Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2) Read online

  Grudgingly, Henri departed, and then, using Amélie’s and Jeannie’s code names, she related all that they had done. When she finished, Phillippe was speechless.

  “Your mission,” she told him, “is to go to Dinard, make contact, and bring out all the information that Swan delivers.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he replied. “I’m stunned at what they’ve accomplished.”

  “There’s another aspect to the mission,” Fourcade said. “Swan is alone in what she is doing. Only you and I and Colibri know any of it. Swan will need patience, emotional support, and—” She hesitated. “She’ll be in danger all the time. There’s a particularly nasty SS captain there, Hauptman Bergmann. He could present a special problem. I’ll fill you in before you go. But at some point, you might have to kill a Nazi.”

  Phillippe’s eyes glinted. “How soon do I leave?”

  10

  Three weeks earlier

  Near Lunéville, France

  “Escape must happen within the next day,” Lance Littlefield muttered under his breath to no one. In the dark of night, he sank to the damp ground under a cold moon within feet of snarling dogs yanked back by their German guards, who themselves barked orders in a frenzy equal to that of the mad animals they controlled. Other dark-uniformed Germans moved among POWs numbering in the thousands, warning against defiance with the snouts of their Gewehr 41 semi-automatic rifles, while still more sentries manned machine-gun positions around the periphery of the vast, barbed-wire-enclosed field. Searchlights probed. A stultifying odor of urine, excrement, and unwashed bodies rode the air in waves.

  Lance paid only sufficient attention to his immediate vicinity so as not to sit or fall on top of another prisoner in this field somewhere along a lonely roadway near the next French village. For twenty-three hours they had marched since the last rest stop. If the pattern of innumerable prior days held, in another hour, they would start the march again and continue for another twenty-three hours with very little food and water, tramping ever eastward and slightly north toward Germany.

  As they trudged along, Lance tried to note each town they passed through. Tonight, as on other nights, he extracted the stub of a pencil from his tunic pocket along with the remains of a cigarette package. On it, he scrawled the names he recalled of the towns and villages they had traversed. In the past two days, they had stumbled through Dammarie-sur-Saulx, Demange-aux-Eaux, Vaucouleurs, and Blénod-lès-Toul, among others. Then they had turned north to the historical city of Nancy, the former capital of the Duchy of Lorraine. There, the German guards had made a big show of parading their prisoners through the wide thoroughfares between stately buildings, enjoying their display so much that they routed them for a second pass in front of restaurants, parks, and other places where the public gathered.

  Having seen again names of villages he had written down and landmarks he seemed to recognize, Lance was sure that the guards had circled the cavalcade of prisoners through other towns and villages to prolong their exposure to the French people, exhibiting a conquered army skulking in shame. The practice wore the prisoners’ energy down further, leaving them feeling lost in time.

  More days ago than Lance’s tired mind could account for, somewhere in the vicinity of Saint-Dizier, he had pressed a scribbled note to his parents into an extended hand, its owner unseen in the mass of people crowding the street as the procession passed by. He had written,

  Dearest Family,

  I’m alive. I hope Jeremy got out all right. I’m a POW, on a forced march with thousands of British and French soldiers—no, tens of thousands—to Germany. The French people have been good to us. They line the roads and slip or throw us food and give us water when they can, but the guards are a sadistic lot and push them away when they see that happening.

  This note has our address on it, so maybe it’ll get sent on. If you are reading it, we owe a debt of kindness to a stranger on a street in a town somewhere in France east of Saint-Nazaire.

  I think of you always. Mum, I know I was a handful. I wish I could have done better. Dad, I think of all the cliff-climbing and ball-kicking we did. I miss my brothers and sister so much. Thinking of my family sustains me.

  I’ll try to get a Red Cross message to you when I reach a destination.

  I love you all dearly, Lance

  Fortunately, no one had seen him press his hand to that of the unknown person. For the first time in days, he had felt a spurt of energy and good feeling, as though he had struck back, however slightly, against the German war machine.

  While Lance was growing up, his parents had not been pleased with his efforts at school, nor with his decision to join the army as Great Britain prepared for war with Germany. His mother, Marian, had hoped for greater things for her middle son than to be a noncom and possibly die in an ill-fated war to defend France. His father, Stephen, had held a more understanding view of Lance’s adventurous spirit, having emigrated from New Jersey in the United States to Canada to volunteer to fly fighters for the Royal Air Corps during the Great War. Then again, Dad had graduated from Yale, and he became a London banker after the war. My school record won’t let me go far. The army is for me.

  He had been separated from his unit at Dunkirk as German forces blitzkrieged through the Netherlands and Belgium, driving the British and French armies to Dunkirk and pinning them against the Atlantic coast. As part of a rearguard assembled to protect an evacuation of the trapped armies aboard a flotilla of boats of every size and description, he had been left behind to fend for himself, as had hundreds of thousands of British and French troops.

