Pursuit of Passy

by David Moore Crook

  ******

  I made my way to the station through some badly damaged streets. Amiens had certainly taken a good battering from the Hun.

  German military police controlled the traffic and the place was crowded with German soldiers, lorries and cars all moving briskly through the streets in great contrast with the hundreds of weary and hungry French soldiers who roamed about aimlessly till somebody could get organised and take them prisoner.

  Nobody paid the slightest attention to the French civilian in the ill-fitting suit as he made towards the station, and he was very thankful for this. I was only too ready to retire into obscurity. The main thing was to avoid doing anything that might make me conspicuous; all my troubles so far had risen from that blasted parachute. However I felt fairly safe amongst such a motley crowd.

  The station was packed with soldiers and civilians and I edged my way through the crowd to the booking hall where I stood at the back of a long queue and shuffled slowly forward at intervals. After a long wait I got nearer the booking office and noticed with a sinking heart that standing by the window was a feldwebel of the German Field Security Police and a Garde Mobile watching the crowd as they moved past the booking clerk. There were still perhaps a dozen people ahead of me in the queue and as I watched I saw the French policeman stop a man in civilian clothes who had just bought a ticket and both he and the German started to question him.

  I thought quickly. This check-up probably had no connection with the hunt for me—I reckoned I had got safely away from that—but it was still very dangerous, particularly with the Garde Mobile standing there as he was bound to spot my accent and that would lead to more awkward questions. I might have risked it with the German, but I couldn't possibly bluff the Frenchman as well and every interrogation was an added risk.

  Looking back now, I think the most likely explanation for this check-up is that many hundreds of British soldiers were still at large in Northern France and the Germans were endeavouring to round them up. Amiens would be a very likely place to search as it is the focal point of the railway system in that part of the country and anybody endeavouring to escape by rail would probably pass through the town.

  I could of course come back later for a ticket, but knowing the Hun I reckoned the watch would still be maintained.

  The queue moved forward again. I was now very near the two guards and suddenly the German's eyes rested on me. To break away now would be almost as dangerous as going on. I glanced round anxiously. In a moment my turn would come.

  Many people were moving past and among them I saw a girl in a brightly coloured frock. She was carrying a small suitcase and she was just approaching when I saw her.

  Acting on a sudden impulse I left the queue, went up to her and touched her on the arm and said in a low voice, “Please smile at me quickly. I am an Englishman trying to escape and I need your help. Smile as though you recognise me. I am being watched.”

  For an instant she looked at me in surprise and then I saw a quick look of comprehension in her eyes and she smiled as though recognising an old friend. She put her case on the ground and we shook hands and laughed at each other.

  “That’s better,” I said. “Now let's get away from here and then I can talk to you.” I picked up her case, slipped my arm through hers, and we walked away. I looked back over my shoulder. The two guards were still standing by the ticket office paying no further attention to me. The little act had worked.

  We emerged from the station and went across to a café. There were several Frenchmen standing by the zinc enjoying their morning glass of wine and over in the corner a small group of German soldiers sat round a table with Pernod arranged in front of them. Judging by their noisy laughter and the number of glasses on the table, I gathered that they were having a “lunchtime session” and therefore wouldn't pay much attention to us.

  We sat down and a decrepit old waiter in a white apron shuffled across to us. I ordered the drinks, Dubonnet for her and a beer for me, and then managed for the first time to have a good look at my companion.

  She was quite young, perhaps twenty-two, and fairly tall for a French girl with a slim boyish figure and long legs which were tanned a rich smooth brown by the sun. The tan didn't come out of a bottle either. Her hair was dark and in striking contrast to her skin which was pale and ivory clear. She had lovely eyes, dark and limpid, and the most perfect, even teeth I have ever seen, set in a delicate and mobile mouth. When she smiled, which she did frequently, her whole face lit up in the most enchanting way. Her printed creton frock, which was beautifully cut with a flared skirt, her shoes and handbag all possessed an air of expensive simplicity and around her there hung an elusive fragrance. The whole effect was quite bewitching with its air of youth and freshness and vitality. I began to think that I had fallen into my usual luck again.

