18

The bridge was partially destroyed. Convoys were backed up for miles. The van, two motorcycles in front, three behind, had already been waiting five hours when the whistles and the shouting began again.

Volunteer traffic patrols frantically waved trucks and cars off the road. Drivers and soldiers dove desperately for cover as R. A. F. Mosquito bombers swept down, angled off and began the strafing. Tracers streaked along the concrete, shredding men, machines and foliage. The aircraft banked gracefully and prepared for a second run, their twin engines muted by distance, vapor streaming from their wingtips.

Jean-Claude leaped from the culvert, darted across the road and zigzagged along the line of abandoned vehicles. The planes opened fire as he slid under the front wheels of the van. Shells tore into the metal above him. Gasoline began to drip and flare. Flames burst out around the cab. Jean-Claude rolled sideways and scrambled for the tree line.

Guards jimmied open the side door of the van. The dazed prisoners jumped to earth and were led into the woods.

Jean-Claude heard the shouts. He dashed to the cab and pulled open the door. He tugged at the dying driver, whose face had vanished into a bloody pulp, and looked up through the smoke and the flames at a map pasted on the roof. Its edges were burning. A blue line traced the route into Poland.