The Great Escape (closed for BritWitch)

[Millsy]

We were running fast, running hard, about a mile and a half off the ground with all four engines roaring reassuringly in the starlit sky over blacked out Germany. The bombs had all gone, jettisoned over the Ruhr valley industrial basin, hopefully having smashed to pieces a few hundred unfinished fighters and panzers and the priceless tooling required to build them. This was much more acceptable and fulfilling to me than dropping them on civilians in Berlin, Hamburg or Dresden as we had been doing throughout the previous month. I could justify in my mind the attacks on the industrial heartland of Germany as legitimate efforts to hamper the warmaking ability of the German high command, but dropping high explosives and incendiaries on the men, women and children of Germany while they slept in their beds at night left me stone cold and filled me with a sense of guilt that I knew I would carry with me for the rest of my life.

Bomber Command justified it as a legitimate retaliation for the atrocities that the Germans had unleashed upon London earlier in the war, and as a deterrent to the Germans to stop them doing it again, but to my mind all it did was harden resolve - as it had done with the Londoners during the Blitz- and pushed the Germans into further retaliation against English cities in a vicious cycle of increasing violence. This was why the V-1 rocket was created, in a direct response to the terror that German citizens now faced at night from British Lancasters while the bloody Americans - who flew and fought by day - made merry with our English roses in the dance halls and pubs of Great Britain. While they seduced our wives and girlfriends with cigarettes, chocolates, silk stockings and empty promises of an easy life in the affluent new world we shat ourselves in the pitch dark without fighter escort, virtually defenseless, running for home, escaping from the angry, vengeful German ack-ack that reached up into the sky looking to bring down the bombers that the roving searchlight beams sweeping in random patterns managed to locate.

Fortunately tonight we had passed the worst of that. There was a particularly hairy moment as we crossed the border when a searchlight got a glimpse of us and the AA opened up, the sky exploding in bright orange and yellow fireballs all around us as our plane was bracketed by the deadly flak, but they must have caught us at extreme range because we swiftly left the bangs and dull crumps of exploding ordnance behind. Now we were over France, heading for the coast and the relative safety of the North Sea for the return to Blighty. For the past five minutes we had flown in silence, apart from the screaming engines and the occasional creak of the plane as the winds tossed us about, not a single word passing between the crew as the adrenaline rush of the ingress and the bombing run gave way to sheer bloody relief that we had survived another raid on Nazi Germany.

I turned to Jackie, my flight engineer, and was about to crack a joke about having to change my underwear for the third time that week, when I glimpsed a twinkle out of the canopy just beyond his head. Suddenly the plane banged and shook as cannon and machine gun fire raked the Lancaster along the fuselage from wings to tail. The mid-upper turret opened up it's own machine guns, adding it's thundering racket to the cacophony of sound that filled the plane as wind roared in through the jagged rents punched into the fuselage, then there was a shriek of metal on metal as the outer port engine burst into flames and seized solid, the propeller stilled. Now we were a fiery beacon, a flaming comet tearing across the night sky, visible for miles and miles around. Any other bombers in our vicinity would follow standing orders and their own survival instincts and automatically peel away and hide, so we knew we were now totally alone. Just us and the Junkers Ju-88 radar equipped night-fighter that had caught us. Hunter and prey.

I swallowed drily, my stomach a ball of ice as the cries came in over the intercom.

" Mickey's hit. Oh My God there's blood everywhere. I think his leg's gone." That was Alfie, the navigator, reporting on our wireless operator. Leg gone. That meant that his femoral artery had probably been severed and the poor kid was going to bleed out in minutes. I increased power to the inner port engine to compensate for the loss of the outer one and dropped power to the starboard ones to stop the plane turning around on itself, then banked right, hoping to shake off the '88 that had found us. It had come in from port, so now had to swing around for the classic tail chase that would see us all killed, so I estimated that I had about a minute for the German to make the turn and close back in to guns range.

I was wrong. About ten seconds later while the rest of the crew checked in over the intercom the plane began to receive the hammer blows of cannon fire again, and the tail gunner opened up with his own machine guns, spraying bullets all over the sky as he desperately tried to hit back at the matt black night fighter, whose only giveaway sign was the sparkling of its own machine guns as it unleashed it's fury against us. We were helpless, could only shoot at it while it was shooting at us because that was the only time that we could see it, and as such it always got its punches in first. I heard another scream as the tail guns went silent, a scream that went on and on as Steven, the youngster in the tail turret, clawed at his wounds. All around me the hammer blows struck again, and the second port engine flared and died.

The Lancaster dipped it's port wing and headed for the ground. We were all going to die. " Bail out!" I screamed over the intercom, then I threw off my mask and screamed it again just in case that system was dead. " Bail out now!"

I turned the yoke desperately, trying to level off, and the plane responded sluggishly, reluctantly. I had to try and stabilise it so that the surviving four crewmembers could jump out. Acceptance of my own fate was automatic. I knew that I was a goner. As soon as I let go of the controls the Lancaster would snap into a spiral and blaze like a shooting star to earth, throwing me and anybody else left aboard around the inside. All I could do was try and keep the plane level so that the rest of the crew had a chance to survive. I felt a thump on my shoulder as the co-pilot unstrapped himself and fell into me, throwing his seat up on it's hinges so that the bomb aimer could escape, then he was gone.

My mind flashed back to a flickering newsreel in a Portsmouth cinema as Frankie, the bomb aimer, slapped me on the arm and made his escape, a stirring report on how a supply convoy guarded by just one old passenger ship converted into an escort accidentally stumbled across the German pocket battleship Admiral Scheer. The makeshift escort had been called the Jervis Bay, and it's captain immediately and unhesitatingly ordered the convoy it had been tasked with protecting to scatter, to run and hide, while he turned his ship and it's tiny guns onto a collision course with the pride of the Kriegsmarine. The Jervis Bay was inevitably pounded to scrap and sunk within an hour, and Captain Fegen was killed, but thirty two ships of the thirty seven strong supply convoy were able to make their escape. That was the sacrifice expected of a British serviceman, and always had been since Elizabethan times. Now it was my turn to embrace death with the honour befitting a Lieutenant of the Royal Air Force. The Royal Navy would not get all the posthumous glory in this war.

I glanced at the altimeter unwinding past five thousand feet, airspeed still falling, artificial horizon level, tilting, level, then tilting again as I fought to keep the Lancaster stable, riding the beast into the ground to ensure my crew escaped. I jumped when a hand slammed down on my shoulder, Jackie yelling at me that everybody that could get out had already gone. We had two dead - Mickey and Steve had both died at their stations.

" Gotta ride this one down." I shouted back through gritted teeth. " If I let go of the yoke and rudders she'll snap roll right in a heartbeat."

Jackie tried to push past me and get back in the co-pilot seat. " We'll ride the bitch down together!" He shouted.

" No! Get the hell out of here you lunatic." I screamed back at him. " Don't make my death for nothing. You've got a bloody wife to think of."

Jackie hesitated, staring at me as the plane buffeted beneath us, then nodded, a grimace spreading across his white visage. " I'll never forget this, Grandad."

" Just piss off, for God's sake!" I yelled at him, grinning manically. He slapped me on the shoulder and was gone. The altimeter now spooled through two thousand feet and I could see the coastline ahead of me, white waves breaking on the shoreline of northern France, phosphorescence sparkling under a waxing moon for miles and miles. I thought of letting go of the yoke, closing my eyes and letting the crate splatter itself all over the fields beneath me, but something stopped me. Maybe it was a pilot's natural instinct to avoid crashing in an area where people might be sleeping, especially French non-combatants, or perhaps it was some insane notion that I could ride this baby in and walk away. More likely it was just the natural human instinct to live out every last second of life, stretching out one's time on earth to the absolute limit, even if those final moments were spent in abject terror of what was about to happen - the initial impact squashing me flat between the ground and the imploding nose, the rending of limbs as chunks of ripped steel flew through the crushed fuselage and the searing heat of the flaming explosion as the ruptured fuel tanks detonated - my final moments as sliced and diced crispy fried man-steak.

I let out an involuntary scream as the belly of the Lancaster surprised me by slamming hard into the ground of an unseen ridge with a ear-splitting boom, the fuselage distorting wildly around me. Glass exploded out of the twisted windscreen as it bent, and my hands went up to my face instinctively. The right wing dipped as the plane skipped into the air again, and when the wingtip touched down several terrifying seconds later the plane cartwheeled spectacularly. From this moment on everything was in slow motion. They say your life flashes before your eyes in your final moments, but all that flashed before my bulging eyes was debris thrown about the cockpit as my arms waved wildly and my knees rammed up into my chest as the floor buckled upward from the crash. Something solid slammed into my head and I saw stars, and suddenly I had no idea which way was up as the plane disintegrated around the seat that I was harnessed into, then the North Sea exploded through the busted windows and the wild movements of the plane slowed and stopped.

