Flak Bait Part 2
"Nooo! Please!" Mike tried to twist away again. He was sure his bowels and bladder would have released if there was anything to let go. He hadn't even had anything to drink for over a day. His eyes were fixed on the knife in the officer's hand and nothing else. His heart felt ready to burst. His captors weren't going to just execute him, they were going to carve him up! The hard strike of the back of the officer's hand snapped his head back, stunning him briefly. He never saw the approaching dark shadow through the snow.
Paul's dad had enough. He'd been ready to accept the sharp crack of a pistol shot and so had the slight, nude, black haired captive apparently. He and his men had been unprepared for the screams the youth issued when he saw the pig's' dagger! The dagger's appearance surprised him. Usually they were very efficient in their executions. The pig' had never shown any overt pleasure in his treatment of his captives until now. The American must have shown some defiance. Regardless, he just couldn't see the boy go through what they intended. He thought of Paul as he broke cover and advanced. He thought, `If worst comes to worst, he would shoot the boy himself.' His team members would not be happy with him, but he'd made his decision!
Mike suddenly felt himself released. His pain-fogged mind tried to get his legs to work. He didn't know why the soldier had let him go, but he had to get away from the knife. He found his legs just wouldn't support him as he collapsed into the snow at the men's feet, feeling the edges of the jagged tear in his thigh rub each other, and curled protectively into a ball. `Just finish it' was his only thought.
The loud reports of the Sten cracked through Mike's brain. His body involuntarily twitched each time, waiting for the impact of the bullets which never came.
"Get up, boy!" Oh God, they were still playing with him! Images of his parents belatedly flooded his vision. He was five years old again, crawling into the warmth of his mother's embrace.
"Get up." Paul's dad stayed in his kneeling position. It had been important that his shots come from below. He had to get through to the youth for the rest of this blown plan to work. "You safe!" His English wasn't as good as the other languages he spoke. He hoped he would get through to the boy. He patiently waited a few minutes, then tried again. This time he was rewarded to see the boy respond to him. He reached over to retrieve the officer's pistol from its holster and smiled to himself. It was also a nine millimeter. He might pull this off after all.
Mike gently rolled away from his injured left side and stared into the hard face of the armed civilian. He was still alive. "Where am I?" he croaked.
The man smiled at him, laughter dancing just beneath his eyes. "France," he answered. "Get up!"
After a brief struggle, fighting to suppress the pain, Mike finally drew himself upright. The old man jerked his gun towards a small trail that led deeper into the forest. What did the man want him to do? He began to shiver violently as the cold reasserted itself with a vengeance. If he lived, he was sure he would never be warm again. "Go!" The man told him. `Where?' Mike continued to stare back and cautiously hobbled in the direction the man had indicated, his bare feet dragging through the snow.
Paul's dad silently watched the pale youth limp into the trees and turned back to hiding the fact he was ever there. His teammates would see to the boy. They would follow on a parallel trail and pick him up when they felt it safe to do so. The boy only had to last on his own a little while longer, until he reached the next road. Despite the obvious wound to his leg and his reaction to the knife, the boy looked strong enough to make it to the point he could be picked up. He strangely didn't see the boy's reaction to the officer's knife as the cowardliness the others might. Everybody has something they fear above everything else. The Germans had unknowingly found his.
"Paul! They're here!" His mother and he'd been staring out the windows on both sides of their old farmhouse, desperately hoping to see the Underground, but knowing it could be Germans if his father's plan failed. Thankfully, he'd given them instructions that would lead them to safety if they had to escape.
"Who's coming?" Paul raced to join his mother, ready to pull her away if need be.
"Relax, Paul. It is Jean." She continued to look at the approaching figure. He had a blanket wrapped bundle thrown across his massive shoulders. "Get more blankets. I'll be down with him in a minute." She pushed her excited son toward the cellar stairs. She smiled at his retreating back. He had never known of the other airmen they'd hidden in their barn safehouse that fall. She'd have preferred they use the barn again, but they hadn't had the time to heat it. As she noticed the bare, cracked, blue feet sticking out from under the blanket, she knew the barn would not be enough this time. She went to fetch the bag of medical supplies that had been dropped to them recently.
