The Fighter
The chute opened just a few seconds after Henry cleared the Defiant's turret. He had been sure the damned thing would be the death of him- either the aircraft, which looked like a fighter but had no guns at all for the pilot to use- or the turret, which had to be rotated ninety degrees to the side to get in or out. But, hanging from the off-white chute that had blossomed out of Henry's ridiculous-looking "rhino suit" when he pulled on it as instructed, Henry was glad to say he'd been wrong.
The pilot, Flying Officer Ives, and Henry had worked together only briefly before this happened. Henry had volunteered for service on the outbreak of the war, managed to fool the enlistment officer into thinking he actually was eighteen- waiting a year when it seemed like Hitler could be marching his army into Britain tomorrow was unthinkable, no matter what Mum and Dad said- and gone off to his basic military and aerial gunner training in the Royal Air Force.
They'd sent him to fly with this grinning little Scotsman who had to be a whole two feet shorter than Henry, despite being years older. Having left England only occasionally to visit family who were living in Belfast, and having certainly never been to Scotland, Henry barely understood a word Ives said to him when they were on the ground. But for some reason, in the air, they understood each other fine. Somehow, the different versions of English they spoke were mutually comprehensible when it mattered most. When that 109 had charged in head-on and ripped up the engine before Henry could get more than a few bursts from his four Browning .303s , Ives had held the Defiant steady while Henry turned the turret and bailed out. His parting words: "Best of luck, mate."
Henry, watching Ives' chute drift down miles away, wished his pilot the very same thing.
The situation was bad, but Henry knew it could be handled… even if he had no idea of how. The Germans had broken through all the defensive lines the French had put up, and neither the French nor the British had been able to move fast enough to halt the German panzers from racing through and forcing the Allies to fall back again and again. The Germans' advance had been alarmingly fast and their defeat of the French Army looked next to total. But Henry refused to concede that this was it for him, or for England. Whether or not the French carried on after the evacuations at Dunkirk, the Royal Air Force would be defying Hitler tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Same for the Royal Navy and the British Army.
Still, right now, it was hard to say much more. Henry was in a bit of a tough spot. His plane had been shot out from under him and he was about to land in a country that, while friendly itself, was in the last stages of falling into the hands of a hostile invader. The Germans were coming, if not already here. They might or might not have men in this area; there could be a squad of riflemen ready to take Henry in the second he landed, or he might have ten minutes before they showed up. Or ten hours. There was just no way to know.
Henry had no weapon, save for a flare gun with three shots and a survival knife strapped to his leg. Not much to take on a German infantry unit with. He was no "good old honest Tommy" as his father kept calling the British infantrymen that he had been one of in the Great War, and thus, didn't get to have a Smelly- what the infantry blokes called the Rifle No. 1 Mk. III, Short Magazine Lee-Enfield, or SMLE, the pronunciation of the combined letters giving it the name. And anyway, there was no room for a .303 rifle in the cramped space of the turret. No Webley revolver; Henry'd lost that bailing out. But what he really wanted was a Bren gun, the .303 light machine gun.
It sure would have been wonderful, bailing out and parachuting down into western France with one of those beauties in his hands. The four .303 Brownings that Henry had left behind in the Defiant would also have been quite nice to take with him.
And as long as I'm dreaming, Henry thought, I'd like a Bentley.
Very nice cars, those. Sportier and quicker than the Rolls-Royces they tended to look so similar to. Henry couldn't remember if the King had one. Probably he did. He was the King, after all, and could have most any automobile he wanted. But a Rolls-Royce was rather the preferred car for people who wanted to be comfortable, look good, and not be bothered to go anywhere in any great hurry.
No, no. Not the time for that. Focus, focus. Henry was in trouble here and trying to remember what car His Majesty King George VI had been riding in the last time Henry had seen him was not going to do him any good. Maybe, if he did something really spectacular and got himself out of this- and simultaneously captured Hermann Göring and punched Hitler in the face- he might even get the VC.
Please. The VC? Even that might not be enough. And this was not the time for that, either. Getting all excited about some daring deed and trying to win the VC was a wonderful way to go and get yourself shot. But Henry did not want to give up. He was in this thing to fight, and as high as morale back home, Henry was not about to go the way of the meek and shame all his folks. He wanted to be defiant, even now, when Germany looked like they had this one in the bag.
