Michael at the Invasion of France, 1943 by Laurie Calkhoven

Author:Laurie Calkhoven
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2012-02-07T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Bone Joor”

August 1943

Every time I saw an Allied plane in the sky, I worried about how we would get the aviators to safety if it crashed. One afternoon I was with Jacques and François in their apartment when the air-raid sirens sounded. Instead of heading for shelter, we went to the roof to see what we could see.

I recognized the planes as the kind Steve Jones had flown—Flying Fortresses. They were heading to the suburbs west of Paris.

“They’re going to bomb the factories,” François said. “The Germans turned them into war plants.”

We were close enough to watch bombs drop from the bellies of the planes and black smoke rise from the ground. Puffs from German antiaircraft guns spiraled up. I cringed each time one of the Allied planes got hit. Some came down in flames. We could see aviators jumping like dots in the sky. Some of the parachutes were on fire. Bodies hurtled toward the earth. Other airmen dangled from their floating clouds, helpless to protect themselves while guns shot at them from below.

I took comfort that at least some of the men would make it into the hands of the Resistance instead of the Nazis’.

That night we were able to tune into the BBC for the French news. The announcer was cool and impersonal. “American bombers attacked targets in the western suburbs of Paris today. Sixteen bombers are missing.”

I tried to remember what Steve had told me about the crew on those planes. There were eight or nine men on every single one of them. “Sixteen planes,” I said to Jacques. “That’s more than a hundred and twenty-five men.”

“Where will we find food, clothes, and safe houses for that many?” Jacques asked.

The Resistance was struggling to take care of the aviators who wanted to escape to Spain, but Jacques and I only had to worry about one man at a time. The next afternoon, we headed to the Gare du Nord to pick up an aviator. This one wouldn’t spend the night in a safe house, but head directly to the Gare d’Austerlitz.

Our man got off the last car, along with his guide. The aviator carried a small suitcase. Sometimes they posed as Frenchmen on a business trip. This one was older than most—old enough to pull that off. I approached the two of them with my newspaper. “Newspaper, monsieur?” I asked. “It’s my last copy.”

The guide handed me a coin. The aviator took the newspaper.

“Bonne chance,” the guide whispered. “Good luck.” He kissed the aviator on both cheeks and disappeared into the crowd.

I followed Jacques through the busy train station and into the café, trusting the man to stay behind us. We had learned that we could avoid the Nazi checkpoints by going through the restaurant. We would pretend to look for a table, and then change our minds.

“Let’s go home,” Jacques said. “My maman made rabbit stew.”

I nodded and followed him through the café’s street door and onto the avenue. No Nazi checkpoint in sight.

Jacques and I crossed the busy street, weaving in and out of bicycles and pedestrians.

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