I must have slept for nearly three hours because when I wakened it was past midday and the atmosphere inside the loft was stifling.
I peered out of my spyhole and examined the countryside but as yet there were no signs of the Hun. It almost began to look as though they had given up the search, or perhaps the body was still undiscovered.
Here and there a few men and women were working in the fields but apart from that nothing stirred. Overhead the sun blazed in a cloudless sky as it was to do all through that brilliant, fateful summer of 1940.
Somewhat reassured by the lack of activity I lay back and thought enviously of the squadron at Northolt, now sitting down to lunch and—tantalising thought—a cool pint of foaming beer. It would have suited me very well just then.
I dozed off again, but woke soon after with a start, sensing in some curious way that danger was near. I peered out of the hole. Instinct had not deceived me. Crossing the fields from the wood were a number of German soldiers spread out at intervals in a long line and working steadily across country. Further along I could see more men just emerging from the trees.
They had found the body and I had underestimated badly the speed and thoroughness of the Hun's reaction.
I lay quite still and watched the approaching men in painful suspense. They were still several hundred yards away, but they came on briskly and when they reached the orchard I saw a man beckon two or three others and then the little group approached the farm while the rest of the line continued its sweep. Probably they intended searching every building in the district.
The men were almost in the farm now and I could see clearly their grey green uniforms and leather boots. Their faces were hard and tanned. I thought they looked a tough lot. They passed out of my sight as they went up to the house, but I could hear the clump of their boots and a peremptory knock on the door. Then followed the sound of voices and then silence; probably they were looking through the house.
About five minutes later, I heard the door open and then Madame appeared round the corner of the farmyard accompanied by a soldier who seemed to be the N.C.O.
The remainder followed in a bunch behind, rifles slung across their shoulders.
The N.C.O. followed Madame into the cowshed and then came out again and entered the stable above which I was lying. Through the cracks in the floor I could see just below me the man's helmet as he talked in laborious French to Madame. He then moved out of my line of vision and I heard the scraping and banging of various farm implements being moved as he searched round the building. They weren't taking any chances.
I lay absolutely still, hardly daring even to breathe. One movement, one cough would be enough to give me away. Thank God, Madame had concealed the ladder; that might have given them an idea.
The N.C.O. crossed the floor again and walked out into the farmyard. I could see him now through the holes in front of the loft as he stood there glancing keenly round the buildings, Madame still by his side apparently unconcerned and rather bored by this interruption of her day's work. That woman certainly had a nerve.
The German looked up to the roof and his eyes rested suddenly on the dovecote. He seemed to be staring straight at me and for an instant I thought he had spotted me, but then I realised that he could not possibly see into the interior. He turned to Madame, pointed up to my hiding place and then walked back into the stable. Probably he thought there were some steps inside.
Madame followed him talking rapidly. Their conversation was muffled but I gathered she was explaining that there was no ladder and no way up. For the first time I seemed to detect a trace of anxiety in her rapid speech. If that N.C.O. really was determined to search the loft he could get them up on the roof, ladder or no ladder, and that would be the end. No wonder Madame betrayed ever so slightly the anxiety she must have felt.
The German paused, looked up again and then with a shrug of his shoulders he turned back and said something to his men, saluted Madame stiffly and the little procession tramped out of the farmyard.
Once again my luck had just held; but my mouth was dry as a piece of felt and I was sweating profusely. It wasn't only the heat, either.