Kid Comes Back (5 page)

T
HE STATION AT
D
AX
was larger than the ones they had passed through during the day. The crowd was larger, too. Wedged securely in the mob, the three men trying to keep together in the event of trouble, they worked down the platform to where the huge exit sign hung overhead. There they anticipated an inspection of their identity cards. When they were near the gate, with no way of escape, they realized the German control party at the barrier was also searching everyone’s baggage.

Since all radios were forbidden, and the one carried by Marcel was evidently of foreign make, discovery seemed inevitable.

There was no time to think. Already they were close to the exit gate, handing over their tickets to the French railway guard, and their false identity cards to the stolid German non-com with the rifle on his shoulder. Roy was ready to bolt through the mob and try to run for it, although he knew perfectly well that even should he succeed in getting outside the station, he would be picked up in town immediately.

They looked at each other. Next to Roy was Marcel, with the betraying suitcase in his hand. In front of him tottered a little girl of four or five, lugging a heavy bundle, a youngster thin-legged and weak like all the kids they had seen in France. She was trying to get through the gate. By Marcel’s other elbow was a tall German soldier, evidently returning from leave at home. Suddenly Marcel thrust the suitcase at him, said a few words in French, picked up the little girl and her bundle, and went through the gate holding out his identity card. The official tore open the bundle which contained old clothes, and nodded for them to go on. Meanwhile, the soldier carrying the valise passed by without an inspection. Marcel put down the child and took the valise.

“Merci, mon vieux,”
he said. The soldier smiled and moved along.

But they were not safe yet. Just beyond stood a French policeman, a rifle slung over his back. He had observed the maneuver, and stepped forward. Taking Marcel roughly by the arm, he pointed to the suitcase, plainly asking what was in it. Once more Roy was desperate, getting set to run, to push through the mob into the street and safety outside. But again nothing happened. On tiptoe, Marcel reached up and whispered something to the tough gendarme. The man turned away. They were in the street.

Roy wiped his forehead. Gosh! And those Intelligence Officers used to claim this escape business was a setup if you did what you were told!

“What did you say to him, Marcel?”

The little Frenchman glanced round to be sure no one heard. “I take beeg chance. I say in valise is American radio for Resistance. O.K.!”

The station square was jammed with antique carriages drawn by bony horses, a few German jeeps, and one or two French automobiles with queer wood-burning engines attached at the back. Roy paused to stare at these contraptions, but Jim poked him sharply. They ducked down a side street into the poorer quarters of the town, past several blocks of flats. Then Marcel stopped at a small, unpretentious house, like dozens of others in the neighborhood. He looked around carefully, then knocked hastily three times. There was a long moment or two of waiting. Finally the door opened and they stepped inside.

They were looking into a dim hallway. At the far end of it was a sub-machine gun. Behind the gun was a German soldier.

They stood there, too stunned to move.

The German fingered the gun as if he meant business.

Then an officer stepped from behind the door with a Schmeiser machine pistol in his hand. He barked a command. They didn’t understand nor did they need to. Silently they ranged themselves against the wall. There they were all searched and searched carefully by two soldiers under the watchful eyes of the officer. Their identity cards were found, glanced at, and tossed contemptuously on a table. Marcel was led upstairs. The two Americans were shoved into an adjoining room and the door was locked behind them. A sentry paced back and forth outside the only window.

Just when everything seemed to be working out, when they had gone through two close shaves, when they were almost there! Days of hiding, hours of living in constant danger, moments of agony as capture seemed inevitable—then this! Something had gone wrong, some slip had been made, and the station had been discovered by the enemy. What had actually happened they never knew; nor what became of Marcel, now their friend. They knew that he was probably being tortured in a room upstairs. Roy and Jim sat alone in the dusk, unable to speak, unable even to think, prisoners of the German Army. Or worse still, of the Gestapo.

At last the door opened and a sentry stood there. He beckoned to Jim, who rose, shook hands with Roy, and left. Then the door shut, and Roy could hear their footsteps down the hall. He was completely alone.

