Dunkirk Crescendo

by Bodie Thoene

  David had barely had time to observe his surroundings before his hurried exit from the aircraft. But drifting silently toward the ground, he used the opportunity to examine the forested hillsides below, confirming his earlier suspicion. It was the wrong side of the river that seemed to be slowly twisting below him. He was coming down in Belgium.

  As David watched from his floating perch beneath the canopy of the parachute, his Hurricane streaked earthward. It was headed toward the church steeple of a village on the horizon. Now trailing a column of thick, black smoke, the aircraft was a flaming arrow on a colossal scale. David held his breath. The fighter struck the ground a couple miles from the village, and a fiery pillar shot into the air. The dull roar of the explosion followed a few seconds later.

  As grateful as he was for the safe descent, David wished that it would get over quickly. The detonation and the bonfire blazing above the territory of the Ardennes Forest would attract some unwelcome attention. The Belgians, as citizens of a still-neutral nation, were not at all happy about the Germans and the Allies using the skies above their country as a battlefield. They not only shot at the airplanes of both sides; they interned captured pilots for the duration of the war. David didn’t plan on being one of them.

  The Belgians, like the Dutch, were being very shortsighted and ungrateful, David thought. After all, the presence of the Allied army was keeping the Führer off of their necks. With all the German armor poised on the edge of Belgium, the security gained by Belgium’s fragile neutrality was not going to last much longer anyway.

  Perhaps David could parlay information about the terrifying buildup into freedom and safe passage to France. But he couldn’t very well surrender and then ask the Belgians if they would please let him go. Better to stay out of their clutches and save the barter plan for a last resort.

  He was now drifting onto a timbered hillside. There were no buildings in sight, except for a farmhouse on the far side of the knoll. A clearing with a creek at the bottom presented itself as a likely possibility. So did a patch of bare grassy slope covered in white and pink wildflowers. No such luck. The light swirl of wind chose that instant to die away completely, lowering David directly toward the tops of the pine trees that crowned the hill.

  Trying to coax the chute into another course by pulling on the straps met with no success. Plunging between two sixty-foot pines, the edge of the silk bubble caught on one side, swinging David across the open space. Partially tearing, it dropped his shoulders while his feet swung up again like a pendulum. He was hanging almost upside down, one leg tangled in the shrouds, suspended six or so feet off the ground.

  Groping awkwardly in a zippered pocket on the leg of his flight suit, David searched for the small knife he carried for just such an emergency. If he could saw through the cords in which his leg was caught, he might be lowered enough to cut himself free from the rest of the parachute. He could fall the short remaining distance.

  David removed the knife and opened it, taking care not to drop it because of the strange angle at which he was working. Half of the lines were severed when he first heard a dog barking. The sound of the animal’s deep voice echoed from just over the hill toward the farm. It was still far away but definitely coming closer. He began to saw even faster, anxious to get down and find a place to hide.

  The dog bayed again—a real bloodhound noise David knew from his own childhood year in Arkansas. Not a good sign if the beast was accompanied by the Belgian police.

  Two cords remained to be cut when the knife slipped from his fingers. David made a frantic grab for it as it fell but only succeeded in batting it into a high arc. The knife gleamed in the afternoon sun, then dropped earthward, sticking upright in the grassy soil. It mocked David from six feet below.

  The barking dog was still coming. David began to yank on the almost detached leads. Once more he gave a hard tug, and the strap parted. His weight pivoted on the remaining tether and swung him sideways at the same instant the rent in the parachute tore larger.

  Just as the hound crashed through the brush surrounding the trees, David’s head smacked into the trunk of the pine. Despite his leather flying helmet, the impact stunned him. The animal was almost on top of him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Then into David’s upside-down view bounded the biggest black dog he had seen since his childhood companion, a Newfoundland named Codfish.

  “Good dog,” he called, trying to keep his voice calm and friendly.

