Isabelle
Vallinfreda, Italy, 1943
A courageous and resourceful young girl, Isabelle, helps a downed RAF pilot, Captain Mark Llewelyn hide from the German forces occupying her mountain village. Risking her own life and facing terrifying hardship, she decides to lead Capt. Llewelyn past the German lines to the safety of Italian resistance fighters many miles away. Isabelle is a story of courage and fearless defiance in the face of almost insurmountable odds.
Chapter One
October 8th, 1943
RAF Headquarters
638th Reconnaissance Squadron
Foggia, Italy
Captain Mark Llewelyn took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled a steady plume of blue smoke into the cool autumn air. Despite the mild evening temperature and being warmly dressed in a sheepskin flight suit, he felt a chill run through his body. It was approaching 2200 hours and the pilots were beginning to make their way to the squadron command bunker for their nightly briefing.
As he looked out at the airfield from atop the wooden steps of the officers’ mess, his wingman, Lt. Liam McCloskey, a good natured and athletic kid from Belfast walked up grinning broadly.
“What’s up Liam? You seem quite pleased with yourself?”.…asked Llewelyn.
“Met a lovely bird in town last night…she was “bellissima!”
“I think I might be in love.”
Llewelyn replied with a hint of sarcasm as he lit up another cigarette….”Careful there Liam, before you know it you’ll leave a trail of broken hearts from here to Ulster.”
“Aye, well, at least me mam would be happy I found a nice Catholic girl.”
“By the way they say smokes will kill you mate” he said as he reached for one of Mark’s favorite Dunhill Extras. “Don’t mind if I do.” McCloskey laughed.
Mark chuckled and smoked in silence as the rest of the pilots began making their way toward the briefing room.
Quietly extinguishing their cigarettes, they followed a dimly lit trail toward a seagrass covered concrete bunker which served as the squadron command center. As the men walked along the narrow path, tall cypress trees cast moonlit shadows on the white limestone gravel and wistfully reminded Mark of his Cheltenham home.
“Seems like a lifetime ago” he thought as a light breeze stirred the silver tipped pines.
When they reached the command center, steel-eyed sentries opened the large iron doors securing the bunker entrance allowing the men into the briefing room. The low red lighting cast an eerie glow over the smoke-filled room.
When all crewmembers were inside, the doors were closed and the overhead lamps slowly came to life, allowing the men time to adjust their eyes to the increasing incandescent brightness.
Circular fans on the bunker ceiling chattered noisily as Mark and Liam found two empty folding chairs side by side and sat down awaiting the arrival of the senior officers.
Liam coughed and muttered……”I bloody hate smoke filled rooms!”
Mark laughed and smiled at his wingman.
“Easy on mate; you’ll survive”
To Mark, the briefing room’s bare concrete walls and overhead lamps conveyed a sense of foreboding.
How many briefings had he sat through? “Too many” he thought.
Looking up, Mark found himself staring at the black and white photos of squadron mates that never came home. Set in their silver frames on a polished mahogany mantle above the old cast iron stove they sadly reminded him of the life and death game he played every night.
Tonight’s mission would be his twenty-third. Only two more and he would rotate home to RAF Duxford and be wonderfully closer to his home in the pastoral countryside of Cheltenham.
“I’m looking forward to that” he thought. Yet a deep sadness filled him as he imagined his homecoming. “I guess I’m just not looking forward to seeing the old man”.
His father, Commodore Miles Llewelyn, Retired, was a pretentious snob. Commodore Llewelyn was not pleased that Mark had volunteered for the RAF. He would have rather preferred his son had joined the Royal Navy as was family tradition and left aerial fighting to the other chaps. Commodore Llewelyn always thought fly boys to be reckless, common and arrogant.
Mark lit up another Dunhill and shrugged off the image and returned his attention to the upcoming briefing.
A large map of the Italian southern sector covered the wall behind a podium where “management” identified nightly targets and issued mission assignments.
Members of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, or WAAF’s for short, dressed in their blue grey uniforms, busily positioned markers on the map while the communication team hurriedly rushed in and out relaying information on the latest enemy movements.
Mark thought to himself as he waited, “Only two more missions”.
At precisely 2200 hours, Squadron Commander, Col. Sir Alan Mills strode into the smoke-filled room and the pilots jumped to attention.
