******
From where I lay there was a good view over the small farm buildings to the countryside beyond. Over to the left and just in my line of vision I could see the wood through which I had travelled at dawn. Beyond the wood, perhaps two miles away, a German soldier was lying dead in a field near a road with a gaping wound in his neck. Had they found him yet? I reckoned it wouldn't be long; they were bound to discover the bicycle he had left by the side of the road and once they found that they were only about half-a-mile from his body, I tried to recollect how far we had marched together but couldn't make even a rough estimate because my mind had been in such a wild turmoil. At any rate I made up my mind to watch that wood carefully because probably any search party would approach from that direction.
Poor devil. Leaving his bicycle hadn't done him much good. If he had kept his distance behind and not fallen for that trick of slowing down he'd have still been alive and I should have been awaiting court martial and a firing squad.
I don't think I cared about having killed him, though using a knife against a man is hardly an English custom. But it had been him or me and he started off with all the advantages. I remembered that terrible downward jab with his rifle on my back—he'd nearly won in the first two seconds by smashing my head. Yet I'd never killed a man before except the crews of the two aircraft I'd shot down and somehow that seemed different. An aircraft going down in flames is quite an impersonal thing to me (and to most fighter pilots I think) and one never really faces the unpleasant fact that there are men perhaps still alive inside that blazing mass. Probably this mental evasion is the best attitude to adopt in order to preserve one's peace of mind, but it breaks down badly if you go to see the crash afterwards… I still wake up at nights and see that German pilot lying dead in the wreckage of the Heinkel.
My mind switched off in another direction. Sixteen hours ago I had been sitting in a Whitehall office listening to an almost incredible story, and this was the first chance I had to pause and reflect on what we had been told.
The main point about our task seemed to be its urgency. It was quite) literally a race with time, to reach Laon and kill Passy before he left for Germany. Once he had gone our task became impossible. We might still be able to strike him down under cover of all the confusion which existed in France at the moment, but to follow him across the frontiers of the Reich, and kill him in the heart of the enemy's country —that was a task quite beyond our powers and we possessed neither the necessary papers, authority or knowledge of any people in Germany who might help us. It had to be done in France now, without a moment's delay, and here was I, lying cramped in a filthy dovecote about seventy miles from Laon, with the whole of the surrounding countryside being searched systematically by an exceedingly thorough enemy. It didn't seem a good prospect.
Hitherto my only concern had been to escape the immediate danger of capture, but I saw now that I could not afford to stay in hiding for longer than another day. Perhaps by then the enemy, having drawn blank, would assume that their quarry had escaped from the district and call off the search accordingly, but whatever the risk I must start on my journey as soon as possible or our whole enterprise might fail. The words of that unknown man in London came back to me, “We’re staking practically everything we've got on you people and the R.D.F…. we must stop Passy going to Berlin.”
I started to think about this pleasant Frenchman, Carnac. In the few hours that I'd known him I had already been impressed by the man and his striking personality and I remembered his conduct during that very unpleasant few minutes in the Whitley, cool, apparently unconcerned and ready to do anything I told him without a moment's hesitation because we had agreed that my decisions would be final during the flight.
Perhaps he would be more fortunate. He had better luck in his escape from the aircraft and he possessed the great advantage of being in his own country but—it had not occurred to me before—he had never seen Passy and therefore he would be searching for a man whom probably he could not recognise. He'd seen the photograph in London, of course, but Passy had been well in the background and it would be a hopeless job trying to seek out a man on the likeness of that photograph.
I was the member of the team who possessed that vital knowledge and we must join forces again as soon as possible. Now to make plans.
I fumbled inside my shirt and brought out the silk map I was carrying. Madame had told me that the nearby village was La Hocquerte, about twenty-five kilometres from Amiens. Once in Amiens I was on the main railway running east through Laon and I thought the railway journey would be fairly easy.
The difficulty lay in those twenty-five kilometres to Amiens as I was pretty sure the roads would be watched and I debated whether to attempt it by night across country or walk openly along the road in daylight.
The danger about travelling by night was that I might stumble into some German patrol and then my furtive movements would lead inevitably to strict inquiries which I could not possibly face. Travelling by day, on the other hand, would mean bluffing one's way past the Hun, but they didn't know the identity of the parachutist and if my papers were in order they had no reason, as far as I could see, to connect me with the man they were seeking.
I made up my mind therefore to leave shortly after dawn the following day and then, much happier for having reached a clear decision, and overcome by the heat of the roof under the strong sun, I fell asleep.
Pursuit of Passy Page 14