I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes.

Operation Dynamo, the evacuation of mostly British forces from Dunkirk in May-June 1940, was followed by Operations Cycle and Ariel which rescued troops from other ports, including Brest.

Cover image: Otto Marseus van Schriek (1613-1678)

"A friend in France writes:– 'The crops here are barbed wire, thistles, and nettles; I don't know what the first produces, but the two last have brought out great lots of painted ladies, red admirals, peacocks, and a positive swarm of small tortoiseshells.' The weeds of the war-scarred, untilled land have produced one beautiful crop." -Manchester Guardian, 14 September 1917.

BREST ... 68

The signpost looks as though it's been here forever, at the side of this nondescript road running between a neglected field on one side and a bit of woodland on the other. Peter squints at it. He hasn't slept much in the last two days, and his eyes are aching.

"I'll never get there, at this rate," he says out loud.

Sixty-eight miles – or is it kilometres? Probably, since this is France, which isn't much help. He hasn't got the hang of kilometres yet. Is sixty-eight kilometres less than sixty-eight miles, or more?

Whichever it is, it's still a bloody long way, on foot, in ill-fitting boots. Not for the first time, he finds himself regretting having been off base when the order came to evacuate. Yvette was a right little darling, and they had a very enjoyable evening together, but he's not sure now that it was worth it.

"Sod it." He trudges across the grassy verge to the stile which breaks the line of stone wall bordering the field. He dumps his kitbag on the ground, sits on the top step of the stile, and starts tugging off his left boot. He gives it a shake, but there's no sign of the pebble he thought was in there.

I must be going round the bend, he thinks, as he laces the boot again. It still hurts, even with the weight off it. Sixty-eight kilometres will probably just about do for him.

He's only got three cigarettes left, though he's been trying to make them last. He lights one now, and for a few minutes sits there, mulling over his chances of making it to Brest at all, let alone before the last boat to Dover heads out. He doesn't fancy the odds.

Then again, what choice has he got? Hang about waiting for the Wehrmacht to arrive, and then spend the rest of the war, however many years that might be, banged up in a prison camp? Stuff that for a game of soldiers!

"Of course, they might not get this far." If he hears himself say it, maybe he'll believe it. As a matter of fact, sitting here in this corner of France, between woods and fields, the advancing German army seems a long way away.

He leans against the wall, gazing at the trees across the way. A Londoner, born and bred, he's never had much of an opinion of this countryside lark. Still, after months of the military life, a bloke could do with a bit of rural solitude.

Pity about all those bleedin' birds chirping, though - they don't half carry on.

He stays there for a little while after finishing his smoke, watching the young leaves waving softly in the breeze, making patterns of shadow and sunshine. It almost seems as though each scrap of green and gold might take flight at any moment, and go off wherever it pleases. To his surprise, one of them does just that, taking a wavering course out of the shade and zigzagging across the road to land on the stile, a few inches from his leg.

Peter regards it in bemusement, then turns his head towards the field.

"Blimey, isn't that just...well, how's that for a nice little crop?" He doesn't have to be a country lad to recognise the thistles, dandelions and nettles growing as far as he can see; and amongst and above them, hundreds and hundreds of butterflies, yellow and green, blue and white, dancing up and down just as though they haven't a care in the world. When was the last time he saw anything so pretty?

He looks back down at the creature still resting next to him. "You jammy beggars. I don't suppose you even know there's a war on. It must be nice, just flapping about in the sunshine, with nothing to worry about but eating and drinking, and finding yourself a lady friend."

As if in response, the tiny wings rise, then fall again.

"Oh, I've got no argument with you there, chum. If I was in your place, I'd be doing just the same." Wearily, Peter gets to his feet, and hoists his kitbag onto his shoulder. "Still, someone's got to keep fighting the Krauts, and since you and all your little mates have better things to do, it looks like it's up to me to win the war."

Another quiver of the wings.

"No, never mind, I'll get on all right. If there's one thing us Newkirks are good at, it's looking after ourselves. Off you go, the girls are waiting for you." With the tip of a finger, Peter gives the creature a gentle nudge, and it totters into flight and meanders off towards the dandelions, and soon becomes lost amongst the crowd.

"Well, I'd best get a move on," says Peter. "I don't want to miss that boat." But as he resumes the long walk to Brest, he keeps turning around for one more look, until the field with its beautiful, astonishing crop, is lost to view.