“An hour, through the woods,” Madeleine said. “Louis and I were returning from collecting truffles when your parachutes dropped from the sky.”

“How do I get there?”

“Too dangerous,” Madeleine said. “The Wehrmacht have patrols. And the Luftwaffe have an airfield. They’d spot you.”

“I’ll blend in,” Ollie said, pointing to his clothing.

“Your English will get you shot.”

He swallowed. “I must try. We need another canister. And if there are more pigeons, we could use them to send intelligence to Britain.”

Madeleine hesitated, then said, “Best to go at night.”

Ollie shook his head. “The chances of finding a basket in the dark, especially when I can’t use a flashlight, would be almost nonexistent. Besides, the pigeons, if they haven’t already been found, won’t last long. It’s cold, and they have no water.”

Madeleine picked at a loose thread on her sweater.

“Tell Boar that you tried to stop me,” Ollie said, “but I insisted on taking a look around.”

She crossed her arms and lowered her head.

Ollie placed his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t plan on being caught. But if I were captured, I’d never tell them that you helped me.”

“Follow the stream,” she said reluctantly. After providing him details of where she’d seen the falling parachutes, she gave a ragged sigh. “Be careful.”

He nodded and zipped up his jacket.

If Ollie had known how much his ankle would hurt, he wouldn’t have left. Fifteen minutes into his trek through the forest, his foot began to ache. And like a falling line of dominoes, the pain worked its way up his leg and triggered a spasm in his shoulder. Soon his foot was throbbing, forcing him to waste precious time to find a wishbone-shaped branch to use as a crutch. Ollie labored on, limping through the underbrush. He climbed moss-covered logs and waded through shallow streams, using his recollection of Madeleine’s directions to guide his way.

In less than an hour, he reached a rolling field, similar to what Madeleine had described. Sitting down to rest, he tightened his sling to keep his shoulder from shifting in its socket, then he loosened his boot laces. Instantly, he felt a relief in pressure. He slid up his pant leg and peeked inside his boot. His ankle, nearly twice its normal size, was the color of an eggplant. He grimaced. If not broken, like the French doctor had said, he’d swear his ligaments had been stretched in a taffy puller.