May 1915. When his aircraft crashes in Northern France, British airman Henry finds himself stranded behind enemy lines. His survival depends on the courage and compassion of a local family who risk everything by hiding him in their farmhouse.
With her village already suffering under Occupation, Marie knows sheltering Henry will put her in family in grave danger, and that peril only increases when two German officers are unexpectedly billeted with them. Forced to live cheek by jowl with their occupiers, it takes all their cunning to keep their deadly secret.
As the shadow of war spreads, loves blooms, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness.
But before long love is put to the test as everyone’s loyalty is called into question. The ramifications of the choices they must now make will be felt long after the war is over.
Anita Frank’s captivating new novel is a deeply moving tale of courage and sacrifice.
Northern France, May 1915
He was surprised to see the notepaper quiver. He was even more surprised when he realized it was his hand that was trembling. Not much, just ever so slightly. But still, of all things, he hadn’t expected that.
He folded the unsolicited missive in half, trapping the accompanying photograph in its midst. He had only given the black-and-white image a fleeting glance. He thought that best. After all, it was only of passing interest.
As he picked up its accompanying mauve envelope, intent on replacing the letter and forgetting all about it, he felt the weight of a further enclosure. He had noticed the envelope’s surprising substance when retrieving it from the post, but he’d soon become so distracted by the contents of the letter itself that he’d failed to investigate. Now reminded of it, and despite everything, mildly curious, he upended the envelope into his cupped palm. A silver medallion landed on his puck-ered skin, a linked chain slithering in its wake.
He turned the disc over to discover its front was embossed with an image of St Christopher. He snorted, a wry smile tugging the edge of his mouth. But this moment of bitter amusement proved brief. With a resigned sigh, he returned the letter and the photograph to the envelope, dropping the medallion in after it.
Swinging his legs over the side of his army issue cot, he sat up. He stared at the envelope, unsure what to do with it. In the end, he slid it under the pillow his head had just vacated. But it was not a case of out of sight out of mind. The unwelcome thoughts and memories the letter had provoked continued to plague him, until his head thrummed with the unpleasantness of it all.
Forcing himself to rally, he pulled on his wool-lined boots and stood up, running his hands through his hair, hoping to instil some order on its unruly waves. He shrugged on his sheepskin flight jacket and draped a woollen scarf around his neck before gathering up his leather gauntlets. He made his way down the aisle between the cots lining both sides of the Nissen hut, but when he reached the door, he stopped. His fingers tightened on the door handle. He glanced back towards the pillow that still bore the faint indent of his head, then looked away, cursing softly before yanking open the door with an air of defiance.
The fresh dawn breeze brushed over him and yet he couldn’t bring himself to step into it. He hovered on the threshold, his mind racing as he gave the letter’s contents more thought than they surely deserved. More thought than was wise.
He cursed again. Spurred by something he couldn’t quite explain, he hastened back to his bed. Dropping his gaunt-lets, he retrieved the envelope, suddenly eager to claim the protection of the St Christopher. Its delicate fastening almost defeated him, but just as he was on the verge of abandoning the endeavour, it clicked shut, and the medallion fell against his chest. On a whim, he pressed the disc to his lips, then tucked it out of sight, beneath his flying jacket, jumper and shirt, beneath, even, his wool singlet, until it lay cool against his skin. Perhaps he had finally succumbed to the foolish superstitions he so abhorred in others, but there was no denying the peculiar sense of comfort the medallion’s presence provided. Stuffing the letter into the pocket of his flight jacket, he snatched up his gloves and hurried outside.
His Nissen hut was one of many hastily erected structures now populating the former beet field that had, in the early weeks of the war, been transformed into a makeshift aero-drome. A windsock billowed from a tall pole at the edge of the modest runway – an L-shape of cinder laid once the beets had been cleared. Though the ground had subsequently been rolled flat, it hardly provided for a smooth landing.
The aeroplanes, a collection of two-seater Royal Aircraft Factory B.E.2s, were lined up beyond the domed aircraft hangar, pegged to the ground to prevent them being flipped by the strong winds that gusted across the flat landscape. Henry stopped briefly at the mess tent to help himself to a mug of tea from the dixie and a bacon sandwich, then headed towards the open-fronted hangar, biting into his breakfast as he went.
His fellow flyers had already gathered. Mouth full, he raised his tea in greeting to Dobbs, who was lolling on a folding chair beside the worn-down settee someone had liberated from somewhere, and which was now acting as a bed for Gil-bert Harvey, who was lying on his front, breathing heavily, dead to the world. His left hand rested on the floor, an empty whisky bottle just beyond its reach.
‘Harvey went on a bender again, did he?’ Henry asked, perching on the settee’s arm as he washed down the last of his sandwich with a slurp of lukewarm tea.
