We'll Meet Again (23 page)

‘If we can get on a train we’ll be further away quicker,’ Patrick said when Tim voiced his doubts. ‘The further away we are, the better our chances.’

‘True, but this is only a quiet country station, the sort of place where everyone knows everyone else. We’ll stand out like a sore thumb. Let’s try and jump a goods wagon. We can buy tickets further up the line, Cologne say, where we can merge in with the crowd.’

This seemed sensible, so they hid in a shed until dusk when they emerged to run along the line to where some goods wagons were being shunted. ‘Make sure they are going in the right direction,’ Patrick said, following Tim along the line of wagons.
‘We want to go west not east, don’t forget. Ally or not, I don’t want to end up in Russia.’

The line stretched away from the station in both directions, but the engine which was being hooked to the wagons was definitely facing west, if the setting sun was anything to go by. They pulled open a wagon door and hauled themselves up and quickly pulled the door shut again.

‘What’s that smell?’ Tim asked and bumped into something hanging from the roof. ‘God! It’s a body. Let’s get out of here.’

It was too late, the train had started to move. They sat on the floor close to the door where a crack let in a little fresh air. ‘The first time we stop, I’m off out of it,’ Patrick said. ‘You can do what you like.’

‘I’m with you, old man.’ Tim laughed suddenly. ‘At least it might put the guards off searching too diligently.’

‘And when we get on a proper passenger train with tickets and all, everyone will steer well clear of us.’

‘True. It’s an ill wind.’ He delved in his pocket for cigarettes and matches. The cigarettes smelt horrible too, but the smoke might keep the other odours away. And then he laughed. Striking a match had lit up their travelling companions: rows of pig carcases. ‘I wonder if they are going to be used as food,’ Tim said. ‘I had my suspicions about the so-called pork we were served in the camp. Whenever we had it, half of us were ill.’

‘I’ll never eat pork again in my life.’

‘Nor me.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and leant against the side of the truck. ‘I’m going to try and get some shut-eye. I should do the same if I were you.’

It wasn’t easy to sleep. The rattle of the wagon was loud in their ears and the carcases creaked on their hooks. Besides, they were too wound up. They had left the camp some way behind, but there
was still a very long way to go and hazards at every stage. Tim had rehearsed every mile of the journey in his head and tried to think of ways to counter any setbacks they might meet, but in the end it all boiled down to luck. They had to get to Belgium and find the address in Brussels he had been given by the escape committee. How they knew of it he had no idea, probably from one of the prisoners who had been recaptured. Here they might find help, always provided the address was still safe. If it wasn’t they would have to improvise; he was determined he wasn’t going to be taken back to that camp.

They were woken by a thunderous jolting as the train stopped and then began going backwards. ‘I think we’ve landed up somewhere,’ Tim said, pulling the door open a crack, letting in a blast of fresh air. They breathed in deeply. The movement stopped and there was silence.

It was daylight. Cautiously, Tim put his head out and looked along the track. ‘They are unhooking the engine,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here before they put another one on the other end and we start going back the way we came.’

‘Do you know where we are?’

‘No, but I’m not going to wait to find out. As soon as that worker moves out of sight, I’m jumping. You follow.’

In no time at all they were rolling down a steep embankment, at the bottom of which was a river. Tim just managed to stop himself ending up in the water and then Pat careered into him and they both had to scramble to stay dry. ‘I wouldn’t have minded a bath,’ Pat said as they lay panting on the bank. ‘But I didn’t fancy going all day in wet clothes. Difficult to explain away.’

‘True. Let’s find somewhere to lay up until dark, then we can find out where we are.’

They walked along the river bank wondering if they ought to
be on the other side, but neither fancied a swim. They had eaten the provisions they had brought with them and were hungry and thirsty but daren’t go in search of food. Tim had a bar of chocolate from his last Red Cross parcel and they shared that as they walked. ‘You know, if we could find a boat, we could perhaps row down the river,’ Patrick said. ‘It would be quicker than walking.’

‘True, but the loss might set the alarm bells ringing and rivers around these parts tend to end up in the Baltic.’

