To the Devil with it all - Part II

Jacques had abandoned his rifle, helmet and greatcoat in the bunker; now he had to get across France all the way home to the small town of Sainte-Foy-la-Grande on the banks of the Dordogne. His plan to was to cycle by night and sleep by day in fields and barns.

In his map case stuffed full of now-useless local large-scale sheets, Jacques had an old Michelin road map. Scattering the local sheets by the roadside, he spread out the big road map of France on the ground and plotted his course by-passing any larger towns. He reckoned the journey home from Vitry would be at least 750km; covering 75km a night with some reserves for ill-fortune, navigational errors, avoiding enemy patrols etc – he guessed it would take some two to three weeks, given that he would be now moving behind a continually advancing enemy front.

He took great care to avoid the main roads and populated areas. Navigation was the biggest challenge; the chemins vicinaux he chose were not marked on the map. South-easterly was his course; he would use his army-issue marching compass to keep himself heading that way. Rivers, he figured, would be his only obstacle; the Seine and Loire at the very least.

Nights were good for cycling. The air was warm, the weather fair. Riding through sleeping villages with only the barking of dogs to signal his passing, Jacques made steady, satisfactory progress. As daylight approached, he'd find somewhere to hide, usually woodland, leave his things and then find some boulangerie to buy fresh baguette and other necessary victuals. Somehow his route managed to sidestep the front line. There were no great columns of refugees headed south travelling his way, although from time to time during daylight hours he could hear German dive-bombers pounding distant targets. As night fell, he'd set off again, pulling his bicycle off the road and ducking in ditches or behind hedges whenever he heard any motor-vehicle approaching.

Jacques contemplated the progress of the war, comparing it to the last one. This, he thought, was more civilised. Let the Germans through. They'd race on through the country, the French government would capitulate, the Germans would enforce then an armistice on their terms – and that would be that; a few years of hardship – at least that monstrous slaughter of the nation's manhood had been averted. The peace of his nocturnal cycling was at odds with his memories of Verdun, the endless shelling, the poison gas, the sobbing of men left to die on the barbed wire entanglements. This time it would be easier.

The nights passed, Jacques made solid progress through a moonlit rural France. After a while, he started enjoying the ride, being at one with himself amid the dreamlike landscape, so profoundly unchanging over time; farmyards and fields, byways, orchards and streams... Along the way he heard tell of France's capitulation, of the creation of Vichy France and an occupied zone – in which it turned out his family was living.

Jacques was getting ever closer to home. At last, he crossed the Dordogne by a small bridge, a little north of his home town. Finally, at half past four, just as it was getting light, he cycled into Sainte-Foy-La-Grande. He had to pass the town square; there was no one about. A Nazi flag flew from the roof of the mairie alongside the French Tricouleur. By the church, there were some printed announcements with German eagles on them. He rode up to take a look. One of them was a list of six young men that had been executed by firing squad for resisting the takeover of the local administration by the Germans. He felt faint as he read their names. He knew four of the boys. Two of them – brothers – were the sons of an old school friend of his.

He got back on his bicycle and carried on through the small town and up to his house. To his horror, he could see a German staff car parked directly outside. There were lights on in the front room. In haste he tried to make up his mind as to what he should do, where he should go – when the front door opened. Two German officers emerged, like an exaggerated Laurel and Hardy – one middle-aged, short and fat, the other younger, thin, but hobbling, walking with the aid of a stick. Both men were in high spirits. As they walked towards their car, Paul could see his wife and daughter at the door waving goodbye and smiling at them.

Jacques felt sickness and shame in equal measure. He waited until the Germans had disappeared; he remounted his bicycle and headed – who knows where he was headed.

This time last year:
Building the bypass as the snows melt

The time three years ago:
Two weeks into Lent