The Spitfire slithered to a halt. For a few seconds he savoured the wonderful silence. He opened his eyes. Framed in the windshield in front of his face was the outline of a church tower. The church seemed to be upside down. He realized that he was hanging, inverted by the straps of his safety harness. He felt for the triangular release catch, pressed, and slumped onto the soft earth. He had jettisoned the perspex canopy just before the landing. It made getting out a lot easier. He could smell petrol and hear the tick of hot aluminium. He knew what was likely to come next: a sickening whoompf and an explosion of flame. He wriggled through the gap between the humped fuselage and the ground, rolled clear and staggered upright. He raised his arms and cautiously clenched and unclenched his hands. Amazingly, he felt OK.
He looked back at the wreckage of the Spitfire, which lay there like a spent comet, trailing a long tail of churned dirt. A thought floated through his head, something they drummed into him during training: In the case of a crash landing in hostile territory it is vital to ensure that your aircraft does not fall intact into enemy hands. There was no danger of that. The airframe was bent, the wings were torn from their roots and the propeller blades twisted like wrought iron.
The sound of an aeroplane engine made him look up. One of the German fighters was circling, checking whether he had survived the crash. He felt the pilot’s eyes locking onto him and looked around frantically for somewhere to hide. Across the field lay the church and a line of houses. The pilot would be radioing back to his base at Saint-Omer, reporting the Spitfire’s last resting place. He set off, jogging across the furrows towards the cover of the village. The heavy clay stuck to his boots, turning his limbs to lead, as if he was running in a nightmare.
The village had just a single street. The houses either side were low and built of dull red brick with thick wooden shutters framing the windows. It was two o’clock in the afternoon yet nobody was about. The place was as deserted as a ghost town in his native Texas. The German plane had cleared off, its engine note fading to a distant pulse. The silence that followed felt sinister. It was broken by a rusty creaking. The front door of one of the cottages opened. In the doorway stood a little girl, about nine or ten years old, he guessed. She stepped forward, beckoning to him.
He took a few paces back. It seemed wrong to involve her in his drama. Yet she kept walking towards him, holding out her hand. Instinctively he reached out and took it. She turned round and led him towards the house.
The door shut behind him. He was in a small, dim room. In the gloom he made out the shape of a woman, youngish and attractive, with a sad, kind face. She smiled and beckoned him to follow her as she climbed the stairs.
He tried to remember some of the little French he had learned at school and could only come up with ‘bonjour’. He felt a need to talk, to explain who he was, although it must have been obvious, speaking urgently in English, even though it was clear she didn’t understand a word. She pressed a finger to her lips and he got the message and shut up. Then she tugged at his tunic, opened a wardrobe and pulled out a man’s jacket and some trousers – her husband’s? Her brother’s? He stifled the impulse to ask.
He took off his flying jacket and boots. As he went to pull down his trousers, he saw mother and daughter watching him, and a foolish spurt of modesty made him hesitate. The woman jabbed a finger at the window, motioning for him to hurry before the Germans arrived. He dropped his trousers and pulled on the new pair. They were a bit short but otherwise OK. The little girl clapped. The black jacket was a tight fit but it would have to do. The woman reached again into the wardrobe and bought out a pair of boots and some wooden clogs. He chose the clogs, thinking they would look more authentic. A few seconds later he was regretting it as he clopped unsteadily back down the stairs.
After the horrors of the last half-hour he felt tears pricking his eyes at such unconditional kindness. He had neither the words nor the time to pour out his thanks. Impulsively he gave the woman a quick, heartfelt hug, and kissed the little girl. They led him to the back door. Behind a small garden lay flat fields. He hurried away with no idea where he was heading. He looked back. The door was already closed, as if his saviours had never existed.
It was the end of March. The land looked drab and dead. It was flat and watery, criss-crossed by drainage ditches. Between the ridged planes of the fields stood lines of bare poplars, stabbing like rows of spears into the vaulting grey sky.
To the left of the house was a hedge and behind it a lane ran south of the village. He walked purposefully, not too fast, not too slow, a man with things to do and a home to go to. Over the fields drifted the sound of clashing gears. He looked back. A lorry was driving into the village and behind it a motorcycle with a grey-helmeted rider. The black peasant jacket and the clogs no longer felt like any protection. He had to get out of sight. There was a channel running along the side of the road, a drainage ditch or a narrow canal. He remembered from trips to the movies in Dallas how escapees from chain gangs waded down rivers to throw the bloodhounds off the scent.
He slithered down the bank. The water was cold and slimy. It stank dreadfully. He was standing waist-deep in the village sewer. He waded southwards, crouching down below the bank until he was out of sight of the houses. When he could stand the stench no more he climbed out and trudged across fields and ditches, avoiding anywhere where he might encounter humans.
At six o’clock it was getting dark. He was exhausted, hungry, cold and soaking wet. An isolated copse, etched black against the sinking sun, offered a possible sanctuary for the night. He ducked under the bare branches, stretched out on the mulch of dead leaves and closed his eyes. It was Tuesday, 24 March 1942. In the space of a few hours Flying Officer William Ash’s war had changed utterly.