BY THAT EVENING, THOMAS WAS exhausted. He had figured that walking for a few days wouldn’t be too taxing, but with his adrenaline surging earlier, he’d failed to notice that his left ankle had been twisted upon landing. It didn’t bother him much at first, but as he made his way up and down hills in the direction the compass pointed, his pace grew slower and slower. Finally, just as darkness was falling, he found a stream, and he stopped to get a bit of water. He knew that soon, he’d have to find a safe place to spend the night.
He sat down on a fallen log and closed his eyes for a moment, just to catch his breath, and the next thing he knew, there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. A man with a deep voice was saying something, and Thomas jumped up, backing away. The forest was cloaked in darkness now, and he was alone in the clearing with a man holding a lantern.
“I said, Are you all right?” the man asked again, and it took a second for Thomas to register that the words were in French instead of German. A bit of relief washed over him, but he was still on guard. There was no way to know if this man was friend or foe.
“Yes, thank you,” Thomas grunted in French, trying to imitate a French accent and hoping that his brevity would conceal the British edge to his words.
“You are English,” the man said calmly, and Thomas’s heart sank. Apparently, he hadn’t been as clever as he’d hoped.
“No,” he said in a clipped tone, taking another step back and considering his escape route. If the man didn’t have a gun, or if he wasn’t a particularly good shot, Thomas could make a break for it. But how far would his bum ankle carry him, especially in dark terrain he didn’t know?
The man didn’t advance though. “Relax,” he said in French. “I am not one of them.”
“One of who?”
“A collaborator. A Nazi lover.” The man spat loudly. “I am French, and to me, anyone who is here trying to help us is a friend.”
Thomas hesitated. He wasn’t sure whether to believe the man, but he didn’t have much of a choice. “All right. I’m trying to get to Paris.”
The man didn’t ask why. “Well, you are not going to get there tonight, are you? And you will be in need of a good night’s rest before you continue on. Come with me.”
Thomas stayed rooted to the spot. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“I suppose you do not. But the closer you get to Paris dressed like that, the more danger you will be in. So you can take your chances with me, or you can continue on dressed in an inside-out flight suit.”
Thomas’s stomach dropped. “You can tell what I’m wearing?”
“Your boots do not help your cause. Come, you can sleep for a bit and be on your way at first light.” The man began walking without waiting for an answer. When Thomas didn’t follow, the man called over his shoulder, “I am not going to beg. But this would be in your best interest.”
Seconds later, Thomas followed after the man, both of them sticking to the shadows until they got to the edge of a field.
“Well, come on, then,” the man said. “The longer you linger out here, the more chance you are giving the Germans to spot you, friend. And then I will have to deny that I have ever seen you.”
The man began to cross the field, which was planted with what looked in the darkness like potatoes. But Thomas knew that the French were suffering from huge food shortages, just like the British, so he wondered how much of the field had been rendered fallow by Germans more concerned with starving their enemies than feeding themselves.
The man led him to a modest farmhouse and held the door open. Inside, candlelight flickered, and Thomas hesitated a moment before entering. “There now,” the man said, shutting the door behind him. “Was that so hard?”
Thomas looked around him, taking in the surroundings. The place was sparsely furnished, but it looked homey and warm.
“Claude?” A woman emerged from the back of the home wearing a housecoat. She was young—perhaps in her early twenties—and pretty. In the candlelight, Thomas could finally see the face of the man who’d brought him home too, and he was surprised to realize that he was not much older than Thomas himself.
“Henriette, I have brought a guest,” the man said. “Do we have any food for him?”
“Yes, of course,” she murmured, studying Thomas for a few seconds before hurrying out of the room.
“That is my wife, Henriette,” the man said, turning back to Thomas. “I am called Claude. And you are?”
“Thomas.” He paused, considered giving his last name, and decided against it. “And thank you. You and your wife are very kind to help me.”
Claude shrugged. “It is what anyone would do.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“Anyone with a conscience,” Claude amended.
Thomas nodded. “How did you find me?”
“I was in the field when I saw you stumble toward the stream. When you sat down and did not move, I thought perhaps you were dead. But I had to wait until after dark to check, because it is impossible to tell when the German patrols are out. The lazy bastards turn in early, though. You can find them in town getting drunk on our best wine.”
“Where are we?” Thomas asked.
Claude raised an eyebrow. “Near Ayette. Where are you coming from?”
“Arras. I think. My plane went down this morning in a dogfight.”
“Ah, so they will be looking for you. All the better to have brought you in for the night. You covered quite a distance in a day, though. Especially with that injury.” He gestured to Thomas’s ankle. “Henriette can wrap it, although I do not know how much it will help.”
“Thank you.”
Claude nodded. “Now, why are you in such a rush to get to Paris? It is crawling with Nazis, you know.”
Thomas hesitated. Claude seemed friendly enough, but what if he was a Nazi plant, fishing for information? “It seems my best bet of hooking up with an escape line.”
“Yes. Yes, it does. We have seen only a few of you fellows around here, and all we can do is help you move on without getting caught.”
“There have been others?”
“Yes. A fellow named Kenneth about six months ago. Went down near Arras, like you. And about four months ago, a man named Michael. Leg was so badly injured that you could see the bone. Henriette cleaned and set it. Nazis snooping around, since his plane did not go down far from here. But he made it to Paris, at least.”
“How do you know?”
“My father drove him.”
Thomas looked up in surprise. There was someone here giving rides to pilots? That would certainly make the next few days easier. But then Claude shook his head.
“My father died last month. Heart attack. I think that risking his life for that pilot cleansed his soul at the end, though.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Now enough of that. Let us get you fed and dressed so you can sleep.” Claude smiled. “You do not think you will go wandering into Paris dressed like that, do you? You might as well be waving a British flag.”
AFTER THOMAS HAD EATEN A surprisingly delicious potato soup prepared by Henriette, who then wrapped his ankle, Claude showed him to the barn, where there was a trapdoor in the floor beneath an empty stall.
“We used to have six horses,” Claude explained, his expression darkening. “The Nazis requisitioned them all.”
“I’m sorry,” Thomas said.
“As am I. Sorry for all of us.” He handed Thomas a small stack of clothing—a shirt and some pants, it appeared, with a pair of scuffed shoes. “These were my father’s. He was a tall man, so they should fit you well enough. Now get some sleep, and put these on in the morning. I will come get you at first light.”
He opened the trapdoor and gestured down into the darkness. It smelled musty and stale, but Thomas realized that it was probably the best place on the property to hide.