Bomber (24 page)

Natalie, lying next to him, was a restless sleeper. She tossed and turned and had frequent nightmares that made her whimper in her sleep. But he was still afraid of that terrible carapace she had. How would she ever let that go when the war was over?

It seemed as if he had just drifted off to sleep when Natalie gently shook his shoulder. ‘Come on, our guide’s here,’ she told him.

Their host, an elderly Frenchman with a snow-white beard, introduced them to a short, wiry man with brown leathery skin. There was something almost animal-like about him and it was obvious he had spent a lifetime in the mountains.

He shook their hands and told them his name was Miquel.

‘Hey,
les américains
,’ he said, shaking Harry and Walter by the hand. He looked doubtfully at their light clothes. ‘The mountains, they are cold at this time. But you look tough, eh! Wear everything clothing, and if we are lucky, we get there in a day!’

Walter surprised them all by producing a little camera he had been carrying in his rucksack. ‘Can I have a picture?’ he asked. Everyone looked alarmed, especially the old man who was hiding them.

Walter backtracked, holding up his hands. ‘This is the most exciting adventure of my life,’ he explained. ‘I wasn’t thinking. I just want something to show to my girls when I get back to Chicago.’

Miquel gave him a generous smile, the white of his teeth glowing against his dark brown skin. He spoke to Natalie in French. She didn’t translate, but Harry knew she would never agree to them being photographed.

It was a frosty bright night, not ideal for travelling, but Miquel explained there was snow on the way, maybe over the next twenty-four hours, and once that came down it would make the crossing almost impossible. Quite apart from the danger and the cold, snow meant footprints. It was too easy to be followed. They had to go now.

When they got up to leave, Natalie announced she would not be coming with them. ‘Miquel will take you to the border and help you get to the British Consulate in Bilbao. There the British will arrange for you to travel back to England.’

Harry knew at once he would never see her again. Much to his surprise, he felt like crying.

‘Thank you for everything,’ he said.

She could see he was upset and came over and hugged him tightly. ‘You’ve been so brave, Harry,’ she said. ‘I have been lucky to travel with you.’ She kissed him on both cheeks, and wiped a tear away with her finger.

Harry watched her cycle away into the dark with the young man who had accompanied them. Having wondered
how Natalie would be if she survived the war, he had been moved by her sudden display of tenderness and knew she would be all right. Seeing her gentler side made him realise she had a kind of bravery he could only begin to imagine.

They moved as quickly and silently as they could. At any moment they might hear a challenge or the sound of a rifle being cocked, or even fired. It was awful living like this, thought Harry. He felt permanently tense. It was even worse than flying. At least with a Fortress you could see your enemy coming and you knew when you needed to be frightened and when it was OK to relax.

Miquel led them into a pine forest and kept a few feet ahead. The moonlight was a mixed blessing. Their little group would be easily spotted, but at least they could make out the guide’s silhouette and the way ahead.

Harry could feel his legs beginning to tire, and no wonder – the path through the forest was on an increasingly steep slope. Walter walked ahead with their guide, and then hung back to wait for Harry to catch up.

‘He says we’re taking the long way round here,’ he told him. ‘Miquel knows where the guard posts are but it’s the patrols we have to be especially careful about.’

The forest came to an abrupt end and all at once they were climbing a vertiginous slope of slippery scree and Harry found himself gasping for air, his breath glowing in the moonlight.

The path narrowed and Harry could see they were going through a pass with a steep rock face on either side.

‘We have to hurry through here,’ said Miquel. ‘If we’re spotted by a patrol, we’ll be picked off with ease. There’s nowhere to hide.’

It was the longest twenty minutes of Harry’s life. As they scrambled up the great boulders that filled the steep gully, all he could hear was the scraping of boots on rock and the sound of his own breathing. He was drenched in cold sweat and felt chilled to the bone in spite of the exertion. At once he had a flashback to his turret in the
Macey May
.

Eventually the steep rock sides curved out and they appeared to have reached a plateau. Harry was beginning to wonder how much longer he could carry on. Walter patted him on the back – ‘Well done, Sergeant!’

