Under a War-Torn Sky by L.M. Elliott Read Free Book Online Page A

suit. Even if Henry struggled into the forest to hide, it would be a simple matter for the man to alert police to his whereabouts.
    As the bicyclist neared, Henry racked his brain for the French word for help. He’d had four years of French in high school and been one of Miss Dixon’s prize students. Not many of the farm boys attending his tiny, rural high school had thought much of learning a sissy-sounding foreign language. But Henry had wanted to travel the world. He loved French. He’d worked hard to conjugate verbs correctly. He memorized whether words were feminine, needing la in front of them, or masculine, requiring le . Whenever he wanted to impress Patsy he’d throw some French at her. He’d do Miss Dixon proud – if this man spoke French.
    A few yards short of Henry, the bicyclist dragged his foot along the road to stop. He was small, grey-haired, with spectacles atop a rather long nose. A black French beret on his head gave Henry hope he was in the right country. He took a deep breath to slow down the wild thumping of his heart.
    â€œ Bonjour, monsieur, ” said Henry.
    The old man made no reply.
    Henry thought a moment and decided to say that he was American and hungry. He couldn’t remember the word for hurt. “ J’aime American. Je suis femme. ”
    The man still said nothing. He just studied Henry.
    Henry repeated himself, not realizing that in his nervousness he was mixing up his words.
    The man looked at the ground and shook his head. Then he sighed and said in excellent English, “I guess I must help you. What is the matter with you? You like America, yes, but you do not look like a woman to me.”
    Henry caught his breath with relief. “Is this France or Switzerland?”
    â€œYou are in Alsace,” the man informed him. “Do you know what that is?”
    Henry wasn’t sure.
    â€œDo they not teach you history in America? This is a French province Germany has invaded over and over again. Most people here have some German blood in them, but not by choice. There is much hatred between us. Even so, when Hitler annexed Alsace four years ago, many people welcomed the Germans’ return. They are impressed with the Nazis. So disciplined, they say. To me the Germans are les boches – swine.”
    Henry shifted uncomfortably. Did they really have time for a political history lesson right now?
    The Frenchman smiled. “I forget myself. I am a teacher. Was a teacher. The Nazis took my students for their army. They went to the Russian front. I think they must be dead.” He scanned the horizon nervously. “Come.” He gestured to Henry to follow him.
    The teacher set off on his bicycle. Henry staggered to keep up. “Pah,” the teacher grunted in irritation. “You are hurt?”
    â€œYes. My parachute was shot. I hit the ground too hard. Sorry.” Henry realized his injury endangered the old man even more.
    â€œGet on the bicycle. Vite, vite .” The teacher patted the handlebars. Henry braced himself as the Frenchman pedalled, struggling with the weight. It was a slow, bumpy, painful ride. The wheels were wooden. The German army had confiscated all rubber for their tyres.
    â€œWe go to my school. It is outside the village. If we meet someone, take bicycle and go to forest. I do not know what the townspeople would do if they caught you. Americans bombed Mulhouse very badly. People are sick of the fighting.”
    On base, Henry and his fellow airmen had always thought of beating the Luftwaffe, knocking them and their guns out of the sky. They saw it as a constant, brutal cockfight between plane crews. He’d never really thought much about the people they were trying to liberate, or what their struggles must be on the ground under a war-torn sky.
    â€œWe’re coming, monsieur. Soon, I promise.”
    â€œAh, yes,” the man nodded and smiled sadly. “But can you bring back my