by Lee Jackson
Lance nodded. “It’s in my pocket.”
Soon, the ambulance made a series of turns, halted for a few moments, edged forward a few yards, and then stopped. “This is where we say our goodbyes, my friend,” the doctor said. “We’re in the garage. Good luck.”
Moments later, Lance found himself alone in the dark. When the sound of the ambulance’s engine had dissipated, he tore off his dressings and sat quietly while his eyes adjusted to the low light streaming through cracks at the sides of the unevenly hung doors. He found the promised food in a bag atop a blanket set in a corner, took out a sandwich wrapped in butcher paper, and munched it while edging to peer outside.
His nerves froze.
Not more than a hundred feet away, a matronly woman stood in the middle of the road staring at the garage. She held her hand above her eyes, shielding them against the waning rays of the sun. Then she called to someone and crossed to the opposite curb, where she continued staring.
A hard knot formed in Lance’s gut. A man of the same age approached the woman. She said something to him and pointed at the garage. He disappeared, but she remained keeping watch.
Almost immediately, from either end of the street, Lance heard the roar of engines. On the section of pavement he could see, a lorry squealed to a halt. German soldiers piled out. A noncom shouted instructions.
Breathing hard, Lance tore off the German uniform and tossed it in a dark corner with the dressings. Then he searched around the interior for another way out, but the structure was sound and offered no escape other than through the front, and he was unarmed.
Recalling the days without food and the long trek, Lance resigned himself to his inevitable recapture. Desperately, he wolfed down a sandwich, and peered through the crack again. German troops paced in single file toward the garage, rifles at the ready. Then they spread out to surround the garage.
Lance continued stuffing his mouth.
Marseille, France
“Thanks for coming, all of you,” Madame Fourcade told the four men assembled on her terrace. She directed her attention to Henri first. “When Phillippe was here, I didn’t mention the matter we’re about to discuss because he doesn’t need to know, at least not yet. Do you understand?”
Henri nodded. “I’ll say nothing to him about it without your order.”
“Or to anyone else. There’s no reason to burden people with information that will get them and others into trouble.” She indicated Horton. “This good sergeant will be my liaison to London, so he’ll be traveling back and forth as need be.”
She focused on Pierre and Kenyon. “Our ties in London are to SOE, and its main mission is blowing things up—creating a second front behind German lines, and we don’t want to divert attention away from that. Our position with SOE isn’t official yet, but things are moving that way. Horton’s presence confirms that.
“Jeremy works for MI-9, and they’re the ones charged with getting escapees and evaders home. As the war progresses, our missions and MI-9’s will crisscross. I mention that because there’s a situation we’re all aware of—”
“Lance Littlefield,” Horton interjected.
“Exactly.”
The other three men swung around on him.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t guess that,” he exclaimed, returning their stares. “I stayed to help find him. I’ll bloody well liaise, but I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything possible to find Lance and bring him home." He grinned. “I don’t mind going out once in a while to blow things up.”
“Count on me,” Kenyon said after Fourcade interpreted for him. “If Lance hadn’t seen me and my mate bobbing in the ocean...”
“And me,” Pierre chimed in. By way of explanation, he merely arched his eyebrows and said, “Saint-Nazaire.”
“I never met him,” Henri said, “but I’ll help. What’s Jeremy doing?”
“Can’t say,” Horton said gruffly. “He’ll be back as soon as he can.”
Henri turned to Fourcade. “What do you want us to do?”
“I promised Jeremy I’d help find Lance as a side project. We’ll give it high priority, but when we have operations going, they must come first. We’ll send out quiet inquiries. Keep in mind that as we grow, we’ll be more vulnerable to infiltration.
“Sergeant Horton, work on it all you can, but when we need you for liaison, that’s your priority. Are we clear?”
Hearing no objections, Fourcade continued, telling Horton, “Maurice has your forged documents and background story ready. He’ll ease you in to deter suspicions.” Once again, she addressed the full group. “Maurice, Amélie, and Chantal don’t know about trying to find Lance, and there’s no reason to tell them. He has his hands full, and the sisters are too emotionally involved. I’ve sent Amélie on an extended mission partly for that reason. Any questions?”
“You keep calling me sergeant,” Horton said, raising his hand, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “To my mother’s disappointment, I’m still a lowly corporal.”
“Word came down,” Fourcade replied, smiling. “You’ve been promoted.”
15
July 27, 1940
Lörrach, Germany
Lance sat in the back of a lorry, listless. He blamed no one. The good people of Saint-Quirin, while getting on with life, were non-combatants doing the best they could to fight the menace that had invaded their land. They had done a remarkable job in hiding him and helping him evade capture, their only errors having been to be too trusting of neighbors in the vicinity of where they dropped him and doing it in daylight.
He consoled himself that his treatment so far had not been cruel. His captors had allowed him to keep the food. They did not search the garage, so they did not uncover the German uniform, the bandages, or the dead soldier’s ID. I’d have been in much worse shape if they had.