“At ease men.”
“Please feel free to smoke.”
The men let out a laugh and quickly sat back down, their mood turning deadly serious as all eyes locked on the Colonel.
“Gents…Tonight’s mission will take us further north than we have previously flown.”
“The German 10th Army is setting up a defensive perimeter around Rome and has drawn a line in the sand.
“Monty’s 8th is attacking up the southeast coast from Bari and the American 5th is advancing from Salerno. If successful, this pincer strategy should decisively crush the German defensive line and send them packing”.
The room erupted with shouts and applause as the 638th was almost entirely due for their rotation home. “The sooner the better.” thought Mark, as the room quieted down.
The colonel continued on crisply, “Men, we have received credible intelligence from our contacts in the Italian Resistance that a German mechanized infantry division is amassing outside Rome along the SR5 corridor.
“We need to locate them…and locate them immediately.”
“The intel we gather from tonight’s mission will be essential to breaking Jerry’s back and we need to gather it tonight.”
“LLewelyn and McCloskey, you have the SR5 highway mountain pass directly below Vallinfreda”.
“Get some good photos. It’s a clear night with ideal flying conditions and it should go smoothly.”
Liam leaned over to Mark and whispered, “Except for the German Luftwaffe”.
After assigning missions to all crews, Col. Mills ended the briefing as he always did.
“Good hunting lads.”
“Everybody comes home.”
As the men were dismissed, loud chatter and the sound of screeching chairs pushing back against the concrete floor filled the briefing room. The crews filed out of the bunker and boarded transport lorries to take them to their aircraft.
“What do you think Mark?” asked Liam as they rode out to the flight line.
“Should be routine…but… I’m not one to count my chickens as such.”
“Only two more to go and then it’s home for both of us”.
“Touch wood.”
Liam laughed, “The last mile is always the longest.”
Mark smirked as he replied, “Let’s get airborne…it’s business as usual.”
Business as usual he thought…just business as usual.
As the transports slowed as they reached the airfield, the men jumped off the rear tailgates onto the tarmac. Their Spitfire Supermarines were eerily illuminated under the October full moon. Ground crews were performing final mechanical checks and loading .50 calibre ammunition belts into the wing gun magazines and the pilots began their pre-flight checks.
It was now 2300 hours and Capt. Llewelyn approached his aircraft, stopping for a moment to pat the grey camouflaged fuselage and whispered “Let’s get us home girl…Only two more to go.”
At that moment, Sgt. Bill Blackburn, his chief mechanic ran up to him. Bill’s face was smudged with grease and his young eyes exhausted. Endless hours repairing battered birds after they miraculously returned home in the morning hours, only strengthened the determination of the twenty-year-old Yorkshire mechanic, to ready them for flight later in the evening.
“You’re good to go Sir!” the Sgt. shouted as Llewelyn began to climb up the portable step ladder onto the wing.
“Thanks Billy….Getting any sleep these days?” asked Llewelyn as he climbed into the cockpit.
Standing on the tarmac, Billy laughed as he shook his head from side to side.
As Mark started to close the canopy… his mechanic offered a caution, “Keep an eye on the oil pressure Sir,”
“There were a few leaks, but I fixed ‘em… they ‘owt be right now”.
“Thanks Billy…that’s reassuring.” Mark called back sarcastically.
As Llewelyn completed his pre-flight checklist, he looked across at Liam and gave a thumbs up. The ground crew directed them to the active runway to await takeoff clearance from the tower.
As they turned onto the threshold of the runway, Mark watched Liam take his position to the left rear and was glad he had the Belfast lad as his wingman. There was none more courageous….and none a better friend.
Closely watching the field tower, a green light began flashing, signaling the pilots it was their turn to depart. Pushing their throttles forward, the Spitfires’ 1270 Hp Rolls Royce power plants roared to life. Barreling down the runway in tandem at 120 knots, the aircraft effortlessly lifted off into the moonlight.
After retracting the landing gear, the pair maintained radio silence as they climbed out over the rocky Foggia coastline toward the night’s designated target area.
As they reached their cruising altitude of 20,000 feet, Llewelyn set a heading of 280 degrees northwest, which would take them on a direct path over the Molise province from which the Germans had retreated. From there, they would fly over the mountainous Abruzzo region and begin their mission. If all went well, the total flight time would be four hours.
