Not Flag or Fail (20 page)

“I’ve asked her to call her father over.” Ronny explained, from the shadows and I watched, as the younger of the two men walked over towards us.

We heard him climb the ladder and then watched as the shock of seeing us registered on his face. I pointed my gun towards him and Ronny instructed him to continue his ascent. He stepped off the ladder and walked over towards us raising his hands as he did so, Ronny pointed over to a pile of hay and spoke to them, both father and daughter sat down anxiously looking at us.

Ronny sat down opposite them whilst I stayed standing, pointing the gun. A conversation between the French man and Ronny started, interrupted occasionally by the girl, who neither the father or Ronny seemed too happy to include in the conversation, I think her father must have told her to be quiet on a couple of occasions before eventually raising his voice causing her to fall into a sulky silence.

It turned out that the family were no lovers of le Bosche and the man’s father, who we had seen down below, had fought against them in the last war. He warned us the farm was a popular spot for the local garrison and they often came, as we’d witnessed earlier to buy eggs, butter or milk.

Ronny told him to stop and translated all of what he’d been told to me and asked what I thought we should do?

We tossed the problem about for a while, with Ronny questioning the man about details from time to time. Eventually we decided that for our remaining time we would have to relocate to the farmhouse, where for the time remaining we could keep our eye on all of them.

Ronny slung his gun over his shoulder and made his way down the ladder, when he got to the bottom he unslung the weapon, I motioned for the man to go down next, keeping the girl at the top until her father was off the ladder. Once she was half way down I went over to the window and had a look out.

No one else had arrived and the old man still sat on the wall with the old lady leaning next to him in companionable silence, I made my way down the ladder.

Ronny, the father and daughter stepped outside into the late evening sun and I stayed within the shadows of the barn watching their progress. It was soon very obvious that the older couple were delighted to see a British soldier and I watched as the delight wore off to be replaced by caution as they looked around suddenly realising the danger they would be in if they were seen harbouring the British.

The old man sprang down off the wall with surprising agility for his age, he and his wife, followed by the girl, ushered Ronny towards the house.

The younger man came back into the barn. “Mesieur, vite vite!

He called gesturing for me to follow him. We all of us entered the farm kitchen Ronny and I still cautiously looking around our guns cocked ready to fire.

We passed through a large kitchen into a dining room with a large scrubbed pine table there were a dozen chairs spaced around it yet still enough room for another six. A big open fireplace stood to one end with a log fire set in the grate. The older man gestured for us to sit but I don’t think either Ronny or I felt safe enough to do so and looked questioningly at each other. As we were doing this, the old lady who was probably actually only about sixty years old, returned from where she had been, closing a pair of heavy curtains across the room’s one window. She put her hand gently on my face and spoke to me in heavily accented English.

“Monsieur, my English is very bad but I tell you, in the other war my brother he die, my first born son he die also.

In this house no one loves le boshe, you are safe here,

Marcel and I, we are too old to fight now but we are not too old to help you, so please let us help you eh?

Tears welled in her eyes as I looked down at her and smiled.

“Thank you Madame, it will be an honour to be your guest.”

They bade us sit down and the woman and the girl went back to the kitchen, the girl returning almost immediately with two more mugs of cider, this time for me and Ronny.

Ronny and the old man spoke for a long time, Ronny enjoying the chance to again show off his language skills. For my part I sat and enjoyed my mug of cider and the French cigarette that the younger man had given me to try. About twenty minutes later the woman and girl returned, each carrying a tray, they placed before us big bowls of thick steaming vegetable soup and chunks of rough bread. In the middle of the table they placed plates piled with butter and cheese.

“Bonne appetite messieurs,” said the woman in French and then turned to me and in English said “enjoy please.”

Ronny and I wolfed down the soup and followed up with the bread and cheese. When we had finally finished she appeared carrying a plate containing a fruit tarte and cut us each a generous slice.