The cockpit filled rapidly above my head as I slowly recovered my senses, still stunned, and fumbled at my seat harness, the sea swiftly engulfing me. I slipped into the water and tried to find my bearings in the upside down cockpit, but this world was unfamiliar, almost alien. The fractured floor was now above my head and closing in on me rapidly as my Mae West pulled me along the swirling surface in the pitch blackness. Instead of saving my life the Mae West was going to pin me to the floor and drown me. Then the water was pouring into my mouth and I tasted brine mixed with the blood from my head wound and I began to die.

In desperation I spat out the filth in my mouth and sucked in a lungful of air, pulling myself along the fuselage of the plane. I found myself at the shattered windscreen as the plane continued to sink rapidly and dragged myself through the narrow, twisted frame, wanting to scream out in frustration as the Mae West snagged on a structural member. When I got that free the sleeve of my jacket hooked up on another buckled strut, then when I thought I was finally free my bootlaces caught on something else and no matter how hard I tugged the bastard would not break free. My lungs were burning, my eyes were popping in their sockets, my hands clawed desperately at the laces, then in further desperation clawed at the waves breaking just inches over my head and just when I thought that my end had come, when I was right on the verge of opening my mouth for that final anguished scream that would let in the North Sea and seal my doom, the lace snapped, probably severed by my frantically tugging it against a bare metal edge, and I fought my way to the surface in my sodden clothing.

I gulped in a lungful of air and half a pint of water as a wave promptly swamped me, and I kicked with all my might, following the wave in toward the shore. I surfaced again, blind and disorientated, and another wave pushed me. I let it, reached for it again as it rushed away from me into the dark, chasing it blindly, and then the next wave was upon me and I went tumbling end over end, losing my bearings again. Then my feet touched the sea bed and pushed away with all my might, my head broaching almost instantly. I sucked in another fiery lungful of air and let the next wave push me toward the shore, desperately trying to keep up with it as my legs and arms thrashed at the boiling surf. I was exhausted, the effort of swimming in my saturated clothes, clothes that weighed about fifteen pounds dry in order to keep you warm at altitude, had burned me out, but I kept driving myself onward, aware that to give in was to die, then my feet, at long last, touched the sea bed and I found that I was able to stand upright.

The next wave knocked me off balance and I plunged underwater again, but now I knew that the worst of my ordeal was over. I lazily surfed the following waves, letting them edge me steadily toward shore, and I was now able to keep my head above water without jumping as I walked with leaden legs in between the swells. Eventually I made it to the shore, wading through the last few metres with new found energy, then I sank to my knees in the wet sand, totally shattered, and from there fell face first onto the beach, the waves still lapping at my feet, blood running down the side of my face from the gash in my head. I closed my eyes, not caring that if the tide was still coming in that I'd probably drown. I'd had enough. All I wanted to do was sleep.

Then I felt hands on mine and I lazily opened my eyes again. I could see bare feet in the pale moonlight, then a long dress, and as I was rolled over onto my back I looked up and realised that an angel had finally come to take me after all. I smiled, closed my eyes and let the darkness come.

 

[Britwitch]

I, like the rest of my countrymen, prayed for the day when this vile war would end. Too many of us had lost fathers, brothers, husbands…
Every night that I heard the quiet rumble of British planes passing overhead towards our common enemy I felt my heart fill with fresh hope that the end might arrive soon. Tonight had been no different, my eyes had risen to look up at the sky through the window at that familiar sound as another bombing party made their way towards Germany.

My cottage was perched upon the cliff top, a small stone building that had been sturdily built to withstand the harsh winds that swept inland from the channel. The Germans had once thought to evict me and make it a guard post but the inclement weather and small size meant I was able to keep my home, at least for the moment. It also meant I had a fairly good view out over the sea and a certain degree of freedom from my country’s captors.

I was sat fiddling with my father’s ancient radio trying to find the British radio signal beside the fire when I heard it, a loud clap somewhere in the darkness. I felt my stomach tighten as I realised the sound I had heard had been that of something hitting the ocean. It could be only one thing, a plane.
Wrapping my shawl around my shoulders, over my nightgown, and snatching up the oil lamp from upon the table, I hurried out of the door and began to make my way down the path which wound its way down the cliff face to the secluded bay below. My heart was in my throat as my feet felt the cool, damp sand beneath them, unsure of the sight that might meet my eyes.
I scanned the shore, there was no sign of wreckage. The realisation that whatever had happened it could well have happened far from the land and without chance of survival.

As I began to shiver and I gave one last look among the breaking waves I saw him. A body among the foam. I ran to his side and, dropping the lamp out of the water’s reach, I turned him over. I felt myself wincing at the sight of the cut to his head but his face smiled and his eyes looked to my face for a moment and I had to content myself with the vague hope that I might not be too late to help him. Hooking my arms under his, I began to drag him ashore.

It was only when I got him closer to the lamp that I could look at him properly for the first time. My eyes passed over his obvious injuries and I judged they were not as serious as they first appeared. I also took note of his uniform for the first time. Spotting the small Union Jack sewn onto his front caused the small amount of tension that had gathered in my stomach that I might be saving an enemy to dissipate. I stopped a moment to gather my breath and to tie my shawl tightly around my upper body and stop it flapping around in the wind. Pulling loose the ribbon that held the top of my nightgown closed, I set about tying my long dark hair back from my face. The climb back to the cottage was going to take a while and if I couldn’t see, it would take even longer.

I doused the lamp, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention from any patrols that might be out on the cliff tops, and took a deep breath.
“Monsieur, I hope you are not as heavy as you look…” I muttered, once again bending down to loop my arms under his and begin to drag him towards the cliffs.
The wind continued to swirl dangerously around the pair of us as I half pushed, half pulled him up the path. Having to stop again and again to catch my breath and try to steady my footing.

By the time we finally collapsed through the door of my cottage it had been two hours since I had run out of the door and my fingers and feet were freezing. But my discomfort could wait.
I used the last of my energy to all but carry the unconscious pilot through to my meagre bedroom and put him as gently as I could upon the blankets.
I set about heating water to wash his wounds and seeking out clean, dry clothing to replace the sodden uniform that was making his body grow paler and paler. Blushing slightly, I eased his body from his clothes, feeling another rush of relief that other than his head, he seemed to be largely unharmed.

I washed the drying blood from his forehead and applied a simple dressing. Biting my lower lip I opted to leave him in his undergarments and simply cover him with blankets until the morning. Undressing him had been awkward enough and I didn’t like to think what fresh embarrassments would lie ahead when I tried to remove his vest and briefs. Once he was as comfortable as I could make him, I left his side to quickly change my own clothes and put some soup to warm on the stove.

Once back by his side, I found myself looking at his face with any great interest for the first time. He was young, perhaps a few years older than myself. I tucked the blanket a little tighter around his body before settling down in a rocking chair beside the bed. The exertions of bringing him up from the beach had tired me more than I realised and before long I was finding it harder and harder to keep my eyes open. Before I succumbed to sleep I glanced at the pilot one last time, wondering vaguely what his name might be.

 

[Millsy]

I opened my eyes and groaned. My head felt worse than it had done the morning after Jack's stag night in 1941 when I had downed eight pints of Whitbread's best bitter at the Nag's Head in Penzance. I put my hand to the place on my temple where German bombs were still exploding and winced, my fingers coming away slightly damp with my own blood, but from the feel of it I guessed that the wound had been crudely dressed by somebody.

I closed my eyes in a vain attempt to moderate the pain and wondered where in God's name I was. A Jerry hospital with the Gestapo waiting outside the door with a brazier of blazing coals and a red hot poker, perhaps?

I opened my eyes again when the pain had diminished somewhat and studied the ceiling. Old, with cracked plaster, flaking paint and no overhead light like there would be in an infirmary. I turned my head to one side and squinted at light leaking through a narrow slit between the curtains and lancing in diffuse beams through threadbare patches within the fabric itself. Small room. Bedroom. Just like my gran's had been in Coventry. Same flower patterned wallpaper - no, I corrected myself. Lilacs not roses. Gran's had roses. My mind jumped from thought to random thought as it fought the disorientation and the waves of torturous throbbing that arrived in time with my pulse.

Carefully I drew back the sheets and gingerly moved myself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, head held in my hands while I waited for a spell of dizziness to subside. The wooden floor chilled my bare feet. I opened my eyes and saw long johns instead of my flight suit. What the...?

A quiet creaking behind me made me jerk around, triggering another wave of dizziness, and I saw a young woman asleep in a rocking chair shifting herself in unconscious discomfort, clearly not far from waking herself.