  Rallying a squad of dirty, scared, abandoned, starving, and dehydrated soldiers separated from various units, he had linked up with French families who helped them trek across France to other ports south of Dunkirk where rescue might be possible. Ultimately, he had not succeeded. He had nearly drowned aboard a troopship that was bombed and sank at Saint-Nazaire, he had once again been separated from his comrades, and he was captured east of the town after an operation with the French Resistance. Since then, the POWs had trudged, day after day, hour after hour, their ultimate destination unknown. I wonder if Corporal Horton got home.

  Now, sitting on the ground near Lunéville and waiting for the few dry crackers his captors dispensed for the day, he forced himself to recall what he knew of French geography. The town of Nancy had rung a bell in his memory as a prominent place in the east of France. Today he had seen signs for Strasbourg, which was east of Nancy. If he remembered correctly, Strasbourg was near the German border. Switzerland would be less than eighty miles south of there. He became fully alert as the implication dawned on him: his last opportunity to escape before entering the dark void that was the Third Reich would probably occur within the next two days.

  Escape had seemed nearly impossible immediately following his capture. Lance had been surprised that the front-line soldiers initially treated him with curious respect, offering food, coffee, and even cigarettes. That had changed radically when they transferred him to the custody of security forces in the rear, manned by veterans of the last war who seemed resentful at having been pressed into service for the current conflict. The farther east they trudged, the worse the prisoners were treated and the more dilapidated the equipment to support the security force became. With deteriorating conditions came more sadistic brutality—and incompetence.

  Opportunities for escape should have increased with the guards’ ineptitude. Lance’s dilemma, and he supposed the same for each prisoner, was that with such meager rations and the physical demands he had endured, his strength would not take him far. He was a man of medium height with sandy-colored hair and green eyes, a solid build diminished by the strenuous circumstances of his evasion across France after days without food.

  However, his physical decline had been alleviated by the kind help of French families who had aided him and his previous comrades along the way. Now, he was sure that he stooped, and his uniform hung on him like clothes on a scarecrow. He eve
n had to tighten his boots around emaciated calves. He had not seen his own reflection in weeks, but he supposed that his skin looked sunbaked and wind-whipped, his eyes like slits; and as did all prisoners in this circumstance, he walked in a stumbling, shuffling gait that relied as much on balance and gravity as it did on muscular ability. With or without his uniform, he would stand out in a normal crowd.

  I must try. He formed a plan. Not much of one. Not a good one. But a plan. He grinned in the darkness. If it works, it’s a great plan. If it doesn’t, I won’t be alive to care.

  An hour later, the guards rousted the prisoners back onto the road paralleling the field, and they began the trek to the next village. As they approached it, Lance maneuvered to the outside of the procession. None of the guards stayed with it for more than a day or two, so no particular habits of theirs could be leveraged to advantage. However, he had detected that as a matter of necessity, they bunched up on curves, around obstacles, and at narrow points. Also, like their prisoners, they were more alert in the early morning and faded as the day and the long march strained their muscles and their psyches. The guards were, after all and despite their weapons, a thin line against many thousands of soldiers who would not blink to see them killed.

  Other POWs had attempted escape just by scooting off into fields or attempting to meander among civilians within villages. Most, if not all, had been quickly apprehended. Their beatings and sometimes roadside executions were intended to discourage other attempts. They failed to disappear quickly.

  Two hours after the march started, dawn broke into a glorious day. Lance winced as he saw the weather. He had wished for rain—to drink pure, clean water, hopefully to his fill, and because it might provide concealment.

  They came upon the first village. As usual, citizens lined the streets. The Wehrmacht soldiers held them back, tightened the distance between themselves, and made sure to reinforce the threat of violent death with the sweep and sway of their Gewehr 41s, their fingers never far from the triggers.

  The procession tramped on for at least an hour between the first village and the second one, but the road was straight for most of the way, with few opportunities for immediate camouflage and none for hiding longer term under intense search.

  Lance’s heart sank, but he reached for reserves of strength and forced optimism as he continued to seek his chance. A third and a fourth town went by. Noon passed. Now he hoped to go through a hamlet late in the afternoon when people would be more apt to take a break from work to observe the prisoners passing by.

  In Saint-Quirin, at last he saw conditions that might be favorable. The town was situated among forest-crested rolling hills and had a single, curved main street running through the middle with a sparkling stream. Churches of several denominations, distinguished by their architecture, dotted the town, some with steeples, some with turrets, some ornate, some plain. Maybe they’ll feel a religious sense of duty to help.

  As they entered, he looked as far ahead as he could over the sea of silently bobbing heads as the soldiers shuffled along in worn-out footwear. The street was fairly narrow, but wide enough that a crowd could form, and did. However, the lane curved sharply to the left at one point, and there a side street or alley entered from the right at a sharp, backward angle. On the other side of the intersecting street, the way was too narrow for onlookers, and the guards would have to intersperse with the prisoners.

  Carefully, Lance positioned himself at the right edge of the procession so that he was roughly equidistant from security ahead of and behind him. As they neared the intersection, he glanced back. The guard there had his hands full, herding prisoners to the left in anticipation of the narrowing road.

  His heart thumping, sweat pouring from his brow, Lance neared the intersection. The guard there was nastily engaged with prisoners to make room.

  Lance glanced behind him again. The soldier there was not looking.

