Horton interrupted his thoughts. “What do you think we should do?”
“Pierre wants to speak with us tonight. I want to hear what he has to say.”
Horton agreed. He turned to Kenyon, who was following them much like a puppy attaches to any friendly soul after losing its mother. “What about you?”
Kenyon didn’t respond, instead staring around almost trancelike.
Horton repeated his question.
“Oh, sorry,” Kenyon said. “Whatever the two of you think.”
They gathered in the living room that night. Pierre looked furtive as he opened the conversation. “I told you that Marseille is very independent. All kinds of people are attracted there. It isn’t like Paris. If the Boches come, the fighting will be hard.”
He looked around to ensure he was understood. Horton interpreted quietly for Kenyon. “A resistance organization started there even before the war,” Pierre went on. “Its leaders were sure that the Maginot Line would fail, and that Germany would occupy a large part of France. They based their conclusions on the facts that the Maginot was incomplete, and that Germany based its military doctrine on striking hard, fast, and not stopping. The blitzkrieg. They didn’t think the Maginot or the French air forces would save us or that the French army could defeat them.
“The leaders are in Marseille recruiting fighters. I have friends there who have already joined the resistance. They received a message three days ago from British intelligence asking if groups along the coast could blow up fuel-oil depots to keep them out of German hands. My friends called me yesterday before I went out on the boat.”
Lance and Horton stared at him. “Do you mean French soldiers?” Horton asked.
“No.” Pierre shook his head. “I mean ordinary citizens who do not accept that Germany will steal our country. We are Free French. We are ready to fight.”
Lance cut in. “What do you want from us?”
“We have explosives. We stole them from a construction company. And there are many petrol storage tanks here because this is a significant port. But we don’t know how to place or ignite the dynamite without being killed. We need help for that.”
While Lance stared transfixed and absorbed Pierre’s implied request, his mind flew through the horrifying images of the past two weeks. Meeting Pierre’s request for help could put him through similar circumstances yet again.
For several moments he sat in silence, reminding himself of the French people’s kindness and generosity toward him and his comrades. Refusing to assist could consign the French to further suffering and would also be shameful.
“I’d love to help,” he said quietly, “but I’m an infantryman. My knowledge of explosives is minimal. I could look at what you’ve got and see what I can do.” As he spoke, he saw that Pierre’s eyes clouded with disappointment bordering on desperation. Lance turned to Horton. “Any ideas?”
Horton pursed his lips. “I wish I had some.” He shook his head and grinned. “I probably know enough to make sure we get killed, but I’ll do what I can.”
“The three of us ought to be able to figure it out,” Lance said. He turned to Pierre. “Let’s see what you have.”
Kenyon had sat quietly, listening to Horton’s translation without saying a word. Now, he placed a tentative hand on the table. “I could help. I’m a demolitions specialist.”
Lance and Horton swung around to face him. “You are?” they said in unison.
“Are you up to it?” Lance asked. “You’ve been through a rough time.”
“No rougher than yours.”
“But you just lost your friend.”
“You’ve lost mates too.” He gestured across at Pierre. “Without him, the three of us we would be dead, and he’s been very decent about caring for my chum’s body. Pierre is ready to fight for his country. I’m a soldier. I can’t turn away.”
Lance translated. Pierre’s eyes flashed, he leaped up, circled the table, grabbed Kenyon and kissed him on the forehead. Then he bear-hugged Lance and Horton.
“Listen to me,” Lance said after a moment of celebration. “We’ll need British uniforms. If we’re captured in these clothes you gave us, we’ll be shot as spies.”
Pierre’s face turned serious, and he locked eyes with Lance. “I understand,” he said. “Do you understand that we will probably take them from dead soldiers?”
Lance exhaled slowly and nodded. “We’ll need sidearms too, with bullets.”
Pierre held his gaze a moment longer. “Then it shall be done.”
24
Dardilly, France
For the first two nights after the Boulier sisters had left their father, they traveled on back roads with their Uncle Claude, sometimes with people they did not know, and slept in cellars and barns during the day. Then, having cleared the southern line of the German advance, they moved more openly and rapidly, avoiding the mass of people heading south.
Amélie bore a hollow sensation of having abandoned Ferrand. Chantal sometimes seemed barely conscious, taking little interest in her surroundings or the goings-on of other people, sitting in submissive resignation as they rumbled along in vehicles, lapsing into dazed half-sleep when they were not traveling. Always, she clutched the frame of the family photo. Amélie watched over her worriedly, taking care that she ate and keeping her clean and warm.
After a week, they reached the town of Dardilly, a rural community northwest of Lyon situated among three valleys bounded by towering mountains. In spite of herself, Amélie could not help admiring the natural beauty that surrounded her, the green sweep of hillside fields and the grand vista of distant mountains.
Then, as they drove the final few miles to their destination, she reflected on her conversation with Uncle Claude on the night of their flight from Dunkirk.
“Where are we being taken?” she asked.
At first, Claude had appeared not to have heard her, preoccupied either with driving through the night or the worries of his brother’s resistance efforts. Amélie repeated the question.
“Hmm? Oh. Sorry. We’re going to our sister’s farm near Lyon. Your cousins will be happy to see you. The Germans haven’t reached there yet. Ferrand thought you should have time to become established in the community
