Winter of the World

  Next day Erik and Hermann and the rest of the Second Panzers turned west and broke through what remained of the French defenses.

  Two days later they were fifty miles away, at the river Oise, and moving fast through undefended territory.

  By May 20, a week after emerging unexpectedly from the Ardennes forest, they had reached the coast of the English Channel.

  Major Weiss explained their achievement to Erik and Hermann. "Our attack on Belgium was a feint, you see. Its purpose was to draw the French and British into a trap. We Panzer divisions formed the jaws of the trap, and now we have them between our teeth. Much of the French army and nearly all of the British Expeditionary Force are in Belgium, encircled by the German army. They are cut off from supplies and reinforcements, helpless--and defeated."

  Erik said triumphantly: "This was the Fuhrer's plan all along!"

  "Yes," said Weiss, and as ever Erik could not tell whether he was sincere. "No one thinks like the Fuhrer!"

  ii

  Lloyd Williams was in a football stadium somewhere between Calais and Paris. With him were another thousand or more British prisoners of war. They had no shelter from the blazing June sun, but they were grateful for the warm nights as they had no blankets. There were no toilets and no water for washing.

  Lloyd was digging a hole with his hands. He had organized some of the Welsh miners to make latrines at one end of the soccer pitch, and he was working alongside them to show he was willing. Other men joined in, having nothing else to do, and soon there were a hundred or so helping. When a guard strolled over to see what was going on, Lloyd explained.

  "You speak good German," said the guard amiably. "What's your name?"

  "Lloyd."

  "I'm Dieter."

  Lloyd decided to exploit this small expression of friendliness. "We could dig faster if we had tools."

  "What's the hurry?"

  "Better hygiene would benefit you as well as us."

  Dieter shrugged and went away.

  Lloyd felt awkwardly unheroic. He had seen no fighting. The Welsh Rifles had gone to France as reserves, to relieve other units in what was expected to be a long battle. But it had taken the Germans only ten days to defeat the bulk of the Allied army. Many of the defeated British troops had then been evacuated from Calais and Dunkirk, but thousands had missed the boat, and Lloyd was among them.

  Presumably the Germans were now pushing south. As far as he knew, the French were still fighting, but their best troops had been annihilated in Belgium, and there was a triumphant look about the German guards, as if they knew victory was assured.

  Lloyd was a prisoner of war, but how long would he remain so? At this point there must be powerful pressure on the British government to make peace. Churchill would never do so, but he was a maverick, different from all other politicians, and he could be deposed. Men such as Lord Halifax would have little difficulty signing a peace treaty with the Nazis. The same was true, Lloyd thought bitterly, of the junior Foreign Office minister Earl Fitzherbert, whom he now shamefully knew to be his father.

  If peace came soon, his time as a prisoner of war could be short. He might spend all of it here, in this French arena. He would go home scrawny and sunburned, but otherwise whole.

  But if the British fought on it would be a different matter. The last war had continued more than four years. Lloyd could not bear the thought of wasting four years of his life in a prisoner-of-war camp. To avoid that, he decided, he would try to escape.

  Dieter reappeared carrying half a dozen spades.

  Lloyd gave them to the strongest men, and the work went faster.

  At some point the prisoners would have to be moved to a permanent camp. That would be the time to make a run for it. Based on his experience in Spain, Lloyd guessed the army would not prioritize the guarding of prisoners. If one tried to get away he might succeed, or he might be shot dead; either way, it was one less mouth to feed.

  They spent the rest of the day completing the latrines. Apart from the improvement in hygiene, this project had boosted morale, and Lloyd lay awake that night, looking at the stars, trying to think of other communal activities he might organize. He decided on a grand athletics contest, a prison-camp Olympic Games.

  But he did not have the chance to put this into practise, for the next morning they were marched away.

  At first he was not sure of the direction they were taking, but before long they got onto a Route Napoleon two-lane road and began to go steadily east. In all probability, Lloyd thought, they were intended to walk all the way to Germany.