He beamed. ‘Jesus, I’m shattered.’

Miquel picked this moment to tell them they were going to stop in a small cave for some rest. It was only another few minutes away.

The cave was dank and had a horrible smell about it. Harry wondered if something had died in there. Miquel led them on into the gloom, and when they were so far inside they could barely see, he took out a small flashlight and shone it ahead.

‘Quick, to build a fire,’ said Miquel.

He indicated they would light the fire at the very end and said they should all look for twigs and small branches. Harry thought that was a great idea. If he didn’t
warm up soon, he might just curl up in a ball and die of exposure.

They went off to find wood, no one venturing too far from the others. As Harry bent to pick up a twig, he heard a guttural growl and found himself staring straight into the eyes of a bear. He was close enough to smell its stinking breath and see the saliva glisten in its jaws. It might not have been that large, but it looked ferocious and ready to attack.

Harry froze, and suddenly Walter charged towards the animal, snarling angrily and brandishing a hefty branch. The bear turned and fled.

As Harry sat flabbergasted on the ground, Walter let out a laugh. ‘Got to show these creatures who’s boss,’ he chuckled, and offered a hand to help Harry stand.

Ten minutes later Miquel had built a fire in the deepest part of the cave. Harry felt his strength returning as the flames warmed him and he ate the bread and cheese they had been given for the journey. ‘Two hours we rest,’ declared Miquel. ‘Then we walk more.’

It was difficult to sleep – the ground was too lumpy and it was too cold – but Harry was glad of the rest. Miquel managed to sleep though; Harry could hear him snoring.

They carried on before first light the next morning, listening in the silence beyond their footfalls for anything that would suggest anyone was stalking them.

After an eternity, a pale rim of light appeared on the horizon and darkness receded.

Harry was freezing to death and could no longer feel his toes in his boots. His eyes were streaming with the cold and he wondered if he was going to get frostbite. But the view was breathtaking.

‘Look at the sunrise,’ said Walter. It was magical. They were above the clouds and the rising sun was lighting them from below. Harry thought sadly of his brother and the hiking weekends they had spent in the Catskill Mountains, north of New York. This was the sort of view David would have talked about for weeks. Harry wondered how there could be such beauty in such a frightening world.

Miquel spoke to them both. ‘Down there, we reach the big river. Then border post. Come.’

He pressed on. Now they were walking downhill and nearing the final part of their journey.

When it got fully light, Harry expected them to hide and rest but Miquel had no such plan. He explained that they needed to press on as quickly as they could. The sky was heavy with dark clouds that promised snow. They needed to get down past the border post before it started to fall.

They trudged on, stopping briefly when Miquel told them it was noon. For a few moments, a watery sun emerged from behind low dark cloud. Even this momentary glimpse was enough to warm their spirits. Walter smiled, and as they ate the last of their rations he shared his cheese with Harry.

‘We will soon reach the river near the border,’ said Miquel. The plan was to keep hidden in the tall trees along the bank and walk north towards a rope bridge. The river would be too dangerous to cross in any other way.

‘Now, very important,’ Miquel continued. ‘In Spain, they don’t like
les américains
. The border guard sees us, maybe he shoot to kill.’ Natalie had briefed them earlier on the dangers they would face in Spain. If they were caught, the Spanish authorities would send Miquel back to
France to face the Gestapo. Harry and Walter could be interned in a camp. They would not be safe until they reached the British consulate in Bilbao.

An hour later, Harry heard the sound of roaring water and knew at once why they would have to cross by bridge. His feet hurt and his hands were freezing, but he kept quiet.

The river was every bit as frightening as Harry expected. It was not as wide as he had feared, narrow enough in fact to throw a stone from one bank to the other, but water poured down from the mountains feeding a great torrent that would sweep away anyone foolish enough to try to ford it.

As the afternoon wore on, flakes of snow occasionally fell from the sky, but never settled to a steady flow. Shortly before dark Miquel turned to them both and put a finger to his pursed lips. ‘Ten minute,’ he said. ‘Border post.’