Jean gently placed his burden down on the pallets in the cellar and straightened to get the kink out of his back. The boy he'd carried here was still shivering violently, interrupted by periodic dry heaves. The results of being carried for so long, he guessed. The Americans had to be blind to think this one was of age. More than one of his countrymen must have turned a blind eye to the underaged youth in order to fill some need they'd had.
Jean sighed and moved out of the way so Paul's mother could begin her treatment. The youth he'd carried was certainly beautiful; not perfect, to be sure, with his slight dusting of acne marring his face, but beautiful nonetheless. Jean felt his eyes well up as he thought about another beautiful youth. They had loved each other until he was snatched off a street by his enemy, never to be seen again. It had been then that Jean threw off his coat, emblazoned with the pink triangle he'd been told to wear, and made his escape to the countryside.
"Why is he shaking so badly?" Paul knelt by the unresponsive prone form of the man; no, he'd been right the first time he'd seen the American, this `man' was not much older than he was. He could even be younger. He was certainly shorter and of slighter build than Paul was.
Paul brushed some of the ice out of the boy's hair, forming a wet halo around his apparently delicate features. Paul was surprised to see the American up close. He'd half expected to meet a hard faced cowboy. He'd always loved the cowboy movies that were exported to Europe when he was a child. This youth in front of him had been a warrior, but was obviously just a boy now. Paul closed his eyes and thanked his father for listening to him. "What is wrong?"
"The cold has gone deep, Paul." His mother looked at the stack of blankets covering the wounded youth. She'd managed to rebandage his leg wound after cleaning and dusting it with sulfa powder. Thank God she had all that experience sewing. She thought her attempt at reclosing the skin didn't go too badly. It was the cold coursing through the youth's veins she was most concerned with now. She remembered the time she and her husband had spent in the Alps.
"He needs more heat!" She knew how to handle this; "Paul! Take off all your clothes! Now!" she directed her attention elsewhere. Paul would do as he was told. He was no longer bashful; they had lived a farm life for too many years. "Jean, go get me some warm water. Not hot! Just warm to the touch!" She pulled the blankets off the nude form and motioned to Paul. "Lie with him and hold him closely. We will use the heat from your body."
Paul looked at his mother like she was insane, but the tone of her voice brooked no argument. She'd been known to take a switch to his backside even though he'd grown taller than her years ago. He lay over the other boy and almost recoiled completely at the cold wet skin he contacted. His mother quickly threw the blankets over the two of them and tucked them tightly around them, leaving just their bare lower legs exposed. She explained to Paul that she was going to drape warm cloths on the American's feet. They didn't feel frozen to her but she feared the greater damage the cold still might have done. Paul felt the heat under the blankets build until he felt he would begin sweating. He was relieved to see the boy's eyes start to flutter, but they remained closed.
Mike felt warm, finally. He had been picked up when he reached a road, but all he remembered was being carried in darkness until at some point he was no longer aware of the passage of time. Someone was holding him, that much he knew. The feeling was also coming back to his lower legs, adding their own pain to the existing discomfort of his thigh. He tried to breathe through it, trying to be as quiet as possible. He was distressed to hear the whimpers involuntarily escape his lips. His tormenters would hear the noise and return to inflict more pain. His frustration and pain was coursing in salty wetness down his face and he was ashamed. He couldn't let them see him cry like the child he was, or they would win!
"Sssh, you are safe!" Paul's mind was scrambling to find the words in his little used English. "With friends!" He pulled the now warm body closer to him, looking back at his mother for some reassurance. She smiled back at the two of them.
"You stay with him, Paul," she said. "I will see what we have to eat for dinner. Your papa should be home soon."
Paul wiped the American's face and stroked his bare back. He couldn't help but marvel at the feeling. The boy he held might be slight of build, but his time in the military had obviously made him strong nonetheless. Paul felt his face flush as he lay there. He'd never had good control of his body since his voice had changed. It seemed to have a mind of its own sometimes. He quickly rearranged himself to avoid further embarrasment should the youth in his arms suddenly wake up. Satisfied that all was in order, he closed his own eyes to force himself into a confused sleep with only the whimpers of the other to keep him company. He smiled when he felt the boy's arms respond and circle him to hold on like a man would hold the rope after falling in a well.
