PRISONER {Eric Ashley-Pitt | The Great Escape}

Prologue

It felt like they had been waiting forever, simply watching the waves gently lap along the sandy shore as the last ebbs of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon. They stood in silence on a small strip of the beach that was concealed by a thicket of overhanging trees, ears poised to pick up the sound of an incoming boat on the water.

Dorothy had long since turned the collar of her coat up to battle the wind that bit at her neck; her hair tucked under her collar.

Squadron Leader Bartlett would occasionally pace along the sand, hands shoved deep into the pockets of the coat that covered his RAF uniform, though whether to fight the cold or to hide his nerves (or a combination of both) Dorothy was unable to ascertain.

Hearing the tender strokes of oars through the water, Dorothy peered through the leaves. A small circle of pale light was illuminating the cerulean ripples. Producing a small torch from her coat, she did the same, beckoning Bartlett to her side with her free hand.

"This is where I leave you," she told him, leading him through the trees to where a small wooden boat was drifting towards the soil. The two men aboard had clambered out and were now wading along the bank towards them, water sloshing around their legs as they dragged the boat in their wake.

Smiling, he extended a palm. "Thank you."

Dorothy turned to him as they reached the now moored boat. Taking his outstretched hand in her own, she shook it and said, "You're welcome. And good luck."

The ambush only lasted a few seconds. Germans had leapt from cover, surrounding the two Brits before they had even realised what was happening. She felt the prod of a pistol against her back, held by one of the men from the boat, the other holding his own to Bartlett. Faced with an endless sea of glistening rifles, her hands slowly moved up in surrender.

"Squadron Leader Bartlett," one of the men mused, a cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, "we've been looking for you for a long time." He turned to one of the nearby soldiers and gave a curt nod. From the way he so easily commanded them, she assumed he was their leader.

Stepping out of the formation, the soldier moved towards Bartlett. The butt of his rifle smashed down across his face with a sound that echoed loudly around them. He crumpled as the soldier paced back, groaning in pain as his hands were cuffed. A string of expletives hissed through his lips.

The man's piercing gaze slid to Dorothy, his features contorting like an animal facing its wounded prey. "And I see you have brought a lady friend."

Before Dorothy had a chance to speak, Bartlett chimed in, "This is Pilot Officer Milford." He wheezed in pain, before adding, "She's part of the crew that flew down to extract me."

Her eyes widened slightly. He had been so quick to protect her, they would undoubtedly imprison an RAF officer along with Bartlett, but they would have tortured or shot her if they found out who she really worked for. A second set of handcuffs clicked, this time around her own wrists, and she was forced down to her knees, though much more gently than Bartlett had been.

"Then where is the rest of her crew?" he asked, leering down at her.

Bartlert visibly gulped. Only now as he turned his head towards her could Dorothy see the large bruise that purpled under his eye.

"They crashed and no doubt have already been arrested by your outfit," she informed, fighting to keep her voice still.

Her answer seemed to satisfy him. He slowly moved away, barking orders to his subordinates.