Flak Bait Part 4
Jean wearily looked at the two boys lying side by side as he buried them further under the hay of the barn they had found. He had a lot to do that day still, but he needed to make sure they would be secure. The American would be no problem.
Paul would be another story. He looked at the angry bruise still forming on the boy's face and regretted having to hit him so hard, but when he had broken away for the third time that night to return to certain death, Jean had knocked the senseless boy out cold and he and Michael had carried and dragged him to this meager refuge. He desperately needed to make contact with the local fighters. They would have the American's false papers and, hopefully, be in contact with their London controllers. He knew they were too far away for a clandestine pick-up (there were no fields large enough for a landing anyway), but before they could proceed, he needed further information.
He sighed and pulled himself into the straw, away from the faint light of dawn. It would have to wait until he could wake Michael. He couldn't trust Paul to stay where he was, so his meeting with the local cell would have to wait.
The old woman and young girl, barely into her teens, entering the dilapidated structure brought him to alarm as he burrowed further to stay hidden. This place had looked untended and abandoned when they had approached it. The lack of a dog raising an alarm had almost confirmed his suspicions. He held his breath as she and the girl raided some hidden larder and turned to leave.
Suddenly he found himself staring into the eyes of the girl directly. Her eyes grew wide as she recognized a face in their straw. He slowly reached for the hilt of his knife, not knowing who these people were loyal to.
"It is all right." Her voice shook as she addressed him quietly. "You are safe here."
"Who are you talking to?" The old woman spun around, surprisingly spry on her feet. "You! Come out of there!"
Jean smiled as he pulled himself erect, oblivious to the hay that cascaded off his body, and faced the two. His advantage of surprise was gone but he saw no weapons between them as he kept his hand near his hidden knife.
"Where did you come from?" The old woman fired her questions rapidly. "Are you alone?"
"But of course I'm alone." Jean answered calmly, leaving the other questions unanswered. She seemed satisfied not to know either. "I just needed a place to rest before I continue my journey. I'm sorry. I will leave now."
"No, you may stay." The old woman gave him a fearless appraisal before continuing, "We will say nothing about you...or the boys behind you. Just be gone by tonight!"
"Thank you, madame." Jean bowed slightly and glanced behind to see Michael awake and crouched behind him, hands hidden but undoubtedly on one of the two submachine guns he had. The hay had also been disturbed around Paul's still unconscious form. What did the American think they were playing at! This wasn't a game! He silently cursed Michael as he continued, "May we have some food? I can pay a little."
Michael watched the exchange intensely, wishing for the twentieth time that night that he was better at learning languages. So instead, he tried to read their body language. He finally began to relax his grip on the gun a little when Jean held up a restraining hand his direction and visibly seemed to relax himself.
Mike breathed out the breath he'd been holding and laid back into the straw and placed his arms back around Paul's body, merging their warmth again. He was comforted by Paul's presence; the hidden Sten under the hay within easy hand's reach helped a lot as well. He hoped that Paul would be all right when he awoke. Mike was sure he'd never be able to hit his friend the way Jean had. That had been a waking nightmare for him as they'd both tried to control the distraught young man he now held tightly.
"Stay!" Jean could only hope that was the right word he was using. He'd had no use for a gutter language like English before. Thankfully, Paul had helped him a little in the weeks the American had been with them. At least he figured he and the American had one thing in common; that was no talent for learning each other's speech. "I come back....you eat." He turned and followed the old woman when Michael seemed to understand him.
Paul slowly blinked his eyes and, for a moment, the previous night was a dream, a nightmare of dim memory. Then the pain from the side of his face, the arms wrapped protectively around him, and the strange girl looking at him in the strange surroundings came flooding through his mind at the same time. And so did the pain of the distant guns in the night that signaled his parents' last battle against the invaders.
His tears began anew as he thought of them and cursed himself for not being there for them, for not sharing their suffering. He had wanted to make a difference in the world but in the end hadn't even been able to help even his mother or father. Jean had told him during their run through the night that they had sacrificed themselves for him. That he felt betrayed by them shamed him even more. His parents should have known that his place was by their side, sharing their fate. Why had they turned him out?
He didn't even get a chance to properly say goodbye to them! If they had known what would happen, why didn't they tell him? It's because he would have stayed where he belonged, he silently answered his own question, where he should be right now.
Paul buried his face into his arms as another wave of guilt-laden grief wracked his body again. He felt the arms around him tighten their grip on his chest as he finally turned away from the barely seen distressed girl to face Michael.
