by John Wilcox
Miraculously, no one had appeared on this country lane. Still breathing heavily, Gladwin untied his scarf, knotted it again and tucked the ends away under his black shirt. He picked up the spade, dipped it in the ditch, rubbed its edge on the grass, and held it at point of balance. With his other hand, he grasped Proctor firmly on the upper arm. “Now,” he said, looking the other full in the face, “we shall go and find our friend Jacques.”
“Oh, bloody hell, Taff.” Proctor was shaking violently. “Why did you do all that? What’s come over you?”
A jumble of thoughts flashed through the Welshman’s mind as he stood there, looking into the flushed face of his companion. What would the Abbe have thought about the frenzied killing? And what would Marie, with her compassion and love for him, make of this savage Gladwin? Had the war made him degenerate into a ruthless killer – a thoughtless assassin? He took a deep breath and shook his head.
He began to walk, pulling the New Zealander with him. “Nothing’s come over me,” he said. “I am an RAF air gunner and I kill people in this war. Particularly when they try and grab something that is dear to me. If you kill someone, it makes no difference if you use .303 Browning machine guns or the edge of a shovel. If the Germans kill little children, then they must expect people like me to want to kill them in return. Now come on. It will be ages before they find that shit. We shall be across the border by then.”
They walked together in silence, although at a quicker pace now. For Gladwin, the thin, quiet lane that stretched ahead of them towards the distant rooftops was, literally and metaphorically, the end of the line. He knew that. The killing of the German soldier had meant that there was no going back. Capture would inevitably now mean death. Yet he walked with a firm step. He was determined to escape from France, to return home and to continue to fight in this war. He was equally determined to return to Tramecourt, once the Allies invaded Europe, and to make the most of this life with Marie.
*
St Jean was a small town, nestling between the base of the Pyrenees and the Bay of Biscay. Above them to the left, as they approached the fringe of cottages, long-haired sheep had wandered down from the mountains to graze with lyre-horned cows, from whose necks hung bells. The sun had departed as quickly as it had risen and mist now shrouded them, cutting off visibility and making them shiver. Gladwin welcomed it on the one hand, for it awarded them cover from the Gestapo, but he regretted that it might prevent him picking up a signpost to the village of Ciboure, where the Abbe had said that Florentino, the guide, lived. No matter. Jacques would know the way – if they could find Jacques.
That proved to be no problem, for the main street was not long and the sports shop prominently positioned halfway along. The proximity of the border, however, was clear, for Saint-Jean seemed to be full of blue uniformed customs officials, gendarmes and German troops. Gladwin’s grip on Proctor’s arm tightened and he lengthened his stride.
The window of the sports shop was depressingly empty. Where once it must have been crowded with fishing gear for sea and river, rifles for hunting wild boar, tennis racquets, bathing costumes and sports clothes for every occasion, now only a couple of boules
sets, three fishing rods and two retrieval nets lay in a forlorn attempt to attract customers. A notice, “pas de munitions” – Gladwin presumed it meant no ammunition – was stuck in one corner and the Welshman wondered how on earth the shop’s proprietor could make a living in these stringent times.
He put his hand to the glass pane, the better to see into the interior, and made out the figure of a broad, squat man behind the counter at the back. He seemed to be the only occupant, but were there others in there, waiting like cats to pounce as soon as the mice entered?
Gladwin took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the spade and pushed open the door, towing Proctor behind him. The movement prompted a little ‘ting’ from a hidden bell and the proprietor looked up and muttered a greeting, his eyebrows raised in gentle enquiry.
He seemed alone and Gladwin decided to take a risk. “Jacques?” he asked. The man frowned but, after a brief pause and a glance to the street outside, nodded.
“We come from the Abbe Carpentier,” said Gladwin. “We are RAF officers who want to cross the border. The Abbe would have come with us but I am afraid the Gestapo arrested him this morning.”
