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  'Get a chill and a fever a couple of times and you're finished,' he said. You get weak and you need rest and good food and that's what we ain't got. We'll last twice as long if we can sleep under a roof most nights.'

  So we slept in crypts and cellars and naves and doorways and if a sexton or some other church official surprised us the odds were good he wouldn't cause any trouble. Our worst moment came somewhere near where the borders of France, Germany and Switzerland meet. We were making for Basel and the only question was whether to approach it by land, water or railway. As it happened each of us favoured a different method: I was for road, Georgie was for rail and Hans was for water. We drew straws and Hans won. The big blond ape (we were all heavily bearded by this time) grinned and made rowing motions. I looked at Georgie.

  'That's different,' I said, 'if he's going to do all the work.'

  Georgie talked it over with Hans and came out of the conference happy.

  'It sounds like the goods. City's divided in half by the river, boats going backwards and forwards; if I can't get through in a place like that I'm a Dutchman.'

  'That's what you might be next,' I said.

  You see we'd gone through it with Hans who reckoned that you could get identity papers in Switzerland for a price. I'd given them to understand that I could wire for money when we got to a safe place and that I'd provide for them too. (I hadn't let them see my money belt; they were both good chaps but temptation has a wicked sharp edge.)

  Somewhere south of Strasbourg we stole a boat from a slipway. Hans literally picked it up and carried it to the water with Georgie and I doing little more than steadying the thing. I could see what Georgie had meant about him wanting to get home. We had a small supply of food and water, three rifles, one pistol and perhaps a couple of dozen rounds of ammunition. We'd been on the move for nearly a month and thought of ourselves as desperate men. To desperate I could safely add frightened.

  It was late July and hot. On this account, and through my perhaps excessive caution, I was for continuing the policy of moving at night, but Hans paid no attention. He was the boatman with the local knowledge and that put him in command although he had little sense and no judgement. Come to think of it, those qualities were never uppermost in other commanders I've known, like von Stroheim and Ronald Reagan.

  We got into the boat, Hans flicked the oars through the water and we were underway.

  We made good progress through that day and I have to own it was pleasant, lying back there in the boat, smoking and yarning with Georgie while Hans put his back into it. For form's sake we both took a turn at the oars but I wasn't too good at it, Georgie wasn't much better and Hans could read the river currents like a book so we left it to him. We pulled in at night because even a brute like Hans will tire if you work him long enough in the sun. He was an alarming shade of red, I recall. Tied up to a tree with its branches neatly overhanging us and only the stillness of the river around, that night was the calmest I'd spent since being offered the opportunity to commit suicide as an Acting Sergeant. Tomorrow, south to freedom!

  A German boat patrol had other ideas. We were skipping along in mid-stream; Hans was complaining about his sunburn but it didn't seem to be slowing his stroke any. There was a mist clinging to the river banks and, suddenly, out of this whiteness, comes a long-nosed, low-slung motor boat with a steering wheel set up high behind a windshield and a machine gun mounted on the front. A man appeared by the gun, held up a megaphone and shouted 'Halt!'

  'Christ,' I said. 'What d'we do?'

  But Hans had already shipped his oars; he jerked one free of the rowlock and laid it across the boat. He smiled in the direction of the patrol boat while he fumbled under a canvas cover to cock his rifle. I held my breath while the Germans – the black cross on the side made the identification – approached. There were three men aboard, one near the gun, one steering and one standing by the side. The latter and Hans made conversation while our boat wallowed beside the other. Hans conveyed something to Georgie who whispered to me:

  'They think we're smugglers. They want to see our papers and to search the boat.'

  'We're sunk,' I said, which was perhaps not the best thing to say.

  Hans' interrogator had turned nasty and was reaching for a pistol in a holster when Hans swung the oar and knocked him into the water. In one smooth movement Hans had his rifle out and he shot the man who was reaching for the machine gun. He swung around, put a shot through the windshield, and the man at the wheel yelled and dived overboard. The first man floundered in the water and grabbed at a rope trailing from the patrol boat; Hans reached down and crushed his skull with the rifle butt. He dug the oar in, pulled a few strokes clear of the patrol boat and took a bead on the man, about twenty yards away and swimming towards the west bank; he was maybe a hundred yards distant. Hans fired twice; there was a scream, two arms flew up and the swimmer sank.

