Just Another Girl on the Road

by S. Kensington

  Farr spoke in passable French, “Do not be afraid. We are allies. We only want to—”

  She turned and fled.

  “Shit.” Cursing, Farr took off after her.

  The girl ran away from the road and into a wooded area. She slid down an embankment and raced along a stream bed. Farr stumbled after her, just managing to keep her in view. Tripping over a log she fell, then scrambled to her feet, pulling herself up the bank and back into the trees. Farr closed the distance, and when she stumbled again, he surged forward and grabbed her by the waist. They both fell, rolling down a short slope to the bottom, where he landed on top of her.

  Crying with worn rage, she pulled her knife from its sheath. He gripped her flailing arms and held her still with the weight of his body.

  She was coughing in short spasms, no longer fighting. He rolled off, wrenched the knife from her hand, and thrust it behind his belt. Then he hunched over her, taking in deep gulps of air. After a moment he straightened, and pulled out a tin flask from inside his jacket. She watched, still gasping for breath. He unscrewed the top, crouching over her once more.

  “Drink this.”

  She twisted her head away.

  “Drink it.”

  She turned to face him, and it was there again, that long assessing look from the farmyard. He felt the same warm rush of response.

  Reaching up to steady the flask, she took deep gulps, paused, and then took several more. She sank back to the ground, struggling to keep her eyes open, still looking at him. He remained kneeling beside her.

  She touched his sleeve, and he jumped.

  “Boche?” she whispered.

  “No Boche. Morte. They are dead.” The fierceness of his reply startled him.

  Her eyes closed. In a moment she was out of it, her fingers still gripping his sleeve.

  Farr gave a drawn-out sigh and sat up, gently removing her hand. He glanced around. They’d run a fair distance, but were not far from the road. Pulling out a handkerchief, he doused it with water. The gash on her shoulder needed tending.

  He wiped back the tangle of hair and got a good look at her. She was older than she’d first appeared; her bruised face was fragile and small-boned. He couldn’t judge her exact age, but this was no child. He remembered the shock, feeling her fully formed body beneath his weight.

  At the sound of the Norton’s engine, Farr gave a loud whistle and stood, raising his arm.

  A few minutes later, Val appeared. Slipping the rucksack to the ground, he crouched next to Farr.

  “Finally run out of steam? How is she?”

  “Wiped out. Drank most of the flask. There’s a slash on her shoulder. Rope burns, bruises and cuts.”

  Val nodded. “Well, the way she was running, I doubt there’s any broken bones.”

  “Where’s the Norton?”

  “Hid it in some brush.”

  Farr pulled a medical kit from the rucksack. “Did the major tell you what this is all about? Who she is?”

  Val shook his head. “Just that the drop is on for tonight and the plastique will be delayed, but coming. Evidently, Degare made it to the boat. We’ll be changing camp after the drop. About time too.”

  Farr nodded. The recent Gestapo attack on a safe house had everyone jumpy. They’d interrogated the farmer for information. When he hadn’t talked, they’d tied his body to a tree and looped a rope around his neck. Then using the man’s tractor, they’d ripped his head off.

  Val watched Farr sort the bandages and begin cleansing the girl’s shoulder. “Your radio parts coming in with the drop?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told. We’re dead in the water out here without a working wireless. The mobile Special Air Service team is out past Ange de Feu, hidden in the woods. The SAS team leader sent out a coded message on their set telling HQ what we needed.” He paused. “The lieutenant’s pissed about the attack this afternoon. My fault.”

  “Well he wasn’t there, was he.”

  Farr glanced at the young corporal’s face. Valentine, or ‘Val’ as he preferred to be called, had come to the Jedburghs from the Special Operations Executive, or SOE, as a radio operator and mechanic. Born and raised in France until he was eight, he was sent to live with his paternal grandmother in England when both parents died in an automobile accident. Powerfully built and broad-shouldered, he’d lied about his age, and joined the army at sixteen, just after the US invasion of North Africa. They’d only worked together for a short time, but the younger man had developed an intense bond with him. Farr wanted to believe Val regarded him as an older brother, but he knew it was more than that.