  The dog’s tone changed to a suspicious growl. Its hackles rose, and it walked stiff-legged toward the strange apparition hanging in the tree.

  “Good dog,” David tried again. “Bon chien. That’s it, bon chien!”

  The dog continued to snarl menacingly.

  “Gute Hund! Gute Hund!”

  The coal black shape made a leap that carried it directly up to David. The pilot put up his arms in an effort to protect his face from the mauling he was sure was coming. He felt the animal’s hot breath on his neck, and then it began to lick his ear.

  Cautiously David inched his hands apart and peeked out. The dog, still regarding him with curiosity, was wagging his tail. “Gute Hund!” he repeated, heaving an enormous sigh of relief. “Now if you could only help me get down from here.”

  “Are you speaking to the dog?” asked a gruff voice in French. “Have you always been crazy, or does it happen when you fly planes?”

  David pivoted again and focused his eyes on a pair of rough country boots. From these he scanned upward over heavy, corduroy-covered legs, a bulky torso, muscular arms, and a face framed by a salt-and-pepper beard. One of the hands was holding a pitchfork.

  “Can you get me down?”

  “You are English?” the farmer asked.

  “American flying for the RAF.”

  “That was your air machine that crashed over by Couvin?”

  “Yes, I am sure it was. Could we discuss this after you cut me loose?”

  The farmer pulled an enormous jackknife from his pocket and sliced the remaining shroud lines in one stroke.

  Tumbling free, David scrambled to his feet. “Thank you, Monsieur. Where is the French border?”

  The grizzled farmer shook his head. “The police will be searching for you. You must hide until nightfall, when it will be safer. They do not want to find you, you understand. It is not as if you were German.” He spat out the word as something incredibly distasteful. “But there are those in the village who favor the Nazis. They would make trouble if the police found you and then let you go free. You must come with me. I will hide you until dark.”

  “Good idea,” David agreed. Then a worrisome thought crossed his mind. “Tell me, why does your dog understand German and not French?”

  The man looked amused. “He is a refugee. Showed up on my doorstep two years ago. Ask him, Monsieur. He hates Nazis.”

  David spotted his pocketknife sticking in the ground. Picking it up, he offered it to the farmer. “I am grateful for your kindness. May I give you this knife to say thank you?”

  The man scowled. “I take no pay for helping someone who fights the Boche! But perhaps I will make a trade.” The two men and the dog started over the hill toward the farm. “My knife for yours?”

  “Done. But your knife is so much bigger and sharper. What will you do with mine?”

  Winking at David, the farmer said, “Give it to my grandson for a toy.”

  When they reached the Belgian farmhouse, David saw that it was modest but built of stone and sturdy looking. It nestled in a ravine between two shoulders of the hillside and overlooked a marshy pasture in which a few tawny milk cows were placidly grazing.

  “I will show you where to hide,” the farmer told David, “and then I must return to my chores. If I am not at work at this time of day, the authorities will find it suspicious.”

  “Fine,” agreed David. “In your barn or in the house?”

  “Neither will serve. The police may wish to check them. But there is a place
that I can vouch for as safe. Come with me.”

  On an incline at the edge of the pasture stood a wooden structure whose appearance left no doubt as to its function. David hesitated at the doorway. “How long will I—?”

  “Get in quickly,” the farmer urged. “I’ll come back later and take you into the house.” Whistling at the dog, the man shut the door behind David and turned toward the field.

  If the farmer intended to betray David to the authorities, then they would all have a good laugh when his location was revealed, David thought. It was a warm day, and the atmosphere in the hideout was ripe.

  It was not long before the issue was decided. The black dog barked a warning, and soon the jingle of a bicycle’s bell announced an arrival. Peeping through a crack in the outhouse wall, David saw a blue-coated gendarme waving to the farmer. The policeman was accompanied by a second bicyclist, a fat man in knee britches and a waistcoat.

  “Bonjour, Dennis,” called the gendarme to the farmer. “Did you see the crash of the airplane?”