  'My God,' Georgie said.

  I said nothing.

  Hans rowed like a demon.

  12

  Hans propelled us downstream as if we were motor driven and if any alarm was raised about the de-manning of the German boat, we never heard anything about it. Late in the afternoon we rounded a bend in the river and Hans stared at the banks, rowed a little further, stood up and shielded his eyes while looking to the west. He sat down and nodded solemnly.

  'Schweiz,' he said.

  Georgie and I whooped, clapped him and each other on the back and nearly upset the boat. Hans smiled broadly, picked up his rifle and dropped it over the side.

  'How does he feel about killing three of his countrymen?' I asked Georgie.

  'I asked him that before. He says they were Bavarians, whatever that means.'

  I could understand it; I could never feel that Tasmanians were fully human myself.

  Basel was an infernally dull place but dullness was all right with me after the patrol boat incident, at least for a while. The river divided the city as Hans had said and we encountered no resistance to our landing – no customs, no papers check. Perhaps the patrol boat was all there was in the way of a frontier post. Consistent with our policy, we landed on the south bank which was dominated by some sort of cathedral. Indeed there were more than enough churches and monasteries and the like in the old part of the city, rather depressing really, once the need for sanctuary had passed.

  We tied up at a small wharf, left the boat and the two remaining rifles, climbed some slimy steps to a broad, flagstoned walk alongside the river and there we were, on neutral ground and safe from all the bastards on both sides who wanted to kill us. Hans knew the town and escorted us through a warren of streets to an inn where he said he had friends. Friends or no, the place was as welcome to me as a whorehouse to a sailor. It smelled of hot bread and beer and I had my bum on a bench and a tankard in front of me before you could spit. I paid in German money of which I barely had enough to slake the thirsts of the three of us.

  By evening we were roaring drunk, bellowing songs and smoking up a storm. The Swiss tend to do their drinking quietly and Hans kept hushing us until he got too drunk to care himself. In the end they got rid of us by ushering us up the stairs to a room near the top of the building where there were two beds and a chair. Hans and I took the beds and Georgie collapsed, giggling and protesting, into the chair. We all passed out within minutes and if there had been any hostiles in the vicinity we could've been taken like babes without a struggle.

  When I woke up I had a hangover, my first in a long while, but I was also in a bed, so the two things cancelled each other out. Hans was snoring in the other bed but Georgie was sleeping quietly in the chair, his young-old face in repose for the first time since I'd met him. I lay back, enjoyed the light filling the room and the feeling of relief that several thousand tons of gunpowder, lead and steel weren't seeking me out.

  After a doze I felt much better; Hans and Georgie had gone, so I wandered to the bathroom out behind the inn and found soap, brush, razor and towels. Shaved and bathed I w
ent back to the inn to gape at my two mates who'd had their hair trimmed. For the first time Hans was wearing clothes that fitted him. We slapped each other on the back; I produced some French coins and we fell on a huge breakfast of coffee, ham and hot rolls.

  After that it was down to the serious business of finding a safe place to stay while we sniffed out the chances for papers. The innkeeper was a fat, cheery soul named Brunt who got into deep conversation with Hans when he went over for a fresh pot of coffee. Hans came back, poured coffee and talked a streak to Georgie who had to keep telling him to go slow.

  The gist was this: there were a lot of pro-Germans in Basel but also some of the other persuasion. The landlord was one of the latter and, as far as we were concerned, we could stay at his inn as long as we could pay the tariff. But he couldn't help us with documents.

  'Can't or won't?' I said.

  George shrugged. 'Hans says these people worship money. A little down might help him help us.'