Jean and Paul's mother padded down to relieve Paul for his meal. She was surprised to see them both asleep and decided to leave them alone with Jean to answer any questions the American might have when he finally woke.
Jean settled himself in a corner to begin his patient watch. He smiled briefly to himself as he studied the two. Paul had twisted his own body uncomfortably so his hips were flat to the pallet, even though they still held each other. He fought back a laugh when he made out the pulsing mound the blankets made where Paul's legs obviously met his body. He had to remind himself that such things in someone Paul's age were often involuntary, but if Paul did feel such an attraction, they were beautiful together.
He wondered what the American would think of that and hoped Paul, if he were that way, wouldn't be hurt. Jean let his own tears flow as his thoughts returned to that other youth, surely dead, whom he had loved. He silently vowed that he would never let that happen to any others he had the power to protect.
"Where am I?" Mike opened his eyes and tried to peer into the dark room he found himself in. He stiffened as the previous events flooded back. He could hardly see by the dim lantern light that filtered from the other side of the room he was in. He painfully untangled himself from the body he'd unconciously attached himself to and looked at the curly black hair of the other. "Who are you?"
Jean grabbed the lantern and crossed to the two boys. He shook Paul awake, he needed the translator. "Paul, your guest is awake!"
"Paul?" Mike parroted the name he heard. It was the only thing he'd understood, he now thought he had a name to go with the face next to him.
"Yes, my name is Paul." He winced as he spoke louder than he intended. The boy wasn't deaf, he just didn't speak French apparently. Paul's brain was thinking quickly, trying to do the quick translation in his head. "You are safe with we...us." The American seemed to relax. "You are?"
"Mike, Michael Goldman." Mike found his voice but pulled away suddenly when Paul repositioned himself and accidentally speared him in the balls. He hadn't realized Paul was nude as well and couldn't figure out why...?
"Sorry." Paul was mortified. In his worst nightmare that wouldn't have happened. He had just been overjoyed to see Mike?, yes Mike, awake and alive, and had forgotten his current condition." Jean, could you see if we have any food?" he started to get more comfortable switching languages. "Please forgive me, Michel...I mean Mike. We get you food? Welcome to my father's house!"
Mike collapsed back, pulling the covers back over his shoulders. He'd somehow found friends, sanctuary. He'd stayed alive, was alive. He slowly felt hope reenter his vocabulary. He owed Paul and his family everything. He'd never be able to hold Paul's `accident' against him. Besides, he'd been more shocked by the jolt of recognition and electricity that shot through him when it happened. That Jean? yes, that was the other's name, had laughed as if he could see through the blankets disconcerted him, but he was ALIVE! And hungry!
Paul was thrilled with their new house guest. Mike was so different from anyone he had known. He gobbled up Mike's stories about his family and experiences in military training. He had even shot down one, maybe two, of the enemy before he was shot down himself.
Mike had also tried hard to be a good invalid and not chafe too much. Paul had laughed at his reaction to using a slop bucket until his mother decided that if Paul found it so funny, he would be the one to empty it every morning. Paul stoically did that unpleasent duty, gladly, in exchange for the free time he was able to spend with Mike. He even started to teach Mike some French. The attempts usually left both of them frustrated, as Michael, though smart, had no great talent for learning languages.
Paul had even started to make a comment about finally knowing someone who was Jewish, until his dad pointedly reminded him that he'd known a particular two-thousand-year-old Jew all his life, so he should not find Michael all that remarkable.
Mike had been relieved to have that conversation headed off. He wasn't particularly religious himself and didn't feel he was well enough versed in his own religion to hold a decent conversation. He did chafe all the time at his forced inactivity, but hoped he hid it well. His wound was healing, even though his leg had stiffened up, but they'd all been surprised to see that he'd apparently escaped any major infections. Paul explained that his mother thought it was because he'd bled so well, thus keeping it clean. Mike didn't know if that was true, but was just glad he'd skipped that particular trial.
The main thing that caused him discomfort was the growing natural reek from his body and his need for a shave. He was used to being clean shaven, and the black fuzz on his upper lip and chin just refused to grow into a proper mustache and beard.