‘Started as soon as he landed yesterday evening and didn’t stop until he’d passed out,’ Dobbs said, glancing up from a newspaper whose headline revealed it to be several days old.
Someone had cranked up the gramophone. The 78 crack-led before a romantic music hall number began to echo from the brass horn. Henry recognized the melody immediately. Images from the boathouse burned in his mind’s eye: dust motes glinting like fireflies; delicately embroidered white linen trimmed with lace; the glow of sun-warmed skin; the soft tumble of unpinned hair. He endured it for as long as he could before calling out, ‘Turn that bloody thing off, could you, Parker?’
‘Don’t you like this one, Farrier?’ The young pilot attending the contraption contrived a wounded expression. ‘It’s one of my favourites.’
‘Can’t bloody stand all that sentimental claptrap,’ Henry grumbled over the rim of his mug. ‘Any more of it and you’ll have me begging to be returned to the trenches.’
Dobbs laughed as he extracted a pipe from the pocket of his flight jacket. ‘Oh come, come, Henry. I’m sure you’ve no desire to be back wading through mud now you’ve become accustomed to the freedom of the air.’ He unrolled a pouch of tobacco. ‘I never could understand what a man like you was doing slumming it in the rank and file of the BEF anyway.’
‘I had my reasons.’
‘I dare say.’ Dobbs looked up from filling the bowl of his pipe. ‘But admit it, you’re rather glad you managed to convince those in charge you were officer material with an airman’s skill set. You’d still be languishing in muddy squalor if not.’
‘You’re right – thank God for all that OTC at school.’ Henry raised his mug in a droll toast.
‘And the horse riding, and sailing,’ Dobbs added, grinning now as he tamped his tobacco.
‘Horse riding, yes. I’m afraid I was forced to lie about the sailing bit.’
Dobbs let out a bark of laughter. ‘What a requirement! As if it helps anyway. Still, good job for you someone decided to pay attention to your file.’
Henry smirked and looked away. Joining up as a private in the army was an act of rebellion he had come to regret, though it had made him an enigma to the other enlisted men in his regiment. They were all curious as to why a man who bore the hallmarks of an officer had chosen to forgo the luxuries of rank, but their inquisitive questions stopped when it became clear he had no intention of answering them. Instead, they learnt to be satisfied with the fact he was will-ing to stand alongside them, fight for them, as if he were one of them – although he clearly wasn’t. In those bloody opening battles of the war, that steadfastness had been all that mattered.
But once hunkered down in the mud-filled trenches of Northern France, he had come to realize he had no desire to endure the privations imposed by life at the front. One day, while running a match flame along the seams of his uniform, popping the insidious lice that were making his life unbear-able, he had glanced up at the heavier-than-air craft of the Royal Flying Corps droning above him, and found himself yearning to escape. Donning his jacket and still scratching at the feasting parasites that had evaded his cull, he had made his way to the CO’s dugout to plead his case for a transfer. Short of pilots, short of observers, short of the right sort, the RFC had taken him willingly. The mantle of privilege and class, so happily eschewed in a fit of pique at the out-break of war, had returned comfortably to his shoulders, and every day now, as he flew free through the clouds, he looked down on the miserable mire below and offered thanks for its protection.
None of them bothered to stand when the squadron leader came in, though they gave him their full attention as he issued their orders for the day, while blatantly ignoring Harvey’s snoring. Nothing was said about the empty whisky bottle. The chaotic binges that followed the terror of the skies had become a given. All the brass turned a blind eye. Bravery took many forms. So did stupidity. It was generally accepted that anyone who took to the air in a flimsy flying contraption needed both.
With orders received, the men gathered up their leather flying helmets and goggles and strapped folded maps to their thighs. Dobbs was to pilot, with Henry as his observer. Their reconnaissance mission for the day was to photograph German lines, so that GHQ could build up a visual image of the enemy’s trenches, to see what damage – if any – recent artillery attacks had done, and whether any provisions were being made to fortify defences or extend the network. It was nigh on impossible to conceal freshly dug soil from the air, and Henry would use his box camera to catch any hint of it.
‘Ready?’ Dobbs asked, wrapping his neck with a silk scarf as Henry collected his camera and glass plates.
‘After you.’ He felt suddenly envious of Dobbs’ extravagance. The woollen scarf that his own limited funds afforded was practical certainly, but it was hardly swashbuckling and not for the first time, Henry felt like the poor relation, tagging along for the ride. He wished he could emulate the popular image of the airman the others cultivated with such ease, but without his father’s financial support it was proving impossible. Instead, he was forced to scrape by with the bare minimum. Still, his modest scarf was better than nothing. They had experienced blistering cold earlier in the year. There were times, when flying at five thousand feet over enemy territory, his fingers had become so numb he had dropped the precious photographic plates while attempting to slide them into the camera, and tears of pain had frozen on his cheeks. At least now, with the improving weather of late spring, the cold wash as the aircraft rose to its lofty heights was physically bearable.