Flickering images of last night 's exertions replayed in my mind as it tried to make sense of things. Crashing into the ridge - hitting the sea - struggling free from the upside down bomber - nearly drowning as I swam to shore - a pair of slender ankles in the pale moonlight - half being dragged, half crawling to the base of a cliff that looked a mile high in the gloom - kicks and shoves, tugs and pushes, hissed, whispered curses amidst breathless grunts as she struggled to guide me up the narrow, slippery rock strewn pathway while I made things much more difficult for her by fading in and out of consciousness. I remembered nothing about the house, or the bedroom. Or of being undressed, for that matter. I felt my face redden and silently thanked God that she'd allowed me some modesty by letting me remain in my thermal undergarments despite them being soaked through from the sea. They were still damp and clingy in places, causing me a mild discomfort as I unsteadily willed myself to my feet, wobbling alarmingly as another wave of nausea washed over me and a fresh dozen or so pulses of stabbing head pains made me grimace and entirely forget about the itching between my legs and beneath my armpits.

I tip-toed to the window, being careful not to awaken my slumbering rescuer and peeled back a corner of a curtain carefully, peering furtively out into the overcast grey daylight. The view from up here was breathtaking. It was no wonder the woman was still fast asleep - the journey from down there to up here looked daunting enough during daylight. To have done it at night and then dragged my dead weight all the way back up again must surely have exhausted her, slight as she was. I'd have struggled to do that myself and I had a fair bit more meat on my bones than that wee lass. The entire curve of the small, secluded bay was visible from this side of the cottage, white wave peaks curling and crashing as they rolled in from the sea, and I could make out the belly of the Lancaster broaching the swell like an artificial reef, one wing rising shark-fin like out of the water as the ebb tide revealed the wreckage. I could see a black gash in the belly where one of the bomb bay doors had been ripped off, like a fish that had been gutted, and also the remnants of the tail gunner blister, indiscernible stuff hanging from the steel cage that had once secured armoured glass that was no longer there, and I found that I could look no more. I didn't want to remember young Stevie that way. The poor lad had only turned nineteen no more than a week ago. I told myself that it was probably just the twisted remains of the machine guns hanging there, or perhaps it was some fuselage insulation or maybe even seaweed caught in the wreckage. I was glad I was far enough away that the details were denied me and I could lie to myself with some degree of conviction.

Further out in the distance across the water I could see a brown scar on the grassy ridge of the opposing headland, a handful of tiny dots milling around the place where the plane had hit the ground before being launched on its uncontrolled pinwheeling trajectory into the bay while I had remained strapped inside it. Tiny dots. French farmers and fishermen? Or Germans searching for survivors?

Soon they would come down to the bay, then send swimmers and divers out to count the bodies in the broken Lancaster, retrieve the remains for identification and burial, and then they would know exactly how many of the crew had managed to get free before the crash. They might have caught some of the lads already - the Jerries were well practiced at that, experts at it. How long would it take them to break Jack and learn that I rode the plane all the way down to the moment of impact? Name, rank and serial number sounds all well and good at dawn in the briefing rooms, but under threat of gloved fists, razor blades to balls and loaded guns rammed down your throat no man could last for long. The fact that I had still been alive when the plane went down was not a secret worth dying for, especially when it wouldn't take them very long to determine that there was no pilot remains in the crushed nose of the Lanc, just the mangled body in the tail turret and Mickey still strapped into his seat in the radio shack.

When they came to the inevitable conclusion that I had somehow managed to get free of the wreck they would begin their search. They might assume that I had been thrown out of the plane as it disintegrated and chalk me up as lost at sea, but in their shoes I certainly wouldn't. I'd work under the assumption that the pilot had survived, escaped, and was trying to get back to Blighty. It's what we did, what our country demanded of us, and why the Germans searched exhaustively until they found us. A pilot was expensive to train, and experienced pilots were valuable commodities. As such we were compelled to pull out all the stops to get back across the Channel and back into the fight. England expects every man to do his duty. Or die trying.

Then my thoughts turned to poor Mary. First Jane, and now me. Mummy lost in a Coventry firestorm, daddy missing in France. I bowed my head as I contemplated my dilemma. Should I do my duty and fight for my liberty, try and make it back to Britain, rejoin the war effort and risk making the little lass an orphan at just three years of age, or should I instead hand myself in to the nearest Fritz and spend the rest of the war safe in a prisoner of war camp deep in the heart of Nazi Germany? Was that cowardice?

Who would ever know? I asked myself.

I would know. Attractive as the prospect of surviving the war and returning home to Mary was, I could not ever see myself doing such a thing because deep inside I would know. I would remember. It would be the shame that I always carried and could never talk about, never share with anybody.

I had to get back. So many more had given much more than I had and still they went on contributing to the war effort with undiminished will. Nobody gave up. Ever. Bader hadn't given up and neither would I.

I will get back to you, Mary, I promised myself, suddenly inspired. When the war finally ended and she came back from Wales we would be together again, my baby girl and the father that she would grow up and be proud of, who would tell his tall tales to her children and not just be the tortured, perpetually darkened empty shell of a man who would know deep inside that when things were at their worst he simply folded his cards and left the table, surrendering himself to the enemy so that he might live and return home safe while others fought and died in his place. My shoulders were no longer hunched and my back had straightened now that my mind had settled on a goal, if not yet a precise course of action. I had to get home.

I turned, intending to awaken the young lady with a shake of her shoulders, but when I did so I found that she was already sitting up in the rocking chair and studying me intently. I froze like a rabbit caught in headlights, my heart skipping a beat. You can say what you like about French girls over a couple of pints in the mess at the end of the day, but they sure as hell build 'em damn pretty over this side of the water.

 

[Britwitch]

I had slept fitfully, waking once or twice in the night to firstly remove the soup from upon the heat when it became clear my ‘guest’ would not be waking before dawn, and to stoke the fire in the main room.

I had strange dreams that kept me from sleeping deeply despite my exhaustion, dreams of Germans arriving at my door, taking my house from me for sheltering a British pilot.

Dreams that took me back to the days before the war, days when Guillaume would come calling, to ask me to dances and concerts, the days before he signed up and marched himself off to get shot in a skirmish somewhere in the East. Guillaume…he had been so full of life, so passionate, he loved life and, if I was honest, he loved me too…it was that love that drove him to fight for freedom.

The morning light stirred me from my bizarre dreams, along with the shuffling sounds of slow movement in the room. My eyes flickered open and I started slightly to see the injured pilot standing near the window, looking outside. I sat up slightly, rubbing my eyes and yawning as I watched him in silence. I licked my lips just as he turned around and froze when his eyes met mine.
For a moment or two, I wasn’t sure what to say. He looked as confused as I was and that at least gave me a little comfort.
“Good morning,” I smiled as brightly as I could, my mind rushing through half forgotten English lessons trying to remember anything that might be of use, not wanting to worry him given the serious expression on his face.

“Je suis…excuse me…I am Juliet, I will make us tea…” I stood up, subconsciously pulling my shawl closer around my body. “I have dry clothes…you want to change, I think…” I gestured to a pair of trousers and a shirt, carefully folded on the dressing table beside the bed. “I look at your head when you are dressed…” I smiled again before quickly leaving him, trying to keep my eyes on his face throughout, closing the door behind me to give him some privacy to change.

I filled the kettle and placed it on the heat to boil. I took a moment to glance in the small looking glass on the wall, sighing as I noticed how my once bright blue eyes were looking increasingly tired. Then again, a lot had changed. My waist was narrower these days, but I was not the only one. With another sigh I ran my fingers through my hair before deftly plaiting it down my back and waiting for the pilot to come through from the other room, pouring the hot water into the kettle with a meagre spoonful of leaves.

I opened the curtains and noticed the movement over on the headland, people swarming around the evidence of what had happened the night before. My eyes moved out over the sea and winced as I saw the wreckage, unable to imagine how a human being could survive such a thing I felt my admiration for the unknown man in the next room growing a little more. As I looked back to the people on the cliff top I found myself biting my lip, the reality of what I had done hitting me for the first time.

I hadn’t given consequences a second thought as I had flown out in the night, bent on rescue. But now the consequences where something I couldn’t help but consider. I didn’t doubt that someone would knock on my door before long. As the only resident for some miles it was only obvious they would come to ask if I had seen or heard anything.

Movement behind me drew my eyes away from the window and to the doorway to my bedroom. The pilot was now wearing Guillaume’s old clothes and I stifled a laugh to see the pilot was a good few inches taller then he had been and as a result the trousers looked somewhat short in the leg but at least they were clean and dry.
I motioned for the pilot to take a seat and poured us both a cup of tea before retrieving a cloth and some hot water to clean his head wound.
“I will try not to hurt you…” I said softly, leaning close to peel away the sodden bandage. Wincing a little as I felt it pulling on what must have been tender skin. “…Sorry…” I whispered, removing the last of the dressing and looking at the bloody mess beneath it.

Being as gentle as I could, I started washing away the dried and congealed blood, pausing every now and then to glance at his face for signs of discomfort.
“I will not take long…” I assured him, before adding. “If anyone comes to the door I will say you are my cousin and that you are…how you say…” I motioned with my face and hands the pantomime of someone who was a little slow. “That way if you don’t speak French they will not suspect…you understand…?” I asked with a bright smile, knowing the obvious flaws in my plan but knowing even a ridiculous plan was better than no plan at all.
“Can I ask, what is your name…?” I leant closer once more to clean the last smears of blood from his forehead before starting to apply a new dressing.