  Once there, he knew, escape would be much more difficult. He had to seize this opportunity. And the sooner the better. He was scared--those guards had guns--but determined.

  There was not much motor traffic other than the occasional German staff car, but the road was busy with people on foot, heading in the opposite direction. With their possessions in handcarts and wheelbarrows, some driving their livestock ahead of them, they were clearly refugees whose homes had been destroyed in battle. That was a heartening sign, Lloyd told himself. An escaped prisoner might hide himself among them.

  The prisoners were lightly guarded. There were only ten Germans in charge of this moving column of a thousand men. The guards had one car and a motorcycle; the rest were on foot and on civilian bicycles that they must have commandeered from the locals.

  All the same, escape seemed hopeless at first. There were no English-style hedgerows to provide cover, and the ditches were too shallow to hide in. A man running away would provide an easy target for a competent rifleman.

  Then they entered a village. Here it was a little harder for the guards to keep an eye on everyone. Local men and women stood at the edges of the column, staring at the prisoners. A small flock of sheep got mixed up with them. There were cottages and shops beside the road. Lloyd watched hopefully for his opportunity. He needed a place to hide instantly, an open door or a passage between houses or a bush to hide behind. And he needed to be passing it at a moment when none of the guards was in sight.

  In a couple of minutes he had left the village behind without spotting his opportunity.

  He felt annoyed, and told himself to be patient. There would be more chances. It was a long way to Germany. On the other hand, with every day that passed the Germans would tighten their grip on conquered territory, improve their organization, impose curfews and passes and checkpoints, stop the movement of refugees. Being on the run would be easier at first, harder as time went on.

  It was hot, and he took off his uniform jacket and tie. He would get rid of them as soon as he could. Close up he probably still looked like a British soldier, in his khaki trousers and shirt, but at a distance he hoped he would not be so conspicuous.

  They passed through two more villages, then came to a small town. This should present some possible escape routes, Lloyd thought nervously. He realized that a part of him hoped he would not see a good opportunity, would not have to put himself in danger of those rifles. Was he getting accustomed to captivity already? It was too easy to continue marching, footsore but safe. He had to snap out of it.

  The road through the town was unfortunately broad. The column kept to the middle of the street, leaving wide aisles either side that would have to be crossed before an escaper could find concealment. Some shops were closed, and a few buildings were boarded up, but Lloyd could see promising-looking alleys, cafes with open doors, a church--but he could not get to any of them unobserved.

  He studied the faces of the townspeople as they stared at the passing prisoners. Were they sympathetic? Would they remember that these men had fought for France? Or would they be understandably terrified of the Germans, and refuse to put themselves in danger? Half and half, probably. Some would risk their lives to help, others would hand him over to the Germans in a heartbeat. And he would not be able to tell the difference until it was too late.

  They reached the town center. I've lost half my opportunities already, he told himself. I have
to act.

  Up ahead he saw a crossroads. An oncoming line of traffic was waiting to turn left, its way blocked by the marching men. Lloyd saw a civilian pickup truck in the queue. Dusty and battered, it looked as if it might belong to a builder or a road mender. The back was open, but Lloyd could not see inside, for its sides were high.

  He thought he might be able to pull himself up the side and scramble over the edge into the truck.

  Once inside he could not be seen by anyone standing or walking on the street, nor by the guards on their bikes. But he would be plainly visible to people looking out of the upstairs windows of the buildings that lined the streets. Would they betray him?

  He came closer to the truck.

  He looked back. The nearest guard was two hundred yards behind.

  He looked ahead. A guard on a bicycle was twenty yards in front.

  He said to the man beside him: "Hold this for me, would you?" and gave him his jacket.

  He drew level with the front of the truck. At the wheel was a bored-looking man in overalls and a beret with a cigarette dangling from his lip. Lloyd passed him. Then he was level with the side of the truck. There was no time to check the guards again.

