Love for a Soldier Read online

  ‘Very well, mon Capitaine, I’ll drive you,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way to Douai. I’ll take you there. It will be safer for you than Valenciennes. You can wait outside the town until it’s dark, and then I’ll come to meet you again and take you to people who will help you.’

  What she must actually do was tell Fritz. As a loyal German citizen she had no alternative, and Fritz would know how to deal with the man.

  Captain Marsh’s inspection of the open Bugatti was brief. She got in, and he took his place beside her.

  ‘Your arrival, mademoiselle, at the critical moment and in this car, was very fortuitous. To Douai, then, and thank you.’

  ‘Thank me only if we meet no German patrols,’ she said. ‘For if we do, they’ll stop us, and I’ll be able to do nothing for you then – or for myself.’

  She started the car and moved off.

  Captain Marsh said, ‘It needn’t be as bad as that for you – I have my service revolver.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she said in sudden shock, ‘you don’t mean to open fire on any patrols – you can’t.’

  ‘Suicidal, I agree,’ he said, and laughed. ‘No, let’s look at it differently. Let’s give the impression, if necessary, that a man on the run wouldn’t hesitate to commandeer your car and your services as driver. Your case would be that I threatened you with my revolver.’

  ‘A flying officer would be as ungallant as that?’ she said, as they left the smouldering Camel behind.

  ‘Not ungallant. Practical. Drive on, mademoiselle.’

  Chapter Three

  SOPHIA DROVE WITH self-assurance, negotiating the gear changes firmly as the family chauffeur had taught her. Captain Marsh watched the winding road and the vistas of rural France. He was quiet but alert. His silence suited her, for she had no wish to converse with him. He had taken off his flying helmet and buttoned his thick jacket to hide his khaki uniform. His dark brown hair, whipped by the wind, lost its brushed look. His bruised left hand lay in his lap. With his right hand, he used his handkerchief to wipe the flyer’s telltale oil marks from his face, revealing a skin tanned by exposure to the elements.

  He was relaxing, she thought. He was less edgy. His brush with Richtofen and his near escape from death had shaken him, but he was obviously recovering. And the fact that these rural lanes and byways were so quiet and empty must be a relief to him. She still hoped, however, that he would not attempt conversation. She had no qualms about letting him think she was French or about what she really intended to do when she reached Douai, for he was at war with her country. All the same, she did not want to be asked questions she could not truthfully answer. She would lie if she had to, but she preferred silence to further deception.

  They passed through a little village called La Calle. It was obviously too small to be considered suitable as a refuge for him, and too close to the scene of his crash-landing. How odd. Fritz had crash-landed last week. They were both fighter pilots, Fritz and her unwelcome companion. But Fritz, she thought, would have laughed at his narrow escape. This man had been short-tempered and edgy.

  A small girl, playing outside a house at the end of the one street in La Calle, stared in awe at the big black Bugatti and its occupants. Strutting chickens, feathers threadbare from a long winter of meal scarcity, flew squawking from the path of the automobile.

  Beyond the village the land lay rolling and open. Farmhouses dotted the countryside, and here and there Captain Marsh sighted elderly peasants and young women working in the fields. The French had mobilized their young men by the million, and farmers called upon their daughters or aged labourers to help them, although much of their produce was destined for German stomachs.

  Captain Marsh broke his silence.

  ‘You said Douai, mademoiselle?’ He sounded slightly sceptical.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophia, sensing he was somewhat suspicious of her.

  ‘But you seem to be heading north. From where Richtofen brought me down, Douai lies west. Slightly north-west. Shouldn’t you have turned left before you reached that little village, La Calle?’

  He was a pilot. He had been operating, no doubt, in the skies above Douai, Arras and Lille, and the whole area probably existed as a permanent map in his mind. A new shock hit her. She was lost. She had thought herself to be driving in a predominantly western direction since giving Captain Vorster the slip. She had made guesses, yes, but confident guesses. The winding rural byways had deceived her. She was definitely lost, and definitely suspect if, as a Frenchwoman from Valenciennes, she could not find her way to Douai, about forty kilometres only by road. Here was another challenge, but she met it. She looked at Captain Marsh and gave him a little smile and a shrug.

