The Wooden Horse: The Classic World War II Story of Escape by Eric Williams Gregory Freeman

Author:Eric Williams, Gregory Freeman
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing (Perseus)
Published: 2013-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

2

Before it was light they rose stiffly to their feet and brushed themselves down. They left their hiding place and walked back the way they had come, into the town. It was still dark when they reached the suburbs but everywhere the German people were hurrying to work. As they neared the centre they met the early morning trams; and by the time they reached the railway station it was almost light.

The booking hall was crowded. Peter followed John as he threaded his way towards the notice board; feeling safer as part of this early morning crowd, less vulnerable than when they were walking in the open street.

John studied the board for some minutes, then turned and made for a less crowded part of the hall.

‘We’re in luck,’ he said. ‘There’s a train for Kiistrin in an hour’s time. And it’s a local stopping train.’

‘An hour,’ Peter said. ‘Let’s try to get a cup of coffee, it’ll thaw us out.’

‘It may be rationed,’ John said. ‘But after all we’re supposed to be foreigners. Can’t be expected to know everything.’ He made for the Red Cross stall near the barrier.

‘No,’ Peter said. ‘Not there.’

‘Why not?’

‘They’re for troops only.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Got it from one of the guards in the hospital. Started boasting about our Red Cross and he unbuttoned and told me about theirs.’

‘Well, let’s try the waiting-room.’

It was warm and busy and smelled strongly of tobacco smoke. They managed to find a place at one of the tables and sat there awkwardly, without speaking. The people round them were mostly in uniform. They seemed uninterested in the two Frenchmen sitting silently in the middle of the room. Peter took out a packet of German cigarettes and offered it to John. John pulled one out and thanked him in fluent French. Peter grinned in apparent comprehension, shrugging his shoulders in what he hoped was the French manner.

Minutes passed. Peter began to wonder why no one had come for their order, then realized that there were no waiters. It was a ‘help-yourself’ counter, with a big middle-aged woman presiding over a large urn. John’s back was to the counter and he had not noticed this. Peter kicked John’s foot under the table, but John merely smiled reassuringly. There was an abandoned newspaper on the empty chair next to Peter. He picked it up, appeared to study it, then took a pencil from his pocket and wrote in the margin NO WAITERS—HELP YOURSELF. He passed the paper to John who tore the margin off, folded the scrap of paper and pocketed it. He yawned elaborately and looked at his watch; said something in French and walked over to the counter.

The coffee was ersatz and not very hot. It was made from acorns—the same type that the Germans had issued to them in the camp. The rations weren’t so bad, I suppose, Peter thought. Coming straight from an RAF station they seemed foul enough, but by the goons’ own standard I suppose they weren’t so bad.

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