Speaking of that word- there was an explosion a few miles off, a shower of fire, sparks and smoke. The Defiant had found the earth.
Henry, even with the fix he was in, could not help but shake his head. Even with all the Defiant's flaws, that was a waste of a good airplane.
The ground was coming up faster than Henry would have liked. If he'd had his way, he would've been given an hour or so to get settled in, think about it, maybe steer and have a go at trying to escape across the Channel.
God, if I can't stop all this fanciful thinking before I land, I'm gonna get myself killed.
Trees, for instance. There were an awful lot of those down there. Clear patches here and there; farmland, people's yards and so on. But trees in quantity, nonetheless. There was a farmhouse down there, close by. Henry leaned as best he could, trying to steer the chute in for a landing. Too late, he realized there was a good-sized couple of trees in the yard there. He miraculously dodged one, then got the edge of the chute snagged on the outer-most top branches of the other. Henry briefly cursed his bad luck- stuck up here at the top of this bloody tree!- before the cloth ripped with a distinctly loud tearing noise.
Then, a heart-stopping second later, Henry was dangling just a few feet over the ground, the remains of his parachute tangled in one of the thick lower branches of the tree.
Excellent. Just the kind of landing Henry's instructors in the RAF would be proud of. Honestly, under the circumstances, they might have at least called it acceptable. Henry was not dead, he was unharmed, and he still had a chance to escape or evade capture. There was still a chance he could do something. That was the most important thing about all this.
The damn clasps of the chute wouldn't let go, of course. Henry tried everything as he hung there, but it never worked. Fine. That was what the knife was for.
Figuring he was better off than he certainly could've been- especially if, instead of getting caught by a low-hanging branch, he'd just dropped straight from the top branches of this tree to the ground- Henry got out his knife and double-checked the distance between his own handsome, blond-haired and gray-eyed self to the ground. Yes, it looked like he could land that.
Okay, time to find out. Henry looked up, applied the knife to the first line of the chute, and started cutting. When that one let go, he went for the next one. Then the next. As he severed the last line, Henry dropped to the ground, landing heavily but safely on his sturdy black leather boots. He looked up, knife still in hand, thinking he should start by checking this house for food or water. Or better yet, maybe he ought to start by getting rid of this ridiculous-looking "elephant suit".
The double-barreled shotgun aimed at his face changed Henry's priorities.
A frightened-looking boy of about twelve or thirteen in plain, home-made button-down shirt and black trousers had come out of the back door of the house while Henry wasn't paying attention, shouldered the shotgun, and leveled it at Henry's face. The gun was heavy in the boy's hands, and its weight, combined with his fear, meant it wavered and shook some. Some, but not so much that Henry wouldn't have his face rearranged quite thoroughly if he did something stupid at this instant.
So Henry tried what he so often did when he got in trouble for playing games at school, or trying to toughen up one of his weaker, less impressive classmates. He put on his best smile and tried to act like all was well.
"Hello, there!"
"Qui es-tu?" the boy responded immediately.
Henry didn't know how to reply, since he had never much paid attention to his French lessons. There was clearly a question in that. So Henry took a step forward, trying to smile disarmingly. He didn't think to put down the knife, though, so the effect that the move had was for the boy to step back and pull the trigger.
BANG!
The deafening blast sent a rush of wind through Henry's hair. The whole world went silent for a few seconds, followed by a ringing sound in both ears. Henry had shut his eyes, but quickly opened them when he realized he was still alive. The boy had jerked the shotgun up as he fired, shooting just a little too high. If that hadn't happened, Henry wouldn't have been alive long enough to know the difference.
"Ne bougez pas! Ne vous approchez pas! Reste là! Je ne te connais pas!"
The boy was talking faster, more urgently, and his eyes were wide. He was terribly scared, and had lowered the shotgun after his mistake. He would not miss a second time. Henry still had no idea what he was talking about, beyond the obvious fact that the boy didn't like a single thing about what was going on.
There was one thing he could do, however. Henry dropped the survival knife and held up his open palms. The boy's eyes flicked down to the knife, but he looked like he didn't want to take his attention of Henry for even a second to deal with it.
Qui es-tu?" the boy demanded again. "Français? Anglais? Boche? Qui es-tu?"
Boche- Boche! Henry knew that word! That was Father's word for the Germans, he'd used it ever since the Great War!