They crept forward, conscious of each snapped twig and brushed leaf. As the twilight settled, a fog rose and shrouded the landscape. It settled on the little group, adding an extra layer of damp misery to their exhausted bodies.

After half an hour Harry could see a pinprick of light on the far side. He tapped Miquel on the shoulder and pointed to it. Miquel slapped him on the back and whispered that they should all be extra quiet.

Soon after, they saw the bridge emerge from the mist – a spindly rope construction with wooden slats. Harry couldn’t believe it. It was the sort of thing explorers crossed in
Saturday morning B-movies. They were usually clutching Inca treasure and pursued by angry, spear-waving natives. In the movies, bridges like this were always rickety and crumbled when you stepped on them, but this bridge had been recently creosoted, and the wood was polished and sturdy. He allowed himself a little chuckle. They had been lucky so far in their border crossing. All they had had to put up with was a brief altercation with a bear.

Miquel called them together and they huddled close so as to hear him over the roar of the river. He pointed to a small wooden shed on the far side. ‘We wait. They sleep, we go. OK?’

It seemed a simple enough plan. But the wait was interminable. And while they lay there on the frozen ground the snow began to fall in earnest. Within minutes it lay over every surface.

The light in the guards’ hut eventually flickered out. Walter kept getting up to go to the bridge, but Miquel held him back. ‘We wait … until they sleep for sure,’ he had to keep saying.

Eventually, when Harry was so cold he thought he would never be able to move his fingers again, Miquel stood up. ‘Very quietly. You have to go under the window, yes?’ He modelled crouching down to walk – at all costs they must not disturb the men inside.

‘Walter first, then Harry, then me. OK!’

Walter crossed the snow-covered bridge in a bare minute. If it creaked, then the roar of the river drowned out the
noise. They saw his silhouette crouch down and crawl past the hut, exactly as instructed.

Now it was Harry’s turn. He screwed his eyes up so he could barely see the river below him and began to make his way across. The snow on the polished wood and the swaying of the bridge as it moved under his weight were a treacherous combination, and three-quarters of the way over he slipped on the icy slats. He frantically grabbed at the side of the bridge as he tried to regain his balance but he toppled over, almost falling through the gaps between the ropes, and for a moment he dangled over the void. In a flash Miquel was up on the bridge and helping him to his feet.

He said nothing but his eyes spoke for him:
What the hell are you doing?

Once they were both back on the bridge, Miquel beckoned for Harry to continue. Harry’s feet touched Spanish soil. At once he was reminded of the moment his feet touched the ground when he’d parachuted out of the
Macey May
. He wanted to shout out loud in triumph. Now he no longer had to worry about the Gestapo. But he stayed silent. With a huge grin on his face he crept past the shed. Inside he could hear a man snoring so loud you could easily hear him despite the roaring river.

Miquel arrived over at the trees a few moments later. ‘What next?’ said Harry. He felt he could walk another ten, twenty miles, no problem.

Then he noticed Walter had stood to one side and was pointing a pistol at them.

‘Out, out in the open.’ He was shouting at them now. Harry looked at him in amazement, but Walter shook his head contemptuously. ‘You dumb louse. Now, all of you, put your bags down and your hands clear in the air. Anyone makes any trouble, I’ll shoot you without a second thought.’

To make his point, he let off his pistol and the shot thudded into the ground just in front of Harry’s left foot.

‘
¡Eh! amigos! ¡Venga y ayúdeme!
’ he bellowed at the top of his voice. Harry’s sense of impending catastrophe deepened. Who was this guy? Was he in league with the border guards? Who would have guessed he spoke Spanish?

Nothing happened. Walter called out again. This time, after a pause, the light inside the shed came on.

‘Come on,’ Walter indicated with his pistol. ‘Get over there.’

A door opened and a sleepy man, dressed in the uniform of the Spanish National Guard, stumbled out.

He too was armed. Now Harry and Miquel had two guns pointing at them.

Walter spoke to the guard in Spanish and then pushed his captives inside the border post. Harry heard Walter use the word
teléfono
several times, but the guard shrugged. They didn’t have one. Under the watchful eye of the guard, Harry and Miquel were each tied to a chair with twine.