A Dangerous Game

by John Wilson

  As I peer across the field in the brightening day, I notice tiny figures in front of the farthest of the smaller hangars. They’re pushing open large doors on the end of the building, revealing the dark cavern within. I try to make out what the figures are doing, wishing I had a pair of binoculars. Their activity seems random at first, but as I watch, several of them turn and look directly at me.

  A lance of fear runs through me as I think I’ve been spotted, but the figures are pointing into the sky. Then I hear a deep rumble. It grows until it’s coming from directly above me. It feels as if the sky is about to collapse on my head. I look up where the trees are thinnest.

  The massive plane has two engines situated between the wings, one on each side of the square fuselage. It’s so low in the sky that the wind from the propellers is waving the tops of the trees and I can see the evil-looking bombs slung underneath. I stare open-mouthed as the Gotha bomber drops onto the grass runway and bounces away toward the hangar, where the waiting men move forward to greet it. My mind whirls with images of what damage the bomb load of one of these monsters could do. And what destruction could ten, twenty, fifty of these horrors wreak on London in a single night? If the woman I saw on that London street called the zeppelins baby killers, what would she call these?

  As I hear the engines of the second bomber coming in over my head, I open my camera. When the plane fills the viewfinder, I click the shutter. I take more shots as the third and fourth bombers fly over me, drop onto the runway and move toward the hangar. But in my eagerness to get a good shot, I have stepped out of the trees. As I look up from the camera, I see activity as the planes arrive outside the hangar. I think I can make out a figure with binoculars. My heart starts racing—he is looking straight at me.

  Other figures are beginning to move across the airfield in my direction. They’re a long way off, but I must hurry if I’m to escape. Then I hear the noise of a fifth plane, deeper and louder than before. I look up and gasp as I’m engulfed in the shadow of something from a nightmare.

  The plane thundering over my head is at least twice the size of the immense Gothas.

  I stare in awe as the monster drops down and lands. The tail alone is the size of the entire plane that flew me into Belgium. The vast wing and fuselage area is covered in a lozenge-shaped camouflage pattern painted with black German crosses. I can see five crewmen in open turrets, and there must be at least another two inside the enclosed cockpit. I snap picture after picture until the film won’t wind anymore. Then I notice that the figures coming toward me are much closer—and they’re running now.

  Clutching my tiny camera, I plunge back into the trees as the first shot rings out and a bullet crashes through the branches above my head. I tear my way through the underbrush, praying that I can remember exactly where I left my bicycle. Fortunately, I almost fall over it. I stop for a moment to listen for the sounds of pursuit, but I’m not sure I could hear anything over my thumping heart and ragged breathing. I try to close my camera, but my hands are shaking so much that I keep dropping it. Eventually, I simply stuff it in my pannier under the vegetables. It makes little difference. If I’m found with a camera—open or closed—I’ll be put against a wall and shot. Oddly, despite the thoughts whirling through my head, I don’t feel scared. I’m in mortal danger, but my mind is working incredibly fast, weighing various choices and making decisions. There are not many options.

  I push my bicycle out of the trees and pedal for all I’m worth. The road is frighteningly straight. If the Germans decide to come looking for me, I won’t be hard to spot. And almost as soon as I think this, I hear the distant rumble of a truck. Without thinking, I swerve off the road onto the nearest farm track. My front wheel catches in a rut and I fly over the handlebars and land painfully in a ditch. My bicycle lands on top of me and I lie still, hoping I can’t be seen from the road.

  The rumble of the truck grows until it almost deafens me, and then it fades into the distance. I lie still until my breathing returns to something close to normal, and then I wonder what I’m going to do.

  I’m lucky to have escaped this long. Obviously I have stumbled on something important and secret. Not even Amelie’s contact at the airfield knew the giant plane was coming in this morning. And the Germans now know that someone has seen their new weapon. They may not know I’ve taken pictures of it, but they certainly know I ran away. They will be searching the roads all day for a lone girl on foot or on a bicycle—and when they find her, they will execute her.

