24. Ditched

In the period that Harry was ‘Missing, assumed dead’, he was, in fact, struggling to survive in the German occupation zone in France. As Diana, nursing her new son, grieved for the man she had lost, Harry had been secretly transporting Special Ops agents in and out of France. Harry’s sudden disappearance off the radar happened on a dark, cloudy night when his Lysander aircraft crashed just as he had been airborne again after discharging a passenger.

Gliding the Lysander soundlessly down, Harry felt as if he had been floating for ages in a strange, silent world, with no way of telling what sort of terrain the Lysander might land in. Grateful that the drifting moon was presently obscured and therefore not able to throw light on his descent, Harry brought the aircraft down with an alarming bump, followed by loud bangs and rattles that shook the plane as it shuddered to a stop in what looked like a field of sugar beet. Knowing he had only hours to disappear, before the German soldiers with their dreaded sniffer dogs were on his trail, Harry unbuckled his seat, then wrenched open the cockpit. Breaking into a run, he stumbled over fallen logs and trailing blackberry bushes, until the sky paled and he was forced to stop to catch his breath.

‘Oh, God,’ Harry groaned. ‘I’ll be picked up at first light if I’m spotted in this wretched RAF uniform.’

Forcing himself to concentrate, Harry spotted a gap in a hedge, which he wriggled through, then found himself standing on a narrow track that led to a small farmhouse. As Harry dithered by the roadside, he heard children’s laughter coming from inside the house; reassured by the sound, he took a deep breath and rapped on the door. The door slowly creaked open to reveal a couple in their early thirties and their two young children, who were in their nightclothes. Grabbing his wife by the shoulder, the farmer pushed her behind his back and stepped boldly in front of Harry, who babbled in his rather poor French that he was desperately in need of assistance. Knowing full well the consequences of harbouring the enemy, the poor woman covered her mouth with her hand to suppress her fearful cry.

‘I’m so sorry to put you in danger,’ Harry cried in the best French he could muster. ‘If you could just tell me where I am,’ he added, as he produced a little silk map the size of a handkerchief from his pocket and laid it on the table. Pointing to it, he asked in French the position of the hamlet he was presently in.

‘Ici,’ the man said, jabbing a finger at the map. ‘Near Nantes.’ Obviously keen to get rid of Harry, the harassed farmer all but pushed him out of the door. ‘I will take you – vite!’

Directing Harry to an ancient pickup truck, the farmer pointed at a large, smelly tarpaulin sheet in the back and indicated that Harry should hide under it. Just as her husband was about to drive away, the farmer’s wife came running out of the house.

‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘Take these,’ she said, as she handed Harry a pair of grubby dungarees and a rather threadbare jacket. ‘Bonne chance,’ she whispered breathlessly before she rushed back to her children.

As the taciturn farmer rumbled along the narrow lanes, Harry wriggled out of his uniform and donned his grubby disguise. His shiny RAF shoes were far too smart for the ragged clothes he had been given but hopefully he would be able to sort that out when they reached Nantes.

‘If I get to Nantes,’ Harry thought grimly.

In the back of the rattling truck Harry tried to observe through a rip in the tarpaulin any significant landmarks, but no matter how hard he tried to concentrate his eyes drooped; the effects of a night without any sleep finally caught up with him and he lost consciousness. He awoke with a start as the truck ricocheted to an abrupt stop. Suddenly he felt a hard hand on his leg.

‘Nantes,’ said the farmer, as he helped Harry out of the truck. ‘Bonne chance.’

Mercifully the farmer had dropped Harry off in a quiet side street that was dominated by a rather splendid large sandstone church. Desperate to be out of the public eye, Harry walked briskly towards the church and slipped inside, grateful for the gloomy quietness that met him. Only a few people were there: mostly the old, kneeling at prie-dieux and muttering prayers to statues of the saints with stony-cold expressions. Seeking out the darkest part of the church, Harry hid in the shadows, where he slowly felt his pulse return to normal.

‘Well,’ he thought to himself, ‘I’ve survived a plane crash and a lift in a truck with a total stranger who’s dumped me in a town I now have to figure out how to get out of.’

Though his tummy rumbled with hunger – he hadn’t eaten since before the Lysander crash-landed – Harry remained where he was. Staring out across the long nave, Harry’s eyes were drawn to the beautifully carved altar, built of the same soft stone as the rest of the church and dominated by a massive crucifix vividly illuminated by tall candles that threw out a soft, glowing light. Feeling his body grow limp with fatigue, Harry laid his head against the back of the wooden pew and half closed his eyes. Though this church was five times bigger than the Shelford church where he had planned to marry Diana, he could nevertheless allow himself to imagine her walking down the aisle towards him.

‘Would she have worn a white wedding dress?’ he wondered. ‘God,’ he thought. ‘Diana would look stunning in white satin with a long lace veil over her silky blonde hair, covering her beautiful smiling face.’

He imagined Diana arriving at his side at the altar steps, where he would raise her delicate veil to smile into her cornflower-blue eyes, then kiss her pouting pink lips. The sound of close-by shuffling feet snapped Harry out of his fantasy, bringing him back to reality; quickly casting a glance around, he sighed with relief when he saw it was only an old lady stopping to light a candle in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. Keeping his head down, Harry pretended to be deep in prayer, only relaxing when the old lady, leaning heavily on a walking stick, hobbled away.

Alone once more, Harry’s thoughts returned to Diana, whose wedding day he had succeeded in ruining.

‘I should have moved heaven and earth to get back to her,’ he charged himself. ‘What an utter bastard I’ve been to the poor darling girl.’

How would Diana ever know that he had sworn an oath to keep his clandestine missions secret? It wasn’t just his life that was at risk; if he were to blab dozens of other men would be in jeopardy too.

‘Who could blame the poor girl for thinking I had walked out on her, abandoned her when she needed me most?’

Slipping to his knees, Harry put his head in his hands and this time he genuinely did pray. ‘God forgive me for what I’ve done,’ he pleaded. ‘Please God help me find my way home to my darling Diana.’

As his hunched body shuddered with emotion, Harry suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Smothering a cry of fear, he whirled around and looked straight into the face of a priest wearing a long black cassock.

‘Can I help you, my son?’ the priest murmured.

For the second time in less than a few hours Harry took his life into his hands: again speaking in halting French, he told the gentle-eyed priest what had happened to him.

‘Follow me to the sacristy,’ the priest replied to him in good English. ‘Wait for five minutes before you join me,’ he warned.

Checking his watch, Harry did as instructed; though terrified of being spotted, he slipped down the dark side aisles to the sacristy, which smelt of candles and sweet communion wine.

‘Father, I do not want to get you into trouble,’ he immediately started. ‘If I can just hide in your church until nightfall, then I’ll be on my way.’

The priest answered him with a knowing smile. ‘I think I can do better than that: stay here, lock the door and wait until I get back’

In the silence that followed his departure, Harry locked the door, then sat cross-legged on the tiled floor, waiting for the priest to return. When he did, he was accompanied by a short, stocky man whom the priest introduced as one of his parishioners.

‘My friend here,’ the priest explained, ‘tells me you might have to go undercover for some time, but once the coast is clear he will link you up with a guide who has some experience in helping prisoners of war out of the country.’

Harry gratefully shook the stranger’s hand. ‘Merci, monsieur. I am in your debt.’

As they slipped out of the church, Harry dipped his hand into the holy water font and blessed himself – at least some of his prayers were being answered.