  “You mean the machine that went over my house like a duck with its tail feathers on fire? Of course I saw it! Scared my cows with its great roaring sound. Probably soured their milk. What brings you out here, Joseph—you and Monsieur Navet?”

  The fat man, wiping his flushed face and panting to catch his breath, answered for the gendarme. “Did you see a parachute near here? We have heard that one floated down in this direction.”

  “Do I have nothing better to do than watch the sky for falling Englishmen?” Dennis scoffed.

  “How did you know he was English?” The fat man pounced on the farmer’s words like a cat on a mouse.

  “German then, or French. What is it to you, Navet?”

  “It is a matter of extreme importance! Just last week two English airmen escaped from the jail at Dinant. How long do you think Belgium’s neutrality will be respected if we aid the Allies?”

  “And how long even if we don’t? Go away, Navet; you annoy me. Search if you wish, but why would a man who has just fallen from an airplane run to where he would be captured? Don’t you think he would remain up in the hills until dark?”

  “Come along, Monsieur Navet,” the policeman urged. “Dennis is right. We must start hiking if we expect to locate the flier.”

  “We should search the house and the barn first!”

  “Fine,” the farmer agreed. “Search away.”

  The fat man motioned for Joseph to follow him as he bustled importantly into the farmhouse and reemerged moments later, looking disappointed. He then examined the barn and came back covered in dirt and with straw in his hair.

  “Sorry to have bothered you,” the gendarme apologized.

  Monsieur Navet glanced around suspiciously. His eye lit on the outhouse. “Wait. There is yet one more place to look.”

  David tensed at the words and braced himself to make a run for it.

  Dennis shrugged. “It’s a good idea. Leave nothing unchecked. I would not want you to come back later and accuse me of something, Navet.”

  Navet’s eyes narrowed in his fleshy face, disappearing into swinelike folds. “I think you are toying with us. Why are you being so agreeable?” He squinted at the sinking position of the sun. “Let’s go, Joseph. We’ve wasted enough time here already.”

  Dennis turned his back and continued tending his cows. Several minutes passed, and then he went into the barn and brought out a sack of grain. He fed the hens, tossing handfuls of corn on the ground, and wandered toward the outhouse. In a low voice, with his head down as if addressing the chickens, he said, “That Navet! He is a Gestapo agent, that one. Fat pig! I hope he busts something pumping his bicycle up and down the hills!”

  “When can I come out?” David pleaded.

  “Not before dark. Be patient.”

  ***

  As soon as the shadows of the surrounding pines lengthened enough to cover the little valley in the Ardennes, David was released from his odorous refuge and brought into the comfort of the farmhouse. Dennis provided fresh water for bathing and a change of clothing, then sat the pilot down at a rough-hewn plank table in the kitchen. The farmer produced a heaping platter of jambon ardennais—smoked ham—a half-dozen boiled eggs, an entire loaf of fresh bread, and a pitcher of cold buttermilk. David protested that it was too much but proceeded to devour it all anyway.

  Then it was dark and time for David to be leaving. During the long hours of waiting, he had heard the sounds of passing aircraft overhead. He thought about his buddies, who would not know what had become of him, and how some raw recruit would soon be filling his spot, flying Annie, if he didn’t make it back fast. It was time to rejoin the war.

  “The border is ten kilometers southeast from here,” the farmer explained. “I will give you my bicycle for the journey. As long as you speak to no one, you will be safe. Your accent is atrocious! When you come to the river, get off the road. You should have no difficulty finding a rowboat that you can borrow, and then you will be back in France. But if you cannot cross tonight, find somewhere to hide and try again tomorrow night. There are others, like Navet, who volunteer to guard Belgium’s neutrality by watching the border crossing for escapees. Trust no one!”

  “I want to thank you again, and the best way I know is to warn you: The Boche are coming. I have seen a huge army forming just across the frontier. They will be coming straight at you.”