“Ah non!” The man’s hand flew to his mouth and he bit his knuckles. Moving quickly, he threw back the flap of his counter and opened a door revealing a flight of stairs. “Through here, quickly,” he said. “I will close the shop.”
Up the stairs, the fugitives found themselves in what must have been the stock room for the shop, for a few boxes stood in one corner – mostly empty, by the look of them – and a row of fishing rods hung on one wall. In a glass case stood a number of hunting rifles, although gaps in their ranks showed where their numbers had been depleted and not replaced. Gladwin deduced that their sale must now be banned by the German authorities. Leaning slightly incongruously against one corner stood two hunting bows, their strings hanging down in woebegone fashion from the tip of the bows, and a quiver of arrows, looking distinctly dusty. A small pile of boules sets completed what seemed like the shop’s only reserve of stock.
“Trade can’t be good,” murmured Gladwin.
“It is not,” agreed a voice behind them. Jacques had climbed the stairs. “I make money these days only from smuggling,” he grinned. He seemed as broad as he was tall but his round face carried an open expression and when he smiled he revealed big white teeth beneath a wide moustache. He went to the long, vertical window and looked down into the street. “Good,” he said, speaking an English which was heavily accented by guttural Basque. “It looks as though you have not been followed. Now, tell me about my dear Abbe.”
Gladwin related the day’s events, omitting, however, to describe the death of the German soldier. He concluded: “the Abbe said that you would be able to take us to a guide called Florentino, who lived near here and could take us across the frontier.”
Jacques first nodded and then shook his head. “I am sorry,” he said, “I am sad at the arrest of the Abbe. He must have been betrayed.” He looked up and his eyes were moist. “Who would betray such a sainted man, eh? He did nothing but good.”
“Yes.” Proctor spoke for the first time. “But what about us? Isn’t it dangerous to go out now?” He shot a desperate glance across at Gladwin and nodded at him. “He killed a man, less than an hour ago. A German soldier. Won’t they be coming after us?”
Jacques directed a look of astonishment at Gladwin. “What? You did not tell me this. What happened?”
Slowly, in an expressionless voice, Gladwin explained what he had done. “They will not find him for a couple of hours at least, I would have thought,” he concluded.
“Mon Dieu! It is not wise to kill a German. There will be reprisals.”
“I am sorry. I understand that. But it was him or us. Now, Jacques, I quite understand if this causes you problems and greater danger. Please tell me how and where we find Florentino and we will leave you now and make our own contact with him. Or, give us directions, and we will make our own way across the frontier.”
The little man shook his head. “You will not make it on your own. No. The death of this man means that we must work very quickly now.” He thought for a moment. “Very well. Have you eaten?”
“No, not since last night. There has been no time.”
“Very well. I will give you bread and cheese now and then I must leave you. I will go on my bicycle and find Florentino and tell him – he must be paid, you see – that he must make a crossing with you tonight. Then, after dark, we make our way to him across the fields and you will start your journey tonight. It will be very hard but I think you can do it with Florentino. He is the best and very reliable.”
Gladwin looked at Proctor, who was staring at the Frenchman with an open mouth. “We are already in your debt, Jacques,” said the Welshman quickly, “and, of cour
se, we will do as you say. We are most grateful.”
“Very well. You give me five minutes to make the sandwich and then I go. You stay in this room and stay away from the window. Five minutes.”
Within that time, he had returned with two huge sandwiches of black bread, two mugs of milk and an apple each. He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It is not a feast, but it must do. Florentino will take something for you on the crossing. I shall be away for less than an hour. There are chairs next door. Use them. I lock up the shop so I go the back way. Au revoir. Try not to kill anybody while I am away.”
Gladwin allowed himself a grin after the Frenchman had gone and forced himself to be pleasant to Proctor. “Bloody marvellous, these people, aren’t they? Now come on, Peter. Let’s bring in a couple of chairs and relax. We should be able to see from the window if there’s any trouble coming.”