On the wall above him was a faded calendar. He got up and looked at it closely. May 30th. A holiday at home! Home, another world, another planet, another existence; something millions of miles from this grim room, and the German sentry pacing up and down in the garden outside, and imprisonment or death or something even more unpleasant to follow. He tried to concentrate upon home and things of home. The Germans had taken his wrist watch with the rest of his belongings, but he knew it was a little after six o’clock. Allowing for the five hours’ difference in time between Europe and the eastern part of the United States, it would be a little past one in the afternoon at home. This was Decoration Day, the first really warm day of the year, and the ball park would be filling fast now. The sounds and cries of the scorecard men and the peanut vendors would be coming from the stands. The pitchers would be burning in their warm-ups behind the plate, and the umpires, chest protectors under their arms, would be strolling out together from the clubhouse. Home, Decoration Day, a double-header to come and the stands full all over the land. And here... now...

The door opened suddenly. There stood the sentry, nodding to him curtly. He rose and went out. Now for it!

The German led him to the front room again where two officers were seated. They told him in crisp English to step forward. The sentry remained two paces to the rear, the machine gun on his arm. Jim was not to be seen.

The forged papers lay on the table in front of the officers. They were young, good-looking, not in the least what he had imagined the typical German officer to be. They looked him over for a minute, asking him some perfunctory questions in perfect English—questions about his name, age, grade, and so on. To all he replied truthfully.

Then one officer said: “Sergeant, when were you brought down in France? And where?”

Roy was by no means sure of the correct answers to these queries. He was only sure of one thing—that he must give them no useful information. So he said nothing.

“Where is your squadron based at present? Still on Corsica?”

Again he remained silent. Question followed question. What was the strength of the 12th Airforce? How long had he been overseas? Where? With what outfit? To every question he refused to reply.

Finally one officer said something in German, and the sentry clicked his heels, turned round, and left the room. The other officer rose and went out by a door in the rear. Roy was now alone with the elder man at the table. His knees were quivering curiously.

“Sit down.” There was a chair behind him, and Roy sat, quickly. The German rose. He was tall, agreeable, dressed in a well-cut uniform. His yellow hair was plastered back over his head, and he smelled faintly of some kind of lotion as he came round the table and seated himself on the edge, facing his prisoner.

He spoke quietly. “Doubtless you are aware of your position, sergeant. You are a prisoner of war, caught in civilian clothes. You can be shot. We do not intend to do this. Nor will the German Army, which respects the rules of warfare and adheres to the Geneva Convention, maltreat you in any way. Do you understand that?”

Sure I do, Roy thought. But what are you getting at? Aloud he said, “Yes, sir.”

“Quite. But you are alone in this room, alone with me. Now we are determined to find out about your stay in France with these communists. We intend to stamp out lawlessness of all kinds. For the last time, do you care to answer my questions?”

Roy remained silent. Now for it! What’ll I do? How shall I behave? He remembered poor Marcel telling them of an artist friend of his in the Resistance who was being tortured by the Gestapo. One night, fearful he would break down, that he would be unable to hold out any more, he tore up his shirt and hanged himself in his cell.

Roy fingered the thin shirt he wore.

The German rose. “I am regretful, sergeant. I am indeed very sorry. It is the business of this bureau to obtain information.” He leaned back, and from a top drawer in the desk took out one of the most angry-looking knives Roy had ever seen. It was perhaps ten or twelve inches long, with both blades sharpened, something like the knives that were carried by the Special Service Force and other shock troops.

“The German Army, sergeant, does not harm prisoners. However... obviously... we are alone in this room. Were I attacked by a prisoner, I should, of course, defend myself. If you were hurt, there would be no one here... you understand. I mean, if I defend myself...”

Roy understood. With horror he watched the man stand. He was tall, towering above the chair where Roy sat. Now he raised the knife and came forward one step.

It was not courage that saved Roy. It was fear. For he was unable to move. Or speak. He sat rigid and silent, watching the knife.

