wind at their tails and sunlight sparkling off the Channel, a dozen Blenheim bombers set off for the French coast with an armada of fighters. Thomas was just behind the right wing of the fleet as they crossed over the choppy waters, heading for a green smudge of land in the distance.
As they approached, Thomas rose above the bombing height of 12,000 feet, ducking and weaving through the clouds to check for approaching enemy aircraft. The skies were clear as the harbor of Boulogne came into view, and though there were two dozen German fighters doing practice maneuvers some fifty miles southward, no one had noticed the British incursion yet. Still, Thomas was vibrating with anticipation. Someone could spot them at any moment.
No sooner had the thought crossed Thomas’s mind than the sunny afternoon exploded with whizzing black dots and puffs, anti-aircraft fire from the ground. “Damn it,” Thomas cursed, expecting more. But no German planes appeared from the clouds, and none of the dark bursts hit their marks. A moment later, the Blenheims dropped their bombs into the port. It was hard to see what they’d hit, but from the percussive sounds of explosion and the belches of smoke below, Thomas guessed that they’d found the German vessels snug in the harbor. Well, then, that was something, wasn’t it?
“All right, boys,” the voice came over the radio. “That’s a success. Let’s head back now, shall we?”
Slowly, the Blenheims turned to port and the whole aerial fleet followed them back out over the Channel. In the distance, the British coast gleamed in the sunshine like a beacon welcoming them home.
SEVEN MONTHS LATER, BOMBING RUNS to the mainland were no longer a novelty; they were the pieces that made up Thomas’s life. Each mission was exhilarating in its own way; there were always Huns to look out for, enemy fire to avoid, strategic sites to target. The RAF boys were dogged, determined, undefeatable.
But there were casualties too. In late June, Harry had disappeared over France on a bright, perfect afternoon. It had been a routine mission—escorting bombers in and out—but the Huns had caught them this time, and there had been a dogfight. Thomas had managed to dodge the enemy fire, but he’d heard Harry’s panicked calls over the radio, and he’d seen his friend’s plane corkscrewing toward the earth, its tail breathing fire.
“Harry!” he’d called back as the plane vanished beneath a blanket of clouds. “Harry! Do you read?”
But the sole reply had been a sinister static.
Thomas could only assume his friend—officially listed as missing in action—was dead. He had to be; the way his plane had burned, leaving an ominous shadow of black smoke, had shaken Thomas to the core. There was nothing he could do, and the helplessness was paralyzing.
“This one’s for you, Harry,” he’d said seven weeks later as he engaged in a dogfight with a 109, sending the other aircraft spinning toward the yawning earth. Sometimes, he dedicated his triumphs to Harry; other times it was Oliver; still others it was his own mother, for he was confident that she was up there somewhere, looking down on him and gracing him with a bit of extra luck. How else could he explain the way he seemed invincible?
He taxied in that night and found the flight instructor, Maxwell, waiting for him with a big grin. “You’ll never guess what happened, sir,” Maxwell said as Thomas unfastened his straps.
“I’m a little tired for guessing games,” he said as he climbed from the cockpit.
“Oh, but this one’s worth it. It’s to do with Cormack.”
Thomas looked up, startled. “Harry Cormack?”
“One and the same, sir. He’s back, sir, alive and well. I’d suggest you get over to the mess right away.”
Thomas didn’t believe it until he’d laid eyes on his friend himself five minutes later, after running full tilt across the base. There, just as Maxwell had promised, Thomas found Harry in full dress uniform, gaunter than he’d been seven weeks earlier but otherwise no worse for the wear.
“Harry?” Thomas cried from across the hall, and his friend turned, smiled, and closed the distance between them, pulling Thomas into a bear hug.
“Thomas! You’re a sight for sore eyes, my friend!” Harry’s voice was scratchy but familiar, and Thomas felt as if he were looking at a ghost.
“I was sure you were dead!” Thomas clapped his friend on the back to reassure himself that Harry was actually composed of flesh and bones.
“I thought so too. But I went down near a farmhouse, and the farmer hid me in a storeroom beneath his barn for three days until the Nazis stopped looking.”
“Who was this man?” Thomas asked in awe.
Harry shrugged. “A fellow named Jacques. I never got his surname. He sent me to a butcher in town, who hid me for another four days. And then a third chap put me in the back of his truck and took me to Paris, where they gave me directions to a safe house near a little art shop with sculptures of ballerinas in the window.”
“A safe house?”
“Well, sort of.” Harry chuckled. “It was more like a cupboard, really. It wasn’t far from the Eiffel Tower; I had to stop for a minute and just stare, Thomas. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. The building, it had a huge red door in front, and inside, there was a man up one flight of stairs who hurried me into a sort of hole in the hall. I was there for three days, with just a little sausage and bread to eat, and on the fourth morning, a woman came to take me away.
“They gave me clothes and false papers, and I rode a train filled with Nazi soldiers all the way down to a town near Perpignan in the south. Then—and this is the most unbelievable part, Thomas—I actually walked right over the Pyrenees mountains into Spain.”
Thomas stared at him. “Over the Pyrenees?”
“There’s a mountain pass there, just through a commune called Banyuls-sur-Mer. We made it past the border, and then the man who took us across connected us with railway workers who saw us to Barcelona.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“I wouldn’t believe it either if it hadn’t happened to me.”
“Who are these people who helped you?”
Harry shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. They went by code names, and it all seemed very secretive. But I’ll tell you one thing. They’re helping us win the war, Thomas. Before I was shot down, I rather thought the Brits were in it alone. But there are plenty of ordinary French people who are part of the effort too. They talk about Churchill like he just might be their savior.”
Thomas opened his mouth to reply, to say how astonishing this all was and how glad he was that Harry was home. But he found himself too choked up, so instead, he just smiled and clapped his friend on the back again.
“I’ll never forget any of it,” Harry said after a minute. “And neither should you, Thomas. One of these days, you might be the one falling from the sky.”
“I won’t forget,” Thomas said, though he had no intention of getting shot down over France. “I promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
August 1941
Ruby insisted that Charlotte go home—the longer she stayed, the greater the chance that her parents would awaken and come looking for her—and then as quietly as possible, she moved Dexter into the closet in the hall. She was astonished to find not only that it was large enough to fit a man but that it had been outfitted for just that purpose. There were blankets and a pillow inside, candles and matches, a few tins of food, even some civilian clothes. Marcel had clearly been at this for some time, which made Ruby both furious and proud.
“You’ll be safe here,” she told Dexter. “My husband should be home soon, and he’ll know what to do.”
“I don’t know how to thank you, miss.” He was larger than he had seemed at first, a fact that became quickly apparent as he folded himself into the closet, wincing.
“You can do one thing to thank me.”