  ‘I must confess, mon Capitaine, that in attempting to reach Douai by all these country lanes it’s quite possible, yes, that I’m failing myself. I usually take the main road. But on the main road one is always being stopped by the military police of Germany. One needs to have German permission to travel by car.’ Sophia slowed to take a tight bend. She gave Captain Marsh another smile, simulating ruefulness. ‘One can get permission, if one’s father is the mayor of Valenciennes, yes –’

  ‘Your father’s the mayor?’ said Captain Marsh.

  ‘Although Valenciennes is full of Germans,’ said Sophia, ‘the mayor is still of some importance. Mon Capitaine,’ she went on, the bit between her teeth, ‘I must tell you that the reason I was a little reluctant to involve myself with your misfortune was because I’m in an emotional crisis.’

  ‘I’ve a little crisis of my own,’ he said, ‘and although it’s not an emotional one, it could mean we’re on some common ground. Mademoiselle, we’re heading for the Belgian border and, if I’m not mistaken, into the arms of German reserve divisions. I think it might be a good idea to take a left turn as soon as we reach one. Meanwhile, if you wish, you can tell me what your own crisis is all about.’

  ‘I’m happy to be guided by you,’ said Sophia, ‘and just as happy to explain why I’m avoiding main roads.’ Distinctly on her mettle now, she embarked on an impromptu story. She was, she said, in constant argument with her parents concerning a French flying officer who had been shot down and seriously injured. His injuries had caused his discharge, otherwise he might have been made a prisoner of war. As it was, he had made a gradual recovery and was now working in the Hotel Avignon in Douai. He was very much in love with her, but because of her parents’ opposition she was being forced to consider the only alternative, an elopement. She had decided today to drive to Douai, to see him and to discuss this with him. She had no permission to travel. Therefore she had chosen the quietest possible route. She had never used these byways before, and she was quite prepared to believe that Captain Marsh was right that her navigation was faulty. ‘It is most emotional, my crisis, do you see, and that hasn’t helped me in finding my way.’

  ‘Elopements, I believe, are very emotional,’ said Captain Marsh, ‘and I hope to avoid any such thing myself.’

  ‘You are not a romantic, mon Capitaine?’ she said lightly.

  ‘At the moment, mademoiselle, I’m concentrating entirely on survival. That isn’t at all romantic. Nor is the prospect of a prisoner-of-war camp. That I mean to avoid like the plague. May I ask your name?’

  Sophia hesitated. Then she said, ‘It would be better, don’t you think, if—’

  ‘Pull up!’ Captain Marsh interrupted her in English. Sophia, who knew only a few words of English, kept going, but shot him a startled glance. ‘Stop,’ he said in French, and added, ‘Look there.’

  Sophia slowed to a halt, and followed his pointing finger. Two hundred metres ahead the lane was intersected by a minor but well-surfaced road. One side of the road was lined by fir trees, planted many years ago to provide the adjacent farmlands with a windbreak stretching many miles. Marching steadily along the verge, beneath the cover of the trees, were German troops in long endless columns. At intervals were officers on horseback.

  It was a movement of troops th
at surprised Captain Marsh. Among the Allies, the feeling was that at last Germany was a drained force, and that the advent of the Americans into the war meant the Kaiser’s cause was hopeless. But even from this distance, the pilot could see that the marching troops gave no indication that defeat was only a matter of time. Their heads were up, their march was strong and steady, and they were well equipped. And they were heading west, towards the front.

  There were no vehicles, only men. Infantrymen. They were moving up under the very effective cover of the evergreens. Sopwith two-seaters, the British reconnaissance planes, flew the skies frequently in spotting missions, but their observers were unlikely to spot these German columns with the men marching in single file.

  Sophia felt she knew what this troop movement meant. One of her father’s divisions was sending infantry battalions up to the front in daylight, such was the pressure General Ludendorff was putting on his Corps commanders in respect of zero-hour dispositions. Daylight meant the exercise of care and caution. That, of course, was why there were no vehicles. They would move at night, with the guns.

