We were very warm and a little exhausted, having had little opportunity in the past for exercise and were relieved to see the two ahead turn onto a road leading to a wood. Hiding our bicycles we gathered together in a thick part of the wood. Sandwiches were produced and a bottle of tea and we sat down and got acquainted.
Harry was a navigator from London who had been shot down four weeks previously following a raid on Dortmund. Bill was a Canadian pilot who had run into a balloon barrage over Aachen six weeks previously.
The guide explained that we were to cycle to St Jean de Luz and stay there one night before crossing the Pyrenees into Spain. He also said that he would be coming with us. When we had rested we retrieved our hidden bicycles, made our way on to the road again and continued our journey, Edward and I in the rear as before.
Rounding a bend in the road we came to a small pretty village. The guide and the other two rode through and disappeared around another bend in the road. Edward and I were about to follow them when a gendarme came rushing out from the verge of the road and shouted "Halt!" We halted, whilst the others had passed safely through. He approached us, his hand conveniently near the holster containing: his revolver. Edward's face had paled, my heart sank and I silently cursed our ill-luck, having travelled thus far, to be caught almost at the end of the journey.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. Edward looked to me to be spokesman and I answered "We are on a holiday". From the way he looked at me and following my elementary rendering of French I knew that he did not believe me. "Your identity cards" he demanded. We produced them and then he wanted to know what we were doing so far away from our address in the northern part of France.
"We are on a cycling holiday" I repeated patting my bicycle.
"Are you Germans?" he asked next for it was obvious that we were not Frenchmen. What was I to answer?
Should I say that we were Germans in the hope that he was pro-German and say that we were deserting to Spain, or should I risk telling him the truth?
"Yes we are Germans" I said "Deserting to Spain."
"You must come with me" he said in an authoritative voice.
We were sufficiently near him to stop him using his pistol and having travelled thus far, we were certainly not going with him. Edward and I silently agreed on this point. What could I lose if now I told him the truth! If he still insisted that we go with him then we must dispose of him.
I extended my arm to touch his shoulder and said in French, "We are English pilots" and I added an enthusiastic "Vive la France". I then offered him my hand. He took it and shook it warmly.
"Then you are crossing to Spain?" he asked and I said we were.
We wanted to leave him there and then, for the others must have been miles away and soon it would be dark. He was overjoyed and his dark face was wreathed in smiles.
"Come" he said "You must drink with me". We both made some show of protest, but allowed him to usher us to his home, the police house, and to be introduced to his friends. The wine was brought out and a hasty toast was made "To France - to England" and "To the success of the war".
Explaining that we could stay no longer and with a final "Vive la France" we left them and disappeared around the bend at the end of the village. What next? Surely the others must soon find out that we were not following them and would come back looking for us. We decided to go no further, but to wait by the roadside, in the hope that they would come back for us or failing that to wait for nightfall and then start climbing the Pyrenees, the dark silhouettes of which we could see about five miles away.
We waited, the sun was already sinking in the western sky. They must have missed us and we would have to go on alone. Then we saw the guide pedaling slowly back in the opposite direction searching for us.
Edward called to him quietly from the roadside. The guide stopped and then came over to us. ''I thought you two had been caught'' he said. We described our little experience to him and enquired of the other two. They had been hidden in an inn (the Larre restaurant in Anglet) about three miles further on where we were all to spend the night and in the early morning to cycle to St Jean de Luz. We found them at the inn, fed and refreshed and in a merry mood. They were overjoyed to see us and congratulated us on our good luck.
George left this note of thanks with Pierre Elhorga..
Before it was light next morning we were up and away along a quiet narrow road through St Jean de Luz to Ciboure arriving there to the safety of a friendly house before the town had awakened. From the window we could see the sea and the coastal defences and many German soldiers. At the house we met yet another pilot, a South African (James Allison) who had made a forced landing in Northern France, only three weeks previously.
It was not safe to have so many of us staying there so that night we were to cross the Pyrenees, with an expert guide who was to call for us as soon as it was dark. Most of that day we spent resting for we were tired after our cycle ride and wanted to store energy for the night's walk. The mountain guide (Florentino Goikoetxea) came and brought with him several pairs of canvas shoes (rope-soled espadrilles) that would make little noise whilst we were walking.
He asked us to empty our pockets of any French money that we might have, for if we were caught in Spain we could be legally charged with currency smuggling and it would be difficult for the British Consul to get us out of prison. All was ready and collecting in the doorway we bade our hostess (Kattalin Aguirre) goodbye and our previous guide (Jean-Francois Nothomb) who had travelled with us from Bordeaux, came with us to visit the British authorities in San Sebastian.