The mental anguish of leaving her was far worse than the physical pain in
his leg as Rudi thrashed through the brambles and undergrowth. He’d
watched her drive off, had been sheltering behind a rocky outcrop, hadn’t
wanted to get too close in case she’d picked him out in her headlights and
stopped to say goodbye.
He couldn’t have managed a proper goodbye. It would have been
torment when all he’d wanted was to hold her one last time, sink his head
into her hair, nuzzle those soft warm breasts. Just thinking about it was a
kind of torture.
So, he’d slipped away. No heartfelt speeches. No lingering over final,
misty-eyed farewells. This way was better, would spare them both some
pain. He knew that he was right.
And now, he tried to fool his brain into thinking he’d never met her.
Tried to block her face from his mind and concentrate on what was
important now. One step following another painful step.
Full daylight had arrived. Which was good in one way. At least now he
wasn’t stumbling around like a blind man in a blackout. But although the
light was comforting, it was also dangerous. People would be about, rising
from their beds, going to work. He was approaching a village, where
strangers were sure to stand out.
He’d already had one scare. He’d just passed the Ship Inn when an old
man coming out of the pub with a crate of empty bottles had spotted him.
They’d eyed each other suspiciously, until the man had yelled an angry
challenge and dropped the empties noisily.
Rudi hadn’t stopped to socialise. Instead, he’d abandoned the rough
track and taken off through the thick undergrowth. The old man had waved
an angry fist and made a half-hearted attempt to follow, but the adrenalin
had given Rudi a head start and the man had soon given up the chase.
It had been a painful reminder that capture could come anytime and
from anywhere. The old man from the pub might give him up. Might even
now be phoning the police or the army – he hadn’t looked the benevolent
type.
Rudi had no idea where he was. He could work out compass points by
the direction of the sunrise and where it set, but that didn’t help much when
you had no map. And there was no plan, other than the hope to avoid
capture for as long as possible. And if the worst happened, what would they
do to him? Send him back to White Cross? He didn’t think so. He guessed
he’d never see that place again, which was fine by him. He’d miss his
friend Hans and he’d miss teaching, but at least he’d never have to see
Hoffmann again. That had been his only aim. Escaping back to Germany
had never been in his mind. Not the kind of Germany that existed now. One
that would toss aside honourable men like his father in favour of bullies
who valued violence over conscience and principles.
Rudi sank tiredly into the undergrowth. Brambles pricked at him, but he
was too exhausted to move any farther. He eased off his battledress tunic,
removed the piece of flint from its top pocket. He thought back to the walk
along the beach with Maddie when he’d stopped to pick it up. She had
laughed with that light breezy sound that sent ripples of pleasure through
him and accused him of being sentimental, looking for a souvenir.
He hadn’t denied it for it was good to have something tangible to
remember the day. And an idea had already been forming in the practical
side of his brain: a way to use the flint to rid himself of the patch on his
jacket.
He shook his head to loosen the hold her face had on his mind. He
would never forget her or the incredible days they had spent together,
wrapped in the bubble of their fantasy world. But right then, he needed to
concentrate.
Rudi turned the tunic over until he could see the large white triangle
sewn into the back of it. It stood out starkly against the dyed black cloth of
the RAF battledress. It was supposed to. It made him a marked man, and
even if civilians had no idea what it meant, it was like wearing a neon sign
strapped around his neck. It had to go.
He set to work with the sharp flint, painstakingly sawing across the tiny
stitches. When the large patch loosened slightly, it became easier to get the
flint in between the stitching. His hands were large and the stitches small,
but he persevered, worked tirelessly until his hands were raw and there was
blood on them from a myriad of tiny cuts. Then he grinned in triumph for
he no longer had a massive white triangle pinned to his back. Like a target.
He tossed the piece of fabric into the brambles, and the action made him
feel suddenly lighter, as if in an instant he’d also thrown off the label
prisoner. The ignominy of it. The stigma. His self-esteem returned. He was
a man again.
Then tiredness and the trauma ganged up on him, and Rudi sank back
into the bushes. And suddenly, there she was – hovering defiantly in front
of him, a challenge in those startling eyes of hers. Magnificent, courageous,
bold, that’s what he’d thought of her – and beautiful, of course. But had he
told her any of that? He couldn’t remember. He fell asleep with a smile on
his face.
Rudi woke up cold and shivering, like someone in the grip of fever. What
time was it? He searched for his watch; of course, there was no watch. He
hadn’t owned one since a Tommy had taken it off him. The soldier had
grinned, Rudi remembered, like it was a secret joke, and his teeth were bad.
Lots of the English seemed to have bad teeth – just something he’d noticed.
Where was he? How long had he been there? He felt groggy and
confused and icy cold. He reached over for his discarded jacket lying beside
him in the long grass, and pulled it around his shivering body. He needed to
get moving. To warm himself up. Hypothermia was no joke and that’s
where he was headed if he wasn’t careful.