  Now one of the things I'd learned in my time as a salesman in Sydney was some simple sleight-of-hand. I'd taken a sov or two out of my money belt and I now proceeded to produce one from Hans' ear. He and Georgie were so impressed by the trick that they didn't ask where it had come from.

  'Tell Hans to give it to mine host and in return we want to know someone useful.'

  Hans then got into deep confab with Brunt and when he emerged he was minus the sovereign and smiling as if he'd been told that the war was a draw and all was forgiven.

  'He's got a name and an address,' said Georgie.

  We went out to the street and they took me first to the barber shop where I got the old locks trimmed. Then we went through the winding streets trying to keep pace with Hans' long strides. I'd seen a few old towns in France, but then I'd mostly had my head down and my eyes closed so this was my first real experience of medieval architecture – buttressed, ornate buildings, narrow streets, overhanging houses – I can't say I cared much for it.

  The Swiss seemed pale, fattish and oddly quiet. Even their shops and street markets lacked animation. I found plenty to excite my senses though, in the way of food and drink and cigarettes. I loaded up on the latter, getting some French, some English and American, and ending up with a bundle of Swiss francs in exchange for my second sov. Maybe Georgie and Hans were getting ideas about my money but they didn't say anything and they certainly accepted the cigarettes.

  Eventually we fetched up at a place like a warehouse, not far from the river. Down some steps and Hans hammers at a brass bound door. The woman who opened it was a different stamp altogether from the cheesy Swiss women I'd seen. She was tall, with dark hair and eyes and a splendid figure.

  'Ja?' she says.

  'What a beauty,' I said quietly to Georgie.

  'Do you think so?' she said. 'Thank you, sir.'

  I couldn't place her accent (it turned out to be Swedish so it was no wonder), but her English was excellent. I wanted to start talking to her straight away, about the weather and what not, but Hans cut in with the business. He was a single-minded chap, like all Germans. She nodded, replied, took a look up past us to the street and then stepped aside.

  'You are welcome. Come in.'

  We walked into a huge barn-like room piled high with furniture. We followed her along a path between the stuff, like a jungle track, to a comfortable apartment at the end of the building away from the river. The windows overlooked a park and the room smelled of tobacco and comfortable living. At her invitation we sat down; I produced the cigarettes and we all lit up.

  'My father will be home soon,' she said, 'but first, tell me all about yourselves.'

  It was an odd thing, but she was looking straight at Georgie Witherspoon as she spoke. Now I'd formed all sorts of ideas about her on first glance; she was wearing a neat dark costume with a long skirt, not like the frills and bows on the Swiss women; she was discreetly made up and had spent some time on her hair. She looked as if she'd be keen on a good time and I suppose I naturally thought she'd be interested in Hans or me – tall, well set-up chaps, dark or fair, take your pick – but here she is making eyes at Georgie. I suppose I should have said a little more about Witherspoon, conveyed his character and so on. But when you're half-covered with hair and mud, on the run and stinking like a sow, not much of the shining virtue comes through. Truth was, Georgie had confidence; he looked like a chap who could get what he wanted. It showed in his walk which was almost a strut, in the way he held his head and the directness of his look. This sort of thing is pleasing to some women and comes well before good looks in their estimation. Georgie wasn't bad looking, apart from his stained teeth, but there wouldn't have been more than five foot six and a hundred and thirty pounds of him. Doesn't matter with some women and this was evidently one of them. I usually got along on stature and good looks but, I'll say this for myself, as long as I'm not drunk, I don't persist when I can see I'm out of the running. That's how it was this time and I concentrated on moving along to the business of getting ourselves safe and having some fun, in that order.

  I won't bore you with all the details and, indeed, they're a little scrambled in my mind at this distance in time, but the upshot was that the warehouse held a few million dollars worth of furniture which certain Swiss burghers wanted stored in case the Germans invaded. I'd have stored myself first but that's the Swiss for you. They care about their furniture. Our dark-haired beauty's father, Per Simondsen, was a Swede resident in Switzerland who was happy to do the storing for a fee. He had the space, having sold his stocks of timber to the French and German armies in 1914. He had his fingers in a hundred pies – gun running for certain, trading in medicines, counterfeiting and dealing in forged and stolen documents.