 

[Millsy]

“Good morning,” She said in heavily accented English as I stared at her. It took a conscious effort to shake off the lethargy that had enveloped not only my bruised body, but also my sluggish mind. Perhaps that knock to the head had affected me more than I was aware. I concentrated on her words as she continued speaking to me in broken, halting English that was undoubtedly far better than what little French I had been taught in escape, evasion and survival lectures. That certainly made things a lot easier. She swept her hand toward a change of clothing near the bed which made me instantly and acutely aware of my own clinging attire. I must have reddened a little, for she smiled politely and then rapidly darted past me and closed the door.

Picking up the old garments that Juliet had provided me with, I turned them over in my hand doubtfully. Not that there was anything obviously wrong with them, they would certainly enable me to blend in with the general population easily. Had I been six inches shorter and at least a stone lighter. I frowned as I tugged on the trousers, sucking in my stomach to fasten the buttons, but gave up when I realised that either they would give or my voice would elevate an octave or two from the squeezing at my crotch. I left them loose and fastened the belt instead. The shirt was a little better, tight across the chest and under the arms, but at least the buttons weren't threatening to go shooting off and embed themselves in the wall when I inhaled. I studied myself in the dressing table mirror, judging that I looked a little like Frankenstein's monster, my head swollen in a bump at the temple that weeped blood from beneath a brown speckled dressing, my hair wildly mussed from sleeping on it while it was wet. Flattening it didn't seem to work, either - it just sprang back up defiantly. Why did something always happened to make me look a complete idiot when I found myself around women, I mused as I licked my hand and tried to slick down the worst of the spikes. And on top of that it was clear that I needed a shave. The only thing I looked fit right now for was begging in a Soho alleyway.

I found Juliet in the next room and she immediately began fussing over me like my mother used to when I had come home with dirty knees and sporting sundry grazes after falling off my bicycle. I sat there motionless as she worked on my wound, the warmth of her proximity and the unperfumed feminine aroma of her body tantalising my senses as I gritted my teeth and suffered her ministrations, uncomfortable and embarrassed as was customary for me when I had nurses clucking around me. She inadvertently tore a few blood matted hairs out of my head as the dressing came away in her hand and my body jerked in reflex. I bit my lip, squinting through the pain as a fresh jolt flashed through me. "Sorry," Juliet offered lamely. Well, at least she'd apologised, I mused. The nurses back home would have rolled their eyes and chastised me for flinching before telling me to be a man about it. I set my jaw square and allowed her to finish, trying to stare straight ahead but the soft curves of her body kept drawing my gaze as she worked around me.

Then she scared the living daylights out of me by coming up with a plan that would see me on my way to Colditz castle and herself on the way to a firing squad come the morrow. Enfeebled mute cousin in ill fitting clothes with cuts and bruises all over his body within sight of a crashed aeroplane? I'm sure the Jerries had never heard that one before. She leaned closer and asked me my name as she tenderly mopped up the last of the watery blood with a dry cloth.

"Bill." I answered, forcing a smile as the desperation of my miserable situation fully struck home. It wasn't just me anymore. Now I had a young French woman tangled up in my misfortunes. As grateful as I was that she had probably saved me from drowning, I was now filled with remorse for getting her involved in something that could get her killed, even if it wasn't quite my doing.

" Yes, err...about that plan." I began as she stopped playing nurse and drew back a little. I glanced up as she stepped back, staring into her pale eyes, trying to form the words in my mind that would convey to her the gravity of the situation. "Thank you....err...Merci, for what you did last night." Juliet merely nodded, as if it were nothing. "But the Jerries, er le Boche, they won't believe you. You need to be the victim here so they won't suspect. They will come here - and soon - and I need someplace to hide, you understand?"

All Juliet did was frown at me, her gaze narrowing, whether because she wasn't following my tack or because she was angry at me for rejecting her plan in the usual way women did when you deviated from their schemes I didn't know. "I need someplace to hide, somewhere they won't find me. Did you ever play hide and seek around here as a child?" Hide and seek...what the hell was that in French? All this was making my head hurt even more. "Attic?" I blurted. "Do you have an attic, a loft?" I pointed up at the ceiling, hopefully.

I didn't wait for her to answer, just carried on explaining where my train of thought was going. Off the rails, by the look on her pale, pretty face. "They might look up there, but not if they think I've already gone. So I'm going to have to tie you to a chair in order to make it look convincing." I explained, smiling weakly, apologetically, as if that would make any difference.

She opened her mouth to speak, her eyes widening as I sipped at the watery tea.

 

[Millsy]

"Unterfeldwebel Kehm!" Steiner barked as he strode down to the sandy beach where Kehm’s men milled around, retrieving flotsam from the waterline and piling it up near the path as the ebbing tide revealed more and more of the wreckage of the crashed British Lancaster. The portly sergeant jerked to attention as Steiner approached, snapping off a crisp Heil Hitler salute to the reviled SS Major. "Report." demanded the Nazi as his critical gaze took in the details of the crash site.

"Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, we have not long arrived." Kehm began apologetically, his gaze drawn to the Knights Cross with Oak Leaves at Steiner's throat.

"Report!" Steiner barked again, the Wehrmacht sergeant flinching under the malevolent gaze of his impatient superior.

"Sorry, sir. There is nothing to report as yet. The plane is too far out in the bay to conduct a search, though one body is plainly visible with a torso and one arm hanging from the tail gunner's station. I have ordered my men to collect the debris that has been washed ashore, including a severed arm but no bodies have been found, nor any clothing and no parachutes. And no head, either." Kehm added with a chuckle.

"Footprints?" Steiner enquired, raising an eyebrow as he watched the soldiers work.

"Sir?"

"Footprints Kehm, footprints. You know those little depressions your men are leaving all over the beach? Did you find any footprints before you let your children off their leashes to go and play in the sand? Hmmmmm? Well?" Steiner scowled, then he cut Kehm off before he could reply. "This is a very secluded bay. If there had been survivors then there would likely be footprints in the sand between the high tide mark and the path, would there not?" Steiner explained patiently.

The sergeant went pale at the realisation that he simply did not know - it had not occured to him, and was about to deny there having been any footprints in order to save face when Steiner cut him off again. "You didn't think did you? You just charged right in. I can see footprints right now! Dozens of them, and ALL OF THEM FROM YOUR OWN FUCKING MEN, YOU USELESS PIECE OF SHIT!" The major screamed at parade ground levels, thrusting his face directly in front of the flinching soldier’s. "Mein Gott I can see we are going to lose this damned war if you are the standard of Wehrmacht fuck up that is going to face the Tommies when they swarm across the channel. Soft, fat, lazy and fucking STUPID! That's what duty in this country does to Bavarian loafers like you, Kehm. Thank God you were assigned to France because with useless excuses for soldiers like you let loose on the eastern front we'd have the fucking Stalinists already knocking at the Brandenburg gate. The Reich wouldn’t stand a chance. Our women would be slaves of the Bolsheviks before the end of the year. I despair, I really do. The biggest clue as to whether anybody managed to get out of that wreck alive is footprints in the sand and you let your men trample all over them." Steiner ranted, shaking his head in exasperation. "I should do your men a favour and have you shot. Maybe then they’d get a proper sergeant and might actually end up surviving this war."

SS Sturmbannfuhrer Rudi Steiner scrutinised the scene, scanning carefully, checking to see if anything else might have been overlooked, raising his field glasses to his keen eyes and inspecting the wreckage of the bomber as the sea continued to recede and reveal more of the fuselage. "Dogs?" He snapped.

"All assigned to the search for the parachutes seen in our sector, sir. None left for us."

"Hmm." Four 'chutes had been counted by the pilot of the night fighter that had shot the bomber down, and of those three had already been captured when Steiner had come on duty. That left three more, as he knew that the crew complement of a Lancaster was seven and as Steiner studied the smashed body hanging out the back of the aircraft through his binoculars he felt sure that the tail gunner wouldn't be going anywhere soon. "Two unaccounted for," Steiner mumbled to nobody but himself. "Kehm, how long before low tide?"

Kehm glanced at his watch. "About an hour, sir."

"I want your best swimmer out there at low tide, just to swim inside and do a body count." Steiner said softly.

"Sir, that's not our..."

Steiner turned to the sergeant and continued speaking in a low, reasonable voice. Somehow it frightened Kehm more than when the SS man had been shrieking at him. "Kehm, you are trying my patience most severely this morning. You will do precisely as you are ordered to do, as befits an officer of the Third Reich. Do not question the authority of your superiors and do not ever, under any circumstances, dare to tell me what I may or may not order you to do. Clear?"

"Yes sir. Totally clear. Best swimmer out in the wreck in an hour."

Steiner turned his attention back to the shoreline, studying the steep, stony path that wound up the cliffside to a lonely cottage perched a dozen or so metres back from the edge which issued a thin wisp of smoke skyward. "Who lives up there?"

