Fortunately, the hog didn’t squeal. It gave a couple of snorts, then fell back onto its side to rest. As Boar’s match burned away, they found an empty stall and collapsed to the ground. No straw, only chunks of what felt like mushy apples, but Ollie immediately recognized the musky smell. Molded potatoes. Feed for the hog.

As the temperature in his feet rose, the throbbing in his ankle returned. He wanted to take off his boot but feared the swelling would prevent him from getting it back on. The pang in his shoulder worsened, the flares synchronized with his heartbeat. To distract himself from the pain, he placed Duchess’s cage beside him and poked his finger through the wire. The pigeon lightly pecked. He thought of Susan and hoped she and Bertie were safe, and that the Luftwaffe attack on North Weald Airfield had stayed clear of Epping. He’d likely never make it out of France alive. But Duchess would. He’d release her in the morning. It was his only comfort, knowing one of them would make it home. He lowered his head. Exhausted, he fell asleep.

CHAPTER 27 - AIRAINES, FRANCE

CHAPTER 27

AIRAINES, FRANCE

Ollie woke to a snorting hog and a rifle pointed at his face. It’s over, he thought.

He slowly raised a hand. With his eyes, he followed a steel barrel. He expected to see one of the turtle-headed German soldiers or perhaps an Aryan, steel-jawed Nazi. Instead, he saw a toothpick-thin woman with a sagging green sweater covering her trigger hand. Salt-and-pepper hair sprouted from under a weathered felt hat.

He glanced at Flight Lieutenant Boar, sleeping in the corner, then felt the cold tip of the gun press against his cheek.

“Qui êtes-vous? ”

Boar shot up and pointed his pistol.

The hog squealed. The woman turned the rifle on Boar.

“Wait!” Ollie shouted.

Boar struggled to see through the crack in his swollen eye, the other covered with a bloodied shirttail.

“British,” Ollie said. He tried to say something in French, but it sounded like gibberish.

“Your French is terrible,” the woman said in English. “And your accent isn’t British.”

“American.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. Her hog snorted, then twitched its triangle-shaped ears.

“Where are we?” Boar asked, still aiming his pistol.

“My farm.” Her rifle remained steady. “Who are you?”

“Flight Lieutenant Boar, Royal Air Force.”

“Shot down?”

Boar nodded.

The woman glanced at Ollie, then returned her attention to the lieutenant. “He doesn’t look like a pilot.”

“He’s not,” Boar said.

Ollie slowly stood, clutched his sunken shoulder, and stepped between them. “The Nazis are the enemy. Not us.”

She looked at him, then lowered her rifle.

“You can put that away,” Ollie said to Boar.

The lieutenant hesitated, then placed the pistol in its holster.

“Name’s Ollie,” he said, extending his hand.

The woman kept her hands on her rifle. “Madeleine.”