"I'm sorry, Paul." Mike watched Paul's eyes as he quietly willed away his pain within the grip he held. He didn't know what else to do. He knew he probably shouldn't have spoken in English around this strange girl he didn't know, but had to do something for his friend. "Please eat something. We have some bread and a little cheese." He directed Paul's attention to the small plate by his side. "I don't know when we will get another chance."
Paul wiped this eyes to clear them and looked at the offered food, letting Michael's words sink into his brain. His first instinct was to reject it, but his years on a farm in an occupied country won out in the end. Michael was right. You never could know when you would eat again. As he slowly chewed the tasteless offerings, a few of his teeth acted like they painfully wanted to fall out of his jaw; he felt them lie within him like lead weights. But at least the pangs were banished from him for a time.
"What happened to you?" the girl asked after she watched him eat for a time. "What is your friend? English?"
"It's better I don't tell you." Paul grimaced as he glanced from Mike to the stranger. That Mike wasn't French had been made painfully obvious to everybody in the place they were in. But he wasn't about to confirm anything to her. "You shouldn't know."
"Ah, then he is English," she smiled at his discomfort, guessing correctly, "or an American. I've never seen one before. Are they all so young to fight?"
"I said you shouldn't ask such questions," Paul repeated quietly. He was making a mistake of this as well. "He's an Ottoman Turk...Neutral." He winced inside. Not even she could be so stupid as to believe him. Michael was too pale to be from there, but he was desperate, drawing at straws.
"Oh?" she laughed then. "He sounds like a cowboy from the American movies. He is a Turkish cowboy then?" She stood and turned to leave them. "You are safe. Don't worry. Your other friend will be back for you soon."
Paul bent back to the last few morsels on the plate as Mike smiled in confused silence. They'd have to come up with a story that would keep Mike from ever speaking. He had learned in their early conversations that Michael was from some small town called Waco; his family had been part of the first Jewish temple established in Texas. Mike would never be able to speak the few words of French he knew without that awful accent he possessed, and tried to hide, giving them all away.
"Are you going to be OK now?" Mike asked as he watched Paul finish.
"Yes," Paul sighed, pushing away the thoughts that threatened to come rushing back. "I can not run any more. I have no place to go." He rubbed the red side of his face, feeling the heat it generated. "You will not have to beat me."
"I could never hurt you," Mike whispered as he placed his chin on Paul's shoulder and wrapped his arms around him again. "I don't know where we're going...Hell, I don't even know where we are!...But I'm glad you're still with me."
Jean cautiously reentered the old barn as the light was fading. He'd have been back sooner but had circled the homestead first. The family living there had been friendly enough but he still had trouble trusting them. He couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe it was the avarice he'd seen flash through the old woman's eyes when he'd mentioned `payment' for their assistance. It was probably nothing; they were poor, after all, and eager for anything he might have for them. Still, it paid to be cautious.
"Paul?" Jean began quietly so as not to startle the two. They had the submachine guns, after all. "Michel?"
"Jean?" Paul stuck his head through the straw they'd covered themselves with again when it became obvious they weren't leaving right away. "Where have you been? Are we leaving?"
"No, not tonight." Jean smiled at the rational questions he received from Paul. "Tomorrow we go. I must get your new papers as well. Are you well?"
"Yes," Paul answered quietly so as not to disturb Michael, who'd rolled over next to him at the first exchange. "Remind me to never make you angry at me again. My teeth still hurt. Where will we go?"
"We will go see the Swiss." Jean paused to let the plan he and the others had come up with sink in. "Spain is too far south and too dangerous to risk."
"Can we go so far and not be seen?" Paul was overwhelmed by the thought and worried as well. "And what will happen if we get there?"
"It will be difficult, but we will have help." Jean tried to allay the boy's fears. "It is the only way to make sure you both are safe. As a neutral, I imagine the Swiss will intern us all until the enemy is beaten."
"Will we still be together?" That Jean was so certain of the outcome struck Paul as odd. He'd seen no sign that was going to happen.
"I don't know," Jean decided that he had to be honest with the youth here, "but you and Michel will still be alive if we can cross the border. That is all I can promise. It is what I promised your father to do a long time ago." Jean grimaced at the memory as he saw the shadow descend onto Paul's dim features. "No one can hide you and Michel for very long. The risk is too great. Switzerland is our only option. I must rest now. You and Michel will have to watch for me tonight. Can you do that?"
