As she pulled herself up shortly thereafter, though, using the door for support, she felt a surge of hope. Marcel had spent so much time making her feel useless that it was easier than she’d expected to behave as if she was. Perhaps he had helped her after all. Perhaps the foolishness he had projected on her was the perfect cover.

Now she just had to figure out how to convince Aubert that she could use that to her advantage.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

October 1941

It was early fall when Thomas was sent up just before dawn to fly rear cover. The bombers were to drop their loads on two German-controlled factories a hundred miles north of Paris, and then Thomas and the boys were meant to patrol the sky as their fleet returned to England, intercepting and engaging German fighters on their tail.

Missions like this had become fairly routine, the RAF in and out before the Germans had time to scramble their fighters. This morning, as they flew east, Thomas’s mind was wandering. The clouds looked strange and heavenly, as if lit from within. We’re lucky, he thought. Most people don’t get to see the sky like this. He made a vow never to forget it as long as he lived.

“This morning’s a beaut, isn’t it?” a pilot named Lewis radioed, and Thomas smiled. It was just what he’d been thinking; there was something undeniably magical about seeing the birth of a new day from the heavens.

“Peaceful up here,” Thomas agreed, making the turn back to the west just as ribbons of light began to filter over the eastern horizon. Sixty miles ahead lay the edge of the French coast and beyond it, a narrow strip of Channel leading to the White Cliffs of Dover, always a sight for sore eyes, even when they’d been gone for only a few hours. The cliffs meant safety, and this morning, they’d be glistening in the soft sunlight, welcoming the RAF boys home.

That’s what Thomas was thinking about when a swarm of German 109s rose from the mist at the squadron’s tail. Thomas’s heart jumped to his throat when he spotted them. “Behind us!” he managed to shout over the radio before diving into the clouds in an evasive maneuver.

“Hold on, boys!” someone shouted back, and then there were bullets whizzing everywhere, a whole swarm of them, buzzing and hissing. Thomas struggled to turn in to the approaching 109s, so as to gain a bit of an advantage, but it was useless. His squadron was heavily outnumbered; there were at least three 109s on his tail. He pulled back on the throttle and pushed the Spit as hard as she would go, but then there was a great clanging followed by a jerking so severe that it felt as if Thomas’s spine had been jarred loose from his body. He cursed, knowing he’d been hit.

He quickly evaluated the situation, trying not to panic. Could he still glide? After all, he wasn’t far from the coast. If he wasn’t losing much altitude, or dropping fuel, making it back over the Channel might just be possible. But the clouds below were coming closer, and a quick look at his altimeter confirmed that he was falling rapidly.

“Lewis, looks like I’ve been hit,” he radioed, but there was no reply, only the static of empty sky. Had the others gone on and left him? Had they seen him plunge into the clouds and assumed he was done for? All right, then, Thomas, he said to himself as he continued to fall. Stay calm. If Harry could survive a mess like this, you can too.

But his forced serenity was shattered as another volley of bullets came at him, this time pinging off his engine. His windscreen was immediately black with oil, and thick smoke surrounded him on all sides. “Damn it!” he cursed. There was no saving the plane now; he had to bail out before he got any lower. And so, praying that he could make it, he ejected and found himself alone in the sky for a frozen, terrifying moment, as his Spit, belching black smoke, hurtled toward the ground without him. In the midst of his panic, he felt a surge of sadness for the plane, but there was no time to mourn a charred lump of metal. No, he was falling, and fast. He tugged the release on his chute and felt a bone-crunching jerk as it opened. Now there was nothing to do but float from the sky, feeling as if a bull’s-eye had been painted on him. He braced himself for the gunshots he knew would come, but the air fight went on above him. Below, the earth was strangely silent.

Thomas took a deep breath and forced himself to focus, to survey the surroundings as he drifted. He was coming into a heavily wooded area. The nearest road was at least three quarters of a mile to the east, which meant that it would be a little while before the Germans could reach him—if anyone had seen him fall. The clouds were thick, and he had ejected right in the midst of them; it was possible that it had appeared to the Germans as if he’d gone down with the plane.

Time slowed as he glided in for a rough landing, narrowly missing a cluster of huge trees and touching down in a small clearing. The moment his feet hit the ground and he found himself in one piece, he hurried to pull his parachute down so that it wouldn’t call attention to his location. He wound it into a ball, dug a hole in the dirt, and shoved it in. He kicked the dirt back over it and pulled some felled branches on top of the freshly turned earth until it appeared there was nothing there.

Next, he peeled off his Sidcot and turned it inside out, concealing the markings of the RAF. He hurriedly pulled it back on and lowered himself to his knees in the dirt. He rolled around a bit, until the flight suit was sufficiently scuffed, and then he added a bit of grime to his face for good measure. There; at a quick glance now, he might just pass for a French farmhand—at least until someone looked closely, spotted his flight boots, or tried to engage him in conversation. Though he spoke near-fluent French thanks to his schooling, his British accent would surely betray him.

Thanking God for the preparedness of the RAF, Thomas took out the escape kit that had been sewn into his uniform—a clear acetate pouch containing survival supplies such as matches, water purification tablets, and energy pills—and withdrew the tiny compass he knew he would find there. He studied it for a moment and then set off toward the south. Unless he’d drifted off course in the dogfight, he was almost due north of Paris, and though it would take a few days to get there by foot, it was the best alternative he could think of. He could still hear Harry talking about the apartment building with the red door beside the ballet-themed gallery, where there was a man ready and willing to help pilots like him. If he could make it there without getting caught, he’d have a chance of returning to England alive.

BY THAT EVENING, THOMAS WAS exhausted. He had figured that walking for a few days wouldn’t be too taxing, but with his adrenaline surging earlier, he’d failed to notice that his left ankle had been twisted upon landing. It didn’t bother him much at first, but as he made his way up and down hills in the direction the compass pointed, his pace grew slower and slower. Finally, just as darkness was falling, he found a stream, and he stopped to get a bit of water. He knew that soon, he’d have to find a safe place to spend the night.

He sat down on a fallen log and closed his eyes for a moment, just to catch his breath, and the next thing he knew, there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. A man with a deep voice was saying something, and Thomas jumped up, backing away. The forest was cloaked in darkness now, and he was alone in the clearing with a man holding a lantern.

“I said, Are you all right?” the man asked again, and it took a second for Thomas to register that the words were in French instead of German. A bit of relief washed over him, but he was still on guard. There was no way to know if this man was friend or foe.

“Yes, thank you,” Thomas grunted in French, trying to imitate a French accent and hoping that his brevity would conceal the British edge to his words.

“You are English,” the man said calmly, and Thomas’s heart sank. Apparently, he hadn’t been as clever as he’d hoped.

“No,” he said in a clipped tone, taking another step back and considering his escape route. If the man didn’t have a gun, or if he wasn’t a particularly good shot, Thomas could make a break for it. But how far would his bum ankle carry him, especially in dark terrain he didn’t know?

The man didn’t advance though. “Relax,” he said in French. “I am not one of them.”

“One of who?”

“A collaborator. A Nazi lover.” The man spat loudly. “I am French, and to me, anyone who is here trying to help us is a friend.”

Thomas hesitated. He wasn’t sure whether to believe the man, but he didn’t have much of a choice. “All right. I’m trying to get to Paris.”

The man didn’t ask why. “Well, you are not going to get there tonight, are you? And you will be in need of a good night’s rest before you continue on. Come with me.”

Thomas stayed rooted to the spot. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“I suppose you do not. But the closer you get to Paris dressed like that, the more danger you will be in. So you can take your chances with me, or you can continue on dressed in an inside-out flight suit.”