  She sat quietly in the car, one hand on the gear lever. A quick thrust into starting gear and a surging drive up to the crossroads would mean an early end to the escape bid of this British pilot. But she doubted if he would let her get far.

  ‘Shall we go on?’ she asked. ‘I’ll proceed slowly.’

  ‘To proceed at all would be very foolish, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Those troops are moving up. There’ll be no vehicles of any kind allowed on that road, nor any kind of observers. We’re uncomfortably close to them as it is. Kindly turn back.’

  ‘I can’t turn in this road,’ said Sophia, and thought again about slipping into forward gear and making a charge for the crossroads and her marching compatriots.

  ‘Reverse, then.’ Captain Marsh was peremptory once more, and Sophia recognized him as a man of dangerous determination. ‘Reverse back to that farm opening and turn there. We can find another road.’

  ‘Mon Capitaine,’ said Sophia in very clear French, ‘I am willing to help, I am not willing to take orders.’

  Captain Marsh, eyes on the scene at the distant crossroads, said drily, ‘Oh, yes, your emotional crisis – it’s of a kind that makes one highly sensitive, of course. You must forgive my impatience, but I’m not at my best this morning. Richtofen has made a monkey of me. Mademoiselle, would you please be kind enough to get us out of here? I’m a bag of nerves at the moment, for I feel like a sitting duck.’

  Sophia’s smile was genuine as she began to reverse.

  ‘To be made a monkey of and then to feel like a sitting duck must be an extraordinary experience,’ she said.

  ‘Uncomfortable,’ said Captain Marsh, still watching the crossroads.

  Sophia, reversing competently around a bend, took the scene from his sight and sensed him relaxing again. In profile, she noted, he looked very resolute, and she wondered if there would be any unpleasantness before she reached the outskirts of Douai and parted company with him. Since she was a patriotic German and he was an enemy fighter pilot, it was impossible to dissociate some unpleasantness from their temporary relationship, even though he thought her French.

  She backed the car into the farm opening, then began to drive back the way they had come. After a little while, she pointed.

  ‘There’s a fork ahead,’ she said, ‘a right-hand one.’

  ‘Take it,’ said Captain Marsh, ‘and let’s hope it will point us at Douai. I’m still unsafe in this area. When the Germans find what’s left of my plane, they’ll discover nothing of me. So they’ll search every farm and village around. Accordingly, I’ll be grateful if you’ll drive fast.’

  ‘Just as fast as these inferior roads permit, mon Capitaine,’ said Sophia, taking the right-hand fork. It was another dirt road, another winding way, and her speed was governed by its hazards.

  Captain Marsh, turning his eyes on her, said, ‘I must say you’re extremely blonde for a Frenchwoman. I’ve met none as blonde as you.’

  ‘My grandmother was a Scandinavian,’ said Sophia in a moment of inspiration. ‘That is why my name is Sophia. Sophia Descantes.’

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Sophia Descantes,’ said Captain Marsh, and his smile lightened his ruggedness. ‘You’re a welcome gift on a day like this. God, this is a foul road.’

  The lane widened then, and provided Sophia with better conditions. She drove very steadily, the moving car encompassed by the ubiquitous fields of agricultural France. They motored through a tiny village of half a dozen houses. Captain Marsh, stationed at Estree-Blanche Farm, searched his memory maps in an attempt to get a fix on his present location. His aerodrome was twenty miles west of the front line, and Douai lay a little over fifty miles south-east. He knew Richtofen had chased him far beyond the front line and brought him down somewhere between Douai and Valenciennes, well inside German-held territory. He reckoned now that he and this French girl were some twelve to fifteen miles east of Douai, perhaps slightly north-east. There were few villages of any size in the area, and certainly none large enough to offer a secure refuge. It would have to be Douai. He needed shelter, he needed civilian clothes, and he needed the help of some brave French people in order to get back to Estree-Blanche Farm or to England. He needed this girl to find such people for him. But she had problems of her own, it seemed. An emotional affair of the heart. An elopement. Elopement? In wartime and at this exhausted stage of the conflict? Well, that was the way some girls were. They could conjure up mirages of romance in the middle of a desert.