  In his emaciated state, he moved as rapidly as his skeletal frame allowed. Breathing hard, he skirted the angular sidewalk in front of the intersecting street, now thickly populated with Frenchmen, and ducked behind the crowd.

  11

  Stooped and head down, Lance waited. Seconds passed. If other prisoners saw him go, they did not raise the alarm. Neither did the residents of Saint-Quirin. Peering out to the main street, he saw the trailing guard go by, apparently none the wiser. The procession continued past.

  Someone nudged Lance’s shoulder. When he looked up, an old man stood in front of him holding out a hat. He smiled and gestured for Lance to take it.

  Lance grabbed it and jammed it on his head. “Merci,” he said, and then continued in perfect French, “Do you have water?”

  The man regarded him in surprise. He was not tall, but he was moderately corpulent, and he wore a sports jacket over a white shirt. “You speak French?” he whispered.

  Around them, other people had taken notice. They nudged each other and moved closer to better hide Lance.

  “I am from Îles Anglo-Normandes, one of the English Channel Isles. We speak English and French there.”

  “Oui! I know the place. You call it Sark Island in English, non?”

  Lance tore off his tunic while nodding. “Your jacket?”

  The man stared at him, amused. “Of course.” He removed it, and Lance put it on and straightened up. Meanwhile, someone produced a bottle of water. Lance took only a swig, then poured it into his cupped hand and rubbed it over his face.

  The man’s eyes twinkled, and he chuckled. “I am Albert,” he said, wagging a finger at Lance’s face, “and that water won’t do the job of cleaning you up. We have to get you off the street.” He indicated several companions. “We are old people in this group. We don’t move fast, but that is good for you now. Les Boches will be looking for someone running. Walk with me. We will take you to a safe place. Five minutes from now, you will be a new man.”

  Lance only had time to glimpse Albert’s companions. There were eight of them, both women and men, and they regarded him with kind smiles while speaking to each other quietly. As they did so, they formed around him, appearing as a group of friends strolling together.

  Behind them, the procession of POWs and German guards continued, the incessant tramp, tramp, tramp diminishing as Albert’s small group moved away, with Lance at its center. Then, whistles blew, dogs snarled, shots were fired, and the march of prisoners compressed to a halt. As one, onlookers dispersed rapidly and broke into a full, panicked run.

  Startled, Lance raised his head and started to turn. Albert nudged his arm. “Keep calm,” he said. “Remember, we’re old. You must look like you belong with us. You’re wearing my hat and jacket. We only have to worry if anyone sees your trousers and boots. Keep moving. We’ll be off the street in two minutes. Besides,” he added with a backward glance, “they can’t send many. They would risk losing many more prisoners.”

  True to Albert’s prediction, within a few minutes, Lance found his circumstances changed. The group entered a portal leading into the interior courtyard of a low-rise apartment complex.

  “Meaning no insult,” Albert said, “your smell must go away. The Germans could follow it.”

  Inside the courtyard, the group dispersed, now moving with alacrity to accomplish separate tasks apparently discussed among themselves as they had made their way back to the apartments. The women hurried off in one direction. Two men returned to the street to keep watch. Two more hurried ahead and disappeared through another smaller portal diagonally across the courtyard.

  “We’ll follow them,” Albert said, and, observing Lance’s struggle to keep up, placed a hand on his shoulder. “No need to rush,” he assured. “We’re almost there.”

  “You’re so kind,” Lance croaked. “Thank you.”

  Albert waved off the comment. “Save your strength. The women are preparing food and will fetch clean clothes. I’m taking you to our laundry. The men will clean you up there.”

  They entered the rear portal. “Tak
e off your clothes.” When Lance hesitated, he added, “We don’t have time for modesty. The clothes must go. Besides,” he remarked, laughing, “this is France.”

  One of the men who had gone to keep watch returned. “They’re not looking for him,” he said. “A few other prisoners tried to escape just past that point where the street narrowed. Two of them were shot dead. Two of our citizens too, who tried to help them.”

  “How terrible,” Albert said, shaking his head and closing his eyes momentarily. “Anyone we know?”

  “Maybe. We’ll find out later.”

  Listening to the conversation, Lance halted in the act of removing his trousers and turned a grim look on Albert.

  Reading his expression, the old man said, “We help each other. You fought for us.” Then his demeanor changed to one of urgency. “Let’s go.” He stooped to untie the laces on Lance’s boots.

  The other two men appeared, dragging a hose, a large bar of soap, and a long-handled brush. Even before Lance had finished undressing, they turned the water on him and began covering him in suds and scrubbing him.

  “You’ll take a longer, warmer bath later,” Albert said. “Right now, we have to get you looking better.” He gestured toward Lance’s clothes, piled in a heap. “Those are going into an outhouse in the garden. The smell will fit right in.”

  The second man who had gone to keep watch on the street returned. “The Germans are coming this way. They’re doing a house-to-house search.”

  Albert paused to think. “You,” he said, pointing to one of the men, “dump the clothes in the outhouse. Make sure they go under the surface…” He had a momentary look of distaste. “You know what I mean.”