The Eagle Trail

by Robert Rigby

  In one corner was a brick-built outside lavatory. Paul couldn’t help grinning as he spotted the heart-shaped hole cut into the door – conveniently situated at eye level so that anyone could look inside to see if it was occupied.

  Alongside the tiny building, five wire-fronted wooden hutches were stacked on top of one another. Inside each hutch a pink-eyed, long-eared rabbit chewed steadily on vegetable peelings. Continuing to chew, all five rabbits turned their heads and watched as Sabine and Paul stepped into the yard.

  Resting against the fence next to the cages were two black bicycles, one with a wicker basket on the front and the other with a small metal rack mounted above the rear wheel.

  “You can ride a bicycle?” Sabine asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Fix your case to the one with the rack, and I’ll put my bag in the basket on the other.”

  Less than a minute later they were cycling away, Sabine in front. She obviously knew Reims well; she rode without stopping or even pausing to check directions as they headed through the historic streets towards the main railway station.

  Approaching the city centre they were waved unchallenged through a checkpoint and emerged into a wide, tree-lined boulevard, busy with pedestrians and vehicles. German soldiers were everywhere. Officers strolled leisurely in the early autumn sunshine while infantrymen stood on guard outside strategically important buildings, or marched in small squads to some other destination.

  Soldiers, and the occasional passing military vehicle, were the only signs of the present war, but as Paul and Sabine cycled down the Rue des Romains, they glimpsed reminders of an earlier conflict. Huge swathes of the city had been badly damaged by German bombing during the First World War and some buildings remained unrepaired.

  As they neared the station, they glimpsed in the distance the majestic twin towers of the Notre-Dame Cathedral, traditionally where the crowning of French kings had taken place. In the early days of the First World War, German shellfire had destroyed much of the building and in the blazing inferno that followed even more was lost.

  They were cycling side by side now. Sabine spoke softly, taking the opportunity to remind Paul once more of his changed identity. “Do you know, Philippe, they started restoring our shattered cathedral almost as soon as the last war finished, and it’s been going on ever since. They only fully reopened the building two years ago.” She shook her head sadly. “Just in time for another war.”

  Reaching the station, Sabine dismounted and led the way to a row of bicycle stands. “They’ll be collected,” she said, anticipating Paul’s question.

  Paul glanced towards the station’s high-arched doorway and took a deep breath. He was about to discover how good a job the forger had made of his new papers. And how good he would be at being someone else.

  FIFTEEN

  Two armed German soldiers were inspecting passengers’ documents as they passed through the checkpoint leading to the platforms.

  “Remember,” Sabine breathed, “if you get through unchallenged, go straight onto the platform. Don’t hang around looking nervous; act as though you expect me to join you.”

  She had said earlier that if for any reason she was stopped and taken away, he was to travel onwards alone. He knew their destination and where to meet the next contact. If necessary he would have to do it on his own.

  Paul joined the short queue at the checkpoint and waited his turn. He could feel his heart thudding; he had never stood face to face with a German soldier. He felt edgy, but reckoned that everyone in the queue would be feeling edgy at a moment like this. The Germans might pick on anyone for questioning.

  Paul reached the front of the queue and made eye contact with the soldier as he handed over his identity card and travel pass.

  “Don’t look furtive or shifty,” Sabine had told him, “and don’t look as though you’ve got something to hide.”

  The soldier studied both documents. He looked at the photograph on the identity card, then at Paul, and then at the photograph again. With a final cursory glance at Paul he handed back the documents and gave a curt nod. Paul was through.

  Sabine passed through the checkpoint equally quickly and they strolled down the platform until they came to a spot where they could wait for their train and speak quietly without being overheard.

  “We’ve been lucky so far,” Sabine said quietly. “Don’t expect it to last. Anything can happen, remember that.”

  Paul nodded, reminding himself to appear calm and relaxed, and recalling Sabine’s words in their final briefing. “Be inconspicuous; try to be invisible.”

  It wasn’t easy, especially when a German officer walked up to them and stopped, catching Paul’s eye. He nodded and Paul hesitantly nodded back, wondering what would come next. The officer gave a slight smile of acknowledgment, checked his watch and turned away.

  Paul was relieved when the station announcer’s voice informed them that the train for Dijon was approaching. Dijon was where they had to change to a branch line for Dole.

  With a clanking of metal on metal and a shriek of brakes, the great black steam engine drew slowly into the station, belching thick clouds of smoke.

  Casually Sabine took Paul’s arm and led him a little further down the platform, away from the German officer. He was the last person they wanted to be sitting opposite all the way to Dijon.

  They boarded a carriage and walked along the corridor, looking into the compartments for vacant seats. Many were almost full, but eventually they came to one containing just three passengers, a young man and two nuns.

  Sabine caught Paul’s arm and gestured to him to go inside. He opened the door and Sabine followed him in. Paul lifted his case onto the luggage rack and took a window seat opposite one of the nuns. She smiled and he smiled back, then he settled into his seat with Sabine beside him.

  Out on the platform the final passengers were boarding. A few minutes later the engine’s whistle screamed and the train drew slowly out of Reims station.