"Just some French woman, sir. I was about to walk up there and find out if she had seen or heard anything when you arrived."

"Sure you were, you fat, lying bastard." Steiner laughed. "Who is your second in command, here? Who gets your job when I convene a field court martial for you over your obvious incompetence and summarily execute you by kicking your fat arse off the top of that fucking cliff?"

"Brandt." Kehm stated almost cringing, visibly wilting under the heat of Steiner's humiliations.

"Get him over here. The three of us are going for a walk, and you better not hold me back on the way up there Kehm or I'll have a quiet word with Leutnant Kruger about extra duties to bring your fitness up to the minimum levels expected of a non-commissioned officer in the Wehrmacht. Fucking disgrace, you are Kehm. Big fat fucking disgrace." Steiner said cheerfully as he turned his back on the white faced sergeant and studied the cottage through his field glasses. " Just some French woman, eh?" He murmured, dropping to his knees, staring intently at the edge of the footpath and finding a faint boot impression in a still damp patch of mud that didn't have the same pattern as the standard issue Wehrmacht boots that had trampled all over the beach. "Excellent."

 

[Britwitch]

"Bill."
I repeated the name quietly to myself, thinking I was fortunate I had rescued an Englishman whose name I could at least pronounce, smiling slightly as I did so.
" Yes, err...about that plan."
I winced inside, expecting a condescending response to my admittedly childish plan.
"Thank you....err...Merci, for what you did last night."
I wanted to say that I would do it again but I didn’t want to stop him from speaking, given the frown on his forehead he was obviously in a great deal of discomfort. I was also concentrating heavily on what he was saying, desperate to understand as much as I could.
"But the Jerries, er le Boche, they won't believe you. You need to be the victim here so they won't suspect. They will come here - and soon - and I need some place to hide, you understand?"
I felt my forehead frowning back at him without my conscious bidding, he meant to hide? Did he seriously think secreting himself under the bed or in the wardrobe would work? Part of me baulked at his previous dismissal, thinking at least my plan was brave.
"I need someplace to hide, somewhere they won't find me. Did you ever play hide and seek around here as a child?...Attic? Do you have an attic, a loft?"
I followed his finger as he gestured to the ceiling, unsure as my vocabulary failed me briefly and I wondered if he meant to hide in the roof space or actually climb up onto the roof. I looked back down with wide, unsure eyes as he continued.
"They might look up there, but not if they think I've already gone. So I'm going to have to tie you to a chair in order to make it look convincing."

I felt my expression growing shocked as I processed his words.
“Tie me to a chair…?” I repeated in disbelief, my mind replaying his last phrase as I tried not to blush. “Monsieur Bill, you are a very handsome man but I don’t think that this is…the…” I stopped myself mid sentence as the first part of his last statement registered and my blush increased tenfold. Realising he must think me some kind of harlot for letting my mind run riot as it had. “I see, at least, I think I do…you mean to…er…trick the Germans, no? Let them think you came here to shelter in the night and then left me behind…”
I sank down gratefully into the chair opposite his, trying to ignore the remaining heat on my cheeks as I forced myself to meet his gaze. My fingers curling around my mug of tea as the tip of my tongue ran over my lips, my brain searching for a place where he could hide that would give him even the slightest chance of evading discovery.
“I think it will work, but where you can hide I don’t-” My words trailed off as I recalled a memory from years before.
“Monsieur Bill, quick, come…come with me…!” I rose quickly from the chair, my voice earnest as I reached out for his hand.

I led him towards the back of the house where a door led into the wood store, attached to the back of the cottage.
“In here Monsieur Bill,” I instructed, guiding and squeezing us both through the piles of wood. Stopping half way through where a shelf had been built into the wall, leaving a small recess underneath, a recess that was now completely hidden from direct view by the logs piled on and around it.
As a child I had once hidden in that exact spot for the best part of a day and knew that unless someone knew to check there, the place was all but invisible.
“Do you think you could squeeze in there, Monsieur…? It is the best place I can think of…”
I eyed his tall frame uncertainly, unsure if he would fit in the confined space. A childhood hiding place was one thing, a childhood hiding place suitable for a fully grown man was quite another. I bit my lower lip as I gauged he would probably just fit but a lengthy stay down in the recess would be less than pleasant.
“It might not be comfortable but I doubt anyone would find you there…”
I watched as he tried to shift himself into the small space, wincing on his behalf as logs narrowly missed hitting his wounded head. Eventually he was out of sight.
I helped him back out, trying not to focus on how close I was allowing myself to get, several times my body was almost pressed against his as I helped him navigate his way back out of the recess.

Soon enough we were back in the kitchen and as I rose to refill our mugs I had to stop myself from screaming. Coming over the brow of the hill which lead down towards the cliff face were the unmistakable uniforms of German officers.
“Monsieur Bill, quickly, I think we will soon have visitors! Hide your mug in the cupboard…and fetch your uniform from the bedroom, you can take it with you and hide it!” I quickly poured away the tea and rinsed out the warm pot and the cooling mugs with cold water before putting them back in the cupboard. After all, how would I have managed to have made a fresh pot of tea if I had been bound and abandoned by a British pilot in the middle of the night…? I smiled to myself, thinking that when all of this was over, perhaps I should join the resistance if my wits were as quick as this.

When Bill returned, still damp uniform in hand, I had already sat down in one of the kitchen chairs.
“We will have to be quick Monsieur Bill, they will be here any moment…here, use these to tie me with…” I reached down and, without any ceremony, proceeded to rip long strips from the bottom of my nightgown. I ripped six pieces and handed them over before sitting up once again. “I didn’t know if you would want to…er…tie my mouth…” I said bluntly, unable to remember the English word for ‘gag’ before adding. “Remember to close the door behind you when you go and don’t worry about me, I am a very good actress…” I flashed him a bright smile before sitting back obediently in the chair and offering my wrists to be bound.

 

[Millsy]

I had been more than a little surprised when Juliet had grabbed my hand and led me through the house - for a moment I thought she might be dragging me back to the bedroom for some unfathomable reason. Her touch made my spine tingle and I replayed the unexpectedly thrilling sensations in my mind as I took the strips of fabric from her, recalling how she had struggled to drag me back out of the recess, her body pressing against parts of mine that hadn't been pressed against by any woman since....well, in a bloody long time. All innocent, inadvertent touches, it must be said, but nevertheless my emotions always had a tendency to perform cartwheels while in the presence of attractive women. I never knew what was incidental and what was deliberate, and as such I steeled myself mentally and consciously disregarded everything, then later spent endless hours agonising over whether I had missed some blatant signal that the contact might have been something other than innocuous. Even in times like this I seemed to read far too much into things. How could I be interpreting her touch in such a manner at a time when we were both facing extreme danger and when I knew the purpose behind her actions was not in any way provocative?

But was there more to it this time? Hadn't she actually blushed when I said I'd have to tie her up? Or was that the red tint of outrage manifesting on her cheeks? Perhaps the tall tales about French girls that the lads spread in the mess when we wound down after a sortie weren't a million miles from the truth after all....

Carefully I bound Juliet to the chair with the torn strips of her nightgown, fastening her arms tightly behind her back and strapping them to the wooden spokes at the backrest of the chair first. Then as I tied her ankles to the legs of the chair I couldn't help but glance upwards, my eyes inexorably drawn up her slender calves that were now exposed to the knees following the mutilation of her clothing, and then to an impenetrable darkness further beyond that, which was just as well. I felt a momentary urge to touch her smooth calves, but managed to suppress this wholly inappropriate reaction and instead knelt before her as I balled up the fifth strip and asked her to open her mouth. When she complied I carefully pushed it between her teeth and used the final strip to gag her, tying it behind the back of her head. "I'm really sorry about this," I said, and kissed her lightly on the forehead as a thank you before vigorously dishevelling her hair and then picking up my flight suit and uniform, tucking them under my arm. I also took the mug with me, ignoring her suggestion to hide the half empty mug in the cupboard as the Jerries were bound to search everywhere and anything out of the ordinary would surely be picked up on and cast doubt upon whatever tale she spun.

I hurried through the cottage and carefully wriggled myself into the cramped recess the way she had shown me earlier, pulling the logs back over the gap until I was fully concealed and in absolute, total darkness, then settled my curled up body on top of my still damp uniform and flight suit, using the rolled up jacket as a makeshift pillow. My body was pressed up so tightly against the walls and the underside of the shelf that I worried that even the slight rise and fall of my chest might be enough to disturb the precariously piled up firewood.

I lay there in the pitch dark, literally shitting myself in fear. Here I was utterly helpless, effectively cornered, and if I was discovered I had no option of either fight or flight. Had she done this deliberately I wondered - look, here he is, unarmed and immobilised, help yourselves! But then again my own idea had been no better. All it would have taken was a poke of a German head up through the attic opening with a hand clutching an oil lamp and the game was up anyway. All I could do was close my eyes and pray, so that's precisely what I did, though I tagged on a fervent prayer for Juliet, too. She had by far the most to lose.