  I lie in the ditch for what seems an age, worrying. I’ve never been more frightened. At least that’s what I think before I hear the clop of horse’s hooves and the creak of wagon wheels coming down the farm track. I’ll be in plain sight to anyone passing along the track, but I don’t move. There’s no point. I’ve nowhere to run to.

  The cart stops beside me and a deep voice says, “Bonjour, jeune femme.”

  I push the bicycle off me, sit up and say, “Good morning.” The speaker is a bewhiskered old man in a peasant shirt and cloth cap. He’s sitting on the seat of a rough two-wheeled cart, holding the reins of an equally aged draft horse. Both the man and the horse are looking at me curiously. “I fell of my bicycle,” I add.

  The old man nods as if what I have said is explanation enough for finding a strange girl and her bicycle in his ditch. I haul myself painfully to my feet.

  “You are injured?’ the man asks.

  “Just bruised from my fall,” I say.

  “Perhaps, then, I may offer you a ride somewhere in my cart. It’s not very fancy and Monsieur Éclair is by no means as quick as the noisy trucks that the Boches rush around in, but it may get you where you need to go. My name is Étienne Dumont.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “You’re very kind. My name is Manon Wouters, but I’m going quite far, to Damme.”

  With surprising agility, Étienne climbs down from the cart. “I think I may be able to go that way,” he says, grabbing my bicycle.

  “A moment, please,” I say. There’s no point in trying to hide anything from this man. I take my camera out of the pannier and close it.

  Étienne stares. I’m about to stuff the camera in my pocket when he says, “Better give it to me.”

  I hesitate for a moment, but I have to trust this man. I give him the camera. Étienne wedges it under Monsieur Éclair’s broad harness. There’s a flap of leather there, like a small pocket. I have no time to ask what he normally hides there before he heaves my bicycle into the back of the cart, pulls hay and sacks of turnips and potatoes around it to make it look as if it has been there for some time, and helps me up onto the seat beside him. With a bit of encouragement, Monsieur Éclair hauls us off the track and onto the road.

  We haven’t gone far when we come upon the Germans. A gray truck is blocking the road, and three soldiers hold their rifles at the ready and watch us approach.

  “Let me talk,” Étienne murmurs out of the corner of his mouth as the soldiers raise their rifles and order us to halt. “Guten Morgen,” he says cheerfully as Monsieur Éclair draws to a halt.

  The corporal, a boy barely older than Florien, steps forward. “Down,” he orders.

  Étienne and I climb down and stand beside the cart. I’m shaking with fear, but Étienne is a picture of calm.

  “How can we help you?” he asks in flawless German.

  “Where are you going?” the corporal asks.

  “I’m taking my produce to the market in Bruges.”

  “It’s a long way. Ghent is closer,” the corporal points out.

  “Indeed it is,” Étienne agrees with a smile. “But your naval colleagues at the dockyards are better paid than you, so prices are higher in Bruges. Besides, I am taking my niece home.” He waves a hand at me. “She has been staying on the farm for the past week and her mother is missing her.”

  “Let me see your papers,” the corporal orders.

  Étienne and I hand over our identity papers and the corporal examines them closely. While
he’s doing this, the other two soldiers poke their way through the produce in the cart. I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the ground at my feet, scared that my expression will give me away if I look at the corporal.

  The two soldiers jump down from the cart. “Nothing there,” one of them says.

  “We must search you,” the corporal says.

  “Of course. You must do your job thoroughly,” Étienne says amiably.

  The two soldiers pat us down and go through the pockets of our clothes. I try not to think about what would have happened if the camera had been there.

  Eventually, the search is done, but the corporal seems in no hurry to let us proceed. He strolls over to Monsieur Éclair and strokes his flank. “A good animal,” he says approvingly. “I grew up on a farm in Württemberg. We had draft horses like this one.”

  “Monsieur Éclair is a Percheron,” Étienne explains proudly. “He is descended from the horses ridden by the Roman legions, and his ancestors carried knights into battle five hundred years ago.”