  Farr shook his head. “He was right. If they’d been regular troops, we’d be in a shitload of trouble right now. And the drop zone, blown.” Farr poured sulfa powder onto the girl’s shoulder and affixed a bandage. “What I want to know is how this girl got mixed up with the deserters. Is she French? A Maquis?” He gave Val a sideways glance, “Did you go inside the house?”

  “No.”

  Farr briefly related what he’d seen.

  Val whistled. “Then I’m fortunate to have escaped with just a cut.” His tone became somber. “Do you think she was…?”

  “Yes.”

  Val shifted uncomfortably. “This little one has had a bad time of it.”

  “Yes.”

  Val hauled himself to his feet. “Jack’s with the bike. I’ll send him off with a brief message and map, to tell them we have her. Guess I’ll be on watch tonight.”

  Farr frowned. “All night? I can do half—”

  Val interrupted. “The major made rather a point of it. Said if we found her, I was to come back on the bike early tomorrow. He gave me directions to their new camp. You’re to stay and wait for contact.”

  Farr watched him disappear into the bushes, then stood up and stretched. He looked down at the girl’s flushed face. There was a large stream close by and plenty of cover, if they could move a bit further into the trees. He didn’t like being out in the open. It was safer in the trees.

  She did not wake, but flopped her head against his shoulder as he maneuvered up a small incline to a sheltered clearing. Placing her on the ground, he went back for the rucksack and supplies, putting them next to a tree. He pulled out a blanket, carefully wrapping it around her. Then he sat down against the tree and lit a cigarette.

  Farr watched and smoked, listening to her quick breathing. The evening sunlight cast long shadows over the grasses, and the rasping of cicadas disturbed the air. A faint smell of smoke drifted on the wind. He knew the French were making charcoal, burning piles of twigs. Distant memories of a camping weekend with his father came back to him. The old man had been sober that time. It was a good trip.

  A while later Val returned, and Farr signaled from their new position. After unpacking the rest of the supplies, Val pulled out a small parcel of food. They ate the dark bread and cheese in silence.

  “Did the major tell you anything more?” Val asked.

  “Not much. Someone wants her. Badly.”

  Val stood up, stretching. “Get some sleep. I’ll be close by, on watch. I’ll come and wake you before leaving.”

  * * *

  Farr woke to the girl’s screams. He lunged forward covering her mouth, holding her to his chest.

  “Quiet,” he hissed.

  She reacted violently to his grip.

  He eased up, whispering, “Please. There could be danger. Please.”

  Val came running, pale-faced in the moonlight, his pistol drawn.

  Farr shook his head, his voice taut, “Nightmare.”

  The corporal slipped back into the darkness. Farr held the girl until she stopped shaking, her heart pounding under the thin dress. Gradually he released her and she slid back down to the blanket, closing her eyes. He remained sitting close. Her screams had scattered his own dark drea
ms, and he reached for a cigarette with unsteady hands.

  A few minutes later she stirred restlessly and sat up, flinging back the covering. “There is water near? I hear it.”

  Farr froze, cigarette halfway to his lips. His mind registered her perfect English, but spoken with a slight accent he did not recognize.

  “Are you thirsty? Do you want more water?” He reached for the tin flask.

  “I want to bathe. I need to bathe.” Her voice carried a hint of rising hysteria.

  “That’s impossible; it’s not safe.”

  She ignored him and stood up, heading for the stream. Farr hesitated, then scrambled to his feet. He followed at a distance, his nerves raw. She wanted to bathe. Jesus, all he needed was some late-night patrol finding them out after curfew. There was no cover story in hell that would hold up in this scenario.

  Picking her way between tree roots and brush, the girl paused a few times, listening. Stopping at the bank, she gave a final long look around before reaching over her shoulders to remove her dress.