Willing myself to calm, I relaxed every muscle in my body and my breathing became so quiet that all I could hear was the thumping of my own heart and the rush of blood coursing through the veins in my head. Then I heard muffled voices, then a loud banging at the door of the cottage and I held my breath. Juliet was now on her own and held both our fates in her hands. I hoped she was as good an actress as she claimed to be.

 

[Millsy]

Steiner paused at the top of the rise, taking in the view, wondering why on earth the local command hadn't commandeered this rundown shack and turned it into an observation post. Sure it was way, way off the projected landing zones for an invasion, Steiner admitted to himself, and the bay was far too small for any landing in force, but it was utterly perfect for covert infiltration of the commandoes that the Tommies were so fond of and for supplying arms and explosives to the damned French resistance.

The pause allowed Kehm to catch his breath, though that had not been a part of Steiner's plan. The wind whipped harshly at this height, more so than down at sea level, and Steiner stood into it, closing his eyes, enjoying the biting chill on his bare skin that took him back to what he considered a better time when he was leading his own men in a headlong charge across the Russian Steppe, sweeping Bolsheviks aside as if he were scything through nothing more resistant than a field of corn. That had yielded the honour of the Knight's Cross, pinned to his breast by the Fuhrer himself, a moment that would live with him forever. Then had come the icy, frigid, bone numbing chill of the Russian winter and the advance soon ground to a halt as men froze to death in their tents. Then had come the living hell of the Stalingrad months.

He shook himself back to the moment and turned his attention to the cottage, nodding to Kehm. Wordlessly the sergeant walked up to the door and banged on it with the butt of his machine gun. There was no answer, though Steiner felt certain that he had heard a scratching, a scuffling of wood on wood. Steiner nodded again and Kehm stepped back, then he kicked out at the door with the sole of his booted right foot and the door flew inward on its hinges with a splintering of the door frame and Kehm immediately charged in with his MP-40 held in front of him, closely followed by Brandt and his less flexible Kar98 that was near useless in close quarters battle.

Steiner drew his Luger from his holster and strode in after them, somewhat surprised at what greeted him when he stepped inside. She looked furious, her hair unkempt, her face red with effort as she shook the chair she was tied to in her efforts to break free. Kehm and Brandt had ignored her and gone deeper into the cottage, making sure nobody else was there, and Steiner put a finger to his lips, motioning her to silence as he listened to the sounds of the two soldiers searching the place for signs of the enemy that he now knew had been here. When they returned to the kitchen and proclaimed the cottage secure Steiner knelt behind the woman, holstered his Luger and drew his SS dagger, using it's razor sharp blade to sever the material that bound her hands, and then moved back in front of her, standing over her with a theatrically raised eyebrow and a questioning half grin on his lips.

"And what might your story be, mademoiselle?"

 

[Britwitch]

"I'm really sorry about this," His expression was thoroughly apologetic as he kissed my forehead, making me flush a little such was the innocence of the action. It wasn’t really his fault I was in this position, it had been my choice to go haring off down to the beach in the middle of the night. I was glad of the gag momentarily as his hands ran through my hair to make it look as if I had been struggling against my bonds for some time, the sensation of another’s hands against my scalp making a soft gasp rise up in my throat that I was incredibly relieved that the material in my mouth concealed.

I tested the bonds as I heard the door close somewhere behind me, finding myself well and truly stuck fast. My ankles and wrists didn’t budge an inch and the gag was holding back any sounds I made. As I sat, my eyes fixed on the door before, the precariousness of my position suddenly filtered into my mind. While this deception may well succeed, in that the German officers who were doubtlessly moments away from bursting through the door would believe Bill had departed long before hand, it may place me in a less than enviable position. One heard stories of German officers ‘abusing’ their positions and, while I regarded myself as nothing particularly special to look at, a woman tied in such a vulnerable position might be an opportunity they might not turn down. I glanced down and gasped as I realised the missing material from my nightgown now meant it barely covered my knees. Fresh blushes covered my cheeks as I fervently hoped Bill had not seen something more than he might’ve expected to see as he bound my ankles.

Before I could worry any more, a loud series of bangs on the door made me jump and my eyes widen. In the back of my mind I fervently hoped Bill had managed to conceal himself. I started to struggle against my bonds once more just as the door flew open. As hard as it was not to simply freeze at the sight of two armed Germans stalking into my home, I fought against the urge, focusing my mind on looking as angry as possible and kept up my struggles until the third German, and going by his uniform the most senior, put a finger to his lips. I ceased my pulling and wriggling, keeping my eyes on his face until the others returned announcing what I believed was that they had not found anyone although my German had never been one of my stronger points.

I swallowed anxiously as the senior officer moved behind me and I suddenly felt the pressure around my wrists disappear. With shaking hands I reached up with my freed hands to untie and remove the gag from my mouth. I ran my tongue over my lips as he moved back to stand in front of me, making me crane my neck slightly to meet his questioning gaze.
"And what might your story be, mademoiselle?"
“My story?!” I repeated with disbelief in my voice. “What do you think my story is…sir?” I added the title uncertainly as an after thought, not wanting to aggravate an armed man. “Do you think I did this to myself…?!”
I let my Gallic temper rise to its fullest, privately proud of how calm I was keeping inside.

“I woke up in the middle of the night to someone hammering on my door. Wanting to do the Christian thing, as I assume it is an emergency, I go to the door only to find myself shoved back inside by some blood covered British pilot!” I allow my tone to lower, changing to frosty rather than furious, my eyes flickering over the other two soldiers before returning to the man I presumed was their commander.
“His French was abominable, unlike yours…” I admitted with what might have been a flirtatious edge to my voice, although it had not been my intention. “He wanted his wounds dressing. I of course obliged, worried for my safety. But then the…the…fils de pute...the bastard ties me to this chair and takes himself off to sleep in my bed!” I gestured through to my small bedroom where I knew the still damp bedding would back up my story.
“I tried so hard to break free but as you saw, he had tied me well…” I made sure I sounded disappointed with myself.
“I don’t know what time it was when he woke, but he helped himself to some old clothes before leaving…it was a few hours ago now but I doubt he would have gotten far with his injuries…”
I raised my eyebrow slightly as I added. “When you find him, I should like my father’s suit returning…”

A pause followed where I assumed the German officer before me digested my story. I leant back in the chair, running my hands through my wild hair, trying to calm it, not taking my eyes from his face for a moment.

 

[Millsy]

Steiner listened to her story with interest, his eyes never leaving hers, his cold blue gaze boring into her in search of a lie, or a sign of such. The momentary distraction of her tongue sliding over her lips - too quickly to be misconstrued as sensual - drew his gaze downward, and it was a conscious effort of will not to allow his gaze to drop further to her exposed knees.

Something didn't add up, he realised as he idly threaded the strip of cloth that had bound the woman's hands to the back of the chair between his fingers. There was an element in there that didn't mesh. Steiner couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was an alarm bell ringing in the back of his mind. It was a perfectly sensible tale, though it was unusual for a British officer to be so disrespectful of the French. Unusual but not unheard of. Sure they had a history of animosity going back hundreds of years to when the British marauded this region of northern France with scant regard to the population, raping and stealing as they saw fit, but right now relations between France and Britain were about as good as they would ever be as both nations shared a common goal and were engaged in a symbiotic relationship, with that common goal the expulsion of the Reich from the borders of the country and back across the Rhine. British airmen were supposed to be courteous to the French - they relied on them to get them back across the Channel. To be abusive was an anomaly that Steiner had not come across during his time in this region. But that wasn't it. There was something else. Every barrel had a rotten apple in it somewhere, and maybe it was just this woman's bad luck to have found it. Shame, Steiner considered as he watched her run her hands through her hair in an effort to make herself more presentable that did not go unnoticed. Her gaze remained locked with his. She was utterly wasted up here on this lonely headland, Steiner noted. Better looking than half the whores in Paris, too. Once again he wondered what her story was, in particular why she was up here alone. He wondered if she might be a lighthouse keeper for British infiltration parties, the lights in her windows at night serving as a navigation beacon for boats sneaking in under darkness. His eyes were drawn inexorably to her legs as he surveyed her, still bound at the ankles to the chair, and he suddenly knelt at her feet to slice through the fabric that had been used to immobilise her with his dagger, placing his other hand on her bare leg to steady himself, allowing his fingertips to slide just a fraction of an inch upward over the soft hairless flesh.

Steiner shifted his attention to Kehm and Brandt when he straightened up. "Well?" he snapped in German.

"Nothing, sir. All rooms are clear, closets filled with nothing but French rags, under the bed just dirt. Roof spaces clear. Some blood on the pillow in the bedroom. If he was here then he has gone now."

