For days, the BBC and Radiodiffusion Nationale had been reporting on the Allied troops encroaching on German lines, getting closer and closer to the city. And the French Forces of the Interior had seen some successes on the inside. Now their joint efforts had come to fruition and cheers rose and echoed throughout the hospital wing. It didn’t matter who spoke English or how it was accented or who spoke French. Jubilation was a common language understood by all.

Despite Hitler’s decree that Paris “must not fall into the enemy’s hand except lying in complete debris,” his orders to bomb the city and its bridges as they retreated went unheeded. It was said that Paris, though it had sustained some bruises, was intact.

Tom ached to see it. It was only two hours away by train and the Allies now controlled the tracks. It had always been his mother’s dearest wish to see the City of Lights and to buy perfume from the House of Fragonard. Though his father’s English side first touched American soil in the early 1600s, his mother’s French family were newer arrivals, and she carried their stories in her heart like a treasure box.

Someday, he hoped she could see it. But until then, maybe he could do the next best thing.

He sent a note to the regional commander’s office.

This is Technician Fifth Grade Thomas Powell. I have been cleared to rejoin my unit and have been instructed to take the next transport plane to Holland. Please advise on the schedule.

The response came: At 14:30 on the 30th. We already have your name on the list.

The thirtieth. That gave him two days.

“Au revoir,” he said to the nurses who had tended to him so well. His eyes welled up with gratitude for them. They bathed the men, held their hands, listened to their cries—both the physical and emotional ones—gave them knitting needles with which to itch their skin under their casts, insisted on them using their muscles when the casts came off, encouraged them when their bodies took time to strengthen.

Tom felt as good as new, thanks to their exhausting work.

But he was ready to move on.

He was released from their care and in a rare circumstance, he had this little window of time where no one had their grips on him. His R&R train trip would be a stolen one, as he shouldn’t go anywhere without permission, but his unit had left France while he recuperated, and their only expectation was that he make that transport plane.

So he would disappear. Imagine himself on a little vacation in Europe.