  Farr stumbled back, averting his gaze. A few moments later, he heard the thud of her boots, followed by a soft splash. Edging down to the stream, he glimpsed her body rolling and knifing through the water, a pale column beneath the dark stillness. He backed uphill for some paces until he came up against a tree, all the while keeping her in his line of vision. He waited under the tree.

  * * *

  In the stream, Katrinka gasped. The coldness was shocking, but she welcomed it, as if waking from a stupor. The sensual feel of water gliding over her skin felt like home, and as she moved, a few invisible scars the men had made on her body washed away, leaving only outward marks. She rolled onto her back and saw a waning crescent moon suspended far above her in the starlit sky. She could smell the crisp, clean scent of pine. The water entered her most private parts, soothing and cleansing. It was very quiet.

  The terror of the last few days had torn her body, and she felt unable to piece it back together. The Germans’ attack had been brutally swift, as they swarmed from the bushes and onto her parents’ horse cart. They’d killed her stepfather Emerson, with the quick thrust of a bayonet. Too stunned to move, she’d watched the lifeblood ooze between Emerson’s fingers as he clutched his stomach. For a moment he’d stared at her with bewildered eyes, then he slipped to the floor of the cart.

  Her mother’s sharp cry snapped Katrinka into movement, and she’d grabbed for her knife just as her mother stood and threw her own knife with deadly aim. She caught Emerson’s killer in the neck, but a red-haired soldier raised his rifle and cut her mother down. The woman recoiled as the bullets struck her body and she’d tumbled over the side of the cart. Screaming, Katrinka had jumped to the ground, gathering her mother’s limp body into her arms. She’d leaned in as the dying woman struggled to speak.

  The red-haired soldier heaved Emerson’s body onto the road, then strode back to where she crouched over her mother. Shouting with fury, Katrinka had lunged to her feet, slashing with her knife. But he’d grabbed the blade from her hand, and thrown her into the rear of the cart.

  As they jolted forward, she’d clung to its swaying sides, watching as her mother crawled across the dusty road to wrap herself around Emerson’s lifeless body. She’d called out and attempted to scramble from the vehicle, but an arm had swung back, striking her with a force that knocked her unconscious. She remembered nothing else until the farmhouse.

  No. She would not think of that now. She must remember; she was free again. She shut her eyes and drifted.

  * * *

  It seemed to Farr a long while before she made her way back to shore. This time, he stared. Bruised though she was, he was shaken by the loveliness of her body. In the moonlight, water droplets sprinkled like a spangle of stars across her pale, golden skin.

  She dried herself with the torn dress, then shook it out and put it on. She had no underthings. After slipping on her shoes she walked up the bank, bending to one side, wringing and shaking out her hair. He pivoted, making his way up to their makeshift camp. When she reappeared he was sitting, leaning against the tree.

  He got to his feet. Clearing his throat, he noted, “Your hair is wet.”

  “It will dry.”

  She looked drained and her teeth were chattering, but her features had a more relaxed look. The wrapping on her shoulder had come loose.

  “Let me rebandage that for you.”

  Wincing, she peeled the old one off. He dragged the rucksack over, pulling out the medical kit. After he finished, she looked up from her arm.

  “You’ve given me your blanket.”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Please take it.”

  “Lie down and go to sleep. I have my jacket.”

  Her next remark was sharp and unexpected. “Why are you bothering with me?”

  “What?”

  “Why did you come after me? What is it you want?”

  Farr said nothing.

  She studied his face. “So,” she said softly, “you would recruit a corpse. She is dead. She is dead. Shall I show you where she died? Shall I tell you how?”

  Farr was taken aback by the savagery in her voice.

  She turned to the blanket.

  “Wait.” He touched her elbow and she flinched. “Please. What is your name?”

  She pulled away from him and lay down, closing her eyes.

