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had been no alarm. He crossed the yard, clambered over the fence and landed heavily on the ground outside.
    Swiftly he made for the bridge near which he had been caught earlier in the afternoon. After a brief reconnaissance, he found that it was not guarded. The barrier had obviously been for him.
    He ran as fast as he could for about a mile, keeping dangerously to the road but wanting to get as far into Holland as he could before daybreak. The countryside on both sides of the road was the same flat waterlogged marshland that he had crossed the night before, now intersected by wide dykes; and he knew that he could not travel fast away from the road. He knew also that the Germans would be out in full force by the following morning, and he decided to declare himself to a Dutch farmer and ask to be hidden for the next few days.
    The rest and the food had done him good, but his energy was short-lived. When he could run no more he lurched on painfully, his only desire to flop into a hollow in the ground and sleep.
    Now that he was in Holland he could not help feeling that he had played the policeman a dirty trick. It was stupid to think this way, he knew, but his conscience troubled him. He had been drinking with them all night and had not paid for a single round. He must have become lightheaded again, because he kept seeing the policeman’s face. The old man seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. They could have locked him up, but they had given him schnapps. He was worried that the old man might be shot for letting him get away.
    Just before dawn he came to a small farm behind a windbreak of trees about a mile from the main road. He hid among the trees and watched the farm for signs of German occupation. He saw two young girls of about eight or nine years old, and a woman with a shawl over her head. There were no signs of men about the place. Once, as he lay there, a German Army lorry passed swiftly along the main road, but apart from that there was no activity.
    He knew that he must take the risk. Travelling like this would get him nowhere. He must get civilian clothes and, if possible, papers. His boots were soft and shapeless, useless for walking, and he did not feel capable of another night on the road.
    Before approaching the farm he examined the surrounding country in all directions. With his heart beating high inside his chest he came out from under the trees, walked to the back of the farmhouse, and knocked on the door.
    The door was opened by one of the small girls. He could see the fear plainly in her face as she looked at him.
    ‘RAF,’ Peter said, and made signs of a parachute falling.
    The child ran back into the house and he followed her quickly into a large stone-flagged kitchen. Standing in the centre of the room was the woman he had seen earlier in the day. She too seemed frightened and looked at him without speaking.
    ‘RAF,’ he said. ‘British – Englander.’
    Still the woman did not speak. It seemed to him that she did not want him there – that she was trying to will him out of the house again.
    He smiled a reassurance. ‘Peter Howard!’ He pointed to his chest, ‘Englander – Flieger. Parachute.’ And made signs as he had done for the girl.
    There was a slight loosening of the woman’s stricken immobility.
    ‘Food,’ he said, and pointed to his mouth.
    She crossed to a cupboard and brought out some cheese, butter, black bread and a large bowl of pickled cabbage, which she put on the table. He sat down and began to eat. He heard her talking to the girl, who presently ran down the path and across the field towards the wood where he had hidden. He wondered whether she had gone for the police. There was nothing he could do about it now.
    The woman had come back into the kitchen and was watching him eat, watching him and glancing nervously out of the window in the direction the little girl had gone. He desperately wanted to make some sort of contact, to find out what her sympathies