The Room on Rue Amélie(30)
Time slowed as he glided in for a rough landing, narrowly missing a cluster of huge trees and touching down in a small clearing. The moment his feet hit the ground and he found himself in one piece, he hurried to pull his parachute down so that it wouldn’t call attention to his location. He wound it into a ball, dug a hole in the dirt, and shoved it in. He kicked the dirt back over it and pulled some felled branches on top of the freshly turned earth until it appeared there was nothing there.
Next, he peeled off his Sidcot and turned it inside out, concealing the markings of the RAF. He hurriedly pulled it back on and lowered himself to his knees in the dirt. He rolled around a bit, until the flight suit was sufficiently scuffed, and then he added a bit of grime to his face for good measure. There; at a quick glance now, he might just pass for a French farmhand—at least until someone looked closely, spotted his flight boots, or tried to engage him in conversation. Though he spoke near-fluent French thanks to his schooling, his British accent would surely betray him.
Thanking God for the preparedness of the RAF, Thomas took out the escape kit that had been sewn into his uniform—a clear acetate pouch containing survival supplies such as matches, water purification tablets, and energy pills—and withdrew the tiny compass he knew he would find there. He studied it for a moment and then set off toward the south. Unless he’d drifted off course in the dogfight, he was almost due north of Paris, and though it would take a few days to get there by foot, it was the best alternative he could think of. He could still hear Harry talking about the apartment building with the red door beside the ballet-themed gallery, where there was a man ready and willing to help pilots like him. If he could make it there without getting caught, he’d have a chance of returning to England alive.
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?”