  The corporal seems interested, but his hand is stroking Monsieur Éclair’s neck mere inches from where my camera is hidden. I want to break away and run for the nearby trees, but Étienne has more nerve than me.

  “I’m sure you and your men could use some fresh vegetables,” he says, lifting a sack out of the cart and holding it out to the corporal. “And I think you may find a couple of bottles of good Belgian beer to wash them down with.”

  The corporal hesitates for a moment, then steps toward us and accepts the sack. “Thank you,” he says. He gives Monsieur Éclair a final appreciative pat on the rump. “On your way, then.”

  We climb up onto the cart, and I struggle to force myself to look as relaxed and casual as Étienne. We wave at the soldiers, who wave back, and Monsieur Éclair resumes his plodding pace.

  “That was close,” I say when we’re a safe distance away.

  Étienne shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “You were taking pictures of the big plane that came over this morning?” he asks.

  “How did you know?”

  He laughs. “Handsome though he is, I didn’t think you were here to photograph Monsieur Éclair, especially with such a small camera. Besides, I saw the plane fly over a short while before I found you in my ditch.”

  “You’re taking a big risk in helping me,” I point out.

  Again Étienne shrugs. “The Boches like a bottle of good beer now and then. We’re lucky that our country is famous for brewing. And I’m lucky that I have had a good winter crop this year. The Boches took almost all my harvest last year. Besides, my son is fighting them in the tiny corner of our country that is still free. I don’t like to think of monsters like that plane dropping bombs on him.”

  We come upon no more roadblocks and the journey north mostly unfolds in companionable silence, lulled by Monsieur Éclair’s steady clopping. It’s late afternoon when Étienne drops me where the road turns off for Damme, and I’ve completely missed my shift at the hospital.

  “Will you be able to cycle?” Étienne asks as he retrieves my camera and hands it to me.

  “If I take it easy,” I reply, sliding the camera into my pocket. “I can’t thank you enough. You saved my life.” I lean over and kiss him on the cheek.

  He simply smiles, wishes me luck, climbs back on his cart and encourages Monsieur Éclair on their way to Bruges. Gingerly, I mount my bicycle and slowly head home.

  I tell Mama that my bruises are from a fall at the hospital and she fusses over me and orders me to lie down. I do as I’m told because I need to rest and I need to think.

  I am incredibly lucky. Without Étienne, I would be undergoing interrogation in prison now—or worse. What I’m doing is more than the dangerous game Major Macleod warned me about—it’s a matter of life and death. I think over the mistakes I made today. It was being awestruck by the size of the planes that made me step out of the shelter of the trees and allowed the soldier with the binoculars to see me. I must not let my emotions get the better of me. I think about how scared I was at the roadblock and how calm Étienne was. At all times, I must have a convincing story ready to explain where I am, where I’ve been and where I’m going. And I must find a better hiding place for my camera. Perhaps I could put a false bottom in my pannier.

  None of this will guarantee my safety, but it will increase my chances of surviving to get the information I discover to where it will do the most good.

  This last thought reminds me of the photographs I have taken. I was supposed to give the film to Amelie at the hospital, but I was so late back that I missed her. I take the camera out of my pocket, rewind the film and remove it according to the instructions. It’s a small canister—much easier to hide than the entire camera. I will take it in and give it to Amelie tomorrow. I hide the camera and the roll of film at the bottom of my clothes drawer, lie back down on the bed and, for the hundredth time, think back over my first real experience of spying.

  I must have dozed off, because I’m jerked awake by the sound of Florien’s voice in the kitchen. I rub my eyes. It’s still light outside, so Florien is home unusually early. I think back to our conversation this morning on the step. Perhaps I can recapture the connection we had then. I smooth my clothes and head through to the kitchen.

  Mama is standing by the stove, looking worried and wiping her hands on her apron. Florien is leaning on the table, his brow furrowed in anger.

  “It’s a disgrace,” he says as I enter the room.