‘We’ve been travelling most of the day at a fair old lick, so do you think we are still in Germany?’

‘No idea.’

Pat laughed. ‘You’re the navigator.’

‘True, but it’s not a navigator we need right now. If the sky is clear tonight I can work out the direction to take, but it won’t help over country boundaries.’

They were coming to some houses, which had gardens down to the water’s edge, and there were small boats hauled up on the grass. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to take one of those,’ Tim said as they hesitated whether to go on. ‘Someone is bound to see us trying to launch it.’

‘Perhaps after dark we could. Let’s hide in that boathouse.’

They crept into the wooden building from the river side and found a cabin cruiser anchored inside. They clambered aboard and found two comfortable bunks and were soon stretched out. ‘We had better take it in turns to stay awake,’ Tim said. ‘I’ll watch first.’

‘We could travel a fair way on this,’ Pat murmured half asleep.

While Pat slept, Tim went round the boat searching for clues as to their whereabouts. There was fresh water in a large bottle that fed the basin in the galley and a packet of stale biscuits in a cupboard, but there was no petrol in the tank. As a means of transport, the boat was useless. He was eating a biscuit and was
about to screw the packet up when he noticed the wording on it. It wasn’t in German, he could recognise that, but it was similar. He left the boat and walked round it. The name on its bows wasn’t German either, but that probably didn’t signify anything; boat owners did not have to stick to names in their own language. Were they in Holland? Belgium? Denmark? He was sure they had been travelling west when they set out: had the train changed direction while they dozed? It was imperative to find out.

He went back inside and shook Pat awake. ‘I’m going to try and find out where we are. You stay here. If I don’t come back in a couple of hours, get going on your own. Don’t wait for me.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No. Two of us together might attract attention.’

He left the boathouse on the landward side and made his way up the garden and round the side of a substantial house, darting from bush to bush and keeping an eye out for anyone looking out of the windows. If they were in Holland, the owners might be sympathetic, even helpful, but on the other hand Holland was an occupied country and its inhabitants under the thumb of their German masters – they might be afraid to help. They might be collaborators and all too ready to betray escapees.

He reached a small residential road and made his way along it, trying to look as if he belonged there and was on his way to work. He came to a junction and found himself in a sizeable town where the roads were busier and there were German troops everywhere. There was also a lot of bomb damage but he tried not to think that he might have been one of those inflicting it. Trying not to appear too curious, he furtively watched the civilians. They were thin, ill-clad and grey-faced and scuttled past the German soldiers they met in the street. He concluded they were more likely to be an occupied people than members of the so-called master race.

He made his way into a church and picked up a hymn book. In the flyleaf it stated: St Jacobus Kirke Enschede. They were in Holland, but only just. The German border was very close. It was probably where the goods train had been uncoupled. He heard the door swing open and hurriedly went to kneel at the altar, debating his next step. Someone was walking up the aisle. He swung round to see a parson coming towards him. ‘
Goedendag
,’ the man said.

His meaning was clear and Tim repeated the word back to him.

The man laughed and said. ‘You are English.’ And when Tim looked startled, added, ‘Do not be afraid. Follow me.’ He turned and left the church. Tim did not hesitate for long before deciding to go after him, although he was on the alert to make a run for it if he had to.

The parson was in no hurry, he walked sedately, nodding to acquaintances as he passed and even saying ‘
Goedendag
,’ to some Germans who were standing on the pavement. Tim held his breath as he passed them too. The Dutchman had had no difficulty in identifying him as English; did that mean he stuck out like a sore thumb, even wearing the civilian clothes he had been provided with in the camp? They were made from unpicked and dyed uniforms but the tailor had made a good job of them.

Ten minutes later, he was back where he started and the parson was ushering him into the house he had been so careful to skirt around. Sitting at the kitchen table was Patrick and a young woman, drinking ersatz coffee. Tim turned to the cleric. ‘You followed me from here?’

‘Yes. My name is Johannes, by the way, and this is Hildegarde. You do not need to know our real names. Madame owns this house. We were talking together when we saw you creep by the kitchen window. I followed to see what you would do and Madame went down to the boathouse and rescued your compatriot. Sit down
and drink some coffee. You are perfectly safe for the moment.’

