France, May 1940
(pp.15-17)

The Wing Commander was as obliging about ground transport as he had been about the map and the fuel. One of his dead pilots had left behind a battered old Renault; if Priestman could drive it, he could have it.  The Wing Commander then carefully showed him the best route to follow to get to Seclin by road. …. As a last thought, the Wing Commander also gave him a pistol. “I hope you know how to use it. There have been repeated warnings about parachutists landing behind our lines.  They use any number of disguises, so trust no one.”

Priestman nodded, but the gun felt very heavy and awkward.  He was a reasonably good shot, but he’d never pointed a handgun at anything except a target before – not even a clay pigeon. There was something much more brutal – criminal almost – about pointing a pistol at someone than pointing one aircraft at another.

It was early afternoon by the time Priestman set off, and it was very hot. …. After an hour or so, however, he started to fall asleep at the wheel. …. He decided he would have to stop and sleep.  Just a half-hour, he told himself.  To avoid jamming the road, he turned off into a field and parked the car under a line of large chestnut trees beside an irrigation ditch.  He locked the car from the inside and fell instantly asleep.

Priestman woke with a sense of both terror and confusion.  Something was roaring overhead, people were screaming, and a horse galloped past dragging a man tangled in the reins of the harness. Branches rained down onto the top of the car.  Jesus Christ, the Germans were strafing the road!
Priestman flung open the door and rolled out of the car into the ditch.  There was about a foot of water in it, and his right foot was instantly soaked, but he didn’t notice it at the time.  Looking up, he could see two Me109s wheeling around and coming back for a second run. The bloody bastards! There wasn’t a legitimate target for miles.

The roar of engines low overhead, the chatter of machine guns, the screams of refugees and horses, the branches cracking and falling, repeated themselves. Twice.  Then apparently the Messerschmitts ran out of ammo or lost interest, because they flew away.

Shaken and shaking, Priestman pulled himself up out of the ditch.  His uniform, which his batman had gone to so much trouble to clean and press just last night, was now filthy. Priestman tried to brush off the worst dirt, but then gave up. He went to the Renault and looked it over.  Except for a dent or two from the falling branches, it appeared undamaged.  Then he turned with dread to look at the road beyond it. Along the length of it, the refugees were picking themselves up, dusting themselves off, and checking their own vehicles.  But here and there were crumpled bundles that did not move, or only barely moved.  The hysterical screaming of a woman drew his attention to the right, and he saw a woman on her knees before a lifeless bundle. An older woman was trying to calm her. Priestman approached, planning to offer transport to the next hospital, but the child’s head had been blown open and half torn away by the impact. He retreated.  A little farther away, however, a man was rocking back and forth clutching his shattered shin, his face screwed up with pain. Robin went to him, and tapped his shoulder. “Monsieur. Je avais un Auto.”

In the end, Priestman loaded no less than six of the injured into the little Renault and set off.  Later he could not explain how they communicated.  His French was spotty at best, and the refugees spoke a dialect that was far removed from the language of school French masters.  Furthermore, they were all in shock, and Robin himself was not far removed from it.  Somehow they got to a town, and a gendarme on a bicycle led Priestman to a hospital.  But the hospital was completely over-run with patients already.  Dazed and bleeding civilians sat or lay like a carpet across the reception area.

Priestman left the injured in that sea of misery and returned to his Renault.  The heat had finally gone out of the day.  The sun was sinking down the western horizon and turning golden yellow. He realised that he was starving.  He’d had nothing since breakfast. Deciding to keep his rations for later, he went into the nearest café.

Filled if not refreshed, he returned to the car and started off again. … it was already getting light in the sky behind him.  It was, he guessed, roughly 24 hours since he had taken off from Duxford.  He was now somewhere in Northern France, driving a dead pilot’s automobile to a destination he’d never heard of before.  In the last 24 hours he had been in his first dog-fight, been on the receiving end of both bombing and strafing, watched his Hurricane blown up before his eyes and seen his first casualties.  He was stiff, tired, sticky with dirt, unshaven, and uncombed, and he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth reminding him he hadn’t brushed his teeth, either.  He could not remember ever feeling this grotty at any time in his short life. And the grumble of artillery sounded nearer than ever.  Today looked like it was going to be a re-run of yesterday.  Was it really just yesterday that he had been eager and anxious to come over here to do his part?

"When I finished Chasing the Wind, I immediately wondered why you don't follow it up from where you left off with the war through another angle and other characters, but following a time line?  I am not asking much, am I? Thanks again for the pleasure of reading a terrific story." Cy Hilterman, 72 year old American from PA, wrote in an email about Chasing the Wind Good news for Cy Hilterman and all those who feel the same!  Be sure to read Lady in Ths Spitfire by Helena Schrader!  The story in Chasing the Wind continues with a mid-air near collision between a damaged Flying Fortress and an RAF bomber.  This becomes the catalyst which brings Lt. Jay Baronowsky and Emily Priestman, a pilot of the Air Transport Auxiliary, together.  The encounter is the start of a war-time romance shadowed by the intangible presence of Emily's missing husband (The RAF pilot, Robin Priestman, in Chasing the Wind). Editorial Review Chasing the Wind one 1st Prize in the category of "Global Literature" from the ReaderViews 2007 (awarded in 2008) Literary Awards.  This book has also won the Karen Villanueva Award

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