He felt his pulse; it seemed weak, and his breathing was slow and
laboured. Next would come slurred speech and a lack of coordination. He
knew all about hypothermia, as they’d gone through the symptoms in
survival training. Move. Get warm. Get some food in you. His brain told
him these things, sent out small warning messages, but his body was slow
to catch up.
Loss of consciousness would be after that. And then what? Death? The
frightening thought brought him instantly to his feet. He swayed but
managed to keep his balance and, like an infant learning to walk, Rudi
placed one unsteady foot in front of the other. Baby steps. But if he took
enough of them, they were sure to lead him somewhere.
They did. Out of the thicket and onto a road of sorts. He counted his
steps at first, always looking down at his feet, mesmerised by their progress,
surprised that they managed to find the strength to carry on.
And so he walked on in a kind of trance, finding comfort in the rhythm,
the small sound of his own footsteps as they echoed on tarmac, until
eventually he became aware of other sounds. Evidence of other humans, of
life outside his own. Of noisy machines. Of danger.
‘Hey, mate! Look where you’re going.’ The voice wasn’t angry. Just a
friendly warning.
‘Sorry, mate,’ said Rudi. Self-preservation moving his brain and his
tongue into English.
‘You look done in, pard. They been flogging you to death? Always the
same, they sods with their blueprints and their plans, but it’s us lot on the
ground what has to do the heavy lifting! Let ’em build their own bleedin’
runways – see how quick it gets done, eh?’ The man grinned.
‘Yes,’ said Rudi. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but
one-word replies seemed safe enough.
‘I was you, pard? I’d take a breather. Put your feet up for a spell. Get
yourself some grub. Looks like you could use it.’ The man pointed towards
a line of tents up ahead. Heavy lorries were moving busily about the place,
and diggers. ‘NAAFI tent’s doing breakfast. Ain’t like real food, but it’ll fill
a hole. And the ATS girls in there ain’t too hard on the eye, neither. Know
what I mean?’ The workman’s grin turned to a leer. And Rudi understood.
The language of men was international, body language that needed no
translation.
He nodded his thanks and headed off in the direction of the tents. There
were rows of them, like a small town all by themselves. Sleeping quarters,
maybe, and billets for staff and the workmen. But what were they building
here? The man had mentioned a runway, so maybe there was about to be a
new airfield rising out of this land in the middle of nowhere.
Rudi stuck his head into a couple of the larger tents. One was empty, but
in the last one there were rows of trestle tablets set out with precision: the
spaces between looked as if they’d been measured precisely. He’d seen the
same thing in the prison camp: meticulous attention to detail that smacked
of a military hand behind its order.
Benches were placed either side of these tables, for ‘customers’ he
assumed – military or civilian workers, it was hard to tell. But right now,
none of them were occupied, although a woman in an army uniform, like
Maddie’s, was clearing away the remnants of a meal.
Rudi’s eyes were drawn to the head of the makeshift canteen, where a
bunch of tables held covered dishes, the smell of food wafting out from
them. He remembered what the workman had said, about the quality of the
food. Not real, but it would fill a hole.
The man was wrong. For the food smelled wonderful, incredible. It was
a smell that sent a signal to the juices in his stomach. Get ready, it said. You
could be busy soon. If he was lucky, that was, and the girl in charge of
doling out the food gave him some. No questions asked. No ID required.
It was asking a lot of Lady Luck, he knew. But so far, that particular
lady had been kind to him, had taken his hand in her own.
Rudi walked up to the girl and smiled. He exuded a confidence that said
he had every right to be here, was entitled to eat this breakfast as much as
anyone else.
‘You’re late. Last sitting’s just finished,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rudi. ‘Got held up.’ He pointed to the plates stacked
on the end of the table and threw in another apologetic smile. ‘Can I—?’
‘Go on then.’ The young woman relented. ‘Still got some milk there,
powdered, just as good on porridge, though. When you’ve finished that,
there’s a bit of scrambled egg left over, and one rasher of bacon. You’re
welcome to it,’ she said, and handed Rudi his smile back in spades. He
wondered absently how you could fit that many teeth into one mouth.
‘Many thank-yous,’ he said.
‘Ain’t you sweet? Your accent,’ she said. ‘You ain’t British. One of
those Dutch fliers?’ she asked. ‘And the uniform – I ain’t seen that one
before.’
Rudi tried to calm his racing pulse, hoped his face didn’t show the
strange acrobatics that his panic-stricken brain was going through. Think
man, think. The uniform, the accent.
‘Dutch?’ He laughed. Like it was a natural question and one he’d been
asked many times before. ‘No, not Dutch. Polish. I come from Poland.’
‘Poland still has an air force?’ Her eyes went to his uniform.
‘No, Poland was defeated,’ he told her, ‘but Poles still fly in British
planes.’ He was sweating now. Hoped she hadn’t noticed, this fine young
woman who was either about to give him up or give him breakfast.
‘A flier from Poland, eh? Thought so,’ she said, smugly, and piled a
plate high with powdered scrambled eggs and the last slice of bacon.