  Farr sighed. Tugging his jacket more tightly around himself he slid to the ground, close beside her. In case there were more nightmares.

  She spoke then, her voice partly muffled by the covering, “It is Katrinka.”

  * * *

  The German was standing in the bedroom doorway, staring down at her. She twisted her arms, but the ropes dug into her wrists. He began unbuttoning his trousers. Katrinka turned in her sleep with a jerk, colliding with the body of the man lying next to her.

  He woke with a hoarse shout surging to his feet, a knife clenched in his fist. His eyes were wild.

  Katrinka cried out, scrabbling away from him on her hands and knees. Stumbling upright, she took off running. She heard him swear as he lunged after her, his feet pounding close behind. The pebbles and twigs were sharp, cutting into her bare feet. Grabbing up a sharp rock from the ground, she stopped and spun around, her arm raised.

  “Don’t take another step! I’ll crush your face in. I will! I’ll do it!”

  The man stopped dead in his tracks. They stared at each other in the moonlight, both breathing hard.

  He said quietly. “You surprised me. I didn’t know, I thought it was…” His voice trailed off. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

  A wave of nausea washed over her. This last panicked burst of energy had left her with no reserves, and she felt faint with hunger and exhaustion. She bent over, clutching her knees.

  “Are you OK?” he asked. He took a step closer, but his voice seemed far away. The rock fell from her grasp, and she slipped to the ground.

  * * *

  Katrinka woke to a comforting warmth. She was back on the blanket with the man lying close, his arms wrapped around her. How incredibly good it felt to be held the way he was holding her now. Frightening images prowled through her mind. Her stepfather’s eyes, darkened with pain. The look on her mother’s face as she whispered her last words. The farmhouse bedroom. These images flickered then faded away, slinking into the shadows of the forest.

  Carefully, she eased closer and curled into his side. The rough whiskers of his jaw scraped against her skin. She breathed in his scent of sweat, cigarettes, and wet grasses. She could let go now. Give in, and sink into the mindless comfort of sleep. As her eyelids closed, she realized she didn’t even know his name.

  * * *

  Farr woke later with a painful erection. He got up to relieve himself; he could not sleep this way. Returning in the darkness moments
later, he paused to get his bearings. The wind had died down, and a moist stillness settled over the trees and fields, dampening his clothes. He shivered and stared down at the sleeping girl curled in a ball at his feet. One look into those terrified eyes had told him she was in deep trouble. She was hurt, alone, and in dangerous country.

  Growing up, he had seen the same look in his father’s eyes. Nights had been spent lying awake in bed, with his mother pacing the floor above him, knowing the man had not come home. So he’d grab a jacket and slip out into the cold to search. He always found him. Fallen down along the roadside or shivering in some doorway, a bottle at his side. Neighbors said his father was never quite right, after the war.

  Farr lay down again, curving his arms around her warm body. It was too late for his father, but he was going to make it right for her.

  “Who are you?” he whispered. “Why are you here?”

  He closed his eyes, but it was a long time before he could sleep.

  Chapter 2

  France, 1944

  Back at camp, Nye and Raphael waited for the drop. The previous week, a Resistance member had taken them to this place in the woods, close to the village of Ange de Feu. They were grateful, but a German patrol had been spotted recently, surveying the area. They had stayed too long; it was time to move on. Battles still raged along the northern coast, but the Germans serving here in towns’ administrative posts had time to track down the Jeds and SAS teams. It was dangerous to stay in one spot. Their survival depended on constant mobility.

  The two men had fashioned a shelter with a few large pieces of camouflaged canvas strung over low branches. It was dirty, cramped, and uncomfortable, but offered protection. After Farr’s radio broke down, a small SAS patrol had hidden nearby so Nye’s team could use their equipment to keep in contact with London. They’d made the major uneasy with their brash and brazen daylight attacks on German convoys, always fleeing back into the forest to disappear. Their luck would run out, but still he could not help but admire their foolhardy bravery.