  Without breaking step, Lloyd put both hands on the side of the truck; heaved himself up; threw one leg over, then the other; and fell inside, hitting the bed of the truck with a crash that seemed terribly loud despite the tramp of a thousand pairs of feet. He flattened himself immediately. He lay still, listening for a clamor of shouted German, the roar of a motorcycle approaching, the crack of a rifle shot.

  He heard the irregular snore of the truck's engine, the stamp and shuffle of the prisoners' feet, the background noises of a small town's traffic and people. Had he got away with it?

  He looked around him, keeping his head low. In the truck with him were buckets, planks, a ladder, and a wheelbarrow. He had been hoping for a few sacks with which to cover himself, but there were none.

  He heard a motorcycle. It seemed to come to a halt nearby. Then, a few inches from his head, someone spoke French with a strong German accent. "Where are you going?" A guard was talking to the truck driver, Lloyd figured with a racing heart. Would the guard try to look into the back?

  He heard the driver reply, an indignant stream of fast French that Lloyd could not decipher. The German soldier almost certainly could not understand it either. He asked the question again.

  Looking up, Lloyd saw two women at a high window overlooking the street. They were staring at him, mouths open in surprise. One was pointing, her arm sticking out through the open window.

  Lloyd tried to catch her eye. Lying still, he moved one hand from side to side in a gesture that meant no.

  She got the message. She withdrew her arm suddenly and covered her mouth with her hand as if realizing, with horror, that her pointing could be a sentence of death.

  Lloyd wanted both women to move away from the window, but that was too much to hope for, and they continued to stare.

  Then the motorcycle guard seemed to decide not to pursue his inquiry, for, a moment later, the motorcycle roared away.

  The sound of feet receded. The body of prisoners had passed. Was Lloyd free?

  There was a crash of gears and the truck moved. Lloyd felt it turn the corner and pick up speed. He lay still, too scared to move.

  He watched the tops of buildings pass by, alert in case anyone else should spot him, though he did not know what he would do if it happened. Every second was taking him away from the guards, he told himself encouragingly.

  To his disappointment, the truck came to a halt quite soon. The engine was turned off, then the driver's door opened and slammed shut. Then nothing. Lloyd lay still for a while, but the driver did not return.

  Lloyd looked at the sky. The sun was high: it must be after midday. The driver was probably having lunch.

  The trouble was, Lloyd continued to be visible from high windows on both sides of the street. If he remained where he was he would be noticed sooner or later. And then there was no telling what might happen.

  He saw a curtain twitch in an attic, and that decided him.

  He stood up and looked over the side. A man in a business suit walking along the pavement stared in curiosity but did not stop.

  Lloyd scrambled over the side of the truck and dropped to the ground. He found himself outside a bar-restaurant. No doubt that was where the driver had gone. To Lloyd's horror there were two men in German army uniforms sitting at a window table with glasses of beer in their hands. By a miracle they did not look at Lloyd.

  He walked quickly away.

  He looked around alertly as he walked. Everyone he passed stared at him: they knew exactly what he was. One woman screamed and ran away. He realized he needed to change his khaki shirt and trousers for something more French in the next few minutes.

  A young man took him by the arm. "Come with me," he said in English with a heavy accent. "I will 'elp you 'ide."

  He turned down a side street. Lloyd had no reason to trust this man, but he had to make a split-second decision, and he went along.

  "This way," the young man said, and steered Lloyd into a small house.

  In a bare kitchen was a young woman with a baby. The young man introduced himself as Maurice, the woman as his wife, Marcelle, and the baby as Simone.

  Lloyd allowed himself a moment of grateful relief. He had escaped from the Germans! He was still in danger, but he was off the streets and in a friendly house.

  The stiffly correct French Lloyd had learned in school and at Cambridge had become more colloquial during his escape from Spain, and especially in the two weeks he spent picking grapes in Bordeaux. "You're very kind," he said. "Thank you."