For a minute that seemed endless, the German stood there, ready to strike. Then with an oath he turned abruptly, and flung the knife in exasperation upon the table. He was swearing in German, angry at his failure to obtain any information. Roy still sat motionless, his forehead wet, his knees shaking. Then there was a loud command. The sentry entered and tapped him on the shoulder.

For a few seconds he was unable to rise. It was hard to stand, harder still to totter out the door. On a bench in the hallway sat Jim, haggard, his hands in manacles. His worried eyes were on Roy, who slipped down, exhausted and empty, by his side.

T
HEY DID NOT
sleep well that night in their dirty cell in the old stone prison of Dax. One does not sleep well with handcuffs on one’s wrists, nor yet after the strain of such a day as they had endured.

For a week they were kept there with nothing to eat but a horrible soup twice daily. Then, early one morning, they were marched under guard to the railway station and put aboard a train. They were locked into a third class compartment together with two Canadian aviators, a British commando, and a Polish flying officer, all handcuffed like themselves. After the loneliness of the stone cell, it was heaven to be outside, to talk with these others, even though everyone realized they were heading north for a German prison camp.

Most of the morning was spent shifting their car round the yards. Hungry, sore, hopeless, they were a dispirited lot. Then, just before noon, a dreadful sight passed their window. In three open box cars were some hundreds of young men, packed in so closely they could not sit down. Their heads were shaved, they were manacled. But they were not sorry for themselves. Instead they were singing defiantly as they moved, ultimately to be sent as slave labor to the north. As their cars came abreast of the compartment, the Frenchmen saw the foreigners and shouted and yelled with vehemence. Some even tried to raise their manacled hands and wave.

“What’s that!” exclaimed one of the Canadians suddenly. He stepped clumsily on Roy’s feet as he leaped to the window, calling to the French, talking to them with excitement in his voice as the cars slid past. Then he turned back to the men in the compartment.

“It’s the Invasion! They say the Allies landed this morning in Normandy.”

They were stunned. Invasion! Invasion at last! Could it be true? Was it just another rumor, like so many others, a rumor that like the rest would be proved false in the end? All through the long, hot day, when sleep was impossible, they discussed the story. Jim told of the B.B.C. message they had heard in Floreac, and how it affected their hosts. The Polish flying officer was sure, from certain orders given his squadron, that the day was fixed for the 6th of June. Today was the 6th.

In the afternoon the train, with the box cars in the rear, pulled slowly out of the station of Dax, and moved through miles of pine forests. They would travel at a slow clip for perhaps half an hour, then be shunted off to a siding to permit long troop trains of German soldiers to roar past. Whenever they paused, snatches of song came from those cars in the rear.

Dusk came, then night, and still talk of the invasion continued in their compartment. At every station they went through, sentries patrolled the tracks, and they could feel excitement in the air among the enemy troops. Then it grew late. Despite their manacled hands and empty, aching stomachs, fatigue conquered them one by one. They slept.

It was sometime toward the middle of the night or early morning when, without warning, the train came to a wickedly abrupt stop with a jerk that threw them all together in confusion. There were no lights in the compartment, and they could see nothing outside as they picked themselves up, groping for their seats. Then there was a shot. Another shot. The rat-tat-tat of a machine gun could be heard somewhere up front. Outside in the corridor of their car German guards raced past, barking commands in loud tones and firing through the windows into the blackness.

All at once a face appeared at their window in the moonlight, a head with a beret on. The man spoke sharply, saying something in quick French.

The Canadian instantly understood and took command. “It’s the
Maquis!
They’ve stopped the train. Quick, let’s go! Hurry there, lieutenant! You’re next, sergeant. Then you, captain. Hurry...”

Roy climbed with difficulty out of the window just as the door of their compartment was unlocked and a German voice shouted at them. Outside and near him a gun exploded, and he heard a shriek and the sound of a heavy body falling to the corridor floor. Clumsily he let himself down to the ground, helped by two men below, for the distance was about eight feet.