Once More the Hawks (12 page)

Feeling better, he now began to suffer from reaction. Again and again he’d told his pilots that if they were forced to land in enemy territory the first five minutes were the most important, and he had often quoted the case of the pilot who had deliberately fooled the low-flying German fighters which had shot him down by lying back in his seat so that he appeared to be dead, then, as the fighters disappeared, had bolted for the woods and managed to reach England. He could only excuse himself with the knowledge that it had been at least five minutes after his crash before he had collected his senses enough to know what was happening.

During the evening two officers appeared in the doorway. As Dicken rose, the senior of the two started to shout at him. Dicken’s German was good enough for him to understand that a salute was being demanded but he thought it wiser to keep his knowledge of the language to himself.

The German continued to shout and eventually the other officer stepped forward. ‘The major insists that you salute him,’ he said in English.

‘Oh, does he?’ Dicken said. ‘Well, tell the major that I am the equivalent of a full colonel and that in the RAF it’s usual for a major to salute first.’

When the officer translated, the German major gave him a glare but he didn’t pursue the matter and proceeded to question him on the type of aircraft he’d been flying. Since the wreckage was in the cemetery only a mile or two away, there seemed to be no point in refusing the information.

‘You were shot down. Our airmen are good, are they not?’

‘Not as good as ours,’ Dicken retorted. ‘Because I wasn’t shot down. I shot down two of yours and was close enough to the second to have my machine damaged when the stupid bugger blew up.’

The following morning he was awakened by the sound of shouted orders in the street below. Standing on the end of the bed, through the window he saw a column of men, some of them wearing naval uniform, some civilian clothes, one or two even in RAF blue, halted in the street below. As he stared out, the door opened and the elderly man who had bathed his face the night before grinned up at him.

‘It’s no good trying to get out that way,’ he said in his halting English. ‘You’re joining the column out there in the street. Captured crews of merchant ships, a few naval men from our sinkings, one or two of your own kind. We’ve been collecting them in Dieppe. You’re en route for Germany. You’ll have to walk so I brought this.’

He offered a cup of the ersatz coffee and a portion of a French loaf filled with cheese.

The sergeant in charge of the column signed a receipt held out by the Feldpolizei who had held Dicken prisoner, as if he were receiving a registered parcel, and he was pushed into the column. The sailors were at the front, the officers at the rear, and one of the naval men, stumbling alongside, fell into conversation.

His ship had been torpedoed and the survivors had been brought into Dieppe with a lot of merchant seamen in a German freighter. ‘We kept hoping that perhaps the Navy would arrive alongside,’ he said. ‘Like they did with the
Altmark
.’ He gave a wry grin. ‘But this is France not Norway and it’s 1941 not 1940.’

They had been kept for several days in a football stadium converted into a temporary prisoner of war cage, a lot of the time in freezing rain, and they were all in a pathetic condition. The German guards were truculent and several of them struck out with their rifle butts. One elderly merchant sailor was having difficulty keeping up and the German corporal kept shoving at him until eventually he fell. As the German wrenched him to his feet, Dicken appeared alongside him.

‘Do that again, Corporal,’ he said quietly in German, ‘and I’ll make sure you’re reported.’

‘So!’ The German swung round, his rifle at the ready. ‘So we have an Englander here who speaks our language, eh?’

‘Well enough to report you where it’ll count.’

The German sneered but it was noticeable that he left the sailor alone after that, and eventually Dicken persuaded the sergeant in charge to have him placed in the lorry that was following them.

The rain came again and the march became a shambling stumble over the wet road, all of them drenched to the skin, bedraggled, woebegone and weary. Shuffling into a village called Hine, they were herded into the church to spend the night. Straw was placed on the floor and the church filled with exhausted steaming men, one even asleep on the altar. The old sailor was near Dicken, sucking at a cigarette.

‘Kind of you to put in a word for me,’ he said. ‘Speaking German could be useful if you tried to escape. Going to ’ave a go?’

‘You bet.’

The old man sucked at his cigarette again then he nodded. ‘I expect something’ll turn up,’ he said. ‘They’d never miss one, would they?’

During the night, as Dicken dozed off in an uneasy sleep, he was wakened by an elbow jabbing into his ribs. It was the old sailor.

‘The place’s on fire,’ he said cheerfully.