"No, no, I'm not a Boche, mate," Henry said with forced calm, still trying to keep a friendly smile on his face. "I'm English, see-" he fumbled with his clumsy flight suit, tried to reveal his Royal Air Force wings on the blue uniform beneath it, and failed miserably. He looked up. "Uh, parlez-vous- um, I'm not a Boche! Okay? I'm English, we're on your side! Look, this is all bloody confusing. Uh- see the elephant suit? I'm not a Boche! They haven't got these! I'm just an innocent bystander, mate!"
"Non? Pas de Boche?" the boy asked. Still frightened, but also uncertain.
"No Boche! English! I've got a bloody elephant suit on, see?"
The boy hesitated. "Eeeen-glish," he said, trying the word out. "No Boche. Eeeen-glish." He blinked, confused. "Elefant?"
"Yes," Henry said, smiling with relief. "Yes, that's me! English, and I'm wearing a elephant suit!"
"Pépé!" the boy suddenly yelled. "Pépé! Il y a un homme fou ici!"
All right, now what did that mean?
"Nicholas, qu'est-ce qui se passe? Qui est-ce?"
An older man, probably in his fifties or early sixties, was coming up the path towards the house. He was visibly tired, probably from hurrying this way after the shotgun went off.
"Un homme fou, grand-père! Il a atterri ici avec un parachute!"
"Homme fou?" the older man said, frowning and peering at Nicholas. He unlatched a wooden gate that led into the backyard- or whatever it was- and headed over to Henry and the boy, whose name, the blond gunner gathered, was Nicholas.
"Hello, sir," Henry said in his friendliest voice, turning to the man. "I'm in the Royal Air Force. Just got shot down."
It was a shot in the dark, but it hit home. "You are English?" the man replied, and Henry nodded emphatically. "Can you prove it?"
"I sure can't speak anything else." He'd lost all his papers, probably burned up with the plane.
The man considered this, looking between Henry and Nicholas. Clearly, he was wondering whom to believe.
"Il dit qu'il n'est pas un Allemand, Pépé," the boy added.
"Not a Boche, then, are you?" the older man asked Henry.
"No," Henry said, shaking his head.
The man looked steadily at Henry for a few moments, and Henry held still, not wanting to give Nicholas an excuse to use that second round.
"Il n'est pas un Allemand, Nicholas."
The boy took a few moments to process this, then set the shotgun down. He rushed to Henry and hugged him tightly. The older man walked over and picked the shotgun up out of the grass. "He is my grandson," he said to Henry. "He was supposed to come here with his parents, but he made it on his own. He has been terrified the Germans will find him here. He was supposed to make it here with them so everyone would be safe, but… it looks as if nowhere will be, soon enough." The man fell silent, shaking his head. "You have a name, boy?"
"Il a dit que son nom était Millicent Bystander, grand-père."
The grandfather looked at the boy, then up at Henry, and laughed. "Your name is Millicent Bystander?"
"Oui," the boy said, and he sounded quite sure of himself. He pointed at Henry and said, "Millicent Bystander."
Looking amused, the boy's grandfather laughed and gestured in towards the house. "We can sort that out later. Here, get inside. We'd better see if we can find you some different clothes."
"Thank you, sir," Henry said gratefully.
"You may not want thank me if we can't hide you from the Germans. Come on. Let's get inside."
XX
The house was simple, inside and out, but well taken-care of. This family may not have had very much, but they looked after what they had. It was something most anyone could respect, Henry figured. He imagined so, anyway. He came from better than this. He'd made fun of boys who were poor, years ago. But he was in serious trouble now, whatever background he came from. If the Germans found him here, with no papers… they could shoot him as a spy. If he tried to run, somehow make it to the beaches- whichever direction that was- for evacuation before it was too late, his own side might shoot him as a spy. Trigger-happy and nervous riflemen on either side might shoot him.
No. Henry was not in any position to be getting self-important or bragging about his beginnings now. He needed to stay alive.
Henry was hiding in the cellar, changing into some simple clothes the grandfather- Martin-something, Henry was having a hard time with the name- had given him. "My youngest son," he explained. "He's a flyer, like you." The plain shirt and trousers fit a little loosely, but were close enough to Henry's size that it worked. He folded up his RAF uniform and the ridiculous-looking flight suit that went over it, the "elephant suit" that had contained his parachute- which was still hanging from the tree. Not sure what to do with them, he stuffed them in an old set of drawers, along with his uniform shoes.