"If he was here." Steiner rolled his eyes. "Do you think this little thing could have tied herself to the chair, Kehm? Does a woman bleed from the nose once a month instead of from other orifices?" Steiner chortled as he ran his fingers over the stove, the dented kettle, then he opened the cupboards, then circled around the French girl like a shark sizing up its prey. He finally pulled up a chair and settled himself on it in front of the French woman, studying her intently. The red marks on her wrists were fading already, but she was calming down. Her initial outburst had been expected, but there had been no gratitude to either himself or the other soldiers that had freed her. Nothing strange there, either Steiner admitted. They all hated Germans. Even the ones we paid to sleep in our beds, Steiner mused. Especially those. He studied her arms, noting that aside from the fading red bands there was no bruising, and as his scrutiny dropped to her calves and the lack of discoloration there he began to wonder just how much of a fight she had put up.

But that wasn't it, either. There was another tell that he was missing. Frowning, Steiner tried a different tack "Mademoiselle, it is my job to keep the population safe from such...bastards, as this British airman, so I'm going to have to ask for a few more details. First I'm going to require a full description of the man, and of the clothing that he stole. I will need to know if he was armed, what his injuries are, if you have a bicycle, and if he took anything else - knives, an old gun perhaps? Rest assured I will not take it any further if you did have a gun in contravention of occupation regulations; I just want to know exactly what I'm dealing with. Also I'm intrigued as to why you don't seem to have put up much of a fight when he tied you up. Are you naturally submissive, perhaps? And finally, if you are, would you care to dine with me tonight?" He grinned, waving away this last question as nothing more than mischievous humour before reaching into the breast pocket of his tunic and pulling out a packet of German cigarettes, offering one to the woman while he tried to figure out just where her story fell apart. It was there, he knew, but remained tantalisingly just out of reach.

 

[Britwitch]

The time seemed to stretch beyond recognition as I awaited his response thanks to my nerves. What could only have been minutes felt like hours.
I fought against nervous fidgeting that might give me away, sitting as composedly as I could manage.
His sudden drop to the floor made me jump inside, my heart starting to pound worryingly in my ears as he freed my ankles although the feel of his hand resting upon my flesh and rising ever so slightly up my exposed leg made my cheeks flush anew and caused me to instantly cross my legs as soon as he had stood up once more.

I pulled my tattered nightgown as far as I could in a vain attempt to cover my knees, trying to follow the conversation now taking place between the officers in their native tongue.
I frowned as I managed to catch the odd word but no where near enough to make sense of what they said.

The senior officer moved away, obviously wanting to look around for himself. His tone telling me he was less than impressed with at least one of the men he had brought with him, and presumably their ability to search effectively. I forced myself to look as absently out of the window as I could manage, hearing the sounds of cupboards being opened, repeating to myself that I had done enough to cover the traces of the pot of tea I had made to share with my unexpected guest.

I shifted my gaze to meet his as he sat down in front of me once again, his expression serious.
"Mademoiselle, it is my job to keep the population safe from such...bastards, as this British airman…”
“But of course…” I interjected.
“ So I'm going to have to ask for a few more details.”
“Anything at all, whatever I can do to help…”
“First I'm going to require a full description of the man, and of the clothing that he stole. I will need to know if he was armed, what his injuries are, if you have a bicycle, and if he took anything else - knives, an old gun perhaps? Rest assured I will not take it any further if you did have a gun in contravention of occupation regulations; I just want to know exactly what I'm dealing with. Also I'm intrigued as to why you don't seem to have put up much of a fight when he tied you up. Are you naturally submissive, perhaps? And finally, if you are, would you care to dine with me tonight?"

I politely smiled as I waved away his offer of a cigarette. Trying to suppress the urge to blush at his final insinuations and instead focus on making my descriptions as far from the truth as possible.
“Well…he was shorter than you,” I glanced towards the other two officers before adding, “He was about as tall as him I would say…” I gestured to the officer still holding his machine gun as if he expected me to fly at him at any moment.
“He had light hair, it was very short and his eyes were brown, or at least very dark.” I paused and narrowed my eyes, trying to think of anything else I could add, but without wanting to pause too long lest he think my story invented.
“He took my father’s suit, it was dark brown tweed, double breasted. It was in very good condition, although I think it will have been a little long in the leg for him…”

“He had injured his head quite seriously and, although I can’t be sure, he was limping badly on his left side…I thought it might even have been a break but once I had staunched the bleeding from his head he tied me up so I couldn’t have helped him with it, even if I’d wanted to…”
I added with a tone that said I had wanted nothing of the sort. I knew it was almost ‘out of character’ for a French woman to be so negative about the British but I had started my story and I had to stick to it, to change tack now would without question be my undoing…and consequently, the downfall of the pilot hidden away in my wood shed.
“What else did you want to know…?” I asked idly before continuing. “Oh yes…a bicycle, there is an old one out in the yard but it hasn’t worked in years so if he took it, it won’t have gotten him very far at all! I don’t think he took anything else, the kitchen knives are over there…” I gestured back over my shoulder. “And I don’t keep guns in the house…they scare me…” I admitted bluntly.

I swallowed before addressing the last of his questions, meeting his eyes a little shyly knowing that what I was about to say would probably bring more trouble onto myself than I was prepared for but it might be the quickest way to get the Germans to leave.
I lowered my tone and leant closer towards him, making it clear what I was about to say was for his ears only.
“I allowed myself to be tied up without ‘a fight’, as you put it, because I was worried what a clearly deranged man might do to me if I struggled. You can, I’m sure, understand my position…”

I glanced down at the floor before looking back into his eyes through my eyelashes and leaning a little closer, “However, as to your other question...your description, although one I don’t know that I would use, doesn’t sound too far from the truth…and if you truly desire those ‘qualities’ in a dinner guest then I would have to admit that I might find it hard to say no to such an offer…especially coming from such an obviously powerful man…” I smiled as warmly as I dared before leaning back and folding my hands delicately in my lap.

I knew that there were many young women all over my country who, whilst baulking at the idea of dining with the enemy, could not sensibly pass up the opportunity of a good meal, even if their hosts might require more than a simple ‘thank you’ when the meal was over.
I hated the thought of offering myself in such a way but I reasoned that if I seemed genuinely interested in spending time with the German officer sitting inches from me, then it might back up the idea that I had been so antagonistic towards the British pilot.
“Is there anything else I can help you with sir…? And please...Mademoiselle is so formal, you must call me Juliet...”

 

[Millsy]

This witch was too clever by half, Steiner came to understand as Juliet leaned forward. Oh yes, she was either very good or very, very bad and Steiner found himself unsure of which he would have most preferred at that time. The provocative lean forward as she batted her eyelids had invited him to glance down the vee at the neck of her nightgown to the twin swellings within that remained just concealed enough to tantalise, the barest hint of cleavage hinting at the treasures hidden beneath. If she was as good as he suspected then it would be a pleasure indeed to break her spirit back at headquarters and get the truth out of her by whatever means came to mind, but if she was as bad as she seemed to be making herself out to be then perhaps it might prove equally enjoyable to use this alleged submissive nature to his advantage in an entirely unexpected way, one he had certainly not envisaged when he'd set out on the walk up the hill to this shack.

Steiner reasoned that up here by herself she might have become starved of male company, and again he wondered why she hadn't moved into the village and instead persisted to live right here on the edge of the world. Lonely, isolated, and then an unsavoury yet undoubtedly exciting character intrudes upon her solitary world, ties her up and then...falls asleep? It was hard for him to suppress a smirk as he realised that the British airman might have inadvertently aroused her and then left her to stew in her own juices until somebody else came along to take advantage of the frustration that must have set in - if she were as submissive as she claimed to be. Though his comment on this aspect of her personality had only been mentioned as a humorous aside, Steiner began to wonder what it might feel like to use this French woman's body in a manner that she was clearly indicating she would not be averse to. So was she just a lonely soul in need of a good seeing to, Steiner wondered, or was she playing him for a fool and just buying time for the airman to get further away?

It must be the latter, he concluded. French women were beginning to learn the consequences of engaging in 'collaboration horizontale' with Germans, or even of being suspected of having an intimate relationship with a soldier. Stories of women being beaten and left for dead half naked in the streets daubed with paint or lipstick swastikas with every hair on their heads shaved off were spreading from Paris to the countryside. It didn't matter if they were simple prostitutes plying their trade, desperate widows struggling to survive or just bored impressionable teenagers swept away in a romance with a good looking uniformed soldier. In this, Steiner knew, the French were simply copying something that German citizens had perpetrated upon their own women after the French occupation of the Rhineland in 1923, and even in Germany itself head shaving - denuding, it was called - was still a state approved method of punishing women accused of sleeping with non-Aryans or foreign prisoners employed on farms. And such abuse was spreading the more it became clear that the allies were massing in preparation for an invasion. Now French women were making overt, highly visible efforts to distance themselves from German companions for fear of retribution. Yet here one such woman was virtually throwing herself at him? It just didn't add up. Of course, being up here on her own, cut off from village gossip, maybe she was totally unaware of the current cost of collaboration Steiner considered.