“Four hours…feels like an eternity” thought Llewelyn as he adjusted the strap on his oxygen mask and scanned the sky for enemy fighters. “No sign of Jerry aloft….that’s odd…But I’m not going jinx it”. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself as he thought….“the bastards might get me….but not today”.
As they approached the SR5 corridor, twenty kilometers from Vallinfreda, Llewelyn broke radio silence and instructed his wingman to follow him and descend to 10,000 Ft.
“Liam, we’ll drop in low and fast…. make a camera run, take our photos and bugger out before Jerry realizes what we’re up to”.
“Follow me in.”
“Roger that,” replied McCloskey as he tightened the straps of his harness.
Dropping the nose slightly and with Liam pulling up three meters from his left tail, the twin aircraft descended as one into the mountain valley below.
As they leveled out and looked below, they spotted a German motorized column stretching for at least five kilometers along the SR5 highway.
“Looks like we hit the Lotto” radioed Liam.
“An entire mechanized infantry division is on the bloody move!”
With cameras whirring, they made a highspeed pass at 300 knots over the column and then started their climb back to 20,000 feet.
As they climbed out of the steep valley, Liam exclaimed “Well that was simple enough.”
“Not too bad……Let’s head home”…..Mark grunted with quiet urgency.
As they climbed through 10,000 feet, the hair on the back of Llewelyn’s neck began to stand on end. Something was wrong. His aircraft was behaving strangely…An odd vibration shook the airframe and the engine seemed to be losing thrust.
Llewelyn quickly scanned his instrument panel to find his oil pressure falling.
“Liam, I’m losing oil pressure… I should be able to make it back to Foggia, if it doesn’t get any worse”.
“Roger that. Keep the faith mate” replied McCloskey.
Both planes continued their climb when Llewelyn radioed.
“Oil pressure not good……I’m in the red and losing power…..Can’t maintain this rate of climb….We’ll need to level out”.
“Roger that….I’m right with you” replied McCloskey as he tucked his Spitfire under Llewelyn’s left wing.
“Look me over!” shouted Mark.
Liam replied…”You’re smoking Mark and l don’t mean Dunhills!”
At that moment, Llewelyn’s engine began to sputter and smoke seeped into the cockpit from behind the firewall.
“Liam…..I’m on fire….Smoke’s filling the cockpit….. I’m bailing out”
Looking down, Liam spotted the small medieval town of Vallinfreda sitting on a mountain peak directly below.
“Bloody hell…the area is crawling with Jerry!” shouted Liam.
“I’m staying with you!”
“Get your Irish arse home, I’ll be alright!” Shouted Mark over the intercom.
“Watch yourself mate”…. Liam replied as his stomach knotted up. Peeling away and climbing rapidly out of the valley, he set his radial on a course 100 degrees southeast back to Foggia.
“Godspeed Mark”
“See you in Duxford!” Mark called back, hoping it was more of a promise than a prayer.
Llewelyn’s Spitfire suddenly began to shudder violently, and the spade-stick was unresponsive to his command. As he struggled to push back the plexiglass canopy, a blast of frigid night air rushed past him. He frantically unstrapped himself from his harness then climbed out of the cockpit. He quickly glanced down at the rugged terrain below and jumped into the darkness.
Chapter Two
October 9th, 1943
Vallinfreda, Italy
The late afternoon sun cast long purple shadows over the small medieval town of Vallinfreda, as Isabelle Bernardini rode her bicycle home from school with her best friend Patrizio. The birch trees were beginning to turn brilliant shades of amber, yellow and gold, while the crisp autumn air was pleasantly cool.
Fourth grade was turning out be more fun than she ever imagined and both she and Patrizio laughed as they recounted the day’s events in class with Professore Monti. To Isabelle he was ancient and bumbling, but kindhearted, and he told the best stories of adventure and travel to far off lands.
“Someday Patrizio” Isabelle said as they bumped and rattled along the cobblestone streets….”I will go on an adventure and visit magical and mysterious places. “I will be the brave heroine and Patrizio you will be the brave hero”.
They both laughed as they peddled up the street dreaming of colorful exotic lands filled with strange and wonderful animals. As they passed a small Pastisseria, they waved at Signora Rosetti who was busy sweeping the sidewalk in front of her small store.