But the New Zealander now seemed to have lost all will to respond and he stood by the window, looking down the street in the direction they had come. Gladwin struggled in with two chairs, put them down and then froze. He was looking down the barrel of a hunting rifle.
Proctor was squinting behind the foresight and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. “Now listen to me for once, you bloody mad man,” he said. “There are two Gestapo blokes in long coats on that street corner and I am going down to them to give myself up. You can do what you fucking well like, but I’m off. If you try and stop me I will shoot, I swear it.”
Gladwin held up a placatory hand. “Oh come on, now, Peter. We’re virtually home and dry. We will be in Spain and free by tomorrow morning, you’ll see…”
“Balls. I’ve had enough of you and your talk.” He began edging towards the door, still staring down the barrel of the rifle. “I shall tell them that I’ve had nothing to do with the killing of that bloke. I didn’t do it and they’ll just stick me in a POW camp. Now just you sit there till I’ve gone.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Peter.” Gladwin took a step forward holding out his hand. “That bloody gun hasn’t been fired since the war began. There’s no ammunition in this place, anyway. The Germans have seen to that. Now, give it…”
Suddenly, moving so swiftly that it took the Welshman completely by surprise, Proctor reversed the gun and swung the butt into the side of Gladwin’s head, sending him crashing to the floor, dazed and with his head spinning, a display of pyrotechnics exploding before his eyes.
*
He lay semi-conscious for only a matter of seconds, but it was long enough for the stars to stop bursting and a vivid and much more realistic picture flash through his mind. He was back in the burning Lancaster, but this time at the front end of the plane, away from his turret. Flames and smoke were everywhere but he saw Proctor, his face twisted, hurl Smithie aside from the steering column and spring past him towards the escape hatch. There, he clawed past Harry and rammed Mac’s head against the fuselage, so that the two men fell back into the flames. David, too tall to move quickly, was crawling to get away from the fire. Proctor kicked him viciously and then threw himself through the hatch and away to safety, as the aircraft burned behind him.
The vision was vivid enough to clear Gladwin’s head and he knew what he had to do. But did he have time? Down below he could hear Proctor fumbling with the key of the front door to open it and he looked around desperately. The guns were useless but… He picked up one of the two bows. It was an old-fashioned ‘self’ bow, that is, one made of one-piece yew, and he had no idea how strong it was. He pulled aside the curtains from the long window and looked down into the street. At the corner, some 250 yards away, two men wearing long brown raincoats and the menacing, squarely-set trilbies were talking to a soldier in field grey uniform. They were all looking away from the shop but Gladwin saw Proctor come into view immediately below and hurriedly cross the road. Swiftly but quietly, the Welshman opened the window, picked up the unattached end of the bow string, braced the bow against his foot until it bent and went to attach the string to the end of the bow – to find that the nock had long since disappeared. Quickly, he dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out the horn that had travelled so far with him, and slipped it over the end of the bow.
Then, everything fitted smoothly into place for Will Gladewyne. He selected an arrow from the quiver at his foot, notched it to the string and braced his feet apart in his habitual manner, turning his body so that his left side faced the narrow, vertical opening of the window. With his left, much thicker, arm now extended, but not locked, he bent the bow and tilted the arrow until it had an elevation of perhaps ten degrees – for the range was not long – to adjust for the moving target. He pulled the arrow and the string back until his right thumb brushed his cheekbone and the steel of the arrowhead touched his left-hand knuckles – and let fly.
With a twang and a hiss, the arrow arced gracefully over a distance of two hundred paces and a time scale of five hundred and twenty-nine years, and buried itself deeply and silently between the shoulder blades of Peter Proctor, penetrating so devastatingly that an inch of the arrowhead protruded through his chest. With a sigh, the captain of Lancaster BI LM220, ‘B for Bertie’, slid to the ground fifty yards from the three Germans. There was very little noise, and they remained unaware of what had happened.