His uniform was hidden and his identity papers were long gone. Henry, for better or for worse, was going to be someone else now. Maybe he could get out of here and make it back to England, some way or another. Maybe. Even now, Henry found he was itching to fight. But he'd have to make sure he wasn't caught by the enemy first.
XX
It was just starting to get dark. Henry was splitting some logs with an axe out back, helping to feed the fire they'd destroyed the parachute with. The grandfather, Francois Bardot, was helping to translate between Nicholas and Henry. After becoming convinced Henry was not one of the enemy, the twelve-year-old had become cautiously apologetic, even a little curious. He remained certain that "Millicent Bystander" was Henry's name, something that amused Henry and Grandfather Bardot as Henry had mentally named him.
Nicholas was quickly growing on Henry. He'd never imagined someone who had just tried to kill him would wind up making such a good impression. Though he had to either mime things or talk through Grandfather Bardot, Nicholas was becoming an ordinary lad again, energetic and inquisitive, as he let down his guard around Henry. He talked about how eager he was to fight, though his grandfather did not seem thrilled to have to relay that, and how he wanted the British to come back and beat up the Boche alongside the French. He asked Henry about where he was from, what it was like in England, and why he was in the war. He also apologized more than once for firing the shotgun at Henry.
Henry, despite everything, was impressed. This lad had shown courage to rival anyone Henry had ever seen. Confronted with the unknown, with a downed flyer who could well have been the enemy, he'd immediately decided to fight. And after Henry picked up the shotgun and realized the full extent of its weight, the degree to which the weapon had wavered in Nicholas' hands had, he now noticed, been remarkably little. Nicholas proved able to pick up the logs that Henry cut with less trouble than one might have expected, confirming Henry's observation that he was strong for his age. Nicholas had fire in his eyes when he talked about what was going on, and the more Henry saw of him, the more he was sure the Bardot grandson was a fighter.
The decision had been made to hide Henry in plain sight, hence Henry was out here and not in the cellar or attic or any number of other places. It might have worked to hide him there, but Henry would have to stay there for some time even if it worked. If they could simply convince someone he was supposed to be around the farm, though, they could keep him here now and, if the chance came, help him escape to England later.
When the small gray, canvas-topped car came driving towards the farm, a gray troop truck behind, Henry felt his heart leap into his throat. He held onto the axe and kept swinging, fighting the urge to break and run for it. This was it. They were here. On his own in the middle of the French countryside, having a run-in with Jerry, and not able to speak a word of bloody Frog. This was sure to end nicely.
The vehicles pulled to a stop behind the old truck sitting beside the farmhouse, and a squad of soldiers got out of the back of the truck while some important-looking types emerged from the military car-thing in the front. Henry's heart jumped again when he saw they were wearing the double lightning bolts representing the bully boys, the SS. They were bad news, Henry had heard. Of course, right now, any Germans were.
Grandfather Bardot called out to them in French- the Jerries started yelling things in German. Rifles were raised and pointed, and Henry quickly put up his hands as a couple of Mauser rifles were aimed in his face. Christ. It didn't need to end here. It couldn't. Right?
Nicholas stood frozen for a few moments, but a glance towards the dark-haired youth showed the anger and resentment burning in his eyes. He hated these men in gray, hated that they were marching all over his country. Henry understood him, but right now, that anger- especially so obviously displayed- could land them all in trouble.
"Hande hoch!" one of the Germans shouted again, and Henry just kept his hands reaching for the sky like he was told. He didn't dare speak, for fear of giving himself away.
The dark-haired youth beside him started to move, and several soldiers yelled at him at once. Grandfather Bardot did as well, clearly cautioning him against trying anything.
One of the officers approached Henry, a notebook in hand. "You are English," he said in that language, looking right at the blond seventeen-year-old. "You are a flier. The one that we know landed near this place."
"Il n'est pas l'anglais!" Nicholas protested angrily.
The officer glanced at Nicholas and then looked back to Henry. "And he vouches for you, even. Impressive. But we have someone you know." He turned, called out a command, and two more men brought a short, stout little man in a dirty, rumpled RAF uniform around the back of the truck.