Sitting bolt upright, Dicken saw that the straw alongside him was smouldering and sending up a column of thick smoke.

‘Did you do it?’

The old man grinned. ‘They’ll ’ave to let us out and it’s dark outside. Them gravestones would make a good ’iding place.’

‘You coming with me?’

‘Not likely. Too old. I’d only keep you back. As soon as we’re outside, make a run for it.’

‘Right.’

‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay.’ The old man put his head back and began to yell. ‘Fire! Fire! Let us out! We’re burning to death!’

By this time the straw was crackling into flame, and smoke was filling the church. For a minute or two Dicken began to wonder if they were going to be burned to death or choke on the smoke but then the door crashed open and the sergeant and two German soldiers stood in the entrance, holding lanterns.

‘Gottverdammte!’ the sergeant yelled in fury. ‘Rouse the others, then get the priest and tell him his church’s on fire and we’ll need help.’

Eventually more German soldiers appeared, some of them only half-dressed, and began to shepherd everybody into the rain. As he went outside, Dicken felt the old sailor give him a shove.

‘Dark patch over there,’ he pointed out. ‘Under them trees. Go on, while you’ve got the chance. If you make it,’ he went on as Dicken squeezed his hand, ‘go and see my old lady. Mortenson’s the name. Twelve, Waterloo Street, Wapping. It’s not ’ard to remember.’

As the prisoners were herded away, Dicken dived behind one of the tombs. Its bulk shielded him from the light and, wriggling on his stomach, he headed for a neighbouring headstone. From there he made it to another tomb and then to the shelter of the trees. Crouching in the long grass, he saw one of the prisoners try to make a run for it but the German sergeant fired at him and the man stopped dead, frozen to immobility until two of the guards grabbed him and swung him round to fling him in among the others.

Lights were being brought now and two lorries had arrived to shine their headlights on the dilapidated group. Then the priest arrived, bareheaded, followed by several of his parishioners with pitchforks who dived inside the church to re-emerge with bundles of smoking straw. Dicken watched until the last bundle had been dumped, then the German sergeant and his men began to push the prisoners back inside.

‘This time there’ll be no straw,’ he roared. ‘You can sleep on the floor, and I hope you freeze to death.’

Slamming and locking the door, the Germans stood in a group, lighting cigarettes, then the sergeant posted doubled sentries and the lorries disappeared. As the place went back to darkness and he heard boots crunching on gravel, Dicken turned away and headed into the dark fields.

By first light he had walked several kilometres and the only person he saw was a woman milking a cow in a farmyard. At first she didn’t move then she beckoned, but as he stepped into the road, he saw her change her mind and hurriedly give him a warning signal. There was nowhere to hide. He could already hear the noise of a motorcycle so he turned his jacket inside out and pulled his trousers outside his flying boots. As the motorcycle combination came in sight, he was bent over the ditch hauling a rotting log aside. As the Germans passed, he lifted the log to his shoulder and walked boldly on to the road. As the motorcycle combination disappeared, he looked towards the woman but she once more signalled care. This time it was a convoy of two lorries but again they took no notice of him and, as they disappeared, he waved his thanks to the woman and headed into a clump of brambles.

He decided to head for Paris and travel after dark. But he continually ran into barbed wire or fell into ditches and the following morning, wet with dew and shivering with cold, he decided he had had enough of night-time travel and, finding a length of cord holding a gate, he made himself a bundle of long sticks and tied them together as if he were a labourer collecting fuel. He was desperately hungry by this time but could see no chance of obtaining food.

After dusk he heard a cow bawling to be milked and decided to try his luck. But he had nothing for a container so he searched around until he found a reasonably clean tin and, washing it in a stream, managed to direct the milk into it.

The following morning he found a deserted farm with a yard containing a battered lorry. There was a loft full of straw which he decided would give him a bed for the night, and in the house he found a bottle of sour wine and a stale loaf and in the hen house several newly-laid eggs. Using the pump, he washed the grime off his hands and face and took stock of his possessions. As he did so he realised he was still wearing his RAF watch, so he shoved it hurriedly into his pocket. Deciding to abandon his uniform jacket, he scraped the grime off an old coat he found and, building a fire, dried it sufficiently for it to be wearable. Then he boiled the eggs in a tin and began at once to feel more capable. Examining the lorry, he discovered that the key was missing but using his penknife, he managed to turn the ignition on and start it. Knowing he could now move faster, he removed the rotor arm and, climbing to the loft, buried himself in the hay and fell asleep almost at once.