Ciao Signora! They shouted as they rode past her small pastry shop.
Ciao bambini! she shouted…Saluti a tutti famiglia!
Grazie Signora!
Rounding the corner on to the main street, they braked quickly, as they came upon the military checkpoint manned by the German soldiers who now occupied the town.
Isabelle and Patrizio had to pass this way every day on the way home from school. Today the sinister corporal with the small scar near his left eye was on duty. He frightened Isabelle, but Patrizio was with her and she felt safe. Patrizio was tall for his age and most people thought he was much older than he was.
After peering into their small canvas rucksacks the guards pulled back the barbed wire barrier and the children were allowed to go on their way.
Isabelle and Patrizio pedaled as hard as they could as they left the checkpoint.
“I hate the Germans.” Said Isabelle
“Me too” said Patrizio
“I wish they would just go home.”
“Me too…But the Mayor is fascista, a “black shirt” and is happy they are here”.
As they came to the town square, they parted ways…Patrizio climbed the steps to his family’s apartamento and waved good-bye to Isabelle as he walked through the front door.
Isabelle turned the corner to begin her ride up the hill when she spotted Armando, the mayor’s son kicking a soccer ball around with his friends. She was anxious to get home to help her grandmother make her favorite, ravioli di zucca and being waylaid by Armando and his pals was the last thing she needed. “Ugh, first the Germans and now Armando,” thought Isabelle.
Armando was thirteen, mean spirited and spoiled. His friends, Romano and Nino, were his toadies and did everything Armando told them to do.
Armando was obsessed with Isabelle. It wasn’t so much that he liked her, but more of a jealous fascination. Everyone loved Isabelle. She was kind to everyone. She would spend time in the afternoons playing Briscola with her grandfather and his friends in the village piazza. Even Signora Rosetti was under her spell, giving her samples of her freshly baked biscotti. He was jealous of her popularity and it drove him crazy that she wanted nothing to do with him. Instead, she hung out with that beanpole Patrizio.
As she peddled up the hill to the home where she lived with her grandparents, Armando jumped in front of her and grabbed the handlebars of her bicycle, causing Isabelle to scrape her shin on the one of the peddles.
“Ciao Isabella…where are you going…a dove vai? Are you going to visit your wrinkled old pensionati in the square?”
“Let me go Armando, please leave me alone.”
“Why don’t you want play with us? Or are we not old enough for you?”
Romano and Nino bent over imitating old men walking with sticks. They were just as mean as Armando and if possible, even more dumb.
As Isabelle struggled to wrestle her bicycle away from Armando’s grip, the postman, Signore Lamberto walked by and seeing Isabelle being bothered by the village bullies said “Ciao bella…Como stai?”
“Bene Signore…I’m on my way home,” glaring at Armando.
“Isabelle would you be so kind as to take these letters to your grandmother? It will save me many steps!”
“I will be happy to Signore!”
She freed her bicycle from Armando and took the letters from the postman, peddling as hard as she could up the steep incline to her home.
When Isabelle arrived home, she heard the sound of her Nonna singing in the kitchen.
“Ciao Nonna, I’m home” and ran to embrace her grandmother who was preparing dinner.
“Ciao Isabelle…Go wash your hands and tell me about your day.”
“It was wonderful Nonna!”
“Did you know that the Rajas in India ran the silk road caravans!”
“Someday Patrizio and I will go on a great adventure to a faraway land and ride elephants!”
Nonna laughed and held her granddaughter close.
“Bambina, you have such a beautiful imagination. I hope someday all your dreams come true. But now, go wash your hands and let us start dinner. Your grandfather will be home soon.”
Chapter Three
October 9, 1943
“Probably best to make my way down the mountain and get as far away from here as possible before Jerry wakes up.” Thought Llewelyn as he took stock of his situation.
After crashing amongst the pines in his parachute the night before, he had cut himself out of his harness and fallen eight feet to the ground spraining his ankle.
Unable to retrieve the parachute as it was snagged among the branches high above, he hobbled away as fast as possible along a narrow rocky path strewn with pine needles until coming upon an old cemetery.
Containing rows of mausoleums of every shape and size, the small graveyard had the appearance in the early morning moonlight of an abandoned city made of marble.
As he staggered amongst the moss-covered monoliths, he finally stopped and could walk no further with his ankle throbbing. Before him was a large family tomb beautifully carved of travertine marble.
