outside interference and be grateful that he’s coming to help us. My country is not at war with Germany. This man is risking his life to join our cause. Remember that.”
Alain examined her set expression for a moment, and then said, “You’ll always be an American, Laura, no matter how long you live here.”
This was a statement which required no answer, and Laura gave none. They both looked up as they heard Henri coughing on the second floor and the conversation came to an end.
Laura remained in the kitchen to clean up after Alain had gone to bed. Then she sat again at the table and faced the stack of books to be marked. The summer session was ending that week and final grades had to be computed.
She worked until the early hours of the morning, and finally retired. Her last thought before she fell asleep was that in less than twenty-four hours the man they had awaited would arrive.
* * *
That evening, as the village of Fains-les-Sources slept under its enforced curfew, the plane carrying Dan Harris entered French air space. It was a propeller transport with room for twelve parachutists, but on this night Harris was alone in its cabin, pacing restlessly as the pilot began his descent for the jump. He was as prepared as he possibly could be for the mission, his head crammed full of conversational French and demolitions information, his muscular body in peak physical condition. But still he moved about nervously, listening for the familiar noises of the great machine. Harris was first and foremost a pilot, and when in a plane he liked to be flying it. The status of passenger turned him into a back seat driver, and he started as the pilot slid open the connecting panel and said, “France below, sir. Ever been there?”
Harris shook his head. “Not until now.”
“Great place. Beautiful women. Well, you’ll see.”
“I doubt it, lieutenant,” Harris replied dryly. To preserve secrecy on the mission, the pilot had been told the drop coordinates but little else.
“Two minutes, sir,” the lieutenant said.
Harris checked his gear one last time, going through the routine by rote. He tried the handle of the hatch as the pilot called, “One minute, sir.”
Harris opened the hatch, and the wind rushed in at him like a cold blast from a locker full of dry ice. Below it was high summer, but at an altitude of 13,000 feet, two-and-a-half miles up, the temperature was frigid. All he could see was blackness. He felt the tightening in his gut and scrotum that always preceded a jump, the adrenaline rush that told him he was about to plunge, like Icarus, through the void of space.
“Good luck, sir,” the pilot called, flashing him the thumbs up sign. “Kiss Danielle Darrieux for me.”
Harris reciprocated the gesture, poised on the brink. Then he drew back slightly as anti-aircraft fire began, zipping past the plane with the eerie silence of near misses.
“They’ve spotted us, sir,” the pilot informed him calmly.
Damn. They might look for a jumper now, or else dismiss the flight as reconnaissance and forget it. He fervently hoped for the latter. That was all he needed, every Kraut in the Meuse digging for a phony Frenchman. No matter how he tried his accent was still more Chicago than Chartres.
“How much longer?” he asked the pilot.
“Twenty seconds.”
Harris positioned himself again, and stepped through the hatch as the pilot, switching on the jump light, called, “Go.”
The descent was soundless, with no feeling of falling, which always amazed him now matter how often he jumped. Harris wondered if the pilot would get back safely as he counted off the seconds before he pulled the handle to release his chute. The pilot was a friendly kid, from Brooklyn, Flatbush Avenue right near Ebbets Field. He’d promised Harris some Dodgers tickets when he got back. His uncle worked at the team box office.
Harris was low enough now to see the shadowy outline of the trees rushing up at him, and
Alain examined her set expression for a moment, and then said, “You’ll always be an American, Laura, no matter how long you live here.”
This was a statement which required no answer, and Laura gave none. They both looked up as they heard Henri coughing on the second floor and the conversation came to an end.
Laura remained in the kitchen to clean up after Alain had gone to bed. Then she sat again at the table and faced the stack of books to be marked. The summer session was ending that week and final grades had to be computed.
She worked until the early hours of the morning, and finally retired. Her last thought before she fell asleep was that in less than twenty-four hours the man they had awaited would arrive.
* * *
That evening, as the village of Fains-les-Sources slept under its enforced curfew, the plane carrying Dan Harris entered French air space. It was a propeller transport with room for twelve parachutists, but on this night Harris was alone in its cabin, pacing restlessly as the pilot began his descent for the jump. He was as prepared as he possibly could be for the mission, his head crammed full of conversational French and demolitions information, his muscular body in peak physical condition. But still he moved about nervously, listening for the familiar noises of the great machine. Harris was first and foremost a pilot, and when in a plane he liked to be flying it. The status of passenger turned him into a back seat driver, and he started as the pilot slid open the connecting panel and said, “France below, sir. Ever been there?”
Harris shook his head. “Not until now.”
“Great place. Beautiful women. Well, you’ll see.”
“I doubt it, lieutenant,” Harris replied dryly. To preserve secrecy on the mission, the pilot had been told the drop coordinates but little else.
“Two minutes, sir,” the lieutenant said.
Harris checked his gear one last time, going through the routine by rote. He tried the handle of the hatch as the pilot called, “One minute, sir.”
Harris opened the hatch, and the wind rushed in at him like a cold blast from a locker full of dry ice. Below it was high summer, but at an altitude of 13,000 feet, two-and-a-half miles up, the temperature was frigid. All he could see was blackness. He felt the tightening in his gut and scrotum that always preceded a jump, the adrenaline rush that told him he was about to plunge, like Icarus, through the void of space.
“Good luck, sir,” the pilot called, flashing him the thumbs up sign. “Kiss Danielle Darrieux for me.”
Harris reciprocated the gesture, poised on the brink. Then he drew back slightly as anti-aircraft fire began, zipping past the plane with the eerie silence of near misses.
“They’ve spotted us, sir,” the pilot informed him calmly.
Damn. They might look for a jumper now, or else dismiss the flight as reconnaissance and forget it. He fervently hoped for the latter. That was all he needed, every Kraut in the Meuse digging for a phony Frenchman. No matter how he tried his accent was still more Chicago than Chartres.
“How much longer?” he asked the pilot.
“Twenty seconds.”
Harris positioned himself again, and stepped through the hatch as the pilot, switching on the jump light, called, “Go.”
The descent was soundless, with no feeling of falling, which always amazed him now matter how often he jumped. Harris wondered if the pilot would get back safely as he counted off the seconds before he pulled the handle to release his chute. The pilot was a friendly kid, from Brooklyn, Flatbush Avenue right near Ebbets Field. He’d promised Harris some Dodgers tickets when he got back. His uncle worked at the team box office.
Harris was low enough now to see the shadowy outline of the trees rushing up at him, and
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