  We filled the room with the smoke from American cigarettes and aroma of coffee and the fumes of schnapps while we dealt with Simondsen who was the perfect neutral – he had no preferences either way for French, German or English and the only thing about those countries that interested him was the viability of their currencies.

  He stroked his silky fair beard as I spun him a story about how I could wire for money.

  'In what form would you receive it, Herr Hughes?'

  'Sovereigns.'

  'The best,' he breathed. 'I could escort you to the bank myself.'

  'You speak excellent English, sir,' I said, just to be saying something while I was thinking.

  'It will be the commercial language of the world after the war. We will be ready.'

  He glanced at his daughter who had moved on to a sofa with Georgie. I don't think even my sleight-of-hand tricks would've done me much good there.

  I gave him a hard, direct look. 'How much for three sets of papers – military exemptions, travel documents, the lot?'

  He looked puzzled. 'Lot?'

  'How much for everything?'

  'Two hundred sovereigns.'

  That would've stripped me. I felt I owed George and Hans a lot but not that much. 'One hundred,' I said.

  'One hundred and fifty.'

  'Done.'

  We shook hands; I gave him my last American cigarette and he put it away in his jacket pocket. He was probably going to trade it for herrings and cheese.

  I've always said that my attitude to women was sound. As it turned out my surrender of any interest in Maj Simondsen in Georgie Witherspoon's favour saved me fifty sovereigns. The two of them got along like a house on fire and had made plans to marry before my dealings with her Dad had progressed very far. Result? Georgie stays in Switzerland with the fair Maj and has no more need for papers than a ballerina has for boxing gloves.

  He was a very fly cove, Simondsen. The next day he took me along to his bank, introduced me to an English-speaking official, and discreetly absented himself while I deposited the contents of my money belt. The Swiss bankers didn't give a damn who you were or where your money had come from so long as it was the genuine item. They gave me an account with a number and were happy for me to supply a name in due course. (I'm told it's
the same today or even more so but it's been many a long year since I had any dirty money to hide, worse luck.) When I walked out of that bank I was a man of substance and if I'd been in London, or New York or Sydney, I'd have been a happy man.

  As it was I had a sort of freedom only. The next thing to hope for was that the war would end soon and things seemed to be pointing in that direction. We saw little of Georgie in the days that followed so that Hans and I were thrown together more. I picked up a few words of German from him and the folk around and when we got hold of a newspaper we were able to stumble through it together. Hans wasn't a great one for reading. In September the Allies broke through the Hindenburg line and the writing was on the wall.

  Hans and I got a little drunk on the strength of this news and tried to encourage Simondsen, whom we'd gone to see yet again in the seemingly endless document quest, to join in the celebration.

  'Why are you so happy?' he said, pulling on that damned beard.

  'End of war . . . end of our troubles,' I slurred.

  'You don't know much about the law, my friend. Desertion remains an offence even after hostilities. An offence punishable by death in most armies, I believe.'

  'Shit,' I said.

  'Wass?' says Hans.

  I explained it to him as best I could and he took it on the chin like he took everything. He jabbered away and I got the impression that he intended to go to German New Guinea to make his fortune as a rubber planter. I was pretty sure that there wouldn't be any German New Guinea if the Huns lost the war and I didn't think they grew rubber there anyway, but I didn't have the heart to tell him.

  'You and Herr Steller will need your new identities whatever happens,' Simondsen informed us. 'Perhaps for ever.'

  That dampened the spirits a trifle. We were sitting in a cafe by the river, which is to say we were out in front of the place in the open in the civilised way they have in Europe; the water and sky were blue, the air was warm and the beer was strong and cold, but I had a premonition then as clear as any real life experience. I saw myself wandering the earth for years, hunted and with no place to call home. It hasn't been quite that bad but Christ, at times, near enough to it. The feeling made me angry. I gulped beer and turned to Simondsen – the damned wowser was stirring sugar into his chocolate.