“Monsieur likes my cooking I think” she said and laughed softly.

“He does indeed.” I replied biting into the tarte.

We finished the meal off with a generous sized cup of strong coffee and in turn, each of us made use of the bathroom to freshen up as best we could, we had no razors with us and did not like to ask but we were each provided with soap and a jug of hot water and were able to get a good wash.

And so it was that looking fresher and cleaner on the outside and better fed on the inside that we said our goodbyes to the family at nine thirty that evening and set off once again for the coast.

We made our way carefully back to the riverbank, it was another moonless night and in the shadows, an inky blackness cloaked us. During a whispered conversation we agreed that we were confident that the family would not give us up to the German troops, so we did not feel the need to look behind us.

We trotted on silently, after a while Ronny, the intrepid navigator, pointed out a series of three bridges very close together and showed me, on the map, their position. The bridges were about halfway between Cassel and Wormout, this meant we were making good time, there was only about six miles left before we reached the coast and it wasn’t yet ten thirty. Twenty minutes or so later, on the outskirts of the village of Wormout, we slowed to a walk and slipped quietly, deeper into the darkness. Neither of us spoke, by now we didn’t have to, we could almost read each others thoughts.

Once again our instincts saved us; we stopped, knowing that something wasn’t right. Looking around I eventually spotted the glow of a cigarette about fifty feet in front of us, I took Ronnie’s arm and silently pointed and together we watched the small red glow move up and down as the smoker moved the cigarette up to and away from his mouth.

Our problem now was identifying the smoker, was it a local out for a late walk? We didn’t think so; the people at the farm had told us there was a curfew in operation from ten o’clock.

So was it a sentry and if so was he on his own? To the left of us there was just the river and the ground between where we hid and the riverbank was fairly open. The only cover to be found was over to our right around the side of the path where a rough hedge of bushes and saplings grew more or less in line with the bank of the river. Behind the hedge to our right were open fields so the problem of how we were going to get closer needed some thought, I knew for certain that I wasn’t stopping here.

I whispered to Ronny that I thought it was time for the old cowboy trick again; after all it had worked for us once before. Ronny agreed and I felt around on the ground until I found something to throw. I picked up a stone, a little larger than the size of a cricket ball and handed it to Ronny.

“I’ll go for about halfway.” whispered Ronny.

“Ok let’s just hope it works.” I whispered back.

He threw the stone underarm, as if bowling to a child; it was well executed landing in the darkness with a thud and the noise of breaking twigs.

“Halt.” shouted a voice and almost instantly we heard the sound of two rifle bolts being operated and a whispered conversation. Nothing else happened so I felt around with my foot and bent down to pick up another stone of about the same size, I handed it to Ronny and in a whisper told him to put it in the same spot.

Again we heard the stone fall and again the command halt rang out, this time from two voices. A light appeared on the track, moving erratically from side to side, it was followed by two steel helmeted silhouettes, one of which was obviously having some difficulty holding his rifle and the torch at the same time, neither giving any impression of confidence.

“Careful,” whispered Ronny, “these are just the sort of idiots who’ll shoot you, wait here I wont be long.”

With that he silently slipped off to the right, leaving me with the Germans heading towards me, now less than thirty feet away. As quietly as I could I stooped down, making myself less of a target, I wanted to take the safety off my machine pistol but was afraid the click would be heard. The silence was broken by a familiar voice speaking quietly in German it was Ronny, he was standing close behind the soldiers and whatever he said must have been understood because they laid their rifles on the ground and moved backwards away from them, raising their hands as they did so. I stood up and as I moved forward, levelled my gun towards them, prodding them with the barrel to turn them around, we moved back to where they had earlier been waiting. Hidden just to the side of the track we found the now familiar BMW motorcycle and sidecar, this one though had a machine gun mounted on the front of the sidecar. We looked around and were satisfied that there was no one with them, Ronny spoke quietly to them but they just looked at him and did not reply, he told me that he was asking them what they were doing here?