It was Ives. Of course it was Ives.
But Henry managed- somehow- to keep his face straight. The other two officers were watching him carefully, along with the soldiers, and Henry's face only showed fear and uncertainty. It didn't give anything away, didn't reveal the despair he felt, the sorrow at seeing his pilot captured.
"Wot? Wot the bloody hell is it, you sods?" Ives demanded irritably. "You got the nerve to treat me like this, now wot is et?"
They hustled him up to Henry, who stared uncomprehendingly down at the little Scotsman.
"This is your friend," the SS officer explained patiently. For someone who looked only a few years older than Henry, he sure did have an air of confidence about him. Blond, blue eyes, and a sharp mind from the look of it. A smart Nazi. Wonderful.
Henry just shook his head uncertainly. He locked eyes with Ives for just a moment, however, and the two men saw and understood something. Neither one of them was done with Jerry yet. Neither one was through. And Ives, Henry realized, had no intention of letting them have his gunner this easily.
"I never seen this eejit before in my life!" Ives exclaimed, throwing all his effort into acting thoroughly annoyed. "Shoot me down, throw me in one a' yer flamin' pee-oh-dubyoo camps, but don't fekkin' bore me! I seen enough Frogs already, man!" He looked at Henry again. "So do you like frog legs, mate? Guess so, it's all ya sods eat, innit? God, don't understand wot I'm sayin', do ya? Wot a waste o' time!"
"That's enough," the SS officer ordered. "You know this man. He is your gunner. Our fighters saw a parachute here when you were shot down."
"My gunner don' look nothin' like this bloody eejit!"
"He is gone, Captain," Grandfather Bardot said in English. "He landed here, stole some of our clothes and possessions, and escaped. He tried to hide his uniforms in our cellar. You will find them there."
"I am SS-Obersturmführer Brandt, old man," the officer said. "But thank you for giving me an Army promotion." He barked orders, and several men headed inside, no doubt meaning to search the cellar and see if Grandfather Bardot's story held up.
Nicholas snarled something at them and started to move again, but an SS trooper pushed him back.
Grandfather Bardot spoke cautiously again, clearly trying to get Nicholas' temper under control. Henry wished he could help. Damn him for not being able to speak a word of bloody French!
"I think it's time you said something," Brandt said, looking at Henry. "You've been so quiet. I'd like to hear your opinion. Speak, boy. Tell me your English and I won't have you shot for being out of uniform like this."
"How many times I gotta tell ya he's not fekkin' English? I don't recognize him, I ain't seen him a day in my life!"
"Thank you, Flying Officer Ives," the officer said curtly, then looked back to Henry. "Well? If you're French, parlez-vous Francais?"
Henry just stayed still, terrified and completely fine with showing it. In fact, he played it up just like Ives was doing with anger. Hoping some good would come of it, somehow.
"He is too frightened," Grandfather Bardot said. "You are scaring my grandsons. All we want to do is stay out of this war and you will not leave us in peace."
"Your youngest talks quite freely."
The SS troopers came back then, holding up Henry's uniform and shouting some things. They brought them up to Henry and Brandt said, "So this is not your uniform?" He paused, waited patiently, then looked at Grandfather Bardot with an expression of exaggerated tolerance.
The old man spoke to Henry, and Henry guessed he was pretending to translate. Praying he was right, Henry shook his head vigorously. Brand spoke back and forth with Bardot in French. The grandfather was worried and trying to explain things, but the SS officer was unconvinced.
Right as Brandt started to bark an order- probably ordering his men to grab Henry, from the way some of the troopers started to move toward him- Nicholas exclaimed angrily and slipped past the troopers and went right up to Brandt. He gave the surprised SS officer a shove with both hands, spoke in French, and pointed at the trucks. He pushed again, pointed again, and stood there with his hands on his hips. Brandt drew his sidearm and shouted a warning, but the boy was having none of it. He pushed a third time, pointed a third time.
None of the SS men did anything. Like Henry, they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing. The German military was an unstoppable juggernaut right now, or so it seemed. For all anyone knew, the war might end in 1940 with total victory for the Third Reich. And of all the people in the Reich to mess with, the Waffen-SS were absolutely not the guys. Yet here Nicholas was, defying them with apparently no fear at all. He stood there, staring the SS officer down, his message clear.