Tim sat, was given a cup of scalding coffee and then began an interrogation in impeccable English. Name, date and place of birth, school and university was only the beginning. He was thoroughly grilled. What squadron was he in, where was he shot down, where was he held prisoner, how did he escape? What identification did he carry on him? All he had were the forged documents which were carefully scrutinised.

‘Not bad,’ Johannes said. ‘They would probably get by a routine search, but not a Gestapo cross-examination.’

‘I’ve had my turn,’ Patrick said, grinning. ‘They are a suspicious pair.’

‘We have to be,’ Madame said. ‘The Nazis have been known to infiltrate their own people as escaped allied prisoners. So far, we have been able to identify them. Needless to say, they did not return to their masters.’

‘I sincerely hope you are not thinking along those lines for us,’ Tim said.

‘No, I think you are who you say you are,’ Johannes said. ‘But you will stay here overnight while we check out what you have told us. If all is well, we can help you on your way.’

‘Thank you,’ Tim said. ‘That’s better than we hoped for. We were making for Brussels. We have an address to go to in Avenue Voltaire.’

‘Are you sure it’s safe?’

‘It was two months ago.’

‘A lot can happen in two months.’

‘Yes, we know we have to approach with care.’

Johannes stood up. ‘I will leave you with Hildegarde now. Tomorrow I will return and we will talk some more.’ He shook hands with them and left.

The two men turned to each other and grinned. They had fallen on their feet and Lady Luck was with them. So far.

Hildegarde let them have a hot bath, giving them some old clothes of her late husband’s to wear while she cleaned the suits they had been wearing. ‘I’m beginning to feel human again,’ Tim said, emerging from the bathroom with his skin pink and shiny.

‘What was that dreadful smell on your clothes?’ Hildegarde asked him, while Pat took his turn in the bathroom.

‘Pork that had gone off. It was in the freight wagon we hitched a lift on. Sorry about that.’

‘I think I have got rid of most of it.’

‘Thank you. You speak very good English.’

‘English is – or was – taught in most Dutch schools, Flight Lieutenant, but my husband was English. He was arrested by the Nazis when Holland was occupied. They hanged him. So you see, I have no love for the Germans. I have my revenge by helping Allied escapees. I used to use my boat until I could not obtain any more petrol for it. But you will be in good hands tomorrow.’

‘We wouldn’t want to put you at risk.’

‘Everything we do is risky these days, but so far I am not suspected. I even help out at the German headquarters in the town and pretend to be cheerful about it. It helps because sometimes I hear about escaped prisoners they are seeking.’

‘Have you heard about us?’

‘Not so far. Now I will make some soup and stew some plums from the tree in the garden and after that I will show you where you are to sleep. It would be best if you stayed in your room until I call you to come down, just to be on the safe side.’

‘We will do exactly as you say, madame.’

Johannes returned the next morning, coming up the garden from the river. He greeted Hildegarde, who had called the men
down to a breakfast of toast and home-made preserve, washed down with more ersatz coffee. ‘Come with me,’ he said, refusing coffee, saying there was no time.

They said goodbye to Hildegarde and followed the parson down to the water’s edge where a barge with a smoking chimney was moored. Johannes led them on board and introduced them to a big man with a blonde beard dressed in oilskin trousers and a thick pullover. ‘This is Dick,’ he said. ‘He will take you to Belgium.’

They shook Dick’s hand and then Johannes’, who wished them good luck and went back on shore to watch as the barge pulled away.

Dick took them down-river as far as Antwerp. He was apparently well known to the authorities who stopped him and searched his load of firewood at various points along the way. When that happened, the fugitives were hidden in the bilge. Dick had sectioned off a compartment that was fairly dry but it was a tight squeeze for both of them at once and they lived in fear of being discovered as they listened to the sound of heavy boots on deck and German voices added to Dick’s. Their saviour was in no hurry to rid himself of his visitors and sat down to drink cognac with them, before bidding them a cheery ‘
Dag
’ as they left.