‘Shit, shit, shit!’
Splinters clawed my legs as I sloshed through the spilt wine. The carriage lay on its side, with the sliding doors above and below, and the smoke thickening.
Desperation reinforced determination. I began to climb towards the door. Grasped a piece of metal that must have once circled a barrel. Ignored its heat and wedged it between the doors, working it until they slid open with a screech of protest.
Damn it, I will get out!
I dried my hands on my skirt and reached up. Gripped the door jamb harder, pulling myself up and through the door. I crouched on top of the carriage to minimise my silhouette and took stock. The engine and first three carriages of the train disappeared into the distance. The bombers too were fading into the night. The train had become a conflagration. And four soldiers, guards I guessed, stood about one hundred feet away, cradling rifles.
Crouching low, I moved to the far side and slipped over the edge, my feet finding purchase on the undercarriage. The metal was hot, and my hands were already blistered. I didn’t feel either, yet. The next carriage exploded, the blast flinging me from the carriage. I moved with it, rolling as I hit the ground.
The countryside was flat and open; there was nowhere to hide. Making myself as low as I could, I ran from the blaze and the soldiers guarding it. I’d be damned if I allowed them to catch me now. I ran, Luger in hand, until I found a small copse of trees. A quick glance behind confirmed that I hadn’t been followed and I allowed myself to drop to my knees and gasp for air.
I stayed that way for several moments. Until I felt cold metal press against the back of my head.
Chapter Four
I slowly raised my hands.
‘Drop the gun,’ the voice growled.
I lowered the gun to the ground, realising that the voice, a raspy baritone, spoke English – with a slight Scottish burr – although without seeing him I could make no assumptions. It could be a trick to get me to compromise myself, although covered in blood, sweat and smoke, it wouldn’t take much. Leaving the Luger on the ground, I raised my hands, turning to look at him.
He wore the simple cotton shirt and trousers that RAF men often wore under the flight suits. His sandy-blond hair was plastered to his head, but his face was clean-shaven. He was probably shot down within the last few hours, and ditched the helmet and flight suit along with the plane. Sensible, although the cut of his clothing, not to mention the Webley pointed at my forehead, marked him as foreign.
‘What’s yer name?’
‘Nathalie.’
‘Good. Ye speak English. Where are we?’
‘France.’
The pilot winced. A bruise was forming high on his forehead. The skin hadn’t broken, but it was probably enough to give him a monstrous headache.
‘I kind o’ figured that much. Where in France?’
It was a good question, and as I had no answer, I shrugged.
‘Alexander Sinclair,’ he said. ‘RAF. I need you to take me to the Resistance.’
I looked down at myself before meeting his gaze.
‘Don’t really know where to find them.’
He looked as if he wanted to challenge that until his shoulders drooped. He stared up at the moon.
‘Damn.’
‘Put the Webley away. I don’t know where they are, but I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. Just not while you’re pointing the gun at me.’
‘Why?’
I shrugged, not entirely sure of the answer.
‘We’ll look less suspicious travelling together.’
‘And ye’re already running from something,’ he guessed. ‘What?’
‘Nothing that concerns you.’ I got to my feet and dusted off my hands on my bottom. ‘Unless you’re planning to shoot me, put that damned English gun away.’
‘You have a plan?’
I didn’t, but that didn’t stop me from improvising.
‘For now, we walk.’ I pointed in the direction away from the burning train. ‘I need clean clothing and you need something that looks less English.’
‘British,’ he corrected, in a way that seemed more automatic than condescending.
Refraining from pointing out that while the French might note the difference, neither they nor the Germans would care, I started walking. He tucked the gun away and caught up easily.
After a mile or two of silence, I murmured, ‘That bruise is fresh. When did you get shot down?’
‘Couple of hours ago. We hadn’t dropped everything on the bombing run, and the squadron leader thought it was a good idea to drop them on the train. Didn’t see the 109s until it was too late.’ His wry smile faded when he took in my singed clothes. ‘Stupid idea.’
‘That was you, wasn’t it? The squadron leader?’
His shrug was as good as an answer.
‘Got into the RAF, despite the accent, because I could fly. Moved through the ranks because I was better at staying alive than a lot of good men. One stupid decision and here I am.’
‘Well, you’re not dead yet, so that’s a bonus. Let’s keep moving.’
*
We took turns standing on guard, back turned, while the other washed in a stream. Sinclair again turned away when I filched a blouse and skirt from an unattended clothes line. The skirt was too short, and the blouse a bit loose. Neither of us would stand up to scrutiny, but from a distance, we were passable enough.
We stayed off the main roads, opting for the less-travelled ones, as much in the hopes of finding Sinclair more appropriate attire as it was to avoid unnecessary attention.
In England road signs were removed or altered in case of a German invasion. Assuming French road signs were reliable, we just skirted another town near Vouvray when we heard the roar of a motorcycle. I