"Yes," Paul said as he watched Jean pull the loose straw over himself carefully until he also disappeared from sight. He slipped down into the hay, leaving just his face exposed. The cold barrel of one of the guns they had was under his fingers. He hoped that nothing would come their way until Jean had a chance to teach him how to use it. Then he would face anything that came their way. He felt a need for revenge slowly start smoldering within him. He would never let anything else be taken from him as long as he could fight for it. And if he died? So be it! He should be dead already!
He moved his hand off the weapon and fumbled under the hay behind him, finding Michael's sleeping form. He let his hand absently trail across the bulky stolen clothes that covered his American friend. He felt another longing build, like a condemned man's last wish. If he were truly living on borrowed time, he had to act before it ran out.
Mike came awake with a start! His now familiar nightmare had been more intense than ever. He could actually feel his enemy's hand on his genitals as the knife descended toward them. He instinctively grabbed at himself like he had done every time before, only this time someone was holding him. Not tightly like his sleep fogged brain told him, but gently cupping him, rolling his loose testicles in their soft home.
"Wha...?" Mike softly asked in the still night as he pulled the hay from his head.
"Shhh. It is me. Paul." He quickly placed his free hand to Mike's face to quell the fear he sensed in his friend and continued the slow manipulation of the other's private region. He smiled then. He had forgotten the nightmares that plagued Michael.
"You don't ha...." Mike was confused as Paul's hand left his balls to grasp his now painfully hard penis confined within the trousers. He finally just relaxed and reached through the straw till he found the waist of Paul's own pants and slipped under to grasp him as well. He was still confused as to why his friend found this activity so important at this time, but went along with it anyway. His own heart was pounding like it always did when he was pleasuring himself, only this time it seemed to unconsciously fall into sync with the pulsating his fingers were feeling from Paul. For a brief time it felt like they were sharing one heart between them.
"Yes," Paul replied. "Now." He quietly rolled toward Michael and unfastened first his, then the other's trousers, giving them both better access to each other.
The hay seemed to both scratch them painfully and tickle them unmercifully as they stroked each other's now unconfined cocks.
Paul figured ruefully that Mike seemed to have one advantage as he used his free hand to pull another piece of now damp straw away from him, where it had become trapped in his foreskin as it was pulled forward. He felt Michael become rigid in his hand as a rhythmic hard pumping from deep within his body forced his eruption out of him and into the hay that divided them. When he followed, his own rigid explosion was accompanied by the discomfort of feeling stray bits of straw clamped between his smooth cheeks. He couldn't help but smile a little at their shared pleasure and the discomfort that came with it. He was relieved to sense Michael also smiling in the dark of the structure they were in.
Neither made any move to cover themselves as they continued to just hold each other as they softened. The moment was over, but each willed it to continue as long as possible. Neither knew when one such moment like this would be their last.
"Go to sleep, Paul." Mike carefully leaned closer and rested his head against Paul's. "I'll watch now."
"Paul?" Jean quickly rose to the dawn and shook himself free of the straw that clung to him. He hoped everything would be ready when he arrived at his destination that morning. They had been in the area too long and needed to move. He looked at his two wards staring back at him, also awake. "I will be back soon. We will leave tonight. Tell Michel what he needs to know."
Paul watched Jean as he left. Today might be more difficult than they imagined. He was certain that their unwilling hosts would not be happy they were still there. He stood himself and proceeded cautiously toward the small hole they had managed to excavate in a corner of the building to relieve themselves. "I need to tell you the plans," he whispered in passing.
Mike listened as Paul laid out the plan that had been agreed upon. He knew the odds were against them ever reaching safety, but then, anything was better than staying to be picked up. He'd been there before and knew he would never be considered a POW. Well, he couldn't take that chance, anyway. He wondered if the task before them had led to the morning's performance, but let it go. He had too many other things to worry about, like staying alive.
Jean was relieved to leave the small town with the papers he'd come for. As he nonchalantly wandered the side alleys in the cold dawn, he was drawn to his thoughts about the handbill he'd been given by one of the local cell of fighters. Its contents disturbed him, for it described Michel very well and, after accusing him of Jean's recent murders of the collaborationist family, offered a substantial reward for his capture. This would complicate matters, for even those with no love for the invaders could be lured by money.
He hurried his pace when he reached the trail that led to the dilapidated farm where they were hiding. He silently moved behind some bushes as he spied a figure hustling down the trail toward him. It was the old woman from the farm and she had a paper clutched tightly in one crooked hand.
Jean felt his blood run cold as his anger flared. He cursed himself for leaving the boys alone at that place. Her husband may have already killed the two. He quietly reached for his knife and waited to spring.
End of part 4.
My thanks to ED for his assistance.