Searching the house the following morning, he found a pantry with a mouldy quiche in it but there were more eggs in the hen house and, catching two of the chickens, he killed them for use as barter. He couldn’t imagine why everything about the place had been abandoned and could only put it down to some sudden raid by the Germans on someone suspected of helping the British.

Tossing the chickens into the lorry’s cabin, he replaced the rotor arm and started the engine. The petrol gauge didn’t work but, by poking into the tank with a stick, he came to the conclusion that there was enough fuel to take him further south. Loading the lorry with straw to give him an excuse for being on the road, he hadn’t gone more than a few dozen kilometres, when it ran out of petrol. As he was checking the tank a man dressed like a farmer came along on a bicycle.

‘In trouble?’ he asked.

‘Out of petrol,’ Dicken told him.

‘What happened to your eye?’

‘The starting handle caught me.’

The Frenchman studied him for a moment. ‘Where were you heading?’ he asked.

‘Paris,’ Dicken said. ‘Want to buy a lorry?’

The farmer gave him a sidelong look. ‘Are you English?’

Dicken admitted the fact and the farmer smiled. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I can raise enough to help you.’

As he cycled off, Dicken stared after him, wondering if he’d made a mistake and the Frenchman had gone to fetch the Germans. For safety, he hid in a nearby wood but an hour later the farmer came back with a can tied to his handlebars. Stopping by the lorry, he looked round him, puzzled, then began to pour the petrol into the tank. When Dicken stepped from the trees he waved.

‘Three hundred francs,’ he said. ‘It’s all I can raise but it ought to help.’ He fished into the pannier on the back of his bicycle and produced a haversack containing a loaf, a tin of meat and a bottle of wine. ‘I’ve brought you some food, a hat and a coat that’s a bit better than the one you’re wearing.’

As the lorry rattled away, Dicken set off southwards again, more confident in a passable coat and hat. He reached Paris four days later and headed for the American Consulate. The woman who interviewed him looked a little like Katie Foote. She studied the scar over his eye. ‘That’s a nasty injury you’ve got there,’ she said. ‘It needs attention. Have you anywhere to spend the night?’

‘No. But I have money if you can recommend a quiet hotel.’

‘You’d better come to my apartment,’ she said softly. ‘Wait outside until you see me leave then follow me. Don’t speak to me.’

To kill time, he made his way to the Champs Elysées. The Germans were just marching from the Etoile to the Place de la Concorde. The Parisians were boycotting the parade, their eyes averted as the Germans passed, kettledrums beating the step in a triumphant note, file on file of soldiers, their bayonets fixed, a polished, unhurried symbol of France’s humiliation.

The woman from the Consulate said she had offered her help because she was convinced that America would eventually enter the war on Britain’s side. She bathed his eye, gave him a meal and for the first time in days he had a bath and slept in a proper bed. The following morning she provided him with a pair of trousers to replace his RAF ones, a pair of shoes in place of his flying boots, and a battered bicycle. By that evening, he had covered two hundred and twenty kilometres and had almost reached Tours where he spent the night in a shabby hotel before passing through the checkpoint between Occupied and Unoccupied France. The Germans were demanding papers but there was such a crowd of gesticulating people that, by waiting his opportunity, he was able to slip by as if he were a member of a party moving south seeking employment.

With a French loaf tied to his handlebars, he looked like a French labourer and he found nobody looked twice at him. With the money he had obtained for the lorry, he was able to sleep in small hotels and, though a few people eyed him curiously, none of them asked questions.

He remained on the south coast close to the Spanish border for over a fortnight, trying to make contact with the British Consul in Barcelona. The area seemed to be full of disguised British soldiers trying to reach neutral territory but, though everybody seemed to know who they were, none of them was prepared to admit their identity because the German secret police were busy in the area. Several times Dicken had to bolt down a side street, and once he saw several of his companions being marched off to jail. The local gendarmerie seemed willing enough to help, however, and eventually a sous-brigadier who was crossing the frontier smuggled Dicken over in the boot of his car.