The road through the town was unfortunately broad. The column kept to the middle of the street, leaving wide aisles either side that would have to be crossed before an escaper could find concealment. Some shops were closed and a few buildings were boarded up, but Lloyd could see promising-looking alleys, cafes with open doors, a church – but he could not get to any of them unobserved.
He studied the faces of the townspeople as they stared at the passing prisoners. Were they sympathetic? Would they remember that these men had fought for France? Or would they be understandably terrified of the Germans, and refuse to put themselves in danger? Half and half, probably. Some would risk their lives to help, others would hand him over to the Germans in a heartbeat. And he would not be able to tell the difference until it was too late.
They reached the town centre. I’ve lost half my opportunities already, he told himself. I have to act.
Up ahead he saw a crossroads. An oncoming line of traffic was waiting to turn left, its way blocked by the marching men. Lloyd saw a civilian pickup truck in the queue. Dusty and battered, it looked as if it might belong to a builder or a road mender. The back was open, but Lloyd could not see inside, for its sides were high.
He thought he might be able to pull himself up the side and scramble over the edge into the truck.
Once inside he could not be seen by anyone standing or walking on the street, nor by the guards on their bikes. But he would be plainly visible to people looking out of the upstairs windows of the buildings that lined the streets. Would they betray him?
He came closer to the truck.
He looked back. The nearest guard was two hundred yards behind.
He looked ahead. A guard on a bicycle was twenty yards in front.
He said to the man beside him: ‘Hold this for me, would you?’ and gave him his jacket.
He drew level with the front of the truck. At the wheel was a bored-looking man in overalls and a beret with a cigarette dangling from his lip. Lloyd passed him. Then he was level with the side of the truck. There was no time to check the guards again.
Without breaking step, Lloyd put both hands on the side of the truck, heaved himself up, threw one leg over then the other, and fell inside, hitting the bed of the truck with a crash that seemed terribly loud despite the tramp of a thousand pairs of feet. He flattened himself immediately. He lay still, listening for a clamour of shouted German, the roar of a motorcycle approaching, the crack of a rifle shot.
He heard the irregular snore of the truck’s engine, the stamp and shuffle of the prisoners’ feet, the background noises of a small town’s traffic and people. Had he got away with it?
He looked around him, keeping his head low. In the truck with him were buckets, planks, a ladder and a wheelbarrow. He had been hoping for a few sacks with which to cover himself, but there were none.
He heard a motorcycle. It seemed to come to a halt nearby. Then, a few inches from his head, someone spoke French with a strong German accent. ‘Where are you going?’ A guard was talking to the truck driver, Lloyd figured with a racing heart. Would the guard try to look into the back?
He heard the driver reply, an indignant stream of fast French that Lloyd could not decipher. The German soldier almost certainly could not understand it either. He asked the question again.
Looking up, Lloyd saw two women at a high window overlooking the street. They were staring at him, mouths open in surprise. One was pointing, her arm sticking out through the open window.
Lloyd tried to catch her eye. Lying still, he moved one hand from side to side in a gesture that meant: ‘No.’
She got the message. She withdrew her arm suddenly and covered her mouth with her hand as if realizing, with horror, that her pointing could be a sentence of death.
Lloyd wanted both women to move away from the window, but that was too much to hope for, and they continued to stare.
Then the motorcycle guard seemed to decide not to pursue his enquiry for, a moment later, the motorcycle roared away.
The sound of feet receded. The body of prisoners had passed. Was Lloyd free?
There was a crash of gears and the truck moved. Lloyd felt it turn the corner and pick up speed. He lay still, too scared to move.
He watched the tops of buildings pass by, alert in case anyone else should spot him, though he did not know what he would do if it happened. Every second was taking him away from the guards, he told himself encouragingly.
To his disappointment, the truck came to a halt quite soon. The engine was turned off, then the driver’s door opened and slammed shut. Then nothing. Lloyd lay still for a while, but the driver did not return.
Lloyd looked at the sky. The sun was high: it must be after midday. The driver was probably having lunch.
The trouble was, Lloyd continued to be visible from high windows on both sides of the street. If he remained where he was he would be noticed sooner or later. And then there was no telling what might happen.
He saw a curtain twitch in an attic, and that decided him.
He stood up and looked over the side. A man in a business suit walking along the pavement stared in curiosity but did not stop.
Lloyd scrambled over the side of the truck and dropped to the ground. He found himself outside a bar- restaurant. No doubt that was where the driver had gone. To Lloyd’s horror there were two men in German army uniforms sitting at a window table with glasses of beer in their hands. By a miracle they