Brandt kept his pistol out, but he did not aim or fire it. He did not issue any orders to his men. At one command, he could have had the boy shot or hauled away. He had that power. But for some reason, Brandt didn't use it. The yard was silent; nobody moved. Finally, the young SS officer surprised everyone by holstering his Luger and starting to laugh. He spoke in German to his troopers and the other officers accompanying him, and although they hesitated a little, they headed back to the vehicles. Ives went with them, loudly complaining about what a waste of time this had been and thanking the SS for finally calling this off.
Ives didn't look at Henry or say a word to him. Henry understood. This was no time to say goodbye or wish good luck. To do so in even the slightest manner risked giving the game away. Brandt turned to Grandfather Bardot and said a few words in French, gesturing at Nicholas, who continued to stare insolently up at the SS officer.
Obersturmführer Brandt patted him on the shoulder and said something in French, then tried to do the same with Nicholas, who snarled and smacked the SS officer's hand away. Brandt just laughed it off, headed back to his car, and got in. Then, to Henry's shock and amazement, the column of SS vehicles backed away from the farmhouse, turned, and drove away. They did not stop. They did not turn around. The trick had worked. Henry had made it… at least for now.
"You will not be able to stay here," Grandfather Bardot said solemnly. "I know the Germans. They will be back. Maybe not this officer and his men, but other Germans will come. They will keep records on everyone, and sooner or later someone will know you cannot speak French."
"So what do I do?"
"You want to go back to England, yes? To rejoin your countrymen and the fight?"
"Yes." Henry wanted that very much.
"Then I will hide you here for now."
"What?" Henry wasn't sure if he'd heard that right. He couldn't believe his luck. Was he actually going to make it back to England? Was he really going to escape spending the war in a German prison camp?
"I said I will hide you," Grandfather Bardot said. "My grandson and I will. But I do not know if we could get you to a ship. The Germans will be watching the coasts and the Channel."
Suddenly Henry had an idea. "Spain. They're not in this, are they?"
"No," Grandfather Bardot said. "They are staying out so far."
"We- I mean, Britain- we've got a… we've got some lads in Gibraltar. And then there's the-the embassy in Madrid, in Spain. Somebody like that!"
"They could get you back to England," Grandfather Bardot said.
"Can you get me to them? Can you help me?"
Nicholas, who had been able to understand only small pieces of the conversation, asked his grandfather something. They spoke rapidly in French for perhaps a minute. Henry heard Nicholas mention "Millicent" more than once, so he knew that the conversation at least involved him.
Then Grandfather Bardot looked at Henry and said the best thing he possibly could have.
"I know someone who can."
A/N: 10-25-2017. This is my fourth "Dunkirk" story. I had to use Google Translate a lot to get the French parts of the dialogue written, so I apologize for any inaccuracies there.
In this story, I get an excuse to talk briefly about one of my favorite British aircraft from when I first began to study World War II around 2004, the Boulton Paul Defiant. The Defiant was a peculiar fighter plane, and why is obvious when you look at it. It had a gun turret with four machine guns attached to it. But the Defiant had no other weapons, and while its resemblance to more typical British fighters of the time- namely the Hawker Hurricane- initially let it give a nasty surprise to German fighters that "bounced" or surprise-attacked it from above and to the rear, the Luftwaffe quickly figured out what the Defiant was and changed tactics.
Once they saw they were up against a Defiant, German fighters would attack it from what normally were the less ideal directions- namely, the front. Since the Defiant had no guns apart from those in the turret, an enemy would be safe as long as they attacked anywhere the turret could not reach. The weight of the turret and the gunner manning it both slowed the Defiant down, further harming its survivability in combat. The Defiant proved to have some use as a night fighter, namely for intercepting bombers, but losses mounted in daytime operations, and the Defiant was out of main-line use well before the war ended in 1945.
Spain was indeed a route that was used for downed Allied airmen to get back to the fighting. Officially neutral and unofficially much friendlier to the Axis powers, Spain had both the British embassy in Madrid and, nearby, the British garrison in Gibraltar. But only the luckier ones made it all the way back to friendly territory. Some were caught by the Spanish and held for the rest of the war. Still, Henry's idea of trying to get to the British embassy in Spain is not a bad one. Once he is in their hands, the Spanish authorities wouldn't be able to touch him.