Ten days before the D-day landings at Normandy, Lt. Henry Woodrum woke early to fly a combat mission that culminated in being shot down over the northern suburbs of Paris. Expected to be captured as he hung suspended in his parachute over Nazi-occupied France, Lt. Woodrum never lost hope—even as he realized the Germans were trying to kill him before he hit the ground. Lt. Woodrum’s thirty-fifth combat mission flying the Martin Marauder B-26 was supposed to last just a few hours, but it ended up continuing three months as he struggled to survive in war-torn France. In his fascinating war memoir, Woodrum shares his true account of how he managed to evade capture while being aided by the French Underground—some of whom paid the ultimate price for their loyalty to the downed American pilot. Walkout not only relays the incredible story of a young American behind enemy lines during pivotal months of World War II but also illustrates the quiet heroism displayed by American airmen and the French Resistance during an unforgettable time in history. “A true story of a B-26 pilot’s escape from the Nazis after bailing out over Paris. A must read!” —Col. William F. Nicol, USAFR, MC (Ret) WALKOUT By Henry C. Woodrum iUniverse, Inc. Copyright © 2010 Henry C. Woodrum All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4502-3990-5 Contents Prologue...................................................1Chapter 1-Stansted.........................................3Chapter 2-Shot Down........................................12Chapter 3-First Night......................................32Chapter 4-The Second Day...................................40Chapter 5-The Bar at Carreriers............................64Chapter 6-Lisa.............................................76Chapter 7-Leaving Carreriers...............................87Chapter 8-Versailles.......................................103Chapter 9-D-Day and the Dogfight...........................115Chapter 10-Henrietta and the Belgian.......................128Chapter 11-The Bombing.....................................137Chapter 12-Roadblock.......................................145Chapter 13-The Other American..............................164Chapter 14-The Terrorists..................................184Chapter 15-On the Lam......................................211Chapter 16-Nanterre........................................235Chapter 17-Countdown.......................................267Chapter 18-Liberation......................................280Chapter 19-Pierre's Childhood Memories.....................308Postscript.................................................314 Chapter One Stansted We switched off the Quonset hut lights and stepped quickly outside into the cold English fog. It was 4:00 am, May 28, 1944, too early to be out of bed. Bud Morgan went first, angling the blue-lens flashlight downward as we picked our way toward the latrine. Although it was just fifteen feet ahead, it was invisible-as were the trees that were thickly shrouded in the blanket of fog swirling around us. As we reached the latrine, the early morning silence of the 495th Bomb Squadron's hutment was suddenly shattered by a sputtering B-26's Pratt and Whitney engine on the flight line several hundred feet away. It coughed and wheezed like an old man stumbling out of bed in the morning. At last, the engine caught and settled into a dull roar. Inside the latrine, I made a useless attempt to shave with the lukewarm water. The razor pulled raggedly through my overnight stubble, leaving patches of whiskers behind. But I didn't care what it looked like-and where we were going no one else would either. Ah, another day at Stansted, our Ninth Air Force base. Smitty had just roused us from desperately needed sleep with the news that we would be replacing another crew with a sick pilot on an early morning flight. Our other hut mates had already left for the briefing. I might have figured: Bud and I were supposed to be free on a three-day pass in just a couple of hours. I hoped the fog would linger just a little longer until a regular standby crew could be organized. Back at the hut, I pulled on a pair of green slacks and a green shirt-we never wore insignia on missions-then topped the ensemble with a leather flight jacket. As I pulled on my fleece-lined flying boots, I saw Bud was already dressed and waiting for me at the door. We headed to the club, still using the blue flashlight as we inched our way along the edge of the road to the creek where we both stepped gingerly along a rickety plank to cross the waterway. Bud led with his flashlight pointed toward the narrow wooden board. I followed with a hand on his shoulder. "You know Bud, some morning we're going to fall off this damned plank. Our luck can't hold forever." He glanced back at me and grinned in agreement. We'd been together almost a year, having flown a bunch of training missions in the States before crossing the Atlantic via the s