Free Escape From Paris by Carolyn G. Hart

broad boards were laid together but the tall weeds on either side shut away the evening sun. Jonathan wondered if they had left a trail when they carried him down from the road. If the weeds and grasses were bent, the Germans would find him.
    There was no point in worrying. He was propped up against the bank which shelved gradually down to the dry rock-strewn creek bottom. It wasn’t too uncomfortable, and it smelled good, faintly dusty and grassy. If he could lean back just a little, ease the pressure on his neck. He realized he was still wearing the bulky uncomfortable Mae West. He pulled off his flying gloves, began to unstrap the life preserver. To pull it off, he had to lean forward. That moved his leg. Once again pain made him dizzy and ill. He managed at last to thrust the Mae West away. He clawed at his tunic pocket. He had some aspirin in there. He was sure of it. Last night, he had dropped a tin in his pocket. His fingers touched his cigarette case. Matches. A crumpled piece of paper. That pretty WAAF’s telephone number. He had said he would call her tonight. For a moment, he paused. Would she have heard by now that he hadn’t come back? Or was she waiting at the barracks for him to call. Funny. He couldn’t remember her face very well. Had he even looked at her face? It was her legs he had noticed. Then, at the bottom of the pocket, he found the tin of aspirin. He opened it, touched inside. One, two, three, four. That was all.
    His leg hurt like the devil, pain so bad it made him lightheaded. Should he just take one or two, save the others? Two. He would take two of them. It was when he tried to swallow that he realized how thirsty he was, ragingly thirsty. He got the tablets down, then lay back, trembling with pain.
    Shouts. Faraway at first, then nearer and nearer. The heavy thump of men running, fanning out, crashing through grass and underbrush, calling back and forth to each other.
    He didn’t understand German. He didn’t need to. It was at least a platoon, the soldiers streaming across the countryside, perhaps twenty yards apart.
    Sweat beaded Jonathan’s face, clouded his eyes, but slowly, inch by inch, he moved down the little incline until he reached the creek bottom, his right hand levering his body along, his left hand searching. He brushed over the pebbles, the little smooth rocks tumbled along by a spring freshet. Near the center of the dry creek bed, he found a jagged rock as large as a softball. Heavy, sharp edged. A formidable weapon in a desperate hand. Panting a little from exertion, he inched back up the incline so that he was again in a sitting position. The better to throw. He had learned to play baseball his second year at the University. There were two American Rhodes Scholars in his class. He could see their faces so clearly. Paul Weiss and Mickey Jezek. They had delighted in teaching the game to their English classmates. They had told Jonathan he was a “natural.” It was dark now beneath the narrow wooden bridge, not even a sliver of the sunset slanting through the cracks, so he lay in a warm dark pocket on the dry rocky ground, screened on either side by head-high cane and sunflowers, waiting, listening to the shouts coming nearer, the clump of boots, the rattle of a truck, remembering the soft silken light of English evenings in May and different shouts, “Strike him out, Jonathan, that’s a boy,” listening and waiting, remembering, holding the jagged-edged stone.

    It didn’t take long to gather up a blanket, clothing that had belonged to Andre, worn gray trousers, a blue pullover, sturdy hiking boots he had worn in Zermatt last August, a hamper with a half loaf of bread, a small pot of strawberry jam, a precious piece of cheese and a bottle of sauterne. Robert looked as loaded as a porter when he was ready to start downstairs.
    â€œI’ll carry everything,” Linda offered. “Robert can go ahead and make sure the way is