"You smell!" Paul wrinkled his nose dramatically and indicated an old metal basin on the floor. "Stand here!" He watched as Mike slowly stood and hobbled to the basin, wearing one of his father's old sweaters and a pair of shorts his mother had altered from Paul's own wardrobe.
Paul's mom grimaced as she came down the stairs carrying a steaming bucket of clean water and some cloths. She'd watched Mike's slow movments. That would never do! She quickly motioned for Paul to hold Mike as she grabbed his left ankle and, with a hand behind his knee, forced the surprised boy's leg to bend.
"My mother says you must..." Paul still found English challenging, "...ah...use, no...bend your leg! You must stretch your leg!"
Mike's hands tightened their grip on Paul as his torn thigh was stretched painfully out of the comfortable position it had settled in. "Argh, Oh God!". He felt her release his ankle. The relief was instant, until she started again. She did it seven or eight times, each stretching his thigh a little more until his heel finally made contact with his ass.
She smiled then and slapped Mike on the butt. "Good!" it was the only English she knew.
Mike's leg was shaking after the `treatment' it had received, but he could put his weight on it and it surprisingly felt better after the stretching than it had before. He didn't know whether it was because of the treatment or just because the old woman had stopped. He hesitantly stepped into the small metal basin at Paul's instructions and stood with a confused look on his face.
It dawned on him what the family wanted of him and he quickly shucked his clothes as Paul dragged the steaming bucket closer. He had been in the military too long to be bashful; besides, these people had seen him performing all his usual bodily functions anyway. The only thing that dismayed him was his loss of balance when he tried to reach a wet cloth himself. Paul had just laughed at him again and set him back upright and started washing him. He thought his chest and face couldn't get any hotter; he should be able to wash himself! He relaxed entirely under the hot water and unintentional massage he was receiving from Paul.
Paul was glad to see Mike relax. He really had no idea how to wash somebody else. He'd only had his own baths before this. His mother had tried to help him prepare for this as she resumed preparing the hot water. "Think of him as a horse!" she had said. "Start at his head and work your way down." His father had then whispered something in her ear, whereupon she had slapped him playfully on his arm.
He found it impossible to think of Michael as a horse. His smooth pale skin reminded Paul of a fine marble statue. Not cold stone, however, but warm flesh was under his fingers and the feeling was beyond his ability to describe it.
Mike grew nervous again as he felt himself begin to respond to the caresses he received. Paul had finished with his back and Mike wanted to fend off the hands before they moved to his chest. It wasn't right for Paul to find him in the erect state he found himself in.
"Paul? Please let me finish," he said, trying to grab the hands trailing down his torso. Paul and his family had seen him naked, of course; he'd come into their home that way. They had even seen him hard before when he woke up in the morning and they helped him with his morning routine, but this was different. "I'm sorry."
Paul grabbed Mike and just felt him for a moment. 'Did I do this?' His heart beat in time to the pulse he felt in his hand. Why was he being so forward with his new American friend? He giddily decided he didn't care, Mike needed this release as well. "Please let me."
He slowly stroked Mike for a moment and was pleased to see the resistance fade as quickly as it had come. No, Micheal wasn't a horse, he was a boy responding to his touch the way he responded to his own touch. He was fascinated to watch when Mike reached his climax. He had to quickly circle his arm around Mike to keep his wobbly friend on his feet. He looked into the American's eyes. Mike was afraid!
"I am sorry. I should not have!" Paul instantly regretted what he'd done. He had crossed an unspeakable line, put his new friendship at risk. He kicked himself mentally. Mike clearly did not feel the same way he did.
"No, it's not you. It's me!" Mike stared at the beautiful French boy who'd been trying so hard to make him welcome. "I didn't mind! Don't worry, you just surprised me."
Mike stepped out of the basin and, with Paul's help, managed to shrug himself back into his clothes. "Thank you, Paul. Please don't feel bad, I just have a lot to think about." Mike collapsed onto his pallet and curled into a ball as Paul continued to clean up around him. His new feelings were almost as frightening as the situation that had brought him here.
Paul finished carrying the water and basin up the stairs. He quickly crawled into his own bed and tried to ignore the tears on his cheeks. He had fucked up!