  Maurice replied in French, evidently relieved not to have to speak English. "I guess you'd like something to eat."

  "Very much."

  Marcelle rapidly cut several slices off a long loaf and put them on the table with a round of cheese and a wine bottle with no label. Lloyd sat down and tucked in ravenously.

  "I'll give you some old clothes," said Maurice. "But also, you must try to walk differently. You were striding along looking all around you, so alert and interested, you might as well have a sign around your neck saying 'Visitor from England.' Better to shuffle with your eyes on the ground."

  With his mouth full of bread and cheese, Lloyd said: "I'll remember that."

  There was a small shelf of books, including French translations of Marx and Lenin. Maurice noticed Lloyd looking at them and said: "I was a Communist--until the Hitler-Stalin pact. Now--it's finished." He made a swift cutting-off gesture with his hand. "All the same, we have to defeat Fascism."

  "I was in Spain," said Lloyd. "Before that, I believed in a united front of all left parties. Not anymore."

  Simone cried. Marcelle lifted a large breast out of her loose dress and began to feed the baby. French women were more relaxed about this than the prudish British, Lloyd remembered.

  When he had eaten, Maurice took him upstairs. From a wardrobe that had very little in it he took a pair of dark blue overalls, a light blue shirt, underwear, and socks, all worn but clean. The kindness of this evidently poor man overwhelmed Lloyd, and he had no idea how to say thank you.

  "Just leave your army clothes on the floor," Maurice said. "I'll burn them."

  Lloyd would have liked a wash, but there was no bathroom. He guessed it was in the backyard.

  He put on the fresh clothes and studied his reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. French blue suited him better than army khaki, but he still looked British.

  He went back downstairs.

  Marcelle was burping the baby. "Hat," she said.

  Maurice produced a typical French beret, dark blue, and Lloyd put it on.

  Then Maurice looked anxiously at Lloyd's stout black leather British army boots, dusty but unmistakably good quality. "They give you away," he said.

  Lloyd did not want to give up his boots. He had a long way to walk. "Perhaps we
can make them look older?" he said.

  Maurice looked doubtful. "How?"

  "Do you have a sharp knife?"

  Maurice took a clasp knife from his pocket.

  Lloyd took his boots off. He cut holes in the toecaps, then slashed the ankles. He removed the laces and re-threaded them untidily. Now they looked like something a down-and-out would wear, but they still fit well and had thick soles that would last many miles.

  Maurice said: "Where will you go?"

  "I have two options," Lloyd said. "I can head north, to the coast, and hope to persuade a fisherman to take me across the English Channel. Or I can go southwest, across the border into Spain." Spain was neutral, and still had British consuls in major cities. "I know the Spanish route--I've traveled it twice."

  "The channel is a lot nearer than Spain," Maurice said. "But I think the Germans will close all the ports and harbors."

  "Where's the front line?"

  "The Germans have taken Paris."

  Lloyd suffered a moment of shock. Paris had fallen already!

  "The French government has moved to Bordeaux." Maurice shrugged. "But we are beaten. Nothing can save France now."

  "All Europe will be Fascist," Lloyd said.

  "Except for Britain. So you must go home."

  Lloyd mused. North or southwest? He could not tell which would be better.

  Maurice said: "I have a friend, a former Communist, who sells cattle feed to farmers. I happen to know he's delivering this afternoon to a place southwest of here. If you decide to go to Spain, he could take you twenty miles."

  That helped Lloyd make up his mind. "I'll go with him," he said.

  iii

  Daisy had been on a long journey that had brought her around in a circle.

  When Lloyd was sent to France she was heartbroken. She had missed her chance of telling him she loved him--she had not even kissed him!

  And now there might never be another opportunity. He was reported missing in action after Dunkirk. That meant his body had not been found and identified, but neither was he registered as a prisoner of war. Most likely he was dead, blown up into unidentifiable fragments by a shell, or perhaps lying unmarked beneath the debris of a destroyed farmhouse. She cried for days.