goal.
“Voilà!” The waitress’s singsong voice brought him back to the present with a bang, and he blinked for a moment at the croissant and large, chipped cup of milky-brown coffee on the counter. Then he smiled and thanked her before dipping the tip of the flaky crescent pastry carefully into the beverage, relishing the moment.
“Are you from near here?” she asked coquettishly.
“No. I’m from Limoges. Ever been there?” He grinned, sinking his teeth into the soft, buttery texture, willing it to last, not knowing when he’d see another. The change in his pocket had dwindled to a few coins, just enough to get him to Nancy, where he hoped to meet up with a British or American convoy and rejoin his regiment.
“I’ve never been far away at all,” the girl answered wistfully. “Why aren’t you at the war?”
“I was wounded at Chemin des Dames,” he lied. “Most of us were. I’m just getting back on my feet. I’m off to join my regiment.”
“I heard the Germans are trying to get to Paris,” she said in a sober voice. “They have a terrible cannon that shoots from miles.” She shuddered, apparently glad to be many miles away.
“Well, now that the Americans are here, that should help.”
“Oh, oui! Les Américains. Aren’t they wonderful? I met one. He was so handsome.” She giggled and looked at him from under her lashes. “But he didn’t speak any French, so I couldn’t talk to him. Do you think the Allies will win the war?”
He was saved from answering by the distant chuffing of the train entering the station. “Here.” He shoved some change in her direction. “It was nice meeting you. Au revoir.”
“Au revoir, et bonne chance.” She sent him a wistful wave, wishing him good luck as he headed for the platform where the train, packed with soldiers heading north to the battlefields, wheezed to a shuddering stop. Not many passengers alighted, and before long the stationmaster announced tous les passagers à bord.
It took some time to find a seat, but finally Gavin squeezed in between a fat woman in a threadbare green coat that reeked of garlic, and a sniveling toddler who proceeded to wipe his nose on Gavin’s trouser leg. He glanced through the foggy window as the train heaved out of the station, then leaned back, his thoughts picking up where he’d left off before the croissant. Soon the monotonous rattling of the carriage sent him into a doze and his memories drifted back, into the thick of the forest.
Panting, Gavin emerged from the tunnel and sat against a tree trunk, exhausted, his hip nagging. He wiped away the grime and spiderwebs before squinting at the few thin slivers of sunlight piercing the heavy, dark fir trees. Realizing the sun was his only compass, he knew his best bet was to head south and try to reach Switzerland, which Greta had said was less than one hundred kilometers away.
They’d had no reports of the war during their blissful interlude at Schloss Annenberg, as though nothing existed but their own idyllic world. But as he began to trudge through the forest, reality loomed, stark and menacing. He was an escaped prisoner of war on enemy territory, alone in the vast ominous silence of the forest, with only a pocketful of foreign currency and odd glimpses of setting sun for company.
Night descended, damp and chilly, and he searched for a dry spot, glad of the heavy loden jacket. Alert despite his fatigue, he listened intently to the noises of the forest, the scuttling and scurrying, the distant howl of wolves and the eerie echoes, wishing for the sound of Greta humming in the kitchen, the crackle of logs in the huge fireplace, all that they’d shared over the past months.
Finally exhaustion won and he slept, waking early to the twittering chatter of birds, scampering rabbits and deer grazing peacefully in a clearing close by.
He walked on for several days, checking the sun every so often, careful to stick to the depths of the forest. Progress was difficult, and after a few days his food dwindled to a last nibble of hard sausage. Hunger twisted his gut until he thought he would die if he didn’t eat. It was then he remembered Miles’s knife, which he kept as the stark reminder of a mistake he would carry with him always. He unsheathed it, averting his gaze from the lethal blade, realizing he had little choice but to use it. Either he hunted for rabbit or deer, or he’d starve to death.
After several hours of stalking warily, he cornered an un-suspecting rabbit. Soon the smell of roasting meat sizzling over a small campfire filled the air around him.
As the days passed, the landscape changed; the trees became sparser, until open country and vineyards stretched before him. Trying to find his bearings, he was careful to stay concealed from the narrow road that wound among the orderly rows of vines standing like toy soldiers under a clear blue sky.
Three days without food and water had left him so weak he could barely stand. Still he ventured out into the open, driven by hunger and the knowledge that to survive he must move forward despite the risk. Praying the border was nearby, he crouched low among the vines, staying clear of a distant village. Then, unable to take a step farther, he collapsed onto the dank earth and slept.
When he woke, Gavin knew at once that he was not alone. He held his breath, lest the person realize he was awake. Then, to his amazement, he heard an exchange in French.
“Frère Siméon, do you think we should take him back with us?” a ponderous voice with a rolling Provençal accent asked.
He was answered in clipped, cultivated, if somewhat irritated, Parisian tones. “Of course we must take him, Frère Benedict. We can hardly leave him here.”
“Eh, non,” the other voice agreed.
Gavin risked squinting upward. His gaze met with a brown habit stretched to its limit over a large girth.
“Allons, come along, mon frère,” the Parisian voice urged. “We haven’t got all day. You take his feet and I’ll get his shoulders.”
Gavin felt Angus’s cross in his pocket and, with a quick prayer, made a snap decision. If he hadn’t been so afraid, he would have laughed at the sight of Frère Benedict’s bulbous blue eyes popping out of his face, when all at once Gavin sat up.
“Ah! I see you aren’t injured after all, mon jeune ami,” said the tall, thin friar whom he presumed was Frère Siméon.
“Non, mon Père. I was injured but I am better now.”
“He speaks French!” Frère Benedict exclaimed, leaning forward, his eyes wider than ever.
“So I gather,” Frère Siméon replied patiently. “What are you doing here?”
“Where am I? In France?”
“Unfortunately not. You are not far from the Bodensee, near the Swiss border, but still very much on German territory. Thus I recommend we do not linger. If you are indeed French, we cannot take the risk that you are found.”
“Thank you,” Gavin replied gratefully. “I am a British soldier. I escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp some time ago.” He began rising painfully.
Frère Siméon looked around quickly. “If we should encounter anyone, you must pretend to be drunk. Here, lean on me as though you are having difficulty walking.”
Gavin was so tired and weak he could barely stand. His wound had begun to ache once more and walking was difficult.