  The farmer shrugged. “The Germans have come before, twenty years ago, and earlier than that, in the time of my grandfather. The Spanish against the Dutch, the French against the English, the Romans against the Franks . . . the armies of many nations have found it convenient to fight their wars on our soil rather than on their own. But, you see, the good God is very good indeed. We remain.”

  “It will not be like any other war in history,” David warned. “From what I have seen, if the Nazis break through, they will go all the way to the Channel.”

  The Belgian looked sad. “Then, my friend, it will be a long road back. May God protect you until we meet again. Now go.”

  One of the spokes on the bicycle was broken and made a continuous clicking sound. The handlebars were loose, and the frame wobbled from side to side. David had to struggle to keep from either shooting abruptly across the center of the lane or crashing into the ditch. But the country road had no turnings and was easy to follow even in the inky blackness. The cool night air was scented with flowers.

  When he came to the village, everything was still. A dog barked as he clicked by, but all was in darkness. David stopped at a fork in the road just outside the town and struck a match to examine a road sign. One fork led toward Mariembourg; the other indicated Rocroy. Neither pointed the way toward the river and France. As he stood studying the problem, the noise of an automobile engine reached him. The car was coming at a high rate of speed.

  Bare, grassy swards fell away from the highway on both sides. There was no place to hide. Running across the fields was out. All David could do was go on, as if he had a perfect right to be cycling down a road in Belgium.

  Remounting the bicycle, David peddled stoutly toward Rocroy, with his back to the oncoming car. As he came within its headlight beams, the vehicle slowed momentarily, as if looking him over. Then it picked up speed again until it pulled up alongside and passed him without stopping.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, David set himself once more to the task of keeping the bicycle on the road when suddenly the car braked at the curve ahead. The gears clashed as it shifted into reverse and began to back up toward him.

  “Do you need a ride? I am going to the border crossing,” called a nasally voice from the dark interior of the car. The question was followed by a sneeze.

  The voice was familiar. Navet! David realized. The Gestapo agent who visited the Belgian farmer.

  Thoughts of sitting out the war in a Belgian prison raced through David’s head. His French was bad; there was no way he could be mistaken for a native. What to do?

  “I said,
do you want a ride?” came Navet’s strangled-sounding voice again, impatiently.

  “Sorry, I do not speak French,” said David in English.

  The car, which had been pacing David’s progress, squealed to a halt. “Who are you, and what do you do here?” questioned Navet, replying in the same language. “You are—” the man sneezed again, loudly—“American?”

  David nodded.

  “I thought so! I pride myself on how well I can distinguish accents. Tell me—did you see anyone else along the road? An Englishman, a pilot, perhaps?”

  David shook his head. “Nobody but me. Why?”

  “The impertinent British think they can fly over our country to make war on Germany. But we always catch and imprison their fliers when they are shot down. I myself have been searching today for just such a one. We are very careful of our neutrality. Do not many in your country favor the French and the English?”

  “Most folks figure Hitler for a bully and a blowhard. Personally, I don’t pay much attention to politics. I do like a place where everything works, though. I hear the Germans are very efficient.”

  “You have not been to Germany in your travels? You would like it. Of course, it is difficult at present to get freely across the border. But soon it will be put right again.”

  When Navet offered a ride again, David knew he would have to accept. To not do so at night might bring him under suspicion. Abandoning the broken bicycle at the side of the road, David opened the passenger door and climbed in.

  Navet and David passed several minutes in one-sided conversation, with the Belgian explaining how the West should be grateful to the Nazis for standing up to Stalin, and how it was only the Communists, the Jews, and the English who had forced France into a war.

  Finally, around a curve in the road, the headlights gleamed on the flow of the river. The lights of the bridge and the border crossing were visible a half mile ahead.

  “Say, would you mind stopping? Need to answer a call of nature.” David was already opening the car door, so Navet instinctively slowed down.