Two soldiers guarded him. They sat at the back of the truck’s bed by the canopy’s mouth, but they paid him no mind—apparently the novelty of a live British soldier had worn off. He heard the flow of water and felt the truck ascending a short, shallow rise and then descending, and he concluded that they must be traversing the Rhine on a bridge. Soon, he sensed that they had crossed the border into Germany.
They stopped a few minutes later. The two soldiers dismounted and signaled that he could also get out. He understood their German conversation perfectly but decided that displaying that skill now would serve no benefit, so he reacted to their gestures and grunts as he would have if he spoke nothing other than English.
One of the soldiers showed him to a restroom and stood guard while he relieved himself. Then they allowed him to loiter at the back of the truck while whatever was to happen next developed.
From listening to their conversation, he discerned the name of this town, Lörrach. Apparently, they were at a small border-patrol headquarters, one now perceived to be surplus since the führer had decreed that the large swath of France would be annexed, French citizens forced out, and the territory opened for German settlement. Thus, the border would move west. I wonder if the residents know.
After thirty minutes, a door slammed, and a blond-haired, blue-eyed soldier walked over. “I’ve been told to talk with you, since we both speak the same language.”
Startled, Lance stared at him. “You’re American?”
“Kansas born and bred, but I’m a German citizen now.”
“How did that happen?”
“My folks moved to the States from here before I was born. When I was ten, they decided to move back.” His tone took on a note of sarcasm. “Our great leader needed soldiers, so here I am. I wasn’t given a choice. Enough of that, though. I could ask you some questions, like what are you doing this far south and east?”
He looked Lance over. “Your uniform is pretty raggedy, but you don’t look much underfed. I’d say you escaped from one of those prisoner marches and holed up somewhere. You’ll be interrogated along the way, and sooner or later, someone will ask who helped you and
where they are.” He smiled. “You seem like a regular guy, though, so I’ll let them do the asking. You know this war is pretty much over for you, don’t you?”
“I’m sure you and your friends think so. I might have other ideas.”
Kansas chuckled. “I know. I get it. I’m just a GI hoping to get through this war in one piece. I’m supposed to tell you that we have the choice of sending you to one of three places. The first is where most army POWs go, but that’s the farthest away—a place called Lamsdorf in Silesia. Stalag VIII-B. The next isn’t that much closer. It’s in a castle, Spangenberg, up north in Elbersdorf, near Belgium.
“The third place is closest by far, and in all honesty, it’s the nicest, but don’t expect a palace. Mostly RAF POWs go there, and it’s run by the Luftwaffe. That’s a good thing, because they treat their prisoners like colleagues.” He chuckled. “Within constraints.”
“I understand.”
“But when we show up with you,” Kansas went on, “they’ll keep you. It’s near a town called Oberursel, a few miles northeast of Frankfurt. All three of those are transit camps, so no tellin’ where you’ll end up. That’s the best I can do.
“If you give us your word that you won’t try to escape, we’ll take you there and let you keep your food, give you a blanket, and we won’t restrain you.” He grinned. “You can guess what happens if we have to take you to either of the other two places.”
“You sound like you’re giving me an option. Why would you do that?”
Kansas chuckled. “It’s a shorter roundtrip in the middle of the night. Your guards and drivers get back to their bunks sooner.”
Lance had to laugh. “This is a surreal conversation. Have you thought how strange this war is? I imagine they all are. What happens if I break my word?”
The boy from Kansas grinned again and indicated the two guards. “The Wehrmacht trains for hand-to-hand combat very seriously, and these two are both expert shots. They won’t waste ammunition.”
Lance studied him. The man could just as easily be standing in a wheat field on the prairie, swaying in the wind with a hay stalk between his teeth. “Well, Kansas,” he said, returning the grin, “I appreciate your explaining all this to me. You have my word that I won’t attempt to escape enroute to that third camp.”
“I’ll let ’em know. Good luck.”
“The same to you.”
The trip was long, but traffic moved, and they encountered no endless processions of prisoners, nor did they stop to pick up any along the way. The two guards sat at the rear of the truck but paid him little attention, preferring to scrunch against the cool night air in their respective corners with the flap down, covering the entire rear view.
Initially, Lance leaned into his own corner by the cab and snoozed as best he could over the pungent smell of canvas. Then, priding himself on his soldier’s ability to sleep anytime, anywhere, on anything, he stretched out on the bench, pulled the blanket over his head, and tuned out the world.
A lump formed in the pit of Lance’s stomach and worked its way into his dozing consciousness the nearer he and his escorts came to their destination. He sat up, tried to see the guards through the darkness, and heard the low rumble of gentle snoring. Feeling along the front corner of the canvas, he found a weak spot and worked it with his fingers until he created a hole that allowed him to look ahead. Despite his limited view, the lights of the truck illuminated a few road signs. They were approaching Frankfurt. Kansas said the prison camp was a few miles beyond here. Within an hour, I’ll either be in a cell or under interrogation.
The thought brought him fully awake. If I’m going to escape, it has to be before this truck enters the prison compound.