It all looked too staged, Steiner decided in a moment of clarity. Juliet had no bruising, no damaged fingernails, no lingering welts from the bonds, and the fact that the material used to bind her had been torn from her own nightdress was just too convenient. Either she had torn them off herself, or had done nothing to prevent it and though her story had been one of tacit submission, it didn't sit well as an overview of what had happened. If the Englishman had indeed slept in her bed, leaving her tied up on the chair, then she wouldn't be sitting there motionless - she'd be up and walking around working out the cramps and the aches that would have set in from sitting upright on a hard wooden chair for hours on end, maybe even the entire night. Christ, Steiner shook his head as he thought about it further, surely her first act would have been to dash to the toilet to piss when she had been untied? It was almost certainly a set-up, Steiner nodded inwardly, almost sure of it now. All he lacked was proof, or a confession, and extracting the latter might be far more interesting and probably even quicker than searching for the former - especially with one as clever and devious as Juliet seemed to be, he admitted to himself. It had been a while since he'd had any fun in that respect, Steiner reflected. The last time had been when his company had stumbled on a Russian mortar platoon half composed of women. That had been an interesting weekend, he recalled as his frown turned into a leer, his eyes glinting with the memory of executing every last Russian man before he and his men turned their attentions and long frustrated lascivious desires to 'interrogating' the women.

"Kehm," Steiner barked in German. "The Englishman has not been gone long, probably ran for it when you and your men arrived. Brandt, get back down to the beach and gather your men. Forget the aeroplane, get your men searching west along the coast and inland from here. I give him an hour head start. In this terrain that's three miles maximum on foot, more on cycle. Kehm, search the outhouses and see if he took that bicycle - I'm not sending you down to the beach because you'd be dead of a heart attack before you made it back up here. If you can't find the bicycle then look for tyre tracks, and if it turns out that he left the bicycle then look instead for footprints with a large square tread pattern. Clear?"

"Javohl herr Sturmbannfuhrer." Kehm acknowledged crisply as Brandt ran outside and headed back down to muster the rest of the squad, then Kehm left the kitchen to search the grounds.

Steiner regarded Juliet with a wry grin as he stood up, walked behind her, and put his hand gently in her hair, caressing the back of the confused young woman's head before clenching his fist and pulling her upwards. "Mademoiselle," he whispered softly into her ear as he twisted her head painfully around. "I believe you have lied to me. I think that you gave the Britisher civilian clothes and sent him on his way to the nearest resistance cell. In addition to this I am afraid I do not believe that anything else that you have said to me is true, not even the half-hearted flirting with me over you being eagerly submissive to your overlords. So in order to get to the truth and to find out the names of the resistance members involved I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you into custody and question you in significantly less comfortable surroundings until you tell me what I need to know. You can come as you are - I doubt you'll be in those rags for very long at all, truth be told. Maybe we'll find out just how far we can push this apparently submissive nature of yours, eh? Who needs safe words anyway." Steiner laughed as he pushed her out through the door.

 

[Millsy]

I closed my eyes when the logs piled up in front of me shifted, disturbed when one of the soldiers was searching the house, and a shaft of light streamed in through a gap. I thought the game was up, but then the heavy clumping footsteps of marching boots retreated and all I heard was muffled voices for a few minutes as I lay there helpless with cramp setting into my contorted muscles. Presently a raised voice in German came through more or less clearly, but it was the cry of pain from Juliet a moment later that made my heart stop. As quietly as possible I shifted the logs out of the way enough for me to clamber out and when I was clear I picked up one of the more wieldy logs and hefted it as a makeshift club, carrying it up over my shoulder like I'd seen the Yanks with their baseball bats as I crept back through the house to the kitchen, which to my surprise I found deserted.

I peeked through the window overlooking the bay and saw a German officer pushing Juliet down the hill, and beyond them a squad of grey uniformed soldiers trotted back up the hill toward the house. Clearly the game was up. My plan had half worked in that I had not been discovered, but Juliet had obviously failed to convince them that she was an innocent party in all this. A stabbing pang of guilt turned my stomach to a cold, heavy liquid. I moved to the open door, preparing to run for it, and stopped in my tracks at the sight of a German poking around near the outhouse with the barrel of a machine gun. My mind was instantly plunged into turmoil. On the one hand there was the almost overpowering desire to run like hell that had brought me to the doorway in the first place, but on the other hand there was that equally compelling guilt over having to leave Juliet in the evil hands of the Gestapo. There were also practicalities to consider. The routes of escape were effectively cut off, and surrender was not an option because that would immediately implicate Juliet as a willing accomplice in my attempts at evading capture. I would be on my way to spend the rest of the war in a prisoner of war camp, but Juliet? I shuddered at what fate might befall her.

The big German disappeared behind the outhouse as he continued his search, and I steeled my nerve and made my move. My options were clearly limited by my obligations to Juliet - I had gotten her into this mess, so getting her out of it was my responsibility. It wasn't bravery that motivated my next actions, it was simply that no other option made sense. Nothing else stood any chance of working. It was fight or flight and it was clear that making a break for it would only see me gunned down by the soldier with the machine gun as soon as he heard me scarpering. Stepping as lightly as I could I followed the soldier around the back of the outhouse, and there I found him kneeling in the grass, his back still toward me. I had no idea what he was doing when I took that step forward, but some noise must have alerted him and he twisted his head around, seemingly unconcerned, until he saw the log in my hand arcing toward his face with every ounce of my upper body strength concentrated behind the blow. It was unfortunate for the man that he had begun to turn, because instead of catching the impact on the back of his steel helmet he caught the impact full in the face. His helmet flew off his head and his teeth exploded out of his mouth in a sickening spray of blood along with half of his lower lip and the tip of his nose. It was lucky for me that he didn't have his finger on the trigger of his machine gun, because by the time he'd gathered his wits enough to react, or even scream out in pain through his mangled mouth, the log's second impact smashed down on the top of his bare head with equal brutality.

While he lay unconscious I took his machine gun and the pair of potato mashers out of his belt. I also took his blood spattered tunic and helmet and then turned back to the house, not even sparing the woods that offered my only chance of escape a second glance, and left him face down, bleeding profusely into the long grass. I studied the Schmeisser, noting that it had been cocked and readied to fire, and looped the leather strap over my shoulder. I'd never fired a machine gun, not even a Bren in basic training, so had no idea what else I needed to do in order to make it work. I prayed to God that all it now required to deal death and destruction was a squeeze of the trigger. The potato mashers I knew all about as I'd been shown how to use them in escape and evasion classes. I unscrewed the base on the first one and crept back to the house to find the rest of the Germans cresting the hill.

I pulled the string that had fallen out when I removed the screw cap from the wooden handle of the potato masher and stepped around the corner of Juliet's house. Then I tossed the grenade underhand at the feet of the lead soldier and watched him stumble in horror as it skittered between his legs and into the gaggle of men behind him. The five second fuse burned down before he could react further and the grenade detonated with a thunderous roar, blasting out a shock wave that was loud enough to crack the windows in Juliet's house. The leading soldier pitched forward, hurled off his feet by the explosion, his back shredded and his helmet flying past me and those behind him disappeared in the gout of dirt, flame and smoke spewed up when it detonated. I threw the second grenade into the smoke and dropped to my knees with the Schmeisser in my hands. A shot rang out, fired blindly through the smoke, then the second grenade exploded and all I could hear was screaming. I rose and ran down the hill and into the smoke, firing from the hip when I burst through into the clear again, and cut down two surviving Germans, one of whom fell backwards and over the edge of the cliff once I'd gotten a handle on the vicious upward recoil of the Schmeisser and managed to bring it back under control.

I stood panting in the midst of the carnage that I had wrought, suppressing an urge to vomit at the nature of the debris that lay on the still smoking ground all around me. There were some low groans, a few cries of pain, but the screaming had mercifully stopped. Unable to believe my good luck - believe me there was no skill in the chaos I wrought that morning - I set off down the hill after Juliet and the remaining German officer, worrying about how many bullets remained in the Schmeisser's magazine, hoping that none of the wounded soldiers behind me had enough fight left in them to pick up a weapon and shoot me in the back. Just to be on the safe side I zig-zagged down the track as I ran.




At the sounds of combat Steiner grinned triumphantly as he shoved Juliet before him. "That'll be the end of your British friend, then." He sneered, but that sneer disappeared at the crump of the second stielhandgranate. Then when the staccato hammering of machine gun fire started he forced Juliet to her knees and listened intently for further sounds. None came. Finally a disbelieving "Scheisse!" burst from his lips as a man in a Wehrmacht helmet, baggy, flapping tunic and ridiculously short civilian trousers rounded a curve in the path that had hidden the skirmish from his view. He dropped to his knees and shoved Juliet roughly aside as he took aim on the running figure that had only just seen him. He had considered using the woman as a human shield, but quickly disregarded that as her squirming would have only served to upset his aim. An SS officer would never hide behind a woman anyway, he smiled to himself and as Kehm's MP40 in the hands of this impostor swung in his direction he released the safety catch of his Luger and tightened his finger on the trigger. At that range it was an easy shot. The Britisher was as good as dead.