  She looked very aristocratic, he thought, and much more the daughter of a French count than of a town mayor.

  An elopement?

  He smiled to himself.

  Sophia stiffened, glimpsing movement ahead. Captain Marsh, spotting it too, put his injured left hand on her arm in warning, wincing a little at the pain that resulted. A hundred yards away, two German soldiers walked through an open farm gate, wheeling bicycles. They looked up as they heard the approaching Bugatti.

  ‘This could be tricky,’ murmured Captain Marsh in English, his right hand moving.

  ‘I speak very little English,’ said Sophia, her heart beating rather fast. The two soldiers were armed, their rifles slung. She could deliver this British airman into their embrace.

  ‘If they stop us, mademoiselle, leave things to me,’ he said calmly. ‘I shall make out a case for you.’

  Sophia decided to simply let events take their course.

  The two Germans stood in the middle of the road as she drove towards them. One man held up a hand. She slowed down and came to a stop. The man lowered his hand and said in fairly good French, ‘Your papers, your travelling permit – show them.’

  ‘Show nothing, mademoiselle,’ said Captain Marsh, ‘they can look at this.’

  The two Germans did look. They stared at the revolver that was pointing at them.

  Sophia, who had forgotten his mention of his service revolver, was momentarily at a loss and could only gasp, ‘Don’t fire – don’t.’

  ‘Be quiet, mademoiselle, do only as I tell you to,’ said Captain Marsh, thus establishing, he hoped, that the daughter of the mayor of Valenciennes was as much under threat as the two Germans. ‘Get out and relieve these gentlemen of their rifles.’

  ‘No, I can’t do that,’ said Sophia, while the soldiers, supporting their bicycles, eyed the hatless man in the thick, buttoned-up jacket, with anger tightening their mouths.

  ‘Do as I say,’ said Captain Marsh, his revolver very steady.

  ‘You are asking, Frenchman, to be shot,’ said the first German.

  ‘So will you be, if either of you move,’ said Captain Marsh. ‘Mademoiselle, get their rifles.’

  His expression was one of fixed determination, but Sophia said firmly, ‘No.’ It surprised her to see a little smile flicker.

  ‘You’re a trial to me, mademoiselle.’ To the first German, he said, ‘Throw your rifle down, my friend.’
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  ‘I am not a friend to you,’ said the soldier. His bicycle fell across the road as he used his hands to unsling his rifle. He dropped it next to his bicycle. It clattered. Captain Marsh gestured at the second German, who gave him a look of fury, but followed the example of his comrade. The pointing revolver was very steady indeed, and very deadly.

  ‘Walk,’ said Captain Marsh, gesturing at the road behind him.

  ‘You are a French swine,’ said the first German.

  ‘Walk,’ repeated Captain Marsh, and the man said something to the other.

  Silently the two began to walk, passing the car. Captain Marsh turned his head to watch them. Sophia sat furious with herself and with him. When the soldiers had walked a distance of fifty yards, they stopped and turned, fully aware that the revolver was now much less of a menace.

  ‘Go,’ said Captain Marsh to Sophia.

  ‘But the bicycles, the rifles,’ said Sophia, tight-lipped.

  ‘Drive over them.’

  ‘Over them?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, don’t you? It will put the bicycles out of action.’

  ‘Is that the cleverest thing to do?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s the best we can manage. Put your foot down and go.’

  Sophia stared at him. The revolver, plain to see, was pointing at her.

  ‘You’re mad,’ she gasped.

  ‘They’re watching us,’ said Captain Marsh, ‘and what they can see is for your benefit, mademoiselle. So open the throttle.’

  ‘You are very considerate,’ said Sophia bitterly. She slipped into gear, put her foot down and the Bugatti roared forward over the rifles and the bicycles. Mangled metal shuddered in protest, and the rifles clattered.

  The German soldiers shouted in fury. The Bugatti surged on, Sophia driving with her mouth compressed. She had put herself in a stupidly awkward situation by not correcting Captain Marsh in his assumption that she was French.