It was in Brussels that I met Edward Bridge, a Canadian air gunner who had been shot down some weeks previously after a raid on Aachen.
(Sgt Edward A Bridge, RCAF, 428 Sqn)
After the trying times and the confinement I was glad to be able to talk to another flyer. I was destined to travel with him all the way down through France, through Spain to Gibraltar. We passed many hours discussing the glorious time we would have when we finally arrived in London. ''When we arrive in London'' - Oh; beautiful thought.
Then there was petite Lily (Dumont, now Michou Ugeux), a small good looking girl who quite regularly walked through the streets of Brussels guiding British and American aviators. There were many such as she, unselfish, brave, risking their homes, their very lives to help people who to them were utter strangers. Such a spirit was not acquired. I felt it must have been bred in them.
At night as I lay awake I could hear the murmur of high flying bombers, and the guns of Brussels opening up on those who were a little off course. Those were strange nights and sometimes I would wake up not knowing where I was and trying to make out the familiar objects of my own bedroom at home.
Soon the time came for Edward and I to move on. We were furnished with false identity cards and were to be accompanied by a guide (Lily Dumont) from Brussels to Tournai and from there by local train to the small frontier town of Rumes. It was a bleak dismal morning as we walked to the railway station in Brussels. There was a drizzle of rain and crowds of workers going to and fro. Two young healthy looking men cringing beneath the shelter of an umbrella may normally attract attention and an occasional comment, but as we stood outside the station waiting for the guide to purchase the tickets we attracted little attention.
Edward and I travelled in the same compartment. To see his serious looking face buried in an open newspaper (German controlled) and to see his eyes wander from left to right of the page and back again was amusing, for he had confessed to me that he could make neither head nor tail of any of it. Along the way the war was much in evidence. Bomb-craters beside the rails, a derelict locomotive bullet scarred and the continual stopping and starting of the train due to fighter intrusion.
There we were sitting there as large as life jogging along towards Tournai and reading German sponsored newspapers as if we had been doing it every day.
There was an hour or so to wait at Tournai for the local train to Rumes So we left the station and in the cool shade of a cafe, slaked our thirst. The absence of German soldiers surprised us and afforded us some relaxation. There had been a few about the station but they had taken little notice of us. The journey from Tournai to Rumes, just two miles from the frontier, was uneventful.
What would it be like crossing from Belgium into France? Would it be as easy and as simple as from Holland into Belgium?
We walked along the quiet sunlit lanes less than a mile from the border. We met a few farm labourers and passed them with a polite ''Bonjour''. ''Surely they must know'' I thought, for what else would three strangers be doing so near to the frontier. Perhaps it was a usual occurrence, but I thought not, for travelling without a permit was a serious offence. They must have known, I decided and obviously they said nothing.
A French customs official (Maurice Bricout) strongly pro-British and passionately anti-Vichy was to meet us on the Belgian side and escort us to his house just over on the other side. We were a little late, but he was there waiting at the appointed place, perspiring somewhat in his dark blue uniform. He was very friendly and greeted us warmly.
"'Follow me, my friends'' he said and led us along paths and across fields until we came to a large green field. He turned to us and said ''Gentlemen, on the other side of that field is France and soon you will be eating your first meal in France, prepared by my wife (Rachel Bricout) he added. ''Come follow me'' he said and we strode quickly across the field and arrived at the house of our friend the customs official.