SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Shaking his head, he darted towards a copse of trees, but no gunfire came from the pill box. Perhaps they didn’t want to hit the cows. Perhaps the occupiers had some understanding, here, with the occupied.

That understanding scared him. Rumours of what might or might not be happening somewhere in Germany or eastern Europe scared him. He wouldn’t be telling any jokes until he was back at base, back where he belonged. If that happened, this would be a bad dream, but he wasn’t able to wake up just yet.

On the far side of the woods sat a farmhouse. Jester crouched at the treeline, watching. Soon, a little girl in a floral dress came wandering out. She looked healthier than the British kids... at least the city kids. A farm. No rationing to thin her lines. He’d rather have the rationing than the Nazis, though. Had they already measured her Aryanness?

The girl suddenly yelped then ran back into the house. Once more, he didn’t voice the swear word. She had certainly seen him. He didn’t want to run, though.

The scent of fish stew drifted into his nostrils, causing his stomach to rumble. He never ate much before sorties. Hunger held him in place longer than good sense should have.

He wanted that stew so badly it was all he could do to keep actual control over himself. Did he want it badly enough to risk being captured? As he had that thought, a burly farmer emerged from the door.

“I know you’re out there,” the man called in French, a language Jester struggled with fluency. “Come and get some stew.”

He hesitated then sighed. Living off the land, oh, he could, but sooner or later he would be caught, and sooner or later worse might happen. Slowly, he stood, hands where the farmer could see them, and walked towards the farmhouse.

“Quickly!” the farmer urged.

He sped up, and ducked into the building.

“Got shot down, did you?” the farmer added, sympathetically, once Jester was inside.

Jester nodded. “Yeah. Look, don’t want to get you in trouble with the Huns. Or anyone else.”

“Eh. Wouldn’t mind trouble with the Huns, if it wasn’t for Francine.”

That had to be the little girl. “For her sake, don’t court it.”

“They’ll never know you were here. Have some stew.”

Hesitating, looking around, he followed the man into the kitchen, hunger overcoming fear for now. There was no sign of a wife. Perhaps she was dead. Perhaps she had left him. Neither option being pleasant, Jester didn’t ask, but he did think of a certain young woman. And this was why they couldn’t be together right now. He didn’t want to have her worry about him getting shot down, killed, caught. He didn’t want to be caught, but he knew his luck.

“I’ll take the stew,” he finally said, his stomach growling.

The man nodded, filling three bowls. Francine came bouncing in to claim hers, youthful energy radiating from her. “Truth is, I don’t like the Germans much either, and if I could get Francine out of here…”

The girl, no doubt a pitcher with big ears, just watched them then started to eat. Jester tucked in himself.

It was good stew – the kind of fisherman’s stew that was made with whatever came out of the sea fresh that morning and the garden that afternoon. Jester didn’t ask or care what was in it. It filled his stomach; didn’t seem to be drugged or poisoned. There was nothing more he could ask for. Well, except for a way back across the Channel before he was caught.

They insisted, nonetheless, that he stay the night. He refused a bed. Instead, he made up a bedroll on the floor. He’d slept rough before; he’d practiced doing so at some level for exactly this situation. The floor of a farmhouse was nothing compared to a tent in the woods, but in the morning, he would go.

He was woken before dawn by hushed yet urgent voices in French, a woman’s voice among them. He thought he might have heard a door opening or closing.

Hope rose within him. The absent wife, perhaps; not a ghost or a hole in their life, but a spy working for the resistance, working with the allies.

If it wasn’t for Francine... Perhaps the pretence was that she had left, and perhaps he had a hidden radio, had called her back.

“He’s just some British airman. We’ll toss him on a boat tomorrow.”

The woman’s response. “And if he saw something he shouldn’t?”

“He’s British. You really think he’ll care as long as it hurts the Germans?”

It would have been rude to keep listening at that point. He rolled to his feet and stepped outside. “I don’t care as long as it helps us win the war.

“See?” the farmer said.

The woman? Her stance was that of a predator, her head held high with a pride he’d never seen in a woman before. He wanted to run from her. Or run towards her. Something about her drew and repelled all at the same time; yet was oddly familiar.

“Airman,” she said, turning to face him. For a moment, her eyes flickered yellow.

Quiet, but knowing that if anyone else could hear they were likely already in real trouble. “Spy.”