  The waiter placed the drinks on the marble-topped table in front of us and I raised my glass to her. She smiled and raised her's in acknowledgment. I noticed that she had scarcely said a word yet and I made up my mind to tell her my difficulties and ask for her help.

  I leaned across the table and said in a low voice. “Mademoiselle, I'm an English officer in the R.A.F. and the Boches are trying to catch me. I want to get to Laon to see a friend who will help me, but there was a Garde Mobile standing with a Boche by the ticket office and I dare not ask for a ticket because my accent would give me away. Will you help me?”

  She looked at me for a moment, sipping her drink reflectively.

  “What do you wish me to do?” she asked.

  “Will you get a ticket for me and I'll meet you at the barrier?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I think that will be quite easy. Is there anything else you want?”

  “There's a great deal,” I replied, “but I'm afraid you couldn't help much. It's very good of you to take this risk at all because there'd be serious trouble for you if they caught you helping me.”

  She was silent for a moment and then asked suddenly, “What is your name?”

  “Peter Claydon. I'm a Flying Officer in the R.A.F.”

  “Were you shot down in France?”

  I hesitated for a moment. I did not intend telling her my real purpose in coming to France, but equally it didn't seem playing the game to let her think I was an airman evading capture. She was aiding a spy and would probably be shot too if we were discovered together, so after a slight pause I replied, “No, I haven't been shot down at all. I was sent out from England to see somebody in France and the Boches would shoot me as a spy if they could, so you see I prefer not to be caught.”

  Her dark eyes twinkled again.

  “It would be too bad, as you say in England. Very well, I will get your ticket to Laon and meet you by the barrier.”

  I slipped the money for the fare across the table to her and after a little argument and an assurance from me that I had ample funds she put it in her bag and we left the café. The Germans in the corner were now very-nicely-thank-you after their frequent applications of Pernod and were becoming rather noisy; they were also casting a number of glances at the girl beside me. It struck me that we might get involved in a row if we stayed much longer and that was the last thing I wanted.

  We wandered back in the brilliant sunshine to the station. My companion was in light-hearted mood and kept humming snatches of that catchy tune “J’attendrai” which seemed to be the French favourite at that time judging by the amount one heard it.

  At the station I walked straight through the crowd and made for the barrier on the platform where I was to wait for my girlfriend. To my dismay I saw two more German military police standing by the barrier watching the crowd pass through. There was no way of avoiding this, but I hoped that by keeping my mouth shut I could get through without question.

  A few minutes later I saw a gay-coloured dress moving in the crowd and my French girl appeared and handed me the ticket.

  “Thank you very much indeed,” I said. “Now you go on the platform and I'll follow in a
moment as there are some more Boches to pass. Please forget that you have ever seen me or it might mean trouble for you. Goodbye and thank you. Perhaps we may meet again after the war.”

  “I hope so,” she said quietly. “Goodbye, and I shall think of you and pray for your safe journey.”

  “Please tell me your name,” I said. “I can't leave you without knowing that.”

  She opened her bag, took out a card and scribbled on it.

  “Here it is,” she said. “If ever I can help you again, please tell me. My father was killed in the last war and my brother is missing in this, so I have a few scores to pay off against the Bache. Au revoir.”

  We shook hands and with another of her enchanting smiles she left me and walked towards the barrier. I watched her unhappily till she was lost in the crowd and then looked at the card in my hand. Her name was Giselle Saint Brie, and written in pencil was an address, 8a Rue Lord Byron, Paris. I memorised it carefully and then tore the card into fragments and dropped them furtively on the ground.

  Now to get on to the platform. I approached the barrier and when my turn came I shuffled up to the ticket collector, paying not the slightest attention to the watching Germans, the man glanced at my ticket and I was through. No trouble at all, I said to myself, conscious of a heart that was beating pretty fast. I must be getting better at this escape business.

  I walked along the badly damaged platform with “AMIENS” still visible in large red letters on the roof and struggled into a crowded carriage. Most of the passengers seemed to be French civilians trying to get home and in the crush nobody took the slightest notice of me. After a long wait the train started off with a jerk and I sat in the corner watching the green countryside of France passing the grimy window and thinking of a girl with a lovely smile and a lovely name. Giselle Saint Brie….

  I was still thinking of her when I fell asleep.