  “What’s a disgrace?” I ask as cheerfully as I can manage.

  Florien looks up. “It’ll probably make you happy,” he sneers. “The Americans have declared war on Germany.”

  I’m speechless. I want to shout for joy. This means the end of the war! Germany cannot possibly win against the British Empire, France, Russia and the industrial might of America. Belgium will be free again!

  I’m struggling to think of something to say that won’t offend Florien when he speaks again. “It’s none of their business. They should stay at home and not interfere in things that don’t concern them and they don’t understand.”

  I can’t stop myself from asking, “Didn’t the Germans make it their concern when the U-boats began sinking American ships?”

  I expect Florien to explode, but he speaks calmly. “Is it fair that American businesses can make a fortune loading their ships with goods that they can sell freely to Britain and France, while Germany is prevented from buying anything because of the British naval blockade—a blockade that is in violation of international law? Why do you think we’re starving in Belgium?”

  “We Belgians are starving,” I reply, keeping my voice low and even, “because the Germans take everything for themselves. They took most of the harvest last fall.”

  “Hard decisions must be made in war,” Florien says with a shrug. It’s frightening how calmly he is speaking. It’s as if stealing food from an entire country—and all the suffering that causes—is of no concern to him. “More U-boats are putting to sea every day. Britain will feel what it’s like to starve before the summer is over. And even if Britain and France keep fighting, America cannot be ready for war for at least a year. Russia is close to collapse; the czar abdicated last month and there is revolution on the streets. Once Russia is defeated, the entire might of the German army will fall on the French and the British. The war will be over before the first American soldier steps off a ship in Europe.”

  There’s a smile on his lips and a fanatical glint in his eyes. I half expect him to snap to attention and salute. His pompous certainty is infuriating.

  “How can you believe that?” I ask, struggling to keep control of my voice. I risked my life today, and the fear I felt at seeing that giant bomber and surviving the German roadblock is bubbling beneath the surface, building a pressure that must be released. “It’s madness to trust the Germans! They invaded us even though they had signed a treaty declaring that we were a neutral country.” As I think of what the Germans have done,
my anger swells and my voice rises. “They have destroyed our country to feed their war machine. They deliberately burned the library at Leuven; they killed hundreds of women and children in Dinant.”

  As I talk, the rage within me grows. I have been hiding my hatred too long. Now I can’t keep it bottled up anymore, so I lash out at the only target available. “You think the Germans are honorable people, forced into doing bad things by the war. You couldn’t be more wrong. They don’t care for anyone but themselves, and they will do whatever they can to achieve their own ends. You and your drinking friends foolishly believe that the Germans, who have committed unspeakable atrocities in our country, will somehow create a free Flemish state. It’s a fantasy—a dangerous fantasy that will never be reality.”

  I know I should stop before I say something that will create an unbridgeable gulf between us, but I can’t. My hatred—the hatred I promised Major Macleod I could keep under control—has got hold of me and tears of frustration, rage and fear are streaming down my cheeks.

  “You admire German power, but it’s destructive power. It has destroyed our country and taken thousands of our people. German power killed our father. I will never forgive them for that. How can you?”

  I stand across the kitchen table from Florien, my arms hanging limply by my sides, tears dripping onto the kitchen floor. I am emotionally drained. I expect to be assaulted by Florien’s angry words as he attempts to defend himself. Instead, I am met by silence. My brother is staring down at the table, his face an image of sadness. He blinks back his own tears and swallows heavily. I see the little boy I comforted when his favorite toy broke or when he woke up in the night after a bad dream.

  “Florien, I’m sorry,” I say as I step around the table. I want nothing more than to give him a hug and recapture the relationship we had before this war damaged us, but as I approach, his body tenses and his fists clench. When he looks up, he’s so full of anger that I stop mid-step.

  For an age we stand and stare at each other. I realize that the person opposite me is not my brother but a fanatical stranger I don’t know. I’m struggling to think of something to say when Florien turns on his heel, strides across the floor and throws open the front door.