The ground crew had their two-seater B.E.2c ready for them by the time they walked over to the line of aircraft. Dobbs grabbed the curved edge of the pilot’s rear cockpit and placed a foot on the wing, hauling himself up and in. Henry followed suit, sliding into the seat in front that looked out over the propellers. He carefully placed the camera down beside him, while the six plates he had brought along went into the canvas bags flanking his seat. He planted his boots either side of the hole punched into the aircraft floor, through which he would take his pictures.
A mechanic whipped the propeller round, and Dobbs fired up the ignition. The engine spluttered into life. As the propeller gained momentum, the chocks were pulled away, and two mechanics grabbed the back of the wings, helping Dobbs guide the plane towards the runway. Henry pulled on his leather flying helmet and lowered his goggles as the wind began to push against his face. The plane jounced over the uneven field until at last they were in position. He watched the ground blur beneath the hole between his feet as they began to race towards the end of the runway.
‘Here we go again!’ Dobbs shouted from behind him, and even now, after so many weeks of flight, Henry felt himself tense, his stomach dropping as the aircraft lurched into the air. He glanced over the side, watching the aerodrome recede beneath them as the plane continued to climb, the cool morning air becoming decidedly chilly as they soared upwards, piercing wafts of damp cloud, the engine droning, the struts vibrating.
As they emerged through the other side, Dobbs levelled off. Henry was glad of his woollen scarf then, the air biting into his exposed cheeks. He watched the ground pass beneath them, fields at first, but then tents and Nissen huts. He saw gun carriages moving along the ribbon of roads below, followed by lines of troops. They crossed vast tented camps with men milling by the guy ropes, and he could imagine them tilting up their faces, shielding their eyes with flattened hands to catch a glimpse of the aircraft flying above them. Not so long ago, he would have been among them. He sent up a grateful prayer that he wasn’t any longer.
They flew on, the plane lifting and falling, buffeted by the wind. Henry kept a close eye on the landscape beneath, especially as the scar of the British front lines approached.
‘Coming up now,’ Dobbs hollered. Henry held up a gaunt-leted thumb to indicate he’d heard, before peering over the side at the ominous, pockmarked expanse of no-man’s land.
And then, their target.
Straining against his harness, Henry scanned to his left and right, surveying the full stretch of the German front line. Dobbs kept them high initially – too high for photographs, but high enough to keep them safe from enemy fire while they familiarized themselves with the trench layout and searched for a decent point to begin.
Henry grappled with the bulky camera that seemed too cumbersome and awkward for its delicate mission. One hand kept it secure on his thigh while he used his teeth to tug the glove from the other. The cold air stung his exposed fingers as he retrieved one of the fragile plates and slid it into place. He peered down through the hole in the floor, sizing up the image he hoped to capture, a particular stitch of trench. But then something caught his eye, and he gestured for Dobbs to loop back around so he could take another look, to ensure he hadn’t been mistaken. But no, as they passed over again, he saw the same thing, an adjustment to the pattern of the trench line, one that hadn’t been evident the last time they’d flown over just a matter of days before. It might be nothing, but he was also aware it could indicate a new machine-gun post.
‘Bring her back round again!’ he bellowed, gesturing in case Dobbs hadn’t caught his instruction, but he needn’t have worried. The words had barely left his mouth when the plane banked round, just as he had requested. His focus remained trained on the hole as they approached the spotted anomaly.
‘I’m going to take one!’ he shouted, letting Dobbs know he needed to keep the plane level and steady as he moved the camera between his knees, obliterating his view. Praying he was on target he pressed the trigger, then stowed the used plate in the canvas bag beside him. The minute they landed the plates would be whisked away for development before being sent to GHQ for examination.
He slid in a second plate and pulled the trigger again as Dobbs maintained a steady line. He was just reaching for a third when something stung his finger before pinging off the side of the aircraft. He was stunned to see blood streaking his hand.
‘What the—’ He didn’t have time to finish. A soft thud told him they had been hit again.
Twisting in his seat, he raked the sky trying to stopper his rising alarm.
And then he saw it.
A German Fokker racing towards them.
‘This gripping wartime tale … is testament to how love can blossom in the most unlikely circumstances’ The Sunday Post
‘Beautiful, evocative … a deeply moving tale’ Platinum
‘A heart-wrenching and heart-warming tale of friendship, love, loyalty, bravery, survival and, above all, of hope. Spectacular storytelling!’ Diane Jeffrey
‘Rendered in Anita Frank’s beautiful and filmic prose, this is a story of courage and impossible choices in wartime rural France. I could not put it down’ Julia Kelly