What were we going to do with them I wondered, I’d done enough killing with the SS men and didn’t want to do any more but if we tied them up and left them they would be a threat to our escape. Ronny prodded them with his gun and told them to remove their helmets which they did. He then told them to remove their jackets; they were wearing combat smocks not dissimilar to our own. “Stand back Alan and keep your gun pointed at them.” Ronny said, as he pushed them to the floor, walking to the side of them so that I had a clear field of fire. He removed each of their leather trouser belts and refastened them around their ankles, fastening their legs together. He then pushed one of them over onto his stomach; he removed the soldier’s braces and used them to secure his hands behind his back. Leaving him lying face down he repeated the operation with the second soldier. When he was satisfied, he sat them both up and dressed them in their jackets again, which he zipped up, their arms inside, the arms of the jackets hanging loosely at their sides. As a finishing touch he felt through their pockets, pulling out army issue handkerchiefs which he stuffed into their mouths.

“That should hold them until morning; I don’t fancy any more killing just yet, do you?” He said.

“No, not tonight” I replied.

I looked over at the BMW “What do you think, seems a shame to waste the training.” I said.

Ronny agreed, saying that the same thought had crossed his mind, adding that if we just wore the German helmets our uniforms were close enough to get by in the dark. He said he’d do the sidecar with the map and all I had to do was go where he told me.

“And remember to lean into the sidecar on the bends or we’ll go arse over tit.” he whispered in the drawl usually reserved for Fishy.

We both put on the helmets, Ronny got into the sidecar and I pushed down onto the kick start, the big flat twin rumbled instantly into life. Slowly I edged my way along the path, Ronny had the sidecar mounted MG 34 machine cocked and ready, traversing from side to side as we progressed through the darkness. Within a couple of minutes the path joined a wider track that veered off to the right away from the river, Ronny pointed for me to follow it which I did and drove steadily along it for about five minutes until in front of us I could make out a road.

“Left or Right?” I whispered.

“Go left, it’s a straight road to Dunkirk, we’re in no rush but try and get a bit of speed up I think it will look less suspicious”

I pulled down the goggles and nudged Ronny to do the same then pointed the machine to the left and opened the throttle. I was immediately impressed not so much with the speed, it didn’t seem any faster than the 500cc BSA bikes that we’d trained on but it was so much smoother, I could get to like this I thought. I turned on the headlight and allowed the speed to build up until the speedometer indicated fifty kilometres per hour; the road was fairly flat with few bends and didn’t require a lot of concentration. I glanced across at Ronny and saw that he was busy going through a pannier that was fixed to the side of the sidecar, pulling out a torch and holding it up for me to see. I spotted a red light some distance in front and nudged Ronny to make him aware; he put the torch down into the sidecar and gripped the machine gun. As we got closer we could make out an Opel truck and a Kubelwagen parked at the side of the road it seemed to be some sort of checkpoint.

“Keep going.” said Ronny but I wasn’t thinking of stopping anyway. As we got closer I could make out a group of soldiers standing at the side of the truck, one of them detached himself from the group and walked towards the edge of the road, raising his hand casually for us to stop. Instinctively we each raised our arms and waved back and I added to the camaraderie by peeping the horn. We didn’t look back; there was no mirror on the bike so we had to just keep going hoping we weren’t being pursued, if we were going to appear relaxed it wouldn’t do to look back.

After a couple of minutes Ronny twisted around in his seat “No one behind,” he said, “We’re clear.”

I slowed as we came to a crossroads where a sign had been allowed to remain, stating the distance to Dunkirk. It was now only six kilometres, we glanced across at each other, Ronny’s face lit up by a grin.

“In about two miles, take the coast road which is off to the right, you might recognise it, it’s the same road we came down when we were last here. If we don’t get stopped, head for the dunes where we had a kip the last time and then as we get nearer to the departure point we’ll look for somewhere to dump the bike ok?”