“Where to now and how far?” he asked François.
“We could try for Brest. The Royal Navy has been picking up soldiers there. But that’s four days away on foot. We’d have to travel west, and the Germans are moving down along the coast very rapidly. I think if we go south to Saint-Nazaire, we’ll have a better chance. It’s only three days away on foot.”
Lance snorted. “Why wouldn’t the Germans go there first?”
François shrugged. “I’m taking a guess. They’re working their way along the coast to secure the ports. If they continue that way, they’ll take Brest first. Saint-Nazaire is farther south. I suggest that we go straight there and bypass Brest.” As he spoke, his wide, youthful eyes locked on Lance. “I could be wrong.”
Once again noting that François was someone who could be misjudged, Lance smiled wearily. “You’ve kept us safe so far,” he said. “Lead on.”
They hiked, avoiding main roads and the ever-growing mass of refugees heading south. The first part of the journey was more arduous as they climbed grades to as high as fifteen hundred meters before the land gently sloped downward again. François invariably sought routes that contoured the steepest rises. When they ran out of food, he left them to rest in wooded areas, and returned with sufficient loaves and meat to take them through the next leg of their journey, courtesy of the local population. As they proceeded, Lance noticed that François too had trimmed down and taken on a more weathered countenance, but his youthful enthusiasm remained undimmed.
“Are you planning on going all the way with us?” he asked François at one point during a rest stop.
“It is my duty,” François replied while chomping on a sandwich of French bread and cheese. “You came to help us. I can do no less.”
“What about your parents, your family? Won’t they be worried? You’ve spent a lot of time with us.”
For the first time, a fleeting look of desolation crossed François’ face. “I have no parents,” he said. “My father was killed in the last war when I was an infant. My mother died before I knew her. I was raised by relatives. I do this for them. We cannot allow the Germans to take over our country.” Defiant eagerness returned to his eyes. “My cousins know I can take care of myself.”
Eventually, they approached the small town of Sautron, northwest of Nantes. It lay on the rail line to Saint-Nazaire. When François suggested they take the train for the rest of the trip, Lance reacted skeptically.
“Are we trying to get ourselves caught?” he demanded with more passion than intended.
“It will be all right,” François responded, heedless of Lance’s vehemence, crediting it to fatigue. “Thousands of British soldiers are riding the train.” He grasped Lance’s arm. “The sooner you get to Saint-Nazaire, the better chance you have of getting on a boat.”
They approached the train station cautiously, with François walking along the platform first, followed by Lance, and then Horton and the rest of the squad. British and French troops crowded the station. The other seven men in Lance’s group sidled along the platform, keeping a healthy distance from each other and feeling exposed in their worn and dirty British uniforms.
When the train rolled in, Lance and his men could not believe their eyes. It moved slowly enough that with minimal effort, anyone could sprint to get on it at any time. British and French soldiers filled the cars, sat on the roofs, and occupied every square inch of available space. Only disembarking French civilians made room enough for Lance’s squad to clamber on.
“Try to keep together,” he called as they struggled for free space, but his words were lost in the screech of steel on steel, the rumble of train cars, and the toot of the whistle as the engine struggled under its mammoth load.
When he had secured a foothold on the bottom step of one of the cars, Lance glanced around. Horton perched above him on the top stair and shot him a grin. Toby had made it farther inside the same car, but Lance could see none of his other comrades.
He heard his name called from the platform, and while still holding onto his place, he turned to see François running alongside.
“It seems I will leave you now,” François called. “No room.” He panted as he ran to keep up. “Remember, Saint-Nazaire. Go to Saint-Nazaire. I hope to see you again in happier days.”
“Where will you go?” Lance yelled back.
“Marseille,” François replied. “The resistance is forming there. Vive la France! Vive la Résistance!”
He fell back as the train puffed out of the station. Lance waved, a sense of loss overcoming him. “Vive la France,” he called back. “Vive François.”
Then, as François fell back, a new sound filled the air: the low growl of German Stukas on the prowl. They had found a favorite target, an almost stationary train in a station filled with enemy troops.
The fighters descended, machine guns cut loose, and François’ chest exploded. He went down in a bloody heap. Soldiers jumped from the train and ran for cover while the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire raked them, followed by deafening explosions.
Almost frozen in horror, Lance reacted to screams around him and dove to the ground, nearly sprawling on his face. He felt a hand grasp his collar and jerk him upright, and he turned to find Horton beside him, dragging him to cover.
Minutes later, the attack was over, with bloody corpses strewn about. The train had not stopped, and now with much of its load discarded, it had picked up speed. The chaos of moments before reversed, with soldiers running to jump back on.
“Let’s go,” Horton yelled in Lance’s face, but only a strange buzzing sounded in his ears. He gazed about,