  They were slowing for a station stop when the compartment’s sliding door suddenly flew open, causing one of the nuns, who had been dozing peacefully, to wake with a start.

  Two French police officers stood in the doorway.

  “Papers, please,” said the first.

  The second officer remained by the door as the first moved to the window where Paul and the other nun sat. The nun offered her papers, which the officer took.

  Paul waited, reminding himself to keep his answers simple if questioned, not to say too much, be too helpful or appear anxious. He stole a glance at Sabine. She was looking at the young man sitting in the opposite corner by the door. Paul could see that he was nervous. He was staring at the floor and small beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

  The officer turned to Paul, took his papers and ran his eyes over them. It seemed to Paul that he wasn’t checking them very thoroughly.

  “Why are you travelling?”

  “I’m going to see my grandmother,” Paul answered. “With my cousin.” He put a hand on Sabine’s arm.

  The officer’s eyes flicked onto Sabine. “Our grandmother is very ill,” she told him calmly.

  “Where does she live?” the officer asked, his eyes on Paul again.

  “In Dole.”

  The nun sitting opposite Paul sighed and gave him a sympathetic smile. “We’ll pray for your grandmother,” she said gently.

  Apparently satisfied with the answers, the officer handed back Paul’s documents, took Sabine’s and scanned them briefly.

  He turned to the nun who had been dozing. Her papers were checked and as the train continued to slow, he moved to the young man. Paul and Sabine looked in his direction and immediately saw, outside in the corridor, the German officer who had waited next to Paul on the platform.

  Paul went cold. At the same moment he felt Sabine stiffen at his side. This was it. Something had gone terribly wrong and their carefully planned subterfuge had been discovered.

  �
�Papers.”

  The police officer was still looking at the young man, who reached into a pocket and produced his papers.

  “Where are you travelling to?”

  “Beaune,” was the one-word answer.

  “Why are you going to Beaune?”

  The young man hesitated before slowly and very deliberately giving his reply. “I sell wine.”

  The few heavily accented words made it obvious that the young man was English.

  The train had stopped. Paul and Sabine watched as the German officer stepped into the doorway, drew a Lugar P08 pistol from its holster and pointed it at the Englishman. “We are not satisfied with your answers,” he said in clipped English. “Come with me, please.”

  The young man’s head sank down onto his chest and he gave an anguished sigh of despair. He stood up and, for an instant, his hands moved upwards, as though to grab the pistol.

  But the officer was ready. He took a small backward step into the corridor. “Please don’t attempt anything silly,” he said quickly. “I’m quite prepared to fire. And even if you did get past me, there are armed soldiers all over the station. You see, we’ve been expecting you, Lieutenant Conway.”

  The questioning and arrest had been perfectly timed. The Englishman’s whole body appeared to sag, knowing his bid for freedom was over. He nodded, shuffled slowly from the compartment and disappeared along the corridor, accompanied by the French policemen.

  The German officer looked across the compartment at the remaining passengers, smiled and switched back to French as he said, “Sorry for any disturbance. I wish you all a pleasant onward journey.”

  SIXTEEN

  “I wanted to help him,” Paul said.

  “Of course, you did,” Sabine answered. “I did too, but there was nothing we could do without compromising our own situation. And even then, what could we do?”

  Paul didn’t answer, but he knew Sabine was right.

  They had changed trains at Dijon for the short onward journey to Dole. The branch line train was carrying far fewer passengers and Paul and Sabine were alone in a compartment so could speak freely.

  “Sadly he’ll never know,” Sabine continued, “but his being captured like that certainly helped us. The guards were so concerned with arresting him it didn’t occur to them there could be someone else they were looking for in the very same compartment.”

  It was true. After the young Englishman had been marched away under heavy guard, Paul and Sabine were not troubled again.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Paul said. “But now he’ll spend the rest of the war in a prison camp.”

  Sabine shrugged. “I don’t know. He was on the run. He must have escaped the Germans once, maybe he’ll do it again.” She nodded towards the window. “We’re coming into Dole.”

  Dole stood on the Doubs river and was close to the Demarcation Line, the newly imposed border separating Occupied France from the so-called “Free Zone”.

  The Germans had quickly realized that France was too big for total occupation, so they had handed the control of a vast central and southern area to the Vichy Government. Everyone knew this zone was far from free; but at least it was free from German soldiers.

  “We’re going to a café in the old town,” Sabine said as they stepped from the carriage onto the platform. “Our contact should be waiting for us.”

  “Do you know him?” Paul asked.

  Sabine laughed as she replied. “Yes, I know him.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “We’re related,” Sabine said softly, and then almost in a whisper. “He really is my cousin.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows in surprise. For once, Sabine had revealed unessential information, something he didn’t need to know. He said nothing but was pleased that her confidence in him had grown.

  The checkpoint at the small station office was unmanned so they wandered through and out into Dole. They strode briskly through the narrow streets, past the river and the canal into the old centre, where picturesque medieval buildings huddled together like conspirators involved in a secret plot.

  A stocky man in his twenties sat alone on the café terrace, nursing an empty coffee cup. He stood as he saw Sabine and Paul approach, then kissed Sabine on both cheeks and offered his hand to Paul. “Louis Bourdon.”

