The Girl in the Blue Beret - Bobbie Ann Mason [134]
“These are difficult recognitions,” she said, leaning on his shoulder. “Go on. It is hard, n’est-ce pas? I am listening.”
“Hootie had gotten word that Campanello, our navigator, was one of those who went to the stalag. We weren’t too worried about POWs because of the Geneva convention. We didn’t know that the Germans were starting to get a little loose on that point and were sending some POWs to Buchenwald. I only heard about this years later.”
“Yes,” Annette said. “That was so.”
“Hootie had made his way through France by taking chances and pulling his wheeler-dealer ways. He was charming that way. He was the biggest daredevil I ever knew. He claimed he never went hungry in France.
“The next afternoon four of us were picked up in a dilapidated truck and driven through miles of foothills. We were let out at the end of a farm and told to walk down a stony path through some trees. We were off the road, so we were relatively safe. There was a French guide with us who would bring up the rear and be the translator. I don’t remember that he had much to say, though.
“It was growing dark, and the trail started to get twisty, so we were glad when we met the guide who would lead us across. He was a Basque who knew only a few English words and apparently had little interest in anything except getting us to follow him at breakneck speed in total silence. He had some rope sandals for us, some clumsy strung-together things that I refused to wear. First, he demanded it; then he shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘It’s your funeral.’ ”
“Espadrilles,” she said.
“I called them Basket shoes. The other guys took them because their shoes weren’t so great, but I wouldn’t part with my USA boots. The night before, I had gouged out the letters with my knife.
“We carried small knapsacks. I still had a few items from my escape kit sewn into my pants legs, and some soap your mother had given me. The Basque guide, a big fellow, carried a huge pack on his back that seemed no more troublesome to him than carrying a pillow. The French guide, coming along behind us, was smarter. He had only a small backpack.”
Marshall paused, remembering the tension that oppressed the group, and the profound darkness.
“The trail was narrow, like an animal track, and we couldn’t see. There was a misty rain, and we all had the sniffles. The walking was easy at first. We were told to be absolutely quiet. We weren’t anywhere near the border patrols or guard posts, but we still had to be quiet. Then it got very dark—I mean pitch-black—and we had to hold on to each other by the belt or the jacket.
“Trying to be quiet, trying to stay awake, and not breaking the pace—it was worse than boot camp, that’s for sure. It was cold, but we were moving so vigorously that we were sweating. As we walked, I kept up my strength by telling myself I was responsible for the others. It was my duty. I was an officer. There was Hootie, and two guys who had bailed out near Bordeaux—enlisted men. And then there were two others, British civilians. I hoped they weren’t spies. If we got caught with spies in our group … But among us Americans I had the highest rank, so I tried to make sure we kept moving along in good order.
“After a few hours, we came to a long swinging bridge across a ravine. Somehow I could tell the ravine below was really deep. There was a sound of rushing water, but it was very faint, far away. It could have been half a mile down, I suppose.
“The crossing was slow. It was like being on a chain gang—a sniffling, blind chain gang, inching ahead. We just felt our way. Someone up ahead—I think it was one of the Englishmen—stumbled and we all swayed, holding on to the guide rope with one hand and the coattail of the guy ahead with the other. I doubt if the Basque guide held on; he was sure-footed as a mountain goat. But the rest of us were saying our prayers, swaying out there over nothingness. It took us so long to get across, the sky was getting light by the time we all made it.
“Soon after that we came to a barn and bedded