Gladwin shut the window and pulled the curtain across. Then, moving swiftly, he removed the bowstring from its nock and replaced the bow in the corner. Turning to the door, he paused, turned back and slipped off the nock and put it in his pocket. Then, he ran down the stairs and quietly shut the door to the street and locked it. He sprinted along a corridor until he found the rear door, but this had been locked by Jacques. A window in the kitchen opened, however, and he dropped through it into the little back garden. After a second’s thought, he found a stone and shattered the glass pane by the window’s latch. At least Jacques could plead that entry had been forced by the fugitives if they were traced to his shop. The back gate to the garden was unlocked, and he slipped through it.
Gladwin found himself on a rural track which, he sensed, could perhaps lead up through fields towards the mountains. But which way to go? Left or right? The sea fret had developed into a heavier mist that gave very little visibility. He reached into the blouse pocket of his shirt and carefully retrieved the pencil compass that he had kept from his original RAF escape kit. He removed the silver-plated clip and carefully balanced it on the point of the pencil. The magnified clip dutifully pointed some thirty-five degrees to his right. He nodded. Good. To the left should be south-west and the mountains.
Stopping only to tie Marie’s lime green scarf around his head in bohemian fashion, Bill Gladwin began his long march home. After half an hour or so, the mist lifted slightly and he saw the mountains rising steeply ahead, quite close. His spirits lifted, and he began to whistle.
CHAPTER 14.
AZINCOURT, FRANCE, SUMMER 2004.
The noisy crocodile of young girls wound its way down the slight hill towards the centre of the village. Perhaps the invasion had prompted every resident to shut their doors and windows and retreat inside, for there was no one to be seen but the children and their teacher guardians: a small, plump, elderly woman in the lead and a younger woman bringing up the rear. And yet, thought the leader, rural French villages always seemed deserted in the afternoon, every tourist knew that. It was part of their charm.
“Miss, miss.” A gawky twelve-year-old drew level with the plump leader of the line. “Is it true, then, that you’re leavin’ at the end of term?” She spoke with a pleasant Welsh intonation – a lilt that rose gently at the end of each sentence as though every statement was a question.
The teacher smiled. The personal nature of the question worried her not at all, for she was used to it. Anyway, it was her own fault. She was always being criticised for being too informal with the girls, but she preferred that to the alternative of erecting Victorian barriers of class and age. “Yes, it’s true, Gwen,” she said. “And I’ll be glad to get rid of you lot.�
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The joke raised a sycophantic giggle from the girls within earshot, who bunched around the teacher as though she was Robbie Williams himself. “Why you goin’ then Miss?”
“Because,” and she held up her hand to halt the crocodile while she looked up and down to ensure that the road was safe to cross, “I am retiring. I am already sixty and should have gone months ago.”
She led the column to the centre of the road and waved them over, while she stayed there to protect her charges from any wild French truck drivers who might hurtle over the hill. Nothing showed, of course. This was a small, sleepy French village. And it was the middle of the afternoon. Then she moved back to the head of the crocodile and led it forward. If she thought, however, that she had escaped further interrogation, she was mistaken.
“But, Miss. Sixty isn’t old. Rod Stewart is sixty.”
“No, he ain’t Miss, he’s older’n that.”
“So is Mick Jagger, Miss. An’ they’re all still singin’.”
The teacher half concealed a grin. “Well, my voice is going so I’ve got to go too. I can’t hit the high notes at assembly any more. Woah! Here we are.”
She called a halt outside a strange-looking red-tiled building and the crocodile bunched forward like a crashed train, the children bulging out to block the pavement and straggling over into the car park at the side of the building. The building itself was conventional enough, made of red brick and timber facing, but its peculiarity rested in its frontage, which consisted of a series of six arched tubes rising from the pavement and bending, at an angle of perhaps fifteen degrees or so, to meet the wall of the building above the entrance. Spiked poles rose from the ground to bisect the tubes and threaten the sky.