“Surely the Germans spotted my downed plane” He thought.
“Will need to need hide before the sun comes up and they’re out looking for me.”
Hoping no one would think to look for him here and pausing a moment to gather his strength, he climbed the few steps leading up to the crypt.
Pushing open the fragile wrought iron door and flicking his zippo lighter, the flame illuminated the vault revealing smooth white marble walls. Each wall containing the generations of family remains.
Slowly he scanned the names on the tomb… Bernadini…until the most recent inhabitants revealed themselves, Antonio and Maria, 1883. Husband and wife were laid to rest together.
Thoroughly exhausted, Mark found a space on the cold marble floor next to a small shrine and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
A few hours later he awoke to the sound of gardeners busily cutting back bushes and noisily chatting with each other. He was momentarily disoriented as to where he was. Then remembered the engine fire forcing him to bail out of his aircraft.
Having slept and with a somewhat clearer head, it was time to reassess his situation.
“What to do now?” thought Llewelyn,
Thirsty and hungry, he stood up to see if he could spot the gardeners, but not before a searing pain from his ankle shot through him like fire. He fell back against the cool marble walls, the pain causing him to sharply inhale and he realized his sprained ankle wasn’t his only handicap; he had broken at least a few ribs on his right side.
Looking about him, Mark noticed the fresh candles and flowers in the vases.
“There must be access to a faucet nearby” he thought.
“I’m not going to get far with a buggered ankle, though. Best wait for the gardeners to finish before going in search of water.”
Chapter Four
Vallinfreda, Italy
October 9, 1943
Hauptman Jurgen Wolf, Commanding Officer of the German 1st Mountain Brigade, sipped his espresso and nibbled on a delicious Biscotti outside Pastisseria Rosetti in the early morning light. The small town was just coming to life and it was the time of the day he enjoyed most before the madness of war became his daily reality.
If not for the misguided ambition of “Der Fuhrer” and that pompous fool Mussolini, he would be home in Freiburg with his son Matias fishing for trout in the Black forest.
His beautiful wife Heike would be preparing a wonderful lunch and his daughter Ana would be practicing piano. But that was long go.
Hopefully, I will return someday, but I fear things are not going to end well. He sighed as he set down his small cup. The Americans and British are advancing with great strength toward Rome and the future is not clear, in fact it is bleak.
The previous week, Wolf received a worrying letter from Heike telling him that Stuttgart had been bombed. She was relieved that she and the children were safe in Freiburg, but the constant sound of Allied aircraft overhead terrified her.
Lighting a cigarette, Wolf put the thought of his family aside and returned his concentration to the military business at hand.
Only a few hours before, he had been abruptly awakened at 3:00 AM by his adjutant, Lt. Klaus Schertel, informing him that a Spitfire had crashed approximately three kilometers from the town. There was no sign of the pilot, so it must be assumed he was alive.
Finishing his espresso, he decided he would dispatch additional patrols to scour the area. The pilot is probably dead thought Wolf, but nonetheless it would be best to verify. Putting down his cup, he thanked Signora Rosetti, the shop’s proprietor, but despite her polite demeanor he knew he was not welcome.
After walking a short distance up the worn cobblestone street, he entered a two-story building facing the piazza. A large red flag with a black swastika emblazoned on a white background rustled menacingly in the morning breeze. The ancient building had been the town hall for centuries before it was converted to his headquarters this summer.
As he stepped onto the colorful tile flooring, Hauptman Wolf looked up with disdain at the portrait of the corpulent and obese Sindaco Massimo, the Mayor of Vallinfreda.
His corruption was well known to all, but Massimo was a sympathizer and would have to be tolerated for the moment.
“I will deal with him when the time comes”, thought Wolf as he adjusted his reading glasses and reached for a file of administrative documents.
A few moments later, his adjutant knocked quietly on his door.
“Kommen”
Lt. Schertel entered the room and reported in his usual efficient and competent manner… “Sir, a patrol has found the Spitfire wreckage but there is no sign of the pilot. He most likely bailed out or perhaps his body was thrown out during the crash.”
“Keep looking Klaus”, replied Wolf as he exhaled with frustration at the never ending stack of superfluous documents requiring his signature.
