Pursuit of Passy Read online

CHAPTER VI

  MARCKENFACE

  AFTER perhaps half-a-mile I came to the edge of the wood, and before emerging from the trees I examined carefully the ground ahead.

  There were fields of corn and orchards with white farms dotted here and there, and over on the right above some trees I could see the tall spire of a village church standing upright in the golden morning light.

  Apart from a few cattle grazing peacefully there were no signs of life and so I left the cover of the trees and walked on, keeping the village on my right. I decided that I should be much too conspicuous in the village at that early hour, particularly with my blood-stained tunic and battered face and I made up my mind to go to a farm and ask for help.

  A little further on I saw a small cluster of farm buildings with a few trees on one side and I walked across an orchard and sat down under the trees to wait, intending to see if the occupants were likely looking people before approaching them; for all I knew German soldiers might be billeted there though it seemed unlikely.

  I was tired out and dozed fitfully under the trees till about seven o'clock when a woman came out of the house with a bucket and walked across the yard. I waited a few minutes but saw nobody else so I rose stiffly to my feet and walked across into the farmyard. There was nobody in sight and I looked round to see where she had gone when a shrill voice called from a shed “Jacques, Jacques!” and a second later the woman herself appeared in the doorway and stood there looking at me in surprise, a typical sturdy French peasant dressed in an old black apron and clogs.

  “Bonjour m'sieur,” she said questioningly and waited, glancing curiously at my blood-stained tunic and bruised face. She looked shrewd and kindly, and I made up my mind to tell her the truth and trust her to help me. After all she would be taking far more risk in sheltering me than an ordinary French soldier and therefore it seemed only fair to acquaint her with the fact.

  “Bonjour, Madame” I said. “I am an English officer in the R.A.F. and I have just escaped from the Boches. Will you let me hide here for a day or two because they are searching for me?”

  “Oui,” she said simply, and then added, “Come in and I will give you some food. But you have been wounded?”

  “Not badly,” I said as we walked across the yard to the house. “I had to kill a Boche in order to escape and this is his blood. I must hide because they'll shoot me if they find me, and they might shoot you too for helping me.”

  “N’importe,” she said decidedly. “I am a Frenchwoman and I have no love for them. But I think we can hide you so that you won't be found.”

  That woman was magnificent. She took me into the kitchen where her three small children were sitting at the table having breakfast, bathed my face, massaged my back which was badly bruised and swollen and gave me a meal of ham, bread and cheese and a great bowl of steaming coffee.

  I sat at the table surrounded by the children who regarded me with silent curiosity and ate greedily everything she put before me, all the time listening to innumerable details concerning the family. Their name was Cormier and her husband who owned the farm (Marckenface, I remember it was called) had been mobilised as a reservist in September, 1939, since when she had carried on the farm by herself. When she last heard from Cormier he had been in the Vosges but now she had no idea of his whereabouts and for all she knew he might be a prisoner or dead. She must have been very worried about him but she never showed it, and she moved briskly about the farmhouse, feeding me, alternately scolding and petting the children in her shrill voice, chasing out sundry dogs and hens who wandered in, and apparently regarding an escaped and hunted person as just another incident in a busy life. The Germans were her enemies and what could be more natural than to deceive them and conspire against them on every possible occasion? She seemed to me to embody all the traditional virtues and great qualities of the French race and I felt for the first time a new confidence which was to be strengthened by every Frenchman whom I met in the next few weeks that whatever discreditable action the present leaders of France might take, the heart of the ordinary people was as sound as ever.

  I finished my breakfast at last.

  “Now,” said Madame briskly, “we must hide you away. Come.”

  We left the house, Madame leading the way carefully to see that all was clear, and crossed the farmyard into some stables where she pointed to a ladder slung along the wall. Somewhat mystified I lifted it down and carried it outside. She pointed upwards and I saw what appeared to be an old dovecote built in to one end of the roof.

  “There,” she said, “I think that's the best place. There is no way up except by the ladder and I'll hide that, but you must move very carefully because it hasn't been used for many years and the floor may be rotten.”

  I hoisted the ladder against the wall and climbed up. In the side of the dovecote was a small door probably to allow a man to crawl in and clean out the floor. The wood was rotten but I managed to prise it open and crept in gingerly.

  The floor was filthy and covered in a thick layer of dust and droppings left behind by the previous occupants. French pigeons certainly possess the same dubious personal habits that characterise their famous cousins at St. Paul's, as far as I could see. The boards creaked badly as I crawled across and in one or two places I could see through cracks into the stable below.

  There was just enough room for me to lie full length and I stretched myself out and peered down at Madame Cormier through one of the small circular holes in the front of the loft.

  “Hallo,” I said, “I'm quite comfortable now, thank you.” “Eh bien,” she said. “Keep quiet and leave me to deal with the Boches if they should come. Au revoir.”

  She took the ladder away from the wall and carried it out of the yard. I stretched my legs out into a more comfortable position, brought my head close to one of the holes and prepared to spend a very long day in my little cell.