The Paris Agent(85)
“I’m so sorry. We don’t have any water either.”
The man fell silent for a moment, and I collapsed back against the wall of the carriage, deeply regretful that I could not help him. I was thirsty too—but I’d only been on the train for a few hours, and I’d had ready access to water at the prison. This man was suffering in a whole other way.
“There’s nothing we can do,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else. “We are trapped, just as he is.”
Near me, an older woman cleared her throat.
“Well, maybe not,” she said hesitantly. “Our door is unlocked.”
“It is?” I said, startled. “But…”
“I’ve been on this train for three days,” she told me. “Didn’t you notice how they were rushing when they brought you in? The Germans are in a panic and often forget to lock the doors.”
“Sir!” I called out, sitting up. “Some of the guards have run away from the bombing. Perhaps all of them! If your door is unlocked, you could try to jump off the train. Perhaps there’s water nearby?”
“Miss, we’re all shackled to the floor in here.” I looked around my carriage. The women around me were all shackled in pairs, but none of us were secured to the floor. The man continued wearily, “A few men in here are loose but they are in no state to escape.”
“Romilly,” I whispered. “Let’s try to help them.”
“But we will be shot!” she exclaimed. “No!”
“We can at least go to the door and see if it really is unlocked. And if it is, I can try to get an idea of where we are.” She didn’t move, so I leaned my head close to hers and whispered, “Listen—there are still planes around, the guards won’t return until they go.” She avoided my gaze, and I nudged her. “I can’t do this without you.”
She sighed impatiently and carefully, awkwardly, we scrambled to our feet and made our way through the throng of women to the sliding door of our carriage. I pushed it open a crack, and although the older woman had warned me, I was shocked to find it was indeed unlocked. This was the boost to my morale I sorely needed. After all, if the Germans were so lax with carriage security as we traveled, perhaps I really did have a chance of escape once we reached our destination.
Outside, the morning sun was rising, casting a romantic glow over the fields that extended as far as I could see to the east and the tiny village in the distance on the north. I couldn’t see any guards—I assumed they’d run to hide among the civilian houses. Behind us, all of the women were shifting to get closer to the open door.
“There,” Romilly whispered, pointing with her free hand. She’d spotted a cattle trough just a few dozen feet from the train line.
“But how do we bring it back for them?”
“Take this,” one of the women in the carriage muttered reluctantly, and the women worked together to pass her empty canteen to Romilly and me at the door. “Take some water to the men then refill it and bring it back. I will share it with you as we travel.”
“If we get shot doing this…” Romilly muttered uneasily, as we began the exceedingly awkward process of climbing down from the carriage, still shacked at the ankles and wrists.
“Then we will die knowing we were doing our best,” I said flatly. I heard the sigh she tried to swallow, but soon we were scrambling toward the trough, our footsteps in sync so the shackle didn’t slow us down any more than it had to. We quickly drank a few handfuls of water ourselves, then filled the canteen and made our way back up the slope to the other carriage. The women from our carriage were pouring out now, making their way down to the water.
“Please go as quickly as you can,” I called to them anxiously. They ignored me, continuing down to the trough, and I was relieved by the sound of more planes overhead. The Allies were unlikely to shoot at innocent civilians, and the soldiers were unlikely to return while the air raid was still active. Would this be my chance to escape? Perhaps. But first, I had to help those men.
“Sir?” I called, as we approached the other carriage. “I have water—”
The door slid open, and I couldn’t hide my shock at what was inside. There were only eight of them, but these were airmen—American and British by the looks of their tattered, bloodstained uniforms. The men were filthy. Their faces were marked with dirt, their eyes sunken and hollow…their lips cracked and bleeding. Two men were unconscious or worse, and the other six were shackled to the ground. They leaned toward us anyway, as if so desperately thirsty that they just wanted to be as close to the water as they could get.
“Here,” I said urgently, passing the canteen to the man at the front. “Just a few sips, then pass it on. When it runs out, we’ll refill it and bring it back. As long as we have the time, you’ll get a second turn.”
But by the time the canteen was empty, other women from the carriage had their fill of water. Romilly and I stood beside the open door of the men’s carriage to talk to Captain Jock Mendleson, the man who’d called for help, while other women went down to refill the canteen for the men a second time.
“We’re done for,” he said heavily, staring at the floor of the carriage. “This isn’t how you treat a prisoner of war. This is how you treat someone you’re going to execute.”