“I’m an infantry officer!” Wolf exclaimed “and these idiots at HQ have made me a clerk!”
His longtime adjutant and confidant chuckled.
“Listen to you” Schertel replied.
”You have it easy now Jurgen, Isn’t it better than trudging around in the mud all night?”
“Or even still, you could be leading a platoon on the Eastern Front.”
Wolf laughed and replied sarcastically “I can’t believe I have tolerated your insolence all these years Klaus!”
“Now go capture that British pilot or at least bring back his body.”
Chapter Five
October 9, 1943
Vallinfreda
Wearing her favorite Sunday dress, Isabelle knocked on the door of her friend Patrizio’s apartment. She had a basket of flowers in her hand and a modest lunch of cheese and fruit in her knapsack. Her neatly braided hair was golden in the morning sun.
Today she and Patrizio would go to the cemetery to visit his grandparents’ graves.
Every Sunday after Mass, the families of Vallinfreda would attend to their family crypts, but yesterday, Patrizio’s parents received a call informing them that his uncle Mauro had become gravely ill.
As his parents left to take the bus to Roma, they asked Patrizio to make sure the family crypt would be tidied and to replace the wilted flowers in the vases.
“Si...Papa…replied Patrizio…Isabelle and I will take flowers and sweep.”
“Saluti a Zio Mauro.”
Hearing Isabelle’s knock, Patrizio opened the weathered wooden door of his family’s apartment. He was dressed in a hand-me-down grey suit and thin black tie. The waist of his trousers still fit; however, he had grown two inches over the summer and the trouser legs were now high waters with no extra material left to let out the hem. He had polished his well-worn shoes as best he could and hoped they still had a few more months left in them.
“Ciao Isabelle!”
“Andiamo!”
Isabelle loved the time she spent with Patrizio. He was her best friend and there was nothing they wouldn’t do for each other or any secret they wouldn’t share.
Climbing onto their bicycles they rode past the little church of San Michele Arcangelo toward the cemetery…Mass had ended and Padre Marino was standing on the little patio in front of the church. He waved at the children as they passed and shouted affectionately…”Attento!”
As they wound their way down the steep mountain road, they braked at the wooden statue of Santo Giuseppe, the patron Saint of Vallinfreda, which overlooked the valley.
Reaching into her rucksack for a small bottle of water, she took a sip while Patrizio stretched his back…After blessing themselves and leaving flowers at the little shrine for their families, they rumbled down the small path to the old cemetery nestled amongst the pines.
Reaching their destination, they jumped off their bikes at a small stone fountain carved into the limestone rock wall which surrounded the cemetery.
After refreshing themselves with the cold spring water that flowed from the worn brass spigot, Patrizio ran ahead toward his family crypt and shouted.
“I will sweep….then we’ll have lunch…I’m hungry!… We can place flowers in the vase later and then go home.”
“Bene!” Isabelle shouted as she lay a small woven blanket on the lush grass that covered the ground.
While unpacking the lunch her grandmother had prepared, she heard Patrizio’s voice…..“Isabelle…I can’t find the broom…It’s always here…Maybe one of the gardeners used it”
Isabelle shouted back…”Don’t worry…I’ll go to my family’s and we can use ours!”
She made her way through the graveyard monuments until she came upon her family’s tomb. Pushing open the rusted iron gate, she entered the Bernardini family crypt and was greeted by the fragrant smell of candle wax and roses her grandmother had left a few days before.
Quickly glancing in the direction of the small altar, she made the sign of the cross before looking around the crypt for the broom. When she turned to face the corner near the statue of the Blessed Mother, she heard a moaning sound.
Terrified, she looked back toward the altar and in the dim light she saw a man propped up against the mausoleum wall.
He was dressed in leather sheepskins and was visibly hurt.
“Help me. Please….I’m very thirsty.”
“My name is Captain Mark Llewelyn. I am a British pilot in the Royal Air Force and I am hurt.”
“Please stay quiet”...she whispered…. I will help you… I will fetch you some water.”
Running back to the picnic blanket and reaching into her rucksack she grabbed the small glass bottle and filled it with water from the fountain then returned to the man in the crypt.
As he brought the bottle to his lips, she asked…..”What are you doing here?”
“My plane had engine trouble and I had to bail out.”
He took several gulps before asking, “Who are you little one?”
I am Isabelle.