  “Philippe Héroux,” Paul replied without hesitation.

  “Shall we go?” Louis said, and without giving them a chance to answer, he strode away, dodging down one narrow street after another until they came to a long row of tall houses. Louis approached a front door and tapped lightly. It was opened almost immediately by an elderly, bald-headed man, with a pink face and rimless spectacles.

  “Come in, come in,” he said quickly, standing back so they could enter.

  “This is André, he’s going to take your photograph,” Louis said to Paul as soon as the front door was closed.

  “My photograph?”

  “For your new papers.”

  “New? But I already—”

  “You need different papers for when you’re travelling in the Free Zone. The papers are ready; we only need to add your name and the photograph. You can have your real first name again this time; it will make life a lot easier. What is it?”

  Paul looked at Sabine. She had told him so many times that for as long as they were together he was Philippe; he almost feared to speak his own name.

  But Sabine smiled. “It’s Paul.”

  Paul was at Louis Bourdon’s house, just a few streets away from André’s place. The photograph had been taken and the new documents were to be delivered the following morning. That same evening, under cover of darkness, Louis would lead Paul over the Demarcation Line into the Free Zone.

  In the meantime, all they could do was wait. And waiting was difficult for Paul. Waiting, with nothing to occupy him, brought back agonizing memories, horrifying images of his father’s death, and the aching dread over the fate of his mother.

  Paul had washed, changed his clothes and was sitting on the bed in his small attic bedroom when there was a soft tap on the door.

  “Yes?”

  The door swung open and Sabine appeared. She was staying the night, as it would be impossible to get back to the farm before the ten o’clock curfew. “Louis has made some supper,” she said. “It’s ready.”

  “You could have called me.”

  Sabine shook her head. “We have to be careful. Shouting or even speaking too loudly might draw attention to the house. There are neighbours Louis believes can’t be trusted.”

  She noticed Paul sigh.

  “Are you OK?”

  He frowned. “It’s as though no one can be trusted.”

  “These days it’s best to think that way,” Sabine said. “At least until you are absolutely certain.”

  “I was thinking about my mother.” Paul saw the look of wariness that came into Sabine’s eyes. “I know,” he said quickly. “I know I’m not supposed to talk about what’s happened, but that doesn’t mean I can stop my thoughts. And my dreams.”

  Sabine paused for a moment before replying. “I … I do know a little of what happened,” she said. “And from what I’ve learned it seems to me that you’re very brave.”

  “No,” Paul said, “I’m not. Not brave like you. Or Louis, or Father Lagarde, or Albert. All risking your lives for someone you don’t even know.”

  “But I do know you now … Paul,” Sabine said with a smile. “Come on, let’s eat.”

  They went down the steep wooden staircase into the kitchen. A dim ceiling light burned in the centre of the room and closed shutters kept out prying eyes.

  “Sit,” Louis ordered. “It’s ready.”

  The hearty rabbit stew made Paul feel better and by the time the meal was over he was ready to ask about the following evening.

  “Is it difficult to cross the Demarcation Line?” he said to Louis.

  “Depends,” Louis answered with a shrug. “It’s not literally a barrier stretchin
g from one side of France to the other. There are barriers in various places, with armed guards on duty all the time. In other places there are fences and wire. But we won’t be crossing at any of these.”

  “Then where?”

  Louis laughed. “Somewhere where there’s nothing but a sign stuck in a field, or a marker post. Or nothing at all. You’ll see.”

  “You’re so close to the line here,” Paul said. “Haven’t you thought of crossing yourself and staying in the Free Zone?”

  Louis stood up and glanced at Sabine. “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  “And for you?” Louis said to Paul, who shook his head.

  Louis went to the stove, put water on to boil, then reached into a cupboard and brought out a tin.

  “I have friends living on the other side,” he said. “This ‘line’ has separated families, cut people off from their friends and their work, even kids from their schools. As far as I’m concerned there’s little difference which side of the line you’re on. The whole of France will be a prison until we free ourselves of the Germans. I prefer to do what I can from this side.”

  Paul nodded and they sat in silence until Louis brought the coffee back to the table.

  “I have something else to tell you,” Louis said as he sat down. “Not good news, I’m afraid.”

  Paul’s heart almost stopped beating. It was news of his mother; it had to be.

  “It’s Jos Theys,” Louis said. “We picked up a radio message from Belgium. He’s been arrested; taken in for questioning by the Germans. And others in Antwerp have been taken too.”

  “And my mother,” Paul blurted out. “Have you heard … is there any…?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I know nothing about your mother.”

  “But they must have said something… She was taken—”

  Sabine reached across and rested a hand on Paul’s arm. “There’s nothing more to tell, Paul,” she said gently. “You know as much as we do.”

  Paul sat back in his chair. The uncertainty of events in Antwerp was far more terrifying than the prospect of escaping to southern France and across the mountains into Spain. But he couldn’t allow himself to dwell on Antwerp; it was too painful. He looked at Louis. “What happens after we’ve crossed the line tomorrow night?”