His guards stirred. Apparently, they were also anticipating arrival. One shined a light on Lance, apparently to ensure he was still there. Then, ignoring him and believing him not to understand German, he entered into conversation with his companion about what to do on arrival. One was desperate for a latrine. The other agreed to deal with the gate guards to allow his comrade to relieve himself. They could leave Lance in the truck. The driver and a sergeant were in the cab, and after all, the prisoner had given his word of honor.
To hell with that. My word is fulfilled on arrival.
They continued in the darkness through several twists and turns during the last few miles, and finally stopped. Peeking through his hole in the canvas, Lance saw that they were in a well-lit area in front of a gate.
The two guards dismounted, leaving the flap down. Lance moved swiftly to pull it back enough so that he could peer through. One soldier hurried off to the right of the truck, running to the edge of the light, where he danced a fit while struggling with his trousers. On the same side, Lance heard shouts as both cab doors slammed shut, followed by crunching footsteps on pea gravel leading away from the truck.
He moved to the opposite side and cautiously looked out. Light extended a good ways on the left side, and one shining from the right threw the truck’s shadow out a few yards to the rear on the driver’s side. In the distance, he thought he saw a wood line, but it could be just the shadow of a ridge.
He poked his head out and searched that side of the vehicle. He saw no one.
It’s now or never.
Careful to make no noise, he opened the canvas wider and set one foot outside the tailgate and down onto a metal protrusion of some sort, strong enough to hold him. As soon as he had brought his other foot out, he swung himself to the ground at the left rear, in deep shadow. He crouched low, edged out to the limit where darkness met light, took a deep breath, and sprinted.
Behind him, he heard nothing for a few seconds as he covered a quarter of the distance toward where he thought he had seen a tree line. Then came shouts.
Immediately, he started zigzagging, and none too soon. Gunfire erupted behind him, and dust spit up from the ground around him. His lungs heaved, the ravages of his two long treks across France under starvation conditions bearing down on a body that had not yet had time to fully recover. His arms felt heavy and his legs started to buckle with the added strain of changing directions sharply and frequently, but by now, he was halfway to his hoped-for forest sanctuary.
He stumbled but caught himself with his right hand, regained his balance, and continued running with the sense of gaining no distance, like he had experienced in nightmares. At last, he made out detail in the deeper darkness he had seen from the truck, and his heart leaped—it was a wood line, and he was nearly there.
Behind him, the shooting had ceased but was replaced by sounds every bit as ominous, those of barking dogs and cranking engines. And then he was in the trees.
Ducking behind one and taking only enough time to catch his breath, Lance glanced back toward the camp. Headlights shined his way, and searchlights probed the edge of the woods. The glow of the camp silhouetted advancing soldiers and dogs spread across the field, the barking becoming louder.
Lance ran deeper into the trees, hoping for a stream where he might shed his scent long enough to put some distance between him and the dogs that gained on him rapidly.
He tried to run harder, but with no light, he slammed into trees, and limbs whipped his face. Fatigue turned to exhaustion, his lungs failing to suck in enough oxygen. He fell headlong on the ground, panting, having the will to go on but not the physical ability. When he rolled over, a shaft of light beamed into his eyes, and a dog snarled at his throat. He lay on his back and raised his forearms and hands.
16
Marseille, France
“Hérisson, I must speak with you in person,” Henri said into the phone. “It’s urgent. Those men from our last meeting should be there as well.”
“Come over now,” Fourcade replied. “Let’s talk first, and then, if appropriate, we’ll bring them in.”
An hour later, the two met on the terrace of her rented villa. “I have news, perhaps, of Jeremy’s brother, Lance Littlefield.”
“Let’s hear it.”
; “I received a call from a contact up near Saint-Louis. He had been asked by friends farther north to help a British soldier trying to get into Switzerland. They needed a place where they could drop him off unseen. He told them to go to an abandoned garage along a rural road, and he had watched from a hidden position nearby. Everything went as planned, but he had not counted on a nosy neighbor who called the German border patrol. The Brit was taken prisoner. He fits the description of your friend’s brother: sandy-colored hair, and about the same height as Jeremy.”
“Any idea where they took him?”
Henri shook his head. “Afterward, just after dusk, the contact snuck into the garage and looked around. He found a German uniform with a wallet and ID in a corner with a blanket and some used bandages. He took everything with him.”
“Good work.” Fourcade smiled. “I knew bringing you in would be a good thing.”
“You asked me to develop an expanded network. I did, and that’s why we have that news. I had alerted my contacts to be on the lookout for a British soldier of Lance’s description. The border patrol is not the Wehrmacht or the SS. Its men are not the most motivated or disciplined. They come from the bottom of the barrel, so to speak.” Then he added, “The local Resistance will deal with the collaborator after all of this is done.” He drew his finger across his neck in a menacing gesture.
“Why did you want the others to know?” Fourcade asked.
“I thought they’d like to hear news of their friend.”
Fourcade pursed her lips and shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “We’ll bring them in when the time comes.” She leaned her forehead into her hand to think. “Did the soldiers who took him away search the garage?”
“I don’t think so. From what I gather, they opened the door, and the Brit came out with his hands up. They loaded him into the truck and took him away.”
