It was the worst kind of day to be lost and alone on a mountain. As if there were any “good” days to cross the Pyrenees to escape to neutral Spain, but today was exceptionally bad. The snow was beginning to fall; by the looks of the leaden gray clouds it wasn’t going to be a mere light dusting. George would scream in frustration if he weren’t trying to evade capture by Nazis.

It had been nearly two months since his plane was shot down over central France. He and his crew had sneaked through France on foot, bicycles, and cargo trains. The French Resistance agents had stuck their necks out to hide them and guide them to safety. They had had many close calls, and heard of others that were not so lucky as George and his crew. In one town they walked past a man and woman strung up by the neck with a note—in English and French—saying, “This is what happens to those that help the British!”

George wanted to just sit down and cry—he simply didn’t know what else to do. They had left Cibure, France at 11 pm two nights earlier with four other Allied aircrew and their Basque guide who spoke no English. For the first time since they were shot down, he had allowed himself to finally feel hopeful. Their guide gave them canvas shoes to mask their footsteps. They had been comfortable enough when they first set out, but now they were soaked and freezing.

Yesterday they had stopped in a house in Urrugne where a woman set them up in a hayloft to sleep until dark. George and his companions were bone weary; he swore he had been sleeping even while they walked, unable to remember large swaths of the journey. But, now that they were in a relatively comfortable place, they were all too on edge to sleep. They dozed fitfully, popping awake at every sound of footsteps, wagons, or vehicles.

“Hallo! öffne die Tür! “ They awoke in panic at the sound of hostile fist beats on the door of the farmhouse, holding their breaths, exchanging wary glances with each other. Len, the leader of their group, darted his eyes towards the door at the top of the hayloft—let’s go. Now! The men descended the rickety ladder, praying that it would hold their weight and not squeak. George was the first down the ladder; he bolted across fifty yards open ground and dived behind an ancient stone wall.

“Du kommst jetzt her! Schnell!” He heard a woman and children screaming. Pop! Pop! Gunshots. He dare not take the time to look back at his companions. He scrambled up the side of the nearby mountain to a place he thought would provide ample concealment. Brrrrt! Automatic gunfire. As he caught his breath, he looked back at the idyllic farm on top of a rolling hill. One of his companions lay face down in the field, blood spewing out of a hole in his skull. At least he didn’t suffer, he thought. The other men were being led away, hands on their heads. A soldier gripped the woman by the hair and led her out next to his dead companion, and shot her in the head, point blank.

Ten hours later, George was there, alone, on the top of Xoldokogaina Mountain, deep in the Pyrenees, while the snow came down, heavy and wet. He shivered violently, wondering how long he could stay alive in these conditions. It would be so easy to give up, to lay down and fall asleep and never wake. He was hopelessly lost, and alone.

Snap! He heard a branch break. That’s it. I’m done. I’ll be damned if they take me prisoner…

“Agur!” The woman’s voice was barely audible. He didn’t know the language; it must be Basque. He looked ahead at her—the same woman whose brains were spewed across the meadow at the farmstead. She beckoned him to walk on.

Was George crazy? Haunted? Seeing the woman who had died trying to save them was all the motivation he needed to keep going. I owe you my life, lady, he thought as he followed her down the other side of the mountain.